As badly as I don't want this blog to turn into my unique and witty observations about how New York and LA are different (man, what an untapped concept), I just HAVE to go there. Sorry. I promise I'll do better next time.
We had what I consider to be our first real weekend as human beings in LA and the weather was phenomenal. Much like the phenomenal weather in New York.
We went to the beach on Saturday, laughing at those we left behind to do what we once did on sunny NYC days - attempting to get comfortable in a busted wooden "lounge" chair on our buddy's roof, fighting bugaboos and puppies for a clear path along the West Side Highway walking path, and buying out all the Bud Light Lime from the local bodega.
Ha ha you fools! We are at the beach - and April is too early for your summer share on Fire Island.
But as we sat at the beach, surrounded by drunken volleyball players tackling each other, I had some second thoughts about my new-found LA haughtiness. Would I rather be surrounded by drunk guys arguing every point in a game of Aces, or drunk guys talking about boning sluts at a club I can't get into? Is there a lesser of the evils?
On the one hand, I'm at the beach. On the other, I'm on a roof. I have a view of some guy's hairy, sunburned crack. I have a view of the downtown Manhattan skyline. My struggle is clear.
My brain was overloaded and I needed a break. Needing some mid-afternoon nourishment to power through the rest of my internal debate, I trekked 20 minutes to get some $9 sandwiches and saw a late night talk show host. It felt like any ordinary day in Tribeca*, and I realized that maybe things aren't so different here after all.
So I’ve resigned myself to stop making inane NY vs. LA comments about jaywalking and barbeques. Because really, I like and hate it all.
*except this was Jimmy Kimmel and not Jon Stewart, but you can't win 'em all.
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Monday, April 20, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Aaaaaaand, We're Back!
Hello fools and loyal readers. There has been much upheaval at the Blogtari camp in the last few months and we decided to take an unannounced sabbatical. We're sorry. Here's what you've missed:
Now that we're all BFFs again, I have a confession. And as my BFF, you are dying to hear it.
A big part of the reason I wasn't posting much in 09 is because I had nothing nice to say. And someone once told me that in this instance, it is better to say nothing at all.
I'm a pretty decisive person and once a decision is made, like Veruca Salt, I want it NOW! So when I decided to leave New York for the temperate shores of Los Angeles, I was ready to go. Immediately. And when you're in that mindset, nothing about your current situation will do. And so, I had nothing nice to say about my life in NY.
My apartment was too small; my neighborhood, to industrial. My commute to work was too stinky. My office; too bleak. My friends, no longer in walking distance. Plus, I was pregnant and nauseated and sober. Dark days.
I realized that no one wants to hear me complain twice a week for several consecutive months, so I took myself out of the blogosphere (which did nothing to quell my use of lame jargon like blogosphere). But now that I've landed in LA (and have some new material), I am reinstating Blogtari and all its glory! (I hear you. I hear you smiling. And thank you, I am too)
So to kick things off, I have to flash back two weeks to our final days in New York. You may recall the deep-seeded hatred for our D-Bag neighbor, his little woman, and their dog. Well, things got worse in my darkened state.
The neighbors decided that it would be an awesome idea to shove yet ANOTHER small, yappy dog into their 775 sq ft apartment. The hallway dog park was in full-effect a solid 12 hours a day. The neighbors even transformed the dog park into a college dorm, by inviting friends to come hang out in the hall and drink wine while tossing squeaky toys against my door. As I've said, these people are awesome.
One hormonal day, I had had enough. It was the beginning of bark-sesh 400 of the day and I lost it. Standing in the kitchen (which is right by the hallway door) I screamed at full-volume, "F***ING KILL YOUR DOG!"
CinS was mortified. I was right. It's just as much their business what I scream in my own apartment as what they do in the hallway outside my apartment. KABOOM! You've been Henstridged.
Needless to say, the neighbor tension worsened in our final weeks in our apartment.
The day before the move, CinS and his bottle opener keychain, were out on the town. I was finishing up some last minute packing and was craving a beer. A non-alcoholic beer.
I was desperate for a faux buzz. I opened the door and peered down the hall. Of course, the neighbor's door was wide open and they were blocking the entire hallway with some kind of porter's cart. It didn't seem too realistic for me to knock on everyone else's door asking for a bottle opener, when the neighbors were right there. So I took the plunge.
Luckily the sideburned-D-bag was severely injured and moaning on the couch about a hernia, so I did my business with his little woman. Perfectly pleasant. The dogs didn’t bark once.
Peace with the neighbors set off a whole string of loveliness on our way out of NY. The pizza place told us to fughetabout the $.012 we owed for our lunch. A stranger carried our bags down a busted escalator. The sun was out.
It was a good day for New York and the Blogtaris. But, I’m sorry to say dear NY friends, the best part was that we were leaving all the good and the bad behind.
Stay tuned for all new complaints about our new life in Los Angeles!
- We're with child
- We moved from NYC to Los Angeles (county)
- We had some long, drawn out goodbyes on the East Coast to both friends and restaurants
- We packed our faces off and played a buttload of Street Fighter 4 (ok, that was CinS)
Now that we're all BFFs again, I have a confession. And as my BFF, you are dying to hear it.
A big part of the reason I wasn't posting much in 09 is because I had nothing nice to say. And someone once told me that in this instance, it is better to say nothing at all.
I'm a pretty decisive person and once a decision is made, like Veruca Salt, I want it NOW! So when I decided to leave New York for the temperate shores of Los Angeles, I was ready to go. Immediately. And when you're in that mindset, nothing about your current situation will do. And so, I had nothing nice to say about my life in NY.
My apartment was too small; my neighborhood, to industrial. My commute to work was too stinky. My office; too bleak. My friends, no longer in walking distance. Plus, I was pregnant and nauseated and sober. Dark days.
I realized that no one wants to hear me complain twice a week for several consecutive months, so I took myself out of the blogosphere (which did nothing to quell my use of lame jargon like blogosphere). But now that I've landed in LA (and have some new material), I am reinstating Blogtari and all its glory! (I hear you. I hear you smiling. And thank you, I am too)
So to kick things off, I have to flash back two weeks to our final days in New York. You may recall the deep-seeded hatred for our D-Bag neighbor, his little woman, and their dog. Well, things got worse in my darkened state.
The neighbors decided that it would be an awesome idea to shove yet ANOTHER small, yappy dog into their 775 sq ft apartment. The hallway dog park was in full-effect a solid 12 hours a day. The neighbors even transformed the dog park into a college dorm, by inviting friends to come hang out in the hall and drink wine while tossing squeaky toys against my door. As I've said, these people are awesome.
One hormonal day, I had had enough. It was the beginning of bark-sesh 400 of the day and I lost it. Standing in the kitchen (which is right by the hallway door) I screamed at full-volume, "F***ING KILL YOUR DOG!"
CinS was mortified. I was right. It's just as much their business what I scream in my own apartment as what they do in the hallway outside my apartment. KABOOM! You've been Henstridged.
Needless to say, the neighbor tension worsened in our final weeks in our apartment.
The day before the move, CinS and his bottle opener keychain, were out on the town. I was finishing up some last minute packing and was craving a beer. A non-alcoholic beer.
I was desperate for a faux buzz. I opened the door and peered down the hall. Of course, the neighbor's door was wide open and they were blocking the entire hallway with some kind of porter's cart. It didn't seem too realistic for me to knock on everyone else's door asking for a bottle opener, when the neighbors were right there. So I took the plunge.
Luckily the sideburned-D-bag was severely injured and moaning on the couch about a hernia, so I did my business with his little woman. Perfectly pleasant. The dogs didn’t bark once.
Peace with the neighbors set off a whole string of loveliness on our way out of NY. The pizza place told us to fughetabout the $.012 we owed for our lunch. A stranger carried our bags down a busted escalator. The sun was out.
It was a good day for New York and the Blogtaris. But, I’m sorry to say dear NY friends, the best part was that we were leaving all the good and the bad behind.
Stay tuned for all new complaints about our new life in Los Angeles!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Finally! I Did Something!
It's been nearly a week since my last post and I'm sure you assume what I know to be true. I have nothing left to say. The thought that this blog has turned into an awkward conversation with a friend I haven’t seen in a while makes me upset. So I have decided to get out there and do something.
My mom came in for a visit this past weekend and we spent our time doing girly things like manicures, brunch, and a musical, while CinS was out go-karting in San Diego for business. We had a great time, and I have come to realize that by visiting NYC so many times over the past 6 years, my mom has become a de facto New Yorker.
While waiting in line at the TKTS downtown, (TIP: the South Street Seaport location opens at 11 so you can get your tickets earlier than you can in Times Square) my mom and I were eavesdropping on the group behind us in line. There were 6 women screaming about how disappointed they were that Mamma Mia was not available, but that they would gladly see Grease or Hairspray or Legally Blonde or anything else that had been made into a movie. I was quite pleased by this, as I wanted to see Spamalot (starring Clay Aiken!!!!!!!) and felt reassured that the average tourist is unaware that this too is based on a movie.
Sure enough, Spamalot was available and we got ridiculous orchestra seats where we were spit upon by Clay and friends. Tickets purchased, mom and I had lunch where we made fun of tourists and their PG-taste in musicals. Please do not take offense if you are a lover of any musical listed above - aside from Grease, in which case you and your Summer-Lovin'-singing-at-a-dive-bar friends can bite my butt.
Later that night, at the Shubert Theatre, I went to the ladies room before the show. As usual, the line was incredibly long. As we waited, the woman behind me commented on the length of the line and how unfair it is that there is never a line for the men's room. Wow, lady. I've never heard of this phenomenon before, but you know what? You are absolutely right! What an ingenious conclusion. I am so glad you felt the need to share this with me. My world is a better place for knowing that the ladies' room line is always longer than the men's.
My face must have read my internal monologue because the woman behind me promptly stopped talking to me to continue her small talk with someone else. Meanwhile, the women in front of me all chatted on and on about where they were from and what other shows they had seen. As I scanned the crowd, I noticed that I was the only one not talking to a stranger. You see, New Yorkers do not make small talk.
When I shared this observation with my mom the next day at brunch, she told me that she never talks to people either. Maybe I'm not having the best influence on her.
This whole tale reminds me of that dumb graduation "song" about sunscreen that everyone thought was written by Kurt Vonnegut but was too dumb to be written by Kurt Vonnegut. In this "song," (which was totally not a song - it was a rant set to music, and shall now be referred to as a rant) there was a line about how you have to leave New York before you get too hard and leave California before you get too soft.
Well, I was never very soft to begin with, and the years in the city have hardened my heart - or at least my tolerance for small talk. I think the next time I see a show it will be something obscure and not starring an American Idol. It may make me feel like a nicer person.
Friday, October 10, 2008
And That's How I Was Arrested for Excessive Force
OK, I get it.
When a chain like Jamba Juice makes its debut on the East Coast, most of the customers don't know their Razzmatazz from their elbow and spend valuable time in line hemming and hawing over their beverage options, much to the dismay of re-located West Coasters jonesing for a fix. I understand the frustration of my friends x years ago, but I also understand that for a time, when Jamba was new, that their frustration was unjust. It takes people a while to get into the rhythm of a new fast food joint. I get it.
What I DON'T get is how people can try a popular chain that has been in existence for YEARS, hell DECADES (well at least A decade), for the very first time in the middle of the NY lunch rush.
I was at Cosi (yes COSI, not some exotic eatery like Qdoba) picking up lunch and was in the salad line behind 4 Cosi virgins. 4.
And they were not all together either. This was 4 separate parties mangling the order of 4 separate meals.
How do you not know that the salad you are ordering doesn’t come with chicken? Does it SAY that it comes with chicken? Didn't the woman ask you if you wanted to ADD chicken?
How do you not know that you get bread with your meal? Bread is the entire point of the restaurant. "Whole grain or white?" is not a question on which the fate of the economy stands. Just choose some damn bread while it is still hot.
Why on Earth are you making your own salad? There are 700 other restaurants on this block that specialize in letting you make your own salad. In fact, their ingredients and dressings are much tastier. If you don't like what the Rock is cookin', get OUT OF HERE. Do not improvise.
It is clear that I have little tolerance for the uneducated. I should not go into politics.
Let me be clear. I have every right to complain because this behavior has not, nor ever will be, exhibited by me. In fact, I don’t even order sandwiches at Cosi because I never have before. And I don’t want to get tripped up in the ordering process and bring things to a screeching halt like the Visa Checkcard commercial.
I also will not eat at Subway. The assembly line presents far too much pressure to those who don’t have a usual order predetermined. And those sandwich artists do not mess around.
So please. If you haven't eaten here before, don't start now. Or at least have the human decency to do a dry run during a slow period... somewhere in the Mid-West... where people aren't so enraged.
When a chain like Jamba Juice makes its debut on the East Coast, most of the customers don't know their Razzmatazz from their elbow and spend valuable time in line hemming and hawing over their beverage options, much to the dismay of re-located West Coasters jonesing for a fix. I understand the frustration of my friends x years ago, but I also understand that for a time, when Jamba was new, that their frustration was unjust. It takes people a while to get into the rhythm of a new fast food joint. I get it.
What I DON'T get is how people can try a popular chain that has been in existence for YEARS, hell DECADES (well at least A decade), for the very first time in the middle of the NY lunch rush.
I was at Cosi (yes COSI, not some exotic eatery like Qdoba) picking up lunch and was in the salad line behind 4 Cosi virgins. 4.
And they were not all together either. This was 4 separate parties mangling the order of 4 separate meals.
How do you not know that the salad you are ordering doesn’t come with chicken? Does it SAY that it comes with chicken? Didn't the woman ask you if you wanted to ADD chicken?
How do you not know that you get bread with your meal? Bread is the entire point of the restaurant. "Whole grain or white?" is not a question on which the fate of the economy stands. Just choose some damn bread while it is still hot.
Why on Earth are you making your own salad? There are 700 other restaurants on this block that specialize in letting you make your own salad. In fact, their ingredients and dressings are much tastier. If you don't like what the Rock is cookin', get OUT OF HERE. Do not improvise.
It is clear that I have little tolerance for the uneducated. I should not go into politics.
Let me be clear. I have every right to complain because this behavior has not, nor ever will be, exhibited by me. In fact, I don’t even order sandwiches at Cosi because I never have before. And I don’t want to get tripped up in the ordering process and bring things to a screeching halt like the Visa Checkcard commercial.
I also will not eat at Subway. The assembly line presents far too much pressure to those who don’t have a usual order predetermined. And those sandwich artists do not mess around.
So please. If you haven't eaten here before, don't start now. Or at least have the human decency to do a dry run during a slow period... somewhere in the Mid-West... where people aren't so enraged.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Boys Don't Make Passes...
I wore glasses for a few years after college. Contact lenses and I do not get along, and the opthamalogical technology of 1999 was just not up to par with my cranky eye needs. So I wore glasses.
And like many girls in the early 00's who wore glasses, I was called Lisa Loeb by lame turds who thought it was clever to call girls with glasses Lisa Loeb. This grew old rather quickly, so I switched to contacts about four or five years ago. The contacts still bother me, but they are now mildly tolerable, as opposed to the searing sand particles of Y2K. I long for lasik.
Because I can't tolerate my contacts for more than a few days in a row, I sometimes wear my glasses during the week. Yesterday was one of those days. I wore my glasses throughout the day, and didn't feel any Loebier than I do on any other day. But my glasses definitely give me a little extra edge.
Let's back up for a minute.
My non-verbal cues are decidedly unfriendly. Throughout my life, I have never been approached at a bar or a networking event or even stopped on the street to be asked for directions. So I have decided that I look mean and unfriendly. Which is not necessarily true, unless it's hot and there are a million people breathing on me.
This is not a recent development either. I remember a trip to a bar in college with my two friends, Eryn and Erin. In the first few moments following our arrival, some girl approached Eryn to ask a question, and then a guy approached Erin to ask something else. What they were asking is beyond me. I've never been one to ask questions at a bar, other than "will you buy me a drink?" But the point is, these strangers approached the group of us, and chose to ask me nothing at all.
After this trip to the bar, I started to notice that strangers asked my friends all sorts of things, and no one ever bothered with me. A construction worker once heckled me, not with lewd comments or wolf-whistles, but with one simple word, "smile!"
So I must give off a nasty vibe. My aura is probably black.
But yesterday, in my glasses, three people asked me for directions on the subway. THREE! This is my all-time world record. I was so excited to be asked that I went out of my way to be extra helpful. Best informed tourists ever.
I may wear my glasses more often so I can yuk it up with the people. It will be great to help people who are lost downtown and to meet new people out on a Saturday night... unless it’s hot… and as long as they don’t start calling me Tina Fey.
And like many girls in the early 00's who wore glasses, I was called Lisa Loeb by lame turds who thought it was clever to call girls with glasses Lisa Loeb. This grew old rather quickly, so I switched to contacts about four or five years ago. The contacts still bother me, but they are now mildly tolerable, as opposed to the searing sand particles of Y2K. I long for lasik.
Because I can't tolerate my contacts for more than a few days in a row, I sometimes wear my glasses during the week. Yesterday was one of those days. I wore my glasses throughout the day, and didn't feel any Loebier than I do on any other day. But my glasses definitely give me a little extra edge.
Let's back up for a minute.
My non-verbal cues are decidedly unfriendly. Throughout my life, I have never been approached at a bar or a networking event or even stopped on the street to be asked for directions. So I have decided that I look mean and unfriendly. Which is not necessarily true, unless it's hot and there are a million people breathing on me.
This is not a recent development either. I remember a trip to a bar in college with my two friends, Eryn and Erin. In the first few moments following our arrival, some girl approached Eryn to ask a question, and then a guy approached Erin to ask something else. What they were asking is beyond me. I've never been one to ask questions at a bar, other than "will you buy me a drink?" But the point is, these strangers approached the group of us, and chose to ask me nothing at all.
After this trip to the bar, I started to notice that strangers asked my friends all sorts of things, and no one ever bothered with me. A construction worker once heckled me, not with lewd comments or wolf-whistles, but with one simple word, "smile!"
So I must give off a nasty vibe. My aura is probably black.
But yesterday, in my glasses, three people asked me for directions on the subway. THREE! This is my all-time world record. I was so excited to be asked that I went out of my way to be extra helpful. Best informed tourists ever.
I may wear my glasses more often so I can yuk it up with the people. It will be great to help people who are lost downtown and to meet new people out on a Saturday night... unless it’s hot… and as long as they don’t start calling me Tina Fey.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Stank
My walk to work smells like sewage.
Yes, it's sad but true. The majority of my 15 minute stroll to the subway is plagued with rotting garbage. And it’s not just any garbage, it's Chinatown garbage.
They say that your sense of smell is tied most closely to your memory. I really hope that each time I smell hot, rotting trash I am not whisked back to Canal Street. I've had enough thank you.
It's not all bad, once I clear the sewage radius, my walk is relatively scent-free. But one morning, I took the route that passes behind one of SoHo's swankiest restaurants. And I was very disturbed to inhale the scent of vomit wafting on the breeze. Not a lovely croissant smell, or even something mildly offensive and food-related like rotten bananas, but vomit. This caused concern. Did someone vomit on the street after the breakfast rush? Did someone puke in their kitchen? Why was I the only one with the common sense to put my hand in front of my nose? The whole scene was very strange. But I have vowed to not eat there again.
Sorry fellow NYers. I won't reveal the restaurant. I am most certainly over-reacting and would hate to ruin your good time with these nasty thoughts the next time you decide to dine here.
I find that I have an unusually heightened sense of smell, which is a totally lame super power (as proven by Pee-Wee Herman on Pushing Daisies) that causes more problems than rewards. Some scents are so strong to my delicate nose that I get completely turned off by common-place pleasing aromas. But then there are times when my super nose pays off.
A few years ago there was a cloud of maple syrup hovering over the New York area. I am not kidding. A strange maple syrup smell permeated the air over Manhattan and I smelled it first. OK, maybe I didn't exactly smell it first, but it did start over Lower Manhattan and I smelled it before anyone else I knew.
When folks (literally) caught wind of the scent, they were concerned. Was it bioterrorism? Armageddon? But I was unafraid. If this was the end of the world, it sure did smell nice. No one is worried that the whole of Chinatown smells like sewage, so why the concern over Eggos? It seems a bit counter-intuitive. If I was Shiva the Destroyer and planned to end the world, I would certainly opt for odor of Chinatown over maple syrup any day. But maybe Shiva’s got a twisted sense of humor.
Yes, it's sad but true. The majority of my 15 minute stroll to the subway is plagued with rotting garbage. And it’s not just any garbage, it's Chinatown garbage.
They say that your sense of smell is tied most closely to your memory. I really hope that each time I smell hot, rotting trash I am not whisked back to Canal Street. I've had enough thank you.
It's not all bad, once I clear the sewage radius, my walk is relatively scent-free. But one morning, I took the route that passes behind one of SoHo's swankiest restaurants. And I was very disturbed to inhale the scent of vomit wafting on the breeze. Not a lovely croissant smell, or even something mildly offensive and food-related like rotten bananas, but vomit. This caused concern. Did someone vomit on the street after the breakfast rush? Did someone puke in their kitchen? Why was I the only one with the common sense to put my hand in front of my nose? The whole scene was very strange. But I have vowed to not eat there again.
Sorry fellow NYers. I won't reveal the restaurant. I am most certainly over-reacting and would hate to ruin your good time with these nasty thoughts the next time you decide to dine here.
I find that I have an unusually heightened sense of smell, which is a totally lame super power (as proven by Pee-Wee Herman on Pushing Daisies) that causes more problems than rewards. Some scents are so strong to my delicate nose that I get completely turned off by common-place pleasing aromas. But then there are times when my super nose pays off.
A few years ago there was a cloud of maple syrup hovering over the New York area. I am not kidding. A strange maple syrup smell permeated the air over Manhattan and I smelled it first. OK, maybe I didn't exactly smell it first, but it did start over Lower Manhattan and I smelled it before anyone else I knew.
When folks (literally) caught wind of the scent, they were concerned. Was it bioterrorism? Armageddon? But I was unafraid. If this was the end of the world, it sure did smell nice. No one is worried that the whole of Chinatown smells like sewage, so why the concern over Eggos? It seems a bit counter-intuitive. If I was Shiva the Destroyer and planned to end the world, I would certainly opt for odor of Chinatown over maple syrup any day. But maybe Shiva’s got a twisted sense of humor.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Mood Music
There is a guy in the subway who plays the bamboo flute every morning in the underpass at Bryant Park. He plays his little heart out, God bless him, but I still want to cram his flute down his throat.
It's just way too shrill to be played in an acoustical-nightmare subway tunnel first thing in the morning. The sound echoes throughout the tunnel, making it inescapable to my virginal ears. And no matter how high my iPod is turned up, the bamboo flute always weasels its way in.
I feel bad for the bamboo flutist. If he was playing someplace less confining, I'm sure his music would be lovely. He plays the soundtrack to the token nail salon mood music. The music that is supposed to relax you as someone carves strips of skin from your heel with a razor blade.
Mostly every nail salon and massage parlor in town plays the same soundtrack. Asian Spa Moods 05… or something.
The tunes are always in the background, unassuming and not meant to be noticed. So you may imagine my surprise one afternoon when, at a nail salon, I found myself listening to the mood music.
It wasn't that I was bored, or that there was no sound in the shop, it was because something about the music caught my attention - the exact opposite of what mood music is supposed to do.
I looked around the salon and noticed that the other girls had their ears cocked as well. We all heard it. And we were all waiting to hear that strange something again.
My ears were peeled for about 30 seconds when I heard a small cry break through the noise in the salon. It didn't seem to be coming from the speakers, so I figured that the mood music was standard-issue and that the strange sounds were coming from the hall or from a neighboring store.
When I heard the cry a second time, louder and longer than the first, a woman next to me said, "Is that a baby?"
My sentiments exactly. Is there a baby in your wall?
"No," the nail technician replied. "It's a cat."
"Oh! You have a cat."
"No. The cat is on the tape. Very relaxing."
Ummm. Wha?
Yes, that's right, there was a dying cat on their mood music tape. This did not put me in the best mood.
I spent the remainder of my pedicure thinking about what kind of record label would actually market a series of dying cat tracks to spas. The only type who would find such music relaxing would be a dog. Maybe the tape was meant for doggie daycare centers to put their lodgers at ease. Like that episode of How I Met Your Mother when Lily sold her paintings to the vet.
The whole experience was pretty creepy. But I did get a good pedicure out of it so I will be going back for more. Maybe next time I’ll borrow someone’s pooch for a little auditory pampering.
It's just way too shrill to be played in an acoustical-nightmare subway tunnel first thing in the morning. The sound echoes throughout the tunnel, making it inescapable to my virginal ears. And no matter how high my iPod is turned up, the bamboo flute always weasels its way in.
I feel bad for the bamboo flutist. If he was playing someplace less confining, I'm sure his music would be lovely. He plays the soundtrack to the token nail salon mood music. The music that is supposed to relax you as someone carves strips of skin from your heel with a razor blade.
Mostly every nail salon and massage parlor in town plays the same soundtrack. Asian Spa Moods 05… or something.
The tunes are always in the background, unassuming and not meant to be noticed. So you may imagine my surprise one afternoon when, at a nail salon, I found myself listening to the mood music.
It wasn't that I was bored, or that there was no sound in the shop, it was because something about the music caught my attention - the exact opposite of what mood music is supposed to do.
I looked around the salon and noticed that the other girls had their ears cocked as well. We all heard it. And we were all waiting to hear that strange something again.
My ears were peeled for about 30 seconds when I heard a small cry break through the noise in the salon. It didn't seem to be coming from the speakers, so I figured that the mood music was standard-issue and that the strange sounds were coming from the hall or from a neighboring store.
When I heard the cry a second time, louder and longer than the first, a woman next to me said, "Is that a baby?"
My sentiments exactly. Is there a baby in your wall?
"No," the nail technician replied. "It's a cat."
"Oh! You have a cat."
"No. The cat is on the tape. Very relaxing."
Ummm. Wha?
Yes, that's right, there was a dying cat on their mood music tape. This did not put me in the best mood.
I spent the remainder of my pedicure thinking about what kind of record label would actually market a series of dying cat tracks to spas. The only type who would find such music relaxing would be a dog. Maybe the tape was meant for doggie daycare centers to put their lodgers at ease. Like that episode of How I Met Your Mother when Lily sold her paintings to the vet.
The whole experience was pretty creepy. But I did get a good pedicure out of it so I will be going back for more. Maybe next time I’ll borrow someone’s pooch for a little auditory pampering.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Fix Your Face Please, I'm Trying to Eat
There's a salad maker at my salad place who removed his giant ear spacers and now has creepy, African-inspired lobes dangling in my $12 chopped salad.
It's a bit of a turn-off to watch his mutilated lobes tossing my romaine and avocado around in that silver bowl. Not that his lobes literally do the tossing, but like a predatory Looney Tune, in my mind's eye, the guy just turns into a giant earlobe.
I wonder if he replaces the spacers after hours, or if they are permanently removed. If they are permanently removed, I can't imagine this guy getting a date, ever. It's really a gross sight. Not that a properly installed spacer is much of a turn-on, but I'm sure some people are into that.
I also do not understand those people who got their upper ear pierced in the 90's (myself included) and then let their ear get infected and deformed over the years. I'm sure you've seen these giant, bulbous-eared folks minding their own business, not seeking medical attention to get that thing lanced.
These days, it's easy enough for both genders to cover their gross ears, so why do these people opt-out of making society feel comfortable? In the words of the meth-addicted Stephanie Tanner, "How Rude."
It's a bit of a turn-off to watch his mutilated lobes tossing my romaine and avocado around in that silver bowl. Not that his lobes literally do the tossing, but like a predatory Looney Tune, in my mind's eye, the guy just turns into a giant earlobe.
I wonder if he replaces the spacers after hours, or if they are permanently removed. If they are permanently removed, I can't imagine this guy getting a date, ever. It's really a gross sight. Not that a properly installed spacer is much of a turn-on, but I'm sure some people are into that.
I also do not understand those people who got their upper ear pierced in the 90's (myself included) and then let their ear get infected and deformed over the years. I'm sure you've seen these giant, bulbous-eared folks minding their own business, not seeking medical attention to get that thing lanced.
These days, it's easy enough for both genders to cover their gross ears, so why do these people opt-out of making society feel comfortable? In the words of the meth-addicted Stephanie Tanner, "How Rude."
Monday, June 30, 2008
Trust Me, the B Train is No Better
I want to kill someone every day. I want to push someone down the stairs. I want to shove someone in front of a moving train. I want to stab someone repeatedly with a metrocard.
I really need to stop taking the subway.
I can't stand it when subway newbies decide to travel during my commute. A New York commute is serious business. We don't have cars, so our subway commute is all we have to call our own. And do we ever own it.
New Yorkers: If you're questioning my rationale here, ask yourself this: Where do you stand on the subway platform in the morning?
Any answer to this question other than, "any place I feel like it," means that you know what you're doing. And out of respect for this, I feel that everyone traveling via train between the hours of 8-10 and 5-7 should know what they are doing too. Or get the f*** out of my way.
At least 5 times per week, I find myself in one of the following situations:
As someone who used to walk to work and avoid the train during peak hours, my new train commute is affecting me in exciting new ways. Never before did I realize how much I hate people. I am now unafraid to make my frustrations audibly known to my offenders. I have mastered the stink eye. I am full of rage. My iPod full of angry rock probably does not help.
Tomorrow's zen commute strategy: Air Supply and an iced coffee. I doubt this will help. Unless my coffee comes with a shot of valium.
I really need to stop taking the subway.
I can't stand it when subway newbies decide to travel during my commute. A New York commute is serious business. We don't have cars, so our subway commute is all we have to call our own. And do we ever own it.
New Yorkers: If you're questioning my rationale here, ask yourself this: Where do you stand on the subway platform in the morning?
Any answer to this question other than, "any place I feel like it," means that you know what you're doing. And out of respect for this, I feel that everyone traveling via train between the hours of 8-10 and 5-7 should know what they are doing too. Or get the f*** out of my way.
At least 5 times per week, I find myself in one of the following situations:
- Person in front of me can't swipe their metrocard properly... 25 times in a row.
- Person in front of me dawdles down the stairs while my train is waiting to be boarded.
- Person in front of me boards the train and stops dead, leaving no room for anyone else to board the car.
- Person in front of me is the victim of many vivid homicidal fantasies.
As someone who used to walk to work and avoid the train during peak hours, my new train commute is affecting me in exciting new ways. Never before did I realize how much I hate people. I am now unafraid to make my frustrations audibly known to my offenders. I have mastered the stink eye. I am full of rage. My iPod full of angry rock probably does not help.
Tomorrow's zen commute strategy: Air Supply and an iced coffee. I doubt this will help. Unless my coffee comes with a shot of valium.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Long As God Can Grow It...
Once upon a time, I thought I was a theatre buff. Hell, I even spell theatre the fancy way. If that's not legit, then I don’t know what is.
Although I live in NY, I haven’t done too much to contribute to the Great White Way in the past few years. Maybe its because Broadway has become the place where American Idol and Dancing with the Stars celebs come to die. Or maybe its because I'd rather eat and drink the cost of a theatre ticket than acquire some sober culture.
So to ease my wallet while appeasing my inner play-nerd, I am planning to attend some Shakespeare in the Park this summer. But the best part is... the show I'm planning to see for free isn't even Shakespeare! WOOO HOOO.
Not only will I not be seeing this summer's selection of Hamlet (which is really quite lovely, but I've seen it 100 times), but I will be seeing my all time favorite musical ever.
HAIR!
OMG! I love HAIR!
When I was young, my parents took me as an impressionable youth to see HAIR at an ou
tdoor theatre. I was instantly hooked. While the cast did not get fully naked (yes, HAIR is the naked musical), they did get naked enough for me to fall in love. I was probably about 8. And everyone knows that 8-year-olds can totally relate to anti-establishment, free-love propaganda set to music.
My parents owned the HAIR record and I played it so much that we had to upgrade to the tape. I was later given the CD as a Hanukah gift when I was in college. That's at least a decade of love for HAIR right there. And if you flash-forward to my present-day giddiness over HAIR in the Park, that's more than 20 years of love.
I don't think there are many other things that I've loved for twenty years. Maybe The Wizard of Oz (yeesh, I guess I really do like musicals). But I don't think there are many other things from my youth that I'm still into today.
My Little Pony. Nope.
The Free to Be You and Me record. Nope.
Matching tops and bottoms from Kids R Us. Nope.
That board game Payday. Nope.
Cracklin' Oat Bran. Maybe... Are they still making this?
Although I live in NY, I haven’t done too much to contribute to the Great White Way in the past few years. Maybe its because Broadway has become the place where American Idol and Dancing with the Stars celebs come to die. Or maybe its because I'd rather eat and drink the cost of a theatre ticket than acquire some sober culture.
So to ease my wallet while appeasing my inner play-nerd, I am planning to attend some Shakespeare in the Park this summer. But the best part is... the show I'm planning to see for free isn't even Shakespeare! WOOO HOOO.
Not only will I not be seeing this summer's selection of Hamlet (which is really quite lovely, but I've seen it 100 times), but I will be seeing my all time favorite musical ever.
HAIR!
OMG! I love HAIR!
When I was young, my parents took me as an impressionable youth to see HAIR at an ou
tdoor theatre. I was instantly hooked. While the cast did not get fully naked (yes, HAIR is the naked musical), they did get naked enough for me to fall in love. I was probably about 8. And everyone knows that 8-year-olds can totally relate to anti-establishment, free-love propaganda set to music.My parents owned the HAIR record and I played it so much that we had to upgrade to the tape. I was later given the CD as a Hanukah gift when I was in college. That's at least a decade of love for HAIR right there. And if you flash-forward to my present-day giddiness over HAIR in the Park, that's more than 20 years of love.
I don't think there are many other things that I've loved for twenty years. Maybe The Wizard of Oz (yeesh, I guess I really do like musicals). But I don't think there are many other things from my youth that I'm still into today.
My Little Pony. Nope.
The Free to Be You and Me record. Nope.
Matching tops and bottoms from Kids R Us. Nope.
That board game Payday. Nope.
Cracklin' Oat Bran. Maybe... Are they still making this?
I'm counting on HAIR to help me reclaim my youth. Maybe I'll bring some Cracklin Oat Bran in a Ziploc bag as a snack.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Last Great Marketeer
So it's nearing a week since I've last posted something. Why? I was busy being professionally fabulous at an industry conference. And now I'm exhausted.
After three and a half days of wining and dining clients and networking my face off, I'm ready for a long summer's nap. It did not help that it was 1000 degrees this week.
The best part about this conference was that it was in Times Square. I work by Times Square - so nearby in fact that I take the Times Square subway - but I generally avoid the Square itself. And I have no idea why.
Who doesn't like packs of pointy-elbowed teenage boys with mop-tops and braces wearing matching High School T-shirts? Who doesn't love the chaperones in matching T-Shirts, bringing a whole new meaning to "East Illinois Cougars?"
But tourists aside, I also love Times Square for its marketing potential. Perhaps this is because I am a marketeer who has executed some cool PR stunts in Times Square. But I think everyone loves free stuff, regardless of profession or personal ties.
I saw two great promotions in Times Square within two days.
The first was an Oscar Meyer Weiner event. Two Weiner Mobiles flanked the Marriott Marquis and a BBQ pit was set-up during the lunch rush. Hundreds of tourists lined up for free hot dogs and to snap pictures with the Weiner Mobiles. For some reason (yet to be googled), the signs calling patrons to the make-shift wiener shop called out the following: "Mario Lopez's favorite treat."
Really? Mario Lopez, of Saved by the Bell and Dancing with the Stars fame, loves hot dogs? Please people. The man is already in tights on Broadway, please to not debase his sexuality further by claiming a love of hot dogs. I don't think Major Slater would be too happy about this one.
The next day, an inflatable moon popped up on an island in Times Square. The moon was huge and had ties to Gatorade and Tiger Woods. I have no idea what this one is about. Is Tiger going to the moon with Lance Bass? Is Gatorade made with the electrolyte-rich blood of aliens?
As I write, I am so puzzled by these crazy promotions that I took the 30-seconds to google them. Reading about the actual promotions was far less interesting than I thought. Maybe Fruit of the Loom should sponsor the Naked Cowboy. Now that would be one heck of a Times Square promotion.
http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/b142132_mario_lopez_beefed-up_ride.html
http://eventdomes.wordpress.com/2008/05/20/gatorade-tiger-moonshot-challenge/
After three and a half days of wining and dining clients and networking my face off, I'm ready for a long summer's nap. It did not help that it was 1000 degrees this week.
The best part about this conference was that it was in Times Square. I work by Times Square - so nearby in fact that I take the Times Square subway - but I generally avoid the Square itself. And I have no idea why.
Who doesn't like packs of pointy-elbowed teenage boys with mop-tops and braces wearing matching High School T-shirts? Who doesn't love the chaperones in matching T-Shirts, bringing a whole new meaning to "East Illinois Cougars?"
But tourists aside, I also love Times Square for its marketing potential. Perhaps this is because I am a marketeer who has executed some cool PR stunts in Times Square. But I think everyone loves free stuff, regardless of profession or personal ties.
I saw two great promotions in Times Square within two days.
The first was an Oscar Meyer Weiner event. Two Weiner Mobiles flanked the Marriott Marquis and a BBQ pit was set-up during the lunch rush. Hundreds of tourists lined up for free hot dogs and to snap pictures with the Weiner Mobiles. For some reason (yet to be googled), the signs calling patrons to the make-shift wiener shop called out the following: "Mario Lopez's favorite treat."
Really? Mario Lopez, of Saved by the Bell and Dancing with the Stars fame, loves hot dogs? Please people. The man is already in tights on Broadway, please to not debase his sexuality further by claiming a love of hot dogs. I don't think Major Slater would be too happy about this one.
The next day, an inflatable moon popped up on an island in Times Square. The moon was huge and had ties to Gatorade and Tiger Woods. I have no idea what this one is about. Is Tiger going to the moon with Lance Bass? Is Gatorade made with the electrolyte-rich blood of aliens?
As I write, I am so puzzled by these crazy promotions that I took the 30-seconds to google them. Reading about the actual promotions was far less interesting than I thought. Maybe Fruit of the Loom should sponsor the Naked Cowboy. Now that would be one heck of a Times Square promotion.
http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/b142132_mario_lopez_beefed-up_ride.html
http://eventdomes.wordpress.com/2008/05/20/gatorade-tiger-moonshot-challenge/
Friday, June 6, 2008
Whatcha Doin Sunday?
I swung by generic-NY-food-stuffs shop today on my way in to work to get some eggs. As I waited in line for the migrant short-order cook to whip up my breakfast, I noticed that I was A) the only woman and B) the only non-construction worker in line.
Curious.
What I found most interesting was the sheer number of construction workers ordering lunch items. At 9 am.
Now, I'm not union, but I'm pretty sure that these guys haven’t been on the job since 4 and are now ready for lunch. At 9 am.
And yet, one after the other, the lunch orders came in. Meatball sub, philly cheesesteak, chicken noodle soup, and the supremely manly macaroni salad.
As a person who cannot have lunch without at least having a cup of coffee to resemble a hearty breakfast, I was truly at a loss. In fact, I am such a breakfast person that I sometimes eat multiple breakfasts per day. These usually come in the form of a brunch that is scheduled after 2 pm.
As a woman, I've been eating brunch for years. My husband, on the other hand, had never brunched until moving to NY.
He actually used to berate me for brunching. "Spending $30 on french toast with goji berry butter is so awesome." That is until two things happened.
One: We saw Whipped. Most of you have probably never seen this wonderful film starring a fresh-from-Jack-and-Jill Amanda Peet. Whipped is about 3 dudes who all date the same woman. These guys are of varying degrees of awesome (stockbroker, hipster, sensitive musician) and always brunch.
Two: We saw the "bro brunch" episode of How I Met Your Mother. If you don't watch the show, you should find this episode on You Tube. "Eggs Benny Bro Style!"
Following these two critical movements in man brunch culture, my husband and his buddies started to brunch. Every Sunday they would meet at a local bar and gorge themselves on mini muffins, breakfast burritos, and bloody marys. Then their bar got too family-oriented, and when they couldn't drive out the families with top-volume profanities, they moved on to a new bar.
Since moving to the new bar, however, man brunch has grown sporadic. Instead of a weekly hair-of-the-dog rendezvous, man brunch is now a monthly occurrence. I find this depressing.
What went wrong? Is it because you need to pay for breakfast cocktails at the new joint? Is it because these guys aren't doing anything worthy of rehashing on Saturday nights? Is it because they'd rather play GTA4?
I don't know if I'll ever find out. But I'm hoping this post will cause a resurgence of man brunch. Because I like having the house to myself on Sundays to catch up on my bad TV. Oh yeah, and it makes my husband happy.
Curious.
What I found most interesting was the sheer number of construction workers ordering lunch items. At 9 am.
Now, I'm not union, but I'm pretty sure that these guys haven’t been on the job since 4 and are now ready for lunch. At 9 am.
And yet, one after the other, the lunch orders came in. Meatball sub, philly cheesesteak, chicken noodle soup, and the supremely manly macaroni salad.
As a person who cannot have lunch without at least having a cup of coffee to resemble a hearty breakfast, I was truly at a loss. In fact, I am such a breakfast person that I sometimes eat multiple breakfasts per day. These usually come in the form of a brunch that is scheduled after 2 pm.
As a woman, I've been eating brunch for years. My husband, on the other hand, had never brunched until moving to NY.
He actually used to berate me for brunching. "Spending $30 on french toast with goji berry butter is so awesome." That is until two things happened.
One: We saw Whipped. Most of you have probably never seen this wonderful film starring a fresh-from-Jack-and-Jill Amanda Peet. Whipped is about 3 dudes who all date the same woman. These guys are of varying degrees of awesome (stockbroker, hipster, sensitive musician) and always brunch.
Two: We saw the "bro brunch" episode of How I Met Your Mother. If you don't watch the show, you should find this episode on You Tube. "Eggs Benny Bro Style!"
Following these two critical movements in man brunch culture, my husband and his buddies started to brunch. Every Sunday they would meet at a local bar and gorge themselves on mini muffins, breakfast burritos, and bloody marys. Then their bar got too family-oriented, and when they couldn't drive out the families with top-volume profanities, they moved on to a new bar.
Since moving to the new bar, however, man brunch has grown sporadic. Instead of a weekly hair-of-the-dog rendezvous, man brunch is now a monthly occurrence. I find this depressing.
What went wrong? Is it because you need to pay for breakfast cocktails at the new joint? Is it because these guys aren't doing anything worthy of rehashing on Saturday nights? Is it because they'd rather play GTA4?
I don't know if I'll ever find out. But I'm hoping this post will cause a resurgence of man brunch. Because I like having the house to myself on Sundays to catch up on my bad TV. Oh yeah, and it makes my husband happy.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Someone Slipped Me a "Roof"i
OK party people, the summer is upon us. This means - for most space-deprived Manhattanites - you will be spending time on someone's roof.
For the unindoctrinated, there are two kinds of roofs and three kinds of roof get-togethers.
ROOFS
I love hanging out on a roof - regardless of the time of day or occasion. There is something quintessentially NY about drinking beers against the Manhattan skyline. It's one of the few things I like about summer. (I'm a sweater)
But as much as I love the roof, there is always a small part of me that fears the consequences of drunken heights. Now, it may be that I've seen Vertigo and Saturday Night Fever one too many times (ooops. belated spoiler alert!), but there's a little voice inside that worries about accidental death and dismemberment.
I also may have seen The Rules of Attraction and Bachelor Party too many times, because I also fear that someone may decide to leap off the roof one sunny day. Alcohol is a depressant after all.
OK, this post has taken a turn towards the macabre. Let's pep it up a bit.
My favorite part of my own roof (it's of the giant variety) is that it gets zero sun during my waking hours. As beatific as the skyline is, it comes with a lot of shade. Especially between, oh, noon and 5pm. So in order to get sun on my roof, a series of adventures must be had.
The sunny part of the roof is unpaved, covered in painful smoldering stones, and next to a very loud generator. To reach this idyllic spot, you must drag a 70-pound lounge chair from the sun deck area across the rocks. Or, you can be smart like me and buy some chairs from Target.
But the adventure does not end here. This spot on the roof is monitored. That's right, cameras are everywhere. And apparently, the building’s management is not interested in insuring its tenants against burning coals. So once you are finally settled in, someone may come and bust up your party.
ACTION! SUSPENSE! CONFRONTATION! MORBID THOUGHTS!
Welcome to my summer.
For the unindoctrinated, there are two kinds of roofs and three kinds of roof get-togethers.
ROOFS
- Giant apartment building with giant roof
- Small apartment building with small roof that no one uses but you and your friends
- Planned evening party
- Spontaneous afternoon BBQ
- Tanning
I love hanging out on a roof - regardless of the time of day or occasion. There is something quintessentially NY about drinking beers against the Manhattan skyline. It's one of the few things I like about summer. (I'm a sweater)
But as much as I love the roof, there is always a small part of me that fears the consequences of drunken heights. Now, it may be that I've seen Vertigo and Saturday Night Fever one too many times (ooops. belated spoiler alert!), but there's a little voice inside that worries about accidental death and dismemberment.
I also may have seen The Rules of Attraction and Bachelor Party too many times, because I also fear that someone may decide to leap off the roof one sunny day. Alcohol is a depressant after all.
OK, this post has taken a turn towards the macabre. Let's pep it up a bit.
My favorite part of my own roof (it's of the giant variety) is that it gets zero sun during my waking hours. As beatific as the skyline is, it comes with a lot of shade. Especially between, oh, noon and 5pm. So in order to get sun on my roof, a series of adventures must be had.
The sunny part of the roof is unpaved, covered in painful smoldering stones, and next to a very loud generator. To reach this idyllic spot, you must drag a 70-pound lounge chair from the sun deck area across the rocks. Or, you can be smart like me and buy some chairs from Target.
But the adventure does not end here. This spot on the roof is monitored. That's right, cameras are everywhere. And apparently, the building’s management is not interested in insuring its tenants against burning coals. So once you are finally settled in, someone may come and bust up your party.
ACTION! SUSPENSE! CONFRONTATION! MORBID THOUGHTS!
Welcome to my summer.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Happy Ending
My husband and I were having a chat one day about the top 10 best feelings ever. The list ranged from the obvious (giant hug... get your mind out of the gutter) to the disgusting (finally going to the bathroom after being constipated) to the anal-retentive (successfully plucking an eyebrow hair after multiple failed attempts). But topping my personal list is a cheap, rough massage from the local shady massage parlor.
One of my favorite parts about New York is that you can get a massage any time of day for next to nothing. There are hundreds of qigong shops dotting the cityscape, begging for you to take your top off and wonder if someone's getting a happy ending in the stall next door.
There are two qigong places on the same street near my apartment. I frequent the Northern outpost since it's closer to my house, has a frequent massage card, and was featured in an episode of The Sopranos. A friend of mine frequents the Southern location.
At the Northern "spa" there is a young guy with a lazy eye who I always seem to get. He's a little creepy, but very good. Lazy Eye turned off my friend and drove him to the Southern joint.
Lazy Eye and friends are always eating dinner when I swing by, usually because I go during the week and after work. The entire staff is crowded in the small lobby eating noodle soup. Every time.
I feel badly for interrupting their meal, but I suppose you're asking for interruptions when your working hours are from 9 to 9 7-days-a-week. Yeah, that's right. 9 to 9. Don't you want to live here?
Anyhow, I woke up this morning with a raging headache and fancied a massage during lunch. I was working from home so I could visit my friends during lunch instead of dinner. I was curious as to what else they're eating over there.
But as I walked up to my joint, I noticed that it, and the adjacent shoe shine, were closed. Permanently.
I was super bummed and played a mental slideshow to the tune of "The Way We Were" as I trotted south one more block. Well hello, Southern.
Southern was a bit cleaner than Northern and much more private. The stalls at Southern are separated by non-porous screens as opposed to Northern's "I can see your boobies" bamboo curtains. Southern also plays better music. Maybe it's not actually better, but different from the tired old Asian symphonies of Northern.
My massage was nice, but not as rough-and-tumble as I like. The ladies of Southern are much gentler. I like getting beat on. But what was nice, was at one point the woman caressed my love handles in such a way that sparked a vivid memory.
I was instantly taken back to my youth (high school senior week, theme park workers frequenting theme parks, college spring break), and the times of getting your sunscreen applied by someone who likes you. Is nothing better?
Ladies, I'm sure you remember every guy who's ever lathered you up. Gentlemen, I'm confident that you have a "special technique" for this - the ultimate move.
Summers past are running through my head. Can't you picture it? That one hot moment before rolling on your back, popping in your headphones, and ignoring the opposite sex all day? Thinking you're gonna get some later even though you won't have straight hair or be wearing any makeup? The awkwardness melting away of being semi-nude with people you should probably not be seeing nude.
It's a sexually charged, pseudo-massage with cancer-fighting benefits. Wow.
I may have a new best feeling ever to add to my list.
One of my favorite parts about New York is that you can get a massage any time of day for next to nothing. There are hundreds of qigong shops dotting the cityscape, begging for you to take your top off and wonder if someone's getting a happy ending in the stall next door.
There are two qigong places on the same street near my apartment. I frequent the Northern outpost since it's closer to my house, has a frequent massage card, and was featured in an episode of The Sopranos. A friend of mine frequents the Southern location.
At the Northern "spa" there is a young guy with a lazy eye who I always seem to get. He's a little creepy, but very good. Lazy Eye turned off my friend and drove him to the Southern joint.
Lazy Eye and friends are always eating dinner when I swing by, usually because I go during the week and after work. The entire staff is crowded in the small lobby eating noodle soup. Every time.
I feel badly for interrupting their meal, but I suppose you're asking for interruptions when your working hours are from 9 to 9 7-days-a-week. Yeah, that's right. 9 to 9. Don't you want to live here?
Anyhow, I woke up this morning with a raging headache and fancied a massage during lunch. I was working from home so I could visit my friends during lunch instead of dinner. I was curious as to what else they're eating over there.
But as I walked up to my joint, I noticed that it, and the adjacent shoe shine, were closed. Permanently.
I was super bummed and played a mental slideshow to the tune of "The Way We Were" as I trotted south one more block. Well hello, Southern.
Southern was a bit cleaner than Northern and much more private. The stalls at Southern are separated by non-porous screens as opposed to Northern's "I can see your boobies" bamboo curtains. Southern also plays better music. Maybe it's not actually better, but different from the tired old Asian symphonies of Northern.
My massage was nice, but not as rough-and-tumble as I like. The ladies of Southern are much gentler. I like getting beat on. But what was nice, was at one point the woman caressed my love handles in such a way that sparked a vivid memory.
I was instantly taken back to my youth (high school senior week, theme park workers frequenting theme parks, college spring break), and the times of getting your sunscreen applied by someone who likes you. Is nothing better?
Ladies, I'm sure you remember every guy who's ever lathered you up. Gentlemen, I'm confident that you have a "special technique" for this - the ultimate move.
Summers past are running through my head. Can't you picture it? That one hot moment before rolling on your back, popping in your headphones, and ignoring the opposite sex all day? Thinking you're gonna get some later even though you won't have straight hair or be wearing any makeup? The awkwardness melting away of being semi-nude with people you should probably not be seeing nude.
It's a sexually charged, pseudo-massage with cancer-fighting benefits. Wow.
I may have a new best feeling ever to add to my list.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Redemption Blong
It finally happened.
My husband, who has been working like a dog all week, got around to reading the blog late last night while I was already asleep. Upon reading, he crawled into bed next to me in whispered into my ear, "You suck. I read the blog and I want my wife back."
It seems my lame American Idol ranting has finally caught up with me. And it's about time. I've been living in a shame spiral since my first Idol post. But with no one to stop me, I've gone unchecked into the blogosphere.
And so, to make up for the atrocities of this week, I will now attempt to redeem myself in the eyes of my spouse and hopefully to the rest of you as well.
It all started like this...
I left work early yesterday to head down to my friend's gallery opening in the Lower East Side. Klaus works with metal and paper and creates things that make you think, "Wow! That is the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I want it on my credenza."
The gallery featuring his pieces is reserved for European artists only, which means that every opening involves a lot of booze and lanky women in leggings and flat boots. I, of course, fit right in. That is, for those who could see me way down at 5'3".
Soon after my second complimentary Manhattan (prosecco be damned!), my buddy came by the gallery to whisk me away from the Ukrainian hooker experience to go see his friend's band. My heel got caught in the sidewalk cracks about 4 times in the 4 block walk and I no one believed me when I soberly explained that this happens to me ALL THE TIME, not just when I've been drinking.
We got to the bar just as the band was starting. They're called D-Bag or A-Hole or some other initial-hyphenated term that means something rude. The band was pretty good and a little spoken wordish, which made me feel very progressive and musically hip. The lead singer was a hot chick that looked a little like my Rock Band avatar, so that helped too.
After the set, we hung out with the band for a bit, and they were all hyper-educated and awesome. The bassist designs jewelry and sneakers. The drummer is a raving vegan environmentalist. My avatar has her master's in film. They also enjoy brunch.
The bar grew uncomfortably humid as the next throng of independent music lovers came through, and so we left. We all ended up back at my buddy's place for a throng-free nightcap. He recently returned from a trip to Serbia and we sipped on slivovitz while listening to Serbian house music until it was time to go to bed.
All in all, it was a pretty sick Thursday.
I absolutely did all of these awesome things last night. I certainly did not watch Lost in my pajamas while downloading David Cook songs to my iPod.
My husband, who has been working like a dog all week, got around to reading the blog late last night while I was already asleep. Upon reading, he crawled into bed next to me in whispered into my ear, "You suck. I read the blog and I want my wife back."
It seems my lame American Idol ranting has finally caught up with me. And it's about time. I've been living in a shame spiral since my first Idol post. But with no one to stop me, I've gone unchecked into the blogosphere.
And so, to make up for the atrocities of this week, I will now attempt to redeem myself in the eyes of my spouse and hopefully to the rest of you as well.
It all started like this...
I left work early yesterday to head down to my friend's gallery opening in the Lower East Side. Klaus works with metal and paper and creates things that make you think, "Wow! That is the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I want it on my credenza."
The gallery featuring his pieces is reserved for European artists only, which means that every opening involves a lot of booze and lanky women in leggings and flat boots. I, of course, fit right in. That is, for those who could see me way down at 5'3".
Soon after my second complimentary Manhattan (prosecco be damned!), my buddy came by the gallery to whisk me away from the Ukrainian hooker experience to go see his friend's band. My heel got caught in the sidewalk cracks about 4 times in the 4 block walk and I no one believed me when I soberly explained that this happens to me ALL THE TIME, not just when I've been drinking.
We got to the bar just as the band was starting. They're called D-Bag or A-Hole or some other initial-hyphenated term that means something rude. The band was pretty good and a little spoken wordish, which made me feel very progressive and musically hip. The lead singer was a hot chick that looked a little like my Rock Band avatar, so that helped too.
After the set, we hung out with the band for a bit, and they were all hyper-educated and awesome. The bassist designs jewelry and sneakers. The drummer is a raving vegan environmentalist. My avatar has her master's in film. They also enjoy brunch.
The bar grew uncomfortably humid as the next throng of independent music lovers came through, and so we left. We all ended up back at my buddy's place for a throng-free nightcap. He recently returned from a trip to Serbia and we sipped on slivovitz while listening to Serbian house music until it was time to go to bed.
All in all, it was a pretty sick Thursday.
I absolutely did all of these awesome things last night. I certainly did not watch Lost in my pajamas while downloading David Cook songs to my iPod.
Monday, April 28, 2008
You Know It's Time to Burn Your Pants When...
It's Tribeca Film Festival time here in NY, and my annual quest to rub up against indie stars began this past Friday at the premiere of From Within.
Since I'm no longer working in Tribeca, I was a few days late in purchasing tickets this year, and so none of the films I'm seeing are actually in Tribeca. Touché DeNiro. And because the film venue was out of my element, I was unsure if this film would be treated like every other TFF premiere - bedazzled with paparazzi and stars in hideous Project Runway gowns.
ALSO, this past Friday came at the end of a very long week. A week that called for baggy pants.
So now you know my mindset as I left the house on Friday in puke-green cargoish pants, a purple track jacket, and elf shoes. I simply could not be bothered to look nice. And I was very confident that Laura Allen, Adam Goldberg, and Rumer Willis would NOT be in attendance.
Well, you know what they say. One out of three ain't bad...
Not 10 minutes after we arrive, a van pulls up and the cast of the film climbs out in dapper suits and Project Runway gowns. Damn it.
It was the usual rigmarole of indie casts. People that looked entirely unfamiliar, but were well-coiffed and decidedly the cast. My friends spotted two familiar faces atop 6-foot, willowy bodies. Apparently some gangly twins from America's Next Top Model were in the movie. You go girls! Oh, and I can see your nipples.
And just past the twins, we saw Rumer Willis. She actually looked quite beautiful. Thank you itchy hair extensions. (more on this later)
The cast had arrived, the paparazzi were shooting, and we entered the theatre. We strategically chose seats directly behind the row that was reserved for the cast.
Laura Allen was at the end of the row. I calmly explained to my friends that she is the star that gets killed off my favorite cable dramas, The 4400 and Dirt. One of the male leads sat right in front of my friend Jen and Rumer Willis sat right in front of my friend Gloria. Gloria was very excited and inconspicuously snapped a photo of Rumer's hairpiece with her cameraphone.
We were all a twitter. Our spirits did not dampen as Rumer began to pick at her head and continue to do so for the entire film. But there was something much more exciting on the horizon... As we were getting settled, in walks Bruce Flippin' Willis! BRUCE WILLIS!
My love of Bruce Willis cannot be contained within the internet universe that holds this blog. Jen and Gloria's love for Bruce Willis also knows no bounds. So you can just imagine the severe hyperventilation that occurred moments before the film as Mr. Willis' gorgeous head glinted in the theatre lights. Glorious!
But by the time the lights went up for cast Q&A, I realized something. I was dressed like a schlub. A lesbian schlub.
I was finally in a position to make eyes at Bruce Willis, and I was wearing the worst outfit ever. And it was Passover. So of course I hadn't gone to the bathroom in a solid week.
And there it was. My big moment. Squandered.
I called my husband after the movie to tell him what happened. He reassured me that I am beautiful. I sighed happily.
When I arrived at my buddy's place after the movie to see my loving husband, he laughed in my face when he saw what I was wearing. Then he hugged me with great sympathy, and whispered in my ear,
Since I'm no longer working in Tribeca, I was a few days late in purchasing tickets this year, and so none of the films I'm seeing are actually in Tribeca. Touché DeNiro. And because the film venue was out of my element, I was unsure if this film would be treated like every other TFF premiere - bedazzled with paparazzi and stars in hideous Project Runway gowns.
ALSO, this past Friday came at the end of a very long week. A week that called for baggy pants.
So now you know my mindset as I left the house on Friday in puke-green cargoish pants, a purple track jacket, and elf shoes. I simply could not be bothered to look nice. And I was very confident that Laura Allen, Adam Goldberg, and Rumer Willis would NOT be in attendance.
Well, you know what they say. One out of three ain't bad...
Not 10 minutes after we arrive, a van pulls up and the cast of the film climbs out in dapper suits and Project Runway gowns. Damn it.
It was the usual rigmarole of indie casts. People that looked entirely unfamiliar, but were well-coiffed and decidedly the cast. My friends spotted two familiar faces atop 6-foot, willowy bodies. Apparently some gangly twins from America's Next Top Model were in the movie. You go girls! Oh, and I can see your nipples.
And just past the twins, we saw Rumer Willis. She actually looked quite beautiful. Thank you itchy hair extensions. (more on this later)
The cast had arrived, the paparazzi were shooting, and we entered the theatre. We strategically chose seats directly behind the row that was reserved for the cast.
Laura Allen was at the end of the row. I calmly explained to my friends that she is the star that gets killed off my favorite cable dramas, The 4400 and Dirt. One of the male leads sat right in front of my friend Jen and Rumer Willis sat right in front of my friend Gloria. Gloria was very excited and inconspicuously snapped a photo of Rumer's hairpiece with her cameraphone.
We were all a twitter. Our spirits did not dampen as Rumer began to pick at her head and continue to do so for the entire film. But there was something much more exciting on the horizon... As we were getting settled, in walks Bruce Flippin' Willis! BRUCE WILLIS!
My love of Bruce Willis cannot be contained within the internet universe that holds this blog. Jen and Gloria's love for Bruce Willis also knows no bounds. So you can just imagine the severe hyperventilation that occurred moments before the film as Mr. Willis' gorgeous head glinted in the theatre lights. Glorious!
But by the time the lights went up for cast Q&A, I realized something. I was dressed like a schlub. A lesbian schlub.
I was finally in a position to make eyes at Bruce Willis, and I was wearing the worst outfit ever. And it was Passover. So of course I hadn't gone to the bathroom in a solid week.
And there it was. My big moment. Squandered.
I called my husband after the movie to tell him what happened. He reassured me that I am beautiful. I sighed happily.
When I arrived at my buddy's place after the movie to see my loving husband, he laughed in my face when he saw what I was wearing. Then he hugged me with great sympathy, and whispered in my ear,
"You can make eyes at as many celebrities as you want, honey. As long as you always wear this outfit, I have nothing to worry about."
Friday, April 18, 2008
Enjoy the Sunshine! If You Dare...
First, I'd like to give props to the old ball and chain for his first post. I'm sure no one is surprised that it is about intramural soccer.
Second, I'd like to discuss the glory and curse of springtime in Manhattan.
It's about 75 degrees today, one of the first nice days in the city, and the world is abuzz with joy and new sunglasses.
Coporate monsters are filling the streets, buying $10 lunches, and scouring Bryant Park for a place to dine.
"What a good idea," they cry. "Let's eat lunch in the Park today!"
"Surely, no one else will have this highly original idea, and if they do, the
weather will put me in such a great mood that I certainly won't show violence
towards my fellow man while standing in line for a burrito."
Oh you simple, Vitamin D-deprived souls.
I've never seen my street so crowded. I've never seen a line for a lunch spot wrap around the corner. I've never seen so many people pretend, through gritted teeth, to be enjoying the weather. It's just too much.
I am one of the chosen few who is not enraged today. But then again I have the common sense to eat at my desk and avoid the deathmatch ring that is Bryant Park. I may run into trouble later, however, when I need to get to the train station carrying two large suitcases full of winter clothes that won't fit in my tiny, over-priced apartment.
Gotta love the city in the springtime.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Cheddar Bay Biscuits ROCK!
I met a friend for lunch today at the Red Lobster. Yes, I'm well aware that I live in the veritable restaurant capital of the universe, and that the Red Lobster can be found in multiple sub-par suburbs throughout the Grain Belt. But I am also aware that the Lobster is a feel-good romp through fat-doused seafood and sugary cocktails. And sometimes, your Monday just needs some Lobster.
The Lobster of choice is located in Times Square. This means three stories of Lobster, complete with a giant neon lobster set against rolling neon waves that my husband would sell his soul to tack up in our mythical garage, where all things neon go to die.
And at the Times Square Lobster, my gal-pal and I were definitively the only New Yorkers in the joint. Even the staff was painfully transplanted from Missouri. And I mean my-waiter-just-ingested-a-small-planet Missouri, not St. Louis Missouri.
At the Lobster, you can spend just $20 and gorge yourself on shrimp, crab legs, Caesar salad, and the best damn biscuits this side of my aorta. And although the seafood is dry and the asparagus is skinny, you are still sublimely happy. There's a lot to be said about eating corporate-tested recipes alongside your fellow man.
I've never been to the Lobster outside of New York, but I can't imagine any other location being as satisfying and inspiring. I hear that most Lobsters incur a one-hour waiting period and are packed with obese families in elastic-waist pants. My Lobster, however, is filled with tourists in their big-city finery looking for a little piece of home in the Big Apple.
The Lobster of choice is located in Times Square. This means three stories of Lobster, complete with a giant neon lobster set against rolling neon waves that my husband would sell his soul to tack up in our mythical garage, where all things neon go to die.
And at the Times Square Lobster, my gal-pal and I were definitively the only New Yorkers in the joint. Even the staff was painfully transplanted from Missouri. And I mean my-waiter-just-ingested-a-small-planet Missouri, not St. Louis Missouri.
At the Lobster, you can spend just $20 and gorge yourself on shrimp, crab legs, Caesar salad, and the best damn biscuits this side of my aorta. And although the seafood is dry and the asparagus is skinny, you are still sublimely happy. There's a lot to be said about eating corporate-tested recipes alongside your fellow man.
I've never been to the Lobster outside of New York, but I can't imagine any other location being as satisfying and inspiring. I hear that most Lobsters incur a one-hour waiting period and are packed with obese families in elastic-waist pants. My Lobster, however, is filled with tourists in their big-city finery looking for a little piece of home in the Big Apple.
And the tourists are happy. They are comfortable. They know what to order. There are no pesky adjectives on the menu, or fancy ingredients like a remoulade.
Because the tourists are happy, I am happy. Although I wish I could join them to flit off to see the Legally Blonde matinee, just dining alongside them fills me with peace.
Forget Disneyland. The Red Lobster is the happiest place on Earth.
Because the tourists are happy, I am happy. Although I wish I could join them to flit off to see the Legally Blonde matinee, just dining alongside them fills me with peace.
Forget Disneyland. The Red Lobster is the happiest place on Earth.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
I Can Sell Ice to an Eskimo... er, Inuit
This afternoon, I was walking down the street when a guy stopped to ask where I get my haircut. As you know, my hair is quite the topic of conversation, so naturally, I thought this was an innocent question.
"In Philadelphia," I replied.
"Well, you can get your haircut right here in New York by one of the top 10 stylists in the country!"
Oh crap. I fell for the sidewalk sting.
It turns out this guy was a salesperson peddling $400 hair and spa packages. After telling him several times that I didn't have time, was on my way to a meeting, and just flat out wasn't interested, I finally put my foot down, walked forward, and thanked him for his time.
Yes, I THANKED the salesman for his time.
He was selling me a ridiculously unnecessary item, albeit for my own beautification, and I thanked him. Why did I not only feel the need to apologize at my disinterest, but also thank someone harassing me on the street?
He complimented my coat.
I recently took a new job in sales, and I think I can learn a thing or two from this super-aggressive Fekkai-peddler. Sure, he didn't close the deal. Yes, at one point he randomly mumbled the names of all the retail stores across the street. And certainly, he didn't enunciate. But what he did achieve was a reaction from his customer.
My new plan: compliment the coat. I think I may be screwed this summer.
"In Philadelphia," I replied.
"Well, you can get your haircut right here in New York by one of the top 10 stylists in the country!"
Oh crap. I fell for the sidewalk sting.
It turns out this guy was a salesperson peddling $400 hair and spa packages. After telling him several times that I didn't have time, was on my way to a meeting, and just flat out wasn't interested, I finally put my foot down, walked forward, and thanked him for his time.
Yes, I THANKED the salesman for his time.
He was selling me a ridiculously unnecessary item, albeit for my own beautification, and I thanked him. Why did I not only feel the need to apologize at my disinterest, but also thank someone harassing me on the street?
He complimented my coat.
I recently took a new job in sales, and I think I can learn a thing or two from this super-aggressive Fekkai-peddler. Sure, he didn't close the deal. Yes, at one point he randomly mumbled the names of all the retail stores across the street. And certainly, he didn't enunciate. But what he did achieve was a reaction from his customer.
My new plan: compliment the coat. I think I may be screwed this summer.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
A Snapshot of NY Living
I work in midtown Manhattan, right by Bryant Park, and my subway lets me out about a block and a half from my destination. But what a block and a half it is!
First, there's a migrant worker dressed as a chicken passing out coupons to Ranch 1 on the corner. This chicken has been out all week and each day looks increasingly defeated. The strangest part about the chicken is that he's out at 9am. Who on earth is craving cutlets first thing in the morning? Maybe that's why he's having problems getting rid of his stash of coupons.
Once your mind starts reeling over the chicken, you can instantly find solace in the local sidewalk preacher. She LOOOOOVES her some Jesus. She also seems to love plastic fetuses in all stages of gestation. Maybe she thinks they're her congregation. I learned all about Easter from the sidewalk preacher, and now she's moved on to general Jesus good-deedery. But never a mention of the fetuses. Not even an informative sign.
There are also a startling number of amputees on my block. They are all missing a leg. If I was missing a leg, I'd totally rock a Heather Mills and have many legs with varying toe-pointedness so I can wear all kinds of cute shoes. And I'd also have a peg-leg. A traditional wooden peg-leg would be awesome. I'd probably rock a Heather Mills for the peg-leg too and involve all different shellacs.
The last highlight of my walk is the sassy, topical homeless man. I have a strong suspicion that he's not actually homeless because I only see him occasionally - usually when some glaring NY Post headline dominates an entire week of news. Por exemplo, this gem of a sign: "I only need $4300 to get a girl like Spitzer."
Oh Times Square. You are filled with thousands of tourists each day, but what they don't know is that the best sightseeing in Manhattan happens in the meager stretch from Broadway to 6th Avenue on 42nd Street.
First, there's a migrant worker dressed as a chicken passing out coupons to Ranch 1 on the corner. This chicken has been out all week and each day looks increasingly defeated. The strangest part about the chicken is that he's out at 9am. Who on earth is craving cutlets first thing in the morning? Maybe that's why he's having problems getting rid of his stash of coupons.
Once your mind starts reeling over the chicken, you can instantly find solace in the local sidewalk preacher. She LOOOOOVES her some Jesus. She also seems to love plastic fetuses in all stages of gestation. Maybe she thinks they're her congregation. I learned all about Easter from the sidewalk preacher, and now she's moved on to general Jesus good-deedery. But never a mention of the fetuses. Not even an informative sign.
There are also a startling number of amputees on my block. They are all missing a leg. If I was missing a leg, I'd totally rock a Heather Mills and have many legs with varying toe-pointedness so I can wear all kinds of cute shoes. And I'd also have a peg-leg. A traditional wooden peg-leg would be awesome. I'd probably rock a Heather Mills for the peg-leg too and involve all different shellacs.
The last highlight of my walk is the sassy, topical homeless man. I have a strong suspicion that he's not actually homeless because I only see him occasionally - usually when some glaring NY Post headline dominates an entire week of news. Por exemplo, this gem of a sign: "I only need $4300 to get a girl like Spitzer."
Oh Times Square. You are filled with thousands of tourists each day, but what they don't know is that the best sightseeing in Manhattan happens in the meager stretch from Broadway to 6th Avenue on 42nd Street.
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