New York weather madness

Weather in New York means having to own fifteen coats of varying warmth and wearing whichever three the temperature lottery picks out for the season.

Shirts and vests and hats!!!

Sandy is over. The mta is recovering.

In honor of NY, I present:

Dear creepy creepy man,

It's like forty degrees. Everyone but you is bundled up. And we are probably getting snow today.

And you have your shirt oh so stylishly unbuttoned beneath your vest nearly to your stomach because you think we, your not so adoring public, wish to gaze lovingly upon the graying thatch inhabiting your chest.

I assure you, this is not the case.

What is seen cannot be unseen.

Button up.

Save our eyes from the burning and yourself from pneumonia.

No love,

The girl in the hat, scarf and arm warmers.

Door to Somewhere - another writing exercise

It's morning and once again she is in front of elevator doors.  They are ornate, carved designs in golden brass, a metal that usually looks gaudy to her, but not there, not then.  These doors are heavy, majestic, a little like palace doors in some imagined futuristic palace.

The elevator dings and opens.  She steps into the spacious, mirrored cavern, her feet silent against the old but shining floors.  The elevator closes.  She always forgets to press the button.  It is as if she believes that, somehow, the elevator really is futuristic, as if it will know exactly where she is going without her doing anything and take her there.  Or, maybe, it is because she hopes it will take her somewhere else.

With a sigh, she sets down her briefcase and lifts her hand to select her floor, the plastic depressing under the pressure of her finger and the answering light coming alive, the dark red, nearly black of her nail polish sparkling against it.

She drops her hand and sighs again.  The display is counting floors but she isn't watching.  She isn't even thinking really, just existing, moving through water, still half asleep.  She is grateful there is no elevator music.

She feels it come to a stop so softly and the doors begin to draw open.  Bending, she hefts her briefcase, and straightens, expecting to see the neutral wall paint of the walls and the dark spread of the carpeting in the hallway.  She expects.  The door opens.

A mini play in one act

Set: the morning rush hour express train heading down town, packed to the gills

He is smiling, not on purpose, not because he is responding to something she is saying, but because he is standing right before her soclosesoclosesoclose, her eyes are like earth, rich and brown and everything and her hair smells like honeysuckle and the sunshine of the departed summer.  He dips his head for a brief press of his lips to hers but the kiss lingers softly, her eyes closing, his eyes closing, the chatter around them receding into nothingness.  There is no whine of the train against the tracks, there is no slightly garbled voice of the announcement.  The train stops as the kiss ends.  He briefly brushes his cheek against hers, her skin silksatinvelvethomehomehomehome, and swallows, his smile fading.  Then he steps out onto the station, leaving her behind.

The black plague

Dear sick people,

If you are coughing and sound like you have consumption or maybe the ebola, please stay home. And especially please do not get on a train, which is an enclosed environment, and expose the rest of us to your plague.

Believe me, I understand we all need to make money and go to work but I promise you won't be able to work if you're dead. And you will be dead if you infect me with your death flu.

No love,

Me and my poor immune system

Dear employers,

Please provide your employees with sufficient paid sick time. Sick people do crappy work anyway and they just spread it all over the office and then nothing at all gets done.

Besides it will be quite the hassle to replace your employees if I have to terminate them with prejudice. I promise my way will work out better.

No love,

Me and my poor immune system

Noise noise everywhere

Dear American universities,

If you're going to charge exorbitant tuition for your often dubious services, please at least teach our young women how to formulate sentences without peppering them with likes and whatevers so I don't have to contemplate the joys of ritual suicide.

No love,

The woman whose patience is wearing thinner than ever

Also.

Dear idiot man-child,

Please stop playing your loud racing game on tour handheld while sitting next to me in one of the few benches in this station. The revving noise is making me peevish and the bloops are making me want to use your skin as a rug.

No love,

Me.

She is the Klutzy Queen

It's undisputed fact that in normal life I am the clumsiest woman in the world. I trip on flat surfaces, walk into chairs, tables, doors, sprout mysterious bruises from unknown collisions... You get the picture.

But when I move with purpose, like for example like when I'm playing the speed game, I am invincible. When I'm playing the speed game, I am an urban ninja, I bump into nothing and no one, trip over nothing, I am graceful and agile.*

So could someone please explain why the universe felt the need to make it up to me yesterday by surrounding me with runners up to my klutz queen crown? Including the guy who was hanging onto two rails in the subway car but still stumbled back and stepped on me.

Really universe I give myself enough bruises. Don't help.

*hyperbole not included in your daily service rates

Stairs and Manhattanites

When I am walking down the stairs and I get stuck behind a heavily pregnant woman and a suit clad middle aged man, guess which one I expect to be the slowpoke...

Dear middle aged suit man, the very pregnant woman got down those stairs twice as fast as you. Be embarrassed. And stop slowing down foot traffic.

No love,

The woman whose speed game you are messing up.

Monday Maniacs

Please strange man do not sit next to me smelling like you've been pickled in stale alcohol and sounding like you have consumption.

It's Monday morning which is my peak homicidal urges time. If you're after ending the torment of your existence peacefully, this is not the way.

I could suggest other options if you like.

No love,

Vixen

Kids on my lawn... Err train.

Dear young people,

I do not know what has induced you to cuddle in the train doors, clinging to each other like the boy is going off to war. For all I know he may be, though I doubt it.

Nonetheless. Next time please take your cuddling where you would not be blocking people from entering the train. Especially when the train wasn't even due to depart for another seven minutes.

Silly kids.

Love,

The totally not old lady who passed by you and didn't even shake her head.

Me and the MTA

This is the third day that the up escalator at my train station has not functioned. The slow simmer of aggravation has now escalated into crimson eyed homicidal rage.

Yes, yes I know it doesn't take much to make me homicidal. But that's part of my charm.

The relevant point is that the city expects me to walk up a broken escalator before 8am. I can't walk up stairs when I'm fully awake. Never you mind what I'm like on half asleep autopilot - shuffle, shuffle, chooocolate!!!

What this leads me to conclude is that the mta reads my blog and secretly wants me to rain fire and destruction upon it. Right? Right?

Right. So, remember, no one panic when bad things start to happen at the mta headquarters. They will be liking it.

Exception Tests the Rule

If you must do the dreaded running shoe (which you must NOT), then at least do it with panache like the young woman this morning - a sky blue sneaker with bright orange laces. That's not comfort, that's bucking the establishment.

I still hate the running shoe with office clothing but she gets points for being fun. If the train was stuck for a few hours (which is always an option in the city), I think we could bond and talk about city adventures - yes I do judge strangers based on shoes, why do you ask?

Pretentious Train Adventure

Please, do not make me hear the words "what up, homes?" ever again. Especially from a suburban white girl in her twenties.

My soul feels whithered.

Thank god for the watermelon half filled with alcohol that my sis and I consumed before I got on this train.

Or heads would be rolling, yo. Homes.

Alternate

Today I saw a petite, elegant Asian woman in a little black dress with waves of dark hair to her shoulders. One hand securely wrapped around the metal subway pole, the other held a salmon colored - sepia in the uneven subway light - newspaper. Her hair brushed her cheek, her face intent on the article and, when I glanced over, the truncated headline that caught my eye was "What would Roosevelt do". The rest of the words were insignificant, hidden behind the fold.

Who was this Roosevelt? Teddy? FD Eleanor?

Caged by the antique sheen by the paper, for a moment I wondered it might be one of them, the paper decades old, the elegant stranger a walker through time.

Or maybe a walker through possibilities. Maybe she came from another world, another reality, another 2012, with another powerful Roosevelt emerging on the field before the looming election. Another Roosevelt with no patience for nonsense and a penchant for accomplishment.

When she exited at her station, I wondered if I could follow her there.

(In the interests of full disclosure the paper was the Financial Times.)

Quotes of the Day

Sometimes, I think I'm funny. Other times, other people do.

"I don't need a lightsaber. I am the dark side of the force."

"It's kind of like an awesome tennis match except there's like at least a dozen people playing and it's not really tennis balls but various shiny things they're throwing around and the rules keep changing and sometimes you win if you let the thing through!!!" - in response to being told that my mind is made of random goodness.

The Shoe Hammer

Dear women of New York,

I've tried to hold this in. I've kept this back all summer. But I can keep quiet no longer.

With all of the attractive warm or cold weather shoe options available, there is no excuse* to wear running shoes with your business or casual business clothing.

*This does not include women with foot medical issues although I wonder if there are better options there too? A cute Mary Jane perhaps? With extra cushioning?

The running shoes stick out like a gnarled, infected thumb, always some other pale color that completely clashes with the outfit. It's what the lovely ladies at GFY call a scroll down fug.  Great look till you get down... to the feet.

There are sandals or flats for warm weather and boots for cold.

So no. No more running shoes, women of New York, unless you're actually running.

Love,

The crazy shoe addict who is yay close to tearing the running shoes of off you all...

Leggings and Ladyparts

Hi everyone. Sorry about my hiatus. I'd like to tell you I was in Cabo, drinking fruity umbrella drinks on the beach. Or in my villa at the Riviera having my feet massaged by men with glistening abs. Alas, nothing so exciting. Not even a feather boa.

I do return to you with a cough-cough lovely story.

Walking to the train, I witnessed a man attempting to grab the crotch of his tank top and leggings clad girlfriend.

Two rules for women occur to me as a result:

1. Don't wear leggings without a tunic or some kind of long top to cover your privates.

And.

2. Don't date men who think it alright to manhandle your lady parts on a busy city street in full view of the passing public.

Not sure what koolaid this lady drank but judging but the flirty giggle she offered as she batted his hand away... She may beyond salvation. Sad.

Umbrella ella oh hell ah

While I will never approve of umbrella-hats (small umbrellas strapped onto the wearer's head) for either practical or stylistic reasons, I do give extra effort points to the man wearing one on his shorn bald skull on a sunny morning.

Oh New York.

Half caf blahblah

How much (bad*) coffee do you have to drink so that when you sit at a two seater bench on the lirr your benchmate can smell it on you while leaning away from you as if it is some kind of aggressive perfume?

*As some of you know, I am not much of a coffee drinker. I drink the black gold but rarely, but when I do it better be good. So I'm picky. And the coffee addicts- err... drinkers around me are selective too.

So I can say with certainty, the scent was crappy coffee. Next time, please lady, smell like better coffee. Thanks.*

It might be wise to cut down a little.

And maybe never wear that outfit in public either.

XX v XY

Dear world,

Please stop perpetuating the myth that girls and women are the gossips. Today's rail trip is ample proof that vapid college boys are major contributors to the judgmental, empty headed rating.

Incidentally, was fate seating them near me some kind of homicide by vixen project? Because my skirt is white and they're sizable boys. So really, I object to serving as a clean up girl unless fate pays my dry cleaning bill. Blood is hard to get out of fabric, you know.

Love,

Me.

Oh Darwin

Dear applicant for the Darwin award,

I could not see you because you weren't in my train car. But it took you six or seven tries to let the doors close in an almost empty train.

Please assure me that you have not bred and do not intend to breed. If you have bred, please provide your spawn with alternate care arrangements for his/her/their own good. Then please place your neck in my outstretched hands.

Thank you,

The Darwin awards committee member.

Life plan

It's decided.

I'm stuck in my car at the train station. My car is dead and waiting for AAA. Which could be decades.

It's boring.

So I plan to get kidnapped by vikings, drink mead, and talk about pillaging.

(Cause being kidnapped by bears would make cuddling too hot, what with all that fur.)

Who wants to come?

Run girl run

Dear middle aged man,

Please do not play with the revolving exit door on the subway to amuse the young woman, who is much too young to be with you, thereby holding up everyone behind you.

Your age inappropriate attempt at teenage playfulness makes you look even creepier.

No love,

The person whose speed game you're messing up.

Message from the cosmos

Yesterday, there were ominous weather forecasts and power outage warnings. They did not come to pass. Today, I am stuck indefinitely on a train due to mechanical failure in the train ahead of us.

Is the universe trying to tell me something?

Stay home, vixen, stay home. Horrible things await you this lovely, sunny Friday.

Eep.

Someone hold me.

And get me a flamethrower. Because everything is better with a flamethrower.

The thing that ate pants

Oh. Oh no. Why lady? Who blackmailed you into wearing that... Thing...

It's baggy in the crotch, loose up to the knees and then tight and snug from the knees all the way down below the ankles.

Like some kind of monstrous mutated child of the harem pants.

No, lady, it isn't worth hiding your past as a courtesan to the head assassin to the drug cartels if the price is this.

Nothing is worth it.

Nothing.

Yellow isn't mellow

Pretty sure yellow cab taxi drivers aren't earthlings. They're demons made from the ashes of the crushed dreams of youth.

It's not me. It's them.

Is it weird that the reasonably piercing honking of the train doesn't bother me or disturb my nap but the idiot who sat next to me in the quiet car so he could chat with the idiot who sat behind him, again let me emphasise - in the quiet car, makes me teeth gnashingly homicidal?

Food for thought or basis for an insanity plea... Hmm...

Space bubbles

I think train seat habits are curious.

In the subway, where the seats mostly line the walls of the subway cars, with the occasional two seaters lining up perpendicularly, people seat every over space and then fill in the blanks without hesitation.

On the lirr, where the seats are all perpendicular, broken into double seat and triple seat benches, people don't hesitate to take the second seat in the double bench and the triple bench, leaving the middle empty in the latter scenario. But lots of people stand rather than ask for that middle seat on the triple bench.

So it is ok to get close if you're invading personal space on one side but not on both?

I think it is weird. I'd rather share than stand. But it is probably a function of western culture where we are trained to demand our space bubbles and share them as a sign of intimacy.

So in that middle seat there is no escape or lean away room and that, I guess, is a bubble violation.

But, the only way to guarantee your bubble is by staying home.

So thank you for moving over for me.

I solemnly swear to always shower and use minimal scented products.

Kudos

Just for those who claim I am too negative (I'm looking at you, mom), today I give kudos to the otherwise unremarkable middle aged woman in casual business clothing.

You rock that royal blue polish, lady.

I don't want to be you when I grow up or anything but I do want your nail polish.

And no, mom, blue nails do not make me look like a drowning victim.

Thwarted

I've noticed in the last year or so that translucent tops are a thing.

Not professional for your industry? Too bad, wear a cami. Don't want an extra layer under your suit jacket and top in the summer heat? Too bad, suffer. Bwahahaha!

What the hell designers?

So naturally I've nearly stopped buying tops other than the occasional opaque one that sneaks through the net of stupid.

But you know, while I can nearly almost sort of (not at all) understand the thing with top... What gives with pants???

Just what is it, oh dear demented fashion maven, that you want me to wear between panties and summer dress pants? And tell the truth, you're not wearing this translucent nonsense are you... Because this is really just some kind of madcap plot the purpose to which is as opaque as your designs are translucent...

I'm onto you, you tricksy little imp... Onto you...

And I'm still not buying your translucent crap...at least not on purpose...

Because shoes

Dear Mr. Not As Cool As He Thinks,

I get that you're dressing down tour suit and not wearing a tie. But that is no reason to don black boat shoes WITHOUT socks in some kind of rebellion against the establishment. It doesn't work and you look stupid.

Yes even more stupid than the young woman next to you tryin to dress her business casual outfit with fifteen dopey bead bracelets on top of her watch.

You're wearing a wedding ring. So if you won't think of the world, at least don't embarrass your spouse.

Love,

The woman in the cute turquoise sandals (because I understand proper footwear).

I wear my sunglasses at night...

That was about big brother government right?

Well, buddy, it's a lot less deep when you wear yours on the subway, on a fairly cool evening.

Takebacks Allowed

So do I have to be injured for fellow humans to show a shred of incipient humanity? Apparently getting black smudges on my hand yesterday, probably during my morning train nap, and then transferring them to my face in a picturesque fashion is insufficient for a kind soul to pause and warn me.

If I hadn't caught sight of the smear of black on my nose from the corner of my eye, I would have walked into my destination marked up like the little cinder girl. Which was a look that explained why the woman on the train glanced at me and laughed. But not why no one told me!

Bah, humans.

Universe 1, vixen 1.

Also, someone stepped on my foot on the return trip. It hurt.

Universe 1, vixen 2.

Hope for the Human Race

I know, gentle reader, that I am usually frothing at the mouth with homicidal yet witty rage at the various uncouth antics of my fellow humans.

Yesterday, the universe undertook to remind me that humans possess kindness and courtesy. (And yes New Yorkers just as much as any others.) I would like to take this moment to point out to the universe that my blog is merely a snapshot of my thoughts and I don't think all humans are a waste of genetic material. Just many. Thus, dear universe, please refrain from further reminders.

So there I was, gentle reader, ambling sleepily just outside of the train station in my cute Aerosole wedge sandals and my bad ankles. As the universe and my bad ankles would have it, that was when, for the billionth time ever, my left ankle turned itself and I stumbled.

Those of you who know me have seen this happen time and time again. I catch myself, curse salaciously, wait for the stabbing pain to subside as I walk it off and go on about my day.

Alas, not yesterday.

I double stumbled and then attempted to face plant myself into the pleasantly warm Manhattan pavement. My palms saved my face from that unfortunate fate but nonetheless, gentle reader, there I was, on the ground, ankle throbbing, my bag flung away from me, cursing up a veritable tsunami.

And would you know that some passers by immediately stopped, assisted me to my feet, got my bag for me and made sure I was okay.

I'm fairly certain, a day later, that my ankle is either strained or sprained. But yes, universe, I will concede that while it was with a limping gait that I continued my journey, my fellow humans did uplift more than my clumsy physical shell.

But be wary, universe. This is not over...

They are out to get me!

I got an old style lirr train today. It's been a long time since I've been on one. I rediscovered how much more comfortable the seat architecture of these old trains is for naptime.

So the question begs... Why would they change it?

Another one...

Dear idiot man,

The wannabe thug look is extra stupid when you try to execute it with a suit. Suit pants are not meant to hang off your thighs.

My eyes may never recover.

You suck.

No love,

Your long suffering superior being.

Karma

Idiots just got told by the conductor. And, like the maturity level they have thus far displayed, they immediately pointed fingers at each other. "He did it!"

Ah sweet silence.

Mental letter... For now...

Dear bunch of drunk men on the train,

Your very loud yammering, obnoxious comments and that thing you think is flirting but is really just pathetic are not, in fact cute. And if you can predict that you will be kicked off the train then trust me when I say that the rest of us are holding our breaths, waiting for it.

Please go away now before I snap.

No love,

The woman trying to explode your heads with her mind.

Dear idiot woman who thinks she's flirting with the super drunk bunch,

You're encouraging the stupid. If karma doesn't get you, I will.

No love,

The cranky traveler.

PS to all of you, threatening to kick people in the balls is not funny.

Aliens redux

Maybe it's not just my imagination... Got stuck in a possessed elevator in the Court building... They're after me...

Because, aliens

My imagination might need curbing.

I discovered a small wound on my knee last night that I probably got from knocking myself into the door or the credenza or the dresser or...you get the picture.

This morning I am contemplating if it is the remnants of an alien probe or a government dart.

Good goods, I need help. Or chocolate. I vote chocolate.

Breakfast

Dear backwards cap guy,

Not only are your fashion choices highly dubious, but you also sat next to me and proceeded to chomp on what appeared to be a bacon, egg and cheese on a roll.

I'm trying to eat sensibly and the smell of cheesy bacony goodness is. Not. Helping.

I highly recommend you sit next to someone else next time. And turn your hat around.

No love,
Your cranky bench mate.

What's worse than an adult onesie?

A strapless adult onesie.

Just another manic Friday?

The trio blathering less than quietly about their impending doom... err bar exam, is giving me PTSD flashbacks.

And keeping me awake.

There are worse things than the bar though... And I am one of them. *ominous music*

(Should have posted at 7:27am.)

Oops

This morning I switched train cars twice to find a car where no one was chattering. Then, when the train started to move, the chattering began in that car too.

For a while, I debated various forms of homicide.

And then, in a burst of sparkles and irony, my phone rang. Okay no actual sparkles but definitely irony.

It was my grandmother and thus a choice between liver chewing now (she wants me to do THINGS) or liver chewing later.

I picked now.

For the record though, it was not a quiet car, I kept my voice low and got her off the phone as quickly as I could (have you ever tried to cut off a Jewish grandma in full speed ahead mode?).

And to be fair to grandma, she did wish me a happy anniversary before the liver chewing commenced.

Ah family.

Dear...hatehatehate

Dear train benchmate,

If your morning routine involves so much cologne that people sitting next to you (in this instance, that being me) get watering eyes, you may need to seriously revisit that.

Also, pretty sure the small round spots on my shirt that weren't there this morning are your fault. So if you don't rethink your little policy, do the train janitors a favor and never sit next to me again. Cleaning up blood is hard.

No love,

Me.

Dear person in front of me on the metrocard queue,

If you don't know how to swipe a metrocard, the morning rush hour isn't the time to learn. You made me just late enough to miss my train so I had to wait two minutes for the next one and lost me at least one hundred points in the speed game*. And I was doing so good this morning too.

Please not being suicidal, yes?

Your not so kindly disposed fellow New Yorker.

Dear whoever it was that got reddish powder on my pants,

You suck.

Hate,

Me.

*the speed game is a test of spatial awareness and endurance in maneuvering around the City. You get points for slipping into crevices in the crowd, avoiding bumbling passers by and getting to your destinations as quickly as possible.

The road not taken redux.

The spouse creature purchased my favorite cream puffs* from Ferrara's on Grand St, my favorite cream puff purveyor.

He has served his penance.

*Cream puffs should never ever contain pudding of any kind, be filled with whipped cream or ice cream only occasionally and always, always burst full of proper pastry cream. And if I have to explain what pastry cream is to the person behind the pastry counter, I will not, in fact, purchase any pasties from such counter but will rather back away slowly until I feel safe enough to turn my back and run screaming into the night.

The road not taken...

That's what I get for letting the spouse creature pick the restaurant...

Mediocre marinara in little Italy that's about ten grades below what I make at home.

Should have gotten French. Mm cow brain.

Daily Battles

Every morning, as I slowly slide open the glass closet door, I stare down into the unblinking eyes of Furry Terror (cat II), as he contemplates... To do or not to do. And every morning, he comes to the same conclusion, his furry little body darting past me to hide under the white shelf below my hanging skirts and pants... Definitely and absolutely to do.

And so, every morning, I reach for the spray bottle and attempt to imitate machine gun rounds with water for about ten seconds before he concedes defeat and hurriedly departs the field of battle.

Dumb cat never learns.

But at least he has an excuse. He's just a baby cat.

What excuse do people have?

Open Letter

Dear people of New York,

Please do not wear hideous shoes with cute outfits and adorable hair. (Especially ugly bulky sandals that should only ever be worn by hippies in movies.)

It makes me peevish.

You wouldn't like me when I'm peevish.

Love,

Judge, jury and executioner. (Yes I went there.)

Mental Letter to Train Passenger III

Dear utter moron in the quiet car this morning,

Your alleged failure to notice the five billion signs announcing the advent of the quiet car and your complete inability to not be chatting to someone have kept me from my morning nap.

This makes me peevish.

If it was up to me, people like you would be spit roasted slowly in warning to potential transgressors.

Be grateful that I don't run the world yet and learn to read more and speak less.

No love,

The woman who wants to muzzle you.

To Sleep?

Last night I had a dream. In that dream, I was the mother of a tiny adorable baby who I for some reason carted around completely naked bar a towel I slung over my shoulder. As you might imagine, disaster struck, as my little darling peed on the head of a sports player who was sprawled on the game field... Apparently to my utter shock.

So the question begs, is dream me really stupid or subconsciously extra evil?

Death to Meme

I have noticed I am becoming more peevish in my old age. 

Example:

I know people are all about the picture memes on the social media lately. Someone posts a picture which contains some kind of absolutist statement. And everyone hits like and reposts because Oh Em Gee look at the amazing wisdomity (TM) of that statement.

And, when I look, all I can see is the five different ways that statement becomes utterly absurd if you follow it to its logical conclusion. Maybe I am practicing reductio ad absurdum and maybe I'm bored of people not thinking through the ideas that they throw their staunch support behind.

The thing is usually these memes are ostensibly positive things. So would it be wrong to just take a pointy thing and go STABSTABSTAB to their delusion balloon? Because I kind of think the world would be a better place if people tried to actually do good things rather than just repost meaningless memes as if it somehow absolved them of responsibility to be contributing members of the global society. [Not that destroying their delusions would actually force them to take real action... but alas a woman can dream...]

Or I just a bad person? [Cause I'm okay with that too.]

First World Problems?

I'm browsing amazon, trying to find an unscented nail polish and tying myself into mental knots.

How do other people {women?) do this?

Is there some kind of girly girl gene that makes figuring out make-up stuff easy that I didn't get?

Cause if so, I demand a refund. And a chocolate chip cookie!

Theory on Life

Solipsism ( /ˈsɒlɨpsɪzəm/) is the philosophical idea that only one's own mind is sure to exist. [See, Wikipedia.]

If that's true, then something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

In my mind, I am alternatively the Queen of Earth [my main royal residence in a fantastic castle in Central Park and I have a slew of legal reform right at the tip of my brain if you're curious], a mind-transplanted princess from an alien empire [and this is why I'm so clumsy, because my alien body has a different balance] or a super-secret spy agent [and yes, I wear a lot of leather].

Frankly, in comparison, real life is just... boring.

WHERE IS MY SCEPTER!

A HORSE FOR A KINGDOM! [Cause, damn, horses are nice but I'm surely not about to trade a whole kingdom for it, unlike Henry IV. Or was that Paris for a Mass? You get the picture.]

Tartarus

Penn Station is my idea of Tartarus.

I love food. Sweet food, savory food, ethnic food, weird food, carbs, meats, blended fruit drinks... I might be making myself hungry right now...

Anyway, the point is that I love food. And, in order not to let that love turn me into a giant blimp floating in the sky like a warning to gluttons everywhere, I have to indulge my love in moderation.

Which is what makes Penn Station kind of like the torture of Tantalus.

It's a veritable smorgasbord of tasty treats from the ACE train to the 123 train in a wide variety of choices.

And, frankly, my dears, that's just cruel. 

[This is why I don't carry cash while I dash, gnawing on my knuckles in substitute, past the delectable goodies in the storefronts. Damn you, destiny! And Penn Station!]

Joyful

As some of you may have noticed, either from reading this blog or from knowing me in the real world, I am a person with... some... ahem... shall we say, homicidal urges.

I have noticed though that I have been happier [and funnier] for the last few weeks.

In fact, even my murderous thoughts are kind of chipper.

Mental Letter to the Subway

Dear train (you know who you are),

If you insist on turning me into a sardine in a tin-can so I cannot even look at people's shoes, then at least make sure that the people that I am near-intimately pressed up against are cute. And, most importantly, smell good.

For the record - smelling like chocolate would be a plus.

Love, your devoted passenger.

Train Time

It occurs to me, as I suppose it must to any reasonable traveler, that the railroad would be much more pleasant if it had sleeper cars and all seats reclined.

Because, hello... Napti-zzz...

Viewpoint

Today, I discovered that the nice view from my window is not in fact Staten Island as I have believed for nearly three weeks. It is actually New Jersey.

I feel violated and unclean. So unclean...

Mental Letter to Train Passenger II

Dear lady in the seat next to me, 

when you're in a crowded train and all the seats are filled, please refrain from rhythmically chomping on crunchy crackers. Unless you intend to share. In which case, I prefer cheddar flavored.

No love,

Your homicidal train-bench-mate.

[Originally posted today at 6:44pm.]

Juxtaposition

A slim man, hair just beginning to silver, tucked into a corner of a crowded train car right against the doors, a book held reverently in his hands as he quickly devours the pages. The train stops, people get on. A young woman, slim and professional, steps inside, and when the train moves again there is little space between the kindle held gently in her right hand and his small tome. 

I watch. I hope to keep watching forever.

[Originally posted today at 6:41pm.]

Anachronism?

I hate pantyhose with a fiery, burning passion. 

They're like a weird, creeping vine that climbs your legs and wiggles uncomfortably, clumping and clinging until you just want to dump Greek fire on it. In the summer, they just get damp and even more hideous and in the winter I'd rather wear leggings anyway since they're much warmer and fit better.

Unfortunately, the maternal unit has been insistent that professionals must wear pantyhose with skirt/dress suits and this has become somewhat of a zombie debate. IT JUST WON'T DIE!

So today I tried to take a visual census of of whether professional women wear pantyhose with skirt/dress suits... Either no one wears pantyhose or I have a visual disability to processing the image of the vile things and xray my way straight through them to skin. 

Food for thought?

[Originally posted today at 5:31pm.]

People Watching

I like to people-watch on the subway. 

I admire attractive shoes. 

I imagine where each person works - she's a lion tamer, he's a code encryption expert for the CIA, she's a desk jockey, he's a waiter but has a kickstarter for an awesome archeological project... 

I hate it when they disappoint me. Today's example: a young woman in a dress suit stands up and the skirt is climbing places unknown - no way is she an office professional. 

Don't interrupt the story in my head. Horrible things might happen. Especially if reality really is based on my consciousness.

[Originally posted today at 9:05am.] 

The Thoughts That I Think

Goldfish, the snack that smiles back... Since when do we want our food to smile? 

Goldfish: Yes, please eat me, gracious human... Psychotic grin. It is my honor to serve as your food.

...Creepy.

[Originally posted today at 8:59am.]

Character Building Exercise

Take bad weather, remove a husband car service to the train, add lots of humans who can't drive or behave... I'm going to either ascend another level today or kill someone.

[Originally posted today at 7:05am.]

Tech and Trains

I have now been riding the train for over two weeks and today is the first time I have actually chatted with a fellow passenger (might be the only reason that the screaming brat in the front of the train car is still alive - go on brat, thank the nice man for distracting the crazy, homicidal lady from the urge to kill). This man has been taking the train for twelve years. 

That's a lot of stories. 

He told me that before everyone had tech toys, cell phones, tables, ipods, you would regularly see strangers chatting to each other to keep the boredom away.  Now, everyone is absorbed in their technology.

One step forward for science might be one step back for culture?

[Originally posted on June 12, 2012, at 7:50pm.]

Mental Letters to Train Passengers

Dear nice man on the train,

If, upon viewing your reflection in your bathroom mirror, you find that your hair has transformed itself into a shiny shellac helmet in which others can probably see their reflections and which can probably take a mace hit or two, do not pass go, do not collect $200, and, above all, do not leave the house that way. While I appreciate your thoughtfulness in being willing to serve as an impromptu mirror, people can wait till the end of their commute to check themselves. Think of yourself first. And think of me. And my pain.

Your new best friend.

----

Dear nice person several seats ahead of me,

If you don't wish me to use your assuredly adorable child as a projectile, then I recommend that you muzzle said child to prevent the continued emission of high pitched, repetitive noises currently disturbing the entire train car. 

Your not so friendly neighborhood grouch.

[Originally posted on June 12, 2012, at 8:50am and 7:13pm.]

Obstacles

I don't have anything clever to tell you today. 

It's been a day fraught with obstacles. 

Someone's death delayed the train. FOIL prevented the retrieval of fairly mundane documents which should be available without red tape. 

How often, without need and for want of courtesy, do we stand in each other's way? 

How often, even more tragically, do we stand in our own?

[Originally posted on June 11, 2012, at 6:34pm.]

People Thoughts II

Some people see dead people. I see redheads.

Babies look cute in onesies. Adults look like they're trying to look cute. Usually this is a recipe for looking like an idiot.

I have been advised that the way to identify gay men is by shoes. This leaves metrosexuals in an awkward position.

Sexy, high-heeled shoes and backpacks are a strange, awkward combination. (Apparently today is a shoe day.)

Wearing a flag like a cape does not make you a superhero. Please stop embarrassing yourself. And hurting my eyes.

 

[Originally posted on June 10, 2012, at various times over the day.] 

People Thoughts

1. Train time on the LIRR before 9am is nap time. If you have the sudden urge to dramatically grumble about your birthday plans or to raucously discuss obscure 90s TV shows... Don't. 

2. If you cannot walk in high heels without tottering about like a little girl wearing her momma's shoes, it might be best to opt for flats next time. You will look much cuter striding confidently in flats you can walk in rather than wobbling about in sky high heels. Don't be that woman. 

3. If you're a dopey teenager, you will not look cooler to those around you by loudly announcing to your friends: "I'm a lone wolf." Clearly, you are not. And furthermore, you're just dopey. Please don't hurt my head like this ever again or I will be forced to retaliate. Thank you. Your friendly neighborhood grouch.

[Originally posted on June 9, 2012, at 10:37am.]

Climate Change IS Real

I'd really appreciate a fully cited and annotated memo which would illuminate me on why we are suddenly back in early spring. Worst use of time travel ever. 

Next time, I'm going to ancient Babylon.

[Originally posted on June 6, 2012, at 8:43pm.]

Girrrrl Power

On my way to the train yesterday, I saw Penn Jillette in the street and really wanted to give him kudos for naming his daughter Moxie Crimefighter. Little girls are named Hope or Charity or Faith or other sweet and kind words. We got enough of that. Little girls are raised with enough sweetness and kindness and all the sugar in the world.

Little girls need more Moxie. And maybe even more crimefighting.

(And no, I didn't approach him.)

[Originally posted on June 6, 2012, at 9:06am.]

A Love Letter to a Cat

Dear Fluffy-Beast II, 

I know that the sight of humans in nice clothing gives you an irresistible urge to stretch up and touch somebody... With your claws. 

But let me remind you, daddy is the sucker-...err nice one. 

Mommy is the one who will hang you upside from a tree after she covers you in honey if the pulls you made in her pants don't come out. 

No love, Mommy.

[Originally posted on June 6, 2012, at 7:14am.]

End of the Day

Random Thoughts:

1. Stick blenders are awesome.

2. If you're a guy [or a chick to be politically correct - it was just a guy I saw today] dressed in business clothes, drinking cheap beer from a brown bag on a Tuesday evening on the LIRR... you just look... sad. For a variety of reasons.


[Originally posted on June 5, 2012, at 9:35pm].

Introduction

Welcome.

This blog is my exercise in groping towards life meaning through humor, thought provoking and plain old love of word.

Ultimately, I hope to publish a book but meanwhile this is where I hope to dwell in harmony, in chaos and in hope.

I'm a lawyer, a writer, a dreamer, a cynic and a fan of sparkly things and furry creatures, of which my husband and I currently serve two [you don't own cats - they either own you or you just... kind of coexist semi-peacefully?].

I am going to be moving all of my recent posts of note from elsewhere so I will be posting a lot right now and I hope to keep up a decent pace.

If you want to engage me in conversation, I'm wide open to ideas.

The end... for now?

-Vixen

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