Totally Normal and Not At All Crazy

It’s totally normal and not at all crazy to refuse to pay your gas bill to teach those idiots at National Grid a lesson.

If their website was even the slightest bit navigable, you would gladly log in every month and pay it.  Despite your efforts to tell every representative/technician/person who will listen,  they insisted on creating a veritable black hole of a site, where passwords and usernames and security questions get sucked into a vortex and never heard from again.  They will eventually shut off your gas and you’ll have to take cold showers and pretend it’s the reason you haven’t been able to cook anything.  They’ll also show up at 8:30 on Saturday morning and make you break into your neighbors apartment to access the meter in the basement.  It may not seem worth the inconvenience and potential jail time, but it is.

It’s totally normal and not at all crazy to break up with a guy on Friday, then call him on Sunday to tell him how much you love him.

So what if you freaked out a little on Friday because he had to be somewhere early on Saturday.  One a.m. is not late.  You have every right to pitch a minor hissy fit right before you say goodnight.  And it’s totally cool to call him two days later and leave a voicemail telling him it’s super important and you need to talk.  You didn’t know he was at a restaurant having dinner with his friends and that he would walk out of it onto the street to call you back.  He won’t get mad, he’ll just call you crazy, which you’re not, and then do some manly thinking.

It’s totally normal and not at all crazy to shop online from the store that’s a block away from your office.

Nevermind that you chose to wait 5-7 days for your new clothes to arrive even though you could have walked into the store and gone home with them that same day.  It’s a jungle in there and you don’t need to feel like you’re competing against other predators for the last pair of over-the-knee socks.  It’s also not crazy that you went online just to buy a blazer, but when you saw that if you spent over a certain amount you would qualify for free shipping, you broke the seal and started clicking away and all of a sudden there was way more than that blazer in your cart.

It’s totally normal and not at all crazy to want to kill your best friend after she sends you a picture of what she did all day, lying on the couch in her underwear, after you spent yours working for the man.  An equally normal response: sending her a picture of your foot.

Collision on 12th Street: Who’s fault?

Today I walked out of my office on my lunch break at an incredibly fortuitous moment: just in time to watch the throw down of the year.  On the corner of 12th and 4th, an extremely little old lady with a walker collided with a handicapped woman in a wheelchair.  Before you accuse me of being an insensitive, immature individual (which I very well may be for other reasons) neither of them were injured as they were both moving at the speed of molasses.

I myself, as I’m sure you have at some point in your life, have been in that exact predicament.  Perhaps I was texting while walking down the street and didn’t notice the old man with a cane who I narrowly avoided kicking out from under him, or maybe I was in a hurry and didn’t see the injured youth’s wheelchair when my shin met the pedal of it, and one time, a woman in a power wheelchair literally ran into me from behind and almost took me out.  Whether or not I was at fault, I always apologized because I was the one feeling the guilt of being capable of walking without assistance on my own two legs.

Take the guilt out to level the playing field and you’ve got these two little biddies yelling at each other on the sidewalk.

Neither one of them made any attempt to move away from the accident.  They steadfastly remained in their spots at the moment of impact.  It was like when you see you two destroyed cars tangled together in a jumbled, unrecognizable mess of metal, only without the fire, smoke and presence of the police and emergency medical technicians.  Okay, I take it back.  It was nowhere near a real catastrophe.

The drama was still there however, as neither one of them felt that she should be the one to apologize or move away.  It was a battle of their misfortunes.  The old lady kept saying, “I’m an old lady with a walker!  You apologize right now!”  And the woman in the wheelchair would respond with, “I can’t walk!  I’m in a wheelchair!  You move away!”  They created quite the spectacle, but as riveting as their argument was I had to move along.  Still can’t decide though, who should have moved first?

Chivalry: Dead as a Doornail

My coworker recently returned from Atlanta with stories upon stories of Southern gentlemen.  Apparently, they love to do things for women.  Holding open doors, pulling out their chairs, complimenting them.

“If you move to the South,” she told me,  “I guarantee you’ll be engaged within a year.”

Even if I wanted to be engaged within a year, it wouldn’t be worth all the frizzy hair I would have to endure in the humid South.  But, I wouldn’t mind being around all that Southern hospitality and charm, especially after Friday night, when a sniveling little brat of a man stopped the cab I was in to offer the driver 50 bucks to kick me out INTO THE POURING RAIN and take him instead.

Thankfully, my cab driver was a man of honor and turned him down, but if he hadn’t I would have done serious damage to both of them with my swinging purse.

I love New York, but something tells me that would never happen in Atlanta.

Private Pool

The art of staying cool on a hot day in Bushwick, BK.

Photo credit goes to my neighbor, Shayne Spencer.

My Ghetto-Ass Nail Salon

Usually when one thinks of what a salon experience should be, a few words come to mind: tranquil, gentle, pampering.  The salon that I give my business to, Golden Nail Salon in Bushwick, is anything but that.  It is G-H-E-T-T-O.  Ghetto.

Where else can one pay 20 bucks for a manicure AND pedicure?  I implore you to try to find a place in Manhattan for that cheap.  Plus, the salon is on my block.  I can roll out of bed on a Saturday, put on my flip-flops, (just flip-flops, no pants or anything) get my nails done, and be home in 45 minutes.

However, if you’re looking for the ultimate experience in luxury and relaxation, this place is not for you.

For one thing, the nail artists are a little rough around the edges.  The first time I walked in, the owner shouted at me from across the room to ask what I was there for, and then later scolded me for refusing an eyebrow wax.  Not exactly the soothing, friendly voice I’m used to hearing from one who is in the business of beauty.

The decor is a tad hardcore.  On the wall are various pictures of perfectly manicured nails clutching automatic weapons and handguns.  Hanging from an easily accessible hook is a bat, engraved with the words, “Hey motherfucker.  This big bat is just for you.”  I sense it serves a purpose greater than purely aesthetic.  If any motherfuckers come into the salon, I bet they get beat with it.

There are a couple of handwritten signs strategically placed as well.  One is there to remind patrons that they are responsible for their children, which I am fully in support of because no one likes bratty little kids who scream and run around in hysterics.  I’m thinking about hanging a similar sign in my apartment.  The other sign advertises, for 10 bucks, an iPhone jailbreak and installation of several games.

The traveling bootleg DVD salesman is a frequent visitor to the salon as well. Every time I’m in there, he makes a much appreciated appearance to offer customers and staff incredibly low prices on movies that have not yet gone to DVD.  Someone always buys at least one.

It’s important to keep in mind that there is no air conditioning, so if you plan on stopping by, do so on a day when the temperature is mild, or wait for the fall.

Despite the salon’s obvious shortcomings, they always do an amazing job so I go every two weeks.

20 bucks people!

Kiwi Speech

I have a new friend named Kate.  She just moved here from New Zealand about three weeks ago, and is quickly becoming one of my new favorite people.   We enjoy many of the same things, mostly after-work boozing and shopping, a dangerous combination akin to mixing bleach and ammonia.  It’ll do to your wallet what the latter does to your lungs.

But my absolute favorite thing about our newfound friendship is the fact that although we speak the same language, we really don’t.

Often, while we’re chatting it up, one of us will say something that the other finds either a) hilarious b) nonsensical or c) all of the above.  For example, last Friday Kate and I were at a bar discussing how we pee quite frequently when we’re drunk, and I said something like, “Well now that I’ve already broken the seal…blabbity blah blah,” and Kate reacted by throwing her head back and laughing.  Apparently that’s not a phrase that gets used a lot in New Zealand.

Later that night we went to Crif Dogs, a spot in Brooklyn where one can get a hot dog wrapped in bacon, and Kate tried to nonchalantly ask me what a tater tot is.  The answer is a) hilarious.

Today we were IMing each other at work, and after a series of typos Kate excused her mistakes by declaring that she wasn’t exactly a “switched-on gardener.”  That one is definitely b) nonsensical.

Yesterday she explained that in New Zealand they call ketchup “tomato sauce,” marinara sauce is “seafood pasta,” alfredo is “creamy pasta,” and oatmeal is “porridge!”  Imagine that!  I haven’t heard the word porridge since the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears so I really wanted to make fun of it, but then it reminded me of my childhood and I wanted to climb into its metaphoric lap and stay awhile.  I was very conflicted.

She is also going to introduce me to Dub Pies, a place in Brooklyn that sells handmade, authentic New Zealand meat pies.  Meat pies, for christ’s sake!

Goodbye, World!

Apparently, the world is supposed to end on Saturday.  That doesn’t really work for me as all day I will be drinking beer and eating bratwursts on a pier at a German culture festival.  Nor am I prepared to relinquish the Mayan apocalypse on my 30th birthday.  I enjoy the idea that the day I go down, I take the entire world with me.

On my way home yesterday, I was approached by three different people in the Union Square train station who were handing out doomsday brochures while orating about our imminent destruction.   Once on the L train, I found myself staring at a poster warning me that the end was near, and when I got home and logged into Facebook, my news feed was full of sarcastic status updates like “Dear Universe, I know you’re going to end soon, but could you wait until after my date/party/Jersey Shore season finale.”

The universe does not check Facebook, people.

A quick Google search later and I learned that “Project Caravan,” a tour of Jesus freaks traveling the country in RVs to warn people about judgement day, is in full effect in New York this week.  They have taken over billboards, posters and heavy traffic areas.  Lucky us.  Their battle cry? “Have you heard the awesome news? The end of the world is almost here!”  I don’t know about you guys, but the world ending is not on my list of things that are awesome.  In fact, it’s kind of a bummer.

On my way home today, I passed an overzealous fanatic who was begging all of us sinners in the train station to repent.  Standing behind her was her teenage daughter, who looked like she had been dragged on the “family vacation” against her will and forced to participate in  Jesus-sanctioned activities.  She was lamely holding up a flyer and wearing an expression I interpreted as, “My mom is crazy.  Ignore her.”  I think we all felt that way at one point, but in her case, it’s really true.

The Shoe Fetish

Yesterday I watched a video of a man licking his shoe on the subway.

It’s the 5 train, and it’s between 149th st/Grand Concourse and 125th and Lexington.  For a good 25 blocks and almost 2 full minutes of video, this man goes to town on his sandal.  He takes it off his foot and licks that thing like he’s the mama and that shoe is his newborn cub.  Then he brushes his foot off and puts it back on.

I am traumatized and may never be able to look at Birkenstocks, the 5 train, or an animal cleaning her young the same way ever again.

I often write about subway culture, how once you descend those dirty stairs into the belly of the beast you leave behind all expectations of appropriate public behavior.  There are people sitting next to and across from our shoe-happy subject, but does anyone react?  No.  As long as he isn’t hurting anybody, why interfere with his methods?  Maybe because someone who walks around New York City,  stepping on all of it’s dirt and grime, and then licks clean the very shoe that accumulated said filth is probably someone who would also skin you and wear you as a fancy coat.  When you see something that nuts, you don’t say something.  You act like you just finished licking your own shoe clean.  That’s what us New Yorkers call staying alive.

I immediately posted the video on my Facebook page and people began commenting and re-posting right away.  I shared it with some of my co-workers, and it quickly became the hot topic in the office.  On my lunch break, I sat at a table in a nearby Japanese restaurant and glanced up at the television that was mounted in the corner, and there he was again, on a promo for the evening news.

And now, for your viewing displeasure, I present “Man Licking Shoes on New York Subway.”

If that’s not bat shit crazy, then I don’t know what is.

The Pregnancy Pact

It used to be that I’d feel left out if I didn’t have a certain pair of shoes, or the newest cell phone, or because I don’t watch Glee.  But recently, a new trend has been emerging in my life.  The hottest accessory to have these days requires a 9 month waiting period, costs you your freedom and figure, and comes with a lifetime guarantee.  It’s a baby.

It all started with my cousin, who gave birth to beautiful baby boy Nakai at the end of January.  Then, last Thursday, my college roommate sent me a picture message of her newborn nephew Daniel, fresh out of the womb.  The next day, I received a text from a friend to inform me that her niece Sophia had just entered the world at 6 pounds, 6 ounces.  The following Wednesday, I met my old friend Amanda, who I hadn’t seen or spoken to in a year, for what I thought would be after-work drinks.  When I went in for the hug, she unwrapped her long sweater from around her 6-month pregnant belly and yelled, “Surprise!”  So, happy hour was out of the question.

How come no one told me about this pregnancy pact?  Did they think I wouldn’t be a good mother?  Were they afraid I’d go to extreme lengths to become a mom, vis-a-vis the high school girl who slept with a homeless man in her town in order to uphold her end of the pact?  Because as much as I feel left out of this new motherhood movement, let’s be honest: I ain’t ready for no babies.

I will make one observation, though.  All of these new little people who have just entered the world have done so under peculiar, non-traditional circumstances.  They are all lucky little babies with wonderful, supportive family units surrounding them and assisting with their upbringing, but none of their parents are married to each other.  Is my generation revolutionizing family and parenthood?  We shall see.

R.I.P. Pinky

My oldest and last surviving childhood pet, Pinky the turtle, passed away last week.  Much to my roommate’s chagrin, and possibly God’s, she now occupies a space in my freezer until I can take her to my mom’s house in Westchester, where I plan to preside over a funeral fit for a queen.  I might follow the advice given to me by the 8 year-old I babysit for and bedazzle her headstone.

The truth is, I have no idea if Pinky was really a girl.  I was 5 when we brought her home and all I remember about the event is being asked what I’d like to name her, holding my pinky finger up, declaring that my new pet would be it’s namesake, and then laughing maniacally.  Five year old humor; gotta love it?

We were a house of women, my mother, my sister and I.  My father was in the minority and I know we would not have wanted to lessen our stronghold as the more powerful sex, so it was assumed that Pinky was female.  When I got older I came across a book that described the differences between male and female turtles.  I held Pinky upside down like the book told me to, and things got a little confusing.  Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure she was really a she, and when I asked my mom to take a look she shrugged and replied, “Well maybe she’s a boy.”  For the rest of Pinky’s life, we used the he/she/him/her pronouns interchangeably.  Pinky was a hermaphrodite.

I have to admit, I was a little resentful of Pinky.  It was always my job to clean his/her tank because technically s/he was my pet, but I can assure you that as a 5 year old who cared about little more than scratch-n-stiff stickers and She-Ra Princess of Power, I had no idea that I would be risking my health to salmonella poisoning  20 years later when I was still cleaning him/her.  Plus, s/he hissed whenever I touched him/her.  So ungrateful.

Nevertheless, Pinky was always there, staring blankly at God knows what and silently observing my every move.  S/he will be missed.