The Pie Man

This morning (afternoon...morning if you wake up at noon) my roommates and I couldn't stop talking about pie. Who doesn't love pie? Pie is delicious. Plus it's filled with anything you like. It's versatile. We started going on about Thanksgiving pies -- you know, homemade apple, pumpkin, etc. -- and just getting generally dreamy about pie.

A bit later, my roommate and I decided to walk to Trader Joe's (on 72nd St...from 143rd St). On the way, there was a little street festival outside Columbia. My roommate HAD to get a street corndog (which emphasizes her place on the "awesome people" list), I HAD to get a smoothie, and then...we saw it. The wonder. The miracle of miracles. Yes, that's right -- there was a pie stand. A stand, just filled entirely with pies of different sizes and varieties. It was incredible.

That's to say nothing (does this phrase make sense?) about the pie man himself. He was really incredibly damn attractive. Plus, he sold pie. And, he was that perfect, sexy kind of disinterested in us and everything we had to say. We were all like, "Holy shit, we were just talking about how awesome pie is!" and he was like, "Um, yea. Duh. It's pie. What can I get you?"

I am seriously regretting not asking him out.

The Website

I can't remember if I've told you this before, but I have an OKCupid profile. I made it in college entirely for hilariousness, but since moving to NYC I go on it only 90% for hilariousness and 10% because it's actually fun (and a friendlier way to meet people in a city where someone's just as likely to say "fuck off" as "thank you").

I don't use it that much because I still think meeting people online is a bit sketchy and sad. Also the people I meet on it tend to be too nerdily similar to me, so the exact opposite of who I should actually be dating. Example: the neuroscience researcher who was plenty chatty via message but much quieter in person; I can be like that, so I don't want to be forced to carry the convo alone. Especially when what you have to say about your job is mostly rat brain surgery-related. He was super sweet and very smart, but please, don't let your only conversational contribution over ramen be ratbotomy.

So any way, I've decided, in the spirit of embracing hilarity, risk-taking, and rebellion, that it would be a great idea to meet NYC-area dudes online and report back to you. That is, if I don't flake out and cancel because something comes up with my real-life friends, which is what usually happens.

The Suburbia Lover

I decided that didn't want to deal with NYC last night, so I ran away to Long Island. Hilarious question of the night: "What is a cool, pretty girl like you doing single in Manhattan?"

The Re-Revival

Beware, friends: we're gonna get into some personal shit tonight. It's going to be corny. Enjoy.

Today at work, my coworkers were talking about the Tamagotchi craze, and I said, "Oh, I never had a Tamagotchi."

Cue gasps of horror and fainting in shock. "You NEVER had a SINGLE Tamagotchi?? You must have grown up in the slums of a third world country!! Why, StaciBeth, why?!?"

"No," I explained. "I was just a bit of a rebel."

One of my coworkers (one who likes to give me a lot of shit) said, "You were? What happened?"

Thinking about it, this actually slightly concerns me. Before I moved here, I used to have passions. Real passions, not like, "OMG I loooooooove those shoes!" I mean, my first two internships were at a performance theater and a grassroots peace organization. I agreed with the great Peter, Paul and Mary when they said, "If you've been to jail for justice, then you're a friend of mine." I was never crunchy, but I was a bit of a hippie in my ideology, and I couldn't care less what anyone thought of that.

Since moving here, it's different. I shop at the terrifyingly pretentious Whole Foods. (I should be over the whole annoying multiple-line thing at Whole Foods, but I'm not. It's dumb. I always inevitably get on the slowest line. Why not just have one long line that winds around the ropes? And why do you treat me like I'm the sad one because I don't know the difference between sprouted and unsprouted quinoa? Think about your priorities!) I think it's normal to pass Betsey Johnson on the street (and know who Betsey Johnson is. She is a scary looking person). I care even less than normal about what's going on in politics, and I haven't volunteered at any "fairs" (art, preferably, or music. Not Ren; I don't like horses). I haven't been in a situation when there was even a chance I might have to go to jail for justice the whole time I've lived in New York.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still me; maybe even with some shiny NYC bits. I'm perkier, slightly less bitchy (slightly), and probably a nicer person to be around. I eat better (thanks, pretentious Whole Foods quinoa snobs). I look damn fabulous when I want to, and I have some really great shoes.

As I am living in NYC (until I get out of this godforsaken city), and I continue to be perkier, healthier, and actually wear shoes based on my outfit, there are some parts of pre-New York me that I want to make sure I keep. As such, I have written a manifesto of my personal non-negotiables, below. These may certainly be added to or changed (after intense consideration) in the future.


My Re-Revival Manifesto -- to stay sane, stay awesome, and stay my rebel self:

-I will have no shame.*
-I will appreciate my kickass surroundings.
-I will only say what I believe -- but I'll say it damn loudly.
-I will decide what is cool (and what makes you sound like an idiot).
-I will be (almost creepily) enthusiastic, but only when I really feel it.
-I will tell you when I have no idea what the hell you're talking about.
-I will wear wife beaters and baggy jeans with glasses and lipstick if I damn well please.
-I will flaunt my passions.
-I will love freely and as much as possible, except when I am feeling particularly bitchy or cynical. Then I will hate with a flaming rage.
-I will say, "What's the worst that could happen?" and then I will jump.

Damn, that felt good.

(Caveat: all these should include, "Except when with clients. Then I will be as fake as I need to be.")

The Revival

Some say you should let dead dogs lie, but that has never been my way.

Wait. WTF does that even mean? What else would you do with a dead dog? Make him dance? Put him on parade? I am seeing this quite graphically and it is getting barftastic. Quick, think hilarious thoughts.

God I love how gimages can read my mind.

Anyway, what I meant to say was that this blog was getting a bit dead dogesque. But will I let it lie? No my friends, I certainly will not. Because I'm still a girl, I still live in NYC, and I still have things to say.

Except not today. I think I've said enough for today. I won't tell you about the crazy man on the train who was eating the bag of Doritos upside-down and screaming at strangers (but actually, I thought the part about eating the bag of chips from the bottom was the weirdest. Who does that?), and I won't tell you how many people called me mamacita on my way home (only two. I'm losing it), and I definitely will save my intoxicated weekend stories for later (especially meeting the way older St. Lucian "party planner" on the train who invited me back to St. Lucia with him). For those, you will have to wait and see.

I'm back.

The Embarrassment

Obviously I have a LOT to catch ya'll up on, but I just had a really embarrassing moment I think needs to be shared with the entire interwebz.

Our business's Managing Director just walked in the office and I am sitting here alone (obvs, it's like 8:30pm on a Friday, who the hell else would be at work), absolutely blasting 90s-era Usher, reading Yelp reviews on NYC spa services and drinking a Hoegaarden (which, btw, I don't even particularly like. Wheat beers are not my thing, but we were all out of the other options in the fridge).

I thought that his comment, "Staci, why are you still here?" took a great deal of self-restraint. If I had walked in on someone else in this situation, my comments would have been a lot more aggressive.

The Return Flight

Written Tuesday afty in the airport:
As I entered the teeny Akron airport, I noticed the line for my airline was much longer than normal. Ok, not a huge deal. I had 20 minutes leeway before my bag HAD to be checked. Then, a hassled airline woman called, "Ladies and gentlemen, systems are down!" Well, shit. The poor airline people had to write everything out by hand (which, when I think about it now as I'm waiting to board, is a huge security risk...)

But still, at least now everyone was in the same boat check-in time wise, and it was the airline's fault. As I got toward the front of the line, a woman who had just arrived in the separate "Elite" line went up to check in before the people waiting. The man in the front of the line politely informed her that we'd all been waiting for awhile (it's never actually polite though), but she blew him off. "Sir, I'm an ELITE passenger." Ugh. Do you want a cookie, lady?

After that, Hassled Airline Woman came over and closed off the "Elite" line so no one else could cut. But it was to no avail -- a couple minutes later, two women tried to re-form the previous "Elite" line. When Hassled Woman told them that they would have to wait in the long line, they got all huffy and indignant.

I finally got to the front and got my bag checked at exactly the right time, although I'm sure they didn't care at this point. Also I didn't even have to pay for it! Nice.

But then I hear the woman who had been in line behind me fighting with Hassled Woman at the check-in a couple stations to my right, yelling, "I was on line the whole time!!! You think you can treat me this way just because of the color of my skin???" (She was black, and the women who had tried to use the "Elite" line but were told they had to join the normal line were also black.) Being me, I obviously wanted to jump into this fight. I mean, come on. I live in Harlem. It's a little different than Akron/Canton, Ohio. However, I decided to hold back and attempt to mind my own business.

But behind-me-in-line lady had other plans. She pointed at me and yelled, "Ask her! That girl! I was behind her the whole time!!!"

And everyone in this giant line was staring at me. "Ma'am, she was behind me in line the entire time," I explained to the (seemingly) racist bitch of a Hassled Woman.

Hassled Woman practically screamed at me, "I just asked her for her ID!"

Oh. Well. Whoops. My b. How was I supposed to know that this was not a case of racism, but random crazy angry yellingism?

Now that I think about it, I don't see the crazy angry yelling behind-me-in-line woman here at the gate at all. I wonder what happened.

Later note: at least my seatmate did not go through any life-altering experience on this flight. But seriously, does weird shit like this happen to everyone?