Niagara Fell, Part I

Welcome to what may be my most premeditated, scripted series of blog posts to date. This post and the upcoming Part II will be updated with photos when I get them back from Snapfish.

Part I: Trains, Planes and Automobiles

The weekend began pleasantly early on Thursday evening. After work, I headed back to my apartment to finish packing the remaining items on my painsakingly handwritten, 50+ item packing list. (Including safety pins, bandaids, lint brush, and carefully thought out clothing combinations so as to minimize the number of items packed.) Still, when I arrived (late) at Penn Station, Ben had a smaller, lighter bag. How do boys do that? I will never understand.

We caught an earlier train to Jamaica than expected and while on the train, I told Ben a rousing story about how it looked like someone had had an abortion in my bathroom wastebasket (you tell me what a pregnancy test wrapper, a coat hanger and red lipstick-stained tissues looks like). Note: only the lipstick-blotting tissues were mine and I have four roommates. Go fish.

Our journey from New York to Niagara Falls via train, plane and automobile (in that order) was largely uneventful save for the Canadian stationed at border patrol. He asked us such leading Canadian questions as, "What's your reason for coming to Canada, eh?" As it was 1:30 am, Ben and I played along and didn't reveal that we were actually there to return the maple syrup smell. However, Border Patrol Mounty Man did sneak in a question that stumped us:

BPMM: Where are you from?

Us: New York, New York.

BPMM: What's your business in Canada, eh?

Us: Vacation.

BPMM: If you're both from New York City, why does your car have South Carolina plates?

Us (previously relaxed assuming these questions were easy): Huh?

Damned Alamo rental car. We hadn't even looked at the plates. Fortunately, BPMM let us through as both Ben and I looked pretty harmless that night.

I should note that despite our misleading license plates, the great nation of Canada knew that Ben spent two years living in New Jersey and presented us with a healthy amount of Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen on the car radio. The highlight of our radio experience, however, had to be the Canadian comedians who made so little sense, I can't even recall what they said.

When we finally made it to the bed and breakfast, we found our room to be cute and comfortable. The room was called the Ansel Adams suite. However, it was a bit lacking in Ansel Adams prints. By which I mean the walls were literally covered in them.

The photo I had promised. I wasn't kidding! And that's just one wall!

Tomorrow: Part II: "What are YOU doin' in Canada?"

Five-Surprise Salad: A Tuesday Extra

I know I generally make it my business to only post once a day (I do need to get some actual work done), but my lunch today blew my mind. It blew my mind to the extent that I cannot keep the story to myself for another moment.

Today, I ordered what I affectionately refer to as Crazy Salad. Most urban working stiffs should be familiar with Crazy Salad - you select your lettuce in a plastic bowl with a lid, then hand it off to a Crazy Salad Technician, who adds ingredients of your choosing and tosses the whole thing before putting it neatly back into the plastic bowl. I find this awesome not only because eating a salad I didn't prepare tastes better, but because a $7, custom-made salad must simply be better than a $4 by-the-pound salad. (If I keep telling myself this, it must be true.)

Anyhow, today I ordered Crazy Salad at Duke's on 41rst Street, near Bryant Park. They were insanely busy, but the line moved quickly and my Crazy Salad Technician duly noted my 6 selections (6 toppings for $6.95 - not bad). Avocado, grilled chicken, roasted red peppers, regular peppers, feta cheese and red onion - with Russian dressing.

However, when I sat down in the park to eat my salad, I began to notice that items that I had not ordered had crept into my salad. Due to the hustle and bustle of the lunch hour, it is natural to presume that various toppings drop into the wrong bowls - but still, five? I was impressed with the sheer quantity and diversity of the surprises. A red kidney bean, a green olive, a palm heart, some corn and a cherry tomato.

Honestly, I didn't quite know what to do with myself.

Just goes to show what an exciting workday it's been.

Why is it So Early?

As always, time seems to have slowed down after my vacation. I'm starting to craft this entry at 10:30 am and it feels like it should be 3:30 pm.

(My alternate theory regarding time slowing down today is that I am actually cold-blooded. The increased air-conditioning in my office has cooled my internal body temperature to the point that I have become sluggish. Furthermore, there is past evidence to suggest that I may not be a mammal. My college friends will recall the time sophomore year that I decided I was heading down the evolutionary ladder due to a temporary winter appearance of scaly dry skin. But hey, guys think mermaids are hot. Right?)

Anyhow, it should be noted that I am cold despite the sunburn I got in Canada this weekend. I had no idea such things were possible and I'm *very* embarrassed. More on Canada and my weekend tomorrow - there's a lot to recount and I won't have my photographic evidence back for at least a week anyhow - so keep your pants on. No, my vacation will not be told in Haiku. It's called Haiku Haiku Mondays, not Haiku Haiku Weekend Recap. There are rules, people, and this will be more of an Official City Review.

Lest You Forget

Tomorrow through Monday, I will be ON VACATION IN CANADA*.

Back Tuesday.

______________________
*Eh!

I am Overwhelmed with Your Attention

I am also overwhelmed with the politeness and innate sense of fair play present in the corner of the blogging community that I seem to have stumbled upon. As my repertoire of blogs that I read regularly expands, I've taken to unceremoniously linking to them in my links section. (In case you're wondering, I'm an avid - though relatively new - Gawker reader, hence my fairly predictable list.)

I think you can see which day was yesterday.

Yes, the traffic increase was a big deal for my itty-bitty newbie blog.

Much to my surprise, two of the popular blogs belonging to people that I don't know linked back to me - on the same day, no less. A sincere thank you to This is What We Do Now and Things That Make you Go "Hmm." I have added Technorati to my site to make sure that I can pay it forward to anyone else who links to me. (UPDATE: Logged Hours seems to have added me today.)

So without further ado, new readers - welcome, even if you never visit again! If you are interested in learning a little more about this blog without reading my piddley month and a half archives, please direct your attention to my About This Blog, which is also my first entry. Having just reread it for the first time in about a month, I feel that I should add that, like many bloggers, I was encouraged (read: forced) by my friends to start this blog so that I would stop sending them zillions of funny (read: annoying) emails every day.

And now, a long-overdue -

FAQ:

Who the heck are you, and why should I care?
No one, and you shouldn't - but that never stopped me before. Honestly, I think my Blogger

Profile answers this question sufficiently.

Lame.
Fine. I graduated from an arguably decent college in "Boston" in June of 2005, found gainful employment in November, and moved to Manhattan from the far-off land of my youth, Westchester, in January. I like penguins, bread, and stealing street signs.

Oh my God don't care. What are you thinking about right now?
The giant hibachi grille in the middle of Times Square this morning, in honor of the "Salute to Steak." I strongly endorse salutes to any and all food products, particularly if they occur during my commute.

Did you ever try those beverages?
Yes! I did try them and I'm so glad you asked. In fact, I have tried all of them.

The Starbucks blackberry green tea frappuccino was divine, though it was essentially the same as green tea ice cream.

The City Bakery hot chocolate functioned as a diet shake, as I was not hungry for the rest of the day.

Mud Truck coffee was good, but honestly, no better than any other "good" coffee I've had in the City. My favorite coffee in New York remains that of Tarallucci e Vino, both for its proximity to my domicile and the attractiveness of the pseudo-Italian waiters. Oh, also the coffee is amazingly good and cheap. And they have super-cool disposable cups with twisty tops.

I'll stop writing instead of trying to explain this.

Should Ben close down his blog?
No. And I'll fight him tooth and nail about this. More on this in the next week.

(Heh.)

Wait, you're at the end of this entry already? But I have more questions!
Comment or email me. Whatever suits your fancy.

When you Read This Post, You Will Think Less of Me

Less of me than you already do, of course. And last I checked, you probably couldn't go much lower. So here we go.

I hate dust.

No, not in a purely Martha-Stewart, germ freak, obsessive compulsive manner. I am not a middle-aged housewife with nothing better to do than clean my house.

It is more that I don't think dust plays fair.

Imagine the following common scenario:

You move into your apartment in January. By the time you finally buy, build and arrange your priced-to-move Ikea furniture (Mighty Malm, of course), litter it with your prized tchotchkes and settle in, it's late February. (Imagine you have a lot of tchotchkes because you have delusions of someday being a museum curator.) While you are very happy to be living in a furnished room, you continue to make improvements, such as putting up window shades, laboriously hanging pictures, and finally, buying the perfect rug. By the time you are finished with all this decorating, it is late May (you are a true bargain hunter and do not simply buy the first thing you see.) Your room is neat, tidy and tasteful. Five months into your lease, you are Fully Moved In.

Though you have been living in your room all this time, the Next Big Project was always most prominent, so you didn't notice the little things. When the dresser was in a box, you didn't notice the proximity of your neighbor's windows to yours. It was only when the dresser was completed that you noticed the fat guy two buildings over (though to be fair you've never seen him looking your way). Likewise, it was only when the piece de resistance, the rug, was in place, that you noticed the dust.

At least I don't have dust mites. At least, I don't think I do.

There it was, on all your precious tchotchkes, on your desk, and on your beautiful Malm nightstand (though not so much on the dresser because that is home to several handbags that get a lot of use).

What have you done to deserve this treatment?

I'll tell you.

NOTHING!

Because dust is not fair. You keep your room neat and organized, you Swiffer the floor - and yet the dust accumulates over time despite your successful efforts to banish papers and clutter. What's more, because you are no longer in college, you will not be vacating your room nine months after moving into it - so the dust problem will not solve itself. You must dust the dust, and sneeze, and be miserable.

Excuse me while I go find a corner in which to mope. Sigh.

Unhealthy Things

In honor of my upcoming long weekend vacation - or perhaps just because I've been lazy - I've decided to do several Unhealthy Things in the past 24 hours. Things like watching two hours of "Mind of Mencia" on Comedy Central last night, just because the remote was across the room. Like drinking hot chocolate immediately before bed. Things like buying an incredibly large quantity of cheap tasty Chinese Fooood in Chinatown today after a nice brisk walk across Battery Park* during my lunch hour. And then washing it down with Diet Coke. It should be noted that I'm rushing to finish this blog post before the 5/8 of the lo mein I was able to finish kicks in and induces a coma. Then this will no longer be funny. (The rest of the lo mein is for dinner.)

I will be traveling to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls for Memorial Day and there, I hope to engage in more Unhealthy Things like eating ridiculous quantities of steak, drinking beer, paying real money for kitschy haunted houses, and souvenir shopping. Because I am leaving Thursday evening and not returning until Monday, there will probably be no blog on Friday OR Monday. Sad, I know. :[ But please refrain from making the cliche "sad puppy dog face."

One of the few images of an actual dog that comes up when you Google "Sad Puppy Dog Face"

However, rest assured that both Ben and myself will be taking extensive notes. There will be exhaustive, verbose, and obsessive coverage upon our return. And if you like the Canada coverage, just wait until I go to Burning Man in August.

UPDATE: There are people in my office folding shirts "the Martha Stewart way." I will not even begin to understand what this means, or why this is happening in my pseudo-dotcom office.
_______________
*I don't work anywhere near Battery Park. I work in Midtown. But I like adventures.

A Plea to the Young Men of the City of New York

Please carry a bag to work.

Honestly, you have no idea how much this annoys me.

Admittedly, it's not as annoying in the winter. We both have heavy winter coats, you and I. I'm definitely not wearing a skirt. And you might be wearing snow boots and carrying your shoes as well.

But come springtime, I still have a purse containing dress shoes, my wallet, a cellphone, and a book. You sport nothing. You lean against the subway pole with your hands in your pockets! I really cannot stand it when you do this. At the very lease, I know my intellect is superior, because you cannot be carrying any reading material of merit in those pockets.

But someday I shall exact my revenge - and that day will come when we both carry laptops to work. I will upgrade to a slightly larger but consistently elegant purse - while you will be laden down like a packhorse with an awkward laptop bag.






Did I say laptop bag? I meant *manpurse*.

(You'll notice how it doesn't even look cool on this guy.)









And...Haiku.

Friday Night

Pricey beer purchase
Rainy Jersey BBQ
A lovely evening

Saturday Night

Dinner, my roof, bar.
Asleep again at the last.
Not lightweight, just dumb.

Sunday Morning

Free - Whitney Museum
Why? Because I am awesome
The art was nice, too.

Consumable

City Bakery
Delightful pretzel croissant
My new favorite vice

Reason for Being? Reason for Blogging!

As you may recall, I started blogging for several reasons: I enjoy writing, I'm a megalomaniac, I have a little more time on my hands than in the past, and, most relevant to the present discussion, random events frequently befall me. Unfortunately, when push comes to shove and pen comes to paper, or rather, fingers come to keyboard, those random events aren't nearly as amusing as they seem in my head. Or perhaps my life has been unusually dull in the past month and a half.

But the tides, they are a-changin'. Twice in the past 24 hours, the sort of Seinfeldian occurrence for which blogging was made happened to me. I was in places in which I belonged - nay, exactly where I was supposed to be at those times - and was questioned as if I was an outsider. Is it a sign that I am not living the life I should be? Or merely a friendly reminder that when I have wet hair, I look like a ragamuffin? ("Ragamuffin," is incidentally one of my mother's all-time favorite ways of describing my sense of style. But she has no idea what she's talking about.)

Yesterday evening, the skies opened up and it rained buckets in Manhattan for an hour. The rain coincided precisely with the time I needed to walk between my office and my university club, of which I am a member for both its inexpensive athletic facilities and cheap drinks. The club is half an east-west block away from where I work, but still, by the time I got there, I was windblown and wet. I had been keeping my head down under my umbrella so as to avoid the brunt of the rain and thus I accidentally walked a few paces beyond the club door. I backtracked and opened the door, pausing to shake out my umbrella. As I raised my head, the doorman looked directly at me and said, very congenially, "Can I help you?"

And we all know what that means. Those who attended college with me and who can remember freshman orientation will recall that the very phrase "Can I help you?" was stressed by an 80s-era video designed to promote campus safety. It's a polite way to say, "You look like you don't belong here," as apparently, thieves, rapists and murders will get nervous if they think you're on to them. And I'm sure some of them do, at least the kind that steal laptops.

Anyhow, I politely replied that I was a club member merely on my way to the gym and that was the end of it. No big deal, as I know I sometimes don't dress like the patrician old white men that make up the majority of the club's membership. Regardless, as one does not need to present one's membership card or even sign in, it's the doormen's job to ask such deliberately polite questions.

But then it happened again this morning in my apartment building. (My home! Where I live! I feel violated!) I was running a little bit late, as I had to create an outfit that would transition from work to BBQ-in-the-rain-in-New-Jersey, and I didn't have time to blowdry my (luxurious, flowing and therefore kind of matted-looking-when-wet) hair. I'm not sure if I've ever explained the elevator situation in my building, but suffice it to say I was walking down the stairs as usual on my way to work.

When I got to the third floor, one of the guys who lives there had just emerged from his apartment and was also on his way out. I don't see the third floor guys much as they don't take the elevator, but I'm sure I've encountered this one before. Mid-20s, upper-class Southern accent, blue blazer and open-necked polo shirt to work - whatever. I glanced at him and muttered an appropriate neighbor-I-don't-really-know, "Hey." And what does he say? I'm 96.5% sure he said, "Can I help you?" and then proceeded down the stairs. Confused, I didn't answer and continued walking down as well. While it remains unclear if his "greeting" was an overly rude response to my hello or a question as to my presence on the staircase, it was still weird. I suppose it's possible that he actually said, "Good morning to you," but I'm erring on the side of New York skepticism and sticking to my guns: it was definitely, "Can I help you?" and not the overly lyrical "Good morning to you." My apartment building is not Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.

Sadly, I do not live in the land of Make-Believe.

As I continued on my way, I realized that I've definitely seen him before, as he's the guy in my building who also takes the NRQW to work. Meaning that I followed him all the way to the subway platform. (I think he got on the local, though.) Because I feel like ragging on him a bit more, his apartment subscribes to the Wall Street Journal and they never pick it up on time, so everyone else steps on it.

The moral of the story? Apparently, when I have wet hair I look homeless.

Also, this ad was on weather.com this morning, and it is terrifying.

Lacking Pith

See above. I just don't think any more serious blogging is happening today.

To briefly flesh out my teaser post from earlier today:

Gutenberg! The Musical! was fantastic. Very nerdy. Very musical. Very politically incorrect. Or overly politically correct. It was so far one way it became the other. I suppose it was a "blog worthy" event, but I'm less into music/art/cultural reviews than I am into engaging in dialog with inanimate objects or vague concepts.

Speaking of which, in exactly one week from today, I will be on a plane headed to Canada! Much dialog with inanimate objects and vague concepts ("Canadian") will ensue. I won't be blogging live from Canada, as I actually have a life, but I promise to take copious quantities of notes on my trusty Compaq Ipaq and fabulous folding keyboard. (The very same ones I brought to England, in case you were wondering, Private Eye.) I'm going to Niagara Falls and I think it's going to be *extremely* blogworthy and kitschy.

Thursday Prequel

Good morning -

I felt kind of guilty about the poor quality of yesterday's entry - so guilty, in fact, that I promptly left work and ran off to a free performance of Gutenberg! The Musical!, Thai food and wine. But I was thinking about you, dear readers, the entire time.

In light of yesterday's poor effort, I've decided to shower you with not one but two posts today. This morning's tidbit is merely a taste of what's to come.

I am happy to report that it looks like it's going to be an idyllic day in Manhattan. In honor of the good weather (because I seem to need a stupid reason to do anything), I decided to take the F train to work AND to sample the hot chocolate at City Bakery. The hot chocolate is the $4 variety - there was a place called Burdick's in Cambridge, MA near my college that had similar stuff. It was excellent, though almost too rich to finish. In conclusion: it's meant to be shared.

More later -

I am Way Too Busy and Important to Blog Today

Half of that statement is true.

Instead, I am going to share with you a list of Beverages I Need to Consume, Soon:

Coke Blak was originally on this list, but I got my hands on some. It was good, but not different enough from regular coke. I did enjoy the subtle hazelnut aroma.

That scary looking blackberry green tea frappuccino at Starbucks. I can't take my eyes off it. And it's going to be awful.

Mud Truck Coffee. Still!

City Bakery Hot Chocolate, considering I live nearby. I know it's slightly out of season now that it's warm, but I hear it's sinful. And I clearly wasn't paying attention when they had their Hot Chocolate Festival in February. @#$%!

More beer. This goes without saying.

"Leave No Thought Unexpressed"

...And other things Other People Have Said.

I am told the title is a Woodrow Wilson quote, but as I cannot find it on Google, you can choose to believe me - or not.

As I have nothing much to say today, this entry will revolve around me saying things that Other People Have Said and sounding smart about them. In case you haven't guessed, I am very good at this sort of thing. I am so good at it because I hold a college degree from an esteemed university that teaches only that such skill.

I would like to once again draw your attention to the blog links on the right hand side of this page, specifically those listed under People I Know and transitively, to the Things they are Saying. (The People I Don't list consists of blogs I found primarily through Gawker and while they are excellent, none of those individuals hold the distinction of being personal acquaintances with the great me.)

I am really into the italics and the bold fonts today. I apologize, but I have no intention of stopping.

I have added a fancy new blog, by one Rosey, that you can peruse at your leisure at http://rosey2980.blogspot.com/. She hangs out in the office with Noonan and myself and she knows the score. Other exciting developments include the nearly simultaneous return of both Patsy and Julie to the land of People Who Update Their Blogs. They both started updating last week when I wasn't paying attention. Julie seems to be gearing up to make fun of everyone on the internet again, while Patsy is getting angry about the abuse of Canadian history. Need I say more?

Moving away from People I Know, past People I Don't and onto Legitimately Famous Smart People, Francis Fukuyama was on the Daily Show last Thursday. (Video here.) Fukuyama first came across my radar in college when I read his famous essay "The End of History?", published in the National Interest in 1989. The essay later went on to become a book entitled The End of History and the Last Man. As a Johns Hopkins professor, Fukuyama went on to become the intellectual mouthpiece of the neoconservative movement for a spell, particularly with regards to US involvement in Iraq in the late 1990s. He's since almost reversed his point of view on the issues, as he believes the current Bush agenda is too militaristic.

While I am definitely not a neoconservative (I'm your garden variety Massachusetts-educated, New York liberal), I thought the concept of the end of history was the cat's pajamas when I was in school. In honor of how much I was amused by Fukuyama in college, we're going to talk about his work a little bit.

"The End of History," eh? Indeed, in both his essay (which I've read) and his book (which I haven't), Fukuyama argues that the progression of human history as a struggle between ideologies is largely at an end, with the world settling on liberal democracy after the end of the Cold War and the fall of the Berlin Wall. Take home points: Fukuyama contradicts Marx, who says history ends when there are no social or economic classes. Also: History does not equal events. Things will continue to happen and time will march on, but there won't be any more major overthrows and we'll stick with democracy. I don't agree with him, but it's an amazingly intelligent argument (and it involves Hegel! Wait. I hate Hegel. Never mind.)

But as I mentioned before, in the past two decades, Fukuyama has done a complete 180 in his opinions and, of course, written a new book, America at the Crossroads: Democracy, Power, and the Neoconservative Legacy. He's split with the neo-cons over how best to export democracy to the world. He's against the more militaristic approach that the Bush administration has been taking in bringing democracy to Iraq. Instead, he believes that installing a democratic regime in Iraq is now merely a justification for the current US presence, as Bush's primary two reasons for being there - Weapons of Mass Destruction and toppling Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein - have essentially disappeared. Bravo to that.

Aside from bringing well-researched historical perspective to mainstream politics, which I always enjoy, Fukuyama's pithy quote of the night was from the illustrious Daniel Patrick Moynihan, in reference to think tanks:

"There are some mistakes you need a Ph.D to make."

And I leave you with that.

I Have Nothing to Say to the City of Boston

This weekend, I ventured up to Boston to visit friends at my Alma Mater. I was joined by the Duchess, who flew in from the coast, and that Twitchy Mexican, who lives and works nearby. This past weekend was the annual Goat Roast BBQ in my residential house, so it seemed like a fine time to wander up to Beantown.

While I will report some of the more salient details, like the horrific weather, to you in my upcoming haiku, I do have some serious ruminations on being out of college for nearly a year.

SIKE!

No, I really do. Sorry.

Predictably, the more things change, the more they stay the same. I hadn't been up to Boston, let alone school, since commencement last June. In many ways, visiting this past weekend felt like I had never left. The physical landscape was remarkably static. It was still raining. I could walk back to my house on autopilot and see the same vistas I saw for four years, unchanged. The house hallways smelled the same (a very affable stale book smell) and the banister was as worn and smooth as ever.

The pattern of living practiced by my current undergraduate friends, too, was identical to my group's habits last year. Spring exams begin this week and the parties are over (until they start up again for seniors post exams). My friends were living in the unique state of disrepair governed by the notion that it's not worth cleaning up if you're moving out in a month. Also, as the economic landscape doesn't change much in a year, they hit the same bars and restaurants as we did. It was comforting and I enjoyed reliving old times.

Of course, I was now an outsider. I was no longer part of the college community, nor would I ever been in that special undergraduate way again. I know, such rejection is normal, but it's the reason I put off visiting my school chums* until nearly a year after graduation.

But seeing College in full swing didn't hurt as much as I expected - quite possibly because I wisely waited to visit until I had found a job, an apartment and a social network in New York. Though I miss the constant entertainment of living with all of my friends and the chaos of collegiate life, there are many things I don't miss. I don't miss the all-nighters, the lack of showering during midterms and finals, the bad food and the pressure I felt to figure out What I Was Going to Do After College that hung over my head during most of senior year. It has also been great to meet new people.

I know, I'm boring you. Have some Haiku.

May in Boston

Forty-five degrees
Driving rain, soul-killing wind
Boston weather sucks

Charlie Card

Stored value swipe card
I can now charge a T ride?
I think I'm in love.

Nasal Assault

Offensive odor
On the Boston T system
Febreeze and Snapple?

Dining Hall

Custom waffle press
College crest on breakfast food
The Veritaffle

Charlie's Kitchen

Dinner in the Square.
No black bean chicken nachos?
You are dead to me.

________________
* I get to call them "school chums" because I went to college in New England.

My Ability to Fill Space is Impressive

I've been conversing with both the Duchess and Ben today, and as they bring out the worst in me, consider yourself warned. Ben even supplied the title of this entry.

I love airplanes. And airports. And flying. And I can't believe that I haven't shared that tidbit with you yet. In fact, it is so true that it was my truth for a game of "a truth and a lie,"* during our first entryway meeting in college. (My lie was "my toenail got moldy and fell off." And that can't possibly be true because as we all know, I have cute feet.)

Let me tell you about the Audrey Inflight Experience (tm), for those of you who have not yet had the pleasure of flying the friendly skies with me.

Two things to keep in mind: I lived close enough to college that I was able to get home using a train and the only time I've flown for work was for a "sales conference." In Puerto Rico. In February. (It was so strenuous.) What I'm trying to tell you is that for me, air travel equals vacation. And the vacation begins the instant I arrive at the airport.

When I fly, I do many fun things. I will probably arrive at the airport just in the nick of time. If I arrive in any other timely fashion, I will be unspeakably early. If I arrive in such a fashion, I will case the terminal for the cheapest food. Then, I will sit in the waiting areas in front of gates for flights that are not mine and I will pretend that I am traveling elsewhere. Milan? Abso-frickin'-lutely. If I am flying an airline that has business class, I will locate the terminal with the free soda. At least I did while on a four hour layover in O'Hare airport in 1994. (I believe it was Terminal C).

Note: Never fly Continental from Newark to Florida. It's one of those crafty east-west airlines and they WILL route you through Chicago.

When booking flights, I always try to secure a window seat. Once on the plane, I am invariably disappointed that said window seat is usually over the wing. But no matter. Once in my window seat, I will prematurely fasten my seatbelt and read the wordless cartoons in the emergency exit booklet. I will chuckle to myself as I make up word bubbles. I have been known to take this booklet as a "souvenir" to go with the wing pins. Not all of the airlines make the cool wing pins anymore; it's very sad.

These were great!

Window seats, of course, have fantastic views. But window seats are also useful for sleeping when I get bored, which occurs post emergency-booklet-flight-pin-and-take-off fun, but pre-snack-and-drink cart entertainment.

The snack and drink cart is one of the focal points of the flying experience. I often fly Jet Blue and they give you lots of interesting culinary choices. I usually select ginger ale as my first beverage. I will later ring the call button to ask for a can of Mr. and Mrs. T's Bloody Mary Mix. I will usually drink the mix on the way out, but on the way back, I will request that they hand it to me unopened so that I can bring it home for my dad. It tastes better at home when it comes from a plane. If you've ever met my father, you know that Dr. Larry appreciates things more when he doesn't pay for them. The Mix is always a much-appreciated souvenir.

Jet Blue also has many fun snacks. They even encourage you to have two! I like to pretend that they're only giving me two snacks because I'm special, not because they offer everyone two snacks. I always get the blue chips (as they make my tongue blue). I'll usually squirrel away the Dorito Snack mix or the cookie for later.

Jet Blue also has TVs. (No, they are not paying me to write any this. I know it's questionable.) Delta's short-lived Song also had TVs with large mp3 libraries. Song, by the way, was super weird. They had merchandise.

An airline-branded toaster? Now I'm just confused.

Other airlines have movie screens, too, though not personal ones like Jet Blue and Song. American Airlines, for example, shows movies on their international flights. I got to watch Under the Tuscan Sun and The Laws of Attraction on the way back from Paris. Thanks, American Airlines. Thanks a bunch.

As you may have guessed, I will be flying again soon, hence my obvious excitement. Since I'm leaving from JFK, there's the added bonus attraction of the AirTrain. Be still, my heart.

_______________________
*I know, I know. The game is really "Two truths and a lie." But for some reason, Proctor John decided that we were going to cut it to "one truth and one lie."

Driven to Drink

Dear World,

Today has been One of Those Days At the Office. Thus, I've been driven to drink. Thanks, World.

Love,
Audrey.

PS - I realized during the course of conversation this week that I do not have a favorite bar in the great City of New York at which to drink away my stresses. What a problem! While I have been to several bars that I have enjoyed, none has earned the coveted title of "favorite."

Thus, I would like to call my dear readers to action - again - and this time I mean it, guys. Send me the names and locations of your favorite bars in New York City (Brooklyn is ok, too - but none of this Queens nonsense.) I would like to put together a pub crawl based on your recommendations. So don't go suggesting anyplace up in Washington Heights, either.

I already very much enjoy d.b.a in the East Village and Barrow Street Ale House in the West Village. Work from there.

General Bar Criteria, vaguely in order:

1. In a cool neighborhood.
1a. Near other, though perhaps lesser, bars, and also near food.

2. A little worn, "well-loved," if you will.
2a. Not deliberately constructed to look fake-old, or fake anything.
2b. Not too much of a dive. "Divey" is fine, but I don't want to hang out with REAL truck drivers, people. I'm just a nice girl from the Bestchester, after all.

3. Good music, of course.
3a. Extra points for one of those fun mp3 juke boxes.

4. A great beer list.
4a. Bonus points if most of them are on tap.

5. Decently cheap prices. If I pay $7 for a Corona, it's your head on the table.

6. Seating aside from the bar itself.
6a. Preferably an atmosphere conducive to conversation.
6b. If I'm being really picky, some of the seating should be "cozy."

7. A little bit of open space, in case I feel like dancing. Because I often do.

8. Lovely, low lighting - but not pitch black.

And, of course:

9. Not too popular, because as an undercover hipster, I can't let too many people know my secrets.

I anxiously await your love notes, as always.

Naughty Potty

Already grossed out? Good. I like it when I start out with an advantage.

I had a ridiculous nightmare last night involving the toilet in my apartment.

As many of you may be aware, my dormitory-like, five-girl apartment has two bathrooms. The toilet in the back bathroom, the one that I use, is notoriously finicky. Since I moved into the apartment in January, we have had to call the plumber on three separate occasions to unclog it.

The first time, I was not party to the clogging, but the plumber produced a rather feminine explanation for the blockage - if you catch my drift. The second time, the water level had sunk and me, idiot that I am, decided to flush the toilet to recirculate the water. I was wearing a suede skirt and I was already running late for my dinner plans, as it was Friday night and I'm so cool. The toilet overflowed and I suddenly found myself standing in an inch of (thankfully clean) water. I admit that part of the reason it overflowed was because I am bad at following directions. ("Audrey! Turn the knob to the right to shut off the water! Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey!" One of my roommates, who I will call Jersey, is very knowledgeable about such practical things as plumbing and bookshelf-building. Still, I turned the knob to the left and continued shouting. In my defense, the knob is mounted on the wall, so "right" is really "towards the wall.) The most recent time, the toilet decided to throw a temper tantrum after Jersey went to the bathroom "the bad way," (her words, not mine).

This picture was too good not to steal from Gothamist, who wrote about the very same subject not three short weeks ago. Amazingly enough, I didn't read the piece until I was searching Google Images for a pictures of a clogged toilet. I will not disgrace this fine blog with photos of the Beast Itself in my apartment.

During my most recent conversation with the plumber, to whom I should start sending Christmas cards, I asked him if there was anything we could do to avoid such problems in the future. We had already implemented a strict no tampon flushing policy, purchased single ply toilet paper, and reduced our consumption of meats and cheeses (just kidding about the last one). His response was that we clearly weren't doing anything abnormal and the pipes are just old and corroded. (Although I wonder if he merely thought that because we are women, our bodies only produce perfumed monarch butterflies, from either end.) He advised against Drano as it wouldn't work and it would stain the porcelain. Whoopee.

Nevertheless, my steadfast roommates and I frequently live in fear of our toilet. And last night, I had a nightmare about it.

In my nightmare, I was flushing vegetables down the toilet. Cut up red, orange and yellow peppers, to be exact. I wasn't doing my business, I was standing there dropping them in, one by one. The toilet drainage slowed and protested, but after turning off the water and using the plunger, I manuevered the produce down the pipes. Vindicated, I went to bed.

But the toilet was Unamused. The next thing I remember is that it was erupting with vile, black dirt - like high quality soil that one might use to make a mudpit - mixed with the veggies. I flushed the toilet and it went down, gurgling like the Bog of Eternal Stench in Labyrinth.

But one of the pipes that carried away the waste ran above the toilet, directly over it - and it was leaking. (I don't actually know if any of our waste pipes are on the ceiling, but there are a lot of pipes). The waste soil was leaking right back into the toilet. Thus the vicious cycle continued.

I think I woke up in a cold sweat after it cycled through a few times.

Needless to say, if you ever flush anything remotely "creative" in my toilet, I will kill you.

Do you have 100 Friends?

Because Patel sure does. He invited over 160 people to his birthday party. Ridiculous.

According to Thefacebook.com, I have a whopping 354 friends, but that's such a lie.

I share these figures with you and ask the above question because of an article I came across in last week's issue of Time magazine. I need not remind you that last week's Time was the Time 100 People You Should Be Embarrassed for Not Knowing. Joel Stein, one of the Time writers (columnists? hacks?) did his own take on the Time 100. Even though I'm sure every blogger in the known universe has emulated this piece already, I'm not a news and media blog so I can do whatever I want. Awesome. Also, for the record, I'm more of a Newsweek fan.

Anyhow, Joel makes the point in his essay that very few, if any, of the people in the Time 100 made a difference in his life during the past year. Instead, he crafts his own list, the Joel 100 (TM). This list, of course, led me to wonder who would be on my own top 100 list. But I'm kind of lazy and I have no interest in making a 100 item list when there's no major media publication paying me to do so.

I will, however, take submissions. Send me a couple of sentences, preferably through the comment feature on this blog, about why you think you should be on the Audrey 100. This way, you do the work for me! Alternatively, you can send me your most memorable Audrey memory. I reserve the right to delete comments detailing stories I'd rather not have shared with the public. If there are enough submissions, I will write out a list. I'm just tired today because we went out for pizza at work and I apparently only have enough blood to power one vital organ at a time. Right now, it's the stomach, not the brain.

Coming up this week (maybe even tomorrow!) - more interactive LowConcept experiences!

I would like everyone to know that I wrote a sub par version of this post, but blogger ate it while I was trying to publish. See? Blogger.com is monitoring the quality of my work for you, and you didn't even ask.

[No] Service, Please!

Why is this Monday different from all other Mondays?

Because while there will be some Haiku (I promise), I actually have something to say. (Shock! Horror! Shock!)

Depending on who you ask, I am a relatively low maintenance person, particularly for a female. Rather, I perform most of my maintenance myself. (I'm telling you, I'd be the best car you ever owned.) Hence until yesterday, I had never been the recipient of a pedicure conducted by anyone other than yours truly.

Unbeknownst to me until a few months ago, my lack of professional foot pampering comes as a shock to many members of the female population. Without going into lurid detail about my feet (and they are quite cute, by the by, though a bit on the rectangular side), I don't find it troublesome to paint my own toenails on occasion if I so desire, or navigate a pumice stone. Really, it's not a big deal.

Yes, those really are my feet.

Still, in the name of a late Hanukah/Christmas/ Thanks-for-Letting-me-Stay-On-Your-Couch-While-I-was-Looking-for-a-Job gift, the Private Eye and I embarked on a Pedicure Adventure after Sunday brunch. Well, adventure for me as she's "normal" and has had them before.

In all honesty, the pedicure was pleasant, but it wasn't any better than what I could do myself. In addition, many nail salons exist in a magical state in which they do not permit you to add the tip to a credit card payment. Require me to have cash? Do math in my head?* Why don't you just shoot me in the foot instead.

The entire experience did cause me to ruminate on New York City's culture of service and personal care - particular with regards to the female body. Aside from being immensely doorman/cab/delivery oriented, New York City seems to operate on the pretense that no one can take care of themselves - therefore, they have to pay other people to do it for them. In this city, you can even get someone to blow your nose for you.

I understand that New York may not be unique in this respect. I'm sure people in LA have their assistants sniffing their dirty laundry. I am also aware that practices like getting a pedicure, or getting your groceries delivered can save time and sanity. But I can also see the bottom of the slippery slope. At the extreme, I don't understand how an individual could feel in control of her life if every minute detail was taken care of by someone else.

Or am I just jealous that my time isn't worth more and I get to do my own ironing? Unclear.

Confession: my five person, two-bathroom apartment employs a cleaning person. But I can still wield a mean sponge on a moment's notice.

In closing, a token haiku about one of the services I perform for myself. It is, after all, Haiku Haiku Monday.

Errant Errands

Joys of being young
Infrequent grocery shopping
First time in six weeks

___________________

*I am notoriously awful at calculating tips. I wish I had told a story about this previously so I could link to it, but I haven't.

Stop the Presses!

I have just been reminded by the good ol' internet that TODAY is NO PANTS DAY! Such are the little things that excite me, folks.

I am, in fact, wearing a skirt, though that doesn't count.

Things I Like

In honor of Friday (definitely something I like), I've decided to compile a list of Things I Like. It is not meant to be all-inclusive, or exhaustive. Also, I realize "things" implies that this list is about nouns; there are some actions included. Deal.

I invite readers to contribute their own lists.

Yes, this is an example of me putting forth minimal effort. To which I respond: Read the blog title.

Things I Like

1. My generally robust immune system. I realized this week when I was sick that I'm quite glad it doesn't happen more often.

2. Drinking on the company tab. Self-explanatory.

3. Free chips at Mexican restaurants. I'm usually offended when they make you pay for them.

4. Cellular communication. It permits me to inform others that I'm running late, so that they're slightly less annoyed with me.

5. Anything open or running 24/7. I like having choices, like choosing to buy chapstick at 4 am.

6. Reading Newsweek in my parents' bathroom. No, I do not live with them - but when I did and also when I go home.

7. The fact that Starbucks takes Visa. Dunkin' Donuts notably does not, and neither does the infamous Au Bon Pain last I checked. I don't particularly have strong feelings about Starbucks' coffee, it's just convenient for my lazy lifestyle.

8. Roommates. I currently have four, in college I had anywhere from two to nine. They're all awesome.

9. Brunch. And I don't mean just the food. I mean the entire unshowered, lunch-AND-breakfast food, coffee-klatch affair. There is no other event that is so social and yet so low pressure - and, let's face it, so delicious.

10. Owning books. I know it's irrational, but there's something comforting about a shelf full of books. Either that, or I'm insecure and feel that I need to prove I read them by pointing at them constantly.

11. Making lists. Like that wasn't obvious.

12. You.

May the Fourth Be With You

(Say it out loud.)*

I had a rather New York-y day yesterday, involving both free entertainment and standing in line for something to which I did not gain entry. Julie, the EIC** and myself stood in line, in the rain, for one of the Tribeca Film Festival movies. It was a romantic comedy about cheese, and we were so not anywhere near getting in. We came to the conclusion that in any other city, they would have been begging us to watch the film. Only in New York does everyone crave indie cred. We instead retired to the apartment platonically shared by the Private Eye and Poshua*** to eat cheese - a far better idea.

But I digress. The highlight of yesterday was witnessing, up close and personal, the most breathtakingly beautiful performance I have seen within the confines of this fine city.

Down the street from my office, six workmen were using a gigantic trash compactor on the back of a garbage truck to CRUSH OFFICE FURNITURE. And by crush, I mean completely annihilate. It was that freakin' cool. I don't mean pansy things, like chairs. They were doing big hulking metal desks and ginormous wooden closets. I must've stood there for a solid 15 minutes, gaping in awe. It was truly performance art. I think the workmen may have thought I was a bit of a weirdo - but hey, they were right.

As I am not in possession of a digital camera (which is becoming more and more of a problem), I present to you a website containing AWESOME QuickTime movies of an industrial shredder. I highly recommend viewing the couch, the refrigerator and the dryer.

__________
*Compliments to Twitch, if he's even reading this darn thing. And if he is, he'll probably yell at me for yoinking his material, even if I am giving him the credit he'd demand.

**One of those friends whom I was supposed to name last Friday. The EIC, or Editor-in-Chief, is well on her way.

***Oh yes, I am shamelessly stealing Julie and