Monday, August 28, 2006
Now, however, I work in a gray cubicle in a gray office in Manhattan. Don't get me wrong. I love that I'm in the city. The trade-off, unfortunately, was my office.
There is a woman whose cubicle is diagonally situated from my own, but who seems to think that she is alone, in some sound-proof room, where no one can tell that she's making yet *another* personal call from her work phone in the middle of the afternoon. We all use the phone for personal calls, but some people are out of hand.
This particular specimin, who we shall lovingly refer to as "Miss X", is recently engaged to be married. I forsee about a year of vicarious wedding planning in my future, and I can hardly wait to hear about the trials and tribulations this Miss X experiences in her long road from bleach-blonde singleton to "married to a guy from Long Island," My ascerbic wit is chomping at the bit.
Let the games begin.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
The reason tourists think
This city stinks.
The smell of rotting trash, baking in plastic bags and spilling out onto the sidewalks permeates the air on
It's disgusting. It's vile. It has a personality all its own.
The summer's heat pushes against your body. When people brush against your back, you cringe, wanting nothing that's 98.6 degrees touching your body. Winter ravages your constitution, making you wonder if it's possible for ice to form in your eyeballs. It makes me believe that hell could be too hot or too cold (like being frozen up to your nuts in a lake of gazpacho) either would suffice to ensure the suffering of the masses for all eternity. Purgatory would be more like endless repeats of MTV reality shows, slowly rotting your brain cells until the guards can't distinguish between your tears and your drool, but at least in purgatory you get a sofa.
Winter, when the concrete goes slick and streets become wind tunnels and a damp cold permeates your being with such gusto that you can't remember what it felt like to be warm, is more like a school bully. With enough layers, you can fend him off.
Summer, on the other hand, is like gym class, inevitable and humiliating. You can't take off your top to beat the heat in
However, with one month left of "official" summer and back-to-school ads punctuating snippets of Stephen Colbert, I find myself wanting it to drag on. I want it to be the longest month ever, full of mojitos and sunburned cheeks as I wear sleeveless shirts and flip flops. Arm-flab be damned.