Haughty Man-Woman

Alright. So the title of this blog is a bit more obscure.

But just hear me out.

Hopping on the 4 this morning to go into work, I was blissful to find that there were plenty of available seats for my bottom to partake. Feeling a bit lazy to sit up solo, I opt for the end seat against the hand rail.

There was a dashing young man that found his nesting place next to me-- I was pleased. I glanced over from the rim of my Gucci shades and caught his eye. This, friends, was going to be a good trip after all.

Moments before the conductor closed the train doors, a haughty man-woman with a set of hips to birth a horse, eyed the slight space between myself and my present eye-candy. It (haha) comes over and grumbles something under its breath to incline its conquer of the space between us. Aggrivated that Mr. Eye-Candy did not slide toward me, but away from me, this opened up a breeze between us. Seeing the open space, the haughty man-woman swung its massive derrire in front of my face, almost knocking off my shades, and plopped down.

Clearly, this created a rift in the delicate dynamic that the others on the subway seat did not agree upon-- I shifted to my right while everyone down shifted abruptly to their left. The haughty man-woman began to dig in its bag, clearly searching for a trinket of some sort that had fallen in the abyss of its carry-on.

After two express stops of scrounging through its satchel, it revealed a small bottle of scent-- somewhat equivalent to burnt hair and split-pea baby food. It spritzed on, heavily, this concoction of purchased goods and happily grunted to itself that the accomplishment availed.

I felt sick to my stomach.

Eyeing my surroundings, I searched for a scape: but only to look up to see the massive sprawl of armpits and reaching hands standing over me holding on for balance and composure. There was no where to go. Nowhere to hide.

To add to my dismay, the haughty man-woman's stop was the same as mine: 42nd street @ Grand Central Station. After bursting through the partially opened doors, I shivered in recollecting the indirect fights for arm space, constant tucking of legs to make sure contact would not prevail and breathing in mouth and out my nose to make sure I didn't get another intake of her hideous smelling liquid. My tongue parched from the cold air on the train and constant breathing, I finally close my mouth and swallow, to consume an airrated guzzle of the haughty man-woman's scent.

How rude.

The Big (Baked) Apple

Today, New York is seeing some of its warmer temperature ranges. Its already bad enough the people here scream melt down in the upper 80s. But today, ladies and gents, the Big Apple is being fried in a skillet that's reaching boiling point: 101 degrees.

My story to add to the crying souls burning in earthly hell outside is brief. This morning wasn't that bad-- waking up around 8AM to the feeling of heat around my head was expected. I jumped up, showered, dressed and groomed with only breaking a sweat three times. A record for most mornings. I purposefully swore to myself that I would not leave the office today for any leisurely strolls, visits or just-because's. I grabbed a smoothie from Grand Central to keep the brain-freezes a' comin' on my trip into work. I had lunch delivered. But see, everyday around 3 o'clock, I hit a lull and oftentimes step outside just to get some "fresh air."

On my way to the elevator, I asked innocent passer-byers if they had taken a trip outside at all today. My partner warily looked at me, eyes still glazed over and slurred his story about lunch at the park. "Even in the shade its effin' hot." I skip past the receptionist desk and ask her if she's been outside. "Oh Lord yes, its terrible! Save yourself! Don't go!!"

See, what they didn't realize was that I had been storing up a reserve of a protective layer of cold all day. You know, when you're sitting in air conditioning for so long, with any sort of bare skin exposed, to the point where your nail-beds turn blue. Then, and only then, are you ready to step outside onto planet Mars unscathed by any scorching heat. But what varies is how long your suit will last.

I had to run to the Duane Reade that's a block from my job. Cool reserves on 100%, I hop onto the elevator, stride across the lobby and step outside. It wasn't so bad. Actually it felt kind of good: I'm surprised it didn't start a small thunderstorm around my body with cold and warm-air fronts colliding. I got to the corner, still chilled to the core, and quickly realized that my meter had already dropped to 85%. I had to hurry.

I cross the street and wait for the perpendicular crosswalk sign to light up. 80%. As I crossed the street, a bus pulled up to the stoplight. Stepping foot onto curb, I had to stop for a moment in the intersection of people on the corner, carts, baby carriages, tourists all wanting to go somewhere-- at the same time. Just as I was standing there, the heat from under the bus hit me with a mighty blast to my left side, dropping my shields immediately to 65%. A huge blow, but I can see the storefront in the distance. I quickly dodge and weave my way through the crowd to stop short, again, right over a ground vent. Just as I was standing there, a gust of hot air shot up, through my shoes, saturating my jeans. 35%. I was in trouble. Panicked, I jumped off the grate and immediately had to make a decision. I stood there for a moment-- looking at the entrance to the office building and looking at the store front. A steaming hotdog cart wheeled by. 30%. I was running out of time. I had to make it somewhere and FAST. Another bus pulled up and I quickly evaded myself away from its undercarriage heat stream. I bolted back to the corner, shot across the street and trapezed across the perpendicular crosswalk again, against the light. 12%. With a sheer look of terror on my face, I sped up just a little in my walking, keeping my arms down to my sides to reserve energy. Traffic whirrs by, kicking up even more heated air. 8%. There was a group of people standing outside the office building, smoking and congregating. I had to stop and squeeze my way through them, coming in contact with their radiating body temperatures of 98.6+ degrees. 3%. Just as soon as I was about to be fully exposed to the dangerous swelter, I forced myself through the revolving doors back into the breezeway of the Y&R lobby. I made it back.

Mission failed, but normal body temperature: accomplished.

Bagel Plates

Did you know, that at most posh bagel-selling places, that they have specific things called "bagel plates"? See, unlike Panera, Starbucks or Caribou you have to suffer the inevitable with paper on tissue-paper contact. They pull an unsanitary piece of translucent tissue paper out of a box, grapple for the bagel of your choice, grab a flat baggie by the corner and stuff bagel and paper, fold twice, crease and hand over.

Ooh no. No such thing for bagel plates.

See, at work we have Bagel Monday's, where the company splurges for everyone to have some mild form of a reason to drag their hung-over asses out of bed and come to work. On each floor in the kitchenette is a cornicopia of different types and styles (yes, styles) of bagely goodness, with four different types of concotions to smear on. They are all assorted and neatly stacked, at first, before the anorexic pigeons circle around and start taking half a bagel here, a piece of bagel there, oh-just-a-bite-and-I'll-put-it-back everywhere. So, in waking up a few minutes early to get to work "on time" I always seem to arrive right when there's just a half of an asiago bagel left. And EVERY time, I swallow my pride, look left and right, down at my shoes, and snatch it from the picked-over pile of crusty bread. And always, trustingly always immediately to my right, is a neat little stack of bagel plates. Ready for my immediate bagel-holding disposal.

See, a bagel plate looks like a glorified coffee filter, with shorter sides. Its got the strength of a stryofoam plate, with the looks of something that you'd find at IKEA. Its also great because if you play your cards right, you can also get some knife propping action in there as well. But be cautioned: for ADVANCED users only.


In my recent years of bagel-eating, I have succomed to the fact that I am utterly in love with veggie cream cheese. I think that it is the best concoction made of a smearable texture. Its tasty goodness isn't as comparable to something say, oh, CHOCOLATE, but it is definately a go-getter in its race for my attention. So, half an asiago bagel and veggie cream cheese in tow, I wait until I get back at my desk when my back is to the world. I sit, swivel around and jiggle my mouse to wake my computer up... check to see if the Entourage "E" has a little envelope over it and look over at my newly created morsel. Intricately, to avoid a cream cheese to fingernail disaster, I pick up my new-found crush and savor every tasty carrot fleck, celery bit, scallon essence and cucumber cube with the soothing, succulent goodness of a soft, pre-cut asiago bagel.

What can I say? I love Mondays.

The Shopping Cart Heist

That's right. I did it. I admit it. And I'd do it again if I had to!

Okay. I'm in Target last night, buying essential items. Y'know, pillows, a blankie, sheets... and probaby a few more things I didn't need. Anyway, when I walked into Target, I knew something was awry when I saw that there were no carts in the corrale. None. Not even that one cart with the broke down wheel that always steers to the left and bumps into people and scrapes ankles. Panicked, I began to wander around, trying to find a stray cart. Somewhere. Anywhere. There were sooo many people in that store I thought all hope was lost.

And then there it was.

A lady, probably in her mid-forties, had just saw the clearance section and I eyed her as she quickly gauged her cart girth vs. the amount of space she had to work with. I saw her she made the hasty decision to leave her cart in the isle as she roamed around the printed napkins and baby bibs. I padded over to the cart, peaked around the corner and my lucky stars smiled upon me as I noticed that her back was to me. Looking around as if I was looking for someone, I slowly crept up to the cart, dropped my items in and trapeezed five isles down and ducked into the home goods section. How I played it off was, I caught my breath for a second, smoothed back the whisps of hair that were out of place from my mad dash and came back out on the center isle, as if interested in this hideous bed-in-a-bag set. As I held up the very heavy and bulky bag, I glanced to my left to see her stride out of the isle and look every which-a-way, wondering where her cart went. She threw a dramatic sigh, put her hands on her hips and glared down the isle where I was standing. Drawing my attention back to the bulky item I was holding, she turned and stormed back to the front of the store.

Moral of this story is: If you're going to do wrong-- at least look like you're doing something right.

Bacon and Eggs

The title of this blog doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the subject matter-- only that its what I'm chomping on at the moment to get enough energy to get my work done.

So.

Let us begin.

Last night, my new roomie and I were to meet up at a Soca Party in lower Manhattan. If you don't know what Soca music is, its almost like a mix between regae and club music. Anyway, she advised me which subway stop to disembark-- however, was not awares as to which way from the subway stop to walk from. So, I took myself, and my ill sense of direction, the wrong way.

After walking almost seven blocks, I came to a well-lit facade and a lot of construction. Squinting upwards to see what was hanging from the curved overhang of this facade, I saw the words "WORLD TRADE CENTER PATH STATION." When I saw that, I looked down to see the numerous signs and billings posted by the City and State of New York, with pictures of the building, and destruction, of such a mammoth structure.

My stride slowed to a saunter, and I stood agape side stepping looking at each sign, trying to get a peak of what it looks like now. My eyes scanned The List: "THE HEROS OF SEPTEMBER 11, 2001," which contained every person that died that fateful day. Friends, it was a sight to behold.

Consecration postings urged people not to desecrate this "special place," they call it. My feet still carried me to the viewing point past Liberty Ave. As I walked down the slight grade, I glanced over to see hundreds of folding chairs still set up-- a microphone and speaker stand still propped, and a brand new memorial emblazoned on the side of the WTC firehouse. My heart sank as I saw the bundles of flowers that were placed in front of the memorial, all blocked off to preserve the spirit of those who were lost.

I turned to the observation deck and slowly walked toward. My memory raced as I thought back to where I was on Sept 11, 2001: In college, in my dorm room, asleep. I was an RA: I remember my television automatically turning on as my alarm clock, but not really paying much attention to the news report. Then, from my very own hallway, I hear cries of panic and screaming: my residents beating on my door for a kind word or just a listening ear. I jolted out of bed and what projected on my television screen was when then second plane hit the building. I opened my door to see one of my residents sitting against my door weeping. She sobbed, "My brother works in the second tower. He's not answering his phone... I... I...." I knelt down and held her and tried to assure her that he probably made it out safely. I walked her down to her room and just as she began to sober up, one of my male residents yelps, "Holy shit!!! That tower's comin down...!"

There I am, looking at the huge pit of once was and now what it has become. Cranes, scaffolds, beams, tracks, every scrimp of metal trying to fill that huge hole of memories that will be burned in millions of minds, hearts and souls. I felt the tears weld up in the corners of my eyes as I turned around and still saw some damage to surrounding buildings and wondered if the dust, dirt and gravel under my feet was created by a construction truck, or something else. "My God," I breathed as I saw the beams jutting out the concrete supports that held up the building. The mastermind behind that whole plan knew exactly what he was doing.

And how it would effect us all.