Tag Archives: Life

Death by Umbrella

13 May

Disaster lurks in every crevice of a New Yorker’s life when raindrops keep falling on our heads.

I fear rainy days in New York City.  Anyone who’s walked the city streets amidst falling droplets can attest to the fact that people take lives into their hands when navigating through a sea of umbrellas inconveniently held at eye level.  It’s as if the entire population of Manhattan has been given a mission to take you out one eye at a time.  And, as the world attacks with nylon, a woman is left defenseless, cold, alone, and frizzy.

I hate frizz.  What’s to love?  It’s uncanny ability to transform a wonderful hair day into one with a hairstyle resembling a series of small, blond rodents on top of my head?  No.  Frizz is the bane of my existence, and yet, I always try to protect against it.

As rain pours down, I grasp a tiny umbrella with one hand and my hair in the other to defend it from descending moisture.  I incessantly fail because, as it turns out, rain doesn’t just fall down.  No, rain has to beat my system by falling like the Wonkavator – upways and downways and front ways and back ways and sideways.  There’s no way to protect against it…without a poncho.

A poncho!  That’s a bigger fashion don’t than any rain-induced hairstyle, and I refuse to go rocking a yellow, Disney World cape as I stroll up 8th Avenue.  Ever.

I’m forced to continue onwards and against the elements – half wishing I didn’t care about ponchos ruining my outfit and fully cursing the rain for, well, everything.

Then my phone rings.

Of course it does.

My phone can’t ring when I’m waiting for a guy to call, but of course it’ll ring when answering it seems harder than scoring a date with Derek Jeter.  And, God forbid I let the call go to voicemail.  I have to answer it because, in my deluded mind, whoever is calling is calling about something really important.  Never is.  It’s always someone I’m really happy to hear from though – like a researcher who wants to know if I have five minutes for a brief survey about global warming.

When it’s about fifty degrees and raining in May, why would you call anyone to ask about global warming?  Like tons of people are going to say they’re obsessed with the unseasonably low temperatures we’re experiencing?  Please.  Luckily, the researcher regretted calling me as much as I regretted answering upon his listening to my master plan to make Americans release more CFCs per week and increase New York City temperatures.

Take that research analysts.

After our brief discussion, I hung up with him and took my eyes off the crowded sidewalk for approximately three seconds to put away my phone.  Three seconds, and yet, when my eyes returned to front, I felt like a female Frogger, trying to dodge colored umbrellas as they attacked.  I thought umbrellas were meant to be defensive protective agents against rain, snow, and crime, not combative tools used to fight harmless women trying to make it home during rush hour.  Did I miss something?

Then it happened.  At 5:24 PM, I fell victim to an umbrella assault when I took one to the face.  I saw nothing – nothing but a purple blob hitting my forehead, drenching the only dry portion of my hair that remained.

At least a cab didn’t splash me with an eleven-inch puddle of water…this time.

PDA and the MTA

10 May

Deep in the trenches of subway moles and rats, couples that feel the need to mouthily attach each other are taking public displays of affection to a new level.

Perhaps I’m too traditional for New York City.  I’ve always been the type of girl who’d rather be asked on dates than groped in the back of some bar by a guy I just met.  I guess you can say I’ve always believed in romance and courtship over a hot fling or public make-out session.  Based on this, I’m sure you can imagine my utter sadness when I witnessed the day the romance died last week.

As I stood on the subway platform, having just been rejuvenated by yoga and a weekly trip to my favorite restaurant, I took a gander at my surroundings and laid eyes on a man and woman going at it on the subway stairs.  What began as an innocent kiss quickly turned into an all out fondling session.  In the midst of passionate lip locking, Mr. Lovemetender’s hand traveled down south before settling in mystery woman’s grand canyons.  (Insert jaw dropping facial reaction here.)

Everyone was watching.  How could we not?  How could anyone possibly focus on something besides the couple recreating a scene from Driving Into Miss Daisy right before our very eyes?

I didn’t get it.  Since when is a subway station considered an aphrodisiac?  Aren’t there hotels, apartments, bars, and random alleys for this type of behavior?  Clearly, I’m missing something because rats and Whitney Houston impersonators don’t put me in the mood to touch someone let alone partake in a love-fest in front of complete strangers.

I mean, a subway station reeking of pee and stale air?  Really?  That’s what can arouse this woman to the point of no kissing return?  You have to be kidding me.

In my mind, this is the end of romance.

How can any woman expect to be swept off her feet if the D Train excites certain people as much as a weekend getaway?  Who can compete with that?  Nobody.

Men should be happy to know that, as it seems, they don’t have to buy a woman expensive dinners or flowers to get her to “put out,” so to speak.  Screw long walks on the beach and jewelry.  All a New York man apparently needs to do to get a woman in the mood is bring her to the West 4th subway station and seduce her with turnstiles, mystery liquids, and the wafting aroma of something that died in 1987.

A Walk By Pick-Up

6 May

A woman is never safe from a man on the prowl.

I’ve always been amused by confidence.  Some of the hottest, nicest, funniest guys I know have none of it, yet men who walk the New York City streets seem to have confidence oozing out of their tight jeans and designer sunglasses.

Well, at least this guy did.

I think that wearing headphones is code for two things: I like music and don’t talk to me.  Maybe not for everyone, but that’s what it means when I’m wearing headphones.  So, you could imagine my surprise when a man walked up behind me on 8th Avenue and tapped me on the shoulder.

Note: Sneaking up behind a woman in NYC and touching her, in any capacity, is never a good idea.

Sadly, when I turned left, all I could see was Mr. Smooth with aviators shading his eyes, wearing a cream t-shirt with large silver writing all over it.  Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t unattractive, and the t-shirt did show off his bulging biceps, but did his first, second, third and forth comments have to be about my legs?  The one day I wear shorts!

I felt like the woman in the old sexual harassment commercials, getting smaller and smaller by the block, until I was practically miniscule when we hit Columbus Circle. Perhaps I shouldn’t have engaged in conversation at all, but when you’re walking next to someone and they keep talking to you, what’s a girl to do?  I thought about pretending to be foreign, but his Italian accent didn’t seem like it came from Little Italy, and I didn’t want us to “bond” over being foreigners living in the city.

So, I did what I think most women would do – pretended to be late and started walking faster.  On cue, he asked if he could talk to me again.  I said sure and kept walking, hoping he wouldn’t realize that he had no way of contacting me.  No dice.

He asked if he could text me.  Not that I had any intention of speaking to him again, but I definitely wouldn’t put up with a guy who texts instead of calls…again.  I explained that my cell phone didn’t have text messaging.  I lied.  I gave him my landline number (just as an experiment to see if he would call) and said it was the best way to reach me.  I lied again.

I told him to call the next night after seven.  He called at 7:15.   I decided to let the machine get it, but he didn’t even stay on the line long enough for the machine to pick up!  Who calls but doesn’t leave a message?

I had no right to be, since I didn’t even like him, but I was annoyed.  Maybe he wasn’t so confident after all – at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Maybe She’s Just Not That Into You

3 May

Women aren’t the only ones misunderstanding the opposite sex

As the phrase “he’s just not that into you” is forced into women’s heads, encouraging us to give up on men who seemingly hate us, I find it necessary to inform the male population that they too need some guidance in the move on department.  Yes, women need help decoding men’s signals or lack thereof, but really men?  Do you think you never misunderstand a women’s interest?  Trust me, you do…often.

  1. Do not send a drink over to a woman from across the room and expect to get the happy ending you’re looking for.  I know you still will, so note that her acceptance of the drink does not equal a willingness to a) sleep with you, b) make-out with you, or c) talk to you.  Women get thirsty and accept drinks without being into you at all!
  2. You’re on a date, and you think things are going well.  If she happens to put on lip-gloss during the date, this does not mean she is preparing to kiss you.  Sometimes women are bored and the process of finding and applying lip-gloss will entertain us for a whole minute.
  3. Oh the magical coffee cup, how does it end up in the hand of whatever side of her I’m walking on?  Think about it…think a little harder…you got it.  It’s not a coincidence.  She doesn’t want you anywhere near her hand, which means, she’s not that into you.
  4. A woman will wait from twenty to forty minutes to reply after she gets your text, email, phone call or sky written message.  Expect responses to arrive at times like 2:37 pm, never something ordinary like 2:30 or 2:45.  If you make contact at 10:00 am, and she does not respond for hours, and isn’t spending the day with subway moles, she’s not that into you.

The modern day woman has a life, she has friends, and grab a beer before you read this, she has dating options.  This may also come as a surprise, but sometimes dating nobody is a better option than dating you.  Women are not standing around, counting the minutes between giving you their numbers and the time you send that incredibly eloquent text, “Hey, this is Mark, ripped guy nxt 2 u last nite at the bar.”

But, fear not!  Surprising as it may seem, a lot of women really are that into you.  It pains me to say it, but give us one bouquet of flowers (not roses) and that mysterious coffee cup finds its way into the garbage, leaving you with an open hand and a way in.  Of course, we both know that by the time that happens, you won’t be into us anymore.

The Cookie Monsters

29 Apr

Dirt, germs, and social acceptance can’t stop a woman from satisfying her sweet tooth.

Chocolate chip cookies have been saving women, and the world, since 1892.  With its sugary decadence and buttery taste, a good cookie can pull a woman out of a dating-induced depression and get her to forget about the man who didn’t respond to her last email.  It’s no overstatement when I say that the joys of a phenomenal baked good are incomparable.

Just the thought of tasting a savory treat can reduce a woman’s mental capacity to the point that taste buds are the sheer driving force behind all decision processes.  Brain function seems to stop at the sight of a half-eaten cookie or brownie left behind.  Some would see such a vision and question how anyone could leave greatness on a plate – others take matters into their own hands.

How far would you go for a chocolate chip cookie?  Would you reach over to a table previously filled by strangers and partake in sloppy seconds?  Would you do that for a brownie?  No?  Then you’re not one of the women who sat next to me the other night.

Yes, when the stick thin men left their table after barely eating a marble brownie (the best one in New York City, I might add) and a chocolate chip cookie, I looked over longingly and with jealousy.  My friends and I had ordered the cookie-brownie combo many times before and hadn’t left a crumb, yet tonight – a night when we’d get neither – they could leave it all.  Amateurs.

Did I think about sneaking a bite?  Perhaps for a minute, or five, but I would never touch one piece of secondhand bakery deliciousness.  I have standards for shit’s sake!  I left both items looking oh so sad and alone on their white plates (where they belonged) and went back to conversation.

I can’t say the same for everyone in the restaurant.

About six minutes after the men departed, four women staged a coup d’état of restaurant etiquette.  They, too, had witnessed the reckless abandonment of baked goods in disgust but couldn’t bear to watch dessert go to waste – not when they were pining for something chocolatey.  They inquired about the leftovers, to which the waitress gave an unlikely response, “A good brownie shouldn’t be left behind.  Take it.”

Little could prepare me for the event that was about to happen.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an outstretched arm reach across the table and capture the goods.  My table watched in disgust as the women took both desserts hostage.  Respectfully, they offered us half the booty, but we politely refused while vomiting in our mouths.  Is our economy so bad that four women can’t spend four dollars to get their own brownie?

I was doubly mortified.  First off, who leaves dessert?  Secondly, who steals dessert off the table of complete strangers?  Not this girl.

As we continued to watch the scavengers investigate their newly found prey, my sister noticed a straw wrapper sitting atop the brownie – an excellent Perry Masonesque pickup on her part.  One would think this piece of trash would have prevented future consumption, but no.  They ate the recycled brownie covered with an hour’s worth of stranger germs and trash with a smile and without so much as a flinch.

Apparently, two men’s waste is four women’s treasure.

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