hey. remember me? yeah, the girl who used to blog here several days a week? yeah. hi.
i was made to feel foolishly guilty last week for not having posted to my own blog in...gee, i don't even know how long. so here i am.
i've been busy. like, insanely busy. i'm finishing up my graduate thesis (due in 3 weeks), and the "new" job is totally bonkers. i used to write most of the posts during my other, boring job...so that's partly why i've been lacking any updates.
anyhow, i just wanted to say...
i slipped on a bullet casing just now, going up the stairs from the subway. i (still) love bed-stuy.
3.12.2007
9.12.2006
overheard in bed-stuy
Nothing makes your morning like hearing a heartfelt welcome on your way to the subway.
"Ooooh gurrrrrl. Welcome to Brooklyn, baby."
"Ooooh gurrrrrl. Welcome to Brooklyn, baby."
8.04.2006
enough with this heat already!
So today, our heat wave "broke." By "broke," I mean that instead of being 106°, it's only 95°, which is really no break of any kind if you ask me.
The thing about summers in New York is that, well, anything over 85° gets downright miserable. For example, going underground to the subway platforms adds a degree for ever stair you decend, usually a minimum of 10. And there's zero air movement on the platforms, unless you count the forced hot, putrid air mass that is the pre-cursor of an arriving train.
Then there's the power problems. ConEd, the power company, actually told my office building management to tell us to turn off all "non-essential" equipment to avoid a blackout spreading some 30 blocks. Apparently, this means lights out. Someone went around shutting off all the overhead lights, except those around the outer ring of the floor. This means that people who have window seats are getting sunlight AND flourescent light, and we other suckers are getting neither. How the hell does that add up?
Well, regardless, there's not much I can do about any of it. When it's hot, it's hot. When it's fiery burning hell, it's fiery burning hell. But at least StarBucks gave away free iced cofree for two hours yesterday. I didn't get one, but, just hearing they did it made me feel cool and chilled all over. Not.
The thing about summers in New York is that, well, anything over 85° gets downright miserable. For example, going underground to the subway platforms adds a degree for ever stair you decend, usually a minimum of 10. And there's zero air movement on the platforms, unless you count the forced hot, putrid air mass that is the pre-cursor of an arriving train.
Then there's the power problems. ConEd, the power company, actually told my office building management to tell us to turn off all "non-essential" equipment to avoid a blackout spreading some 30 blocks. Apparently, this means lights out. Someone went around shutting off all the overhead lights, except those around the outer ring of the floor. This means that people who have window seats are getting sunlight AND flourescent light, and we other suckers are getting neither. How the hell does that add up?
Well, regardless, there's not much I can do about any of it. When it's hot, it's hot. When it's fiery burning hell, it's fiery burning hell. But at least StarBucks gave away free iced cofree for two hours yesterday. I didn't get one, but, just hearing they did it made me feel cool and chilled all over. Not.
8.01.2006
so it's not my imagination...
I was just on the U.S. Post Office web site filing a change of address form. When I was done, I got an email with a ton of handy links to coupons, referrals, and...to the census?
Yes, the census. The post office linked me to a goverment census with information specific to my new zip code. And you know what it said?
One Race:
Black or African American: 89.2%
Hispanic or Latino: 8.0%
White: 2.2%
So...clearly it's not just my imagination that I was the only white girl in sight. But it's aight yo. I know they peeped my snowflake cracka ass. I'm bout to get down in dis joint! Holla!
Yes, the census. The post office linked me to a goverment census with information specific to my new zip code. And you know what it said?
One Race:
Black or African American: 89.2%
Hispanic or Latino: 8.0%
White: 2.2%
So...clearly it's not just my imagination that I was the only white girl in sight. But it's aight yo. I know they peeped my snowflake cracka ass. I'm bout to get down in dis joint! Holla!
7.29.2006
snowflake in the hood
I know. I know. I've been gone forever. I used to blog while I was at work, teary-eyed from editing the most boring content on earth. But I got a new job, one that got REAL busy for me about the time that my last post appeared. I apologize for the neglect -- it's nothing personal. Quite the opposite really. I've missed you. I need you.
So here's the thing: I'm about to have a whole new batch of stories to tell. In a couple of weeks, I'm moving to my new apartment in Brooklyn. Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. And I tell you with much sincerity that I have, in my last two visits there, seen only 4 other white people -- and one of them was with me.
I tell you this not because I'm scared, but rather amused. Generally speaking, black men love me. They love a woman with an ass, and have even audibly commented before that I'm that elusive white girl in the hood who isn't skinny as a twig. Last week, I got a round of applause when I passed by the 10-12 black guys doing construction on my block. And during my apartment hunt, I had many, many compliments, smiles, and winks sent my way. So really, it has nothing to do with getting more for my money, or moving out of my shoebox studio. It's about self-esteem and feeling good.
So surely, as I adjust to my new surroundings, I'll be starting from scratch in terms of my city smarts. I mean, wearing comfortable footwear and tactfully avoiding remnants of dog poo are skills that transfer, but I know better than to believe I won't be surprised by anything in the new hood. So stay tuned. I promise I'll be back.
So here's the thing: I'm about to have a whole new batch of stories to tell. In a couple of weeks, I'm moving to my new apartment in Brooklyn. Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. And I tell you with much sincerity that I have, in my last two visits there, seen only 4 other white people -- and one of them was with me.
I tell you this not because I'm scared, but rather amused. Generally speaking, black men love me. They love a woman with an ass, and have even audibly commented before that I'm that elusive white girl in the hood who isn't skinny as a twig. Last week, I got a round of applause when I passed by the 10-12 black guys doing construction on my block. And during my apartment hunt, I had many, many compliments, smiles, and winks sent my way. So really, it has nothing to do with getting more for my money, or moving out of my shoebox studio. It's about self-esteem and feeling good.
So surely, as I adjust to my new surroundings, I'll be starting from scratch in terms of my city smarts. I mean, wearing comfortable footwear and tactfully avoiding remnants of dog poo are skills that transfer, but I know better than to believe I won't be surprised by anything in the new hood. So stay tuned. I promise I'll be back.
11.29.2005
one of those crazy nyc days
This morning it took me forever to get to work. This is mostly because I spent about 40 minutes underground, in the subway, locked on a train between stations, going NOWHERE. Due to a "switching problem" and "sick customer" at Grand Central, I sat for 40 minutes in a dark tunnel. And for added fun, I was freezing. I guess to relieve claustrophobia the conductor felt the need to blast the air conditioning at maximum coolness. I was FREEZING.
Several of my friends and coworkers were similarly affected by the lack in train activity. Some were stuck on uber crowded train platforms, others sat on a train in a station with the doors open for eternity. Others yet fought the altnerative: highly overcrowded buses that go half the distance in twice the time. We all have to deal.
And then someone else told me that so-and-so witnessed a girl get mowed down by a cab this morning. It sent her flying into the air and heroic measures were taken to a) detain the cabbie and b) keep the girl's leg in tact.
I tell ya, it's the kind of day that makes me want to walk around in protective gear. What does a girl have to do to get around this city without losing a limb?
Several of my friends and coworkers were similarly affected by the lack in train activity. Some were stuck on uber crowded train platforms, others sat on a train in a station with the doors open for eternity. Others yet fought the altnerative: highly overcrowded buses that go half the distance in twice the time. We all have to deal.
And then someone else told me that so-and-so witnessed a girl get mowed down by a cab this morning. It sent her flying into the air and heroic measures were taken to a) detain the cabbie and b) keep the girl's leg in tact.
I tell ya, it's the kind of day that makes me want to walk around in protective gear. What does a girl have to do to get around this city without losing a limb?
11.21.2005
stop doing that!
Lately I have this horrible and unexplained habit of eating my own mouth. That is, I have a knack for taking a huge bite out of my own lip while I'm eating. And it hurts, and it upsets me VERY much.
It's that thing, you know, where the first chomp is painful enough to cause you to stop chewing mid-bite, no matter how delicious the food is, or how much it is burning the roof of your mouth. You just have to stop, just for a second, to take stock of the moment and file it away under Stupid Shit I Do to Myself. And then slowly, grimacingly, you run your tongue over the new wound to see if it is safe to continue without oral surgery. Eventually, you long for the food you were eating in the first place, and you chew, swallow and take another bite. Then....
CHOMP! OOOWWWWWWW!! You bite down on the SAME freaking spot 10 seconds later, causing you to whimper under the burdern of not just pain, but your own stupidity. Now you caress your lip with your tongue, pouting and hating yourself, knowing that it's bound to happen repeatedly for the next several days, and you'll be lucking if the gaping sore ever heals.
And then you go through the process of convincing yourself that it is because of ____ that this happened. Because you were chewing too fast. Because you turned your head while eating. Because once you bite it swells and you bite it again. Because of that one razor sharp canine tooth. Because of your misaligned jaw. Whatever, you name it, we blame it.
Point is, I don't know WHY we do this, but I do it all the freaking time and it HURTS. Dammit.
It's that thing, you know, where the first chomp is painful enough to cause you to stop chewing mid-bite, no matter how delicious the food is, or how much it is burning the roof of your mouth. You just have to stop, just for a second, to take stock of the moment and file it away under Stupid Shit I Do to Myself. And then slowly, grimacingly, you run your tongue over the new wound to see if it is safe to continue without oral surgery. Eventually, you long for the food you were eating in the first place, and you chew, swallow and take another bite. Then....
CHOMP! OOOWWWWWWW!! You bite down on the SAME freaking spot 10 seconds later, causing you to whimper under the burdern of not just pain, but your own stupidity. Now you caress your lip with your tongue, pouting and hating yourself, knowing that it's bound to happen repeatedly for the next several days, and you'll be lucking if the gaping sore ever heals.
And then you go through the process of convincing yourself that it is because of ____ that this happened. Because you were chewing too fast. Because you turned your head while eating. Because once you bite it swells and you bite it again. Because of that one razor sharp canine tooth. Because of your misaligned jaw. Whatever, you name it, we blame it.
Point is, I don't know WHY we do this, but I do it all the freaking time and it HURTS. Dammit.
11.14.2005
so not helping.
This is the tale of the bitchiest flight attendant EVER, as witnessed on a United Airlines flight just yesterday.
When I got on the plane, a small, cute blond woman was trying to get someone to switch seats so she could sit near her husband. Her timing was not fantastic, as many other people, including myself, were still trying to board the plane and shove our belongings into impossibly small overhead bins while she campaigned the rear of the aircraft.
Eventually, the flight attendant, who, for the purposes of this story we'll call The Bitch, told the cute blond woman (CBW) to just take her seat and get over it.
In response, the CBW said, not too timidly, "Well, I'm terrified of flying, so it would help me a lot if I could sit with him."
The part of the story I'm missing here is one I presume to be this: the CBW was extra nervous because as we were waiting to board our plane, CNN broadcast a story of a plane crash on the Airport Network. This, clearly, is a Very Bad Idea. Even the most confident flyers don't want to hear about a plane of ANY size plunging into powerlines. So a nervous flyer, such as the CBW, is made even more so by such news.
So then, The Bitch, showing her true, ugly self, snaps loudly at blondie: "Well, you should put it all in perspective. It ain't the World Trade Center you know. It's not that bad."
Nice. Nice. You are a goddam flight attendant. It's your JOB to be nauseatingly sweet and pleasant to all passengers, or, at the very least, to instill confidence in their safety. So not only is your hair bad but so is your attitude, Bitch. Do not in any way, in front of a scared little woman - nor anyone else on the plane - refer to the single largest airline tragedy in American history, ESPECIALLY on a plane departing from NEW YORK.
"United Airlines - Fly the Friendly Skies...Until Our Bitchy Attendants Shit All Over Them."
When I got on the plane, a small, cute blond woman was trying to get someone to switch seats so she could sit near her husband. Her timing was not fantastic, as many other people, including myself, were still trying to board the plane and shove our belongings into impossibly small overhead bins while she campaigned the rear of the aircraft.
Eventually, the flight attendant, who, for the purposes of this story we'll call The Bitch, told the cute blond woman (CBW) to just take her seat and get over it.
In response, the CBW said, not too timidly, "Well, I'm terrified of flying, so it would help me a lot if I could sit with him."
The part of the story I'm missing here is one I presume to be this: the CBW was extra nervous because as we were waiting to board our plane, CNN broadcast a story of a plane crash on the Airport Network. This, clearly, is a Very Bad Idea. Even the most confident flyers don't want to hear about a plane of ANY size plunging into powerlines. So a nervous flyer, such as the CBW, is made even more so by such news.
So then, The Bitch, showing her true, ugly self, snaps loudly at blondie: "Well, you should put it all in perspective. It ain't the World Trade Center you know. It's not that bad."
Nice. Nice. You are a goddam flight attendant. It's your JOB to be nauseatingly sweet and pleasant to all passengers, or, at the very least, to instill confidence in their safety. So not only is your hair bad but so is your attitude, Bitch. Do not in any way, in front of a scared little woman - nor anyone else on the plane - refer to the single largest airline tragedy in American history, ESPECIALLY on a plane departing from NEW YORK.
"United Airlines - Fly the Friendly Skies...Until Our Bitchy Attendants Shit All Over Them."
11.11.2005
spam sandwich
WHY. WHY do the spammers hate me so much?? What is it about me that is so offensive that they feel the need to bombard me with useless and ridiculous emails about local naughty sluts and penis enlargement drugs EVERY NIGHT?!? And it's like...they KNOW when I go to bed. I'll get one or two such spam-mails during the day, but sure as shit, when I wake up in the morning and check my email, I'm BOMBARDED!!!
Example:
Nine out of ten emails are spam. And the 10th is a lame almost-spam. How do these people find me? And why? What did I ever do to you, "Jasmine Wiley"?? I don't know anything about your accentual, "Clara Billings." And both of ya, tell Frankie Fucking Chang to take his "sud delta" and shove it where the sud don't shine.
Grrrr.
Example:
Nine out of ten emails are spam. And the 10th is a lame almost-spam. How do these people find me? And why? What did I ever do to you, "Jasmine Wiley"?? I don't know anything about your accentual, "Clara Billings." And both of ya, tell Frankie Fucking Chang to take his "sud delta" and shove it where the sud don't shine.
Grrrr.
11.09.2005
it's good to be back.
Hello, yes, hi, I know, I know.
Don't worry. I'm back. In SO many ways.
First, I'm back from my weeklong business trip to North Carolina, followed by a weekend stint in South Florida. The weather in NC was cool and autumnal, and the trees changed colors right before my eyes. But there was all the smoking. And all the fried food. And the hotel's automated revolving door whose sudden and premature motion seemed determined to at least sever a limb from my body if it couldn't officially kill me.
Post-Wilma Florida was a little nutty: upturned trees, absent traffic lights, and dangling porches were everywhere. Plus there was the whole Dog Thing at my mom's, causing me great allergic distress, but bringing me delightful canine companionship.
But I was really, REALLY relieved to get home to New York. I was thrilled to draw a deep breath of that clean, smoke-free, dog-free city air. I'll take toxic exhaust fumes any day. I was tickled that cars actually yielded to me when I crossed the street (except for the cabs, who don't yield ever) and that there were actually working lights to get me across the street in the first place. And revolving doors that are manually operated -- they totally rock. It goes when I make it go, not a moment sooner.
And to top it all off, my month-long drought of internetlessness seems to be over. Mysteriously, my cable and internet were FINALLY turned back on when I got home. Jury's still out on how long it will last, but golly, I'm glad to have it back.
It's back. I'm back. Backity back back.
BACK!
Don't worry. I'm back. In SO many ways.
First, I'm back from my weeklong business trip to North Carolina, followed by a weekend stint in South Florida. The weather in NC was cool and autumnal, and the trees changed colors right before my eyes. But there was all the smoking. And all the fried food. And the hotel's automated revolving door whose sudden and premature motion seemed determined to at least sever a limb from my body if it couldn't officially kill me.
Post-Wilma Florida was a little nutty: upturned trees, absent traffic lights, and dangling porches were everywhere. Plus there was the whole Dog Thing at my mom's, causing me great allergic distress, but bringing me delightful canine companionship.
But I was really, REALLY relieved to get home to New York. I was thrilled to draw a deep breath of that clean, smoke-free, dog-free city air. I'll take toxic exhaust fumes any day. I was tickled that cars actually yielded to me when I crossed the street (except for the cabs, who don't yield ever) and that there were actually working lights to get me across the street in the first place. And revolving doors that are manually operated -- they totally rock. It goes when I make it go, not a moment sooner.
And to top it all off, my month-long drought of internetlessness seems to be over. Mysteriously, my cable and internet were FINALLY turned back on when I got home. Jury's still out on how long it will last, but golly, I'm glad to have it back.
It's back. I'm back. Backity back back.
BACK!
10.23.2005
return from the e-dead
I know, I know. Where have I been. Well, the point is, I'm back. For now. For an unknown amount of time. And if I disappear again, all complaints can be directed to Time Warner Cable & Internet Assholes.
My internet and cable went off on October 9th. And since then, it hasn't come back on consistently for more than about an hour at a time. This, to me, is a totally annoying and unacceptable inconvenience. And every time I call for support, they can only offer me mid-day appointments.
"How's Tuesday between noon and four?"
"Uh, actually, I have to work so...how about a weekend appointment?"
"Well ma'am, I'm showing that our earliest available weekend appointment is on November the 12th."
"So, I've had no internet or cable for over two weeks and you want me to wait three MORE weeks to get it fixed?"
"Ma'am, we'd be happy to credit you for the time that you were without service."
"That's not the POINT, Lashonda. The point is I'm dead in the water without internet and I'd like to think you'd do a little more to fix it for me."
And so it goes. I'm left constantly refreshing the local wireless networks for a signal I can pirate for 2 minutes while I get a quick hit of email to tide me over until I can check again from work. And naturally, 2 minutes just ain't enough time for me to write up a blog post for all y'alls.
So, like I said, I'm back, but probably not for long. If I vanish again, don't blame me, blame the assholes at Time Warner. I do.
My internet and cable went off on October 9th. And since then, it hasn't come back on consistently for more than about an hour at a time. This, to me, is a totally annoying and unacceptable inconvenience. And every time I call for support, they can only offer me mid-day appointments.
"How's Tuesday between noon and four?"
"Uh, actually, I have to work so...how about a weekend appointment?"
"Well ma'am, I'm showing that our earliest available weekend appointment is on November the 12th."
"So, I've had no internet or cable for over two weeks and you want me to wait three MORE weeks to get it fixed?"
"Ma'am, we'd be happy to credit you for the time that you were without service."
"That's not the POINT, Lashonda. The point is I'm dead in the water without internet and I'd like to think you'd do a little more to fix it for me."
And so it goes. I'm left constantly refreshing the local wireless networks for a signal I can pirate for 2 minutes while I get a quick hit of email to tide me over until I can check again from work. And naturally, 2 minutes just ain't enough time for me to write up a blog post for all y'alls.
So, like I said, I'm back, but probably not for long. If I vanish again, don't blame me, blame the assholes at Time Warner. I do.
10.07.2005
signs of improvement
So far today...
-I've had no blood taken or attempted to be taken.
-I haven't fallen up or down subway stairs or any other stairs.
-I have no (new) severe burns.
-I haven't seen a mouse, cockroach, or centipede.
-I have not fainted or thrown up in a store or on a bus.
-I have not been blown up by a terrorist.
-I've had no blood taken or attempted to be taken.
-I haven't fallen up or down subway stairs or any other stairs.
-I have no (new) severe burns.
-I haven't seen a mouse, cockroach, or centipede.
-I have not fainted or thrown up in a store or on a bus.
-I have not been blown up by a terrorist.
Plus...
-It's Friday.
-It's monthly Jeans at Work day.
-I just ate some toast and it's still in my digestive system.
Overall, I'd say I'm off to a rockin' start.
10.06.2005
healing wounds
Apparently, I was subconsciously worried about the hole in my hand from the blood draw yesterday, because this morning I sealed it shut with a hot iron.
More specifically, I tripped over one of the 18 pairs of shoes on my floor, lunged into the ironing board with force, jolting the hot iron from its upright stance right onto to vulnerable top of my already achy hand.
I hate this week. HATE IT.
More specifically, I tripped over one of the 18 pairs of shoes on my floor, lunged into the ironing board with force, jolting the hot iron from its upright stance right onto to vulnerable top of my already achy hand.
I hate this week. HATE IT.
10.05.2005
every cake has icing
It's barely 10:30 in the morning, and already it's been one of those days.
It started off with a doctor's appointment that, like many of my appointments, resulted in someone wanting to draw blood from me. This is, almost always, a huge problem. You see, I appear to be some sort of veinless mutant, and the typical nurse can never find my veins. This results in, well, a morning like today's.
One vial. Just one vial is all they needed. And as is common practice for me now, I advised the nurse of two stipulations:
1) I MUST lie down when the blood is taken. This is not because I can't watch, or I get woozy. It's because my body seems to think it is under attack by some intruding predator, and it likes to shut down all systems to avoid serious injury or damage. This resulted in the Great E.R. Visit of '99, but has ever since prompted me to aks for a horizontal position when drawing blood.
2) You MUST take it from my right arm. My right arm has hidden veins, but my left arm has INVISIBLE ones. So even though most medical personnel will attempt the right arm, find it difficult and switch to the left, they inevitably return to the right when they see how juicy it is in comparison. So really, let's all save ourselves the trouble and restrict the blood draws to the right arm.
So the nurse Irene nodded at my rules, and started the methodical tap-tap-tap of the elbow crease, looking for a vein. She did the whole rubber-band-on-the-bicep trick, and the whole make-a-fist-and-release trick, and I could tell by her hesitation that she wasn't seeing a vein. I knew I was in for it.
"Let me just...see...your left arm," she says. I sigh, knowing it'll go nowhere. She repeats the tap-tap-tap, the rubber-band-on-the-bicep thing, and the make-a-fist-and-release thing, all to no avail. "You're right," she says...like all the others. "Your right arm is better. So let's just see if I can find something here."
Then begins the much-dreaded "poke 'n dig." This is the process by which, when a nurse or technician doesn't actually see nor feel a vein, they jab a needle in anyway, and move it around inside the flesh in the hopes of catching the bloodstream. Irene, like many others before her, was digging fruitlessly as I reassured her "It's not you, it's me," and "Most people send in their best needlers for me."
With a frustrated snap, she removed her latex gloves and said "I AM the best needler here. I'm gonna have to send you down to the lab, sorry." She filled out the paperwork for my ONE VIAL of blood, and sent me down to the third floor.
The lab was deserted. A woman from across the hall saw my isolation and called the lab phone to send someone to the front desk. I was "greeted" by a cranky bitch who scoffed at my meager lab request and pre-existing flesh-colored band-aid.
"What do you mean 'they can't do it'?" she barked.
"I mean, THEY CAN'T DO IT. See?? They tried. She couldn't find my veins, so she sent me here."
"Well I'm completely backed up," she said, gesturing to the ghost town that surrounded us. "It'll be at least an hour."
"Well, I have to go to work. It's already 10:00. Can I come back later?"
Then the bitch picked up the phone and said into it "What time can you come in sir?" Dumbfounded, I stared at her. "2:30," she said, followed by "Not you sir, hold on." She looked back up at me "Come back by 2:30."
"Fine, but will you still be 'all backed up' at 2:30?"
"Not you sir. And I said BY 2:30. Yes sir."
I snatched my paperwork back out of her hand, and called the elevator to leave. But then I decided I'd be better off going back UP stairs and finding the nurse in the OTHER department who successfully took my blood a few months ago. When I requested this at the front desk, they all looked at me like I was initiating some sort of political coup.
"Well, I don't know if WE can take your blood if THEY requested it," the nurses told me. I showed them my band-aid.
"Please," I begged. "THEY tried and couldn't hit a vein. The lab sent me away. I don't want to have to come back for this." And like some undercover code, they nodded at each other and ushered me into a back room.
There, an entirely different nurse, Rebecca, offered to take a stab at it. (Literally.) But now that my right arm was off limits, it left her only to repeat the tap-tap, rubber-band, make-a-fist, "poke 'n dig" routine in the left arm. I grimaced as she re-angled, retreated, and rotated the needle. Eventually she pulled it out, slapped a band-aid on it, and said "I have to go into your hand."
Ah, the dreaded hand. You know why no one does this? Because it FUCKING HURTS. But sensing my strong desperation to get this taken care of today, Rebecca suggested and I agreed to go into the hand. And so she did, and I stared at the ceiling as coldness and tingling replaced my left hand. When she was done, she stuck a fluorescent orange band-aid on me, and sent me away. I thanked Rebecca profusely for her efforts.
Finally I left the clinic, headed to the subway to get to work. I had that slightly abused feeling that usually follows excessive under-flesh needling, and longed for a cool orange juice to replenish myself. I got on the train, rode the 4 stops to 33rd street, and beat all the people out of the turnstiles. So naturally I was thrilled to be at the front of the pack, bounding up the stairs until...The Icing came.
Without warning, and still without ANY idea as to a cause, I started to fall up the stairs. It seemed to generate first from my feet, which somehow miscalculated or caught an edge. Immediately I thought to the back of my metrocard, which warns "72% of subway customer injuries are caused by slips, trips and falls. Don't be come a statistic." And yet here I was, slipping, tripping, and falling....with EVERYONE behind me on the stairs.
And yet the falling continued. The weight of my schoolbooks in my bag just acted like cement blocks pulling me down, down, down until I was fully laid out on the stairs. I felt immediate burning pain on my big toe, right shin, and right bicep, as well as the gentle tug under my already sore right elbow from the guy next to me who tried to catch me. But, he didn't. And, I totally fell on the subway stairs...in front of all the "slow" people that I rushed ahead of so THEY wouldn't hold ME up. Uh, yeah.
So, that's my day by 10:30. I'm the laughing stock of 33rd street, where everyone is talking about "the girl with all the band-aids, even a fluorescent orange one, who totally wiped out on the stairs for no apparent reason." Good times.
It started off with a doctor's appointment that, like many of my appointments, resulted in someone wanting to draw blood from me. This is, almost always, a huge problem. You see, I appear to be some sort of veinless mutant, and the typical nurse can never find my veins. This results in, well, a morning like today's.
One vial. Just one vial is all they needed. And as is common practice for me now, I advised the nurse of two stipulations:
1) I MUST lie down when the blood is taken. This is not because I can't watch, or I get woozy. It's because my body seems to think it is under attack by some intruding predator, and it likes to shut down all systems to avoid serious injury or damage. This resulted in the Great E.R. Visit of '99, but has ever since prompted me to aks for a horizontal position when drawing blood.
2) You MUST take it from my right arm. My right arm has hidden veins, but my left arm has INVISIBLE ones. So even though most medical personnel will attempt the right arm, find it difficult and switch to the left, they inevitably return to the right when they see how juicy it is in comparison. So really, let's all save ourselves the trouble and restrict the blood draws to the right arm.
So the nurse Irene nodded at my rules, and started the methodical tap-tap-tap of the elbow crease, looking for a vein. She did the whole rubber-band-on-the-bicep trick, and the whole make-a-fist-and-release trick, and I could tell by her hesitation that she wasn't seeing a vein. I knew I was in for it.
"Let me just...see...your left arm," she says. I sigh, knowing it'll go nowhere. She repeats the tap-tap-tap, the rubber-band-on-the-bicep thing, and the make-a-fist-and-release thing, all to no avail. "You're right," she says...like all the others. "Your right arm is better. So let's just see if I can find something here."
Then begins the much-dreaded "poke 'n dig." This is the process by which, when a nurse or technician doesn't actually see nor feel a vein, they jab a needle in anyway, and move it around inside the flesh in the hopes of catching the bloodstream. Irene, like many others before her, was digging fruitlessly as I reassured her "It's not you, it's me," and "Most people send in their best needlers for me."
With a frustrated snap, she removed her latex gloves and said "I AM the best needler here. I'm gonna have to send you down to the lab, sorry." She filled out the paperwork for my ONE VIAL of blood, and sent me down to the third floor.
The lab was deserted. A woman from across the hall saw my isolation and called the lab phone to send someone to the front desk. I was "greeted" by a cranky bitch who scoffed at my meager lab request and pre-existing flesh-colored band-aid.
"What do you mean 'they can't do it'?" she barked.
"I mean, THEY CAN'T DO IT. See?? They tried. She couldn't find my veins, so she sent me here."
"Well I'm completely backed up," she said, gesturing to the ghost town that surrounded us. "It'll be at least an hour."
"Well, I have to go to work. It's already 10:00. Can I come back later?"
Then the bitch picked up the phone and said into it "What time can you come in sir?" Dumbfounded, I stared at her. "2:30," she said, followed by "Not you sir, hold on." She looked back up at me "Come back by 2:30."
"Fine, but will you still be 'all backed up' at 2:30?"
"Not you sir. And I said BY 2:30. Yes sir."
I snatched my paperwork back out of her hand, and called the elevator to leave. But then I decided I'd be better off going back UP stairs and finding the nurse in the OTHER department who successfully took my blood a few months ago. When I requested this at the front desk, they all looked at me like I was initiating some sort of political coup.
"Well, I don't know if WE can take your blood if THEY requested it," the nurses told me. I showed them my band-aid.
"Please," I begged. "THEY tried and couldn't hit a vein. The lab sent me away. I don't want to have to come back for this." And like some undercover code, they nodded at each other and ushered me into a back room.
There, an entirely different nurse, Rebecca, offered to take a stab at it. (Literally.) But now that my right arm was off limits, it left her only to repeat the tap-tap, rubber-band, make-a-fist, "poke 'n dig" routine in the left arm. I grimaced as she re-angled, retreated, and rotated the needle. Eventually she pulled it out, slapped a band-aid on it, and said "I have to go into your hand."
Ah, the dreaded hand. You know why no one does this? Because it FUCKING HURTS. But sensing my strong desperation to get this taken care of today, Rebecca suggested and I agreed to go into the hand. And so she did, and I stared at the ceiling as coldness and tingling replaced my left hand. When she was done, she stuck a fluorescent orange band-aid on me, and sent me away. I thanked Rebecca profusely for her efforts.
Finally I left the clinic, headed to the subway to get to work. I had that slightly abused feeling that usually follows excessive under-flesh needling, and longed for a cool orange juice to replenish myself. I got on the train, rode the 4 stops to 33rd street, and beat all the people out of the turnstiles. So naturally I was thrilled to be at the front of the pack, bounding up the stairs until...The Icing came.
Without warning, and still without ANY idea as to a cause, I started to fall up the stairs. It seemed to generate first from my feet, which somehow miscalculated or caught an edge. Immediately I thought to the back of my metrocard, which warns "72% of subway customer injuries are caused by slips, trips and falls. Don't be come a statistic." And yet here I was, slipping, tripping, and falling....with EVERYONE behind me on the stairs.
And yet the falling continued. The weight of my schoolbooks in my bag just acted like cement blocks pulling me down, down, down until I was fully laid out on the stairs. I felt immediate burning pain on my big toe, right shin, and right bicep, as well as the gentle tug under my already sore right elbow from the guy next to me who tried to catch me. But, he didn't. And, I totally fell on the subway stairs...in front of all the "slow" people that I rushed ahead of so THEY wouldn't hold ME up. Uh, yeah.
So, that's my day by 10:30. I'm the laughing stock of 33rd street, where everyone is talking about "the girl with all the band-aids, even a fluorescent orange one, who totally wiped out on the stairs for no apparent reason." Good times.
9.24.2005
shout out to the men of east harlem.
I'm having one of those days, or weeks, that most women experience once in a while. It's that "poor me" or "I feel fat" or "I'm so tired" or "I have nothing to wear" syndrome that drives us to chocolate and alcohol. Except today, it drove me to something else: White Castle.
Me: "I just took a 5 hour nap. Now I'm hungry. I want a cheeseburger."
Jen: "5 hours?"
Me: "I feel so lardy. I think I'll go to White Castle."
Jen: "Ooooh."
Me: "Probably not the best place to go to remedy a lardiness problem, but I'm going anyway."
Jen: "I'm jealous."
So I look in the mirror, deciding that I'll take my lardy ass out in public as-is (ass-is), because no matter how fat or unattractive I feel, I always lose that self-consciousness as soon as I encounter the other women (read: other cultures) of the city. Most often, I find myself thinking "I'm worried about looking fat in a tank top, and THAT woman is wearing a micro-mini and a tube top?!?"
So off I went, working my way up through East Harlem towards the White Castle. Naturally, despite being 11:00 at night, there are throngs of people on the corners and stoops. Most of them seem astonished to see a white girl out alone at this hour, but the ones who can overcome their astonishment are usually black men who first lick their lips then give me an amazing compliment.
"How you doin tonight gorgeous?"
"Wassup beautiful?"
"Look at you, sweetheart. Gorgeous, gorgeous."
I literally received three such remarks back-to-back-to-back as I rounded the corner to White Castle. I laughed, and smiled, and told the guys to have a nice night, and then complimented myself on moving to a part of town where even on my lardiest, self-hatingest night, heading for fast-food comfort, the men not only think I'm hot, but make sure I hear their opinion.
So to you, men of east harlem, I say thanks. To the three bruthas on the NW corner of 102nd and 1st Ave who ogled me - thank you. To the 4 homeboys on bikes who whistled and smooched - thank you. To the man in the grey t-shirt who looked like he wanted to eat me up - thank you. To the 3 guys who didn't know I could see them gesturing behind me on the White Castle surveillance camera - you're pigs, but thank you.
I owe you one, SpaHa men.
Me: "I just took a 5 hour nap. Now I'm hungry. I want a cheeseburger."
Jen: "5 hours?"
Me: "I feel so lardy. I think I'll go to White Castle."
Jen: "Ooooh."
Me: "Probably not the best place to go to remedy a lardiness problem, but I'm going anyway."
Jen: "I'm jealous."
So I look in the mirror, deciding that I'll take my lardy ass out in public as-is (ass-is), because no matter how fat or unattractive I feel, I always lose that self-consciousness as soon as I encounter the other women (read: other cultures) of the city. Most often, I find myself thinking "I'm worried about looking fat in a tank top, and THAT woman is wearing a micro-mini and a tube top?!?"
So off I went, working my way up through East Harlem towards the White Castle. Naturally, despite being 11:00 at night, there are throngs of people on the corners and stoops. Most of them seem astonished to see a white girl out alone at this hour, but the ones who can overcome their astonishment are usually black men who first lick their lips then give me an amazing compliment.
"How you doin tonight gorgeous?"
"Wassup beautiful?"
"Look at you, sweetheart. Gorgeous, gorgeous."
I literally received three such remarks back-to-back-to-back as I rounded the corner to White Castle. I laughed, and smiled, and told the guys to have a nice night, and then complimented myself on moving to a part of town where even on my lardiest, self-hatingest night, heading for fast-food comfort, the men not only think I'm hot, but make sure I hear their opinion.
So to you, men of east harlem, I say thanks. To the three bruthas on the NW corner of 102nd and 1st Ave who ogled me - thank you. To the 4 homeboys on bikes who whistled and smooched - thank you. To the man in the grey t-shirt who looked like he wanted to eat me up - thank you. To the 3 guys who didn't know I could see them gesturing behind me on the White Castle surveillance camera - you're pigs, but thank you.
I owe you one, SpaHa men.
9.21.2005
9.19.2005
ENOUGH!
I've totally had it.
I was just sitting on the couch, watching tv, painting my toes, minding my own business, when a dark object moving on the white wall attracted my attention. A familiar sense of dread overcame my body.
What was it, you ask?
IT WAS A FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!! A HUGE FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!
After the goddam cockroach, the asshole mouse, now I am back to square one with a motherfucking centipede?!?!
I stood up, picked up a shoe, and approached the wall. And with a giant smack, I ended its life.
Then I turned around to write this blog, and saw another movement out of the corner of my eye. I approached the window sill with the same goo-covered shoe, and killed another baby one.
Now, of course, I'm about to cry, and totally afraid to sleep. I'm convinced that someone in the basement is shaking things up, and sending all these assholes into my apartment, and I DON'T LIKE IT.
wah.
(And yes, I've just left a message for my Super.)
I was just sitting on the couch, watching tv, painting my toes, minding my own business, when a dark object moving on the white wall attracted my attention. A familiar sense of dread overcame my body.
What was it, you ask?
IT WAS A FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!! A HUGE FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!
After the goddam cockroach, the asshole mouse, now I am back to square one with a motherfucking centipede?!?!
I stood up, picked up a shoe, and approached the wall. And with a giant smack, I ended its life.
Then I turned around to write this blog, and saw another movement out of the corner of my eye. I approached the window sill with the same goo-covered shoe, and killed another baby one.
Now, of course, I'm about to cry, and totally afraid to sleep. I'm convinced that someone in the basement is shaking things up, and sending all these assholes into my apartment, and I DON'T LIKE IT.
wah.
(And yes, I've just left a message for my Super.)
9.14.2005
ugh! now what?!
So, after my little potato chip incident the other day, I found myself bravely buying a mousetrap at the hardware store. This act alone, you see, is very, very hard for me. It forces me to acknowledge the problem and actually admit that I have....(deep breath)....a mouse.
So I stood in front of the pest control section and saw my options were basically twofold: glue traps or snap-death traps. In the back of my mind, I heard Jen, the "mouse-whisperer" who has resuscitated such creatures in her lab at work, asking me to be humane. To me, that meant not a snap-death trap. But really, it wasn't about humanity at all.
My assessment of the mouse traps went a little something like this:
"Well. So there's glue traps and snap traps. Snap traps scare me. They could totally snap me. And let's face it, probably will. Like when Mikey sits on one by accident in the Goonies, and it hurts a lot but he can't scream or Sloth will hear him. I'm not sure I want a snap trap. But a glue trap? Eek. I think Andrea used those when she had a mouse, and she told me she could hear the mouse squeaking once it was caught. So, there's something to the snap-death where the mouse won't cry, but then I have to deal with a dead mouse. But...I also don't particularly want to deal with a LIVE mouse. Ugh. (urge to vomit.) Which is worse? Dead mouse or live mouse? I mean, my only experience is the time that one of the Andersons' cats killed that mouse while I was housesitting. I sat on the couch for hours until the mouse was captured by the cat. Then I went out to the kitchen with a dustpan and scooped it up, and went outside and chucked it far away into the snow. I was disgusted the whole time. So yeah, maybe I don't want to do that dead mouse thing. Especially because I'm afraid of setting up the trap and losing an appendage. I guess I could get the glue trap, and just make someone else deal with the mouse if I catch one. I'll make Oliver do it. Or the Super. That makes sense. Because one of them is going to have to set the mouse traps up for me anyway. I'm just buying it. That's it."
Then I paid the $1.99 for the pack of 2 glue traps, and went home.
Only later, when I was cleaning out under the kitchen sink and encountered a large amount of mouse poop, did I say "Enough is enough! I can handle this!" and retrieve the box with the traps.
Now, if you think I'm being stupid or girly or cowardly about this, you're right. But you need to understand that underneath all that, the reason for all that, is that I honest to god want to vomit at the thought of handling even an empty mouse trap. It wasn't easy to overcome my dry heaves and put one trap under the kitchen sink and another under the stove. But I did it. And I was proud. And I really didn't think it through.
That was three days ago. I didn't have the guts to open the cabinet to see if a mouse had found his way into the trap under the sink. I assumed I would have heard it, but EVERYTHING I was hearing lately was a mouse in my mind. I refused to throw away any garbage into the trash can under the sink. I refused to obtain cleaning supplies from under the sink. And I realized, somewhat delayed, that merely placing those traps was going to paralyze me from living a normal life in my kitchen.
Then, it happened.
In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke not to one of the 7 million 18-wheelers hauling ass down my street, nor to the scream of sirens of rushed emergency vehicles. No, I awoke to the panicked squeaking of a trapped mouse. And hearing it, identifying it, recognizing it, and acknowledging it turned my stomach inside out. But I was screwed. I was stuck in my bed, unable to put a foot on the floor. And even if I got up, what would I do? I didn't want to see the mouse. I sure as shit wasn't going to touch the mouse. So I resolved to switching on a light (what this achieves I'm not really sure) and putting a pillow over my head so I could get 2 more hours of sleep.
But eventually, I had to get up. And when I did, I put on flip-flops, picked up a flashlight and my pledge grab-it (again, not sure what this accomplishes, but it felt defensive in case of attack). I walked slowly through the kitchen in the dark, guessing, correctly, that it was the under-stove trap that had secured a creature. I could barely make out an image on the trap, and I dared not look closer. Instead, I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, and took a shower.
When I got out, I ditched the flip-flops but kept the pledge grab-it. By now, the mouse's 4 feet AND tail were all securely affixed to the glue trap, and seeing that long, skinny, fleshy tail made me dry heave again, and I knew I couldn't look at the mouse any more. I got dressed, dried my hair, etc., and ran out the door.
Now I'm at work, and I have to figure out how to deal with the mouse. I guess I should call the Super, and leave a message saying "Yeah, I'm a chickenshit and can't deal. Please let yourself in, pardon the mess, and get rid of the damn mouse!" I really should have thought this through before I laid down the fucking trap!!
So I stood in front of the pest control section and saw my options were basically twofold: glue traps or snap-death traps. In the back of my mind, I heard Jen, the "mouse-whisperer" who has resuscitated such creatures in her lab at work, asking me to be humane. To me, that meant not a snap-death trap. But really, it wasn't about humanity at all.
My assessment of the mouse traps went a little something like this:
"Well. So there's glue traps and snap traps. Snap traps scare me. They could totally snap me. And let's face it, probably will. Like when Mikey sits on one by accident in the Goonies, and it hurts a lot but he can't scream or Sloth will hear him. I'm not sure I want a snap trap. But a glue trap? Eek. I think Andrea used those when she had a mouse, and she told me she could hear the mouse squeaking once it was caught. So, there's something to the snap-death where the mouse won't cry, but then I have to deal with a dead mouse. But...I also don't particularly want to deal with a LIVE mouse. Ugh. (urge to vomit.) Which is worse? Dead mouse or live mouse? I mean, my only experience is the time that one of the Andersons' cats killed that mouse while I was housesitting. I sat on the couch for hours until the mouse was captured by the cat. Then I went out to the kitchen with a dustpan and scooped it up, and went outside and chucked it far away into the snow. I was disgusted the whole time. So yeah, maybe I don't want to do that dead mouse thing. Especially because I'm afraid of setting up the trap and losing an appendage. I guess I could get the glue trap, and just make someone else deal with the mouse if I catch one. I'll make Oliver do it. Or the Super. That makes sense. Because one of them is going to have to set the mouse traps up for me anyway. I'm just buying it. That's it."
Then I paid the $1.99 for the pack of 2 glue traps, and went home.
Only later, when I was cleaning out under the kitchen sink and encountered a large amount of mouse poop, did I say "Enough is enough! I can handle this!" and retrieve the box with the traps.
Now, if you think I'm being stupid or girly or cowardly about this, you're right. But you need to understand that underneath all that, the reason for all that, is that I honest to god want to vomit at the thought of handling even an empty mouse trap. It wasn't easy to overcome my dry heaves and put one trap under the kitchen sink and another under the stove. But I did it. And I was proud. And I really didn't think it through.
That was three days ago. I didn't have the guts to open the cabinet to see if a mouse had found his way into the trap under the sink. I assumed I would have heard it, but EVERYTHING I was hearing lately was a mouse in my mind. I refused to throw away any garbage into the trash can under the sink. I refused to obtain cleaning supplies from under the sink. And I realized, somewhat delayed, that merely placing those traps was going to paralyze me from living a normal life in my kitchen.
Then, it happened.
In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke not to one of the 7 million 18-wheelers hauling ass down my street, nor to the scream of sirens of rushed emergency vehicles. No, I awoke to the panicked squeaking of a trapped mouse. And hearing it, identifying it, recognizing it, and acknowledging it turned my stomach inside out. But I was screwed. I was stuck in my bed, unable to put a foot on the floor. And even if I got up, what would I do? I didn't want to see the mouse. I sure as shit wasn't going to touch the mouse. So I resolved to switching on a light (what this achieves I'm not really sure) and putting a pillow over my head so I could get 2 more hours of sleep.
But eventually, I had to get up. And when I did, I put on flip-flops, picked up a flashlight and my pledge grab-it (again, not sure what this accomplishes, but it felt defensive in case of attack). I walked slowly through the kitchen in the dark, guessing, correctly, that it was the under-stove trap that had secured a creature. I could barely make out an image on the trap, and I dared not look closer. Instead, I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, and took a shower.
When I got out, I ditched the flip-flops but kept the pledge grab-it. By now, the mouse's 4 feet AND tail were all securely affixed to the glue trap, and seeing that long, skinny, fleshy tail made me dry heave again, and I knew I couldn't look at the mouse any more. I got dressed, dried my hair, etc., and ran out the door.
Now I'm at work, and I have to figure out how to deal with the mouse. I guess I should call the Super, and leave a message saying "Yeah, I'm a chickenshit and can't deal. Please let yourself in, pardon the mess, and get rid of the damn mouse!" I really should have thought this through before I laid down the fucking trap!!
9.07.2005
if only i wasn't allergic to cats.
(I'd like to take a moment to dedicate this post East Harlem Katie, who will understand my pain.)
The past weekend was a gorgeous one. I enjoyed three long late-summer days of blue skies and sunshine, billowy clouds, and the drool-inducing aroma of barbecues throughout Central and Prospect Parks. By mid-day Monday, Labor Day, all I wanted was a barbecue to call my own. Cheeseburgers, hot dogs, dribbles of ketchup and mustard, macaroni salad, bbq chicken that was just a little crispy and too good to waste a finger-lickin' on a napkin. Mmmm-mm.
Being that I have no yard, nor a grill, nor had I any outstanding invitations to someone else's yard or grill, I decided to do the best I could and have a kitchecue. I went with my pal Katie to the market, and I browsed the aisles for wannabe barbecue items, like hot dogs, kilbasa, lemonade, and most importantly -- potato chips. Together, Katie and I pondered which of the million kinds of potato chips to savor. I got a bag of regular Lays to have with onion dip (YUM!) and then a bag of the forever awesome KC Masterpiece barbecue flavored ones. Mmm. Labor Day would be fantastic yet!
When I got home, I mixed my onion dip and feasted on chips. DEEELISH! Of course, I ate so much of it that I had to wait a few hours before making hot dogs and beans and pasta salad. YUMMMY! And then I had to wait a whole other day to eat the rest of the food...
Last night, I got home from work and went immediately for the prized KC Masterpiece barbecue chips. I peeled open the bag and chomped away with satisfying crunches while I prepared more pasta salad and the kilbasa. When my food was cooked and my plate loaded up satisfactorily, I went in the other room to watch a movie while I ate bite after delicious bite.
At the end of the movie, I picked up my plate and headed back into the kitchen to clean up. But I heard something funny, and when I looked up, I saw a small, grey, furry, four-legged creature with a tail bolted OUT OF MY POTATO CHIP BAG!!! I froze in horror and amazement. I have never, EVER had a mouse. Not at this apartment, not at ANY. I can deal with the roaches, I can exterminate the centipedes, but a MOUSE?? Oh HELL NO.
He scampered across the counter, over the stove, and behind it. I stood and watched, paralyzed by my genetic inability to cope with rodents. After a few minutes, when I was sure he was gone (and by "gone" I mean "out of my sight so I could pretend he didn't exist"), I walked towards the potato chips and looked inside the bag. I honestly wasn't sure if I was more upset that I had a mouse, or that the little fucker went after my potato chips. My BARBECUE potato chips!! Because now, of course, I had to throw them away. That, and the 3/4 roll of kilbasa that I'd left on the counter, not expecting company would eat it while my back was turned.
I cleaned up and got ready for bed, which meant sleeping with one light on and my eyes closed tight. My studio doesn't have a bedroom door, no barrier with which I may pretend the mouse is on THAT side and I am safely tucked away on THIS side. Instead, I just have to believe he went back to wherever the fuck he got in, and he shan't be returning. So help me, if I see that little bastard again, he is so....so....he is so going to get whatever he wants because I'll be in the other room standing on the couch screaming.
The past weekend was a gorgeous one. I enjoyed three long late-summer days of blue skies and sunshine, billowy clouds, and the drool-inducing aroma of barbecues throughout Central and Prospect Parks. By mid-day Monday, Labor Day, all I wanted was a barbecue to call my own. Cheeseburgers, hot dogs, dribbles of ketchup and mustard, macaroni salad, bbq chicken that was just a little crispy and too good to waste a finger-lickin' on a napkin. Mmmm-mm.
Being that I have no yard, nor a grill, nor had I any outstanding invitations to someone else's yard or grill, I decided to do the best I could and have a kitchecue. I went with my pal Katie to the market, and I browsed the aisles for wannabe barbecue items, like hot dogs, kilbasa, lemonade, and most importantly -- potato chips. Together, Katie and I pondered which of the million kinds of potato chips to savor. I got a bag of regular Lays to have with onion dip (YUM!) and then a bag of the forever awesome KC Masterpiece barbecue flavored ones. Mmm. Labor Day would be fantastic yet!
When I got home, I mixed my onion dip and feasted on chips. DEEELISH! Of course, I ate so much of it that I had to wait a few hours before making hot dogs and beans and pasta salad. YUMMMY! And then I had to wait a whole other day to eat the rest of the food...
Last night, I got home from work and went immediately for the prized KC Masterpiece barbecue chips. I peeled open the bag and chomped away with satisfying crunches while I prepared more pasta salad and the kilbasa. When my food was cooked and my plate loaded up satisfactorily, I went in the other room to watch a movie while I ate bite after delicious bite.
At the end of the movie, I picked up my plate and headed back into the kitchen to clean up. But I heard something funny, and when I looked up, I saw a small, grey, furry, four-legged creature with a tail bolted OUT OF MY POTATO CHIP BAG!!! I froze in horror and amazement. I have never, EVER had a mouse. Not at this apartment, not at ANY. I can deal with the roaches, I can exterminate the centipedes, but a MOUSE?? Oh HELL NO.
He scampered across the counter, over the stove, and behind it. I stood and watched, paralyzed by my genetic inability to cope with rodents. After a few minutes, when I was sure he was gone (and by "gone" I mean "out of my sight so I could pretend he didn't exist"), I walked towards the potato chips and looked inside the bag. I honestly wasn't sure if I was more upset that I had a mouse, or that the little fucker went after my potato chips. My BARBECUE potato chips!! Because now, of course, I had to throw them away. That, and the 3/4 roll of kilbasa that I'd left on the counter, not expecting company would eat it while my back was turned.
I cleaned up and got ready for bed, which meant sleeping with one light on and my eyes closed tight. My studio doesn't have a bedroom door, no barrier with which I may pretend the mouse is on THAT side and I am safely tucked away on THIS side. Instead, I just have to believe he went back to wherever the fuck he got in, and he shan't be returning. So help me, if I see that little bastard again, he is so....so....he is so going to get whatever he wants because I'll be in the other room standing on the couch screaming.
8.28.2005
la cucaracha
I have encountered this weekend a "first" in my little manhattan apartment. It happened when I opened a drawer in the kitchen, and saw out of the corner of my eye some sort of unexpected movement. It was, I dare say, a cockroach - but a little one.
To my huge surprise, I didn't freak out. I didn't scream, I didn't cry, I didn't freeze in terror. I simply tried to get the bug. I was unsuccessful, of course, because they are fast little fuckers, and when I gave up my search and considered my unpanicked reaction, I realized this...
All those nasty jurassic creatures I encountered in Boston, those dirty gazillion-legged little assassins that hid in the shower and pantry, those horrid incidents were all preparation for this, my first run-in with a new york cockroach. Compared to the centipedes (I seriously almost vomit just typing the word), these roaches are a walk in the park. I mean sure, I still immediately grabbed several shoes to arm my hands and feet for attack. And sure, I was holding a giant butcher knife as some sort of idiotic defense (but really, mostly because it was in the drawer and I had to move it), but I assure you that the sense of panic and despair was absolutely minimal as compared to the - you know, the ones with all the legs.
So, the hunt continues. I will find this dirty little asshole roach, and I will kill him. And I know that it is just him, that he is alone, because that's what I want to believe. Clearly, the Boston Bug Community hasn't relayed word yet to their New York affiliates that I guarantee death, even if I don't have a braver roommate to handle it for me. You're as good as dead, little cucaracha.
To my huge surprise, I didn't freak out. I didn't scream, I didn't cry, I didn't freeze in terror. I simply tried to get the bug. I was unsuccessful, of course, because they are fast little fuckers, and when I gave up my search and considered my unpanicked reaction, I realized this...
All those nasty jurassic creatures I encountered in Boston, those dirty gazillion-legged little assassins that hid in the shower and pantry, those horrid incidents were all preparation for this, my first run-in with a new york cockroach. Compared to the centipedes (I seriously almost vomit just typing the word), these roaches are a walk in the park. I mean sure, I still immediately grabbed several shoes to arm my hands and feet for attack. And sure, I was holding a giant butcher knife as some sort of idiotic defense (but really, mostly because it was in the drawer and I had to move it), but I assure you that the sense of panic and despair was absolutely minimal as compared to the - you know, the ones with all the legs.
So, the hunt continues. I will find this dirty little asshole roach, and I will kill him. And I know that it is just him, that he is alone, because that's what I want to believe. Clearly, the Boston Bug Community hasn't relayed word yet to their New York affiliates that I guarantee death, even if I don't have a braver roommate to handle it for me. You're as good as dead, little cucaracha.
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