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.

and now...

Another mouse.

Seriously. This isn't funny anymore.

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.)

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!!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!!!

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.

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.

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.

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.

summer's here, the freaks are out.

Today, for the first time since last summer, I took a stroll over to my favorite little park for some R&R....and sun. Along with a friend, I laid out my blanket, and nestled in for some lazy summer afternoon lounging.

After about 20 minutes in the sun, sweat was beading and pouring down my body. The weathermen did say mid 90s, but I hadn't believed them.

Well, as I lay there talking to my friend, this little old guy in running shorts strolled up onto the grass and sat down, leaning up against the little iron fence behind him. I had a flash of familiarity, pondering for a moment, but dismissed the possibility that this man was the one I was thinking of. That is, until he spread his legs and pulled out his penis.

I kid you not, it's the SAME guy from last year. I knew it the second I saw him. And he has to go and flash me on my first return to the park?! What is WITH this sicko!? And just like last time, I turned to my friend and said "Okay, yeah, so that guy totally just pulled his dick out of his shorts. This is a family place!" Next time, I'm gonna throw food at it so the pigeons peck off his pecker.

I can't help feel like this is some sort of groundhog's day. "Look folks! Penis has a shadow! 6 more weeks of summer!"

my friends the spammers.

So, like the rest of the world's email account holders, I have been receiving a lot of spam lately. For a while I had the spam filter on, and things quieted down. But then I started job hunting again, and bouncing my prospective employers with a less-than-friendly reminder not to spam my ass, so I had to turn it back off. So now that the spam is rolling back in again, I have taken a new approach with it: keeping track of the funniest auto-generated titles.

• My buddy Josh Childs sent me one with To sign go stoneless perceptible as a subject. I liked this one because I think it's brilliant for anyone (or anything) to make "stoneless perceptible" a phrase. If I use it, it sounds brilliant, and if people try to figure out what I mean, they get confused, believing I must be even more brilliant if I get it. So when someone now asks me "How's work? How's that idiot boss of yours?" I simply respond, "Oh, you know. He's the same stoneless perceptible."


• Homegirl Joanna Hall sent me one about my shady past patriot petersburg. It was one of those word plays that confuses my overly syntactical mind. Shady past? Shady patriot from the past? Petersburg the shady patriot from the past? I assumed it's about some guy named Peter Sburg who was at one time impotent, but now thanks to the cheap prescription offers in the email, is no longer in the shady past, but is rather a sexual patriot. That must be it.


• Edwin Hubbard seems to know something I don't in his email entitled High octane Stocks desecrate willie. The first thing I thought was, "Ow. Poor willie." It can't feel good to be desecrated, by stocks or otherwise. And high octane stocks?? Damn. Poor willie. But I do wonder...whose willie are we talking about? Is it Edwin's? And if so, why is he advertising his own desecration?


• My favorite pair of spam-mails were from Alberto Serrano, offering Love tabs that helps you stay on top, made funnier by the follow-up email from Andrew, correctly reminding me that Alberto said hi. How did Andrew know Alberto said hi? They must know each other. Or maybe Andrew was the one on top.


• And lastly, today's gem of the day, a quick chance to re-deliver my childhood: Beau McConnell's sweet offer of Pony Rides - 25 cents - 2 for 50! dredge bobbin. Now, I'm assuming that Dredge Bobbin is the horse's name. It sounds like something you'd hear over the PA system at the Kentucky Derby. "And they're coming around the bend! Neck and neck! It's gonna be a photo finish and...and!! It's Dredge Bobbin ladies and gents!" So what a bargain, 25 cents! And I assume I don't need any sort of membership card to get the special 2 for 50 deal. Beau really knows what a girl wants. Pony rides.

student loan blues.

All those years of being woken up at 7am on a Sunday morning by my father's pimped out stereo system blasting the Sunday Morning Blues Hour at a volume so high it would shake frames off the walls are finally paying off. With a little imagined bass, and a little saxophone, and absolutely no harmonica renditions whatsoever, I present to you my Student Loan Blues....

(BAH buh, BAH buh ,BAH buh, BAH buh, BAH bow now now)
When I went to school, I took out a loan.
I said when I went to school, I took out a loan.
And every month I pay it, and I cry and moan.

Now I'm back in school, takin' out more loans.
I said I'm back in school, takin' out more loans.
I got an education, but it's me they own.

Now the goddam feds, go and fuck with the rates.
I say those goddam feds, they gotta fuck with my rates.
Jumpin' it up two whole points, so I must consolidate.

The lady on the phone, she said "Girl, you gonna owe."
The lady on the phone, now, she said "Girl, you gonna owe. And you know."
And I said "Ho, I'm so low, but I gotta reap what I sow."

So she tells me the terms, drafts me for 30 more years.
I said "You gotta be kiddin', I'm in up to my ears.
I'll be a damn grandmother before the end is near."

So that's my story, and I know I ain't alone.
This whole country fulla debt, buncha graduates lettin' out a groan.
And the only way out is a shiny new headstone.
(BAH buh, BAH buh ,BAH buh, BAH buh, BAH bow waaaaaaaaw.)
Oh yeah.

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

I'm having one of those "on the verge" moments. I'm either about to scream, punch someone, or write a lot. OOOoooooh am I MAD!!

I just had a meeting with my boss and 8 other editors. At this meeting, I presented to my boss the 3-page list of issues and complaints that I have compiled from the 8 other editors regarding a new online database we are about to unveil.

So I gave him the list, and distributed copies to the editors. Bossman started to read through the items out loud, one at a time, until he got to something that clearly confused his pea-sized idiot brain, most likely due to the fact that he shanks all responsibilities and had no context for the terminology on the list.

"Is this English?" he asked, laughing in mockery amidst my peers. I bit my tongue and tried to decapitate him with the strength of my dirty glare. "What is this improper syntax? What horrible writing. Can someone please help Stephanie re-write this so it's readable?"

I bit my lip, sighed, and rolled my eyes as I crossed my arms.

"I'll do it. Myself." I said, every word dripping with disgust.

There are many things that I am not. I am not a superstar athlete. I am not a high-ranking public official. I am not an accomplished attorney. But what I AM....what I AM is a writer. I KNOW my syntax. I KNOW my grammar. I do NOT need someone to re-write ANYTHING penned by my hand. THIS MUCH I KNOW.

Now I have officially HAD IT. I can ignore (while silently documenting) the improper stares at my breasts. I can ignore (while suspecting wildly) the alleged intra-office drug deals exchanged in mysterious brown envelopes. I can even look past the complete lack of management skills or editorial function. BUT DO NOT CHALLENGE MY WRITING!!

He's going down in a fiery ball of despicable, inappropriate fury. PERIOD.

the conversion.

People have differing opinions on what makes a person a New Yorker. Some say it's attitude, some say it's length of residency. By some standards, I'm there, and by others I'm not. But regardless, today I had a frightening New Yorker realization.

What was it that tipped me off? Was it the swift and agile grace I exercised when bolting for the subway as the doors were closing, knowing exactly how much time I had and when to turn sideways to slide in at the last second?

Was it the way I pointed without hesitation (and without slowing down) when a tourist on the street asked me which direction 32nd Street was?

Maybe it was how I didn't feel the slightest bit bad about plowing into and walking away from some idiot woman who stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk, obstructing the flow of foot traffic so she could dig for her phone?

The culmination of all these things brought me to my moment. On my way to a 3-hour class after working a 9+hour day, I popped in my earphones to drown out the city while I jammed to various mp3s on the subway, which I rode steadily and around corners without the need to hold on. When I got off the train I checked my voicemail, and dialed a return call to my aunt. I was still on the phone with her, with one musical earphone still blasting Black Eyed Peas in the other ear, when I looked up through my sunglasses and ordered my Grande Java Chip Frappacino No Cream from the woman at Starbucks.

Fucking Starbucks.

But...at least I don't have an iPod.

itchy twitchy witchy

This could totally be one of those things that was only funny to me but...

Yesterday I spent the day cleaning and moving things and installing my air conditioner and trying to ignore the snow-like pollen that was falling outside (and actually accumulating into piles 6 or 7 inches high on the sidewalks). This is all very bad for my allergies, and even though I take and love my Allegra, you just can't fight dust elephants and New York car exhaust and other general ick that, when stirred up, makes me sneezy.

So after several hours of this, I turned on the TV to chill out. I watched a little Extreme Makeover, and when a commercial came on, I walked away to get a drink. For the gazillionth time that day, I scrunched up my face and wiggled my itchy nose, except this time it was perfectly synchronized with the familiar "dittle dittle dit" of Samantha's spell-casting nose in Bewitched coming from the television.

I laughed at the coincidence quite heartily for several moments, and then I sneezed.

street meat

In New York, there are two kinds of street meat:

1) The men and women of the city who receive stares, hoots, hollers, whistles, cat-calls, mental undressing, gropes, molestations, and sexual solicitations on the streets on a daily basis.

2) The "greek" lamb, chicken, or beef you can get with yellow or brown rice, onions, and white and/or hot sauce (all for just $3.75!) from a little metal shack on wheels located on the sidewalk every 2 blocks or so in busy corporate neighborhoods.

Today for lunch, I had a little of both.

First, the phone call with my typical lunch buddy who we'll call Enrique:
Me: (dialing.)
Enrique: "Yes?"
Me: "I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"
Enrique: "Is it lunchtime?"
Me: "Yes. I'm hungry."
Enrique: "Okay, where should we go today?"
Me: "I don't know. Where do you want to go?"
Enrique: "I want chicken from across the street. I saw someone get it, so I want it."
Me: "What do you mean 'across the street'? Where?"
Enrique: "You know, across the street. If you don't want it, we can walk. You can get a sandwich or some pizza. Do you want pizza?"
Me: "I don't know. What do you want?"
Enrique: "Chicken from across the street. Do you want that?"
Me: "I don't know. Sounds risky. I'm afraid of street meat?"
Enrique: "What?"
Me: "Street meat."
Enrique: "What are you saying? String beans?"
Me: "STREET. MEAT."
Enrique: "Treat me?"
Me: "S T R E E T. M E A T!!!"
Enrique: "Just meet me at the elevator."

So anyhow, Enrique and I got in the elevator, went down and outside, where we realized it's actually a bit chilly outside. But he pointed at the metal cart with orange panels, and the two soup-nazi-esque men coordinating orders.

"Street meat," I told him.
"Oh, is that what you were saying? You talk too fast. You left out the S."
"Um, I don't think I did, but whatever. Let's walk."

So we walk quickly around the block, where I decide that I too will try the street meat. This, for me, is a Very Big Risk. Due to various allergies and intolerances, new foods are very scary to me. But I decide to try it anyway, and chance the visit from the EDF. So we round the block, chatting, and that's when I saw the other street meat:

Enrique: "...so my wife then says that we should definitely look into the new apartment..."
Me: "WOW."
Enrique: "...and I am supposed to call the lady today and tell her we want it..."
Me: "That guy is HOT."
Enrique: "...I'm not sure if we can move right away or if we need to take a few more weeks..."
Me: "Holy SHIT. Did you SEE him?" (looking now over shoulder at delicious bald black man)
Enrique: "...because it depends on whether we can get out of our current lease..."
Me: "DAMN. He was FINE."
Enrique: "...but I think we will be fine if I just speak to the landlord...do you want chicken?"

And thus I ordered chicken on yellow rice, with onions (yumm), and white sauce/hold the hot. And I ate it. And it was tasty. And it's been approximately 48 minutes and there's no sign of intestinal disruption. YET.

But I still think I should have taken my chances with the delicious bald black man instead--no hot sauce necessary.