Saturday, August 21, 2004

“Ok, so this is when I cross the line!”

This is what Charlie said to me while we were at the grocery store tonight. And you will never believe it when I tell you the reason for his saying this.

We walk into Associated Supermarket to pick up a few of our staples- just some things to get us through the next 5 days since we’re going home for a long weekend. You know, the essentials…. yogurt, milk, juice…. Um, pineapple juice for my vodka.

Let me first say that we never go to Associated anymore. Not since we’ve found out about the high-all-mighty thing called “Fresh Direct.” No more lugging groceries when we can order that shit from the internet and they DELIVER DIRECTLY TO YOUR APARTMENT FOR AN ADDITIONAL $4.99!!! Who can beat that? Seriously.

So the first thing Charlie does when we walk in to Associated is go to the ATM. I stand there looking at him, “Why do you need to go to the ATM? I’ll buy what we need!” Charlie shrugs me off, “No. No. I just need a little cash.”

So I proceed to make my way to the produce (never know when you might spot a good apple somewhere in that place!). And that’s when it all went down.

Charlie informs me that the ATM in our neighborhood grocery store is now in Spanish. No English. No choice of Spanish OR English. It’s just in SPANISH! Um… hello! Is it me, or do we live IN AMERICA?? Doesn’t anyone find this a little offensive that the ATM in a supermarket with the zip code of 11205 (which means THE UNITED STATES!) has Spanish as its primary language?

I asked Charlie if he needed help (because you know me – I’m soooooo fluent in the language of Spanish) and he said to me… “NO, I will not get money from an ATM with Spanish as its language! We live in AMERICA! This is fucking ridiculous!”

So this what I have to say: “NingĂșn uso de la ATM para mĂ­!”

And if you English speakers don’t know what that means…. You better learn Spanish because soon enough…. We won’t know what anyone in this whole fucking country is saying.

Friday, August 13, 2004

I will not buy a $4.51 coffee at Starbucks.

People in New York City are obsessed with Starbucks. They are on every freaking corner. Everywhere you turn, someone is holding a Starbucks cup of coffee. I think people who really think that Starbucks is good, is a complete idiot. There’s a conspiracy that I need to make people aware of.

I went on an errand today while at work, and as I was walking out the door, one of the partners in my firm asked me to go pick him up a Grande Mocha Double Chip Frapaccino from Starbucks. (Whatever the fuck that is- and I still don’t know because I ended up getting the wrong drink- but that’s beside the point.) I actually had to write the shit down because the name was so long that I couldn’t remember it.

And then I came up with this idea. No wonder why these drinks cost $4.51! They cost so much because they have to pay those workers at Starbucks to sit there behind the cash register and listen to annoying, stupid customers say THAT LONG-ASS COFFEE NAME!

And that puts me on another tangent. That’s why the lines at Starbucks are so long! It’s not because the coffee is even good! It’s not because a million people want to drink it. It’s because the names of the coffees are SO FREAKING LONG that each person has to spend at least 3 minutes talking to the person taking your order!

It’s all a conspiracy.

They make the names of the coffees so long because they want the lines to be long. THAT’S IT!

If they make the names of the coffee long, it means people are ordering longer – which means long lines form and then people walking by are thinking: “MAN! This shit must be good! Look at the line!”

It’s bullshit. Don’t buy into it. It really ISN’T good!

As I had a hold of that cold drink in my hand, I thought to myself… “Bring me back to Virginia Beach.…..

…..Give me a medium regular coffee from 7-11.”

And you don’t even have to say anything. You can serve yourself! And it’s only…..


Wednesday, August 11, 2004

For a person to belong in Brooklyn, they must have a pit-bull. And I belong in Brooklyn.

I have a pit-cat. As in, pit bull… but a cat. And her name is Bidge.

We found Bidge almost four months ago in the trash can of our former ghetto neighborhood. We were coming back from a delightful Thai food dinner in the rain when we heard the most blood-curdling screeching from across the street. Charlie pulled me over across the street, and there we find a kitty in the garbage…. Hence the name, Bidge. GAR-BIDGE. And she’s our baby. But she does the craziest things. Things a cat really shouldn’t do.

She attacks people’s feet. Sometimes I have to run from her. She barely weighs 5 pounds and I scream as she runs after me.

She waits for us by the door and meows when she sees us.

Bidge LIKES water! She dips her feet in the bathtub when there is water in it.

Get this! Bidge plays fetch. YES. She catches after things and brings them back to you

And I think to myself, “Is this what NYC stray cats do? Do they learn this from the pit-bulls walking around on the street?”

All I know is that I have a really cute cat. It might have nothing to do with Brooklyn. And it might have nothing to do with pit-bulls. But I like to think I own a tough cat.

Beats having a pit-bull.

Monday, August 02, 2004

Does anyone understand how fucking hot it is in the subway stations in New York City?

If you don’t live in New York City and you don’t understand… let me try to explain. It’s so fucking hot that I have to keep saying “fucking hot” to get my point across.

When I make my first step out on to the sidewalk at 8:10 am every morning, it’s nice. It’s brisk. It’s almost a little chilly. But I know that all I have to do is walk those eight blocks to the station and I will be a little warm and toasty. And I can do it everyday, but nothing prepares me for the heat I will feel once I walk down to the hole in the ground.

I don’t even know why I attempt to put on makeup in the morning because by the time I get down those stairs, my makeup has already melted off. And all I wear is mascara! The hair is a whole ‘nother story. Curly = Frizzy, and it can’t be tamed.

And I’m fully convinced that people do not go to the gym in New York City during the summer. I know this because all you have to do is walk down the stairs into the sauna to burn off those extra calories you took in at lunch. Take it from me, EAT that candy bar. Go ahead eat those few extra chips.

It’s amazing. I sit there waiting for the train at 5pm completely exhausted and I pray for a train to come through. ANY train. I don’t even care if it’s mine! If the wrong train comes, it’s fine. It brings in a breeze as it passes by, and sometimes if I’m close enough to the train when the door opens, I can feel a gust of the cold air.

I’m almost ashamed to say this, but today I almost stole one of those fold-up fans from an old lady. I was just sitting there watching her fanning herself while everyone else was sweltering. It was almost like she had this smile on her face like she knew something we all didn’t. I wanted to look at her and say, “You’re going to hell.” But then I remember… we’re already there!

Each day I watch the subway conductor drive the train into the station. Sometimes I swear I can see horns and a pointy red whip of a tail. I want to blame him. I want to tell him it’s his fault for causing the heat in the station. But I know all he’ll say to me is….

“Don’t worry, soon you’ll be complaining it’s too fucking cold.”