Why is it that one's mind focuses on the most random things while desperately trying to sleep? Once again, I awoke in the middle of the night with thoughts of work, looking for new work, writing this blog, laundry, finishing the wedding thank you notes, etc.
The thing that most plagued me, however, was: I should learn to play the guitar, or find a voice teacher to get my voice back into shape, or sit down with my old piano books...and then knowing that I won't. There are some days where I do, but most I just watch.
Doing laundry now. Then off to work. Then to the dentist. Ah, that's why I don't play guitar or piano and haven't gone back to singing. Life kinda gets in the way. And why must weekends fly by so quickly? I don't know how people with children do it.
Well, this was an uninspired post. I have no humor today...
Monday, April 25, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Mr. Laslovich and the models on TV
Every now and then one gets on a subway car and is promptly met with a whole lotta crazy. Today was my lucky day.
Unlike yesterday, the "7" train showed up this morning quickly and with relatively few passengers. Lulled into thinking that this was a humble apology extended by the MTA for yesterday's stellar performance, I was pleased...until I realized that the lack of people was due entirely to a schizophrenic man, clearly on hiatus from taking his meds.
As I have mentioned before, my husband and I go to the gym before heading off to work. This morning I boldly decided to run 2 miles for my cardio portion of the workout. By the time I started my commute, my hips were throbbing and my lower back felt suspiciously stiff. Dilemma: A) do I scoot onto a different car to avoid aggressive crazy man, or B) do I rest my weary bones in the only seat available, located directly in front of him? I chose B, of course.
As I nestle into my corner seat (prime!) with my nose buried in my Kindle, Crazy Man - let's call him Gil - mumbles to me, "You and the models you watch on TV...you're stupid; your TV is taking over the world." Granted, I have a large, flat screen TV, but I wouldn't go so far as to say it's taking over the world. Gil then turns his attention to the stunning young woman sitting across from me reading Cosmo, "And you, with your technology...technology is taking over the world." Um, Gil, not to interrupt your rant, but I feel oddly compelled to defend myself as the geek with the technology, but I'll let it go. This time.
Finally, we hit the Hunter's Point stop. Enter "Mr. Laslovich," the poor schmuck. This unfortunate guy, a well-dressed executive leaving the privileged paradise known as Long Island, stumbles right into Gil's lair. Agitated, Gil shouts in his face, "Damn you, Mr. Laslovich and your duffel bag." Apparently, this Mr. Laslovich owns a mysterious blue duffel bag that he keeps high in his closet. The contents? Body parts. I can see why Gil is distressed - I'd be upset, too, if my nemesis harbored severed limbs in his closet.
Eventually, Gil begins to silently pray. Mr. Laslovich shrugs and pulls out a newspaper. I resume my literary adventure. Pretty Cosmo girl applies some lip gloss.
All is right with the world.
Unlike yesterday, the "7" train showed up this morning quickly and with relatively few passengers. Lulled into thinking that this was a humble apology extended by the MTA for yesterday's stellar performance, I was pleased...until I realized that the lack of people was due entirely to a schizophrenic man, clearly on hiatus from taking his meds.
As I have mentioned before, my husband and I go to the gym before heading off to work. This morning I boldly decided to run 2 miles for my cardio portion of the workout. By the time I started my commute, my hips were throbbing and my lower back felt suspiciously stiff. Dilemma: A) do I scoot onto a different car to avoid aggressive crazy man, or B) do I rest my weary bones in the only seat available, located directly in front of him? I chose B, of course.
As I nestle into my corner seat (prime!) with my nose buried in my Kindle, Crazy Man - let's call him Gil - mumbles to me, "You and the models you watch on TV...you're stupid; your TV is taking over the world." Granted, I have a large, flat screen TV, but I wouldn't go so far as to say it's taking over the world. Gil then turns his attention to the stunning young woman sitting across from me reading Cosmo, "And you, with your technology...technology is taking over the world." Um, Gil, not to interrupt your rant, but I feel oddly compelled to defend myself as the geek with the technology, but I'll let it go. This time.
Finally, we hit the Hunter's Point stop. Enter "Mr. Laslovich," the poor schmuck. This unfortunate guy, a well-dressed executive leaving the privileged paradise known as Long Island, stumbles right into Gil's lair. Agitated, Gil shouts in his face, "Damn you, Mr. Laslovich and your duffel bag." Apparently, this Mr. Laslovich owns a mysterious blue duffel bag that he keeps high in his closet. The contents? Body parts. I can see why Gil is distressed - I'd be upset, too, if my nemesis harbored severed limbs in his closet.
Eventually, Gil begins to silently pray. Mr. Laslovich shrugs and pulls out a newspaper. I resume my literary adventure. Pretty Cosmo girl applies some lip gloss.
All is right with the world.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Beware of pick-pockets at all times; they are all around you
Today was another thrilling ride on ye old "7" line.
Due to damage to the track, we are going to totally shaft your morning.
Okay, so this wasn't the announcement, but it certainly should have been. Instead, the entirely competent and kindly conductor did manage to bellow several times over, "Beware of pick-pockets at all times; they are all around you!"
First, is this Dickensian England? No, it's Queens, and I guarantee that Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger are nowhere to be found. Perverts, on the other hand, abound! Twist and Dodge - that's what one has to do in this scenario, because this city is loaded with guys that live for overly crowded subway cars so that they may rub against unsuspecting women for kicks. Take my wallet, just leave my ass alone.
Second, "they are all around you"? I love how the MTA can seriously inconvenience thousands of straphangers, while simultaneously inducing mass paranoia. Pick-pockets are lurking behind every corner; suspicious packages, presumably teeming with explosives, are waiting to detonate all over the city; and backpacks and other large containers are subject to random search, as they undoubtedly contain anthrax, Ebola or ricin (hey, Lord only knows what women carry in those multiple bags of theirs). It's a wonder I leave my apartment.
Actually, I bitch, but the whole fiasco ended on an amusing note: After about 10 minutes of being in a near-embrace with a man to whom I am not married, I peel myself away at my stop and he says, "Your hair smells really good." He wasn't pervy, weird or creepy. His bag appeared to be of normal size. He tried to keep a respectable distance (a monumental feat, considering). All-in-all, he was just a nice guy striving to make the best of an awkward situation...and my hair does smell good.
Due to damage to the track, we are going to totally shaft your morning.
Okay, so this wasn't the announcement, but it certainly should have been. Instead, the entirely competent and kindly conductor did manage to bellow several times over, "Beware of pick-pockets at all times; they are all around you!"
First, is this Dickensian England? No, it's Queens, and I guarantee that Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger are nowhere to be found. Perverts, on the other hand, abound! Twist and Dodge - that's what one has to do in this scenario, because this city is loaded with guys that live for overly crowded subway cars so that they may rub against unsuspecting women for kicks. Take my wallet, just leave my ass alone.
Second, "they are all around you"? I love how the MTA can seriously inconvenience thousands of straphangers, while simultaneously inducing mass paranoia. Pick-pockets are lurking behind every corner; suspicious packages, presumably teeming with explosives, are waiting to detonate all over the city; and backpacks and other large containers are subject to random search, as they undoubtedly contain anthrax, Ebola or ricin (hey, Lord only knows what women carry in those multiple bags of theirs). It's a wonder I leave my apartment.
Actually, I bitch, but the whole fiasco ended on an amusing note: After about 10 minutes of being in a near-embrace with a man to whom I am not married, I peel myself away at my stop and he says, "Your hair smells really good." He wasn't pervy, weird or creepy. His bag appeared to be of normal size. He tried to keep a respectable distance (a monumental feat, considering). All-in-all, he was just a nice guy striving to make the best of an awkward situation...and my hair does smell good.
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