The 6 was empty this morning. Completely empty. Wh… December 23, 2005

The 6 was empty this morning. Completely empty. Who are you people who don’t have to work today and where can I fill out a job application?

Anyway. I’m taking a break from doing this week’s New York magazine crossword puzzle (anyone know a 4-letter word for a Canadian Indian?) to wish you all a very happy holiday, whatever it is that you’re celebrating.

And also to tell you that I’m going to be gone for a bit. You see, I’m going home (Jersey, sweet sweet Jersey - is it bad that the thing I’m looking forward to most is eating at Fuddruckers at some point?) for Christmas and soon after it’s off to London with the Boy. Where, no, we will NOT be getting engaged, for the millionth time. Why does taking a trip together automatically translate into London Bridge at night and a white gold band with a princess (or cushion) cut diamond and phone calls home screeching “GUEEEEESS WHAT!”

There will be no proposing going on. Just lots and lots of hotel sex and me crying while standing in front of my old flat in South Ken and more hotel sex and then some shopping at Mango and drinks at my favorite pub in Notting Hill. But mostly, hotel sex.

Anyway. So I’ll be back in January at which point I’ll be whining about how I reaaaaaaaaallly want to move to London because omigod I love it so much and how I’ve gained ten pounds between eating my grandmother’s baklava in bulk while at home and dining solely on Wagamama for the four days I’m across the pond.

Mrs. Claus December 22, 2005

I went a little overboard this year. Mainly because I’m afraid he won’t know I love him if I don’t blow his mind with $600 in cash and prizes. (Ok, mostly prizes.)

I’ve mentioned before that this is not my fault but I will repeat: this is not my fault.

My paternal grandparents are great people - loving, warm and equipped with just enough quirks to make them endearing, not embarrassing. However, they feel that it is their duty as grandparents to shower their grandchildren with money and gifts and then some more money because omigod, what if the grandkids don’t realize how much we love them? Better throw another fifty in that envelope, Pete.

So see? It’s in my genes. Hence the workout my little American Express Blue card got this holiday season. I swear I even saw it smoking when the cashier at J.Crew swiped it the other day, completing my purchase of bathing suits.

One for me, one for him. Because I didn’t want to just hand him an e-ticket to Miami. Ok, I guess I could’ve wrapped it or stuck a bow on top but how cute is it going to be when he opens the box and pulls out the bathing suit and gives me his patented one-eyebrow “holy shit my girlfriend is crazy” look and then sees the ticket nestled underneath the tissue paper?

Answer: Very cute.

What can I say, I’m vying for girlfriend of the year here. I’ve got my work cut out for me as it’s pretty difficult to turn Christmas into something warm and lovely when someone is used to, well, something cold and foreboding.

I won’t go into why, I’ll just say that this is his least favorite time of year for a very valid, very “on today’s Oprah…” reason.

My weapons of choice for Operation Happy Christmas For The Boy are the boxes upon boxes of gifts I will bestow upon him when we have our own little Christmas Friday evening. It’s materialistic, yes. It goes against everything the season is about. I know, I know, I know.

But in some ways, he’s still stuck at 6 years old, which was around the time Christmas stopped being Christmas and started being just another holiday to dread.

Except I’m not so sure I’d bring a 6 year old with me for a front row viewing of Sweeney Todd.

Anyway, I’m sure I’ll do a bit of sobbing/kicking/screaming/attempting suicide when my AmEx bill comes in the mail. But he’s worth it. And, as a bonus, I get a warm, giddy feeling every time I think about Friday and just how many surprises I have in store for him. A warm, giddy feeling that is very useful during the ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY BLOCKS I HAVE TO WALK EACH DAY.

(No, I’m not over it yet. Sorry.)

I take it back, TWU December 21, 2005

I take it all back. I’m issuing a retraction.

You see, day one was cute. Day one was the day we’ll tell our grandkids about. Who would’ve thought that our generation would have our very own “When I was young, I trudged three and a half miles in freezing temperatures…” story.

Now we do. Which means all you transit workers? You can get back to work now. It’s not cute anymore.

(I should note that I am, for the most part, pro-union. My grandfather was the president of a very prominent union back in the day, when unions were more relevant. However, I should also note that I am selfish and me being selfish supersedes me being pro-union. Hence why I am only pro-union when it doesn’t directly affect me. Go ahead, judge. I don’t mind.)

While walking over 60 blocks twice a day is certainly going to tighten my ass in time for Miami next month, it’s getting old. And I’m sick of all the songs on my iPod. And I’m really into this new book and one can not read and walk at the same time, at least not without accidentally smashing into the flower dude from the bodega who will subsequently tell “stupid bookworm girl” to “watch the hell where she’s going.”

There’s nothing I can say that hasn’t been said a million times all over the Internets about this whole strike. And I really, truly admire those people who are taking a “can do!” attitude about it, waxing rhapsodic about the walk to work and how they never took the time to notice Central Park at 7am in the dead of winter.

I’m sure it’s quite lovely. However, I don’t particularly care to find out. A nice, warm, overcrowded 4/5/6 train that inevitably gets stuck for two minutes right before entering Grand Central is even lovelier. Especially at 7am. Especially in the dead of winter.

Way to prove me wrong with the follow through, transit workers. We get it: the city needs you. Now get back to work, my boss isn’t buying into this whole “but I can telecommute!” bullshit.

Screw you, TWU December 16, 2005

Way to not make good on your promises, losers.

You threatened to strike at midnight last night if the MTA didn’t lower the retirement age to 50 and put in an Endless Supply of Strippers During Work Hours clause. Or something. By 11:30, everything was looking pretty darn good. NY1 reported that there was nothing to report in the way of progress which translated, in the heads of thousands of New Yorkers, to “DAY OFF FROM WORK TOMORROW SUCKAS!” Or at least, “DON’T HAVE TO ROLL INTO WORK UNTIL EARLY TO MID AFTERNOON SUCKAS!”

I was looking forward to it. To telling my boss I was stuck out (far, far out) in Queens and would do my best (read: would briefly think about possibly showering and getting the Boy to drive me in before rolling over and going back to sleep) to get to work.

I went to sleep last night thinking that for sure I would be spending the day watching Veronica Mars reruns and doing my nails. Kind of like back in school when a major overnight snowstorm was predicted and you knew there was no chance in hell school would be open the next day.

Much to my dismay, to put it gently, the TWU decided to completely pussy out and, in the process, let down the entire city. I threw a (plastic, empty) cup at the TV screen this morning when I awoke to a scroll at the bottom declaring “Buses and Subways Running.”

To the TWU I say: You and your fucking empty threats and poor follow-through (ohhhhh “partial private bus line strikes” ohhhh). Next time you claim you’re going to shut down the city if you don’t get (an exhorbitant, by the way) 8% annual raise? FUCKING DO IT. All this false hope is not good for my health. You exposed your lack of a backbone by pushing the deadline to midnight on Tuesday. Because, yeah, are we really supposed to believe that THEN you’ll strike? (See: Cried Wolf, Boy Who).

You let us down, TWU. Screw you.

Holy Fucking Shit December 14, 2005

I just spent two days in a row at work without internet.

I repeat, WITHOUT. INTERNET.

I’ll give you a second to mull that over, to think about what life would be like. No email, no Gawker, no ONLINE SHOPPING WHEN YOU ONLY HAVE, LIKE, A WEEK LEFT TO GET 35342 PEOPLE GIFTS.

Think about it for a second and then try and tell me I’ve overreacting when I say that I’d prefer an orange jumpsuit at Gitmo.

My experience over the past few days has begged the question: what exactly did people do at work before the Internets?

(Surely not work. Don’t even try and give me that.)

I’ve pondered that question for eight hours today and eight hours yesterday, all the while trying to occupy myself. I found crossword puzzles to be the best time killer. Lots to think about and zero temptation to google difficult answers (damn you New York Magazine, damn you to hell) because, oh hey! GOOGLE CANNOT BE DISPLAYED.

Neither can www.shredded2bits.blogspot.com.
Or www.gmail.com
Or www.holyfuckingshitimgoingtokillmyselffuckyouverizondslFUCKYOU.com

It was a test of my patience, that’s for sure. And a scary indication of just how much I rely on my boyfriend’s emails, on the NYTimes op-ed section (yeah, what up, I pay for TimesSelect), on that fucking Young Israelite to get through the day.

Also, it was a scary indication that no one in my little production company has jack shit to do. Take away the email and internet capabilities and suddenly there are multiple Starbucks runs and two hour lunches and Arrested Development eulogies at the watercooler.

It sounds “not so bad” but I repeat, it was so bad. SO BAD. Trust me.

Verizon says that the internet should be up and running at work by tomorrow.

Verizon? Lies.

Call Verizon ten times and you will get ten different answers as to why your internet is not working. Everything from “area outage” to “you don’t have a dial tone on that line.” (Note: It’s DSL. D. S. L.)

I’ll be armed with back issues of Entertainment Weekly (desperate times call for desperate measures, folks) tomorrow morning. I’ll also be partaking in my new favorite at-work-without-internet activity: calling up Verizon customer service and reaming them out multiple times throughout the day. It may not bring the internet back any faster, but it sure feels good.

Crotches December 8, 2005

More often than not, I get a seat on the subway. When it came to doling out decent sized breasts and fantastic luck in getting a seat on the train, God was smiling down on me.

It just so happens that, nine times out of ten, whomever is sitting in front of me when I step on the train inevitably gets off at the next stop, at which point I do the half-assed eyebrow raise, indicating “do you want this seat?,” to the people on either side of me who do the shaking of the head thing back and then - score - I slide right in.

In the morning, however, when the train is packed, I find myself staring at crotches for the duration of the thirty minute ride downtown.

Male crotches, mostly.

So there I am, listening to my iPod, staring straight ahead because looking up at the ads (”Learn English! With all these beautiful, smiling people! Who are not, in fact, foreigners like you but models, who speak perfect English and even if they didn’t they wouldn’t attend a school like this to learn because it’s cute when beautiful people speak broken English. You, however, are not beautiful or a model so therefore you should take us up on our offer to Learn English!”) is not an option.

And what is straight ahead? Why, male crotches. Lots and lots of male crotches. And because this is the 4 or 5 train at 8am, those male crotches are more often than not stuffed into pressed khakis, which creates quite possibly the least attractive display of male crotches in existence (except for, of course, jean shorts. But jean shorts in and of themselves are shudder worthy. Men, take note).

Today was a bit of a bumpy ride coming into Grand Central (does anyone else notice that some conductors completely suck ass at their jobs? What’s with the sudden braking? It’s like driving with my mother, except she doesn’t make me pay her $2 to make me nauseous). There was a quick halt as we rolled into the station and the khaki-covered crotch in front of me was suddenly not so much in front of me as connecting with my face.

I turned red, as aI am apt to do when a crotch has just been shoved into my face, clothed or otherwise.

The Dude attached to the crotch - all preppy scarf, New York Times, white gold wedding band, full head of subtly highlighted hair - was not so red. In fact, he smiled down at me. No doubt thrilled that someone other than his frigid, blonde, Upper East Side wife was paying attention to his package, if only for a split second.

Lucky for me, I switch trains at Grand Central. And subsequently opted to stand when I got on the 6.

I think I’ll opt to stand a lot more often from now on.

It wasn’t even good Journey. Don’t Stop Believin’ is SO unoriginal. December 6, 2005

The Boy and I hit quite a milestone last night: we woke up the neighbors. Well neighbor, singular.

Stupid bed with stupid wheels that I say I don’t know how to lock but really, I’ve never tried. I’d be pissed too, especially at 2am.

But was the “shut the fuck up you fucking sluts!” truly necessary? A few simple taps of the broom handle on the ceiling would’ve sufficed.

She blasted Journey at six this morning just to piss us off (at least, we hope she was doing it just to piss us off and not because she can’t get her day started without a little Journey. I want to at least give her some credit). If she wanted to piss us off, Jingle Bell Rock on repeat would’ve done the trick. Perhaps some Vanessa Carlton. But Journey? Journey was a lovely way to ease into the morning.

I sang along. The Boy went back to sleep.

Us: 1, Downstairs Neighbor: 0.

UPDATE: The Boy stayed in my bed until 1pm yesterday (yeah, I know, rough life). He said that after I left to go to work, Downstairs Neighbor began blasting “You Give Love a Bad Name.” Thus we have decided that, while she may be a total bitch, she does have a pretty fantastic sense of humor.

Us: 1, Downstairs Neighbor: .5

Friday Night, Redux December 5, 2005

It essentially all comes down to this simple fact:

My Blog Friends are cooler than your Blog Friends. For reals. Stunners, all of ‘em.

-Oh, you want specifics? You’re so needy. Fine:

• Angelina looks like a model. Which shouldn’t be surprising, as she gets asked if she’s a model all the time. Also, her ass more than lives up to the hype. So does her mouth. Don’t let the lithe body fool you - girlfriend has no problem throwing down when a fuckface in a club gives her (and me) shit for sitting at a COMPLETELY EMPTY TABLE. She’s my personal hero. She’s also just as witty as her blog would imply, but much, much sweeter. Not that it was ever in question, but she’s also smart as hell and wears an Hermes scarf like a fucking pro. She can spill a mind eraser on me any time.
• Max is fierce. I racked my brain for the right word to describe her and fierce definitely encompasses the wonder that is Her Royal Maxness. From her clothes to her hair to her attitude to her dance moves to her Banana Republic bag that I covet so. I liked her from the minute I met her but I can pinpoint the moment I fell in love with her: hearing her engagement story while sitting with my ass half in a sink in the bathroom of a speakeasy, clutching my stomach and trying to catch my breath because, yes, she’s that funny.
• Vic is adorable. She rolled in with a hat and a camera and a “one-drink maximum” because, technically, she was on the clock. We somehow got her to stay for an entire dinner, and she was simply delightful. Spunky and beautiful and quick to laugh. Which means she can be officially forgiven for once dating a man who wore bolero jackets and dress shoes without socks.
• Robin also gets a shout out. What a nice surprise that was, a fourth blogger at dinner. However, I think I may have disappointed her by not having had sex on the third floor bathroom at Thanksgiving. I’m sorry, Robin! Blame the Boy! It was all his fault.
• KC is the only guy I know who can pull of a hat like the one he was wearing. Also, he buys shots of high class tequila because, well, he’s the type of guy who looks great in hats and buys shots of high class tequila when everyone is already loaded (three mind erasers = three sheets to the fucking wind. By 9pm). I blame him entirely for me not getting out of bed until 2pm on Saturday.

All in all? Not only are they not at all imaginary but they also totally exceeded my already high expectations.

Kiss kiss, love ya.

Blogebrities December 2, 2005

Tonight is my coming out party, so to speak. As a blogger, that is.

When I first started broadcasting my life across the internet to complete strangers, I thought that those strangers would remain, well, strangers.

Yeah, not so much. I’ve become one of those crazy people my parents warned me about, the kind of person who has “internet friends.”

Tonight I will finally discover whether Angelina, Max and Vic are truly figments of my very vivid imagination or if they are, in fact, real. (I think we all already know the truth about Goldner: fictional; obviously an imaginary long lost twin I’ve created to exist solely in my head. And, uh, on the internet.)

Also, I will finally discover how much liquor those chicas really can hold (prediction: they’re going to drink my lightweight ass under the table). The words “Mind Erasers” have been thrown around quite a bit, and not lightly. If none of us gets around to posting on Monday, you’ll know why. Three-day hangovers truly do exist, trust me.

The Boy thinks I’m being vague, meeting these “oh you know, friends of friends of friends” for drinks tonight. The Boy is part of the reason that you all don’t know my real name. Obviously he doesn’t know about the blog. No one should have that much insight into their significant other’s mind.

Speaking of the Boy…last night was, well…

I told him. About the kiss.

(I’ve never been all that good that the whole “witholding information” thing. Clearly. I tried! Really I did.)

And to be honest? It wasn’t even the most dramatic moment of the night. But writing about our, uh, “intense conversation” would just result in an extremely lengthy post punctuated by tangents in which I try to assess and overthefuckanalyze the situation before delving back in to describing it in excruciating detail and who the hell wants to read that?

The bottom line is, we’re fine. Better than fine. Just…working out the kinks. He even mentioned kids and a mortgage.

Looks like I’m going to need quite a few of those Mind Erasers, girlies.