flying solo

Stick with me on this.

I'm a pilot, and my plane is full of exceptionally valuable cargo -- recently adopted puppies or hand-altered wedding dresses or something. My job is to get them to their destination on time.

Problem is, nobody told me where to go or when to be there.

That's where my ground crew comes in. I've got one friend in the tower, keeping me from crashing into other planes. Another's on the headset, keeping me awake by telling me endlessly tangential stories. A third has made me an awesome mix to listen to while I fly. My friends in a couple have made me tuna salad for the trip. My family has given me the genetics I need to fly (good eyesight, fierce concentration, etc.) and have put me through flight school. They're even waiting at the destination to help me unload the puppies and dresses, whenever I get there.

For years I flew with a string of co-pilots. Men I brought onboard thinking I needed them keep me awake, or to make us sandwiches when we got hungry. I kept them all around so long that I began to believe that they were actually the pilot. That they knew where the hell we were going and how to get there.

But now? Now I know it's my plane. I'm driving, dammit, and we'll get there when we get there. I've got the skills and the support and enough time to figure out what I don't know. I've got other people in my life to keep me awake, give me snacks and who'll look at the map and tell me I'm in Fiji when I thought I was in Dallas.

If a fellow pilot came along, I'm pretty sure I'd let him board, but I'd have to see some ID and a boarding pass before letting them through security.

let this be a warning to you all.

(Author's warning: there are more swears than usual in this post. Please use caution when reading it aloud to your conservative coworkers.)

Last night, I was on my way home from a night with the girls, when I hopped onto an N train which ended up running local. What often happens in this express-going-local situation is that a local N train, when it hits Brooklyn, will inexplicably switch itself back to being an express train, and leave those of us who only needed three more local stops in the cold solitude of the Atlantic/Pacific station.

But not last night! Huzzah! This local train was going local all the way!

I settled back into my seat, ready to just be home and in bed. (It was 12:15, after all)

For the sake of clarity, I've drawn little pictures to show you how I was, and how I wasn't sitting:

How I was:

How I wasn't:

Now that that's clear, watch out, there might be swears.

Before the doors closed and we left the station, a cop came into the doorway near me, and told me to put my feet down. I did, and then he mumbled something about getting off the train. I asked the woman sitting right next to the cop if he had summoned me, and she sort of nodded.

So, bewildered, I got off the train and the cop asked for some ID. I showed and then handed him, my license. I stood in the doorway of the train, because I didn't want this local train to slip away from me -- it would be another 15 minutes before the next one came along.

"Have you ever had a transit summons before?" he asked.

"No."

"Good, good," he said, in a really pretending-to-care-and-yet-being-entirely-condescending tone.

"Can I get back on that train, please?"

"No."

"But it'll be another fifteen minutes before the next one and I want to go home."

"Ma'am, just have a seat on that bench over there."

AND THEN HE PROCEEDED TO WRITE ME A SIXTY DOLLAR TRANSIT TICKET.

Yeah, because I was "obstructing seating." Apparently the twelve other people on my train car all wanted to sit there, but none of them bothered to get up and come anywhere NEAR the seat -- had they done so, I would have moved my feet FROM THE EDGE OF THE SEAT (see above pictures) so they could sit there.

I was so furious I was shaking. Me. Me, of all people. Mrs. Hyper-Conscientious Seat Provider. I hate to ask people to move their bags, so when I see someone coming near me to sit down, (95% of the time) I move my bag before they even ask.

And yet, here I was, in the middle of the night, on an empty fucking train, being written up.

DON'T THEY HAVE SOMETHING BETTER TO DO??!?!?

"The rules have been posted for a long time, now, ma'am."

Thanks, Sherlock.

For your edification, the rules are here, but let me highlight something for you:

• It is a violation to... [p]lace one's foot on the seat of a subway, bus, or platform bench; occupy more than one seat or place bags on an empty seat when doing so would interfere with transit operations or the comfort of other customers.

I was totally interfering with transit operations and the comfort of my fellow passengers. Yeah, you caught me. Good job, guys, you're taking another felon to task!

Seriously, NYPD? I'd say you just increased your level of moron-hood by a factor of at least sixty.

The best part? "You can call this number to contest this, ma'am, and I suggest that you do."
Really? You suggest that, huh? THEN WHY'D YOU WRITE THE FUCKING TICKET IN THE FIRST PLACE??? Oh wait, I know. You have a quota of tickets to write this month and you haven't caught a single actual bad guy yet. Glad I could help with that.

[Note: the number I can call to contest the ticket? Not really useful. All they told me was to come, in person, to their offices at 505 Fulton Street in Brooklyn. Anybody free at 8 am?]

weekend addition

In no particular order:

1. There are 1,844,982,097 calories in a small nation. I ate two this weekend. (Belize and Luxembourg) I'm still pretty full.

b. I didn't lose at paddle tennis this weekend. (But don't get excited. I didn't win either.) We played what my father called "Canadian Doubles," which I'm sure would offend Canadian Paddle Tennis Players Everywhere. Basically you play as a single vs. a doubles team until you lose, and then the next person rotates into the single's position. Needless to say, I severly katiecapped my brother-in-law and/or my father, depending on who I was playing with.

iii. Three-quarter sleeves are waaaay colder than full-length sleeves. I can't figure out why this is true. I have a hunch it's weather-related, though.

I'm almost tempted to buy wrist warmers. But I don't think they actually make them.

FOUR: I think every commuter should be required to fill out the following statement, have it notarized, and return it to me with a small check or dollar bill.

"I, ___[insert name]____, agree that being too smelly on the way to work, either like armpits OR PERFUME (ahem, lady-sitting-next-to-me-this-morning), should be illegal, and if I am found guilty of this crime (ahem, again, l-s-n-t-m-t-m), I should have to get out and walk. Kate should never be forced to commute while breathing through her scarf."

5th: Just (literally, within the minute) overheard:
Co-worker 1: Al Sharpton is an idiot.

Co-worker 2: Yeah.

Co-worker 1: But I guess we need idiots in this world.

My brain: Maybe. But do they have to sit so close to me????

Seis: I recommend watching awards shows with about an hour and a half delay. Then you can fast-forward through all the clapping, boring acceptance speeches, and, best of all, Celine Dion!

VII: Remember when I said that we online-dating-girls talk to each other? Apparently not enough. Thea and I just experienced our very first overlap in boy selection! She told me about a date she went on this weekend, where the guy showed her math flash cards (note: guys? not your sexiest available move) and I asked what he did for a living, and what his online handle was, and it turns out, he's someone I've been corresponding with, too! Part of me is tempted to go out with him, though, just to see if I could handle the math.

On second thought, I'd rather stay home and wash my hair, wearing a three-quarter length sleeve. (I can see how the length would be beneficial in that situation)

possibly only funny to me

Today the ladies' room at work has an oddly oxymoronic odor: wet drywall.
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The other day, I went into my boss' office to water his (elderly) plant. I took one branchy/shooty thing out of the pot, since it had given up and was laying completely horizontal in the pot. As I carried it to the plant graveyard (the kitchen), he asked what I was doing. "It's dead, I'm throwing it out." "It's not dead." he said, "It's resting."
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On the way home from Lisa's house the other night, when it was seriously sub-zero out, I was just minding my own business when a big patch of black ice snuck up behind me and pulled my legs out from underneath me. I fell flat on my ass, and it kind of hurt a little, but it was the kind of fall that Fred Flinstone would have had, legs totally akimbo, and I can only imagine how funny it must have been for the person half a block behind me to watch. Since I didn't smash up the bottle of wine in my backpack, I laughed as I walked home, in a shuffley/skatey kind of way.
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I've been running a lot lately, and to test my endurance (or possibly just to make an ass of myself) I've been trying to sing along with my music, to see how much control I have over the sound. (I read somewhere that Bebe Neuwirth does this when she works out.) Unfortunately, I have more control than I thought I did, since it turns out I've been bellowing bluegrass as I run through the park. dork.
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I got my teeth cleaned the other day, and let's just say that after the tartar was taken out of my mouth, there was room to park a pick up truck. It got me thinking: wouldn't it be great if we lived in a society where tartar had some monetary value? Then you could just pay for your dental work in the tartar they remove!
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Remember when Christina was here recently? Me neither. Here's part of what I said at the time:

The best part about Christina is how she can make me laugh for hours on end, and then when I sit down to recount what was so funny, all I can come up with is the fact that we barked at the Washington Square Park arch by saying "Arch! Archarcharcharch! ARCH!" Oh, and we took pictures of ourselves, first with her mouth closed and mine open, then with my mouth closed and hers open and then finally, with both our mouths sort of open. So, where are the photos? Here, silly:



(photos courtesy of Christina, stupidity courtesy of yours truly)

dear florida, you're kidding, right?

I realize this is not breaking news, but am I the last person to hear that a Florida theatre, doing a charity production of Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues, changed the name on the marquee of the theatre to The Hoohaa Monologues because a passer-by complained about it?

(Not kidding. I wish I were.)

Apparently a woman was driving past with her niece, who, after seeing the marquee, asked her aunt what a vagina was. The woman then called the theatre to complain that she was faced with the question -- I can only imagine how she answered it. ("Well, dear, a vagina is a secret place you never tounch until you meet a man who really loves you, and marries you, and then he puts his love wand there to make babies.") The theatre changed the marquee, but the director told them (thank god) that they only had the rights to the production if no part of it (including the title... duh) was censored.

Even thinking of calling that play the Hoohaa Monologues is a million degrees away from the point the play makes -- that vaginas are not something to be ashamed of.

My hoohaa is appalled. My gynie is angry. My twinkleplace is outraged!

if you want to date me...

Dear Single Boys, Namely Those Who Are Dating Online,

I'm going to let you in on a little secret, and I'm not even going to charge you for it or dress like Dr. Phil when I tell you (although that might be kind of fun). Are you ready? Got your pencil? This is very subtle, complex, and probably hard to understand, so put your thinking caps on:

Sending out form letters to women that you want to meet online REALLY DOESN'T WORK.

Ok, wait, I'll rephrase that. Perhaps it works the first time. But I promise you, if you send That Form Email once, and it works, and you meet or chat on the phone, but then things fizzle out between you two, sending it again is as doomed as the bucktoothed eighth grader at the Sadie Hawkins Dance whose mom is a chaperone. Especially if you tell her that "you have absolutely beautiful eyes."

But why, why would this fail, you ask?

(I'm going to go ahead and assume my subscribers are all bright enough to know the answer, but perhaps you're new here and I don't know you. Hell, you might even be this guy, but I highly doubt it.)

Two reasons. 1) Duh. Because now I know you're a player who can't invest the ten minutes it takes to write me a personalized email, and 2) because sometimes there are two women on the same service who are friends, AND WE DO ACTUALLY TALK TO EACH OTHER. ("Hey, I got an email from him." "Yeah? Me, too. Did it say, 'how are you finding your experience online?'" "YEAH!" Much laughter ensues.)

Now, there's a chance that I've been giving too many guys the benefit of the doubt too long, that all I've gotten is That Form Email (but only once, when it still was fresh and new). I'm not thinking so. There are some bright, witty guys online, and I'm happy to hear from them. Less so from Formy McMailington.

Here endeth the lesson.
You're welcome.

p.s. if you have a Dr. Phil costume, call me!

diana? please call your grandmother!

I get home at around 8 o'clock on Sunday night. The light on my answering machine is blinking! Four messages! Oh rapture! There are four people out there, trying to reach out to me, connect with me. Four hot, single men are each asking me out for different nights of the week! Ed McMahon is calling to tell me I've won the Publisher's Clearing House! (Or someone's trying to give me a credit card with a higher limit. Hell, that would be ok, too.)

But no. It's the same tiny voice on my machine. The one I get over and over and over again. "Dee-Ahnna? Dee-Ahnna? Es abulea. Dee-Ahnna? Llameme. Abuela."

Abuela (grandma) sounds like she's about a thousand years old. She's got this tiny, plaintive voice, and I'm guessing little to no hearing at all. I spoke to her last weekend, telling her in my broken-ass Spanish that "no hay una Diana aqui" (there is no Diana here) and that she had "el numero incorrecto." She apologized (in broken-ass English) and I thought that would be the end of it.

But no.

If you call me, my answering machine ACTUALLY SAYS (in broken Spanish) THAT DIANA DOESN'T LIVE HERE. And yet Abuela calls me like I'm a suicide hotline and she's a teenager on accutane.

Why? I have a few theories.

1. "Diana" is code. "Abuela" is really a drug addict looking for her dealer. If hooking her up would keep her from calling me every day, I'd totally find her some heroin. (Luckily she's a hundred years old, and isn't looking for a fix past seven o'clock.)

2. Diana calls Abuela regularly and then sits at home wondering why, why doesn't grandma ever call her back?

3. Abuela is Satan, tempting me daily over to the dark side.

(The third theory falls apart, though, simply because if she were Satan, she wouldn't have a blocked phone number, so I could call her back and she could speak in tongues to me until my brain was so addled I agreed to be Diana and do her bidding.)

So on the off chance that one of you out there is Diana, PLEASE CALL YOUR THOUSAND YEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER AND GIVE HER YOUR REAL NUMBER.

If I could call mine, I totally would.