I know it has been a while since I have posted. I also know that because of that fact you are thinking either or both of two things: 1) I have no idea when to use "a while" and when to use "awhile" - or if "awhile" is even a word and 2) During my absence I must not have been annoyed by anything. As for bullet #1, you are totally right, but as for bullet #2, you could not be more wrong. Or, as Ms. Chanandler Bong would say, "You could not be more wrong." Really, there is just not enough of Miss Chanandler Bong, is there? You know, to tell you how gum would be perfection.
So here is my latest concern, for your consideration. We need to loosen up our liquor license laws. Yes, yes, I know people complain that establishments with liquor licenses draw rowdy crowds that make noise and keep the local residents awake until the wee hours and that when those same residents stumble out their front doors the next morning, eyes bleary from lack of sleep, they are immediately greeted with the human excretions the previous evening's imbibers have less than thoughtfully left behind. But that is what happens when liquor licenses are granted to restaurants or clubs. That is not the type of institution of which I speak.
I speak of children's shoe stores. Now, I don't know what the children's shoe stores are like where you live. Perhaps when you enter a children's shoe store, a salesperson approaches you and offers his or her immediate assistance. Perhaps he or she gently suggests a pair of reasonably priced shoes for your child, shoes that don't in fact cost more than those you buy for your own non size-changing feet. Perhaps these shoes don't boast neon lights that flash so aggressively that you are fairly certain they will, at worst, trigger seizures or, at best, cause a loss of between 5 and 10 badly needed IQ points. Perhaps you exit that store in under 3 hours, with neither you nor your children in tears.
I do know what children's shoe stores are like where I live. They put the 'angry' in angryNYCchick. Can you get immediate assistance in a children's shoe store in NYC? Oh, honey, no. You must put your child's name down on a waiting list. To see a children's shoe salesman. To hand over your hard earned money to the store. Write that child's name clearly or you risk its being mangled when it is at long lost shouted across the store. You won't recognize your child's name being announced will be back at the end of the line. And if your kid has one of the more popular names, don't dare write her real name on the list or be prepared to see another parent jump up and steal your spot when they hear "Sophia!" called out. They can't help themselves; like you, they are at the beginning of what they know will be a long and painful odyssey and one that will not end well.
Now, a little wine bar in the corner is really all I ask. Sure, it would be nice if you had several wines to select from, some decent stemware, and maybe some nice cheese and hearty crackers. But really, I am saying that just a card table, a box of no-name wine, and some red solo cups and truly we are good to go. Here's how it works. You walk in, you get your plastic tumbler of whatever is in the box, you take a quick gulp and you head over to the sign-in sheet. Now when you look down and see 7 Jacobs and 6 Avas ahead of your Phoebe, you just shrug and take another swig - and try to stifle the involuntary shudder from that burning sensation you get upon swallowing.
Before you can even begin to look for a reasonably priced pair of shoes you that does not sear your eyes with its shameless gaudiness, a pair that might actually match something in your child's wardrome, she is already running around the store grabbing every blinking, pepto bismol pink, crystal-adorned, chiffon-laced shoe/sneaker/boot/maryjane (I have girls) she can reach and trying to jam her foot in it, while yelling across the store "How about this one? And this one? They fit perfectlyl! I neeeeed them!!" If you think of this experience as similar to a game of the type you may have played at an earlier, child-free stage of your life, you will know how to proceed. Every time your beloved expresses a desire, nay a neeeed for a shoe, take a sip. Hmmm, that after-burn seems to have diminished just a bit.
Keep this up through the shoe sizing, when you are told your child has prodigiously jumped a full size in the last 3 weeks. You get an extra three sips if the salesman also informs you that your child straddles two wholly difference sizes and you will have to buy a full two pair; that's four shoes to shod your child's two feet, and you deserve a sip per shoe.
I think you know how the rest of this trip to the shoe store goes... Your kid turns out to have such narrow feet that she wear only a single brand of French, even more inordinately overpriced shoes than you thought you were going to have to purchase (I'm two for two on this score)? Sip. Your 6-year old is on the floor, arms and legs flailing, screaming that she cannot do the birthday party circuit in anything less than 3 inch heels? Sip. Hmmm... what type of wine is this? Can one purchase a box for home consumption?
One last thought. Don't leave that red solo cup behind when you exit the store. Don't make the rookie mistake of thinking that because you have completed your purchase the fun is over. If your child was given a balloon during his visit, it is a certainty that in the next ten minutes that balloon will 1) hit a pedestrian(s) in the face 2) be released into the wild blue yonder as soon as the store is out of view 3) both. You'll want to have that wine at the ready. I am all but certain this is what those stroller cup holders are made for. Or flasks. Your call, really.
Lately there has been a big to-do about eating on the NYC subway. Admittedly this may be a to-do manufactured by the media. The to-do (you knew I would say 'to-do' at least one more time right?) involves video of a woman eating spaghetti with a fork out of a to-go (not 'to-do') container on the subway. To hear the newscasters tell it, the entire population of all five boroughs is just horrified. This may surprise you, but I couldn't care less about people eating on the subway. If you would like to eat your lunch while sitting next to a man whom your nose tells you hasn't showered in 6 months, while your eyes peg that shower at more like 8 months ago, that's your choice. You may need to fight the rats for each delicious bite of fried chicken, but bon appetit.
I can't focus my annoyance on subway dining because there are so many other subway behaviors more repugnant. Starting with.... body maintenance. It never fails - at least once a week I will be traveling on the 2/3 train and will hear the staccato "CLIP CLIP CLIP," the sound of someone clipping their nails. Even just recounting it I am getting chills. I just don't get it - did you pack this nail clipper as you got ready for work this morning thinking, "it's about time I take care of these nails, once and for all. What better time to do it than on the subway!" Let me assure you, though, there are many better times to undertake this maintenance and those are all times that take place in your home. I would even specify in your bathroom, but seriously, as long as you remove this activity to behind the closed doors of your residence, I'll be happy. Happier, at any rate.
Yes, we are all used to people putting on a fresh coat of lipstick or even a mascara touch up. I can live with both of those maintenance activities. I can even accept the person who starts with liquid foundation and works her way through an entire makeup bag, mostly because it is amusing to see the face she (and this is usually a she) makes in her mirror during each step. The lipstick lip-pucker. The mascara o-mouth. The eyeliner side-eye. What I cannot abide, what even the dude could not abide, is eyebrow plucking. Under no circumstances may a commuter pull out a tweezer and a hand mirror and go to town yanking out strays. First of all, have you no shame? Is there no maintenance you believe should be reserved for the privacy of your bath or boudoir? Second of all, when the train or your fellow passenger lurches, and that sharp tweezer lodges itself somewhere in your face, how embarrassed are you going to be when you have to explain the cause of your wound to the emergency room personnel? And I assure you that is multiple personnel. The nurse at triage, the doctor, and the residents the doctor pulls in, ostensibly to teach them, but really to mock you.
There are many more behaviors that get me going, and I will no doubt address them in more detail at some later date. Let me just list them here so that if you are engaging in any of them, you cease and desist within the hour: entering before others exist, hugging the pole, sitting on the outside seat, sitting with your legs 2 yards apart, slapping people in the head. That last one especially, please stop immediately.
I am forever grateful to my family for their constant efforts to ensure that I never face a single moment of boredom, or what other people might call "leisure time." Sometimes my 50-hour a week job and all my household responsibilities (cooking, cleaning, social planning - lately I identify with each and every servant on Downton Abbey) just don't fill my time sufficiently.
Laundry Dispersal
Laundry is a key piece of their strategy. As soon as these people enter our home, they remove their shoes and discard their socks. I don't mean that they place their socks in the hamper, or even crunch them up inside their shoes, I mean they must toss them high into the air, based on where I later discover these socks - adorning the living room rug, jammed between couch cushions, lying actually inside the printer tray (otherwise known as the source for all paper, so much so that on a recent vacation when I told my daughter to write something on paper, she said, "but there is no printer tray in this hotel room"). This action enables me to spend fully 10 minutes a day gathering and matching up socks. I am also proud to report these clever people know that leaving the socks in that balled up, half-in/half-out state that preserves foot sweat so effectively consumes extra seconds as I turn them right side out, even if it does cause me to gag just a little bit.
Needless to say that when any member of my family disrobes, the worn clothing is allowed to drop to the floor right there. Dirty clothes never make it to the hamper without my assistance. The only time a piece of apparel is placed in the hamper by the actual wearer is when the item of clothing is not actually in need of laundering; should one of my family members try on and reject an item of clothing, it is never replaced in the drawer. It is instead dropped in the hamper, allowing me to spend significant time washing, drying and folding that item, unworn as it is.
Total boredom time eliminated: 1 hour
Assignment Amnesia
First, in case you don't have homework-aged kids, I need to tell you that these days homework is a family activity - and not in the way that getting ice cream or visiting Disney is a family activity, more in the way that serving time is a family activity for the members Manson clan. I can't go into the whys and wherefores, just know that no, that's not how it was when you were a child, and yes, that is how it is now. Hours of family time are spent nightly scolding, wheedling, and quizzing, all in the name of education. And that is when your child actually remembers to bring home the assignment!
I am thrilled to report that my children recognize homework for what it truly is, a very valuable opportunity to reduce my downtime. Some nights the workload is minimal and I am in danger of being able to watch Khloe and Lamar (judge me as you must), so in those instances my daughters make sure to leave a book behind, forget a math sheet or entirely misunderstand an assignment. O, the phone calls that follow! O, the faxing! O, the emails! O, the cabs rides back to school! O, the weeping.
Total boredom time eliminated: 2 hours
Sisterly Love
Sometimes a couple of free minutes pop up and my family is quick to fill them, lest that aforementioned boredom overtake me. Both the laundry and homework approaches outlined above require planning, but you can get a rise out of your sister with almost no forethought whatsoever. All it takes is a quick eye roll and 10 minutes are gone. Or tell your sister to stop breathing that way and 30 minutes are accounted for. You can squeeze a full hour out of claiming that your sister is not holding up her end of a complicated trade that involved a book, a DS game, the choice of which iCarly show would be viewed the night before, and three jelly munchkins.
Total boredom time eliminated: 10 minutes to 7 hours
I know I have a glamorous and important job, and I know you are secretly jealous. I get to use fancy phrases like "value added," fly to exotic cities like Cleveland, and generally save the world with my synergistic approach to work plan execution. Also, I use pivot tables! But at times the responsibilities of this career can weigh heavily on my shoulders and it is at those times that I consider making a career change. It is hard to imagine a career as value added as this one (see!), but one I have been quietly pondering is a career in the field of chocolate chip cookie tasting.
I only learned of this option when my friend Alisa, a Harvard-educated corporate litigator, told me she aspires to be a member of this profession. I know, on the surface it doesn't sound like a job that adds value to society, but let's give this some thought. Chocolate chip cookies play a very important role in modern society. Unappreciated day at work running down unexpected charges to your budget code, which entails contacting people you don't know to ask them with whom they went to lunch and what they discussed over that lunch? Fix it with a chocolate chip cookie. Unappreciated night at home reteaching yourself 9th grade algebra, only to find there was a typo in the math problem you worked hard on and even pestered both your neighbor and your cousin for help? Break out the Nestle's Tollhouse. Unappreciated late evening trying unsuccessfully to tell the American Airlines award desk AGAIN how to spell your daughter's name correctly so that she can actually redeem her lifetime of frequent flyer miles, 17,000 of which have mysteriously disappeared already? Crunch down on a chocolate chipper. Suddenly the frustration of your day melts away - the cookie almost literally is patting you soothingly (on the inside your mouth, of course) whispering, "Don't listen to these unappreciative clods! You are smart, pretty, hardworking and truly deserved to get the lead role in the 8th grade play that went to that smug Reagan, although of course you have moved beyond that crushing disappointment as you are a fully actualized and secure woman."
Imagine, instead, if in any of these instances when you bite down, you get a sub par cookie! A cookie with the wrong ratio of cookie to chip. A chip that is too sweet - or worse, too bitter! A cookie that is rock hard. Far from helping you cope with your difficult situation, such a cookie only adds to the frustration and anger you are already feeling, and the world is a worse place for it. Perhaps it is just such an experience that let the woman behind me on the train the other morning to karate chop me in the back of the head when the only offense I may have committed was swinging my hair. (Note I did not actually condemn the assault - in fact I actually feel some respect for it and am just trying to understand how the woman reached the decision to take that particular action against me so that I may employ that same rationale to a similar situation myself, should one arise. Which it will.)
Is it really that much of a stretch to say that many of the world's worst conflicts might never have happened if there had been some really good chocolate chip cookies around to soothe the opponents as the issues escalated? Ok, it is completely a huge stretch, but it would still be the most awesomely delicious job ever.
Folks, this next one is a two-pronged resolution, but you can handle it. You are tough. You have stopped wearing clothing at home and don't wear yoga clothes when you leave home. You push a stroller only when there is an actual baby in it and you don't address that baby with business jargon. You even replace the toilet paper roll yourself with little to no assistance! You have come this far and I am certain you are up to the related challenges of 'excuse me' and 'sorry.'
Excuse Me
"Excuse me" is a phrase to be used in anticipation of a potential collision. Because this concept seems to be so very difficult for many of the residents of my fair city to grasp, let me draw up a situation to help make my point.
You are in the Gap and you need to pass by a customer to get a closer look at something on the sale rack. You:
a) Stand and wait until the person moves of her own accord
b) Say 'excuse me' and after the other customer has kindly moved out of your way, tear into the sale rack
c) Walk right into that customer, mumbling 'excuse me' as you do so
The correct answer here is b. Let's analyze why. If you chose answer a, how are you enjoying your visit to NYC from the Midwest? Here in New York, we never wait for anything unnecessarily, and certainly not patiently. If you chose answer c, you are not saying 'excuse me' to avoid a collision, but are almost wielding it as a weapon. Don't get me wrong, I love a good weapon, but that is not the function of 'excuse me'; it is the function of your two middle fingers, however. Only in answer b do you properly use excuse me to alert the customer that she is where you need to be and ask her to please move.
Are you beginning to get it? Here is a more challenging question for you to try your hand at. You are in the Fairway, a local and always insanely crowded supermarket, and you need to pass by a customer to pick out some artisenal scones. You:
a) Stand and wait until the person moves of her own accord
b) Say 'excuse me' and after the other customer has kindly moved out of your way, tear into the artisnal baked goods
c) Walk right into that customer, mumbling 'excuse me' as you do so
Trick question! Even in a very crowded situation, you must still say excuse me before you move into a space currently occupied by another person. Sorry, that's that's just the way it goes. Which segues nicely to...
"Sorry"
Sometimes, despite all our best efforts to properly apply the phrase 'excuse me,' we make a mistake and bump into someone. I did it myselfonce. In such an instance, you are to say you are sorry and move on. In the event that somebody should do the same to you, assuming that they have caused you no actual bodily injury, you are obligated to accept the 'sorry' you receive, also assuming the energy with which it was said matches the situation.
If you spill a full cup of hot coffee down the back of a stranger because you pull up short at a light, while walking no less, you owe that poor woman (in the really cute pink top she is wearing for the first time ever) a full-on apology. She is now wearing an entire cup of hot coffee on her back. While that must be an inconvenience to you, what with your having to now return to Starbucks, she is in actual pain and you owe her a sincere apology.
If that same woman in the cute pink top should accidentally walk in front of you while you are pushing your baby in a stroller, causing no injury at all, and then apologize sincerely, you are obligated to accept this apology. You should not continue to shoot mean looks at her and say nasty things about her under your breath to your friend, because she will in fact turn around and ask you just what the hell you want her to do or say to make up for the fact that she briefly stepped in your path. She may even display the aforementioned weapons, even though her mother is with her.
Did you ever notice that everyone around you seems to be dressed for an activity in which they are not actually currently participating? Specifically, they are mostly dressed for workouts. And more specifically, the 'they' is women and the 'workouts' are yoga. This practice is wrong and it must stop and you must resolve to play your part.
"But yoga pants are so comfortable!" you whine. Well, you know what is even more comfortable than yoga pants? Pajamas! But do you see me wearing pajamas? Well, you don't really see me at all, but let me assure you that I am wearing a striped top, a funky cardigan, a belt and corduroys.
"But I may do yoga in six or seven hours!" you continue whining. But you are not in yoga right now. Here is one way you can be sure: Is there a woman at the front of the room saying 'namaste?' No? You are not in yoga class. Did you have to swipe a card and pass through a turnstile before entering a metal cylinder that is hurtling through the dark? You are on a subway car. And, to continue my analogy from the paragraph above, I will definitely be sleeping later (even if this seems to offend the dog I am currently dogsitting), and yet, I am wearing those cords and not my cozy pajamas (and let me assure you, I have the very coziest pjs, as they are another of "my things").
Dressing appropriately for the activity at hand is what separates us from the animals. As proof, I offer you Stella, our puppy. She does downward dog about 50 times a day, and not once has she changed into a pair of lululemons first.
You resolve to wear no more than one outfit per week. Total. (This resolution is quite possibly inspired by my completion of ten loads of laundry tonight. And that is not the only laundry I have done this week - I have done at least five more. That's fifteen loads, for those of you whose mind is numbed by the very thought of matching all those socks and sorting all those pjs.)
Out in the world you will fight off clothing stains like Wonder Women with her magic bracelets. WHAP!! You will prevent that chocolate frozen yogurt from drizzling its way down a just washed winter jacket in an admittedly poorly chosen pale pink. WHAP!! That white uniform cuff will lift itself up 3 inches, refusing to drag itself through a plate of ketchup as you reach for your drink. WHAP!! Your navy pleated skirt will magically repel afterschool art class paint, of both the glitter and non-glitter variety.
As you step over threshold into your home, you pledge to strip off your clothes immediately and don a paper robe, hanging your clean clothing in the closet by the door. You will wear that robe until you next dress in those same clean clothes in preparation to leave the apartment, at which point you will - pay attention now - ball up your paper robe and throw it not on the floor but in the garbage (the recycling bin if you are feeling especially ambitious).
Does this resolution seem too intense, too demanding? I do offer an alternative: do all your own laundry. I thought so. Don't forget the robe's opening goes in the in back.
