Just One Garlic Knot Please: Part 2

Just One Garlic Knot Please: Part 1

I opened the foil package and saw the extra garlic knot. I know I could have thrown it out or given it to the dog or even eaten it. I also could have given it to a homeless person, but, in my experience, they only want money. But, by now, this foray for fountain soda had become an exercise of principle and an exploration into societal norms.

New York City hosts a cultural cornucopia of food;each block provides and opportunity to consume more calories than needed. Plus, it's much easier to pull your feet up to a vendor than park the car and head in to a restaurant.(Fast-food is unappealing to me in any circumstance and therefore will not figure into this discussion. We know their portions are Ginormous anyway) We don't have many chains here and most mood is freshly prepared by independent owners. Though, freshly prepared does not always translate into healthy or lower calorie.

Most of the independents in this city are foreign born, from countries without the obesity epidemic in this country. And we know from books like, "French Women do not get fat" and "The Mediterranean diet" that lower portions are the key to enjoying higher fat food without major consequences. Which begs the question: Why do these purveyor's insist on larger portions? Are they ingrained into the American Way of food? Are they just giving consumers what they demand? Or are they part of the grand conspiracy to keep Americans fat and sick reaping billion dollar balance sheets for the pharmaceutical and medical industry? Let's not forget the corporate farms and genetically modified food. (that's an entry for another day)

You may be thinking, chill out Shiny, it's just one Garlic Knot. The Garlic Knot incident is just one symptom of the many little things that add up to a large problem.


A few examples in support:

A fresh fruit cart offering cut pineapple, mango, and papaya plus blended shakes, made only from fruit and ice, parks near my hospital each morning. They know me pretty well-I get a shake for breakfast three times a week-, yet he still asks me if I want a large. At McDonald's we were trained to size up it the customer neglected to include a size, but at the fruit cart for a regular customer who always gets a small? My favorite is banana, pineapple, and strawberry and I wish I had a website for you. For New Yorkers seeking a lower calorie alternative to Jamba Juice-you have to beg them to nix the yogurt- head to the southwest corner of 168th street and Broadway.

Across the street from my other hospital sits an upscale deli complete with brick pizza oven, cold-deli case and 20 item salad bar for the lazy New Yorker. Yes, in New York we don't make our own Salad Bar salad's. After choosing the base, either Romaine, Spinach, or Mesclun, you hand the container to the counter person who then empties the greens into a large, steel bowl. Using chef style tongs, they toss the add ins you choose which can be as simple as croutons and exotic as marinated peppers, finishing up with dressing. The resulting combination is thrown together, Iron Chef style. We New Yorkers like it fancy. In eating these salads I've noticed a trend:When asking for an item perceived as "healthy", and therefore less flavorful, I get much less than a serving. Like he doing me a favor. "Sir, I promise you I really love broccoli; In fact, I'll pay for a double serving. When asking for an item that is perceived as tasty but not necessarily good for you, I have to stop them before the tongs clang on the bowl. "Sir, please that's way too much." Oh, the looks I garner.

Before moving to New York, coffee provided enjoyment and relaxation, but did not hold the same priority as my morning pee. Enter the coffee cart. The Coffee Cart, a New York institution, serves coffee, bagels, donuts, and fried egg sandwiches on just about every street corner in Manhattan. I frequent the cart next to the fruit man. They know me as well and I ask for the same thing each time: Large coffee, two sweet and lows with a little bit of half and half. Emphasis on the little, although they always give me something that looks like milk. Yes, I could head into the hospital and make on myself but where's the fun in that. I need New York Moment #852: getting a scalding coffee in the "Law and Order" cup from a foreigner while dodging blows and profanity from other desperate New Yorkers in search of morning fuel.



The best 60 cent cup of coffee in the world
So the question remains, Why, with all we know about how one becomes obese and it's emotional, physical, and financial effects do we continue to demand, expect or accept unnecessarily large portions. The man who served me two Garlic Knots when I asked for just one probably thought he was being nice. At the time, I laughed thinking he couldn't wrap his brain around the idea of one. ONE is not such a bad number. The points I've made are small things, the things most don't notice, and over time they become excess we don't need and never recall we had or enjoyed.

The Ageist, Sexist and Vertically Biased Heart-Rate Monitor

The heart-rate monitor I ordered from newegg arrived today. I've used one before and find it helpful to my workouts. The sensor encircles the chest and the signal transmits wirelessly to the watch. Mine is a simple model. It tells you your workout time, average heart-rate, and calories burned, though it does not GPS my location in Central Park or prepare a post-workout protein shake. Which is a good thing-I do not want big brother taking satellite images of me running for the special bus or picking up dog poop. Plus, protein shakes taste like sand.

The Ageist, Sexist and Vertically Biased Heart Rate Monitor

In order to take advantage of the calories burned readings, I needed to enter personal data: age, height, and weight. After pressing the 'mode' button ten times I landed on birth year; the snarky little monitor offered 1985. I scrolled up to 2050 then back to 1920 until finally landing on 1971. Can I assume that Oregon Scientific demographic numbers show that twenty-two year-olds make-up their largest consumer group, or do they figure old farts like me are too far gone and flabby to buy the product. Maybe I'm being too sensitive, but it made me sad. I'm not in the target group anymore. Doesn't anyone want to sell me something, unlike many younger people, I have money.

I hit the 'mode' again to reach height thinking that I shouldn't have a problem because 5'4" is average for women. 5'7" was the first choice. Snipey monitor, make fun of my stature now too. Dang thing went up to 8 feet before circling back to 2 feet. Now, the average height of a Dwarf is 3 to 4 feet, so I doubt any toddler 2 feet tall will be assessing their fitness during jungle gym.

The next step, placing the sensor on the chest, makes it clear why the starting height, is the average height for a man. The instructions say to fit the strap snugly just below the pectoral muscles. For optimal readings, it should lie above the heart while avoiding chest hair. I can't place it above my heart because my breasts are in the way. I imagine running with my boobs slapping against the black plastic. It's obvious that Oregon Scientific did not expect for vertically challenged thirty-six year-old women to purchase their product.

I ran in the rain tonight. The device worked perfectly and my heart rate averaged 123 beats per minute, burning 242 calories. I'm not really obsessed with calories data. The device is to keep my heart rate from slipping below 110 and motivate me during a long workout.



On a side note, I've owned three monitors and I find the chest strap/wrist transmitter to be the most effective. I purchased mine from newegg.com. I also found this comprehensive site while attempting to find statistics to support my theory that aged people, women and short men buy heart rate monitors making the 'Smart Heart' an ageist, sexist and vertically biased product(I didn't find any, but they sell all types of monitors).

The Miracle Pod

While preparing to work-out with the dog I dropped my Ipod three times. Still played. And as I was walking out the apartment, the leash, poop bags, and keys overloading my hands, the POD slipped from my armpit into the dog's water dish. It took me a moment to process the event. Well that is not good, I said, peering down at my 2ND most important electronic toy. I picked it up, turned it over and dried it off. The screen glowed. I plug the headphones back in; Barry Manilow sang to me. Bless the Beasts and the Children. It works.

I spent the next hour sweating to my precious work out mix which, to many of my friends' surprise, does contain any Barry.

That was three days ago and I'm still power walking to "Hips don't Lie". I know that, I, at Oddly Off Center, rarely write about a personal event without connecting it to a grander theme, but I think the story of how a pod became a Miracle Pod is worth deviation from my norm.
Can you hear the Miracle Pod in space?

I guess it is relevant because, for all of my quirks, I believe the MP3 player rivals Tupperware for greatest invention of all time. Have my entire musical collection in a device smaller than a cellphone blows my skirt up. I save space, in keeping with my desire to become a digital human: books, music, and documents. I could save money on rent if could just give up the books, nah I love the books. Plus, where would I shower after I sweat?

When I got my first one, I was high for three weeks, bopping and lip syncing all over town. Life really did have a soundtrack. I had walking playlists, subway playlists, sitting in Barnes and Noble playlists and, of course, running playlists. After the first one died, I heard sounds I had forgotten. Real Dialogue: couples fighting, stupid people trying to sound smart, smart people trying to sound stupid, and Oh my god, I can't believe she went out with him! Evesdropping! Interaction! Genius!

I got the new one but now I jack in mostly for exercise. I enjoy watching and listening to the world around me.

Just One Garlic Knot Please.

Satisfying a craving for a fountain soda at my local pizza joint last night led to stares and odd looks from the counter staff. While waiting for my cup of sugarless dirt water I spied a tray piled with the Italian contribution to gastronomic heaven:The Garlic Knot. My mouth filled with saliva and the taste of that doughy ball of bliss. I had to have one and I wanted only one. That would be enough for me.


A month ago 5 knots would have found their way into my stomach, but a photo taken at the "Weird Al" concert reminded me of the mission statement formed 3 years ago. I am not meant to be overweight my whole life;I am meant to be an athlete. Without expunging my entire back story I'll write the highlights, I was quite fat, once, topping out at 230 lbs. Three years ago I dropped 90 pounds had some skin cut away, landing at 140 with a flat tummy. Over the past two years I gained-admitting this for the first time-35 back. Ok, Ok it's really more like 40 lbs. Stop badgering me! In essence, my pea-sized subconscious couldn't process the skinny, but now we(me and my subconscious) are ready. We deserve the lone size 6 Banana Republic's draped in the closet.

Which brings back me to the topic of that perfect piece of crunchy ecstasy;I believe in moderation, not outright denial. Forbid that which you love, be it chocolate, potato chips, or liver pate(blech) and you will crack. And the breakdown will be pretty ugly. Anyone recall Kate's Secret, the disease of the week movie from the eighties in which Meridith Baxter played a bulimic. Moderation is the key. I know that a jar of Nutella does not last long in the cabinet, but out in the world I am less likely to go all Lifetime movie on a chocolate mousse cake.

So, the asymmetrical sphere of Garlicky Goodness lay nestled between it's friends calling to me. I stood tall, "May I have one Garlic Knot please?"
The men behind the counter cocked their heads about to reply in the negative. I offered to pay for an order of five and they could give the others away. The owner, who has made me many vegetarian gyro's dripping with tsatsiki, told the other "Just give her one!" He grabbed the foil, snatched TWO orbs and opened the oven.
"It's okay, you don't have to heat it," I offered. He handed me the package, his look saying, "Get out of the store crazy dog lady."


More to come on this story. Stay tuned!

Revenge of the Frizz

click to enlarge

Why I want to move to Vancouver

I have no need for a themostat; I only need to look at my hair. Much like the amount of leg swelling will inform a doctor of a patients cardiac status, my hair is a natural barometer and thermometer. Smooth wavy hair indicates 40-60 degrees with 60 percent humidity while the "Don King" do equates to 90 fareinheit and 100 percent humidity. Moderate curls supported by a flirty bounce translates to a mild 70/70, the weather of Vancouver, Canada.

I am not so vain as to move three times zones and another country away soley for my hair, but each New York summer I endure makes Vancouver a paradise. I spent 20 years in the South Florida humidity and never stepped outside unless I had too. Central Air is, and was, and equistite pleasure.

I tried all the products: gel, mousse, and of course the touted Frizz-ease. Before my hair thinned due to a tragic combination of genetics, diet, and medication I looked like "Weird Al" Yankovic, the early years. Now when the dew point rises I look like a troll doll. Nasa may be my only hope. If they could develop a creame that creates a no humidity, no heat zone around my head, needless suffering would end. I bet me and many others would pay top dollar for something like that.

Disconnected! Not!

A return to the topic of connectivity for a moment. One of my first blog entries discussed parents using cellular phones while their child recovered from anesthesia. Yesterday I cared for a child whose father was a candidate for a Blackberry Addiction support group-trust me they will exist one day. I am proud that I did not grab the Blackberry and shove it up his rectum. Had I performed the intervention, I may have been fired, but I might have saved the man's family. His wife sneered at him while he talked to me: head down, playing a GAME on his pint-sized idiot box. Just because the thing weighs less than 5 ounces does not make it OK; I bet you tell your kid to stop watching TV live by example, Sir.
I'm exposed to many examples of marital/familial dysfunction and function and this couple made me wonder more than ever. When they make love-if they even do- does he check the berry after the cherry. Does his wife have her own berry to attend to and does it give her more love than her husband. These scenes from the lives I am entrusted with fascinate me and they are often indicative of the whole show. Maybe they don't talk at all, maybe they only text each other.


When I visit my sister in Florida, I complain that the Television stays on until dinner. Shouldn't the preparation of the meal encourage chatter, so, we, as family remain connected. I love my multi-tasking, executive sister, but sometimes I wish she'd call me instead of shooting an email. Email's are for quick things: "meet me at five," "don't forget the apple pie," or "the test results are positive." Don't ask me how things are, I can't type that fast and I you really want to know then I'll subject you to the thirty minute diatribe.

On my flight back from Dallas, I read an article about Blackberry addiction. The author writes how users obtain a sense of importance from being on call 24/7. Most of the nurses I work with hate being on call. Will we like it if we get a blackberry? The man said that people expect him to be respond within minutes. I wanted to ask if the immediacy was a condition he placed upon himself. Do that make him feel special, needed? Does his family not provide that or has he removed himself from the equation. I watched the boy for two hours and except for a trip to the loo, the berry remained in his hand. On his way out, I grabbed one of his digits telling him I was concerned about a new condition called blackberry thumb.

I've said before that I am pro wired world, I just think we need to find the middle ground.



Instead of a picture, we have a funny video!

Don't be a gerbil, run/walk in the Open Spaces

I flew to Dallas/Fort Worth to visit my best friend and we took a side trip to Fort Worth-she lives north of Dallas- to see "A Few Good Men", starring Jensen Ackles at the Casa Manana theater in Forth Worth. Our hotel de crap, as my friend calls it, sits on a main drag parallel to an entrance to the Trinity River Trails

The night before, we drove along this trail, the lights of a restaurant beckoning us to swim across the river. After 20 minutes of weaving we realized that Denny's would have to do for our fancy sit down dinner and that the trail, winding through a park, was a good place make out or be murdered.


This morning I took a run/walk through part of this 35 mile collection of paved and natural paths connecting many of Fort Worth's parks. The city's park acreage is second only to Chicago, according the North Texas Outside Guide.

Urban Planners across the country provide city residents with plenty of green spaces in which to frolic, so why are the New York Sports Club's I pass daily always so full. Why climb stairs to the ether when you could scale real ones a see pretty things. Have digital readouts replaced one's mental cheerleader. Is exercise so painful that we'd rather drown our ears with loud music or watch TV so we don't have to invest in it. Has moving the body become one's daily dose of Castor oil.Fresh Air

I belonged to a gym once and used it for one month while my work schedule prohibited my Central Park hill workout. It's something I have to do during the day. The treadmill and stair climber bored me to point that I switched machines-and channels-every 10 minutes. The membership lasted two months. I, a self-appointed granola eating-tree hugger prefer to sweat outside.

I returned from my workout to the hotel room grinning with flushed cheeks and sweaty hair. "A good workout is like five Prozacs," I tell my friend.

At the Cafe Express ,a local fast, but fresh, food restaurant, we enjoyed salads and the company of a native Fort Worth bartender who had never been to the the Trinity Trails. He said he liked running on a treadmill so he could know exactly how far he'd traveled. I never asked if he was in training for anything, as that would be a good reason for needing to know your distance and speed. But why must we quantify everything. We count our years on earth, our money in the bank, and our jeans in the closet. Do we need to count our miles ran. Unless your a 5K wannabe, exercise should be about how it makes you feel, not how fast you can feel it.

On a side note I highly recommend the Cafe Express, they have locations in Dallas, Fort Worth and Houston. I hope one day we will have a fast and fresh food restaurant next to every Burger King, MacDonald's,Wendy's, and Taco Bell. Maybe then people could make better choices when they have to eat and run.

Welcome to my Brain-it's warm in here!

June, 3, 2007--I took a cab home from work last night at eleven pm. I chatted with the cab driver, mentioning that I had to go home and walk the dog in the rain. He ask if I had children. "No, I have the dog." I said.
"Can you have children?" He asked. That was something I've never been asked before. I told him yes, I had the working parts, but would rather adopt a child when I am a bit older. I spelled out my dog pound theory. Why create a child when there are so many who need loving homes. Not that I think people should stop having children, but there are plenty of couples out there picking up my slack.



Saturday May 19, 2007
Moments make life fabulous. My friend and I wandered up 23rd Street on our way home-me to the subway and uptown, she to 16th- and came upon a bar named and trying to be a Trailer park. She felt compelled to enter and order a "Sofia Copolla, 'champange in a can.'" She once scoffed at red wine served in a plastic cup, so why sparkling wine in a can? "It's so bad, it's good," she said, taking a swig of the bitter beverage. "Yep, so good," I said and headed to the pink leopard print bathroom."



Wednesday May. 9, 2007
I know someone who may need a good laugh. Here goes.
"You've got a Jodie Foster thing going on." Says Shelia sitting next to me on the plane. Obviously these are the ramblings of an already crazy person at 35 , 000 feet altitude after her third vodka tonic. The ride to Chicago started out nice enough; my seat-mate and I shared spirited conversation ranging from theatre, psychology, and drug addiction. She claims she is not an alcoholic but a lush. What's the difference? After the aforementioned last call for alcohol, she became really loud and obnoxious, never thought I'd miss a depressed drunk.

I hate when people ask me why I am not married. The deli man did today after I finally realized he was married to the woman who sells me Tylenol PM and Diet Coke. I don't flipping know why I am not hitched. Maybe I'm hideously ugly, have no personality, and kiss like a fish. Maybe I'm picky, or maybe I've never met anyone worth the effort or a relationship. Maybe, I should ask why is married because, from where I sit, they don't look that much in love or passionate. Maybe I should ask him that.

Save Tinkerbell from Paris

"I am not a purse!"
So Miss Paris Hilton was released from Prison today. The Australian reported that she was released due to an undisclosed illness after serving three days of a 45 day sentence. In the last three days I have read three different articles chronicling her stay in Jail. I know that her first day passed without incident and that she invented a perfume and cured cancer on the second and third. Or maybe she found her spiritual center. My question to the news media is "Do they really think we care?" And where are these people who care? Where do they live and how much time do they spend contemplating the life of the blond Flat Stanley. I am surprised by Google News; I thought them to be above pandering to the lowest common denominator.

Her early release does not trouble me, people are freed from prison all the time. Maybe she lost her marbles without her blackberry and lackeys to listen to her inane utterances. If California's law makers ignored Paris' fragile mental state or that of her, now motherless, rat-dog they may as well hand out condoms to fifth graders. Their incarceration of her in the first place does not impress me. Driving with a suspended license does not automatically make one a threat to society. Yes, she was warned but are they trying to make an example? If they want to bust her on something, how about dog abuse. Have we ever seen Tinkerbell walk on her own four feet. The dog probably has brain damage from all the flash bulbs popped in it's face. Really, it's her empty head and our obsession with the minutia of her existence that poses the greatest risk to society

Yes! I am White and Nerdy.

"Weird Al" Yankovic rocked the Palace Theatre in Albany, New York last night. My friend and I were one of the lucky 2,844 in attendance-yes the house was packed-and we sat in the fifth row. Close enough to catch a drop of perspiration from the parody king's perfect pores. Alas, no sweat fell from Al's brow, though he signed t-shirts and ticket stubs while smiling for photos with the die-hards who waited after the show. We were two of these die-hards. I shook his hand and my cheek felt a tingle from Al's unruly mane. The next morning, as I showered, I considered cloning the DNA from the sloughed skin from my hand to create my own Weird Al. I thought better of it(it would take twenty years to grow-up plus there would be legal ramifications) and washed my hand.



I've loved the man since I was fifteen and first saw him in concert at twenty-five. I admire the creativity shown in his lyric genius, but it's his showmanship, stamina, and vocal ability that endears him to me. Al executed every word and every note with perfect precision while dancing and gyrating through the high impact choreography. During "Your Pitiful", a parody of James Blunt's "Your Beautiful" Al removed layers of clothing, each costume a symbol of loserism, finishing the final measures of the song dressed in a pink tutu and fishnet stockings. My love for Al has never wavered; this tableau cemented him in my heart for life. I will marry the man who can and willingly humiliates himself for comedy. Unfortunately, Mr. Yankovic is taken, but I know somewhere there is a fart- joke making, Sartre reading, pop culture spoofing long haired freak looking for me. And to help him find me I now wear my new "White and Nerdy" ball cap for my Central Park Workouts and whenever it is appropriate to wear a hat.

During my youth I tried to hide my dorkish tendencies, eschewing the math team for a long shot at the drill squad. I didn't make it, I dropped the flag, but I could do equations in my head. There was a Nerd that liked me in school and I didn't let him kiss me at the football game because I was afraid what my "friends" might think. He left me notes in my locker containing hieroglyphics and possibly kligon. He made me laugh. And I miss him.

"Weird Al's"popularity stems from his own admission of Nerddom and the way he has made it "OK", sexy even, for one to be a nerd,geek, dork, or freak. The labels really are one and the same. He gives his devoted fans someone to look up to, someone to say, that they have made it being bizarre and abnormal. Today I read Shakespeare, listen to Barry Manilow, and watch Documentaries with pride;this blog exists because I am Oddly off Center. Weird Al did not make me a nerd, but he makes me proud to be one. He owes his longevity to finding his own place in music and for the most part created the parody genre. I shudder to think that my children may never know the brilliance of parody because the world may never see another "Weird Al" Yankovic.