...as they say. None of which I am terribly interested in, but hey that's how it goes when you graduate with a liberal arts degree. Grad School is looking more and more like something I want to do, but the price tag deters me like every other little thing. (Including replacing my 12 year old car, with something new...er) Worrying is for old people, like my Pop Pop, and my parents.
I've had a brutal UTI this past week, and may or may not have passed fragments of kidney stones again. Never a better time to be lacking in health insurance. The game you can play with it is exciting though. I get to place bets with myself regarding how much of one I can pass in one sitting. Urinating blood? That's ok, it's a good sign that there is still blood pumping. I must drink upwards of 50 ounces of water per day, is that not enough? Am I 80 years old with the exterior of a 22 year old? I guess it's kind of hilarious...to me anyway.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
This is old
Some people love candy corn (or simply like it) and some hate it. Who cares either way? I don't mind the stuff, but after a few chews of this waxy confection it gets real old...real fast. Kind of like the upcoming season. I need a sweater in the morning sometimes now, and that's ok. But soon I will need a coat ALL DAY, and that is not something to look forward to. I like pumpkins, pumpkin pies, hay rides and autumn leaves. I do not like feeling pain every time I step out the door, being unable to breath because of sheer wind power, and waking up earlier to warm my car up.
Winter is something to bitch about, and I am getting a head start. But it's OK. The summer equinox hasn't begun yet! There's still time to pretend.
(This is nice to read when I am on the other side of winter. I almost made it through my first "upstate winter" and what a treasure it was. I don't wish to make these a habit.)
Winter is something to bitch about, and I am getting a head start. But it's OK. The summer equinox hasn't begun yet! There's still time to pretend.
(This is nice to read when I am on the other side of winter. I almost made it through my first "upstate winter" and what a treasure it was. I don't wish to make these a habit.)
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Backed out on the Cocks?
While crossing the street a large pick up truck drives by. I realized the secret to buying and keeping these mammoth vehicles (that probably cost over 100 bucks to fill with gas) is the fact that they are "Tax write-offs" for those with "Professional Lawn Care" businesses. Otherwise these brain-less hicks would be walking, or driving 20 year old Chrysler LeBarons.
The normal cat-calls generally come from grizzly men who lack both teeth and tact. "NICE LEGS" or shrill whistling is normal. I ignore it, because God knows acknowledging only encourages their primal and offensive behavior. I also don't take this as a compliment given the source, but also the average weight of women is roughly 300 pounds in this particular neighborhood.
Today I was wearing a fairly simple outfit. Shorts and a T-Shirt. The white travesty flies by and a woman yells to me this time. "NIIIICE OUTFIT!". Her tone was mocking, her face unfortunate. I was puzzled and amused. Was it the fact that I wasn't wearing Old Navy flip flops? Was it because I wasn't wearing sweat pant cutoffs and a stained white shirt? Did I really look that out of place? Then I remember, she lives in a mountain and drinks Schlitz like it's water.
The woman probably has 13 children, whom she strategically employed promptly as they turned five. I can imagine her cigarette damaged voice screaming at them. "Mow Faster! Mommy's gotta fill the tank today!"
Maybe this is an exaggeration. Somehow I doubt it. I really thought Warren County was the end of the line regarding country living. I am proven wrong once again. There are normal people here, but the ones who have never left NY state are much more fun and inappropriate to discuss. I want to drink with them, try to understand them. But I realize there's not much to understand. If I got on their good side though, they would learn that I am a person too! Not some anomaly.
Perhaps the two worlds should never mix. Besides, what could make for a better story to tell the family at dinner while roasting a pig. "I saw this gal today, she looked reallll weird...she musta thought she was in the city or somethin'. Overdressed and all that shit."
The normal cat-calls generally come from grizzly men who lack both teeth and tact. "NICE LEGS" or shrill whistling is normal. I ignore it, because God knows acknowledging only encourages their primal and offensive behavior. I also don't take this as a compliment given the source, but also the average weight of women is roughly 300 pounds in this particular neighborhood.
Today I was wearing a fairly simple outfit. Shorts and a T-Shirt. The white travesty flies by and a woman yells to me this time. "NIIIICE OUTFIT!". Her tone was mocking, her face unfortunate. I was puzzled and amused. Was it the fact that I wasn't wearing Old Navy flip flops? Was it because I wasn't wearing sweat pant cutoffs and a stained white shirt? Did I really look that out of place? Then I remember, she lives in a mountain and drinks Schlitz like it's water.
The woman probably has 13 children, whom she strategically employed promptly as they turned five. I can imagine her cigarette damaged voice screaming at them. "Mow Faster! Mommy's gotta fill the tank today!"
Maybe this is an exaggeration. Somehow I doubt it. I really thought Warren County was the end of the line regarding country living. I am proven wrong once again. There are normal people here, but the ones who have never left NY state are much more fun and inappropriate to discuss. I want to drink with them, try to understand them. But I realize there's not much to understand. If I got on their good side though, they would learn that I am a person too! Not some anomaly.
Perhaps the two worlds should never mix. Besides, what could make for a better story to tell the family at dinner while roasting a pig. "I saw this gal today, she looked reallll weird...she musta thought she was in the city or somethin'. Overdressed and all that shit."
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Nostalgia King
Dress shoes come in two styles: Frumpy or Tacky.
Pizza in this area comes in two flavors: Bland or Unpalatable.
There is a curfew at the mall for those under 18. Oh to be young and robbed of shopping privileges.
Pizza in this area comes in two flavors: Bland or Unpalatable.
There is a curfew at the mall for those under 18. Oh to be young and robbed of shopping privileges.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Old News, But Good News
I hate Canal Street, people swarming around confused and weighed down by fanny packs. Endless blocks of low rent "shops" filled with key chains and unattractive sunglasses. But this was the destination, the meeting spot. The pavement was swallowing up my feet by sheer warmth. My pale skin cried out for sunblock.
The line for the grody Subway bathroom stretched to the door. It just wasn't a viable option to start saving my epidermis from a red and painful demise. So Mike and I decided to stop in front of an apparently renowned dumpling restaurant. The Zagat Rated stickers and articles from 1998 prove to passing pedestrians the legitimacy of their meat filled dough. I began to apply the lotion, as if this were a concrete beach. I glanced into the window to make sure I had blended the protection adequately across my face. A couple looked up at me from their booth, confused. If nothing else, this created conversation at points where lulls were inevitable. I was not embarrassed one bit, exhaustion trumped any dignity at this point.
We soon caught sight of the tourist couple. They wore "New York" baseball caps to block out the brutal sun. (And to show their love for 'The Big Apple') They walked purposely in our direction; on the lookout for the best deals. They were a large breed, perhaps Mid-Western. At the very least I am certain they hailed from a place similar to Dutch Country, Pennsylvania. The Asian sales representative of knock off bags quickly approached them. She is seasoned, but moreso pushy and talented at spotting the easily impressed. A new marketing tool is shoved in their faces. It's a tiny, well designed color brochure showing what is available to them. Louis Vutton, Prada, Gucci, all at stunningly low prices. Never mind they are manufactured in sweat shops, and the faux tags generally fall off immediately after you've surrendered your 30 dollars.
The wife nodded at her husband. She made a gesture at the bag hawker which indicated interest. The vendor shot up her pointer finger, asking them to hold on one second. She walked away, but quickly returned to her customers. They followed her, much to our surprise, into a Dodge minivan. The sales rep slid the rear door shut. I panicked for a moment. Are they being kidnapped? For what purpose? Were they going to bring them to a factory in Hong Kong and show them what it means to manufacture these bags they so desire? Guerrilla lesson teaching?
I quickly walked up to the driver's side window, expecting an unsavory character to start the engine and peel off with this naive pair trapped inside. I breathed relief when I saw no such person. As quickly as it began the couple exited the van. The husband clutched his backpack for dear life. He was protecting their investment. The woman barely nodded to them as they sauntered away. She was already on the lookout for her next target.
My phone rang. It was Kat asking for our location. I still had suntan lotion smeared on my hands so Mike had to answer the phone and hold it to my ear. We laughed obnoxiously, maybe even made a small scene amongst the chaos. But we were headed to Coney Island, the ultimate Freak Show. We approached the wrong subway station and turned around, NOW who looks like the tourist?
The line for the grody Subway bathroom stretched to the door. It just wasn't a viable option to start saving my epidermis from a red and painful demise. So Mike and I decided to stop in front of an apparently renowned dumpling restaurant. The Zagat Rated stickers and articles from 1998 prove to passing pedestrians the legitimacy of their meat filled dough. I began to apply the lotion, as if this were a concrete beach. I glanced into the window to make sure I had blended the protection adequately across my face. A couple looked up at me from their booth, confused. If nothing else, this created conversation at points where lulls were inevitable. I was not embarrassed one bit, exhaustion trumped any dignity at this point.
We soon caught sight of the tourist couple. They wore "New York" baseball caps to block out the brutal sun. (And to show their love for 'The Big Apple') They walked purposely in our direction; on the lookout for the best deals. They were a large breed, perhaps Mid-Western. At the very least I am certain they hailed from a place similar to Dutch Country, Pennsylvania. The Asian sales representative of knock off bags quickly approached them. She is seasoned, but moreso pushy and talented at spotting the easily impressed. A new marketing tool is shoved in their faces. It's a tiny, well designed color brochure showing what is available to them. Louis Vutton, Prada, Gucci, all at stunningly low prices. Never mind they are manufactured in sweat shops, and the faux tags generally fall off immediately after you've surrendered your 30 dollars.
The wife nodded at her husband. She made a gesture at the bag hawker which indicated interest. The vendor shot up her pointer finger, asking them to hold on one second. She walked away, but quickly returned to her customers. They followed her, much to our surprise, into a Dodge minivan. The sales rep slid the rear door shut. I panicked for a moment. Are they being kidnapped? For what purpose? Were they going to bring them to a factory in Hong Kong and show them what it means to manufacture these bags they so desire? Guerrilla lesson teaching?
I quickly walked up to the driver's side window, expecting an unsavory character to start the engine and peel off with this naive pair trapped inside. I breathed relief when I saw no such person. As quickly as it began the couple exited the van. The husband clutched his backpack for dear life. He was protecting their investment. The woman barely nodded to them as they sauntered away. She was already on the lookout for her next target.
My phone rang. It was Kat asking for our location. I still had suntan lotion smeared on my hands so Mike had to answer the phone and hold it to my ear. We laughed obnoxiously, maybe even made a small scene amongst the chaos. But we were headed to Coney Island, the ultimate Freak Show. We approached the wrong subway station and turned around, NOW who looks like the tourist?
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Massive confusion with no humor involved
Should I attempt to take classes? Should I wait until I can pay for them? Should I legitimately apply? Is it useless to try? Rhyming unintended. Caffeine is not making me giddy this time around, more like inducing my state of confusion and feeling of inferiority. Mainly would I be doing this to lessen my anxiety rather than working towards a goal I am actually interested in? Why didn't I think of these things two years ago? Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.
Friday, July 18, 2008
I thought yesterday was Friday
Upon jogging down a local bike path I have seen some notable things the past couple of months. Bunnies the size of my fist grazing in the grass. An Asian man walking backwards, but turning around sheepishly as I pass him. (I was running forward.)An innumerable amount of dog waste left by irresponsible pet owners. And a woman holding her dogs...rather than walking them.
Perhaps my favorite sight thus far has been the Mother and Daughter teams out for their evening "exercise". They walk at the pace of snails in leisure wear, gossiping about family. Sometimes they have dogs with them, sometimes they wear scowls on their faces.
The common thread is that they walk on the left side of the path. We are not in Europe. No matter how much I wish this to be true...it's just not the case. People drive on the right side, why would we walk on the left? There are signs posted to prevent this. They say to "keep to the right, pass on the left." Seems simple enough. I guess they never had my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Andresen. She stood in the middle of the hallway when changing classes and sang melodically "To the right, To the right, To the right right right"
This aggravated my young mindset, but now I wish to shout it at these flabby women. What if a bike comes barreling at me, and as I am forced to pass them on the right...the bike flattens me? What if one of those police 4 -wheelers issues me a ticket for passing on the right? So many terrible possibilities that will likely never happen. But come on. It's the principle.
Perhaps my favorite sight thus far has been the Mother and Daughter teams out for their evening "exercise". They walk at the pace of snails in leisure wear, gossiping about family. Sometimes they have dogs with them, sometimes they wear scowls on their faces.
The common thread is that they walk on the left side of the path. We are not in Europe. No matter how much I wish this to be true...it's just not the case. People drive on the right side, why would we walk on the left? There are signs posted to prevent this. They say to "keep to the right, pass on the left." Seems simple enough. I guess they never had my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Andresen. She stood in the middle of the hallway when changing classes and sang melodically "To the right, To the right, To the right right right"
This aggravated my young mindset, but now I wish to shout it at these flabby women. What if a bike comes barreling at me, and as I am forced to pass them on the right...the bike flattens me? What if one of those police 4 -wheelers issues me a ticket for passing on the right? So many terrible possibilities that will likely never happen. But come on. It's the principle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
