of reading about young children dying from abuse in NYC. And usually this is like 2 or 3 weeks AFTER Child Services pays a visit to the home and declares everything a-ok. And yet when the child dies the reports state that they had multiple bruises and injuries dating back months and the homes are usually in a completely unliveable state.
Ok so I don't like kids. Fine. Good. I decided when I was about 5 that parenthood wasn't my bag. But it breaks my heart when I see stories in the NY papers about 2 , 3 , 4 year olds who have been taken from their parents by DCS (Dept of Child Services) multiple times and yet returned anyway and then 2 weeks later they are dead. And usually it's the mother or the mother's live-in boyfriend committing such atrocities.
Who the hell are these people? Ok fine, so you're jealous that your girlfriend's kids come before you. Get over it or don't date someone with kids. But don't think that beating the crap out of them and/or killing them will win you any points. It'll win you a jail cell and it rightly should.
I got my own jealousy issues. Everyone does. But when you cross the line at hurting someone- you got a problem. I just don't understand how these people should be able to be parents. They're all younger than me, with 5 or 6 kids and multiple DCS citations. One story I read about yesterday, the woman had had her kids taken away and then returned after going to anger management. I think if you have to go to anger management - for ANY issue, you should not be in charge of raising another human being. If you don't want kids- don't have sex. If you want to have sex, use birth control. In NYC there are dozens and dozens of organizations where you can receive free pills, condoms, etc. Anything. There is no excuse.
I know that the city's civil services are overworked and underpaid. Absolutely. But can you please tell me how you can go into a home, see a child and say everything is fine and then in the next 3 weeks they state that the child is recovering from month-old broken arms, lives in a roach-ridden apartment and hasn't eaten well in 3 months? Can you please explain that to me?
It disgusts me. I know I wouldn't be a good parent. I don't have patience. But I'd be a much better parent than these losers. I'd love to hear comments.
www.cbsnews.com/stories/2006/01/13/earlyshow/main1206722.shtml
http://www.nydailynews.com/news/ny_crime/2008/08/20/2008-08-20_autopsy_on_2yearold_queens_boy_reveals_h.html
Thursday, August 28, 2008
You know things are bad when...
.. when I have the Rutgers Financial Aid office phone number memorized and my fingers accidentally dial it when I'm trying to call someone else.
Everytime I call these geniuses I get a different answer.
My question is not rhetorical. My question is not philosophical. My question does not require a degree in astrophysics, mechanical engineering or biochemistry. My question does not even require a degree.
My question is simple. It does not delve into the mysteries of the universe, the complexities of life nor the ambiguities of religion.
My question will not require you to scour the great libraries of Alexandria, pour over the writings of Confucius or consult the great thinkers of the world's best universities.
My question will not lead you to question your faith, doubt your self-worth or struggle with your values. It will not cause you pain or grief or anguish.
My question is simple: Where is my fucking money and when am I going to get it.
One would think that being called the Financial Aid office would lead us charlatans to consult you in matters of, oh, say, financial aid. And one could reasonably believe that the office of said title would have answers to questions of the same topic. Perhaps I give too much credit and put too much faith into the Financial Aid office. Perhaps it's just a clever name, a metaphor will you.
Perhaps using such a name for an office is a test to my resolve, my intelligence and my sanity. Perhaps they feel that if I can't figure out financial aid on my own, then perhaps I should not be attending their fine university. I think this is quite possibly the case.
Ok-- but have YOU ever tried to figure out financial aid? It's IMPOSSIBLE. I'm relatively intelligent. I have an IQ of 155 and could be a member of MENSA but I don't feel like paying the membership fees. I have degrees from competitive institutions and have held many jobs that I was absolutely incapable of understanding or performing my tasks correctly. (see, my intelligence was in faking things enough to get the job... get it?) I can understand the writings of Dumas, concepts of Buddhism and the teachings of Nietzsche. Hell I can spell Nietzsche. While I might lack the common sense to turn my monitor screen on and then complain to our IT guy that the computer's broken, I can tie my own shoes and I say "let's go" in 4 different languages.
There are many questions in this world that can offer different answers each and every time you ask them:
- what time is it
-how are you
-how many times did McCain say the wrong thing today
-what's the score for the ballgame
But questions about financial aid should not have different answers each and everytime, especially not answers as vast as:
-we don't know
-the student accounting office controls that
-student accounting has nothing to do with accounting
-you are not in our system
-when you register you will get your money
-you are registered but you will not be receiving any money
-we don't handle federal aid questions at this office
Yeah. Those are the answers that I have received in the past 3 DAYS to my very same question. You would think that a simple student asking a simple question about financal aid would be a regular question heard around campus, especially a month before classes start. And you would think that a Financial Aid office would know the answer. I am not asking them about taxes or loan repayment or anything. I am asking where my money is. They can even tell me my money is under a rock. I'd be fine with that answer. Because it is at least an answer to my question. Ok I'd be fucked still, but at least a location has been stated and I can then start my scavenger hunt amongst the rocks of Rutgers University, Newark Campus. I wouldn't mind, it sounds fun. Perhaps I can use that as one of my core courses instead of elementary statistics. Hey, searching under rocks involves probabilities too..
Everytime I call these geniuses I get a different answer.
My question is not rhetorical. My question is not philosophical. My question does not require a degree in astrophysics, mechanical engineering or biochemistry. My question does not even require a degree.
My question is simple. It does not delve into the mysteries of the universe, the complexities of life nor the ambiguities of religion.
My question will not require you to scour the great libraries of Alexandria, pour over the writings of Confucius or consult the great thinkers of the world's best universities.
My question will not lead you to question your faith, doubt your self-worth or struggle with your values. It will not cause you pain or grief or anguish.
My question is simple: Where is my fucking money and when am I going to get it.
One would think that being called the Financial Aid office would lead us charlatans to consult you in matters of, oh, say, financial aid. And one could reasonably believe that the office of said title would have answers to questions of the same topic. Perhaps I give too much credit and put too much faith into the Financial Aid office. Perhaps it's just a clever name, a metaphor will you.
Perhaps using such a name for an office is a test to my resolve, my intelligence and my sanity. Perhaps they feel that if I can't figure out financial aid on my own, then perhaps I should not be attending their fine university. I think this is quite possibly the case.
Ok-- but have YOU ever tried to figure out financial aid? It's IMPOSSIBLE. I'm relatively intelligent. I have an IQ of 155 and could be a member of MENSA but I don't feel like paying the membership fees. I have degrees from competitive institutions and have held many jobs that I was absolutely incapable of understanding or performing my tasks correctly. (see, my intelligence was in faking things enough to get the job... get it?) I can understand the writings of Dumas, concepts of Buddhism and the teachings of Nietzsche. Hell I can spell Nietzsche. While I might lack the common sense to turn my monitor screen on and then complain to our IT guy that the computer's broken, I can tie my own shoes and I say "let's go" in 4 different languages.
There are many questions in this world that can offer different answers each and every time you ask them:
- what time is it
-how are you
-how many times did McCain say the wrong thing today
-what's the score for the ballgame
But questions about financial aid should not have different answers each and everytime, especially not answers as vast as:
-we don't know
-the student accounting office controls that
-student accounting has nothing to do with accounting
-you are not in our system
-when you register you will get your money
-you are registered but you will not be receiving any money
-we don't handle federal aid questions at this office
Yeah. Those are the answers that I have received in the past 3 DAYS to my very same question. You would think that a simple student asking a simple question about financal aid would be a regular question heard around campus, especially a month before classes start. And you would think that a Financial Aid office would know the answer. I am not asking them about taxes or loan repayment or anything. I am asking where my money is. They can even tell me my money is under a rock. I'd be fine with that answer. Because it is at least an answer to my question. Ok I'd be fucked still, but at least a location has been stated and I can then start my scavenger hunt amongst the rocks of Rutgers University, Newark Campus. I wouldn't mind, it sounds fun. Perhaps I can use that as one of my core courses instead of elementary statistics. Hey, searching under rocks involves probabilities too..
Five..
That's the number of stages of grief I'm supposed to experience.
1) denial
2) anger
3) bargaining
4) depression
5) acceptance
Do I even buy this? I don't know. So far I've experience most of these ad nauseum for the past 3 days. Most of it was depression and bargaining. Futile attempts. A bit of denial mixed in for good measure. But no acceptance and no anger.
Relationships are complicated shit. There's no nicer way to put it. You put together two people from two different backgrounds and two different mindsets and expect them to get along swimmingly. It doesn't work that way. Having things in common doesn't mean that you are meant to get along or meant to be together. But it can also mean exactly that at the same time. Having things in common is essential, but it means nothing if you have different ways of interaction, fighting or reasoning. No one is perfect and we all make mistakes. I've made mine. And I accept all responsibility for said mistakes.
Relationships are a pain in the ass. Dating is a pain in the ass. You're praying for someone to accept you for who you are and changing yourself to conform to their ideals. No relationship is without this, I don't think. No relationship involves two people meant to be together who don't have to adapt one way or another in order to be with each other. No change, to me, means accepting contentment and just being plain lazy. I've never been that way.
I'm not perfect and I've NEVER claimed that I was. I have my own problems and my own issues. And issues that present themselves only in relationships. It's so hypocritial though. In some situations I am praying for someone to love me for who I am... but in others I am accepting yet hating someone for not loving me for who I am. Sometimes I say in my head "please, I'm not so bad" and other times I say "fuck you, you're not good enough for me". For different people, they get different thoughts. I've had fucked-up boyfriends and heroes. I've had people save me from myself and those who drive me to want to be anyone but myself. I've had salvations and I've had curses. I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the right place at the wrong time. I've made choices too late and exploited chances too early.
The stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depressing, acceptance are a crock, if you ask me. They all either come at the same time, different times, not at all, in different waves or in different order. I'm not in denial. I bargain because I'm afraid and because I am sorry for my mistakes. I bargain because I want to make amends. I'm depressed because all this shit fucking sucks. I don't accept. And I won't. Acceptance means defeat. And I am not defeated and I never will be.
What they don't say about the stages of grief is the strength, resolve and maturity you receive from it all. From all this, how much it blows, I realize how much stronger I am than I realized. I can compose myself as an adult for once and I mature and grow into a person who has learned an important lesson.
While I hope that this isn't the end, I am ready to be ok with it. Not accept it. But resign to it.
You have one life, but you can live so many times in one life. Grief is a curse and gift at the same time. Nothing is forever. Guns N Roses will tell you that. I'm not going to spout some "it takes time", "lean on your friends", "there's more fish in the sea" crap. Fuck that. None of that helps. Your friends mean well but they all say the same stupid shit when stuff like this happens. Or they just offer to go out and get you drunk. And that doesn't help anything. There are more fish in the sea, but during grief, all those fish have salmonella or something in your book. All you are thinking about is going back and redoing the things you did wrong. And then you get the whole "things happen for a reason" and "it was all meant to be". No. Nothing happens for a reason and nothing is meant to be. Things happen from human beings' actions and words. Meant to be is BS in my book. If this were all predestined then why wouldn't the person doing this "life party planning" spare 99% of the population the grief and despair they experience? Nothing is meant to be. Everything is what it is.
But I am not of the crowd that thinks that none of it matters. It does. We should all want to be happy and make someone happy. And we will all fuck up royally in getting to that state.
Live and learn? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger? I don't know.
I'll leave, I suppose with one quote which has always rung true for me and the only one that has every given me REAL motivation and consolation:
"Simply the thing I am. Shall make me live". - Shakespeare, All's Well That Ends Well.
1) denial
2) anger
3) bargaining
4) depression
5) acceptance
Do I even buy this? I don't know. So far I've experience most of these ad nauseum for the past 3 days. Most of it was depression and bargaining. Futile attempts. A bit of denial mixed in for good measure. But no acceptance and no anger.
Relationships are complicated shit. There's no nicer way to put it. You put together two people from two different backgrounds and two different mindsets and expect them to get along swimmingly. It doesn't work that way. Having things in common doesn't mean that you are meant to get along or meant to be together. But it can also mean exactly that at the same time. Having things in common is essential, but it means nothing if you have different ways of interaction, fighting or reasoning. No one is perfect and we all make mistakes. I've made mine. And I accept all responsibility for said mistakes.
Relationships are a pain in the ass. Dating is a pain in the ass. You're praying for someone to accept you for who you are and changing yourself to conform to their ideals. No relationship is without this, I don't think. No relationship involves two people meant to be together who don't have to adapt one way or another in order to be with each other. No change, to me, means accepting contentment and just being plain lazy. I've never been that way.
I'm not perfect and I've NEVER claimed that I was. I have my own problems and my own issues. And issues that present themselves only in relationships. It's so hypocritial though. In some situations I am praying for someone to love me for who I am... but in others I am accepting yet hating someone for not loving me for who I am. Sometimes I say in my head "please, I'm not so bad" and other times I say "fuck you, you're not good enough for me". For different people, they get different thoughts. I've had fucked-up boyfriends and heroes. I've had people save me from myself and those who drive me to want to be anyone but myself. I've had salvations and I've had curses. I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the right place at the wrong time. I've made choices too late and exploited chances too early.
The stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depressing, acceptance are a crock, if you ask me. They all either come at the same time, different times, not at all, in different waves or in different order. I'm not in denial. I bargain because I'm afraid and because I am sorry for my mistakes. I bargain because I want to make amends. I'm depressed because all this shit fucking sucks. I don't accept. And I won't. Acceptance means defeat. And I am not defeated and I never will be.
What they don't say about the stages of grief is the strength, resolve and maturity you receive from it all. From all this, how much it blows, I realize how much stronger I am than I realized. I can compose myself as an adult for once and I mature and grow into a person who has learned an important lesson.
While I hope that this isn't the end, I am ready to be ok with it. Not accept it. But resign to it.
You have one life, but you can live so many times in one life. Grief is a curse and gift at the same time. Nothing is forever. Guns N Roses will tell you that. I'm not going to spout some "it takes time", "lean on your friends", "there's more fish in the sea" crap. Fuck that. None of that helps. Your friends mean well but they all say the same stupid shit when stuff like this happens. Or they just offer to go out and get you drunk. And that doesn't help anything. There are more fish in the sea, but during grief, all those fish have salmonella or something in your book. All you are thinking about is going back and redoing the things you did wrong. And then you get the whole "things happen for a reason" and "it was all meant to be". No. Nothing happens for a reason and nothing is meant to be. Things happen from human beings' actions and words. Meant to be is BS in my book. If this were all predestined then why wouldn't the person doing this "life party planning" spare 99% of the population the grief and despair they experience? Nothing is meant to be. Everything is what it is.
But I am not of the crowd that thinks that none of it matters. It does. We should all want to be happy and make someone happy. And we will all fuck up royally in getting to that state.
Live and learn? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger? I don't know.
I'll leave, I suppose with one quote which has always rung true for me and the only one that has every given me REAL motivation and consolation:
"Simply the thing I am. Shall make me live". - Shakespeare, All's Well That Ends Well.
Queens.... christ
Well now I've done it. I've moved to Queens.
I promised myself when I made the choice to move to NYC that I would never, ever join the outer boroughs. It wasn't snobbery or pretentiousness, it was that I'd been here twice in my life, the last time when I was 14. New York scared the hell out of me, even back then and even Manhattan. I'd heard nothing but horror stories; murder in the Bronx, emohipster idealism in Brooklyn, Greek restaurants and terrorist links in Queens and landfills in Staten Island. I never had any desire, inkling, tickle, whatever, to live here. I only moved here because it was the first (and only) job offer I had after moving back from the UK and I needed to move asap. And the only person I knew who knew anything about the city was my sister, who was working with NYU at the time. Granted she commuted from Jersey everyday, but her advice was to absolutely not live above 96th street or in any place other than Manhattan.
However, upon realizing that I was working for a non profit and not an investment bank, making enough to technically qualify for public housing, food stamps and free child care, and didn't have a trust fund, I realized that establishing residence below 96th street was only possible in my situation when it would consist of cardboard boxes and a shopping cart.
If you know anything about NYC, you know that housing here is not only the most expensive in the nation (closely rivaled by San Francisco) but is also, (and this is my own ranking) the most god awful difficult place to find, maintain, like or at least tolerate the housing. It's ridiculous. Ok so you have these Tribeca studio apartments the size of a dorm room that are going for $4000 a month. No joke. I saw one apartment in the Village that was 12x6 with a kitchenette and a shared bathroom that went for $1695 a month. Holy god. I'd rather rely on the random rain shower to cleanse myself than share a bathroom with people who live in the Village. Damn hippies. Especially at the age of 23 (which I was when I moved here). I worked damn hard to get here, I'm not going to live like I'm still with my parents or in college. It was hard enough for me to get a roommate- my first ever, unless you count Blue Light Special for 6 months in college. (ask me about him if you're curious)
I recently read an article in the NY Times about students moving here right out of college who think they'll have a Friends or Sex and the City-type apartment. Ok, to everyone who doesn't live in NYC-- No one looks, acts, works, plays or lives like any of the people in those shows. Women don't march down Bleecker street in stilettos and furs on their way to a charity gala after hopping around sports bars and meeting lots of guys. Sure you might see someone on Bleecker wearing stilettos and furs, but it's more likely to be a transvestite. Far more interesting in my book. People do not work at a coffee shop and have a cute 2 bedroom apartment. Not unless their parents are paying for it (which so many do and it's pathetic). And landlords do not let you paint your walls purple. So these students come here making an average of $36,000 and expect to live in a cute one bedroom with exposed brick walls in the Village. Sure, if you want to spend $3000 a month. (minimum) And landlords here expect you to make 40-50x the monthly rent. Am I making $120,000? No. Therefore I had to get creative… (creative meaning quickly realistic, drastically disappointed with a dash of lowered standards mixed in for good measure.)
Getting an apartment here is an excruciating experience. You laugh, you cry, you laugh, you cry some more… in the end you just find yourself laughing at lot because you've turned into an insane mess and you'll either laugh or dress up in a clown suit and take a rifle up to the top of the Empire State building. I highly recommend the former. Too many tourists at the ESB, it's a mess and no self-described New Yorker actually goes there. But seriously, it's a bloodsport to rent an apartment here. The amount of paperwork you have to have is ridiculous. I need less paperwork to apply for a $40,000 student loan than I do to rent an apartment. Crazy. You have to have every single paper containing every single amount of money you have. I'm talking bank statements, credit reports, W2s, employer's letters, pay stubs etc. I'm surprised they don't expect you to hire someone to come into your house and count the coins in your couch and issue a report on how much you have in there. What fun that job would be. Counting coins. It'd be like Rain Man- The Real Estate Years.
So when I moved here I chose Washington Heights, up at the northern edge of Manhattan and a lovely place consisting of a mix of Orthodox Jews, yuppies and Dominicans. After a year and a half there I made the move south to Harlem, which, needless to say, put me in a minority situation for the first time ever. I loved Harlem though. I never got shot, offered drugs, harassed or bothered, despite the stereotypes. The difference between Harlem and Washington Heights was huge though. In WaHi, you can go to a shop and purchase –no joke-- tires, hair braiding, a broom, malt liquor and a VCR while also cashing a check. Harlem was less diverse… There you can only get Caribbean food while getting your hair braided. However, in Harlem there is such a place as United Fried Chicken where you can get: chicken, burgers, fries, seafood, steak, pizza and ice cream. Wow. All in one little take-out food shop. I had the chicken there once. Didn't feel well for about 4 days.
So upon my tour of Queens, I witnessed the array of culinary delights on Hillside Avenue – the outer borough's version of 42nd street. What we have here is a mix of Filipino, Pakistani and Guyanese cuisine. Quite interesting. I don't even know what Guyanese cuisine would be- but I do know that the supermarket bearing the same geographical reference contained 15 different types of lettuce and about 8 different types of mustard, but no salad dressing, bread, milk or cheese. Is this normal? Is anyone Guyanese? Do they dip the lettuce in the mustard? Is it like chips and dip? Or do you put the mustard in between lettuce leaves like a quesadilla? I'm confused. They did have a United Chicken place, but I don't think they serve pizza. Dear god, what have I done. Where have I moved to?!?!
Queens isn't bad though. As long as you're close to the subway. It's very ethnically diverse and you can buy carpet by the foot at the dollar store. That rocks. In Harlem you can get flip flops at the dollar store though. Those literally account for half my shoe supply. Oh shut up, it isn't skanky. They're flip flops, I'm not spending more than $5 for something like those. I lose half of them under the beds of strange men. Calm down, I'm kidding. Not all of them are strange.
So what am I? I'm no longer a Manhattanite. Am I a Queensanite? That sounds like Cuisinart. That makes me want to blend something. Or I could just call myself a New Yorker. But I don't like the sound of that either. I'll stick to being a Jersey girl. Hey once you got the stank you never go back, right?
I need to hit the supermarket though. I have no cooking gas and no microwave, so looks like I'm going basic for awhile. Probably better for me anyway! Ha, my mom told me to get a crock pot. WTF is a crock pot. I know what a crack pot is. I know what a crock is. I know what pot is. I know who Betty Crocker is. Is it connected? Is this some sort of cake mix… with pot? AH HA! My mom was telling me to make hash brownies! Tsk tsk mom, that ain't cool. I'm telling dad. And I don't live in Harlem anymore, pot'll be harder to score.
I promised myself when I made the choice to move to NYC that I would never, ever join the outer boroughs. It wasn't snobbery or pretentiousness, it was that I'd been here twice in my life, the last time when I was 14. New York scared the hell out of me, even back then and even Manhattan. I'd heard nothing but horror stories; murder in the Bronx, emohipster idealism in Brooklyn, Greek restaurants and terrorist links in Queens and landfills in Staten Island. I never had any desire, inkling, tickle, whatever, to live here. I only moved here because it was the first (and only) job offer I had after moving back from the UK and I needed to move asap. And the only person I knew who knew anything about the city was my sister, who was working with NYU at the time. Granted she commuted from Jersey everyday, but her advice was to absolutely not live above 96th street or in any place other than Manhattan.
However, upon realizing that I was working for a non profit and not an investment bank, making enough to technically qualify for public housing, food stamps and free child care, and didn't have a trust fund, I realized that establishing residence below 96th street was only possible in my situation when it would consist of cardboard boxes and a shopping cart.
If you know anything about NYC, you know that housing here is not only the most expensive in the nation (closely rivaled by San Francisco) but is also, (and this is my own ranking) the most god awful difficult place to find, maintain, like or at least tolerate the housing. It's ridiculous. Ok so you have these Tribeca studio apartments the size of a dorm room that are going for $4000 a month. No joke. I saw one apartment in the Village that was 12x6 with a kitchenette and a shared bathroom that went for $1695 a month. Holy god. I'd rather rely on the random rain shower to cleanse myself than share a bathroom with people who live in the Village. Damn hippies. Especially at the age of 23 (which I was when I moved here). I worked damn hard to get here, I'm not going to live like I'm still with my parents or in college. It was hard enough for me to get a roommate- my first ever, unless you count Blue Light Special for 6 months in college. (ask me about him if you're curious)
I recently read an article in the NY Times about students moving here right out of college who think they'll have a Friends or Sex and the City-type apartment. Ok, to everyone who doesn't live in NYC-- No one looks, acts, works, plays or lives like any of the people in those shows. Women don't march down Bleecker street in stilettos and furs on their way to a charity gala after hopping around sports bars and meeting lots of guys. Sure you might see someone on Bleecker wearing stilettos and furs, but it's more likely to be a transvestite. Far more interesting in my book. People do not work at a coffee shop and have a cute 2 bedroom apartment. Not unless their parents are paying for it (which so many do and it's pathetic). And landlords do not let you paint your walls purple. So these students come here making an average of $36,000 and expect to live in a cute one bedroom with exposed brick walls in the Village. Sure, if you want to spend $3000 a month. (minimum) And landlords here expect you to make 40-50x the monthly rent. Am I making $120,000? No. Therefore I had to get creative… (creative meaning quickly realistic, drastically disappointed with a dash of lowered standards mixed in for good measure.)
Getting an apartment here is an excruciating experience. You laugh, you cry, you laugh, you cry some more… in the end you just find yourself laughing at lot because you've turned into an insane mess and you'll either laugh or dress up in a clown suit and take a rifle up to the top of the Empire State building. I highly recommend the former. Too many tourists at the ESB, it's a mess and no self-described New Yorker actually goes there. But seriously, it's a bloodsport to rent an apartment here. The amount of paperwork you have to have is ridiculous. I need less paperwork to apply for a $40,000 student loan than I do to rent an apartment. Crazy. You have to have every single paper containing every single amount of money you have. I'm talking bank statements, credit reports, W2s, employer's letters, pay stubs etc. I'm surprised they don't expect you to hire someone to come into your house and count the coins in your couch and issue a report on how much you have in there. What fun that job would be. Counting coins. It'd be like Rain Man- The Real Estate Years.
So when I moved here I chose Washington Heights, up at the northern edge of Manhattan and a lovely place consisting of a mix of Orthodox Jews, yuppies and Dominicans. After a year and a half there I made the move south to Harlem, which, needless to say, put me in a minority situation for the first time ever. I loved Harlem though. I never got shot, offered drugs, harassed or bothered, despite the stereotypes. The difference between Harlem and Washington Heights was huge though. In WaHi, you can go to a shop and purchase –no joke-- tires, hair braiding, a broom, malt liquor and a VCR while also cashing a check. Harlem was less diverse… There you can only get Caribbean food while getting your hair braided. However, in Harlem there is such a place as United Fried Chicken where you can get: chicken, burgers, fries, seafood, steak, pizza and ice cream. Wow. All in one little take-out food shop. I had the chicken there once. Didn't feel well for about 4 days.
So upon my tour of Queens, I witnessed the array of culinary delights on Hillside Avenue – the outer borough's version of 42nd street. What we have here is a mix of Filipino, Pakistani and Guyanese cuisine. Quite interesting. I don't even know what Guyanese cuisine would be- but I do know that the supermarket bearing the same geographical reference contained 15 different types of lettuce and about 8 different types of mustard, but no salad dressing, bread, milk or cheese. Is this normal? Is anyone Guyanese? Do they dip the lettuce in the mustard? Is it like chips and dip? Or do you put the mustard in between lettuce leaves like a quesadilla? I'm confused. They did have a United Chicken place, but I don't think they serve pizza. Dear god, what have I done. Where have I moved to?!?!
Queens isn't bad though. As long as you're close to the subway. It's very ethnically diverse and you can buy carpet by the foot at the dollar store. That rocks. In Harlem you can get flip flops at the dollar store though. Those literally account for half my shoe supply. Oh shut up, it isn't skanky. They're flip flops, I'm not spending more than $5 for something like those. I lose half of them under the beds of strange men. Calm down, I'm kidding. Not all of them are strange.
So what am I? I'm no longer a Manhattanite. Am I a Queensanite? That sounds like Cuisinart. That makes me want to blend something. Or I could just call myself a New Yorker. But I don't like the sound of that either. I'll stick to being a Jersey girl. Hey once you got the stank you never go back, right?
I need to hit the supermarket though. I have no cooking gas and no microwave, so looks like I'm going basic for awhile. Probably better for me anyway! Ha, my mom told me to get a crock pot. WTF is a crock pot. I know what a crack pot is. I know what a crock is. I know what pot is. I know who Betty Crocker is. Is it connected? Is this some sort of cake mix… with pot? AH HA! My mom was telling me to make hash brownies! Tsk tsk mom, that ain't cool. I'm telling dad. And I don't live in Harlem anymore, pot'll be harder to score.
April 10
So it’s my birthday next Thursday and I was musing about birthdays and their meanings, both to the birthday boy/girl and to other people. People are supposed to celebrate your birthday because they are glad you had a birth. But why do we celebrate our own birthdays? For the same reason, obviously, but also I think we should recognize WHY we’re glad we had a birth and cast some appreciate on the things that make life good, despite how bad it can be or seem sometimes. Some people only give thanks on Thanksgiving, but I think our birthdays should definitely be days of reflection on the goodness of life and all that’s in it.
So without further adieu, here is:
Sarah’s Fantastic Stupendous 26th Birthday List of Things I am Grateful For
1) The required number one entry- my family and friends
2) Coffee. And it is a close second, let me tell you
3) Myspace
4) Wine
5) 24 hour delis
6) 24 hour anything
7) Postsecret.com for making me feel good that I’m not the only one who feels those ways sometimes
8) The fact that I can send stuff from my computer to the copier to print so I actually have to get up to get it and pass by my boss’s office so I look busy
9) Mojitos
10) Neatorama.com
11) T.S. Eliot
12) AMNY (when reading Eliot is too daunting in the morning)
13) People who appreciate my loud laugh
14) People who don’t appreciate it but don’t shush me
15) The Opera
16) Free wireless internet (although I think it gave me a virus)
17) When my co-workers slack off and/or mess up and I look good. (this isn’t mean- you know you do it, too)
18) Guys who give me their seat on the subway. I don’t need it, but it’s so nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead.
19) The fact that my parents taught me to give my seat up to people who need it and not to be selfish
20) That I’ve made it on my own since the age of 21 without ever balancing a check book and my credit card has never been declined.
21) People who give you the benefit of the doubt even when you don’t deserve it
22) People who give you the benefit of the doubt when you DO deserve it
23) Nice cab drivers
24) Hygienic cab drivers
25) Oral contraceptives (this is not related to 24)
26) When my boss calls me into his office and doesn’t fire me. (I hate the "come to my office, please" call- don’t you?)
27) People who understand when it’s time to end a conversation/phone call/handshake/joke
28) People who remember what you’ve told them. Ok little things get forgotten but when I’ve told you at least 10 times that I live in Harlem and you still for some reason ask me all the time how Williamsburg is, it bugs me (it’s in a whole other borough!)
29) People who remember birthdays
30) People who enquire about my family, even if they’ve never met them
31) Strawberry (both the store and the fruit)
32) Esprit (although I can’t afford to shop there anymore)
33) The fact that I have a guy who, when I ask "what have you done for me lately?" could honestly say "Bloody hell, Sarah, I’m still here, aren’t I?", but doesn’t. J
34) Bruce Willis movies
35) Birds (ok that’s a bit sappy, but I like the sound of birds)
36) NYC Transit. (people complain, but it’s still better, faster and cheaper than driving…)
37) Mp3 players
38) Diet Mountain Dew
39) British Air
40) The little tea sandwiches and free wine they serve you on BA
41) Northwest Air (the only airline that flies to ND)
42) The fact that even though you have to pay for it, they do have alcohol on Northwest
43) The fact that I can count to 10 in Spanish because of Sesame Street and I think I’m really cool because of that fact
44) Walt Disney
45) Mr. Phone II
46) Second chances
47) Third chances
48) Daffodils
49) My red coat
50) The fact that I don’t want kids and that’s ok. And don’t tell me it’s my duty as a human, I didn’t sign any contract when I was conceived.
51) Guys who can fix my computer
52) Guys who can fix anything (men look sexy when they fix stuff)
53) Compliments
54) Mozart
55) Britain
56) Fireplaces
57) My grandparents
58) People whose smiles make me smile
59) North Dakota (it’s really not that bad. It’s great for completely relaxing and decompressing, especially when you live in NYC)
60) Darryl and George and Darryl’s brother Leroy who drove me up to Washington Heights in a prison bus to get my stuff out of crazy roommate’s house
61) Tourists who ask me directions because I like being able to show them that New Yorkers can be nice
62) Good things that come out of really shitty situations (and no I’m not talking about lessons learned/experience, I’m talking about actual good things)
63) Mae West quotes
64) Britpop
65) The fact that despite all odds, I’ve gotten into 3 good colleges. Don’t ask me how the hell I’ve done that..
66) Screen doors
67) Butterflies
68) Beer
69) Hotdogs
70) Treadmills
71) George Carlin
72) People who recognize the fact that just because you have a different opinion, it doesn’t make anyone right or wrong, just different.
73) Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
74) People who actually help you when you drop something/trip/get hit by a bus
75) Sushi
76) When neither of my bosses are here
77) When they’re both here but they leave me alone
78) DC
79) TurboTax
And finally-(I’ll stop at 80..)
80) Yankee games
So even if it isn’t your birthday, what are YOU grateful for? Take the time to think of 10 things. If any of them include people- tell them. It’ll make their day. And if it includes me, then you’re more awesome than I thought. xo
So without further adieu, here is:
Sarah’s Fantastic Stupendous 26th Birthday List of Things I am Grateful For
1) The required number one entry- my family and friends
2) Coffee. And it is a close second, let me tell you
3) Myspace
4) Wine
5) 24 hour delis
6) 24 hour anything
7) Postsecret.com for making me feel good that I’m not the only one who feels those ways sometimes
8) The fact that I can send stuff from my computer to the copier to print so I actually have to get up to get it and pass by my boss’s office so I look busy
9) Mojitos
10) Neatorama.com
11) T.S. Eliot
12) AMNY (when reading Eliot is too daunting in the morning)
13) People who appreciate my loud laugh
14) People who don’t appreciate it but don’t shush me
15) The Opera
16) Free wireless internet (although I think it gave me a virus)
17) When my co-workers slack off and/or mess up and I look good. (this isn’t mean- you know you do it, too)
18) Guys who give me their seat on the subway. I don’t need it, but it’s so nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead.
19) The fact that my parents taught me to give my seat up to people who need it and not to be selfish
20) That I’ve made it on my own since the age of 21 without ever balancing a check book and my credit card has never been declined.
21) People who give you the benefit of the doubt even when you don’t deserve it
22) People who give you the benefit of the doubt when you DO deserve it
23) Nice cab drivers
24) Hygienic cab drivers
25) Oral contraceptives (this is not related to 24)
26) When my boss calls me into his office and doesn’t fire me. (I hate the "come to my office, please" call- don’t you?)
27) People who understand when it’s time to end a conversation/phone call/handshake/joke
28) People who remember what you’ve told them. Ok little things get forgotten but when I’ve told you at least 10 times that I live in Harlem and you still for some reason ask me all the time how Williamsburg is, it bugs me (it’s in a whole other borough!)
29) People who remember birthdays
30) People who enquire about my family, even if they’ve never met them
31) Strawberry (both the store and the fruit)
32) Esprit (although I can’t afford to shop there anymore)
33) The fact that I have a guy who, when I ask "what have you done for me lately?" could honestly say "Bloody hell, Sarah, I’m still here, aren’t I?", but doesn’t. J
34) Bruce Willis movies
35) Birds (ok that’s a bit sappy, but I like the sound of birds)
36) NYC Transit. (people complain, but it’s still better, faster and cheaper than driving…)
37) Mp3 players
38) Diet Mountain Dew
39) British Air
40) The little tea sandwiches and free wine they serve you on BA
41) Northwest Air (the only airline that flies to ND)
42) The fact that even though you have to pay for it, they do have alcohol on Northwest
43) The fact that I can count to 10 in Spanish because of Sesame Street and I think I’m really cool because of that fact
44) Walt Disney
45) Mr. Phone II
46) Second chances
47) Third chances
48) Daffodils
49) My red coat
50) The fact that I don’t want kids and that’s ok. And don’t tell me it’s my duty as a human, I didn’t sign any contract when I was conceived.
51) Guys who can fix my computer
52) Guys who can fix anything (men look sexy when they fix stuff)
53) Compliments
54) Mozart
55) Britain
56) Fireplaces
57) My grandparents
58) People whose smiles make me smile
59) North Dakota (it’s really not that bad. It’s great for completely relaxing and decompressing, especially when you live in NYC)
60) Darryl and George and Darryl’s brother Leroy who drove me up to Washington Heights in a prison bus to get my stuff out of crazy roommate’s house
61) Tourists who ask me directions because I like being able to show them that New Yorkers can be nice
62) Good things that come out of really shitty situations (and no I’m not talking about lessons learned/experience, I’m talking about actual good things)
63) Mae West quotes
64) Britpop
65) The fact that despite all odds, I’ve gotten into 3 good colleges. Don’t ask me how the hell I’ve done that..
66) Screen doors
67) Butterflies
68) Beer
69) Hotdogs
70) Treadmills
71) George Carlin
72) People who recognize the fact that just because you have a different opinion, it doesn’t make anyone right or wrong, just different.
73) Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
74) People who actually help you when you drop something/trip/get hit by a bus
75) Sushi
76) When neither of my bosses are here
77) When they’re both here but they leave me alone
78) DC
79) TurboTax
And finally-(I’ll stop at 80..)
80) Yankee games
So even if it isn’t your birthday, what are YOU grateful for? Take the time to think of 10 things. If any of them include people- tell them. It’ll make their day. And if it includes me, then you’re more awesome than I thought. xo
Crunk N Junk
Oh hai readers. My blog has gotten, officially, 300 hits. Fantastic! Should start my own magazine. Will call it Jerseynomics.So I'm really starting to detest my job. I didn't realize the extreme political culture within the non-profit, non-governmental and, um, non-political organization that I'm apparently working for. It's such an inbred totalitarian dictatorship of who knows whom and, thus, who gets away with what.
So it turns out that F is related to J who is related to A who is related to D who is best buds with B and they all go to the same church and their kids all go to the same schools. Hell they talk about separation of church and state- what about separation of church and workplace??So it's all a clusterfuck of religion, PTA and some bizarre link to Panama. I love it- it's so 1960s...So F despises me because she barged into my office once and I had my headphones in and didn't take them out. I turned the music off when she came in, so it wasn't like I was blasting my Marilyn Manson or Bach or whatever I was listening to that day. But she got all offended and went to the CEO about it. Nice. And then she barged into my office again last week, demanding that I sign something. Now, dears, I don't just sign stuff without reading it first. Why? Because I'm familiar with the works of Goethe. Faust, anyone? So the fact that I paused to read it apparently set this woman off and she went and complained about me.
Now, I understand women, which is why I'm not friends with any of them. Women sometimes just target someone to be a bitch to, and do so ad nauseum. I know I do it and I know you do it too, don't lie. So apparently I am F's target here. I have my own targets- but I have reasons at least. Like the dummy who was lifting weights in the gym and decided to change exercises without seeing who was around him and slammed me in the arm with a 25 pound weight as I was walking by. Not hot. So he is my target. I don't actively seek out opportunities to make this person miserable however, I just glare at him every once in awhile, to remind him that he is stupid. He's one of those guys that checks out his abs in the mirror at the gym and dances to his own iPod music.Yeah...
So anyway, I was called into the COO's office because F complained about me. My COO said the following: "It has come to my attention that on many occasions, you don't seem to know how to talk to people. Now I know that you are shy and don't normally interact with people, so perhaps your communication skills are sub-par".
What the FUCK? Ok that entire paragraph just pissed me off.
Let's take this step-by-step:
1) "It has come to my attention that on many occasions".. -- what many occasions? The only problems I've been aware of were the headphones incident and signing my soul to the devil. Wouldn't those qualify as only a couple, or, if you want to be trivial, a 'few' occasions? I would hardly call them 'many'.
2) "You don't seem to know how to talk to people".. -- I know how to talk to people. It's not hard. You open your mouth and sounds come out and you form those sounds in to words, right? I think so... Let me consult the dictionary on what it is to 'talk'... ok I'm right. Yes, I do know how to talk. And thus, I know how to talk to people, as I rarely talk to inanimate objects (other than my computer) and only once in awhile do I talk to myself.
3) "Now I know that you are shy".. -- What? Do you even know me? I've had my time to be shy- it was called middle school. I think anyone who knows me, or hell, anyone who doesn't know me and just hears me, realizes that I'm not shy. Just because I don't go drinking with my co-workers doesn't mean I'm shy. It means I don't like my co-workers.
4) "And don't normally interact with people" .. -- Um my entire job is interacting with people. You can't really handle money without dealing with people who give it to you. I don't interact with my co-workers though, other than my finance department which consists of 4 people. Why? Because I don't like my co-workers.
5) "So perhaps your communication skills are sub-par".. -- perhaps yes.. However I consider myself to be quite articulate and more than able to get across the point I'm trying to make. That's called communication, right? In fact, however, communication can be any number of things. It can be hand motions, like flipping somone off or using sign language. It can be a wink or a glare or an eye roll. It can be a smirk or sticking your tongue out at someone, etc. So who is my boss to be telling me I don't know how to communicate? I can flip people off like it's nobody's business. My conclusion to the aforementioned events is that F is just a sad ass bitch who has targeted me because she's a lonely miserable person.
For those of you who aren't sure about my referencing of Faust, the story is as follows:Goethe wrote, in 1808, the story of Faust. The character was based either on Johann Faust or on a character in Cenodoxus- a work by Jakob Bidermann. The quick summary of the story is that the devil bets god that he can make Faust (a good guy) go bad. The devil would do anything Faust wanted up here and Faust would serve the devil once he went to hell. Sounds like a shitty deal, I don't know why he took it... The real Faust was a magician and alchemist. Hmm doesn't that kinda sound like he was a pickpocket and a drug dealer? Does to me.. Now he doesn't seem to have made any pacts with the devil, so it seems that Goethe only used his name and his demeanor rather than writing about a specific incident. Faust in real life wasn't a nice guy though; he tricked a chaplain into shaving with arsenic so his face peeled off. It's so Hieronymus Bosch. I love it.
So Faust signed his soul away. This was not something I would do, hence my feeling it was necessary to read the document before signing it. It's not beligerence, it's being responsible. Now I'm not the most responsible person I know. I lose pretty much everything and I don't balance a checkbook. I just know if the check is going to clear or not. (although sometimes this requires praying). I work with money but I don't know how to really deal with it or invest. I don't have multiple portfolios of stuff and I don't play the stock market. I don't even play the lottery (well except for this big powerball one that was a couple weeks ago). I have no idea what a hedge fund or a junk bond is. Well, I kinda do. I know a hedge fund is something you only get into if you know you're going to get a payout and a junk bond is probably the opposite?
Let's look it up. I have a book called Barron's Dictionary of Finance and Investment Terms. It was on sale and I bought it as my "look smart in the subway" books. We all have them. I see some of the dumbest losers on the subway carrying calculus books and reading Dr. Zhivago. You know they don't understand a word of that. It's all about impressing people. My book recently was Third World Economics. I understood a good amount of it though. ..well, the title at least.
Ok, a hedge fund is: ahh shit there's like a 4 page definition. Well you can take a long or short position, which refers to the amount of time you have the fund. They take large risks but have potentially large payouts. Ok I'm not reading anymore.
A junk bond is: a bond with a bad credit rating. Wait, bonds have credit ratings? Do they apply for mortgages or something? Can they go to that FreeCreditReport.com and get their credit score? How can they do that though? They don't have fingers, how do they type? I'm confused. Oh and they're also called 'Fallen Angels'. I love it; it's so Guns n Roses.
My co-workers aren't all that bad in general though. I guess. Polish-girl-who-steals-my-intern has been getting on my nerves less. She still steals my intern though. She always carries around a bottle of Canada Dry ginger ale. You know what? I doubt there's ginger ale in it... No one likes ginger ale that much. She's probably carrying crunk juice or something up in there. Nice.
So it turns out that F is related to J who is related to A who is related to D who is best buds with B and they all go to the same church and their kids all go to the same schools. Hell they talk about separation of church and state- what about separation of church and workplace??So it's all a clusterfuck of religion, PTA and some bizarre link to Panama. I love it- it's so 1960s...So F despises me because she barged into my office once and I had my headphones in and didn't take them out. I turned the music off when she came in, so it wasn't like I was blasting my Marilyn Manson or Bach or whatever I was listening to that day. But she got all offended and went to the CEO about it. Nice. And then she barged into my office again last week, demanding that I sign something. Now, dears, I don't just sign stuff without reading it first. Why? Because I'm familiar with the works of Goethe. Faust, anyone? So the fact that I paused to read it apparently set this woman off and she went and complained about me.
Now, I understand women, which is why I'm not friends with any of them. Women sometimes just target someone to be a bitch to, and do so ad nauseum. I know I do it and I know you do it too, don't lie. So apparently I am F's target here. I have my own targets- but I have reasons at least. Like the dummy who was lifting weights in the gym and decided to change exercises without seeing who was around him and slammed me in the arm with a 25 pound weight as I was walking by. Not hot. So he is my target. I don't actively seek out opportunities to make this person miserable however, I just glare at him every once in awhile, to remind him that he is stupid. He's one of those guys that checks out his abs in the mirror at the gym and dances to his own iPod music.Yeah...
So anyway, I was called into the COO's office because F complained about me. My COO said the following: "It has come to my attention that on many occasions, you don't seem to know how to talk to people. Now I know that you are shy and don't normally interact with people, so perhaps your communication skills are sub-par".
What the FUCK? Ok that entire paragraph just pissed me off.
Let's take this step-by-step:
1) "It has come to my attention that on many occasions".. -- what many occasions? The only problems I've been aware of were the headphones incident and signing my soul to the devil. Wouldn't those qualify as only a couple, or, if you want to be trivial, a 'few' occasions? I would hardly call them 'many'.
2) "You don't seem to know how to talk to people".. -- I know how to talk to people. It's not hard. You open your mouth and sounds come out and you form those sounds in to words, right? I think so... Let me consult the dictionary on what it is to 'talk'... ok I'm right. Yes, I do know how to talk. And thus, I know how to talk to people, as I rarely talk to inanimate objects (other than my computer) and only once in awhile do I talk to myself.
3) "Now I know that you are shy".. -- What? Do you even know me? I've had my time to be shy- it was called middle school. I think anyone who knows me, or hell, anyone who doesn't know me and just hears me, realizes that I'm not shy. Just because I don't go drinking with my co-workers doesn't mean I'm shy. It means I don't like my co-workers.
4) "And don't normally interact with people" .. -- Um my entire job is interacting with people. You can't really handle money without dealing with people who give it to you. I don't interact with my co-workers though, other than my finance department which consists of 4 people. Why? Because I don't like my co-workers.
5) "So perhaps your communication skills are sub-par".. -- perhaps yes.. However I consider myself to be quite articulate and more than able to get across the point I'm trying to make. That's called communication, right? In fact, however, communication can be any number of things. It can be hand motions, like flipping somone off or using sign language. It can be a wink or a glare or an eye roll. It can be a smirk or sticking your tongue out at someone, etc. So who is my boss to be telling me I don't know how to communicate? I can flip people off like it's nobody's business. My conclusion to the aforementioned events is that F is just a sad ass bitch who has targeted me because she's a lonely miserable person.
For those of you who aren't sure about my referencing of Faust, the story is as follows:Goethe wrote, in 1808, the story of Faust. The character was based either on Johann Faust or on a character in Cenodoxus- a work by Jakob Bidermann. The quick summary of the story is that the devil bets god that he can make Faust (a good guy) go bad. The devil would do anything Faust wanted up here and Faust would serve the devil once he went to hell. Sounds like a shitty deal, I don't know why he took it... The real Faust was a magician and alchemist. Hmm doesn't that kinda sound like he was a pickpocket and a drug dealer? Does to me.. Now he doesn't seem to have made any pacts with the devil, so it seems that Goethe only used his name and his demeanor rather than writing about a specific incident. Faust in real life wasn't a nice guy though; he tricked a chaplain into shaving with arsenic so his face peeled off. It's so Hieronymus Bosch. I love it.
So Faust signed his soul away. This was not something I would do, hence my feeling it was necessary to read the document before signing it. It's not beligerence, it's being responsible. Now I'm not the most responsible person I know. I lose pretty much everything and I don't balance a checkbook. I just know if the check is going to clear or not. (although sometimes this requires praying). I work with money but I don't know how to really deal with it or invest. I don't have multiple portfolios of stuff and I don't play the stock market. I don't even play the lottery (well except for this big powerball one that was a couple weeks ago). I have no idea what a hedge fund or a junk bond is. Well, I kinda do. I know a hedge fund is something you only get into if you know you're going to get a payout and a junk bond is probably the opposite?
Let's look it up. I have a book called Barron's Dictionary of Finance and Investment Terms. It was on sale and I bought it as my "look smart in the subway" books. We all have them. I see some of the dumbest losers on the subway carrying calculus books and reading Dr. Zhivago. You know they don't understand a word of that. It's all about impressing people. My book recently was Third World Economics. I understood a good amount of it though. ..well, the title at least.
Ok, a hedge fund is: ahh shit there's like a 4 page definition. Well you can take a long or short position, which refers to the amount of time you have the fund. They take large risks but have potentially large payouts. Ok I'm not reading anymore.
A junk bond is: a bond with a bad credit rating. Wait, bonds have credit ratings? Do they apply for mortgages or something? Can they go to that FreeCreditReport.com and get their credit score? How can they do that though? They don't have fingers, how do they type? I'm confused. Oh and they're also called 'Fallen Angels'. I love it; it's so Guns n Roses.
My co-workers aren't all that bad in general though. I guess. Polish-girl-who-steals-my-intern has been getting on my nerves less. She still steals my intern though. She always carries around a bottle of Canada Dry ginger ale. You know what? I doubt there's ginger ale in it... No one likes ginger ale that much. She's probably carrying crunk juice or something up in there. Nice.
Living under power lines
So I got waitlisted by CUNY.
Waitlisting is like academia's version of telling you that since you don't know the maitre-d, and since you didn't make a reservation, they'll scrutinize the way you dress and the amount of money they *think* you have before seating you. Of course with schools it's all about if your parents are alumni, if you knew from birth that you wanted to go to THAT school for THAT program and if you fit into the quotas they're governmentally required to be aiming for and they don't think they have to shell out tons of money to support you. Naturally with restaurants it's a lot easier. Just go to Forever 21, get a shirt that looks expensive and slap on some Cinderella Club jewelry (praying it doesn't break mid-meal, because it will eventually anyway) and hope they think you're hot shit. I wish schools had bouncers. I met one once, at Marquee. His name was Verse. I really don't know if that was his birth name or his bouncer name, but I wouldn't have been surprised if it was both. But he liked me and he let me and my sister in without paying the cover charge. Yay. We stayed 10 minutes. What a stupid place. Didn't even see Lindsay Blohan or anything.
Georgetown also waitlisted me, for college. Snobs. Luckily GW professors, along with the students, were people who didn't get into G-town, either professionally or academically and were therefore thankfully far more liberal concerning a missed class or a missed half semester....
It kinda bums me out though. I mean, it's not like I'm vying for a spot in campus housing- this is not undergrad. It's a friggin PhD and I'm willing to friggin pay for it. You'd think they'd want to accept everyone they could- especially as my credentials are nothing to sneeze at, in my opinion. And it's CUNY for god's sake, not Harvard. Fuck. Not that'd I'd be caught dead in Boston ever again. Anyone who's not heard about Blue Light Special and his wonderful mother can ask me now...
Ahh but anyway...
My apartment seems to be where electronic things go to die. I'm not kidding. I've actually looked outside to see if there are strange power lines around or some Independence Day-type space ships hovering overhead. I've had my iPod, DVD player and most of my computer go completely kaboom this week.
So, inevitably, I had to go to Best Buy. I literally had to prep myself for this whole experience. I hate Best Buy. I really do. And my time there proved my point even further. It always rains when I go there. Saturday afternoon was no exception. It was a light drizzle, fine, but it hardened all the snow and made it wet and slippery and it was just gross. Fine. I go and I'm looking at the mp3 players. Since my computer is on the fritz and I have no idea when it's going to be functioning again, I am not going to try another iPod. I don't approve of the whole Microsoft monopoly on portable music, nor am I bright enough to figure out the ways around copyrights. Calm down, I'm not going for a PhD in anything science related. (proven even further as we speak, as I am literally airing out my cdrom drive, thinking that will make my NetFlix play.)
So I'm there and standing and standing and I refuse to seek people out. I'm there for YOUR commission, Mr. I-have-a-technology-degree-from-Touro-but-I-don't-understand-what-ambition-is. Your mom will be mad if you don't put in your share for the groceries and dog chow this week, Todd, so you'd better come and try to help me. Ahh ok here you are. Oh! Your name is not Todd, it's Dane. Oh I wish I could beat you up. fool. And of course you wait on the pretty girl first. Ok fine, Sarah has to wait... and wait... and wait...
I ask you, Dane, will this Sony mp3 (cheaper than iPod) play my iTunes? Yes? Sweet. Let's buy it. I've been here for half an hour. I'll buy anything at this point. And I get home and it doesn't play my iTunes. Not without me going through hoops and whistles and working with something called AACP. Sounds like a deaf people's organization. I'm confused.
Ok fine I'll rebuy the iTunes I bought. Whatever, I don't care. I at least did my taxes right and got a good hefty check from the government.
This doesn't fix my DVD problem. My computer of 3 years doesn't want to play DVDs anymore. I wonder what computer years are. I think dog years are 7:1. I think computer years are like 300:1. My computer is now 90 years old. Piece of crap. I'm putting you in a goddamn home. And not one of those nice ones with qualified trained nurses that turn you ever hour- you're getting the Philippine immigrants and canned prunes. Damn piece of crap sucking me dry. I'm not paying to have you upgraded or to have your many viruses washed out. Fuck it.
Please don't send this to my parents, they'd be so shocked. The home out where they live is actually quite nice, should they ever need to take residence...
I need a new computer too, for my overpriced overeducation. Overeducation is overpriced, yes, but I don't think overrated. Duane told me earlier that he's done learning, because he knows everything he needs to know. So of course I go all Marcel Proust on him and stated by simply saying that, that showed him how ignorant he really was. Then he told me to shut up and get out of his face or I wouldn't get my share of the $15 we won when we pooled for the Mega Millions. I love my friends.
Ew, there was this guy at the gym though who looked like the transvestite from Silence of the Lambs. He kept looking at me weird. I kept feeling like I should put on some lotion lest he turn the hose on me..... (see the movie if you don't get the reference).
At least Moses Stick man is gone. This buttfuck carries around this big Moses parting the Red Sea-type stick, stays an hour and a half on the cardio machines, refusing to acknowledge the half hour rule, doesn't get off the machine when you ask him to, has these margarine yellow teeth, talks with a lisp and is, must be, without a doubt, in my opinion, legally retarded. Of course people refer to him as the Colonel because he was in the armed forces. Fuck that shit. I ain't gonna kiss your ass because you know how to sign up for enlistment in your school's cafeteria in high school. Get into the Navy Academy I might pay attention to you. Those uniforms are hott anyway.
Abe Lincoln man hasn't been around for awhile. This completely confuses me. I hate facial hair. It's gross. Maybe on some guys it looks ok, but on 90% of them, no. So this one guy, perfectly nice, perfectly fine looking started going for this Abe Lincoln look and has now taken it to this Grizzly Adams thing. I told him I didn't like it. He didn't care. He was like "who are you?". Ahh, but I know his name now. So I told him, just for fun, that if he was going to go for it anyway, why not shave half of it off and have a half beard? .... He doesn't talk to me anymore now. But personally I thought that was a perfectly reasonable proposition.
Anyway, so I only have one other New York school option, otherwise looks like I'm moving to Philly! We'll see. I have until early May to see where everything goes.. Wish me luck....
Waitlisting is like academia's version of telling you that since you don't know the maitre-d, and since you didn't make a reservation, they'll scrutinize the way you dress and the amount of money they *think* you have before seating you. Of course with schools it's all about if your parents are alumni, if you knew from birth that you wanted to go to THAT school for THAT program and if you fit into the quotas they're governmentally required to be aiming for and they don't think they have to shell out tons of money to support you. Naturally with restaurants it's a lot easier. Just go to Forever 21, get a shirt that looks expensive and slap on some Cinderella Club jewelry (praying it doesn't break mid-meal, because it will eventually anyway) and hope they think you're hot shit. I wish schools had bouncers. I met one once, at Marquee. His name was Verse. I really don't know if that was his birth name or his bouncer name, but I wouldn't have been surprised if it was both. But he liked me and he let me and my sister in without paying the cover charge. Yay. We stayed 10 minutes. What a stupid place. Didn't even see Lindsay Blohan or anything.
Georgetown also waitlisted me, for college. Snobs. Luckily GW professors, along with the students, were people who didn't get into G-town, either professionally or academically and were therefore thankfully far more liberal concerning a missed class or a missed half semester....
It kinda bums me out though. I mean, it's not like I'm vying for a spot in campus housing- this is not undergrad. It's a friggin PhD and I'm willing to friggin pay for it. You'd think they'd want to accept everyone they could- especially as my credentials are nothing to sneeze at, in my opinion. And it's CUNY for god's sake, not Harvard. Fuck. Not that'd I'd be caught dead in Boston ever again. Anyone who's not heard about Blue Light Special and his wonderful mother can ask me now...
Ahh but anyway...
My apartment seems to be where electronic things go to die. I'm not kidding. I've actually looked outside to see if there are strange power lines around or some Independence Day-type space ships hovering overhead. I've had my iPod, DVD player and most of my computer go completely kaboom this week.
So, inevitably, I had to go to Best Buy. I literally had to prep myself for this whole experience. I hate Best Buy. I really do. And my time there proved my point even further. It always rains when I go there. Saturday afternoon was no exception. It was a light drizzle, fine, but it hardened all the snow and made it wet and slippery and it was just gross. Fine. I go and I'm looking at the mp3 players. Since my computer is on the fritz and I have no idea when it's going to be functioning again, I am not going to try another iPod. I don't approve of the whole Microsoft monopoly on portable music, nor am I bright enough to figure out the ways around copyrights. Calm down, I'm not going for a PhD in anything science related. (proven even further as we speak, as I am literally airing out my cdrom drive, thinking that will make my NetFlix play.)
So I'm there and standing and standing and I refuse to seek people out. I'm there for YOUR commission, Mr. I-have-a-technology-degree-from-Touro-but-I-don't-understand-what-ambition-is. Your mom will be mad if you don't put in your share for the groceries and dog chow this week, Todd, so you'd better come and try to help me. Ahh ok here you are. Oh! Your name is not Todd, it's Dane. Oh I wish I could beat you up. fool. And of course you wait on the pretty girl first. Ok fine, Sarah has to wait... and wait... and wait...
I ask you, Dane, will this Sony mp3 (cheaper than iPod) play my iTunes? Yes? Sweet. Let's buy it. I've been here for half an hour. I'll buy anything at this point. And I get home and it doesn't play my iTunes. Not without me going through hoops and whistles and working with something called AACP. Sounds like a deaf people's organization. I'm confused.
Ok fine I'll rebuy the iTunes I bought. Whatever, I don't care. I at least did my taxes right and got a good hefty check from the government.
This doesn't fix my DVD problem. My computer of 3 years doesn't want to play DVDs anymore. I wonder what computer years are. I think dog years are 7:1. I think computer years are like 300:1. My computer is now 90 years old. Piece of crap. I'm putting you in a goddamn home. And not one of those nice ones with qualified trained nurses that turn you ever hour- you're getting the Philippine immigrants and canned prunes. Damn piece of crap sucking me dry. I'm not paying to have you upgraded or to have your many viruses washed out. Fuck it.
Please don't send this to my parents, they'd be so shocked. The home out where they live is actually quite nice, should they ever need to take residence...
I need a new computer too, for my overpriced overeducation. Overeducation is overpriced, yes, but I don't think overrated. Duane told me earlier that he's done learning, because he knows everything he needs to know. So of course I go all Marcel Proust on him and stated by simply saying that, that showed him how ignorant he really was. Then he told me to shut up and get out of his face or I wouldn't get my share of the $15 we won when we pooled for the Mega Millions. I love my friends.
Ew, there was this guy at the gym though who looked like the transvestite from Silence of the Lambs. He kept looking at me weird. I kept feeling like I should put on some lotion lest he turn the hose on me..... (see the movie if you don't get the reference).
At least Moses Stick man is gone. This buttfuck carries around this big Moses parting the Red Sea-type stick, stays an hour and a half on the cardio machines, refusing to acknowledge the half hour rule, doesn't get off the machine when you ask him to, has these margarine yellow teeth, talks with a lisp and is, must be, without a doubt, in my opinion, legally retarded. Of course people refer to him as the Colonel because he was in the armed forces. Fuck that shit. I ain't gonna kiss your ass because you know how to sign up for enlistment in your school's cafeteria in high school. Get into the Navy Academy I might pay attention to you. Those uniforms are hott anyway.
Abe Lincoln man hasn't been around for awhile. This completely confuses me. I hate facial hair. It's gross. Maybe on some guys it looks ok, but on 90% of them, no. So this one guy, perfectly nice, perfectly fine looking started going for this Abe Lincoln look and has now taken it to this Grizzly Adams thing. I told him I didn't like it. He didn't care. He was like "who are you?". Ahh, but I know his name now. So I told him, just for fun, that if he was going to go for it anyway, why not shave half of it off and have a half beard? .... He doesn't talk to me anymore now. But personally I thought that was a perfectly reasonable proposition.
Anyway, so I only have one other New York school option, otherwise looks like I'm moving to Philly! We'll see. I have until early May to see where everything goes.. Wish me luck....
Parlement of Foules
So today is Valentines Day. Or as my co-worker from Panama pronounces it, Balentimes Day. Love the accent :)
At the gym yesterday, I witnessed various musings from various meatheads about the holiday. Some just spouted on and on about how it's a Hallmark holiday and stupid. Without even asking, one can tell that these men are either a) single or b) with someone and miserable AND in either case, c) have had to go out of their way at least once in their life on Valentine's Day and either were told that they screwed up or didn't get any.
Some people didn't even know the holiday was tomorrow. Some knew and said that they'd been with someone long enough to where they didn't do anything anymore. I personally find that sad. Why should the romance die just because you're together for awhile? Some were happy because they knew they were going to get lucky, some of them for the first time in months. Again, sad.
Some asked me for ideas. I have never celebrated this holiday before. Last year, I was "on a break" when the dreaded day approached, so it wasn't even acknowledged. So I was the last person these people should have been asking advice from. Not that that stopped me from giving it...
I'm a non-traditional person. I don't think you should give flowers and chocolates. I don't think you should have some dorky violinist at an Italian restaurant come up and play 'That's Amore'. I friggin hate that song and now I have it in my head. Crap. I don't think you should give a fuzzy wuzzy bear holding a heart that says "I Wuv U". I don't think you should go to CVS and pick up some oversized Hallmark card that talks about your destiny and your soul and how this person and you are meant to be, always and forever xoxo. My advice to all these forelorn and unfortunate men was to actually put some thought into it and do something original. Fine, going out to dinner is cool, but I think that's where the cliche-ness should end. I recommended a helicopter ride to one guy, who refused because he has sensitive ears. The holiday is not about you, my pet. It's about her. Geez. Not that I think that's the way it should be. At work, already today, every non-single woman has been asked "Oh why hasn't your boyfriend/husband/baby daddy/pimp gotten you flowers?". Well, what about the guys? Not that I'd send flowers to a guy, but I think it's stupid that people assume the holiday is only for women. Equality is the way to be.
That, however, doesn't reign true in gift giving. I love the hypocrisy of it all. It's perfectly ok to get a guy an electric shaver, but if you buy a women anything with an extension cord you'll find yourself in the doghouse. There are similarities though- don't buy eachother clothes, underwear of any sorts and don't give gift certificates. And the WORST is those sadass coupons "Good for one back rub". Oh please. I, for one, refuse any gift for any holiday that is featured in a store display. I never wanted a bike for Christmas, chocolates for Valentine's, clothes for my birthday, candy for Easter, a flag for Flag Day or sweets for Halloween. I don't eat turkey at Thanksgiving and for Arbor Day I go around kicking trees. Don't even get me started on July 4th.. If I am ever presented with candy canes, candy hearts, candy necklaces or those nasty marshmallow Peeps, I go to the roof of tall buildings and throw them at people. And some of those candy canes can cause some friggin damage, let me tell you. If you really want to get me something consumable, buy me coffee. But not a coffee maker because then I'll rip your arm off.
My complete dismissal of this holiday didn't just come from my perpetual singledom during the month of February. Growing up my parents never really celebrated it. My dad thought he could get away with getting my mom a joint birthday/Valentine's gift. It didn't work. Sometimes he forgot and then would run out and grab some stupid mushy card, sign his name and present it to her with a box of those nasty Russell Stover chocolates. Yeah those were fun nights for all. The only time he ever went all out was when my mom decided that she wanted an engagement ring. No, I'm not a bastard child. My parents were married when they had me, but they were dirt poor when they got engaged so my mom never got a ring. So hints were dropped starting in October. And dropped. And dropped. My dad just didn't get it. It was cute. My mom would leave Zales catalogs earmarked out on the counter. She'd comment very loudly about other people's jewelry and how gorgeous it was. When one of those Diamonds are Forever commercials came on, she'd force herself to cry and talk about how sweet love is when you have an expensive carbonized piece of coal weighing down your hand. (ok so I'm exaggerating a ta.. ) My dad just didn't get it. I was finally pulled into the mess in late January of that year when I was told to sit the poor man down, open a catalog, point to a ring and say "Buy this for mother.".... He didn't get it. I had to literally take my bewildered father by the hand, drive him to Macy's and pick out the ring with him. Then he turned cheapskate and decided that he'd go down half a carat in order to save. No, dad. No. But it was his wallet and his decision, and ultimately his sanity. My mom totally knew though and she ended up taking the ring back and having the diamond upgraded. I remember when she received it, squealing in delight, even though she totally knew she was getting it. What's the fun in that? Ha and now she barely even wears it. Nice.
I don't, however, think it's a Hallmark holiday. I think I'm part of a minority in that sense, but I don't think card companies have the ability to create a holiday. I definitely think they have the potential to exploit it, but I think the nitty-gritty of the holiday is pure and I think that should be celebrated. (I'm not becoming some optimistic schmuck though, don't worry lambs). I would rather celebrate it doing something that both people loved doing rather than going out and buying everything pink and red you can get your paws on. I think you can have just as good of a holiday without spending a dime. Take a walk in the park, watch a silly movie, do something physical and down and dirty together... yeahhhh... like gardening or cleaning out the basement. nazty.
Forbes magazine wrote that the average person spends $123 on Valentine's gifts. That doesn't include dinner or copious amounts of alcohol. I find that ridiculous. I think the only time a gift of such expense should be bought for February 14th is if you are proposing to someone or buying something for me. So yes I think it's a real shame that Hallmark capitalized on the whole thing, because if you look at the roots, you realize how nice it can actually be....
Let's look at the origins of the holiday. It has been celebrated since the times of Chaucer as a day of romantic love. And that was back when it was all Medieval and stuff. That was real love. Pillaging and forced marriages. That was the good stuff. Grab me by the hair and take me to the friar. Hott. Some scholars believe that it actually pertains to Greek/Roman fertility festivals, but I don't know about that.. Especially as during their festivities, they would actually whip women in the face, drawing blood because it was supposed to boost fertility. I fucking love it. That's some hot shit. But I don't see how that translates to a holiday about love. Since when does fertility have to do with love? If you ask me, fertility has to do with either the desire to trip over Tonka trucks in the middle of the night while doing a 2am feeding or too many drinks and a lack of self control. Then again, love seems to have everything to do with that too sometimes...
Chaucer wrote the Parlement of Foules in 1382 which was the first ever written mention of Valentine's Day. St. Valentine himself was apparently a guy who was hated by Emporer Claudius II because he was a Christian and because he was performing marriages for soldiers, thinking that married men made better warriors. Not sure if was because single men were homesick for their gals and not paying attention in catapult class or if married men were just frustrated and angry. I agree with that- most married guys I know are miserable buggers. Not sure what the parameters around it were back then, but nowadays that's probably because wives make these poor men move to the suburbs, have 2.83 kids, buy a Ford Windstar and coach t-ball. Hell that'd make me wanna fight. Now there's gym punching bags and kickboxing classes, but I guess back then there was just the Holy Roman Empire and world conquest to take out your aggressions with. And who wouldn't rather be killing Germanic tribes with your compatriots and kinsmen than listen to your wives complain about the Dark Ages version of the PTA? Bros before hos..... So anyway, St. Valentine was thrown in jail and before his execution, he healed the daughter of his jailer, as she was blind and he had fallen in love with her. It was a wonderful expression of love and unselfishness.
After that, the story was spread around Europe by Bede, although the holiday seemed to be only celebrated by courtly nobility rather than the masses. It was even mentioned by Shakespeare in Hamlet. It continued in a rather unassuming and quiet manner for awhile, with only the British sending small cards to acknowledge the day. This was until around the 1840s when the day was exploited in the US by one Esther Howland who decided to get rich quick by selling cards. The profit-making abilities of the 45th day of the year became clear. And then it just snowballed. The holiday became about outdoing your neighbor and getting better stuff than your coworker, because god knows, the more that is $pent, the more someone cares. Rubbish! People like that need to go to rehab. Maybe I'll start a rehab center for this day.. I'll call it Sarah's VD clinic. I think it has a nice ring to it.
At the gym yesterday, I witnessed various musings from various meatheads about the holiday. Some just spouted on and on about how it's a Hallmark holiday and stupid. Without even asking, one can tell that these men are either a) single or b) with someone and miserable AND in either case, c) have had to go out of their way at least once in their life on Valentine's Day and either were told that they screwed up or didn't get any.
Some people didn't even know the holiday was tomorrow. Some knew and said that they'd been with someone long enough to where they didn't do anything anymore. I personally find that sad. Why should the romance die just because you're together for awhile? Some were happy because they knew they were going to get lucky, some of them for the first time in months. Again, sad.
Some asked me for ideas. I have never celebrated this holiday before. Last year, I was "on a break" when the dreaded day approached, so it wasn't even acknowledged. So I was the last person these people should have been asking advice from. Not that that stopped me from giving it...
I'm a non-traditional person. I don't think you should give flowers and chocolates. I don't think you should have some dorky violinist at an Italian restaurant come up and play 'That's Amore'. I friggin hate that song and now I have it in my head. Crap. I don't think you should give a fuzzy wuzzy bear holding a heart that says "I Wuv U". I don't think you should go to CVS and pick up some oversized Hallmark card that talks about your destiny and your soul and how this person and you are meant to be, always and forever xoxo. My advice to all these forelorn and unfortunate men was to actually put some thought into it and do something original. Fine, going out to dinner is cool, but I think that's where the cliche-ness should end. I recommended a helicopter ride to one guy, who refused because he has sensitive ears. The holiday is not about you, my pet. It's about her. Geez. Not that I think that's the way it should be. At work, already today, every non-single woman has been asked "Oh why hasn't your boyfriend/husband/baby daddy/pimp gotten you flowers?". Well, what about the guys? Not that I'd send flowers to a guy, but I think it's stupid that people assume the holiday is only for women. Equality is the way to be.
That, however, doesn't reign true in gift giving. I love the hypocrisy of it all. It's perfectly ok to get a guy an electric shaver, but if you buy a women anything with an extension cord you'll find yourself in the doghouse. There are similarities though- don't buy eachother clothes, underwear of any sorts and don't give gift certificates. And the WORST is those sadass coupons "Good for one back rub". Oh please. I, for one, refuse any gift for any holiday that is featured in a store display. I never wanted a bike for Christmas, chocolates for Valentine's, clothes for my birthday, candy for Easter, a flag for Flag Day or sweets for Halloween. I don't eat turkey at Thanksgiving and for Arbor Day I go around kicking trees. Don't even get me started on July 4th.. If I am ever presented with candy canes, candy hearts, candy necklaces or those nasty marshmallow Peeps, I go to the roof of tall buildings and throw them at people. And some of those candy canes can cause some friggin damage, let me tell you. If you really want to get me something consumable, buy me coffee. But not a coffee maker because then I'll rip your arm off.
My complete dismissal of this holiday didn't just come from my perpetual singledom during the month of February. Growing up my parents never really celebrated it. My dad thought he could get away with getting my mom a joint birthday/Valentine's gift. It didn't work. Sometimes he forgot and then would run out and grab some stupid mushy card, sign his name and present it to her with a box of those nasty Russell Stover chocolates. Yeah those were fun nights for all. The only time he ever went all out was when my mom decided that she wanted an engagement ring. No, I'm not a bastard child. My parents were married when they had me, but they were dirt poor when they got engaged so my mom never got a ring. So hints were dropped starting in October. And dropped. And dropped. My dad just didn't get it. It was cute. My mom would leave Zales catalogs earmarked out on the counter. She'd comment very loudly about other people's jewelry and how gorgeous it was. When one of those Diamonds are Forever commercials came on, she'd force herself to cry and talk about how sweet love is when you have an expensive carbonized piece of coal weighing down your hand. (ok so I'm exaggerating a ta.. ) My dad just didn't get it. I was finally pulled into the mess in late January of that year when I was told to sit the poor man down, open a catalog, point to a ring and say "Buy this for mother.".... He didn't get it. I had to literally take my bewildered father by the hand, drive him to Macy's and pick out the ring with him. Then he turned cheapskate and decided that he'd go down half a carat in order to save. No, dad. No. But it was his wallet and his decision, and ultimately his sanity. My mom totally knew though and she ended up taking the ring back and having the diamond upgraded. I remember when she received it, squealing in delight, even though she totally knew she was getting it. What's the fun in that? Ha and now she barely even wears it. Nice.
I don't, however, think it's a Hallmark holiday. I think I'm part of a minority in that sense, but I don't think card companies have the ability to create a holiday. I definitely think they have the potential to exploit it, but I think the nitty-gritty of the holiday is pure and I think that should be celebrated. (I'm not becoming some optimistic schmuck though, don't worry lambs). I would rather celebrate it doing something that both people loved doing rather than going out and buying everything pink and red you can get your paws on. I think you can have just as good of a holiday without spending a dime. Take a walk in the park, watch a silly movie, do something physical and down and dirty together... yeahhhh... like gardening or cleaning out the basement. nazty.
Forbes magazine wrote that the average person spends $123 on Valentine's gifts. That doesn't include dinner or copious amounts of alcohol. I find that ridiculous. I think the only time a gift of such expense should be bought for February 14th is if you are proposing to someone or buying something for me. So yes I think it's a real shame that Hallmark capitalized on the whole thing, because if you look at the roots, you realize how nice it can actually be....
Let's look at the origins of the holiday. It has been celebrated since the times of Chaucer as a day of romantic love. And that was back when it was all Medieval and stuff. That was real love. Pillaging and forced marriages. That was the good stuff. Grab me by the hair and take me to the friar. Hott. Some scholars believe that it actually pertains to Greek/Roman fertility festivals, but I don't know about that.. Especially as during their festivities, they would actually whip women in the face, drawing blood because it was supposed to boost fertility. I fucking love it. That's some hot shit. But I don't see how that translates to a holiday about love. Since when does fertility have to do with love? If you ask me, fertility has to do with either the desire to trip over Tonka trucks in the middle of the night while doing a 2am feeding or too many drinks and a lack of self control. Then again, love seems to have everything to do with that too sometimes...
Chaucer wrote the Parlement of Foules in 1382 which was the first ever written mention of Valentine's Day. St. Valentine himself was apparently a guy who was hated by Emporer Claudius II because he was a Christian and because he was performing marriages for soldiers, thinking that married men made better warriors. Not sure if was because single men were homesick for their gals and not paying attention in catapult class or if married men were just frustrated and angry. I agree with that- most married guys I know are miserable buggers. Not sure what the parameters around it were back then, but nowadays that's probably because wives make these poor men move to the suburbs, have 2.83 kids, buy a Ford Windstar and coach t-ball. Hell that'd make me wanna fight. Now there's gym punching bags and kickboxing classes, but I guess back then there was just the Holy Roman Empire and world conquest to take out your aggressions with. And who wouldn't rather be killing Germanic tribes with your compatriots and kinsmen than listen to your wives complain about the Dark Ages version of the PTA? Bros before hos..... So anyway, St. Valentine was thrown in jail and before his execution, he healed the daughter of his jailer, as she was blind and he had fallen in love with her. It was a wonderful expression of love and unselfishness.
After that, the story was spread around Europe by Bede, although the holiday seemed to be only celebrated by courtly nobility rather than the masses. It was even mentioned by Shakespeare in Hamlet. It continued in a rather unassuming and quiet manner for awhile, with only the British sending small cards to acknowledge the day. This was until around the 1840s when the day was exploited in the US by one Esther Howland who decided to get rich quick by selling cards. The profit-making abilities of the 45th day of the year became clear. And then it just snowballed. The holiday became about outdoing your neighbor and getting better stuff than your coworker, because god knows, the more that is $pent, the more someone cares. Rubbish! People like that need to go to rehab. Maybe I'll start a rehab center for this day.. I'll call it Sarah's VD clinic. I think it has a nice ring to it.
Crying While FAFSAing
So with Turbo Tax having approved my tax return without saying that I've completely botched it, it's time now for me to fill out my FAFSA. Apparently, you do this even before you know if you've gotten into any schools or what kind of financial package they're going to offer you. I’ve gotten into the school which I considered my long-shot school, so I’m confident the others will follow suit.
Now, I’m the type of person who never reads directions before I attempt something. Hence why I screwed up my PSAT’s. (hmm ok you’re not supposed to put your address where your birthday is supposed to go.. potato tomato…) But since I’m involving my money, the government and my future, maybe I should give it a shot this time.
Wow I’ve never done this before. This is confusing. Halp! Ok they want to know what my family’s income is. What does it matter? My parents don’t support me…. Ok maybe this only applies to undergraduate education. Ok I see gotcha. Now, I’m combining the FAFSA directions with my sister’s instructions into all this. She did all this after she got into Berkeley… Damn this stuff is confusing. My sister makes no sense in her directions. But also, dear sister, you don’t have to pay rent or have any other expenses. Of course her directions didn’t include “fall back on computer savvy whipped boyfriend”, either. I don’t have a Google wanna-be at my employ, but that’s ok. I’m glad I’m doing this on my own. Terrified, but glad.
Ok… what is my financial status. Hmm will type in “Poor”. Not accepted. “Zip”. No.. “Zilch”.. Nope… “Deadbeat”. Ok! Accepted! Good good.. Moving on..
What is my Estimated Family Contribution. Who is my family? Me. Alright. What can I contribute? See box A, where I wrote Deadbeat. Yes, you understand. So since I don’t intend on working during this four year education, I guess my contribution will be nothing…. I refuse to be the barista/student. I’m sure I’d blow my brains out and take with me all of the espresso-drinking, hackeysack-playing, overcaffeinated-suited losers in that coffee house. Mmmm foamed milk and massacre…
Alright my EFC is much way too high. Mr. government, I work for a non-profit. I live in Manhattan. I just paid my lawyer 2 grand because you-know-who is moving ahead with his fucking case. I don’t have any money. You think it’s crazy I haven’t saved a lot? Well you don’t understand the lovely real estate market here. My rent is not $300. It’s more or less half my salary. It’d be one thing if I made the same thing and lived in Kentucky. I live in the city. Consider the purchasing power parity here in Manhattan. And it’s not like I’m off buying $700 Manolo Blahnik shoes like that chick from Sex and the City either. I’m sacrificing buying new knee-saving running shoes so I can see Bach. Also I need a haircut and I don’t want to resort to going to some chopshop like Supercuts.
Ok it’s been an hour and I’m still on paragraph 1 of the directions.. Geez. This is depressing. I feel like crying, but I don’t feel like going to the subway.… --à Explanation, I’ve found that the most interesting and fulfilling crying sessions take place in my fair city’s vast subway system.
And while perusing one of my favorite laugh-at-other-people websites
(www.cryingwhileeating.com), I had an idea of my own. Crying While Subwaying.
As I’ve mentioned before, New York City is full of wackos. Wackos that like to cry. And I, my lambs, am no exception. I remember my first cry fest in the city- I had a job interview at the Peace Corps and accidentally took the A instead of the 1 train and ended up in Brooklyn. And when I finally made it back into the city, I was completely lost in the financial district. And I was absolutely mortified over the fact that I was sobbing on the streets of Manhattan. Until I realized that no one cares. No one pays any more attention to someone crying than they do to a subway preacher or some violin playing hobo. New Yorkers are completely too caught up in their own crap to pay attention to otheres. I even find myself daily ignoring the Greenpeace petition people and the guy with weird hair outside the Union Square subway stop who is trying to sell me some spa package.
But it’s cathartic, in a way, crying in the subway. You’re not at home doing it alone in some tub of Ben and Jerry’s. (ew which I don’t eat anyway). But you’re able to express yourself publicly even if you can’t express it in front of the person you want to. Jasper Johns had his random gray streaks, Dylan Thomas had his musings at Crumley’s bar, and Sarah has her sobfests on the 2 train. Masterpiece.
What’s stressing me out? Well I got an email from you-know-who and a call from my lawyer, within 20 minutes of each other. The email was some sappy shit I didn’t want to hear, complete with an attachment of a picture of a bunny. What the fuck? I like bunnies. But why are you sending me one, when the next phone call I’m going to get is from my lawyer, telling me that I’m fucked, because of you? Is it guilt? Easier ways to deal with your guilt, moron. Fuck. Why don’t you give me back the 7 grand I’ve shelled out for this overpriced attorney? Yeah… thanks..
But I digress, back to my Crying While Subwaying. So I completely lost it on the subway today. I’m on the 2 train after the gym and then suddenly, with the two communications I’d received in the afternoon, things just caught up with me and I lost it. Sobbed. No one paid attention. Good.
Anyway, back to the FAFSA forms. Alright… haha ok here’s one. “Do you or your family have unusual circumstances affecting your finances?” Does being fucking broke count? Fools. Not everyone who wants to go to grad school is riding some trust fund tails. My parents worked damn hard to get where they are. And they’re still struggling, albeit doing what they absolutely love.
Ok let’s take this step by step
Marital status: single
State of legal residence: NY
Did I become a legal resident of this state before Jan 1 2003? No. what does that matter? Discrimination!
Selective service? What bullshit. Half the chicks I know would be better in combat than men.
Ok why are you asking me my mother’s maiden name and her social security number? I think this is a test, just like my taxes were… And why does it matter what they made last year? I have no idea. It’s not my business. Oh haha at the bottom they say this only matters if I’m a dependent. Oh boy I wish, those were good times weren’t they. Need to read instructions better. They now say I should read the FAFSA instruction booklet. Holy crap, this is a 58 page document. Mr. government, I’m not applying for my PhD so I can read stuff. Geez..
Alright this is far to complicated.. I’m home sick today. Not sick really, just fed up. And hungover. Not that I’ve never gone to work hungover before. Not that I’ve never gone to work still drunk before. Not that I’ve ever gone to work and gotten drunk. Not that I’ve never gone to work, gotten smashed during lunch and then gone back to work. During an audit…. I just don’t feel like dealing with my boss today. I have to call my lawyer now too. Crap. I’ll wait though, because the song on the radio us Metallica’s “Unforgiven” and that’s just too fitting.
I will, however, begin to pay attention to the criers on the subway. That’s some good blog fodder right there. My own sobfests no exception. Haha yesterday I was sitting next to some weirdo when I was crying. Man smelled like a goddamn pine tree taxi cab air freshener. So I thought the idea of that was funny, like that scene from Tommy Boy. So here I am crying and laughing at the same time. I probably looked like a sad clown. Whatever, as long as I didn’t look like a mime.
Now, I’m the type of person who never reads directions before I attempt something. Hence why I screwed up my PSAT’s. (hmm ok you’re not supposed to put your address where your birthday is supposed to go.. potato tomato…) But since I’m involving my money, the government and my future, maybe I should give it a shot this time.
Wow I’ve never done this before. This is confusing. Halp! Ok they want to know what my family’s income is. What does it matter? My parents don’t support me…. Ok maybe this only applies to undergraduate education. Ok I see gotcha. Now, I’m combining the FAFSA directions with my sister’s instructions into all this. She did all this after she got into Berkeley… Damn this stuff is confusing. My sister makes no sense in her directions. But also, dear sister, you don’t have to pay rent or have any other expenses. Of course her directions didn’t include “fall back on computer savvy whipped boyfriend”, either. I don’t have a Google wanna-be at my employ, but that’s ok. I’m glad I’m doing this on my own. Terrified, but glad.
Ok… what is my financial status. Hmm will type in “Poor”. Not accepted. “Zip”. No.. “Zilch”.. Nope… “Deadbeat”. Ok! Accepted! Good good.. Moving on..
What is my Estimated Family Contribution. Who is my family? Me. Alright. What can I contribute? See box A, where I wrote Deadbeat. Yes, you understand. So since I don’t intend on working during this four year education, I guess my contribution will be nothing…. I refuse to be the barista/student. I’m sure I’d blow my brains out and take with me all of the espresso-drinking, hackeysack-playing, overcaffeinated-suited losers in that coffee house. Mmmm foamed milk and massacre…
Alright my EFC is much way too high. Mr. government, I work for a non-profit. I live in Manhattan. I just paid my lawyer 2 grand because you-know-who is moving ahead with his fucking case. I don’t have any money. You think it’s crazy I haven’t saved a lot? Well you don’t understand the lovely real estate market here. My rent is not $300. It’s more or less half my salary. It’d be one thing if I made the same thing and lived in Kentucky. I live in the city. Consider the purchasing power parity here in Manhattan. And it’s not like I’m off buying $700 Manolo Blahnik shoes like that chick from Sex and the City either. I’m sacrificing buying new knee-saving running shoes so I can see Bach. Also I need a haircut and I don’t want to resort to going to some chopshop like Supercuts.
Ok it’s been an hour and I’m still on paragraph 1 of the directions.. Geez. This is depressing. I feel like crying, but I don’t feel like going to the subway.… --à Explanation, I’ve found that the most interesting and fulfilling crying sessions take place in my fair city’s vast subway system.
And while perusing one of my favorite laugh-at-other-people websites
(www.cryingwhileeating.com), I had an idea of my own. Crying While Subwaying.
As I’ve mentioned before, New York City is full of wackos. Wackos that like to cry. And I, my lambs, am no exception. I remember my first cry fest in the city- I had a job interview at the Peace Corps and accidentally took the A instead of the 1 train and ended up in Brooklyn. And when I finally made it back into the city, I was completely lost in the financial district. And I was absolutely mortified over the fact that I was sobbing on the streets of Manhattan. Until I realized that no one cares. No one pays any more attention to someone crying than they do to a subway preacher or some violin playing hobo. New Yorkers are completely too caught up in their own crap to pay attention to otheres. I even find myself daily ignoring the Greenpeace petition people and the guy with weird hair outside the Union Square subway stop who is trying to sell me some spa package.
But it’s cathartic, in a way, crying in the subway. You’re not at home doing it alone in some tub of Ben and Jerry’s. (ew which I don’t eat anyway). But you’re able to express yourself publicly even if you can’t express it in front of the person you want to. Jasper Johns had his random gray streaks, Dylan Thomas had his musings at Crumley’s bar, and Sarah has her sobfests on the 2 train. Masterpiece.
What’s stressing me out? Well I got an email from you-know-who and a call from my lawyer, within 20 minutes of each other. The email was some sappy shit I didn’t want to hear, complete with an attachment of a picture of a bunny. What the fuck? I like bunnies. But why are you sending me one, when the next phone call I’m going to get is from my lawyer, telling me that I’m fucked, because of you? Is it guilt? Easier ways to deal with your guilt, moron. Fuck. Why don’t you give me back the 7 grand I’ve shelled out for this overpriced attorney? Yeah… thanks..
But I digress, back to my Crying While Subwaying. So I completely lost it on the subway today. I’m on the 2 train after the gym and then suddenly, with the two communications I’d received in the afternoon, things just caught up with me and I lost it. Sobbed. No one paid attention. Good.
Anyway, back to the FAFSA forms. Alright… haha ok here’s one. “Do you or your family have unusual circumstances affecting your finances?” Does being fucking broke count? Fools. Not everyone who wants to go to grad school is riding some trust fund tails. My parents worked damn hard to get where they are. And they’re still struggling, albeit doing what they absolutely love.
Ok let’s take this step by step
Marital status: single
State of legal residence: NY
Did I become a legal resident of this state before Jan 1 2003? No. what does that matter? Discrimination!
Selective service? What bullshit. Half the chicks I know would be better in combat than men.
Ok why are you asking me my mother’s maiden name and her social security number? I think this is a test, just like my taxes were… And why does it matter what they made last year? I have no idea. It’s not my business. Oh haha at the bottom they say this only matters if I’m a dependent. Oh boy I wish, those were good times weren’t they. Need to read instructions better. They now say I should read the FAFSA instruction booklet. Holy crap, this is a 58 page document. Mr. government, I’m not applying for my PhD so I can read stuff. Geez..
Alright this is far to complicated.. I’m home sick today. Not sick really, just fed up. And hungover. Not that I’ve never gone to work hungover before. Not that I’ve never gone to work still drunk before. Not that I’ve ever gone to work and gotten drunk. Not that I’ve never gone to work, gotten smashed during lunch and then gone back to work. During an audit…. I just don’t feel like dealing with my boss today. I have to call my lawyer now too. Crap. I’ll wait though, because the song on the radio us Metallica’s “Unforgiven” and that’s just too fitting.
I will, however, begin to pay attention to the criers on the subway. That’s some good blog fodder right there. My own sobfests no exception. Haha yesterday I was sitting next to some weirdo when I was crying. Man smelled like a goddamn pine tree taxi cab air freshener. So I thought the idea of that was funny, like that scene from Tommy Boy. So here I am crying and laughing at the same time. I probably looked like a sad clown. Whatever, as long as I didn’t look like a mime.
Umbrelliquette
I HATE the rain. My dad taught me to never use the word hate, but I do for things I especially especially really don't like: bugs, Best Buy, my ex-roommate (the crazy one, not the cool one..), the tastes/smells of curry, coconut and pecans, you-know-who and, obviously, rain.
I hate the rain. I don't know what it is with New Yorkers, but everyones' IQ drops 50 points the minute it starts to rain and they have to open an umbrella. There are several offenders: 1) The one who holds the umbrella down over their eyes, so they virtually have NO idea of what they're doing, walking wise. So they veer all over the sidewalk and run into people. And don't seem to understand that looking where you're going is not an overrated pasttime. It's kinda like baseball and stamp collecting, it will never go out of style. 2) Mr. "My umbrella is bigger than god. And you will get out of its way." These guys with the huge umbrellas who inevitably knock into yours. And the umbrellas always seem to cling to eachother for a second, but of course you're still moving in a forwards directions, so for a brief second, you are sans coverage. Not fun when it's a torrential downpour. 3) Those who don't realize that when you're walking in a narrowed two-way area, you tilt your umbrella slightly to the outside so you don't continuously bump umbrellas with people coming in the other direction. You might get a tiny bit wet, but you're not going to melt, lambs. And this is especially true for when you're walking under scaffolding. You don't need them there people, it's a covered walk way. If it continues for at least half a block, close the umbrella. Arrg!
The trains freak out at this time, too. Everything runs slower and is like 5x as crowded. So I take my usual N or Q to 42nd street to switch to the 2/3. My shoe is, as usual, untied during my connection. Maybe I step into some sort of vortex at Times Square. It is a weird place. I hurry and run by the mime. Dumb thing. Now there's the Aztec players who consist of a whole bunch of Mexican guys playing these Pan-type flutes. They're not any good though. I want my singing hobos :( And everybody and his mother is waiting for the 2/3... great. I take the 3rd train that came, it was so packed I just let two board without me. Well, one I let go because I saw my company's CEO get on it and the last thing I want is to be shoved nose to nose with with woman on a 30 minute train ride.
I board my train, burrowing my way to the middle and am standing over a guy with a Yankee hat. Cool, yay, go Yankees. But he still has the tags on it. I wonder if he notices... Or is that the style now? Oh goodness. What's next? Not even taking our accessories out of their packaging? So we'll wear shoes but still have boxes on the feet? If that's the case, then the hobo that threw a hot dog at me on Wednesday is way before his time...
Oh great my train is going local now. Grrr. More people board and I'm standing there, squished among about 10 other people. Of course it is at this point that iPod begins playing the stupid stuff.. I had it turned really high because I was listening to Albinoni's Adagio which is the friggin quietest piece of music ever written. So the song that came on after was really loud. Ok don't ask why I have this, but the song was Europe-The Final Countdown. Don't be hatin, you probably have it too. So now it's playing, LOUD and I know people could hear it and are looking at the bespectacled girl in the pink peacoat, carrying a copy of Count of Monte Cristo, listening to that song... Yeah...
So at 86th Man-With-Tag and his blinged out companion get out and I take his seat. Now you have to undersand the configurating of the 3 trains in New York City. There are just long rows of seats up against each side, so you're looking at the people sitting across from you. And while it's technically one long seat, there are slight bumps to indicate the partition between seats. And I'm sure the intention with this would be One Butt, One Seat. However in our world of yummy Olive Garden breadsticks, many times people take up more than one seat. And sometimes, like Man-With-Tag, the cool people take up more than one just to sit and bask. And we let them, because they're cool. So long story short, there are now 4 empty seats right in a row.
So I take the second from the left and McTush comes on the train and takes the one on the right, but is spilling into the empty seat next to me. No problem. But at 96th street.... here comes KFC4eva. Eyes the fully empty seat to the other side of me... Oh no. Don't do it. Don't do it! Damn.So I'm shoved inbetween McTush and KFC4eva, really having problems trying to breathe. And I'd been shimmied a little to the middle so now I'm sitting on one of those humped partitions which is NOT as much fun as it sounds. Cmon people. Know your limits. I'm not trying to act like I'm all skinny supermodel, but I am smart enough not to try to shove my size 8 butt into one of those little swings at the playground. (you know, the one with the leg holes?) And now I've come to the realization that additional to striving to never eat fast food again, I have no idea where my umbrella went. Damn
I hate the rain. I don't know what it is with New Yorkers, but everyones' IQ drops 50 points the minute it starts to rain and they have to open an umbrella. There are several offenders: 1) The one who holds the umbrella down over their eyes, so they virtually have NO idea of what they're doing, walking wise. So they veer all over the sidewalk and run into people. And don't seem to understand that looking where you're going is not an overrated pasttime. It's kinda like baseball and stamp collecting, it will never go out of style. 2) Mr. "My umbrella is bigger than god. And you will get out of its way." These guys with the huge umbrellas who inevitably knock into yours. And the umbrellas always seem to cling to eachother for a second, but of course you're still moving in a forwards directions, so for a brief second, you are sans coverage. Not fun when it's a torrential downpour. 3) Those who don't realize that when you're walking in a narrowed two-way area, you tilt your umbrella slightly to the outside so you don't continuously bump umbrellas with people coming in the other direction. You might get a tiny bit wet, but you're not going to melt, lambs. And this is especially true for when you're walking under scaffolding. You don't need them there people, it's a covered walk way. If it continues for at least half a block, close the umbrella. Arrg!
The trains freak out at this time, too. Everything runs slower and is like 5x as crowded. So I take my usual N or Q to 42nd street to switch to the 2/3. My shoe is, as usual, untied during my connection. Maybe I step into some sort of vortex at Times Square. It is a weird place. I hurry and run by the mime. Dumb thing. Now there's the Aztec players who consist of a whole bunch of Mexican guys playing these Pan-type flutes. They're not any good though. I want my singing hobos :( And everybody and his mother is waiting for the 2/3... great. I take the 3rd train that came, it was so packed I just let two board without me. Well, one I let go because I saw my company's CEO get on it and the last thing I want is to be shoved nose to nose with with woman on a 30 minute train ride.
I board my train, burrowing my way to the middle and am standing over a guy with a Yankee hat. Cool, yay, go Yankees. But he still has the tags on it. I wonder if he notices... Or is that the style now? Oh goodness. What's next? Not even taking our accessories out of their packaging? So we'll wear shoes but still have boxes on the feet? If that's the case, then the hobo that threw a hot dog at me on Wednesday is way before his time...
Oh great my train is going local now. Grrr. More people board and I'm standing there, squished among about 10 other people. Of course it is at this point that iPod begins playing the stupid stuff.. I had it turned really high because I was listening to Albinoni's Adagio which is the friggin quietest piece of music ever written. So the song that came on after was really loud. Ok don't ask why I have this, but the song was Europe-The Final Countdown. Don't be hatin, you probably have it too. So now it's playing, LOUD and I know people could hear it and are looking at the bespectacled girl in the pink peacoat, carrying a copy of Count of Monte Cristo, listening to that song... Yeah...
So at 86th Man-With-Tag and his blinged out companion get out and I take his seat. Now you have to undersand the configurating of the 3 trains in New York City. There are just long rows of seats up against each side, so you're looking at the people sitting across from you. And while it's technically one long seat, there are slight bumps to indicate the partition between seats. And I'm sure the intention with this would be One Butt, One Seat. However in our world of yummy Olive Garden breadsticks, many times people take up more than one seat. And sometimes, like Man-With-Tag, the cool people take up more than one just to sit and bask. And we let them, because they're cool. So long story short, there are now 4 empty seats right in a row.
So I take the second from the left and McTush comes on the train and takes the one on the right, but is spilling into the empty seat next to me. No problem. But at 96th street.... here comes KFC4eva. Eyes the fully empty seat to the other side of me... Oh no. Don't do it. Don't do it! Damn.So I'm shoved inbetween McTush and KFC4eva, really having problems trying to breathe. And I'd been shimmied a little to the middle so now I'm sitting on one of those humped partitions which is NOT as much fun as it sounds. Cmon people. Know your limits. I'm not trying to act like I'm all skinny supermodel, but I am smart enough not to try to shove my size 8 butt into one of those little swings at the playground. (you know, the one with the leg holes?) And now I've come to the realization that additional to striving to never eat fast food again, I have no idea where my umbrella went. Damn
The 2 Train
So I took the N train to connect to the 2/3 today so I could get home. Wasn't planning on going to the gym because I still feel a little under the weather. And as usual, during the long trek to make my connecting train, my shoe comes untied. I'm not kidding, every time I decide to go home instead of going to the gym after work, my shoe comes untied during that time. It's so weird. I think the fates are trying to tell me something. "Ok fine", I sighed. "I'll go". So I turn around and head back to the N train. On my way I pass one of those statue/mime things. I HATE mimes. They scare the hell out of me. I can handle clowns, no problem. Because with clowns, if you tell one to get out of your face or you're going to kick in the crotch, they just squeak their nose and run away. Mimes have to act like the don't understand you and then pretend like they're trapped in a box. But the problem with the mimes in the Times Square subway is that they remain stationery until you give them money, or sometimes they just move all of a sudden and scare you. It's disturbing. Well I guess that's what you get with a $120,000 BA in Fine Arts from Tisch... you become a subway mime. Oh and also you're the snotty hostess at every restaurant in SoHo.
So I think I should've listened to my gut instead of my shoe, because I lasted only about 30 minutes at the gym before I decided to call it a night. And most of that 30 minutes was spent yapping. So I hop on the 1 train, determined to connect at 72nd street. On the way up, I had two of the worse subway offenders near me. On one side was a guy who must've pissed his girlfriend off, because she must've sewn shrimp shells and garlic cloves into his jacket lining and he just must not be able to tell. Holy god. Take a shower. On the other side I had side-winder. I use this term to describe the person who falls asleep and winds from side to side and inevitably ends up leaning on you, or worse yet, resting their head on you. Then you try to shift ever so slightly to get them to wake up, because although you want to shove them, you don't want to start something, especially because the side-winders are usually scary mofos. So I connect at 72nd and hop on the 2 train, which I normally take to 135th.
Then it happened... I became a hypocrite. Somewhere between 96th and 110th I fell asleep. And I used Michelin-Man-Puffy-Coat next to me as a pillow. The creepy/interesting/comfortable thing about it was that he let me. He departed the train at 125, slightly tapping my arm to tell me he was leaving. Oh please don't go.. I'm so tired... you are so comfy.... Oh fine. Leave. See if I care. Your posture was horrible anyway so my neck was craned all weird. So Michelin-Man was replaced by lady with scary fur coat, whom I was determined not to fall asleep on for fear of getting a hairball or something. I still drifted off, but against the bar at the end of the aisle.
So I sleep right through my stop...... and through the concurrent 13 stops or so. And I wake up at- get this- Gun Hill Road. Now, when you're an SWF in New York City and you're on the 2 train, you're scared enough. Now- imagine having all that going for you, but now you're in the Bronx at a friggin stop called GUN HILL ROAD. Cripes! So I get off at that stop and try to act all non-chalant, trying not to burst into tears. With my luck there aren't going to be anymore trains and I'll be stuck in the friggin Bronx for the rest of my life. Easy for Yankee games and easy for early mortality. Luckily a downtown 2 train came within 15 minutes so I got on that, which was, for some reason, packed. BUT- the awesome thing was that the singing hobos were there! I gave them a dollar and requested Sweet Adeline again. I love that song. They didn't know it, so they offered me my dollar back. How honest. "No," I said. "Keep it and buy yourself something nice". I wonder if they'll go for Absolut or Ketel One. Then they started singing Rockin' Robin and I laughed my ass off at the irony of it all. (For those of you that don't know, you-know-who dumped me on the dance floor of a Bar Mitzvah while that song was playing... pretty friggin funny when you think about it ;)
UPDATE: apparently I should've been perfectly OK with being in the middle of nowhere, in the Bronx, despite the fact that when I left the subway station to ask for directions, I was hassled no less than 7 times. I guess I'm just overreacting. Being told "I'm going to spit on you, cracker" should not have upset me. Got it. mmhmm. Should have taken it as the charm of NYC. And not as a hepatitis risk.. haha I'm such a hypochondriac. silly sarah.
But I digress... the subway scares the hell out of me. And I realized today after 2 years of riding it everyday for at least an hour a day-- New Yorkers are scary. I mean forget what you see on Sex and the City. There are a hell of a lot of fug and crazy people here. Seriously, New York City is probably the only place on earth where you can see a guy who is dressed all nice and could probably be a Calvin Klein underwear model, but then when you take a closer look, you see that he's reading Hop on Pop, holding the book upside down and singing to himself in Turkish. Yeah I'm not kidding. This happened to me. I have found that native New Yorkers are a bit more normal, but the scary thing is is that sometimes the tourists are the most normal people walking these streets.
Not that I'm trying to give the tourists any credit here. They annoy me to no end. I just feel bad because I know when I first got here, I was probably exactly like them. You know the types- stopping at the top, or bottom of the stairs at the subway. Winding back and forth on the sidewalk, walking slow as hell in a line of 4 so no one can get past... Yeah you know you did it when you visited here.. They all wear stupid hats too. No one in New York wears a hat. Not a winter one anyway. And the worst are tourists that you spot from a few feet away and you know, through some New Yorker's instinct, that these people will somehow be in your way for the next 10 minutes. Even if you cross the street, they'll cross too and cut you off and then stop in the middle of the sidewalk, etc. I think people should take tests to be able to come visit here. The test will be called "How not to be an idiot; or Sarah's guide to not getting on her nerves"
I know I'm a grumble bunny right now. I still don't feel well. And I'm praying that my cough is gone by Saturday, because I really don't want to be the cough-sniffle person at the opera that I'm always shushing.... :-/
But two happy updates- I did my taxes all by my little self! And according to Turbo Tax, who gave me another chance, my Federal return was accepted, which means I should be getting some money back. Swimming pools... movie stars.... I'm going to keep my return in safe keeping though, in case the IRS determines that I'm a fuck-up unless I'm filing government papers while drunk and I need the money for bail or something. Or booze. :-/
2nd update- today is my son, mr. phone the second's 1 week birthday. He is without scratches or bruises or broken parts. Must send him a card.... His older brother, mr. phone the first, is being kept in a jar on my kitchen counter. I just can't bear to get rid of him....
So I think I should've listened to my gut instead of my shoe, because I lasted only about 30 minutes at the gym before I decided to call it a night. And most of that 30 minutes was spent yapping. So I hop on the 1 train, determined to connect at 72nd street. On the way up, I had two of the worse subway offenders near me. On one side was a guy who must've pissed his girlfriend off, because she must've sewn shrimp shells and garlic cloves into his jacket lining and he just must not be able to tell. Holy god. Take a shower. On the other side I had side-winder. I use this term to describe the person who falls asleep and winds from side to side and inevitably ends up leaning on you, or worse yet, resting their head on you. Then you try to shift ever so slightly to get them to wake up, because although you want to shove them, you don't want to start something, especially because the side-winders are usually scary mofos. So I connect at 72nd and hop on the 2 train, which I normally take to 135th.
Then it happened... I became a hypocrite. Somewhere between 96th and 110th I fell asleep. And I used Michelin-Man-Puffy-Coat next to me as a pillow. The creepy/interesting/comfortable thing about it was that he let me. He departed the train at 125, slightly tapping my arm to tell me he was leaving. Oh please don't go.. I'm so tired... you are so comfy.... Oh fine. Leave. See if I care. Your posture was horrible anyway so my neck was craned all weird. So Michelin-Man was replaced by lady with scary fur coat, whom I was determined not to fall asleep on for fear of getting a hairball or something. I still drifted off, but against the bar at the end of the aisle.
So I sleep right through my stop...... and through the concurrent 13 stops or so. And I wake up at- get this- Gun Hill Road. Now, when you're an SWF in New York City and you're on the 2 train, you're scared enough. Now- imagine having all that going for you, but now you're in the Bronx at a friggin stop called GUN HILL ROAD. Cripes! So I get off at that stop and try to act all non-chalant, trying not to burst into tears. With my luck there aren't going to be anymore trains and I'll be stuck in the friggin Bronx for the rest of my life. Easy for Yankee games and easy for early mortality. Luckily a downtown 2 train came within 15 minutes so I got on that, which was, for some reason, packed. BUT- the awesome thing was that the singing hobos were there! I gave them a dollar and requested Sweet Adeline again. I love that song. They didn't know it, so they offered me my dollar back. How honest. "No," I said. "Keep it and buy yourself something nice". I wonder if they'll go for Absolut or Ketel One. Then they started singing Rockin' Robin and I laughed my ass off at the irony of it all. (For those of you that don't know, you-know-who dumped me on the dance floor of a Bar Mitzvah while that song was playing... pretty friggin funny when you think about it ;)
UPDATE: apparently I should've been perfectly OK with being in the middle of nowhere, in the Bronx, despite the fact that when I left the subway station to ask for directions, I was hassled no less than 7 times. I guess I'm just overreacting. Being told "I'm going to spit on you, cracker" should not have upset me. Got it. mmhmm. Should have taken it as the charm of NYC. And not as a hepatitis risk.. haha I'm such a hypochondriac. silly sarah.
But I digress... the subway scares the hell out of me. And I realized today after 2 years of riding it everyday for at least an hour a day-- New Yorkers are scary. I mean forget what you see on Sex and the City. There are a hell of a lot of fug and crazy people here. Seriously, New York City is probably the only place on earth where you can see a guy who is dressed all nice and could probably be a Calvin Klein underwear model, but then when you take a closer look, you see that he's reading Hop on Pop, holding the book upside down and singing to himself in Turkish. Yeah I'm not kidding. This happened to me. I have found that native New Yorkers are a bit more normal, but the scary thing is is that sometimes the tourists are the most normal people walking these streets.
Not that I'm trying to give the tourists any credit here. They annoy me to no end. I just feel bad because I know when I first got here, I was probably exactly like them. You know the types- stopping at the top, or bottom of the stairs at the subway. Winding back and forth on the sidewalk, walking slow as hell in a line of 4 so no one can get past... Yeah you know you did it when you visited here.. They all wear stupid hats too. No one in New York wears a hat. Not a winter one anyway. And the worst are tourists that you spot from a few feet away and you know, through some New Yorker's instinct, that these people will somehow be in your way for the next 10 minutes. Even if you cross the street, they'll cross too and cut you off and then stop in the middle of the sidewalk, etc. I think people should take tests to be able to come visit here. The test will be called "How not to be an idiot; or Sarah's guide to not getting on her nerves"
I know I'm a grumble bunny right now. I still don't feel well. And I'm praying that my cough is gone by Saturday, because I really don't want to be the cough-sniffle person at the opera that I'm always shushing.... :-/
But two happy updates- I did my taxes all by my little self! And according to Turbo Tax, who gave me another chance, my Federal return was accepted, which means I should be getting some money back. Swimming pools... movie stars.... I'm going to keep my return in safe keeping though, in case the IRS determines that I'm a fuck-up unless I'm filing government papers while drunk and I need the money for bail or something. Or booze. :-/
2nd update- today is my son, mr. phone the second's 1 week birthday. He is without scratches or bruises or broken parts. Must send him a card.... His older brother, mr. phone the first, is being kept in a jar on my kitchen counter. I just can't bear to get rid of him....
Evolution of a Day
Alright I have to do my taxes. Let's see. I was going to go to H & R Blockhead but I read that they're like $300. Shit. no thanks. And I really shouldn't be doing this on company time, but I have stolen internet so I don't want my tax info floating around out there for mr. hackers to get.
Ok Turbo Tax. $14.95. Alright, now we're talking. Let's put this out on the table first though- two years ago I e-filed my taxes when I was completely shit-faced. I got back like $900. Last year I did them sober and it said I owed like $4000. (then you-know-whos accountant fixed it for me and I only owed like $500). The moral of this story? Do everything drunk. You will receive money.
Alright.... entering personal information in. My name. Check. Date of Birth. Check. Christ I'm getting old. I'll be 26 in 76 days. Mark your calendars. Address. Check. Ok what form am I filling out? 1040EZ. I want to kick the IRS's ass for using the 'EZ' part because stuff like that annoys me. Ok am I single or head of household? There's something so 1950s about that term, I love it. Ok single. Do I qualify for an Earned Income Tax Credit? I have no idea. I think I should. I work hard for my money. I drag my ass in here no matter what (which usually means when I'm completely hungover and/or am still wearing the same clothes as yesterday..) Ok I don't qualify for that. Damn. Do I pay alimony? Haha no. What a ripoff. People need to get prenups. Military service? Well I got a cab driver arrested for making terroristic threats. Does that count? Ok done that part. Next...
Ok employer's identification number. Where is that? Halp! Oh ok box B. Check. But wait I had two different employers this year.... Shit all these forms have my old address on them still. What do I do now? Help me TurboTax! Ok continuing. This could get interesting. When they haul my ass off to tax jail, please come visit me.
Wait a minute, why should I have to fill all this stuff out? The government is the one who sends me this info, why do I need to repeat it back to them? They know what I made and how much money they withheld. Why are they asking me? Did they lose the information? That's just plain irresponsible. Are they testing me to see if I can locate Box B and accurately read the letters inside of it and be able to type them into a computer? It's not that hard, this stuff isn't written in Klingon or anything. I mean sure, if you're one of those people with 4 kids, 3 of which were foreign born, and you're recently widowed and have multiple investments and you served in Vietnam, then yes I see why you'd need to do all this. But me? I'm a simple person. I'm not mathematically or economically inclined. Hence why I work in finance. If I weren't worried about my pothead neighbor lighting the building up while trying to light his bong, I'd probably keep my money under my mattress. My idea of an investment is giving 25 cents to the singing hobos in the subway and requesting "Sweet Adeline". Then they mess it up because one starts singing "This Little Light of Mine". Then I laugh and give them more money. I like being an enabler.
But wait, I have money in a couple of mutual funds from a previous employer and some in my trust fund. Do I have to declare those? Will they find out if I don't? It's not much... Maybe I should make my Mom do my taxes again. She did them all when I was in college and grad school. But my parents aren't answering their phone. I hope they didn't end up getting cabin fever and using their newly bought rifle. No, must remain optimistic. I'm sure the snow and tornados just brought the telephone lines down. Either that or their house was overrun by antelope and coyotes. bark bark.
Shit, I have to have my last year's returns? I don't know where they are. Probably at you-know-whos house. Damn.... What does that matter what I paid or got back last year anyway? Let bygones be bygones... Mr. government if you keep dwelling in the past, we will never achieve progress. Then Walt Disney will be unhappy. Have any of you ever been on the Carousel of Progress in the Magic Kingdom? I went once and had the damn song stuck in my head for about 2 years. I wanted to go and rip the heads off those damn animatronics.
Ok do I have any deductions? Medical? No. Yay for health insurance. Shit, when I go back to school I'm going to be without it. Hmmm not safe. I think I'm too old to be on my parents' insurance.. Maybe I'll post a Craigslist ad. Will marry for health insurance. I'll trade you a green card. You're not allowed to touch me though. Continuing... Moving expenses? Well I moved this year, but I think it's only deductible if it was work-related. It's expensive as hell to move. I only had to pay because you-know-who was supposed to help me and then backed out because he's a jackass. Maybe I should charge my moving expenses to him. Fool. I had to pay Big John's like $400. They did a damn good job though. I gave them beer.
Ok I took too long and now Turbo Tax has logged me out. Fuck it, I'm going to H & R Blockhead. The $300 will be well worth avoiding this torture. I'd do them drunk again, but like I said, I'd only do this stuff on my work computer and being drunk at work is not as fun as it sounds, because you get really testy when people start asking you for stuff. At least I do. Maybe I'm a mean drunk, I don't know. You tell me.
Ok Turbo Tax. $14.95. Alright, now we're talking. Let's put this out on the table first though- two years ago I e-filed my taxes when I was completely shit-faced. I got back like $900. Last year I did them sober and it said I owed like $4000. (then you-know-whos accountant fixed it for me and I only owed like $500). The moral of this story? Do everything drunk. You will receive money.
Alright.... entering personal information in. My name. Check. Date of Birth. Check. Christ I'm getting old. I'll be 26 in 76 days. Mark your calendars. Address. Check. Ok what form am I filling out? 1040EZ. I want to kick the IRS's ass for using the 'EZ' part because stuff like that annoys me. Ok am I single or head of household? There's something so 1950s about that term, I love it. Ok single. Do I qualify for an Earned Income Tax Credit? I have no idea. I think I should. I work hard for my money. I drag my ass in here no matter what (which usually means when I'm completely hungover and/or am still wearing the same clothes as yesterday..) Ok I don't qualify for that. Damn. Do I pay alimony? Haha no. What a ripoff. People need to get prenups. Military service? Well I got a cab driver arrested for making terroristic threats. Does that count? Ok done that part. Next...
Ok employer's identification number. Where is that? Halp! Oh ok box B. Check. But wait I had two different employers this year.... Shit all these forms have my old address on them still. What do I do now? Help me TurboTax! Ok continuing. This could get interesting. When they haul my ass off to tax jail, please come visit me.
Wait a minute, why should I have to fill all this stuff out? The government is the one who sends me this info, why do I need to repeat it back to them? They know what I made and how much money they withheld. Why are they asking me? Did they lose the information? That's just plain irresponsible. Are they testing me to see if I can locate Box B and accurately read the letters inside of it and be able to type them into a computer? It's not that hard, this stuff isn't written in Klingon or anything. I mean sure, if you're one of those people with 4 kids, 3 of which were foreign born, and you're recently widowed and have multiple investments and you served in Vietnam, then yes I see why you'd need to do all this. But me? I'm a simple person. I'm not mathematically or economically inclined. Hence why I work in finance. If I weren't worried about my pothead neighbor lighting the building up while trying to light his bong, I'd probably keep my money under my mattress. My idea of an investment is giving 25 cents to the singing hobos in the subway and requesting "Sweet Adeline". Then they mess it up because one starts singing "This Little Light of Mine". Then I laugh and give them more money. I like being an enabler.
But wait, I have money in a couple of mutual funds from a previous employer and some in my trust fund. Do I have to declare those? Will they find out if I don't? It's not much... Maybe I should make my Mom do my taxes again. She did them all when I was in college and grad school. But my parents aren't answering their phone. I hope they didn't end up getting cabin fever and using their newly bought rifle. No, must remain optimistic. I'm sure the snow and tornados just brought the telephone lines down. Either that or their house was overrun by antelope and coyotes. bark bark.
Shit, I have to have my last year's returns? I don't know where they are. Probably at you-know-whos house. Damn.... What does that matter what I paid or got back last year anyway? Let bygones be bygones... Mr. government if you keep dwelling in the past, we will never achieve progress. Then Walt Disney will be unhappy. Have any of you ever been on the Carousel of Progress in the Magic Kingdom? I went once and had the damn song stuck in my head for about 2 years. I wanted to go and rip the heads off those damn animatronics.
Ok do I have any deductions? Medical? No. Yay for health insurance. Shit, when I go back to school I'm going to be without it. Hmmm not safe. I think I'm too old to be on my parents' insurance.. Maybe I'll post a Craigslist ad. Will marry for health insurance. I'll trade you a green card. You're not allowed to touch me though. Continuing... Moving expenses? Well I moved this year, but I think it's only deductible if it was work-related. It's expensive as hell to move. I only had to pay because you-know-who was supposed to help me and then backed out because he's a jackass. Maybe I should charge my moving expenses to him. Fool. I had to pay Big John's like $400. They did a damn good job though. I gave them beer.
Ok I took too long and now Turbo Tax has logged me out. Fuck it, I'm going to H & R Blockhead. The $300 will be well worth avoiding this torture. I'd do them drunk again, but like I said, I'd only do this stuff on my work computer and being drunk at work is not as fun as it sounds, because you get really testy when people start asking you for stuff. At least I do. Maybe I'm a mean drunk, I don't know. You tell me.
Fidgeters
I was next to a fidgeter on the train this morning. I thought the trains were going to be empty because of the holiday, but of course Metropolitan Transit has its lovely delays. So the train was packed and I'm budged in between mother-of-6 and fidgeter.
He really got on my nerves. I'm sure I'm being completely petulant, but when it's 10 am and I haven't really slept and I know I have an hour at the gym to deal with, you're kinda gonna get to me.
So he's reading his Daily News, and then reaching for his Ipod. Oh and then he wants to see if his phone has a signal. And his hip itches him. And he needs to rummage around in his bag for his cheap-ass NYU Philosophy books. And oops are his spectacles in his jacket pocket? well, not in this one, maybe the other. Oh wait, not there, maybe they actually were in the first one.. And now he's uncomfortable. And then he glares at me like I'm taking up too much space when actually despite my gargantuan frame I'm only taking up one seat on the 1 train and he's taking up 1.5.... So oh goodness he thinks he has to write something down now. Fidget, fidget, looking for a pen. What does he have to write? "Need to buy cigarettes". Klassy my friend. Quite.
Now my elbow is out, challenging him. If he can play this game, for the love of god, so can I. I'm using all the strength in my arms, and getting quite a bicep and tricep exercise by fighting against him. All this time I'm holding my coffee, praying it doesn't spill all over anyone.
Mr. Fidgeter, you looked like the glasses-wearing nazi from Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Regardless, you are not what set me off tonight. Mr. phone is completely ruined at this point. Seriously. Mr. phone looks like a cross between an Andy Warhol and a Jackson Pollock painting. Who cares.
UPDATE: I have replaced mr. phone with mr. phone II. His legal name is Sony Ericsson and he has a camera. Now during meetings I can secretly take pictures of people's shoes and send them to you all. Then we can meet and discuss my coworkers' choice in fashion. It will be fun. byob.
He really got on my nerves. I'm sure I'm being completely petulant, but when it's 10 am and I haven't really slept and I know I have an hour at the gym to deal with, you're kinda gonna get to me.
So he's reading his Daily News, and then reaching for his Ipod. Oh and then he wants to see if his phone has a signal. And his hip itches him. And he needs to rummage around in his bag for his cheap-ass NYU Philosophy books. And oops are his spectacles in his jacket pocket? well, not in this one, maybe the other. Oh wait, not there, maybe they actually were in the first one.. And now he's uncomfortable. And then he glares at me like I'm taking up too much space when actually despite my gargantuan frame I'm only taking up one seat on the 1 train and he's taking up 1.5.... So oh goodness he thinks he has to write something down now. Fidget, fidget, looking for a pen. What does he have to write? "Need to buy cigarettes". Klassy my friend. Quite.
Now my elbow is out, challenging him. If he can play this game, for the love of god, so can I. I'm using all the strength in my arms, and getting quite a bicep and tricep exercise by fighting against him. All this time I'm holding my coffee, praying it doesn't spill all over anyone.
Mr. Fidgeter, you looked like the glasses-wearing nazi from Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Regardless, you are not what set me off tonight. Mr. phone is completely ruined at this point. Seriously. Mr. phone looks like a cross between an Andy Warhol and a Jackson Pollock painting. Who cares.
UPDATE: I have replaced mr. phone with mr. phone II. His legal name is Sony Ericsson and he has a camera. Now during meetings I can secretly take pictures of people's shoes and send them to you all. Then we can meet and discuss my coworkers' choice in fashion. It will be fun. byob.
Complete.. complete randomness
Complete, complete randomness......Read on, moppets.
So some guy who lives down the hallway wears Stetson. I know because it stanks up the hall every evening. I really want to go down and ask him why he wears it. Stetson is the nastiest crap ever if you ask me and I think a good bottle of Hugo Boss is a much better investment than the flowers and chocolates you'd have to send a girl to get her to go out with you again after you wear Stetson (or, quite frankly, anything from the Coty family of fragrance).
Hugo Boss is good stuff. So is Paco Rabanne... And flowers and chocolates have never gotten me to go out with a guy again, especially when I didn't want to in the first place. A bit too cliche. Whatever happened to singing telegrams?
Stetson reminds me of the redneck Navy boy I went out with in DC. He had a boa constrictor. No that is not a metaphor. He actually had a live snake. My mom made me dump him because he was an enlisted man and she had married one and said you never go out with a guy in the armed forces who wasn't an officer. He was ok though. He took me to Sears and bought me socks. And drove a white pickup. But he also took me to Applebees and that was a deal breaker. (I don't do chain restaurants, after all the health department reports I've heard about)
So he wore Stetson and the bottle fell once and broke all over my favorite jeans. So I smelled like Stetson for the next six months, regardless of multiple washings. Nazty. I used to have to go to the petstore and watch him pick out the little meeces he was going to feed to his snake. Broke my heart. Poor things.
My other neighbor is a huge pothead. At least he's entertaining and doesn't get mad when I bang on his door at 3am and tell him to turn that damn Bob Marley down. Fuck. That shit has ruined all my future trips to Cancun.
So I'm watching NipTuck 2nd season right now, and Christian just found out that Matt is his biological son. oops, spoiler alert to anyone who hasn't seen it. Christ that's irresponsible. The kid is 16... Fuck what just happened. My DVD player just stopped working again. Christmas on a Cracker this is frustrating. Anyway, I think it's ridiculous if you don't know if you have a kid. One of my professors in grad school found out he had a 3 year old... Idiot. Don't people know about birth control? I may be a Republican but I'm a realist too. Geez.
So my mom's coming to visit in June and she suggests doing some cathartic ritual to get rid of any remnants of you-know-who. Really must come up with a better name for him.. Most of you know his name, but saying it, or actually even typing it makes me want to hurl. She wants to burn all photographs and notes and presents. I've done most of that already though. I'm keeping the earrings however, or at least pawning them.... At least the text messages have stopped for the evening. Poor mr. phone couldn't take it anymore. Not that it was all you-know-who's fault. Men are just frustrating in general. I'd give my left kidney to find a guy who can actually say what he means. And my liver too, cos that's probably fucked already. I was drinking wine while playing Mario Cart earlier. It rocked. I won. I was Yoshi. Of course I was playing against a 7 year old and probably got entirely too jubilant in beating him at the game. Christ I probably wrecked the poor guy's self esteem... oh don't call Child's Services, the kid wasn't drinking the wine.
Thank god tomorrow's Friday. This was the longest week of my life I think. I'm so glad it's a 3 day weekend too! Have many exciting plans. Well maybe I'm being presumptive. Ugh. I'm metaphorically cutting my kidney out as we speak. This is a question I'd like to ask several people right now, for several different reasons-- "What do you want?". Being led on is no fun, nor is being left in the dark. I'll give you on example, for your viewing pleasure. My mom, for instance, keeps bugging me about my future and what I'm doing with my life. Christ I don't even know, Mom. What are you doing with YOUR life? Yeah. Touche. fuck. But regardless, am going somewhat out of town for the weekend. We'll see. I'm quite optimistic, but I'm afraid perhaps I'm jumping the gun a bit here.... Seems to be going completely back and forth right now. So maybe I need to tone it down and actually listen to my head instead of my heart. The worst is when you give your heart and have the guy be like "oh wait, I thought you knew you were one of 10 chicks I'm screwin' right now". I don't play that game. We're friggin adults here. Say what you mean, from the get-go.
Perhaps I should take up both of Bridget Jones's resolutions.. Maybe not lose 20 pounds.. 10 should be ok. Maybe. You tell me. But with the other ones? I don't mind alcoholics, as long as they're not violent or have huge beer guts... :-p Don't mind workaholics because I admire a man with ambition. Commitment phobics? Depends if I want the commitment as well, and right now I don't. Peeping toms are out- yuck. Megalomaniacs? I don't even know what that means. Emotional fuckwits- oh I definitely need to get rid of them. In the past 3 months my emotions have been twisted in every way possible. It sucks to think one minute that you're cared about and the next minute that someone could really give a damn. Men really need to realize the effect their actions and words have on women. We misinterpret everything- you really need to be more clear here. Christ. And perverts, yes the world, and my life specifically, could do without them too.
We'll see.
I think this qualifies me as breaking my second resolution. What's with me and breaking stuff? I break resolutions, commandments, mr. phones, etc. Haven't broken a law, except if you count jaywalking or something. Oh and that whole drunk driving thing, except no one found out... (or got hurt. calm down)
I got caught in the damn snow earlier. I think I'm dying of dysentery now. Sorry Zeke.
So some guy who lives down the hallway wears Stetson. I know because it stanks up the hall every evening. I really want to go down and ask him why he wears it. Stetson is the nastiest crap ever if you ask me and I think a good bottle of Hugo Boss is a much better investment than the flowers and chocolates you'd have to send a girl to get her to go out with you again after you wear Stetson (or, quite frankly, anything from the Coty family of fragrance).
Hugo Boss is good stuff. So is Paco Rabanne... And flowers and chocolates have never gotten me to go out with a guy again, especially when I didn't want to in the first place. A bit too cliche. Whatever happened to singing telegrams?
Stetson reminds me of the redneck Navy boy I went out with in DC. He had a boa constrictor. No that is not a metaphor. He actually had a live snake. My mom made me dump him because he was an enlisted man and she had married one and said you never go out with a guy in the armed forces who wasn't an officer. He was ok though. He took me to Sears and bought me socks. And drove a white pickup. But he also took me to Applebees and that was a deal breaker. (I don't do chain restaurants, after all the health department reports I've heard about)
So he wore Stetson and the bottle fell once and broke all over my favorite jeans. So I smelled like Stetson for the next six months, regardless of multiple washings. Nazty. I used to have to go to the petstore and watch him pick out the little meeces he was going to feed to his snake. Broke my heart. Poor things.
My other neighbor is a huge pothead. At least he's entertaining and doesn't get mad when I bang on his door at 3am and tell him to turn that damn Bob Marley down. Fuck. That shit has ruined all my future trips to Cancun.
So I'm watching NipTuck 2nd season right now, and Christian just found out that Matt is his biological son. oops, spoiler alert to anyone who hasn't seen it. Christ that's irresponsible. The kid is 16... Fuck what just happened. My DVD player just stopped working again. Christmas on a Cracker this is frustrating. Anyway, I think it's ridiculous if you don't know if you have a kid. One of my professors in grad school found out he had a 3 year old... Idiot. Don't people know about birth control? I may be a Republican but I'm a realist too. Geez.
So my mom's coming to visit in June and she suggests doing some cathartic ritual to get rid of any remnants of you-know-who. Really must come up with a better name for him.. Most of you know his name, but saying it, or actually even typing it makes me want to hurl. She wants to burn all photographs and notes and presents. I've done most of that already though. I'm keeping the earrings however, or at least pawning them.... At least the text messages have stopped for the evening. Poor mr. phone couldn't take it anymore. Not that it was all you-know-who's fault. Men are just frustrating in general. I'd give my left kidney to find a guy who can actually say what he means. And my liver too, cos that's probably fucked already. I was drinking wine while playing Mario Cart earlier. It rocked. I won. I was Yoshi. Of course I was playing against a 7 year old and probably got entirely too jubilant in beating him at the game. Christ I probably wrecked the poor guy's self esteem... oh don't call Child's Services, the kid wasn't drinking the wine.
Thank god tomorrow's Friday. This was the longest week of my life I think. I'm so glad it's a 3 day weekend too! Have many exciting plans. Well maybe I'm being presumptive. Ugh. I'm metaphorically cutting my kidney out as we speak. This is a question I'd like to ask several people right now, for several different reasons-- "What do you want?". Being led on is no fun, nor is being left in the dark. I'll give you on example, for your viewing pleasure. My mom, for instance, keeps bugging me about my future and what I'm doing with my life. Christ I don't even know, Mom. What are you doing with YOUR life? Yeah. Touche. fuck. But regardless, am going somewhat out of town for the weekend. We'll see. I'm quite optimistic, but I'm afraid perhaps I'm jumping the gun a bit here.... Seems to be going completely back and forth right now. So maybe I need to tone it down and actually listen to my head instead of my heart. The worst is when you give your heart and have the guy be like "oh wait, I thought you knew you were one of 10 chicks I'm screwin' right now". I don't play that game. We're friggin adults here. Say what you mean, from the get-go.
Perhaps I should take up both of Bridget Jones's resolutions.. Maybe not lose 20 pounds.. 10 should be ok. Maybe. You tell me. But with the other ones? I don't mind alcoholics, as long as they're not violent or have huge beer guts... :-p Don't mind workaholics because I admire a man with ambition. Commitment phobics? Depends if I want the commitment as well, and right now I don't. Peeping toms are out- yuck. Megalomaniacs? I don't even know what that means. Emotional fuckwits- oh I definitely need to get rid of them. In the past 3 months my emotions have been twisted in every way possible. It sucks to think one minute that you're cared about and the next minute that someone could really give a damn. Men really need to realize the effect their actions and words have on women. We misinterpret everything- you really need to be more clear here. Christ. And perverts, yes the world, and my life specifically, could do without them too.
We'll see.
I think this qualifies me as breaking my second resolution. What's with me and breaking stuff? I break resolutions, commandments, mr. phones, etc. Haven't broken a law, except if you count jaywalking or something. Oh and that whole drunk driving thing, except no one found out... (or got hurt. calm down)
I got caught in the damn snow earlier. I think I'm dying of dysentery now. Sorry Zeke.
Blew it...
i broke my resolution already. i threw mr. phone. Maybe there's some group for me to join. i looked up the "phone throwers anonymous" website, but it sent me to the PTA website and both mr. phone and myself were forced to kick my own ass for looking at that damn soccer mom minivan site.
ick.
double ick.
At least I didn't seem to cause further damage. Mr. phone is still available to receive all useless messages, mixed signals and calls from my lawyer demanding payment. shit.
"please don't call me pinhead" - 10 points if you get that reference.
step 9... step 9...UPDATE: Got one of the aforementioned useless messages from you-know-who. Does anyone know how to block certain numbers from contacting you? Arrg this is so frustrating. Fuck it, I'm going to play the Geography game and then go get shit-faced during lunch. http://mentalfloss.com/geographyzone/
ick.
double ick.
At least I didn't seem to cause further damage. Mr. phone is still available to receive all useless messages, mixed signals and calls from my lawyer demanding payment. shit.
"please don't call me pinhead" - 10 points if you get that reference.
step 9... step 9...UPDATE: Got one of the aforementioned useless messages from you-know-who. Does anyone know how to block certain numbers from contacting you? Arrg this is so frustrating. Fuck it, I'm going to play the Geography game and then go get shit-faced during lunch. http://mentalfloss.com/geographyzone/
Resolutions
I don't usually make New Year's resolutions. But this year I did and have already broken them.
So I'm watching Bridget Jones's Diary last night, and it got me to thinking about resolutions again. (Specifically from her quote- "Resolution number one: Obviously will lose twenty pounds. Number two: Equally important, will find sensible boyfriend to go out with and not continue to form romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits or perverts.")
Now I don't want to lose 20 pounds. (I like beer too much and I'm pretty much ok with how I look). And while her second resolution is vaguely applicable, I will say that my resolution is to stop breaking my phone.
I don't get angry very easily. But when I do, I don't shout. I don't scream and rant. (I'm loud already) I don't punch walls (ouch!) Or people (illegal). I don't break dishes (such a waste!) and I don't throw clothes out on the lawn (because I don't have a lawn.) I handle most disagreements and arguments with a good amount of maturity I like to think.
However, I do one thing- I throw my phone. Not at anyone, just down. And it breaks. I guess I'm strong. Also, I'm throwing with the arm that sustained 8 years of fast pitch in high school and college softball.
Said throwings are usually in response to a bad conversation or text message, or even the lack of a message when one is desperately needed or wanted. Yes I realize that this contradicts my declaration of maturity previously mentioned, but shut up, you're not perfect either.
So poor mr. phone was thrown last night. It still 'works', but now I can't see who is calling, what time it is, or if I have a message. This worries me because if you-know-who calls, now I won't know whether to answer it or not. And I can't figure out how program it to where I have to press "send" or some other button to actually be able to pick up the call.
Please don't mistake me for some wild-eyed crazy phone thrower. And please do not report me to the AT&T police. This is only the second time it's happened, and I promise baby, it's the last. I hate myself for having done it. I'm just going to tell my friends that mr. phone accidentally tripped and fell down the stairs again. They believed it last time.
Now we won't get into what set me off to where mr. phone took the brunt of my frustration.. But must find another way to vent. I would do yoga or pilates, but then I'd have to kick my own ass for joining that crowd. My friend Brent says I should take up hittin' the bong, but gasoline fumes are the only thing I want clogging up my lungs and giving me consumption. Other people say do meditation and chants, but sitting in a lotus flower position I think is honestly one of the few things that would eventually make me blow my brains out. My boss said get a Self Help book, but I won't do that on the principle that the genre is an oxymoron. I think George Carlin said this- but a book telling you how to help your self is not 'self help'. It's help! Others said just to hit the sauce more. I'm seriously considering that one.. ;)
I suppose I could buy padding for my floor and walls to protect mr. phone from breaking, but I think anyone who came to my house and saw padded walls would sigh, shake their head and say "figures." And then they wouldn't be my friend anymore.
Additional to that, a second resolution would be to stay away from MySpace when I am mad and/or drunk. This is how you know it's the 21st century kids-- gone are the classic times where boys and girls would go to the drug store and share a soda with two straws and then go clubbing with their friends later and drunk dial their exes. I dominated the drunk texting phenomenon. Dabbled in drunk emailing (luckily both of which were usually too illegible to actually get me in any sort of trouble). Seriously considered drunk smoke signaling. Now it's the drunk MySpace blog postings. Cripes. These usually only happen when I am angry and have had a few (like the other night), but for fear of alienating Tom or prospective new friends, I think I shall refrain from those from now on. I don't like to be angry and I don't like to sound angry- it's unbecoming and contradicts my smiley default picture. And God forbid someone see them and tell my father the language I'm using. He'd bring Father Karras over and do an exorcism. Wait.. Father Karras died at the end of the Exorcist... Well James Woods from the Scary Movie version then. That'd be sweet.
So those are my resolutions- 1) stop throwing mr. phone. 2) stop drunkMyspacing. I'm willing to take bets on how long both of these will last. I'll give you 3 to 1 odds.
So I'm watching Bridget Jones's Diary last night, and it got me to thinking about resolutions again. (Specifically from her quote- "Resolution number one: Obviously will lose twenty pounds. Number two: Equally important, will find sensible boyfriend to go out with and not continue to form romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits or perverts.")
Now I don't want to lose 20 pounds. (I like beer too much and I'm pretty much ok with how I look). And while her second resolution is vaguely applicable, I will say that my resolution is to stop breaking my phone.
I don't get angry very easily. But when I do, I don't shout. I don't scream and rant. (I'm loud already) I don't punch walls (ouch!) Or people (illegal). I don't break dishes (such a waste!) and I don't throw clothes out on the lawn (because I don't have a lawn.) I handle most disagreements and arguments with a good amount of maturity I like to think.
However, I do one thing- I throw my phone. Not at anyone, just down. And it breaks. I guess I'm strong. Also, I'm throwing with the arm that sustained 8 years of fast pitch in high school and college softball.
Said throwings are usually in response to a bad conversation or text message, or even the lack of a message when one is desperately needed or wanted. Yes I realize that this contradicts my declaration of maturity previously mentioned, but shut up, you're not perfect either.
So poor mr. phone was thrown last night. It still 'works', but now I can't see who is calling, what time it is, or if I have a message. This worries me because if you-know-who calls, now I won't know whether to answer it or not. And I can't figure out how program it to where I have to press "send" or some other button to actually be able to pick up the call.
Please don't mistake me for some wild-eyed crazy phone thrower. And please do not report me to the AT&T police. This is only the second time it's happened, and I promise baby, it's the last. I hate myself for having done it. I'm just going to tell my friends that mr. phone accidentally tripped and fell down the stairs again. They believed it last time.
Now we won't get into what set me off to where mr. phone took the brunt of my frustration.. But must find another way to vent. I would do yoga or pilates, but then I'd have to kick my own ass for joining that crowd. My friend Brent says I should take up hittin' the bong, but gasoline fumes are the only thing I want clogging up my lungs and giving me consumption. Other people say do meditation and chants, but sitting in a lotus flower position I think is honestly one of the few things that would eventually make me blow my brains out. My boss said get a Self Help book, but I won't do that on the principle that the genre is an oxymoron. I think George Carlin said this- but a book telling you how to help your self is not 'self help'. It's help! Others said just to hit the sauce more. I'm seriously considering that one.. ;)
I suppose I could buy padding for my floor and walls to protect mr. phone from breaking, but I think anyone who came to my house and saw padded walls would sigh, shake their head and say "figures." And then they wouldn't be my friend anymore.
Additional to that, a second resolution would be to stay away from MySpace when I am mad and/or drunk. This is how you know it's the 21st century kids-- gone are the classic times where boys and girls would go to the drug store and share a soda with two straws and then go clubbing with their friends later and drunk dial their exes. I dominated the drunk texting phenomenon. Dabbled in drunk emailing (luckily both of which were usually too illegible to actually get me in any sort of trouble). Seriously considered drunk smoke signaling. Now it's the drunk MySpace blog postings. Cripes. These usually only happen when I am angry and have had a few (like the other night), but for fear of alienating Tom or prospective new friends, I think I shall refrain from those from now on. I don't like to be angry and I don't like to sound angry- it's unbecoming and contradicts my smiley default picture. And God forbid someone see them and tell my father the language I'm using. He'd bring Father Karras over and do an exorcism. Wait.. Father Karras died at the end of the Exorcist... Well James Woods from the Scary Movie version then. That'd be sweet.
So those are my resolutions- 1) stop throwing mr. phone. 2) stop drunkMyspacing. I'm willing to take bets on how long both of these will last. I'll give you 3 to 1 odds.
I blame British Telecom
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
-TS Eliot
Cerchi invan difesa e scusa, il tuo ceffo già t'accusa,
vedo ben che vuoi mentir.
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
-TS Eliot
Cerchi invan difesa e scusa, il tuo ceffo già t'accusa,
vedo ben che vuoi mentir.
arrrrg
Oh goodness what a morning I've had.
Spent over an hour and a half on the phone with AmEx trying to sort out a fraudulant charge on my card (they kept acting like they didn't believe me). So they ended up cancelling my card while they ran an investigation. But they didn't inform me that they were cancelling it. So when I went to buy my contacts online, I was declined! Dammit. Thank god I bought my groceries last night, otherwise I'd be without food for the next week.
Then, got an email from you-know-who, trying to be all nice. WTF is he trying to play here? I don't know if I need a lawyer or an exorcist to deal with this moron. You can't screw me over and then act like nothing ever happened. I'm trying now to get all contact from him blocked. Yes, extreme measures, but I'm through playing games here. Christ. I think he must be schizophrenic.
Ok I'm going to watch this Seinfeld clip now and try to cheer up.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=caoYdiq3kak
know what? scratch that. I'm going to La Petite Coquette to get something cute to wear on Saturday
Omens
Ok there's a lot of things I believe in- Heaven, hell, the Easter bunny, that if you put an empty milk carton back into the fridge that it will refill itself, justice, ghosts, OJ did it and that you should always drink for what ails you.
There's plenty of things I don't believe in- fate, superstition, aliens, out of body experiences, using pencil instead of pen while doing a crossword and the efficacy of our postal system.
And one last thing I don't believe in- Omens. I think it's silly that people never see anything as an omen unless they're looking back. They say "oh well now I see it, what so-and-so said or what happened was definitely an omen". Just because things work out in strange ways or as a coincidence. To me it's all rubbish. Soothsayers went out a long time ago, so don't be giving me your Ides of March preachings.
However----
I remember my dreams in vivid detail. Last night I dreamt that I was at a roadside cafe with my father (who had just driven up in a fire engine, strange considering he is not a fire fighter nor would he be able to operate a vehicle of those proportions since he can barely manage a sedan). The waitress came up to me and said: "I don't think you realize the hard journey you have ahead of you".
And then I woke up.
Huh????!! What??!!!Cripes!
There's plenty of things I don't believe in- fate, superstition, aliens, out of body experiences, using pencil instead of pen while doing a crossword and the efficacy of our postal system.
And one last thing I don't believe in- Omens. I think it's silly that people never see anything as an omen unless they're looking back. They say "oh well now I see it, what so-and-so said or what happened was definitely an omen". Just because things work out in strange ways or as a coincidence. To me it's all rubbish. Soothsayers went out a long time ago, so don't be giving me your Ides of March preachings.
However----
I remember my dreams in vivid detail. Last night I dreamt that I was at a roadside cafe with my father (who had just driven up in a fire engine, strange considering he is not a fire fighter nor would he be able to operate a vehicle of those proportions since he can barely manage a sedan). The waitress came up to me and said: "I don't think you realize the hard journey you have ahead of you".
And then I woke up.
Huh????!! What??!!!Cripes!
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