Hours away from December, now is the perfect time to rent National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. In case you're wondering, I do have relatives much like Cousin Eddie. However, they prefer the more genteel word "crapper."

Life Coach, formerly known as Head Honcho, emailed
this to me yesterday. I then shared it with some co-workers who all happen to be detail-oriented editors, analysts, and writers.

We all laughed. You will, too.

I'm not a video game person. I never managed to save Princess Toadstool on Super Mario Brothers 1, and I can't name the latest video game systems, because I'm still not over how cool the graphics of Donkey Kong Country (for Super Nintendo - holla!) are.

So I couldn't believe that I bluffed my way into a focus group on video games a few months ago. First, I got a phone call and had to answer questions. I told the woman on the phone that I love the Wii. I had just learned to pronounce it the right way a few days earlier and had heard somewhere that there was a boxing game. The only thing I didn't lie about was my predilection for computer solitaire. That was true...back in middle school.

At the actual focus group, I stuck out like a sore thumb - a sore, uncoordinated non-video game playing thumb. For starters, I was the only girl without a moustache. And then I repeatedly had to get help to test some sample games that were installed on cell phones. How was I supposed to figure out those things? I don't even use text messaging. When asked what I didn't like about one of the brain teaser games I played, I replied, "This game calls itself a mnemonics game, but it doesn't even use mnemonics!" I'm amazed I got $100 for so blatantly lying.

So tomorrow I'm at it again, but this time for body wash. Phew. Though I'm no bath product connoisseur, I can extol the virtues of exfoliating microbeads and cream-based formulas much more convincingly. For $75, I'll even hit up the bath aisle of Rite Aid for some more focused fodder.

The bulk of my tutoring service of late has consisted of helping kids get ready for tests, big tests that determine what high school they'll go to or if they get into a private school. It's not the most fun thing in the world, though I know my potential offspring has two legs up in the process already. Well, would have unborn figurative legs up if admissions standards ever stayed the same, which they don't.

I've tried to teach Jing better interview demeanor and answers to little avail. Trying to impress is just not intuitive to her. She's even been assigned to write drafts of answers to common questions, all selling her as the smartest, cutest Chinese overachiever you ever saw. Today on Gmail chat, she needed some clarification:

Jing: wut do u mean describe an obstacle you overcame?
Me: An obstacle, or problem, that you got through.
Jing: ??
Me: Like the story about the girl on the playground who tried to fight you.
Jing: huh
Me: You told me last week.
Jing: o. can it be different
Me: Like what?
Jing: sumthin i make up
Me: Yeah, but make it realistic.
Jing: so nuthing with dragons
Me: You're kidding, right? No dragons!

It rained all day and all last night.

My back hurts from yoga.

I've also had a headache all day.

It's Monday, and I think I might be ready for Friday.

Cade and I are on the subway, headed to Brooklyn. Two young hipsters board at 14th Street.

Hipster #1: Yeah, the apartment is great, and his dealer lives in the same building. He's got everything.

Hipster #2: Yeah?

Hipster #1: Yeah. Well, except heroine.

Hipster #2: Cool.

Cade and I roll our eyes at each other. It's not as crazy as the time I saw a man on the subway, in an opus of illicit multi-tasking, rolling joints during the commute.

More and more, I see entire blogs dedicated to recommending to the masses anything from the latest cds to shoes to parking garages. I like this wave of positivity and "infokarma," if you will. (I didn't make that up. James Lim did. I worked with him on something interesting). So I'm hopping on the bandwagon here. Curious about five random things I like?

1. Cetaphil moisturizer: My first winter in New York was a very scaly one. Most of my second one was, too. I knew I needed to moisturize, but I shopped around a long time before finally trying Cetaphil. Nothing else was working - not Clinique or The Body Shop or any other brands that required special trips to specialty stores. The only one that worked is available at any drugstore (and worth quite a few Duane Reade Club Card points). I now use it every day of every season.

2. Freakonomics: I finally read this two weeks ago. It was easy to read, interesting, and works nicely into a lot of conversations. I think Levitt's undefined scope is so much fun and accessible. He's way cooler than Malcolm Gladwell.

3. T.U.K. Mary Janes: Years ago, I saw these in a Delia's catalog. I really dug them, but then moved on. A random picture on the internet jogged my memory, I got on Zappo's, and well, "reunited, and it feels so goooood." I haven't purchased these kitty kicks, but I'd like to.

4. Curb Your Enthusiasm: People have been recommending the show to me for years. I finally decided to rent the first season when I read a New York Times article about how the show handles the topic of race and when someone I trust said, "It's really uncomfortable humor." I think comfort is highly over-rated.

5. Krunch Pizza Bar: The first time I tried to eat at this Upper East Side pizza place, the pie took forever to be made and I walked out. I returned a second time for a few square slices and loved them. The barbeque chicken pizza is delicious, as is the plain cheese. Perhaps "plain" isn't the best adjective - the cheese slice I like is savory, as are all the offerings. This is not a place where you can get a standard pepperoni slice. It's fancy, yeah, but not pretentious. Don't order a whole pie, though. Too slow.

An online travel resource has chosen a short article I wrote for publication. Hooray! This will be my seventh published piece in the last five months.

I've had a few crappy jobs since I became a legal worker. If you've read this blog in any depth, you probably know about latter woes. My nascent employment unfolded behind the counter of a fast food restaurant. The summer after freshman year of college, I moved back home thinking I'd advanced on the fast food chain - I got a job manning the hostess station of a popular diner chain. Both jobs dripped and congealed, but mostly just sucked.

The general mentality of the workers was the same in both places. People either hated their jobs or just barely tolerated them. No one wanted to be doing the same thing forever, except for a wretched dynasty of women - two daughters, one mother - who waitressed at the diner chain with me and clock in together to this day. Enjoy the varicose veins, bitches!

But as much as everyone hated working in these restaurants, the managers in both places could make or break morale. Male managers tended to be better than their female counterparts about not being caught stealing company property and getting in fights with customers. Which is not to say that women aren't amazing and capable. I think they are. Maybe Lisa back in Corpus Christi is better suited for a position with the WWE than food service, that's all.

As lax as managers could be, because hell, they hated going home smelling like French fries just as much as anyone, consumer sovereignty was premium. Don't be mean to the people that are giving you money for subpar food. Apologize if they complain about the wait, because seriously, you're out in five hours and they'll be on the toilet by then.

Service is not so great in NYC. Sure, you can eat at Smith & Wollensky, where the server will ask you if you'd like a foot massage with your steak. But fast food eats don't come with any promise of niceties like eye contact or correct change. Slow food dining isn't necessarily better. My dad and I once ate at Tom's Restaurant, famously known as the diner facade used on Seinfeld, where he was served a hamburger that tasted off.

When the waitress asked how everything was, he politely explained that he thought the meat in his burger might be bad. "Well, everyone else likes it! It's perfectly fine!" the waitress snapped. She didn't offer to make another; the uneaten burger was kept on the tab. Now if it were me, I'd have walked out after having some words with the manager and writing obscenities on my table with all the condiments I could get my hands on. Then I'd slam the door. My dad is eternally civil, though, and I think he even thanked the cashier on his way out. That's what really nice people do. I am not really nice.

I stopped by a McDonald's today after yoga. Don't judge too harshly. There are five cash registers, but only two are ever manned when I go in. This is a lackadaisical place where the speed of service really doesn't live up to the expression. I waited for one register and finally had a chance to order some chicken McNuggets, when a man stepped in front of me and started chatting with the cashier. They're clearly friends and were talking about something other than why the McRib is currently not on the menu.

The loquacious chum(p) says, "Hey, I'll give you the number! Just get me a pen and paper." Minutes passed as they decided to write on a Happy Meal bag, but then couldn't find a working pen. By the time I was noticed, I was giving two hairy eyeballs and working on the rest of my face.

"Oh. I'm sorry for the wait," the guy smirked. I proceeded to not say thank you or anything. I always do, so this seemed like a good way to show my disapproval, if only the cashier noticed.

As I was leaving, a long line formed at the counter, with no employee standing ready to take an order. People looked hungry and uneasy. Finally, the woman I presume to be a manager bellowed, "Oh, shit!" from the grill station. She sauntered over to one register, angrily tossed her head, and challenged, "Can I help you?"

The people looked even more uneasy. I imagined Lisa as Snarly's superior, likely putting her in a chokehold. After subjecting the customers to a hair pulling girlfight, Lisa'd probably offer the customers free French fries for their troubles.

Because that's what customer service is all about.

There's a bitter body quickening within me, and its heartbeat is my own. Today is the day after Thanksgiving, and I feel very lonely. The holidays do this to me. I think it's because I watch the city further stratify in a gawdy farce of revelry. So many people seem to think that the congestion equals love - or the attempt to show love - and excitement. I can't stop thinking about how much colder it is, and how many people can't find a warm place to spend the night. And the masses are worried about getting digital cameras on sale? It's so very wrong. Bah, humbug!

Happy early Thanksgiving! After getting out of work at 1 pm - a few hours before even much-holidayed teachers and students - I am packing for a short trip to Pennsylvania. Cade's dad will be preparing dinner, so this may be my last post for awhile. I mean, maybe indefinitely. (Or so Cade says. He's got a perpetual hankering for hyperbole).

I'd like to close with a list of some things I am thankful for, in no particular order.

1. Free heat and hot water in NYC.
2. The New York Public Library.
3. Family and the friends who feel like it.
4. The neighbor who gives me The New York Times.
5. Affordable cellphone plans.
6. The Internet and its vast trove of outrage, enlightenment, and entertainment.
7. English bulldog sightings.
8. Warm clothing and cool temperatures.
9. Novelty and familiarity with the same person.
10. The kids I tutor.
11. Laughter at appropriate and inappropriate times.
12. A roof over my head.
13. My new job.
14. Riding boots in my size on sale.
15. Leaves that change colors.
16. Another holiday on the way.
17. Innate goodness.
18. Sour Punch straws.
19. Over the counter medication.
20. That I'm no longer at the grocery store getting last minute foodstuffs.

I have to wonder what makes this masculine Pocky. Does it have hair in it? Does it induce great amounts of gas? Does it come with some kind of malted milk balls?

There's a surfeit of vanity plates on cars in Portland, Maine. Cade and I loved pointing them out to each other. This one was the most disturbing by far:

Q: Why don't you post pictures anymore?

A: Sadly, my camera's memory cards are out of commission. It has something to do with an automatic function on the camera and has resulted in the device seemingly eating some of the pictures I took in Maine. This is really upsetting, but I have yet to peruse the camera manual. Like I've said before, I'd rather someone else do it so I'm free of blame if the camera is further screwed up.


Q: How do you feel about Serendipity 3 getting shut down for having rats and cockroaches?

A: I think it's a travesty, but I'm not surprised. It's New York! The place is a tourist trap with lines that snake around the block during peak gorging hours. That's one reason I've never been. I also can't wrap my mind around paying over $10 for a frou frou ice cream treat. I don't even do the McDonald's dollar menu ice cream, and it's not because it's not delicious. I'm just trying to get over cold dairy treats once and for all. It's not good for you. Neither is standing in a restaurant foyer for an hour while rats scurry around the servingware.


Q: Kanye's mom: reaction?

A: Donda West was a great woman. I really enjoy some of Kanye's early music, and I think she did a good job parenting him. I actually found out about her death at work and started tearing up. Losing a parent is so hard, and I don't need to have gone through it yet to know it will leave me broken. I really feel for people going through that. When Kathy Griffin's dad died in the latest season of My Life On The D-List, she explained, "This is the moment I've been dreading my entire life." I think this perfectly sums up the devastation of this inevitability.


Q: Why didn't you ever post about Maine?

A: Some of my pictures are gone, but yeah, I need to post what I can. It was a cool trip.

As I left the apartment this morning for work, I looked outside and exclaimed to no one in particular, "It's snowing!" I suppose it was technically sleeting, as the precipitation consisted of puffed (r)ice that melted the instant it hit the ground.

Whatever it was, I was instantly psyched to tramp in it to the subway station. Unlike most people, I enjoy going out in the rain, snow, and a combination of the two. The city appears cleaner and assumes a slower pace.

Bouts of rain, much less snow, were few and far between in Texas. If I'm ever indifferent to anything falling from the sky (with the exception of pollutants and bird crap), I'll ask for a swift kick in the pants...with galoshes. This stuff slowing the commute and slickening the steps? This is why I moved to the Northeast.

Well, maybe just one of the reasons. The one right below the chance to wear sweaters for half the year.

For the last two weekends, I've made cranberry sauce. I didn't even know it involved real berries until last Thanksgiving, when I discovered cranberry sauce doesn't naturally come in a cylindrical, gelatinous blob with indentations from the can.

I can't stop eating my creation. I eat just a little for breakfast and then lunch and then dinner. Now I can't get the taste out of my mouth, and my tongue will be stained for the next day or so.

The good thing is I will never have to worry about getting a kidney or bladder infection again. Neither will anyone who sits next to me. The stuff is that potent.

The buzzer squeals, and the one person I'd expect to visit is already visiting. "Someone pushed the wrong number," I tell Cade. We continue doing whatever we were doing.

It squeals again, a cross between a whistling kettle and a sharp phone ring. I walk to the intercom at my door. "Hello?" I'm a few feet away from the building entrance, but I have to ask. This is New York City. Love thy neighbors, man, but don't trust 'em.

"Hello?" My voice goes from inquisitive to harsh in a short wire transmission.

A response. "Delivery!"

I look at Cade who has cocked his head and screwed his face in utter annoyance. It is the same look he adopts when I suggest doing some shopping together.

"No one here ordered anything. Sorry. Wrong apartment," I explain. Problem resolved, or so I think.

The buzzer. Again.

"Hello?"

"Delivery!"

"No. One. Ordered. Anything. Wrong. Apartment." I speak deliberately and with an edge to my voice that has nothing to do with any wires.

We go through the ordeal a third time, and I tell Cade the delivery man's English vocabulary probably just includes, "delivery," "thank you," and maybe even "careful," "very," and "hot." I should go outside and talk to him.

"Absolutely not! What if he's a psycho trying to lure you to him, so he can chop you up into tiny bits after violating you in every imaginable way?" Cade asks, visions of Ashley Judd's ouvre dancing in his head.

"Ummm, I highly doubt that."

"Well, I won't have you dealing with him. You told him it was the wrong apartment. He needs to call back the restaurant and figure out the right address. It's on him."

It seems the confusion is over, or has at least walked away. But then we're interruped again, this time by the doorbell. The delivery man is outside my apartment door, no doubt listening to the scuffle that occurs when I walk toward the door.

Cade grabs my hand. "No!" he hisses. "Sit down! This guy is a freak. He's refusing to leave. Something is not right about this."

"C'mon! I'll check him out through the peephole! I bet he's shorter than me and just doesn't understand English." I argue.

Cade shushes me and grabs a skillet from the kitchen. The silence exacerbates the incessant doorbell ringing. I start to giggle at the ridiculousness of the situation. It's the most action that skillet has seen in months.

About half an hour goes by before the delivery man comes back and start to buzz. By this time, I think he's got a score to settle. Is he really still holding a bag of food and individually wrapped condiments? For the love of all things healthy, I sure hope not.

Cade and I turn out the lights. The delivery person follows someone else into the building again and alternates furious ringing with knocking. I ask Cade to get a good look at the guy, so we can at least figure out where he works.

"No way. Don't you know that's how they get you - they shoot your eye out from the peephole?"

I stifle my laughter for hours. The delivery guy finally leaves, but I have to live in fear the rest of my days that one day I actually will order food from him. I also fear that maybe he just really wanted to give me a free pizza.

Last night I saw No Country for Old Men and really enjoyed it. I was expecting something along the lines of All the Pretty Horses, as that's the only Cormac McCarthy novel I've read. It helps that I didn't see a preview.

Anyhow, I've decided that the realization that you were totally wrong about something (or someone) is either the most pleasurable or painful realization possible. In this particular case, the former.

Someone I love was recently hurt by a stupid, lying, y-chromosomed scoundrel. I've been imagining ways to make his life miserable (if I were willing to follow through) and makes hers less so. Sounds like a cd of "I'm better off without you" break-up songs is in order.

Country music does break-ups oh so well, but I'm looking for music in all genres. The only think I don't want is sentimental, "You're a liar and we're over, but I still want you" songs. I want my bereaved to feel better with a catchy chorus, eventually calling The Jerk her "why?" instead of her "ex".

Maybe you could help me out. Here's a list of songs I've thought of so far:

"Used to Love U" by John Legend
"Special" by Garbage
"You Oughta Know" by Alanis Morissette
"I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor (or Cake's cover, if you're more into spoken word)
"Before He Cheats" by Carrie Underwood
"Cry Me A River" by Justin Timberlake
"Throwing Stones" by Paula Cole
"Irreplaceable" by Beyonce
"You're So Vain" by Carly Simon
"Liar" by The Cranberries
"Erase and Rewind" by The Cardigans
"Where Is The Line With You?" by Bjork
"There's A Fine, Fine Line" from "Avenue Q".
"I Loved You, So What?" by Ani DiFranco
"Sleep To Dream" by Fiona Apple
"Who's Sorry Now?" by Connie Francis
"Blame It On Your Heart" by Patty Loveless
"Don't Think Of Me" by Dido
"Hope It Felt Good" by Nikka Costa
"Oh Well" by Fiona Apple
"I Don't Want You Back" by Eamon

I fell off the wagon last night and didn't blog. Instead, I went out to dinner with Aaron, one of my good friends from back home and his entourage. All the other times I've had the pleasure of seeing Aaron and his boyfriend, Michael, in New York, I've been amazed at how much transpires between visits. Last night was no exception. I'm sad that I really had only a few hours to catch up, and most of the time I was completely out of it.

I work from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. three days a week. This includes my day job and tutoring gig. I obviously can't give up the former, but the latter is so fulfilling that I can't rationalize dumping a kid for more free time to sleep, eat nutritious food, and have a life. I've been sick, too, so I'm a lot like the walking dead - well, more like the walking brain dead - come 7 pm. This explains how last night, when the waiter recommended having my steak medium, I almost said, "Actually, could I have it large?"

Have you enjoyed the cornucopia of idiocy that is Yahoo! Answers? If not, I highly recommend it. Here's a titillating topic for you:

Question submitted by Asker:
Do you eat the peel of a kiwi?
Or are you suppost to peel it

Best Answer (chosen by Asker):
You can peel it, you can scoop out the fruit and eat it with a spoon. You can eat the peel , it will not harm you, but it does not have the best taste. Some people do eat the peel and enjoy it.If you do eat the peel, make sure to scrub it clean prior to eating it( as you would with any edible peel).

Asker's Comment:
Thats what I figured. My boyfriend & daughter were debating this last night & I always like to "pole the people" =)

Some idiot told me if I wanted to eat something brown & fuzzy I should shoot myself. I bet he doesnt have many girlfriends! LOL

More Answers:
When I lived in New Zealand we would cut the kiwi fruit in half and then use a spoon to eat out the insides. The peel provided to be a nice little "cup" to eat out of. Very nice breakfast snack. I've also seen some restaurants slice kiwis and leave the skin on for color.

Its your choice but normally people dont eat the peel.

Good question. I always liked kiwis, but could never figure out the easiest way to eat them.

hell no, i dont think that the outside of a kiwi was meant to be eaten, not where i come from, now if you were an animail, i would say "yea," eat the breaks off it, otherwise, not so.

My boyfriends grandmother ate the peel, and she got an allergic reaction to it.

My advice, don't eat it.

i ate it once and almost died

I've heard you can eat the peel so if you can get past the fuzziness of it, go for it!

"pole" people sounds painful. Instead, I prefer to "poll" people and not eat the skin as well.

If you are desperate and lazy, then go ahead and eat the peel. If you want to be normal and not barbaric, then just eat the green stuff. Oh, don't eat the black seeds. ;-)

I first eat the soft flesh, then I chew the peel up with the remainder of the flesh which gives a more tart flavor, then I usually spit out the peel.

do which ever tastes the best to you! life is short!

I actually enjoy the skin.... & I'm sure it's full of fiber, heh.

I've eaten kiwi for almost 20 years by washing the outside, cutting off/biting off the "stem" end, and eating the rest of the kiwi. The skin doesn't have the best taste but, I acquired a taste for eating it!

Yea, you only eat the peel. The green stuff inside is gross.

Eat it :) ... I love the skin of the kiwi .. and it's so good for you!

I like the peel. While the fuzz is harsher than that of a peach, I think the peel adds depth to the overall flavor of the kiwi. The inside is so smooth and sweet, I find the bitter rougher peel a nice compliment. After washing, I just cut off the ends and eat it like an apple.

don't be crazy!!!! that peel will make your tongue itch!!!! it's worse than that pineapple itchy-tongue feeling!!!!

It is actually more healthier is you eat the skin, it has more fiber. I have always ate the peel just because there was never a trash can around or i wasnt outside. Anyway you look at it, its a kiwi

skin has a bad taste.

peel it , the cover isn't what you want

More and more I have this "Holy shit, I'm a grown-up!" epiphany. I'll be at the grocery store, shaking my head at the cost of a can of Campbell's soup. Doing the whole, "I remember when it was..." and imagining a really small number that may or may not be an actual soup price that has existed in my lifetime. In case you're wondering, the cheapest I've found Campbell's soup in New York is $1.39. I could go off-brand and get it for $1.00, but I'd rather live poorly with brand name cachet, thank you.

When I was in Maine a few weeks ago, I wanted to buy discounted Chef Boyardee products for pantry stocking, but Cade wasn't having it. He actually winced and abandoned me in the canned foods aisle, searching for msg-filled beef jerky that would numb his pain.

No so long ago, I found out I have been the victim of debit card fraud for an embarrassingly long time without noticing it. Being broke as a joke has its benefits. One of which is yanking your head out of the sand, and then making you wish you were willing to splurge on some q-tips. (I've needed them for weeks; my parents just sent some in a much-appreciated care package. My ears don't get very waxy, so don't be like that).

The first step in reporting the fraud involved a visit to the bank. "I'm not sure whom I should speak to, but," I said. "I've been a victim of fraud." I thought the teller's hand might go up to her mouth, barely missing the escaped gasp. But no, she just sent me to a desk. That's when you know your problem is more serious - the bank lets you sit down.

I found out many reputable websites have ads and other clickable items that are able to steal all your information and money. To accidentally click on one of them signs you up for something completely fruitless for the rest of your life. Websites I could have been visiting when I was unknowingly conned include Amazon, Expedia, Fandango, FTD, and many more.

Fortunately, things have been worked out, but not with any help from the bank. It actually delayed the process by taking forever to get me a new debit card and abandoning me in my moment of financial duress. I'm no longer a "member" of Reservation Rewards or Shopper Discounts & Rewards. I'd like to take this moment to clarify:

I WAS NEVER A MEMBER OF RESERVATION REWARDS OR SHOPPER DISCOUNTS & REWARDS! THEY ARE THIEVES AND DON'T SAVE ANYBODY MONEY OR REWARD ANYTHING! A PLAGUE OF YEAST INFECTIONS AND FEVER BLISTERS ON THEIR HOUSES!

Whew. That felt nice.

Anyhow, this epiphany was threefold. Holy shit, I'm a grown-up! See also: an outraged citizen! See also: shopping for a new bank.

Tonight could have been that night. I didn't love him yet, but mentally prepared for it. We sat in a vinyl booth watching the windows cloud with cold. He brought a notebook of poetry, and I didn't think that was trite. This was before I convinced him not to smoke, back in the days when one could enjoy a coffee and cigarette in a diner.

We ran in the cold to his truck, which took a few minutes to heat up. Unfamiliar music blared. In my memories, it was bitter cold and we only had that thing between us that isn't comfort, but isn't discomfort, for warmth.

But I know that's not exactly what happened. It's much colder tonight. That night, like most of my time with him, served as practice for what I'm doing now - dashing alone to the subway, hands in pockets and shivering. He told me to treat the next guy better. Not on that night. An afternoon, years later. I told him I would. We spoke again maybe four more times, and then we didn't.

The separation became comfortable and unfelt, but there are moments when I am in the exact temperature or state of mind as some time before. It rushes back to me like the cold wind in my hair. I wonder if that happens to him, too, in spite of the next guy and the next girl. Does he remember something so beautifully previous?

One of my co-workers is constantly chastised for leaving perishable food, like yogurt, on his desk all day and then eating it. He does this, despite the fact that a refrigerator is nearby.

Phil (2:41:10 PM): i've got lunch leftovers baking here in our warm room temperature environment
Phil (2:41:13 PM): ha
Me (2:41:51 PM): please tell me it's something highly perishable with dairy products
Phil (2:42:30 PM): yep, cheese, veggies and mayo-based seafood salads
Me (2:43:26 PM): for real? you're asking for botulism/e.coli/intense gastric distress.
Phil (2:44:00 PM): i'm not sure e.coli can happen because of this? but yes, the rest i am requesting explicitly
Me (2:44:50 PM): E. coli really can't, unless some feces particles float into your food from your desk.
Me (2:44:53 PM): highly likely.
Me (2:45:58 PM): Pardon me, fecal particles.

The same co-worker has a pretty weird sense of humor, as do I. He's the guy responsible for me getting the job, so I guess it all works out.

Phil (2:46:24 PM): well i'm working on a batch of http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/years/2007/1105072jenkem1.html so maybe
Me (2:46:37 PM): I'm afraid to click...
Phil (2:47:04 PM): just don't open the drawer of my desk
Me (2:47:22 PM): lol
Me (2:47:30 PM): butthash?
Me (2:48:03 PM): "fruit from crack pipe" has to be the most awkward drug street name ever.
Phil (2:48:31 PM): there's a lot about it that makes it the most awkward recreational anything ever
Phil (2:48:50 PM): http://www.snopes.com/crime/warnings/jenkem.asp
Phil (2:48:52 PM): and false
Me (2:48:55 PM): great for scat fiends, though.
Phil (2:49:04 PM): ha

The first week of the new job went well and flew by. It helps that I'm really busy these days with work and freelance stuff. I still can't believe how laid back the environment is. Or that I said "scat fiend" to a co-worker in the first week.

Phil (2:49:55 PM): you're adapting to the "no employee handbook" environment here right on schedule
Me (2:50:11 PM): thanks
Me (2:50:58 PM): "Inhaling the gas is said to have a euphoric high similar to ingesting cocaine but with strong hallucinations of times past."
Me (2:51:11 PM): Past, like what you had for lunch yesterday.
Me (2:51:45 PM): Or when you were a kid and played around with the contents of your diapers.
Phil (2:52:25 PM): funny those would even be confusable memories

If you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. And if I can't scratch your back, I'll scratch someone else's. If no one's scratching my back, it's even more important to scratch someone else's, because I get what I give.

All this talk of do-gooder cliches brings me to my point: I will always give a person a free Metrocard swipe as I'm leaving the subway, and he or she is trying to get on. I have an unlimited card anyway. Why not milk it for all it's worth?

I'll do this as long as my neighbor keeps letting me have his New York Times every weekday morning. And even when he's not.

I saw a comedy show not too long ago. One comedian said this:

"I went into pharmaceuticals to solve a mystery: Were black women naming their children after prescription drugs, or were companies naming their prescription drugs after black women's children?"

Today one of my co-workers told a story about a creepy guy he grew up with in Queens. As a kid, the guy was constantly trying to see other kids' feet by daring them to walk barefoot, yanking off their shoes, and so forth. In high school, he paid a girl to take pictures of her feet.

Clearly, he had a foot fetish, but no one who grew up with him knew to call it that. Not for years, anyway. The last my co-worker heard of the guy was that he had to get both of his feet amputated.

Am I sick for thinking this is really funny?

Otis Redding's live performance of "Try A Little Tenderness" is playing on Youtube. Cade is quiet; I don't even know if he's paying attention.

At the end, he bolts upright, "Wow! He's going crazy!" He comes to the computer, and watches the video. A white woman in the audience nearly swoons.

"What would you pay if you could go back and be right there?" Cade asks me.

I feel like something new has clicked with us, and it makes me happy.

There's that moment of recognition when you know someone you don't. When you realize the woman on the subway looks uncannily like you plus twenty-five years, or you meet someone's eyes and they just get it. Most people never acknowledge these moments, at least not to those with whom they are experienced.

So I never said anything when I stepped outside my apartment door as the guy was coming in. He looked at me like he recognized me, but hadn't seen me in years. He pulled out his keys and stopped at the first apartment from the entrance. That's when I stopped to visually take him in, too, and to plant myself in my doorway instead of risking death by embarrassment.

It was my neighbor. I'd never seen him until then, but we're acquainted - too well for people who have never spoken and who don't intend to. When his phone vibrates on the other side of the wall, I hear it. Of course, he hears everything coming from my side of the wall, too, blaring music being the most benign.

There are things I know about him, too. It helps that a window in my living area looks into one in his kitchen. I know he lines his cereal boxes on the sill, and he doesn't have any refrigerator magnets. He keeps the kitchen light on into the wee hours. He doesn't go anywhere at night; no one comes over.

One time I was walking to my dresser after a shower, and I think he may have seen me naked. I jumped and ran back into the bathroom for a towel. I'll never know if he saw me or not. This is why I didn't walk by him when I had the chance and why I so hurriedly check my mailbox outside his door.

A few days ago, I noticed flowers on his window sill. The cereal was gone. The kitchen light shone until late became early, but different voices wafted one unit to another. I suspect he's gone and will have to be replaced. I kind of wish he'd said goodbye.

Cade and I saw Danny Glover at Popeye's in Harlem last night. Homeboy was keeping it real and ordered a box of popcorn shrimp. The cashiers didn't recognize him, and I wouldn't have, either, but Cade has a knack for recognizing tiny quirks of various celebrities and then rattling off their film credits. I was hesitant to accept that the tall guy in casual pants and a windbreaker was Danny Glover, until some guys walked up to him and started acting out action scenes from Lethal Weapon: "And then you was like BAM!" Glover shook their hands and did the guy hug, took his shrimp, and left.

Jing, the student I tutor on Friday evenings, cracks me up. Per her mom's request, I've started assigning her non-fiction. She chooses a book about a historical figure and then has to complete a dialectical journal of her thinking as she reads. Her first subject was Sacajawea. Below are actual entries from Jing's journal.

"I never even knew that you can have a baby at such a young age in the 1800s. In the book it said that Sacajawea was married when she was sixteen years old. OMG!!!!! When I grow up and get married, I'm not going to get married at age of sixteen. People will probably think I'm crazy or have mental abilities..."

"I fell bad for Sacajawea. She gets abused by her husband, even if she doesn't do anything wrong. There is this song called "Runaway Love" by Ludacris... Sacajawea should have been in the song. It should have been about how Sacajawea got abused by her husband for no reason."

"How did Sacajawea know which roots were good to eat and which weren't? She didn't have a book that said, 'Oh this root is not poisonous' or 'Be careful. This root is very poisonous.' Seems to me like Sacajawea was a very talented woman."

"Louise and Clark were kind of mean to Sacajawea and the Indian people that they met on their journey. Even when Louis and Clark took a sip out of the Pipe of Peace, they still treated a few of them with disrespect. This is kind of like what one of my friends wanted to do. Rainer wanted to see Karia and Ernie kiss. He said that if they kiss he'll pay each of them three dollars. This was taking a sip out of the Pipe of Peace. Karia and Ernie kissed. It's been a week, and Rainer still hasn't paid either of them one cent. This is being disloyal like the way Louis and Clark are sometimes to Sacajawea and the Indians."

Today's the start of NaBloPoMo. I'm trying to blog each day in November like I promised, but today's particularly hairy. It's so early in the project, too. Both my mom and Cade have birthdays on November 1, so I've been on the phone, taking care of presents, and making peanut butter cupcake frosting from an internet recipe. It was my first time to look something up and make it. I think it tastes great, but I could be biased.

I'm also teetering on the edge of a cold. Blame it on the long, chilly walks through Portland, Maine. My sinuses are time bombs, their ticking subdued with strings of snot. I took cold medicine last night and managed to put my clothes on rightside out this morning, a departure from my normal cold medicine hijinks. Maybe I'll try more of that stuff after birthday barbeque and peanut butter cupcakes and long, less chilly walks through New York, New York.