Dear Fei Long Food Market Employees,
I had the pleasure(?) of visiting your Asian food market with my inlaws, one of which is a bonifide Chinese person. Thank God she came along (although I hope she wasn't offended by my constant gagging). Anyway, first I wish to thank you for providing parking. This is a rarity in these parts and you gain an automatic bonus point for doing so, however don't get excited. You're about to lose that bonus point. I have been to many a gas station restroom in my day, but never have I experienced one as filthy as your store. Strange comparison, but it's all I have. I'm probably being kind.
Let's start with the "seafood/zoo" department. Live turtles stacked one on top of the other in an industrial sized garbage can? Ick. Live frogs stacked one on top of the other in an industrial sized garbage can? Double ick. I mean, honestly....how do you bag that stuff? I saw a dude pick up a giant LIVE blue crab out of a tank and put it in a paper bag. That seems like a bad idea for so many reasons. I have seen acquariums in fish markets before, however I have never seen aquariums where 50% of the fish are floating belly-side up and other fish are sniffing around them debating the ethics of eating their own kind. I'm guessing you don't have too many takers for those. (I'd like a pound of the floaters please...can you filet them?).
Also, can someone please tell me when I would be using "Pig Uterus" or "Bull Aeorta" in a recipe? Can you dip them in chocolate? Because that might help the taste. I'm just speculating here, but I'm thinking that a uterus is probably pretty chewy. Chocolate makes everything better, but some things are beyond help (hint hint).
I'm not exactly sure when I will get over the horrors of what I saw at your market. Probably never. My poor son....he tripped and fell on the floor and I seriously considered stripping him naked on the spot and burning his clothes in the street. I will admit that the fall was my fault as he was chasing after me. I was running like hell to get out of there. Every man for himself.
Anywho....if I ever need to wish the Health Department a merry Christmas, I know just what to get them. 2lbs of lizard hearts and a card with your name on it.
We will not be hugging or kissing thank you very much,
L.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
An Open Letter to People Who Want to Order a NY Pizza
Dear Future Pizza Eaters,
If you are visiting the greater NY area, you've probably thought about ordering a real "NY Style" Pizza. If you are from Melbourne, FL, save yourself the time and go to Bizzarro's. It truly is the best Brooklyn Style pizza I've ever had. But anyway, if you're like me, your primary experience with pizza comes from calling 1800-PizzaHut. I have even ordered pizza online in my lifetime. Ordering pizza in "real America" probably goes something like this:
"Thank you for calling Pizza Palace. Will this be for delivery or carry out?"
"Delivery"
"Please state your address"
"Blah blah blah".
"Would you like to try our super duper spectacular special this evening?"
"I'd like a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese please".
"Would you like that hand-tossed, pan, handtossed pan, thin crust, original crust, spicy crust, cheesy crust, crispy crust, soft and mushy crust, or whole-wheat crust?"
"Original crust, pan please".
"Thank you. Can we interest you in some sodas or garlic bread?"
"No thank you, but I do have a coupon for 10% off."
"Your total comes to $20. Please give the coupon to the driver. We'll deliver in about 30 minutes."
"Have a nice evening".
"You too."
Now, in NY, that scenario never happens. Never. I learned this the first time I ordered pizza here. If you don't have a menu handy, don't bother calling. I was overwhelmed almost to the point of tears the first time I called for pizza. I am better prepared now and can blurt out my full order and address in 15 seconds (the maximum time given to each order). They don't like it when you don't know what you want. Specials? Whatever. Coupons? Schmupons. Options? It's pizza. Don't screw it up with options. Here is what it is like to order pizza in Brooklyn:
"Goodfellas." (Barely audible. Some screaming & banging in the background).
"I'd like to place....."
"Whaddaya want." (not a question, but a statement.)
"A large pizza with..."
"We don't have large lady. 16" or 18"."
"How many slices are in a 16"?"
"Depends on how you cut it."
"Ok. I'd like a 16" for delivery please".
"Call back when you know what you want on it." Click.
"Goodfellas."
"I'd like to place an order for delivery. A 16" pepperoni."
Mumbling and grunting in Italian followed by, "You picking it up?"
"Um....I said delivery."
"Address."
"Blah blah blah."
"Fine." Click.
And so the mystery begins. How much is it? When will it get here? They didn't take my name or number. What if they lose it? We have waited 90 minutes for a pizza delivery and we have waited 30 minutes for a delivery. I have no idea how they've gotten our order right every time. A miracle. St. Margherita of Naples---blessings upon that pizzeria.
Just when you think you have basic ordering down, they throw you a curve. Squares vs. rounds. This is a big deal here. When we first moved in, I asked a guy doing some repair work in our house where the best place for pizza was and he said, "Spumoni Gardens--if you like squares." I asked him, "What's the difference between a square and a round?" and his answer was, "One is square and one is round." That was it. At the time I thought, "Who cares what shape your pizza comes in?" but I later learned that squares are sicilian style with thick crust and sauce being the primary topping. And for the record, Spumoni is a type of Italian ice cream, not to be confused with gelato. Some people look down on those who like squares. Personally, they are not my favorite, but I do like the spumoni so I will go to the place that serves the squares occasionally. This is a debate that could go on for hours if you happen to offend a round lover. PS--asking for thick crust here is like asking for a punch in the face. It's sacrilege. Go to Pennsylvania for that stuff.
So if you plan to order pizza in NY, your best bet is to know going into the game exactly what you want and practice saying it as fast as you possible can. Everything is cash only. Don't even ask. And if you speak Italian, I think they're automatically nicer to you. I don't speak Italian. I've had to learn the hard way.
Double hugs, double napkins,
L.
If you are visiting the greater NY area, you've probably thought about ordering a real "NY Style" Pizza. If you are from Melbourne, FL, save yourself the time and go to Bizzarro's. It truly is the best Brooklyn Style pizza I've ever had. But anyway, if you're like me, your primary experience with pizza comes from calling 1800-PizzaHut. I have even ordered pizza online in my lifetime. Ordering pizza in "real America" probably goes something like this:
"Thank you for calling Pizza Palace. Will this be for delivery or carry out?"
"Delivery"
"Please state your address"
"Blah blah blah".
"Would you like to try our super duper spectacular special this evening?"
"I'd like a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese please".
"Would you like that hand-tossed, pan, handtossed pan, thin crust, original crust, spicy crust, cheesy crust, crispy crust, soft and mushy crust, or whole-wheat crust?"
"Original crust, pan please".
"Thank you. Can we interest you in some sodas or garlic bread?"
"No thank you, but I do have a coupon for 10% off."
"Your total comes to $20. Please give the coupon to the driver. We'll deliver in about 30 minutes."
"Have a nice evening".
"You too."
Now, in NY, that scenario never happens. Never. I learned this the first time I ordered pizza here. If you don't have a menu handy, don't bother calling. I was overwhelmed almost to the point of tears the first time I called for pizza. I am better prepared now and can blurt out my full order and address in 15 seconds (the maximum time given to each order). They don't like it when you don't know what you want. Specials? Whatever. Coupons? Schmupons. Options? It's pizza. Don't screw it up with options. Here is what it is like to order pizza in Brooklyn:
"Goodfellas." (Barely audible. Some screaming & banging in the background).
"I'd like to place....."
"Whaddaya want." (not a question, but a statement.)
"A large pizza with..."
"We don't have large lady. 16" or 18"."
"How many slices are in a 16"?"
"Depends on how you cut it."
"Ok. I'd like a 16" for delivery please".
"Call back when you know what you want on it." Click.
"Goodfellas."
"I'd like to place an order for delivery. A 16" pepperoni."
Mumbling and grunting in Italian followed by, "You picking it up?"
"Um....I said delivery."
"Address."
"Blah blah blah."
"Fine." Click.
And so the mystery begins. How much is it? When will it get here? They didn't take my name or number. What if they lose it? We have waited 90 minutes for a pizza delivery and we have waited 30 minutes for a delivery. I have no idea how they've gotten our order right every time. A miracle. St. Margherita of Naples---blessings upon that pizzeria.
Just when you think you have basic ordering down, they throw you a curve. Squares vs. rounds. This is a big deal here. When we first moved in, I asked a guy doing some repair work in our house where the best place for pizza was and he said, "Spumoni Gardens--if you like squares." I asked him, "What's the difference between a square and a round?" and his answer was, "One is square and one is round." That was it. At the time I thought, "Who cares what shape your pizza comes in?" but I later learned that squares are sicilian style with thick crust and sauce being the primary topping. And for the record, Spumoni is a type of Italian ice cream, not to be confused with gelato. Some people look down on those who like squares. Personally, they are not my favorite, but I do like the spumoni so I will go to the place that serves the squares occasionally. This is a debate that could go on for hours if you happen to offend a round lover. PS--asking for thick crust here is like asking for a punch in the face. It's sacrilege. Go to Pennsylvania for that stuff.
So if you plan to order pizza in NY, your best bet is to know going into the game exactly what you want and practice saying it as fast as you possible can. Everything is cash only. Don't even ask. And if you speak Italian, I think they're automatically nicer to you. I don't speak Italian. I've had to learn the hard way.
Double hugs, double napkins,
L.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Open Letter to the Queens County Fair
Dear Queens County Fair,
When my friend called me and invited us to join her family for a day at the county fair in Queens, I have to admit that I agreed for only one reason--sheer curiosity. I had to know how NYC does a "county fair". Honestly, that seems like an oxymoron in the making, but it was a beautiful day and we didn't have anything on the agenda, so off we go to the Queens County Fair.
My husband was skeptical as well, mainly in regards to the location. According to the website, the fair is located on Green Meadows Farm. In Queens. A farm anywhere in the greater NYC area seems highly unlikely, but they do exist. As we sat in gridlock traffic and then exited the highway only to encounter NY's best attempt at a suburb, we wondered....how is it possible that there is a farm here? A farm on 73rd St? Odd. But there it was. A farm! Right there in the middle of town.
As my hopes began to rise, I was even more pleased to learn that there was a parking lot (props to you, Queens County Fair!) and the admission was only $7 per person. The only thing $7 will buy you in NY is probably a swift kick in the you-know-what (yeah, they charge for that too). $7 is dirt cheap. We paid more for the gyro's we ate once inside (well worth it though). By now I am giddy with excitement. A farm. With parking. And cheap admission. What a fantastic day!
Things only improved from there. The first event we encountered was an Arm Wrestling Competition (by weight class, mind you). Only in New York do they announce you, in order of importance, first by nationality, then by neighborhood, and then by your name as in, "And now....the Russian from Brighton Beach....Ivan Ivanovich!". I'm sure your Human Resources Department might have some complaints about this, although I found it extremely amusing!
My son's favorite part of the day was the NY Style Hay Ride. Picture a cab ride in NYC, only in a hay wagon affixed to the back of a tractor. This was no leisurely ride through the pasture. People here drive tractors in much the same manner as they operate their motor vehicles. It was the fastest, most insane ride of all time. Not intentional....that's just what it was. We thought it would be a nice time to sit back, chat with our friends and have a drink to cool off. Instead we held on for dear life as my son gripped my torso in fear. Good times on the hay ride. (The giant sign stating that pregnant women or people with back problems should not venture on the hay ride should have been my first clue. At least HR won't have complaints about that).
Of course no fair would be complete without a pig race and you didn't disappoint, Queens County Fair. Not at all. We saw Brittney SpareRibs and Kevin Bacon and Sir Spamalot run laps around a tiny track while full grown men cheered on wildly. At one point, some daschounds came out dressed as hotdogs and also took a lap, although I'm not sure what that was all about nor did they perform as well as the pigs. It was quite the sight.
Thank you, Queens County Fair, for giving me a taste of "normal America" this past weekend. It's nice to know that in the midst of chaos there is a place that almost reminds me of being back below the Mason Dixon Line. Thank you for the pleasant, G-rated fun we had and we can't wait to return next year!
Double Hugs, Double Kiss,
L.
When my friend called me and invited us to join her family for a day at the county fair in Queens, I have to admit that I agreed for only one reason--sheer curiosity. I had to know how NYC does a "county fair". Honestly, that seems like an oxymoron in the making, but it was a beautiful day and we didn't have anything on the agenda, so off we go to the Queens County Fair.
My husband was skeptical as well, mainly in regards to the location. According to the website, the fair is located on Green Meadows Farm. In Queens. A farm anywhere in the greater NYC area seems highly unlikely, but they do exist. As we sat in gridlock traffic and then exited the highway only to encounter NY's best attempt at a suburb, we wondered....how is it possible that there is a farm here? A farm on 73rd St? Odd. But there it was. A farm! Right there in the middle of town.
As my hopes began to rise, I was even more pleased to learn that there was a parking lot (props to you, Queens County Fair!) and the admission was only $7 per person. The only thing $7 will buy you in NY is probably a swift kick in the you-know-what (yeah, they charge for that too). $7 is dirt cheap. We paid more for the gyro's we ate once inside (well worth it though). By now I am giddy with excitement. A farm. With parking. And cheap admission. What a fantastic day!
Things only improved from there. The first event we encountered was an Arm Wrestling Competition (by weight class, mind you). Only in New York do they announce you, in order of importance, first by nationality, then by neighborhood, and then by your name as in, "And now....the Russian from Brighton Beach....Ivan Ivanovich!". I'm sure your Human Resources Department might have some complaints about this, although I found it extremely amusing!
My son's favorite part of the day was the NY Style Hay Ride. Picture a cab ride in NYC, only in a hay wagon affixed to the back of a tractor. This was no leisurely ride through the pasture. People here drive tractors in much the same manner as they operate their motor vehicles. It was the fastest, most insane ride of all time. Not intentional....that's just what it was. We thought it would be a nice time to sit back, chat with our friends and have a drink to cool off. Instead we held on for dear life as my son gripped my torso in fear. Good times on the hay ride. (The giant sign stating that pregnant women or people with back problems should not venture on the hay ride should have been my first clue. At least HR won't have complaints about that).
Of course no fair would be complete without a pig race and you didn't disappoint, Queens County Fair. Not at all. We saw Brittney SpareRibs and Kevin Bacon and Sir Spamalot run laps around a tiny track while full grown men cheered on wildly. At one point, some daschounds came out dressed as hotdogs and also took a lap, although I'm not sure what that was all about nor did they perform as well as the pigs. It was quite the sight.
Thank you, Queens County Fair, for giving me a taste of "normal America" this past weekend. It's nice to know that in the midst of chaos there is a place that almost reminds me of being back below the Mason Dixon Line. Thank you for the pleasant, G-rated fun we had and we can't wait to return next year!
Double Hugs, Double Kiss,
L.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
An Open Letter to Brooklyn Visitors
Dear Visitors,
Welcome to Brooklyn! By now you've probably seen the signs. "Welcome to Brooklyn....How Sweet It Is!" or "Welcome to Brooklyn....You Name It, We've Got It", etc. These are signs that the local government installed around town to welcome you to our humble borough. Well, who am I kidding....nothing about Brooklyn is humble. But anyway, these cutesy little directional ironies have popped up all over, supposedly to add some charm and humor to this charmless & humorless city. Be warned, gentle visitor. These signs are a bit misleading with just a hint of exaggeration. Based on my experiences here, I have submitted some suggestions for future signs to help "manage expectations" to use a phrase from my husband's vernacular. I mean, seriously, after you pass the "How Sweet It Is" sign you either laugh or wonder if you've made a wrong turn. The language used in my suggestions is considered "native" of these parts and not necessarily my first choice of vocabulary, but realistically, this is what you can expect. Without further adieu--my suggestions for more appropriately managing expectations for first time guests in Brooklyn:
1. Welcome to Brooklyn....OMG WTF was that??!
2. Welcome to Brooklyn....Prepare to Gain 20lbs. Cheesecake & Pizza Are Food Groups.
3. Welcome to Brooklyn...Don't Look Now But That Guy Is About to Pee on Your Shoes.
4. Welcome to Brooklyn...Now Get the Hell Out.
5. Welcome to Brooklyn...Quit driving and start walking if you want to live.
6. Welcome to Brooklyn...Where Everyone Hates You. We're Not Kidding.
7. Welcome to Brooklyn...Hope You're Packing Heat!
8. Welcome to F'ing Brooklyn where we're so F'ing happy you're here. Now get out of the F'ing way.
9. Welcome to Brooklyn...Hope you brought hand sanitizer!
10. Welcome to Brooklyn...Don't Make Eye Contact.
The one sign that is totally and completely accurate is located right near my house. It reads, no lie,"Now Leaving Brooklyn.....Fuhggetaboutit".
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
Welcome to Brooklyn! By now you've probably seen the signs. "Welcome to Brooklyn....How Sweet It Is!" or "Welcome to Brooklyn....You Name It, We've Got It", etc. These are signs that the local government installed around town to welcome you to our humble borough. Well, who am I kidding....nothing about Brooklyn is humble. But anyway, these cutesy little directional ironies have popped up all over, supposedly to add some charm and humor to this charmless & humorless city. Be warned, gentle visitor. These signs are a bit misleading with just a hint of exaggeration. Based on my experiences here, I have submitted some suggestions for future signs to help "manage expectations" to use a phrase from my husband's vernacular. I mean, seriously, after you pass the "How Sweet It Is" sign you either laugh or wonder if you've made a wrong turn. The language used in my suggestions is considered "native" of these parts and not necessarily my first choice of vocabulary, but realistically, this is what you can expect. Without further adieu--my suggestions for more appropriately managing expectations for first time guests in Brooklyn:
1. Welcome to Brooklyn....OMG WTF was that??!
2. Welcome to Brooklyn....Prepare to Gain 20lbs. Cheesecake & Pizza Are Food Groups.
3. Welcome to Brooklyn...Don't Look Now But That Guy Is About to Pee on Your Shoes.
4. Welcome to Brooklyn...Now Get the Hell Out.
5. Welcome to Brooklyn...Quit driving and start walking if you want to live.
6. Welcome to Brooklyn...Where Everyone Hates You. We're Not Kidding.
7. Welcome to Brooklyn...Hope You're Packing Heat!
8. Welcome to F'ing Brooklyn where we're so F'ing happy you're here. Now get out of the F'ing way.
9. Welcome to Brooklyn...Hope you brought hand sanitizer!
10. Welcome to Brooklyn...Don't Make Eye Contact.
I'm telling you...this place is bizarre. One day you love it, the next day you wonder how it's possible to survive a trip to the grocery store. Block to block things change dramatically. One minute you're in Little Russia and the next you're in Little Kabul. And then Little Israel. Everyone keeps to their respective nations and then there's me. The goofy white girl with toddler in tow asking for directions to the Children's Museum (ps...Hasidic Jews are not allowed to look Gentile women in the eye or speak to them in general. Did not know this and it created some awkward cultural moments for me, but thanks to Googling "What do hasidic jews have against me", I found the answer & thought I should share). I do think it's cool that we can give my son the "around the world" experience people usually pay $80 a pop for at Epcot. Sometimes I even hum "It's a Small World" for him and pretend what we're actually looking at are wooden puppets acting out a series of strange interpersonal scenarios, frequently diverting his attention to look at a wayward rodent to avoid bearing witness the passage of bodily fluids or the occasional outbreak fisticuffs. It's not necessariliy a "world of laughter, a world of cheer", but hey...we have good pizza. That's enough for me.
In defense of Brooklyn, there are a few charming areas. I use the term lightly, but if you take a stroll down in Bay Ridge (where we live, yay!), Park Slope, DUMBO, or Brooklyn Heights (think Cliff Huxtable's neighborhood....and if you have to ask who that is, quit reading this immediately. You're too young), you will feel a little Sesame-Street meets Goodfellas, but it's nice. But for some reason, if you're like me, you will find yourself conducting business more often than not in the "OTHER" areas. You know what I'm talking about, even if you've never been here. And these are where they tend to throw up those fun little feel-good "Welcome" signs like "don't be afraid....it's all good. Just watch your purse" kind of signs. I just think it's hilarious because of the intense irony involved. If you've ever set foot in Brooklyn, even in the nicer areas, "sweet" would be one of the last adjectives you'd use to describe your surroundings. (PS, Brooklyners tend to only use one adjective, however it also works as a noun, verb and pretty much any of the other parts of speech).
The one sign that is totally and completely accurate is located right near my house. It reads, no lie,"Now Leaving Brooklyn.....Fuhggetaboutit".
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
An Open Letter to Gymboree
Dear Gymboree,
Since my son was 8 weeks old, I have been visiting your fine establishment, singing the bubble song and the clean up song and the hello-everybody-song. Both my son and I have been brainwashed by Gymbo, the happy mascot clown, and we gleefully purchase your special bubbles, adorable clothes, and chant the giddy mantras about various verbs all the way home. Heck, you even got me to attend a mommy yoga class. Now that's dedication on my end.
When we moved to NY, I was concerned about finding a Gymboree location that wouldn't cost the same as a college tuition, and behold, we found one mere blocks from our humble abode. I knew you wouldn't fail me! Off I go to locate the address, only to find myself driving up and down the same block over and over again. Finally I realize that Gymboree of Dyker Heights/Bay Ridge is located on the 2nd floor of the Knights of Columbus building. Interesting choice. How come you don't list that on your website? I think I'm about to answer that!
My only knowledge of the Knights of Columbus revolves around pancake breakfasts and Catholics playing bingo. Seriously, I had no idea what the place was except that it was a Catholic organization, mainly frequented by old folks. Well, that's probably how it is in "normal America". Friendly Catholics winning cash and serving up pancakes on Sunday mornings. Yum. In Brooklyn, not so much. I kid you not....it's a front for organized crime. The ratio of toddlers to mafia hitmen is probably 3-1 on any given Monday when we attend our class. In the parking lot lurks a man wearing a skull cap and dark jacket. He could easily be a sanitation worker, however his primary job seems to be smoking and monitoring the collection of black towncars and caddy's that park in the area next to the minivans and SUV's driven by Gymboree parents. As I enter the main entrance (located under the neon sign flashing the name of the local arch bishop), I can hear the blissful sounds of Gymbo blasting over the stereo, but before I can enter Happyland, I must first pass through the shrine to all Catholic community members since the dawn of time. Pictures of the local archdiocese posing with local mafia leaders adorn the walls. Statues, plaques, crucifixes and other memorabilia fill an entire wall encased in glass and surrounded by mirrors. There is a man, who looks exactly like George Burns without a shave, cigar included, is sitting in a glass-walled office just off the lobby. He winks at my son in that "don't worry, we don't take toddlers to swim with the fishes" kind of way. From a conference room to my right I can hear a wide variety of racial slurs being slung about, mostly between Irish and Italians. It appears they are playing dominoes, but then again, they could be hacking up a body. Who knows.
As I make my way to the stair case, one step closer to feeling less likely to die in a driveby shooting, I see a poster advertising the funeral of "Tony Bananas" at the Scarpacci Funeral Home. Tony Bananas? I assure you, Gymboree, Tony Bananas is not a mascot in competition for Gymbo's spot. Tony Bananas. Dear God.
Finally we get to Gymboree. Children are dancing around, singing songs about sharing and butterflies and choo choo trains. They are walking on balance beams and bouncing on the "air log" and climbing through hoops and down slides. All happening just one floor above a mass gathering of the Archie Bunker fan club/mafia hitmen domino club of America meeting one floor below. Not surprising, the room is encased in mirrors and insanely tacky Italian decor. We're talking gold and brass and crystals. It's a ballroom apparently. Gymboree...you rent a ballroom from the KoC? Hmmmm. So this is what a mafia wedding would look like if everyone showed up in Pampers. The windows are placed oddly high...it's impossible for even the tallest member of the mafia to see out. I think this is to prevent drive by assassination attempts, but that's just me romanticizing the situation. Perhaps what is most disconcerting is the bar located in the room. It's not a little bar. It's a fully stocked, premium top shelf bar. Behind a giant cage door, but still. My kid is bouncing on the air log and asking what that green stuff is in the bottle. I'd like to tell him it's Midori Sour, but my gut is telling me it has something to do with the "operation" downstairs.
So, Gymboree, we are parting ways. We attended for a while and I began to find humor in greeting Donny Brasco and John Gotti on my way to watch my son dance around with other kids, but the place just gives me the creeps.....and my son would rather run wildly around the room than participate in group activities these days. Perhaps one day we shall meet again under different, less intimidating circumstances. I'll miss that funny clown.
Double Hugs, Double Kiss,
L.
Since my son was 8 weeks old, I have been visiting your fine establishment, singing the bubble song and the clean up song and the hello-everybody-song. Both my son and I have been brainwashed by Gymbo, the happy mascot clown, and we gleefully purchase your special bubbles, adorable clothes, and chant the giddy mantras about various verbs all the way home. Heck, you even got me to attend a mommy yoga class. Now that's dedication on my end.
When we moved to NY, I was concerned about finding a Gymboree location that wouldn't cost the same as a college tuition, and behold, we found one mere blocks from our humble abode. I knew you wouldn't fail me! Off I go to locate the address, only to find myself driving up and down the same block over and over again. Finally I realize that Gymboree of Dyker Heights/Bay Ridge is located on the 2nd floor of the Knights of Columbus building. Interesting choice. How come you don't list that on your website? I think I'm about to answer that!
My only knowledge of the Knights of Columbus revolves around pancake breakfasts and Catholics playing bingo. Seriously, I had no idea what the place was except that it was a Catholic organization, mainly frequented by old folks. Well, that's probably how it is in "normal America". Friendly Catholics winning cash and serving up pancakes on Sunday mornings. Yum. In Brooklyn, not so much. I kid you not....it's a front for organized crime. The ratio of toddlers to mafia hitmen is probably 3-1 on any given Monday when we attend our class. In the parking lot lurks a man wearing a skull cap and dark jacket. He could easily be a sanitation worker, however his primary job seems to be smoking and monitoring the collection of black towncars and caddy's that park in the area next to the minivans and SUV's driven by Gymboree parents. As I enter the main entrance (located under the neon sign flashing the name of the local arch bishop), I can hear the blissful sounds of Gymbo blasting over the stereo, but before I can enter Happyland, I must first pass through the shrine to all Catholic community members since the dawn of time. Pictures of the local archdiocese posing with local mafia leaders adorn the walls. Statues, plaques, crucifixes and other memorabilia fill an entire wall encased in glass and surrounded by mirrors. There is a man, who looks exactly like George Burns without a shave, cigar included, is sitting in a glass-walled office just off the lobby. He winks at my son in that "don't worry, we don't take toddlers to swim with the fishes" kind of way. From a conference room to my right I can hear a wide variety of racial slurs being slung about, mostly between Irish and Italians. It appears they are playing dominoes, but then again, they could be hacking up a body. Who knows.
As I make my way to the stair case, one step closer to feeling less likely to die in a driveby shooting, I see a poster advertising the funeral of "Tony Bananas" at the Scarpacci Funeral Home. Tony Bananas? I assure you, Gymboree, Tony Bananas is not a mascot in competition for Gymbo's spot. Tony Bananas. Dear God.
Finally we get to Gymboree. Children are dancing around, singing songs about sharing and butterflies and choo choo trains. They are walking on balance beams and bouncing on the "air log" and climbing through hoops and down slides. All happening just one floor above a mass gathering of the Archie Bunker fan club/mafia hitmen domino club of America meeting one floor below. Not surprising, the room is encased in mirrors and insanely tacky Italian decor. We're talking gold and brass and crystals. It's a ballroom apparently. Gymboree...you rent a ballroom from the KoC? Hmmmm. So this is what a mafia wedding would look like if everyone showed up in Pampers. The windows are placed oddly high...it's impossible for even the tallest member of the mafia to see out. I think this is to prevent drive by assassination attempts, but that's just me romanticizing the situation. Perhaps what is most disconcerting is the bar located in the room. It's not a little bar. It's a fully stocked, premium top shelf bar. Behind a giant cage door, but still. My kid is bouncing on the air log and asking what that green stuff is in the bottle. I'd like to tell him it's Midori Sour, but my gut is telling me it has something to do with the "operation" downstairs.
So, Gymboree, we are parting ways. We attended for a while and I began to find humor in greeting Donny Brasco and John Gotti on my way to watch my son dance around with other kids, but the place just gives me the creeps.....and my son would rather run wildly around the room than participate in group activities these days. Perhaps one day we shall meet again under different, less intimidating circumstances. I'll miss that funny clown.
Double Hugs, Double Kiss,
L.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Open Letter to Dr. Svetlana G.
Dear Dr. G,
While I admit that I have had disagreements with my insurance in the past, I didn't think they'd exact that kind of revenge on me when they selected you as my primary care physician. Nothing personal, but your office was a bit daunting to say the least. The fact that it was the size of my bathroom aside, it was odd that your receptionist was just kind of hanging out behind a desk, chillin' out maxin' and relaxin' all cool (who doesn't love Fresh Prince!?) in her see-through blouse, right there in the middle of the "waiting room" which was more like 3 square feet of carpet with 2 cafeteria chairs and a bookshelf full of medical files easily accessible for anyone to snag and use for light waiting room reading. It was even more frightening when the receptionist (who I'm guessing was 16, max) called my insurance company, ON SPEAKER PHONE, and proceeded to give them my name, social, birthdate and bra size (not really, but might as well have!) right there, loud as could be, with other people in the waiting closet (I'd say "waiting room" in most instances, but clearly, this was a closet at one time). Thankfully the other two people there appeared to be strictly Russian speaking so I was safe on that end. And they were safe on my end because when you took them into the "exam room" which again, was probably a closet at one time to include the original slatted closet door to allow for minimum privacy), I was unable to understand any of their ailments. You were speaking only Russian. (This is when I became concerned that I'd have to "act out" the purpose of my visit to make up for the obvious language barrier, but then again, acting out "Can you please renew my birth control prescription?" isn't exactly easy to maneuver).
When it was finally my turn, I was expecting to be seen by your nurse, but alas, you have no assistants other than your receptionist/bra model who apparently has no qualms about busting into the exam closet when you have a phone call without even knocking or apologizing. I was, however, relieved to learn that you do speak English. I was really worried about the game of charades I was going to have to play. Thank you for handling my primary issue quickly, but honestly, you didn't have to spend the next half hour trying to talk me into having other medical conditions. No, I do not have allergies. No, I do not have a drinking problem (I'm not Russian, remember?). No, I don't do drugs and I don't need the assistance of an obstetrician at this time (remember why I'm here? Maybe I will have to act this out after all!). I don't have a heart condition, blindness or swimmer's ear. It was almost offensive when you sighed, looked off into space, deep in thought, desperately trying to find something wrong with me. Be happy for me! I'm basically healthy!
I will give credit where credit is due though. Thank you for looking at me and saying, "Well, obviously you don't have a weight problem so I'm not going to weigh you." I LOVED this (although I could do without maybe 20lbs that I'm carrying around). A quick scan of your office showed me that you probably don't have a scale, but I'll just go with your assessment. I like that better.
Double hugs, double kiss, double the size of your office please!
L.
While I admit that I have had disagreements with my insurance in the past, I didn't think they'd exact that kind of revenge on me when they selected you as my primary care physician. Nothing personal, but your office was a bit daunting to say the least. The fact that it was the size of my bathroom aside, it was odd that your receptionist was just kind of hanging out behind a desk, chillin' out maxin' and relaxin' all cool (who doesn't love Fresh Prince!?) in her see-through blouse, right there in the middle of the "waiting room" which was more like 3 square feet of carpet with 2 cafeteria chairs and a bookshelf full of medical files easily accessible for anyone to snag and use for light waiting room reading. It was even more frightening when the receptionist (who I'm guessing was 16, max) called my insurance company, ON SPEAKER PHONE, and proceeded to give them my name, social, birthdate and bra size (not really, but might as well have!) right there, loud as could be, with other people in the waiting closet (I'd say "waiting room" in most instances, but clearly, this was a closet at one time). Thankfully the other two people there appeared to be strictly Russian speaking so I was safe on that end. And they were safe on my end because when you took them into the "exam room" which again, was probably a closet at one time to include the original slatted closet door to allow for minimum privacy), I was unable to understand any of their ailments. You were speaking only Russian. (This is when I became concerned that I'd have to "act out" the purpose of my visit to make up for the obvious language barrier, but then again, acting out "Can you please renew my birth control prescription?" isn't exactly easy to maneuver).
When it was finally my turn, I was expecting to be seen by your nurse, but alas, you have no assistants other than your receptionist/bra model who apparently has no qualms about busting into the exam closet when you have a phone call without even knocking or apologizing. I was, however, relieved to learn that you do speak English. I was really worried about the game of charades I was going to have to play. Thank you for handling my primary issue quickly, but honestly, you didn't have to spend the next half hour trying to talk me into having other medical conditions. No, I do not have allergies. No, I do not have a drinking problem (I'm not Russian, remember?). No, I don't do drugs and I don't need the assistance of an obstetrician at this time (remember why I'm here? Maybe I will have to act this out after all!). I don't have a heart condition, blindness or swimmer's ear. It was almost offensive when you sighed, looked off into space, deep in thought, desperately trying to find something wrong with me. Be happy for me! I'm basically healthy!
I will give credit where credit is due though. Thank you for looking at me and saying, "Well, obviously you don't have a weight problem so I'm not going to weigh you." I LOVED this (although I could do without maybe 20lbs that I'm carrying around). A quick scan of your office showed me that you probably don't have a scale, but I'll just go with your assessment. I like that better.
Double hugs, double kiss, double the size of your office please!
L.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Open Letter to New York City
Dear NYC,
So, I just found out you might not be "all that" after all. You go around parading yourself on a global level as the ultra chic center of all that is holy and cutting-edge in, well, everything, but see....that's a lie. NYC....you're kidding yourself if you think you've got the monopoly on the SuperFabulous market. I know this because this past weekend, I went to Boston.
Here are a few reasons why you should watch your back:
1. In NYC when you approach a subway attendant, they immediately pretend to be (1) asleep, (2) deaf (3) blind (4) deaf & blind & asleep and (5) dead. In Boston, you do not have to approach the subway attendant because chances are, he/she has left her insular world behind the plexiglass and is standing by the ticket machines eager to help. Yes. EAGER to do work. Imagine that.
2. In NYC, you will...WILL...encounter fecal matter on a daily basis. It could be anywhere...anytime. Lurking in subway elevators, playgrounds, planter boxes, and sidewalks (ie, right in the middle, not tucked away). We're not talking about doggie doo. In Boston, never once did I feel the overwhelming need to vomit/douse myself in hand sanitizer and light a match. Not once!
3. In NYC, you will more than likely encounter at least 10 people a day whose bathing status is "unknown". Never once have I left the house and not passed multiple people who remind me that I need to restock on deodorant (or hand sanitizer). In Boston, everyone grooms. Everyone at least has a bath. I can tell. I'd shake hands with 99% of the Bostonians I saw. I'd shake hands with 10% of NY'ers.
4. In NYC, you will hear the F-bomb used as a noun, verb, adjective, pronoun, and exclamation. All day long. You will find yourself yelling, "Duck? Where are the ducks?" so that your two-year old doesn't start asking for the F-ing apple juice the next time he's thirsty. In Boston, they just say "Wicked" all the time. Strange, but charming. I'd rather hear my son ask for the wicked juice any day of the week.
5. In NYC, if you are lost, well....people will refer you to #4 on my list. In Boston, they approach the obviously lost and assist without hesitation. They may even offer to purchase you a beer and trace your family history back to the days of Sam Adams and Paul Revere. They're just wicked nice like that.
6. In NYC, you can get drunk at any bar at any time of the day. In Boston, you can get drunk at any bar at any time of the day. So I guess this one is a draw.
7. Boston is home to Harvard, MIT, and Boston University to name a few. In general, people there seem pretty astute. NYC is home to Columbia, Cornell & NYU. However it is also home to 8 million insane and dirty people. Those people seem to be running the city and all the major operations that I encounter every day. Not sure where those smart kids are, but if they're really smart, they're all hanging out in Boston.
8. In NYC, when you're done with any beverage/paper/bag, etc, chances are you will throw it on the ground. Littering is the accepted practice in NYC and it is encouraged by the city as there are very few trash cans. In Boston, there are newspaper recycling cans in the subway and trashcans every 100 feet (my husband, the engineer, actually counted this). It is clean. The absence of garbage is refreshing and I guarantee you that with the absence of trash comes the absence of rodents, although my son missed seeing the "kitty cats" on the subway as he calls them here.
9. The subways in NYC are "use at your own risk". They are multifunctional. The NYC subway system is a urinial on rails, a home for the city's homeless population, a hub of entertainment for the out-of-tune-and-drunk-street-performer variety (usually using body parts as musical instruments if a real instrument is not available), and a spot for people to engage in public displays of insanity. The Boston "T" as it's called is a hub for transportation. Imagine that. I did not enter the underground with the same cause for alarm as I do in NYC. I did not need a weapon or a plan of escape. I did not need to collapse the stroller, squeeze through the turnstile without my child losing a limb, and I didn't sweat. It's handicapped accessible and the elevators are used for elevating.....not toilets. Nobody tried to guilt me into giving money by telling me I'm a bad example for my son. Yay Boston!
10. In NYC, I have an Ally McBeal fantasy of taking a baseball bat and bashing in the windows of every car that honks at me. So, as you can imagine, I think about this all day long when I'm driving. Everybody honks. I have nightmares about honking. Driving here has drawn out my inner road rager and I have found myself screaming and waving my fists in the air at cars who are jerks (my son has started imitating me. It's embarrassing because he's actually pretty accurate). It's awful. In Boston, I didn't hear honking and never once added "baseball bat" to my shopping list. Refreshing.
So there are just a few reasons why NYC should seriously get off the ego trip. Boston has got it together. And they have awesome historical sites and groovy restaurants and amazing parks. NYC....you are not the mother of all big cities. You can't fool me anyway.
No kisses or hugs for you today,
L.
So, I just found out you might not be "all that" after all. You go around parading yourself on a global level as the ultra chic center of all that is holy and cutting-edge in, well, everything, but see....that's a lie. NYC....you're kidding yourself if you think you've got the monopoly on the SuperFabulous market. I know this because this past weekend, I went to Boston.
Here are a few reasons why you should watch your back:
1. In NYC when you approach a subway attendant, they immediately pretend to be (1) asleep, (2) deaf (3) blind (4) deaf & blind & asleep and (5) dead. In Boston, you do not have to approach the subway attendant because chances are, he/she has left her insular world behind the plexiglass and is standing by the ticket machines eager to help. Yes. EAGER to do work. Imagine that.
2. In NYC, you will...WILL...encounter fecal matter on a daily basis. It could be anywhere...anytime. Lurking in subway elevators, playgrounds, planter boxes, and sidewalks (ie, right in the middle, not tucked away). We're not talking about doggie doo. In Boston, never once did I feel the overwhelming need to vomit/douse myself in hand sanitizer and light a match. Not once!
3. In NYC, you will more than likely encounter at least 10 people a day whose bathing status is "unknown". Never once have I left the house and not passed multiple people who remind me that I need to restock on deodorant (or hand sanitizer). In Boston, everyone grooms. Everyone at least has a bath. I can tell. I'd shake hands with 99% of the Bostonians I saw. I'd shake hands with 10% of NY'ers.
4. In NYC, you will hear the F-bomb used as a noun, verb, adjective, pronoun, and exclamation. All day long. You will find yourself yelling, "Duck? Where are the ducks?" so that your two-year old doesn't start asking for the F-ing apple juice the next time he's thirsty. In Boston, they just say "Wicked" all the time. Strange, but charming. I'd rather hear my son ask for the wicked juice any day of the week.
5. In NYC, if you are lost, well....people will refer you to #4 on my list. In Boston, they approach the obviously lost and assist without hesitation. They may even offer to purchase you a beer and trace your family history back to the days of Sam Adams and Paul Revere. They're just wicked nice like that.
6. In NYC, you can get drunk at any bar at any time of the day. In Boston, you can get drunk at any bar at any time of the day. So I guess this one is a draw.
7. Boston is home to Harvard, MIT, and Boston University to name a few. In general, people there seem pretty astute. NYC is home to Columbia, Cornell & NYU. However it is also home to 8 million insane and dirty people. Those people seem to be running the city and all the major operations that I encounter every day. Not sure where those smart kids are, but if they're really smart, they're all hanging out in Boston.
8. In NYC, when you're done with any beverage/paper/bag, etc, chances are you will throw it on the ground. Littering is the accepted practice in NYC and it is encouraged by the city as there are very few trash cans. In Boston, there are newspaper recycling cans in the subway and trashcans every 100 feet (my husband, the engineer, actually counted this). It is clean. The absence of garbage is refreshing and I guarantee you that with the absence of trash comes the absence of rodents, although my son missed seeing the "kitty cats" on the subway as he calls them here.
9. The subways in NYC are "use at your own risk". They are multifunctional. The NYC subway system is a urinial on rails, a home for the city's homeless population, a hub of entertainment for the out-of-tune-and-drunk-street-performer variety (usually using body parts as musical instruments if a real instrument is not available), and a spot for people to engage in public displays of insanity. The Boston "T" as it's called is a hub for transportation. Imagine that. I did not enter the underground with the same cause for alarm as I do in NYC. I did not need a weapon or a plan of escape. I did not need to collapse the stroller, squeeze through the turnstile without my child losing a limb, and I didn't sweat. It's handicapped accessible and the elevators are used for elevating.....not toilets. Nobody tried to guilt me into giving money by telling me I'm a bad example for my son. Yay Boston!
10. In NYC, I have an Ally McBeal fantasy of taking a baseball bat and bashing in the windows of every car that honks at me. So, as you can imagine, I think about this all day long when I'm driving. Everybody honks. I have nightmares about honking. Driving here has drawn out my inner road rager and I have found myself screaming and waving my fists in the air at cars who are jerks (my son has started imitating me. It's embarrassing because he's actually pretty accurate). It's awful. In Boston, I didn't hear honking and never once added "baseball bat" to my shopping list. Refreshing.
So there are just a few reasons why NYC should seriously get off the ego trip. Boston has got it together. And they have awesome historical sites and groovy restaurants and amazing parks. NYC....you are not the mother of all big cities. You can't fool me anyway.
No kisses or hugs for you today,
L.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Open Letter to NY Summer
Dear Summertime (if that's what you want to call yourself),
Dude! What was that? Seriously.....that's all you've got? A handful of 90 degree days followed by buckets and buckets and buckets of rain? Come on....the humidity didn't even break 75%. Surely that cannot be all she wrote in terms of summertime. That was more like Spring. Wimpy.
Here are my concerns: This morning, I saw a street sweeper sucking up a pile of leaves. I saw people raking....piles of leaves. I saw Halloween candy at the grocery store. We booked our Christmas airfare. I debated wearing a cardigan this morning. My NY Magazine for this week covered all the fall activities in the city. And last week's issue was all about fall fashion. My Southern Living magazine is starting to feature recipes using butternut squash and 50 different ways to cook with apples. I'm on high alert here as you can imagine.
Fall is my all time favorite season (perhaps because Fall exists only my imagination...I've never lived anywhere besides Huntsville that actually, technically, had an Autumn), however this year it is bittersweet because now I am enlightened. I know what comes next. It's like not wanting to watch Old Yeller even though you know it's a good story because you also know what happens to Old Yeller in the end. He FREEZES TO DEATH. Well, not exactly, but same difference. Even my excitement over the opportunity to wear cute boots (I want flat boots past the knee this year, according to NY Mag) and decorate with all my favorite colors isn't enough to get rid of that nagging "OMG" feeling that reminds me that soon I will be wearing different, less attractive boots and that God-awful coat that smells like the subway no matter how many times I Febreeze it and take it to the dry cleaners.
So Summer, come on. Don't be a prude. Let it all hang out sister. Give us everything you've got because all too soon I will be writing letters apologizing for my demands and begging you to come back to us.
Double hugs, double kiss,
L.
Dude! What was that? Seriously.....that's all you've got? A handful of 90 degree days followed by buckets and buckets and buckets of rain? Come on....the humidity didn't even break 75%. Surely that cannot be all she wrote in terms of summertime. That was more like Spring. Wimpy.
Here are my concerns: This morning, I saw a street sweeper sucking up a pile of leaves. I saw people raking....piles of leaves. I saw Halloween candy at the grocery store. We booked our Christmas airfare. I debated wearing a cardigan this morning. My NY Magazine for this week covered all the fall activities in the city. And last week's issue was all about fall fashion. My Southern Living magazine is starting to feature recipes using butternut squash and 50 different ways to cook with apples. I'm on high alert here as you can imagine.
Fall is my all time favorite season (perhaps because Fall exists only my imagination...I've never lived anywhere besides Huntsville that actually, technically, had an Autumn), however this year it is bittersweet because now I am enlightened. I know what comes next. It's like not wanting to watch Old Yeller even though you know it's a good story because you also know what happens to Old Yeller in the end. He FREEZES TO DEATH. Well, not exactly, but same difference. Even my excitement over the opportunity to wear cute boots (I want flat boots past the knee this year, according to NY Mag) and decorate with all my favorite colors isn't enough to get rid of that nagging "OMG" feeling that reminds me that soon I will be wearing different, less attractive boots and that God-awful coat that smells like the subway no matter how many times I Febreeze it and take it to the dry cleaners.
So Summer, come on. Don't be a prude. Let it all hang out sister. Give us everything you've got because all too soon I will be writing letters apologizing for my demands and begging you to come back to us.
Double hugs, double kiss,
L.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Open Letter to Public Pee'ers
Dear People Who Urinate in Public,
Did you not read my previous letter? It's bad enough when grown men do it, but passing it on to the next generation? Que Horror! I have to admit I was seriously taken aback (meaning I literally had to step back to avoid the "flow") when my husband and I were strolling along 5th Avenue after watching Julie and Julia (albeit in the world's most ghetto-fabu theater), enjoying a rare moment of "together time" without our son, when suddenly the little girl walking ahead of us announces she has to pee and literally hikes up her dress and does the deed right there on the sidewalk. There was no artful attempt to hide the infraction nor was the parent standing there with a look of shame and horror on her face. It was like, "hurry up and pee already". I was speechless (and also thinking of the many times Ryan has fallen down on sidewalks here, using his hands to catch himself. MORE SANITIZER PLEASE!)
Ummm....so NYC is TOTALLY not helping me potty train my kiddo. I do not appreciate this as I don't think they make diapers for 10 year olds (well, maybe they do, but probably not as absorbant). Thankfully our little guy wasn't there to see and cheer for this most recent display, but geez. WHY is it so common to see people doing that here?! Once again I appeal to the general public and especially those fond of relieving nature's call far away from any actual "nature" to please, for the love of Charmin, find a potty! (Chances are, God willing my son gets over his fear of potty monsters, I'll soon be carrying one in my giant purse and I'd be happy to let you use it).
Double hugs, double ply,
L.
Did you not read my previous letter? It's bad enough when grown men do it, but passing it on to the next generation? Que Horror! I have to admit I was seriously taken aback (meaning I literally had to step back to avoid the "flow") when my husband and I were strolling along 5th Avenue after watching Julie and Julia (albeit in the world's most ghetto-fabu theater), enjoying a rare moment of "together time" without our son, when suddenly the little girl walking ahead of us announces she has to pee and literally hikes up her dress and does the deed right there on the sidewalk. There was no artful attempt to hide the infraction nor was the parent standing there with a look of shame and horror on her face. It was like, "hurry up and pee already". I was speechless (and also thinking of the many times Ryan has fallen down on sidewalks here, using his hands to catch himself. MORE SANITIZER PLEASE!)
Ummm....so NYC is TOTALLY not helping me potty train my kiddo. I do not appreciate this as I don't think they make diapers for 10 year olds (well, maybe they do, but probably not as absorbant). Thankfully our little guy wasn't there to see and cheer for this most recent display, but geez. WHY is it so common to see people doing that here?! Once again I appeal to the general public and especially those fond of relieving nature's call far away from any actual "nature" to please, for the love of Charmin, find a potty! (Chances are, God willing my son gets over his fear of potty monsters, I'll soon be carrying one in my giant purse and I'd be happy to let you use it).
Double hugs, double ply,
L.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Open Letter to Woman Whom I So Wrongfully Offended Today
Dear Madam,
I sincerely apologize for being so offensive today. I am humiliated, as you probably are as well--all my fault, of course. When you told me you were taking "the 9 year old to Antarctica" I made the poor assumption that it was your grandchild and the even worse decision to verbalize that thought. MY. BAD. I hope you and your DAUGHTER have a great time exploring cold terrain together. Maybe it will be so cold that this encounter between us will somehow be frozen from your memory and you'll forget all about my enormous faux pas. I'm also sorry that this occurred in front of your BFF, who swore to heckle you about it for years to come. Maybe you could take her to Antarctica too--and leave her there, since she doesn't seem like much of a BFF. (And I totally do not recommend myself as her replacement, obviously.)
In closing, while I know you are my husband's superior, I do hope that the disconnect in my brain t0 mouth wiring will not reflect poorly on his position in the office.
Anyways, maybe we can still be friends?
Double Kiss, Double Hugs, TRIPLE apologies,
L.
I sincerely apologize for being so offensive today. I am humiliated, as you probably are as well--all my fault, of course. When you told me you were taking "the 9 year old to Antarctica" I made the poor assumption that it was your grandchild and the even worse decision to verbalize that thought. MY. BAD. I hope you and your DAUGHTER have a great time exploring cold terrain together. Maybe it will be so cold that this encounter between us will somehow be frozen from your memory and you'll forget all about my enormous faux pas. I'm also sorry that this occurred in front of your BFF, who swore to heckle you about it for years to come. Maybe you could take her to Antarctica too--and leave her there, since she doesn't seem like much of a BFF. (And I totally do not recommend myself as her replacement, obviously.)
In closing, while I know you are my husband's superior, I do hope that the disconnect in my brain t0 mouth wiring will not reflect poorly on his position in the office.
Anyways, maybe we can still be friends?
Double Kiss, Double Hugs, TRIPLE apologies,
L.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Open Letter to Rasta Gucci Man at Target
Dear Rastafarian Gucci Bag Salesman,
I am annoyed that you tried to sell me a knockoff Gucci bag in the diaper aisle of Target. Last time I checked, you need to be wearing a red polo & ironed khakis to be selling things at Target. All I wanted to do was hop in, grab some size 4's, and make my way to join the 500 people in line at the one open checkout lane in the entire store. But instead I had to listen to you as you dug around in your garbage bag full of purses whispering something that sounded like "Ayladeeeee, wannapursaforapreddyladeeeee?" Also, when I tried to run away from you, my finger one digit away from calling 911 on my cell, it did not help matters to tell me to "reeeeelaaaaxxxxxxx". Just because this is probably the nastiest, most disorganized Target with a sales plan clearly modeled after a third world open air market, (ie I would not have been surprised to see a "Goats & Other Livestock" aisle), it is not appropriate to bring your illegal operations in here, especially to the kiddie aisles. That is why we have Canal Street, okay? Now, had you had a garbage bag full of Huggies priced under $30 per box, perhaps we could have had a conversation.
Double Hugs, Double Kiss, Double Sanitizer,
L.
I am annoyed that you tried to sell me a knockoff Gucci bag in the diaper aisle of Target. Last time I checked, you need to be wearing a red polo & ironed khakis to be selling things at Target. All I wanted to do was hop in, grab some size 4's, and make my way to join the 500 people in line at the one open checkout lane in the entire store. But instead I had to listen to you as you dug around in your garbage bag full of purses whispering something that sounded like "Ayladeeeee, wannapursaforapreddyladeeeee?" Also, when I tried to run away from you, my finger one digit away from calling 911 on my cell, it did not help matters to tell me to "reeeeelaaaaxxxxxxx". Just because this is probably the nastiest, most disorganized Target with a sales plan clearly modeled after a third world open air market, (ie I would not have been surprised to see a "Goats & Other Livestock" aisle), it is not appropriate to bring your illegal operations in here, especially to the kiddie aisles. That is why we have Canal Street, okay? Now, had you had a garbage bag full of Huggies priced under $30 per box, perhaps we could have had a conversation.
Double Hugs, Double Kiss, Double Sanitizer,
L.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Open Letter to Carrie Bradshaw
Dear Ms. Bradshaw,
So okay. I know you're a fictional character, but humor me. I'm a little perturbed right now. You see, I was never a huge fan of Sex and the City, but I watched it on occasion and quickly learned, or so I thought, about "going out" in Manhattan. Fancy dress, fancy shoes, fancy friends, etc. Swell. So you can imagine my elation when I was recently invited to attend a Girls' Night Wine & Cheese party at my friend M's apartment in the city. I was over the moon excited about this event. I was going out to talk with adults and drink wine and wear fun clothes, etc. I immediately thought of you Carrie. I was going to channel all I had learned and use it to formulate the perfect evening out on the town by myself, sans toddler. Here's what I don't get:
1. I bet you, Carrie Bradshaw, never rode the subway for 5 stops before realizing that the bottle of wine you purchased specifically for this event was left in the car at the original stop. I bet you never had to make the decision to get off the subway at a random stop, praying they'd have a liquor store nearby, and I also bet that you were never the only one in a liquor store who DIDN'T get carded. That's a lot of betting, I know.
2. Carrie Bradshaw, have you EVER been reading a book on the subway and laugh so hard that you had to hold your mouth like a fish face to keep from braying like a jackass and yet still could not do anything about your shoulders which are shaking like crazy from the inner laughter? Yeah...thought not. Me? Oh yes. I looked like an epileptic fish. Posh.
3. I bet Carrie Bradshaw never rode 4 stops in the wrong direction because she was in such a hurry to get back on track after a liquor store diversion that she didn't pay attention to the whole uptown/downtown signage. But guess what? I totally did! Amateur mistake, and yet I manage. And it's about 110 degrees under ground in the summer. Tell me, Care-Bear, how you maintain your dynomite hair and makeup when it is 110 degrees? Oh wait. I know. It's called a Taxi.
5. I bet you never EVER had to use a chilled wine bottle as a cold compress to prevent you from getting armpit stains on your dress. Yeah. Never. But yet, two hours of hanging out underground in Manhattan will do that to a gal!
6. Lets talk about the shoes, Carrie. This is what really urked me the most because when I did, finally after 2 hours of riding around on the subway, 30 minutes of which was spent listening to a modern-day Cheech and Chong debate the merits of washing one's hair every other day vs. daily, arrive in Manhattan at the appropriate stop, I figured my shoes would get me where I needed to go. I mean, I wasn't even wearing Manolos. By the time I walked 3 blocks in the WRONG direction and then had to circle back plus add an additional 4 blocks, my feet were bleeding. BLEEDING. Classy. I never saw this happen to you Carrie. Not once. And I was wearing Naturalizer low granny heels disguised as "cute shoes".
7. On nary an episode of SATC did you, Ms. Bradshaw, arrive at a party totally dishevelled and harboring a strong desire to uncork your own bottle of hostess wine with your teeth and take a swig prior to ringing the bell. Never (well maybe you DID do this) did you down 4 glasses of wine in a matter of 10 minutes and seriously contemplate sticking your head in the cooler of ice in order to cool off from the "ordeal" of getting to the party.
8. How often have you ever played the "Two Lies and a Truth" ice breaker? Carrie, I bet you've played it at least once. But how often have you played it with people whose truths include being Jermaine Jackson's personal chauffer (the dude is g-a-y btw), going to Malaga(Spain) on a 2nd date next week, or have been shot at by Ugandans during a political coup? Yeah. Thought not. So there's me with my "I'm an Army wife." "I like brussel sprouts". "And my son is potty trained". So awesome. I totally rocked that game. (Actually, I did rock that game a bit. I quickly came up with some cool stuff after the Ugandan Coup lady took her turn).
9. Carrie Bradshaw never had to eat 50 pieces of cheese and half a loaf of bread to sober up after 4 glasses of wine so she could hurry home before Kentucky Fried Chicken closed so that she could pick up a bucket of wings to take to the family reunion the following day. (FYI Carrie, KFC was closed by the time I got there. FYI to everyone...KFC is not open at 2am.)
10. And perhaps the most embarrassing of them all...NEVER did Carrie Bradshaw EVER have to borrow the shoes literally off the hostess's feet to wear home because the thought of leaving that party and reliving the whole walk/ride home in those heels made you want to curl up in the fetal position and rock back & forth in the corner. But I did it. They were JCrew flip flops, too big for my feet. And one fell off as I was exiting the stair case on the subway and rolled down 9 steps before Skeevy Weird Dude picked it up, brought it to me, asked if I would turn into Cinderella while I silently cried about the plethora of subway germs multiplying on my foot at that very moment.
Carrie, don't get me wrong girlfriend. I had a ball once I finally did make it to the party. But I'm a tidge bit disappointed that I was unable to carry it off in CB Fashion. I suppose I need more practice, but in defense of women everywhere who are living vicariously through SATC reruns and dreaming of the day they too get invited to a fun, swanky party in the city...PLEASE keep it real girl. It ain't all glitz and glam. There's a lot of huffing, puffing, and sweating involved.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L in the City
So okay. I know you're a fictional character, but humor me. I'm a little perturbed right now. You see, I was never a huge fan of Sex and the City, but I watched it on occasion and quickly learned, or so I thought, about "going out" in Manhattan. Fancy dress, fancy shoes, fancy friends, etc. Swell. So you can imagine my elation when I was recently invited to attend a Girls' Night Wine & Cheese party at my friend M's apartment in the city. I was over the moon excited about this event. I was going out to talk with adults and drink wine and wear fun clothes, etc. I immediately thought of you Carrie. I was going to channel all I had learned and use it to formulate the perfect evening out on the town by myself, sans toddler. Here's what I don't get:
1. I bet you, Carrie Bradshaw, never rode the subway for 5 stops before realizing that the bottle of wine you purchased specifically for this event was left in the car at the original stop. I bet you never had to make the decision to get off the subway at a random stop, praying they'd have a liquor store nearby, and I also bet that you were never the only one in a liquor store who DIDN'T get carded. That's a lot of betting, I know.
2. Carrie Bradshaw, have you EVER been reading a book on the subway and laugh so hard that you had to hold your mouth like a fish face to keep from braying like a jackass and yet still could not do anything about your shoulders which are shaking like crazy from the inner laughter? Yeah...thought not. Me? Oh yes. I looked like an epileptic fish. Posh.
3. I bet Carrie Bradshaw never rode 4 stops in the wrong direction because she was in such a hurry to get back on track after a liquor store diversion that she didn't pay attention to the whole uptown/downtown signage. But guess what? I totally did! Amateur mistake, and yet I manage. And it's about 110 degrees under ground in the summer. Tell me, Care-Bear, how you maintain your dynomite hair and makeup when it is 110 degrees? Oh wait. I know. It's called a Taxi.
5. I bet you never EVER had to use a chilled wine bottle as a cold compress to prevent you from getting armpit stains on your dress. Yeah. Never. But yet, two hours of hanging out underground in Manhattan will do that to a gal!
6. Lets talk about the shoes, Carrie. This is what really urked me the most because when I did, finally after 2 hours of riding around on the subway, 30 minutes of which was spent listening to a modern-day Cheech and Chong debate the merits of washing one's hair every other day vs. daily, arrive in Manhattan at the appropriate stop, I figured my shoes would get me where I needed to go. I mean, I wasn't even wearing Manolos. By the time I walked 3 blocks in the WRONG direction and then had to circle back plus add an additional 4 blocks, my feet were bleeding. BLEEDING. Classy. I never saw this happen to you Carrie. Not once. And I was wearing Naturalizer low granny heels disguised as "cute shoes".
7. On nary an episode of SATC did you, Ms. Bradshaw, arrive at a party totally dishevelled and harboring a strong desire to uncork your own bottle of hostess wine with your teeth and take a swig prior to ringing the bell. Never (well maybe you DID do this) did you down 4 glasses of wine in a matter of 10 minutes and seriously contemplate sticking your head in the cooler of ice in order to cool off from the "ordeal" of getting to the party.
8. How often have you ever played the "Two Lies and a Truth" ice breaker? Carrie, I bet you've played it at least once. But how often have you played it with people whose truths include being Jermaine Jackson's personal chauffer (the dude is g-a-y btw), going to Malaga(Spain) on a 2nd date next week, or have been shot at by Ugandans during a political coup? Yeah. Thought not. So there's me with my "I'm an Army wife." "I like brussel sprouts". "And my son is potty trained". So awesome. I totally rocked that game. (Actually, I did rock that game a bit. I quickly came up with some cool stuff after the Ugandan Coup lady took her turn).
9. Carrie Bradshaw never had to eat 50 pieces of cheese and half a loaf of bread to sober up after 4 glasses of wine so she could hurry home before Kentucky Fried Chicken closed so that she could pick up a bucket of wings to take to the family reunion the following day. (FYI Carrie, KFC was closed by the time I got there. FYI to everyone...KFC is not open at 2am.)
10. And perhaps the most embarrassing of them all...NEVER did Carrie Bradshaw EVER have to borrow the shoes literally off the hostess's feet to wear home because the thought of leaving that party and reliving the whole walk/ride home in those heels made you want to curl up in the fetal position and rock back & forth in the corner. But I did it. They were JCrew flip flops, too big for my feet. And one fell off as I was exiting the stair case on the subway and rolled down 9 steps before Skeevy Weird Dude picked it up, brought it to me, asked if I would turn into Cinderella while I silently cried about the plethora of subway germs multiplying on my foot at that very moment.
Carrie, don't get me wrong girlfriend. I had a ball once I finally did make it to the party. But I'm a tidge bit disappointed that I was unable to carry it off in CB Fashion. I suppose I need more practice, but in defense of women everywhere who are living vicariously through SATC reruns and dreaming of the day they too get invited to a fun, swanky party in the city...PLEASE keep it real girl. It ain't all glitz and glam. There's a lot of huffing, puffing, and sweating involved.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L in the City
Friday, August 14, 2009
Open Letter to 3 Random Men, One with Severe Butt Crack Issues
Dear Sirs,
This morning I had the privledge of dropping off my husband at the subway stop. This is something I do from time to time when the stars align and we're all out of bed and alert at the same time in the morning. It is only a 5 minute ride to the stop, but it saves him about 20 minutes of walk time. After depositing him at the corner of 4th & 95th, I proceeded the brief ride home. (I'm still in my pj's, that's how brief it is). This is when I encounter Sir #1, who incidentally also has somewhat of a butt crack issue. There you are standing in front of St. Patrick's School relieving yourself of your morning coffee. Right there on the side walk. IN FRONT OF A SCHOOL! Thank you Jesus that it is summer time and there were no children present, but honestly. You were peeing on the house of the Lord and a school! WITH YOUR BUTT CRACK SHOWING! That's triple lightening strikes for you Sir!
I am still reeling from Sir #1 when I get to the end of the block & what do I see? You, Sir #2, relieving yourself of your morning beer (yes, it probably was beer based on the stagger and proximity to the Panic Room bar. The fact that it is 7am means nothing.) right there in the park where my child plays. Unacceptable. But because I was in my pajamas while driving, it was also unacceptable for me to exit my vehicle to scold you for being a jerk head. But let the record show that I do, indeed, think you are a jerk head.
At this point, I am pretty pissed, no pun intended. But because it appears to be National Pee Outside In Public Day, it comes as no surprise when I notice Sir #3 doing what I call the Artful Dodger Taxi Stance . Thank you for at least attempting to cover up your transgression with your car door. Almost tasteful, but not quite. Who are you kidding? Everybody knows what's going on over there behind that door. Bonus point for you though for at least trying.
I understand that this is New York where people live with the mentality that the world is your urinal, but seeing 3 men in under a minute all relieving themselves in public is cause for concern. It's like a mini-epidemic, ya know? Churches, playgrounds and streets aren't really the best spots for this activity. I mean, if I'm going to spend all this time and effort trying to teach my 2 year old to pee in a potty, can you at least help me out by peeing in spots where people expect to find urine...like the subway or in the corner at the deli? I'll even give you an M&M, just like I do for him. (Actually, to date, Ryan has had 2 M&M's and mommy has had 2 bags of M&Ms, but hey...who's counting?)
So lets all pull up our pants, invest in a subway pass, and carry your business underground where people expect to see that kind of behavior.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs (well, maybe not, but I'm just trying to be nice),
L.
This morning I had the privledge of dropping off my husband at the subway stop. This is something I do from time to time when the stars align and we're all out of bed and alert at the same time in the morning. It is only a 5 minute ride to the stop, but it saves him about 20 minutes of walk time. After depositing him at the corner of 4th & 95th, I proceeded the brief ride home. (I'm still in my pj's, that's how brief it is). This is when I encounter Sir #1, who incidentally also has somewhat of a butt crack issue. There you are standing in front of St. Patrick's School relieving yourself of your morning coffee. Right there on the side walk. IN FRONT OF A SCHOOL! Thank you Jesus that it is summer time and there were no children present, but honestly. You were peeing on the house of the Lord and a school! WITH YOUR BUTT CRACK SHOWING! That's triple lightening strikes for you Sir!
I am still reeling from Sir #1 when I get to the end of the block & what do I see? You, Sir #2, relieving yourself of your morning beer (yes, it probably was beer based on the stagger and proximity to the Panic Room bar. The fact that it is 7am means nothing.) right there in the park where my child plays. Unacceptable. But because I was in my pajamas while driving, it was also unacceptable for me to exit my vehicle to scold you for being a jerk head. But let the record show that I do, indeed, think you are a jerk head.
At this point, I am pretty pissed, no pun intended. But because it appears to be National Pee Outside In Public Day, it comes as no surprise when I notice Sir #3 doing what I call the Artful Dodger Taxi Stance . Thank you for at least attempting to cover up your transgression with your car door. Almost tasteful, but not quite. Who are you kidding? Everybody knows what's going on over there behind that door. Bonus point for you though for at least trying.
I understand that this is New York where people live with the mentality that the world is your urinal, but seeing 3 men in under a minute all relieving themselves in public is cause for concern. It's like a mini-epidemic, ya know? Churches, playgrounds and streets aren't really the best spots for this activity. I mean, if I'm going to spend all this time and effort trying to teach my 2 year old to pee in a potty, can you at least help me out by peeing in spots where people expect to find urine...like the subway or in the corner at the deli? I'll even give you an M&M, just like I do for him. (Actually, to date, Ryan has had 2 M&M's and mommy has had 2 bags of M&Ms, but hey...who's counting?)
So lets all pull up our pants, invest in a subway pass, and carry your business underground where people expect to see that kind of behavior.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs (well, maybe not, but I'm just trying to be nice),
L.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Open Letter to Pediatrician Receptionist with the Frosted Hair Circa 1985
Dear Receptionist with the Frosted Tips:
Thank you for being so accomodating by allowing me to keep the appointment I made over the phone which someone in your office neglected to write down in the magic book of appointments. Thanks for squeezing me in between, well, Nobody & Nobody Else as your waiting room was filled with invisible kids with invisible ailments at the time of my unplanned (on your part) arrival. You and I could totally hang out together (once you get rid of that hair dresser of yours), however I would like to set the record straight on something. Just because I carry military health insurance and my husband is an active duty soldier in the US Army does not mean that I can fill you in on the secrets from next season's upcoming episodes of Lifetime TV's hit show Army Wives. And no, I cannot provide my autograph nor do I know Catherine Bell personally. It was nice of you to bring in your friend, Nurse ParachutePants, so that we could discuss this show I never watch together as a group. (By the way, is that Flock of Seagulls playing on the speakers right now?). I was happy to field your questions about the oh-so-exciting life of being an Army wife. No, I do not know anyone who has had an affair while their husband was deployed or otherwise, although I'm sure it happens. This is America. Jerry Springer conitnues to churn out new episodes. Crazy is bound to exist anywhere, including the Army. No, none of my friends own bars (although I've met plenty of friends who frequent them!) and I have never been to the Hump Bar. I think it's fictional. Just like the rest of the show. In my humble opinion, I think Army Wives pulls together the most stereotypical personas of Army wives and stations them all on the most idyllic and beautiful post of all time. In reality, being an Army wife means you have an extra form of ID in your wallet and your spouse disappears for sometimes months on end. That's about it. Yes there is drama from time to time, but don't you have drama here in this office/VH-1 Back to the 80's Episode ?
Anywho, I hope this clears up any miscommunication between us and I hope you find a hairdresser who is more versed in hair styles for this particular decade.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
Thank you for being so accomodating by allowing me to keep the appointment I made over the phone which someone in your office neglected to write down in the magic book of appointments. Thanks for squeezing me in between, well, Nobody & Nobody Else as your waiting room was filled with invisible kids with invisible ailments at the time of my unplanned (on your part) arrival. You and I could totally hang out together (once you get rid of that hair dresser of yours), however I would like to set the record straight on something. Just because I carry military health insurance and my husband is an active duty soldier in the US Army does not mean that I can fill you in on the secrets from next season's upcoming episodes of Lifetime TV's hit show Army Wives. And no, I cannot provide my autograph nor do I know Catherine Bell personally. It was nice of you to bring in your friend, Nurse ParachutePants, so that we could discuss this show I never watch together as a group. (By the way, is that Flock of Seagulls playing on the speakers right now?). I was happy to field your questions about the oh-so-exciting life of being an Army wife. No, I do not know anyone who has had an affair while their husband was deployed or otherwise, although I'm sure it happens. This is America. Jerry Springer conitnues to churn out new episodes. Crazy is bound to exist anywhere, including the Army. No, none of my friends own bars (although I've met plenty of friends who frequent them!) and I have never been to the Hump Bar. I think it's fictional. Just like the rest of the show. In my humble opinion, I think Army Wives pulls together the most stereotypical personas of Army wives and stations them all on the most idyllic and beautiful post of all time. In reality, being an Army wife means you have an extra form of ID in your wallet and your spouse disappears for sometimes months on end. That's about it. Yes there is drama from time to time, but don't you have drama here in this office/VH-1 Back to the 80's Episode ?
Anywho, I hope this clears up any miscommunication between us and I hope you find a hairdresser who is more versed in hair styles for this particular decade.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
Open Letter to Euro Mom at the Park
Dear Uber Hot Euro Mom at the Park,
Props to you for maintaining a size 2 bod while your kids clearly thrive on a diet of caffeine & sugar. Speaking of goodies, lets talk about yours. Holy crotch-shot! While I adore your chic black jersey knit mini dress (although even you know you're sweating from that scarf around your neck!), it is probably not the most appropriate attire for swinging, sliding and *gasp* doing pullups or any activity where your arms extend past your shoulders. Seriously! Now, in Sweden (or wherever you are from), this may be totally tres chic, however here in America, unless you are a drunken Hollywood starlet out for a night of wild debauchery and in desperate need of a career boost, underpants are the traditionally accepted garment designed for wear under dresses and general daily use. Sure I'm a little jealous that I don't look all smokin' hot when I take my kid to the park (although I am hot...I mean, it's summer time and it's humid!), but I have my morals. So lets put some shorts (or make good use of that scarf around your neck!) like all the other parents and save whatever you've got going on down there (or lack thereof) for the papparazzi during your next night on the town with who I can only assume is your Ken-doll husband.
Double kiss, double hugs,
L.
Props to you for maintaining a size 2 bod while your kids clearly thrive on a diet of caffeine & sugar. Speaking of goodies, lets talk about yours. Holy crotch-shot! While I adore your chic black jersey knit mini dress (although even you know you're sweating from that scarf around your neck!), it is probably not the most appropriate attire for swinging, sliding and *gasp* doing pullups or any activity where your arms extend past your shoulders. Seriously! Now, in Sweden (or wherever you are from), this may be totally tres chic, however here in America, unless you are a drunken Hollywood starlet out for a night of wild debauchery and in desperate need of a career boost, underpants are the traditionally accepted garment designed for wear under dresses and general daily use. Sure I'm a little jealous that I don't look all smokin' hot when I take my kid to the park (although I am hot...I mean, it's summer time and it's humid!), but I have my morals. So lets put some shorts (or make good use of that scarf around your neck!) like all the other parents and save whatever you've got going on down there (or lack thereof) for the papparazzi during your next night on the town with who I can only assume is your Ken-doll husband.
Double kiss, double hugs,
L.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
An Open Letter to God
Dear God,
I am sending this to you because I find myself saying, "Dear God" on a regular basis and yet never follow it up with a letter. So finally, here is your letter. First, I wish to thank you, from the bottom of my cholesterol stricken heart for having the stork drop me off somewhere south of the Mason Dixon Line. That right there is one of life's greatest blessings and I am truly grateful. Living a life of barefeet, sunshine, Southern Baptist Dinner on the Grounds (hence the cholesterol reference above), and excessive usage of the word "y'all" (& "Y'alls plural) has filled my heart with happiness. And being a Florida Gator....well...we all know there's a reason why the sun is orange and the sky is blue. *wink wink*.
I do not count Texas as the South, so I'm not particularly grateful for our stint there, but my childhood in Florida was awesome as was our four month stint in a furnished apartment in Huntsville, AL (despite the little neighborhood murder incident that occurred our first week there). Now Lord, what I don't really understand, and this is kind of the point of this letter, is how exactly we wound up here in Brooklyn, New York. Yeah, I know that there's a plan for everything, but unless your plan involves me dying in a firery car crash on a city street with a posted yet severely ignored speed limit of 30mph or stressing myself into an early grave at the checkout counter at the Coney Island Home Depot (worst one in the NATION), I'm not entirely sure what it is I'm supposed to be doing here. Yes, I know I'm an Army wife and we are supposed to have that little plaque in our home that says, "Home is where the Army sends us!" but frankly, that's just not my style of decor nor my philosophy on life. Home is a sandy beach in Florida. Plain and simple.
We've been living here in the Big Apple for about 8 months now and I've moved through different phases of acceptance. First I was literally screaming and jumping up and down that we were coming. Then I freaked out that we were coming. That phase lasted a while and involved me sending oodles of emails to current NY'ers asking them pressing questions like, "Should I buy a super puffy coat for my 2 year old, or just a medium puffy coat?" and "will my speaking of the English language be a problem there?". Then we arrived in the dead of winter and it was too darn cold for me to really have any other emotions until Spring arrived and my brain thawed out. Sure, I think it's pretty cool that we live here and obviously our friends do too because we've had more guests here than anywhere else we've lived. We have had some great opportunities to see and do cool stuff and we've met some great friends. But Lord, I am just astonished at the people we encounter here. We have friends here and obviously I'm not referring to them. I'm referring to the general population of crazy that seems to have congregated here on this island and surrounding borroughs. Lord, how did they all get here and what does that say about my recent arrival? Are you trying to tell me to get back on the meds?
Anyways, Lord, I've never been confrontational, verbally anyway, but you've given me the opportunity to encounter some insane, confrontation-worthy stuff since we've been here. And you've allowed me to keep customer service hotlines & survey companies in business (because good or bad, it's important to report!). And you've given me this computer and an English degree (although I'm a stay-home mom now and cannot be held responsible for poor grammar, mispellings, and incomplete sentences. This is a blog, not a thesis). I have always been better at communicating my feelings through writing (mainly because my tongue is always in my cheek and my foot is always in my mouth so speaking is usually not an option), so maybe I'm here to communicate to the masses on behalf of the Human Race Complaint Department. Maybe I can share a little of my frustrations in the hopes that others will not have to experience them. Maybe I can share some of my funnies, because you know how I love a good laugh. And maybe this is how I can make it through the next 18 months here before we're off to some place new (preferably south of the Mason Dixon Line por favor). Perhaps all those "dear God!" moments I have are part of your plan for me. Maybe this blog will, somehow, help me figure that out.
Amen.
I am sending this to you because I find myself saying, "Dear God" on a regular basis and yet never follow it up with a letter. So finally, here is your letter. First, I wish to thank you, from the bottom of my cholesterol stricken heart for having the stork drop me off somewhere south of the Mason Dixon Line. That right there is one of life's greatest blessings and I am truly grateful. Living a life of barefeet, sunshine, Southern Baptist Dinner on the Grounds (hence the cholesterol reference above), and excessive usage of the word "y'all" (& "Y'alls plural) has filled my heart with happiness. And being a Florida Gator....well...we all know there's a reason why the sun is orange and the sky is blue. *wink wink*.
I do not count Texas as the South, so I'm not particularly grateful for our stint there, but my childhood in Florida was awesome as was our four month stint in a furnished apartment in Huntsville, AL (despite the little neighborhood murder incident that occurred our first week there). Now Lord, what I don't really understand, and this is kind of the point of this letter, is how exactly we wound up here in Brooklyn, New York. Yeah, I know that there's a plan for everything, but unless your plan involves me dying in a firery car crash on a city street with a posted yet severely ignored speed limit of 30mph or stressing myself into an early grave at the checkout counter at the Coney Island Home Depot (worst one in the NATION), I'm not entirely sure what it is I'm supposed to be doing here. Yes, I know I'm an Army wife and we are supposed to have that little plaque in our home that says, "Home is where the Army sends us!" but frankly, that's just not my style of decor nor my philosophy on life. Home is a sandy beach in Florida. Plain and simple.
We've been living here in the Big Apple for about 8 months now and I've moved through different phases of acceptance. First I was literally screaming and jumping up and down that we were coming. Then I freaked out that we were coming. That phase lasted a while and involved me sending oodles of emails to current NY'ers asking them pressing questions like, "Should I buy a super puffy coat for my 2 year old, or just a medium puffy coat?" and "will my speaking of the English language be a problem there?". Then we arrived in the dead of winter and it was too darn cold for me to really have any other emotions until Spring arrived and my brain thawed out. Sure, I think it's pretty cool that we live here and obviously our friends do too because we've had more guests here than anywhere else we've lived. We have had some great opportunities to see and do cool stuff and we've met some great friends. But Lord, I am just astonished at the people we encounter here. We have friends here and obviously I'm not referring to them. I'm referring to the general population of crazy that seems to have congregated here on this island and surrounding borroughs. Lord, how did they all get here and what does that say about my recent arrival? Are you trying to tell me to get back on the meds?
Anyways, Lord, I've never been confrontational, verbally anyway, but you've given me the opportunity to encounter some insane, confrontation-worthy stuff since we've been here. And you've allowed me to keep customer service hotlines & survey companies in business (because good or bad, it's important to report!). And you've given me this computer and an English degree (although I'm a stay-home mom now and cannot be held responsible for poor grammar, mispellings, and incomplete sentences. This is a blog, not a thesis). I have always been better at communicating my feelings through writing (mainly because my tongue is always in my cheek and my foot is always in my mouth so speaking is usually not an option), so maybe I'm here to communicate to the masses on behalf of the Human Race Complaint Department. Maybe I can share a little of my frustrations in the hopes that others will not have to experience them. Maybe I can share some of my funnies, because you know how I love a good laugh. And maybe this is how I can make it through the next 18 months here before we're off to some place new (preferably south of the Mason Dixon Line por favor). Perhaps all those "dear God!" moments I have are part of your plan for me. Maybe this blog will, somehow, help me figure that out.
Amen.
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