Don't you see the rest of the country looks upon New York like we're left-wing, communist, Jewish, homosexual pornographers?

(we continue on the "recap of fall" blog series...)

I don't want to live in San Francisco long-term (short term!), but that city has some things going for it (public transport is not one of them, sadly). Namely, people are generally nice, but not in the over-bubbly SoCal way. I went on a run with Clark and we were immediately miffed when someone didn't say "hello" back to us while on the trail (they must have been East-coasters). If you say "hello" to people you run by in NYC, you either get a weird look or some sort of comment about your butt (a guy once told me I didn't need be running because I have a "luscious ass. Don't jog that off." Thanks, I know, I'm on Kayne's Workout Plan).

I digress. Things I like about the Bay Area:

• Riff and Clark


• Free vegan food (no joke - they were passing it out near the BART station in the Mission -- I don't usually jones for vegan food, but hey, good to know it's free)


• BYOB


• A "real" Macy's, open "real" late with a "real" shoe department, including a "real" nice salesman who picked out some knee-high (like almost over-knee-high) boots for me


• Mexican food


• Crazy Molly (and as an extension, tall friends)


• Access to numerous national parks


• Houses with murals of Obama on the front


• Outdoor space (all the apartments/homes I visited had a deck or garden or whatever)


• Loehmanns (we didn't find anything there, but the clothes we tried on plus the public dressing rooms = fun/disturbing)


• Drunk Riff

Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.

Halloween is one holiday I truly missed while in Amsterdam (though they have Carnival). But this All Hallow's Eve we all wanted to be little Dutch girls, regardless of the costumes we were wearing.

I live next door to her, and she's harder to get into than a Pearl Jam concert.

Hello friends. Sorry for the long break. I have been busy/lazy. And it's fall. So it means there are a lot of stories.

In no chronological order, we'll start recounting them. Today: Stef gets her face melted in Pearl Jam's 2nd to last concert at the Spectrum. You sweat my seats. Big time.

Thor, mighty god of thunder!

I had a kick ass weekend.

1. The Governor and Dombro got hitched in a beautiful plantation/farm designed by Olmsted (landscape architect of central park). They are great dancers

2. I got to drive a jeep. I mean a proper, no top, stick shift jeep. If practicality were never an issue in life, this would be my car.

3. My mother now has a cat named Thor. (be scared for my children)

4. This is pretty hilarious. Check out page 13.

I hope not sporadically

Okay, I made a decision re my lack of pop-culture-ness. I will follow one new show this fall:
Gossip Girl

(don't cringe)

Fun Stef fact: I have a friend who gets a word of the day (per the title). On Saturday, that word was "defile". Let's use it in a sentence: "Team Europe defiled New York on Saturday night."

xoxo

I'm with it, I'm hip. Tucka, tucka, tucka, tucka

News flash: I do not live in 2009.

Friday night, karaoke-ing in the Governor/Dobro household, I was shamed into admitting:
- I did not know the words or tune to Alicia Keys' "No one"
- I had no idea Blink 182 was still together and that they had come out with a new album of semi-depressing punk music (which isn't to say I don't like it)
- If it had been my choice of song in the public/privacy of their home, it would have been the Bangles' Walk Like an Egyptian (but I lost out to Roxette's Listen to Your Heart -- maybe the only other song I knew)

(side note: The people who designed the karaoke game, Lips, are some smart/tripped out people. In addition to the trailer being targeted at the bored-of-partying, the videos created to go with the songs - you can choose the "real" video or some cartoon mock up - are, seriously, for people on drugs only. I was sitting sober, listening to my friends break it down to John Denver's "Country Roads" while watching cartoon cobras lick and fight each other over vanilla ice cream cones that fell from the sky. It was....a little scary)

Now, who knows what year I actually live in, but there have been way too many pop reference moments lately that have gone over my head. I'm not going pretend I was always up on pop culture, but let's just say that in the Trivial Pursuit 90s game, I kick ass and take names.

Recently, Mrs. P told me that her husband has decided that is important to stay "hip" to pop culture so they are making an effort to do things like watch episodes of the new 90210 and talk about Hannah Montana (who, I have to admit, I didn't know about until she told me who it was -- I feel like Lisa Simpson in the Waverly Hills episode; does that TV reference but me any pop points?). But I'm not sure if I'm willing to go that far; I thought my interest in vampires (see prior post) was enough. Do I have to start reading US Weekly? (does US Weekly cover Hannah Montana?)

At the end, my brain's going to be worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That sounded horrible, didn't it? Bring me another maitai!

I'm about to go have a 2 or 3 martini lunch. F*ck it I say -- we're in a recession, there is limited amount of work I can bill, it's finally feeling like summer in NY (read: 90 something degrees. 134% humidity) and it's Friday.

I think I desrve my martinis for other reasons:
1) geometry scares me
2) sufficiency data problems are like reading swahili
3) I am pissed at my liberal arts education
4) I wish I was an engineer for like, just the next two months, with an engineer's brain and like, y'know, like smart
5) Wow, I'm talking as if I've alread had those martinis

The moral of the story is: Never talk to muffin trees.

Actually, the moral of the story is, standardized testing is making me feel stupid. I don't actually know how to solve for "if Fred leaves Florin at 95 mph and Tommy leaves Guilder, driving an average rate of 73 mph, what time do they meet at the Florin/Guilder border?"

(two points for anyone who gets the hidden movie reference)

Is he cute? Ask him if he wants to stay.

I have lost my Vegas virginity. I think it's somewhere on the pool floor of the Venetian.

So, all the movies that talk about Vegas and what happens in Vegas? All those movies are accurate. Well, excepting the whole acid trip thing from Fear & Loathing. Skipped that one...this time around. Honestly, its enough of an acid trip without chemical stimulation (not like I know what acid is like, please take note potential employers). Seriously, I had red hair. Like RED hair.


I've always wanted to be Rainbow Bright...

Your ego's writing checks your body can't cash

Twitter. Tweet. The Twizzle. Twitphilia. Twat. Twitching. Tweeple. Twitaphobia.

I now have a "handle" on Twitter. Ugh. I am more than sorta angry about it. But I was forced (no, seriously, forced) to sign up by Mr. Roadmonkey. Literally, dude went onto the site, made up some dumb name for me (Roadmonkey Girl? Do I look like the kind of chick that wants "girl" or "ette" on the end of anything? Do I dot my 'i's with small hearts? Hey, while your at it, buy me some pink stationery with "Steffie" at the top and put a bow in my hair....maybe will make it easier for you to hold when I puke on your shoes).

So, I've quickly become interested in the mass hysteria around "Twitter ruining civilization" and being only for megalomaniacs (since I, of course, as a self-deprecating blogger can not yet be counted as an egoist). Do I believe I am witty? Of course. Do I think I'm interesting? No. Should anyone other that the 6.3 people who read my blog have to be exposed to my inane ramblings, propensity for politically incorrect comments and toilet humor? Of course not. (AND I can't even do any of those things in Tweets because I represent a "brand" of "educated travellers" who "want to make a difference." Apparently, people who want to make a difference aren't allowed to make fart jokes.)

Which leads me to the question of the hour:
What the hell am I going to Tweet about?

Topics I've considered are as follows -- please email/FB/tweet/blog comment/text/call/fax/mail/sign language/write in snow any and all suggested additions:

- Wanting to hire a cleaning lady for my apartment that's the size of a small yurt

- Liking the word "yurt" and all stories associated with "yurts"

- Being slower than people pushing baby carriages while running

- Liking marshmallows....a lot

- My personal recipe for disaster: Agua de Valencia

- Is it quicker to Chicago or by bus?

- Food I missed the most while backpacking: Sushi

- Food I missed the most while living in Europe: Sushi

- The glory of the Stroopwaffel

- How much I hate Rachel Ray, for no reason

- The non-altruistic reasons I want to go to Brazil

- Singing in the shower

- Paper vs. plastic

- Appreciation for mandatory recycling

- How to get rid of fruit flies

I'm sorry son, but you must have me confused with someone else. My name is Roger Murdock. I'm the co-pilot.

My weekend trips to "paradise" are cursed by evil airlines. First Ibiza and now the Bahamas. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but thanks to Blackberry, this trip home wasn't quite as bad as Ibiza (read: I could alert my various superiors without innumerable freak outs, searches for numbers, etc. It also helps that I am no longer a corporate bottom feeder -- I'm now an upper bottom feeder. That sounds gross...). Thank you Mr. Man in a Purple Shirt for letting me hijack your BB charger for 30 minutes while saving my spot in line. I owe you one and yes, the Wire is the best show on television in recent history.

(Ibiza was also way crappier due to 1) a hangover of unreal proportions, 2) lack of food/book options in the airport, 3) the only people to commiserate with were Germans, 4) I was in the process of getting dumped, trans-Atlantic style, 5) we didn't actually get out of the airport until 3am and 6) the hotel we were staying in REFUSED TO LET ME USE THEIR BUSINESS CENTER because they are Spaniards and it wasn't open -- when sh*t is closed in Europe, sh*t is CLOSED.)

So, I got caught in Miami and then had to stay in some skeezball airport hotel with, oh, probably 80% of the little league baseball players in all of Venezuela. Missing a day of work and having to go to Newark aside, I'm now running-shoe-less and phone-less because my charger was in my suitcase, as (obviously) were my kicks. The bitch of it is, the guy with my suitcase can't get a hold of me now that my phone is dead (off to give $30 more dollars to Verizon, those soul suckers).

I understand that there were thunderstorms of biblical proportions in New York so it's not really American Airline's fault...but let's just say they could use a little customer relations training. Announcements went something like this:
- Everyone, unfortunately the plane to LaGuardia has been cancelled due to weather. Please see the re-booking agent at Gate D36.
(we all rush, like a herd of elephants to D36. Then, 15 minutes later while in line...)
- Flight 1226 to LaGuardia may be reinstated. Please stand by. (no one moves from the line)
- Again, Flight 1226 may be reinstated. We ask that anyone on this flight return to the lobby (no one moves from the line. Hello! You said "may be". We are not going anywhere)
- Flight 1226 has been reinstated. However due to the curfew in LaGuardia, the flight will be landing in JFK (stampede back to the gate. Also, this was new news to me -- I though DCA was the only place with a curfew because of spoiled congressmen who like to go to bed without, gasp!, the proletariat noise of planes)
- People on flight 1226 -- the flight may be cancelled again as we do not have a flight crew. Please remain at the gate and we will have an update within the hour.
(10 minutes later)
- Unfortunately, flight 1226 is cancelled as we do not have a pilot. Please report to the re-booking agent at gate D-36 (the herd moves again...)

Congrats to Greg and Leigh -- beautiful wedding for beautiful people.

I'm going to give you the choice I never had.

I have put this off as long as I can, but it's time to talk about vampires. I friggin love the new obsession with vampire books, vampire movies, vampire shows, vampires, vampires, vampires.


It all started because the Philadelphia airport has a crappy bookstore. On a layover to L.A., I was browsing the "best sellers" rack, looking for some "literature" and came across Stephanie Meyer's Twilight. Judging the book by it's cover (clean, black, tasteful -- note that I tend to judge shampoo bottles in the same fashion, hence I will never buy Herbal Essences, sorry ATD), I purchased it and by the time I landed in L.A. was so crazed over the thing that I couldn't actually have a real conversation with my friend who came to pick me up.

And then I sorta forgot about the book until the movie came out and I learned (gasp) that there are three other titles in the series. Oh snap. I even brought a hardcover copy of the fourth one with me to Tanzania (though I didn't carry it, or, uh, have a porter carry it, up the mountain). In short, this stuff is literary crack. Why/How, you ask? A friend (who refuses to read them) put it best: The books are about a girl who falls in love with the dark, brooding, bad boy who actually likes her back and will do anything in his immense power to save her, make her happy, etc. It's every teenage girl's fantasy (see episodes of My So Called Life for full explanation of this concept).

Anyway, I've been impressed at Meyer's ability to promote waiting until marriage and semi-Mormon values while still writing teenage romance thrillers. I feel about her the way I feel about Ayn Rand -- I don't agree with her ideals, but I like her books, even though her books not-so-secretly promote her ideals. I can't believe I just equated The Fountainhead to Twilight. Please don't tell anyone.

Meanwhile, I started reading additional vampire literature. And I will call these books literature because they were recommended by my brother (brother = english teacher, english teacher = snobby taste in books, snobby taste in books = legitimate reads, therefore anything my brother recommends is legit; including graphic novels and wacked out Russian fantasy stories). This series -- called The Nightwatch -- is also a four-parter, written (originally) in Russian by Sergei Lukyanenko. Lower on the romance side of things and higher on the magical fighting and vodka sides. A real winner.

I haven't gotten on True Blood train (yet -- on the Netflix list...as are The Nightwatch movies, which apparently use "special effects" in how they put up subtitles. Confession: I just signed up for Netflix this month and the first movie I put in my queue was Twilight). But have a feeling I'll like the series, no matter how annoying they've managed to make Anna Paquin's character. I also have been encouraged to dive into Anne Rice (another female writer...hmmm...). I wonder if women are more naturally inclined to be obsessed with vampires (see reasoning on dark brooding men above). Except Lestat is such a ponce in the movie version of Interview with a Vampire (but that could just be Tom Cruise's fault).

You're wearing the shirt of the band you're going to see? Don't be that guy.

First of all, some confirmation that golf is stupid and shouldn't qualify as a sport.

Second of all:

Third of all, I bought a sweatshirt that says "BQE" on it. I'm now that girl. I mean, I have an Amsterdam t-shirt too, but I don't live there any more (though I have already been called out for that one, even though was for Queen's Day, so I maintain it doesn't count).

Fourthly (can you said "fourth of all"? hmmmm), I like sake.

Fifthly, let's talk about the fact that it is already July. What the.... Time hasn't flown like this since college. Not sure if that's a good or bad thing. I blame the weddings, which are a big step up from keggers, but give a nice structure to my travel/party schedule. Happy pre-bdays to the Governor and Mrs. P.

Michael Jackson didn't come over to my house to use the bathroom. He was about to. But his sister did.

13 meals of Indian curry, 30 potatoes, 7 pineapples, 16 mini bananas, 30 hours of flying, 2 ambien, 6 movies, a broken toe, 2 kankles, 21 desks, one jellyfish sting, 19,340 feet of altitude and zero pain from a stress fracture later, I am officially back from Africa. Photos to come.


What is it with me going into the woods and American musical icons kicking the bucket? One of the last times I was in Canadian wilderness I returned to the news the Jerry Garcia had died. The biggest question on my mind is not who's talking to the man in the mirror but who owns all the Beatles music...

You stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you.

Dear Blog,

I am sorry for ignoring you the past few weeks. And now I am going on holiday and will continue to slight you. In fact, I'm having an affair with another blog -- http://roadmonkey.net/blog/.

Follow me there and when I return, I promise to give you some TLC.

Love,
Stef

If you're going to become true dodgeballers, then you've got to learn the five d's of dodgeball: dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge!

So, some more commentary on one of my favorite subjects: No longer being a real athlete, and (more importantly?) no longer being treated like a real athlete. Let's compare a couple of foot injuries.

Situation 1: Broken Ankle
After falling on black ice like the raging klutz that I am, I wait out the weekend before ending up at the trainers. Without even having a chance to shave my leg one last time, I am slapped with a cast and crutches and told I might need crazy surgery and will be out for at least 6 weeks of season. Tears ensue. A day later I see a (hot) orthopedist who also happens to be an ex-lacrosse player and intimately understands the burning desire to participate, at least in part, in my season. He says I definitely will not need surgery, takes my cast off in 3 weeks and allows me to start aerobic exercise before I can even walk properly (still in a boot). With 3 regattas left to go, I'm given the green light to row with a canvas brace. This man understood my priorities; this man worked to get me active.

Situation 2: Stress Fracture in Second Metatarsal
Titles aside (let's be honest, "stress fracture" sounds way more pussy than "broken"), this injury is not all that serious. It hurt at first and it's a pain in the ass (especially since I haven't ponied up for a gym membership yet) because you have to stay off it. So, my (not hot) podiatrist takes an ex-ray and CAN'T SEE ANYTHING (please, remember this for later). Now, for an abbreviated 'he said she said': He says, I think it's a stress fracture, but it could be tendinitis. Well, I say, I am climbing Kilimanjaro at the end of the month, so what can be done. And he says I don't think you can climb a mountain. And I say -- What if this were my job? What is possible? He says, Well, if it's your job, can't someone go in your place? (I start to get pissy). No, it's a start up company, no replacement. [pause] Isn't there anything that might enable me to do this? It's still 3 weeks away. And he goes: Well, if it was the Olympics and it was going to be another four years until you could do this again, then well...

(oh no you didn't)

Then tells me to go get an MRI (tears ensue, I had to skip the Phish concert). MRI, sadly, says I do in fact have a stress fracture. After my massive attitude problem of the day before, he ups the effort a little bit and gives me crutches to help keep the weight off, some creatively cut padding and a bone stimulator (use your imagination. okay, your imagination is wrong and dirty. it's sorta like ultrasound). Then I see him the next week and HE TAKES ANOTHER X-RAY. Guess what? It doesn't show anything. So he says come back on Tuesday (yesterday). And then (wait for it) HE TAKES ANOTHER X-RAY. Guess what? He claims it shows the bone healing. Just barely. What a crock of...

Anyway, then he puts a graphite in-sole in my hiking boot, charges me $135 dollars (Dear Socialized Health Care, I miss you. Love, Stef) and says "If you were doing 6 miles out and 6 miles back...or hiking a day and stopping then it would be okay. But 7 days...I don't think you should do it." Shut up! You just told me I could walk 12 miles and now you are saying I can't do it?


Today, I am allowed to wear my hiking boots instead of the boot (I look very styling. Think female Steve Irwin). So. I'm putting it to a vote. Can I climb this mountain? (note this is "can" not should. I know I shouldn't, please. But can I do it? Please note that the ugly podiatrist noted that it would be highly unlikely I would actually "break" it. Also note I have a high pain tolerance...I think.). Weigh in! My fate is in your hands.

Current score:
Do it: 5 (me, my friend's fiancee who is a recently crowned resident, someone who's climbed the mtn and calls it "easy", J, Clark)
Don't do it: 2 (podiatrist, dad)

The Latin for banana is arienna. Banana tree is pala.

What does it take to get ignored in this city?

I got hollered at twice in the 5 minute time frame that it took me to eat a banana while waiting for a cab. Twice! AND I was on crutches. Who knew that cripples eating fruit was part of a typical Manhattan male's fantasy. I thought that kind of weird sh*t only happened in Jersey.

Nobody f*cks with the Jesus

Normally when people run up in my face waving Wachtower literature, I Carl Lewis the other way (fun Brooklyn fact: Jehovah's Witnesses have their logo all over the Heights -- and apparently still own about a dozen buildings in the area).

But what does one do when the people trying to convert you aren't waving pamphlets or wearing orange sarongs? What if the are two normal looking girls, with boring purses and cute sneakers?

While waiting for a ride to come pick me up (note: I am on crutches...I probably looked like easy prey...more on that in the next post), I was approached by two members of the Church of God like this:

- BLOND GIRL, WITH SOME EASTERN EUROPEAN ACCENT: Excuse me, can I ask you a question?

- ME (thinking she wants directions): Sure

-BG, WSEEA: We are just walking around this area and asking different people the same question.

- ME (now thinking it's survey for hair products or something): Okay

- BG, WSEEA: Have you ever hear of Mother God?

- ME (thinking maybe it's some German punk band): Uh, no.

- BG, WSEEA: Yes, that is what everyone says. But you have heard of Father God.

- ME: I haven't heard of Father God either.

- ASIAN CHICK: Well, you know, when you pray, you probably pray to "Our Father who art in Heaven, but if there is a Father in Heaven then there is a Mother in Heaven."

(okay, so now is normally when I would start running or drop an F bomb. But I am trying to increase my tolerance for the "other" and admit - gasp - that maybe I'm not always right and maybe my way isn't the only way. Plus, I have to stand on this corner and wait for my ride, so, I crack the knuckles and prep for spiritual debate. Here is where I wished I had actually read the Bible...as literature. I didn't get much past the first few chapters of Genesis...you know, the chapters where it seems like the telling of two different stories of how the world was created.)

- ME: I don't pray.


- BG, WSEEA: No? Oh okay, well the Bible refers to both our Mother God and our Father God yet people only pray to Father God and we believe in both... (more talking about the Bible) ...are you Jewish or Christian?


- ME: I'm neither...or both. One of my parents is Jewish.


- AC: Is your mother Jewish?

- ME (what does that have to do with it? Yes, I know this technically does make me not a Jew, but if they are trying to convert people, really, does it matter?): No, my father is.


- AC: So when you talk to God -


- ME: What if I don't believe in God?


- BG, WSEEA: Do you have a spirit?

- ME: Sure, I have spirit

(this was the wrong answer. It's the true answer - whatever the hell the spirit means...maybe it means I have good jazz hands -- but it definitely steered the conversation back to God. Apparently, if you have a spirit, then you must be spiritual and if you are spiritual then you must believe in god. So it's impossible to be spiritual and not believe in god...right, now I've even confused myself....)

Anyway, I'm tired of writing in conversation form, so the "net net" is that they have a radio station (89.9? Or is that NPR?). And you can tune in to hear the word of Mother God. And they celebrate Passover and the Sabbath on Saturday, not Sunday (no wonder they are going after the Jews...). Next time strangers (or salesmen) accost you on the street, privacy of your own home, etc., see how long YOU can maintain an argument for whatever you believe. Thankfully (for them?), just as I was delving into my own belief system regarding sin (that is to say, maybe coveting thy neighbor is aight by me...) my ride showed up. If I actually knew my Bible, my spirit tells me I could have held out a lot longer.

A Sheldon can do your income taxes, if you need a root canal, Sheldon's your man... but humpin' and pumpin' is not Sheldon's strong suit.

I am boring.

Let me rephrase: My life -- daily life -- is boring.


And this is actually a good thing because it means (drum roll) that I have successfully moved back to New York without feeling the need to Van Gogh my ear.


I'll elaborate: The most awesome thing about my time in Amsterdam was the routine. And my sweet apartment. Now, given that 1/2 that routine is illegal in the U.S., I was a bit underwhelmed at the prospect of re-adapting to This American Life (read: getting my shi*t together), especially in the city that ate small pieces of my soul for two years.


Strangely, I am now a law-abiding citizen (though I still wouldn't make the cut at The Company) and even more strangely, I like it. I'm high on life (most of the time). I have a similarly sweet apartment in Brooklyn -- a two-bedroom bungalow on the BQE -- and live far enough away people who look like this or this, my two biggest fears of living in the boro (can you imagine being pregnant and trying to dress like that? Oh wait, hipsters don't try to do anything. It's all accidental. And ironic. Trying isn't ironic. Does that mean an accidental pregnancy is ironic? All you people out there studying for the LSATS, solve that logic problem for me). Sadly, I have no washer or dryer, but the woman on the corner is really good at folding my t-shirts in perfect golden rectangles.


Cobble Hill: 1 Murray Hill: -5 (Amsterdam is still +6, but it's not a fair comparison...yet...)

Harry? Harry? You do not have time to tango, buddy. You copy?

So often when one basks in the glory that is cable, they forget the joy of the "modified for TV" movie. If it weren't for TV movie replays, would I ever have seen Trading Places as a kid? Or Short Circuit? Or Splash? Or memorized the handshake in Big? Seminal films here, people.

As a person that is currently living (despite my sick new flat screen) in the 1996 equivalent of home technology, a big shout out to the 10/55 Movie at 8. So far, this channel has played some of my all-time favorites (e.g. True Lies, albeit with the scene where Simon pisses himself cut out) as well as the kind of movie trash you hope to see on TV, like bad movies with good actors (e.g. Dustin Hoffman in Sphere).

This channel is great at playing stuff that either a) you don't want to pay for or b) are happy to let play in the background -- like an album you know all the words to, but would never actually choose to put on the stereo...think the Immaculate Collection (remind me one of these days to tell you how I learned the meaning of the word "virgin"...thank you Madonna for speeding up my sexual education). Anyway, it's strengthening my resolve to put the inevitable confrontation with Time Warner on hold (I just Googled "cable internet options brooklyn" and in addition to the Time Warner site found about 2,543 blogs on crappy installation experiences. Sweet).

By the way, I will not apologize for loving "low brow" movies like True Lies and Hudson Hawk. If you haven't seen them, put it on the NetFlix list. Then let me borrow it, because I don't have that yet either...

Don't like her? What's wrong with her? She's beautiful, she's rich, she's got huge...tracts of land.

While living happily in The Land of the Giants (which is a direct English translation of "Nederlands") I was of average height. And it was glorious. And I forgot how glorious it was until I almost stepped on this girl/woman/midget on the Subway. Seriously, I could have eaten this person -- she maybe came up to my belly button. Maybe.

So a few philosophical questions for the week:
Why is New York such a short city?
Am I a heightist?

To answer the later, yes, I am -- not to say that I hate short people (but maybe I fear them...small hands, smells like cabbage), but that I don't uh, proactively surround myself by them (only argument in my favor is Coltrane -- who arguably has his own bedroom in my apartment; that's got to count for at least 3 "Nice to Small People" points). A friend reinforced this for me on Monday: "I felt so short at your party. All your friends are so tall." Really? But she was right -- and a 6'4" chick wasn't even there yet. And, I refuse to date men under 6' (or men under 6' refuse to date me). And I think about sending angry letters of protest every time a mirror is set too short for me to have a full length view (Dear Club Monaco: You sell long pants but have mirrors for people of 5'6" and under. Please get your sh*t together. Love, Stef).


For the former, I have many theories, most of which would involve me ragging on various and sundry shorter ethnicities, including my (1/2) own (lots of short Jews in NY. lots. like, at least 326. in my office building alone). But since that would make me a Nazi of sorts, I'm going to pass.

Do you know what "nemesis" means? A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by...

...a small Indian woman with a spool of thread.

People in New York are obsessed with hair removal, myself included. Now, do not fear -- I'm not going to get all gross and talk about waxing or man-scaping or whatever the hell you want to call it. Rather we are going to have a heart to heart about threading. Yes, this is a chick topic because no, we don't shave our faces (or at least I don't...'cause that's friggin weird).

Anyway, unlike, say, waxing no one has ever complained to me about the pain of threading or warned me away. So let me do you all a favor: BEWARE OF THE SPOOL. I'm not saying I don't like the results (I no longer have a 5 o'clock shadow...okay, not like I ever did, but my face is really really really smooth -- and my Selma Hayek-esque unibrow is no longer....fun Selma fact: that isn't make up, she just grew those suckers in for the Frida movie). But I am saying the pain is not worth it. Especially if you aren't the bearded lady.

(for those who do not know what threading is and have 5 minutes of your life to waste, watch this. There was some other YouTube video where they threaded around some dude's beard...wacked)

I like to think I'm pretty tough, have a relatively high pain threshold, etc. So I walked into one of these places on a whim, tilted my head back and figured "no prob." Within seconds I am have a clenched jaw and am squeezing my eyes shut as involuntary tears run down the sides of my face. The woman doing this to me is not amused, does not pause and proceeds to (well, at least it felt this way) pull 3-4 layers of skin off my face. My teeth still hurt from grinding them.

Not cool. And then I walked out to meet a friend and the first thing she asks me is "what happened to your face?" (answer: mini-rope burn) and the second thing is "are you high?" (answer: no, I wish)

I know pain is beauty or beauty is pain or whatever the saying is, but any process that requires a percoset to get through it should be banned by the state.

'It's our motto.' 'What's a motto?' 'Nothing. What's a motto with you?'

Mottos are sorta stupid -- it's like having a state bird (which is to say, who really cares). But Brooklyn's motto is really stupid: "Believe the Hype" (as seen on the Kosciuszko Bridge on the BQE).

After a little online sleuthing this morning, I found that this isn't actually Brooklyn's motto, but rather one of it's many "welcome" phrases. Sadly, it's not the worst of the bunch: "Like no Other Place in the World" is apparently on the Pulaski bridge. Yeah, that phrase really makes me feel like I live in a unique place.

Brooklyn's actual motto is "In Unity there is Strength" -- written as Een Draght Mackt Maght, in old Dutch which is very similar to Afrikaans and (perhaps unfortunately) is also the same motto as Apartheid South Africa.

By the way, my brother has informed me that it is not academically valid to use Wikipedia as a source since it's policed by the general public -- which is to say, the people making updates to Wikipedia, arguably, are people with even more online time-wasting capacity than me...I hope they are smarter. Anyway, if his 7th graders can't use Wikipedia as a source, neither can I.

And the New York state bird is the bluebird.

There's a difference between like and love. Because I like my Sketchers, but I love my Prada backpack.

I know few people who can take compliments gracefully. We all either get flushed, try to explain why we think we are crap or (in the case of clothes) spout how cheap it is and where we purchased it. In a self-improvement effort I've been trying to a) give more compliments (when I mean it, obviously) and b) be less self-deprecating when I get one.

That said, sometimes people say things that are so out of left field, that I have to wonder what planet they are from. Perhaps planet Manhattan.

This morning, a senior colleague kindly told me "my look is so Chanel" and that I have "very classic pieces." It would be one thing if I was all gussied up and looking all that, maybe I'd get it. But today I'm wearing a sweater from 5 years ago, khakis with a stain on them and converse kicks. And I can't find my hair dryer. And I have BO.

(okay, I am in pearls. maybe that threw her off, but still -- What.the.f$#@ )

First of all -- what does "Chanel" mean? I can't afford their clothes -- I only understand brand comparisons in the H&M to Brooks Brothers range. And the last ad I saw of theirs was Keira Knightly naked with a hat, so uh, yeah, don't we all wish.

Rather than Chanel, I think I'd refer to myself as a Euro trash tom boy that occasionally pops her collar. (uh, joke, I don't refer to myself as anything, but if I did aim for a style....)

...Buy some wallpaper, maybe get some flooring, stuff like that. Maybe Bed Bath & Beyond. I don't know, I don't know if we'll have enough time.

Moving sucks. Period. No one gets up on a Saturday morning and thinks to themselves "Y'know what I want to do today -- I want to take all the stuff in my house outside and then move it all back in" (the same way no one gets up on a Saturday morning and wants to clean their apartment -- if there are people who do get up feeling like doing this, please call me). But moving in a city sucks more (moving in suburbia = not having to worry about someone stealing stuff out of the back of your truck, getting a parking spot in front of the building, permission to use freight elevators, staircases that are too narrow to fit furniture, other people walking in the stairwells/using elevator while you're trying to move, and/or doors locking on you every time you enter/exit). And moving in New York sucks the most.

What sucks the most about moving in New York is Ikea. "Wait a minute," you're thinking, "Wouldn't boxed furniture be the EASIEST thing for moving in New York?" Yes, it would be. If Ikea actually had the products you wanted on the shelf. Or if at 8pm on a Saturday night the place wasn't packed like they were offering free Swedish meatballs or massages or meatball massages...whatever. Or if the catalogue had a good index. Or if they actually had affordable and comfortable chairs. Or if all 80% of all the people who worked there didn't seem to secretly wish the black plague on you (Sandra in bedding -- thank you for your patience. You were really nice).

To be fair, the death trap that is Ikea in Red Hook isn't Ikea's fault, per se -- I love cheap furniture, even if it takes 37.2 hours to put together. They are providing wanted and needed products (and, to be fair, it's not like all other furniture providers in New York are bursts of sunshine -- the guy on the phone at Sleepy's deserves to be suffocated by a Tempurpedic mattress). But in the "self-service" atmosphere that is Ikea and the population of New York -- coming in on free bus and boat shuttle -- is just too much to handle when trying to pick out whether you want a Malm, Aneboda or Dalsev bed frame (can anyone pronounce these words?). It was so stressful that we forgot my spiffy bathmats and kitchen towels at check out. Alas, sacrificed to the moving gods, along with a comfy Ethan Allen chair, a queen box spring, the hallway walls of my apartment building and my dad's nose.


This post is dedicated to the brave men of the Bronx, Brooklyn and Bethesda that risked their muscles and sanity for free pizza and beer.

Wackos everywhere, plague and madness

I wasn't a New Yorker in the pre-Giuliani years (or even during the Giuliani years), but have consistently heard "true" New Yorkers either a) laud him for cleaning up the city or b) bitch about how NYC has no character thanks to his "aggressive enforcement-deterrent strategy."

Perhaps "no character" means "you can no longer get a dime bag in Union Square" (which, for anyone out there who might employ me some day -- I am a fan! Say no to drugs!), but it certainly doesn't mean "there are no longer freaks in Union Square." This is something I actually missed and have been able to enjoy in excess since moving back. I like free entertainment, especially when it is more creative than two guys banging on buckets or three amigos jamming on the 4/5 (which, for anyone out there who might employ me some day -- I am not a racist! Me gusta musica de Mexico!)

A few days ago, some man who looked like a groupie for Spinal Tap was playing what looked like an imaginary instrument. It was an electric version of those three-string mini-cellos you hear whining in Chinatown (see above statement re racism), except it had flashing lights AND it was a violin (sorta). This guy was dancing, Riverdance-style, with his greasy black hair flashing in the fluorescent lights. I wonder how people decide what they are going to do as their schtick for money. I can just imagine this dude sitting at home, plotting three days of no hair washing and the bastardization as of many instruments as he can think of and then Eureka! "I will add flashing red lights!" I mean, you can't make this crap up.

You also cannot make up ugly white girls with glasses and no hips, belly dancing -- badly. I was like "I'll pay you to stop."

Side Note: In addition to enjoying the daily freak show, when the subway is not packed (e.g. the 8:30am commute from anywhere on the UWS) I actually really really really like the subway. There is something simple and romantic about waiting for the train, reading on the train, people watching on the train -- even if while waiting for the F you see six rats bigger than your cat. I chalk it up to being raised in suburbia when the only time we rode the train was to go downtown for protests or Bullets games (yes, Bullets games -- I know they are the Wizards now and even though that's politically correct in a city that used to be the murder capital in addition to the nation's capital, I think that the name 'Wizards' sucks; and I'm a Knicks fan anyway so it's basically a non issue). Please note that I do not have these overly touchy-feeley emotions toward all forms of public transport -- some day I will talk about buses. Buses skeez me out.

"It's so clean out here." "That's because they don't throw their garbage away, they turn it into television shows."

I just got back from a short trip to California. And let me tell you -- people who don't live in New York are nice. To be fair, maybe it's not just New Yorkers -- the Dutch are notorious assholes too and wouldn't know the meaning of "customer service" if it slapped them in the face. Southern California, though, was down right shocking. I've encountered these sort of "nicies" in places like coastal Florida, where everyone is old, in the military and/or looking for a strip joint (what horny ex-military dude wouldn't be nice?), but never in Cali. (In L.A. the tans and fake boobs talk for themselves apparently. And the east coast has invaded San Francisco so it wouldn't be a fair comparison).

Perhaps more shocking than all these pleasant people was the realization that I am unable to make polite small talk with total strangers while seeming interested. Let me revise -- I can make polite small talk with total strangers while seeming interested (hey, I'm in PR, I get paid to do that), but am obviously stilted when force to use this "talent" in every minute interaction. Especially when they want to talk about more than the weather. I can handle "Oh yes, wow, how sunny and beautiful, uh huh, can I have my coffee now please?" but a full interrogation into who I am, how I got here, what I like about the city and will I have time to go to the zoo? Dare I say it made me miss the New York delis where the cashiers scream for the next customer before you've even paid and the people behind you start the "audible sigh, shift weight to left foot" routine if you are 30 seconds late making change.

Example:

Cab driver: "So, where are you visiting from?"
SEL: "I'm in from New York."
CD: "Are you enjoying your time here?"
SEL: "Uh, sure. I've only been here since last night so...."
CD: "Have you ever been to San Diego?"
SEL: "I think once when I was a kid."
CD: "What are you out here for? Vacation?"
SEL: " Just a meeting. I head back tomorrow morning."
CD: "Tomorrow?! That's crazy. You should stay for the weekend. Are you staying here downtown?"
[in my head: what do you think asshole, you picked me up outside a hotel?]
SEL: "Yes"
CD: "You should try to get to the beach. What are your plans for the evening?"
SEL: "Dinner with a friend."
CD: "Where?"
[in my head: at your momma's house]
SEL: "Uh, not sure, my friend lives here so will probably pick a place."
CD: "Oh that's great. It's really nice when you have a local to show you the spots. Otherwise I could suggest a couple of places. Do you like seafood?"
SEL: "Uh, yeah."
CD: "We have great seafood, great sushi. All really fresh."
SEL: "Great I'll keep that in mind."
CD: "So, do you have kids?"
.....

My cab ride was oh, 40 minutes long. I couldn't keep up the short answers while he continued to respond all smiles. So, Howard, my cab driver, is divorced and living with his girlfriend in Encinitas. He has two kids and recommends the yearly zoo pass because it includes Sea World. Let me know if you need his number.