Just as I was cursing out Troy...

3 large men shoved my car out of the ice it was floundering on.

After spending a good 40 minutes picking at the precipitation mixed with exhaust whilst shoveling until I hit pavement...I decided the car would likely be movable. I start my princess up...and the wheels did nothing but spin. Perhaps they even moved one centimeter. I started swearing I would never live in a place that required street parking again. No, I promised myself I would never live in a place that required a car, period. As I slammed my skull against the headrest repeatedly in frustration...a man with glassy eyes and pupils that spanned his entire eye socket walked by. Normally I would pray that someone would be so kind as to offer help. But I don't think I wanted assistance from the resident crack head.

I climbed out of the car almost face-planting on Second Avenue. A bus flew by; dangerously close to taking my young life. I continued picking at ice like a fisherman on a frozen lake. Though instead of catching fish...I would have the "privilege" of DRIVING my CAR. How novel. I took a few breaks to stare at people passing by. Pleading with my eyes for assistance, but I was too prideful to speak up. I moved forward, while almost convincing myself that it would be worth having the car towed on Tuesday in order to have it mobile again. $100+ seemed reasonable to me; so long as I didn't have to shovel dense snow blanketed by car fumes anymore.

Some people beeped and yelled at me as I kept at it. I realized later I had no idea what they were saying. Most around here speak a language unto itself...not quite English...maybe even closer to prehistoric grunting. Maybe they were offering words of encouragement. Maybe my attire was too radical like I'd been told so politely this previous summer. The only sure thing is that they should really mind their own damn business and read a book. Or a dead sea scroll because that's how evolved they seem to be. Perhaps their language has no written form yet, which would explain quite a bit. But they sure have mastered car horn technology.

Just as I was looking toward the sky pleading to a God I am not so sure I believe in, a man across the street asked if I would like him to try to get the car out. I enthusiastically said "yes", "please", and "thank you" thirty times consecutively. He also had trouble. At one point I covered my face because I honestly believed my tire would fly off and take my head with it. Shortly after, two other well fed men stepped outside of the small diner across the street I had eaten at mere hours before. Both of them pushed the back end of my car, as the original savior was steering. It finally jolted forward into safe territory. I rejoiced, and said my thank yous profusely. They laughed a little and responded with a nonchalant "you're welcome" as they sauntered across the street for more coffee and bacon.

Things to Do...

These are not "New Year's Resolutions"; but rather lifetime resolutions...as in I hope I do them before I am 80. If not I will be forever disappointed.

1.) Write more (Meaning: write things I wouldn't mind others seeing.)
2.) Learn to really use the beautiful camera I just bought.
3.) Buy a sewing machine...relearn to sew. (We all know I hate most clothing on the market...or the clothing I can actually afford. It's time to make my own shit.)
4.) Buy a damn GRE book...I guess.
5.) READ.

So I already exercise often, and I don't want to obsess over saving money because I do that. I hope this sets me apart from the banality of most resolutions that never come to fruition.

Many irons in the fire

...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.

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.)

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."

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.

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?