Friday, April 29, 2011
Carrie: "Should I paint my wall Victorian Iris? I also like green and purple but like light, light green. Oh decisions, decisions..."
Aly: "Green is for clovers and leprechauns. I could see you with a Light Urple."
Aly: "If you HAAAAAAAD the luck o' the Irish, you'd be sorry and paint your room green. If you had the luck o' the Irish, you'd end up so bitter and mean."
Aly: "Me and John Lennon would have been electric together!"
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Me: "Please don't listen to me. I have gone off the deep end."
Ben: "Oh fine. I have to go fail a class anyway."
Me: "You'll be fine- just shoot up with some tiger blood. Make sure its not liger blood, because then you won't stop growing and then you'd die too soon"
Ben: "Okay, I like ligers though."
Me: " So does the Lord who takes them from us so very quickly."
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
I am not going to take this time to complain about my bus showing up forty five minutes late. I will not harp on the fact that I am standing on a street corner with no shelter, beaming sunlight coming down in 80 degree rays and not a breeze for miles. It was almost like being at a beach, except... Instead of a breeze, there were exhaust fumes spurting up into the air. Hot ones. And instead of wearing a bathing suit, I was wearing an actual suit. The kind that doesn't breath. Sand is dirt. You get it...
By the time the bus showed up, I was thinking of different ways to remove my clothing without people noticing. They don't notice when I am crossing the street at a designated crosswalk, how are they going to see me peeling my socks off and watching the black material evaporate. And yes, I know it is only eighty degrees today. And that I have a whole summer ahead of me where I shall try to sit on my hands and not discuss how my body was not designed for heat and how the sun is purposefully out to get me and me alone. But almost an hour just standing there? Forty five minutes times wait time stress plus black suit times FORTY FIVE MINUTES equals something along the lines of one hundred and ninety seven degrees. And that's hot.
At last, this enormous metal vehicle starts making its way towards us lowly public transporters, and the doors open with air conditioning, lightly, coming out towards us. Air conditioning is like my own personal space ship beam calling me home. So I get to sit down and all is temporarily right with the world.
Then, the ringing begins. The guy behind me, let's call him 80's Dude From Hell, allows his phone to ring a number of times. Loudly. Like an old school house line ringing a few inches from my head. So I turn around to make eye contact with him, which is The International Bus Signal for, "I heard that!" It rang a few more times and I tried to up the volume on my huffs and puffs and sighs. And then the texting started. And with each blaringly loud noise alert, I tried to work up the courage to politely beg him to mute his phone. I was, of course, scared that we would have carying opinions on "polite" at that very moment. So instead, I allowed this blanket of anger to come over me. I imagined elbowing my way through the non-opening window next to me super hero style, grabbing his phone from his tiny hands and throwing it hard into the ground.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
What I did not expect- what nobody could have- is that this ring was created for me. Not visually or stylistically. The truth is, I don't know if the late Liz Taylor would have rocked this digit deformer, but my finger felt complete. I learned in that moment that ring finger security blankets do exist and that I can indeed be a full 100% gaudy!
Monday, April 18, 2011
Last Sunday, I was beaten by and then showered with a compact and sweaty Russian man named Dorian, who introduced himself to me as “The Devil.” There was alcohol involved. We were in a dark basement. It was steamy. It took me six days to not wince in soreness at every move.
Side note: I offered this short version since my brother likes to sigh laboriously and interrupt my stories to ask loudly, “IS THIS GOING ANYWHERE?” At which point I think about it, laugh, and realize I would have gone on talking for another 16 minutes straight, and no, it is going absolutely no where at all. But it’s good to get you on the phone. This almost counts as hanging out. I bet you don’t like abbreviated versions now, do you? Do you?!
Long, Painful, Insane Version:
I brought my friend to the Okeanos Spa for a Russian Spa day, including a ‘Platza in the Banya,’ a 90 minute massage and a shat of Russian wadka. When I bought this combined birthday/Christmas gift for her 6 months ago, I didn’t read too much. I was thinking, “Oh, Russians probably give hard massages. And Lauren always wants a hard massage. Ding Ding Ding!” After she unwrapped my classy computer print-outs, we read aloud what I had negligibly purchased and realized that one of our harder to pronounce treatments involved being hit with Eucalyptus oil soaked branches. She laughed and cold sweat snaked its way down my spine. I don’t do the whole pain thing all that well. I was already stressing out about a rough rubdown, and now we were adding lashings into the mix?
Cut to Sunday: The spa is downstairs from the street level, it is tiny and clean and authentic Russian accents greet us at the front desk. Our one size fits all robes and shoes amuse us both. Because there are only one of two scenarios that are going to play out. Either Lauren is going to look like a 10 year old trying on her mom’s clothes, or I am going to be flashing not only my masseuse momentarily. Thankfully for all parties involved, Lauren makes an adorable ten year old.
We get the tour of the 300 square feet, and our tour guide in lingering in the closed off middle section between the Sauna at 167 degrees, and the steam room, at around 12 million degrees. I can’t breath, Lauren is staring longingly at the door, and then we were allowed to leave and wait. So we hit up the bar, and were denied. I have to tell you that when a large Russian woman with a thick accent manning the vodka bar wont allow you to have your complimentary shot, don’t be angry at her. Be very, very worried. What it may possibly mean is that your “Platza in the Banya” means that you are about to have an entire spa treatment performed on you INSIDE the sauna. That really hot box of hell that masochists like to loosen up in. I am part Russian, so why can’t we loosen up with wadka? Nothing about being hit all over your body with soaked branches and leaves is bothersome, unless you are laying in a very public sauna, in half of your bathing suit, in 167 degrees. At that point, I don’t care if Brad Pitt is holding the branches, put that damned ice soaked hand towel over my face before my lungs melt, please. Dorian, “The Devil” was charming and sweaty and forced me into an open shower and soaked us both in ice water after twenty five minutes beyond melting temperature. How that man hasn’t had a heart attack already, I will never know. And why I warned Lauren not to let her do the same to her, I will never know that either. I am sorry Lauren, for depriving you of figuring that one out first hand. I think my heart was going out her at the time because when he asked which one of us was going in for the treatment first, she pressed herself so hard into the wall tiles that I had to step up. (This counts towards this year’s birthday present now, too.)
My massage therapist, Ping, was a Chinese woman. She told me she was from China three times. She had great hands and when my soreness goes away entirely, I might be crazy enough to sign up for a second go around. But there is something so disconcerting about your massage therapist walking into the room after she yells, “Don’t be shy and take everything off!” saying that she specializes in hair design. I am all about hair care professionals. Without the help of some people, I would be walking around with a fifteen inch Mohawk of frizz, and inevitably, drool would be dripping from my chin. Not that air has any effect on your saliva, but if I am going to look a certain way, I am committing, dammit! She went on to list all of the things she “Specializes” in. These things include, and I quote: “Hair Design, Hair Cuts, Color, High Light, Eyelash Extensions, Eye Lash Perm, Japanese Perm Straight, Relaxer Hair Extension, Brazilian Keratin Treatment, Up Do, Make up, Reflexology and all kinds of Wax and Massage.” I was impressed. I can’t even remember her list of specialties, let alone master any of them. But since I haven’t had a professional massage in over 8 months, I was kind of hoping to have someone who places their professional emphasis on Massage. She was great, r maybe I should say, as good as I can handle.
We ended the experience on a high note. When we were filling out the tip envelopes, we learned that “The Devil” had a real name. And Lauren thought she knew her Russian massuese’s name. She was sure it was like 4 or 9 syllables. And when the woman told us his name was Ivan, she just looked over at me and shrugged saying, “Yeah, I really did not know anything that he was saying. I couldn’t even tell him where to focus or how much pressure to use.” I know how to pick ‘em!
Friday, April 15, 2011
See, Mom? There are reasons other than looking like a slob that I should put my toiletries away.
"Unintentionally Sexual Church Signs"
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Traffic By The Tunnel Rant
At least that's what Dr. Phil-Oz tells me.
So today, instead of focusing on errant bus odors, or the bizarre conversations that the bus driver was having with himself, I decided to delve into the minds of these drivers getting stuck in the tunnel instead. Here's what I came up with:
"You know what? I am going to take my car for a ride today. I haven't driven it in 8 months, but it should be fine. As long as people stay 65 feet back from the shooting sparks in every direction. And this volatile shaking? It's like a spa treatment. And surely nobody will complain about my exhaust exploding holes into the ozone layer. I'm in New Jersey, land of the Aquanet already. So what I think me and this rickety old used-to-be an automobile should definitely, unquestionably do is drive straight into the Lincoln tunnel. You know, because it's so easily accessible and open for rescue trucks to get to. And I am going to take this voyage in theheart of rush hour, so that I can be surrounded by people bright and excited about starting off their work days. And in the off chance that my 'car' doesn't completely break down in the center of the tunnel causing delays, redirects and general panic for thousands of innocent commuters, I am going to drink 12 shots of tequila right before I hit the road. More possibilities open up with tequila. I could sideswipe a car, flip over a truck, cause mass bus evacuations, drive over some motorcycles. Really, I can't even get into how many ways I can ruin someone's morning. Lincoln Tunnel, here I come!"
(In case you are curious, crazy feels warm and a little cozy inside.)
Lost, soaked woman: "Excuse me, is this 6th and 7th?"
Too kind, getting soaked woman: "No, this is 6th Avenue. 7th is that way."
Lost, soaked and getting angrier woman: "I know that! But is this 6th AND 7th?"
Too kind, wet woman: "No, it can't be both. You are on 6th Ave. I am walking towards 7th, which is not the same place as 6th."
Lost, soaked and indignant screaming woman: "What is wrong with you? IS. THIS. SIXTH. AND. Se-Vennnnnnn-th?!?"
Stupidly kind, completely soaked woman: "This is 6th. 7th is there. Want me to show you?"
At which point, I walked away. Because much like watching Elmer Fudd chase after Bugs Bunny, it's amusing for about 40 seconds and then you want to join in on the madness screaming, "Why would you not have already walked away, idiots?" Also, my purple bra was drawing a crowd.
Monday, April 11, 2011
I can call my brother fat, right? Because he so isn't. Not that there's anything wrong with any person's body type. Fat isn't the nicest word. I blame Chris Farley for the fact that when I saw this picture on my brother's Facebook page, "Fat Guy In A Little Coat" just started playing in repeat in my head. I'd like to see you answer your phone professionally with scenes from Tommy Boy running rampant behind your eyes.
I love this picture, either way. It's worth Chris Farley singing songs in my head. Jordan? It's better than me thinking you were trying to sneak into some sort of child sized ride, right?
Thursday, April 7, 2011
There's no Korean food term that can make my mouth water like "Bulgogi." So when I read Big D's Grub Truck's menu online, I didn't care if their bulgogi came on tacos and grinders, a toothpick, or a plate of sand. I needed to try this. The good news? It was delicious! Marinated and cooked beef with scallions and deliciousness: Always. Every up has a down, and my let down definitely surrounds what they call their "soft tacos." I am pretty sure that they were made up of cardboard, fax paper (fine quality), and a little white bread. Then, to prepare, they were mashed together, shaped and then aired out to dry on a clothes hangar for 12 years. I don't want to bash them- I mean, 12 is totally my favorite number! Also, the deliciousness was shared sparingly. Leaving a lot of heavy paper in my food container, which ironically was all disposed of in my work garbage can. I reunited a whole bunch of paper that day!
The Charming: The man taking orders asks for your first name! And when someone else was talking to him, he just whispered to me, "Aly" and I immediately wanted to give him a tip or a hug. In Manhattan, anonymity is a benefit and a side effect and a detraction all in one. I am often thankful for it, don't get me wrong. Like that time I had bronchitis and tried walking and speaking simultaneously and I wound up heaving on the street by Bryant Park. Not a single person either looked at me or cared to look at me and I was giddy that i didn't have to meet anyone's eyes that day. I guess it's not until someone speaks to you like a human that you realize you are shuffling through this island completely void of connection.
The most important thing to remember: Cell phones and bronchitis don't mix.
Friday, April 1, 2011
"Can everyone move to the right? The right! No, no, that is the left. Everyone: the right. No, ma'am, that is your left. Your right. The other side. Go. The. Other. Way. The right? Sir! Your other right!"