You know when you go onto YouTube to watch one video and you suddenly fall into a fugue state and hours later you find yourself sitting there, in the dark, watching butterfly mating dances? It started off innocently enough - I searched "The Pierces cover" to see what horrible and delightful YouTube covers there were for one of my favorite bands. I guess I must've blacked out because next thing I knew, I was watching video after video of child prodigies. Incidentally, this is the same exact way I discovered Justin Bieber in 2008, way before Bieber Fever took the world by temperature (was I really just a hipster about Bieber?).
Anyway, I came across the following three videos which quite literally took my breath away (I've also been listening to a lot of "Shania Twain" recently so sorry for the drama).
I know some are kind of old so sorry if you've already seen them (but also not sorry because they're so good you should watch them every day). How worthless do you feel after watching those? I think I peed my pants in gym class and discovered pogs at the same age that the first girl is belting Adele. The second girl is not only talented and gorgeous but FRENCH. How dare she. I have trouble harmonizing with myself using Garage Band but the last two girls haven't even gotten their periods and can not only harmonize, but keep rhythm using freaking butter containers. My life is MEANINGLESS (Shania Twain-fueled drama again, sorry).
I don't know about you, but rather than feeling a "Wow! They're so cute and talented!" I instead feel a big "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT?!" It goes against science, logic, and geometry for these girls to be so talented (and rhombus-y). No matter how much monies I make for my company creating emails, whether I successfully toilet-train my cat (it's looking grim), how happy I am in my relationship or with the amazing friends I have, I will never be as successful as 9-year-old YouTube prodigies. That shit stings.
To end on a happier, unrelated note, do you think a banana, sriracha, and swiss grilled cheese sandwich would be delicious? I've been dreaming about it. Thank you for your time.
The world of walking can be a scary place. Just ask babies, who postpone walking out of fear and not motor function maturation, as scientists would have you believe. The danger of putting one foot in front of the other gets even more imminent as the population increases and familiarity decreases. This explains why tourists visiting highly populated areas are so fucking stupid. Look, I made a graph:
I spent way too much time making this graph.
In order to try and curb this loss of brain function, I've decided to outline the area I think needs the most work when it comes to walking: stairs. Please note that these suggestions-to-live-by obviously exclude those who are not able-bodied. It's also important to note that just because you are native to a large city, does not mean you're exempt from today's lesson. Some of you are stupid too!
Stairs: You Climb Them
This is pretty basic. When you use the stairs, walk forward by placing each foot on the step in front of you. Sometimes these steps go up and sometimes they go down. What you don't do is significantly slow down or stop altogether when you reach the first step. These are stairs. You've done this before. Do not panic and just keep fucking walking. There should not be a clusterfuck of people waiting at the bottom/top of the stairs because you forgot how to walk.
The Rules of Driving Apply
Provided you are in a country where people drive on the right side of the road, such as the U.S, you must walk on the right side of the stairs. If you're in a left-side-driving country, then the opposite is obviously true. If you are from the U.K. and visit the U.S., you must follow the rules of our roads and vice versa. If you're going to walk on the wrong side of the stairs and force everyone to collide with you, I expect you to drive that way too. Good luck!
Landings Aren't for Landing
And neither are the stairs themselves or the area right before and after the stairs. I know that cell phone service sucks, for the most part, when you go underground to use public transportation. Do you know what that means? You should finish your unimportant phone call/posting a photo of your cat to Instagram/sexting your boyfriend BEFORE you decide to begin your stair-y adventure. If you need to wait for somebody, the stairs are not a good place to do that. If you've just gotten off the stairs and have not figured out your bearings yet, walk a couple feet before you pull out your compass and/or check the skies for the North Star. Don't stand right at the top or bottom of the stairs, waiting for someone or looking like a lost idiot puppy, only to have innocent people ram helplessly into your back over and over again. And do not, I repeat DO NOT, throw them shade when they run into you. You're the problem, not them.
Moving Stairs: Same Rules but in Motion
The thing about escalators that makes them different are twofold: they move and everyone on them is going the same direction. You may think that this means you can stand anywhere on the escalator and ride up, carefree with the wind blowing in your hair. You would be wrong. Some people, for whatever reason that is none of your business, also walk up or down on the escalator rather than just standing in place and letting the next floor come to them. Perhaps they're late for something or dig the extra exercise. Whatever the reason, nobody deserves to be trapped when trying to get somewhere. The left side of the escalator is for walking while the right side of the escalator is for standing and being a lazy bum (like me!). Do not stand on the left side and do not try to walk on the right side. You will fail miserably on both accounts. It seems that while 100% of Washington, DC has figured this out, only 80% of New York City has. All it takes is one dope standing on the left side to block everyone from their destination. Don't be that guy.
If you don't want to follow any of these rules, that's fine...but I'll push you. I really will. Hard. I think that's really all I have to say. Maybe I'll also throw in a general "Try to be aware of those around you and understand that you're not the only person on this planet." just for good measure. Any questions about walking are welcome in the comments!
Last week, as those of you who know me in the real world are already aware, I was bed-ridden with what can only be described as the black lung my body entering a Guinness World Record competition for the most mucous produced in the shortest time span. Coupled with a sore throat, blinding sinus pressure, and a fever, I could have also probably won the Guinness World Record for grumpiest lady on a couch who hasn't showered in three days.
Naturally, I had to find a way to occupy myself that didn't involve speaking, moving, or leaving the apartment (or showering, as mentioned above). I resolved to spend my time watching y-rate horror movies that I had DVR-ed, much to Sam's chagrin, while eating countless granny smith apples and forcing my cat to stand upright so that I could play
Don't judge me. This movie rules.
her belly pouch like a guitar and make whammy noises with my mouth. You see, I'm plagued with this problem where if I see a movie that I love when surfing the cable guide, I just have to record it. This explains why I had "Aladdin," "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom," Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade," "Twister," "Hocus Pocus," and "Powder" on the DVR list, about 2% space left to record shit, and a very frustrated boyfriend who tried to explain downloading to me over and over again. Recently I had DVR-ed two really stupid horror movies simply because I hadn't seen them and I knew there would be a time. That time came last week.
The two movies were Boogeyman 2 (because the first one was so amazing AMIRITE?) and My Bloody Valentine (feel free to click the links and get a synopsis). They originally aired on the Sci-Fi Channel during what must've been some type of worst-horror-movies-of-the-past-five-years marathon and I figured if I watched them, that'd be two less DVR-ed movies for Sam to brood about. They didn't scare me in the slightest and were both pretty much on target with what I expected from them: a recycled plotline, a killer that has superhuman strength and unparalleled disappearing skills, and a lead chick who's helplessly and frantically running about as fast as her mascara is. What did scare me was the Sci-Fi Channel's use and disuse of censorship (which, I'm sure, also applies to most other television channels).
You see, while I was watching these movies I mostly forgot that they were recorded off of live television. With such imagery as a girl having her face split in half horizontally with a shovel, a guy drinking chemical floor cleaner and then foaming from the mouth while the corrosive liquid eats through his neck, and another girl with an eating disorder having tubes stuck in her veins, mouth, and stomach and being pumped full of her own vomit until she explodes, I thought that I surely must be watching some unrated, back-alley, Netflix Instant version of the films. Nope. I was not. And how was my memory refreshed? Because when the killer was discovered and tried to say "God Damnit!" all I heard was "...Damnit!"
I mean, don't get me wrong. Sometimes censorship is HILARIOUS. Take this TV-censored version of the famous "Snakes on a Plane" quote, for instance:
But this time, not so much. I'm still confused on whether censorship is a government-sanctioned parental control so that children don't accidentally see something too inappropriate or if it's adults censoring themselves as to not create a class of subhuman, violent, cursing, TV demons. Either way, what sort of message is censorship really sending out? Violent, brutal murder involving puke and gardening tools is perfectly acceptable but don't even think about using God's name in vain when you're caught. I mean WHAT? What kind of moral code is that to follow? Personally, I'd rather have language like Debra Morgan's be aired consistently on prime-time TV then have movies like the ones I watched go completely uncut. Also, it's so Judeo-Christian-centric to assume that the whole of the United States (and maybe the world, I'm not certain how global TV censorship works) finds it offensive to hear cursing that involves God, Jesus, Noah and his arc, etc. If you're going to censor based on what's offensive to religious groups, then you need to do so for EVERY RELIGIOUS GROUP. You got me? Also, murder is a sin/part of the Ten Commandments too and yet you still air that edit-free on TV. Explain.
Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that censorship is pretty much monkeyfighting useless. You can't censor children or adults from the scariest shit out there: real life. The news will give them gruesome murder, peers will curse in front of them, and yes, non-religious folk will let the Lord fucking have it. If it were up to me, everything would just air on TV in its original state: curses, shovels, and all. But it's not up to me (unfortunately...there'd be so much more cheese, avocados, and cats if I ruled the world) and there will continue to be misplaced censorship as long as parents keep convincing themselves that the cursing on the tube transformed their kid into Ted Bundy and not their horrible, abusive parenting. Go figure.
I am officially a resident of Brooklyn, NY. Hooray! This is the third New York City borough that I've lived in, actually. Maybe I'll try out the Bronx someday. No amount of money can make me move to Staten Island though (and I'm pretty sure its existence is just a myth).
About two years ago I got this
baby for $80 on Craigslist. I'm a pro.
Sam and I have been buying all of our furniture off of Craigslist (except for our giant red IKEA Ektorp couch which, let's face it, was just an excuse to go to IKEA and stuff meatballs and lingonberries in our faces). I am a huge Craigslist enthusiast and have purchased most of my furniture from 20-somethings in the tri-state area who were moving on to bigger and better pastures. It was soon made crystal clear that Sam and I needed some furniture; we had a table-less dining room, blue IKEA tarp bags filled with books eagerly waiting to be shelved, piles of clothes that needed a home, and way more makeup than I ever use sitting on our bedroom floor. I'm kind of a huge decorating snob, so I wasn't about to just stroll into a IKEA again and buy the cheapest particle board furniture I could find. I knew how to do this. I'd done this a million times before. It was Craigslist time.
The scouring began and within a couple days, I had found a beautiful wooden dining room table for us. We went and picked it up a couple of blocks from our place and then carried it back. It was a bit heavy and we had to keep resting along the way because I have fragile, baby hands and noodles for arms. Soon after, I found a set of vintage-y purple chairs in Brooklyn Heights and we went and scooped them up. The seller ended up giving them to us for free. It was then that we were imbued with a false sense of Craigslist confidence. This was working and working WELL. We could find and buy anything on this little website.
Next came a gigantic oak bookcase. "Light and easy to carry" was how she described it on Craigslist. "Death and suffering that you can put your books on" is what she should have called it. Poor Sam carried the bookcase by himself for FIFTEEN BLOCKS while I struggled with just carrying the three shelves (remember: linguine arms). We should have seen the downhill pattern then, but when we found the perfect vanity table that was still in the box and a beautiful cherry wood armoire, we thought it would be a piece of cake. We scheduled a pick-up truck zipcar named "Tumwater" (our first zipcar was named "Mudget" and our Ikea-couch-carrying minivan was known as "Stillion").
Sam waited in the car, illegally parked, while I went into the first apartment to get the vanity. It was still in its box and very awkward to carry. Because of the aforementioned complete lack of upper body strength, I was forced to grab the lip of the cardboard box and drag it into the elevator and then out and into the lobby. I was building up a decent rhythm when I stumbled forward a bit and heard a sound from my ankle that no one should ever hear. It was somewhere in between popcorn and a chiropractic soundtrack composed by John Williams. Sam saw me struggling and came rushing in to help, but it was too late. My ankle was already screaming a big "Fuck you" to me, the vanity, and even Sam.
She looks so smug...
We dropped the vanity off at home and continued our journey to go and pick up the armoire. It retails at over $1,000, but we were getting it for $100. It was a steal. When we got to the apartment, the four-flight stair walk-up was a shock back to reality. Not even the dewy-eyed face of a happy Italian Greyhound could cheer us up. The armoire was in the living room waiting for us and it was even more beautiful in person. We pulled our britches high and, with the help of the girl selling it to us and neighbors along the way, were able to carry the 6'5" armoire down four flights of stairs and into the butt of Tumwater. "I didn't even think of how you would get it down. I had moving men bring it up and I'm not even sure how they did it!" said the girl. I wanted to sock her in the ovaries.
The worst part was over though, right? All we had to do was pull it out of the truck, roll it to our apartment door (thanks, Ethan Allen, for building your furniture on wheels), and tilt it into the doorway. We were worried about my being able to lift one end by myself, but when our neighbor saw us dragging it out of Tumwater's innards, he offered to help. We were golden.
No we were not fucking golden. The armoire did not, does not, will not fit through the front door of our stupid apartment (I love our apartment, this is just rage talking). Our neighbor was nice enough to let us bring it into his apartment and keep it there until we figure out our shit (he owns the whole brownstone), but the options are ridiculous and pretty grim. The armoire doesn't come apart (remember when I thanked you, Ethan Allen? I take it back). We either have to put it right back on Craigslist ( :'( ) or round up some people with gigantic, beefy arms and carry it from garden to garden and then into our kitchen door, where it will fit (we measured this time). It looks like we're going to try the latter option first, but HOW RIDICULOUS IS THIS?! I have to ask the neighbor between the guy who helped us and our apartment, whom I have never formally met, if I can carry my gigantic armoire through her garden. MADNESS. I would rather die.
We have nice friends though who are willing to come all the way the to Brooklyn tomorrow after work and lift shit for us (thanks Roy, Todd, and Aidan for your beefy arms and friendship), so maybe it won't be that bad. It's already pretty bad though so maybe my badness scale is really poorly calibrated at this point.
Consider this post my vow to never buy anything bigger than a chair off of Craigslist again. Also consider it a warning to always measure your effing doorways before being an impulsive, furniture-buying idiot. Craigslist, I do love you, but goddamnit are you a bitch sometimes. That all being said, is it weird to name the things you get off of Craigslist after the people you got them from? If not, we now have a table named "Jess," two chairs named "Lee 1" and "Lee 2," a vanity named "Bruce," and a fucking dick of an armoire named "Paloma."
On an entirely unrelated note: Anyone know how to get horrible scratches out of cherry wood? :(
If you're female, you have heard this suggestion at some point in your life. Sometimes it's legitimized and in response to something like "I haven't gotten my period in five months and my stomach feels like there are tiny feet playing a tiny soccer game in it." Sometimes, it's in response to mundane things that happen frequently to most of the population, including males. I'm writing this post now, on behalf of all women, to tell everyone that unless you are 100% certain that the person in question is actively trying to get knocked up, you should shut the fuck up and keep your pregnancy foreshadowing to yourself.
The future people force me to imagine.
Pregnancy would absolutely ruin my life. I am far too selfish to care for something that isn't small, furry, and poops in a portable box. If I tell you I woke up nauseous and had to stay home from work because I felt pukey all day, do not, I repeat DO NOT, tell me that it's because I'm probably pregnant. Those are nightmare words for me to hear. Sentences like that cause horrible mental imagery of me holding at least nine spitting, crying, pooping babies and looking like my soul died. They also make me incredibly paranoid. I start thinking of all the scenarios in which I could be pregnant: maybe someone replaced my birth control with certs, maybe some guy jacked off into the washing machine and then when I washed my underwear some fusion occurred, etc. (THIS CAN'T HAPPEN BUT THIS IS WHAT THE WORD "PREGNANCY" DOES TO ME). I also don't want to hear you suggest pregnancy if I've been eating like a heifer recently. Maybe I'm just hungry. Maybe I eat my feelings (I do). There are plenty of other reasons why I would be consuming everything in sight other than having a bun in the oven. Also, don't you know how rude it is to comment on how much someone is eating? News flash: it's very rude.
I love how casual the
pickle outside of the jar is.
Lastly, if you're female and love pickles THIS DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MEAN YOU'RE PREGNANT. I just fucking love pickles, ok? When did they become emblazoned on the metaphorical pregnancy flag? They are low calorie, satisfyingly crunchy, salty, garlicky goodness. I would like to enjoy all my pickles or be able to freely declare that I want 54 of them in my mouth at once without someone gasping and saying "maybe you're pregnant!" Maybe you're making horrible, earth-shattering assumptions that will ruin my life forever (or at least for the rest of the day). So again, on behalf of all women who eat their weight in food, get nauseous sometimes, and heart pickles; please stop convincing us that we are carrying Rosemary's baby. Thank you and good day.
My father isn't a bad person. He's had some life struggles and a big chunk of his adolescence involved copious experimentation with a smorgasbord of drugs (I once asked him which drugs he hadn't tried, to which he respond, "Well, I never tried cocaine"). Sometimes I think that pieces of his brain disintegrated entirely somewhere between 1963 and 1978. In my childhood, I knew him as a lonely, bipolar alcoholic who, for obvious reasons, wasn't the best parent. But a lot has changed since I was a kid (such as being prescribed medication and kicking the sauce) and in the past couple of years, we've actually developed a somewhat friendly and stable relationship. Plus, he does one of the best Jerry Lewis impersonations I've ever seen.
Last night I went to dinner with my dad for the first time in a couple of months. We went to my favorite spot, Friend House, and he tried Pad See Ew for the first time in his life. We chatted about our jobs, my roommates (if you're reading this, you guys suck rule), our respective significant others (hi, Sam), and many other things. We even reminisced about that time I tried to add him as my father on Facebook and he rejected it twice and then, when I finally sent him a message asking him why, he responded with "Maybe I'm not." Dark, no? It wasn't until the topic switched over to politics that I was clutching my proverbial pearls.
And here's why:
♥ My dad is a tea-partier. I really don't need to expand on this.
♥ He thinks that the couple who recently decided to raise their children in a gender-free household should be sterilized, sent to jail, and have their kids taken away by Child Protective Services. These were his exact words.
♥ After ranting for a bit about how he believes that the government should have very little involvement in everything, I dared to ask him how he feels about abortion (my question was inspired by this Anthony Weiner video). First, he asked if his response could come with some sort rule set that he feels is morally accurate. I said absolutely not. By now you probably guessed that he did that anyway. My father's view on abortion is that he "is pro-choice as long as stupid girls don't repeatedly use if for birth control while places like Planned Parenthood pay for it free of charge with our tax money." I told him that this doesn't happen as often as he seems to think it does and that any instance of this is a reflection on the government's inability to provide proper sex education and resources to young women (especially in lower-income areas). You will
My dad: looks harmless, right?
see here and here, that no abortion at Planned Parenthood is free or paid for with taxes, but you probably already know that. I shared this with my father too. Unfortunately, it remained unabsorbed.
♥ Next, we decided to delve into gay marriage. What can I say? I needed to know. My dad thinks that committed homosexual couples should have the same rights as committed heterosexual couples but it should not be called "marriage." According to him, this is because "marriage" is defined as being between a man and a woman. I asked him if he meant that his argument was one about preserving sanctity. He said yes. I cited drunk, drive-through weddings in Las Vegas that get annulled the next day (think Britney Spears) as not preserving sanctity but still being legal. He said that that's just "goofing around." I asked him why we can't change the definition of marriage since our society is growing and changing from what it once was when these definitions were set in place. He said that if we change it to include LBGT people, what's next? Bestiality? Pedophilia? I told him that it was disgusting to even compare gay marriage to those things considering they are non-consenting and that by saying gay couples cannot call it "marriage" and cannot use the same terms as straight couples, is saying that they are unequal to straight couples. He said that these rules/definitions were founded upon Judeo-Christian morals and that everyone should respect these religions and follow their guidelines. I brought up the point that many Jewish movements support gay marriage and that other religions do not have to respect or follow any other religion's guidelines since this is a country that is supposed to separate church and state and uphold freedom of religion. He scoffed. For the record, my father isn't even religious.
♥ Finally, as the icing on the cake, he told me that he can't wait to stop working at his job because of how "ghetto" the students are. I would bet my life that what he meant to say was "black."
My co-worker, Scott, suggested that I should take his TV away from him. I concur. That, or I should just permanently block FOX News. I guess it just boggled my mind to actually know someone who believed, in earnest, all of these wackadoodle things I hear spouted from intolerant, right-wing mouths in the media. I wish there was a way to change my dad's mind and believe me, I've really tried to. You can't teach an old dog new tricks though, and 64 is REALLY old in dog years.
Ok, well maybe not evaporate because that isn't violent enough, but definitely be maimed and/or murdered. You may think that's a bit harsh. I don't. I simply cannot wrap my head around a plausible reason as to why these individuals do the things they do. I think after these people are seen or caught doing the below things, a person should come and escort them to Mordor where they will be thrown into the fires of Mount Doom. Perhaps the person who escorts them could be Gollum and he can bite off their finger before he throws them in, just for good measure.
The Stair-Stopper
Whether they are mindlessly bullshitting away on their cell phone or just standing there drooling onto their feet, these idiots have decided to completely stop walking on the stairs and make everyone else go around them. Sometimes they make it all the way down or up the stairs only to stop at the bottom or top, respectively. A lot of the time, they do this on the steps going in and out of the subway (especially unforgivable). These steps only have enough room for two lines of people: one going up and one going down. By standing on the steps and being a moron, the Stair-Stopper forces everyone behind them to maneuver around them and face-first into the line going in the opposite direction. Traffic is entirely at a stand-still and nobody can go anywhere all because someone decided that they are the only person on the planet of importance. The prevalence of Stair-Steppers increases greatly when it's raining and they decide it's an ingenious idea to stand on the subway steps, just under the ceiling, to escape the rain. You are ruining my life by doing this and when I pass you, I will say "Are you serious?!" in the nastiest tone I can muster up. Also, beware of the rare and elusive Escalator-Stopper. They stop at the very top or bottom, just as the escalator ends, so that you have no choice but to flatten your whole body against their back and ass. Delicious.
Cat Callers
To Mordor with all of you! There is nothing I hate more than having my appearance assessed by a complete stranger. Does hanging out of your car by the waist and yelling "Hey Sexy!" ever work for you? Be honest, you're probably still a virgin. Nothing would make me happier in this world than if I could approach someone of the opposite sex on the sidewalk and not feel sick to my stomach with anxiety. This is because a hearty chunk of the time, they have something to say to me that has to do with the way I look. It's especially amusing when, if I react unfavorably to the public comment about my face, body, clothes, hair, ass, or tits, I'm called a bitch, whore, slut, etc. Anyone who knows me can vouch that despite my chronic sarcasm (it's terminal), I'm quite the amiable person. The jury is still out on why getting angry when a perfect stranger makes a comment about my waist-to-hip ratio constitutes my being a mean prostitute. I am not a piece of meat. I am not for you to comment on. I did not get dressed today for you. Please fuck off, on behalf of all women.
Mr./Ms./Mrs. Lasties
I am very weird about the order in which I eat things and I've been told that I'm not the only one who is like that. I will eat all around the edge of sandwiches and burgers and make it so that my last bite is the cheesy, saucy, ooey, gooey center. When I eat gummy bears, I save all of the green and white ones for last because they are my favorite. It's almost like I'm doing work when I start eating something in order to get rid of the less palatable parts of my meal. So when a friend (or soon to be enemy) asks me for a bite when there is only one, amazing, perfect bite left, I'm livid. Don't get me wrong, I'm an extremely generous person and that is why this sucks the most. I will give them the last bite and all of my green (which are strawberry-flavored, believe it or not) and white gummy bears, but inside my soul is dying. I can remember one instance of this from my childhood which practically traumatized me. Everyone agrees, I'm sure, that Jolly Ranchers tasted 114% better when they came in a roll and were square-shaped. I used to live, LIVE, for the moment when a red Jolly Rancher was next. There was no taste like it. However, this pack was especially barren and it wasn't until my absolute last Rancher that I saw a glimmer of cherry-flavored hope. That is, until my mom asked me if she could have one. I know, I know, I should have killed her. Instead, I gave her that cherry Jolly Rancher and continued sucking on my nasty, grape Jolly Rancher with a heavier heart.
Captain Miserable
Let me guess, you don't like this music, you don't like this party, and you don't like these people.We all have our moments when we're very difficult to please; whether it be from a lack of sleep, food, or just because we're in a foul mood. However, Captain Miserable is always difficult to please and will never just be happy and go with the goddamned flow. They are usually a friend of yours which makes it even more challenging because you have to be kind and supportive. They never seem to be satisfied with where you're going or what you're doing, but they never come up with an alternate idea. Captain Miserable most likely has a lot of other issues going on under the surface, but at the moment they aren't willing to fix any of them and would rather bitch, moan, and make your life a living hell. Save us all the trouble and just go home and sort through your shit. That, or bring us somewhere that you enjoy. If you're unable to do either, then you just have to suck it up and have fun. These are the rules.
Loud-Ass People
Just shut the fuck up. Nobody cares. That is all.
Social Preachers
"You should really be vegan." "Do you care about the ASPCA?" "Let me ask you a question about your hair!" Absolutely not. Social Preachers can be found on the street trying to sell you things, at parties trying to shove their views down your throat, or they can even possess your best friend temporarily. About a year ago, I was cornered at a party for about two hours by a guy who claimed that veganism was the only way to live. Through further conversation, I actually discovered that he ate fish (technically pescatarian), but continued to tell people he was vegan to "impress them." I remained severely unimpressed. When I first moved to NYC and was a gullible newb, I fell for the SSP (Street Social Preacher). I ended up paying $40 for a ~salon experience~ that expired, to my horror, only a little while after I bought it. It remained unused and I would have been better served wiping my ass or making pasties with said $40. The moral of the story is that 99.9% of the people who stop you on the street want your money. They don't just want to talk to you about the ASPCA, they want you to give them money for it. Just want to volunteer? Too bad. Once you start talking to them, they will guilt you with stories and pictures to try and bleed you of all of your income. My rule? If someone has a clipboard, fucking RUN. As for the vegans (I know that not all of you are undercover pescatarians), I'm cool as long as you don't try to convert me. I like cheese far too much and you'll just have to deal with that.
No wonder that website thinks my blog is "upset most of the time" when I'm writing shit like this every other day.
It's not uncommon in the U.S. to have braces. In fact, I've found that most of the people I know with reasonable teeth have donned some sort of headgear in their youth. I am no exception to this.
From the moment I was born, I found comfort in sucking on the pointer and middle finger of my left hand. This, coupled with mashing a filthy blanket I called shmata (Yiddish word for rag) into my closed eye, was pure bliss for me. Later, my shmata was butchered and cut into four smaller shmatas so that I could easily replace it when I lost it (which was frequently because I was a careless child). Finally, circa 1991, I lost my final shmata and consequently, my shit. My mom, being the best mother ever (and having a very low tolerance for whining, crying, and bullshit in general), immediately brought me to the nearest Toys "R" Us so that I could pick out the next thing to mush onto my face while sucking my fingers. My eyes lit up when I found a stuffed Siamese cat (we had a non-stuffed Siamese at the time but she was most unfriendly). I immediately started rubbing the tail under my nose and sucking on my two fingers and my mom knew that we had found the one.
Siamese Stuffy Number One lasted until I left him at my elementary school library about four years later and my poor mother had to soothe me that later night when I had a complete mental breakdown. Back to Toys "R" Us we went the next day and my saliva-soaked fingers were crossed that they still had the same Siamese cat stuffed animal for sale. No dice, but there was one tolerably similar. I decided to give this stuffy a proper name so that maybe I wouldn't lose him. Snowflake was born.
Nigel Thornberry: doppelganger of my youth.
Snowflake's tail wasn't sufficiently long enough for my finger-sucking affairs, so I migrated to using his forearm and rubbing it gently on my nose. The years went on and soon, it was 1997 and I was 10 years old. My dad knew that soon this finger-sucking thing wouldn't be socially acceptable and neither would my dopey, Nigel Thornberry-esque, buck teeth. He tried to sit me down and calmly explain why I should stop doing my favorite thing. I said no. When he commanded it "because he said so," I would steal away and suckle in secret. I felt like some sort of drool-covered fugitive and it made the experience even more pleasurable. My dad soon realized that I was fibbing about having quit my habit cold turkey and decided to bust out the WMDs: hot pepper-flavored, anti-finger-sucking nail polish. My father came in the night like some sort of ninja manicurist and painted all of my nails with the foul polish while I was unconscious. When I woke up, I was horrified by what I tasted but immediately knew what was going down. I decided to take one for the team (just Snowflake and me, I guess) and bite all of the nail polish off of my nails. Within 10 minutes, I was back in finger-sucking heaven.
My dad's efforts continued for the next year, but were unsuccessful. At 11 years old, I was now in 6th grade, and although I was playing it cool and rocking out the the Backstreet Boys during the day, by night I was sucking my fingers like a toddler. Some kids started making fun of me for my buck teeth and I distinctly remember one kid singing "fall into the Gap," except this time it wasn't about the retail store and was a diss aimed at my incisors. My father finally decided it was time for me to take a trip to the orthodontist and get fitted with braces. But how was he going to get me to stop sucking (my fingers!)?
Why is my middle finger shaped like a backwards 's?'
My orthodontist, Dr. Chan (located somewhere in the middle of New Jersey), took care of that for him with her giant book of deformed teeth AKA oral scare tactics. This book was filled with some of the gnarliest, snarliest teeth you've ever seen; they were black and decayed or protruding through closed mouths or growing out of foreheads or all of the above. One look through that book coupled with the phrase "this could be you if you don't stop sucking your fingers" was enough for me to quit for good. Two years, 21 changes in rubber band color theme, one clear, blue retainer with my name on it, and 43 gags from the taste of brace bracket cement later, I had straight teefs. I still have a permanent retainer wire fastened securely to the inside of my bottom front teeth and my pointer and middle finger on my left hand are eternally deformed and curve unnaturally (See Image 2). Other than the aforementioned physical maladies, all that remains of this ordeal is the emotional, tooth-related trauma I endured. Oh, and Snowflake still helps me fall asleep every night.
The title says it all; these people make my commuting experience displeasing and leave me with an unfavorable attitude for the rest of the work day.
The Overeager Boarder
The rudest fucking thing in the world is to try and enter the subway before everyone has exited, but this person just does not give a shit. Even at 42nd street-Times Square during rush hour, they will slip in on the side while 20+ people try to exit through the tiny opening they are allotted. Where they have to be is just that much more important than where you have to be and you're just going to have to deal with that. The most effective method of combating the Boarder is much like the defense mechanisms of smaller predators in the wild; make yourself as big (and pointy) as possible. I usually place both hands on my hips, allowing my razor-sharp, hyper-extended, alien elbows to flank me on either side, and exit the subway without a care in the world. The Overeager Boarder can enter before you exit, but at their own risk. Hopefully some sort of lesson will be learned from the searing pain in their appendix area due to being rocked in the gut, but probably not.
Patient Zero
A lot of the time we have no choice but to be inches away and face-to-face with a complete stranger on the subway. Sometimes this can be tolerable with the help of a strategically-placed magazine or book. Other times, death is a better option since it seems impending anyway. This is because the person who you're smashed against is possible infected with the zombie virus. They sneeze, snot, hack, and cough everywhere and there is a variety of multi-colored liquids dripping from the areas in and around their mouth. There's no escape until the next stop when people shuffle around a bit and you intensely regret pointing and laughing at the people who wear surgical masks during their commute.
The Boombox
Whether it's with electronics or with their own mouths, the Boombox is loud as fuck. You can usually find them sitting down and screaming every word they say (regardless of whether they're with anyone) or playing their music aloud, sans headphones, from their MP3 player/phone. Their voice is usually one of the grating, Fran Drescher types and their music is always something severely intolerable like Mambo No. 5 or the Tiny Toons Theme Song. The Boombox usually rides the entire subway line from start to finish, most likely just to annoy people like you.
Inner Ear Issues
These people seem to have no control over their bodies. If it wasn't for them stomping on your foot every other minute, you would swear that they didn't even have legs. You surmise that even if they were sitting down they'd be flailing all over the subway car with each twist and turn. They're usually carrying a giant, turtle shell of a backpack which also slams into you every time that they do. Inner Ear Issues never notices the stink eye you're giving them, but you notice the stink eye that everyone else is giving you every time you domino into them on the subway. The resemblance to a Thwomp (of Super Mario Bros. fame) who has just gotten off of a spinning teacup ride is uncanny. The only way to save yourself from their war path is to get off of the subway ASAP.
The Insecure Stripper
We're all familiar with the stripper poles on the subway; they're not attached to any seats and have a ton of open hand room for people of all heights trying to stabilize themselves. If you're wasted, 18, and the subway isn't crowded, they are the perfect accessory for the sexy dance you've been practicing in the mirror every time you listen to a song with a lot of bass in it (oddly specific). If you're the Insecure Stripper, this is the perfect pole to hug with your entire body and not let anyone else on the crowded subway car use. If you're brave and incredibly unbalanced (physically!), like I am, you will hold onto the pole anyway. This will not detach the Stripper from the subway pole and you will most likely end up copping a feel somewhere inappropriate. Regardless of their gender, the Insecure Stripper always seems to be covered in breasts so that no matter where you clutch on the pole, there is a boob continually smashing into the back of your hand. Don't get me wrong, I love touching me some titties, but usually not unexpectedly, in public, and at 9:00am in the morning.
Subway Soapboxer
If you're an egocentric tool with a lot on your mind (or just plain certifiable), you've probably realized that the subway is the perfect venue to share your views with people. This is because as soon as those doors close, they can't escape and are forced to listen to your bullshit. In my experience, the Soapboxer is usually a deeply religious person who wants to explain the ins and outs of Jesus Christ to you or talk about how they are a fallen angel and only young girls are pure enough to touch them (the latter exists, has a ponytail, and likes to take the 6 from Astor Place). The Soapboxer may also read straight from the Bible, share their horrible poetry with you, talk about their political views, perform a scene from Shakespeare's Hamlet, tell you a boring anecdote, and countless other things. No matter how much you try to read or turn up the volume on your music, you can't block them out. You must listen and they know that.
Thanks for reading. If you think you're one of the aforementioned people, well then fuck you forever. If not, good luck riding the subway!
