Let Me Tell Ya About Nutella

I have an unhealthy obsession with healthy food.

I know its a sick thing to admit but I actually enjoy eating vegetables. When I walk through the aisles at the supermarket I get sucked into the products that contain "whole grains" or are "made with skim milk." I buy things just because they say "less fat than the leading brand." I often need to be yanked from the organic section because I would spend my entire life savings on Cascadian Farms cereal and Food Should Taste Good sweet potato chips. If there is a God up there, he will soon have pity on my soul and put a Trader Joe's or Whole Foods within a 15 mile radius of my house.

Now don't get me wrong, I am a girl that loves her well done french fries and juicy cheeseburgers with the works, but I am on a constant search for healthy alternatives to my favorite fatty foods but still taste like the real deal. I don't want to torture my taste buds with chips that taste like cardboard. Stripping food of its flavor takes the fun out of eating and I don't believe that you should sacrifice pleasing your palate just to appease your waistline.

If you ask anyone that truly knows me, they know that I love food. My boyfriend asks me everyday what I ate for lunch. I know he actually doesn't care but he knows I get some strange joy out of explaining the components of my salad or my new concoction of jicama and guacamole 100 calorie packs. I may not remember to feed the dog or take the garbage out but I do remember the amazing Gemelli pasta dish with capers, grilled calamari, and kalamata olives in a red sauce that I had in the city with my mom three weeks ago.

Since I seem to have every weekend spilling into July booked out of the Hamptons and off Long Island I didn't want my blog to feel neglected. So I am taking my deep affection for healthy food, mixing it with my mediocre cooking skills, and adding another layer to my blog.

Once a week I will try to update my readers on any new recipes I find or ideas that pop into my head and my hilarious attempt to create it. I am no Rachel Ray or Giada De Laurentiis. I may have the same love for the Food Network that a Spanish grandmother has for her telenovelas but the extent of my culinary prowess doesn't go much further than pushing the start button on the microwave. I will give myself credit in the sense that I am pretty good at putting things together. I am rather world renowned for my creative salads and I can make a delectable sandwich, but once you actually have to turn the stove on and get ingredients to blend, I surrender my oven mitts.

Therefore, this should be interesting.

The first appearance to this new foodie side to myself is my attempt to recreate a dessert my family and I had at Edgewater Restaurant in Hampton Bays. My former place of summer employment, as well as my father's, this authentic Italian hot spot overlooking the Shinnecock canal is where we tend to end up for every birthday, celebration, and plain old Saturday night meal. With a line out the door every night of the week, you always leave with a smile on your face as well as lunch for the next day. Last weekend we celebrated my dad's birthday and the owner so graciously sent over just about every dessert on the menu. As I kissed my diet goodbye over tiramisu, tartufo and peanut butter pie our waitress dropped a new delicious concoction in the middle of our table. Focaccia wedges with nutella and berries. So simple, yet so mouth watering.

It was so scrumptious that my mother and I tried to re-produce it for a Mother's Day dessert (p.s. Happy belated Mother's Day to all the mommies out there). We found a simple recipe online for focaccia bread, but added cinnamon to the mix. When the dough had risen we cut it into three pieces, flattened it out and threw them on the grill. (This is where I learned that while igniting a grill the dials must be on low and the lid must be open otherwise there is a strong possibility it will explode. You learn something new everyday). We let them grill until crispy (or relatively burnt)- about 10 minutes on each side.

Post-grilling we let them cool and stuck two of them in the freezer to revisit at another time. Once they were room temperature, we smothered them in nutella, low fat cool whip, and blackberries and raspberries. Another concoction we thought of for future desserts would be marscapone cheese, strawberries and agave nectar or even greek yogurt and caramelized bananas. 

The end result wasn't too bad! It definitely wasn't restaurant quality, the focaccia wasn't nearly as crispy as it should be but anything covered in nutella isn't worth complaining over. If you have once small piece I would consider this a pretty healthy alternative to a slice of Oreo cheesecake or an ice cream sundae, I mean come on it has fruit on it, but of course we devoured the entire thing. Maybe that's why today when I shook my salad container to distribute my dressing my gut jiggled just as much as the contents of my tupperware.

Chocolate Cheesecake Coma

Traditional Pizza Rustica oozing with ham, proscuitto, ricotta and all things cured meat and Italian dairy, breadcrumb stuffed artichokes, savory meatballs in marinara, fork tender peices of pork shoulder, steaming red lasagna and our lonely attempt at a "light" option in vegetable white lasagna; after Easter dinner, I wish I had jumped in on that whole Jesus diet and fasted for 40 days. Then I probably wouldn't feel the need to desperately pull up the top of my leggings to hide my food baby belly.

Tomorrow it is back to fresh fruit, oatmeal and grilled chicken. As soon as I heard the Keurig revving up like a caffeine infused motor and my mom walking towards the kitchen carrying that simple white box those nutritious notions were quickly knocked from my health concious mind.

Holey Moses Cheesecake is tucked behind runways and construction signs at Gabreski Airport in Westhampton Beach, NY. Family owned and happily operated you will always leave this tiny yellow sugar sanctuary with a pie in hand and a smile on your face. They have everything from peach cobbler and apple crumb to key lime pie and oreo cheesecake, but this year my mother brought home the Holy Grail of Holey Moses- the chocolate mouse cheesecake.

I am not the biggest fan of cheesecake in general but you could put chocolate on top of chicken feet and it would appease my inner fat kid. This creamy whipped piece of heaven sits on top of a perfect crumbly graham cracker crust and even though at this point I might as well have take a slice and applied it directly to my love handles, I savored every bite of my extra large piece (which meshed wonderfully with my chocolate glazed donut flavored cup of coffee...okay I think I have an addiction).

So since I am so full the only words now coming to my mind are "fluffy pillows" and "down comforters" I have to say goodnight. I hope you all had a fantastic Easter with your friends and family and the next time you happen to find yourself in Westhampton Beach stop in at Holey Moses and pick up a pie. I promise you won't be disappointed. (Try the Black Forest Cheesecake too!)

Getting Lucky on Long Island

Every night I pray that the next morning I am woken up by Mother Nature's avian alarm and that the sun's warm fingertips will caress me out of dream world. My sundresses are hanging in the closet aching to be worn and flip flops have emerged from underneath the passenger seat of my car. I think I've been hiding from my blog for the past two months because I've been too busy counting down the days until I feel the sand between my toes and the smiley face stickers plastered to my face (reference to the Boardy Barn for those of you who haven't experienced its glory). Its April and I still have on wool socks, my Eskimo boots, and turtlenecks. But even though the monotony of my weekends hasn't been blog worthy, last weekend was definitely worth sharing with the world.

Luckily I don't have to board a plane to see any of my friends from college, so we usually try to plan a monthly get together. Months earlier we had purchased tickets to see Lil Wayne and Nicki Minaj at Nassau Coliseum on March 27th, so last weekend four of my girlfriends boarded the legendary double decker train for a fantastic weekend on Long Island. Since my friends and I seem to have a serious infatuation with food we tend to base our gatherings around where we will be stuffing our faces. For all of you who have a similar obsession you must indulge a few meals in Huntington. 

First stop on our culinary journey was Pancho Villas home to the most amazing pomegranate margaritas that have ever graced my taste buds. We started off with a pitcher of pink frozen goodness and I welcomed the brain freeze. It had just enough tequila to leave you warm and tingly but not too much that the valet has to help your friends carry you to the car. Even though Pancho Villas' claim to fame is their "sizzling fajitas" I abided by my meatless Catholic boundaries and got the vegetarian combination. A crispy taco packed with creamy fresh guacamole and crunchy lettuce, a warm flour tortilla stuffed with smooth refried beans and melted cheese accompanied by a heaping scoop of rice, salsa and endless tortilla chips satisfied my Mexican craving for under ten bucks! Is your mouth watering yet? Keep reading. 

After burning those calories off bar hopping, we soon replaced them the next morning at Toast & Co. Tucked on a side street of Downtown Huntington, their menu offers a funky twist on comfort food and classic dishes. Since I have only ever been there for breakfast I can vouch for the first page of their enormous menu, although their creative sandwiches such as "Shrimp and Guacamole BLT" and inventive entrees such as "What a Crock of Mac 'n' Cheese" seem like they are definitely worth coming back for. 

My friend that lives in Huntington walked in like she was the Queen of England; Toast was packed with people eating, tucked in the nooks and crannies of the restaurant, but magically a table for five opened up. We were ushered to the neon orange table like royalty. We sipped on chocolate milks, coffee and tea and analyzed each item with growling stomachs and aching heads. The options were endless- Ricotta Lemon Pancakes with chocolate ganache and hazelnuts, Blueberry cream cheese stuffed French Toast or Eggs with Scallion Bisquits were just a few of the tantalizing options listed on this mouthwatering breakfast menu. As usual, I was overwhelmed with options and opted for a create-your-own omelet (which thinking about it now sounds like an oxymoron). But next time I am going for the veggie skillet, a hodgepodge of steaming vegetables, sweet potato homefries, and over easy eggs all blanketed in melted cheese. Oh, and a mimosa!
Still not drooling?

We continued on our edacious endeavor to Jericho Cider Mill where cars line Route 106 to pay homage to this tiny apple sanctuary. If you are lucky enough to snag one of the 10 parking spots, you will nearly be knocked down by the sweet scent of fresh baked pies. But we weren't here for the apple crumb or even the apple turnovers, we had frapples on our minds. Served in a simple styrofoam cup, this healthy Slurpee is an ingenious concoction of frozen apple cider that puts a new spin on a Thanksgiving favorite. And get a large, trust me.



Live hAPPLEy

 After letting our inner gluttons run rampant for two days it was finally Sunday evening and the concert we had been looking forward to for months was here, but of course we needed to eat first. Sapsuckers Hops and Grub is a relatively new restaurant that may look like any other dimly lit pub, but has a menu that gives any five star eatery a run for their money. Organic and local ingredients give this cozy bar an upscale feel and the extensive beer menu will take your palate on an international tour without ever leaving your seat. Amongst the homemade black bean soup, wild boar sausage dogs, and gorgonzola burgers, I settled upon the Cuban sandwich. Served with a crunchy pickle and rosemary and thyme tossed french fries, my sandwich put all other Cubans to shame. I pulled apart my toasted ciabatta bread to a spider's web of Swiss cheese. It was the perfect start to an even better night.




So pretty and unsuspecting


When we parked at Nassau Coliseum, we hopped on line, emptied our pockets and walked through a metal detector, just like any other normal concert or airplane boarding procedure. After scanning our tickets we tried to find our seats and found ourselves walking upstairs- understandable since we opted for the $107 tickets, I'd assume we would be towards the back. Row L, row M, row N, more stairs and more stairs; by the time we made it to our seats I had developed acrophobia. We were two rows away from the last possible row in the entire stadium. If I stood on my seat I could graze the ceiling with my head. Accepting our position we settled into our seats for the opening act, when an attractive guy in a gray jacket approached us.

"Are you guys huge Lil' Wayne fans?"

We looked at each trying to decipher that was really suppose to be. What was his motive? They all have one.

He asked us again,

"Are you guys Lil Wayne fans?"

But this time he held up the purple V.I.P. pass hanging from his neck. My bravest friend (aka the one sitting closest to him) spoke for the group, "Uh yeah." The second she closed her mouth he handed her four tickets: seat 11-14 row 1.

Smitten with disbelief, my heart dropped into my stomach as we followed our prince charming down section by section, security guard by security guard to the front row. This is the kind of thing that usually happens to my mom's coworker's daughter or my cousin's friend from school, some kind of exclusive luck that always happens to a friend of a friend, but never to me. I have that there's-a-hair-in-my-sandwich or I-spilled-coffee-on-my-shirt-before-a-huge-presentation kind of luck.

When the concert began Lil Wayne was raised from beneath the stage two feet away from our seats. We were so close I was blinded by his silver studded teeth. When he lowered his sunglasses I could see his pupils. If we were any closer the chain hanging from his crocodile patterned pants would have hit me in the face! Okay not really but you can sense my excitement. I have never experienced a live performance up close and personal. This is what being wealthy must feel like. We had even hit the rap star motherload.  A plethora of unannounced performers showed up throughout the show such as Busta Ryhmes, Ludacris, Birdman and Dj Khaleed. Even if you hate Lil Wayne and all things rap related (coughdadcough) I know there is a teeny tiny pang of envy nestled inside you. Thank you to our concert savior, if I knew your name I would name my first born after you.

Come see the seals!

Maybe it is Mother Nature’s unforgiving release of all things blusterous and frigid that makes me believe the Mayan's foresight could possibly be true. “A winter storm warning is in effect for your area” and “we will see the accumulation of at least 8-10 inches” have become customary phrases in meteorologists' vocabulary this winter. Snow days were fabulous when I was in school, but now I saunter outside dressed like Ralphie from “A Christmas Story” and the only thing I can show for it is aching muscles and 98 dollars cut from my bi-weekly paycheck. I’ve never had a stronger inclination to stomp through snow angels and flick out the dark taunting eyes of every snowman that lines my street. 

Stubborn snowflakes refusing to melt off my windshield

 I always mocked the “snow birds” that traveled to Florida to hibernate in the winter months. I was proud to be a New Englander and was adamant about the importance of the change of seasons. “The winter makes you appreciate the summer.” “If you have too much of one thing, it looses its meaning.” Well after the forth snowstorm in one month, lounging on the beach in Miami with a daiquiri glued to my hand seems like heaven right about now.

But despite my strong adversity to this white purgatory, I decided to join my friend and her father one Saturday morning at 8am on a seal walk. 

Whenever friends or family come to visit, they are always astonished by the “wildlife” out here, especially if they come from a place where the closest thing they have to a natural animal presence is setting mousetraps in their basements. 

In the summer chirping birds are my alarm clock. I eat my breakfast amongst bunnies nibbling on our lawn and squirrels playing tag. Even in the winter, I am still awe struck at the beautiful simplicity in a family of deer standing proudly our lawn, as if they own it. But I never knew the waters surrounding Long Island were so alive.

So I yanked myself out of bed at 7:30 on a Saturday (I know, I know), bundled myself up to my eyeballs, and met my friend and her father at Cupsogue Beach.

Dune Road is this long stretch of asphalt spanning from Hampton Bays to Center Moriches that separates the ocean from the bay. It is overflowing with extravagant mansions and holds some of the highest property value in the world. Cupsogue is one of the only beaches on Dune Road that are open to the public for only $10. You do not have to be a member, unlike many of the exclusive and expensive beach clubs that are scattered throughout Dune Road. You do not have to be a resident of Westhampton Beach or even of Southampton Town.

So with none of these limitations holding anyone from laying out their towel and slopping on the sunscreen with a prime ocean side view, you can only imagine how crowded Cupsogue Beach is in the summer. And to add to the madness, the part of the beach that borders the bay is open to RVs, trailers, and campers to drive up, park, and play.

This was the first time I had ever been to Cupsogue with three sweatshirts on and leggings under my jeans. It was the first time I could hear myself think. It was the first time I didn’t have to suppress the inherent need to scream when a family full of “citidiots” set up their belongings so close to me, I could take sandwiches out of their cooler without leaving my beach chair.

I have never seen the point of going to the beach in the winter since my sole purpose for going was to get as dark as the melanin in my body would allow, but the serenity and peacefulness of this picturesque landscape was worth the numbness taking over my toes. We walked through a barely plowed path in search for seals.

My friend had seen this seal walk advertised in our local paper, so we figured there would be a group leader or at least other people. We were even nervous we wouldn’t be able to take part since we didn’t register but we were the only warm blooded bodies within miles.

We trekked along the bay side through shin high snow until we saw something out on the sand bar. My friend's father said they were just black birds but binoculars proved him wrong. Regardless of the fact that you needed one of those cameras with a 20 ft lens or a canoe to see them up close, we had found seals! There were at least 15 of them just basking in the winter sun, lazily passing the day away. We noticed a baby seal swimming closer to us and was frightened when he popped his head out of the water to come face to face with a seagull.

They're out there, I swear!

We continued walking down the path, trying to get a closer look and instead of finding the typical human footprints masking the beach, this sand was decorated with duck prints as well as what we, self-proclaimed marine biologists for the day, concluded to be seal prints.

Even though I was losing feeling in three quarters of my extremities and I am not the biggest fan of sea life, this made one day of my winter coma a little more bearable. The seals reminded me of pudgy water puppies and I got to experience the sanctity of this enchanting atmosphere. It also gave me a reason to drink a heaping cup of hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream. Only 145 days until summer but whose counting. 

Get Inked

The buzzing sounds like an incessant mosquito resting on my eardrum. Most say the noise is the worst part. The common cliche of mind versus matter runs through my head as I wait my turn. The noise rests only for the slender needle to gather more liquid ink. Instead of sucking blood, this tool punctures the skin and drags vibrant blues, greens, and oranges transforming the boring tan color of flesh into an artistic masterpiece. After 45 minutes of perfecting my idea, I roll up my T-shirt, lay on my side and inhale as deeply as possible, trying to create as much space between my rib cage and the tender thin skin that protects it.

For those of you who know me, you are well aware that I am very fond of tattoos and so is my father. He has seven while prior to last week I had two. He has his religious leg displaying an intricate Christ head, a cross wrapped in a "In Memory of Mom" banner and "In Memory of Dad" intertwined through a rose-cross hybrid.

His other leg has less of a theme, but if I had to pick one I would say it his Tribute leg. He has my name as well as my brother's in thick cursive letters, a giant horse with protruding muscles standing tall on its hind legs, and the multi-colored Autism Awareness Ribbon.

Not all people like tattoos, in fact my mom thinks his legs look like comics strips but beauty is in the eye of those who can take the pain. Tattooing is truly an art form, a honest expression of self and the amount of detail and complexity that goes into forming these epidermic showpieces, looks like they were created with a fine tuned pencil rather than a bobbing needle.

All of my father's tattoos have special meaning to him as do mine. He took me for my first tattoo on my 18th birthday, I guess you can call it one of the ways we bond. My first tattoo was the polychromatic ribbon my father has above his ankle. I remember walking into this tattoo parlor in Sayville, NY my stomach twisted up like a carnival pretzel. I signed a waiver and watched as this burly man with hair almost longer than mine, sanitized the entirety of the room. He cleaned and covered everything from the tools he was using to the phone cord that hung on the wall. He shaved my hip, cleaned the area and geared up the machinery that would permanently paint my flesh. Maybe it was the spot of my tattoo, but it didn't necessarily hurt. It felt more like he was rubbing a piece of sandpaper on my hip.

Seventy-five dollars and twenty five minutes later I walked out an addict.

Less than a year later I was ready for tattoo number two. My friend had a cousin who was a tattoo artist, so on a steamy summer day we went together, both getting secondary pigmentations. I repeated the cleansing process this time on the inside of my foot and gripped the chair so hard I put holes in the bottom. There was more fatty tissue on my hip, more flesh to absorb the needles' wrath. Flexing my foot, I felt like he had stabbed me with a blunt object and was literally dragging it through my tendons. After five minutes, which felt like five days, I limped away painfully content with "Monti" branded on my left foot forever.

I vowed to myself I was done. Two sounded like a good number and nothing else really moved me enough to paste it indelibly on my body. The Autism Awareness Ribbon was a tribute to my 17 year old brother who has autism. The intermingling puzzle pieces decorated my hip and reminded me of every struggle, lesson, and journey he has taken my family on. It may just be a pretty ribbon but it represents the open-mindedness, selflessness and patience Nicholas singlehandedly instilled in me; it might just be ink on skin but it symbolizes that baby steps for some can be leaps and bounds for others. To me, it personifies the real meaning of sacrifice.

There are only three Monti women in my entire family, one in each generation. I have Cohen cousins and DeSalvo cousins, but I am the lone female Monti. Thanks to tradition, if I ever decide to engage in that whole marriage idea, it will erase Monti from my license, my bills, and the last name scribbled on my future children's math tests. My brother is the only other Monti in our generation and I have a strong feeling he probably won't be saying "I do" before a priest anytime in the near future. We cant even get him to accept the "cookie" on Sundays, let alone get him into the church and the closest he has come to a relationship is carrying around a decrepit picture of some girl in his class that he tore out of his school yearbook. So if I do decide to take part in the sanctity of marriage, even though my last name will legally change I'll always have it with me.

It wasn't until the last month of school when a saying stirred something inside me; put the way I view the world into words. My boyfriend, who has a tattoo of his own, had an idea for a new one: "Count life's blessings, not its problems." It struck me. My entire life I have been conditioned to see the brighter side of things. I have been forced to see the glass as half full, to look past the tribulations and see the silver lining even if it was buried beneath tears and trauma. Optimism has been carved into my brain whether I liked it or not.

I sat on the idea for a few months and finally a few weeks after my 22nd birthday I walked into the Devil's Rose in Bluepoint, NY with my hands shaking. Even though I already had two tattoos, that familiar buzzing dragged up my two vastly different experiences, fairly distressing and relatively traumatizing. The man that did my first tattoo left his first parlor in Sayville, and with a new partner, they started their own.

Typically when you walk into a tattoo parlor you are bombarded with skulls, pictorial half naked pin up girls and a sound system blasting screaming voices that never should have gotten a record deal, but Devil's Rose is different. Its somewhat vintage feel was less dark and intimidating than the other places I had been. There were random knickknacks on the walls, turquoise bar stools, and three rooms separated by old changing screens. Even though Devil's Rose is fairly new, it is inviting and friendly unlike many other tattoo parlors that try to fit that stereotypical dark and evil image.

I met with Eric, who had cut off all his hair since I last saw him, and after three drawings he perfected my next tattoo. I lay on the cold cushioned table and stretched my arm towards the opposite side of the room. Buzzing ensued and so did the torture. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be until that needle crept directly over my ribs.

Peaceful or about to die?

The fact that my arm cupped my ear was not only making me lose sensation in that shoulder but seemed to amplify the sounds I heard inside my body. It felt as if the needle plunged right through my flesh and I could hear it vibrating the bone. Every single one of my muscles tensed, ceased, and cried for mercy but I did not say a word. It was so worth it. 

Puffy and bloody :)

Whether it is one of those domino effect days where you wake up with a huge pimple, put sour milk in your cereal, get a flat tire on your way to work and then get there and realize its Saturday or when it seems like your being battered mercilessly by life and can not see the light at the end of that eternal tunnel, I can look down and always be reminded to count all the blessings in my life rather than to harp on all its problems. It can ALWAYS be worse. 

OH MY GOD ITS SANTA!

As I scoured every Chamber of Commerce website throughout the whole eastern end of the island for an engaging activity to take part in, I have come to the realization that the cold blistered hands of winter boredom are starting to suffocate the Hamptons. Its official…summer is just a cozy memory that is failing to warm up my tripled socked feet and stark white complexion.

As the hours of daylight dwindle so do the opportunities of things to do. I mean you can only indulge in a creamy greasy far from healthy dining experience so many times before you need to exchange your skinny jeans for maternity pants.

Going to the movies gets old when you repeat seeing flicks just because “its something to do” and the woman that rips your ticket starts recognizing you as the one that always gets peanut M&M’s.

I’m sure bars are remotely the same in any town but since the population here shrinks throughout the winter, there are less innocent by standers to help you avoid forced conversation with the girl that sat behind you in Mr. Broich’s earth science class junior year. No need to pay for a high school reunion there is one every Thursday night at Buckley’s in Hampton Bays.

I needed to engage myself in something different. Despite my love for the Hamptons and all the things it (usually) has to offer, I refuse to become accustom to the repetitiveness and uniformity that has become a Saturday night.

Problem: Monotony

Solution: Santa con.

Despite the fact that temperatures above 30 are no longer a possibility and it has already snowed twice even though the calendar keeps reminding me its still technically fall, this season has something very special to offer: Christmas! And what better way to start off the holiday season than with a Santa Claus convention.

According to the website, SantaCon is “a non-denominational, non-commercial, non-political and non-sensical Santa Claus convention that occurs once a year for absolutely no reason.” The night before the big event some mysterious Santacon leader posts about 12 starting points all over Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, and Hoboken. Commencing at 10 a.m. (college style) this anti-bar crawl (every time someone calls it a bar crawl a sugar plum fairy dies) begins a 12-hour drinking binge throughout one of the most entertaining and lively cities in the world.

Sanatacon is held in 179 cities in 24 countries but it only seems fitting that in New York City would you be walking down the street and look up to hundreds of intoxicated Santa Claus’ chanting inappropriate versions of Christmas carols and substituting milk and cookies for questionable beverages in brown paper bags and slices of pizza. 

My friends and I, sporting antlers and “Hi, my name is (insert reindeer here)” name tags, hopped on the 9:57 train out of Speonk with bagels and train libations. Even though we missed the starting point, Rudolph friend was receiving updates via twitter about the next bar sites.

Santacon was the epitome of social media. Whoever was posting updates managed to organize and usher hundreds of people all over Manhattan, all through a few 160-character displays. 

After the first pit stop (which we missed) the Santa tweeter posted the next destination to be Central Park. After sporadically spotting a few fellow Santas here and there on the subway, we screeched to a halt at the 77^th exit and followed a couple of guys dressed up in red suits and beards. As we got closer to the park, the color red started infringing on my line of sight. It was like Manhattan suddenly had a red, white and black nosebleed. 

It was like Santa was multiplying. Indian chief Santa, taco Santa, robot Santa, skanky Santa, male genitalia Santa, hockey Santa and World Cup Santa who was petitioning to have the 2026 World Cup at the North Pole converged from all directions. The Christmas spirit surged through the Upper East Side as a sea of red washed over Central Park. Camaraderie was established instantaneously due to a similar interest in alcohol and Santa suits.

But the outfits weren’t just limited to St. Nick copycats. Girls were wrapped up as gifts addressed to men from God, dreidels represented the Jewish community, and reindeer galloped through the park with snap-on snouts and artificial hooves. It was actually a true testament to creativity.

One of the best parts was the spectators that had no idea what was going on. On our way to the next bar, one thoroughly confused elderly woman stopped us. Somewhat agitated she wouldn’t let us proceed on our jolly crawl without informing her why she did not know about this Santa Claus convention. As we worked our way back through the subways towards the West Village little children’s faces lit up with excitement as hundreds of Santas stepped onto the platform. It was every five year old’s dream! Too bad for them the only gifts these men in red could offer were slurred words and empty cans.

When we finally got downtown it was bursting at its seams with Santas. Bleeker Street is renowned for its pub scene, all bars within walking distance of each other and one more fun then the next. And I’m sure that’s true, if we could get into them. We settled on a Mexican restaurant where the two bartenders looked a mix of extremely overwhelmed and slightly scared of these dollar flinging Santa Claus’ desperate to continue their Christmas buzz. Standing at the front of the pack, my friends and I waited a half hour without being served.

It was so ridiculously crowded the only place where we could quench our thirst was at delis and an empty restaurant called Café Espanol. Even McDonalds was over populated with reindeer and snowmen. We decided to escape the wild world of Santaland to an uncanny getaway: Times Square. We enjoyed the rest of our evening at the Heartland Brewery and singing “Rudolph the red nose reindeer” loudly for all to hear, as we were herded through 42^nd street. 

Its Just Hair

Webster's dictionary defines hair as
1. any of the numerous fine, usually cylindrical keratinous filaments growing from the skin of humans and animals
2. a filamentous outgrowth of the epidermis

TLC Style reported in an article about the physics behind hair coloring, that except for the few cells growing at the root, hair is, in laments terms, dead tissue.

So hair is actually pretty disgusting, biologically speaking, and I was sporting an obscene amount of dark brown dead tissues in strand-like form. But I loved my dark brown dead tissue.

Family photo (minus Nicholas) at my cousin Amanda's absolutely fabulous wedding.

I've always loved my hair; we had a delightfully symbiotic relationship. It kept me warm through the blistery winter wrapping its thick sturdy strands around my neck like a botanical scarf. It was always in a magnificent mood but even when it was having a bad day it would still let me manage it by blasting it with hot air and sticking it between two scalding metal plates. It didn't get angry with my 14-year-old self when I ironed it; it patiently waited its turn after dad's jeans and mom's collared shirts. Lately it was long enough to cover up an exposed bra strap or too much cleavage. It was versatile and flexible, two qualities hard to find in people let alone hair. It looked good pin straight or in curls.

In return I would let it breathe on the weekends, free of product and hot tools. I tried to steer clear of my boyfriend's incessant need to pluck the poor white ones from its brothers and sisters. I thought I had a decent balance of natural oils and cleanliness, even though my parents probably beg to differ.

It boosted my self confidence. Sometimes I would pretend I was in one of those Pantene Pro-V commercials; the ones where women would flip their long luxurious shiny hair back and forth as it cascaded down their backs like furry waterfalls. My hair wasn't just expired cells, it was my sexy blanket. Any time I had a zit the size of Lake Tahoe, I thought at least I have pretty hair. Whenever I felt like my love handles were big enough to have their own area code I thought to myself its okay at least people compliment my hair. Simply, it made me feel hot. (Wow I sound vain).

But it was that Webster's dictionary definition that I needed to repeat over and over in my head when I walked into Toni's Barber Shop on Mill Road in Westhampton Beach. People always gawk at me when I tell them I, a woman, get my hair cut at a barber shop. Well, for your information barbers no more than how to shape up side burns and give buzz cuts.

Toni's is this tiny building tucked tightly behind Westhampton Beach town and its overflowing with local culture, smiling faces, and wagging tails (Mildred and Bernie, Toni's two dogs are always happy to entertain customers). Toni's gives Westhampton a feisty undertone of authenticity. I feel like I'm walking into a friend's living room, its cozy and inviting and moderately priced. I'm sorry but it is absolutely ridiculous to pay $70 for a haircut and I've gotten some of the best haircuts of my life in this Westhampton Beach treasure.

I have been going to Toni's for over four years so the girls there understand how I am connected to my hair and how my father is as well. He told me if I cut my hair off he was changing the locks on our doors. This coming from a man that forbids me to tuck my hair behind my ear at the dinner table in fear of a strand being set free and making its way all the way across the table into his salad. I would assume short hair would be accepted by him, its less surface area he'd have to worry about but no, "short hair is for old ladies and Doris Day." (Not like I know who that is).

Well thankfully his opinion was busy picking up my brother from school and I took the first of our three appointments. That TLC style report was replaying over and over in my head, along with another realization I had conjured in the car.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner and I often feel that the real meaning of the holiday spirit gets lost behind toy trucks and cranberry sauce. I've always loved my hair and the way it made me feel about myself but there are millions of children that don't have the decision to wear their hair curly or straight, up or down. Instead they have to decide which cancer treatment will be the most aggressive or how to explain to their gawking classmates what alopceia areata is (AA is the medical description of unwelcome and involuntary hair loss from the head and body).

I got to enjoy my hair for 22 years, its someone else's turn.

So as Toni separated my hair into four braids I felt my legs start to quiver. A pit grew in the center of my stomach, the same familiar brick I get before I have to speak in front of a class or get on an airplane. I tried to keep my anxiety inside, I mean its just hair, at least I have the luxury of mine growing back. As she picked up those shiny sharp silver scissors, my hands went numb. Snip, snip, snip...I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, those four braids were lounging on the counter among the stuffed cars and tootsie pops, ready to be wrapped and shipped off to Locks of Love- a non-profit organization that creates wigs for financially disadvantaged children suffering from any type of medical hair loss.

I parted ways with my dark brown dead tissue and felt a warmness surge through my body, but this emotion wasn't one stemming from apprehension. This flutter came from serenity; I helped someone. I hopefully helped a little girl gain the self-assurance I felt when I had looked in the mirror. Hopefully I helped someone get through the day without having to shield themselves from ignorant stares. Maybe I made someone's day just a little bit easier.

And when I went home, my key still worked!