The Laugher

When I went into the restroom at work today, a woman was standing at the mirror and hysterically laughing with her reflection. We made eye contact briefly in the mirror, and she smiled at me. It wasn't a reassuring smile; it was more of a crazed hyena smile.

(Speaking of which, why are the hyenas in Lion King so scary looking? Hyenas are kind of cute:

You know, cute like one of those dumb-but-good-hearted second grade kids who picks his nose in class and gets embarrassed really easily. You know who I'm talking about. That's hyena cute. Minus the FACE-RIPPING VIOLENCE.)

Anyway, I actually waited in the stall until I heard her leave before I came out. She terrified me that much. Sadly, she probably sits on my floor somewhere, so I will most likely encounter her in the future.

And I will run.

The Question

The very typical loud, Jewish, Queens born-and-raised kind of dude in the office next to my cube (who I usually can only put up with because he always is either blasting a. what sounds like my exact favorite custom-built Pandora station or b. hilarious LA gangsta rap) just yelled at the pregnant woman a couple of offices down, "HEY, is your belly button completely inside-out yet?!?"

The Isle

This may just be a new kid thing, but I feel guilty when I don't do anything with my free time since I've moved here. I'm the kind of girl who enjoys pastimes such as watching seasons of TV on my laptop (preferably nerdy Joss Whedon shows), blasting music in my apartment and dancing around in my underoos, or reading entire novels in a day on the couch. All these pastimes consume precious non-work time which I could be spending instead doing exciting neighborhood explores, discovering trendy cafes or gazing at worldly works of art. Every time someone I talk to here says, "Wait, you haven't been to John's Pizzeria? How is that possible?" or someone at home says, "What do you MEAN you have no idea where the Empire State building is? You live in New York!" I feel like I should be spending my free time a little more strategically. (I do go out and explore and drink and whatever. Just not every hour over my weekends. Plus, everyone knows that Thursdays are NYC's Fridays.) This may be the city that never sleeps, but I love my beauty rest on the weekend.

That's why, even though I am new here, I already have found that running away to Long Island can be a nice getaway from the city. Whereas I might feel a little guilty potatoing on my own couch all weekend, I have absolutely no guilt about watching DVRed movies all day at my friend's house in Bellmore. It's a totally out-of-city experience to stay somewhere with yards and neighbors in separate buildings and store parking lots, and the familiarity of suburbia is reassuring sometimes to a North Canton, Ohio girl. (Although, millennia ago, my grandpa apparently decided NOT to move to Levittown in Long Island because "all the houses looked the same." No joke. Explains where I get my decision-making processes from. Ironically, my parents ended up moving to white Ohio suburbia to raise us. But unlike the parts of Long Island I've seen, our version of white suburbia has almost no Jews (except for us), no jet skis, and significantly less bagel shops.) Now that I live in a city with what can feel like too many things to do, going someplace where there's nothing much exciting going on can be a welcome relief.

Of course, on my way back to my apartment tonight, my bus stop corner was closed off because an  SUV cab had completely destroyed the side of a four-door sedan. I mean, obliterated. Even some of my neighbors were stopping to stare, transfixed, at the wreckage. Harlem, at least you are never, ever boring.

The Station

Wait. Has that Kmart always been in Penn Station?

(Mommy says no, but she also says that Kmart might not have existed last time she was in Penn. I think this is impossible. Kmart is one of those things that's always been around, like Prince. Back in the day before he became a supastar, Prince used to ride a triceratops (which also might not have been a real thing, according to something I read the other day) to Kmart when he needed some household goods.)

I don't understand how Penn can have like 836 ATMs (and a freaking Kmart), but I couldn't find a Chase ATM. I tried asking the Kmart security guy where one was, but he didn't seem to speak English that well. Or he was messing with me. Anyway, I ended up charging $2 for a bottle of pop (I will never stop saying it!) because I didn't have $1.25 in cash for the machine. Ah, the price of convenience.

The Metalface

Unfortunately, unlike my past experiences, nothing off-the-wall happened at 42nd and 5th when I was leaving the library today (again, NOT the lionbrary (oh my dear god, when I Googled "Manhattan library," this was one of the top images. Google knows me so well. Kind of like Pandora. I feel like I say it every day, but I'll repeat it: I will never find a man who understands me like my Pandora radio does. If I ever do...well, I digress from my parenthetical notes). I go to the library across the street from the big one).

However, a trip to the library never leaves me without at least some minor amusement. When I was getting on the train, I saw a girl. She was a relatively normal-looking Latina girl in jeans and a tee, probably in high school and still high schoolishly skinny, not fully grown into all the benefits of her Latinaness (I wanted to offer her some ice cream or something to help her along, but I think people take it badly when you offer strange kids sweets). Totally normal. Except for the bar of metal going through her face.

Seriously. I'm cool with piercings; I mostly think they're pretty hot. But this shit was a huge metal chunk under her left eye and above her cheekbone. It may not have been that bad (don't click on that link if you have an especially girlish stomach), except that it kind of highlighted where the bottom of her under-eye circle is and made her look, for lack of better words, old haggish and trashy as hell. I have attempted to make a re-creation of her face below:

Is this a thing? Did the under-eye aging piercing become a trend that I missed in my Ohio and then Syracuse-grounded existence?

TOTAL SIDENOTE: Google has also just taught me that this is a trend in Japan, apparently. Chris C. says, "This is #8 on my list of “Things I Didn't Know Were Things But Shouldn't Be Anyway”" and now I want to know what his other things were, too. I just thought you should know. I think everyone should know. You should probably make a memo.

The Scoff

When a teammate of mine walked into the conference room today, she asked me what I was looking at out the window. I replied that the buildings near ours are really pretty, but it's hard to tell from the ground sometimes. Occasionally I do just walk around and stare up at them during lunch, though. "You walk around facing up?" she scoffed. "Like a tourist?"

I looked at her and said, "I hope I never stop looking up."

True story. She really did say this, as a real-life example of what I was blabbering on about in The Nap. And yes, I am this corny in everyday life.

The Nap

I am so, so glad that I slept all afternoon yesterday after coming home from my 6:40am flight out of Akron, because I was thus unavailable to go to the movies with my roommate. You're thinking, "Wow, this girl is an awful person," but you need to be patient and read on. I'm not that much of an ass. Sometimes.

When I finally showed my face last night post-nap and bed hangout, I found my roommate in the kitchen looking like she'd tried to take on the Jets' defense single-handedly. It wasn't hard to coax her tale out of her. Apparently she'd gone to the Loew's theater at Lincoln Center to see Never Let Me Go, which is one of those disturbing and emotional sci-fi movies (although nothing, NOTHING, will ever be as disturbing as Splice. Seriously. I felt violated afterward. Felt unclean for days). She went alone and was sitting at the end of the aisle. Mid-movie, an older woman sitting on the other side of the aisle got up, fell over, smashed her head on my roommate's armrest, and started compulsively vomiting everywhere. And no one did anything.

My roommate, who was obviously cornered into her seat by this, tried to get people around her to help. With a lack of response, she ended up jumping over the woman, leaving her purse and everything, and sprinting out of the theater to the concession stand. Panicked, she told the popcorn-serving kid what had happened and to get medical help. He looked at her, looked at the long line of cranky, obese American customers waiting for their extra butter, and told her that he couldn't help her, she'd have to find a manager.

At this point, she was beyond freaking out. As she was running around, she noticed the high-up booth of staff dudes, and she yelled up at them to call a manager and help. She couldn't tell if they heard her though, so she kept trying to find someone to help her. Finally, a movie-goer who had heard her encounter with the pimply concession idiot approached her, explaining that he was a doctor and would take a look at the woman. In the end, they ended up dragging this still-vomiting, unconscious woman out of the theater with minimal help from other audience members. The booth staffers had heard her and walkie-talkied a manager, who was completely useless. Loew's staff asked my roommate to come speak with them, and while she assumed they'd question her and take her name and phone number, they just gave her a movie voucher and apologized for the "inconvenience." She waited for the ambulance to come to make sure the woman was taken care of by semi-competent professionals, and took a cab home.

The thing that I think is most disturbing about this isn't the total lack of competence or response whatsoever by the movie theater staff. My main problem is that this theater had plenty of other people in it. AND NO ONE DID ANYTHING. My roommate said that the only other person in the theater who really moved to help was an old man with a cane, who could not keep up when she sprinted for help. Everyone else in the theater? Some people turned to look. Most continued watching the movie, ignoring the commotion.

I make comments pretty often about rude, jaded New Yorkers. I've mentioned before that people in this city generally try to act like they are unaffected by spectacle. For people here, it's pretty important to come off as a native New Yorker. I understand that when you live in a city unlike any other city in the world, the way to fit in and stay sane is to make your own mini-bubble. You kind of need to ignore the spectacles in order to get anything done. But at the same time, a lot of it is for show. People don't want to be seen gaping at something that's just "typical" crazy New York. You would NEVER want to be thought of as a tourist.

Last week, my friend told me a story that I thought summed it up pretty well. His friend's cousin, who had never been to a large city, let alone the world's center that is New York, came to visit. Before they even got out of Grand Central, the cousin saw a man sitting in the corner, covered in newspapers, and she freaked out. "We have to help him!" The New Yorker quickly shushed her, embarrassed, and explained that it wasn't a big deal; that kind of thing was normal. The sad thing was, her response was the right one. He was ashamed of her public outcry against the typical misfortune of a homeless person; his preferred method was to shut his eyes to it. And his was the "normal" response, in this environment.

City people are usually thought of as experienced and worldly. In other words, civilized. After a couple of months here, I already have found myself turning up my iPod to avoid beggars on the train. But when I think about it, I'd rather make eye contact, shake my head, and say, "I'm sorry" than turn away. I'd rather be a wide-eyed Ohio girl for the rest of my life than the kind of jaded New Yorker who'd ignore a woman having a medical emergency in the movie theater.

The Airport (part dos)

Well, here I am. Back again. How is this happening? I feel deserving of scorn right now. "You're leaving New York...to fly to Akron, Ohio...again? Do a Lebron and RUN AWAY, child!"

The man sitting a couple of seats down was just hardcore staring at me, and when I looked up he did the awkward nod that says, "Yes, I am a man awkwardly staring at you. It's not in a predatory way. This polite nod signifies that I am not a creeper." He does look familiar though, probably in the way that any blonde, fit, white polo-wearing, upper-middle class Yankees fan looks familiar.

Contrary to what I said last time I was at the airport, I feel like not as many people are being friendlier than usual New Yorkers today (other than Mr. Polite Nod, since people here generally don't feel the need to cover up their staring with polite gestures). It could be just me taking on a stronger rude/jaded New Yorker persona though. I hope not. Ah well, it's nothing a weekend of praying and fasting in Ohio can't curb.

Later edit: When I was boarding, the boarding line was held up. Peering around a couple of people in front of me, I saw that it was because a young couple approximately my age was tickling and canoodling and getting altogether swept up in their mutual public lust. Obvs, I felt it was necessary to yell "EXCUSE ME" to snap them out of their line-clogging sexual reverie. A few minutes later when I got on the plane and went to find my seat, I realized that as I was sitting on the side with three seats in a row, the disgustocouple were my seatmates.

The Rat

After a stressful, 12-hour (no, seriously) day at work, I'm glad I could still get amusement from a man cheering on a rat as it tried to not get hit by an oncoming train.

The Cubicle

This may sound kind of Dilbert, but I am frustrated that a new kid just moved into the cubicle across from mine. He seems like a nice dude and all, but that cube is generally the only vantage point to see into the world that is my cube. I need my privacy. My cubicle etiquette sucks, and I don't need him getting insight into that. I have piles of status forms and post-its everywhere. I like to take my shoes off and put my feet up. The cleaning lady has to remind me every night to throw out my cocoa cup from 10am that morning (thank Allah for this woman, because otherwise I'd def have piles of those too). If I had a particularly squished train ride that morning, I occasionally apply perfume to strategic points before meetings. Not to mention, I am constantly playing/making popping noises with Silly Putty for approximately five hours a day. My cube is my space, and it turns out I'm not so good at adapting to be stationary and polite in semi-public for most of my waking hours. Poor kid doesn't know what he's getting himself into.

The Weekend

I woke up at 3pm today. Haven't done that for awhile. Still, it's going to take more than that to get me over this weekend. This is gonna be a long one, folks. Get your popcorn ready.

It started off with the Jets Kickoff at the South Street Seaport after work Friday. I'm not really a Jets fan (except for Mark Sanchez, who, for obvious reasons, I am a HUGE fan of), but I met up with some friends, and strangely, Good Charlotte was there (click on the image below (or just look at it and be impressed by the wannabe BAMFness) to see some of the show, thanks to Big Ant. Thanks buddy, for being hardcore enough to record Good Charlotte and post it to YouTube).

I was quite the little Good Charlotte fan back in the day. I actually found my Good Charlotte buttons and hat last weekend when I was in Ohio, and made the life-changing decision not to bring them back to NYC with me. Ah, well. Anyway, I was amused that the band finished with "Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous," which was a big hit back in my crowd-surfing days. I also really enjoyed all the jaded Jets fans who just wanted Good Charlotte to shut the hell up.

After the Seaport it was to Little Italy for dinner, where our (not at all Italian) server explained in broken English about how the streets in Little Italy are shut down every weekend. I still don't think this is true, but we'll have to agree to disagree. While we were down there, I obvs had to run to Ten Ren to get a btea (read: bubble tea, to you n00bs) from what I am convinced is the best btea place in the U.S.

Post-dinner, we headed to Union Square for Trader Joe's Wine Shop. As my friends were leaving to head back to the Isle (good god I can't believe you got me to start saying that), we caught a show by that dude who makes a big spectacle out of jumping over people and panhandling in Union Square. He only actually jumps twice, but it takes a long effing time. And people actually stay to watch. This man has amazing entertainment power.

After the show, I ended up going three avenues out of my way (and then having to walk them back) on the walk to St. Mark's to meet up with some others. There was bar hopping (one of the bars was playing Star Wars on the wall!!!) and we ended up at the Sing Sing, of course. A couple rowdy ballads and a few spilled beers later, most of the group headed to bufu Queens, while my friend and I made our own cotton candy at a cutesy bai ren (translation: not for Asian people) type Japanese place. We each paid a dollar for enough sugar to make about 5 sticks of cotton candy. There's nothing not to love about spinning your own 3am post-karaoke cotton candy, while making ironic friends with scenesters.

My Saturday afternoon was an exploration of Riverbank Park. Turns out it's huge. Who knew? We walked probably 50 blocks down (and back later), but it's a really cool park; it has court space for every kind of sport you can think of, including ones on broomsticks. Juuust kidding, the Quidditch (yes, this team is actually called "The Group that Shall Not Be Named") players don't have a real playing area, and they are stuck playing in an untreed grassy patch.

They don't seem to mind, though. Because there are no official Quidditch pitch boundaries, the Snitch has more places to hide. For this practice, the Snitch was a girl running around with a gold cape, due to the lack of semi-conscious flying golden balls in reality. This is one of the many downfalls of playing a fictional magical game in real life, others being those pesky high designer broomstick prices and complete lack of non-Quidditch friends.

(The Snitch is running off to hide, while the coach dude smiles with Quidditch enthusiasm.)

We ended up talking to the coach-type man for awhile (at least, I think he was a coach. He had a whistle and acted important, but with Quidditch players, you never really know). Two of my favorite questions we asked him:

Me: So, these designer broomsticks, are they functional, too?
Quidditch coach guy: What do you mean?
Me: Like, to sweep things.

and

My friend: When you have formal matches, do the players wear robes?

I'm still chuckling.

Tomorrow is my friend's birthday (the same friend from the cotton candy on Friday), so after the park I met her for shabu shabu at Quickly (probably my number two place for btea in Ctown). If you haven't had shabu shabu, that sucks. Your life is not as amazing as it could be.

You get your own pot of boiling broth, and a mammoth pile of your chosen raw meats/veggies/noodles to throw in it. There's a station for you to make your own crazy sauces (or you can do as I do and have your Asian friends make them for you). At Quickly, you also get a btea with your shabu shabu; I've heard of hot pot buffets where they actually have tapioca and various teas at the buffet, too (aka HEAVEN).

Stuffed with delic food, we went to celebrate her birthday at KTV. Obviously. Where else can you play Chinese drinking games, get completely obliterated, stuff your face, scream your heart out, shamelessly belt out some Taylor Swift, and totally destroy the room (with the approval -- and help -- of the establishment's owner)?

Two nights of karaoke in a row, you ask? My friends, do not doubt me. Put a microphone in my hand, and I am instant diva. I even had my full voice today. Is there such thing as a professional karaoke singer? I may be no William Hung, but I can hold my own.

The Return

I apologize for not being around so much. It's been a little busy, what with a crazy apartment situation (one of my new roommates is afraid of cats. She is a sweet girl, but our apartment HAS TWO CATS. It's an issue) working fifty hours a week plus seven and a half hours of commuting, and jetting off to the exotic land of Ohio, where one can bump into seven different old friends/acquaintances within two hours of landing (no joke, this happened).

If you know me, you might say, "Staci, apologizing for something? Nooo." But I am. I'm sorry that my life's so exciting that I have no time to blog about it. I'm sorry that I went to a crazy good school and immediately after moved all by myself to the most hectic city in the U.S. I'm sorry that I found myself an awesome apartment in a cool neighborhood where I'm called "mamacita" daily. I'm sorry I work for the kind of company that throws us random beer bashes in the conference room or rents out trendy hotel bars for us for the night. I really apologize profusely for how incredibly cool I am. I do.

But -- I work my ass off.

The Airport

Oh Earl. I am so not sad to miss you.

I've decided that the airport is the only place I've found so far in New York where the strangers who start casual conversation with you are not necessarily drunk or crazy. The woman sitting across from me who works at an animal travel agency, Jet-A-Pet, is definitely crazy, though.

Later edit: While I was sitting in an area between several gates, I noticed a girl sitting near me who looked oddly familiar. Turned out to be the chick who plays Vanessa in Gossip Girl.

She's really skinny in person. Like REALLY. I don't remember her being that teeny in the show when I used to watch, back when I was a kid. Crazy cam weight? Or stresses of the biz? You decide.

The Morning

ATTENTION, NEW YORK:

I am setting down a few rules in order to make mornings safer and more pleasant for everyone.

1. Do not look at me before 9am. Man who sits on his lawn chair next to the phone kiosk every morning, I'm talking to you.

2. Do not talk to me before 10am. This includes our CEO, even if we are alone on the same elevator. Especially if we are alone on the same elevator. Sorry, Alan. It's not a great time for me.

3. Do not request things from me before 11am. I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT.

4. Do not, by any means, hit on me before noon. Harlem men, downtown construction workers, building security guards, I know that this is very difficult for all of you. But, I am warning you, Mama didn't raise no morning rose. Don't do it. Keep it to yourself -- until 12:01.