Unapologetically Mundane » why i’m better than everyone else

Someone Has Issues

katie ett — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 17:00:28 +0000

Why does it annoy me so much when people continue to use their umbrellas after it’s stopped raining?

Bus Stop Line Jump

katie ett — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 16:00:13 +0000

Kamran and I were in Hell’s Kitchen Sunday night, having traveled to the exact opposite side of the island to pour our months of collected pocket change in one of those machines that exchanges it for gift certificates. We were waiting at a bus stop with our riches in hand, staring longingly at the side-by-side 99-cent pizza and Gray’s Papaya, when a man approached with a large instrument in a case strapped to his back. We were standing just to the left of the bus shelter, leaving enough room for someone to slip past us in line if he wanted to be a jerk. But he stood behind us instead, avoiding the waist-high pile of garbage bags on our other side.

We stayed in that configuration until the bus arrived some minutes later, when the man with the instrument came out of nowhere to stand in front of me in the line of people waiting to get on the bus. I couldn’t even help myself when my blood took a sudden surge; I simply had to march around him and insert myself back into the line where I rightfully belonged. The fact that he had waited until the last second to make his move made me so much angrier than if he had just done it from the moment he came to the stop. At least then he could’ve pretended to be looking for a seat or a place to rest his instrument in the shelter.

Read the rest here!

“Big Brother” and the Inability to Accept Compliments

plumpdumpling — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 16:00:26 +0000

Like the other 99% of Americans who think “Big Brother” season 13′s Rachel is catty, fake, pathetic, and trainwrecky, I saw right through her ruse about Cassie being a threat and a liar. Cassie is pretty and sweet, and Rachel is pock-faced and bitchy. (When the Head of Household trivia competition revealed that America thinks Porsche’s more likely to steal a man than Rachel is, Kamran said it’s not because Rachel doesn’t want to be a homewrecker but because no other man would ever have her.) (Also, yes, there is a woman on “Big Brother” named after a car.) I was as disappointed as anyone when Cassie was voted off, but I was even more disappointed by her exchange with host Julie Chen in her “reaction” interview:

Cassie did such a great job of not saying, “I am pretty and therefore everyone hated me,” but twice she made fun of herself for not even trying to look good while on the show, and twice when Julie said, “But you still looked gorgeous,” Cassie ignored the compliment. I don’t know why, but that makes me so uncomfortable. I don’t think my parents taught me to duck compliments, but somewhere along the way, I started laughing off or denying most nice things people might say to me. And it seems like it’s that way with a lot of the really talented people I know, too. Kamran, for instance, told me he went to “grad school in New Jersey” on our first date instead of bragging that he got his Ph.D. from Princeton. And my best friend, Tracey, will never tell you that she’s an amazing writer/scrapbooker/singer.

It’s like we all think looking like we all have no self-esteem is favorable to just saying “thank you”. Or maybe we’re all so secretly full of ourselves that we know our answer to any compliment will accidentally be, “I know, right?”

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.

I’m Certain All BFFs Are This Freaky

plumpdumpling — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 17:00:21 +0000

I was talking to my BFF, Tracey, the other day about the fact that neither of us has ever needed prescription drugs. I asked, “Should we be on drugs for something? Everyone else is!” She replied, “It’s weird enough of us to not be on drugs, but it might be weirder that we’ve never sought mental health treatment in the first place.”

And at first I was like, “Yeah! Weird!” But then I was like, “Wait, no, not weird.” And then I confessed to Tracey that despite pretty terrible things happening to me–like, say, my mom dying of brain cancer when I was a senior in high school–I think I’ve managed to stay awesome because I’ve had her to talk to since we were just wee little lasses. And then she confessed to me that despite pretty terrible things happening to her–like, say, her dad’s brain aneurism, brain tumors, and subsequent lifelong health issues–she thinks she’s managed to stay awesome because she’s had me to talk to, too.

I have a blogfriend whose best friend died a couple of years ago in a horrific and horrifically random shooting, and for a while, her online journal was almost solely about coping with this sudden death and the tremendous life changes it brought. Some of her friends were annoyed by her constantly talking about it and acted like she should move on with her life, but I totally got it. To have a best best friend–not just a good friend but a best friend who knows everything about you and doesn’t need to put you down to make herself feel better and doesn’t try to make you jealous and can handle you practically living with her for two weeks straight during your Christmas visits home–and then to lose that? The pain is almost unimaginable to me.

On the phone yesterday, I asked Tracey not to die, and she agreed to try, but we decided that if either of us does kick the bucket too soon, the other will keep her memory alive in the very best ways.

Tracey says she’ll build a roadside shrine to me (this may only be in the case of death by car crash, but I hope it’s no matter what) with a cross and flowers and all the fixin’s and that she’ll come every day to replenish it with–and I’m not sure what this means–baby doll limbs. Is that a common shrine element? I hope so.

I decided I’ll end every blog post with mention of her passing, but she said she’d actually prefer if I put it in my e-mail signature. So I said I’ll sign every letter, “3/9/11 – Never Forget,” a la all the 9/11 memorial crap. She thought it a little morbid for me to use yesterday’s actual date, but I’m nothing if not totally creepy.

Then we started talking about the “Hoarders” episode where the lady’s brother was a fireman who’d died trying to rescue people from the towers on 9/11, and the pain of losing him was so great that she was over-collecting anything related to 9/11 or NYC in general or patriotism or simply the colors red, white, and blue. We decided that my “Hoarders” episode about all of the Tracey-related paraphernalia I’ve saved over the years would be pretty embarrassing. But her episode about her Katie-related collection would be much, much worse.

Because she has my FINGERNAIL CLIPPINGS!!!

BFFs! BFFs! BFFs!

on the subway

pretending to smoke at Pete’s Candy Store and looking so awkward

feeding shaved ice to a gargoyle in the East Village

and then tasting his sweet ice breath

in the changing room at Dylan’s Candy Bar

Donut Hole Babies

plumpdumpling — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 17:00:22 +0000

I spotted this picture on a Tumblr the other day, and it made me sad, because when one of my friends had a baby, I sent her this same pacifier as a gift:

I thought it was hilarious and pretty much made me the coolest fake auntie ever, but I’ve never seen it in the many times I’ve visited her since, and I’ve especially never seen it actually in the baby’s mouth. Her other kid does use the ice cream cone lamp my best friend, Tracey, and I got her. But still.

I should probably have kids just to buy them cool stuff. And I should especially have them with Kamran, because then they’d turn out looking like little donut holes:

Brokelyn

plumpdumpling — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 17:00:47 +0000

I know it’s reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeal cool and all for Manhattanites to never leave the island, but on the “Millionaire Matchmaker” where the Cute Indie Gay Dude says to the Old Boring Gay Dude in Shorts (OBGDIS), “I live in Greenpoint; do you know where that is?” and it turns out the OBGDIS has never left Chelsea, I want to punch him in his old Botoxed face.

It’s like saying you don’t know where Montana is. It’s like, as Kamran always says, the way people talk about being bad at math like it’s cute or something. But OBGDIS had also never seen “Antiques Roadshow”, so screw ‘im.

I Mostly Like People Until Election Season Comes Around

plumpdumpling — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 18:45:37 +0000

God bless you for all you do, political watchdog groups, but perhaps hiring someone with a certain degree of innate spellchecking ability would be beneficial to your cause:

bigger

This was scribbled aaaaaaaaaaaall over the sidewalks outside of the polling place on Kamran’s street this morning. I just want to pat who ever did it on top of their cute, little heads.

Someone Has Issues (17)
Bus Stop Line Jump (6)
“Big Brother” and the Inability to Accept Compliments (11)
Cover Up That Caesarean Scar, Fatty (15)
I’m Certain All BFFs Are This Freaky (31)
Donut Hole Babies (25)
Giant Rats Sneer at Construction Scabs (8)
Brokelyn (12)
How I Became Independently Wealthy (38)
When the President Comes to Town (12)

The Only Person to Apologize in All of NYC Still Gets Trash-Talked

plumpdumpling — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 16:00:10 +0000

A friend recently asked me how I managed the adjustment from smalltown Ohio to big city culture, and I told her I was prepared for everything but how truly out-for-themselves people are in NYC. I told her that in Ohio, there seems to be more of a collective conscious, a bit of an “if I do this horrible thing to this person, everyone’s going to find out” mindset, and a bit of an “if I do this nice thing for this person, both of us will benefit from my niceness, and the world will be a better place” mindset. She asked if I think NYC has changed me, and it just so happened that I had the perfect story to illustrate my very definite yes.

Last Saturday afternoon, my boyfriend and I took advantage of the end of Summer/start of Fall weather with brunch at Bar Boulud, a stroll through Central Park, wrestling with giant stuffed dogs at FAO Schwarz, and buying a pound of chocolate-covered everything at Dylan’s Candy Bar to start getting our blood sugar prepared for Halloween.

We hopped on the downtown M15 bus around 4:30 p.m., and it was packed, as usual, with elderly people, because only elderly people leave the house before 8 p.m. on weekends. We stood for a couple of stops, sat down for a couple of stops when two seats were freed up, and then stood back up when we saw a feeble-looking couple board the bus.

Read the rest.

How I Became Independently Wealthy

plumpdumpling — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 16:00:08 +0000

Kamran shared this article with me recently from one of his fancy lawyer blogs called “Earning $250,000 Does Not Make You Rich, Not in My Town“, and while I agree that $250k doesn’t make you anywhere close to rich in NYC, it’s ridiculous how out of touch people are with how much money you need to survive:

I own nothing (mmm… judgment proof) — not a stock, a bond — and the only market for my “assets” is the “Cash for Gold” shop in Atlantic City. I pay a ridiculous premium to live in my 2-1-2 area code, and I live in a hovel so embarrassing that when non-New Yorkers come to visit, they assume I’ve just been robbed. As we shuffle by Park Avenue apartments that I can’t afford to even look at, my dog tries to break her leash and get herself adopted by someone who can afford her upkeep. I’m a professional blogger, yet my computer is so old I can’t even download decent porn off the internet anymore. Last night I got a text from my Manhattan bedbugs which read, “Dude, we can’t live like this no more, peace out loser.”

In Ohio, my salary could give a family of eight a super-extravagant lifestyle, but here, it can get me half of an apartment in Brooklyn, eight plane tickets, a closetful of non-designer clothes, a couple of major electronics purchases, and all the homemade meals I can handle every year. (Luckily, Kamran helps me out in the dinner department.)

Basically, no matter how much I save up, I will never, ever own a home in NYC. Even if I wanted the very cheapest and tiniest studio apartment–250 square feet for $250k, let’s say–I can’t imagine a time in my life when I’d have the $50k down payment. I accept that while the middle of the country bases their success on owning homes, I have to base mine on . . . having lots of free time to blog?

Recently, I decided to make a deposit on a minorly life-changing thing (it’s a yacht, people! it’s a yacht!) (just kidding), and I had to figure out if I’d actually have the money for it. So I made something for the first time in my life that I realize probably every one of you have had forever: a budget.

And I feel SO. MUCH. BETTER. I’m actually spending waaaaaaay less money than I used to, but I somehow feel so much richer just because I know I can keep myself debt-free and saving if I stay within my weekly allotment. It’s so great to be able to stare a $32 pressed powder compact from Sephora in its sweet, foundationy eyes and say, “Are you worth not being to go out for dinner before our bowling match Sunday night?” And it isn’t.

I even set up a (so far, really pathetic) SmartyPig goal that will someday allow me to live luxuriously without guilt for three entire months when I get fired. Click on the “Feed Me” button to see how cute the site is and to TRANSFER YOUR BANK ACCOUNT OVER TO ME:

So, I’m not rich, and I’m not even $250,000 rich, but I’m working on it.

Do you budget? I’d love to hear your tips and tricks!

My Doctor Don’t Know CPR, but He Knows How to Treat Me Right (Eventually)

plumpdumpling — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 16:00:33 +0000

I step onto one of the elevators in Kamran’s building on Friday after work, and a guy in blue scrubs comes in after me. To me, his matching cotton uniform means the guy is too lazy to own real clothes, but I understand that the rest of the world assumes he’s some sort of “medical professional”. This woman slips in just as the doors are closing, so they open back up, and the three of us stand there awkward and silent while we wait for them to close again, because it’s super-rare for someone to talk to you in an elevator in NYC, no matter how cheerfully you smile at them as they enter.

She’s about my age. (Maybe a little older, because people my age can’t afford to live in Kamran’s building unless they have really morally-inexcusable jobs on Wall Street, or at least that’s what I tell myself as I return to my Brooklyn hovel.) She’s wearing a navy blue shift dress that looks expensive, she’s covered in chunky jewelry that looks expensive, and all of the bags on her arm are from expensive stores. I see her slyly eying the guy in the scrubs, and I think about how she probably thinks she’s really hot and deserves to date this spiky-haired dental hygienist posing as a doctor.

So we get to her floor first, and she makes this production of tossing her long blonde hair and holding her bags in her krelbows in that way women always do in movies when they’ve just finished a shopping spree with their friends and are now going to brunch at an outdoor cafe to drink mimosas and laugh at things not even they actually think are funny. She bounces off the elevator, the whatever-he-is looks after her, and for a moment, you know the two of them are totally mind-jerking-off about one another. But just before she’s out of sight, she loses her grip on her very long umbrella, and it gets caught on her I-swear-they-were-patchwork heels. She trips and almost falls down but catches herself, and I almost laugh out loud but catch myself.

And usually, this is where I would accidentally do the same thing six floors later, but I didn’t need to be all bumbling in front of this guy, because I had my own doctor waiting for me at home.

Or, well, he came home from work, like, 4 hours later. But I still felt awfully superior sitting alone in his apartment eating homemade frosting.

Donut Hole Babies (25)
Why Life is So Great Right Now (5)
Haters Keep Hatin’ (5)
The Heedless Gape (14)
It’s Best to Claim Your Bodily Functions (17)
Bus Stop Line Jump (6)
Cover Up That Caesarean Scar, Fatty (15)
So Lonely Even My Hair is Depressed (15)
Snow Day 2011! (14)
Refuse, Facial Hair, and Shameless Flattery (14)

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.

These Boots Were Made for Walkin’

plumpdumpling — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 16:00:41 +0000

I do not run for things. Like, physically. This is perhaps the reason why the gym doesn’t work out for me. I would much, much rather be late to something than to hurry myself, to rush across the street on a flashing Don’t Walk sign to catch a fleeting bus or to plow down some station stairs to catch a train sitting with its doors open for an extra second. I think people who run for things look stupid. I hate people who are too eager. I hate people who care about things too much when they’re things I don’t care about.

Yet last Friday morning, I found myself turning the corner onto 42nd Street, seeing the bus waiting at the stop, noticing there was still a long line of people waiting to get on, and actually breaking out in a run. I have no idea why. I was running late, but why would I care about running late? Maybe it’s that I knew I would be getting to the stop just as the bus was pulling away and that everyone on the bus would know I had meant to get on it and that that would be more embarrassing that bothering myself to run for it. I’m irrational like that.

So I took off in the fastest jog I could in a pair of really rubbery flip-flops, and things were going pretty well. I probably could’ve walked just as fast if I really wanted to put in the effort of swinging my arms and rolling my hips and all, so I figured I was still looking fairly nonchalant to anyone who might be judging my eagerness, yet I hopefully looked like I cared enough about making it onto the bus that the driver would take pity and wait on me if everyone else loaded quickly.

But then, halfway down the block, the toe part of one of my flip-flops suddenly somehow doubled under itself and messed up my rhythm, and I had to stop to straighten things out. Just then, this beautiful brown-skinned woman went gliding past me in a summery black dress, her natural hair highlighted with a white faux flower. Her long, slender legs, fitted with soft black ballerina flats, flitted in front of her one at a time like those of a more-graceful gazelle. I somehow expected that she’d stop, that we’d laugh about me trying to run in my stupid shoes, and that we’d walk arm in arm to the bus. Instead, she probably laughed as my shorter, stouter legs, bound in too-tight, too-hot jeans pounded the pavement in comparison, and while she boarded the bus nimbly with a bounce, I hoisted myself up, out of breath and windblown with the entire bus glowering at me for making them wait.

That’ll teach me to try.

Everyone Can See You with Your Finger Up Your Nose

plumpdumpling — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 16:00:05 +0000

I had to be at work early this morning for a meeting, and I expected that the public transportation would be less crowded, so I was annoyed when I decided to be lazy and take the bus to Grand Central and found that the usual load of people was still waiting at the stop after mine. There was one woman in particular who I just didn’t like from the moment I saw her. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was that made me want to ensure somehow that she lead an unhappy life–maybe her dour all-brown outfit, maybe her sloppy ponytail, maybe her chubby cheeks–but I was especially upset to look down from my throne at the back of the bus and see that she’d grabbed the last of the much-coveted single-person seats.

And then she started picking her nose.

(I’m sorry, but click here to read the rest. I hate to do this sort of thing to you, but one of my friends told me last night it’s the only way to do it, and I was just looking for an excuse. Looooove yooooou.)

The Best Thing About “Eclipse” (and the Most Annoying)

plumpdumpling — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 16:00:07 +0000

I was surprised to learn, upon reading them, that though the writing is as awful as I would’ve imagined, the plot of the Twilight series is actually pretty clever. Unlike, say, “Lost”, all of the loose ends eventually tie up, and the things you never thought would matter suddenly do. There are no red herrings nor MacGuffins in them.

Yet they still totally annoy me simply because their author, Stephenie Meyer, has to thank the band Muse in each of them. In all of the novels’ afterwords, right alongside appreciation of her editor and agent, she’ll say things like, “And thanks also to my favourite band, the very aptly named Muse, for providing a saga’s worth of inspiration.” And then I will claw her eyes out.

It’s not even that I don’t like Muse. I actually really liked them in NINETEEN-NINETY-NINE when I was listening to them. But I just can’t handle some kids’-book-writin’, middle-aged Mormon thinking she’s all cool for liking one pop-alt band. It’s like moviestars thinking anyone cares about their political activism. And you know she’s just doing it in some used-to-be-unpopular girl’s attempt to befriend the band she loves.

I went to see Eclipse last night with my friend Ash, though, and aside from a couple of actually-hilarious moments, what I was surprised by most was the soundtrack. It does not suck. In fact, it includes The Bravery, the amazing Ohio band The Black Keys, and my favourite band right now, Band of Horses. And the music is used really well. The first time you see, Jacob, for instance, the camera moves in on his face as a grinding bluesy song starts, and it’s this total moment. How annoying is that?

I can console myself with the fact that I know it wasn’t Stephenie Meyer choosing the music and how it’s used, but I can still continue to hate her for all of her Muse-suck-upping. Mostly because I know I’d do exactly the same thing if I was in her shoes.

Except with a better band.

This is NEW YORK CITY, people. We have a reputation to uphold.

plumpdumpling — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 16:00:28 +0000

I swear I don’t usually judge people for their clothing choices, but a woman on the bus this morning was pretty clearly wearing a shirt made of fabric showcasing teddy bears in various positions of merrymaking at the beach:

As someone who can’t handle Disney-related clothes on adults and can barely stomach ironic hipster t-shirts covered in nature scenes such as wolves howling at the moon, I’m sort of appalled by this. I wanted to believe it was scrubs, but then I noticed she was wearing really expensive-looking pants with them. Not that having to wear scrubs is an excuse to dress like a baby.

As a side note, the woman in the black dress walking past her shows off way too much leg for an old lady every day when she sits down. Sorry, I needed to get that off my chest.

My Head Hurts

plumpdumpling — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 20:50:22 +0000

If your business is on a high-traffic area of 14th Street, at what point after you realize your sign says saloon instead of salon do you have it remade?

Oh, wait, the sign also says “walk-in’s welcome” and “we specialize in heena tattoos”?

No, no, wait, I’m sorry, it actually says “heena tattooes“?

Nevermind.

The Heedless Gape

plumpdumpling — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 20:00:28 +0000

You probably know by now that I hate people who don’t conform to the sorts of etiquette rules that keep society running smoothly, such as waiting for me to leave the train before you enter and giving a friendly wave when I let you turn ahead of me in heavy traffic lest I ram my front end into your brand new BMW.

My big pet peeve as of late are people who walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk. I used to assume, to keep myself sane, that all of the people doing it were from countries where they foolishly drive on the wrong side of the road, but I eventually realized that it’s just a product of living in a city where there way too many people who think they’re too important to follow the crowd and leave space beside them for people to pass.

Kamran thinks I should give couples more leeway when it comes to taking up the entire sidewalk on some of NYC’s teeny streets, but he and I always make a single-file line when we see someone coming so as to not rub it in their face how happy we are holding hands as we walk to the grocery store and how pathetic and meaningless they are as unattached folk. But no. I do not give them more leeway. And I actually hate them more than single people on the wrong side of the sidewalk, because between the two of them, one should have the decency to move aside.

Anyway, I’ve begun implementation of a new method to combat the sidewalk-hogger. I call it The Heedless Gape. When I see someone coming at me on the wrong side of the sidewalk, I simply keep walking at my desired pace and look off into the distance as if I see something so fantastical and all-consuming that other passersby don’t even register with me. Eventually, and usually with an angry huff, the offender will move aside so I can continue on in gawking glee.

I’ve considered what will happen if ever someone refuses to get over, and I’ve decided I’ll just patiently stand my ground until the other person gives up. And you know he’ll give up before I do, because the one advantage to being a very unimportant person in a city full of important people is that I have nowhere to go.

Rub and Scrub and Scrub and Rub. Germs Go Down the Drain. Hey!

plumpdumpling — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 18:00:14 +0000

I like to judge people for fairly irrational things like:

1) not liking something as small as onions, while I myself hate everything that comes from the sea except possibly crab, and I only eat that when forced,
2) not putting their dirty dishes in the dishwasher at work, while I myself leave dishes in the sink at Kamran’s for days, and
3) using abbreviations like “lol” in chat, while I myself say “brb” all of the time, though I usually follow it up with “~@~”, which in Google chat looks like a pile of poo with flies circling around it, and the awesomeness of that cancels out my “brb”.

There’s one thing I judge people for that I don’t think is irrational, though, and that’s not washing their hands after using the bathroom. I know that ingesting someone else’s urine likely isn’t going to kill me, but I still feel so superior as I take an extra-long time to wash my hands in the bathroom and call innocently to anyone who leaves without stopping at the sink, “Oh, excuse me, but I think you accidentally-and-not-at-all-because-you’re-a-lazy-respectless-heathen forgot to wash your hands!” With the hugest, fakest smile on my face.

As I was rinsing today at work, though, I wondered, what do people who don’t wash their hands think about me? Are they judging me for being too clean?

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.

Unapologetically Mundane » why i’m better than everyone else

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