Dear Family in 2L,
Allow me to introduce myself. I am the current tenant in 1L, also known as the apartment directly below yours. What's that? You can't hear me? Right. That's because I'm quiet. It's also because you are apparently busy setting the world record for "decibels acheived" in Wii's new game: Clog Hero. I congratulate you, in advance, for undoubtedly holding the game's world record. For a year straight.
When my husband, daughter, and I moved into the apartment below yours a year ago, we had to check our lease on the first night. You see, we were concerned that we'd accidently been placed in an animal shelter...for horses...who are trained in tap dancing.
Initially, we were concerned for you. I came very close to running up with a sack, duct tape, and a club to assist three-stooges-style in taking down what couldn't, in our minds, be anything other than a murderous assaulter. After 5 minutes of this noise turned into twenty, turned into 2 hours, turned into all night long, it suddenly made sense! You are training a herd of small children for the Olympic record for noisy stampeding.
While this is an honorable endeavor, it became quite inconvenient for my husband and I as we attempted get our daughter to sleep at night, what with your practices commencing an hour before her bedtime every day. Every single day.
However, we are true believers in never giving up on your dreams and far be it from us to stop you from acheiving your pint-sized, child-labor-extorted Olympic victory!
It's just that...and, really, I hate to even suggest this...but, is clog dancing a necessary training exercise for these events? And not just that...is clog dancing at midnight necessary? Perhaps a better description for the activity that takes place above our heads would be clog slam dancing. Please, explain to me how you acheive those impossible amplitudes. I have a theory on how. You jump off of chairs, don't you? You jump off of chairs, onto hard wood floors, wearing clogs, while holding 20 lb weights in each hand. Then you drop the weights.
It wasn't until I couldn't hear my friend speaking right next to me over the noise of your 2L adventures that I did something that I'm not proud of. No one would be. I turned into the angry, old mumu-wearing spinster who's frustration takes the form of a broom to the ceiling. Oh yes I did. I pounded the ceiling with the hard, cold handle of a broom. LOUDLY. It took you a few seconds, but miraculously you heard it over your own clatter and there was an eerie moment of silence as my last pound echoed off of the walls in both of our apartments. I threw the broom to the ground, sick over what I'd just done. I wanted to take the moment back. I was sure that you'd sneak down in the middle of the night, break in, and beat me to death with your clogs and honestly, I didn't blame you. Who does that? What am I? Thelma Harper from "Mama's Family?" I was this close to dying of shame, when I noticed it was silent.
You got the hint! I couldn't believe I had let 10 months go by without doing that! There was silence! Sweet, beautiful...unnerving...silence.
Yeah, well, that lasted all of one night.
The training has since been amped up, but it's okay, I'm not worried about it. You see, we are moving on. Literally. We're moving out of the damn building. You are the clear winner. It takes a lot of practice to win like that...and you've certainly had practice.
So, I bid you adieu, family of miniature ponies. May the horse be with you on your way to Olympic gold.
xoxo Miss you (not),
Your quiet, considerate, incredibly good looking neighbor in 1L.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Elevator Etiquette
I am an asshole when it comes to the elevator.
Yes, I am that person who gave you the apologetic "oh no! I didn't see you madly dashing to the elevator and now it's too late and the doors are clos--" look, while furiously hitting the "close door" button. It's nothing personal; I just can't stand the 2 minutes of agony that a ride on the elevator with you inflicts.
Sharing small spaces with strangers is so awkward and unnatural and just plain miserable. Every time I get on, I'm plagued by a large group of people that hop on after me, going to lower floors than my destination, and inevitably lingering in the doorway to try to finish their conversation about the "meeting" with another co-worker.
Elevators are awkward. Everyone always avoids eye contact while riding. Friends and co-workers desperately attempt to sound casual as they are flanked tightly on all sides by complete strangers. Nobody ever succeeds at perfecting conversational nonchalance and their failure is underlined by the way they burst forth from the elevators onto their floor, exhaling sharply, as though they were given a second chance at life.
I've compiled a list of tips that will help make your and others' rides as pleasant as humanly possible, given the circumstances...
On Odors...
Tip #1: If you've just taken a bath in cologne, avoid elevators at all costs, lest you want to accept responsibility for a young mother passing out from musk-induced asphyxiation at your feet.
Tip #2: If you have failed to brush your teeth that morning, don't speak, close your mouth, and possibly hold your breath. You might not be able to smell it yourself, but, rest assured, that girl in the corner discreetly covering her nose with a scarf has noticed and is presently cursing whatever brand of Indian food you ate the night before.
Tip #3: It is absolutely not okay to let one loose on an elevator. If you feel one brewing, release it into the lobby. Farts don't like riding the elevator either and will attack the noses of everyone on it, in their desperate attempt to escape. Please, think of the poor farts.
Tip #4: If you haven't washed your pants in 4 weeks and you sit down at your job all day long, take the stairs. You smell like a homeless person.
On Phones...
Tip #1: Unless it's the fire department calling to figure out which elevator you're stuck in, don't answer the phone.
Tip #2: Elevators eat your reception, genius. If you must take or make a call, get off at the next floor so that we don't have to listen to you shout your "can you hear me's" and "hullo...hullo...hullo's" every 3 seconds.
Tip #3: If we wanted to hear your January playlist, we'd ask. Seriously, how are you not deaf?
On Conversations...
Tip #1: It's going to be awkward no matter what....just...don't.
Tip #2: Okay, if you MUST talk...try not to joke. I promise you, no one on an elevator is in the mood to laugh. Also, the more mouths that are open, the hairier the smells will get (refer to Odor section).
Tip #3: To ensure that you don't sound like a complete douchebag, avoid talking about yourself favorably, or in monetary terms, for the benefit of listening ears. We couldn't, for example, give a shit about your investment returns or your 6 weeks of paid vacation, whence you dusted off the baby grand in your summer home in Nantucket.
Tip #4: If you drank heavily the night before, chances are, we already know. No need to vocally reiterate your sloppiness. (Also, refer to Odor section.)
Tip #5: Conversations for the sake of filling the dead air are incredibly uncomfortable and pathetically awkward. Looking busy before and during the ride will help you avoid these. Texting/ emailing is favorable. Spilling the contents of one's purse on the floor of the elevator is not favorable.
On exiting and entering:
Tip #1: If someone behind you needs to get off, step off of the elevator to let them pass. Do not squeeze more tightly against the person at your side.
Tip #2: If you see that someone else has been waiting longer to board, give them the courtesy of allowing them to get on first. You do have to share intimate space with them for the next 120-300 seconds. It's best not to rush ahead of them and cut them off.
And finally...
Tip #3 (perhaps the most important tip of them all): If you see me boarding, wait for the next one. I like to have the luxury of riding alone so that I can break all of my own rules. ;-)
Yes, I am that person who gave you the apologetic "oh no! I didn't see you madly dashing to the elevator and now it's too late and the doors are clos--" look, while furiously hitting the "close door" button. It's nothing personal; I just can't stand the 2 minutes of agony that a ride on the elevator with you inflicts.
Sharing small spaces with strangers is so awkward and unnatural and just plain miserable. Every time I get on, I'm plagued by a large group of people that hop on after me, going to lower floors than my destination, and inevitably lingering in the doorway to try to finish their conversation about the "meeting" with another co-worker.
Elevators are awkward. Everyone always avoids eye contact while riding. Friends and co-workers desperately attempt to sound casual as they are flanked tightly on all sides by complete strangers. Nobody ever succeeds at perfecting conversational nonchalance and their failure is underlined by the way they burst forth from the elevators onto their floor, exhaling sharply, as though they were given a second chance at life.
I've compiled a list of tips that will help make your and others' rides as pleasant as humanly possible, given the circumstances...
On Odors...
Tip #1: If you've just taken a bath in cologne, avoid elevators at all costs, lest you want to accept responsibility for a young mother passing out from musk-induced asphyxiation at your feet.
Tip #2: If you have failed to brush your teeth that morning, don't speak, close your mouth, and possibly hold your breath. You might not be able to smell it yourself, but, rest assured, that girl in the corner discreetly covering her nose with a scarf has noticed and is presently cursing whatever brand of Indian food you ate the night before.
Tip #3: It is absolutely not okay to let one loose on an elevator. If you feel one brewing, release it into the lobby. Farts don't like riding the elevator either and will attack the noses of everyone on it, in their desperate attempt to escape. Please, think of the poor farts.
Tip #4: If you haven't washed your pants in 4 weeks and you sit down at your job all day long, take the stairs. You smell like a homeless person.
On Phones...
Tip #1: Unless it's the fire department calling to figure out which elevator you're stuck in, don't answer the phone.
Tip #2: Elevators eat your reception, genius. If you must take or make a call, get off at the next floor so that we don't have to listen to you shout your "can you hear me's" and "hullo...hullo...hullo's" every 3 seconds.
Tip #3: If we wanted to hear your January playlist, we'd ask. Seriously, how are you not deaf?
On Conversations...
Tip #1: It's going to be awkward no matter what....just...don't.
Tip #2: Okay, if you MUST talk...try not to joke. I promise you, no one on an elevator is in the mood to laugh. Also, the more mouths that are open, the hairier the smells will get (refer to Odor section).
Tip #3: To ensure that you don't sound like a complete douchebag, avoid talking about yourself favorably, or in monetary terms, for the benefit of listening ears. We couldn't, for example, give a shit about your investment returns or your 6 weeks of paid vacation, whence you dusted off the baby grand in your summer home in Nantucket.
Tip #4: If you drank heavily the night before, chances are, we already know. No need to vocally reiterate your sloppiness. (Also, refer to Odor section.)
Tip #5: Conversations for the sake of filling the dead air are incredibly uncomfortable and pathetically awkward. Looking busy before and during the ride will help you avoid these. Texting/ emailing is favorable. Spilling the contents of one's purse on the floor of the elevator is not favorable.
On exiting and entering:
Tip #1: If someone behind you needs to get off, step off of the elevator to let them pass. Do not squeeze more tightly against the person at your side.
Tip #2: If you see that someone else has been waiting longer to board, give them the courtesy of allowing them to get on first. You do have to share intimate space with them for the next 120-300 seconds. It's best not to rush ahead of them and cut them off.
And finally...
Tip #3 (perhaps the most important tip of them all): If you see me boarding, wait for the next one. I like to have the luxury of riding alone so that I can break all of my own rules. ;-)
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Pleasantly surprised
Go figure. Who knew the people on that side of the river were so nice?
Andrew and I had no idea how friendly the people of New Jersey were until we ventured out on the PATH into Jersey City for an apartment viewing. It started when a woman struck up a conversation with us on the train. It was my first time riding the PATH and if it hadn't been for Andrew, I'd have no idea where I was. She approached us, asking if she was on the right train. Luckily, Andrew knew and our conversation floated along amicably from there, until we reached our stop at Pavonia Street. I was struck by how talkative and genuinely nice this woman was as I exited the train. Usually on my commutes through Manhattan the general rule of thumb seems to be head-down, eyes on your own business...
Just as we reached the top of the terminal, another woman overheard us looking for the light rail and took it upon herself to give us directions to the closest light rail stop...all while holding the door open for us and our stroller.
We followed the woman's directions to the light rail, which we had never taken, when we were intercepted by another kind Jerseyan, who, with her partner, showed us where to buy and stamp our tickets, then helped us transfer light rails when it was realized that we were on the wrong one.
We got off at the same stop as the woman and her partner to transfer and they went on their way, bidding us luck. Just as we were remarking to each other how friendly the people of New Jersey are, a couple, who had overheard us saying it was our first light rail ride, approached us to let us know that the stop we were at to transfer was a dangerous one. They pointed to all the police stationed around that stop and let us know that it wouldn't be a good idea for us to stop here on a normal day. The police were there because someone had been stabbed in the adjacent parking lot earlier in the week and that stop was infamous for muggings. Grim news, but we were thankful for their insight into the area.
Then, when we reached our destination, yet another woman approached us and pointed us in the direction of an elevator that we could take instead of the large flight of stairs that would take us up to the main road.
Seven strangers from New Jersey. Every single one of them took it upon themselves to help make our commute not only easier, but more pleasant. Some went out of their way to do so.
What I expected to be a pain-in-the-ass trip into our sister state turned out to be pleasantly...PLEASANT. And though the next statement may not fall into the context of this blog...I am optimistic.
Andrew and I had no idea how friendly the people of New Jersey were until we ventured out on the PATH into Jersey City for an apartment viewing. It started when a woman struck up a conversation with us on the train. It was my first time riding the PATH and if it hadn't been for Andrew, I'd have no idea where I was. She approached us, asking if she was on the right train. Luckily, Andrew knew and our conversation floated along amicably from there, until we reached our stop at Pavonia Street. I was struck by how talkative and genuinely nice this woman was as I exited the train. Usually on my commutes through Manhattan the general rule of thumb seems to be head-down, eyes on your own business...
Just as we reached the top of the terminal, another woman overheard us looking for the light rail and took it upon herself to give us directions to the closest light rail stop...all while holding the door open for us and our stroller.
We followed the woman's directions to the light rail, which we had never taken, when we were intercepted by another kind Jerseyan, who, with her partner, showed us where to buy and stamp our tickets, then helped us transfer light rails when it was realized that we were on the wrong one.
We got off at the same stop as the woman and her partner to transfer and they went on their way, bidding us luck. Just as we were remarking to each other how friendly the people of New Jersey are, a couple, who had overheard us saying it was our first light rail ride, approached us to let us know that the stop we were at to transfer was a dangerous one. They pointed to all the police stationed around that stop and let us know that it wouldn't be a good idea for us to stop here on a normal day. The police were there because someone had been stabbed in the adjacent parking lot earlier in the week and that stop was infamous for muggings. Grim news, but we were thankful for their insight into the area.
Then, when we reached our destination, yet another woman approached us and pointed us in the direction of an elevator that we could take instead of the large flight of stairs that would take us up to the main road.
Seven strangers from New Jersey. Every single one of them took it upon themselves to help make our commute not only easier, but more pleasant. Some went out of their way to do so.
What I expected to be a pain-in-the-ass trip into our sister state turned out to be pleasantly...PLEASANT. And though the next statement may not fall into the context of this blog...I am optimistic.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Your Meat Courting Agenda
Day 1:
It's my first day at the neighborhood YMCA I just joined and I'm going to vomit.
It's been almost a decade since my last honest to God workout and I've easily forgotten what it feels like to run further than the 10 foot distance from my couch to the Carlo Rosse jug in my fridge during the commercial break between "Brothers & Sisters"...And, yes, absolutely everything about that sentence was shameful. Huzzah.
I come into the Y for the first time, vaguely aware--based on my 3-day-straight KSU gym attendance-dash-ploy to appear fit for a dreamy young English professor who also frequented that gym--that with every gym there is gym etiquette, from wiping down your equipment after use, to steering clear of the personal training area unless with trainer, to time limits on machines, but I am unsure of what normal procedure is here. Naturally, in my mind, everyone in the designated stretching area notices that I do not have a towel. In fact, I missed the memo that said, "bring a towel to the stretching mats so that you don't contract arm chlamydia from our over-used porous surfaces. Love, your overly friendly neighborhood stretching mats xoxo."
So here I am hunkering down into an awkward squat to stretch my hamstrings, trying to maintain a bored expression to mask the agony within, when I look around at my stretching cohorts and am horrified to find every single one of them posing in some sort of impossibly twisted yoga-tantric-sluttified stretch. Damn! What is the point of bending yourself in half the wrong way so that your body can form a perfect O with your ankles by your face on the mat?
Question answered.
Everyone in my gym is a slut on display. From the girl on the elliptical with her shirt pulled up way too far to expose her glistening back dimples to the guys in the weight room squatting more weight than they probably should...it's a meat market and they're all butchers. And I'm the only vegetarian in the whole damn room. Narf.
ONWARDS! To my workout!
15 minutes later...AAAAND I'm done. Time to grab my gym bag , a towel, a glass of wine, and an ibuprofen. Not necessarily in that order.
It's my first day at the neighborhood YMCA I just joined and I'm going to vomit.
It's been almost a decade since my last honest to God workout and I've easily forgotten what it feels like to run further than the 10 foot distance from my couch to the Carlo Rosse jug in my fridge during the commercial break between "Brothers & Sisters"...And, yes, absolutely everything about that sentence was shameful. Huzzah.
I come into the Y for the first time, vaguely aware--based on my 3-day-straight KSU gym attendance-dash-ploy to appear fit for a dreamy young English professor who also frequented that gym--that with every gym there is gym etiquette, from wiping down your equipment after use, to steering clear of the personal training area unless with trainer, to time limits on machines, but I am unsure of what normal procedure is here. Naturally, in my mind, everyone in the designated stretching area notices that I do not have a towel. In fact, I missed the memo that said, "bring a towel to the stretching mats so that you don't contract arm chlamydia from our over-used porous surfaces. Love, your overly friendly neighborhood stretching mats xoxo."
So here I am hunkering down into an awkward squat to stretch my hamstrings, trying to maintain a bored expression to mask the agony within, when I look around at my stretching cohorts and am horrified to find every single one of them posing in some sort of impossibly twisted yoga-tantric-sluttified stretch. Damn! What is the point of bending yourself in half the wrong way so that your body can form a perfect O with your ankles by your face on the mat?
Question answered.
Everyone in my gym is a slut on display. From the girl on the elliptical with her shirt pulled up way too far to expose her glistening back dimples to the guys in the weight room squatting more weight than they probably should...it's a meat market and they're all butchers. And I'm the only vegetarian in the whole damn room. Narf.
ONWARDS! To my workout!
15 minutes later...AAAAND I'm done. Time to grab my gym bag , a towel, a glass of wine, and an ibuprofen. Not necessarily in that order.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Listen, not everything "flies" when you fly.
There's something about seeing a 90 lb. 90-year-old elbow her way to the front of the plane (because God-forbid anyone reach the empty baggage claim area before she does) that both alarms and amuses me. It's so raw, so wild, so impolite, so...STUPID! I see it in the young, the old, the big and the small: manners and logic fly out the window when people fly anywhere.
To all those people with seating assignments in zone 6 who insist on crowding around the front of the boarding line like rabid wolves, waiting for your zone to be called...SIT DOWN. Your being at the front of the line is not going to make the plane take off more quickly. In fact, it confuses the people in zones 1-5, who stand behind you, thinking that you're in their zone and that they need to wait behind you. Congratulations, geniuses, you single-handedly just slowed down the boarding of the entire damn plane and now we're 15 minutes behind-schedule because of that.
Look at the 15-seat-deep stomach-to-back-tight line for the bathroom at any given moment in the flight...Listen to the clamor of clicking as everyone scrambles to unfasten their seat belts the very microsecond the captain turns off the "fasten seat belt" sign when the flight is over...all so they can squeeze themselves into an over-crowded aisle where they push and shove to grab their bags. Humans have such an intense desire to be first and such a deep distaste for being cooped up that they will blindly sabotage their own efforts in their misguided attempts to obtain their freedom. First.
Sit your ass down in your seat and wait for those first 30 aisles ahead of you to empty out instead of constipating the aisle any further with your farty-plane-seat stench and your awkward carry-on that, let's face it, is so damn big, it should have been checked.
Oh, and if you're one of those lovely people with a window seat who insists on standing up next to me at the end of the flight to let me know you want out, DON'T WORRY. I'll let you brush past me the very moment the aisle beside me clears enough for you to do so. It is not okay to wedge yourself between me and the seat in front of me and breathe down my neck. There's no room in the aisle for me, so why do you think there's going to be any room for your double-wide?
Life is much less stressful when you just let go and let people go before you. How many minutes do you really gain in your frantic rush? 1? 2? Is that worth the stress? If you truly can't wait, if you have a flight to catch, exercise some manners. A little "pardon," "please," and "thank you" go a long way and have the curious effect of clearing a pathway instantaneously.
To all those people with seating assignments in zone 6 who insist on crowding around the front of the boarding line like rabid wolves, waiting for your zone to be called...SIT DOWN. Your being at the front of the line is not going to make the plane take off more quickly. In fact, it confuses the people in zones 1-5, who stand behind you, thinking that you're in their zone and that they need to wait behind you. Congratulations, geniuses, you single-handedly just slowed down the boarding of the entire damn plane and now we're 15 minutes behind-schedule because of that.
Look at the 15-seat-deep stomach-to-back-tight line for the bathroom at any given moment in the flight...Listen to the clamor of clicking as everyone scrambles to unfasten their seat belts the very microsecond the captain turns off the "fasten seat belt" sign when the flight is over...all so they can squeeze themselves into an over-crowded aisle where they push and shove to grab their bags. Humans have such an intense desire to be first and such a deep distaste for being cooped up that they will blindly sabotage their own efforts in their misguided attempts to obtain their freedom. First.
Sit your ass down in your seat and wait for those first 30 aisles ahead of you to empty out instead of constipating the aisle any further with your farty-plane-seat stench and your awkward carry-on that, let's face it, is so damn big, it should have been checked.
Oh, and if you're one of those lovely people with a window seat who insists on standing up next to me at the end of the flight to let me know you want out, DON'T WORRY. I'll let you brush past me the very moment the aisle beside me clears enough for you to do so. It is not okay to wedge yourself between me and the seat in front of me and breathe down my neck. There's no room in the aisle for me, so why do you think there's going to be any room for your double-wide?
Life is much less stressful when you just let go and let people go before you. How many minutes do you really gain in your frantic rush? 1? 2? Is that worth the stress? If you truly can't wait, if you have a flight to catch, exercise some manners. A little "pardon," "please," and "thank you" go a long way and have the curious effect of clearing a pathway instantaneously.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday night.
While the city is teeming with 20-somethings, adorned in every costume conceivable, flocking to bars and parties to ring in another Halloween, here I lounge.
I'm careful to keep the volume of the TV down; I don't want to wake Brooklyn and, really, it's only background noise while I aimlessly peruse the internet, stopping intermittently to sip on a glass of cheap wine that may or may not have been poured from a jug.
Although, to some, this might be the definition of depressing, it's perfectly okay by me. There are benefits to unwinding alone and I just happen to be kind enough to list them for my fellow comrades who are reading:
1. Two hundred dollars will not mysteriously disappear from my bank account tonight because of my giving heart and penchant for buying a round for the bar the very moment I've had too much to drink.
2. I will not be stuck on the F train platform for an hour tonight, holding my breath while the garbage train rolls through the station, and praying to the Oscar the Grouch that my train will show up in time for me to not piss my costume pants. (What would I be for Halloween, you ask? Ha. Wouldn't you like to know?...actually, I would, too...)
3. My purse is safe and sound, sitting on my bed right now, as opposed to lying forgotten on the ground, mopping up the drink that an enthusiastic Jon-Gosselin-costume-wearing fool just spilled.
4. My dignity is still somewhat in tact (Carlos Rosse excluded) instead of being paraded about town in blister-spawning 4-inch hooker boots that apparently come standard with every whore-a-ween costume for women out there. (That's it! I should go as a hooker for Halloween one year...I wonder if anyone will know what I am supposed to be...)
5. On that note, Brooklyn's last thought before falling asleep tonight was NOT, "Why does mommy look like a slut?" (hush.)
6. Staying home affords me the opportunity to make superior comments and grinch-like observations about sloppy people who enjoy making asses out of themselves on Halloween. (See what I did there? No? Meh.)
7. While you lose brain cells, my Scrabble game continues to improve and...eh, I got nothing.
Anyone know a good babysitter?
I'm careful to keep the volume of the TV down; I don't want to wake Brooklyn and, really, it's only background noise while I aimlessly peruse the internet, stopping intermittently to sip on a glass of cheap wine that may or may not have been poured from a jug.
Although, to some, this might be the definition of depressing, it's perfectly okay by me. There are benefits to unwinding alone and I just happen to be kind enough to list them for my fellow comrades who are reading:
1. Two hundred dollars will not mysteriously disappear from my bank account tonight because of my giving heart and penchant for buying a round for the bar the very moment I've had too much to drink.
2. I will not be stuck on the F train platform for an hour tonight, holding my breath while the garbage train rolls through the station, and praying to the Oscar the Grouch that my train will show up in time for me to not piss my costume pants. (What would I be for Halloween, you ask? Ha. Wouldn't you like to know?...actually, I would, too...)
3. My purse is safe and sound, sitting on my bed right now, as opposed to lying forgotten on the ground, mopping up the drink that an enthusiastic Jon-Gosselin-costume-wearing fool just spilled.
4. My dignity is still somewhat in tact (Carlos Rosse excluded) instead of being paraded about town in blister-spawning 4-inch hooker boots that apparently come standard with every whore-a-ween costume for women out there. (That's it! I should go as a hooker for Halloween one year...I wonder if anyone will know what I am supposed to be...)
5. On that note, Brooklyn's last thought before falling asleep tonight was NOT, "Why does mommy look like a slut?" (hush.)
6. Staying home affords me the opportunity to make superior comments and grinch-like observations about sloppy people who enjoy making asses out of themselves on Halloween. (See what I did there? No? Meh.)
7. While you lose brain cells, my Scrabble game continues to improve and...eh, I got nothing.
Anyone know a good babysitter?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
GTFO MY SEAT, YOU UNFEELING ASS!
You.
Yeah, you.
Go ahead and pretend to be absorbed in your book. I can tell it's a romance novel by the lack of cover and the way you are careful to cover the spine with your hand, offering no one the opportunity to reflect on your crap taste in literature.
We both know you just rudely shoved past me and stole the last open seat on the entire train during rush hour. We both know I was waiting to board first. We both know I had unspoken dibs on that seat. We both know I'm the one carrying five bags while you're not even carrying a purse.
It's okay. You can try to ignore me while I melt your face with these concentrated laserbeams of spite coming from my eyes. Sit there and shift uncomfortably in your (my) seat and just try to shrug off the guilt of knowing you're a selfish wench.
Since I can't have my seat, I'll just go ahead and hang onto the railing directly overhead so that my bags sway precariously close to your face. Also, that smell? I may or may not be releasing a little pent up frustration via my asshole. That's right I just farted. In your face.
I notice you've made it through six pages already in the minute and a half I've been standing here. Now, either you've come to the, ahem--climax--of your little sex novel, and you are really enjoying it, or you're having an epiphany about your own douchebagness and can't focus on what you're reading. Nah...it may just be the sting of Catholic guilt I'm burning into you with my mind.
Only 12 more stops to go before my exit. Are you sure you can handle it?
Yeah, you.
Go ahead and pretend to be absorbed in your book. I can tell it's a romance novel by the lack of cover and the way you are careful to cover the spine with your hand, offering no one the opportunity to reflect on your crap taste in literature.
We both know you just rudely shoved past me and stole the last open seat on the entire train during rush hour. We both know I was waiting to board first. We both know I had unspoken dibs on that seat. We both know I'm the one carrying five bags while you're not even carrying a purse.
It's okay. You can try to ignore me while I melt your face with these concentrated laserbeams of spite coming from my eyes. Sit there and shift uncomfortably in your (my) seat and just try to shrug off the guilt of knowing you're a selfish wench.
Since I can't have my seat, I'll just go ahead and hang onto the railing directly overhead so that my bags sway precariously close to your face. Also, that smell? I may or may not be releasing a little pent up frustration via my asshole. That's right I just farted. In your face.
I notice you've made it through six pages already in the minute and a half I've been standing here. Now, either you've come to the, ahem--climax--of your little sex novel, and you are really enjoying it, or you're having an epiphany about your own douchebagness and can't focus on what you're reading. Nah...it may just be the sting of Catholic guilt I'm burning into you with my mind.
Only 12 more stops to go before my exit. Are you sure you can handle it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)