For those of you wondering about the long lags between posts this month, this one's for you: I am popping up right now to tell you that I am currently on jury duty... which means that a great many interesting things are happening to me on a daily basis, but I am forbidden from writing about them, lest I compromise the integrity of the Law. (This is per specific instructions from the judge, who is such a singularly awesome woman that I would rather die than disappoint her.)
I can say, however, that the process of jury selection is one of the most interesting things I've ever witnessed (ooh! legal pun!) and/or participated in. It went something like this:
8:30am: Arrive at courthouse amid throng of prospective jurors.
8:31am: Get in security line in between annoyed-looking huffy guy with laptop and elderly Asian couple who do not speak English and react to any attempts at conversation with blinking confusion and polite smiles.
8:33am: Engage in good-natured debate with court cops about whether or not they should x-ray my cup of coffee.
8:35am: Be seated in enormous, cold room full of bored prospective jurors.
8:36 - 9:05am: Boredom.
9:06am: An officially-dressed man appears at the front of the room.
9:07am: Officially-dressed man ignores questions from prospective jurors as to how long we will be sitting there.
9:08am: Officially-dressed man darkens the lights, activates some sort of presentation, and leaves after a prolonged sneer.
9:09am: Presentation is a juror orientation video.
9:10am: "In ancient times, an accused criminal went through trial by ordeal!" Threatening theme music gives way to a scene in which twenty people appear by a lake, dressed in what is probably supposed to be period clothing but which looks like dirty rags.
9:11am: Closeup of Ancient People's faces, which are all inexplicably covered in filth.
9:12am: The Ancient People bring forth an accused criminal, tie his hands and feet, and hurl him bodily into the lake.
9:13am: Voiceover: "Fortunately, we now know that this is not a reliable means of determining guilt!"
9:15 - 9:30am: Juror orientation video explains via interviews with many Famous Legal People that being a juror is Very Important. Video was likely made circa 1980 as most interviewees are now dead. Also, everyone is sporting suits with mammoth shoulderpads.
9:31am: Lights come on; another official person appears at the front of the room.
9:32am: First-round exemptions from jury duty. The elderly Asian couple dutifully toddles out of the room when they call for people who don't speak English.
9:33 - 10:30am: Boredom.
10:31am: Remaining prospective jurors assemble. Elderly Asian couple have inexplicably been returned to the jury pool.
10:35am: Roll call.
10:40am: Second roll call.
10:45am: Roll call again. One woman is missing, and she's in big trouble.
10:45am: Also, the roll call guy keeps mispronouncing my name.
10:46 - 11:00am: Jurors are shuffled from one room, to an elevator, to another room.
11:01am: Realize with dawning horror that I am wearing really uncomfortable underwear.
11:02 - 11:15am: Boredom and uncomfortable underwear.
11:15am: Jurors are shuffled into a courtroom and my underwear is uncomfortable.
11:15 - 11:30am: Jurors are given an introductory lecture about jury service and my underwear is uncomfortable.
11:31am: First batch of jurors are selected for questioning and my underwear is uncomfortable.
11:31am - 12:00pm: Jurors answer questions including "Are you close to anyone who works in law enforcement?" and "Have you or your family members ever been the victim of a crime?" Several people are obviously trying to ensure their non-selection by saying things like, "I don't believe in evidence" or "It's not about witness testimony, it's about knowing in your heart that he's guilty!"
12:01pm: Underwear discomfort has reached crisis levels. Also, I have become convinced that not only am I wearing some really bad underwear, but that everybody knows.
12:02pm: Break for lunch.
12:05pm: Salad.
12:30pm: Enter Macy's.
12:31pm: Buy better underwear.
12:32pm: Inform checkout girl that if she is ever called for jury duty, underwear selection is of paramount importance.
12:35pm: Put on new underwear. Feel that nothing can possibly go wrong now.
1:30pm: Prospective jurors shuffle back into courtroom and my underwear is awesome.
1:31pm: New group of potential jurors is seated; questioning begins anew.
1:32 - 2:30pm: Question-and-answer session is unbelievably dry and dull. One of the other potential jurors in the gallery takes out a book and receives an immediate smackdown courtesy of the court officer. Vow that, if questioned, I will somehow being levity to the proceedings.
2:45pm: New group of potential jurors is seated, including me.
2:46pm: Decide that I will answer the "Have you or your family members ever been the victim of a crime" question with a quip about my penis-exposing neighbor, thus achieving the aforementioned levity. (Also decide that this is perfectly appropriate, since the police were involved and indecent exposure/harassment is, in fact, against the law.)
2:50pm: The woman next to me is being questioned; it will be my turn next.
2:51pm: Woman next to me informs the judge that her brother was murdered.
2:52pm: Three weeks ago.
2:53pm: Feel like a chump of epic proportions.
2:54pm: Answer "Have you ever been the victim of a crime?" with a meek "No."
2:55 - 3:30pm: Answer remaining questions while continuing to feel like a chump.
3:31pm: Take small solace in comfortable underwear.
3:35pm: Take jury oath.
...and we've been in court ever since! And there you have it: Anatomy of a jury selection.
Meanwhile, I will be back after the conclusion of the trial (and a much-anticipated weekend away.)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Bagels and bafflement.
If (like me) you have recently gotten married, you've probably had some ultra-awesome person mention to you that recently-married people tend to gain weight after the wedding is over. This statistic should come as no surprise -- in fact it makes a good deal of sense, considering that a) many people attempt to lose weight specifically for their weddings, b) the days immediately preceding the wedding are so busy that you don't have time to eat, thereby losing additional weight, and c) therefore, by the time the ceremony is over, your body has no doubt clued into the fact that it is starving to death and must be given lobster IMMEDIATELY.
But nobody looks at the statistics surrounding post-marital weight gain with anything approaching logic. Nooooo. Instead, the non-lobster-deprived hoi polloi are all too happy to point big fucking FAIL-fingers at you, accuse you of committing the cardinal married-person sin of Letting Yourself Go, and inform you that, given the unforgivable size of your ass, you will have nobody but yourself to blame when your recently-acquired husband starts staying late at the office to pork his nubile young secretary.
Well, finger-pointing lobster-eaters, the joke's on you, because Brad doesn't even HAVE a secretary.
And also, because it's extremely difficult not to go around drowning your sorrows in lobster when the lonely high point of your daily workday is lunch hour.
(And also, if I'm being honest, because thus far the three pounds I've gained since September seem to be residing exclusively in my boobs, which is odd, but not necessarily terrible, if you know what I'm saying.)
But lobster isn't readily available to me on a daily basis, and therefore, I must find comfort elsewhere: Bagels.
I can't explain the magic of bagels, but it is magic -- the crunch of the toasted outside, the squish of the bready innards, the familiar tang of cream cheese and the smoky, salty, expensive taste of lox. Made to order, these things provide an hour of grace in an otherwise mind-numbing day.
If you can get them, that is.
I've been eating bagels for many years now, and in that time, I've learned that bagel shop workers will seize on any opportunity to, how do you say, fuck up your bagel, which is not only irritating but also potentially life-ruining when the bagel is not just a bagel, but the only thing standing between you and irrevocable disgruntlement. And so, I've been forced to adopt the following bagel-ordering technique, which generally makes the bagel shop workers look at me like I might be insane, but which is proven effective at reducing instances of bagel fuck-uppery:
1) Order very loudly. This assures that not only will the bagel people hear my request, but also the surrounding customers, leaving me with witnesses in the event that I end up in an argument over whether or not I wanted the bagel toasted.
2) Syntax and enunciation. If I order a "wheat bagel with tomato, cream cheese, and lox", the comma placement fails to translate and I inevitably receive a wheat bagel with tomato cream cheese and lox, which is UNACCEPTABLE.
3) Watch 'em like a hawk. I am not above shrieking, "Stop! TOAST!" at the hapless bastard who tries to slather cream cheese on an un-crisped bagel.
Is this a tad over the top? Maybe... but considering the importance of the bagel in question, probably not. But that doesn't stop the bagel-shop workers from evil-eyeing me whenever I step up to the counter. One of them in particular, a fast-moving woman with toffee-colored skin and a tight black ponytail, always looks at me with narrowed eyes and seems to take offense at my loud and over-enunciated ordering style. We watch each other suspiciously over the countertop -- me, terrified that she'll fuck up my bagel; her, probably wanting sincerely to throw a vat of cream cheese at my head. (Not that I blame her.) But so far, neither of us has been able to penetrate the other's defenses. I cannot ruffle her; she cannot rattle me.
And then came yesterday. I ordered; I watched; I felt my pulse quicken as my made-to-order bagel was slipped into its paper wrapping and placed in a bag. The woman with the black ponytail looked up, and our eyes met, and in hers I saw the knowledge that, again, I had triumphed.
And then suddenly, she grabbed a knife and fork... and put them into the bag.
A knife and fork? For a bagel?! THE MIND REELS. Everything I have ever believed about bagel-eating has been a lie.
God, I need a lobster.
But nobody looks at the statistics surrounding post-marital weight gain with anything approaching logic. Nooooo. Instead, the non-lobster-deprived hoi polloi are all too happy to point big fucking FAIL-fingers at you, accuse you of committing the cardinal married-person sin of Letting Yourself Go, and inform you that, given the unforgivable size of your ass, you will have nobody but yourself to blame when your recently-acquired husband starts staying late at the office to pork his nubile young secretary.
Well, finger-pointing lobster-eaters, the joke's on you, because Brad doesn't even HAVE a secretary.
And also, because it's extremely difficult not to go around drowning your sorrows in lobster when the lonely high point of your daily workday is lunch hour.
(And also, if I'm being honest, because thus far the three pounds I've gained since September seem to be residing exclusively in my boobs, which is odd, but not necessarily terrible, if you know what I'm saying.)
But lobster isn't readily available to me on a daily basis, and therefore, I must find comfort elsewhere: Bagels.
I can't explain the magic of bagels, but it is magic -- the crunch of the toasted outside, the squish of the bready innards, the familiar tang of cream cheese and the smoky, salty, expensive taste of lox. Made to order, these things provide an hour of grace in an otherwise mind-numbing day.
If you can get them, that is.
I've been eating bagels for many years now, and in that time, I've learned that bagel shop workers will seize on any opportunity to, how do you say, fuck up your bagel, which is not only irritating but also potentially life-ruining when the bagel is not just a bagel, but the only thing standing between you and irrevocable disgruntlement. And so, I've been forced to adopt the following bagel-ordering technique, which generally makes the bagel shop workers look at me like I might be insane, but which is proven effective at reducing instances of bagel fuck-uppery:
1) Order very loudly. This assures that not only will the bagel people hear my request, but also the surrounding customers, leaving me with witnesses in the event that I end up in an argument over whether or not I wanted the bagel toasted.
2) Syntax and enunciation. If I order a "wheat bagel with tomato, cream cheese, and lox", the comma placement fails to translate and I inevitably receive a wheat bagel with tomato cream cheese and lox, which is UNACCEPTABLE.
3) Watch 'em like a hawk. I am not above shrieking, "Stop! TOAST!" at the hapless bastard who tries to slather cream cheese on an un-crisped bagel.
Is this a tad over the top? Maybe... but considering the importance of the bagel in question, probably not. But that doesn't stop the bagel-shop workers from evil-eyeing me whenever I step up to the counter. One of them in particular, a fast-moving woman with toffee-colored skin and a tight black ponytail, always looks at me with narrowed eyes and seems to take offense at my loud and over-enunciated ordering style. We watch each other suspiciously over the countertop -- me, terrified that she'll fuck up my bagel; her, probably wanting sincerely to throw a vat of cream cheese at my head. (Not that I blame her.) But so far, neither of us has been able to penetrate the other's defenses. I cannot ruffle her; she cannot rattle me.
And then came yesterday. I ordered; I watched; I felt my pulse quicken as my made-to-order bagel was slipped into its paper wrapping and placed in a bag. The woman with the black ponytail looked up, and our eyes met, and in hers I saw the knowledge that, again, I had triumphed.
And then suddenly, she grabbed a knife and fork... and put them into the bag.
A knife and fork? For a bagel?! THE MIND REELS. Everything I have ever believed about bagel-eating has been a lie.
God, I need a lobster.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Seeing other cities
This weekend, after a long break, Brad and I once again made an excursion to a city on the list of Places We Might Want To Live When We Leave New York. (Longtime readers may remember the first of said excursions, which resulted in a fly-by-night visit to Richmond and the balls-out disqualification of North Carolina in its entirety after a be-pigged pickup truck roared past us on the highway.)
Our city of choice for this weekend was one to which neither of us had ever been: Pittsburgh!
Things initially got off to a rocky start, with a drive from New York that was punctuated by traffic, rain, and no small amount of bickering. I’m pretty sure that I took the following picture immediately after making the maudlin suggestion that this was clearly a terrible idea and we should just turn the car around, go home, and get divorced.
Fortunately, the angst turned out to be easily cured on arrival in the Iron City -- by a shower, a beer, and a view of this building that looks like a glass castle.
And things only got better from there! Dinner at a tapas place on Carson Street was followed by the revelation that smoking is permitted in certain Pittsburgh bars, allowing for the enjoyment of a rare evening in which Brad was not forced to desert me every half-hour or so to stand like a smoldering pariah on the sidewalk, and also allowing for a terrific moment of marital bonding wherein, cigarettes in hand, we guiltily/gleefully admitted to each other that we really liked that Avril Lavigne song currently playing on the jukebox.
On Saturday, there was a stroll through the Mexican War Streets, a visit to the Warhol Museum, and a terrific burger. We also made the acquaintance of these fine fellows near the Roberto Clemente Bridge.
It was late in the day when we arrived at PNC Park for the Pirates-Giants game – where, after a short cloudburst, we stepped out to our (really excellent, really cheap) seats in the left-field grandstand and were met with…. this.
Conversation immediately following:
Kat: Is it me, or does it seem like Pittsburgh is trying to seduce us?
Brad: Yes, and it's working.
(pause)
Brad: But we have been drinking, so maybe we should be careful.
And so we didn't proclaim an immediate plan to move to the 'burgh, although really, it didn’t seem that the day could get much better – what with all the art and architecture and burgers and rainbows.
Until midway through the game, when Brad suddenly grabbed my arm.
“HONEY!” he shouted with the sort of urgency that usually means I am about to walk into moving traffic. “For the love of God, pay attention!"
What was the source of all this excitement, you ask?
"Hot dogs!" Brad shouted, his eyes open so far that I could see the whites all the way around. "Hot dogs are being shot at us from an air cannon!!!”
Yes, that’s right: in Pittsburgh, you can hear the words “hot dogs” and “air cannon” used in the same sentence.
We didn’t ultimately catch any of the hot dogs… which is probably a good thing given that, if we had, Brad would have almost certainly insisted that we move immediately to this magical land of rainbows and flying meats. And so we are back in New York with no plans for permanent departure.
But damn, Pittsburgh. Well played.
Our city of choice for this weekend was one to which neither of us had ever been: Pittsburgh!
Things initially got off to a rocky start, with a drive from New York that was punctuated by traffic, rain, and no small amount of bickering. I’m pretty sure that I took the following picture immediately after making the maudlin suggestion that this was clearly a terrible idea and we should just turn the car around, go home, and get divorced.
Il pleure dans mon coeur comme il pleut sur la Route 76.
Fortunately, the angst turned out to be easily cured on arrival in the Iron City -- by a shower, a beer, and a view of this building that looks like a glass castle.
And things only got better from there! Dinner at a tapas place on Carson Street was followed by the revelation that smoking is permitted in certain Pittsburgh bars, allowing for the enjoyment of a rare evening in which Brad was not forced to desert me every half-hour or so to stand like a smoldering pariah on the sidewalk, and also allowing for a terrific moment of marital bonding wherein, cigarettes in hand, we guiltily/gleefully admitted to each other that we really liked that Avril Lavigne song currently playing on the jukebox.
On Saturday, there was a stroll through the Mexican War Streets, a visit to the Warhol Museum, and a terrific burger. We also made the acquaintance of these fine fellows near the Roberto Clemente Bridge.
It was late in the day when we arrived at PNC Park for the Pirates-Giants game – where, after a short cloudburst, we stepped out to our (really excellent, really cheap) seats in the left-field grandstand and were met with…. this.
Conversation immediately following:
Brad: Yes, and it's working.
(pause)
Brad: But we have been drinking, so maybe we should be careful.
And so we didn't proclaim an immediate plan to move to the 'burgh, although really, it didn’t seem that the day could get much better – what with all the art and architecture and burgers and rainbows.
Until midway through the game, when Brad suddenly grabbed my arm.
“HONEY!” he shouted with the sort of urgency that usually means I am about to walk into moving traffic. “For the love of God, pay attention!"
What was the source of all this excitement, you ask?
"Hot dogs!" Brad shouted, his eyes open so far that I could see the whites all the way around. "Hot dogs are being shot at us from an air cannon!!!”
Yes, that’s right: in Pittsburgh, you can hear the words “hot dogs” and “air cannon” used in the same sentence.
We didn’t ultimately catch any of the hot dogs… which is probably a good thing given that, if we had, Brad would have almost certainly insisted that we move immediately to this magical land of rainbows and flying meats. And so we are back in New York with no plans for permanent departure.
But damn, Pittsburgh. Well played.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The curious birth of the corporeal Hate Beast
Without giving away any lurid or incriminating details, I am sorry to report that things are getting rather dire here at [heretofore moderately unpleasant job that is not in Manhattan]. I am under-utilized, I am bored, and I am beginning to chafe at the realization that Fuckface Ravioli not only has a stupid fucky face, but also, as far as I can tell, is operating with roughly the native intelligence of an ear of corn.
Things came to a head last week, when we met to discuss the upcoming advertisements for one of our products. Per standard practice, I had come up with three rough concepts – one that emphasized features, one that emphasized connectivity, and one that emphasized portability.
In what I considered a reasonably clever execution, the “portability” ad was set up as follows:
There was a picture of the product.
There was a picture of a dog, looking at the product.
There was text that read:
“Follows you everywhere. Fits on your lap. Won’t drool on your shoes.”
… and beneath it, some more text:
“Whether you’re on the road or on your couch, the [product] is your new best friend.”
And yes, I do realize that this is an odd way of conveying the idea at work when I could have just posted a sample of that mock-up here, but I decided against doing that. Why? Because...
a) doing so could endanger my job security, and
b) I refuse to believe that anybody actually needs the visual aid.
You’ve read the above description, and you’ve had a couple seconds to think about it. I’ll even give you a couple more, just because I’m feeling generous. Go on, I’ll wait.
Ready?
Great – because at this point I’m just going to go ahead and assume that it is extremely fucking obvious, despite the lack of a picture, that the ad in question was cheekily comparing PDAs to lapdogs. And also, that you deduced said cheeky comparison in the time it took to read the above paragraphs, whereas Fuckface Ravioli had had the concept in his possession for more than a week, which makes what happened next even sadder.
“So, Kat,” said Fuckface, his voice floating out between the clenched rows of his artificially-whitened perma-grin. “About these concepts.”
“Well,” I replied, “I’ve gotten some feedback from a few different corners, and people seem to like the connectivity angle. But of course, it’s ultimately up to us, so I’m interested to hear what you think.”
“Oh,” said Fuckface, “Well, I like that one too.”
There was a pause.
“Okay,” I said.
Fuckface nodded, still grinning, then said, “But the one with the dog…”
Another pause.
“…I didn’t get it.”
I smiled politely.
“Beg pardon?” I said.
Fuckface laughed in an oh-aren’t-I-adorable sort of way.
“Yeah, I mean, I’m not the most creative person, but I just didn’t get it,”he said in a slightly-self-deprecatory-but-mostly-just-matter-of-fact tone that struck me as highly inappropriate given that he was admitting outright to being as dumb as a box of hair.
I would have been only fractionally more horrified if he had been like, Oh, yeah, toilets… I never did learn how to use them.
“Well,” I said, still smiling despite the sudden sensation that my internalized rage was forming itself into a corporeal Hate Beast that would shortly burst out of my stomach, Alien-style, and poke Fuckface Ravioli’s eyeballs out with a pen. “The idea is, the [product] is portable, friendly, and makes good company. You know, like a dog…”
Fuckface Ravioli was looking at me with the vacant-yet-expectant expression that you usually see on Miss America pageant finalists.
“…except, without the potential downsides of having a dog, like, say, drool.”
There was another pause, in which I continued to smile politely and Fuckface continued to pageant-stare and my stomach continued to serve as an incubator for a Fetus Made of Rage.
And then, suddenly, a light seemed to dawn in Fuckface Ravioli’s dead, dewy eyes.
He smiled.
I smiled.
He chuckled.
I chuckled.
“Yeah,” he said. “I still don’t get it.”
And then... well.
The end.
Things came to a head last week, when we met to discuss the upcoming advertisements for one of our products. Per standard practice, I had come up with three rough concepts – one that emphasized features, one that emphasized connectivity, and one that emphasized portability.
In what I considered a reasonably clever execution, the “portability” ad was set up as follows:
There was a picture of the product.
There was a picture of a dog, looking at the product.
There was text that read:
“Follows you everywhere. Fits on your lap. Won’t drool on your shoes.”
… and beneath it, some more text:
“Whether you’re on the road or on your couch, the [product] is your new best friend.”
And yes, I do realize that this is an odd way of conveying the idea at work when I could have just posted a sample of that mock-up here, but I decided against doing that. Why? Because...
a) doing so could endanger my job security, and
b) I refuse to believe that anybody actually needs the visual aid.
You’ve read the above description, and you’ve had a couple seconds to think about it. I’ll even give you a couple more, just because I’m feeling generous. Go on, I’ll wait.
Ready?
Great – because at this point I’m just going to go ahead and assume that it is extremely fucking obvious, despite the lack of a picture, that the ad in question was cheekily comparing PDAs to lapdogs. And also, that you deduced said cheeky comparison in the time it took to read the above paragraphs, whereas Fuckface Ravioli had had the concept in his possession for more than a week, which makes what happened next even sadder.
“So, Kat,” said Fuckface, his voice floating out between the clenched rows of his artificially-whitened perma-grin. “About these concepts.”
“Well,” I replied, “I’ve gotten some feedback from a few different corners, and people seem to like the connectivity angle. But of course, it’s ultimately up to us, so I’m interested to hear what you think.”
“Oh,” said Fuckface, “Well, I like that one too.”
There was a pause.
“Okay,” I said.
Fuckface nodded, still grinning, then said, “But the one with the dog…”
Another pause.
“…I didn’t get it.”
I smiled politely.
“Beg pardon?” I said.
Fuckface laughed in an oh-aren’t-I-adorable sort of way.
“Yeah, I mean, I’m not the most creative person, but I just didn’t get it,”he said in a slightly-self-deprecatory-but-mostly-just-matter-of-fact tone that struck me as highly inappropriate given that he was admitting outright to being as dumb as a box of hair.
I would have been only fractionally more horrified if he had been like, Oh, yeah, toilets… I never did learn how to use them.
“Well,” I said, still smiling despite the sudden sensation that my internalized rage was forming itself into a corporeal Hate Beast that would shortly burst out of my stomach, Alien-style, and poke Fuckface Ravioli’s eyeballs out with a pen. “The idea is, the [product] is portable, friendly, and makes good company. You know, like a dog…”
Fuckface Ravioli was looking at me with the vacant-yet-expectant expression that you usually see on Miss America pageant finalists.
“…except, without the potential downsides of having a dog, like, say, drool.”
There was another pause, in which I continued to smile politely and Fuckface continued to pageant-stare and my stomach continued to serve as an incubator for a Fetus Made of Rage.
And then, suddenly, a light seemed to dawn in Fuckface Ravioli’s dead, dewy eyes.
He smiled.
I smiled.
He chuckled.
I chuckled.
“Yeah,” he said. “I still don’t get it.”
And then... well.
The end.Friday, July 10, 2009
Father Scowlypants and the Long Hot Summer
Ah, summertime.
Although I’m working more than ever, and spending most of my time these days outside the borders of New York, there’s one thing about summer in the city that hasn’t deserted me: my Friday mornings still feel like they come with a free pass. The sun rises, the city stirs, the impending weekend is finally in view, and nothing I do at work in the ensuing hours will really matter. I can pull on a pair of jeans and bide my time til 5pm.
This morning was like that; I put cheerful, chirpy music on my iPod and stepped out my front door. It was cool and sunny, happy people were riding bicycles down the street, shopkeepers were sweeping their stoops, and for a moment, I felt very much a part of some movie musical’s opening street scene – the kind where a lone oboe plays a few sleepy notes, and a baker waves from his doorway, and then everybody suddenly bursts into song. The scene was set, and a complete cast of characters seemed to be assembling. There was the guy picking up trash in the park; the young couple wheeling their cherubic baby in a Bugaboo; the grizzled proprietor of our local coffee shop; a beery-smelling homeless chap asleep on a bench.
I was beaming with joy at the sheer perfection of it all when suddenly, only a few yards ahead, I spotted the final player on my Stage of Fancy. He was coming toward me, walking at a brisk pace, the unmistakable geometric outline of his white collar clearly visible.
My heart positively exploded with neighborhood pride.
A priest! On my street! It was so lovely, so vibrant, so diverse, so emphatically Brooklyn. As he neared, I was suddenly and irreversibly buoyed by a rising tide of bonhomie. I looked eagerly into the face of the clergyman, smiling at him as I wanted to smile at the whole world.
The priest, seeming to feel my gaze, looked up.
Our eyes met.
And the motherfucker scowled at me.
After careful consideration, I've decided that we're dealing with one of two possible scenarios:
Possibility 1: Rogue priest.
Possibility 2: Incontrovertible proof that God does, in fact, hate me.
... and I'm pretty sure there's no such thing as a rogue priest.
But at least it's Friday.
Although I’m working more than ever, and spending most of my time these days outside the borders of New York, there’s one thing about summer in the city that hasn’t deserted me: my Friday mornings still feel like they come with a free pass. The sun rises, the city stirs, the impending weekend is finally in view, and nothing I do at work in the ensuing hours will really matter. I can pull on a pair of jeans and bide my time til 5pm.
This morning was like that; I put cheerful, chirpy music on my iPod and stepped out my front door. It was cool and sunny, happy people were riding bicycles down the street, shopkeepers were sweeping their stoops, and for a moment, I felt very much a part of some movie musical’s opening street scene – the kind where a lone oboe plays a few sleepy notes, and a baker waves from his doorway, and then everybody suddenly bursts into song. The scene was set, and a complete cast of characters seemed to be assembling. There was the guy picking up trash in the park; the young couple wheeling their cherubic baby in a Bugaboo; the grizzled proprietor of our local coffee shop; a beery-smelling homeless chap asleep on a bench.
I was beaming with joy at the sheer perfection of it all when suddenly, only a few yards ahead, I spotted the final player on my Stage of Fancy. He was coming toward me, walking at a brisk pace, the unmistakable geometric outline of his white collar clearly visible.
My heart positively exploded with neighborhood pride.
A priest! On my street! It was so lovely, so vibrant, so diverse, so emphatically Brooklyn. As he neared, I was suddenly and irreversibly buoyed by a rising tide of bonhomie. I looked eagerly into the face of the clergyman, smiling at him as I wanted to smile at the whole world.
The priest, seeming to feel my gaze, looked up.
Our eyes met.
And the motherfucker scowled at me.
After careful consideration, I've decided that we're dealing with one of two possible scenarios:
Possibility 1: Rogue priest.
Possibility 2: Incontrovertible proof that God does, in fact, hate me.
... and I'm pretty sure there's no such thing as a rogue priest.
But at least it's Friday.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
The one where I seriously considered posting a picture of my robot -ified buttocks.
One of the less-fortunate side effects of renting, rather than owning, the place where I live is that my internal Weekend Warrior is eternally getting shafted. I have no gutters to clean, no screens to mend, no yard to landscape or garden to plant. And while this might sound nice to any homeowning readers, as far as I’m concerned, the situation is getting rather dire. With no other outlet, my thwarted DIY madness has started expressing itself during visits to my parents, when I find myself screeching with delight at the prospect of mowing their lawn (!) or raking mulch (!!) or pulling some weeds (OMG YES!!!!). Last year, when we were trying to get the yard ready for my wedding, I nearly peed my pants with joy when my father asked for my help shoveling a pile of dirt.
On the one hand, I realized that this is slightly sick.
On the other, I am like three seconds away from carrying a trowel stuffed into my pants at all times in the hope that someone, at some point, will ask me to dig a hole.
Anyway, that scene-setting is just my circuitous way of explaining that I had a day off last week, and instead of lying around all day with a beer in one hand, a jar of peanut butter in the other, and a bag of Cheetos stapled to my face, I opted to paint the roof of my apartment building.
So, armed with a six-pack of beer and feeling rather like we were about to reenact the “tarring the roof” scene from The Shawshank Redemption, Brad and I clambered up to the rooftop where the industrial-sized bucket of aluminum paint was waiting for us. And paint, we did! And we executed the job quite nicely, despite the brief interlude in which Brad got a little too into the role of “Evil Screw Who Threatens to Throw Tim Robbins Off the Roof”, and the fact that my roller extension broke halfway through, and the eensy-weensy mishap in which, uh, somebody accidentally threw the top of the paint bucket off the roof and into a nearby construction zone.
Not that we would know anything about that.
And now? Well, the roof looks fabulous, and our apartment is at least 10 degrees cooler, and the effort was totally worth it.
Or at least that is what I keep telling myself, because it helps distract me from the fact that: a) I somehow managed to cover my entire ass in reflective paint, b) I have no idea how I managed it but am nevertheless deeply concerned that something is seriously wrong with me, and c) it still won’t come off.
As noted above, I briefly toyed with the idea of displaying my be-painted aluminized ass for all to see, but common sense won out, so instead I'll just show you this:
On the one hand, I realized that this is slightly sick.
On the other, I am like three seconds away from carrying a trowel stuffed into my pants at all times in the hope that someone, at some point, will ask me to dig a hole.
Anyway, that scene-setting is just my circuitous way of explaining that I had a day off last week, and instead of lying around all day with a beer in one hand, a jar of peanut butter in the other, and a bag of Cheetos stapled to my face, I opted to paint the roof of my apartment building.
A note: Said roof-painting was actually really, reeeeeally necessary. Because my landlord is the world’s most lackadaisical assbag, and our building was (as far as I can tell) the only one for miles that lacked a rooftop coating of reflective paint, temperatures in our top-floor apartment were starting to reach upwards of 90 degrees on a daily basis. And while this is technically not our responsibility, doing it ourselves was highly preferable to the alternative – namely, several months’ worth of our assy landlord hemming and hawing and hedging, and then finally hiring some random friend of a friend who agrees to paint the roof for half the cost of anyone else, which seems like a really great deal, until it becomes apparent that the reason for his affordability is directly related to his propensity for drinking the paint rather than applying it to the intended surface.
So, armed with a six-pack of beer and feeling rather like we were about to reenact the “tarring the roof” scene from The Shawshank Redemption, Brad and I clambered up to the rooftop where the industrial-sized bucket of aluminum paint was waiting for us. And paint, we did! And we executed the job quite nicely, despite the brief interlude in which Brad got a little too into the role of “Evil Screw Who Threatens to Throw Tim Robbins Off the Roof”, and the fact that my roller extension broke halfway through, and the eensy-weensy mishap in which, uh, somebody accidentally threw the top of the paint bucket off the roof and into a nearby construction zone.
Not that we would know anything about that.
And now? Well, the roof looks fabulous, and our apartment is at least 10 degrees cooler, and the effort was totally worth it.
Or at least that is what I keep telling myself, because it helps distract me from the fact that: a) I somehow managed to cover my entire ass in reflective paint, b) I have no idea how I managed it but am nevertheless deeply concerned that something is seriously wrong with me, and c) it still won’t come off.
As noted above, I briefly toyed with the idea of displaying my be-painted aluminized ass for all to see, but common sense won out, so instead I'll just show you this:
Me, immediately post-painting and looking like I’ve just concluded a fight to the death with the T-1000. The battle was clearly won through the ingenious use of a hand grenade.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
