Life of the Body, Life of the Mind

This move to Pittsburgh has been a momentous one.  I changed cities, career paths, the direction of my life.  While this is certainly a movement forward for me, I sometimes feel like I’m making a trade.  No offense to Pittsburgh, but when it comes to swapping it for Brooklyn, I feel like I’m getting a bit of a raw deal.  (Though I do appreciate the 30%+ discount on rent.)  But I also feel like I’ve traded a life of the body for a life of the mind.

When the Going Gets Tough, Hug a Kitty

So.  It's been a while.  It's not that I've had nothing to write about; in fact, the problem is just the opposite: I've had so much to write about that every time I sit down to write a new post, an, "I'm back!" post, I become paralyzed as my fingers hover over the keys.  I've had a few false starts: I began a post about my vacation, started one about marriage and babies...then never finished either.

Then, today, as I was suffering through a tortuous run, it hit me: fuck it, I'll write about this.

But first, a summary.  In mid-July I quite my job in New York.  I spent one-and-a-half blissful weeks doing all the things I've ever wanted to do in NYC: visiting the Whitney, going surfing in the Rockaways, touring the Cloisters, etc.  Then there was half a week of harried, stressful packing.  I decided to leave NYC--and my job, and my lovely friends--to go to Pittsburgh, pursue a graduate degree, and write (and teach) full time.  However, I still had some time before school started.  So the BF and I began a wonderful, perhaps overly ambitious, summer vacation.  In the span of about three weeks, we visited Cincinnati, Nashville, Chicago, Ann Arbor, Detroit, and a very northwestern tip of Michigan.

Eventually, we had to get back to reality.  I've been in Pittsburgh now for two weeks.  Classes have started, I like them, and I am mostly very happy to be here.  It's lonely though; I don't know anyone in Pittsburgh, and I'm a minimum four-and-a-half hour drive from anyone who loves me.  But, I try not to dwell on that fact.

So, back to that run.  For some reason, even though I have been running off and on for about 12 years of my life, running here has felt unnatural.  Today, for example, the very first steps I took, all I could think was: I'm uncomfortable.  Half a mile in, I had to stop and take off my top layer of clothing.  What on earth had possessed me to wear long sleeves?  Then my headphones kept flapping, and hitting me in a way that irked me like crazy.  I thought: how had I ever done this before?

The fact is, in running, as in life, it doesn't get easier.  It's just when you start to get comfortable that things tend to get tough all over again.

With the running, I know I am pushing it a little too hard.  I've been on the road, I'm going through huge changes--my body and mind are a mess.  But I signed up for the Chicago Marathon (10/10/10) ages ago, before I even knew I was coming to Pittsburgh, and committed to running with a group of serious runner friends.  So every day I keep thinking about where I should be physically, and getting frustrated by where I actually am.  In addition to my mental roadblocks, it's been difficult to adjust to the topography here.  Michigan and New York--both places I lived and ran before--were very similar in their low, flat terrain.  And though Pitt isn't Denver, the elevation is higher than what I'm used to, and it's hilly.  The other day I was convinced I had run uphill both ways to and from my house.

Just as my lack of preparedness has hurt my running, it's the things I didn't prepare for that have made this transition so difficult.  First, there was the flood that occurred in my new apartment while the BF and I were on vacation.  While I was anxious about starting school again, I hadn't anticipated spending hours a week on the phone with my new landlord, trying to get things fixed.  My first day of orientation, I found myself in a school bathroom in tears.  It was a lot to take on my first day in an unfamiliar place.

I also didn't fully foresee how hard it would be to live apart from the BF again.  We did the distance things once before, and remarkably well too.  I knew I was going to miss him, and I knew we were going to get through this like we had before.  I just didn't know how hard it would be to watch him pull away in his car, leaving me alone here, in the fullest sense of the word.  I didn't just cry; I sobbed.  For days, it felt like I'd lost an appendage, a piece of myself.

But for now, I think, the hardest part is over.  My apartment is fixed, I've started to meet people, and the BF and I have settled into a comfortable and frequent phone routine.  I can only hope the running will also fall into place in time, that I'll relearn my stride, and be able to take on the hills with confidence, perhaps even enthusiasm. All I can do is lace up my shoes again tomorrow, and try again.  At the very least, I can still go to Chicago to cheer on my friends.

Yes, the worst seems to be behind me--at least, until it gets tougher all over again.

On the Road

Snippets has been on the road the past two weeks, but more posts are coming soon! Am currently at Hamburger University* in Elmhurst, IL. I've chosen to minor in ketchup.


*Hamburger University is real. We happen to be staying at the Hyatt on the campus of McDonald's headquarters.

Mow, Dog, Mow!

The best is when he looks at the camera like, "Whaddup."

Thanks to my friend Matt at Warming Glow for this one.

Rush Hour Reject

Things I'm not going to miss about New York City: this guy

CrossFit: A Field Guide (Part Deux)

So here it is!  The long-awaited (by about three of you) Part II of the CrossFit Field Guide.  Part I covered the workouts, jargon, and people.  Part II covers the all-important topics of wardrobe, diet, and controversy. 

(But really, it’s just a thinly veiled mash note to my companions and coaches at my box, CrossFit South Brooklyn.  I’ll be moving at the end of the month and will miss them dearly, but in the words of the Governator, I’LL BE BACK!  That’s a promise.)  

The Wardrobe

The CrossFit aesthetic is unusual, to say the least. As in other realms of fashion, the men are more uniform and less loud in their dress. The typical CrossFit Male is often undistinguishable from the rest of the gym-going population of men: t-shirt, shorts, and gym shoes. There are, however, subtle differences. Whereas your average gym-goer wears Nike or adidas trainers, the CrossFit male is more likely to be wearing weightlifting shoes or Converse. He is also more apt to take his shirt off mid-workout; a practice often frowned upon at most corporate gyms.

In warmer months, the CrossFit Male may often been seen barefoot. Contrary to popular belief, weightlifting and running are often better executed this way, as one can better get a "feel" for the floor. I can just imagine countless non-Paleolithic members of society cringing at the potential dangers: you could drop a weight on your foot! You could step on glass! (Not to mention the socio-economic implications; one CF friend of mine, while walking home barefoot from the box, was offered money by a stranger to "buy some shoes"; the bystander likely thought he was another recession victim). In my experience, people tend to get over their aversion to shoelessness sooner or later. I began lifting in stocking feet after a few months--though I still wear shoes while walking and running the streets of Brooklyn. Apologies to my fellow CF-ers, but I'm not crazy. I don't wish to test whether or not my tetanus shots are up-to-date.  Perhaps the impracticalities of going barefoot are what make Vibrams, those weird reptilian-looking shoes with toes, more popular among the CrossFit demographic (both male and female) than the general population.

While popular with yogis, the lululemon-brand clothing is also popular among CF-ers, both male and female. I quickly discovered why. Though it still makes me cringe to spend nearly $100 on stretchy pants, the quality is unmistakable, and necessary. While doing common CF exercises like deadlifts and squats, which require an extreme ass-out position, inferior-quality pants and shorts are stretched to their limits, often exposing the wearer to the extreme. I'll expand no further on the subject.

The CrossFit Female is often colorful and expressive in her attire.  Clothes are often short or tight, or some combination of the two.  This is less for show [though if you looked like this (fast forward to 1 minute), who wouldn’t want to show off a little?] and more for practicality’s sake.  You don’t want to be mid-workout worrying about a baggy shirt or pair of shorts riding up, or getting tangled in a jump rope.

In this way, the CF Female may seem to resemble any other woman bound for Pilates class—until you get to the all-important part of the wardrobe known as accessories.  The most distinguishing accessories of the CF Female are the tall socks.  Calf-length, knee-high, or over-the-knee, these socks also serve a purpose in CrossFitting.  They protect your shins from bar scrapes and scars while doing deadlifts, cleans, and snatches.  They protect your calves from rope burn while climbing.  And as a bonus, when paired with short shorts, they show off toned quads and hammies.

Other accessories worn by both male and female CFers include sweatbands, bandanas, and things called skins, which I believe are supposed to improve your circulation and/or make you look like a serious athlete.  There are also the all-important affiliate* t-shirts, which sport sayings ranging from the serious (“Fitness is Earned”) to the silly (“I eat burpees** for breakfast”).  CFers also love things adorned with skulls.  It’s all about looking tough.

21st Century Loneliness

Apartment hunting is a stressful business. And aprtment hunting in a time crunch (say, within 24 hours), in an unfamiliar city? Even worse.

And so my parents, boyfriend, and I approached last weekend's apartment search in Pittsburgh with anti-anxiety meds, inhalers, and Kevlar in tow. And so it was our first appointment was at The Most Depressing Apartment Building of All Time.

Judging from the pictures and the price, I thought the M-- building housed luxury units for graduate students and young professionals. But when we got inside the shabby lobby and took the elevator to the 7th floor, which smelled like an old folks' home, I knew my assumption had been dead wrong.

As building manager R-- led us to the first apartment, I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the smell and the 70s-era red patterned carpet. We entered the first studio, which still looked to be inhabited. Pictures lined the walls, and several surfaces held doilies, plants, and more photographs. A single bed, shoved against the wall, was covered by an afghan. A cupboard door had been clearly labeled with a sticker that said "PILLS." It was clear we were in an old person's apartment. And it became even clearer, viewing the three 40-something people packing up boxes, that we were in an old, dead person's apartment.

Upon piecing these facts together, I was horrified. I nodded mutely as R-- pointed out the features of the space. I wanted out of there--fast.

Before entering the second apartment, R-- expressed resentment over how dirty the current tenant was. She assured me the studio would be thoroughly cleaned before move-in. She knocked on the door and received no response. Before entering, R-- covered her nose with her hand.

The place reeked of cat piss and general griminess. The sound of water could be heard from somewhere off to the right. "She's in the shower," R-- explained, and once again I felt horribly intrusive; combined with the smell, I was ready to leave as soon as we had arrived. We quickly toured the place under the glare of an angry-looking black cat and, mercifully, left before the tenant exited the shower.

The third and final apartment was a 1-bedroom, pricier than the rest. While it housed a living tenant, and did not have any malicious odor, it could still have been considered the most depressing.

"This tenant," R-- explained, "sleeps in the living room."

Upon entering, the only sign of life within view was a pile of shoes next to the door. In the living room, there was indeed a bed, or rather, a boxspring and mattress, messily made up. A computer sat in front of it, humming away atop some packing crates. Cords were strewn everywhere, and there was no other decoration in sight. I wanted to suggest to R-- that instead of renting the apartment, she should preserve it as a contemporary art piece and charge admission. Perhaps call it "21st Century Loneliness."

I said goodbye to R--, lease application in hand, knowing I would throw it away as soon as she was out of sight. Even if she had been giving the apartments away, I could never bring myself to move into that domicile of depression.

Observation

What's the worst part about telling your friend that his/her boyfriend/girlfriend/fiancée sucks? You CAN'T. Sigh.

One is the Loneliest Number

Being on vacation alone is no fun. Actually, I am on "fakecation," which in my case means a work trip at a swanky hotel in Puerto Rico. But still. Even though i have to work a majority of the time, it's a great place. The kind of place you wish you could share with someone else; preferably with one you love.

The one I love is in NYC, which means I am left to marvel at everything alone: the palm trees, the ocean, the way the maid arranged my shoes and cosmetics in an aesthetically pleasing manner. It's just not as much fun when you can't share the "ooh"s and "ahh"s with someone else.

So what to do? Drown my loneliness in alcohol? Flirt with a stranger? No and no. (Though I did have a few glasses of wine. Open bar!!) Instead, I bought tuna at the gift shop and fed some stray cats. And dangled a jump rope from my balcony, to annoy my co-worker with the room directly below mine. I don't think he noticed. His significant other is in there with him.

Highway to Hell

This is the second time I have been on a torturously long bus ride and thought: maybe I have died and am in some sort of awful purgatory, where I am forced to ride a bus for all eternity, forever deprived of decent food, sleep and an empty bladder.

We have probably been clocking an average speed of 45 mph this whole trip. It is insanity. I am losing my mind. I wish 1990s Sandra Bullock would bust in and press this guy's foot down on the pedal. To be fair, there is a lot of construction going on. But still, we're in a freaking megabus! Take out some orange cones, dude. Ain't no thing.

But back to that first bus trip, it was Barcelona to Granada. The one memorable thing about the ride was my friend M. relieving himself in his Nalgene bottle about an hour into the trip. His brilliant plan to get tanked before the 14-hour drive had one flaw: no bathrooms on the bus.

Since I'm Trapped...

...I might as well post a link to The Folded Word! My 3-poem series has been nominated for an award, and you can vote here:

http://folded.wordpress.com/2010/06/16/vote-for-3cheers-spring-2010/

Cheers!

El Autobus, Part Tres

So there's this guy on here that looks like Bill from Bill & Ted. Kind of. But what's perplexing to me is he is doing nothing, just kind of hanging out, talking to people occasionally. No iPod. No books. No magazines. How can you get on an 8-hour (now about 10-hour) bus ride so unprepared?

And a couple has been coloring, in a coloring book. I'm not sure how old they are, but certainly too old for coloring.

I can't imagine going anywhere without a book. If I don't have reading material on the subway, I feel antsy. Really! As a kid, I used to keep the box of cereal in front of me while I ate breakfast, just so I had something to read. Did you know there's only one gram of sugar in cheerios?

7 hours down, 2.5 to go

Megabus Part Deux!

Well, there was a minor freakout for a while there, as the power was out on the bus and I had to shut off my iPhone to conserve battery. But power is back! However, the bus is still crawling along at what feels like 45 mph. Make that 15 mph. Hopefully we'll get there before Sunday.

I've got some exciting posts in the hopper, including Part Two of my guide to CrossFit, and a tribute to Butter Jesus. Who/What is Butter Jesus, you ask? You'll have to stay tuned to find out. These posts require much linkage and photograph-age and right now I'm mobile, bare-bones blogging only.

So for now I would like to share a thought I had today--which is totally inappropriate, unsuitable for minors, and probably indicative of a serious problem--about an aspect of drinking I kind of enjoy. It's this: I think it's funny to wake up the next morning, and slowly start to remember all the stupid shit I said and did the night before. Like: why was I running up and down the steps of all the brownstones on my walk home, chanting, "Up the stairs! Down the stairs!" the whole way? Or yelling, "Kobe, you suck!" at a bar half-filled with Lakers fans? Because I'm an idiot, that's why.

So kids, do as Auntie Snippy says and not as she does: drink in moderation! Forgetting things you did while drunk is dangerous and not funny at all.

The bus has slowed to a stop on the highway. Help!

4 hours, 20 minutes down, hours to go: endless

Live! From Megabus!

Last night I had a fantastic time at my "I'm 26 and 10 days old party!" I imbibed A LOT of tequila. This despite the fact that I had to wake up at 6:30 this morning, drag a suitcase to work, leave work with said bag, and take a bus to Pittsburgh: an 8-hour trip. Apparently, with age does NOT come wisdom. I've tried reading; I've tried sleeping; neither venture was successful. I tried downloading an album of nature sounds to help with the sleeping, but all the falling water noise made me feel like I had to pee.

2 hours down, 6 to go

Snippy Snacks

Snippy Snacks

1/4 c. coconut oil

1/4 c. honey

1/2 c. pumpkin

2 tsp. vanilla

2 1/2 c. almond flour or meal

1/2 tsp sea salt

2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp baking soda

1 c. walnuts, broken into small pieces

1 c. coconut flakes

1/2 c. raisins

In a large bow mix the oil, honey, pumpkin and vanilla. In a smaller bowl, blend all of the dry ingredients: almond flour, salt, cinnamon, baking soda, walnuts, coconut, and raisins. Stir the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients and mix completely. Drop by the teaspoonful on to a baking sheet lined with parchment. Flatten the cookies slightly and be sure to space them adequately. Bake at 350F for 9 - 11 minutes.

Credit where credit is due: adapted from this recipe from another CrossFitter

Oh, Heil No!

Yes, that man in the middle IS wearing a lederhosen.  Because nothing says "Happy Memorial Weekend" like a traditional German costume.  Granted, this photo was taken outside of a German-style beer garden, but really guy?  You have no business wearing this getup unless it's Halloween or Oktoberfest...in MUNICH.  Not in New York City, during a holiday weekend that celebrates the men and women who died in service to our country, including those in the Allied forces.

Before and After

Photos taken at the end of the Brooklyn Half Marathon in 2009 (left) and 2010 (right).  What a difference almost a year of CrossFit makes!

CrossFit: A Field Guide (Part I)

Is the person who shows up at the office every weekday, buttoned into business casual, who you really are?  What about the people you work with?  Your seemingly mild-mannered receptionist could be a spike-heeled dominatrix by night; the soft-spoken guy from IT could be a firebreathing rugby player who crushes skulls on the weekends. 

What we choose to do in our free time is highly indicative of who we are.  Perhaps that’s why, even though our friends and loved ones may not share our passions, we hope they can at least understand them.

Of course, certain pastimes are more easily relatable than others. If I tell people I run, they will largely assume I'm conscious about my health (true), and when I say I run races, they'll assume I'm fast (untrue) and/or that I like a challenge (true). When I share the fact that some of my running partners are blind—well, that tidbit needs a little more explanation.

CrossFit is another pastime of mine that requires some explanation. Most people have never heard of it, or, in one case, assume it's a workout exclusively for transgendered people.  Or, if they’ve seen some of the videos online, think I’m absolutely insane.

And so, in an effort to explain why I spend so much time and energy on this endeavor, why I come home broken and bruised, yet still come back for more—I’ve decided, for the benefit of the uninitiated, to create a CrossFit Field Guide. 

This Guide is by no means all-encompassing, or even that informative. As a CrossFitter of barely 11 months, I am certainly no expert, but believe I have sufficient knowledge to provide an introduction to the layperson.

And so, if you are a current CrossFitter who wants a way to get through to a family member who is concerned for your safety and sanity, or if you are the partner of a CFer who is wondering why your significant other has been spending so much time with a tattooed, ragtag group of shifty-looking characters, read on...

Gratuitous Pet Shot

"I Liked You Better When I Thought You Were Gay"

...and other things I think but don't say.


Upon viewing a woman repeatedly sneezing into her hand on the subway:
"Oh, no, gross! You're not going to...yep, you did. You grabbed the pole with the hand you just sneezed in. Now let me say, on behalf of all passengers who will unwittingly touch that pole after you: you're an asshole."

Upon once again receiving no response after greeting an acquaintance:
"Okay, I get it, we don't really know each other outside of the break room, but is it so hard to return a hello? Instead you avoid looking at me like I have snakes growing out of my head. I see you use a [prominent investment bank] mug; is that where you used to work? Do you think that makes you better than the rest of us? You work here now, so obviously not. Also, your hair looks like a bad toupee."

Upon witnessing a woman using a dozen--yes, I counted--paper towels to dry her hands in the ladies' room:
"So, do you have OCD? Or do you just really really hate the environment? I mean, your method of crumpling four paper towels in your hands--three of them aren't even making contact with your skin!--throwing them away, then repeating this process two more times is the most wasteful act I have ever witnessed.  I would like to go to your apartment, wash my hands, then dry them on every single hand towel you own and throw them on the floor."

Happy Mother's Day

Words That Aren't Words But Should Be

ontroduce  verb, ontroduced, ontroducing 


--verb
to introduce yourself to a new acquiantance by mounting them.

Spike ontroduced himself to the new poodle, but his owner did not approve, and immediately separated the two dogs.

WTF Photo of the Day

Simple Diarrhea...for when diarrhea gets too complicated!

Three Poems

Subway Songs

some mutter as they
hug purses to chests, some
silently read the signs, some
read out loud, some
speak to no one

Security Blanket

Bruises,
loose threads, lumps,
almost-holes threaded together by
fabric and fuzz.

Double Bed

your back my stomach
close loneliness
breath whistling softly
the sound of breathing
the sound
of sound

© 2010, Stephanie Joyce Wilson


These poems were first published by unFold

WTF Photo of the Day

So this giant brain appeared on Degraw Street a few weeks ago.  Why?  I have no idea.  At first, there was a giant machete stuck in it (see photo #1).


However, the brain is also a ride.  You can see the coin slot in photo #2.


Of course, I had to try out the ride.  The verdict: Six Flags it is not.  It's also difficult to get your whole body inside the brain, if you're adult-sized.  (Photo #3)

A Snip by Any Other Name

The title of this blog, Snippets, was chosen because of the nature of its contents (little bits of everything) and because my long-time nickname is Snip.  When hearing the nickname, people always want to know where it came from. "Why Snip?" as if there's some easy explanation.

There are really only two kinds of nicknames, the obvious ones (Al, for Alison, or Scottie, for our Scottish receptionist at work) and the ones that came about in a bizarre way, after a bender in Vegas, or have evolved over the years.  Snip is one of those kinds of nicknames, minus the Vegas part. It came about in a bizarre way, almost 12 years ago, and evolved from its original form. And now that I'm an adult, retelling a story that happened when I was (ahem) 14 years old just doesn't seem appropriate.  Recently, I've been tempted to make things up.

Why do they call you Snip?
My teacher thought I had a snippy personality.

Why do they call you Snip?
I loved Rice Krispies so much--remember Snap, Crackle, and Pop?--that my parents joked I was the fourth Krispie elf, Snip.

Why do they call you Snip?
I work part time as a moile.

Are any of these the real story? No. Am I going to tell you the real story...

Behind the Headlines

In the news: 


CINCINNATI -- Police arrested a man after he was found passed out in a drive-thru line Tuesday night in Colerain Township.

Deputies say 52-year-old Thomas Tauscher of Arcanum, Ohio, drove to the Skyline in the 10000 block of Colerain Avenue and fell asleep in the drive-thru line.

The part they didn't print in the paper:

The drunk driver was discovered asleep by the people in the vehicle behind his.  "He was slumped over the steering wheel, man," said the red-eyed driver, who declined to give his name. "I was like, move it dude, I want my chili!"

"I really wanted some cheesey chili," said the passenger, who also declined to be identified. "I was going to get me a three-way. Ha! Three-way!" The passenger then laughed for four minutes before getting back into his vehicle, which smelled vaguely of skunk and incense.


Read the true story here: Drunk Driver Passes Out in Drive-Thru
And if you've never been to Cincinnati, and have no idea what a three-way is: Skyline Chili

Don't Do What to the Alligators?

I took this photo during a recent trip to Florida.


Somewhere the alligators  have a sign that says: "Danger!  Beware of humans offering food.  They may be trying to lure you in so that they can molest you!!"

My Imaginary Comedy Routine

Sometimes I think that if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out, I should try standup comedy.  No, really.

I’ve thought about it a lot actually.  What would be my angle?  My opener?  I’ve decided I would definitely be one of those self-deprecating* comics. Most of my act would involve making fun of myself: my gangly-ness, my klutziness, my knack for getting myself into extremely awkward situations.  Like the time I thought it would be awesome to take up power lifting.  (More on that later.)  Or the time I thought it was a great idea to take in the stray cat I’d found that had cajones the size of tennis balls.  Or the time I helped a visually- and hearing-impaired man complete a marathon—while he took a smoke break every two miles.

So that would be my angle.  And I’d have to make fun of my appearance too, of course.  Every great comedian has done that: Farley, Belushi, Candy.  But since I don’t exactly have the “funny fat guy” thing going for me, I would probably riff on my tiny golf ball head or my bony knees. But I think my main shtick would be, "Attractive, but not attractive enough."  Here's how it works. I'd get on stage and say:

“I'm attractive enough that guys hit on me in bars, but not attractive enough that the losers still think they have a shot. Like, someone will buy me a drink—yeah!—but he's got a leering expression and he’s a little cross-eyed.  And he’s creepy enough that I have excuse myself to the restroom just to pour out the drink—because I'm 90% sure there's roofies in it.”

Are you rolling on the floor yet?  No?  Well, then I’d have a hilarious (true!) story to back this up:

“This one time, I was out with some girlfriends in Chicago. And I hadn't seen one of the girls in years, so I was really excited to catch up with her. But this random guy—I don't remember what he looked like, probably pretty average in every way—kept trying to talk to me. And I was blowing him off, because I was more interested in talking with my friend. So eventually he gets the hint, looks me up and down, and goes, ‘You're not that good looking.’”

Zing!  Get it?  Like, I was attractive enough for him to hit on, but ugly enough that I should have been grateful for his attention…I swear, if I told it on stage it would sound funny and not totally pathetic and sad.

Okay, the material’s a little rough, but there’s something there!  Either way, I think I’ll stick to the writing thing, at least for now.

*I’ve also thought of a comedy bit about a self-deprecating rapper.  This joke hasn’t gotten past the idea stage, but I think there’s a lot to be mined here: someone who raps about having no money, aluminum fillings, scuffed sneakers from Payless, and how he can only hook up with girls with bony asses.  Hilarious.

Call Me "TwatTurtle"

Okay, so I saw this graffiti in my neighborhood the other day.  I'm no expert on tagging, but, really?  DickChicken?  Is that supposed to be cool or intimidating?  I think the other graffiti artists told him it was a great idea, and are now laughing at him behind his back.

T.S. Eliot Was Right

April is still the cruelest month.

But my boyfriend came back,

and now the smoke detector is fixed.

It went off today as I made dinner.

WTF Photo of the Day

It says, "This plant is free but it has lice.  Take at your own risk (if you can treat it)."

Park Slopians, you are so strange sometimes.

PKE4U9MSBVHK

Anger Mismanagement

I wouldn't normally consider myself an angry person.  I'm a patient person, perhaps even a nice person.  But even nice, patient people have their breaking points.


This has been the Week That Everything Went Wrong.  And I can't discuss any of it—in most cases, because it's private, and in one case, because I am under oath.


So today, I snapped.  I was attempting to cook two pounds of bacon, and the smoke detector kept going off.  And it's really really loud.  So I was running back and forth between the kitchen and the smoke detector—which, I might add, I need a stool to reach.  And because my attention was divided, the bacon started to burn.  I'd have to run back to take it out of the pan.  Then the smoke detector would start going off; I had to run back to press the button.  Over and over and over.


Eventually, I had it.  I started cursing.  I started whaling on the smoke detector.  I ripped it out of the ceiling.  The noise stopped.


Now my cat is terrified of me, I could die in my sleep tonight in a fire, and I am totally dead when my boyfriend gets home and sees what I've done—but it was worth it.  The dish I was attempting to make for a potluck tonight is in the oven, I'm no longer waving a towel under the smoke detector, and the apartment is blissfully and completely quiet.

Proof Good Things Do Happen

After a very long and difficult week, I received this e-mail today.  I'm not sure if I can make it, but I will try:

Dedication of Central Park Reservoir Running Track To Alberto Arroyo, "The Mayor of Central Park."

Monday,  April 12 at 6:30 p.m. at the Pump House,  south end of the Reservoir Running Track 

You're all invited to come and honor Alberto Arroyo who, for over seven decades, spurred so many of us on with his calls of: "Hey, looking good!"

Central Park Conservancy President Douglas Blonsky and Commissioner of Parks Adrien Benepe will unveil a plaque officially dedicating the path to Alberto, in recognition of his dedication to the park, the city, and its people. 

If you don't know who Alberto Arroyo is, you can read about him here:
A story from the Times last year
His obituary on Gothamist
A mention on Runner's World


It's too bad he wasn't alive to see the dedication—but I guess that's how these things usually work.

Kittens!

Needed something to cheer me up.  Thanks to the other Steph for the link!




I want pie! I want beef jerky!

I MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!

I freaking love this commercial. It only comes on after 1 A.M. in the NYC area, or maybe just Brooklyn. I'm not sure.

I wanted to share because:

1) It's hilarious

2) Whenever someone thanks me for something, I will now respond by making a sweeping arm motion and saying, "We make your dreams come true!" in a stilted, accented voice. I want to make sure people get the joke.

Tough Day

Reina has had a really rough day. Some dogs have moved in next door, and they've been roaming around the yard and barking. She's spent the whole day looking out the windows and walking around with a bristly tail. (For those of you who aren't familiar with cat body language, a bristled tail is feline for, "HOLY S*&$!") Now it's time for a much-deserved nap.

Queen of Hearts

What I'm about to confess may seem shocking, even enviable, but I'm here to argue that it's actually a burden. Here goes: I've never been dumped.

Okay, this is not entirely true. I was dumped by my very first boyfriend, Pat M—, in ninth grade. That courtship lasted approximately 11 days, during which time we saw one movie (his sister drove us), talked on the phone a few times, and never even kissed. I remember being sad for a few days afterwards. His reason for dumping me? He wanted to date my friend Jessica S— instead. I can't really blame him. While she and I shared similar attributes: we were both in Advanced Math, were thin and had brown hair—Jessica was endowed with the more ample chest. And while she and I shared the same circle of friends, she had the edge when it came to popularity. She had her pick of guys, which is probably why she and Pat never went out. Good thing too, or my misery may have extended a whole week.

I Heart Hipsters

So I’m headed to Williamsburg, Brooklyn Thursday night for a concert. For those of you who live in NYC, you know what this means. For those of you who don’t, I will sum it up in one word for you: hipsters.

No, this isn’t going to be a screed against hipsters. In fact, I can’t understand why people hate them so much. They are so fun to observe, especially in their natural habitats. Also, I feel I have a lot in common with hipsters. They drink beer; I drink beer. We listen to a lot of the same music. Sometimes I think the only reason I’m not a hipster it just seems like too much work, too much keeping up of appearances. Also, I think it’s cool to like things.

But I guess the main reason I like hipsters is I love it when a certain group consistently lives up to its stereotype. (Which is probably the reason I love Jersey Shore so much.) The last time I went to a concert in W’burg, you could have pooled a random group of attendees and found that each person was wearing either a) a flannel shirt, b) skinny jeans, c) plastic frame glasses, d) a beard, or e) some combination of the above. It was funny, and also comforting. Because I knew I could hold my own if any sort of fight broke out.

Sorry, couldn’t help myself. Hipsters, you know I love you.

Gratuitous Pet Shot

I tend to be long-winded, and I heard somewhere that people get put off by huge blocks of text. So I figured I should include a funny photo of my cat being silly, just to break things up. I think her bug eyes make her look like a lemur.

Vanities, or, The Longest Essay Ever Written About Eyebrows, Part 2

A “professional” brow waxer, in the confines of Shelby Township, Michigan, was Sandy, the woman who cut my mom's hair at the local salon. She knew nothing of arch and shaping, and would just drip on the wax and rip away. Sometimes she would leave the wax on for too long, and it would get cold and hardened. As a result, when she ripped off the strips, a good portion of my skin came with it. I'd be forced to go to school with angry, red commas below my eyes, as I painfully learned that cover-up wouldn't stick to open sores.

If that weren't enough, I began to develop a horrible nervous tic. I'd pull out my eyebrows with my fingers while bored or anxious. On a long car trip back from a high school cross country meet, I was worrying away at my brows when my friend awoke from a nap and shrieked, "Stephanie! Stop!" I had created a sizable bald patch above my right eye. The first thing I did when I got home was purchase an eyebrow pencil. I colored in that patch for weeks.

In college, the trauma continued. On a trip to the local mall with my roommates, a woman at a nail salon (I should have known better) did a complete hack job on my face. I still shake with anger when I think of how she handed me the mirror afterward, as if nothing were wrong. But things had gone terribly awry. On the right, my brow looked normal. On the left, only three hairs remained above my arch. I was a lopsided monstrosity. I should have demanded my money back! Instead, I think I even gave her a tip.

Truth in Advertising

I've walked by this sign on the way to the R/W train several times, and it never fails to crack me up. It's like they're saying, "Look, we have good prices. Are they the lowest in the city? Well, we're not sure. There's a lot of stores in New York. We can't say with total certainty that we're the best, but we're pretty good. So come shop here, you're probably getting a good deal, and you'll most likely be happy with your purchase."

Vanities, or, The Longest Essay Ever Written About Eyebrows, Part 1

I think it's safe to say that most of us spend an embarrassing amount of time obsessing over vain, trivial pursuits. For guys, video games and fantasy sports immediately come to mind. For ladies, it has to be appearance. I've known several females who have been locked in lifelong battles against frizz, belly bulge, and wrinkles. If there were a physical feature I’ve spent an inordinate mount of time obsessing over (Okay, if I had to choose just one) it would be eyebrows.

The obsession began in adolescence. It wasn't bad enough that I had glasses and braces, and was generally awkward and gangly. Oh no, genetics also had to bless me with dark hair. Lots of it. And while I'm forever grateful for the thick mop atop my head, I realized around age ten or so that having hair anyplace else was socially unacceptable and gross. I was mortified when Travis Z-- grabbed my arm on the bus and declared that it was hairier than his own. I felt afraid and somewhat ashamed when my mom deemed me old enough to begin shaving my legs. And when Sara J--, who was supposed to be my friend, squinted hard at my face and declared, "You have hair above your lip," I could only sputter that it was peach fuzz. She quickly responded with, "It looks dark to me." Sara, of course, was blonde, and could not begin to comprehend the unfair, hairy-knuckled hand I'd been dealt in life.

And while all of that stuff was eventually handled with razors, smelly depilatories, and the like—my eyebrows, which hovered on my forehead like black furry caterpillars, were not so simple. The only person I knew with worse eyebrows was Miss Good—a misnomer if there ever was one—our inept sixth-grade substitute teacher. And it wasn't the mere fact they were thick, but that their dark color was in stark contrast to her bottle blonde hair. I knew at age 10 that like it or not, I'd be a brunette for life. (Though there was that one unfortunate attempt at fooling genetics and lightening my brows with Jolen crème bleach, which resulted in an interesting if not attractive tiger-stripe effect.)

When my brows began to grow into a Frida Kahlo-style uni, I knew something had to be done. I begged and pleaded with my mother for help. She, bestower of half my genes, could sympathize with my plight. She herself had beat her brows into submission via electrolysis, years before I was born. My mother’s brows—for better or worse—were now two faint semicircles above her eyes.

Afraid that I may growing up too early, my mom reluctantly handed over tweezers with instructions to pluck between the brows only. But with those tweezers in my hand, I couldn't help myself. Though she said to pull out only one hair at a time, I attacked them in clumps. I was a maniac; I looked a mess.

My mom decided we should let a professional handle my brows from then on—and while that seemed like a solution to my problem, my troubles were only beginning.