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.
Monday, April 5, 2010
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.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Open Letter to Hungry People in NY
Dear Those that Hunger and Thirst Like I Do At Traditional Meal Times,
When I was growing up, Sunday dinner was almost as important as attending church. Everybody knew that if the Baptist service didn't end at noon sharp we'd never reach the Golden Corral before the Methodists did and we'd have to wait (always graciously thanking the Catholics for going to mass on Sunday mornings, or even better, Saturday nights to make way for the hungry stampede of Baptists on Sunday afternoons). Dining out after church is a tradition my husband and I continued after our marriage began. It never failed that just after the offering, but before the special music, my husband would put his arm around me, lean in close and whisper, "Hey...where do you want to go for lunch?". This was never a problem when we lived in Texas. We'd always park strategically, backing in to our spot near the church parking lot exit so that we could haul out of church like bats out of hell and scurry on down to El Chico's (with our bulletin in hand for a 20% church bulletin discount!). In New York, this is not a tradition we continue for a variety of reasons, however mostly because you just can't get a meal at noon on a Sunday to save your life.
We tried it once. We walked quite a long ways actually to "restaurant row" on Third Avenue only to be greeted by a long line of "closed" signs. No matter that their hours of operation were posted and that they should have long been serving up the slices and the noodles and whatever else they made. But the doors were locked. We walked for, no lie, 6 blocks before coming to a place that, upon seeing us tugging at their locked door, let us in. I felt like Mary and Joseph the night Jesus was born. Take pity on us. Let us into your stable so we may dine. I'm wearing uncomfortable shoes that are making my heels bleed (a common theme for me). How a restaurant can forget to unlock their doors an hour after they are supposed to be open is beyond me. If I were working for tips, I'd be darned sure that door was open. Time is money. Except in NY.
I have my theories about why you cannot get a meal to save your life at a restaurant at noon on a Sunday. Realistically, we're white bread Baptists living in the land of enthusiastic, high metabolizing Italian Catholics. Those people have done their church thing the night before. They had breakfast at a diner and then went over to Mama Leone's (or whoever their mama is) and gathered around her table with 75 of their closest relatives for chicken cutlets, antipasti, homemade bread, macaroni (which I've learned means all manner of pasta, and most definitely NOT the cheesy box mix you and I are thinking of), and cannolis. Honestly, if I had that option every Sunday I would be doing the same thing. But not all of us have a Mama Leone (although I do have a close family friend we call Mama E up in Pearl River and if it weren't such a long drive, I'd be up there every night for dinner!)
So, for us it's PB&J on white bread or leftovers. For now. But once we're back south of that Mason Dixon, we're all about the stampede once again. And maybe next time we'll do the Olive Garden (oooooohhhh....that's sacrilege!)
Double Hugs, Double Kiss, Double Sauce on My Macaroni,
L.
When I was growing up, Sunday dinner was almost as important as attending church. Everybody knew that if the Baptist service didn't end at noon sharp we'd never reach the Golden Corral before the Methodists did and we'd have to wait (always graciously thanking the Catholics for going to mass on Sunday mornings, or even better, Saturday nights to make way for the hungry stampede of Baptists on Sunday afternoons). Dining out after church is a tradition my husband and I continued after our marriage began. It never failed that just after the offering, but before the special music, my husband would put his arm around me, lean in close and whisper, "Hey...where do you want to go for lunch?". This was never a problem when we lived in Texas. We'd always park strategically, backing in to our spot near the church parking lot exit so that we could haul out of church like bats out of hell and scurry on down to El Chico's (with our bulletin in hand for a 20% church bulletin discount!). In New York, this is not a tradition we continue for a variety of reasons, however mostly because you just can't get a meal at noon on a Sunday to save your life.
We tried it once. We walked quite a long ways actually to "restaurant row" on Third Avenue only to be greeted by a long line of "closed" signs. No matter that their hours of operation were posted and that they should have long been serving up the slices and the noodles and whatever else they made. But the doors were locked. We walked for, no lie, 6 blocks before coming to a place that, upon seeing us tugging at their locked door, let us in. I felt like Mary and Joseph the night Jesus was born. Take pity on us. Let us into your stable so we may dine. I'm wearing uncomfortable shoes that are making my heels bleed (a common theme for me). How a restaurant can forget to unlock their doors an hour after they are supposed to be open is beyond me. If I were working for tips, I'd be darned sure that door was open. Time is money. Except in NY.
I have my theories about why you cannot get a meal to save your life at a restaurant at noon on a Sunday. Realistically, we're white bread Baptists living in the land of enthusiastic, high metabolizing Italian Catholics. Those people have done their church thing the night before. They had breakfast at a diner and then went over to Mama Leone's (or whoever their mama is) and gathered around her table with 75 of their closest relatives for chicken cutlets, antipasti, homemade bread, macaroni (which I've learned means all manner of pasta, and most definitely NOT the cheesy box mix you and I are thinking of), and cannolis. Honestly, if I had that option every Sunday I would be doing the same thing. But not all of us have a Mama Leone (although I do have a close family friend we call Mama E up in Pearl River and if it weren't such a long drive, I'd be up there every night for dinner!)
So, for us it's PB&J on white bread or leftovers. For now. But once we're back south of that Mason Dixon, we're all about the stampede once again. And maybe next time we'll do the Olive Garden (oooooohhhh....that's sacrilege!)
Double Hugs, Double Kiss, Double Sauce on My Macaroni,
L.
Open Letter to Euro Moms...And Some Non-Euro Moms
Dear Braless Wonders....You Know Who You Are,
And here we are again--the underwear conversation. It's not even summer time yet and the "ladies" are swingin' free already. I realize that after a cold winter the "girls" were excited to go out without 65 layers covering them up during yesterday's warm spell of 50 degrees, but one additional layer...say, a bra...would be helpful. Think of the children. And the other moms. Music class is NOT a place to debut your jubblies for the spring season. It is not spring yet, trust me. Or trust your hooters....they say it all. Now, some of you can certainly pull this off. I'm not sure how, but maybe your kids are adopted or you have an excellent plastic surgeon. Or maybe it's some magic European spell that allows your knockers to stay where God originally planted them. Yes, I envy you for that but that's beside the point. Even if my girls were back in their original region of origin I would still "dress them up". It's just nice manners.
I'm not sure what it is about you Germans that give you the idea that it's perfectly okay to waltz (and jump and run and skip and twirl) without your knockwursts in their proper casings, but it's just not okay. The music room is small. Someone is liable to get injured. And to the Italian mom....BAD DECISION. You were not blessed with the German genes girlfriend. Tie those suckers down, would ya?
I love you European moms because you're so carefree and beautiful and skinny and, well, you have fun accents. I love that your JCREW quality offspring can speak fluently in many languages. But you wouldn't let them out without diapers (I hope). So lets all work on some kind of multi-national agreement that would allow for all of us to be comfortable around you. Yes, it makes me a little uncomfortable when I'm the only mom around who is not in on your very exciting and animated German conversation, probably talking about how fantastic it feels to be out without a bra on and how uptight the poor American mothers are in their bra-wearing stupors. I can get past that. I'm not bilingual. So sue me. I just can't get past the breastesses. As Heidi Klum would say, "auf wiedersehen" to the braless look. (I am aware that Heidi Klum also says, "In fashion, one day you're in. The next day, you're OUT" but I'm pretty sure she's not talking about boobs.
Summer will be here....one day....eventually.....I hope and it will be time for all of us to get out our summer clothes. Lets not have a repeat of last summer's "case of the missing underpants" episode (see previous blog) and lets go for the gold and get all our girlie parts secured. It's a pact!
Double Kiss, Double Hugs, Double D's!
L.
And here we are again--the underwear conversation. It's not even summer time yet and the "ladies" are swingin' free already. I realize that after a cold winter the "girls" were excited to go out without 65 layers covering them up during yesterday's warm spell of 50 degrees, but one additional layer...say, a bra...would be helpful. Think of the children. And the other moms. Music class is NOT a place to debut your jubblies for the spring season. It is not spring yet, trust me. Or trust your hooters....they say it all. Now, some of you can certainly pull this off. I'm not sure how, but maybe your kids are adopted or you have an excellent plastic surgeon. Or maybe it's some magic European spell that allows your knockers to stay where God originally planted them. Yes, I envy you for that but that's beside the point. Even if my girls were back in their original region of origin I would still "dress them up". It's just nice manners.
I'm not sure what it is about you Germans that give you the idea that it's perfectly okay to waltz (and jump and run and skip and twirl) without your knockwursts in their proper casings, but it's just not okay. The music room is small. Someone is liable to get injured. And to the Italian mom....BAD DECISION. You were not blessed with the German genes girlfriend. Tie those suckers down, would ya?
I love you European moms because you're so carefree and beautiful and skinny and, well, you have fun accents. I love that your JCREW quality offspring can speak fluently in many languages. But you wouldn't let them out without diapers (I hope). So lets all work on some kind of multi-national agreement that would allow for all of us to be comfortable around you. Yes, it makes me a little uncomfortable when I'm the only mom around who is not in on your very exciting and animated German conversation, probably talking about how fantastic it feels to be out without a bra on and how uptight the poor American mothers are in their bra-wearing stupors. I can get past that. I'm not bilingual. So sue me. I just can't get past the breastesses. As Heidi Klum would say, "auf wiedersehen" to the braless look. (I am aware that Heidi Klum also says, "In fashion, one day you're in. The next day, you're OUT" but I'm pretty sure she's not talking about boobs.
Summer will be here....one day....eventually.....I hope and it will be time for all of us to get out our summer clothes. Lets not have a repeat of last summer's "case of the missing underpants" episode (see previous blog) and lets go for the gold and get all our girlie parts secured. It's a pact!
Double Kiss, Double Hugs, Double D's!
L.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Open Letter to Snarky Blog Readers
Dear Friends,
Wow...I've sure made this a lame-o blog by getting all excited about it and then not writing anything for like three months. BOOOO me! Perhaps it is due to the fact that I've lived in the Big Apple for a whole year now (wow!--and still alive!) and what once used to strike me as God-awful Hideousness now barely strikes a chord at all. Wait...who am I kidding. I'm still as shocked as ever by some of the stuff I see, but by the time I get home to write about it....well, I have usually spoken to my therapist and all is well again. I'll admit that I haven't seen a person pee in public in about a month now (granted I was in Florida for three weeks so that helped that statistic!). I did see two people fornicating in the driver's seat of a vehicle parked in front of a preschool at 4'oclock in the afternoon a few weeks ago, but hey...it's cold outside so the park bathroom was probably their Plan B this time. Speaking of fornication....I'm expecting my second bebe' in September, so I GUARANTEE you that I will have more stories coming your way....if' you're a fan of obstetrical humor. Let's just say when I met my OB/GYN for the first time I ran home to Google him to make sure he wasn't a cast member of Jersey Shore. (He bares a strong resemblance to "The Situation". I'm thinking of calling him "The Speculum".) Anyway, if he ever runs out of KY in his office, he can just reach for a glob of hairgel from his gleaming, shiny, spikey hair. I will give The Speculum credit though--he's totally awesome and SO not like that crazy Russian doctor I had a few months back. He has a real office. No closets. And nurses! He has nurses! Hooray!
OK, so enough about hair gel and "down there" business. I've been in NY a whole year now so I figured I'd give you a list of things I've learned in this bizzaro year. Without further ado:
1. Tourists often wonder if NYC is dangerous. Will they die in a subway mugging? Be held at knifepoint at the deli? No, my friends. You're perfectly safe as long as you stay away from a three-way stop intersection. This will increase your chances of living twenty-fold. New Yorkers have NO IDEA. NONE. BADA BING BADA NADA idea how to operate in a three-way stop situation. There is usually no stopping. It's rolling. It's a race. And God help you if you're a pedestrian. The honking...the yelling...the screeching of tires....And that's just me! The others don't stop at all! AVOID AVOID AVOID.
2. When someone asks you "are you online"...they are not inquiring about your internet status. I learned this at the grocery store when someone asked me, "Are you On Line?". I said...."No. I'm at the grocery store". So they got in front of me. Apparently, "on line" means "in line". And so it goes.
3. If you think you're parked too close to a fire hydrant, you probably are. And it will cost you $115 for your trouble. Don't even try it. Meanwhile, you can double park in the middle of a lane of traffic, during rush hour, run in to pick up your deli order and stay and chat a while and run no risk of being ticketed. None at all. Have two cappuccinos. It's all good. Oh, and feel free to do a u-turn from the far right lane to the far left lane going the opposite direction during a red-light situation. Also totally OK. (and I wondered why our car insurance nearly TRIPLED when we moved here!)
4. Always take your shoes off at the door. As a kid growing up, we never did this. Heck, I rarely even wore shoes. It's Florida! But here, you wear big shoes. And when you enter someone's home, you remove them at the door. It is gauche to wear shoes in the house, mainly because you probably stepped on all manner of bodily fluids on the way over and nobody wants that on their carpet.
5. Apparently mustard is the only appropriate topping for a hot dog. And thin slice is the only type of pizza...unless you like squares, which, as you'll read in a previous post, is a huge source of contention among NY'ers. There's gelato, spumoni, and icecream. Know the difference. Follow the rules. Establish your loyalties. And have your order ready when they answer the phone. Just blurt it out. And prepare to wait.
6. Customer Service is not a priority. Never. Nowhere. Fuggetaboutit. I've learned to stop yearning for the "thank you, come again's" so often heard in my home land. Although I do like to freak them out by saying, "Good morning" and "you have a great day!". Hilarious.
7. Umbrellas? Useless. See, it's easy to remember...two words that start with "u".
8. Hours of Operation are mere suggestions. So what if the sign says, "Open at 11am". That could mean 2pm. (And it has, on more than one occasion in my experience). Restaurants in particular operate on their own schedules, not those of their paying customers. Even if you have a brunch reservation for 11am....too bad so sad if you have to come back in ("maybe 20 minutes to an hour"). And do not be offended if the restauranteur gives you major attitude for daring to show up before the restaurant opens, even if they should have opened an hour ago according to their sign (and by all means, DO NOT point out the sign. Don't.) . They are angry just like the rest of New York. If you want something on time, go to McDonalds. If you can find one.
Well, I'm sure there are more things...like uptown/downtown knowledge is really important when getting on the subway, the use of turn signals is a waste of time, and the best cheesecake in the world is located at Paneantico on Third Avenue. And I've met some pretty neat-o NY'ers who, while totally supporting the stereotypes, still manage to be pretty decent people. Just stay on their good sides and ignore their foul-mouths. I'll add more as they come to me. For now, enjoy and stay tuned. I'll write more sooner rather than later. Promise.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
Wow...I've sure made this a lame-o blog by getting all excited about it and then not writing anything for like three months. BOOOO me! Perhaps it is due to the fact that I've lived in the Big Apple for a whole year now (wow!--and still alive!) and what once used to strike me as God-awful Hideousness now barely strikes a chord at all. Wait...who am I kidding. I'm still as shocked as ever by some of the stuff I see, but by the time I get home to write about it....well, I have usually spoken to my therapist and all is well again. I'll admit that I haven't seen a person pee in public in about a month now (granted I was in Florida for three weeks so that helped that statistic!). I did see two people fornicating in the driver's seat of a vehicle parked in front of a preschool at 4'oclock in the afternoon a few weeks ago, but hey...it's cold outside so the park bathroom was probably their Plan B this time. Speaking of fornication....I'm expecting my second bebe' in September, so I GUARANTEE you that I will have more stories coming your way....if' you're a fan of obstetrical humor. Let's just say when I met my OB/GYN for the first time I ran home to Google him to make sure he wasn't a cast member of Jersey Shore. (He bares a strong resemblance to "The Situation". I'm thinking of calling him "The Speculum".) Anyway, if he ever runs out of KY in his office, he can just reach for a glob of hairgel from his gleaming, shiny, spikey hair. I will give The Speculum credit though--he's totally awesome and SO not like that crazy Russian doctor I had a few months back. He has a real office. No closets. And nurses! He has nurses! Hooray!
OK, so enough about hair gel and "down there" business. I've been in NY a whole year now so I figured I'd give you a list of things I've learned in this bizzaro year. Without further ado:
1. Tourists often wonder if NYC is dangerous. Will they die in a subway mugging? Be held at knifepoint at the deli? No, my friends. You're perfectly safe as long as you stay away from a three-way stop intersection. This will increase your chances of living twenty-fold. New Yorkers have NO IDEA. NONE. BADA BING BADA NADA idea how to operate in a three-way stop situation. There is usually no stopping. It's rolling. It's a race. And God help you if you're a pedestrian. The honking...the yelling...the screeching of tires....And that's just me! The others don't stop at all! AVOID AVOID AVOID.
2. When someone asks you "are you online"...they are not inquiring about your internet status. I learned this at the grocery store when someone asked me, "Are you On Line?". I said...."No. I'm at the grocery store". So they got in front of me. Apparently, "on line" means "in line". And so it goes.
3. If you think you're parked too close to a fire hydrant, you probably are. And it will cost you $115 for your trouble. Don't even try it. Meanwhile, you can double park in the middle of a lane of traffic, during rush hour, run in to pick up your deli order and stay and chat a while and run no risk of being ticketed. None at all. Have two cappuccinos. It's all good. Oh, and feel free to do a u-turn from the far right lane to the far left lane going the opposite direction during a red-light situation. Also totally OK. (and I wondered why our car insurance nearly TRIPLED when we moved here!)
4. Always take your shoes off at the door. As a kid growing up, we never did this. Heck, I rarely even wore shoes. It's Florida! But here, you wear big shoes. And when you enter someone's home, you remove them at the door. It is gauche to wear shoes in the house, mainly because you probably stepped on all manner of bodily fluids on the way over and nobody wants that on their carpet.
5. Apparently mustard is the only appropriate topping for a hot dog. And thin slice is the only type of pizza...unless you like squares, which, as you'll read in a previous post, is a huge source of contention among NY'ers. There's gelato, spumoni, and icecream. Know the difference. Follow the rules. Establish your loyalties. And have your order ready when they answer the phone. Just blurt it out. And prepare to wait.
6. Customer Service is not a priority. Never. Nowhere. Fuggetaboutit. I've learned to stop yearning for the "thank you, come again's" so often heard in my home land. Although I do like to freak them out by saying, "Good morning" and "you have a great day!". Hilarious.
7. Umbrellas? Useless. See, it's easy to remember...two words that start with "u".
8. Hours of Operation are mere suggestions. So what if the sign says, "Open at 11am". That could mean 2pm. (And it has, on more than one occasion in my experience). Restaurants in particular operate on their own schedules, not those of their paying customers. Even if you have a brunch reservation for 11am....too bad so sad if you have to come back in ("maybe 20 minutes to an hour"). And do not be offended if the restauranteur gives you major attitude for daring to show up before the restaurant opens, even if they should have opened an hour ago according to their sign (and by all means, DO NOT point out the sign. Don't.) . They are angry just like the rest of New York. If you want something on time, go to McDonalds. If you can find one.
Well, I'm sure there are more things...like uptown/downtown knowledge is really important when getting on the subway, the use of turn signals is a waste of time, and the best cheesecake in the world is located at Paneantico on Third Avenue. And I've met some pretty neat-o NY'ers who, while totally supporting the stereotypes, still manage to be pretty decent people. Just stay on their good sides and ignore their foul-mouths. I'll add more as they come to me. For now, enjoy and stay tuned. I'll write more sooner rather than later. Promise.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
An Open Letter to the Fei Long Asian Food Market
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.
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 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.
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