Tag Archives: new_york

Dispatches from the Land of the Sober People, pt. 1 (maybe)

Dear wine friends,

Any of you who know me in real life (so like, all of you right?) know that I can A.) drink you under the table and B.) probably will fall asleep under that table with a calzone shortly thereafter, so I understand if the title for this post makes little sense.

BUT. Now that I successfully changed careers (what up!) I am moving onto the long laundry list of things I’d like to at least attempt to achieve before I hit my oh-so-quickly-approaching 30s. The first time I typed that, I accidentally typed ’20s.’ Le sigh.

Anyway, that list involves stuff like “have a savings account that doesn’t charge you money every month for being a savings account with no money in it” and “develop a morning routine that doesn’t consist solely of rolling out of bed, grabbing the first semi-non-smelly thing off the floor and buying a diet coke on the way to work” but as both of those sound pretty difficult, I’ve decided to tackle the seemingly easiest thing on my list which involves partaking in a lesser-known New York City ritual known as The Dry Month.

The first time I heard about The Dry Month was my first winter in the city, and I think my head damn near exploded when I was like, “hey [coworker], we’re going to happy hour because Tuesday” and he was like, “oh, no, I’m cool. I’m doing a dry February.” At first I was like, “oh is that a new workout craze how many calories does it burn?” and then it hit me. He was not drinking for an entire month, likely as a means to reset his body back to a level of health somewhere between hanging-on-by-a-thread and feeling-ok-but-I-have-these-weird-rashes after the massive amount of damage that can be done when you combine the holidays with the fact that no one here has to worry about driving.

And then I was like “ohhhh February makes sense because it’s two less days.”

Since then, I’ve heard of Dry Month participants on occasion, but it’s usually more like someone making a sweeping declaration that he/she is going to do so and then immediately failing because New York.

When it comes down to it, I’d liken the idea of not drinking for a month to that of a juice cleanse, signing up for unlimited hot yoga, or getting one of those body wraps that makes you look like a mummy for ten minutes but then somehow compresses your body so that you “lose three inches”. We all say we’re going to do it one day. We all resolve to do it at the beginning of most weeks and fail before we’ve even told anyone we’re going to do it, and we’re all terrified of those who actually accomplish it because that means that we could probably do it too but it sounds really fucking annoying. Or, in the case of the body resizing mummification, it simply sounds terrifying.

I’ve been holding the dry month over my own head for the three years I’ve lived here, but it was hitting a weight that I dare not speak of post-this-holiday-season that made me realize I am being a fat, drunk, lazyass who needs to prove she can do something more than drink a bottle of skinny girl margaritas for dinner and still remember why bodega has the best candy selection on Seamless(kinda a point of pride but I digress).

As I’m writing this, I have officially begun day 7 of my dry month (which I have named Sovember because it technically started mid-January and ends on Valentine’s Day) but really it’s just midnight of day 6 so no biggie. The only remarkable thing about tonight is that it’s the first Friday night since– I don’t remember the last Friday I haven’t gone out to some capacity. I am about to go to bed (so I can sleep and edit this post tomorrow), and while I fully intend to report back as Sovember progresses, I figured I’d leave you with some of my initial impressions of what it’s like not drinking in the Functionally-Alcoholic Apple(maybe we should start calling it the Big Cider?).

  • Easiest diet ever. Holy shit you guys. Did you know how many calories are in alcohol? I totally did because I track my calories unless chicken wings, Saturdays, mimosas or candy are involved (ie. I track my calories on Mondays, sometimes) but SERIOUSLY. I feel like I can eat anything and everything and still be under the calorie limit my fitness app gives me every day without seeing skinny bitches on the train and wanting to start screaming “IT’S BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I FEEL THIS WAY.”
  • I have a lot of free time. I’ve developed a theory that the nail art movement was invented and is wholly maintained by sober people, because that’s really the only non drinking/eating activity that I can come up with for when I want to shut off my brain while I’m watching TV. My nails have never looked so good, y’all.
  • I think I’m less sleepy, but I still have all those nightmares. I’m hella anxious, but as I’ve learned to manage the constant fear of impending doom in my waking life, most of it has flowed over into my subconscious, leaving me with vivid, ever-changing and chronic nightmares. I’ve heard from science (or Distractify, can’t remember which) that alcohol interrupts your sleep and as my sleep is constantly interrupted by basically every type of nightmare mentioned in any dream journal thing, I had started to almost hope it was alcohol-related so that I don’t have to plan for eventual deal-with-my-anxiety therapy or whatever. On the bright side, I wake up refreshed! On the not so bright side, it’s usually the dreams about creepy murderers or my teeth falling out while I’m flying through space and I’m naked and I totally forgot to drop that one class and now it’s finals time and I’m gonna fail that is waking me up in a quick jolt of panic so I can subsequently feel refreshed.
  • I hate the gym slightly less. But still a lot. I still hate the gym so, so much. I guess what else am I gonna do with all this free time, though? Hell, I might even try cardio hip hop one of these days.

All in all, I was pretty sure by now I would be curled up in the fetal position holding an empty bottle of rosé while whispering the lyrics to “I Will Always Love You” through by tears, but given that I was able to eat a bag of jelly beans tonight without exceeding my calorie limit, I’m no worse for the wear.

More to come probablyIguessunlessIgetbored.

Peace, love and take a shot for me, 


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Summer in the Cubicle

Summer is glorious. It’s pure bliss filled with swimming pools, beach trips, long days and summer thunderstorms that make the perfect soundtrack for a midday nap and – oh yeah – still having to go to work. Damnit.

I absolutely love the summer, but ever since I started working I realized how it’s a double-edged sword. During the winter, I’m excited to get inside, sip some free coffee and order food delivery to my desk for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I also have the perfect excuse to never go out during the week, and hop into bed by 9 PM on the weekends. Summer lures me out of my TV cave and demands that I spend almost every night going to dinners, events, drinks or social events. By the time summer is over I’m TOTALLY exhausted because I’ve completely overextended myself in order to soak up all of the summery goodness that is for the most part cannibalized by the annoying need to pay my rent and have food to eat or whatever. Everyone should get free rent/ free food for the summer. Am I right? Me for President, guys! I’ll make it happen.

Anyway, this summer I’ve been trying to make the most of it a little more so that I don’t spend all my time sitting angrily at my desk, cursing the fact that I’m located directly underneath an air vent. I will never understand why people find it necessary to make the inside temperature hotter than summer in the winter and colder than winter in the summer.

This is why we never have office margaritas

Here are some tips for keeping yourself feeling summery while you’re inside. I take no responsibility if you get fired.

#1 – Wear your bathing suit under your work clothes at all times. Double points if you use this to avoid doing laundry for another day.

#2 – If you’re hungover, go outside and throw up in the park instead of the office bathroom. There’s nothing like vomiting in the bushes and looking up to see an audience of bewildered squirrels. Oh, the magic of nature.

#3 – Instagram a picture of being outside, every. single. time. you’re outside. When you look back on your feed it will make you feel like you spent a lot more time outside than you actually did.

“Look guys, I’m outside!” “Here I am… outside again!” “This time I’m outside AND I HAVE FOOD” “Outside in black and white LOL”

PS, those are all my Instagram photos. So I am VERY GOOD at taking my own advice.

#4 – Use summer occurrences as an excuse to be late to everything work related.

  • “Dear work, the rain is making all of the subway trains flood. I am afraid I have to work from the park – er, I mean home. You know, because it’s raining so much.”
  • “Dear work, there is some sort of Dominican Republic/ Gay Pride/ Mermaid Parade going on and they’re not allowing me to cross 14th Street.”
  • “Dear work, Occupy Wall Street is back. I’ve decided to join them this year. #Occupy!”
  • “Dear work, ain’t nobody got time for this heat.”

#5 – Everyone loves the “It’s 5 O’Clock somewhere” approach. Except for maybe authority figures. So just to make sure you’re covered, keep one of those cocktail flavored gums on your desk next to your beverage in a smoothie cup.

“Oh, no. This is just a smoothie. It’s the gum that smells like booze.”

And, if all else fails and you are totally stuck in the office all summer long, you can just beachify your cubicle. After all, there’s nothing like the feeling of packing peanuts between your toes amIrightamIright!?

Ikea should sell this as a box set.

Peace, love and is it 4th of July weekend yet? 


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The Cicadas Are Coming and It’s Going to be The Shit

One of the things that I loved about growing up in small town Georgia was what a BIG EFFING DEAL everything was. It snowed ten inches? The blizzard of ’93 will live in infamy. Hurricane Opal hit Florida? We had no school because of wind. Some crazy dude climbed to the top of a crane and the SWAT team had to lure him to the edge of the crane with water, taser him and catch him with helicopters? Ok, that one was pretty crazy. I loved the feeling of community that came from being in a smaller place. If something happened, bad or good, it happened to the whole town. Everybody was talking about it, so much so that I have vivid memories of making friends at a generator-lit Wal-Mart during Ice Jam 2000. Maybe I just like natural disasters that are given names.

Anyway, that’s why I read Gothamist every day. It reminds me that despite the fact that I’m living on an island with like a gagillion people who will probably stab me if I take too long to swipe my metrocard when the express is at the station, it’s still an island that’s (physically) smaller than my hometown of Snellville, GA.

I love reading every morning about the soda ban, the Citibike battles and the newest restaurant that’s serving Korean-Russian-Trinidadian fusion out of a tire that washed aboard a boat that washed into a warehouse in Red Hook during Hurricane Sandy. I want to be part of a community, and Gothamist makes me feel like I’m part of the coolest (most expensive) community ever. Other than whatever people are doing in like, Dubai, but I don’t think I have the energy for that anyway.

If you’re not paying attention to news about the Northeast right now, all I can tell you is this –


As a Georgian, I’m kinda like… you guys ever heard of locusts? Or, I dunno, bugs? Basically everyone is freaked out (or ironically freaked out, I can never tell) about the fact that cicadas go dormant for 17 years and then come back just about the time the trauma has subsided in order to torment people with the sounds of their incredibly loud mating calls. According to Gothamist, “their 90-decibel calls can rival the sound of a subway!”

I am still not impressed, possibly because I live on The Street That Is Apparently The Only Bus Route To Boston, so it is constantly loud. But the other reason I’m not impressed is because I believe in New York. This amazing city can handle 9/11, blackouts, hurricanes and anti-semitic Sesame Street characters. Do you really think we’ll crumble under the mating call of the cicadas?

In the words of the Nappy Roots, “Aw naw, hell naw ‘main.” We’re gonna rock the shit of this insect infested summer.

NYC loves rare shit.

Last year someone made a dinner out of rats. Do you really think we’re not gonna eat the fuck out of these cicadas? A couple of weeks ago I read a series of articles about how “ramps” were overrated, which lead me to something about how the “ramps” were in season. I dunno if I’ve ever had a ramp, but it looks kinda like a scallion so I imagine it’s not THAT different. But New York loves rare.

All I can say about cicadas V. ramps is SCREW THE RAMPS. THIS SHIT IS ONLY AROUND ONCE EVER 17 YEARS.

Can you even imagine? The absurd cocktails and infusions? 

In researching this post (lol, because I research), I Googled, “Can you eat cicadas?” Yes. Yes, you can. I would like point out the fact that because cicadas shed their exoskeletons that there are multiple textures associated with the cicada.

“Have you tried our Cicada Crush? It’s like a grasshopper but with cicaca-infused creme de menthe. It’s divine and oh-so-rare!”

Spicy Cicada Crunch Roll, anyone?

And what about the jewelry? 

You know that every boutique everywhere is going to start selling gold-dipped cicada carcasses. Mary Kate will get one immediately.

Cicadtronica = the new Seapunk. 

Don’t hate on my poor music production skills – there’s a reason I’m not in music anymore. I can just imagine hipster bands everywhere, sticking their iPhones out the window at night, sampling cicada noises and putting crazy reverb on their calls. Seriously, have you listened to Seapunk at all?

So yeah, New York, don’t stress. I have faith in us making The Summer of The Cicada the best summer ever.

Here are two jokes I came up with that didn’t fit into this post but because it’s only every 17 years I”m going to get to write about cicadas, I’m gonna use them here.

#1 – I’m going to be singing this a lot this summer – “The park has cicadas. C-I-C-A-D-A-S!”

#2 – Where are the cicadas going? IN ONE DIRECTION.

If only the cicadas flew over from England, this would be even better.



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I got 99 problems, but bed bugs ain’t one

JK, they’re #1. Right up there with my waist being wider than my hips and the fact that I haven’t yet won the lottery. As a former aspiring songwriter (my saddest label) I like to make up songs about my life. “Where did you go/ My strainer” sung to the tune of No Mercy’s “Where do you go?” is on heavy rotation in my kitchen and “I don’t want to go to work,” my folk tune original has topped my Monday morning charts since 2010.

The bed bugs and all of the information I’ve learned about them have provided me with ample material for a host of songs. Ha ha, get it? Host. Because I’m being eaten alive in my own apartment… too soon?

Possible tag lines for the TV ad: “All the music you’ve been itching to hear” / “It’ll keep you up all night long!” / “Reality bites… your music shouldn’t”

Man, I miss CD compilations. If it were the nineties, I could be all –


“Now: That’s What I Call a Bed Bug Infestation” features hits from today’s top artists:

Lil Wayne / Future / Drake – “My Bitches [bed bug sniffing dogs] Luv Me” 

Sample lyrics – “I’ve got dem bed bugs and rubbing alcohol / I’ve got an exterminator I can call / I don’t know what I would do witout OFF© / Ima heat things til they cannot crawl / That’s why my bitches luv me.” 

The Black Eyed Peas – “Where Are the Bugs?

Sample lyrics – “I’ve been itchin’ / I ain’t lyin’ / I can’t sleep and I feel like cryin’ / I’m so grossed out I could shriek / I think a bed bug bit my cheek / Pest Pro, Pest Pro, Pest Pro, help me / Send some an expert who wears gloves / I’ve been lookin’ but I’m still questioning / Where are the bugs?” 

PSY – “Bed Bug Style

Sample lyrics – ” Najeneun ttasaroun inganjeogin yeoja / Keopi hanjanui yeoyureul aneun pumgyeok inneun yeoja / Bami omyeon simjangi tteugeowojineun yeoja / Geureon banjeon inneun yeoj / EHHHH Rashy Lady / Op, Op, Op / Oppa Bed Bug Style” 

I wish this were a real

Justin Timberlake – “Pack & Tite

Sample lyrics – “I be always packing my shit tite / shit tite / I can’t wait til I can move outta my apartment / Been heatin’ fabric so much / It’s hot like an oven…”

Taylor Swift – “Trouble (I Knew You Had Bed Bugs When You Walked In)

Sample lyrics – “I knew you had bed bugs when you walked in / So shame on me now / You’ve been shopping at thrift stores againnnn / Keep your blankets on the ground oh / I knew you had bed bugs when you walked in / So shame on me now / Should have sent you vacuum-packing / Now I’m throwing all my bedding out!” 

The video to that one is great because it opens with a minute and a half of Taylor dramatically inspecting her suitcase after returning from a stay at the Ritz Carlton while talking about how she felt compelled to keep it on the floor even though she’d been burned before. Something about the carpeting was calling to her.


Journey – “Don’t Stop Your Steaming”

Aretha Franklin – “B.I.T.I.N.G.ME”

The Beatles – “We Can Get Them Out”

Britney Spears – “Oops! They Bit Me Again”

Frank Sinatra – “Strangers in the Night” (I know, too easy!)

Carly Simon – “You’re so Vein (I bet you think that they’re gonna bite you)”



Peace, love and call 1-800-got-bugs to buy now, 


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The One with All the Bed Bugs

I’ve been freaking out about bed bugs since I moved to New York. Sure, they don’t threaten your health, they don’t cause any particular harm other than itchy bumps in 70% of people, but they are massively inconvenient. They seemed bad, and then they seemed less bad. People no longer had to move, no mattresses were thrown out, they were just a minor inconvenience some people experienced.

Well, last week life gave me bed bugs. They’re not in my roommates’ rooms, my boyfriend isn’t allergic to their bites, they are my very own bed bugs. Allllll mine. I was settled into my bed with my laptop for a lazy Sunday afternoon, when right there new to me I found a full-grown bed bug, chillin’ on my pillow, re-watching season 2, episode 1 of Girls with me.


After spending the last week going through this experience, I’m shocked that every sitcom ever about New York hasn’t made a bed bug episode. Why was 30 Rock the only one to cover bed bug territory? The whole process is so annoying, there are so many opportunities for humor.

  • If Friends had done it, it would be called “The One with All the Bed Bugs.”
  • If How I Met Your Mother did it, there would be some awesome physical comedy involving Marshall and the laundromat.
  • On Girls, Lena Dunham would schlep her bed buggy bags down the street, counting over her shoulder and getting hollered at by old Brooklyn men. She’d go to the laundromat and fight with her parents while waiting for her items to be heated to 120 degrees about how she definitely hadn’t infected their home on her most recent visit and how their throwing out her childhood bed was sending her into existential crisis.

I thought a lot about whether or not I should write about this on my blog, as I don’t particularly want to become a social pariah for the next three months, even though the no social obligations and excuse to constantly stay in ordering Seamless sounds kind of awesome. But then, on day three of taking conference calls while sitting next to a 120 heater that was cooking all of my personal belongings so I could vacuum pack all of them for the foreseeable future, I realized I HAD to talk about the bed bugs.

The only things online are tips and tricks, laments, scare tactics to keep you from movie theaters, hotels and Hollister (I support that one). No one tells you about the other stuff – about the moments of near insanity where you start turning all the rap songs you’re listening to into songs about bed bugs (it’s actually quite easy), about how cute the bed bug sniffing dog is and about the overwhelming desire to get totally shitfaced every night so you can fall asleep in a bed you imagine to be crawling with bugs but knowing you still have I go to work in the morning and vacuum packing things while hungover is hard.

So, I am embracing this experience with open arms (increasing airflow helps with the itching). Just as we walked together through surviving Valentine’s Day, feel free to join me in my attempt to beat bed bugs. Come back every day this week and you’ll get tips, tricks, songs and rants.

Peace, love and don’t get bed bugs I’m serious they are the worst I am losing my mind,


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Next Step: Buy horn glasses

When I was younger and I’d talk about why I wanted to move to New York I had all these lofty reasons like how it was the cultural center of the world and I’d become a better person as a result.

As with many things, there’s a disconnect between the expectation and the reality.

Expectation: Going out in new neighborhoods all the time.
Reality: Going to the same bar four nights a week because you’re 100% certain you’ll be able to hang up your jacket.

Expectation: Going to tons of Broadway shows on the cheap.
Reality: Broadway too expensive, a friend of a friend gives you his Netflix login.

Expectation: Surrounding yourself with new and fabulous people who wear horn glasses and go to readings.
Reality: Stay friends with the first people you met when you moved here (or coworkers) because it turns out it doesn’t matter where you live, you hate new people… Especially if they’re wearing some type of quirky eye wear.

Expectation: Major Career successes.
Reality: Developing long, elaborate fantasies about winning the lottery or becoming a full-time student on the train ride to work

Expectation: Getting to be really fashionable and test your limits, because in New York you can do whatever you want and no one will judge you.
Reality: Getting out-hipstered by 21-year-olds whose dads pay their rent.

Expectation: Overall fabulousness as depicted by “Sex and the City” and every New York romcom ever. Standing under the Empire State Building and spinning while looking up and smiling. 
 Becoming ok with the way you smell not being 100% fresh because laundry is too expensive and who has time for that anyway? So you douse yourself in a little bit of perfume and comfort yourself by mentally referring to it “my musk.” No twirling space underneath the Empire State Building, but you do get offered to skip the line by those ticket sellers outside.

The most shameful of these is the missing out on cultural shit. Over Christmas my Grandfather asked me how often I go to shows or museums and I gave serious thought to replying, “Sometimes I go to bars in Koreatown.”

It’s not for lack of trying, but I really have to work to get myself off my ass and outside to experience the loveliness that is New York . On Sunday a huge group of my friends and I ventured all the way to an art installation in Long Island City.

I love this type of art because of all the ways I can think to act like a douchebag when I tell other people about it. I totally love bringing up the type of pretentious, stoner stuff I talked about for hours on end in college. You know, shit like, “what if we all see colors differently but we learn the names for what we’re seeing and just assume that we’re all seeing the same color? Like, my blue is actually your green but we can never know. Let’s go watch Requiem for a Dream again.”

I took a bunch of photos of the installation and I’m excited to use this new photo collage app I have, so below I have tried to explain what we saw in the douchiest way possible. I dare you to try and out pretentious me in the comments.

“Headscapes appealed to the most basic human emotions that we experience in the 21st century. Isolation. Overstimulation. And confusion over the which organic products are organic enough.”

“The neon-blacklight room was definitely a statement on today’s youth. We are vibrant, hopeful and neon is really in right now, but we don’t shine unless we are in the darkness, because we are all in the darkness.”

“The speaker cave is reminiscent of a time before file-sharing. The act of physically selecting music is one we’ve lost in the digital age. We’ve become disconnected from generations of great musicians.”

“Open umbrellas strategically placed in an area where they will never be needed is just like our National Security policies. We’ve been at threat level Orange for almost ten years, you know.”

I got bored on the train and made this picture of three different Asian places I’ve eaten in the past few weeks.

Oh, and yes, we did wander through Queens and find a shit bar afterwards. You can really only expect so much of me.

Peace, love and this post was a statement on government, duh,


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Best Bodega Ever

I know I talk about bodegas a lot, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever defined the term for any of you who aren’t East Coast dwellers. Here ya go:

“ghetto 7-11”

Yes, this does sound like a Middle American gas station, but I can assure you that a bodega is far more complex. The thing about suburban gas stations is that they’re either AMAZING (eg. QuikTrip, WaWa, god I miss them) or they are depressing pieces of shit that you’re forced to shop at because you’re in Kansas and that’s where the church camp bus stopped. Gas stations are black or white, while bodegas are all sorts of shades of grey. More than fifty, for sure.

Bodegas exist in a land of plenty. In New York we want for nothing; Ethiopian food, alcohol and juice cleanses are available almost 24-7 by delivery or just down the block. Discovery has lost its novelty and I’m pretty sure that’s why there are so many secret bars. Even those are still one Google search away. A good bodega creates within its visitor a sense of adventure. The bodega engages the inner hunter, reminds its patron that among its dusty, cluttered shelves hidden treasures abound.

I was thinking about this last night, when I went to my bodega for snacks. The management has changed, and what was once a top-notch establishment has become a sad shell of a sandwich shop. I wouldn’t call it the worst bodega ever yet, but I fear for its future. Once the previous manager’s Gouda and diet popsicles are gone, I’m not sure what to expect.

So what exactly makes the best bodegas? Here’s my criteria:

#1 –  Massive amount of old, off-brand snacks. When hunting for treasure, one needs the unwanted items to search through. Without the lows that come with rifling through a pile of nacho cheese “onion ring” bags, how can one experience the highs of discovering that one bag of artisan popcorn?

#2 – Artisan shit. In small quantities, ordered infrequently so each discovery feels like A Win.

#3 – A top-notch frozen foods and beverage section. The best bodegas have Ben & Jerry’s flavors I’ve never seen before, the occasional vegan frozen dinner and Woodchuck Crisp Cider, which is inexplicably low calorie and delicious.

#4 – A cat. You’ve gotta have a bodega cat.

#5 – Funny stuff from other countries. My favorite bodegas in Boston sold hookas and tourist trinkets from all over the world. I’m pretty sure one of them had t-shirts from the Moscow Olympics. The one on my block now has an assortment of male enhancement supplements with names like “Extreme Dragon” and the rest of the text in Hindi or whatever. 

#6 – Friendly staff who don’t care that you’re drunk. I have made so many bodega friends in my day. The ones on my block liked used to give me free candy because – according to them – my terrible photo on my ID reminded them of a Bollywood star whose husband was incredibly charitable. 

#7 – Sandwiches. This is not a necessary requirement, as I find most bodegas with sandwiches don’t have as many wonderful other things. That being said, the Best Bodega Ever would have all of the above and the Spicy Special. I assume that’s the bodega in heaven.

Peace, love and Did I miss anything? 


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Manhattan Libs: Murray Hill Edition

The first time I was in Murray Hill, I woke up after drunkenly crashing at someone’s apartment and had to get back uptown quickly. I walked, bewildered, out of the apartment and couldn’t find a cab. Here’s what was going on in my brain:

Why are there no cabs on 3rd avenue? Is everyone going North or South?
Where the fuck is 3rd avenue? Am I in Brooklyn? Is this the ghetto?

Anyway, here it is:

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Battles, part II

If you haven’t read battles, part I, it’s here. If you don’t want to read part I, it’s basically the first half of this list of people I want to battle.

BATTLE #4 – Tiffany VERSUS the person on the other side of the phone (who I’ve never met before)

It turns out this is a common emotion

Weapon: Some sort of phone generated electrical shock seems impossible, so probably hiring a hitman

I remember when email and AIM first came out, people were all, “it’s so easy to misunderstand each other! There’s no inflection!” I think the Internet generation feels the same way about the phone. All disembodied voices sound threatening and offensive.

The phone is missing so much information. Who IS this person anyway?

Do they open every email with salutations even when it’s a thread? That means they take themselves too seriously.

Do they have a hotmail address? That means they’re old.

What is their signature like? Pink and in Lucinda Grande? They’re dumb.

These are incredibly important pieces of information, none of which are determined by a phone call.

I have this avoidance behavior with the phone that is definitely not suited to my profession (but may be a result of said profession): I am constantly trying to get off of the phone with people I don’t know. Once I’ve met the person, we’re BFF and I’m all, “OMG, Mondays! I know, rigggghhhht? Let’s have a meeting soon just so we can hang out.” But before that I’m all, “Ok so the topic of this call has four points. Just FYI, I have a hard stop in 30 minutes.”

The problem with this battle is that once I meet the person, I’d likely not want to battle them. I’d be prepared, amped up, phone set in hand and ready to beat them with it, and then I’d see their haircut, or jeans, or college sweatshirt and immediately be like, “OMG ME TOO!! Let’s have these meetings weekly! Can we hug?” Because I love everyone.

BATTLE #5 – Tiffany VESUS that Person who acts all pissed on the street because they’re in a hurry and no one is moving fast enough

Such a good movie. Her things really were the most important things.

Weapon of choice: Taking up as much space as possible while walking really slowly

BATTLE #6 – Tiffany VERSUS the Person who is not moving fast enough when I’m in a hurry

Weapon of choice: Violent shoving (Full disclosure: I don’t care if these people are children. I want to shove the children.)

I know, I’m such a hypocrite. But aren’t we all? I think this is very similar to the car versus pedestrian battle, which btw is really car versus pedestrian versus biker battle but no one thinks about bikes until you start riding one. Trust me, the bikes are part of it. Don’t leave the bikes out.

Whenever I’m behind a group of people (usually tourists) taking up the whole sidewalk and walking slower than people who consider speed walking exercise, I feel impulse to part the sea of Midwestern body types and off-brand sneakers and yell “TOURISTS!!” at the top of my lungs. This works even if they’re not tourists because everyone in New York is always striving to seem like the ultimate New Yorker. Fast-walking, well-dressed, and definitely not from anywhere other than New York since the second they breathed the oxygen of this world.

My problem is that every time I’m walking down the street, thinking “Aw, this is so relaxing. God, I love this pandora station,” and someone pushes by dramatically, throwing her hands in the air and yelling, “Come on people!!” I’m immediately like, “Wow… What a fucking douche. I bet she’s not even going anywhere important.” I feel the urge to run in front of her and get in their way more, or tell something insulting like, “Why such a rush to get back to Bushwick??”

There’s no winning here. I should basically just battle myself. Which I already do every so often because sometimes I sneeze violently and accidentally hit myself in the face.

BATTLE #7 – Tiffany VERUS the person whose life is better than hers

Those of you who have been reading for a while know how I feel about Zooey Deschanel… That perfect bitch.

Weapon of choice: My life

First of all, I think you’re lying. Second, YOU’RE LYING.

Third, let’s start with when I was 8 years old and McKenzie McsomethingIrishorSocttish called me a freak on the playground because no one wanted to play, “Cats and Guinea Pigs” with me. As lucky is I am for all of the wonderful things in my life, I will crack your happy bubble with little to no effort on my part. Have you heard of learned helplessness? Because Nina told me about that like two years ago and I’ve been depressed ever since! The rats, they just give up! I feel you, rats. Seriously, my first world sadness is going to destroy you. Get ready.


When it comes down to it, I’m probably never going to have a battle. I’m small, very scared, and I’ve already decided that if the zombie apocalypse ever occurs, I’m going to give myself over to the winning team immediately because I can’t handle the stress of trying not to become a zombie. This is not a fight-winning mentality. I also think I could never drink a raw egg, and doesn’t Rocky have to do that?

I digress… Basically, these fights are highly unlikely, unless you’d like to fight with me. Now I’d like to open the floor to all of you and see who you’d like to battle. Allison has started this by mentioning women with large purses. Allison – we may have to battle one day. I’m sorry, that’s just how it is. Watch out for my tailbone. If you’d like more battle posts, let me know who (or what) gives you violent feelings, and I will try my best to come up with a battle plan.

Peace, love and I hope that bitch McKenzie is a stripper now,

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Resolutions for No One

The other day I was walking down the street and I saw this 7-Eleven ad:

I didn’t know they made three types of American cheese.

“This year, my resolution is to buy pizza at a 7-Eleven!”  SAID NO ONE EVER.

It’s nine days into January, meaning everyone has pretty much broken their New Year’s resolutions by now, or at the very least they’re sick of talking about them. I, however, really haven’t had a chance to think of mine. I came up with a vague one on the street the other day that I then decided was way to optimistic because it involved things like growing and changing. I probably haven’t come up with any this year because I’m still trying to accomplish last year’s resolutions.

The pizza sign got me thinking… There are some things that no person in the history of mankind will ever say to themselves on January 1st. Here are a few I came up with:

In 2013, I resolve to…

1. Learn a skill at work that will make no impact whatsoever on my resume.
2. Forget my umbrella for the umpteenth time, spend $3 on one at Duane Reade only to have it stop raining the second I walk outside.
3. Lengthen my commute by increasing my number of transfers.

Maybe I’ll start taking the bus, too!

4. Perfect my Cha Cha Slide.
5. Spend more time looking at my tagged photos from back when I had straight across bangs and two-toned hair.
6. Buy underwear from American Apparel instead of washing the 60 pairs I already own, even though I hate American Apparel underwear.
7. Drunk-eat everything more often.
8. Complete my Pitbull discography.
9. Get a little too tipsy at every office function.
10. Run into my ex only when I’m wearing sweatpants and he’s with his new girlfriend.
11. Become a Peeps connoisseur:

“Ah, yes… The rare royal purple Peep. Its smooth hints of lavender-infused-plum will remind you of running through the aisles of a K-Mart when you were six. Ahhh the nostalgia of Peeps.”

Actually, becoming a Peeps connoisseur seems like something Natalie Portman or Zoey Deschanel would do in a movie, and it would be adorable.

Here’s to everyone’s New Year’s resolutions – may you break them all before February.

Peace, Love and 7-Eleven mini tacos (featured in a separate ad), 


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