Unlike most people, I actually enjoy a dense overcast. It gives me a feeling of comfort and insulation. I think of a dense overcast as God’s way of covering me with a warm, cozy blanket.

I had a noon council meeting at the Salvation Army. After driving my 85 year old uncle to the local senior center for his 11 am bridge game, I was pressed for time to get myself ready. I jumped into the shower for what my Mom would call a ‘military style’ cleansing. Two or three minutes tops to wash the essentials, then you’re out, and dried and dressed in less than five.

I had little time to spare, so I grabbed from my closet what I considered the easiest thing to put-on in a hurry; a cute breezy Ann Taylor dress, with a subtle floral print. Perfect for a spring day, I thought, and modestly appropriate for a meeting with the other volunteer council members at the Salvation Army. As you read the rest of this story, please keep the words ‘modestly appropriate’ in mind.

About halfway through the twelve minute drive to Tarrytown for my meeting, the clouds cracked, and it started raining down in buckets. It was still raining heavily when I pulled into the Salvation Army parking lot. Raining bucket after bucket, with no end in sight. I knew I couldn’t wait-it-out, or I would miss the meeting! I just had to make a mad dash for the door, and hope I didn’t get drenched too badly.

Ahh! Phooey! A Little Rain Never Hurt Me!

That is what I was thinking as I ran to the door, wearing my Ann Taylor dress and grey suede slingback heels. At the midway point of my dash, I realized that I had seriously underestimated the ferocity of this rainstorm. I was already drenched, but I had no choice but to forge forward.

I landed in the meeting room, facing my fellow council members and the Salvation Army Officers in charge of our Tarrytown Corps. with my entire body dripping with rain.

“Oh!!! You are soaked!” said outgoing Lt. Argelia (soon to be Captain in Newburgh). “You need some dry clothes… Let me go upstairs and see what I can find.”

As Argelia went upstairs, I met aside with Janet, the secretary – to discuss the parting gift and card we arranged for our parting Lts., to be given at the meeting.

Meanwhile, I noticed a tightness happening in my arms. Not only in my arms, but really, all over… Yes, the dress I was wearing was shrinking, and tightening up all around me! In all my years of living, I have never had an article of clothing shrink while I was actually wearing it! This was a first for me. So much for the ‘Dry-Clean Only’ tag.

I looked down towards my breast area, and saw that my shrinking dress had squeezed my boobies together, creating a cleavage I had never known, despite my best efforts to buy a good wonder-bra. Jeez! I thought. My boobs look more like those of a fraulein serving beer at Octoberfest than a humble Salvation Army volunteer! Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing?  I don’t know.

Then, there was the skirt issue, which can’t be skirted. Before shrinkage, my hem length was respectfully at the knee. Upon shrinkage, that hem length went up and up – to mini-skirt levels, and beyond. Which might have been okay, if I wasn’t meeting with church-going people! But, it wasn’t okay, and I kept pulling at the bottom of my skirt until Lt. Argelia re-appeared with some dry clothing for me to change into.

I quickly ran into the restroom to change into Lt. Argelia’s offerings. A navy blue skirt that the Salvation Army officers wear, and a forest-green T-shirt that had ‘Manhattan College’ printed across in white letters. Not exactly fashion-forward, but dry.  Hey, if you’re going to get caught in an awkward situation with a shrinking dress, the Salvation Army is THE place to be.

As I ran to the restroom, I held down the bottom portion of what was once my ‘modestly appropriate’ dress, now turned to a skimpy mini dress, and I said a simple prayer; ‘Thank You, GOD… for giving me the foresight to not wear a thong today.’

The poor tree didn't stand a chance.

Thanks everyone, for your heart warming birthday wishes! Hell, if one is going to celebrate a ‘faux Facebook birthday,’ it seems oddly fitting for it to be accompanied by a not-so-faux nor’easter… or, yeah, in other words; a friggin’ blizzard!

I’m amazed, but not so surprised that with all this snow, we still have power. Not so surprised, because the guy who lives next door works for the town, and for some odd reason, our neck of the power grid always seems to stay juiced in the midst of the most inclement weather. Hmmm. I wonder why?

(Side note to self; If ever thinking of purchasing or renting a home, enquire about the profession of all nearby neighbors. It is wise to live next door to a guy or gal who has the power to keep his/her home with power when everyone else has none. I think Ghandi said that … nah, probably not.)

Of course, after surviving many years of hurricanes in Florida, I never take any storm for granted. I always properly prepare for the worse case scenario. The worse case scenario for a blizzard here in NY is we lose power, and can’t keep the house (or our butts) warm. Thus, my main preparatory goal was to gather as much wood as possible – to burn in the fireplace.

There’s an ample stockpile of logs here in the yard of my 85 year old uncles’ house, but those logs have been there for years. With all the freezing temperatures we’ve had lately, most of those logs are frozen solid together, or rotted and rendered unusable. I went out and gathered what I could; a log harvest of about five good ones. I knew the logs would need time to dry, so I brought them inside, and hoped for the best.

I went to work later that afternoon, for my part-time evening shift as a deli clerk at a local supermarket. The pay sucks, but even as a part-timer, I get union membership and some form of health benefits, which is a helluva lot better than NO form of health benefits. So, I graciously put-up with the arrogant and not-so-gracious whims of the rich and mighty of Bedford Hills, NY – all for the comfort of knowing that should my body develop some rare form of shoulder-blade cancer, I will be covered by some meager form of a union negotiated health-care plan. Yeah. Wish me luck on that one!

Before I stray off the issue of the not-so-gracious rich and mighty of Bedford Hills, let me state that it is NOT polite, nor is it appropriate for anyone to ever request that their pound of salami be sliced ‘very, very, very thin!’ Seriously! Those two extra ‘very’s are ‘very’ unnecessary. We get it when you say you want it ‘very thin.’ OK? The next time some miserable rich A-hole requests that I slice their salami ‘very, very, very thin,’ I’m going to humorously present him or her with an empty sheet of deli paper, and say, “So, you’re telling me you want invisible salami?” Seriously! ‘Very thin’ suffices. We get it. All us lowly deli clerks get it! Even those of us who don’t have legal working papers. We get it, with just one ‘very.’ Using three ‘very’s is superfluous and insulting, especially to those of us who know the meaning of the word superfluous, and how to spell it. OK? So, stick to just one ‘very.’ OK?

And another thing, (while I’m ranting)! Don’t ever tell a deli clerk that your cold cuts need to be sliced ‘very, very, very thin,’ because your kid won’t eat it otherwise. That’s just wrong. There are millions of hungry children in this world, who would thank God for a slice of Boar’s Head Oven Gold turkey, regardless of how thickly or thinly it’s sliced. You should be raising your child to be thankful, not spoiled and unappreciative. I mean, really! You are doing your child no service by pandering to such nonsense. The next time your kid complains about a cold cut being too thick, you should simply say, “Oh, ok. I guess you’re not that hungry. Let’s bring this pound of Boar’s Head ham to the local food bank, to feed some other child who will actually appreciate it.”

OK, now that I’ve gotten those little issues off my chest, let’s move forward.

Pandemonium ensued at the grocery store, as would be expected on the day before the strike of a major blizzard. Customers were lined-up by the dozens to buy pounds of perishable lunch meats, the logic of which escapes me. Cold cuts need to be kept cold, otherwise they will spoil. So if you lose power, and can’t cook for a day or two, you will also lose refrigeration. Wouldn’t it make more sense to stock-up on cans of tuna and chicken, etc., than to buy tons of perishable lunch meats? Just saying…

As I was slicing very, very, very thin lunch meats for my very, very, very panicked customers, I made a mental assessment of my own home survival situation. I came to the conclusion that since my Uncle Ed and I had a freezer and refrigerator full of enough food to last us weeks, not to mention the formidable cache of canned goods (purchased prior to the end of the Mayan calendar), which could feasibly keep us nutritionally sustained for at least 3 months, I didn’t need to worry about bringing home more food. I needed to bring home wood.

Five semi-frozen logs from the yard does not make for a sustaining warm abode, should we lose power. I worked an extra half hour, till 10:30 pm, to help get the deli department closed and cleaned for the morning crew. Then, I filled a shopping cart with two large burnable bags of hardwood.

Upon arriving home, I cleverly left one of the bags in the trunk of the car, because I had every expectation that my dear old Uncle Ed would give me a hard-time for spending money on wood, when we have so much here in the yard.

Sure enough, when he saw me lugging the first batch into the house, his eyes went wide and wild, and he exclaimed, “You bought wood?!!”

I answered him matter-of-factly, and said, “Yes, Uncle Ed! I bought wood! I took as much as I could from the yard today, but the rest of it is frozen solid. In case you didn’t know, we’re about to have a blizzard. We might lose power. And there is NO way you and I are going to be sitting here in an icy cold house without some firewood to burn! OK?”

Uncle Ed locked his eyes into mine in a steely glare, and then he smiled and said, “OK. You’re right. That was smart of you to do that.”

Fortunately, we never lost power (as I mentioned earlier). But we have been enjoying the warm glow of the fireplace ever since.

I believe most human beings are gifted with a selective memory, which allows us to block the bad stuff and remember the good. We either block the bad memories, or we find something humorous about them, and go on from there. Revisiting my journals means reliving all the good, selected memories, and unfortunately all the bad. But, I figure there’s a reason why little Betty Anne Von Achen from Blue Point started writing in her books all those years ago. Little Betty Anne Von Achen apparently had a message for grown up Liz Von Achen, and grown up Liz Von Achen is a fool and a coward if she doesn’t go back in time, and read what Betty Anne had to say.

A couple of months ago, my dear Uncle Ed and I attended the wake of one of his longtime friends. It got me thinking about the frailty of life. How at anytime, it could be the end of our time, here on earth. After the wake, my uncle and I had a morbid but somewhat cathartic talk about our wishes, should either of us meet our demise before the other. Uncle Ed’s biggest wish is to be buried in the plot next to Aunt Peg at the Calverton National Cemetery on Long Island. Uncle Ed’s an easy-going guy, who doesn’t care whether or not he’s embalmed for a showing at a wake, or comes to the cemetery in a cremated urn of ashes. He just wants whatever remains he has to be buried beside the love of his life.

My final requests were a bit more complicated. Of course!

“I don’t want to be embalmed, or have a showing.” I said. “I mean, most of my family and friends are in Florida, and I don’t think too many people would come to Westchester to view my wax-museum-like body in a coffin… I want to be cremated, and I want my ashes spread in two, no make that three places. I want some of my ashes spread in the Great South Bay of Long Island, which is where I spent the first 20 years of my life. I want more of my ashes scattered off the east coast of Florida, which is where I spent the next 20+ years of my life. Then, I want my remaining ashes to be taken to Paris by someone who loves me, and placed wherever they want. I’ve always dreamed of going to Paris, and if I can’t get there while alive, I’d like to at least get there when I’m dead.”

Uncle Ed politely listened to my rant, then he smiled and said,
“Liz, you’re not gonna die anytime soon, and we will go to Paris together, someday…”

“I hope so,” I said. “But this leaves me with my most important final wish. Uncle Ed, if I should pass away before you, will you make sure that my duffle bag full of journals gets sent to either my brothers Bob or Chris, or my sister Karen?”

“Of course, I would!” Uncle Ed responded. “But, what about Terry?” he asked.

“Terry has enough shit on her plate to handle. The last thing she needs is to be burdened with my journals!! Besides, I figure Bob is the most educated member of my family, and Chris and Karen are the most creative.”

“OK…” said Uncle Ed.

I realize now that it is totally unfair for me to place the burden of my journals upon anyone else! I’m still alive, and it’s time for ME to be responsible.

My sister Karen got on my ass when I visited Florida for vacation, three weeks ago. She said, “You need to take accountability for your life!”

She was right.

So, this is why I’m writing … I’m delving deeply into the past, referencing my journals, and what I’m writing will not be published – for free, on this blog.

My Mom phoned me this morning, and asked “Honey, are you okay?”

My response was, “Yes, Mom. I’m okay. I’ve just been delving into the past, and writing a lot … My working theme is ‘My Extraordinary Life As An Ordinary Loser.’”

“Oh, honey!” she said, “You’re not a loser, and I hate to think of you thinking of yourself that way.”

“Mom, I know I’m not a loser. I’m a writer. But, let’s face it; nobody wants to read stories I write about how wonderful I am. Self-deprecating humor is what I do! It’s what I do best!”

“I know, honey…” said my Mom.

“Starting with the time I swallowed that quarter that Nana gave me, which landed me in the emergency room… with a quarter lodged halfway in my esophagus. What the heck was I thinking? Oh, this shiny quarter looks a lot like a foiled-wrapped chocolate, so I’ll just eat it…” I said.

My Mom laughed, and said; “You know, swallowing that quarter was actually a brilliant move on your part, because after that, Nana had no choice but to give all you guys a dollar bill whenever she visited.”

Yes! There it was! Proof-positive that there was and always will be – some method to my madness!

Stay tuned…

Foreshadowing gloom is the fact that I’ve agreed to work my part-time job at the deli till 4 p.m., which pretty much excludes me from driving over 2 hours south to mooch a meal off friends or family on Long Island.  I mean, really!  Who eats Thanksgiving dinner at 7 p.m.?

While I might make it in time for the customary ’2nd Round’ Turkey Sandwich Leftover event, it would hardly seem worth the effort, as I would then have to drive back home just a few hours later, to make it in time for work on Friday.  And who wants to drive for more than 2 hours on a stomach full of tryptophan?  Everyone knows that stuff makes you drowsy!

I’ve considered other options such as volunteering at the local Food Bank, but I was told by my friend at the local Food Bank that they didn’t need any more volunteers.  They had an over-abundance of do-gooders for the holiday.  Apparently, Thanksgiving Day is the most popular day of the year for people (i.e. politicians) to volunteer at the Food Bank, and it’s all about who-you-know in order to get-in … as a volunteer.

So, then I thought; if the Food Bank didn’t need me as a volunteer, maybe I should just show-up as a hungry, needy guest… Maybe all those ‘extra important who-you-know volunteers’ would appreciate an extra mouth to feed, and I could be of some service in that way.

Then, I thought about all the people in the area who have a legitimate need for a hot meal on Thanksgiving Day, and I realized how morally reprehensible it would be for me to pretend to be financially needy of a meal, when I’m really only emotionally needy, and afraid of being alone on such a big family oriented day.

That’s when another option I had been kicking around in my feeble little mind set-in …

What if I offered myself up-for-adoption on Craig’s List?  Why not?  I’m thinking it might actually work!  My ad could say something like; ‘Kookie Sitcom Aunt-type Seeks Adoption from Big, Dysfunctional Family for the holidays, and other special occasions.’

I would then promise to show-up at all events wearing an eclectic get-up, perhaps even a Mumu (which I think is the standard attire for most Kookie Situation Comedy Aunts), and I would prepare a series of fascinating stories to tell of my mad-cap adventures abroad.

What family wouldn’t want a ‘Kookie Sitcom Aunt’ to breeze in and out of their lives on holidays and special occasions?  I would even bring some sort of oddly conceived dessert to all occasions, which would make the children cringe and the adults feel superior. Yeah, I’m thinking Indonesian Fruit Cake…

Yes, being adopted by a large dysfunctional family (preferably of Irish decent, because they seem to have the most interesting drama on the holidays, or an Italian family, because let’s face it; they have the best food) seems quite plausible.

But with Thanksgiving just 2 days away, would my target adoptive family have enough time to do a thorough background check on me? Which, of course, I would highly recommend.  I mean, you don’t just invite a kookie adopted aunt to your Thanksgiving dinner table without some reconnaissance, do you?

Maybe I’ll have to resort to Plan B.  Plan B is to roast a small chicken (or possibly a Cornish Hen) for myself  – throw some canned gravy on some mashed potatoes, guzzle a bottle of chardonnay and make drunken ‘I LOVE YOU’ calls to everyone on my contact list.  But then again, that would be so old hat, because I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I did the past two Thanksgivings. And, honestly? It really wasn’t all that much fun… especially on the morning after.

So, I’m thinking now that I’ll just have to wing-it this year (no pun intended).  I’ll leave work at 4 p.m., and let whatever spur-of-the-moment inspiration I might have move me to some course of action.  Or, no course of action at all.

One thing will be for sure; On Thanksgiving Day, I’ll be thankful for all the people in my life who still manage to love me, despite my obvious flaws.

Happy Thanksgiving to All My Family and Friends!  I truly love ‘You’s Guys!’

It’s back-to-school, and those ragamuffin kids across the street are no longer sticking to themselves and loudly playing summer yard games past their bedtime.  Instead, they politely come around knocking on the door at dinnertime, hawking over-priced kitchen gadgets, greeting cards and candles from slickly printed fund-raising catalogs, which of course, I can’t resist. I take a gamble and buy the most potentially useful (or useless) gadget I could find .

It’s the time of year that heralds the seemingly magical appearance of Mallomars cookies on the grocery store shelves, as well as colorfully decorated pumpkins on the neighbors’ front porches.

After a long regular summer season of baseball, fans are charged-up for the post-season pennant race, pinning their hopes on their favorites to make it to the World Series.  For those whose favorites are nowhere in the race; well, there’s always next year.  And, there’s always football. The 2012 NFL season kicked-off on September 5th, with most football fans across the nation feeling, if not optimistic, at least hopeful for their teams.

Foodies and fans of locally grown produce (such as myself) are happily gathering fresh harvests of carrots, and filling the house with the wonderfully rich scents of autumn by slow cooking soup, spiced with nutmeg, cloves and a touch of cinnamon.

Fall has always been a hopeful and happy time of year for me – to leave all the dull predictability of summer behind, and behold and imagine something new.  New clothes? New teachers? New Classmates? New test scores? New opportunities? New President?

It’s sad that this hopeful, happy time of year for so many of us is forever marred and made solemn by the unconscionable acts of just a few, as we remember our loved ones who perished on 9-11.

As sad as it is, this day must always be a solemn day for reflection and remembrance.  Today, I honor and remember all the innocent victims of 9-11.  My heart goes to their families, and I tearfully grieve with them.

- Never forget!

I’m not shocking in a “Hey, Father Flanigan, did you hear the one about the lesbian, the prostitute and the pedophile?” sort of way. Well, okay, so I have been known to tell an off-color joke or two in the presence of clergy. But, in my defense, nuns hardly ever wear habits anymore! How was I supposed to know Sister Malone was a nun? I mean, I thought ‘Sister’ was an odd first name, but hey, if some Egyptian guy can name his kid ‘Facebook,’ who’s to say someone couldn’t name a child ‘Sister’ or ‘Brother’? And besides, Sister Malone was three sheets to the wind, shouting “Beer bong! Beer bong!” as she danced on top of the bar. So, I’m totally, almost 90%, at least 50% sure I won’t be going to hell for telling a dirty joke to a drunken nun.

But that’s straying off topic, and we really should get back to me and why I am so energetic, electrifying, overflowing with positive energy and above all else, shocking! How is it that I’m so shocking? You wonder. Okay, well, maybe you’re not actually wondering that. In fact, I’m fairly certain that you’re wondering why I think you might think this particular blog entry is of any interest whatsoever to you. You are probably in the midst of a deeply stretched yawn as you read this, and pondering what you should do about dinner. ‘Hmmm…Should I make hamburgers or meatballs?’ you wonder.

More than likely, if you’ve managed to read this far, your mind is reeling with questions such as, ‘What the hell is wrong with Liz? Why is she always writing about herself? Energetic, electrifying? Sheesh! Who the hell does she think she is, anyway? It’s always all about Liz. Liz, Liz, Liz, Liz, Liz … Oh, sure, occasionally, she’ll spice things up with a story about a bank-robbing grandma, or going on a date with a transsexual, or something kooky like that… But, really! What is all this crap about her being so shocking? And why should I care? And, how the hell does she know what I’m thinking right now, anyway? Damn, I forgot to buy pickles. Oh, well, I guess I’m making meatballs tonight. How does Liz know I forgot to buy pickles? She’s a friggin’ freak! That’s how she knows! Aw, heck, I probably shouldn’t be so judgmental. I mean, after all, it IS Liz’s blog I’m reading. And isn’t a blog short for web-log, which by nature should be all about the person who’s blogging, and not about streaming stories from other blogs about Charlie Sheen? Come to think of it, Charlie Sheen is a much bigger freak than Liz could ever be. At least Liz isn’t claiming to have a 10,000-year-old brain and the boogers of a 7-year-old, like Charlie Sheen did on that Piers Morgan show. So, I suppose I should just continue reading to find out why Liz thinks she is so shocking, even if she is a little weird, but much less weird than Charlie Sheen. Do I have any parmesan cheese for my meatballs?’

OK. I will stop reading your mind now, and get to explaining why I am shocking.

It all started about a month ago. It was a fairly mild and sporadic phenomenon at first. I really didn’t think much of it. I knew from previous experience that occasionally, walking across a carpet can cause a mild electrostatic ‘shock.’ I didn’t quite understand the science behind such occurrences. I remembered my elementary school, when the only carpeted room in the entire building was the library. My fellow classmates and I couldn’t wait for library hour to give each other jolting sparks, under the guise of actually being interested in books. As I recall, it would take three brisk laps around the ‘Babar the Elephant’ section to build up enough static electricity to zap one or more of the stuck-up girls congregating near the ‘Nancy Drew’ books.

I need to read your mind again to move this story further along, so please bear with me.

‘Why would Liz use elementary school as a reference for carpet shock? Doesn’t she have more recent experience to draw on?’ you wonder.

The answer is NO! While I was born and raised and currently live in New York, I have spent the previous 25 years or so living in Florida. Anyone who’s lived in Florida knows that as of about 1989, carpeting was officially banned in the entire state (except for hotels within a 10 mile radius of Disney World). Well, by officially, I mean not banned in any court of law, but definitely banned in the court of public opinion. Nobody has carpet anymore in Florida. Well, okay, maybe one or two octogenarians living in a condo on Miami Beach still have carpeting. But, believe me, I haven’t spent enough time with the likes of them to risk any transference of static electricity!

So, imagine my surprise when about a month ago, I began experiencing mild shocks after sitting in a corduroy-covered recliner and walking across the living room carpet, and into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. When I touched the metal handle of the fridge, zap! As I mentioned earlier, it was mild, and sporadic at first. But it grew more and more intense. So intense that I considered whether God was trying to send me a message to stop drinking beer; a notion which I quickly rejected. With God, all things are possible. So, if God wanted me to stop drinking beer, he would open a winery next door — “Duh!” (to quote Charlie Sheen).

In the past week or so, the shocks have been occurring so frequently and with increasing pain, that I began to wonder if maybe I was a freakish anomaly amongst the human race. After all, I do have bona fide pointed ears, and could perhaps be a bona fide electrically charged, pointy eared mutant. I wondered; could I possibly be living the life of a character in a Stephen King novel? It got to a point when anytime I touched anything conductive, I created a spark, and felt a shock of noticeable discomfort. We’re not talkin’ elementary school library stuff anymore. This was serious.

Why was this problem only happening to me, and no one else in the house? What was causing this to happen? Could this situation continue to escalate to a point where I could possibly die from electrocution? And most importantly; if I died from static-electrocution, would insurance cover it?

I did what any other intelligent and reasonably minded person would do; I Googled it. ‘Why am I always getting shocked?’ I typed into the Google search bar. About 686,000 results came up, many explaining in detail the science behind my dilemma. Turns out, I was not alone. While I might like to think I was somehow special, and experiencing a strange, mind-boggling phenomenon worthy of at least one good conspiracy theory, it all turns out to be quite mundane.

The truth is; we live in a world where everything is made of atoms. Atoms have electrons (representing a negative charge) and protons (positive charge). The negative and positive charges usually balance-out, which keeps life, as we know it, flowing quite nicely. Static electricity occurs when the atomic charges within correlating objects redistribute, moving from one source to the other. When the objects separate, one item takes an excess of the positive charge and the other more of the negative charge. If the objects can conduct electricity, in most cases, the charges will settle into the material, recombine, and even out. But if the charges are separated faster than the material can absorb them, static electricity build ups, and causes a shock, or high voltage.

Nylon carpets, especially older ones, are common conduits for electrostatic shocks. As are thick rubber or plastic soled shoes. Dry air (usually caused by indoor heating in the winter) is also a contributing factor. So, there I was, walking around in a heated and dry house, on an old, nylon carpet, wearing boots with a thick rubber sole. Once I took the boots off, the shocking stopped. Completely.

Please allow me to read your mind once more.

You are now thinking; ‘What the…? Instead of making meatballs, I ordered a pizza, and read through this whole blog post, just hoping to find some evidence that Liz really is a freaky mutant from another planet. And all I got was a cheesy and questionable lesson in grade school physics! Damn. Where the hell is that pizza delivery dude, anyway?’

I guess you could say I approach cooking like I approach life. Driven by improvisation and instinct, I work with what I’ve got, no set-in-stone plan in mind. Thus, my life and my cooking are often blessed or cursed with inconsistencies. A bi-polar chef; I can achieve both disappointing lows and wonderfully exhilarating highs in the kitchen. Rarely is anything I cook simply mediocre. God forbid, I aim for and accomplish anything average!

That being said, there is no possible way I could write the recipe for the delicious turkey meatloaf I made last night. All I can tell you is that I spiced the meat with an unmeasured combination of chopped onion, minced garlic, oregano, marjoram, black pepper, salt, and the ingredients of a Simon and Garfunkel song.

I served the meatloaf with homemade brown gravy, mashed potatoes and a vegetable medley. It was a huge triumph. It was so yummy, there was much eagerness for a lunch-time reprisal of the meat today. If you’ve caught-on to how I roll in my apron, you’ll know that it would be against my nature to serve leftovers the same way as I served the original.

Enter the ‘Ain’t Yo’ Mama’s Meatloaf Sandwich.’ OMG! A spicy, sweet slice of pure heaven. I just had to document it for future reference. If you ever find yourself burdened with a few slices of leftover meatloaf, please try this recipe. You won’t be disappointed.

Here’s what you’ll use:
- Slice(s) of leftover meatloaf
- 2 pieces of bread (I used ordinary white bread)
- Monterey Pepper-Jack cheese (with jalapeno peppers)
- Your favorite B-B-Q sauce (I used a tangy sweet Memphis style sauce)
- 1 tblsp. olive oil (add some garlic and italian seasoning to the oil)

Here’s the gist of the technique:
- Brush the bread on both sides with the olive oil mixture
- Place bread on tray in toaster-oven and bake at low heat till lightly browned
- Cover one slice of bread with pepper jack cheese and continue to bake for approx. 1 min. to melt the cheese

Meanwhile;
- Spread B-B-Q sauce over one side of meatloaf slice and nuke for approx. 1 minute (or however long it takes for your microwave oven to heat a piece of meatloaf)
- Place heated meat (b-b-q sauce side up) on top of bread with melted cheese
- Place other piece of bread on top
- Press sandwich together with a spatula, and heat for another 15 seconds in the toaster-oven
- Flip sandwich and heat for another 15 seconds

- Give me a call, and invite me over for lunch

That’s it! Enjoy!

But, what if you’re on a tight budget, and looking for, shall we say, cheap thrills? As a proud Recessionista, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s maximizing fun at minimal expense. So, as a public service, I will now share some of my Shoestring Survival Tips to the Big Apple in a Blizzard:

DON’T ORDER ROOM SERVICE! As tempting as it is to stay-put in your cozy hotel room and order from the room service menu, take a look at the prices and the service charges. My hotel was charging $7.75 for one (yes, one) egg — plus a $3 service charge! That’s like, $11 – for ONE egg! You could buy 6 or 7 dozen eggs and feed 50 panhandlers breakfast for $11!

SCOPE-OUT A SUBWAY SANDWICH SHOP I was lucky to have a Subway Sandwich shop just two doors away from my hotel. In the midst of pelting sleet and thunder-snow, I was easily able to brave the elements, and get to a $5.00 footlong, which was a helluva lot better than that $11 egg! (Yes, even in the middle of NYC, you can still get a Subway $5.00 footlong — good to know.) Plus, they serve Seattle’s Best coffee and really cheap breakfast muffins, which is quite handy in a pinch.

CALL THE LETTERMAN SHOW After checking-in to my hotel, I took a walk (just before it started to snow). I saw that the Ed Sullivan Theater / David Letterman Show was just around the block. That night, while hunkered-down in my hotel room, I watched Letterman as he joked about the impending storm, and I was struck with a brilliant idea. Maybe, since we were about to be hit with estimates of a foot of snow or more, a lot of the people who had tickets to the next day’s taping wouldn’t show-up, and I could get in on stand-by. I figured since I was able to dance 8 hours a day, 6 days a week, for 6 straight weeks in freezing temperatures while ringing a bell for the Salvation Army, I could easily manage to walk a block or two, blizzard or not, to see the Letterman Show!

So, I went onto the Letterman Show’s website, and got the skinny on how to get free stand-by tickets on the day of the show. You just phone 212-247-6497 starting at 11:00 am (the show tapes Monday through Thursday), and answer a trivia question (which is supposedly easy). The next morning, I phoned and got a recorded message stating the show was “on hiatus” till Monday, Jan. 31st. ‘Hiatus, my ass!’ I thought. ‘They took a snow day!’ Yup, somewhere between 5 pm on Wednesday (which is when they tape that evening’s show) and 11:35 pm (which is when they air the show), they decided to cancel Thursday’s taping and go with a rerun of Hoffman and DeNiro. They probably figured (as I did) that the studio audience would be scant in a blizzard. But did they even bother to consider that maybe, just maybe, there was a woman in a hotel room just a block away, celebrating her 50th birthday alone (because her friends were too wimpy to walk through a couple of lousy slush puddles to visit her), who would TOTALLY show-up and TOTALLY cheer like a banshee, even if the guest was someone sorta lame? Wusses! You’re all wusses!

TAKE A WALK THROUGH CENTRAL PARK It’s one of the few places in New York that still doesn’t charge admission. And no matter what time of year, or what kind of weather, you are guaranteed to witness a non-stop parade of colorful characters, not to mention whimsical sights such as a horny snowman (see my other post Walking in a Winter Wonderland).

DO YOUR HOMEWORK AND FIND A GOOD PRIX FIXE MENU I found a deal at a really nice Indian restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen – $19.95 for appetizer, bread, chutney, and wide choice of entrees, including rice. Awesome! Don’t be intimidated if you don’t know how to pronounce ‘prix fixe’, you can always call it a fixed-price menu (it’s pronounced ‘pree-fix or pree-feeks,’ btw, but I recommend you try calling it a ‘prick’s fix’ – just to see what you might get – hey, you never know in NY).

PUT THOSE PESKY PANHANDLERS IN THEIR PLACE Okay, no one cares more about helping the needy than I do. But these days, panhandlers are everywhere in NY. I literally had 4 people hit-me-up for money within one minute on a 50 foot stretch in front of the Carnegie Deli. You simply can’t help ALL the people who ask you for money. And, you need to consider whether or not your donation is really helping them to live a productive life, or enabling them to drink more cheap whiskey. In the case of the latter, I suggest you save your money for your own cheap swill. If you have any leftovers from your ‘Pricks Fix,’ get it wrapped to go, and hand it to the first panhandler you see on the way back to your hotel. If they don’t accept it, they’re not that desperate. I also like to check-out their shoes and their coat. If they’re better dressed than I am, I’ll simply point to my thrift shop coat, and ask them for money. They never give me any, but a homeless man did once give me some candy — oh, wait! Maybe he wasn’t really homeless — I just assumed he was because he wasn’t wearing any pants under his trench coat.

TAKE A TOUR OF CARNEGIE HALL Okay, so this is gonna set you back some bucks. $10 whole dollars to be exact. But, it is so worth it! Especially if you luck-out and get in a small tour group of just 7, and among your group is a very nice lady who virtually discovered a couple of musicians in San Miguel, Mexico playing Latin or Gyspy Jazz. She told her neighbor, Doc Severinsen about these guys. Severinsen was so blown away, he came out of retirement to tour with his new latin quintet called the San Miguel 5. It JUST so happened that while our little group was touring the stage area (in front; we weren’t allowed on or backstage), the musicians (this lady’s friends) came onstage to do pre-show sound checks. Our tour-guide was cool enough to let us enjoy the intimate sneak-preview for a while. It was great! And let me tell you something, ladies, these guys are goood loookin’, too! Front row seats to a professional sound-check at Carnegie Hall? Not too shabby, for a skinflint!