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?"
10.31.2004
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..."
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