Speaking of passing on bad vibes from person to person in the city...
Maybe something like this happened to the girl in the laundromat before I walked in and got upset about my dress being ruined...
A strange man got on the train this morning at 42nd Street. I noticed him immediately because of the way he was walking. There was just something weird about him. I don't usually notice people in the city. D always says "Did you see that guy with the *insert weird accessory or behavior here*?" and I will have no idea what he's talking about. But this guy creeped me out from the moment I saw him. There was just something... off. He was carrying a duffle bag and then three department store bags (the big plastic ones with the nice handles) full of clothes and sneakers. On his right forearm was a giant tatoo of the grim reaper that read "El Muerte."
He seemed discombobulated. Unable to deal with his many bags, he deposited three of them near the train door from which he entered. People looked at the bags, but nobody did anything. I'm sure everyone was thinking "What if there's a bomb..." but nobody wants to be the dork to say something.
Rather than sit on a seat, he decided to sit on his duffle bag, on the floor, in the middle of the train, right at the base of my feet, facing me.
I didn't have a newspaper (damn you AM New York, for being out only once and on this particular day!), so I was sitting there with my headphones on looking at this guy. I looked away, looked around, but he was right in front of me, just sitting on the train floor.
About thirty seconds later, he started grabbing his face. I don't know what he was doing. My guess is that he was popping his jaw back into place or something, but he was doing it viciously.
Then he started staring at me. Just staring. Intensely. He was kind of smirking, as though he was trying to get my attention. I didn't look at him. I tried not to make eye contact. I looked around and tried to stare at other people on the train. I looked up. I looked at my hands. I tried not to think about the FreakFest that was seated in front of me.
When the man seated next to me got up, FreakFest gathered up his belongings (his duffle bag and the three bags he just left at the door) and sat next to me. He turned around and stared at me again.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was stretching into the neighboring seats. And then I felt it. His hand touched my leg. I didn't respond because I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt. We're always bumping into people, brushing against people, invading people's personal space in this city. He most likely just stretched and accidentally brushed against me and would withdraw his hand as soon as he realized what happened.
He did. And then I felt it again. And again.
I didn't know what to do.
I looked around at the other people on the train and noticed a guy who seemed to sense what was going on. I felt safe, because I was certain this guy would do something. But really, what would he do? What was I going to do?
When the train stopped at 14th Street, I decided to get off, as FreakFest didn't seem to be getting off at that stop. I decided to wait for as long as possible to get out of my seat, on the off chance that we would try to follow me. Not that he was going to follow me. I paused, and then quickly got up.
FreakFest didn't motion to leave until he realized that I was getting off. He then quickly and chaotically gathered his many bags and got off the train with me. I didn't know what to do. I hadn't expected him to do that. He didn't seem to be getting off at that stop!
My original plan was to just wait for the next train but I didn't want to be on the platform with him. I considered running up to the L train, but what if he followed me? And what would I have done on the L, anyway?
I decided, instead, to run up to another car and squeeze myself into it as the doors were closing.
My heart was about to come out of my chest. I didn't know where he was, I didn't know if he would make his way through the train, I didn't know if he was on the train, I didn't know if he could see me from another train.
I didn't see him again. Phew.
At work I tried to concentrate but couldn't. I was spooked.
I encountered JG in the lunchroom and told him the story, because I knew I could count on him to be horrified on my behalf.
I didn't call D for about three hours. I wanted to calm down a bit, stop shaking, and get through my morning experiments before I talked to him. I was afraid that he would not respond and that I would explode if I didn't give myself time to process what had happened, and, well, order my dress, because I knew that would make me feel better.
I called him and said "Guess what happened to me this morning!"
"You were groped?"
I paused. "Um... well... yes, sort of, I guess, yes, I was."
Not funny. It just wasn't funny. It wouldn't have been funny under any circumstances. I guess he said it because he'd read an article discussing how the police have been cracking down on subway gropers and have been apprehending record numbers of them. What kind of world do we live in?
I told him the story and he was sympathetic, but not in the protective I-Want-To-Kick-That-Guy's-Ass sort of way I wanted him to be. I expected as much. I expected rational. He said "Did he seem crazy? Did he seem insane? How old was he? Was he homeless?" and I explained what the guy was wearing and how I was freaking out and how I was glad to see that there were cops at Spring Street (specifically the Vandam exit) because there have never been cops before.
Of course I wanted to explain how disgusting it is to be touched on your leg by a complete stranger and how violated you feel and how scary it is to be followed and how awful this stupid city is. But I guess I don't want to have to explain these things at all, because some things should go without saying.
I hate men. Who does this guy on the train think he is!? There's an entire website devoted to exposing street harassers called Holla Back New York City, which is awesome except why do we have to live in a world where people are harrassed?
This reminds me of the time when someone at a former job kissed me on the job. I was, of course, horrified, and I called my boyfriend at the time and he was all "Why would he do that? Do you think he meant it? He must be crazy. Did you do anything to make him think it was ok? There must be something wrong with him," etc., and I so wanted him to say "That motherfucker! If I ever see that douchebag I will destroy him."
I think that men don't get it. Because they are men and because they are in a position of physical power, they don't see these sorts of acts against us as distressing. They don't see how a woman could have a response to a stranger's hand on her leg, or a coworker's lips on her face. I was amazed that my former boyfriend could make excuses for my coworker.
I guess men really don't react to anything. I guess men aren't capable of saying "Oh my god HOW DARE HE!?"
And men are capable of inflicting their physical presence on complete strangers, because for some reason they think that this is acceptable.
Ugh.
Happy Friday.
Friday, June 23, 2006
So Remember How My Dress Caught on Fire?
It didn't leave a terrible mess. Maybe a few ashen streaks, but because the stress is striped the streaks were not terribly noticeable. I could have worn the dress without anyone knowing that it had ever been on fire, but I would obsess over the dark streaks.
I decided to have it dry cleaned, just in case the ashen marks could be removed by some heavy duty cleaning process.
I dropped it off on Monday, and they told me it would be ready on Thursday, which was fine given that I need it for next week for LondonandValencia! but not until Tuesday night, when I will be spending three hours packing.
In spite of the three bags of groceries I was carrying and the fact that I kept dropping my hoodie on the ground every three steps, I opted to pick up the dress last night.
I dropped my groceries on the floor and handed the girl my ticket.
She presented the dress, and I looked at the problem area only to find that...
THE DRESS HAD BEEN RUINED.
I maintained my composure. "Um, I'm sorry, but this wasn't here when I dropped the dress off."
The original ashen marks had been replaced by GIANT STAIN MARKS. You know how when you spill water on a piece of clothing the entire area looks darker than the rest of the garment? Yeah, that's what it looked like. Giant splotches of darker-than-the-rest dress, and in a perfect pattern.
"Yes, it was."
"No, actually, it wasn't," I said. I took the dress out and touched the stains. The stains were a bit sticky, as though they had put stain remover on the dress and had forgotten then to wash it.
"It was like that when you brought it in."
"No, it wasn't."
"It was."
"Listen, the dress had small ashen marks... very small... and no stains. This has stains, big ones, and this was $100 dress."
"It was like that when you brought it in."
Now, I can't even be sure that this was the same girl to whom I'd dropped the dress off. And even if she was, like she remembers! And even if she was, the customer is always right!
"No, it wasn't. I'm not paying for this and I'd like you to clean it again."
"But it was like that when you brought it in."
"Listen, the dress was not ruined when I brought it in and now I can't wear it ever again. Please try to clean it again."
She took it back, exasperated, and gave me the evil eye.
I left, fuming.
I am mad for a variety of reasons.
1. I love that dress. Madly. It's probably my favorite dress of all time. It fit, it's comfortable, it's wonderfully summer-y and perfect for my upcoming travels. I have matching shoes that are also comfortable. I love it love love it. It is hard for me to find clothes that fit and that dress fit. It fit perfectly. I love it.
2. They destroyed my perfectly wearable dress.
3. They blamed me and called me a liar.
4. They were unremorseful. Completely and utterly unremorseful. No "Oh, my! We're so sorry! Let us see what we can do to fix it!" Instead "It's your fault, you're insane, you brought it in this way and are blaming us."
5. They didn't make any suggestions. None. They just want my $6 and want to be rid of me. I maintained my composure the whole time but man did I want to slap this girl accross the face. I didn't throw a fit. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't cry when I saw my ruined dress. I calmly explained myself and then asserted myself until they took the dress back.
I walked home, lugging my groceries in the insane heat and tried not to cry. I was so angry, not about the dress but about the way I was treated.
I called MG immediately so that I could hear someone say "How dare they!" and she did.
MG was in traffic and had to get off the phone, so I called Mother. Mother didn't even know that my dress had caught on fire. "That's not the point of this story!" I said and told her about my dress. She empathized, and soon I was wailing about how much New York City sucks and how this city and this intolerable heat make people irritable and insane and how people pass tension on from one person to another. Mother suggested that I call the store or try to buy the dress again, so I did.
I called one of the stores and described my dress. They had none left. This girl, however, was a nice employee and called all of the other stores on my behalf and none of them had the dress. She suggested I order it by phone, and suggested that I could have it shipped overnight. I decided to do this, because the most I would be out (should the dry cleaner salvage the dress) would be the cost of shipping, which would be like $20 since it was from NYC. And, it was worth it to me to buy another dress because I love the dress and that's that. The sad thing was that it was such a deal at $100 in a fancy SoHo shop and I'd also bought the original tax-free. But whatever. I must have the dress.
When D came home, I snapped at him because he bought mayonnaise. We'd had this long conversation earlier in the day during which I said I'd go grocery shopping after work since he was sick, and that he was not to buy anything, including mayonnaise. He walked in, chipper, and said "I got the mayo!" and I was like "BRING IT BACK!" Awful. I apologized moments later for transferring my irritability onto him, and explained the saga.
He empathized and tolerated my swearing and he even hit the wall on my behalf, I think to encourage me to do so. I didn't. I just said "I hate people," and he said "I think it might be time to move."
I gave him a big kiss. "I could move tomorrow and not even look back," he said.
"Let's move in nine months when the lease is up."
"To Boulder?"
"I don't care. Anywhere but here."
I called to order the dress this morning, and the man on the phone was very sweet and helpful and is having the dress shipped today, with the inventory, to the store around the corner from where I work. I can pick it up at 6:00. No shipping. And I can return it to the store for a cash refund. Sweet.
In the meantime, I will pick up the original dress at the laundromat and if it still ruined I will indeed throw a fit and ask to speak to the manager as per MG's suggestion (I am so not a "Can I please speak to your manager" person) and present the receipt for my dress (which I bizarrely still have) and will ask them to reimburse me.
If they do not reimburse me, I will make a bunch of signs that say things like "THIS PLACE RUINS YOUR CLOTHES" AND "DO NOT DROP YOUR DRY CLEANING OFF AT THIS MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A LAUNDROMAT!" and will plaster them all over the outside of the laundromat. I will also stop people from going in there whenever I am walking by. There has to be some sense of justice.
I am learning, though, that there is no sense of justice in New York, and that is why everyone is antagonistic to everyone else and why people don't care at all that they've ruined people's clothes.
I decided to have it dry cleaned, just in case the ashen marks could be removed by some heavy duty cleaning process.
I dropped it off on Monday, and they told me it would be ready on Thursday, which was fine given that I need it for next week for LondonandValencia! but not until Tuesday night, when I will be spending three hours packing.
In spite of the three bags of groceries I was carrying and the fact that I kept dropping my hoodie on the ground every three steps, I opted to pick up the dress last night.
I dropped my groceries on the floor and handed the girl my ticket.
She presented the dress, and I looked at the problem area only to find that...
THE DRESS HAD BEEN RUINED.
I maintained my composure. "Um, I'm sorry, but this wasn't here when I dropped the dress off."
The original ashen marks had been replaced by GIANT STAIN MARKS. You know how when you spill water on a piece of clothing the entire area looks darker than the rest of the garment? Yeah, that's what it looked like. Giant splotches of darker-than-the-rest dress, and in a perfect pattern.
"Yes, it was."
"No, actually, it wasn't," I said. I took the dress out and touched the stains. The stains were a bit sticky, as though they had put stain remover on the dress and had forgotten then to wash it.
"It was like that when you brought it in."
"No, it wasn't."
"It was."
"Listen, the dress had small ashen marks... very small... and no stains. This has stains, big ones, and this was $100 dress."
"It was like that when you brought it in."
Now, I can't even be sure that this was the same girl to whom I'd dropped the dress off. And even if she was, like she remembers! And even if she was, the customer is always right!
"No, it wasn't. I'm not paying for this and I'd like you to clean it again."
"But it was like that when you brought it in."
"Listen, the dress was not ruined when I brought it in and now I can't wear it ever again. Please try to clean it again."
She took it back, exasperated, and gave me the evil eye.
I left, fuming.
I am mad for a variety of reasons.
1. I love that dress. Madly. It's probably my favorite dress of all time. It fit, it's comfortable, it's wonderfully summer-y and perfect for my upcoming travels. I have matching shoes that are also comfortable. I love it love love it. It is hard for me to find clothes that fit and that dress fit. It fit perfectly. I love it.
2. They destroyed my perfectly wearable dress.
3. They blamed me and called me a liar.
4. They were unremorseful. Completely and utterly unremorseful. No "Oh, my! We're so sorry! Let us see what we can do to fix it!" Instead "It's your fault, you're insane, you brought it in this way and are blaming us."
5. They didn't make any suggestions. None. They just want my $6 and want to be rid of me. I maintained my composure the whole time but man did I want to slap this girl accross the face. I didn't throw a fit. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't cry when I saw my ruined dress. I calmly explained myself and then asserted myself until they took the dress back.
I walked home, lugging my groceries in the insane heat and tried not to cry. I was so angry, not about the dress but about the way I was treated.
I called MG immediately so that I could hear someone say "How dare they!" and she did.
MG was in traffic and had to get off the phone, so I called Mother. Mother didn't even know that my dress had caught on fire. "That's not the point of this story!" I said and told her about my dress. She empathized, and soon I was wailing about how much New York City sucks and how this city and this intolerable heat make people irritable and insane and how people pass tension on from one person to another. Mother suggested that I call the store or try to buy the dress again, so I did.
I called one of the stores and described my dress. They had none left. This girl, however, was a nice employee and called all of the other stores on my behalf and none of them had the dress. She suggested I order it by phone, and suggested that I could have it shipped overnight. I decided to do this, because the most I would be out (should the dry cleaner salvage the dress) would be the cost of shipping, which would be like $20 since it was from NYC. And, it was worth it to me to buy another dress because I love the dress and that's that. The sad thing was that it was such a deal at $100 in a fancy SoHo shop and I'd also bought the original tax-free. But whatever. I must have the dress.
When D came home, I snapped at him because he bought mayonnaise. We'd had this long conversation earlier in the day during which I said I'd go grocery shopping after work since he was sick, and that he was not to buy anything, including mayonnaise. He walked in, chipper, and said "I got the mayo!" and I was like "BRING IT BACK!" Awful. I apologized moments later for transferring my irritability onto him, and explained the saga.
He empathized and tolerated my swearing and he even hit the wall on my behalf, I think to encourage me to do so. I didn't. I just said "I hate people," and he said "I think it might be time to move."
I gave him a big kiss. "I could move tomorrow and not even look back," he said.
"Let's move in nine months when the lease is up."
"To Boulder?"
"I don't care. Anywhere but here."
I called to order the dress this morning, and the man on the phone was very sweet and helpful and is having the dress shipped today, with the inventory, to the store around the corner from where I work. I can pick it up at 6:00. No shipping. And I can return it to the store for a cash refund. Sweet.
In the meantime, I will pick up the original dress at the laundromat and if it still ruined I will indeed throw a fit and ask to speak to the manager as per MG's suggestion (I am so not a "Can I please speak to your manager" person) and present the receipt for my dress (which I bizarrely still have) and will ask them to reimburse me.
If they do not reimburse me, I will make a bunch of signs that say things like "THIS PLACE RUINS YOUR CLOTHES" AND "DO NOT DROP YOUR DRY CLEANING OFF AT THIS MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A LAUNDROMAT!" and will plaster them all over the outside of the laundromat. I will also stop people from going in there whenever I am walking by. There has to be some sense of justice.
I am learning, though, that there is no sense of justice in New York, and that is why everyone is antagonistic to everyone else and why people don't care at all that they've ruined people's clothes.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Sympathy Sore Throat
I can't tell if I just have a sympathy (paranoid) sore throat or if I actually have the sickness from which D is currently ailing.
He's at home sick, watching cycling and lamenting not "being productive."
He stayed home yesterday and cleaned the apartment and went to the library to get books about London and CD's from which to learn Italian (bless him). I said "You should be relaxing! You can't stay sick! We are leaving for London in less than a week! You must take naps and drink fluids and do nothing and don't even think about going cycling!"
Today he is taking it easy, allowing the antbiotics to work. I am trying to be a good girlfriend and roommate and bring him things he needs like juices not from concentrate and bread so he doesn't have to just eat cheese rolled around meat. He keeps saying "I'll get it" and I have to be like "STAY IN BED GODDAMIT!"
My glands are swollen, definitely. I think I am starting to get sick but I will not allow it. I will go to bed early and take care of myself, because I am a woman and don't have pride when it comes to being sick. I admit that I am sick and will behave accordingly instead of going about business as usual and therefore ensuring a full-on illness.
Plus, I can't take a sick day. There is too much work to be done, and I literally won't have time to go to the doctor for antibiotics of my very own until Wednesday.
Ugh. I cannot get sick. I will not allow it!
He's at home sick, watching cycling and lamenting not "being productive."
He stayed home yesterday and cleaned the apartment and went to the library to get books about London and CD's from which to learn Italian (bless him). I said "You should be relaxing! You can't stay sick! We are leaving for London in less than a week! You must take naps and drink fluids and do nothing and don't even think about going cycling!"
Today he is taking it easy, allowing the antbiotics to work. I am trying to be a good girlfriend and roommate and bring him things he needs like juices not from concentrate and bread so he doesn't have to just eat cheese rolled around meat. He keeps saying "I'll get it" and I have to be like "STAY IN BED GODDAMIT!"
My glands are swollen, definitely. I think I am starting to get sick but I will not allow it. I will go to bed early and take care of myself, because I am a woman and don't have pride when it comes to being sick. I admit that I am sick and will behave accordingly instead of going about business as usual and therefore ensuring a full-on illness.
Plus, I can't take a sick day. There is too much work to be done, and I literally won't have time to go to the doctor for antibiotics of my very own until Wednesday.
Ugh. I cannot get sick. I will not allow it!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Planning
For some reason I am thinking about Dance Party USA today.
Has anyone been to Stonehenge? Any recommendations for how to get there from London without draining your bank account? Curse the worthless American dollar!
And curse not being prepared for travels. I'm trying to compromise, really, I am. It was a compromise for him to get our tickets two weeks in advance. I appreciate that, I do. Would I have preferred to have gotten them months ago so as to be prepared for our travels? Yes. Would I have preferred to give our various hosts more than one day notice of when we'll be arriving and staying etc.? Surely. But I am a compromising person, and I can be spontaneous. I swear, I can!
But not with this. I really want to see Stonehenge. Ever since I built a to-scale model of Stonehenge out of Play-Doh for a school project, I have been obsessed. This may be my only opportunity, and I don't want to not go because the train schedule doesn't work for us or because it's too expensive or because we didn't book the tour 48 hours in advance as is required.
Otherwise, we have no plans. Because I can compromise! I have no idea what to do in London. We will read a book about London on the plane and will then deliriously discuss things we might like to do.
It's not like I want to compulsively plan the vacation. That's very stressful and leads to agendas and pressure and not enjoying oneself. I would just like to know if we are going to see Stonehenge, and when that might be so I can tell A and B, and what that might entail (such as staying a night in Bath, in which case I might like to look into hotels now to get an idea of whether or not that is feasible monetarily). I don't want to spend precious time in London surfing the internet in order to find a good hotel. No, I will not.
So yes. Advice, please, if you've got any on Stonehenge. Merci!
Has anyone been to Stonehenge? Any recommendations for how to get there from London without draining your bank account? Curse the worthless American dollar!
And curse not being prepared for travels. I'm trying to compromise, really, I am. It was a compromise for him to get our tickets two weeks in advance. I appreciate that, I do. Would I have preferred to have gotten them months ago so as to be prepared for our travels? Yes. Would I have preferred to give our various hosts more than one day notice of when we'll be arriving and staying etc.? Surely. But I am a compromising person, and I can be spontaneous. I swear, I can!
But not with this. I really want to see Stonehenge. Ever since I built a to-scale model of Stonehenge out of Play-Doh for a school project, I have been obsessed. This may be my only opportunity, and I don't want to not go because the train schedule doesn't work for us or because it's too expensive or because we didn't book the tour 48 hours in advance as is required.
Otherwise, we have no plans. Because I can compromise! I have no idea what to do in London. We will read a book about London on the plane and will then deliriously discuss things we might like to do.
It's not like I want to compulsively plan the vacation. That's very stressful and leads to agendas and pressure and not enjoying oneself. I would just like to know if we are going to see Stonehenge, and when that might be so I can tell A and B, and what that might entail (such as staying a night in Bath, in which case I might like to look into hotels now to get an idea of whether or not that is feasible monetarily). I don't want to spend precious time in London surfing the internet in order to find a good hotel. No, I will not.
So yes. Advice, please, if you've got any on Stonehenge. Merci!
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Dishes
The most bizarre thing happened last night post-dinner party.
D invited his friend S over after they dined together at one of the many many many Thai restaurants in Hell's Kitchen (D didn't want to be around for the "Estrofest") in an attempt to surreptitiously set S up with my friend M. S stayed after The Photography Gals left, and for some reason started to wash the dishes. I didn't stop him, but I kept asking him "Why are you doing the dishes? I didn't even make you dinner!" and he said "I don't know... I just feel like I should be doing something."
There were millions of dishes.
And S washed most of them.
Granted, he washed some of them with hand soap, but who am I to complain?
We had a great time. The Photography Gals loved the apartment. We ate breads and fruits and cheeses. The dinner itself was miraculous. They are now under the false impression that I can cook.
I went against my upbringing and heritage for this dinner party and made the appropriate amount of food, rather than defaulting to Italian and preparing enough food for 40 people when only 4 would be in attendance. I bought enough food for possibly five people so that D could have some. M's sister ended up coming at the last minute so I had to ask D and S to go out for dinner, which worked out well because I got to have quality time with The Gals. I am the worst girlfriend ever, however, as I completely forgot to save him food despite his actually asking.
D always asks what I could possibly be talking about for hours upon hours when I hang out with my girlfriends. He always jokes "Did you talk about your periods? Birth control? Boys?"
We were, of course, talking about birth control methods last night when D and S walked in after their boy dinner. We promptly changed the subject to Dawson's Creek when they appeared, and then went back to the wonders of the patch when they left to drink on the roof.
The Gals and I talked about assertiveness and drama and the future and career changes and the importance of communication and birth control and Orthodoxy and photography and travels and my dream about Al Gore and another dream I had last week about our photography teacher. Ew.
The Gals left at about 11:15. They weren't in the mood for drinking, for some reason, but I was. M and B each had about half a glass and I had the remainder of the bottle. I was drinking and giggly while S washed dishes. I out on a Method Man / Redman CD and hosted a mini Monday night dance party since S and I have only D and hip hop in common. I am a fan of S's but had never had the opportunity to really spend time with him until last night, so hopefully now we can be friends instead of just friendly.
I went to bed with the spins and woke up with a stomach ache. D brilliantly suggested that we both take preemptive Advils last night before going to bed so things could be much worse. I'm a bit tired but not as much as I should be after having gotten only five hours of drunk sleep.
Tonight I plan to, gasp, exercise and catch up on Netflix and catch up with Father, for whom I had to leave a message on Father's Day. And then I will blissfully go to bed early! Ooo! I can't wait for tonight!
D invited his friend S over after they dined together at one of the many many many Thai restaurants in Hell's Kitchen (D didn't want to be around for the "Estrofest") in an attempt to surreptitiously set S up with my friend M. S stayed after The Photography Gals left, and for some reason started to wash the dishes. I didn't stop him, but I kept asking him "Why are you doing the dishes? I didn't even make you dinner!" and he said "I don't know... I just feel like I should be doing something."
There were millions of dishes.
And S washed most of them.
Granted, he washed some of them with hand soap, but who am I to complain?
We had a great time. The Photography Gals loved the apartment. We ate breads and fruits and cheeses. The dinner itself was miraculous. They are now under the false impression that I can cook.
I went against my upbringing and heritage for this dinner party and made the appropriate amount of food, rather than defaulting to Italian and preparing enough food for 40 people when only 4 would be in attendance. I bought enough food for possibly five people so that D could have some. M's sister ended up coming at the last minute so I had to ask D and S to go out for dinner, which worked out well because I got to have quality time with The Gals. I am the worst girlfriend ever, however, as I completely forgot to save him food despite his actually asking.
D always asks what I could possibly be talking about for hours upon hours when I hang out with my girlfriends. He always jokes "Did you talk about your periods? Birth control? Boys?"
We were, of course, talking about birth control methods last night when D and S walked in after their boy dinner. We promptly changed the subject to Dawson's Creek when they appeared, and then went back to the wonders of the patch when they left to drink on the roof.
The Gals and I talked about assertiveness and drama and the future and career changes and the importance of communication and birth control and Orthodoxy and photography and travels and my dream about Al Gore and another dream I had last week about our photography teacher. Ew.
The Gals left at about 11:15. They weren't in the mood for drinking, for some reason, but I was. M and B each had about half a glass and I had the remainder of the bottle. I was drinking and giggly while S washed dishes. I out on a Method Man / Redman CD and hosted a mini Monday night dance party since S and I have only D and hip hop in common. I am a fan of S's but had never had the opportunity to really spend time with him until last night, so hopefully now we can be friends instead of just friendly.
I went to bed with the spins and woke up with a stomach ache. D brilliantly suggested that we both take preemptive Advils last night before going to bed so things could be much worse. I'm a bit tired but not as much as I should be after having gotten only five hours of drunk sleep.
Tonight I plan to, gasp, exercise and catch up on Netflix and catch up with Father, for whom I had to leave a message on Father's Day. And then I will blissfully go to bed early! Ooo! I can't wait for tonight!
Monday, June 19, 2006
The Reception Was Lovely Except For That Part Where My Dress Was On Fire
Another weekend away, this time in the fields of CT.
We didn't leave until Saturday afternoon. D and I had originally planned an elaborate night at home performing a cooking experiment wherein we would attempt to replicate the caramelized onion / goat cheese tart from Balthazar. While commuting home I decided that staying in would be a waste of my glamorously styled hair. D was easily convinced to go on a date. We ended up dining outside at a cute place with cute waiters on 10th. We ordered too much food and didn't have room for dessert, which was fine with me. We tried to watch Winter Passing when we got home but not even Will Farrell could save it.
I accomplished nothing on Saturday morning despite my lofty plans to clean and work out and read read read. We left at about 1:30 with PW. We picked up the car, had a snack and modern furniture detour, and were completely checked in by 4:10. I was worried about the new haircut and only having twenty minutes to deal with it, but it looked cute and done with only minimal invasiveness.
The reception was charming. It took place under tents in a vast field outside a bed and breakfast. We shared veggie burgers and salads. We drank wine. Most wore flip flops. I took photos and got a wonderful compliment. The speeches were precious and the support of the family was amazing. We square danced and had far more fun promenading than we ever could have imagined. The wedding is a model for the future imaginary wedding that may or may not happen. I've been accumulating so much data and think that I would like to, if it ever happens, celebrate my union casually in a loft or in a field. A big party with little fanfare.
It was lovely to see everyone. It was a reunion for many of us. Sometimes I forget how much I miss people until I see them again. D said that for him its the opposite. I caught up with people I haven't seen in nearly five years. I saw old, familiar faces and became acquainted with new ones.
There were anti-mosquito candles sticking out from the grass at random. Tall ones, about three feet high, that looked almost like fireworks. People were drunk, and weren't necessarily paying attention to this sort of thing. I saved someone from backing into it and lighting her dress on fire as she backed up to pose for a photo.
I was trying desperately to get a decent no-flash exposure of the square dancing. I backed up.
Suddenly I felt the inside of my thigh getting really, really, REALLY HOT.
I looked down and my dress was on fire!
I don't know what happened. I have no idea. Had I been more sober I imagine I would have freaked out more, but I guess I just put it out. I feel like what happened was that I moved the fire, because it was on my dress and then it was on the ground and people were stomping it in the grass.
I was only traumatized, at the time, about the dress. "My dress!" I exclaimed. People ran over to me with water and said "The dress will be fine..." "But it was on fire!" others said. "My dress!!! NO!"
A girl said "No, see? It's coming off... it's just ash."
Ash. My dress, folks, was apparently fire-proof.
Awesome.
It's a little charred but it mostly came off. I dropped it off to be dry cleaned this morning.
I didn't feel much like dancing after that. D said "Do you want to dance some more?" and I employed one of the techniques I am always forgetting and said "This is serious. I'm a bit traumatized and don't feel like dancing all that much."
We called a cab to go home and they said "Ummm... twenty minutes to an hour?"
Ugh.
We ended up getting a ride from AC, who used to live in my room in Somerville.
Our drive to the brunch was lovely as we got to really look at the area, which was rich in colors. There were trees and swans and water and grass and people fishing and yes! I want to go back some time when there is not a wedding reception and do some photography. The colors. Gasp.
Everyone was hung over at brunch because apparently everyone stayed until like 3 am. Kids! I took more photos and said sad good-byes, and "Hopefully I'll see you soon!" but really it was "Hopefully I'll see you ever again," because once something like this has finally happened you know there's no reason to ever see the friends of your friends again. It's one of the casualties of moving away. You lose the people you see because they're there, not because you make an effort to see them.
We drove back to NYC, and returned the car two minutes late in the stagnant and nasty city air. D's cousin was spontaneously in town so we hung out with her for a bit and then excused ourselves to do Sunday projects like cleaning and laundry and grocery shopping for dinner parties. She took us out for an expensed fancy dinner (woo! desserts for all!) and we watched The Producers after I made the beginnings of what will tonight become creamy pesto.
Which reminds me... I should get home so I can make creamy pesto!
Oooh! Monday night party!
Until tomorrow...
We didn't leave until Saturday afternoon. D and I had originally planned an elaborate night at home performing a cooking experiment wherein we would attempt to replicate the caramelized onion / goat cheese tart from Balthazar. While commuting home I decided that staying in would be a waste of my glamorously styled hair. D was easily convinced to go on a date. We ended up dining outside at a cute place with cute waiters on 10th. We ordered too much food and didn't have room for dessert, which was fine with me. We tried to watch Winter Passing when we got home but not even Will Farrell could save it.
I accomplished nothing on Saturday morning despite my lofty plans to clean and work out and read read read. We left at about 1:30 with PW. We picked up the car, had a snack and modern furniture detour, and were completely checked in by 4:10. I was worried about the new haircut and only having twenty minutes to deal with it, but it looked cute and done with only minimal invasiveness.
The reception was charming. It took place under tents in a vast field outside a bed and breakfast. We shared veggie burgers and salads. We drank wine. Most wore flip flops. I took photos and got a wonderful compliment. The speeches were precious and the support of the family was amazing. We square danced and had far more fun promenading than we ever could have imagined. The wedding is a model for the future imaginary wedding that may or may not happen. I've been accumulating so much data and think that I would like to, if it ever happens, celebrate my union casually in a loft or in a field. A big party with little fanfare.
It was lovely to see everyone. It was a reunion for many of us. Sometimes I forget how much I miss people until I see them again. D said that for him its the opposite. I caught up with people I haven't seen in nearly five years. I saw old, familiar faces and became acquainted with new ones.
There were anti-mosquito candles sticking out from the grass at random. Tall ones, about three feet high, that looked almost like fireworks. People were drunk, and weren't necessarily paying attention to this sort of thing. I saved someone from backing into it and lighting her dress on fire as she backed up to pose for a photo.
I was trying desperately to get a decent no-flash exposure of the square dancing. I backed up.
Suddenly I felt the inside of my thigh getting really, really, REALLY HOT.
I looked down and my dress was on fire!
I don't know what happened. I have no idea. Had I been more sober I imagine I would have freaked out more, but I guess I just put it out. I feel like what happened was that I moved the fire, because it was on my dress and then it was on the ground and people were stomping it in the grass.
I was only traumatized, at the time, about the dress. "My dress!" I exclaimed. People ran over to me with water and said "The dress will be fine..." "But it was on fire!" others said. "My dress!!! NO!"
A girl said "No, see? It's coming off... it's just ash."
Ash. My dress, folks, was apparently fire-proof.
Awesome.
It's a little charred but it mostly came off. I dropped it off to be dry cleaned this morning.
I didn't feel much like dancing after that. D said "Do you want to dance some more?" and I employed one of the techniques I am always forgetting and said "This is serious. I'm a bit traumatized and don't feel like dancing all that much."
We called a cab to go home and they said "Ummm... twenty minutes to an hour?"
Ugh.
We ended up getting a ride from AC, who used to live in my room in Somerville.
Our drive to the brunch was lovely as we got to really look at the area, which was rich in colors. There were trees and swans and water and grass and people fishing and yes! I want to go back some time when there is not a wedding reception and do some photography. The colors. Gasp.
Everyone was hung over at brunch because apparently everyone stayed until like 3 am. Kids! I took more photos and said sad good-byes, and "Hopefully I'll see you soon!" but really it was "Hopefully I'll see you ever again," because once something like this has finally happened you know there's no reason to ever see the friends of your friends again. It's one of the casualties of moving away. You lose the people you see because they're there, not because you make an effort to see them.
We drove back to NYC, and returned the car two minutes late in the stagnant and nasty city air. D's cousin was spontaneously in town so we hung out with her for a bit and then excused ourselves to do Sunday projects like cleaning and laundry and grocery shopping for dinner parties. She took us out for an expensed fancy dinner (woo! desserts for all!) and we watched The Producers after I made the beginnings of what will tonight become creamy pesto.
Which reminds me... I should get home so I can make creamy pesto!
Oooh! Monday night party!
Until tomorrow...
Bialyschtockkkk and Blooooommmmeeee.....
Yes, I watched The Producers last night (well, I started watching it) and it was amazing. I have decided that were life in musical form, we'd be far happier as a society.
The potential of My Mundane Life In Song has yet to be realized.
Soon, soon, so soon will I have K's keyboard and then inspiration will be mine again!
An alternative, however, is to soon have Matthew Broderick following me around, failing to age, singing with complete earnesty while providing the soundtrack to my life.
I love the scene where he's at his accounting firm and the accountants are all singing "Unhappy..."
Speaking of which: does anyone know why accountants wore visors?
I am thinking I may want to buy a visor as part of my complete wardrobe overhaul in preparation for my trip to London/Valencia, which is next week. How did that happen? I am unprepared. I have no weather-appropriate clothing, nor have I done any research as to what I might like to do while being in Europe for the first time ever.
The good news is that I am prepared hair-wise, as the new haircut, which is still the talk of the lab (which makes me happy as today it is back to its crazy and unpredictable normalcy), has withstood the weekend and looks good in a ponytail, buns, and down with or without barrettes. Woo hoo! All praise the fancy haircut that would be worth whatever they normally charge were someone to have enough money to pay for a normally charged haircut.
I am having The Photography Gals over for dinner tonight. I am feeling a bit uptight about the during-the-week dinner party. I am trying new things, including a creamy pesto sauce which couldn't possibly be more difficult than normal pesto, right? I am throwing together a salad with mixed greens, goat cheese, honeyed pecans, and pear. I don't see how that could go wrong aside from the dressing, which will be a balsamic vinegar/honey concoction suggested by D's cousin. I had every intention to make homemade ricotta gnocchi as I have been in the mood for a pasta pyramid as of late and miss gnocchi (I miss those stupid overly starchy potatoes in general!), but didn't because it was 12,000 degrees and also because D's cousin was spontaneously in town and expensed a fancy dinner for us last night. We will also be having brie and grapes and crackers and breads and wines and then... cupcakes. Hopefully this will all take place on the roof but the weather is looking bleak.
I dreamt about the dinner party last night, and pasta that wouldn't boil and pesto that wouldn't heat and not having enough seating and there being a zillion flights of stairs to navigate in order for people to get onto the roof which turned not to be a roof at all but a scary attic that everyone loathed, and, most importantly, being extremely anxious about the dinner because Al Gore was invited and was going to show up late and I wanted everyone to be on their best behavior but people would not cooperate nor would they understand that it was very exciting for me that Al Gore was coming to my dinner party!
It's been so long since I've had a dream about Al Gore. The crush apparently persists. I want D and I to go to a taping of Saturday Night Live because why not? We were discussing which guest we'd be most excited about, and I was like "Dude, if we attend an Al Gore episode I am. going. to. DIE."
And now I must eat lunch, a big lunch, to tide me over until tonight when I will have people over for a late dinner that will be delicious. Right? It will be. It will be. Yes, it will be.
The potential of My Mundane Life In Song has yet to be realized.
Soon, soon, so soon will I have K's keyboard and then inspiration will be mine again!
An alternative, however, is to soon have Matthew Broderick following me around, failing to age, singing with complete earnesty while providing the soundtrack to my life.
I love the scene where he's at his accounting firm and the accountants are all singing "Unhappy..."
Speaking of which: does anyone know why accountants wore visors?
I am thinking I may want to buy a visor as part of my complete wardrobe overhaul in preparation for my trip to London/Valencia, which is next week. How did that happen? I am unprepared. I have no weather-appropriate clothing, nor have I done any research as to what I might like to do while being in Europe for the first time ever.
The good news is that I am prepared hair-wise, as the new haircut, which is still the talk of the lab (which makes me happy as today it is back to its crazy and unpredictable normalcy), has withstood the weekend and looks good in a ponytail, buns, and down with or without barrettes. Woo hoo! All praise the fancy haircut that would be worth whatever they normally charge were someone to have enough money to pay for a normally charged haircut.
I am having The Photography Gals over for dinner tonight. I am feeling a bit uptight about the during-the-week dinner party. I am trying new things, including a creamy pesto sauce which couldn't possibly be more difficult than normal pesto, right? I am throwing together a salad with mixed greens, goat cheese, honeyed pecans, and pear. I don't see how that could go wrong aside from the dressing, which will be a balsamic vinegar/honey concoction suggested by D's cousin. I had every intention to make homemade ricotta gnocchi as I have been in the mood for a pasta pyramid as of late and miss gnocchi (I miss those stupid overly starchy potatoes in general!), but didn't because it was 12,000 degrees and also because D's cousin was spontaneously in town and expensed a fancy dinner for us last night. We will also be having brie and grapes and crackers and breads and wines and then... cupcakes. Hopefully this will all take place on the roof but the weather is looking bleak.
I dreamt about the dinner party last night, and pasta that wouldn't boil and pesto that wouldn't heat and not having enough seating and there being a zillion flights of stairs to navigate in order for people to get onto the roof which turned not to be a roof at all but a scary attic that everyone loathed, and, most importantly, being extremely anxious about the dinner because Al Gore was invited and was going to show up late and I wanted everyone to be on their best behavior but people would not cooperate nor would they understand that it was very exciting for me that Al Gore was coming to my dinner party!
It's been so long since I've had a dream about Al Gore. The crush apparently persists. I want D and I to go to a taping of Saturday Night Live because why not? We were discussing which guest we'd be most excited about, and I was like "Dude, if we attend an Al Gore episode I am. going. to. DIE."
And now I must eat lunch, a big lunch, to tide me over until tonight when I will have people over for a late dinner that will be delicious. Right? It will be. It will be. Yes, it will be.
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