Thursday, February 16, 2006

To Eat or Not to Eat

I'm on my monthly diet kick, an out of control compulsion that pops up with all the vacant-eyed optimism of the developmentally disabled. "Hey hey," my compulsion chuckles, "This is so gonna work." This time I've decided the best idea isn't to cut out carbs entirely, because that makes me want to cut my wrists entirely, but rather to just eat less. I've been Pop-Tart free all week. The Cup O' Soup packets that constitute my lunch may be a little disappointing, but they are fundamentally less disgusting than the South Beach recommended meal of sweaty lunch meat and cheese rolled into a tube.

My diet plans conveniently coincided with Brad's well-advised moratorium on buying lunch. He's been bringing sandwiches and oatmeal and other (delicioussssss...) stuff to work. This leaves us with the hour we used to spend at the diner (eating a tuna melt with fries and sometimes an appetizer of mozzarella stickssssss....) on our hands and no other way to occupy it besides hanging out at the Starbucks around the corner.

It's proving to be a hotbed of entertainment that ranges from kind of cool to perverse. I ordered my coffee next to Cynthia Nixon's girlfriend today. She is the kind of person who insists on saying "small" instead of "tall." But, she is also the kind of person who can seduce a television star into her bed (as well as an entirely new sexuality) so maybe I shouldn't question her methods.

Yesterday some yahoo sitting at the window shouted his Claire Danes sighting to his buddy across the room. As someone who may or may not be cycling through My So-Called Life character names as her network passwords expire, I wish I had looked up in time.

Today from my table I watched a Craigslist Missed Connection in the making. A woman asked the man at the next table for the time and they ended up having an awkwardly flirty conversation about his new web business. He had this tragic croissant particle stuck to his lower lip the whole time, and I had to sit on my hands to keep from getting up and flicking it off.

"Trust me," I would mutter as they escorted me out. "You'll thank me later." I'd be a crazy lip flicker, yes, but one in the service of all mankind.

The ones they should escort out of Starbucks, though, are the Trumps-in-Training from yesterday. They shouldn't be allowed in any establishment where people are eating. Or breathing. Or even not breathing, really. The TITs are a species so common on commuter trains that I was nearly immune to them when I took the Metro-North twice a day. Since moving to Brooklyn I'd forgotten about them, until yesterday's four TITs came thundering into the coffee shop in a cyclone of Blackberries and annoying ringtones and hearty yet insincere guffaws.

A TIT is the type of guy who has a really peripheral, stupid job that, in the grand scheme of things, doesn't do anyone much good. A job like...lemme just pull something out of thin air and totally not at all what I overheardyesterday...mid-level management at a printing company. Or like my job. A job that, if suddenly axed from the budget, could go gently into that good night without anyone batting an eye. But the TITs present themselves as movers and shakers, as big men on their respective campuses. While the world might go right on turning without ever caring who oversees the printing of their bulk rate mail, the TITs swagger into Starbucks content in the knowledge that absolutely everything would come crashing down were it not for their expertise. And their superior people skills. And their humor. And their machismo. And their sheer animal magnetism. And their newscaster hair.

Anyway, so, the TITs in Starbucks yesterday were smarming about Valentine's day loudly enough for everyone to hear their conversation. When one got a little too romantic about the dinner he had with his wife, the others were quick to jump in with offers to take a shit in his new house and smear it all over the walls with their hands, as well as an anecdote about the crisco disco that went down in one of their pads the night before.

Seriously. Someone in an establishment serving food used the phrase "crisco disco." Without being arrested.

This is the kind of thing that drives me straight back to the loving embrace of empty calories. A trans-fat filled lunch at the diner takes place in a booth with enough square footage to guarantee I won't be rubbing elbows with a table full of TITs as they relive their glory days managing a "fro-yo" store. Mozzarella sticks don't talk about their cars as though they were women. Instead, they are delicious.

So very delicious. Sigh.

3 Comments:

Anonymous Like, Stupidboy. Or something. said...

Hooray! An excuse to talk about My So Called Life! I found a guy selling (probably pirate) dvd boxsets on ebay and now I'm just waiting for them to arrive.

What's a crisco disco?

7:15 AM  
Blogger DMo said...

Kathy, this acronym is all wrong. I like tits. Not TiTs. What if I now get the two confused?

9:49 AM  
Blogger Buckley said...

What a great post Kathy!

Couple of things come to mind - and I'm glad I'm not the only one who doesn't know - seriously what is a crisco?

Also thought I'd just mention that cutting out carbs seems to be a terrible idea from what I've read lately. You won't break down protein and fat properly without it apparently, and the result is pretty messed up organs and arteries etc. Plenty of other less extreme or parasuicide-enducing alternatives out there anyway.
[bland comment end]

10:59 AM  

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