on typos and other mistakes

1) I was on the train the other day, held captive as we went over the bridge (which, for those of you who don't live in NYC is a really long time not to be able to get out of the car you're in -- say 11 minutes or so?*) when a normal-ish woman got out of her seat and started proselytizing. Except it wasn't for Jesus, it was for some new political party, one that I'd never heard of before. But apparently they have a candidate in an upcoming election and their woman on the street-slash-subway wanted us all to vote for him in the next "governerial" primary.

I don't mean to be a bitch, but if you've got a gubernatorial candidate, you should know the word "gubernatorial," don't you think?

2) I was at work the other day, typing up a blurb about myself and my coaching practice, and instead of saying that I specialize in self-esteem, I said that I specialize in "elf-esteem." I was then forced to spend the next ten minutes cracking up at the thought of my running a seminar for depressed elves on how to cheer themselves up. ("Think big!" "Be elfish!" "It's all about elf-gratification!")

3) If I were looking for a new job title, I'm not entirely sure that this would be the one I chose:

*ok, p.s. this was totally a guesstimate on the time, but when I consulted a train schedule, it turns out, I was completely right! Now you know I'm a reliable source!

fashionable and late, that's me.

I've been noticing some interesting fashion statements recently, and not just on teeny boppers, homeless people, or my father.

For example:

1) My boss wore the same shirt three days in a row. And if it had been a black shirt then I could have just pretended it was a different black shirt because-don't-we-all-have-a-million-of-them-anyway? But no, this one was lavender. And it made an appearance on Thursday with a repeat on Friday. (Secretly, I like to think she got lots of action and didn't make it home to change.) And this would have been fine. We've all had those days. But then it came back on Monday. I'm assuming it got laundered in between, but maybe it didn't. Who's to say? I felt almost compelled to introduce her to the concept of the Emergency Shirt that lives in a drawer in your office for just these occasions.

Not that I know anything about that.

2) What's with the pants onesies I've been seeing a lot lately? Like these:

Or these:

Nobody I see wearing them looks remotely good, and they remind me of being a senior in high school, which isn't really what I want to be reminded of on the subway. Please, everyone, STOP WEARING THEM.

3) A co-worker came into my office the other day and said, "You have a date, don't you?" I didn't, so I asked why he thought I did.

"You're wearing earrings."

Apparently I only look nice when I have an appointment for smooching. Note to self.

4) Going to the beach on a cold day (i.e., this past Saturday) is a good way to make sure you only see the most bikini-worthy bodies wearing bikinis. Those who should consider other beachwear were considering other activities all together.

So was I in mine? Yes. Yes I was. Under my hoodie.

5) Speaking of what I wear...

I was at my friends' house over the weekend doing my laundry when they came home. I, of course, was dressed to the nines in a fuscia circle skirt and a black and white striped top, all supported by a good-looking pair of "neutral" crocs.

"Could this be why I'm single?" I asked. My friend reminded me that, while this was a perfectly acceptable "weekend outfit," perhaps I shouldn't go anywhere but home after leaving.

sheer and utter perfection (my nephew)

Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. So feast your eyes on this and consider it a 1,021 word post.

my house is on fire

My friend Rachel and I recently went to Bindlestiff's Open Stage Variety Show at Galapagos Art Space in Dumbo, and were extremely excited about it, because, well, we love a good circus act/variety show.

Unfortunately, this wasn't a good one.

The opening act was Bindlestiff, himself, and he was less than whelming. He did some diablo tricks (that big spool-thing on a rope) that were pretty cool and told some jokes that were flatter than an open coke in the backseat of your car on a summer day. If this was the peak of entertainment, we were in for a long night.

(Silly girls. They had no idea how long.)

The first act was a juggler (yay!) who did old man schtick for about seven hours before starting to juggle (boo!). Key moves included: walking-really-slowly-with-a-walker, taking-six-minutes-to-pick-up-something-he-dropped, making-cheesy-faces-like-the-guy-in-the-six-flags-commercial, and striking-a-really-LAME-pose-when-he-finished-a-trick-so-we-knew-to-applaud-uproariously.

mrph.

The next act was nearly indescribable. I think she was clowning, but it wasn't funny. All I can tell you is that there was a bathing suit, an audience volunteer in a full-body safety suit, some oil, a "dance," some cutout cardboard waves, and Rachel and I exchanging looks of utter bewilderment.

Did I mention we weren't drinking?

But it was the next two acts that put us over the edge.

If I were naming Act Three, I would call it:
-- Some People Call It Pouting, I Call It "Bellydancing"
-- Pull Your Pants Up So Your Belly(dancing) Doesn't Flop Over Your Panties
-- Winkin', Blinkin', Shakin', and Digestin'
-- Please Stop. Please.

Luckily, Act Four came with its own name -- Le Gateau Chocolat -- and finally I was excited! Hooray! A chocolate cake! This has to be fun! When the curtains opened, however, at center stage stood a big, fat, black man in a neck-to-knees leopard print unitard, yellow socks, lots of make up, and a floofy yellow hat made out of papier mache.

Definitely not the dessert I had in mind.

Then the music started, and this operatic baritone belted out Radiohead's "Creep." In keeping with the theme, I asked myself, what the hell AM I doing here?

"I think my house is on fire," I said to Rachel, who looked as if she were watching a traffic accident involving a busload of crippled orphans.

"Do you -- should you -- call someone? Or should we just go?"

"I think we should just go. You know, just to be safe."

So we left. Never to return again.

Ever.

that ain't right!

At work the other day, I pulled a jug of milk out of the fridge and it wasn't one of the regular kinds we use at work. This one, for some reason, said "Juicy Taste" on it. So I thought maybe it was the store brand and they had accidentally bottled it in an orange juice container or something. But no. This milk brand's jeenyus marketing idea was to sell "juicy" tasting milk.

Pass the cream, please.

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On my way to the theatre the other night, I was traversing 42nd street with the hoardes and masses when there was a traffic bottleneck. Looking to find the source of the problem (and avoid it like the plague), I identified the "Traffic Enforcement" van from the police department blocking the box.

Nice move, guys!

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The theatre I was trying to get to was the Delacorte theatre in Central Park, for a production of the Winter's Tale. It was a strong production of an iffy play, but I have something I think anyone headed to outdoor theatre should know:

If you fart in an open air theatre, it still smells bad.

Don't do it.

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I sent an email out the other day, trying to clarify a point, and when I asked the recipient if he understood it, he wrote back simply, "presactly."

fat and skinny

FAT
On the way to work the other day, I was on the subway with a fat man, and he was wearing Fat Man Pants. I knew they were Fat Man Pants because he was really rather round, and he had them jacked up over his belly, and only Fat Man Pants will accommodate that kind of behavior.

But what I want to know is this: why don't Fat Man Pants Manufacturers understand that the pockets of Fat Man Pants should not be lined in white? Nothing says Fat Man Pants louder than the gaping white linings of pockets stretched over rather round bellies.

Just sayin'.

SKINNY
I was recently at Rockaway beach, discussing the fact that this year I've actually developed tan lines. (Ok, they're really like Malevich's White on White, but that's neither here nor there.) My friend shared his beliefs on the topic, saying that tan lines "are like a highlighter for the fun parts."

Not a bad point.