Unapologetically Mundane » stuff i hate

You Are the Master of Your Taxi Domain

plumpdumpling — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 16:00:59 +0000

I don’t take a lot of taxis. Not only am I usually unwilling to pay the initial pick-up fee of $3 when I can travel as far as I want on the subway for $2.25, but I also feel a moral obligation to embargo them because of the awful way so many cabbies drive.

I’ll admit that the idea of quietly relaxing in the back of a taxi really appeals to me some mornings, though. And this morning in particular, I was really dreading my commute to work because of the bag of clothes accompanying me for my trip to Ohio tonight. I could take the bus, which is right outside Kamran’s apartment, but aisle space is limited on those things, and jockeying the bag around at each stop would be a nightmare. I could take the subway, which affords much more aisle space, but it’s a couple of avenue blocks away from Kamran’s, and lugging my bag there in the 90+-degree heat and then sweating it out on the platform sounded almost worse than just walking all the way to work.

from the back of a cab on Manhattanhenge 2011

So I decided to take a taxi. It’s about $20 from Kamran’s apartment in Midtown to my office at the tip of the island, but what won’t I spend $20 on?, and this was a legitimate need. Kamran walked me outside (wearing a sweater vest on a 90+-degree day, because he suffers for fashion), but there weren’t any cabs waiting in front of his building, so I trekked down the street an avenue block and waved down the first guy I saw.

All of his windows were down, which didn’t work for my still-wet curly hair, so I rolled both of the rear ones up immediately. And then traffic stopped, and I sat boiling. I could feel the little sweat droplets bead up on my nose. I could feel a layer of wetness forming between the vinyl seat and my bare arm. I thought about asking the driver to turn on the air conditioning, but I felt guilty. I was going to pay by credit card, which eats into his profit, and then I was going to waste his gas, too?

But I was for-real sweating at that point, and since my best friend, Tracey, is kind enough to let me keep my toiletries at her house throughout the year for use during my visits to Ohio, I didn’t even have any deodorant in my bag. It was then that I realized I would’ve been cooler had I just taken the bus or subway, and here I was, paying $20 for the pleasure of moistening my pants.

So in desperation, I reached down and flipped the little A/C on/off switch on the vent near my feet, figuring there was no way I could turn on the whole system myself. BUT I DID! I could control my own fate! And swamp crotch! The fan started roaring, and hot air blasted my face for a second before becoming sweet, sweet cold air. My sweat dried right up, my cab driver suddenly seemed like an okay guy, and instead of typing 15% into the credit card tip screen like I usually do because all of the preset amounts are 20% and up, I just selected the 20% button like a normal human being.

Still learning, six years in.

I Would Do Anything for a Free Dinner (Including That)

plumpdumpling — Tue, 17 May 2011 16:00:07 +0000

I don’t think I’ve been to see a medical doctor since 1994. That was the last time I can remember seeing the inside of a doctor’s office, and even then, I only went because my appendix had ruptured four days earlier and was filling my body full of toxic gangrene.

So when Kamran started insisting recently that I go see a doctor, I was understandably reticent. I don’t know what happens at the doctor’s office. Do I take my clothes off? Where will they touch me? Should I save up my pee?

See, I’ve been going to the eye doctor and the dentist at regular intervals all along, so there are no surprises during the visit. I know the parts I like (the copious encouraged spitting at the dentist), I know the parts I don’t like (when the eye doctor’s assistant weirdly asks me what my hobbies are for my file and I say, “Eating?”), and I know I won’t have to do it again for a predetermined amount of time. Because nothing’s ever wrong with me at those places.

But all SORTS of stuff could happen at the doctor’s office. And I really don’t believe he can tell me anything I want to know or anything that’s helpful. I’d rather just quietly die of whatever unknown diseases are currently taking hold of me than have to worry about actually treating them. I’d rather think I’m totally fine and then keel over suddenly, and the only way to do that is to continue avoiding the doctor for the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, Kamran is nothing if not supremely manipulative. So when I refused to make an appointment for the 400th time, he announced that he wouldn’t be making any fancy dinner reservations for us until I did. So I said, “Oh, well.”

Then he started saying, “I really feel like going to Degustation for a tasting menu. I wish you’d make an appointment so we could go.” So I said, “I mean . . . I wish I could do that for you, but . . .”

Then he started saying, “I’m going to make a reservation at Eleven Madison Park, and I’m going to go by myself.” Now that we’ve been to Per Se, EMP is my new end-all-be-all of restaurants. So obviously I had to suck it up and go.

Thanks to my friend Ash and her husband, I ended up having a totally non-scary experience that didn’t involve any weird touching but plenty of peeing. Of course, my test results don’t come in for a few days, so that’s when the real fun begins.

And by “fun”, I of course mean “chemo”.

Cover Up That Caesarean Scar, Fatty

plumpdumpling — Thu, 12 May 2011 16:00:09 +0000

I’ve never worn a bikini. I burst forth from my mother’s womb at 145 pounds, already wearing footie pajamas to hide my shame, so my beach attire has always included one-pieces and t-shirts. Well, my friends and I are soon going back to the Hamptons beach house we rented last year, and I’ve been actively searching again for the perfect swimsuit after last year’s tankini disaster at Laguna Beach.

I think I finally did find a suit that I’ll like, but more importantly, I was reminded that everyone else likes the wrong suit. For reference, here is the only person who should be wearing a bikini:

I don’t mean to be anti-feminist here, but seriously, if you don’t look like that, why are you wearing one?

Do you just looooove the way the water feels on your stomach? Hey, guess what; water actually soaks through swimsuits right to your skin!

Were you hoping for some awesome bikini tan lines? TAN LINES ARE NOT SEXY.

I imagine you’re not doing it to show off your love handles or the fact that no amount of padding will give you sideboobs.

And I kind of doubt you want people noticing that your midsection’s shaped less like an hourglass and more like one of those fat pencils we used to use in kindergarten.

You know what hides love handles, weird foam padding, and your giant potbelly that sort of reminds one of a poisonous growth on a treetrunk?

ONE-PIECES! For me, even models look better in them:

I guess I’d just rather see less and imagine perfection than to be assaulted by how imperfect everything is. And don’t try to tell me that imperfections are beautiful, you bikini-wearing sap.

QUIT TRYING TO MOTIVATE ME

plumpdumpling — Fri, 06 May 2011 16:00:54 +0000

Lately, I’ve been seeing them everywhere, but especially on Pinterest. These supposedly-inspirational quotes in stylized letters that are so nice to look at that they kind of make you forget how incredibly pointless they are.

I actually liked them for a while and even briefly considered making my own Pinterest pinboard for the ones I liked most until I just became overwhelmed with how many of them they are and maddened by how . . . just . . . fake it all is. No one’s going to be called to action because of these things. No one’s going to “DO IT” or haul up their anchor on the past because of some dumb poster.

I blame the British for starting all of this, naturally, when their totally hott Keep Calm and Carry On poster was discovered ten or so years ago:

But I don’t think that would’ve worked on anyone, either. At this point, I’m refusing to like anything other than kinetic typography like this illustrated dramatic reading of a video game review that Tracey showed me:

Or any of the not-meant-to-be-inspirational, just-meant-to-be-awesome design Lisa of Elembee.com is doing:

Otherwise, it’s all demotivational posters for me.

Ett-ymology

plumpdumpling — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 16:00:37 +0000

In the many-part definition of the word douchebag, here is one part:

\düsh-bag\, noun: someone who wears a black button-down to work but immediately dons a black Ed Hardy t-shirt over it once he leaves the building

Thuh

plumpdumpling — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 16:00:24 +0000

One of my office pet peeves is when people call me and end the conversation with, “What did you say your name was again?”

It’s always after I’ve been super-unhelpful and/or snarky with the person, because he’s always a telemarketer. I’ll say, “Oh, we don’t have an IT department in this office,” and he’ll say, “Well, where is it?”, and I’ll say, “At your mom’s house.”

And then he’ll say, “What did you say your name was again?”, and of course I haven’t given my name, so I’ll say, “The. Office. Manager.” And I’ll pronounce the like thuh to make him feel stupid.

He actually probably thinks I’m retarded, but I’m okay with that.

The Case Against Cars (Especially Taxis)

plumpdumpling — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 16:00:47 +0000

I hate taxis.

I don’t think cars belong in New York City in general.

I think people who think they need to drive or taxi everywhere when there’s a perfectly awesome subway and train system are dumb.

I think if people didn’t take cabs everywhere after 11 p.m., the MTA would be forced to provide better after-hours service.

I’ll admit that I’ve enjoyed a ride home in my friend Beth’s car from time to time. I’ll admit that after a 5-hour dinner with Kamran, it feels good to be dropped off at his doorstep and rolled inside. And I’ll admit that our trip to the Hamptons last weekend might not have even been possible if my group of friends didn’t have four cars. But for the most part, I’d love to see cars banned in the city, and I’d happily give up my quick trips home from late-night karaoke if it meant there weren’t any taxis on the road.

More than cabs themselves, I hate the people who drive them. I really do. They’re generally smelly, generally unfriendly, and generally the worst drivers you’ve ever seen.

They cut each other off.

They nearly run over pedestrians at every turn.

They drive infinitely faster than the streets allow, leaving their passengers bumped and bruised.

It costs $2.50 to $3 just to sit down in one, which is already more than it costs to go as far as you want in the subway, and then you have getting charged for standing in traffic to look forward to. They expect to be tipped for their awful service and will grunt at you no matter how much extra you give. Hilariously, the default tip on the touchscreen payment system in the back of every cab is 20%, and it only goes up from there.

And my absolute biggest cab peeve is the way some of the drivers will cut across four lanes of traffic to pick you up. I understand that this sort of service should please me, but they inevitably have to drive an extra half-block to make it all the way over, and no, I’m not taking a walk down the street just for the pleasure of watching you almost cause three accidents, thanks.

Yet on my way home from the Hamptons on Sunday, I broke down and took a cab. My friends Ash and Michael had dropped me off near the 7 train in Queens with even more stuff than I’d left with: my purse, a bag of clothes, a bag of leftover food, a bag of my Rollerblading gear, and my Rollerblades themselves. That coupled with the fact that it was approximately 4000 degrees had left me more in the mood to eat the cold tails off a glass of disgusting cocktail shrimp than walk to Kamran’s apartment.

Oh, also? I had fallen down and hit my head on the asphalt on Friday while trying to learn to Rollerblade with the help of my friend Christine, so there was a searing headache to help me along. Oh, and also, I was stupid and got ridiculously sunburnt on my back and shoulders, so carrying anything on them was out of the question.

So I stood on the street outside of Grand Central, and I let a cab driver make a U-turn on 42nd Street to pick me up, and I paid him $5 to drive me a mere 2 avenue blocks and 1 street block, and I felt like it was worth every penny, even when he grunted at me.

Not only because I couldn’t hold on to those skates for another minute, but because while I’d been waiting outside of Grand Central, I’d tried to flag down a previous cab, but he’d been cruising at approximately 90 MPH and had whipped past me before slamming on his brakes. I knew he was waiting for me just a little way down the street, but my bags were on the ground, and there was no way I was going to pick them back up and walk with them. He eventually started honking at me, and you can bet I didn’t so much as look his way until he sped off again.

I win!

New York City is Supposed to be Devoid of Nature, and That’s Why I Moved Here

plumpdumpling — Fri, 21 May 2010 16:00:42 +0000

I spent my entire morning commute yesterday thinking that something was crawling on me. Now, my morning commute is only five stops on the train, but rush hour trains are always held up at the stations by passengers trying to cram themselves in, so five stops can take a half an hour. So picture me feeling itchy all over for a half an hour, adjusting the tags on my shirt and jacket in case that was the problem, furiously scratching the places I felt it most.

At first I thought it might be my imagination, because I do drop acid before going to work every morning, after all. But at one point, I actually felt like something was crawling on my ear. And I felt like the guy across from me on the train was watching it happen. I tried to distract myself with my Kindle, but I kept having to reach up every two minutes to brush existent or non-existent things off of my face. I wanted to get out a mirror and have a look, but I thought it was better to not know for sure, considering what my reaction might be.

I had it in my mind that it might be a spider, and I am totally scared of spiders. Like, scared in the way that if someone put a fake one in my lunch or on my pillow, I would never talk to that person again. Growing up on a farm, I was running downstairs nightly to wake my dad up and make him kill one I had or had maybe spotted on the wall beside my bed. Even now when I go to Ohio to visit, I’m on a constant look-out for spiders all over the house, and last time I was home and made my sister kill one for me that was dropping from the ceiling, she asked me, “How did you manage to survive twenty-some years in the country?” In that same trip, I made my best friend, Tracey, reach across me while we were in the Taco Bell drive-thru to pluck one of those little hairy spiders off of the armrest attached to my door. I really think I’m more equipped to deal with cockroaches somehow.

Anyway, I finally got to work and ran to the bathroom to check out my face. I didn’t see anything, so I officially chalked it up to my wild imagination and did my business. As I was washing my hands, though, this cute little spider came down on his web right in front of my face FROM MY HAIR. It was then that I remembered walking underneath a tree and noticing a spider hanging from it at the very last moment that morning, but never did I consider that it might have jumped on me. I tried to scream, but only air came out, and even though the last thing I want to do in the world is purposely touch a spider, I reached up and smacked it away.

And then I frantically checked the floor for it, but it was nowhere to be seen. And then I spent the rest of the day itching myself and being completely miserable.

The Yankees Apparently Won the World Series

plumpdumpling — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 14:10:57 +0000

The Awesome Part About Working in Downtown NYC on Yankees World Series Parade Day: My office building overlooks the parade, so I can watch it from our balcony without having to actually stand amongst the stinking masses.

The Awful Part About Working in Downtown NYC on Yankees World Series Parade Day: I don’t actually care about the Yankees or even baseball in general, yet I had to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with all of the cheerful fans this morning on the train. Grand Central was flooded with people in jerseys who had apparently taken the day off for the parade, which makes me a little sick to my stomach.

The Idiot Thing I Did in NYC on Yankees World Series Parade Day: I wore baby blue pants with a baby blue shirt and a navy blue track jacket. If one more person says something Yankees-positive to me on the train today despite the fact that I’m wearing headphones and reading a magazine, there will be blood.

Benjamin Button Should’ve Been Called Benjamin Suckin’ OHHH!

plumpdumpling — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 19:00:52 +0000

Netflix delivered The Curious Case of Benjamin Button to Kamran’s apartment a good month ago. I’m the one who put it on our list, yet I’m the one who kept dragging my feet, because three hours of Brad Pitt doesn’t excite me like it does normal women.

I’m trying to catch Kamran up on five seasons of “Lost” so we’ll both be prepared for the final season when it airs in January, so we spent a few hours on Friday night and all morning Saturday watching episodes from season two. Kamran was getting too good at guessing exactly what was going to happen next (seriously, am I the only one who’s taken by surprise by every minute of the show?), so we stopped at one point and decided to finally watch Benjamin Button so we could send it back and stock up on Halloween movies to give us an excuse to eat loads of candy pumpkins.

It sucked. We didn’t care about any of the characters, though they were obviously intended to be intriguing in the way all of the characters in movies like Amélie or Fargo are. And the worst part was that it seemed like Benjamin’s getting younger really had no effect on anything. Aside from kissing a woman for the first time as an old man, any of it could have happened to someone who wasn’t aging backward. And the Hurricane Katrina stuff? CRAP, and obviously not from the Fitzgerald short story.

To be fair, there were two scenes I liked:

1) Benjamin leaves Daisy because he’s growing too young and doesn’t want her to have to take care of both him and their baby. As he’s walking out in the middle of the night, she opens her eyes, and they silently look at each other for a moment before he walks out the door.

2) Daisy’s grown daughter reads postcards written by Benjamin to her. They say totally vague and cheesy one-liners like “do the things you love”, but they still touched me somehow.

I just find it insane that this was nominated for the Best Picture Oscar the year after There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men were, especially when there were so many good films that year that The Diving Bell and the Butterfly wasn’t even nominated.

What did I miss in the movie that everyone else saw?

Hatin’ on “More to Love”

plumpdumpling — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 14:31:15 +0000

“More to Love” is my favourite/most hated show on television right now. I was torn between it and “NYC Prep” on the first Tuesday night it aired, but after watching 20 fat women cry nonstop for an hour, I knew I made the right choice, and I’ve been making it every week since.

I’m not a person who believes weight has anything to do with love. I’m not thin, and I’ve loved and been loved in return by all sorts of men, thin and not-thin themselves. (But mostly thin, because fat people are gross. (Kidding.)) These big-boned ladies all truly believe, though, that their one shot at love is this 26-year-old spike-haired real estate developer who likes to eat and doesn’t want a woman who watches her weight.

And they all cry about it throughout every episode. Their skinny friends get hit on at bars. They’ve never had serious boyfriends. They’ve never been on a single date. And there’s a reason for that.

If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you. There, I said it. Don’t blame it on men being superficial. Blame it on you being a crappy date. Unless you live in the middle of smalltown Iowa, in which case I’m a little more sympathetic, but seriously, it’s probably still your fault, especially if you’re one of those assholes who scorns Internet dating. Whenever I hear some fat chick say, “I have no idea why I’m alone!”, I want to go through a laundry list for her, because it’s always so obvious. Even the guys who are willing to look past your weight can’t deal with your jacked-up face, your total lack of humor, your junior high vocabulary, and your skank clothes.

For instance, not a single one of the women in the two episodes of “More to Love” I’ve watched has said something funny. In fact, when Luke asks each of them in turn if they’ll wear the ring that signifies their staying on the show another week, each of them in turn says, “Of course.” I’ve been waiting for even just one of them to say “bitch, please” or fake like they don’t want it only to throw their arms around him and snatch it out of his hands a second later, but they’re all so worried about losing their “one” chance for “true” love that all behave like robots. Whiny, sobbing robots.

My boyfriend called the show depressing, but I really delight in watching these pathetic women mope around. None of them are actually the least bit interested in this guy specifically, as far as I can tell, and are only interested in him being interested in them. And he’s too pleased with the opportunity to grope 20 fatties to care. I mean, MAYBE the producers are hiding the parts where Luke and the ladies have deep, meaningful conversation about politics and religion, but it seems like the most intimate information the group has about Luke is the name of his dog.

I had a long-distance relationship like this once: the guy would want to talk about how interested he was in the sinking of the Titanic every single time he called me–I mean, he really, really loved the Titanic–and I just wanted to talk about how in love we were. But I realized I was using him, whereas these girls are planning their weddings.

And the worst part is that they make absolutely none of this secret to him. They tell him that they’d pursue their music careers if only they had better images. They tell him that they’re virgins. They tell him, “You’re my first second date.” And he uses these confidings as teachable moments where he gets to build their self-confidence by calling them sexy and telling them to believe in themselves. And they cry.

It’s pretty clear that in the end, Luke’s going to pick the thinnest/prettiest girl in the house regardless of her personality, and all the other girls who were using his choosing her as sole proof that there’s hope for fat girls are going to kill themselves.

I finally asked my boyfriend why I’ve been able to find love when these women haven’t, and he said, “Because you’re not psychotic.” Win.

(Also check out Noel’s thoughts on the show.)

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My Face is a Target for Hatred

plumpdumpling — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 14:06:55 +0000

This morning when I left Kamran’s apartment, there was an adorable little squirrel hanging off the side of one of the trees near the garden outside of his building. It scampered off as soon as it saw me, and just as it hit one of the top branches, something plopped down onto my head and shirt.

Figuring it was water, I kept walking, but then I remembered a day a couple of years ago when I walked under a scaffolding near Kamran’s building just as the construction crew dropped some planks onto it from above. I had felt some debris shower down on me but hadn’t thought to look at myself in the mirror to check on the damage. After my 20-minute subway ride to work, some visitors were already waiting outside of the office door, so I got them settled in and then finally caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom and realized that I’d had black dust all over my face the entire time from the scaffolding.

So to be safe this time, I felt around on my shirt for the water spot and came up with a fingerful of bird poop instead. I stopped where I was, popped open my compact, and found the splotch of it in my hair, as well. Now, bird poop in my hair doesn’t really gross me out or anything like it should. Somehow Kamran dropping his feces in my hair or something seems weird, but bird poop in a walking city seems inevitable. The problem is that I don’t have normal girl hair that would allow me to simply pull the stuff out of my straight, flowing tresses; I have very soft curly hair that I’m basically afraid to touch for fear of making it uncurl–as someone once told me it would as a kid–and after living with curly hair for a lifetime, I would have no idea what to do with straight hair.

So I sort of patted the poop out the best I could, hoping that the remaining golden streak made it look as if I’d gotten highlights. And I went on to work, rubbing the poop between my fingers as I walked to dry it out. After riding the train and talking to a couple of my co-workers, I sat down at my desk and got out a mirror to reapply some lipgloss. And that’s when I saw that I had black hairs all over the side of my face. The side that I hadn’t looked at when I was searching for bird poop. I couldn’t remember walking under any scaffolding this morning, so I retraced my steps in my mind and realized that shortly before I said goodbye to Kamran this morning, I saw him trimming his sideburns in the bathroom mirror. Which means that when he hugged me before I walked out the door, he slathered my face in hair and didn’t bother to tell me.

This is going to be quite a day.

Unapologetically Mundane » stuff i hate

You Are the Master of Your Taxi Domain

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I Would Do Anything for a Free Dinner (Including That)

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Ett-ymology

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Thuh

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