Top 5 Observations on Yom Kippur

So you must be wondering how it went. Well for starters I got to have grape juice instead of wine and I didn’t have to blame the marathon for that. To be entirely honest, similar to how my [retard] brother told me tomato juice was really beer when I was a kid, I also believed that grape juice was wine… hence, I love grape juice! We had a lovely meal that included both koogles, a roasted chicken who we thought was one legged until I picked up her breast and found her left leg. It was scrumptious! There was challah and then chocolate chip cookies.

Here are my top 5 observations about the services this year.

1. my brother is not modern orthodox.
I had been looking forward to counting wigs on the women’s side and somehow, someway, the modern orthodox in nyc do not wear them. It was more disappointing than learning that Snoopy was not in fact a wiener dog.

2. We stoled somebody else’s seats.
w/ our pricey tickets in hand we went to grab our seats only to discover that two very elderly women had already done it for us. We resorted to doing what only came natural, that being, taking somebody else’s seats. I was Ruth Fischer and Alisa was Anita Blumingstein. It was about 20-min later that Alisa said, “time for he Amida (a prayer) stand up.” And I thought she said, “There is Anita. Stand up.” Naturally I freaked out and tried to duck and then realized that Anita and the Amida... were not the same thing.

3. the woman next to me had crabs.
So if there is one thing I do get, it is that there are certain things you do not do in public and there are certain things you can “get away” w/ in public. So there I am sitting in Ruth’s seat when I noticed an elbow hitting me. That elbow, as it turned out, was the elbow of the woman next to me who just so happened to be scratching her crotch like you scratch off a Scratch n Win. Naturally, I just sat there and stared at her because I was in shock that she was a) scratching her crotch w/ such enthusiasm and b) doing it right in front of me and c) doing it while in the presence of the big man (well supposedly he was there, but I never saw him). After about a minute she stopped and I pretended to read in hebrew. Then… 20-min later again! She went in again! My jaw dropped and I contemplated telling Alisa about what was going down. It was Yom Kippur after all and I wanted to be good, so I shut my jaw, closed my eyes and prayed to G-d not for forgiveness, but for her crabs to not jump ship.

4. A Ballroom can very well serve as a sanctuary to pray in.
It wasn’t until half-way through the services that it occurred to me that we were in some sort of ballroom (when you have to buy tickets, sometimes, or most of the time, you are not lucky enough to sit where everybody else sits to pray… they stick you in the basement or ballroom). In any event, there was a portable arc (closet) for the torahs and to the right and left, the bars covered w/ sheets. Directing in front of us was the dj booth. At least they didn’t have Jesus covered w/ a sheet like they did at one church I went to for high holy holidays back in 2005.

5. my brother [the one I like] won the fasting competition, yet again.
If there is one thing he can count on that he doesn’t know about, that is winning the fasting competition. My sister, lost as soon as she got to work, breaking her fast w/ a Diet Pepsi and a stick of gum. Rachy, just because there are no calories in either of those two things, does not mean that they count for fasting. I broke at 3:30 w/ some cheese n crackers so I could go running and my brother, I think might still be fasting since I am yet to hear from him. My parents on the other hand had an uneventful day and Jenny came out of the closet around 6:30. I have a funny feeling that my father had some hard candies in his suit pocket while in services but is yet to fess up about them.



Ketchup lata'.
:mirm

On One Penny

I have officially declared war on or should I say... boycotted a bodega on 29th and 7th ave in NYC. so this is how it went down. I bought some baked lays (desperate times call for desperate measures when needing some chips for a sandwich)... the bag of chips clearly read "99-cents". so I did what any customer would do... and gave the guy a dollar and then it happened, nothing. I stood there with my hand out looking like an idiot waiting for a penny, but you see it wasn't just about that penny. below is our conversation:

MIRM: excuse me sir?
MAN: you need a straw?
MIRM: for my chips??!?
MAN: no. nevermind.
MIRM: um sir?
MAN: yes. what can I help you w/?
MIRM: you owe me a penny.
MAN: for what?
MIRM: well, normally I would not be upset by not getting a penny back, but this bag clearly says it is only 99-cents which means you owe me a penny.
MAN: nobody takes that penny.
MIRM: well, I am entitled to it. I slave away during the day drawing and every penny kinda counts. it is not the penny, it is the principle.
MAN: it is just a penny.
MIRM: and 400 people a week, that is $4 for you! how is that fair?
MAN: it is just a penny.
MIRM: all im saying...
MAN: [handing MIRM penny] I will pay you a penny to leave.
MIRM: but it was my penny to begin w/!
MAN: next!!!


so I walked out with my penny in hand, but I have to ask you this, am I being cheap or just proving a very good point about people just pocketing unsuspecting pennies at our expense? hmmm...


Poupon is best.
:mirm

On not posting as often

call me an asshole, but I have decided to write daily to a select 200 of you. if you would like to read my daily blog... you must a)know my real name, b) know me through at least (4) people and c) beg. find me on myspace or facebook. I promise to start posting more rants when I can learn to put my camera down. and yes, I really DID get groped by a little person on the train. but she was so cute!!!


Poupon is best.
:mirm

On Meeting Tori Spelling?

so last night it happened. after 18yrs of wanting to express to Donna Martin just how I felt, that time finally came. what I didn't realize was that expressing my true feelings about her would not be so easy. I am currently training for the New York City triathlon with Team in Training. the way it works, we train, raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and race the triathlon at the end. basically, they should advertise, "lose weight and save lives!" it just so happened that one of you MIRM DIRT readers thought that because I talk about Tori Spelling everyday... that I really liked her. um. well. I like Donna Martin, for clarification's sake. so thank you to my favorite Schwartz for discovering that Tori Spelling was going to be doing a book signing right after our Team in Training practice last night.

nobody thought I was serious. in fact, I didn't think I was serious. to be even more Frank, I honestly didn't expect anybody to be line to meet Tori Spelling so somehow, someway, I found my way into Borders only to discover a fan club that could compete with Kathy Griffen's fan club. then it occurred to me. I had Tori Spelling [on the cover of people] in my bag! it was fate. so I stood in line. but it wasn't really "that" easy. you see, Tori's people established a few rules: 1) you have to buy Tori's new book [which reads slightly less better than a Judy Blum novel], 2) you have to stand in line, 3) you cannot step behind the table where Tori is sitting, 4) you cannot take pictures w/ Tori, only "of" her. I managed to violate all but #3.

so this is the thing. after I lied and said I left my brand new copy of her book at home, I thought, I should get her to sign my People magazine and I should sell it on EBay and donate the winnings to my fundraising. I was afterall wearing a huge Team in Training training vest. so I decided to stand in line w/ the rest of her fan club. what I encountered was worth volumes. I found myself standing in line w/ a lovely 40-something who went by Shar... not to be confused w/ Cher; although she did sport a do like Cher (circa Mask). Shar was so excited to meet me. in fact she couldn't stop telling me how much she LOVED Tori Spelling. I just couldn't be mean, so I decided to pretend like I was in Tori's fan club. you know why that was my second mistake? she asked me what my member name was. member name? are you [bleep] kidding me?!?!?!?


so w/ that I would like to tell you 10 things about getting Tori Spelling's John Hancock.

1) she has a fan club that could compete in numbers w/ Kathy Griften's fan club
was I the only person alive that thought for a split second that NOBODY would want Tori Spelling's john hancock? it took me 45min to get to the front of the line.

2) you have to purchase Tori Spelling's new book, that is... unless your name is MIRM
the best piece of clothing I have ever not paid for was my Team in Training/Leukemia and Lymphoma Society training vest. people automatically assume you are a great person. I mean, I am. never forget that. when the first Borders' employee explained I needed a book, BAM... I whipped Tori out of my bag and explained that I left my brand new copy at home and wanted to get my People magazine (thank you Patti from People) signed for charity. the woman in front of me who later decided I was her new bff told him I could stand in line w/ her. I was permitted to stand in line w/o my new copy of Tori's book. did I mention that i really don't own that book and if I did, I would request all ya'll to disown me.

3) my new not-really-bff Shar (pronounced like Cher but spelled differently AND not to be confused w/ Cher)
I was thankful to Shar (pronounced like Cher but spelled differently). it amazes me how some people can so perfectly emulate others. Shar looked almost exactly like Cher from the movie Mask (yeah, that one w/ Eric Stoltz... I know you know what I am talking about). Shar could not stop talking about how much she loved Tori Spelling. that she was in the 90210 fan club back in '90. only to humor her, I told her I was also! she then decided to tell me about all of her famously autographed books.

SHAR: I have Slash's new book. have you read that one yet?
MIRM: it is on my list, but not yet.
SHAR: he is like so AMA-ZING!
MIRM: he does have good hair.
SHAR: it's like I read it, got it signed and now it just sits. I have no clue wht to do w/ it.
MIRM: frame it in a plastic box, hang it on your bathroom wall above the toilet and in case of an emergency session in the bathroom, crack that puppy open.
SHAR: I don't have a puppy

4) Michael who was behind me
I'm sorry, not even Mr. Ammar would claim to be a Tori Spelling fan and surely he is a fan of Cher.

MIRM: so are you a Tori Spelling fan?
MICHAEL: no. I hate her.
MIRM: then might I ask, why you are standing in line behind me?
MICHAEL: I collect autographs.
MIRM: so let me get this right, you spent $24.95 + tax on Tori Spelling's new book, but hate her?
MICHAEL: I don't have her autograph yet.
MIRM: so will you read her book?
MICHAEL: are you [bleep] kidding me? I [bleep] hate her!
SHAR: how can you hate her? she is Tori Spelling! she is a G-D!
MICHAEL: I can hate whoever I want and I hate Tori Spelling.
MIRM: so how many autographs do you average a week?

5) the People magazine w/ Tori on the cover... I had w/ me
I recently moved and Tori got lost in the mail. she made her way back to my new apt last week w/ several "return to sender" stickers across the cover and her face. I felt as though it would be great for effect to leave them on. Shar proceeded to remove the one across her face. she thought it might hurt Tori's feelings. I couldn't have discovered a great friend like that at a Victoria Beckham grinding signing.

6) the friends who supported me in line.
if there is one thing I am great at, it is apparently convincing ten other people that I love Tori Spelling. I convinced these ten people to create a fuss every time I was stopped by the Borders' security book police for not having Tori's book and being in line. I posed for a few photos w/ Shar and Vanessa. and no, I did not give them my real email addresses

7) Shar trying to convince Tori's publicist that she was w/ Bust magazine.
for the record, my not-real new bff claimed to be both a rock star and a Starbuck's employee (nothing against those of you that work there, I could NEVER do that), yet neglected to tell me she wrote for Bust. or did she? I think the apron in her purse gave more light to the truth. so we get up there and Shar immediately says that she is w/ Bust and attempted to hug Tori, violating rule #3 and was escorted away from the book signing [with book in hand] by the Borders' security book police.

8) Tori was overwhelmed w/ my request.

MIRM: hi Tori. my name is miriam and i have been a fan of Donna Martin since 1990. I am training w/ Team in Training and would love to get your John Hancock on this cover of People magazine to sell for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. they raise money for Cancer research. I'm so sorry I left your book in the bathroom this morning.
TORI: [look to publicist]
MIRM: [looking at publicist]
TORI: I would love to sign People!
MIRM: can you please write "Go Team! New York City Triathlon 2008"
TORI: [writing out loud] G O T E A M! New York City. what was the rest?
MIRM: 2008
TORI: X O X Tori. there you go!
MIRM: don't forget the 2008 please
TORI: what is that?
MIRM: um, this year...
TORI: [handing People magazine to me] thank you for buying my book!

9) I am officially on reality tv!
they were filming Tori and Dean, In Love at the signing and got me on camera holding up my People magazine yelling "I did it! I did it!"

10) I said, "Tori Spelling is a wh*&e."

SHAR: so what do you think of Tori from back in the day?
MIRM: you want me to tell you my truth or the truth you want to hear?
SHAR: the truth I want to hear first.
MIRM: she is so talented and an amazing writer!
SHAR: what is the other?
MIRM: Tori Spelling is a whore because she [bleep] Brian Austin Greene and they were supposed to be virgins!!! I was mislead for so many years that Donna Martin was a virgin! she hardly was! she was a wh*&e living a double life!
SHAR: [silence]


YOU can own this piece of history now! tell my great story and bid away if you enjoyed these antics :)

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=140215058579

On Returning A Bagel

so there I am, at the Bagel Maven 5-minutes before i have to be in my morning status meeting, ready to pay and then it happened. I felt something in my hand which felt much lighter than normal. I looked down and to my amazement, had a bagel the size of a Lender's bagel (any of you Midwesterners KNOW exactly what I am talking about here). so naturally, I said something:

MIRM: um, excuse me.
CASHIER #1: yes? oh. $3.70 please.
MIRM: I hate to ask you this and please don't judge me, but is it me or did your bagels go on a diet?
CASHIER #1: eh. what is it you mean?
MIRM: this bagel in my hand. look how small it is! [holding up bagel]
CASHIER #1: [looking at bagel] you know. that does look small.
MIRM: so it isn't just me?
CASHIER #1: please hold, I will check other bagels. [walks away]
CASHIER #2: [looking at other bagels in basket] oh yes, that is very small. [to mirm] sometimes the weather, it make the bagels smaller.
MIRM: but it was 20-degrees on Tuesday vs. 31-degrees today and the bagels were twice as big.
CASHIER #2: hand me your bagel and can we offer you a different flavor?
MIRM: [momentarily confused] [hands bagel over] whole wheat please. and again, i'm sorry to have to return my bagel. I swear I haven't ever returned a bagel in my life!
CASHIER #3: [looking at the bagel] you are right, that bagel it very small. I don't blame you.
CASHIER #1: [to cashier #3] I do say, it is strange that nobody this morning say anything about the size their bagel.
CASHIER #3: I noticed but just let it go. if they want to ask, they ask. it just slow things down when they ask.
CASHIER #1: I don't buy what she say about the weather making them small like that.
CASHIER #3: why is that?
CASHIER #1: [pointing to mirm] she is right. it was cold much cold on Tuesday and they were twice the size!
CASHIER #3: but they are just bagels. why would they make them small like this?
CASHIER #1: maybe we ran out of dough.
CASHIER #3: oh. here she comes.
CASHIER #2: [handing mirm new bagel] here you go. whole wheat. have a good day.
MIRM: thank you. you too.

I think there is a conspiracy going on at the Bagel Maven. more details to come.

On Dropping Money in C-Town

I had a very hard time deciding what exactly to share w/ ya'll this morning and I feel that my experience at the C-Town in Park Slope last night cannot possibly be topped by any stories about questions my mother asked me about last night.

so there I am waiting in the express line at C-Town in Park Slope and after switching lines three times to pay for my one measily item, a can of solid white albacore tuna, I began to grow a bit frustrated. the couple in front of me, combined w/ the cashier could not possibly bag their groceries any slower. one. two. three people to pack 10 items or less, or so I had to assume given the sign above my head. to be quite honest, my grandmother, who incidently is in a retirement home, can use the bathroom faster than these three people bagging 10 items or less... and SHE USES A WALKER! so then it came... my turn! the cashier rings up my one item and I paid w/ a five. as she gave it back to me, the anxious man behind me shoved forward and a breeze of sorts knocked one of my bills onto the ground at the EXACT moment he shoved forward and that one dollar bill got caught beneath his crusty, black velcro shoe.

MIRM: [looking at man] exsuse me... sir?
MAN: [blank stare pretending to not understand me]
MIRM: sir, I believe you have my dollar bill caught under your shoe.
MAM: [looks down at his shoe] I do.
MIRM: can you please lift your shoe so I can pick it up?
MAN: [looks at shoe, then to me, then back to shoe, then to the cashier and back to me] how do i know it is yours?
MIRM: because if i were to show you my receipt and the remaining cash in my hand, you would be able to determine that i am exactly one dollar short.
MAN: [looks at cashier, then to me] how do you know the cashier didn't give you the wrong change?
MIRM: [eyebrows locked into confused position] are you serious?
MAN: do i look serious?
MIRM: i do not think the cashier would want to steal my dollar. you. you not lifting your foot... that is stealing my dollar bill!
CASHIER: whatchoo talkin 'bout! i dont be stealin!
MIRM: [to the cashier] I know that.
MAN: I don't steal.
MIRM: then what do you call [pointing to his shoe] my dollar under your shoe?
CASHIER: sir you best lift your foot and give the lady her bill back.
MIRM: please?
MAN: no.
MIRM: pretty please?
CASHIER: [shouting] I need a manager please!!!
MIRM: no! no! he can have the dollar. [staring at man] I am going to be a bigger person here and not waste my time fighting for a freagin' dollar bill.
MAN: so it isn't yours?
MIRM: [realizing the man is crazy and could possibly murder me] it's yours now.
CASHIER: mam?
MANAGER: what is the problem here?
MIRM: [walking away while giving a stink eye] have a good night.

so in the end, that can of tuna cost me $2.69. bummer.

On Mister Softee

have you ever had one of those days where you really feel like getting Starbucks but then notice a Mister Softee on the street corner and say to yourself, "mmmmm... scooter crunch. mmmm...... I want one!"? well, I did.

so my friend and I walk over to the Mister Softee truck on the corner of 31st and 7th and I asked MISTER SOFTEE a question. I mean, you are entited to do so! ok, so, I was curious to see which had more calories and fat: a lite Java Chip Frap or a chocolate Scooter Crunch bar. so one of my friends is food allergies, and I figured I could borrow her tactic for reading labels on food in this situation to avoid looking like a pompous ass for reading my calorie intake.

MIRM: [smiling] hello, how are you today?
MISTER SOFTEE: [blank stare]
MIRM: well, it sure is warm for October! if my computer, watch and cell phone didn't have calendars, I would swear on it being August!
MISTER SOFTEE: [blank stare]
MIRM: [pointing] can I please see the back of the Scooter Crunch, oh I mean chocolate Eclair Bar?
MISTER SOFTEE: it is kosher.
MIRM: [confused about MISTER SOFTEE calling her out for being a Jew] that's not why I'm asking, but I will be sure to tell other Jews that they are kosher.
MISTER SOFTEE: then why you want to see the package?
MIRM: I have food allergies.
MISTER SOFTEE: foop what?
MIRM: food allergies.
MISTER SOFTEE: what do you have?
MIRM: I can die from eating certain things!
MISTER SOFTEE: have you eaten it before?
MIRM: yes, years ago at the Meadowbrook Country Club.
MISTER SOFTEE: then it is fine. it will be $2.50
MIRM: well, no. you see, I still need to read the back.
MISTER SOFTEE: I not take out of freezer. it 85-degree and it melt if I do.
MIRM: it won't melt. trust me. it is physically imp..
MISTER SOFTEE: [shouting] none for you! leave!
MIRM: [speechless]
MISTER SOFTEE: [shouting] LEAVE!
MIRM: [speechless]
MISTER SOFTEE: next!
MIRM: [turns to friend] that's it. turn around you are not getting any ice cream! let's go!
FRIEND: [confused] did MISTER SOFTEE just kick you off the street???

On Returning My Manicure

so I am 27-years old, Jewish and have never had a manicure. the story of my life right? not that this surprises any of you to say the least, but I have never had it in me to pay somebody to paint my nails when I could take that money and buy the cleaning staff at work a round of small lattes from the coffee cart around the corner.

so yesterday, I decided that I would take another step into becoming an adult/woman/normal homosapiean and get a manicure. I mean how bad could this possibly be? well, this is me, so you can only f*cking imagine how bad it could be.

so as we walked up the lovely nail salon, which incidently was called "Nail." yes, just "Nail." it is nestled quite nicely between two fur salons, not to be confused with nail salons. in any event, outside of Nail sat two bums that smelled like, what I like to refer to as "ass." they did not at all deter us from entering this salon.

so when you walk in, you are greeting in another language... that's quite alright, we got the point and picked out our colors and pulled out our money. now again, I had never had a manicure before this day and generally, you pay after you get your pedicure... so I had to assume that I was paying ahead of time so I didn't mess up my beautiful new paint job on my fingers. so my friend was taken to one end of the salon by the random guy in there (we assumed he was actually there to paint nails) and I was sat right in front of the open door so I could enjoy that nice fresh smell of ass. nothing beats smelling ass for a solid 20-minutes. I felt lucky. maybe it was an Asian thing kinda like how if a bird sh*ts on your head, it's good luck. maybe the smell of ass brings you love. hmmmmmm....

so my girl, she was cute. I mean cute as a f*cking button that spoke no English. no problem, I know plenty of other languages and why not give them a whirl? she didn't understand my hebrew, spanglish, spanish, yidddlish, jibberish, frenlish or english... but she DID understand this and that. one note, I would not recommend pointing while somebody is painting your nails. and she actually did understand the "oh g-d!" that came out of my mouth twice after getting hit w/ the ass stench and closed the front door.

so as she is painting them, I kept thinking, wow, she sure is missing a bunch of spots and thought that maybe it was just her strategy. then she moved on to my left hand and did the same. she then proceeded to put something else on my nails which didn't really smell right and they sorta glumped and then bubbled on top. I mean, being my first manicure and all, I just sorta went along w/ it. she walked me over to the dryer and I dried for a while.

so I get back to work and naturally look at my nails and realize there is something so not right about my new look. don't get me wrong, i do not love to complain, BUT when i can do a better job painting my nails in my sleep, i think that i have the right to march right back and explain to the ladies in the nail shop that the girl did a shotty job on my nails. so i did just as all of my co-workers expected, i went back over and explained that i would like to "return" my manicure. yes, this confused them and then it occurred to me that i needed to ask for a polish change. new lingo for me. they did not charge me and the other girl did a far more superior job and so i was never able to walk in that place again as i will always be remembered as the girl who really did return her manicure.

On The Dream Machine

I truly thought that I took the thrown for cheapness until I met this man. ya'll can never call me cheap after this story.


here is a preface. my roommate and I had a stoop sale this weekend (same thing as a garage/yard sale for you Buckeyes out there). one of our neighbors gave us some stuff to sell for her, one item being a "dream machine" from Sharper Image. yes, a "dream machine" which I am sure she used every bit of once and then decided it took up too much space in her apartment to even bother w/. that and the other neighbors thought there was always a hurricane moving through when it was turned onto the tropical mode.... so I would have to assume. sooooo... keep in mind that I a) had never used this before, b) didn't actually know if it worked, c) wasn't really quite sure what it was aside from a noise maker and d) determined to sell it so i didn't have to lug it up another 4 flights of stairs. enjoy.



MAN: [picks up Dream Machine] what is this?
MIRM: it appears to be a dream machine.
MAN: what is that?
MIRM: it makes noises like the ocean or crackling fire so maybe you dream of the ocean or a fire.
MAN: so if I cannot sleep, this will help me sleep?
MIRM: it isn't a sleep machine, it is a dream machine.
MAN: so I can dream of the ocean?
MIRM: you can dream of whatever you want, it is your mind not mine. the dream machine just makes noise that could potentially bring about dreams which in turn are more fun.
MAN: does it work?
MIRM: of course it does. if it didn't, I wouldn't be selling it.
MAN: can I turn it on?
MIRM: if there are batteries in there, of course.
MAN: where do the batteries go?
MIRM: [tilting head w/ confusion and taking the dream machine from MAN] under this cover. [opens it and turns to roommate] did you use these batteries for the remote again?
ROOMMATE: [w/ sacasm] oh, yeah. that was me. I did that. sorry.
MAN: [to ROOMMATE] did you ever use it?
ROOMMATE: we don't share a bedroom.
MIRM: sir, trust me it works.
MAN: can I bring it back if it doesn't work?
MIRM: it is $3 and this is a stoop sale. we do not take returns.
MAN: but what if it doesn't work?
MIRM: why would I be selling something that is broken?
MAN: why are you selling it then?
MIRM: because I want to free that space next to my bed. we live in NYC and space is precious.
MAN: I would like to return it if it doesn't work.
MIRM: listen, you can't. this is a stoop sale. you are getting a deal as is. take it or leave it.
ROOMMATE: sure you can bring it back!
MIRM: [giving ROOMMATE dirty eyeball] we will only be out here 20 more minutes.
MAN: you live in this building?
MIRM: no, we live in the one across the street. we just preferred this side cause of the sushi restaurant traffic.
MAN: I will take it.
MIRM: that will be $3.
MAN: I will be back if it doesn't work for a refund.
MIRM: if we are still out here, fine. if not, it's yours.
MAN: so is it not working properly?
MIRM: you paid. now please leave.
MAN: [puts dream machine in tote bag and walks away]
ROOMMATE: so we are shutting down 2hrs early?
MIRM: hell yeah, cause I have no clue if that stupid piece of crap works and I will be damned if I let that man return it!
ROOMMATE: you always have to win, don't you....

On The Cockroach In My Roommate's Room

so there I am this afternoon, taking advantage to my first day off from training this week and I'm just minding my own business watching my newly upgraded cable (hello Weeds!) and all of a sudden my room dashes out into the living room and disrupts my ass-sitting.

[pointing to her room]

ROOMMATE: there's... there's... there's a roach in my room.
MIRIAM: ok, question number one. how big was he?
ROOMMATE: like a softball I guess.
MIRIAM: well, then, we really ought to be on the phone to the world record people cause that buddy is gonna smash the record for the world's largest cockroach.
ROOMMATE: ok, not that big. but big.
MIRIAM: big like a softball? like a tennis ball? like a golf ball? like your hand? it is crucial that we determine just how big he was.
ROOMMATE: ummm, well he was on my arm and then I moved it and he flew off the bed and into the corner.
MIRIAM: question number two. is he still in the corner?

[we both proceed to tip toe into her room, and discover that clearly somebody was no longer in the corner]

MIRIAM: ok, it appears as though your roommate is playing hide n go seek w/ you.
ROOMMATE: you are not helping the situation.
MIRIAM: [high-fiving myself] that was pretty funny, so I thought. ok, it's not funny. cause now that roach is in your room and will be stirring up some trouble, looking for friends and pooing in your room this evening.

[we tip toe back out into the living room]

ROOMMATE: well what do I do now?
MIRIAM: we wait like they did in Gettysburg.
ROOMMATE: not solving the problem!
MIRIAM: surely the little f*cker will come back out to walk on your bed. let's give him some time. you probably scared the shit out of him. but from the sound of what I heard, you silently got scared cause I didn't hear shit come from you before you ran out of your room.

[10 minutes pass]

ROOMMATE: Miriam! Miriam! he's there! he's there!

[I get up off the couch and look into her room to discover a tiny little roach on her wall]

MIRIAM: oh yah. look at that. that sure is a roach and he's about the size of a band-aid. wow. you really don't ever see them that skinny and long. he must be the outcast in the tribe.
ROOMMATE: you have seen others?
MIRIAM: oh g-d no! I'm just saying, once I saw this squirrel w/ a skinny white tail and all the other squirrels had normal tails... the skinny white tail one kept trying to find nuts w/ the normal tailed ones and they kept running circles around him cause he was different. what a way to treat family I tell ya!
[nodding my head back and forth w/ disgust]
so you see, that roach, he sure is funny looking and I bet the other roaches made him the outcast in the tribe... which is why he is in your room and not in the crazy Cat Lady's apartment on 2. so to answer your question, no, I haven't seen others.
ROOMMATE: well we need to get him out.
MIRIAM: I will get the broom.
ROOMMATE: no! don't kill him!
MIRIAM: question number three... do you really wanna sleep w/ him in your room tonight?
ROOMMATE: tupperware?
MIRIAM: you want to save him as a pet?
ROOMMATE: no. catch him and release him
MIRIAM: [under my breath] yeah, i catch the little fucker and then let him take a dive into our swimming pool.
ROOMMATE: fine. you can kill him. but I have to take some things out before you do it.

[15 minutes later, and the roach is now a foot higher on the wall... make progress!]

ROOMMATE: ok.
MIRIAM: are you sure? cause your bed is still in your room. you took everything else out except for you bed.
ROOMMATE: you are not helping matters.
MIRIAM: ok. [grab the broom and walk into her room]
MIRIAM: ok you little f*cker. you wanna play? huh? [swing the broom a little] yeah! you see this... this is your doom! whatya gonna do???
ROACH: [says nothing, but wiggles his antennas at me like a motherf*cker]
MIRIAM: you wanna play? huh? BRING IT ON MOTHERF*CKER! BRING IT ON! [wave the broom at him again] pick a side bitch. you going right or left? either way you are mine! come on! move to the left!
ROACH: [says nothing, but wiggles his antennas at me like a motherf*cker]

MIRIAM: I am going to smmmmmaaaaassssshhhhh you biotch! smash you like the bug you are!

ROOMMATE: you know they don't understand english... right?

MIRIAM: it's for effect. come on, this just makes it more fun.
ROOMMATE: wait, let me put a towel on the bed.

[she puts towel on the bed]

MIRIAM: alrighty. you ready? are you ready to die motherf*cker? cause I'm a swinging!

[swings the broom and he flies off the wall and onto a shelf.
MIRIAM: [under my breath] oh no.
ROOMMATE: I heard that. oh no... what? did you get him?
MIRIAM: not exactly.
ROOMMATE: what do you mean???
MIRIAM: he is on your shelf, somewhere. no worries.

[moving stuff around, he crawls off the shelf and onto the floor. I swing the broom]

MIRIAM: DIE MOTHERF*CKER! DIE! [swinging broom] YEAH MOTHERF*CKER! DOOMESDAY! OH YEAH!
ROACH: [says nothing, wiggles one antenna]
ROOMMATE: not dead! not dead!
MIRIAM: [swinging broom] BAHM! OH YEAH! BAHM LIKE EMRIL'S NUTS!!!!

[there is a knock at our door]
[open door, neighbor standing outside]

NEIGHBOR: are you guys alright? we heard somebody screaming bloody murder and got worried.
ROOMMATE: oh no, that was Miriam and the cockroach which is now pulp on my floor. she won the battle. no worries.
NEIGHBOR: some battle. remind me to come to her when we have them.
ROOMMATE: you can have her. she is all your's. har har har. just kidding.

[neighbor leaves]
[calling out from bedroom]

MIRIAM: hey, can you please hand me a dust pan so I can scoop this little dead-all-over-your-floor-motherf*cker up?
ROOMMATE: sure.

On Non-Dumping In Public

people at work wonder why I am late. I am always 3 minutes late. there was the time the cable guy came and I made him a little breakfast while he fixed my cable... I mean the guy didn't have to go out onto my snow-covered roof to replace a line that some little f*cking pot smoking shit tripped over while high because he thought was Indiana F*cking Jones getting chased by the boogie men, but he did. while that cable guy did not speak the best of english, he sure did understand sunny-side-up and hot chocolate. so I believe in karma, shoot me. no really don't; I don't have my will drawn up yet!

so today, I was, yet again late. I couldn't use the excuse that there was subway traffic, or that there was an "investigation" on my train, or that Cash Cab drove by and I just "had" to chase it down... unsuccessfully, or that I was kidnapped and taken hostage until I gave up my sack lunch... today I had a real, legit excuse... I got into a fight w/ the garbage man.



[enter scene]8:10AM

I was walking down the street holding a little baggie w/ the trash from my breakfast, which I was eating as I walking to the train...


GARBAGE MAN: [pointing at me] would you like me to take that?
MIRIAM: [excited at the gesture] oh, why that would be just fantastic!
GARBAGE MAN: [takes my little baggie of garbage] you know this is illegal.
MIRIAM: is there something in that baggie that I am unaware of sir?
GARBAGE MAN: yeah, garbage.
MIRIAM: not to ask an idiotic question here, but how is my garbage illegal?
GARBAGE MAN: it's illegal because it is the city garbage can.
MIRIAM: well where else am I supposed to throw my garbage? not to point out the obvious... but this sticker [pointing to sticker] clearly states, "Pitch In! Keep New York Clean." so therefore if I took that baggie which you so kindly just took from me and were to drop it on the sidewalk, that would not only be an action against what that sticker [pointing] says, but I would also be "breaking the law." I would be littering. I would not be pitching in as Mayor Bloomberg would ask me to do.
GARBAGE MAN: you are breaking the law.
MIRIAM: which one?
GARBAGE MAN: using a public trashcan.
MIRIAM: well, where am I supposed to throw my baggie if not in this garbage can which so clearly states for me to pitch it in?
GARBAGE MAN: the garbage can in your apartment.
MIRIAM: so let me get this right. if I am walking down the street, on my way to work, and decide, "hey, I'm gonna eat my breakfast on my way to the train!" that after I finish my breakfast, I have to walk 6 blocks and 4 flights of stairs back to my apartment and use my own garbage can?
GARBAGE MAN: yes.
MIRIAM: [arms up in air] woah. woah. woah.
[2 people stop to listen]
MIRIAM: that is like saying that I can only shit in my own toilet and if I have to go at any other point in the day, that I have to collect my own shit in a bag and take it home where I should further, empty my shit bag into MY toilet and flush it on down.
GARBAGE MAN: [nodding head] that is not what I am saying.
MIRIAM: well, then what are you saying?
GARBAGE MAN: I could give you a ticket for throwing your garbage in this can. but I won't today.
MIRIAM: so what happens if I use the one on the other side of the street?
GARBAGE MAN: I could give you a ticket for using that one also.
[man walks up and tosses an orange juice carton into the garbage we are standing in front of]
MIRIAM: [outraged and pointing to man crossing street] did you see that???
GARBAGE MAN: yes. that man was throwing away his orange juice carton.
MIRIAM: now how the hell is that any different than my baggie w/ 2 yolks and a banana peel which I ate while walking down the street?!??
GARBAGE MAN: it was in a baggie. that is called "dumping"
MIRIAM: I am late for work and you DO NOT want me to even begin to explain what "dumping" really is.

[exit scene] 8:13AM

On Trying to Fool Me

so yesterday was my 22nd most favorite days of the year. it was the day which, in the event I missed the 5th Ave street fair in Park Slope... the day as I like to call the "make-up 5th Avenue Street Fair in Park Slope." basically, they take the exact same shit, handbags, corn and sausages and place them on 7th avenue instead of 5th avenue. so naturally, I just had to stroll down to yet again, compare each fair to see which one was really better.

now, I am, well, smarter than I appear. this may seem hard to believe to most of you, but really, when it comes to claiming the authenticity of something, I CANNOT be fooled. case in point: freshly squeezed lemonade.

if there is one thing that ya'll know about me aside from the fact that I prefer pizza over sex, it's that I love a great bargain. in fact, I will go great lengths to ensure that I am getting the best possible bargain or price on something. so as I am walking down 7th Avenue I started to get thirsty. naturally, you would too because it sure was a scorcher yesterday (not that Al Roker even came close to predicting that... what a douche bag). so to my left, to my right, to my diagonal left, to my diagonal right, behind, and in front of me, every last schmuck on the street was drinking lemonade. so I decided that I wanted to get me some also. I began at 9th street.

stand #1
there was the sweetest nice little Mexican lady sweating through her fishnet hair holder standing there and I asked her how much for a cup of freshly squeezed lemonade and she replied, "$4." naturally, I gave her a confused dirty eyeball as my jaw dropped and replied, "Oh no. why no thank you. but thank you. I mean, not that I don't want your freshly squeezed lemonade, it is freshly squeezed, right? um, I will be back."

stand #2
there appeared to be two different types of freshly squeezed lemonade at this stand, one was well, yellow like it ought to be and the other was pink. I cannot tell you how excited I got when I saw the pink lemonade. I asked the nice Chinese man how much, and to my disappointment, he said $4. this time, I just said no thank you.

stand #3
$3

stand #4
$4

stand #5
$2 (and for whatever cheap-ass reason, I was convinced as my father would encourage me to do, I was convinced freshly squeezed lemonade existed for only a buck.

stand #6
$5 (I didn't have the energy to even explain to the people to my left that had they reversed up to 3rd street, that they could have saved $3/per cup. oy!

stand #7
$2. I decided this would be my best bet. the line was long, the Chinese ladies and one man looked nice in clad in their red plaid aprons and blue visors. there was an enormous jug on the table that said Lemon. this was it. here is my conversation I had w/ the nice Chinese man:

ME: hello, how much for your freshly squeezed lemonade?
MAN: $2
ME: ooh! SOLD! I will take one. but, sir, can I ask you, is it freshly squeezed?
MAN: what you mean?
ME: did you squeeze the lemons to make it?
MAN: it lemonade! of course!
ME: so it is freshly squeezed then?
MAN: yes, give me $2
ME: thank you very very very much and have a good day!

I walk away, take a sip and then it happened. now you cannot fool me. really. don't even try. that sip took me back to the lemonade they used to serve at Meadowbrook Country Club. it was the exact same thing. it was Country Time Lemonade. now don't get me wrong, that is good shit. but after I had just walked 12 blocks and endured 30minutes of trying to find the best priced "freshly squeezed lemonade" I wasn't about to stand for this. so I went back.

ME: excuse me sir? um, this lemonade is not freshly squeezed.
MAN: I dont know what you talking about.
ME: well you see sir, I am very very familiar w/ quite an assortment of powder mix lemonades and this one is Country Time Lemonade. down to a tee!
MAN: it is 5:15.
ME: thank you.

yeah, so I walked away and it wasn't ever a thought of mine to return the lemonade, I just had to make a point that he was claiming that it was "freshly squeezed lemonade" when in fact it was hardly f*cking freshly squeezed. I just assumed he heard exactly what I said because everybody in the f*cking world has head of Country Time Lemonade... I'm gonna assume he knew exactly what I meant and chose to just tell me what time it was. I do have to give the man some credit. that was a good comeback.-

On Triathlon Tips

so I did a triathlon this weekend. allow me to point out a few things which you should consider in the event that putting yourself through hell just might become an option in your near future:


1) the poo before


I woke up an hour earlier than my friend snoring on my couch just to take a poo. if you have ever done any sort of race, you know that this is the standard practice beforehand. after a hot cup of hot chocolate, a bowl of oatmeal and watching my friend scarf down two bowls of oatmeal, a pork ramen-noodle, a shrimp ramen-noodle and a cup of coffee... my poo still wouldn't budge.


2) music before.


Tracy Chapman is not appropriate motivational music before a triathlon. allow me to also add Tori Amos to that list. my [straight] male friend was convinced otherwise. it was the longest hour and half ride at 5AM EVER!


3) Don't make your poo at the race.


oh no, no, no I wish... but MINE was apparently "hiding" and did not make an appearance until about 12 hours after the race. but allow me to suggest that you NEVER use the bathrooms at the race because every last person, their mothers, their fathers and any other last f*cking f*ck there... will have dropped their kids in the pool before you only leaving you to walk into a chamber of poo smell. and nobody likes poo smell.


4) Lube/Body Glide


ok, so you really aren't supposed to call the "Body Glide" "lube"... but I couldn't resist walking up to my coach and asking him to "lube me up." you have to "lube" pretty much any part of your body that is not covered so you can slide in and out of your wetsuit pretty easily and avoid chaffing... which is never pleasant.


5) wetsuits and helping others


no matter how hard you try to yank your teammate's wetsuit up high enough, you will not give her a wedgie or came-ltoe. nor will she be amused by you trying to accomplish such a feat.


and on another wetsuit note... I told the man standing to my right before we sprinted into the lake that I was really Wonder Woman in disguise and that I would show him the big W on my chest after the race. apparently, he thought I was serious when he asked me after the race to show him my chest. I'm still laughing at that one. no not really. for real I'm not. but I can fly.


6) transition timing


you are supposed to make the "transition" from the water to the bike and the bike to the road less than 3 minutes. I managed to do this in a little over a minute... my male friend on the other hand, somehow took about 6 minutes. we are still trying to figure out if he was having a snack, lubing up or trying to pick up a girl in the transition area.


7) the bike ride chatter


as I learned the hard way, people are not very "chatty" on the bike part... especially if you are doing a 1.5-mile climb up a steep hill w/ 90% humidity. so the man next to me starts screaming in pain about his calves going into spasms. I first noticed that he was 52 years old, that being he was a lot older than me (they write your age on your calves), I then noticed he had a red bike like mine, and finally I noticed he had calves of steel and proceeded to tell him that they looked "great" to my dismay, he exchanged a few words w/ me which clearly left me w/ the impression that I should not try to joke around w/ anybody else on that hill. no sense of humor buddy! no sense of humor!


8) the refueling on the run


allow me to suggest the following... only if you are certain that something is actually water, then you can dump it on your head. if it is RED it is CLEARLY not water and the person running next to you [me] doesn't want to run the remaining 3miles w/ RED liquid sticking to my legs because you dumped it on your head w/o noticing that RED is not CLEAR.


9) on the marker they used on my body


I can understand why they write my number on my hands and why they wrote my age on my calves... but what I don't understand is after taking 3 showers and using up a good portion of my new bar of soap... what I cannot understand is why they have to use a marker that doesn't come off of my skin. so now I have two options for tomorrow... either a) wear long pants or b) wear shorts or a skirt or capris and let the world know what my real age is.


10) I am doing the NYC triathlon July 22nd. mark your calendar and come cheer me on at the finish line in Central Park. and in case you forgot why I am doing the NYC triathlon, please visit this link: http://www.active.com/donate/tntnyc/mweiskind and donate if you haven't yet done so already. [wink] [wink] and for those of you that have donated, give yourself a high-5 for supporting cancer research. woot!!

On the Most Disturbing Toes in NYC

ok so I can admit, sometimes I take it a little to far. but this morning, it was sooooooooo worth it.

it is that time of year. that time of year where every last f*cking female, metrosexual male and well, male trying to resemble a female... that time of year where they feel inclined, wait, not inclined, f*cking obligated to free their little piglets for all of free world to gawk at w/ excitement. for starters, I will admit that I am far from what some people would call a foot-fetisher (it's a word in my dictionary).

now what I saw this morning, was rare. I mean rarer than hitting two prizes in a single cereal box (back in the day when that sorta thing still existed for children before children began eating the g-d damned f*cking cereal prizes... I did once in a box of Frosted Flakes©!). ok, so what I saw was, well, uncommon to put it out there. so I am sitting on the subway reading the latest collection of Sedaris rants when this "person" sat next to and on me. granted this "person" was CLEARLY too large to fit between the person to my left and myself, this "person" just sat on my left thigh and the edge and then slid herself back into the seat, squishing me into the hard metal bar to my right. sure, there is nothing better in the morning than drinking a latte, holding a novel, listening to the Shins and then not only being sat on, but then non-voluntarily hugging a petri-dish of germs on a metal bar which every other last f*cking person in NYC grasps onto while riding on the subway. sure, I haven't been sick in 3 weeks and I really AM wanting a day off. so as I attempted to free my left thigh, I saw them. I saw what no human should ever see. what no dog should ever cross. what should be in textbooks for podiatrists to learn all about. I saw a woman w/ 7 toes. 7 toes. 7 toes? 7 toes. now, I did take the time over the next 14 minutes of my ride to count all 7 of this "person's" toes and well, every time, I counted 7. I just had to be sure that my father didn't send me the wrong prescription contacts again. a few things did run through my head as I sat there counting. I wondered if it was like getting crapped on by a bird, meaning, lucky to have 7 toes. I wondered if this "person" has to get extra-wide shoes to fit that 7-toed right foot. I wondered if the extra 2 toes hurt the other toes by nestling between and on top of them. I wondered why 3 were one length, 3 were a lot longer and then there was a somewhat normal big toe. I wondered if this "person" ever considered being a toe donor for other Latina women how lost one of their piglets. I wondered if this "person" got more toe jam on that foot. I wondered if this "person" was a talented dancer like those people who have extra fingers become talented pianists. I wondered if this "person" ever tried to wear one of those socks that is like a pair of gloves. I wondered what it was like for the poor little Asian lady who gave this "person" a pedicure. I wondered if this "person" actually knew that she had 2 extra toes. then she noticed I was looking at her feet. so what did I do next? I pretended to be sleeping w/ my eyes open. it is possible. she gave me a dirty eyeball and I quickly moved across the car to an empty seat right across from her.

so what I did next, my sister would give me the medal of honor for accomplishing. I threw all of my tact and respect out the window, whipped out my cell phone and well, as soon as she began to read her dumb-ass Danielle Steel novel, I did it. I got a picture. I mean how could I ever tell people this story and not have some evidence of what I encountered on the N train at 9:37AM? now I really wasn't sure what the other two people sitting next to me were really thinking. were they thinking I was a total f*cking f*ck of a f*ck for taking the photo? or were they just as astonished as I was just 14 minutes ago that they were sitting across from a person w/ 2 extra toes on one foot!? I don't think they even noticed nor gave a rat's ass. this "person" quickly looked up at me as though I had been arguing outside of my head w/ myself and I quickly pretended to be sleeping w/ my eyes open, again, until she got off at 14th street.

On What I Discovered in the Bathroom

so the bathrooms at work are, well to say the least, moderately not always as clean as my own bathroom at home. well to be perfectly honest, the tp at work is a bit softer and I still cannot figure out which brand they buy. what amazes me is this, there are (5) individual bathrooms at work... all in a row except for the one in the freight elevator. I personally prefer that one for (2) reasons, 1) the watermelon hand soap which was mixed [by the cleaning ladies] w/ some random generic creamy yellow soap that moisturizes, 2) the ample space to do jumping jacks when I am looking for anything other than work to pre-occupy my mind. there is the bathroom, which we [the women] are not encouraged to use due to the fact that there is only a urinal to pee in... I like to walk in there and wash my hands just because... well because I am entitled to use it are the rest of the people w/ penises in the office. not that the guys I work w/ are penises, they all just have penises. yes, they all do. I mean not that I know for fact, purely by assumption here. in any event, please let me get to the point of this rant.

today, I used the first bathroom, the long one that resembles a long white tiled hallway w/ a really hot pipe that is just too close to the toilet. I mean it is so close, that if you are one of "those" who squat (which is not me unless I'm sober and in a bar)... but one of those who squat, you can easily lean to far forward as you are trying your damndest not to dribble down your leg, onto your jeans, down your sock and into a puddle on the floor... that you can rest your head on the pipe and burn yourself. personally there ought to be a warning sign in there for the squatters or the plain stupid people that like to touch the pipe because they think it just might not be... well, hot. so today, I used this bathroom because I had to pee so badly that I thought I really wasn't gonna make it to the freight elevator. so as I walked over to the toilet, I did the "swipe for the drip" wipe (this is a practice which I have been forced to perform after countless number of times where I was popping a squat on top of a squatter's drip... and ya'll know what I am talking about here). so there I am sitting on the toilet, tempting myself to touch that hot pipe... when I noticed it. somebody had done a "wipe and miss." now a "wipe and miss" is just as it sounds. it is when somebody wipes and then misses the bowl, leaving their wad dirty tp on the ground, next to the toilet, for the whole world to observe. so I just sat there and thought to myself two things: 1) that's a lot of tp for one person and one wipe, and 2) that person certainly looks dehydrated. so I took some tp from the roll, wiped, tossed it into the toilet, flipped the lid down and proceeded to flush using my foot (as my mother always taught me to do). I then stood there and contemplated picking up the "wipe and miss" wad of tp. I walked over to the sink, washed my hands w/ the stinky-ass yellow dial soap, took a paper towel, dried my hands, opened the door, turned off the light and shut the door behind me.

for the record, I was not the "wipe and miss" nor did I feel entitled to pick it up, rather, I left it there for others to observe and contemplate what the proper thing to do, would be.

On the Russian Seder

If there is one language I truly cannot fake, I learned tonight, that was Russian it. My two dialects of Spanish are starting to suffer, my Yiddish sounds like it is unmistakably from Ohio, and my Hebrew, well let's just say is now worth as much as my father paid for it 14 years ago (like most Jews, I can read it to myself, in my head, but not really too well aloud all while not understanding a lick). for some odd reason, the whole room of Russians thought I would be perfect to read the questions for the seder. no worries, I had another one and a half Russians as my vocalists.

I have to say this, Russians really know how to throw one hell of a seder. I mean sure, I could be enduring the 7-hr seder with my parents all while wanting to shoot myself in the process from how terrible the food turns out when a certain non-blood related wife in my family (and I'm not talking about the dog) prepares the seder meal... but I chose not to this year; actually more like, I was saved [by my Russian friend]!

so I walked into my Russian friend's family's pad in Brighton Beach and before me stood the most fantastic Jewish-hors d'oeuvres platter I have ever seen in my entire life. I mean come on, I grew up in Ohio where a pickle plate w/ some nuts and raspberry rings would be the standard "starter." so the platter had what appeared to be a bunch of meats, pickled tomatoes (which my Russian friend pointed out, so I wouldn't be caught off guard w/ a strange tasting tomato in my mouth and then desperately needed to spit it out because I could have thought it just tasted funny and just been scared about tainted tomatoes over it)(and I did swallow and it was soooo f*cking mmmmm mm good), another strange meat with a clear gooey lining and some fancy non-stinky cheeses... ALL on a single toothpick! how her mother got all of that to stay on the toothpick is beyond me. my mom has trouble coordinating peas and carrots all in one bowl!

as we started to get comfortable my Russian friend forewarned me that everybody was, well, Russian. I was not shocked to say the least. all of these adorable little Russian people kept filing in one right after another. I swear her parents could start their own secret cute little Russian congregation. I mean don't get me wrong, my family is half Russian, yet the most Russian thing my grandmother cooks is jello w/ green peas and I am not even sure if that is Russian.

one of the early pivotal moments I had w/ myself before the seder started was the conversation I had w/ the blonde haired lady about how my Russian friend's dog was licking the floor and my Russian friend's mom wasn't gonna need to mop later that night. I then explained to her how dogs are just so useful like that, then I asked her how she liked the wine [that had a cork broken and further, strategically shoved into the bottle so it could strained into a glass sans most of the cork bits... that was my Russian friend's father who saved that bottle... thank G-D!], then I told her how nice the apartment and incredible view were, then I went on and on about how cute my Russian friend's parents were. she nodded, made a little noise and smiled as her heavy glasses kept trying to plunge off of her face, lensup, into the sink. it wasn't until about 5 minutes later that my Russian friend explained to me that a) she was the maid and b) she didn't speak a lick of English. imagine that.

the other pivotal moment was when I kept trying to shut the door so Elijah couldn't interrupt the seder, not that I realized that that was why the door was open but it was supposed to stay open and eventually, it did not close, not even after I tried to close it after the seder. as my father always says to shut the door when I leave cause I wasn't born in a barn [to his knowledge].

now Russians sure know how to set the table. our table had the following things on it: (2) bottles of sparkling water, (1) bottle of red wine, a bowl of silver fish missing their heads (and I never found them), (2) plates for each person, lemon jello w/ chicken on the bottom, silverware, guilt fish, chorused, (2) wine glasses (1) water glass (1) shot glass for each person, some heads, potato salad w/ peas and pickles, unsalted matzo, orange jelly in the shape of little tiny balls, some red sauce w/ chunks, a nice linen napkin [one for each], and the random plate of matzo koogle somebody left on the table in a nice Russian man's spot (he ate w/ it sitting there almost til the end... that was when the blonde lady who didn't speak a lick of English cleared it from his place).

I have to say this, it wasn't "lemon" jello w/ chicken at the bottom. and sure, I thought that that was a strange combination, but how could I doubt a Russian in room full of Russians?? it was chicken flavored jello w/ chicken on the bottom! was it possible that all the other Russians in the community bought all of the strawberry and cherry jellos? my Russian friend told me it was on purpose and not to eat it. I couldn't help myself and a split second later she was nodding her head because I had a spoonful in my mouth. if you ask me, I honestly think it is a brilliant strategy for an easier way to eat chicken soup!

the orange jelly in the shape of little tiny balls was not orange jelly and might I encourage ya'll to not eat it the next time you go to a Russian seder. that is all i want to say about that.

I took it upon myself to try anything and everything except for the lox and the orange jelly in the shape of little tiny balls. wine really opens me up to new things like chopped livers. I am not sure how chopped livers are supposed to taste, but had I ever tried cat food, I think that they would taste pretty much like the same damn thing. why Jews eat cat food is entirely beyond me.


so the whole seder sounded like this, a ton of Russian, some English from the kids table, the pitter patter of the dog's paws racing back and forth at the intentional drop of plate-fuls of food from the adult table, some more Russian, a moment of Hebrew, my Russian friend translating for us, and then some more Russian from the adult table. I do not remember the egg part nor washing my hands... but again, the Russians really know how to keep a low par and get straight to the main (4) meals.

the kicker of the whole seder was this. so we all had (2) plates set for the meal. after the first (3) appetizers (including the matzo ball soup, which might I add my Russian friend's mother made the firmest and most flavorful [matzo] balls I have ever had!), every time, that blonde haired lady would take the little plate, rinse it and place it back in front of us on the bigger plate. so when all of the meats were served, (1) at a time, again, the little plate was taken away and brought back in time for the meat to slop the little f*cker up. then when we were done, she cleared both plates! is this a weird Russian thing where you don't dirty up the bottom plate so you look like a clean eater or just a way to not really use a dish so you can place it back into the cupard?

we never did find the afikomen.

On Hot Chocolate and NYC

It was one of those days. One of those days where your day starts off teeth chattering, toes cold and not just really wanting to roll out of bed. I rolled out of bed at 7:30 AM and then proceeded to cook my special chili at 7:45 AM only to not amuse my roommate, rather, scare her. I mean, I really don’t see anything wrong with cooking chili this morning. Sure it wasn’t even 8AM and I was just chopping away at the white onion that was “lingering” for a two weeks and being the cheap Jew that I am, found it entirely necessary in order to salvage that onion, cook chili at 7:45AM. My roommate rolled out into our kitchen/living room/bathroom/entrance and just gave me a blank stare, as though I were breaking some weird “house” rule about not cooking chili before the sun peaks a certain point above the clouds.

There is something to be said about those of us that are have our balls stuck up our asses and are just too f*cking afraid of confrontation… that we let it run our f*cking lives. Or perhaps I should say ruin.

Everyday, I look forward to two things, 1) peeing right after I wake up; there aren’t enough words to truly express how sensational of a feeling it is to pee after you slept for 6 hours, dreaming about having to pee, thinking that you already went and then to only wake up and realize that you haven’t yet peed and then finally peeing. 2) my hot chocolate. Note to the rest of the world: in NYC hot chocolate comes from a little person in a little cart that tears open a package and dumps the contents into a cup with the portraits of 4 guys from New Jersey who happen to practice law and can get you what that lying, cheating piece of shit from Staten Island owes you in the settlement; the hot chocolate is not only from a Swiss Miss packet, but some carts… carry dark chocolate and Silk milk; generally speaking, it is served with milk and sugar in addition to the packet of hot chocolate; the kicker, you pay a whopping $0.75 for a small! That is a bargain. I’m such a Jew.

So I have my little cart I love to go to and once, stood behind Julia Roberts as she ordered a large coffee, black and in a bag. Julia Roberts. I sort of froze in line behind her and was just in awee and really wanted to comment on how shitty of a dirty slut she was in Dying Young. A cock-tease I tell ya. And for those of you who have seen this movie, ya’ll know what I am talking about. I didn’t tell her. I just stood there and enjoyed standing that close to somebody who should never be ordering coffee from a coffee cart. But you see, my coffee cart isn’t exactly your average cart. The world’s cutest, shortest Mexican lady works in there and she uses a ladder to reach the window. I would have pegged her to be a midget, but she is really just a perfectly shorter than your average short Mexican woman type of woman. I am convinced of this, she only knows 10 words of English. How the f*ck do I know this? Well, let me put it to you like this, not that I was “trying” to get my hot chocolate for free and I didn’t get that hot chocolate for free… but one day, she gave me a hot chocolate w/ bad milk. Spoiled. Straight up like it just went bad in Jersey and still made it across the river in her cart. So I said to her, “Hello there. How are you this morning? It sure is cold out here. Just thought I would let you know that your milk was bad yesterday. Spoiled bad.” She responded, “Oh it is a beautiful day today!” clearly, she didn’t understand my English. My co-worker told me I should just talk to her in Spanish, because I can… personally, I just don’t feel right, throwing around Spanish as if it were my own native language.

So then comes this week. I am not sure what the f*ck happened to her, but she is all mixed up like a can of party mix nuts. I ALWAYS order, milk no sugar. Granted that the other five carts near work, all of the men think I ALWAYS want more sugar and no milk, not the case… which is why I go to her! She put a shit-ton of sugar in and no milk. I mean it is not like I want cavities. The mix is pure f*cking sugar as is and I sure as shit do not need to be bouncing off the f*cking walls at work. I didn’t say a word to her about her mix up, I figured, ok, so we all have a bad day. Some of us forget to tie our shoe or wipe our ass or put our contacts in. it happens. So then, when I got to work and went to sip the overly sweetened cup of hot chocolate, it tasted like rat poison!

Case in point, I have NEVER eaten or had rat poison to drink. It just sorta tasted what I have always envisioned it to taste like. Not that I ever really dreamed of tasting rat poison, but we all have an idea in there somewhere. Yeah. So anyhow, I dumped out my hot chocolate and just dealt w/ a morning w/o my hot chocolate.

The next morning rolls around, and the same thing happened again. And it’s not like you can just say, “Excuse me, no sugar, just milk please.” To the little Mexican short lady who has been serving the hot chocolate to you for the past 3 months. So what did I do? I went to work, took a sip, convinced myself, yet again it was rat poison and proceeded to once again, waste another cup of hot chocolate. That was $1.50, down the drain! I could have bought a box for that price!

So rather than confronting her, I made a point to catch a different train which would in turn land me on a different spot near work where I could find a new coffee cart. It must be fate or bad luck or just by chance that the cart I tried, after asking for hot chocolate and further, watching the little Indian man prep my hot chocolate, that when I got to work and took a sip, it was coffee w/ milk, no sugar. My boss took it away from me because he was very worried about the idea of me having too much caffeine that early in the morning.

So what is my point here? You can’t ever win. And if you wanna be cheap, you lose any remote possibility for drama at 9:50 in the morning, Monday thru Friday. Perhaps I should just wear a hat that says: Hot Chocolate, no Sugar, but Milk PLEASE.” I'll do anything to avoid confrontation. anything.

On Britney Spears Coming and Going, Coming and Going

so for the first time in my life, while wearing my clothes, I feel desired. not because I have a full head of hair or a shower w/ hot water or even a drop of red wine waiting for me after I endure a long, hard workout tonight, but because one of you [not my shadow], asked why I haven't donated any of my time to Britney. well the reason is simple, I just can't keep track of her because she is in and out of rehab like my dad after a bad bought w/ Chinese food. and on the note of rehab, I just don't understand what that really is. I have seen a lot of movies and in the movies they require paperwork, which as far as When A Man Loves A Woman demonstrated... you cannot check out of rehab unless Andy Garcia gets the call. and when you leave rehab, you are all messed in the head. Meg Ryan fell in love w/ Phillip Seymore Hoffman (who certainly is not a cup of tea, if I drank tea). in any event, you get my point about being able to check out of rehab, it certainly doesn't seem as easy as she is making it to be and to be frank about it, she is misleading the world by making young meth-addicts believe rehab is a) that easy, b) lasts only one day, and c) they will get to bunk w/ Lindsey Lohan.

and so allow me to move onto my next point about Britney, her hair. am I the only person alive that wishes I had $1 million dollars so I could clone my entire family w/ her hair? perhaps my vast, sick knowledge of modern technology and science lend great ideas like cloning a bakers dozen of Britney Spears in Malaysia. and yes, I am convinced that Malaise is where they are cloning people as we speak. so she shaved her hair off. is this a surprise? I mean I have been dying my hair brown to conceal my jewishness for 26 years and I know exactly what her roots were going through. had she not whacked that shit, she would have had a clown cap a month from now. so I firmly believe, that she was brilliant to whack it and start over because she is saving about $10K a month in shampoo, conditioner, extensions, hair dye and a hair dresser. perhaps I am just cheap.

so she is losing her sanity in the public eye. I feel sorry for her. I really do. I cannot imagine ya'll getting to witness me losing my sanity every morning while picking out and outfit for the day AND an outfit for the gym or whether or not I shoud be using the little fork or the big fork for my cottage cheese while eating breakfast.

should we feel like assholes for refreshing our browsers to read the latest breaking news on her whereabouts? or that there are now sections of sites dedicated to just that cause? not really. but really, a little bit, we ought to. personally, I did not mind the distraction from the fight over who gets to embalm Anna Nicole's body, but now I have started to crave Lindsey's whereabouts. oy.

so, that is my two cents. so have some respect for people you do not know and avoid Trimspa® and methadone at all costs. oh and Tori Spelling, in my book, will always be Donna Martin.

that's a wrap.

On My Turkey Sandwich

nothing is ever as simple as it seems. so I had the most amazing turkey sandwich and just had to salvage the second half for the next day. so please, take a moment, and in my most professional vantage point, read about my conversation w/ a not so friendly bodega man.



TIME: 6:03 PM
Girl breezes into bodega while running late, on 31st and 8th ave. it smells like cat piss. She walks up to the counter to ask for ice.

GIRL IN BODEGA: I don't see ice, do you sell any?
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: It in the cooler in front of you.
GIRL IN BODEGA: [looks down and sees ice cream suckers, Ben & Jerry's and a can of diet Coke. She has an ever so slight confused expression on her face because of the diet Coke] I think you are out. do you have any more?
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: [w/ a blank stare] But of course.
GIRL IN BODEGA: [opens oversized black pleather, overstuffed “Chinatown special” purse and pulls out a ziplock bag] Can I get this filled with ice?
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: What do you need the ice for?
GIRL IN BODEGA: My turkey sandwich.
[odd, silent moment occurs between the two; they pause and stare blankly at one another in the eye]
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: [w/ a blank stare] You put ice in your turkey sandwich?
GIRL IN BODEGA: [w/ condescending stare] No.
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: [w/ blank stare] Then what do you need it for?
GIRL IN BODEGA: Well you see, I have this turkey sandwich.[she points to oversized black pleather, overstuffed “Chinatown special” purse which contains a brown paper bag holding the turkey sandwich][with enthusiasm] It is the most AMAZING turkey sandwich I have ever had in my entire life! [sigh] 26 years I have waiting for this sandwich. Seriously. And I swear I am not crazy. So the guy at the sandwich place, he put mayo on by accident after I asked him 3 times not to. it is not about money, it is about saving the other half. Haven't you ever wanted to eat the other half of a really good turkey sandwich, but not had room so waited for later?
GIRL IN BODEGA: [looks behind her at the two stinky bums and then back to the Man Behind Counter] I have to meet my friend for dinner and if I let the this turkey sandwich sit out w/ mayo on it, I could get sick from leaving the turkey sandwich out w/ mayo on it. Have you ever gotten sick from bad mayo? [sigh] You get the 3’s and the 4’s. And I certainly cannot just leave it outside, somebody might steal it.
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: [crinkles his eyebrow up and to the left as he tilts his head down and shakes head] It is just a turkey sandwich. Why go through the trouble for a turkey sandwich?
GIRL IN BODEGA: [She places her wallet on the counter w/ hand on top)
[declares w/ determination] There aren't enough words to express how good this turkey sandwich is. But clearly I am going through the trouble to get ice, to put it on, while in my purse, to salvage the turkey sandwich. [pause] Do you have any ice in the back?[another odd moment, girl steps back from counter and grips onto bag holding turkey sandwich [tightly] and knocks into the 2 bums]Opps!
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: [w/ blank stare while looking at Girl in Bodega] Mohamed!!! Bring to me 2 cup of ice
GIRL IN BODEGA:[in quiet, frightened tone] Oh excuse me, sir? You don't need to waste the cups, I have a ziplock bag.[she holds up ziplock bag]
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: [gives girl in bodega a dirty eyeball, Mohamed, a very frail short, tattered dark fellow storms out from the back w/ two cups of ice in hand]
MOHAMED: [he holds out the cup which is clearly filled w/ less ice] Here mam.
GIRL IN BODEGA: [confised] Um can I please have the other cup? [she points to the left cup]
MOHAMED: No difference. They both the same.
GIRL IN BODEGA: [she points at left cup, again] The other one is clearly filled w/ more ice. I need the fuller of the two.
MOHAMED: [pulls back cup w/ clearly less ice and then holds both out in front] You need both then?
GIRL IN BODEGA: [gives Mohamed dirty eyeball]
MOHAMMED: [looks at MAN BEHIND COUNTER]
GIRL IN BODEGA: [like a cheap Jew] How much?
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: They both the same price. Fitty cent each.
GIRL IN BODEGA: I will take both. [she hands MAN BEHIND COUNTER $20 like an asshole who refuses to spend her laundry quarters on anything but laundry]
MAN BEHIND COUNTER:[shoots GIRL IN BODEGA another dirty eyeball]
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: Don’t worry, I make change for you.
GIRL IN BODEGA: [she holds the quarters in her left pocket w/ her hand, jiggling them]
[like a cheap Jew] I wish I had a smaller bill.
MAN BEHIND COUNTER: [hands her 19 singles]

TIME: 6:10 PM

On my top 5 Non-Mistakes While on My Date Last Night

so last night, I went out on a date. I had a glimmer of hope that this date might lead to a second date and maybe even a third date and well maybe then some more or maybe the date was all just for show to end my mother constantly questioning why her lovely daughter just can't find herself a nice man. oh boy oh boy what I will do for my mother in Ohio because appearance is everything. I think I let myself get stuck in a moment of optimism. damn me. shame on me. so allow me to begin the story of the "douchebag" from Brooklyn.

is it a bit harsh to refer to someone, especially a male, as a douchebag? I don't think I have ever actually seen a douchebag (a real one). I do know that Eve's makes them, but aside from that, never seen one. is douching an archic form of cleansing the female anatomy? and well, what if you do douche and you have to walk through a Duane Reade holding some douche? do people look you square in the eye, then at the douche, then down south, then back at the douche and then back in the eye all while thinking to themselves, "You douchebag."? I would think that plain old soap would do the trick. or even some popori. certainly a lot less expensive and a lot less humility associated. so in any event, I went on a date w/ a douchebag last night. here are my top-5 non-mistakes I made while on my date w/ that douchebag:

1) I swear there was log jam. 100% sure of it.

to be honest, sometimes I notice weird things like poo on the sidewalk or gum or newspaper or fake boobs or money. so when my date walked in just by chance, for some odd reason, I noticed his crotch/southern region after his full-head (the head you wear a knit hat or earmuffs on) of hair. there is a term called log-jam. and this man by all means was a poster child for it. not a bad sized log-jam but it was there crying out to me and I wanted to run and hide as I were stuck in a train filled w/ laytex balloons. is there something you are supposed to say when you notice log-jam? I think not. but I can tell you this, this douchebag probably thought I was a douchebag for staring at his package. honey, it is called "boxershorts".


2) discussing the 1's, the 2's, the 3's and the 4's.

we all know what a number one and a number two is. but number 3 and 4 are two additions to the termonolgy that my sister and I derived to be more politically correct while speaking infront of all other people. I mentioned to this douchebag that I baked zuicini for dinner and discovered I didn't like it. his immediate response was, "Did it give you diareha?" it takes a lot to get me to stop talking and that statement alone accomplished that in t-minus 1.5 seconds and I remained silent for another, awkward 1.5 minutes. so naturally, I had to ask him why he said that and then quickly corrected him by using my term, the 3's for it and further explaining to him that there was no f*cking number 3 involved w/ my baked zuicini. so then he asked me what 1 and a 1/2 is. there can't be 1 and 1/2!!! there is no cross between the 1's and the 2's. two different oraphices you douchebag! my mom even understands that one.


3)

4)

5) The [almost] grandest exit ever.

so after an almost unbearable 41 minutes and one drink, he asked me, "Should I close out the tab?" my response was, "Yes. Don't be a stranger, I am going to cross the street and go home." and I put my coat on, not that I really needed one to cross the street and go up 5 flights of stairs, and had some dessert w/ MTV.