Thankful, Angry NYC Chick Style

As Thanksgiving roars its wattled head, I list some items for which I am thankful. I am thankful that:

• We have not heard from Helen Hunt in a while. I liked her in Mad About You (we liked it at the time, remember? don't pretend we didn't), but then she transformed into a severely hawk-faced leading lady who proved that you can lose weight and actually look worse  (which gives me the opportunity to reference one of my favorite Friends quotes  "she's all bitter now that she lost the weight and it turns out she doesn't have a pretty face"). Once I had to watch her chase tornadoes or single mother the predictably ill child, I found her utterly insufferable. 

• It is too soon for Bridesmaids 2. The first one was so horrible, you just know a second one will follow.  First, of course, we'll get a half dozen or so knockoffs featuring women puking and worse.  These are the equal rights we fought for?

• I no longer live at 32nd street, around the corner from Macy's.  To begin with that whole area is nightmarishly crowded with both tourists and New Yorkers, about 4,000 of them packed into each sidewalk square.  But bring on the holidays, and you question your choice to live in New York versus, say, a space station that sees visitors once every six months (who bring you supplies! it's home delivery - in space!). As the days count down to the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the streets are filled with literally hundreds of cheerleaders.  In their matching uniforms.  And their jackets.  All wearing pontyails. And bright smiles. (I saved the worst part for last.) Following Thanksgiving, and the return of the cheerleaders to their home planet (around the corner from the space station), the population of the entire middle of the country flies in to walk as slowly as possible, arm in arm, down these same streets.

• I finally got that Friday song out of my mind.  Well, I had until it was satired in a Black Friday commercial for some store that I would surely avoid if I could even remember what it was.  I guess if you are going to create a commercial that pisses viewers off, at least design it in such away that they can't remember what you were advertising in the first place.  Also - way to remain topical.

• And, no mention of Thanksgiving is complete without identifying the holiday by its true name, Slapsgiving.  Not enough of you watch How I Met Your Mother, which is (was) one of the most awesome shows on TV.  You know, if you don't count Two and a Half Men or that show with Jim Belushi, whom I still can't believe anyone watches deliberately.

Goodnight - and remember to overindulge!

Lost in Translation

Here is something many of you may not know about me; I have some language processing issues.  There are certain phrases that I just can't process correctly, and I want to let you know so that you may avoid them.  I am told that because my condition was diagnosed in adulthood, there is no treatment available and the most I can do is warn you about how the symptoms present themselves. 

"Smile"
When you see me and say "Smile, it can't be that bad!" what I hear is "Please, punch me right here in the trachea."  Anyway, who are you to tell me it can't be that bad?  It can be.  There can be literally 10 loads of laundry patiently waiting for me on the living room sofa, visible apparently to only me, that I can't get to for the 40 other items on my to-do list.

"I forgot to eat - AGAIN!"
This statement just cannot be processed.  I think you may be saying something about missing a meal, is that right? I have heard that, like the spontaneous combustion that my high school friend Cindi swore happens frequently to people in Chicago (don't you love that little detail - she swore up and down that spontaneous combustion happens all the time, but only in Chicago), missing meals also happens to people. When I hear this statement, I kind of stand there dumbfounded.  Don't get me wrong, my reaction is merely delayed; as you exit the room later, I will accidentally extend a foot in your path.

"You look really tired."
When I hear "You look really tired," the neurons in my brain seem to misfire and it comes through as "Slap me wicked hard across the face. With your rings turned inward." Don't try to follow this statement with, as someone did recently, "but pretty - you still look pretty," because it will already be too late and you should really just focus your efforts on locating an icepack for your jaw. 

Shrill bike whistle while you almost smack into me in the crosswalk as you ride your bike against traffic and against the light
In this instance my brain interprets the input as "string as many variations on the word f*ck as you can into a single, very loudly voiced exclamation."  Note that, somewhat surprisingly, the number of permutations of the word f*ck is directly proportional to the number of children I am accompanying across the street as you nearly run us down while thinking that any activity you partake in is sanctioned as long as you blow that f*cking whistle. 

"Girl," when referencing an adult woman
Upon hearing an adult woman - a salesperson, a colleague, Secretary of State Clinton - referred to as a 'girl,' my brain is entirely bypassed and my mouth automatically exclaims "WOMAN!" I am sure this reaction is directly related to my reaction to my alma mater, Wellesley College, being referred to as a "girls' school" ("WOMEN'S COLLEGE!"). The brain works in mysterious ways.

I thank you for your understanding, but please, save your pity. For the guy on the bike (and the kids walking with me).

Puppies Don't Push - and Other True Stories

At the risk of making you think I am one of those people who loves animals more than people (I'm not) and revealing myself as a misanthrope (I am), here are some of the reasons I sometimes like my dog Stella better than people.  

1. After she has removed that plastic ring from around the neck of a milk container, Stella rarely just leaves it on the counter.  That thoughtfulness saves me the passively aggressive task of placing it inside a briefcase, serving it with dinner, placing it in the bottom of a sock which is then replaced in the sock drawer.
2. Not once has Stella left her homework in school, forcing me to call another parent and ask that she fax it to me my work fax number (that’s why I have a work fax, no?).  She's just good that way.
3. I have never, ever found my good Mason and Pearson brush entangled in the disproportionately long and unreasonably platinum locks of one of Stella's Barbies. She is so careful about this one, she even runs at the mere sight of a brush.
4. I have never seen Stella nearly shove a person down the steps of the Chambers Street subway station running to get a train that clearly she, and she alone, is the only one interested in boarding.  Yes, woman who refused to look me in the eye, having missed the train after all last night, I am talking to you.
5. When I ask Stella to take down the recycling, she has never answered with, “Why would I want to do that?! It’s not fun!” or “NOW?! But I was just about to watch that episode of iCarly I have seen only four other times,” or, a personal favorite from my very own childhood repertoire, “I bet you had me just so I could do your chores.”
6. When she is in a store and people ask her where to find the french fried onions, which are best eaten by the fistful directly from the iconic canister, it is extremely rare for Stella to shrug her shoulders, say "Dunno," and return to texting her friends.  Of course, her lack of thumbs may at least partially explain this one.
7. Stella has never been embarrassed when I call her a nickname in front of others.  Not even during her paper training days, when I regularly referred to her as ‘Smella.’

To be fair, I did just have to wrestle a brand new pair of ballet flats from her jaws.

Confessions of a Hemaholic

It started out innocently enough.  It always does.  I mentioned to my friend Jackie that my jeans needed hemming, designed seemingly for a 6’3” 107-pound fit model.  She recommended we take a trip to see her tailor.  At first I was fearful – hems in my neighborhood are expensive, the thread often doesn’t match, and the new hem sometimes ends up wider than the pants leg.  But the more Jackie pushed – talked, I mean talked – the more it made perfect sense.  So what if Pablo spoke only Spanish? Jackie was fluent. And, sure, it took 45 minutes and three trains to get there.  But that’s ok – Jackie eased me in, having her husband pick up my jeans and bring them to me.  It went pretty much as anyone who has ever seen an after school special in the late 70’s early 08’s would expect – a good friend offered me the product, cheap, and hand-delivered.  Soon I was even getting special service as a top customer.

My new habit grew, slowly at first.  Sure, the new jeans.  But what about my beloved, two-year old cords? Yes, they needed to come up a bit.  Both pair.  And what about those jeans with the artfully torn hem? Pablo could remove the hem, shorten the leg, and reattach the artisan rips.  And of course work pants, they needed to be adjusted to suit the height of my boots (always boots, remember?).

Soon I was seeing hems everywhere I looked.  Men with their pant legs flapping in the air, inches above their shoes.  Surely they just needed someone to introduce them to the secret of good quality hemming.  Women whose pants did not reach the bottom of their heel – or worse yet – women who walked around on their hems! Oh, I had to look away in horror.  These poor souls did not know what they were missing. 

And then Jackie moved to Florida.  Something about needing a fresh start, getting away from her old friends and their nasty habits, staying clean.  But where did that leave me? Hemming alone? I don’t think so.  I recruited a new partner in hemming.  A family member, no less.  

Had I hit rock bottom? Oh no, that was practically just the beginning . Soon I was bringing in anything in my closet, telling myself I was just heeding Clinton and Stacy’s advice (“Buy it for the biggest part of you and find a great tailor.”)  Sundresses needed to be taken up in the straps.  Skirts must be nipped in at the waist. Dresses must be flattened out across the back.  And you know that gap between your jeans waist and top of your bottom? I had that surgically removed.

I even brought in hand-me-down True Religion jeans that had already been hemmed so Pablo could re-do them (the thread was the wrong color! The stitching wasn’t perfectly straight! The hem did that jut-out thing!). I know you are thinking, “Well, those are expensive jeans.” OK -  but does it explain my trips down there with Target dresses and flannel shirts?

To you this blog entry may seem like a step toward recovery, but there is no doubt in my mind  that my next pickup trip to Pablo (cords, two kirts, camo pants), will include another drop off (two dresses, Target skirt).  But I tell myself it’s OK, I am a functional hemaholic, managing both a demanding career and a household.  For now.

Funk Busters

It has been a very long, very angry day, the workday part of which is wrapping up only now, at 12:30. AM. 12:30 PM would be fine with me, for the record. So to cheer myself up, and possibly you by extension, here are some items I can count on to lift me out of this long-workday funk.

1. Stella Layla, my dog.  She is awesome.  She has hopped up next to the keyboard to assuage my anger.  Dogs are awesome.  Of course, not other people's.  Just mine, my parents' and my neighbor Gail's.  Oh, and yours, I guess yours is awesome (if you say so). 
2. Brian Williams.  He really deserves an entire entry - nay, an entire blog.  Every day a bit more of his brilliance is revealed.  For evidence of said brilliance, just watch this video of Williams proposing that the number one news story of 2010 was the New York Times's discovery of Brooklyn. He uses the phrase "flash artisanal market," people! He compares Brooklyn to Marakesh. Somewhere I read that millennials are puzzled why this comedian hosts a straight news show.  I am too lazy to figure out where I read that and would you really click on the link anyway?
3. Tina Fey.  Thirty Rock in particular, which really is what pulled me out of my funk tonight, but pretty much the mere existence of Tina Fey (and her book that I have read at least 3 times and quoted a thousand times more, bringing my quotes to a total of 1003) is enough to make me think it is possible to get up tomorrow and complete yet another status report. Which brings me to...
4. Chandler's WENUS report.  Every day I work on another one of these urgent forecasts, giving up my evenings (in exchange for a fair dose of additional bitchiness), I am thinking in my head that I am Chandler, concerned that his WENUS is out of wack. That's Miss Chanandler Bong, to you.  And I guess I am just thankful for Friends in general. Monica's head in a turkey, in particular. 
5. Look at the list above and, with the exception of Stella, everything is TV.  I am not ashamed, though, of my great love of TV.  I am proud to love TV. Can I get that on a t-shirt? Or maybe just "TV Lover" or "TV is for Lovers."  Did I mention I am tired?  I am proud that I have named my tv and refer to it by its initials.  Proud that I have multiple dvrs, dvd players, and ipads on which I watch tv shows.  Proud that, as a mere toddler, my younger daughter could recognize Lorelai Gilmore at 20 paces.  Ok, maybe I should be embarrassed, but apparently I am proud. I am less proud of the time that same year she tightly gripped a picture of Jessica Simpson the entire trip from Dallas to NYC, lisping "Jethica" the whole time.

Funk is lifted.  Thank you TVLS and SLLS.

Ringer's Solution

I am an angry NYC chick.  How can my anger be prevented or at least assuaged, that is the question I know you are asking yourself.  All the time.  Every day.  Well, if you are a cashier in a store, here are some tips for you. You are very welcome.

• Don't drop a half dozen custom ordered donuts on the floor and then say, "I'll give you two plain donuts for free!" (What is a custom ordered donut? It is a donut shaped in a number, usually the birthday your child or an adult you wish to humiliate is celebrating, ordered in advance.)  If, for some unexplainable reason, you feel the need to open all the donut boxes to show your paid-in-advance customer every single donut, don't do it with jittery, over-caffeinated hands that cannot be trusted to open a box without dumping the contents all over your brown-tiled floors. Just because you have complete access to DD coffee does not mean you should over-fuel and then take it out on my daughter's donuts.  And then offer some boring old glazed donut in place of the ruined ones and act like this is a freebie I should be grateful for.

• If I come up to you, let's say in a newly renovated Duane Reade (they have produce now?!), and ask you where the flashlights are, do not give the following response: "Will you be here for a while? Because I was just going to the toilet. Maybe after that I can look and if I happen to find a flashlight downstairs I will come up and tell you." Several things here.  Don't tell me you are going to the bathroom.  Don't call it a toilet (unless you pronounce it like Archie Bunker, because that is hysterical and then you may only call it a toilet and you must tell me every time you go).  Don't tell me that maybe you will look and maybe you will come back up with it - or maybe not.  I, the customer, will not know for a good 10 minutes whether you are even returning to the sales floor, with or without my merchandise, and I don't like my odds.

• Let's say I am paying for some nail polish remover, again let's say at a Duane Reade.  It is a little odd if you, the cashier, take this opportunity to ask me if I think you can get yourself some Tom's shoes at Harry's Shoes.  Sure, you need to know this information, and probably even soon, so you can stroll down there on your break and pick up a pair of the primitively hideous, albeit altruistic shoes - but is asking the customer you are ringing up really the best way to determine the answer to your shopping question? OK, in this particular case your customer, me, is the best way to answer pretty much any shopping question, but the next customer would not be. Although, with the apparent frequency with which I visit Duane Reade, it is pretty likely that I will be your next customer, so perhaps this really is your best approach.(I recommended Tip Top Shoes, and held my tongue re the ugliness of Tom's.)

• Perhaps one day you are very tired, from staying up all night feeding the less fortunate, rescuing albino alligator babies and working out the kinks on your recipe for chocolate chip cookies that always stay warm.  It's possible that you will scan a loaf of bread twice by accident.  It happens.  Let's say your customer is surprised by the total on the receipt and questions it.  Don't just surreptitiously deduct that extra charge and pretend all is right.  Just say, "Oops, looks like that loaf rang up twice.  Sorry about that." See how I am not even asking for you to say, "I rang it up twice.  I am sorry," to posses the blame? I am asking for a culpa, not even a mea culpa. That is how generous I am.

Follow these tips, cashiers, and, while I may will continue being an angry nyc chick, I will direct my anger elsewhere.

The Great Tag Throwdown

There is something the other members of my household do that drives me insane.  Yes, yes, I know there are many things they do that drive me insane, but for purposes of this entry, let's say there is just one thing.  And let's not argue about whether or not I started out entirely sane.  It's a moo point.


When the younger members of my household put on a new item of clothing, in their haste and excitement to don the new plain white uniform top, they cannot trouble themselves to throw out the tags. They do remove the tags, but then, I assume, they just release those paper tags to flutter to the floor, possibly mesmerized by the unpredictable path the tag takes on its way down, but more likely not.  If there is an adhesive tag, these young people make a quick choice about whether to firmly adhere it to the bureau or leave it somewhere the puppy can get entangled in it.  I assume that decision is at least in part based on how recently the puppy has been groomed; the more recently the puppy has been groomed, the more imperative it is that this tag affix itself to her fur.


On to the spouse.  The spouse's specialty is dry cleaning tags.  His directive must read something like this: Open up the dry cleaned shirt and violently tug the sleeves until the clear plastic clip goes flying, the further the better.  It will be an unexpected treat to find the clip later (kind of like those picture perfect sea shells Candy Spelling would have her staff hide in the sand on the beach for her spoiled little Tori to uncover - it's true, I read it in a People magazine in sixth grade).  As for those little numbered paper strips that are threaded through the button holes, those are torn off and immediately abandoned in much the same way the young people do with their tags.  In fact, I am fairly certain that years of practice with clothing price tags during childhood has made the spouse the expert dry cleaning-paper-strip abandoner he is today.


In a future entry I will share my passive aggressive tips for dealing with this behavior. Hint - it sometimes involves retrieving the clips and strips and placing them in surprising spots (a shoe, a sock, a briefcase).