Cruz wins the Iowa Caucuses, scares me

Strangers outside of New York, why?, , , , ,

Last night ended with a dual cliffhanger for me. (I go to bed at 10:30, because I’m secretly eighty years old.) First, The Bachelor culminated in a “to be continued” BEFORE THE ROSE CEREMONY. Also, Hillary Clinton and Ted Cruz had marginal leads in the Iowa caucuses. When I woke up this morning, I found out that those marginal leads had become clear victories overnight, and that Punxsutawney Phil did not see his shadow, which means early spring and also that people will be quoting Bill Murray all day, but that would have happened whether he saw his shadow or not. There was still no resolution to the Bachelor conundrum.

On the plus side:

-Hillary’s emails addressed to me personally with the subject “hi” and “no subject,” in which she warned me that Bernie Sanders was outspending her and implored me to donate money, were ultimately just scare tactics. God, Hillary, I already gave you $15.00. What more do you want?

-Early spring! How early? I’m not clear on that. Somebody tell me the rules?

On the minus side:

-I still have to hear a lot about a twenty-two-year-old movie.

-I have to wait until next week to find out to whom Ben is giving roses, except for Jubilee, the army vet, who already got kicked off.

-A man who embraces carpet-bombing is a serious contender for president.

So yeah, rough day.

Interlude: an appreciation for some strangers on the subway

strangers in New York,

You know that moment of doom when the train stalls and the conductor announces “afhjkadfbkafbkasf” and you have no idea what s/he said because it was incoherent? And then you ask someone what s/he said and they have no idea either? And eventually s/he repeats it, and you realize there’s a sick passenger, and you proceed to bang your head against a wall because you’re definitely going to be late to work? Well, a couple weeks ago, I was that person who made you bang your head against a wall, because I totally fainted on the subway.

Here are some things that happen when you faint on the subway: you automatically get a seat, the conductor comes over and encourages you to get off the train (but what do you do then?), people offer you a lot of medical advice, and actually, strangers are very nice. After I insisted that I was fine and wanted to stay on the train, people offered me water and spoke to me in soothing tones. A special shout out to that one woman who offered to get off at my stop with me and walk me to work.

In summary, thanks to those strangers, and also, the next time your train is stalled for a sick passenger, know that s/he is probably really embarrassed and never wanted to be that person and is really, really sorry.

Just a quick reminder that David Bowie and Alan Rickman were not personal friends of yours

sad things, ,

Guys. It’s very sad that Alan Rickman passed away this week. It’s also sad that David Bowie passed away the same week. But please remember that they are celebrities. You did not know them personally. They are not your mom or your boyfriend. You admired their acting and music respectively. You did not share mimosas and tater tots with them on the reg. So when you post “I FUCKING HATE THIS WEEK” on Facebook and Twitter, please bear in mind that your life is not going to change because these two individuals are no longer part of it. They were never part of it.

Also, it’s not a strange twist of fate that they died during the same week. It’s not even a coincidence. They actually had nothing to do with each other, just like they had nothing to do with you. Lots of people you never knew die in the same year, month, week, even day.

Obviously it is not up to me to forbid you to collectively mourn. But please remember that this week is what you make it to be. You can still live your life minus one great musician and one great actor.

(Apologies to any of my Facebook friends who did, indeed, consider these two individuals close personal friends.)

My new year’s resolutions and a word about people who camp out at Times Square on NYE wearing adult diapers

My sparkling self, Strangers outside of New York, Tourists, , , , ,

Happy New Year! I paused Married at First Sight just to check in because it’s been awhile.

First, a word to the people who just had to see the ball drop last night. Please take a long, hard look in the mirror. Is this who you want to be? Let’s start with the fact that you spent your vacation in New York at Times Square. I know you don’t live here because nobody who lives here goes to Times Square EVER (except in the case of real necessity), and never ever ever on New Year’s Eve. Also, you stood in the cold for hours and hours so you could watch a ball drop, a ball you could have watched on TV like I do every year, and it was so vital to your happiness that you wore Depends. If you didn’t wear Depends, you waited around in your own filth for hours and hours, or you have the strongest bladder known to man or womankind. Next time you come here, please do me a favor and hit up a dive bar in the Village. We’ll all be happier.

And now for my resolutions. Last year’s didn’t go so well. I resolved to write non work-related material for at least one hour a week and to compliment myself once a day for the sake of my self esteem. Resolution 1 broke down around February. I think resolution 2 went a bit further, but once I started paying myself compliments like “resilient liver,” I decided maybe I don’t have 365 amazing qualities. This year I’m going for more attainable things like:

-Eating meals off of proper plates rather than out of containers

-Eating said meals at appropriate meal times rather than snacking around the clock

-Crying less (I’ve only cried once this year so far, so things are looking up!)

-Buying new clothes no more than once every three months

-Keeping my orchid alive (this is the first one I’ve ever gotten to re-bloom, so fingers crossed)

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-Figuring out why my laptop keeps waking up in the middle of the night after I put her to sleep/stop worrying that she’s going to attack me

-Maybe stop naming inanimate objects and referring to them with pronouns like “she” and “he,” but probably not

Nobody’s Forever Young (Bob Dylan and Rod Stewart are in their 70s)

strangers in New York,

The other night I was in a dive bar in Brooklyn where I observed the following exchange:

Drunk girl (to bartender): “Hold old do you think I am?”

Bartender: “Uh…23 or 24?”

Drunk girl: “Ughhhh. I’m 24?”

Bartender: “And that’s bad?”

Drunk girl: “I was hoping you’d say 22.”

Bartender: “Is 22 that different from 24?”

Drunk girl: “22 is young. 24 is so old.”

Now, I’m aware that I have, on occasion, complained about being old, or getting upset over birthdays. We’re all guilty of doing that at some point. I hope I wasn’t doing it at 24.

Coincidentally, this took place shortly after I had a conversation with a friend who just turned 30. I mused about younger friends who think their youth is a badge of honor. Newsflash: age is one thing you definitely cannot control. And guess what: you’re 24 now, but you’re going to be 25 next year, and in six years, horror of horrors…30. Everybody is every age until death.

Nobody loves getting older after 21, except my dad, who is counting down the days until his 65th birthday when he will reap all the benefits of being a senior citizen. For the record, it’s over a year away, but he already has a list memorized. The supermarket in my hometown gives a discount to shoppers over the age of 55 on Tuesdays. Apparently you have to identify yourself as a senior citizen. My dad goes every Tuesday.

That said, I just really want to have my shit together by the time I turn 30.

New Orleans: where people drink like they just got their first fakes

Strangers outside of New York, Tourists, ,

I had the pleasure of visiting New Orleans for the second time last week. This time was better. The number of drunk people in the streets was roughly equal (high).

One night, my friend and I ate dinner at a distinctly New Orleans establishment, where we were crammed into a picnic table next to an extremely drunk couple in their mid-forties. They drove all the way to Alabama for a funeral and stopped in NOLA on their way back. I know all this because they told me. Here are just a few statistics about our hour-long interaction (I’m calling them Fred and Candy for the sake of anonymity, and also because despite our being best friends FOREVER by the end, I’ve already forgotten their names):

Number of times Candy showed us pictures of her hotel room: 3

Number of times Candy ran her fingers through my hair: 4

Number of times Fred crapped all over New York: 3

Number of times either of them seemed sad about whatever friend or relative had passed away: 0

Number of times I had to justify being a vegetarian to them: 2

Number of drinks Candy imbibed during this one hour: 3

Number of drinks Candy had likely consumed prior: 5?

“I’m a hairdresser,” Candy told me as justification for touching my hair. Okay, but she’s not my hairdresser.

Fred: “New York is so dirty.”

Candy: “There are so many homeless people here.”

Fred: “Show them the picture of our hotel.”

Candy: “The bathroom looks like my grandmother’s bathroom.”

In fairness, it did look exactly like my late grandmother’s bathroom–all blue plastic toilet, seashell soap.

Later in the evening (20 minutes later): “Look at this picture of our hotel.”

Candy: “Our nineteen-year-old daughter is too good. She never gets into any trouble. She always makes curfew.”

My friend: “What’s her curfew?”

Candy: “Well, she doesn’t have one.”

Candy: “That pasta looks so good. It almost makes me want to be a vegetarian. But I love meat. I’ll eat anything.”

Fred: “No you won’t. But you’ll drink anything.”

Candy: “That’s true.”

Candy left her sweater on her chair. They were already outside by the time I caught up with them. I’m glad I did, because I got an eyefull of Candy’s six-inch leopard print heels. Also, they both hugged me after the sweater exchange.

I think my favorite comment was uttered by our waitress when she brought us the check: “So those people were real sober.”

I’m not about to tear down children

strangers in New York,

who were trick-or-treating on Saturday, because my heart is not made of stone. (Although I’m a little over the Elsa costumes. Let’s try to be a little more creative, guys, k?) But while I was handing out candy on my stoop, a parent decided to dig in, too. Are you for real? Are you, an adult and mother of two, going to demand candy for yourself? (Yes. Yes, she is.) That’s even worse than the teenagers. Not that they shouldn’t have shame, too.

My hopes for the Gilmore Girls revival

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Ever since it was announced that Gilmore Girls might return for a short run on Netflix, I have been mostly anxious that I am being lied to. I want this to happen more than I want a puppy or Donald Trump to not be our next president. Okay just kidding about both those things, but I want it badly.

Demi Adejuyigbe of Gilmore Guys, a podcast you should definitely be listening to if you’re not, wrote this amazing list of suggestions for the revival on the Hairpin. I’d like to add a few of my own:

*It is revealed that season 7 was just one long, horrible dream.

*Mrs. Kim has been hiding Lane’s father in their attic Mrs. Rochester-style this whole time. Or maybe under Lane’s floorboards. He has been entertaining himself with Lane’s contraband music.

*Lorelei singlehandedly brings back the 90s.

*Rory and Lorelei each break up a few more of their ex-boyfriends’ marriages.

*Emily takes down the New York Times using only her words because they rejected Rory that one time.

*Luke introduces a delicious portobello burger at his diner.

*Paris becomes Hillary Clinton.

*April disappears because she was a useless plot device and annoying and no one ever liked her anyway.

I went on a dog adoption site because I am a masochist

sad things, why?, , , ,

So after reading about a pet adoption site styled like an online dating app in The Daily Dot, I went on the site, PawsLikeMe.com, took the matching quiz, and fell deeply in love with my matches. This is all for naught because

  1. I live in New York and don’t have space or a backyard
  2. My commute to work is about 45 minutes so I can’t come home to walk said dog
  3. My apartment doesn’t allow pets
  4. My roommate is allergic

That said, I really, really want a puppy. Guys, there’s one who’s cocking his head and staring at me mournfully all “please love me.” I get you, dude. Don’t we all just want to be loved? His foster mom describes him as “friendly, loyal, cuddly, and smart.” I am all those things, too! We would be BEST FRIENDS.

Anyway, if you want a puppy and have the means to support and house one, check out this site. If you want the puppy and don’t have the appropriate resources, stay away, because you will end up crying in the bathroom at work like I did.

A trip to the Apple store to buy some 90-year-olds iPhones and the actual panic attack I had as a result: Part II

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I know everyone here is an avid follower of my blog, so of course you remember the time I accompanied my grandfather and his girlfriend to the Apple Store to buy some iPhones. Did you anticipate a part II? Because of course there is a part II.

So welcome to part II of the iPhone debacle, in which my grandfather loses the device that he doesn’t actually use, but to which he has become very attached over the preceding months. (He likes the flashlight feature. It helps him read menus in restaurants. So basically, this is a $700 flashlight.)

So one day I was at work, and received the most chilling GChat from my mom: “You got insurance for Papa’s phone, right?”

I had, of course. But here’s the problem: insurance doesn’t cover loss.

Anyway, this was like a week-long debacle, but at least this time I didn’t have a starring technical role in the production.

He later found it in his pants pocket. He had changed his pants.