My roommate (Poor Leno) decided to deviate from his strict diet of cold porridge and frost in favor of:

Just don’t do what I just did: heat it up the next night and expect the Fritos or your microwave to survive. I put the mixture in, power-slid down the gigantic hallway in my socks (so much better than walking), and when I came back 40 seconds later it sounded like there was an industrial strength mosquito zapper somewhere in the kitchen. Where could it be? Maybe it was that thing on the counter being forced against its will to sizzle my corn chips.

I should have known. Cooking? Fritos? You a nut, Annie Barrett!

“Sizzle My Corn Chips” sounds pretty hot. I may start saying this regularly.

Behold my sandwich from Bagel Hole in Park Slope. Mmm… mayo.

Since it took seemingly forever to make, I busied myself by reading the obligatory PR wall. Every bagel store in New York seems to have a wall like this, featuring articles in all sorts of NYC papers about why their particular style of bagel is the tastiest or most authentic. What’s hilarious is that even though each store makes a different bagel, there’s always at least one posted article claiming that this store’s specimen is the best. Which consequently means there have been, like, thousands of articles written about bagels. Which is funny. Bagel journalism is certainly one of the more democratic sub-fields. I should go into chips journalism. I’d be a hit.

Anyway, I learned all about how and why Bagel Hole’s bagels were harder, denser, and smaller than other NYC bagels-come-lately. Good to know, I guess, but mostly I just wanted to avoid eye contact with the three bored employees behind the counter staring at me like they’d never seen a giant girl wearing a bandana before. Dudes. It’s called refusing to shower just to go to the bagel store/hole. Get used to it.

So I was intrigued by what I assumed would be a tiny little bagel sandwich. I unwrapped it and thought was plenty big. Right? But the issue here is that lettuce. Would you look at that beautifully shredded lettuce? You could lose yourself in a delighted counting exercise of those shreds. I did.

What a glorious surprise. I love lettuce like this. It makes you supremely aware that you’re eating lettuce. That someone took the time to grate teeeeny strips of lettuce for your sandwich. That you’re a genius for ordering it in the first place. Clean and crisp. LETTUCE!

Or maybe that’s just me.

For fun, try singing “1-800 L-E-T-T-U-C-E” like those women from Jersey (I’m assuming) who sing “1-800 M-A-T-T-R-E-S” in the mattress commercial.

I didn’t really need to specify “in the mattress commercial.” It was just to prove to you that I know how to spell mattress, even if the jingle doesn’t.

(The runner-up title for this post was “DR hits an all-time low.”)

I can’t take my eyes off of this photo of Liza with a z:

This news clipping was posted prominently on TG’s fridge. To people who aren’t into Liza (and that’s who I was until Arrested Development came out on DVD) this may not strike the funnybone. Still, you should give it a go. Just look at her.

She’s doing a high kick.

Supporting herself against a roller coaster car.

Filled by people who don’t care that she’s there and might not even know who she is.

Her lower shin — or gym sock — is showing.

Look at her face.

And now the GO GIRL graphic.

If you aren’t falling somewhere on the spectrum between slightly chuckling and keeling over in your seat dying, I’m not sure I want anything to do with you.

Also in that completely fascinating apartment: an old-school Nintendo box and fabulous games like Anitcipation (which I owned, or maybe stole from one of the babysitters) and one I’d never heard of but should have been playing all my life, called Burgertime.

What is Burgertime? A tad hazy under the influence, we couldn’t figure out how to hook up the system. We honestly gave up a few seconds in, after pulling the TV back and facing two different-colored wires. The red and yellow ones. I know, I don’t deserve to exist.

So I didn’t learn anything about Burgertime. It’s almost better that way. The game was probably some clumsy waiter trying and failing to get everyone their burgers on time… it probably had a bunch of extra elements (like the random egg?!) that made little to no sense. But people getting their burgers on time: this is just the sort of thing I find important. Not record time or anything like that. Just receiving a burger the way you ordered it. It’s a big deal, and if that’s all this game was about — if the service of fast food is seriously the bottom line — then I truly respect its creators for their unique, if seemingly narrow, sense of priority.

Can someone please tell me what Burgertime was really like? I’m desperate to know… and to buy my own copy on eBay and then, oh my god, puh-lay it!

—

Audibly Laughing (AL) at this point: After a 0.3-second Google search, I discovered that Burgertime was soooo much less advanced than I gave it credit for. Which almost makes it even more beautiful.

Under “Trivia” it says, “In Japan, most fast food restaraunts offer the option of a fried egg on hamburgers, hence why one of the enemies in the game is an egg.” Mr. Egg, in fact.

I’m dying. If it wasn’t already the friggin’ morning, I’d worry that I’d wake the neighbors up.

Dee (my mom) and I came across this monstrosity in the parking lot of the Countryside, Illinois Dominick’s supermarket. (Holla!) We were only doing a quick drive-by to mail a letter in the big blue box near the entrance, since Dee doesn’t trust our mailman. Kidding. We had actually just missed the mailman on our street and Dee got really excited about her quick-fix solution. “I know what we’ll do!” she exclaimed, not exactly telling me where we were going. If it hadn’t been for this beverage structure, the mailing trip might have been a letdown.

I may as well admit that neither of us really “got” the point of the structure right away. We were butt-up against it and at first only gawked at it becuase of its enormous size. Dee uttered something along the lines of “Huh!” I think I said something derisive, like, “Why was that necessary?” Excessive displays like this often annoy me.

I continued. “What’s with the random Dasani at the top?”

Dee gasped. “Annie! Do you see what it is?”

And I finally did. Jesus, I’m a moron. That little kid walking by probably knew it was a flag before I did, and he’s not even educated.

Or maybe I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. I do have a vision/brain deficiency that restricted me from ever seeing the images or hallucinations or hieroglyphics (I honestly wouldn’t know which of those words is more accurate) in those rampant Magic Eye posters from the generally awful 1990s. I detested those, and to this day I’m still aghast that they ever existed. Who even liked them beyond the first triumphant glimpse? Why would anyone actually purchase one of these? Christ. Get a better hobby!

I took this yesterday at the street fair in Park Slope:

Let’s be sure to address the four key points that make this a super shot.

1) Spongebob is gesturing to no one (maybe me?)

2) That little girl is overjoyed that she’s going to hug a strangely 6′3″ Elmo in under a second. Her brother’s like, “calm down, loser.”

3) Spongebob Squarepants and Elmo are playing a street fair in 90-degree heat, seemingly for no other reason than to delight the likes of me… and kids. They weren’t making tips… and even if they were, where would they put them? Elmo doesn’t have any pockets. Maybe Spongebob could stuff them in the g-string you know he wears under those slacks.

4) That woman on her cell phone HATES me right now. “Who do you think you are?” she’s wondering. Don’t worry, homegirl. I’m cool. I’m a blogger.

I’ve had an eternal fascination with the people who dress up as children’s characters. From shows like CSI and a made-for-TV movie whose name escapes me (Hickey Mouse, maybe?), I’ve been made to think they’re all pedophiles who use their furry, googly-eyed exteriors as their “in” to freely molest kids. There might be a small percantage of truth to that, but in general it’s not fair. Either way, it’s hilarious to consider the discrepancy between how the person looks in costume (100% fun and cute) and how he probably looks in person (~100% like someone you probably wouldn’t want rubbing your daughter’s back). I assume based on common sense that most parents wouldn’t let the non-costumed guy anywhere near their kids, so it’s amusing to think that all it takes is a somewhat convincing alterego.

But what if it’s not a well-known character? What if there’s just a guy dressed up in a banana suit or a massive walking sneaker, coffee mug, or bottle opener that claims to be a major cartoon character you’ve just never heard of? Are we supposed to act kindly towards characters just because they’re in costume? I’m serious. I think we’re more likely to smile and be polite to a person on the street dressed up as something than just a person on the street dressed as a human. If they’re putting forth the effort, for whatever reason, they deserve at least a lingering stare and slight smirk from me. It’s the least I can do.

Speaking of Spongebob, check out what TG and I found splattered on his Clinton Hill doorstep late Friday night:

Poor Patrick! He’s not even pink anymore. Not even a hint.

I eventually took a taxi home from the Hill to the Slope, and it took us 15 minutes of hanging out on Atlantic Avenue at 4:30 am to find a ride. But boy was it worth it! I took the greatest cab ride of my life that night. It was a minivan, which is always a plus because I can spread out and thereby infest a greater surface area than usual. The driver wore this rockin’, almost metallic-looking collared shirt, with a vest. And he was playing jazz at what most people would consider to be a deafening volume, but which I found perfect. He even had it blasting out of a pimped-out stereo system that definitely didn’t come with the car. It was one of those digital ones with purple and red neon lettering, and I could just barely make out the words “Track 03.” This guy had his own DRIVING MIX. I bet there were even multiple volumes!

I will never forget this ride. He also may never forget me, as I made a point of explaining to him the many reasons I was obsessed with his cab. I remember not wanting to get out until he was convinced just how much I loved his car! “No, I don’t think you really understand.” (Why the hell would he not undestand?) No matter, though. He was loving it. I cannot believe I didn’t have my camera.

Note to bakers: Any dessert product more than an inch thick and consisting largely of yellow cake… is not a cookie. It can’t be, because it has already committed itself to being cake. No take-backs! You can’t be a cookie once you are a cake. I’m sorry.

I understand that it’s fun for people to write, sell, order, or just say out loud the name “black and white cookie,” because the dessert is a longstanding New York City/Seinfeld fetish object and, in theory, delicious. Like any other hack, I started ordering them in every deli I entered as soon as I moved here three years ago. They never tasted as good as Jerry made them sound, but I thought if I got different ones from better places, the problem would work itself out. I never found a perfect one — in fact, since I started eating them again a few weeks ago, I’ve been mostly shocked and disappointed.

My main problem is the thickness. The B&W C is different at most delis/bakeries, so you never know how thick yours will come out. You usually have to order it having only seen it lying face-up behind glass. That thing could be anything! ANYTHING! Usually it’s a black and white cake. Once I got a black and white cake and a spider. (This did not deter me from returning, because I really liked, and still like, that place’s bagel sandwiches.)

In college, my friend Kate used to lower her voice whenever she ordered the Boston Beef panini sandwich, one of the finer offerings at our esteemed “Hillside Cafe” dining hall. She confided in me (which turned out to be a not-so-hot idea, as I’m in the process of outing her) that she’d always start the order off in her usual boisterous, upbeat voice and then self-consciously taper off when she got to the part about the meat: “I’LL HAVE A boston beef.” This delighted me to no end, and I’d constantly ask her to repeat it for me. Sometimes she’d even type it out like that over IM, which wasn’t as awesome but still pretty funny. What a good friend.

Likewise, in the delis, I’ve taken to saying “I’LL HAVE A BLACK AND WHITE cookie,” not really wanting to say the word “cookie” but knowing that the person will be confused or think I’m a smartass if I call it anything else. I’d love to, but I’d probably not have the energy to request “that thing that everyone calls a cookie but is totally a cake… I mean, do you know what I mean? Don’t you ever just want to scream at customers that it’s actually cake? DON’T YOU?” I never say this — because I’m guessing they really don’t.

I just think if they’re going to sell black and white cake, they should call it that. And they should also make a real black and white cookie that’s half an inch thick or less and chewy instead of crumbly and flaky. Cookies are chewy. I don’t know if you guys got the memo.

Right? If they sold both, everyone would be satisfied, and people like me who are thrilled by the black and white dessert’s general existence would be in heaven. We’d get to choose! Because maybe you’re in the mood for cake. I don’t know, and I don’t judge. You can have your cake, and I can eat my cookie, too.

Just so you don’t think this post is unfounded and completely pointless (too late for that), here is pictorial evidence of a different and deeper B&W C than the one at the top. This one had to be at least three inches thick. Its physical properties were approaching the spherical. I kept thinking that if I wanted a black and white cake shaped like a mini-basketball, I would have asked for that. I was so annoyed by the cake’s depth that I ended up just eating the part I wanted (the icing) and not much else. This wouldn’t have happened if it had truly been a cookie. Think about it!

This dessert should know that I only criticize it because I love it so much and think it has so much potential, but…

I Call Bullshit on the black and white cookie!

P.S. I’ve already read the scads of Web pages about the history of the B&W C. I’m well aware that the cookie-as-cake phenomenon is common knowledge and that its original form is beloved by many just as it is. I’m simply suggesting that history be rewritten and improved upon according to my whimsy. It’s no big deal.

Take a look at this. If you’re not into “reading” (which would be ironic), I’ll summarize: according to CNN, pregnant women across the nation decided to delay the births of their assumedly non-evil spawn because the date was 6/6/06. This is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard in my life.

Here’s a sample for those too lazy to click:

A Chicago, Illinois, obstetrician, Dr. Scott Pierce, performed a C-section on Monday on a woman who didn’t want her son to be teased about his birthday and called names like Damien. Damien is the lead character in the movie “The Omen,” about a sinister boy who turns out to be the Antichrist.

That entire paragraph was inane, but let’s focus on this: kids never remember or even know their friends’ birthdays. It’s like a rule. I still don’t know a bunch of mine — which probably just means I’m a bad friend, but hear me out. Who cares when someone’s birthday is?

Not to mention, school’s out by June anyway, so the bullies who could potentially tease your afflicted progeny about his birthday probably enjoy his general company little enough to steer clear of him during the entire summer vacation. Think about it.

And besides, by the time your Devil baby’s birthday is “recognized” by his friends, he’ll probably be an able-minded teenager (assuming those exist — I certainly never qualified) and not care anymore. For shits and giggles, let’s call him “Damien.”

Damien is a sinister boy living in the year 2022. He’s sinister because pop culture continued its trend of flushing itself down the toilet ever since his birth and he can’t stand it anymore. His classmates’ boobs are already fake, he still has to pretend he’s into rap, and Jessica Simpson CONTINUES to infest the national radar with her complete and utter foolitude, only instead of slightly impersonating a duck, like she enjoyed toying with in 2006 with her big fat lips and wig-like ‘do, she is now an actual human-size duck — and the most profitable attraction the San Diego Zoo has seen in decades. People love it with that quacker!

Now I’m terrified, and it has nothing to do with the numbers.

“When I tell people my birthday, the ones who are really brave give me the look and say, `That’s scary!’ ” said [newly over-the-hill Jill] Haub, a practicing Christian. “And I say, ‘Actually, I have an extra 6 — born on 6-6-66 — so that’s four sixes. I’m good, not evil.’”

Wrong, Jill. You are evil for making such a moronic statement. I’ll see you in hell, where you are unquestionably headed due to your unfortunate birthday.

Just kidding, of course. I think having a 6-6-6 birthday would be cool! Our massive wheat-colored sectioinal sofa arrived this morning, and for the last two weeks we’ve been nothing but psyched about its delivery date. “Yes! Evil couch!” or something more creative was likely uttered. I don’t remember because I was eating. Yes. For the entire two weeks.

Oh look: Ladytron has a message for babies born yesterday:

This is happening
For your pleasure
At your leisure
Use your evil
When you want.

[Click for rad video.]

Just realized elementary school never gets out by 6/6. Oops. Or does it?

From Straight Talk, the 1992 Dolly Parton “vehicle.”

Dolly: Why are they holding a cocktail party at the aquarium? [emphasis added to “Why” because she said it like “Wahhh” and this made it seem more dramatic. Oh, Southerners.]

Alan: Because rich people like to dress up and be seen in strange places.

That sounds like something you’d say to a child — a throwaway explanation just to make her shut up and quit asking you such silly questions. But it’s actually true! I love it.

Welcome to Volume 001 of the Play Along With The Snorks Brooklyn Challenge, available only at DR and your local Target. I’ll give you a topic: free furniture.

Q: What did Annie and Leno see for free on the street, flip out over, and bring back to their new apartment?

……

a) decrepit green chair

b) infested floral sofabed

Vote now!

Loyal readers will note that Annie is clutching her purple camera case/mitten in the photo on the left. You know, just in case.

I’ve been avoiding my first post from Brooklyn for awhile now. What if I was changed? What if this site became much worse…. OR BETTER? The thought was more than I could bear.

No, I’m just lazy.

So here I am! This neighborhood is called Park Slope and I love it. Like OMG it is so cool and original of me to move to Park Slope! I am a Slopester. Watch me blog about it!

But first: last photos of the Village.

Here I am in the Pink Palace, just moments after the three movers lugged out all of my crap from it… and just before I got stuck in a 90-minute traffic jam in a cab because I was too shy and rejection-fearing to bum a ride in the moving van. (The woman on the phone said it was illegal for them to drive me… I’m not sure why I listened to her. I think it was so that I’d have a good excuse to not ask for a ride, even though it was all I wanted/needed in my life at that point. So basically, the prospect of saving up to $95 (the extra hour on the move + $20 for a cab) was not worth the effort of a few lines of awkward conversation between me and strangers. I need to develop some new priorities. Hence, the move to Brooklyn.)

Speaking of awkward, I certainly played my part in making the scene between me and the movers as uncomfortable as possible. It took them maybe 30 minutes to haul everything out of the place, but I still kind of had to be in there to answer questions and generally get in the way. So I pretended to busy myself with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Tilex Shower Fresh cleanser. When they’d leave the room, I’d relax and put both items down; when they returned, I’d be furiously scrubbing the oven top for the fifth time. I also did a number on the closet and bathroom floors. None of this was necessary. All I really wanted to do was clean behind the bed, where I knew would be an assortment of sugary cereals, hair things, and broken glass. Finally the bed was gone, and I was right. The broken glass was more like a broken goblet. It was this huge beer chalice from Munich, and I loved it. I almost didn’t want the guys to move the bed so I wouldn’t have to bear the sight of its pieces. (Keep in mind the glass broke over a year ago and I just never bothered to pick it up. I’m cool.)

The most awkward few minutes occurred after I realized there were still some popsicles in my freezer, and decided to start gnawing on one while the movers were still in the thick of things. It was an Edy’s Whole Fruit strawberry bar and it was absolutely heavenly. So good, in fact, that I started feeling extremely guilty about eating the treat in front of the mover men. Here they were hustling and sweating their asses off, and there I was gingerly sinking my teeth into each bite so as not to incur brain freeze.

A few bites in, the scene became too traumatic to handle, so I started rushing and developed brain freeze anyway. The whole time, I wondered if it would be appropriate to ask the guys if they wanted one. It would have been so weird. We were barely speaking, but they had to notice how delighted I was by the popsicle. I’m positive I was swaying around in a deep swoon, trying to catch my balance on the countertop. I was pissed I never got to enjoy the other bars in the package. I ended up leaving them for new tenant Kate, but first I had a fleeting notion of asking the guys if they wanted one. I wonder how I would have phrased it, because their English wasn’t so hot.

“Want a popsicle?”

“Would you like a delicious popsicle in a strawberry flavor?”

“Here.” [shoves it]

Either way, it would have been weird. Think about it. I’m paying them to carry crap downstairs at 10 in the morning and suddenly I’d be like “No, stop and have dessert with me.” I’m positive they’d have said no, so I never asked, Plus, I knew I’d be offended if they declined. When people say no to things I suggest, I get really mad. Not because I want to win, but because I really want others to enjoy what I’m obsessing over at that moment. It makes me feel less insane and selfish. So seriously. Humor me.

My my, check out how much more pink and loserish the Palace looks when it’s empty! It also seems smaller, if that’s possible. Did I really live in that thing for two years? (A: Yes, and you adored it, so stop that right now, young lady. I mean it!)

I expected to be teary-eyed and blubbery during these moments; instead I was thrilled (see above photo, in which I swear I wasn’t trying to look that excited on purpose). I think the most appropriate term is “giddy.” I like that one because when I say it, I seem to feel the need to add an extra syllable, a sort of “ehn” sound before the g. It comes out like “nnngiddy.” People have mocked this. They’re like, “Say giddy again.” But I don’t. I’m not their clown.