Category Archives: strangers in New York

A letter to Dr. Richard Liebowitz, president of New York-Presbyterian Brooklyn Methodist Hospital

In November, I sent the below letter to Dr. Richard Liebowitz, president of New York-Presbyterian Brooklyn Methodist Hospital. I had the opportunity to stay in his hospital after I lost consciousness and hit my head at the library in July. I informed him that I would be posting this letter on December 5th in the event that I did not receive a reply. That is today. Enjoy!

Dear Dr. Liebowitz:

I now live every day in fear that I’m going to get another bill for my hospital visit during which I waited three hours for a single 10-minute consultation. The care was lackluster—near the end, I sat for thirty minutes holding a cup of my own urine, because nobody came to take it from me—but the zealousness of the various billing departments from which I have now received four bills totaling $1,500 is certainly commendable.

I am thirty and self-employed, and I am paying these bills out of pocket. I am happy to pay for care I actually received, but these bills do not seem to be associated with any real service. I have spent hours on the phone with various billing departments asking for a simple rundown of for what I am paying, and none could provide me with any reasonable explanations. One billing associate even told me, ”I have no idea what this is for.”

I have paid the fourth of these bills hoping desperately that it is the last. I hope that more than I hope to never faint and hit my head in public again, because lord knows I’m just walking home and refusing all treatment if that happens—I know that I will receive neither a diagnosis nor satisfactory treatment and will then be slammed with hospital bills for what feels like infinity, so I’ll just wait it out alone and hope I don’t die.

It is also important to note that this fourth bill came from the office of [NAME REDACTED], to whom I was referred for a follow-up during my visit. I find it extremely concerning that this physician presumably consulted on my case, although I never met him, and then suggested a follow-up appointment to reread the same chart, provide me with the same opinion, and charge me for a second visit. (I did not schedule a follow-up.)

I am writing this letter to inform you of how patently absurd, upsetting, and irresponsible your hospital and my experience with it have been. I would appreciate it if you would review the bills associated with my visit on July 25, 2018, and inform me as to whether you believe the care I received is of commensurate value to the amount of money that, again, I am paying out of my own savings account. In the case of your lack of response by  December 5, 2018, I will be posting this letter, including the name of the hospital, to my social media accounts and blog.

I look forward to your prompt reply.

Addendum:

I recently had the opportunity to consult the medical record from my visit and noticed several errors. The most glaring of these is that no medications are listed under my history or home medications. I don’t recall anyone asking me about my prescriptions, but if she had, I certainly would have told her that I do, in fact, take a medication regularly.

I find this lack of attention to the detail extremely concerning. Once again, I look forward to your prompt reply regarding this matter.

Hal the ladies’ man

As a new full-time freelancer, I recently made a coffee shop down the street my part-time office. It’s usually a pretty low-key experience, but you do start to see the same weirdos popping in there.

My favorite (read: nemesis), whom I will call Hal, is a man is his sixties. I’m not sure what Hal’s line of work is, but I do know that he is now the owner of an apartment, because he bought it in the coffee shop the other day. As in, he made his realtor come to the coffee shop and formally, loudly concluded escrow.
I also know the Hal is in the market for a female companion who enjoys “sexual recreation” above all other extracurricular activities. That’s because he was explaining this to a fellow customer whom I can only presume was a stranger to him. He’s had some positive experiences on Tinder, but finds that many women want to go out to restaurants and do things outside of the house. In other words, they want to go on dates. Hal, on the other hand, prefers to hang out in the bedroom, because that’s where he shines. He takes pleasure in “bedroom activities” above “outside activities.”
So, ladies, if you’re interested, I’m sure I can set something up. Chances seem solid that Hal will be a big part of my life in the coming weeks and months.
Mail carrier

Straight to the Point: Why Does the Mailman Eat Lunch in My Foyer?

Mail carrier

A couple months ago, I was taking a staycation day and went for a run. When I came back, the mailman was standing in my apartment foyer eating a sandwich. The next week, I came back from a run, and the same mailman was there again. He wasn’t eating a sandwich, but he was listening to his iPod. Which leads me to a couple questions:

  1. Why was he listening to an iPod in 2017 (it was December, so no need to remind me that it’s 2018)?
  2. Why does he take his lunch breaks in my foyer, which is not very pleasant and rather chilly in the winter?
  3. Is this legal?

I’m writing about this now because I told my roommate about it the other day, and she was home today and told me she saw him eating in downstairs, too.

I’m not saying I care exactly, because he doesn’t seem violent, but it doesn’t seem like something he should be doing. It also makes me want to become friends with my neighbors, so we can talk about him. Has that ship sailed after living there for 2.5 years?

Pregnant Women: Everyone’s Property

First, a disclaimer: I’ve never been pregnant.

Ergo, I don’t know what it’s like to have another gym member grasp my belly and murmur prayers or whatever to the fetus inside. But that’s something I witnessed when I walked into Bodypump class this week. This poor pregnant lady was standing there, just wanting to get her workout on, while another woman smiled and stroked her tummy.

Which begs the question: What makes it okay for strangers to randomly touch pregnant women? Like, if someone came up to me and rubbed my tummy, I would cry bad touch. And I would imagine a parent would do the same if someone did that to his or her child. Why is it okay when it’s a combo of the two?

Maybe I’m wrong, and pregnant women really like having their bellies caressed by distant acquaintances, so if you’ve been pregnant and enjoy that, feel free to let me know.

Really Bad Service and Eternal Damnation

On Father’s Day, we took my dad to a horrific speakeasy in Soho. To clarify, the food was fine, but the service was so horrifying that we didn’t tip—something I don’t think any of us has ever done. I mean, when the service is bad, I tip 15% and call it harsh.

Arrival

We were escorted downstairs, where the hostess told us to walk “that way.” We walked through a sweltering hot kitchen where the chefs were shaving meat from stakes. As a vegetarian, I did not appreciate that, but to each her own. On the other side of the kitchen, we waited to be acknowledged, which took some time. Eventually, a hostess came over and told us to “wait here.” We stayed where we were, and she huffily commanded, “Sit down!”

Seating

Finally, another hostess came over and took us to a table for two crammed against a wall.

“Is this also ours?” my father asked, pointing to the table for two next to us, which was less than an inch away from ours. There were four of us.

“No,” said the hostess.

Immediately, our waitress came over and told us they had sparkling, still, or tap water. “Can I start you with sparkling or still?” she asked rhetorically. We asked for tap. Then she began rattling off appetizers at lightening speed. “Can we have a minute?” we asked. She said yes, and gave us an extra 19 minutes for free.

Ordering

Twenty minutes later, the waitress returned to take our orders.

Delivery

The waitress delivered our drinks and appetizers. Interestingly, the guacamole we had ordered seemed to be of the deconstructed variety: some chopped tomatoes accompanied by slices of avocado. Later, we were charged separately for these items.

Approximately one minute later, a server came to deliver our entrees. Remember, we were four people sitting at a two-person table. “Are you finished?” the server asked my mom.

“No,” she said. She took a bite, and as her fork was raised, the server took the plate out from underneath her.

“Are you finished?” he asked my brother and dad.

“No,” they said.

The server sighed. “I don’t have anywhere to put these.”

While shoving plates around, he held a wet cutting board over me and dripped water in my lap.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He looked over. “It’s just water,” he said.

Well, I did prefer that to hot lard, but even better would be if he could drip nothing on my lap.

After the server slammed down the rest of the items, he walked away in a huff.

Dessert

…was something we did not order. However, the waitress presumptuously brought over four plates and forks and set them on the table.

After she brought over the check, she stood over us and watched us pay. We paid exact change in cash, because no way were these people getting a tip. As we stood up, the waitress reached across us and scooped up the money, before we had even walked away from the table.

Other Notes

°This restaurant has a bouncer.

°Every employee who passed our table gave us side eye, like we were going to steal something.

°My plate had crap on it, but since that has happened at other restaurants, I decided it wasn’t crucial to the story.

°We went to a lovely whiskey bar and sat outside after this. A homeless man came over and asked us for money. When we said no, he threatened us with eternal damnation for approximately five minutes, until the bartender chased him away.

Strangers dry-humping on the subway

It was a crowded train. Like, the kind of crowded where I almost considered waiting for the next one, but also really wanted to go home. So I braved it, and found myself crammed next to a young couple.

I didn’t know it was a couple at first, but that became obvious imminently, when the guy maneuvered his arms around the girl prom-style as she grasped the pole—a tremendous fete, I assure you, considering how packed the train was.

At the next stop, someone got up from a seat, and the guy made a beeline for it to hold down the fort for his lady friend. She sat down, and he stood above her as they continued to hold hands. They also continued to hold hands as he shouted into his phone. Somehow, he gets service underground, and I never do. Also, I don’t dry-hump my boyfriend on the subway. Two ways in which we differ.

She briefly let go of his hand to run her fingers over a minor scrape on his wrist. Then she brought it to her lips. Understandable—he had clearly suffered greatly.

He pulled her up and sat down in her seat, but lest you think chivalry is dead, he pulled her down on top of him. She sat in his lap for the next three stops.

By the way, it’s not like they were fifteen. They were in their early twenties at least. Maybe it’s understandable that they needed the closeness after spending their days apart at their respective offices. That’s like eight hours.

Beauty and the Beast - strangsonthesubway

A trip to the movie theater and a reminder about misogyny

Last week, two friends and I went to the movies to see Beauty and the Beast, a charming childhood tale of bestiality and Stockholm Syndrome. (I still love you, Belle!) The cartoon version is the first movie I remember seeing in a theater, so it holds a special place in my heart. Also, in spite of the message it sends about how if you are kidnapped it’s actually pretty cool to fall in love with your captor, because then you will become a princess, and also how if your captor is a dangerous animal he is probably really a handsome prince with daddy issues, and also how Stranger Danger isn’t really a thing and you should invite crazy old women into your house the way I did when I was 11 (hey, just like the Beast!), and it happened to be a Jehovah’s Witness who tried to convert me, and when my parents came home my mom was like, “Why do you have this brochure about Jesus? What exactly did you do while we were gone?” (starting to realize this movie is actually very problematic)…it’s actually a pretty awesome movie. Just ask my brother, who had to listen to me play the theme in a loop two weeks ago.

We met the very charming ticket taker, who gave us each once overs, because he was all about inclusion.

“Wow,” he said, like he’d never seen anything with two X chromosomes before. “I’d take any one of you.” Lucky us!

He also hinted at a potential foursome, which was super tempting, but one of my friends is married, and also we had a movie to see. If only we hadn’t each shelled out $20 for the tickets. While we’re on the topic, when did movies get so expensive?

Unfortunately, by the time we left the theater Prince Charming was gone, so we weren’t able to take him up on his generous offer.

Trump adds anti-semite to his merry band of bigots

I was trying not to be fatalistic. Okay, I wasn’t trying super hard. But by Friday I had calmed down a touch and was trying to channel my fear and grief into productivity. I watched Hillary Clinton accept what happened and encourage us to do the same. I watched Barack Obama remind us to stay strong and give our new president-elect a chance. As usual, his words hugged me like a warm sweater, and I, too, was almost ready to give him a chance. (I recognize that the fact that I am unable to type his name here detracts from my claim of full acceptance a touch.) With newfound hope (okay, not exactly hope, more like resignation) I posted this heartwarming message on Facebook:

After watching Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama handle themselves with the grace and dignity we’ve come to expect from them, I’m feeling at least a modicum of the hope that led me to support them in the first place. Neither of them will be our president come January 20, but we can still count on them to lead us by example. And for that I’m grateful.

Then I set up recurring donations to Planned Parenthood and the ACLU.

So I was pretty proud of how maturely I was handling all this. So my candidate didn’t win. So we’d have, at the very best, a loose canon with no political experience in office for the next four years. Four years will fly by! Actually, no, it won’t, because that takes me to 32.

Then Trump decided to drive a giant tractor through my newfound peace.

This week, charming anti-semite/wife-beater Stephen Bannon entered our lives. Doesn’t he sound mild, like yogurt? His name rhymes with Dannon; that’s why I thought of that. He will be Trump’s chief strategist and senior adviser, while Reince “This is my name and I’m sticking to it” Priebus will be his chief of staff. I’m going to set aside my dislike of Priebus and his name for a second, because compared to Lord Bannon, he is like a precious downy baby duckling.

During his reign at Breitbart, which is basically a website full of Trump adoration porn (check it out–you’ll see what I mean), the “news” site spewed some truly memorable quotes:

“Bill Kristol: Republican Spoiler, Renegade Jew”

“Political Correctness Protects Muslim Rape Culture”

“Birth Control Makes Women Unattractive and Crazy”

There are some that are far more hateful, but I just can’t retype them.

There is also a picture of Planned Parenthood founder Margaret Sanger doctored with a Hitler mustache. Wow, those guys at Breitbart really know their way around Photoshop.

So yeah. He seems like a stand-up fellow. By the way, Bannon is a father. He has daughters.

Additionally, Bannon’s ex-wife accused him of physical abuse, including grabbing her by the neck and pulling her into a car. I say “accused” because the case was dismissed, but I’m ready to take sides in this one.

I can’t wait to see whom Trump selects next for his really stellar administration. I’m seeing David Duke as Secretary of State. Just as long as he stores his email properly. Apparently that’s the number one priority in that position.

Let’s blame the liberal bubble

Yesterday, I stood in line at my polling place filling out my ballot. I didn’t wait for a private booth. I didn’t care who saw it. I live in Brooklyn. As I walked to work, I actually thought that maybe someday I would have a daughter, and I would tell her how I voted for the first female president.

Today, there was silence on the subway. One woman grasped a poll, a single tear running down her cheek. My office was half-empty, shrouded in an eery stillness.

I keep saying, “I can’t believe it.” And people keep telling me, “We live in a bubble. That’s why this happened.”

I don’t accept that. No, I don’t live in racistland. But the people who live there apparently weren’t willing to admit they voted for Trump either. I haven’t lived in New York for my whole life. I’ve lived in some very blue states, true. And now I live in a city that Trump calls home, too.

More than half of this country did not vote for a reality television star with no political experience. Does more than half the country live in a bubble?

I don’t just associate with people who agree with every word I have to say. I respect other opinions. But I’m very, very scared. I can’t respect opinions that value hatred of other cultures, religions, ethnicities, sexual orientation, and so on. I don’t respect people who have been endorsed by the KKK and the NRA. I can’t.

So did Trump win because I was caught up in the bubble? Were the pollsters and forecasters caught up in the bubble, too? Is that why they predicted this wrong for the first time since Truman?

It’s not the bubble’s fault. The bubble did this right.

 

This is not a drinking game

Since there are already a million drinking games about tonight’s FINAL presidential debate in place, I thought I’d do something a little different based on one of my personal vices: sugar. Lord knows there’s not enough wine to get through these final three weeks as it is, so why not treat yourself to some ice cream? I restrict my dessert intake because I have deep-seated body issues, so I plan on spicing up this debate by treating myself to some mint chocolate chip.*

One spoonful each time:

-Trump lurks behind Hillary like a serial killer (yes, I realize this is not a town hall, but it could still happen. I don’t put anything past that man.)

-The camera pans to Tiffany sitting in an isolated section away from the rest of her family

-Hillary mentions her close friendship with one of the Obamas (two spoonfuls if it’s Malia or Sasha; three spoonfuls if it’s Bo or Sunny)

-Trump uses his share of time to complain that he’s not getting his fair share of time

-Trump interrupts Hillary to complain that he’s not getting enough time

-Hillary mentions Russia or Putin

-Trump forgets which Clinton he’s running against

-Trump finds some more Clinton accusers to sit in Tiffany’s spot

-Trump brings up the emails

-Hillary aggressively takes notes while Trump speaks

-Trump discusses a topic completely unrelated to the question posed

-Hillary recycles “Trumped-up, trickle down economics”

Two spoonfuls whenever:

-Hillary introduces a new catchphrase that she’s been practicing in front of the mirror since the last debate

-You miss Anderson and Martha

-Trump fights with Chris Wallace (three spoonfuls if it’s a physical, rather than verbal, altercation)

-Trump mentions someone besides Sean Hannity to whom he told his secret about not supporting the war in Iraq

Finish the carton whenever:

-A Republican withdraws support from Trump

-You donate to Hillary’s campaign (if you donate to Trump’s campaign, you don’t deserve ice cream. Give it to someone who does.)

-You register a voter in a swing state

-Trump apologizes for sexual assault

-Trump apologizes for anything

-A new assault allegation comes to light

-You find yourself liking Chris as much as Anderson and Martha

-Anyone in the same room as you still pretends to be undecided

-Lester Holt finally remembered what he was going to say from a month ago

*Just kidding. I haven’t had ice cream in like a month. Do you really think I’m sacrificing all this hard-won gym work for Trump?