I bought a pair of jeans at the Gap today for $10. Now, in anyone’s case, this would be a fabulous deal. But in my case, it’s even more of a deal because I’m one of those girls in
I used to think that buying a pair of jeans at the Levi’s store for $40 was a big purchase. I’ve always been the one to look for deals on clothing, and believe me when I tell you…. the jeans I’m buying at Bloomindales are being bought on the clearance rack. I’m getting last season’s Citizen’s. And I don’t care what you say… Last season’s jeans are a bargain!
So I saw the 1969 Gap jeans on the clearance rack, and they were cute, so I decided “hey, why not?” And as I stood in the dressing room, I realized…. Holy shit. I think they might actually fit BETTER than the jeans I’m purchasing at Saks for $100!!! I think I’m being robbed!
I figure this: today, I’m $90 richer and I still look fabulous.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
I was THIS close to telling a woman today on the subway that she needed some deodorant. In all honesty, I seriously almost told her to put her arm down from holding the bar above the train’s seats. It was THAT bad.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
As many stray cats as there are in
To adopt a homeless cat in
The kitty we found in a trash can in Bed-Stuy last year was driving us absolutely crazy, so we decided to get her a friend so we could be driven crazy by two cats. Good idea, huh? After months of looking on Petfinder.com, we decided it would be best to go to the Humane Society.
Reputable shelter = healthy homeless cat.
It took us weeks to get our kitty. First, we had to fill out an application. They needed references! And they actually called them! Second, we went through questioning. Is your cat declawed? How long have you had him/her? Where did you find him/her? How many cats have you had in your lifetime? And the questions went on. When we finally picked one out at the Humane Society, they said there was a waiting period to make sure we wanted the cat!
I think these shelters get attached to the cats and they don’t want them to be adopted. And I think I really may be on to something here. It’s sad because some of these cats have probably never seen or even remember what it looks like outside. All they know are cages. But I’m serious; each cat we looked at had a story as to why it couldn’t be adopted. “That one bites.” Duh, it’s a cat!
I was the perfect candidate for adopting a cat from a shelter. There was no way they could turn me down. I’ve had four cats in my lifetime; two of them I picked up off the streets. My fiancé on the other hand, has only had the cat we found last year in the trash.
After the waiting period was complete, I called to reiterate to the woman at the shelter that, yes, we WANTED the cat! To which she replied to me, “We are concerned as to whether or not your fiancé was excited about the cat.”
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Last night as Charlie and I were walking home from Applebee’s, out of the corner of my eye, I see a big THING running full-force towards us. Running across the street of
This pit-bull sighting is something you’d only see in
Please note that it’s
A dispatcher answers and tells me that she can’t help me, and that animal control is closed for the weekend. So my options are either taking the animal to my apartment until Monday or bringing it to a shelter. So obviously, I couldn’t take the dog to my apartment… my cat would have probably gone into shock and fallen dead to the ground if she saw a big dog in her place of living. So the only REAL option is finding a shelter. But guess what? The shelter is closed.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Can someone explain to me why the women in
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
I saw the most unbelievable thing on the subway this afternoon. As I was standing on the train, I watched an elderly woman, probably 85 years old - stand up from her seat to offer it to a young pregnant woman. What was amazing to me was that no one else sitting on the train noticed the pregnant woman and her protruding belly. This of course, isn’t true.
At least once a week, I see a pregnant woman on the subway – STANDING. The people sitting look directly at the woman and go on sitting in their seat, reading or doing whatever they are doing. There have been times where I’ve actually told a man to get up out of his seat. Didn’t he see there was a pregnant woman standing right in front of him? Of course he did.
Did he not care? Obviously, he didn’t.
One time, I watched as a teenager hurdled her way across the train to sit in a seat that just opened. Not watching what she was doing – a pregnant woman was slowly going to the seat and the teenager hit the pregnant woman’s belly. Are these people not thinking? Is it really detrimental to sit on the train?
Most of the time, I stand on the train. Of course, I like to sit once in a while (who doesn’t?). But I feel I’m always the one to stand up for a woman who is over the age of 50. I’ve even given my seat to a man who looked like he’s worked on a construction site all day. Kids under a certain age should always be sitting on the train and the mother should be sitting next to them. I LOOK for pregnant women. This is just how it should be.
From now on, I’ve decided to be an advocate for pregnant women sitting on subways. And believe me when I say….. I’ll let you know if I feel you should get up.
At least once a week, I see a pregnant woman on the subway – STANDING. The people sitting look directly at the woman and go on sitting in their seat, reading or doing whatever they are doing. There have been times where I’ve actually told a man to get up out of his seat. Didn’t he see there was a pregnant woman standing right in front of him? Of course he did.
Did he not care? Obviously, he didn’t.
One time, I watched as a teenager hurdled her way across the train to sit in a seat that just opened. Not watching what she was doing – a pregnant woman was slowly going to the seat and the teenager hit the pregnant woman’s belly. Are these people not thinking? Is it really detrimental to sit on the train?
Most of the time, I stand on the train. Of course, I like to sit once in a while (who doesn’t?). But I feel I’m always the one to stand up for a woman who is over the age of 50. I’ve even given my seat to a man who looked like he’s worked on a construction site all day. Kids under a certain age should always be sitting on the train and the mother should be sitting next to them. I LOOK for pregnant women. This is just how it should be.
From now on, I’ve decided to be an advocate for pregnant women sitting on subways. And believe me when I say….. I’ll let you know if I feel you should get up.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
A couple of weeks ago while shopping at the market in Union Square, the strangest thing happened to me. There I was, minding my own business, talking to my mom on the phone (while buying a gingersnap homemade cookie), when a man walked up to me and handed me a business card from LUCKY Magazine. I was about to blow him off. I mean, come on dude! I’m on the phone with my mom! But as I held the phone to my ear, semi-listening to my mom talk about something she finds interesting, I realized that this man thought I was cute.
Next thing I know, I’m on the subway to Times Square going to the Conde Nast Building to get polaroid’s taken at LUCKY FUCKING MAGAZINE from the bookings editor!
They told me I’d probably get a call within the next few days so that I can come back into their snobby-ass building (yes, SNOBBY!) and take more pictures! Those girls from the office that I saw in the elevator must have known I had on an Old Navy corduroy blazer and not a Prada one while they looked me up and down. Yeah, bitch… the shoes are from MARSHALL’S!! But I didn’t give a shit! I was going to be in LUCKY Magazine!
Of course, for the next three days, I paraded around my apartment thinking I was a goddess. I thought I was so hot that I kept telling my cat that I was cuter than her! It isn’t every day that I get some guy coming up to me telling me they might be interested in having me be some kind of model in their magazine. I always knew I was cute, but not THAT cute!
But I wasn’t so LUCKY afterall.
I never got the call. And all I could say to make myself feel better was “I’m just not photogenic! The bookings editor probably didn’t think I took good pictures!” But as I started at myself in the mirror this morning wearing my Old Navy Blazer, I thought to myself….
“I paid $29 for it! Who cares if it isn’t Prada?”
Next thing I know, I’m on the subway to Times Square going to the Conde Nast Building to get polaroid’s taken at LUCKY FUCKING MAGAZINE from the bookings editor!
They told me I’d probably get a call within the next few days so that I can come back into their snobby-ass building (yes, SNOBBY!) and take more pictures! Those girls from the office that I saw in the elevator must have known I had on an Old Navy corduroy blazer and not a Prada one while they looked me up and down. Yeah, bitch… the shoes are from MARSHALL’S!! But I didn’t give a shit! I was going to be in LUCKY Magazine!
Of course, for the next three days, I paraded around my apartment thinking I was a goddess. I thought I was so hot that I kept telling my cat that I was cuter than her! It isn’t every day that I get some guy coming up to me telling me they might be interested in having me be some kind of model in their magazine. I always knew I was cute, but not THAT cute!
But I wasn’t so LUCKY afterall.
I never got the call. And all I could say to make myself feel better was “I’m just not photogenic! The bookings editor probably didn’t think I took good pictures!” But as I started at myself in the mirror this morning wearing my Old Navy Blazer, I thought to myself….
“I paid $29 for it! Who cares if it isn’t Prada?”
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
There is something about wearing heels that makes me feel so powerful.
I’m the kind of person who is happiest in a pair of FLAT flip-flops. I get sad around October because I know my flip-flop days are coming to a close because it’s starting to get cold. I hang on to those last days, praying it will get warmer – when I know it’s not going to.
A few days ago, I went out to meet some friends in midtown. I bought some new black heels that day and I was more-than-excited to wear them. This past summer, Charlie and I came up with this method of me wearing heels. He wears a messenger bag with my flip-flops in it, while I wear my heels. If my feet start to hurt, the heels get taken off and Charlie just opens his bag and gives me my comfortable shoes. It’s the greatest thing EVER.
Except when Charlie decides he doesn’t want to carry my flats one night.
This happened this past weekend, but I was stuck on wearing my new black heels. And they only got me to – three blocks. THREE BLOCKS before I was limping and making faces. I wasn’t even halfway to the subway station IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD! I thought Charlie would run back three blocks to our apartment and come back wearing his bag just so I had piece-of-mind. But he didn’t. He told me I had to change my shoes. And I was pissed!
Today, I decided to wear a pair of heeled boots to work. I looked in the mirror this morning and told Charlie that I knew I looked good. And I knew for sure I did. Without even having to look at Charlie’s face, I knew what he was thinking.
So there I was at 8:55am coming out of the station on 48th Street and 6th Ave, running late, as usual. Something about the way I walk in heels gets people’s attention. And I swear I could feel people staring at me while I walked. In my mind I was thinking, “Yeah, people think I’m hot.” But I knew that at home, there was one guy thinking… “I know she’s in pain.”
And it wasn’t even 9am.
I’m the kind of person who is happiest in a pair of FLAT flip-flops. I get sad around October because I know my flip-flop days are coming to a close because it’s starting to get cold. I hang on to those last days, praying it will get warmer – when I know it’s not going to.
A few days ago, I went out to meet some friends in midtown. I bought some new black heels that day and I was more-than-excited to wear them. This past summer, Charlie and I came up with this method of me wearing heels. He wears a messenger bag with my flip-flops in it, while I wear my heels. If my feet start to hurt, the heels get taken off and Charlie just opens his bag and gives me my comfortable shoes. It’s the greatest thing EVER.
Except when Charlie decides he doesn’t want to carry my flats one night.
This happened this past weekend, but I was stuck on wearing my new black heels. And they only got me to – three blocks. THREE BLOCKS before I was limping and making faces. I wasn’t even halfway to the subway station IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD! I thought Charlie would run back three blocks to our apartment and come back wearing his bag just so I had piece-of-mind. But he didn’t. He told me I had to change my shoes. And I was pissed!
Today, I decided to wear a pair of heeled boots to work. I looked in the mirror this morning and told Charlie that I knew I looked good. And I knew for sure I did. Without even having to look at Charlie’s face, I knew what he was thinking.
So there I was at 8:55am coming out of the station on 48th Street and 6th Ave, running late, as usual. Something about the way I walk in heels gets people’s attention. And I swear I could feel people staring at me while I walked. In my mind I was thinking, “Yeah, people think I’m hot.” But I knew that at home, there was one guy thinking… “I know she’s in pain.”
And it wasn’t even 9am.
Monday, September 13, 2004
I get this panicked feeling when I drive into New York City after being gone from the chaos all weekend. It’s nice to drive down the Jersey Turnpike to the Holland Tunnel and see the skyline. And even though I have to drive down Canal Street to get to the Manhattan Bridge, to cross-over to Brooklyn, the panic doesn’t begin until I park the car on the street and I’m walking up to our apartment.
And I know the reason for the panic.
The sounds in New York never stop. All a person can hear in my neighborhood is the sound of honking, alarms and music blaring from a person’s car window. Not to mention, the loud buses driving on Myrtle Avenue. And we can’t forget that I live next door to a fire station – so I hear the sound of fire trucks screaming through my window at all hours of the day. During the summer, there are people shouting and ice cream trucks singing. There are dogs barking. Always dogs barking. The barking never stops. At night, I sometimes here a bug making a noise and I swear it’s a cockroach. (Charlie says I’m paranoid.)
And I have to admit: Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I don’t.
There is no other place in the world I’d rather be right now than in New York City. But sometimes I just want it to be quiet and I know that I can’t have that here. There are always people on the streets. Always the same sounds heard over and over again.
The only quiet I get during the day is in the morning when I’m in the shower. I listen to the water coming down and it’s so nice not to hear everything that’s going on outside our windows.
After I finish getting ready to start my day and I walk down my stoop to the sidewalk – It’s quiet outside for the only time during the day. I look to the left, down the street, and I see the Empire State Building and I think to myself: I live in New York City. I live in the best place in the world.
But sometimes the sounds are enough to drive you mad.
And I know the reason for the panic.
The sounds in New York never stop. All a person can hear in my neighborhood is the sound of honking, alarms and music blaring from a person’s car window. Not to mention, the loud buses driving on Myrtle Avenue. And we can’t forget that I live next door to a fire station – so I hear the sound of fire trucks screaming through my window at all hours of the day. During the summer, there are people shouting and ice cream trucks singing. There are dogs barking. Always dogs barking. The barking never stops. At night, I sometimes here a bug making a noise and I swear it’s a cockroach. (Charlie says I’m paranoid.)
And I have to admit: Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I don’t.
There is no other place in the world I’d rather be right now than in New York City. But sometimes I just want it to be quiet and I know that I can’t have that here. There are always people on the streets. Always the same sounds heard over and over again.
The only quiet I get during the day is in the morning when I’m in the shower. I listen to the water coming down and it’s so nice not to hear everything that’s going on outside our windows.
After I finish getting ready to start my day and I walk down my stoop to the sidewalk – It’s quiet outside for the only time during the day. I look to the left, down the street, and I see the Empire State Building and I think to myself: I live in New York City. I live in the best place in the world.
But sometimes the sounds are enough to drive you mad.
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: “Ningún uso de la ATM para mí!”
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.
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.”
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: “Ningún uso de la ATM para mí!”
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…..
$1.18.
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…..
$1.18.
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.
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.”
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.”
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
There are some HOT Jewish guys in New York City.
I knew even before I moved here, that I was moving into a large Jewish population. But growing up, I always looked at Jewish men as being boring and, sorry to say, not too attractive. Coming from Virginia Beach, the only attractive Jewish men I saw were my brother and my dad. But I’m telling you… these past couple of weeks, I have seen some fine looking Jewish men walking down the 5th Avenue sporting a yarmulke on their kepies.
I can just hear my dad now…. “I knew she’d come around!”
But seriously, I’m thinking to myself… where are they coming from?!? They are everywhere. Is it because it’s summer? They come out when it’s warm outside? They hibernate when it’s cold?
I think my eyes are more open to spotting these men because I work in a law office surrounded by Jewish men who cover their little heads everyday.
Last week, I was told by an attorney in my office that one of the paralegals from our office in Israel was going to come by this week to help me learn some things. I walk in to my office this morning and this paralegal was not a woman… it was, you guessed it, a fine looking Jewish man! And the word “fine” isn’t cutting it here. I couldn’t freaking believe how gorgeous this guy was!
So I sit at my desk and write an email to my office manager saying: “WHY COULDN’T YOU ALL WARN ME THAT HE WAS HOT! I’ve told you of my run-in with these good looking Jewish guys” To which her reply was: “He’s taken and SO ARE YOU, MISSY!”
I sit there at my computer with him next to me. And he’s dressed all nice and his hair is done well. And his cell phone rings. Of course he answers it. I hear him whispering in the phone: “awww… baby. Blahblahblah.” I sit there thinking… “Can’t he get off the phone with is girlfriend? I mean, shit! We’re trying to do work here!” And just as I’m about to get a little too aggravated, he hangs up the phone, looks at me and says: “My boyfriend drives me crazy!”
Oy Vey!
But the truth of the matter is, I am in love with a man who’s a goy and although my family has accepted the fact, I know there will always be this thing in the back of their minds that I will find a nice Jewish man.
And today I’ve finally come to the conclusion of why I’m not with a Jewish man:
All hot Jewish men are gay.
(Charlie: please understand that when I write this, you are my world. And even though these Jewish men are hot… they will never be as hot as you.)
(Dad: get Charlie a yarmulke!)
I knew even before I moved here, that I was moving into a large Jewish population. But growing up, I always looked at Jewish men as being boring and, sorry to say, not too attractive. Coming from Virginia Beach, the only attractive Jewish men I saw were my brother and my dad. But I’m telling you… these past couple of weeks, I have seen some fine looking Jewish men walking down the 5th Avenue sporting a yarmulke on their kepies.
I can just hear my dad now…. “I knew she’d come around!”
But seriously, I’m thinking to myself… where are they coming from?!? They are everywhere. Is it because it’s summer? They come out when it’s warm outside? They hibernate when it’s cold?
I think my eyes are more open to spotting these men because I work in a law office surrounded by Jewish men who cover their little heads everyday.
Last week, I was told by an attorney in my office that one of the paralegals from our office in Israel was going to come by this week to help me learn some things. I walk in to my office this morning and this paralegal was not a woman… it was, you guessed it, a fine looking Jewish man! And the word “fine” isn’t cutting it here. I couldn’t freaking believe how gorgeous this guy was!
So I sit at my desk and write an email to my office manager saying: “WHY COULDN’T YOU ALL WARN ME THAT HE WAS HOT! I’ve told you of my run-in with these good looking Jewish guys” To which her reply was: “He’s taken and SO ARE YOU, MISSY!”
I sit there at my computer with him next to me. And he’s dressed all nice and his hair is done well. And his cell phone rings. Of course he answers it. I hear him whispering in the phone: “awww… baby. Blahblahblah.” I sit there thinking… “Can’t he get off the phone with is girlfriend? I mean, shit! We’re trying to do work here!” And just as I’m about to get a little too aggravated, he hangs up the phone, looks at me and says: “My boyfriend drives me crazy!”
Oy Vey!
But the truth of the matter is, I am in love with a man who’s a goy and although my family has accepted the fact, I know there will always be this thing in the back of their minds that I will find a nice Jewish man.
And today I’ve finally come to the conclusion of why I’m not with a Jewish man:
All hot Jewish men are gay.
(Charlie: please understand that when I write this, you are my world. And even though these Jewish men are hot… they will never be as hot as you.)
(Dad: get Charlie a yarmulke!)
Sunday, May 16, 2004
It’s amazing how hot it can get in New York in just one week. I swear that I was wearing a light jacket outside here last week before heading home to the ever-so-humid Virginia Beach. This morning on my way to work, I found myself wearing capris, a tank top and – you guessed it… flip-flops!
And here it goes:
If you listen to only one thing I tell you, this is it!
A person can not wear flip-flops in New York City. Trust me on this one. Don’t think: “Oh, I can do it. These flip-flops are just so cute. My feet are just so cute. I’ll be just fine.” Because the truth of the matter is: You won’t be fine. Your feet WON’T be FINE! I learned this today when squeezing on to the 6 train on 51st Street and Lexington heading uptown. This morning while getting ready for work, I thought, “It’s Saturday. It’s 9:15am. My feet will be fine because the trains won’t be crowded!”
My toes have been painted now for a month. I thought it would only be right to show them off to the crazy people on the subway. Why not? But people didn’t care about my polished pink toes. And THEY SURE AS HELL DIDN’T CARE ABOUT MY FEET. All that happened was chipped toenail polish, stubbed toes and a lot of “Oh, I’m sorry” this morning while standing shoulder to shoulder on my 6 train. Each time the train jilted, people went moving, and my poor feet were abused.
The trains usually aren’t crowded on a Saturday morning because most people in New York aren’t going to work. But I failed to realize that it’s May and there are those early-morning tourists that annoy the shit out of me with their stupid subway maps and their “tour books.” Blah blah blah. It’s all calm on the train when all of a sudden I hear: “THAT WAS OUR STOP!!! WE MISSED OUR STOP!!” Then out of nowhere, my feet…. my nice comfortable feet… my feet that were enjoying being in the open air… my feet that were free from the constraints of closed-toe sneakers… SMASHED. Isn’t anyone here FROM here? Fucking tourists!
Since I’ve moved here, my feet have been through absolute hell. I seriously don’t know why they are still getting me from point A to point B. First the cockroach killers, now the flip-flops!?!
What does a girl have to do to get a decent pair of shoes in New York?
And here it goes:
If you listen to only one thing I tell you, this is it!
A person can not wear flip-flops in New York City. Trust me on this one. Don’t think: “Oh, I can do it. These flip-flops are just so cute. My feet are just so cute. I’ll be just fine.” Because the truth of the matter is: You won’t be fine. Your feet WON’T be FINE! I learned this today when squeezing on to the 6 train on 51st Street and Lexington heading uptown. This morning while getting ready for work, I thought, “It’s Saturday. It’s 9:15am. My feet will be fine because the trains won’t be crowded!”
My toes have been painted now for a month. I thought it would only be right to show them off to the crazy people on the subway. Why not? But people didn’t care about my polished pink toes. And THEY SURE AS HELL DIDN’T CARE ABOUT MY FEET. All that happened was chipped toenail polish, stubbed toes and a lot of “Oh, I’m sorry” this morning while standing shoulder to shoulder on my 6 train. Each time the train jilted, people went moving, and my poor feet were abused.
The trains usually aren’t crowded on a Saturday morning because most people in New York aren’t going to work. But I failed to realize that it’s May and there are those early-morning tourists that annoy the shit out of me with their stupid subway maps and their “tour books.” Blah blah blah. It’s all calm on the train when all of a sudden I hear: “THAT WAS OUR STOP!!! WE MISSED OUR STOP!!” Then out of nowhere, my feet…. my nice comfortable feet… my feet that were enjoying being in the open air… my feet that were free from the constraints of closed-toe sneakers… SMASHED. Isn’t anyone here FROM here? Fucking tourists!
Since I’ve moved here, my feet have been through absolute hell. I seriously don’t know why they are still getting me from point A to point B. First the cockroach killers, now the flip-flops!?!
What does a girl have to do to get a decent pair of shoes in New York?
Monday, May 03, 2004
There is nothing that touches me more than seeing a blind person making his way in New York City.
Last week, I heard a man singing on my subway car while I was reading my magazine and I thought it was just one-of-those bums who are always singing on the train for change. When I looked over, I saw that it was a blind man standing in the middle of the subway car - singing. How did he even know he was standing directly in the middle of the subway car so that everyone could hear him?
About once a week, a see a blind person on a train alone with their walking sticks and I can’t help but think to myself, “How do they do it?” I couldn’t imagine being blind at all living in any city in the United States – let alone being a blind person in New York City.
But some people aren’t as fortunate as others.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve missed my stop on the train because I was too busy reading my magazine to realize where I was. When I walk in areas I’ve never walked in before, there are times I have to make U-turns because I’ve walked down the wrong street. And I see these people with walking sticks and wonder “Do they ever get lost? Do they ever miss their stop?”
People are always in a rush here in New York. There is always someone running to catch a train. There is always someone running across the street before that red hand starts blinking telling pedestrians they need to stop walking or a car is going to run them over. How does a blind person know when that light is going to change?
They might run out of time to catch their train. Or run out of time to cross the street. How do they know where the door is to the subway car or where to cross at a cross-walk?
What amazes me most is that these people never ask to sit down on the train. They never ask for help getting up stairs. They never ask what street they are walking on or what subway stop they are at. They never ask for help from anyone.
And why is that? Do they have too much pride to ask for help? Do they REALLY know where they are going? Or do they just take their time, slow down, take deep breaths and just make the best of their days?
I just thank God everyday that I have eyes to see with.
Last week, I heard a man singing on my subway car while I was reading my magazine and I thought it was just one-of-those bums who are always singing on the train for change. When I looked over, I saw that it was a blind man standing in the middle of the subway car - singing. How did he even know he was standing directly in the middle of the subway car so that everyone could hear him?
About once a week, a see a blind person on a train alone with their walking sticks and I can’t help but think to myself, “How do they do it?” I couldn’t imagine being blind at all living in any city in the United States – let alone being a blind person in New York City.
But some people aren’t as fortunate as others.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve missed my stop on the train because I was too busy reading my magazine to realize where I was. When I walk in areas I’ve never walked in before, there are times I have to make U-turns because I’ve walked down the wrong street. And I see these people with walking sticks and wonder “Do they ever get lost? Do they ever miss their stop?”
People are always in a rush here in New York. There is always someone running to catch a train. There is always someone running across the street before that red hand starts blinking telling pedestrians they need to stop walking or a car is going to run them over. How does a blind person know when that light is going to change?
They might run out of time to catch their train. Or run out of time to cross the street. How do they know where the door is to the subway car or where to cross at a cross-walk?
What amazes me most is that these people never ask to sit down on the train. They never ask for help getting up stairs. They never ask what street they are walking on or what subway stop they are at. They never ask for help from anyone.
And why is that? Do they have too much pride to ask for help? Do they REALLY know where they are going? Or do they just take their time, slow down, take deep breaths and just make the best of their days?
I just thank God everyday that I have eyes to see with.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
I’m scared to death of cockroaches.
Whenever I tell people in New York City this fact about myself, they laugh hysterically and say “You moved to the wrong city, sweetie!” And I know that the information these people tell me is completely true. Cockroaches are everywhere in New York City, but it’s not something I want or will chose to deal with on a daily basis.
I am telling the truth when I say I’ve been having panic attacks about them lately. Thank the New York City roach-gods that I have NEVER seen one of the filthy things in my apartment. NEVER! I have been blessed with a pretty decent renovated apartment building. One that isn’t infested with mice or cockroaches, although I wouldn’t mind seeing a little furry animal scurrying around every once in a while. (I know, I’m sick.)
But cockroaches are a completely different story.
I have to say, I do see one every once in a while in my place of employment. Usually down in the basement. There are a few times where I’ve had to beg one of my fellow employees to go down to the basement to get me a shipping box. Sometimes, I actually feel strong about them – that if I encounter one that day, I will be completely fine… but when I see one, all the strength is gone. I jump up on chairs, I scream, I have actually gotten tears in my eyes because of these nasty long antenna, little eyed monsters – with their long legs and crunchy blackish-brown bodies.
So help me God, I will not live in an apartment where I will see a cockroach everyday. I will not see one every week, for that matter! After Charlie and I move out of this cockroach-free apartment next month into an apartment that might not be so “cockroach-free,” I will place traps in every corner, under every chair, table, couch, in every cabinet, drawer, nook-and-cranny… I will put a fucking cockroach trap in the bathtub if I have to! I will do anything not to come face-to-face with one of those things that are sometimes the size of a small squirrel.
Then I thought… we’re getting a cat! She’ll take care of it! But then I remembered that cats like to bring their owners “presents.” There were times when I was a little girl when I woke up with a spider or a cricket on me – with my sweet kitty standing there on my bed with a look on her face that said, “Here, I got it for you.” If my new cat does that with a cockroach, I don’t know what I’d do. Just thinking about it makes me feel like I don’t want a cat!
SEE! Now I’m talking crazy!!
I was on the phone with a broker yesterday who is trying to find us an apartment. When she was asking me our price-range and where we wanted to live - I had to hold back saying: “You can find us anything you want! I will live in the ghetto… but that apartment better be free of cockroaches!”
Whenever I tell people in New York City this fact about myself, they laugh hysterically and say “You moved to the wrong city, sweetie!” And I know that the information these people tell me is completely true. Cockroaches are everywhere in New York City, but it’s not something I want or will chose to deal with on a daily basis.
I am telling the truth when I say I’ve been having panic attacks about them lately. Thank the New York City roach-gods that I have NEVER seen one of the filthy things in my apartment. NEVER! I have been blessed with a pretty decent renovated apartment building. One that isn’t infested with mice or cockroaches, although I wouldn’t mind seeing a little furry animal scurrying around every once in a while. (I know, I’m sick.)
But cockroaches are a completely different story.
I have to say, I do see one every once in a while in my place of employment. Usually down in the basement. There are a few times where I’ve had to beg one of my fellow employees to go down to the basement to get me a shipping box. Sometimes, I actually feel strong about them – that if I encounter one that day, I will be completely fine… but when I see one, all the strength is gone. I jump up on chairs, I scream, I have actually gotten tears in my eyes because of these nasty long antenna, little eyed monsters – with their long legs and crunchy blackish-brown bodies.
So help me God, I will not live in an apartment where I will see a cockroach everyday. I will not see one every week, for that matter! After Charlie and I move out of this cockroach-free apartment next month into an apartment that might not be so “cockroach-free,” I will place traps in every corner, under every chair, table, couch, in every cabinet, drawer, nook-and-cranny… I will put a fucking cockroach trap in the bathtub if I have to! I will do anything not to come face-to-face with one of those things that are sometimes the size of a small squirrel.
Then I thought… we’re getting a cat! She’ll take care of it! But then I remembered that cats like to bring their owners “presents.” There were times when I was a little girl when I woke up with a spider or a cricket on me – with my sweet kitty standing there on my bed with a look on her face that said, “Here, I got it for you.” If my new cat does that with a cockroach, I don’t know what I’d do. Just thinking about it makes me feel like I don’t want a cat!
SEE! Now I’m talking crazy!!
I was on the phone with a broker yesterday who is trying to find us an apartment. When she was asking me our price-range and where we wanted to live - I had to hold back saying: “You can find us anything you want! I will live in the ghetto… but that apartment better be free of cockroaches!”
Monday, April 05, 2004
I am obsessed with celebrity sightings.
I didn’t see ONE celebrity during my first 2 months here in New York. I was looking for them everywhere. Charlie even pulled some tricks on me. One time, while walking down Spring Street in Soho, he had this bright idea to scream out….”BECKY! THERE’S FABIO!” And of course, the gullible person I am, I had my head bobbing everywhere trying to catch a glimpse of the long-haired blonde found on the cover of cheesy romance novels. I felt like such an idiot when he started busting out laughing. I was so pissed because I actually thought I was going to see my first celebrity.
But then I got hired to work in a handbag store on Madison Avenue, and the celebrity sightings haven’t stopped since that first day of employment.
My first celebrity sighting was actually on the way to my interview at the handbag store. I was walking between 82nd and 83rd on Madison Avenue when I saw an absolutely gorgeous woman walking with a guy. She looked familiar, but then I just thought that she might JUST be a pretty face. But when I looked up to see who she was walking with, I knew right then… it was my first celebrity sighting. Rob Thomas (the lead singer of Matchbox Twenty) and his wife were walking down Madison Avenue, shopping in antique stores.
Most of my other celebrity sightings have actually been IN the store I work for. During the Christmas/Hanukkah holiday, I was working five days a week and it seemed that the other two days of the week were when the celebrities were shopping in our store. Every time I came back to work after a day off, my co-workers would tell me the celebrity that was shopping the day before. I was starting to get rather aggravated, thinking… maybe I should start working seven days a week! Hey! Better yet - I should start sleeping in the store!
The Saturday before Christmas, people couldn’t get enough of our wonderful handbags! It was so busy, I ran downstairs to eat, and just as I sat down, my store manager beeps me from the phone upstairs and says: “GET UP HERE RIGHT NOW!”
I was hurdling boxes down in the basement - I ran up those stairs so fast, someone would have thought I was in the Olympics! I open the trap door in our store and there, I saw my first HUGE celebrity.
Sigourney Weaver.
A few days later, I met Pheobe Cates (who looks like she is seriously in her mid-twenties). I had no idea it was her until I was helping her for about 10 minutes and I realized… “HEY! This is fucking Pheobe Cates!!! The Gremlins Girl!” She was super cool. I’ve seen her a few other times since then. My New York City best friend, Stephanie didn’t recognize Pheobe either as she was helping her one day. I looked over and mouthed “THAT’S PHEOBE CATES!!!!” She had to contain herself, because even though she is FROM New York City, she still gets just as excited as I do.
In January, I had the pleasure of meeting Kathleen Turner AND Julia Ormond. Kathleen Turner was fun. I asked her if she wanted to be on our customer list and she looked at me with the look I’ve seen many times before in her movies and said “NO!” I laughed with her. Such a completely down to earth woman.
But nothing and I mean NOTHING was to prepare me for the ultimate ALMOST sighting. I was working (of course) when a customer came in and told me that Nicole Kidman was eating in the restaurant across the street. Me and Stephanie went hauling our asses over to the (expensive) restaurant. I have to admit that our sorry-selves were actually seated at a table in the restaurant (when we were supposed to be selling handbags!) just hoping to sneak a peak of the gorgeous actress. We were stalking Nicole Kidman!! We ran out of the restaurant, holding hands, laughing so hard we felt we were going to puke.
Unfortunately, we did not get to see her. But I swear I would do it again in a heartbeat!
Just recently, Charlie and I were walking around and we saw an actor from the Sopranos in a deli on the Upper East Side. Charlie actually saw him when he haphazardly looked into the small deli. He practically started jumping up and down, screaming… “That’s the guy from the Sopranos!”
I looked at him and said… “This is New York City! It’s not THAT big of a deal!”
I didn’t see ONE celebrity during my first 2 months here in New York. I was looking for them everywhere. Charlie even pulled some tricks on me. One time, while walking down Spring Street in Soho, he had this bright idea to scream out….”BECKY! THERE’S FABIO!” And of course, the gullible person I am, I had my head bobbing everywhere trying to catch a glimpse of the long-haired blonde found on the cover of cheesy romance novels. I felt like such an idiot when he started busting out laughing. I was so pissed because I actually thought I was going to see my first celebrity.
But then I got hired to work in a handbag store on Madison Avenue, and the celebrity sightings haven’t stopped since that first day of employment.
My first celebrity sighting was actually on the way to my interview at the handbag store. I was walking between 82nd and 83rd on Madison Avenue when I saw an absolutely gorgeous woman walking with a guy. She looked familiar, but then I just thought that she might JUST be a pretty face. But when I looked up to see who she was walking with, I knew right then… it was my first celebrity sighting. Rob Thomas (the lead singer of Matchbox Twenty) and his wife were walking down Madison Avenue, shopping in antique stores.
Most of my other celebrity sightings have actually been IN the store I work for. During the Christmas/Hanukkah holiday, I was working five days a week and it seemed that the other two days of the week were when the celebrities were shopping in our store. Every time I came back to work after a day off, my co-workers would tell me the celebrity that was shopping the day before. I was starting to get rather aggravated, thinking… maybe I should start working seven days a week! Hey! Better yet - I should start sleeping in the store!
The Saturday before Christmas, people couldn’t get enough of our wonderful handbags! It was so busy, I ran downstairs to eat, and just as I sat down, my store manager beeps me from the phone upstairs and says: “GET UP HERE RIGHT NOW!”
I was hurdling boxes down in the basement - I ran up those stairs so fast, someone would have thought I was in the Olympics! I open the trap door in our store and there, I saw my first HUGE celebrity.
Sigourney Weaver.
A few days later, I met Pheobe Cates (who looks like she is seriously in her mid-twenties). I had no idea it was her until I was helping her for about 10 minutes and I realized… “HEY! This is fucking Pheobe Cates!!! The Gremlins Girl!” She was super cool. I’ve seen her a few other times since then. My New York City best friend, Stephanie didn’t recognize Pheobe either as she was helping her one day. I looked over and mouthed “THAT’S PHEOBE CATES!!!!” She had to contain herself, because even though she is FROM New York City, she still gets just as excited as I do.
In January, I had the pleasure of meeting Kathleen Turner AND Julia Ormond. Kathleen Turner was fun. I asked her if she wanted to be on our customer list and she looked at me with the look I’ve seen many times before in her movies and said “NO!” I laughed with her. Such a completely down to earth woman.
But nothing and I mean NOTHING was to prepare me for the ultimate ALMOST sighting. I was working (of course) when a customer came in and told me that Nicole Kidman was eating in the restaurant across the street. Me and Stephanie went hauling our asses over to the (expensive) restaurant. I have to admit that our sorry-selves were actually seated at a table in the restaurant (when we were supposed to be selling handbags!) just hoping to sneak a peak of the gorgeous actress. We were stalking Nicole Kidman!! We ran out of the restaurant, holding hands, laughing so hard we felt we were going to puke.
Unfortunately, we did not get to see her. But I swear I would do it again in a heartbeat!
Just recently, Charlie and I were walking around and we saw an actor from the Sopranos in a deli on the Upper East Side. Charlie actually saw him when he haphazardly looked into the small deli. He practically started jumping up and down, screaming… “That’s the guy from the Sopranos!”
I looked at him and said… “This is New York City! It’s not THAT big of a deal!”
Saturday, April 03, 2004
I caught every train on my way home from work today. I think it might have been God’s way of apologizing for making me walk an extra 9 blocks after I found out there was no 6 train running at the 77th street/Lexington stop. Or it might have to do with…. taxi-temptation!
Each day I get to choose my route to work. When the weather is nice, I take the 4/5 express train up to 86th and I walk nine blocks. If the weather is shitty, which means wind, rain, and/or snow (like it has been very often lately), or if I’m feeling extremely lazy, I walk just five blocks to work from the 77th street station on the 6 train. Tonight, I felt lazy – so I walked to 77th street and as I approached the entrance way to the subway, I saw the dreaded orange tape prohibiting me from walking down the stairs to the whole in the ground.
WHY? Oh WHY does this happen to me!?!
For a split-second I thought about hailing a taxi to take me directly to the A/C stop downtown instead of walking the 9 blocks to catch the 4/5. But I’m telling you, it was just a “split-second” thought. I’ve only taken a taxi two times in the seven months I’ve lived here and I plan on holding that track record for as long as I can in fear that I might become one of those Manhattan-girl snobs who are too good to take the fucking subway like a normal New Yorker. And besides, I don’t pay $70 a month to ride the subway “unlimited” to take taxis. If I’m paying $70 a month to ride the trains, I’m riding that shit as much as I possibly can!
So I walked my nine blocks to 86th street.
I took three trains home tonight and I got every single one within a minute of waiting. The son-of-a-bitch-bastard train (aka – the G train) was even waiting for me as I rode up to the platform! You can just imagine the smile on my face when I saw the G train waiting for the A to arrive before it took off into the ghetto. And believe me when I tell you, THAT NEVER HAPPENS!
But not tonight. I made record time, getting home in less than 45 minutes! I walked in the door and Charlie looked at me stunned…. “You’re home ALREADY!?!?” And it’s all because I didn’t give into taxi-temptation.
Like I said…. “I’m getting that $70 worth” and God knows! Just look - I’m getting rewarded for it.
Each day I get to choose my route to work. When the weather is nice, I take the 4/5 express train up to 86th and I walk nine blocks. If the weather is shitty, which means wind, rain, and/or snow (like it has been very often lately), or if I’m feeling extremely lazy, I walk just five blocks to work from the 77th street station on the 6 train. Tonight, I felt lazy – so I walked to 77th street and as I approached the entrance way to the subway, I saw the dreaded orange tape prohibiting me from walking down the stairs to the whole in the ground.
WHY? Oh WHY does this happen to me!?!
For a split-second I thought about hailing a taxi to take me directly to the A/C stop downtown instead of walking the 9 blocks to catch the 4/5. But I’m telling you, it was just a “split-second” thought. I’ve only taken a taxi two times in the seven months I’ve lived here and I plan on holding that track record for as long as I can in fear that I might become one of those Manhattan-girl snobs who are too good to take the fucking subway like a normal New Yorker. And besides, I don’t pay $70 a month to ride the subway “unlimited” to take taxis. If I’m paying $70 a month to ride the trains, I’m riding that shit as much as I possibly can!
So I walked my nine blocks to 86th street.
I took three trains home tonight and I got every single one within a minute of waiting. The son-of-a-bitch-bastard train (aka – the G train) was even waiting for me as I rode up to the platform! You can just imagine the smile on my face when I saw the G train waiting for the A to arrive before it took off into the ghetto. And believe me when I tell you, THAT NEVER HAPPENS!
But not tonight. I made record time, getting home in less than 45 minutes! I walked in the door and Charlie looked at me stunned…. “You’re home ALREADY!?!?” And it’s all because I didn’t give into taxi-temptation.
Like I said…. “I’m getting that $70 worth” and God knows! Just look - I’m getting rewarded for it.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Last month, I found myself at Nine West trying on “comfortable” shoes for work and I walked out with nothing but some 3-inch spiky/pointy black patent leather knee-high cockroach killers. Absolutely the most impractical thing I’ve ever bought, but I loved them and I had to have them. And besides, they were on the clearance rack…. What more could a girl ask for?
A couple of weeks later, Charlie and I decided to go on a date, so I got all cute in my cockroach killers and realized as I walked down 14th Street to the movie theater that something had definitely gone wrong. I woke up the next morning and realized that my ball of my foot was in a little bit of pain. I didn’t think anything of it, until I woke up Monday with places to go and realized that I REALLY injured my left foot.
I proceed to make my way to work on Tuesday – filled with loads of complaining and crying about my foot and how I can’t stand on it and how I can’t walk on it and how it JUST HURTS REALLY BAD! My store manager became quite concerned because well, even though I’m dramatic about EVERYTHING - as the day wore on, I didn’t want to talk or help customers because that meant having to walk around the store. She then knew something was definitely wrong.
A few days later after I couldn’t take the pain anymore, I decided to make an appointment to see a Podiatrist. But not just any Podiatrist…. I made an appointment with a Podiatrist who is the most obsessed dog lover on the upper east side of Manhattan. And any animal lover - is a (best) friend of mine!
Even before she examined my foot, she asked me my symptoms. And she concluded that I probably cracked one of the sesamoid bones in the ball of my foot. I ask her if this happens a lot, to which she informed me that it’s very common for women in New York City to crack this exact bone because of the shoes we wear. She explained to me that the pavement in Manhattan is so uneven that we don’t realize that the shoes we wear while walking are very important instruments to making our feet healthy and “comfortable.”
I put my shoes and socks back on and said goodbye as she smiled and said my $20 fee was waived because I was Munchkin’s (her Lhasa Apso) friend. I knew loving animals would get me somewhere in New York City!
It’s a couple of weeks later and thankfully my foot is getting better, but I’m not supposed to wear heels for another month. Of course by then, it will probably be too warm to wear my knee-high boots. And even if it isn’t, do I really want to wear them? Do I want to chance the fact that I might crack the bone again if I do?
You bet your sweet cockroach killers I do!
A couple of weeks later, Charlie and I decided to go on a date, so I got all cute in my cockroach killers and realized as I walked down 14th Street to the movie theater that something had definitely gone wrong. I woke up the next morning and realized that my ball of my foot was in a little bit of pain. I didn’t think anything of it, until I woke up Monday with places to go and realized that I REALLY injured my left foot.
I proceed to make my way to work on Tuesday – filled with loads of complaining and crying about my foot and how I can’t stand on it and how I can’t walk on it and how it JUST HURTS REALLY BAD! My store manager became quite concerned because well, even though I’m dramatic about EVERYTHING - as the day wore on, I didn’t want to talk or help customers because that meant having to walk around the store. She then knew something was definitely wrong.
A few days later after I couldn’t take the pain anymore, I decided to make an appointment to see a Podiatrist. But not just any Podiatrist…. I made an appointment with a Podiatrist who is the most obsessed dog lover on the upper east side of Manhattan. And any animal lover - is a (best) friend of mine!
Even before she examined my foot, she asked me my symptoms. And she concluded that I probably cracked one of the sesamoid bones in the ball of my foot. I ask her if this happens a lot, to which she informed me that it’s very common for women in New York City to crack this exact bone because of the shoes we wear. She explained to me that the pavement in Manhattan is so uneven that we don’t realize that the shoes we wear while walking are very important instruments to making our feet healthy and “comfortable.”
I put my shoes and socks back on and said goodbye as she smiled and said my $20 fee was waived because I was Munchkin’s (her Lhasa Apso) friend. I knew loving animals would get me somewhere in New York City!
It’s a couple of weeks later and thankfully my foot is getting better, but I’m not supposed to wear heels for another month. Of course by then, it will probably be too warm to wear my knee-high boots. And even if it isn’t, do I really want to wear them? Do I want to chance the fact that I might crack the bone again if I do?
You bet your sweet cockroach killers I do!
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