a farewell to (ar)M(s)

To my dear, sweet, wonderfully poo-brown M train,

I miss you already. You've only been gone a day, and I am bereft with grief. Now what train will I ride when I want to see nobody but twelve Hasidm? How will I know what's going on with the tattooed FedEx guy I see every single morning, hungover or not? (You know how I secretly think he's hot, even though we probably have absolutely nothing in common but a tracking numer.)

What will become of my friendship with Robert My Train Friend? (Ok, ok, in all fairness, that's a moot point, as I haven't seen this total stranger since he gave me $175 in gift cards and a Movado watch.) But if I changed my mind and wanted to find Robert of the M Train, how would that be possible?

And my other train friends, like Orange Backpack Guy, Sleeps With Mouth Open, and Big Fat Snorguling* Guy? What about them?

I know you think this is for the best, that you want to "explore new territory," and "have a more fulfilling life," but I refuse to accept this change. I was happy with you, even though you only came at 8:15, 8:35 and 8:45, and if I missed the 8:35, I was pretty much screwed. True love isn't because, it's despite.

So what if your stations were disgusting, plague-filled, rat-infested, pigeon-housing hell holes? They were my disgusting, plague-filled, rat-infested, pigeon-housing hell holes.

Go on. Live your new life. See what Sixth Avenue is like. Find out how the hipsters treat you in upper Brooklyn. I promise you, it won't be the same.

I will survive. But I'll be really crowded and unhappy about it.

Formerly yours,
Kate

p.s. if you ever decide to come back, I'll be here with open arms. And an unlimited metrocard.


*Snorguling = Snoring + Gurgling = Not Delicious

what are the odds of that?

So I'm taking an undergraduate statistics course, and boy do I feel old. The cute guy sitting next to me? Born in 1988. You know, when I was twelve. And already smooching boys. (And he's not the youngest one in there.)

We have an exam tonight -- the first of three, one of which will be DROPPED in calculating our final grade, a concept with which, as a Fancy Schmancy College Grad, I am extremely unfamiliar. Dropping an exam? I thought that was something you could only (ruefully) do into a puddle. Oh, I have much to learn!

But instead of studying -- because it's an open notes exam (see shock and astonishment, above), I thought I would share with you some of the brilliant things that have crossed my brainpan while in said idea-factory. However, in looking back over my notes, the things I thought were funny in the classroom of boredom, death, and despair, aren't actually funny.

Well, except this: there was one example where the professor, a native Japanese speaker, was talking about the probability related to tossing a coin. For several minutes, we were all listening to her go on about "receiving heads," "having tails," and "measuring spread."

Even the twelve year olds were embarrassed.

can you hear the drums, Fernando?

Highlights from my office:

The other day, there was a food tasting in one of the conference rooms, and they had fancy schmancy stuff like salmon and eggplant roulades and chocolate covered strawberries and grilled veggies. I loaded up a plate of non-walking goods, and when I got back to the office, Fernando noticed that I had asparagus, which he had neglected to choose.

He looked at my plate, looked at me, and said, "Can I have one asparagus? I want the pee."

---------

Have you heard of a thumb drive? It's one of those portable memory devices, also known as a jump drive, a memory stick, a flash drive... you know what I'm talking about.

In Fernando's world, though, a thumb drive is more like a coat drive, where everyone brings the thumbs they're not using to the office and then they get collected by charity workers. Because thumblessness is a huge problem in this world.

---------

Fernando and I took a trip out to the wilds of Bushwick recently to see a friend's show, and on the way there, we saw the most ghetto, hand-written ad for Herbalife that we've ever seen. It might as well have been advertising The Quitter's Version of Herbalife. Or Herbadeath.

After pantomiming what someone on Pathetic Herbalife would be like for a while, we then started rewriting the ad. No longer would you be purchasing Herbalife if you called the hand-scrawled number -- you could get GERBILIFE! A life filled with gerbils! All for $29.95 a month! Or better yet, you could get BURBALIFE! Turn your life into a burbling brook for only $29.95 a month! Call now!

---------

On the way home from that same trip, we saw a woman on the subway who was, to be polite, NOT petite. Fernando leaned over to me and whispered, "That woman has some serious potty mask."

I sat for a second, wondering what in god's green earth he was talking about. The woman was fat, but her face looked fine.

"Potty mask?" I asked him.

He closed his eyes, rolled them back into his head with laughter, and said, "No, BODY MASS."

Oh, yeah. Body mass.

I can barely make sense of this myself, so good luck!

I collect delightful experiences like some people collect bellybutton lint -- unintentionally, unexpectedly, and seemingly unendingly. But, unlike bellybutton lint, I don't have the metaphorical belly hair to force those experiences to stay with me, so I rely on postcards and my own chicken scratch.

Unfortunately, this occasionally leads to carrying around a list of things that makes no sense. Which, also unfortunately, leads me to sharing them with you without a hint of compunction.

Like this one. The note says simply, "Tastes like ass control."

Now, I remember it being funny at the time -- I mean, REALLY funny at the time -- but I no longer have any recollection why.

I mean, inherently, it's kind of a funny idea. What exactly is ass control, and what would it taste like? Can't be good. (I'm thinking it probably tastes like rotten spinach.)

So in an effort to track down the source of this mysterious phrase, I asked Fernando if he had said it, as I remember it being a guy who spoke it. My office mate denies any knowledge of it, and given that he's not big on swearing, I'm choosing to believe him on this.

Which leaves it as something a date must have said. I've run into these verbal doggie bags before, and they're tricky, because lord knows why I wrote it down. Could be: a) because I really liked him and found him funnier than perhaps I should have, b) because I really DIDN'T like him, and was trying not to look him in the face, or c) I was indifferent and wanted something to do, and this note was the dating equivalent of doodling.

Having dragged this poor phrase through the mud (and not being any the better off for it), I will now cross it off the list and consign it to the lint-and-booger pile of history.

(that exists, right?)