Overheard Conversations I Wish I Didn't Overhear

Woman on phone: Yes, hello. I need to make an appointment for another pap smear.
...
Woman on phone: When? Well, I'm wide open.

Urinspiration

Yesterday was a relatively uneventful day.
For work, I went on a tour of our warehouse out in New Jersey. We met with various departments, placing names with faces, eating cafeteria food and taking in the glory that is the New Jersey Turnpike.
We left around 3:30 pm to head back to the city so we wouldn't get stuck in traffic coming back through the Lincoln Tunnel, which is always the idea, but you're inevitably going to hit it no matter what.
There were four of us in our rental Prius, and when we looped around to face the Lincoln Tunnel, one of the passengers realized they really had to go number 1. It would be at least 45 minutes before we'd get back into New York. The passenger had to make a decision, a decision you never want to have to make in front of co-workers.
Someone had eaten a fruit cup on the drive back - the passenger looked at it. The passenger looked at all of us, then unzipped.
Those of us in the backseat texted furiously, 'OMG' and 'Help Me'. We turned the radio up and averted our eyes, screaming. I'll never be able to listen to The Beatles' "When I'm 64" again.
I felt really bad for the passenger, but also admired their courage - and aim - as I can barely pee when I'm supposed to.

Bozo on a Wire

On my lunch break today, I went to see David Blaine hanging upside down. That's about all there was to it. Except, he was wearing those pants that zip into shorts; I really hate those.

These Boots are Made for Sulking

I recently bought a pair of boots that I thought only existed in my dreams. I wanted a brown, slouchy, cowboy-esque pair that would last through the seasons and I could walk in them all day without any pain.
I found them last weekend, wore them out on Saturday for a Ladies Who Munch dinner with nothing but supreme comfort. At work today, I paired them with a cute black dress and a blue button up shirt - marveling at my warm calves.

Stepping out of the bathroom at work, my heel caught on the tiles and I stepped forward one inch lower than I had started out. The heel was sliced in half; the cleanest break I'd ever seen from a shoe.

I'm so sad. But, at least I still have my drawer 'o shoes at work to choose a new pair from:

The BInGe E

Yesterday I went to the Big E in Western Massachusetts with my brother. It's a giant, annual fair displaying New England's best livestock, best carnival games, best childhood obesity and best in menswear and ladies' fashion (I saw more leather vests, fanny packs and overalls than I have in years. One woman had TWO fanny packs on).
Most importantly, they showcase all the food you shouldn't eat. Each state has its own expo house, and we hit them all. Here is what we ate:

- Baked potatoes with sour cream, butter, bacon bits, cheese and chives from Maine
- Maple candy from Vermont
- Cheddar cheese from Vermont
- Italian sausage from heaven
- Hot dog with cheese on it
- Root beer floats from Connecticut
- Blueberry pie a la mode from Maine

This doesn't include the Goldfish crackers I ate on the two and half hour drive up, or the pizza I ate when I got home while watching "The 750-pound man" on TLC (spoiler alert: he dies!); I needed a confidence pick-me-up. My poor tummy, my poor waist band, my poor toilet.

Sore Loser

I hate pilates.
In my new strides toward a fitter me, I took a pilates class last night with a friend of mine and it was terrible. I've done four mile races, Turkey Trotted my way through a local park in the rain, I've moved entire apartments by myself and endured the harsh winters of the east coast after spending most of my childhood in the California sun, but my god - ask me to hold one position with my legs and arms in the air for more than 10 seconds and I want to scream bloody murder.
Going into the class, I figured it'd be easy enough. I'd just work on my core, improve - ok, get - some balance and roll around on the mat for an hour. It was my first studio class after a two year absence. I stopped going to anything yoga or mat-related after an unfortunate farting incident at my old gym. "It happens!" is the response I always get, but you try living on a high-fiber diet and doing the downward dog position and not letting something escape. The knowing look from the instructor was enough to keep me away.
So last night, even as my friend and I were leaving the class, we could tell today was going to be rough. I'm sore in places I didn't even know you could be, like on my lower back where I should have gotten a tattoo during Spring Break '04 in Cancun (although, that could be sympathy sore for all the tramp stamps girls are rockin' at my gym). It hurts when I burp, and I can't find a comfortable sitting position right now. I know being sore means "it's working" but I think I'll just go back to running for now.

Happy Birthday Mama Bear!

Today is my mom's 54th birthday. She's had a rough few years, but I hope everything gets better for her. Moms are a special kind of frustrating sometimes, but here a few reasons why my mom is incredible:

- She never holds back on telling me how she feels, which I've realized is incredibly rare
- Every time I go home for a visit, I can count on her to squeal with glee and give one of the best hugs I've ever gotten
- If I need someone to get excited with or for me, I can always count on her
- She always tells me I'm pretty, even though she HAS to, I get the feeling she wants to
- We moved seven times when I was a kid, and ever the nerd-breeder, one of our first stops would be the library to get cards in our new zip code
- When I was living in Los Angeles two years ago, she covered the bathroom mirror with words of encouragement for my first day of work
- She still talks to me even though I was an awful, moody teen
- When I was in college she used to send care packages to all of my roommates and me "just because"
- She bought me The Newlyweds DVDs for Christmas one year and gave them to me in a brown paper bag because she knew I was embarrassed over my love for Nick Lachey
- I know she's had an incredibly difficult life, but most of the time you wouldn't know it
-To this day when I say "I'm just tired" she knows there's more to it and won't give up until I spill the beans
- She tried to grow pot in our backyard

And even though she doesn't read this, I wanted all four of you who do to know why I love my mama.

C'mon Get Happy

I need a quick reminder of what makes me happy. Monday was not my best day. After I saw my car's damage, I kicked into full "woe is me" gear. I cried in front of my boss, which is so tacky (and why a woman can't be president!), but in my defense he asked me how I was doing. We all know that is the worst question to ask when you're in a sour mood.

I've snapped out of it, with a little help from running this morning to get the endorphins going. But, here are a few things that have made me happy as of late.

Veggie Corn Dogs for dinner:

Sunday's Pickle Festival (check out the creepy glove action):

Hot Guys. On Bikes. Playing Polo:

This guy's jean cargo shorts:
A ferris wheel in the middle of a downtown New York street:

Re-reading one of my favorite books:

Happy Monday!

What I find this morning when I go to move my car for street cleaning:

Bonus panties!

After coming home from a night out with my friends at 5:30 am like some sort of Van Halen groupie, I found ANOTHER box from Victoria's Secret at my door with two more pairs of underpants. Amazing!

I think I'm in love

Last week, I sent a big box of books to my friends and the most adorable baby alive in California. Said baby, Eleanor, and I are both big fans of Ian Falconer's Olivia character, so I had to hook a fellow fan up.

I came home from work last night to a giant package outside my door. My friends bought me eight pairs of underpants from Victoria's Secret as a thank you. It was one of the most thoughtful gifts I've ever received. Because of them, I can stay alive and well for eight more days than before.

Check out my new knickers:

New Game! Horse Face

Last night, my friends' band was playing a show downtown. I got to the lounge around 9 pm. They were originally supposed to play at 10 pm, but then it got pushed back to 11 pm.

We had a lot of time to kill, and a reprehensible opening act to drown out, so my friend Matt and I decided to take pictures. I came up with an idea for a new game called Horse Face.

Rules:
1. Take a picture making a silly expression
2. Review the picture with your opponent
3. Your opponent must copy the expression to the best of his ability

If the expression is a match, the opponent counter-expressions. If it's a dud, you get a letter. The pictures we took are amazing; I hadn't laughed that hard in a long time.

Grope Gripe

On the commute home last night I got really excited when I saw a seat available on the subway. I took out my iPod and book and started reading.

The guy sitting next to me had a backpack on his lap and looked like he had a rough day and probably needed the love a good woman. Unfortunately, he decided to choose my left thigh as a good place to start.

When I sat down his hands were underneath his backpack; when I sat down he placed them at his sides - this isn't proper train etiquette.

I continued with my book (read: using my peripheral vision to keep an eye on his hand) and within seconds, the guy had his palm resting on my thigh. Mistakes happen, so I gave him the "what the fuck" eyes - the same eyes you give to someone talking in a movie theater. He didn't flinch, just looked back.

Had this worked for him before?

I got up immediately - sad to relinquish reading time - and scowled the rest of the way home. It might be time for New York to adapt like the Japanese.

Why I was late to work today

1) My building ran out of hot water; there was some sink bathing

2) I had to move my car (parked a 20 minute walk away) for street cleaning

3) Frankie got shot. I was driving around looking for a space when I turned down a street with a long line of cars. The line crawled forward and a cop stopped me because they were filming something. A car screeches forward, a man jumps out with a prop gun and screams: BANG! BANG! And then an actress screams at the top of her lungs, "Oh my god, you shot Frankie! My husband, Frankie! Ohhhh."

Kermit Bale

My friend just let me know there is a lot more in common between two of my favorite actors than I had thought.

Kermit the Frog and Christian Bale.

Laundro-loathe

I hate doing laundry. And, now, even my mom hates when I do laundry.

Last year, after letting my laundry pile grow for a month I waited until the last possible day before I had to do it: the day I ran out of underpants. I changed out of my work clothes - sans underpants - laced up my shoes and headed down the steep steps of my apartment building and the rickety steps out the back of the building with a bag that must have weighed at least 50 pounds.

I had three more small steps to conquer before I could get into the communal laundry room. I'm not sure what happened but I fell and heard my ankle pop. I was still hugging my laundry bag and sprawled out over the cold, dirty concrete crying. Instead of surveying the situation, I just continued crying and having a panic attack. I thought I was going to die alone and no one was going to find me. No one in my building would come looking for me and they'd find me days later, tears frozen to my face and not wearing any underpants beneath my jeans (I don't recommend this).

After a few minutes, I realized I wasn't going to die, my ankle wasn't very swollen and I wasn't even bleeding. I crawled into my laundry room and put the clothes in the wash. After all, I didn't have any underpants. I hobbled back up to my apartment and rolled up my pant leg to reveal this:

I called a friend of mine in the neighborhood who was nice enough to take me to the hospital. I was so embarrassed because I've always been told to wear clean underpants in case I have to go to the hospital (among other reasons). And, I was really messing up that life lesson. I got an X-ray and the doctor told me it was broken. The next day my brother was nice enough to drive from Philadelphia to take me to get it casted. After another X-ray, it turns out it wasn't broken.

But, now there is nothing I dread more than doing laundry. I get a knot in my stomach; I'll delay it any way possible. I've worn bathing suit bottoms instead of underpants to delay it one more day. I've purchased new underpants. I had to do laundry today, and I survived. My mom called me to let me know she was thinking of me and to remind me to take my time going down stairs and remain calm. It looks like I'll be safe for one more month.

Everybody Wants to Be Cool

Just a little dab!

I came home last night to discover my box of Proactiv products had arrived. So excited to have skin as nice as Jessica Simpson and Puff Daddy, I opened it immediately and went to work.
Over the last few years I've started getting more and more pimples that I never had in high school. Maybe it's from stress or New York's nasty air, but it was time to take action.
I used all three steps and my skin immediately started burning like crazy; it felt like that scene in Indiana Jones and Last Crusade when that Nazi melts after he "chose poorly".
My Friday night went from the hope and excitement of glamorous, beautiful skin to laying in my jammies in an air-conditioned bedroom whining to myself with a cold washcloth on my face listening to the Muppets Take Manhattan.

Ghostbusters reunion?

Ok, three posts in one day, but a Ghostbusters reunion?

That would be amazing. What's more amazing is I thought about the Ghostbusters this morning at the gym when I saw a woman on the janitorial staff with wearing a vacuum that looked exactly like the ghost trap in the movies.

It's SHOWTIME!

Last night I went to a newly-opened neighborhood bar that an acquaintance of mine just started bartending at. I met up with a friend of mine and her boyfriend at the back of the bar where they had free pool all night.

After bragging that my (now M.I.A.) uncle was ranked number 3 in the state of Florida, I promptly scratched every ball (TWSS) and failed to honor my name.

We kept trading off the table with a younger, neighborhood fellow (who some say looked like Jake Gyllenhaal) wearing a shirt that said, "Someone in Compton Loves Me" and an older gentleman who looked exactly like Martin Landau. (I couldn't remember his name at the time until I looked at my copy of Crimes and Misdemeanors at home. At the bar all I could think about was Walter Matthau). Martin Landau introduced himself as Jack. He seemed like a class act, a real prince - until the bar started giving out free kamikaze shots.

I'm not sure exactly what happened. Maybe it was the shot mixed with his chain smoking, the heat of the game, the mysterious wet spot on his T-shirt, wearing topsiders with no socks - I don't know. But, Jack lost it. He wanted to play teams, and he wanted me. Every shot he said, "It's showtime! SHOOTER!!" He played out of turn, he was solids AND stripes - he couldn't be stopped - until it was my turn to shoot. I scratched the ball AGAIN and he pounded his cue into the ground. Shooter was displeased. We lost the game to my friend and her boyfriend and then I overheard him telling the guy in the Compton shirt that it was my fault. "I woulda won if it wasn't for her."

After I left, apparently Shooter was accusing my bartender friend of stealing the money he was putting down on the bar. Even later, my friends went for a nightcap at a bar around the corner and Shooter was there still living it up. Shooter can't be slowed down, so don't even try.

Down of living in New York City

There are so many different languages in Queens, you can't learn them all. I wish I knew Greek so I could dicepher the words to go along with all five of the obscene gestures two young Greek gentlemen were doing on the subway this morning.

Beauty School Drop-out

I've been going gray since the age of 18. Genetics being the clever mistress they are, my mother started getting her Bonnie Raitt streak since that same age.

With her sympathy and in happier economic times, my parents would pay for me to get my hair dyed all sorts of different colors. I've had red hair, blonde highlights, chestnut brown - everything. Each hair cut and dye job cost about $120 at a chic salon (read: overpriced with half-naked, boob implanted stylists) near my house outside of Los Angeles.

Now, after a debilitating year of bills I'm forced to dye my own hair. This isn't the end of the world because I could never rationalize spending $120 of MY money on anything these days.

Two nights ago I decided it was time to dye my hair because I had quite a few gray hairs on my scalp and a new bonus since turning 26 (last week): gray sideburns. I bought one box of "dark brown" hair dye and went to work. I've dyed my hair so many times I didn't pay much attention to what I was doing. I should have because after it dried I looked like a leopard.

Now, I'll be wearing an executive ponytail to hide my hideous coloring job until more grays start coming in because I can't afford to buy another box of dye and continue to ruin my hair.

Fortunately, this isn't the WORST coloring I've done. In college, I thought it'd be "cool" and "edgy" to dye my bangs and tips of my hair black. I ended up looking scary and goth and two steps away from buying JNCO pants.

Morning confrontations

You know how sometimes in the morning your voice is quiet and gravely because you haven't used it yet? Well, I've been sick since my birthday and it's particularly raspy and Rod Stewart-y in addition to the morning phlegm.

This morning at the gym:
NYSC employee: "Good morning! Enjoy your workout!"
Me: "[Something akin to a growl]" (which may have nothing to do with being sick, I was working out at 6:30 am)

At Target last week:
Check-out Girl: "This dress is taller than me!"
Me: "[Possibly a duck quacking]"

And now, it's getting me into trouble because someone didn't hear a pleasantry exchanged. I was getting some coffee and someone said, "Good morning!" I responded, she must have not heard my sad little voice, so as she's walking away she says, "Damn, good morning to YOU! Bitch."

The ups and more ups of living in New York City

After a relaxing Sunday night of pizza and movies with my roommate, I walk to the end of my street to find this:

Blocks and blocks of a street festival:

And, of course, D.J. Mixx.