Category Archives: Just Me

A Quarter of a Century….

A quarter of a century…

25 years…

25 years in counting…

Counting the days…Counting the hours….Counting the missed opportunities

Counting yourself out…

Counting yourself old…

Counting that in a century…

You’ll be worth…

Worth the fifty cents you’ve spent..

Spent on striving..

Spent on pushing..

Pushing yourself to the limit…

Pushing your mind to the max…

Pushing your soul to take one more..

One more denial..

One more beat down..let down…

One more stress…

Stress the money…

Stress the job…

Stress the love…

One more day…added on…to your utter frustration..

Your dying drive…

Your faltering talent…

For what?

25 years…

A quarter of a century…



And passing without remembrance…

Another 25 awaiting..

In the shadows..

Following your every move…

Sensing your every breathe..

Waiting for the clock to tick October 24th..

One more year added…

What will I do to make a difference?


A Quarter of a Century…





Apartment 6…

There’s an old man that lives in my building.  His name is Frank.  By the looks of him, you would think that he was just like any other old man that you would happen to pass on the street, or in my case, the hallway.  Old, grumpy, not particularly friendly or harboring any interest in those around them.  But, as people tend to be wrong in their first judgements of strangers, as was I in mine.  Now, I’ve passed this man many times in the last year and half since I’ve been living here and sometimes I’ve even shot him a smile and tried to give a friendly “Hello,” but the likelihood of actually getting a response from him was always slim to none.  Most of the time he would just ignore me and others he would just stare at me blankly for a second as if his mind was searching for an appropriate reaction, but in the end, it would fail him and all I would be left with would be a confused look on an old man’s weathered face.  I tended to write this off as the response of what seemed to be a bitter old man who detested the sight of young people.  And, yes, I had grounds to think this.  Do you know how many people I’ve encountered in apartment buildings, older people that is, who have reacted to me negatively every time they saw me just because of the mere fact that I was young and that they hated that young people lived in their building?  Lets just say more than once.  In fact, when I used to live on 45th st between 9th and 10th, which by the way, I would kill to go back to, there was an old woman who had probably been there since the 1940’s who lived on the first floor.  (Side note: New Yorkers, you will appreciate what I am about to say.  This old lady, Cruella, as I like to call her, was paying only $300 for a one bedroom in prime midtown realty.  That is why old people never move out of their apartments my friend.  Rent control.  And when they die the lucky bastards called “family” inherit this ridiculously amazing space for next to nothing that people would literally draw blood over. I don’t even want to mention how much I was paying in the same damn building)  Every time I would come in the building, she would poke her head out of her door and sweetly say to me, “You damn kids!  Can’t you be quiet!  Don’t you know that there are other people living in this building besides you!”  I would also occasionally get, “Stop slamming the fucking door!” Ahh..That was always my favorite.

Any who, getting back to what I was originally gossiping about, I can recall one time where I was surprisingly met with what seemed like a ray of hope from my neighborhood Scrooge.  As it happened, I was leaving for work one morning in hurry, as per the usual, running, skipping over ever other stair, my BF’s voice in my head yelling to me to “Hold on to the railing!” when I was abruptly forced to stop suddenly on the second floor landing.  The old man, cane in hand, was slowly making his way up the stairs to his corner apartment, grunting deeply with exhaustion as he struggled to climb the last few steps.  I patiently waited on the side, out of his way, my internal clock tick-tocking away the minutes I would now be late to work due to this inconvenience.  He looked up at me, seeming to sense my haste, eyes tired, and apologized in a quiet voice as he lifted himself onto the landing.  Quickly, I responded with “No worries,” partly from embarrassment from my behavior and from the realization that I had pegged this old man all wrong.  He was capable of giving some sort of response and maybe it wasn’t that he was bitter or unresponsive but the shear fact that he was just old.  It never occurred to me that this man, because of his age, was perhaps just socially awkward or inhibited, finding it hard to interact with the outside world.  Maybe it’s New York that has slighted me in this way, or maybe it is just because I am young. You forget that life goes full circle, beginning and ending in the exact same place.

(To be continued…I’m tired..)

It’s a Bo’s world out there…

As a New Yorker, you are privy to certain things that might not be the norm in other parts of the country (Well, minus California). For example: A Halah cart on every corner from Soho to Times Square, Fruit stands whose “Fruitiers” never seem to go home and that you inevitably see at 2 am when you stumble home drunk, and, of course, my all time ultimate favorite thing ever….wait for it….you’re gonna love it…. online ordering from at any time of night!  I know! It’s possibly the best thing ever to happen to a New Yorker! (I know you’re shaking your head “India”…I’m a fat kid, what can I say?) However, even though these thing put happiness in my heart, perhaps the one thing that New York has to offer me that I would trade for all of these scrumptious delicacies for is….the Dogpark.  I know, I know, I see you laughing and I would be too if I:

1) Didn’t live in the city

2) Didn’t have a dog

3) Didn’t have a dog that lived with me in my already cramped apartment with a Devil cat…IN THE CITY

I know, you’re wondering why any of this information really matters; why the fact that I live in the city and go to a dog park is of any consequence.  But, the truth is that the Dog Park has probably extended my life by a few years.  And if you knew my pup, a one and half old lab/pit mix, you would understand that two hours at the dog park gives me a day of no hair pulling, no yelling, and no chasing the dog down, disciplining him with “BAD BOY!” when he jumps on the cat.  Honestly if I could go one day without having to say “NO!” or “LEAVE THE CAT ALONE!” I would die happy and I’m sure that my BF’s ears would love a day off from my madness!  He ALWAYS tells me that I’m worse than the dog and that the neighbors will think i’m a crazy person! But, I can’t help it! The damn dog, no matter how cute he may be or how fast his little butt wiggles out of pure joy when he sees me, just makes me so irritated sometimes!  He is non-stop! It’s like having a kid! From the moment you wake up, or better yet, when he wakes you up, it’s go time!  You don’t have five minutes to slowly get out of bed, stretch, yawn, greet the morning sunlight.  No, your alarm has gone off and the Bo has so graciously greeted you by jumping on top to lick you to death and you only have a matter of seconds before he progresses into his “nibble on their hand stage to wake them up” stage to roll out of bed.  And, yes, as I am sure you are thinking, “why doesn’t she lock him out or something?” or “train him!” I have.  It does absolutely nothing and I have contributed this behavior to him being a pup and as such it’s no fault of my own!

And this is where the Dog Park comes in.  A thing that I never really knew about until, well, I had Bodie.  On the days I have off, this is the number one priority.  Get the dog to the park for two hours and pray that there is a dog there or at least an uneaten tennis ball that I can throw.  And if it’s raining, oh well, I’m going out and I’m dragging the pup with me, I don’t care how much he fusses.  And no, I do not have a rain coat for my dog.  I don’t even have one for myself!  He has seven layers of fur, I think he’ll be ok!  This is my sole salvation for the day, the time when I can let the dog off the leash and he can run around like a rabid dog without me having to yell at him about it.  He can play, jump, act like an asshole for all I care and it’s all fine and dandy b/c by the time I get home a couple hours a later, the pup is so tired that the only thing he wants to do until the next morning is get some serious shut eye!  And you bet your ass that I’ll get up early to be home by lunch to know that I can peacefully do whatever the hell I want without having to worry about Bo getting into something he’s not supposed to.  And just a side note, at least with my pup, walking doesn’t do shit.  It doesn’t matter if you walk to Africa and back, the Bo will still be raring to go.  There is no measure for the amount of steam he burns by playing with his fellow pups.  And I honestly don’t know how in the hell I would get by if the Dog Park wasn’t around.  In NC it didn’t matter b/c you have backyards and fenced in areas where you and your best pal could play and really, not that I can remember, your dogs didn’t interact with other dogs unless you happen to have two.  So, in retrospect, it was actually easier to have a dog in a rural area than it is here.  Sure, we can take them shopping with us and shit, but we don’t have big houses or yards they can run around in. And if you have a big dog in the city, omg, you better make sure that guy gets exercise b/c you will not be able to get a moment’s rest if you don’t.  At least with a smaller dog you can pack into your bag and carry it with you.  But, in my opinion, that just doesn’t seem right.  Your furry friend should never be beside your hairbrush and lip gloss.

So, the dog park and I have a fairly long history with each other.   And at one point in time, we were very close and I visited it every day for three months when I was unemployed.  And it is at this point, when you have established yourself among the “Kings” and “Queens” of the Dog Park, a.k.a the regulars, that the Dog Park not only serves for the amusement of your pup, but for the amusement of yourself.  You would think that if there would be any place that would be “drama free,” it would be a park, especially a dog park, where the only thing that speak are the owners.  But, no, it never fails, where there are people, there will inevitably be drama.  Now, usually I would take you back a bit and share information about these lovely characters that I have unfortunately had the chance of meeting, and don’t worry, you WILL hear about them, but let me just skip to the reason why I actually started this whole entry.  Now, to give you a bit of a visual, there are a few types of people that you will encounter at the Dog Park:

1) The “Richies” : Rich folk who have nothing else better to do with their day  than to hang out at the dog park for the better part of the morning

2) The dogwalker: People who are employed by the Richies who are to filthy rich and lazy to walk their damn dogs themselves

3) The unemployed: People who LITERALLY have nothing else to do with their day

4) The Others:  People like me who work, but go when they can

So, scene set, Bo-Bo and I happen to be at the Doggy Park the other day, the usual on my day off, when in comes this very fluffy, very friendly pup that Bodie happens to play very well with.  Lets face it, Bodie would play well with a dan fly if that were his only option.  And that, I can say, is something I can be truly happy about.  Bo-Bo loves everything/everybody.  So, this pup wiggles in towards Bodie, who we’ll call her Daisy for now, and begins to play with him and the owner, an older gal, a.k.a a Richie, comes and sits beside me and an Unemployed girl who owns a cute black puggle, who actually, I don’t mind.  The person, not the dog. Now, this Richie, who by the way must be pushing 60 and still thinks that she can get away with shorty-mc-shorty Nike running shorts, starts off by not saying “Hi” or  “Good Morning,” but by telling us that her poor little Daisy was attacked by a vicious pitbull.  I know, before she even says the breed, that this was the dog to be blamed.  My blood is already boiling. (By the way, it’s amazing how fast you learn about breeds and dog behavior just by sitting at a dog park! Give it a try)  Everybody always blames the pitbull!  It’s always his fault! Everybody thinks that they are scary and that they attack everything in its path.  When, in reality, they are one of the most love able and sweetest dogs I have ever met!

What about this pup says "vicious?"

What about this pup says "vicious?"

Sure, they might be a little more prone to behavioral problems, but what dog isn’t? I mean through training, knowing your pups body language and it’s ticks, you can practically avoid any and all confrontation and really erase all possibility.  Yeah the dog may be apt to certain mannerisms, but who either eggs them on or trains with preventative methods? THE OWNER!!!  It’s all on us! We are the ones who have to be pro-active about our pups and make sure they understand what is right and wrong! Once again, it is like having a kid! Oh! And did you know that DALMATIONS, not PITS are considered more apt to behavior problems?? Well, now you know!

So, anyway, this Richie continues to say that a pitbull grabbed onto her Daisy and wouldn’t let go!  And before this had occurred, according to Richie, the pit had attacked another dog.  And the Richie was so scared because she couldn’t get the pit off her pup because, as she concluded, the pit had lock jawed.  Wrong answer!!  Yes, pits have a very strong jaw, but they do not grab on and then not release.  Stupid people with bad information.  But, this was not the part that upset me about this Richie’s story.  It was what she said afterwards that really disturbed me and put a score against her.  She proposed that we start a petition, as she had heard that another park had done this, to ban all pitbulls from coming into this particular park. And not only this park, but to start a movement to ban pitts in ALL dog parks.  Richies and their fucking time.  By the way, Bodie, the PITT mix is still playing with Daisy, gently.  I can tell that the Unemployed doesn’t know how to respond, but as her good nature would overcome, she would eventually agree to avoid a scene.  Oh yeah, the Richie also added that her and the owner of the pitbull got “into such a scrabble” that the COPS were actually  called to break it up.  The COPS.  Really?  Like they don’t have more important things to do than to go to a dog park and break up a fight between a Richie and an Other? Forget the robbery downtown boys, there’s a cat fight between two rational human beings uptown! Lets go! Ridic, much?

At this point, I have to interject, b/c I am so offended on behalf of my pup that I couldn’t just sit  there and ignore the proposal:

“Well,” I say to her “I guess I’ll just have to leave then.”

“Why’s that,” Richie asks with bright eyed astonishment.

“Because according to you my dog isn’t allowed in here.”

“Your dog! Bodie! He’s a lab!”

“No, actually, he’s a lab/pit mix.”

“Oh..well…” she pauses, licks her lips in embarassement as she watches her Daisy dance in circles with Bo,”He’s good enough…”

Conversation over.  I win.  And she’s been trying to make it up to me ever since.

Bo-Bo as a Pup

Bo-Bo as a Pup

Not all homeless like the “Soloist”……

I recently watched a movie that put my moral compass on trial.  Well, maybe not my morality, but certainly my humanity.  Bf and I decide to watch “The Solosist,” you know, the true story about a man whose homeless, but is this amazingly gifted musician and the reporter who found him, wrote a story about him in the “L.A Times,” and is now his life long friend.  Oh, and did  I mention that this homeless man is played by non-other than:

Jamie Foxx

Jamie Foxx

Which, when you think about it, would follow in the dictionary as the perfect definition for an oxymoron.  I mean, how many MILLIONS do you think he made from doing this movie?  Even if completely flopped, he still would be skipping all the way to the bank.  Must be interesting to play a homeless person when you know that you are probably the farthest thing from the truth.

But, that aside, the movie and story itself is actually very touching and like I said, put me to shame.  It almost made me feel bad about all the times that I cursed the mariachi band that, by no fail, seems to be on every train that I get on.  It doesn’t matter if it is one in the morning or ten at night it never fails that at some point in time in my trip that I am forced to hear the strumming of four guitars on probably one of the most acoustic platforms possible!  It’s like the music bounces of the walls! And if there aren’t any bodies in the car when they happen to play, forget it, buckle up, because honey, you’re at the Met and you have a front row seat!  NOw, I realize that these people aren’t homeless, but nevertheless, they are still begging.  And you have to think that this would be a last resort for a person.  That this act of begging would be the last thing anyone would want to expose themselves too.  The stares, the ignorance, the inconvenient and begrudging smirks of passengers that you endlessly feel on your backside as you pass your way through one side of a car to the other; knowing all the way that you are the reason people have closed their eyes, turned up the volume of their Ipod, or shifted their bodies forcefully out of your way as to avoid you at all cost.  I’m sure from the beggars angle it would appear as if they were Moses and they had possessed the power of God to part the Red Sea.

Now, I realize that as a New Yorker on the train you might not run away from the mariachi band, but you definitely turn a blind eye at times.  And you definitely have turned a blind eye to the homeless man sleeping on the bench in your car or the man with no legs, no wheelchair, who scoots on his ass using his hands to pull him forward, begging for money, claiming that his disfigurement is a result of being wounded in Vietnam. I know you have, because I’ve shamefully done it too.  I’ve become so hardened and dulled to the homeless that it doesn’t phase me when I pass them by.  It’s almost as if they’ve become part of the ground, the cement that they lay on, the flies on the walls. You forget that they’re human beings, you know, not just an annoyance or a drain on society or whatever opinion might be held against their favor.  I mean, I don’t even think twice when I pass the homeless man that sleeps on my block.  It think that I may have given him a second glance the other day when it was raining outside because I thought how awful it must be to have to sleep in a cardboard box with only a sheet of plastic to cover you from the rain.  But, the point is that I kept walking, kept going on with my life, kept worrying about being late to work, kept him out of my thoughts.  How is this possible, you wonder?  How is it possible to deny a human being the right of even acknowledgment?  I mean, these people had to of had lives before they became  so unfortunate.  It isn’t possible to be born into homelessness, I refuse to believe it, even though I know that this is the truth in some cases.  Some of these people, like Nathaniel Ayers, portrayed by Foxx, may have had a normal life, a steady life, and then something unforeseeable occurred and they were then so unfortunate as to end up living on the streets.

Actually, just to add a side note,  it’s interesting that I am talking about this because when I used to work in Soho, there was a woman who used to sit behind the building I worked in.  She couldn’t have been older than 25 and sure enough, when I would come up to the building,  I would see her.  I saw here everyday for about a year and never once did I say anything to her.  A couple of the girls that I worked with were so kind as to give her food every once and a while and by the time a year had passed, she looked as if she had aged thirty years.  There were days that I can remember walking by her and not even recognizing her.  She had grown dirtier, skinnier, and more disheveled as the days passed.  After about a year of seeing her everyday, she just seemed to disappeared.  I never knew what happened to her or what had even caused her to be homeless in the first place.  I imagained that there was no possible way that she had a family because if she had there wasn’t a reason that I could conceive that they wouldn’t come to her rescue.

But, back to my actual topic, I had been feeling pretty shameful after seeing the movie up until about two days ago, when in my new state of compassion, I was sitting on the F train, on my way to work when a visibly drunken man boarded the train.  Now, I don’t even look up.  I’m listening to my music, ignoring everything that is going on around me.  So, this man gets on and sits across from me.  I can already smell him.  BO, piss, with a dash of onion.  I don’t move though, I don’t want him to feel any worse than he already probably does about his situation  Why I thought this mattered is beyond me.  So I’m sitting, minding my own business, and I catch out of the corner of my eye, his body moving around rapidly like he was a pacing or something.  I mute my Ipod.  And apparently, he has been yelling at me the whole ride to the next stop!  Everyone has moved to the end of the car and now it’s just me and the drunk, smelly, old homeless guy! What in the hell am I supposed to do now?! I get off at the next stop, so there’s no reason to get up and stand by the door because that might give him the reason to actually come over and be next to me.  Atleast here a could bury my head and sink in to my seat.  The easiest thing for me to do would be to wait until the doors open and just simply slip out.  Oh and by the way, this whole time while I’m planning my escape route, he’s telling me that he’s going to kill me if I take his picture! “Don’t take my picture! I’ll f*cking kill you!” I don’t even have a camera, you idiot!  And you know, I’m not even really scared or worried about something bad happening, I’m just really pissed.  Pissed that I seem to be a magnet for homeless people (I’ve been mugged once).  Pissed at the other people on the train not acknowledging the fact that we have a crazy on board and completely ignoring my end of the train.   I don’t think he would of done anything, but still what if he had?  Ten bucks says not one person would buck up and help me out.  Luckily, the train doors open before the situation really escalates and all I hear as I leave the train is that it’s a good thing I got off because he would of hurt me if I hadn’t.  I flip him the bird as I exit the train.  Probably not the smartest thing I should have done.

As I walked away from the train I couldn’t help not have a sour taste in my mouth.  Had this one man ruined my renewed sense moral integrity?  Was I going to now unconsciously choose to go back to my previous ignorance?  I guess I’ll find out when I walk down my block.

Art by the Homeless:

“Tavi,” 13 going on 30..

It was brought to my attention today, by one of my very fashion forward colleagues, that apparently there is a 13 year old girl wondering about Chicago who puts my life to shame.    Yes, I said 13.  And what is it about her that makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn?  Probably the fact that:

1) She’s 13 and I’m a decade older than her and let’s face it, as a woman, that makes you bitter enough.

2) That she has a very successful fashion blog.

3) That she gets paid to blog.

4) She got invited to Fashion week, Bryant Park.

5) That not only does she have more fashion sense than I did when I was 13, but more than I do now.

6) I would kill to have her closet.  OMG, I think i just puked in my mouth.  I can’t believe that I just said that I want a 13 year old’s closet.

7) She’s on the cover of “POP.”

8) And oh yeah…did I mention that she is 13!!!!!!!!!

I mean for christ sake, now I have to compete with a 13 year old?  Do I not already have enough to worry about that I now have to worry about being beat out by someone who isn’t even out of middle school?  When did this happen?  When did kids start competing with adults for a piece of the “American Dream?” Is this what it has come to now?  LITERALLY every man/woman/CHILD for themselves and tough s*it if your own kid happens to beat you out.  Is this what happens when Liberals have finally gotten their wish? A completely equal society across the board?  Which, I mean, hey, as a woman I’m all for equal rights and all that jazz.  But, when it comes to a point that one day I may be doing the chores and my kid will be footing the bills, I don’t know how down with Mr./Mrs. Lib  I really am.

Ok, I realize that I am being a bit dramatic here but the point is, how in the HELL am I supposed to cope with the fact that some kid who probably hasn’t even hit puberty yet is not only more successful, but also probably making more money than me?  When I was 13 I was hanging out with friends, doing sports, acting in plays, and well, just being a kid.  I don’t even think I ever thought it was a possibility that a kid could become an overnight sensation.  I never dreamed about being whisked off to New York, Milan, or Paris to be involved in Fashion or what have you.  It was different when I was a kid.  And what’s even more odd, is that it wasn’t even that long ago.  In ten years, one decade, it went from what do you want to be to what can you do now.  It jumped from kids working up to their dream, to living their dream.  Which, I guess when you think about it, doesn’t sounds like such a horrible upgrade, but then you have to ask if a childhood is even worth being had.  If you were able to have the whole world at your finger tips and chose whether or not you could remain a kid, what would you chose?  Would you remain a “normal” adolescent or would you chose to fly amongst the elite of the world, living out your dream at a young age?  I honestly don’t know what I would pick.  Actually, no, I know what I would pick.  I’d keep my childhood.  I think it’s essential, you know?  I’d rather f up as a nobody, than f up as a somebody!

As far as Tavi’s generation is concerned, the Internet has opened up a whole world for them.  They are exposed to things that I never even thought of until I moved to NY.  Fashion, Culture, the Arts, it’s all an enter button away.  I think the biggest fashion label that I even knew about when I was a kid was American Eagle and Abercrombie.  Marc Jacobs, Prada, all of that wasn’t even a part of my vocabulary as it is Tavi’s.  While she has Wireless Internet, I had Aol 1.0! A.k.a the red-headed step child of the Internet.  The dial-up so slow that you could go to Europe and back in the time it took you to upload a photo.  There was no Myspace, Facebook, or Skype. There was A.I.M and that was about it for most of my high school years!  Tavi, on the other hand, is growing up in a world where anything she wants is just a mouse click away.  Hungry? Order online.  Need to write a paper? Wikipedia. Want to have a package picked up?  I mean, we’re one short click away from being able to locate a doctor and give birth by internet.

The first time I even heard of blogging was when I was 21. 21! My Journalism teacher told us it was going to be the next big thing.  That it would virtually replace newspapers and that blogging was going to become our main form of news, gossip, and all general information.  Like an idiot, I totally disregarded it.  I was actually somewhat perturbed by it.  I didn’t want newspapers, books, or magazines to get replaced by cyber-space writers.  I didn’t want to see the traditional way of getting my information fold.  I liked print. I liked having that physical paper in my hand and see it written in bold letters, almost justifying itself to the world, saying, “I am Print! I am News!”  I know, I’m silly, but there’s just something about having that physical piece of paper in front of you while you sip on a hot beverage to start your day off.  It just seemed like the Journalism I had so looked forward to being a part of was collapsing under my feet and now I was forced to mold myself to this intangible, unglorified mode of communication. I’m being harsh, but that’s what it really felt like. I was totally crushed.  Here I am, in NY, not only trying to be this great actor that for some reason I thought would happen, no worries, but now I’m trying to give myself a back up plan, which by the way, I can’t even go into right now how much it makes me ill to think that I will have to  tell my Mom that she was right about having one, that now seems to be backfiring.  I really think my generation got the short end of the stick. We have to adjust to EVERYTHING! Nothing is easy for us, I swear and if you disagree, please tell me because, to me, it seems as if my generation is destined to struggle.

Obviously, I have adjusted and found that blogging can be a helpful tool not only to help with career, but honestly, just to get out whatever needs to be gotten out of you.  Yes, a 13 year old has one up on me, but then again, I’m taller and I can legally drink.

Tell me this girl doesn't have style?

Tell me this girl doesn't have style?

O, btw, did I mention also that she has has her own tees?

Very Andy Warhol

Very Andy Warhol

I am not jealous of a 13 yr old…I am not jealous of a 13yr old…

Hates the “MTA”….

I feel now that I have lived in “NY” long enough to have the right to say what it is that I am about to say.  After almost six years of living in this crazy city, I can finally say without remorse that I HATE the “MTA”!  And no offense to those who work for the “MTA,” but I could die happy if I knew that from this day forth I would never have to step foot onto another subway/bus again.  I know that you think us New Yorkers are so blessed as to have such an extensive and easily accessible mode of public transportation, but trust me, we’re not. And yes, we might save money on gas and insurance that your car costs you, but take my word for it, most of us would rather pay those costly dues than scrap together almost $90 for a metrocard that only guarantees you that you MIGHT get to work on time.  At least someone who has a car is able to run on his own schedule and when they get in the car and turn the key, they know that in a matter of seconds they’ll be able to shoot off to where ever it is that they want to go.  Work, the movies, a nice candlelit dinner, or my personal favorite, a white-sandy beach filled with nothing but the sounds of myself sipping a cold margarita and the gentle crashes of the waves breaking on the silky soft sand.  Ahhhhh….But, the sad truth is that the only beach I see when I get on the subway are the tourist ads for the Bahamas telling me how much my life really sucks compared to the people in the posters who seem to be happier than a pig in sh*t.  It’s depressing frankly and I don’t care how many times they change the colors of the subway cars or how many times they post poetry on the ceiling, the subway will never be a place that makes my knees weak.

Take the other day for instance.  I’m on my way to work, like any other day.  I’m walking with my boyfriend and my Bo-Bo down 2nd avenue and I decide that instead of taking the 6 to the F to get to Brooklyn, that I would just walk an extra couple of blocks to the F and catch it there instead.  Now, I’ve done this plenty of times before and it’s a little bit more of a walk, but I always rationalized that it was better than having to transfer at Bleeker St. to catch the 6.  I could just get where I needed to go in one shot.  So, I kiss my BF (I’m just going to say this from now on because it’s just easier than having to write out boyfriend. And yes, I’m lazy.) and my Bo-Bo bye and head up to “Lexington Avenue” to catch the F train.  Here in lies my first gripe with the “MTA.” The 63rd st station is not only stifling hot as it always is in the summer, but for some reason or other, probably having to do with sea levels or some other scientific reason that I can’t even fathom, the builders of this wonderful station decided that it would be funny if they made the station so deep to almost touch the borders of Hell.  And, yes, when you’ve finally waddled down the four escalators, so steep that at the top of each you feel as if you are on a roller coaster that has just reached the peek of a drop, and when you have finally made it down to the platform, dripping in sweat from the muggy, stale heat you feel as if you are now wading in the Devil’s belly.  You might as well not even bothered to shower, do your hair, put on makeup because in a matter of the 15 min that you walked from the stoop of your 5-story walk-up to get to the station, to go down the escalators and arrive on the platform you would be sweating so horribly that the only thing that you will be wanting to do is climb back up those mountain sized escalators, walk home, take a shower and call a cab.

So, now I’ve walked the full length of the platform to be able to get to the last car.  And of course, as always, I managed to miss the previous train.  Had there not been 500 steps that I had to run down in order to get to the platform I may have actually been able to get  to work on time.  So, I waited, sweating, wondering, as I looked around, if I would be smooth enough to be able to sneak up on the guard at his little station and steal his fan.  But, I didn’t feel like getting arrested.  Stripes aren’t a good look for me.  Fifteen minutes later, the train roars up.  And this brings me to my next point.  The weekend train is probably the most horrible train that you can ride.  It’s always running late, its gets stuck at every station, and is always delayed because of track work.  It’s a loose-loose situation and unless you just have the best luck ever, you will never make it to where you need to be going on time.  Now, usually I figure this into my daily travel, but for some reason, on this particular morning I didn’t leave a bit earlier than during the week.  This is also what pisses me off.  It takes me about an hour to get to work.  Already that sucks by itself, but, hey, you do what you have to do. Now, on the weekends it takes me about an hour and a half, which lets face it, is unacceptable.  Only when I lived in Queens and it took me that long was it more acceptable because I lived all the way down by JFK airport.  I’m in Manhattan, going three stops into Brooklyn. How in the hell is that possible.

So, the train pulls up and low and behold, it’s not the  F, but the E.  I get on, figuring that this train will at least get me to a station where I can transfer to get the F.  Announcement.  Annoyance. I can never understand what the announcer is saying.  It’s always crackled and spotty or the announcer doesn’t realize that he/she is providing an important message and instead of talking clearly so the passengers can understand, they’d rather try and make us guess what they are saying by playing the mumble game.  Super fun, right? It’s like they take the mic and press it right up against their lips to talk and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if there was a running bet amongst the conductors to see who can make out the most words in the others announcement.  And all I could gather from this one’s message was the the E train was running on the F line due to track maintenance and that it’s last stop would be 2nd avenue.  Luckily had I not been able to understand the conductors announcement I was on one of the newer trains that had the high-tech screen on the ceiling that would tell me what stop would be next and what would be the last.  I just told myself that I’d get off at 2nd and transfer.

The train leaves the station and is going so slow that if I was running beside it I would have been able to beat it in a race.  It took 20 min. to get from 63rd st to 42nd where it was then announced that this train was not going to be making any more stops after 34th st. Whatever.  I just get off and wait…again.  By this time there is no telling how late I’m going to be.  This is my favorite part.  The F train is finally spotted coming towards the platform, but right before it enters the station, it stops.  And not only does it stop, it stays idle for a good five minutes.  Do you know how infuriating it is to be running ridiculously late, finally feel as if your salvation has arrived, and then to have that promising  fortune violently yanked out of your grasp?  It’s enough to make you want to cry!  All you want is to get to where you need to be.  That’s it.  You’re not asking to win the lotto or anything.  You’re just asking for the train to be on time so you can get to work, make some money, go home, get some Subway, watch a funny movie, and go to bed! I mean, is that REALLY to much to ask?! I think not!

Finally on the F train, all I could hope was that there wouldn’t be anymore catastrophes and that I would make to work, maybe, only 20 min. late.  Thankfully, the train was running fairly smoothly and the only horrible thing left to happen was the Chinese man sitting across from me that would spill his coffee all over the floor.  I have to admit, I kind of felt bad for the guy.  What the hell was he supposed to do?  Take a mop out of his ass and start cleaning up?  I assume, out of embarrassment, that he got off at the next stop.  But, now his coffee had traveled all the way down the length of the car and in his place two foreigners got on and sat down.  I probably should have told them not to set their bag on the ground, but they hurried in so fast to get a seat that they didn’t seem to notice that there was coffee all over the floor and before it was noticed they plopped there bags down right in the puddle.  Honestly, I couldn’t help but laugh on the inside.  And what made it worse was that one of them picked up a bag and sat it down on their lap.  I had to bury my face in my hands because if I didn’t I would of totally looked like an asshole. I was actually laughing.  Coffee got all over the poor woman’s lap and still she didn’t notice!  I couldn’t believe it!  How do you not notice coffee all over the floor and mostly, how do you miss it when you’ve just put it all over your pants!?  I mean, she finally noticed and was fairly nonchalant about it, but I felt like such an asshole because I was laughing at them.  The “MTA” had driven me to become an asshole.  They had stressed me out so much that morning that the only feeling that I had in me was pure hate. And frankly, I didn’t give a damn about anyone around me. Not even the cute puppy I saw after I arrived 30 min. late at Bergen street.  And I love puppies.

Does your car do this to you?

Just so you have a visual..

My Baby Bo

My Baby Bo



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