Kleptomania

Main Entry: klep·to·ma·nia
Pronunciation: klep-tə-mā-nē-ə, -nyə\
Function: noun
Etymology: New Latin
Date: 1830

: a persistent neurotic impulse to steal especially without economic motive.
(definition from Merriam-Webster's online dictionary)

I lifted a tube of Chapstick from a pharmacy counter once right under my mother's nose as she was paying for her purchase.  I don't remember how old I was, but I do remember that I was shorter than the counter and only by lifting my arms over my head could I reach into the bowl that held the pretty plastic sticks.  They were oh so pretty little things sprinkled with colorful snowmen daintily dancing around each tube.  I remember the insane urge to have one in my possession; not necessarily to protect my tender lips from the bitterly cold wind of that winter, but just to own something pretty all by myself.  I knew it was wrong, but there was that part of me that thought, "hey, maybe it's ok to take it and she'll pay for it when she sees that I have it."  Yeah.  That didn't happen.  I will never forget my mom hissing at me to march my tooshie right back into the store alone with the sole purpose of returning the stolen Chapstick.  We were already in the next store and I was scared to return to the scene of the crime.  I was more ashamed than frightened of the consequences.  But with my mom's voice quickly rising and her glare boring a hole into my skull, I mustered up the courage, skedaddled next door, and returned the unopened Chapstick.  It was no longer an issue of not having something pretty to call my own - it was now an issue of having done something ugly.  I learned something that day.

In college, one of my roommates was a klepto.  Unusually nice cups and mugs would magically appear among the mismatched collection of hand-me-down kitchen wares humbly residing in our cupboards.  I'll never forget the first time I saw a stainless steel coffee cup that bore a striking resemblance to the one from which I drank a warm cinnamony chai tea at brunch the previous weekend.  She admired it so during that meal.  So when I asked where she was able to find the exact same maker and cup, she giggled that she lifted it from the restaurant the morning before when she had returned to dine with her boyfriend.  I thought she was joking.  Then there was the dainty salt shaker from the restaurant where we celebrated a friend's birthday the next month.  It was all so weird.  I couldn't grasp the motivation behind her compulsion.  As I was affectionately dubbed "the Korean Jamaican" hustling back and forth between full-time classes and a half dozen jobs in any given week, her parents were paying for her Ivy League tuition, books, rent, flights back home, spending money, clothes, and even spring break vacations with her friends.  Why take things when you have the means to buy your own?

This past week, there has been a revelation at work; one that strongly suggests that a member of our team is not just a pathological liar, but also a thief.  And here I am, so far removed from that shameful Chapstick incident years ago, distressed and disappointed because although I received that fateful lesson, someone else did not.  And it's worse because this person is far past schooling age.  In short: it ain't cute no mo'.  The fact is, a personal gift that disappeared months ago has now resurfaced, but suspiciously under the ownership of the very person who vehemently denied ever having signed for it, despite the ink signature.  Something is terribly wrong for someone to take something that is not theirs.  And to lay the blame on someone else?  That is doubly wrong.  The lesson is due, I'm sure.  If it's not delivered this time around, it's bound to arrive at some point, and when it does, it will be much fiercer than a disapproving mother and a piercing glare.

Lotta Love For Cheesecake

My eyes grow wide with excitement pretty much any time anything with a lotta sugar and a lotta fat makes its way into my path of destruction.  Cheesecake especially makes my stomach squeal with excitement...and don't get me started on the Cheesecake Factory's cheesecake deliciousness.  After they removed their meatloaf sandwich from their menu, I was pretty bummed thinking about my every-other-year Cheesecake Factory binge.  But then I discovered their eggplant sandwich and life was made right again.  I don't always make room for one of their gazillion cheesecake flavors after my eggplant sandwich, but when I do, I usually roll home with post-gluttony self-hatred and swear off the Factory forever...until the next time, of course.  But why all the talk about the Cheesecake Factory and its extensive menu?

BECAUSE IT'S NATIONAL CHEESECAKE DAY.  Holla!  Leave it up to the Americans to nationally recognize a fatty dessert for 24 whole straight hours, right?  Well, each rich slice of the creamy dessert deserves every ounce of recognition, in my opinion.

In addition, it's the Cheesecake Factory's 30th anniversary.  In honor of the occasion and in recognition of National Cheesecake Day, each Cheesecake Factory dine-in guest today may choose a slice of their famously creamy and delicious cheesecakes for $1.50, the same price they charged when they opened thirty years ago today.  I'm not sure if they'll sliver the slices down, but who cares.  Grab your cheesecake-loving friends and head to your local Factory.  And if your friends are lactose intolerant?  Grab a Lactaid pill, drink a lot of water, and go anyway!

As Expected, I'm Going Through Baby Withdrawal

They say the first 24 hours is always the worst.  I think I'm going to have the chills and shakes tonight.

Back to Philly...Oh, Baby!

On the train ride to Philadelphia (curses on Amtrak for their outrageous fares!), I counted the number of months since my move to Manhattan. I let out a slight gasp. It had been just over 10 months since I left my hometown for adventures in the Big Apple. I hadn't been back for a visit save for a brief day visit to our childhood home for Christmas. I'm sure there are a variety of reasons why I didn't go back sooner, but let's save the psychoanalysis for some other time; because Julia finally went back. And boy was it a good visit...

I schlepped southbound for a weekend of what I imagined would involve wet diapers, movie rentals, and sleep-whenever-you-can moments between the kid crying and the fatigue-ridden parents walking around like zombies. After braving the crowds of Penn Station on a summer Friday afternoon, imagine my delight when I surfaced at 30th Street Station.  I headed out under the blazing sun to meet up with my newly-ordained-mommy friend and her husband, the newly-ordained-daddy friend.  First of all, mark my words: mommy-friend had stars in her eyes.  Twinkly eyes!  I thought, "Must be that new maternal joy everyone talks about."  Second of all, both mommy and daddy were super duper well-adjusted to their new lifestyle and were totally chillaxing. Daddy was busy purring over his new daughter and mommy was producing enough milk to stock the local WaWa's dairy section. We weren't holed up in the house all weekend at all.  We brought Baby along everywhere we went. Restaurants, especially. I was so surprised when they made plans to go out to dinner on Friday. Out! As in, like, bring the diaper bag, grab the car keys, don't forget the baby, Julia, snap out of it, I said, let's go pronto. 

And intertwined with the sweet nostalgia of returning to my hometown, I spent loads of time selfishly holding and talking to this little one:Tell me those crocheted cap sleeves aren't the cutest things ever.  And, yes, in case you were wondering, poking her tummy was probably the best part of playtime.

Economy's Bust and So Are Tampons

Why is it that the very same box of Playtex tampons sold for $10.98 in a SoHo Duane Reade costs $7.99 at a CVS on the upper east side? I know Manhattan's expensive, I know the economy's poop, and I know cost of goods are rising, but this is absurd.

Jig's Up

I'm onto you. You. Don't pretend like you don't know what you did. It's time to spill the beans.

I have a separate public e-mail account to which I direct all promotional offers and bills. I try to check it a few times a week. I checked it today and found this:

Subject: Find Your Soul Mate Today‏
From: eHarmony Dating
Sent: Mon 7/14/08 5:01 PM
To: julia
Cc: eHarmony

WHO'S THE SMART ASS WHO ADDED JULIA TO EHARMONY'S LIST SERVE?

Murakami

I thought for sure the Brooklyn Museum would extend the Murakami exhibit, but I hit panic mode when I heard that today was the final day of the show.  So I trekked the 1 hour + hike to Brooklyn and surfaced a mere one block away from the museum yesterday.  (The MTA may have its issues, but you'll be hard-pressed to criticize it for limited routes.)  While I usually have no qualms about museuming alone, eccentric art usually requires an ear to bounce my hushed "awemeegawd!" or "what was he thinking?" or "I think I'm blushing" remarks.  How thankful I was when a former colleague introduced me to a business school friend who was born, raised, and educated in New York and had recently returned for her job hunt.  She kindly extended an invitation to join her and her friends for the exhibit and I was delighted to accept.  The unexpected perk of our trip?  A member of our party was fluent in Japanese and I was the first to hit her up for Japanese-English translations as we browsed through the top two floors of the museum.

Hands down, the awkward moment of the day took place when a young and innocent 7 or 8-year-old crossed through the room with two naked anime cartoon statues: one of a girl holding her enormous double G breasts from which a stream of milk starting from the nipples forms a thick white ring around her torso; the other of a boy holding his enormous penis from which, in similar fashion to the girl, his ejaculated semen forms a ring around his torso.  Picture hula hoops of white bodily fluid wrapped around a statue.  So while I was desperately trying to stop staring at the ridiculous anime statues, I catch a glimpse of this confused girl and we finally see her mother laugh uncomfortably and scurry her onto the next room of the exhibit.  Good luck trying to explain that one, mom!