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."
11.14.2005
11.11.2005
spam sandwich
WHY. WHY do the spammers hate me so much?? What is it about me that is so offensive that they feel the need to bombard me with useless and ridiculous emails about local naughty sluts and penis enlargement drugs EVERY NIGHT?!? And it's like...they KNOW when I go to bed. I'll get one or two such spam-mails during the day, but sure as shit, when I wake up in the morning and check my email, I'm BOMBARDED!!!
Example:
Nine out of ten emails are spam. And the 10th is a lame almost-spam. How do these people find me? And why? What did I ever do to you, "Jasmine Wiley"?? I don't know anything about your accentual, "Clara Billings." And both of ya, tell Frankie Fucking Chang to take his "sud delta" and shove it where the sud don't shine.
Grrrr.
Example:
Nine out of ten emails are spam. And the 10th is a lame almost-spam. How do these people find me? And why? What did I ever do to you, "Jasmine Wiley"?? I don't know anything about your accentual, "Clara Billings." And both of ya, tell Frankie Fucking Chang to take his "sud delta" and shove it where the sud don't shine.
Grrrr.
11.09.2005
it's good to be back.
Hello, yes, hi, I know, I know.
Don't worry. I'm back. In SO many ways.
First, I'm back from my weeklong business trip to North Carolina, followed by a weekend stint in South Florida. The weather in NC was cool and autumnal, and the trees changed colors right before my eyes. But there was all the smoking. And all the fried food. And the hotel's automated revolving door whose sudden and premature motion seemed determined to at least sever a limb from my body if it couldn't officially kill me.
Post-Wilma Florida was a little nutty: upturned trees, absent traffic lights, and dangling porches were everywhere. Plus there was the whole Dog Thing at my mom's, causing me great allergic distress, but bringing me delightful canine companionship.
But I was really, REALLY relieved to get home to New York. I was thrilled to draw a deep breath of that clean, smoke-free, dog-free city air. I'll take toxic exhaust fumes any day. I was tickled that cars actually yielded to me when I crossed the street (except for the cabs, who don't yield ever) and that there were actually working lights to get me across the street in the first place. And revolving doors that are manually operated -- they totally rock. It goes when I make it go, not a moment sooner.
And to top it all off, my month-long drought of internetlessness seems to be over. Mysteriously, my cable and internet were FINALLY turned back on when I got home. Jury's still out on how long it will last, but golly, I'm glad to have it back.
It's back. I'm back. Backity back back.
BACK!
Don't worry. I'm back. In SO many ways.
First, I'm back from my weeklong business trip to North Carolina, followed by a weekend stint in South Florida. The weather in NC was cool and autumnal, and the trees changed colors right before my eyes. But there was all the smoking. And all the fried food. And the hotel's automated revolving door whose sudden and premature motion seemed determined to at least sever a limb from my body if it couldn't officially kill me.
Post-Wilma Florida was a little nutty: upturned trees, absent traffic lights, and dangling porches were everywhere. Plus there was the whole Dog Thing at my mom's, causing me great allergic distress, but bringing me delightful canine companionship.
But I was really, REALLY relieved to get home to New York. I was thrilled to draw a deep breath of that clean, smoke-free, dog-free city air. I'll take toxic exhaust fumes any day. I was tickled that cars actually yielded to me when I crossed the street (except for the cabs, who don't yield ever) and that there were actually working lights to get me across the street in the first place. And revolving doors that are manually operated -- they totally rock. It goes when I make it go, not a moment sooner.
And to top it all off, my month-long drought of internetlessness seems to be over. Mysteriously, my cable and internet were FINALLY turned back on when I got home. Jury's still out on how long it will last, but golly, I'm glad to have it back.
It's back. I'm back. Backity back back.
BACK!
10.23.2005
return from the e-dead
I know, I know. Where have I been. Well, the point is, I'm back. For now. For an unknown amount of time. And if I disappear again, all complaints can be directed to Time Warner Cable & Internet Assholes.
My internet and cable went off on October 9th. And since then, it hasn't come back on consistently for more than about an hour at a time. This, to me, is a totally annoying and unacceptable inconvenience. And every time I call for support, they can only offer me mid-day appointments.
"How's Tuesday between noon and four?"
"Uh, actually, I have to work so...how about a weekend appointment?"
"Well ma'am, I'm showing that our earliest available weekend appointment is on November the 12th."
"So, I've had no internet or cable for over two weeks and you want me to wait three MORE weeks to get it fixed?"
"Ma'am, we'd be happy to credit you for the time that you were without service."
"That's not the POINT, Lashonda. The point is I'm dead in the water without internet and I'd like to think you'd do a little more to fix it for me."
And so it goes. I'm left constantly refreshing the local wireless networks for a signal I can pirate for 2 minutes while I get a quick hit of email to tide me over until I can check again from work. And naturally, 2 minutes just ain't enough time for me to write up a blog post for all y'alls.
So, like I said, I'm back, but probably not for long. If I vanish again, don't blame me, blame the assholes at Time Warner. I do.
My internet and cable went off on October 9th. And since then, it hasn't come back on consistently for more than about an hour at a time. This, to me, is a totally annoying and unacceptable inconvenience. And every time I call for support, they can only offer me mid-day appointments.
"How's Tuesday between noon and four?"
"Uh, actually, I have to work so...how about a weekend appointment?"
"Well ma'am, I'm showing that our earliest available weekend appointment is on November the 12th."
"So, I've had no internet or cable for over two weeks and you want me to wait three MORE weeks to get it fixed?"
"Ma'am, we'd be happy to credit you for the time that you were without service."
"That's not the POINT, Lashonda. The point is I'm dead in the water without internet and I'd like to think you'd do a little more to fix it for me."
And so it goes. I'm left constantly refreshing the local wireless networks for a signal I can pirate for 2 minutes while I get a quick hit of email to tide me over until I can check again from work. And naturally, 2 minutes just ain't enough time for me to write up a blog post for all y'alls.
So, like I said, I'm back, but probably not for long. If I vanish again, don't blame me, blame the assholes at Time Warner. I do.
10.07.2005
signs of improvement
So far today...
-I've had no blood taken or attempted to be taken.
-I haven't fallen up or down subway stairs or any other stairs.
-I have no (new) severe burns.
-I haven't seen a mouse, cockroach, or centipede.
-I have not fainted or thrown up in a store or on a bus.
-I have not been blown up by a terrorist.
-I've had no blood taken or attempted to be taken.
-I haven't fallen up or down subway stairs or any other stairs.
-I have no (new) severe burns.
-I haven't seen a mouse, cockroach, or centipede.
-I have not fainted or thrown up in a store or on a bus.
-I have not been blown up by a terrorist.
Plus...
-It's Friday.
-It's monthly Jeans at Work day.
-I just ate some toast and it's still in my digestive system.
Overall, I'd say I'm off to a rockin' start.
10.06.2005
healing wounds
Apparently, I was subconsciously worried about the hole in my hand from the blood draw yesterday, because this morning I sealed it shut with a hot iron.
More specifically, I tripped over one of the 18 pairs of shoes on my floor, lunged into the ironing board with force, jolting the hot iron from its upright stance right onto to vulnerable top of my already achy hand.
I hate this week. HATE IT.
More specifically, I tripped over one of the 18 pairs of shoes on my floor, lunged into the ironing board with force, jolting the hot iron from its upright stance right onto to vulnerable top of my already achy hand.
I hate this week. HATE IT.
10.05.2005
every cake has icing
It's barely 10:30 in the morning, and already it's been one of those days.
It started off with a doctor's appointment that, like many of my appointments, resulted in someone wanting to draw blood from me. This is, almost always, a huge problem. You see, I appear to be some sort of veinless mutant, and the typical nurse can never find my veins. This results in, well, a morning like today's.
One vial. Just one vial is all they needed. And as is common practice for me now, I advised the nurse of two stipulations:
1) I MUST lie down when the blood is taken. This is not because I can't watch, or I get woozy. It's because my body seems to think it is under attack by some intruding predator, and it likes to shut down all systems to avoid serious injury or damage. This resulted in the Great E.R. Visit of '99, but has ever since prompted me to aks for a horizontal position when drawing blood.
2) You MUST take it from my right arm. My right arm has hidden veins, but my left arm has INVISIBLE ones. So even though most medical personnel will attempt the right arm, find it difficult and switch to the left, they inevitably return to the right when they see how juicy it is in comparison. So really, let's all save ourselves the trouble and restrict the blood draws to the right arm.
So the nurse Irene nodded at my rules, and started the methodical tap-tap-tap of the elbow crease, looking for a vein. She did the whole rubber-band-on-the-bicep trick, and the whole make-a-fist-and-release trick, and I could tell by her hesitation that she wasn't seeing a vein. I knew I was in for it.
"Let me just...see...your left arm," she says. I sigh, knowing it'll go nowhere. She repeats the tap-tap-tap, the rubber-band-on-the-bicep thing, and the make-a-fist-and-release thing, all to no avail. "You're right," she says...like all the others. "Your right arm is better. So let's just see if I can find something here."
Then begins the much-dreaded "poke 'n dig." This is the process by which, when a nurse or technician doesn't actually see nor feel a vein, they jab a needle in anyway, and move it around inside the flesh in the hopes of catching the bloodstream. Irene, like many others before her, was digging fruitlessly as I reassured her "It's not you, it's me," and "Most people send in their best needlers for me."
With a frustrated snap, she removed her latex gloves and said "I AM the best needler here. I'm gonna have to send you down to the lab, sorry." She filled out the paperwork for my ONE VIAL of blood, and sent me down to the third floor.
The lab was deserted. A woman from across the hall saw my isolation and called the lab phone to send someone to the front desk. I was "greeted" by a cranky bitch who scoffed at my meager lab request and pre-existing flesh-colored band-aid.
"What do you mean 'they can't do it'?" she barked.
"I mean, THEY CAN'T DO IT. See?? They tried. She couldn't find my veins, so she sent me here."
"Well I'm completely backed up," she said, gesturing to the ghost town that surrounded us. "It'll be at least an hour."
"Well, I have to go to work. It's already 10:00. Can I come back later?"
Then the bitch picked up the phone and said into it "What time can you come in sir?" Dumbfounded, I stared at her. "2:30," she said, followed by "Not you sir, hold on." She looked back up at me "Come back by 2:30."
"Fine, but will you still be 'all backed up' at 2:30?"
"Not you sir. And I said BY 2:30. Yes sir."
I snatched my paperwork back out of her hand, and called the elevator to leave. But then I decided I'd be better off going back UP stairs and finding the nurse in the OTHER department who successfully took my blood a few months ago. When I requested this at the front desk, they all looked at me like I was initiating some sort of political coup.
"Well, I don't know if WE can take your blood if THEY requested it," the nurses told me. I showed them my band-aid.
"Please," I begged. "THEY tried and couldn't hit a vein. The lab sent me away. I don't want to have to come back for this." And like some undercover code, they nodded at each other and ushered me into a back room.
There, an entirely different nurse, Rebecca, offered to take a stab at it. (Literally.) But now that my right arm was off limits, it left her only to repeat the tap-tap, rubber-band, make-a-fist, "poke 'n dig" routine in the left arm. I grimaced as she re-angled, retreated, and rotated the needle. Eventually she pulled it out, slapped a band-aid on it, and said "I have to go into your hand."
Ah, the dreaded hand. You know why no one does this? Because it FUCKING HURTS. But sensing my strong desperation to get this taken care of today, Rebecca suggested and I agreed to go into the hand. And so she did, and I stared at the ceiling as coldness and tingling replaced my left hand. When she was done, she stuck a fluorescent orange band-aid on me, and sent me away. I thanked Rebecca profusely for her efforts.
Finally I left the clinic, headed to the subway to get to work. I had that slightly abused feeling that usually follows excessive under-flesh needling, and longed for a cool orange juice to replenish myself. I got on the train, rode the 4 stops to 33rd street, and beat all the people out of the turnstiles. So naturally I was thrilled to be at the front of the pack, bounding up the stairs until...The Icing came.
Without warning, and still without ANY idea as to a cause, I started to fall up the stairs. It seemed to generate first from my feet, which somehow miscalculated or caught an edge. Immediately I thought to the back of my metrocard, which warns "72% of subway customer injuries are caused by slips, trips and falls. Don't be come a statistic." And yet here I was, slipping, tripping, and falling....with EVERYONE behind me on the stairs.
And yet the falling continued. The weight of my schoolbooks in my bag just acted like cement blocks pulling me down, down, down until I was fully laid out on the stairs. I felt immediate burning pain on my big toe, right shin, and right bicep, as well as the gentle tug under my already sore right elbow from the guy next to me who tried to catch me. But, he didn't. And, I totally fell on the subway stairs...in front of all the "slow" people that I rushed ahead of so THEY wouldn't hold ME up. Uh, yeah.
So, that's my day by 10:30. I'm the laughing stock of 33rd street, where everyone is talking about "the girl with all the band-aids, even a fluorescent orange one, who totally wiped out on the stairs for no apparent reason." Good times.
It started off with a doctor's appointment that, like many of my appointments, resulted in someone wanting to draw blood from me. This is, almost always, a huge problem. You see, I appear to be some sort of veinless mutant, and the typical nurse can never find my veins. This results in, well, a morning like today's.
One vial. Just one vial is all they needed. And as is common practice for me now, I advised the nurse of two stipulations:
1) I MUST lie down when the blood is taken. This is not because I can't watch, or I get woozy. It's because my body seems to think it is under attack by some intruding predator, and it likes to shut down all systems to avoid serious injury or damage. This resulted in the Great E.R. Visit of '99, but has ever since prompted me to aks for a horizontal position when drawing blood.
2) You MUST take it from my right arm. My right arm has hidden veins, but my left arm has INVISIBLE ones. So even though most medical personnel will attempt the right arm, find it difficult and switch to the left, they inevitably return to the right when they see how juicy it is in comparison. So really, let's all save ourselves the trouble and restrict the blood draws to the right arm.
So the nurse Irene nodded at my rules, and started the methodical tap-tap-tap of the elbow crease, looking for a vein. She did the whole rubber-band-on-the-bicep trick, and the whole make-a-fist-and-release trick, and I could tell by her hesitation that she wasn't seeing a vein. I knew I was in for it.
"Let me just...see...your left arm," she says. I sigh, knowing it'll go nowhere. She repeats the tap-tap-tap, the rubber-band-on-the-bicep thing, and the make-a-fist-and-release thing, all to no avail. "You're right," she says...like all the others. "Your right arm is better. So let's just see if I can find something here."
Then begins the much-dreaded "poke 'n dig." This is the process by which, when a nurse or technician doesn't actually see nor feel a vein, they jab a needle in anyway, and move it around inside the flesh in the hopes of catching the bloodstream. Irene, like many others before her, was digging fruitlessly as I reassured her "It's not you, it's me," and "Most people send in their best needlers for me."
With a frustrated snap, she removed her latex gloves and said "I AM the best needler here. I'm gonna have to send you down to the lab, sorry." She filled out the paperwork for my ONE VIAL of blood, and sent me down to the third floor.
The lab was deserted. A woman from across the hall saw my isolation and called the lab phone to send someone to the front desk. I was "greeted" by a cranky bitch who scoffed at my meager lab request and pre-existing flesh-colored band-aid.
"What do you mean 'they can't do it'?" she barked.
"I mean, THEY CAN'T DO IT. See?? They tried. She couldn't find my veins, so she sent me here."
"Well I'm completely backed up," she said, gesturing to the ghost town that surrounded us. "It'll be at least an hour."
"Well, I have to go to work. It's already 10:00. Can I come back later?"
Then the bitch picked up the phone and said into it "What time can you come in sir?" Dumbfounded, I stared at her. "2:30," she said, followed by "Not you sir, hold on." She looked back up at me "Come back by 2:30."
"Fine, but will you still be 'all backed up' at 2:30?"
"Not you sir. And I said BY 2:30. Yes sir."
I snatched my paperwork back out of her hand, and called the elevator to leave. But then I decided I'd be better off going back UP stairs and finding the nurse in the OTHER department who successfully took my blood a few months ago. When I requested this at the front desk, they all looked at me like I was initiating some sort of political coup.
"Well, I don't know if WE can take your blood if THEY requested it," the nurses told me. I showed them my band-aid.
"Please," I begged. "THEY tried and couldn't hit a vein. The lab sent me away. I don't want to have to come back for this." And like some undercover code, they nodded at each other and ushered me into a back room.
There, an entirely different nurse, Rebecca, offered to take a stab at it. (Literally.) But now that my right arm was off limits, it left her only to repeat the tap-tap, rubber-band, make-a-fist, "poke 'n dig" routine in the left arm. I grimaced as she re-angled, retreated, and rotated the needle. Eventually she pulled it out, slapped a band-aid on it, and said "I have to go into your hand."
Ah, the dreaded hand. You know why no one does this? Because it FUCKING HURTS. But sensing my strong desperation to get this taken care of today, Rebecca suggested and I agreed to go into the hand. And so she did, and I stared at the ceiling as coldness and tingling replaced my left hand. When she was done, she stuck a fluorescent orange band-aid on me, and sent me away. I thanked Rebecca profusely for her efforts.
Finally I left the clinic, headed to the subway to get to work. I had that slightly abused feeling that usually follows excessive under-flesh needling, and longed for a cool orange juice to replenish myself. I got on the train, rode the 4 stops to 33rd street, and beat all the people out of the turnstiles. So naturally I was thrilled to be at the front of the pack, bounding up the stairs until...The Icing came.
Without warning, and still without ANY idea as to a cause, I started to fall up the stairs. It seemed to generate first from my feet, which somehow miscalculated or caught an edge. Immediately I thought to the back of my metrocard, which warns "72% of subway customer injuries are caused by slips, trips and falls. Don't be come a statistic." And yet here I was, slipping, tripping, and falling....with EVERYONE behind me on the stairs.
And yet the falling continued. The weight of my schoolbooks in my bag just acted like cement blocks pulling me down, down, down until I was fully laid out on the stairs. I felt immediate burning pain on my big toe, right shin, and right bicep, as well as the gentle tug under my already sore right elbow from the guy next to me who tried to catch me. But, he didn't. And, I totally fell on the subway stairs...in front of all the "slow" people that I rushed ahead of so THEY wouldn't hold ME up. Uh, yeah.
So, that's my day by 10:30. I'm the laughing stock of 33rd street, where everyone is talking about "the girl with all the band-aids, even a fluorescent orange one, who totally wiped out on the stairs for no apparent reason." Good times.
9.24.2005
shout out to the men of east harlem.
I'm having one of those days, or weeks, that most women experience once in a while. It's that "poor me" or "I feel fat" or "I'm so tired" or "I have nothing to wear" syndrome that drives us to chocolate and alcohol. Except today, it drove me to something else: White Castle.
Me: "I just took a 5 hour nap. Now I'm hungry. I want a cheeseburger."
Jen: "5 hours?"
Me: "I feel so lardy. I think I'll go to White Castle."
Jen: "Ooooh."
Me: "Probably not the best place to go to remedy a lardiness problem, but I'm going anyway."
Jen: "I'm jealous."
So I look in the mirror, deciding that I'll take my lardy ass out in public as-is (ass-is), because no matter how fat or unattractive I feel, I always lose that self-consciousness as soon as I encounter the other women (read: other cultures) of the city. Most often, I find myself thinking "I'm worried about looking fat in a tank top, and THAT woman is wearing a micro-mini and a tube top?!?"
So off I went, working my way up through East Harlem towards the White Castle. Naturally, despite being 11:00 at night, there are throngs of people on the corners and stoops. Most of them seem astonished to see a white girl out alone at this hour, but the ones who can overcome their astonishment are usually black men who first lick their lips then give me an amazing compliment.
"How you doin tonight gorgeous?"
"Wassup beautiful?"
"Look at you, sweetheart. Gorgeous, gorgeous."
I literally received three such remarks back-to-back-to-back as I rounded the corner to White Castle. I laughed, and smiled, and told the guys to have a nice night, and then complimented myself on moving to a part of town where even on my lardiest, self-hatingest night, heading for fast-food comfort, the men not only think I'm hot, but make sure I hear their opinion.
So to you, men of east harlem, I say thanks. To the three bruthas on the NW corner of 102nd and 1st Ave who ogled me - thank you. To the 4 homeboys on bikes who whistled and smooched - thank you. To the man in the grey t-shirt who looked like he wanted to eat me up - thank you. To the 3 guys who didn't know I could see them gesturing behind me on the White Castle surveillance camera - you're pigs, but thank you.
I owe you one, SpaHa men.
Me: "I just took a 5 hour nap. Now I'm hungry. I want a cheeseburger."
Jen: "5 hours?"
Me: "I feel so lardy. I think I'll go to White Castle."
Jen: "Ooooh."
Me: "Probably not the best place to go to remedy a lardiness problem, but I'm going anyway."
Jen: "I'm jealous."
So I look in the mirror, deciding that I'll take my lardy ass out in public as-is (ass-is), because no matter how fat or unattractive I feel, I always lose that self-consciousness as soon as I encounter the other women (read: other cultures) of the city. Most often, I find myself thinking "I'm worried about looking fat in a tank top, and THAT woman is wearing a micro-mini and a tube top?!?"
So off I went, working my way up through East Harlem towards the White Castle. Naturally, despite being 11:00 at night, there are throngs of people on the corners and stoops. Most of them seem astonished to see a white girl out alone at this hour, but the ones who can overcome their astonishment are usually black men who first lick their lips then give me an amazing compliment.
"How you doin tonight gorgeous?"
"Wassup beautiful?"
"Look at you, sweetheart. Gorgeous, gorgeous."
I literally received three such remarks back-to-back-to-back as I rounded the corner to White Castle. I laughed, and smiled, and told the guys to have a nice night, and then complimented myself on moving to a part of town where even on my lardiest, self-hatingest night, heading for fast-food comfort, the men not only think I'm hot, but make sure I hear their opinion.
So to you, men of east harlem, I say thanks. To the three bruthas on the NW corner of 102nd and 1st Ave who ogled me - thank you. To the 4 homeboys on bikes who whistled and smooched - thank you. To the man in the grey t-shirt who looked like he wanted to eat me up - thank you. To the 3 guys who didn't know I could see them gesturing behind me on the White Castle surveillance camera - you're pigs, but thank you.
I owe you one, SpaHa men.
9.21.2005
9.19.2005
ENOUGH!
I've totally had it.
I was just sitting on the couch, watching tv, painting my toes, minding my own business, when a dark object moving on the white wall attracted my attention. A familiar sense of dread overcame my body.
What was it, you ask?
IT WAS A FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!! A HUGE FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!
After the goddam cockroach, the asshole mouse, now I am back to square one with a motherfucking centipede?!?!
I stood up, picked up a shoe, and approached the wall. And with a giant smack, I ended its life.
Then I turned around to write this blog, and saw another movement out of the corner of my eye. I approached the window sill with the same goo-covered shoe, and killed another baby one.
Now, of course, I'm about to cry, and totally afraid to sleep. I'm convinced that someone in the basement is shaking things up, and sending all these assholes into my apartment, and I DON'T LIKE IT.
wah.
(And yes, I've just left a message for my Super.)
I was just sitting on the couch, watching tv, painting my toes, minding my own business, when a dark object moving on the white wall attracted my attention. A familiar sense of dread overcame my body.
What was it, you ask?
IT WAS A FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!! A HUGE FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!
After the goddam cockroach, the asshole mouse, now I am back to square one with a motherfucking centipede?!?!
I stood up, picked up a shoe, and approached the wall. And with a giant smack, I ended its life.
Then I turned around to write this blog, and saw another movement out of the corner of my eye. I approached the window sill with the same goo-covered shoe, and killed another baby one.
Now, of course, I'm about to cry, and totally afraid to sleep. I'm convinced that someone in the basement is shaking things up, and sending all these assholes into my apartment, and I DON'T LIKE IT.
wah.
(And yes, I've just left a message for my Super.)
9.14.2005
ugh! now what?!
So, after my little potato chip incident the other day, I found myself bravely buying a mousetrap at the hardware store. This act alone, you see, is very, very hard for me. It forces me to acknowledge the problem and actually admit that I have....(deep breath)....a mouse.
So I stood in front of the pest control section and saw my options were basically twofold: glue traps or snap-death traps. In the back of my mind, I heard Jen, the "mouse-whisperer" who has resuscitated such creatures in her lab at work, asking me to be humane. To me, that meant not a snap-death trap. But really, it wasn't about humanity at all.
My assessment of the mouse traps went a little something like this:
"Well. So there's glue traps and snap traps. Snap traps scare me. They could totally snap me. And let's face it, probably will. Like when Mikey sits on one by accident in the Goonies, and it hurts a lot but he can't scream or Sloth will hear him. I'm not sure I want a snap trap. But a glue trap? Eek. I think Andrea used those when she had a mouse, and she told me she could hear the mouse squeaking once it was caught. So, there's something to the snap-death where the mouse won't cry, but then I have to deal with a dead mouse. But...I also don't particularly want to deal with a LIVE mouse. Ugh. (urge to vomit.) Which is worse? Dead mouse or live mouse? I mean, my only experience is the time that one of the Andersons' cats killed that mouse while I was housesitting. I sat on the couch for hours until the mouse was captured by the cat. Then I went out to the kitchen with a dustpan and scooped it up, and went outside and chucked it far away into the snow. I was disgusted the whole time. So yeah, maybe I don't want to do that dead mouse thing. Especially because I'm afraid of setting up the trap and losing an appendage. I guess I could get the glue trap, and just make someone else deal with the mouse if I catch one. I'll make Oliver do it. Or the Super. That makes sense. Because one of them is going to have to set the mouse traps up for me anyway. I'm just buying it. That's it."
Then I paid the $1.99 for the pack of 2 glue traps, and went home.
Only later, when I was cleaning out under the kitchen sink and encountered a large amount of mouse poop, did I say "Enough is enough! I can handle this!" and retrieve the box with the traps.
Now, if you think I'm being stupid or girly or cowardly about this, you're right. But you need to understand that underneath all that, the reason for all that, is that I honest to god want to vomit at the thought of handling even an empty mouse trap. It wasn't easy to overcome my dry heaves and put one trap under the kitchen sink and another under the stove. But I did it. And I was proud. And I really didn't think it through.
That was three days ago. I didn't have the guts to open the cabinet to see if a mouse had found his way into the trap under the sink. I assumed I would have heard it, but EVERYTHING I was hearing lately was a mouse in my mind. I refused to throw away any garbage into the trash can under the sink. I refused to obtain cleaning supplies from under the sink. And I realized, somewhat delayed, that merely placing those traps was going to paralyze me from living a normal life in my kitchen.
Then, it happened.
In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke not to one of the 7 million 18-wheelers hauling ass down my street, nor to the scream of sirens of rushed emergency vehicles. No, I awoke to the panicked squeaking of a trapped mouse. And hearing it, identifying it, recognizing it, and acknowledging it turned my stomach inside out. But I was screwed. I was stuck in my bed, unable to put a foot on the floor. And even if I got up, what would I do? I didn't want to see the mouse. I sure as shit wasn't going to touch the mouse. So I resolved to switching on a light (what this achieves I'm not really sure) and putting a pillow over my head so I could get 2 more hours of sleep.
But eventually, I had to get up. And when I did, I put on flip-flops, picked up a flashlight and my pledge grab-it (again, not sure what this accomplishes, but it felt defensive in case of attack). I walked slowly through the kitchen in the dark, guessing, correctly, that it was the under-stove trap that had secured a creature. I could barely make out an image on the trap, and I dared not look closer. Instead, I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, and took a shower.
When I got out, I ditched the flip-flops but kept the pledge grab-it. By now, the mouse's 4 feet AND tail were all securely affixed to the glue trap, and seeing that long, skinny, fleshy tail made me dry heave again, and I knew I couldn't look at the mouse any more. I got dressed, dried my hair, etc., and ran out the door.
Now I'm at work, and I have to figure out how to deal with the mouse. I guess I should call the Super, and leave a message saying "Yeah, I'm a chickenshit and can't deal. Please let yourself in, pardon the mess, and get rid of the damn mouse!" I really should have thought this through before I laid down the fucking trap!!
So I stood in front of the pest control section and saw my options were basically twofold: glue traps or snap-death traps. In the back of my mind, I heard Jen, the "mouse-whisperer" who has resuscitated such creatures in her lab at work, asking me to be humane. To me, that meant not a snap-death trap. But really, it wasn't about humanity at all.
My assessment of the mouse traps went a little something like this:
"Well. So there's glue traps and snap traps. Snap traps scare me. They could totally snap me. And let's face it, probably will. Like when Mikey sits on one by accident in the Goonies, and it hurts a lot but he can't scream or Sloth will hear him. I'm not sure I want a snap trap. But a glue trap? Eek. I think Andrea used those when she had a mouse, and she told me she could hear the mouse squeaking once it was caught. So, there's something to the snap-death where the mouse won't cry, but then I have to deal with a dead mouse. But...I also don't particularly want to deal with a LIVE mouse. Ugh. (urge to vomit.) Which is worse? Dead mouse or live mouse? I mean, my only experience is the time that one of the Andersons' cats killed that mouse while I was housesitting. I sat on the couch for hours until the mouse was captured by the cat. Then I went out to the kitchen with a dustpan and scooped it up, and went outside and chucked it far away into the snow. I was disgusted the whole time. So yeah, maybe I don't want to do that dead mouse thing. Especially because I'm afraid of setting up the trap and losing an appendage. I guess I could get the glue trap, and just make someone else deal with the mouse if I catch one. I'll make Oliver do it. Or the Super. That makes sense. Because one of them is going to have to set the mouse traps up for me anyway. I'm just buying it. That's it."
Then I paid the $1.99 for the pack of 2 glue traps, and went home.
Only later, when I was cleaning out under the kitchen sink and encountered a large amount of mouse poop, did I say "Enough is enough! I can handle this!" and retrieve the box with the traps.
Now, if you think I'm being stupid or girly or cowardly about this, you're right. But you need to understand that underneath all that, the reason for all that, is that I honest to god want to vomit at the thought of handling even an empty mouse trap. It wasn't easy to overcome my dry heaves and put one trap under the kitchen sink and another under the stove. But I did it. And I was proud. And I really didn't think it through.
That was three days ago. I didn't have the guts to open the cabinet to see if a mouse had found his way into the trap under the sink. I assumed I would have heard it, but EVERYTHING I was hearing lately was a mouse in my mind. I refused to throw away any garbage into the trash can under the sink. I refused to obtain cleaning supplies from under the sink. And I realized, somewhat delayed, that merely placing those traps was going to paralyze me from living a normal life in my kitchen.
Then, it happened.
In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke not to one of the 7 million 18-wheelers hauling ass down my street, nor to the scream of sirens of rushed emergency vehicles. No, I awoke to the panicked squeaking of a trapped mouse. And hearing it, identifying it, recognizing it, and acknowledging it turned my stomach inside out. But I was screwed. I was stuck in my bed, unable to put a foot on the floor. And even if I got up, what would I do? I didn't want to see the mouse. I sure as shit wasn't going to touch the mouse. So I resolved to switching on a light (what this achieves I'm not really sure) and putting a pillow over my head so I could get 2 more hours of sleep.
But eventually, I had to get up. And when I did, I put on flip-flops, picked up a flashlight and my pledge grab-it (again, not sure what this accomplishes, but it felt defensive in case of attack). I walked slowly through the kitchen in the dark, guessing, correctly, that it was the under-stove trap that had secured a creature. I could barely make out an image on the trap, and I dared not look closer. Instead, I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, and took a shower.
When I got out, I ditched the flip-flops but kept the pledge grab-it. By now, the mouse's 4 feet AND tail were all securely affixed to the glue trap, and seeing that long, skinny, fleshy tail made me dry heave again, and I knew I couldn't look at the mouse any more. I got dressed, dried my hair, etc., and ran out the door.
Now I'm at work, and I have to figure out how to deal with the mouse. I guess I should call the Super, and leave a message saying "Yeah, I'm a chickenshit and can't deal. Please let yourself in, pardon the mess, and get rid of the damn mouse!" I really should have thought this through before I laid down the fucking trap!!
9.07.2005
if only i wasn't allergic to cats.
(I'd like to take a moment to dedicate this post East Harlem Katie, who will understand my pain.)
The past weekend was a gorgeous one. I enjoyed three long late-summer days of blue skies and sunshine, billowy clouds, and the drool-inducing aroma of barbecues throughout Central and Prospect Parks. By mid-day Monday, Labor Day, all I wanted was a barbecue to call my own. Cheeseburgers, hot dogs, dribbles of ketchup and mustard, macaroni salad, bbq chicken that was just a little crispy and too good to waste a finger-lickin' on a napkin. Mmmm-mm.
Being that I have no yard, nor a grill, nor had I any outstanding invitations to someone else's yard or grill, I decided to do the best I could and have a kitchecue. I went with my pal Katie to the market, and I browsed the aisles for wannabe barbecue items, like hot dogs, kilbasa, lemonade, and most importantly -- potato chips. Together, Katie and I pondered which of the million kinds of potato chips to savor. I got a bag of regular Lays to have with onion dip (YUM!) and then a bag of the forever awesome KC Masterpiece barbecue flavored ones. Mmm. Labor Day would be fantastic yet!
When I got home, I mixed my onion dip and feasted on chips. DEEELISH! Of course, I ate so much of it that I had to wait a few hours before making hot dogs and beans and pasta salad. YUMMMY! And then I had to wait a whole other day to eat the rest of the food...
Last night, I got home from work and went immediately for the prized KC Masterpiece barbecue chips. I peeled open the bag and chomped away with satisfying crunches while I prepared more pasta salad and the kilbasa. When my food was cooked and my plate loaded up satisfactorily, I went in the other room to watch a movie while I ate bite after delicious bite.
At the end of the movie, I picked up my plate and headed back into the kitchen to clean up. But I heard something funny, and when I looked up, I saw a small, grey, furry, four-legged creature with a tail bolted OUT OF MY POTATO CHIP BAG!!! I froze in horror and amazement. I have never, EVER had a mouse. Not at this apartment, not at ANY. I can deal with the roaches, I can exterminate the centipedes, but a MOUSE?? Oh HELL NO.
He scampered across the counter, over the stove, and behind it. I stood and watched, paralyzed by my genetic inability to cope with rodents. After a few minutes, when I was sure he was gone (and by "gone" I mean "out of my sight so I could pretend he didn't exist"), I walked towards the potato chips and looked inside the bag. I honestly wasn't sure if I was more upset that I had a mouse, or that the little fucker went after my potato chips. My BARBECUE potato chips!! Because now, of course, I had to throw them away. That, and the 3/4 roll of kilbasa that I'd left on the counter, not expecting company would eat it while my back was turned.
I cleaned up and got ready for bed, which meant sleeping with one light on and my eyes closed tight. My studio doesn't have a bedroom door, no barrier with which I may pretend the mouse is on THAT side and I am safely tucked away on THIS side. Instead, I just have to believe he went back to wherever the fuck he got in, and he shan't be returning. So help me, if I see that little bastard again, he is so....so....he is so going to get whatever he wants because I'll be in the other room standing on the couch screaming.
The past weekend was a gorgeous one. I enjoyed three long late-summer days of blue skies and sunshine, billowy clouds, and the drool-inducing aroma of barbecues throughout Central and Prospect Parks. By mid-day Monday, Labor Day, all I wanted was a barbecue to call my own. Cheeseburgers, hot dogs, dribbles of ketchup and mustard, macaroni salad, bbq chicken that was just a little crispy and too good to waste a finger-lickin' on a napkin. Mmmm-mm.
Being that I have no yard, nor a grill, nor had I any outstanding invitations to someone else's yard or grill, I decided to do the best I could and have a kitchecue. I went with my pal Katie to the market, and I browsed the aisles for wannabe barbecue items, like hot dogs, kilbasa, lemonade, and most importantly -- potato chips. Together, Katie and I pondered which of the million kinds of potato chips to savor. I got a bag of regular Lays to have with onion dip (YUM!) and then a bag of the forever awesome KC Masterpiece barbecue flavored ones. Mmm. Labor Day would be fantastic yet!
When I got home, I mixed my onion dip and feasted on chips. DEEELISH! Of course, I ate so much of it that I had to wait a few hours before making hot dogs and beans and pasta salad. YUMMMY! And then I had to wait a whole other day to eat the rest of the food...
Last night, I got home from work and went immediately for the prized KC Masterpiece barbecue chips. I peeled open the bag and chomped away with satisfying crunches while I prepared more pasta salad and the kilbasa. When my food was cooked and my plate loaded up satisfactorily, I went in the other room to watch a movie while I ate bite after delicious bite.
At the end of the movie, I picked up my plate and headed back into the kitchen to clean up. But I heard something funny, and when I looked up, I saw a small, grey, furry, four-legged creature with a tail bolted OUT OF MY POTATO CHIP BAG!!! I froze in horror and amazement. I have never, EVER had a mouse. Not at this apartment, not at ANY. I can deal with the roaches, I can exterminate the centipedes, but a MOUSE?? Oh HELL NO.
He scampered across the counter, over the stove, and behind it. I stood and watched, paralyzed by my genetic inability to cope with rodents. After a few minutes, when I was sure he was gone (and by "gone" I mean "out of my sight so I could pretend he didn't exist"), I walked towards the potato chips and looked inside the bag. I honestly wasn't sure if I was more upset that I had a mouse, or that the little fucker went after my potato chips. My BARBECUE potato chips!! Because now, of course, I had to throw them away. That, and the 3/4 roll of kilbasa that I'd left on the counter, not expecting company would eat it while my back was turned.
I cleaned up and got ready for bed, which meant sleeping with one light on and my eyes closed tight. My studio doesn't have a bedroom door, no barrier with which I may pretend the mouse is on THAT side and I am safely tucked away on THIS side. Instead, I just have to believe he went back to wherever the fuck he got in, and he shan't be returning. So help me, if I see that little bastard again, he is so....so....he is so going to get whatever he wants because I'll be in the other room standing on the couch screaming.
8.28.2005
la cucaracha
I have encountered this weekend a "first" in my little manhattan apartment. It happened when I opened a drawer in the kitchen, and saw out of the corner of my eye some sort of unexpected movement. It was, I dare say, a cockroach - but a little one.
To my huge surprise, I didn't freak out. I didn't scream, I didn't cry, I didn't freeze in terror. I simply tried to get the bug. I was unsuccessful, of course, because they are fast little fuckers, and when I gave up my search and considered my unpanicked reaction, I realized this...
All those nasty jurassic creatures I encountered in Boston, those dirty gazillion-legged little assassins that hid in the shower and pantry, those horrid incidents were all preparation for this, my first run-in with a new york cockroach. Compared to the centipedes (I seriously almost vomit just typing the word), these roaches are a walk in the park. I mean sure, I still immediately grabbed several shoes to arm my hands and feet for attack. And sure, I was holding a giant butcher knife as some sort of idiotic defense (but really, mostly because it was in the drawer and I had to move it), but I assure you that the sense of panic and despair was absolutely minimal as compared to the - you know, the ones with all the legs.
So, the hunt continues. I will find this dirty little asshole roach, and I will kill him. And I know that it is just him, that he is alone, because that's what I want to believe. Clearly, the Boston Bug Community hasn't relayed word yet to their New York affiliates that I guarantee death, even if I don't have a braver roommate to handle it for me. You're as good as dead, little cucaracha.
To my huge surprise, I didn't freak out. I didn't scream, I didn't cry, I didn't freeze in terror. I simply tried to get the bug. I was unsuccessful, of course, because they are fast little fuckers, and when I gave up my search and considered my unpanicked reaction, I realized this...
All those nasty jurassic creatures I encountered in Boston, those dirty gazillion-legged little assassins that hid in the shower and pantry, those horrid incidents were all preparation for this, my first run-in with a new york cockroach. Compared to the centipedes (I seriously almost vomit just typing the word), these roaches are a walk in the park. I mean sure, I still immediately grabbed several shoes to arm my hands and feet for attack. And sure, I was holding a giant butcher knife as some sort of idiotic defense (but really, mostly because it was in the drawer and I had to move it), but I assure you that the sense of panic and despair was absolutely minimal as compared to the - you know, the ones with all the legs.
So, the hunt continues. I will find this dirty little asshole roach, and I will kill him. And I know that it is just him, that he is alone, because that's what I want to believe. Clearly, the Boston Bug Community hasn't relayed word yet to their New York affiliates that I guarantee death, even if I don't have a braver roommate to handle it for me. You're as good as dead, little cucaracha.
8.22.2005
did you hear something?
One of my biggest fears that occurs on a daily basis is that I'm going to leave the house, put my earphones in, crank the volume on my (non-ipod) mp3 player, and wind up oblivious to any one of the million things that could injure, dismember, kill, or embarrass me.
One day, this meant getting nearly mowed down by a giant cement truck backing out of a construction site. Apparently he was beep-beep-beeping, but I was busy jam-jam-jamming to the Sneaker Pimps. Another day, this meant missing the spontaneous announcement on the train that it was going to run express and skip my stop, sending me into a haze of confusion when "two stops" got me 10 stations away from my destination.
But really, one of my biggest concerns is that while I'm standing on a practically silent train, music blasting into my ears, I will have no idea that people are looking around to find out where a strange squeaking sound is emanating from, and only when one pair of eyes after another turns to me, and I cautiously remove my earbuds, only then will I discover that a squeaking booger in my nose has been reverberating throughout the car.
Every day, at least once in the morning, I remove my headphones and furiously wiggle my nose to prevent any squeaky boogs from developing. I'm particularly self-conscious on the days where I had a squeaky booger to begin with, before I even left the house. You know, those ones that when you first hear, you turn your head to the left then the right trying to identify the location of the sound only to discover it seems to be following your breathing pattern, and then you realize it is coming FROM you, from inside your nasal cavity, and you blow and you pick and you check the mirror and no matter what you do there's still this internal mouselike squeak coming from your inner nasal passages? Yeah, you know what I mean.
So anyhow, I expect that one of these days I'll be standing on the train, music on, absentmindedly reading my book or paper or whatever arbitrary advertisement is located above my head, when some concerned passenger taps me lightly on the shoulder and says "Excuse me ma'am, but...your nose is squeaking. We can all hear it, and it's driving us crazy. In fact, I can see the dangling booger right there, in your left nostril. If you wouldn't mind...could you...you know...attend to the situation?"
Seriously. Any day now.
One day, this meant getting nearly mowed down by a giant cement truck backing out of a construction site. Apparently he was beep-beep-beeping, but I was busy jam-jam-jamming to the Sneaker Pimps. Another day, this meant missing the spontaneous announcement on the train that it was going to run express and skip my stop, sending me into a haze of confusion when "two stops" got me 10 stations away from my destination.
But really, one of my biggest concerns is that while I'm standing on a practically silent train, music blasting into my ears, I will have no idea that people are looking around to find out where a strange squeaking sound is emanating from, and only when one pair of eyes after another turns to me, and I cautiously remove my earbuds, only then will I discover that a squeaking booger in my nose has been reverberating throughout the car.
Every day, at least once in the morning, I remove my headphones and furiously wiggle my nose to prevent any squeaky boogs from developing. I'm particularly self-conscious on the days where I had a squeaky booger to begin with, before I even left the house. You know, those ones that when you first hear, you turn your head to the left then the right trying to identify the location of the sound only to discover it seems to be following your breathing pattern, and then you realize it is coming FROM you, from inside your nasal cavity, and you blow and you pick and you check the mirror and no matter what you do there's still this internal mouselike squeak coming from your inner nasal passages? Yeah, you know what I mean.
So anyhow, I expect that one of these days I'll be standing on the train, music on, absentmindedly reading my book or paper or whatever arbitrary advertisement is located above my head, when some concerned passenger taps me lightly on the shoulder and says "Excuse me ma'am, but...your nose is squeaking. We can all hear it, and it's driving us crazy. In fact, I can see the dangling booger right there, in your left nostril. If you wouldn't mind...could you...you know...attend to the situation?"
Seriously. Any day now.
8.09.2005
injury/mini-post
So this morning, getting off the damn train at the "green light" stop mentioned yesterday, and getting bottlenecked at the door, I experienced the very normal scenario where the "Stand clear of the closing doors!" announcement occurred before I was even off the train (let alone anyone had gotten on it). Usually you get 2 or 3 announcements just to scare you and get you to hustle. Today, we got half of ONE. "Stand clear of the--WHAP!" Before I knew what was happening, I was being shoved with linebacker-like force, launching me haphazardly into the open arms of people waiting to board the train. Upon realizing it was the fucking door that shoved me, I gazed angrily down the track at the outstretched head of the asshole who pushed that button while the open arms around me redirected their efforts to holding the doors open so at least two or three people could get on the damn train.
I tell ya. I survived three separate beatings by elevator doors yesterday only to get assaulted by the train doors today. I need some body armor!
I tell ya. I survived three separate beatings by elevator doors yesterday only to get assaulted by the train doors today. I need some body armor!
8.08.2005
this is why I need a hand-held air horn.
Many mornings, like today, I find myself amazed at the remarkable similarities between riding a subway and driving a car. It's the people. People are still commuter assholes no matter WHAT their vehicle.
First there's that whole dance on the subway train. I stand here, I hold there, I sit here, right hand on red, left foot on green. Whenever someone abandons a seat or vacates a standing space, the whole crowd re-orders themselves. This is like a traffic jam, when one lane advances faster than another, and everyone tries to get into that lane. But when they do, their old lane moves faster, so everyone tries to get in THAT lane.
Then there's exiting the train. This is kinda like when a big intersection gets a green light, except all the other streets get a green light at the same time. You still jockey for position, hoping that wise lane selection (or train car selection) and a jump on the timing will get you there (the turnstile) first, but really, unless you're the first car at the green light or the first person out the door, you still hurry up and go no where.
Then comes my favorite part: the stand here and wait. Getting up the stairs to street level is the stop-and-go nightmare of commuters at 33rd street. Often, you can't even get through the turnstiles. If you can, you have to merge with like 14 other "lanes" of people to get up the stairs. But this, this is where all human stupidity is alike.
The stairs are wide enough for three, and EXACTLY three, lanes of people. This, under normal, logical conditions, means two lanes up, one lane down. But someone is ALWAYS trying to pass in the breakdown lane. ALWAYS!! And this forces the logic-abiding citizens to slam on their brakes, causing a domino effect of delays that trickles down the stairwell. And, the bitch in front of me had NO brake lights. She didn't slow to a stop. She just...STOPPED! And while that annoyed the hell out of me, I know it wasn't her fault, but the fault of the asshole who was trying to go UP the DOWN lane--violating all pedestrian laws, and forcing the rest of us to a screeching halt when someone--and I know this is a big surprise--was coming DOWN the down lane, and Asshole had to merge with us.
Rest assured, as I sat there, unmoving, crammed, smushed, sweating, and looking up the long stairwell from the absolute bottom, I knew that if I was properly armed with a canned airhorn, I would have opened it up on this dick. Everybody's gotta be in such a damn rush! HOOOOOOOONK!!!
First there's that whole dance on the subway train. I stand here, I hold there, I sit here, right hand on red, left foot on green. Whenever someone abandons a seat or vacates a standing space, the whole crowd re-orders themselves. This is like a traffic jam, when one lane advances faster than another, and everyone tries to get into that lane. But when they do, their old lane moves faster, so everyone tries to get in THAT lane.
Then there's exiting the train. This is kinda like when a big intersection gets a green light, except all the other streets get a green light at the same time. You still jockey for position, hoping that wise lane selection (or train car selection) and a jump on the timing will get you there (the turnstile) first, but really, unless you're the first car at the green light or the first person out the door, you still hurry up and go no where.
Then comes my favorite part: the stand here and wait. Getting up the stairs to street level is the stop-and-go nightmare of commuters at 33rd street. Often, you can't even get through the turnstiles. If you can, you have to merge with like 14 other "lanes" of people to get up the stairs. But this, this is where all human stupidity is alike.
The stairs are wide enough for three, and EXACTLY three, lanes of people. This, under normal, logical conditions, means two lanes up, one lane down. But someone is ALWAYS trying to pass in the breakdown lane. ALWAYS!! And this forces the logic-abiding citizens to slam on their brakes, causing a domino effect of delays that trickles down the stairwell. And, the bitch in front of me had NO brake lights. She didn't slow to a stop. She just...STOPPED! And while that annoyed the hell out of me, I know it wasn't her fault, but the fault of the asshole who was trying to go UP the DOWN lane--violating all pedestrian laws, and forcing the rest of us to a screeching halt when someone--and I know this is a big surprise--was coming DOWN the down lane, and Asshole had to merge with us.
Rest assured, as I sat there, unmoving, crammed, smushed, sweating, and looking up the long stairwell from the absolute bottom, I knew that if I was properly armed with a canned airhorn, I would have opened it up on this dick. Everybody's gotta be in such a damn rush! HOOOOOOOONK!!!
8.05.2005
i hate when i'm right.
Last night, through a half-sleeping haze (or maybe it was a dream altogether), I envisioned three things happening to me today to really make my morning unpleasant.
As I was walking up the hill to the subway, I wondered if my cell phone was on vibrate. I always hate when I forget to turn off the ringer, then in the middle of my cemetary-like office everyone get a little Salsa serenade. So I try to turn off the ringer. But halfway through this thought process, I realized my phone wasn't even in my bag. It was at home, plugged in, sitting on the shelf, exactly where I left it. Vision #1: Forgetting cell phone on a day when I may need it to meet up with people - Check!
I got to the subway, and descended the 3 levels of hell required to get to the platform. There were waaay to many people there, which meant the trains were fucked up. I waited and waited and waited. About 10 minutes later, a train finally came, but blared its horn to say "Hey you sorry, sweaty bastards - we're gonna go RIGHT past you!" A common groan fell over the perspiring crowd. We'd have to wait - and sweat - a little longer. Vision #2: Trains being messed up and making me late for work, and being unable to call because I had no phone - Check.
Having 2 out of 3 visions succeed thus far, I got a little nervous about the last one. I pushed and elbowed my way onto the train when one finally stopped, and grabbed the rail and hoped I didn't have tremendous pit-stains, or at least that if I did have them, everyone else did too. Suspecting that the trains were still going to be flakey and possibly skip stops (like the shithead who passed us minutes earlier), I pulled out one of my earphones to listen to announcements.
We went one stop, and a crazyman got on. I could barely hear what he was saying, but I made out words like "America" and "freedom" and started to sense an overall paranoia on my fellow passengers' faces. I started to do the math in my head: a completely over-crowded train, a lunatic who hates America, and alas, my third vision, which is too scary to really explain but involved a madman America-hater on the train. Suddenly, I started to believe I was going to die at the hands of a lunatic, a fear I haven't felt since the last time I was in the car with my father.
Obviously, because I'm here to write about it, my third fear was just some subconcious creation of too much news feed and not enough sleep. (And maybe a dash of a paranoia-inducing movie last night.) But either way, I can't believe I forgot my damn cell phone. I hate that.
As I was walking up the hill to the subway, I wondered if my cell phone was on vibrate. I always hate when I forget to turn off the ringer, then in the middle of my cemetary-like office everyone get a little Salsa serenade. So I try to turn off the ringer. But halfway through this thought process, I realized my phone wasn't even in my bag. It was at home, plugged in, sitting on the shelf, exactly where I left it. Vision #1: Forgetting cell phone on a day when I may need it to meet up with people - Check!
I got to the subway, and descended the 3 levels of hell required to get to the platform. There were waaay to many people there, which meant the trains were fucked up. I waited and waited and waited. About 10 minutes later, a train finally came, but blared its horn to say "Hey you sorry, sweaty bastards - we're gonna go RIGHT past you!" A common groan fell over the perspiring crowd. We'd have to wait - and sweat - a little longer. Vision #2: Trains being messed up and making me late for work, and being unable to call because I had no phone - Check.
Having 2 out of 3 visions succeed thus far, I got a little nervous about the last one. I pushed and elbowed my way onto the train when one finally stopped, and grabbed the rail and hoped I didn't have tremendous pit-stains, or at least that if I did have them, everyone else did too. Suspecting that the trains were still going to be flakey and possibly skip stops (like the shithead who passed us minutes earlier), I pulled out one of my earphones to listen to announcements.
We went one stop, and a crazyman got on. I could barely hear what he was saying, but I made out words like "America" and "freedom" and started to sense an overall paranoia on my fellow passengers' faces. I started to do the math in my head: a completely over-crowded train, a lunatic who hates America, and alas, my third vision, which is too scary to really explain but involved a madman America-hater on the train. Suddenly, I started to believe I was going to die at the hands of a lunatic, a fear I haven't felt since the last time I was in the car with my father.
Obviously, because I'm here to write about it, my third fear was just some subconcious creation of too much news feed and not enough sleep. (And maybe a dash of a paranoia-inducing movie last night.) But either way, I can't believe I forgot my damn cell phone. I hate that.
7.27.2005
what can brown do for me, hmmm?
One of the biggest pains in the ass of living in New York City is--if you don't have a doorman, which I don't--trying to receive a freaking package in the mail. My mailbox is about 4 inches wide, so most packages don't exactly fit into it.
If it's a postal package, it is held at the Post Office, but not the one that is 3 blocks away. Oh no no. It's held at the one 15 blocks away, where I must go to fetch it, which requires standing in a long line of disgruntled citizens (and I use that term loosely) who maybe, just maybe, speak any derivative of English or Spanish required to communicate with the postal staff. Most communication is done through translators or hand gestures, and even those are done through a couple inches of plexi-glass.
But worse, when a package is sent UPS or FedEx, chances are pretty much nill that I'll ever get it. Over the holidays, despite my numerous attempst to locate, retrieve, or redirect an incoming present, it got returned to the sender after 10 days.
So now I generally have packages sent to my office, because at least someone will be here to get it, even if it's not me. And really, screw the company policy against receiving personal packages. Clearly whoever wrote that either has a doorman or a nice little estate in the burbs where the house servants can receive it or, like it used to be for me back in Boston, it can simply be left on your porch without risk of being stolen.
Last week I ordered a new bathing suit online. I figured, I hate trying that shit on in the store anyway, let's just take a gamble and see what happens. I chose the express shipping method for 3-5 business days, all in the hopes that the suit would arrive before I leave Friday for an out-of-town wedding weekend, during which time I intend to take a dip in my hotel pool or spa.
I ordered the suit on Thursday. I had it shipped to my apartment, fearing that someone at work might accidentally open it and laugh at the heavily padded bust. I got an email Saturday saying "we've shipped your package! here's your tracking number!" I panicked, thinking 5 business days from Monday may not be sufficient. And then I saw a link to UPS.com, which totally pissed me off. This meant that no matter how small the package was, it sure wasn't getting into my mailbox. It meant that when I got home, there would be a frustrating little yellow sticker saying "Nah nah, we have your package but you weren't here to get it! We'll try again at the same time tomorrow, when you will also not be here!"
On Monday I checked the status, and to my surprise, it said the package was on a truck for delivery. So fast! This largely increased my chances of actually obtaining it, if only I could get the new sticker off my door and use it to re-direct the package to work. Later in the day, sure enough, the online tracking said the first delivery attempt failed. All I had to do was go home and get the sticker...
...that was NOT stuck to my door. No sticker. No new package number. No redirect. "Brown" bastards.
On Tuesday, I checked the status online again, and furiously searched for the option to redirect, which I KNOW is somewhere, because I used it before. But it looks like I needed the "Oops we missed you" sticker to redirect. So, I was Shit Outta Luck. Hopefully the second delivery attempt would leave a sticker for me to work with. Because if not, then there was no way I would have time to redirect the package to work before I leave on Thursday. UGH!
So as I walked home on Tuesday, down the hill from the subway, slowly sauntering to minimize any overheating in this disgusting, atrocious weather, I prayed the sticker would be there. As I got down the hill and turned the corner, I looked up to reveal none other than...
...the ACTUAL brown UPS truck! Parked outside my building!
I picked up my pace and excitedly jogged over to the truck, peeking in the front cab for the driver, then to the back to see where he was hiding. Seeing him nowhere, I peered at my front door to see if there was a sticker, but there was STILL no fucking sticker! I turned back to the truck and saw the driver hop in the front seat, and I leaned in the door from the other side and said "HEY! You have something for me!"
The thickly french accented black man said "Wass yoor address?" I told him. "Ya, apartment five, I juss deliver there."
"NO, apartment FOUR," I pleaded with him.
"You have steecker?"
"No, I never got one, but I tracked the package online and it said first delivery attempt failed, so you must..."
"Lemme look." He disappeared into the back of the truck, yelling indiscernible things to me out on the street. I shouted tips, like how small it was, where it was from, and my name. Finally, he trumpeted his success, returning to the front with the package.
"Ooooh YAY!!" I sang and danced. I signed my name and shrugged off his apologies, instead embracing the fantastic luck that a UPS truck, the one with MY package, was parked outside MY building at 6:30pm for the same 30 seconds that I was walking by. The package was in my hands, despite all odds.
But a quick note to self - always send packages to work. Always.
If it's a postal package, it is held at the Post Office, but not the one that is 3 blocks away. Oh no no. It's held at the one 15 blocks away, where I must go to fetch it, which requires standing in a long line of disgruntled citizens (and I use that term loosely) who maybe, just maybe, speak any derivative of English or Spanish required to communicate with the postal staff. Most communication is done through translators or hand gestures, and even those are done through a couple inches of plexi-glass.
But worse, when a package is sent UPS or FedEx, chances are pretty much nill that I'll ever get it. Over the holidays, despite my numerous attempst to locate, retrieve, or redirect an incoming present, it got returned to the sender after 10 days.
So now I generally have packages sent to my office, because at least someone will be here to get it, even if it's not me. And really, screw the company policy against receiving personal packages. Clearly whoever wrote that either has a doorman or a nice little estate in the burbs where the house servants can receive it or, like it used to be for me back in Boston, it can simply be left on your porch without risk of being stolen.
Last week I ordered a new bathing suit online. I figured, I hate trying that shit on in the store anyway, let's just take a gamble and see what happens. I chose the express shipping method for 3-5 business days, all in the hopes that the suit would arrive before I leave Friday for an out-of-town wedding weekend, during which time I intend to take a dip in my hotel pool or spa.
I ordered the suit on Thursday. I had it shipped to my apartment, fearing that someone at work might accidentally open it and laugh at the heavily padded bust. I got an email Saturday saying "we've shipped your package! here's your tracking number!" I panicked, thinking 5 business days from Monday may not be sufficient. And then I saw a link to UPS.com, which totally pissed me off. This meant that no matter how small the package was, it sure wasn't getting into my mailbox. It meant that when I got home, there would be a frustrating little yellow sticker saying "Nah nah, we have your package but you weren't here to get it! We'll try again at the same time tomorrow, when you will also not be here!"
On Monday I checked the status, and to my surprise, it said the package was on a truck for delivery. So fast! This largely increased my chances of actually obtaining it, if only I could get the new sticker off my door and use it to re-direct the package to work. Later in the day, sure enough, the online tracking said the first delivery attempt failed. All I had to do was go home and get the sticker...
...that was NOT stuck to my door. No sticker. No new package number. No redirect. "Brown" bastards.
On Tuesday, I checked the status online again, and furiously searched for the option to redirect, which I KNOW is somewhere, because I used it before. But it looks like I needed the "Oops we missed you" sticker to redirect. So, I was Shit Outta Luck. Hopefully the second delivery attempt would leave a sticker for me to work with. Because if not, then there was no way I would have time to redirect the package to work before I leave on Thursday. UGH!
So as I walked home on Tuesday, down the hill from the subway, slowly sauntering to minimize any overheating in this disgusting, atrocious weather, I prayed the sticker would be there. As I got down the hill and turned the corner, I looked up to reveal none other than...
...the ACTUAL brown UPS truck! Parked outside my building!
I picked up my pace and excitedly jogged over to the truck, peeking in the front cab for the driver, then to the back to see where he was hiding. Seeing him nowhere, I peered at my front door to see if there was a sticker, but there was STILL no fucking sticker! I turned back to the truck and saw the driver hop in the front seat, and I leaned in the door from the other side and said "HEY! You have something for me!"
The thickly french accented black man said "Wass yoor address?" I told him. "Ya, apartment five, I juss deliver there."
"NO, apartment FOUR," I pleaded with him.
"You have steecker?"
"No, I never got one, but I tracked the package online and it said first delivery attempt failed, so you must..."
"Lemme look." He disappeared into the back of the truck, yelling indiscernible things to me out on the street. I shouted tips, like how small it was, where it was from, and my name. Finally, he trumpeted his success, returning to the front with the package.
"Ooooh YAY!!" I sang and danced. I signed my name and shrugged off his apologies, instead embracing the fantastic luck that a UPS truck, the one with MY package, was parked outside MY building at 6:30pm for the same 30 seconds that I was walking by. The package was in my hands, despite all odds.
But a quick note to self - always send packages to work. Always.
7.21.2005
identity crisis.
Okay, I know, I'm sorry. I've been MIA for days. Weeks even. I've been very busy, and I haven't seen any public penises lately.
I did, however, just email my mother, father, and sister, to tell them how amused I am at today's wardrobe malfunction slash identity crisis.
Last week I went to Old Navy. For some reason, I bought many green items, including an adorable Margarita Madness bag (how fitting!) and two green shirts. Today I put on one of the shirts. It works, I thought, as I stood in front of the mirror.
Now I'm at work, and people are commenting on how the shirt really brings out my green eyes. This severely confuses me because I always thought of myself as having BROWN eyes. Or at least that is what it looks like in all the pictures. I mean, I can't say I spend a whole lot of time in front of the mirror assessing the flecks of colors in my irises. But I also think I would have noticed if my eyes were GREEN.
Then I remembered the incident years ago, when I was at a wedding with my ex-boyfriend's family. Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl" came on, and my ex's sister jumped up to dance, exclaiming "Hey, this is my song!" I jumped up as well, saying "Mine too! Let's dance!" And Cristie, in my memory, put her hands on her hips and sassed me with "Your eyes aren't brown. They're green," then trotted off to the dance floor, leaving me there in my befuddled state.
Now here I sit, staring at myself in the mirror, studying my eyeballs. And it turns out...they're really not brown at all. What the hell? When did THAT change? They're sorta hollow gray-greenish with some strange orange flecks. How did I miss this?? How do you not know what color your eyes are? And what do I do now that there's no sweet American tune about my eye color?
Ugh. This changes everything.
I did, however, just email my mother, father, and sister, to tell them how amused I am at today's wardrobe malfunction slash identity crisis.
Last week I went to Old Navy. For some reason, I bought many green items, including an adorable Margarita Madness bag (how fitting!) and two green shirts. Today I put on one of the shirts. It works, I thought, as I stood in front of the mirror.
Now I'm at work, and people are commenting on how the shirt really brings out my green eyes. This severely confuses me because I always thought of myself as having BROWN eyes. Or at least that is what it looks like in all the pictures. I mean, I can't say I spend a whole lot of time in front of the mirror assessing the flecks of colors in my irises. But I also think I would have noticed if my eyes were GREEN.
Then I remembered the incident years ago, when I was at a wedding with my ex-boyfriend's family. Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl" came on, and my ex's sister jumped up to dance, exclaiming "Hey, this is my song!" I jumped up as well, saying "Mine too! Let's dance!" And Cristie, in my memory, put her hands on her hips and sassed me with "Your eyes aren't brown. They're green," then trotted off to the dance floor, leaving me there in my befuddled state.
Now here I sit, staring at myself in the mirror, studying my eyeballs. And it turns out...they're really not brown at all. What the hell? When did THAT change? They're sorta hollow gray-greenish with some strange orange flecks. How did I miss this?? How do you not know what color your eyes are? And what do I do now that there's no sweet American tune about my eye color?
Ugh. This changes everything.
7.06.2005
random new york moment.
I doubt this is enough to whet anyone's appetite but I still have to share it.
The other day I was walking up the street, on my way to the gym, and talking on my cell phone. In fact, specifically, I think I was leaving a voicemail for my sister when It Happened.
There was some noise over my head, but not enough to take my attention. Moments later, an objected landed with a loud, hollow thwump on the sidewalk about five feet in front of me. I took a step closer while looking up to see two seagulls fighting. (I hate them almost as much as pigeons, if not more, now.)
As I got closer to the Object, my brain scanned all known shapes and colors for a match. Best I came up with was "rotten cucumber." But my next step revealed a three-dimensional truth: a nasty, disgusting, smelly, rotten, hollowed-out fish head.
It was at this point, or near to it (my memory has blocked out the details) that I yelled into my sister's voicemail "A FUCKING FISH HEAD!" This decaying ocean sewage instantly became the most bizarre and disgusting thing I've seen fall from the new york sky yet.
I stepped squeamishly over and around the decapitated aquatic creature, and cursed angrily at the asshole seagulls overhead. For a moment, I questioned whether they got it from a garbage can or the nearby river, but then decided it didn't matter--it was still a nasty, rotting, disgusting, fish head that fell from the sky and almost hit me.
The other day I was walking up the street, on my way to the gym, and talking on my cell phone. In fact, specifically, I think I was leaving a voicemail for my sister when It Happened.
There was some noise over my head, but not enough to take my attention. Moments later, an objected landed with a loud, hollow thwump on the sidewalk about five feet in front of me. I took a step closer while looking up to see two seagulls fighting. (I hate them almost as much as pigeons, if not more, now.)
As I got closer to the Object, my brain scanned all known shapes and colors for a match. Best I came up with was "rotten cucumber." But my next step revealed a three-dimensional truth: a nasty, disgusting, smelly, rotten, hollowed-out fish head.
It was at this point, or near to it (my memory has blocked out the details) that I yelled into my sister's voicemail "A FUCKING FISH HEAD!" This decaying ocean sewage instantly became the most bizarre and disgusting thing I've seen fall from the new york sky yet.
I stepped squeamishly over and around the decapitated aquatic creature, and cursed angrily at the asshole seagulls overhead. For a moment, I questioned whether they got it from a garbage can or the nearby river, but then decided it didn't matter--it was still a nasty, rotting, disgusting, fish head that fell from the sky and almost hit me.
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