Filed under: Uncategorized
It seems the male attempt at satisfying a pointless holiday has sunk even lower. These mail order gifts have the feel of the pre-made care packages my mom sent me at camp with even less charm. Also, I love how they emphasize that the girlfriend will be “tricked” into thinking they spent weeks planning to get them “all that spa stuff women just LOVE.” If you want to celebrate being together, or being single, or whatever, go ahead. But why is there so much pressure that men have to resort to lame last minute gifts? Affection shouldn’t be forced.
Filed under: non-fiction | Tags: arrested development movie, canceled, green light, mad tv
Mad TV has been canceled after 14 unbearable seasons
The Arrested Development movie has been given the green light
Filed under: non-fiction | Tags: Bush, Dentist, Health Insurance, Obama, Wisdom Tooth
I woke up on election day with a serious pain in my third molar, ear and jaw on the left side of my head. It was obvious I needed my wisdom tooth extracted. I went to the dentist down the street from me and they confirmed this. Also, I had an infection so they prescribed some antibiotics and painkillers.
That night, I went out to an amazing election night party at 236.com and much to my dismay, drank “responsibly” due to being on the meds. However, it was all worth it around 11:00 p.m. when Obama was declared the President-Elect. At first I was skeptical, having flashbacks of the 2000 and 2004 close-call elections. But when I turned my head to one of the three networks being projected on the office walls and saw that Fox News has also declared it – I knew it was safe to celebrate. The crowd of liberal, young professionals around me erupted into several boughts of cheers, starting with “O-bam-a! O-bam-a!” and moving on to “Yes We Can!” and “U-S-A!” Only to end with “Holy Shit! Holy Shit!”
Despite the amazing victory, I barely made it home by 12:30 with more throbbing pain in the left side of my head. The next day I finally got the thing extracted at the dentist down the block. They didnt have any HDtv’s or beeched wood floors like my boyfriend’s dentist in Manhattan (he has health insurance.) All they had was a black alarm clock in the room set to talk radio. But I have to say, as the doctor was prying this thing out of my mouth, I got to listen to call after call of people getting excited about our country. I flashbacked to
Tuesday night, where as I heard the crowd chant “U.S.A!” I realized how strange it sounded for me and my liberal, bush-hating generation to be so patriotic. That, combined with the horrible pressure I felt has he popped the tooth from my jaw, brought a tear to my eye.
As I left the chair, I looked down to see the bloody molar on a piece of tissue on a tray. It was something that caused me pain that I no longer needed – kind of like this past administration. I saw it as a symbol of the renewal of our nation, and W. being plucked from the Oval Office so we can all feel a little less pressure. There will be some recovery, some bleeding (12 hours later and I’m still changing gauze) but soon enough we’ll be back on the right track. So now, President Obama, how about that health insurance?
My turtle died last Wednesday, leaving me wondering: what does one do with a dead pet in a major metropolitan city? After I got over the initial shock of losing my pet of four years (a breed that’s supposed to live up to 50) I sadly cleaned out his tank and had my boyfriend put him in a box.
If I was back home in Catskill, I would have gone out to the woods and dug a grave for my little pet, but here in Bushwick there’s not even a yard that I could lay him to rest in. A friend suggested I dig a grave for him in McCarren or Prospect Park – but I’m pretty sure digging holes in public parks is looked down upon, especially for the purpose of burying a dead animal. Someone else said “find a dumpster.” I think that’s a little crude, but I’ll consider it as my last resort.
I found this article on wnbc.com that discusses the many things you can do with your dead pets, including turning them into a synthetic diamond. However, these options are all out of my price range. Even cremation would be too expensive for a pet only 6-inches long. I tried to Google “what to do with dead pet nyc” and other similar searches to see if there are any services offered by the City, but none came up. Even if there were, I’m sure they would be primarily for dogs and cats.
My last idea (before the dumpster) is placing Eli into the East River. This should work as long as I can find a way to put him in the water without him coming back to shore or simply sinking. Somehow I’d be happy knowing he’s floating out to sea, even if it will be his first time in it (he’s from Chinatown). I’m pretty sure this isn’t illegal… We’ll see.
Mark slides a box of tampons across the glass scanner on the conveyor belt. It’s nearly 3:00 and his shift will be over in 30 minutes. “God damn this place,” he thinks as he eyes yet another customer coming into his domain. He’s been working at Shop Rite for almost three years now, making just above minimum wage. He’s had enough of these tacky suburban housewives with their fat-free muffins and padded bank accounts.
Sandra pulls her shopping cart into lane three and notices the young man staring at her over a rack of magazines and a cash register. There are two people ahead of her, both with loaded carts, but there doesn’t seem to be any better option at this point. Sandra stares at her cart, examining the products she’s about to purchase: low-fat yogurt, whole-grain pita bread, numerous fresh vegetables, low-cal dressing and sugar-free Snackwells, among other things. In front of Sandra’s cart is a woman reading US Weekly. “What trash,” she thinks as she ogles the contents of the woman’s cart: Doritos, taco seasoning, white bread, lunch meat. Sandra assumes the woman has children, taking note of the woman’s trim waist and single chin as she gets closer to the cashier.
Diane can’t believe Brad and Angelina are having another baby. As she thumbs through a copy of US Weekly, she occasionally glances at the cashier as he rings up a customer ahead of her. Her eyes fall on the cash register and the stacks of twenties and tens sitting under a mere strip of black plastic. As she approaches the conveyor belt with her items, she starts mentally totaling up the sale: $3.29 for bread, $2.29 for the chips and $6.00 for the bologna. As she passes each item, she thinks of her sons Bobby and Bruce at home most likely playing video games and wondering where dinner is. They’ve been such monsters ever since she lost her job, cursing her because the kids at school tease them for being poor.
“I wonder if there’s a Weight Watchers meeting tonight,” Sandra thinks as she silently judges the woman she’s dubbed “Dorito mom” in front of her. She watches her unload her calorie-unconscious items on the conveyor belt.
Mark glances at the clock on the cash register as he rings up his second-to-last customer of the day. “She’s pretty hot, probably got kids though,” he thinks between glances at the moving belt and the woman’s cleavage.
Diane wishes she could wear what she pleases to the supermarket without some stupid, teenage pervert staring her down. As he rings her up, she reaches into her wallet and pulls out a credit card. She can’t remember the last time she paid it or how much credit she has left. Her hands tremble as she passes the card to the young man. Out of the corner of her eye she notices a woman in line behind her staring. She turns to return the woman’s glare but is interrupted by the cashier. “I’m sorry ma’am, but your card has been declined. Do you have another card or cash?” The cashier gives her a look of hesitant optimism.
Sandra can’t believe her luck. She knew there was something fishy about Dorito Mom and now she knows: she’s broke. “Who would come to the grocery store, spend all that time choosing items and not bring any money?” she thinks. “Some people just think their good looks will get them everywhere.”
“Great. Just when I’m about to close, someone has to pull something like this,” Mark thinks as he awaits a response from the woman. He notices her face sink and tiny beads of sweat form above her brows.
“Oh, no actually I don’t. I’m sorry,” the woman finally says. Mark doesn’t know what to say, so he shrugs his shoulders and signals the bagger to stop bagging. He hands the woman’s card back to her. Mark and the bagger have a moment of shared annoyance before Mark turns to deal with his last problem of the day.
Diane takes her card back and shakes her head. She leaves the cart with the bagger and takes a deep breath, eventually placing one foot in front of the other until she reaches the parking lot.
Sandra watches the woman exit the supermarket, secretly hoping to see her start throwing a tantrum in the parking lot. “Some people!” Sandra says playfully to the cashier before unloading her items on the conveyor belt. The cashier gives her a vacant, non-amused look. Sandra laughs nervously to herself, double-checking her wallet for cash.
Filed under: non-fiction | Tags: bailout, financial crisis, generation y, yuppie
Ok, I officially suck at blogging but I’m going to continue to update this thing whether anyone’s reading or not. I mean, I pay $12 a year for the domain, and I wanna get my $1 a month’s worth. The truth is that I’m finding less and less time everyday to sit at my computer and mull over the state of the world via wordpress. I feel like all I do lately is work and buy stuff. Carlos and I have our apartment, our unpaid internships in our desired industries and our share of ikea furniture, all of which allows us to pretend we have the lives we want when we’re 30. It’s fun to play yuppie.
Yet, not having “real jobs” can get to us both. I have my waitressing gig, but the way things are going it could be more than just a gig. The nation’s financial crisis prompted me to dig up all the student loan correspondence I’ve been avoiding since graduation. And as I write this just a few minutes after the House approved the bailout bill on the second try, I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to need a bailout myself in the form of debt consolidation (I’m sure just typing this will cause my spam folder to overflow). I’m thinking it might be easier to just disappear into the fringes of society or sign on with some anarchist compound. I’m sure there’s some commune I can go live in where money is obsolete and you trade vegetables for hemp rugs or macramé clothing. That would be nice, but I don’t think I could do it. Constantly living in debt is the price I pay (literarlly) to live outside my means, and since pretty much everyone I know is carrying some large amount of debt on their backs, I don’t feel so bad.
Perhaps by the time my generation retires and Social Security is gone and we all have massive debt and can no longer prosper, a bill will be passed that bails us out. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Filed under: photography
Because of my eight month hiatus from the blogosphere (and because I’m too lazy to think of something new tonight) I thought I’d look back at the last eight months in eight photos:
DECEMBER: Dad and I after Christmas dinner with Kari at Peasant
JANUARY: Navigating the ubiquitous suburbs of Virginia Beach
FEBRUARY: My intern cohorts from The Onion on Valentine’s Day
MARCH: Brie’s birthday dinner at Westville East
APRIL: A Pace Press night out at Heather’s
MAY: My graduation at Radio City Music Hall
JUNE: A hazy afternoon at Coney Island
JULY: Carlos and I at International Bar on 1st Ave