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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