Confessions Of A Splenda Stealer

Oh boy, do I like caffeine. MMM HMM. Well, I tell people that it’s really the coffee I love, but if that were really true, why on earth do I overload my mug with skim milk and Splenda? (Not quite as bad as my friend Ria, who puts so much half and half in her coffee that she doesn’t even refer to it as her morning cup, but rather, her morning milkshake.) It’s gotta be the actual addictive.

Those of us who like to drink coffee on a regular, if not obsessive basis, can all relate to the feeling of consuming too much caffeine, i.e., the feeling that you could rocket right out of your swivel chair at work.

Personally when I’ve imbibed a bit too much, my fingers get a little twitchy, and when I type, my words per minute rate probably triples. My mood switches from lethargic to super social butterfly Emily, and I furiously switch between Microsoft Word windows to Firefox, and open about a million tabs. I email everyone I’ve ever met in my entire life, and IM everyone on my Gchat list.

I usually jest that I am actually hallucinating during this phase of the caffeine buzz. Who needs to literally blow a few hundred or thousands of dollars on drugs when I can trip on my morning grande?

Well, guess what?

I WAS RIGHT!!

After conducting some research for one of my freelance gigs, I came across a new study:

“People with a higher caffeine intake, from sources such as coffee, tea and caffeinated energy drinks, are more likely to report hallucinatory experiences such as hearing voices and seeing things that are not there, according to the Durham University study.”

Fascinating. I mean, I knew that caffeine was a stimulant with mood altering magic, turning me from a morning Debbie Downer to a ILOVELIFE!, OHI’MBUYINGTHATSWEATERRIGHTNOW, or AWIHAVENOTTALKEDTOTHEMINALONGTIMEINEEDTOCATCHUPNOW sort of Splenda Stealer, but it’s a relief to know that I wasn’t really losing it. The researchers also say this type of hallucination tends to happen with people who have consumed over seven cups of coffee. I don’t drink that much, but I still blame the caffeine for my behavior.

In conclusion, I’ll take any study that comes my way and tweak it to make myself feel better.

Also, I admit that I laughed out loud when I read the following blog post. I really don’t remember how I came across this blog, but the blogger posted a pic of what she feels like after having too much coffee:

"I have had a LOT of coffee. One of the side effects of being really caffeinated is that I start to resemble the pictured prancing owl above."

I could not have said it better myself.

Ed. note: Here is another example of a day with too much coffee. This is a post from my previous blogger life.

Perhaps I don’t say it enough in this blog, but as much as I fully love NYC, for me to enjoy playing in such an urban playground, I live in a little town across the Hudson River in Hoboken, which some refer to as the Boken, but my fellow Hoboken friends and I have adopted “Hobo” or “Hobokia” as our term of endearment.

I love Hoboken. It’s quaint. It’s cute. It’s historic (Frank Sinatra’s birthplace, first game of baseball). It’s a perfect mix of small town and urban living all in one.

And then there are my own chronicles of Hoboken that I have collected ever since moving here in August 2007. The musical hippies I love that congregate for open mic night institutions like the Goldhawk and Maxwell’s uptown, my favorite low key bar Louise and Jerry’s, and where I live, 2nd and Adams, which I refer to as a Little Italy because of the famous Fiore’s Italian deli with their fresh, hand-made mozzarella, and the fact that my own living room smells of marinara sauce on a daily basis, that wafts in either from the Leo’s Grandevous restaurant on the corner, or the  Italian deli that is connected to my apartment building. There’s nothing like waking up to the smell of gravy (I threw that term in there for my Italian friends).

Lately, one aroma that I do not appreciate comes from the creepy culinary skills of one of my roommates. I live with two roommates. One is one of my besties, Ria, and the other is a Craigslister. I mean, she’s fine. She keeps to herself. She never uses the living room unless Ria and I are out. Whatever. But what really amazes me is her cooking.

The other night, while I was working out to a cardio dvd, I really, truly thought that she was cooking garbage. Honest to jeebus. I  mean, the girl is a bit of a health food nut, so who knows. I don’t know if she burns the beans sprouts, or wax beans, or whatever she prepares, then consumes in her room, but I literally thought that she was cooking trash.

Again, the other day, while watching some bad television, thank God my nose was semi-stuffy because I think she was saute-ing some litter. Maybe she is. Maybe she is an eco-genius, who has found the answer to what the world is looking for: a way to turn trash into sustenance. If so, I have a future Nobel Prize winner in my kitchen. If not, I have the makings of another chapter in “the characters I have come across in my life” book. She will be placed next to the woman I worked with at a publishing company a few years back, who wore a different Christmas-themed sweatshirt to work for every day in December.

Bizarre.

Oh, and the other day, Ria witnessed her mixing a can of tuna with prunes and broccoli. Sunday morning, I saw a tupperware vat of what looked like chunks of tuna or some other canned meat floating in a red broth. I think I heard her tell a friend she was making jambalaya. Honey, what is lingering in that plastic bin is an insult to the French Quarter.

Maybe she’ll get two chapters in my book…

In the days when I actually had a Valentine, I remember stressing about what to buy for him. I’m not a big fan of the holiday, but I didn’t want to be a V-Day Grinch, so I did what any girl did when she wanted to give a gift where it was the thought that counted. I bought him a box of Mike and Ikes, or some other candy similar to the gummy family, and a card that read like this:

“I wanted to get you a card that said something warm and mushy inside…

(inside card, it read) OATMEAL!”

That’s about the extent of my sappiness. I go for corny. I will always for for corny over sappy. Why? Well, we could go around in circles, psycho-analyzing that statement, but in a nutshell, I will always rather laugh than be serious.

Looking back on this, at the heart of it (get it? haha, oh I kill myself!) perhaps I was looking for a way to vow my love for oatmeal, rather than my Valentine.

I really do love oatmeal. Rain or shine, paycheck week or not, those oats will always be there for me. You can dress them up, dress them down, and they will never let me down.

Most times, I will make them sweet, rather than savory, though there was this one time when my pantry was completely bare, and I made them savory with some mixed spinach, soy sauce, and red pepper flakes. Not bad, though it could have used some contrast in texture.

This is where the oatmeal recipe from Mark Bittman comes into play. The New York Times food columnist writes in his new book, Food Matters, about how individuals can lessen their dependence on industrial farming and its environmental impact by cutting down on the amount of animal products they consume. He suggests eating more fruits and vegetables and less meat. One way, is to eat more oatmeal, and in this recipe, he suggests serving oatmeal with scallions and soy sauce.

from seriouseats.com

From the Seriouseats.com post:

“Holy cats, savory oatmeal?! He can’t just casually combine those two words and not expect an onslaught of gasps and hyperventilating.”

The thought of gasps and hyperventilating made me laugh out loud, because that’s exactly what happened when I told my roommate that I made oatmeal for dinner. And I only told her because she asked.

As a self-proclaimed oatmeal expert, I will try this dish, and report back.

I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I’m a big deal. I must be. I got my OWN car to drive me from the Piers on 55th St. and 12th Ave. (I was there to report for some Gift Fair companies for the day job). Only, it wasn’t a car, but a bus. MY VERY OWN BUS.

Now, would you call this eco-friendly? Don’t get me wrong–I was so happy to get a ride from the middle of nowhere to Grand Central, where I work a block away, and when it’s 20 degrees out, but come on. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.

I should have sat in every seat possible. I should have run up and down the aisles. Perhaps a cartwheel or two. Who am I kidding, somersaults would have been my thing. My bus, MINE!

But, I didn’t. Instead, I sat in silence, stressing about the fact that I only had 37 cents on me when it would have been common decency to tip the driver. Oops.