Quote of the Day

Scott: "So I just met with a CRAZY LESBIAN! Totally nuts- or maybe from Long Island..."

Gut Wretching

So every trial and tribulation I have endured surrounding taking mass transit as of late was trumped last night by the bravest person I know: my friend Shaun. His story is filled with such sheer horror that I feel compelled to write it down even as a third party right now so that I can look back to this whenever I think something unimaginably revolting has just happened to me or near me or somewhere in the general tri-state area. What is the worst, most vile, terrifying thing that you can imagine happening to you on a bus ride home?

Being shot would be fast. Peeing in your pants? I cant judge, I was moments away about two months ago. Give up?

Painting the picture... Shaun is sitting on his chosen seat, facing forward, minutes from his turn to reach up and push his stop button. Ear buds in, Droid in his hand, thinking about what he will eat for dinner hungrily... And then a man stands up in the aisle near you, with ample floor room in front and behind him. This man is even holding a coat. And this man proceeds to throw up all over- Shaun! On his head, in his clothes, in-between the cracks in his phone and through all of his many backpack pockets. That is right, folks- some strange man's internal bodily fluids were soaking into my friend's skin. And the man's apology? A stunned, silent stand still. The woman behind Shaun, who received more of a light spraying, took the lead in vocalizing what I can only imagine to be sheer repulsion be demanding he get off the bus for his own sake.

The bright side? The woman behind Shaun yelled out, "I don't wash my hair!"

"They" say when a bird poops on you, it is a sign of good luck. So when a man pukes on you, on the eve of your birthday, does that mean you should be playing the lottery today? Or getting vaccinated?

Quote of the Day

There has been a long standing feud between my brother and I. He once called my eyes an unflattering name referring to their color. I retorted with the fact that our eyes are identical. And the feud continues...

Me: "Who's eyes are lighter? Mine or Jordan's?"

Aunt Brenda: "Jordan's."

Jordan: "Yes, they are like a hazel blue with a touch of brown."

Me: "Far from that."

Grandpa Alton: "Mine are pink!!"

Subway Superstar

I was trying to figure out what my Cinco De Mayo lunch would be, since I know that Margarita's are really difficult to get delivered. Why don't I live in Texas? There are so few days that I can actually craft into a theme, I wanted to take full advantage. For instance, I started my day off with a fruit and yogurt parfait. Fruit is colorful, like the Mexican flag. And a great person, Sonthia, decided to throw some more doubt into my mix.

Sonthia: "I have an orchard chicken salad sandwich from Subway! It's this month's $5 foot long. I had it for the first time last year (seasonal) and loved it!"

And I suppose right after I praised her realistic impersonation of someone getting paid to promote this food product, she hit a home run in sales. I need to sit down with her for some tactical training. She sent me this:


Totally made my day! Thank you, Subway!

Quote of the Day

Melissa: "Amanda finally one trivia!"

Me: "You mean 'won'? Good for him."

Melissa: "Amanda is a she."

Self-Embarrassment

I just spent five solid, long minutes wondering why this ditty wasn't singing smoothly in my head:

"The best part of my day is Folgers in my cup!"

I had to let the calm, muscle memory of over-played commercials wash over my sense of awareness in what I just experienced to be the closest thing to meditation. And it came to me.

Waking up!!

Is this why people meditate? Is it all motivation for your brain to give you answers? Where are my spare keys? Where is my phone bill? What is my neighbor's girlfriends name who always wants to stop and chat but I can't for fear it will somehow come up that she rates below people I see once a year, let alone four times a week?

Quote of the Day

Melissa: "How do you dispose of metal hangars?"

Me: "You beat kids with them. Until they disintegrate."

River Edge Diner

Tristan was in shock and awe that a single french fry could be the size of his head (or longer).

I was in shock and awe that he was eating!

Quote of the Day

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."

Carrie: "Noooooooooo!"

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."

Awkward silence.

Aly: "Me and John Lennon would have been electric together!"

Stress Balls

This is a new Silly Putty vs. my week-old Silly Putty. Or as passersby called it, Poop. I can't even imagine what I would do if I was a teeth grinder!

Quote of the Day

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."

Wondering...

What if I don't refrigerate after opening?

Quote of the Day

Carrie: "I'll still go to class though. haha. I just might tell the teacher I am leaving early. God... my inability to lie is really annoying."

NJ Transit Etiquette, 80's Dude

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.

This last part is more for me than you, to remind me to trip this small man and hope his phone isn't around to pad his fall next time I see him. Height: 5'4''. Skin: Tan. Eyes: Stupid. Glasses: Lime green plastic rimmed. Which means he either works for a cheesy party events company, or he was rummaging through my trash in 1989 and I will press charges. Clothing: An ill-fitted very short and tight black pleather pseudo riding jacket. Maybe on your invisible motorcycle, you need your volume turned up to hear your text messages outdoors with 60 miles per out wind rushing into your ear drums. But on the bus? Vibrate is accepted.

Quote of the Day

Really, technically, this was an email sent to me, in its entirety.

Charleen: "Passion Fruit — slimy nom nom nom. Cherimoya — creamy nom nom nom. That is all."

Why Go Eighty Percent?

So the other day, my boss handed me a bag o' jewels. Literally, stuff she was getting rid of, all faux, almost all faux pas. And in the midst of brushed clay beads was glistening rhinestones. Its like Rick Moranis was aiming a Bedazzler gun at a magical ring and they expanded in size and appropriateness. For anything. I mostly tried the ring on as a joke, like, allow me to be eighty percent gaudy for a few seconds with this creation on my finger.

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!

Platza in the Banya

Short Version:

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.

The End.

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!

Good Indicator That Leaving Everything Out On My Bathroom Vanity Is A Bad Idea

When you are getting ready in the morning and smear toothpaste all over your cheek thinking it was the bottle right next to it containing your face lotion. I just want to say how thankful I am that I use a strong mint flavored toothpaste, because my burning eye caught the error.

See, Mom? There are reasons other than looking like a slob that I should put my toiletries away.

Dirty Church

"Unintentionally Sexual Church Signs"

If you are offended, please blame the incomparable SomeECards and if you absolutely love all of these and at least partially wished that you lived down south and think you could trade off living amongst these people just for the occasional drive-by chuckle, then this is why we are friends.

Rant of the Day

Traffic By The Tunnel Rant

Another vehicle got stuck in the tunnel today. There is no way to anticipate this growing trend. The only thing I can control is my reaction to it.

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.)