So, it's 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm at the point where I would rather be anywhere but here, at my desk, in my beige cubicle, under fluorescent lights, staring at the walls.
See, I have a cold. A shitty, watery-eyes, stuffy-nose, drippy-snot, tickly-cough, achy-head, knotty-back, someone-put-me-out-of-my-misery cold. (That should be the new Nyquil slogan.) It's in full swing now, despite my being in denial about it for the last 3 days. First I blamed it on my cat allergies, then on the change in weather, then on public transportation. But...in the end, I think it was already working in my system before I left for the weekend. Ugh. Obviously it was bad enough that I made a batch of chicken soup yesterday. So it's less like denial and more like...I don't know. Something else.
Well, now I'm at work, lamenting my existence here, and debating whether to leave early and go home to sleep, or stick it out the next hour and a half and accomplish absolutely nothing like I've been doing all day. I spent the last, hm, 40 minutes or so literally just sitting here. I may have even dozed off for a bit. But eventually my hot-flash/cold-chill woke me up, I wiped my bright red nose with a tissue, and stared at the walls some more.
Then I took some Robitussin ("mo tussin!") which apparently caused some heart palpitations, which I tried to track by counting a heartbeat. I couldn't find my heart, mostly because my bra is so heavily padded that no pulse can be detected through it, so I went for my neck and counted from there instead. 31 beats in 15 seconds seems....alarming. Oh well, it'll slow down.
Still, I feel better with the Tussin than I did without. My nose is no longer spewing yellow snot, which is a nice change of pace. (Although, there was a brief moment earlier when the right nostril was spewing yellow snot and the left was spewing red. That was special.) I have cleaned up the littering of cough drop wrappers that were all over the desk, and have managed to not yet open my second box of tissue today. (Note: Duane Reade did NOT have Puffs Plus today. What the FUCK is that about?? Remind me later to send them a photograph of my bright red nose while I give them the bird.)
What is it about having a cold that makes us so helpless? I instinctively want to be on my grandmother's couch under Papa's blanket, watching the Price is Right, sipping ginger ale and eating crackers, and slurping homemade soup from the bowl delivered to me on the couch. I think, maybe, that's where I am in my mind...watching Gramma do word searches in the rocking chair, occasionally stopping to shout at Bob Barker or put a cool, damp cloth on my forehead. Maybe I AM there, and that's why I'm not here, at work, editing ridiculously boring manuscripts.
No wait. Here I am. And here's a book about manually operated plumbing systems. Damn, guess I'm at work after all. I hate when that happens.
12.28.2004
12.27.2004
trains, trains, trains.
Don't let anyone fool you--trains are still a backbone of transportation in this country. I traveled almost exclusively by trains from small town, MA to UES, NY yesterday, and let me tell you...it STILL sucks.
First, in Boston, I had to deal with the token booth dude. Why Boston still uses tokens is beyond me. If I had my way, I would have just swiped my MetroCard on my way through. But alas, this did not happen. And as I heard the bell ringing in Alewife, the signal that the next train is about to leave, and I tried to zig and zag around slow-moving idiots with snail-paced small children, I watched from the top of the staircase as the train pulled away. I also shot the traditional dirty "it's all your fault" look at the children to teach them a lesson.
So I got on the other train, the one that was going to sit idle for 10 more minutes before leaving the station. I had the good fortune of boarding a car with a resident drunk who, from his slumped over position, occasionally yelled in Spanish to "get moving" or in English to "fuck off." Soon there were three MBTA officers there, and by "officers" I mean average people with two-way radios and a misleading sense of authority, who started hassling the drunkard before taking away his 40-oz. bottle of spirit. To this he resisted by shouting "You assholes!" before lying back down across a row of seats and passing out.
Eventually I got to South Station, where I had to wait another 45 mins for my Amtrak train to take me to New York. Being that South Station is so well planned, I had no where to sit. So I wheeled my suitcase over to a model train display, and sat on it. ("It" being the suitcase, not the train.) I was then run into and over by a series of small children whose moron parents allowed them to run in giant circles WITH the model train, often screaming at the top of their lungs while doing so. Now, I know trains are exciting, but please people, tell your kids to sit still and shut the hell up.
Later, I boarded my train, where I nestled into my window seat and used loud music to drown out the cries of cranky children on board who were upset, I presume, that they were no longer running circles with the model train. One little boy was very quiet, but only because his portable DVD player was VERY LOUD, which helped to drown out the screaming little girl to his left. But either would have been preferable over the woman who coughed and hacked and sneezed and gurgled continuously for four and a half hours, spewing her germs across the car.
Hours later, as the train pulled into Penn Station, I made my veteran move to the front of the pack and bolted up the escalator with my suitcase on my shoulder. I ran to the subway, where I conveniently swiped my MetroCard, and boarded a car with another Standard Subway Drunkard. This one was quieter than the last, but smelled strongly of urine. I watched amusedly as he leaned lower and lower, defying all laws of gravity by keeping his face a mere 1000th of an inch off the seat--and that's while he was sleeping!!
I left the drunk to transfer trains, and spent several minutes trying to wheel my suitcase past a pair of women with two unruly children who occupied the entire width of the walkway. "Excuse me," I said to the older woman. "EXCUSE ME." When she wouldn't move, I simply bowled her over, and when she scowled at me, I simply reminded her "I said EXCUSE ME!" which, also being in English, I'm sure she did not understand. I then broke into a jog, hoping to catch the train that was waiting, but missed it, which caused me to turn around and shoot more dirty looks at the woman to remind her it was all her fault.
So, in summary, all trains still have drunks and idiots, and while I can handle a few of each on any given day, I think 6 steady hours is more than I can handle. And if anyone sees the coughing hacking sneezing gurgling woman, let me know so I can punch her in the face. I think I caught her cold.
First, in Boston, I had to deal with the token booth dude. Why Boston still uses tokens is beyond me. If I had my way, I would have just swiped my MetroCard on my way through. But alas, this did not happen. And as I heard the bell ringing in Alewife, the signal that the next train is about to leave, and I tried to zig and zag around slow-moving idiots with snail-paced small children, I watched from the top of the staircase as the train pulled away. I also shot the traditional dirty "it's all your fault" look at the children to teach them a lesson.
So I got on the other train, the one that was going to sit idle for 10 more minutes before leaving the station. I had the good fortune of boarding a car with a resident drunk who, from his slumped over position, occasionally yelled in Spanish to "get moving" or in English to "fuck off." Soon there were three MBTA officers there, and by "officers" I mean average people with two-way radios and a misleading sense of authority, who started hassling the drunkard before taking away his 40-oz. bottle of spirit. To this he resisted by shouting "You assholes!" before lying back down across a row of seats and passing out.
Eventually I got to South Station, where I had to wait another 45 mins for my Amtrak train to take me to New York. Being that South Station is so well planned, I had no where to sit. So I wheeled my suitcase over to a model train display, and sat on it. ("It" being the suitcase, not the train.) I was then run into and over by a series of small children whose moron parents allowed them to run in giant circles WITH the model train, often screaming at the top of their lungs while doing so. Now, I know trains are exciting, but please people, tell your kids to sit still and shut the hell up.
Later, I boarded my train, where I nestled into my window seat and used loud music to drown out the cries of cranky children on board who were upset, I presume, that they were no longer running circles with the model train. One little boy was very quiet, but only because his portable DVD player was VERY LOUD, which helped to drown out the screaming little girl to his left. But either would have been preferable over the woman who coughed and hacked and sneezed and gurgled continuously for four and a half hours, spewing her germs across the car.
Hours later, as the train pulled into Penn Station, I made my veteran move to the front of the pack and bolted up the escalator with my suitcase on my shoulder. I ran to the subway, where I conveniently swiped my MetroCard, and boarded a car with another Standard Subway Drunkard. This one was quieter than the last, but smelled strongly of urine. I watched amusedly as he leaned lower and lower, defying all laws of gravity by keeping his face a mere 1000th of an inch off the seat--and that's while he was sleeping!!
I left the drunk to transfer trains, and spent several minutes trying to wheel my suitcase past a pair of women with two unruly children who occupied the entire width of the walkway. "Excuse me," I said to the older woman. "EXCUSE ME." When she wouldn't move, I simply bowled her over, and when she scowled at me, I simply reminded her "I said EXCUSE ME!" which, also being in English, I'm sure she did not understand. I then broke into a jog, hoping to catch the train that was waiting, but missed it, which caused me to turn around and shoot more dirty looks at the woman to remind her it was all her fault.
So, in summary, all trains still have drunks and idiots, and while I can handle a few of each on any given day, I think 6 steady hours is more than I can handle. And if anyone sees the coughing hacking sneezing gurgling woman, let me know so I can punch her in the face. I think I caught her cold.
12.18.2004
NOW will you stop making fun?
For the last, say, 3 years, people have been making constant fun of my digital camera. I bought it in 2001, and at the time it was on sale as one of the phasing-out models. It has 1.3 megapixels, weak digital "zoom," and most importantly - it's huge, especially when compared to the spectrum of miniscule Mission Impossible spy-cam models that are out now.
Most tech saavy people, upon seeing my digital dinosaur, have a reaction like one of the following, which are direct quotes:
"Wow...what is that, a laptop?"
"What is this thing, a VCR?"
"Wow, how do you get that around? Does it have wheels?"
Okay, OKAY. Enough already!! I heard ya. Yes, my digital camera is old and big and klunky. Yes, I've been meaning to buy a new one for some time. And ya know what? Finally. FINALLY, let all the laughing end.
Today I went out to do some holiday shopping--for me. I have been struggling with getting the last few gifts on my list for other people, so I decided to make myself feel better by purchasing a new digital camera. I had sort of asked for one for Christmas but didn't get any responses from anyone, so I'm guessing/hoping no one got one. (If you did, let's talk.)
The new camera, a Sony Cybershot with 4.1 megapixels, is roughly 1/6th the size of my old camera. It has all kinds of spanky fresh new features that hadn't likely been developed in 2001 when I bought the other camera. It can do shutter bursts, zoom, and even take several minutes worth of moving pictures. I'm very excited.
All night I've been walking around taking pictures of myself and random, boring, inanimate household objects, like a spoon, or...a pen. Then I upload them to the computer so I can oooh and aaah at the huge difference in resolution. Then I go back and take more random, boring, pictures and repeat the process. Exciting nerd life I lead.
Anyhow, the point is, all you camera fun-poking assholes: BITE ME! I got a new one, okay? So back off already. Or I'll throw my old, giant, four-wheeled laptop VCR at your head. And it will hurt. Because it's so big. Shut up.
Most tech saavy people, upon seeing my digital dinosaur, have a reaction like one of the following, which are direct quotes:
"Wow...what is that, a laptop?"
"What is this thing, a VCR?"
"Wow, how do you get that around? Does it have wheels?"
Okay, OKAY. Enough already!! I heard ya. Yes, my digital camera is old and big and klunky. Yes, I've been meaning to buy a new one for some time. And ya know what? Finally. FINALLY, let all the laughing end.
Today I went out to do some holiday shopping--for me. I have been struggling with getting the last few gifts on my list for other people, so I decided to make myself feel better by purchasing a new digital camera. I had sort of asked for one for Christmas but didn't get any responses from anyone, so I'm guessing/hoping no one got one. (If you did, let's talk.)
The new camera, a Sony Cybershot with 4.1 megapixels, is roughly 1/6th the size of my old camera. It has all kinds of spanky fresh new features that hadn't likely been developed in 2001 when I bought the other camera. It can do shutter bursts, zoom, and even take several minutes worth of moving pictures. I'm very excited.
All night I've been walking around taking pictures of myself and random, boring, inanimate household objects, like a spoon, or...a pen. Then I upload them to the computer so I can oooh and aaah at the huge difference in resolution. Then I go back and take more random, boring, pictures and repeat the process. Exciting nerd life I lead.
Anyhow, the point is, all you camera fun-poking assholes: BITE ME! I got a new one, okay? So back off already. Or I'll throw my old, giant, four-wheeled laptop VCR at your head. And it will hurt. Because it's so big. Shut up.
12.17.2004
city streets at night
Last night I was walking home in the cold after warming my spirit over a glass (or pitcher) of sangria with a couple of friends. We parted ways, and I had four little blocks to walk on my own.
Almost immediately, there was a man with a dog on the sidewalk. The dog was getting into that weird, scrunched, ass-to-the-ground position that says "I'm about to shit now!" Seeing dogs shit on the sidewalk is a very common occurrence. Seeing owners pick up after them is far less frequent. But this guy--he was VERY smart.
As the dog is about to drop a load, the man slides a newspaper under the dog's ass. Now...I'm guessing this man has been doing the ol' Big City Poop Scoop for so many years that he figured out the cleanest way to get the job done. But I for one was impressed at his innovative approach, even though it required the dog's cooperation. If you tossed a newspaper at my dog while she was pooping, you'd scare the--well. She'd run away, completely freaked out, and would probably leave a trail behind her. So props to the poop man on a job well done.
Then on the next block there was a man who kept stopping other men on the street saying "Hey man, I got all this stuff to get home, and I can't carry it all. Will ya help a brutha out?" I laughed, mostly because I have been in that situation, wishing that with the right amount of eyelash batting and coy smiling, I could get some fella to help a damsel in distress. But it didn't work for me, and it sure wasn't working for this guy. "Excuse me mister," he'd kept saying. "I got all this stuff to get home...."
My biggest problem here was that I didn't see this alleged "stuff." I saw a pile of trash on the curb, but definitely no "stuff" that seemed worthwhile to not just carry home, but ask for HELP in carrying home. But before I could see how this one would end, someone else stole the show.
Picture, if you will...
It's a cold windy night in December. Your chin is tucked deep, nestled into your scarf as you try to block out the chilly draft. Your eyes water in the cold, your nose runs, and you keep your eyes on the ground as you walk briskly home. But your eyes, watery as they may be, suddenly lock onto red leather. You slowly lift up, higher, until you realize the red leather is that of a pair of thigh-high boots that cover a pair of unstable legs attached to a foul-mouthed and intoxicated hooker a few steps in front of you.
"Yoo wan sum gooooooood pussy!" she yells into the night, at no one in particular. She stumbles to the right, then back to the left, her long horrible wig swaying with each difficult step. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me ma pussy ain't good. I got GOOD pussy. Mm-hmm good pussy right here. Who wans to fuck ma goooooood pussy?"
Suppressing hysterical laughter by stifling it in my scarf, I watched as the Lady in Red staggered back and forth across the sidewalk, walking like she just spent the last three months riding a horse. She continued to mutter on to herself about good pussy before lurching head-first toward a black gate, stumbling through it, and disappearing into a building. Apparently, good pussy is available at #1823.
After that, the last block home seemed boring an uneventful, but I shouldn't complain. I had three full blocks of entertainment to distract me from the fact that I was cold and miserable. Poop, stuff, and good pussy - THAT is what makes New York great.
Almost immediately, there was a man with a dog on the sidewalk. The dog was getting into that weird, scrunched, ass-to-the-ground position that says "I'm about to shit now!" Seeing dogs shit on the sidewalk is a very common occurrence. Seeing owners pick up after them is far less frequent. But this guy--he was VERY smart.
As the dog is about to drop a load, the man slides a newspaper under the dog's ass. Now...I'm guessing this man has been doing the ol' Big City Poop Scoop for so many years that he figured out the cleanest way to get the job done. But I for one was impressed at his innovative approach, even though it required the dog's cooperation. If you tossed a newspaper at my dog while she was pooping, you'd scare the--well. She'd run away, completely freaked out, and would probably leave a trail behind her. So props to the poop man on a job well done.
Then on the next block there was a man who kept stopping other men on the street saying "Hey man, I got all this stuff to get home, and I can't carry it all. Will ya help a brutha out?" I laughed, mostly because I have been in that situation, wishing that with the right amount of eyelash batting and coy smiling, I could get some fella to help a damsel in distress. But it didn't work for me, and it sure wasn't working for this guy. "Excuse me mister," he'd kept saying. "I got all this stuff to get home...."
My biggest problem here was that I didn't see this alleged "stuff." I saw a pile of trash on the curb, but definitely no "stuff" that seemed worthwhile to not just carry home, but ask for HELP in carrying home. But before I could see how this one would end, someone else stole the show.
Picture, if you will...
It's a cold windy night in December. Your chin is tucked deep, nestled into your scarf as you try to block out the chilly draft. Your eyes water in the cold, your nose runs, and you keep your eyes on the ground as you walk briskly home. But your eyes, watery as they may be, suddenly lock onto red leather. You slowly lift up, higher, until you realize the red leather is that of a pair of thigh-high boots that cover a pair of unstable legs attached to a foul-mouthed and intoxicated hooker a few steps in front of you.
"Yoo wan sum gooooooood pussy!" she yells into the night, at no one in particular. She stumbles to the right, then back to the left, her long horrible wig swaying with each difficult step. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me ma pussy ain't good. I got GOOD pussy. Mm-hmm good pussy right here. Who wans to fuck ma goooooood pussy?"
Suppressing hysterical laughter by stifling it in my scarf, I watched as the Lady in Red staggered back and forth across the sidewalk, walking like she just spent the last three months riding a horse. She continued to mutter on to herself about good pussy before lurching head-first toward a black gate, stumbling through it, and disappearing into a building. Apparently, good pussy is available at #1823.
After that, the last block home seemed boring an uneventful, but I shouldn't complain. I had three full blocks of entertainment to distract me from the fact that I was cold and miserable. Poop, stuff, and good pussy - THAT is what makes New York great.
12.14.2004
'tis the f'n season.
So yes. Once again, the holiday season is upon us. And once again, it is making me miserable.
Last night, in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit, I decided to try shopping for my first holiday purchases of the season--in actual stores. I'm a firm, steadfast believer that everything should be selected, paid for, and shipped from the internet, because the human element is highly overrated. But sometimes you miss out on the holiday fun that way: no holiday music, no friendly smiles, no festive lights. so I thought perhaps I should venture into the stores.
HA. I was hunting for a not-so-easy-to-find DVD, so I landed at BestBuy. As I rode down the escalator and saw the 30-person-deep check out line snaking around 4 or 5 different corners, and a voice on the PA saying "Code 1! Code 1! All available employees to the registers!" I thought maybe this was a Very Bad Idea. But I was here, and the DVDs were right around the corner, so I took a breath and jumped in.
Mayhem. Total and utter mayhem. There was no longer a sense of logic or order among either the DVDs OR the people. Idiots with giant shopping bags and backpacks clogged the aisles. Small children whined and sat in the middle of the floor. And not only could I not find what I wanted, but there was NO ONE to help me figure out if it existed. I walked up and down the 8 or 9 rows of DVDs several times, stepping over screaming tots and rolling my eyes at their parents. I never found what I was looking for, which is probably the best thing for me, because to justify standing in that long ass line to pay, I would have had to buy several hundred dollars worth of stuff.
So I left, and went home only to realize that I was losing vision in my left eye--my now standard sign that a migraine is coming. Christmas shopping gave me a MIGRAINE. So, you know what people? If you don't get something from me this year, it's because it wasn't available on the internet. I'm not going in ANY more stores this year. Christmas shopping is hazardous to my health. The surgeon general should warn you about this shit.
Last night, in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit, I decided to try shopping for my first holiday purchases of the season--in actual stores. I'm a firm, steadfast believer that everything should be selected, paid for, and shipped from the internet, because the human element is highly overrated. But sometimes you miss out on the holiday fun that way: no holiday music, no friendly smiles, no festive lights. so I thought perhaps I should venture into the stores.
HA. I was hunting for a not-so-easy-to-find DVD, so I landed at BestBuy. As I rode down the escalator and saw the 30-person-deep check out line snaking around 4 or 5 different corners, and a voice on the PA saying "Code 1! Code 1! All available employees to the registers!" I thought maybe this was a Very Bad Idea. But I was here, and the DVDs were right around the corner, so I took a breath and jumped in.
Mayhem. Total and utter mayhem. There was no longer a sense of logic or order among either the DVDs OR the people. Idiots with giant shopping bags and backpacks clogged the aisles. Small children whined and sat in the middle of the floor. And not only could I not find what I wanted, but there was NO ONE to help me figure out if it existed. I walked up and down the 8 or 9 rows of DVDs several times, stepping over screaming tots and rolling my eyes at their parents. I never found what I was looking for, which is probably the best thing for me, because to justify standing in that long ass line to pay, I would have had to buy several hundred dollars worth of stuff.
So I left, and went home only to realize that I was losing vision in my left eye--my now standard sign that a migraine is coming. Christmas shopping gave me a MIGRAINE. So, you know what people? If you don't get something from me this year, it's because it wasn't available on the internet. I'm not going in ANY more stores this year. Christmas shopping is hazardous to my health. The surgeon general should warn you about this shit.
12.10.2004
i am SUCH a nerd.
Okay, so, there's this weatherman in Boston that my friend Kevin told me about. He (Kevin) sent me an email that said "This guy's forecasts are right up your alley. Read it. Pants." And then there was a link to this: http://www1.whdh.com/weather/ . (Kevin didn't mean the actual day-to-day forecast, but rather the "Discussion" section further down the page.)
Now, mind you, at the time of this realization, I was actually still IN Boston. And I was quite a weather geek and was constantly telling people my interpretation of the latest doppler radar or spouting facts about the snow albedo effect or how, despite Anne Marie's doubts, it can actually snow and not make it to the ground. So when Kevin sent me this link, I put it right up into my bookmarks, and followed Pete's forecast every day. (Except when he's on vacation, which is far less fun.)
So now it has been months and months...maybe even a year since Kevin hooked me up to the hugely entertaining world of "Petey B." And although I moved to a new city, I read every day, and most times laugh hard enough to grab a snippet and send it to Kevin saying "that crazy Pete! Look what he said today!"
So yesterday I decided to email Pete, and give him a little fan mail:
Hi Pete,
I just wanted you to know that you are, as they say, da bomb. I moved to New York from Boston a few months ago, but I still check in online on a daily basis to see what kind of meteorological pop-cultural anecdote you've got up your sleeve. From pine trees wearing "pasties" to Counting Crows, because of you, I look forward to each day's forecast for a city in which I no longer live. Don't ever leave!
Your Big Apple weather fan,
Stephanie
And this morning, to my surprise, I had an email back from the great and powerful Pete:
Aw shucks Stephanie, I'm gonna turn this email red with all the blushing I'm doing. Thanks for the uplifting email. I hope to be here for a while (unless New York calls!) Best of holiday wishes!
Pete
You must understand--this email MADE MY DAY! Petey B. wrote to ME! He said my NAME! I couldn't be happier if it was from Johnny Depp, I swear. (And ya know how I feel about Johnny Depp!)
Well, naturally I forwarded the email to Kevin immediately. But my joy was so overwhelming that I simply had to share it with everyone else as well. And maybe now you all know (or have reaffirmed) that I am a complete nerd, a total weather geek, and something of a groupie. But I don't care. Long live Petey B.
Now, mind you, at the time of this realization, I was actually still IN Boston. And I was quite a weather geek and was constantly telling people my interpretation of the latest doppler radar or spouting facts about the snow albedo effect or how, despite Anne Marie's doubts, it can actually snow and not make it to the ground. So when Kevin sent me this link, I put it right up into my bookmarks, and followed Pete's forecast every day. (Except when he's on vacation, which is far less fun.)
So now it has been months and months...maybe even a year since Kevin hooked me up to the hugely entertaining world of "Petey B." And although I moved to a new city, I read every day, and most times laugh hard enough to grab a snippet and send it to Kevin saying "that crazy Pete! Look what he said today!"
So yesterday I decided to email Pete, and give him a little fan mail:
Hi Pete,
I just wanted you to know that you are, as they say, da bomb. I moved to New York from Boston a few months ago, but I still check in online on a daily basis to see what kind of meteorological pop-cultural anecdote you've got up your sleeve. From pine trees wearing "pasties" to Counting Crows, because of you, I look forward to each day's forecast for a city in which I no longer live. Don't ever leave!
Your Big Apple weather fan,
Stephanie
And this morning, to my surprise, I had an email back from the great and powerful Pete:
Aw shucks Stephanie, I'm gonna turn this email red with all the blushing I'm doing. Thanks for the uplifting email. I hope to be here for a while (unless New York calls!) Best of holiday wishes!
Pete
You must understand--this email MADE MY DAY! Petey B. wrote to ME! He said my NAME! I couldn't be happier if it was from Johnny Depp, I swear. (And ya know how I feel about Johnny Depp!)
Well, naturally I forwarded the email to Kevin immediately. But my joy was so overwhelming that I simply had to share it with everyone else as well. And maybe now you all know (or have reaffirmed) that I am a complete nerd, a total weather geek, and something of a groupie. But I don't care. Long live Petey B.
12.09.2004
lazy blog girl
Get to know your blogger...who wasted too much time on this stupid email to actually have time to write a blog.
----------------
(Once upon a time, I used to get these from my 12-year-old cousins. Now I get them from my 30-something-year-old friends. Very amusing.)
1. What time is it? 10:15am on a Thursday.
2. Name as it appears on birth certificate: Stephanie *********
3. Nicknames: Sis, Stepha (zalsa only), Stephie (family only), Hops.
4. Piercing: Three per ear.
5. Eye color: Used to be brown, now greenish, I guess.
6. Place of birth: Fitchburg, MA. 2nd hilliest city in the U.S. woohoo!
7. Favorite food: Cheese. And Chocolate. Or any combination.
8. Ever been to Africa? No
9. Ever been toilet papering? Not that I recall. I was a good kid.
10. Love someone so much it made you cry? Yeah, fucknut.
11. Been in a car accident? Not when I was driving.
12. Croutons or bacon bits? Yes please.
13. Favorite day of the week: Saturday. Week's over, and a new one has yet to begin. Aaah.
14. Favorite restaurant: Solea, in Waltham, MA or Not Your Average Joe's, of greater Boston, just for the bread.
15. Favorite flower: pretty colored ones, whatever they are.
16. Favorite sport to watch? My Patriots football, baby!! (And not JUST for Adam Vinatieri's ass.)
17. Favorite drink: Nothing beats a fresh can of Coke. Or, malibu bay breeze.
18. Favorite ice cream: MOOSE TRACKS!! No contest.
19. Disney or Warner Bros.: whatever.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant: McDonald's (#2 with a coke).
21. What color is the carpet in your bedroom? Hardwood baby. HARD WOOD.
22. How many times did you fail your driver's test? None. The dude passed me despite being 15 mph over the speed limit at all times.
24. Which stores would you choose to max out your credit card? Barnes & Noble, Anthropologie, Best Buy.
25. What you do most often when you are bored? Answer emails like these.
26. What is your bedtime? Lately, whenever I stumble home from the bar and find a way out of my boots.
27. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest? Jessica.
28. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Kevin.
29. Favorite TV shows: Six Feet Under, Fresh Prince
30. Last person you went out to dinner with: Carrie and Dan - Heidelberg fixtures.
31. Ford or Chevy? Why.
32. What are you listening to right now? Ivette yelling in Spanish.
33. What is your favorite color? Deep summer sky at twilight blue
34. Lake, ocean or river? Ocean. No, river. No, ocean. How about a hot tub?
35. How many tattoos do you have? Uno.
36. Time you finished this e-mail ? I'm not done yet, asshole.
37. Have you ever run out of gas? Damn close. Coast on fumes!
38. Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Still in NYC, still eating cheese, still buying shoes.
39. The name of the book you just finished? Managing the Publishing Enterprise - Course Instruction Packet
40. The one place you've always wanted to visit? Italia.
41. Most stupidest thing you've done while intoxicated? If I could remember, it wouldn't be the "most stupidest," would it.
42. What's the fastest speed you've driven? 90+, hand on horn. get the fuck out of my way.
43. Ever write your name in the snow? Yes, with my FEET.
44. What's the last song you sang out loud? Dominic the Donkey, complete with interpretive dance.
----------------
(Once upon a time, I used to get these from my 12-year-old cousins. Now I get them from my 30-something-year-old friends. Very amusing.)
1. What time is it? 10:15am on a Thursday.
2. Name as it appears on birth certificate: Stephanie *********
3. Nicknames: Sis, Stepha (zalsa only), Stephie (family only), Hops.
4. Piercing: Three per ear.
5. Eye color: Used to be brown, now greenish, I guess.
6. Place of birth: Fitchburg, MA. 2nd hilliest city in the U.S. woohoo!
7. Favorite food: Cheese. And Chocolate. Or any combination.
8. Ever been to Africa? No
9. Ever been toilet papering? Not that I recall. I was a good kid.
10. Love someone so much it made you cry? Yeah, fucknut.
11. Been in a car accident? Not when I was driving.
12. Croutons or bacon bits? Yes please.
13. Favorite day of the week: Saturday. Week's over, and a new one has yet to begin. Aaah.
14. Favorite restaurant: Solea, in Waltham, MA or Not Your Average Joe's, of greater Boston, just for the bread.
15. Favorite flower: pretty colored ones, whatever they are.
16. Favorite sport to watch? My Patriots football, baby!! (And not JUST for Adam Vinatieri's ass.)
17. Favorite drink: Nothing beats a fresh can of Coke. Or, malibu bay breeze.
18. Favorite ice cream: MOOSE TRACKS!! No contest.
19. Disney or Warner Bros.: whatever.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant: McDonald's (#2 with a coke).
21. What color is the carpet in your bedroom? Hardwood baby. HARD WOOD.
22. How many times did you fail your driver's test? None. The dude passed me despite being 15 mph over the speed limit at all times.
24. Which stores would you choose to max out your credit card? Barnes & Noble, Anthropologie, Best Buy.
25. What you do most often when you are bored? Answer emails like these.
26. What is your bedtime? Lately, whenever I stumble home from the bar and find a way out of my boots.
27. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest? Jessica.
28. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Kevin.
29. Favorite TV shows: Six Feet Under, Fresh Prince
30. Last person you went out to dinner with: Carrie and Dan - Heidelberg fixtures.
31. Ford or Chevy? Why.
32. What are you listening to right now? Ivette yelling in Spanish.
33. What is your favorite color? Deep summer sky at twilight blue
34. Lake, ocean or river? Ocean. No, river. No, ocean. How about a hot tub?
35. How many tattoos do you have? Uno.
36. Time you finished this e-mail ? I'm not done yet, asshole.
37. Have you ever run out of gas? Damn close. Coast on fumes!
38. Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Still in NYC, still eating cheese, still buying shoes.
39. The name of the book you just finished? Managing the Publishing Enterprise - Course Instruction Packet
40. The one place you've always wanted to visit? Italia.
41. Most stupidest thing you've done while intoxicated? If I could remember, it wouldn't be the "most stupidest," would it.
42. What's the fastest speed you've driven? 90+, hand on horn. get the fuck out of my way.
43. Ever write your name in the snow? Yes, with my FEET.
44. What's the last song you sang out loud? Dominic the Donkey, complete with interpretive dance.
12.04.2004
some assembly required
For the last 6 weeks or so, I've been living in my new apartment with no flat surface upon which to eat, except the kitchen counter. I wanted a table and some chairs, but wasn't sure where to get them, or how much to pay. So finally after all this time, I just walked to the store down the street and bought the cheapo set for $150.
The guy at the store said for an additional $25 they would assemble and deliver the table and chairs. I turned him down for numerous reasons. 1) I didn't want to give them the $25. 2) I wanted a project. 3) I wanted it NOW. So I made him go get the big box and lend me a dolly so I could wheel the box home. He thought I was crazy, some silly girl trying to get the heavy box home by herself. But I gave them my license as collateral, then rolled the box-on-dolly three blocks home, wrestled the box through the double set of doors downstairs, then somehow got it UP the stairs by rolling it end-over-end. When I slid it into my kitchen, I gave a very proud Rocky Balboa tough guy Victory Dance before returning the dolly to the store.
I bolted back to the store, then back home, and slashed open the tape on the box. I pulled the pieces out one by one, laying them out on the floor. In the back of my head, I heard my father saying "Check for all the pieces before you begin." And I gladly would have...if the box had contained any sort of printed instructions. How the flying fuck do you assemble ANYTHING made in MALAYSIA without instructions?? I would have even settled for a diagram with text written in French or Russian, but to have nothing?? I reminded myself I was looking for a project, so I unpacked everything, and dumped the baggie of screws and washers and other miscellaneous pieces for which I had no instructions onto the floor. I then realized that a massively slanted floor is not good for runaway screws and washers, so I dropped them into a bowl for further meticulous examination. I was happy to see an Allen wrench. I freakin' love those things.
Thanks to my long history of assembling and disassembling objects, such as relocating my bunk beds since the age of about 5 with my father's ratcheting tools, I was able to quickly decipher which screws and bolts went where. I managed to throw together one of the two chairs, and even sat upon it without any horrible snapping, popping, or crunching noises. However, when I turned to put together the second chair, I noticed only two of something that should have been three. "I told you to check for all the pieces!" my father's voice said. I sighed, knowing that while my mother would happily go forward and build the chair without its proper back support, I could not do so, and had to return to the store. I counted all my other pieces first to make sure nothing else was missing, and ran back out.
The man at the store was like "Oh great, the bitch who wanted the dolly is back." Or at least that's what his facial expression said. But I remained perky and obnoxious. "Hi. Remember me? I am missing a piece for one of my chairs. I need a second one just like this," I said as I held up the clone of the missing. Mr. Cranky took the piece, giving me a look that said "stupid chicks can't built shit," and went out back, returning a moment later with a pair of the pieces. I thanked him cheerily and headed back home.
Chair #2 went together very quickly and without further incident. Next was the big part: the TABLE!!
The table appeared to have its own baggie of miscellaneous screws and washers and, to my surprise, a second Allen wrench! But there were some little round things in this baggie that I didn't know what to do with. They weren't washers, not nuts, just...some pointless little pieces of curled metal. I looked at the table legs, and the pre-drilled holes on the table, and really wished I had instructions for this part. But using my what was left of my wit and intelligence, I screwed everything in place, sans mysterious pieces of curled metal. (If I can't find a use for 'em, why bother.)
Finally, with a cheer and a grunt, I hoisted the table upright. It didn't wobble. It didn't fall. It stood solidly in the middle of my kitchen. I repeated my proud Rocky Balboa dance (this time in front of the mirror) and thanked the Malaysian assholes for the challenge. Instructions? I don't need no stinkin' instructions!
The guy at the store said for an additional $25 they would assemble and deliver the table and chairs. I turned him down for numerous reasons. 1) I didn't want to give them the $25. 2) I wanted a project. 3) I wanted it NOW. So I made him go get the big box and lend me a dolly so I could wheel the box home. He thought I was crazy, some silly girl trying to get the heavy box home by herself. But I gave them my license as collateral, then rolled the box-on-dolly three blocks home, wrestled the box through the double set of doors downstairs, then somehow got it UP the stairs by rolling it end-over-end. When I slid it into my kitchen, I gave a very proud Rocky Balboa tough guy Victory Dance before returning the dolly to the store.
I bolted back to the store, then back home, and slashed open the tape on the box. I pulled the pieces out one by one, laying them out on the floor. In the back of my head, I heard my father saying "Check for all the pieces before you begin." And I gladly would have...if the box had contained any sort of printed instructions. How the flying fuck do you assemble ANYTHING made in MALAYSIA without instructions?? I would have even settled for a diagram with text written in French or Russian, but to have nothing?? I reminded myself I was looking for a project, so I unpacked everything, and dumped the baggie of screws and washers and other miscellaneous pieces for which I had no instructions onto the floor. I then realized that a massively slanted floor is not good for runaway screws and washers, so I dropped them into a bowl for further meticulous examination. I was happy to see an Allen wrench. I freakin' love those things.
Thanks to my long history of assembling and disassembling objects, such as relocating my bunk beds since the age of about 5 with my father's ratcheting tools, I was able to quickly decipher which screws and bolts went where. I managed to throw together one of the two chairs, and even sat upon it without any horrible snapping, popping, or crunching noises. However, when I turned to put together the second chair, I noticed only two of something that should have been three. "I told you to check for all the pieces!" my father's voice said. I sighed, knowing that while my mother would happily go forward and build the chair without its proper back support, I could not do so, and had to return to the store. I counted all my other pieces first to make sure nothing else was missing, and ran back out.
The man at the store was like "Oh great, the bitch who wanted the dolly is back." Or at least that's what his facial expression said. But I remained perky and obnoxious. "Hi. Remember me? I am missing a piece for one of my chairs. I need a second one just like this," I said as I held up the clone of the missing. Mr. Cranky took the piece, giving me a look that said "stupid chicks can't built shit," and went out back, returning a moment later with a pair of the pieces. I thanked him cheerily and headed back home.
Chair #2 went together very quickly and without further incident. Next was the big part: the TABLE!!
The table appeared to have its own baggie of miscellaneous screws and washers and, to my surprise, a second Allen wrench! But there were some little round things in this baggie that I didn't know what to do with. They weren't washers, not nuts, just...some pointless little pieces of curled metal. I looked at the table legs, and the pre-drilled holes on the table, and really wished I had instructions for this part. But using my what was left of my wit and intelligence, I screwed everything in place, sans mysterious pieces of curled metal. (If I can't find a use for 'em, why bother.)
Finally, with a cheer and a grunt, I hoisted the table upright. It didn't wobble. It didn't fall. It stood solidly in the middle of my kitchen. I repeated my proud Rocky Balboa dance (this time in front of the mirror) and thanked the Malaysian assholes for the challenge. Instructions? I don't need no stinkin' instructions!
12.02.2004
i'm a survivor!
The other day, at the end of my typical frenzied morning routine, I scurried out the door, locked it, and began walking to the subway. About a block and half later, I realized I'd made a horrible, frightening mistake--I left my cell phone at home.
I was running too late to go back and get it. And, despite my panic, I rationalized that I wouldn't really miss it or need it. I mean, it doesn't work on the subway, when I get to work I have a desk phone, later I had class, and then I'd be home. I could manage 12 hours without my cell phone...right?
All day I felt naked, exposed, vulnerable, lost, incomplete. I kept imagining the calls I was missing, the text messages that were piling up. I checked my voicemail once or twice from work but no one had left anything. Not many people do, though. I usually track through my missed calls, and I was missing it all!!
I considered going home at lunch to get the phone, but I decided I needed to prove to myself that I could last the day. I reminded myself that it was just like the "old fashioned way" of phone life, where you had ONLY a phone at home that would take messages for you when people called. You had to wait ALL day to get home and see who called. I did it years ago, I could do it again now, even though it had probably been about 4 years since I traveled anywhere without a phone.
By mid-afternoon, I had all the signs of an addict in withdrawal. Going cold-turkey may not have been the smartest decision. I tapped my fingers and feet, I had the shakes, and I grew obsessed with the void the phone left behind. I still had hours and hours to go, and the thought of my little Samsung sitting on the shelf at home just ate me up inside. But it was too late now, there was no turning back. I HAD to ride this out.
I met with my classmates as planned, and suffered until about 9:02 before I decided it was safe--and FREE--for me to borrow someone else's phone to "check for a very important message." I dialed, I entered my voicemail password, but alas, still no messages.
When I finally got home around 10:00, I made a beeline for the phone. It said I had missed calls, but I knew that logically most of them were probably me calling myself from other phones. I pressed buttons and reviewed, squealing with delight to have the cool metal and plastic against my hands. I'd missed my sister, my father, and a couple of others. And I had text messages too, dammit!! I knew I was missing something!
But in the end, I did survive. I made it from 8am to 10pm without my cell phone. It wasn't easy, but it was a real eye-opening experience for me. It was a real exercise in endurance and the human spirit. And I survived.
I was running too late to go back and get it. And, despite my panic, I rationalized that I wouldn't really miss it or need it. I mean, it doesn't work on the subway, when I get to work I have a desk phone, later I had class, and then I'd be home. I could manage 12 hours without my cell phone...right?
All day I felt naked, exposed, vulnerable, lost, incomplete. I kept imagining the calls I was missing, the text messages that were piling up. I checked my voicemail once or twice from work but no one had left anything. Not many people do, though. I usually track through my missed calls, and I was missing it all!!
I considered going home at lunch to get the phone, but I decided I needed to prove to myself that I could last the day. I reminded myself that it was just like the "old fashioned way" of phone life, where you had ONLY a phone at home that would take messages for you when people called. You had to wait ALL day to get home and see who called. I did it years ago, I could do it again now, even though it had probably been about 4 years since I traveled anywhere without a phone.
By mid-afternoon, I had all the signs of an addict in withdrawal. Going cold-turkey may not have been the smartest decision. I tapped my fingers and feet, I had the shakes, and I grew obsessed with the void the phone left behind. I still had hours and hours to go, and the thought of my little Samsung sitting on the shelf at home just ate me up inside. But it was too late now, there was no turning back. I HAD to ride this out.
I met with my classmates as planned, and suffered until about 9:02 before I decided it was safe--and FREE--for me to borrow someone else's phone to "check for a very important message." I dialed, I entered my voicemail password, but alas, still no messages.
When I finally got home around 10:00, I made a beeline for the phone. It said I had missed calls, but I knew that logically most of them were probably me calling myself from other phones. I pressed buttons and reviewed, squealing with delight to have the cool metal and plastic against my hands. I'd missed my sister, my father, and a couple of others. And I had text messages too, dammit!! I knew I was missing something!
But in the end, I did survive. I made it from 8am to 10pm without my cell phone. It wasn't easy, but it was a real eye-opening experience for me. It was a real exercise in endurance and the human spirit. And I survived.
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