residential, existential gypsy

Technical Foul!!!

2008-11-10T13:14:00.001-05:00

I've had an outstanding request for several weeks to get Microsoft Visio and Project installed on my laptop. After sending a 6th reminder today, someone finally came to do it.

When the Asian IT Dude showed up at my desk, I said "Just a second, let me save everything." He told me I didn't need to do that. I said "Yeah, well, let me save everything anyway." I saved the work in two Excel files, four Word documents, three email drafts, and one Visio document.

I explained, "I downloaded the trial version of Visio 2007 because I really needed it, so you can uninstall it if you need to."

His response: "You have too many window open."

My response: "It's called multi-tasking."

When I finished saving and closing all of my windows, I handed control over to the IT guy. He immediately started committing multiple heinous IT fouls:

- He changed my start menu settings from small to large icons
- He changed my quick launch and taskbar settings
- He changed my browser home page
- He moved several icons on my desktop
- He RENAMED several icons on my desktop. RENAMED THEM!!

Can somebody PLEASE explain to me why all IT people think they have the One, the Universal, the Superior, the Only Way to Configure Desktop Preferences???? Like, seriously, I like my shit a certain way and I really don't need your grubby paws changing up my shit. I like my start menu to use "small icons." I like my taskbar to be two buttons tall so I can see everything easier and not have to freaking scroll up and down. My quick launch icons are in a specific order that happens to correspond to EVERY COMPUTER I'VE EVER USED and by messing with them you ensure that I will accidentally open Powerpoint 17 times per hour instead of Firefox. My browser home page is Google, and you need to DEAL WITH IT. And my desktop icons? Just don't touch. Just don't. No moving, no renaming, nothing. Step away from the damn icons.

Then, after all that, he did something that caused my laptop to reboot. He checked under my desk as if some reboot gremlin was to blame, and all I could say is "This is why I saved all my work." I have so been screwed by his type before.

As thankful as I am to have my new software (albeit older versions than the free ones I had), I now have to lose additional time re-setting all the crap that the dude just messed up, and another 10 minutes writing about it because I'm so ticked off. IT dude, if you're systematically scanning my desktop and all outgoing email, I hope you see this and stop messing up other people's Very Personal Settings.

pain in my freaking gas

2008-10-24T14:37:00.001-04:00

Two weeks after I moved in to the new apartment, I finally call the energy company to set up my gas account, so I can cook food again sometime in the future, and they say they can't turn it on because the prior tenant has an overdue account on the apartment. Greaaaat. So I have to go to the main office, downtown Brooklyn, between 8-5 on Monday thru Friday, and show two forms of photo ID, a prior utility bill (from Florida), and the best part -- a copy of my lease, WHICH I HAVEN'T RECEIVED YET from my management company.

And if that's not enough, the monotone customer service dude, Otis, says he'll set me up as a prospective customer in the system to speed up my process (sounds good, right?), and asks for my social security number. I give it to him, and he says there's an old account in Massachusetts that used my SSN, but is under the name Tiana Miles. TIANA MILES!?! He gave me the address, it's Dorchester. Now I know I've lived a lot of places, but I ain't never lived in Dorchester. When I ask him how I fix that, he says the fine folks at the main office can help me when I go with my 2 forms of photo ID, a prior utility bill, and the imaginary copy of my damn lease. Super duper.

So yeah. I guess I'll be sticking to my milk and cereal diet for a little bit longer.

By the way - Does anyone know a Tiana Miles in Dorchester???

Hi ho, cheerio!

2008-10-19T22:10:00.001-04:00

Well kids, looks like it’s Cheerios for dinner again. Yay!

This marks the fifth night of eight that I’ve had Cheerios for dinner, and the third night that I had Cheerios for dinner after also eating them for breakfast.

I know you’re wondering why.

The first night I was in my new apartment, I ran to the bodega across the street and bought toilet paper and milk. For a week, that milk has been the only thing in my fridge besides water…and the fridge instructions and warranty that are still in the meat drawer. I have no meat or perishable foods of any kind because, well…

Here’s the thing. I’ve had no time to call the gas company and schedule them to come turn on the gas in my apartment. This means I have no stove or oven to cook meals on or in. For the moment, the stove is purely for decoration, and/or for storing sweaters.

I realize the next logical jump for most people is “Well, use the microwave!” But, I don’t have one. My last apartment had one built in, so I got rid of mine, and…now I have nothing. (Makes me rather wish I’d kept the toaster oven that burned everything I put in it – even charred crap is a variation from Cheerios with milk.)

But as I told my concerned grandmother today – don’t worry. For starters, there’s a nice layer of fat around my ass that will surely sustain me if my nutritional well-being starts to wane. But also, there’s a cafeteria at work, and I eat normal, non-Cheerios meals there for lunch Monday thru Friday.

Furthermore, there is an end in sight to this whole grain madness. You see, the box is running low, and I will soon run out and be forced to eat something else from the cupboard…like corn flakes. (But when those run out, I’m really in trouble.)

It's a small Patriots world.

2008-09-29T20:23:00.000-04:00

I got off the plane in Tampa. I rode the escalator down to baggage claim and saw my bag, first in line, already coming around the conveyor belt. I had both bags before most other people were even at the carousel, and I went straight out to the Ground Transportation.

I gave the Super Shuttle woman my confirmation number, and she gave me my receipt. I wheeled my bags over to a bench and took a seat next to a petite, grey-haired woman. As I sat, I noticed her red suitcase and its Patriots luggage tag.

"Oh, I'll sit next to a Patriots fan any day!" I said to her.

"Oh, are you a Patriots fan? Where are you from?" she asked.

"Boston area. Born and raised. Where are you from?

"Well, I'm from Ohio," she told me. "But my son plays for the Patriots."

This, naturally, piqued my interest. Judging from her tiny frame, I assumed she was about to name some third-string rookie who I've never heard of. But I asked anyway...

"Oh really? Who's your son?"

"Matt Light."

"MATT LIGHT!!! I LOVE MATT LIGHT!!! HAHAHA!!!"

"Oh good!" she said. "That makes two of us!"

So I basically spent the next hour and a half chatting with Matt Light's mom. She was heading to her mother's in Dunedin. I said "Oh, my mother lives in Dunedin too!" She said she was heading to Curlew Road. I said "Oh my nephew's daycare is over off Curlew Road!" She showed me pictures on her cell phone of her giant, legendary son holding his own son, and a nephew.

At some point (thinking specifically of Anne Marie), I told her, "You know, a few years ago, we talked about Matt Light more for his giant shaggy beard than for his playing!"

"Oh that beard! I hated that horrible thing!"

"Haha, I bet! It was so red and shaggy and hanging out under his helmet. But he wasn't the only one who had one..."

"He always has some gimmick. That was his idea you know, getting the other guys to grow one too. It's always a beard, or a long mustache, or who knows what."

We talked extensively about the team, about the coaching, about a season without Tom Brady. We discussed how we didn't want to talk about the Dolphins (sore issue) or the Giants (even more sore), although I did tell her what I'd heard about the Giants victory parade being rained on but confetti that wasn't fully shredded, raining people's divorce decrees and social security numbers down onto the city. "At least in Boston, we do it right." I told her about my nephew having more patriots and red sox attire when he was still in the womb than the rest of us will have in our lifetime.

After a while, the talk turned away from Matt Light, onto other things like New York subways, and Matt's siblings and their children, and life in Boston, and how annoying GPS can be when it's wrong, and how cute and lovely downtown Dunedin is, etc. The shuttle ride was 2 hours long (despite my 30 minute proximity to the airport), and on any other day I would have been furious. But this time, I didn't mind so much. As I told my cousin in a midnight text message, "The shuttle ride sucked, but I met Matt Light's mom!"

a table for four...minutes?

2008-09-21T10:19:00.005-04:00

one of my annual thrills in new york is attending the san gennaro festival in little italy. it is there that i consume uncharacteristic amounts of fried oreos covered in powdered sugar, as well as other novelties like cannolis, zeppoles, torrone, and maybe a bite of a sausage. you will not, at any other time of year, find me so eager to eat street food.

during san gennaro, all the restauraunts in little italy expand. the streets are closed to cars, so the restaurants take over the sidewalks and sometimes the streets, building a temporary veranda for the week.

one of the drawbacks, however, is this...

when a restaurant expands into the street, the street becomes part of the decorative ambiance. so you, dear customer, may find yourself enjoying the gnocchi with vodka sauce, while sipping a glass of chianti and asking for more freshly grated parmesan, and you turn to your left to ask Joe a question, but....you can't see him, because there's a parking meter between you.

what I wonder is, do you have to feed the meter to sit at this table?

does this bus go to crazytown?

2008-09-19T11:11:00.001-04:00

So I'm waiting outside this building to meet the realtor to sign papers, and there's this lady at the bus stop on the corner. She asks me if this bus line will take her to the subway, and even though I don't know this neighborhood at all, I saw the bus when I got off the train, so I say yes.

"I'm celebratin today!" she tells me. "It's my grandmother's 100th birthday!"

"That's amazing!" I respond to her.

"She's not alive," she continues. "But I celebrate anyways. Her name is Nancy."

Now I know I've got a live one here. She stands out waiting for the bus for a minute, then comes back to tell me more...

"I know Donald Trunk," she says next. "I never met him but I know him. If I ever meet him I tell him three things: I love you, and keep doin what you doin."

At this point, I pretend to be very busy with my blackberry, but that doesn't stop her.
As she drew her next breath, my realtor pulled up at the bus stop and signaled to me that he had to park and would be right back. She momentarily redirected her dialogue to tell me he was cute before then asking me if I lived in the building, cuz you must have money to live in a building like that.

"I'm rich. I got twins in my family. I'm not from here. I'm from Alabama. That's why I aksed you how to get to the subway. My twin sister is in Atlantic City. I aksed my ma 'where's my sister? I up visitin from Alabama, so why aint my sister here to see me?' And you know what she said? She said 'your sister is in Atlantic City, and she won the jackpot so don't expect her anytime soon.' So I know she won somethin. I don't know how much but she better remember her sister."

Thankfully, the realtor appeared a moment later and got me off the crazy train. I bid farewell to my new friend, and she told me she loved me.

application status: pending

2008-09-15T16:52:00.001-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I've found my new home.

I called the broker of the apartment I looked at this afternoon, and I told him I wanted it. I spent the last 2 hours trying to gather digital versions of all my required paperwork (canceled rent checks, job offer letter, two years of tax returns, retinal scan, etc) and faxing them in with my application. Now I wait...

The new apartment, interestingly enough, is quite literally across the street from my old apartment. The addresses have a mere 24 units difference, which in this city, is practically the same building. So I'm excited.

I liked that neighborhood and its uncharacteristically large supermarkets (huge!) and proximity to the park (1/2 block!). Ooh, and that chinese place with the enormous, AWESOME steamed pork dumplings. And that other spot with the unbelieveable fluffy light guacamole. Oh yeah, I'm diggin' it. Big time!

But I have to remember it's not mine yet. Still waiting for the stamp of approval, at which time I sign over a sickening sum of money and my second-born child. (The first one was already signed over by a previous rental broker.)

the more things change...

2008-09-12T14:01:00.003-04:00

the more things change, the more the stay the same.

if i waited two more months, i could say that i was here for a year. but...that didn't happen. and it won't. i'll be leaving florida about 11 months after i arrived.

i got a job offer in new york and i'm heading back up thatta way. i don't know yet where i'll live, or when i'll move, or any of the details in between. hopefully i'll figure that out in the very near future.

in the meantime, i'll be back to my old tricks again, like this, and this, so please forgive me in advance for being totally insane.

blogger's guilt

2007-03-12T17:12:00.000-04:00

hey. remember me? yeah, the girl who used to blog here several days a week? yeah. hi.

i was made to feel foolishly guilty last week for not having posted to my own blog in...gee, i don't even know how long. so here i am.

i've been busy. like, insanely busy. i'm finishing up my graduate thesis (due in 3 weeks), and the "new" job is totally bonkers. i used to write most of the posts during my other, boring job...so that's partly why i've been lacking any updates.

anyhow, i just wanted to say...

i slipped on a bullet casing just now, going up the stairs from the subway. i (still) love bed-stuy.

overheard in bed-stuy

2006-09-12T12:53:00.000-04:00

Nothing makes your morning like hearing a heartfelt welcome on your way to the subway.

"Ooooh gurrrrrl. Welcome to Brooklyn, baby."

enough with this heat already!

2006-08-04T13:00:00.000-04:00

So today, our heat wave "broke." By "broke," I mean that instead of being 106°, it's only 95°, which is really no break of any kind if you ask me.

The thing about summers in New York is that, well, anything over 85° gets downright miserable. For example, going underground to the subway platforms adds a degree for ever stair you decend, usually a minimum of 10. And there's zero air movement on the platforms, unless you count the forced hot, putrid air mass that is the pre-cursor of an arriving train.

Then there's the power problems. ConEd, the power company, actually told my office building management to tell us to turn off all "non-essential" equipment to avoid a blackout spreading some 30 blocks. Apparently, this means lights out. Someone went around shutting off all the overhead lights, except those around the outer ring of the floor. This means that people who have window seats are getting sunlight AND flourescent light, and we other suckers are getting neither. How the hell does that add up?

Well, regardless, there's not much I can do about any of it. When it's hot, it's hot. When it's fiery burning hell, it's fiery burning hell. But at least StarBucks gave away free iced cofree for two hours yesterday. I didn't get one, but, just hearing they did it made me feel cool and chilled all over. Not.

so it's not my imagination...

2006-08-01T12:51:00.000-04:00

I was just on the U.S. Post Office web site filing a change of address form. When I was done, I got an email with a ton of handy links to coupons, referrals, and...to the census?

Yes, the census. The post office linked me to a goverment census with information specific to my new zip code. And you know what it said?

One Race:
Black or African American: 89.2%
Hispanic or Latino: 8.0%
White: 2.2%

So...clearly it's not just my imagination that I was the only white girl in sight. But it's aight yo. I know they peeped my snowflake cracka ass. I'm bout to get down in dis joint! Holla!

snowflake in the hood

2006-07-29T01:02:00.000-04:00

I know. I know. I've been gone forever. I used to blog while I was at work, teary-eyed from editing the most boring content on earth. But I got a new job, one that got REAL busy for me about the time that my last post appeared. I apologize for the neglect -- it's nothing personal. Quite the opposite really. I've missed you. I need you.

So here's the thing: I'm about to have a whole new batch of stories to tell. In a couple of weeks, I'm moving to my new apartment in Brooklyn. Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. And I tell you with much sincerity that I have, in my last two visits there, seen only 4 other white people -- and one of them was with me.

I tell you this not because I'm scared, but rather amused. Generally speaking, black men love me. They love a woman with an ass, and have even audibly commented before that I'm that elusive white girl in the hood who isn't skinny as a twig. Last week, I got a round of applause when I passed by the 10-12 black guys doing construction on my block. And during my apartment hunt, I had many, many compliments, smiles, and winks sent my way. So really, it has nothing to do with getting more for my money, or moving out of my shoebox studio. It's about self-esteem and feeling good.

So surely, as I adjust to my new surroundings, I'll be starting from scratch in terms of my city smarts. I mean, wearing comfortable footwear and tactfully avoiding remnants of dog poo are skills that transfer, but I know better than to believe I won't be surprised by anything in the new hood. So stay tuned. I promise I'll be back.

one of those crazy nyc days

2005-11-29T12:00:00.000-05:00

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?

stop doing that!

2005-11-21T13:13:00.000-05:00

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.

so not helping.

2005-11-14T22:53:00.000-05:00

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."

spam sandwich

2005-11-11T08:55:00.000-05:00

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.

it's good to be back.

2005-11-09T08:56:00.000-05:00

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!

return from the e-dead

2005-10-23T23:16:00.000-04:00

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.

signs of improvement

2005-10-07T10:12:00.000-04:00

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.

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.

healing wounds

2005-10-06T09:27:00.000-04:00

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.

every cake has icing

2005-10-05T10:28:00.000-04:00

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.

shout out to the men of east harlem.

2005-09-24T00:20:00.000-04:00

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.

and now...

2005-09-21T09:59:00.000-04:00

Another mouse.

Seriously. This isn't funny anymore.

ENOUGH!

2005-09-19T23:05:00.000-04:00

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.)

ugh! now what?!

2005-09-14T08:54:00.000-04:00

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!!

if only i wasn't allergic to cats.

2005-09-07T09:35:00.000-04:00

(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.

la cucaracha

2005-08-28T16:06:00.000-04:00

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.

did you hear something?

2005-08-22T14:27:00.000-04:00

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.

injury/mini-post

2005-08-09T09:22:00.000-04:00

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!

this is why I need a hand-held air horn.

2005-08-08T09:26:00.000-04:00

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!!!

i hate when i'm right.

2005-08-05T09:37:00.000-04:00

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.

what can brown do for me, hmmm?

2005-07-27T08:56:00.000-04:00

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.

identity crisis.

2005-07-21T12:40:00.000-04:00

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.

random new york moment.

2005-07-06T12:12:00.000-04:00

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.

summer's here, the freaks are out.

2005-06-26T00:03:00.000-04:00

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!"

my friends the spammers.

2005-06-21T12:17:00.000-04:00

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.

student loan blues.

2005-06-16T16:48:00.000-04:00

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.

"Must...control...fist...of death!!"

2005-06-13T12:38:00.000-04:00

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.

the conversion.

2005-06-08T22:26:00.000-04:00

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.

itchy twitchy witchy

2005-06-06T10:43:00.000-04:00

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.

street meat

2005-06-01T13:26:00.000-04:00

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.

shoe disorder

2005-05-30T14:32:00.000-04:00

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?

the Big Dig strikes again.

2005-05-23T09:38:00.000-04:00

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.

shunned.

2005-05-10T21:37:00.000-04:00

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.

the man of my dreams.

2005-05-04T09:57:00.000-04:00

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.

how many errors are in a "comedy"?

2005-05-03T09:12:00.000-04:00

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.)

from jose to juan: fine beverages of south america

2005-04-27T11:02:00.000-04:00

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...

finally, a challenging assignment at work.

2005-04-22T16:05:00.000-04:00

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.

office ass politics

2005-04-20T09:27:00.000-04:00

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:

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)

So I ran an informal survey of one person (margin of error: 100%) to see what other people think of the thread-on-the-ass scenario. And it sounds like the real issue is comfort with the wearer of the ass thread and/or a desire for their laughability or humiliation. My respondent said he would not tell Bob either, but if it was me, he would tell me, because I'm "not new."

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.

a drunk guy named evan.

2005-04-14T09:39:00.000-04:00

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.

for the love of god, nobody move.

2005-04-06T09:21:00.000-04:00

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.

woman of the streets.

2005-04-01T09:43:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I had a big PMS craving for a cheesesteak (provolone and onions), so I took a walk to go get one. The place is a hole in the wall joint about 2 blocks away, and it was a lovely day for a stroll.

I absent-mindedly walked the 2 blocks downhill (yes, new york has hills), darting across streets as lights turned green, and grinning slightly at the cat-calls I kept getting from the bruthas. (I credit my darling pink shoes.)

When I went into the cheesesteak place, I had one of those moments that, in the movie of my life, has the sound effect of a record player coming to a screeching stop while every head in the room turns to look at me. The place was FULL of men. I was the only female in a room of 15 men...and we all knew it. Undaunted and filled with the delicious aroma of cheesey goodness, I stepped up to the counter in my pink shoes and gave my order.

While waiting, I sang along to the blaring Stone Temple Pilots on the radio and watched the silent tennis match unfolding on the silent TV. I eventually got my sandwich, all wrapped up, steaming hot, and smelling delicious, and walked out the door.

This is where the trouble started. See, I had you thinking this blog was about a cheesesteak just to keep my male audience, but really its about the every day struggle of walking the sidewalks and streets of new york city in heels. It is NOT easy.

For starters, sidewalks, when not covered with dog shit, are usually not level and often have giant cracks. Some businesses fill the cracks in front of their buildings with this rubbery goo, which is fantastic for people like me whose heels often fall IN to the cracks. Rubbery goo means I just bounce right back out, never missing a stride. UNFILLED cracks mean if you hit the crack wrong and it swallows your heel, you may take your next step minus one shoe, OR try to take your next step and go crashing to the ground minus one shoe. Either way it's a bit embarrassing.

Then there's grates. As if storm drains and steaming manhole covers aren't hard enough, there's giant subway grates all over the city, stretching 8 or 10 feet long. Women all over the city scurry to the 6 inches of concrete alongside the grates, performing some sort of a balance-beam-in-training act so as not to fall in and damage their limbs, ankles, reputations, and SHOES.

Next, there's stairs. Just this morning on my way up from the subway, the woman in front of me misplaced her balance and came leaning back at me. I envisioned a whole domino affect of pissed off commuters tumbling down the stairs, so I put my hands up and sorta shoved her back into place. But I knew immediately her error: NEVER put any weight on your heels when going up stairs. TOES people. TOES! Never lean back.

However, the most risk, and the one that nearly broke me in half yesterday, was the surprise chunks of missing pavement on the streets. ESPECIALLY at the end of winter after the plows have destroyed any stability the streets once had. Yesterday, I stumbled stepping off the sidewalk into the street. I wobbled a bit but hoped no one saw. About 10 steps later, I looked up for a second and nailed a giant hole, doing that whole airborne-clumsy-chick-in-heels dance where one ankle all but snaps off my leg, I flail my arms to regain balance, then have the obligatory laugh-at-self episode followed by the walk-it-off moment, ending with me fighting back a yelp of pain from my now mangled, swollen ankle. But the real kicker (pun intended) is when it happens ONE more time before safely across the street. At this point, you KNOW people are laughing, thinking you don't know how to walk in heels or maybe are a little drunk, and you just want to yell out "IT'S THE POT HOLE DAMMIT!" to clear your name, but it's not worth it.

So yeah. I'm a woman of the streets of new york....cheesesteaks and broken ankles baby.

self-assessment

2005-03-27T13:41:00.000-05:00

So, I'm sitting here waiting for a ride to Ikea that may come in 5 minutes, 20 minutes, 3 hours, or not at all. While waiting, I decided to do a few productive things--girlie things--such as pluck my eyebrows, put on makeup, fix my hair, paint my toes, peel off my skin...

See, I got sunburned pretty badly about 10 days ago. My skin has been peeling off in stages since about...6 days ago. It started on my forehead, followed by my chest, then stomach, then thighs, shins, upper arms, and now arms below the elbow including tops of hands. It's really disgusting, and I've been trying to disguise it by mixing up my outfits to turtlenecks to cover chest/neck, pants to cover shins, and lace madonna gloves circa 1985 to cover my scaley arms and hands. But I know it's all just "Borderline."

It's peeling off so bad that this morning I had to use a lint roller on my bed sheets before I made the bed. (I know, SO gross right?) I saw no point in changing the sheets until I'm done shedding like some scary sci-fi snake woman. It's bad enough that all day long I'm scratching all over like a 3-year-old with chicken pox. Ew. I'm gross.

So I also dried my hair and decided to send a picture of it (and me) to my grandparents, just for I'm-not-there-for-Easter laughs. And when I did, and uploaded the photo to my computer, I realized I had this hugely disfiguring hump on my arm just below the shoulder. I mean, seriously, I could give Kwaze Moto a run for his humpy money. I keep telling myself that disfigurement is probably just a strange lighting effect that made me look so disproportionate, but now I'm essentially afraid to go into public. Maybe I AM morphing into some sort of reptile. EW!

Then I started editing the picture and trying to shade that bulging upper arm to make it go away. As I trimmed off my hump, I realized this is probably how plastic surgeons get women to jump on that table to be trimmed and tightened. "See miss, this is the shoulder hump you have NOW. But if you elect to clean this up, your shoulder will look like THIS!" If someone had said that to me just now, I would have given myself the anesthesia and handed the good doctor my finest steak knife. Maybe he could laser off some of my dead snake skin while he's at it.

Ew.

(And, for the record, still no ride to Ikea.)

my new souvenir t-shirt.

2005-03-21T22:47:00.000-05:00

I'm getting a t-shirt made for myself and the members of my last vacation. They're going to each be personalized variations of: "I went to Key West, got married, robbed, interrogated, sunburned, attacked by stray cats/roosters, endured a monsoon (and a singing transvestite), and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."

I live in Manhattan, land of muggings, pickpockets, and public urination. I manage to survive in fucking Manhattan, and within three hours of arriving in Key West for a mini break, I'm robbed. Some asshole broke into our house, went through our bags, came in my BEDROOM, stole some jewelry and cash, and left.

I was actually in Key West because my mother got married. I didn't actually see the wedding...except on video tape, which was thankfully not stolen. I think they married on a Tuesday. It reminds me of the opening line of The Stranger by Camus: "Maman died today. Maybe it was yesterday. I do not know." Except for me....."Mom married today. Maybe it was yesterday, I do not know."

After the robbery, I had my first official mooch off my new step-daddy-o for $5 for a beach chair, in which I laid facing the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States. I fell asleep for, as I'm told, nearly three hours, which when combined with being in the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States makes for a pretty hefty sunburn...the kind that 5 hours later, as you are on your way to watch a transvestite sing Madonna songs in a monsoon, causes blinding headaches and nausea and forces you to run home in the rain without slipping in your wet flip-flops when you stop suddenly to dodge a stray rooster or hurdle a stray cat, both of which are terrifyingly rampant in Key West. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After the burn, before the singing transvestite, there was a police interrogation. While my CSI agent wannabe sister phoned in the results of the fingerprint and DNA tests, Agents Mom, Joanie, and Jeff contributed plot-twisting enhancements, such as following around the police and snapping pictures/videotaping/offering advice from the pool while they collected evidence. (When I say "they" I actually mean "she," as in the sole police lady/detective chick sent to our scene. She said she would have called the real CSI team in if we hadn't totally screwed up the crime scene by touching everything in sight.)

Anyhow, after the interrogation, and during the monsoon, I slept off my third-degree burns while my counterparts watched some tranny man (who looks better in spandex and a pointy Madonna cone bra than I ever could) perform in some sort of Diva cabaret and make some derogatory comments about New Zealand and sheep. I, of course, missed it all, because I was back at the scene of the crime watching WWE Smackdown and reheating goldfish crackers on my bright red, radiating chest.

But don't be fooled--I had a blast. I mean really, it's not every day you wind up in the Key West Police Department files as Victim #3 of case CX-487Z. I went to Key West, and all I got was this lousy case number.

hip hip hooray for the MTA.

2005-03-16T09:15:00.000-05:00

Today was one of those days when I should have followed my instincts.

My instinct was to not walk to the subway this morning, because perhaps something was messed up. Perhaps I should just go to the corner of my block and get on the bus that stops practically in front of my door.

But did I do that? No. I walked the two blocks (uphill) to the subway, went down the stairs, grabbed my free daily newspaper, and failed to notice that no one was going through the turnstiles until I myself approached them and saw not green for go, but red for stop. I ripped off my headphones to hear "No trains. NO TRAINS!" Fantastic.

So I banged a yooie (Boston talk for a u-turn), walked back down the hill, and ran for the LIMITED downtown bus. The normal downtown bus stops every 17 feet, but the Limited stops every 20, so it's much much faster. This is especially useful when there are NO trains on the east side whatsoever, and everyone is going for the same Limited bus downtown.

The thing is....the only thing harder than learning to keep your balance on a jerky subway train is learning to keep your balance on a jerkier MTA bus. Trains go forward and back, and may occasionally turn or sway left or right. Buses, however, have many motions: forward, quick stop, kneeling, unkneeling, left, right, sharp left, sharp right, and bump-up, bump-down. Plus, with the fancy caterpillar buses (Kevin, are you LOVING this bus talk? Is it getting you all hot?), there's the tricky pivotal hinge in the middle that a) must be carefully navigated and b) I ALWAYS end up on. So your right foot is stable, your left foot is sliding away on the hingey part, you barely have a grip on the pole for balance, and the busdriver is working the rush-hour traffic the way I used to in a little Honda Civic--inching, gas-brake-gas-brake--which is clearly some sort of busdriver humor used primarily when over 70% of your passengers are standing up and fighting for balance.

Anyhow, I eventually got to my stop. A 20 minute subway ride equates to a 75 minute bus ride--but I DID get there. And then I had to walk three long avenues to work, which initially made me crabby but was okay because I got flowers on the street from John Stamos. He's looking good these days. (Okay, really, it was just these guys who were hired to promote his new show, Jake Sexy City, Jake Single Hot, or something like that, by handing out flowers to women on the street. But I prefer to say the flowers were from John himself. Uncle Jesse's HOT.)

So really, thank you MTA. Thank you for making my morning a mess. Without you, I wouldn't have met John Stamos on the street, he wouldn't have given me flowers, and we wouldn't be eloping at lunchtime at city hall. (If the trains are running again by then.)

another day, another tequila hangover.

2005-03-15T09:56:00.000-05:00

On the second day of my 26th year of life, I woke at 4:30am and looked around. The room was only spinning mildly, and I wasn't terribly thirsty. But a well-timed hiccup prooved that I was indeed still intoxicated from the several large, well-made margaritas I'd had a few hours earlier.

My margarita habit amuses me. When I was in college, I didn't drink much. In high school, I didn't drink at all. But at the ripe age of 15, I knew a margarita was tequila, lime juice, and triple-sec AND I knew how to measure, mix, salt the glass, and pour over rocks.

Now before you run off and call DSS, know this: it's too late. Many years have since passed and I think the statute of limitations has expired. (But if you have any luck, remember to bring up the parentally imposed beer-to-cure-hiccups trend of my youth.)

So anyhow, after years of exposure to margaritas, and not ever daring to try one because who could ever drink anything that smelled like that (tequila), I have taken quite a liking to them. I've also decided that my recent Margaritaism is genetic, and there's nothing I can do about the addiction except dedicate my life to finding the best margaritas in town.

Also, I am dedicating myself to finding the perfect offsetting hangover cure for tequila-based beverages, frozen or otherwise. Generally, that tends to be water. Lots and lots and LOTS of water. And some advil. And Bo says also a bagel. And Mom would say a bloody mary. And Anne Marie would say a mudslide. (Actually, Anne Marie wouldn't be near the tequila in the first place.) But I'm thinking I'll stick with the water. Then soon a Coke. And several more of these chocolate-frosted cupcakes I've got. And maybe some eggs, and cheese. You know what they say, starve a cold, feed a hangover. (Is that right?)

i need to talk to this webster guy.

2005-03-08T15:32:00.000-05:00

So, I'm an editor. Many of you know this. However, I pride myself on being "an editor with personality." There are many in my company who are "editors sans personality," and take their job a little too seriously.

As an editor, it is my job to be, as my sister would put it, a "giant geek" when it comes to things like punctuation, verb-subject agreement, and even spelling. (Although, when she has a paper to hand in, who comes looking for the "giant geek"? That's right baby. Come to sister.)

Well, it was just brought to my attention by another editor, the "sans" type that is devoid of personality or sense of humor (and hopefully the type that does not read my blog), that I have misspelled a word in one of my books. I quote:

"In the penultimate paragraph, change 'supercede' to the preferable (according to Webster's) 'supersede.'"

Okay, first...who the hell uses words like "penultimate"??? LOSER. I had to look it up, at friggin' Webster's.

Second, hey Webster...WHO MADE YOU IN CHARGE? I have been using superCede for many years, and it's always been fine. Why, suddenly, am I WRONG?

Alarmingly, this brings back painful memories of a certain wrinkly bitch at my former place of employment whose clearly visually impaired boyfriend supposedly works as a dictionary editor. She was very proud of this, always. Whereas the rest of us just hoped her inappropriate leather pants would come to life as an angry cow and chomp, thrash, and press her into ironic wrinkly bitch pants.

But back to my point: Who, exactly, are these people who decide when words should be added, removed, or changed in a dictionary? And how do they get this authority? I am concerned that it is being abused. As a professional giant geek, it is my job to stay on top of these things--but this superCede business just really irritates me, much like these did:

"irregardless" is now a word in the dictionary, despite the fact that its common usage is derived from people who don't know it WASN'T a word in the first place.
"aks" is now an acceptable pronunciation of the word "ask," which apparently is part of the Adopt Improper Pronunciations Instead of Teaching the Right One program.
"reenter" (or re-enter) no longer requires a hyphen. Ya think? Reenter sounds like something that probes someone's butt in an alien abduction.

So, I would really like to talk to this Webster character, except I can't because he's dead. But I'd really like to know exactly who thinks they can just walk around making these changes for the rest of us. Irregardless, all I'm aksing for is a little authority to supersede these stupid words, and have them reentered properly.

Idiots.

gone fishin'.

2005-03-07T15:43:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I decided to get a haircut. I mean, I've wanted one for ages, but didn't know where to go that would be affordable AND do a decent job on the overly dense forest on my head that I call my hair. But I finally bit the bullet, picked a place, and called in for a haircut.

Voice (in vague european accent) : "Amour de Hair."
Me: "Hello, do you take walk-ins?"
Voice: "Yes we do."
Me: "And how much for just a wash and cut?"
Voice: "Twenty-five."
Me: "Okay, great. And, could you tell me...do you have availability this morning?"
Voice: "If I tell you, it's not a walk-in anymore."
Me: "Right you are. I guess I'll take my chances."

Two hours later, I walked into Amour de Hair and was directed to Richard, a middle-aged, presumably gay Japanese man in black leather pants. He spoke with what seemed, against all logic, to be a french accent.

Richard: "Oh, Step'anie, you are so young, so beautiful. Look at those eyes. You MUST have highlights done. You will be more young and more beautiful, and those eyes!"
Me: "Um. Okay."

So Richard did the whole foil-head thing, and the here's-a-magazine thing, and the tell-me-if-the giant-drier-that-is-crisping-your-ear-lobes-is-too-hot thing, and eventually I came out with a wonderful haircut AND highlights! Oooh la la! But I was happiest that the change wasn't drastic. The slightest trim, the subtlest of highlights...I felt great but would still recognize myself in the mirror.

So this morning at work, I waited to see how people reacted. Some didn't notice, others took a while. "Did you...do...something?? Oh your hair, you cut your hair." This one noticed, that one noticed, my boss's boss noticed, but no one saw the color. That is a job well done.

While I was digging through some books in the hallway library, Jose walked by and said "Oh Stephanie, como esta? You are looking so beautiful today, like every day. But today more beautiful. Bonita!" Coming from Jose, I find it sincere. And I realized that people didn't know WHY I looked different, just that I did. (And more tan too, thanks to the illusion of sun-streaked hair.)

However, the one guy in the office who I wanted to show my hair to hadn't surfaced all day. I couldn't wait until tomorrow, because by then I'll have washed it and gotten it to look NOTHING like what gay leather Japafrench Richard did. But I, playing hair-to-get, couldn't go looking for the compliment. I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, I broke down and sent an instant message.

Me: "it's 3:30. time for you to come over here and tell me my haircut is both noticeable and nice. i'll act surprised."
Him: (little smiley emoticon thing for gasping dude)

When I told my friend Jen what I wrote, she asked "is the compliment still satisfying if you ask for it?"

Before I could answer, he appeared mid-nonsensical-sentence before stopping suddenly and saying "wait a--did you--hey, you cut your hair!" I smiled and act surprised (as promised).

"Oh, and you colored it too! It looks good! Oh and he angled it around your face? Nice! I like it. I do. And he did't cut much either. It looks good."

"Wow!" I said. "I'm impressed! I didn't tell you that all that, you got it on your own!"

He walked away proudly, while I turned back to Jen and said "Apparently, yes." Sometimes even when you have to fish for it, a compliment can still surprise you.

i bleed red and blue.

2005-03-01T23:29:00.000-05:00

We knew we would lose Romeo, and probably Charlie.

Then Big 54 fell ill. Already, our hearts ached.

Then we cut Ty Law, and I gasped in horror.

Then we released Roman Phifer, and I stared in shock.

But today when we let go of Troy Brown, I mourned.

I'm afraid the slaughter isn't yet over. I'm afraid of where we will be cut next. I love my Patriots and the joy they have given me, but I tell you--I LOVE these guys. My team will not be MY team without #24, 95, and 80.

To my boys, all I can say is that in my heart, you'll always be Bingo baby. Bingo. You won for us again.

UPDATE: And now David Patten?!? Oh the humanity!!

i always wanted a big brother.

2005-03-01T13:39:00.000-05:00

This morning as I was slothfully trudging out the door of my apartment, I delayed my departure by noticing the unopened pile of mail on the table from yesterday. I didn't open it at the time because the apocalypse had arrived outside, and I could neither open the mail with my mittened hands, nor see it through the hail, sleet, snow, and lightning bolts that were striking all around me. So, instead, I fanned through it this morning on my way out the door.

In the pile, an envelope from the Massachusetts Department of Revenue. My immediate reaction was "Weird. They're supposed to direct-deposit my refund. What did they fuck up this time?" Then I opened it. And my second reaction was "Why the FUCK do they want $197 from me!??!?" Having neither the time nor patience to deal with this, I slipped the letter into my bag and went out the door.

Now, hours later, and in a progressively shittier mood than I was hours ago, I decided to revisit the matter. The form states a few key details:

Notice of Assessment
February 18, 2005
$197.01 ($165.32 + $31.69 in interest. INTEREST!)

However, the form also fails to state a few key details:

Why.
Why.
WHY!!!

So after a little research on the web, I got nowhere. The only indication I could find of the existence of this Notice was that they've already docked my current refund the $197.01. (So much for disputing.) I realized my best and only option was to dial the phone number and spend 11 hours on hold until someone hopefully semi-intelligent picked up the phone. I would even settle for a computerized voice telling me I made a math error, or that the tax rate went up. Something, anything, to clarify this damn Notice.

So I dialed. And some machine picked up, and a female voice said "Welcome to the Massachusetts Depahtment of Revenue." (Ah, the sounds of home.) "Please listen cayefully to the following menu." I followed the sequence and was put on hold for the "next available opahratah." To my surprise, my hold time was a mere 6 seconds. A charming, non-disgruntled, helpful woman picked up the phone.

After I gave her my social security number, address, date of birth, a blood sample, a retinal scan, and DNA analysis, she asked "What can I help you with today?"

"I just want to know....WHY?" I asked.
"Oh, well, it says here you failed to report some income in 2001."
"2001?"
"Yes, for the amount of $1567."
"In 2001?"
"Yes."
"If I failed to report it, how do you have it?"
"The federal government sent it to us."
"Oh. From 2001?"
"Yes ma'am."

I dug through the saved online files on my H&R Block profile, to find a 1099 listing for $1567 on my 2001 federal return. Beside it, the description "prize winnings."

Ah, prize winnings. That would be the two Madonna concert tickets, weekend for two in Martha's Vineyard, and his and hers mountain bikes, a prize package totalling--you guessed it--$1567--all of which I won from a radio station. The thing is, I know, I KNOW, that this was a line on the Mass. Telefile book of 2001. I remember putting it in the wrong spot, then moving it... moving it TO the line that specifically asked for WINNINGS. Why would I screw that up??

But it doesn't matter. They already took my money. Now they're taking more. And really, I guess it's still a small price to pay for fulfilling my lifelong dream of seeing Madonna in concert (and with awesome seats, may I add), and for an "expenses paid" trip to the Vineyard on the most beautiful September weekend in 2001 before life as we know it changed, with a room overlooking the glistening ocean full of sailboats AND a fudge store. Plus, I believe I just sold the his and hers mountain bikes when I left Boston. Sold them for...$200. Go figure. I made a $3 profit.

But in the end, I am a little freaked out that, even 4 years later, Big Brother is talking to Semi-Big Brother and keeping an eye on me, followed by vague and cryptic Notices of Assessment, which in turn is already a joke because they just took the money from me anyway. In a way, all this headache was for nothing...I'm just a pawn in their little game.

reality check!

2005-02-24T09:11:00.000-05:00

Last night, like other Wednesday nights for the last 6 months, I went to my Accounting class prepared for a dull evening of P/E ratios and earnings reports. I settled into the ridiculously sloping desk/chair apparatus, balanced my scalding hot cup of tea on the ridiculous slope, and dug out a notebook. (Don't worry. No one gets scalded with the tea.)

Twenty minutes later, the professor, some accounting guy named Ed, is full swing into describing capital budgets and net income increasing over five years and blah blah blah, when he says, "Oh, and a bit of a personal question. I know there are two Stephanies in this class. Did one of you go to ---- Academy?"

With a look of concern and befuddlement, I timidly raised my hand. Why does my professor know where I went to high school? Why is he asking me in the middle of capital budgets?

"Oh!" he said. "My son goes there."

"Oh?!" I said. "How bizarre." Around me, my classmates giggled and whispered "small world" to one another.

"What year did you graduate?" Ed asked me.

"Uh...1997."

"Oh, well my son's a senior." Ed nodded and smiled, and I returned the vague gesture, acknowledging a shared moment. And although our chat ended there, and Ed returned to dividend yields, I had the following panic-stricken inner monologue:

1997. 1997. 2005. My god. I'm about to have a 10-year reunion. But I just went to the 5-year. How can it be 10 already? My god. I'll be 28 then. I always thought by 28 and my 10-year reunion I'd be somewhere. I thought I'd show up to the reunion with my husband and kids in tow. But that clearly isn't gonna happen. I mean, it's only 2 years away, and I don't even have boyfriend. I'm not even dating anyone. I don't have time! It's highly unlikely that I'm going to find someone, like them, fall in love with them, marry them, and bear their children in the next 2 years. I mean, I guess it's possible, especially considering that everyone else in my family is getting married based on an average relationship time of about 17 minutes. So 2 years isn't all that crazy. But god. 2007! 28 years old! Where is the time going? What am I doing?
AUGH!

When I snapped to, Ed had moved on to debt ratios, but I was stuck on some ratios of my own. In a few weeks, I'll be 26, which means I have to round up, so it's the same as 30. I'll spend the next 4 years being 30. In my mind, I'm still 19 or 20, just sort of floundering around trying to get some footing in this world. I just started life over in New York, I'm still broke, I'm back in school, my job blows, and it turns out men in New York also have their thumbs up their asses. I guess some things never change. And I guess that I'm not going to have the luxury apartment with the giant wall of books and charming spiral staircase that I share with my fantastically handsome husband and our brilliant crew of children--not yet. Maybe hoping for all that by 28 was silly. Maybe for my 15-year reunion. Maybe when I'm 33.

My god. I'm practically 40.

i heart green.

2005-02-21T11:12:00.000-05:00

Every year about this time (if not sooner), I would have the depressing and heart-to-heart conversation at high decibels with my friend Anne Marie about how much we hate winter. Being prisoners of a cubicle jungle, the most we could do was stare at pictures of the tropical beaches calendar I gave her for Christmas, or do some fantasy vacation shopping online and look at all the pretty palm trees. Usually it sounded something like this:

Me (whining, throwing body around like a 3-year old): Anne Marie, I HATE THIS SNOW!

Anne Marie: I KNOW!! I can't take it anymore! I'm moving to Barbados.

Me: I just can't even look out the windows anymore. Everything is bleckh. Crappy grey roads. Crappy grey skies. Crappy grey snow. I hate when even the SNOW is dirty!

Anne Marie: I KNOW!! And my van! It's disGUSting from all the salt.

Me: I can't take it anymore. I am so depressed, I just stare at the walls.

Anne Marie: I'm telling you, it's that disease. We have the S.A.D. - the Seasonal Affective Disorder. Look. (furious typing into google) SEE. It's REAL.

Me: I KNOW it's real. I KNOW I have it. I totally have it.

Anne Marie: We need to buy these special lamps. They cost like thousands of dollars but they are so bright they act like the sun. Ugh, I would totally sit in my lawn chair in front of that thing. With a mudslide. THAT would make me feel better.

Me: But I can't afford a thousand-dollar lamp. Our insurance won't cover it. Ugh. I'll just go buy a plant. I need something GREEN.

Anne Marie: GREEN. I KNOW!! Just SOME sign of LIFE. My GOD! I'm moving to Barbados.

So like I said, this conversation happens pretty much every year...except this year. Because I don't work with Anne Marie anymore. (But, that was a pretty good simulation and I feel like I was there, whining, with Barb laughing at us from across the way.)

Anyhow, all this was a backdrop for the fact that I just "came to" a few minutes ago and realized that I was staring at--and possibly fondling--my new green plant for at least 5 minutes. A few weeks ago, I started to get that whiny itch again, and realized I had no greenery in my apartment. My one plant is at work, where I talk to it and tend to it regularly, and it grows smilingly in the fluorescence...unlike we humans.

So on a recent shopping trip, I made it my mission--nay, my life's purpose--to find a good, healthy, draw-me-out-of-depression little green plant. I picked through various shapes and sizes, short ones and tall ones, fat ones and skinny ones, prickly ones and...not prickly ones, until finally, my plant found ME.

"Oh THERE you are my beautiful darling!" I shouted as I ran open-armed to my lovely. I stroked and caressed its delicate stalks, letting the fair leaves tickle my fingertips. We also shopped around for the new perfect pot, requiring that it too must be vibrant and colorful and big enough for my new friend to grow beyond our wildest expectations.

And I took home the plant and the pot, got dirty with the soil, and proudly mounted the fantastic creature on my kitchen table, tall and leafy and GREEN!! Oh sweet greenness how I've longed for you!!

And today, after looking out the window at the drab post-snowstorm mess down below: the crappy grey roads, crappy grey skies, crappy grey snow, I retreat back to my ferny friend and get lost in my own private palm tree in my own little Upper East Side studio oasis.

things i'll never give up.

2005-02-18T13:23:00.000-05:00

Once again, it is the lenten season. And I, being the devout atheist that I am, decided to take this opportunity to realize those precious things in life that I will never willingly give up. Not even on an experimental basis.

#1) Coca-cola. I LOVE COKE. Nothing says "refreshment" and "wake up" like the hiss of a newly opened bottle or the crack of a newly opened can of Coke. I know some people do coffee, some do yoga. But me? Coke, all the way. And I'm not talking any diet or vanilla crap either. We're talking red label, no funky flavors. Just straight up, proper Coke. It's delicious and it goes with just about everything. Pizza? and Coke. Cheese? and Coke. Peanut butter? and Coke. Chocolate chip cookie dough? and Coke. Friday afternoon? and Coke. Mmm, I love my Coke.

#2) Cheese. I LOVE CHEESE. At any given point in time, one could find a minimum of 8 kinds of cheese in my fridge. My love of cheese started very young with simple (white) American and string cheese. As I got older, and started living with other cheese-addicted persons, I started to appreciate the slightly finer cheeses, like fresh mozzarella, dubliner, jarlsberg, or a variety of others whose enzymes give me hives, but which I eat anyway because the immensely satisfying taste is worth the chance of death.

#3) Taking showers. (Thank god, right?) No seriously. I LOVE taking showers. I could spend the whole day hypnotized by the hot water of a good shower. Some people have an aversion to bathing, or are just lazy. "Ugh, I have to take a shower." "Ew, I haven't bathed in four days." No way baby. Not me. Minimum of one per day. Somedays 2 or 3, depending on my activities. I know this has a lot to do with the wild mane of hair upon my head, which needs to be washed often to prevent headaches (it's true, shut up), but seriously...me likey hot water.

#4) Nose picking. Have your laughs. Go ahead. Say "Eww...she's gross!" But I know the truth. Everybody does it. I'm just not afraid to admit it. (And I could name a few others who would too.) Nose picking is such an incredibly satisfying experience. Especially in New York, where the air conditions often leave you with a noseful of black crunchy stuff. Do I want that up there? Hell no. So in I go, rounding up the painfully hard boogers to enhance my clean breathing passages. I don't like picking soft boogies; that's what tissues are for. But hard crunchy boogs need a finger. As soon as I feel something getting solid up there, I go in for it. Shamelessly. Not in public, of course. But if I have known you for more than, say, two months, and we are in a private place, be prepared to see me pick.

#5) Sleep. Some people in this world are ambitious and restless, and aren't satisfied unless they are active. I am not one of them. I will choose sleep over most activities, with the exception of consuming coke or cheese, showering, or picking my nose. Sleep is a wonderful, wonderful thing. Sleep is something I am always dreaming about during my waking hours. I imagine the puffy comfort of my bed, the perfect plumpness of my pillows, and the undisturbed hours that pass while I lie in my blissful unconscious state. And really, bed optional I say. Sleep on the beach, the grass, a hammock, the couch, the floor, wherever! Just sleep...sleep......sleep.....zzzz...

adding insult to injury. literally.

2005-02-15T10:21:00.000-05:00

So, yesterday, like every other day, I went to the vending machine upstairs for my morning can of cranberry juice. But this time, the vending machine hated me, and refused to take my dollar bill. I didn't fret much because 5 feet to the right is a change machine. But the change machine also refused to take my dollar bill. So, pissed off and thirsty, I left the kitchen.

I used my high-tech proximity card to open the door to the stairs back down to my floor. It's one of those split stairwells, with 6 or 7 stairs, then a landing, then 6 or 7 more stairs, then the floor. I was still fussing about my juice when it became frighteningly obvious that one of my feet was aborting the stair-descending process.

Presumably, the heel of my shoe was caught in the cuff of the opposite pant leg, but I'm not really sure what happened. But I wiggled my foot and tried to plant it on a step while exercising a death grip on the railing. I did get my foot free, but thanks to gravity and the inertia I already had going down the stairs, I totally missed the step, and next thing I know, I'm going down, aiming head-first for the wall that encases the landing halfway down the stairs.

With my second thunderous crash in about a week, I managed to prevent any major head injuries by bracing the wall with my hands and landing on my knee. Pain was instant, as was humiliation. At first I didn't move at all, hoping that if I was very still and didn't whimper, people would think someone just dropped a very large box, and wouldn't come looking. The plan worked, and I eventually stood back up, re-attached my flopping traitor shoe, and hobbled down the second half of the staircase attempting to look as casual, normal, and non-chalant as possible. I rehearsed my schpeal: "Me? Fall down the stairs at work? No, you must have just heard that man who just dropped a very large box. Yes, I helped him pick everything up on my way up to get my juice."

Back at my desk, I pulled up my pant leg to see instant bruising and swelling around me knee. It looked very nice next to the bruising from the Fire Alarm Incident. I popped some Advil, and whined all afternoon about how much it hurt. (I also embraced the irony, or perhaps I should say premonition, over predicting something like this happening YEARS ago.)

A few hours later, I had to go to the doctor. As doctors tend to do (and much to the continual amusement of my sister, even now at the ripe age of 22), she wanted to test the reflexes in my legs. Before I could think, she pulled back and slammed that little rubber triangle hammer...right into my bruise. My leg twitched little--the rest of me twitched a lot, and I groaned in attempt to stifle the huge profanity that was about to fly out of my mouth.

In the end, I laughed about it. I mean, it could have been worse. What if I'd gotten my juice and the compressed beverage can knocked me in the head when I tumbled? Or, what if had happened earlier when I was showing the new guy where the kitchen was? Or what if I'd fallen down the second half of the staircase, and rolled right into the main hallway in front of half the office? That would have REALLY sucked. So I guess in the end, a little rubber triangle hammer ain't the biggest problem. But it still hurt.

again with the chocolates and flowers??

2005-02-13T23:24:00.000-05:00

It's Valentine's Day Eve, and I'm already grumping about it. V-day is one of those "holidays" that I dislike immensely and hope to ignore despite the multiple millions of dollars that are spent by "the industry" to flaunt it and aim it down my throat in the hopes of making me gag.

A lot of people say to me, "You just don't like Valentine's Day because you're single." Usually, in response to that, I say something eloquent and articulate along the lines of "Go fuck yourself." No, that's not why I don't like it. And while that reason may not exactly help the situation, it sure isn't a primary reason. Let me explain.

There have been years where, when good ol' Saint Valentine came knocking upon our doors with his little cherubs and red-hearted arrows, I have been not single. And even in those years, the only Valentines I ever got were from my mom. (Thanks mom.) In fact, there is only one year I can recall getting anything: 1995. My best guy friend in high school gave me a mix tape whose grand finale was Dennis Leary's hit single, "Asshole." Despite this, the mix tape is still the best Valentine's gift I ever got, simply because it is the ONLY Valentine's gift I ever got...that wasn't from my mom. So really, I've had 9 years of dashed expectations that make me the Realist that I am today.

So I don't expect much. Scratch that...I don't expect anything. A card would put me into shock. Flowers--cardiac arrest. Like last Friday, I went to get a sandwich for lunch. And the guy at the deli gave me and one of my friends each a small stalk of flowers from a vase. I squealed with joy at the kindness of strangers (who likely just want my return business), and giggled even though big burly construction workers were trying to sweet talk my flowers away from me. "No way!" I told them through their reflective safety vests. "These are the only flowers I'm gonna get! Back off!" I may, however, return to that same deli tomorrow and see if I can scrounge up a box of chocolates, or perhaps some sort of marriage-for-greencard arrangement.

Anyhow, I just wanted to state, for the record, that I'm not a big fan of the highly commercialized Hallmark Holiday that we are forced to reckon with each year on February 14th. This year, I did send one e-valentine to one person, and it was only because it contained a very cute puppy (another industry marketing ploy). Otherwise, I'm really only in it for the next-day half-off chocolate sales.

That, and the card from my mom. (Thanks mom.)

that's gonna leave a mark.

2005-02-05T20:14:00.000-05:00

This story begins several days ago while I was lying on my bed, talking to a friend in the dark. As I stared off into space, a quick green flash of light caught my eye.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What was what?" he responded. I sat up and looked around, and it happened again.

"Oooh, right there! It came from there!" I said excitedly. Then I realized there was a smoke alarm on the wall. "That's weird. I don't ever remember seeing that there before."

"Well, every apartment has to have one," he said.

"Yes, and mine did. Over THERE," I said, pointing to the empty ring of mounted plastic in the kitchen. "I took it down because it went off EVERY time I turned on the oven. It's in the silverware drawer."

"You know you're not supposed to--"

"I KNOW I'm not supposed to take it down. But EVERY TIME I TURNED ON THE OVEN!! What's the point of having a device if it's over-sensitive to the point that people dismantle them?"

Soon after this conversation/argument, my friend left. And as I shut and locked the door, I turned around to see right there, upon the countertop, a new, sealed-in-plastic operating manual for a combination smoke/carbon monoxide detector.

"Mother fuckers," I said to no one in particular. This meant that someone had been in my apartment without my permission NOR my knowledge, which was not only illegal but also gave access to all my bras and underwear scattered on the floor. This did NOT make me happy, and I spent the night wondering if someone was going to jump out from a closet, except there's only one closet and definitely no room to hide in it.

Now -- to the present day.

Hungry and cranky and most likely suffering PMS (yes, AGAIN), I went to the store for some groceries. Among other things like tofu, yogurt, and cheese, I bought Stouffer's French Bread Pizza, Deluxe flavor. I was so so so excited for my little french slice of heaven, covered with sausage, pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, peppers....yummmmm!!

As the instructions indicate, and as I've done a thousand times before, I microwaved the pizza for 90 seconds while the oven preheated to 450°. I popped in the pizza, checked the time, and wandered away from the kitchen.

When I checked my pizza, it was a little crispy, but I didn't mind. I pulled it out of the oven and was examining the cheesy goodness when--

BEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! "Fire! Fire!"

In complete and utter bewilderment, I spun in circles trying to figure out who was talking to me. I crossed the apartment in a series of quick strides, wondering how on earth I was going to fan the alarm that is mounted just inches away from my 10-foot ceiling. I looked around at my feet and, with the oven mitt still on my hand, grabbed a thick catalog while snapping the lid on my giant 18-gallon Rubbermaid container of clothing. "Fire! Fire!" some woman's voice announced.

I put my weight on the container, knowing it wouldn't hold me for long. But to my surprise it supported me as I waved the giant catalog over my head, begging the beeping woman to stop announcing my "fire" to the five boroughs. It wouldn't stop, it just wouldn't stop, and as I wondered what my neighbors were thinking....the inevitable happened.

POP! The Rubbermaid lid let go and fell into its container, dropping me a foot and a half to the ground. I bounced off the wall, taking my very, VERY treasured script of handmade Chinese calligraphy from college down off the wall as I went. Then, with a giant thunderous CRASH, the Rubbermaid tipped to the side and shot out, smashing into my water-filled humidifier and sending it careening -- in pieces -- across the floor. Vaguely aware of pain on the left side of my rib cage, I scrambled back to my feet and went to the kitchen for a chair.

The chairs are cheap and chinsey (but such a bargain!) and not made to withstand the weight of a crazy woman frantically waving a thick catalog at a chirping, speaking fire alarm. (By the way, WHEN did they start TALKING??) I lined up the chair, but first stopped to open the window as much as possible -- which was only a few more inches than its already open state. "Fire! Fire!" BEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Back on the chair, I stood and fanned and fanned and fanned. I wondered if I could reach the device, but suspected extending myself that far would make another spill not just likely, but deserved. I wished I'd looked at the manual so I knew how to shut this thing the fuck up. And I fanned and fanned and fanned, my head now inches away from the million-decibel shrieker, until finally...it stopped.

Sh.

Deep breath.

I rested my arms a second before fanning some more in the hopes the squawky bitch wouldn't start up again. I jumped off the chair to open the other window, landing in a giant puddle of water left behind my scattered humidifier, which was now actually under the bed. I fanned a few minutes more before finally relenting, stepping down so I could eat the goddamned pizza before it was slightly crispy AND cold.

As I chewed my first delicious-but-not-worth-the-trouble bite, I walked in front of the mirror and lifted my shirt. Two parallel red marks, each 6-8 inches long, wrapped around my rib cage, and another, much smaller, at the base of my neck. There's also a bruise on my hand. I don't know what I hit, but I hit something, and all because some dirty asshole let himself in to install a new, state-required smoke alarm, whose batteries, I assure you, are about to come out.

nyc is unkind to the decision-making-challenged.

2005-02-04T13:03:00.000-05:00

I have been staring at my computer screen for I'd say about 15 minutes now. The reason? I can't decide what I want for lunch. I have a natural inability to make these kinds of decisions, so it's not that it's surprising. It's that it keeps getting worse.

Back in Boston, we had a cafeteria in our company's building. The food sucked and was completely over-priced, but usually my biggest decision was "do I want fries or onion rings." (Coincidentally, this was also the most exciting decision, because it meant we had an option other than fries, which was very, very exciting.)

Other days, when I'd go out to lunch, it was a little harder. Barb and I would clamor into the car, and hem and haw over where to go, hoping we'd come up with an idea before the light turned green. On special occasions, one of us would be craving something, and say something like "I want honey mustard. Let's go to Friendly's!" But in the majority of cases, I'd just yell out "Go left!" or "Go right!" and we'd pick an option from that part of town, narrowing it down only as we drove past our options, saying "I guess not Papa Gino's...not Johnny Rockets." But even then, it was HARD. I never knew what I wanted, and that was with about 10 or 12 strong lunch options to choose from.

Now imagine that I have about 10 or 12 HUNDRED lunch options to choose from. Chinese, Mexican, Korean, Afghan, Indian, Japanese, pizza, sandwiches, bagels, and on and on and on. And even if I narrow it down to, say, pizza, I then have to decide which of the 47 nearby pizza shops I want my slices from: the Italian place, the Greek place, the Kosher place, the place with seating or without, the place across the street or 3 blocks away, the one with the free soda or the one with extra cheese. I end up so completely overwhelmed that instead of choosing ANY of them to silence and satiate the screaming hunger from my stomach, I sit here staring at the walls.

In traditional Barb's-car-like style, I usually just wander out the door, and turn left, or right, or go straight, and eventually say "oh. I guess I'll go here. again. or for the first time," which is really only the beginning. Because then I have to deal with picking something from the menu...

it was a good idea at the time.

2005-02-01T09:34:00.000-05:00

This morning the sun was up and the birds were chirping (or cooing, as pigeons do). It was one of those mid-winter days where the temperature rose up and above the recent chilly single digits, with hopes of high 30s in the forecast. This, my friends, is a skirt day.

So I showered, dried my hair, and trotted around happily as if it were a spring day in April. I dug out a black skirt, some black tights for my legs, and then.....off to the closet.

I know you think this is going very girlie very quickly. And you're right. Because when I got to the closet I pulled out an aqua blue sweater. For funky layering purposes, I tossed a pink shirt under it. And when I was almost ready to go, I opted for some pink shoes - same color as the shirt. How CUTE!!

Until I got to work. Now I am afraid that I'm one jelly bracelet away from a bad 80s throwback. If I maybe put my hair in a scary ponytail on the side of my head, and added some lace gloves, I really think some fashion magazine photographer would chase me down the street for their "Don't!" section. Or maybe those "What NOT to Wear" people would jump on me from their perch upon some fire escape and hose me down.

Truthfully, I think I'm okay. I am right on the verge of being TOO 80s. But I can't help it. I mean...how do you unlearn something like that? It's like my child self was digging through the closet looking for "radical" color combinations, but instead came out with something that, like, totally makes me want to gag myself with a silver spoon!

Watch out Debbie Gibson. Here I come.

two random stories

2005-01-27T09:47:00.000-05:00

Today's blog is two random stories that have nothing to do with one another except that they happened around me.

#1) Bike Delivery Guy

The other night I was walking home from the laundromat with my bundle hoisted up on my shoulder. I teetered on the narrow sidewalk, trying not to slip on the frozen chunks of snow-ice. When I looked up, the light was about to change, so I hurried across the street to beat the traffic.

The problem with trying to beat the light in the winter time is that when you do get across the street, there may or may not be a place for you to leap from the street to the sidewalk. Thanks to all this frozen white crap, walking space is severely limited. So when you cross against traffic, and cars come speeding at you, there is a possibility that you may actually have to hurdle a snow mound to get to safety.

So I got lucky, and my bundle of clothes and I scurried to safety as a man behind me leapt over the snow. However, simultaneously, a bike delivery guy entered the scene on his ricket old bike with the big metal basket on front, holding food. The bike delivery guy was also trying to beat traffic. So he sped across the street, realizing at the last minute he was about to collide with another bike delivery guy. He veered sharply, and went right into a giant wintry bike-swallowing pothole. After spasmatically sticking his legs out to his sides, he pedaled again, this time aiming for the "opening" to the sidewalk, only to discover that there were people in it, including me. So without any control whatsoever, and assuming his velocity would be enough to overpower the depth of the snow, the delivery guy approached the sidewalk at a very unnatural angle. And he did, in fact, have enough velocity to overpower the snow, but...

He did not anticipate the giant steel border to the sidewalk. His front tire hit, catapulting his back tire nearly straight up into the air. Somehow, against all laws of gravity, the food stayed in the basket while the deliver guy bounced around and lost a testicle. He never let go of the bike, never fell off it, and it never hit the ground. But he had this ridiculous grin on his face, aware that he'd made a series of idiot blunders in front of a crowd--including another bike delivery guy that couldn't restrain his laughter.

#2) Really Pretty Gross.

Many mornings, depending on how on-time or late I am, I run into a dogwalker around the corner from my apartment. He usually has 8-12 big dogs, all huskies and german shepards. I often wonder how he controls such a strong pack of dogs.

This morning when I rounded the corner, the dog walker was there with his full load of 12 mighty pooches. But he wasn't walking, he was halting, pulling back on the tangled mess of leashes. I followed the taut lines to the dogs, who were all standing at attention, focusing on the same object. So I followed their gaze...to a pigeon.

The dirty disgusting pigeon was pecking along the side of a building for crumbs. I snuck by, between the dogs and the bird, fearing for my life. Over my shoulder I heard a scuffle, and the dogwalker yelling. When I turned around, it was just in time to see one of the dogs snatch up the pigeon. "Put it down! Drop it!" the dogwalker yelled.

I forced away my urge to puke, trying instead to look at the bright side: at least there's one less dirty disgusting pigeon in the world.

how do you drive this thing?

2005-01-25T09:01:00.000-05:00

This morning I had a very difficult time getting dressed. And for once, I don't mean that in the very girlie sense of being rendered incapable of picking out which shirt to wear or which shoes work to make my ass look better. I mean it literally. Physically. In the way that a 2-year-old has a difficult time getting dressed.

Everything was just out of whack. I plugged in the iron then tripped on the cord, sending the dangerous hunk of junk crashing to the floor in the immediate direction of my naked, defenseless toes. Amusingly, my defense is to scrunch up my naked, defenseless toes, as if this will make the impact of a heavy, flat piece of metal hurt less. So at the last nanosecond, I jumped upward and away from the iron, and watched it crash to the floor leaking the water that should instead be converting itself to steam at this time.

After cleaning up the iron debacle, I walked over to my closet to pick out pieces. I then realized they were all piled in a heap on a chair in the other room, so I went back. I pulled out some not-too-bad smelling pants, and grabbed a collared shirt and a v-neck sweater. Okay. Hard girlie part is over.

I ironed the pants with a great deal of difficulty, largely due to the non-existence of an actual ironing board. Mine's a long, distorted pentagon that lays upon my bed (or other horizontal surface) and pretends to be an ironing board. It's about half as long as one of my pant legs, which means that for each pair of pants I must iron, flip, rotate, shift, and tangle myself a minimum of nine times.

Once the pants are relatively wrinkle-free, I put them on one leg at a time, but not without first doing the "clean the dirty feet" ritual, which basically involves me standing on one leg, brushing the bottom of one foot against the top of the other foot in the hopes that whatever foreign objects I've picked up between the shower and now don't make it onto the inside of my pant leg only to gross me out and tickle me later. But often this ritual is severely risky, usually during the transfer when one leg is panted, and the other foot is dirty. It requires sheer amounts of balance and coordination, neither of which I possess. So in most cases, I teeter to the left or right, which isn't too bad now that I've learned to be near to a bed or wall at the time.

Pants on (Pants!), shirt on, I'm bustling around my sweltering apartment doing hair, makeup, packing my bag, waiting until the final moment to put on my sweater so I don't, well, sweat right through it. So finally the moment comes, and I excitedly grab the sweater from its hanger, clip off its tag (while neatly maintaining the little plastic pieces for disposal so as not to step on it later and think a) my father was right and b) I have to do the dirty foot ritual again), and pull the fabric over my head.

And...stop. I stood hunched, scowling at myself in the full-length mirror, wondering how I could have gone so wrong so quickly. I double checked that my head went through the head hole, which I was pleased to see it did, even though it would have been much more amusing to tell you I stuck it through a sleeve hole. But something was happening with the way the fabric was stretching and folding, and I was tangled up beyond all recognition.

After some fancy acrobatics and contortionism, I managed to get the sweater down far enough to stick my left arm through the left sleeve hole, realizing at the last minute that the sweater sleeves were 3/4 length and my shirt was 4/4 length. (Fashion error? Or trendy layering?) so dealing with the whole one long sleeve inside another long sleeve was causing me great pain, and yet I was only halfway there.

By now, of course, my hair is at full static tilt, and I look like someone has been rubbing a balloon on my head for the last 20 minutes. I twisted, snarled, tugged, and contorted my right arm into the right sleeve, and was amazed to see in the mirror that I was still so very, very far from finished. I pulled the sweater's armpits up into place, unfurled the rolled up fabric to cover my stomach, and danced around like someone with a hive full of bees stinging their ass. But I can proudly say, after all that, I finally got the sweater on, properly, right-side in, tags in the back, and armpits properly aligned.

Later, when I undress, I am taking the whole finagled mess off in one piece, and will never wear this sweater with anything else, because frankly, I don't think I can go through that again. Not, at least, without some adult supervision.

if my lips weren't frozen, i'd bitch about the cold.

2005-01-21T09:10:00.000-05:00

What, dare I ask, have we done to deserve this? Is it because the Red Sox finally won the world series? Or because "W" was re-inaugurated? Why, WHY has hell--and the rest of the Northeast--frozen over??

This morning, like every morning this week, I opened my eyes and peered out over the giant down comforter under which I snuggled. I could see sunlight, and hear the hiss of my radiator, but I knew that nothing good was waiting for me outside the safety of my apartment...or for that matter, my bed.

I showered and flipped on the TV to get the current temperature. I prayed that it would at LEAST be double digits. And there, beside my friend Pat Kiernan's head, it read "9°." Damn. Yesterday had been a ripe, blistering 25° and it truly felt like a heatwave. At lunch time, the temperature had sky-rocketed to 30° so I went out without my hat, which turned out to be a big, bitter mistake for my poor little ears. I would not make that mistake again today.

I bundled up in my thickest pants, six layers of shirts and sweaters, warm socks, giant boots that forbade my feet to come in contact with the frozen ground. I put on my big jacket, my hat pulled down to my eyes, my scarf wrapped around my head covering my neck and face up to--and including--my nose. I added my protective eyewear (read: sunglasses) to finalize the no-exposed-flesh routine, and then I grabbed my keys, metrocard, and mittens, and headed out the door.

The cold chomped through my 26 layers like a swarm of arctic piranhas. My eyes watered and my nose ran as I speed-walked up the hill to the subway. I breathed warm, sighful breaths into my scarf, which naturally fogged up my sunglasses, causing me to look like an idiot to other passers-by. But, their heads were wrapped in scarves and hats too, so they probably couldn't see me.

The subway entrance ahead was my salvation. I bolted down the stairs, tearing my hand free of a mitten to get (and use) my metrocard. I went downstairs to the platform, where it is almost as cold as outside do to the open grates from the sidewalks above. I was thankful that it was ONLY cold, and not snowing on the platform like it was earlier in the week.

The train came, and to my very big surprise, there were seats available. I cosied in between two grown men, and for once, appreciated the physical closeness of complete strangers. Even though we all had our shoulders curled in and hands on our laps, I felt warmer just being wedged in. And even though I'd managed to align myself in just that wrong way that causes my bra strap clip with the back of the seat, causing the little metal fasteners to grind into my spinal column, the pain was worth it--I was warm.

When I got to work, my favorite cube neighbor had whipped up some hot chocolate that was waiting for me. I poured a splash into a mug, then hissed in about a cup and a half of whipped cream. As I oohed and aahed over the warm liquid delight in front of me, someone said "I thought you were from Boston. Shouldn't you be used to this weather?"

I sipped my cocoa, and said with my sweetest "you're lucky it's friday" smile, "People seem to confuse my being USED to this weather with my actually ENJOYING it. Sure, I KNOW the cold. But that doesn't mean I want to walk around in it. And sure, I KNOW the snow, but that sure as shit doesn't mean I want to shovel it!"

That's when I realized...I don't have to. No more scraping 3 inches of ice off my windshield 4 times a day. No more digging out my car and my idiot carnie neighbors' cars just so I could clear a path to slide down the driveway backwards into traffic. No bitching about idiot SUV drivers on 128 who stopped fast and caused a rooftop of snow to cover their entire windshield, causing panic and a multi-car pileup. No more fighting with the postman over mail non-delivery because our front steps were too icy. Nope--none of it. My biggest concern is making sure I have both mittens and a good pair of boots. (And maybe some strangers to cuddle with on the train.)

mistaken identity.

2005-01-17T21:59:00.000-05:00

Lunchtime in New York is a busy time of day. People are bustling about on their 5, 20, 40, or 80 minute lunch breaks trying to cram in errands, food, and a breath of fresh air. But there's also the delivery world, a near-silent network of delivery guys on foot and bike, whisking by you in such a blur that you barely take notice of the little white bags of food they work so frantically to deliver.

The thing with these delivery guys is, well, okay, there are a few things. One is that they are absolute maniacs on bicycles, and are in fact more likely to run you over and leave you for dead than your average taxi driver. You look left and right before crossing, but the second you step into the street a bike with a basket goes whizzing by at immeasurable speeds, missing you by mere inches, and reminding you next time to look around for more than just vehicles with headlights.

The other thing (and I do apologize for how insensitive this sounds but I swear it impacts the story) is that all delivery guys more or less look the same. They usually come from one of two broad ethnic categories: vaguely Asian or vaguely Central/South American, neither of which uses English as a first language, and often results in the same final effect: a little brown guy in a hat and jacket holding a white bag of food.

Most days (especially the overly cold, rainy, or otherwise inclement ones), when I head out for lunch, the lobby of my building is filled with these delivery fellas, a good 6-10 of them, hanging out waiting for their orderees. The orderees occasionally emerge from an elevator, cash in hand, and, overwhelmed with options and a severe lack of communication, will shout out "Gigi's?? Anyone from Gigi's??" and eager delivery guys say in broken English, "yes, I Blimpies," or "yes, Chan's heah," and so it goes until the correct food finds its owner.

So one chilly day not long ago, I was bundled up and riding the elevator down to head out for lunch. And just like any other day, I was greeted by a sea of eager faces, half-covered with hats and scarves and zippered-up jackets, each hoping I had their money so they could move on and make the next delivery. They offered out their white bags, some paper, others plastic, shouting "lady, Chinese?" or "you wait turkee sanwidge?" And like any other day, knowing they aren't waiting for me, I breeze right past them and walk out the door.

On this day, I came out the other side of the door, and snobbily ignored the smoking delivery guy on the other side. He exhaled a mouthful of cigarette smoke in my face, and when I looked up to glare, I had to do a double take. This Asian man's face, like the others, was half-covered with a hat and zippered-up jacket, and he was holding a white bag of food. But this shady-looking man in need of a haircut was not a delivery guy...he was my boss.

In one of those painful moments of realization, I gasped, choking on the second-hand smoke, and turned on my heel. "Oh. Uh. David...hi," I stumbled. But it was too late, and we both knew it. The error was made. He gave me a tight-lipped non-smile, and nodded slightly. I returned the gesture, taking it as a cue to shut up and leave, so I turned again on the same heel, and ran away. Far, far away.

And much to my surprise, I have not, as of yet, been fired.

NO FISH IN THE WORKPLACE!!!!

2005-01-12T13:59:00.000-05:00

I propose a new policy in all places of employment that require employees to sit side-by-side separated by walls that only go a portion of the distance between the floor and the ceiling. The policy should state:

"At no time is it permissible to bring fish to the workplace, microwave the fish, or eat it at your desk. If you are seen or smelled in the act of causing a fishy smell in the workplace, it is grounds for immediate dismissal or death."

Anyone who knows me can tell you--I am NOT a fish person. If it comes from the ocean, keep it the hell away from me. As a kid, my grandfather would catch fish and send them home where my mother would cook them. I would close my bedroom door, wedge a towel under it, and run to an open window to breathe fresh non-fish-smelling air. I am NOT making this up.

So it comes as no surprise to most people that now, years later, I have a similar reaction when someone brings fish into the office. To me, this is one of the greatest offenses caused to mankind. It's among the ranks of coveting thy neighbors wife, murder, and shushing. (Yes, shushing, as in "ssssssh!") There are NO words for how horrifyingly nauseating the smell of reheated fish is to people who DON'T LIKE IT. And fish-eating folks should bear this in mind when providing us a slow death through microwaved fishery.

I bring this up because I know Anne Marie is with me on it. That, and the fact that the woman who sits near me at work (who I actually like very much) is eating fish for the second time this week. But I can't complain about it because a) she's a vegetarian and b) she's pregnant. She needs her protein. But does it have to be at my expense?? Can't she take a pill or something? I'm sitting over here with a binder clip clamping my nose shut and my head in the trash can. This is no way to live.

So, people, please. If you yourself are a fish-eater, and you find yourself bringing in a little container of it to work one day, think for a minute about the people around you. Just because your lunch smells good to YOU doesn't mean anyone else wants to smell it, lingering around the office for hours, infiltrating every nook and cranny with its rotten aroma, reviving a newfound potency every time someone opens the microwave door. You're killin' me, and many people like me who never did anything to deserve this. I don't shit at your desk, so please keep your shit away from mine...or I'll aim at you when I barf.

the real truth about PMS.

2005-01-03T21:50:00.000-05:00

Okay fellas. Let me unlock a little portion of the PMS mystery for ya. I’m not saying it’s gonna make you feel any better but, well, whatever. Shut up and listen.

The thing about PMS is that sometimes even WE don’t know when it’s happening. Generally, if I know I’m in a particularly bitchy mood, I retreat from society and let the mood swings pass. But some days, like today, I don’t know I’m in a day-long PMS fit until I find myself calling a plastic spoon a “dirty fucking bitch” because it fell into the dirty dishwater. Appropriate anger? Probably not. Harsh, unwarranted profanity for inanimate objects is usually a good indicator of trouble.

Today was one of those fucking days for me where I hated everyone in the world, including myself. Nothing went according to plan, people kept standing me up and pissing me off, and then the little things started to absolutely break me down. It should have been obvious when I started crying while talking to my mother about her new cell phone head set. There’s nothing tearful there. No reason to be upset. Yet I was. And through a quivering voice I told her I had to go. Right now.

Or maybe the food should have tipped me off. It should have been obvious when I ate seventeen fistfuls of bite size chocolate candies in the matter of about four seconds. The carnage of brightly colored foil wrappers all around me, I paid no notice to the dozen+ snickers, rolos, and hershey’s miniatures I popped in and practically swallowed whole. Or the fact that for dinner, cooking also made me teary-eyed until I decided on “fucking eggs and bacon, because I want it, dammit.” I put cheese in the eggs, but the real clincher, which only my mother and sister could attest to, was that I put ketchup on the eggs. While this is a normal and routine condiment on eggs for a great many people, it is not so for me. If you see me applying ketchup to cheesy eggs, please, for your own safety, leave the country immediately.

This time, for some reason that defies medicine and science, I wasn’t prepared for my own PMS. I’ve been trapped in my apartment with myself for days, thanks to holidays from work and a vicious cold. Anyone unfortunate enough to come in contact with me today only heard me bitch and bitch and bitch, fusing in a single breath such statements as: “and THEN he called back and canceled on me!” with “THEN my fucking internet crapped out” with “and THEN I ate the last rolo! What the fuck! How fucking rude is that? Jesus fucking Christ, I hate myself!” To these friends, I apologize whole-heartedly. (Even to Bobo, who kept antagonizing me in his role of "he who represents all of the male species" throughout the conversation.)

So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make some Special Dark Brownie mix and eat it uncooked, because it’s my fucking right as a PMS maniac, and no one is going to fucking stop me. Except maybe that dirty bitch plastic spoon.

anything but this.

2004-12-28T14:29:00.000-05:00

So, it's 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm at the point where I would rather be anywhere but here, at my desk, in my beige cubicle, under fluorescent lights, staring at the walls.

See, I have a cold. A shitty, watery-eyes, stuffy-nose, drippy-snot, tickly-cough, achy-head, knotty-back, someone-put-me-out-of-my-misery cold. (That should be the new Nyquil slogan.) It's in full swing now, despite my being in denial about it for the last 3 days. First I blamed it on my cat allergies, then on the change in weather, then on public transportation. But...in the end, I think it was already working in my system before I left for the weekend. Ugh. Obviously it was bad enough that I made a batch of chicken soup yesterday. So it's less like denial and more like...I don't know. Something else.

Well, now I'm at work, lamenting my existence here, and debating whether to leave early and go home to sleep, or stick it out the next hour and a half and accomplish absolutely nothing like I've been doing all day. I spent the last, hm, 40 minutes or so literally just sitting here. I may have even dozed off for a bit. But eventually my hot-flash/cold-chill woke me up, I wiped my bright red nose with a tissue, and stared at the walls some more.

Then I took some Robitussin ("mo tussin!") which apparently caused some heart palpitations, which I tried to track by counting a heartbeat. I couldn't find my heart, mostly because my bra is so heavily padded that no pulse can be detected through it, so I went for my neck and counted from there instead. 31 beats in 15 seconds seems....alarming. Oh well, it'll slow down.

Still, I feel better with the Tussin than I did without. My nose is no longer spewing yellow snot, which is a nice change of pace. (Although, there was a brief moment earlier when the right nostril was spewing yellow snot and the left was spewing red. That was special.) I have cleaned up the littering of cough drop wrappers that were all over the desk, and have managed to not yet open my second box of tissue today. (Note: Duane Reade did NOT have Puffs Plus today. What the FUCK is that about?? Remind me later to send them a photograph of my bright red nose while I give them the bird.)

What is it about having a cold that makes us so helpless? I instinctively want to be on my grandmother's couch under Papa's blanket, watching the Price is Right, sipping ginger ale and eating crackers, and slurping homemade soup from the bowl delivered to me on the couch. I think, maybe, that's where I am in my mind...watching Gramma do word searches in the rocking chair, occasionally stopping to shout at Bob Barker or put a cool, damp cloth on my forehead. Maybe I AM there, and that's why I'm not here, at work, editing ridiculously boring manuscripts.

No wait. Here I am. And here's a book about manually operated plumbing systems. Damn, guess I'm at work after all. I hate when that happens.

trains, trains, trains.

2004-12-27T10:27:00.000-05:00

Don't let anyone fool you--trains are still a backbone of transportation in this country. I traveled almost exclusively by trains from small town, MA to UES, NY yesterday, and let me tell you...it STILL sucks.

First, in Boston, I had to deal with the token booth dude. Why Boston still uses tokens is beyond me. If I had my way, I would have just swiped my MetroCard on my way through. But alas, this did not happen. And as I heard the bell ringing in Alewife, the signal that the next train is about to leave, and I tried to zig and zag around slow-moving idiots with snail-paced small children, I watched from the top of the staircase as the train pulled away. I also shot the traditional dirty "it's all your fault" look at the children to teach them a lesson.

So I got on the other train, the one that was going to sit idle for 10 more minutes before leaving the station. I had the good fortune of boarding a car with a resident drunk who, from his slumped over position, occasionally yelled in Spanish to "get moving" or in English to "fuck off." Soon there were three MBTA officers there, and by "officers" I mean average people with two-way radios and a misleading sense of authority, who started hassling the drunkard before taking away his 40-oz. bottle of spirit. To this he resisted by shouting "You assholes!" before lying back down across a row of seats and passing out.

Eventually I got to South Station, where I had to wait another 45 mins for my Amtrak train to take me to New York. Being that South Station is so well planned, I had no where to sit. So I wheeled my suitcase over to a model train display, and sat on it. ("It" being the suitcase, not the train.) I was then run into and over by a series of small children whose moron parents allowed them to run in giant circles WITH the model train, often screaming at the top of their lungs while doing so. Now, I know trains are exciting, but please people, tell your kids to sit still and shut the hell up.

Later, I boarded my train, where I nestled into my window seat and used loud music to drown out the cries of cranky children on board who were upset, I presume, that they were no longer running circles with the model train. One little boy was very quiet, but only because his portable DVD player was VERY LOUD, which helped to drown out the screaming little girl to his left. But either would have been preferable over the woman who coughed and hacked and sneezed and gurgled continuously for four and a half hours, spewing her germs across the car.

Hours later, as the train pulled into Penn Station, I made my veteran move to the front of the pack and bolted up the escalator with my suitcase on my shoulder. I ran to the subway, where I conveniently swiped my MetroCard, and boarded a car with another Standard Subway Drunkard. This one was quieter than the last, but smelled strongly of urine. I watched amusedly as he leaned lower and lower, defying all laws of gravity by keeping his face a mere 1000th of an inch off the seat--and that's while he was sleeping!!

I left the drunk to transfer trains, and spent several minutes trying to wheel my suitcase past a pair of women with two unruly children who occupied the entire width of the walkway. "Excuse me," I said to the older woman. "EXCUSE ME." When she wouldn't move, I simply bowled her over, and when she scowled at me, I simply reminded her "I said EXCUSE ME!" which, also being in English, I'm sure she did not understand. I then broke into a jog, hoping to catch the train that was waiting, but missed it, which caused me to turn around and shoot more dirty looks at the woman to remind her it was all her fault.

So, in summary, all trains still have drunks and idiots, and while I can handle a few of each on any given day, I think 6 steady hours is more than I can handle. And if anyone sees the coughing hacking sneezing gurgling woman, let me know so I can punch her in the face. I think I caught her cold.

NOW will you stop making fun?

2004-12-18T22:08:00.000-05:00

For the last, say, 3 years, people have been making constant fun of my digital camera. I bought it in 2001, and at the time it was on sale as one of the phasing-out models. It has 1.3 megapixels, weak digital "zoom," and most importantly - it's huge, especially when compared to the spectrum of miniscule Mission Impossible spy-cam models that are out now.

Most tech saavy people, upon seeing my digital dinosaur, have a reaction like one of the following, which are direct quotes:

"Wow...what is that, a laptop?"

"What is this thing, a VCR?"

"Wow, how do you get that around? Does it have wheels?"

Okay, OKAY. Enough already!! I heard ya. Yes, my digital camera is old and big and klunky. Yes, I've been meaning to buy a new one for some time. And ya know what? Finally. FINALLY, let all the laughing end.

Today I went out to do some holiday shopping--for me. I have been struggling with getting the last few gifts on my list for other people, so I decided to make myself feel better by purchasing a new digital camera. I had sort of asked for one for Christmas but didn't get any responses from anyone, so I'm guessing/hoping no one got one. (If you did, let's talk.)

The new camera, a Sony Cybershot with 4.1 megapixels, is roughly 1/6th the size of my old camera. It has all kinds of spanky fresh new features that hadn't likely been developed in 2001 when I bought the other camera. It can do shutter bursts, zoom, and even take several minutes worth of moving pictures. I'm very excited.

All night I've been walking around taking pictures of myself and random, boring, inanimate household objects, like a spoon, or...a pen. Then I upload them to the computer so I can oooh and aaah at the huge difference in resolution. Then I go back and take more random, boring, pictures and repeat the process. Exciting nerd life I lead.

Anyhow, the point is, all you camera fun-poking assholes: BITE ME! I got a new one, okay? So back off already. Or I'll throw my old, giant, four-wheeled laptop VCR at your head. And it will hurt. Because it's so big. Shut up.

city streets at night

2004-12-17T09:57:00.000-05:00

Last night I was walking home in the cold after warming my spirit over a glass (or pitcher) of sangria with a couple of friends. We parted ways, and I had four little blocks to walk on my own.

Almost immediately, there was a man with a dog on the sidewalk. The dog was getting into that weird, scrunched, ass-to-the-ground position that says "I'm about to shit now!" Seeing dogs shit on the sidewalk is a very common occurrence. Seeing owners pick up after them is far less frequent. But this guy--he was VERY smart.

As the dog is about to drop a load, the man slides a newspaper under the dog's ass. Now...I'm guessing this man has been doing the ol' Big City Poop Scoop for so many years that he figured out the cleanest way to get the job done. But I for one was impressed at his innovative approach, even though it required the dog's cooperation. If you tossed a newspaper at my dog while she was pooping, you'd scare the--well. She'd run away, completely freaked out, and would probably leave a trail behind her. So props to the poop man on a job well done.

Then on the next block there was a man who kept stopping other men on the street saying "Hey man, I got all this stuff to get home, and I can't carry it all. Will ya help a brutha out?" I laughed, mostly because I have been in that situation, wishing that with the right amount of eyelash batting and coy smiling, I could get some fella to help a damsel in distress. But it didn't work for me, and it sure wasn't working for this guy. "Excuse me mister," he'd kept saying. "I got all this stuff to get home...."

My biggest problem here was that I didn't see this alleged "stuff." I saw a pile of trash on the curb, but definitely no "stuff" that seemed worthwhile to not just carry home, but ask for HELP in carrying home. But before I could see how this one would end, someone else stole the show.

Picture, if you will...

It's a cold windy night in December. Your chin is tucked deep, nestled into your scarf as you try to block out the chilly draft. Your eyes water in the cold, your nose runs, and you keep your eyes on the ground as you walk briskly home. But your eyes, watery as they may be, suddenly lock onto red leather. You slowly lift up, higher, until you realize the red leather is that of a pair of thigh-high boots that cover a pair of unstable legs attached to a foul-mouthed and intoxicated hooker a few steps in front of you.

"Yoo wan sum gooooooood pussy!" she yells into the night, at no one in particular. She stumbles to the right, then back to the left, her long horrible wig swaying with each difficult step. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me ma pussy ain't good. I got GOOD pussy. Mm-hmm good pussy right here. Who wans to fuck ma goooooood pussy?"

Suppressing hysterical laughter by stifling it in my scarf, I watched as the Lady in Red staggered back and forth across the sidewalk, walking like she just spent the last three months riding a horse. She continued to mutter on to herself about good pussy before lurching head-first toward a black gate, stumbling through it, and disappearing into a building. Apparently, good pussy is available at #1823.

After that, the last block home seemed boring an uneventful, but I shouldn't complain. I had three full blocks of entertainment to distract me from the fact that I was cold and miserable. Poop, stuff, and good pussy - THAT is what makes New York great.

'tis the f'n season.

2004-12-14T08:54:00.000-05:00

So yes. Once again, the holiday season is upon us. And once again, it is making me miserable.

Last night, in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit, I decided to try shopping for my first holiday purchases of the season--in actual stores. I'm a firm, steadfast believer that everything should be selected, paid for, and shipped from the internet, because the human element is highly overrated. But sometimes you miss out on the holiday fun that way: no holiday music, no friendly smiles, no festive lights. so I thought perhaps I should venture into the stores.

HA. I was hunting for a not-so-easy-to-find DVD, so I landed at BestBuy. As I rode down the escalator and saw the 30-person-deep check out line snaking around 4 or 5 different corners, and a voice on the PA saying "Code 1! Code 1! All available employees to the registers!" I thought maybe this was a Very Bad Idea. But I was here, and the DVDs were right around the corner, so I took a breath and jumped in.

Mayhem. Total and utter mayhem. There was no longer a sense of logic or order among either the DVDs OR the people. Idiots with giant shopping bags and backpacks clogged the aisles. Small children whined and sat in the middle of the floor. And not only could I not find what I wanted, but there was NO ONE to help me figure out if it existed. I walked up and down the 8 or 9 rows of DVDs several times, stepping over screaming tots and rolling my eyes at their parents. I never found what I was looking for, which is probably the best thing for me, because to justify standing in that long ass line to pay, I would have had to buy several hundred dollars worth of stuff.

So I left, and went home only to realize that I was losing vision in my left eye--my now standard sign that a migraine is coming. Christmas shopping gave me a MIGRAINE. So, you know what people? If you don't get something from me this year, it's because it wasn't available on the internet. I'm not going in ANY more stores this year. Christmas shopping is hazardous to my health. The surgeon general should warn you about this shit.

i am SUCH a nerd.

2004-12-10T09:08:00.000-05:00

Okay, so, there's this weatherman in Boston that my friend Kevin told me about. He (Kevin) sent me an email that said "This guy's forecasts are right up your alley. Read it. Pants." And then there was a link to this: http://www1.whdh.com/weather/ . (Kevin didn't mean the actual day-to-day forecast, but rather the "Discussion" section further down the page.)

Now, mind you, at the time of this realization, I was actually still IN Boston. And I was quite a weather geek and was constantly telling people my interpretation of the latest doppler radar or spouting facts about the snow albedo effect or how, despite Anne Marie's doubts, it can actually snow and not make it to the ground. So when Kevin sent me this link, I put it right up into my bookmarks, and followed Pete's forecast every day. (Except when he's on vacation, which is far less fun.)

So now it has been months and months...maybe even a year since Kevin hooked me up to the hugely entertaining world of "Petey B." And although I moved to a new city, I read every day, and most times laugh hard enough to grab a snippet and send it to Kevin saying "that crazy Pete! Look what he said today!"

So yesterday I decided to email Pete, and give him a little fan mail:

Hi Pete,

I just wanted you to know that you are, as they say, da bomb. I moved to New York from Boston a few months ago, but I still check in online on a daily basis to see what kind of meteorological pop-cultural anecdote you've got up your sleeve. From pine trees wearing "pasties" to Counting Crows, because of you, I look forward to each day's forecast for a city in which I no longer live. Don't ever leave!

Your Big Apple weather fan,
Stephanie

And this morning, to my surprise, I had an email back from the great and powerful Pete:

Aw shucks Stephanie, I'm gonna turn this email red with all the blushing I'm doing. Thanks for the uplifting email. I hope to be here for a while (unless New York calls!) Best of holiday wishes!
Pete

You must understand--this email MADE MY DAY! Petey B. wrote to ME! He said my NAME! I couldn't be happier if it was from Johnny Depp, I swear. (And ya know how I feel about Johnny Depp!)

Well, naturally I forwarded the email to Kevin immediately. But my joy was so overwhelming that I simply had to share it with everyone else as well. And maybe now you all know (or have reaffirmed) that I am a complete nerd, a total weather geek, and something of a groupie. But I don't care. Long live Petey B.

lazy blog girl

2004-12-09T11:26:00.000-05:00

Get to know your blogger...who wasted too much time on this stupid email to actually have time to write a blog.

----------------

(Once upon a time, I used to get these from my 12-year-old cousins. Now I get them from my 30-something-year-old friends. Very amusing.)

1. What time is it? 10:15am on a Thursday.
2. Name as it appears on birth certificate: Stephanie *********
3. Nicknames: Sis, Stepha (zalsa only), Stephie (family only), Hops.
4. Piercing: Three per ear.
5. Eye color: Used to be brown, now greenish, I guess.
6. Place of birth: Fitchburg, MA. 2nd hilliest city in the U.S. woohoo!
7. Favorite food: Cheese. And Chocolate. Or any combination.
8. Ever been to Africa? No
9. Ever been toilet papering? Not that I recall. I was a good kid.
10. Love someone so much it made you cry? Yeah, fucknut.
11. Been in a car accident? Not when I was driving.
12. Croutons or bacon bits? Yes please.
13. Favorite day of the week: Saturday. Week's over, and a new one has yet to begin. Aaah.
14. Favorite restaurant: Solea, in Waltham, MA or Not Your Average Joe's, of greater Boston, just for the bread.
15. Favorite flower: pretty colored ones, whatever they are.
16. Favorite sport to watch? My Patriots football, baby!! (And not JUST for Adam Vinatieri's ass.)
17. Favorite drink: Nothing beats a fresh can of Coke. Or, malibu bay breeze.
18. Favorite ice cream: MOOSE TRACKS!! No contest.
19. Disney or Warner Bros.: whatever.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant: McDonald's (#2 with a coke).
21. What color is the carpet in your bedroom? Hardwood baby. HARD WOOD.
22. How many times did you fail your driver's test? None. The dude passed me despite being 15 mph over the speed limit at all times.
24. Which stores would you choose to max out your credit card? Barnes & Noble, Anthropologie, Best Buy.
25. What you do most often when you are bored? Answer emails like these.
26. What is your bedtime? Lately, whenever I stumble home from the bar and find a way out of my boots.
27. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest? Jessica.
28. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Kevin.
29. Favorite TV shows: Six Feet Under, Fresh Prince
30. Last person you went out to dinner with: Carrie and Dan - Heidelberg fixtures.
31. Ford or Chevy? Why.
32. What are you listening to right now? Ivette yelling in Spanish.
33. What is your favorite color? Deep summer sky at twilight blue
34. Lake, ocean or river? Ocean. No, river. No, ocean. How about a hot tub?
35. How many tattoos do you have? Uno.
36. Time you finished this e-mail ? I'm not done yet, asshole.
37. Have you ever run out of gas? Damn close. Coast on fumes!
38. Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Still in NYC, still eating cheese, still buying shoes.
39. The name of the book you just finished? Managing the Publishing Enterprise - Course Instruction Packet
40. The one place you've always wanted to visit? Italia.
41. Most stupidest thing you've done while intoxicated? If I could remember, it wouldn't be the "most stupidest," would it.
42. What's the fastest speed you've driven? 90+, hand on horn. get the fuck out of my way.
43. Ever write your name in the snow? Yes, with my FEET.
44. What's the last song you sang out loud? Dominic the Donkey, complete with interpretive dance.

some assembly required

2004-12-04T20:54:00.000-05:00

For the last 6 weeks or so, I've been living in my new apartment with no flat surface upon which to eat, except the kitchen counter. I wanted a table and some chairs, but wasn't sure where to get them, or how much to pay. So finally after all this time, I just walked to the store down the street and bought the cheapo set for $150.

The guy at the store said for an additional $25 they would assemble and deliver the table and chairs. I turned him down for numerous reasons. 1) I didn't want to give them the $25. 2) I wanted a project. 3) I wanted it NOW. So I made him go get the big box and lend me a dolly so I could wheel the box home. He thought I was crazy, some silly girl trying to get the heavy box home by herself. But I gave them my license as collateral, then rolled the box-on-dolly three blocks home, wrestled the box through the double set of doors downstairs, then somehow got it UP the stairs by rolling it end-over-end. When I slid it into my kitchen, I gave a very proud Rocky Balboa tough guy Victory Dance before returning the dolly to the store.

I bolted back to the store, then back home, and slashed open the tape on the box. I pulled the pieces out one by one, laying them out on the floor. In the back of my head, I heard my father saying "Check for all the pieces before you begin." And I gladly would have...if the box had contained any sort of printed instructions. How the flying fuck do you assemble ANYTHING made in MALAYSIA without instructions?? I would have even settled for a diagram with text written in French or Russian, but to have nothing?? I reminded myself I was looking for a project, so I unpacked everything, and dumped the baggie of screws and washers and other miscellaneous pieces for which I had no instructions onto the floor. I then realized that a massively slanted floor is not good for runaway screws and washers, so I dropped them into a bowl for further meticulous examination. I was happy to see an Allen wrench. I freakin' love those things.

Thanks to my long history of assembling and disassembling objects, such as relocating my bunk beds since the age of about 5 with my father's ratcheting tools, I was able to quickly decipher which screws and bolts went where. I managed to throw together one of the two chairs, and even sat upon it without any horrible snapping, popping, or crunching noises. However, when I turned to put together the second chair, I noticed only two of something that should have been three. "I told you to check for all the pieces!" my father's voice said. I sighed, knowing that while my mother would happily go forward and build the chair without its proper back support, I could not do so, and had to return to the store. I counted all my other pieces first to make sure nothing else was missing, and ran back out.

The man at the store was like "Oh great, the bitch who wanted the dolly is back." Or at least that's what his facial expression said. But I remained perky and obnoxious. "Hi. Remember me? I am missing a piece for one of my chairs. I need a second one just like this," I said as I held up the clone of the missing. Mr. Cranky took the piece, giving me a look that said "stupid chicks can't built shit," and went out back, returning a moment later with a pair of the pieces. I thanked him cheerily and headed back home.

Chair #2 went together very quickly and without further incident. Next was the big part: the TABLE!!

The table appeared to have its own baggie of miscellaneous screws and washers and, to my surprise, a second Allen wrench! But there were some little round things in this baggie that I didn't know what to do with. They weren't washers, not nuts, just...some pointless little pieces of curled metal. I looked at the table legs, and the pre-drilled holes on the table, and really wished I had instructions for this part. But using my what was left of my wit and intelligence, I screwed everything in place, sans mysterious pieces of curled metal. (If I can't find a use for 'em, why bother.)

Finally, with a cheer and a grunt, I hoisted the table upright. It didn't wobble. It didn't fall. It stood solidly in the middle of my kitchen. I repeated my proud Rocky Balboa dance (this time in front of the mirror) and thanked the Malaysian assholes for the challenge. Instructions? I don't need no stinkin' instructions!

i'm a survivor!

2004-12-02T09:46:00.000-05:00

The other day, at the end of my typical frenzied morning routine, I scurried out the door, locked it, and began walking to the subway. About a block and half later, I realized I'd made a horrible, frightening mistake--I left my cell phone at home.

I was running too late to go back and get it. And, despite my panic, I rationalized that I wouldn't really miss it or need it. I mean, it doesn't work on the subway, when I get to work I have a desk phone, later I had class, and then I'd be home. I could manage 12 hours without my cell phone...right?

All day I felt naked, exposed, vulnerable, lost, incomplete. I kept imagining the calls I was missing, the text messages that were piling up. I checked my voicemail once or twice from work but no one had left anything. Not many people do, though. I usually track through my missed calls, and I was missing it all!!

I considered going home at lunch to get the phone, but I decided I needed to prove to myself that I could last the day. I reminded myself that it was just like the "old fashioned way" of phone life, where you had ONLY a phone at home that would take messages for you when people called. You had to wait ALL day to get home and see who called. I did it years ago, I could do it again now, even though it had probably been about 4 years since I traveled anywhere without a phone.

By mid-afternoon, I had all the signs of an addict in withdrawal. Going cold-turkey may not have been the smartest decision. I tapped my fingers and feet, I had the shakes, and I grew obsessed with the void the phone left behind. I still had hours and hours to go, and the thought of my little Samsung sitting on the shelf at home just ate me up inside. But it was too late now, there was no turning back. I HAD to ride this out.

I met with my classmates as planned, and suffered until about 9:02 before I decided it was safe--and FREE--for me to borrow someone else's phone to "check for a very important message." I dialed, I entered my voicemail password, but alas, still no messages.

When I finally got home around 10:00, I made a beeline for the phone. It said I had missed calls, but I knew that logically most of them were probably me calling myself from other phones. I pressed buttons and reviewed, squealing with delight to have the cool metal and plastic against my hands. I'd missed my sister, my father, and a couple of others. And I had text messages too, dammit!! I knew I was missing something!

But in the end, I did survive. I made it from 8am to 10pm without my cell phone. It wasn't easy, but it was a real eye-opening experience for me. It was a real exercise in endurance and the human spirit. And I survived.

it takes so little...

2004-11-29T10:31:00.000-05:00

Here I am, sitting at work on the Monday morning after a 4-day weekend. Like millions of other Americans, I'm miserable to be here.

I've actually been hard at work since the minute I got here, which was about 20 minutes late thanks to some seriously delayed subway traffic. I have been hard at work tearing apart the boring tables of contents for the boring books I edit, trying not to think about the presentation I have due for class tomorrow that is far from complete, and also trying to drown out the grumble of my poor, hungry stomach.

So basically, I'm cranky. Not far-gone cranky that is only repairable by alcohol and sleep, just the semi-fussy Monday morning blah cranky that often causes me to become introverted and quiet until I find some random thing to spike my serotonin and cheer me up. Sometimes it's a song, sometimes it's a silly website, sometimes it's another person. Problem is...I never know what it will be until it happens.

So here I am, cranky-fussy, and hungry. Then it occurs to me I have a banana in my bag that I can eat. This helps a little, even though the banana is not quite as ripe as I like it (no green on the peel, and a few brown spots). So I peel the banana, take a bite, and proceed to read the boring books. And then...it happened.

I HAVE PEANUT BUTTER! In a joyous flash of brilliance, I realize I have a jar of peanut butter in my desk drawer and it would be absolutely fantastic on my banana, reminiscent of the sandwiches my grandmother used to make me when I was a kid (on toasted wheat bread, complete with a glass of Market Basket brand orange soda, all placed strategically to optimize viewing of Bob Barker on The Price Is Right). I dig out the jar, I dig out a knife, and I carefully spread just the right amount of peanut butter (just right = as much as I can) on the banana, and take a bite.

Mmmm. Sweet savior, my peanut butter and banana. Either without the other is only moderately enjoyable. But both together? So damn good. Today I am saved. Saved from myself, saved from the pains and miseries of Monday mornings. I am saved.

the subway games we play.

2004-11-24T09:59:00.000-05:00

I realized this morning that I am a sick and demented human being.

There are certain nuances of the subway that, as a passenger, you learn through day after day of repetition or, in other cases, through making mistakes. For example, you learn where to stand to wait for the train so as to get dropped off at the destination near the exit. Or how to maneuver through the car stop by stop so that you are near the doors when it's time to get off.

So after you ride on the subway enough, the same line, the same tracks, the same stops, day after day, you learn even the subtleties such as which way the train lurches and when. On my trip downtown, it's more or less a straight shot until...

When the train leaves 42nd St, headed to 33rd, you have about 5-10 seconds after the train has completely left the station before there is a sharp lurch to the right. Being a fast learner, I only needed to fly across the train into the arms (and coffee cups) of complete strangers before learning to brace for this jolt. But others are not so aware.

So now every morning, I find myself mentally preparing for The Big Lurch. I change the position of my feet to be parallel to the jolt for better balance, I make sure I'm holding on to something, and perhaps most importantly, I look around to see who doesn't know better and will end up flying across the train. Smart people who didn't know better would at least be in tune with the squealing sound of the train's wheels as they hit a curve in the tracks and grab something in the remaining 2 seconds. But no.

Yesterday, someone wasn't prepared and launched sideways, smashing into this guy who had no chance at recovering. With a linebacker-like grunt, he took the hit before his newspaper flew into the air and he crashed into some little old woman who was sitting in front of him. Amusingly, frustratingly, few people apologize for these collisions, despite the fact they often cause disruptions and damage to beverages, newspapers, or even eyeglasses.

So today as we left 42nd St., I silently mused over the crowd at the door who jammed their way onto the train and now had nothing to hold onto. This, I thought, will be fun. The doors closed, the train rolled, and 5....4....3....**squealing wheels**....2....

LURCH! As expected, a good 4 or 5 people took headers toward the opposite side of the train. Some caught themselves with poles or by grabbing onto other people. But those idiot hotshots who think they can ride with no handhold and put their hands in their pockets--THEY went sailing! And I just cracked up.

A nicer person with more concerns over the Life Eternal might have said "Hey folks, you may want to grab on to something." But I, you see, am not that person. Rather, I'm the one who gets a sick kick--and a blog--out of not speaking up and letting them take flight. Because it's funny for me, especially when they think they recovered, act all cool like it never happened, then get tossed for surprise lurch #2. Haha. It's funny.

i am a lazy, worthless beast.

2004-11-20T15:44:00.000-05:00

For days, all I've wanted is a Saturday. Since that point on Sunday where I realized that a new work week was rising, all I've wanted was a Saturday to relax, catch up, clean up, work out, and do errands--typical Saturday things.

Well, it's finally Saturday. I woke this morning without a hangover, thanks to the fact that a single drink last night cost $9.25. So I only had three, one of which was bought for me. That made it easy to wake up when my phone rang at 9am (especially when I saw it was a call from California where it was only 6am).

I talked to Bobo for a bit. Then I called my mom. Then I talked to Joanie. Then I called my sister. Then I talked to Jen. All this without ever getting out of my bed. Next thing I know, it's noon, and I haven't done a damn thing except take advantage of my free nights and weekends, which I really should do anyway for $60 a month.

Driven by hunger and an unignorable need to brush my teeth, I got out of bed. As I was brushing, I decided I must change my bed sheets. So after brushing, I washed a big tupperware container, dried it, and filled it with honey nut cheerios. I added a sliced banana, some sugar, and some milk, dropped a spoon in it, and sat on the floor and ate. THEN I grabbed fresh sheets out of the bathroom for my bed.

Being slightly neurotic/meticulous about my bed making (serious issues about head- and feet-ends of blankets always being in the right place), I spread out my new sexy sateen sheets, put the pillow cases on, threw the comforter up, flipped it over to hide its need to be washed (yet maintained the proper head-foot balance), and when I was done, it looked so damn comfortable that I crawled up on top of it and took a nap.

A three hour nap.

Now it's 4:00. I missed my class at the gym. I haven't washed the pile of dishes in the sink. I haven't worked on my paper. I haven't even put on fresh deodorant. I did, however, just eat three pieces of cheese, which was also very high on my list of Important Things to Accomplish.

But I MUST get my ass in gear. Tonight I have a housewarming party to attend. I have four hours remaining to decide upon and purchase a gift (likely wine), wrap it (or stick a bow on it), come back home and shower (and shave everything that needs to be shaved), put on that much-needed deodorant, pick out clothes that say "I'm hot, but casual and spontaneous and fun" (but also show enough cleavage to get the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend back to my apartment after the party), get dressed in said clothes, then head towards the party WITH the gifts and my other alcoholic beverages which I hope the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend will help me carry. Really, when I look at it, I have a lot to do, and yet instead of DOING it, I'm sitting here writing about it. It's just one of those rainy Saturdays upon which I reaffirm that I am a lazy, worthless beast.

But at least I brushed my teeth.

mack daddy.

2004-11-16T15:54:00.000-05:00

When I started school in September, I learned that to get to my classes on the upper floors, I had to get past "Security." Security is two guys in blue blazers with some soft of emblem on their chest who scan for IDs as you walk past and line up for elevators.

So somewhere around week 2, when I got to school, one of the security guards started giving me the "hey girl, how YOU doin'" lip-licking, crotch-grabbing salute popular among the bruthas. Three days a week for two months in a row, I walked by this guy, and most often failed to suppress a smile or laugh at his gestures when I walked by. He stared me down every time. I don't think he was looking for an ID.

Then last week I walked in one day, and tried to avoid the Mack Daddy by going to the other guard for the ID scan. But over my shoulder I heard, "Hellooooo. Hellooooo girl. Beautiful." Again, laughing, I'd turn and smile and say hello. "Aw thank you," he said. "You made my night." The next day was more of the same, and it was clear that I could not just bypass this guy without him chasing me down.

Finally on Thursday, my last day of classes, I smiled and walked in as normal. An hour and a half later, I left class early to get a ride that was waiting for me downstairs. But I was late, so I bolted down the hall for the elevator, and when I turned the corner.....

There he was. All 5'7" of him. Licking his lips, giving me the pout, and holding an elevator door open. "Going...down?" he said, remniscent of an old Aerosmith video. "Yes," I sighed, too late to wait for another lift. So I climbed in, and about 8 people got in behind me.

The car was packed and I was separated from my admirer, who continued to look me up and down through the crowd. To my dismay, the elevator went UP, up to the 10th floor instead of down to the ground. The other 8 people got off, leaving me along with...

"My name's Kevin. What's your name?"

"Stephanie."

"Stephanie. You got a boyfriend?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of? Oh I'll take sort of. That means it ain't locked down yet."

I just smiled, because I have no misapprehensions about being locked down to anything.

"I'll tell you what, Stephanie. If it don't work out with Mr. Sort Of, you lemmie know."

"Sure thing," I told Kevin as I silently willed the elevator to the ground floor.

The doors opened and I bolted out, trying to get outside to my ride, aka No Apprehensions/Mr. Sort Of. I got held up in foot traffic, and Kevin continued to talk to me.

"Well Stephanie, you have a good night, beautiful. I'll see you again soon."

"Uh, thanks. You too. Bye!"

I ran outside and hopped in the car, slamming the door shut behind me. When I looked up, Kevin was there. He'd followed me outside and watched me get into the car. As we pulled away, I made certain not to wave.

The fun part is, I still have to see Kevin tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night, and onward as such for the next, oh, 3 years. Let's just hope he stays out of the elevators.

the true secret of the subway

2004-11-13T18:00:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the major gap in service, folks. I've been busy. (Or rather, gettin' busy, go me.) But I'm taking a moment to give you yet another commentary on the NYC subway system.

Last week the subway royally pissed me off twice. Once, due to no fault of their own, they shut down service for practically the entire east side, sending people into raging fits of stress over the inability to get ANYWHERE in ANY direction. But it was because a building partially collapsed over the track, and to be safe, they couldn't run trains under it. Fair enough. I don't know what happened the other time, but the end result was me taking an hour and a half to get to work via a Very Crowded Bus that stopped approximately every nanometer. It was not a good day.

Anyhow, today, like most weekends lately, I walked to my 6 train only to find, once again, it wouldn't be stopping here. Due to construction on the tracks, I must either walk or take the Very Crowded Bus to another station where ALL the trains will stop despite being very very delayed for sharing the same tracks.

So, tra-la, off I strolled into the biting cold New York City air. By the time I reached the next station, I was nearly frostbitten and unable to speak. But my automatic positioning system took over and I got down the stairs and through the turnstile. When I came to, I realized a train was stopped downstairs, and if I ran, I might be able to make it.

I quickly broke into the subway sprint, which depending on your athletic ability is described as either going down the stairs 2 or 3 at a time, or as in my case, just taking them in such rapid sequence that it appears blurry to anyone without a strobe light, which usually includes the old man with a cane that inevitably exists for the sole purposes of delaying your emergency subway sprint.

When I reached the landing between flights of stairs, the little train "Peeker" was leaning out the window to see if he could close the doors. There's one of these on every train. They wait in a specially designed subway car that has two compartments--one on either side of the train. And at each station, these Peekers (who probably have a more technical name but for now will be called Peekers) slide down their specially designed window and stick their head out, looking to the right and to the left, making sure most passengers have boarded and that no small children are stuck between the doors. Then, apparently, they and they alone have the ability to close the doors.

So the doors on the train were closing, but I made a dash anyway, just in case I could be one of those really REALLY cool subway riders who knows that often the doors will reopen just for a second and people can sneak through. But that didn't happen. Meanwhile, a girl behind me toting a yoga mat made a dash for the next car's doors because they were still open. As she extended her hand to stop the closing door, the door smashed shut and left her high and dry.

The girl, who may I remind you was toting a yoga mat, turns and looks and the Peeker from about a foot from his face and screams "You're an ASSHOLE," and gives him the bird. Now, while this is personally one of my favorite comments and gestures, I usually reserve it for the car. But not this girl.

And to my surprise, the Peeker, wearing his official MTA uniform, very calmly yells back "Fuck you bitch," which implies, to me, that this happens all the time. I had no idea.

The girl then took her yoga mat and stormed off to go sit on a bench somewhere. All I could think was she must REALLY need her yoga. I was a little afraid and wouldn't look her in the eye. But the point is, these Peekers really have ALL the control. Here I was thinking the driver up front either counted to 20 and pushed a button, or did it entirely at random, and the Peekers were just there to raise an alarm if anything bad was happening. Hell no. The Peekers have all the power. All of it.

This changes EVERYTHING.

the golden rule...is stuck to your shoe.

2004-11-08T11:55:00.000-05:00

One night not terribly long ago, I was at a bar having many margaritas with my friend Jen. As is common in such situations, I stood up at one point and said "I have to pee." Naturally, Jen said "Me too." (See fellas, it's not that we necessarily MUST travel in pairs, but going pee sometimes just seems like a really great suggestion.)

So we stumbled happily to the ladies room, where we had a hysterical fit of laughter over something neither of us can recall. It might have been a lack of locking mechanisms, or just residual giggles from the bar. Chances are it was over some arbitrary thing, like the automatically flushing toilets whose pacing was all off, and flushed when you walked IN to the stall, but not out. Whatever it was, I distinctly remember having tears of laughter in my eyes as I teetered over the toilet (without touching it of course).

We then giggled our way out to the sinks and washed and dried our hands. Jen went out the door slightly ahead of me, and I held the door for the girl slightly behind me. She said thank you, and as I stepped into the hallway she grabbed my arm and said "Oh my gosh, I really need to stop you." Drunk and perplexed, I turned around to ask why, but didn't even have to when I followed her gaze down to my foot where a 2-ft. long piece of toilet paper was trailing from the bottom of my shoe.

"OH MY GOD!" I screamed. "Thank you SO much. I can't believe you stopped me. You're a complete stranger!"

"It's no problem," she said. "I had someone do it for me once and I can completely relate to the feeling." She then stepped on the end of the paper, allowing me to break free from it. I wanted to hug her--especially in my happy state. But I settled for a quick "You're the best. Thank you."

The other night I went out to another bar in another city with another group of friends. At some point, after a great many fruity drinks, I stood up and said "I have to pee." I stumbled happily around the corner to find--a line?! Not having the patience or mental stability to hold it, I knocked on the men's room door and said "Chick coming in!" The bathroom was empty, so I bolted in and teetered over the bowl, being EXTRA certain not to touch it. I flushed (with my foot), and went out and washed and dried my hands.

When I got back out to the main floor, two women were heading down the stairs. One of them had a long piece of toilet paper trailing behind her. Suddenly I felt invigorated and sober, and as memories of the kindness of strangers flooded my mind, I bolted after the woman before she descended the stairs.

"Wait!" I yelled. "Ma'am!" Undoubtedly, she was befuddled as to why some crazy white girl was chasing her down, arms flailing. "I can't let you go down like this," I told her, motioning to her shoe.

"Good Lord, darlin'! Thank you so much!" she laughed and howled, and her friend howled with her.

"Go ahead," I said, stepping on the paper. "I got it."

Proudly I stood, foot atop the stray disgusting toilet paper, hands on hips, watching as another victim was saved from the throes of toilet paper humiliation. She worked her way down the staircase, still laughing, and occasionally waving back to me, her savior.

Someday this woman will encounter a hapless sucker, and she too will be revisited by the time some crazy white girl ripped the toilet paper off her shoe. And with any luck, she'll pass it on.

So it really is true. Do unto others as you would have do unto to you...even if it's stuck to the bottom of their shoe.

it's not what you think.

2004-11-06T22:29:00.000-05:00

I have been super busy lately AND the blog site was down for a few days. So I'm sorry I wasn't able to post anything. But to satiate that appetite, I'll give you one of my favorite previously written pieces that I like to call "It's Not What You Think."

"Hi."

"Hi."

"How are you doing?"

"Been better. Long week at work. I’m so tense."

"Yeah, you look tense. Here, sit down."

I sit slowly, looking up at him pleadingly. He walks behind me and starts massaging my shoulders. It feels so good that I just drop my head and enjoy it.

"What’s going on at work?" he asks softly.

"Deadlines," I mumble. "Deadlines and meetings."

"Well why don’t you take off your sweater and lay down, let’s see if we can get rid of some of that stress."

I pick up my drooped head and unbutton my sweater. I slowly take it off and toss it over the arm of a chair. I lean back until I’m lying flat. He is standing beside me looking down and smiling. I close my eyes and sigh.

He takes my hand. His hand is so soft and strong and warm, I feel a shiver of calm go through my body. He stretches my arm up over my head as I open my eyes and let out a gentle moan.

"Is that too much?" he asks.

"No, it feels good."

"Wow. You’re so tight."

"I know, but it feels good. Keep going."

"Why don’t we try with you lying on your stomach instead," he suggests. I roll over and drop my face into the pillow. He moves my hair, then grabs onto my bra strap and slides it over. He grabs my hand again.

"Just relax," he whispers. "Let go."

He leans into me and I feel his weight. I exhale slowly, trying to relax.

"Oh yeah," he says. "This is much better. Do you feel how easy that’s moving?"

"Uh-huh," I groan into the pillow.

"Don’t resist," he tells me. "Just let it happen."

I close my eyes and let go. He adjusts the angle and starts pushing down on me, which hurts, and I whimper.

"Sorry," he whispers. "But you’re making huge progress. Your flexibility and range of motion are improving and I think you’ll have it back in no time."

He straightens out my arm and helps me off the massage table.

"Thanks," I say, rubbing my sore, recovering shoulder. "You're a lot better than my last physical therapist."

revolving doors 101

2004-11-01T20:00:00.000-05:00

Ah, revolving doors. Like elevators and escalators, revolving doors were a certain silly luxury that just wasn't around when I was growing up in smalltucky, MA. My sister was 19 before she finally stopped going "Ooooh! Escalator!" and running over to jump on a moving staircase. As such, I know that not everyone uses these devices every day, and that at first glance they can be quite confusing. But I believe wholeheartedly that they share this in common: GET OUT OF THE WAY.

Rule #1: KEEP MOVING.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to the bank with my friend Carrie. The only entrance to the ATM vestibule is through a revolving door. So I let some Giant Man go first, then myself, then Carrie behind me. Problem was, the Giant Man got out the other side and promptly stopped, standing in the exact spot that I was about to be dumped. My options were to a) do another lap around, and perhaps another, until the Giant Idiot Man got out of the way, or b) step out anyway, and shove his Giant Idiot Ass into a wall, hopefully head first.

Fortunately, I didn't have to do either. I managed to pop out behind him and sort of slink off somehow, wondering like I did all those days going 85mph on 128 how I survived such a near miss. Carrie stumbled out behind me as well, and we both gave the expected Disgusted Grunt and Sigh that another human being could be such a freaking idiot.

Rule #2: NO OVERSIZED OBJECTS.

My office also has revolving doors--three of them. The fact that there are three matters to me because far too often, a line of people develops outside the middle door, each waiting their turn on the wheel, when 10 feet to their left or right sits another door, completely idle.

A few days ago, I was leaving my office when I noticed a funny little man carrying lots of giant heavy bags. He was approaching the revolving door just ahead of me, and I wondered how this would be physically possible, and almost dared not enter the door behind him. The funny little man turned out to be Al Franken (no joke), and sure as the sun shines, as soon as I got into the wheel behind him, his bag smashed into a wall and nearly choked up the whole rotation. He clumsily shuffled his way through to the other side, and I just laughed and shook my head.

All the time people are trying to shuffle through the door with suitcases, boxes, strollers, crutches, etc. This really doesn't work. An ounce of common sense might point you in the right direction, such as the normal swinging door to your left. You can't push a revolving door if your hands are full. It's that simple.

Rule #3: NO CHANGING YOUR MIND.

This rule also relates to high-speed highway driving. I don't care WHAT you do as long as you commit to it. Don't change your mind at the last minute and change lanes, or take an exit, or, well...

Tonight I was leaving work. In front of me, a man. Behind him, his 8-year-old son. Then me, then another man behind me. First Dad went through, then Junior. Then I entered the wheel. Junior thought he'd be cute, and instead of getting out on the other side, he kept going for another lap. (Much like my sister would have done when she was...well, yesterday.)

The man behind me got in the rotation, and as we all took our next step forward, Junior decided he wanted out. Not realizing the door would KEEP ON MOVING, he turned around and extended one arm out, which I knew would be ripped off in a bloody screaming dismemberment accident if I took another step. The boy, realizing his folly, saw me in the glass pane behind him and panicked, which was good only because it caused him to recoil his outstretched arm. The door smashed into him, sending him hurling in his little 1/4 of the cylinder, causing it to slow suddenly, which then caused it to then hit me and the man behind me in a clumsy domino fashion. Being adults, we regained our sense of rhythm and I popped out the other side, followed by the man, then the boy, whose father was now 30 feet away and completely unaware that his child almost lost a limb OR suffered a heinous beating by some girl who just got whacked by the revolving door.

I glared at the kid, then caught the eye of my companion who said, quite wisely, "Fucking kid." I threw my bag back on my shoulder and headed for the subway. One of these days, I tell you. One of these days...

eyes down in the jungle

2004-10-31T14:24:00.000-05:00

It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon in New York. It's 70° outside which warrants a tank top despite the fact that for fashion reasons, many are wearing scarves and fuzzy boots. Idiots.

I ran some errands today, including a trip downtown to look at some furniture, as well as to my school library to be reminded that I pay thousands of dollars to deal with incompetent hacks. But after all that, I strolled through the midday sun to the subway station.

As proper subway etiquette demands, I rode with my eyes wandering at nothing in particular. They oscillated from the floor to the overhead advertisements, back to the floor, etc. Then somewhere around 33rd St., I saw a passenger get on who was distinctly familiar. I'd seen him the day before on the street. Something about him was just very distinguishing. How funny to see someone you don't know two times on--

"OW-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, OW-WEEEEEEEE OH WIM OH WAY......"

Oh holy hell. The big black woman next to my familiar friend is belting out tunes at the top of her lungs. Her voice is actually quite spectacular, as are the three men (including my buddy) who are backing her up a capella. But, as proper subway etiquette demands, I must NOT under any circumstance look at or even acknowledge the performance going on three feet to my right.

"In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight......."

This need to look away, you see, amuses me. So I looked at the faces of my straphanging companions, and they were each staring at either the floor, their hands, or the overhead advertisements (really, how many times can you read that Cingular ad?). No one was looking at the singers. I mean, as far as subway intrusions go, this one is actually fairly enjoyable. It's not like the typical urine-smelling one-legged homeless men with a makeshift crutch and coffee can who speaks cordially and always reminds us that Jesus loves us before departing to the next car. Such a character passed through once when I had my mother, sister, and aunt with me on the train, and at the onset of "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please," I instructed my family: "Eyes down immediately. Don't look up. Hold your breath." All in all, boisterous subway singers are relatively bearable.

"OW-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, OW-WEEEEEEEE OH WIM OH WAY......"

I stared at the floor as the subway singers passed down the aisle, led by the guy with the paper bag of coins and single bills donated by compassionate passengers, flanked by a guy holding copies of...their CD? I contemplated digging out a dollar for the bag but my wallet was buried in a bag inside my bag underneath a pile of books. So I just stared at the floor as they passed, wearing the look of shame attributed to those who have money but choose not to share it, which is only slightly assuaged by the look of those who are in grad school and don't have any to share if they want to.

Maybe I'll see that dude on the street again next week. And I can say "Hey, I heard you sing on the 6 train on Sunday. You guys were great. I had no cash at the time but I wanted to donate. Actually, I have no cash now. I'm a grad student, see. I'm pretty broke. But, oh...do you take TransitCheks?"

subway conductor from hell.

2004-10-28T13:17:00.000-04:00

Just a few short days ago I wrote about my morning commute. I thought it was bad that day: crowded, pushy, and constantly shifting. Well, today it took on another dimension: the subway conductor from hell.

I walked to my station and waited. And waited and waited and waited. The platform filled more and more with each passing minute, eventually 5 to 6 people deep the whole length of the station. Irritated passengers checked their watches and shuffled papers. Finally, the metallic squeal and rumble of the train echoed through the tunnel, the train arrived, and the doors opened.

Now, it turns out yesterday was the NYC subway's 100th anniversary, the big centennial celebration. As part of the festivities, the mayor dug up the grave of some crochety old curmudgeon who drove the subway 100 years ago, and asked him to drive the 6 train downtown this morning. Over the intercom, this crabby beast bellowed very routine announcements, like "Step all the way into the car, and move away from the doors during their closing cycle." People crammed in on top of each other, pushing and shoving, until the conductor warned again "Stay clear of the doors. The doors are closing."

Usually, this is a hollow threat. The computerized voice warns of the doors closing ALL the time while people are still getting OFF the train, and the passengers waiting to board know that no one will shut the door until most people are on. But ah, not today.

At every stop, the conductor warned "I'm closing the doors now!" and slammed them shut, leaving dozens of outspoken new yorkers limbless and speechless on the platforms. "No one's on the train yet!" I heard a trailing voice say. But the cranky conductor continued to lecture us, his captive audience, on how we are only hurting ourselves.

"People. If you hold the doors open, you delay the train. If you delay the train too much and we get behind schedule, we'll start skipping stops. One of them might be yours. STOP HOLDING THE DOORS." We sped and lurched from stop to stop, getting the same warning over and over, each time with a harsher tone than the previous.

Then a new voice came: "Ladies and gentlemen, due to the lateness of this train, it will run express from 14th street to Brooklyn Bridge."

Our conductor: "Copy that. See folks. I told you. Maybe next time you won't hold the doors. There's always another train, so just wait for the next train. Don't delay everyone trying to get on this one." (This was highly illogical considering we were already ON this train and rolling down the tracks.)

People buzzed and moaned at the new disorder of their commute, asking each other which stops would be made before shoulder checking each other and rushing out the door. I felt like a little kid being who was sent to stand in the corner, head hung shamefully even though I didn't personally hold the doors open.

"This train is express people. Express train because YOU held the doors. I tried to tell you, don't hold the doors. But you held the doors, and now we have to skip stops..."

Ah, another happy morning commute on the MTA.

new york's not-so-supermarkets

2004-10-26T10:15:00.000-04:00

Many years ago when I came often to New York to visit, I was surprised by the size of the supermarkets here. I'm used to New England's sprawling Stop & Shops, expansive Market Baskets, and the tiniest store--Omni Foods--still had at least 10 aisles.

Well, in New York, things are different. Real estate is hard to come buy, especially in one solid wide-open chunk. Most of the food stores are crammed into tight corners, so shelf space is limited. So instead of 15 boxes of 15 different kind of cereal, you get 3 boxes of 5 different kinds of cereal--take it or leave it.

Because of the tight space, the markets get creative with their layout. You may go to the end of the aisle only to find a small doorway that looks like the portal to hell, when in reality it leads to canned goods and frozen vegetables. This takes some getting used to, because in this city you don't always want to be poking your nose in through suspicious doorways.

So now that I moved to my new apartment, I decided to check out the Gristede's Megastore near me. I thought "mega in comparison to what? the shoebox I used to shop in?" The store is on the basement floor of a building. You go down stairs to get in. There's a giant cow who greets you at the door and says something about having a moooooving experience. (I bet that gets REALLY annoying after a while.)

So I got past the cow, and grab a little hand basket. I saw aisles in front of me, and registers to my left. I made a mental note so I knew where to check out later. Then I walked down the aisle and found this whole huge store! A big deli, rows upon rows of food, I couldn't believe it. But, when I walked down the aisles, I realized that they all sort of looped into each other, and no matter which path I took, I couldn't find the eggs.

It felt a little like that movie Labyrinth, except without David Bowie in tights. Every time I turned around a new aisle appeared. I was certain little goblins were running around behind me swapping the baking needs with the cat food. Then this wormhole appeared, and I walked down it into this giant refrigerated palace. There were vegetables and lots of cheese and oh! eggs! I walked around a few times before realizing the only way out was the way I came in, so I clicked my heels together three times and woke up back at the deli, where the kind man was slicing cheese for me and offering a piece for free. "Mangia," he said. And mangia I did.

Thanks to the trail of breadcrumbs I left, I eventually found my way back to the checkout where I stood listening to the cow and his "mooooving experience." I was asked the standard questions: "one bag or two?" (which replaces the suburban query of "paper or plastic?"), followed by "debit or credit?" I carried my double-bagged goods out past the cow, up the stairs, and strolled back home feeling good about my time-travel to the Gristede's Megastore.

three cheers for Sven and Olaf.

2004-10-24T17:03:00.000-04:00

Today I moved into my new apartment. Being all alone in a big city and having no family to beg for help, I hired movers that I found on craigslist. Olga, the woman who answered the email, told me I'd get "two young, strong men" and a truck for two hours for the bargain price of $120. How can you argue with that?

At 9:55 I waited for my movers to show. At 10:15, I called Olga. "Zey are late," she told me. "Zey had ze probelem wiz de trahk. Zey are in Manhattan. Zey vill be dere soon." They showed up at 10:45, which was annoying but not a problem. I used the extra time to finish packing the stuff that I was afraid I'd have to leave behind anyway.

So in came two tall middle-aged Russian men, who I have dubbed Sven and Olaf. Sven was tall and thin, Olaf was short and built. Without speaking a word, Sven handed me a pen and through gestures and grunts instructed me approve the start time of 10:50. Olaf was already going up and down the stairs with the boxes I'd left in the hall.

As my Russian Workhorses trampled up and down the stairs, I kept pushing other boxes into the hall. Without ever speaking, box after box after box disappeared. Then the bookshelf, then the dresser, then the desk. In less than an hour, they'd emptied my belongings into the back of a beat-up old yellow truck, which was sitting on the street unguarded while a she-cop scribbled a ticket for meter violation. Sven and Olaf then said "You vant ride?"

I answered "Is there room?" Their truck appeared to be a 2-seater, but they both insisted--again through gestures and broken english--that we could all fit. Sven jumped in the drivers seat, and Olaf jumped in the passenger's seat before sliding into the middle, a very mickey-moused third cushion. So I hopped into the passenger's seat and folded my hands in my lap.

"Please," Olaf said, gesturing to the seat belt. I buckled up and said thank you. Sven checked the address again, and I confirmed it. We were there in 3 minutes. I unlocked the new doors and watched as Sven and Olaf unloaded my belongings even faster than they'd loaded them. (I credit the easier staircase.)

They were done by 12:35...less than two hours. I paid and tipped Sven (Olaf was now down guarding the empty truck), and he asked "You vant help wis de bed?"

I considered it, but had no more money to give him for a tip, plus I hadn't decided yet where I'd put the bed. So I said "It's okay, I've got it."

"Yes?" asked Sven.

"Yes," I said.

So he put down his papers and pen, and started assembling my bed frame. I just shrugged and helped him. Then I thanked him several times before he nodded in a stern Russian way and went downstairs to join Olaf.

All in all, I gotta say, these Russian stallions were the best money I have spent in a long time. They may not have been the "young" men that I was expecting, but they were strong, fast, and got my boxspring back out the bedroom window withOUT the use of rope, which really impressed me. Here, here. Three cheers for Sven and Olaf.

if you don't have something nice to say...

2004-10-22T08:49:00.000-04:00

This week has been a rough one for many people. I know that. But I think it has been an exceptionally rough week for me. Why? Well, for starters, I am suffering the stress of packing and moving to my new apartment. Therefore I get little sleep and don't eat much. Also, I had a Very Bad Influence take me out past 4am on Monday/Tuesday, which, although it's my own fault, really sucked for the rest of the week. (But hey, a girl's gotta have fun, right?) So once you add late baseball watching into the mix, I'm just a freaking mess.

So at some point, maybe Wednesday, I woke up and looked in the mirror and saw an 85-year-old looking back at me. I had dark circles under my eyes and wrinkles around my mouth. I hoped that the lighting was just bad, or that I just needed a shower, but in the end it freaked me out very badly.

When I got to work that morning, I asked one of the married guys if I looked old and tired. He said no, that I looked like any other 30-year-old. After I told him several times that I was only 25, which he refused to believe, I took it to mean that I DO look as old and tired as I feel. But I forgave him for falling into my trap. He doesn't know any better.

So then yesterday I went over to ask another co-worker something. She's been working here as long as I've been alive (no joke). Her first words, in a faint slavic accent, were "Have you been reading all day?" My answer should have been "Yes, of course. I'm an editor, after all. That's what I do, read." But in reality I'd been online all day looking for furniture on Ikea, so I didn't know where she was going.

"You look really tired," she continued. "You have dark spots under your eyes. You must be reading a lot."

Now, I know that in some cultures it's completely acceptable to insult you. They call it "honesty," but it's just another way of saying "You look like shit and I'm going to tell you so." For example, many years ago my Chinese professor stopped in the middle of class and said, "Hui Min (me), you are looking fat." After I beat her up and got thrown out of school, I transferred out and dropped the weight.

Now it's happening again. I have dark spots under my eyes, which I'd rather hoped were a figment of either bad lighting or my sick imagination, but it turns out everyone can see them, especially under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office, which apparently adds 5-7 years.

Didn't their mommas ever tell them? If you don't have anything nice to say, then shut the fuck up or I'm going to kick your ass.

it's not easy being a girl...in tights.

2004-10-18T14:49:00.000-04:00

Autumn is finally upon us. The temperature in New York quickly plunged from gorgeous mid-70s to chilly mid-50s. I have been taking my mild sedatives that I use to force away thoughts of oncoming winter, but I've also been wearing a lot of skirts. And skirts in the fall require tights.

I have a whole drawer full of tights. Solid colors, prints, patterns--a nice variety. And I love what tights do for an outfit. I just hate what they do to me.

Take, for example, two weeks ago. I bought a new pair of cute red tights with a criss-cross pattern, and wore them on the day I had to do a presentation in class. I got through the general hour-by-hour struggle of pulling them up and down, got to class early, and decided I should pee before my presentation. So I went in the ladies' room, did my thing, and when I went to pull the tights back up, my finger went right through them, making a nice hole midway up my right leg that was definitely above my boot line and below my skirt line. There it was, a giant gaping hole, 10 minutes before I had to stand in front of the class and speak. GREAT. Like other things in life, I got through it. I put a sticker of the Poky Little Puppy on the hole and called it part of the presentation.

Today, now, I'm wearing tights again. Different tights, yes. But no less frustrating. Only recently have designers figured out that the torso portion of tights are just all wrong for women. Right now I've got mine pulled right up under my bra, which is necessary to avoid having a roll of stretchy fabric right around my waist. Of course, they don't stay up under my bra like they should. Instead, they slide down until they find a roll of fat, and cling to the groove, thus enhancing my ripply non-hourglass shape. So I do a lot of tugging and pulling, up, then down, then up again, hoping no one catches me in the act.

Then there's always the length issue. Sometimes if they are too short OR to baggy, you walk around all day with the crotch at your knees, waddling around like some sort of duck person. Or if they are too long, not only can you pull them up over your head, but in an ironic twist of spandex, material gathers and bunches at the knees and ankles, and you look ridiculously wrinkly.

I really don't know why I put myself through this day after day, year after year. I try to convince myself it's cute or sexy or something. But I think it's in my head. What guy is going to want to come over and try to figure out where the top of the tights end? "My god," he'll say. "Are they up to your bra?" And I'll have to say "Yes, and also bunched at my knees. Prrr baby, prrr. Take me now. But don't rip them."

ding dong! EDF calling!

2004-10-15T09:14:00.000-04:00

Okay people. This story is not for the weak of stomach nor those who wish not to know me well. This is definitely in the category of "things I didn't need to know about Stephanie."

Many moons ago, I sent an email out to a few family members and close friends about something I call the EDF. Now, the original email cannot be found, and I've long wanted to re-create it. But, I thought, I should wait until I'm "inspired" again, or it will be lacking that sense of pain and urgency. Well, guess what. It's your lucky fucking day. I'm "inspired."

See, when I was a kid growing up, my mom told me about the tooth fairy, and santa claus, and the easter bunny. There were all these fairy tale figures who brought goodness and joy (and money and chocolate) at night while I slept. But what she never warned me about was the bastard step-child of the fairy tale world: the Explosive Diarrhea Fairy (or EDF for short).

The EDF, unlike other creatures, comes not only at night, but really any time he damn well pleases. He's a small, fat, blading, burly man who shows a plumber's crack at all times. He's omnipresent, lurking around corners and in shadows, watching carefully what you eat, and waiting for the most inopportune moment possible to wave his warped little wand and put a an evil spell of the trots on you. He knows, for example, when I've eaten Mexican or Thai food, gives me about 20 minutes to think I'll be okay, then Poof!

The EDF's spell creates what is essentially an express canal that bypasses all 30 feet of intestinal fortress and directly connects your stomach to your ass. The express canal, when opened, means that within about 30 minutes of eating, you'll be shitting your brains out for no apparent reason. This is the deranged humor of the EDF.

And to add insult to injury, he throws in a little pre-game show in which you must sit and suffer hot flash, cold flash, hot flash, cold flash, wondering why you are sweating/freezing until you feel a gastrointestinal rumble that you know ain't natural. And while you dab at your sweaty brow with a towel, fanning yourself and drinking water, the EDF lurks from afar, waiting to see your EDM (Explosive Diarrhea March) down the hallway, cheeks clenched, as you barge into the bathroom and drop an EDB (Explosive Diarrhea Bomb), consequently clearing out the whole floor and being heretofore known as "the one with the stank ass."

So here I sit, just coming off a hot flash but now shivering, knowing that the EDF is about to strike again. If you see me doing the EDM down the hall, please, evacuate the premises, and if you see the EDF anywhere, tell him I'm coming to kick his ass...as soon as I get off the can.

the morning rush hour subway shuffle

2004-10-13T09:37:00.000-04:00

This morning, like many others before it, I have gotten to the subway station to see a massive crowd. I'm not talking ON the train--this is still upstairs, outside, on the street. A huge throng of people just stands around the stairwell trying to get down while trying not to spill coffee, step in gum or poop, and dodge the newspaper vendors who shove the Metro or AM New York in your face. This is my morning.

I finally get down the stairs but not without severe frustration with the slow ass woman in front of me who takes each step with two feet. I can't get around her because the other "lane" is moving too fast and I can't break around. So I wait...for her...to get...to...the bottom. Then I blast around her and try to pick a turnstile that doesn't look problematic. (By problematic, I mean "not functional" or "has a woman with a giant suitcase getting stuck.")

Once through the turnstile, I must walk about 50 feet to the left to the spot behind the last support column. This gets me on the front of the second-to-last car on the train, which will drop me off right in front of the exit turnstiles at my destination. You may think I sound crazy or neurotic, but if you do, you are not from New York. All New Yorkers do this. It is a sense acquired over time, mostly through trial and error. (More likely error.)

So the train arrives, and it's one of those oh-shit-it's-really-full trains. Sometimes the conductor will announce "there is another train directly behind us" so that people won't unnecessarily over-crowd. But when no such announcement is declared, it's every man, woman, and oversized shoulder bag for themselves.

Today I got on. I was second-to-last, followed only by the man with a giant mop-bucket on wheels, complete with mop, who proved to be a real complication. I'm sure that I, very similarly, piss people off with my giant backpack, which is stuffed fat with school books and pretty shoes. Most of the time, only I OR my backpack can fit comfortably. Making room for both of us is not easy. But I found a way, and I grabbed onto the vertical rail even though it resulted in my elbow being about 1/2" from some guys face. (Not my fault. He should be taller.)

The train gassed and lurched, rumbling to the first stop. Two people got off and 43 got on, including a very diminutive pushy bitch who, at half my height, shoved me and my backpack into the guy next to me so she could hold onto the rail. The train gassed and lurched, rumbling to the second stop. Six people got off, including a guy next to me. So I took his vacant spot away from the diminutive pushy bitch, and 87 people got on. The train gassed and lurched, rumbling to the third stop (halfway there). Three people got off, including the guy next to me, so I slid over and took his spot, despite the fact it was burying me in the back of the train.

This continued for three more stops, each one allowing more people on than off. Eventually I was wedged in against two other women, all of us staring at each other's armpits and trying not to eat each other's hair. I braced for the tricky curve in the tracks between 42nd and 33rd, and prayed no one behind me would fly into me. And when we stopped at 33rd street, the doors opened, and Mr. Mop and Bucket man stood there blocking the exit for the 2.3 million people who were trying to get off the train. So, quite simply, we carried him out with us.

So, as mentioned, I disembark the train directly in front of the exit turnstiles, which actually double as the entrance turnstiles for the unfortunate souls on the other side who want to get ON the train. Hundreds and hundreds of people click through the gates and rush up one of two staircases, but inevitably, the staircases get backed up. If I'm really lucky, I'm the first or second one on the stairs, and I can charge full speed to the top and avoid the crush of anxious passengers. But today I was not lucky, thanks to Mr. Mop and Bucket, and stood at the bottom waiting for my chance to enter.

The staircase is three people wide. This means two rows of people going up, and, if we're feeling generous, one row for people going down. But it's tough, especially in the middle row (which I'm usually in because it's like the passing lane on the highway), because you've got elbows flying at you from the right, duffle bags and hot coffee from the left, and you must maintain speed so that you don't a) walk into the person's ass in front of you or b) get your ass walked into by the person behind you. Slow and steady, everyone climbs, until you get to the top and the Metro and AM New York newspaper vendors shove their products in your face before you are finally free.

After that, well, it's just a quick jaunt across the street before the Elevator Roulette begins.