Made Fresh Daily

In an attempt to lose weight for our upcoming nuptials, M and I decided to call in some help. Rather than dialing up pizza delivery or gorging ourselves at a local restaurant on a regular basis, we searched the Web for a new plan.

“Why don’t you cook more?” he asked me when we discussed our dieting options. “We can control what we eat when we cook it ourselves.” Of course he is right in his assumption, only we would wither away to a frail Nicole Richie frame if that were the case. “So you want to go on the Purge Plan?” I asked him knowing that my cooking skills could induce vomiting. Searching for a better idea than an everyday diet of egg whites and steamed vegetables (the only true meal which I can make well), we decided to try ZoneManhattan.com.

Having heard rave reviews from friends who have done the program and seeing their new svelte physique following a few months, the diet seemed sustainable. Following the guidelines for the Zone Diet (40% Carbs, 30% Protein, 30% good fat), Zone Manhattan delivers three meals and two snacks to your door each morning packed in a portable cooler. “It’s like having your own personal chef,” Dara said after dropping 20lbs on the diet.

I did the leg work and arranged a consultation with their in-house nutritionist. She asked M and I our goals, our food likes and dislikes and about our daily exercise plan. After the she had all that information, she computed a caloric and diet program for us. I felt very Oprah. Two days later our first meal was delivered.

They deliver the food between 4am and 5am every morning, placing it next to your door for you to grab when you wake up. However, on the morning of our first delivery our doorman wasn’t clued in on the structure of the delivery and proceeded to buzz me at 4am to tell me that I had a food delivery. Subsequently, we have worked that out – because having to wake up every morning at that hour to get the food would be even worse than trying to cook it myself.

“Oh yum,” M said unloading the contents of the bag into the refrigerator. “I got Sea Bass today. And look at this snack! I got a chocolate muffin with vanilla sauce.” He licked his lips and read from the menu they attached to the bag.

“Lemme see what I got.” It was like Halloween night as a kid, digging to the bottom of the goodie bag excited by some articles and disappointed by others. “Wow, I got filet with bok choy and broccoli.” I saw M eyeing my food. I knew it would be only a matter of minutes until he tried to trade me for one of his portions or worse, steal one of my meals altogether. I cut him off. “Don’t even think about it. You cannot have mine. That’s not the point of this diet. It’s regulated based on weight and caloric need. If you eat mine, I will starve and you will get fat.” He frowned.

So it has only been a week and we are in the early stages where you actually appreciate that you are paying someone to starve you. But truth be told, we aren’t that hungry at the end of the day. I like having someone else think for me – plan my meals with an eye for nutrition and balance. For $32 a day, it also is relatively economical. We would each spend $10 or more on lunch a day. We are eating out a lot less. There are no bar tabs or alcohol on our restaurant bills. It’s brainless. No weighing food, no trying to figure out what to eat for the next meal, no grocery lists of healthy items which sit and rot in our refrigerator because while it seems like a good idea to eat a 60 calorie tasteless yogurt for lunch; we never do.

We opted to do 4 days of deliveries, leaving room for dinners (healthy) out with friends and an occasional splurge. “See, isn’t this amazing?” I asked M as we sat down with our mircowaved portions of turkey meatballs and buckwheat noodles. “I already lost 5lbs,” he said sucking down nearly half his meal in one forkful of food. “I am going to be slim and trim for our wedding. This was a great idea.”

Now if I could only get him to take some ballroom dance classes too.

Hip to Be Square

On one recent rainy and cold evening, five Upper East Side girls had reservations at a very hip, very trendy and very downtown restaurant. The wind and rain blew across Second Avenue as I waited for a cab. Cursing the weather and our need to promptly arrive for our 8pm reservation or it would be given to some starving emaciated models that waited in the wings for a table; I stood soaking wet with my arm raised hoping a cab would appear. Girl’s night, unlike date night with M, usually consisted of going to some uber trendy downtown spot which required one of us to begin calling exactly 4 weeks ahead of time to secure a sacred spot in the restaurant’s reservation book.

I have long gotten over the Meatpacking District. In its infancy, years ago, it was cool and unknown. Now, any weekend night it is flooded with B and T, with their mall bought outfits and replicated magazine versions of couture. It’s a schlep – an $18 cab ride from the Upper East Side for marginal quality food in pseudo trendy atmosphere. “Why do we always pick places downtown? We are in our 30s. It’s time we move the party uptown,” I said to my friends as I received biting looks of disdain. I might as well have a shawl around my shoulders and a cane propping me up as hair sprouted from my face.

“You might as well move to the suburbs if that is how you feel about Manhattan?” one of them skewered me back.

While I am not quite ready to trade my stilettos for driving shoes and a mini-van I have evolved socially past my single style life. Being single, meant staying ahead of the eight ball and in the know of new hotspots. Decked in a newly bought outfit, I would go out 4 times a week. Suede, Marquee, Pravda – clubs that no longer exist, I visited as often as I visit Starbucks. But that was my single life; those were my days as New York twenty-something PR girl. My cell phone stored numbers for club promoters, bouncers and publicists; nowadays it has the phone numbers for doggie day care and tennis clinics.

The need to be at the newest spots has ceased. I am not quite sure where or when I lost this desire, perhaps somewhere between my 30th birthday and meeting M things changed. I got tired, grew tired of something which grew old and tedious, worn out like a pair of shoes from seasons past that didn’t quite fit anymore and whose soles were worn thin. “Why do I want to go to some loud club and listen to some shit music with a bunch of screaming kids,” I echoed to M. I have replaced Red Bull with Green Tea. “What is happening to me?” I asked as I heard my own words. I am becoming my parents, one of those things people warn you that will happen but to which you laugh it the mere thought. I looked down to notice I might as well be wearing my mother’s red robe as I sat in leggings and an old college T-shirt. It was a Saturday night and freezing. Rather than fight for a cab or walk to a restaurant, we opted for an antisocial evening of HBO and delivery.

Manhattan is a big island with room for everyone and their own tastes. My tastes have mellowed, like fine red wine with age. My Manhattan no longer exists in the corners of some new brimming area yet to be discovered by the hipsters where graffiti and litter are considered art. Call me uncool, call me my parents, but you can take your velvet ropes and VIP lists and shove ‘em. I will take my Upper East Side with its staid conservatism, amazing restaurants and a relaxed refined existence over West Chelsea any day.

I just wonder how long it will be before I am pocketing Sweet and Low like my grandparents.

Beauty and the Rich

The Downfall of Western Society

While I enjoy brainless TV and stupid insipid reality programs that pop-up at the velocity of zits on 15 year old’s face, I found this latest degradation of societal values abhorrent (even for my pseudo-superficial standards).

A friend of mine forwarded me a website called Pocket Change. Pocket Change bills itself as website which highlights New York City’s “most expensive goods and services.” “Pocket Change is a First Class cabin journey into the depths of decadence. With your flask wielding Captain Richard Nouveau (the site creator’s pseudonym) at the helm rest assured you will be comfortable,” the site’s description continues on with a longwinded self congratulatory grandiose tone contrived and written by its creator – Captain Nouveau – who hides behind a smoke and mirror curtain like the Wizard of Oz.

At first the site seems like one big joke….some egomaniacal nerd poking fun at New York society or himself, but upon closer inspection, and in reaction to the real live dating event which is to happen at Bruno Jamais on the Upper East Side, I am rethinking my earlier inclination.

Pocket Change along with New York Magazine is hosting “Natural Selection Speed Dating” – open to “Wealthy Men and Hot Girls”. WTF? I had to read that a few times? New York Magazine put its name on this event? Certainly I can understand a no-name website conjuring up some publicity with this tactic, but a legitimate established New York publication which offers that “high brow v low brow” Putnam square thingy each week? This certainly falls into low brow and despicable.

To apply, the men’s requirements are solely based on wealth. He could be a bald midget who is obese with a glandular disorder causing him to smell like wet dog, but as long as he has invested assets of over $1 million, he would be invited to join the event. For women, application and acceptance is purely based on beauty. “Send 5 pictures” the instructions say and celebrity matchmaker Janis Spindel will judge your worth. Sorry ladies, no need to include that Harvard law degree on your application or Olympic medal you won in the downhill slalom, no need to mention your financial assets either, just make sure the assets you keep in your bra are perky in the picture.

“Pocket Change is honoring the age old union of wealthy men and hot girls (note: girls not women, I assume that means those under 18 are invited to apply making this child porn). “Society has taught us to not publicly acknowledge the obvious – no longer dear friends. Women want money in a man, men want beauty in a woman – this is a factual force of nature Women don’t ask “So what does he do for a living?” because they are interested in his personality and guys don’t as “is she hot?” because they are concerned with character. Guys know that money buys them the car, the house and the trophy wife. This genetic cleansing is how the wealthy stay beautiful.” These are the words aimed to justify the sheer frivolity of this event, a vain attempt to use vanity itself as justification.

But show me the numbers? Show me how many marriages based upon this equation last. Sure on Jdate I weeded out the guys who were too short (which were most). Many a friend will first glance at the annual income line before reading the lengthy bio. And obviously, looks do matter. But it doesn’t so neatly boil down to how much money a guy has or how hot the girl is. You are talking about a lifetime commitment, which should be based on the entire package, not just wrapping.

So my question to the inventor of this event: Why have speed dating at all? If it is based on looks/money alone, why waste time with talk? Call it what it is -A high priced escort service event. Stick some price tags on the merchandise and allow the “rich men” to purchase their “goods and services” at the end of the night. But just to add that extra superficial albeit Upper East Side special touch, donate some of the proceeds to charity. Hmmm, how about Plastic Surgery for Ugly People – that charity surely could use some money.

Highs and Lows

As a kid I would dangle from my neighbor’s tree like a spider monkey. I would climb to the highest branch I could reach and swing from one lanky limb high above my mother. With one hand, she would hold the camera and snap pictures of me; with the other hand she kept a ready finger on the speed dial button for the ambulance. “Look at me Mom!” I would scream down to her, my body contorted like Play-do carefree and unafraid.

Fear, in my youth was related to being grounded for stealing my brother’s pack of Bubbalicious Watermelon gum. I had no fear of the intangibles. Fear of flying, fear of heights, fear of accidents which would leave me dead or so mangled and crippled that death would be a better alternative, these were concepts which didn’t cause me to lose sleep or need prescription pills to get on an airplane. I would jump and dive, making circles with my body in the air like Mary Lou Retton never worrying about landing on my neck and spending the rest of my life as a vegetable.

As the plane barreled down the runway gaining speed for its ascent towards the blue heavens, over the farm land of Middle America and towards Puerto Vallarta, I dug my nails into M’s arm. My teeth clenched so tightly my jaws ached as I assumed crash position my head tucked under my knees and my stomach ascending towards my throat. “Stop that,” M said looking a bit fearful and altogether embarrassed that the three year old in front of us was better behaved than his fiancee. It was a new low, even for me.

It was if my fear was contagious like the common cold, one sneeze of anxiety and M caught the fear of flying bug too. “Just relax. I swear I am never flying with you ever again if you keep doing this.” I pulled myself together and sat upright worried that my anxiety would be the reason we honeymooned in Connecticut at some shabby motel off I-95 drinking beer from a six-pack instead of some exotic locale where they serve drinks in fish bowls with fruit on a stick.

Two plane rides later, American Airlines delivered us in one piece to the promise land of Mexico. Three bottles of the airline’s red wine and one Tylenol PM, I remained calm (yet drugged) for most of the flight. M’s father and step-mother picked us up at the airport. “How was the flight?” they asked as we collapsed in the back of the car, catatonic and doped up like junkie I could barely answer. “Gooooooooooooooood, pretty, fine,” I slurred.

In the dark, you couldn’t really make out the topography of the land. Driving down the main drag of highway, passed the nightclubs whose signs boasted Foam Parties on Tuesdays and Fridays, passed the Taco stands, through the town with its romantic cobblestone streets and throngs of tourists who ogled the silver and turquoise gems in store windows, the car trudged upwards. We exited the straightaway and started to climb, the airconditioning giving way as the slant of the road became more vertical. The lights of the town flickered below us as the road ahead of us kept unfolding with hairpin turns and curves. At the top of the cliff, we pulled off the road into a gated complex. “We’re here,” they announced as we grabbed the bags from the trunk and my nerves started to settle.

The condo was carved into the side of a mountain, an architectural and engineering feat of which I couldn’t begin to understand the complexity. M’s father opened a small waist high door that led to an open-air trolley car. “What is this?” I asked as I entered and plopped down onto the seat. “A funicular,” he answered me. He pushed a button and it started to move. Upwards, climbing slowly, the cable rolled as the car traveled along its tracks at nearly a 90 degree incline. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. The same way you know you don’t need another sticky bun at an All-You-Can-Eat buffet; I was propelled to by a force I couldn’t fight; ignoring the voice in my head which shouted DO NOT LOOK DOWN.

Down, I looked. Towards the base of the cliff where we had entered this contraption, now 6 floors below us, I stared at the metal cable which was my only safety line to living. Using logic to assuage my fears, I reassured myself that it was no different than an elevator only open air. Instead of calming my nerves, I think I added fear of elevators to my growing list of phobias.

For New Year’s Eve we had planned on doing a boat cruise to a private island followed by a night of dining and dancing on the beach. At the dock as we were about to board the ship we overheard the tour leader explain in Spanish that we would not be returning to the mainland until 4am. “NFW,” M said. “No fucking way am I getting stuck on some rinky dink island until 4 o’clock in the morning.” M’s fears were not of heights but of being trapped like Gilligan only liquored up on tropical drinks. Voted off the island idea by M, we opted to have dinner at Las Carmelitas.

Las Carmelitas was at one of the highest points in Puerto Vallarta. Four Thousand feet above the town, this beacon’s lights could be seen from the city glowing far above the rocky terrain. Making our way up the side of the mountain, the winding dirt road was steep. The car bounced along the narrow path, its chassis scrapping the dirt beneath, we wove our way up what seemed a never ending trek. In the back of the car, I squeezed M’s hand so tightly that his face turned blue from lack of circulation. I was silently praying, my heart jumping each time the wheels of the car made a sliding noise. Images of us plunging off the side of the cliff, tumbling down the mountain as the car came to a halt wedged in a tree, upside down its wheels still spinning, played in my mind like a horrible daytime TV soap opera episode. Even on land, my fear of heights wasn’t at bay. The headlights of the car cut a path of light in the jungle like foliage which grew unabated like the Eastern European woman’s eyebrows at our coffee shop, causing the tiny sliver of road to look even smaller.

There were no guard rails. Nothing between us a failure of the anti-lock-brakes and certain death. How a country where buildings were sliced into chunks of mountain couldn’t add some metal to the side of its roads escaped me. Even on the FDR we had guard rails. The Jersey turnpike was lined with them; from Fort Lee to the PA turnpike every speck of roadside had a railing. Even in places where the only thing you could careen off the road and hit is a cow, there are guard rails. Every good Upper East Sider needs a cause. From children in Mongolia without the Internet to Space Heater Education in Somalia, every cause has an advocate. Heather Mills can have her land minds; I am taking on the International Guard Rail epidemic.

When we finally reached the top I needed a drink – a huge large enormous bowl of alcohol to soothe my nerves. Once my blood alcohol was at a calming level and the food was on the table, did I enjoy the view. Perched above the town, above what seemed the world rolling out at my feet, could I appreciate the height. That night, the fireworks burst in the sky, seemingly mere inches from our heads – parallel to us yet far out over the ocean. The dizzying effect of the darkness below us, the colorful explosions of kaleidoscope colors in front of us, the lines were blurred between ground and sky. We floated between the two.

Sometimes you have to ignore your fears for the rewards. Fear of heights, fear of flying, fear in general – I can’t rid myself of them, but it’s nothing that a Mexican pharmacy, a daiquiri and some yoga style breathing can’t help me handle. Otherwise, life would be flat. Without the height, you can never see how far you came and you can never get any further. Figuratively and Literally.