Another Post About My Feet

Two Mondays ago, I was reorganizing my room after the tornado that was dressing for my weekend plans.

I picked up my pretty Burgundy heels from beside my bed and removed a stray piece of rug fuzz. Without warning, I caught the faint odor of stale cigarettes. No, I was not deliberately smelling my shoes - I was being assaulted by a scent, in my own bedroom, without my permission. (I am a non smoker.)

Obviously I must have stepped on a carelessly discarded butt in the Lower East Side the night before (big surprise there) - that is no problem. The smell did touch off a series of thoughts on how much history is in every square inch of the City of New York. Earlier that evening, someone smoking a cigarette must have been standing near where I walked. What if I watched that bit of sidewalk for an entire day? A year? 30 years? Not even the block, but simply the parade of people passing through one sidewalk square on Ludlow. Their stories, their reasons for being there would be endless.

And now, back to scraping the gum off the bottom of that same shoe.

(And no, those are definitely, DEFINITELY not my legs.)

Those People

Without warning, my parents have become Those People. It's not that they are old - both my mother and my father are comfortably 50ish. It's more that overnight they got... even weirder.

Our pet beagle now has a coat. A person-type coat. But for a dog.

We are now Those People Who Put Clothes on Their Dogs.

Luckily this is not what they purchased for Sherlock, our dog. But this is a beagle and

IT SHOULD NOT BE WEARING CLOTHES.

The oddest part? My father bought the coat - and he bought it at full price. This was not a symptom of my mother wanting another child as my younger brother begins to look at colleges. This was a demonstration of my quirky but financially pragmatic father being completely batty. Granted, it was only $13, but this from a man who only buys necessary food items at the grocery store when they are on sale? My father has turned into the retail equivalent of a loose canon.

But there is a probable explanation for his temporary hysteria. We are in need of a new car and my mother has decided that she fancies a Lexus. Indeed, we may soon become Those People Who Own a Lexus. Having only picked up a driver's license after college, I have never driven consistently, nor owned a car, nor ever been a big fan of automobiles. (I am much more of a train maven.) I cannot fathom why my mother has suddenly decided that she wants "one of those cars with the slanty scripty Ls" that comes in "that nice blue color."

Empty nest syndrome? A sense of satisfaction with what one has achieved in life? Midlife crisis? All rational explanations.

Instead, I choose to think that my parents have been abducted by aliens and replaced with people who actually spend money on things. It's bizarre.

I am seriously considering moving to another state.

A Banner Week for Dead Celebrities!

This Dana Carvey SNL sketch explains itself. We will miss you, Gerry, you were delicious. Unfortunately, Gerald Ford is overshadowing the more important dead celebrity here. Ladies and gentlemen, JAMES BROWN IS DEAD. For the five of you who know what I'm referencing, I listened to the LA Style song last night and it's just as obscure and crappy and TECHNO TECHNO TECHNO as I remember it being in 1997. A clip of the opening, um, bars of the song can be found at the below link, I can't help you with the whole track and I'm having issues with Google Video - so it's not all pretty and hyperlinked. Deal. http://www.synthmania.com/Audio%20Files/Famous%20Sounds/ James%20Brown%20is%20dead.mp3

NEWSFLASH: Actual Content Comes to Internet

Please take a moment to surf over to Uncomplicatedly.wordpress.com, a new blog authored by one of my Class of 2007 Decade Buddies. Indeed, I have known The Writer - and that's the name I'll use for her - since attending CTY with her in 1997. I am now officially linking to her, you should too.

I will be back in the office tomorrow with something snarky to say - talk to you soon.

Happy Movie and Chinese Food, Everything Else is Closed Day!

Merry Christmas! Though I am holed up in my parents' house in the Bestchester until Wednesday, I couldn't keep my hands off my laptop for another minute. That damned Yule Log drives me to do crazy things.

Oh yes, the famed WPIX Channel 11 Yule Log, familiar to all those who grew up in the Tristate area. Every Christmas, from the hours of 9 am until noon, Channel 11 plays a 6 and a half minute loop of a log burning, accompanied by Christmas music. The log was recorded in 1966. Apparently it was off the air for a while, but it's been back and digitally remastered for a few years now! Furthermore, this year was the 40th Anniversary of the Yule Log! In its honor, Channel 11 (at one point the WB, now the CW, or somesuch) aired a 60-minute special entitled "The WPIX Yule Log: A Log's Life."

Now, I am the queen of useless, but if I were to make a list of things to do to fill an hour, in order of priority, it might look something like this:

1. Grad School applications
2. Important email chains with Patel and Desert Boy Gaz
3. International adventure planning
4. Reading any number of the books I keep buying
5. Spending time with my family
6. Seeing my high school/college/camp friends for New Years
7. Organizing my old photographs and ordering prints of some digital ones from college
8. Catching up on this year's good music. (I've been lazy, send me suggestions.)
9. Watching some of the Netflix that keep piling up.
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14. Buying a cheesegrater for my apartment.
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25. Affixing googly eyes to more surfaces in my room.
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35. Counting my toes to make sure I still have 10. (I do!)
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46. Figuring out that whole "401K" thing.
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70. Getting a tattoo in Vegas.
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85. A nap.
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113. Reading the past month of Gawker archives that I've slacked on.
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206. Learning German.
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508. Removing dust bunnies from my parents' basement.
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760. Reading Usenet archives from 1993.

761. Watching an hour long program on the history of a long since consumed log from 1966.

762. Blogging about the Yule Log special I didn't watch.

That's right, the Yule log doesn't even make it into my top 760 things to do with an hour of free time, coming in both behind a nap and removing dust bunnies from the basement, but ahead of blogging about the damned thing.

Of course I'm sorry I missed it. Did anyone get it on tape? Preferably VHS? Please? Did anyone have a party? Here's the official fan website! If I had to watch a TiVo'ed or DVR'ed version of the Yule Log, I think I might just have to vanish in a puff of logic.

A Light Thought

Today, you get one light thought, because frankly, I'd like to go home.

Why does a clean body get a clean bath towel dirty? Skin cells be damned, I exfoliated in the shower. It's not fair.

Discuss.

Love,
Audrey.

Hot or Not?

In my neighborhood, there is a firehouse. A fantastic firehouse. First of all, it is adorable. Built in the nineteenth century, it is brick with cast iron molding. With the Christmas wreath up, it looks right out of a Hallmark miniature Christmas town collection.

The firemen who work there are great as well. They let me illegally park my parents' car when I moved into my apartment. One of them went to high school with one of my roommates. Considering we don't have a doorman, it's also nice to have them around for security purposes - especially in my marginal neighborhood.*

The firemen are so friendly that it is not unusual to see their garage door open in the evening, the men chatting with passersby while wiping down the engine. Many of the people walking down the street will stop to chat with them. How very congenial, neighborhood-y, and old-time small town.

Then I noticed that all of the people who stop to talk are women, usually dressed for a night out on the town.

I think those firemen have figured something out. Gentlemen, take note.

__________________________
*This is a joke.

Secret Secular Snowperson

Now that the holidays have thrown up all over me, I reserve the right to throw up all over them by buying really stupid gifts for my office holiday grab bag. It's worse than Secret Santa (or Secret Secular Snowperson as we called it in college), because you have no idea who will be getting the gift you buy. A coworker has guaranteed that at least 60% of the group will be unhappy with their gifts. Here are some current suggestions, please add your own. We are supposed to spend $15.

- A really nice wheel of cheese.

- $15 worth of whoopee cushions.

- $15 cash wrapped in an MTA map.

- $15 at Duane Reade. Oh wait. We're not allowed to do gift certificates.

- A $15 6 pack of Sierra Nevada at the overpriced deli across 44th St.

- A $15 pen.

- $15 worth of crap from the dollar store on 45th Street.

- $15 of my dignity, available on a sliding scale.

- Lunch in midtown.

I'm going shopping this evening, so please, shower me with suggestions! The stupider, the better. If you have suggestions for anything *nice*, send them over to Amish for his sister.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree -

...You are standing per-pen-dicularly. Ha.

It has taken me a week or three, but I am finally in the "holiday spirit." I hum Jingle Bell Rock as I watch others buy Nick Jr. branded candy canes. I didn't leave the bar when that awful Mariah Carey song came on. I have attended "holiday parties" (which is why I haven't written much in the past week) and worn "holiday colors." It's been rough, I'll admit.

To boot, one of my darling roommates has acquired a Christmas tree. As some of us in the apartment, myself included, do the Jew thing, she graciously asked if we would mind having a tree. I don't come from a Hanukah Shrub family, but of course I didn't mind the tree - I just refused to be involved in its retrieval. More because I had no interest in lugging a tree around the streets of New York than because of any religious hangups, but hey, that's my business.

As it turns out, the tree is plastic. Not only are we celebrating the pagan Yule tradition and the Norse Yggdrasil (cool!), now we are paying homage to the petrochemical plastics industry. To compensate for the lack of natural pine smell, we also have a fake cinnamon Glade Plugin working its magic in the room. Oh, and there are Hanukah lights on the tree.

Enough about Christmas trees. I'm going to try to finagle another jelly donut from the Chabad Mitzvah Corp guys in Union Square today.

Hanukah Haiku

Modern religion

The Eight Bars of Hanukah

"Miraculous" beer.

Tonight

Tonight I am here, as if you care. I know many of you work in the same industry as I do, so if you're going, say hello!

Hiss Sputter Sputter

I may actually lose my mind this winter.

My head hurts. My teeth ache.

And I sleep with a wrench by my side.

No, it is not a nighttime attack that I fear - it is a nighttime conversation.

With my radiator.

The noise is unreal. I've put my phone up to it so that my parents can hear how ridiculous it is. "No!" they say. "You must be making mouth noises! That can't be coming out of the heater!" While I have been known to make a variety of annoying sounds, the radiator hiss is not one of them.

I know, I should stop whining. My apartment is fantastic. I *have* heat. I have space. Everyone in New York City has an awful radiator. And the wrench is actually very effective - I use it to turn off the valve every night when I go to sleep. With the remaining heat in the room and my comforter, the slight temperature drop is not a problem.

It's those nights that I forget to turn the radiator off that haunt me. Particularly those weekend evenings when I don't even reach my bed until near 4 am, being woken up by a rude hiss that reminds me of the alcohol I need to release from my bloodstream is not pleasant. Yes, you read that right. I'm not sure if it's a coincidence or if that story of the sound water (or steam?) conjuring the call of nature is true, but I always have to use the bathroom when the radiator wakes me up. I suppose it's not terrible, as I really need to get out of my bed to turn the damned thing off. I've tried to reach over to do it without getting up, but eventually I'll probably end up burning myself while reaching across the two foot gap from my bed.

So if you happen to notice burn marks on my upper arm next time I wear something sleeveless, don't worry. Those are hard-earned battle scars, and I'm proud, not ashamed, of my victory over the machines.

PS - Haiku pending. Possibly tomorrow.

Ahem

People who "volunteered" to guest blog, we're waiting.

And by "volunteered," I mean that I told you you'd be contributing over email or instant message - and thus you had the misfortune to say yes in writing. And by "say yes," I mean mention anything related to this nonsense. I've got proof!

Potential Public Embarrassment:

The Duchess
Patel
Health Care Goddess
Red Wine
Research Science
DrunkBrunch
Tmi (another friend of mine who hasn't made an appearance here yet)

You'll notice that today, for the third day in a row, I am posting from home. That means that I am BUSY and that you should be sending me material.

The blog doesn't write itself, folks.

Love and Kisses,
Audrey.

Is that a 160x600 or are You Just Happy to See Me?

A few weekends ago, a friend of a friend asked me what I did for a living. To his credit, he listened to my long-winded explanation and even understood it. Proof of his comprehension came in his response, which is still whipping around my mind -

"Can that be automated?"

Sigh. Yes, yes of course, part of my job can be automated. But it takes time to design the system and code the software blah blah blah.

Until then, I think there is a more pressing question:

"Have I been automated?"

It takes a lot to get me to pick up take-out food for dinner. But here we are.

There are indeed some upcoming motions that I need to go through.

Then again, it's holiday party season. I really can't complain too much.

Don't Try This at Home

Do not blog from home.

I can only speak for myself, but I think my mind wanders into a dead zone when I'm relaxing at home. As it should be, but I am of the opinion that it makes for fairly poor content.

What did I ponder this evening? Not much. I know - you do not care about the excessive amount of steak seasoning I put in the rice I made tonight, or the conversation I had in the elevator with my downstairs neighbor about his social cache, or my infinite ability to procrastinate on projects that will actually improve my life.

In contrast, you probably do care about the things I think about at work. For instance, the giant glacial lake in the Times Square subway station, the conundrum of the dirty bath towel, and what food scared me on any given day. (Today, it was broccoli. Again.)

I don't particularly have a problem with the amorphous nature of these at-home thoughts. They represent my environmental input - unprocessed data gathering. My at-work thoughts, in comparison, are a processed output - a commentary on my environment instead of merely a reflection. And everyone should take the time to listen to their environment on a regular basis - to people, of course, but also to the white noise hiss of the radiator.

Complete Garbage

I do not understand Manhattan trash collection patterns.

In the woodsy Bestchester, trash is collected once every two weeks, at 7 am, by a private contractor. That's right, my parents pay to have our refuse removed.

I understand that the city collects the trash. Terrific! Perhaps those are my New York City income taxes hard at work.* It's fantastic that they're willing to pick it up multiple times a week, particularly in my neighborhood as I live near a lot of restaurants. And collecting at night? A fine idea to avoid daytime traffic and deliveries. I applaud you, public works!

What I do not understand is why garbage is apparently collected over and over again, all night long.

As you may know, I'm a bit of a nightowl. It's a problem that stems from my regular rotation of late night coffeehouse visits, media overload, a dash of insomnia and my refusal to give up a collegiate sleep schedule. Rarely will I retire before 1 am and this week, it's been more like 3 am due to an annoying little paper I had to write. Late night oil burning, I hear the high-pitched whine of the truck hydraulics, the crashing of the trash cans, the dull thump of the bags landing in the truck and the muffled calls of the garbage men (or women!).

And then I hear the entire cycle again. And again. From 11pm clear through 3 am, I hear the truck, the trash, the collectors' calls.

What gives?

Are they collecting trash and recycling separately? Do I hear the collection not only from my block, but from the adjacent avenues and the street behind my building? Still, I hardly think that I should be hearing four or more hours of trash collection every night.

I'm convinced that Lewis Black is right - the City has decided that my block is just too quiet and implemented some anti-gentrification, noise-enhancement measures:

"The reason I live in New York City is because it's the loudest city on the planet Earth...They literally have guys come with jack hammers and they drill the streets and just leave cones in front of your apartment. You don't even know why. Garbage men come. They don't pick up the garbage. They just bang the cans together. And if your block's too quiet, they actually hire a guy who wanders around going, 'FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME!'... that was the first job I ever had."

- Lewis Black

He's so right it's scary. Now, maybe if the apocalypse would just hurry up and arrive, the city would stop providing such delightful services as all-night trash collection and I could finally get some sleep.

____________________________

*This statement is funny. Never you mind.