Here I am, sitting at work on the Monday morning after a 4-day weekend. Like millions of other Americans, I'm miserable to be here.
I've actually been hard at work since the minute I got here, which was about 20 minutes late thanks to some seriously delayed subway traffic. I have been hard at work tearing apart the boring tables of contents for the boring books I edit, trying not to think about the presentation I have due for class tomorrow that is far from complete, and also trying to drown out the grumble of my poor, hungry stomach.
So basically, I'm cranky. Not far-gone cranky that is only repairable by alcohol and sleep, just the semi-fussy Monday morning blah cranky that often causes me to become introverted and quiet until I find some random thing to spike my serotonin and cheer me up. Sometimes it's a song, sometimes it's a silly website, sometimes it's another person. Problem is...I never know what it will be until it happens.
So here I am, cranky-fussy, and hungry. Then it occurs to me I have a banana in my bag that I can eat. This helps a little, even though the banana is not quite as ripe as I like it (no green on the peel, and a few brown spots). So I peel the banana, take a bite, and proceed to read the boring books. And then...it happened.
I HAVE PEANUT BUTTER! In a joyous flash of brilliance, I realize I have a jar of peanut butter in my desk drawer and it would be absolutely fantastic on my banana, reminiscent of the sandwiches my grandmother used to make me when I was a kid (on toasted wheat bread, complete with a glass of Market Basket brand orange soda, all placed strategically to optimize viewing of Bob Barker on The Price Is Right). I dig out the jar, I dig out a knife, and I carefully spread just the right amount of peanut butter (just right = as much as I can) on the banana, and take a bite.
Mmmm. Sweet savior, my peanut butter and banana. Either without the other is only moderately enjoyable. But both together? So damn good. Today I am saved. Saved from myself, saved from the pains and miseries of Monday mornings. I am saved.
11.29.2004
11.24.2004
the subway games we play.
I realized this morning that I am a sick and demented human being.
There are certain nuances of the subway that, as a passenger, you learn through day after day of repetition or, in other cases, through making mistakes. For example, you learn where to stand to wait for the train so as to get dropped off at the destination near the exit. Or how to maneuver through the car stop by stop so that you are near the doors when it's time to get off.
So after you ride on the subway enough, the same line, the same tracks, the same stops, day after day, you learn even the subtleties such as which way the train lurches and when. On my trip downtown, it's more or less a straight shot until...
When the train leaves 42nd St, headed to 33rd, you have about 5-10 seconds after the train has completely left the station before there is a sharp lurch to the right. Being a fast learner, I only needed to fly across the train into the arms (and coffee cups) of complete strangers before learning to brace for this jolt. But others are not so aware.
So now every morning, I find myself mentally preparing for The Big Lurch. I change the position of my feet to be parallel to the jolt for better balance, I make sure I'm holding on to something, and perhaps most importantly, I look around to see who doesn't know better and will end up flying across the train. Smart people who didn't know better would at least be in tune with the squealing sound of the train's wheels as they hit a curve in the tracks and grab something in the remaining 2 seconds. But no.
Yesterday, someone wasn't prepared and launched sideways, smashing into this guy who had no chance at recovering. With a linebacker-like grunt, he took the hit before his newspaper flew into the air and he crashed into some little old woman who was sitting in front of him. Amusingly, frustratingly, few people apologize for these collisions, despite the fact they often cause disruptions and damage to beverages, newspapers, or even eyeglasses.
So today as we left 42nd St., I silently mused over the crowd at the door who jammed their way onto the train and now had nothing to hold onto. This, I thought, will be fun. The doors closed, the train rolled, and 5....4....3....**squealing wheels**....2....
LURCH! As expected, a good 4 or 5 people took headers toward the opposite side of the train. Some caught themselves with poles or by grabbing onto other people. But those idiot hotshots who think they can ride with no handhold and put their hands in their pockets--THEY went sailing! And I just cracked up.
A nicer person with more concerns over the Life Eternal might have said "Hey folks, you may want to grab on to something." But I, you see, am not that person. Rather, I'm the one who gets a sick kick--and a blog--out of not speaking up and letting them take flight. Because it's funny for me, especially when they think they recovered, act all cool like it never happened, then get tossed for surprise lurch #2. Haha. It's funny.
There are certain nuances of the subway that, as a passenger, you learn through day after day of repetition or, in other cases, through making mistakes. For example, you learn where to stand to wait for the train so as to get dropped off at the destination near the exit. Or how to maneuver through the car stop by stop so that you are near the doors when it's time to get off.
So after you ride on the subway enough, the same line, the same tracks, the same stops, day after day, you learn even the subtleties such as which way the train lurches and when. On my trip downtown, it's more or less a straight shot until...
When the train leaves 42nd St, headed to 33rd, you have about 5-10 seconds after the train has completely left the station before there is a sharp lurch to the right. Being a fast learner, I only needed to fly across the train into the arms (and coffee cups) of complete strangers before learning to brace for this jolt. But others are not so aware.
So now every morning, I find myself mentally preparing for The Big Lurch. I change the position of my feet to be parallel to the jolt for better balance, I make sure I'm holding on to something, and perhaps most importantly, I look around to see who doesn't know better and will end up flying across the train. Smart people who didn't know better would at least be in tune with the squealing sound of the train's wheels as they hit a curve in the tracks and grab something in the remaining 2 seconds. But no.
Yesterday, someone wasn't prepared and launched sideways, smashing into this guy who had no chance at recovering. With a linebacker-like grunt, he took the hit before his newspaper flew into the air and he crashed into some little old woman who was sitting in front of him. Amusingly, frustratingly, few people apologize for these collisions, despite the fact they often cause disruptions and damage to beverages, newspapers, or even eyeglasses.
So today as we left 42nd St., I silently mused over the crowd at the door who jammed their way onto the train and now had nothing to hold onto. This, I thought, will be fun. The doors closed, the train rolled, and 5....4....3....**squealing wheels**....2....
LURCH! As expected, a good 4 or 5 people took headers toward the opposite side of the train. Some caught themselves with poles or by grabbing onto other people. But those idiot hotshots who think they can ride with no handhold and put their hands in their pockets--THEY went sailing! And I just cracked up.
A nicer person with more concerns over the Life Eternal might have said "Hey folks, you may want to grab on to something." But I, you see, am not that person. Rather, I'm the one who gets a sick kick--and a blog--out of not speaking up and letting them take flight. Because it's funny for me, especially when they think they recovered, act all cool like it never happened, then get tossed for surprise lurch #2. Haha. It's funny.
11.20.2004
i am a lazy, worthless beast.
For days, all I've wanted is a Saturday. Since that point on Sunday where I realized that a new work week was rising, all I've wanted was a Saturday to relax, catch up, clean up, work out, and do errands--typical Saturday things.
Well, it's finally Saturday. I woke this morning without a hangover, thanks to the fact that a single drink last night cost $9.25. So I only had three, one of which was bought for me. That made it easy to wake up when my phone rang at 9am (especially when I saw it was a call from California where it was only 6am).
I talked to Bobo for a bit. Then I called my mom. Then I talked to Joanie. Then I called my sister. Then I talked to Jen. All this without ever getting out of my bed. Next thing I know, it's noon, and I haven't done a damn thing except take advantage of my free nights and weekends, which I really should do anyway for $60 a month.
Driven by hunger and an unignorable need to brush my teeth, I got out of bed. As I was brushing, I decided I must change my bed sheets. So after brushing, I washed a big tupperware container, dried it, and filled it with honey nut cheerios. I added a sliced banana, some sugar, and some milk, dropped a spoon in it, and sat on the floor and ate. THEN I grabbed fresh sheets out of the bathroom for my bed.
Being slightly neurotic/meticulous about my bed making (serious issues about head- and feet-ends of blankets always being in the right place), I spread out my new sexy sateen sheets, put the pillow cases on, threw the comforter up, flipped it over to hide its need to be washed (yet maintained the proper head-foot balance), and when I was done, it looked so damn comfortable that I crawled up on top of it and took a nap.
A three hour nap.
Now it's 4:00. I missed my class at the gym. I haven't washed the pile of dishes in the sink. I haven't worked on my paper. I haven't even put on fresh deodorant. I did, however, just eat three pieces of cheese, which was also very high on my list of Important Things to Accomplish.
But I MUST get my ass in gear. Tonight I have a housewarming party to attend. I have four hours remaining to decide upon and purchase a gift (likely wine), wrap it (or stick a bow on it), come back home and shower (and shave everything that needs to be shaved), put on that much-needed deodorant, pick out clothes that say "I'm hot, but casual and spontaneous and fun" (but also show enough cleavage to get the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend back to my apartment after the party), get dressed in said clothes, then head towards the party WITH the gifts and my other alcoholic beverages which I hope the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend will help me carry. Really, when I look at it, I have a lot to do, and yet instead of DOING it, I'm sitting here writing about it. It's just one of those rainy Saturdays upon which I reaffirm that I am a lazy, worthless beast.
But at least I brushed my teeth.
Well, it's finally Saturday. I woke this morning without a hangover, thanks to the fact that a single drink last night cost $9.25. So I only had three, one of which was bought for me. That made it easy to wake up when my phone rang at 9am (especially when I saw it was a call from California where it was only 6am).
I talked to Bobo for a bit. Then I called my mom. Then I talked to Joanie. Then I called my sister. Then I talked to Jen. All this without ever getting out of my bed. Next thing I know, it's noon, and I haven't done a damn thing except take advantage of my free nights and weekends, which I really should do anyway for $60 a month.
Driven by hunger and an unignorable need to brush my teeth, I got out of bed. As I was brushing, I decided I must change my bed sheets. So after brushing, I washed a big tupperware container, dried it, and filled it with honey nut cheerios. I added a sliced banana, some sugar, and some milk, dropped a spoon in it, and sat on the floor and ate. THEN I grabbed fresh sheets out of the bathroom for my bed.
Being slightly neurotic/meticulous about my bed making (serious issues about head- and feet-ends of blankets always being in the right place), I spread out my new sexy sateen sheets, put the pillow cases on, threw the comforter up, flipped it over to hide its need to be washed (yet maintained the proper head-foot balance), and when I was done, it looked so damn comfortable that I crawled up on top of it and took a nap.
A three hour nap.
Now it's 4:00. I missed my class at the gym. I haven't washed the pile of dishes in the sink. I haven't worked on my paper. I haven't even put on fresh deodorant. I did, however, just eat three pieces of cheese, which was also very high on my list of Important Things to Accomplish.
But I MUST get my ass in gear. Tonight I have a housewarming party to attend. I have four hours remaining to decide upon and purchase a gift (likely wine), wrap it (or stick a bow on it), come back home and shower (and shave everything that needs to be shaved), put on that much-needed deodorant, pick out clothes that say "I'm hot, but casual and spontaneous and fun" (but also show enough cleavage to get the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend back to my apartment after the party), get dressed in said clothes, then head towards the party WITH the gifts and my other alcoholic beverages which I hope the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend will help me carry. Really, when I look at it, I have a lot to do, and yet instead of DOING it, I'm sitting here writing about it. It's just one of those rainy Saturdays upon which I reaffirm that I am a lazy, worthless beast.
But at least I brushed my teeth.
11.16.2004
mack daddy.
When I started school in September, I learned that to get to my classes on the upper floors, I had to get past "Security." Security is two guys in blue blazers with some soft of emblem on their chest who scan for IDs as you walk past and line up for elevators.
So somewhere around week 2, when I got to school, one of the security guards started giving me the "hey girl, how YOU doin'" lip-licking, crotch-grabbing salute popular among the bruthas. Three days a week for two months in a row, I walked by this guy, and most often failed to suppress a smile or laugh at his gestures when I walked by. He stared me down every time. I don't think he was looking for an ID.
Then last week I walked in one day, and tried to avoid the Mack Daddy by going to the other guard for the ID scan. But over my shoulder I heard, "Hellooooo. Hellooooo girl. Beautiful." Again, laughing, I'd turn and smile and say hello. "Aw thank you," he said. "You made my night." The next day was more of the same, and it was clear that I could not just bypass this guy without him chasing me down.
Finally on Thursday, my last day of classes, I smiled and walked in as normal. An hour and a half later, I left class early to get a ride that was waiting for me downstairs. But I was late, so I bolted down the hall for the elevator, and when I turned the corner.....
There he was. All 5'7" of him. Licking his lips, giving me the pout, and holding an elevator door open. "Going...down?" he said, remniscent of an old Aerosmith video. "Yes," I sighed, too late to wait for another lift. So I climbed in, and about 8 people got in behind me.
The car was packed and I was separated from my admirer, who continued to look me up and down through the crowd. To my dismay, the elevator went UP, up to the 10th floor instead of down to the ground. The other 8 people got off, leaving me along with...
"My name's Kevin. What's your name?"
"Stephanie."
"Stephanie. You got a boyfriend?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? Oh I'll take sort of. That means it ain't locked down yet."
I just smiled, because I have no misapprehensions about being locked down to anything.
"I'll tell you what, Stephanie. If it don't work out with Mr. Sort Of, you lemmie know."
"Sure thing," I told Kevin as I silently willed the elevator to the ground floor.
The doors opened and I bolted out, trying to get outside to my ride, aka No Apprehensions/Mr. Sort Of. I got held up in foot traffic, and Kevin continued to talk to me.
"Well Stephanie, you have a good night, beautiful. I'll see you again soon."
"Uh, thanks. You too. Bye!"
I ran outside and hopped in the car, slamming the door shut behind me. When I looked up, Kevin was there. He'd followed me outside and watched me get into the car. As we pulled away, I made certain not to wave.
The fun part is, I still have to see Kevin tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night, and onward as such for the next, oh, 3 years. Let's just hope he stays out of the elevators.
So somewhere around week 2, when I got to school, one of the security guards started giving me the "hey girl, how YOU doin'" lip-licking, crotch-grabbing salute popular among the bruthas. Three days a week for two months in a row, I walked by this guy, and most often failed to suppress a smile or laugh at his gestures when I walked by. He stared me down every time. I don't think he was looking for an ID.
Then last week I walked in one day, and tried to avoid the Mack Daddy by going to the other guard for the ID scan. But over my shoulder I heard, "Hellooooo. Hellooooo girl. Beautiful." Again, laughing, I'd turn and smile and say hello. "Aw thank you," he said. "You made my night." The next day was more of the same, and it was clear that I could not just bypass this guy without him chasing me down.
Finally on Thursday, my last day of classes, I smiled and walked in as normal. An hour and a half later, I left class early to get a ride that was waiting for me downstairs. But I was late, so I bolted down the hall for the elevator, and when I turned the corner.....
There he was. All 5'7" of him. Licking his lips, giving me the pout, and holding an elevator door open. "Going...down?" he said, remniscent of an old Aerosmith video. "Yes," I sighed, too late to wait for another lift. So I climbed in, and about 8 people got in behind me.
The car was packed and I was separated from my admirer, who continued to look me up and down through the crowd. To my dismay, the elevator went UP, up to the 10th floor instead of down to the ground. The other 8 people got off, leaving me along with...
"My name's Kevin. What's your name?"
"Stephanie."
"Stephanie. You got a boyfriend?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? Oh I'll take sort of. That means it ain't locked down yet."
I just smiled, because I have no misapprehensions about being locked down to anything.
"I'll tell you what, Stephanie. If it don't work out with Mr. Sort Of, you lemmie know."
"Sure thing," I told Kevin as I silently willed the elevator to the ground floor.
The doors opened and I bolted out, trying to get outside to my ride, aka No Apprehensions/Mr. Sort Of. I got held up in foot traffic, and Kevin continued to talk to me.
"Well Stephanie, you have a good night, beautiful. I'll see you again soon."
"Uh, thanks. You too. Bye!"
I ran outside and hopped in the car, slamming the door shut behind me. When I looked up, Kevin was there. He'd followed me outside and watched me get into the car. As we pulled away, I made certain not to wave.
The fun part is, I still have to see Kevin tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night, and onward as such for the next, oh, 3 years. Let's just hope he stays out of the elevators.
11.13.2004
the true secret of the subway
Sorry for the major gap in service, folks. I've been busy. (Or rather, gettin' busy, go me.) But I'm taking a moment to give you yet another commentary on the NYC subway system.
Last week the subway royally pissed me off twice. Once, due to no fault of their own, they shut down service for practically the entire east side, sending people into raging fits of stress over the inability to get ANYWHERE in ANY direction. But it was because a building partially collapsed over the track, and to be safe, they couldn't run trains under it. Fair enough. I don't know what happened the other time, but the end result was me taking an hour and a half to get to work via a Very Crowded Bus that stopped approximately every nanometer. It was not a good day.
Anyhow, today, like most weekends lately, I walked to my 6 train only to find, once again, it wouldn't be stopping here. Due to construction on the tracks, I must either walk or take the Very Crowded Bus to another station where ALL the trains will stop despite being very very delayed for sharing the same tracks.
So, tra-la, off I strolled into the biting cold New York City air. By the time I reached the next station, I was nearly frostbitten and unable to speak. But my automatic positioning system took over and I got down the stairs and through the turnstile. When I came to, I realized a train was stopped downstairs, and if I ran, I might be able to make it.
I quickly broke into the subway sprint, which depending on your athletic ability is described as either going down the stairs 2 or 3 at a time, or as in my case, just taking them in such rapid sequence that it appears blurry to anyone without a strobe light, which usually includes the old man with a cane that inevitably exists for the sole purposes of delaying your emergency subway sprint.
When I reached the landing between flights of stairs, the little train "Peeker" was leaning out the window to see if he could close the doors. There's one of these on every train. They wait in a specially designed subway car that has two compartments--one on either side of the train. And at each station, these Peekers (who probably have a more technical name but for now will be called Peekers) slide down their specially designed window and stick their head out, looking to the right and to the left, making sure most passengers have boarded and that no small children are stuck between the doors. Then, apparently, they and they alone have the ability to close the doors.
So the doors on the train were closing, but I made a dash anyway, just in case I could be one of those really REALLY cool subway riders who knows that often the doors will reopen just for a second and people can sneak through. But that didn't happen. Meanwhile, a girl behind me toting a yoga mat made a dash for the next car's doors because they were still open. As she extended her hand to stop the closing door, the door smashed shut and left her high and dry.
The girl, who may I remind you was toting a yoga mat, turns and looks and the Peeker from about a foot from his face and screams "You're an ASSHOLE," and gives him the bird. Now, while this is personally one of my favorite comments and gestures, I usually reserve it for the car. But not this girl.
And to my surprise, the Peeker, wearing his official MTA uniform, very calmly yells back "Fuck you bitch," which implies, to me, that this happens all the time. I had no idea.
The girl then took her yoga mat and stormed off to go sit on a bench somewhere. All I could think was she must REALLY need her yoga. I was a little afraid and wouldn't look her in the eye. But the point is, these Peekers really have ALL the control. Here I was thinking the driver up front either counted to 20 and pushed a button, or did it entirely at random, and the Peekers were just there to raise an alarm if anything bad was happening. Hell no. The Peekers have all the power. All of it.
This changes EVERYTHING.
Last week the subway royally pissed me off twice. Once, due to no fault of their own, they shut down service for practically the entire east side, sending people into raging fits of stress over the inability to get ANYWHERE in ANY direction. But it was because a building partially collapsed over the track, and to be safe, they couldn't run trains under it. Fair enough. I don't know what happened the other time, but the end result was me taking an hour and a half to get to work via a Very Crowded Bus that stopped approximately every nanometer. It was not a good day.
Anyhow, today, like most weekends lately, I walked to my 6 train only to find, once again, it wouldn't be stopping here. Due to construction on the tracks, I must either walk or take the Very Crowded Bus to another station where ALL the trains will stop despite being very very delayed for sharing the same tracks.
So, tra-la, off I strolled into the biting cold New York City air. By the time I reached the next station, I was nearly frostbitten and unable to speak. But my automatic positioning system took over and I got down the stairs and through the turnstile. When I came to, I realized a train was stopped downstairs, and if I ran, I might be able to make it.
I quickly broke into the subway sprint, which depending on your athletic ability is described as either going down the stairs 2 or 3 at a time, or as in my case, just taking them in such rapid sequence that it appears blurry to anyone without a strobe light, which usually includes the old man with a cane that inevitably exists for the sole purposes of delaying your emergency subway sprint.
When I reached the landing between flights of stairs, the little train "Peeker" was leaning out the window to see if he could close the doors. There's one of these on every train. They wait in a specially designed subway car that has two compartments--one on either side of the train. And at each station, these Peekers (who probably have a more technical name but for now will be called Peekers) slide down their specially designed window and stick their head out, looking to the right and to the left, making sure most passengers have boarded and that no small children are stuck between the doors. Then, apparently, they and they alone have the ability to close the doors.
So the doors on the train were closing, but I made a dash anyway, just in case I could be one of those really REALLY cool subway riders who knows that often the doors will reopen just for a second and people can sneak through. But that didn't happen. Meanwhile, a girl behind me toting a yoga mat made a dash for the next car's doors because they were still open. As she extended her hand to stop the closing door, the door smashed shut and left her high and dry.
The girl, who may I remind you was toting a yoga mat, turns and looks and the Peeker from about a foot from his face and screams "You're an ASSHOLE," and gives him the bird. Now, while this is personally one of my favorite comments and gestures, I usually reserve it for the car. But not this girl.
And to my surprise, the Peeker, wearing his official MTA uniform, very calmly yells back "Fuck you bitch," which implies, to me, that this happens all the time. I had no idea.
The girl then took her yoga mat and stormed off to go sit on a bench somewhere. All I could think was she must REALLY need her yoga. I was a little afraid and wouldn't look her in the eye. But the point is, these Peekers really have ALL the control. Here I was thinking the driver up front either counted to 20 and pushed a button, or did it entirely at random, and the Peekers were just there to raise an alarm if anything bad was happening. Hell no. The Peekers have all the power. All of it.
This changes EVERYTHING.
11.08.2004
the golden rule...is stuck to your shoe.
One night not terribly long ago, I was at a bar having many margaritas with my friend Jen. As is common in such situations, I stood up at one point and said "I have to pee." Naturally, Jen said "Me too." (See fellas, it's not that we necessarily MUST travel in pairs, but going pee sometimes just seems like a really great suggestion.)
So we stumbled happily to the ladies room, where we had a hysterical fit of laughter over something neither of us can recall. It might have been a lack of locking mechanisms, or just residual giggles from the bar. Chances are it was over some arbitrary thing, like the automatically flushing toilets whose pacing was all off, and flushed when you walked IN to the stall, but not out. Whatever it was, I distinctly remember having tears of laughter in my eyes as I teetered over the toilet (without touching it of course).
We then giggled our way out to the sinks and washed and dried our hands. Jen went out the door slightly ahead of me, and I held the door for the girl slightly behind me. She said thank you, and as I stepped into the hallway she grabbed my arm and said "Oh my gosh, I really need to stop you." Drunk and perplexed, I turned around to ask why, but didn't even have to when I followed her gaze down to my foot where a 2-ft. long piece of toilet paper was trailing from the bottom of my shoe.
"OH MY GOD!" I screamed. "Thank you SO much. I can't believe you stopped me. You're a complete stranger!"
"It's no problem," she said. "I had someone do it for me once and I can completely relate to the feeling." She then stepped on the end of the paper, allowing me to break free from it. I wanted to hug her--especially in my happy state. But I settled for a quick "You're the best. Thank you."
The other night I went out to another bar in another city with another group of friends. At some point, after a great many fruity drinks, I stood up and said "I have to pee." I stumbled happily around the corner to find--a line?! Not having the patience or mental stability to hold it, I knocked on the men's room door and said "Chick coming in!" The bathroom was empty, so I bolted in and teetered over the bowl, being EXTRA certain not to touch it. I flushed (with my foot), and went out and washed and dried my hands.
When I got back out to the main floor, two women were heading down the stairs. One of them had a long piece of toilet paper trailing behind her. Suddenly I felt invigorated and sober, and as memories of the kindness of strangers flooded my mind, I bolted after the woman before she descended the stairs.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Ma'am!" Undoubtedly, she was befuddled as to why some crazy white girl was chasing her down, arms flailing. "I can't let you go down like this," I told her, motioning to her shoe.
"Good Lord, darlin'! Thank you so much!" she laughed and howled, and her friend howled with her.
"Go ahead," I said, stepping on the paper. "I got it."
Proudly I stood, foot atop the stray disgusting toilet paper, hands on hips, watching as another victim was saved from the throes of toilet paper humiliation. She worked her way down the staircase, still laughing, and occasionally waving back to me, her savior.
Someday this woman will encounter a hapless sucker, and she too will be revisited by the time some crazy white girl ripped the toilet paper off her shoe. And with any luck, she'll pass it on.
So it really is true. Do unto others as you would have do unto to you...even if it's stuck to the bottom of their shoe.
So we stumbled happily to the ladies room, where we had a hysterical fit of laughter over something neither of us can recall. It might have been a lack of locking mechanisms, or just residual giggles from the bar. Chances are it was over some arbitrary thing, like the automatically flushing toilets whose pacing was all off, and flushed when you walked IN to the stall, but not out. Whatever it was, I distinctly remember having tears of laughter in my eyes as I teetered over the toilet (without touching it of course).
We then giggled our way out to the sinks and washed and dried our hands. Jen went out the door slightly ahead of me, and I held the door for the girl slightly behind me. She said thank you, and as I stepped into the hallway she grabbed my arm and said "Oh my gosh, I really need to stop you." Drunk and perplexed, I turned around to ask why, but didn't even have to when I followed her gaze down to my foot where a 2-ft. long piece of toilet paper was trailing from the bottom of my shoe.
"OH MY GOD!" I screamed. "Thank you SO much. I can't believe you stopped me. You're a complete stranger!"
"It's no problem," she said. "I had someone do it for me once and I can completely relate to the feeling." She then stepped on the end of the paper, allowing me to break free from it. I wanted to hug her--especially in my happy state. But I settled for a quick "You're the best. Thank you."
The other night I went out to another bar in another city with another group of friends. At some point, after a great many fruity drinks, I stood up and said "I have to pee." I stumbled happily around the corner to find--a line?! Not having the patience or mental stability to hold it, I knocked on the men's room door and said "Chick coming in!" The bathroom was empty, so I bolted in and teetered over the bowl, being EXTRA certain not to touch it. I flushed (with my foot), and went out and washed and dried my hands.
When I got back out to the main floor, two women were heading down the stairs. One of them had a long piece of toilet paper trailing behind her. Suddenly I felt invigorated and sober, and as memories of the kindness of strangers flooded my mind, I bolted after the woman before she descended the stairs.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Ma'am!" Undoubtedly, she was befuddled as to why some crazy white girl was chasing her down, arms flailing. "I can't let you go down like this," I told her, motioning to her shoe.
"Good Lord, darlin'! Thank you so much!" she laughed and howled, and her friend howled with her.
"Go ahead," I said, stepping on the paper. "I got it."
Proudly I stood, foot atop the stray disgusting toilet paper, hands on hips, watching as another victim was saved from the throes of toilet paper humiliation. She worked her way down the staircase, still laughing, and occasionally waving back to me, her savior.
Someday this woman will encounter a hapless sucker, and she too will be revisited by the time some crazy white girl ripped the toilet paper off her shoe. And with any luck, she'll pass it on.
So it really is true. Do unto others as you would have do unto to you...even if it's stuck to the bottom of their shoe.
11.06.2004
it's not what you think.
I have been super busy lately AND the blog site was down for a few days. So I'm sorry I wasn't able to post anything. But to satiate that appetite, I'll give you one of my favorite previously written pieces that I like to call "It's Not What You Think."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"How are you doing?"
"Been better. Long week at work. I’m so tense."
"Yeah, you look tense. Here, sit down."
I sit slowly, looking up at him pleadingly. He walks behind me and starts massaging my shoulders. It feels so good that I just drop my head and enjoy it.
"What’s going on at work?" he asks softly.
"Deadlines," I mumble. "Deadlines and meetings."
"Well why don’t you take off your sweater and lay down, let’s see if we can get rid of some of that stress."
I pick up my drooped head and unbutton my sweater. I slowly take it off and toss it over the arm of a chair. I lean back until I’m lying flat. He is standing beside me looking down and smiling. I close my eyes and sigh.
He takes my hand. His hand is so soft and strong and warm, I feel a shiver of calm go through my body. He stretches my arm up over my head as I open my eyes and let out a gentle moan.
"Is that too much?" he asks.
"No, it feels good."
"Wow. You’re so tight."
"I know, but it feels good. Keep going."
"Why don’t we try with you lying on your stomach instead," he suggests. I roll over and drop my face into the pillow. He moves my hair, then grabs onto my bra strap and slides it over. He grabs my hand again.
"Just relax," he whispers. "Let go."
He leans into me and I feel his weight. I exhale slowly, trying to relax.
"Oh yeah," he says. "This is much better. Do you feel how easy that’s moving?"
"Uh-huh," I groan into the pillow.
"Don’t resist," he tells me. "Just let it happen."
I close my eyes and let go. He adjusts the angle and starts pushing down on me, which hurts, and I whimper.
"Sorry," he whispers. "But you’re making huge progress. Your flexibility and range of motion are improving and I think you’ll have it back in no time."
He straightens out my arm and helps me off the massage table.
"Thanks," I say, rubbing my sore, recovering shoulder. "You're a lot better than my last physical therapist."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"How are you doing?"
"Been better. Long week at work. I’m so tense."
"Yeah, you look tense. Here, sit down."
I sit slowly, looking up at him pleadingly. He walks behind me and starts massaging my shoulders. It feels so good that I just drop my head and enjoy it.
"What’s going on at work?" he asks softly.
"Deadlines," I mumble. "Deadlines and meetings."
"Well why don’t you take off your sweater and lay down, let’s see if we can get rid of some of that stress."
I pick up my drooped head and unbutton my sweater. I slowly take it off and toss it over the arm of a chair. I lean back until I’m lying flat. He is standing beside me looking down and smiling. I close my eyes and sigh.
He takes my hand. His hand is so soft and strong and warm, I feel a shiver of calm go through my body. He stretches my arm up over my head as I open my eyes and let out a gentle moan.
"Is that too much?" he asks.
"No, it feels good."
"Wow. You’re so tight."
"I know, but it feels good. Keep going."
"Why don’t we try with you lying on your stomach instead," he suggests. I roll over and drop my face into the pillow. He moves my hair, then grabs onto my bra strap and slides it over. He grabs my hand again.
"Just relax," he whispers. "Let go."
He leans into me and I feel his weight. I exhale slowly, trying to relax.
"Oh yeah," he says. "This is much better. Do you feel how easy that’s moving?"
"Uh-huh," I groan into the pillow.
"Don’t resist," he tells me. "Just let it happen."
I close my eyes and let go. He adjusts the angle and starts pushing down on me, which hurts, and I whimper.
"Sorry," he whispers. "But you’re making huge progress. Your flexibility and range of motion are improving and I think you’ll have it back in no time."
He straightens out my arm and helps me off the massage table.
"Thanks," I say, rubbing my sore, recovering shoulder. "You're a lot better than my last physical therapist."
11.01.2004
revolving doors 101
Ah, revolving doors. Like elevators and escalators, revolving doors were a certain silly luxury that just wasn't around when I was growing up in smalltucky, MA. My sister was 19 before she finally stopped going "Ooooh! Escalator!" and running over to jump on a moving staircase. As such, I know that not everyone uses these devices every day, and that at first glance they can be quite confusing. But I believe wholeheartedly that they share this in common: GET OUT OF THE WAY.
Rule #1: KEEP MOVING.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to the bank with my friend Carrie. The only entrance to the ATM vestibule is through a revolving door. So I let some Giant Man go first, then myself, then Carrie behind me. Problem was, the Giant Man got out the other side and promptly stopped, standing in the exact spot that I was about to be dumped. My options were to a) do another lap around, and perhaps another, until the Giant Idiot Man got out of the way, or b) step out anyway, and shove his Giant Idiot Ass into a wall, hopefully head first.
Fortunately, I didn't have to do either. I managed to pop out behind him and sort of slink off somehow, wondering like I did all those days going 85mph on 128 how I survived such a near miss. Carrie stumbled out behind me as well, and we both gave the expected Disgusted Grunt and Sigh that another human being could be such a freaking idiot.
Rule #2: NO OVERSIZED OBJECTS.
My office also has revolving doors--three of them. The fact that there are three matters to me because far too often, a line of people develops outside the middle door, each waiting their turn on the wheel, when 10 feet to their left or right sits another door, completely idle.
A few days ago, I was leaving my office when I noticed a funny little man carrying lots of giant heavy bags. He was approaching the revolving door just ahead of me, and I wondered how this would be physically possible, and almost dared not enter the door behind him. The funny little man turned out to be Al Franken (no joke), and sure as the sun shines, as soon as I got into the wheel behind him, his bag smashed into a wall and nearly choked up the whole rotation. He clumsily shuffled his way through to the other side, and I just laughed and shook my head.
All the time people are trying to shuffle through the door with suitcases, boxes, strollers, crutches, etc. This really doesn't work. An ounce of common sense might point you in the right direction, such as the normal swinging door to your left. You can't push a revolving door if your hands are full. It's that simple.
Rule #3: NO CHANGING YOUR MIND.
This rule also relates to high-speed highway driving. I don't care WHAT you do as long as you commit to it. Don't change your mind at the last minute and change lanes, or take an exit, or, well...
Tonight I was leaving work. In front of me, a man. Behind him, his 8-year-old son. Then me, then another man behind me. First Dad went through, then Junior. Then I entered the wheel. Junior thought he'd be cute, and instead of getting out on the other side, he kept going for another lap. (Much like my sister would have done when she was...well, yesterday.)
The man behind me got in the rotation, and as we all took our next step forward, Junior decided he wanted out. Not realizing the door would KEEP ON MOVING, he turned around and extended one arm out, which I knew would be ripped off in a bloody screaming dismemberment accident if I took another step. The boy, realizing his folly, saw me in the glass pane behind him and panicked, which was good only because it caused him to recoil his outstretched arm. The door smashed into him, sending him hurling in his little 1/4 of the cylinder, causing it to slow suddenly, which then caused it to then hit me and the man behind me in a clumsy domino fashion. Being adults, we regained our sense of rhythm and I popped out the other side, followed by the man, then the boy, whose father was now 30 feet away and completely unaware that his child almost lost a limb OR suffered a heinous beating by some girl who just got whacked by the revolving door.
I glared at the kid, then caught the eye of my companion who said, quite wisely, "Fucking kid." I threw my bag back on my shoulder and headed for the subway. One of these days, I tell you. One of these days...
Rule #1: KEEP MOVING.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to the bank with my friend Carrie. The only entrance to the ATM vestibule is through a revolving door. So I let some Giant Man go first, then myself, then Carrie behind me. Problem was, the Giant Man got out the other side and promptly stopped, standing in the exact spot that I was about to be dumped. My options were to a) do another lap around, and perhaps another, until the Giant Idiot Man got out of the way, or b) step out anyway, and shove his Giant Idiot Ass into a wall, hopefully head first.
Fortunately, I didn't have to do either. I managed to pop out behind him and sort of slink off somehow, wondering like I did all those days going 85mph on 128 how I survived such a near miss. Carrie stumbled out behind me as well, and we both gave the expected Disgusted Grunt and Sigh that another human being could be such a freaking idiot.
Rule #2: NO OVERSIZED OBJECTS.
My office also has revolving doors--three of them. The fact that there are three matters to me because far too often, a line of people develops outside the middle door, each waiting their turn on the wheel, when 10 feet to their left or right sits another door, completely idle.
A few days ago, I was leaving my office when I noticed a funny little man carrying lots of giant heavy bags. He was approaching the revolving door just ahead of me, and I wondered how this would be physically possible, and almost dared not enter the door behind him. The funny little man turned out to be Al Franken (no joke), and sure as the sun shines, as soon as I got into the wheel behind him, his bag smashed into a wall and nearly choked up the whole rotation. He clumsily shuffled his way through to the other side, and I just laughed and shook my head.
All the time people are trying to shuffle through the door with suitcases, boxes, strollers, crutches, etc. This really doesn't work. An ounce of common sense might point you in the right direction, such as the normal swinging door to your left. You can't push a revolving door if your hands are full. It's that simple.
Rule #3: NO CHANGING YOUR MIND.
This rule also relates to high-speed highway driving. I don't care WHAT you do as long as you commit to it. Don't change your mind at the last minute and change lanes, or take an exit, or, well...
Tonight I was leaving work. In front of me, a man. Behind him, his 8-year-old son. Then me, then another man behind me. First Dad went through, then Junior. Then I entered the wheel. Junior thought he'd be cute, and instead of getting out on the other side, he kept going for another lap. (Much like my sister would have done when she was...well, yesterday.)
The man behind me got in the rotation, and as we all took our next step forward, Junior decided he wanted out. Not realizing the door would KEEP ON MOVING, he turned around and extended one arm out, which I knew would be ripped off in a bloody screaming dismemberment accident if I took another step. The boy, realizing his folly, saw me in the glass pane behind him and panicked, which was good only because it caused him to recoil his outstretched arm. The door smashed into him, sending him hurling in his little 1/4 of the cylinder, causing it to slow suddenly, which then caused it to then hit me and the man behind me in a clumsy domino fashion. Being adults, we regained our sense of rhythm and I popped out the other side, followed by the man, then the boy, whose father was now 30 feet away and completely unaware that his child almost lost a limb OR suffered a heinous beating by some girl who just got whacked by the revolving door.
I glared at the kid, then caught the eye of my companion who said, quite wisely, "Fucking kid." I threw my bag back on my shoulder and headed for the subway. One of these days, I tell you. One of these days...
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