I must have someone watching out for me. I forgot one important OTHER event that happened last night. I unknowingly dropped my wallet while getting out of a cab at 51st and Broadway. I was carrying that huge bag, and was digging through it on the trip downtown, trying to find my earrings and necklace. In the meantime I had the wallet out because i was taking out a twenty to pay the driver with. I must not have tucked the wallet back where it belonged, and then dropped it outside.
We got lucky. A guy found it, looked us up in the phone book and called my husband while I was still in the city. He left his number, but told P. on the phone he would mail the wallet back. I had no cash in it, but of course, all my cards would have had to be replaced. So I call him back this morning to thank him profusely. We agree to meet at a Starbucks on 51st and Broadway at 1 p.m. I am pretty busy at work but I rush down there (takes abotu 15, 20 minutes each way). He's a sweet young guy, probably mid-20s. We say hello, then I express some excuse about how distracted I was the night before, and that's why I dropped. Like dropping a wallet is such a "careless" thing to do, and it's "wrong" to be so careless in New York City.
But he's just being nice. I hand him an envelope with $20 in it, a note on the outside : "Have lunch on me. You're a lifesaver! Ok, maybe not quite a lifesaver, but you sure saved me a huge hassle." He made like he wasn't going to take the money, but I insisted.
Pretty cool, huh? How often does THAT happen? Needless to say I WILL be more careful here on in.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
a rough night
Patience pays off this morning. A crowded R train platform, a crowded train pulls in and people squeeze on. It's 8:16, late but not too late. I plant my back against the station wall and wait. V train comes a few minutes later. COULD take the V, but transfer will take longer. It's sort of crowed, too. I let it pass, keep waiting for the next R. The platform is now blessedly uncongested.
The R pulls in. Glance at my watch. Only 8:20. Beautiful. And there's ROOM! I have to stand, but I have the coveted spot by the door, where I can lean (as opposed to gripping a pole), which means I can write.
For some reason, I'm more often inspired to write in a train full of people or in a noisy Starbucks than in front of my computer screen. I don't know where such inspiration comes from, if it's not coming from the collective consciousness of everyone around me. If it's ONLY coming from my own mind, I would find it easier to write in solitude -- but that's always hit and miss.
Anyway, I won't get into gory details of last night's commute home but suffice it to say that the MTA screwed me over. It took nearly two-and-a-half hours to get home, which included over an hour of standing out in the wind and cold. This was partially based on buses not being where they were supposed to be WHEN they were supposed to be, and bad decisions on my part for alternate transportation. I felt like a fool. P. says maybe I should have taken a cab home. Where we live, way out in Queens, it could cost up to $50. Knowing later what I eventually had to go through last night, a cab would have been worth it.
Work was tough. I was exhausted and not very productive after only getting around 5 hours sleep.
The R pulls in. Glance at my watch. Only 8:20. Beautiful. And there's ROOM! I have to stand, but I have the coveted spot by the door, where I can lean (as opposed to gripping a pole), which means I can write.
For some reason, I'm more often inspired to write in a train full of people or in a noisy Starbucks than in front of my computer screen. I don't know where such inspiration comes from, if it's not coming from the collective consciousness of everyone around me. If it's ONLY coming from my own mind, I would find it easier to write in solitude -- but that's always hit and miss.
Anyway, I won't get into gory details of last night's commute home but suffice it to say that the MTA screwed me over. It took nearly two-and-a-half hours to get home, which included over an hour of standing out in the wind and cold. This was partially based on buses not being where they were supposed to be WHEN they were supposed to be, and bad decisions on my part for alternate transportation. I felt like a fool. P. says maybe I should have taken a cab home. Where we live, way out in Queens, it could cost up to $50. Knowing later what I eventually had to go through last night, a cab would have been worth it.
Work was tough. I was exhausted and not very productive after only getting around 5 hours sleep.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Addict!!
In Astoria, Queens, there's a place where they make the doughnuts for all the Dunkin' Donuts in the area. The aroma is in the air several times a week as we're walking the block and a half from our car to the Starbucks. I normally don't eat doughnuts -- it's probably been at least a year -- especially not now while I'm trying to lose weight. But the smell triggers ridiculous cravings. No matter that I've already had breakfast, I'm full, and I don't WANT a doughnut.
Last night it was brownies. Some evil person made homemade brownies and put them out for the taking at my FOB meeting. I could smell them when I went to get coffee. On the way back to my chair, I noticed a big chunk of brownie that someone had dropped on the floor. This triggered more desire for the brownies, oddly. (The idea that someone had wasted part of one made me want one more?) The night before, it was a cake at an anniversary meeting. There have been a LOT of anniversary meetings lately, which means a lot of cake to say no to.
The cravings continue, so it's a constant battle. When I allowed myself the chocolate on Valentine's Day, of course I wanted more. P. says I'm doing well; I'm resisting these cravings. But I'm thinking it's only a matter of time before I'm eating an entire pint of Chubby Hubby, or a bag of Pepperidge Farm macadamia nut white chocolate soft cookies, in one sitting. Yeah, I'm a fucking addict. I hate it!
Today, I run on the treadmill at lunchtime. That should get rid of some of these urges. Understanding my body, understanding that the cravings are a physical as well as a psychological phenomenon based on years of human evolution, does nothing. Eating well and allowing myself healthy snacks between meals does nothing. It always comes down to a white-knuckle, will-powered resolve, and THAT does not come naturally to me. "One hour at a time," as they say in the rooms.
Last night it was brownies. Some evil person made homemade brownies and put them out for the taking at my FOB meeting. I could smell them when I went to get coffee. On the way back to my chair, I noticed a big chunk of brownie that someone had dropped on the floor. This triggered more desire for the brownies, oddly. (The idea that someone had wasted part of one made me want one more?) The night before, it was a cake at an anniversary meeting. There have been a LOT of anniversary meetings lately, which means a lot of cake to say no to.
The cravings continue, so it's a constant battle. When I allowed myself the chocolate on Valentine's Day, of course I wanted more. P. says I'm doing well; I'm resisting these cravings. But I'm thinking it's only a matter of time before I'm eating an entire pint of Chubby Hubby, or a bag of Pepperidge Farm macadamia nut white chocolate soft cookies, in one sitting. Yeah, I'm a fucking addict. I hate it!
Today, I run on the treadmill at lunchtime. That should get rid of some of these urges. Understanding my body, understanding that the cravings are a physical as well as a psychological phenomenon based on years of human evolution, does nothing. Eating well and allowing myself healthy snacks between meals does nothing. It always comes down to a white-knuckle, will-powered resolve, and THAT does not come naturally to me. "One hour at a time," as they say in the rooms.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
In which I write the required Valentine's Day blog
A friend on MySpace sent me this image, along with virtual flowers, as a Valentine's Greeting. I did a search using the product code and found it was a $99 handmade brush. Wow.
Well, my husband and I really aren't doing Valentine's Day. I had so much to think about this week time ran out on me for getting a card or gift. I see my therapist tonight, anyway, so we're not celebrating till tomorrow -- we're going to a show, and then we're going to play at one of the pro-houses where I play with my subbies. I booked a room for us. He's promised to spank me later, at the very least.
So, to those who celebrate or don't celebrate, have a great day.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Nasty!
Wednesday’s commute – nasty, slushy, drizzly. But at least not too cold, thank God. A little wetness has seeped into my so-called waterproof boots during my one-block walk to the bus stop. No one has shoveled this section of sidewalk, so we’re standing and waiting on a layer of icy snow that now beginning to melt. It’ll be gone by mid-morning for sure. There are six people at the bus stop already as I approach and step to the end of the line (express bus riders wait in polite lines). Two more people arrive after me. Must mean the bus is late, which means it’ll be crowded – naturally.
Yes – when it arrives finally there’s nearly a full house. Those with empty seats next to them have that “don’t pick me” attitude -- they're trying not to make eye contact. One lady has arrogantly sat on the aisle seat to avoid having a seatmate. I would pick her FIRST out of sheer spite, but I want someone thinner. I’d rather sit next to a woman, but one man looks skinny and I almost choose the seat next to him before spotting a fairly thin woman further back. I pick her. I stash my coat, hat, scarf, and umbrella on top in the luggage rack to further reduce crowding. God, I hate having to touch people if I can avoid it. It’s the big, comfortable bus today, though, so it won’t be a bad ride.
I have been reading a book called “My Private Life: Real Experiences of a Dominant Woman,” by Mistress Nan. It’s a very well-written book and it’s been giving me some inspiration for my own play. I had considered reading it on the bus. But my seatmate had been reading the Bible when I sat down, and now I feel funny about pulling out such a book. I’ll continue with the Anne McCaffrey I had also been reading. Or, I’ll go through some receipts I need to organize. Or put on my i-Pod and just shut my eyes.
It’s that time of the month. I’ve been irritated for two days. I’m going to be positive and happy today. Okay. We’ll see…
Yes – when it arrives finally there’s nearly a full house. Those with empty seats next to them have that “don’t pick me” attitude -- they're trying not to make eye contact. One lady has arrogantly sat on the aisle seat to avoid having a seatmate. I would pick her FIRST out of sheer spite, but I want someone thinner. I’d rather sit next to a woman, but one man looks skinny and I almost choose the seat next to him before spotting a fairly thin woman further back. I pick her. I stash my coat, hat, scarf, and umbrella on top in the luggage rack to further reduce crowding. God, I hate having to touch people if I can avoid it. It’s the big, comfortable bus today, though, so it won’t be a bad ride.
I have been reading a book called “My Private Life: Real Experiences of a Dominant Woman,” by Mistress Nan. It’s a very well-written book and it’s been giving me some inspiration for my own play. I had considered reading it on the bus. But my seatmate had been reading the Bible when I sat down, and now I feel funny about pulling out such a book. I’ll continue with the Anne McCaffrey I had also been reading. Or, I’ll go through some receipts I need to organize. Or put on my i-Pod and just shut my eyes.
It’s that time of the month. I’ve been irritated for two days. I’m going to be positive and happy today. Okay. We’ll see…
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Not a real New Yorker yet...
I hate getting confused on the subway. After four-and-a-half years as a New Yorker, I should be used to it, but I tend to get myself into a pattern and everything outside that pattern becomes unfamiliar.
Last week I took the F Train to work. P. wasn't going to work that day. I normally either drive to Astoria with him or I take the QM1A. But I'd forgotten to put money on my Metro Card; I didn't have enough for the express bus so I asked P. to drive me to the closest subway, the F station on 179th.
I stopped at the machine to refill my card before I forget, then I got on the train. I hadn't taken the F in a long time and I was wracking my brain, thinking, Where's the transfer point? I had a decent seat for once, and I didn't feel like giving it up to go look at the map on the subway wall. Instead I tried to picture the grid in my head and I was thinking... Lexington? I can transfer at Lexington, right?
I got off at Lexington, surprised more commuters hadn't exited with me. Usually there's a lot more people at a transfer point. But I didn't see any signs for other trains. I thought I could get the N or R here.
There was a map on the station wall. Someone had peeled away a huge section of the map into the shape of what looked like a cock and balls, and they'd written "Fuck everybody" in the balls area. I thought of Holden Caulfield*, laugh to myself.
There's enough left of the map to figure things out. Here's where I screwed up: Lexington Avenue is a transfer to the 4, 5 or 6 -- which I used to take when I worked at Union Square. At least I'm not completely nuts. But that doesn't help now. I have to wait and get on the next F train. Sigh. Have to go to 34th, switch to the N, R, Q, or W north, transfer again at 42nd to the 1, 2, or 3.
At 42nd the 3 comes first, the express, and I don't feel like standing around so I hop on. This means yet another transfer; I switch at 72nd to the 1 local. This will take me to 116th and Broadway, my final destination.
The train is really crowded. I'm jammed next to a girl with a huge Barack Obama 2008 button, and a guy, standing over me, inches away, reading Obama's "Dreams of My Father." They don't appear to know each other.
At least I have a seat and can write. Thank God for something.
*************************
*That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you." right under your nose. Try it sometime." -- Catcher in the Rye.
Last week I took the F Train to work. P. wasn't going to work that day. I normally either drive to Astoria with him or I take the QM1A. But I'd forgotten to put money on my Metro Card; I didn't have enough for the express bus so I asked P. to drive me to the closest subway, the F station on 179th.
I stopped at the machine to refill my card before I forget, then I got on the train. I hadn't taken the F in a long time and I was wracking my brain, thinking, Where's the transfer point? I had a decent seat for once, and I didn't feel like giving it up to go look at the map on the subway wall. Instead I tried to picture the grid in my head and I was thinking... Lexington? I can transfer at Lexington, right?
I got off at Lexington, surprised more commuters hadn't exited with me. Usually there's a lot more people at a transfer point. But I didn't see any signs for other trains. I thought I could get the N or R here.
There was a map on the station wall. Someone had peeled away a huge section of the map into the shape of what looked like a cock and balls, and they'd written "Fuck everybody" in the balls area. I thought of Holden Caulfield*, laugh to myself.
There's enough left of the map to figure things out. Here's where I screwed up: Lexington Avenue is a transfer to the 4, 5 or 6 -- which I used to take when I worked at Union Square. At least I'm not completely nuts. But that doesn't help now. I have to wait and get on the next F train. Sigh. Have to go to 34th, switch to the N, R, Q, or W north, transfer again at 42nd to the 1, 2, or 3.
At 42nd the 3 comes first, the express, and I don't feel like standing around so I hop on. This means yet another transfer; I switch at 72nd to the 1 local. This will take me to 116th and Broadway, my final destination.
The train is really crowded. I'm jammed next to a girl with a huge Barack Obama 2008 button, and a guy, standing over me, inches away, reading Obama's "Dreams of My Father." They don't appear to know each other.
At least I have a seat and can write. Thank God for something.
*************************
*That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you." right under your nose. Try it sometime." -- Catcher in the Rye.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Monday commute
Standing in a corner is NOT the way I'd chosen to start off my week. Especially when said corner is on the subway and I'm being crushed by the stinking hoards of New York . . . like a . . . sardine. Something's gong wrong with the trains today. At Steinway (in Astoria, Queens), a V comes into station first – and does not stop. The crowd seems thicker than usual and as we wait it gets thicker. A G train enters the station. Not a normal train for this station. Why's that coming through here? Am I supposed to take it instead of the R? Will they give us instructions? Will the instructions be audible?
Does not matter. The G zips by without stopping. Commuters turn heads, as they did with the V, to watch it go. No one comments. There's nothing to say.
It's almost 8:15. We wait. A light in the tunnel, then an R appears, at last. My train, thank God. I need to get away from the girl standing too close to me and coughing at the back of my head. I hope she has covered her mouth. We press forward. The car is packed. A few people get on. I'm not going to make it. Shit. I give up, move back, wait against the wall for the next one. If the V has room I'll take it, even though I have to go to 34th to transfer. Waiting. Finally it comes. Shit, it's crowded, too. A few people get on. Station is still crowded. I stay against the wall.
At 8:23 (I've been here nearly 20 minutes now), a second R pulls in. It looks crowded, but not as crowded as the first one. I'll make it. I push forward with the crowd. It's tighter than I thought; too tight. I WON'T make it! I hear the conductor yell, "Stand clear of the closing doors!" Take a quick glance to my right. The next door looks like there's a tiny bit of room to squeeze in. I take it, make myself fit. Sorry. Pardon me. Thanks. Too much humanity. A girl's ratty short ponytail is sticking out, right in my face. I turn my body as much as I can, but I'm still in danger of getting a mouthful of hair.
In the left corner, two female voices are suddenly raised. Someone has violated someone's space or sense of propriety, apparently. Can't see what has happened from where I am standing. Let's just assume someone overreacted. I hear, "Fucking bitch!" mumble, mumble, mumble, then "Yeah, keep looking!" Commuters smile to themselves at the ridiculousness, but, probably like me, they are glad they are not closer and even more glad they are not involved.
It's so hard not to judge. We are all in this together, but . . . why aren't they moving toward the center? – there's obviously room there. Why is that girl wrapping her arm around the pole when that's preventing someone from holding on? Etc., etc. At Lexington, three stops later, I am STILL crushed against the door and still no one has moved toward the center. While the train is stopped in the station, I push through people to claim my own spot in the center, along with some breathing room. No hope of getting a seat, however.
What is there to do? Grin and bear it till 42nd, where there's a huge exodus. This is Times Square, a huge transfer point. Up the stairs, push through people, try not to get annoyed by those walking on the "wrong" side of the stairs.
Up on the concourse, I slow down briefly to listen to a young musician I haven't seen here before, singing and playing original songs on his acoustic electric. He's not bad, but I am late – no time even to read his name. Down the stairs. Station is crowded. The 1 train pulls in, and is PACKED. We push in. Squished like sardines again. The train pulls out, heads north.
Welcome to Monday morning.
Does not matter. The G zips by without stopping. Commuters turn heads, as they did with the V, to watch it go. No one comments. There's nothing to say.
It's almost 8:15. We wait. A light in the tunnel, then an R appears, at last. My train, thank God. I need to get away from the girl standing too close to me and coughing at the back of my head. I hope she has covered her mouth. We press forward. The car is packed. A few people get on. I'm not going to make it. Shit. I give up, move back, wait against the wall for the next one. If the V has room I'll take it, even though I have to go to 34th to transfer. Waiting. Finally it comes. Shit, it's crowded, too. A few people get on. Station is still crowded. I stay against the wall.
At 8:23 (I've been here nearly 20 minutes now), a second R pulls in. It looks crowded, but not as crowded as the first one. I'll make it. I push forward with the crowd. It's tighter than I thought; too tight. I WON'T make it! I hear the conductor yell, "Stand clear of the closing doors!" Take a quick glance to my right. The next door looks like there's a tiny bit of room to squeeze in. I take it, make myself fit. Sorry. Pardon me. Thanks. Too much humanity. A girl's ratty short ponytail is sticking out, right in my face. I turn my body as much as I can, but I'm still in danger of getting a mouthful of hair.
In the left corner, two female voices are suddenly raised. Someone has violated someone's space or sense of propriety, apparently. Can't see what has happened from where I am standing. Let's just assume someone overreacted. I hear, "Fucking bitch!" mumble, mumble, mumble, then "Yeah, keep looking!" Commuters smile to themselves at the ridiculousness, but, probably like me, they are glad they are not closer and even more glad they are not involved.
It's so hard not to judge. We are all in this together, but . . . why aren't they moving toward the center? – there's obviously room there. Why is that girl wrapping her arm around the pole when that's preventing someone from holding on? Etc., etc. At Lexington, three stops later, I am STILL crushed against the door and still no one has moved toward the center. While the train is stopped in the station, I push through people to claim my own spot in the center, along with some breathing room. No hope of getting a seat, however.
What is there to do? Grin and bear it till 42nd, where there's a huge exodus. This is Times Square, a huge transfer point. Up the stairs, push through people, try not to get annoyed by those walking on the "wrong" side of the stairs.
Up on the concourse, I slow down briefly to listen to a young musician I haven't seen here before, singing and playing original songs on his acoustic electric. He's not bad, but I am late – no time even to read his name. Down the stairs. Station is crowded. The 1 train pulls in, and is PACKED. We push in. Squished like sardines again. The train pulls out, heads north.
Welcome to Monday morning.
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