The Handshake

As I was walking the block from the train stop to my office this morning, I heard an accented "Hello" from my right. I turned, and it was a fifty-something, silver haired, possibly Eastern European man of some kind of menial profession (judging by his outfit).

I found this hilarious as I'd just been telling my coworkers on Friday how I cannot get away from creepy older dudes lately. That day, a fifty-something businessman winked at me with a "Hi, there" on the sidewalk. The worst incident, which I narrated to them, had happened a couple months before: I was walking down Sullivan carrying a cookie from City Bakery (yum), when, from a bench on the sidewalk, some eighty-something year-old shriveled up old asshole with a cane called to me in a flirty old I'm-gonna-croak-soon voice, "Hey baby, what you got there?"

This is my life. So in comparison, 50s Eastern European laborer this morning didn't seem creepy at all. I responded nicely, and we introduced ourselves (no clue what his name was. I never remember to listen when people say their names. One of my many adorable flaws). He stuck his hand out for me to shake it, which I did automatically. That was my mistake.

When I burst in my office, laughing hysterically and running for the antibacterial soap, my team members understandably were concerned. "It's ok. A fifty-something European menial laborer just kissed my hand in the street, then told me I 'couldn't go to work looking like this.' A normal morning in my love life."

They've decided next time they need to recruit old dudes, they're just going to leave me in the street in a glue circle.

The (Almost) Fight

I almost started an altercation on the train today.

I was pissy. Like, really crankers. I was pretty much ready to go without provocation.

And then, this guy sitting next to where I was standing, wouldn't stop staring at me. Up and down. Like a total slimester, for about fifteen minutes straight.

I almost threw down. Really. But I noticed that he was holding the Koran. I could just imagine the PR: "Young Jewish woman attacks Muslim man on 1 train for 'being a creeper.'"And you know, my people just don't need that right now. So I held it in.

I'm a damn trooper.

The Ride

One morning last week I was on my normal commute to work (at like 9:30am, because my office is super understanding of my morning affliction (aka grumpiness and general hatred)) and was zoned out in an angry way as per usual.

I happened to glance up as two women boarded the train. The shorter, stockier, gingerier of the two caught my eye. She's the kind of woman who one might easily mistake for a ginger boy except that I I seemed to know her, and I knew she was a woman. As I stared, trying to figure out if I should greet her or not because even though I couldn't place her, I definitely knew this woman, her friend said something in an eerily familiar voice. I turned. It was Miranda from Sex and the City (making the ginger woman her wife, not a distant acquaintance of mine).

The ladies shared a subway pole with me. I thought about practicing my flirting skills (sliding my hand subtly down the pole, etc), but decided it might not have been the safest environment.

I switched trains as usual, and in trying to stop the train doors from closing on me, managed to (somewhat violently) stab a middle-aged crazed-scientist-looking man directly in the butt with my ladybug umbrella.

Surprisingly, he was quite pissed.

I had to make a pit stop at Staples, where I complained bitterly to the homeless guy parked outside about the Copy Center door being locked. "Just go to the other door," he told me. Some people just don't understand.

The Chair

Overheard a really hot girl about my age in a wheelchair on Prince and Sullivan: "Yea, I really wanna trick out my chair."

The Patter

I just spent my longest period of time back in Ohio in one go since I moved to NYC. Crazy.

Ohio certainly gave me an adorable little "Thank you, come again" (in slightly offensive fake Indian accent) on my way back home though. I was pulled to the center in the security line for a pat-down. Apparently they are no longer ok when you wear hoodies through security (which is inconvenient, since I almost always fly in hoodies).

The pat-down wouldn't have been a big deal, as I've been through the scanny machine before and thought nothing of it, except I think this was my patter's first time. She was definitely more awkward and twitchy than I was. She made me face away from her, but then stopped to explain for a couple minutes, with my back to her, how she was going to touch my "sensitive chest area" (bahaha), but just with the back of her hand.

Yes, I am a chubby brown woman. With a brown baby in a stroller. But, erm, my patter wasn't actually wearing gloves. Hmm...

When she asked me if I wanted a private screen, as I was standing in the glass bit between the two lines, I said, "No...not unless you're planning on taking my clothes off." The poor old girl had a minor heart attack. I totally should have winked when I said it. There was a slightly creepy older dude watching, but I figured hey, if that's how people get their jollies, let them have it.

I do regret a little not asking Ms. Pattycakes, "So, are you impressed?" when she patted my "sensitive chest area."

The best part was when I talked to Mommy about it afterward. Her objection? "But you had just had Dairy Queen! Your tummy was probably all full! Well, I guess it's ok; you're average-sized in Ohio, anyway." Yes Mommy, twitchy Pattycake lady was totally judging me.

The Comment

My cab driver this morning commented, "You like to enjoy everything around you, don't you?"

This was right after I cracked up at the old man riding a bike with a giant doggie wheelbarrow; the cabbie had said, "You see all kinds of things in this city," and I told him, "Yea, but they're still hilarious."

I didn't let him know that I'm actually a cynical bastard.

The Compliment

Little Dominican dude hanging outside my building with his friend at 4.15am: "Hey, mami. You looks niiiice, baby. I love you."

Me: "Thanks."

The Flower

As some of you may remember from this or other incidents, I love getting stuff done to my hair every now and then. So a couple weeks ago, I had a couple blue streaks put in the front. It looked super hot. For about a week, I was obsessed with it.

It looked kind of like this, only a bit less of the blue area, and my hair is about five times this length. Also I'm not black (except at heart). So, really not that much like this at all. But let's not pick at the details.

This past Friday, my office had a short hiking trip. It was beautiful to be out of the city "in nature." We lunched on the top of a crag (I obnoxiously asked the guide what "crag" meant exactly -- it's a kind of outcropping of rocks), from which we had a great view over farms and out over the Catskills. It was a very nice, sunny, lovely day.

That is, it was lovely until I got home and discovered that my awesome blue hair had turned about seven different shades of LAVENDER in the sun.

Yes, I've turned into a terrifying white librarian with the BEST GLASSES EVER.

I'm going home for Yom Kippur next week, and I look like a gay flower with very tasteless garish petals.