Playing chicken: the office version

First of all: I haven't updated this in awhile, but that is because I moved apartments this week and my life has gone down into a swirling, sweaty, expensive vortex, wherein I lost my couch due to non-fitting-through-the dooredness. So lay off me.

If you're not completely put off by my snippiness, please go on to enjoy my extra-unfancy edition of Today in My Head, While I Sat Here, Bored at Work.

Today in My Head, While I Sat Here, Bored at Work, I started to count all the times I play chicken during the workday (if you don't know what playing chicken is, you've never seen the best movie ever, Crybaby, plus like 43 cajillion references/instances in American film). Here are a few I thought of Today in My Head, While I Sat Here, Bored at Work:

1. Morning news/breaking gossip Chicken, also known as Silence, I'm Working Chicken: This is when something interesting or breaking happens in the real/gossip world, and no one wants to be the first to shout it over the cubicle, but everyone wants to talk about it. Seeing how long you can go, wondering "Am I the first to read/hear/watch this? Does anyone else know? What do they think? Do I have a better comment?" is rough. But if you're the first to bring it up, everyone knows you're not working, and then Suckeyup McBrownoser over there, who started working at 9 am sharp while you drifted in at 9:06 and then left again to get coffee (and a donut, fine), starts looking like a nice candidate for promotion.

2. Hallway Chicken: Very similar to Sidewalk Chicken, this happens when you're walking directly towards another person along the tiny hall and you're not sure which one of you is going to move where when the time comes to interesect, or if you should just turn off down a random aisle to avoide an uncomfortable hallway side-to-side dance.

3. Eye contact Chicken: In circumstances like the one above, when both parties are studiously looking anywhere but ahead, until one has to break and make eye contact, thus forcing an awkward greeting.

4. Bathroom stall Chicken: Perhaps the most nervewracking of all Chicken games. Can only be played in office bathrooms with stalls that do not have floor-to-ceiling walls/doors, and therefore, no barrier to protect other inhabitants from hearing/smelling your stinky offerings.

Unfortunately, these happen to me almost every day. Number 4 most recently, as I battled it out with a woman known to me only as "blue flip flops," as that was all I could see of her feet. I entered the bathroom after her, and from the moment I took my position and silence ensued, it was on. She was in there first, she had her chance. As the minutes ticked by and neither of us gave up and left, I started to panic. What if my boss thought I was up to inappropriate bathroom behavior like drugs or picking my teeth with his letter opener? What if she never left and I had to surrender and suffer for the rest of the day? I was about to yell "I'll go if you go! I mean, everybody does it, and mine really smells like roses," when I heard the toilet paper roll shuffle, the sign that she was quitting. She got back at me though, by running the water in the sink for approximately 442748 minutes before leaving.

But I won. For today.

My night off the couch

Last night my friends and I decided to abandon our couches and attend the free UCB comedy show at the Central Park Summerstage. "Free" is a word that makes my heartstrings tremble with joy. And, I must say, Rob Heubel's ferocious roar does things to me I can't admit, even to my imaginary friend/alter ego Pervert McHumpmenow.

Highlights!

1. It was a nice night, with plenty of room to spread out on the ground and have a nice little picnic. Nothing better than overpriced Whole Foods sushi and cold edamame!

2. The comedians that showed up were funny. One of them threw donuts. Nothing better than throwing a donut!

3. Rob Heubel and Paul Scheer as Central Park rangers/hosts were funny, especially when they renamed Sheep's Meadow "Fingerbang Field," and Belvedere Castle "Dragon's Come Castle."

4. "J.D. Salinger" was brought out to introduce The Titte Brothers. Everyone started snapping pictures, including me, just because I am no match for peer pressure, even though I highly doubt he came out of seclusion just to read off some index cards. Unfortunately, photographic experts will never know from my picture, because my cameraphone is no match for distance. Please see below.



Lowlights

1. "Scheduled" performances by Demitri Martin, David Cross, and Amy Poehler did not happen.
2. The line was as long as the line to get into Lindsay Lohan's pants, and moved much slower.
Speaking of pants, even though we had a blanket, the ground/fake turf was wet and by the end of the show; everyone looked like they had wet themselves in anticipation of David Cross, all for naught.
3. The continuous screaming by The Titte brothers of "boobies!!!" as the closing act was a big ol letdown.

I don't know if there's a lesson to be learned here, unless it's wear waterproof pants to CP Summerstage and that I have a weird crush on yell-y comic Rob Heubel.

Adventures in furniture moving

It's taken me a few days to update this, mainly because my boss has returned from vacation and it's hard to post entire blog entries while furtively glancing around every 0.03 seconds. He hasn't arrived yet, however, so let's see if I can bust this out.

Last Friday, I found an adorable 50s style deco-ey formica table on craigslist for the bargain price of $50 (see left, not in my apartment). We need a table in our new apartment (we have room for a table! A real one! No more eating on our laps or sitting on the floor to use the coffee table!) so I arranged to pick it up on Saturday morning. The seller assured me, "Sure, it's light enough for two people to carry on the subway from the UWS to the East Village," and "It might fit in the trunk of a cab." We arrive in the very nice doormanned neighborhood of 89th and West End, and go see about the table.

It is not light, enough, or otherwise. It is not small enough to fit in a cab. But it's too late. I want this table, I want its swoopy metal legs and drop leaf capabilities. We find ourselves standing helplessly on the sidewalk, as a torturous subway ride looms before us. Just then, a Lincoln Towncar pulls up and the driver sets about trying to instruct me on how to angle the table into his trunk, while screaming "DON'T touch ANYTHING! LIFT THAT ONE! LIFT THAT ONE!" Meanwhile I have no idea what "that one" is, since we are currently only holding one, and only one, table. Finally, he bums a screwdriver off the super across the street, and unscrews the legs from the top. The top goes in the trunk, and the legs, all in one swoopy, art-deco-ey piece, are crammed into the backseat with us. I have the job of making sure that none of the four feet of the table touch ANYTHING! DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!

As I'm involved with the table in the back, Mr. Driver proceeds to wax romantical about why he helps The Ladies. "I help all The Ladies. I help The Ladies because you never know--that lady, or that lady, could be your wife or your girlfriend someday. Eh? (suggestive eyebrow wiggle in the rearview mirror) Are you Russian?" This last question was addressed to me, and I figure it must be part of the marriage interview process. I'm not one to ethnically pigeonhole, but I can categorically say I do not look Russian. Red hair + blue eyes+ freckles + transparent skin= "Uh, what? No, I'm Irish."

"Oh. You Jewish?"

"No." I have yet to meet an Irish Jew. Not to say they don't exist, but to my knowledge, my clan is all about the Jesus-lovin' pope. "I'm Catholic." Sort of. I haven't been in a church in forever of my own free will, besides the occasional Christmas when my mother begs me to be a part of the family for once and stop being such a goddamned rebellious heathen.

Mr Driver: "You go to church?"

Me: "Not really." (As I am nearly brained by two table legs simultaneously)

Mr. Driver: "You should."

Me: "Maybe." (Chair leg violates me momentarily)

And then the logical conclusion from Mr. Driver: "If you're not Jewish, you should go to church."

When we arrived at our apartment, he made a U-turn in the middle of Avenue B, jumped out of the car, inspected the plastic seats for any indication that I had been faulty in my seat-protecting chair-wrangling, and reassembled the table for us on the sidewalk. I could feel the bemused hipster stares as Louie (we were now on BFF terms) jumped around the sidewalk, screwing legs on, righting the table, dusting it off.

And then he was gone, back to the UWS to return a screwdriver, and I have a lovely table, fond memories, and a fresh serving of religious guilt.

An open letter to my blog

Blog, you are tiring me out. I know, I know, there have only been two posts. But when I think of you, sitting here by yourself with no one to look at you, the immense pressure of bringing you up right starts to get to me, so that I just don't even want to deal with it anymore. It would be nice if you tried contributing a little bit to this relationship, or at least learning how to make yourself appear a little snazzier.

I have a feeling we'll have more to discuss after this weekend as I am 1) picking up a table I got on Craigslist on the UWS and bringing it to the East Village on the subway, and it appears to weigh roughly 7.2 tons 2) going to an extravaganza-sized party with every single person I know (almost, Don Rickles can't make it, something about a "prior commitment." Whatever, Don, you're dead to me [oh, shit, he's not dead, is he? {nope, says IMDB -- whew!}]) and 3) playing frisbee in the park on Sunday during high-sun hours. That last one might result in me being too burned to type, translucent-skinned as I am, but I'm sure I can learn to type with my teeth.

In closing, don't worry blog, I will try not to disappoint you, if you try not to be so helplessly lazy.

Love, xoxo, puppies and sunshiney rainbows,

Me

I love commuting

Getting to work in midtown is always fraught with wonderful opportunities to bond with your fellow New Yorker. Those slow-walkers, motionless corner-standers, the people that slip their arm or purse into the closing doors and hold up the entire train, Penn Station wheelies that run over your feet, and lately I've been noticing the umbrella-carrying stabbers that jerk their arm rapidly while toting an umbrella with a four-foot spike on the end. Usually I am ready to full-on shove these people out of my way with a string of curses against their annoying commuting habits, or perhaps start toting a 10 foot pole to vault lightly above their heads, laughing merrily as I go.

Today I had the chance to simultaneously abhor one of those people while inadvertently being one of them. It was a horrific experience. I will have to eat 73 cookiese later while jumping around in my underwear singing along to "Let's Go Crazy."

I have to take two trains from home to work, the evil L and N/Q. Then I have a nice long avenue block to walk with all the dunderheads I mentioned above, until I finally get to my last hurdle: crossing 7th Ave at 32nd street, right in front of Penn Station and MSG. It sucks daily, as I fight my way to the corner like a spawning trout, just to wait 3.2 minutes and dash across in the 1.3 seconds the light says walk.

Today, instead of standing in a big crowd on the curb to wait for the light, I took one step off the curb to stand in front a parked car. That way, I wasn't one of those nasty corner-standers, getting in the way of sidewalk traffic, but I wasn't in the way of regular car traffic either. My iPod was on, but not very loud, and it was a quiet song. My internal monlogue went something like this, as usual: "Time to go to work. Almost there. Damn. Maybe I'll do something today. Man, taxis beep a lot. I can't wait to drink coffee and sneak onto AIM Express. Stop beeping, stupid cars. Why won't they stop, there's no one--"

"IDIOT!! MOVE! YOU IDIOT! FUCKING MOVE!" yelped the lady behind me with yellow/gray hair, yellow shirt and yellow teeth.

Apparently the parked car was no longer parked and was trying to make a lefthand turn, but I was in the way. I was that girl, zoned out on her iPod, oblivious to her surroundings, blocking traffic. I guiltily jumped back on the curb and the driver gave me a wave--even he wasn't that pissed off, he had just started up his car a moment before. Yes, I was wrong, but who was that lady to call me an idiot? She was nobody, that's who. Even when someone in front of me is dragging their feet or stabbing me with an umbrella, I usually try a nice "Excuse me," before resorting to an all-out insult.

So, did I give attitude back to scary yellow haired/shirted/toothed woman? Did I yell, "I'm an idiot, but you're old and wrinkly!" or maybe "Oh, what, like you're so perfect? Go get a decent dyejob, you nasty whore, and stop giving me shit," or even "May you die a thousand painful deaths in the arms of your lover Satan." I should have--she looked ready to fight, her eyes were blazing and the word "idiot" still seemed to hover near her snarling lips.

Since it really was my fault for zoning out, I swallowed my rage at being called an idiot, and calmly remarked to the Satan woman, "I'm sorry for blocking that car, but please don't call me an idiot, ma'am. It's really not necessary."

She looked startled at being called ma'am, then slightly ashamed, then uncomfortable as I stared at her. "Oh, okay."

I had triumphed with manners! I was polite, well-bred, and unruffled! Until I gazed straight ahead as the light started to change and mumbled a parting "You fucking bitch" under my breath.

I've gone Blogital

Get it? Blog-ital, like digital? HA! So funny.

Welcome to my first post as a blogger. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing but I'm still going to subject you to whatever I throw out there. Unless no one is actually reading this, in which case I might as well be writing on my WaMu receipts and shoving them through the cracks in my floor in the hopes that they are discovered years from now as proof that humans wrote on paper, and then they'll be put on display in the Blogital Museum of Awesomeness.

See, no idea what I'm doing/talking about. Read on, or not. Whatevs.

In this blog, I will aim to express my thoughts about my job, your job, other peoples' jobs, the jobs I want, the jobs no one wants, Steve Jobs, stuff not about jobs, you, this city, this city being New York, this city being whichever one I'm currently in, etc. You get the point. Even if you don't, I will be okay.

I hope this is the first post of many. Unless I get way too lazy to update this and then it falls to the wayside like my cajillion other blogs. Here's to hoping! Or here's to miraculous bursts of good blogging. I don't even know what that means.