Thursday, September 29, 2005

Holy CRAP, it's cold!

E-mail to a friend-


I can't believe I'm whining about 60 degrees, but dayam, it's cold in here.

I shot myself in the eye with parmesan cheese from my Caesar salad. No, I don't know how in the hell I managed that. I have the coordination of a blind, three-legged bulldog with a sinus infection. Opposable thumbs are wasted on me. For future reference, parmesan cheese in the eye is not comfortable.I also had penne with prosciutto, olives and sundried tomatoes in a parmesan cream sauce. A LOT of penne. I now look like this:

Too much pasta.

And I'm still gonna eat the baklava I ordered, too. Then I'll probably explode and they'll find me in a week when the house starts to stink. My cats will have taken to gnawing on my digits for survival. It will be all over the papers. I'll be the exploded pasta-and-cat-lady.

I won't be the crazy cat lady, though, because the woman who lives in the brownstone on the end of my row already has that title. She has five cats on one floor, four (or six, or something) on another floor, then more cats and some dogs on the main floor. I'm guessing that the basement is just where she stores the cat litter. The neighbors in the brownstone next door to her don't like her because they can smell her house from their house. The other reason that they don't like her is because she's crazy. I've met her. She is. I told the Indian guy next door that she scared me. She scared my movers, even, and they were mostly big scary Russian dudes with tattoos on their necks and their knuckles. Did I tell you that one of them peed all over my upstairs toilet and didn't even flush? He was nasty. And American. The Russians didn't pee on my stuff.

So anyhoo, I have to tell you about this guy on the train tonight. I was coming home and was waiting for the N train in the station at 59th and Lex. I'm standing there reading Time magazine and looking mean so nobody steals my shit or gets in my personal space bubble. Okay, I wasn't looking that mean, 'cause I was reading and listening to music and I'd just had a massage and was feeling all happy and limber. Apparently my butt was tight today, because K--- (the massage therapist) damned near put a fist-dent into my left asscheek trying to work out a knot. She even "wow"ed over it. She's been my massage therapist for over two years, so I guess she gets geeked when I have a knot in a new place. No, not "happy ending" geeked; she's a nice straight girl from Ohio who can't eat dairy. Just geeked that I've brought her a fresh challenge. Yeah, I know, that has nothing to do with the subway guy. Back to the story (my train of thought tends to derail like it just ran over a suicidal homeless guy holding a vat of corn oil, I swear).

I'm reading my magazine and listening to my NOT-AN-IPOD mp3 player and in my peripheral sight (which, as you know, we city-dwellers hone until we have a 240-degree field of vision), I see a suit kinda sidestepping over to my imaginary-line-boundaried section of the platform. I ignore him, of course. He could have leprosy eating away at his face and I wouldn't know because I'm NOT GONNA LOOK AT YOU, PERVERT-IN-A-SUIT-TRYING-TO-HIT-ON-ME-IN-THE-TRAIN-STATION. I just knew that's what kind of sidestepping it was; it's different from regular "fuck, this platform's getting crowded" sidestepping. It was 7:00 PM in midtown, for crying out loud. Pleeeenty of room on the platform, and I don't take up much space, so it's not like he was forced into proximity with me. I could see the whites of his eyes flickering (via my superhuman city bitch peripheral vision) because he was looking at me. You know what I mean; it's just one of those things you pick up on subconsciously.

The N train comes screaming into the station because the MTA only hires maniacs to drive the trains. The on-the-job-sleepers they put in the booths so you have to rap on the glass to wake 'em up when you need an updated map.

Seriously, see? I don't make this shit up.

Makin' change is HAAARD work!

I need my bankie.

Okay, that was another derailment. Back to the suit who may or may not have leprosy eating his face.

I can tell this guy thinks I'm gonna head for the right-hand car from where I'm standing, and he starts to step in that direction. I, being the hardass (literally! yay!) that I am, immediately circle to the left and get into that car instead. Suddenly I see a flash of doe-brown and suit guy comes diving into the train behind me. I take the seat immediately to the left of the doors (it's one of the three-butt-divot seats) and he takes the divot on the other end of the seat. There's one neon orange plastic butt-divot between us.

More eye-white flashing. I know he's looking at me. I move my hair to the left side so I can't see him doing it anymore, but then it starts hanging in my face and I can't read about Muslims in Europe who want all Americans to die in a horrible fashion, so I move it again.

More eye-white. Okay, fine, motherfucker, I'll fucking LOOK at you.

I glance over at the guy. Sho'nuff, he's looking at me.

I go back to reading about Muslims.

I feel him still looking. I glance over again. Yup, still looking at me. To cover for the fact that I just checked to see if he was still looking, I now look across the car and watch a fat guy with duck lips wiping something on his suit pants. I think it was eye boogers, because he had his glasses off and his hand was coming down from his (duck-lipped) facial area when I first looked over. More wipey-wipe from duck lips. I snort and go back to the Muslims. Now, of course, I'm not comprehending anything I'm reading because eye-white guy is still looking at me.

The train pulls into the 42nd St. station and eye-white guy gets up to get off the train. I'm happy because now I'll be able to read about Muslims without having to worry about some aging frat boy trying to find a suave way to hit on me on the subway. Maniac MTA train driver apparently decides to take his sweet slow time pressing the damned button to open the fucking doors, because they're not opening, and I can still feel eye-white looking at me. I look over. Yup, still looking at me. Then eye-white gives me a big-ass smile. Well, that really is very nice, and flattering and all that stuff, and I'm safe 'cause he's gonna get off the train anyway, so I give him a quick smile and go back to the Dutch Muslims. Eye-white dude is gripping the pole waiting for the door to open. He's gripping it with his left hand. Which has a nice gold ring on the third finger. Yeah, I smelled that ring when we were still back at 59th St., you putz. What, do I have "fuck me, I don't care about your wife and bratlets 'cause I'm a big WHORE" written on my forehead? Go home and boink Muffy missionary-style while she bitches about the broken toilet; I'm reading about world events here, dammit.

Of course, after he got off the train, I decided that he was actually looking at me the whole time because I had a big black smear of subway grease on my forehead or something. (Must've been 'cause of all that "'cause I'm a big WHORE" crap written on my forehead.)

Because that has really happened to me before (not the big whore thing, the subway grease smear on my forehead thing), but that's another story.

So now I spend the rest of the ride freaking out every time I catch somebody looking at me because I'm convinced I've got crap on my forehead or my massage therapist smeared my lipstick all over my face or something. Of course, I won't pull out a mirror and LOOK, because I don't want these people who think I'm a dumbass with a smear on her face to also think that I'm a VAIN dumbass with a smear on her face. Besides, when this Asian girl started plucking her nose hairs with tweezers, I was so fascinated by the fact that she was doing this that I forgot about my smeared face. She didn't even flinch. She'd just stare into her little mirror, locate a target nose-hair and yank that fucker right out. It was like a car wreck; I just had to look. Okay, yeah, another derailment. So anyway...

I didn't have anything on my face. He was just a dink.

Mmm, baklava...

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