Seat's Taken.

Today on the crowded morning train I happened to overhear a girl tell her friend that she spilled Pepsi all over the seat next to her. This is something I've been fearing for awhile.  

In most other cities this soda seat wouldn't have been a problem. Plastic seats make spills and goo completely visible--it's the very least public transportation can do for its riders.  But in Boston, the T seats are covered in this hideous fabric that could basically hide anything.  Every time I sit down, I'm sure I'm about to have wet pants. 

When the girl and her friend got off the train a few stops after I'd learned the news about the soaking wet seat, I took it as my personal responsibility to inform every new passenger on my train car about it. I stood by the train doors and kept repeating, "Don't sit there, it's wet." "Don't sit there, it's wet." "That seat's wet, don't sit there." "That's a wet seat, don't sit in it." as I pointed to the accident seat and started to feel good about my random act of kindness.

The doors closed and I thought to myself, hey, nice work, J. You just saved a person's morning from being ruined!

But as the train rolled on it occurred to me that everyone I just talked to was probably thinking to themselves, How does she know? 

Then I started to get paranoid thinking about what they might be thinking. I debated making a general announcement, something along the lines of, "Hi everybody. I didn't pee on that seat. If that's what you were thinking, you're wrong."  

But I didn't.

Goal Setting.

I heard a story the other night about a person named... wait for it... Pooty McBurger.

Say it out loud please.

Pooty McBurger. That's the man's name. Pooty. McBurger.

The storyteller swears that the name is true. Apparently his parents were from Nigeria and wanted the most American name possible. Hence, Pooty. Obviously. 

I share this only because since hearing the name, it's been impossible for me to say "Pooty McBurger" with a straight face. To be honest, I can't even think about it without smiling. I've decided that when I can casually mention Pooty McBurger in conversation without my eyes watering, I'll be a grown up. It'd be nice to reach that marker by the end of the year. 

I'll keep you posted.  

So Why Not Just Say That?

Saw an ad for a place called The Garment District that read as follows:

The Garment District.

It's Not A District. It's a store.

I want to meet the person who wrote that slogan and flick them on the forehead.

Something With A View.

Lately I've been seeing a lot of kids sitting in strollers that look like this:

It looks fine when there are no babies in it, but when you actually see it with passengers, it's quite obvious one of the children is getting a raw deal. While the baby up top has access to street views, interaction with people, enough room to kick if so inclined, the bottom baby is simply staring at the mesh padding of the seat in front of it. I even saw one mother toss her purse in with the bottom baby. That's not storage, ma'am.  You have a baby in there. Years from now, studies will show that the child sitting in the bottom seat is someone who prefers to stare at walls.

But things could be worse.  The other day in the park I noticed a child too scared to approach a group of dogs that were playing together. The boy took a few steps in the direction of the dogs, and then ran back to his mother.  This continued until finally, the mother picked him up, put him into her granny cart, and wheeled him into the circle of dogs. This is a granny cart if unfamiliar:

    It was like a shark tank cage for a puppy play date.  The little kid stuck his fingers out of the cart to pet some of the dogs, and when he started to get scared again, the mother would wheel him out backwards.  

As I watched this, I felt like I was witnessing the reason why therapy exists. 

Sadly, this was not the first time I've seen a granny cart used as a stroller.  One time in Queens Brina pointed out a woman pushing her two kids down the street in a granny cart. The kids were standing upright and secured in the cart with what appeared to be some sort of luggage strap. Obviously there were some safety issues there, but at least both kids had the same view.

"But Where Does The Meat Go?"

Found this job posting on Craigslist:

"Line Cook- Raw Vegan Cafe."

According to the ad, the position requires at least two years of kitchen experience.

Right. Two years kitchen experience for a raw food cook. Raw food. Cook. And do you think it's actual kitchen experience, or two years experience in a raw food kitchen? And what does a raw food kitchen even look like? It's just a knife and a salad spinner, right?

Anyway, I thought the title of line cook was funny. Aren't vegan raw food cooks usually called vegetable trays?

Heart of Stone.

I'm used to hearing and seeing the worst performers ever on public transportation.  There was a woman in NY who played a Fisher-Price piano type thing that she could also blow into, so you can imagine how well that went.  The music was never the main part of her act though.  It was the fact that she stood with one leg on the train floor, one leg leaning up against a pole, and 2 hands on the piano horn.  At every stop she would struggle to keep from flying to the ground. 

It was actually pretty sad.

That's why last night's train ride home was such a pleasant surprise.  When I entered the station I was welcomed by what can only be described as the best Doo-Wop group I've ever heard. I'm a sucker for a good Doo-Wop group.  And when they broke out into a crazy rendition of The Tymes' So Much In Love I thought to myself, "Take note, piano horn lady." 

When the train rolled up I was disappointed that I'd have to leave the music, but awesomely, all of the guys got on my train car. So for my entire ride home, non-stop insanely good Doo-Wop. I once had a Mariachi Band ride on my train car from Queensboro to Shea, but after about 4 subway stops of Mariachi, you tend to get the gist.  

During a cover of We Are The World--the Doo-Wop cover, not the Mariachi--the entire train car started clapping in unison. People were swaying back and forth, singing along, smiling. It was a total goose bump moment without even the slightest hint of cheesiness. I was looking around the train car, amazed by how quickly a group of strangers can connect, when I saw a girl sitting across from me, hunched over a huge text book, basically frowning, using her hands to cover her ears in such an exaggerated fashion it looked like she was holding a basketball instead of her head.  It killed me. What kind of igneous rock does your heart have to be made of to get so mad during free train ride Doo-Wop?

Qualifications.

Frankly, I wouldn't want to work for a company that refused to accept this link in lieu of my resume. 

That Reminds Me.

My father interrupted Nessa mid-sentence yesterday by saying, "OH! That reminds me!"

I don't actually remember what she was talking about, but I know for a fact it was nothing that could have possibly reminded him of the story he told. 

Dad: So I was driving one of the old Oliver tractors back to the farm last week and a bee flew right against my teeth and the impact killed it. A bee! Right into my teeth! It died! Can you believe it?    

We all stared at each other in silence for about 30 seconds.

Me: Dad, you just interrupted Nessa to tell a story about killing a bee with your teeth.  

Dad: Oh, sorry. I just thought about it.

Ness: I don't get it. Your teeth were exposed while you were driving a tractor down the road?

Exposing all her teeth into a freakishly giant smile she added, "Who drives like that?" 

My dad started smiling thinking about it and he goes, "You know, out there with nature. It's nice."

I don't want to know how my father's mind works, but I've really learned to appreciate it. 

Good Read.

Sorting through a box of old stuff, I found a collection of short stories my little sister wrote in elementary school.  While movies are usually remembered for their last line, they say that the most memorable line in a book is the opening. In the case of Vanessa's work, I'd have to say that's true.

Here are how three of her different short stories started:

"Vanessa, Caitlin, TiTi, Brynne, and Yonghee were all going to Florida together."

-From The Search

"One day Caitlin, Brynne, Yonghee, TiTi, and Vanessa were on the school playground talking."

From The Christmas I'd Never Forget

And my personal favorite, 

"'I can't wait until we go to India.' announced TiTi. Vanessa and Caitlin were busy packing while Yonghee and Brynne were playing Sega."

From Our Dangerous Adventure

Talk about setting the scene! 

I also found a very long piece written by Sabrina entitled, Fight Once, Fight Again. 

I didn't read the entire thing but I'm guessing it was not about conflict resolution.

Treppenwitz.

I've been a lifelong sufferer of Treppenwitz, or "L'esprit de l'escalier" (staircase wit). The phrase comes from walking down a staircase to leave a place and suddenly thinking of the perfect thing to say. "Yeah? Well the jerk store called..." That sort of thing. 

I'm always thinking of the perfect thing to say days after the opportunity to use it has passed. But there's no chic-sounding french phrase that roughly translates to, "A week after missing a great chance to say something witty, you come up with a clever retort while watching House Hunters, slightly drunk, in your pajamas."

Anyway, when I asked a salesman the price of something the other day, instead of just telling me, he said, "I can be flexible on the price. What are you looking to spend?"

Note: I hate haggling. I'm terrible at it, I don't enjoy it on any level, and i would prefer things to simply have a set price. 

"Um, well how much does it cost? Then I'll see if that's what I want to spend."

So he goes, "This is the price I can do." And he slid the number over to me.

It was a scene straight out of a bad TV show where negotiations are made by writing down a figure and passing it back and forth to each other to work out a price. Only, I didn't want to do this. And, instead of like in those TV shows where the numbers are written down on paper, folded in half and passed across the table, this number exchange happened on, wait for it, a calculator.  

A calculator! Who has ever heard of a calculator haggle?! There was no one around us, there was no reason to be secretive, and it was totally pointless to not just say the number. Did he expect me to type a number back to him? Fighting an eye-roll with every bit of my being, I thanked him and started to walk away.

"Wait, what number were you thinking?" (This guy would make a terrible magician.) 

I was tempted to play along because I thought it might be fun to say something like, "I'm thinking of something closer to... this." But I wasn't sure how calculator haggling worked so I just said, "It's OK, thanks anyway."

But of course, today, in true staircase fashion, I thought of how funny it would have been to take the calculator, squint like I was thinking of a fair price, clear his number away, and type BOOB, before passing it back to him.  It was probably the only real opportunity I will ever have to type BOOB on a calculator and I missed it. Sorry, third grade version of me. I let you down. 

Keeping It Real.

My old buddy Matt has always had the brilliant talent of cutting through bs when talking to people. I appreciate this on so many levels but mainly because a) The truth can be hilarious and b) I feel like he's sort of the last of the Mohicans in terms of being honest about what's going on in his life.

These are weird times. If you're not trying to find yourself (I was under the sofa cushion all along!) you're trying to find your calling, or career path, or soulmate, or cause, or purpose, or anything that you can use to talk about with confidence when you run into people who want to know what you're doing. And it seems like everyone our age is constantly working on finely tuning the answers they give, so not only do they sound important, but you usually have no idea what they're talking about.  

-Do you ever hear from so-and-so?

-Oh, yeah, just saw her the other day.

-What's she up to?

-Um, I don't really know. I think she's either like making or buying all of the money that goes into Canada? I'm not sure. It has to do with money, and computers, and I think she said something about babies.

Anyway, whenever I hear from Matt I remember how great it is to know someone who refuses to sugarcoat things. This is from our conversation:

Me: So are you liking that new job?

Matt: No. I hate it. I go in, do 20-minutes of data entry and then surf the internet until I go home.

Me: And it's full time?

Matt: Yeah. It's a lot of internet time. Last week, after watching every available YouTube video on the topic, and I learned how to make cheese. If I wanted to, I could make cheese.  I know everything there is to know about making cheese.

Me: Wow. But maybe make a few test batches before serving your friends Internet cheese.

Matt: I don't need to. My cheese would be awesome. 

Well, That's Not Normal.

My cousin was telling us that the other day he saw a man walking down the side of the road carrying a giant pig's head. It turns out that man was our uncle.  

This is how Jonny described it:

"I was driving near Grandma's house, and some guy was walking down the road carrying a giant pig's head. Then I saw my mother walking about 10 feet behind the man with the pig's head. So I turned around."

The "pig" is in fact, a wild boar. And it has been mounted to a wall. And it has been named Harvey. And it was purchased for $20 at--I kid you not--at a taxidermist's yard sale.  (I'm sorry, but I seriously want to write a book called A Taxidermist's Yard Sale.) 

A buddy of mine made an excellent point upon hearing that taxidermists have yard sales by saying, "Sure, you have to get rid of the product. Taxidermists are kind of like car salesmen in that respect.  You can't stack 'em." 

It was such a valid argument that I almost thought it made everything OK. But then I decided, nope. It's still effing weird.  

Apparently my uncle wanted to buy a falcon too, but my aunt said she wouldn't help him carry it home, so he didn't. 

If you've never seen a wild boar head in person, it is INCREDIBLY scary. Honestly. I have a picture of Harvey but I don't actually want it on my blog so you'll just have to take my word for it.  However, this was my sister's face after seeing it for the first time, if that gives you any indication of how creepy it is. 

 

The Scariest First Day Of School Ever.

Wealthy people who are headed to jail now have the option to learn about what they should be expecting behind bars thanks to a growing field of experts known as prison consultants. Time Magazine reports that people such as Bernie Madoff and Plaxico Burress have hired these prison coaches to learn how to handle themselves while incarcerated. 

Note: Burress is going to jail after shooting himself in the leg with an unlicensed gun he put in his sweatpants. I know nothing about guns but I know TONS about sweatpants. Anyone who has ever tried to put their ipod in the waist of their sweatpants knows how big of a moron this guy is. 

Anyway, prison consultants charge $100/hr for phone consultations, $150/hr for webinars, or for $20,000 a person can sign up for a 100-hour course. I imagine the course is divided into these fundamental units of prison education:

-Shiv Making

-Economics. Namely, learning the USD conversion rate for a pack of cigarettes.

-Intro to Rec Yard Culture

-Art Appreciation

-History of Eye Aversion. A look at historical figures from Ancient Egypt to modern times who managed to always keep their heads down.

-Viticulture & Enology: How to make toilet wine.

It Makes For A Pretty Lame BBQ.

In the latest "I'm an idiot" news, this was my end of a phone conversation with a potential roommate the other day:

-Sorry, a what?

-No, I'm single.

-What's that? Oh, a grill. Uh, no. I don't have one of those either. 

My New Favorite Story.

I was handing Sabrina my coffee the other night so she could dip part of her cookie into it and she goes, "Get your filthy hands off of it! I want to hold it!" and then smiled like I should know what she was talking about.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know, like that lady from the gum story."

"What gum story?"

"THE gum story. The lady on the train. I've told you that story, right?"

"Um, no."

Bugging her eyes out as wide as she could, she smacked the sofa cushion and yelled, "I've never told you the story about the gum lady?!"

"No."

"Oh my gosh! I'm so excited! This is my favorite story to tell!"

OK, so I have to say that typing this story out will strip it of most of its dramatic integrity.  The best part was the way Bri told it.  But this will have to do.  For the part of the old lady, it's important to know that the voice Sabrina used was a cross between the Lord of The Rings "Precious" character and a frog.  Also, she swears that all of this is 100% true. As follows in Brina's words.

I was sitting on the train across from a girl in her early 20's and at a stop an old woman wearing layers and layers of clothes and a babushka on her head got on and sat down next to her. The girl took out a pack of Orbitz gum from her bag, grabbed a piece, and put the pack back in her bag when all of a sudden you hear, "Can I have some gum?!"  The girl looked up to see who was talking to her and again you hear, "Can I have some gum?!"  She turned to the old woman to see if it was her voice coming out of the babushka and said, "Sorry? Do you want a piece?" and the woman goes, "Yeah."

So the girl once again takes the pack of gum out of her bag, opens it up, reaches for a stick, and the woman starts to scream, "Get your filthy hands off of it! I want to hold it!"

By this point everyone on the train car was watching.  Slightly confused, the girl handed her the pack of gum and the old woman quickly started to touch every piece before finally grabbing all of the gum out of the pack and throwing the box on the ground. Hesitating for a second, the girl simply leaned over and picked up the empty pack from the floor.  

The old woman, now holding all of the gum, opened her own bag and reached around inside before pulling out a huge clear plastic bag.  A huge clear plastic bag FULL OF GUM! She dumped all of the new pieces into the bag and put it away. When the doors opened at the next stop, the old lady got off the train.

I have a theory that everyone in the world likes to be offered gum, so I think that's why I enjoyed this story so much.  But maybe it was just the funny voice Brina was using.

Karianne And Pat's Wedding.

My cousin Karianne is basically the sweetest person in the entire world and conveniently, she just married one of the sweetest guys.  Pics from their wedding last weekend.

The Second Amendment.

Thanks to a newfound obsession with protein shakes, my little sister has taken to challenging random beefy strangers to flex-offs.

When she starts to pull cars with rope, we're having an intervention to get her back on regular fruit smoothies. 

Watch Your Step.

Guests and servants leaving a room after seeing the Queen of England will no longer be required to walk backwards. The longstanding royal tradition of never showing your back to the Queen was lifted for safety reasons after Her Majesty redecorated most of Buckingham Palace using an M.C. Escher design motif.

Buck Melanoma. Moley Russell's Wart.

Not her wart. Not her wart! I'm...I'm the wart. She's my tumor. My...my growth. My...uh, my pimple. I'm Uncle Wart. Just old Buck "Wart" Russell. That's what they call me. Or Melanoma Head. They'll call me that. "Melanoma Head's coming." I'm...uncle! Maisy Russell's uncle!

Writer and director John Hughes passed away yesterday. When my family talks about "the classics" we're referring to films like Uncle Buck or The Great Outdoors or Ferris Bueller's Day Off. And while it's quite common for my father to forget my name when he's talking to me, he somehow remembers every single line from Christmas Vacation.

My sisters and I grew up watching John Hughes movies on repeat. We memorized entire screenplays just by rewinding funny scenes and playing them over and over. Quoting lines to each other was always a road trip game, or just a guaranteed way to make someone in our family laugh out loud. As we grew older, random quotes from his scripts became code. I've had entire conversations with my sisters using only lines from John Hughes films.

I was talking to Sabrina about it and she agreed that his writing truly shaped so much of what we find funny. And she made an excellent point by saying, "We thought our family was normal because of his movies."

Moving Too Fast.

I was on the phone with a customer service rep the other day and just before hanging up I said, "OK, thanks. Love you."

I do this more often than I'd like to admit.

I'm so used to slowly enunciating my commands into the phone for robot options, that when I actually speak to a human, I slip.
"CUS-TOM-ER SER-VICE."
"Yes, this is a real person you're talking to."
"Oh, sorry."

And it wouldn't be so awkward if I just hung up. "Love you!" Click. It might give them a chuckle. But I never just leave it. If I happen to say "love you" I immediately start to explain the error.

"Sorry, I didn't mean that. I don't love you. I don't even know you. But I mean, I'm sure the people who know you love you. I bet you're a really nice person. You have a very nice speaking voice. But that's not like a line or anything. Like, 'Hey, nice voice, why don't you call me next time? Press # for more options.' Right? And I don't even know what that means. It was supposed to be like a menu options joke. It didn't make sense. Anyway...umm...thanks again for your help, and uhh, have a nice day."

It wouldn't be so bad except there's a very strong possibility that for quality assurance purposes, my calls may be recorded.