This is the Ultimate Showdown

Today. 4:15. Zane vs. Julie. I mean, Jets vs. Pats. Who will win? Who will cry? Who cares?

We do!

There has been a request to do play-by-play blogging as the game progresses. Challenge accepted.

First, we must set up a blog appropriate bet. Hmm. Ah!

If Zane wins, Julie will quit taking pictures through the peephole and inviting Ocho over for dinner.

If Julie wins, Zane will stop screaming "Big Daddy wants his meal, woman!" as he ascends the stairs in the evening.

Let the games begin!!!!

3:33pm. We enjoy a little Top Chef before the showdown. Noshing on cheesy bacon dip Momma Gould delivered yesterday. Zane is wearing a green t-shirt (as he always does on game day) and Julie put on a blue t-shirt to mock his weekly ritual.

3:35pm. Julie is asked not to keep reading what she is writing aloud.

3:35:24pm. ...

3:57pm. Zane "picture in picture"s the game before ours so now the loser of this Top Chef challenge has a football game in her belly. You can see in her sad eyes the indigestion must be too much. She goes home and the Falcons get a touchdown.

4:01pm. Julie clarifies that she only signed up to watch one game today. Now after watching 2 repeat Top Chef episodes, she can't catch the latest one she hasn't seen because the Falcons just tied it up with 32 seconds left in the game.

4:03pm. Sigh.

4:05pm. Colts win. Surprise surprise. Wait... weren't we watching the Falcons? We flipped again.

Sidenote: I am enjoying seeing the "Boy Ads" on TV. I watch so much girly television I'm used to toilet paper ads and diaper creams. (My favorite is some ad with a creepy clay kid saying "ewww" to regular liquid medicine.) Now I am inundated with sandwich commercials, beer hawking and that awesome looking cheesy gordita crunch. I'm sold. Can I get fat through commercial osmosis?

4:15pm. Kickoff. Zane has already gone to the bathroom, put his electronics away, and is perched on his chair in anticipation. My mom enjoys watching Zane watch his boys play because she never sees him yell and I think on some sick level she likes seeing him cry.

What are these announcer men wearing? They need wives to dress them. Yellow shirt, white collar, polka dot maroon tie. Blegh.

4:16pm. Consensus is that we are all pleased they are wearing their normal uniforms. This whole "throwback" concept has been irking us.

4:23pm. Zane is sounding pretty pleased so far. In order to combat this, I will take this time to let you know he is wearing Jets underwear. That's right. These sacred man panties... "manties" if you will, were on the top of the list of what to pack when we moved. So take that. 0-0 still.

4:25pm. Pats flea flicker fail. Zane chortles.

Sidenote: What do you think Bill Belicheck looks like in pink? or lavender? or anything but grey? Do you think Bill B. wears Patriots underwear?

4:28pm. Confusion on the field. Fumble? No fumble? Is there proof? Challenge by Pats. Commercial. ...4:31pm still fumble, Pats lose timeout. Zane stays quiet and polite.

4:34pm. PATS INTERCEPT FOR A TOUCHDOWN!!!! Zane swore, I cheered. He then turns as I open my laptop and sassily says "Write about it." Thank you Mark Sanchez, you are responsible for a lot of great plays this year. Unfortunately, most of them were to the benefit of opposing teams.

4:52pm. End of 1st quarter. Zane's been shaking his head a lot. The refs and teams have seemed confused throughout. Woah, they somehow had one last play with 00:00 on the clock. Pats got another touchdown. Zane is now spending more time on his computer. I'll let you know if he smiles again. 0-14 Pats.

5:08pm. I've decided to root for the Jets. It's just too sad watching us anihilate them. It's more fun to watch a close game. P.S. I just asked Zane how to spell "anihilate" but he won't tell me. I think he's mad. Sorry you have to suffer with bad spelling because he's a poor sport.

5:10pm. It's annihilate. I had to look it up. 0-21 Pats.

5:16pm. What'd I miss? What'd I miss? I get up to go to the bathroom and there are shouts. I guess we got ANOTHER interception. The sadness is palpable.

5:23pm. In the spirit of football, I've decided to take the time to boil and fit my new anti-grinding mouth guard. The water's heating as I type.

5:38pm. Zane smiled. I smiled because he smiled, but my mouth guard is too bulky to notice. 7-24 Pats still ahead but at least it won't be a shut out.

5:51pm. Embarrassing missed field goal by the Pats. Zane just "Oooooooo" ed but didn't rub it in. There's a smidgen of optimism in his occasional noises. Let's hope, because Ocho is set to grace us with his model-ness at 7pm for dinner otherwise!!

5:56pm. Halftime. We all eat a cookie.

Sidenote: This isn't a very exciting game for me to be play-by-playing. Maybe that will change in the second half! I still wish the Patriots snag a win, just that Zane has a small ounce of hope that is quickly squashed at the last second! Bwa-ha-ha!

Other sidenote: Maybe I should play-by-play my cookie eating. It's a bit more exciting, and everyone's a winner. The chocolate chip was down on the 1st, but it really pushed through in the last drive and wound up being the 4th down into my stomach. 0-7 Julie.

6:17pm. My mouth guard fits well in case you were wondering.

6:17:04pm. "There you go" Zane gently encourages his team as they score another touchdown. It's like a kindergarten teacher whose student just learned how to use their Fiskers. P.S. I ask Zane if touchdown is one word or two and THIS TIME he pleasantly tells me one. Sheesh.

6:19pm. No, I'm not eating cookies with my mouth guard in, that's just gross.

6:21pm. It's a 10 point game, Zane has set his computer back down and is actually devoting a little more attention to the big screen. 14-24.

6:29pm. Z: Oooooo! J: What happened? Z: He grabbed him and drove his head into the ground.

6:30pm. Z: Oooooo! J: What happened? Z: He fumbled the ball. J: I think I should start actually watching.

6:41pm. Apparently Brett Favre is a serial butt slapper. The men announcing say so, so I believe it. Oh to be Brett's teammate. :) Yet another thing he and Edmoney have in common. First being their ages, of course.

6:46pm. OMG Mark Sanchez!!! Just sit down on the bench. Sit there and think about what you've done. You had all the time in the world, had a great fake and then royally screwed it up. Interception by Pats. Stop making it so easy, Sanchez.

6:56pm. Repeat previous entry only this time he "threw it away" right into the arms of a Patriots guy. Way to go Marky Mark.

7:01pm. Ocho's a no show. Hehehe, I just wanted to type that.

7:03pm. Yet another NE touchdown. It doesn't look this easy when Zane and I play with his football in the park across the street. I think between Brady and my new mouth guard I'm inspired to actually try and catch the ball next time we go out and throw around the new ol' pigskin. 14-31 Pats.

7:13pm. 3 minutes and 33 seconds left in the game. Which means about an hour left in the game.

7:24pm. Still going... 5 seconds. Zane's dad calls so they can commiserate.

7:24pm. Time's up!!! New England wins. Jets attempted hail mary... so close, didn't work. Final score: 14-31.

Zane is upbeat and not sad. He expected this to happen. In true New York form, he knew his team would bomb. Go Jets?

I am indifferent, as I always am with sports. Go Pats?

Actually no. I am not indifferent. I am thrilled. The game has wrapped up and now I can proceed to my favorite Sunday night event: Bridezilla marathon!!! All in all, everyone wins.

Except Zane. He double loses.

My Idiosyncrasies

Here's a list of weird things about me:

• I don't like to grocery shop alone because I feel I look too young to be buying groceries and that everyone must be looking at me wondering where my mom is.
• My guilty pleasure is opening a fresh jar of peanut butter and being the first to unseal and put a knife in it.
• The only good part about my job at the theater in Hartford was when I made the coffee each day I'd get to cut open the vacuum sealed coffee pouches and they made that "whoooosh!" sound.
• I can hear electronics when they are on even when they are muted.
• When my parents bought the lakehouse I could hear the high pitched screeching bat deterrent.
• I sucked my thumb until I was 12.
• I still get a kick out of twirling my 24 year old Kid Sister doll's hair between my fingers. (It's best when cold.)
• Zane has to fluff my feather pillow at night because I don't do it as well as he does.
• I like to read labels of products and make sure they have all the letters of the alphabet on them. (This is best done in the bathroom)
• Most often the only missing letter is J. Q and Z are more common than you think.
• I always hoped to marry someone with a last name higher up than Whitehouse in the alphabet. (For my kids' sake in elementary school seating.)
• I thought I mistakenly purchased "boy glasses" when I first got them in 2nd grade because a boy in my class had the same ones.
• Out of the million freckles I have, I pick favorites.
• I absolutely hate tending to plants despite appreciating their existence.
• When I was in grade school I pretended I had an even older brother who lived in our attic. He was cool.
• There is nothing worse to me than a girl who tells you what your Barbie should say.
• My recurring nightmare is trying to run away from something bad and it only coming out in extreme slow motion.
• I still can't comfortably drive in rain after the car accident.
• When I see people's feet I instinctively do a quick count of toes because it always looks to me like people have an extra one on first glance.
• The only reason I went into stage management was because I was rejected as an actor every time I auditioned for 4 years in high school. I would have been a graphic designer otherwise.
• My favorite drink was Hawaiian Punch until my high school boyfriend found out and bought me one every day for 4 months.
• I still can't tell when people are talking on the phone into an earpiece or just a bit schizophrenic.
• If given the option, I will always choose the even number or left.
• I write right handed but play sports left handed.
• Never once this year have I answered the proper age when asked. It's always 24 or 26, never 25. I'm in denial.
• I like to minimize my Gmail window so when it says I have a new message it's like opening up a Christmas present.

If You're Happy And You Know It Keep It To Yourself

I am too happy.

You heard me. Too darn pleasant. I thought I was a bit cranky last week, but this week in NYC I am comparatively bursting at the seams with joy. What happened? Absolutely nothing!

I mistakenly nodded an acknowledging hello to a policeman I passed and got a puzzling look. Woops. Remember Julie, no one says hi here.

I helped a lady who needed directions to the nearest subway. Gosh darn it, Julie, will you just stop being so Masshole-y!

And to top it all off, while ascending my elliptical of a stairwell, a fellow resident left their apartment right as I was outside. I smiled and quietly mumbled "hey" as I kept making my way up the stairs. All I got was a pause and then a confused person continuing to lock their door to make sure none of my glee broke its way into their cranky sanctuary. Their cranktuary.

Some people here are responding to my pleasantries. The man stocking shelves at the grocery told me his name and even tried to give me his number in case I needed help finding anything! What above and beyond service!

Even the gyro guy around the corner made a point to say hello. Before I could tell him how my Dad can't wait to get a bite of his meaty goodness, he let me know he considers himself lucky to have me walk by him twice in one day. I took the chance to tell him how I just live right over there up on the top floor and I was making a lovely dinner if he just wanted to come over. He seemed really excited, but Zane wouldn't let him in for some reason.

Oh well, I guess Manhattan can't handle a little "Cheer Fairy" flitting about its blocks. Although I think it's starting to spread a little. The construction workers outside our window have started whistling hello to me when I walk by in my nightgown. I wave back excitedly to my new found friends! Maybe my niceties are starting the "wave" of the future.

Ocho Guapo

Well, let me first catch my breath. Did I just run up the stairs? No. Am I scared since YET ANOTHER knock has arrived upon my door? No. Did I get to "meet" Ocho, our neighbor? YES.

I use the term "meet" lightly. This is New York. Our doors were both open at the same time and I got a decent glimpse of him and his roommate, Ocho Dos?

First, I will discuss how we were put in this situation. And later we will all express our appreciation for the picture window peephole.

For some reason I felt compelled to toss on a ratty t-shirt and pair of jeans after Zane left today. That, compared to staying in my jammies until 3 in the afternoon like every other day. I must have sensed what was about to happen. Because just as Hoda and KLG were blabbing about how Kathy Lee thinks she looks like Sandra Bullock (ahem, really Kathy Lee??) *Knock Knock!*

Slightly embarrassed that The Crappy Hour of Today was playing, I saw my new friend the super through the peephole.

Sidenote: The other evening, before any of the boys were home, I got a knock on the door. I looked out the hole and this little old homeless looking man was on the other side. "Super!" he said. And I thought "likely story homeless man, you ain't gettin' in THIS place" I said (through a very locked door) "Can I help you?" and he explained he was there to fix a window. After about 5 minutes of interrogation he said enough information about my roommate and our window issue that I figured he's either a smart homeless man trying to rob me, or maybe our window was really going to get fixed finally! As I finally opened the door, he said "feel free to call Edmoney to check on me" and I found it odd that he keeps up with our blog... Either way, he let me stay by the propped open door ready for immediate escape at the first sign of insubordination. He must have thought I was insane. I'd like to think I'm "City Smart."

Okay, so back to earlier today. A knock, I look out the peeping window. There's that darn little homeless man again. We'll call him "Super Joe." I guess we're pals now since he brought a friend with him. The JP Morgan guy. With a camera. I guess for insurance purposes they take photos of the places to make sure they are up to speed.

So Mr. JP was next door snapping away and Super Joe just wanted me to have a head's up that I was next (and last). Super Joe is lookin out for a sister because he also took the time to tell me all about Ocho (who was standing right there) in his little jammie shorts and tank... ahem.

So Super Joe is just standing in the hall telling me about how ripped Ocho and Ocho Dos have to keep their abs, I believe the term "8 pack" was used. Oooh, Ocho, 8 pack? Serendipitous or just hot? I just thought he was verbally assaulting the two 30 somethings next door, but turns out they are male models.

It makes sense now that Edmoney would volunteer to haul his crap up so many floors just so he can catch an occasional glimpse of two male hotties with bodies. Smaaaaart.

So, here I am just nodding along as Super Joe sings the physical praises of Ocho and Ocho Dos, hanging on his every word for yet another tidbit of their daily sexy regime. I made Super Joe promise not to tell Z about these discoveries so Shhhhhh!

After such star treatment of our studly floormates, I expected when it was my turn that Super Joe would do his duty of explaining how friggin hot I was to Ocho and Ocho Dos. Super Joe told the camera man to take pics of our model friends in addition to their cracked sheetrock. When Mr. JP finally made his way to my place he felt uncomfortably forced to ask "So, are you a model too?"

Sir. Don't patronize me. I am wearing a dirty boy's undershirt and $8 jeans. My hair is in a sloppy braid and I am watching Hoda and Kathy Lee.

I gave my best model smile and said "What do you think?" He lowered his head and mumbled something incoherent then gave an uncomfortable polite smile and said in the first grade encouraging tone "Um, sure you could!" I won overall because he complimented me on how nice we've arranged our place and how clean it was. So take THAT Ocho Guapo, I may not have a washboard stomach but at least I know how to use a washboard.

Just kidding, no hard feelings neighbormen. I'll be quietly observing you from my stalker peephole from now on.

Wait. So THAT'S why they had so many bags when they moved in! And THAT'S why they couldn't read the number on the door! (ooooh burn!) HOLD THE PHONE! Let's all refer back to my blog earlier last week when I jokingly said "would they move in here if I had opened my door"!!!

Stupid stupid stupid. Next time, I promise to answer.

From the Desk of Zane

Why hello there blog goers. I have been quite occupied with my freelance career and unfortunately have neglected my fan base. Greetings! I am doing well and as usual, am being sassy on a regular basis.

Here are some things I have been up to...

Since my birthday is tomorrow, I have recently raided numerous Best Buy stores for their Xbox 360 gaming supplies. Quite enjoyable.

I have been wrapping myself in the comforts of nerd-dom every evening as there are numerous cords to be connected, buttons to be pushed and programs to be upgraded on a nightly basis in our new "digs" as you hipsters would call them.

In case my mother wonders whether I am alive or not, I am indeed and my fabulous live-in girlfriend has been preparing my lunchtime delicacies daily as well as making sure I leave the house with my coat on. My oh my! Where would I be without that lovely lovely girl?

I am delighted to report that my PSP has recently been upgraded. By upgrading I mean that I have actually downgraded it in order to play older games. Some may say that is insane, and I tell them that they do not understand until they have spent 40 hours tinkering in order to be able to play Pong and Space Invaders in HD.

All in all, things have been quite exceptional. I walk to work every morning and have achieved a new record of 20 seconds to reach the 5th floor of our walk up apartment. I will be sure to report back on my birthday celebratory events. Currently the festivities will involve beer and my exceptional girlfriend. Who knows what terrific surprises await me!

Farewell for now dear blog readers. Most sincerely, Zane

Overheard in New York

My gal pal Jo Jo and I are having a picnic lunch at a cold and wet Bryant Park. We're just gabbing while finishing up our carrot sticks before moving onto dessert. (2 handcrafted brownies from ex-pro baker Momma Gould)

The following ensues....

Crazy Homeless Man with Medical Bracelets on: Excuse me beautiful ladies, but I'm really hungry. I was wondering if you had any food you could spare.

Me: Umm, you can have the rest of our carrot sticks.

(Pause)

Crazy Homeless Man with Medical Bracelets on: I was thinking more like a brownie.

Me: No, sorry. But you're more than welcome to have the carrot sticks.

Crazy Homeless Man with Medical Bracelets on: I hate carrots. (grumbles away)

Jo Jo: I hate picky beggars.

Hahahahaha. Welcome back to the Big Apple!

The Creepy Thing That Happened to Me Tuesday

Zane's working, so I'm going to man up and blog at a more consistent pace. "But Julie, if you write every day will your material be as awesome as it is when you wait for something to happen?" Duh!

Every day in JZ Land is an adventure! If we can make Hannafords awesome, then we sure as heck can make living in Manhattan at least mildly amusing.

Today's tale... the creepsters next door!

When we lived in Astoria our main door for some reason made me think of Spongebob Squarepants. Particularly the pineapple under the sea part, as our peep hole was like viewing the hallway through an underwater survivor suit.

It wasn't very conducive to neighbor spying. #1 because we looked onto a wall B. because my neighbor was a 92 year old woman who didn't leave very much (R.I.P. Rose, I will always remember our stoop chats!).

Well... our new door has a peephole like a picture window! Clear view, good peripherals, directly facing apartment 8. I would like to note here that apartment 8 is the only apartment without a number on it. I don't know if this is relevant, or shadey, but I think it should be mentioned.

So today, as I sit and job hunt while the Law & Order: SVU marathon is on TBS (Yes, we really do love Chris Meloni if you've noticed we mention him every 3 months.) I hear people climbing the stairs. This is the first time I have ever heard another brave soul battle the 5 flights of stairs. I perked up.

I hear two people outside my door. A light knock and then-- they tried to turn the knob!!! OMG! Even if they hadn't tried the knob I was NOT opening the door to anyone. Edmoney (our roommate) was not expecting anyone and no one knows our address so there was no reason to have a guest. Plus... I hadn't buzzed anyone in!

I hope you are adequately on the edge of your seats.

Enter the awesome peep hole. I tiptoe to the door (with the TV obviously heard on the other side) and am careful not to let my shadow show under the door. I've watched enough television to know that! As I look out, a man (the knocker) and a woman (tucked to the side) are there with duffle bags. They look impatient and after a second cross the hall and try THEIR door! But what's crazy is they don't even wait, they let themselves in! Some guy very casually from some other room says "Hey." and the two enter and look around as if they've never seen the place before. Then they close the door behind them.

Swingers. We must have swingers next door. That, or Apt 8 is very willing to welcome robbers in. I listened for any more clues but nothing. Eventually they left and came up with a BUNCH of luggage, about 10 big rolling bags! So I guess just like Edmoney, Ocho needed a little help with rent and found a couple to take that role.

Here are my lingering inquiries:

What's the deal with trying to open my door?

Really? You didn't see that big ol' gold 7 prominently centered on the door?

Don't you need things other than clothes?

What if I had opened the door, would you have just unloaded your stuff here?

Did you park your car in the Car Vending Machine?

So, that's my Tuesday adventure. I will keep you posted with any new revelations.

Maybe tomorrow we'll review the steam pipes since we've covered what's out the window and what can be viewed from the peep hole. You may think that'll be lame, but they are slowly becoming our steamy new roommate. Always with a new secret to share. Well, at least they keep making the "Psssssst" noise.

The Truffle Shuffle

You know you've got something awesome outside your window when you go to get a Google image and are at a loss of what to type to pull up the image you so desire for your blog...

"Matchbox Car Lift"... no.

"Multiple Car Lift"... not as epic as what's outside my window.

"Snack Machine for Cars"... weird.

"Matchbox Multiple Car Parking"... that'll do!

Any hopes of me focusing and getting a job while we're here in Manhattan are dashed. I can now be found sitting in the window looking upon our Car Shuffling neighbors. At the mere sound of "Vvv" I run to the window in hopes of seeing a high up car be lowered like a well selected Snickers bar. I still have no idea how it happens. Hydraulics? Leprechauns? It could be anything!

At any given time a total of ...5x3x4.... carry the one.... 60 cars are parked next to us in a lot that should really barely fit 10 vehicles! 4 levels high, 5 to a row, 3 giant red holders. It's unbelievable.

Since the above picture isn't as accurate as I'd hoped I tried one last attempt to pull a good picture. "Parking Stacker" BINGO!

But imagine taller... and RED!

So far I've witnessed one car descend into the land of plain old street dwelling vehicles. I have yet to see one rise up to the car gods. If I had one of the cars on it, I'd ask to ride in it to really get my money's worth. Despite watching it almost constantly, most often the car shuffling happens by pure magic.

Go to bed.... no cars. Wake up... FULL! Get something from fridge... some missing. I still have yet to figure out the best time to view, mostly relying on the sound of metal grinding. I bet if I watch long enough, one day they'll mess up and crush a car monster truck style! So that's all for now from New York I have some, um, jobs, that need to be watched, I mean applied --- Oooh! The noise!

Crap, missed it. I think the downstairs neighbors might start questioning my hourly sprints to the window.

Next question:

What if you're the top car and you need to get it before the bottom cars are gone?

How do they know??!?!

Where in the world is Hers & His now?

A young couple seeks advice. They have so much talent but don’t know what trade to utilize it in, they feel ready to go anywhere while they don’t have any responsibilities yet, they just want to feel like they are doing something useful with their lives. “Go where the money is,” someone tells them. “Go where you’re happy, the job will follow,” another suggests. “Just go!” says a sibling.

After a 6-month holding pattern, the young couple is taking their first steps toward their future. Luckily the footprints are still fresh to lead them back to where they came from. Wait… what?!

You heard it. We’re going back to NYC. I never thought I’d utter those words again after disowning the big apple that turned my life into applesauce. I know I’ve said that this life Zane and I are living is often like a roller coaster, each day brings a new dip or turn. What I failed to realize was that when riding a roller coaster, you end up where you started your ride. Sure, it’s the same location, but this time I know what to expect. I know now that the steep crawl uphill doesn’t lead to me being on top of the world, it’s just the beginning to a long series of crazy twists and turns that hopefully are looked at as exciting and not terrifying. Maybe this round I’ll cry a little less.

This time I am not packing a bag and boarding a bus all by myself. My mom will still cry, but not at the new exciting world her little girl is setting off into but at the scary world she’s heard her little girl cry about over the phone for two years beforehand. I won’t crash on a couch for months, pssh like this apartment could fit a couch! I won’t have gone to school with my new roommate and considered him a friend; this one is a complete stranger who I’ve assured my dad will not kill me. I hope. On the positive side, this time I have a loyal partner who I trust and know will not let me down. Maybe all these differences, though scary, are a good thing. A little criticism of the city of dreams might take that hopeful spark and dull it a little, but that just means the joys that come from being back will feel that much grander.

I have learned lots from my first leg in NYC a mere 2 years ago. I know to make sure my boyfriend who wants to move with me plans to actually get a job. And keep it. I know to not hate on my new guy friend’s girlfriend because even though they may not be the best for each other, she will end up being one of my best girl friends and he will later introduce me to the man who was made to handle all that is Julie. I know that a job like Starbucks could bring more joy to my soul than a job connected to my college degree. Most importantly, I know now that MetroCards I find on the ground are not lost cards that people have dropped, but trash that should not be picked up and put in my wallet to be checked at a later date.

Hey, it’s just for two months, right? Maybe it works that way. The first time I went in forcing it to work out at every struggle, making a promise to myself not to give up. I thought it was an indefinite relocation. This time, I just shrug off issues, let the stress of NY roll off my back since who cares? It’s just two months. Watch, this time it’s gonna work and I’ll find what makes my soul satiated. I hope. But I also know that if it doesn’t, something better will come along. I’ll just enjoy the journey in the meantime.

EDITORS NOTE:

We have since packed, moved, brought everything up 5 flights of stairs, and unpacked. The place is great and Day One is well underway!

Cuz Everybody's Dancing and I Don't Feel the Same

Last weekend Julie and I decided, at the behest of our privacy lacking roommates, that we would go out for a night on the neighboring town. Since moving here, and thanks to our good pal "the recession" we have undertaken a miser lifestyle. It is because of this that we have been very limited in our adventurous excursions. Unlike the city, leaving the house and wandering aimlessly is much more frightful than it is fruitful. Aside from the occasional geo-trek through the woods, life away from the house is always costly (namely in the usage of the precious gasoline gold).

We felt that after months of being couch potatoes we'd splurge and go out for drinks and dancing with Julie's dear cousin Christine Bale and her friend Kim Possible. While we are no strangers to the Manhattan club scene, this was our first taste of some good-old, small town bump & grind.

I had heard once that pheromones had no odor, but discovered last Saturday that they indeed do. Likening itself to a combo of stale beer and the latest discount cologne at Walmart, the pheromones were out in full force and dancing the night away in Keene with us. Luckily I had Zane de-singled shortly after we became a couple. That involves removing any odor to attract females and injects a “where’s my girlfriend?” desperation gel.

Drinking with my cuz was a new experience, albeit no different than just hanging with a gal pal. I followed her and her friend throughout the evening to witness their “game” and boy am I impressed! I feel as I get sucked, I mean committed, deeper and deeper into this relationship I have lost any ability to keep up on the singles scene. Good for Zane, bad for me if Zane ever finds that wad of hair Zane replica I’ve been constructing. Eww. What we witnessed Saturday was a fine tuned dance of the sexes involving exchanges of talk, drinks and sometimes saliva.

I must say, the place was impressive. Half black light infused dance hall, half sports bar, the place certainly had the charm of an underground dance club but with actual elbow room. Like magnets, singles met, mingled, then retracted back into the mix to find yet another connection. Everyone seemed okay with this, and some even swapped people they had connected to in exchange for the hotter guy talking to their friend.While Julie was put off by all the meat heads and grey hairs in attendance, I found the ratio to be pretty right. With 90% of the dance floor being composed of college-aged girls, and a cast of colorful characters worthy of roles in a Homestar Runner cartoon, it was the best people watching we've had in a long, long time.

First there was Rubber Man. He enchanted the ladies with his crazy leg style of dance that, in combination with his patented "shirt dance" was a sure-fire hit with every young lass he chose to dance on. I’d like to explain the shirt dance. It was sexy, it was odd, it was creepy, but somehow it got you… and it pulled you in like no other dance could. Imagine the nursery rhyme about baking bread. The “roll it” “pat it” “mark it” blah blah blah one. Okay, now take the “roll it” motion… but tuck it under your shirt. Then work it up and down your stomach. No no, still keep it under your shirt. There you go. Now add your rubber leg movements and a “yeah, you know you like it” smirk. Perfect! If you feel you’ve exasperated all the shirt dance can offer, just send it on a little trip. Have it roll up high, like to your neck line, or down low, just toying the hem of your Hanes wifebeater. Now just let the ladies roll in. If you want to up your game, as Rubber Man taught me well, perform the shirt dance with camouflage pants on. This way, drunk college girls are mesmerized that your pulsating shirt creature can keep you so sexy even without legs!

Next we had Pity Sex Guy, whose entire game was to sit on a stool sulking the entire night. I thought perhaps his plan was to wait for his song to come on, or a drunk girl to try and pull him our of his shell, however this turtle had no intention of ever giving up his seat. Despite many men claiming to be a "babe magnet" he seemed to truly possess the gift for drawing females to him since by the end of the night he had a girl in his lap being made out with. Either that, or he was using the old "venus fly trap" technique. Little good that tact did ME in college. I should have known I was missing the key element "a stool".

I did enjoy one man’s pickup line. Never has the line “Yeah, I have a son who’s 18” ever worked on so many ladies before! It may have something to do with the fact that he was the most willing to open his wallet for a mere moment of your time. When questioning my cousin of the safeness of these drinks (me in the mindset of a 1950s housewife being concerned her dear little girl would be slipped a mickey) she replied confidently, “it’s ok, I only have them bring me bottled drinks.” I just nodded but… don’t those have openings too? I kept my eye on Mickey Man, but he never did any slight of hand, only slight of hips. Those shimmying dance moves would have wooed the pants off a Men’s Warehouse shipment.

Rounding out the creepy musketeers was the obligatory Random Old Guy. While he spent most of the night peering from one of the side tables and floating in Rubber Man's wake he did come away with a "late evening companion". While she may have been older and stockier than the median of the populace she was waaaay in his league. By the end of the night everyone had sufficiently rubbed against enough strangers to feel satiated. That is, except the last couple who were willing to give out their numbers in hopes of future pheromone sniffing. I have no concern that Zane will ever give out his phone number to anyone, seeing as how he hasn’t even memorized it yet. It was embarrassing enough when we first met he had to check his shirt tag for where his mom had sewn in his information.

With all the good sights our night could have been complete there; this however was not the case. Julie was determined to try out the shirt dance for herself. After dancing near, next to and around Rubber Man for hours, I came up empty shirted. My mojo was depleted and Rubber Man did not pick up what I was droppin'. Zane was pleased and I trudged on.

We all had a blast and picked up cute guys. Woah woah, I meant Zane I meant Zane. In the end I was the only one who brought someone home, but that’s only because I had to. The ladies had taught me well the intricacies of their seasoned mating calls. Next time we go out, I’ll be sure to wear more mascara and have my plumage fluffed ahead of time. Maybe then Zane can drive separately and we can just “happen” to end up dancing together. Maybe next time he’ll pay for my drinks, but not with the money he offered to hold onto for me so I didn’t have to carry a purse. (Yeah, I noticed…)

Unfortunately for Julie the town's motto isn't so much "what happens in Keene stays in Keene" but rather "thanks for coming, now continue about your usual business".

Maybe next time I’ll be ready to present my very own shirt dance. One can only hope.

P.S.

A special shout out to two of our most loyal fans!

Happy 25th Anniversary

Mom and Dad Gould!

Perfect for a Chili Autumn Day...

No, Zane, this doesn't mean I'm making it for dinner...

Enjoy readers! xoxo J

We Love Our Fans!

Here is a little tribute I put together in honor of our first 100 facebook followers!

THANK YOU so so much for giving faces to the readers we work so hard to alienate!

Let It Burn

One of the greatest additions to our lives in moving North has been the spaces designated for burning stuff. Our choices are not limited either! Not only can memories of lovers past be burnt asunder in the living room fireplace, but literature of questionable taste can perish outside in the massive fire pit as well! The question now is not so much "how do I build a good fire?" but rather "what else can we set on fire?" Old furniture, treadmill boxes, girly magazines have all met their fate in our fire pits (or Flame Arenas as my roadside advertisements would call them).

Now before all you crunchy readers out there shun us for driving the planet ever closer to global meltdown, just check out all the fiery glory!

"What on earth is that wooden structure that has me completely captivated?" you ask. Well, it happens to be the former frame of a cheap, Swedish couch that met an untimely, albeit expected, end just a month ago. Piece by piece the joints of the frame began to separate until one fateful evening when it finally gave in. Julie accompanied S-Dub and Balls of Neil on the couch for some quality Food Network Challenge when they were joined by everyone's favorite bi-eye colored pup Allie-gator. It wasn't long before Julie realized that she had just been the recipient of a canine shart attack, when everyone burst into uproarious laughter. Frightened by the strange behavior of us semi-hairless bipeds, Allie scurried off the couch. After a frantic bound, the couch creaked one final death rattle before giving way to its complete implosion on the unsuspecting Whitehots.

It was a bitter sweet farewell to a couch that has served many well in its single year of life, but we had been prepared to move on to a more "grown up" couch anyway. While burning household objects is fun, it has been the experimenting with various woods that has really made it enjoyable. We spare no expense in finding the sweetest smelling wood to fill the house with, even if the tree is technically on the neighbor's property. Still, there is nothing more pleasurable than the warm loving embrace of 6C10H15O7 + Heat!

Sibling Rivalry

As many of you may know, we have recently (and very proudly) reached 100 fans on Facebook! To those baby boomers reading, this might be Greek to you, but think of it as our own little Red Hat Society. In order to get those last few people onboard, we started to offer incentives such as the previous two blogs, but kept a highly coveted prize for #100... your own blog entry.

Well, here it is #100, your very own epic, we hope you aren't disappointed (since you live with us and we'll have to hear you griping)....

***

My brother. He's the smart guy whose shadow I've been attempting to escape for a quarter century. He's the man who comes home to our hostel hostile just looking for some peace and quiet. He's my car-loving, boredom-hating, goofy older brother who has for the first time in our lives claimed to be my "fan."

Neil (Neily Dan), as his friends call him, but "Boog" to us insiders, is a stand up guy who just wants the simple things in life: a dog, a girl who makes him pie and a garage. Growing up together was always interesting, never dull, and full of enough drama to fill at least one season of Grey's Anatomy. Neil was an awesome older bro who never failed to pull me back up hills on my sled, stay out till dark playing Horse with me and letting me spell it with extra letters, pimping out my pink Huffy for me or scheming with me a new way to make money.

We would have made Donald Trump's children look like slackers. Among the many jobs my brother and I had we've sold Kool-Aid and brownies roadside, both had paper routes (he claims mine was better... and it was!), invented a household newspaper that we charged our parents to read, even picked our own corn at a local farm and hiked up the price to rip off drivers by. Through it all we always managed to get along.

Despite our camaraderie we always were vying for the top child position. Sure, he was the first born, but come ON, they must have thought they could improve so voila! Me! We swapped back and forth, taking turns at being the good child for years. He was a smarty pants and I was the artsy slacker. He went into mechanical engineering and I majored in basketweaving. Well, if you ask him, that's what I got my degree in. Neil enjoyed likening ourselves to those old school Highlights duo, Goofus and Gallant. To those young fans: Highlights was a magazine. Here's a picture of our beloved friends:

Goofus was the bad son, he always went down the wrong path and was most definitely headed straight for hell. Gallant was the obviously better child who did everything by the book and most likely received countless wedgies at school. Growing up, Neil was Gallant.

That is, until a few years ago when he realized Goofus had a lot more fun. Neil started living the life he never had and made me look like a golden child. Thanks Neil! It was a win win for all, and I'd like to honor this change of heart with a photo essay depicting our sibling rivalry at its finest.

Being inspired by our bud Sarah Lohmeyer!

Just wanted to take a moment and appreciate our 99th Facebook fan, Sarah! Zane and I recently sought some career advice from her, because she just got A NEW JOB! Yay you Sarah!

Spending a little time with our pal Kristin Hayes!

In celebration of Kristin becoming our 98th Facebook fan, Zane and I decided to treat her to a fun weekend of girly time, nights out, and dishing about her recent engagement!

Stately Rivalry

There are things that sprout up when dating someone that would be considered "deal breakers". While Julie claims that no such thing exists, not with me at least, there is one big factoid that has been nagging at the back of my mind like a Julie. Sports rivalries between Massachusetts and New York are nothing new, and as some of you may know, Julie was born a Masshole and comes from a long line of Massholes. As such, there lends a lot of rivalry possibilities: Red Sox - Yankees, Red Sox - Mets (Holla '86!), Knicks - Anyone able to hold a basketball really (so Celtics by default). There is but one rivalry that actually means something to me, and that is the one between the New York Jets and the New England Patriots.

Allow me to emphasize, that I am a die-hard Jets fan; and that's saying something. Whether it's Vinny Testeverde's proficiency at throwing the ball to the defending team or their inane ability to lose all the games they should win and semi-visa-versa, or the fact that they've been through 5 head coaches in the past 10 years; loving the Jets is like pulling for a person to quit smoking cold turkey. There are countless "this is it!" moments with an inevitable fall back to the harsh unforgiving reality.

Living across enemy lines hasn't been easy. I can't wear my Jets helmet out on the town, nor can I regale others with my favorite Tom Brady jokes in mixed company. Thankfully at the time of this writing my Jets lead the division with a 3-0 record. Do not take that as gloating though, with one of their toughest games of the season coming this weekend I wouldn't want to say anything that could remotely be taken as jinxing.

Last week the rivalry extended from the 100 yard fields to the 3 yard couch. With the Jets playing Tennessee the same time the Patriots faced off against Atlanta, the battle was just as much over the pigskin as it was the remote. What resulted was a person with ADHD's dream. My thumb firmly held to the "last" button I blindly directed the focus of the day's double-header. While I thought the Patriots-Falcons game would be a wash, it actually proved to be a much more pleasant experience for Crunchberry & Co. A few weeks this season the Jets and the Poops... oh I mean Pats... no I don't... what was I talking about? Oh right, in a few select weeks this season The Shats will be playing games at the same time on a different network. As some great cosmic gift, it somehow works out that if New England isn't playing they choose to air the Jets game.

Last Obama-mas (or Omas for short) Julie tested the waters of my seriousness with gifts that ran the gambit of our territorial allegiances. The first gift I was bestowed with was a homemade #1 Patriots Fan Jersey. While my immediate reaction to a Patriots Jerseys is "FIRE", this one reeked with all sorts of "emotional attachment": meaning, "fire proof" until the onset of a break up or the wearer revealing them-self to be a witch. On the other side of things though, she did get me great tickets to the last Jets game of the season. A momentous occasion to anyone who actually liked having Brett Favre and (coach) Eric Mangini on Gang Green.

All-in-all our war has been civil. Having my team in first place and plenty of callouses to losing from over the years, I am quite impervious to these people and their pride. Patriots fans are new to this whole "losing" thing, so while I refrain from rubbing it in their faces, I continue to hold out hope that the tide has finally turned for the next few decades. Now if only Julie can stop making "Dirty Sanchez" jokes.