Get other subway passengers’ elbows jammed into your spine because they insist on putting their hands in their pockets.

Ice skate for free down the slippery sidewalk.

Practice walking like the 80-year old.

Test karma, like I did last night. An hour after I laughed at a guy who stepped ankle deep in a slush puddle cloaked as an ice slick, I did the same exact thing, except that since I’m shorter, it was more halfway up my calf.

Take a cab with a chatty driver who goes on and on about why other drivers do worse business than he does on a night like last night (when all you really want to do is make out with your date in the backseat).

Learn to love ugly-ass boots that don’t match your outfit.

Learn to love salt stains.

Get into work late and blame it on “train problems,” which for me is synonymous with “can’t get my lazy ass out of bed.”

And the snowiest New York adventure there is?

Get woken up in the middle of the night by the snowplow, think that you’re in grade school and that there’s a possibility of a snow day the next day, then realize your miserable 9 to 5 life.

It’s 8:30 in the morning the day before Valentine’s Day and there’s already a line out the door at the Godiva at Grand Central.

I’ve always been sort of bah-humbug about this romantic holiday. Just seems like a time when you’re pressured to prove your love to your loved one by buying SOMETHING, anything. Then again if I were in a relationship and got nothing on this day, I’d be bummed too. There’s no way to win! Chocolate, flower, and greeting card stores have us by the balls!

Also, just in case you’re lucky enough to forget all about the day, the Empire State Building will be lit red to remind you.

My mother would kick me if she knew I was going in frigid temperatures with a damp head. You’ll catch your death! She freaks out just knowing I have to venture outside to walk the two minutes from the subway to my apartment.

But it’s a myth one can catch a cold by being cold. According to WebMD,

The only way to catch a cold is by being exposed to a cold virus. Cold air may irritate an existing condition, such as asthma, which would weaken your immunity. This could make your body more receptive to a cold virus, but only if you come in contact with it. If you’ve caught a cold after getting chilled, it’s only coincidence.

See, Mom! Also, you’ll note cold virus, not cold bacteria, hence also lay off the antibiotics unless your doctor says so.

I remembering reading that the best way to catch a cold is to touch a surface that a sick someone has touched, and then rub your eyes, nose, or mouth. So after riding the subway, using a public restroom, or being anywhere outside of your apartment, wash your hands. Or better yet, try not to touch your face at all.

I’ve heard other ways to stave off illness is by getting enough sleep and exercise, and taking plenty of vitamin C. And if you’re sick? Stay home! The rest of don’t want your germy germs.

Like most improv, it was sometimes funny and sometimes not. Of course I should take into consideration that this was a performance by college kids, not a professional, edited episode of Whose Line Is It Anyway?

But I remember my own university improv group being hilarious – I actually laughed to the point of crying. And so did this audience of mostly college students.

I guess it’s true: I’m so beyond my college years now that I can’t even enjoy improv. That’d have to go for acapella too.

Now that it’s colder, I’ve been taking cabs more often, at least if I have to get from the Upper East Side to SoHo, and I’m running late. Last weekend I had perhaps the worst ride ever.

Sure, there have been times when I thought my life was at risk, when I’ve been thrown around the backseat like a ping pong ball. There’ve been times I’ve been taken for a ride, literally, 15 minutes out of the way.

I don’t drive much so I can’t really judge others’ skills. But at least I know you’re not supposed to brake every two seconds. There’s this thing called lifitng up on the gas (is that what it’s called? you know what I mean). True, it was rainy, but this guy would slow down to virtually a complete stop when he got within five feet of any other car.

It went like this: VROOM, speed up! BRAAAKE – STOP. Stop! In the middle of a busy street when you have the green light! Again and again. VROOM, speed up! BRAAAKE – STOP. VROOM, speed up! BRAAAKE – STOP. Needless to say we missed many lights and I got quite car sick.

I thought about getting out at Grand Central, still a ways from my destination. Do I risk chundering, or do I freeze? Or do I wait for the perfect moment, go outside and chunder, adding to the lovely collection Melissa spotted last weekend?

I made it to where I needed to go without getting sick, though not before my driver did the VROOM, speed up! BRAAAKE – STOP thing about three times in one block. It’s so not worth it, especially with the recent fare hikes. Next time I’ll take the three subways.

[Photo courtesy of VroomVroomVroom.com.]

Yesterday I went to the Design Life Now, National Design Triennial at the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum on 91st and 5th.

According to the website,

Design Life Now features the work of 87 designers and firms who are leaders, innovators, or emerging figures in the world of design. They are practicing across numerous creative fields, including architecture, products, landscapes, interiors, graphics, film, animation, interactive media, fashion, robotics, and more.

To tell the truth, there was so much stuff I had a hard time absorbing it all, and don’t feel qualified to give a review except to say it was fun and you should definitely check it out, if just to get out of the cold for a couple of hours.

What I remember most are the cool handmade, haute couture dresses from Ralph Rucci, the very life-like – and kinda creepy – robot of Albert Einstein from Hanson Robotics, and the stupid fucking hipster girl who kept getting in my way at every goddamned display. WARNING: if you attend the exhibit, it will most likely be overrun by art/design school hipsters. There’s also a nice little café if you need to warm up or refuel.

It was sort of odd to see products from the likes of Nike and Apple mixed among the more arty work, not that there’s not any art to advertising, though when I look at Nike, I tend to think “sweatshop” before “art.”

The exhibit runs through July 29.

In addition to a permanent Edward Hopper collection, mega-popular exhibits like the recently-closed Picasso and American Art, and the always highly anticipated biennial that features kooky yet memorable art like Kiki Smith’s Tale and the Cremaster Series from Matthew Barney, the Whitney Museum houses a branch of Sarabeth’s, home to quintessential brunch.

I’ve had a love-hate with the eatery for some time. Years ago I lived across from the one on the Upper West Side, which on summer Sundays was always noisy with sidewalk brunchers and seemed perpetually crowded in that frenzied way that puts me on edge.

But the food is tasty. I’ve eaten at the Whitney Sarabeth’s twice, both times having the Goldie Lox, scrambled eggs with lox and cream cheese, which is just about the most perfect omelet I’ve had in my life so far. The scones are tasty too, as well as the coffee and their famous jam.

Prices are a bit steep – brunch dishes are around $10 – though the servings are hefty, and service is inconsistent. My first time I didn’t have any issues, but the second time our waitress for some reason had trouble understanding my friend’s request for “no dill” on her tuna dish, turning repeatedly to me and my other friend for translation, though we were all speaking English, and neglected to tell me when I ordered a mocha that I’d be charged for both an espresso ($3) and a hot chocolate ($5), totaling 8 bucks for a non-alcoholic beverage. Luckily it was so damned good.

Eric’s post about specialty shops inspired me to try out Peanut Butter & Company last weekend. I’ve sampled their wares before, picking up a jar of the Smooth Operator from Really Cool Foods near me, but I was curious about what a sandwich shop dedicated to all things peanut butter would be like.

It’s cute though rather cramped. Luckily we just missed the rush on a late Saturday afternoon, and were able to get a table. My friends and I split an Elvis – a grilled peanut butter sandwich with bananas, honey, and bacon – and all I have to say is, no wonder the King died on the toilet. The sandwich tasted good, though could have done with more bacon (what couldn’t?), but after one bite I felt so stuffed, I thought I’d never be able to eat again.

Some other potentially interesting highlights from the menu are the Cinnamon Raisin Swirl Sandwich, cinnamon-raisin peanut butter, vanilla cream cheese, and apple slices; the White Chocolate Wonderful Sandwich, white chocolate peanut butter and orange marmalade (yuck, personally); and the Dark Chocolate Dreams Sandwich, chocolate peanut butter, cherry jam, and shredded coconut – yum!

For the record, I bought a jar of the Dark Chocolate Dreams peanut butter and it’s damned good. A dollop on toast and a big cup of coffee ensures a hyperactive morning.

Since my trip to Japan last year, I’ve been trying to recreate the experience. I keep my eye out for Hello Kitty emblazoned items and T-shirts with nonsensical sayings, I hang out at Takashimaya admiring the gorgeous packaging (but never actually buying the super-expensive items), and I assume that whatever men are reading on the subway is pornography (haha, just kidding).

But I’ve had less luck finding food that lives up to the Tokyo version. It seems every time I walk into a typical sushi place, it’s run by Chinese people, which isn’t a bad thing but doesn’t exactly make for authentic Japanese food. This weekend, however, I finally found a place that was the real deal.

Village Yokocho seems to be just one of two places in New York that serves okonomiyaki (the other being Otafuku, which is take-out only). This popular dish is often referred to as “Japanese pizza” but to me is more like a Chinese scallion pancake or Korean pajeon. Standard okonomiyaki has cabbage and pork, but you can get all sorts of variations – kimchee, seafood with mayo, even cheese.

I had it twice In Japan, where you cook the pancakes yourself, like Korean barbecue – which, incidentally Village Yokocho also offers – mixing the batter and frying it on a grill on the table. This fun, do-it-yourself aspect is missing at the East Village eatery, but that’s all.

Walking into Village Yokocho – sandwiched between the Sunrise Mart and the bar, Angel’s Share – I felt like I had stepped into a yakitori-ya in Roppongi. Perhaps it was the cozy quarters, the lively atmosphere, or the fact that almost everyone who worked there seemed to actually be Japanese.

We got there at 7 and after a short wait were seated in the back at one of the large tables normally reserved for Korean barbecue. (Getting there fairly early is key if you don’t want to wait. When we left at 9, the line was out the door and down the cold and narrow staircase.)

Eschewing the typical rolls, udons, and tempuras, we went for the unique stuff, what they were calling Japanese “tapas.” Among the many dishes we tried were deep fried baby sardines, pumpkin with ground beef, broiled salted clams, baked batter octopus balls, and tuna sashimi.

Everything was tasty except that the tuna sashimi came with this weird yam sauce. Upon ordering it, our waiter warned that we might think the dish strange, that women especially are turned off by the sauce. We had no idea what he meant and defiantly ordered the dish anyway. Then when we saw the sauce we knew what he meant.

White. Runny. Creamy. ‘Nuff said.

The pieces de resistance were two kinds of okonomiyaki, one more traditional with meat, shrimp, and cabbage, which was quite good but came at the end, when I was already stuffed, and the other with scallion, ground chicken, cheese, and ketchup. It tasted like, as one of my dining companions so aptly put it, a Big Mac. I think it was the cheese and ketchup that did it.

My favorites were the stewed pumpkin with ground beef, the octopus balls (not actual body parts by the way, but mashed up octopus in batter), and the yakitori, grilled chicken parts on a stick and essential bar food in Japan which I never got to try. Plus the prices are reasonable, everything we ordered under $10 each.

Being in Village Yokocho made me miss Tokyo, which is ridiculous since I was there for less than a week, but now I know where to go to get my fix. Now if only I could find a pachinko hall.

Village Yokocho
8 Stuyvesant St (Cross Street: Third Avenue)
New York, NY 10003
(212) 598-3041

Really?

No, fortunately or unfortunately not, depending on what floats your boat. It’s a place called Buzina Pop on 73rd and Lex, and serves Brazilian-French fusion, according to the cute host who was nice enough to ignore my running nose.

“But no bikinis?” I asked.

He grinned. “Nooo,” he said.

I’ve yet to try the food, and will let you know when I do. And if I have any bikini encounters, French, Brazilian, or otherwise.

[Part of my NYC Flickr set.]