Tag Archives: living in new york sucks so hard

Sody Pop

Posted by plumpdumpling on August 18, 2009 – 12:41 pm
Filed under living in new york sucks so hard, no i really do love ohio
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I never want to be one of those people who thinks she’s better than the place she came from. I want to always think Columbus and the village (seriously, village) where I was raised in Ohio are unbeatable.

For the longest time, I fought the word soda. I was raised on pop, and soda sounded funny to me every time I heard it used. No matter how many times people told me I gave myself away as a Midwesterner, I refused to switch. Why should I feel bad about where I’m from?

But after about a year of living here, I found myself saying soda automatically. And when I went home to visit and my best friend said pop to me, I accidentally made fun of her without even realizing what it meant for my heritage.

Seriously, though, this picture from my last trip home still cracks me up:

Not only does it say pop, but it only costs 35¢! How adorable, right?

I’m still not buying into other NYCisms like stand ON line (instead of IN line) or call OUT sick (instead of IN sick), though. I still have some standards.

(Also.)

Yes, Mother(fucker)

Posted by plumpdumpling on August 10, 2009 – 10:00 am
Filed under living in new york sucks so hard
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I write my roommate a note telling him that I need some monies for our bills, that I’d like him to return the lamp he inexplicably removed from our living room, and that the haircuttings on our bathroom floor are a little bit creepy:

He returns my note with the following:

We really have an ideal relationship, don’t you think?

In the Subway Station, Being Nice Gets You Nowhere

Posted by plumpdumpling on August 6, 2009 – 2:03 pm
Filed under fun times on the subway, living in new york sucks so hard, my uber-confrontational personality
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After work the other day, I was heading to my boyfriend’s apartment and exited the train at Grand Central. There was a throng of people gathered at the staircase on the platform, being inconsiderate to each other as usual. A man with a guitar case had been waiting by the stairs for someone to let him up for as long as I’d been waiting patiently toward the back of the mass, so when it was my turn to step onto the first stair, I held back for a second and motioned for him to go ahead. He smiled and thanked me, and I was left feeling like the greatest American hero, as my boyfriend says.

Then, on my way up the staircase from the station to the street, a woman was coming down on the wrong side. I find that sort of thing ridiculous in normal polite society, but in a city where we’re all two centimeters from colliding with one another, it’s totally inexcusable. I was going to give her the what-for, but then I thought, “Hey, it’s raining, and if I’m nice to the guitar guy AND the wrong-side lady, my karma will be off the chart.” Not that I believe in that sort of thing.

But as soon as I was through congratulating myself on being a true humanitarian, the woman thrust her Strawberry shopping bags in front of her, lifted her chin, and said haughtily, “Clear the way! Clear the way!”

She’s lucky she didn’t say it ten seconds earlier, because you can bet I would’ve planted myself right in front of her until the smell of the halal cart outside the station became too tempting around nightfall, but as she was right beside me by that point, I could only say, “You are a bitch!”, but she kept on walking down the stairs, and people kept on moving out of the way for her.

Funny that the only time New Yorkers are nice, it’s for people who don’t deserve it.

(also posted on Examiner) (who pays me when you read my articles, I should mention) (in case you were thinking about not clicking on that link)

A Bus Stop Ditcher Gets His Due

Posted by plumpdumpling on August 4, 2009 – 9:50 am
Filed under funner times on the bus, living in new york sucks so hard, my uber-confrontational personality
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On Saturday evening, Kamran and I reached the M15 stop at 42nd Street to see we’d just missed the bus. As we were the only ones at the stop, we entertained ourselves with rhyming games and musings about what sort of present we could buy at a convenience store to bring to the Williamsburg birthday party we were on our way to.

After a few minutes, a woman with a very stylish short haircut made her way down the street and politely stood a few feet away from us to wait. An older gentlemen in a pink button-down dress shirt and an orange tie came and stood beside her a few minutes later. A couple of grannies rolled up together a second later and pretended to be looking at the map on the bus stop pole, but it was pretty clear they were just trying to ditch us to be first into the bus, so Kamran told me to be wary of getting hit over the head with a purse or walking cane when the bus pulled up.

We all spotted the bus as it popped over the hill at 43rd Street at the same time, and the unease in the air was palpable as we all prepared ourselves for the inevitable chaos of boarding. Usually I appreciate it when the bus driver doesn’t pull all of the way up to the pole that marks the stop, because the people standing there are rarely the ones who have been waiting the longest, but this driver didn’t pull up far enough.

He stopped right in the middle of the crowd, leaving us to separate ourselves into two groups on either side of the door. On the left side was the nicely-haircutted woman, the old man in pink and orange, and this other man who had appeared out of nowhere in rolled-up jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt. On the right was the potentially-lethal pair of ladies, Kamran, and me.

Haircut went into the bus first, which was, you know, incorrect but acceptable, considering that she arrived shortly after we did and perhaps didn’t remember who was there first. I took a step forward to make it clear that I was next, and I know Sleeveless T-Shirt saw me, because he stepped forward after I did and then looked at me for my next move

My next move, of course, was to step onto the bus. Apparently he wasn’t pleased with this checkmate, though, because he took advantage of the extra-wide doorway and clambered onto the bus right beside me. I was totally weirded out. I mean, I may curse about people who hurry past me into the bus during rush hour, but this was 8 p.m. on a weekend. And it was a double-long bus, so there was no chance there wasn’t going to be room for him. Plus, I was there first.

I didn’t even have a chance to think about what to do. What came naturally was to shove all 145 pounds of him back out of the bus, all the while saying, “Oh, excuse me! Oh, pardon me!” in my sweetest voice. The adrenaline rush was insane.

But as fun as that was, the greatest part of the situation was that the guy then turned to Kamran, evidently unaware that we were together. (Or aware and unafraid.) He made a face of incredulity and yammered something unintelligible that was clearly meant to convey how much he wanted me dead. Kamran, of course, didn’t sock him in the jaw as he should have, but he did politely remind him to mind the other people in line first next time.

(also posted on Examiner)

My Sweat is Sweatier Than Your Sweat

Posted by plumpdumpling on July 17, 2009 – 1:46 pm
Filed under it's fun to be fat, living in new york sucks so hard
Tagged as , ,

I may be biased toward my own misery, but I always think it’s ridiculous when people in other cities complain about the weather. Vermont can get 12 inches of snow, and I’m going to think that the 2 inches in NYC is 100 times worse. Texas can be 115 degrees, and I’m still going to think NYC at 85 is more unbearable.

Yesterday was the first really hot day we’ve had here, with a disgusting humidity to boot. Kamran was working late, so I asked myself what I truly, truly wanted for dinner without him there to judge me. I chose pizza, of course, and stopped at the Two Boots in Grand Central, because they’re the only ones in the entire city making pizza with any flavor, as far as I’m concerned. As I waited in line for my two slices of Sicilian, all four people in front of me asked the cashier for napkins, and he apologized to each one and explained that they unexpectedly ran out. When I got to him to pay, I of course said, “I have two slices of Sicilian. And can I have that with a lot of napkins, please?” He made a gun with his fingers and said, “Good one.”

I stood back and waited for my slices to come out of the oven, and when the other counter person handed them to me, they were on two plates. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but after I’d taken a few steps, I realized that it was going to be kind of awkward carrying them allllll the way back to Kamran’s like that. It would’ve been so easy to turn around and ask for a takeout box, but the place was so busy, and I didn’t want to be a bother, and every step carried me closer to the sidewalk. (Kamran says this makes me very pathetic.)

So I just held my pizza in front of me, out in the open air for all of the dust and cab exhaust to settle on. People kept looking at it jealously as I passed, and a couple of deliverymen even asked if I’d share. “It’s too good to give up!”, I said. I’d unfortunately started out on the far end of Grand Central, so three avenue blocks later, I was finally at Kamran’s apartment on the waterfront, and I was hot.

I thought about how if I talked to Tracey for a third time that day, I’d complain to her about the heat, but then I realized that it’s probably been hot in Ohio for two days now with the way the weather travels so slowly to NYC. But then I realized that she’d say, “But the weather always feel worse in New York because you have to walk around in it instead of driving through it in your air-conditioned car.”

And that’s what best friends are for.