Today's blog is two random stories that have nothing to do with one another except that they happened around me.
#1) Bike Delivery Guy
The other night I was walking home from the laundromat with my bundle hoisted up on my shoulder. I teetered on the narrow sidewalk, trying not to slip on the frozen chunks of snow-ice. When I looked up, the light was about to change, so I hurried across the street to beat the traffic.
The problem with trying to beat the light in the winter time is that when you do get across the street, there may or may not be a place for you to leap from the street to the sidewalk. Thanks to all this frozen white crap, walking space is severely limited. So when you cross against traffic, and cars come speeding at you, there is a possibility that you may actually have to hurdle a snow mound to get to safety.
So I got lucky, and my bundle of clothes and I scurried to safety as a man behind me leapt over the snow. However, simultaneously, a bike delivery guy entered the scene on his ricket old bike with the big metal basket on front, holding food. The bike delivery guy was also trying to beat traffic. So he sped across the street, realizing at the last minute he was about to collide with another bike delivery guy. He veered sharply, and went right into a giant wintry bike-swallowing pothole. After spasmatically sticking his legs out to his sides, he pedaled again, this time aiming for the "opening" to the sidewalk, only to discover that there were people in it, including me. So without any control whatsoever, and assuming his velocity would be enough to overpower the depth of the snow, the delivery guy approached the sidewalk at a very unnatural angle. And he did, in fact, have enough velocity to overpower the snow, but...
He did not anticipate the giant steel border to the sidewalk. His front tire hit, catapulting his back tire nearly straight up into the air. Somehow, against all laws of gravity, the food stayed in the basket while the deliver guy bounced around and lost a testicle. He never let go of the bike, never fell off it, and it never hit the ground. But he had this ridiculous grin on his face, aware that he'd made a series of idiot blunders in front of a crowd--including another bike delivery guy that couldn't restrain his laughter.
#2) Really Pretty Gross.
Many mornings, depending on how on-time or late I am, I run into a dogwalker around the corner from my apartment. He usually has 8-12 big dogs, all huskies and german shepards. I often wonder how he controls such a strong pack of dogs.
This morning when I rounded the corner, the dog walker was there with his full load of 12 mighty pooches. But he wasn't walking, he was halting, pulling back on the tangled mess of leashes. I followed the taut lines to the dogs, who were all standing at attention, focusing on the same object. So I followed their gaze...to a pigeon.
The dirty disgusting pigeon was pecking along the side of a building for crumbs. I snuck by, between the dogs and the bird, fearing for my life. Over my shoulder I heard a scuffle, and the dogwalker yelling. When I turned around, it was just in time to see one of the dogs snatch up the pigeon. "Put it down! Drop it!" the dogwalker yelled.
I forced away my urge to puke, trying instead to look at the bright side: at least there's one less dirty disgusting pigeon in the world.
1.27.2005
1.25.2005
how do you drive this thing?
This morning I had a very difficult time getting dressed. And for once, I don't mean that in the very girlie sense of being rendered incapable of picking out which shirt to wear or which shoes work to make my ass look better. I mean it literally. Physically. In the way that a 2-year-old has a difficult time getting dressed.
Everything was just out of whack. I plugged in the iron then tripped on the cord, sending the dangerous hunk of junk crashing to the floor in the immediate direction of my naked, defenseless toes. Amusingly, my defense is to scrunch up my naked, defenseless toes, as if this will make the impact of a heavy, flat piece of metal hurt less. So at the last nanosecond, I jumped upward and away from the iron, and watched it crash to the floor leaking the water that should instead be converting itself to steam at this time.
After cleaning up the iron debacle, I walked over to my closet to pick out pieces. I then realized they were all piled in a heap on a chair in the other room, so I went back. I pulled out some not-too-bad smelling pants, and grabbed a collared shirt and a v-neck sweater. Okay. Hard girlie part is over.
I ironed the pants with a great deal of difficulty, largely due to the non-existence of an actual ironing board. Mine's a long, distorted pentagon that lays upon my bed (or other horizontal surface) and pretends to be an ironing board. It's about half as long as one of my pant legs, which means that for each pair of pants I must iron, flip, rotate, shift, and tangle myself a minimum of nine times.
Once the pants are relatively wrinkle-free, I put them on one leg at a time, but not without first doing the "clean the dirty feet" ritual, which basically involves me standing on one leg, brushing the bottom of one foot against the top of the other foot in the hopes that whatever foreign objects I've picked up between the shower and now don't make it onto the inside of my pant leg only to gross me out and tickle me later. But often this ritual is severely risky, usually during the transfer when one leg is panted, and the other foot is dirty. It requires sheer amounts of balance and coordination, neither of which I possess. So in most cases, I teeter to the left or right, which isn't too bad now that I've learned to be near to a bed or wall at the time.
Pants on (Pants!), shirt on, I'm bustling around my sweltering apartment doing hair, makeup, packing my bag, waiting until the final moment to put on my sweater so I don't, well, sweat right through it. So finally the moment comes, and I excitedly grab the sweater from its hanger, clip off its tag (while neatly maintaining the little plastic pieces for disposal so as not to step on it later and think a) my father was right and b) I have to do the dirty foot ritual again), and pull the fabric over my head.
And...stop. I stood hunched, scowling at myself in the full-length mirror, wondering how I could have gone so wrong so quickly. I double checked that my head went through the head hole, which I was pleased to see it did, even though it would have been much more amusing to tell you I stuck it through a sleeve hole. But something was happening with the way the fabric was stretching and folding, and I was tangled up beyond all recognition.
After some fancy acrobatics and contortionism, I managed to get the sweater down far enough to stick my left arm through the left sleeve hole, realizing at the last minute that the sweater sleeves were 3/4 length and my shirt was 4/4 length. (Fashion error? Or trendy layering?) so dealing with the whole one long sleeve inside another long sleeve was causing me great pain, and yet I was only halfway there.
By now, of course, my hair is at full static tilt, and I look like someone has been rubbing a balloon on my head for the last 20 minutes. I twisted, snarled, tugged, and contorted my right arm into the right sleeve, and was amazed to see in the mirror that I was still so very, very far from finished. I pulled the sweater's armpits up into place, unfurled the rolled up fabric to cover my stomach, and danced around like someone with a hive full of bees stinging their ass. But I can proudly say, after all that, I finally got the sweater on, properly, right-side in, tags in the back, and armpits properly aligned.
Later, when I undress, I am taking the whole finagled mess off in one piece, and will never wear this sweater with anything else, because frankly, I don't think I can go through that again. Not, at least, without some adult supervision.
Everything was just out of whack. I plugged in the iron then tripped on the cord, sending the dangerous hunk of junk crashing to the floor in the immediate direction of my naked, defenseless toes. Amusingly, my defense is to scrunch up my naked, defenseless toes, as if this will make the impact of a heavy, flat piece of metal hurt less. So at the last nanosecond, I jumped upward and away from the iron, and watched it crash to the floor leaking the water that should instead be converting itself to steam at this time.
After cleaning up the iron debacle, I walked over to my closet to pick out pieces. I then realized they were all piled in a heap on a chair in the other room, so I went back. I pulled out some not-too-bad smelling pants, and grabbed a collared shirt and a v-neck sweater. Okay. Hard girlie part is over.
I ironed the pants with a great deal of difficulty, largely due to the non-existence of an actual ironing board. Mine's a long, distorted pentagon that lays upon my bed (or other horizontal surface) and pretends to be an ironing board. It's about half as long as one of my pant legs, which means that for each pair of pants I must iron, flip, rotate, shift, and tangle myself a minimum of nine times.
Once the pants are relatively wrinkle-free, I put them on one leg at a time, but not without first doing the "clean the dirty feet" ritual, which basically involves me standing on one leg, brushing the bottom of one foot against the top of the other foot in the hopes that whatever foreign objects I've picked up between the shower and now don't make it onto the inside of my pant leg only to gross me out and tickle me later. But often this ritual is severely risky, usually during the transfer when one leg is panted, and the other foot is dirty. It requires sheer amounts of balance and coordination, neither of which I possess. So in most cases, I teeter to the left or right, which isn't too bad now that I've learned to be near to a bed or wall at the time.
Pants on (Pants!), shirt on, I'm bustling around my sweltering apartment doing hair, makeup, packing my bag, waiting until the final moment to put on my sweater so I don't, well, sweat right through it. So finally the moment comes, and I excitedly grab the sweater from its hanger, clip off its tag (while neatly maintaining the little plastic pieces for disposal so as not to step on it later and think a) my father was right and b) I have to do the dirty foot ritual again), and pull the fabric over my head.
And...stop. I stood hunched, scowling at myself in the full-length mirror, wondering how I could have gone so wrong so quickly. I double checked that my head went through the head hole, which I was pleased to see it did, even though it would have been much more amusing to tell you I stuck it through a sleeve hole. But something was happening with the way the fabric was stretching and folding, and I was tangled up beyond all recognition.
After some fancy acrobatics and contortionism, I managed to get the sweater down far enough to stick my left arm through the left sleeve hole, realizing at the last minute that the sweater sleeves were 3/4 length and my shirt was 4/4 length. (Fashion error? Or trendy layering?) so dealing with the whole one long sleeve inside another long sleeve was causing me great pain, and yet I was only halfway there.
By now, of course, my hair is at full static tilt, and I look like someone has been rubbing a balloon on my head for the last 20 minutes. I twisted, snarled, tugged, and contorted my right arm into the right sleeve, and was amazed to see in the mirror that I was still so very, very far from finished. I pulled the sweater's armpits up into place, unfurled the rolled up fabric to cover my stomach, and danced around like someone with a hive full of bees stinging their ass. But I can proudly say, after all that, I finally got the sweater on, properly, right-side in, tags in the back, and armpits properly aligned.
Later, when I undress, I am taking the whole finagled mess off in one piece, and will never wear this sweater with anything else, because frankly, I don't think I can go through that again. Not, at least, without some adult supervision.
1.21.2005
if my lips weren't frozen, i'd bitch about the cold.
What, dare I ask, have we done to deserve this? Is it because the Red Sox finally won the world series? Or because "W" was re-inaugurated? Why, WHY has hell--and the rest of the Northeast--frozen over??
This morning, like every morning this week, I opened my eyes and peered out over the giant down comforter under which I snuggled. I could see sunlight, and hear the hiss of my radiator, but I knew that nothing good was waiting for me outside the safety of my apartment...or for that matter, my bed.
I showered and flipped on the TV to get the current temperature. I prayed that it would at LEAST be double digits. And there, beside my friend Pat Kiernan's head, it read "9°." Damn. Yesterday had been a ripe, blistering 25° and it truly felt like a heatwave. At lunch time, the temperature had sky-rocketed to 30° so I went out without my hat, which turned out to be a big, bitter mistake for my poor little ears. I would not make that mistake again today.
I bundled up in my thickest pants, six layers of shirts and sweaters, warm socks, giant boots that forbade my feet to come in contact with the frozen ground. I put on my big jacket, my hat pulled down to my eyes, my scarf wrapped around my head covering my neck and face up to--and including--my nose. I added my protective eyewear (read: sunglasses) to finalize the no-exposed-flesh routine, and then I grabbed my keys, metrocard, and mittens, and headed out the door.
The cold chomped through my 26 layers like a swarm of arctic piranhas. My eyes watered and my nose ran as I speed-walked up the hill to the subway. I breathed warm, sighful breaths into my scarf, which naturally fogged up my sunglasses, causing me to look like an idiot to other passers-by. But, their heads were wrapped in scarves and hats too, so they probably couldn't see me.
The subway entrance ahead was my salvation. I bolted down the stairs, tearing my hand free of a mitten to get (and use) my metrocard. I went downstairs to the platform, where it is almost as cold as outside do to the open grates from the sidewalks above. I was thankful that it was ONLY cold, and not snowing on the platform like it was earlier in the week.
The train came, and to my very big surprise, there were seats available. I cosied in between two grown men, and for once, appreciated the physical closeness of complete strangers. Even though we all had our shoulders curled in and hands on our laps, I felt warmer just being wedged in. And even though I'd managed to align myself in just that wrong way that causes my bra strap clip with the back of the seat, causing the little metal fasteners to grind into my spinal column, the pain was worth it--I was warm.
When I got to work, my favorite cube neighbor had whipped up some hot chocolate that was waiting for me. I poured a splash into a mug, then hissed in about a cup and a half of whipped cream. As I oohed and aahed over the warm liquid delight in front of me, someone said "I thought you were from Boston. Shouldn't you be used to this weather?"
I sipped my cocoa, and said with my sweetest "you're lucky it's friday" smile, "People seem to confuse my being USED to this weather with my actually ENJOYING it. Sure, I KNOW the cold. But that doesn't mean I want to walk around in it. And sure, I KNOW the snow, but that sure as shit doesn't mean I want to shovel it!"
That's when I realized...I don't have to. No more scraping 3 inches of ice off my windshield 4 times a day. No more digging out my car and my idiot carnie neighbors' cars just so I could clear a path to slide down the driveway backwards into traffic. No bitching about idiot SUV drivers on 128 who stopped fast and caused a rooftop of snow to cover their entire windshield, causing panic and a multi-car pileup. No more fighting with the postman over mail non-delivery because our front steps were too icy. Nope--none of it. My biggest concern is making sure I have both mittens and a good pair of boots. (And maybe some strangers to cuddle with on the train.)
This morning, like every morning this week, I opened my eyes and peered out over the giant down comforter under which I snuggled. I could see sunlight, and hear the hiss of my radiator, but I knew that nothing good was waiting for me outside the safety of my apartment...or for that matter, my bed.
I showered and flipped on the TV to get the current temperature. I prayed that it would at LEAST be double digits. And there, beside my friend Pat Kiernan's head, it read "9°." Damn. Yesterday had been a ripe, blistering 25° and it truly felt like a heatwave. At lunch time, the temperature had sky-rocketed to 30° so I went out without my hat, which turned out to be a big, bitter mistake for my poor little ears. I would not make that mistake again today.
I bundled up in my thickest pants, six layers of shirts and sweaters, warm socks, giant boots that forbade my feet to come in contact with the frozen ground. I put on my big jacket, my hat pulled down to my eyes, my scarf wrapped around my head covering my neck and face up to--and including--my nose. I added my protective eyewear (read: sunglasses) to finalize the no-exposed-flesh routine, and then I grabbed my keys, metrocard, and mittens, and headed out the door.
The cold chomped through my 26 layers like a swarm of arctic piranhas. My eyes watered and my nose ran as I speed-walked up the hill to the subway. I breathed warm, sighful breaths into my scarf, which naturally fogged up my sunglasses, causing me to look like an idiot to other passers-by. But, their heads were wrapped in scarves and hats too, so they probably couldn't see me.
The subway entrance ahead was my salvation. I bolted down the stairs, tearing my hand free of a mitten to get (and use) my metrocard. I went downstairs to the platform, where it is almost as cold as outside do to the open grates from the sidewalks above. I was thankful that it was ONLY cold, and not snowing on the platform like it was earlier in the week.
The train came, and to my very big surprise, there were seats available. I cosied in between two grown men, and for once, appreciated the physical closeness of complete strangers. Even though we all had our shoulders curled in and hands on our laps, I felt warmer just being wedged in. And even though I'd managed to align myself in just that wrong way that causes my bra strap clip with the back of the seat, causing the little metal fasteners to grind into my spinal column, the pain was worth it--I was warm.
When I got to work, my favorite cube neighbor had whipped up some hot chocolate that was waiting for me. I poured a splash into a mug, then hissed in about a cup and a half of whipped cream. As I oohed and aahed over the warm liquid delight in front of me, someone said "I thought you were from Boston. Shouldn't you be used to this weather?"
I sipped my cocoa, and said with my sweetest "you're lucky it's friday" smile, "People seem to confuse my being USED to this weather with my actually ENJOYING it. Sure, I KNOW the cold. But that doesn't mean I want to walk around in it. And sure, I KNOW the snow, but that sure as shit doesn't mean I want to shovel it!"
That's when I realized...I don't have to. No more scraping 3 inches of ice off my windshield 4 times a day. No more digging out my car and my idiot carnie neighbors' cars just so I could clear a path to slide down the driveway backwards into traffic. No bitching about idiot SUV drivers on 128 who stopped fast and caused a rooftop of snow to cover their entire windshield, causing panic and a multi-car pileup. No more fighting with the postman over mail non-delivery because our front steps were too icy. Nope--none of it. My biggest concern is making sure I have both mittens and a good pair of boots. (And maybe some strangers to cuddle with on the train.)
1.17.2005
mistaken identity.
Lunchtime in New York is a busy time of day. People are bustling about on their 5, 20, 40, or 80 minute lunch breaks trying to cram in errands, food, and a breath of fresh air. But there's also the delivery world, a near-silent network of delivery guys on foot and bike, whisking by you in such a blur that you barely take notice of the little white bags of food they work so frantically to deliver.
The thing with these delivery guys is, well, okay, there are a few things. One is that they are absolute maniacs on bicycles, and are in fact more likely to run you over and leave you for dead than your average taxi driver. You look left and right before crossing, but the second you step into the street a bike with a basket goes whizzing by at immeasurable speeds, missing you by mere inches, and reminding you next time to look around for more than just vehicles with headlights.
The other thing (and I do apologize for how insensitive this sounds but I swear it impacts the story) is that all delivery guys more or less look the same. They usually come from one of two broad ethnic categories: vaguely Asian or vaguely Central/South American, neither of which uses English as a first language, and often results in the same final effect: a little brown guy in a hat and jacket holding a white bag of food.
Most days (especially the overly cold, rainy, or otherwise inclement ones), when I head out for lunch, the lobby of my building is filled with these delivery fellas, a good 6-10 of them, hanging out waiting for their orderees. The orderees occasionally emerge from an elevator, cash in hand, and, overwhelmed with options and a severe lack of communication, will shout out "Gigi's?? Anyone from Gigi's??" and eager delivery guys say in broken English, "yes, I Blimpies," or "yes, Chan's heah," and so it goes until the correct food finds its owner.
So one chilly day not long ago, I was bundled up and riding the elevator down to head out for lunch. And just like any other day, I was greeted by a sea of eager faces, half-covered with hats and scarves and zippered-up jackets, each hoping I had their money so they could move on and make the next delivery. They offered out their white bags, some paper, others plastic, shouting "lady, Chinese?" or "you wait turkee sanwidge?" And like any other day, knowing they aren't waiting for me, I breeze right past them and walk out the door.
On this day, I came out the other side of the door, and snobbily ignored the smoking delivery guy on the other side. He exhaled a mouthful of cigarette smoke in my face, and when I looked up to glare, I had to do a double take. This Asian man's face, like the others, was half-covered with a hat and zippered-up jacket, and he was holding a white bag of food. But this shady-looking man in need of a haircut was not a delivery guy...he was my boss.
In one of those painful moments of realization, I gasped, choking on the second-hand smoke, and turned on my heel. "Oh. Uh. David...hi," I stumbled. But it was too late, and we both knew it. The error was made. He gave me a tight-lipped non-smile, and nodded slightly. I returned the gesture, taking it as a cue to shut up and leave, so I turned again on the same heel, and ran away. Far, far away.
And much to my surprise, I have not, as of yet, been fired.
The thing with these delivery guys is, well, okay, there are a few things. One is that they are absolute maniacs on bicycles, and are in fact more likely to run you over and leave you for dead than your average taxi driver. You look left and right before crossing, but the second you step into the street a bike with a basket goes whizzing by at immeasurable speeds, missing you by mere inches, and reminding you next time to look around for more than just vehicles with headlights.
The other thing (and I do apologize for how insensitive this sounds but I swear it impacts the story) is that all delivery guys more or less look the same. They usually come from one of two broad ethnic categories: vaguely Asian or vaguely Central/South American, neither of which uses English as a first language, and often results in the same final effect: a little brown guy in a hat and jacket holding a white bag of food.
Most days (especially the overly cold, rainy, or otherwise inclement ones), when I head out for lunch, the lobby of my building is filled with these delivery fellas, a good 6-10 of them, hanging out waiting for their orderees. The orderees occasionally emerge from an elevator, cash in hand, and, overwhelmed with options and a severe lack of communication, will shout out "Gigi's?? Anyone from Gigi's??" and eager delivery guys say in broken English, "yes, I Blimpies," or "yes, Chan's heah," and so it goes until the correct food finds its owner.
So one chilly day not long ago, I was bundled up and riding the elevator down to head out for lunch. And just like any other day, I was greeted by a sea of eager faces, half-covered with hats and scarves and zippered-up jackets, each hoping I had their money so they could move on and make the next delivery. They offered out their white bags, some paper, others plastic, shouting "lady, Chinese?" or "you wait turkee sanwidge?" And like any other day, knowing they aren't waiting for me, I breeze right past them and walk out the door.
On this day, I came out the other side of the door, and snobbily ignored the smoking delivery guy on the other side. He exhaled a mouthful of cigarette smoke in my face, and when I looked up to glare, I had to do a double take. This Asian man's face, like the others, was half-covered with a hat and zippered-up jacket, and he was holding a white bag of food. But this shady-looking man in need of a haircut was not a delivery guy...he was my boss.
In one of those painful moments of realization, I gasped, choking on the second-hand smoke, and turned on my heel. "Oh. Uh. David...hi," I stumbled. But it was too late, and we both knew it. The error was made. He gave me a tight-lipped non-smile, and nodded slightly. I returned the gesture, taking it as a cue to shut up and leave, so I turned again on the same heel, and ran away. Far, far away.
And much to my surprise, I have not, as of yet, been fired.
1.12.2005
NO FISH IN THE WORKPLACE!!!!
I propose a new policy in all places of employment that require employees to sit side-by-side separated by walls that only go a portion of the distance between the floor and the ceiling. The policy should state:
"At no time is it permissible to bring fish to the workplace, microwave the fish, or eat it at your desk. If you are seen or smelled in the act of causing a fishy smell in the workplace, it is grounds for immediate dismissal or death."
Anyone who knows me can tell you--I am NOT a fish person. If it comes from the ocean, keep it the hell away from me. As a kid, my grandfather would catch fish and send them home where my mother would cook them. I would close my bedroom door, wedge a towel under it, and run to an open window to breathe fresh non-fish-smelling air. I am NOT making this up.
So it comes as no surprise to most people that now, years later, I have a similar reaction when someone brings fish into the office. To me, this is one of the greatest offenses caused to mankind. It's among the ranks of coveting thy neighbors wife, murder, and shushing. (Yes, shushing, as in "ssssssh!") There are NO words for how horrifyingly nauseating the smell of reheated fish is to people who DON'T LIKE IT. And fish-eating folks should bear this in mind when providing us a slow death through microwaved fishery.
I bring this up because I know Anne Marie is with me on it. That, and the fact that the woman who sits near me at work (who I actually like very much) is eating fish for the second time this week. But I can't complain about it because a) she's a vegetarian and b) she's pregnant. She needs her protein. But does it have to be at my expense?? Can't she take a pill or something? I'm sitting over here with a binder clip clamping my nose shut and my head in the trash can. This is no way to live.
So, people, please. If you yourself are a fish-eater, and you find yourself bringing in a little container of it to work one day, think for a minute about the people around you. Just because your lunch smells good to YOU doesn't mean anyone else wants to smell it, lingering around the office for hours, infiltrating every nook and cranny with its rotten aroma, reviving a newfound potency every time someone opens the microwave door. You're killin' me, and many people like me who never did anything to deserve this. I don't shit at your desk, so please keep your shit away from mine...or I'll aim at you when I barf.
"At no time is it permissible to bring fish to the workplace, microwave the fish, or eat it at your desk. If you are seen or smelled in the act of causing a fishy smell in the workplace, it is grounds for immediate dismissal or death."
Anyone who knows me can tell you--I am NOT a fish person. If it comes from the ocean, keep it the hell away from me. As a kid, my grandfather would catch fish and send them home where my mother would cook them. I would close my bedroom door, wedge a towel under it, and run to an open window to breathe fresh non-fish-smelling air. I am NOT making this up.
So it comes as no surprise to most people that now, years later, I have a similar reaction when someone brings fish into the office. To me, this is one of the greatest offenses caused to mankind. It's among the ranks of coveting thy neighbors wife, murder, and shushing. (Yes, shushing, as in "ssssssh!") There are NO words for how horrifyingly nauseating the smell of reheated fish is to people who DON'T LIKE IT. And fish-eating folks should bear this in mind when providing us a slow death through microwaved fishery.
I bring this up because I know Anne Marie is with me on it. That, and the fact that the woman who sits near me at work (who I actually like very much) is eating fish for the second time this week. But I can't complain about it because a) she's a vegetarian and b) she's pregnant. She needs her protein. But does it have to be at my expense?? Can't she take a pill or something? I'm sitting over here with a binder clip clamping my nose shut and my head in the trash can. This is no way to live.
So, people, please. If you yourself are a fish-eater, and you find yourself bringing in a little container of it to work one day, think for a minute about the people around you. Just because your lunch smells good to YOU doesn't mean anyone else wants to smell it, lingering around the office for hours, infiltrating every nook and cranny with its rotten aroma, reviving a newfound potency every time someone opens the microwave door. You're killin' me, and many people like me who never did anything to deserve this. I don't shit at your desk, so please keep your shit away from mine...or I'll aim at you when I barf.
1.03.2005
the real truth about PMS.
Okay fellas. Let me unlock a little portion of the PMS mystery for ya. I’m not saying it’s gonna make you feel any better but, well, whatever. Shut up and listen.
The thing about PMS is that sometimes even WE don’t know when it’s happening. Generally, if I know I’m in a particularly bitchy mood, I retreat from society and let the mood swings pass. But some days, like today, I don’t know I’m in a day-long PMS fit until I find myself calling a plastic spoon a “dirty fucking bitch” because it fell into the dirty dishwater. Appropriate anger? Probably not. Harsh, unwarranted profanity for inanimate objects is usually a good indicator of trouble.
Today was one of those fucking days for me where I hated everyone in the world, including myself. Nothing went according to plan, people kept standing me up and pissing me off, and then the little things started to absolutely break me down. It should have been obvious when I started crying while talking to my mother about her new cell phone head set. There’s nothing tearful there. No reason to be upset. Yet I was. And through a quivering voice I told her I had to go. Right now.
Or maybe the food should have tipped me off. It should have been obvious when I ate seventeen fistfuls of bite size chocolate candies in the matter of about four seconds. The carnage of brightly colored foil wrappers all around me, I paid no notice to the dozen+ snickers, rolos, and hershey’s miniatures I popped in and practically swallowed whole. Or the fact that for dinner, cooking also made me teary-eyed until I decided on “fucking eggs and bacon, because I want it, dammit.” I put cheese in the eggs, but the real clincher, which only my mother and sister could attest to, was that I put ketchup on the eggs. While this is a normal and routine condiment on eggs for a great many people, it is not so for me. If you see me applying ketchup to cheesy eggs, please, for your own safety, leave the country immediately.
This time, for some reason that defies medicine and science, I wasn’t prepared for my own PMS. I’ve been trapped in my apartment with myself for days, thanks to holidays from work and a vicious cold. Anyone unfortunate enough to come in contact with me today only heard me bitch and bitch and bitch, fusing in a single breath such statements as: “and THEN he called back and canceled on me!” with “THEN my fucking internet crapped out” with “and THEN I ate the last rolo! What the fuck! How fucking rude is that? Jesus fucking Christ, I hate myself!” To these friends, I apologize whole-heartedly. (Even to Bobo, who kept antagonizing me in his role of "he who represents all of the male species" throughout the conversation.)
So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make some Special Dark Brownie mix and eat it uncooked, because it’s my fucking right as a PMS maniac, and no one is going to fucking stop me. Except maybe that dirty bitch plastic spoon.
The thing about PMS is that sometimes even WE don’t know when it’s happening. Generally, if I know I’m in a particularly bitchy mood, I retreat from society and let the mood swings pass. But some days, like today, I don’t know I’m in a day-long PMS fit until I find myself calling a plastic spoon a “dirty fucking bitch” because it fell into the dirty dishwater. Appropriate anger? Probably not. Harsh, unwarranted profanity for inanimate objects is usually a good indicator of trouble.
Today was one of those fucking days for me where I hated everyone in the world, including myself. Nothing went according to plan, people kept standing me up and pissing me off, and then the little things started to absolutely break me down. It should have been obvious when I started crying while talking to my mother about her new cell phone head set. There’s nothing tearful there. No reason to be upset. Yet I was. And through a quivering voice I told her I had to go. Right now.
Or maybe the food should have tipped me off. It should have been obvious when I ate seventeen fistfuls of bite size chocolate candies in the matter of about four seconds. The carnage of brightly colored foil wrappers all around me, I paid no notice to the dozen+ snickers, rolos, and hershey’s miniatures I popped in and practically swallowed whole. Or the fact that for dinner, cooking also made me teary-eyed until I decided on “fucking eggs and bacon, because I want it, dammit.” I put cheese in the eggs, but the real clincher, which only my mother and sister could attest to, was that I put ketchup on the eggs. While this is a normal and routine condiment on eggs for a great many people, it is not so for me. If you see me applying ketchup to cheesy eggs, please, for your own safety, leave the country immediately.
This time, for some reason that defies medicine and science, I wasn’t prepared for my own PMS. I’ve been trapped in my apartment with myself for days, thanks to holidays from work and a vicious cold. Anyone unfortunate enough to come in contact with me today only heard me bitch and bitch and bitch, fusing in a single breath such statements as: “and THEN he called back and canceled on me!” with “THEN my fucking internet crapped out” with “and THEN I ate the last rolo! What the fuck! How fucking rude is that? Jesus fucking Christ, I hate myself!” To these friends, I apologize whole-heartedly. (Even to Bobo, who kept antagonizing me in his role of "he who represents all of the male species" throughout the conversation.)
So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make some Special Dark Brownie mix and eat it uncooked, because it’s my fucking right as a PMS maniac, and no one is going to fucking stop me. Except maybe that dirty bitch plastic spoon.
12.28.2004
anything but this.
So, it's 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm at the point where I would rather be anywhere but here, at my desk, in my beige cubicle, under fluorescent lights, staring at the walls.
See, I have a cold. A shitty, watery-eyes, stuffy-nose, drippy-snot, tickly-cough, achy-head, knotty-back, someone-put-me-out-of-my-misery cold. (That should be the new Nyquil slogan.) It's in full swing now, despite my being in denial about it for the last 3 days. First I blamed it on my cat allergies, then on the change in weather, then on public transportation. But...in the end, I think it was already working in my system before I left for the weekend. Ugh. Obviously it was bad enough that I made a batch of chicken soup yesterday. So it's less like denial and more like...I don't know. Something else.
Well, now I'm at work, lamenting my existence here, and debating whether to leave early and go home to sleep, or stick it out the next hour and a half and accomplish absolutely nothing like I've been doing all day. I spent the last, hm, 40 minutes or so literally just sitting here. I may have even dozed off for a bit. But eventually my hot-flash/cold-chill woke me up, I wiped my bright red nose with a tissue, and stared at the walls some more.
Then I took some Robitussin ("mo tussin!") which apparently caused some heart palpitations, which I tried to track by counting a heartbeat. I couldn't find my heart, mostly because my bra is so heavily padded that no pulse can be detected through it, so I went for my neck and counted from there instead. 31 beats in 15 seconds seems....alarming. Oh well, it'll slow down.
Still, I feel better with the Tussin than I did without. My nose is no longer spewing yellow snot, which is a nice change of pace. (Although, there was a brief moment earlier when the right nostril was spewing yellow snot and the left was spewing red. That was special.) I have cleaned up the littering of cough drop wrappers that were all over the desk, and have managed to not yet open my second box of tissue today. (Note: Duane Reade did NOT have Puffs Plus today. What the FUCK is that about?? Remind me later to send them a photograph of my bright red nose while I give them the bird.)
What is it about having a cold that makes us so helpless? I instinctively want to be on my grandmother's couch under Papa's blanket, watching the Price is Right, sipping ginger ale and eating crackers, and slurping homemade soup from the bowl delivered to me on the couch. I think, maybe, that's where I am in my mind...watching Gramma do word searches in the rocking chair, occasionally stopping to shout at Bob Barker or put a cool, damp cloth on my forehead. Maybe I AM there, and that's why I'm not here, at work, editing ridiculously boring manuscripts.
No wait. Here I am. And here's a book about manually operated plumbing systems. Damn, guess I'm at work after all. I hate when that happens.
See, I have a cold. A shitty, watery-eyes, stuffy-nose, drippy-snot, tickly-cough, achy-head, knotty-back, someone-put-me-out-of-my-misery cold. (That should be the new Nyquil slogan.) It's in full swing now, despite my being in denial about it for the last 3 days. First I blamed it on my cat allergies, then on the change in weather, then on public transportation. But...in the end, I think it was already working in my system before I left for the weekend. Ugh. Obviously it was bad enough that I made a batch of chicken soup yesterday. So it's less like denial and more like...I don't know. Something else.
Well, now I'm at work, lamenting my existence here, and debating whether to leave early and go home to sleep, or stick it out the next hour and a half and accomplish absolutely nothing like I've been doing all day. I spent the last, hm, 40 minutes or so literally just sitting here. I may have even dozed off for a bit. But eventually my hot-flash/cold-chill woke me up, I wiped my bright red nose with a tissue, and stared at the walls some more.
Then I took some Robitussin ("mo tussin!") which apparently caused some heart palpitations, which I tried to track by counting a heartbeat. I couldn't find my heart, mostly because my bra is so heavily padded that no pulse can be detected through it, so I went for my neck and counted from there instead. 31 beats in 15 seconds seems....alarming. Oh well, it'll slow down.
Still, I feel better with the Tussin than I did without. My nose is no longer spewing yellow snot, which is a nice change of pace. (Although, there was a brief moment earlier when the right nostril was spewing yellow snot and the left was spewing red. That was special.) I have cleaned up the littering of cough drop wrappers that were all over the desk, and have managed to not yet open my second box of tissue today. (Note: Duane Reade did NOT have Puffs Plus today. What the FUCK is that about?? Remind me later to send them a photograph of my bright red nose while I give them the bird.)
What is it about having a cold that makes us so helpless? I instinctively want to be on my grandmother's couch under Papa's blanket, watching the Price is Right, sipping ginger ale and eating crackers, and slurping homemade soup from the bowl delivered to me on the couch. I think, maybe, that's where I am in my mind...watching Gramma do word searches in the rocking chair, occasionally stopping to shout at Bob Barker or put a cool, damp cloth on my forehead. Maybe I AM there, and that's why I'm not here, at work, editing ridiculously boring manuscripts.
No wait. Here I am. And here's a book about manually operated plumbing systems. Damn, guess I'm at work after all. I hate when that happens.
12.27.2004
trains, trains, trains.
Don't let anyone fool you--trains are still a backbone of transportation in this country. I traveled almost exclusively by trains from small town, MA to UES, NY yesterday, and let me tell you...it STILL sucks.
First, in Boston, I had to deal with the token booth dude. Why Boston still uses tokens is beyond me. If I had my way, I would have just swiped my MetroCard on my way through. But alas, this did not happen. And as I heard the bell ringing in Alewife, the signal that the next train is about to leave, and I tried to zig and zag around slow-moving idiots with snail-paced small children, I watched from the top of the staircase as the train pulled away. I also shot the traditional dirty "it's all your fault" look at the children to teach them a lesson.
So I got on the other train, the one that was going to sit idle for 10 more minutes before leaving the station. I had the good fortune of boarding a car with a resident drunk who, from his slumped over position, occasionally yelled in Spanish to "get moving" or in English to "fuck off." Soon there were three MBTA officers there, and by "officers" I mean average people with two-way radios and a misleading sense of authority, who started hassling the drunkard before taking away his 40-oz. bottle of spirit. To this he resisted by shouting "You assholes!" before lying back down across a row of seats and passing out.
Eventually I got to South Station, where I had to wait another 45 mins for my Amtrak train to take me to New York. Being that South Station is so well planned, I had no where to sit. So I wheeled my suitcase over to a model train display, and sat on it. ("It" being the suitcase, not the train.) I was then run into and over by a series of small children whose moron parents allowed them to run in giant circles WITH the model train, often screaming at the top of their lungs while doing so. Now, I know trains are exciting, but please people, tell your kids to sit still and shut the hell up.
Later, I boarded my train, where I nestled into my window seat and used loud music to drown out the cries of cranky children on board who were upset, I presume, that they were no longer running circles with the model train. One little boy was very quiet, but only because his portable DVD player was VERY LOUD, which helped to drown out the screaming little girl to his left. But either would have been preferable over the woman who coughed and hacked and sneezed and gurgled continuously for four and a half hours, spewing her germs across the car.
Hours later, as the train pulled into Penn Station, I made my veteran move to the front of the pack and bolted up the escalator with my suitcase on my shoulder. I ran to the subway, where I conveniently swiped my MetroCard, and boarded a car with another Standard Subway Drunkard. This one was quieter than the last, but smelled strongly of urine. I watched amusedly as he leaned lower and lower, defying all laws of gravity by keeping his face a mere 1000th of an inch off the seat--and that's while he was sleeping!!
I left the drunk to transfer trains, and spent several minutes trying to wheel my suitcase past a pair of women with two unruly children who occupied the entire width of the walkway. "Excuse me," I said to the older woman. "EXCUSE ME." When she wouldn't move, I simply bowled her over, and when she scowled at me, I simply reminded her "I said EXCUSE ME!" which, also being in English, I'm sure she did not understand. I then broke into a jog, hoping to catch the train that was waiting, but missed it, which caused me to turn around and shoot more dirty looks at the woman to remind her it was all her fault.
So, in summary, all trains still have drunks and idiots, and while I can handle a few of each on any given day, I think 6 steady hours is more than I can handle. And if anyone sees the coughing hacking sneezing gurgling woman, let me know so I can punch her in the face. I think I caught her cold.
First, in Boston, I had to deal with the token booth dude. Why Boston still uses tokens is beyond me. If I had my way, I would have just swiped my MetroCard on my way through. But alas, this did not happen. And as I heard the bell ringing in Alewife, the signal that the next train is about to leave, and I tried to zig and zag around slow-moving idiots with snail-paced small children, I watched from the top of the staircase as the train pulled away. I also shot the traditional dirty "it's all your fault" look at the children to teach them a lesson.
So I got on the other train, the one that was going to sit idle for 10 more minutes before leaving the station. I had the good fortune of boarding a car with a resident drunk who, from his slumped over position, occasionally yelled in Spanish to "get moving" or in English to "fuck off." Soon there were three MBTA officers there, and by "officers" I mean average people with two-way radios and a misleading sense of authority, who started hassling the drunkard before taking away his 40-oz. bottle of spirit. To this he resisted by shouting "You assholes!" before lying back down across a row of seats and passing out.
Eventually I got to South Station, where I had to wait another 45 mins for my Amtrak train to take me to New York. Being that South Station is so well planned, I had no where to sit. So I wheeled my suitcase over to a model train display, and sat on it. ("It" being the suitcase, not the train.) I was then run into and over by a series of small children whose moron parents allowed them to run in giant circles WITH the model train, often screaming at the top of their lungs while doing so. Now, I know trains are exciting, but please people, tell your kids to sit still and shut the hell up.
Later, I boarded my train, where I nestled into my window seat and used loud music to drown out the cries of cranky children on board who were upset, I presume, that they were no longer running circles with the model train. One little boy was very quiet, but only because his portable DVD player was VERY LOUD, which helped to drown out the screaming little girl to his left. But either would have been preferable over the woman who coughed and hacked and sneezed and gurgled continuously for four and a half hours, spewing her germs across the car.
Hours later, as the train pulled into Penn Station, I made my veteran move to the front of the pack and bolted up the escalator with my suitcase on my shoulder. I ran to the subway, where I conveniently swiped my MetroCard, and boarded a car with another Standard Subway Drunkard. This one was quieter than the last, but smelled strongly of urine. I watched amusedly as he leaned lower and lower, defying all laws of gravity by keeping his face a mere 1000th of an inch off the seat--and that's while he was sleeping!!
I left the drunk to transfer trains, and spent several minutes trying to wheel my suitcase past a pair of women with two unruly children who occupied the entire width of the walkway. "Excuse me," I said to the older woman. "EXCUSE ME." When she wouldn't move, I simply bowled her over, and when she scowled at me, I simply reminded her "I said EXCUSE ME!" which, also being in English, I'm sure she did not understand. I then broke into a jog, hoping to catch the train that was waiting, but missed it, which caused me to turn around and shoot more dirty looks at the woman to remind her it was all her fault.
So, in summary, all trains still have drunks and idiots, and while I can handle a few of each on any given day, I think 6 steady hours is more than I can handle. And if anyone sees the coughing hacking sneezing gurgling woman, let me know so I can punch her in the face. I think I caught her cold.
12.18.2004
NOW will you stop making fun?
For the last, say, 3 years, people have been making constant fun of my digital camera. I bought it in 2001, and at the time it was on sale as one of the phasing-out models. It has 1.3 megapixels, weak digital "zoom," and most importantly - it's huge, especially when compared to the spectrum of miniscule Mission Impossible spy-cam models that are out now.
Most tech saavy people, upon seeing my digital dinosaur, have a reaction like one of the following, which are direct quotes:
"Wow...what is that, a laptop?"
"What is this thing, a VCR?"
"Wow, how do you get that around? Does it have wheels?"
Okay, OKAY. Enough already!! I heard ya. Yes, my digital camera is old and big and klunky. Yes, I've been meaning to buy a new one for some time. And ya know what? Finally. FINALLY, let all the laughing end.
Today I went out to do some holiday shopping--for me. I have been struggling with getting the last few gifts on my list for other people, so I decided to make myself feel better by purchasing a new digital camera. I had sort of asked for one for Christmas but didn't get any responses from anyone, so I'm guessing/hoping no one got one. (If you did, let's talk.)
The new camera, a Sony Cybershot with 4.1 megapixels, is roughly 1/6th the size of my old camera. It has all kinds of spanky fresh new features that hadn't likely been developed in 2001 when I bought the other camera. It can do shutter bursts, zoom, and even take several minutes worth of moving pictures. I'm very excited.
All night I've been walking around taking pictures of myself and random, boring, inanimate household objects, like a spoon, or...a pen. Then I upload them to the computer so I can oooh and aaah at the huge difference in resolution. Then I go back and take more random, boring, pictures and repeat the process. Exciting nerd life I lead.
Anyhow, the point is, all you camera fun-poking assholes: BITE ME! I got a new one, okay? So back off already. Or I'll throw my old, giant, four-wheeled laptop VCR at your head. And it will hurt. Because it's so big. Shut up.
Most tech saavy people, upon seeing my digital dinosaur, have a reaction like one of the following, which are direct quotes:
"Wow...what is that, a laptop?"
"What is this thing, a VCR?"
"Wow, how do you get that around? Does it have wheels?"
Okay, OKAY. Enough already!! I heard ya. Yes, my digital camera is old and big and klunky. Yes, I've been meaning to buy a new one for some time. And ya know what? Finally. FINALLY, let all the laughing end.
Today I went out to do some holiday shopping--for me. I have been struggling with getting the last few gifts on my list for other people, so I decided to make myself feel better by purchasing a new digital camera. I had sort of asked for one for Christmas but didn't get any responses from anyone, so I'm guessing/hoping no one got one. (If you did, let's talk.)
The new camera, a Sony Cybershot with 4.1 megapixels, is roughly 1/6th the size of my old camera. It has all kinds of spanky fresh new features that hadn't likely been developed in 2001 when I bought the other camera. It can do shutter bursts, zoom, and even take several minutes worth of moving pictures. I'm very excited.
All night I've been walking around taking pictures of myself and random, boring, inanimate household objects, like a spoon, or...a pen. Then I upload them to the computer so I can oooh and aaah at the huge difference in resolution. Then I go back and take more random, boring, pictures and repeat the process. Exciting nerd life I lead.
Anyhow, the point is, all you camera fun-poking assholes: BITE ME! I got a new one, okay? So back off already. Or I'll throw my old, giant, four-wheeled laptop VCR at your head. And it will hurt. Because it's so big. Shut up.
12.17.2004
city streets at night
Last night I was walking home in the cold after warming my spirit over a glass (or pitcher) of sangria with a couple of friends. We parted ways, and I had four little blocks to walk on my own.
Almost immediately, there was a man with a dog on the sidewalk. The dog was getting into that weird, scrunched, ass-to-the-ground position that says "I'm about to shit now!" Seeing dogs shit on the sidewalk is a very common occurrence. Seeing owners pick up after them is far less frequent. But this guy--he was VERY smart.
As the dog is about to drop a load, the man slides a newspaper under the dog's ass. Now...I'm guessing this man has been doing the ol' Big City Poop Scoop for so many years that he figured out the cleanest way to get the job done. But I for one was impressed at his innovative approach, even though it required the dog's cooperation. If you tossed a newspaper at my dog while she was pooping, you'd scare the--well. She'd run away, completely freaked out, and would probably leave a trail behind her. So props to the poop man on a job well done.
Then on the next block there was a man who kept stopping other men on the street saying "Hey man, I got all this stuff to get home, and I can't carry it all. Will ya help a brutha out?" I laughed, mostly because I have been in that situation, wishing that with the right amount of eyelash batting and coy smiling, I could get some fella to help a damsel in distress. But it didn't work for me, and it sure wasn't working for this guy. "Excuse me mister," he'd kept saying. "I got all this stuff to get home...."
My biggest problem here was that I didn't see this alleged "stuff." I saw a pile of trash on the curb, but definitely no "stuff" that seemed worthwhile to not just carry home, but ask for HELP in carrying home. But before I could see how this one would end, someone else stole the show.
Picture, if you will...
It's a cold windy night in December. Your chin is tucked deep, nestled into your scarf as you try to block out the chilly draft. Your eyes water in the cold, your nose runs, and you keep your eyes on the ground as you walk briskly home. But your eyes, watery as they may be, suddenly lock onto red leather. You slowly lift up, higher, until you realize the red leather is that of a pair of thigh-high boots that cover a pair of unstable legs attached to a foul-mouthed and intoxicated hooker a few steps in front of you.
"Yoo wan sum gooooooood pussy!" she yells into the night, at no one in particular. She stumbles to the right, then back to the left, her long horrible wig swaying with each difficult step. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me ma pussy ain't good. I got GOOD pussy. Mm-hmm good pussy right here. Who wans to fuck ma goooooood pussy?"
Suppressing hysterical laughter by stifling it in my scarf, I watched as the Lady in Red staggered back and forth across the sidewalk, walking like she just spent the last three months riding a horse. She continued to mutter on to herself about good pussy before lurching head-first toward a black gate, stumbling through it, and disappearing into a building. Apparently, good pussy is available at #1823.
After that, the last block home seemed boring an uneventful, but I shouldn't complain. I had three full blocks of entertainment to distract me from the fact that I was cold and miserable. Poop, stuff, and good pussy - THAT is what makes New York great.
Almost immediately, there was a man with a dog on the sidewalk. The dog was getting into that weird, scrunched, ass-to-the-ground position that says "I'm about to shit now!" Seeing dogs shit on the sidewalk is a very common occurrence. Seeing owners pick up after them is far less frequent. But this guy--he was VERY smart.
As the dog is about to drop a load, the man slides a newspaper under the dog's ass. Now...I'm guessing this man has been doing the ol' Big City Poop Scoop for so many years that he figured out the cleanest way to get the job done. But I for one was impressed at his innovative approach, even though it required the dog's cooperation. If you tossed a newspaper at my dog while she was pooping, you'd scare the--well. She'd run away, completely freaked out, and would probably leave a trail behind her. So props to the poop man on a job well done.
Then on the next block there was a man who kept stopping other men on the street saying "Hey man, I got all this stuff to get home, and I can't carry it all. Will ya help a brutha out?" I laughed, mostly because I have been in that situation, wishing that with the right amount of eyelash batting and coy smiling, I could get some fella to help a damsel in distress. But it didn't work for me, and it sure wasn't working for this guy. "Excuse me mister," he'd kept saying. "I got all this stuff to get home...."
My biggest problem here was that I didn't see this alleged "stuff." I saw a pile of trash on the curb, but definitely no "stuff" that seemed worthwhile to not just carry home, but ask for HELP in carrying home. But before I could see how this one would end, someone else stole the show.
Picture, if you will...
It's a cold windy night in December. Your chin is tucked deep, nestled into your scarf as you try to block out the chilly draft. Your eyes water in the cold, your nose runs, and you keep your eyes on the ground as you walk briskly home. But your eyes, watery as they may be, suddenly lock onto red leather. You slowly lift up, higher, until you realize the red leather is that of a pair of thigh-high boots that cover a pair of unstable legs attached to a foul-mouthed and intoxicated hooker a few steps in front of you.
"Yoo wan sum gooooooood pussy!" she yells into the night, at no one in particular. She stumbles to the right, then back to the left, her long horrible wig swaying with each difficult step. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me ma pussy ain't good. I got GOOD pussy. Mm-hmm good pussy right here. Who wans to fuck ma goooooood pussy?"
Suppressing hysterical laughter by stifling it in my scarf, I watched as the Lady in Red staggered back and forth across the sidewalk, walking like she just spent the last three months riding a horse. She continued to mutter on to herself about good pussy before lurching head-first toward a black gate, stumbling through it, and disappearing into a building. Apparently, good pussy is available at #1823.
After that, the last block home seemed boring an uneventful, but I shouldn't complain. I had three full blocks of entertainment to distract me from the fact that I was cold and miserable. Poop, stuff, and good pussy - THAT is what makes New York great.
12.14.2004
'tis the f'n season.
So yes. Once again, the holiday season is upon us. And once again, it is making me miserable.
Last night, in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit, I decided to try shopping for my first holiday purchases of the season--in actual stores. I'm a firm, steadfast believer that everything should be selected, paid for, and shipped from the internet, because the human element is highly overrated. But sometimes you miss out on the holiday fun that way: no holiday music, no friendly smiles, no festive lights. so I thought perhaps I should venture into the stores.
HA. I was hunting for a not-so-easy-to-find DVD, so I landed at BestBuy. As I rode down the escalator and saw the 30-person-deep check out line snaking around 4 or 5 different corners, and a voice on the PA saying "Code 1! Code 1! All available employees to the registers!" I thought maybe this was a Very Bad Idea. But I was here, and the DVDs were right around the corner, so I took a breath and jumped in.
Mayhem. Total and utter mayhem. There was no longer a sense of logic or order among either the DVDs OR the people. Idiots with giant shopping bags and backpacks clogged the aisles. Small children whined and sat in the middle of the floor. And not only could I not find what I wanted, but there was NO ONE to help me figure out if it existed. I walked up and down the 8 or 9 rows of DVDs several times, stepping over screaming tots and rolling my eyes at their parents. I never found what I was looking for, which is probably the best thing for me, because to justify standing in that long ass line to pay, I would have had to buy several hundred dollars worth of stuff.
So I left, and went home only to realize that I was losing vision in my left eye--my now standard sign that a migraine is coming. Christmas shopping gave me a MIGRAINE. So, you know what people? If you don't get something from me this year, it's because it wasn't available on the internet. I'm not going in ANY more stores this year. Christmas shopping is hazardous to my health. The surgeon general should warn you about this shit.
Last night, in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit, I decided to try shopping for my first holiday purchases of the season--in actual stores. I'm a firm, steadfast believer that everything should be selected, paid for, and shipped from the internet, because the human element is highly overrated. But sometimes you miss out on the holiday fun that way: no holiday music, no friendly smiles, no festive lights. so I thought perhaps I should venture into the stores.
HA. I was hunting for a not-so-easy-to-find DVD, so I landed at BestBuy. As I rode down the escalator and saw the 30-person-deep check out line snaking around 4 or 5 different corners, and a voice on the PA saying "Code 1! Code 1! All available employees to the registers!" I thought maybe this was a Very Bad Idea. But I was here, and the DVDs were right around the corner, so I took a breath and jumped in.
Mayhem. Total and utter mayhem. There was no longer a sense of logic or order among either the DVDs OR the people. Idiots with giant shopping bags and backpacks clogged the aisles. Small children whined and sat in the middle of the floor. And not only could I not find what I wanted, but there was NO ONE to help me figure out if it existed. I walked up and down the 8 or 9 rows of DVDs several times, stepping over screaming tots and rolling my eyes at their parents. I never found what I was looking for, which is probably the best thing for me, because to justify standing in that long ass line to pay, I would have had to buy several hundred dollars worth of stuff.
So I left, and went home only to realize that I was losing vision in my left eye--my now standard sign that a migraine is coming. Christmas shopping gave me a MIGRAINE. So, you know what people? If you don't get something from me this year, it's because it wasn't available on the internet. I'm not going in ANY more stores this year. Christmas shopping is hazardous to my health. The surgeon general should warn you about this shit.
12.10.2004
i am SUCH a nerd.
Okay, so, there's this weatherman in Boston that my friend Kevin told me about. He (Kevin) sent me an email that said "This guy's forecasts are right up your alley. Read it. Pants." And then there was a link to this: http://www1.whdh.com/weather/ . (Kevin didn't mean the actual day-to-day forecast, but rather the "Discussion" section further down the page.)
Now, mind you, at the time of this realization, I was actually still IN Boston. And I was quite a weather geek and was constantly telling people my interpretation of the latest doppler radar or spouting facts about the snow albedo effect or how, despite Anne Marie's doubts, it can actually snow and not make it to the ground. So when Kevin sent me this link, I put it right up into my bookmarks, and followed Pete's forecast every day. (Except when he's on vacation, which is far less fun.)
So now it has been months and months...maybe even a year since Kevin hooked me up to the hugely entertaining world of "Petey B." And although I moved to a new city, I read every day, and most times laugh hard enough to grab a snippet and send it to Kevin saying "that crazy Pete! Look what he said today!"
So yesterday I decided to email Pete, and give him a little fan mail:
Hi Pete,
I just wanted you to know that you are, as they say, da bomb. I moved to New York from Boston a few months ago, but I still check in online on a daily basis to see what kind of meteorological pop-cultural anecdote you've got up your sleeve. From pine trees wearing "pasties" to Counting Crows, because of you, I look forward to each day's forecast for a city in which I no longer live. Don't ever leave!
Your Big Apple weather fan,
Stephanie
And this morning, to my surprise, I had an email back from the great and powerful Pete:
Aw shucks Stephanie, I'm gonna turn this email red with all the blushing I'm doing. Thanks for the uplifting email. I hope to be here for a while (unless New York calls!) Best of holiday wishes!
Pete
You must understand--this email MADE MY DAY! Petey B. wrote to ME! He said my NAME! I couldn't be happier if it was from Johnny Depp, I swear. (And ya know how I feel about Johnny Depp!)
Well, naturally I forwarded the email to Kevin immediately. But my joy was so overwhelming that I simply had to share it with everyone else as well. And maybe now you all know (or have reaffirmed) that I am a complete nerd, a total weather geek, and something of a groupie. But I don't care. Long live Petey B.
Now, mind you, at the time of this realization, I was actually still IN Boston. And I was quite a weather geek and was constantly telling people my interpretation of the latest doppler radar or spouting facts about the snow albedo effect or how, despite Anne Marie's doubts, it can actually snow and not make it to the ground. So when Kevin sent me this link, I put it right up into my bookmarks, and followed Pete's forecast every day. (Except when he's on vacation, which is far less fun.)
So now it has been months and months...maybe even a year since Kevin hooked me up to the hugely entertaining world of "Petey B." And although I moved to a new city, I read every day, and most times laugh hard enough to grab a snippet and send it to Kevin saying "that crazy Pete! Look what he said today!"
So yesterday I decided to email Pete, and give him a little fan mail:
Hi Pete,
I just wanted you to know that you are, as they say, da bomb. I moved to New York from Boston a few months ago, but I still check in online on a daily basis to see what kind of meteorological pop-cultural anecdote you've got up your sleeve. From pine trees wearing "pasties" to Counting Crows, because of you, I look forward to each day's forecast for a city in which I no longer live. Don't ever leave!
Your Big Apple weather fan,
Stephanie
And this morning, to my surprise, I had an email back from the great and powerful Pete:
Aw shucks Stephanie, I'm gonna turn this email red with all the blushing I'm doing. Thanks for the uplifting email. I hope to be here for a while (unless New York calls!) Best of holiday wishes!
Pete
You must understand--this email MADE MY DAY! Petey B. wrote to ME! He said my NAME! I couldn't be happier if it was from Johnny Depp, I swear. (And ya know how I feel about Johnny Depp!)
Well, naturally I forwarded the email to Kevin immediately. But my joy was so overwhelming that I simply had to share it with everyone else as well. And maybe now you all know (or have reaffirmed) that I am a complete nerd, a total weather geek, and something of a groupie. But I don't care. Long live Petey B.
12.09.2004
lazy blog girl
Get to know your blogger...who wasted too much time on this stupid email to actually have time to write a blog.
----------------
(Once upon a time, I used to get these from my 12-year-old cousins. Now I get them from my 30-something-year-old friends. Very amusing.)
1. What time is it? 10:15am on a Thursday.
2. Name as it appears on birth certificate: Stephanie *********
3. Nicknames: Sis, Stepha (zalsa only), Stephie (family only), Hops.
4. Piercing: Three per ear.
5. Eye color: Used to be brown, now greenish, I guess.
6. Place of birth: Fitchburg, MA. 2nd hilliest city in the U.S. woohoo!
7. Favorite food: Cheese. And Chocolate. Or any combination.
8. Ever been to Africa? No
9. Ever been toilet papering? Not that I recall. I was a good kid.
10. Love someone so much it made you cry? Yeah, fucknut.
11. Been in a car accident? Not when I was driving.
12. Croutons or bacon bits? Yes please.
13. Favorite day of the week: Saturday. Week's over, and a new one has yet to begin. Aaah.
14. Favorite restaurant: Solea, in Waltham, MA or Not Your Average Joe's, of greater Boston, just for the bread.
15. Favorite flower: pretty colored ones, whatever they are.
16. Favorite sport to watch? My Patriots football, baby!! (And not JUST for Adam Vinatieri's ass.)
17. Favorite drink: Nothing beats a fresh can of Coke. Or, malibu bay breeze.
18. Favorite ice cream: MOOSE TRACKS!! No contest.
19. Disney or Warner Bros.: whatever.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant: McDonald's (#2 with a coke).
21. What color is the carpet in your bedroom? Hardwood baby. HARD WOOD.
22. How many times did you fail your driver's test? None. The dude passed me despite being 15 mph over the speed limit at all times.
24. Which stores would you choose to max out your credit card? Barnes & Noble, Anthropologie, Best Buy.
25. What you do most often when you are bored? Answer emails like these.
26. What is your bedtime? Lately, whenever I stumble home from the bar and find a way out of my boots.
27. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest? Jessica.
28. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Kevin.
29. Favorite TV shows: Six Feet Under, Fresh Prince
30. Last person you went out to dinner with: Carrie and Dan - Heidelberg fixtures.
31. Ford or Chevy? Why.
32. What are you listening to right now? Ivette yelling in Spanish.
33. What is your favorite color? Deep summer sky at twilight blue
34. Lake, ocean or river? Ocean. No, river. No, ocean. How about a hot tub?
35. How many tattoos do you have? Uno.
36. Time you finished this e-mail ? I'm not done yet, asshole.
37. Have you ever run out of gas? Damn close. Coast on fumes!
38. Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Still in NYC, still eating cheese, still buying shoes.
39. The name of the book you just finished? Managing the Publishing Enterprise - Course Instruction Packet
40. The one place you've always wanted to visit? Italia.
41. Most stupidest thing you've done while intoxicated? If I could remember, it wouldn't be the "most stupidest," would it.
42. What's the fastest speed you've driven? 90+, hand on horn. get the fuck out of my way.
43. Ever write your name in the snow? Yes, with my FEET.
44. What's the last song you sang out loud? Dominic the Donkey, complete with interpretive dance.
----------------
(Once upon a time, I used to get these from my 12-year-old cousins. Now I get them from my 30-something-year-old friends. Very amusing.)
1. What time is it? 10:15am on a Thursday.
2. Name as it appears on birth certificate: Stephanie *********
3. Nicknames: Sis, Stepha (zalsa only), Stephie (family only), Hops.
4. Piercing: Three per ear.
5. Eye color: Used to be brown, now greenish, I guess.
6. Place of birth: Fitchburg, MA. 2nd hilliest city in the U.S. woohoo!
7. Favorite food: Cheese. And Chocolate. Or any combination.
8. Ever been to Africa? No
9. Ever been toilet papering? Not that I recall. I was a good kid.
10. Love someone so much it made you cry? Yeah, fucknut.
11. Been in a car accident? Not when I was driving.
12. Croutons or bacon bits? Yes please.
13. Favorite day of the week: Saturday. Week's over, and a new one has yet to begin. Aaah.
14. Favorite restaurant: Solea, in Waltham, MA or Not Your Average Joe's, of greater Boston, just for the bread.
15. Favorite flower: pretty colored ones, whatever they are.
16. Favorite sport to watch? My Patriots football, baby!! (And not JUST for Adam Vinatieri's ass.)
17. Favorite drink: Nothing beats a fresh can of Coke. Or, malibu bay breeze.
18. Favorite ice cream: MOOSE TRACKS!! No contest.
19. Disney or Warner Bros.: whatever.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant: McDonald's (#2 with a coke).
21. What color is the carpet in your bedroom? Hardwood baby. HARD WOOD.
22. How many times did you fail your driver's test? None. The dude passed me despite being 15 mph over the speed limit at all times.
24. Which stores would you choose to max out your credit card? Barnes & Noble, Anthropologie, Best Buy.
25. What you do most often when you are bored? Answer emails like these.
26. What is your bedtime? Lately, whenever I stumble home from the bar and find a way out of my boots.
27. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest? Jessica.
28. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Kevin.
29. Favorite TV shows: Six Feet Under, Fresh Prince
30. Last person you went out to dinner with: Carrie and Dan - Heidelberg fixtures.
31. Ford or Chevy? Why.
32. What are you listening to right now? Ivette yelling in Spanish.
33. What is your favorite color? Deep summer sky at twilight blue
34. Lake, ocean or river? Ocean. No, river. No, ocean. How about a hot tub?
35. How many tattoos do you have? Uno.
36. Time you finished this e-mail ? I'm not done yet, asshole.
37. Have you ever run out of gas? Damn close. Coast on fumes!
38. Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Still in NYC, still eating cheese, still buying shoes.
39. The name of the book you just finished? Managing the Publishing Enterprise - Course Instruction Packet
40. The one place you've always wanted to visit? Italia.
41. Most stupidest thing you've done while intoxicated? If I could remember, it wouldn't be the "most stupidest," would it.
42. What's the fastest speed you've driven? 90+, hand on horn. get the fuck out of my way.
43. Ever write your name in the snow? Yes, with my FEET.
44. What's the last song you sang out loud? Dominic the Donkey, complete with interpretive dance.
12.04.2004
some assembly required
For the last 6 weeks or so, I've been living in my new apartment with no flat surface upon which to eat, except the kitchen counter. I wanted a table and some chairs, but wasn't sure where to get them, or how much to pay. So finally after all this time, I just walked to the store down the street and bought the cheapo set for $150.
The guy at the store said for an additional $25 they would assemble and deliver the table and chairs. I turned him down for numerous reasons. 1) I didn't want to give them the $25. 2) I wanted a project. 3) I wanted it NOW. So I made him go get the big box and lend me a dolly so I could wheel the box home. He thought I was crazy, some silly girl trying to get the heavy box home by herself. But I gave them my license as collateral, then rolled the box-on-dolly three blocks home, wrestled the box through the double set of doors downstairs, then somehow got it UP the stairs by rolling it end-over-end. When I slid it into my kitchen, I gave a very proud Rocky Balboa tough guy Victory Dance before returning the dolly to the store.
I bolted back to the store, then back home, and slashed open the tape on the box. I pulled the pieces out one by one, laying them out on the floor. In the back of my head, I heard my father saying "Check for all the pieces before you begin." And I gladly would have...if the box had contained any sort of printed instructions. How the flying fuck do you assemble ANYTHING made in MALAYSIA without instructions?? I would have even settled for a diagram with text written in French or Russian, but to have nothing?? I reminded myself I was looking for a project, so I unpacked everything, and dumped the baggie of screws and washers and other miscellaneous pieces for which I had no instructions onto the floor. I then realized that a massively slanted floor is not good for runaway screws and washers, so I dropped them into a bowl for further meticulous examination. I was happy to see an Allen wrench. I freakin' love those things.
Thanks to my long history of assembling and disassembling objects, such as relocating my bunk beds since the age of about 5 with my father's ratcheting tools, I was able to quickly decipher which screws and bolts went where. I managed to throw together one of the two chairs, and even sat upon it without any horrible snapping, popping, or crunching noises. However, when I turned to put together the second chair, I noticed only two of something that should have been three. "I told you to check for all the pieces!" my father's voice said. I sighed, knowing that while my mother would happily go forward and build the chair without its proper back support, I could not do so, and had to return to the store. I counted all my other pieces first to make sure nothing else was missing, and ran back out.
The man at the store was like "Oh great, the bitch who wanted the dolly is back." Or at least that's what his facial expression said. But I remained perky and obnoxious. "Hi. Remember me? I am missing a piece for one of my chairs. I need a second one just like this," I said as I held up the clone of the missing. Mr. Cranky took the piece, giving me a look that said "stupid chicks can't built shit," and went out back, returning a moment later with a pair of the pieces. I thanked him cheerily and headed back home.
Chair #2 went together very quickly and without further incident. Next was the big part: the TABLE!!
The table appeared to have its own baggie of miscellaneous screws and washers and, to my surprise, a second Allen wrench! But there were some little round things in this baggie that I didn't know what to do with. They weren't washers, not nuts, just...some pointless little pieces of curled metal. I looked at the table legs, and the pre-drilled holes on the table, and really wished I had instructions for this part. But using my what was left of my wit and intelligence, I screwed everything in place, sans mysterious pieces of curled metal. (If I can't find a use for 'em, why bother.)
Finally, with a cheer and a grunt, I hoisted the table upright. It didn't wobble. It didn't fall. It stood solidly in the middle of my kitchen. I repeated my proud Rocky Balboa dance (this time in front of the mirror) and thanked the Malaysian assholes for the challenge. Instructions? I don't need no stinkin' instructions!
The guy at the store said for an additional $25 they would assemble and deliver the table and chairs. I turned him down for numerous reasons. 1) I didn't want to give them the $25. 2) I wanted a project. 3) I wanted it NOW. So I made him go get the big box and lend me a dolly so I could wheel the box home. He thought I was crazy, some silly girl trying to get the heavy box home by herself. But I gave them my license as collateral, then rolled the box-on-dolly three blocks home, wrestled the box through the double set of doors downstairs, then somehow got it UP the stairs by rolling it end-over-end. When I slid it into my kitchen, I gave a very proud Rocky Balboa tough guy Victory Dance before returning the dolly to the store.
I bolted back to the store, then back home, and slashed open the tape on the box. I pulled the pieces out one by one, laying them out on the floor. In the back of my head, I heard my father saying "Check for all the pieces before you begin." And I gladly would have...if the box had contained any sort of printed instructions. How the flying fuck do you assemble ANYTHING made in MALAYSIA without instructions?? I would have even settled for a diagram with text written in French or Russian, but to have nothing?? I reminded myself I was looking for a project, so I unpacked everything, and dumped the baggie of screws and washers and other miscellaneous pieces for which I had no instructions onto the floor. I then realized that a massively slanted floor is not good for runaway screws and washers, so I dropped them into a bowl for further meticulous examination. I was happy to see an Allen wrench. I freakin' love those things.
Thanks to my long history of assembling and disassembling objects, such as relocating my bunk beds since the age of about 5 with my father's ratcheting tools, I was able to quickly decipher which screws and bolts went where. I managed to throw together one of the two chairs, and even sat upon it without any horrible snapping, popping, or crunching noises. However, when I turned to put together the second chair, I noticed only two of something that should have been three. "I told you to check for all the pieces!" my father's voice said. I sighed, knowing that while my mother would happily go forward and build the chair without its proper back support, I could not do so, and had to return to the store. I counted all my other pieces first to make sure nothing else was missing, and ran back out.
The man at the store was like "Oh great, the bitch who wanted the dolly is back." Or at least that's what his facial expression said. But I remained perky and obnoxious. "Hi. Remember me? I am missing a piece for one of my chairs. I need a second one just like this," I said as I held up the clone of the missing. Mr. Cranky took the piece, giving me a look that said "stupid chicks can't built shit," and went out back, returning a moment later with a pair of the pieces. I thanked him cheerily and headed back home.
Chair #2 went together very quickly and without further incident. Next was the big part: the TABLE!!
The table appeared to have its own baggie of miscellaneous screws and washers and, to my surprise, a second Allen wrench! But there were some little round things in this baggie that I didn't know what to do with. They weren't washers, not nuts, just...some pointless little pieces of curled metal. I looked at the table legs, and the pre-drilled holes on the table, and really wished I had instructions for this part. But using my what was left of my wit and intelligence, I screwed everything in place, sans mysterious pieces of curled metal. (If I can't find a use for 'em, why bother.)
Finally, with a cheer and a grunt, I hoisted the table upright. It didn't wobble. It didn't fall. It stood solidly in the middle of my kitchen. I repeated my proud Rocky Balboa dance (this time in front of the mirror) and thanked the Malaysian assholes for the challenge. Instructions? I don't need no stinkin' instructions!
12.02.2004
i'm a survivor!
The other day, at the end of my typical frenzied morning routine, I scurried out the door, locked it, and began walking to the subway. About a block and half later, I realized I'd made a horrible, frightening mistake--I left my cell phone at home.
I was running too late to go back and get it. And, despite my panic, I rationalized that I wouldn't really miss it or need it. I mean, it doesn't work on the subway, when I get to work I have a desk phone, later I had class, and then I'd be home. I could manage 12 hours without my cell phone...right?
All day I felt naked, exposed, vulnerable, lost, incomplete. I kept imagining the calls I was missing, the text messages that were piling up. I checked my voicemail once or twice from work but no one had left anything. Not many people do, though. I usually track through my missed calls, and I was missing it all!!
I considered going home at lunch to get the phone, but I decided I needed to prove to myself that I could last the day. I reminded myself that it was just like the "old fashioned way" of phone life, where you had ONLY a phone at home that would take messages for you when people called. You had to wait ALL day to get home and see who called. I did it years ago, I could do it again now, even though it had probably been about 4 years since I traveled anywhere without a phone.
By mid-afternoon, I had all the signs of an addict in withdrawal. Going cold-turkey may not have been the smartest decision. I tapped my fingers and feet, I had the shakes, and I grew obsessed with the void the phone left behind. I still had hours and hours to go, and the thought of my little Samsung sitting on the shelf at home just ate me up inside. But it was too late now, there was no turning back. I HAD to ride this out.
I met with my classmates as planned, and suffered until about 9:02 before I decided it was safe--and FREE--for me to borrow someone else's phone to "check for a very important message." I dialed, I entered my voicemail password, but alas, still no messages.
When I finally got home around 10:00, I made a beeline for the phone. It said I had missed calls, but I knew that logically most of them were probably me calling myself from other phones. I pressed buttons and reviewed, squealing with delight to have the cool metal and plastic against my hands. I'd missed my sister, my father, and a couple of others. And I had text messages too, dammit!! I knew I was missing something!
But in the end, I did survive. I made it from 8am to 10pm without my cell phone. It wasn't easy, but it was a real eye-opening experience for me. It was a real exercise in endurance and the human spirit. And I survived.
I was running too late to go back and get it. And, despite my panic, I rationalized that I wouldn't really miss it or need it. I mean, it doesn't work on the subway, when I get to work I have a desk phone, later I had class, and then I'd be home. I could manage 12 hours without my cell phone...right?
All day I felt naked, exposed, vulnerable, lost, incomplete. I kept imagining the calls I was missing, the text messages that were piling up. I checked my voicemail once or twice from work but no one had left anything. Not many people do, though. I usually track through my missed calls, and I was missing it all!!
I considered going home at lunch to get the phone, but I decided I needed to prove to myself that I could last the day. I reminded myself that it was just like the "old fashioned way" of phone life, where you had ONLY a phone at home that would take messages for you when people called. You had to wait ALL day to get home and see who called. I did it years ago, I could do it again now, even though it had probably been about 4 years since I traveled anywhere without a phone.
By mid-afternoon, I had all the signs of an addict in withdrawal. Going cold-turkey may not have been the smartest decision. I tapped my fingers and feet, I had the shakes, and I grew obsessed with the void the phone left behind. I still had hours and hours to go, and the thought of my little Samsung sitting on the shelf at home just ate me up inside. But it was too late now, there was no turning back. I HAD to ride this out.
I met with my classmates as planned, and suffered until about 9:02 before I decided it was safe--and FREE--for me to borrow someone else's phone to "check for a very important message." I dialed, I entered my voicemail password, but alas, still no messages.
When I finally got home around 10:00, I made a beeline for the phone. It said I had missed calls, but I knew that logically most of them were probably me calling myself from other phones. I pressed buttons and reviewed, squealing with delight to have the cool metal and plastic against my hands. I'd missed my sister, my father, and a couple of others. And I had text messages too, dammit!! I knew I was missing something!
But in the end, I did survive. I made it from 8am to 10pm without my cell phone. It wasn't easy, but it was a real eye-opening experience for me. It was a real exercise in endurance and the human spirit. And I survived.
11.29.2004
it takes so little...
Here I am, sitting at work on the Monday morning after a 4-day weekend. Like millions of other Americans, I'm miserable to be here.
I've actually been hard at work since the minute I got here, which was about 20 minutes late thanks to some seriously delayed subway traffic. I have been hard at work tearing apart the boring tables of contents for the boring books I edit, trying not to think about the presentation I have due for class tomorrow that is far from complete, and also trying to drown out the grumble of my poor, hungry stomach.
So basically, I'm cranky. Not far-gone cranky that is only repairable by alcohol and sleep, just the semi-fussy Monday morning blah cranky that often causes me to become introverted and quiet until I find some random thing to spike my serotonin and cheer me up. Sometimes it's a song, sometimes it's a silly website, sometimes it's another person. Problem is...I never know what it will be until it happens.
So here I am, cranky-fussy, and hungry. Then it occurs to me I have a banana in my bag that I can eat. This helps a little, even though the banana is not quite as ripe as I like it (no green on the peel, and a few brown spots). So I peel the banana, take a bite, and proceed to read the boring books. And then...it happened.
I HAVE PEANUT BUTTER! In a joyous flash of brilliance, I realize I have a jar of peanut butter in my desk drawer and it would be absolutely fantastic on my banana, reminiscent of the sandwiches my grandmother used to make me when I was a kid (on toasted wheat bread, complete with a glass of Market Basket brand orange soda, all placed strategically to optimize viewing of Bob Barker on The Price Is Right). I dig out the jar, I dig out a knife, and I carefully spread just the right amount of peanut butter (just right = as much as I can) on the banana, and take a bite.
Mmmm. Sweet savior, my peanut butter and banana. Either without the other is only moderately enjoyable. But both together? So damn good. Today I am saved. Saved from myself, saved from the pains and miseries of Monday mornings. I am saved.
I've actually been hard at work since the minute I got here, which was about 20 minutes late thanks to some seriously delayed subway traffic. I have been hard at work tearing apart the boring tables of contents for the boring books I edit, trying not to think about the presentation I have due for class tomorrow that is far from complete, and also trying to drown out the grumble of my poor, hungry stomach.
So basically, I'm cranky. Not far-gone cranky that is only repairable by alcohol and sleep, just the semi-fussy Monday morning blah cranky that often causes me to become introverted and quiet until I find some random thing to spike my serotonin and cheer me up. Sometimes it's a song, sometimes it's a silly website, sometimes it's another person. Problem is...I never know what it will be until it happens.
So here I am, cranky-fussy, and hungry. Then it occurs to me I have a banana in my bag that I can eat. This helps a little, even though the banana is not quite as ripe as I like it (no green on the peel, and a few brown spots). So I peel the banana, take a bite, and proceed to read the boring books. And then...it happened.
I HAVE PEANUT BUTTER! In a joyous flash of brilliance, I realize I have a jar of peanut butter in my desk drawer and it would be absolutely fantastic on my banana, reminiscent of the sandwiches my grandmother used to make me when I was a kid (on toasted wheat bread, complete with a glass of Market Basket brand orange soda, all placed strategically to optimize viewing of Bob Barker on The Price Is Right). I dig out the jar, I dig out a knife, and I carefully spread just the right amount of peanut butter (just right = as much as I can) on the banana, and take a bite.
Mmmm. Sweet savior, my peanut butter and banana. Either without the other is only moderately enjoyable. But both together? So damn good. Today I am saved. Saved from myself, saved from the pains and miseries of Monday mornings. I am saved.
11.24.2004
the subway games we play.
I realized this morning that I am a sick and demented human being.
There are certain nuances of the subway that, as a passenger, you learn through day after day of repetition or, in other cases, through making mistakes. For example, you learn where to stand to wait for the train so as to get dropped off at the destination near the exit. Or how to maneuver through the car stop by stop so that you are near the doors when it's time to get off.
So after you ride on the subway enough, the same line, the same tracks, the same stops, day after day, you learn even the subtleties such as which way the train lurches and when. On my trip downtown, it's more or less a straight shot until...
When the train leaves 42nd St, headed to 33rd, you have about 5-10 seconds after the train has completely left the station before there is a sharp lurch to the right. Being a fast learner, I only needed to fly across the train into the arms (and coffee cups) of complete strangers before learning to brace for this jolt. But others are not so aware.
So now every morning, I find myself mentally preparing for The Big Lurch. I change the position of my feet to be parallel to the jolt for better balance, I make sure I'm holding on to something, and perhaps most importantly, I look around to see who doesn't know better and will end up flying across the train. Smart people who didn't know better would at least be in tune with the squealing sound of the train's wheels as they hit a curve in the tracks and grab something in the remaining 2 seconds. But no.
Yesterday, someone wasn't prepared and launched sideways, smashing into this guy who had no chance at recovering. With a linebacker-like grunt, he took the hit before his newspaper flew into the air and he crashed into some little old woman who was sitting in front of him. Amusingly, frustratingly, few people apologize for these collisions, despite the fact they often cause disruptions and damage to beverages, newspapers, or even eyeglasses.
So today as we left 42nd St., I silently mused over the crowd at the door who jammed their way onto the train and now had nothing to hold onto. This, I thought, will be fun. The doors closed, the train rolled, and 5....4....3....**squealing wheels**....2....
LURCH! As expected, a good 4 or 5 people took headers toward the opposite side of the train. Some caught themselves with poles or by grabbing onto other people. But those idiot hotshots who think they can ride with no handhold and put their hands in their pockets--THEY went sailing! And I just cracked up.
A nicer person with more concerns over the Life Eternal might have said "Hey folks, you may want to grab on to something." But I, you see, am not that person. Rather, I'm the one who gets a sick kick--and a blog--out of not speaking up and letting them take flight. Because it's funny for me, especially when they think they recovered, act all cool like it never happened, then get tossed for surprise lurch #2. Haha. It's funny.
There are certain nuances of the subway that, as a passenger, you learn through day after day of repetition or, in other cases, through making mistakes. For example, you learn where to stand to wait for the train so as to get dropped off at the destination near the exit. Or how to maneuver through the car stop by stop so that you are near the doors when it's time to get off.
So after you ride on the subway enough, the same line, the same tracks, the same stops, day after day, you learn even the subtleties such as which way the train lurches and when. On my trip downtown, it's more or less a straight shot until...
When the train leaves 42nd St, headed to 33rd, you have about 5-10 seconds after the train has completely left the station before there is a sharp lurch to the right. Being a fast learner, I only needed to fly across the train into the arms (and coffee cups) of complete strangers before learning to brace for this jolt. But others are not so aware.
So now every morning, I find myself mentally preparing for The Big Lurch. I change the position of my feet to be parallel to the jolt for better balance, I make sure I'm holding on to something, and perhaps most importantly, I look around to see who doesn't know better and will end up flying across the train. Smart people who didn't know better would at least be in tune with the squealing sound of the train's wheels as they hit a curve in the tracks and grab something in the remaining 2 seconds. But no.
Yesterday, someone wasn't prepared and launched sideways, smashing into this guy who had no chance at recovering. With a linebacker-like grunt, he took the hit before his newspaper flew into the air and he crashed into some little old woman who was sitting in front of him. Amusingly, frustratingly, few people apologize for these collisions, despite the fact they often cause disruptions and damage to beverages, newspapers, or even eyeglasses.
So today as we left 42nd St., I silently mused over the crowd at the door who jammed their way onto the train and now had nothing to hold onto. This, I thought, will be fun. The doors closed, the train rolled, and 5....4....3....**squealing wheels**....2....
LURCH! As expected, a good 4 or 5 people took headers toward the opposite side of the train. Some caught themselves with poles or by grabbing onto other people. But those idiot hotshots who think they can ride with no handhold and put their hands in their pockets--THEY went sailing! And I just cracked up.
A nicer person with more concerns over the Life Eternal might have said "Hey folks, you may want to grab on to something." But I, you see, am not that person. Rather, I'm the one who gets a sick kick--and a blog--out of not speaking up and letting them take flight. Because it's funny for me, especially when they think they recovered, act all cool like it never happened, then get tossed for surprise lurch #2. Haha. It's funny.
11.20.2004
i am a lazy, worthless beast.
For days, all I've wanted is a Saturday. Since that point on Sunday where I realized that a new work week was rising, all I've wanted was a Saturday to relax, catch up, clean up, work out, and do errands--typical Saturday things.
Well, it's finally Saturday. I woke this morning without a hangover, thanks to the fact that a single drink last night cost $9.25. So I only had three, one of which was bought for me. That made it easy to wake up when my phone rang at 9am (especially when I saw it was a call from California where it was only 6am).
I talked to Bobo for a bit. Then I called my mom. Then I talked to Joanie. Then I called my sister. Then I talked to Jen. All this without ever getting out of my bed. Next thing I know, it's noon, and I haven't done a damn thing except take advantage of my free nights and weekends, which I really should do anyway for $60 a month.
Driven by hunger and an unignorable need to brush my teeth, I got out of bed. As I was brushing, I decided I must change my bed sheets. So after brushing, I washed a big tupperware container, dried it, and filled it with honey nut cheerios. I added a sliced banana, some sugar, and some milk, dropped a spoon in it, and sat on the floor and ate. THEN I grabbed fresh sheets out of the bathroom for my bed.
Being slightly neurotic/meticulous about my bed making (serious issues about head- and feet-ends of blankets always being in the right place), I spread out my new sexy sateen sheets, put the pillow cases on, threw the comforter up, flipped it over to hide its need to be washed (yet maintained the proper head-foot balance), and when I was done, it looked so damn comfortable that I crawled up on top of it and took a nap.
A three hour nap.
Now it's 4:00. I missed my class at the gym. I haven't washed the pile of dishes in the sink. I haven't worked on my paper. I haven't even put on fresh deodorant. I did, however, just eat three pieces of cheese, which was also very high on my list of Important Things to Accomplish.
But I MUST get my ass in gear. Tonight I have a housewarming party to attend. I have four hours remaining to decide upon and purchase a gift (likely wine), wrap it (or stick a bow on it), come back home and shower (and shave everything that needs to be shaved), put on that much-needed deodorant, pick out clothes that say "I'm hot, but casual and spontaneous and fun" (but also show enough cleavage to get the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend back to my apartment after the party), get dressed in said clothes, then head towards the party WITH the gifts and my other alcoholic beverages which I hope the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend will help me carry. Really, when I look at it, I have a lot to do, and yet instead of DOING it, I'm sitting here writing about it. It's just one of those rainy Saturdays upon which I reaffirm that I am a lazy, worthless beast.
But at least I brushed my teeth.
Well, it's finally Saturday. I woke this morning without a hangover, thanks to the fact that a single drink last night cost $9.25. So I only had three, one of which was bought for me. That made it easy to wake up when my phone rang at 9am (especially when I saw it was a call from California where it was only 6am).
I talked to Bobo for a bit. Then I called my mom. Then I talked to Joanie. Then I called my sister. Then I talked to Jen. All this without ever getting out of my bed. Next thing I know, it's noon, and I haven't done a damn thing except take advantage of my free nights and weekends, which I really should do anyway for $60 a month.
Driven by hunger and an unignorable need to brush my teeth, I got out of bed. As I was brushing, I decided I must change my bed sheets. So after brushing, I washed a big tupperware container, dried it, and filled it with honey nut cheerios. I added a sliced banana, some sugar, and some milk, dropped a spoon in it, and sat on the floor and ate. THEN I grabbed fresh sheets out of the bathroom for my bed.
Being slightly neurotic/meticulous about my bed making (serious issues about head- and feet-ends of blankets always being in the right place), I spread out my new sexy sateen sheets, put the pillow cases on, threw the comforter up, flipped it over to hide its need to be washed (yet maintained the proper head-foot balance), and when I was done, it looked so damn comfortable that I crawled up on top of it and took a nap.
A three hour nap.
Now it's 4:00. I missed my class at the gym. I haven't washed the pile of dishes in the sink. I haven't worked on my paper. I haven't even put on fresh deodorant. I did, however, just eat three pieces of cheese, which was also very high on my list of Important Things to Accomplish.
But I MUST get my ass in gear. Tonight I have a housewarming party to attend. I have four hours remaining to decide upon and purchase a gift (likely wine), wrap it (or stick a bow on it), come back home and shower (and shave everything that needs to be shaved), put on that much-needed deodorant, pick out clothes that say "I'm hot, but casual and spontaneous and fun" (but also show enough cleavage to get the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend back to my apartment after the party), get dressed in said clothes, then head towards the party WITH the gifts and my other alcoholic beverages which I hope the aforementioned Sort Of Boyfriend will help me carry. Really, when I look at it, I have a lot to do, and yet instead of DOING it, I'm sitting here writing about it. It's just one of those rainy Saturdays upon which I reaffirm that I am a lazy, worthless beast.
But at least I brushed my teeth.
11.16.2004
mack daddy.
When I started school in September, I learned that to get to my classes on the upper floors, I had to get past "Security." Security is two guys in blue blazers with some soft of emblem on their chest who scan for IDs as you walk past and line up for elevators.
So somewhere around week 2, when I got to school, one of the security guards started giving me the "hey girl, how YOU doin'" lip-licking, crotch-grabbing salute popular among the bruthas. Three days a week for two months in a row, I walked by this guy, and most often failed to suppress a smile or laugh at his gestures when I walked by. He stared me down every time. I don't think he was looking for an ID.
Then last week I walked in one day, and tried to avoid the Mack Daddy by going to the other guard for the ID scan. But over my shoulder I heard, "Hellooooo. Hellooooo girl. Beautiful." Again, laughing, I'd turn and smile and say hello. "Aw thank you," he said. "You made my night." The next day was more of the same, and it was clear that I could not just bypass this guy without him chasing me down.
Finally on Thursday, my last day of classes, I smiled and walked in as normal. An hour and a half later, I left class early to get a ride that was waiting for me downstairs. But I was late, so I bolted down the hall for the elevator, and when I turned the corner.....
There he was. All 5'7" of him. Licking his lips, giving me the pout, and holding an elevator door open. "Going...down?" he said, remniscent of an old Aerosmith video. "Yes," I sighed, too late to wait for another lift. So I climbed in, and about 8 people got in behind me.
The car was packed and I was separated from my admirer, who continued to look me up and down through the crowd. To my dismay, the elevator went UP, up to the 10th floor instead of down to the ground. The other 8 people got off, leaving me along with...
"My name's Kevin. What's your name?"
"Stephanie."
"Stephanie. You got a boyfriend?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? Oh I'll take sort of. That means it ain't locked down yet."
I just smiled, because I have no misapprehensions about being locked down to anything.
"I'll tell you what, Stephanie. If it don't work out with Mr. Sort Of, you lemmie know."
"Sure thing," I told Kevin as I silently willed the elevator to the ground floor.
The doors opened and I bolted out, trying to get outside to my ride, aka No Apprehensions/Mr. Sort Of. I got held up in foot traffic, and Kevin continued to talk to me.
"Well Stephanie, you have a good night, beautiful. I'll see you again soon."
"Uh, thanks. You too. Bye!"
I ran outside and hopped in the car, slamming the door shut behind me. When I looked up, Kevin was there. He'd followed me outside and watched me get into the car. As we pulled away, I made certain not to wave.
The fun part is, I still have to see Kevin tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night, and onward as such for the next, oh, 3 years. Let's just hope he stays out of the elevators.
So somewhere around week 2, when I got to school, one of the security guards started giving me the "hey girl, how YOU doin'" lip-licking, crotch-grabbing salute popular among the bruthas. Three days a week for two months in a row, I walked by this guy, and most often failed to suppress a smile or laugh at his gestures when I walked by. He stared me down every time. I don't think he was looking for an ID.
Then last week I walked in one day, and tried to avoid the Mack Daddy by going to the other guard for the ID scan. But over my shoulder I heard, "Hellooooo. Hellooooo girl. Beautiful." Again, laughing, I'd turn and smile and say hello. "Aw thank you," he said. "You made my night." The next day was more of the same, and it was clear that I could not just bypass this guy without him chasing me down.
Finally on Thursday, my last day of classes, I smiled and walked in as normal. An hour and a half later, I left class early to get a ride that was waiting for me downstairs. But I was late, so I bolted down the hall for the elevator, and when I turned the corner.....
There he was. All 5'7" of him. Licking his lips, giving me the pout, and holding an elevator door open. "Going...down?" he said, remniscent of an old Aerosmith video. "Yes," I sighed, too late to wait for another lift. So I climbed in, and about 8 people got in behind me.
The car was packed and I was separated from my admirer, who continued to look me up and down through the crowd. To my dismay, the elevator went UP, up to the 10th floor instead of down to the ground. The other 8 people got off, leaving me along with...
"My name's Kevin. What's your name?"
"Stephanie."
"Stephanie. You got a boyfriend?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? Oh I'll take sort of. That means it ain't locked down yet."
I just smiled, because I have no misapprehensions about being locked down to anything.
"I'll tell you what, Stephanie. If it don't work out with Mr. Sort Of, you lemmie know."
"Sure thing," I told Kevin as I silently willed the elevator to the ground floor.
The doors opened and I bolted out, trying to get outside to my ride, aka No Apprehensions/Mr. Sort Of. I got held up in foot traffic, and Kevin continued to talk to me.
"Well Stephanie, you have a good night, beautiful. I'll see you again soon."
"Uh, thanks. You too. Bye!"
I ran outside and hopped in the car, slamming the door shut behind me. When I looked up, Kevin was there. He'd followed me outside and watched me get into the car. As we pulled away, I made certain not to wave.
The fun part is, I still have to see Kevin tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night, and onward as such for the next, oh, 3 years. Let's just hope he stays out of the elevators.
11.13.2004
the true secret of the subway
Sorry for the major gap in service, folks. I've been busy. (Or rather, gettin' busy, go me.) But I'm taking a moment to give you yet another commentary on the NYC subway system.
Last week the subway royally pissed me off twice. Once, due to no fault of their own, they shut down service for practically the entire east side, sending people into raging fits of stress over the inability to get ANYWHERE in ANY direction. But it was because a building partially collapsed over the track, and to be safe, they couldn't run trains under it. Fair enough. I don't know what happened the other time, but the end result was me taking an hour and a half to get to work via a Very Crowded Bus that stopped approximately every nanometer. It was not a good day.
Anyhow, today, like most weekends lately, I walked to my 6 train only to find, once again, it wouldn't be stopping here. Due to construction on the tracks, I must either walk or take the Very Crowded Bus to another station where ALL the trains will stop despite being very very delayed for sharing the same tracks.
So, tra-la, off I strolled into the biting cold New York City air. By the time I reached the next station, I was nearly frostbitten and unable to speak. But my automatic positioning system took over and I got down the stairs and through the turnstile. When I came to, I realized a train was stopped downstairs, and if I ran, I might be able to make it.
I quickly broke into the subway sprint, which depending on your athletic ability is described as either going down the stairs 2 or 3 at a time, or as in my case, just taking them in such rapid sequence that it appears blurry to anyone without a strobe light, which usually includes the old man with a cane that inevitably exists for the sole purposes of delaying your emergency subway sprint.
When I reached the landing between flights of stairs, the little train "Peeker" was leaning out the window to see if he could close the doors. There's one of these on every train. They wait in a specially designed subway car that has two compartments--one on either side of the train. And at each station, these Peekers (who probably have a more technical name but for now will be called Peekers) slide down their specially designed window and stick their head out, looking to the right and to the left, making sure most passengers have boarded and that no small children are stuck between the doors. Then, apparently, they and they alone have the ability to close the doors.
So the doors on the train were closing, but I made a dash anyway, just in case I could be one of those really REALLY cool subway riders who knows that often the doors will reopen just for a second and people can sneak through. But that didn't happen. Meanwhile, a girl behind me toting a yoga mat made a dash for the next car's doors because they were still open. As she extended her hand to stop the closing door, the door smashed shut and left her high and dry.
The girl, who may I remind you was toting a yoga mat, turns and looks and the Peeker from about a foot from his face and screams "You're an ASSHOLE," and gives him the bird. Now, while this is personally one of my favorite comments and gestures, I usually reserve it for the car. But not this girl.
And to my surprise, the Peeker, wearing his official MTA uniform, very calmly yells back "Fuck you bitch," which implies, to me, that this happens all the time. I had no idea.
The girl then took her yoga mat and stormed off to go sit on a bench somewhere. All I could think was she must REALLY need her yoga. I was a little afraid and wouldn't look her in the eye. But the point is, these Peekers really have ALL the control. Here I was thinking the driver up front either counted to 20 and pushed a button, or did it entirely at random, and the Peekers were just there to raise an alarm if anything bad was happening. Hell no. The Peekers have all the power. All of it.
This changes EVERYTHING.
Last week the subway royally pissed me off twice. Once, due to no fault of their own, they shut down service for practically the entire east side, sending people into raging fits of stress over the inability to get ANYWHERE in ANY direction. But it was because a building partially collapsed over the track, and to be safe, they couldn't run trains under it. Fair enough. I don't know what happened the other time, but the end result was me taking an hour and a half to get to work via a Very Crowded Bus that stopped approximately every nanometer. It was not a good day.
Anyhow, today, like most weekends lately, I walked to my 6 train only to find, once again, it wouldn't be stopping here. Due to construction on the tracks, I must either walk or take the Very Crowded Bus to another station where ALL the trains will stop despite being very very delayed for sharing the same tracks.
So, tra-la, off I strolled into the biting cold New York City air. By the time I reached the next station, I was nearly frostbitten and unable to speak. But my automatic positioning system took over and I got down the stairs and through the turnstile. When I came to, I realized a train was stopped downstairs, and if I ran, I might be able to make it.
I quickly broke into the subway sprint, which depending on your athletic ability is described as either going down the stairs 2 or 3 at a time, or as in my case, just taking them in such rapid sequence that it appears blurry to anyone without a strobe light, which usually includes the old man with a cane that inevitably exists for the sole purposes of delaying your emergency subway sprint.
When I reached the landing between flights of stairs, the little train "Peeker" was leaning out the window to see if he could close the doors. There's one of these on every train. They wait in a specially designed subway car that has two compartments--one on either side of the train. And at each station, these Peekers (who probably have a more technical name but for now will be called Peekers) slide down their specially designed window and stick their head out, looking to the right and to the left, making sure most passengers have boarded and that no small children are stuck between the doors. Then, apparently, they and they alone have the ability to close the doors.
So the doors on the train were closing, but I made a dash anyway, just in case I could be one of those really REALLY cool subway riders who knows that often the doors will reopen just for a second and people can sneak through. But that didn't happen. Meanwhile, a girl behind me toting a yoga mat made a dash for the next car's doors because they were still open. As she extended her hand to stop the closing door, the door smashed shut and left her high and dry.
The girl, who may I remind you was toting a yoga mat, turns and looks and the Peeker from about a foot from his face and screams "You're an ASSHOLE," and gives him the bird. Now, while this is personally one of my favorite comments and gestures, I usually reserve it for the car. But not this girl.
And to my surprise, the Peeker, wearing his official MTA uniform, very calmly yells back "Fuck you bitch," which implies, to me, that this happens all the time. I had no idea.
The girl then took her yoga mat and stormed off to go sit on a bench somewhere. All I could think was she must REALLY need her yoga. I was a little afraid and wouldn't look her in the eye. But the point is, these Peekers really have ALL the control. Here I was thinking the driver up front either counted to 20 and pushed a button, or did it entirely at random, and the Peekers were just there to raise an alarm if anything bad was happening. Hell no. The Peekers have all the power. All of it.
This changes EVERYTHING.
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