Hey there, people of the fine Internet, Tobyjoe and I had a discussion. We’re going away for a while. Soon, we’ll be in a not so secret, remote location without the Internet and we’ve decided to take this site down while we’re away and give it a proper rest. (Goodness knows, I could use it and I’m certain you could, too.) I’m writing this to warn folks before it self-destructs.

Let’s share secrets.

My secret? I don’t always wash my hands after I pee. Now, shake my hand.

It’s a hundred degrees in New York City and people are grumpy. Sweat dotted the shirts of most commuters. New York City’s bowels are rearing their heads. A filmy, visible stench wafted up Broadway on squiggly cartoon lines. Only this smell isn’t meant to be funny.

I walked home. I walked the same route I do every day. One of the neighborhood crackheads stood outside the local 24-hour deli asking for change. Sometimes, he’s there alone. Occasionally, his girlfriend begs as well. She’s a horribly taught and overly veiny girl. She’s often hysterical and her movements are usually erratic. There have been a few times where they’re both outside screaming at one another, faces red with anger or withdrawal, pimples plump beneath the sudden introduction of blood. I have grown to nearly despise these two and I see them more than I do my very own parents.

I have given out change to people in the past. Every New Yorker has their regular charity case. I usually give it to the scrawny toothless man who stands outside Grand Central asking for money to feed the homeless. He stands before a great big empty water cooler jug yelling, “Help to feed the homeless. Anything you spare can and will make a difference. Help to feed the homeless tonight.” Given the heat, I couldn’t help but wonder if on this particular day people would be better off if his water cooler contained actual water. Given the heat, I dropped in a soundless donation.

There was another girl walking about three feet behind me. She was bouncy. She walked on her toes like a poodle. The crackhead became visibly annoyed with our snobbery and began asking for sexual favors. For some reason, I turned to give him a look. That’s when the bouncy woman and I made eye contact. Her mouth opened as if a ventriloquist was in control. Laughter came out opposite her lips’ movements. She cackled. Her eyes were wide and everyone else around turned to look. I knew that she was trying to bond with me about what the crackhead had said but her explosive excitement made me feel worse.

I walked by the local butcher and his clerk. They stood in front of their windows, which were decorated in a variety of hanging meat products. The red rawness intermixed with white bits of fat made my stomach turn. The butcher and his clerk checked out the girls as they headed home from their Manhattan offices. They never check me out. While they are surrounded by raw meat all day, I am simply not their taste.

The Italian restaurant on the corner was readying itself for very little business. A group of young men were standing outside spitting and chewing and talking. No one ever seemed to eat there. I wasn’t sure if it was because of these men and their sports cars, or if the food wasn’t really that good. Either way, it was always empty. I wondered how the owners paid their rent and kept the place in business. I concluded that their food must be spoiled.

One of the sports cars was bright yellow. It had one of those unnecessary fins that shot off the back. I outgrew men like that when I was 15. That happened right around the same time I was introduced to the Stooges. Is it wrong of me to think that men who drive yellow sports cars and wear shiny jackets were something a girl should outgrow? It was also a bit naïve considering they were often seen with women, women who had painted fingernails, women who wore makeup.

Perhaps they outgrew me.

I crossed beneath the BQE. An Asian man sat shirtless in a white truck waiting for the light to turn. His engine revved and black smoke billowed up and away from it. We made eye contact briefly. His skin was wet as was my own. Human condensation. The thought made me gag.

The Mobil gas station was filled with hungry cars and mostly SUVs. And I hated them all. I scoffed at the one on the corner for not letting me cross when I had the right away. There he was, the driver, fat and jolly in his big car, windows up, AC blaring and he was making me wait. The world’s lack of compassion will surely devour us all. I had an overwhelming urge to cause harm onto this man. Sophomoric and sometimes harmful thoughts like this cross my mind when I’m uncomfortable.

Everywhere is hot and everyone is grumpy. Beads of sweat cover the city and evaporate on its black streets and concrete sidewalks. Sometimes, it seems like New York City barely makes it through a day. The subways lie beneath a measly 15 stairs, the street beating down from above. What’s holding it all up? I think about this often. How is it we all live together? Who’s making this show run? How does it keep running, day-in, day-out? Time Square uses up more electricity than my hometown, New York City’s unnecessary fin.

I’m left wondering if I’ll ever outgrow the city.

Perhaps it’ll outgrow me.

Updated to add: The 1,2 and 3 trains had issues earlier but are apparently up and running again.

LaGuardia is still having to cancel flights due to power outages in certain terminals.

I just got word in that Park Slope is without power as is parts of Union Street.

We watched Freedomland last night. It’s another movie where Julianne Moore loses her mind and acts like a hysterical female. As I watched this last night, it occurred to me, yet again, that no other actress pulls off the crazy quite as well as Julianne Moore. Her plethora of crazy scenes immediately came flooding back to me. In Short Cuts, she stands in the middle of the room pant-less and panty-les and argues with her husband (Matthew Modine). She played a sexy, single mother cokehead. The scene on the bed with Heather Graham still makes me cringe. (Seriously, I’ve seen crazier people NOT laugh that well.) There’s the cake-baking scene between her and her son in The Hours where the viewer can just tell that she’s about to lose it. You’re just not sure when. After realizing her cake is less than perfect she checks into a hotel room and suddenly Jimmy Webb’s lyrics begin to make sense. Then, there’s Safe. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t still haunted by Safe. I think I will always be haunted by Safe. What a horribly UNHAPPY film. (Seriously, if you’re looking for that extra push toward that anti-depressant prescription start by watching Safe.) Safe made me feel entirely too uncomfortable. I watched the entire film with the same look on my face. (What the f uh?) Her inability with breathing the air around her is my inability to trust food. I have a huge weak spot in my mental foundation. Then, there’s that really uncomfortable scene in Magnolia, which takes place in a pharmacy.

Fuck you, too. Don’t call me “lady”. I come in here, I give these things to you, you check, you make your phone calls, look suspicious, ask questions. I’m sick. I have sickness all around me and you fucking ask me about my life? “What’s wrong?” Have you seen death in your bed? In your house? Where’s your fucking decency? And then I’m asked fucking questions. What’s… wrong? You suck my dick. That’s what’s wrong. And you, you fucking call me “lady”? Shame on you. Shame on you. Shame on both of you.

She wasn’t too crazy in The Big Lebowski but if it had been longer (oh and I wish it had!), I bet Maude would have freaked out a few times. She had to tone it down a bit for Hannibal. But had she let it go, Hannibal would have looked more like Gandhi. It’s not that Anthony Hopkins isn’t a brilliant actor, it’s that Julianne Moore is that good at crazy. For example, she was in the remake of Psycho, which I haven’t seen, but it’s called Psycho. Need I say more?

I haven’t seen all of the movies on her list but I bet there’s more crazy. And one must wonder if she makes them crazier than the script calls for or if they say “We need Julianne Moore to play this crazy female. We need real crazy, none of that fake shit.”

We sat behind Ms. Moore once at a movie. But she wasn’t at all crazy in person. In fact, she was perfectly normal and sweet and lovely. Still, Julianne Moore plays crazy better than crazy plays crazy. She forever wins the Oscar for crazy. She is ruler of Crazyland, Hollywood.

Usually when I sense something bad is about to happen it doesn’t. Yesterday, I left the house and immediately sensed that the things taking place around me were off (or on, depending on how you look at it). There had been a car wreck. It took place not minutes before I left the apartment. I saw it from the corner. A car had been nearly cut in half from its grill to the middle of the car. It’s almost as if driver had literally tried to separate themselves from their passenger.

And the thought crossed my mind that I should have stayed home.

Two blocks passed and I discovered a white, unmarked van. Cops had pulled it over to the side of the road. They were talking to its driver. Another stood behind the vehicle waiting to inspect the inside. Had it not been for some weird feeling, I wouldn’t have thought much of it. This happens often as we live right near the BQE.

I wasn’t even out of Brooklyn yet.

Then there were the trains. The 4/5/6 was barely running past 14 street because a “customer needed medical attention.” Usually, that means one of two things: someone does actually need medical attention (I once watch a woman suffer a massive heart attack on the N/R line), or, (and unfortunately, this seems to be the more popular translation) someone jumped or they were pushed. Granted, “Medical attention” also includes incidents where a saw-wielding man cuts into a postal worker but I’m happy to say that those incidents are rare. Yesterday’s 4/5/6 incident turned out to be a suicide.

Yesterday, something was astir, that’s for sure. When I finally got to work, I noticed a massive flow of emergency vehicles zooming up Madison Avenue. Later, I found out that a suicidal doctor going through a horrible divorce blew up his Upper East Side mansion

I chose to stay put yesterday. I did not hit the gym. (I needed a rest anyway.) I did not go out for lunch. The only thing I took care of yesterday was getting another SIM card from the T-Mobil store across the street from where I work. Nothing took place in that short amount of time.

When I left the office, I took the 4/5/6 back down to Union Square. The L Train was entering the station the moment I hit the platform. This would be a quick commute. We went to Third Avenue and then First Avenue and then, like every other day, we headed below the river toward Brooklyn. Right as we were below the river, I heard a loud sound. It sounded as though someone had put a candle out with damp fingertips. The sound was the moment the flame ceased to exist. It sounded like that only much, much louder. And then, just like that, they conductor slammed on the breaks. No announcement was made. We just sat there, motionless. I muttered the words “Oh shit.” A smell began to waft into the car. It smelled like smoke.

“Do you smell something?” I had asked her?

“Yes.” She replied.

We waited.

On September 6, 2001, I was on the L Train when a similar situation took place. That time, we were forced to evacuate the train. We were stuck between Third and First Avenue at the time so the evacuation included walking up through the train and then onto the track. No one ever told me what happened. The front of the car had been torn apart; the seats had been lifted up the doors had been pried open. Later, someone would say that someone had jumped but I know that wasn’t the case. But I would forget about September 6 five days later. And I wouldn’t think about that day again until nearly a month later when I went through a phase of welcoming conspiracies.

It seems like the days where nothing feels off that something actually takes place. At least in terms of my life. There have been times I have retrospectively said, “Oh, I had a feeling something bad was going to happen.” But I can’t say I actually meant it. It’s easy to say things retrospectively. The day that Katrina died, I didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary even after Soung told me she hadn’t returned her calls. The day the WTC came down it was beautiful day, unseasonably warm and clear, and even after I saw the first plane hit I didn’t think much of it other than “HUGE pilot error”. I didn’t sense the day that my friend would total my beloved car. I didn’t sense that I’d be sued because of it. I didn’t sense the day I would discover a lump. I just don’t sense the really bad days.

Come to think of it, I don’t sense the good days either.

But just like with any day where everything feels off, nothing actually took place yesterday that directly affected me. The train sputtered back to life and nothing was said of the sound, the smoke, or the sudden stop.

“See?” She had said to me. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

And I chose to agree with her.

Well, the World Cup has come to an end. I actually started crying into my New York Times Sports Section this morning. As many already know, I have grown absolutely obsessed with football over the past month. I can’t even put words behind how fantastic it’s been. I take a great long sigh seeing this World Cup come to an end.

Seriously, though, what in God’s name happened to Zidane? I gotta tell ya if he was actually called a dirty terrorist that might warrant a head butt or two but he should have waited until after the game.

Spain and Brazil won the Fair Play award.

“The FIFA Fair Play Award is given to the team with the best record of Fair Play, sportsmanship and good conduct both on and off the pitch, according to a points system and criteria established by the FIFA Committee for Ethics and Fair Play.”

My most favorite moment was probably when England beat Ecuador and we watched Nevada Smith’s explode with joy. My least favorite moment was when England lost against Portugal and we watched grown men and women cry. (America losing to Ghana comes in close second.)

My most favorite player to giggle at was Peter Crouch. (Oh, and if you haven’t seen it, I highly suggest watching this video of Peter Crouch dancing.) 6 foot 7, dude. 6 foot 7. His shinguards are as long as my legs.

The player I most enjoyed looking at was probably Mc Bride although, Beckham is really very easy on the eyes.

Gerrard stole my heart but that’s because he reminds me of my friend, Dan.

I have a new found admiration for Hislop who, I am told, is joining an American team next year.

Tobyjoe and I have discussed going to South Africa for the next World Cup but there’s a good possibility I’ll be with small child by then.

It’s really sad to see it come to an end.

Here’s to four more years…

For kicks, I plugged in my black Razr this morning. You know, the one I washed not three months ago. It’s without a SIM card because the one I do have is currently sitting in the pink Razr I lost on Friday. But wouldn’t you know, the phone is working. I’m not sure what to do at this point. Do I go into TMobile and ask for a new SIM card? Do they replace SIMs? Can I keep the same number? Hopefully, I won’t need to buy a new phone.

Update: Well, the phone works. Sort of. I can hear everyone just fine. It even has all my old numbers, pictures, and ringtones. There is a catch, however. Apparently people can’t really hear me. This, for some, might be considered a perk. Eventually, when I have some money, I will need to buy yet another phone but this ghetto Razr might have to work for now.

I have good news and bad news. I’ll start with the positive. The woman from the New York Athletic Club wrote me back about the soccer league. She was super kind and reassuring. I’m going to actually play on Wednesday and am giddy with excitment but I do need to buy a pair of shoes and some shinguards and we’re hurting a little financially at the moment.

Today, I purchased a new and much needed pair of running shoes from Slope Sports in Park Slope. They were incredibly helpful. I moved away from the Asics, which have served me really well over the last couple of years. I was really torn between this shoe and this shoe. In the end, I got the Sauconys. In a few weeks I’ll probably head back and get the other pair. Can’t have too many shoes! My ankles are sighing in relief.

Speaking of running, I ran 8 miles last night. I was really proud of myself. At mile 3, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t last. But I stuck with it. I got my second wind on mile 5 and was able to stick it out for another three. Still, I can’t imagine how people run 26 miles. Next week, I’ll shoot for 10.

The bad news is, my cell phone fell out of my pocket last night an into the back seat of a cab. I didn’t realize this until the next morning when I reached into my small pant pocket to find it missing.

I have been beating myself up about it all day long. We tried to call it and it goes straight to voicemail. It’s either dead, stolen, or someone has turned it off. Either way, I have no phone (again) and I am not pleased with myself today. The pride I gained last night is now gone. What an ass. :[ Now would be a great time for the black one to work again, you know, the one I washed not two months ago.

Seriously, people, I feel like an ass.

When I first saw this article over on Gothamist, I started to believe in God. And then I read it.

“A TA spokesman couldn’t say when service would be boosted. It will take at least several months – and at least $320,000 in signal-related work – before the older cars can operate on the rails along with the newer high-tech rigs that were put in service between February 2002 and July 2003.”

So, let me get this straight, they have been “fixing” the tracks to maintain the newer trains and now that they’re going to add more cars (which should have been thought about before) back onto the tracks they have to go back and update all the work they did to accommodate the new cars back in 2002? Are you kidding me?

Why not bring in new cars? Why not take new cars from other lines and let other lines without the new tracks use the old ones? I simply DO NOT understand the freaking MTA. Yes, the L Train sucks, but I’m starting to believe that there are a bunch of morons running the MTA. It’s either that or the seemingly bad decisions were put into place out of greed. Penny pinch and this is what happens. The users pay the price.

Does this mean the L Train riders will have to endure yet another year’s worth of station closings?

Tobyjoe, it’s time to make babies and hit the burbs.

It has begun. I’m going to figure out - once and for all - if I like scones. Tonight we’re making cranberry oat scones. Wish the scones luck.

Preheat the oven to 375.

I laid a piece of parchment paper on a baking sheet. I set it aside.

Then I removed all cats from your kitchen. (No cats. Cats are bad for food. But cats are good all other times.)

Here is a shot of all the ingredients I needed to make the horrid scones.

I mixed together all the dry ingredients. (Flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, and baking powder.)

I sifted them together.

Cutting it into pieces, I added my cold, unsalted butter.

Using two knives I cut it up so it formed a crumb-like mixture.

I added my rolled oats.

I added the dried cranberries.

I added some zest. (Lemon or orange. I used an orange).

Here is what it looked like. Pretty!

Then, I ruined it and mixed it together.

I added buttermilk. This is me with the buttermilk. I had trouble finding it. Whole Food’s was sold out. Shocking.

I stirred it all together.

And then I floured my surface.

I kneaded it lightly. (4 or 5 times.)

I formed a 7-inch circle and cut into 8 triangles. (We used a pizza cutter. Cool, eh? Misshapen, but cool!)

I took the triangles and placed them on the parchment covered cookie sheet.

I took a large egg and cracked that bitch into a bowl.

I added a tablespoon of milk. Wisked them together like one might a scrambled egg for breakfast. (We used buttermilk because we don’t have any milk. We carry soy milk but no milk).

I painted the mixture onto the top of the scones. (This was super fun.)

And then I baked it for 15 – 18 minutes. (I always err on the side of caution.)

When they were finished, I removed them and turned the oven on broil.

I sifted quite a bit of powdered sugar onto the top of each one.

Finally, I broiled them for no more than a minute or two.

And look! A SCONE!

Technically, the sugar should have caramelized more but I’m a moron and didn’t realize where the broiler was on our oven. Toby figured out what I had done, but it was too late. I was worried that they would overcook, so we only broiled them for about 30 seconds. This is why the tops aren’t totally caramelized.

To view the recipe, click here.

Ladies, if you see this t-shirt, run like hell. Run like the wind but make sure that if you’re running you’re wearing panties.

(Background story here)

Ken Lay: Dead, alive, or assisted suicide?

Oh, and Missy sent me this:

Ouch. The Post, I gotta tell ya. Ouch.

I’m not sure if this is unbelievably funny or just plain cruel. Maybe both.

“Two young men kicked the balls and suffered bad bruising on their feet,” a police spokeswoman said. “We still don’t have any leads in the case.”

Had those two men worn my concrete shoe that ball would have been so dead.

Remember this?

Do you remember this or this?

The image you see above as well as the ones you’ll see if you click on the links were created in 2003 when we were living in Washington, DC. I went on a weird rampage against scones. I publicly declared my hatred for them. I just never understood them. They kind of want to be a biscuit. They kind of want to be muffins. And sometimes they kind of want to be cookies. MAKE UP YOUR MIND, SCONES!

Well, I feel that I must fess up to something, Internet. I just ordered a scone from Oren’s in Grand Central. They order them from Balthazar. I ordered an oat scone. I am hesitant to say so, and I feel like a traitor, but I freaking loved that thing.

I ate (and enjoyed) a scone. What’s happening to me?

Edited to Add: raphaelle has given me a challenge. Tonight, I will attempt to bake cranberry oat scones from scratch to test once an for all if I really am a scone converter. I will document the event live from my kitchen. If, for some stupid reason, you (like me) have nothing better to do and are home and bored, please swing by and heckle me. I will start at 7 PM. If Tobyjoe (aka Vagina Man) can swing it, I’ll even throw in some video. (Although, I’m not sure we have what it takes to do that. We have an iSight, but who knows.) Either way, there will be pictures. Stop by!

As noted in the comments section of the previous post, I am unable to watch the game today. At 2 PM, I have doctor’s appointment at Cornell Medical Center to find out if I’m a healthy women or not. I won’t be out of there until after 3 and then I have to head back to work. So, the question is, who wants to give me a play-by-play update of the game?

Since the beginning of World Cup this year, I realized how much I missed playing soccer. About two weeks ago, I began emailing people and making phone calls to find out if a team - any team - wanted me as a player. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find an (open) adult soccer league in this city! Either all the slots are filled or they are way too advanced for me. I spoke with one woman who asked me what college I played for. (Uhhhhhh, none? College of none.) I spoke to another who said they would keep me in mind for next year. I wrote to one guy about playing indoor soccer. Below is his response:

“Michael, all of our divisions are full/closed. i will hold your e mail should there be any movement and a team is looking for a player. with your lack of experiance, you may also wand to try www.nycoedsoccer.com.“

(Dude, for starters, my name ain’t Michael.)

I’m not having much luck. However, yesterday, I received an email from a woman from the New York Athletic Club who asked a few of us interested, orphaned soccer wannabes to attend a practice next week and get a feel for the team. I think they might still be too advanced for me but perhaps if I make an appearance someone there can point me in a direction that doesn’t meet a dead-end. I could use the exercise. (Because if this doesn’t work, I’m considering training for the marathon and my ankles are crossing their hairs I find an interested team.)

It’s raining here in the City. It’s muggy and people are landing grumpy after a four-day weekend. I am one of those people. There is a lot going on in my head as of late, which I am not ready to talk about because I, too, am unsure about how to begin.

Now, about that soccer game… anyone? Email me if you wanna text me the scores/plays. Or you feel free to fill the comments section up with any talk. I love the football talk and soon it’ll be all over. :[

Edited to Add: I received an email from a British friend today. (Won’t say his or her name) part of it read:

“Cheer for France. They play good football, Henry & Zidane are great to watch. Plus we’re desperate for theh to humiliate the cheating bastards Portugal for what they did on saturday. More to the point, Portugal aren’t good enough + dont deserve it. A france-italy final would be great to watch.”

Sounds good to me! GO FRANCE!

In just 25 small minutes, we’re going to hit the local pub and root for Germany. With England out and the USA a fading memory, I need a new team to get behind. I have chosen Germany.

Why have I decided to root for Germany? Sure, they have no Crouch but that’s OK. There can only be one Crouch. I always root for the underdog. Plus, they haven’t won in a while. I can’t root for Portugal because they fall down way too much and, quite honestly, it’s so annoying to see them do that all the time. (Bunch of wimps.) I can’t root for Italy because there seems to be a lot of scandal around them as of late. (Although, admitedly, those details are still a bit foggy for me and I know little about what I’m saying.) And, I know it’s not a very good reason (at least it’s not about the color of their uniforms!) but I have decided not to root for France because of that one fella from the Red Bulls who lied to his team declaring he had to go back home suddenly because of “family issues” when in all actuality he left to see the World Cup. (Loser. I hope he’s kicked off the team for that.)

All that said, GO GERMANY!

Update: Germany lost to Italy in the last two minutes of the second overtime. It was quite a game. This time, we went to Iona in Williamsburg to watch the game. I took a few pictures.

For those of you who live in hot areas but lack central air, I have a question: do you leave your AC on all the time? Do you turn it off during the day? If you do, do you have pets? Does it cost you a fortune? I want to know everything about your AC units, anything goes.

Oh, and that reminds me, if you haven’t already seen it, please stop by Cool Props. We have a few more.

Now, about your AC…