So I’m at home for Thanksgiving and I realized that I’ve slowly become a man for the holidays. I’ve lounged around in “eatin’ pants” all day (i.e, track pants with an elastic waistband). I’ve been unable to curb my appetite, eating full meals and then nibbling on leftovers when I’m not eating full meals. I’ve taken naps after eating said meals. I’ve only thought about taking a shower. And I’ve watched football nonstop for the past two days. (Well, the past week really, if you count the Ohio vs. Michigan game I got caught up in last Sat.) I’ve already seen snippets of Florida vs. FSU, UGA vs. Ga Tech, and am currently enthralled by the USC vs. Notre Dame game, though I vow no allegiance to any of these teams.
Tomorrow though, I get to be a girl again by hitting up the outlet malls. I dared not venture to any shops on Black Friday because I am no longer used to the parking, traffic, and overall madness that is shopping in the ‘burbs during a sale. There’s nothing scarier than trying to take a parking space from a soccer mom with a minivan full of kids. She’ll choke you with her braided belt faster than you can say “World’s Best Mom.” I had hoped to stop by the Target for its two-day sale, but looking at the price slashing they did in the circular, I think that would have been the absolute worst place to go.
It was nice being home, not having to do anything, having my parents cook for me, taking cat naps throughout the day, and not feeling like I have to do anything. My Thanksgiving dinner, cooked mostly by my sister, consisted of turkey, pot roast, green bean casserole, yam casserole, stuffing with sausage, citrus cranberry sauce, crescent rolls, and some Korean food (various veggies and fish and shrimp tempura, courtesy of the ‘rents).
I love the feeling of being stuffed from Thanksgiving dinner. I did end up doing a little bit of work today because right when I get back to New York I have to report for jury duty, of all things, but for a few days my existence has been pleasingly stress-free. I have to work off the pounds in the gym when I go home, but for now my eatin’ pants are serving me well.
Happy Belated Turkey Day everyone.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Personal space invaders
So there’s apparently a whole science of the things that make up much of my pet-peeve list. It’s called proxemics, or the study of people’s perception of their personal space. Most of the things that annoy me about other people have a lot to do with their invasion of my personal space.
In the lead of this New York Times story, the writer touched on a big one, one that myself and a lot of my girlfriends are often troubled by on the subway: When men spread their legs too wide and impinge on my leg-room space. Another big one the story touches on: When people go to the bathroom in the stall next to you, when there are tons of other stalls empty. I am often troubled by the inexplicable, apparent desire of some folks to do their business right next to me, separated only by an inch and a half wide stall door, eschewing the option to poo or pee at least several feet away.
In New York, personal space is at such a premium that the city makes the perfect social scientific Petri dish for proxemics. Where else can you be right next to someone on a packed subway, touching them in a way that might be labeled sexual assault in another situation, and never even make eye contact with them? We’ve learned to cope with the 24/7, sardines-in-a-can feeling by coming up with coping mechanisms, such as reading the same subway advertisements over and over, staring at yourself and others in the reflection of the subway window, spacing out to your iPod, or pretending to be literary and reading the New Yorker.
I love the way this article ends: “In general most people understand the rules of personal space and heed the cues. Then again, the world is littered with clods. As Dr. Archer put it, people generally view personal-space rules in one of two ways: ‘the wrong way and my way.’”
Here’s what clods on my personal-space shit list do:
* Talk so close that they spit in my face, and don’t acknowledge that they spit on me even though we both can feel the saliva drying on my cheek.
* Stand so close in line behind me that when I inch up, they also inch up, even though I’m inching forward to get the hell away from them, not because the line is actually moving.
* Try to get in front of me when I’m standing on the street corner to cross. The only thing they are beating me at is getting swide-swiped by a cabbie.
* Constantly say “excuse me” to get past me and off the subway, even though I’m also getting off the same subway stop.
* Try to look at what I’m listening to on my iPod. For some reason, this bothers me more than reading over my shoulder because there’s something about your playlist that is more personal. (Though I admit I’m also guilty of stealthy iPod sneak peeks).
In the lead of this New York Times story, the writer touched on a big one, one that myself and a lot of my girlfriends are often troubled by on the subway: When men spread their legs too wide and impinge on my leg-room space. Another big one the story touches on: When people go to the bathroom in the stall next to you, when there are tons of other stalls empty. I am often troubled by the inexplicable, apparent desire of some folks to do their business right next to me, separated only by an inch and a half wide stall door, eschewing the option to poo or pee at least several feet away.
In New York, personal space is at such a premium that the city makes the perfect social scientific Petri dish for proxemics. Where else can you be right next to someone on a packed subway, touching them in a way that might be labeled sexual assault in another situation, and never even make eye contact with them? We’ve learned to cope with the 24/7, sardines-in-a-can feeling by coming up with coping mechanisms, such as reading the same subway advertisements over and over, staring at yourself and others in the reflection of the subway window, spacing out to your iPod, or pretending to be literary and reading the New Yorker.
I love the way this article ends: “In general most people understand the rules of personal space and heed the cues. Then again, the world is littered with clods. As Dr. Archer put it, people generally view personal-space rules in one of two ways: ‘the wrong way and my way.’”
Here’s what clods on my personal-space shit list do:
* Talk so close that they spit in my face, and don’t acknowledge that they spit on me even though we both can feel the saliva drying on my cheek.
* Stand so close in line behind me that when I inch up, they also inch up, even though I’m inching forward to get the hell away from them, not because the line is actually moving.
* Try to get in front of me when I’m standing on the street corner to cross. The only thing they are beating me at is getting swide-swiped by a cabbie.
* Constantly say “excuse me” to get past me and off the subway, even though I’m also getting off the same subway stop.
* Try to look at what I’m listening to on my iPod. For some reason, this bothers me more than reading over my shoulder because there’s something about your playlist that is more personal. (Though I admit I’m also guilty of stealthy iPod sneak peeks).
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Post: modern love
There’s one thing I’ve taken to reading consistently lately in the New York Times, and that’s the Modern Love column.
I think it’s because sometimes Modern Love is really a misnomer, as the stories might be more about Modern Lust or Modern Infatuation or Modern Co-Dependency. The fun is trying to figure out which one the particular anecdote falls into. But every once in a while, I read one that resonates with me.
Last week’s Modern Love column was one of those. It was about a woman who lived in a separate apartment from her husband, only to finally move in with him when the circumstances of war in the Middle East forced her to. I think I found it bittersweet because I’ve always joked that the perfect relationship would be to be married but live in separate places, and I used to say that only half tongue-in-cheek. Her story gives me hope for myself! (And again, I say that only half tongue-in-cheek).
What most surprises me about these columns is the openness with which people are willing to talk about their failed or successful relationships, trysts or indiscretions—-especially the indiscretions, which do little to disprove my “Men are from Dog, Women are From Stupid” theory. But then a weepy, sentimental one like this week’s, about a woman whose boyfriend gives her his kidney, will surface and make me temporarily feel the fuzzies.
The other thing the column makes me do is sing the David Bowie song in my head over and over:
“Modern love - walks beside me
Modern love - walks on by
Modern love - gets me to the church on time”
How so very true, Mr. Bowie.
I think it’s because sometimes Modern Love is really a misnomer, as the stories might be more about Modern Lust or Modern Infatuation or Modern Co-Dependency. The fun is trying to figure out which one the particular anecdote falls into. But every once in a while, I read one that resonates with me.
Last week’s Modern Love column was one of those. It was about a woman who lived in a separate apartment from her husband, only to finally move in with him when the circumstances of war in the Middle East forced her to. I think I found it bittersweet because I’ve always joked that the perfect relationship would be to be married but live in separate places, and I used to say that only half tongue-in-cheek. Her story gives me hope for myself! (And again, I say that only half tongue-in-cheek).
What most surprises me about these columns is the openness with which people are willing to talk about their failed or successful relationships, trysts or indiscretions—-especially the indiscretions, which do little to disprove my “Men are from Dog, Women are From Stupid” theory. But then a weepy, sentimental one like this week’s, about a woman whose boyfriend gives her his kidney, will surface and make me temporarily feel the fuzzies.
The other thing the column makes me do is sing the David Bowie song in my head over and over:
“Modern love - walks beside me
Modern love - walks on by
Modern love - gets me to the church on time”
How so very true, Mr. Bowie.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Halloween’s a drag
In New York, at least, it is, because that’s when you can see the best of the best drag queens taking a stroll up Sixth Avenue in the West Village as part of the annual Halloween parade. The grand marshals were Kiss, whom I saw go by on a float for about five seconds (Paul Stanley’s gut was not to be missed). Borat was supposedly going to make an appearance, but instead I only saw a bunch of guys dressed up like him handing out promos for the movie.
Every year I say I’m too old to be dressing up for Halloween, and every year I somehow get suckered into it, either because I’m accompanying a friend to a party or because I’ve thought of some clever costume I can’t bear to pass up or because I’m just generally bored and get inspired by the crazy revelers.
This Halloween was no different. I made my friend’s red beret pull double duty as a pseudo Che Guevara communist chick for my friend’s pumpkin carving party (couldn’t quite put together a nuclear-happy North Korean costume without the Kim Jong Il hair), and then on Tuesday as a beatnik. I fully intended to come home by a decent hour on Halloween night, being a school night and all, only to end up watching the whole parade go by with its gay disco floats and giant characters on sticks, then maneuvering the crowds to find my friends the Vampire King and Queen, then going to some sponsored Halloween party/launch event where I was jostled by a bunch of overgrown bananas, then walking all over the Lower East Side looking for a place to eat, then finally settling to eat fried calamari at Schiller’s Liquor Bar at 1 am. The next day I was supposed to go to an 8.30 a.m. session at a conference, but it goes without saying that I didn’t exactly make it.
I’m getting too old for this!
P.S: Patty Pumpkin says hello. She is my 2006 pumpkin creation, preceded by Melvin the Sad Sack Pumpkin of Halloween 2005 whom I don’t have a photo of anymore.
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