Nappy Shoe Hair!

Funny thing about my being away from the computer, I have lost that habitual desire to update my Web site.

Toby Joe and I have had the entire week off between Christmas and New Years. It’s been lovely to say the least. We watched a lot of movies. We consumed a massive amount of food. We baked. We watched the T.V. We had drinks with friends. We took pictures. We sipped coffee. I blew my first piece of glass. It was hot. We went to the vet. We went to the gym. And today we’re both getting haircuts at the same place back to back. Awwwww. It’s been a fabulous week. It’s slowly coming to and end. Soon, it will be back to work, back to that thing that keeps me feeling just so.

It’s New Years Eve. We have no plans. We rarely do. Last year, we made a mad last minute dash to the nearest italian restaurant. We arrived just before they closed and got home just before the ball dropped. On our way home a very, very wobbly man screamed “NAPPY SHOE HAIR!” into our stuffed faces. It took me a while to get the joke. Missy, myself and Toby Joe were asleep before 12:30.

This year? Who knows. It was snowing earlier. That was pretty. I sorta hope it’s not gone for good. I wouldn’t mind having the New Year arrive wearing white.

For what it’s worth: Nappy Shoe Hair.

Oops! I Crapped My Pants.

I went to the gym today. Toby had some business to take care of at the Social Security office in downtown Brooklyn. I figured I’d drive him there and since there is a New York Sports Club in Park Slope I figured I’d take the opportunity and work out for an hour or so. And I beat myself up pretty badly. I tend to do that after realizing that the 18 pounds I kicked out not six months ago has slowly been moving back in.

After a nice long shit-kick, I wanted nothing more than a hot shower. But today I couldn’t get the temperature of the water right. When I got out of the shower, I was cold and wet. I felt like a pale damp slug.

I hate drying myself off at the gym. There are only so many places I feel comfortable putting those bleach infested, overused towels. So I tend to skimp during the dry off phase. I don’t rub all the moisture off of my body and I certainly don’t dab my ass crack with them or floss like some weirdoes.

I put on my pants and my bra and then my shirt. I sat down on the bench to call Toby. A woman walked in and plopped her belongings down on the bench to my left.

Hey hon. You ready yet? Have you gotten through security?

Not yet. Just go on home. I’ll take a car service or a cab.

You sure? OK. Well, I’ll call you once I’m in the car just to make sure.

I got up and walked toward the mirror. I inspected my ass in the mirror. I turned sideways to gawk at the bulges forming around my waste. They’re coming back. I felt depressed. The pants I had purchased while I was on my diet no longer fit right. They pushed my belly fat up like rising loaves of bread.

That’s when I noticed the damp spot. A bit of water had formed on the top of my ass crack. It was about the size of a fifty-cent piece. Clearly, I spotted the spot. You would have had to have to been blind to miss it.

Scooz me. Scooz me.

The woman who had sauntered in while I was on the phone was talking out loud. Was she talking to me?

Scooz me?

She was talking to me. Why was this weird woman talking to me? What could she possibly want?


Yoo have sumtheeng on yah pants.

She had a very thick Puerto Rican accent. She held up her finger and pointed to my ass.

I Doonoh eef eets wet or eef eets sumtheeng dirtee.

Was this woman accusing me of shitting myself? I almost did at the mere thought of it.

No, it’s just water. I must not have dried off enough.

She pointed again and nodded.

Ya bettah hope so.

Now, I don’t know much about pant pooping, but I do know that normally poop is colored. However, I did once live with a guy in England who ate the meat from the local chip shop, the kind that spins dizzily on one of those big metal poles like some century year wrinkly old hooker. After a night with that, he moved into the bathroom for about a week. He shat clear liquid for the duration of his stay. It was truly horrific, poor fella. If what this woman was accusing me of were indeed true I would have to have one mad case of salmonella.

I put on my long coat and left hoping my face and my ass would eventually disappear from her memory.

Merry Holiday and Happy Christmas.

I think I might be the only person in the United States working today. (I mean, besides the MTA employees.) The subways are empty. The streets are as well. And I just saw a tumbleweed move by my desk. But it was wearing tinsel.

I have to say, now that the strike is over, I think I kind of miss it. I liked the have to of riding my bike and getting some exercise. I liked seeing people aware of their surroundings if only because their monotony had been mixed up a bit. I really liked seeing people smile at the end of their haul. Each time we came down off the bridge the Red Cross was there with their hot tea or coffee, Oreo cookies and water. There was something heartwarming about seeing so many people smile all at once just so.

My favorite part of the whole ordeal was a moment that took place on the bridge. It’s the smallest thing, too. There was a system that naturally fell into place during the strike. Sometimes, that system broke down. But for the most part, it worked. I didn’t see any injuries. (Although, my brother said that he did see one biker being hauled away on a stretcher.) There were no visible injuries that took place along my commute. Thank goodness.

The system worked like this: Slower pedestrians to the far right, faster pedestrians were to pass on their left (but not too far!) and bikers were further to the middle/left. Faster bikers were to pass on the left of the slower bikers. Now, this didn’t always work. You’re always going to have that one person (or a dozen in this case) who just have to zoom down on one’s right or left. Hell, some of those people would have passed right through the slower walkers and bikers had they been given the chance. These are probably the same people who drive down the shoulder during traffic jams. These people have a small room reserved in hell, a room without windows.

I like warning people as I pass them.

“On your left.”

You kind of have to hear me say it. I say it nicely – as nicely as possible. I just like to let them know I’m there. (This comes from years of working as a waitress and watching one too many trays of hot coffees and milkshakes hit the floor.)

If it was needed, I warned each and every walker, each and every time. But there was one interaction I really enjoyed. One faster walker was walking toward the middle passing her fellow pedestrians on their left. I was coming up on her kind of fast. And had she moved one or two inches to her left, I would have hit her especially considering there was a line of bikers behind me. I noticed a not so careful biker was coming up on my left. While he didn’t warn me with voice, his unknowing morning shadow clued me in. And so I spoke.

“On your left, baby!”

“Thank you!”

It must have been the tone of her voice, but I really wanted to hug her. And then I wanted to share some Oreo cookies and tea with her when we reached the bottom.

And just like that a close call ended up becoming one of my most cherished moments all because of a Thank You.

(As an aside, I shot video of my bike ride in yesterday. I strapped my camera to my neck and pushed the lens through the spaces between the buttons on my coat and shot video of the ride. Does anyone [if anyone is even out there today] know how I might optimize this? Does anyone have any splicing suggestions? I haven’t ever done anything like this before. Still images can be seen by clicking below.)

Anyway, Merry Holidays to everyone. Happy New Year, too. I’m feeling warm and fuzzy right now and if I could I’d hug each and every one of you.

I’m on your left. :]

Strike Out

Well, the strike is over. Apparently they’re trying to have the subway up and running as early as tonight, buses too. 100 bucks says some of them are drunk. I’m going to wait until morning.

December Search Strings

I’m probably the only person who finds this sort of thing interesting, but I’m going to share them anyway. Below is a readout of my top (50?) search strings from the month of December.

mihow, funny shit, syriana explanation,, nyc mta salaries, nyc mta salary, average salary mta employee, mta average salary, falatio, average salary mta, mta salaries, nyc mta average salary, ny mta salaries, backup in your ass with the resurrection, average salary mta worker, ruth ann morehouse, ace bar ebay, pinter speech, understanding syriana, mta strike salary, mta worker average salary, alchohol and antibiotics, mta nyc average salary, self falatio, bqe wine, average salary of mta worker, leggs luthor, transit workers average salary, zoloft commercials, harold pinter noble speech, turks and caicos yoga, tickly ears, if socrates is a fine wine then plato is a dry martini, bqe liquors, teenybopers club, mta inflates, person jumps from a tall building hits ground what will happen to them, boogers, bodies the exhibition review, polish swear words, boobies going down stairs, robin lovitt, jeff skoll democratic, jeff skoll and wedding, churducken, bodyworlds south seaport, rachel maddow, mta strike funny, salary mta workers, danceadelphia

A few thoughts: I love the fact that “Back up your ass with the Resurrection” is tucked between a bunch about the MTA and the average salaries.

I also love the fact that so many people had the unfortunate experience of landing on while searching for an explanation of Syriana,

I finally got a few in search of the holy churducken.

I am so sorry someone wants to know about how a person lands after jumping from a tall building. I’m sorrier they landed here alive.

I would like to know more about those in search of “tickly ears.”

Glory Hole

My life has been thrown off because of the MTA strike. I haven’t had very much time to write. I get into work and have to hit the ground running. I left at five yesterday to try and see a little daylight on the way home. The ride home was much more frustrating than the ride in. I’m not sure why this is, but the traffic – human and car – was terrible. It took me a half an hour to get to Toby in SoHo.

On Monday night, I walked to where my car had been parked Sunday night and it was gone. I called the police (who are also responsible for towing) and asked them if they had my car. After a series of forwarding and then a bunch of “Please Hold’s” I was told that my car had been moved for a movie shoot. No warning. No signs. No signs letting me know they had moved my car. They just moved it. They moved it three blocks away. I wrote a long post about this but never had the chance to post it because of the strike. Anyway, that happened. And I still want an apology.

Last night, after hauling ass 60 blocks south to find Toby Joe and then riding over the bridge into Brooklyn, I had my first glass blowing class. It’s a lot like throwing on a potter’s wheel. The difference is it’s a sideways throw and touching the material or leaning into the material could prove to be unbelievably painful but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to! Also, the oven used to reheat the glass after you begin to shape it is called a “GLORY HOLE.” I know I’ve never come off as someone who practices much decorum. I don’t think I’ll ever grow up, but glory hole? “Stick it and get it hot in the glory hole?” “Put the rod in the glory hole?” Come on, now. And then when the student next to you, who happens to be a beautiful older woman, starts to giggle, it’s really hard to hold one’s already dwindling composure.

So, there was that. I made a glass ball, which, at one point, spent time in the glory hole.

All jokes aside, glass blowing is hard. It’s really hard and we haven’t even gotten to the blowing part. But it’s exciting. I’m taking part in something unique.

The ride in this morning was tougher. I’m not sure if it’s the case but there seems to be more people out. Perhaps they’re starting to realize that we might have to live this way for a while? I have no idea. It’s my understanding that they’re “negotiating” once again. Well, let’s hope they come to some sort of agreement. I’m not sure how much longer people in New York will remain cheery. Ah well.

Oh, and speaking of glory holes, my derriere is kicking my ass. I need padded underpants.


Well, they did it.

At one subway booth, a handwritten sign read, ‘Strike in Effect. Station Closed. Happy Holidays!!!’

This is going to be one messed up Christmas here in New York City. And I have no idea what I’m supposed to do about getting to work.

I could walk over the 59th Street Bridge (Queensboro) and walk south to 42nd. Or I could walk over the Wiliamsburg Bridge and walk north. Either way will take me hours.

Edited to add: I am staying home today. I’m going to use a sick day. Tomorrow, assuming they are still on strike, I plan on walking or biking over the Williamsburg Bridge. And I will photograph my entire commute.

We just took a walk up Graham avenue to see if there were any mindful hints or suggestions from those who are stranded on this side of the river. I heard a woman call her boss at the yoga studio in hopes of finding a sub. A student missed his morning classes. People looked confused and helpless. I fit in well among them.

Tomorrow, should prove interesting to say the least. And I can’t wait to hear more stories from other locals.

Edited to add: I just got a call from a friend who biked across the Williamsburg Bridge. Apparently, things up here are actually quite clear. He said that a lot of folks are just going about their business as usual. New Yorkers might whine a lot but overall we’re a tough breed.

Suddenly, tomorrow doesn’t look as bad. I was initially worried that the Bburg bridge would be as busy as the Brooklyn Bridge where so many people were walking it was impossible to bike.