This morning it took me forever to get to work. This is mostly because I spent about 40 minutes underground, in the subway, locked on a train between stations, going NOWHERE. Due to a "switching problem" and "sick customer" at Grand Central, I sat for 40 minutes in a dark tunnel. And for added fun, I was freezing. I guess to relieve claustrophobia the conductor felt the need to blast the air conditioning at maximum coolness. I was FREEZING.
Several of my friends and coworkers were similarly affected by the lack in train activity. Some were stuck on uber crowded train platforms, others sat on a train in a station with the doors open for eternity. Others yet fought the altnerative: highly overcrowded buses that go half the distance in twice the time. We all have to deal.
And then someone else told me that so-and-so witnessed a girl get mowed down by a cab this morning. It sent her flying into the air and heroic measures were taken to a) detain the cabbie and b) keep the girl's leg in tact.
I tell ya, it's the kind of day that makes me want to walk around in protective gear. What does a girl have to do to get around this city without losing a limb?
11.29.2005
11.21.2005
stop doing that!
Lately I have this horrible and unexplained habit of eating my own mouth. That is, I have a knack for taking a huge bite out of my own lip while I'm eating. And it hurts, and it upsets me VERY much.
It's that thing, you know, where the first chomp is painful enough to cause you to stop chewing mid-bite, no matter how delicious the food is, or how much it is burning the roof of your mouth. You just have to stop, just for a second, to take stock of the moment and file it away under Stupid Shit I Do to Myself. And then slowly, grimacingly, you run your tongue over the new wound to see if it is safe to continue without oral surgery. Eventually, you long for the food you were eating in the first place, and you chew, swallow and take another bite. Then....
CHOMP! OOOWWWWWWW!! You bite down on the SAME freaking spot 10 seconds later, causing you to whimper under the burdern of not just pain, but your own stupidity. Now you caress your lip with your tongue, pouting and hating yourself, knowing that it's bound to happen repeatedly for the next several days, and you'll be lucking if the gaping sore ever heals.
And then you go through the process of convincing yourself that it is because of ____ that this happened. Because you were chewing too fast. Because you turned your head while eating. Because once you bite it swells and you bite it again. Because of that one razor sharp canine tooth. Because of your misaligned jaw. Whatever, you name it, we blame it.
Point is, I don't know WHY we do this, but I do it all the freaking time and it HURTS. Dammit.
It's that thing, you know, where the first chomp is painful enough to cause you to stop chewing mid-bite, no matter how delicious the food is, or how much it is burning the roof of your mouth. You just have to stop, just for a second, to take stock of the moment and file it away under Stupid Shit I Do to Myself. And then slowly, grimacingly, you run your tongue over the new wound to see if it is safe to continue without oral surgery. Eventually, you long for the food you were eating in the first place, and you chew, swallow and take another bite. Then....
CHOMP! OOOWWWWWWW!! You bite down on the SAME freaking spot 10 seconds later, causing you to whimper under the burdern of not just pain, but your own stupidity. Now you caress your lip with your tongue, pouting and hating yourself, knowing that it's bound to happen repeatedly for the next several days, and you'll be lucking if the gaping sore ever heals.
And then you go through the process of convincing yourself that it is because of ____ that this happened. Because you were chewing too fast. Because you turned your head while eating. Because once you bite it swells and you bite it again. Because of that one razor sharp canine tooth. Because of your misaligned jaw. Whatever, you name it, we blame it.
Point is, I don't know WHY we do this, but I do it all the freaking time and it HURTS. Dammit.
11.14.2005
so not helping.
This is the tale of the bitchiest flight attendant EVER, as witnessed on a United Airlines flight just yesterday.
When I got on the plane, a small, cute blond woman was trying to get someone to switch seats so she could sit near her husband. Her timing was not fantastic, as many other people, including myself, were still trying to board the plane and shove our belongings into impossibly small overhead bins while she campaigned the rear of the aircraft.
Eventually, the flight attendant, who, for the purposes of this story we'll call The Bitch, told the cute blond woman (CBW) to just take her seat and get over it.
In response, the CBW said, not too timidly, "Well, I'm terrified of flying, so it would help me a lot if I could sit with him."
The part of the story I'm missing here is one I presume to be this: the CBW was extra nervous because as we were waiting to board our plane, CNN broadcast a story of a plane crash on the Airport Network. This, clearly, is a Very Bad Idea. Even the most confident flyers don't want to hear about a plane of ANY size plunging into powerlines. So a nervous flyer, such as the CBW, is made even more so by such news.
So then, The Bitch, showing her true, ugly self, snaps loudly at blondie: "Well, you should put it all in perspective. It ain't the World Trade Center you know. It's not that bad."
Nice. Nice. You are a goddam flight attendant. It's your JOB to be nauseatingly sweet and pleasant to all passengers, or, at the very least, to instill confidence in their safety. So not only is your hair bad but so is your attitude, Bitch. Do not in any way, in front of a scared little woman - nor anyone else on the plane - refer to the single largest airline tragedy in American history, ESPECIALLY on a plane departing from NEW YORK.
"United Airlines - Fly the Friendly Skies...Until Our Bitchy Attendants Shit All Over Them."
When I got on the plane, a small, cute blond woman was trying to get someone to switch seats so she could sit near her husband. Her timing was not fantastic, as many other people, including myself, were still trying to board the plane and shove our belongings into impossibly small overhead bins while she campaigned the rear of the aircraft.
Eventually, the flight attendant, who, for the purposes of this story we'll call The Bitch, told the cute blond woman (CBW) to just take her seat and get over it.
In response, the CBW said, not too timidly, "Well, I'm terrified of flying, so it would help me a lot if I could sit with him."
The part of the story I'm missing here is one I presume to be this: the CBW was extra nervous because as we were waiting to board our plane, CNN broadcast a story of a plane crash on the Airport Network. This, clearly, is a Very Bad Idea. Even the most confident flyers don't want to hear about a plane of ANY size plunging into powerlines. So a nervous flyer, such as the CBW, is made even more so by such news.
So then, The Bitch, showing her true, ugly self, snaps loudly at blondie: "Well, you should put it all in perspective. It ain't the World Trade Center you know. It's not that bad."
Nice. Nice. You are a goddam flight attendant. It's your JOB to be nauseatingly sweet and pleasant to all passengers, or, at the very least, to instill confidence in their safety. So not only is your hair bad but so is your attitude, Bitch. Do not in any way, in front of a scared little woman - nor anyone else on the plane - refer to the single largest airline tragedy in American history, ESPECIALLY on a plane departing from NEW YORK.
"United Airlines - Fly the Friendly Skies...Until Our Bitchy Attendants Shit All Over Them."
11.11.2005
spam sandwich
WHY. WHY do the spammers hate me so much?? What is it about me that is so offensive that they feel the need to bombard me with useless and ridiculous emails about local naughty sluts and penis enlargement drugs EVERY NIGHT?!? And it's like...they KNOW when I go to bed. I'll get one or two such spam-mails during the day, but sure as shit, when I wake up in the morning and check my email, I'm BOMBARDED!!!
Example:
Nine out of ten emails are spam. And the 10th is a lame almost-spam. How do these people find me? And why? What did I ever do to you, "Jasmine Wiley"?? I don't know anything about your accentual, "Clara Billings." And both of ya, tell Frankie Fucking Chang to take his "sud delta" and shove it where the sud don't shine.
Grrrr.
Example:
Nine out of ten emails are spam. And the 10th is a lame almost-spam. How do these people find me? And why? What did I ever do to you, "Jasmine Wiley"?? I don't know anything about your accentual, "Clara Billings." And both of ya, tell Frankie Fucking Chang to take his "sud delta" and shove it where the sud don't shine.
Grrrr.
11.09.2005
it's good to be back.
Hello, yes, hi, I know, I know.
Don't worry. I'm back. In SO many ways.
First, I'm back from my weeklong business trip to North Carolina, followed by a weekend stint in South Florida. The weather in NC was cool and autumnal, and the trees changed colors right before my eyes. But there was all the smoking. And all the fried food. And the hotel's automated revolving door whose sudden and premature motion seemed determined to at least sever a limb from my body if it couldn't officially kill me.
Post-Wilma Florida was a little nutty: upturned trees, absent traffic lights, and dangling porches were everywhere. Plus there was the whole Dog Thing at my mom's, causing me great allergic distress, but bringing me delightful canine companionship.
But I was really, REALLY relieved to get home to New York. I was thrilled to draw a deep breath of that clean, smoke-free, dog-free city air. I'll take toxic exhaust fumes any day. I was tickled that cars actually yielded to me when I crossed the street (except for the cabs, who don't yield ever) and that there were actually working lights to get me across the street in the first place. And revolving doors that are manually operated -- they totally rock. It goes when I make it go, not a moment sooner.
And to top it all off, my month-long drought of internetlessness seems to be over. Mysteriously, my cable and internet were FINALLY turned back on when I got home. Jury's still out on how long it will last, but golly, I'm glad to have it back.
It's back. I'm back. Backity back back.
BACK!
Don't worry. I'm back. In SO many ways.
First, I'm back from my weeklong business trip to North Carolina, followed by a weekend stint in South Florida. The weather in NC was cool and autumnal, and the trees changed colors right before my eyes. But there was all the smoking. And all the fried food. And the hotel's automated revolving door whose sudden and premature motion seemed determined to at least sever a limb from my body if it couldn't officially kill me.
Post-Wilma Florida was a little nutty: upturned trees, absent traffic lights, and dangling porches were everywhere. Plus there was the whole Dog Thing at my mom's, causing me great allergic distress, but bringing me delightful canine companionship.
But I was really, REALLY relieved to get home to New York. I was thrilled to draw a deep breath of that clean, smoke-free, dog-free city air. I'll take toxic exhaust fumes any day. I was tickled that cars actually yielded to me when I crossed the street (except for the cabs, who don't yield ever) and that there were actually working lights to get me across the street in the first place. And revolving doors that are manually operated -- they totally rock. It goes when I make it go, not a moment sooner.
And to top it all off, my month-long drought of internetlessness seems to be over. Mysteriously, my cable and internet were FINALLY turned back on when I got home. Jury's still out on how long it will last, but golly, I'm glad to have it back.
It's back. I'm back. Backity back back.
BACK!
10.23.2005
return from the e-dead
I know, I know. Where have I been. Well, the point is, I'm back. For now. For an unknown amount of time. And if I disappear again, all complaints can be directed to Time Warner Cable & Internet Assholes.
My internet and cable went off on October 9th. And since then, it hasn't come back on consistently for more than about an hour at a time. This, to me, is a totally annoying and unacceptable inconvenience. And every time I call for support, they can only offer me mid-day appointments.
"How's Tuesday between noon and four?"
"Uh, actually, I have to work so...how about a weekend appointment?"
"Well ma'am, I'm showing that our earliest available weekend appointment is on November the 12th."
"So, I've had no internet or cable for over two weeks and you want me to wait three MORE weeks to get it fixed?"
"Ma'am, we'd be happy to credit you for the time that you were without service."
"That's not the POINT, Lashonda. The point is I'm dead in the water without internet and I'd like to think you'd do a little more to fix it for me."
And so it goes. I'm left constantly refreshing the local wireless networks for a signal I can pirate for 2 minutes while I get a quick hit of email to tide me over until I can check again from work. And naturally, 2 minutes just ain't enough time for me to write up a blog post for all y'alls.
So, like I said, I'm back, but probably not for long. If I vanish again, don't blame me, blame the assholes at Time Warner. I do.
My internet and cable went off on October 9th. And since then, it hasn't come back on consistently for more than about an hour at a time. This, to me, is a totally annoying and unacceptable inconvenience. And every time I call for support, they can only offer me mid-day appointments.
"How's Tuesday between noon and four?"
"Uh, actually, I have to work so...how about a weekend appointment?"
"Well ma'am, I'm showing that our earliest available weekend appointment is on November the 12th."
"So, I've had no internet or cable for over two weeks and you want me to wait three MORE weeks to get it fixed?"
"Ma'am, we'd be happy to credit you for the time that you were without service."
"That's not the POINT, Lashonda. The point is I'm dead in the water without internet and I'd like to think you'd do a little more to fix it for me."
And so it goes. I'm left constantly refreshing the local wireless networks for a signal I can pirate for 2 minutes while I get a quick hit of email to tide me over until I can check again from work. And naturally, 2 minutes just ain't enough time for me to write up a blog post for all y'alls.
So, like I said, I'm back, but probably not for long. If I vanish again, don't blame me, blame the assholes at Time Warner. I do.
10.07.2005
signs of improvement
So far today...
-I've had no blood taken or attempted to be taken.
-I haven't fallen up or down subway stairs or any other stairs.
-I have no (new) severe burns.
-I haven't seen a mouse, cockroach, or centipede.
-I have not fainted or thrown up in a store or on a bus.
-I have not been blown up by a terrorist.
-I've had no blood taken or attempted to be taken.
-I haven't fallen up or down subway stairs or any other stairs.
-I have no (new) severe burns.
-I haven't seen a mouse, cockroach, or centipede.
-I have not fainted or thrown up in a store or on a bus.
-I have not been blown up by a terrorist.
Plus...
-It's Friday.
-It's monthly Jeans at Work day.
-I just ate some toast and it's still in my digestive system.
Overall, I'd say I'm off to a rockin' start.
10.06.2005
healing wounds
Apparently, I was subconsciously worried about the hole in my hand from the blood draw yesterday, because this morning I sealed it shut with a hot iron.
More specifically, I tripped over one of the 18 pairs of shoes on my floor, lunged into the ironing board with force, jolting the hot iron from its upright stance right onto to vulnerable top of my already achy hand.
I hate this week. HATE IT.
More specifically, I tripped over one of the 18 pairs of shoes on my floor, lunged into the ironing board with force, jolting the hot iron from its upright stance right onto to vulnerable top of my already achy hand.
I hate this week. HATE IT.
10.05.2005
every cake has icing
It's barely 10:30 in the morning, and already it's been one of those days.
It started off with a doctor's appointment that, like many of my appointments, resulted in someone wanting to draw blood from me. This is, almost always, a huge problem. You see, I appear to be some sort of veinless mutant, and the typical nurse can never find my veins. This results in, well, a morning like today's.
One vial. Just one vial is all they needed. And as is common practice for me now, I advised the nurse of two stipulations:
1) I MUST lie down when the blood is taken. This is not because I can't watch, or I get woozy. It's because my body seems to think it is under attack by some intruding predator, and it likes to shut down all systems to avoid serious injury or damage. This resulted in the Great E.R. Visit of '99, but has ever since prompted me to aks for a horizontal position when drawing blood.
2) You MUST take it from my right arm. My right arm has hidden veins, but my left arm has INVISIBLE ones. So even though most medical personnel will attempt the right arm, find it difficult and switch to the left, they inevitably return to the right when they see how juicy it is in comparison. So really, let's all save ourselves the trouble and restrict the blood draws to the right arm.
So the nurse Irene nodded at my rules, and started the methodical tap-tap-tap of the elbow crease, looking for a vein. She did the whole rubber-band-on-the-bicep trick, and the whole make-a-fist-and-release trick, and I could tell by her hesitation that she wasn't seeing a vein. I knew I was in for it.
"Let me just...see...your left arm," she says. I sigh, knowing it'll go nowhere. She repeats the tap-tap-tap, the rubber-band-on-the-bicep thing, and the make-a-fist-and-release thing, all to no avail. "You're right," she says...like all the others. "Your right arm is better. So let's just see if I can find something here."
Then begins the much-dreaded "poke 'n dig." This is the process by which, when a nurse or technician doesn't actually see nor feel a vein, they jab a needle in anyway, and move it around inside the flesh in the hopes of catching the bloodstream. Irene, like many others before her, was digging fruitlessly as I reassured her "It's not you, it's me," and "Most people send in their best needlers for me."
With a frustrated snap, she removed her latex gloves and said "I AM the best needler here. I'm gonna have to send you down to the lab, sorry." She filled out the paperwork for my ONE VIAL of blood, and sent me down to the third floor.
The lab was deserted. A woman from across the hall saw my isolation and called the lab phone to send someone to the front desk. I was "greeted" by a cranky bitch who scoffed at my meager lab request and pre-existing flesh-colored band-aid.
"What do you mean 'they can't do it'?" she barked.
"I mean, THEY CAN'T DO IT. See?? They tried. She couldn't find my veins, so she sent me here."
"Well I'm completely backed up," she said, gesturing to the ghost town that surrounded us. "It'll be at least an hour."
"Well, I have to go to work. It's already 10:00. Can I come back later?"
Then the bitch picked up the phone and said into it "What time can you come in sir?" Dumbfounded, I stared at her. "2:30," she said, followed by "Not you sir, hold on." She looked back up at me "Come back by 2:30."
"Fine, but will you still be 'all backed up' at 2:30?"
"Not you sir. And I said BY 2:30. Yes sir."
I snatched my paperwork back out of her hand, and called the elevator to leave. But then I decided I'd be better off going back UP stairs and finding the nurse in the OTHER department who successfully took my blood a few months ago. When I requested this at the front desk, they all looked at me like I was initiating some sort of political coup.
"Well, I don't know if WE can take your blood if THEY requested it," the nurses told me. I showed them my band-aid.
"Please," I begged. "THEY tried and couldn't hit a vein. The lab sent me away. I don't want to have to come back for this." And like some undercover code, they nodded at each other and ushered me into a back room.
There, an entirely different nurse, Rebecca, offered to take a stab at it. (Literally.) But now that my right arm was off limits, it left her only to repeat the tap-tap, rubber-band, make-a-fist, "poke 'n dig" routine in the left arm. I grimaced as she re-angled, retreated, and rotated the needle. Eventually she pulled it out, slapped a band-aid on it, and said "I have to go into your hand."
Ah, the dreaded hand. You know why no one does this? Because it FUCKING HURTS. But sensing my strong desperation to get this taken care of today, Rebecca suggested and I agreed to go into the hand. And so she did, and I stared at the ceiling as coldness and tingling replaced my left hand. When she was done, she stuck a fluorescent orange band-aid on me, and sent me away. I thanked Rebecca profusely for her efforts.
Finally I left the clinic, headed to the subway to get to work. I had that slightly abused feeling that usually follows excessive under-flesh needling, and longed for a cool orange juice to replenish myself. I got on the train, rode the 4 stops to 33rd street, and beat all the people out of the turnstiles. So naturally I was thrilled to be at the front of the pack, bounding up the stairs until...The Icing came.
Without warning, and still without ANY idea as to a cause, I started to fall up the stairs. It seemed to generate first from my feet, which somehow miscalculated or caught an edge. Immediately I thought to the back of my metrocard, which warns "72% of subway customer injuries are caused by slips, trips and falls. Don't be come a statistic." And yet here I was, slipping, tripping, and falling....with EVERYONE behind me on the stairs.
And yet the falling continued. The weight of my schoolbooks in my bag just acted like cement blocks pulling me down, down, down until I was fully laid out on the stairs. I felt immediate burning pain on my big toe, right shin, and right bicep, as well as the gentle tug under my already sore right elbow from the guy next to me who tried to catch me. But, he didn't. And, I totally fell on the subway stairs...in front of all the "slow" people that I rushed ahead of so THEY wouldn't hold ME up. Uh, yeah.
So, that's my day by 10:30. I'm the laughing stock of 33rd street, where everyone is talking about "the girl with all the band-aids, even a fluorescent orange one, who totally wiped out on the stairs for no apparent reason." Good times.
It started off with a doctor's appointment that, like many of my appointments, resulted in someone wanting to draw blood from me. This is, almost always, a huge problem. You see, I appear to be some sort of veinless mutant, and the typical nurse can never find my veins. This results in, well, a morning like today's.
One vial. Just one vial is all they needed. And as is common practice for me now, I advised the nurse of two stipulations:
1) I MUST lie down when the blood is taken. This is not because I can't watch, or I get woozy. It's because my body seems to think it is under attack by some intruding predator, and it likes to shut down all systems to avoid serious injury or damage. This resulted in the Great E.R. Visit of '99, but has ever since prompted me to aks for a horizontal position when drawing blood.
2) You MUST take it from my right arm. My right arm has hidden veins, but my left arm has INVISIBLE ones. So even though most medical personnel will attempt the right arm, find it difficult and switch to the left, they inevitably return to the right when they see how juicy it is in comparison. So really, let's all save ourselves the trouble and restrict the blood draws to the right arm.
So the nurse Irene nodded at my rules, and started the methodical tap-tap-tap of the elbow crease, looking for a vein. She did the whole rubber-band-on-the-bicep trick, and the whole make-a-fist-and-release trick, and I could tell by her hesitation that she wasn't seeing a vein. I knew I was in for it.
"Let me just...see...your left arm," she says. I sigh, knowing it'll go nowhere. She repeats the tap-tap-tap, the rubber-band-on-the-bicep thing, and the make-a-fist-and-release thing, all to no avail. "You're right," she says...like all the others. "Your right arm is better. So let's just see if I can find something here."
Then begins the much-dreaded "poke 'n dig." This is the process by which, when a nurse or technician doesn't actually see nor feel a vein, they jab a needle in anyway, and move it around inside the flesh in the hopes of catching the bloodstream. Irene, like many others before her, was digging fruitlessly as I reassured her "It's not you, it's me," and "Most people send in their best needlers for me."
With a frustrated snap, she removed her latex gloves and said "I AM the best needler here. I'm gonna have to send you down to the lab, sorry." She filled out the paperwork for my ONE VIAL of blood, and sent me down to the third floor.
The lab was deserted. A woman from across the hall saw my isolation and called the lab phone to send someone to the front desk. I was "greeted" by a cranky bitch who scoffed at my meager lab request and pre-existing flesh-colored band-aid.
"What do you mean 'they can't do it'?" she barked.
"I mean, THEY CAN'T DO IT. See?? They tried. She couldn't find my veins, so she sent me here."
"Well I'm completely backed up," she said, gesturing to the ghost town that surrounded us. "It'll be at least an hour."
"Well, I have to go to work. It's already 10:00. Can I come back later?"
Then the bitch picked up the phone and said into it "What time can you come in sir?" Dumbfounded, I stared at her. "2:30," she said, followed by "Not you sir, hold on." She looked back up at me "Come back by 2:30."
"Fine, but will you still be 'all backed up' at 2:30?"
"Not you sir. And I said BY 2:30. Yes sir."
I snatched my paperwork back out of her hand, and called the elevator to leave. But then I decided I'd be better off going back UP stairs and finding the nurse in the OTHER department who successfully took my blood a few months ago. When I requested this at the front desk, they all looked at me like I was initiating some sort of political coup.
"Well, I don't know if WE can take your blood if THEY requested it," the nurses told me. I showed them my band-aid.
"Please," I begged. "THEY tried and couldn't hit a vein. The lab sent me away. I don't want to have to come back for this." And like some undercover code, they nodded at each other and ushered me into a back room.
There, an entirely different nurse, Rebecca, offered to take a stab at it. (Literally.) But now that my right arm was off limits, it left her only to repeat the tap-tap, rubber-band, make-a-fist, "poke 'n dig" routine in the left arm. I grimaced as she re-angled, retreated, and rotated the needle. Eventually she pulled it out, slapped a band-aid on it, and said "I have to go into your hand."
Ah, the dreaded hand. You know why no one does this? Because it FUCKING HURTS. But sensing my strong desperation to get this taken care of today, Rebecca suggested and I agreed to go into the hand. And so she did, and I stared at the ceiling as coldness and tingling replaced my left hand. When she was done, she stuck a fluorescent orange band-aid on me, and sent me away. I thanked Rebecca profusely for her efforts.
Finally I left the clinic, headed to the subway to get to work. I had that slightly abused feeling that usually follows excessive under-flesh needling, and longed for a cool orange juice to replenish myself. I got on the train, rode the 4 stops to 33rd street, and beat all the people out of the turnstiles. So naturally I was thrilled to be at the front of the pack, bounding up the stairs until...The Icing came.
Without warning, and still without ANY idea as to a cause, I started to fall up the stairs. It seemed to generate first from my feet, which somehow miscalculated or caught an edge. Immediately I thought to the back of my metrocard, which warns "72% of subway customer injuries are caused by slips, trips and falls. Don't be come a statistic." And yet here I was, slipping, tripping, and falling....with EVERYONE behind me on the stairs.
And yet the falling continued. The weight of my schoolbooks in my bag just acted like cement blocks pulling me down, down, down until I was fully laid out on the stairs. I felt immediate burning pain on my big toe, right shin, and right bicep, as well as the gentle tug under my already sore right elbow from the guy next to me who tried to catch me. But, he didn't. And, I totally fell on the subway stairs...in front of all the "slow" people that I rushed ahead of so THEY wouldn't hold ME up. Uh, yeah.
So, that's my day by 10:30. I'm the laughing stock of 33rd street, where everyone is talking about "the girl with all the band-aids, even a fluorescent orange one, who totally wiped out on the stairs for no apparent reason." Good times.
9.24.2005
shout out to the men of east harlem.
I'm having one of those days, or weeks, that most women experience once in a while. It's that "poor me" or "I feel fat" or "I'm so tired" or "I have nothing to wear" syndrome that drives us to chocolate and alcohol. Except today, it drove me to something else: White Castle.
Me: "I just took a 5 hour nap. Now I'm hungry. I want a cheeseburger."
Jen: "5 hours?"
Me: "I feel so lardy. I think I'll go to White Castle."
Jen: "Ooooh."
Me: "Probably not the best place to go to remedy a lardiness problem, but I'm going anyway."
Jen: "I'm jealous."
So I look in the mirror, deciding that I'll take my lardy ass out in public as-is (ass-is), because no matter how fat or unattractive I feel, I always lose that self-consciousness as soon as I encounter the other women (read: other cultures) of the city. Most often, I find myself thinking "I'm worried about looking fat in a tank top, and THAT woman is wearing a micro-mini and a tube top?!?"
So off I went, working my way up through East Harlem towards the White Castle. Naturally, despite being 11:00 at night, there are throngs of people on the corners and stoops. Most of them seem astonished to see a white girl out alone at this hour, but the ones who can overcome their astonishment are usually black men who first lick their lips then give me an amazing compliment.
"How you doin tonight gorgeous?"
"Wassup beautiful?"
"Look at you, sweetheart. Gorgeous, gorgeous."
I literally received three such remarks back-to-back-to-back as I rounded the corner to White Castle. I laughed, and smiled, and told the guys to have a nice night, and then complimented myself on moving to a part of town where even on my lardiest, self-hatingest night, heading for fast-food comfort, the men not only think I'm hot, but make sure I hear their opinion.
So to you, men of east harlem, I say thanks. To the three bruthas on the NW corner of 102nd and 1st Ave who ogled me - thank you. To the 4 homeboys on bikes who whistled and smooched - thank you. To the man in the grey t-shirt who looked like he wanted to eat me up - thank you. To the 3 guys who didn't know I could see them gesturing behind me on the White Castle surveillance camera - you're pigs, but thank you.
I owe you one, SpaHa men.
Me: "I just took a 5 hour nap. Now I'm hungry. I want a cheeseburger."
Jen: "5 hours?"
Me: "I feel so lardy. I think I'll go to White Castle."
Jen: "Ooooh."
Me: "Probably not the best place to go to remedy a lardiness problem, but I'm going anyway."
Jen: "I'm jealous."
So I look in the mirror, deciding that I'll take my lardy ass out in public as-is (ass-is), because no matter how fat or unattractive I feel, I always lose that self-consciousness as soon as I encounter the other women (read: other cultures) of the city. Most often, I find myself thinking "I'm worried about looking fat in a tank top, and THAT woman is wearing a micro-mini and a tube top?!?"
So off I went, working my way up through East Harlem towards the White Castle. Naturally, despite being 11:00 at night, there are throngs of people on the corners and stoops. Most of them seem astonished to see a white girl out alone at this hour, but the ones who can overcome their astonishment are usually black men who first lick their lips then give me an amazing compliment.
"How you doin tonight gorgeous?"
"Wassup beautiful?"
"Look at you, sweetheart. Gorgeous, gorgeous."
I literally received three such remarks back-to-back-to-back as I rounded the corner to White Castle. I laughed, and smiled, and told the guys to have a nice night, and then complimented myself on moving to a part of town where even on my lardiest, self-hatingest night, heading for fast-food comfort, the men not only think I'm hot, but make sure I hear their opinion.
So to you, men of east harlem, I say thanks. To the three bruthas on the NW corner of 102nd and 1st Ave who ogled me - thank you. To the 4 homeboys on bikes who whistled and smooched - thank you. To the man in the grey t-shirt who looked like he wanted to eat me up - thank you. To the 3 guys who didn't know I could see them gesturing behind me on the White Castle surveillance camera - you're pigs, but thank you.
I owe you one, SpaHa men.
9.21.2005
9.19.2005
ENOUGH!
I've totally had it.
I was just sitting on the couch, watching tv, painting my toes, minding my own business, when a dark object moving on the white wall attracted my attention. A familiar sense of dread overcame my body.
What was it, you ask?
IT WAS A FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!! A HUGE FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!
After the goddam cockroach, the asshole mouse, now I am back to square one with a motherfucking centipede?!?!
I stood up, picked up a shoe, and approached the wall. And with a giant smack, I ended its life.
Then I turned around to write this blog, and saw another movement out of the corner of my eye. I approached the window sill with the same goo-covered shoe, and killed another baby one.
Now, of course, I'm about to cry, and totally afraid to sleep. I'm convinced that someone in the basement is shaking things up, and sending all these assholes into my apartment, and I DON'T LIKE IT.
wah.
(And yes, I've just left a message for my Super.)
I was just sitting on the couch, watching tv, painting my toes, minding my own business, when a dark object moving on the white wall attracted my attention. A familiar sense of dread overcame my body.
What was it, you ask?
IT WAS A FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!! A HUGE FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!
After the goddam cockroach, the asshole mouse, now I am back to square one with a motherfucking centipede?!?!
I stood up, picked up a shoe, and approached the wall. And with a giant smack, I ended its life.
Then I turned around to write this blog, and saw another movement out of the corner of my eye. I approached the window sill with the same goo-covered shoe, and killed another baby one.
Now, of course, I'm about to cry, and totally afraid to sleep. I'm convinced that someone in the basement is shaking things up, and sending all these assholes into my apartment, and I DON'T LIKE IT.
wah.
(And yes, I've just left a message for my Super.)
9.14.2005
ugh! now what?!
So, after my little potato chip incident the other day, I found myself bravely buying a mousetrap at the hardware store. This act alone, you see, is very, very hard for me. It forces me to acknowledge the problem and actually admit that I have....(deep breath)....a mouse.
So I stood in front of the pest control section and saw my options were basically twofold: glue traps or snap-death traps. In the back of my mind, I heard Jen, the "mouse-whisperer" who has resuscitated such creatures in her lab at work, asking me to be humane. To me, that meant not a snap-death trap. But really, it wasn't about humanity at all.
My assessment of the mouse traps went a little something like this:
"Well. So there's glue traps and snap traps. Snap traps scare me. They could totally snap me. And let's face it, probably will. Like when Mikey sits on one by accident in the Goonies, and it hurts a lot but he can't scream or Sloth will hear him. I'm not sure I want a snap trap. But a glue trap? Eek. I think Andrea used those when she had a mouse, and she told me she could hear the mouse squeaking once it was caught. So, there's something to the snap-death where the mouse won't cry, but then I have to deal with a dead mouse. But...I also don't particularly want to deal with a LIVE mouse. Ugh. (urge to vomit.) Which is worse? Dead mouse or live mouse? I mean, my only experience is the time that one of the Andersons' cats killed that mouse while I was housesitting. I sat on the couch for hours until the mouse was captured by the cat. Then I went out to the kitchen with a dustpan and scooped it up, and went outside and chucked it far away into the snow. I was disgusted the whole time. So yeah, maybe I don't want to do that dead mouse thing. Especially because I'm afraid of setting up the trap and losing an appendage. I guess I could get the glue trap, and just make someone else deal with the mouse if I catch one. I'll make Oliver do it. Or the Super. That makes sense. Because one of them is going to have to set the mouse traps up for me anyway. I'm just buying it. That's it."
Then I paid the $1.99 for the pack of 2 glue traps, and went home.
Only later, when I was cleaning out under the kitchen sink and encountered a large amount of mouse poop, did I say "Enough is enough! I can handle this!" and retrieve the box with the traps.
Now, if you think I'm being stupid or girly or cowardly about this, you're right. But you need to understand that underneath all that, the reason for all that, is that I honest to god want to vomit at the thought of handling even an empty mouse trap. It wasn't easy to overcome my dry heaves and put one trap under the kitchen sink and another under the stove. But I did it. And I was proud. And I really didn't think it through.
That was three days ago. I didn't have the guts to open the cabinet to see if a mouse had found his way into the trap under the sink. I assumed I would have heard it, but EVERYTHING I was hearing lately was a mouse in my mind. I refused to throw away any garbage into the trash can under the sink. I refused to obtain cleaning supplies from under the sink. And I realized, somewhat delayed, that merely placing those traps was going to paralyze me from living a normal life in my kitchen.
Then, it happened.
In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke not to one of the 7 million 18-wheelers hauling ass down my street, nor to the scream of sirens of rushed emergency vehicles. No, I awoke to the panicked squeaking of a trapped mouse. And hearing it, identifying it, recognizing it, and acknowledging it turned my stomach inside out. But I was screwed. I was stuck in my bed, unable to put a foot on the floor. And even if I got up, what would I do? I didn't want to see the mouse. I sure as shit wasn't going to touch the mouse. So I resolved to switching on a light (what this achieves I'm not really sure) and putting a pillow over my head so I could get 2 more hours of sleep.
But eventually, I had to get up. And when I did, I put on flip-flops, picked up a flashlight and my pledge grab-it (again, not sure what this accomplishes, but it felt defensive in case of attack). I walked slowly through the kitchen in the dark, guessing, correctly, that it was the under-stove trap that had secured a creature. I could barely make out an image on the trap, and I dared not look closer. Instead, I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, and took a shower.
When I got out, I ditched the flip-flops but kept the pledge grab-it. By now, the mouse's 4 feet AND tail were all securely affixed to the glue trap, and seeing that long, skinny, fleshy tail made me dry heave again, and I knew I couldn't look at the mouse any more. I got dressed, dried my hair, etc., and ran out the door.
Now I'm at work, and I have to figure out how to deal with the mouse. I guess I should call the Super, and leave a message saying "Yeah, I'm a chickenshit and can't deal. Please let yourself in, pardon the mess, and get rid of the damn mouse!" I really should have thought this through before I laid down the fucking trap!!
So I stood in front of the pest control section and saw my options were basically twofold: glue traps or snap-death traps. In the back of my mind, I heard Jen, the "mouse-whisperer" who has resuscitated such creatures in her lab at work, asking me to be humane. To me, that meant not a snap-death trap. But really, it wasn't about humanity at all.
My assessment of the mouse traps went a little something like this:
"Well. So there's glue traps and snap traps. Snap traps scare me. They could totally snap me. And let's face it, probably will. Like when Mikey sits on one by accident in the Goonies, and it hurts a lot but he can't scream or Sloth will hear him. I'm not sure I want a snap trap. But a glue trap? Eek. I think Andrea used those when she had a mouse, and she told me she could hear the mouse squeaking once it was caught. So, there's something to the snap-death where the mouse won't cry, but then I have to deal with a dead mouse. But...I also don't particularly want to deal with a LIVE mouse. Ugh. (urge to vomit.) Which is worse? Dead mouse or live mouse? I mean, my only experience is the time that one of the Andersons' cats killed that mouse while I was housesitting. I sat on the couch for hours until the mouse was captured by the cat. Then I went out to the kitchen with a dustpan and scooped it up, and went outside and chucked it far away into the snow. I was disgusted the whole time. So yeah, maybe I don't want to do that dead mouse thing. Especially because I'm afraid of setting up the trap and losing an appendage. I guess I could get the glue trap, and just make someone else deal with the mouse if I catch one. I'll make Oliver do it. Or the Super. That makes sense. Because one of them is going to have to set the mouse traps up for me anyway. I'm just buying it. That's it."
Then I paid the $1.99 for the pack of 2 glue traps, and went home.
Only later, when I was cleaning out under the kitchen sink and encountered a large amount of mouse poop, did I say "Enough is enough! I can handle this!" and retrieve the box with the traps.
Now, if you think I'm being stupid or girly or cowardly about this, you're right. But you need to understand that underneath all that, the reason for all that, is that I honest to god want to vomit at the thought of handling even an empty mouse trap. It wasn't easy to overcome my dry heaves and put one trap under the kitchen sink and another under the stove. But I did it. And I was proud. And I really didn't think it through.
That was three days ago. I didn't have the guts to open the cabinet to see if a mouse had found his way into the trap under the sink. I assumed I would have heard it, but EVERYTHING I was hearing lately was a mouse in my mind. I refused to throw away any garbage into the trash can under the sink. I refused to obtain cleaning supplies from under the sink. And I realized, somewhat delayed, that merely placing those traps was going to paralyze me from living a normal life in my kitchen.
Then, it happened.
In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke not to one of the 7 million 18-wheelers hauling ass down my street, nor to the scream of sirens of rushed emergency vehicles. No, I awoke to the panicked squeaking of a trapped mouse. And hearing it, identifying it, recognizing it, and acknowledging it turned my stomach inside out. But I was screwed. I was stuck in my bed, unable to put a foot on the floor. And even if I got up, what would I do? I didn't want to see the mouse. I sure as shit wasn't going to touch the mouse. So I resolved to switching on a light (what this achieves I'm not really sure) and putting a pillow over my head so I could get 2 more hours of sleep.
But eventually, I had to get up. And when I did, I put on flip-flops, picked up a flashlight and my pledge grab-it (again, not sure what this accomplishes, but it felt defensive in case of attack). I walked slowly through the kitchen in the dark, guessing, correctly, that it was the under-stove trap that had secured a creature. I could barely make out an image on the trap, and I dared not look closer. Instead, I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, and took a shower.
When I got out, I ditched the flip-flops but kept the pledge grab-it. By now, the mouse's 4 feet AND tail were all securely affixed to the glue trap, and seeing that long, skinny, fleshy tail made me dry heave again, and I knew I couldn't look at the mouse any more. I got dressed, dried my hair, etc., and ran out the door.
Now I'm at work, and I have to figure out how to deal with the mouse. I guess I should call the Super, and leave a message saying "Yeah, I'm a chickenshit and can't deal. Please let yourself in, pardon the mess, and get rid of the damn mouse!" I really should have thought this through before I laid down the fucking trap!!
9.07.2005
if only i wasn't allergic to cats.
(I'd like to take a moment to dedicate this post East Harlem Katie, who will understand my pain.)
The past weekend was a gorgeous one. I enjoyed three long late-summer days of blue skies and sunshine, billowy clouds, and the drool-inducing aroma of barbecues throughout Central and Prospect Parks. By mid-day Monday, Labor Day, all I wanted was a barbecue to call my own. Cheeseburgers, hot dogs, dribbles of ketchup and mustard, macaroni salad, bbq chicken that was just a little crispy and too good to waste a finger-lickin' on a napkin. Mmmm-mm.
Being that I have no yard, nor a grill, nor had I any outstanding invitations to someone else's yard or grill, I decided to do the best I could and have a kitchecue. I went with my pal Katie to the market, and I browsed the aisles for wannabe barbecue items, like hot dogs, kilbasa, lemonade, and most importantly -- potato chips. Together, Katie and I pondered which of the million kinds of potato chips to savor. I got a bag of regular Lays to have with onion dip (YUM!) and then a bag of the forever awesome KC Masterpiece barbecue flavored ones. Mmm. Labor Day would be fantastic yet!
When I got home, I mixed my onion dip and feasted on chips. DEEELISH! Of course, I ate so much of it that I had to wait a few hours before making hot dogs and beans and pasta salad. YUMMMY! And then I had to wait a whole other day to eat the rest of the food...
Last night, I got home from work and went immediately for the prized KC Masterpiece barbecue chips. I peeled open the bag and chomped away with satisfying crunches while I prepared more pasta salad and the kilbasa. When my food was cooked and my plate loaded up satisfactorily, I went in the other room to watch a movie while I ate bite after delicious bite.
At the end of the movie, I picked up my plate and headed back into the kitchen to clean up. But I heard something funny, and when I looked up, I saw a small, grey, furry, four-legged creature with a tail bolted OUT OF MY POTATO CHIP BAG!!! I froze in horror and amazement. I have never, EVER had a mouse. Not at this apartment, not at ANY. I can deal with the roaches, I can exterminate the centipedes, but a MOUSE?? Oh HELL NO.
He scampered across the counter, over the stove, and behind it. I stood and watched, paralyzed by my genetic inability to cope with rodents. After a few minutes, when I was sure he was gone (and by "gone" I mean "out of my sight so I could pretend he didn't exist"), I walked towards the potato chips and looked inside the bag. I honestly wasn't sure if I was more upset that I had a mouse, or that the little fucker went after my potato chips. My BARBECUE potato chips!! Because now, of course, I had to throw them away. That, and the 3/4 roll of kilbasa that I'd left on the counter, not expecting company would eat it while my back was turned.
I cleaned up and got ready for bed, which meant sleeping with one light on and my eyes closed tight. My studio doesn't have a bedroom door, no barrier with which I may pretend the mouse is on THAT side and I am safely tucked away on THIS side. Instead, I just have to believe he went back to wherever the fuck he got in, and he shan't be returning. So help me, if I see that little bastard again, he is so....so....he is so going to get whatever he wants because I'll be in the other room standing on the couch screaming.
The past weekend was a gorgeous one. I enjoyed three long late-summer days of blue skies and sunshine, billowy clouds, and the drool-inducing aroma of barbecues throughout Central and Prospect Parks. By mid-day Monday, Labor Day, all I wanted was a barbecue to call my own. Cheeseburgers, hot dogs, dribbles of ketchup and mustard, macaroni salad, bbq chicken that was just a little crispy and too good to waste a finger-lickin' on a napkin. Mmmm-mm.
Being that I have no yard, nor a grill, nor had I any outstanding invitations to someone else's yard or grill, I decided to do the best I could and have a kitchecue. I went with my pal Katie to the market, and I browsed the aisles for wannabe barbecue items, like hot dogs, kilbasa, lemonade, and most importantly -- potato chips. Together, Katie and I pondered which of the million kinds of potato chips to savor. I got a bag of regular Lays to have with onion dip (YUM!) and then a bag of the forever awesome KC Masterpiece barbecue flavored ones. Mmm. Labor Day would be fantastic yet!
When I got home, I mixed my onion dip and feasted on chips. DEEELISH! Of course, I ate so much of it that I had to wait a few hours before making hot dogs and beans and pasta salad. YUMMMY! And then I had to wait a whole other day to eat the rest of the food...
Last night, I got home from work and went immediately for the prized KC Masterpiece barbecue chips. I peeled open the bag and chomped away with satisfying crunches while I prepared more pasta salad and the kilbasa. When my food was cooked and my plate loaded up satisfactorily, I went in the other room to watch a movie while I ate bite after delicious bite.
At the end of the movie, I picked up my plate and headed back into the kitchen to clean up. But I heard something funny, and when I looked up, I saw a small, grey, furry, four-legged creature with a tail bolted OUT OF MY POTATO CHIP BAG!!! I froze in horror and amazement. I have never, EVER had a mouse. Not at this apartment, not at ANY. I can deal with the roaches, I can exterminate the centipedes, but a MOUSE?? Oh HELL NO.
He scampered across the counter, over the stove, and behind it. I stood and watched, paralyzed by my genetic inability to cope with rodents. After a few minutes, when I was sure he was gone (and by "gone" I mean "out of my sight so I could pretend he didn't exist"), I walked towards the potato chips and looked inside the bag. I honestly wasn't sure if I was more upset that I had a mouse, or that the little fucker went after my potato chips. My BARBECUE potato chips!! Because now, of course, I had to throw them away. That, and the 3/4 roll of kilbasa that I'd left on the counter, not expecting company would eat it while my back was turned.
I cleaned up and got ready for bed, which meant sleeping with one light on and my eyes closed tight. My studio doesn't have a bedroom door, no barrier with which I may pretend the mouse is on THAT side and I am safely tucked away on THIS side. Instead, I just have to believe he went back to wherever the fuck he got in, and he shan't be returning. So help me, if I see that little bastard again, he is so....so....he is so going to get whatever he wants because I'll be in the other room standing on the couch screaming.
8.28.2005
la cucaracha
I have encountered this weekend a "first" in my little manhattan apartment. It happened when I opened a drawer in the kitchen, and saw out of the corner of my eye some sort of unexpected movement. It was, I dare say, a cockroach - but a little one.
To my huge surprise, I didn't freak out. I didn't scream, I didn't cry, I didn't freeze in terror. I simply tried to get the bug. I was unsuccessful, of course, because they are fast little fuckers, and when I gave up my search and considered my unpanicked reaction, I realized this...
All those nasty jurassic creatures I encountered in Boston, those dirty gazillion-legged little assassins that hid in the shower and pantry, those horrid incidents were all preparation for this, my first run-in with a new york cockroach. Compared to the centipedes (I seriously almost vomit just typing the word), these roaches are a walk in the park. I mean sure, I still immediately grabbed several shoes to arm my hands and feet for attack. And sure, I was holding a giant butcher knife as some sort of idiotic defense (but really, mostly because it was in the drawer and I had to move it), but I assure you that the sense of panic and despair was absolutely minimal as compared to the - you know, the ones with all the legs.
So, the hunt continues. I will find this dirty little asshole roach, and I will kill him. And I know that it is just him, that he is alone, because that's what I want to believe. Clearly, the Boston Bug Community hasn't relayed word yet to their New York affiliates that I guarantee death, even if I don't have a braver roommate to handle it for me. You're as good as dead, little cucaracha.
To my huge surprise, I didn't freak out. I didn't scream, I didn't cry, I didn't freeze in terror. I simply tried to get the bug. I was unsuccessful, of course, because they are fast little fuckers, and when I gave up my search and considered my unpanicked reaction, I realized this...
All those nasty jurassic creatures I encountered in Boston, those dirty gazillion-legged little assassins that hid in the shower and pantry, those horrid incidents were all preparation for this, my first run-in with a new york cockroach. Compared to the centipedes (I seriously almost vomit just typing the word), these roaches are a walk in the park. I mean sure, I still immediately grabbed several shoes to arm my hands and feet for attack. And sure, I was holding a giant butcher knife as some sort of idiotic defense (but really, mostly because it was in the drawer and I had to move it), but I assure you that the sense of panic and despair was absolutely minimal as compared to the - you know, the ones with all the legs.
So, the hunt continues. I will find this dirty little asshole roach, and I will kill him. And I know that it is just him, that he is alone, because that's what I want to believe. Clearly, the Boston Bug Community hasn't relayed word yet to their New York affiliates that I guarantee death, even if I don't have a braver roommate to handle it for me. You're as good as dead, little cucaracha.
8.22.2005
did you hear something?
One of my biggest fears that occurs on a daily basis is that I'm going to leave the house, put my earphones in, crank the volume on my (non-ipod) mp3 player, and wind up oblivious to any one of the million things that could injure, dismember, kill, or embarrass me.
One day, this meant getting nearly mowed down by a giant cement truck backing out of a construction site. Apparently he was beep-beep-beeping, but I was busy jam-jam-jamming to the Sneaker Pimps. Another day, this meant missing the spontaneous announcement on the train that it was going to run express and skip my stop, sending me into a haze of confusion when "two stops" got me 10 stations away from my destination.
But really, one of my biggest concerns is that while I'm standing on a practically silent train, music blasting into my ears, I will have no idea that people are looking around to find out where a strange squeaking sound is emanating from, and only when one pair of eyes after another turns to me, and I cautiously remove my earbuds, only then will I discover that a squeaking booger in my nose has been reverberating throughout the car.
Every day, at least once in the morning, I remove my headphones and furiously wiggle my nose to prevent any squeaky boogs from developing. I'm particularly self-conscious on the days where I had a squeaky booger to begin with, before I even left the house. You know, those ones that when you first hear, you turn your head to the left then the right trying to identify the location of the sound only to discover it seems to be following your breathing pattern, and then you realize it is coming FROM you, from inside your nasal cavity, and you blow and you pick and you check the mirror and no matter what you do there's still this internal mouselike squeak coming from your inner nasal passages? Yeah, you know what I mean.
So anyhow, I expect that one of these days I'll be standing on the train, music on, absentmindedly reading my book or paper or whatever arbitrary advertisement is located above my head, when some concerned passenger taps me lightly on the shoulder and says "Excuse me ma'am, but...your nose is squeaking. We can all hear it, and it's driving us crazy. In fact, I can see the dangling booger right there, in your left nostril. If you wouldn't mind...could you...you know...attend to the situation?"
Seriously. Any day now.
One day, this meant getting nearly mowed down by a giant cement truck backing out of a construction site. Apparently he was beep-beep-beeping, but I was busy jam-jam-jamming to the Sneaker Pimps. Another day, this meant missing the spontaneous announcement on the train that it was going to run express and skip my stop, sending me into a haze of confusion when "two stops" got me 10 stations away from my destination.
But really, one of my biggest concerns is that while I'm standing on a practically silent train, music blasting into my ears, I will have no idea that people are looking around to find out where a strange squeaking sound is emanating from, and only when one pair of eyes after another turns to me, and I cautiously remove my earbuds, only then will I discover that a squeaking booger in my nose has been reverberating throughout the car.
Every day, at least once in the morning, I remove my headphones and furiously wiggle my nose to prevent any squeaky boogs from developing. I'm particularly self-conscious on the days where I had a squeaky booger to begin with, before I even left the house. You know, those ones that when you first hear, you turn your head to the left then the right trying to identify the location of the sound only to discover it seems to be following your breathing pattern, and then you realize it is coming FROM you, from inside your nasal cavity, and you blow and you pick and you check the mirror and no matter what you do there's still this internal mouselike squeak coming from your inner nasal passages? Yeah, you know what I mean.
So anyhow, I expect that one of these days I'll be standing on the train, music on, absentmindedly reading my book or paper or whatever arbitrary advertisement is located above my head, when some concerned passenger taps me lightly on the shoulder and says "Excuse me ma'am, but...your nose is squeaking. We can all hear it, and it's driving us crazy. In fact, I can see the dangling booger right there, in your left nostril. If you wouldn't mind...could you...you know...attend to the situation?"
Seriously. Any day now.
8.09.2005
injury/mini-post
So this morning, getting off the damn train at the "green light" stop mentioned yesterday, and getting bottlenecked at the door, I experienced the very normal scenario where the "Stand clear of the closing doors!" announcement occurred before I was even off the train (let alone anyone had gotten on it). Usually you get 2 or 3 announcements just to scare you and get you to hustle. Today, we got half of ONE. "Stand clear of the--WHAP!" Before I knew what was happening, I was being shoved with linebacker-like force, launching me haphazardly into the open arms of people waiting to board the train. Upon realizing it was the fucking door that shoved me, I gazed angrily down the track at the outstretched head of the asshole who pushed that button while the open arms around me redirected their efforts to holding the doors open so at least two or three people could get on the damn train.
I tell ya. I survived three separate beatings by elevator doors yesterday only to get assaulted by the train doors today. I need some body armor!
I tell ya. I survived three separate beatings by elevator doors yesterday only to get assaulted by the train doors today. I need some body armor!
8.08.2005
this is why I need a hand-held air horn.
Many mornings, like today, I find myself amazed at the remarkable similarities between riding a subway and driving a car. It's the people. People are still commuter assholes no matter WHAT their vehicle.
First there's that whole dance on the subway train. I stand here, I hold there, I sit here, right hand on red, left foot on green. Whenever someone abandons a seat or vacates a standing space, the whole crowd re-orders themselves. This is like a traffic jam, when one lane advances faster than another, and everyone tries to get into that lane. But when they do, their old lane moves faster, so everyone tries to get in THAT lane.
Then there's exiting the train. This is kinda like when a big intersection gets a green light, except all the other streets get a green light at the same time. You still jockey for position, hoping that wise lane selection (or train car selection) and a jump on the timing will get you there (the turnstile) first, but really, unless you're the first car at the green light or the first person out the door, you still hurry up and go no where.
Then comes my favorite part: the stand here and wait. Getting up the stairs to street level is the stop-and-go nightmare of commuters at 33rd street. Often, you can't even get through the turnstiles. If you can, you have to merge with like 14 other "lanes" of people to get up the stairs. But this, this is where all human stupidity is alike.
The stairs are wide enough for three, and EXACTLY three, lanes of people. This, under normal, logical conditions, means two lanes up, one lane down. But someone is ALWAYS trying to pass in the breakdown lane. ALWAYS!! And this forces the logic-abiding citizens to slam on their brakes, causing a domino effect of delays that trickles down the stairwell. And, the bitch in front of me had NO brake lights. She didn't slow to a stop. She just...STOPPED! And while that annoyed the hell out of me, I know it wasn't her fault, but the fault of the asshole who was trying to go UP the DOWN lane--violating all pedestrian laws, and forcing the rest of us to a screeching halt when someone--and I know this is a big surprise--was coming DOWN the down lane, and Asshole had to merge with us.
Rest assured, as I sat there, unmoving, crammed, smushed, sweating, and looking up the long stairwell from the absolute bottom, I knew that if I was properly armed with a canned airhorn, I would have opened it up on this dick. Everybody's gotta be in such a damn rush! HOOOOOOOONK!!!
First there's that whole dance on the subway train. I stand here, I hold there, I sit here, right hand on red, left foot on green. Whenever someone abandons a seat or vacates a standing space, the whole crowd re-orders themselves. This is like a traffic jam, when one lane advances faster than another, and everyone tries to get into that lane. But when they do, their old lane moves faster, so everyone tries to get in THAT lane.
Then there's exiting the train. This is kinda like when a big intersection gets a green light, except all the other streets get a green light at the same time. You still jockey for position, hoping that wise lane selection (or train car selection) and a jump on the timing will get you there (the turnstile) first, but really, unless you're the first car at the green light or the first person out the door, you still hurry up and go no where.
Then comes my favorite part: the stand here and wait. Getting up the stairs to street level is the stop-and-go nightmare of commuters at 33rd street. Often, you can't even get through the turnstiles. If you can, you have to merge with like 14 other "lanes" of people to get up the stairs. But this, this is where all human stupidity is alike.
The stairs are wide enough for three, and EXACTLY three, lanes of people. This, under normal, logical conditions, means two lanes up, one lane down. But someone is ALWAYS trying to pass in the breakdown lane. ALWAYS!! And this forces the logic-abiding citizens to slam on their brakes, causing a domino effect of delays that trickles down the stairwell. And, the bitch in front of me had NO brake lights. She didn't slow to a stop. She just...STOPPED! And while that annoyed the hell out of me, I know it wasn't her fault, but the fault of the asshole who was trying to go UP the DOWN lane--violating all pedestrian laws, and forcing the rest of us to a screeching halt when someone--and I know this is a big surprise--was coming DOWN the down lane, and Asshole had to merge with us.
Rest assured, as I sat there, unmoving, crammed, smushed, sweating, and looking up the long stairwell from the absolute bottom, I knew that if I was properly armed with a canned airhorn, I would have opened it up on this dick. Everybody's gotta be in such a damn rush! HOOOOOOOONK!!!
8.05.2005
i hate when i'm right.
Last night, through a half-sleeping haze (or maybe it was a dream altogether), I envisioned three things happening to me today to really make my morning unpleasant.
As I was walking up the hill to the subway, I wondered if my cell phone was on vibrate. I always hate when I forget to turn off the ringer, then in the middle of my cemetary-like office everyone get a little Salsa serenade. So I try to turn off the ringer. But halfway through this thought process, I realized my phone wasn't even in my bag. It was at home, plugged in, sitting on the shelf, exactly where I left it. Vision #1: Forgetting cell phone on a day when I may need it to meet up with people - Check!
I got to the subway, and descended the 3 levels of hell required to get to the platform. There were waaay to many people there, which meant the trains were fucked up. I waited and waited and waited. About 10 minutes later, a train finally came, but blared its horn to say "Hey you sorry, sweaty bastards - we're gonna go RIGHT past you!" A common groan fell over the perspiring crowd. We'd have to wait - and sweat - a little longer. Vision #2: Trains being messed up and making me late for work, and being unable to call because I had no phone - Check.
Having 2 out of 3 visions succeed thus far, I got a little nervous about the last one. I pushed and elbowed my way onto the train when one finally stopped, and grabbed the rail and hoped I didn't have tremendous pit-stains, or at least that if I did have them, everyone else did too. Suspecting that the trains were still going to be flakey and possibly skip stops (like the shithead who passed us minutes earlier), I pulled out one of my earphones to listen to announcements.
We went one stop, and a crazyman got on. I could barely hear what he was saying, but I made out words like "America" and "freedom" and started to sense an overall paranoia on my fellow passengers' faces. I started to do the math in my head: a completely over-crowded train, a lunatic who hates America, and alas, my third vision, which is too scary to really explain but involved a madman America-hater on the train. Suddenly, I started to believe I was going to die at the hands of a lunatic, a fear I haven't felt since the last time I was in the car with my father.
Obviously, because I'm here to write about it, my third fear was just some subconcious creation of too much news feed and not enough sleep. (And maybe a dash of a paranoia-inducing movie last night.) But either way, I can't believe I forgot my damn cell phone. I hate that.
As I was walking up the hill to the subway, I wondered if my cell phone was on vibrate. I always hate when I forget to turn off the ringer, then in the middle of my cemetary-like office everyone get a little Salsa serenade. So I try to turn off the ringer. But halfway through this thought process, I realized my phone wasn't even in my bag. It was at home, plugged in, sitting on the shelf, exactly where I left it. Vision #1: Forgetting cell phone on a day when I may need it to meet up with people - Check!
I got to the subway, and descended the 3 levels of hell required to get to the platform. There were waaay to many people there, which meant the trains were fucked up. I waited and waited and waited. About 10 minutes later, a train finally came, but blared its horn to say "Hey you sorry, sweaty bastards - we're gonna go RIGHT past you!" A common groan fell over the perspiring crowd. We'd have to wait - and sweat - a little longer. Vision #2: Trains being messed up and making me late for work, and being unable to call because I had no phone - Check.
Having 2 out of 3 visions succeed thus far, I got a little nervous about the last one. I pushed and elbowed my way onto the train when one finally stopped, and grabbed the rail and hoped I didn't have tremendous pit-stains, or at least that if I did have them, everyone else did too. Suspecting that the trains were still going to be flakey and possibly skip stops (like the shithead who passed us minutes earlier), I pulled out one of my earphones to listen to announcements.
We went one stop, and a crazyman got on. I could barely hear what he was saying, but I made out words like "America" and "freedom" and started to sense an overall paranoia on my fellow passengers' faces. I started to do the math in my head: a completely over-crowded train, a lunatic who hates America, and alas, my third vision, which is too scary to really explain but involved a madman America-hater on the train. Suddenly, I started to believe I was going to die at the hands of a lunatic, a fear I haven't felt since the last time I was in the car with my father.
Obviously, because I'm here to write about it, my third fear was just some subconcious creation of too much news feed and not enough sleep. (And maybe a dash of a paranoia-inducing movie last night.) But either way, I can't believe I forgot my damn cell phone. I hate that.
7.27.2005
what can brown do for me, hmmm?
One of the biggest pains in the ass of living in New York City is--if you don't have a doorman, which I don't--trying to receive a freaking package in the mail. My mailbox is about 4 inches wide, so most packages don't exactly fit into it.
If it's a postal package, it is held at the Post Office, but not the one that is 3 blocks away. Oh no no. It's held at the one 15 blocks away, where I must go to fetch it, which requires standing in a long line of disgruntled citizens (and I use that term loosely) who maybe, just maybe, speak any derivative of English or Spanish required to communicate with the postal staff. Most communication is done through translators or hand gestures, and even those are done through a couple inches of plexi-glass.
But worse, when a package is sent UPS or FedEx, chances are pretty much nill that I'll ever get it. Over the holidays, despite my numerous attempst to locate, retrieve, or redirect an incoming present, it got returned to the sender after 10 days.
So now I generally have packages sent to my office, because at least someone will be here to get it, even if it's not me. And really, screw the company policy against receiving personal packages. Clearly whoever wrote that either has a doorman or a nice little estate in the burbs where the house servants can receive it or, like it used to be for me back in Boston, it can simply be left on your porch without risk of being stolen.
Last week I ordered a new bathing suit online. I figured, I hate trying that shit on in the store anyway, let's just take a gamble and see what happens. I chose the express shipping method for 3-5 business days, all in the hopes that the suit would arrive before I leave Friday for an out-of-town wedding weekend, during which time I intend to take a dip in my hotel pool or spa.
I ordered the suit on Thursday. I had it shipped to my apartment, fearing that someone at work might accidentally open it and laugh at the heavily padded bust. I got an email Saturday saying "we've shipped your package! here's your tracking number!" I panicked, thinking 5 business days from Monday may not be sufficient. And then I saw a link to UPS.com, which totally pissed me off. This meant that no matter how small the package was, it sure wasn't getting into my mailbox. It meant that when I got home, there would be a frustrating little yellow sticker saying "Nah nah, we have your package but you weren't here to get it! We'll try again at the same time tomorrow, when you will also not be here!"
On Monday I checked the status, and to my surprise, it said the package was on a truck for delivery. So fast! This largely increased my chances of actually obtaining it, if only I could get the new sticker off my door and use it to re-direct the package to work. Later in the day, sure enough, the online tracking said the first delivery attempt failed. All I had to do was go home and get the sticker...
...that was NOT stuck to my door. No sticker. No new package number. No redirect. "Brown" bastards.
On Tuesday, I checked the status online again, and furiously searched for the option to redirect, which I KNOW is somewhere, because I used it before. But it looks like I needed the "Oops we missed you" sticker to redirect. So, I was Shit Outta Luck. Hopefully the second delivery attempt would leave a sticker for me to work with. Because if not, then there was no way I would have time to redirect the package to work before I leave on Thursday. UGH!
So as I walked home on Tuesday, down the hill from the subway, slowly sauntering to minimize any overheating in this disgusting, atrocious weather, I prayed the sticker would be there. As I got down the hill and turned the corner, I looked up to reveal none other than...
...the ACTUAL brown UPS truck! Parked outside my building!
I picked up my pace and excitedly jogged over to the truck, peeking in the front cab for the driver, then to the back to see where he was hiding. Seeing him nowhere, I peered at my front door to see if there was a sticker, but there was STILL no fucking sticker! I turned back to the truck and saw the driver hop in the front seat, and I leaned in the door from the other side and said "HEY! You have something for me!"
The thickly french accented black man said "Wass yoor address?" I told him. "Ya, apartment five, I juss deliver there."
"NO, apartment FOUR," I pleaded with him.
"You have steecker?"
"No, I never got one, but I tracked the package online and it said first delivery attempt failed, so you must..."
"Lemme look." He disappeared into the back of the truck, yelling indiscernible things to me out on the street. I shouted tips, like how small it was, where it was from, and my name. Finally, he trumpeted his success, returning to the front with the package.
"Ooooh YAY!!" I sang and danced. I signed my name and shrugged off his apologies, instead embracing the fantastic luck that a UPS truck, the one with MY package, was parked outside MY building at 6:30pm for the same 30 seconds that I was walking by. The package was in my hands, despite all odds.
But a quick note to self - always send packages to work. Always.
If it's a postal package, it is held at the Post Office, but not the one that is 3 blocks away. Oh no no. It's held at the one 15 blocks away, where I must go to fetch it, which requires standing in a long line of disgruntled citizens (and I use that term loosely) who maybe, just maybe, speak any derivative of English or Spanish required to communicate with the postal staff. Most communication is done through translators or hand gestures, and even those are done through a couple inches of plexi-glass.
But worse, when a package is sent UPS or FedEx, chances are pretty much nill that I'll ever get it. Over the holidays, despite my numerous attempst to locate, retrieve, or redirect an incoming present, it got returned to the sender after 10 days.
So now I generally have packages sent to my office, because at least someone will be here to get it, even if it's not me. And really, screw the company policy against receiving personal packages. Clearly whoever wrote that either has a doorman or a nice little estate in the burbs where the house servants can receive it or, like it used to be for me back in Boston, it can simply be left on your porch without risk of being stolen.
Last week I ordered a new bathing suit online. I figured, I hate trying that shit on in the store anyway, let's just take a gamble and see what happens. I chose the express shipping method for 3-5 business days, all in the hopes that the suit would arrive before I leave Friday for an out-of-town wedding weekend, during which time I intend to take a dip in my hotel pool or spa.
I ordered the suit on Thursday. I had it shipped to my apartment, fearing that someone at work might accidentally open it and laugh at the heavily padded bust. I got an email Saturday saying "we've shipped your package! here's your tracking number!" I panicked, thinking 5 business days from Monday may not be sufficient. And then I saw a link to UPS.com, which totally pissed me off. This meant that no matter how small the package was, it sure wasn't getting into my mailbox. It meant that when I got home, there would be a frustrating little yellow sticker saying "Nah nah, we have your package but you weren't here to get it! We'll try again at the same time tomorrow, when you will also not be here!"
On Monday I checked the status, and to my surprise, it said the package was on a truck for delivery. So fast! This largely increased my chances of actually obtaining it, if only I could get the new sticker off my door and use it to re-direct the package to work. Later in the day, sure enough, the online tracking said the first delivery attempt failed. All I had to do was go home and get the sticker...
...that was NOT stuck to my door. No sticker. No new package number. No redirect. "Brown" bastards.
On Tuesday, I checked the status online again, and furiously searched for the option to redirect, which I KNOW is somewhere, because I used it before. But it looks like I needed the "Oops we missed you" sticker to redirect. So, I was Shit Outta Luck. Hopefully the second delivery attempt would leave a sticker for me to work with. Because if not, then there was no way I would have time to redirect the package to work before I leave on Thursday. UGH!
So as I walked home on Tuesday, down the hill from the subway, slowly sauntering to minimize any overheating in this disgusting, atrocious weather, I prayed the sticker would be there. As I got down the hill and turned the corner, I looked up to reveal none other than...
...the ACTUAL brown UPS truck! Parked outside my building!
I picked up my pace and excitedly jogged over to the truck, peeking in the front cab for the driver, then to the back to see where he was hiding. Seeing him nowhere, I peered at my front door to see if there was a sticker, but there was STILL no fucking sticker! I turned back to the truck and saw the driver hop in the front seat, and I leaned in the door from the other side and said "HEY! You have something for me!"
The thickly french accented black man said "Wass yoor address?" I told him. "Ya, apartment five, I juss deliver there."
"NO, apartment FOUR," I pleaded with him.
"You have steecker?"
"No, I never got one, but I tracked the package online and it said first delivery attempt failed, so you must..."
"Lemme look." He disappeared into the back of the truck, yelling indiscernible things to me out on the street. I shouted tips, like how small it was, where it was from, and my name. Finally, he trumpeted his success, returning to the front with the package.
"Ooooh YAY!!" I sang and danced. I signed my name and shrugged off his apologies, instead embracing the fantastic luck that a UPS truck, the one with MY package, was parked outside MY building at 6:30pm for the same 30 seconds that I was walking by. The package was in my hands, despite all odds.
But a quick note to self - always send packages to work. Always.
7.21.2005
identity crisis.
Okay, I know, I'm sorry. I've been MIA for days. Weeks even. I've been very busy, and I haven't seen any public penises lately.
I did, however, just email my mother, father, and sister, to tell them how amused I am at today's wardrobe malfunction slash identity crisis.
Last week I went to Old Navy. For some reason, I bought many green items, including an adorable Margarita Madness bag (how fitting!) and two green shirts. Today I put on one of the shirts. It works, I thought, as I stood in front of the mirror.
Now I'm at work, and people are commenting on how the shirt really brings out my green eyes. This severely confuses me because I always thought of myself as having BROWN eyes. Or at least that is what it looks like in all the pictures. I mean, I can't say I spend a whole lot of time in front of the mirror assessing the flecks of colors in my irises. But I also think I would have noticed if my eyes were GREEN.
Then I remembered the incident years ago, when I was at a wedding with my ex-boyfriend's family. Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl" came on, and my ex's sister jumped up to dance, exclaiming "Hey, this is my song!" I jumped up as well, saying "Mine too! Let's dance!" And Cristie, in my memory, put her hands on her hips and sassed me with "Your eyes aren't brown. They're green," then trotted off to the dance floor, leaving me there in my befuddled state.
Now here I sit, staring at myself in the mirror, studying my eyeballs. And it turns out...they're really not brown at all. What the hell? When did THAT change? They're sorta hollow gray-greenish with some strange orange flecks. How did I miss this?? How do you not know what color your eyes are? And what do I do now that there's no sweet American tune about my eye color?
Ugh. This changes everything.
I did, however, just email my mother, father, and sister, to tell them how amused I am at today's wardrobe malfunction slash identity crisis.
Last week I went to Old Navy. For some reason, I bought many green items, including an adorable Margarita Madness bag (how fitting!) and two green shirts. Today I put on one of the shirts. It works, I thought, as I stood in front of the mirror.
Now I'm at work, and people are commenting on how the shirt really brings out my green eyes. This severely confuses me because I always thought of myself as having BROWN eyes. Or at least that is what it looks like in all the pictures. I mean, I can't say I spend a whole lot of time in front of the mirror assessing the flecks of colors in my irises. But I also think I would have noticed if my eyes were GREEN.
Then I remembered the incident years ago, when I was at a wedding with my ex-boyfriend's family. Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl" came on, and my ex's sister jumped up to dance, exclaiming "Hey, this is my song!" I jumped up as well, saying "Mine too! Let's dance!" And Cristie, in my memory, put her hands on her hips and sassed me with "Your eyes aren't brown. They're green," then trotted off to the dance floor, leaving me there in my befuddled state.
Now here I sit, staring at myself in the mirror, studying my eyeballs. And it turns out...they're really not brown at all. What the hell? When did THAT change? They're sorta hollow gray-greenish with some strange orange flecks. How did I miss this?? How do you not know what color your eyes are? And what do I do now that there's no sweet American tune about my eye color?
Ugh. This changes everything.
7.06.2005
random new york moment.
I doubt this is enough to whet anyone's appetite but I still have to share it.
The other day I was walking up the street, on my way to the gym, and talking on my cell phone. In fact, specifically, I think I was leaving a voicemail for my sister when It Happened.
There was some noise over my head, but not enough to take my attention. Moments later, an objected landed with a loud, hollow thwump on the sidewalk about five feet in front of me. I took a step closer while looking up to see two seagulls fighting. (I hate them almost as much as pigeons, if not more, now.)
As I got closer to the Object, my brain scanned all known shapes and colors for a match. Best I came up with was "rotten cucumber." But my next step revealed a three-dimensional truth: a nasty, disgusting, smelly, rotten, hollowed-out fish head.
It was at this point, or near to it (my memory has blocked out the details) that I yelled into my sister's voicemail "A FUCKING FISH HEAD!" This decaying ocean sewage instantly became the most bizarre and disgusting thing I've seen fall from the new york sky yet.
I stepped squeamishly over and around the decapitated aquatic creature, and cursed angrily at the asshole seagulls overhead. For a moment, I questioned whether they got it from a garbage can or the nearby river, but then decided it didn't matter--it was still a nasty, rotting, disgusting, fish head that fell from the sky and almost hit me.
The other day I was walking up the street, on my way to the gym, and talking on my cell phone. In fact, specifically, I think I was leaving a voicemail for my sister when It Happened.
There was some noise over my head, but not enough to take my attention. Moments later, an objected landed with a loud, hollow thwump on the sidewalk about five feet in front of me. I took a step closer while looking up to see two seagulls fighting. (I hate them almost as much as pigeons, if not more, now.)
As I got closer to the Object, my brain scanned all known shapes and colors for a match. Best I came up with was "rotten cucumber." But my next step revealed a three-dimensional truth: a nasty, disgusting, smelly, rotten, hollowed-out fish head.
It was at this point, or near to it (my memory has blocked out the details) that I yelled into my sister's voicemail "A FUCKING FISH HEAD!" This decaying ocean sewage instantly became the most bizarre and disgusting thing I've seen fall from the new york sky yet.
I stepped squeamishly over and around the decapitated aquatic creature, and cursed angrily at the asshole seagulls overhead. For a moment, I questioned whether they got it from a garbage can or the nearby river, but then decided it didn't matter--it was still a nasty, rotting, disgusting, fish head that fell from the sky and almost hit me.
6.26.2005
summer's here, the freaks are out.
Today, for the first time since last summer, I took a stroll over to my favorite little park for some R&R....and sun. Along with a friend, I laid out my blanket, and nestled in for some lazy summer afternoon lounging.
After about 20 minutes in the sun, sweat was beading and pouring down my body. The weathermen did say mid 90s, but I hadn't believed them.
Well, as I lay there talking to my friend, this little old guy in running shorts strolled up onto the grass and sat down, leaning up against the little iron fence behind him. I had a flash of familiarity, pondering for a moment, but dismissed the possibility that this man was the one I was thinking of. That is, until he spread his legs and pulled out his penis.
I kid you not, it's the SAME guy from last year. I knew it the second I saw him. And he has to go and flash me on my first return to the park?! What is WITH this sicko!? And just like last time, I turned to my friend and said "Okay, yeah, so that guy totally just pulled his dick out of his shorts. This is a family place!" Next time, I'm gonna throw food at it so the pigeons peck off his pecker.
I can't help feel like this is some sort of groundhog's day. "Look folks! Penis has a shadow! 6 more weeks of summer!"
After about 20 minutes in the sun, sweat was beading and pouring down my body. The weathermen did say mid 90s, but I hadn't believed them.
Well, as I lay there talking to my friend, this little old guy in running shorts strolled up onto the grass and sat down, leaning up against the little iron fence behind him. I had a flash of familiarity, pondering for a moment, but dismissed the possibility that this man was the one I was thinking of. That is, until he spread his legs and pulled out his penis.
I kid you not, it's the SAME guy from last year. I knew it the second I saw him. And he has to go and flash me on my first return to the park?! What is WITH this sicko!? And just like last time, I turned to my friend and said "Okay, yeah, so that guy totally just pulled his dick out of his shorts. This is a family place!" Next time, I'm gonna throw food at it so the pigeons peck off his pecker.
I can't help feel like this is some sort of groundhog's day. "Look folks! Penis has a shadow! 6 more weeks of summer!"
6.21.2005
my friends the spammers.
So, like the rest of the world's email account holders, I have been receiving a lot of spam lately. For a while I had the spam filter on, and things quieted down. But then I started job hunting again, and bouncing my prospective employers with a less-than-friendly reminder not to spam my ass, so I had to turn it back off. So now that the spam is rolling back in again, I have taken a new approach with it: keeping track of the funniest auto-generated titles.
- My buddy Josh Childs sent me one with To sign go stoneless perceptible as a subject. I liked this one because I think it's brilliant for anyone (or anything) to make "stoneless perceptible" a phrase. If I use it, it sounds brilliant, and if people try to figure out what I mean, they get confused, believing I must be even more brilliant if I get it. So when someone now asks me "How's work? How's that idiot boss of yours?" I simply respond, "Oh, you know. He's the same stoneless perceptible."
- Homegirl Joanna Hall sent me one about my shady past patriot petersburg. It was one of those word plays that confuses my overly syntactical mind. Shady past? Shady patriot from the past? Petersburg the shady patriot from the past? I assumed it's about some guy named Peter Sburg who was at one time impotent, but now thanks to the cheap prescription offers in the email, is no longer in the shady past, but is rather a sexual patriot. That must be it.
- Edwin Hubbard seems to know something I don't in his email entitled High octane Stocks desecrate willie. The first thing I thought was, "Ow. Poor willie." It can't feel good to be desecrated, by stocks or otherwise. And high octane stocks?? Damn. Poor willie. But I do wonder...whose willie are we talking about? Is it Edwin's? And if so, why is he advertising his own desecration?
- My favorite pair of spam-mails were from Alberto Serrano, offering Love tabs that helps you stay on top, made funnier by the follow-up email from Andrew, correctly reminding me that Alberto said hi. How did Andrew know Alberto said hi? They must know each other. Or maybe Andrew was the one on top.
- And lastly, today's gem of the day, a quick chance to re-deliver my childhood: Beau McConnell's sweet offer of Pony Rides - 25 cents - 2 for 50! dredge bobbin. Now, I'm assuming that Dredge Bobbin is the horse's name. It sounds like something you'd hear over the PA system at the Kentucky Derby. "And they're coming around the bend! Neck and neck! It's gonna be a photo finish and...and!! It's Dredge Bobbin ladies and gents!" So what a bargain, 25 cents! And I assume I don't need any sort of membership card to get the special 2 for 50 deal. Beau really knows what a girl wants. Pony rides.
6.16.2005
student loan blues.
All those years of being woken up at 7am on a Sunday morning by my father's pimped out stereo system blasting the Sunday Morning Blues Hour at a volume so high it would shake frames off the walls are finally paying off. With a little imagined bass, and a little saxophone, and absolutely no harmonica renditions whatsoever, I present to you my Student Loan Blues....
(BAH buh, BAH buh ,BAH buh, BAH buh, BAH bow now now)
When I went to school, I took out a loan.
I said when I went to school, I took out a loan.
And every month I pay it, and I cry and moan.
Now I'm back in school, takin' out more loans.
I said I'm back in school, takin' out more loans.
I got an education, but it's me they own.
Now the goddam feds, go and fuck with the rates.
I say those goddam feds, they gotta fuck with my rates.
Jumpin' it up two whole points, so I must consolidate.
The lady on the phone, she said "Girl, you gonna owe."
The lady on the phone, now, she said "Girl, you gonna owe. And you know."
And I said "Ho, I'm so low, but I gotta reap what I sow."
So she tells me the terms, drafts me for 30 more years.
I said "You gotta be kiddin', I'm in up to my ears.
I'll be a damn grandmother before the end is near."
So that's my story, and I know I ain't alone.
This whole country fulla debt, buncha graduates lettin' out a groan.
And the only way out is a shiny new headstone.
(BAH buh, BAH buh ,BAH buh, BAH buh, BAH bow waaaaaaaaw.)
Oh yeah.
(BAH buh, BAH buh ,BAH buh, BAH buh, BAH bow now now)
When I went to school, I took out a loan.
I said when I went to school, I took out a loan.
And every month I pay it, and I cry and moan.
Now I'm back in school, takin' out more loans.
I said I'm back in school, takin' out more loans.
I got an education, but it's me they own.
Now the goddam feds, go and fuck with the rates.
I say those goddam feds, they gotta fuck with my rates.
Jumpin' it up two whole points, so I must consolidate.
The lady on the phone, she said "Girl, you gonna owe."
The lady on the phone, now, she said "Girl, you gonna owe. And you know."
And I said "Ho, I'm so low, but I gotta reap what I sow."
So she tells me the terms, drafts me for 30 more years.
I said "You gotta be kiddin', I'm in up to my ears.
I'll be a damn grandmother before the end is near."
So that's my story, and I know I ain't alone.
This whole country fulla debt, buncha graduates lettin' out a groan.
And the only way out is a shiny new headstone.
(BAH buh, BAH buh ,BAH buh, BAH buh, BAH bow waaaaaaaaw.)
Oh yeah.
6.13.2005
"Must...control...fist...of death!!"
I'm having one of those "on the verge" moments. I'm either about to scream, punch someone, or write a lot. OOOoooooh am I MAD!!
I just had a meeting with my boss and 8 other editors. At this meeting, I presented to my boss the 3-page list of issues and complaints that I have compiled from the 8 other editors regarding a new online database we are about to unveil.
So I gave him the list, and distributed copies to the editors. Bossman started to read through the items out loud, one at a time, until he got to something that clearly confused his pea-sized idiot brain, most likely due to the fact that he shanks all responsibilities and had no context for the terminology on the list.
"Is this English?" he asked, laughing in mockery amidst my peers. I bit my tongue and tried to decapitate him with the strength of my dirty glare. "What is this improper syntax? What horrible writing. Can someone please help Stephanie re-write this so it's readable?"
I bit my lip, sighed, and rolled my eyes as I crossed my arms.
"I'll do it. Myself." I said, every word dripping with disgust.
There are many things that I am not. I am not a superstar athlete. I am not a high-ranking public official. I am not an accomplished attorney. But what I AM....what I AM is a writer. I KNOW my syntax. I KNOW my grammar. I do NOT need someone to re-write ANYTHING penned by my hand. THIS MUCH I KNOW.
Now I have officially HAD IT. I can ignore (while silently documenting) the improper stares at my breasts. I can ignore (while suspecting wildly) the alleged intra-office drug deals exchanged in mysterious brown envelopes. I can even look past the complete lack of management skills or editorial function. BUT DO NOT CHALLENGE MY WRITING!!
He's going down in a fiery ball of despicable, inappropriate fury. PERIOD.
I just had a meeting with my boss and 8 other editors. At this meeting, I presented to my boss the 3-page list of issues and complaints that I have compiled from the 8 other editors regarding a new online database we are about to unveil.
So I gave him the list, and distributed copies to the editors. Bossman started to read through the items out loud, one at a time, until he got to something that clearly confused his pea-sized idiot brain, most likely due to the fact that he shanks all responsibilities and had no context for the terminology on the list.
"Is this English?" he asked, laughing in mockery amidst my peers. I bit my tongue and tried to decapitate him with the strength of my dirty glare. "What is this improper syntax? What horrible writing. Can someone please help Stephanie re-write this so it's readable?"
I bit my lip, sighed, and rolled my eyes as I crossed my arms.
"I'll do it. Myself." I said, every word dripping with disgust.
There are many things that I am not. I am not a superstar athlete. I am not a high-ranking public official. I am not an accomplished attorney. But what I AM....what I AM is a writer. I KNOW my syntax. I KNOW my grammar. I do NOT need someone to re-write ANYTHING penned by my hand. THIS MUCH I KNOW.
Now I have officially HAD IT. I can ignore (while silently documenting) the improper stares at my breasts. I can ignore (while suspecting wildly) the alleged intra-office drug deals exchanged in mysterious brown envelopes. I can even look past the complete lack of management skills or editorial function. BUT DO NOT CHALLENGE MY WRITING!!
He's going down in a fiery ball of despicable, inappropriate fury. PERIOD.
6.08.2005
the conversion.
People have differing opinions on what makes a person a New Yorker. Some say it's attitude, some say it's length of residency. By some standards, I'm there, and by others I'm not. But regardless, today I had a frightening New Yorker realization.
What was it that tipped me off? Was it the swift and agile grace I exercised when bolting for the subway as the doors were closing, knowing exactly how much time I had and when to turn sideways to slide in at the last second?
Was it the way I pointed without hesitation (and without slowing down) when a tourist on the street asked me which direction 32nd Street was?
Maybe it was how I didn't feel the slightest bit bad about plowing into and walking away from some idiot woman who stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk, obstructing the flow of foot traffic so she could dig for her phone?
The culmination of all these things brought me to my moment. On my way to a 3-hour class after working a 9+hour day, I popped in my earphones to drown out the city while I jammed to various mp3s on the subway, which I rode steadily and around corners without the need to hold on. When I got off the train I checked my voicemail, and dialed a return call to my aunt. I was still on the phone with her, with one musical earphone still blasting Black Eyed Peas in the other ear, when I looked up through my sunglasses and ordered my Grande Java Chip Frappacino No Cream from the woman at Starbucks.
Fucking Starbucks.
But...at least I don't have an iPod.
What was it that tipped me off? Was it the swift and agile grace I exercised when bolting for the subway as the doors were closing, knowing exactly how much time I had and when to turn sideways to slide in at the last second?
Was it the way I pointed without hesitation (and without slowing down) when a tourist on the street asked me which direction 32nd Street was?
Maybe it was how I didn't feel the slightest bit bad about plowing into and walking away from some idiot woman who stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk, obstructing the flow of foot traffic so she could dig for her phone?
The culmination of all these things brought me to my moment. On my way to a 3-hour class after working a 9+hour day, I popped in my earphones to drown out the city while I jammed to various mp3s on the subway, which I rode steadily and around corners without the need to hold on. When I got off the train I checked my voicemail, and dialed a return call to my aunt. I was still on the phone with her, with one musical earphone still blasting Black Eyed Peas in the other ear, when I looked up through my sunglasses and ordered my Grande Java Chip Frappacino No Cream from the woman at Starbucks.
Fucking Starbucks.
But...at least I don't have an iPod.
6.06.2005
itchy twitchy witchy
This could totally be one of those things that was only funny to me but...
Yesterday I spent the day cleaning and moving things and installing my air conditioner and trying to ignore the snow-like pollen that was falling outside (and actually accumulating into piles 6 or 7 inches high on the sidewalks). This is all very bad for my allergies, and even though I take and love my Allegra, you just can't fight dust elephants and New York car exhaust and other general ick that, when stirred up, makes me sneezy.
So after several hours of this, I turned on the TV to chill out. I watched a little Extreme Makeover, and when a commercial came on, I walked away to get a drink. For the gazillionth time that day, I scrunched up my face and wiggled my itchy nose, except this time it was perfectly synchronized with the familiar "dittle dittle dit" of Samantha's spell-casting nose in Bewitched coming from the television.
I laughed at the coincidence quite heartily for several moments, and then I sneezed.
Yesterday I spent the day cleaning and moving things and installing my air conditioner and trying to ignore the snow-like pollen that was falling outside (and actually accumulating into piles 6 or 7 inches high on the sidewalks). This is all very bad for my allergies, and even though I take and love my Allegra, you just can't fight dust elephants and New York car exhaust and other general ick that, when stirred up, makes me sneezy.
So after several hours of this, I turned on the TV to chill out. I watched a little Extreme Makeover, and when a commercial came on, I walked away to get a drink. For the gazillionth time that day, I scrunched up my face and wiggled my itchy nose, except this time it was perfectly synchronized with the familiar "dittle dittle dit" of Samantha's spell-casting nose in Bewitched coming from the television.
I laughed at the coincidence quite heartily for several moments, and then I sneezed.
6.01.2005
street meat
In New York, there are two kinds of street meat:
1) The men and women of the city who receive stares, hoots, hollers, whistles, cat-calls, mental undressing, gropes, molestations, and sexual solicitations on the streets on a daily basis.
2) The "greek" lamb, chicken, or beef you can get with yellow or brown rice, onions, and white and/or hot sauce (all for just $3.75!) from a little metal shack on wheels located on the sidewalk every 2 blocks or so in busy corporate neighborhoods.
Today for lunch, I had a little of both.
First, the phone call with my typical lunch buddy who we'll call Enrique:
Me: (dialing.)
Enrique: "Yes?"
Me: "I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"
Enrique: "Is it lunchtime?"
Me: "Yes. I'm hungry."
Enrique: "Okay, where should we go today?"
Me: "I don't know. Where do you want to go?"
Enrique: "I want chicken from across the street. I saw someone get it, so I want it."
Me: "What do you mean 'across the street'? Where?"
Enrique: "You know, across the street. If you don't want it, we can walk. You can get a sandwich or some pizza. Do you want pizza?"
Me: "I don't know. What do you want?"
Enrique: "Chicken from across the street. Do you want that?"
Me: "I don't know. Sounds risky. I'm afraid of street meat?"
Enrique: "What?"
Me: "Street meat."
Enrique: "What are you saying? String beans?"
Me: "STREET. MEAT."
Enrique: "Treat me?"
Me: "S T R E E T. M E A T!!!"
Enrique: "Just meet me at the elevator."
So anyhow, Enrique and I got in the elevator, went down and outside, where we realized it's actually a bit chilly outside. But he pointed at the metal cart with orange panels, and the two soup-nazi-esque men coordinating orders.
"Street meat," I told him.
"Oh, is that what you were saying? You talk too fast. You left out the S."
"Um, I don't think I did, but whatever. Let's walk."
So we walk quickly around the block, where I decide that I too will try the street meat. This, for me, is a Very Big Risk. Due to various allergies and intolerances, new foods are very scary to me. But I decide to try it anyway, and chance the visit from the EDF. So we round the block, chatting, and that's when I saw the other street meat:
Enrique: "...so my wife then says that we should definitely look into the new apartment..."
Me: "WOW."
Enrique: "...and I am supposed to call the lady today and tell her we want it..."
Me: "That guy is HOT."
Enrique: "...I'm not sure if we can move right away or if we need to take a few more weeks..."
Me: "Holy SHIT. Did you SEE him?" (looking now over shoulder at delicious bald black man)
Enrique: "...because it depends on whether we can get out of our current lease..."
Me: "DAMN. He was FINE."
Enrique: "...but I think we will be fine if I just speak to the landlord...do you want chicken?"
And thus I ordered chicken on yellow rice, with onions (yumm), and white sauce/hold the hot. And I ate it. And it was tasty. And it's been approximately 48 minutes and there's no sign of intestinal disruption. YET.
But I still think I should have taken my chances with the delicious bald black man instead--no hot sauce necessary.
1) The men and women of the city who receive stares, hoots, hollers, whistles, cat-calls, mental undressing, gropes, molestations, and sexual solicitations on the streets on a daily basis.
2) The "greek" lamb, chicken, or beef you can get with yellow or brown rice, onions, and white and/or hot sauce (all for just $3.75!) from a little metal shack on wheels located on the sidewalk every 2 blocks or so in busy corporate neighborhoods.
Today for lunch, I had a little of both.
First, the phone call with my typical lunch buddy who we'll call Enrique:
Me: (dialing.)
Enrique: "Yes?"
Me: "I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"
Enrique: "Is it lunchtime?"
Me: "Yes. I'm hungry."
Enrique: "Okay, where should we go today?"
Me: "I don't know. Where do you want to go?"
Enrique: "I want chicken from across the street. I saw someone get it, so I want it."
Me: "What do you mean 'across the street'? Where?"
Enrique: "You know, across the street. If you don't want it, we can walk. You can get a sandwich or some pizza. Do you want pizza?"
Me: "I don't know. What do you want?"
Enrique: "Chicken from across the street. Do you want that?"
Me: "I don't know. Sounds risky. I'm afraid of street meat?"
Enrique: "What?"
Me: "Street meat."
Enrique: "What are you saying? String beans?"
Me: "STREET. MEAT."
Enrique: "Treat me?"
Me: "S T R E E T. M E A T!!!"
Enrique: "Just meet me at the elevator."
So anyhow, Enrique and I got in the elevator, went down and outside, where we realized it's actually a bit chilly outside. But he pointed at the metal cart with orange panels, and the two soup-nazi-esque men coordinating orders.
"Street meat," I told him.
"Oh, is that what you were saying? You talk too fast. You left out the S."
"Um, I don't think I did, but whatever. Let's walk."
So we walk quickly around the block, where I decide that I too will try the street meat. This, for me, is a Very Big Risk. Due to various allergies and intolerances, new foods are very scary to me. But I decide to try it anyway, and chance the visit from the EDF. So we round the block, chatting, and that's when I saw the other street meat:
Enrique: "...so my wife then says that we should definitely look into the new apartment..."
Me: "WOW."
Enrique: "...and I am supposed to call the lady today and tell her we want it..."
Me: "That guy is HOT."
Enrique: "...I'm not sure if we can move right away or if we need to take a few more weeks..."
Me: "Holy SHIT. Did you SEE him?" (looking now over shoulder at delicious bald black man)
Enrique: "...because it depends on whether we can get out of our current lease..."
Me: "DAMN. He was FINE."
Enrique: "...but I think we will be fine if I just speak to the landlord...do you want chicken?"
And thus I ordered chicken on yellow rice, with onions (yumm), and white sauce/hold the hot. And I ate it. And it was tasty. And it's been approximately 48 minutes and there's no sign of intestinal disruption. YET.
But I still think I should have taken my chances with the delicious bald black man instead--no hot sauce necessary.
5.30.2005
shoe disorder
It is no secret to me nor anyone who knows me that I have a certain fondness for cute shoes. Usually this is a source of various jokes and knowing looks, or at other times of laughter and squeals of "show me what you got this time!" So you can imagine that recently, when I had to shop for a dress for my father's wedding, I was thrilled for the excuse it offered me to buy yet even MORE shoes.
Before I had actually picked out a dress, I was looking for new shoes. Some of you might say I tend to work "backwards," starting with the shoes and planning an outfit--or formal dress--around them. But I showed great resolve, and bought only two pairs of shoes that I would not wear with the dress. I see this as an improvement.
However, when I arrived home that day, dressless but with two new boxes of foot fashion, I walked into my apartment and realized the horror of my disease. My shoe disorder spawned its own shoe disorder, amounting to, as far as I can count, a minimum of ten recently worn pairs of shoes in the middle of my kitchen floor:
In an effort to self-discipline, I insisted I put away all my current shoes before any new shoes were broken out of their boxes. So I went to my closet, and found a catastrophic mess of empty shoeboxes and lids tossed carelessly about:
(Note: Yes I keep the boxes. Shoes store and stack much easier that way, now leave me alone!)
So, I started putting the shoes away, appropriately coordinating boxes to shoes, and placing the shoes heel-to-toe beside each other in the boxes. In doing so, I learned that I not only have 21 pairs of shoes in boxes in my closet (excluding the various freebees like flip-flops and sneakers that are just loose in a pile beneath the boxes), but I also have--and I'm a little embarrassed to admit this publicly--5 pairs of pink shoes. Five. That's SICK.
So I'm actually very relieved that the new shoes I bought were yellow (my only yellow shoes) and black (my only black open-toed beaded strappy sandal with ankle fastener shoes), and not pink. And I'm both hopeful and confident that, with the right attitude and a little self-discipline, my shoes will stay in their boxes in the closet when not in use.
I know, I know. I have issues. I am completely aware that I need some sort of shoe-addicts 12-step program. But even if it exists, it begs the question....
Which shoes would I wear to the meetings?
Before I had actually picked out a dress, I was looking for new shoes. Some of you might say I tend to work "backwards," starting with the shoes and planning an outfit--or formal dress--around them. But I showed great resolve, and bought only two pairs of shoes that I would not wear with the dress. I see this as an improvement.
However, when I arrived home that day, dressless but with two new boxes of foot fashion, I walked into my apartment and realized the horror of my disease. My shoe disorder spawned its own shoe disorder, amounting to, as far as I can count, a minimum of ten recently worn pairs of shoes in the middle of my kitchen floor:
In an effort to self-discipline, I insisted I put away all my current shoes before any new shoes were broken out of their boxes. So I went to my closet, and found a catastrophic mess of empty shoeboxes and lids tossed carelessly about:
(Note: Yes I keep the boxes. Shoes store and stack much easier that way, now leave me alone!)
So, I started putting the shoes away, appropriately coordinating boxes to shoes, and placing the shoes heel-to-toe beside each other in the boxes. In doing so, I learned that I not only have 21 pairs of shoes in boxes in my closet (excluding the various freebees like flip-flops and sneakers that are just loose in a pile beneath the boxes), but I also have--and I'm a little embarrassed to admit this publicly--5 pairs of pink shoes. Five. That's SICK.
So I'm actually very relieved that the new shoes I bought were yellow (my only yellow shoes) and black (my only black open-toed beaded strappy sandal with ankle fastener shoes), and not pink. And I'm both hopeful and confident that, with the right attitude and a little self-discipline, my shoes will stay in their boxes in the closet when not in use.
I know, I know. I have issues. I am completely aware that I need some sort of shoe-addicts 12-step program. But even if it exists, it begs the question....
Which shoes would I wear to the meetings?
5.23.2005
the Big Dig strikes again.
First, let me say sorry. I'm sorry it's been almost 2 weeks since I blogged. That's simply...unforgivable. But I was busy being a psychotically bitchy stress ball, which I also see as "gathering material" for my blog.
Second, forgive this actual account for being very Boston-centric (and long). But, well, it was. Also note that names of characters have been changed to protect their identity, except "Dad," who is actually my Dad.
Without further ado, I present my next-day retelling of the airport trip...
the Big Dig strikes again.
“So,” you are asking yourself. “I wonder how Stephanie’s trip back to Boston was.”
Take a seat. I’ll tell you.
My flight from New York couldn’t have been better. We took off on time, landed 30 minutes early, my suitcase beat me to the baggage claim, and Andrea, my ride, pulled up to the curb moments later. We had a lovely dinner with Kelly, my cousin Erin met up with us to drive me back to her house (where I am staying), and everything was right on track.
11:20pm: Jessica calls from the airport. She has two voicemails from our father who was due to pick her up. One says he’s on his way but running late, the other says he’s lost. She decides to head to baggage claim, and Erin and I decide to continue home (an hour away).
11:40: Jessica calls again. “Stephanie, HELP ME. Dad called, and he’s TOTALLY lost somewhere in Boston and I can’t help him. PLEASE call him.”
11:43: I call my father. He has no idea of his whereabouts and says he got this way because the Big Dig has shut down the Mass Pike, his only known route to the airport. He can’t tell me even whether he’s in Boston or Cambridge, but he suspects Cambridge (even though that seems geographically impossible from the Pike), and will call me back when he figures it out. Erin and I continue home.
11:50: I call Jessica back with the advice to grab a seat somewhere, Dad’s lost, he’s not asking anyone for directions, and he’ll figure it out eventually.
12:07: Jessica calls back, concerned Dad still doesn’t know where he is, and asks me to try to help again. Despite being only 20 minutes from our destination, I tell Jessica that if Dad isn’t there by 12:30, Erin and I will turn around and go pick them up.
12:30: Dad is so very lost, but at least knows he is in Cambridge. He gets back on Route 2, somehow back on to the Mass Pike, and back in the same shut-down detour as last time. He’s been dumped back above ground somewhere near the Prudential building, and not having any knowledge of the City, he’s completely screwed up. I coach him in whatever way I can, back down Route 9, down Brookline Ave, over to Comm Ave and Storrow Drive. I say, “I KNOW you can to the airport from Storrow Drive.”
12:50: Erin, on her phone with a increasingly cranky Jessica, tells her Dad’s on his way, he’s on Storrow Drive, he’ll take 93 and be there in no time.
1:15: Dad calls. Storrow Drive is closed and dumping him on some other shitty detour. Now that I’m at Erin’s house, and in front of a computer, I look at a map while he tells me where he’s going. Until I usddently hear… “Shit. I’m about to run out of gas. SHIT. I am. GOD DAMMIT. I have to go.” Click. Silence. I look at Erin, she looks at me. “We have a gas can,” she says. I nod. We both put our shoes back on.
1:30: We are back in the car, this time my aunt’s SUV (with room for 5!), my dying cell phone with no car charger, my father stuck on an overpass “somewhere near Chinatown,” Jessica pissed off at the airport (but at least not alone – Charles was with her), and Erin and I are traversing back the way we just came with no idea how we’re going to find my father. The best map of Boston my aunt has is from 1986, so worn that many letters just don’t show up.
2:30: My father calls to see where we are. He has walked to a gas station and may be able to get a can and some gas. I tell him we are almost there, and not to bother. (Besides, we drove all this way, dammit! Why didn't he check an hour ago?) He says he asked some construction guys and he’s on Albany and Kneeland Streets. I have never heard of either, and the map only shows one. We get on Storrow Drive, get pushed off, try to repeat my father’s errors and find ourselves on Albany with no sign of my father.
2:45: By dumb luck (and several illegal u-turns), we end up on Kneeland, and follow it to Albany, and find my father standing on the corner. We follow him to his car, park behind it, fill him up, and follow him to the gas station which, for the record, is less than a half mile away and DOWN A HILL. If he’d made it 50 more feet, he could have coasted on fumes.
2:50: Super Cranky Jessica wants to know what the HELL is going on. I tell her we’ve found dad, we’re at the gas station, and are trying to figure out how to proceed with the airport trip. Do we send Dad home and have me and Erin go? Do we send Dad, and Erin and I go home? We decide we should ALL go to the airport, in two cars, to make sure EVERYONE gets there, and EVERYONE gets home. I tell Jess we’re 10 minutes away. She says "I'm gonna hold you to that." I say "Oh yeah? How?"
2:52: We easily find “93 North” except…it’s closed. The Big Dig Unmarked Detour leads us over various city streets, which I guide Erin through using what little rusty knowledge I have left of the city. I say repeatedly “the Callahan tunnel. We need the tunnel. Where’s the TUNNEL??” We never see it. It’s not there. So we fall back to our final resort, Plan G: Take Route 1 North.
3:10: Atop the Tobin Bridge (in the middle lane of course, because Erin and I are both terrified of bridges), I shout “I SEE THE AIRPORT!!!!” But…Route 1, which I have never taken to the airport before, decides to take us on the scenic route.
3:30: Jessica calls. “You said TEN MINUTES.” I assure her we are trying our best, and I now see first-hand why Dad got so lost in the first place. I tell her we really are close now, and as we are talking, we finally, FINALLY, four hours after her flight landed, enter the airport.
3:35: We enter the brand new Terminal A to find Jessica and Charles shivering in an enclosed bus stop shelter. We park our two cars, and laugh, and hug, and put them into my father’s car. I tell my father “To get home, take 93 North, 95 South, to Route 2.”
3:40: We pay the toll and enter the reduced-lane, leaky-ass, multi-million dollar tunnel. Signs for 93 North indicate we can’t fucking go that way, which is actually ok, because Storrow Drive is open and MUCH faster. I call my father and inform him of the change in plans.
3:45: We are successfully driving on Storrow Drive with no signs of problems, and two full tanks of gas. Three, actually. The gas can in the back seat is so pungent that we are driving with the windows open despite the 40° weather, and trying to ignore the sting in our respiratory passages.
4:35: As the sky lightens with the prospect of sunrise, Erin and I pull into the garage. We lug ourselves into the house, and drop almost instantly into comas. My quick 40 minute plane ride had become an 8-hour journey from hell.
Second, forgive this actual account for being very Boston-centric (and long). But, well, it was. Also note that names of characters have been changed to protect their identity, except "Dad," who is actually my Dad.
Without further ado, I present my next-day retelling of the airport trip...
the Big Dig strikes again.
“So,” you are asking yourself. “I wonder how Stephanie’s trip back to Boston was.”
Take a seat. I’ll tell you.
My flight from New York couldn’t have been better. We took off on time, landed 30 minutes early, my suitcase beat me to the baggage claim, and Andrea, my ride, pulled up to the curb moments later. We had a lovely dinner with Kelly, my cousin Erin met up with us to drive me back to her house (where I am staying), and everything was right on track.
11:20pm: Jessica calls from the airport. She has two voicemails from our father who was due to pick her up. One says he’s on his way but running late, the other says he’s lost. She decides to head to baggage claim, and Erin and I decide to continue home (an hour away).
11:40: Jessica calls again. “Stephanie, HELP ME. Dad called, and he’s TOTALLY lost somewhere in Boston and I can’t help him. PLEASE call him.”
11:43: I call my father. He has no idea of his whereabouts and says he got this way because the Big Dig has shut down the Mass Pike, his only known route to the airport. He can’t tell me even whether he’s in Boston or Cambridge, but he suspects Cambridge (even though that seems geographically impossible from the Pike), and will call me back when he figures it out. Erin and I continue home.
11:50: I call Jessica back with the advice to grab a seat somewhere, Dad’s lost, he’s not asking anyone for directions, and he’ll figure it out eventually.
12:07: Jessica calls back, concerned Dad still doesn’t know where he is, and asks me to try to help again. Despite being only 20 minutes from our destination, I tell Jessica that if Dad isn’t there by 12:30, Erin and I will turn around and go pick them up.
12:30: Dad is so very lost, but at least knows he is in Cambridge. He gets back on Route 2, somehow back on to the Mass Pike, and back in the same shut-down detour as last time. He’s been dumped back above ground somewhere near the Prudential building, and not having any knowledge of the City, he’s completely screwed up. I coach him in whatever way I can, back down Route 9, down Brookline Ave, over to Comm Ave and Storrow Drive. I say, “I KNOW you can to the airport from Storrow Drive.”
12:50: Erin, on her phone with a increasingly cranky Jessica, tells her Dad’s on his way, he’s on Storrow Drive, he’ll take 93 and be there in no time.
1:15: Dad calls. Storrow Drive is closed and dumping him on some other shitty detour. Now that I’m at Erin’s house, and in front of a computer, I look at a map while he tells me where he’s going. Until I usddently hear… “Shit. I’m about to run out of gas. SHIT. I am. GOD DAMMIT. I have to go.” Click. Silence. I look at Erin, she looks at me. “We have a gas can,” she says. I nod. We both put our shoes back on.
1:30: We are back in the car, this time my aunt’s SUV (with room for 5!), my dying cell phone with no car charger, my father stuck on an overpass “somewhere near Chinatown,” Jessica pissed off at the airport (but at least not alone – Charles was with her), and Erin and I are traversing back the way we just came with no idea how we’re going to find my father. The best map of Boston my aunt has is from 1986, so worn that many letters just don’t show up.
2:30: My father calls to see where we are. He has walked to a gas station and may be able to get a can and some gas. I tell him we are almost there, and not to bother. (Besides, we drove all this way, dammit! Why didn't he check an hour ago?) He says he asked some construction guys and he’s on Albany and Kneeland Streets. I have never heard of either, and the map only shows one. We get on Storrow Drive, get pushed off, try to repeat my father’s errors and find ourselves on Albany with no sign of my father.
2:45: By dumb luck (and several illegal u-turns), we end up on Kneeland, and follow it to Albany, and find my father standing on the corner. We follow him to his car, park behind it, fill him up, and follow him to the gas station which, for the record, is less than a half mile away and DOWN A HILL. If he’d made it 50 more feet, he could have coasted on fumes.
2:50: Super Cranky Jessica wants to know what the HELL is going on. I tell her we’ve found dad, we’re at the gas station, and are trying to figure out how to proceed with the airport trip. Do we send Dad home and have me and Erin go? Do we send Dad, and Erin and I go home? We decide we should ALL go to the airport, in two cars, to make sure EVERYONE gets there, and EVERYONE gets home. I tell Jess we’re 10 minutes away. She says "I'm gonna hold you to that." I say "Oh yeah? How?"
2:52: We easily find “93 North” except…it’s closed. The Big Dig Unmarked Detour leads us over various city streets, which I guide Erin through using what little rusty knowledge I have left of the city. I say repeatedly “the Callahan tunnel. We need the tunnel. Where’s the TUNNEL??” We never see it. It’s not there. So we fall back to our final resort, Plan G: Take Route 1 North.
3:10: Atop the Tobin Bridge (in the middle lane of course, because Erin and I are both terrified of bridges), I shout “I SEE THE AIRPORT!!!!” But…Route 1, which I have never taken to the airport before, decides to take us on the scenic route.
3:30: Jessica calls. “You said TEN MINUTES.” I assure her we are trying our best, and I now see first-hand why Dad got so lost in the first place. I tell her we really are close now, and as we are talking, we finally, FINALLY, four hours after her flight landed, enter the airport.
3:35: We enter the brand new Terminal A to find Jessica and Charles shivering in an enclosed bus stop shelter. We park our two cars, and laugh, and hug, and put them into my father’s car. I tell my father “To get home, take 93 North, 95 South, to Route 2.”
3:40: We pay the toll and enter the reduced-lane, leaky-ass, multi-million dollar tunnel. Signs for 93 North indicate we can’t fucking go that way, which is actually ok, because Storrow Drive is open and MUCH faster. I call my father and inform him of the change in plans.
3:45: We are successfully driving on Storrow Drive with no signs of problems, and two full tanks of gas. Three, actually. The gas can in the back seat is so pungent that we are driving with the windows open despite the 40° weather, and trying to ignore the sting in our respiratory passages.
4:35: As the sky lightens with the prospect of sunrise, Erin and I pull into the garage. We lug ourselves into the house, and drop almost instantly into comas. My quick 40 minute plane ride had become an 8-hour journey from hell.
5.10.2005
shunned.
The other day, in spite of myself...or...to spite myself, I decided to check out that website that promises to match you up to your soul mate based on 29 characteristics of total nonsense and bullshit. It was free, so I figured, why do my final semester project when I can seek a soul mate?
I started filling out the questionnaires, clicking in these little circles indicating on a 7-point scale my degree of happiness, sanity, fondness of animals, like of cupcakes, and eye color. It went on and on and on. After 20 minutes the little ticker thing said I was 32% complete. After 40 minutes I rolled my eyes and thought "is this worth it?" and a little overly smiling promotional face on the screen said "It IS worth it! 40 minutes now means a lifetime of happiness in the future."
So I keep going, thinking the whole time that all this is going to prove is how picky and unrealistic I am. My personality report was going to come back saying "Honey, get a life, you fucking snob. The man you seek does not exist, and even if he did, he wouldn't be with YOU."
But yet I pushed onward, to 64%, 78%, 83%....until finally...I closed in on the elusive final screen, where I clicked for my personality profile and a list of my matches. I was a little irritated that I couldn't select the age range, or height, or grammatical capability of my soul mate and future spouse, but I figured it would make it more fun to narrow down my suitors.
I clicked for my matches. While the little progress bar churned, my personality profile segmented across the screen with key words, such as "loser" and "snob" and "living in a fantasy." I thought I even saw "spinster" appear, but tech support strongly denies this.
Finally...after a series of clicking noises...my match list was ready. CLICK HERE! It said. YOUR SOUL MATE AWAITS! I clicked and....
"You have zero matches."
"Not one?" I pleaded. "Not a single one? In all of New York? This MUST be a mistake." I clicked to refresh the matches, assuming this was a one-time glitch and I was mere moments away from happiness.
"You still have zero matches, loser."
Broken, crushed, and destroyed, I stared numbly at the electronic betrayal in front of me. Even withOUT choosing my soul mate's age and height and grammatical capability, even withOUT overly limiting myself, I had ZERO FUCKING MATCHES!
So I went to www.HotSpermDonorsForLoserWomen.com. I ordered the genetic material of LL Cool J. Results pending. (You didn't really click that, did you?)
Okay, but seriously...28-33 years, taller than me (5' 8"), preferably even in heels (5' 11"), and basic knowledge of punctuation required.
I started filling out the questionnaires, clicking in these little circles indicating on a 7-point scale my degree of happiness, sanity, fondness of animals, like of cupcakes, and eye color. It went on and on and on. After 20 minutes the little ticker thing said I was 32% complete. After 40 minutes I rolled my eyes and thought "is this worth it?" and a little overly smiling promotional face on the screen said "It IS worth it! 40 minutes now means a lifetime of happiness in the future."
So I keep going, thinking the whole time that all this is going to prove is how picky and unrealistic I am. My personality report was going to come back saying "Honey, get a life, you fucking snob. The man you seek does not exist, and even if he did, he wouldn't be with YOU."
But yet I pushed onward, to 64%, 78%, 83%....until finally...I closed in on the elusive final screen, where I clicked for my personality profile and a list of my matches. I was a little irritated that I couldn't select the age range, or height, or grammatical capability of my soul mate and future spouse, but I figured it would make it more fun to narrow down my suitors.
I clicked for my matches. While the little progress bar churned, my personality profile segmented across the screen with key words, such as "loser" and "snob" and "living in a fantasy." I thought I even saw "spinster" appear, but tech support strongly denies this.
Finally...after a series of clicking noises...my match list was ready. CLICK HERE! It said. YOUR SOUL MATE AWAITS! I clicked and....
"You have zero matches."
"Not one?" I pleaded. "Not a single one? In all of New York? This MUST be a mistake." I clicked to refresh the matches, assuming this was a one-time glitch and I was mere moments away from happiness.
"You still have zero matches, loser."
Broken, crushed, and destroyed, I stared numbly at the electronic betrayal in front of me. Even withOUT choosing my soul mate's age and height and grammatical capability, even withOUT overly limiting myself, I had ZERO FUCKING MATCHES!
So I went to www.HotSpermDonorsForLoserWomen.com. I ordered the genetic material of LL Cool J. Results pending. (You didn't really click that, did you?)
Okay, but seriously...28-33 years, taller than me (5' 8"), preferably even in heels (5' 11"), and basic knowledge of punctuation required.
5.04.2005
the man of my dreams.
This morning I woke up (very, very late) and realized that I'd been having a very interesting dream.
I was in a house. My new home. It was old and charming but quite run down. I walked through it with various family members ranging from my deceased grandfather (whistling, of course) to a brother that I don't have. Upstairs, past the gorgeous dining room with the soggy floor, there was some sort of plank of wood that crossed over into another, newly built house. They were both mine, these houses, and I knew it and was very excited.
As my family crossed over into the new house, I turned around to the man behind me. Apparently, he was also mine. He seemed like my husband, but I'm not sure if we were married. He was a big guy. As in, strapping. I couldn't get my arms around him. He was a like a tree trunk. But he was so happy that I was happy, that he waited until the last person walked across the plank, then took the plank away, and threw me to the floor for a romp, which was great and hot and steamy until I stopped him, screaming "Oh my god! My brother! My brother!" who had somehow made it back into the room and was watching us.
Now, there are several reasons why this whole thing makes me scratch my head and ponder.
1) Who was this man, my husband? At first I thought he had the body of John Cena. Then when I thought more about his face, I realized he looked like Travis from "Son In Law." I was talking about the former on Sunday, and I mentioned the latter movie yesterday, but didn't mention Travis at all. I was just singing "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" and picturing Pauly Shore driving a big tractor.
2) Why the hell did I have a little brother, roughly age 9? I only have a sister, and she's 22. I'm guessing that this one has a little more to do with the very realistic fact that in about 3 weeks I'm about to inherit 4 stepbrothers. But none of them are that young. So all I can say is: Dad, please. No more.
3) Why were my non-existent family members walking a plank in the first place? Are we pirates? Did I have striped stockings and a patch on one eye? No. So...what the hell.
4) Why did I have two houses? Why do I vaguely recall that one of them was partially submerged in water? How did we get to the house when it was surrounded by water? Won't there be a lot of mold and mosquitos?
Dreams are weird, no doubt about it. Sometimes they scare me. But this time, I'm silently hoping that this Travis Cena creation really exists and I'll meet him soon. Especially if there's a throw-me-to-the-floor-and-take-me-now romp involved.
I was in a house. My new home. It was old and charming but quite run down. I walked through it with various family members ranging from my deceased grandfather (whistling, of course) to a brother that I don't have. Upstairs, past the gorgeous dining room with the soggy floor, there was some sort of plank of wood that crossed over into another, newly built house. They were both mine, these houses, and I knew it and was very excited.
As my family crossed over into the new house, I turned around to the man behind me. Apparently, he was also mine. He seemed like my husband, but I'm not sure if we were married. He was a big guy. As in, strapping. I couldn't get my arms around him. He was a like a tree trunk. But he was so happy that I was happy, that he waited until the last person walked across the plank, then took the plank away, and threw me to the floor for a romp, which was great and hot and steamy until I stopped him, screaming "Oh my god! My brother! My brother!" who had somehow made it back into the room and was watching us.
Now, there are several reasons why this whole thing makes me scratch my head and ponder.
1) Who was this man, my husband? At first I thought he had the body of John Cena. Then when I thought more about his face, I realized he looked like Travis from "Son In Law." I was talking about the former on Sunday, and I mentioned the latter movie yesterday, but didn't mention Travis at all. I was just singing "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" and picturing Pauly Shore driving a big tractor.
2) Why the hell did I have a little brother, roughly age 9? I only have a sister, and she's 22. I'm guessing that this one has a little more to do with the very realistic fact that in about 3 weeks I'm about to inherit 4 stepbrothers. But none of them are that young. So all I can say is: Dad, please. No more.
3) Why were my non-existent family members walking a plank in the first place? Are we pirates? Did I have striped stockings and a patch on one eye? No. So...what the hell.
4) Why did I have two houses? Why do I vaguely recall that one of them was partially submerged in water? How did we get to the house when it was surrounded by water? Won't there be a lot of mold and mosquitos?
Dreams are weird, no doubt about it. Sometimes they scare me. But this time, I'm silently hoping that this Travis Cena creation really exists and I'll meet him soon. Especially if there's a throw-me-to-the-floor-and-take-me-now romp involved.
5.03.2005
how many errors are in a "comedy"?
Maybe I'm just particularly cranky. Maybe it's the other PMS: Post Menstrual Syndrome (That's right fellas, we're hormonally evil ALL the time!). Or maybe people just really need to stop pissing me off. But regardless, I'm in a bad ass freaking mood today.
Let's go back, shall we, to yesterday afternoon. As my afternoon at work came to a close, I realized I had a LOT more work to do. I was sure it was only 2:00 or so, but suddenly it was 4:30, and I was screwed. No matter how fast I worked, I wasn't going fast enough. I don't like that, especially when paired with some moderate panic about being unprepared for school that was coming in less than 2 hours, and having to make sure I stopped first to get a sandwich so I wouldn't pass out from hunger when I met my personal trainer at 9:30pm AFTER work, AFTER class, and BEFORE collapsing from exhaustion.
So, I stress but I manage to find a stopping point in my work, run out the door to the ATM so I can buy a dinner slightly more elaborate than a big soft pretzel from a vendor on the street, which I then bolt up to the classroom and inhale as class begins, hoping the smell of my egg sandwich isn't permeating the nostrils of my undeserving classmates.
Class ends, and I bolt off to the subway to get to the gym by 9:30. I get there around 9:25, springtdownstairs and get changed, and bolt back up to the pre-arranged meeting area to wait for my trainer. And I waited...and waited....and waited...for 23 minutes, at which time I fended off tears of frustration and went to the elliptical trainer to move my legs very fast. The trainer never surfaced, and I decided if he did, I was most likely going to slap him and walk out the door anyway. So after I "ran" for about 20 minutes, I went to stretch, but instead started to cry for no apparent (or was it PMS) reason, and while I took shallow choppy breaths to suppress my giant sob, I ran back to the lockerroom and got all my stuff.
I walked home resembling some sort of sherpa or pack mule, trying to talk myself through some happy thoughts, but could only think about my dog having her malignant tumor removed in surgey the next morning (today) which truly worsened the situation. I went through the series of self-deprecating inner thoughts, such as "I'm too fat" and "my life is a mess" and "why am I so tired?" and "my underwear is really far up my ass." Finally I just found myself looking forward to a nice hot shower that I could cry in, then bed.
I got home and dropped all my bags at the door. I stepped out of my shoes and went straight into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I took my clothes off and waited the standard amount of time before sticking my hand back in the shower--except something was very, VERY wrong. The water was ICE COLD.
You need to understand--my apartment's remarkable contribution to my life so far has been cold-off-a-glacier water that runs in my bathroom. Not the kitchen--just the bathroom. So when I am thirsty for a refreshing glass of of water that will give me a brain freeze, I fill up from the bathroom sink. This is wonderful EXCEPT when I am trying to take a shower and there isn't even ONE molecule of warm water mixed in, as was the case as my depressed, sweaty, naked ass sat in the bathroom last night.
So naturally, I just cried. I cried as I turned off the shower and washed my face with a towel. I cried as I went into the livingroom and closed the window against the suddenly arctic air outside. I cried as I put on whatever clothes were on top of the pile on my bed, and cried when I laid down on top of the pile on top of my bed.
And that is where I woke up this morning, in exactly the same mood, and an hour late. Now I'm at work, lamenting my own existence, and while I am seemingly past the point of tears, I already feel very sorry for the first person to piss me off today. (The tall bitch with ugly shoes that I knocked down in the subway was almost the first, but I didn't actually exchange words so she doesn't count.)
Let's go back, shall we, to yesterday afternoon. As my afternoon at work came to a close, I realized I had a LOT more work to do. I was sure it was only 2:00 or so, but suddenly it was 4:30, and I was screwed. No matter how fast I worked, I wasn't going fast enough. I don't like that, especially when paired with some moderate panic about being unprepared for school that was coming in less than 2 hours, and having to make sure I stopped first to get a sandwich so I wouldn't pass out from hunger when I met my personal trainer at 9:30pm AFTER work, AFTER class, and BEFORE collapsing from exhaustion.
So, I stress but I manage to find a stopping point in my work, run out the door to the ATM so I can buy a dinner slightly more elaborate than a big soft pretzel from a vendor on the street, which I then bolt up to the classroom and inhale as class begins, hoping the smell of my egg sandwich isn't permeating the nostrils of my undeserving classmates.
Class ends, and I bolt off to the subway to get to the gym by 9:30. I get there around 9:25, springtdownstairs and get changed, and bolt back up to the pre-arranged meeting area to wait for my trainer. And I waited...and waited....and waited...for 23 minutes, at which time I fended off tears of frustration and went to the elliptical trainer to move my legs very fast. The trainer never surfaced, and I decided if he did, I was most likely going to slap him and walk out the door anyway. So after I "ran" for about 20 minutes, I went to stretch, but instead started to cry for no apparent (or was it PMS) reason, and while I took shallow choppy breaths to suppress my giant sob, I ran back to the lockerroom and got all my stuff.
I walked home resembling some sort of sherpa or pack mule, trying to talk myself through some happy thoughts, but could only think about my dog having her malignant tumor removed in surgey the next morning (today) which truly worsened the situation. I went through the series of self-deprecating inner thoughts, such as "I'm too fat" and "my life is a mess" and "why am I so tired?" and "my underwear is really far up my ass." Finally I just found myself looking forward to a nice hot shower that I could cry in, then bed.
I got home and dropped all my bags at the door. I stepped out of my shoes and went straight into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I took my clothes off and waited the standard amount of time before sticking my hand back in the shower--except something was very, VERY wrong. The water was ICE COLD.
You need to understand--my apartment's remarkable contribution to my life so far has been cold-off-a-glacier water that runs in my bathroom. Not the kitchen--just the bathroom. So when I am thirsty for a refreshing glass of of water that will give me a brain freeze, I fill up from the bathroom sink. This is wonderful EXCEPT when I am trying to take a shower and there isn't even ONE molecule of warm water mixed in, as was the case as my depressed, sweaty, naked ass sat in the bathroom last night.
So naturally, I just cried. I cried as I turned off the shower and washed my face with a towel. I cried as I went into the livingroom and closed the window against the suddenly arctic air outside. I cried as I put on whatever clothes were on top of the pile on my bed, and cried when I laid down on top of the pile on top of my bed.
And that is where I woke up this morning, in exactly the same mood, and an hour late. Now I'm at work, lamenting my own existence, and while I am seemingly past the point of tears, I already feel very sorry for the first person to piss me off today. (The tall bitch with ugly shoes that I knocked down in the subway was almost the first, but I didn't actually exchange words so she doesn't count.)
4.27.2005
from jose to juan: fine beverages of south america
Today is the second day in a row that I have needed--physically, emotionally needed--a cup of coffee to stay functional. To most of you, this is a normal, everyday realization. But for me, it's abnormal. I don't drink coffee.
Typically I save my emergency coffee rations for days after strong doses of tequila, when I drag my lifeless body slothlike into the office, and become nothing more than a useless and dormant pile of tissue that barely generates thought. On those days, coffee provides an essential kick in the pants to get me on a more passable, functioning level.
But other than that, I'm not a coffee girl. I never drank it in high school or college. I wake up with orange juice and a hot shower. I stay awake with Coca-cola. If I'm cold AND tired, I'll have hot tea. Coffee just doesn't click with me. In order for me to like the taste, I have to get it with a cow and 5-lb sack of sugar so I don't taste the bitterness.
Well, let me say that lately, I AM a coffee girl. Apparently, the nearly mortal combination of laboriously boring work and graduate school make coffee vital to my daily activity. It also causes me to speak rather breathlessly at a rapid pace for several minutes at a time. But it DOES make me alert, awake, and effective. I'm less slumped in my chair, and less glossed-over expressions grace my face.
I do, however, have three concerns:
1) The potential for addiction. I don't think I have an addictive personality (but I don't know how you judge these things, so maybe I do), but the effects are simply undeniable. I can see how day after day my need would increase, and I'd get antsy for a hit, rummaging through the trash for a Starbucks cup with a few drops in it. Or, worse, taking up what little space is available on my new york studio apartment postage-stamp-sized countertop by purchasing a coffee pot, with a timer, so I can wake up every day to the bubbly percolation and aromatic scent of a fresh pot. I won't let it go that far.
2) Coffee breath. To me, there is no worse personal odor offense than coffee breath. (This category excludes other odor offenses, like microwaving fish.) I have deep, elaborate, and insane theories on the kind of people who have coffee breath, and I refuse--REFUSE--to be one of them. These are people who, for one thing, often have chapped, pale lips, most likely from all the sipping, licking, and wiping of coffee in the mouth area. I can tell a coffee-breather from a mile away just based on the quality and color of their lips. Also, coffee-breathers tend to be close-talkers--or perhaps the converse. If you HAVE coffee breath, don't get CLOSE enough to me for me to smell it. GROSS. I cannot become one of these people.
3) Poop factor. I know that coffee makes people poop. My friend Jill, who will not be embarrassed by this because she thinks poop is very funny, and in fact is actually nicknamed by me as "Poop," insists that simply smelling coffee generates that deep-bowel rumble that sends her excitedly trotting off to the can before a drop of java ever touches her lips. I'm already not a big fan of at-office pooping, and I'm afraid drinking too much coffee will throw me off my mark and give me no other choice than to fly down the hallway in one of those urgent, desperate, hopeful dashes to the bowl where I pray that no one else is in or within proximity of the bathroom (a sentiment usually reserved for EDF attacks).
So there you have it. I am dumping out the rest of this sugary cup o' joe, grabbing a piece of gum, and will retain control over my intestines. I will not become addicted. I will not become addicted. I will not...
Typically I save my emergency coffee rations for days after strong doses of tequila, when I drag my lifeless body slothlike into the office, and become nothing more than a useless and dormant pile of tissue that barely generates thought. On those days, coffee provides an essential kick in the pants to get me on a more passable, functioning level.
But other than that, I'm not a coffee girl. I never drank it in high school or college. I wake up with orange juice and a hot shower. I stay awake with Coca-cola. If I'm cold AND tired, I'll have hot tea. Coffee just doesn't click with me. In order for me to like the taste, I have to get it with a cow and 5-lb sack of sugar so I don't taste the bitterness.
Well, let me say that lately, I AM a coffee girl. Apparently, the nearly mortal combination of laboriously boring work and graduate school make coffee vital to my daily activity. It also causes me to speak rather breathlessly at a rapid pace for several minutes at a time. But it DOES make me alert, awake, and effective. I'm less slumped in my chair, and less glossed-over expressions grace my face.
I do, however, have three concerns:
1) The potential for addiction. I don't think I have an addictive personality (but I don't know how you judge these things, so maybe I do), but the effects are simply undeniable. I can see how day after day my need would increase, and I'd get antsy for a hit, rummaging through the trash for a Starbucks cup with a few drops in it. Or, worse, taking up what little space is available on my new york studio apartment postage-stamp-sized countertop by purchasing a coffee pot, with a timer, so I can wake up every day to the bubbly percolation and aromatic scent of a fresh pot. I won't let it go that far.
2) Coffee breath. To me, there is no worse personal odor offense than coffee breath. (This category excludes other odor offenses, like microwaving fish.) I have deep, elaborate, and insane theories on the kind of people who have coffee breath, and I refuse--REFUSE--to be one of them. These are people who, for one thing, often have chapped, pale lips, most likely from all the sipping, licking, and wiping of coffee in the mouth area. I can tell a coffee-breather from a mile away just based on the quality and color of their lips. Also, coffee-breathers tend to be close-talkers--or perhaps the converse. If you HAVE coffee breath, don't get CLOSE enough to me for me to smell it. GROSS. I cannot become one of these people.
3) Poop factor. I know that coffee makes people poop. My friend Jill, who will not be embarrassed by this because she thinks poop is very funny, and in fact is actually nicknamed by me as "Poop," insists that simply smelling coffee generates that deep-bowel rumble that sends her excitedly trotting off to the can before a drop of java ever touches her lips. I'm already not a big fan of at-office pooping, and I'm afraid drinking too much coffee will throw me off my mark and give me no other choice than to fly down the hallway in one of those urgent, desperate, hopeful dashes to the bowl where I pray that no one else is in or within proximity of the bathroom (a sentiment usually reserved for EDF attacks).
So there you have it. I am dumping out the rest of this sugary cup o' joe, grabbing a piece of gum, and will retain control over my intestines. I will not become addicted. I will not become addicted. I will not...
4.22.2005
finally, a challenging assignment at work.
It's no big secret that I don't love my job. I mean really, who does? Well I particularly don't. It's boring as hell, and even though I'm capable of doing the work, it essentially puts me to sleep. So I'm always trying to stay awake by finding more interesting things to do, like read the news or my horoscope or get a root canal.
Well today someone gave me a puzzle from the newspaper. It's kinda like a crossword for digits. It's called "Su Doku," which is either Japanese, or wannabe Japanese. The New York Post published one of these puzzles, and got such an overwhelming response, that today they printed two of them: one easy, and one hard. All it took was the slightest tease. a subtle taunt, by my boss's boss. After a quick trip to the copy machine, I was off and running with my little Su Doku.
I did the easy puzzle to warm up. It took 5 minutes. Then I stretched and went after the harder one. I figured it would be a nice "break" for me while I finished my lunch. (See, how sad that actually thinking critically is a welcomed change of pace during my breaks.)
An hour later, I had made so many scribble and erasure marks that I'd lost track of everything. I brought it to boss-squared, and indicated my obsession. He said he'd given up, and I said "I'm not giving up until I finish this thing. I'll have nightmares about being attacked by a giant number 2 if I don't." Then I scrambled for a fresh sheet of paper to start clean, and went back to my desk.
Boss-squared couldn't resist the challenge, and he too lobbied for a fresh start. I used all my skill and logic to process the rows and columns of digits, eliminating figures and drafting new ones. I moved this time with swift ease and calm, and felt smart and happy like the day I outscored MathBoy by 4 points on the BC Calculus Final Exam in 1997 (clearly a moment never to be forgotten). And as I wound down filling in the last few boxes, my heart pounded in my chest. I'm....almost....done....and....
"GOT IT!" I yelled over the beige cubicle wall. Like a child who scribbled their name for the first time with a crayon on lined paper, I proudly bolted over to the Holder of the Answer for approval, even though I KNEW I'd done it right. Over her shoulder I compared numbers with her, row after row after row. When we reached the end, she smiled and said "Yup, you got it!"
I jumped, I danced, I smiled. I pleaded for a sticker and an A+, or at least a check+, on my silly Su Doku test. But in the end, I just got back my paper, and with it the gratification of knowing I'd done it right.
I then wondered if there was a job somewhere where I could do this for a living and get paid for it, instead of sitting here contemplating whether I should slowly gouge out my eyeballs with chopsticks, because even THAT is more interesting than what I get paid to do.
Anyhow, I finished the puzzle, and fully intend to take it home and hang it on my fridge to remind myself that I am--or was at one time--actually fairly intelligent and mathematical and useful to the greater world. Or maybe I should put it in my portfolio, next to my Final Exam from 1997, complete with the teacher's giant smiley face and "Great Job!"
Nah, definitely the fridge.
Well today someone gave me a puzzle from the newspaper. It's kinda like a crossword for digits. It's called "Su Doku," which is either Japanese, or wannabe Japanese. The New York Post published one of these puzzles, and got such an overwhelming response, that today they printed two of them: one easy, and one hard. All it took was the slightest tease. a subtle taunt, by my boss's boss. After a quick trip to the copy machine, I was off and running with my little Su Doku.
I did the easy puzzle to warm up. It took 5 minutes. Then I stretched and went after the harder one. I figured it would be a nice "break" for me while I finished my lunch. (See, how sad that actually thinking critically is a welcomed change of pace during my breaks.)
An hour later, I had made so many scribble and erasure marks that I'd lost track of everything. I brought it to boss-squared, and indicated my obsession. He said he'd given up, and I said "I'm not giving up until I finish this thing. I'll have nightmares about being attacked by a giant number 2 if I don't." Then I scrambled for a fresh sheet of paper to start clean, and went back to my desk.
Boss-squared couldn't resist the challenge, and he too lobbied for a fresh start. I used all my skill and logic to process the rows and columns of digits, eliminating figures and drafting new ones. I moved this time with swift ease and calm, and felt smart and happy like the day I outscored MathBoy by 4 points on the BC Calculus Final Exam in 1997 (clearly a moment never to be forgotten). And as I wound down filling in the last few boxes, my heart pounded in my chest. I'm....almost....done....and....
"GOT IT!" I yelled over the beige cubicle wall. Like a child who scribbled their name for the first time with a crayon on lined paper, I proudly bolted over to the Holder of the Answer for approval, even though I KNEW I'd done it right. Over her shoulder I compared numbers with her, row after row after row. When we reached the end, she smiled and said "Yup, you got it!"
I jumped, I danced, I smiled. I pleaded for a sticker and an A+, or at least a check+, on my silly Su Doku test. But in the end, I just got back my paper, and with it the gratification of knowing I'd done it right.
I then wondered if there was a job somewhere where I could do this for a living and get paid for it, instead of sitting here contemplating whether I should slowly gouge out my eyeballs with chopsticks, because even THAT is more interesting than what I get paid to do.
Anyhow, I finished the puzzle, and fully intend to take it home and hang it on my fridge to remind myself that I am--or was at one time--actually fairly intelligent and mathematical and useful to the greater world. Or maybe I should put it in my portfolio, next to my Final Exam from 1997, complete with the teacher's giant smiley face and "Great Job!"
Nah, definitely the fridge.
4.20.2005
office ass politics
So, I'm sitting at work and this new guy, who we'll call Bob, walks by my desk on the way to his own desk. As he passes, I notice that Bob has a very bright piece of pink thread stuck to his ass. Because he is wearing dark brown pants, the pink thread really stands out.
Several minutes later, Bob walks by again, and the bright pink thread is still there. I feel a little bad for Bob, because I know that nobody is going to tell him that thread is there--including me. Why won't I tell him? Well, for one thing, he's fairly new and I don't know him so well. And for another, it would probably be quite embarrassing for him. Plus, there's the fact that in telling him, I am acknowledging that in some manner I have been looking at his ass, even though the reality is that the contrast of bright pink on brown has everything to do with it.
But when I thought about other people having bright pink ass thread, and whether or not I'd tell them and/or assist them in getting the thread off, my answers surprised me. For example:
The point is, it's been almost 2 hours, and Bob is still walking around with bright pink thread on his ass. This is a good opportunity to reflect, and think about whose ass you'd want to save from a pink thread, and who would save yours. Also, you should consider lint rollers, because the ass you save could be your own.
Several minutes later, Bob walks by again, and the bright pink thread is still there. I feel a little bad for Bob, because I know that nobody is going to tell him that thread is there--including me. Why won't I tell him? Well, for one thing, he's fairly new and I don't know him so well. And for another, it would probably be quite embarrassing for him. Plus, there's the fact that in telling him, I am acknowledging that in some manner I have been looking at his ass, even though the reality is that the contrast of bright pink on brown has everything to do with it.
But when I thought about other people having bright pink ass thread, and whether or not I'd tell them and/or assist them in getting the thread off, my answers surprised me. For example:
- Female co-workers with whom I've consumed many margaritas: yes I'd tell, yes I'd assist.
- Male co-workers with whom I've consumed many margaritas: yes I'd tell, maybe I'd assist (depending on attractiveness of said ass).
- Co-workers with whom I have friendly office conversation but no out-of-office contact: no and no.
- My boss: Definitely no. (Due to laughability/humiliation factor)
The point is, it's been almost 2 hours, and Bob is still walking around with bright pink thread on his ass. This is a good opportunity to reflect, and think about whose ass you'd want to save from a pink thread, and who would save yours. Also, you should consider lint rollers, because the ass you save could be your own.
4.14.2005
a drunk guy named evan.
Last night after a particularly heinous Financial Analysis class which required me to give and listen to several 40-minute presentations on returns on investment and P/E ratios (SNOOZE!), my friend and I decided to get a drink.
As we strolled down 2nd ave at 9:30 on a wednesday, surveying our options for booze, we encountered a drunk guy smoking out on the street whose opening line to us, now forgotten, prompted a series of shouts to our back to the tune of "girls, you're dirty! you're nasty! nasty! nasty girls!" The Janet Jackson tribute was completely unwarranted, of course, but at least he didn't feel the need to show us his penis, like many other drunks would.
As his cheers faded behind us, we turned into this one bar and grabbed a seat. It was uncrowded, despite the yankees/sox game on all tvs. We sat at the end of the bar, pulled our lagging asses onto stools, and ordered drinks.
"Nasty girls!!"
Oh no.
In came the staggering, tobacco-stenched, bald white guy from the street. He beelined right for me, came about 8 inches from my face, and said "Hhhhi. I'm Evan." I backed away slightly from the last breath of smoke he just exhaled into my face, and smiled. "Hi Evan."
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Stephanie."
"And you?" he said to my friend. She answered him.
"What's my name?" I asked Evan. He grinned at me.
"I don't remember. I'm kinda really drunk right now."
Tina, the bartendress, said "Evan, leave her alone," and then to me said "He's a close talker, but harmless."
"I am NOT a close talker!" Evan screamed. Then he looked at me. "Am I a close talker? I'm not a closer talker. THIS--" he moved 5 inches closer "--is a close talker. But I am HERE--" he backed up again "--and that's NOT a close talker. Right?"
"Actually," I told him, pushing him back further, "I think there's like a...12 inch radius and anything INSIDE it is a close talker. So...yes. You are."
"Am I? AM I?" Evan panicked. "Aww. I meant no offense ladies. No harm here. I didn't know I was a close talker. I'm sorta wasted." Evan backed onto his stool unsteadily. "Nasty girls!"
Evan then proceed to ask everyone in the bar--everyone except us--to go to a party with him in a few minutes, and told them all they sucked when they said no. I wondered how we'd get out without the invitation.
We turned back to our drinks, then our long-awaited burgers with tasty bar fries, and feasted on our 10:45pm dinner. For several minutes, we didn't speak, we just devoured our food. The baseball game ended, the music was on, and Evan released his inner DJ by repeatedly reaching over the bar to change the song.
"Evan, knock it off!" Tina warned from the other end of the bar. Evan didn't like the next song either, so he reached back over, essentially lying on the bar on his belly, feet flailing behind him, and changed it again.
"Evan, I'm warning you!" But he was undaunted, and reached again, this time with far more effort, and landed on the bar with a moan.
"I just crushed my cock," he said, mostly to himself. He stood up and winced, slumping back onto his stool like a little kid. "I hurt my cock." I turned away and laughed hysterically, trying not to choke on bar fries or spew ketchup out my nose. Evan was quiet after that.
Upon completion of our meal, and payment of the bill, and seeing Evan distracted by a bar buddy, my friend and I picked up our bags and bolted. But Evan noticed...
"Nasty girls! Wait! How was that burger??"
"Delicious!" I shouted as I walked away.
"Gonna burp now? Come on, let's hear a BIG BURP! Burp nasty girl!"
And then, despite my desire to blast a floor-shaking, foghorn-style, make-yo-daddy-proud type belch in his face--which I am VERY capable of doing on command--I simply adjusted my skirt and my little blue shoes and walked out the door.
And that is the story of a drunk guy named Evan.
As we strolled down 2nd ave at 9:30 on a wednesday, surveying our options for booze, we encountered a drunk guy smoking out on the street whose opening line to us, now forgotten, prompted a series of shouts to our back to the tune of "girls, you're dirty! you're nasty! nasty! nasty girls!" The Janet Jackson tribute was completely unwarranted, of course, but at least he didn't feel the need to show us his penis, like many other drunks would.
As his cheers faded behind us, we turned into this one bar and grabbed a seat. It was uncrowded, despite the yankees/sox game on all tvs. We sat at the end of the bar, pulled our lagging asses onto stools, and ordered drinks.
"Nasty girls!!"
Oh no.
In came the staggering, tobacco-stenched, bald white guy from the street. He beelined right for me, came about 8 inches from my face, and said "Hhhhi. I'm Evan." I backed away slightly from the last breath of smoke he just exhaled into my face, and smiled. "Hi Evan."
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Stephanie."
"And you?" he said to my friend. She answered him.
"What's my name?" I asked Evan. He grinned at me.
"I don't remember. I'm kinda really drunk right now."
Tina, the bartendress, said "Evan, leave her alone," and then to me said "He's a close talker, but harmless."
"I am NOT a close talker!" Evan screamed. Then he looked at me. "Am I a close talker? I'm not a closer talker. THIS--" he moved 5 inches closer "--is a close talker. But I am HERE--" he backed up again "--and that's NOT a close talker. Right?"
"Actually," I told him, pushing him back further, "I think there's like a...12 inch radius and anything INSIDE it is a close talker. So...yes. You are."
"Am I? AM I?" Evan panicked. "Aww. I meant no offense ladies. No harm here. I didn't know I was a close talker. I'm sorta wasted." Evan backed onto his stool unsteadily. "Nasty girls!"
Evan then proceed to ask everyone in the bar--everyone except us--to go to a party with him in a few minutes, and told them all they sucked when they said no. I wondered how we'd get out without the invitation.
We turned back to our drinks, then our long-awaited burgers with tasty bar fries, and feasted on our 10:45pm dinner. For several minutes, we didn't speak, we just devoured our food. The baseball game ended, the music was on, and Evan released his inner DJ by repeatedly reaching over the bar to change the song.
"Evan, knock it off!" Tina warned from the other end of the bar. Evan didn't like the next song either, so he reached back over, essentially lying on the bar on his belly, feet flailing behind him, and changed it again.
"Evan, I'm warning you!" But he was undaunted, and reached again, this time with far more effort, and landed on the bar with a moan.
"I just crushed my cock," he said, mostly to himself. He stood up and winced, slumping back onto his stool like a little kid. "I hurt my cock." I turned away and laughed hysterically, trying not to choke on bar fries or spew ketchup out my nose. Evan was quiet after that.
Upon completion of our meal, and payment of the bill, and seeing Evan distracted by a bar buddy, my friend and I picked up our bags and bolted. But Evan noticed...
"Nasty girls! Wait! How was that burger??"
"Delicious!" I shouted as I walked away.
"Gonna burp now? Come on, let's hear a BIG BURP! Burp nasty girl!"
And then, despite my desire to blast a floor-shaking, foghorn-style, make-yo-daddy-proud type belch in his face--which I am VERY capable of doing on command--I simply adjusted my skirt and my little blue shoes and walked out the door.
And that is the story of a drunk guy named Evan.
4.06.2005
for the love of god, nobody move.
Let's just get right to it.
On the subway this morning, I was thrilled to have the good fortune to get a seat. I forced myself, new yorker style, between two people who were enjoying their personal space but inhibiting my chance to park it. We made one stop, picking up a ton of people, then another. We were quite a full train. But at the second stop, everything went wrong.
Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." (pause) Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding! (pause) Ding!
Generally, you can expect 2-3 of these computerized warnings before the doors lock shut and the train begins to move. On less fortunate days, when some idiot is holding a door open, you may get 4 or 5 before the conductor, like yesterday, screams over the intercom "Sir! I can see you holding the door. Let GO of the door! And you wonder why you're late to your destination? Let GO of the DOOR sir!"
But today...we had many--way too many--of the Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." People looked up from their books and newspapers, over their shoulders to see what was going on. Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding! We looked at each other, confirming our fears in each others eyes. Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding!
Then silence...
We waited for the inevitable announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, we need to dispatch this train. This is the final stop. Please exit the train, there is another train outside the station waiting to pick you up." The community groan spread like a wave. People jumped up and made for the doors, but I thought I'd outsmart them all and get off last so I'd be in the best position to get on the next train first. Brilliant right?
Wrong. The platform was actually not big enough to hold ALL the passengers from the train, plus the people who had already been waiting there. There were about 15 people left on my car (5 at each door) when we all realized we were screwed. "GET OFF THE TRAIN!" the conductor yelled, failing to see our predicament. We looked at each other in panic, then at the sympathetic but territorial people already jammed on the platform. I tenderly stepped out, getting one foot on the utmost edge of the platform, but still couldn't turn around nor plant my second foot. People started yelling "Step back people! Let them off!" and the conductor continued to scream at us over the intercom.
With a little maneuvering, we all managed to get off the train, but I was NOT feeling good about it. The train doors closed, and it sat idle while the staff made a pass through to ensure all passengers had exited. I looked down, saw my shoulder bag touching the train, and realized how scary this was about to get. I couldn't see my feet because of my bag, but I knew I was much to close to the edge to be safe.
The train pulled away slowly, but even so my sense of balance was off from the blur of metal moving 5 inches from my face. I looked at the guy next to me, and said "Yah, this feels safe." He said "Nobody push." That was all I needed to hear to realize my time might be best spent not realizing that I'm about to die, but rather rehearsing what to do when I fell into the tracks. I decided that, assuming my ankles aren't broken from jumping 5 feet down in heels, and that I don't crack my head open, and don't land on the electric third rail, I would scramble to my feet and NOT try to climb back out. Instead, I would hop over the electric third rail while people screamed "HERE COMES THE TRAIN!" and victoriously wedge myself in the narrow "safe zone" between the two trains, let the train leave, then clamour out to where my concerned fellow passengers (all big strong hot men) would hoist me up to safety then fight for my hand in marriage.
My heart was pounding, my legs trembling. I was teetering on the edge, literally, afraid to shift weight to my other foot, or adjust my bag. I couldn't even tell if the train was coming, but I did my best to hold my bag as close to me as possible. I saw the light of the train on the tracks, and held my breath.
It FLEW into the over-crowded station, causing me to all but shit my pants. (Just for the record, I don't like fast-moving trains up-close to begin with. Talk about confronting your fears.) Car after car after car sped past, and every second I thought a) WHY is this driver going SO FAST when people are already dangling off the edge? and b) soon the train would snag my bag and send me flying down the platform, knocking other people into its path. But it started slowing...and slowing...and finally stopped, leaving a door right in front of my weak knees.
I got on, which was more than I can say for a lot of people. But there was no where to sit and I could barely hold myself up. My friend from the platform smiled at me in that "phew. we survived!" sort of way. I smiled back, and grabbed onto the handrail.
But is that the end? No. It gets better. Consider this your bonus chapter.
At the next station, a ton of people shoved on. I had comfortable but minimal space on both sides. Then suddenly the middle-aged man next to me was in full, unnecessary, arm-to-arm contact. I looked over, perplexed, to see he had PLENTY of room on the other side of him, so why was he crammed up against me? When I looked in the window reflection and saw the familiar but disgusting bulge of his erection, I knew why. Now, on top of all this, I'm being molested on the subway. AGAIN.
Granted, he was a passive molester, unlike my active molester buddy from last summer. But still, I felt bad for the women seated in front of him, who were so lucky to be asleep so they wouldn't get poked in the eye.
On the subway this morning, I was thrilled to have the good fortune to get a seat. I forced myself, new yorker style, between two people who were enjoying their personal space but inhibiting my chance to park it. We made one stop, picking up a ton of people, then another. We were quite a full train. But at the second stop, everything went wrong.
Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." (pause) Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding! (pause) Ding!
Generally, you can expect 2-3 of these computerized warnings before the doors lock shut and the train begins to move. On less fortunate days, when some idiot is holding a door open, you may get 4 or 5 before the conductor, like yesterday, screams over the intercom "Sir! I can see you holding the door. Let GO of the door! And you wonder why you're late to your destination? Let GO of the DOOR sir!"
But today...we had many--way too many--of the Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." People looked up from their books and newspapers, over their shoulders to see what was going on. Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding! We looked at each other, confirming our fears in each others eyes. Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding!
Then silence...
We waited for the inevitable announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, we need to dispatch this train. This is the final stop. Please exit the train, there is another train outside the station waiting to pick you up." The community groan spread like a wave. People jumped up and made for the doors, but I thought I'd outsmart them all and get off last so I'd be in the best position to get on the next train first. Brilliant right?
Wrong. The platform was actually not big enough to hold ALL the passengers from the train, plus the people who had already been waiting there. There were about 15 people left on my car (5 at each door) when we all realized we were screwed. "GET OFF THE TRAIN!" the conductor yelled, failing to see our predicament. We looked at each other in panic, then at the sympathetic but territorial people already jammed on the platform. I tenderly stepped out, getting one foot on the utmost edge of the platform, but still couldn't turn around nor plant my second foot. People started yelling "Step back people! Let them off!" and the conductor continued to scream at us over the intercom.
With a little maneuvering, we all managed to get off the train, but I was NOT feeling good about it. The train doors closed, and it sat idle while the staff made a pass through to ensure all passengers had exited. I looked down, saw my shoulder bag touching the train, and realized how scary this was about to get. I couldn't see my feet because of my bag, but I knew I was much to close to the edge to be safe.
The train pulled away slowly, but even so my sense of balance was off from the blur of metal moving 5 inches from my face. I looked at the guy next to me, and said "Yah, this feels safe." He said "Nobody push." That was all I needed to hear to realize my time might be best spent not realizing that I'm about to die, but rather rehearsing what to do when I fell into the tracks. I decided that, assuming my ankles aren't broken from jumping 5 feet down in heels, and that I don't crack my head open, and don't land on the electric third rail, I would scramble to my feet and NOT try to climb back out. Instead, I would hop over the electric third rail while people screamed "HERE COMES THE TRAIN!" and victoriously wedge myself in the narrow "safe zone" between the two trains, let the train leave, then clamour out to where my concerned fellow passengers (all big strong hot men) would hoist me up to safety then fight for my hand in marriage.
My heart was pounding, my legs trembling. I was teetering on the edge, literally, afraid to shift weight to my other foot, or adjust my bag. I couldn't even tell if the train was coming, but I did my best to hold my bag as close to me as possible. I saw the light of the train on the tracks, and held my breath.
It FLEW into the over-crowded station, causing me to all but shit my pants. (Just for the record, I don't like fast-moving trains up-close to begin with. Talk about confronting your fears.) Car after car after car sped past, and every second I thought a) WHY is this driver going SO FAST when people are already dangling off the edge? and b) soon the train would snag my bag and send me flying down the platform, knocking other people into its path. But it started slowing...and slowing...and finally stopped, leaving a door right in front of my weak knees.
I got on, which was more than I can say for a lot of people. But there was no where to sit and I could barely hold myself up. My friend from the platform smiled at me in that "phew. we survived!" sort of way. I smiled back, and grabbed onto the handrail.
But is that the end? No. It gets better. Consider this your bonus chapter.
At the next station, a ton of people shoved on. I had comfortable but minimal space on both sides. Then suddenly the middle-aged man next to me was in full, unnecessary, arm-to-arm contact. I looked over, perplexed, to see he had PLENTY of room on the other side of him, so why was he crammed up against me? When I looked in the window reflection and saw the familiar but disgusting bulge of his erection, I knew why. Now, on top of all this, I'm being molested on the subway. AGAIN.
Granted, he was a passive molester, unlike my active molester buddy from last summer. But still, I felt bad for the women seated in front of him, who were so lucky to be asleep so they wouldn't get poked in the eye.
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