Dear NYC Crime Families,
Just as I was beginning to think that I'd been in Brooklyn too long to notice the daily oddities that make it the freak show that it is, you guys come and surprise me. I woke up this morning living in a Gangsta's Paradise. (yes, I just quoted Coolio. Get over it). I try to maintain a low profile, carrying on in the stereotypical "stay-at-home mom" fashion. I drive a minivan (gag). I stand outside my son's school shamelessly holding a tiny space ship umbrella on rainy days. I tend to smell like baby puke most days, but I wear a lot of dark colors so you can't see it after I rub it into my clothes. My fire alarm goes off anytime I cook anything above 400 degrees in my oven. My life is so plain it makes a box of bran flakes look delicious. So how come I have a front row seat to the largest mafia roundup in history? What, pray tell, does a boring mom like me, one who gets excited about making a new stir fry for dinner, have in common with a mafioso besides dining at Lai Yuen Chinese Restaurant (Bay Ridgers know what I'm talking about) and the sharing the same zip code? Well, right now we're both living on the same street.
Last night I thought God was just looking out for me when I got to the gym and it was closed. Three cheers for a pain free night! Then I noticed that the gym parking lot was roped off and filled with very important looking government mobile command post vehicles with fancy antennas and satellite dishes and guys wearing the snazzy yet cliche FBI jackets hanging out all around. I figured it was just an antiterrorism exercise, which would be a logical explanation for anything out of the ordinary where I live. Then a huge US Marshal's mobile command post pulls in and sets up shop. Hmmmmm. Interesting. (In case you're wondering, I live across the street from the gym....it's God's daily reminder that I'm not getting any skinnier!). This morning I wake up and the place is swarming with feds. (I've always wanted to use the phrase "swarming with feds" to describe my current location. I can check that off the bucket list!). There is heavy activity in the gym and it's not by people going to the 6:30am spin class. I know this because I usually laugh at those people. A while later, my friend sends me a Facebook post stating "100 of your neighbors got arrested in a mob sting". I laugh and suggest that this would be the reason for all the activity across the street. So I turn on CNN to hear about my fellow New Yorkers making the city proud when I realize quickly that yes, indeed this IS the reason the feds have set up shop across the street. Holy Cow! I take another peek out the window and there is the "prison bus" pulling up and unloading Italy's finest. Briefly I imagine that the bus is playing the theme song to The Godfather....like a little ice cream truck full of murderers pulling into jail. There they are, the good, bad & ugly of America's top crime families. It's like a hair gel convention for old, sleazy gangsters. Suddenly I have the urge to watch all the Godfather movies consecutively and eat cannoli. Unfortunately the gym is closed and therefore I cannot eat cannoli because I am unable to burn off those calories in a heated environment. I am beside myself with excitement.
So, Crime Families, I understand you're not having the best day. Stuff you've been getting away with from as far back as 1981 (according to the unreliable CNN), has finally caught up with you. If it's any consolation, I appreciate the fact that it caught up with you in my front yard. Watching a live version of Law and Order go down steps away from my front door has added a little spice to my otherwise droll day of rubbing baby puke into my clothes, learning about ear wax from our pediatrician, and determining discipline strategies for our unruly three year old. Perhaps explaining to our three year old the "situation" going down in the gym parking lot might actually assist in making my point that the little man needs to mind his mama or suffer consequences. It might be a gesture of community service if you could throw a threatening glance his way to drive the point home?
Admittedly I will never quite understand how someone so "un-NY" like me could find herself in so many stereotypical New York situations, but today's scenario was quite funny in my book. So thanks Crime Families. I hope they're good to you in prison.
Triple kisses, because that's how ya'll do it in the movies,
L.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
An Open Letter to Potential Corporate Sponsors
Dear Corporations of America,
Anger Management. Let's face it. Even I need it. Tony Robbins....get yourself some additional publicity by providing group therapy for this place full of issues. Even my husband will tell you, "L did not have anger management issues prior to moving to Brooklyn". Don't even ask me how that hole on the back of our door got there. This place will turn you rotten. ROTTEN I say!
Hand Sanitizer. Probably the most mentioned item in my blog. Don't leave home without it. What's that perfume you're wearing, L? Why...it's Eau de Purell! As Depeche Mode so wisely put it, "Just can't get enough".
Dunkin Donuts. Actually, I think they already are a corporate sponsor of NYC. Much like with the Suburu Forester, you are always within view of a Dunkin Donuts. I can't imagine what kind of stampedes Krispy Kreme would create here. These people be lovin' their donuts.
Duane Reade. This is the "Walgreens" of NYC and, much like Dunkin Donuts and Suburu, you cannot escape its glare. They're everywhere. I'm starting to think Duane Reade, whoever he may be, is sort of a Big Brother entity here. Always watching. Distributing drugs to the masses. Reporting back to the Mothership. Interesting thing about Duane Reade/Walgreens type stores here. People actually frequent these stores shop for groceries and stuff. It's more than just a "run in and grab your prescription, photo order and a pint of Ben & Jerry's" type place. The Walgreens in Bay Ridge has a produce section (granted, it's terrifying) and they advertise "fresh sushi" which to me sounds like they're trying to up their sales of Immodium and Pepto. I mean, who goes to Walgreens for sushi?
Dry cleaners/Laundry Services. Nobody has laundry in their apartments. Except us. Which makes us super cool people. :) Except my washer is broken right now so I am no longer cool and must pay someone (by the pound) to wash my kid's underpants because he's no longer buying my "Commando is Cool!" attitude. Anyway, there are more laundry service companies here than subway rats. So you know they're popular and good candidates for corporate sponsorship. Might even get some things cleaned up around here.
Double hugs, double profits,
L.
Everybody has a sponsor these days. Lindsay Lohan (well, AA sponsor, but close). Lance Armstrong. Nascar drivers. Tiger Woods (once upon a time anyway). And since NYC seems to be in a constant financial hole, I'm thinking it should look for some corporate sponsors as well. Now, I've only lived here one year, 19 months and 3 days (who's counting?) so I'm still classified as an "annoying tourist" to pretty much everyone, but I've had plenty of time to observe the territory and I have a few ideas. Please note I would like credit should any of these deals actually go through:
1. Suburu. Specifically the Suburu Forrester or Outback. One is never more than 10 feet away from a Suburu Forrester or Outback in NYC. Not the cool Suburu's, but more of the station-wagony ones. I'm not sure what the appeal is as they are pretty hideous looking (forgive me if you drive one. I wasn't talking about yours, per se.) It's New York's answer to the SUV for city life I suppose. Perhaps they choose station wagons to avoid paying the $10 oversized vehicle fee in parking garages. But my Lord, they're EVERYWHERE! Forget "punch buggy orange". We play "punch-Suburu"!
2. The color black. Hey, if colors can sponsor Sesame Street episodes, they can certainly sponsor a city. I have never seen so much black in all my life. It's like a giant funeral. People wear black clothes, dye their hair black, and then drive to work in their black cars. When in doubt, pick black. (and, if you really want to blend in, contort your face in a way that suggests today is your last day on death row before the big "grand finale". Then board the subway train, blast your ipod music and stare blankly into space. You will never be mistaken for a tourist.)
3. Big Tobacco. Good grief. Forget calling it the City That Never Sleeps (which is a HUGE fat lie if you've ever tried to get good cheesecake or dinner after 10 pm in areas that are NOT in Times Square). It should be called The City of Secondhand Smoke. I swear to you my toddler has a pack a day habit. I thought NY'ers were to supposed to be so trendy and ahead of the times, but HELLO! Smoking? Lame. And everybody everybody everybody is doing it. I saw a pregnant lady with a towel around her waist (a sure sign that her water just broke...because that was me 3 years ago) standing in front of a hospital smoking a cigarette before checking in. Not even joking.
4. Trash. Not to be confused with trash can manufacturers. Those people would so lose money in this market. However if you are a fan of polluting the streets with all manner of garbage, you should consider sponsoring the city. You'd have endless publicity for your cause.
5. Tanning Salons. Well, you know it's summer when suddenly the human race turns a funky shade of orange (in our home we identify it as "oompha loompha orange", but it's different on everyone). (My favorite salon is "Alaska Tan" because when we think of Alaska, we think of "tan", right? hmmmm.) The Orange Ones tend to trod in the outer boroughs, although it is common to see them in the city as well. New York is full of every hue of the human race, but suddenly, come May, a new race emerges making everyone else a collective minority. It produces a shade like no other. Somehow a memo got leaked to the public that turning yourself the most unnatural shade of "burnt umber" (thanks Crayola!) is smokin' hot and the ladies (& gents!) ran with it. Also, apparently orange goes great with and is amplified by black (see corporate sponsor suggestion #2). Thankfully the rest of the "tannable" population tends to lean towards pasty white (a category I fit right into), however the tanning industry here is blowin' up from May to September. Don't light a match anywhere on Staten Island or the place may just go up in flames or the residents might melt.
Anger Management. Let's face it. Even I need it. Tony Robbins....get yourself some additional publicity by providing group therapy for this place full of issues. Even my husband will tell you, "L did not have anger management issues prior to moving to Brooklyn". Don't even ask me how that hole on the back of our door got there. This place will turn you rotten. ROTTEN I say!
Hand Sanitizer. Probably the most mentioned item in my blog. Don't leave home without it. What's that perfume you're wearing, L? Why...it's Eau de Purell! As Depeche Mode so wisely put it, "Just can't get enough".
Dunkin Donuts. Actually, I think they already are a corporate sponsor of NYC. Much like with the Suburu Forester, you are always within view of a Dunkin Donuts. I can't imagine what kind of stampedes Krispy Kreme would create here. These people be lovin' their donuts.
Duane Reade. This is the "Walgreens" of NYC and, much like Dunkin Donuts and Suburu, you cannot escape its glare. They're everywhere. I'm starting to think Duane Reade, whoever he may be, is sort of a Big Brother entity here. Always watching. Distributing drugs to the masses. Reporting back to the Mothership. Interesting thing about Duane Reade/Walgreens type stores here. People actually frequent these stores shop for groceries and stuff. It's more than just a "run in and grab your prescription, photo order and a pint of Ben & Jerry's" type place. The Walgreens in Bay Ridge has a produce section (granted, it's terrifying) and they advertise "fresh sushi" which to me sounds like they're trying to up their sales of Immodium and Pepto. I mean, who goes to Walgreens for sushi?
Dry cleaners/Laundry Services. Nobody has laundry in their apartments. Except us. Which makes us super cool people. :) Except my washer is broken right now so I am no longer cool and must pay someone (by the pound) to wash my kid's underpants because he's no longer buying my "Commando is Cool!" attitude. Anyway, there are more laundry service companies here than subway rats. So you know they're popular and good candidates for corporate sponsorship. Might even get some things cleaned up around here.
Double hugs, double profits,
L.
Friday, July 30, 2010
An Open Letter to Brooklyn Drivers:
Dear Everyone in Brooklyn and I do mean everyone,
Lets take a moment to talk about this, shall we?:
Raise your hand and raise it high if you've seen one of these before. Now, keep your hand raised if you know its purpose. Well, if you're so smart, then how come you jerks can't seem to respect the purpose? In case you need some traffic law awareness, allow me to remind you that the STOP SIGN is intended to incidate a point at which to come to a full and complete stop. Say it with me: "FULL AND COMPLETE". When grouped together, say, at a 3-4 way stop intersection, it is also acceptable to go the extra mile and look both ways before proceeding. It is also standard practice to follow a "first come first served" mentality when operating at a 3-4 way stop. It's not "he who drives the fastest while honking and waving your Brooklyn Peace Sign finger gets to go first". I know this is shocking information and you're probably scratching your heads right now wondering how you could have gone wrong all these years, but let me tell you--If you honk at me one more time while I am properly obeying a traffic sign, you won't have many years left to ponder this. I am losing my patience, as indicated by my mid-intersection, fist waving, window rolled down screaming rant at the intersection of Fort Hamilton Parkway and 101st St this morning. (Ironically this is the same exact intersection where I recently had an accident so maybe I know a thing or two about the location). It was helpful to have my friend D pull up at the intersection at the exact same time and roll down her window to encourage me by shouting "I HATE BROOKLYN" in support of my raging 8-months-pregnant tirade in the street. (Oddly enough, D was also at that same intersection at the time of my aforementioned accident....maybe she's my Brooklyn Driving Fairy Godmother? Or maybe she thinks I stand in that intersection full time and raise holy hell on a daily basis? Or maybe she thinks I'm just working my usual corner? Yikes. I should make a note to call her and clarify.) Anyway, today I'd had enough. Some call it pregnancy hormones. I call it "living in Brooklyn for 18 months and 29 days".
So what have we learned today folks? Red octagonal shapes on corners are not to be ignored. Stop you idiots. Just stop. And do not honk at the few who do take, oh, 5 extra seconds of your life by looking both ways. Like I said before--I'm 8 months pregnant. If I rush into an intersection due to your honking just because you're an impatient ego maniac who is going to be .0002 seconds late for your tanning appointment and end up hurting my unborn baby, you will be getting the ultimate tan in the Deep Down Under if you know what I mean.
Double time at the next stop sign, JERKS--
L.
PS: Forgive my abrasiveness, but this is a trait that you seem to understand so I figured I speak your language. Hopefully it fully translated my inner rage clearly enough for you.
PPS: Tanning makes you look like an oompha-loompha. Give it up.
Lets take a moment to talk about this, shall we?:
Raise your hand and raise it high if you've seen one of these before. Now, keep your hand raised if you know its purpose. Well, if you're so smart, then how come you jerks can't seem to respect the purpose? In case you need some traffic law awareness, allow me to remind you that the STOP SIGN is intended to incidate a point at which to come to a full and complete stop. Say it with me: "FULL AND COMPLETE". When grouped together, say, at a 3-4 way stop intersection, it is also acceptable to go the extra mile and look both ways before proceeding. It is also standard practice to follow a "first come first served" mentality when operating at a 3-4 way stop. It's not "he who drives the fastest while honking and waving your Brooklyn Peace Sign finger gets to go first". I know this is shocking information and you're probably scratching your heads right now wondering how you could have gone wrong all these years, but let me tell you--If you honk at me one more time while I am properly obeying a traffic sign, you won't have many years left to ponder this. I am losing my patience, as indicated by my mid-intersection, fist waving, window rolled down screaming rant at the intersection of Fort Hamilton Parkway and 101st St this morning. (Ironically this is the same exact intersection where I recently had an accident so maybe I know a thing or two about the location). It was helpful to have my friend D pull up at the intersection at the exact same time and roll down her window to encourage me by shouting "I HATE BROOKLYN" in support of my raging 8-months-pregnant tirade in the street. (Oddly enough, D was also at that same intersection at the time of my aforementioned accident....maybe she's my Brooklyn Driving Fairy Godmother? Or maybe she thinks I stand in that intersection full time and raise holy hell on a daily basis? Or maybe she thinks I'm just working my usual corner? Yikes. I should make a note to call her and clarify.) Anyway, today I'd had enough. Some call it pregnancy hormones. I call it "living in Brooklyn for 18 months and 29 days".
So what have we learned today folks? Red octagonal shapes on corners are not to be ignored. Stop you idiots. Just stop. And do not honk at the few who do take, oh, 5 extra seconds of your life by looking both ways. Like I said before--I'm 8 months pregnant. If I rush into an intersection due to your honking just because you're an impatient ego maniac who is going to be .0002 seconds late for your tanning appointment and end up hurting my unborn baby, you will be getting the ultimate tan in the Deep Down Under if you know what I mean.
Double time at the next stop sign, JERKS--
L.
PS: Forgive my abrasiveness, but this is a trait that you seem to understand so I figured I speak your language. Hopefully it fully translated my inner rage clearly enough for you.
PPS: Tanning makes you look like an oompha-loompha. Give it up.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
An Open Letter to Non "Cow People"
Dear Lady Who Was Mean To Me Today:
I'm sorry if you found my comments about New York offensive. Funny thing is, I wasn't even talking to you. And you have never met me! But that's okay. I can imagine how someone from New York might be offended when I say things like, "I don't ever think I will miss New York. I will miss the food and some other things, but honestly, I think I'll miss being hugely pregnant before I miss living in New York....and I'm not a fan of being hugely pregnant". I'm sorry if that statement, which was shared with someone who has spoken with me about her own similar opinions about New York, was offensive to you, a total stranger who was not even a part of the conversation.
What I don't get, and perhaps what further perpetuates my lack of attachment to this crazy place, is your response. You called me a "cow person". What, pray tell, is a "cow person"? I realize that I am 8 months going on 42 years preggo right now and look like I'm about to give birth to a full sized calf but I'm not an actual cow in "real life". I only play one on TV...and when I'm hugely pregnant. I am not employed by Chick-fil-A and therefore am not wearing the cow suit (another reason to not like NY....no Chick-fil-A!!!! GASP!). I'm not sure what a "cow person" is. I have never personally owned a cow and my high school did not have a 4-H program. I have had unprecedented access to cows on my Grandaddy's farm and have had the unfortunate experience of riding a cow and falling off into cow poo-poo, but again...how would you know that about me? In my defense, a duck is the closest thing to livestock I've ever owned thank you very much. Have you even actually seen a cow in person? Because I'm pretty sure in a blind taste test, 9 out of 10 people would agree that I am not a cow. My OB might say otherwise, but he'd be the 1 hold-out in that survey.
What's even more bizarre is that after you called me a cow person, you said that you'd rather, and I quote, "Hang on a cross than live in the boonies like where [I] grew up and have no life." Ouch. That's harsh. The thing about the boonies is that they are located far away from weirdos like you. Respect the boonies. Lots of positive things come from there. Ironically, I wouldn't call where I come from "boonies". Sure it's acceptable to be shoeless. Sure most meals are prepared using propane or a vat of oil. Sure at least 5 people on the block I grew up on own airboats. (You probably don't know what an airboat is, but I'll let you think that it's a magical boat that travels in the air a la George Jetson). Sure it gets reeeeeeeeeal dark outsiiiiiiide at niiiiiiight tiiiiiime cause 'dere ain't no city liiiiights gettin' in the way. I know where to get frog legs, alligator tail and fried turtle bites in a hurry. If that makes me a cow person....OK. Moo. I'm pretty sure that Jesus Christ would have SOOOO picked the boonies over the cross if he wasn't the Son of God with bigger responsibilities. I mean, he was kind of from there himself. Cows were present at his birth. And if the boonies are good enough for Jesus, they're good enough for this Baptist gal. I'm certainly not comparing myself to Jesus Christ, but lets be real. He never took public transportation and he didn't sleep at a Holiday Inn Express last night.
Look, I respect that some people....lots of people....can't imagine living anywhere else but NYC. I get it. I know those people. They can't go camping because it's too quiet. They are unfamiliar with the terms "covered dish" and "dinner on the grounds". They carry alternate pairs of shoes in their purses. They mock me for driving everywhere. I have been told by someone (in their WORST Brooklynese) that I have a "rediculous accent" and more than one stranger has stated to me, "you're not from here, huh?". That's okay! I don't mind not blending in because NY is a melting pot of all kinds of people. Even "cow people". I enjoy my NY friends because of our differences. They laugh at me, I laugh at them....it's a win win. We can learn from each other and have a pretty decent time. We will always be different. Crickets keep them up all night. Sirens keep me up all night. Everyone is different and that keeps things interesting.
My husband says that small towns breed big dreams. I believe that. Lots of greatness has come from the boonies. There's less competition and more room to grow ideas and garner support. I invite you to visit my not-so-small town down south any ol' time you want. (I mean, it was pretty much an orange grove when I was growing up but then they put in that big ol' shoppin' mall and things really took off!) Give it a try. Us cow folk might just impress you a little bit. There's a reason they call Florida the "Sixth Borough". New Yorkers move there in droves and then convert to "cow people" so they too can blend in and enjoy the lifestyle.
Double hugs, Moo Moo,
L.
I'm sorry if you found my comments about New York offensive. Funny thing is, I wasn't even talking to you. And you have never met me! But that's okay. I can imagine how someone from New York might be offended when I say things like, "I don't ever think I will miss New York. I will miss the food and some other things, but honestly, I think I'll miss being hugely pregnant before I miss living in New York....and I'm not a fan of being hugely pregnant". I'm sorry if that statement, which was shared with someone who has spoken with me about her own similar opinions about New York, was offensive to you, a total stranger who was not even a part of the conversation.
What I don't get, and perhaps what further perpetuates my lack of attachment to this crazy place, is your response. You called me a "cow person". What, pray tell, is a "cow person"? I realize that I am 8 months going on 42 years preggo right now and look like I'm about to give birth to a full sized calf but I'm not an actual cow in "real life". I only play one on TV...and when I'm hugely pregnant. I am not employed by Chick-fil-A and therefore am not wearing the cow suit (another reason to not like NY....no Chick-fil-A!!!! GASP!). I'm not sure what a "cow person" is. I have never personally owned a cow and my high school did not have a 4-H program. I have had unprecedented access to cows on my Grandaddy's farm and have had the unfortunate experience of riding a cow and falling off into cow poo-poo, but again...how would you know that about me? In my defense, a duck is the closest thing to livestock I've ever owned thank you very much. Have you even actually seen a cow in person? Because I'm pretty sure in a blind taste test, 9 out of 10 people would agree that I am not a cow. My OB might say otherwise, but he'd be the 1 hold-out in that survey.
What's even more bizarre is that after you called me a cow person, you said that you'd rather, and I quote, "Hang on a cross than live in the boonies like where [I] grew up and have no life." Ouch. That's harsh. The thing about the boonies is that they are located far away from weirdos like you. Respect the boonies. Lots of positive things come from there. Ironically, I wouldn't call where I come from "boonies". Sure it's acceptable to be shoeless. Sure most meals are prepared using propane or a vat of oil. Sure at least 5 people on the block I grew up on own airboats. (You probably don't know what an airboat is, but I'll let you think that it's a magical boat that travels in the air a la George Jetson). Sure it gets reeeeeeeeeal dark outsiiiiiiide at niiiiiiight tiiiiiime cause 'dere ain't no city liiiiights gettin' in the way. I know where to get frog legs, alligator tail and fried turtle bites in a hurry. If that makes me a cow person....OK. Moo. I'm pretty sure that Jesus Christ would have SOOOO picked the boonies over the cross if he wasn't the Son of God with bigger responsibilities. I mean, he was kind of from there himself. Cows were present at his birth. And if the boonies are good enough for Jesus, they're good enough for this Baptist gal. I'm certainly not comparing myself to Jesus Christ, but lets be real. He never took public transportation and he didn't sleep at a Holiday Inn Express last night.
Look, I respect that some people....lots of people....can't imagine living anywhere else but NYC. I get it. I know those people. They can't go camping because it's too quiet. They are unfamiliar with the terms "covered dish" and "dinner on the grounds". They carry alternate pairs of shoes in their purses. They mock me for driving everywhere. I have been told by someone (in their WORST Brooklynese) that I have a "rediculous accent" and more than one stranger has stated to me, "you're not from here, huh?". That's okay! I don't mind not blending in because NY is a melting pot of all kinds of people. Even "cow people". I enjoy my NY friends because of our differences. They laugh at me, I laugh at them....it's a win win. We can learn from each other and have a pretty decent time. We will always be different. Crickets keep them up all night. Sirens keep me up all night. Everyone is different and that keeps things interesting.
My husband says that small towns breed big dreams. I believe that. Lots of greatness has come from the boonies. There's less competition and more room to grow ideas and garner support. I invite you to visit my not-so-small town down south any ol' time you want. (I mean, it was pretty much an orange grove when I was growing up but then they put in that big ol' shoppin' mall and things really took off!) Give it a try. Us cow folk might just impress you a little bit. There's a reason they call Florida the "Sixth Borough". New Yorkers move there in droves and then convert to "cow people" so they too can blend in and enjoy the lifestyle.
Double hugs, Moo Moo,
L.
Friday, June 11, 2010
An Open Letter to The Man Who Played Bumper Cars With My Car Without Permission
Dear Sir,
Perhaps you enjoyed bumper cars as a kid at the fair, but take heed my friend....not all cars are bumper cars and while first appearences may lead you to believe otherwise, Brooklyn is not some carnival circus with free rides. I did not enjoy sitting on the playground and alternating my attention between watching my son and watching you repeatedly bump my car in your sad attempt to fit a giant purple Mercury minivan into a small space previously occupied by a Mini Cooper. I'm pretty sure the Malibu you also repeatedly bumped did not appreciate it either.
Don't get me wrong...I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt at first. I remained calm. I said to my friend, "Hey....so is it just me or is that guy an idiot for thinking he's going to fit that giant Barney the Dinosaur of a minivan into that small space?". After careful deliberation (and watching you exit your vehicle to give the scene a once over before continuing your plight), we decided that you were indeed an idiot and that someone should probably stop you before you broke something. That someone would be moi--an annoyed, sweaty pregnant woman in an unattractive outfit at the park.
I was in no mood for my Nice Nasty....people in Brooklyn don't get that style of confrontation....so away I go pointing my finger like I meant business. It wasn't the middle finger, which may have confused you as that is the standard operating procedure for Brooklyn confrontation, but it was my Finger of Authority. Just ask my two year old about its importance if you have doubts. The look on your face very much resembled the look on my son's face when he's caught acting like a turd and it proved to me that you knew exactly what was up, although I appreciate the innocent Brooklyn Shrug you gave me followed by, 'Is that your car, miss?'. No you idiot. That's not my car. I just have a passion for 2004 Honda Accords. I'm just a big ball of pregnant vigiliante walking the streets looking for vehicle injustice when it's 90 degrees outside. Of course it's my car!
After much discussion, most of which was me repeating, "You cannot park here! Why would you even try this?", and blank stares on your end, you finally decided to take my advice. Unfortunately you had wedged yourself awkwardly inbetween my car and the next and were pretty much stuck. Meanwhile, my child is running around on a playground shared by gang members, junkies, and happy toddlers. Fortunately a trusted friend was watching him, but still. My priority was getting back to the playground. Unfortunately, your idiocy required me to move my car, risking yet another parking ticket (and trust me, they know my plate number by heart!) so that your hideous purple minivan could squeeeeeze in just a little bit more.
I wonder had I not shown up to inform you of your stupidity, what you would have done? I can only imagine that you would have left your beast parked halfway between the curb and the street. And you, my friend, are a prime example of why people from New Jersey/New York should just not operate motor vehicles.
Although my car isn't exactly a shiney BMW, it's my ride, damn it. So how's about showing some respect? I will respect your Barney Car (though I will NOT sing the song), and I ask that you show the same respect for my humble Honda. You're lucky my main ride had a flat tire. Had you hit the non-ghetto tricked-out Highlander, we'd have had a much different conversation.
Double hugs, double park if you have to just don't be dumb like that again,
L.
Perhaps you enjoyed bumper cars as a kid at the fair, but take heed my friend....not all cars are bumper cars and while first appearences may lead you to believe otherwise, Brooklyn is not some carnival circus with free rides. I did not enjoy sitting on the playground and alternating my attention between watching my son and watching you repeatedly bump my car in your sad attempt to fit a giant purple Mercury minivan into a small space previously occupied by a Mini Cooper. I'm pretty sure the Malibu you also repeatedly bumped did not appreciate it either.
Don't get me wrong...I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt at first. I remained calm. I said to my friend, "Hey....so is it just me or is that guy an idiot for thinking he's going to fit that giant Barney the Dinosaur of a minivan into that small space?". After careful deliberation (and watching you exit your vehicle to give the scene a once over before continuing your plight), we decided that you were indeed an idiot and that someone should probably stop you before you broke something. That someone would be moi--an annoyed, sweaty pregnant woman in an unattractive outfit at the park.
I was in no mood for my Nice Nasty....people in Brooklyn don't get that style of confrontation....so away I go pointing my finger like I meant business. It wasn't the middle finger, which may have confused you as that is the standard operating procedure for Brooklyn confrontation, but it was my Finger of Authority. Just ask my two year old about its importance if you have doubts. The look on your face very much resembled the look on my son's face when he's caught acting like a turd and it proved to me that you knew exactly what was up, although I appreciate the innocent Brooklyn Shrug you gave me followed by, 'Is that your car, miss?'. No you idiot. That's not my car. I just have a passion for 2004 Honda Accords. I'm just a big ball of pregnant vigiliante walking the streets looking for vehicle injustice when it's 90 degrees outside. Of course it's my car!
After much discussion, most of which was me repeating, "You cannot park here! Why would you even try this?", and blank stares on your end, you finally decided to take my advice. Unfortunately you had wedged yourself awkwardly inbetween my car and the next and were pretty much stuck. Meanwhile, my child is running around on a playground shared by gang members, junkies, and happy toddlers. Fortunately a trusted friend was watching him, but still. My priority was getting back to the playground. Unfortunately, your idiocy required me to move my car, risking yet another parking ticket (and trust me, they know my plate number by heart!) so that your hideous purple minivan could squeeeeeze in just a little bit more.
I wonder had I not shown up to inform you of your stupidity, what you would have done? I can only imagine that you would have left your beast parked halfway between the curb and the street. And you, my friend, are a prime example of why people from New Jersey/New York should just not operate motor vehicles.
Although my car isn't exactly a shiney BMW, it's my ride, damn it. So how's about showing some respect? I will respect your Barney Car (though I will NOT sing the song), and I ask that you show the same respect for my humble Honda. You're lucky my main ride had a flat tire. Had you hit the non-ghetto tricked-out Highlander, we'd have had a much different conversation.
Double hugs, double park if you have to just don't be dumb like that again,
L.
Monday, April 5, 2010
An Open Letter to Personal Space Abusers
Dear PSA's,
I do not understand your problem, really. You live in a city with 12 million people. Cars park on top of each other (there are actually things called "bumper buddies" to protect your car during parallel parking bumps). People trip over each other to make it through the crosswalk. There is no room on the sidewalks. Standing room only on the express trains. Sharing tables in casual restaurants is common. Sitting EXTREMELY close to the next table (ie, can you pass the salt?) in formal restaurants is common. You would think that the desire for personal space would be welcomed with open arms, added to Christmas lists, and written up in Op/Ed pieces for the NYTimes, written in books about myths and legends. I agree that it is a luxury here, so why on earth, when the opportunity presents itself, would you not leap on it and grasp all the personal space you can amass?
I LOOOOOOVES me some personal space. When I was growing up people used to tease me about my "invisible circle". Nobody gets inside L's circle they'd say. (Obviously someone did, eventually, make it inside the circle seeing as how I have reproduced, but it's a wives tale that is still perpetuated today and I don't make any effort to correct it.) Somehow I grew up in the south and managed to avoid the "hugger" gene. In a land of people who hug to stab each other in the back.....eeeeeeeverybody be huggin' down south....I'm just not into it. I'm not a natural displayer of affection (except with my son, who I can't seem to keep my hands off of). I'm very awkward at greeting others and was once labeled as a "leaner" in terms of hugging by my own father. I go in from the side with a lean and sort of pat the shoulder of the greet-ee. On a scale of 1-10, I feel about a 6 in terms of bad about this habit of not being a hugger. I was never a huge fan of PDA (growing up, if my mom ever saw me holding hands with a boy she might as well have caught me doing the naughty in my book.) So you can imagine my horror when people stand too close to me when clearly there is plenty of room to NOT be standing so close.
In New York, people greet each other with that very European ritual of cheek kissing. I'm intrigued by this, but am not able to carry it off without looking like a robot. It's completely common to do this even with people you've met only once. And if the people are actually European, it's way worse. I swear they use tongue. I have no idea how to handle this situation. I usually try the avoidance tactic.....busying myself with Ryan's coat or by carrying a bulky item so that I can just wave and make my way past the greeting portion of the evening as quickly as possible. So far this has worked well for me. What has not worked well is avoiding those who just can't seem to get close enough on the subway, in the bookstore, and my favorite, the food market.
We live at the end/beginning of a subway line. We are the first/last stop depending on which way you're going. I love this because when I get on the train to go uptown, the train car is usually pretty empty and seats are plentiful. So WHY would someone come and sit right beside me in a car full of empty seats? I'd like to think it's my winning personality or blinding hotness that attracts people to me, but based on the people that flock my way, I must give off some kind of weird pheramone that only attracts the elderly and/or sketchy. This past weekend I had the "good fortune" of riding home on the train that was entertained not once, but twice by random subway mariachi singers. Why both groups chose to serenade me personally (despite my best effort to feign narcolepsy) is beyond me, but there I was, the victim of a "standing too close mariachi driveby musical". Ole! Once they left, everyone's favorite, the totally strung out junkie (second only to the person who boards with a fresh load of lunch in his pants), stumbles aboard. This guy was really out of his mind. I watched as he sat down next to a random old man and proceeded to fall asleep on the guy's shoulder. It struck me as odd that the old man didn't make any move to get up and move or shove the junkie onto the floor. He himself is probably a personal space abuser. Paybacks. Anyway, due to excessive drool, I thought the junkie was going to throw up. Evidentally he regained consciousness long enough to realize he missed a stop, so after standing up and giving an F-bomb laced dissertation on his feelings, he began looking for a new seat. I began to panic as there were plenty around me. Lucky me, junkie man picked the seat directly across from me. I was within prime projectile vomit radius, so I high tailed it to the opposite end of the train as quickly as possible.
Last week I was at Barnes and Noble perusing the cookbook section, which was HUGE. Tons of cookbooks. This pleased my soul and I hoped to settle in for a good time of looking at pictures of pretty food that I'll never really know how to make properly. So WHY would someone decide to come and destroy my moment by standing elbow to elbow with me on the same dang aisle? Hello? There are a thousand cookbooks to look at, covering at least 4 aisles. Must we literally be rubbing elbows? I moved over. She moved over. I wanted to scream out, "WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?????" but I respect the sanctity of bookstores, so I mumbled it under my breath as I went to explore other options. Ah....the New Fiction table. I like this place too. I am the only one at the table. Personal space! Oh wait....here comes an elderly woman who, I'm not kidding, positions herself between me and the table. And I was standing pretty close to the table. I have made inadvertant contact with her posterior. I move. She moves next to me. I begin to fantasize about a city full of Matt Lauers, Howie Mandels, and others who maybe have some OCD about personal space. I also meditate on hand sanitizers and make a mental note to add "Inventor of Hand Sanitizer" to my list of favorite people (which also includes "Inventor of the Epidural" and "Inventor of the Magic Eraser Sponge").
And finally, the PSA's in the Food Town market. I am bent over looking for meat in the meat cooler. I just want a nice sirloin to try out one of those recipes I will likely screw up. I am minding my own dang business. Suddenly, I hear the cackle of an old woman saying, "Why would you hit me with your pocketbook?". I glance up. Evidentally, this is a question I'm supposed to answer based on her glare. I take inventory. My "pocketbook" (I hate that word...I have no books in my pocket. It's a PURSE for crying out loud...even handbag is acceptable) is on my opposite shoulder. I apologize anyway and go back to my digging. Again she says in her loud, old-lady speak, "Why do you keep hitting me? You keep hitting me with your pocketbook!". Now, if you've ever heard a northener say the word "pocketbook", you know the whiney pitch that comes with it. I'm not sure why, but everybody, man/woman/child, sounds like Fran Drescher when they say "poooooocketbook". Nails on a chalkboard for me. At this point, I'm ready to formally introduce her to my pocketbook. I snapped. All the PSA's I've encountered this week have led me to this moment, here in the Food Town meat section. I unleash. This woman was accusing me of hitting her, not once, but twice, with my PPOOOOOOOOCKetbook. Obviously, if that really did occur (which I'm 100% certain it did not), it was simply because she was standing in my personal space. I looked that old geezer right in her beady little eyes and said through gritted teeth with my best mean face, which made my toddler cry once, "I already apologized. I did not HIT. YOU. Now MOVE. OVER., let me get my meat so I can GET. OUT." (I put extra emphasis on the "t" sounds to further dig in my point.) That seemed to shut her up. My husband calls that my "Nice Nasty". He thinks that's a southern adaptation of the world knows as a "bitch". And it's true. A NiceNasty is a bitch with a smile. Southerners excel at this. We'll stab you in the back after we serve you tea and offer you a cupcake for the road on the way to the hospital to have the knife removed. Then we'll call you and invite you to church. Nice to meet you. :)
So, PSA's, I ask that you respect the space. Enjoy it when you have a moment where you're not pressed up against someone else. Appreciate a little elbow room. It's good for you!
No hugs or kisses today,
L.
I do not understand your problem, really. You live in a city with 12 million people. Cars park on top of each other (there are actually things called "bumper buddies" to protect your car during parallel parking bumps). People trip over each other to make it through the crosswalk. There is no room on the sidewalks. Standing room only on the express trains. Sharing tables in casual restaurants is common. Sitting EXTREMELY close to the next table (ie, can you pass the salt?) in formal restaurants is common. You would think that the desire for personal space would be welcomed with open arms, added to Christmas lists, and written up in Op/Ed pieces for the NYTimes, written in books about myths and legends. I agree that it is a luxury here, so why on earth, when the opportunity presents itself, would you not leap on it and grasp all the personal space you can amass?
I LOOOOOOVES me some personal space. When I was growing up people used to tease me about my "invisible circle". Nobody gets inside L's circle they'd say. (Obviously someone did, eventually, make it inside the circle seeing as how I have reproduced, but it's a wives tale that is still perpetuated today and I don't make any effort to correct it.) Somehow I grew up in the south and managed to avoid the "hugger" gene. In a land of people who hug to stab each other in the back.....eeeeeeeverybody be huggin' down south....I'm just not into it. I'm not a natural displayer of affection (except with my son, who I can't seem to keep my hands off of). I'm very awkward at greeting others and was once labeled as a "leaner" in terms of hugging by my own father. I go in from the side with a lean and sort of pat the shoulder of the greet-ee. On a scale of 1-10, I feel about a 6 in terms of bad about this habit of not being a hugger. I was never a huge fan of PDA (growing up, if my mom ever saw me holding hands with a boy she might as well have caught me doing the naughty in my book.) So you can imagine my horror when people stand too close to me when clearly there is plenty of room to NOT be standing so close.
In New York, people greet each other with that very European ritual of cheek kissing. I'm intrigued by this, but am not able to carry it off without looking like a robot. It's completely common to do this even with people you've met only once. And if the people are actually European, it's way worse. I swear they use tongue. I have no idea how to handle this situation. I usually try the avoidance tactic.....busying myself with Ryan's coat or by carrying a bulky item so that I can just wave and make my way past the greeting portion of the evening as quickly as possible. So far this has worked well for me. What has not worked well is avoiding those who just can't seem to get close enough on the subway, in the bookstore, and my favorite, the food market.
We live at the end/beginning of a subway line. We are the first/last stop depending on which way you're going. I love this because when I get on the train to go uptown, the train car is usually pretty empty and seats are plentiful. So WHY would someone come and sit right beside me in a car full of empty seats? I'd like to think it's my winning personality or blinding hotness that attracts people to me, but based on the people that flock my way, I must give off some kind of weird pheramone that only attracts the elderly and/or sketchy. This past weekend I had the "good fortune" of riding home on the train that was entertained not once, but twice by random subway mariachi singers. Why both groups chose to serenade me personally (despite my best effort to feign narcolepsy) is beyond me, but there I was, the victim of a "standing too close mariachi driveby musical". Ole! Once they left, everyone's favorite, the totally strung out junkie (second only to the person who boards with a fresh load of lunch in his pants), stumbles aboard. This guy was really out of his mind. I watched as he sat down next to a random old man and proceeded to fall asleep on the guy's shoulder. It struck me as odd that the old man didn't make any move to get up and move or shove the junkie onto the floor. He himself is probably a personal space abuser. Paybacks. Anyway, due to excessive drool, I thought the junkie was going to throw up. Evidentally he regained consciousness long enough to realize he missed a stop, so after standing up and giving an F-bomb laced dissertation on his feelings, he began looking for a new seat. I began to panic as there were plenty around me. Lucky me, junkie man picked the seat directly across from me. I was within prime projectile vomit radius, so I high tailed it to the opposite end of the train as quickly as possible.
Last week I was at Barnes and Noble perusing the cookbook section, which was HUGE. Tons of cookbooks. This pleased my soul and I hoped to settle in for a good time of looking at pictures of pretty food that I'll never really know how to make properly. So WHY would someone decide to come and destroy my moment by standing elbow to elbow with me on the same dang aisle? Hello? There are a thousand cookbooks to look at, covering at least 4 aisles. Must we literally be rubbing elbows? I moved over. She moved over. I wanted to scream out, "WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?????" but I respect the sanctity of bookstores, so I mumbled it under my breath as I went to explore other options. Ah....the New Fiction table. I like this place too. I am the only one at the table. Personal space! Oh wait....here comes an elderly woman who, I'm not kidding, positions herself between me and the table. And I was standing pretty close to the table. I have made inadvertant contact with her posterior. I move. She moves next to me. I begin to fantasize about a city full of Matt Lauers, Howie Mandels, and others who maybe have some OCD about personal space. I also meditate on hand sanitizers and make a mental note to add "Inventor of Hand Sanitizer" to my list of favorite people (which also includes "Inventor of the Epidural" and "Inventor of the Magic Eraser Sponge").
And finally, the PSA's in the Food Town market. I am bent over looking for meat in the meat cooler. I just want a nice sirloin to try out one of those recipes I will likely screw up. I am minding my own dang business. Suddenly, I hear the cackle of an old woman saying, "Why would you hit me with your pocketbook?". I glance up. Evidentally, this is a question I'm supposed to answer based on her glare. I take inventory. My "pocketbook" (I hate that word...I have no books in my pocket. It's a PURSE for crying out loud...even handbag is acceptable) is on my opposite shoulder. I apologize anyway and go back to my digging. Again she says in her loud, old-lady speak, "Why do you keep hitting me? You keep hitting me with your pocketbook!". Now, if you've ever heard a northener say the word "pocketbook", you know the whiney pitch that comes with it. I'm not sure why, but everybody, man/woman/child, sounds like Fran Drescher when they say "poooooocketbook". Nails on a chalkboard for me. At this point, I'm ready to formally introduce her to my pocketbook. I snapped. All the PSA's I've encountered this week have led me to this moment, here in the Food Town meat section. I unleash. This woman was accusing me of hitting her, not once, but twice, with my PPOOOOOOOOCKetbook. Obviously, if that really did occur (which I'm 100% certain it did not), it was simply because she was standing in my personal space. I looked that old geezer right in her beady little eyes and said through gritted teeth with my best mean face, which made my toddler cry once, "I already apologized. I did not HIT. YOU. Now MOVE. OVER., let me get my meat so I can GET. OUT." (I put extra emphasis on the "t" sounds to further dig in my point.) That seemed to shut her up. My husband calls that my "Nice Nasty". He thinks that's a southern adaptation of the world knows as a "bitch". And it's true. A NiceNasty is a bitch with a smile. Southerners excel at this. We'll stab you in the back after we serve you tea and offer you a cupcake for the road on the way to the hospital to have the knife removed. Then we'll call you and invite you to church. Nice to meet you. :)
So, PSA's, I ask that you respect the space. Enjoy it when you have a moment where you're not pressed up against someone else. Appreciate a little elbow room. It's good for you!
No hugs or kisses today,
L.
Friday, February 12, 2010
An Open Letter to Ms. I.....A Nice New Yorker
Dear Ms. I,
Thank you for returning my cell phone to me. I sincerely appreciate your effort to contact nearly every number in my phone and notify everyone I know (and maybe haven't spoken to in like 5 years or so) as to the whereabouts of my missing phone. Not everyone would take the time to do so or be as remarkably thorough as you were or take the time to go as far as searching through the emails on my phone to find my email address to send me notice that you had found my phone in your trash pile. Due to your diligence, I had several emails waiting for me on my computer (including yours) from various friends and relatives concerned for my well being and notifying me of your contact information.
I imagine you may be wondering how my phone wound up in your trash pile to begin with. Funny story. I had a super posh hair appointment today at my relatively posh salon. Because the snow is piled like 10 feet in the air on the sides of the roads right now, I opted to take the train and walk to my appointment instead of driving for fear of finding nowhere to parallel park. (How very NY of me!) I even took advantage of the complimentary shiatsu massage between my wash & cut. I was super relaxed and carefree as I walked home, my shiney new haircut glimmering in the sun...not a care in the world....until my foot came across a slick patch of ice on the sidewalk in front of your building, causing me to become rather unstable and basically launch face first into your trash pile. While that was not my ideal landing zone of choice, I am grateful that it was there to break my fall as I'm expecting a Baby Clutz in a few months and wouldn't want to injure the little booger (we'll let him/her figure out how to do that all on his own). Nothing can break a gal's spirit faster than sitting on a sidewalk in a pile of garbage with a great haircut but torn "good jeans" and a bloody knee. In my haste to "walk it off" and not start crying in public, I hurried away from the trash, failing to notice that my cell phone had exited my purse. My knee hurt like hell in a handbasket and all I wanted to do was limp home and go to sleep!
Fast forward 30 minutes, as my son was pooping in his big boy underwear, I realized that OMG! I didn't have my phone! Between dealing with the potty training crisis and tending to my bloody knee, I decided that the only place it could be was in your trash pile. Off we go (clean underwear and all) to reclaim the phone. Fortunately you saw me rooting through the garbage and came out with my phone in hand. I would have hugged you had it not been for the poop/trashy smell all over me or the bloody pants that I was still wearing. I was a health hazard waiting to happen despite my fabulous haircut (which may not have been looking so fabulous at that point in time). But thank you for being an Honest Abe and really trying to get it back to me. You must be from the south or at least spent some time there. :)
Double hugs, double antiseptic,
L.
Thank you for returning my cell phone to me. I sincerely appreciate your effort to contact nearly every number in my phone and notify everyone I know (and maybe haven't spoken to in like 5 years or so) as to the whereabouts of my missing phone. Not everyone would take the time to do so or be as remarkably thorough as you were or take the time to go as far as searching through the emails on my phone to find my email address to send me notice that you had found my phone in your trash pile. Due to your diligence, I had several emails waiting for me on my computer (including yours) from various friends and relatives concerned for my well being and notifying me of your contact information.
I imagine you may be wondering how my phone wound up in your trash pile to begin with. Funny story. I had a super posh hair appointment today at my relatively posh salon. Because the snow is piled like 10 feet in the air on the sides of the roads right now, I opted to take the train and walk to my appointment instead of driving for fear of finding nowhere to parallel park. (How very NY of me!) I even took advantage of the complimentary shiatsu massage between my wash & cut. I was super relaxed and carefree as I walked home, my shiney new haircut glimmering in the sun...not a care in the world....until my foot came across a slick patch of ice on the sidewalk in front of your building, causing me to become rather unstable and basically launch face first into your trash pile. While that was not my ideal landing zone of choice, I am grateful that it was there to break my fall as I'm expecting a Baby Clutz in a few months and wouldn't want to injure the little booger (we'll let him/her figure out how to do that all on his own). Nothing can break a gal's spirit faster than sitting on a sidewalk in a pile of garbage with a great haircut but torn "good jeans" and a bloody knee. In my haste to "walk it off" and not start crying in public, I hurried away from the trash, failing to notice that my cell phone had exited my purse. My knee hurt like hell in a handbasket and all I wanted to do was limp home and go to sleep!
Fast forward 30 minutes, as my son was pooping in his big boy underwear, I realized that OMG! I didn't have my phone! Between dealing with the potty training crisis and tending to my bloody knee, I decided that the only place it could be was in your trash pile. Off we go (clean underwear and all) to reclaim the phone. Fortunately you saw me rooting through the garbage and came out with my phone in hand. I would have hugged you had it not been for the poop/trashy smell all over me or the bloody pants that I was still wearing. I was a health hazard waiting to happen despite my fabulous haircut (which may not have been looking so fabulous at that point in time). But thank you for being an Honest Abe and really trying to get it back to me. You must be from the south or at least spent some time there. :)
Double hugs, double antiseptic,
L.
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