All I Ever Needed to Know I Learned Watching "Over, Under, Around and Through"

I have a growing concern that we, as a civilization, did not pay proper attention to the sage teachings of Grover when we were younger.  Specifically, I mean this string of wisdom pearls (although, to be fair, Super Grover rocks, and rocks hard). Bottom line: Not all prepositions are synonymous.  Yes, I know, it can be confusing, so I am here to help you distinguish among them.


NEAR is not IN
I can see why you would think that casually placing your dirty dishes near the sink is the same as placing them in the sink, but... wait, no, really, I just can't.  A circle of plates, each still containing fully 95% of the food you were served, balanced one on top of another, threatening to fall to the floor and concuss any pet unlucky enough to pass below at precisely the wrong time, is NOT the same as plates placed IN the sink.  Let's not even discuss rinsing.


BY is not INTO
Sometimes when we are in a hurry, we may forget the rules of grammar.  I am here to remind you that when you pass a fellow commuter en route to the 2 train as it threatens to pull out of the station without you, you want to rush BY that commuter, but not INTO her.  Here is a neat way to keep this rule straight: after the experience, you want her (or him) to wave 'bye' to you, not cut you 'in two.'


IN FRONT OF is not BEHIND
Sometimes we go to a store, say Duane Reade, and there is a line. Sometimes (all times) we don't want to wait on that line because we, unlike the people in that line, have places to go and people to see that are much more interesting than where we currently find ourselves (staring at another magazine cover featuring Mason Disick, wondering why we know who Mason Disick is and, even more disturbingly, why we know his middle name is Dash and why is it Dash and please, if there is a god, let it not be because the store is named that - and now we are a bit upset that it's a given that we know the name of the Kardashians' store is, in fact, Dash).  In this state of mental weakness, we may convince ourselves that BEHIND means IN FRONT OF, so that when it is time to get in line behind all the other slack-jawed tabloid browsers, we accidentally float ahead of everyone and over to the first available cashier.  
The distinction between these two prepositions is especially crucial as in certain cities, this mistake could result in a scolding, often by a 5'6", currently red haired woman, who does remember the meaning of the preposition 'in,' as in 'in your face.'

TV or not TV - There is No Question

You know how some people tell you they don't watch tv? In addition to being outright hateful, those people are dangerous to us all.  Their lack of tv-watching threatens to disrupt the tv/space continuum and potentially dooms all of mankind.  Not to worry, though, I am here to save us all, chiefly by watching enough tv myself to make up for all those villainous creatures. 

How do I do it? As you can imagine, it is a challenge, what with a job, a family, a whiney dog and the seemingly insatiable desire to bake and eat batches of chocolate chip cookies with an alarming regularity. With true dedication and lots of technology, however, it can be done and done well.  Two DVRs, countless dvd players, cable in the kitchen, iPad apps, hulu, on-demand, netflix (streaming and disc, natch) - saving the world requires that all these components work together, and work together harmoniously. Lately, however, the DVR and cable boxes are refusing to play their part and we are all at risk. It is possible I am being unreasonable in my expectations, though, so I will let you be the judge.

Everything but the audio sync:
My kitchen cable box does not feel the need to sync the audio and video and this disturbs me, but maybe it's just me.  Maybe other people enjoy the challenge of lip reading and and anticipating what Zoeey Deschenal will say in .5 seconds.  OK, to be honest, I can't always even tell if it's the video or the audio that lags.  Perhaps this inablity indicates I should actually spend more time watching this way, not less. You tell me.

Disobedience:
Personally, I enjoy the predictablity of a DVR.  I like to know that if I have set up a DVR to record a series, record it will.  Lately, my DVR has disobeyed these polite requests of mine.  I run in to check that a recording is, in fact, underway, only to find that little red light is conspicously dark.  When I go to record manually, the DVR tells me just "cannot record right now." Is it just me, or does this DVR just seem like a petulant teenager, refusing to do his chores and then saying he is going out.  Where is he going? "Out! Just out!" Maybe you will tell me that I need to live a bit more on the edge, embrace the seeming capriciousness of these machines with which I share my life. What say you?

Darkness on the Edge of Demand:
The seders have come and gone and left behind a new perspective of the ninth plague, that of darkness.  Darkness is what I find more times than not after I have watched something on demand.  Darkness on every channel.  No explanation. Invariably this occurs when I need to see something urgently, but now I have to wait a full 4 minutes for the reboot.  Note that "urgently" should really read "'urgently.'" Or should it be '"urgently"'? Again I ask you, am I wrong to be annoyed? Perhaps I should welcome the black screen as an opportunity to connect with my ancestors more often than only two matzo-filled spring nights in a row.  If that is the case, then, I have a whole new perspective on the waterbug I saw down in the basement and the plague of locusts.

Shots for Shoes for Tots

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.

Track Maintenance

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.

Filling the Void

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

Bringing Home the Cookie Dough

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.

Resolution # 7 - Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word (But 'Excuse Me' Runs a Close Second)

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.

Resolution #6 - Devil with the Blue Yoga Pants

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.

Resolution #5 - Dirty World

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.

Resolution #4 - (Don't) Talk to Me Like Business Lovers Do

Having spent my entire work life in the world of huge professional services companies since graduating from college, sometimes it's hard for me to fully understand how different my work environment is from every other possible work environment.  For one thing, I am told that in the rest of the world, employees do not do endless numbers of evaluations and self-evaluations, at midyear and at year-end, two time periods that somewhat inexplicably seem to blend seamlessly into each other.  I guess that makes sense, although I am not certain life is worth living without the high one gets from completing HR forms in a mad scramble, constantly checking the clock as it ticks toward a midnight deadline.


Likewise, in the exciting world of business, we have our own language, and sometimes, like an actual bilingual person (which I am not), I may forget where I am and to whom I am speaking and launch right into that language. Your next resolution is to join me in fighting hard to keep your personal conversations and business jargon from colliding.  This pledge includes avoiding such offenses as:


Telling your significant other that he is stuck in analysis paralysis.  If you think he was stuck before, try introducing a piece of lingo like that one, and watch him spend 45 minutes dissecting it (and you, for using it).  While he may have just proven your point, was it really worth it?


Requesting that your daughter's speech therapist provide you with milestones and deliverables. First of all, it turns out that in the real world people don't typically address these items. What they do is look at you like you are entirely nuts and you can actually see them mentally work their way through a list of potential reasons they can use to excuse themselves from assisting the daughter of the crazy woman.  Luckily, in the end they come to feel sorry for the daughter of the crazy woman and possibly even redouble their efforts to assist.

Suggesting that your daughter has not done her due diligence in preparing her primary source research project  - also known as a fourth grade book report.  If you thought she was angry at you for making her read the book, even when she realized it was not as much fun as any of the Dear Dumb Diary series and had no pictures at all, multiply that a trillion-fold to get her reaction to this lingo-laden accusation.  Try phrasing it something like "Honey, it's a good idea to read your assignment before getting three paragraphs in.  No, not erasing it because it doing so will make the page look 'messy,' is not an option.  Given what your room likes like 99% of the time, it is hard to believe you think 'messy' is anything less than a compliment anyway."  Or some variation on that.

I should write more, but I just realized that spell check does not recognize 'deliverables' as a word and I must address that error immediately.  I dare not even look for 'incentivization,' not to mention the perrenial favorite, 'updation.'

Reslution #3 - It's Been a Long Time Since I Did the Stroll

I haven't used a stroller lately, but as I recall, the term 'stroller' is actually short for 'baby stroller.' You may think that is a point not worth making, and, believe me, I wish you were right.  But you are wrong.  And for that reason, we have resolution #3 - this year you resolve to push babies, and only babies, in strollers. 

Do you have a lot of paperwork you need to carry around from place to place? It happens to the best of us. What does not happen to the best of us is loading those papers into assorted supermarket plastic bags, plastic bags now disintegrating with age, and then stacking those bags into a stroller, which you then push through the city streets, pretending that you do not, in fact, look homeless.  Tell yourself that that well-dressed woman who just handed you a dollar mistook you for a friend of hers she borrowed that same amount from yesterday, but we both know she just checked off the "give charity" entry on her to-do list.  

Hmmmm, what solution is there to this situation? May I recommend a roller bag, a briefcase, or my personal favorite, a tote.  Totes are just perfect for toting stuff around - it's even right there in the name.  I don't care if you use a Marc Jacobs tote or a freebie one that, hypothetically says something about Dr. Phil needing to hold you (and, coincidentally comes from the supermarket, in case you are wed to the notion of procuring your paper transport needs there), a tote is the answer to your paper problem.

Similarly, while a stroller is intended for taking strolls with your baby or even your preschooler, it is not intended for making your way around the city with your 40-pound first grader.  I know, your first grader would prefer to be in a stroller, but so what? (Are we now taking direction from first graders? Because I dread the dinners of fluff, olives and goldfish crackers this approach is sure to result in.)  Also, clearly this is my opporutnity to mention that  many, many men I passed while pushing my stroller also claimed the stroller was their first choice when it came to transportation; they all thought it was simply hilarious to shout remarks like "Hey, would you push me around in a stroller?" or "That's the life."  Not surprisingly, I did not indulge them any more than I would indulge a first grader.  And, not surprisingly, somehow not a single woman ever voiced that desire.

Lastly, I cannot believe I have to say this, but it seems that I do. You may not push your pet in a stroller.  A baby stroller is not for pets.  In fact, a pet stroller is not for pets.  A pet stroller is simply a baby stroller manufactured for and purchased by a pet crazy.  You may not put a dog in it.  You may not put two dogs in it.  You may not put two dogs in it and then somehow get that stroller up onto the city bus and then give me an unprompted lecture about how you take your stroller of shih tzus to the movies with you and feed them popcorn.  (I got exactly what I deserved, of course, when I responded that popcorn is a choking hazard for dogs.  I learned that it is, in fact, perfectly safe if you pre-chew the popcorn for your dog.)

Piece of cake, then.  No baby = no stroller. It's as easy as that!  An exception is made, of course, for young children pushing dolls in strollers.  So cute! No exception is made, of course, for anyone else pushing dolls in strollers.  So creepy!

Resolution #2 - Walk this Way

"I resolve not to walk into other people when I can avoid it.  This means that when they are in my way, even if I am in a tremendous hurry to get on that subway car or I really want a grande caramel light frappuccino (with extra caramel and a dome lid), I will still not walk into others, as they, like me, are humans, and I must take it on their word that they, like me,  are sentient. 


'I' am defined in this resolution as including my physical being as well as anything I am wearing, carrying or pushing.  This means that I will not push my shopping cart into your rear end as you open an egg carton to check for cracked eggs, as you are, in fact, quite visible and collision is entirely preventable.  Also, I will not walk past you and hit you with my enormous backpack; that is to say, I will not act entirely oblivious to the fact that I am carrying around at least 6 weeks/35 pounds of clothing on my back and that turning suddenly and body-slamming you with same backpack could injure, or at least anger, you."


Walking is challenging.  Stay tuned for your resolution not to walk through a door ahead of the person for whom it has been opened!

Happy Holiday and an Angry New Year!

This year, being the efficient and generous soul that I am, I will celebrate the Winter-Holiday-of-Your-Choice and New Years both at once by giving you the gift of resolution.  Each day (or those days I remember to), up until New Years, I will offer you a new resolution. 

Resolution #1 - Rock the Roll
Sometimes, despite your best efforts to avoid it, you are the person who uses the last square of toilet paper. It happens to the best of us.   Now I know that usually you would undertake the following steps:

• Use tissues.  When tissues are gone -
• Use wipes, despite how old any wipes found in this baby-free household must be.  When wipes are all gone -
• Avoid toilet paperless bathroom at all costs, until the roll has been replaced.  If this means using only the bathroom at school or at the Starbucks two blocks away, so be it

This year will be different.  This year you pledge to do the following when you find yourself carefully peeling off that very last square:

• Select a roll from one of the 30 or so rolls under the sink (stacked in a not-at-all-OCD FIFO order)
• Remove the empty toilet paper tube from the dispenser
• Hand tube to the dog (she is right at hand to simplify this task for you)
• Place the new roll in the dispenser

Stand back and admire your work.  If you feel you have come up short, rest assured that within a day or so you will be given another opportunity to practice this new skill, unless you have already perfected your never-use-the-last-square avoidance maneuvers.

All Bought Forgotten

By now, if you have been paying attention, you know that I have a number of things that are "my thing" - boots, totes, (also "boots - totes!"), outerwear.  I tend to buy what a reasonable person would consider to be an unreasonable quantity of these items. But I make regular use of all of these "my things."   Yes, I may have, by conservative estimate, two dozen pair of boots (that is four dozen individual boots, for the non-mathlete readers out there), but they are in constant rotation.  I once took a two-week photographic boot diary, snapping a shot of my boot-shod feet each day, and did not repeat a single pair of boots for the entire duration.  And it's a given that a trip to Target or Costco includes Big Green (you haven't named your favorite tote? For shame!) filled with an assortment of smaller totes, for bringing home the goods.  As for outerwear, don't you match your outerwear to your outfit? Isn't that why they both start with 'out'?

Sadly, there are other items I tend to buy voraciously which see little, if any, use.  They are, in no particular order, nail polish, lipstick, and vests.  The blame for my nail polish gluttony can be placed squarely on the shoulders of my cousin Amanda.  She opened my eyes to the beautiful rainbow of colors manufactured and the joy of owning a small piece of that rainbow, not to mention the the quick high that purchasing a piece of the rainbow provides. I like to think that when it comes to nail polish, I embrace diversity.  It is entirely Amanda's fault that I have had to purchase a professional nail salon rack (or two) identical to hers to hold these little gems.  But here is where  we diverge: while Amanda's nails are always impeccably polished, mine never are.  Oh, sure, I intend to polish my nails.  I even intend to take a little piece of my rainbow to a salon and have someone else polish my nails.  But if you have ever met me, one glance at my fingertips will tell you that manicures, professional or at-home, are few and far between.

When it comes to lipstick and lip gloss I also over purchase, but for quite the opposite reason.  Far from wanting to own a rainbow of lip colors, I am instead on a quest for that single perfect lip color.  (So, if you are keeping track, while I embrace diversity with nail polish, with lipsticks I am more of a racist, always looking for that one perfect color.)  I want a lipstick that is at once different from my actual lip color, while being exactly the same as my actual lip color.  Enhancing without changing.  Does this make absolutely no sense to you? Then you can see why this search has been so challenging, has resulted in so many poor investments.  

Sadly, despite my dedication to the purchase of lipstick, my lipsticks have a lifetime wearing average (LWA) of about 3.25 (unless I return them to Sephora, of course).  Maybe I'll apply lipstick when I first put on my makeup, but more likely than not I'll delay because breakfast is fast approaching and I'll throw the lipstick in my bag for a later application that never happens.  Earlier tonight I had a conversation with my friend Emily who told me she had just learned that some lipsticks contain lead.  While that revelation engendered panic in Emily, it got no reaction at all out of me.  After all, I am in very little danger of contracting lead poisoning from the half dozen or so lipsticks I merely rotate from handbag to handbag without ever opening. 

Vests.  What can I say.  I like a vest.  I don't like to wear a vest.  But I like a vest.  Denim, corduroy, leather, suede with fringe, I love 'em all.  I will never be spotted wearing any of them, of course, but I love 'em all.  It has reached the point that when a new vest obsession lodges itself in my brain and can be banished only through the purchase of a vest, I just buy the cheapest one possible that meets the current obsession's criteria.  In much the same my grandmother selected her knitting projects, I don't bother to match the vest to my wardrobe or to concern myself with fit.  Those concerns are irrelevant to the purchase of an item you know will never spend any real time outside your closet.  Occasionally I'll try the vest on over an outfit, express dismay at how it looks on me, and put it back. The LWA of a vest hovers pretty close to 0.

As I read this back, I am not proud.  Surely there are people out there who could benefit from my lightly used items.  I am just not sure a store called "Lips, Tips and Vests" would draw that many customers. Of course, if one should open in my neighborhood, I'd be first in line at the grand opening.

Angry NYC Chick Gift Guide

In keeping with the intent of this blog, this entry is about the gifts you should not buy.  If you are looking for a cheerful approach to finding the perfect Marc Jacobs logo-emblazoned iPad stylus cover, look elsewhere...

It is the time of year when everything sold on god's green earth is promoted as making the perfect gift. I want to go on record as saying that, in fact, for most, even all of these items, it is simply not true.  I feel obligated to point out this deception, lest someone (one of you, perhaps) is searching for just the right gift for me, and he or she is swayed by one of these ads into purchasing the item being featured.  Do not be swayed! In particular, do not be swayed by ads for:

Car Mats
Yes, yes, I know that you know that I don't have a car, and I know that, for that reason alone, you may realize that car mats is not necessarily the perfect gift for me.  Recent commercials, however, may convince you that in fact they are.  Again, I say, they are not.  For one thing, these commercials tout the fact that these nifty car mats do not absorb any of the slush or water that people track into a car; all of that simply pools up.  These car mats are, in fact, like shallow dishes, ready to be filled with your passengers' street muck.  How is this a good thing, even assuming you have a car?  And, if you can come up with a reason that in fact it is a good thing to go riding around with your feet in a shallow dish of street muck, surely you will concede that those dishes are not what your loved one wants to receive on his or her winter holiday.

Kardashian Perfume(s)
There are people out there who watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians, Kim and Kourtney Take Miami, Kim and Kourtney Take New York, Khloe and Lamar. (OMG - are there that many? Those jokes about how busy Ryan Seacrest is are not really jokes, are they?) I may, in fact, be one of those people.  I may, in fact, have seen the Kim Kardashian E! special.  More than once.  And the wedding, that's a given. And yet, I know without smelling either Kim or Khloe's perfumes, that I want no part of any Kardashian perfume.  Now, the Avril Lavigne perfume, that's another story.  Except no, no it's not, it is the same story. Please do not run out to your nearest drugstore, or wherever these shameless (shameful?)  items are being sold. Which brings us to...

Drugstore Products
All throughout Duane Reade are signs pointing out the perfect gifts.  Pay no attention to the signs.  My gift should not come with a gift receipt from Duane Reade.  First of all, they do a horrible job with returns.  (You should really take my word on this one;  I am the queen of returns.  I recently returned a pair of girl's boots that consisted of two rights.  In different sizes.  So, if I say Duane Reade returns are hard to pull off, you can take it to the bank.) Second of all, with the exception of essie nail polish, there is really nothing there for me.  And that includes the itunes gift cards, because I am fairly certain that if you bought any gift card there, you would end up with a card with precisely $0 loaded on it, due to the utter lack of interest the cashiers there have in pretty much any activity that does not involve texting, and that is not much of a gift.  Although I imagine it would work fairly well as a coaster.  For narrow glasses.

Whatever you do decide to give me, just make sure you don't 'gift' it, and I'll be grateful.  And possibly not even return it.

A Blogger in the City: A Guide to Recognizing Me on the Streets of Manhattan

I know many of you are wondering how you would recognize me if you ran into me in the street.  I mean, what if you were in NYC and you passed me and didn't realize it was me? That would be a tragedy, and a preventable one at that.  With my recent frequent and dramatic changes in hair color, a physical description might be insufficient, so I have created a little guide to recognizing me through my behaviors:


Berating Strangers
Do you think you've just spotted me in a store, but you're just not sure? (OK, if you are in a store, there is already a pretty good chance it is me.) Stick around until I pay for my merchandise (again, if the woman you're watching is making a purchase, there is an even better chance it's me).  If that woman gets into some sort of altercation in line, I am that woman. Just today I had no choice but to scold the woman behind me in Filene's Basement/Syms/Chapter Eleven Wonderland.  As the cashier motioned for me to advance to the register, the customer behind me in line gave me two sharp jabs in the shoulder.  Was that really necessary? No.  Was it really necessary for me to pause before paying to growl at her, "You may not touch me. Ever!" Yes. Yes it was.  But you just know that woman is telling her friends about the bitch who scolded her for doing absolutely nothing except kindly alerting her that a register was now free.


Giving Directions
If you have ever been to NYC and asked a stranger for help finding your tourist destination (Dylan's Candy Bar, Macy's, the entire borough of Queens), that stranger was me.  I play a weird role out on the mean city streets: I give directions.  At least once a day somebody singles me out from the rest of the crowd to ask me "Which way is Amsterdam Avenue?" "Can I walk to Rockefeller Center from here?" or "Do you know the closest place I can buy an SD card?"  My husband and I have been aware of this phenomenon for years.  Even when we would be on vacation in Europe, people would approach me with maps, seeking my utterly uninformed assistance. Surely my jeans and odd American footwear should have been a tip-off, but no. And vacations in the US - it's a given that I will get even more questions about which route to take than I do at home in NYC.  You would think with the advent of GPS-enable smartphones, fewer people would need my services, but just the other day my daughter said, with a mixture of confusion and pride, "A lot of people like to ask you directions, huh?"

Taking a Seat
You know how often, even on a really crowded bus or subway, there is an open seat between two people, but no one takes it? Maybe a passenger's bag is on it, or a coat hem has strayed onto it, or maybe a (male, always male) passenger next to the empty seat has spread his legs as wide as humanly possible and that seat looks practically unsittable. Well, it's not - and I am the woman you just saw asking the passenger to move his bag or his coat, his legs or whatever else is making it nearly impossible for my little hiney to plop itself right down on that seat.  It's my "one ass one seat" policy, and if I am not going to enforce it, really, then who is? I consider it my ethical obligation.

Confirming a Price
Were you behind a customer (in a store again - see?) who is slowing down the checkout process by questioning the price at which an item was rung up? Then you are behind me! Much to the annoyance of cashiers across the city, I prefer to pay the actual price of the item, and not just whatever the register chooses for me. Lately it's several times a week that I lead a bored, unwilling cashier back to the shelf to confirm that, indeed, the price is at least 30% less than it rang up at.  I feel both triumphant and apologetic when I do that - and also very aware that this store worker is hating me more and more with each passing second. Tough.  I only dragged those two cases of Diet Pepsi across the store for the sale price and that's the price I'll be paying!  But also - I'm sorry. 

When you recognize me, stop and say hello!

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.