1. People clipping their nails. Onto the floor. On the platform, on the train itself, anywhere, it is revolting and makes me want to projectile vomit all over them. Then they will be 1/10 as revolted by me as I am by them. (Full disclosure: the sound of nail clippers ranks NUMBER ONE on my least favorite things on the entire planet)
2. That dude who spat onto the floor of the Q train. Like, seriously? Swallowing is too difficult? He totally deserved to be mercilessly glared at for the next ten minutes.
3. That dude who flashed me. For the rest of my life I will wonder how his zipper against his totally disgusting flaccid penis wasn't uncomfortable. And then I will hope that he zips he totally disgusting flaccid penis into that zipper, causing irreperable damage.
4. I know this is repetitive, but people who take up 4 seats. I mean, it's impressive, and hats off to the skinny bastards who do it, but god damn it my ankles hurt and your pearl paint bag does not deserve priority.
5. Unthoughtful stroller drivers of both sexes. You live in the city, you were probably single in the city at some point (who the hell else would attempt to raise a kid here?), were you not pissed off by unthoughtful stroller drivers such as yourselves at some point? I assure you, you were.
6. That bitch who literally threatened to fucking kill me after I didn't get out of her brats' way fast enough. She was probably all talk and I won the fight with the closing words "good fucking role model you are." Thank god the conductor had seen enough at that point and decided to close the doors and ride away, because I'm pretty sure I'd be dead right now otherwise. PS-Bitch, if I ever see you again, it is ON.
7. The epically smelly dude that made a ride to Brooklyn one fateful spring night truly a night to remember, in that it was just as horrific as the night the Titanic sank. At least if you were my nose, which was telling my brain that it had just entered into a shit-filled crypt.
8. That time I saw a human turd in the West 4th Street stop. Although this raises the interesting point of what hobo was slick enough to drop that off in such a perfect coil and not get caught? Bravo.
9. People who went to NRHS whose faces look so fucking familiar but whose names are completely (and justifiably) gone from my head, if they were ever there to begin with. This sucks doubly if they call me out by name and start a conversation.
10. The Upper East Side.
AND
Things which make me happy when I ride the subway!
1. Those two person seats that no reasonable human would ever try to sit next to you on, but make for fantastic snuggling when you're with your boyf.
2. Those dudes with the pan pipes. I have an unnending and passionate love for these artists.
3. Seeing people who you forgot exist but whose faces genuinely make you happy.
4. Being the only person in an entire car and singing at the top of my lungs, just because I can. This only happened once, at mid-day, on a W train. It was fan-flippin-tastic.
5. Midwestern tourists that look like they've just seen Jesus. (Although I will say you fucking SUCK when you're walking 5-abreast down Christopher street. Then I want to shove you into the nearest bondage shop and hope you die of a massive coronary. Seriously.)
On another note, I watched the last ever episode of the OC this morning and have been unreasonably emotional about it all day. I just needed to get that off my chest.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Ok, just one more thing about Bleecker Street
Ok, the last post I wrote about Bleecker Street had one glaring omission, because I thought I was dreaming things and it was too cold to go out and search for evidence. I felt like I had seen signs somewhere in the vicinity of my apartment where the C was missing. And now Gothamist has totally proved me right! Observe, this was linked to the site yesterday:
Do you see that? NO FREAKING C! Even the city can't get it's act together! Apparently this is happening all over the Village and it would seem that DoT has just as much trouble outside of the grid pattern as your average 300 pound Kansas Tourist Housewife.
Do you see that? NO FREAKING C! Even the city can't get it's act together! Apparently this is happening all over the Village and it would seem that DoT has just as much trouble outside of the grid pattern as your average 300 pound Kansas Tourist Housewife.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Insomnia does wonders for this blog
things people have searched for in google in order to reach my blog:
Transvestites
Male Genital Desensitizer
This blog's traffic would be nill if it weren't for the ridiculousness I see on my street.
In other news, I really would rather be asleep. it seems insomnia has decided to once again rear its ugly head. As has all my ankle pain. And I was starting to feel like maybe I wasn't living up to this blog's name, what with the lack of ankle talk. I'm going to go drink a whole fucking lot of water and see if maybe being fully hydrated will make me sleepy. It can't hurt, right? Good hydration is never a bad thing.
Anyone have any fail-proof insomnia killers? My age-old counting backwards from 1000 seems to have lost its effectiveness.
Transvestites
Male Genital Desensitizer
This blog's traffic would be nill if it weren't for the ridiculousness I see on my street.
In other news, I really would rather be asleep. it seems insomnia has decided to once again rear its ugly head. As has all my ankle pain. And I was starting to feel like maybe I wasn't living up to this blog's name, what with the lack of ankle talk. I'm going to go drink a whole fucking lot of water and see if maybe being fully hydrated will make me sleepy. It can't hurt, right? Good hydration is never a bad thing.
Anyone have any fail-proof insomnia killers? My age-old counting backwards from 1000 seems to have lost its effectiveness.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Wait, Where Do I Live?
So a great Village anomaly has come to my attention. While dealing with the Great Gas Nastiness earlier this week, there was much discussion of Bleecker Street, which is about 30 feet from my front door. Observe, this was taken from our fire escape:
It has always been my opinion that the C in the word Bleecker is completely extraneous, perhaps a remnant of our Dutch past that could be gotten rid of, unlike the extra A that used to be present in Haarlem and I feel really adds a little oomph. Anyway, people's discussions of the gas leak on Bleecker made me realize that I am in no way alone. In many places, the C was nowhere to be seen. To the extent that I actually began to question whether the C was there all and I had imagined its presence on my corner. So, here's what I did. I googled the words "Bleeker Street." Google did not give me one of those Did you mean Bleecker Street? lines at the top of my results. Instead, it would seem that the results are split exactly 50/50 on whether or not the C exists.
GoNYC? It's got the C if you want to take a gourmet walking tour of this fine street (GO TO MURRAY'S!). None other than Simon and Garfunkel seem to have left the C out of hte title of their song "Bleeker Street." Now, I trust these guys, for christ's sake, my parents almost named me Cecelia, I have to give these boys some respect, they actually make a putrid name sound desirable. That's no mean feat. I'd like to see someone pull that off with Agnes or Minerva or Gladys.
Google's map has the C, but the various establishments listed along the side seem to be out on whether or not it should be there. Bleeker Street Pizza? It's got it. Bleeker Street locksmith? Lacking.
However, the best example of the mysterious C in my opinion goes to the famous (and in my opinion overrated) John's Pizza? It's perhaps the most confused of all-it's got no C on the sign in front or on the web page, but you better believe the URL is www.johnsofbleeckerstreet.com . So what the fuck is that about? John's is considered a Village institution, and I guess if they are straddling the fence on this one, we're all supposed to go along. But I will not stand by this! John's, your pizza is mediocre and so is your stance-I don't care what you think-you look like a fool in your own home, and it's your own damned fault! And in solidarity with Harlem's lost A, I am standing by the C, as annoying as it can be sometimes to remember to put it in there.
I feel better now that that's off my chest.
Oh god, already a post-script and I haven't even hit publish yet! I just spell-checked this beast and EVERY instance of the words Bleeker AND Bleecker was flagged as being wrong. Blogger adds another vote to the undecided column!
It has always been my opinion that the C in the word Bleecker is completely extraneous, perhaps a remnant of our Dutch past that could be gotten rid of, unlike the extra A that used to be present in Haarlem and I feel really adds a little oomph. Anyway, people's discussions of the gas leak on Bleecker made me realize that I am in no way alone. In many places, the C was nowhere to be seen. To the extent that I actually began to question whether the C was there all and I had imagined its presence on my corner. So, here's what I did. I googled the words "Bleeker Street." Google did not give me one of those Did you mean Bleecker Street? lines at the top of my results. Instead, it would seem that the results are split exactly 50/50 on whether or not the C exists.
GoNYC? It's got the C if you want to take a gourmet walking tour of this fine street (GO TO MURRAY'S!). None other than Simon and Garfunkel seem to have left the C out of hte title of their song "Bleeker Street." Now, I trust these guys, for christ's sake, my parents almost named me Cecelia, I have to give these boys some respect, they actually make a putrid name sound desirable. That's no mean feat. I'd like to see someone pull that off with Agnes or Minerva or Gladys.
Google's map has the C, but the various establishments listed along the side seem to be out on whether or not it should be there. Bleeker Street Pizza? It's got it. Bleeker Street locksmith? Lacking.
However, the best example of the mysterious C in my opinion goes to the famous (and in my opinion overrated) John's Pizza? It's perhaps the most confused of all-it's got no C on the sign in front or on the web page, but you better believe the URL is www.johnsofbleeckerstreet.com . So what the fuck is that about? John's is considered a Village institution, and I guess if they are straddling the fence on this one, we're all supposed to go along. But I will not stand by this! John's, your pizza is mediocre and so is your stance-I don't care what you think-you look like a fool in your own home, and it's your own damned fault! And in solidarity with Harlem's lost A, I am standing by the C, as annoying as it can be sometimes to remember to put it in there.
I feel better now that that's off my chest.
Oh god, already a post-script and I haven't even hit publish yet! I just spell-checked this beast and EVERY instance of the words Bleeker AND Bleecker was flagged as being wrong. Blogger adds another vote to the undecided column!
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
The gas smell reverbs.
I mean, really. I understand that the mysterious gas leak's only known origin was right here on Bleecker Street, but really, jackhammering at 8am? It doesn't smell like gas any more, and there were all sorts of new holes in my street when I got home yesterday. Those weren't enough? You had to start again? I'm not really sure what you think you're going to find. And if you hit a gas main and either a) blow up or b) make me lose gas I am going to have to come out there and kill you myself (if you're not dead already, of course). And honestly, I will admit that yesterday's nastiness woke me up out of a very lovely sleep (as opposed to this morning's which involved various random NRHS faces-I think I need to get off all those social networking sites) and I would like for that to never happen again, so I encourage you to fix it, but if you could do it at a normal hour, that would be superb.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Really? THIS is why I've been up for an hour?
I woke up at 6:30 this morning, out of a dream that made me SO excited that I simply could not stay asleep any longer.
What was it, you ask?
Obviously is was that my landlord told me that there was a Christopher Street-side one bedroom available that Sean & I could take---and here's where the excitement kicks in---we would be paying the same rent we are now. Why am I dreaming about this NOW? My lease isn't up for another 6 months! Jesus!!!
Thanks, Manhattan Real Estate Insanity, for taking over my day time & my dreams.
Not my apartment.
What was it, you ask?
Obviously is was that my landlord told me that there was a Christopher Street-side one bedroom available that Sean & I could take---and here's where the excitement kicks in---we would be paying the same rent we are now. Why am I dreaming about this NOW? My lease isn't up for another 6 months! Jesus!!!
Thanks, Manhattan Real Estate Insanity, for taking over my day time & my dreams.
Not my apartment.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
It's better than the good old days, which weren't so great to begin with.
It's 9pm on a Wednesday, and I'm still at work. So I figure it's as good a time as any to catch up on life.
This coming Friday marks my last day as an employee of Turner. Starting Monday, I get several weeks of severance pay (which is totally fucking sweet, since...) I will still technically be an employee of the company, in a semi-new and wonderful capacity-an archivist at everyone's favorite newsmedia organization. Which is, of course, why I am still in this hellacious building. The news never stops, does it? And even though the last lowly PA has left for the evening, I have another hour to sit here and wait just in case someone calls needing footage of Gerald Ford falling down those damned steps, or needs footage of people doing dirty things at work fed down to another bureau. But, I will say that this is the first time I have been honestly bored here since I started working here in August. Which is a wonderful change from my previous place of employment and leaves me filled with happiness and exhaustion at the end of every day. I am learning lots, and this has even inspired me to apply to grad school which is the other fun thing in my life. Now if my lovely professors would just mail me my reccomendations I could mail in the damned application and I would get in and my life would be superb.
Fun things in my life which aren't work related but I am not in the mood to discuss in depth:
Boyfie (such things should not be taken for granted)
new glasses (in colors not listed there, because they are new new new and I am shiek shiek shiek) (And if you actually thought I would repeat the leopard print LaFont thing you are MISTAKEN!)
Anthropologie gift certificates (if my wallet were stolen this is what I would miss the most, as they are irreplaceable, as opposed to my ugly license)
Walking home from work and not limping by 50th street
Rena coming home in less than two weeks
Fun eye makeup
Male genital desensitizer boxes on Christopher Street
Andrea making me laugh at work late at night
Things which should die a painful death:
The holiday lights display in the Time Warner Center which insists on going off obnoxiously every night
The line in whole foods when I went to buy dinner there tonight
Jackhammers on Christopher street at both 11pm and 8 am
The aeron chair I'm sitting in
My futon mattress which makes my ass numb.
This coming Friday marks my last day as an employee of Turner. Starting Monday, I get several weeks of severance pay (which is totally fucking sweet, since...) I will still technically be an employee of the company, in a semi-new and wonderful capacity-an archivist at everyone's favorite newsmedia organization. Which is, of course, why I am still in this hellacious building. The news never stops, does it? And even though the last lowly PA has left for the evening, I have another hour to sit here and wait just in case someone calls needing footage of Gerald Ford falling down those damned steps, or needs footage of people doing dirty things at work fed down to another bureau. But, I will say that this is the first time I have been honestly bored here since I started working here in August. Which is a wonderful change from my previous place of employment and leaves me filled with happiness and exhaustion at the end of every day. I am learning lots, and this has even inspired me to apply to grad school which is the other fun thing in my life. Now if my lovely professors would just mail me my reccomendations I could mail in the damned application and I would get in and my life would be superb.
Fun things in my life which aren't work related but I am not in the mood to discuss in depth:
Boyfie (such things should not be taken for granted)
new glasses (in colors not listed there, because they are new new new and I am shiek shiek shiek) (And if you actually thought I would repeat the leopard print LaFont thing you are MISTAKEN!)
Anthropologie gift certificates (if my wallet were stolen this is what I would miss the most, as they are irreplaceable, as opposed to my ugly license)
Walking home from work and not limping by 50th street
Rena coming home in less than two weeks
Fun eye makeup
Male genital desensitizer boxes on Christopher Street
Andrea making me laugh at work late at night
Things which should die a painful death:
The holiday lights display in the Time Warner Center which insists on going off obnoxiously every night
The line in whole foods when I went to buy dinner there tonight
Jackhammers on Christopher street at both 11pm and 8 am
The aeron chair I'm sitting in
My futon mattress which makes my ass numb.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Point, Counterpoint
How I spent my friday night:
First: At this movie: Read that, contemplate how wierd it sounds, now multiply it by 10,000 and add 3 life-size bunnies that are NOT Frank. but possibly demonic.
Second: at the slipper room. Where there was a 7 foot bunny who thought Sean was hot and was very verbal about it. And where there were also tassels and striptease and all other good things which are burlesque-y.
Third: Sleepin'
Night!
First: At this movie: Read that, contemplate how wierd it sounds, now multiply it by 10,000 and add 3 life-size bunnies that are NOT Frank. but possibly demonic.
Second: at the slipper room. Where there was a 7 foot bunny who thought Sean was hot and was very verbal about it. And where there were also tassels and striptease and all other good things which are burlesque-y.
Third: Sleepin'
Night!
Thursday, December 28, 2006
I love my street and never ever want to leave it ever
On my way to work this morning the trash that I walked by included:
1 box of tahini mix that was bloated with botchilism (mine)
1 baggie of spice muffins in a ziploc (mine)
1 male genital desensitzer box (NOT MINE)
I have been contemplating how a male gential desensitzer works and what it looks like ALL MORNING.
My love for Christopher Street grows exponentially by the day.
1 box of tahini mix that was bloated with botchilism (mine)
1 baggie of spice muffins in a ziploc (mine)
1 male genital desensitzer box (NOT MINE)
I have been contemplating how a male gential desensitzer works and what it looks like ALL MORNING.
My love for Christopher Street grows exponentially by the day.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
A (call to) Apple a day is going to give me a fucking coronary.
In all fairness, I don't know who I should blame more, Apple or FedEx. Originally, the blame lay with FedEx and particularly this one cunty "customer service" representative who turned me into a raving maniac one night a few weeks ago. But today, and today may be the most important day of this issue thus far, the blame lies with a "customer service" (in quotes not because I don't know how to use them, but because the last thing I have gotten out of this is anything remotely resembling service) representative of Apple Computer, Inc.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. As some of you may know (and if you don't I'm sorry to enlighten you) my ears suck. One time in college I went to Health Services because I thought I had an ear infection. Turns out that my ears are perfectly designed for keeping lifetimes worth of earwax stored in their cavities and it had to be purged. Through this process, I succeeded in making a RN completely visibly disgusted. I consider this a personal accomplishment. ANYWAY, I also happen to be partial to in-ear headphones, I can't have the big ones fucking with my 'do (curls+huge headband from headphones=I look a little more than ridiculous when I get off the subway). I currently have a pair of Sony ones that I bought two years ago, the wires of which have turned yellow with age, the sound quality continues to descends inot the depths of hell, and as a result of the aforementioned ear wax issue, are just plain disgusting to look at. SO, on black Friday, my dear and loving hero of a boyfie tells me that Apple is having a one-day sale both in their stores and online. I am no idiot, I do it online, if I know anything, I know that a trip to the apple store the day after thanksgiving is a death wish. So I purchase a new pair of headphones. Considerably more expensive, but considering that I am loathe to use my ipod because of the nastiness of the current headphones, I figure this is a logical investment.
Now, this is where I need to put in a mea culpa. When asked for the shipping address, I put in my apartment. Honestly, I didn't think it would be an issue. At that point my freelance hours were such that I figured it would come while I was home. WRONG. For 3 days, it arrived approximately 1 hour after I had to leave. After the first day, I called FedEx begging them to change the address. Apparently FedEx & Apple have some sort of cabal where customers can in NO WAY change the shipping address EVER. Therefore, despite my begging after day one to immediately have the package sent back to apple who could then change the shipping address, FedEx tried two more times and then, despite me calling on a freakishly regular basis, it sat in a warehouse in Brooklyn for two weeks, while the tracking website taunted me with "package available for customer pickup." Except the fedEx people couldn't tell me where the warehouse is, nor could the website. FINALLY, two weeks after the 3rd attempt, it gets sent back to Apple.
Now, as soon as this became an issue, I called apple and had them change the shipping address for the second shipment to my address at work, a mere 3 miles to the north of my home. I spoke to at least 3 seperate customer service representatives who assured me that the address had been changed.
This morning, when I get a confirmation email that my headphones will now be making their THIRD cross-country trip in the next 24 hours (at least I get free overnight shipping!) what does the shipping address say??? MY FUCKING APARTMENT!!!!!!!!!! Which, of course, means that this is going to happen ALL OVER AGAIN, because as we've learned, the FedEx/Apple shipping cabal states that customers can not change their shipping addresses EVERRRRRRRRR. All attempts to call Apple with the last piece of my sanity intact were brutally rebuffed because "their offices are currently closed."
I can not put into words just how fucking pissed off I am right now.
Thanks for listening, bloggy baby, Sean's still asleep and if I didn't get this out my head was going to explode and rather than an alarm clock he would have been woken up by the sound of the contents of my head hitting the walls.
POSTSCRIPT:
I got my head phones. Yesterday. 34 days after I originally ordered them and they arrived to my apartment, where no one signed for them, and they sat in my hallway all day, after FedEx swore to me 10 times they were coming to the Time Warner center. They're totally sweet, and apple gave me an extra 25 dollars off, but I'm pretty sure that that doesn't make up for the several months this took off my life while trying to get this delivered.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. As some of you may know (and if you don't I'm sorry to enlighten you) my ears suck. One time in college I went to Health Services because I thought I had an ear infection. Turns out that my ears are perfectly designed for keeping lifetimes worth of earwax stored in their cavities and it had to be purged. Through this process, I succeeded in making a RN completely visibly disgusted. I consider this a personal accomplishment. ANYWAY, I also happen to be partial to in-ear headphones, I can't have the big ones fucking with my 'do (curls+huge headband from headphones=I look a little more than ridiculous when I get off the subway). I currently have a pair of Sony ones that I bought two years ago, the wires of which have turned yellow with age, the sound quality continues to descends inot the depths of hell, and as a result of the aforementioned ear wax issue, are just plain disgusting to look at. SO, on black Friday, my dear and loving hero of a boyfie tells me that Apple is having a one-day sale both in their stores and online. I am no idiot, I do it online, if I know anything, I know that a trip to the apple store the day after thanksgiving is a death wish. So I purchase a new pair of headphones. Considerably more expensive, but considering that I am loathe to use my ipod because of the nastiness of the current headphones, I figure this is a logical investment.
Now, this is where I need to put in a mea culpa. When asked for the shipping address, I put in my apartment. Honestly, I didn't think it would be an issue. At that point my freelance hours were such that I figured it would come while I was home. WRONG. For 3 days, it arrived approximately 1 hour after I had to leave. After the first day, I called FedEx begging them to change the address. Apparently FedEx & Apple have some sort of cabal where customers can in NO WAY change the shipping address EVER. Therefore, despite my begging after day one to immediately have the package sent back to apple who could then change the shipping address, FedEx tried two more times and then, despite me calling on a freakishly regular basis, it sat in a warehouse in Brooklyn for two weeks, while the tracking website taunted me with "package available for customer pickup." Except the fedEx people couldn't tell me where the warehouse is, nor could the website. FINALLY, two weeks after the 3rd attempt, it gets sent back to Apple.
Now, as soon as this became an issue, I called apple and had them change the shipping address for the second shipment to my address at work, a mere 3 miles to the north of my home. I spoke to at least 3 seperate customer service representatives who assured me that the address had been changed.
This morning, when I get a confirmation email that my headphones will now be making their THIRD cross-country trip in the next 24 hours (at least I get free overnight shipping!) what does the shipping address say??? MY FUCKING APARTMENT!!!!!!!!!! Which, of course, means that this is going to happen ALL OVER AGAIN, because as we've learned, the FedEx/Apple shipping cabal states that customers can not change their shipping addresses EVERRRRRRRRR. All attempts to call Apple with the last piece of my sanity intact were brutally rebuffed because "their offices are currently closed."
I can not put into words just how fucking pissed off I am right now.
Thanks for listening, bloggy baby, Sean's still asleep and if I didn't get this out my head was going to explode and rather than an alarm clock he would have been woken up by the sound of the contents of my head hitting the walls.
POSTSCRIPT:
I got my head phones. Yesterday. 34 days after I originally ordered them and they arrived to my apartment, where no one signed for them, and they sat in my hallway all day, after FedEx swore to me 10 times they were coming to the Time Warner center. They're totally sweet, and apple gave me an extra 25 dollars off, but I'm pretty sure that that doesn't make up for the several months this took off my life while trying to get this delivered.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Downsized!
So, if there are any readers here who I haven't spoken to in a) ever b)more than 4 years, or c) since I graduated from New Rochelle High School, or if you went to New Rochelle High School and we don't still talk, this is your official invitation to either a) make yourself known or b) stop reading this blog forever. Because frankly, it creeps me out that you could potentially be reading this and that you even found it. Ok, now that that's out of the way....
I got fired! Okay, officially, I got downsized. They eliminated my department here in New York, and I was put on severance pay. I am going to be working extremely part time hours and still be getting full time pay until January 5th, and then after the 5th I get 6 weeks of full time pay. That is, unless I get another job, at which point I am cut free. I am not going to speculate on that aspect of my future, but will say that CNN is making my life right now.
I got fired! Okay, officially, I got downsized. They eliminated my department here in New York, and I was put on severance pay. I am going to be working extremely part time hours and still be getting full time pay until January 5th, and then after the 5th I get 6 weeks of full time pay. That is, unless I get another job, at which point I am cut free. I am not going to speculate on that aspect of my future, but will say that CNN is making my life right now.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
More bedbug Haiku
I. So much to do. Marauders
make life difficult.
Clean out closet, vacuum shoes.
II. Exterminator in mi
casa manana.
Will marauders die? I hope so.
make life difficult.
Clean out closet, vacuum shoes.
II. Exterminator in mi
casa manana.
Will marauders die? I hope so.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
If you're going to take up so much space in this apartment, you're going to have to pay rent
That's right, you wierdly disgusting HUGE roach that Sean and I dispensed with last night. You weren't pulling your weight in the apartment, you weren't cleaning up after yourself, and judging by your size you had been living there QUITE some time. For you to show your face and HUGE body just as I was getting ready to go to bed really just wasn't very nice. And right by my bed no less! You've got some nerve. You obviously had to go.
Yeah, so we had a major run in with an epically proportioned roach last night. The little fucker was climbing up my air conditioner right as I was going to get into bed last night. Sean tried desperately to kill it with a shoe while I stood like a wimp on the futon holding a flip flop for my own defense. He chased it from beneath our bed to beneath the futon, at which point I remembered that I had a handily huge can of roach poison under my sink in case of just such an event. At which point, I got off the futon, grabbed the can, and started spraying like a maniac. This proved to be a move of pure genius because even though the said poison did not kill the roach on contact, as it promised it would, it did manage to slow the fucker down enough so that Sean was able to kill it with his shoe (although the thing was so big it took two resounding ::crunch::es to send it to the great roachy beyond.) After the prehistoric pest was dealt with, and we high fived each othermaniacally every 30 seconds or so for five minutes, we were able to relax and breathe in the sweet scent of roach poison and fall off to sleep.
And just so no one thinks I am exaggerating the size of this thing, Sean and I took a photo:
Also, the flash totally picked up the reflection of its gnarly guts on the floor, I did NOT see that last night. I will be mopping that shit up with my swiffer wet jet tonoight! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEW.
One last thing-I just measured the dime on my screen against a real life dime, that bug that you are looking at is completely and utterly accurately life sized. Unreal.
Yeah, so we had a major run in with an epically proportioned roach last night. The little fucker was climbing up my air conditioner right as I was going to get into bed last night. Sean tried desperately to kill it with a shoe while I stood like a wimp on the futon holding a flip flop for my own defense. He chased it from beneath our bed to beneath the futon, at which point I remembered that I had a handily huge can of roach poison under my sink in case of just such an event. At which point, I got off the futon, grabbed the can, and started spraying like a maniac. This proved to be a move of pure genius because even though the said poison did not kill the roach on contact, as it promised it would, it did manage to slow the fucker down enough so that Sean was able to kill it with his shoe (although the thing was so big it took two resounding ::crunch::es to send it to the great roachy beyond.) After the prehistoric pest was dealt with, and we high fived each othermaniacally every 30 seconds or so for five minutes, we were able to relax and breathe in the sweet scent of roach poison and fall off to sleep.
And just so no one thinks I am exaggerating the size of this thing, Sean and I took a photo:
Also, the flash totally picked up the reflection of its gnarly guts on the floor, I did NOT see that last night. I will be mopping that shit up with my swiffer wet jet tonoight! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEW.
One last thing-I just measured the dime on my screen against a real life dime, that bug that you are looking at is completely and utterly accurately life sized. Unreal.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Do you like pandas? I do.
In fact, on days like today, they're pretty much what gets me through my day. How could you possibly be entertained by a cute furry panda while sitting in that shithole known as your office, you ask? It's easy! My employer hooked a bitch up.
Watch on, lovers, watch on.
(for all you internet idiots, click on the title of this post, prepare to be killed by cuteness)
Monday, July 31, 2006
They like me, they really like me!
http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/nyc/179331455.html
I've achieved immortality...Thanks craigslist!
I've achieved immortality...Thanks craigslist!
Friday, July 07, 2006
Dear Transvestite Sitting On My Stoop,
Dear Transvestite Sitting On My Stoop,
It was so nice to see you last night! To see a warm smiling, deer-in-the-headlights face looking up at me from my one step stoop as I staggered back to my building after an exhausting day of doctor's appointments and other various emotionally draining activities was simply a pure joy. And then! You gave me the gift that I never could have hoped to receive! From beneath your oh-so-fashionable mini jean skirt, what did I see? Oh! Could that be?? Your penis?!?! Why, yes, yes it was! Oh, and were you sitting on my step, my lucky lucky step and using it as a toilet? YOU WERE! How wonderful! My, you really did have to go, didn't you? You just couldn't stop yourself could you? I mean, really, I understand, I often feel the need to sit in the middle of one of the busiest streets in the whole fucking city and use it for my own toilet. I regularly just sit down whenever the mood strikes and let 'er rip. I can understand that a trash can or sewer wasn't good enough, really. And I know that even though the Hudson River is just a few hundred feet away, my stoop was obviously the MOST perfect place for you to take that 5 minute leak. Yes, I understand, you couldn't risk your oh-so-fashionable outfit getting mussed in any way by walking down to the water, or anyplace that wasn't my stoop, really. I can't blame you, it is engineered just perfectly to double as a toilet. Maybe I'll try it some time myself. Thanks for the idea! I hope you don't mind!
And while I'm at it, Transvestite Sitting On My Stoop, I'd like to thank you for whispering to me about how you have a weak bladder as I was trying to desperately to get into my building without stepping into the huge puddle of piss growing at my feet, and simultaneously begging me for five dollars and pleading with me not to call the cops. Your dulcet tones so close to my ear, well, they sent shivers down my spine. It was an expereince unlike any other I've had yet living in this city. And also, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for showing me your penis so completely, it's all I see when I close my eyes now, with its full stream of urine falling like a little sterile waterfall upon the sidewalk, I surely will be having dreams about it for weeks. Thank you so much, Transvestite Sitting On My Stoop, really, I hope we meet again soon.
With all my love and devotion,
Em.
It was so nice to see you last night! To see a warm smiling, deer-in-the-headlights face looking up at me from my one step stoop as I staggered back to my building after an exhausting day of doctor's appointments and other various emotionally draining activities was simply a pure joy. And then! You gave me the gift that I never could have hoped to receive! From beneath your oh-so-fashionable mini jean skirt, what did I see? Oh! Could that be?? Your penis?!?! Why, yes, yes it was! Oh, and were you sitting on my step, my lucky lucky step and using it as a toilet? YOU WERE! How wonderful! My, you really did have to go, didn't you? You just couldn't stop yourself could you? I mean, really, I understand, I often feel the need to sit in the middle of one of the busiest streets in the whole fucking city and use it for my own toilet. I regularly just sit down whenever the mood strikes and let 'er rip. I can understand that a trash can or sewer wasn't good enough, really. And I know that even though the Hudson River is just a few hundred feet away, my stoop was obviously the MOST perfect place for you to take that 5 minute leak. Yes, I understand, you couldn't risk your oh-so-fashionable outfit getting mussed in any way by walking down to the water, or anyplace that wasn't my stoop, really. I can't blame you, it is engineered just perfectly to double as a toilet. Maybe I'll try it some time myself. Thanks for the idea! I hope you don't mind!
And while I'm at it, Transvestite Sitting On My Stoop, I'd like to thank you for whispering to me about how you have a weak bladder as I was trying to desperately to get into my building without stepping into the huge puddle of piss growing at my feet, and simultaneously begging me for five dollars and pleading with me not to call the cops. Your dulcet tones so close to my ear, well, they sent shivers down my spine. It was an expereince unlike any other I've had yet living in this city. And also, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for showing me your penis so completely, it's all I see when I close my eyes now, with its full stream of urine falling like a little sterile waterfall upon the sidewalk, I surely will be having dreams about it for weeks. Thank you so much, Transvestite Sitting On My Stoop, really, I hope we meet again soon.
With all my love and devotion,
Em.
Monday, June 26, 2006
An open letter to the NYPD
Dear NYPD officers who were in the Christopher Street subway station checking bags this morning,
I know that you consider this task to be of the utmost importance, and generally, I can understand why you would think so. HOWEVER, AND I KNOW YOU NOTICED THIS, yesterday was, indeed, the Gay Pride Parade. And I understand that you might not have been on duty, considering you were up with brass buttons shining at 8 am, so let me clarify something for you. Everyone who lives anywhere near that subway station was CRUNKED OUT OF THEIR MINDS yesterday. Probably anyone who is queer in the least who lives anywhere near anywhere was crunked out of their minds yesterday, you know? Like, look at this photo:
These people are ALL crunked. So, I just don't understand why you picked the Christopher Street stop to search for terrorists today. I really don't. I know that I, personally, was hung over before I even went to bed at 9:30 last night when I took tylenol PM and tried to forget how much sangria I had, so I can only imagine that the rest of the people who live in this queer epicenter felt equally or more shitty as I did this morning. I just really think that you efforts, and piercing looks when you were trying to determine whether or not my tote bag was filled with WMD's rather than an ipod and some old junk mail, could have been better served at ANY OTHER STATION IN THE MTA SYSTEM (except for maybe West 4th street). I know that I looked suspicious, that I was wearing sunglasses at 8 am on a very overcast morning, but really, it was necessary, okay? Don't you understand that delicioius sangria made with cheap wine can do vile things to a girl? I just really could have done without the accusatory looks. Why don't you go bug the B&T bitches up at Penn Station? Leave me alone!
I know that you consider this task to be of the utmost importance, and generally, I can understand why you would think so. HOWEVER, AND I KNOW YOU NOTICED THIS, yesterday was, indeed, the Gay Pride Parade. And I understand that you might not have been on duty, considering you were up with brass buttons shining at 8 am, so let me clarify something for you. Everyone who lives anywhere near that subway station was CRUNKED OUT OF THEIR MINDS yesterday. Probably anyone who is queer in the least who lives anywhere near anywhere was crunked out of their minds yesterday, you know? Like, look at this photo:
These people are ALL crunked. So, I just don't understand why you picked the Christopher Street stop to search for terrorists today. I really don't. I know that I, personally, was hung over before I even went to bed at 9:30 last night when I took tylenol PM and tried to forget how much sangria I had, so I can only imagine that the rest of the people who live in this queer epicenter felt equally or more shitty as I did this morning. I just really think that you efforts, and piercing looks when you were trying to determine whether or not my tote bag was filled with WMD's rather than an ipod and some old junk mail, could have been better served at ANY OTHER STATION IN THE MTA SYSTEM (except for maybe West 4th street). I know that I looked suspicious, that I was wearing sunglasses at 8 am on a very overcast morning, but really, it was necessary, okay? Don't you understand that delicioius sangria made with cheap wine can do vile things to a girl? I just really could have done without the accusatory looks. Why don't you go bug the B&T bitches up at Penn Station? Leave me alone!
Thursday, June 15, 2006
A typically New York nightmare?
I woke up the other night from a terrifying nightmare, that I think I can only blame on the real-estate-obsessed nature of my city.
I dreamt that two girls moved into a two bedroom apartment in my building. Approximately my age, they invited me upstairs to hang out. I walked in and was faced with the most gorgeous, huge apartment I have ever laid eyes on. I got lost in the lush interiors, marveled at the sun-soaked perfectly painted walls, and ached to sleep in their bedrooms, perfectly appointed and jealousy-inducing in their design. Of course, this being New York, the conversation turned to rent. How much were they paying? $450 dollars less, total, than I was. I woke up in a state of panic.
Of course, considering that no New Yorker is ever not thinking about real estate, this made perfect sense. S and I walk around the village pointing at beautifully redone carriage houses and saying in front of each door, "fuck you." Jealousy over real estate is what keeps this city moving, I'm convinced. The only reason people work as hard as they do is so that they can live in something marginally larger than their bedroom closet in their parents' homes (full disclosure: my apartment is in fact 3x larger than my closet in New Rochelle).
And just to make matters worse, the dream I described above actually did happen to me recently. I met a very nice late-30's aged man who just moved into a one bedroom upstairs last week. He's new to the city from Arizona and was more than willing to chat and talk about his experiences here so far. And, of course, the conversation came to rent. His one-bedroom is 200 square feet larger than my studio, and he's paying $45 dollars more than me a month. Even typing this out a week after the conversation makes my blood boil, my heart thump, and makes me exert huge amounts of self-control to not throw myself onto the floor and have a temper tantrum.
I dreamt that two girls moved into a two bedroom apartment in my building. Approximately my age, they invited me upstairs to hang out. I walked in and was faced with the most gorgeous, huge apartment I have ever laid eyes on. I got lost in the lush interiors, marveled at the sun-soaked perfectly painted walls, and ached to sleep in their bedrooms, perfectly appointed and jealousy-inducing in their design. Of course, this being New York, the conversation turned to rent. How much were they paying? $450 dollars less, total, than I was. I woke up in a state of panic.
Of course, considering that no New Yorker is ever not thinking about real estate, this made perfect sense. S and I walk around the village pointing at beautifully redone carriage houses and saying in front of each door, "fuck you." Jealousy over real estate is what keeps this city moving, I'm convinced. The only reason people work as hard as they do is so that they can live in something marginally larger than their bedroom closet in their parents' homes (full disclosure: my apartment is in fact 3x larger than my closet in New Rochelle).
And just to make matters worse, the dream I described above actually did happen to me recently. I met a very nice late-30's aged man who just moved into a one bedroom upstairs last week. He's new to the city from Arizona and was more than willing to chat and talk about his experiences here so far. And, of course, the conversation came to rent. His one-bedroom is 200 square feet larger than my studio, and he's paying $45 dollars more than me a month. Even typing this out a week after the conversation makes my blood boil, my heart thump, and makes me exert huge amounts of self-control to not throw myself onto the floor and have a temper tantrum.
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