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."

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.

city of endless horrors?

Don't worry, I don't mean things-that-go-boom horrors, I mean scary people horrors, like the girl I saw yesterday.

After a long class in which my 10-minute presentation turned into an hour-long one thanks to the inquisitive nature of my I'll-speak-when-I-damn-well-please professor, my colleague and I decided to go get a drink. We had no idea what was near the school for bars, so we headed to Times Square, a couple blocks away, to see what we could find.

What we found was three feet in front of us on the sidewalk: a giant ass. Figuratively and literally. Some girl, almost definitely a tourist due to a) close proximity to Times Square and b) non-existent fashion sense of right and wrong, was walking with her friend. The girl, you see, was wearing those super low-cut jeans, probably a size 6. The problem was, her ass was a size 16. The jeans had no where to go but down, and not only was there flesh spilling out of the top of the pants, but a good inch and a half of her ass crack was hanging out for the world to see.

And as if that weren't enough!! She also had on a "shirt" whose front we could not see, but whose back was non-existent--literally mere threads crossed her back, exposing all the flesh that led right down to the inch and a half of exposed--and unpretty--ass crack.

Kristen, my colleague, covered her eyes and said "Oh, goodnight! Goodnight moon!" I laughed in horror as the round one stumbled down the street, unable to walk because the jeans were just so tight on her. Kristen also mentioned she wished she had a camera for Glamour Don'ts . I nodded, suggesting even they may not print such a horrible sight.

Now I'm not suggesting that I'm a fashionita, a versace whore, or anything of the like. But I DO suggest that I know when something is completely nauseating and offensive to the rest of the world, and I DO like to think that the people I know and trust would NOT let me out of the house like that. No one should ever have to see anything like that. This girl, and her silent friend, should be shot. I hope Times Square ate them alive.

city of endless entertainment

In the last couple days, I've encountered a couple things that made me think, first, "Wow, that's crazy," then "Wow, that's fucking hilarious." The combination leads to "Wow, New York is great."

rat-a-tat-tat

On Sunday I sought a quiet study retreat at Cosi, a little delicious sandwich/coffee shop that populates many Manhattan neighborhoods. I ordered a hot cocoa (brr--it was chilly on Sunday!), nestled into a table by a window, and busted out book after book after book.

The nice thing about studying at Cosi is that it offers juuuust the right amount of distraction and background noise. Music is not so loud people must shout over it. The sporadic Sunday customers are lazily reading newspapers or books. And when I get hungry, fresh mozzarella awaits me. It's the perfect study ambiance...usually.

As I was reading, my brow wrinkled in deep thought, out of the corner of my eye I barely noticed someone walk by. I more noticed his cologne, which sent me immediately back to family reunions attended in my childhood. I decided one of the Uncles must have worn the scent while playing Bocce. It was familiar, and comforting. It made me smile.

The man walked by again a short time later. He was short, mid-60s, with gray hair, far-too-big khaki pants, and a swishy Yankees jacket. He turned, and walked by again, into the back seating area, then turned and went the other way. He appeared to have some sort of obsessive-compulsive tick that caused him to walk back and forth across the room in small, repetitive bursts. With each pass, I sniffed his cologne and thought "Uncle Ange?...Uncle Rocky?"

Eventually his bustling ceased. I refocused on my studies for a few minutes until I heard fast footsteps behind me. I slowly turned my head, only as far as needed to realize that the man was now tap dancing in the middle of the restaurant. Not wanting to make eye contact that resulted in direct interaction (ahem, BARB!), I merely gazed at my books until his routine brought him in front of, then beyond, my table. When the dance was over, he hiked up his pants, changed direction six times, and walked out the door.

kick yo ass, bitch

Tonight, after fighting with the school library (don't get me started), I was walking around the Village killing time so I wouldn't have to get smushed in a rush-hour subway car. (Note: Jessica thinks it's funny--and I agree--that I now measure rush hour in people, not automobiles.)

The Village, known for oh so many things, is home to many walks of life that cause the average person to lift an eyebrow, but cause regular city dwellers to just pass by. All colors, all races, all genders, as well as various combinations, inhabit this cultural-yet-anti-cultural mecca.

So today I was strolling, and I saw a gang of about 8 or 9 late teenage boys standing in a circle. They were all dressed like bad-ass punks: big baggy jeans halfway off their asses, white wife-beaters, sweatbands, bling bling, cell phones, cigarettes, you name it. As I approached the gang, one of them shouted, "I'll kick yo ass, bitch." I feared things were about to get ugly.

Then, one boy--who stood out from the others because of his tight pink t-shirt and matching pink socks--said "No bitch, I'll kick YO ass, and he can watch."

After hearing that, all the boys giggled, and one wife-beater boy who was holding hands with another wife-beater boy leaned over and kissed the pink t-shirt boy on the cheek.

The mental equivalent of driving into a brick wall at 110 mph occurred in my brain. I was incapable of relating the macho street thug with happy flamboyance. It was just so unexpected.

But now I can say with sheer honesty that I have just today encountered my first gay street punks. Ah, the Village.

vent...ilation.

Okay, so, I admit this is largely my own fault.

When I was apartment/roommate hunting, I was in a bit of a rush. I know that turnover rates in New York are crazy and one must therefore make haste in deciding. So when I found a place that was affordable, had a big kitchen, and a seemingly cool, employed roommate, I took it.

It was the day I arrived with all my belongings that I looked at my mother and asked despairingly, "Do you smell smoke?" It was faint and untraceable. There were no signs of ashtrays or lighters, so I dismissed it as a fluke. Within days, I realized I'd made a horrible assumption. Just because my roommate did not inform me that she smoked, it didn't mean she didn't.

On the other hand, I never asked. But when I looked at the place and met her and there were no indications of it, it seemed safe to me. It didn't occur to me to ask about something that isn't "standard" to begin with. In my eyes, NOT smoking is the default. And why would a 20-something-year-old have a nicotine addiction? What kind of kid that age smokes in these days of warnings and advisories and enraging statistics? Idiots only.

So, for those of you who don't know--I HATE CIGARETTE SMOKE. It makes my eyes itch, it makes my hair and clothes smell terrible, and it just generally disgusts me...not to mention the ill health affects. I don't care if people smoke; it's your prerogative to do whatever you want. But don't force ME to partake in it. It's up there on my list with Jehova's Witnesses going door to door to try to suck me into their cult. GET OUT OF MY FACE.

So now here I am, 4 months into a 12-month lease, and a prisoner of my bedroom. My roommate quit her job (for no good reason), has not found another one, has no money to pay her bills (but Daddy saves her), and has fallen into a depression. This, you see, encourages her smoking--IN the house--because she is miserable and home all the time. But being the helpless dope that she is, she has (guy) friends who buy things for her, including cartons of fucking cigarettes that cost $85!! They are at her side whenever she needs one. Faaaantastic.

And yes, I HAVE told her I dislike it. I told her to please make sure my bedroom door is always closed. I've asked her not to wash her dirty ashtrays with the same sponge that I wash my forks and spoons. I've made it clear that I don't like it but I am getting close to a breaking point. I do not pay $1000 a month to hide in my bedroom. This must come to a stop. Like...now. It's coming in under the bottom of my bedroom door.

So you smokers out there, ponder this: YOU have the choice to smoke just as much as I have the choice not to. I know you are pissed off that cities and towns are starting to kick you out of bars and restaurants, but I say GOOD RIDDANCE. I can eat and drink in peace again, and you can go outside in the rain and snow and wonder if your habit is really worth it. But so help me, if I ask you to get away from me so I don't have to breathe your toxic fumes, you better well do it.

How would YOU feel if I got in the car with you and just started farting disgusting noxious fumes, and you had to smell them? You want to get away so I crack a window, just to feign politeness. But it doesn't do the trick. I just keep farting and farting, and you have to keep inhaling it. Pretty fucking gross, don't you think? The difference is, my farts won't char your lungs. That, and I'd never be so rude as to force someone into that situation.

Put out the goddam cigarettes people.

wite-out conditions

I've decided I should not, under any conditions, be allowed to come in contact with or attempt to use Wite-Out, Liquid Paper, or any other type of correction fluid. Every time I use it, I make a huge mess and end up with white splotches all over my hands, face, desk, and on the paper in places it shouldn't have been in the first place.

It reminds me of painting--I'm not good at that either. When painting the inside of our house, my grandfather assigned me to paint the inside of closets. I splattered paint everywhere, missed spots, and was incapable of even distribution. Judging by my Wite-Out skills, I shouldn't have been allowed to paint any portion of house, visible or not. (No wonder my mom knocked down that green wall I painted.)

Today, idiotically, I tried to apply correction fluid to a teeny tiny mistake on a paper that sat on a 45° angle. Naturally, it dripped down, covering not the mistake, but the words under it, which I will poorly attempt to disguise later by over-writing the typed letters with a pen.

Part of the problem is that if not enough fluid is on the little spongy wand (what happened to the little brushy wand?) , you get these long stringy pieces of solidified goo, so I soak the wand, then too much fluid comes on it and it dribbles all over the place. I've tried using the finer-pointed correction pens, but half the time you can't get any liquid at ALL out of those. Then I switched to correction tape, which works well most of the time if I can cut it to a small enough piece, but it doesn't always fit well in narrow, hard-to-reach places. So instead I end up with this over-saturated spongy wand that leaves a 1/4 inch high blob of white goo, which I try to smush down by pushing on it, which pops the bubble and leaks fluid all over my hands.

Then I get an itch on my nose and scratch it, unknowingly spreading the mess. Paper clips stick to my tacky hands, and next thing I know the mess has spread to my elbows, there are white fingerprints on my phone, and there's a droplet of it on my shirt. This happens EVERY TIME I use Wite-Out. What is WRONG with me?? It's not--or shouldn't be--that hard to use.

I'm sure someone's answer would be to stop making mistakes. Well, I don't. I'm perfect. I'm just hazardously whiting out other people's errors. So there.

the golden monkey

Yesterday I went to a Chinese market store (props to Jen) in search of a mug with a cover. This sounds mundane and crazy, I'm sure. But you see, I like to eat oatmeal in the morning, and if my mug had a cover I wouldn't have to warp my CD cases by using them as covers as my oatmeal cooks.

Anyhow, so I find the mugs and there end up being about 30 different designs and styles of mugs with covers. Some are attached by string, most are not. Some have fancy calligraphy, some have Snoopy. They range in size and weight and stability, and the selection is more than a little overwhelming.

So I finally decide on a medium-sized white mug that has a little cartoon monkey standing in front of a lotus blossom. He's cute and will no doubt be a conversation piece, so I decide to spend the $2.95.

This morning I was eating my oatmeal and saw that the other side of the mug has four chinese characters painted on it. Being a one-time student of the language, I decided I would make it my morning mission to determine the meaning of the characters...without asking any of the Chans or Wangs in the office. Four characters. How hard could it be?

Damn hard. Chinese is killer like that. There's no alphabet so you can't just look up a word. You have to break it down into smaller pieces, count the number of strokes it takes to write them, look up the little piece by stroke number, then add up the number of other strokes in the character, and try to find it in a list under that stroke number. That will tell you how to pronounce it, but not what it means. So you then have to look it up under the pronunciation to find the meaning. It's a total pain in the ass.

It's 11:00. I've been at it since about 8:50. And in a little over two hours of scrolling through microscopic characters online, I've decided that my mug says "The Golden Monkey Wishes You ____." For the life of me, I can't find the last character. Part of the problem is that it's handwritten, which is like trying to read someone's cursive writing in English--sometimes it doesn't look the way it's supposed to. But I know there's a roof or a spear or water involved. That's what the little pictures say.

I'm searching my vast empty mental database of Chinese proverbs to try to guess what the Golden Monkey wishes me. Prosperity? Fortune? Health? No, no, and no. For all I know, the reason this mug was so cheap in the first place is because of a typo, and the Golden Monkey winds up wishing the bearer death, or jaundice, or bitterness. (Chinese proverbs love to use the word bitterness.) What if he wishes me spiders? Or chronic nosebleeds? Or explosive diarrhea? And I, the stupid american, bought right into it.

Well, "jin sun he blank." (Jeen soon huh blank.) There. Now I've wished it on you, too, whatever it is.

hot young doctors!

Lunchtime: the only part of my day where I get up and walk more than 50 feet in any given direction. Today, I decided to go get lunch since I decided to ditch the crutches. I figured I'd take the foot out for a spin, see how it's doing. I also decided, like I sometimes do, that my lunch must contain honey mustard.

I opted for a sandwich from Subway. I always go to the same one down on 28th street, but they have been unimpressive as of late. So I decided to try the other one, equally distant in another direction.

So off I go, down the street. Some crazy lady came up to me and asked for change, and I said no. I crossed the street, and she crossed the street, stopping people along the way and asking for change. Then she looked at me and said "spare some change?" After calculating the potential for unloading some pennies on her, I said no again. Then I crossed the street to get away from her.

Anyhow, I get to the Subway and walk in and...TA-DAH! Completely filled with hot young doctors! It didn't occur to me until that moment that this Subway (or should I say Scrubway) was right near the hospital (the one I sat at for two hours yesterday). All around me were delicious young men in green scrubs. I can't believe that for three months I've been going to the wrong Subway, all the while the hot young doctors were in this one!!

Now I know, I guess. Next time I'll be more prepared, like flashier earrings and nicer shoes. And maybe, just maybe, I should bring the crutches to solicit a medical opinion over lunch...

can I start over?

Last night, I went to bed with a lot on my mind. Not only did I have to wake up early to get downtown to the hospital for a CAT scan, but I also had to get all my papers in order for the presentation I need to give in class tonight. I still have changes to make and photocopies to print, and visions of powerpoint slides danced in my head as I fell into sleep...

My alarm went off and I got up. With half-open eyes I took a shower and shaved my legs so that the poor CAT scan technician wouldn't have to deal with any fur. I went back into my room and turned on the computer--which I don't usually do in the morning--to make sure all my files were transmitted for class. I plugged in my iron and turned it on, flipped on my lamp, and picked up my hair dryer.

I was happily blow-drying my gooped up hair when....bzzzt. Hair dryer, off. Light, off. Computer, off. Fan, off. Clock, off. Air conditioner...on? It appeared I'd blown a fuse. The one day I had to stand in front of my class and look somewhat presentable while teetering on crutches, I blew a fuse. Not having my superintendant's number nor any idea where the fuse box was, I just dealt with the dark.

I pulled clothes out of the closet and attempted to smooth them with what little heat had found its way into my iron. I put on socks and sneakers and pulled back my hair. I hobbled into the bathroom--which thankfully still had light--and put on whatever makeup I could to cover the bags under my eyes and asshole zit on my forehead.

At 7:40, as planned, I left my apartment, grabbing the phone number of the super from the placque on my way out the door. I crossed the street and propped myself up to hail a cab. Then I waited...and waited...and waited. No available cabs were going by. All had fares already. Two or three downtown-bound buses went by before I got frustrated and decided to walk two blocks to 2nd Ave (a one-way street going towards the hospital) to get a taxi.

I grunted and huffed all the way to 2nd Ave. Not one, not two, but THREE fucking cabs drove past me. This, I believe, was intentional. If you swat at a mosquito, six cabbies interpret that as a hail attempt and pull up at your feet. But propped up on crutches, waving my hand, they go right by me, one after another after another.

Despairing, and now 2 blocks in either direction from the bus or the subway, I decided to call the hospital and tell them I was late. They expected me at 8, and it was now 8, and I was only two blocks from home after 20 minutes. But the lady was nice and said they'd take me whenever, so I fought back the tears that welled in my eyes and started to walk some more. I grew ever more thankful that I spent the extra 10 minutes last night to pad the top of my crutches with old hand towels. I kept saying "You're going to be fine, you're going to be fine." But really I wanted to pick up the crutch and smash someone in the head with it.

I got to the subway and hobble-jumped down the stairs. I got through the turnstile with some care (god forbid the "service entrance" actually be accessible) and wobbled to a place on the platform. More and more people surrounded me, and when the train came, it was packed totally full. I knew I couldn't fight for a spot--nor stay upright if I should find one--so I just stood there as it pulled away. I then had clear access down the entire platform, so I made my way to the less-crowded section and got on the much emptier train that came next.

I got on to find all seats taken, and not a single goddam person offered one to me. Selfish asshole bastards didn't so much as flinch. So I propped myself up for the ride, and tried not to topple over when we started or stopped moving, turned corners, or when other selfish bastards kicked my crutches on their way by.

I got off the train and let everyone else go up the stairs before I slowed them all down. I got to the top and was complimented on my beaty by a homeless many who wanted money, who was lucky I was in a rush or he might have been my first victim. I walked BACK all the way to 1st Ave, got to the hospital, and finally registered for my CAT scan a full hour behind schedule.

They eventually called my name after a long wait, which I deserved for being so late for my appointment, and forced me once again to "sit perfectly still" while pointing and flexing my foot at exactly this angle. When it was over, they said "call your doctor tomorrow for the results." Fantastic. Thanks.

When I finally got to work, I struggled to get in the door, but my new Very Hot Friend Gerardo held it for me while he stood nearby SMOKING (EEEH! Rejected!). When I got upstairs, I realized I was late for our monthly staff meeting that I didn't even know was today. I hobble-rushed over and interrupted everything only to find out there were about 3 minutes left of the meeting anyway.

Now I keep running into people who say "Look at you! Oh no! What happened?" And I have to say "I don't know." No one wants to hear "I don't know." They want to hear "I tripped and fell" or "I kicked a door" or "I lept out of a second-story window to save a dog that was trapped in a fire!" But whatever it is, I better come up with something better than "I don't know, but I blew a goddam fuse this morning and no taxis would stop for me!"

Anyhow, the day's not over. It's only just begun. I have to do my work and school work, call the super, get downtown for my presentation, and get back home to do my homework. Tomorrow is another day...and I have a strong feeling it will NOT be a day on crutches.

oh crap.

So, I went to the doctor this morning. Technically, I went to the Urgent Care facility because the doctor was out on jury duty. So instead I got urgent care, which apparently means "we'll treat you sometime within two hours."

Then I continued my luck of getting hot young male medical students to examine me. This one wasn't quite as hot or fun as the allergist that told me to remove my shirt, but he did alright for himself. Then he brought in the real doctor, who asked me exactly the same questions and poked exactly the same places.

Then, they said, "We'd like an x-ray." I asked why. They said it could be fractured and they'd like to rule it out. So I go back out to the waiting room for radiology, which is also an "urgent" operation, and eventually get called in to the sub-arctic x-ray room.

A very Hilda-looking radiologist asks "Is there any chance you might be pregnant?"
I say "Don't you need to have sex for that?"
Hilda smirks, unamused.
"No," I tell her. "No chance."

She then instructed me--and this is the most traumatic part--to remove my toe ring. My toe ring has been on my foot since...well...at least six years. It's never once been removed. People couldn't believe I would play volleyball or jog with it on, but I just never felt it. Until today. Trying to squeeze the ring over the fat tip of my toe was not the most comfortable sensation. Hilda offered me soapy water, but I just ripped the damn thing off. It's the end of an era.

So the x-rays were taken, which is always entertaining to me. "Bend your knee. Relax your foot. Lift your shin this way. Now don't move." These technicians put you in the most unnatural, impossible positions, then tell you not to move. Meanwhile, your body goes into Hyper Active Quiver Mode just to sustain the position.

Anyhow, the doctor says the x-rays are inconclusive for ruling out a fracture, which he thinks I may have. So now I need to get a CAT Scan. But the real kicker? He wants me to stay off my foot until the CT comes back.

"Stay off?" I ask.
"Yes."
"How?"
"With crutches, of course."
"Crutches? Crutches are not really practical. I have a ten minute walk to the subway, twice a day."
"Is there a bus?"
"Yes, there is a bus." But I don't want to take the bus because not only is it slow and crowded, but it doesn't take me past the fire station, where every morning the fire boys have the main bay door open, and they sit and sip their coffee and coo at the women who are cooing at them. It's the reason I get up in the morning.

But alas, instead I have crutches. Shitty clanky rubber-smelling crutches that I must use to navigate the city streets and subways, and wrestle with to get through turnstiles and gates. But, at least it finally gives me an excuse for the armpit stains on my shirt, right?

How did I get through years of being an athlete and injuring every joint on my body without ever needing crutches, but wake up one morning to mystery pain and wind up stuck with aluminum crutches that clash with every pair of shoes I own? Damn. I must be getting old.

something is wrong with my foot.

About two weeks ago, on a random morning in the middle of the week, after nothing extraordinary happened the night before, I walked out the door on my way to work and discovered a surprising surplus of pain signals being sent from my right foot. I stopped walking, poked a few spots of the foot to verify, then proceeded walking.

It hasn't gone away.

In my day, I played volleyball, and I was always landing on the ball or other people's feet, so ankle injuries are common and frequent to me. Small differences in the height of the sidewalk can cause me to wobble, as can tiny stones or pebbles under my sole, and occasionally simply standing does the trick. But as such, I am very well trained on something that is different, something that hurts more and longer than usual.

For the life of me, I can't figure out what I did to cause this pain. I just woke up one day and it was there. I tried to walk it off, but since the pain is on my foot, walking increases it. In a city where walking is not leisurely but essential (much to Kevin's dismay), I don't know what to do to rest it. I take Advil, I ice it, but still simply putting weight on it causes major discomfort.

Ironically, the one trick that seems to alleviate the pain is wearing heels. Flat shoes? No good. Very supportive expensive sneakers? No help. High heeled shoes that cause blisters when worn for more than a block? Ah, heavenly relief.

So now I think I'm going to have to utilize my Very Expensive Insurance that I purchased through the Very Expensive University, go to the Very Not Local health center, wait an eternity in a Very Uncomfortable Chair (which, really, is fine as long as it doesn't have Very Cold Stirrups), and have some Very Useless Doctor tell me to give it a couple weeks, take Advil, and ice it.

behind the camera

When I went to the U.S. Open last week to watch some tennis, I was soon distracted by something the cameras never showed.

Behind the umpire sits a man in a chair whose job for the entire match is to hold a foot-long microphone with a handle (shaped like a revolver) in the direction of the player who is about to hit the ball. So this guy just sits there, in a chair, swinging his wrist this way and that, hoping to audibly catch the shouts and grunts of the players.

I nudged my friend and whispered "Hey, check out the guy with the microphone." She laughed and watched him for a good game or two, oblivious to the actual tennis going on beyond him.

I couldn't take my eyes off him. I paid all that money, and the legendary Martina Navratilova was stirring up the court, but I just kept watching the man with the revolver-shaped microphone moving to and fro and wondered, do you think his arm gets tired?

let's talk about armpits.

Of course, when I say "let's talk" I mean "I'll talk." This is hardly a conversational atmosphere.

Anyhow, as many of you know, I had surgery on my right shoulder about two years ago. The procedure involved a 3-inch incision from the front of my shoulder into my armpit. I was assured "No one will ever see the scar." And that is true. But as with most things in life, no one warned me of the other side-effect:

I have unusual over-sweating problems in my right armpit.

My assumption is that in re-stitching my armpit, certain sweat glands were sliced or sewn. I'm not really sure what the anatomical explanation is, but I know that I was given post-surgical instructions that involved shoving a hospital industrial maternity strength maxi pad into my armpit because I couldn't use deodorant until the wound closed. No one wanted to be my friend, everyone called me "Stinky," and flies started to gather.

Later, it took me about 14 months to find an anti-perspirant/deodorant strong enough to compensate for the now over-active sweating. And even today, two years later, my right armpit sweats FAR more than the left. It's disgusting. It's unfeminine. And it costs me a fortune in specialty laundry service (not just anyone treats "ring around the armpit"). All my shirts have sweat marks on the right side only. I haul ass walking to work in the morning, and when I get there, I have unevenly distributed sweat marks. I tried telling people that I just accidentally leaned on something wet, but really an armpit isn't a high-traffic contact point in leaning unless you're on crutches, so I stopped lying. Regardless, a one-sided sweat stain is gross, and no one wants to see it.

Luckily, I myself don't actually have to see it, but I AM the only one who has to smell me 24 hours a day. I'm like those women in the deodorant commercials who find discreet and clever ways to disguise a "sniff test," except, well, I'm not at all discreet. I just lift and smell. Then sigh. Then dig the pit-stick out of my desk drawer and re-apply--to the right pit only. I'm so classy.

So yeah, it's great that my saggy ligaments have been repaired, and I'm grateful that my scar is essentially unnoticable, but I'm not so sure I would have signed all the waivers if I'd been informed that I would spend the rest of my days with such excessive sweat secretion from the right pit that it qualifies me for disability. Sure, the surgeon has given me back my ability to lift my arm, but for what? To reveal a giant wet smudge. Fantastic.

this rain is downright biblical.

Seriously, I've lowered my standards in the man hunt to this: Must Have Ark.

Apparently, the early fronts of Frances have made their way into New York City. For a girl who's rather accustomed to having a car, this is a bit of a miserable situation for me. I used to dash from my apartment to my car, then from my car to my office. I might get a little wet in doing so. But today? Well, let me put it this way: as I write this, the rain water is still dripping down my legs and pooling under the desk.

You think I'm kidding? I'm not. In the matter of a couple of hours, enough rain has fallen to completely flood the city. With nowhere to go, it comes down the streets in tidal waves triggered by giant bus wheels. The street-river flows at the same height as the curb, threatening at any moment to reach over and lap your already-soaked feet. And what water does drain down flows directly into the subway grates, splashing down on the platforms and passengers below, then onto the tracks (which considering they are electric is a little scary). So your whole train ride is spent facing drippy men (so what's new) and women whose makeup now closely resembles that of Alice Cooper. Myself included.

I had an umbrella. A very big, good umbrella. Yet I am completely soaked from the waist down. When I say "completely soaked" I mean I am sitting on my wet ass and behind me my socks rest on a paper towel after I wrang out approximately six gallons of water. I at least had the foresight to wear a skirt, figuring I'd rather my gams get wet than my pants--which proved wise judging by the complete and utter saturation I saw on all pant-wearers. I just didn't expect the rain to get me so far up. I think my grandfather's waders would have been the only appropriate attire for my walk this morning in the biblical monsooning deluge.

It's not like it was just rain. We're talking (pardon a second Forrest Gump reference), big ol' FAT rain and rain that flew in sideways. No matter how cleverly I tried to angle my umbrella against the horizontal precipitation, nothing helped. Taxis flew by splashing more tidal waves at defenseless pedestrians. Trees gathered water and dropped it in bigger, meaner proportions. Small children and animals floated by on inner tubes, crying helplessly as they drifted out to sea.
And, the best part is, they say tonight the rain will get "heavy."

Heavy?? Then what the flying fuck do you call this?!?!?!

personal space invaders

File this one under subway etiquette (and further proof to the theory that men just take up space).

When women sit on the subway, they are usually very orderly and confined to the invisible personal barriers that rise vertically at the shoulders, hips, or knees--whichever is widest. If you put several women side-by-side on the bench, they appear very contained: knees closed, hands folded in lap, head upright. When another party sees an opening between women on the bench, it is very easy to discern one's own personal space and sit down.

Now, men. Men have their own thing going on. What happens is this: I get on the subway and scan for a seat. I see a small patch of bench available between two men who have invalidated the seat because they are seated on either side of it with their legs spread open like a very wide "V." In order for me to sit in this seat, I must fold myself up like some sort of miraculous collapsible compact chair often seen in infomercials or old Jetsons reruns. These men, you see, don't close their legs to let another person sit down.

Last night this happened to me. I obeyed all common laws of subway seat selection:

1. I eyed the seat in question, assessing for spills, stains, and hygiene of neighboring riders.
   
2. I walked towards it, indicating my intent and desire to sit.
   
3. I paused for a moment to let the adjacent passengers adjust their position to make room for me.
   
4. I then sat back blindly into the seat.
   

The transition from Step 3 to 4 is where things fell apart. See, the "gentlemen" on either side of the open seat made NO effort to make room for me, which, when sitting back BLINDLY into the seat, meant I basically sat awkwardly on their laps, feet kicking in the air. And even in doing so, even in violating all laws of personal space and making more than incidental contact, neither of them budged. So instead, I nestled my way in, shoulders curled and hunched, knees knocked, ankles locked. I couldn't even sit back.

In any other city, I might argue on behalf of these men that I took over their personal space, forcing myself into a seat when there wasn't enough room. But this is New York, dammit. And a seat's a seat. Especially when I've got a good hour's ride ahead of me. But can I enjoy that ride? Or at least be moderately comfortable? No. I'm folded up with all the dignity and grace of a misbehaving, semi-collapsed baby stroller, wedged between and on two very unfriendly--and unyielding--assholes.

So fellas, let this be a lesson to ya. I don't care how tall or uncomfortable you are. CLOSE YOUR DAMN LEGS! And if you don't like it, too bad. Stand the hell up. Or for that matter, just walk. Get off my damn subway.

pigeon update

For those of you who thought my rants in Pigeon Coup were foolish and unwarranted, here's an update for you.

Yesterday a pigeon actually flew into my head. After I managed to successfully avoid the first 3 or 4 who were coming in for a landing, a stray 5th hovered in at a strange angle and actually clipped me with its wing. The man running the fruit stand grinned at me while I flailed and swatted, cursing uncontrollably.

Goddam birds.

penny for your thoughts. no really.

Okay, I have a gripe. (I know, big surprise, right?)

This morning, like most, I wanted to go get a can of juice out of the vending machine. For this, I must locate 75¢. So I opened my bag and started fishing through the various pockets of change. I found, like always, that I had a ridiculously excessive amount of pennies.

Now, if I'm not mistaken, there was a movement a few years ago to eliminate pennies from the national currency system. I was all for this movement. But nothing seemed to happen. I still have a bag full of pennies. And why? Why? What do I need 6 lbs. worth of pennies for? And really, how did I end up with 6 lbs. of pennies in the first place??

Okay, let's back up. As kids, pennies are very exciting. Our value-instilling parents give us little porcelain figurines with slits in their foreheads and impossible-to-budge rubber plugs shoved up their asses in which to store our very cherished copper coins. When we bought a piece of candy for 10¢, we were proud to lay out each penny with a tiny metallic click upon the counter. We always felt rich, especially my sister who disregarded the actual value of coins and believed possessing 27 pennies made you richer than owning a lowsy pair of quarters.

During my early adolescent years (big hair and red eyeglass frames), I found a new use for pennies. We'd gather them and spread them along the top surface of a train track, then hide behind the trees and wait for the train to go by and flatten them smooth. The end result was very cool, but the fun ended when my Responsible Adult Community told me that a) it was illegal to destroy government property and b) the pennies could cause the train to derail and crush me. To this I say a) Dad, you have a fun-ending rule for everything and b) Dennis, I am now terrified of trains. Thanks so much. Moving on.

Later, we grow up and reality bursts our blissful little penny-acceptance bubble. Pants pockets and change purses become weighed down with the obnoxious coins until we eventually develop a slight limp and begin listing to one side like a shopping cart with a week-old piece of romaine lettuce in one wheel. It is this point in our lives in which we try to get RID of our copper coins in favor of more useful, shiner ones.

For example, you go into a store and buy something that comes out to $4.53. You fish out a 5-dollar bill, but not wanting to be the loser in the situation, you also dig out three pennies. You either give three, or gain two--and you do NOT need more pennies. Now, the obvious (albeit secondary) problem here is that you've completely confused the cashier, who is either accustomed to dealing only in rupees or is one of those hopeless teenagers who can't make change or tell time on analog clocks. The computation is seemingly simple, wherein you should now receive two shiny silver quarters, but because the cashier saw only the 5-dollar bill and not your pennies, the number displayed on the electronic register says 47¢, so you get the quarter, two dimes, and two pennies, PLUS the three pennies you just handed over because the cashier just really didn't know what to make of it. Now you have five more pennies that you never wanted.

Is the cashier really this stupid? Or did their manager tell them to play dumb and keep the pennies out? Hard to say. Occham's Razor tells me that it's not likely a conspiracy theory, but just a matter of stupidity. But really, NO ONE wants the pennies. Even banks limit the amount that they'll take. BANKS!!!

Regardless, at the end of the day, you wind up with a shitload of pennies. I, for one, have no idea what to do with these pennies, and no where to put them. At my last apartment, I started a coin jar from a washed out jar of Paul Newman's Marinara sauce. It was at least halfway full, and getting a bit heavy. On moving day, I left it on the counter for someone else to deal with, attaching a note that said "Go buy yourself a stick of gum, or something, loser." I'm just happy to unload all my pennies and start from scratch.

So now I have a new coin jar, this time smaller--a former Mott's Applesauce container. It fills so fast and easy and I despise it. When I have pennies to put in it, I throw them from across the room. If they make it, fine. If they don't, and land in the trash can behind the jar, fine. Good riddance.

Same sentiment applies when I spill my coins all over the sidewalk. "Oh lady, you dropped some--oh nevermind. They're just pennies," says the homeless man as he walks away.

SWF seeking SMw/RSCoD

When I moved to New York, I found myself rather anxious to meet some new guys (as opposed to the "old guys" who I just cycle through one after another like a TV with just four channels). Not really sure where I was going to meet them, I learned quickly that one strong possibility lay at the park.

The park, you see, is not only a grassy escape for me, but also contains two dog runs: one for dogs under 25 lbs (eh), and one for other (real) dogs. This causes the park population to explode with dogs and their owners, many of which are Hot Young Men. However, because I myself do not have a dog, I must be very careful at dealing with the Hot Young Men so as not to appear as the crazy lady who comes to the park to play with other people's dogs.

So I decided there must be a second tactical element. I spent many hours studying the Hot Young Men to see what trends and patterns could be detected and therefore used as icebreaking material. One such trend: baseball caps. More specifically, Yankees and Red Sox. I figured, my Red Sox cap(s) would suffice in any manner because one of the following situations would result:

1. A Red Sox fan would see my Red Sox hat and believe I was a comrade in enemy territory, and conversation would ensue.
   
2. A Yankees fan would see my Red Sox hat and believe I deserve to be heckled and tortured, and conversation would ensue.

Either way, I come off as a cool chick who watches baseball, which would act as the initial icebreaker that led me to talking about the dog, which was the proverbial foot in the door for a long-term relationship. This, however, did not work out as planned. No amount of Red Sox paraphenilia and dainty girlish smiling got me anywhere except for re-enforcing that the Red Sox were cursing my life.

Then the other day I accidentally stumbled onto the key, the answer to all my problems. On my way into the park, sans Red Sox hat, I stopped to get a giant soft pretzel with salt and mustard. ($1.50, can't beat it.) I slowly strolled around the front of the park and made my way towards the big dog run. When I was about 30 feet away, an enormous black lab with one of those surgical plastic cones around its head charged the fence, crashing into it and barking at me.

At first I was a little scared. Why had this giant beast singled me out? Was he going to jump the fence that barely contained him? Why was he barking at me? Soon a woman's voice yelled "Don't worry, he's friendly." Being a lover of giant black labs, I went over and pet the dog through the fence. Despite his conical headpiece, he jumped up and stuck a paw over the top of the fence. "Watch your dinner," the lady told me.

Soon a second black lab came barrelling behind. This dog too jumped up on the fence in an attempt to swipe my pretzel and/or just get a teeeeeny taste of the mustard. "I've replaced more meals," the woman said to me. "They steal egg sandwiches and pizza slices and baby crackers ALL the time. I always carry cash to pay for it." I sympathized, recalling the time when Bailey ate the better half of my father's unattended sirloin in one excited chomp.

(Bailey)

I bid farewell to the pooches, and found a secluded spot in the grass where I could watch the boats and gunmen armed with automatic weaponry go by. I laid out my blanket, and leafed through a magazine while nibbling on my pretzel with salt and mustard (all the while keeping one eye on the god damned pigeons who had started circling me in hopes for handout but would likely peck out my eyeballs when enough of them had gathered to outnumber me). As I was putting the last bite into my mouth, the swarm of pigeons suddenly took flight, and I assumed that a bomb must have detonated in the tri-state area because I've never seen anything chase away pigeons.

The "bomb" turned out to be a small, unleashed wiener dog with floppy brown ears that was galloping right towards me. Or, more accurately, towards my napkin full of salt and mustard. I didn't want the poor little guy, wherever he came from, to get sick, so I instinctively reached to pick him up. But a strong, masculine hand beat me to it.

"Jonah, stop!" said a booming voice. I looked up to see a very, very, VERY hot guy behind me, scooping up the dog. "I'm SO sorry," he said. "Did he get a bite?"

"No," I smiled, forcing the half-chewed lump of pretzel into one cheek and hoping I didn't have mustard smeared across my face while meeting my future husband for the first time.

"Are you sure?" he asked, clipping the leash back onto the dog's collar. I stared dreamily at the tall, tan, blonde-haired, blue-eyed god before me. I started to answer but--

"I'm SO sorry," came another voice. Perplexed, I looked over my shoulder to see what appeared to be my husband's boyfriend, who I was also meeting for the first time. "Bad boy, Jonah."

"Sorry about that," they said sympathetically. I nodded, assured them it was fine and that he was a cute dog.

When they left me, they helped each other climb over the fence while the other one held the dog. I watched as they strolled over to a patch of giant sunflowers and examined the intricate formation of the seeds. I watched my beautiful gay husband leave me forever.

So I was close. The pretzel lured dogs and hot male owners fantastically. I just need to learn how to lure the right ones. Hold the mustard, perhaps?

the pros and cons of flip-flops

This morning I was walking to the subway and I started to wonder why today I chose to wear flip-flops instead of sneakers. Was there a reason? Was it a smart choice? I had no idea, so I started compiling a mental list of pros and cons for wearing flip-flops on the streets. And now, because I'm bored at work again, I will tabulate the results:

Pros	Cons
Nail polish that is applied at the last minute to cover up unsightly chips and cracks does not need time to dry before slipping on shoes, as is case with sneakers.	If the sidewalk is wet, the flip (or is it the flop?) of the shoe kicks water up and splashes your ass, leaving unsightly dirty water marks on your clean clothes. (In New York, sidewalks are frequently wet in the mornings as building owners and maintenance persons hose them down to rid any traces of dog piss or poo, or other unpleasant sticky, smelly substances.)
They're comfortable to walk in because they are not high heels, unless you've bought into that whole flip-flops-with-heels thing, which I think is an embarrassing trend among casual footwear.	When they get wet on top and bottom, not only do they splash dirty water on your ass, but they also become very hazardous and slippery, losing all traction and adherence to the ground and the foot, and become increasingly likely to cause some sort of painful slip-and-fall disaster while crossing the street or climbing stairs to/from the subway.
They are cheap and disposable, which means you can own many pairs, and also not feel guilty if you step in a steaming pile of dog poop and prefer to just throw the shoes away rather than attempt to sanitize it with industrial strength anti-bacterial toxin remover.	If you should step in a steaming pile of dog poop, the lack of material covering the foot increases the likelihood of the poop gushing up over the bottom sole of the shoe and making contact with your foot, and even industrial strength anti-bacterial toxin remover blessed by the pope won't make you feel clean again.
In a morning-time rush situation, such as having spent too much time picking out which pants minimize the overwhelming bulge of your ass, time can be made up by simply stepping into flip-flops. No wiggling, wobbling, or tying required.	When walking distances exceeding one mile*, flip-flops provide zero support to arches and ankles. Most easily noticed when walking at high NYC speeds and calves begin to burn not just from walking, but from having to curl your toes to keep shoes securely attached to foot. *distance depends on personal tolerance
There are a variety of styles and colors that can be purchased to compliment an equally wide variety of outfits. Flat or platform, cloth or plastic, red or green or blue or black, sparklies or no sparklies, flowers or no flowers--the list goes on and on.	They are far too easy for other people to step on (ahem, Jessica), which stops you when your feet expect to move, and send you bounding head-first into walls, people, parked cars, oncoming traffic, horses, bicycles, dog poop, or any other thing that you wish not to lunge into head first.
Your feet don't get as sweaty and hot as they do in shoes. Air can touch them, so they stay cooler.	Your feet still get dirty from everyday airborne dust and dirt. It may not require industrial strength anti-bacterial toxin remover, but you certainly need to wash them before crawling into bed.
N/A	The constant flip and flop noise from your feet can eventually drive you, and everyone else, insane. Especially when descending stairs, the flat smack of the shoe against the step creates an unbelievably loud noise that reverberates for miles.

Hm. It's a close finish but it looks like the Pros have it! Flip-flops are in!