Saturday, April 30, 2011

Face, Face, Face

Can we talk about how I love to watch strangers putting on makeup?

Apparently, it's "rude" to put makeup on in the subway, which is absolutely devastating to cosmetic voyeurs like moiself.

Let me point out that there are two different ways one can put on makeup in public. It's no fun to watch someone furtively wipe their CoverGirl pressed powder on their face, or worriedly poke at their wrinkles and try to conceal them. But there is something SO, SO alluring about a glamorous stranger, gazing admiringly at their eyes in a hand mirror, gliding their mascara on with a devil-may-care attitude. There should be a name for that blank, rapturous face that one makes when they are so oblivious to the world around them, being lost in a world of magical colours and beauty!

But today, I hit the complete jackpot of watching people apply makeup. I was standing in line (the longest line I've ever seen to date!) for the bathroom at Barnes & Noble behind a strawberry blonde BOMBSHELL who was an EXPERT at liquid liner. I almost felt like I should offer to hold her mirror, then maybe she would make me her squire and teach me how to do the perfect cat-eye. (I should note that, though she used a Sephora mirror, she was applying Wet & Wild liquid liner, which is one of the cheapest brands available, and using drug store mascara - power to the bargain divas!)

RAPTURE! I must work this summer towards being able to zone out in the mirror and commune with my own reflection with the focus and determination of a zen master of maquillage!

The Royal Wedding, or Why We Broke Away From Those Creeps

The royal wedding is OVER, so now we can all finally focus on the important royal speculation over the royal honeymoon, and when Kate will get royally pregnant, and whether Wills is royally cheating on her.

But did you see her dress? Oh, dear. It touched the floor. It had sleeves. It rendered 0% of her boobs visible!

This is why we broke away from those stodgy, uptight Brits!

If there were an AMERICAN princess (Quick! Who's the American Princess? I vote Paris Hilton or Britney Spears), she would't wear that dress as a bathrobe. Far too concealing. The American princess would wear a see-through corseted Pnina Tornai (yeah, I've been watching Say Yes To The Dress) with sequins - big-ass sequins! - and a slit all the way up.

Instead of changing into a shapeless satin sheath of the reception, she would slip into some BLUE JEANS and a tube top fashioned out of an American FLAG! The first dance would be "Thank God I'm A Country Boy" followed by Kelly Clarkson's "Before He Cheats". The cake would be shaped like an armadillo.

The sad ending to the fairytale would be when she is denied low-cost healthcare and dies from a cancer that went undetected because our country hates women.

So.....I guess I could trade that for funny hats....

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Tastes Like...Chicken?

Apparently, I am no longer a vegetarian, after over a decade!

Today, I happened to look at the ingredients list on the package of Baked Lays I had just ingested, and noticed halfway down the list was: CHICKEN.


Listen, I am not NEW to vegetarianism by any means (no spring chicken?). I know that, when there's a doubt that meat may be involved, you ALWAYS have to read the ingredients to be sure.

But Barbecue Flavored Baked Lays? Is nothing safe? Really though, maybe I should have assumed that BARBECUE = MEAT, ALWAYS AND WITHOUT QUESTION.

I felt slightly queasy for the rest of the day (Thanks, Lays) and more than that, I'm a little pissed off. Did the meat ingredient REALLY enhance the chips? REALLY? Was it super necessary?

Don't Do It, Bam!

So, from what I hear, Obama has officially shown his birth certificate to the Republicans. I think this was a terrible idea!

As everyone knows, a birth certificate is proof that you were born. If Obama could convince the Republicans that he DOESN'T have a birth certificate because he was NEVER born, the Republicans would immediately elect him Supreme President Of All Time Term Limits Be Damned, because they love fetuses even more than they love people.

This would be the best plan ever, because as everyone knows, Republicans are zany for the zygotes, but they know nothing about them, which is how Obama could conceivably get away with claiming to be a fetus for a very long time.

The only downside would be that he would still suffer from poor healthcare, because as much as the Republicans love a good fetus, they hate little more than spending any more towards prenatal care for ANYONE.

If You Sprinkle...

Dear Lady Who Peed All Over The Toilet In The Port Authority Bathroom:

I'm assuming you're visiting our fair city and are unaware of our local customs and ways. I would like to bid you welcome to the epicenter of culture in America from whatever country you come from that evidently does NOT have toilets. Perhaps in your native land, it is inappropriate to urinate in the water source, to which I would like to caution you NOT to drink the water from the toilet. It may seem wasteful to you, but here in America, we wantonly pee in our toilet water, and NOT ON THE SEAT.

Or perhaps you ARE a local! I'm imagining that you're a performing artist, and an anarchist, and you peed all over the seat and appear to have missed the toilet completely as a deliberate maneuver, a reaction against society. You're probably trying to stick it to the man, by hitting them where it hurts: in the bus station, in Times Square, where the elite fatcats of society meet to pee in the second story ladies' room in the North Wing of the station.

But I know your truth, anonymous annoyer - the truth is, you're one of those germophobes who sincerely believes that if you hover above the toilet, not making contact with the seat, you will never catch a cold, develop breast cancer, suffer from allergies or get unsightly wrinkles. As a result, you hover over every toilet seat you encounter, spraying urine liberally all over the most beautiful city in North America. What you failed to consider is that you're actually making A BIGGER MESS by pissing all over the place than you originally encountered when you stepped into the stall, thus making the person who uses it AFTER you face the impossible choice: to use flimsy toilet paper to wipe up your urine by hand, or to hover over your pee-covered seat and hope that they don't come into contact with your golden shower.

In short, you are an ass, and thanks for covering mine in your pee.


Me xoxo

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Fashion, Forward!

So, today I woke up with a strange desire to paint exaggerated cat eyes on my face in black gel eyeliner. I totally did.

Then I donned a floor-sweeping sundress and set out to conquer Manhattan, *for fun!*

I walked from West 4th Street to 5th Avenue and 54th Street, halfway down Times Square and then back up to Columbus Circle again in sandals (and later had to explain when Eli had the GALL to mention that my feet were dirty - SANDALS + CITY = BLACK FEEEEET!!!).

In front of the New York Public Library at Bryant Park, a cute young lady approached me and told me she liked my outfit. Wary that she was collecting for Greenpeace or a Russian pickpocket, I thanked her and prepared to be brusquely on my way, as one must do sometimes in New York. She stopped me in my tracks with 5 words:

"I'm a street fashion blogger."

Well, why didn't you just say so! (NOTE: She still could have been a Russian pickpocket, one so clever that she knew exactly what to say to inspire the confidence of a New York City gal, at which point she deserved the $22 I had on me) So I let her photograph me, my dress, my makeup, my nails, my tattoos - and she gave me her card.

And a mission. Good things come to those who dress for them! Now I can't be lazy and slip back into my t-shirt and jeans habits. Not that I even COULD - it's far too hot for jeans and the thought of sleeves makes me pant like Charlie in August. Anyway, I know you're curious, so this is what I was wearing today:

That's the Hangmen's Elm, in Washington Square Park! I'm studying up for the tours I'll be working on this summer and I can't be more excited! Links and more info coming next month! But for now, you'll have to satisfy yourself with my lovely visage.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Giving Marriage A Bad Rap

Okay, so I was pretty harsh on that girl who promised never to fart in bed until she was married, or whatever. Maybe I missed the point. But it seems as if a lot of people are freaking out about marriage on the interwebs today. Maybe it's the royal wedding that has girls re-examining their lives to discover where they went so wrong that they themselves are not the ones marrying a prince at the end of this week?

I'm certainly no authority on the subject. Having never been married, and knowing only a handful of people who are (and most of them are married to each other, lol), I don't think I can comment about the state of being married, having a wedding, or even being engaged, these are things I have never done. That does, however, make me somewhat of an expert on being NOT YET married (funny how these things work out, huh?) so I may continue.

It's always amazing to me how much of girl-culture revolves around the concept of marriage. I mean, list for me if you can FIVE Disney movies that DON'T end in a wedding. Dumbo? Pinocchio? I'm pretty sure even Simba and Nala had a non-state-sanctioned-merely-symbolic-religious-ceremony to commemorate their civil union at some point (although were they cohabitating before?). All the princess stories culminate in the princess getting married and then living happily ever after, which seems to mean that as soon as your horse-drawn carriage pulls away from the cathedral, whatever happens in your life is inconsequential. Your story, and your life, really, is over.

But all little girls DREAM about their wedding! When that time finally rolls around, they'll wax rhapsodic about how they've been planning their wedding since they were 4 years old and could play dress-up! I assume gay boys do the same thing! And could it be because they've had 20 years to fantasize about this one little detail, they develop crazy neuroses and anxieties that result in years spent in therapy and on OkCupid dwelling over the concepts of finding "The One" or "Prince Charming" or even just a "Nice Guy" and "settling down" - what a horrible combination of words! "Settling" - agreeing, "DOWN"? I would want to settle UP, if anything!

I have NO PROBLEM with people getting married, even if they're heterosexual women marrying heterosexual men! The thing that bothers me is the idea that marriage is such a HUGE DEAL. It's cohabitation with a contract, people. It's like an additional clause on the lease, only if you default on it, you lose more than just your security deposit unless you have a good lawyer (yuck yuck yuck). It's another box to check on the tax form, it's a formality, a rather ridiculous formality! What does it stand for these days anyway? It's a legal document confirming your heterosexual relationship, allegedly based on love or something, and it supposedly binds you together? It just seems weird to me - even though I have no problem with it. I also have no problem with people doing whatever they want as long as it makes them happy, because who am I to judge, get a legal contract that changes your name to Jesus Christ and dress your 8-year-old daughter like a stripper for all I care.

But is marriage the precursor to the "happy ending"? What about the rest of life's milestones? Here's my thing: Maybe if girls weren't taught by society to obsess over their weddings, they'd be able to enjoy the other goals they could strive for in life - like education and career but NO. Cinderella gets married in the end, she doesn't spend a year studying painting in Paris. She gets MARRIED, and we never find out if she finished that doctorate in British literature or adopted a Cambodian orphan or found a cure for cancer! It boils my balls when perfectly smart women who have everything going for them define their lives by and judge themselves as failures because they check the box labelled "Single" on their tax returns. Doesn't that make doing your taxes easier, anyway?

So, I guess I have officially joined the ranks of women who are writing about marriage on the internet today (even though I already had, I suppose)...but did I mention Raja won RuPaul's Drag Race? I'm going to go down to the courthouse tomorrow and get a legal document that states that for the rest of my natural life I will be in love with the fact that Raja is America's Next Drag Superstar...gotta have priorities!

I Guess "Put A Ring On It" is the NEW "Pop The Question"...?

Because it's even managed to find its way into this really gross article:

Just Put A Ring On It (If You Can, Which You Totally Can, Ha-Ha-Ha-Heteronormativity!)

Let me say first, my favourite part of this whole article is the final reader comment on the page, vowing not to marry until all fellow Americans can. Love her (or him, but what him reads The Stir and oh, stereotypes are contagious I guess).

But since this is the ACTUAL America, you know, not the ones where people are entitled to freedom and the pursuit of happiness, the article as you may expect is written by someone with limited world views trying to force their social conservatism on other people. And since Republicans haven't made cohabitation before marriage illegal yet (but it's TOTALLY on their to-do list, right before create jobs, fix the economy, and end the wars), she's just preaching to whomever will listen.

And you should TOTALLY listen to her, because she has NEVER lived with a romantic partner, so she knows it's completely BAD for you and you'll never get MARRIED if you give all your milk away for FREE, you sluts! Then how will you have teh babbiez and bake pies like all women TOTALLY want to do?

I have nothing against married women with babies who bake pies. I take HUGE offense, however, when people put themselves out there under the guise of giving advice and what they're really saying is "You should be just like me, because I'm so happy and perfect! So happy and perfect that I don't waste my time worrying about what other people are doing and how their happiness is affecting MY happiness and call them out on the internet and try to make them feel bad about NOT DOING WHAT I'M DOING."

Why is marriage the endgame? Is it really so hard to trick a man into marrying you that you have to involve yourself in these games? What about equality? Just slip drugs into his drinks at a bar, that's what a man does when HE wants something from a woman (WOAH crazy stereotypes here, reel it in...)

I guess I'm just trying to find a way to voice how annoyed I am with the beginning of the article where she lists the things she won't do unless she's married to someone. Paraphrased, they are:

1. Being someone's sex slave at all hours of the day and night.

2. Sharing ANYTHING with a man - splitting bills, paying for half the date, caring for his houseplants.

3. Acting like she owes him ANYTHING in exchange for LOVE, because love doesn't come in a platinum bezel setting and can't be used to make her unmarried girlfriends feel inferior!

Which is ridiculous. NOBODY is forced to be ANYBODY's sex slave in America unless they're locked in a psychopath's basement which is ILLEGAL or they're an extra on Law & Order: SVU. Not wanting to share responsibilities? That's covered in kindergarten. And if you have trouble committing to a man who loves you, do the ring, the dress, and the cake really change all that magically and forever?

So for fun, I came up with a list of things I will NEVER DO for another person unless I'm married to them, because marriage changes everything!!!!!:

1. Perform a prostate exam.

2. Pay to see a Will Ferrell movie in theatres.

3. Eat Death By Chocolate ice cream.

4. Sing a karaoke duet.

5. Share.....a dessert.

There, I think that's it.

Long Live The QUEEN!

Okay, so even though I haven't been posting a lot about it, ya'll know I'm like SUPER obsessed with RuPaul's Drag Race ever since Season 2. I haven't been posting a lot about Season Three, which ended last night, because frankly, I didn't need to.

From the very first moment, I knew RAJA was going to win! (and Manila Luzon would also finish well) Raja is the Lady Gaga of RuPaul's Drag Race, except ALWAYS classy. It was almost unfair to pit the other girls against Raja, because of how advanced she was in terms of fashion and creativity.

Now, I have to admit, I knew this was going to happen when I picked her to win after the pilot. But on Sunday night, I dreamt that I was part of the challenge to determine the winner! And I was paired up with Raja, of course, my DREAM partner, and we WON! So when Raja won the competition for REALZ, I felt even more proud having "had a hand in it".

Anyway, Raja is brilliant, and deserves it so much more than anyone in the ever of evers, and she is the absolute royalty of drag. I am so ecstatic I want to lean out my windows and scream "They finally got it right!" Thank you, RuPaul et all, for rewarding TRUE talent this time (instead of a sob story).

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Good Evening, Sports Fans...

For years, I have maintained a strained indifference towards sports. I have been irritated by their incomprehensible and random rules, annoyed by the power they held over people, and jealous of the importance they seemed to play in everyone's lives.

I even loathed Aaron Sorkin's ill-fated attempt at sitcoms, Sports Night.

But today at work I watched about 15 minutes of a New York Knicks game....and I actually ENJOYED it! And not just FAKE enjoyed it for appearances, like those soccer games I watched in that restaurant/bar in Amsterdam. I was totally it! And I think I have become...a Knicks fan.

Let me clarify: I have always enjoyed watching my little brother play sports. Even when this involved playing Little League with other 4-year-olds who couldn't throw, hit, or catch. I have seen him become an exemplary athlete and this is a source of much pride for me. I don't regret a single moment of watching him play, and in fact, I plan to visit my hometown to watch him play varsity baseball for the high school team before he graduates.

BUT, down in the break room, watching that game go back and forth, edge of your seat, and all the emotions in the stadium and feeling that this is my town, this is my team! And thus, I am a Knicks fan.

I may have even talked Eli into taking me to a game, to which he agreed because it would be indoors and short enough that he wouldn't get bored. This point may be moot, as they seem to have lost to the Celtics, and I think this means they don't play anymore this season? Or it's the playoffs and tickets may be hard to get? I'm not really sure, but I promise you one thing, sports fans....


Friday, April 22, 2011

Easter Traditions...

I have recently become aware that Easter is the day after tomorrow. So in honor of the holiday, I thought I'd post some Easter Traditions that my family has imparted on me:

Most Traditional Easter Tradition: Dyeing Eggs
I'm sure this comes as no surprise, but my eggs were ALWAYS slammin'. Being a weird, creative child I would make my eggs reflect whatever crazy mood I was in, from my musical theatre obsession, to my love of rainbows, to this one Easter specialty when I was sick of the cold weather.

Easter Tradition I Would Rather Not Repeat: Easter Brunch
As a vegetarian with food allergies, the Easter spread loses some of it's luster when the only thing you can actually eat is a buttered roll.

Easter Tradition From My Childhood: Hiding Baskets
Ever since I was little, my parents would fill the same medium-brown basket with purple Easter grass (Much Like Your Memories, It Never Leaves Your Carpet!) and delightful little treats and hide it. There were extensive rules to the finding of these baskets: If you found someone else's basket, protocol prohibited you from telling them WHERE it was. You could ask for hints, but they could only be given in the broadest sense. And since we usually celebrated the holiday with my Grandparents, this would mean finding the basket in some location at my Grandmother & Grandfather's house, which was small enough to take less than an hour but full of secret spaces so the search could eventually outrun my patience.

Easter Tradition My Mom Would Rather Not Repeat: Ruining Her Clothes
I'm not proud of this, but one of my first Easters, I went a little crazy. I overindulged on Easter basket treats, then piled into the car to visit relatives. My memory of this period in my life was a little hazy, but I'm told that somehow or another, I made myself physically ill all over my mother's lovely Easter outfit (which was likely some pastel colour, if not white, as Easter outfits often are). In my own defense, chocolate vomit probably smells better than regular vomit? While probably being twice as staining. But the tradition doesn't end there: when I was a little older (old enough to remember it this time, and for my parents to place a ration on how many Easter treats I could stuff into my face before breakfast), my mom had a white linen Easter suit (skirt-suit, if memory serves me well). She was opening a 2-Liter bottle of red Fruit Punch to serve to us kidlings for the aforementioned Easter brunch, and though we did not know it, this punch contained enough carbonation to effectively make her suit resemble the Prom scene from Carrie. Sorry mom. Next Easter, you should wear a red top and brown pants.

Easter Tradition That No Other Family Has And Few Will Understand: Chocolate Bunnies On The TV
This originates from a story. My maternal Grandfather was a quiet, stoic man, and my maternal Grandmother loves chocolate. Background established. One Easter, when they had been married for a while, he bought her the BIGGEST chocolate Easter bunny. My Grandma was floored by the gesture, and displayed the bunny proudly in the family sitting room, perched atop the television set. It's also important to know that this was likely in the 1950's or 1960's, when television sets were quite different and contained lamps and such (no pixels here!). The television was turned on for nightly viewing, and witnesses noticed the rabbit tilting slowly to the side...eventually it was discovered that the heat from the television was causing the rabbit to melt! As a result of this, all Easter bunnies must be displayed on the television to remember the great melting Easter bunny incident. Here is displayed my first Easter bunny in New York City, dressed in baggy pants and a medallion - I thought he gave an urban vibe to our family's urban legend!

Easter Tradition That Isn't An Easter Tradition At All: Matzoh
In the blending of our two "families", Eli and I decided one year (the same year as the bunny above) to celebrate Easter and Passover at the same time. I made deviled eggs (because he likes them and I like boiling and peeling eggs, even if I can't eat them, see tradition #2), and we put a bunny on the television, and he brought home my very first matzoh. I had never eated it, didn't know what it would look like, and assumed it was a globby, soggy ball. Imagine my surprise to find out that it's really more like a giant Saltine cracker. Whenever Passover rolls around, we buy a box of this stuff and promptly realize that it has no flavor, which results in creative matzoh recipes like Peanut Butter and Honey on Matzoh (invented by Eli during his college days) Matzoh in Hummus (a Middle Eastern Delight that Almost Makes Sense), and maybe someday, Matzoh Peep'wich (God help us all).

Easter Tradition That Has Become A Rule: Ears First
This is another story about my maternal Grandmother. When she was a very young child, she had an older brother who would torment her. Not horribly, but do little things to tease her, upset her, and would then make it up to her. One Easter, she awoke to find that someone had eaten the ears off of all her chocolate Easter bunnies. Of course, it was her brother's doing, and somehow he was punished and forced to make it up to her, but the ears of the Easter bunny are always sacred.

Happy Easter, everyone! Don't make yourselves ill, leave other people's rabbit ears alone, be careful around warm appliances and if you can think of anything delicious to do with a box of uneaten matzoh, let me know!

Thursday, April 21, 2011

My Favourite Subway Station

I have a new favourite subway station (what, are you trying to say you DON'T have a favourite subway station? That there's something WRONG with having a favourite subway station? I thought so. Moving on...)

Surprise! It's the 168th Street A, C, 1 stop!

Now, I'm not going to lie, my first time trying to transfer from the A to the 1, I got so lost that I ended up having to LEAVE the station and RE-SWIPE in to find the 1 train. There weren't any signs! At least ones that I could see. So of course, when money is tight, I wasted $2.25 getting lost and being a tourist...

But it's all okay! Because I learned that, in order to transfer to the 1 train, you have to take a secret passageway to some elevators, ONLY elevators, where you crowd in with like 30 other people and ride down a short ways (why aren't there stairs for this purpose, I wonder?) and get off in this MAGICAL place.

THIS is what Subway stations were MEANT to look like:

Note the beautiful lamps, the high ceiling, that old-world feel! It reminds one of the Metro in Paris, at least it reminds ME of the Metro in Paris. It's hot and dry down there, not super noisy, they have countdown clocks for when the trains are set to arrive and it even smells like the Paris Metro! This picture makes it look very bright, but I assure you, it's nice and dark in real life, with the glowing lamps and the brown brick on the walls, it's warm and exciting. A little research reveals that it was intended to mimic the Metros in both Washington D.C. and -you guessed it - Gay Paree! So it's a Subway station after my own heart - lives in New York, but still retains that Parisian je ne sais quoi!

Anyhow, the likelihood of me ever needing to visit this magical place again is unfortunately very slim - if I needed to get anywhere downtown on the 1 line, it makes more sense to ride the A express to 59th street and change there. And if I needed to go anywhere else, I could change much more easily to a C, D, or B train. So much like an Edith Piaf song, our affair will be tragically short, but I will never forget you, 168th Street 1 line platform, and je ne regrette having to scan my card twice just to find you (well, almost).

It's still Lent, so I have to call this guy out....

...for slut-shaming little girls.

"Parents! Don't Dress Your Girls Like Tramps! Then they won't get molested, or end up being sluts, or god forbid having sex!"

This makes me so mad. First of all, everyone's bad fashion decisions are THEIR OWN. And as much as I would LOVE to take the world under my wing as its stylist, and take it shopping at H&M (or Baby Gap) and make it feel like a strong, independent person, SORRY. People have the freedom to dress any way they want to. And you think kids don't have a say in what they wear? Piffle. I wore nothing but stirrup leggings until the sixth grade. Was I a horrible fashion victim with odd quirks and a painful social anxiety disorder convinced that everyone was laughing at me behind my back (oohhh, SGR)? YES. But I refused to wear anything else and my parents knew that as long as I wore ANY kind of pants (and a shirt, weirdos) I could go to school, and they let me. Kids have more say in what they will wear than you think. So stop "blaming" the parents.

Secondly, it's hard to find clothes for kids that aren't "slutty", if you think about it. Short, pink skirts, tiny little tops, and then they roll around and play and act like, god, little kids! So where would you draw the line? Would you ban the ever-popular Catholic School Girl Uniform of the crisp white shirt, plaid skirt, knee high socks because Britney Spears turned it into an object of lust in 1998? What about skirts and jumpers, because when kids invariably start to grow out of them, they will be too short? Will you go the route of a Catholic school near my hometown, and mandate that the proper uniform is a buttoned Polo shirt with Khaki pants, or is that too close to cross-dressing for your narrow, judgmental mind? DAMN! Why don't they sell burquas at Baby Gap???

And thirdly, with so much going on in the media about girls getting blamed for their rapes because of what they wear, you'd think we'd be beyond this now. Girls wear clothes, they get raped. Girls wear less clothes, they get raped. Girls don't wear clothes, they're encouraging rape. Seems like the common denominator is....rape? I highly doubt this guy is concerned about girls getting raped (as in, he doesn't mention it at all as the reason for his disgust, his argument seems to be based solely on what he finds aesthetically unpleasant).

Hmm, maybe the problem is...the rape?

Also, Heinous Dude, if you want to protect your child's innocence, why are you oversexualizing their clothing choices? The girl you describe at the airport is wearing sweatpants and a short shirt. It's obvious she just vacationed somewhere warm. Would you be equally appalled if she was wearing a tank top and jeans shorts (DAISY DUKES GODFORBID!)? How about a bathing suit at the ocean? What amount of clothes does a female of the species have to wear to make her "decently clothed", according to you? What about the YOUNGEST group of girls, the BABIEZ? Wearing nothing but DIAPERS on the beach, just TANTALIZING you with their raw and unabashed sexuality, their come-hither eyes begging "Come rape me! I'm not even wearing a shirt!"

There's such a double standard here, I can't even go on, I'm exhausted from this guy's ignorance and victim blaming/slut shaming. But I hope I made the point that you're damned if you do and damned if you don't, and no matter what you wear when you're being raped, some old dude is going to tell you that you were dressed like a slut so you might as well become a nudist.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

The Ten Commandments of Facebook Profile Pictures

1. Thou shalt never post a picture of a cartoon character or celebrity as thy facebook profile picture, unless you ARE said celebrity or cartoon character.

2. Thou shalt not change thy facebook picture to, say, a picture of your favourite junk food to end world hunger, or a fruit that begins with the same letter as your first name for breast cancer awareness, or stupid shit like that.

3. Thou canst change thy picture for holidays (to a turkey for Thanksgiving, Obama for election day, a TARDIS to celebrate the season premiere of Doctor Who), but picture must be changed back to thyself by NOON the day after said holiday or thou shall be thought of as lazy.

4. Thou mayest never have thy child(ren)'s or pet's picture as thy profile picture. It is acceptable to have a picture of thyself WITH said family members.

5. Thou mayest make thy newborn baby thy facebook profile picture, but after five days thou MUST change it to a picture of THYSELF and child, or thy facebook friends will know that thou hast abdicated thy own personality for the sake of thy child and may unfriend you, no questions asked (NOTE: if the baby is born premature, the facebook picture may be of the child alone until five days after the baby's due date,, as we your facebook friends are not so callous as to assume thy wouldn't be spending most of thy time with thy hospitalized baby).

6. Thou shalt not make as thy profile picture a group photo, or photo of thyself and two or more peoples of the same gender, as old friends trying to find you on facebook or people that thou attempts to befriendest shall not know who thou art.

7. Thou mayest use a photo of thyself and thy significant other as thy facebook picture, provided that thy face is fully visible in said photograph.

8. Thou mayest use thy wedding photo as thy profile picture for precisely one year after thy wedding ceremony.

9. Thou mayest use a portion of thy body (provided it is actually THY body) to represent themselves - a tattoo, a flexed muscle, boob shot, whatever, but only with the full understanding that people will henceforth judgeth thou.

10. The following must never be used as profile pictures: mug shots, thy child's first poo on the toilet, LOLcats, or the cover art for the Twilight books.

Happy 4/20!

Today, my new shoes and I (and Eli) went down to Chelsea Market for a celebratory picnic....

This was our it!

Of course, someone had to break the bread...

And eventually, of course, I had to end up in chocolate jail...

And then there was some couch love...

Until I got bored.

So I decided to chase Eli around the house, dressed as a ghost,
brandishing a box of generic Ziploc bags.

He put up a good fight.

But I was a fierce competitor.

A little TMI for the day...

I wish I could pee standing up.

You see, my lovely apartment is very gifted in terms of space. The kitchen is so large that we still have a stack of empty boxes in it waiting to be recycled, and you can't even tell. Oh the counter space! The living room fits a number of people comfortably, with plenty of room for playing Just Dance for Wii (very important). The bedroom is so big that I used to panic when I woke up and those huge, white walls stretched before me in a seemingly endless tunnel of blankness! So many walls to decorate! The hallways! The foyer! Simply put, this place is a palace.

That is, of course, except for one VERY IMPORTANT place - the bathroom.

Now, I'm not saying I needed (or expected to find) a 100 square foot marble tiled two-sink track-lit oasis with a separate steam shower and claw-footed tub outfitted with jets (oooooh, jets). More bathroom = more cleaning and constant vigilance against mold, as I learned in my last apartment.

But I've been meaning to address one issue for a long time: the layout. From the back wall, it goes: shower, sink, toilet. There is literally less than an inch between the toilet and the swinging door, so you have to do a little dance to get in there, around the toilet, spin around, shut the door. Look, all I'm saying is, if you changed it up and made it shower, toilet, sink, you could just waltz in, shut the door, and goooo!

But today, I felt an entirely different dimension of the bathroom. Stop reading here if the thought of people peeing in their own homes is upsetting to you. Especially if you've sought expensive and experimental surgeries to eliminate needing to pee from your own life, so that you can refer to your own unused bathrooms as "powder rooms" and sneer when your bladder-having guests ask to use it for filthy purposes.

So anyway, I'm standing up after taking a leak, and my head HITS THE OPPOSITE WALL. My bathroom is THAT SMALL.

But on the other hand, there's less walls for me to fret about decorating.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

The Converse Store, Part III - Not The Converse Store At All

Yesterday, I found this amazing store in SoHo, Yellow Rat Bastard. I can't believe nobody told me about this store yet! It's like a slightly less juvenile Hot Topic, and most of the clients were European. Score!

I bought a pair of size 4.5 red Chuck Taylor All Star High Tops, got them home, tried them on and walked around all night and to my horror, they were too tight. They felt fine in the store!

So today I went back to SoHo, getting out at the Spring Street C & E stop. I got to walk East on Spring street past the Chanel and Burberry stores, and tons of other fantastic retail establishments. It felt just like Rome, where every street was fantastic stores as far as the eye could see.

Anyhow, I exchanged the red Chucks for a size larger pair of the same style in - you guessed it -


Monday, April 18, 2011

Barking Mad for Tax Day

Today is crazy screaming day outside the 181st Street Station!

First, the homeless guy who live on the crate outside the station was singing "Show me me some...!" and staring at people who came off the train.

Then, as I walked past a woman, she yelled "Sheeeeeee-oh!" into my ear.

And finally, sitting on a stoop was a pair of guys, one of whom was barking loudly to scare random strangers while his buddy laughed.

Stupid Bitches

I finally got around to checking out this game, The Boyfriend Trainer, which has been causing a stir all over the news. At least, the news I read. This game, and the whole website, have me completely flummoxed. Flummoxed, it's an SAT word, and using it in conjunction with this absolutely stupid nonsense makes me feel like a 13-year-old nerd all over again.

First of all, the whole website is nothing but games about boys, makeup, babies, and weddings. Because that's all girls think about, care about, and want to dream about. Gag.

Second of all, I played this game, just to see if I could. Now, I am probably the lamest gamer on the planet, even Tetris is practically beyond my grasp, but I found this game insulting to my intelligence. Complex controls, difficult levels, any of this would have made the game a little less of an...I can only use the word "insult".

And thirdly, what the hell is this game supposed to be saying to girls? The only way to have power in a relationship is to be a physically abusive bitch? That it's acceptable in a mate to leer at other women and your job is to keep him in line by slapping him? Ugh. The whole thing is so disgusting.

In a way, or at least in my mind, it's even more offensive than that Duke Nukem game that was causing such a backlash. At least in that, the violence (as I understand it) wasn't personal, it wasn't motivated by anger or revenge like this is.

Okay, look. I understand that games like these are silly time-wasters. I can't say I don't sometimes spend hours playing Globs, Tetris, Pocket God, and there was that year I spent addicted to Farmville (I don't want to talk about it). Games like this are supposed to be easy, silly, fun ways to release tension. From the looks of it, these games are aimed at young girls, probably no older than 13 or 14, based on how easy they are, how cutesy they are and how little they speak to actual grown-up reality. But if this is true, then it's even more harmful - it's basically training little girls to grow up to be stupid bitches.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Saturday, April 16, 2011

300th Post!

It's a rainy, rainy day here in New York! The sun never came out, everything's soaking wet, wind makes it almost impossible to use an umbrella, and a crazy lady decided to stalk my whole entire life, spending twenty minutes yelling at me about how my product was awful and preventing me from doing my job so I left.

But other than that, the evening has been ducky! I literally danced the night away and now it barely even bothers me that I had such a crap day at work. And hey! 300th post. Sorry it is such a lame-o.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Everyone Is Beautiful On The Inside, and Other Myths.

A friend of mine discussed the movie Penelope on facebook, and raised the issue of beauty. I started to comment, but then realized I would have gone on far too long and decided to talk about it here.

I believe EVERYONE IS BEAUTIFUL IN THEIR OWN WAY. No, really! It sounds like a sickening beauty pageant platitude, but I really think it's true. And not everyone is "beautiful on the inside," because I've met some vicious, messed-up, deliberately cruel people before in my life (and not all of them were beautiful on the OUTside, either).

I see a lot of REAL BEAUTY on the subway, of all places. Just today, on the uptown A platform, there was a woman who I really considered trying to photograph just because she was so awesome. Picture this: between 30-50 years old, probably closer to the latter end of that spectrum. She was wearing black yoga capris over black yoga pants, with sneakers, a black dress, black wool peacoat and a gold scarf. Close-cropped hair with white-blond chunky highlights, and a small streak of violet purple resting on the top of her glasses. Eating a Golden Delicious apple, reading a newspaper, with cloth bags at her feet holding bags of millet. AMAZING! I wanted to go over to her and say that I wanted to be her when I grew up (which would have proved embarrassing had I severely overestimated her age), or take a picture or sit near her to stare at her all the way to 125th street.

Now, that's a pretty picture, but the point is, she had a je ne sais quoi, Simon Doonan might call it "glamorous eccentricity". I don't know, something about...a gap in the teeth, or flawlessly applied makeup, or breasts so perfect you could eat a sandwich from between them. Or the ability to dress yourself, the way you smile at a baby, an outgoing charismatic quality. Whatever. Everyone has something that makes them beautiful. And that's my story, I'm sticking to it.

The Converse Store, Take Two...

I assume by now you've already heard about my previous attempt to secure for myself a new pair of either red or purple Chuck Taylor All-Star high tops, and you already know that it didn't go so well. So I headed to Times Square, foolishly thinking that this could be the day that I get new shoes. Needless to say, that didn't happen.

I walked into this store - which is actually a souvenir store, in Times Square! - to the basement where there is a small wall of shoes. I walk straight up to the red shoe, pick it up, and ask the closest store employee:

"Does this red shoe (no fancy colours here!) come in a Ladies' size 7?" Fairly straightforward.

"Men's 7 or women's 7?"

Okay, this is what we're dealing with here. "Women's 7."


"It's for me. Women's 7."

"Women's seven is men's 5," he replies curtly, then turns to go into the storeroom. He returns, puts a box roughly down on a table, and says to me, "Five and a half."

I decide to humor him, and try it on. "It's a little big," I said sweetly, poking the toe to show the empty space. "Do you have it in a seven?"

He sighs as though I asked him to gift wrap it for me, for free. He points to my shoes: "What size are those?"

"Sevens," I reply honestly, flipping them over and pointing to the number on the sole.

"That's five," he said, and disappeared again into the back room.

I sat for twenty minutes, watching him walk past with boxes, glaring at me and giving me dirty looks as if to ask, "Why are you still here?". So I got up and left.

The LEAST he could do was say "No, we don't have any size fives in red." I then would have said, "Do you have any purple shoes in size five?" and he could have said yes or no, and if he had said yes, he would have made a sale. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that the point of working in a store?

I work in sales and get paid on commission, and I do anything I have to to make a sale. I spend upwards of half an hour with customers, laughing, joking, answering questions, being polite. Now, maybe this guy doesn't get paid on commission like I do, but doesn't he care about his job?

I probably should have been more forceful, or gone to a different employee, or something. It's so ridiculous. I need shoes. I have money. I will buy shoes. I just can't seem to find anyone in Manhattan willing to SELL me a pair of shoes!

The Taxman Does NOT = The Boogeyman!!!

Or at least, not if you fall into the lowest possible tax bracket?

So I did my taxes online the other day, what was it, Tuesday? Yes, it took a couple hours. Yes, there may have been some wine involved. But I got my taxes DONE. And it was my first time doing them!

You have to understand, at my prior job with the Boss-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, taxes were the thing that NEVER GOT DONE. He had an accountant (possibly two?), and still hadn't done his taxes from 2008!!! Granted, he chose to itemize EVERYTHING HE SPENT on his taxes, but really, come on. It's not that hard.

Of course, I used the free software online recommended to me by the State of New York. And because I made so little, I was able to use the EASIEST software possible! Which implies that, if you make as little money as I do, you must:

a. be an undereducated idiot who is barely capable of filling in the blanks properly and for whom doing sums is out of the question, or

b. a starving artist who could care less about math and has general disdain for following instructions.

I'll let you pick, but what I know is, these taxes got themselves DONE. There was a little difficulty, but I submitted them.

And you know what? The IRS rejected my return. I was afraid this would happen, as I wasn't totally sure about some things. But my guardian angel tax software gave me a 1-800 number to call, and I followed the VERY SIMPLE telephone instructions, and in less than five minutes I submitted it again!

Overall, I could not be more pleased. It was quick, easy, and so much less painful than I had thought it would be while I worried and put it off! There's a lesson about not procrastinating here, but maybe I'll figure out what it is later.

And to top it all off, if the software's estimate is correct, I'll get back over 10% of what I made from the IRS!

I know what you're thinking, I've sold out to the system. On the contrary! I think taxes are a fine thing! If you want to live in a country and enjoy its benefits, taxes just make sense. Taxes help me get to and from work, after all. They ensure our safety, take care of our mess, and someday (HOPEFULLY) they'll make it possible to get health care. How can that be a bad thing?

Birdily Fluids!

Okay, so maybe this isn't for the squeamish but...

Yesterday, after making the ENTIRE 45-minute train/walking commute, I was ACROSS THE STREET FROM MY WORKPLACE, when I felt a large, wet glob land on my head.

Sticking my left middle finger in the glop confirmed it: Bird poop.

Not even thinking, I pulled my hair into a swift comb-over and clipped it in place, to conceal (or so I thought) the mess, and raced for the subway, only to have the commute last ONE HOUR this time (I'm starting to learn the hard way that uptown A trains and downtown A trains have nothing to do with each other) and ran into Eli on my way to shower off my shame. He noticed the poop despite my clever disguise (DAMN! That's why everybody was looking at me with disgust!), and we joked about it. And after I finally got to work FOR REALSIES (wielding an umbrella this time, I was NOT going to take any chances), consensus there was that getting pooped on by a bird is lucky.

LUCKY for WHO??? The bird? Did he win some kind of target challenge?

And did I handle this right? What is the proper social protocol for poop on one's head?

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Having An Average Weekday

Today we welcomed a new piece of furniture into our home. It's a desk!

Today also marked the first time I tried out our oven (underbaked cookies, but they were still okay-ish), first home-cooked meal in the apartment (Tuna Helper, for the curious, although I believe one can of tuna may have in fact been canned salmon, it was awfully pink and salmonious), the hanging of both the Van Gogh posters (I couldn't be any more of a stereotype if I TRIED), and an all-day Army Wives marathon on Instant Netflix. Oh, I also started trying to make the bedroom feel like less of a hospital room by hanging rainbow beads (Eli gets no say in the decor of the bedroom, he just doesn't realize it yet) and pictures of my doggies and a dream catcher.

It was blissfully unremarkable, considering the last 48 hours have been a blur of auditions, anxieties, and trying to teach the undereducated masses how to paint with all the colors of the wind. I stayed in to relax, partly because the thought of fighting with another idiotic Converse store employee was exhausting to me, and partly because our building was doing repairs on the hot water heater and after having washed my hair in the frigid cold icy water of the kitchen sink on Tuesday for my callbacks, I vowed I would never do it again (even though I discovered that the old wives' tale about cold water making your hair shiny is TRUE, to an extent) and forGET about showering in icy water. No, no, better to stay home. I emptied 4 boxes of stuff that was still sitting around and organized my desk! I also located the screwdriver (it was, as I thought it would be, right where I put it) and tightened ALL the loose screws in the house. Lovely!

I apologize for being boring.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

An Imagined Interaction Between Two Subway Riders Eyeing Each Other's Goods

Holding a Subway sandwich, he unwraps and bites into it. Carefully watching the GIRL with large breasts sitting next to him.

Covetously eyeing GUY's sandwich., that sandwich is making me hungry. What kind is it?

Turkey. With lettuce, pickles, and swiss cheese.

Oh, man, you gotta let me have a bite of that.

No way! This is my only lunch!

Come on, man, what do you want from me?

Your breasts.

What the hell, dude?!?

Let me see your breasts. Then you can have a bite of my sandwich.

A bite? Just A bite? No way, man, my breasts are worth way more than just a bite. Puh-leeze! Have you seen the size of these things?

Nonstop since 34th Street. Do we have a deal?

If I flash you, I get the whole sandwich.

Not even close. Two bites.

Eating just two bites is going to make me hungrier than I was to begin with! Come on, man, I'm starving! You gotta let me have a bite!

Have you seen The Breakfast Club?

I've heard of it. Why?

Well, first of all, what is wrong with you? And secondly, there's a scene in the movie where Molly Ringwald puts her lipstick on by placing the tube between her breasts and spreading it around her mouth. If you can eat the sandwich from between those breasts of yours, you can have A. Bite.

That's sick. What are you, some kind of sandwich fetishist?

Put. The sandwich. Between. Your boobs. And eat it.



THREE bites.


Picture it as you will: she puts the six-inch sub in her cleavage and eats three large, messy bites of the sandwich. Takes it back out, and hands it to the guy.
Great. Now I'm even hungrier.

I have a banana in my backpack!


Dear Guy At The Converse Store On Broadway,

As a fellow retail worker, I loathe the stereotype that just because you work in a store, you must be stupid. HOWEVER, when I picked up a shoe and asked if there was a size seven in the aubergine color, and you looked as if I had struck you with a frying pan, I immediately lost all respect for you.

I was not only holding a shoe the color, but I was saying the word! I'm pretty sure even Sesame Street forces you to ascertain information presented in more cryptic manners than that. Shoe. Aubergine. At least have the dignity to nod and smile, and continue to do your job. However, this you could not do.

"WHAT?" You asked me. Again, shoe. Aubergine. Size 7. What exactly do you DO for a job? Do you, like me, have to help customers who don't speak English? How do you expect to help a customer who doesn't speak English if you can't help one who DOES?

There are three shades of dark purple shoes in this store, how to you delineate between the three of them? What do you call these shades? Purple, Other Purple, That Other Purple? Not to mention the Raspberry and Lilac shades! I know this can't be beyond you, I was just talking to your colleague about the markdown on the highly unpopular "Lemonade" shoe, a light yellow color. Don't tell me you never had no Crayola as a child, or a single uncreative thought in your head, much less the ability to adapt and learn.

Also, what kind of shoe store doesn't carry size seven? Now I'm the one who doesn't understand.


Aubergine Fan Who Would Have Bought The Red Ones Had You Had Them In Her Size.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Design Star!

I haven't shown you these new pictures of my fantastically decorated apartment! Starting with the very best part of all, the red sofa! Aka, 2/3rds of the COUCH! The new love of my life and where I spend most of my waking hours.

The bookshelves, and the TV!

The kitchen. It is a lot cleaner now, actually.

Front hallway.

The hallway from the living room past the bathroom to the bedroom!

Annnnnd the bedroom! So far, anyways. Not quite as interesting as the ones I showed you earlier today, and I'm not making emo faces on the bed holding a book or guitar, but HEY! It's a one year lease. Give a gal time to decorate!

Angry Diatribe Against Jeggings


They're not pants. They aren't! They're leggings, which are merely opaque (although sometimes, unfortunately, not THAT opaque) tights, imitating jeans. They. Are. Patterned. Tights.

Here is what I think when I see a woman wearing jeggings (or a girl, what self-respecting "woman" wears JEGGINGS?):

"I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to make us think you're wearing jeans, while all the while you're just wearing lounge pants. You think you're smarter than all of us, you think we're not paying attention, you think we won't look closely enough to tell that you're trying to pass a half a yard of lycra off as actual pants.

Or maybe you're lazy and cheap, and you'd rather spend $7 on a pair of glorified tights at Kmart than spend hours trying to find jeans that fit your body well and fork over $50 or so to buy nice clothes for yourself.

Or maybe you're a sick, sick weirdo who is so used to wearing nothing but leggings all the time, that she can't feel truly alive unless her underwear is riding up her ass along with her pants and she's growing a yeast infection rivaled only by that within Amish Friendship Bread.

Whatever the reason, I can see your underwear AND your camel toe at the same time, and I'm pretty sure I can also see your C-section scar through that translucent mockery of garment that you're wearing."

I know I gave up slut shaming for Lent, but women who choose to dress like fashion victims need to be told the error of their ways! I'd rather they hear it from me than from someone who would treat them less gently than I. I would then take them by the hand, lead them to the Levi's store, or the Gap, or good heavens, even Old Navy, and find them a decent-fitting pant in their own size. We'd shop for blousy tunic tops at Strawberry or Forever 21 just in case they ever want to go back to the leggings for a lark, so that the whole world doesn't have to see their colon while they're experiencing nuclear wedgie meltdown. And then we'd hang out in Union Square and I'd show her how to wear tights with shorts, to keep her private areas private while still showcasing the silhouette of her shapely legs. Because ALL women have nice legs, I'm convinced. Unless they're wearing ugly denim-patterned forgeries of classic dungarees.

Girls and their Bedrooms

Usually I don't care much for the art of photography, but this artist's work touched me! Go on, click it! I swear it's not porn this time!

It's a series of photos of girls in their bedrooms! Actually, I was just thinking about my teenage bedroom last night, and saying how much I regretted not taking pictures of it when the entire wallspace - yes, every inch! - was a collage of everything I loved. Pinups, comics, travel brochures, newspaper clippings, impressionist art, magazine ads, I couldn't even begin to take an inventory of everything. It took hours, days, entire weekends and school vacations in my room with my CD player (usually playing Rocky Horror Picture Show, the soundtrack from The Birdcage, or Edith Piaf - how angsty). The walls were my scrapbook!

Well, now I have a scrapbook, so this will be a challenge, but I want to try to redecorate my bedroom to make it homey. Right now, the white walls! UGH, the white walls! It's so oppressive and painful!

Meantime, GO GO GO! Click the link!

Friday, April 8, 2011

Reasons to be Pretty

It's Friday, and if you're looking for some classic, refined, very soft core porn, here you go.

PINUP GIRLS! (Try NOT to imagine Neil Sedaka's "Calendar Girl" as you look through these).

I have always harbored a secret desire to be a classic beauty. Although only recently I have come to the conclusion that I am a tomboy (How do I know this? I have spent every day I haven't worked in boxer shorts and either a wifebeater or a t-shirt with the Jack Daniels logo on it. My God, I'm turning into Kevin Federline), I must still admire these gorgeous ladies.

(Side note: the "photoshopping" only proves that women have always had unrealistic images of female beauty presented to them as possible by advertisements, but moving on.)

I mean, Elizabeth Taylor. Grace Kelly. Vivien Leigh! Poor me, in her jeans and t-shirt, trying to shape her eyebrows into that perfect arch while pin-curling her hair.

I suppose the lesson in all this is, to thine own self be true, but it never hurts to appreciate that joy (as many of the original models are smiling beautiful smiles, especially number 13. Oh, lucky number 13!) is what really makes a woman beautiful.

Beggars CAN Be Choosers...

File this one under "almost-subway mishaps".

So I get out of the Columbus Circle train station to go across town to work. Crossing the street with me, in front of me, albeit slowly, is an elderly woman with a cane and a somewhat homeless appearance*, you dig? And I would have felt sorry for her, were she not yelling obscenities at people who walked around her - "Pass by an old crippled woman! I can't cross the street! The light's too fast!" and giving off a vaguely derelict air. So I crossed, stood on the corner, and she suddenly changed her tune (slightly):

"I can't get a cab! Can't get a cab for an old crippled woman! What kind of world that an old crippled woman can't get no cabs!"

Okay, this is where the fun part begins.

Random "Good Samaritans" start hailing cabs like crazy for her. Newbies. Out-of-Towners. Gullible. And as each cab pulls to a stop at the curb, the well-intentioned tourist gestures grandly to the cab, expecting some gratitude from this old woman and she hollers at each and every one of them:

"I can't ride in him!"

(Perhaps she was confused as to what a "cab" was, and thought she wanted one, but couldn't communicate what she actually wanted?)

* Homeless appearance: I am by no means unsympathetic. I donate spare change whenever I can to help out. I do as much as possible considering my own poverty level. But the thing you must learn quickly, and you may have already learned through my experiences, is that if someone looks like they may possibly attack and kill you for your wallet, AVOID THEM.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Being a Stay-At-Home ANYTHING would be boring...

After taking our homo houseguest out for brunch at the Fort Washington Bakery Deli (a.k.a. the 181st Street Bakery), which has great bagels by the way, and cannolis to DIE for, I was at home all day and I accomplished a LOT.

- put away ALL my clothes in shelves, drawers, hangers or storage - folded!
- put away all medicine cabinet, toiletries, and beauty products in the bathroom and bedroom
- hung show posters in the hallway and feather boas above the bed (white and purple, twisted together, because the bedroom is mostly purple, it's not girly, shut up).
- Swiffered and Febreezed the now-clean bedroom!
- watched 4 episodes of Army Wives...and counting
- drank a lot of pickle juice. Don't hate.

Which has brought me to the conclusion I stated above. The rest of that sentence goes something like this:

...unless you have an entire life to unpack and set up!

Here are things we still need for the house:

- curtain rods
- lamps for the living room (the lighting SUCKS)
- the last 1/3 of the couch
- a desk!
- tables for the modem, router, and printer.

I haven't hung most of the art yet, but I'm waiting for the walls to tell me what they want hung on them. It may take an un-sober mind to decide those things. But sober me is going to go plug in a power strip in the bedroom and set up the lava lamp and phone chargers before Eli comes home from work and calls on his way over, then I'm going to pop our Fresh Direct 4-Minute Meals in the microwave and set up a lovely dinner for tonight.

But back to the subject line of the post. The idea of sitting around all day, waiting for someone to come home is annoying and boring. I have work tomorrow, so hopefully I will find more fulfillment in yelling at strangers and chatting up kids than folding laundry and sweeping up?

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Come On Baby, Light My (Kitchen On) Fire

I promise, someday I'll get tired of blogging about my awesome new apartment. Perhaps on that same day, the trash bags full of clothes in the bedroom will magically hang themselves up on hangers and fold themselves into drawers. Until then, bear with me.

And file this one under "You're So Clueless That It's Adorable, But I Seriously Worry About Leaving You Home Alone Sometimes".

In Eli's defense, the pot was new/old: new because we'd never used it, old because we bought it a while ago. He put some water on the stove to boil and make some Ramen for himself, and then called for me to come into the room.

"What are these little things?" he asked, pointing to some black flecks on the stove.

"Um, just dirt," I replied uncertainly, not wanting him to find fault with my lovely apartment.

"Well, they're catching on fire," he observed in an adorably clueless way that only manboychildfriends* can.

"And it smells awful in's boiling, take it off the stove," I urged, opening a window, hoping to god we didn't just discover that the stove is trying to kill us.

Fast forward a few minutes - Eli makes the Ramen, then sheepishly comes up to me, pot in hand.

"I did bad," he says, presenting the pot to me and then turning it over. The sticker on the bottom of the pot had never been removed, and had burned to a crisp on the bottom of the pot. And it smelled AWFUL. And so does our kitchen, and now, our house.

* manboychildfriends are like boyfriends, except they lack the normal skills that most adults have such as ability to get socks in the hamper, cross the street safely, and NOT LIGHT THE KITCHEN ON FIRE.

Monday, April 4, 2011

How I Flashed A Conservative Jew On Monday Morning

"Outside it is winter, but in here it's so hot..." -- Cabaret

So, as the observant follower may or may NOT know, last Friday I moved into my first Manhattan apartment. It's fantastic, except for a couple things:

- some leaks in the bathroom
- a broken cabinet door in the kitchen
- and oh yeah, it's like 9,000 degrees in here all the time.

Last night at around midnight, things came to a head when not only was our ceiling leaking above the shower, but a pipe started spraying water from under the sink, flooding our bathroom. We (and by "we" I mean Eli, because I was mostly passed out from 2 glasses of white wine and also it was MIDNIGHT) emailed a work order to the landlord and called the super, a lovely man named Rafael who speaks only Spanish.

Rafael came over when I was drunk, half asleep, and wearing a skimpy tank top/sleep boxers combo. Cute, and appropriate for the balmy temperatures in the apartment, but not the sort of thing you want a stranger to see you in at midnight. But it was midnight.

This morning, Rafael returned to finish the work he started last night by shutting off the water to our sink. This time I was ready. I was showered. I was hung over, but more importantly, I was wearing a bra this time. But the same shorts/tank combo as last night.

Rafael is tinkering away, when the doorbell rings. Eli answers, and it's a conservatively dressed Jewish man. Nat. He is answering the work order and I am trying to cover up my tattoos and exposed breasts with my hands.

The good news is, he showed us how to turn the heat down, so it's not sweltering in here, so hopefully the next time he shows up to fix things, he won't be seeing my dirty pillows and 80% of my chicken legs. But that was the most humiliating thing to happen to me, so far, today.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Trains Lately Are Just Gold

I have seen many weird things on the subway. I have seen breakdancing, accordions, even eating soup. But today I witnessed a woman wrapping a present for a child's birthday party. Pret-ty weird.

Then later, Eli gave a dollar to a man who was singing his plea for change:

Thank you, please, feed the homeless and the hun-GRAY,
Thank you, please, spare a dollar or your change!

It was pretty catchy, in retrospect. And we had to give him props for creating an original song!

Friday, April 1, 2011

True Tales of the excuse my absence...

Pardon me, while I have been moving into the new apartment of awesomeness, my internet access has been brief and oh yeah, my computer totally died the other day and needed to be wiped clean to start fresh. But here's what happened yesterday:

On our last excursion on a Jamaica Center-bound E train, everything was going smoothly until all of a sudden a lady's (well, we can't exactly call her a "lady" so I suppose the correct terminology is "female") voice could be heard down the car....screaming about how someone else needed to get up and give her her seat, calling out "stupid bitch" and other various insults. Eli observed that she had a shamrock tattooed on her face, and was angry at a random little old lady on the train because Shamrock McAngryface was standing in front of said lady and resting her bag on little old lady's lap, as the old lady was sitting down. The old lady tried to alert Shamrock to her rudeness, saying "Excuse me," and that was the tipping point for Ms. McAngryface. She yelled at the poor stranger until she relinquished her seat, and then finally exited the train to Shamrock screaming "Yeah, walk away from me, bitch! Stupid ho!"

It was so charming and life-affirming that it reminded me of a classic subway fight - the first ever subway fight I was to witness in New York. The why in this case is very fuzzy, but basically, a young lady and her baby got on the Uptown 6 train and began to argue with another passenger. It quickly escalated out of control, and the hot-headed young lady turned to a stranger near her and screeched "Hold my baby!" while she proceeded to throw the lids of her newly bought Rubbermaid containers from Kmart at her newfound enemy.

Subway rage, fights and arguments have gone up insanely since I've been noting them. Maybe it's like a dream journal - the more you write them down, the more they surface on their own accord?
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