I have a T stop nemesis. I see her at least twice a week on the platform in the morning as I'm heading into the office. She's there in her giant fur coat, shuffling side to side, up and down the platform in her routine to ensure that she boards the train ahead of all others. It's a spectacle - and it's annoying as hell.
Usually I watch these things with my typical sense of mild amusement, but I moved past amusement into annoyance quite a while ago. This lady is a nightmare! I watched the other day as she side-shuffled right into another woman, who then lost her balance, and fell onto her knees. No acknowledgment came. No apology followed. That's right, people.
Seriously though, who IS this woman? She's like the opposite of a superhero. She's a T villain, and - I'm not kidding - dangerous to anyone not familiar with the choreography. You get in the way, you're toast. You're going down. You're knocked into busy Beacon Street traffic, or worse, sucked into the vortex of her mothball coat (trust me, I've been there), or most commonly, forcefully slammed into the side of the train (again, yup, been there).
Oh...it gets better! The best part is, once she plows you down so she can board ahead of you, she then plays the "I'm elderly...give up your seat for me" card and hovers over people, staring them down until they gather up their things, stand, and gesture politely for her to be seated.
What?! I'm so done with this.
You know what lady? Here's what I have to say to you (not in person, of course, but here, in my blog...where it's safe): If you have the strength and energy to knock me aside, slam me into side of the train, and sprint up the steps...then I think you just might have the physical stamina to stand for this ride.
Mental note for future: She is SO never getting my seat.
Needless to say, I am against her.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The joy of the sparkly hat.
I have the most glorious new sequined faux fur Russian cap, rescued from the bottom of the children's accessory bin at Marshalls. It's sparkly, it's furry, it's warm, and it's fun. It makes me happy...and I like being happy.
Yesterday, I happily put on my new, wonderful hat and headed out the door to work. As I sat on the subway I noticed people staring, and I started to feel a bit uncomfortable. Is my hat too big? Is it too fluffy? Is it too sparkly? Maybe they didn't like it, which is fine - we all have our own tastes. I'm sure I was just being paranoid. But, from my perspective, people were looking, and even though I loved the hat, all of a sudden, I wasn't entirely confident wearing it. I felt myself starting to feel a little embarrassed - a feeling that came out of the blue. I'm not sure where from.
Anyway, later that day, as I was leaving the office to walk to my Abs & Arms class (yes - I'm still happily going!), I'm ashamed to say, I started to question my wonderful hat. I almost stuffed it in my bag (I'm sorry, hat!). I didn't though - I put it on my head just as I'd done that morning, and walked with a friend to the studio.
As we chatted along the way, I forgot about the hat, until I walked in the door and realized it was still on my head. I quickly pulled it off as I waited to check in, and just then, something happened. My doubt was shooed away and I was reassured! Thank you, Helena, not for loving my hat as much I do, but for taking the time to tell me so - and at just the right time. I guess the hat, with it's happy little sparkles, is really more than a hat. It's representative of how I try to live my life, which I do sometimes question. This validation did two things for me. It confirmed that 1) the hat is, indeed, glorious (duh! how could I ever have questioned it?!), and 2) there are many roads to happiness in life, and there's nothing wrong with choosing the sparkly one.
Whatever road you choose, live each day as the gift that it is. Seek out the good, the fun, the happy - in people, in animals, and even in the small things, like glorious sparkly hats. We each get one life - one shot. Why spend it wearing a plain boring hat, when you can wear a fabulous sequined number? We all have a choice when it comes to what path we take. I've made my choice...and my path is paved with sequins. :)
Yesterday, I happily put on my new, wonderful hat and headed out the door to work. As I sat on the subway I noticed people staring, and I started to feel a bit uncomfortable. Is my hat too big? Is it too fluffy? Is it too sparkly? Maybe they didn't like it, which is fine - we all have our own tastes. I'm sure I was just being paranoid. But, from my perspective, people were looking, and even though I loved the hat, all of a sudden, I wasn't entirely confident wearing it. I felt myself starting to feel a little embarrassed - a feeling that came out of the blue. I'm not sure where from.
Anyway, later that day, as I was leaving the office to walk to my Abs & Arms class (yes - I'm still happily going!), I'm ashamed to say, I started to question my wonderful hat. I almost stuffed it in my bag (I'm sorry, hat!). I didn't though - I put it on my head just as I'd done that morning, and walked with a friend to the studio.
As we chatted along the way, I forgot about the hat, until I walked in the door and realized it was still on my head. I quickly pulled it off as I waited to check in, and just then, something happened. My doubt was shooed away and I was reassured! Thank you, Helena, not for loving my hat as much I do, but for taking the time to tell me so - and at just the right time. I guess the hat, with it's happy little sparkles, is really more than a hat. It's representative of how I try to live my life, which I do sometimes question. This validation did two things for me. It confirmed that 1) the hat is, indeed, glorious (duh! how could I ever have questioned it?!), and 2) there are many roads to happiness in life, and there's nothing wrong with choosing the sparkly one.
Whatever road you choose, live each day as the gift that it is. Seek out the good, the fun, the happy - in people, in animals, and even in the small things, like glorious sparkly hats. We each get one life - one shot. Why spend it wearing a plain boring hat, when you can wear a fabulous sequined number? We all have a choice when it comes to what path we take. I've made my choice...and my path is paved with sequins. :)
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
A Tribute to my Dad (10/12/30 - 1/5/2010)
It's been one year today. Thought I'd revisit:
For those of you who knew my dad, you'll understand how difficult it is to capture the true essence of him with only the written word. He was one of a kind, a good, kind - a kind that comes along every once in a while to make a certain mark on the world. Though my dad's special mark has surely painted itself far beyond the world in which I knew him, it is to those closest to him, his family and friends, that his colors shown most brightly. He was caring, kind, funny, and far to smart for the rest of us.
There wasn't anything he didn't know. No question he couldn't answer - and as a kid, I had a lot of questions. Sometimes he would provide the answer, and only the answer. "Daddy, airplanes are so big. How can they stay up in the sky with all those people in them?" My dad talked about lift as a force that works in opposition to the weight of the plane, the role the shape of the wings play, etc. I went away satisfied.
To most questions, however, he provided the answer, with a little dose of his true self: "Daddy, my science teacher wants us to find out why the sky is blue. Why is it blue?" I had to write my answer on an index card and hand it in for extra credit the next day. Immediately, his familiar 'pleased with himself' grin came across his face. "Heh heh heh...Daddy thinks you should write, 'You're the science teacher. You should know this, you dummy.' "
He did go on to answer, explaining how molecules scatter blue light differently than red light, and why we see blue when the sun in high, but red when the sun is low. I got my extra credit and then some, because not only did I know why the sky was blue, I knew why sunsets were red as well.
Homework help with a man like my dad wasn't always that simple. He would continually show me "better and "more logical" ways to arrive at the answers to my math problems. This usually involved skipping every other step, adding in new steps, him assuming I was following his thought process, me crying, and my mom stepping in to finish the job. Sometimes, though, I actually understood his shortcuts and the logic behind them. From this I also came to understand that teachers don't respond well to "My dad said this way is smarter and more logical."
My very first job as a teenager was working in a nursing home kitchen with my sister Jen. The morning shift required that we be at work by 6 AM to begin the preparing breakfast. In winter, it was especially difficult to get up and out the door on time. My dad would wake me up, and after I got myself dressed, I would find that he had put my coat and shoes by the heater to warm, scraped off and started my car, and left two breakfast sandwiches on the counter, one for me, and one for "the girl who works in the laundry."
We never had family pets as kids, but we did bring home many hurt or abandoned forest creatures. The was Augie Bird (my dad had named him), a cedar waxwing chick I'd found hopping in the road. My dad made a home for him with a cardboard box and a dowel and sent us outside to gather grass for a nest. I remember feeding him with an eyedropper and watching him bathe in the little apple shaped dish my sister Jen contributed. Augie lived with us for a few weeks until he was ready to fly off and join his family.
A couple years later, I found a baby bird lying lifeless in the grass. I brought him to my dad and asked him to help me give him a proper burial. My dad looked at the bird, raised and eyebrow, and said, "Let's try something kid. Come sit here next to Daddy." He then cupped the bird in his hands. I sat next to him and waited, not sure what it was we were trying to do. Eventually, I saw my dad smile. He opened his hands, and there was our little bird, wriggling around and looking up at us.
My dad taught us about science, nature, the beauty of numbers, and so much more. But mostly, I think I learned from him that we should always be who we are. My dad was. You could either take it, or leave it. It made no difference to him. He wasn't going to change, or dilute any part of himself in response to, or for fear of judgment. He wasn't going to lower his standards in relation to what he called "the dummy spread" and he certainly wasn't going to start watching those reality television shows that he said destroyed the brain cells of America one empty episode at a time.
I learned from him how to look at things - to really look - to see things for what they are, and not through the various perceptions we create to make things appear the way we want them to. My dad taught me a certain quality of looking, and I see more, understand more, and know more because of him.
It is my dad who taught me how to laugh at the world, and at myself. It is from my dad that I learned how to learn every day. "Learn all you can, kids," he would say, "because each thing that you learn is one more thing that you know."
Thank you, Dad, for helping to make me who I am today. There are so many things I'll miss about you, but mostly, I'll just miss you.
For those of you who knew my dad, you'll understand how difficult it is to capture the true essence of him with only the written word. He was one of a kind, a good, kind - a kind that comes along every once in a while to make a certain mark on the world. Though my dad's special mark has surely painted itself far beyond the world in which I knew him, it is to those closest to him, his family and friends, that his colors shown most brightly. He was caring, kind, funny, and far to smart for the rest of us.
There wasn't anything he didn't know. No question he couldn't answer - and as a kid, I had a lot of questions. Sometimes he would provide the answer, and only the answer. "Daddy, airplanes are so big. How can they stay up in the sky with all those people in them?" My dad talked about lift as a force that works in opposition to the weight of the plane, the role the shape of the wings play, etc. I went away satisfied.
To most questions, however, he provided the answer, with a little dose of his true self: "Daddy, my science teacher wants us to find out why the sky is blue. Why is it blue?" I had to write my answer on an index card and hand it in for extra credit the next day. Immediately, his familiar 'pleased with himself' grin came across his face. "Heh heh heh...Daddy thinks you should write, 'You're the science teacher. You should know this, you dummy.' "
He did go on to answer, explaining how molecules scatter blue light differently than red light, and why we see blue when the sun in high, but red when the sun is low. I got my extra credit and then some, because not only did I know why the sky was blue, I knew why sunsets were red as well.
Homework help with a man like my dad wasn't always that simple. He would continually show me "better and "more logical" ways to arrive at the answers to my math problems. This usually involved skipping every other step, adding in new steps, him assuming I was following his thought process, me crying, and my mom stepping in to finish the job. Sometimes, though, I actually understood his shortcuts and the logic behind them. From this I also came to understand that teachers don't respond well to "My dad said this way is smarter and more logical."
My very first job as a teenager was working in a nursing home kitchen with my sister Jen. The morning shift required that we be at work by 6 AM to begin the preparing breakfast. In winter, it was especially difficult to get up and out the door on time. My dad would wake me up, and after I got myself dressed, I would find that he had put my coat and shoes by the heater to warm, scraped off and started my car, and left two breakfast sandwiches on the counter, one for me, and one for "the girl who works in the laundry."
We never had family pets as kids, but we did bring home many hurt or abandoned forest creatures. The was Augie Bird (my dad had named him), a cedar waxwing chick I'd found hopping in the road. My dad made a home for him with a cardboard box and a dowel and sent us outside to gather grass for a nest. I remember feeding him with an eyedropper and watching him bathe in the little apple shaped dish my sister Jen contributed. Augie lived with us for a few weeks until he was ready to fly off and join his family.
A couple years later, I found a baby bird lying lifeless in the grass. I brought him to my dad and asked him to help me give him a proper burial. My dad looked at the bird, raised and eyebrow, and said, "Let's try something kid. Come sit here next to Daddy." He then cupped the bird in his hands. I sat next to him and waited, not sure what it was we were trying to do. Eventually, I saw my dad smile. He opened his hands, and there was our little bird, wriggling around and looking up at us.
My dad taught us about science, nature, the beauty of numbers, and so much more. But mostly, I think I learned from him that we should always be who we are. My dad was. You could either take it, or leave it. It made no difference to him. He wasn't going to change, or dilute any part of himself in response to, or for fear of judgment. He wasn't going to lower his standards in relation to what he called "the dummy spread" and he certainly wasn't going to start watching those reality television shows that he said destroyed the brain cells of America one empty episode at a time.
I learned from him how to look at things - to really look - to see things for what they are, and not through the various perceptions we create to make things appear the way we want them to. My dad taught me a certain quality of looking, and I see more, understand more, and know more because of him.
It is my dad who taught me how to laugh at the world, and at myself. It is from my dad that I learned how to learn every day. "Learn all you can, kids," he would say, "because each thing that you learn is one more thing that you know."
Thank you, Dad, for helping to make me who I am today. There are so many things I'll miss about you, but mostly, I'll just miss you.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
2010: Highs and Lows
Oh, 2010. You brought some really good times, and some really bad times. You introduced changes, and allowed for constants. In the end, you were just another year of rolling with the punches and going with the flow - another year of being thankful for each day, no matter what it brings.
Here's my year, in short:
Favorite Thing
going to the Emmys
Worst Thing
losing my dad
Most Miraculous Thing
the arrival of my new little niece
Most Positive Thing
after 10 years of looking, finally found a fitness studio that I love
Most Consistent Thing
my little kitty always purring at my side
Most Surprising Thing
the surprise birthday party for me at Rustic
Most Glorious Thing
taking over the stage at The Donkey Show
Most Disappointing Thing
missing Tasha's memorial tribute at the AMFAR Gala
Most Courageous Decision
gave up my management job and moved back into doing what I love
Most Played CD
Cabaret (1998 Broadway Revival)
Most Watched DVD
Sense & Sensibility (1996)
Most Frequented Restaurant
Gaslight
Most Frequented Bar
Grill 23
Most Consumed Cocktail
Champagne & St. Germain
Most Used Phrase
"It's DELICIOUS!"
Here's my year, in short:
Favorite Thing
going to the Emmys
Worst Thing
losing my dad
Most Miraculous Thing
the arrival of my new little niece
Most Positive Thing
after 10 years of looking, finally found a fitness studio that I love
Most Consistent Thing
my little kitty always purring at my side
Most Surprising Thing
the surprise birthday party for me at Rustic
Most Glorious Thing
taking over the stage at The Donkey Show
Most Disappointing Thing
missing Tasha's memorial tribute at the AMFAR Gala
Most Courageous Decision
gave up my management job and moved back into doing what I love
Most Played CD
Cabaret (1998 Broadway Revival)
Most Watched DVD
Sense & Sensibility (1996)
Most Frequented Restaurant
Gaslight
Most Frequented Bar
Grill 23
Most Consumed Cocktail
Champagne & St. Germain
Most Used Phrase
"It's DELICIOUS!"
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Why I wish I'd faked a wooden leg.
I know I always complain about the lack of subway etiquette: the backpacks, the spot pusher-outers, the door stampeders, the armpit-in-your-facers, the nail clippers... It goes on and on.
Today, I offer a new experience:
I'm sitting in one of the single seats on my morning commute into work - one of those seats with the "Please give this seat to the elderly or disabled" stickers. Not my first choice, but it's all that was available. So I'm sitting there, enjoying my coffee, when I feel a heavy tap on my right shoulder. Quite heavy. You know what, never mind heavy tap, I'd say it is better classified as a slap. Shocked, I turned around and looked up to find a tall old man, who must have just boarded the train, glaring at me, and pointing to the sticker. I promptly got up and gave him my seat.
As I arranged myself among the "standers" and reached for the hand rail above my head, I started to consider what had just happened. Normally, I have absolutely no problem giving up my seat to anyone to appears to need it more than I do. In fact, I quite frequently do give up my seat - whether reserved for the disabled or not.
This time, the whole situation really bothered me. Yes, maybe he was having a bad day, but you know what? No excuse. First off, how about a nice tap on the shoulder and an "Excuse me, would you mind if I sat here?" The glare, the smack, and the overall jerkiness were entirely unnecessary. It had that whole "these kids today have no manners" attitude about it. And speaking of manners, I'm sorry, but out of the two of us, the one who would benefit most from an intensive stay at Miss Porter's, surely wasn't me!
Secondly, how did he know that I wasn't disabled myself? (Thus back to the initial politeness of asking for the seat.) Maybe I had a right to be there. Maybe I had a vision problem, or vertigo. Maybe I'd just had bunion surgery, or twisted my ankle on my walk to the train that morning. Hell, I could've had a prosthetic leg for all he knew!
Anyway, it is what it is. I just went about my day as usual. But, now, looking back I wish I'd done something to prove a point to him. Maybe I could have been a bit jerky right back, but nah, that's not me. A better option would have been, upon arriving at my destination, to have exited the train with a slow, heavy limp - and to have made sure he took notice as I dragged one leg behind me until the train moved out of sight.
Sinister, I know, but hey, maybe had I done that, he'd have reconsidered his approach and dialed back on the grouch-o-meter the next time he was in a position to request a seat. Maybe he'd realize that jerkiness is never necessary and that not everyone from my generation on down was raised in a barn (as my nana would say).
Today, I offer a new experience:
I'm sitting in one of the single seats on my morning commute into work - one of those seats with the "Please give this seat to the elderly or disabled" stickers. Not my first choice, but it's all that was available. So I'm sitting there, enjoying my coffee, when I feel a heavy tap on my right shoulder. Quite heavy. You know what, never mind heavy tap, I'd say it is better classified as a slap. Shocked, I turned around and looked up to find a tall old man, who must have just boarded the train, glaring at me, and pointing to the sticker. I promptly got up and gave him my seat.
As I arranged myself among the "standers" and reached for the hand rail above my head, I started to consider what had just happened. Normally, I have absolutely no problem giving up my seat to anyone to appears to need it more than I do. In fact, I quite frequently do give up my seat - whether reserved for the disabled or not.
This time, the whole situation really bothered me. Yes, maybe he was having a bad day, but you know what? No excuse. First off, how about a nice tap on the shoulder and an "Excuse me, would you mind if I sat here?" The glare, the smack, and the overall jerkiness were entirely unnecessary. It had that whole "these kids today have no manners" attitude about it. And speaking of manners, I'm sorry, but out of the two of us, the one who would benefit most from an intensive stay at Miss Porter's, surely wasn't me!
Secondly, how did he know that I wasn't disabled myself? (Thus back to the initial politeness of asking for the seat.) Maybe I had a right to be there. Maybe I had a vision problem, or vertigo. Maybe I'd just had bunion surgery, or twisted my ankle on my walk to the train that morning. Hell, I could've had a prosthetic leg for all he knew!
Anyway, it is what it is. I just went about my day as usual. But, now, looking back I wish I'd done something to prove a point to him. Maybe I could have been a bit jerky right back, but nah, that's not me. A better option would have been, upon arriving at my destination, to have exited the train with a slow, heavy limp - and to have made sure he took notice as I dragged one leg behind me until the train moved out of sight.
Sinister, I know, but hey, maybe had I done that, he'd have reconsidered his approach and dialed back on the grouch-o-meter the next time he was in a position to request a seat. Maybe he'd realize that jerkiness is never necessary and that not everyone from my generation on down was raised in a barn (as my nana would say).
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Loving winter is just a muppet away.
Personally, I never have the seasonal blues. I take each day for what it is. Spring is beautiful and energizing. Summer is lazy but brings the pressure to "enjoy it while it's here". Fall is refreshing (my favorite). And winter, to me, means, relaxation and reflection.
Winter means we get to enjoy the beauty and new growth of spring. It means we appreciate summer more. It means no guilty feeling for choosing to stay inside, sitting in the window with a cup of tea, as we watch the world go by.
As for the cold, it's the little things that get me through. I look forward to cold days, because it means I can finally break out my favorite down puffer. I look forward to snow, because it means my fabulous snow boots that hide away all year can come out of the closet and bring me delight with each step. I don't even mind the rain, because I adore my umbrella: black on the outside, but inside, when I look up, it's lined with happy, smiling muppets - my secret on a rainy day.
You gotta do what makes you happy, and for me, getting through winter is only one smiling muppet away.
Winter means we get to enjoy the beauty and new growth of spring. It means we appreciate summer more. It means no guilty feeling for choosing to stay inside, sitting in the window with a cup of tea, as we watch the world go by.
As for the cold, it's the little things that get me through. I look forward to cold days, because it means I can finally break out my favorite down puffer. I look forward to snow, because it means my fabulous snow boots that hide away all year can come out of the closet and bring me delight with each step. I don't even mind the rain, because I adore my umbrella: black on the outside, but inside, when I look up, it's lined with happy, smiling muppets - my secret on a rainy day.
You gotta do what makes you happy, and for me, getting through winter is only one smiling muppet away.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
A circus monkey? I'm flattered.
It's my last day in my job. I've decided to move to a new role, one more suited to my skills and interests, and one that will allow me to begin sleeping at night again - it's been WAY too long.
So on my last day, I go to my boss and say "OK, do me a favor. I know the loss of my charm and genius will hit the group hard, and I know that I'm completely and entirely irreplacable, but as you seek to find my replacement, just promise me you won't hire a dud."
He pauses a moment and then looks up at me with a huge grin and says, "I've got it all taken care of. It's in the bag. We're getting...a CIRCUS MONKEY!" Hilarious! And to be honest, I was just so flattered. I mean if you're going to be compared to any animal, what better than a cute little intelligent creature that entertains? I'll take it!
So after I left, I sent him a wind up monkey that does back-flips to keep on his desk. You know, to help him get through his days without me. I am still so flattered I've been likened to a circus monkey. Really, they're smart, they dress nicely, and they are a joy to all!
So on my last day, I go to my boss and say "OK, do me a favor. I know the loss of my charm and genius will hit the group hard, and I know that I'm completely and entirely irreplacable, but as you seek to find my replacement, just promise me you won't hire a dud."
He pauses a moment and then looks up at me with a huge grin and says, "I've got it all taken care of. It's in the bag. We're getting...a CIRCUS MONKEY!" Hilarious! And to be honest, I was just so flattered. I mean if you're going to be compared to any animal, what better than a cute little intelligent creature that entertains? I'll take it!
So after I left, I sent him a wind up monkey that does back-flips to keep on his desk. You know, to help him get through his days without me. I am still so flattered I've been likened to a circus monkey. Really, they're smart, they dress nicely, and they are a joy to all!
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