Bachelor Pad

I left Bob at home in our apartment for one night last week while I went home to Westchester to visit my family.  And in just one night, my seemingly balanced husband, who does not really fit a stereotype other than "tall", became an extremist.

I never got to see my beloved Bob in college since we met a few years after the caps and gowns and kegs and eggs era.  I missed out on getting to know him in his frat boy days of Sig Ep theme parties, bromances, and "brutal" beer guzzling hazing, which he still talks about as if it were yesterday.

But I believe I got a sneak peak of what Frat Bob was like when I left him alone in our apartment for that one night.  And in just that one night on his own, Bob left a trail of clues upon my return that would tell the tale of Frat Bob's relapse to a time and place when "wife beaters" were acceptable to wear on any occasion, and cereal with milk was considered dinner.

Clue #1
Upon opening the refrigerator, alongside my Lactaid milk and dairy-free cheese, sat a 24 pack of Miller beer (of which 23 were left), staring back at me.  "What are you doing here?"  I asked the beer.  They just looked back at me blankly and with as much confusion as to why they were in my apartment as I had.  I like beer, but we don't drink it at home unless it were for one of 3 specific reasons.  But, we didn't have a party, Bob didn't have a guy friend over and it wasn't football season.  I was at a loss.  When Frat Bob was questioned regarding said beer by his pondering wife, he answered, "I felt like having a beer," to which I knew meant, "it was on sale," but played along.  Clearly, a man wants to feel like a man especially when his woman is away, but only Frat Bob would follow-through on this macho move with a Miller Lite coupon and a dream.

Clue #2
As I approached my living room, I realized that the lower half of our flat screen TV was being blocked by a massive speaker system that was not there the day that I had left.  Now, a day later, we had a sound system that was meant more for a movie theater than a small sitting area in a small apartment.  It wasn't just large, it was black and looked more like a space heater than a speaker.  It was at least 4-feet long and there was no other place to put this massive eyesore other than right in front of the TV.  As I scrunched my nose up in horror and disgust, Frat Bob jumped in front of it and turned it on.  As it blared so loudly I could feel the bass vibrate the floor, Frat Bob yelled, but all I heard/saw were the words being mouthed under the offensive noise, "isn't it great!  The sound is so much better now!"  Somehow in just 24-hours, my Buddha statue filled, modern and clean living room had become the ultimate bachelor pad, fully equipped with a shiny over-sized black sound system that we didn't need, won't keep and Frat Bob will learn to live without.

Clue #3
He watched Entourage on-demand.  Think it was his first time.

Clue #4
He ate everything out of the freezer that wasn't stuck with ice to the bottom and that wasn't a medical ice pack.

Clue #5
He built two shoe racks, changed out our shower head, tightened every loose screw on anything he could find in our place that had screws, etc. just to use his tool box which he carried around unnecessarily in the apartment by a handle.  Frat Bob is also Bob the Builder. 

While I understand that these things are not that odd for a 31-year old married man whose wife is out of town, this is odd behavior for my husband, who spends most of his time when I am home organizing his 20% off Bed, Bath and Beyond coupons, and reading consumer reviews for the best vacuum cleaner.

As I sat on my couch last night with him, drinking Miller Lite while watching "Bachelor Pad" with our new super-sized sound system, my shock and surprise about Frat Bob gently turned to pride as it was quite endearing that he played his gender role so fervently in my absence.  Kinda cute actually.

And as I looked at him to invite Frat Bob to come around more often, I realized he was tearing up as Aimes chased Jackie down in the limo so that she wouldn't leave, thus choosing true love over the prize money.  And just like that, Frat Bob had left the bachelor pad. 

Bob at "Joe's": Survivial of the Fittest?

Last night, Bob and I made a trip to Trader Joe's, and in "Traitor Bob" fashion, he left me in the dust for organic blueberry muffin mix and a free sample of Asian slaw.

In case all of you Leave It To Stever followers (all 11 of you!), do not believe just how intense my husband gets at this discounted retail grocery store (based on the aforementioned experience in my earlier post "Trader Joe's, Traitor Bob"), please find evidence below.  My Blackberry Bold camera truly captures the creature in his natural habitat.

Exhibit A.  Bob double fisting free samples, boxing out frail blond girl standing behind him so that she cannot share in his prey.

Exhibit B.  Bob taking out his "competitors" to get into the line by using his cart to herd them out of the way, while weeding out the weak and the elderly.

Trader Joe's, Traitor Bob

Surrounded by reasonably-priced avocados and high-sodium frozen dinners, I stood in the middle of the dizzying space that is Trader Joe's looking at my husband Bob.  It was as if it were the first time I was seeing him all over again.  Except I wasn't looking at him in the "I want to take you home" kind of way, but more in the "how do I leave here without you until the cartoon-like angry smoke stops steaming out of my ears" way.

My frustration started to mount as we entered the cult-favorite, discounted grocery store when a mob of frantic shoppers fought for the only two-tiered cart left in the front.  We had to push into the door frame, and then walk slowly looking for space to take steps as we entered the produce-obsessed crowd. Very quickly I realized that Trader Joe's on a Saturday afternoon is the closest place to hell I had actually ever been (and hopefully will ever be), but it was too late.  There we were.  Two newlyweds just trying to get whole wheat dough for our Oscars make your own pizza night, surrounded by the most aggressive 80-year-old women I had ever seen.

I felt the panic seize up in my throat and looked to my dear husband for support and to help me keep calm and carry on.  As I turned to look for his strong, unwavering, solid and stable presence, he was gone.  I scanned the piles of fussing people, and saw the top of his curly haired head bobbing up and down by the oranges, yelling something as he piled the mesh bags of fruit into his cart.  He was sweating, red in the face, hadn't blinked since we arrived, and he was smiling.

Each and every time he moved deeper into the store, he picked something else up, grapes, lemons, lettuce, things we didn't need nor came for.  He scanned the price, smiled a little crazy-like, began to sweat more, turned even redder with excitement and so on.  He had forgotten he had come to this hell-hole with his loving wife and had left me in his deal-finding dust as he groped the fruits and vegetables, asking himself in an odd whisper "what does a ripe one look like?"  It didn't matter.  He took everything he picked up, and was picking up speed and agility as he approached the cereals and grains.

I tried to follow him, but he was a fast one, and I couldn't keep up.  I was corralled  into a line by a man holding a wooden sign on a stick.  He was yelling "LINE TWO STARTS HERE!" and asking people to stay calm and follow to the back of the line.  I didn't even have anything and he was pushing me to get into this line that wrapped around the store, in between aisles, and back towards the door.  I had become cattle and it was get out now or get stampeded into the white linoleum floor. 

I maneuvered around the chaos and found Bob running up and down the frozen food aisle.  He had left his cart at the end of the row and was carrying frozen dinners like a football, protecting it from other people who in his super-saver paranoia thought wanted his finds.  It was like a bad episode of "Supermarket Sweep." I couldn't believe his fury and fervor in getting those penne arrabbiatta and enchilada meals into the safety of his own cart.  It was clear, Trader Joe's made my husband, Traitor Bob.  Nothing else mattered, not even me.

I watched him from afar join the cattle procession, still shopping the shelves from his place on line as he progressed to the front.  As the cashier swiped his cart-full of food, he was almost hopping up and down in excitement over how low the prices were.  I think he told the cashier he loved her but I wasn't sure.  He complimented her as if she owned the place, and even was thrilled about the sturdy brown bags in which they packed the food - perfect for bringing his lunch to work in.  As we left, I realized that this hell of mine, had been my favorite person's heaven, and that although we are soul mates and partners in this life and the next, we are very different when it came to apples and oranges.

I will rarely (or never if I can help it), go back to Trader Joe's just for the few bucks it saves when the receipt prints out.  The frantic atmosphere is exhausting and nauseating and I would rather go to my quiet, local over-priced grocery store where you can actually hear the awful supermarket music.  We will leave the Trader Joe's shopping to the kinds of people we admire and love for their keen shopping sensibility and drive to fight the masses for discounted pita chips and hummus.  In the meantime, I will be on the couch.

My Hallmark Hero

You would think that now that I am a "wife" to a guy we should all give an award to for patience in the line of marriage, I would be over the "I need an obnoxious number of roses sent to my office on Valentine's Day to validate my love life and therefore my self esteem in front of my colleagues." But after a long morning of other women receiving flowers with balloons and bears, I found myself angrily eating a salad at my desk at 2pm in a fury because my husband had yet to send me anything red, pink or large for my desk.

Lets face it, I was jealous of the other girls. I was especially jealous of one particular girl who received two dozen roses with a special Valentine's edition Chanel lipstick tied to a bear's heart that read "sh*t b*tch you is fine." A little dirty talk, a little Chanel. Now THAT Valentine's gift should have been mine!

I am the kind of girl that tells my man, "don't worry about sending me flowers. I don't need them. I know you love me." But I am also the kind of girl that by 2pm is feeling like exploding with frustration that all I got today was a heart-shaped lollipop that I bought for myself at Duane Reade.

Just as I was about to email my dear husband and tell him of my disappointment and remind him that the phone number to 1800Flowers is 1-800-Flowers, my receptionist called me to tell me that I had a flower delivery downstairs. After skipping to the front desk with a smile, ripping open my package and plunging the two dozen long stemmed red roses into water, I "humbly" carried them and took the long way around the office to my desk, making sure to slow down any time I passed anyone with Valentine's Day goodies at their station, glancing over to make sure my roses were met with eyes of envy.

I sat down feeling giddy with joy and also a little silly. Who was I to want flowers so badly and why did I care so much? Am I THAT shallow? Aren't roses cliche for Valentine's Day and aren't I against all things cliche? And isn't love about the love and not the stuff that people give to show love? I pondered this thought while staring at my roses and wondering if I had been swallowed up by the mass V-Day hysteria, and given in to a Hallmark holiday that used to mean a lonely night home with Burritoville and my cat.

It seems that I am finally comfortable enough with myself to just admit the truth. My husband has given me the foundation of love and support that I need in order to come out with it once and for all. I need flowers on Valentine's Day. Red ones, roses, and two dozen is a great starting place. I am okay being one of the many today, and to be a bit of a Valentine's Day cliche, because today is the first February 14th that to someone, a very special someone, I am the only one and to him, I am FAR from cliche.

Lunch with Danny Meyer and Snooki

Being the "professional" business woman that I am, I recently took clients to a business lunch at a business lunch fav in New York City, Union Square Cafe. I love Danny Meyer and find that he does fancy food in an approachable way, and by approachable I mean that there is more than a bite of food on the plate and it doesn't cost $40 for an entree.

I have dined there many times before, most of the time with a glass of pinot grigio in hand, but this time the clients order iced teas so I appropriately, but begrudgingly, followed suit. After taking down the bread basket and breaking the ice off of the old, "where are you from", "where do you live now" conversations, we dived into my favorite subject matter, the popular television show, The Jersey Shore.

I am not quite sure how it came up, probably after the usual client to Lauren question, "how are you so unseasonably tan?" or I was reminded of the Snookster from the orangey bronzer smudges on my perfectly ironed white napkin. Either way, by the time we started to split the frito misto of cod and perfectly molded meatball in a bath of white bean puree, we were all fist pumping and acting out scenes from the most recent episode.

As we were re-hashing the Sammi "Sweetheart" mean punch to Ron Ron's face when he became "GTL" allies with Jwoww behind her back, our sweet, demure, girl-next-door-looking waitress stopped by for a re-fill on our iced teas. When she overheard the Jersey Shore convo, she nearly dropped her pitcher. I had just finished saying, "can you believe that Sammi hit Ronnnie?" to the group I was dining with, to which our waitress yelled "NO, I totally couldn't believe it!!! OMG!! I love the Jersey Shore!!!!" She had transformed before our eyes. She went from a soft tone, to speaking loudly with a NJ accent (real?), and her posture slumped over a bit, she was talking with her hands A LOT and went from quiet to quite possibly the biggest Jersey Shore fan I have ever met.

She told us her name (will not provide her name so as to protect her privacy and her job), and that she was obsessed with the show. She then went on to tell us that she started dating her boyfriend because he was "DTF" (if you don't know what that stands for, look it up on Urban Dictionary and don't tell anyone I told you). She also said that this was the "best day of her life at work" because we too loved "The Shore" as she did.

Each time she came over to the table, serving us fennel-spiced tuna and Atlantic cod, the posh, low-volume, high-end restaurant that Danny Meyer worked so hard to make just that way became a Jersey Shore-athon. While we sipped on jasmine tea and split the biscotti and cookie platter for dessert, we discussed with our waitress how only Snooki can get away with wearing pink fuzzy slippers everywhere, including to the bar and to work, and that her recent face plant into the sand while intoxicated (and later arrested), was the highlight of season 3 thus far.

I couldn't help but sit in astonishment at the dichotomy that was unfolding. Before today, Danny Meyer and Snooki had nothing in common. But on this day, in Seinfeld's words, worlds collided, and I had lunch at one of the top restaurants in NYC while discussing the tanning and drinking habits of 23 year olds living on a boardwalk.

We asked for our check from our now friend and waitress, who enthusiastically brought it out. Upon looking at our check, which should have been pricey, we realized that she had taken off all 3 of our appetizers, all of our iced-teas, and our desserts and tea. She winked and told us to come back anytime and that she will always hook up her fellow Jersey Shore fans and thanked us for the entertainment. We slipped her a tip to show our appreciation and paid our discounted check, and walked to the door.

Standing alongside of the dark wood bar of Danny Meyer's pride and joy restaurant and NYC iconic culinary gem, I hugged my clients goodbye instead of shaking their hands as I did when we met 2 hours earlier. We had become so much more over our decadent feast at Union Square Cafe, it just seemed like the right way to part. And if I do get the business, I know I have someone else to thank for that aside from my clients. I would thank the waitress that did what only she could do, and probably no one else could ever or will ever accomplish again: She brought Danny Meyer to The Jersey Shore. Thank you.

Stop, Drop and Chug a Glass of Wine...

Fire safety tips from a new wife from experience:

1. When lighting a candle in a room, do not leave it lit when you leave that room. Especially when it is directly underneath a wood cabinet.

2. When you smell smoke, don't ignore it and blame the burning scent on the pothead neighbor. Think about what could be on fire...and do not get distracted by Kendra talking to Hank about getting traded to yet another NFL team. Actually seek out the smell...

3. When you see smoke billowing out from the medicine cabinet, don't just stand there frozen in the hallway with your mouth open saying "OMG, OMG, OMG." Move quickly towards the candle and the flame you see burning a whole into the bottom shelf of the cabinet and BLOW OUT THE CANDLE.

4. Once candle is blown out, feel the cabinet first to see if it is hot. This could mean there are flames inside and you don't want to feed it oxygen. Once you have that thought and realize "I don't give a sh*t how it feels, I am opening the damn thing to see what kind of damage I have done to the apartment," open it but step back. Black smoke in the eye? Not such a good feeling.

5. After gray mass of smoke exits the cabinet, throw an entire bucket of water at the wall/mirror/shelves and soak the entire bathroom excessively for no reason to be sure that the flames are out.

6. Open all windows and the door to the apartment so that New York City's Finest don't get called and find new wife in cozy, pink striped Old Navy Socks and an over sized high school basketball t-shirt.

7. Call husband. Cry to husband. Tell him what happened and that you almost burned down the apartment. Listen to him say "don't worry, I am not mad" instead of asking if you are okay. Get pissed off. Stop crying. Hang up.

8. Throw away all bottles of medicine that have melted in the small blaze, making sure not to tell husband how much you actually threw out since he is quite the saver and would have totaled the price tags on each to see how much this idiot mistake cost us.

9. Walk to the fridge. Open a bottle of prosecco. Pour it. Chug it. Drink it while standing in front of the blackened and charred cabinet and shelf. Think about trying to clean it, but leave it for husband to deal with.

10. Light another vanilla scented candle in the bathroom to cover up the smell of fire.

Good thinking.

The Hobbyless Newlyweds

While in Hawaii on our honeymoon, a local told us of his passion for surfing. We listened and loved hearing the tales of kite surfing from island to island, and fist fights on surf boards in the middle of the ocean for a good wave. It made us realize, aside from a good bottle of wine and an overpriced meal, what are we passionate about? What are our hobbies?

I do enjoy writing, and sometimes the occasional Chelsea Handler book, but I wouldn't describe myself as literary. I like TV, but who doesn't, and lets face it, telling someone you like The Real Housewives of whatever city happens to be on, doesn't really make for a substantial conversation starter.

We thought about our lives and what we do day to day, and it made us realize, we are the hobbyless couple. Maybe that is a common theme in New York City, since there really isn't anything to do here except work, drink, eat and sleep, specially from October through April when it is freezing or raining. But are those hobbies? Does finding the best martini bar in Manhattan qualify as a passion?

What defines a hobby anyway? According to Wikipedia: A hobby is an activity or interest that is undertaken for pleasure or relaxation, typically done during one's leisure time. If that is the case, then here are some of my hobbies:

1. Hot sauce

2. My cat

3. Man v. Food/Adam Richman

4. Jalapenos

5. Bob

6. Target

7. Jeggings

8. Trying to be funny

9. Soy cheese

10. Us Weekly

That is a good start, and I would like to add more (small and ridiculous) passions, but I would love to hear what your passions/hobbies are. Please feel free to give recommendations for things that you love that we should consider taking up, as long as it does not involve mushrooms and/or spiders.

Thank you.