It's time to introduce a new element of my life into the world of blogging. No, it has nothing to do with my continued aversion for all things MBTA nor does it involve my abhorrence for all food items categorized as condiments. This is a little slice of my home life that I'd like you all to share with me. I would like to open the virtual door into my humble abode and introduce you all to my dear neighbor of Apt. 5, whom I have never met, but would like to tell you about.
Apt. 5 has very diverse interests. For instance, he is a huge fan of talk radio. He loves all this radio and all things talking. Thus, he likely considers the a.m. radio God's greatest gift to earth. He has a special affinity for Howard Sterns and also the Toucher & Rich show on WBCN. Now while I could do without Howard Stern I do love me some Toucher and Rich. Those two idiots, along with Crash Clark and Adolfo are completely hilarious. I highly recommend it. They have a segment where they do drunken Red Sox / Celtics recaps. Hilarious. Anyway, 5's interests don't stop with Boston sports, they include the equally well-respected world of professional wrestling (think WWF). Who doesn't enjoy that, right?
Now you might ask yourself, Self, what else does 5 do with his spare time? Well, I'm glad you asked. He's a very regimented man. He wakes promptly at 6:30 and then goes into the bathroom where he turns the fan on. He exits the bathroom at approximately 7:00 a.m. when he returns to his bedroom to get ready for a day at work. While getting ready for his day, he loves him a little morning talk radio. At the end of his work day, around 5:00 he arrives home from whatever employer he works for in his POS white car, which comes complete with dents, one working tail light and all the latest amenities every car should have, such as a disc man plugged into the tape deck. He goes to bed anywhere between 10:30 and 11:00 and drifts off into dream land listening to his favorite late night satellite radio show.
Now at this point of the post you might be a little bored. You might want a snack or you may want to abandon this site to cruise to Boston.com or Facebook. But for those of you that are perceptive you might wonder how it is that I can tell you all this without having ever met Apt. 5. I know all of this because Apt. 5 might be the loudest, most horrendous neighbor ever to wonder the face of this planet. I know his schedule because he moves about his apartment as if his shoes were full of lead and his hands were covered in oven mitts. He slams everything--doors, cabinets, walls, floors-- and whether he's listening to the TV or his precious GD radio, that sucker is on full blast. ALL. THE. TIME.
This really isn't even the best part though. This is really all just the tip of the ice burg. The real kicker is that this douche snores so loud that I feel like he is sleeping directly under my bed using my dirty laundry as his pillow. It is completely unbearable. I can no longer sleep on my side because the noise created by this man's face goes right through my ear, into the cerebellum and directly into my brain. I think I'd prefer Chinese water torture or paper cuts between each of my fingers given the choice between either and sleeping above 5's bedroom. My sister and I have tried EVERYTHING. The sound generated by this foul beast has defeated ear plugs, head phones and a fan kept on full blast. The summer months were quasi bearable because luckily for us, his air conditioner muffled the ruckus enough to allow us to sleep fitfully. The day that AC came out was among the worst days of my life. It's right up there with the time that my sister made me kiss the carpet at the top of the stairs of my childhood home, which coincidentally, was my dog's favorite place to nap. Imagine your lips covered in dog hair. Moving on.
It has gotten to the point that my sister and I are taking desperate measures in an effort to alleviate the aggravation of living above this man. At one point it was getting to be that I was sleeping out in the living room several nights a week on the couch just so I could try to get a few hours of rest. We typically have to stomp on the floor 3-5 times per evening at various times in an effort to disturb 5 just enough so he chortles himself awake and rolls over. Sometimes this maneuver backfires though like the time he started wailing on the ceiling the other night so much that my bed moved. Oops. In another brilliant move my sister got so pissed at approximately 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning that she took her i-pod, chose the most annoying song she could think of (Gwen Stefani's "Whatchu Waiting For"), put it in her Bose speaker and blared it face down into the carpet for the full duration of the song while she waited in the living room. Meanwhile I was having a heart attack in my bedroom trying to figure out what the Hell was going on. Of course the d-bag was still snoring though at the end of the song so it didn't make a difference whatsoever.
I have contacted my landlord in an attempt to get him evicted but thus far no actions have been taken. I mean how do you tell someone that he has an insufferable snoring problem when you don't even know him? He could have something very very wrong with him which could only be cured by his dying in his sleep. That's awful and I'm not willing to tell him that to his face (yet) or in even in an anonymous note (I failed to mention the fact that I've already slipped several of those under his door over the last year). So what to do? Last night I tossed and turned until 4 listening to the SoundTrack of Apt 5's throat and then slept out on our sofa until my cell phone alarm went off at 7:00.
This is no way to live.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Larry and October have a love-hate relationship
It has been brought to my attention by the Sugar Free bloggerita that several of the readers think I am her friend named Andy. Let me assure you that I am not said Andy. I am Larry. I have also heard that this Andy fellow is the world's tallest midget with a raging Napoleon complex and is balding at the tender age of 25. Tough times Andy, but Boston already has a Dustin Pedroia, and I am sure he makes more money than you. Hope you are reading along and things work out for you though.
On to my post….
Soxtober Fest.
Here in Boston, we have been blessed with the success of our sports teams over the past several years. The rest of the country thinks we are spoiled and hates us for it. I agree; we are spoiled brats. I am glad that you hate us, because we don't like you either. Boston is the center of the Universe. Deal with it.
As the Sox are my favorite Boston team, October has been a particularly enjoyable month during most fall seasons since 2004. However, there are many pitfalls to this fun-filled month. Don't get me wrong, I would never trade the gluttonous, Boston sports-induced excitement for anything in the world, but there are some things that are really starting to chap my ass.
Unlike most young professionals, I do not drink coffee or any other forms of caffeine for that matter. During this month, like most citizens of Red Sox Nation who stay up to watch the late games, I am miserably sleep deprived. Lack of rest without caffeine is not a pleasant combination. Today is definitely no exception. (Sider: Last night's win was amazing, by the way. Fenway finally felt like 2004 allover again.) Further, this October has been much worse than others on the sleep deprivation scale. My job as of late has been treating me like a 120 lb man in a maximum security prison when it comes to hours spent in the office. You may have guessed that I work in finance. You would be correct. Despite the long hours, I'm just happy that I get a paycheck every 2 weeks because I know others are not as fortunate. Whatever, at least the unemployed get to sleep until noon.
Last week, in an effort to curb my sleep deprivation, I went back to my dark mistress (the coffee bean, brewed & served over ice). It was a bad decision, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The experience has been like resurrecting an old hook-up. Despite the fact that I knew it was a horrible idea, she has brought me happiness albeit short term. It will be quite difficult to wean myself off our early morning romps in a couple weeks, but she continues to beckon me for the booty call each day. I am really looking forward to the caffeine withdrawal migraines in a couple weeks. I imagine these raging headaches could be like realizing the resurrected hook-up left behind the most heinous STD possible. Awesome, can't wait. Just for the record, I don't have any STDs…clean, disease-free, and very single in fact. Ladies, contact the blogerrita if you are interested.
Now, one would think that my reintroduction to coffee would better temper me for public consumption throughout the daily grind. Not true. I have become even more agitated with the things that annoy me on a daily basis. For instance, I am sweating even more on the T despite the fact that the conductor has the A/C working properly. This makes me angry and I can't figure it out. Maybe I need to see my primary care physician. Anyway, the morning T rides to the office are still miserable. I am usually late because I had to pick up a DD iced coffee. My tardiness ensures the train to be even more crowded with equally miserable and sleep deprived Bostonians. However, the evening T rides over to Kenmore for the games have been utterly unbearable. Last night, I was packed on a B line train sans A/C (but no heat either, thankfully!) with a couple hundred of my new closest friends.It was a sweaty mess and this was truly a motley crew. Our demographic was approximately: 70% Sox fans headed to the Fenway area,25% Brighton/Brookline area young professionals commuting home, 4% drunk college students, and 1% morbidly obese couple violating my personal space while they swallowed each other's faces in the throws of passion. I'll leave my hatred of PDAs for another post, but please get a room. That was just plain disgusting and everyone on the T car needed to take a shower to wash away the bad memories when you were done. But I digress.
Generally, I always support the commuter over the tourist when it comes to friction among these groups on the T. I am a commuter and tourists are typically a pain in the ass as the blogerrita has previously discussed. One could argue that Sox fans emulate tourists on the T. Sox fans are giddy with anticipation often telling loud and obnoxious stories to their friends while headed to the Park. True, this can be annoying. However, after last night, I support Sox fans over Brighton/Brookline commuters any day of the week. Nothing is more annoying than the filthy looks of disgust and displeasure on the faces of the Brighton/Brookline commuters while their T car is inundated with rabid, playoff-ready Red Sox fans. NEWS FLASH for Green Line commuters who reside west of Kenmore Sq: You consciously made the horrible decision to live over there. Do not take your poor decision-making out on us Sox fans. Actually, many of you are probably Sox fans too so don't be Debby Downer that we are actually enjoying this playoff run. I promise, we will be out of your precious T cars by November 1, and you can go back to getting normal amounts of sleep and living miserably among to the BU & BC students. In the meantime, I'm going to search for a new, non-addictive coffee alternative and buy some commercial grade antiperspirant. Go Sox.
On to my post….
Soxtober Fest.
Here in Boston, we have been blessed with the success of our sports teams over the past several years. The rest of the country thinks we are spoiled and hates us for it. I agree; we are spoiled brats. I am glad that you hate us, because we don't like you either. Boston is the center of the Universe. Deal with it.
As the Sox are my favorite Boston team, October has been a particularly enjoyable month during most fall seasons since 2004. However, there are many pitfalls to this fun-filled month. Don't get me wrong, I would never trade the gluttonous, Boston sports-induced excitement for anything in the world, but there are some things that are really starting to chap my ass.
Unlike most young professionals, I do not drink coffee or any other forms of caffeine for that matter. During this month, like most citizens of Red Sox Nation who stay up to watch the late games, I am miserably sleep deprived. Lack of rest without caffeine is not a pleasant combination. Today is definitely no exception. (Sider: Last night's win was amazing, by the way. Fenway finally felt like 2004 allover again.) Further, this October has been much worse than others on the sleep deprivation scale. My job as of late has been treating me like a 120 lb man in a maximum security prison when it comes to hours spent in the office. You may have guessed that I work in finance. You would be correct. Despite the long hours, I'm just happy that I get a paycheck every 2 weeks because I know others are not as fortunate. Whatever, at least the unemployed get to sleep until noon.
Last week, in an effort to curb my sleep deprivation, I went back to my dark mistress (the coffee bean, brewed & served over ice). It was a bad decision, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The experience has been like resurrecting an old hook-up. Despite the fact that I knew it was a horrible idea, she has brought me happiness albeit short term. It will be quite difficult to wean myself off our early morning romps in a couple weeks, but she continues to beckon me for the booty call each day. I am really looking forward to the caffeine withdrawal migraines in a couple weeks. I imagine these raging headaches could be like realizing the resurrected hook-up left behind the most heinous STD possible. Awesome, can't wait. Just for the record, I don't have any STDs…clean, disease-free, and very single in fact. Ladies, contact the blogerrita if you are interested.
Now, one would think that my reintroduction to coffee would better temper me for public consumption throughout the daily grind. Not true. I have become even more agitated with the things that annoy me on a daily basis. For instance, I am sweating even more on the T despite the fact that the conductor has the A/C working properly. This makes me angry and I can't figure it out. Maybe I need to see my primary care physician. Anyway, the morning T rides to the office are still miserable. I am usually late because I had to pick up a DD iced coffee. My tardiness ensures the train to be even more crowded with equally miserable and sleep deprived Bostonians. However, the evening T rides over to Kenmore for the games have been utterly unbearable. Last night, I was packed on a B line train sans A/C (but no heat either, thankfully!) with a couple hundred of my new closest friends.It was a sweaty mess and this was truly a motley crew. Our demographic was approximately: 70% Sox fans headed to the Fenway area,25% Brighton/Brookline area young professionals commuting home, 4% drunk college students, and 1% morbidly obese couple violating my personal space while they swallowed each other's faces in the throws of passion. I'll leave my hatred of PDAs for another post, but please get a room. That was just plain disgusting and everyone on the T car needed to take a shower to wash away the bad memories when you were done. But I digress.
Generally, I always support the commuter over the tourist when it comes to friction among these groups on the T. I am a commuter and tourists are typically a pain in the ass as the blogerrita has previously discussed. One could argue that Sox fans emulate tourists on the T. Sox fans are giddy with anticipation often telling loud and obnoxious stories to their friends while headed to the Park. True, this can be annoying. However, after last night, I support Sox fans over Brighton/Brookline commuters any day of the week. Nothing is more annoying than the filthy looks of disgust and displeasure on the faces of the Brighton/Brookline commuters while their T car is inundated with rabid, playoff-ready Red Sox fans. NEWS FLASH for Green Line commuters who reside west of Kenmore Sq: You consciously made the horrible decision to live over there. Do not take your poor decision-making out on us Sox fans. Actually, many of you are probably Sox fans too so don't be Debby Downer that we are actually enjoying this playoff run. I promise, we will be out of your precious T cars by November 1, and you can go back to getting normal amounts of sleep and living miserably among to the BU & BC students. In the meantime, I'm going to search for a new, non-addictive coffee alternative and buy some commercial grade antiperspirant. Go Sox.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Extreme Life Makeover
On the cusp of turning 25 I have realized in just the last week that I am not the person I thought I was or would be at this age in all aspects of my life--professionally, personally, emotionally, spiritually and financially. All that in such a short week. You could say that I'm either really in tune with my inner self or completely on the brink of a personal breakdown. I like to think it's a little bit of column A and a little bit of column B. It's funny how people feel about quarter life crises. Undoubtedly there are plenty of people that fully believe in the concept (I'm pretty sure my sister was given a book about it on her 25th birthday so there are people that make their fortunes from the idea) and there are those who think its simply an excuse to throw a fit and hide from their real feelings. The way I see it, I'm stumbling upon all kinds of realities about myself and it just happens to coincide with turning 25. It's perfectly viable, isn't? Okay fine. It's a self-induced quarter life crisis. I'm terrified at getting older and scrutinizing every aspect of my life as a result. You win. I'm out here getting my ass kicked and every time I drive down the road I want to jerk the wheel into a goddamn bridge embankment!
Kidding. That's a line from Tommy Boy. I highly recommend watching it. Brilliant film.
But really, let's call a spade a spade. As I sit here right now, I have a negative dollar amount in my checking account (I get paid at midnight though in my own defense). I live on a borrowed income and I don't take responsibility for all of my own bills yet. That's pathetic. Additionally, I question my career path more and more as the Commonwealth's economy continues to circle the drain. The sliver of a chance I have of getting a job continues to get more and more bleak as the days go on. So I have that going for me. And have I mentioned yet my personal struggle with trying to figure out why I suffocate my feelings with sarcasm and rage? I mean, I created a blog that is almost completely dedicated to my inability to cope with life's most basic obstacles (like getting to work). Sidenote: WTF the Red Sox are going to gift wrap this series to Tampa Bay! 2nd at bat and the Rays just got an effing homerun. Okay so I think I also might suffer from ADD--I'm looking into it.
Anyway, when did things get to this point?
My situation isn't really a "crisis" though. That sounds so Lifetime movie and also makes me feel even older. And plus, I feel like this happens to me pretty regularly so it actually doesn't have much to do with turning 25. If I had to equate this situation to anything, I'd have to say that it's very much Clueless. While I'm not going to give away all my personal belongings to the Pismo Beach Disaster Relief effort (which I'll have you know was a fictitious event according to Wikipedia) I do feel, like Cher, that I need make over my soul. Or at least change a few things in my life.
1. I am in desperate need of endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. And happy people don't have quarter life crises. They just don't. I need to get my chubby ass out running and then maybe I could get some sleep at night and won't have these multiple personality episodes. I'm starting to feel like Britney Spears. Remember when she turned British for like a week? What was that all about? I'll tell you what--all those lattes. Too much Starbucks and not enough cardio. I am suffering the same plight (though my vice as of late is beer, not frozen coffee beverages). I give her kudos though, has anyone seen her new video for Womanizer? She's smokin' hot in it and the video has a real concept and everything. Maybe I could be B. Spears for Halloween... but which one?
2. I need to start managing my finances and stop spending my money in all of the following places:
a. Dunkin Donuts
b.[Insert names of all Boston Bars here].
c. The Loft (Ann Taylor's not the salon--I'm not sacrificing my
highlights in the name of sound mental health, that's insane.)
d. Rite Aid
e. [Insert names of all Boston Restaurants here].
I watched Oprah the other day with my mother and apparently this woman Suze Orman has staked her fortune on writing books about other people's financial misfortunes. She's completely demonic. She spent the full hour ripping apart people's hopes and dreams of buying houses and adopting children. She did make a few good points though, but really they were more common sense than anything so I don't really want to give her credit. How do you give people money advice while you're sitting on a pedestal built with money people spent on your books when they probably couldn't afford to buy them! I really should email Oprah to get rid of that Suze segment. It's more than a little condescending for Oprah to sit there and give people money advice when the woman could solve the country's $700 million financial crisis with her personal fortune.
3. I need to surround myself with bright, happy and charming people. And if I can't find anyone matching that description then I'll just resort to my friends. That's a joke. I happen to have amazing friends, but half the time I spend with them I'm blacked out and being irresponsible and that's not exactly QT. Really though, think of the last time you've made plans to catch up with someone. What did you do? I'm guessing you went out to get dinner and drinks. There has to be more to Boston than that.
So, there's the solution: exercise, starvation, sobriety and the people you love. I think maybe I should write a book. Then I could smugly chastise people less successful than me like Suze. All I have to do is come up with my book title, cover art and a steep price and I am all set.
Kidding. That's a line from Tommy Boy. I highly recommend watching it. Brilliant film.
But really, let's call a spade a spade. As I sit here right now, I have a negative dollar amount in my checking account (I get paid at midnight though in my own defense). I live on a borrowed income and I don't take responsibility for all of my own bills yet. That's pathetic. Additionally, I question my career path more and more as the Commonwealth's economy continues to circle the drain. The sliver of a chance I have of getting a job continues to get more and more bleak as the days go on. So I have that going for me. And have I mentioned yet my personal struggle with trying to figure out why I suffocate my feelings with sarcasm and rage? I mean, I created a blog that is almost completely dedicated to my inability to cope with life's most basic obstacles (like getting to work). Sidenote: WTF the Red Sox are going to gift wrap this series to Tampa Bay! 2nd at bat and the Rays just got an effing homerun. Okay so I think I also might suffer from ADD--I'm looking into it.
Anyway, when did things get to this point?
My situation isn't really a "crisis" though. That sounds so Lifetime movie and also makes me feel even older. And plus, I feel like this happens to me pretty regularly so it actually doesn't have much to do with turning 25. If I had to equate this situation to anything, I'd have to say that it's very much Clueless. While I'm not going to give away all my personal belongings to the Pismo Beach Disaster Relief effort (which I'll have you know was a fictitious event according to Wikipedia) I do feel, like Cher, that I need make over my soul. Or at least change a few things in my life.
1. I am in desperate need of endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. And happy people don't have quarter life crises. They just don't. I need to get my chubby ass out running and then maybe I could get some sleep at night and won't have these multiple personality episodes. I'm starting to feel like Britney Spears. Remember when she turned British for like a week? What was that all about? I'll tell you what--all those lattes. Too much Starbucks and not enough cardio. I am suffering the same plight (though my vice as of late is beer, not frozen coffee beverages). I give her kudos though, has anyone seen her new video for Womanizer? She's smokin' hot in it and the video has a real concept and everything. Maybe I could be B. Spears for Halloween... but which one?
2. I need to start managing my finances and stop spending my money in all of the following places:
a. Dunkin Donuts
b.
c. The Loft (Ann Taylor's not the salon--I'm not sacrificing my
highlights in the name of sound mental health, that's insane.)
d. Rite Aid
e. [Insert names of all Boston Restaurants here].
I watched Oprah the other day with my mother and apparently this woman Suze Orman has staked her fortune on writing books about other people's financial misfortunes. She's completely demonic. She spent the full hour ripping apart people's hopes and dreams of buying houses and adopting children. She did make a few good points though, but really they were more common sense than anything so I don't really want to give her credit. How do you give people money advice while you're sitting on a pedestal built with money people spent on your books when they probably couldn't afford to buy them! I really should email Oprah to get rid of that Suze segment. It's more than a little condescending for Oprah to sit there and give people money advice when the woman could solve the country's $700 million financial crisis with her personal fortune.
3. I need to surround myself with bright, happy and charming people. And if I can't find anyone matching that description then I'll just resort to my friends. That's a joke. I happen to have amazing friends, but half the time I spend with them I'm blacked out and being irresponsible and that's not exactly QT. Really though, think of the last time you've made plans to catch up with someone. What did you do? I'm guessing you went out to get dinner and drinks. There has to be more to Boston than that.
So, there's the solution: exercise, starvation, sobriety and the people you love. I think maybe I should write a book. Then I could smugly chastise people less successful than me like Suze. All I have to do is come up with my book title, cover art and a steep price and I am all set.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Just another day in the life
Yet another Wednesday is doing me dirty. This morning, in an effort to be more fashion forward, I decided to switch from my not cute basic black work bag to one of my sister's many fabulous enormous bags that she totes around. It was big enough to fit all the essentials: i-pod, umbrella, my agenda and my book. All this with room to spare! Good thing I forgot to put my wallet and T pass in it. Yet AGAIN I discovered I didn't have my wallet with me. Super. Naturally, I have to call my sister to locate the wallet and then like the saint that she is, she brought it to me. I am nominating her for sainthood. If anyone has more information about how one becomes a saint, let me know. For now, I'll just google it.
So if that wasn't enough, I am now late and have to hustle over to the T station and it's really a struggle because the skirt I am sporting is so narrow that it prohibits me from taking a full stride. And I'm not going to lie, my stride is not really that big to begin with. I tried to measure my steps against a guy walking by me and I'm pretty sure that I was taking 3-5 steps for everyone one of his. I feel like a geisha in this thing just shuffling everywhere (minus the whole prostitute connotation). It also makes walking up hill and climbing stairs really awesome as well. This being said, as I was taking baby steps towards the T station this morning I took a step up onto the curb and my right heel was suddenly usurped by a crack in the pavement. It was as if someone pulled the e-brake on my forward progress causing me to jolt forward and then snap back. Really pleasant. I'm so glad that I spend $60-$90 on heels that are ingested by the pavement and cobblestone walkways on a daily basis. You might think, well why wear your heels during your commute? Why not a sensible pair of sneakers? I can't believe you'd even have the audacity to THINK that. I refuse to be one of those women you see on a daily basis wearing nylons, socks and blinding white sneakers. I don't care how practical that might be, it looks ridiculous. So-called "fashion sneakers" like pumas or some other overpriced brand, maybe, but even that looks pretty ridiculous when sporting a suit or a skirt. I suppose this doesn't really give me the right to complain but honestly, I shouldn't have to change my shoes.
Anyway, back to my heel. When I finally regain my balance I have my left foot on the curb and my other shoe firmly implanted on the pavement just below said curb. I'm literally straddling the curb when this woman in front of me turns upon hearing my disgruntled yelp. She has swollen lips and what appears to be a nasty case of rosacea and just glares at me as though I am the cause of her appearance. She doesn't just give me a fleeting look though, which I would understand given the noise I must have made, but pauses for a solid five seconds to just stare at me with that face. It was like a car accident I couldn't look away. When she finally decided to turn around and continue towards the train, I finally started to try and finagle my heel out of the road. This thing was really stuck. Then a gentleman wearing a generic football jersey (in other words it wasn't endorsing an actual team so much as it was an oversized mesh shirt fashioned to look like a jersey) stopped. He too just stared at me, but his face wasn't nearly as distracting as the woman's so I attempted to explain my situation. Clearly he didn't want to help me, he was just curious to see why exactly I was half sprawled on the pavement. You would have thought I was speaking Chinese to this man the way he was looking at me as I said "my shoe is stuck." He just stood there in the middle of the road looking at me as though I had asked him for the chemical formula for glue.
I would estimate this entire process took me 2-4 minutes. The heel of my shoe was pretty severely maimed in this whole process and now I'm going to have to take it to a cobbler to get it fixed. Or knowing me, I'll just spend $60 I don't have on another pair of shoes which will suffer the same fate.
So if that wasn't enough, I am now late and have to hustle over to the T station and it's really a struggle because the skirt I am sporting is so narrow that it prohibits me from taking a full stride. And I'm not going to lie, my stride is not really that big to begin with. I tried to measure my steps against a guy walking by me and I'm pretty sure that I was taking 3-5 steps for everyone one of his. I feel like a geisha in this thing just shuffling everywhere (minus the whole prostitute connotation). It also makes walking up hill and climbing stairs really awesome as well. This being said, as I was taking baby steps towards the T station this morning I took a step up onto the curb and my right heel was suddenly usurped by a crack in the pavement. It was as if someone pulled the e-brake on my forward progress causing me to jolt forward and then snap back. Really pleasant. I'm so glad that I spend $60-$90 on heels that are ingested by the pavement and cobblestone walkways on a daily basis. You might think, well why wear your heels during your commute? Why not a sensible pair of sneakers? I can't believe you'd even have the audacity to THINK that. I refuse to be one of those women you see on a daily basis wearing nylons, socks and blinding white sneakers. I don't care how practical that might be, it looks ridiculous. So-called "fashion sneakers" like pumas or some other overpriced brand, maybe, but even that looks pretty ridiculous when sporting a suit or a skirt. I suppose this doesn't really give me the right to complain but honestly, I shouldn't have to change my shoes.
Anyway, back to my heel. When I finally regain my balance I have my left foot on the curb and my other shoe firmly implanted on the pavement just below said curb. I'm literally straddling the curb when this woman in front of me turns upon hearing my disgruntled yelp. She has swollen lips and what appears to be a nasty case of rosacea and just glares at me as though I am the cause of her appearance. She doesn't just give me a fleeting look though, which I would understand given the noise I must have made, but pauses for a solid five seconds to just stare at me with that face. It was like a car accident I couldn't look away. When she finally decided to turn around and continue towards the train, I finally started to try and finagle my heel out of the road. This thing was really stuck. Then a gentleman wearing a generic football jersey (in other words it wasn't endorsing an actual team so much as it was an oversized mesh shirt fashioned to look like a jersey) stopped. He too just stared at me, but his face wasn't nearly as distracting as the woman's so I attempted to explain my situation. Clearly he didn't want to help me, he was just curious to see why exactly I was half sprawled on the pavement. You would have thought I was speaking Chinese to this man the way he was looking at me as I said "my shoe is stuck." He just stood there in the middle of the road looking at me as though I had asked him for the chemical formula for glue.
I would estimate this entire process took me 2-4 minutes. The heel of my shoe was pretty severely maimed in this whole process and now I'm going to have to take it to a cobbler to get it fixed. Or knowing me, I'll just spend $60 I don't have on another pair of shoes which will suffer the same fate.
Monday, October 13, 2008
True Life: I drink like I'm still in college
This might seem to be a fairly harmless affliction, but drinking like you are still enrolled in college has very serious consequences that will leave in you in a world of hurt. Saturday night was a very good learning experience which I must share with others to prohibit other individuals from shaming themselves into thinking they can still drink like they're still in college. Take it from me--you cannot. Any effort to do so will inevitably result in a shame spiral the following day. In my case, I couldn't handle my liquor while I was IN college so why I would continue to try is completely beyond me. That's an issue for my future therapist though.
The first sign that you suffer from drinking like you're still in college is that you have an enabler. For me, that comes in the form of a dear friend that I shall refer to as "PIT." She's pretty phenomenal, but watch out if she ever gets those training wheels off. For me, the two of us together is a fatal mix of sarcasm and vodka, with a splash of no self control. This is a recipe for complete and utter disaster, but I would be lying if I didn't admit that it's pretty hilarious in the moment. I told her recently she should write a book and her response went something like this--
PIT: "What would I write? Almost all of the pages would be blank because I black out and can't remember what happened."
Also, she and I have been kicked out of Fenway Park. To be more specific, we were booed out of the bleachers. True story.
It's amazing what things alcohol will turn into "good ideas." For instance, it is never a good idea to dare your friend to duck under a bar and start serving drinks once the bartender has left his post, but nevertheless there is photographic evidence of PIT half under the bar en route to make me a cocktail or two. Oops. For whatever the reason I fail to realize at the moment that such a move would without question get us kicked out of the bar, for a minimum of that night if not for the rest of our adult lives. Thankfully she didn't follow through, but just posed long enough for the picture. Now we can both go back and repeat our same mistakes next month when we're no longer "grounded" from hanging out with one another.
It's also not a good sign when you and your friend get drunker than the person hosting the party. Normally that rule wouldn't necessarily make sense but in this case, the host had run 26.2 miles that morning and there was great potential of his unwittingly capitalizing on his dehydration with only a minimal number of drinks. Was he the one doing shots at the bar though? Nope, that would be PIT and me.
If someone at the bar is wearing a winter hat it's also not a good idea to put on the hat and let people take pictures of you. You will look like you have an extra chromosome and everyone that is not as drunk as you are will know enough to take pictures that they can then blackmail you with later. PIT is no exception. Even at her worst she still knows a good facebook blackmail picture when she sees one. That bitch.
The final moral of this story is that even when you're safely located in a cab on your way home, you're not safe from damaging decisions. For instance, the decision to not sit all the way back in your seat while in a cab can be a painful one when one drinks like one is still in college. The cab that PIT and I found ourselves in after several hours of collegial drinking was driven by a cabbie with a lead foot. Typically this is associated with driving too quickly. This driver took that expression to the other end of the spectrum, however, and was a little heavy with the brake. In a scene directly out of Old School, this cab driver slammed on the break causing PIT and me to crash directly into the plastic partition dividing the driver from the passengers. If I had to wager a guess, I would say that when the cab fogs up at any point in the next few months, you'll still be able to make out our profiles in the plastic. It is also worth mentioning that rather than formally reprimand the driver, PIT screamed out "PRECIOUS CARGO!"
I would write more, but most every other portion of the night is lost in a brown out. I think its in poor taste to say that one is "blacked out." I prefer to say that I experience a temporary brown out~it's appropriate for those nights when you generally recall the night's events, with a few shades of gray. I'm told that PIT was making floor angels in the kitchen back at the apartment, but I can only remember her double fisting hot dog rolls smothered in peanut butter.
In sum, please don't drink like you're still in college. I'll be 25 in a week and yet I'm still trying to learn this lesson myself. I'm not proud of myself--this blog post is not a tribute to my efforts, but an important warning to those who unwittingly think they can have a night out like they used to in college. Unless your nickname is PIT, in which case you belong in the Hall of Fame for alcohol consumption and poor decision making.
The first sign that you suffer from drinking like you're still in college is that you have an enabler. For me, that comes in the form of a dear friend that I shall refer to as "PIT." She's pretty phenomenal, but watch out if she ever gets those training wheels off. For me, the two of us together is a fatal mix of sarcasm and vodka, with a splash of no self control. This is a recipe for complete and utter disaster, but I would be lying if I didn't admit that it's pretty hilarious in the moment. I told her recently she should write a book and her response went something like this--
PIT: "What would I write? Almost all of the pages would be blank because I black out and can't remember what happened."
Also, she and I have been kicked out of Fenway Park. To be more specific, we were booed out of the bleachers. True story.
It's amazing what things alcohol will turn into "good ideas." For instance, it is never a good idea to dare your friend to duck under a bar and start serving drinks once the bartender has left his post, but nevertheless there is photographic evidence of PIT half under the bar en route to make me a cocktail or two. Oops. For whatever the reason I fail to realize at the moment that such a move would without question get us kicked out of the bar, for a minimum of that night if not for the rest of our adult lives. Thankfully she didn't follow through, but just posed long enough for the picture. Now we can both go back and repeat our same mistakes next month when we're no longer "grounded" from hanging out with one another.
It's also not a good sign when you and your friend get drunker than the person hosting the party. Normally that rule wouldn't necessarily make sense but in this case, the host had run 26.2 miles that morning and there was great potential of his unwittingly capitalizing on his dehydration with only a minimal number of drinks. Was he the one doing shots at the bar though? Nope, that would be PIT and me.
If someone at the bar is wearing a winter hat it's also not a good idea to put on the hat and let people take pictures of you. You will look like you have an extra chromosome and everyone that is not as drunk as you are will know enough to take pictures that they can then blackmail you with later. PIT is no exception. Even at her worst she still knows a good facebook blackmail picture when she sees one. That bitch.
The final moral of this story is that even when you're safely located in a cab on your way home, you're not safe from damaging decisions. For instance, the decision to not sit all the way back in your seat while in a cab can be a painful one when one drinks like one is still in college. The cab that PIT and I found ourselves in after several hours of collegial drinking was driven by a cabbie with a lead foot. Typically this is associated with driving too quickly. This driver took that expression to the other end of the spectrum, however, and was a little heavy with the brake. In a scene directly out of Old School, this cab driver slammed on the break causing PIT and me to crash directly into the plastic partition dividing the driver from the passengers. If I had to wager a guess, I would say that when the cab fogs up at any point in the next few months, you'll still be able to make out our profiles in the plastic. It is also worth mentioning that rather than formally reprimand the driver, PIT screamed out "PRECIOUS CARGO!"
I would write more, but most every other portion of the night is lost in a brown out. I think its in poor taste to say that one is "blacked out." I prefer to say that I experience a temporary brown out~it's appropriate for those nights when you generally recall the night's events, with a few shades of gray. I'm told that PIT was making floor angels in the kitchen back at the apartment, but I can only remember her double fisting hot dog rolls smothered in peanut butter.
In sum, please don't drink like you're still in college. I'll be 25 in a week and yet I'm still trying to learn this lesson myself. I'm not proud of myself--this blog post is not a tribute to my efforts, but an important warning to those who unwittingly think they can have a night out like they used to in college. Unless your nickname is PIT, in which case you belong in the Hall of Fame for alcohol consumption and poor decision making.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Hypocrisy.
I realized today that in some respects I am no better than those who I criticize and berate (mentally) day in day out. For instance, today I breached my own no potato chip policy. However, in my own defense, when I balanced the repercussions of my chewing a small bag of delicious Reduced Fat Cape Cod Potato Chips against the disgusting and repulsive noises my co-workers make on an hourly basis (e.g. snotting, coughing, nose blowing, chewing etc.) I concluded and maintain that violating my own policy was not that big of a deal. It is hypocritical though so I felt the need to appease my guilty conscience by admitting to it. It's ironic isn't it that I say all these things and yet am plagued by a guilty conscience? You know what else is ironic? Animal crackers are a vegan snack. True story--moving on.
What is even worse, however, is that I'm realizing that I am also not that different from the miserable people who cannot disengage themselves from their crackberries. You know the one's I am referring to--in fact, I bet some people are reading this on their crackberries right now and are those who among the worst crackberry abusers. They are the people who cannot go even one minute without having their crackberry in hand. They can't hold a conversation without also paging through their emails or finishing up a game of tetris. They have it 2 inches from their face during their whole commute into work and they don't put it down the entire ride home (even if they're driving). They are the ones reading emails on their computers while simultaneously sending out emails from their crackberries. They are the ones sitting at Fenway Park, during a game, sending and receiving emails. You know who you are. What is that important or pressing that it requires such immediate attention? Sure there are those professions that demand so much of your time that you're almost forced to be "on call" upwards of 16 hours a day. Fine. So be it. I tolerate your presence and put up your shenanigans day in an day out--I let you walk into me while you try to respond to an email and walk across the street at the same time. I let you take a seat on the T because apparently typing on a tiny computer is easiest while sitting while I stand here holding my bag and coffee in 4 inch heels. It's your world, I'm just living in it. And as much as I hate to admit it, I'm really not that much better.
Although I'm not roaming the streets of Boston while checking my blackberry or fucking around with one on the T, I come right home from work and hop on my laptop. Despite the fact that I am on a computer for 8 hours a day at least between working and classes, I still come home am tethered to my computer. I'm essentially a baby step away from having a blackberry despite how much I hate them. In fact, I was recently reminded that I am due to get a new cell phone next Spring and it almost crossed my mind to get a blackberry. I nearly had to punch myself in the face.
My point is, is that even when we're not all armed with blackberries there is still this constant need to be connected. If you're not walking around with a blackberry, then you're more likely than not walking /driving/ taking the T while texting. Either way, it's all a bit sickening if you think about it. You might justify sitting on your computer for hours cruising facebook as being better than sitting and watching the tube for a few hours (oh you know you do it, I do too so don't lie to yourself), is it any better? It's probably just about the same given that you can either watch MTV and find out what's new in the drama between LC and Speidi, read US Weekly or cruise the internet. In fact, you could likely do all three on your crackberry these days.
That being said, I'm going to get off the computer, finish reading this week's In Touch and wait for Project Runway to come on. Whatever-- at least I don't have a crackberry.
What is even worse, however, is that I'm realizing that I am also not that different from the miserable people who cannot disengage themselves from their crackberries. You know the one's I am referring to--in fact, I bet some people are reading this on their crackberries right now and are those who among the worst crackberry abusers. They are the people who cannot go even one minute without having their crackberry in hand. They can't hold a conversation without also paging through their emails or finishing up a game of tetris. They have it 2 inches from their face during their whole commute into work and they don't put it down the entire ride home (even if they're driving). They are the ones reading emails on their computers while simultaneously sending out emails from their crackberries. They are the ones sitting at Fenway Park, during a game, sending and receiving emails. You know who you are. What is that important or pressing that it requires such immediate attention? Sure there are those professions that demand so much of your time that you're almost forced to be "on call" upwards of 16 hours a day. Fine. So be it. I tolerate your presence and put up your shenanigans day in an day out--I let you walk into me while you try to respond to an email and walk across the street at the same time. I let you take a seat on the T because apparently typing on a tiny computer is easiest while sitting while I stand here holding my bag and coffee in 4 inch heels. It's your world, I'm just living in it. And as much as I hate to admit it, I'm really not that much better.
Although I'm not roaming the streets of Boston while checking my blackberry or fucking around with one on the T, I come right home from work and hop on my laptop. Despite the fact that I am on a computer for 8 hours a day at least between working and classes, I still come home am tethered to my computer. I'm essentially a baby step away from having a blackberry despite how much I hate them. In fact, I was recently reminded that I am due to get a new cell phone next Spring and it almost crossed my mind to get a blackberry. I nearly had to punch myself in the face.
My point is, is that even when we're not all armed with blackberries there is still this constant need to be connected. If you're not walking around with a blackberry, then you're more likely than not walking /driving/ taking the T while texting. Either way, it's all a bit sickening if you think about it. You might justify sitting on your computer for hours cruising facebook as being better than sitting and watching the tube for a few hours (oh you know you do it, I do too so don't lie to yourself), is it any better? It's probably just about the same given that you can either watch MTV and find out what's new in the drama between LC and Speidi, read US Weekly or cruise the internet. In fact, you could likely do all three on your crackberry these days.
That being said, I'm going to get off the computer, finish reading this week's In Touch and wait for Project Runway to come on. Whatever-- at least I don't have a crackberry.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Inappropriate.
To the Asian Woman sitting next to me on the T this morning--
Yes, I know. The jacket I have on is pretty fantastic. I've been told several times that it's a little "Sergeant Pepper" but whatever, I think it's pretty awesome. In fact, just this morning a woman in Dunkin' Donuts stopped on her way out the door to tell me how much she liked it. I think she even described it as "cool." So yes, I get it. It's a great coat. What's more, I know that I'm smelling pretty good today too. I took a shower, remembered to put on deodorant and gave myself several sprays of of my favorite perfume. It's a pretty good package deal you've got sitting next to you today. But that being said--get your head OFF of my shoulder. As enticing as I may be sitting here next to you, my outward appearance and/or intoxicating scent is not an invitation for you to take a cat nap with my limb as a headrest. I would prefer that no part of you touch me, period. Not your leg, not your arm, not even your bag. I have no idea if you've taken the time to shower today, or any day this week for that matter. Your hair is not looking so cute and whether that's a product of poor hygiene or bedhead, I'm not entirely certain. Quite frankly, I don't care. Get. Off. Of. Me.
Furthermore, do not have the audacity to look at me like I'm a jerk when I nudge you awake to alert you to the fact that you're sleeping on me. Okay, fine, maybe it was more of a punch to your ovary than a nudge, but either way. It's not appropriate for you to sleep on strangers. Or at least not in this context--what you do with your personal time is none of my business. What I do know, however, is that you are invading my personal space and if your head bobs in my direction one more time I'm going to go Kanye West on your ass. I went for a large coffee today--I'll do it. I'm feeling feisty.
Good day.
PS. To the tall blond kid, watching this interaction--you look ridiculous with both your i-phone and your i-pod fixed onto your belt in their respective, over sized holders. Additionally, pleated pants is not a good look for you so I suggest averting your eyes unless you want me to ruin your Tuesday.
Yes, I know. The jacket I have on is pretty fantastic. I've been told several times that it's a little "Sergeant Pepper" but whatever, I think it's pretty awesome. In fact, just this morning a woman in Dunkin' Donuts stopped on her way out the door to tell me how much she liked it. I think she even described it as "cool." So yes, I get it. It's a great coat. What's more, I know that I'm smelling pretty good today too. I took a shower, remembered to put on deodorant and gave myself several sprays of of my favorite perfume. It's a pretty good package deal you've got sitting next to you today. But that being said--get your head OFF of my shoulder. As enticing as I may be sitting here next to you, my outward appearance and/or intoxicating scent is not an invitation for you to take a cat nap with my limb as a headrest. I would prefer that no part of you touch me, period. Not your leg, not your arm, not even your bag. I have no idea if you've taken the time to shower today, or any day this week for that matter. Your hair is not looking so cute and whether that's a product of poor hygiene or bedhead, I'm not entirely certain. Quite frankly, I don't care. Get. Off. Of. Me.
Furthermore, do not have the audacity to look at me like I'm a jerk when I nudge you awake to alert you to the fact that you're sleeping on me. Okay, fine, maybe it was more of a punch to your ovary than a nudge, but either way. It's not appropriate for you to sleep on strangers. Or at least not in this context--what you do with your personal time is none of my business. What I do know, however, is that you are invading my personal space and if your head bobs in my direction one more time I'm going to go Kanye West on your ass. I went for a large coffee today--I'll do it. I'm feeling feisty.
Good day.
PS. To the tall blond kid, watching this interaction--you look ridiculous with both your i-phone and your i-pod fixed onto your belt in their respective, over sized holders. Additionally, pleated pants is not a good look for you so I suggest averting your eyes unless you want me to ruin your Tuesday.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Zero Tolerance
For some this is a recycled email chain, but the importance of the message underlying the text is so great that it is imperative that I post this. The fate of Boston's public depends upon its strict adherence to my intolerance.
If I were ever asked to name the most intolerant and impatient person that I know, I would undoubtedly and without hesitation name myself. I have more quirks and idiosyncrasies than anyone else I know, with the one sole exception being my father. He can be the most patient man at times and yet the most intolerant and impatient at others, and about the dumbest things too. I blame him almost entirely for the inheritance of these two attributes—however, being that he served in Vietnam, I tend to let most of his quirks (and racist remarks) slide by the wayside and blame it all on the war.
I hate waiting, but I am always late. I can’t stand when pedestrians get in my way while I’m driving, but when I cross the cross walk I demand that all traffic and vehicular motion cease and desist in order to accommodate me. And in that same vein of thought, I hate when people yell obscenities or flip me the bird while I’m driving, but I’ll be the first one to throw up my arms in frustration or hit the horn if someone else offends me with the way they drive. The epitome of my general intolerance though has to be what people eat and public and how they eat. It’s not a surprise that in addition to my already named character flaws that I have a complete complex about food, namely watching other people eat.
I have a notorious phobia of condiments and find it completely unacceptable for anyone and everyone to consume them in my presence. I don’t even want to look at a bottle of ketchup while I’m trying to eat and always request that it be removed from the table. And if a food server so much as puts a pickle on my plate with my meal, forget it. You’ve just contaminated my entire entrée and I have lost my appetite. These are all things that I would love for the world to know and recognize without my having to say anything about, but even I realize that’s a lot to expect of people and by people I mean strangers. If you’re my friend, you know better and I expect nothing but strict adherence to my zero tolerance for condiments, vegetable, fruit and other assorted items which include, but are not limited to, gravy, steamers, and coleslaw. Being my friend requires sacrifice and if you ask me, that is what friendship is all about. But I digress.
Aside form my own complexes, however, I feel very strongly that there are just certain foods that you should not eat in the presence of the general public out of respect for those individuals around you. Now, in no particular order, here are some of those more offensive items which you should only be allowed to eat in the privacy of your own home or amongst a group of your close friends who do not have tolerance policies quite as strict as my own:
Tuna fish.
I don’t care how you choose to eat tuna, whether it be on a sandwich, in a casserole, on a salad or out of a can. It is completely vile and disgusting and NO ONE, not even the people who proclaim to like tuna fish wants to smell you eat that. It smells completely foul and I have got to tell you something—your breath after you consume tuna fish, its not cute. It’s completely gross and wretched. That being said, even if you eat a tuna fish sandwich in the confines of your office and think that you’re sparing others who might not like tuna, just the fact that you plan on breathing later in the day and sharing the same air as your co-workers makes it completely unacceptable for you to eat tuna for lunch. Eat it at home where you have access afterwards to a tooth brush, mouth wash and floss. You might wash your hands, but your fingers are going to stink like tuna all day long as will every pen, pencil and pad of pad of paper you touch for the rest of the day. Just don’t eat it in a public forum. Don’t put it in a community refrigerator either because you’re just causing the entire fridge to reek and giving everyone’s stored food the faint odor of fish. This is not even to mention how disgusting it is to just witness someone eating tuna fish. I would go on describing that, but I’m already starting to feel queasy just thinking about it.
Carrots.
I realize that a carrot seems like a rather un-offensive food to eat and at first glance, you’re right. It seems pretty harmless. However, my problem with a carrot is not the smell or even the texture but rather the god awful noise that results from its consumption. Unless you’re a direct descendant of Bugs Bunny, you should not be mawing on carrots in public forum. The crunch ricochets off of every wall in a one mile radius of the person eating them and is completely distracting to everyone around you. So you might think to yourself, Self, I’ll just eat those super cute “baby” carrots. They’ll only make a “baby” crunch. Well if you think that, then you are an idiot. They are just as if not MORE annoying and typically result in even more noise because being that they’re so small you’ll likely bring 10 times as many of them! In sum, knock it off. If you don’t have buck teeth, floppy ears and a cotton tail, don’t eat them jacka$$.
Eggs.
This has to be one of the most foul and offensive items on this list. I actually enjoy eggs (of the scrambled variety made by my mother only) but I cannot enjoy other people consuming them in my presence / in public in ANY form. I was once on the train where I woman was eating hard boiled eggs in the same fashion one might eat an apple (which now that I think about it should also be on this list because those are pretty loud and obnoxious also, but I’ll spare them for now). This train ride was particularly overcrowded during an early morning commute and while I was trapped under my roommate’s armpit while special hugging her for stability, this woman just starting voraciously eating the egg like she had never eaten before in her life and thought this could be her one and only meal. It was the most disgusting and offensive instance of public eating that I have EVER been a witness to. Eggs smell AWFUL. While you might want to eat them for breakfast, as a snack or as a topping on your salad (which I’ll get to shortly) for protein or some other health value they might add—DO NOT DO IT. And as a personal aside, if you try to eat eggs near me and think you’re putting ketchup on them, you better put on rain coat because it’s about to pour vomit all over you, projectile style. As a final note, during college one of my high school friends went vegan for a while and when she and I were discussing her new dietary restrictions and how she had to give up eggs and cheese she made this insightful observation—eating an egg is essentially eating a chicken’s period. It’s an unfertilized egg. Think about that the next time you think that an egg would be a nice tasty treat to eat.
Egg Salad.
This is a no brainer and I should not even have to put it on the list because it’s so obvious but still people insist on thinking its socially acceptable to eat this around others. Maybe some people didn’t get the memo, but it’s not okay. It never has been okay nor will it ever be okay. I think I’d rather be dutch ovened then to have to smell someone make, store or consume egg salad.
Salad.
Yes, I know. I am pretty confident I’m the only girl in existence that doesn’t eat salad. I for one, think it’s the dumbest thing ever. People eat salad to be “healthy” but most people, if you notice, drizzle all kinds of really unhealthy things over their salad such as ranch or blue cheese dressing or put tasty toppers with their vegetables like bacon or cheese. Do we really think that what you’re eating is still “healthy”? I doubt it. But even for those smart individuals who use no dressing and keep it clean, have you ever thought about how gross it is to watch you eat that? Uh, it’s disturbing the way people hoover down salads. You burn more calories CHEWING the lettuce than you gain by its consumption and I’m not even going to get into how much of that salad winds up stuck in the crevices of your teeth. Now I find that as funny as the next person, but really. If you’re going to eat a salad in public, which I know can be somewhat unavoidable because most women feel socially obligated to eat salad and drink diet soda (which is a topic for another day), then at least try to eat it like a human being and not like a vacuum cleaner please.
Chicken Salad.
Please see 1.) above. This is almost equally as disgusting and unpleasant to me as tuna fish.
Potato Chips.
This is a pipe dream I know it, but listening to other people eat potato chips or any variety is completely punishing to me almost always. I can’t imagine how some people can even hear themselves think when they’re noshing on a bag of crispy potato chips. They most likely can’t and don’t care because they’re too overwhelmed by the need to keep shoving more chips down their gullet. There is no quiet way to eat them and the more people try to eat quietly (you know the types—those who try to chew slowly like the rate at which you eat them is going to have any impact whatsoever on the sound of your teeth turning them into digestible mush, seriously) the more annoying it becomes. They only way you can get away with eating them in public is if you’re in a load, crowded space where people are expected to eat like a cafeteria or a diner. Not the train. Not your cubicle. Not an airplane or bus. And no, not an elevator.
Bananas.
What’s my gripe with bananas? While they are a very quiet food and the smell doesn’t really offend my senses as much as the others on this list, this snack is just too phallic to eat around other people. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Call me immature, but to watch an adult eat a banana makes me laugh and repulses me all at once. This more of a recommendation than anything else, but think about it next time you peel one back.
Gum.
It has recently come to my attention that a majority of adults are incapable of chewing gum without looking like a cow. It boggles my mind that people don’t get aggravated with themselves for how loud and obnoxiously they are chewing the gum in their mouths. There have been recent instances lately where I have actually felt a bit of panic at the well being of one co-worker’s jaw given her chosen method of chomping on gum all day. I’m starting to wonder if it’s just going to come unhinged one of these days, but it’s actually just as well if it did because then s/he wouldn’t be able to chew it so impertinently during meetings. How can a person NOT know how aggressively they are chewing their gum? I think that in most cases my four year old cousin could chew gum more politely than some adults I’ve seen recently, and this is a girl who eats her own boogers. There is something very wrong about that if she can chew with her mouth closed and some adults cannot. I say we just abolish it all together. Everyone should just be stuck with certs or tic tacs (provided they can eat them quietly of course).
Pretzels.
This is very similar to my rant about potato chips. There is no quiet way to eat them. You can try, but even sucking on them until they dissolve in your mouth like an infant does with solid foods (namely because it doesn’t have teeth yet) it’s still going to make that loud aggressive crunch which sends retarded tingles down my spine. Many of my current classmates, without naming names, are some of the biggest perpetrators for this snack. It’s completely inappropriate for class. It’s a wonder that the students eating can hear the professor because I know that I sure as hell can’t over some of the more insufferable chewers. The worst, by far, are those ridiculous nugget sized pretzels. This is really the same theory as the baby carrots. Just because it’s small doesn’t mean it won’t make a really loud crunch. It’s like my dad always told me-dynamite comes in small packages. Write that down.
We’ll leave this at a nice even, rounded list of ten, but I reserve the right to add to this list as more items come to mind and irritate me to a level where I begin to have suicidal and/or homicidal thoughts (which all things on this list have made me have at one point or another). Some might say that I should just become more tolerant of other people and their habits. I say, shut up and just start eating less disgusting and unpleasant things.
If I were ever asked to name the most intolerant and impatient person that I know, I would undoubtedly and without hesitation name myself. I have more quirks and idiosyncrasies than anyone else I know, with the one sole exception being my father. He can be the most patient man at times and yet the most intolerant and impatient at others, and about the dumbest things too. I blame him almost entirely for the inheritance of these two attributes—however, being that he served in Vietnam, I tend to let most of his quirks (and racist remarks) slide by the wayside and blame it all on the war.
I hate waiting, but I am always late. I can’t stand when pedestrians get in my way while I’m driving, but when I cross the cross walk I demand that all traffic and vehicular motion cease and desist in order to accommodate me. And in that same vein of thought, I hate when people yell obscenities or flip me the bird while I’m driving, but I’ll be the first one to throw up my arms in frustration or hit the horn if someone else offends me with the way they drive. The epitome of my general intolerance though has to be what people eat and public and how they eat. It’s not a surprise that in addition to my already named character flaws that I have a complete complex about food, namely watching other people eat.
I have a notorious phobia of condiments and find it completely unacceptable for anyone and everyone to consume them in my presence. I don’t even want to look at a bottle of ketchup while I’m trying to eat and always request that it be removed from the table. And if a food server so much as puts a pickle on my plate with my meal, forget it. You’ve just contaminated my entire entrée and I have lost my appetite. These are all things that I would love for the world to know and recognize without my having to say anything about, but even I realize that’s a lot to expect of people and by people I mean strangers. If you’re my friend, you know better and I expect nothing but strict adherence to my zero tolerance for condiments, vegetable, fruit and other assorted items which include, but are not limited to, gravy, steamers, and coleslaw. Being my friend requires sacrifice and if you ask me, that is what friendship is all about. But I digress.
Aside form my own complexes, however, I feel very strongly that there are just certain foods that you should not eat in the presence of the general public out of respect for those individuals around you. Now, in no particular order, here are some of those more offensive items which you should only be allowed to eat in the privacy of your own home or amongst a group of your close friends who do not have tolerance policies quite as strict as my own:
Tuna fish.
I don’t care how you choose to eat tuna, whether it be on a sandwich, in a casserole, on a salad or out of a can. It is completely vile and disgusting and NO ONE, not even the people who proclaim to like tuna fish wants to smell you eat that. It smells completely foul and I have got to tell you something—your breath after you consume tuna fish, its not cute. It’s completely gross and wretched. That being said, even if you eat a tuna fish sandwich in the confines of your office and think that you’re sparing others who might not like tuna, just the fact that you plan on breathing later in the day and sharing the same air as your co-workers makes it completely unacceptable for you to eat tuna for lunch. Eat it at home where you have access afterwards to a tooth brush, mouth wash and floss. You might wash your hands, but your fingers are going to stink like tuna all day long as will every pen, pencil and pad of pad of paper you touch for the rest of the day. Just don’t eat it in a public forum. Don’t put it in a community refrigerator either because you’re just causing the entire fridge to reek and giving everyone’s stored food the faint odor of fish. This is not even to mention how disgusting it is to just witness someone eating tuna fish. I would go on describing that, but I’m already starting to feel queasy just thinking about it.
Carrots.
I realize that a carrot seems like a rather un-offensive food to eat and at first glance, you’re right. It seems pretty harmless. However, my problem with a carrot is not the smell or even the texture but rather the god awful noise that results from its consumption. Unless you’re a direct descendant of Bugs Bunny, you should not be mawing on carrots in public forum. The crunch ricochets off of every wall in a one mile radius of the person eating them and is completely distracting to everyone around you. So you might think to yourself, Self, I’ll just eat those super cute “baby” carrots. They’ll only make a “baby” crunch. Well if you think that, then you are an idiot. They are just as if not MORE annoying and typically result in even more noise because being that they’re so small you’ll likely bring 10 times as many of them! In sum, knock it off. If you don’t have buck teeth, floppy ears and a cotton tail, don’t eat them jacka$$.
Eggs.
This has to be one of the most foul and offensive items on this list. I actually enjoy eggs (of the scrambled variety made by my mother only) but I cannot enjoy other people consuming them in my presence / in public in ANY form. I was once on the train where I woman was eating hard boiled eggs in the same fashion one might eat an apple (which now that I think about it should also be on this list because those are pretty loud and obnoxious also, but I’ll spare them for now). This train ride was particularly overcrowded during an early morning commute and while I was trapped under my roommate’s armpit while special hugging her for stability, this woman just starting voraciously eating the egg like she had never eaten before in her life and thought this could be her one and only meal. It was the most disgusting and offensive instance of public eating that I have EVER been a witness to. Eggs smell AWFUL. While you might want to eat them for breakfast, as a snack or as a topping on your salad (which I’ll get to shortly) for protein or some other health value they might add—DO NOT DO IT. And as a personal aside, if you try to eat eggs near me and think you’re putting ketchup on them, you better put on rain coat because it’s about to pour vomit all over you, projectile style. As a final note, during college one of my high school friends went vegan for a while and when she and I were discussing her new dietary restrictions and how she had to give up eggs and cheese she made this insightful observation—eating an egg is essentially eating a chicken’s period. It’s an unfertilized egg. Think about that the next time you think that an egg would be a nice tasty treat to eat.
Egg Salad.
This is a no brainer and I should not even have to put it on the list because it’s so obvious but still people insist on thinking its socially acceptable to eat this around others. Maybe some people didn’t get the memo, but it’s not okay. It never has been okay nor will it ever be okay. I think I’d rather be dutch ovened then to have to smell someone make, store or consume egg salad.
Salad.
Yes, I know. I am pretty confident I’m the only girl in existence that doesn’t eat salad. I for one, think it’s the dumbest thing ever. People eat salad to be “healthy” but most people, if you notice, drizzle all kinds of really unhealthy things over their salad such as ranch or blue cheese dressing or put tasty toppers with their vegetables like bacon or cheese. Do we really think that what you’re eating is still “healthy”? I doubt it. But even for those smart individuals who use no dressing and keep it clean, have you ever thought about how gross it is to watch you eat that? Uh, it’s disturbing the way people hoover down salads. You burn more calories CHEWING the lettuce than you gain by its consumption and I’m not even going to get into how much of that salad winds up stuck in the crevices of your teeth. Now I find that as funny as the next person, but really. If you’re going to eat a salad in public, which I know can be somewhat unavoidable because most women feel socially obligated to eat salad and drink diet soda (which is a topic for another day), then at least try to eat it like a human being and not like a vacuum cleaner please.
Chicken Salad.
Please see 1.) above. This is almost equally as disgusting and unpleasant to me as tuna fish.
Potato Chips.
This is a pipe dream I know it, but listening to other people eat potato chips or any variety is completely punishing to me almost always. I can’t imagine how some people can even hear themselves think when they’re noshing on a bag of crispy potato chips. They most likely can’t and don’t care because they’re too overwhelmed by the need to keep shoving more chips down their gullet. There is no quiet way to eat them and the more people try to eat quietly (you know the types—those who try to chew slowly like the rate at which you eat them is going to have any impact whatsoever on the sound of your teeth turning them into digestible mush, seriously) the more annoying it becomes. They only way you can get away with eating them in public is if you’re in a load, crowded space where people are expected to eat like a cafeteria or a diner. Not the train. Not your cubicle. Not an airplane or bus. And no, not an elevator.
Bananas.
What’s my gripe with bananas? While they are a very quiet food and the smell doesn’t really offend my senses as much as the others on this list, this snack is just too phallic to eat around other people. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Call me immature, but to watch an adult eat a banana makes me laugh and repulses me all at once. This more of a recommendation than anything else, but think about it next time you peel one back.
Gum.
It has recently come to my attention that a majority of adults are incapable of chewing gum without looking like a cow. It boggles my mind that people don’t get aggravated with themselves for how loud and obnoxiously they are chewing the gum in their mouths. There have been recent instances lately where I have actually felt a bit of panic at the well being of one co-worker’s jaw given her chosen method of chomping on gum all day. I’m starting to wonder if it’s just going to come unhinged one of these days, but it’s actually just as well if it did because then s/he wouldn’t be able to chew it so impertinently during meetings. How can a person NOT know how aggressively they are chewing their gum? I think that in most cases my four year old cousin could chew gum more politely than some adults I’ve seen recently, and this is a girl who eats her own boogers. There is something very wrong about that if she can chew with her mouth closed and some adults cannot. I say we just abolish it all together. Everyone should just be stuck with certs or tic tacs (provided they can eat them quietly of course).
Pretzels.
This is very similar to my rant about potato chips. There is no quiet way to eat them. You can try, but even sucking on them until they dissolve in your mouth like an infant does with solid foods (namely because it doesn’t have teeth yet) it’s still going to make that loud aggressive crunch which sends retarded tingles down my spine. Many of my current classmates, without naming names, are some of the biggest perpetrators for this snack. It’s completely inappropriate for class. It’s a wonder that the students eating can hear the professor because I know that I sure as hell can’t over some of the more insufferable chewers. The worst, by far, are those ridiculous nugget sized pretzels. This is really the same theory as the baby carrots. Just because it’s small doesn’t mean it won’t make a really loud crunch. It’s like my dad always told me-dynamite comes in small packages. Write that down.
We’ll leave this at a nice even, rounded list of ten, but I reserve the right to add to this list as more items come to mind and irritate me to a level where I begin to have suicidal and/or homicidal thoughts (which all things on this list have made me have at one point or another). Some might say that I should just become more tolerant of other people and their habits. I say, shut up and just start eating less disgusting and unpleasant things.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
I Sweat the T.
Here is a little witty masterpiece for your viewing pleasure, which I wish I could take credit for, but alas I cannot. This is the first of many contributions to the blog from those who appreciate and participate in Boston's daily grind. I give to you, Larry.
Let me be clear about a few things before we dive into this topic:
1) Boston weather in October is typically awesome- warm days and cool nights. It is an excellent reprieve from the stifling humidity in August/early September. Further, the warm days extend skirt season to provide gentlemen like myself with 20-something, young professional eye candy for just a few more weeks. Ladies, DO NOT judge. You know damn well you wear that skirt in order to look “cute” or “hot,” but sell it by telling everyone that it looks “professional” (which is probably true as well). Either way, keep telling yourself that and I will keep checking you out. Don’t mind me. Anyway, the cool nights provide the ability to still go sans jacket to your favorite watering hole without worrying about sweating too much. Also, it is much more comfortable sleeping at night when it is cooler.
2) I have severe personal temperature control issues. I sweat profusely and I can’t control it, but I somehow deal with it.
3) I despise commuting on the T.
While the October weather is usually glorious, the combination of warm days and cool nights reeks havoc on the temperature situation of our 100+ year old subway system. Yes, the summer is simply awful on the T, but at least the temperature outside is comparable to the temperature underground, and you therefore know what to expect. Now, it is a mixed bag, but you can usually count on fairly cold morning walks to the train and it is ALWAYS Africa hot on the T platforms. Even though I sweat profusely as soon as I head down the stairs into any T station, I am ok with this because it is difficult to control air flow in a 100 year old underground station. I get that. However, what these ass clowns can control is the temperature INSIDE the T cars. There is no way to physically or emotionally prepare oneself for the wretched event of the A/C not operating properly on the train.
This morning, for instance, it was quite cool outside, but it was fricken hot down on the platform. No big surprise there. Due to my personal temperature control issues, I went with a polo shirt with a light golf jacket full well knowing that I would be stripping that thing off as soon as I went underground. If I had gone with long sleeve button-down, it might have been too cold on way to T, but then would have drowned in my own sweat once underground. You get the point. Side note: I can’t believe I just explained and rationalized what I am wearing for clothes today. Contrary to what you may be thinking, I am a very heterosexual male.
Luckily, the obligatory announcement that the train was approaching sounded as soon as I reached the platform. This gave me just enough time to put on a strip tease for the dozen or so patrons in my area while I took off my jacket. By looks of the awkward smile from the MILF to my right, I think I put on a good show. I then commenced my daily routine of jockeying for the coveted standing position- leaning next to the door that would not open again until I exited the T at my stop (For the record, I won this particular battle against a some-what formidable opponent in a middle-aged woman. Good game though. Let’s play again tomorrow, loser). However, my victory celebration was cut short when I realized it was hotter inside the train than it was on the platform. I think the train operator had the heat going rather than the A/C. Seriously buddy, do everyone a favor on red line train # 8670 and take a couple logs off the fire up there. With the heat and the cast of characters around me, I thought for sure we were on a rain forest safari though I may have been hallucinating. I seriously thought the very pregnant young woman next to me was going to need an oxygen mask and some ice packs. I bet the little bun in the oven was sweating his little balls off too. I actually felt really bad for her and it made me stop thinking about my sweating situation for a few minutes. Then I realized that I was going to have to take another shower at the office before I get working on that project that is already 2 days late. I sweated so much on the ride to Park St that when I emerged from the lower depths of the T to ground level, the sweat almost turned to icicles (ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but I was cold for the first time in about 10 years).
Let me be clear about a few things before we dive into this topic:
1) Boston weather in October is typically awesome- warm days and cool nights. It is an excellent reprieve from the stifling humidity in August/early September. Further, the warm days extend skirt season to provide gentlemen like myself with 20-something, young professional eye candy for just a few more weeks. Ladies, DO NOT judge. You know damn well you wear that skirt in order to look “cute” or “hot,” but sell it by telling everyone that it looks “professional” (which is probably true as well). Either way, keep telling yourself that and I will keep checking you out. Don’t mind me. Anyway, the cool nights provide the ability to still go sans jacket to your favorite watering hole without worrying about sweating too much. Also, it is much more comfortable sleeping at night when it is cooler.
2) I have severe personal temperature control issues. I sweat profusely and I can’t control it, but I somehow deal with it.
3) I despise commuting on the T.
While the October weather is usually glorious, the combination of warm days and cool nights reeks havoc on the temperature situation of our 100+ year old subway system. Yes, the summer is simply awful on the T, but at least the temperature outside is comparable to the temperature underground, and you therefore know what to expect. Now, it is a mixed bag, but you can usually count on fairly cold morning walks to the train and it is ALWAYS Africa hot on the T platforms. Even though I sweat profusely as soon as I head down the stairs into any T station, I am ok with this because it is difficult to control air flow in a 100 year old underground station. I get that. However, what these ass clowns can control is the temperature INSIDE the T cars. There is no way to physically or emotionally prepare oneself for the wretched event of the A/C not operating properly on the train.
This morning, for instance, it was quite cool outside, but it was fricken hot down on the platform. No big surprise there. Due to my personal temperature control issues, I went with a polo shirt with a light golf jacket full well knowing that I would be stripping that thing off as soon as I went underground. If I had gone with long sleeve button-down, it might have been too cold on way to T, but then would have drowned in my own sweat once underground. You get the point. Side note: I can’t believe I just explained and rationalized what I am wearing for clothes today. Contrary to what you may be thinking, I am a very heterosexual male.
Luckily, the obligatory announcement that the train was approaching sounded as soon as I reached the platform. This gave me just enough time to put on a strip tease for the dozen or so patrons in my area while I took off my jacket. By looks of the awkward smile from the MILF to my right, I think I put on a good show. I then commenced my daily routine of jockeying for the coveted standing position- leaning next to the door that would not open again until I exited the T at my stop (For the record, I won this particular battle against a some-what formidable opponent in a middle-aged woman. Good game though. Let’s play again tomorrow, loser). However, my victory celebration was cut short when I realized it was hotter inside the train than it was on the platform. I think the train operator had the heat going rather than the A/C. Seriously buddy, do everyone a favor on red line train # 8670 and take a couple logs off the fire up there. With the heat and the cast of characters around me, I thought for sure we were on a rain forest safari though I may have been hallucinating. I seriously thought the very pregnant young woman next to me was going to need an oxygen mask and some ice packs. I bet the little bun in the oven was sweating his little balls off too. I actually felt really bad for her and it made me stop thinking about my sweating situation for a few minutes. Then I realized that I was going to have to take another shower at the office before I get working on that project that is already 2 days late. I sweated so much on the ride to Park St that when I emerged from the lower depths of the T to ground level, the sweat almost turned to icicles (ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but I was cold for the first time in about 10 years).
Say cheese.
It's a beautiful crisp fall day in Boston. I was really enjoying the weather while walking through the Common this morning shamelessly rocking out to Katie Perry's "I kissed a girl" on my i-pod. Whenever a song like that comes up on shuffle I always desperately wish that I could start dancing around like those i-pod commercials where the person's shadow goes nuts dancing around as the person walks along. Don't lie to yourself, you've had moments like that too. As I was rock-walking along on my way to work, I noticed this woman just sort of awkwardly standing under a tree in the middle of a grassy nole. I didn't think much of it until I noticed this squirrel dart across the sidewalk in front of me with the woman in tow. She was following the thing around trying to take its picture. She was chirping and cooing at it in such a way that I'm convinced she thought it was a cat or some other domesticated animal. I actually felt a bit bad for the thing. I sure it felt wholly unprepared for a photoshoot first thing in the morning.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Hump Day Part Deux
Alright, so while I'd like to say that the day ended by my finding $100 and drinking it all at a local watering hole, it did not. The day as a whole was miserable, but in order to avoid being a complete Debbie Downer I will only give the highlights (or low lights I guess) of the day:
A 40 something co-worker with two children ages 7 and 12 commented that not only did she like my outfit today but that she had the same skirt I was wearing. Just a head's up, there will be a brown tweed skirt being posted on the Craig's List "free" page in the near to immediate future. If you're interested, act fast.
I sat through a meeting on a topic I knew next to nothing about, which lasted for an hour and fifty-four minutes.During the meeting a gentleman was chewing gum so ferociously that it appeared as though he was trying to chew off his own face.
On the T ride home a gentleman who resembled Lurch from the Adams Family hovered over me and was breathing through his nose with such force that my hair was blowing in the hot, stale, nasal breeze.
Now, despite all this, I am determined not to make everything completely negative like every other journal or diary I have ever kept growing up. This will be different. First of all, I invite people to read this unlike my childhood diary, which my sister and neighbor used to repeatedly steal, memorize and then recite back to me later (that is devastating to a third grader, might I add). Second of all, I refuse to let this be used against me later as evidence that I should seek therapy (which has not happened yet, but I'd be lying if I didn't think I needed it after re-reading some of my old journals...yikes). It's time to find a happy place, just like Happy Gilmore or Lloyd in Dumb and Dumber, just before he is about to go down on Sea Bass (played by my personal hero, Cam Neely) in a men's public bathroom.
So it's time to reflect on something positive. When I was finally able to escape from under Lurch's oppressive nasal exhalation and sit down, my mood instantly improved. For one, I wasn't at work anymore and for another I felt much more confident that Lurch wasn't going to inadvertently shoot a snot rocket into my hair. The list of things I had to be unhappy about was diminishing already. Once I had a seat I set right to ignoring everyone around me by reading my book. When I glanced up while turning the page at one point, I noticed the woman seated to my right opening up a packet of recently developed pictures. Expecting standard candids taken at a family bbq or derelict children forced to pose and smile for the camera, I was surprised to find she was looking at black and white sonogram pictures. I had to do a double take. The pictures showed everything--I could see the thing's SPINAL COLUMN. Apparently when those bad boys are in the womb they are transparent-- it's insane. Ten fingers, ten toes and what I would have to define as its guts. It was all right there in a dozen miniature black and white photos.
This woman must have looked through the set of pictures at least a dozen times turning them this way and that. I can only imagine what was running through her mind--I mean, I'm assuming it was hers because I can't imagine printing out pictures of someone else's uterus. I don't know I'd even want to look at my own, never mind at someone else's. She must have been pretty psyched. Now I for one am positive that if that were me, today, I would be sobbing, snotting everywhere and more likely than not projectile vomiting all over the place. I would most certainly not want photographic evidence and I definitely would not be looking at it.
But she on the other hand seemed excited. So good for her. Better her than me!
So look at that. I took a wretched day and found the bright side. Although I had a minor set back when Lurch put on his music loud enough so that I could hear it and I had thoughts of punching him in the temple, I thought better of it and just put on my own headphones.
A 40 something co-worker with two children ages 7 and 12 commented that not only did she like my outfit today but that she had the same skirt I was wearing. Just a head's up, there will be a brown tweed skirt being posted on the Craig's List "free" page in the near to immediate future. If you're interested, act fast.
I sat through a meeting on a topic I knew next to nothing about, which lasted for an hour and fifty-four minutes.During the meeting a gentleman was chewing gum so ferociously that it appeared as though he was trying to chew off his own face.
On the T ride home a gentleman who resembled Lurch from the Adams Family hovered over me and was breathing through his nose with such force that my hair was blowing in the hot, stale, nasal breeze.
Now, despite all this, I am determined not to make everything completely negative like every other journal or diary I have ever kept growing up. This will be different. First of all, I invite people to read this unlike my childhood diary, which my sister and neighbor used to repeatedly steal, memorize and then recite back to me later (that is devastating to a third grader, might I add). Second of all, I refuse to let this be used against me later as evidence that I should seek therapy (which has not happened yet, but I'd be lying if I didn't think I needed it after re-reading some of my old journals...yikes). It's time to find a happy place, just like Happy Gilmore or Lloyd in Dumb and Dumber, just before he is about to go down on Sea Bass (played by my personal hero, Cam Neely) in a men's public bathroom.
So it's time to reflect on something positive. When I was finally able to escape from under Lurch's oppressive nasal exhalation and sit down, my mood instantly improved. For one, I wasn't at work anymore and for another I felt much more confident that Lurch wasn't going to inadvertently shoot a snot rocket into my hair. The list of things I had to be unhappy about was diminishing already. Once I had a seat I set right to ignoring everyone around me by reading my book. When I glanced up while turning the page at one point, I noticed the woman seated to my right opening up a packet of recently developed pictures. Expecting standard candids taken at a family bbq or derelict children forced to pose and smile for the camera, I was surprised to find she was looking at black and white sonogram pictures. I had to do a double take. The pictures showed everything--I could see the thing's SPINAL COLUMN. Apparently when those bad boys are in the womb they are transparent-- it's insane. Ten fingers, ten toes and what I would have to define as its guts. It was all right there in a dozen miniature black and white photos.
This woman must have looked through the set of pictures at least a dozen times turning them this way and that. I can only imagine what was running through her mind--I mean, I'm assuming it was hers because I can't imagine printing out pictures of someone else's uterus. I don't know I'd even want to look at my own, never mind at someone else's. She must have been pretty psyched. Now I for one am positive that if that were me, today, I would be sobbing, snotting everywhere and more likely than not projectile vomiting all over the place. I would most certainly not want photographic evidence and I definitely would not be looking at it.
But she on the other hand seemed excited. So good for her. Better her than me!
So look at that. I took a wretched day and found the bright side. Although I had a minor set back when Lurch put on his music loud enough so that I could hear it and I had thoughts of punching him in the temple, I thought better of it and just put on my own headphones.
Hump Day, you are doing me dirty.
I woke up this morning to my sister barging into my room and telling me it was 8:13--a time when I am typically (or at least on a good day) leaving our apartment to head to work. Super. Seventeen minutes later I was walking out the door, sans make up, knowing that I was going to be late to work for a third day in a row. Sadly that wasn't my first concern though--as many might guess, it was whether or not I was going to have time to get coffee. The funny part is that the reason I haven't been sleeping well and then unable to get up in the morning is because I think I've been drinking too much coffee during the day. But then I am so tired that I need the extra boost to keep me going. It's a viscous cycle. I really need to just start sucking it up and just making it at home like I used to, but for now I am content to let Jay, my favorite Dunkin Donuts barista, make it for me. When I passed my Dunkin Donuts at about 8:35 though, and noted the line stretched almost to the door, I had to make the sacrifice and keep walking. I instantly knew the day was doomed at the point, but tried to keep my chin up.
As I crossed the street to get to the T station, I ran into an old friend from my days working in retail when I was home on break from college. Alright fine, I worked in a mall. I don't know why I felt compelled to say "in retail." It's not even like it makes it sound that much better anyway, but yes. I worked in a mall and had to wear a headset. Don't judge. This is all beside the point anyway. The point is that after a minute or so of idle chatting we both realized today is October 1st, which means buying a new monthly T pass. Buying a T pass on the first of the month is about as pleasant as a yearly physical, whether its the "turn your head in cough" or "put your feet up on the stirrups" variety. It's annoying, uncomfortable and you'd rather avoid it if possible. I thought for a moment that I might be able to bypass the whole situation by having money on my T pass, but of course I didn't. Super. So then, as I got in the line of all the other idiots who waited until the last possible moment to buy their passes, I reached into my bag only to remember that I left my wallet in my sister's purse from when we went out last night to buy Forgetting Sarah Marshall at the supermarket. Don't act like whatever you did last night was that much better. Plus, it was really funny.
Luckily for me, in a strange twist of fate, I have recently taken to dumping an ungodly amount of change into the side pocket of my work bag so I was able to find enough quarters to pay my fare into Boston. Now I just have to somehow find enough money to pay my fare home, otherwise it's going to be one really long walk (i.e. 9.4 miles and 3 hours and 16 minutes according to Google maps). The shoes that I opted to wear today are really not that comfortable, either. In other news though, when I got to my desk I remembered a rogue Red Bull that I had left in a drawer (of the sugar free variety, ironically), so there is a chance I might stay caffeinated enough to be productive today. Otherwise, I may have to sacrifice any remaining change in my bag to buy a coffee downstairs in the shop at the bottom of my building, which would mean I can't get home tonight and will have to suffer through the consumption of coffee which tastes like what I would image to be the closest thing to liquid crap.
All this and it's only 10 in the morning.
As I crossed the street to get to the T station, I ran into an old friend from my days working in retail when I was home on break from college. Alright fine, I worked in a mall. I don't know why I felt compelled to say "in retail." It's not even like it makes it sound that much better anyway, but yes. I worked in a mall and had to wear a headset. Don't judge. This is all beside the point anyway. The point is that after a minute or so of idle chatting we both realized today is October 1st, which means buying a new monthly T pass. Buying a T pass on the first of the month is about as pleasant as a yearly physical, whether its the "turn your head in cough" or "put your feet up on the stirrups" variety. It's annoying, uncomfortable and you'd rather avoid it if possible. I thought for a moment that I might be able to bypass the whole situation by having money on my T pass, but of course I didn't. Super. So then, as I got in the line of all the other idiots who waited until the last possible moment to buy their passes, I reached into my bag only to remember that I left my wallet in my sister's purse from when we went out last night to buy Forgetting Sarah Marshall at the supermarket. Don't act like whatever you did last night was that much better. Plus, it was really funny.
Luckily for me, in a strange twist of fate, I have recently taken to dumping an ungodly amount of change into the side pocket of my work bag so I was able to find enough quarters to pay my fare into Boston. Now I just have to somehow find enough money to pay my fare home, otherwise it's going to be one really long walk (i.e. 9.4 miles and 3 hours and 16 minutes according to Google maps). The shoes that I opted to wear today are really not that comfortable, either. In other news though, when I got to my desk I remembered a rogue Red Bull that I had left in a drawer (of the sugar free variety, ironically), so there is a chance I might stay caffeinated enough to be productive today. Otherwise, I may have to sacrifice any remaining change in my bag to buy a coffee downstairs in the shop at the bottom of my building, which would mean I can't get home tonight and will have to suffer through the consumption of coffee which tastes like what I would image to be the closest thing to liquid crap.
All this and it's only 10 in the morning.
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