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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

The huge roach's revenge?

I have bedbugs. So itchy.

Call them marauders.

My arm itches. I hate bugs.

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.

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)

They like me, they really like me!

http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/nyc/179331455.html

I've achieved immortality...Thanks craigslist!

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.

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!

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.

But I liked being a freak of nature...

Beneath this ace bandaged exterior...



Is a completely normal ankle.

So, of course, my second surgery is complete. I now have as many bones in my body as the average human being. Which, let's be real, is sad. Sean and Dmo say that I've lost a certain glimmer in my eye, that I no longer have that j'ne sais quoi that until recently was extremely mysterious but obviously was a direct result of my extra bones.

This makes me feel like this...



But, that being said, the second surgery went much more smoothly than the first. I was putting weight on it almost immediately, and I have ditched the crutches. I'm going to go out later today and do errands, because I can drive. And, of course, the best part of this recuperation period, like going to the Bronx Zoo last time, was our Saturday afternoon jaunt up to Smith. It was great to be there without feeling pressure or stress, and to only see people who I wanted to see. I decided I was up to going on Friday, so no one really knew I would be there, so there were many suprises and shocked faces, which is always fun. Basically, it was the first time I went back up to Smith since graduation that actually made me miss being there. But not enough to actually want to go back. It was a perfect day, and it made me realize how much I love it up there, and how great my friends are. There are photos of the day on flickr.

Packing continues, sort of. I made a huge scrap book while I recuperated, so now I know that the things I have kept and valued while I lived in the gumdrop won't be lost. My dad packed up his workshop, which is difficult for him, but I could have done without the bad mood and attitude problem. But, I'm sure that while I clean out my closet I will be in no better a mood, so I guess I shouldn't talk yet.

Gumdrop party is next weekend. If you're reading this, know me, and weren't invited and would like to be, let me know, I'll see what I can do. I'm actually really looking foward to it. My dad got it catered, and it seems like theweather is finally starting to improve, so I hope that it will prove to be a really nice afternoon. Although hofacebitchmouthdogbreath and her kid the troll will be there, I know that there will be many more people there to see me than people who could ever want to speak to her. So I have nothing to worry about.

Okay, I think I'm going to go try to rejoin the human race, get dressed, and go out and do some errands. Thrilling, I know. Here's hoping Leftie holds up to the stress.

14 hours til show time.

So my second surgery is tomorrow morning. I have to be at Beth Israel at 5:45 am, and will probably be back in New Ro about 11. I know that logically, I should not be concerned. I should, instead, be calm, knowing that this will all go smoothly, just as it did last time, that I will be up and at 'em again in a week, and that I have the next week to myself, to drink fribbles with S and hang out with friends who are home for the summer, and perhaps even pack a little. But, I am worried. And nervous. I have a pit in my stomach and I have convinced myself that at some point in the next week my right ankle is going to cave and I am going to be crippled. I am aware of the ridiculousness of this, simultaneously, but it is the overriding emotion at the moment. I don't want to go through with this again, my right ankle is finally feeling good, the thought of going back to square one is just terrifying. I wanna go home and go to sleep and wake up in a week. Is that okay? Can I go do that now?

Gumdrop Party

So as this amazing invite designed by S. indicates, we're having a goodbye party at the gumdrop over Memorial Day weekend. I'm pretty stoked for it, as it will be a good way to get (hopefully) all of my friends in one spot, and should make for an afternoon of excellent food (I've seen the menu-it's catered!) and fun. If you're reading this and we've spent more than an hour in the same room, chances are I want you to be there, and I'm hoping I'll get some Israel people (hi, Amanda!) and maybe even some Smithies to come down, if I'm lucky. I am completely wrecked over having to leave the house, but I think that having all of the people who I love and adore there for one last time will really make a difference. I'm trying not to get bogged down with all the insanity that's going to be going down over the next month (Two weddings, an ankle surgery and a possible cameo at my college reunion, in addition to the move) but I think this will be a good way to slow down for a day and just enjoy having a good time. If nothing else, it will make for some excellent meeting and blending of personalities and I can't wait to get everyone together for a good time. Secretly, eventhough the invite only says 4-8, I'm hoping people just linger all night, and it turns into one huge amazing pink couch party, because god knows the New Ro crew is attatched to those couches. I'm considering stealing one of the pink pillows that goes with them, it's just too comfy! So yeah, all in all, I'm excited for the party, now if my dad could just get his act together and send out an invite (admitedly not this amazing invite pictured above, he is an old fart and wants something lame and boring. Shocker.) then we can get this show on the road.

Round Two!

So, since I know all 3 of my readers are sitting on the edge of their seats about what's been going on in my life, I suppose I'll write an update. My second surgery is a week from today, May 16th. My life is so hectic otherwise that I have absolutely no opportunity to process how I feel about being cut open again. Here's why I feel okay about being cut open again: my left ankle has always been in better shape than my right, and since I've already expereinced the first surgery, I ostensibly know what's coming. I will have 6 scars total, and lots of physical therapy, and the ability to walk on my own two feet. However, on the down side, I am still a little nervous, and I'm really feeling inconvenineced by having to go through this again. Although I am excited to not have to work for another week. Unfortunately, I will be spending most of this week packing up the gumdrop and figuring what I do and don't want to keep from the last 23 years of my life. I'm not looking foward to this.

As a result of the fact that we are moving out of the gumdrop, people have started giving me their opinions on a variety of topics regarding the things which are in the house, and specifically the things which belonged to my mother. I understand that this is a touchy subject, and that everyone has opinions as to what is important, but I have had the last three years to decide what's important, and I am damned sure that the dining room table doesn't qualify. 15 feet of mahogany really means nothing to me, especially in terms of my mother and memories of her, other than being forced to pull the thing apart to add leaves solo and setting the table for 12. Good riddance, table! My dad and I have tried to solve this problem by having a party at the house; we're going to allow the members of our family to go through and tell us what they'd like to keep. However, this seems to be translating to people telling me what they'd like ME to keep. As if I don't have enough. On any given day, I am probably wearing upwards of two or three things that belonged to my mother that she either gave to me or I inherited. Taking much more will turn my tiny apartment into a shrine to her, and that's just morbid and creepy. I want nothing to do with that. I am happy to share her things with my family and her friends, but I can't take anything else. So I know that was a side rant, but I have had two of these extremely uncomfortable conversations in the last 3 days, and it's frustrating. I feel like I'm not being trusted to make my own decisions, and being told that the proper way to remember my mom is to take the ugly dining room table just isn't cutting it.

Rant over.

Yess!

Apple fixed my computer, free of charge. Freaking awesome. My faith has been restored. I can't wait to have it back!

Writing for the sake of writing...

Because I'm bored, and it's Friday, and I have nothing to do, as always. Nothing too exciting has gone on in my life recently. My ankle is coming along well. I've started physical therapy, which is good. Up through today it's mostly just light stuff, stretching and icing and massage and getting electrocuted, but starting Monday I'm going to be doing some more high-intensity stuff, to make sure I can actually survive without this bone they removed. I bought a pair of sneakers to get me through. And who doesn't love new sneakers? I mean, they're not my typical awesome Pumas, but they're cute NB's and I'm okay with that. Sean and I went out for dinner last night, had some mediocre Mexican and then got some ice cream wandered while we finished our cones. I was able to actually handle the wandering, even though my left foot randomly started spasming after I got home. The scars on my ankle are pretty much healed, and vary in color from day to day anywhere from bright red to a lovely lavender. I wonder if those scar creams would actually do anything in this case? It's funny though, when I touch the biggest scar, I can't feel it, but underneath that it's still pretty sore and tender and icky. This is obviously why PT is essential.

In other fun news, my harddrive in my powerbook died. Shoutout to Sean & Dmo for teaming up to help me get the data off (who knew holding the thing at an 80 degree angle could make it work? Love it.) Anyway, the thing is at the Apple factory type place, where they're assessing the damage. I spoke to Apple on the phone this morning, and hte guy was SO much nicer than the shmuck with a chip on his shoulder in SoHo who told me that there was very little chance that hte thing would cost less than $900 to fix. So much for Apple Care. But the guy on the phone was much more encouraging. So it seems like there's actually a possiblity that the MacBook of my dreams may just stay that way for a little while longer. Which is fine, I don't really need to be owning a new $2000 dollar computer at this point. The plan is to keep this one for at least another year. And anyway, if it turns out that Apple can't fix it for free, I'm going to take it to TekServe and see what they can do. Because while Apple won't give me a bigger Harddrive, TekServe will. So I am not without hope. I have all my data, the computer isn't necessarily a goner, and I have pretty pink and gray sneakers to admire while I'm unable to use the internet at home. Life is good.

As promised, photographic ridiculousness

If you click on the link provided in the title of this post, you can see all the photos. Be warned, there are some of my ankle unwrapped just a few days after surgery. Not for the faint of stomach.

Recouperation since then has had its shares of ups and downs. There are some times when it feels fine and dandy, and there are others, like yesterday and today, where I can barely stand it it hurts so much, and it feels the same as it did before this even started. It's discouraging, but I know it probably needs more time. The effects of all this have really begun to wear me down. I've gained back a little of the weight that worked so hard to lose last year I because of not being able to move around like I used to, only being able to be out of my apartment on beautiful spring days for a few hours at a time before I have to hobble back inside and sleep and rest my throbbing legs, and basically general unfunness. And I have to go through this all again. So, as you can tell, this whole process really has me down. One part of my brain is telling me this is doing nothing, while a much smaller part is continually trying to convince me that that's not the case. I'm ready for this to be done already. My now-weekly orthopedist appointment is on Thursday. Hopefully we'll be able to scheldule the next operation, I'm done with this bullshit already.

How you know it's Spring in New York

My office smells like B.O.



(Link to pictures from surgery week insanity forthcoming)