Monday, December 26, 2005

A Real Life Non-Denominational Miracle!


Yesterday, I ended up having the following conversation with the homeless men on my corner:
me: Umm, excuse me, have you seen my bag? I know I sound crazy. It's a red bag.
homeless man #1: A red dog? nope.
me: Oh, um, no, a red BAG.
homelessman #2, to homeless man #1, aggressively: A BAG! she's looking for a bag, not a dog!!
both of them: Naw, we haven't seen it.
me: Ok, um, thanks, bye.

What led me to such a preposterous position? Here's what happened. Yesterday, I went to the gym, and had my purse inside my gym bag. Upon arriving at my front door, I opened the gym bag, then opened the purse and removed my keys. I then entered the building straight away. I got into my apartment. 10 minutes later, I look for my purse.

It's not there.

Now, remember, I had the purse when I entered the building. I looked all over my apartment, in the stairway and halllway, everywhere. It was nowhere. That's when I asked the homeless men if they'd seen it, though obviously they would have pillaged my wallet already if they had.

I now begin to panic, and use my first emergency strategy: call both of the Sarahs and Chris. Only Sarah C. picks up, the unlucky duck, and I vent for a bit, while she offers some condolence. Then I dejectedly make a sign saying, "If you find a red purse, please call this number, I'll give you a reward." I tape it in the lobby. I wander back up the stairs, tears finally welling up as I berate my carelessness and stupidity.

Then, I hear an angelic voice: "Are you Charlotte?" "YES!" I shout, running up the stairs to meet my interlocuter. It's the crazy man from next door. He found my bag on the step. And didn't touch a penny. I thank him profusely while he confirms my fear that he is a little insane, but also sweet and, in this case, my savior. We say goodbye, and later I put all the cash that had been in my wallet into a thank you card and slip it under his door.

Happy Holidays!

Friday, December 23, 2005

Look How Similar



Winston Churchill v. Garrison Keillor

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

SONIC RAGE


Currently, I am a ball of rage. Every cell of me is oozing with anger and supreme irritation. Here's what just happened to me:

Sarah C. is visiting for a mere 2 nights. Tonight, instead of going to a bar with her from about 9:30-11:30, I went to the Apple Store for a 10:45 appointment for them to fix my 10 DAY OLD iPOD. Bear in mind that the fact that this brand new item is irrevocably broken is ludicrous. But OK, I think, it's a lemon. It happens. So it is VERY cold out. And I've given up going to a bar with an out of town guest to go to the Apple Store. That's the backdrop.

I bundle up in a sweater, gloves, scarf and jacket. I trudge all the way crosstown to the Apple Store (20 excruciatingly frigid minutes). I get to the SoHo den of Satan: the Prince Street Apple Store. I enter the gigantic glass doors and am soothed by the illuminating brilliance of the flashy store. This, I think, is the pinnacle of commercial architecture and design. My heart swells with the passion of a true Apple acolyte. I am told to head upstairs to the "Genius Bar." I do so, and see a GIGANTIC crowd of very very grumpy looking hip and gentrified people. I go up to the bar and ask an employee where I go if I have an appointment. This employee, by the way, is fat, ugly and disgusting. He looks me up and says, "OK, we're running REALLY late." His expression is of pride and smugness. How late? I inquire politely. "At least an hour and a half," the cretin intones. "Are you kidding?" I ask, incredulous. This, needless to say, was meant as a rhetorical question. "If I were kidding," the fiend says, "I would have said, 'A man walks into a bar. He says to the bartender . . . ' " Now, let's take a step back. I just turned down a beer with my visiting friend so that I could trudge in the freezing cold to a fat man who is now telling me a crappy joke. I mutter obscenities while he concludes his infuriating attempt at comedy. "Well, OK then," I say, walking away, filling with rage like an open-topped container on the ground during a monsoon. "Well, OK then!" He shouts, jovially and boisterously.

Then I decide to go to Duane Reade to do some errands, so the entire venture wasn't totally useless. I ask an employee, "Do you stock tin foil?" She replies, "Tin foil!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?" I falter. "You know, aluminum foil, for food and such," I stammer. "Hahaha, no! We only have seran (sp?) wrap!" Apparently, asking for tin foil in Duane Reade is like asking for prompt service from the Apple Store: chimerical.

If Sonic the Hedgehog were made purely of rage, and if he exuded only rage, and if he left a trail of rage in his wake, then I would say that I am about 1.5 times as angry as that.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Easy McPeasy. NOT!

Last night, I endured one of the most ghastly and torturous ordeals of my adult life. Today, my legs feel like 2 gigantic lead poles. My arms radiate with heat, and if touched, reverberate with shock waves of tenderness. There is a raw, depleted, dehydrated feel to my soul.

What happened, you ask? Kickboxing class at NYSC, THAT’S what happened.

Now, I initially decided to take this class as part of my nascent Get In Shape New Year’s Resolution regime. I thought it sounded fun, girly, trendy. It proved nothing of the sort. I will now characterize it:

Right at first, we are ordered to run around the room. Easy McPeasy, I think! I am, after all, a runner. Then running is interspersed with “hop n drops,” which is when you jump and then squat, then push your legs out behind you so you are in push up position, then jump up and hop and squat etc. Then we do all sorts of kicks interspersed with running. Then we have to run up and down the NYSC stairs in front of all the normal people doing normal workouts, and when we get to the bottom, put our hands and toes on the ground and lumber about like apes, going around a table, then back up the stairs. Repeat.

Then back into the room for gruesome wall exercises such as leg lifts and squats. The teacher also delved into some military psychology lessons, such as saying that we all had to hold up our legs for 20 seconds, and if ONE of us dropped, the count started over at 20. Guess who was the only one ever to drop? The lone male in the group! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Then a horrible pushup exercise I can’t even describe, as I have repressed it.

Finally, we then adjourn to the punching bags, which we punch and kick forever. Easy McPeasy, you say! No way. It requires EXTREME energy to punch or kick a bag in any sort of satisfying way. And by satisfying, I mean, a way that makes that amazing THWACK sound.

Then sprints across the room, touching the floor at either end. And when I say sprints, I mean full out sprints. Then sprints interspersed with “hop n squats,” and also with the weird lumbering hands and toes thing.

Then one last hurrah at the bags, featuring punchpunchpunchpunch KICK! KICK! Punchpunchpunchpunch KICK! KICK!

After 87 minutes of all this, tears welled up in my eyes (I was doing the simian lumbering thing at the time, a particularly demoralizing position). I simply could NOT go on. Every ounce of H20, every calorie, every everything was used up. But then, I thought to myself (in typical schizophrenic fashion, as always during exercise): Are you REALLY the kind of person who leaves a 90 minute class after 87 minutes? Are you? A resounding NO filled my soul. I continued until the end.

Then I went home and threw all my stuff on the floor, shoved some food in my face, and fell into bed, without doing any pre-bed ritual. I was simply too wiped out.

I’ll be back for more next week!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sunday, December 04, 2005

And another one...

Me: Argh, I simply can't wear the iPod headphones. They kill me. Why are they fine for everyone but me?
Athena (trying to help me put them in): Hmm. Weird. I think it's because you have tiny ears. They should make a petite iPod. It could be called PtiPod. (pronounced put-eye-pod).

Saturday, December 03, 2005

Funny things me and my friends have said recently:


Sarah M. : Maybe he's just moody.
Me: No, he's not moody. He's been happy every time I've seen him.
Sarah M.: THAT'S BECAUSE HE'S CRAZY!
(stunned silence)
Me: Thanks, dark cloud of gloom! It's sunny over here! Stay over there!

Melissa, looking at an oblong object: I wonder how much area this has. I mean, perimeter. I mean, like, what it can hold. I mean, like, its squarometer.

Me: Hey, this Nick Lay-hee character is actually a little hot.
Athena: Who?
Me: You know, Jessica Simpson's ex or whatever.
Athena: Hahahaha. Um, it's Nick Lashay.
(How was I to know? Lachey?!)

(PS: The image above is one of the ones that comes up if you google-image the word "laughing." Ha!)