So, it's 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm at the point where I would rather be anywhere but here, at my desk, in my beige cubicle, under fluorescent lights, staring at the walls.
See, I have a cold. A shitty, watery-eyes, stuffy-nose, drippy-snot, tickly-cough, achy-head, knotty-back, someone-put-me-out-of-my-misery cold. (That should be the new Nyquil slogan.) It's in full swing now, despite my being in denial about it for the last 3 days. First I blamed it on my cat allergies, then on the change in weather, then on public transportation. But...in the end, I think it was already working in my system before I left for the weekend. Ugh. Obviously it was bad enough that I made a batch of chicken soup yesterday. So it's less like denial and more like...I don't know. Something else.
Well, now I'm at work, lamenting my existence here, and debating whether to leave early and go home to sleep, or stick it out the next hour and a half and accomplish absolutely nothing like I've been doing all day. I spent the last, hm, 40 minutes or so literally just sitting here. I may have even dozed off for a bit. But eventually my hot-flash/cold-chill woke me up, I wiped my bright red nose with a tissue, and stared at the walls some more.
Then I took some Robitussin ("mo tussin!") which apparently caused some heart palpitations, which I tried to track by counting a heartbeat. I couldn't find my heart, mostly because my bra is so heavily padded that no pulse can be detected through it, so I went for my neck and counted from there instead. 31 beats in 15 seconds seems....alarming. Oh well, it'll slow down.
Still, I feel better with the Tussin than I did without. My nose is no longer spewing yellow snot, which is a nice change of pace. (Although, there was a brief moment earlier when the right nostril was spewing yellow snot and the left was spewing red. That was special.) I have cleaned up the littering of cough drop wrappers that were all over the desk, and have managed to not yet open my second box of tissue today. (Note: Duane Reade did NOT have Puffs Plus today. What the FUCK is that about?? Remind me later to send them a photograph of my bright red nose while I give them the bird.)
What is it about having a cold that makes us so helpless? I instinctively want to be on my grandmother's couch under Papa's blanket, watching the Price is Right, sipping ginger ale and eating crackers, and slurping homemade soup from the bowl delivered to me on the couch. I think, maybe, that's where I am in my mind...watching Gramma do word searches in the rocking chair, occasionally stopping to shout at Bob Barker or put a cool, damp cloth on my forehead. Maybe I AM there, and that's why I'm not here, at work, editing ridiculously boring manuscripts.
No wait. Here I am. And here's a book about manually operated plumbing systems. Damn, guess I'm at work after all. I hate when that happens.
12.28.2004
12.27.2004
trains, trains, trains.
Don't let anyone fool you--trains are still a backbone of transportation in this country. I traveled almost exclusively by trains from small town, MA to UES, NY yesterday, and let me tell you...it STILL sucks.
First, in Boston, I had to deal with the token booth dude. Why Boston still uses tokens is beyond me. If I had my way, I would have just swiped my MetroCard on my way through. But alas, this did not happen. And as I heard the bell ringing in Alewife, the signal that the next train is about to leave, and I tried to zig and zag around slow-moving idiots with snail-paced small children, I watched from the top of the staircase as the train pulled away. I also shot the traditional dirty "it's all your fault" look at the children to teach them a lesson.
So I got on the other train, the one that was going to sit idle for 10 more minutes before leaving the station. I had the good fortune of boarding a car with a resident drunk who, from his slumped over position, occasionally yelled in Spanish to "get moving" or in English to "fuck off." Soon there were three MBTA officers there, and by "officers" I mean average people with two-way radios and a misleading sense of authority, who started hassling the drunkard before taking away his 40-oz. bottle of spirit. To this he resisted by shouting "You assholes!" before lying back down across a row of seats and passing out.
Eventually I got to South Station, where I had to wait another 45 mins for my Amtrak train to take me to New York. Being that South Station is so well planned, I had no where to sit. So I wheeled my suitcase over to a model train display, and sat on it. ("It" being the suitcase, not the train.) I was then run into and over by a series of small children whose moron parents allowed them to run in giant circles WITH the model train, often screaming at the top of their lungs while doing so. Now, I know trains are exciting, but please people, tell your kids to sit still and shut the hell up.
Later, I boarded my train, where I nestled into my window seat and used loud music to drown out the cries of cranky children on board who were upset, I presume, that they were no longer running circles with the model train. One little boy was very quiet, but only because his portable DVD player was VERY LOUD, which helped to drown out the screaming little girl to his left. But either would have been preferable over the woman who coughed and hacked and sneezed and gurgled continuously for four and a half hours, spewing her germs across the car.
Hours later, as the train pulled into Penn Station, I made my veteran move to the front of the pack and bolted up the escalator with my suitcase on my shoulder. I ran to the subway, where I conveniently swiped my MetroCard, and boarded a car with another Standard Subway Drunkard. This one was quieter than the last, but smelled strongly of urine. I watched amusedly as he leaned lower and lower, defying all laws of gravity by keeping his face a mere 1000th of an inch off the seat--and that's while he was sleeping!!
I left the drunk to transfer trains, and spent several minutes trying to wheel my suitcase past a pair of women with two unruly children who occupied the entire width of the walkway. "Excuse me," I said to the older woman. "EXCUSE ME." When she wouldn't move, I simply bowled her over, and when she scowled at me, I simply reminded her "I said EXCUSE ME!" which, also being in English, I'm sure she did not understand. I then broke into a jog, hoping to catch the train that was waiting, but missed it, which caused me to turn around and shoot more dirty looks at the woman to remind her it was all her fault.
So, in summary, all trains still have drunks and idiots, and while I can handle a few of each on any given day, I think 6 steady hours is more than I can handle. And if anyone sees the coughing hacking sneezing gurgling woman, let me know so I can punch her in the face. I think I caught her cold.
First, in Boston, I had to deal with the token booth dude. Why Boston still uses tokens is beyond me. If I had my way, I would have just swiped my MetroCard on my way through. But alas, this did not happen. And as I heard the bell ringing in Alewife, the signal that the next train is about to leave, and I tried to zig and zag around slow-moving idiots with snail-paced small children, I watched from the top of the staircase as the train pulled away. I also shot the traditional dirty "it's all your fault" look at the children to teach them a lesson.
So I got on the other train, the one that was going to sit idle for 10 more minutes before leaving the station. I had the good fortune of boarding a car with a resident drunk who, from his slumped over position, occasionally yelled in Spanish to "get moving" or in English to "fuck off." Soon there were three MBTA officers there, and by "officers" I mean average people with two-way radios and a misleading sense of authority, who started hassling the drunkard before taking away his 40-oz. bottle of spirit. To this he resisted by shouting "You assholes!" before lying back down across a row of seats and passing out.
Eventually I got to South Station, where I had to wait another 45 mins for my Amtrak train to take me to New York. Being that South Station is so well planned, I had no where to sit. So I wheeled my suitcase over to a model train display, and sat on it. ("It" being the suitcase, not the train.) I was then run into and over by a series of small children whose moron parents allowed them to run in giant circles WITH the model train, often screaming at the top of their lungs while doing so. Now, I know trains are exciting, but please people, tell your kids to sit still and shut the hell up.
Later, I boarded my train, where I nestled into my window seat and used loud music to drown out the cries of cranky children on board who were upset, I presume, that they were no longer running circles with the model train. One little boy was very quiet, but only because his portable DVD player was VERY LOUD, which helped to drown out the screaming little girl to his left. But either would have been preferable over the woman who coughed and hacked and sneezed and gurgled continuously for four and a half hours, spewing her germs across the car.
Hours later, as the train pulled into Penn Station, I made my veteran move to the front of the pack and bolted up the escalator with my suitcase on my shoulder. I ran to the subway, where I conveniently swiped my MetroCard, and boarded a car with another Standard Subway Drunkard. This one was quieter than the last, but smelled strongly of urine. I watched amusedly as he leaned lower and lower, defying all laws of gravity by keeping his face a mere 1000th of an inch off the seat--and that's while he was sleeping!!
I left the drunk to transfer trains, and spent several minutes trying to wheel my suitcase past a pair of women with two unruly children who occupied the entire width of the walkway. "Excuse me," I said to the older woman. "EXCUSE ME." When she wouldn't move, I simply bowled her over, and when she scowled at me, I simply reminded her "I said EXCUSE ME!" which, also being in English, I'm sure she did not understand. I then broke into a jog, hoping to catch the train that was waiting, but missed it, which caused me to turn around and shoot more dirty looks at the woman to remind her it was all her fault.
So, in summary, all trains still have drunks and idiots, and while I can handle a few of each on any given day, I think 6 steady hours is more than I can handle. And if anyone sees the coughing hacking sneezing gurgling woman, let me know so I can punch her in the face. I think I caught her cold.
12.18.2004
NOW will you stop making fun?
For the last, say, 3 years, people have been making constant fun of my digital camera. I bought it in 2001, and at the time it was on sale as one of the phasing-out models. It has 1.3 megapixels, weak digital "zoom," and most importantly - it's huge, especially when compared to the spectrum of miniscule Mission Impossible spy-cam models that are out now.
Most tech saavy people, upon seeing my digital dinosaur, have a reaction like one of the following, which are direct quotes:
"Wow...what is that, a laptop?"
"What is this thing, a VCR?"
"Wow, how do you get that around? Does it have wheels?"
Okay, OKAY. Enough already!! I heard ya. Yes, my digital camera is old and big and klunky. Yes, I've been meaning to buy a new one for some time. And ya know what? Finally. FINALLY, let all the laughing end.
Today I went out to do some holiday shopping--for me. I have been struggling with getting the last few gifts on my list for other people, so I decided to make myself feel better by purchasing a new digital camera. I had sort of asked for one for Christmas but didn't get any responses from anyone, so I'm guessing/hoping no one got one. (If you did, let's talk.)
The new camera, a Sony Cybershot with 4.1 megapixels, is roughly 1/6th the size of my old camera. It has all kinds of spanky fresh new features that hadn't likely been developed in 2001 when I bought the other camera. It can do shutter bursts, zoom, and even take several minutes worth of moving pictures. I'm very excited.
All night I've been walking around taking pictures of myself and random, boring, inanimate household objects, like a spoon, or...a pen. Then I upload them to the computer so I can oooh and aaah at the huge difference in resolution. Then I go back and take more random, boring, pictures and repeat the process. Exciting nerd life I lead.
Anyhow, the point is, all you camera fun-poking assholes: BITE ME! I got a new one, okay? So back off already. Or I'll throw my old, giant, four-wheeled laptop VCR at your head. And it will hurt. Because it's so big. Shut up.
Most tech saavy people, upon seeing my digital dinosaur, have a reaction like one of the following, which are direct quotes:
"Wow...what is that, a laptop?"
"What is this thing, a VCR?"
"Wow, how do you get that around? Does it have wheels?"
Okay, OKAY. Enough already!! I heard ya. Yes, my digital camera is old and big and klunky. Yes, I've been meaning to buy a new one for some time. And ya know what? Finally. FINALLY, let all the laughing end.
Today I went out to do some holiday shopping--for me. I have been struggling with getting the last few gifts on my list for other people, so I decided to make myself feel better by purchasing a new digital camera. I had sort of asked for one for Christmas but didn't get any responses from anyone, so I'm guessing/hoping no one got one. (If you did, let's talk.)
The new camera, a Sony Cybershot with 4.1 megapixels, is roughly 1/6th the size of my old camera. It has all kinds of spanky fresh new features that hadn't likely been developed in 2001 when I bought the other camera. It can do shutter bursts, zoom, and even take several minutes worth of moving pictures. I'm very excited.
All night I've been walking around taking pictures of myself and random, boring, inanimate household objects, like a spoon, or...a pen. Then I upload them to the computer so I can oooh and aaah at the huge difference in resolution. Then I go back and take more random, boring, pictures and repeat the process. Exciting nerd life I lead.
Anyhow, the point is, all you camera fun-poking assholes: BITE ME! I got a new one, okay? So back off already. Or I'll throw my old, giant, four-wheeled laptop VCR at your head. And it will hurt. Because it's so big. Shut up.
12.17.2004
city streets at night
Last night I was walking home in the cold after warming my spirit over a glass (or pitcher) of sangria with a couple of friends. We parted ways, and I had four little blocks to walk on my own.
Almost immediately, there was a man with a dog on the sidewalk. The dog was getting into that weird, scrunched, ass-to-the-ground position that says "I'm about to shit now!" Seeing dogs shit on the sidewalk is a very common occurrence. Seeing owners pick up after them is far less frequent. But this guy--he was VERY smart.
As the dog is about to drop a load, the man slides a newspaper under the dog's ass. Now...I'm guessing this man has been doing the ol' Big City Poop Scoop for so many years that he figured out the cleanest way to get the job done. But I for one was impressed at his innovative approach, even though it required the dog's cooperation. If you tossed a newspaper at my dog while she was pooping, you'd scare the--well. She'd run away, completely freaked out, and would probably leave a trail behind her. So props to the poop man on a job well done.
Then on the next block there was a man who kept stopping other men on the street saying "Hey man, I got all this stuff to get home, and I can't carry it all. Will ya help a brutha out?" I laughed, mostly because I have been in that situation, wishing that with the right amount of eyelash batting and coy smiling, I could get some fella to help a damsel in distress. But it didn't work for me, and it sure wasn't working for this guy. "Excuse me mister," he'd kept saying. "I got all this stuff to get home...."
My biggest problem here was that I didn't see this alleged "stuff." I saw a pile of trash on the curb, but definitely no "stuff" that seemed worthwhile to not just carry home, but ask for HELP in carrying home. But before I could see how this one would end, someone else stole the show.
Picture, if you will...
It's a cold windy night in December. Your chin is tucked deep, nestled into your scarf as you try to block out the chilly draft. Your eyes water in the cold, your nose runs, and you keep your eyes on the ground as you walk briskly home. But your eyes, watery as they may be, suddenly lock onto red leather. You slowly lift up, higher, until you realize the red leather is that of a pair of thigh-high boots that cover a pair of unstable legs attached to a foul-mouthed and intoxicated hooker a few steps in front of you.
"Yoo wan sum gooooooood pussy!" she yells into the night, at no one in particular. She stumbles to the right, then back to the left, her long horrible wig swaying with each difficult step. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me ma pussy ain't good. I got GOOD pussy. Mm-hmm good pussy right here. Who wans to fuck ma goooooood pussy?"
Suppressing hysterical laughter by stifling it in my scarf, I watched as the Lady in Red staggered back and forth across the sidewalk, walking like she just spent the last three months riding a horse. She continued to mutter on to herself about good pussy before lurching head-first toward a black gate, stumbling through it, and disappearing into a building. Apparently, good pussy is available at #1823.
After that, the last block home seemed boring an uneventful, but I shouldn't complain. I had three full blocks of entertainment to distract me from the fact that I was cold and miserable. Poop, stuff, and good pussy - THAT is what makes New York great.
Almost immediately, there was a man with a dog on the sidewalk. The dog was getting into that weird, scrunched, ass-to-the-ground position that says "I'm about to shit now!" Seeing dogs shit on the sidewalk is a very common occurrence. Seeing owners pick up after them is far less frequent. But this guy--he was VERY smart.
As the dog is about to drop a load, the man slides a newspaper under the dog's ass. Now...I'm guessing this man has been doing the ol' Big City Poop Scoop for so many years that he figured out the cleanest way to get the job done. But I for one was impressed at his innovative approach, even though it required the dog's cooperation. If you tossed a newspaper at my dog while she was pooping, you'd scare the--well. She'd run away, completely freaked out, and would probably leave a trail behind her. So props to the poop man on a job well done.
Then on the next block there was a man who kept stopping other men on the street saying "Hey man, I got all this stuff to get home, and I can't carry it all. Will ya help a brutha out?" I laughed, mostly because I have been in that situation, wishing that with the right amount of eyelash batting and coy smiling, I could get some fella to help a damsel in distress. But it didn't work for me, and it sure wasn't working for this guy. "Excuse me mister," he'd kept saying. "I got all this stuff to get home...."
My biggest problem here was that I didn't see this alleged "stuff." I saw a pile of trash on the curb, but definitely no "stuff" that seemed worthwhile to not just carry home, but ask for HELP in carrying home. But before I could see how this one would end, someone else stole the show.
Picture, if you will...
It's a cold windy night in December. Your chin is tucked deep, nestled into your scarf as you try to block out the chilly draft. Your eyes water in the cold, your nose runs, and you keep your eyes on the ground as you walk briskly home. But your eyes, watery as they may be, suddenly lock onto red leather. You slowly lift up, higher, until you realize the red leather is that of a pair of thigh-high boots that cover a pair of unstable legs attached to a foul-mouthed and intoxicated hooker a few steps in front of you.
"Yoo wan sum gooooooood pussy!" she yells into the night, at no one in particular. She stumbles to the right, then back to the left, her long horrible wig swaying with each difficult step. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me ma pussy ain't good. I got GOOD pussy. Mm-hmm good pussy right here. Who wans to fuck ma goooooood pussy?"
Suppressing hysterical laughter by stifling it in my scarf, I watched as the Lady in Red staggered back and forth across the sidewalk, walking like she just spent the last three months riding a horse. She continued to mutter on to herself about good pussy before lurching head-first toward a black gate, stumbling through it, and disappearing into a building. Apparently, good pussy is available at #1823.
After that, the last block home seemed boring an uneventful, but I shouldn't complain. I had three full blocks of entertainment to distract me from the fact that I was cold and miserable. Poop, stuff, and good pussy - THAT is what makes New York great.
12.14.2004
'tis the f'n season.
So yes. Once again, the holiday season is upon us. And once again, it is making me miserable.
Last night, in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit, I decided to try shopping for my first holiday purchases of the season--in actual stores. I'm a firm, steadfast believer that everything should be selected, paid for, and shipped from the internet, because the human element is highly overrated. But sometimes you miss out on the holiday fun that way: no holiday music, no friendly smiles, no festive lights. so I thought perhaps I should venture into the stores.
HA. I was hunting for a not-so-easy-to-find DVD, so I landed at BestBuy. As I rode down the escalator and saw the 30-person-deep check out line snaking around 4 or 5 different corners, and a voice on the PA saying "Code 1! Code 1! All available employees to the registers!" I thought maybe this was a Very Bad Idea. But I was here, and the DVDs were right around the corner, so I took a breath and jumped in.
Mayhem. Total and utter mayhem. There was no longer a sense of logic or order among either the DVDs OR the people. Idiots with giant shopping bags and backpacks clogged the aisles. Small children whined and sat in the middle of the floor. And not only could I not find what I wanted, but there was NO ONE to help me figure out if it existed. I walked up and down the 8 or 9 rows of DVDs several times, stepping over screaming tots and rolling my eyes at their parents. I never found what I was looking for, which is probably the best thing for me, because to justify standing in that long ass line to pay, I would have had to buy several hundred dollars worth of stuff.
So I left, and went home only to realize that I was losing vision in my left eye--my now standard sign that a migraine is coming. Christmas shopping gave me a MIGRAINE. So, you know what people? If you don't get something from me this year, it's because it wasn't available on the internet. I'm not going in ANY more stores this year. Christmas shopping is hazardous to my health. The surgeon general should warn you about this shit.
Last night, in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit, I decided to try shopping for my first holiday purchases of the season--in actual stores. I'm a firm, steadfast believer that everything should be selected, paid for, and shipped from the internet, because the human element is highly overrated. But sometimes you miss out on the holiday fun that way: no holiday music, no friendly smiles, no festive lights. so I thought perhaps I should venture into the stores.
HA. I was hunting for a not-so-easy-to-find DVD, so I landed at BestBuy. As I rode down the escalator and saw the 30-person-deep check out line snaking around 4 or 5 different corners, and a voice on the PA saying "Code 1! Code 1! All available employees to the registers!" I thought maybe this was a Very Bad Idea. But I was here, and the DVDs were right around the corner, so I took a breath and jumped in.
Mayhem. Total and utter mayhem. There was no longer a sense of logic or order among either the DVDs OR the people. Idiots with giant shopping bags and backpacks clogged the aisles. Small children whined and sat in the middle of the floor. And not only could I not find what I wanted, but there was NO ONE to help me figure out if it existed. I walked up and down the 8 or 9 rows of DVDs several times, stepping over screaming tots and rolling my eyes at their parents. I never found what I was looking for, which is probably the best thing for me, because to justify standing in that long ass line to pay, I would have had to buy several hundred dollars worth of stuff.
So I left, and went home only to realize that I was losing vision in my left eye--my now standard sign that a migraine is coming. Christmas shopping gave me a MIGRAINE. So, you know what people? If you don't get something from me this year, it's because it wasn't available on the internet. I'm not going in ANY more stores this year. Christmas shopping is hazardous to my health. The surgeon general should warn you about this shit.
12.10.2004
i am SUCH a nerd.
Okay, so, there's this weatherman in Boston that my friend Kevin told me about. He (Kevin) sent me an email that said "This guy's forecasts are right up your alley. Read it. Pants." And then there was a link to this: http://www1.whdh.com/weather/ . (Kevin didn't mean the actual day-to-day forecast, but rather the "Discussion" section further down the page.)
Now, mind you, at the time of this realization, I was actually still IN Boston. And I was quite a weather geek and was constantly telling people my interpretation of the latest doppler radar or spouting facts about the snow albedo effect or how, despite Anne Marie's doubts, it can actually snow and not make it to the ground. So when Kevin sent me this link, I put it right up into my bookmarks, and followed Pete's forecast every day. (Except when he's on vacation, which is far less fun.)
So now it has been months and months...maybe even a year since Kevin hooked me up to the hugely entertaining world of "Petey B." And although I moved to a new city, I read every day, and most times laugh hard enough to grab a snippet and send it to Kevin saying "that crazy Pete! Look what he said today!"
So yesterday I decided to email Pete, and give him a little fan mail:
Hi Pete,
I just wanted you to know that you are, as they say, da bomb. I moved to New York from Boston a few months ago, but I still check in online on a daily basis to see what kind of meteorological pop-cultural anecdote you've got up your sleeve. From pine trees wearing "pasties" to Counting Crows, because of you, I look forward to each day's forecast for a city in which I no longer live. Don't ever leave!
Your Big Apple weather fan,
Stephanie
And this morning, to my surprise, I had an email back from the great and powerful Pete:
Aw shucks Stephanie, I'm gonna turn this email red with all the blushing I'm doing. Thanks for the uplifting email. I hope to be here for a while (unless New York calls!) Best of holiday wishes!
Pete
You must understand--this email MADE MY DAY! Petey B. wrote to ME! He said my NAME! I couldn't be happier if it was from Johnny Depp, I swear. (And ya know how I feel about Johnny Depp!)
Well, naturally I forwarded the email to Kevin immediately. But my joy was so overwhelming that I simply had to share it with everyone else as well. And maybe now you all know (or have reaffirmed) that I am a complete nerd, a total weather geek, and something of a groupie. But I don't care. Long live Petey B.
Now, mind you, at the time of this realization, I was actually still IN Boston. And I was quite a weather geek and was constantly telling people my interpretation of the latest doppler radar or spouting facts about the snow albedo effect or how, despite Anne Marie's doubts, it can actually snow and not make it to the ground. So when Kevin sent me this link, I put it right up into my bookmarks, and followed Pete's forecast every day. (Except when he's on vacation, which is far less fun.)
So now it has been months and months...maybe even a year since Kevin hooked me up to the hugely entertaining world of "Petey B." And although I moved to a new city, I read every day, and most times laugh hard enough to grab a snippet and send it to Kevin saying "that crazy Pete! Look what he said today!"
So yesterday I decided to email Pete, and give him a little fan mail:
Hi Pete,
I just wanted you to know that you are, as they say, da bomb. I moved to New York from Boston a few months ago, but I still check in online on a daily basis to see what kind of meteorological pop-cultural anecdote you've got up your sleeve. From pine trees wearing "pasties" to Counting Crows, because of you, I look forward to each day's forecast for a city in which I no longer live. Don't ever leave!
Your Big Apple weather fan,
Stephanie
And this morning, to my surprise, I had an email back from the great and powerful Pete:
Aw shucks Stephanie, I'm gonna turn this email red with all the blushing I'm doing. Thanks for the uplifting email. I hope to be here for a while (unless New York calls!) Best of holiday wishes!
Pete
You must understand--this email MADE MY DAY! Petey B. wrote to ME! He said my NAME! I couldn't be happier if it was from Johnny Depp, I swear. (And ya know how I feel about Johnny Depp!)
Well, naturally I forwarded the email to Kevin immediately. But my joy was so overwhelming that I simply had to share it with everyone else as well. And maybe now you all know (or have reaffirmed) that I am a complete nerd, a total weather geek, and something of a groupie. But I don't care. Long live Petey B.
12.09.2004
lazy blog girl
Get to know your blogger...who wasted too much time on this stupid email to actually have time to write a blog.
----------------
(Once upon a time, I used to get these from my 12-year-old cousins. Now I get them from my 30-something-year-old friends. Very amusing.)
1. What time is it? 10:15am on a Thursday.
2. Name as it appears on birth certificate: Stephanie *********
3. Nicknames: Sis, Stepha (zalsa only), Stephie (family only), Hops.
4. Piercing: Three per ear.
5. Eye color: Used to be brown, now greenish, I guess.
6. Place of birth: Fitchburg, MA. 2nd hilliest city in the U.S. woohoo!
7. Favorite food: Cheese. And Chocolate. Or any combination.
8. Ever been to Africa? No
9. Ever been toilet papering? Not that I recall. I was a good kid.
10. Love someone so much it made you cry? Yeah, fucknut.
11. Been in a car accident? Not when I was driving.
12. Croutons or bacon bits? Yes please.
13. Favorite day of the week: Saturday. Week's over, and a new one has yet to begin. Aaah.
14. Favorite restaurant: Solea, in Waltham, MA or Not Your Average Joe's, of greater Boston, just for the bread.
15. Favorite flower: pretty colored ones, whatever they are.
16. Favorite sport to watch? My Patriots football, baby!! (And not JUST for Adam Vinatieri's ass.)
17. Favorite drink: Nothing beats a fresh can of Coke. Or, malibu bay breeze.
18. Favorite ice cream: MOOSE TRACKS!! No contest.
19. Disney or Warner Bros.: whatever.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant: McDonald's (#2 with a coke).
21. What color is the carpet in your bedroom? Hardwood baby. HARD WOOD.
22. How many times did you fail your driver's test? None. The dude passed me despite being 15 mph over the speed limit at all times.
24. Which stores would you choose to max out your credit card? Barnes & Noble, Anthropologie, Best Buy.
25. What you do most often when you are bored? Answer emails like these.
26. What is your bedtime? Lately, whenever I stumble home from the bar and find a way out of my boots.
27. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest? Jessica.
28. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Kevin.
29. Favorite TV shows: Six Feet Under, Fresh Prince
30. Last person you went out to dinner with: Carrie and Dan - Heidelberg fixtures.
31. Ford or Chevy? Why.
32. What are you listening to right now? Ivette yelling in Spanish.
33. What is your favorite color? Deep summer sky at twilight blue
34. Lake, ocean or river? Ocean. No, river. No, ocean. How about a hot tub?
35. How many tattoos do you have? Uno.
36. Time you finished this e-mail ? I'm not done yet, asshole.
37. Have you ever run out of gas? Damn close. Coast on fumes!
38. Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Still in NYC, still eating cheese, still buying shoes.
39. The name of the book you just finished? Managing the Publishing Enterprise - Course Instruction Packet
40. The one place you've always wanted to visit? Italia.
41. Most stupidest thing you've done while intoxicated? If I could remember, it wouldn't be the "most stupidest," would it.
42. What's the fastest speed you've driven? 90+, hand on horn. get the fuck out of my way.
43. Ever write your name in the snow? Yes, with my FEET.
44. What's the last song you sang out loud? Dominic the Donkey, complete with interpretive dance.
----------------
(Once upon a time, I used to get these from my 12-year-old cousins. Now I get them from my 30-something-year-old friends. Very amusing.)
1. What time is it? 10:15am on a Thursday.
2. Name as it appears on birth certificate: Stephanie *********
3. Nicknames: Sis, Stepha (zalsa only), Stephie (family only), Hops.
4. Piercing: Three per ear.
5. Eye color: Used to be brown, now greenish, I guess.
6. Place of birth: Fitchburg, MA. 2nd hilliest city in the U.S. woohoo!
7. Favorite food: Cheese. And Chocolate. Or any combination.
8. Ever been to Africa? No
9. Ever been toilet papering? Not that I recall. I was a good kid.
10. Love someone so much it made you cry? Yeah, fucknut.
11. Been in a car accident? Not when I was driving.
12. Croutons or bacon bits? Yes please.
13. Favorite day of the week: Saturday. Week's over, and a new one has yet to begin. Aaah.
14. Favorite restaurant: Solea, in Waltham, MA or Not Your Average Joe's, of greater Boston, just for the bread.
15. Favorite flower: pretty colored ones, whatever they are.
16. Favorite sport to watch? My Patriots football, baby!! (And not JUST for Adam Vinatieri's ass.)
17. Favorite drink: Nothing beats a fresh can of Coke. Or, malibu bay breeze.
18. Favorite ice cream: MOOSE TRACKS!! No contest.
19. Disney or Warner Bros.: whatever.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant: McDonald's (#2 with a coke).
21. What color is the carpet in your bedroom? Hardwood baby. HARD WOOD.
22. How many times did you fail your driver's test? None. The dude passed me despite being 15 mph over the speed limit at all times.
24. Which stores would you choose to max out your credit card? Barnes & Noble, Anthropologie, Best Buy.
25. What you do most often when you are bored? Answer emails like these.
26. What is your bedtime? Lately, whenever I stumble home from the bar and find a way out of my boots.
27. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest? Jessica.
28. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Kevin.
29. Favorite TV shows: Six Feet Under, Fresh Prince
30. Last person you went out to dinner with: Carrie and Dan - Heidelberg fixtures.
31. Ford or Chevy? Why.
32. What are you listening to right now? Ivette yelling in Spanish.
33. What is your favorite color? Deep summer sky at twilight blue
34. Lake, ocean or river? Ocean. No, river. No, ocean. How about a hot tub?
35. How many tattoos do you have? Uno.
36. Time you finished this e-mail ? I'm not done yet, asshole.
37. Have you ever run out of gas? Damn close. Coast on fumes!
38. Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Still in NYC, still eating cheese, still buying shoes.
39. The name of the book you just finished? Managing the Publishing Enterprise - Course Instruction Packet
40. The one place you've always wanted to visit? Italia.
41. Most stupidest thing you've done while intoxicated? If I could remember, it wouldn't be the "most stupidest," would it.
42. What's the fastest speed you've driven? 90+, hand on horn. get the fuck out of my way.
43. Ever write your name in the snow? Yes, with my FEET.
44. What's the last song you sang out loud? Dominic the Donkey, complete with interpretive dance.
12.04.2004
some assembly required
For the last 6 weeks or so, I've been living in my new apartment with no flat surface upon which to eat, except the kitchen counter. I wanted a table and some chairs, but wasn't sure where to get them, or how much to pay. So finally after all this time, I just walked to the store down the street and bought the cheapo set for $150.
The guy at the store said for an additional $25 they would assemble and deliver the table and chairs. I turned him down for numerous reasons. 1) I didn't want to give them the $25. 2) I wanted a project. 3) I wanted it NOW. So I made him go get the big box and lend me a dolly so I could wheel the box home. He thought I was crazy, some silly girl trying to get the heavy box home by herself. But I gave them my license as collateral, then rolled the box-on-dolly three blocks home, wrestled the box through the double set of doors downstairs, then somehow got it UP the stairs by rolling it end-over-end. When I slid it into my kitchen, I gave a very proud Rocky Balboa tough guy Victory Dance before returning the dolly to the store.
I bolted back to the store, then back home, and slashed open the tape on the box. I pulled the pieces out one by one, laying them out on the floor. In the back of my head, I heard my father saying "Check for all the pieces before you begin." And I gladly would have...if the box had contained any sort of printed instructions. How the flying fuck do you assemble ANYTHING made in MALAYSIA without instructions?? I would have even settled for a diagram with text written in French or Russian, but to have nothing?? I reminded myself I was looking for a project, so I unpacked everything, and dumped the baggie of screws and washers and other miscellaneous pieces for which I had no instructions onto the floor. I then realized that a massively slanted floor is not good for runaway screws and washers, so I dropped them into a bowl for further meticulous examination. I was happy to see an Allen wrench. I freakin' love those things.
Thanks to my long history of assembling and disassembling objects, such as relocating my bunk beds since the age of about 5 with my father's ratcheting tools, I was able to quickly decipher which screws and bolts went where. I managed to throw together one of the two chairs, and even sat upon it without any horrible snapping, popping, or crunching noises. However, when I turned to put together the second chair, I noticed only two of something that should have been three. "I told you to check for all the pieces!" my father's voice said. I sighed, knowing that while my mother would happily go forward and build the chair without its proper back support, I could not do so, and had to return to the store. I counted all my other pieces first to make sure nothing else was missing, and ran back out.
The man at the store was like "Oh great, the bitch who wanted the dolly is back." Or at least that's what his facial expression said. But I remained perky and obnoxious. "Hi. Remember me? I am missing a piece for one of my chairs. I need a second one just like this," I said as I held up the clone of the missing. Mr. Cranky took the piece, giving me a look that said "stupid chicks can't built shit," and went out back, returning a moment later with a pair of the pieces. I thanked him cheerily and headed back home.
Chair #2 went together very quickly and without further incident. Next was the big part: the TABLE!!
The table appeared to have its own baggie of miscellaneous screws and washers and, to my surprise, a second Allen wrench! But there were some little round things in this baggie that I didn't know what to do with. They weren't washers, not nuts, just...some pointless little pieces of curled metal. I looked at the table legs, and the pre-drilled holes on the table, and really wished I had instructions for this part. But using my what was left of my wit and intelligence, I screwed everything in place, sans mysterious pieces of curled metal. (If I can't find a use for 'em, why bother.)
Finally, with a cheer and a grunt, I hoisted the table upright. It didn't wobble. It didn't fall. It stood solidly in the middle of my kitchen. I repeated my proud Rocky Balboa dance (this time in front of the mirror) and thanked the Malaysian assholes for the challenge. Instructions? I don't need no stinkin' instructions!
The guy at the store said for an additional $25 they would assemble and deliver the table and chairs. I turned him down for numerous reasons. 1) I didn't want to give them the $25. 2) I wanted a project. 3) I wanted it NOW. So I made him go get the big box and lend me a dolly so I could wheel the box home. He thought I was crazy, some silly girl trying to get the heavy box home by herself. But I gave them my license as collateral, then rolled the box-on-dolly three blocks home, wrestled the box through the double set of doors downstairs, then somehow got it UP the stairs by rolling it end-over-end. When I slid it into my kitchen, I gave a very proud Rocky Balboa tough guy Victory Dance before returning the dolly to the store.
I bolted back to the store, then back home, and slashed open the tape on the box. I pulled the pieces out one by one, laying them out on the floor. In the back of my head, I heard my father saying "Check for all the pieces before you begin." And I gladly would have...if the box had contained any sort of printed instructions. How the flying fuck do you assemble ANYTHING made in MALAYSIA without instructions?? I would have even settled for a diagram with text written in French or Russian, but to have nothing?? I reminded myself I was looking for a project, so I unpacked everything, and dumped the baggie of screws and washers and other miscellaneous pieces for which I had no instructions onto the floor. I then realized that a massively slanted floor is not good for runaway screws and washers, so I dropped them into a bowl for further meticulous examination. I was happy to see an Allen wrench. I freakin' love those things.
Thanks to my long history of assembling and disassembling objects, such as relocating my bunk beds since the age of about 5 with my father's ratcheting tools, I was able to quickly decipher which screws and bolts went where. I managed to throw together one of the two chairs, and even sat upon it without any horrible snapping, popping, or crunching noises. However, when I turned to put together the second chair, I noticed only two of something that should have been three. "I told you to check for all the pieces!" my father's voice said. I sighed, knowing that while my mother would happily go forward and build the chair without its proper back support, I could not do so, and had to return to the store. I counted all my other pieces first to make sure nothing else was missing, and ran back out.
The man at the store was like "Oh great, the bitch who wanted the dolly is back." Or at least that's what his facial expression said. But I remained perky and obnoxious. "Hi. Remember me? I am missing a piece for one of my chairs. I need a second one just like this," I said as I held up the clone of the missing. Mr. Cranky took the piece, giving me a look that said "stupid chicks can't built shit," and went out back, returning a moment later with a pair of the pieces. I thanked him cheerily and headed back home.
Chair #2 went together very quickly and without further incident. Next was the big part: the TABLE!!
The table appeared to have its own baggie of miscellaneous screws and washers and, to my surprise, a second Allen wrench! But there were some little round things in this baggie that I didn't know what to do with. They weren't washers, not nuts, just...some pointless little pieces of curled metal. I looked at the table legs, and the pre-drilled holes on the table, and really wished I had instructions for this part. But using my what was left of my wit and intelligence, I screwed everything in place, sans mysterious pieces of curled metal. (If I can't find a use for 'em, why bother.)
Finally, with a cheer and a grunt, I hoisted the table upright. It didn't wobble. It didn't fall. It stood solidly in the middle of my kitchen. I repeated my proud Rocky Balboa dance (this time in front of the mirror) and thanked the Malaysian assholes for the challenge. Instructions? I don't need no stinkin' instructions!
12.02.2004
i'm a survivor!
The other day, at the end of my typical frenzied morning routine, I scurried out the door, locked it, and began walking to the subway. About a block and half later, I realized I'd made a horrible, frightening mistake--I left my cell phone at home.
I was running too late to go back and get it. And, despite my panic, I rationalized that I wouldn't really miss it or need it. I mean, it doesn't work on the subway, when I get to work I have a desk phone, later I had class, and then I'd be home. I could manage 12 hours without my cell phone...right?
All day I felt naked, exposed, vulnerable, lost, incomplete. I kept imagining the calls I was missing, the text messages that were piling up. I checked my voicemail once or twice from work but no one had left anything. Not many people do, though. I usually track through my missed calls, and I was missing it all!!
I considered going home at lunch to get the phone, but I decided I needed to prove to myself that I could last the day. I reminded myself that it was just like the "old fashioned way" of phone life, where you had ONLY a phone at home that would take messages for you when people called. You had to wait ALL day to get home and see who called. I did it years ago, I could do it again now, even though it had probably been about 4 years since I traveled anywhere without a phone.
By mid-afternoon, I had all the signs of an addict in withdrawal. Going cold-turkey may not have been the smartest decision. I tapped my fingers and feet, I had the shakes, and I grew obsessed with the void the phone left behind. I still had hours and hours to go, and the thought of my little Samsung sitting on the shelf at home just ate me up inside. But it was too late now, there was no turning back. I HAD to ride this out.
I met with my classmates as planned, and suffered until about 9:02 before I decided it was safe--and FREE--for me to borrow someone else's phone to "check for a very important message." I dialed, I entered my voicemail password, but alas, still no messages.
When I finally got home around 10:00, I made a beeline for the phone. It said I had missed calls, but I knew that logically most of them were probably me calling myself from other phones. I pressed buttons and reviewed, squealing with delight to have the cool metal and plastic against my hands. I'd missed my sister, my father, and a couple of others. And I had text messages too, dammit!! I knew I was missing something!
But in the end, I did survive. I made it from 8am to 10pm without my cell phone. It wasn't easy, but it was a real eye-opening experience for me. It was a real exercise in endurance and the human spirit. And I survived.
I was running too late to go back and get it. And, despite my panic, I rationalized that I wouldn't really miss it or need it. I mean, it doesn't work on the subway, when I get to work I have a desk phone, later I had class, and then I'd be home. I could manage 12 hours without my cell phone...right?
All day I felt naked, exposed, vulnerable, lost, incomplete. I kept imagining the calls I was missing, the text messages that were piling up. I checked my voicemail once or twice from work but no one had left anything. Not many people do, though. I usually track through my missed calls, and I was missing it all!!
I considered going home at lunch to get the phone, but I decided I needed to prove to myself that I could last the day. I reminded myself that it was just like the "old fashioned way" of phone life, where you had ONLY a phone at home that would take messages for you when people called. You had to wait ALL day to get home and see who called. I did it years ago, I could do it again now, even though it had probably been about 4 years since I traveled anywhere without a phone.
By mid-afternoon, I had all the signs of an addict in withdrawal. Going cold-turkey may not have been the smartest decision. I tapped my fingers and feet, I had the shakes, and I grew obsessed with the void the phone left behind. I still had hours and hours to go, and the thought of my little Samsung sitting on the shelf at home just ate me up inside. But it was too late now, there was no turning back. I HAD to ride this out.
I met with my classmates as planned, and suffered until about 9:02 before I decided it was safe--and FREE--for me to borrow someone else's phone to "check for a very important message." I dialed, I entered my voicemail password, but alas, still no messages.
When I finally got home around 10:00, I made a beeline for the phone. It said I had missed calls, but I knew that logically most of them were probably me calling myself from other phones. I pressed buttons and reviewed, squealing with delight to have the cool metal and plastic against my hands. I'd missed my sister, my father, and a couple of others. And I had text messages too, dammit!! I knew I was missing something!
But in the end, I did survive. I made it from 8am to 10pm without my cell phone. It wasn't easy, but it was a real eye-opening experience for me. It was a real exercise in endurance and the human spirit. And I survived.
11.29.2004
it takes so little...
Here I am, sitting at work on the Monday morning after a 4-day weekend. Like millions of other Americans, I'm miserable to be here.
I've actually been hard at work since the minute I got here, which was about 20 minutes late thanks to some seriously delayed subway traffic. I have been hard at work tearing apart the boring tables of contents for the boring books I edit, trying not to think about the presentation I have due for class tomorrow that is far from complete, and also trying to drown out the grumble of my poor, hungry stomach.
So basically, I'm cranky. Not far-gone cranky that is only repairable by alcohol and sleep, just the semi-fussy Monday morning blah cranky that often causes me to become introverted and quiet until I find some random thing to spike my serotonin and cheer me up. Sometimes it's a song, sometimes it's a silly website, sometimes it's another person. Problem is...I never know what it will be until it happens.
So here I am, cranky-fussy, and hungry. Then it occurs to me I have a banana in my bag that I can eat. This helps a little, even though the banana is not quite as ripe as I like it (no green on the peel, and a few brown spots). So I peel the banana, take a bite, and proceed to read the boring books. And then...it happened.
I HAVE PEANUT BUTTER! In a joyous flash of brilliance, I realize I have a jar of peanut butter in my desk drawer and it would be absolutely fantastic on my banana, reminiscent of the sandwiches my grandmother used to make me when I was a kid (on toasted wheat bread, complete with a glass of Market Basket brand orange soda, all placed strategically to optimize viewing of Bob Barker on The Price Is Right). I dig out the jar, I dig out a knife, and I carefully spread just the right amount of peanut butter (just right = as much as I can) on the banana, and take a bite.
Mmmm. Sweet savior, my peanut butter and banana. Either without the other is only moderately enjoyable. But both together? So damn good. Today I am saved. Saved from myself, saved from the pains and miseries of Monday mornings. I am saved.
I've actually been hard at work since the minute I got here, which was about 20 minutes late thanks to some seriously delayed subway traffic. I have been hard at work tearing apart the boring tables of contents for the boring books I edit, trying not to think about the presentation I have due for class tomorrow that is far from complete, and also trying to drown out the grumble of my poor, hungry stomach.
So basically, I'm cranky. Not far-gone cranky that is only repairable by alcohol and sleep, just the semi-fussy Monday morning blah cranky that often causes me to become introverted and quiet until I find some random thing to spike my serotonin and cheer me up. Sometimes it's a song, sometimes it's a silly website, sometimes it's another person. Problem is...I never know what it will be until it happens.
So here I am, cranky-fussy, and hungry. Then it occurs to me I have a banana in my bag that I can eat. This helps a little, even though the banana is not quite as ripe as I like it (no green on the peel, and a few brown spots). So I peel the banana, take a bite, and proceed to read the boring books. And then...it happened.
I HAVE PEANUT BUTTER! In a joyous flash of brilliance, I realize I have a jar of peanut butter in my desk drawer and it would be absolutely fantastic on my banana, reminiscent of the sandwiches my grandmother used to make me when I was a kid (on toasted wheat bread, complete with a glass of Market Basket brand orange soda, all placed strategically to optimize viewing of Bob Barker on The Price Is Right). I dig out the jar, I dig out a knife, and I carefully spread just the right amount of peanut butter (just right = as much as I can) on the banana, and take a bite.
Mmmm. Sweet savior, my peanut butter and banana. Either without the other is only moderately enjoyable. But both together? So damn good. Today I am saved. Saved from myself, saved from the pains and miseries of Monday mornings. I am saved.
11.24.2004
the subway games we play.
I realized this morning that I am a sick and demented human being.
There are certain nuances of the subway that, as a passenger, you learn through day after day of repetition or, in other cases, through making mistakes. For example, you learn where to stand to wait for the train so as to get dropped off at the destination near the exit. Or how to maneuver through the car stop by stop so that you are near the doors when it's time to get off.
So after you ride on the subway enough, the same line, the same tracks, the same stops, day after day, you learn even the subtleties such as which way the train lurches and when. On my trip downtown, it's more or less a straight shot until...
When the train leaves 42nd St, headed to 33rd, you have about 5-10 seconds after the train has completely left the station before there is a sharp lurch to the right. Being a fast learner, I only needed to fly across the train into the arms (and coffee cups) of complete strangers before learning to brace for this jolt. But others are not so aware.
So now every morning, I find myself mentally preparing for The Big Lurch. I change the position of my feet to be parallel to the jolt for better balance, I make sure I'm holding on to something, and perhaps most importantly, I look around to see who doesn't know better and will end up flying across the train. Smart people who didn't know better would at least be in tune with the squealing sound of the train's wheels as they hit a curve in the tracks and grab something in the remaining 2 seconds. But no.
Yesterday, someone wasn't prepared and launched sideways, smashing into this guy who had no chance at recovering. With a linebacker-like grunt, he took the hit before his newspaper flew into the air and he crashed into some little old woman who was sitting in front of him. Amusingly, frustratingly, few people apologize for these collisions, despite the fact they often cause disruptions and damage to beverages, newspapers, or even eyeglasses.
So today as we left 42nd St., I silently mused over the crowd at the door who jammed their way onto the train and now had nothing to hold onto. This, I thought, will be fun. The doors closed, the train rolled, and 5....4....3....**squealing wheels**....2....
LURCH! As expected, a good 4 or 5 people took headers toward the opposite side of the train. Some caught themselves with poles or by grabbing onto other people. But those idiot hotshots who think they can ride with no handhold and put their hands in their pockets--THEY went sailing! And I just cracked up.
A nicer person with more concerns over the Life Eternal might have said "Hey folks, you may want to grab on to something." But I, you see, am not that person. Rather, I'm the one who gets a sick kick--and a blog--out of not speaking up and letting them take flight. Because it's funny for me, especially when they think they recovered, act all cool like it never happened, then get tossed for surprise lurch #2. Haha. It's funny.
There are certain nuances of the subway that, as a passenger, you learn through day after day of repetition or, in other cases, through making mistakes. For example, you learn where to stand to wait for the train so as to get dropped off at the destination near the exit. Or how to maneuver through the car stop by stop so that you are near the doors when it's time to get off.
So after you ride on the subway enough, the same line, the same tracks, the same stops, day after day, you learn even the subtleties such as which way the train lurches and when. On my trip downtown, it's more or less a straight shot until...
When the train leaves 42nd St, headed to 33rd, you have about 5-10 seconds after the train has completely left the station before there is a sharp lurch to the right. Being a fast learner, I only needed to fly across the train into the arms (and coffee cups) of complete strangers before learning to brace for this jolt. But others are not so aware.
So now every morning, I find myself mentally preparing for The Big Lurch. I change the position of my feet to be parallel to the jolt for better balance, I make sure I'm holding on to something, and perhaps most importantly, I look around to see who doesn't know better and will end up flying across the train. Smart people who didn't know better would at least be in tune with the squealing sound of the train's wheels as they hit a curve in the tracks and grab something in the remaining 2 seconds. But no.
Yesterday, someone wasn't prepared and launched sideways, smashing into this guy who had no chance at recovering. With a linebacker-like grunt, he took the hit before his newspaper flew into the air and he crashed into some little old woman who was sitting in front of him. Amusingly, frustratingly, few people apologize for these collisions, despite the fact they often cause disruptions and damage to beverages, newspapers, or even eyeglasses.
So today as we left 42nd St., I silently mused over the crowd at the door who jammed their way onto the train and now had nothing to hold onto. This, I thought, will be fun. The doors closed, the train rolled, and 5....4....3....**squealing wheels**....2....
LURCH! As expected, a good 4 or 5 people took headers toward the opposite side of the train. Some caught themselves with poles or by grabbing onto other people. But those idiot hotshots who think they can ride with no handhold and put their hands in their pockets--THEY went sailing! And I just cracked up.
A nicer person with more concerns over the Life Eternal might have said "Hey folks, you may want to grab on to something." But I, you see, am not that person. Rather, I'm the one who gets a sick kick--and a blog--out of not speaking up and letting them take flight. Because it's funny for me, especially when they think they recovered, act all cool like it never happened, then get tossed for surprise lurch #2. Haha. It's funny.
11.20.2004
i am a lazy, worthless beast.
For days, all I've wanted is a Saturday. Since that point on Sunday where I realized that a new work week was rising, all I've wanted was a Saturday to relax, catch up, clean up, work out, and do errands--typical Saturday things.
Well, it's finally Saturday. I woke this morning without a hangover, thanks to the fact that a single drink last night cost $9.25. So I only had three, one of which was bought for me. That made it easy to wake up when my phone rang at 9am (especially when I saw it was a call from California where it was only 6am).
I talked to Bobo for a bit. Then I called my mom. Then I talked to Joanie. Then I called my sister. Then I talked to Jen. All this without ever getting out of my bed. Next thing I know, it's noon, and I haven't done a damn thing except take advantage of my free nights and weekends, which I really should do anyway for $60 a month.
Driven by hunger and an unignorable need to brush my teeth, I got out of bed. As I was brushing, I decided I must change my bed sheets. So after brushing, I washed a big tupperware container, dried it, and filled it with honey nut cheerios. I added a sliced banana, some sugar, and some milk, dropped a spoon in it, and sat on the floor and ate. THEN I grabbed fresh sheets out of the bathroom for my bed.
Being slightly neurotic/meticulous about my bed making (serious issues about head- and feet-ends of blankets always being in the right place), I spread out my new sexy sateen sheets, put the pillow cases on, threw the comforter up, flipped it over to hide its need to be washed (yet maintained the proper head-foot balance), and when I was done, it looked so damn comfortable that I crawled up on top of it and took a nap.
A three hour nap.
Now it's 4:00. I missed my class at the gym. I haven't washed the pile of dishes in the sink. I haven't worked on my paper. I haven't even put on fresh deodorant. I did, however, just eat three pieces of cheese, which was also very high on my list of Important Things to Accomplish.
But I MUST get my ass in gear. Tonight I have a housewarming party to attend. I have four hours remaining to decide upon and purchase a gift (likely wine), wrap it (or stick a bow on it), come back home and shower (and shave everything that needs to be shaved), put on that much-needed deodorant, pick out clothes that say "I'm hot, but casual and spontaneous and fun" (but also show enough cleavage to get the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend back to my apartment after the party), get dressed in said clothes, then head towards the party WITH the gifts and my other alcoholic beverages which I hope the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend will help me carry. Really, when I look at it, I have a lot to do, and yet instead of DOING it, I'm sitting here writing about it. It's just one of those rainy Saturdays upon which I reaffirm that I am a lazy, worthless beast.
But at least I brushed my teeth.
Well, it's finally Saturday. I woke this morning without a hangover, thanks to the fact that a single drink last night cost $9.25. So I only had three, one of which was bought for me. That made it easy to wake up when my phone rang at 9am (especially when I saw it was a call from California where it was only 6am).
I talked to Bobo for a bit. Then I called my mom. Then I talked to Joanie. Then I called my sister. Then I talked to Jen. All this without ever getting out of my bed. Next thing I know, it's noon, and I haven't done a damn thing except take advantage of my free nights and weekends, which I really should do anyway for $60 a month.
Driven by hunger and an unignorable need to brush my teeth, I got out of bed. As I was brushing, I decided I must change my bed sheets. So after brushing, I washed a big tupperware container, dried it, and filled it with honey nut cheerios. I added a sliced banana, some sugar, and some milk, dropped a spoon in it, and sat on the floor and ate. THEN I grabbed fresh sheets out of the bathroom for my bed.
Being slightly neurotic/meticulous about my bed making (serious issues about head- and feet-ends of blankets always being in the right place), I spread out my new sexy sateen sheets, put the pillow cases on, threw the comforter up, flipped it over to hide its need to be washed (yet maintained the proper head-foot balance), and when I was done, it looked so damn comfortable that I crawled up on top of it and took a nap.
A three hour nap.
Now it's 4:00. I missed my class at the gym. I haven't washed the pile of dishes in the sink. I haven't worked on my paper. I haven't even put on fresh deodorant. I did, however, just eat three pieces of cheese, which was also very high on my list of Important Things to Accomplish.
But I MUST get my ass in gear. Tonight I have a housewarming party to attend. I have four hours remaining to decide upon and purchase a gift (likely wine), wrap it (or stick a bow on it), come back home and shower (and shave everything that needs to be shaved), put on that much-needed deodorant, pick out clothes that say "I'm hot, but casual and spontaneous and fun" (but also show enough cleavage to get the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend back to my apartment after the party), get dressed in said clothes, then head towards the party WITH the gifts and my other alcoholic beverages which I hope the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend will help me carry. Really, when I look at it, I have a lot to do, and yet instead of DOING it, I'm sitting here writing about it. It's just one of those rainy Saturdays upon which I reaffirm that I am a lazy, worthless beast.
But at least I brushed my teeth.
11.16.2004
mack daddy.
When I started school in September, I learned that to get to my classes on the upper floors, I had to get past "Security." Security is two guys in blue blazers with some soft of emblem on their chest who scan for IDs as you walk past and line up for elevators.
So somewhere around week 2, when I got to school, one of the security guards started giving me the "hey girl, how YOU doin'" lip-licking, crotch-grabbing salute popular among the bruthas. Three days a week for two months in a row, I walked by this guy, and most often failed to suppress a smile or laugh at his gestures when I walked by. He stared me down every time. I don't think he was looking for an ID.
Then last week I walked in one day, and tried to avoid the Mack Daddy by going to the other guard for the ID scan. But over my shoulder I heard, "Hellooooo. Hellooooo girl. Beautiful." Again, laughing, I'd turn and smile and say hello. "Aw thank you," he said. "You made my night." The next day was more of the same, and it was clear that I could not just bypass this guy without him chasing me down.
Finally on Thursday, my last day of classes, I smiled and walked in as normal. An hour and a half later, I left class early to get a ride that was waiting for me downstairs. But I was late, so I bolted down the hall for the elevator, and when I turned the corner.....
There he was. All 5'7" of him. Licking his lips, giving me the pout, and holding an elevator door open. "Going...down?" he said, remniscent of an old Aerosmith video. "Yes," I sighed, too late to wait for another lift. So I climbed in, and about 8 people got in behind me.
The car was packed and I was separated from my admirer, who continued to look me up and down through the crowd. To my dismay, the elevator went UP, up to the 10th floor instead of down to the ground. The other 8 people got off, leaving me along with...
"My name's Kevin. What's your name?"
"Stephanie."
"Stephanie. You got a boyfriend?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? Oh I'll take sort of. That means it ain't locked down yet."
I just smiled, because I have no misapprehensions about being locked down to anything.
"I'll tell you what, Stephanie. If it don't work out with Mr. Sort Of, you lemmie know."
"Sure thing," I told Kevin as I silently willed the elevator to the ground floor.
The doors opened and I bolted out, trying to get outside to my ride, aka No Apprehensions/Mr. Sort Of. I got held up in foot traffic, and Kevin continued to talk to me.
"Well Stephanie, you have a good night, beautiful. I'll see you again soon."
"Uh, thanks. You too. Bye!"
I ran outside and hopped in the car, slamming the door shut behind me. When I looked up, Kevin was there. He'd followed me outside and watched me get into the car. As we pulled away, I made certain not to wave.
The fun part is, I still have to see Kevin tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night, and onward as such for the next, oh, 3 years. Let's just hope he stays out of the elevators.
So somewhere around week 2, when I got to school, one of the security guards started giving me the "hey girl, how YOU doin'" lip-licking, crotch-grabbing salute popular among the bruthas. Three days a week for two months in a row, I walked by this guy, and most often failed to suppress a smile or laugh at his gestures when I walked by. He stared me down every time. I don't think he was looking for an ID.
Then last week I walked in one day, and tried to avoid the Mack Daddy by going to the other guard for the ID scan. But over my shoulder I heard, "Hellooooo. Hellooooo girl. Beautiful." Again, laughing, I'd turn and smile and say hello. "Aw thank you," he said. "You made my night." The next day was more of the same, and it was clear that I could not just bypass this guy without him chasing me down.
Finally on Thursday, my last day of classes, I smiled and walked in as normal. An hour and a half later, I left class early to get a ride that was waiting for me downstairs. But I was late, so I bolted down the hall for the elevator, and when I turned the corner.....
There he was. All 5'7" of him. Licking his lips, giving me the pout, and holding an elevator door open. "Going...down?" he said, remniscent of an old Aerosmith video. "Yes," I sighed, too late to wait for another lift. So I climbed in, and about 8 people got in behind me.
The car was packed and I was separated from my admirer, who continued to look me up and down through the crowd. To my dismay, the elevator went UP, up to the 10th floor instead of down to the ground. The other 8 people got off, leaving me along with...
"My name's Kevin. What's your name?"
"Stephanie."
"Stephanie. You got a boyfriend?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? Oh I'll take sort of. That means it ain't locked down yet."
I just smiled, because I have no misapprehensions about being locked down to anything.
"I'll tell you what, Stephanie. If it don't work out with Mr. Sort Of, you lemmie know."
"Sure thing," I told Kevin as I silently willed the elevator to the ground floor.
The doors opened and I bolted out, trying to get outside to my ride, aka No Apprehensions/Mr. Sort Of. I got held up in foot traffic, and Kevin continued to talk to me.
"Well Stephanie, you have a good night, beautiful. I'll see you again soon."
"Uh, thanks. You too. Bye!"
I ran outside and hopped in the car, slamming the door shut behind me. When I looked up, Kevin was there. He'd followed me outside and watched me get into the car. As we pulled away, I made certain not to wave.
The fun part is, I still have to see Kevin tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night, and onward as such for the next, oh, 3 years. Let's just hope he stays out of the elevators.
11.13.2004
the true secret of the subway
Sorry for the major gap in service, folks. I've been busy. (Or rather, gettin' busy, go me.) But I'm taking a moment to give you yet another commentary on the NYC subway system.
Last week the subway royally pissed me off twice. Once, due to no fault of their own, they shut down service for practically the entire east side, sending people into raging fits of stress over the inability to get ANYWHERE in ANY direction. But it was because a building partially collapsed over the track, and to be safe, they couldn't run trains under it. Fair enough. I don't know what happened the other time, but the end result was me taking an hour and a half to get to work via a Very Crowded Bus that stopped approximately every nanometer. It was not a good day.
Anyhow, today, like most weekends lately, I walked to my 6 train only to find, once again, it wouldn't be stopping here. Due to construction on the tracks, I must either walk or take the Very Crowded Bus to another station where ALL the trains will stop despite being very very delayed for sharing the same tracks.
So, tra-la, off I strolled into the biting cold New York City air. By the time I reached the next station, I was nearly frostbitten and unable to speak. But my automatic positioning system took over and I got down the stairs and through the turnstile. When I came to, I realized a train was stopped downstairs, and if I ran, I might be able to make it.
I quickly broke into the subway sprint, which depending on your athletic ability is described as either going down the stairs 2 or 3 at a time, or as in my case, just taking them in such rapid sequence that it appears blurry to anyone without a strobe light, which usually includes the old man with a cane that inevitably exists for the sole purposes of delaying your emergency subway sprint.
When I reached the landing between flights of stairs, the little train "Peeker" was leaning out the window to see if he could close the doors. There's one of these on every train. They wait in a specially designed subway car that has two compartments--one on either side of the train. And at each station, these Peekers (who probably have a more technical name but for now will be called Peekers) slide down their specially designed window and stick their head out, looking to the right and to the left, making sure most passengers have boarded and that no small children are stuck between the doors. Then, apparently, they and they alone have the ability to close the doors.
So the doors on the train were closing, but I made a dash anyway, just in case I could be one of those really REALLY cool subway riders who knows that often the doors will reopen just for a second and people can sneak through. But that didn't happen. Meanwhile, a girl behind me toting a yoga mat made a dash for the next car's doors because they were still open. As she extended her hand to stop the closing door, the door smashed shut and left her high and dry.
The girl, who may I remind you was toting a yoga mat, turns and looks and the Peeker from about a foot from his face and screams "You're an ASSHOLE," and gives him the bird. Now, while this is personally one of my favorite comments and gestures, I usually reserve it for the car. But not this girl.
And to my surprise, the Peeker, wearing his official MTA uniform, very calmly yells back "Fuck you bitch," which implies, to me, that this happens all the time. I had no idea.
The girl then took her yoga mat and stormed off to go sit on a bench somewhere. All I could think was she must REALLY need her yoga. I was a little afraid and wouldn't look her in the eye. But the point is, these Peekers really have ALL the control. Here I was thinking the driver up front either counted to 20 and pushed a button, or did it entirely at random, and the Peekers were just there to raise an alarm if anything bad was happening. Hell no. The Peekers have all the power. All of it.
This changes EVERYTHING.
Last week the subway royally pissed me off twice. Once, due to no fault of their own, they shut down service for practically the entire east side, sending people into raging fits of stress over the inability to get ANYWHERE in ANY direction. But it was because a building partially collapsed over the track, and to be safe, they couldn't run trains under it. Fair enough. I don't know what happened the other time, but the end result was me taking an hour and a half to get to work via a Very Crowded Bus that stopped approximately every nanometer. It was not a good day.
Anyhow, today, like most weekends lately, I walked to my 6 train only to find, once again, it wouldn't be stopping here. Due to construction on the tracks, I must either walk or take the Very Crowded Bus to another station where ALL the trains will stop despite being very very delayed for sharing the same tracks.
So, tra-la, off I strolled into the biting cold New York City air. By the time I reached the next station, I was nearly frostbitten and unable to speak. But my automatic positioning system took over and I got down the stairs and through the turnstile. When I came to, I realized a train was stopped downstairs, and if I ran, I might be able to make it.
I quickly broke into the subway sprint, which depending on your athletic ability is described as either going down the stairs 2 or 3 at a time, or as in my case, just taking them in such rapid sequence that it appears blurry to anyone without a strobe light, which usually includes the old man with a cane that inevitably exists for the sole purposes of delaying your emergency subway sprint.
When I reached the landing between flights of stairs, the little train "Peeker" was leaning out the window to see if he could close the doors. There's one of these on every train. They wait in a specially designed subway car that has two compartments--one on either side of the train. And at each station, these Peekers (who probably have a more technical name but for now will be called Peekers) slide down their specially designed window and stick their head out, looking to the right and to the left, making sure most passengers have boarded and that no small children are stuck between the doors. Then, apparently, they and they alone have the ability to close the doors.
So the doors on the train were closing, but I made a dash anyway, just in case I could be one of those really REALLY cool subway riders who knows that often the doors will reopen just for a second and people can sneak through. But that didn't happen. Meanwhile, a girl behind me toting a yoga mat made a dash for the next car's doors because they were still open. As she extended her hand to stop the closing door, the door smashed shut and left her high and dry.
The girl, who may I remind you was toting a yoga mat, turns and looks and the Peeker from about a foot from his face and screams "You're an ASSHOLE," and gives him the bird. Now, while this is personally one of my favorite comments and gestures, I usually reserve it for the car. But not this girl.
And to my surprise, the Peeker, wearing his official MTA uniform, very calmly yells back "Fuck you bitch," which implies, to me, that this happens all the time. I had no idea.
The girl then took her yoga mat and stormed off to go sit on a bench somewhere. All I could think was she must REALLY need her yoga. I was a little afraid and wouldn't look her in the eye. But the point is, these Peekers really have ALL the control. Here I was thinking the driver up front either counted to 20 and pushed a button, or did it entirely at random, and the Peekers were just there to raise an alarm if anything bad was happening. Hell no. The Peekers have all the power. All of it.
This changes EVERYTHING.
11.08.2004
the golden rule...is stuck to your shoe.
One night not terribly long ago, I was at a bar having many margaritas with my friend Jen. As is common in such situations, I stood up at one point and said "I have to pee." Naturally, Jen said "Me too." (See fellas, it's not that we necessarily MUST travel in pairs, but going pee sometimes just seems like a really great suggestion.)
So we stumbled happily to the ladies room, where we had a hysterical fit of laughter over something neither of us can recall. It might have been a lack of locking mechanisms, or just residual giggles from the bar. Chances are it was over some arbitrary thing, like the automatically flushing toilets whose pacing was all off, and flushed when you walked IN to the stall, but not out. Whatever it was, I distinctly remember having tears of laughter in my eyes as I teetered over the toilet (without touching it of course).
We then giggled our way out to the sinks and washed and dried our hands. Jen went out the door slightly ahead of me, and I held the door for the girl slightly behind me. She said thank you, and as I stepped into the hallway she grabbed my arm and said "Oh my gosh, I really need to stop you." Drunk and perplexed, I turned around to ask why, but didn't even have to when I followed her gaze down to my foot where a 2-ft. long piece of toilet paper was trailing from the bottom of my shoe.
"OH MY GOD!" I screamed. "Thank you SO much. I can't believe you stopped me. You're a complete stranger!"
"It's no problem," she said. "I had someone do it for me once and I can completely relate to the feeling." She then stepped on the end of the paper, allowing me to break free from it. I wanted to hug her--especially in my happy state. But I settled for a quick "You're the best. Thank you."
The other night I went out to another bar in another city with another group of friends. At some point, after a great many fruity drinks, I stood up and said "I have to pee." I stumbled happily around the corner to find--a line?! Not having the patience or mental stability to hold it, I knocked on the men's room door and said "Chick coming in!" The bathroom was empty, so I bolted in and teetered over the bowl, being EXTRA certain not to touch it. I flushed (with my foot), and went out and washed and dried my hands.
When I got back out to the main floor, two women were heading down the stairs. One of them had a long piece of toilet paper trailing behind her. Suddenly I felt invigorated and sober, and as memories of the kindness of strangers flooded my mind, I bolted after the woman before she descended the stairs.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Ma'am!" Undoubtedly, she was befuddled as to why some crazy white girl was chasing her down, arms flailing. "I can't let you go down like this," I told her, motioning to her shoe.
"Good Lord, darlin'! Thank you so much!" she laughed and howled, and her friend howled with her.
"Go ahead," I said, stepping on the paper. "I got it."
Proudly I stood, foot atop the stray disgusting toilet paper, hands on hips, watching as another victim was saved from the throes of toilet paper humiliation. She worked her way down the staircase, still laughing, and occasionally waving back to me, her savior.
Someday this woman will encounter a hapless sucker, and she too will be revisited by the time some crazy white girl ripped the toilet paper off her shoe. And with any luck, she'll pass it on.
So it really is true. Do unto others as you would have do unto to you...even if it's stuck to the bottom of their shoe.
So we stumbled happily to the ladies room, where we had a hysterical fit of laughter over something neither of us can recall. It might have been a lack of locking mechanisms, or just residual giggles from the bar. Chances are it was over some arbitrary thing, like the automatically flushing toilets whose pacing was all off, and flushed when you walked IN to the stall, but not out. Whatever it was, I distinctly remember having tears of laughter in my eyes as I teetered over the toilet (without touching it of course).
We then giggled our way out to the sinks and washed and dried our hands. Jen went out the door slightly ahead of me, and I held the door for the girl slightly behind me. She said thank you, and as I stepped into the hallway she grabbed my arm and said "Oh my gosh, I really need to stop you." Drunk and perplexed, I turned around to ask why, but didn't even have to when I followed her gaze down to my foot where a 2-ft. long piece of toilet paper was trailing from the bottom of my shoe.
"OH MY GOD!" I screamed. "Thank you SO much. I can't believe you stopped me. You're a complete stranger!"
"It's no problem," she said. "I had someone do it for me once and I can completely relate to the feeling." She then stepped on the end of the paper, allowing me to break free from it. I wanted to hug her--especially in my happy state. But I settled for a quick "You're the best. Thank you."
The other night I went out to another bar in another city with another group of friends. At some point, after a great many fruity drinks, I stood up and said "I have to pee." I stumbled happily around the corner to find--a line?! Not having the patience or mental stability to hold it, I knocked on the men's room door and said "Chick coming in!" The bathroom was empty, so I bolted in and teetered over the bowl, being EXTRA certain not to touch it. I flushed (with my foot), and went out and washed and dried my hands.
When I got back out to the main floor, two women were heading down the stairs. One of them had a long piece of toilet paper trailing behind her. Suddenly I felt invigorated and sober, and as memories of the kindness of strangers flooded my mind, I bolted after the woman before she descended the stairs.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Ma'am!" Undoubtedly, she was befuddled as to why some crazy white girl was chasing her down, arms flailing. "I can't let you go down like this," I told her, motioning to her shoe.
"Good Lord, darlin'! Thank you so much!" she laughed and howled, and her friend howled with her.
"Go ahead," I said, stepping on the paper. "I got it."
Proudly I stood, foot atop the stray disgusting toilet paper, hands on hips, watching as another victim was saved from the throes of toilet paper humiliation. She worked her way down the staircase, still laughing, and occasionally waving back to me, her savior.
Someday this woman will encounter a hapless sucker, and she too will be revisited by the time some crazy white girl ripped the toilet paper off her shoe. And with any luck, she'll pass it on.
So it really is true. Do unto others as you would have do unto to you...even if it's stuck to the bottom of their shoe.
11.06.2004
it's not what you think.
I have been super busy lately AND the blog site was down for a few days. So I'm sorry I wasn't able to post anything. But to satiate that appetite, I'll give you one of my favorite previously written pieces that I like to call "It's Not What You Think."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"How are you doing?"
"Been better. Long week at work. I’m so tense."
"Yeah, you look tense. Here, sit down."
I sit slowly, looking up at him pleadingly. He walks behind me and starts massaging my shoulders. It feels so good that I just drop my head and enjoy it.
"What’s going on at work?" he asks softly.
"Deadlines," I mumble. "Deadlines and meetings."
"Well why don’t you take off your sweater and lay down, let’s see if we can get rid of some of that stress."
I pick up my drooped head and unbutton my sweater. I slowly take it off and toss it over the arm of a chair. I lean back until I’m lying flat. He is standing beside me looking down and smiling. I close my eyes and sigh.
He takes my hand. His hand is so soft and strong and warm, I feel a shiver of calm go through my body. He stretches my arm up over my head as I open my eyes and let out a gentle moan.
"Is that too much?" he asks.
"No, it feels good."
"Wow. You’re so tight."
"I know, but it feels good. Keep going."
"Why don’t we try with you lying on your stomach instead," he suggests. I roll over and drop my face into the pillow. He moves my hair, then grabs onto my bra strap and slides it over. He grabs my hand again.
"Just relax," he whispers. "Let go."
He leans into me and I feel his weight. I exhale slowly, trying to relax.
"Oh yeah," he says. "This is much better. Do you feel how easy that’s moving?"
"Uh-huh," I groan into the pillow.
"Don’t resist," he tells me. "Just let it happen."
I close my eyes and let go. He adjusts the angle and starts pushing down on me, which hurts, and I whimper.
"Sorry," he whispers. "But you’re making huge progress. Your flexibility and range of motion are improving and I think you’ll have it back in no time."
He straightens out my arm and helps me off the massage table.
"Thanks," I say, rubbing my sore, recovering shoulder. "You're a lot better than my last physical therapist."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"How are you doing?"
"Been better. Long week at work. I’m so tense."
"Yeah, you look tense. Here, sit down."
I sit slowly, looking up at him pleadingly. He walks behind me and starts massaging my shoulders. It feels so good that I just drop my head and enjoy it.
"What’s going on at work?" he asks softly.
"Deadlines," I mumble. "Deadlines and meetings."
"Well why don’t you take off your sweater and lay down, let’s see if we can get rid of some of that stress."
I pick up my drooped head and unbutton my sweater. I slowly take it off and toss it over the arm of a chair. I lean back until I’m lying flat. He is standing beside me looking down and smiling. I close my eyes and sigh.
He takes my hand. His hand is so soft and strong and warm, I feel a shiver of calm go through my body. He stretches my arm up over my head as I open my eyes and let out a gentle moan.
"Is that too much?" he asks.
"No, it feels good."
"Wow. You’re so tight."
"I know, but it feels good. Keep going."
"Why don’t we try with you lying on your stomach instead," he suggests. I roll over and drop my face into the pillow. He moves my hair, then grabs onto my bra strap and slides it over. He grabs my hand again.
"Just relax," he whispers. "Let go."
He leans into me and I feel his weight. I exhale slowly, trying to relax.
"Oh yeah," he says. "This is much better. Do you feel how easy that’s moving?"
"Uh-huh," I groan into the pillow.
"Don’t resist," he tells me. "Just let it happen."
I close my eyes and let go. He adjusts the angle and starts pushing down on me, which hurts, and I whimper.
"Sorry," he whispers. "But you’re making huge progress. Your flexibility and range of motion are improving and I think you’ll have it back in no time."
He straightens out my arm and helps me off the massage table.
"Thanks," I say, rubbing my sore, recovering shoulder. "You're a lot better than my last physical therapist."
11.01.2004
revolving doors 101
Ah, revolving doors. Like elevators and escalators, revolving doors were a certain silly luxury that just wasn't around when I was growing up in smalltucky, MA. My sister was 19 before she finally stopped going "Ooooh! Escalator!" and running over to jump on a moving staircase. As such, I know that not everyone uses these devices every day, and that at first glance they can be quite confusing. But I believe wholeheartedly that they share this in common: GET OUT OF THE WAY.
Rule #1: KEEP MOVING.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to the bank with my friend Carrie. The only entrance to the ATM vestibule is through a revolving door. So I let some Giant Man go first, then myself, then Carrie behind me. Problem was, the Giant Man got out the other side and promptly stopped, standing in the exact spot that I was about to be dumped. My options were to a) do another lap around, and perhaps another, until the Giant Idiot Man got out of the way, or b) step out anyway, and shove his Giant Idiot Ass into a wall, hopefully head first.
Fortunately, I didn't have to do either. I managed to pop out behind him and sort of slink off somehow, wondering like I did all those days going 85mph on 128 how I survived such a near miss. Carrie stumbled out behind me as well, and we both gave the expected Disgusted Grunt and Sigh that another human being could be such a freaking idiot.
Rule #2: NO OVERSIZED OBJECTS.
My office also has revolving doors--three of them. The fact that there are three matters to me because far too often, a line of people develops outside the middle door, each waiting their turn on the wheel, when 10 feet to their left or right sits another door, completely idle.
A few days ago, I was leaving my office when I noticed a funny little man carrying lots of giant heavy bags. He was approaching the revolving door just ahead of me, and I wondered how this would be physically possible, and almost dared not enter the door behind him. The funny little man turned out to be Al Franken (no joke), and sure as the sun shines, as soon as I got into the wheel behind him, his bag smashed into a wall and nearly choked up the whole rotation. He clumsily shuffled his way through to the other side, and I just laughed and shook my head.
All the time people are trying to shuffle through the door with suitcases, boxes, strollers, crutches, etc. This really doesn't work. An ounce of common sense might point you in the right direction, such as the normal swinging door to your left. You can't push a revolving door if your hands are full. It's that simple.
Rule #3: NO CHANGING YOUR MIND.
This rule also relates to high-speed highway driving. I don't care WHAT you do as long as you commit to it. Don't change your mind at the last minute and change lanes, or take an exit, or, well...
Tonight I was leaving work. In front of me, a man. Behind him, his 8-year-old son. Then me, then another man behind me. First Dad went through, then Junior. Then I entered the wheel. Junior thought he'd be cute, and instead of getting out on the other side, he kept going for another lap. (Much like my sister would have done when she was...well, yesterday.)
The man behind me got in the rotation, and as we all took our next step forward, Junior decided he wanted out. Not realizing the door would KEEP ON MOVING, he turned around and extended one arm out, which I knew would be ripped off in a bloody screaming dismemberment accident if I took another step. The boy, realizing his folly, saw me in the glass pane behind him and panicked, which was good only because it caused him to recoil his outstretched arm. The door smashed into him, sending him hurling in his little 1/4 of the cylinder, causing it to slow suddenly, which then caused it to then hit me and the man behind me in a clumsy domino fashion. Being adults, we regained our sense of rhythm and I popped out the other side, followed by the man, then the boy, whose father was now 30 feet away and completely unaware that his child almost lost a limb OR suffered a heinous beating by some girl who just got whacked by the revolving door.
I glared at the kid, then caught the eye of my companion who said, quite wisely, "Fucking kid." I threw my bag back on my shoulder and headed for the subway. One of these days, I tell you. One of these days...
Rule #1: KEEP MOVING.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to the bank with my friend Carrie. The only entrance to the ATM vestibule is through a revolving door. So I let some Giant Man go first, then myself, then Carrie behind me. Problem was, the Giant Man got out the other side and promptly stopped, standing in the exact spot that I was about to be dumped. My options were to a) do another lap around, and perhaps another, until the Giant Idiot Man got out of the way, or b) step out anyway, and shove his Giant Idiot Ass into a wall, hopefully head first.
Fortunately, I didn't have to do either. I managed to pop out behind him and sort of slink off somehow, wondering like I did all those days going 85mph on 128 how I survived such a near miss. Carrie stumbled out behind me as well, and we both gave the expected Disgusted Grunt and Sigh that another human being could be such a freaking idiot.
Rule #2: NO OVERSIZED OBJECTS.
My office also has revolving doors--three of them. The fact that there are three matters to me because far too often, a line of people develops outside the middle door, each waiting their turn on the wheel, when 10 feet to their left or right sits another door, completely idle.
A few days ago, I was leaving my office when I noticed a funny little man carrying lots of giant heavy bags. He was approaching the revolving door just ahead of me, and I wondered how this would be physically possible, and almost dared not enter the door behind him. The funny little man turned out to be Al Franken (no joke), and sure as the sun shines, as soon as I got into the wheel behind him, his bag smashed into a wall and nearly choked up the whole rotation. He clumsily shuffled his way through to the other side, and I just laughed and shook my head.
All the time people are trying to shuffle through the door with suitcases, boxes, strollers, crutches, etc. This really doesn't work. An ounce of common sense might point you in the right direction, such as the normal swinging door to your left. You can't push a revolving door if your hands are full. It's that simple.
Rule #3: NO CHANGING YOUR MIND.
This rule also relates to high-speed highway driving. I don't care WHAT you do as long as you commit to it. Don't change your mind at the last minute and change lanes, or take an exit, or, well...
Tonight I was leaving work. In front of me, a man. Behind him, his 8-year-old son. Then me, then another man behind me. First Dad went through, then Junior. Then I entered the wheel. Junior thought he'd be cute, and instead of getting out on the other side, he kept going for another lap. (Much like my sister would have done when she was...well, yesterday.)
The man behind me got in the rotation, and as we all took our next step forward, Junior decided he wanted out. Not realizing the door would KEEP ON MOVING, he turned around and extended one arm out, which I knew would be ripped off in a bloody screaming dismemberment accident if I took another step. The boy, realizing his folly, saw me in the glass pane behind him and panicked, which was good only because it caused him to recoil his outstretched arm. The door smashed into him, sending him hurling in his little 1/4 of the cylinder, causing it to slow suddenly, which then caused it to then hit me and the man behind me in a clumsy domino fashion. Being adults, we regained our sense of rhythm and I popped out the other side, followed by the man, then the boy, whose father was now 30 feet away and completely unaware that his child almost lost a limb OR suffered a heinous beating by some girl who just got whacked by the revolving door.
I glared at the kid, then caught the eye of my companion who said, quite wisely, "Fucking kid." I threw my bag back on my shoulder and headed for the subway. One of these days, I tell you. One of these days...
10.31.2004
eyes down in the jungle
It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon in New York. It's 70° outside which warrants a tank top despite the fact that for fashion reasons, many are wearing scarves and fuzzy boots. Idiots.
I ran some errands today, including a trip downtown to look at some furniture, as well as to my school library to be reminded that I pay thousands of dollars to deal with incompetent hacks. But after all that, I strolled through the midday sun to the subway station.
As proper subway etiquette demands, I rode with my eyes wandering at nothing in particular. They oscillated from the floor to the overhead advertisements, back to the floor, etc. Then somewhere around 33rd St., I saw a passenger get on who was distinctly familiar. I'd seen him the day before on the street. Something about him was just very distinguishing. How funny to see someone you don't know two times on--
"OW-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, OW-WEEEEEEEE OH WIM OH WAY......"
Oh holy hell. The big black woman next to my familiar friend is belting out tunes at the top of her lungs. Her voice is actually quite spectacular, as are the three men (including my buddy) who are backing her up a capella. But, as proper subway etiquette demands, I must NOT under any circumstance look at or even acknowledge the performance going on three feet to my right.
"In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight......."
This need to look away, you see, amuses me. So I looked at the faces of my straphanging companions, and they were each staring at either the floor, their hands, or the overhead advertisements (really, how many times can you read that Cingular ad?). No one was looking at the singers. I mean, as far as subway intrusions go, this one is actually fairly enjoyable. It's not like the typical urine-smelling one-legged homeless men with a makeshift crutch and coffee can who speaks cordially and always reminds us that Jesus loves us before departing to the next car. Such a character passed through once when I had my mother, sister, and aunt with me on the train, and at the onset of "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please," I instructed my family: "Eyes down immediately. Don't look up. Hold your breath." All in all, boisterous subway singers are relatively bearable.
"OW-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, OW-WEEEEEEEE OH WIM OH WAY......"
I stared at the floor as the subway singers passed down the aisle, led by the guy with the paper bag of coins and single bills donated by compassionate passengers, flanked by a guy holding copies of...their CD? I contemplated digging out a dollar for the bag but my wallet was buried in a bag inside my bag underneath a pile of books. So I just stared at the floor as they passed, wearing the look of shame attributed to those who have money but choose not to share it, which is only slightly assuaged by the look of those who are in grad school and don't have any to share if they want to.
Maybe I'll see that dude on the street again next week. And I can say "Hey, I heard you sing on the 6 train on Sunday. You guys were great. I had no cash at the time but I wanted to donate. Actually, I have no cash now. I'm a grad student, see. I'm pretty broke. But, oh...do you take TransitCheks?"
I ran some errands today, including a trip downtown to look at some furniture, as well as to my school library to be reminded that I pay thousands of dollars to deal with incompetent hacks. But after all that, I strolled through the midday sun to the subway station.
As proper subway etiquette demands, I rode with my eyes wandering at nothing in particular. They oscillated from the floor to the overhead advertisements, back to the floor, etc. Then somewhere around 33rd St., I saw a passenger get on who was distinctly familiar. I'd seen him the day before on the street. Something about him was just very distinguishing. How funny to see someone you don't know two times on--
"OW-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, OW-WEEEEEEEE OH WIM OH WAY......"
Oh holy hell. The big black woman next to my familiar friend is belting out tunes at the top of her lungs. Her voice is actually quite spectacular, as are the three men (including my buddy) who are backing her up a capella. But, as proper subway etiquette demands, I must NOT under any circumstance look at or even acknowledge the performance going on three feet to my right.
"In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight......."
This need to look away, you see, amuses me. So I looked at the faces of my straphanging companions, and they were each staring at either the floor, their hands, or the overhead advertisements (really, how many times can you read that Cingular ad?). No one was looking at the singers. I mean, as far as subway intrusions go, this one is actually fairly enjoyable. It's not like the typical urine-smelling one-legged homeless men with a makeshift crutch and coffee can who speaks cordially and always reminds us that Jesus loves us before departing to the next car. Such a character passed through once when I had my mother, sister, and aunt with me on the train, and at the onset of "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please," I instructed my family: "Eyes down immediately. Don't look up. Hold your breath." All in all, boisterous subway singers are relatively bearable.
"OW-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, OW-WEEEEEEEE OH WIM OH WAY......"
I stared at the floor as the subway singers passed down the aisle, led by the guy with the paper bag of coins and single bills donated by compassionate passengers, flanked by a guy holding copies of...their CD? I contemplated digging out a dollar for the bag but my wallet was buried in a bag inside my bag underneath a pile of books. So I just stared at the floor as they passed, wearing the look of shame attributed to those who have money but choose not to share it, which is only slightly assuaged by the look of those who are in grad school and don't have any to share if they want to.
Maybe I'll see that dude on the street again next week. And I can say "Hey, I heard you sing on the 6 train on Sunday. You guys were great. I had no cash at the time but I wanted to donate. Actually, I have no cash now. I'm a grad student, see. I'm pretty broke. But, oh...do you take TransitCheks?"
10.28.2004
subway conductor from hell.
Just a few short days ago I wrote about my morning commute. I thought it was bad that day: crowded, pushy, and constantly shifting. Well, today it took on another dimension: the subway conductor from hell.
I walked to my station and waited. And waited and waited and waited. The platform filled more and more with each passing minute, eventually 5 to 6 people deep the whole length of the station. Irritated passengers checked their watches and shuffled papers. Finally, the metallic squeal and rumble of the train echoed through the tunnel, the train arrived, and the doors opened.
Now, it turns out yesterday was the NYC subway's 100th anniversary, the big centennial celebration. As part of the festivities, the mayor dug up the grave of some crochety old curmudgeon who drove the subway 100 years ago, and asked him to drive the 6 train downtown this morning. Over the intercom, this crabby beast bellowed very routine announcements, like "Step all the way into the car, and move away from the doors during their closing cycle." People crammed in on top of each other, pushing and shoving, until the conductor warned again "Stay clear of the doors. The doors are closing."
Usually, this is a hollow threat. The computerized voice warns of the doors closing ALL the time while people are still getting OFF the train, and the passengers waiting to board know that no one will shut the door until most people are on. But ah, not today.
At every stop, the conductor warned "I'm closing the doors now!" and slammed them shut, leaving dozens of outspoken new yorkers limbless and speechless on the platforms. "No one's on the train yet!" I heard a trailing voice say. But the cranky conductor continued to lecture us, his captive audience, on how we are only hurting ourselves.
"People. If you hold the doors open, you delay the train. If you delay the train too much and we get behind schedule, we'll start skipping stops. One of them might be yours. STOP HOLDING THE DOORS." We sped and lurched from stop to stop, getting the same warning over and over, each time with a harsher tone than the previous.
Then a new voice came: "Ladies and gentlemen, due to the lateness of this train, it will run express from 14th street to Brooklyn Bridge."
Our conductor: "Copy that. See folks. I told you. Maybe next time you won't hold the doors. There's always another train, so just wait for the next train. Don't delay everyone trying to get on this one." (This was highly illogical considering we were already ON this train and rolling down the tracks.)
People buzzed and moaned at the new disorder of their commute, asking each other which stops would be made before shoulder checking each other and rushing out the door. I felt like a little kid being who was sent to stand in the corner, head hung shamefully even though I didn't personally hold the doors open.
"This train is express people. Express train because YOU held the doors. I tried to tell you, don't hold the doors. But you held the doors, and now we have to skip stops..."
Ah, another happy morning commute on the MTA.
I walked to my station and waited. And waited and waited and waited. The platform filled more and more with each passing minute, eventually 5 to 6 people deep the whole length of the station. Irritated passengers checked their watches and shuffled papers. Finally, the metallic squeal and rumble of the train echoed through the tunnel, the train arrived, and the doors opened.
Now, it turns out yesterday was the NYC subway's 100th anniversary, the big centennial celebration. As part of the festivities, the mayor dug up the grave of some crochety old curmudgeon who drove the subway 100 years ago, and asked him to drive the 6 train downtown this morning. Over the intercom, this crabby beast bellowed very routine announcements, like "Step all the way into the car, and move away from the doors during their closing cycle." People crammed in on top of each other, pushing and shoving, until the conductor warned again "Stay clear of the doors. The doors are closing."
Usually, this is a hollow threat. The computerized voice warns of the doors closing ALL the time while people are still getting OFF the train, and the passengers waiting to board know that no one will shut the door until most people are on. But ah, not today.
At every stop, the conductor warned "I'm closing the doors now!" and slammed them shut, leaving dozens of outspoken new yorkers limbless and speechless on the platforms. "No one's on the train yet!" I heard a trailing voice say. But the cranky conductor continued to lecture us, his captive audience, on how we are only hurting ourselves.
"People. If you hold the doors open, you delay the train. If you delay the train too much and we get behind schedule, we'll start skipping stops. One of them might be yours. STOP HOLDING THE DOORS." We sped and lurched from stop to stop, getting the same warning over and over, each time with a harsher tone than the previous.
Then a new voice came: "Ladies and gentlemen, due to the lateness of this train, it will run express from 14th street to Brooklyn Bridge."
Our conductor: "Copy that. See folks. I told you. Maybe next time you won't hold the doors. There's always another train, so just wait for the next train. Don't delay everyone trying to get on this one." (This was highly illogical considering we were already ON this train and rolling down the tracks.)
People buzzed and moaned at the new disorder of their commute, asking each other which stops would be made before shoulder checking each other and rushing out the door. I felt like a little kid being who was sent to stand in the corner, head hung shamefully even though I didn't personally hold the doors open.
"This train is express people. Express train because YOU held the doors. I tried to tell you, don't hold the doors. But you held the doors, and now we have to skip stops..."
Ah, another happy morning commute on the MTA.
10.26.2004
new york's not-so-supermarkets
Many years ago when I came often to New York to visit, I was surprised by the size of the supermarkets here. I'm used to New England's sprawling Stop & Shops, expansive Market Baskets, and the tiniest store--Omni Foods--still had at least 10 aisles.
Well, in New York, things are different. Real estate is hard to come buy, especially in one solid wide-open chunk. Most of the food stores are crammed into tight corners, so shelf space is limited. So instead of 15 boxes of 15 different kind of cereal, you get 3 boxes of 5 different kinds of cereal--take it or leave it.
Because of the tight space, the markets get creative with their layout. You may go to the end of the aisle only to find a small doorway that looks like the portal to hell, when in reality it leads to canned goods and frozen vegetables. This takes some getting used to, because in this city you don't always want to be poking your nose in through suspicious doorways.
So now that I moved to my new apartment, I decided to check out the Gristede's Megastore near me. I thought "mega in comparison to what? the shoebox I used to shop in?" The store is on the basement floor of a building. You go down stairs to get in. There's a giant cow who greets you at the door and says something about having a moooooving experience. (I bet that gets REALLY annoying after a while.)
So I got past the cow, and grab a little hand basket. I saw aisles in front of me, and registers to my left. I made a mental note so I knew where to check out later. Then I walked down the aisle and found this whole huge store! A big deli, rows upon rows of food, I couldn't believe it. But, when I walked down the aisles, I realized that they all sort of looped into each other, and no matter which path I took, I couldn't find the eggs.
It felt a little like that movie Labyrinth, except without David Bowie in tights. Every time I turned around a new aisle appeared. I was certain little goblins were running around behind me swapping the baking needs with the cat food. Then this wormhole appeared, and I walked down it into this giant refrigerated palace. There were vegetables and lots of cheese and oh! eggs! I walked around a few times before realizing the only way out was the way I came in, so I clicked my heels together three times and woke up back at the deli, where the kind man was slicing cheese for me and offering a piece for free. "Mangia," he said. And mangia I did.
Thanks to the trail of breadcrumbs I left, I eventually found my way back to the checkout where I stood listening to the cow and his "mooooving experience." I was asked the standard questions: "one bag or two?" (which replaces the suburban query of "paper or plastic?"), followed by "debit or credit?" I carried my double-bagged goods out past the cow, up the stairs, and strolled back home feeling good about my time-travel to the Gristede's Megastore.
Well, in New York, things are different. Real estate is hard to come buy, especially in one solid wide-open chunk. Most of the food stores are crammed into tight corners, so shelf space is limited. So instead of 15 boxes of 15 different kind of cereal, you get 3 boxes of 5 different kinds of cereal--take it or leave it.
Because of the tight space, the markets get creative with their layout. You may go to the end of the aisle only to find a small doorway that looks like the portal to hell, when in reality it leads to canned goods and frozen vegetables. This takes some getting used to, because in this city you don't always want to be poking your nose in through suspicious doorways.
So now that I moved to my new apartment, I decided to check out the Gristede's Megastore near me. I thought "mega in comparison to what? the shoebox I used to shop in?" The store is on the basement floor of a building. You go down stairs to get in. There's a giant cow who greets you at the door and says something about having a moooooving experience. (I bet that gets REALLY annoying after a while.)
So I got past the cow, and grab a little hand basket. I saw aisles in front of me, and registers to my left. I made a mental note so I knew where to check out later. Then I walked down the aisle and found this whole huge store! A big deli, rows upon rows of food, I couldn't believe it. But, when I walked down the aisles, I realized that they all sort of looped into each other, and no matter which path I took, I couldn't find the eggs.
It felt a little like that movie Labyrinth, except without David Bowie in tights. Every time I turned around a new aisle appeared. I was certain little goblins were running around behind me swapping the baking needs with the cat food. Then this wormhole appeared, and I walked down it into this giant refrigerated palace. There were vegetables and lots of cheese and oh! eggs! I walked around a few times before realizing the only way out was the way I came in, so I clicked my heels together three times and woke up back at the deli, where the kind man was slicing cheese for me and offering a piece for free. "Mangia," he said. And mangia I did.
Thanks to the trail of breadcrumbs I left, I eventually found my way back to the checkout where I stood listening to the cow and his "mooooving experience." I was asked the standard questions: "one bag or two?" (which replaces the suburban query of "paper or plastic?"), followed by "debit or credit?" I carried my double-bagged goods out past the cow, up the stairs, and strolled back home feeling good about my time-travel to the Gristede's Megastore.
10.24.2004
three cheers for Sven and Olaf.
Today I moved into my new apartment. Being all alone in a big city and having no family to beg for help, I hired movers that I found on craigslist. Olga, the woman who answered the email, told me I'd get "two young, strong men" and a truck for two hours for the bargain price of $120. How can you argue with that?
At 9:55 I waited for my movers to show. At 10:15, I called Olga. "Zey are late," she told me. "Zey had ze probelem wiz de trahk. Zey are in Manhattan. Zey vill be dere soon." They showed up at 10:45, which was annoying but not a problem. I used the extra time to finish packing the stuff that I was afraid I'd have to leave behind anyway.
So in came two tall middle-aged Russian men, who I have dubbed Sven and Olaf. Sven was tall and thin, Olaf was short and built. Without speaking a word, Sven handed me a pen and through gestures and grunts instructed me approve the start time of 10:50. Olaf was already going up and down the stairs with the boxes I'd left in the hall.
As my Russian Workhorses trampled up and down the stairs, I kept pushing other boxes into the hall. Without ever speaking, box after box after box disappeared. Then the bookshelf, then the dresser, then the desk. In less than an hour, they'd emptied my belongings into the back of a beat-up old yellow truck, which was sitting on the street unguarded while a she-cop scribbled a ticket for meter violation. Sven and Olaf then said "You vant ride?"
I answered "Is there room?" Their truck appeared to be a 2-seater, but they both insisted--again through gestures and broken english--that we could all fit. Sven jumped in the drivers seat, and Olaf jumped in the passenger's seat before sliding into the middle, a very mickey-moused third cushion. So I hopped into the passenger's seat and folded my hands in my lap.
"Please," Olaf said, gesturing to the seat belt. I buckled up and said thank you. Sven checked the address again, and I confirmed it. We were there in 3 minutes. I unlocked the new doors and watched as Sven and Olaf unloaded my belongings even faster than they'd loaded them. (I credit the easier staircase.)
They were done by 12:35...less than two hours. I paid and tipped Sven (Olaf was now down guarding the empty truck), and he asked "You vant help wis de bed?"
I considered it, but had no more money to give him for a tip, plus I hadn't decided yet where I'd put the bed. So I said "It's okay, I've got it."
"Yes?" asked Sven.
"Yes," I said.
So he put down his papers and pen, and started assembling my bed frame. I just shrugged and helped him. Then I thanked him several times before he nodded in a stern Russian way and went downstairs to join Olaf.
All in all, I gotta say, these Russian stallions were the best money I have spent in a long time. They may not have been the "young" men that I was expecting, but they were strong, fast, and got my boxspring back out the bedroom window withOUT the use of rope, which really impressed me. Here, here. Three cheers for Sven and Olaf.
At 9:55 I waited for my movers to show. At 10:15, I called Olga. "Zey are late," she told me. "Zey had ze probelem wiz de trahk. Zey are in Manhattan. Zey vill be dere soon." They showed up at 10:45, which was annoying but not a problem. I used the extra time to finish packing the stuff that I was afraid I'd have to leave behind anyway.
So in came two tall middle-aged Russian men, who I have dubbed Sven and Olaf. Sven was tall and thin, Olaf was short and built. Without speaking a word, Sven handed me a pen and through gestures and grunts instructed me approve the start time of 10:50. Olaf was already going up and down the stairs with the boxes I'd left in the hall.
As my Russian Workhorses trampled up and down the stairs, I kept pushing other boxes into the hall. Without ever speaking, box after box after box disappeared. Then the bookshelf, then the dresser, then the desk. In less than an hour, they'd emptied my belongings into the back of a beat-up old yellow truck, which was sitting on the street unguarded while a she-cop scribbled a ticket for meter violation. Sven and Olaf then said "You vant ride?"
I answered "Is there room?" Their truck appeared to be a 2-seater, but they both insisted--again through gestures and broken english--that we could all fit. Sven jumped in the drivers seat, and Olaf jumped in the passenger's seat before sliding into the middle, a very mickey-moused third cushion. So I hopped into the passenger's seat and folded my hands in my lap.
"Please," Olaf said, gesturing to the seat belt. I buckled up and said thank you. Sven checked the address again, and I confirmed it. We were there in 3 minutes. I unlocked the new doors and watched as Sven and Olaf unloaded my belongings even faster than they'd loaded them. (I credit the easier staircase.)
They were done by 12:35...less than two hours. I paid and tipped Sven (Olaf was now down guarding the empty truck), and he asked "You vant help wis de bed?"
I considered it, but had no more money to give him for a tip, plus I hadn't decided yet where I'd put the bed. So I said "It's okay, I've got it."
"Yes?" asked Sven.
"Yes," I said.
So he put down his papers and pen, and started assembling my bed frame. I just shrugged and helped him. Then I thanked him several times before he nodded in a stern Russian way and went downstairs to join Olaf.
All in all, I gotta say, these Russian stallions were the best money I have spent in a long time. They may not have been the "young" men that I was expecting, but they were strong, fast, and got my boxspring back out the bedroom window withOUT the use of rope, which really impressed me. Here, here. Three cheers for Sven and Olaf.
10.22.2004
if you don't have something nice to say...
This week has been a rough one for many people. I know that. But I think it has been an exceptionally rough week for me. Why? Well, for starters, I am suffering the stress of packing and moving to my new apartment. Therefore I get little sleep and don't eat much. Also, I had a Very Bad Influence take me out past 4am on Monday/Tuesday, which, although it's my own fault, really sucked for the rest of the week. (But hey, a girl's gotta have fun, right?) So once you add late baseball watching into the mix, I'm just a freaking mess.
So at some point, maybe Wednesday, I woke up and looked in the mirror and saw an 85-year-old looking back at me. I had dark circles under my eyes and wrinkles around my mouth. I hoped that the lighting was just bad, or that I just needed a shower, but in the end it freaked me out very badly.
When I got to work that morning, I asked one of the married guys if I looked old and tired. He said no, that I looked like any other 30-year-old. After I told him several times that I was only 25, which he refused to believe, I took it to mean that I DO look as old and tired as I feel. But I forgave him for falling into my trap. He doesn't know any better.
So then yesterday I went over to ask another co-worker something. She's been working here as long as I've been alive (no joke). Her first words, in a faint slavic accent, were "Have you been reading all day?" My answer should have been "Yes, of course. I'm an editor, after all. That's what I do, read." But in reality I'd been online all day looking for furniture on Ikea, so I didn't know where she was going.
"You look really tired," she continued. "You have dark spots under your eyes. You must be reading a lot."
Now, I know that in some cultures it's completely acceptable to insult you. They call it "honesty," but it's just another way of saying "You look like shit and I'm going to tell you so." For example, many years ago my Chinese professor stopped in the middle of class and said, "Hui Min (me), you are looking fat." After I beat her up and got thrown out of school, I transferred out and dropped the weight.
Now it's happening again. I have dark spots under my eyes, which I'd rather hoped were a figment of either bad lighting or my sick imagination, but it turns out everyone can see them, especially under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office, which apparently adds 5-7 years.
Didn't their mommas ever tell them? If you don't have anything nice to say, then shut the fuck up or I'm going to kick your ass.
So at some point, maybe Wednesday, I woke up and looked in the mirror and saw an 85-year-old looking back at me. I had dark circles under my eyes and wrinkles around my mouth. I hoped that the lighting was just bad, or that I just needed a shower, but in the end it freaked me out very badly.
When I got to work that morning, I asked one of the married guys if I looked old and tired. He said no, that I looked like any other 30-year-old. After I told him several times that I was only 25, which he refused to believe, I took it to mean that I DO look as old and tired as I feel. But I forgave him for falling into my trap. He doesn't know any better.
So then yesterday I went over to ask another co-worker something. She's been working here as long as I've been alive (no joke). Her first words, in a faint slavic accent, were "Have you been reading all day?" My answer should have been "Yes, of course. I'm an editor, after all. That's what I do, read." But in reality I'd been online all day looking for furniture on Ikea, so I didn't know where she was going.
"You look really tired," she continued. "You have dark spots under your eyes. You must be reading a lot."
Now, I know that in some cultures it's completely acceptable to insult you. They call it "honesty," but it's just another way of saying "You look like shit and I'm going to tell you so." For example, many years ago my Chinese professor stopped in the middle of class and said, "Hui Min (me), you are looking fat." After I beat her up and got thrown out of school, I transferred out and dropped the weight.
Now it's happening again. I have dark spots under my eyes, which I'd rather hoped were a figment of either bad lighting or my sick imagination, but it turns out everyone can see them, especially under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office, which apparently adds 5-7 years.
Didn't their mommas ever tell them? If you don't have anything nice to say, then shut the fuck up or I'm going to kick your ass.
10.18.2004
it's not easy being a girl...in tights.
Autumn is finally upon us. The temperature in New York quickly plunged from gorgeous mid-70s to chilly mid-50s. I have been taking my mild sedatives that I use to force away thoughts of oncoming winter, but I've also been wearing a lot of skirts. And skirts in the fall require tights.
I have a whole drawer full of tights. Solid colors, prints, patterns--a nice variety. And I love what tights do for an outfit. I just hate what they do to me.
Take, for example, two weeks ago. I bought a new pair of cute red tights with a criss-cross pattern, and wore them on the day I had to do a presentation in class. I got through the general hour-by-hour struggle of pulling them up and down, got to class early, and decided I should pee before my presentation. So I went in the ladies' room, did my thing, and when I went to pull the tights back up, my finger went right through them, making a nice hole midway up my right leg that was definitely above my boot line and below my skirt line. There it was, a giant gaping hole, 10 minutes before I had to stand in front of the class and speak. GREAT. Like other things in life, I got through it. I put a sticker of the Poky Little Puppy on the hole and called it part of the presentation.
Today, now, I'm wearing tights again. Different tights, yes. But no less frustrating. Only recently have designers figured out that the torso portion of tights are just all wrong for women. Right now I've got mine pulled right up under my bra, which is necessary to avoid having a roll of stretchy fabric right around my waist. Of course, they don't stay up under my bra like they should. Instead, they slide down until they find a roll of fat, and cling to the groove, thus enhancing my ripply non-hourglass shape. So I do a lot of tugging and pulling, up, then down, then up again, hoping no one catches me in the act.
Then there's always the length issue. Sometimes if they are too short OR to baggy, you walk around all day with the crotch at your knees, waddling around like some sort of duck person. Or if they are too long, not only can you pull them up over your head, but in an ironic twist of spandex, material gathers and bunches at the knees and ankles, and you look ridiculously wrinkly.
I really don't know why I put myself through this day after day, year after year. I try to convince myself it's cute or sexy or something. But I think it's in my head. What guy is going to want to come over and try to figure out where the top of the tights end? "My god," he'll say. "Are they up to your bra?" And I'll have to say "Yes, and also bunched at my knees. Prrr baby, prrr. Take me now. But don't rip them."
I have a whole drawer full of tights. Solid colors, prints, patterns--a nice variety. And I love what tights do for an outfit. I just hate what they do to me.
Take, for example, two weeks ago. I bought a new pair of cute red tights with a criss-cross pattern, and wore them on the day I had to do a presentation in class. I got through the general hour-by-hour struggle of pulling them up and down, got to class early, and decided I should pee before my presentation. So I went in the ladies' room, did my thing, and when I went to pull the tights back up, my finger went right through them, making a nice hole midway up my right leg that was definitely above my boot line and below my skirt line. There it was, a giant gaping hole, 10 minutes before I had to stand in front of the class and speak. GREAT. Like other things in life, I got through it. I put a sticker of the Poky Little Puppy on the hole and called it part of the presentation.
Today, now, I'm wearing tights again. Different tights, yes. But no less frustrating. Only recently have designers figured out that the torso portion of tights are just all wrong for women. Right now I've got mine pulled right up under my bra, which is necessary to avoid having a roll of stretchy fabric right around my waist. Of course, they don't stay up under my bra like they should. Instead, they slide down until they find a roll of fat, and cling to the groove, thus enhancing my ripply non-hourglass shape. So I do a lot of tugging and pulling, up, then down, then up again, hoping no one catches me in the act.
Then there's always the length issue. Sometimes if they are too short OR to baggy, you walk around all day with the crotch at your knees, waddling around like some sort of duck person. Or if they are too long, not only can you pull them up over your head, but in an ironic twist of spandex, material gathers and bunches at the knees and ankles, and you look ridiculously wrinkly.
I really don't know why I put myself through this day after day, year after year. I try to convince myself it's cute or sexy or something. But I think it's in my head. What guy is going to want to come over and try to figure out where the top of the tights end? "My god," he'll say. "Are they up to your bra?" And I'll have to say "Yes, and also bunched at my knees. Prrr baby, prrr. Take me now. But don't rip them."
10.15.2004
ding dong! EDF calling!
Okay people. This story is not for the weak of stomach nor those who wish not to know me well. This is definitely in the category of "things I didn't need to know about Stephanie."
Many moons ago, I sent an email out to a few family members and close friends about something I call the EDF. Now, the original email cannot be found, and I've long wanted to re-create it. But, I thought, I should wait until I'm "inspired" again, or it will be lacking that sense of pain and urgency. Well, guess what. It's your lucky fucking day. I'm "inspired."
See, when I was a kid growing up, my mom told me about the tooth fairy, and santa claus, and the easter bunny. There were all these fairy tale figures who brought goodness and joy (and money and chocolate) at night while I slept. But what she never warned me about was the bastard step-child of the fairy tale world: the Explosive Diarrhea Fairy (or EDF for short).
The EDF, unlike other creatures, comes not only at night, but really any time he damn well pleases. He's a small, fat, blading, burly man who shows a plumber's crack at all times. He's omnipresent, lurking around corners and in shadows, watching carefully what you eat, and waiting for the most inopportune moment possible to wave his warped little wand and put a an evil spell of the trots on you. He knows, for example, when I've eaten Mexican or Thai food, gives me about 20 minutes to think I'll be okay, then Poof!
The EDF's spell creates what is essentially an express canal that bypasses all 30 feet of intestinal fortress and directly connects your stomach to your ass. The express canal, when opened, means that within about 30 minutes of eating, you'll be shitting your brains out for no apparent reason. This is the deranged humor of the EDF.
And to add insult to injury, he throws in a little pre-game show in which you must sit and suffer hot flash, cold flash, hot flash, cold flash, wondering why you are sweating/freezing until you feel a gastrointestinal rumble that you know ain't natural. And while you dab at your sweaty brow with a towel, fanning yourself and drinking water, the EDF lurks from afar, waiting to see your EDM (Explosive Diarrhea March) down the hallway, cheeks clenched, as you barge into the bathroom and drop an EDB (Explosive Diarrhea Bomb), consequently clearing out the whole floor and being heretofore known as "the one with the stank ass."
So here I sit, just coming off a hot flash but now shivering, knowing that the EDF is about to strike again. If you see me doing the EDM down the hall, please, evacuate the premises, and if you see the EDF anywhere, tell him I'm coming to kick his ass...as soon as I get off the can.
Many moons ago, I sent an email out to a few family members and close friends about something I call the EDF. Now, the original email cannot be found, and I've long wanted to re-create it. But, I thought, I should wait until I'm "inspired" again, or it will be lacking that sense of pain and urgency. Well, guess what. It's your lucky fucking day. I'm "inspired."
See, when I was a kid growing up, my mom told me about the tooth fairy, and santa claus, and the easter bunny. There were all these fairy tale figures who brought goodness and joy (and money and chocolate) at night while I slept. But what she never warned me about was the bastard step-child of the fairy tale world: the Explosive Diarrhea Fairy (or EDF for short).
The EDF, unlike other creatures, comes not only at night, but really any time he damn well pleases. He's a small, fat, blading, burly man who shows a plumber's crack at all times. He's omnipresent, lurking around corners and in shadows, watching carefully what you eat, and waiting for the most inopportune moment possible to wave his warped little wand and put a an evil spell of the trots on you. He knows, for example, when I've eaten Mexican or Thai food, gives me about 20 minutes to think I'll be okay, then Poof!
The EDF's spell creates what is essentially an express canal that bypasses all 30 feet of intestinal fortress and directly connects your stomach to your ass. The express canal, when opened, means that within about 30 minutes of eating, you'll be shitting your brains out for no apparent reason. This is the deranged humor of the EDF.
And to add insult to injury, he throws in a little pre-game show in which you must sit and suffer hot flash, cold flash, hot flash, cold flash, wondering why you are sweating/freezing until you feel a gastrointestinal rumble that you know ain't natural. And while you dab at your sweaty brow with a towel, fanning yourself and drinking water, the EDF lurks from afar, waiting to see your EDM (Explosive Diarrhea March) down the hallway, cheeks clenched, as you barge into the bathroom and drop an EDB (Explosive Diarrhea Bomb), consequently clearing out the whole floor and being heretofore known as "the one with the stank ass."
So here I sit, just coming off a hot flash but now shivering, knowing that the EDF is about to strike again. If you see me doing the EDM down the hall, please, evacuate the premises, and if you see the EDF anywhere, tell him I'm coming to kick his ass...as soon as I get off the can.
10.13.2004
the morning rush hour subway shuffle
This morning, like many others before it, I have gotten to the subway station to see a massive crowd. I'm not talking ON the train--this is still upstairs, outside, on the street. A huge throng of people just stands around the stairwell trying to get down while trying not to spill coffee, step in gum or poop, and dodge the newspaper vendors who shove the Metro or AM New York in your face. This is my morning.
I finally get down the stairs but not without severe frustration with the slow ass woman in front of me who takes each step with two feet. I can't get around her because the other "lane" is moving too fast and I can't break around. So I wait...for her...to get...to...the bottom. Then I blast around her and try to pick a turnstile that doesn't look problematic. (By problematic, I mean "not functional" or "has a woman with a giant suitcase getting stuck.")
Once through the turnstile, I must walk about 50 feet to the left to the spot behind the last support column. This gets me on the front of the second-to-last car on the train, which will drop me off right in front of the exit turnstiles at my destination. You may think I sound crazy or neurotic, but if you do, you are not from New York. All New Yorkers do this. It is a sense acquired over time, mostly through trial and error. (More likely error.)
So the train arrives, and it's one of those oh-shit-it's-really-full trains. Sometimes the conductor will announce "there is another train directly behind us" so that people won't unnecessarily over-crowd. But when no such announcement is declared, it's every man, woman, and oversized shoulder bag for themselves.
Today I got on. I was second-to-last, followed only by the man with a giant mop-bucket on wheels, complete with mop, who proved to be a real complication. I'm sure that I, very similarly, piss people off with my giant backpack, which is stuffed fat with school books and pretty shoes. Most of the time, only I OR my backpack can fit comfortably. Making room for both of us is not easy. But I found a way, and I grabbed onto the vertical rail even though it resulted in my elbow being about 1/2" from some guys face. (Not my fault. He should be taller.)
The train gassed and lurched, rumbling to the first stop. Two people got off and 43 got on, including a very diminutive pushy bitch who, at half my height, shoved me and my backpack into the guy next to me so she could hold onto the rail. The train gassed and lurched, rumbling to the second stop. Six people got off, including a guy next to me. So I took his vacant spot away from the diminutive pushy bitch, and 87 people got on. The train gassed and lurched, rumbling to the third stop (halfway there). Three people got off, including the guy next to me, so I slid over and took his spot, despite the fact it was burying me in the back of the train.
This continued for three more stops, each one allowing more people on than off. Eventually I was wedged in against two other women, all of us staring at each other's armpits and trying not to eat each other's hair. I braced for the tricky curve in the tracks between 42nd and 33rd, and prayed no one behind me would fly into me. And when we stopped at 33rd street, the doors opened, and Mr. Mop and Bucket man stood there blocking the exit for the 2.3 million people who were trying to get off the train. So, quite simply, we carried him out with us.
So, as mentioned, I disembark the train directly in front of the exit turnstiles, which actually double as the entrance turnstiles for the unfortunate souls on the other side who want to get ON the train. Hundreds and hundreds of people click through the gates and rush up one of two staircases, but inevitably, the staircases get backed up. If I'm really lucky, I'm the first or second one on the stairs, and I can charge full speed to the top and avoid the crush of anxious passengers. But today I was not lucky, thanks to Mr. Mop and Bucket, and stood at the bottom waiting for my chance to enter.
The staircase is three people wide. This means two rows of people going up, and, if we're feeling generous, one row for people going down. But it's tough, especially in the middle row (which I'm usually in because it's like the passing lane on the highway), because you've got elbows flying at you from the right, duffle bags and hot coffee from the left, and you must maintain speed so that you don't a) walk into the person's ass in front of you or b) get your ass walked into by the person behind you. Slow and steady, everyone climbs, until you get to the top and the Metro and AM New York newspaper vendors shove their products in your face before you are finally free.
After that, well, it's just a quick jaunt across the street before the Elevator Roulette begins.
I finally get down the stairs but not without severe frustration with the slow ass woman in front of me who takes each step with two feet. I can't get around her because the other "lane" is moving too fast and I can't break around. So I wait...for her...to get...to...the bottom. Then I blast around her and try to pick a turnstile that doesn't look problematic. (By problematic, I mean "not functional" or "has a woman with a giant suitcase getting stuck.")
Once through the turnstile, I must walk about 50 feet to the left to the spot behind the last support column. This gets me on the front of the second-to-last car on the train, which will drop me off right in front of the exit turnstiles at my destination. You may think I sound crazy or neurotic, but if you do, you are not from New York. All New Yorkers do this. It is a sense acquired over time, mostly through trial and error. (More likely error.)
So the train arrives, and it's one of those oh-shit-it's-really-full trains. Sometimes the conductor will announce "there is another train directly behind us" so that people won't unnecessarily over-crowd. But when no such announcement is declared, it's every man, woman, and oversized shoulder bag for themselves.
Today I got on. I was second-to-last, followed only by the man with a giant mop-bucket on wheels, complete with mop, who proved to be a real complication. I'm sure that I, very similarly, piss people off with my giant backpack, which is stuffed fat with school books and pretty shoes. Most of the time, only I OR my backpack can fit comfortably. Making room for both of us is not easy. But I found a way, and I grabbed onto the vertical rail even though it resulted in my elbow being about 1/2" from some guys face. (Not my fault. He should be taller.)
The train gassed and lurched, rumbling to the first stop. Two people got off and 43 got on, including a very diminutive pushy bitch who, at half my height, shoved me and my backpack into the guy next to me so she could hold onto the rail. The train gassed and lurched, rumbling to the second stop. Six people got off, including a guy next to me. So I took his vacant spot away from the diminutive pushy bitch, and 87 people got on. The train gassed and lurched, rumbling to the third stop (halfway there). Three people got off, including the guy next to me, so I slid over and took his spot, despite the fact it was burying me in the back of the train.
This continued for three more stops, each one allowing more people on than off. Eventually I was wedged in against two other women, all of us staring at each other's armpits and trying not to eat each other's hair. I braced for the tricky curve in the tracks between 42nd and 33rd, and prayed no one behind me would fly into me. And when we stopped at 33rd street, the doors opened, and Mr. Mop and Bucket man stood there blocking the exit for the 2.3 million people who were trying to get off the train. So, quite simply, we carried him out with us.
So, as mentioned, I disembark the train directly in front of the exit turnstiles, which actually double as the entrance turnstiles for the unfortunate souls on the other side who want to get ON the train. Hundreds and hundreds of people click through the gates and rush up one of two staircases, but inevitably, the staircases get backed up. If I'm really lucky, I'm the first or second one on the stairs, and I can charge full speed to the top and avoid the crush of anxious passengers. But today I was not lucky, thanks to Mr. Mop and Bucket, and stood at the bottom waiting for my chance to enter.
The staircase is three people wide. This means two rows of people going up, and, if we're feeling generous, one row for people going down. But it's tough, especially in the middle row (which I'm usually in because it's like the passing lane on the highway), because you've got elbows flying at you from the right, duffle bags and hot coffee from the left, and you must maintain speed so that you don't a) walk into the person's ass in front of you or b) get your ass walked into by the person behind you. Slow and steady, everyone climbs, until you get to the top and the Metro and AM New York newspaper vendors shove their products in your face before you are finally free.
After that, well, it's just a quick jaunt across the street before the Elevator Roulette begins.
10.12.2004
hey baby. what's your screen name?
It has just occurred to me that in modern day flirting and dating rituals, no one cares about phone numbers anymore. I mean, it's really not that far-fetched for a guy to walk up to you at a bar and say "Hey baby, what's your screen name? Maybe I can IM you sometime." We then scribble down undiscernable characters on napkins, noting when we mean 1 instead of L, or zero instead of o, saying "It's a capital P. It's case-sensitive," and go home to wait for a message.
The IM is a sort of middle ground between just meeting and making the first call. It's relatively low-risk, informal, and easy. It's kind of like an e-version of getting coffee. I mean, there's none of that nervousness surrounding the first phone call. No sweaty palms, no rehearsed conversations testing our vocal aloofness. Just a quick little "R U there?" and voila, UR on UR way. You can even send those silly little kissy smiley faces for added value.
So, you know, don't knock it. There's something to this whole pseudo-flirty impersonal IM thing. I mean, you can still give out a fake if you don't like someone, but you don't even have to! You can just block them off your list (and hope they aren't psychotic and have 50 other names by which to stalk you). Really, this is perfect. And who knows, if things go well, at the end of the chat you can turn it up a notch and give them your email address.
The IM is a sort of middle ground between just meeting and making the first call. It's relatively low-risk, informal, and easy. It's kind of like an e-version of getting coffee. I mean, there's none of that nervousness surrounding the first phone call. No sweaty palms, no rehearsed conversations testing our vocal aloofness. Just a quick little "R U there?" and voila, UR on UR way. You can even send those silly little kissy smiley faces for added value.
So, you know, don't knock it. There's something to this whole pseudo-flirty impersonal IM thing. I mean, you can still give out a fake if you don't like someone, but you don't even have to! You can just block them off your list (and hope they aren't psychotic and have 50 other names by which to stalk you). Really, this is perfect. And who knows, if things go well, at the end of the chat you can turn it up a notch and give them your email address.
10.09.2004
dangers of night-time strolls in New York
The other night, I was walking home fairly late down a dimly-lit street. As I was walking, it occurred to me that this might be a vulnerable situation for me. Single young woman walking the city streets at night?
Well, about 12 seconds later I realized the REAL risk. I wasn't worried about someone jumping out of the darkness to mug or attack me. I was worried that in the darkness, I couldn't see the dog shit so I could avoid it.
Even on the brightest of days, I walk with my head down. Am I sad? No. Self-esteem problems? No. I am trying very hard not to step in dog shit. These idiot people with their poopy dogs...WHY don't they pick up after them? The whole time I'm walking (during the day) I can see smears where someone stepped in a pile of crap, and then the 3 or 4 subsequent dragged-foot strides they took to wipe it back off.
But at night? Oh, so so risky. Shadows are cast by blowing leaves under street lights. In a moment, a dark spot appears beneath your potential footfall. You must decide--instantly--whether to plant your foot or make an emergency sidestep that could result in a loss of balance or ankle injury...or worse--another pile of dog shit.
So I'm thinking I might start walking with a flashlight. That way, if for some reason my sharp smelling abilities should fail me, I can walk down the sidewalk with just a little more piece of mind over a piece of crap.
Well, about 12 seconds later I realized the REAL risk. I wasn't worried about someone jumping out of the darkness to mug or attack me. I was worried that in the darkness, I couldn't see the dog shit so I could avoid it.
Even on the brightest of days, I walk with my head down. Am I sad? No. Self-esteem problems? No. I am trying very hard not to step in dog shit. These idiot people with their poopy dogs...WHY don't they pick up after them? The whole time I'm walking (during the day) I can see smears where someone stepped in a pile of crap, and then the 3 or 4 subsequent dragged-foot strides they took to wipe it back off.
But at night? Oh, so so risky. Shadows are cast by blowing leaves under street lights. In a moment, a dark spot appears beneath your potential footfall. You must decide--instantly--whether to plant your foot or make an emergency sidestep that could result in a loss of balance or ankle injury...or worse--another pile of dog shit.
So I'm thinking I might start walking with a flashlight. That way, if for some reason my sharp smelling abilities should fail me, I can walk down the sidewalk with just a little more piece of mind over a piece of crap.
10.05.2004
can't a girl catch a break? or at least the sugar?
I had a rough day. I know it's only Tuesday, but still. A ROUGH Tuesday.
I left class mentally and emotional exhausted. I rode the subway home and almost forgot to get off because I quite simply didn't know where I was. I walked home in the dark, my feet sore and aching from the self-inflicted torture of giant boots with giant heels worn fruitlessly in the hopes that some hot guy at work would come over and say "Hey, Tiffany, I wanna get wid you." All I wanted to do is get home, take my boots off, eat dinner, and go to sleep.
So I get home. I check the mail for my shitty credit card offers and obnoxious catalogs. I trudge up the steep stairs in my steep boots, and unlock the door. It sticks, but my hands are full, so I push it open with my head which hurts AND looks stupid to the neighbors who are spying on me through their peephole. I sigh, and throw my bags on the bed, and put my hair in a ponytail, and take off my boots. I even wrap my still-slightly-injured foot with a bandage. Aaah, sweet relief.
I open the fridge and all the cabinets to take inventory for my dinner options. I want simple. I want easy. I want quick. I see eggs, bread, cheese, pasta, peanut butter, milk, cheese, and cheerios. 'Mmm," I think. "Cheerios."
So I pour a giant bowl of Cheerios and feel my anxieties fade as I retreat into a hearty bowl of childhood simplicity. I add the milk, then think I want toast too, with cinnamon and sugar. Cinnamon and sugar make me happy. So I throw a couple slices of bread into the toaster, then grab a spoon, and take a giant crunchy bite of O's. Mmmm.
I go back into the fridge and take out the butter. I add it to the 18 square-inch counter space my kitchen has to offer, half of which is taken up with a toaster oven, unused coffee maker, and cookbooks. I open the cabinet and reach in for the cinnamon, which starts a chain reaction of disaster.
First, the cinnamon knocks over the salt shaker. The salt shaker seems to believe it should be a part of every meal and almost ALWAYS jumps out of the cabinet. So I am good at anticipating it, and managed to get my hand under it before it landed in my Cheerios, which sat directly below the cabinet. I said in my worst French accent (a la Lumiere) "Ah, but monseiur salt, you cannot be in my Chay-ree-os!" But before I knew it, right behind it came the giant tupperware container of monsieur sugar. I had the salt shaker in one hand and cinnamon in the other, and could do NOTHING to prevent the inevitable messy plop of the sugar bowl into my cereal.
SPLASH! Milk and Cheerios go everywhere. It's on the counter, it's dripping down the fridge, it's all over the floor, and it's all over me. Nearly in tears, and lacking a garbage disposal, I bring my forsaken bowl of O's to the bathroom and flush them. (I don't trust the outside of the sugarbowl against my food, no matter how hungry I am.) Meanwhile, the toaster pops up my bread, which is getting colder by the second, meaning my butter won't melt properly nor fuse with the sugary spread.
I go back to the kitchen, stubbing my baby toe on the chair leg on the way, and hobble to the counter. I re-pour the cereal, re-pour the milk, and move the cereal to the table where it will be safe. I hobble back to the counter, and take a five-count to prevent further disaster. I then get another plate for my toast, spread the butter, and let it melt while I wash the milk off the friggin' sugar bowl so I can have some for my toast.
Meanwhile, all under my feet I can feel the salt that sprayed the house while it was cartwheeling out of the cabinet. It feels nice all mixed with milk and Cheerios crumbs, especially on my ankle bandage which is now doubling as a quilted quicker picker upper. I eventually clean the sugar bowl, pop off the lid, add some to my toast, and put it away. With it, I put away the cinnamon shaker, realizing too late that I'd forgotten to first use it. But I thought the risk of repeating the avalanche wasn't worth the cinnamony satisfaction, so I left it alone.
Eventually, I sat down with soggy second-hand cheerios, under-spiced toast, and a glass of juice. I ate my food and hummed Milli Vanilli songs, and tried once again to get lost in the childhood simplicty of a bowl of Cheerios.
I left class mentally and emotional exhausted. I rode the subway home and almost forgot to get off because I quite simply didn't know where I was. I walked home in the dark, my feet sore and aching from the self-inflicted torture of giant boots with giant heels worn fruitlessly in the hopes that some hot guy at work would come over and say "Hey, Tiffany, I wanna get wid you." All I wanted to do is get home, take my boots off, eat dinner, and go to sleep.
So I get home. I check the mail for my shitty credit card offers and obnoxious catalogs. I trudge up the steep stairs in my steep boots, and unlock the door. It sticks, but my hands are full, so I push it open with my head which hurts AND looks stupid to the neighbors who are spying on me through their peephole. I sigh, and throw my bags on the bed, and put my hair in a ponytail, and take off my boots. I even wrap my still-slightly-injured foot with a bandage. Aaah, sweet relief.
I open the fridge and all the cabinets to take inventory for my dinner options. I want simple. I want easy. I want quick. I see eggs, bread, cheese, pasta, peanut butter, milk, cheese, and cheerios. 'Mmm," I think. "Cheerios."
So I pour a giant bowl of Cheerios and feel my anxieties fade as I retreat into a hearty bowl of childhood simplicity. I add the milk, then think I want toast too, with cinnamon and sugar. Cinnamon and sugar make me happy. So I throw a couple slices of bread into the toaster, then grab a spoon, and take a giant crunchy bite of O's. Mmmm.
I go back into the fridge and take out the butter. I add it to the 18 square-inch counter space my kitchen has to offer, half of which is taken up with a toaster oven, unused coffee maker, and cookbooks. I open the cabinet and reach in for the cinnamon, which starts a chain reaction of disaster.
First, the cinnamon knocks over the salt shaker. The salt shaker seems to believe it should be a part of every meal and almost ALWAYS jumps out of the cabinet. So I am good at anticipating it, and managed to get my hand under it before it landed in my Cheerios, which sat directly below the cabinet. I said in my worst French accent (a la Lumiere) "Ah, but monseiur salt, you cannot be in my Chay-ree-os!" But before I knew it, right behind it came the giant tupperware container of monsieur sugar. I had the salt shaker in one hand and cinnamon in the other, and could do NOTHING to prevent the inevitable messy plop of the sugar bowl into my cereal.
SPLASH! Milk and Cheerios go everywhere. It's on the counter, it's dripping down the fridge, it's all over the floor, and it's all over me. Nearly in tears, and lacking a garbage disposal, I bring my forsaken bowl of O's to the bathroom and flush them. (I don't trust the outside of the sugarbowl against my food, no matter how hungry I am.) Meanwhile, the toaster pops up my bread, which is getting colder by the second, meaning my butter won't melt properly nor fuse with the sugary spread.
I go back to the kitchen, stubbing my baby toe on the chair leg on the way, and hobble to the counter. I re-pour the cereal, re-pour the milk, and move the cereal to the table where it will be safe. I hobble back to the counter, and take a five-count to prevent further disaster. I then get another plate for my toast, spread the butter, and let it melt while I wash the milk off the friggin' sugar bowl so I can have some for my toast.
Meanwhile, all under my feet I can feel the salt that sprayed the house while it was cartwheeling out of the cabinet. It feels nice all mixed with milk and Cheerios crumbs, especially on my ankle bandage which is now doubling as a quilted quicker picker upper. I eventually clean the sugar bowl, pop off the lid, add some to my toast, and put it away. With it, I put away the cinnamon shaker, realizing too late that I'd forgotten to first use it. But I thought the risk of repeating the avalanche wasn't worth the cinnamony satisfaction, so I left it alone.
Eventually, I sat down with soggy second-hand cheerios, under-spiced toast, and a glass of juice. I ate my food and hummed Milli Vanilli songs, and tried once again to get lost in the childhood simplicty of a bowl of Cheerios.
caller ID-pendence
For the last two weeks, someone has been calling my cell phone from an "Unavailable #." In today's age of Caller ID, reverse phone lookup, and *69, it's extremely upsetting when I don't know who called me. I know I'm not alone on this.
Most people who call me are stored in my phone, so their name shows up. Otherwise, the only other callers are looking for the girl who used to own the number, some ho named Tiffany (which, unfortunately, audibly resembles Stephanie), who apparently answered booty calls at all hours of the night. At 3am when my phone rings, I no longer answer it, because I know the conversation will be:
Me: Hello?
Caller: Yo, Tiffany, I wanna git wid you tonight.
Me: Tiffany doesn't have this number anymore.
Caller: Oh yeah? Who dis? You wanna git wid me tonight?
Me: Not on your life. (Click.)
So anyhow, other than fielding Tiffany's calls and my own friends and family, it's very, very rare that "Unavailable" shows up on my phone. Well, "Unavailable" has been calling me like CRAZY lately, and I can NOT figure out who it is. What if it's someone I've been dying to hear from? What if it's someone calling to tell me I won a million dollars, or to profess their undying love for me? Who IS this mysterious, persistent Unavailable caller?
After missing the call 6 or 7 times, I finally set to carrying the phone around with me at all times--even into the bathroom--so I could answer it when Unavailable called back. I was determined to find out who it was. Then one day I was sitting in my room writing a paper when the phone rang. I leapt across the bed and lunged for the phone. It was Unavailable! I flipped the phone open and said hello...but it said I missed the call. In 2 rings. (I usually get 8 or 9.)
Feeling dejected about my failure, I continued to carry the phone around, literally attached at my hip in the little clippy holster thing I got from Verizon. Over the course of the next week, Unavailable called multiple times, and I answered multiple times, always getting "missed call" after a mere two rings. When it happened today, I apparently shout-whispered something moderately profane at the phone, because someone a few feet away laughed at me.
Then last week as I was riding shotty with my cousin who was racing frantically to get us to a funeral service in time. My phone rang and it said "Unavailable #." Without hesitation, I pulled out the antenna and flipped the phone open in one smooth maneuver. "HELLO?" I screamed. "HELLO???"
"Hello, Ma'am, is this Stephanie?" This is never, ever a good start to a phone call.
"Yes, this is she."
"This is TV Guide calling to offer you a free one month trial to our new mag--"
"I'm not interested. I don't have time to watch TV. Please don't call me again."
I flipped the phone shut and shoved the antenna back in before sitting back with a hefty pout.
"Did you just get a SALES call on your CELL phone?" my cousin asked.
"Yes."
"Isn't that ILLEGAL?"
"I don't know. But it should be. Unavailable bastards."
Most people who call me are stored in my phone, so their name shows up. Otherwise, the only other callers are looking for the girl who used to own the number, some ho named Tiffany (which, unfortunately, audibly resembles Stephanie), who apparently answered booty calls at all hours of the night. At 3am when my phone rings, I no longer answer it, because I know the conversation will be:
Me: Hello?
Caller: Yo, Tiffany, I wanna git wid you tonight.
Me: Tiffany doesn't have this number anymore.
Caller: Oh yeah? Who dis? You wanna git wid me tonight?
Me: Not on your life. (Click.)
So anyhow, other than fielding Tiffany's calls and my own friends and family, it's very, very rare that "Unavailable" shows up on my phone. Well, "Unavailable" has been calling me like CRAZY lately, and I can NOT figure out who it is. What if it's someone I've been dying to hear from? What if it's someone calling to tell me I won a million dollars, or to profess their undying love for me? Who IS this mysterious, persistent Unavailable caller?
After missing the call 6 or 7 times, I finally set to carrying the phone around with me at all times--even into the bathroom--so I could answer it when Unavailable called back. I was determined to find out who it was. Then one day I was sitting in my room writing a paper when the phone rang. I leapt across the bed and lunged for the phone. It was Unavailable! I flipped the phone open and said hello...but it said I missed the call. In 2 rings. (I usually get 8 or 9.)
Feeling dejected about my failure, I continued to carry the phone around, literally attached at my hip in the little clippy holster thing I got from Verizon. Over the course of the next week, Unavailable called multiple times, and I answered multiple times, always getting "missed call" after a mere two rings. When it happened today, I apparently shout-whispered something moderately profane at the phone, because someone a few feet away laughed at me.
Then last week as I was riding shotty with my cousin who was racing frantically to get us to a funeral service in time. My phone rang and it said "Unavailable #." Without hesitation, I pulled out the antenna and flipped the phone open in one smooth maneuver. "HELLO?" I screamed. "HELLO???"
"Hello, Ma'am, is this Stephanie?" This is never, ever a good start to a phone call.
"Yes, this is she."
"This is TV Guide calling to offer you a free one month trial to our new mag--"
"I'm not interested. I don't have time to watch TV. Please don't call me again."
I flipped the phone shut and shoved the antenna back in before sitting back with a hefty pout.
"Did you just get a SALES call on your CELL phone?" my cousin asked.
"Yes."
"Isn't that ILLEGAL?"
"I don't know. But it should be. Unavailable bastards."
10.04.2004
turn it off! turn it OFF!!
I woke groggily this morning to the typical sounds of my alarm clock blaring beside my head. I rolled over and hit the snooze button, as usual. But almost immediately thereafter, it started...
"I've...been searching high...I've...been searching low...."
I didn't know what it was, or where it was coming from, but it was most definitely in my head.
"Wanna spend my liiiiife....with yooooooou..."
Suddenly, my just-awakened head was singing aloud. My eyes weren't fully opened yet but I was gettin' down with some undeterminable song whose lyrics were running on replay.
Still humming along, I wandered sleepily into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Through the gurgling I sang, bobbing my head along with the imaginary beat. I was about to spit a mouthful of toothpaste when it hit me.
I was singing a Milli Vanilli song.
Now, I can't tell you HOW or WHY this song was in my head the MINUTE I woke up this morning. My alarm is not a radio. I had not heard any music that I was aware of. Why, now, at 6:45 on a Monday morning were Rob and Fab making a cameo in my brain?
The sheer horror of the realization caused me to throw myself into the hottest-coldest shower I could muster in some mangled attempt to punish it away, but the song just wouldn't stop. Not even when I told it, "Buh-buh-buh-bye, buh-buh-buh-bye baby. Don't forget my number..."
"I've...been searching high...I've...been searching low...."
I didn't know what it was, or where it was coming from, but it was most definitely in my head.
"Wanna spend my liiiiife....with yooooooou..."
Suddenly, my just-awakened head was singing aloud. My eyes weren't fully opened yet but I was gettin' down with some undeterminable song whose lyrics were running on replay.
Still humming along, I wandered sleepily into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Through the gurgling I sang, bobbing my head along with the imaginary beat. I was about to spit a mouthful of toothpaste when it hit me.
I was singing a Milli Vanilli song.
Now, I can't tell you HOW or WHY this song was in my head the MINUTE I woke up this morning. My alarm is not a radio. I had not heard any music that I was aware of. Why, now, at 6:45 on a Monday morning were Rob and Fab making a cameo in my brain?
The sheer horror of the realization caused me to throw myself into the hottest-coldest shower I could muster in some mangled attempt to punish it away, but the song just wouldn't stop. Not even when I told it, "Buh-buh-buh-bye, buh-buh-buh-bye baby. Don't forget my number..."
9.27.2004
to thong, or not to thong.
Actual email to my mother:
From: Stephanie
Sent: Thursday, January 15, 2004 11:30 AM
To: Mom
Subject: i don't know who else to tell this to...
But my underwear is SO far up my ass right now. I am wearing pants that really show a pantyline, so I went for the thong, but not the usual thong because I feel like if I'm going to have material wedged up my ass, it might as well be a minimal amount, so I'm wearing a V-string (Victoria's Secret version of a G-String, I guess), and it's like, flossing my freaking ass right now. It's less material, yes, but it goes WAY further up my ass. How do you people live like this on a daily basis? My GOD.
Her actual response:
From: Mom
Sent: Thursday, January 15, 2004 11:43 AM
To: Stephanie
Subject: RE: i don't know who else to tell this to.
You get used to it!!!!!
My theory:
There are two kinds of women in this world: those who like to wear thongs, and those who don't. I am definitely in the latter category, but I also fall into a subset: women who don't like to wear thongs but do out of fashion necessity.
My mother and sister are both Wearers. It always amazed me. I used to believe that my dislike of thongs was because of the sports I played. I couldn't IMAGINE jumping and diving all over a volleyball court with a strip of fabric up my ass. I mean, it's bad enough I had to wear spandex. But a perma-wedgie? No thanks! Good ol' fashioned cotton briefs were just fine for me.
Rosie O'Donnell once had "thong week" on her show. Actress Minnie Driver came out and summed up my general attitude toward thongs: "They make me feel like my bum got hungry and ate up my underwear." If I wear a thong, which is avoided if at all possible, I end up spending half the day performing emergency thong extrications. Maybe it's because my ass is proportionally larger than it should be, or maybe it's a form of evolution/natural selection whereupon my ass is trying to show the thong who's boss, and who's most unwelcome.
I do, however, understand that sometimes women are just fashionably responsible for not showing a pantyline. In those cases, the options are to go commando or to wear a thong. Commando freaks me out even more, so I settle for a thong, hopefully one with just enough material that it stays out of my ass, and just little enough material that it doesn't show. Either way, all I day I'm aware of its presence.
I know a lot of women who wear nothing but thongs, and I know a lot of women who wouldn't be caught dead in them. I'm not sure what makes or breaks this, but I'm guessing it's some sort of recessive genetic chemical imbalance that removes the discomfort notification sensor to the brain. In a recent survey, 5 of the 10 women in my family admitted to thong-wearing for the sake of comfort (margin of error, 100%). How is that possible?!? Are you listening to yourselves?! You're telling me that when you drop something and you have to bend over to pick it up, and your 1/4-inch wide underwear goes up your ass, that's COMFORTABLE to you?? Did you receive a lot of wedgies as a child?
I just really, really don't get it. So for the time being, I wear thongs only when necessary, and sensible cotton bikinis when it's not.
And by the way, in Wisconsin, wedgies are called "grundies."
From: Stephanie
Sent: Thursday, January 15, 2004 11:30 AM
To: Mom
Subject: i don't know who else to tell this to...
But my underwear is SO far up my ass right now. I am wearing pants that really show a pantyline, so I went for the thong, but not the usual thong because I feel like if I'm going to have material wedged up my ass, it might as well be a minimal amount, so I'm wearing a V-string (Victoria's Secret version of a G-String, I guess), and it's like, flossing my freaking ass right now. It's less material, yes, but it goes WAY further up my ass. How do you people live like this on a daily basis? My GOD.
Her actual response:
From: Mom
Sent: Thursday, January 15, 2004 11:43 AM
To: Stephanie
Subject: RE: i don't know who else to tell this to.
You get used to it!!!!!
My theory:
There are two kinds of women in this world: those who like to wear thongs, and those who don't. I am definitely in the latter category, but I also fall into a subset: women who don't like to wear thongs but do out of fashion necessity.
My mother and sister are both Wearers. It always amazed me. I used to believe that my dislike of thongs was because of the sports I played. I couldn't IMAGINE jumping and diving all over a volleyball court with a strip of fabric up my ass. I mean, it's bad enough I had to wear spandex. But a perma-wedgie? No thanks! Good ol' fashioned cotton briefs were just fine for me.
Rosie O'Donnell once had "thong week" on her show. Actress Minnie Driver came out and summed up my general attitude toward thongs: "They make me feel like my bum got hungry and ate up my underwear." If I wear a thong, which is avoided if at all possible, I end up spending half the day performing emergency thong extrications. Maybe it's because my ass is proportionally larger than it should be, or maybe it's a form of evolution/natural selection whereupon my ass is trying to show the thong who's boss, and who's most unwelcome.
I do, however, understand that sometimes women are just fashionably responsible for not showing a pantyline. In those cases, the options are to go commando or to wear a thong. Commando freaks me out even more, so I settle for a thong, hopefully one with just enough material that it stays out of my ass, and just little enough material that it doesn't show. Either way, all I day I'm aware of its presence.
I know a lot of women who wear nothing but thongs, and I know a lot of women who wouldn't be caught dead in them. I'm not sure what makes or breaks this, but I'm guessing it's some sort of recessive genetic chemical imbalance that removes the discomfort notification sensor to the brain. In a recent survey, 5 of the 10 women in my family admitted to thong-wearing for the sake of comfort (margin of error, 100%). How is that possible?!? Are you listening to yourselves?! You're telling me that when you drop something and you have to bend over to pick it up, and your 1/4-inch wide underwear goes up your ass, that's COMFORTABLE to you?? Did you receive a lot of wedgies as a child?
I just really, really don't get it. So for the time being, I wear thongs only when necessary, and sensible cotton bikinis when it's not.
And by the way, in Wisconsin, wedgies are called "grundies."
9.24.2004
running hot and cold
I'm one of those people who wakes up in the morning and NEEDS a shower. Some people need coffee, some need breakfast, I need a shower. The hot water wakes me up, and gives me the only 10 minutes of quiet, warm, stress-free time that I'll experience all day.
In my apartment, enjoying my morning shower has become a bit of a chore. I've learned that for my best odds, I should get in and out before 7am. If I don't, I have a shower like today's: miserable.
My shower has two knobs: one for hot, one for cold. Hot is HOT, and cold is damn cold. But how do I balance it? More hot than cold? By what proportion? How many twists to the right or left for each? Which direction is on and which is off? After moving in, it took me a few days to determine a regimen for the right temperature balance.
Now every morning I know through a combination of memory and intuition where to start. Through half-open eyes, I give a twist and a half on the hot knob, and a long twist on the cold knob. This gets, in most cases, the water to a comfortable temperature. The exception is if the toilet was just flushed, in which case the water becomes 976° and needs 5-7 seconds to run normal.
The real trouble, however, occurs once actually IN the shower. For me, a shower is a commitment requiring all-or-nothing dedication. You see, due to my hair's thickness, body, and product usage, I cannot just get my hair wet. If it gets wet, it must be also be washed, rinsed, conditioned, and rinsed again. This is just the way it is for me. So once I step in the shower and put my head under the stream of water, I'm in. I'm committed come hell or...ice cold water.
This morning, I apparently jumped in the shower at the same time that every other resident in my building jumped in their showers. The result is a shortage of Hot Water Units (HWUs). If there are 100 HWUs for the whole building, and I'm the only one taking a shower, I have free access to whatever I need, which is probably about 25 HWUs and 10 CWUs (Cold Water Units). But when more than four showers are running at the same time, and we must spread the 100 HWUs around, the relaxing morning shower becomes a tug-of-war battle for warmth.
But today, I had stabilized my water temperature and soaked my head. I had a good bubbly lather of shampoo in my hair. I was about to break into a happy Friday rendition of "Rubber Duckie" when my 25 HWUs were drastically reduced to about 2 or 3, which is essentially none.
When I got over the initial shock of seeing actual chunks of ice coming out of the shower head, I immediately rushed to the safe end of the shower and backed up against the wall. Shampoo dripped down my face and threatened my eyes, so I wiped it away quickly before reaching around the stream of ice to adjust the hot knob. A moment later, the water was warm again, and I began to rinse out my hair as quickly as possible...until...
WHAM! More ice cold, bone-chilling water fell down upon me. With a shriek and nipples that could cut glass, I jumped to the safe end of the shower again, realizing that someone else in the building was fighting me for the only 10 remaining HWUs. This was going to be war.
I stayed in the back of the shower and reached with my foot to drag the bottle of conditioner over without contacting the ice water. I re-lathered my head and caught my breath, which I could now see in front of me, while I thought of my next move. Freezing water pooled around my feet, making me shiver and my teeth chatter. I knew my time under warm water would be limited, but I just couldn't bear the cold. I had to do something.
I decided to attempt the riskiest maneuver: the "double twist attack," that would leave me either happy and warm, or scarred from 3rd degree burns. But I went for it. I had to. I turned OFF my cold water altogether, then turned UP my hot water. As soon as my feet felt warmth, I jumped back under the stream and furiously rinsed out my conditioner, pulling and squeezing my hair to make sure I got it all out. I was happy and warm, and stood there momentarily, breathing calmly, enjoying my success until...
ICE COLD HELL! With my cold water was entirely off, and my hot water was entirely cold, I knew my time was up. I jumped to the end of the shower and shivered for a moment before lunging in and turning the cold hot water off. Undoubtedly, elsewhere in the building, someone was screaming in pain as the HWUs overwhelmed their vulnerable, defenseless body.
Still shivering, I stepped out of the shower into my slippers and robe, grateful for the warmth they provided. But irritated and pissed off that my morning got off to such a rocky start, I had to get revenge before I walked out the door.
So I flushed the toilet.
In my apartment, enjoying my morning shower has become a bit of a chore. I've learned that for my best odds, I should get in and out before 7am. If I don't, I have a shower like today's: miserable.
My shower has two knobs: one for hot, one for cold. Hot is HOT, and cold is damn cold. But how do I balance it? More hot than cold? By what proportion? How many twists to the right or left for each? Which direction is on and which is off? After moving in, it took me a few days to determine a regimen for the right temperature balance.
Now every morning I know through a combination of memory and intuition where to start. Through half-open eyes, I give a twist and a half on the hot knob, and a long twist on the cold knob. This gets, in most cases, the water to a comfortable temperature. The exception is if the toilet was just flushed, in which case the water becomes 976° and needs 5-7 seconds to run normal.
The real trouble, however, occurs once actually IN the shower. For me, a shower is a commitment requiring all-or-nothing dedication. You see, due to my hair's thickness, body, and product usage, I cannot just get my hair wet. If it gets wet, it must be also be washed, rinsed, conditioned, and rinsed again. This is just the way it is for me. So once I step in the shower and put my head under the stream of water, I'm in. I'm committed come hell or...ice cold water.
This morning, I apparently jumped in the shower at the same time that every other resident in my building jumped in their showers. The result is a shortage of Hot Water Units (HWUs). If there are 100 HWUs for the whole building, and I'm the only one taking a shower, I have free access to whatever I need, which is probably about 25 HWUs and 10 CWUs (Cold Water Units). But when more than four showers are running at the same time, and we must spread the 100 HWUs around, the relaxing morning shower becomes a tug-of-war battle for warmth.
But today, I had stabilized my water temperature and soaked my head. I had a good bubbly lather of shampoo in my hair. I was about to break into a happy Friday rendition of "Rubber Duckie" when my 25 HWUs were drastically reduced to about 2 or 3, which is essentially none.
When I got over the initial shock of seeing actual chunks of ice coming out of the shower head, I immediately rushed to the safe end of the shower and backed up against the wall. Shampoo dripped down my face and threatened my eyes, so I wiped it away quickly before reaching around the stream of ice to adjust the hot knob. A moment later, the water was warm again, and I began to rinse out my hair as quickly as possible...until...
WHAM! More ice cold, bone-chilling water fell down upon me. With a shriek and nipples that could cut glass, I jumped to the safe end of the shower again, realizing that someone else in the building was fighting me for the only 10 remaining HWUs. This was going to be war.
I stayed in the back of the shower and reached with my foot to drag the bottle of conditioner over without contacting the ice water. I re-lathered my head and caught my breath, which I could now see in front of me, while I thought of my next move. Freezing water pooled around my feet, making me shiver and my teeth chatter. I knew my time under warm water would be limited, but I just couldn't bear the cold. I had to do something.
I decided to attempt the riskiest maneuver: the "double twist attack," that would leave me either happy and warm, or scarred from 3rd degree burns. But I went for it. I had to. I turned OFF my cold water altogether, then turned UP my hot water. As soon as my feet felt warmth, I jumped back under the stream and furiously rinsed out my conditioner, pulling and squeezing my hair to make sure I got it all out. I was happy and warm, and stood there momentarily, breathing calmly, enjoying my success until...
ICE COLD HELL! With my cold water was entirely off, and my hot water was entirely cold, I knew my time was up. I jumped to the end of the shower and shivered for a moment before lunging in and turning the cold hot water off. Undoubtedly, elsewhere in the building, someone was screaming in pain as the HWUs overwhelmed their vulnerable, defenseless body.
Still shivering, I stepped out of the shower into my slippers and robe, grateful for the warmth they provided. But irritated and pissed off that my morning got off to such a rocky start, I had to get revenge before I walked out the door.
So I flushed the toilet.
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