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.