The Ace of Queens

I was unable to access the blog this morning, which made me feel panicky. Ah, addiction. But I digress...

I went to Queens last night. It was an accident—I was on my way to midtown Manhattan. I really have no excuse since I knew what train to get on and in which direction and yet, when I got off the 6 train to transfer to the R, I just followed the crowd and the letter R, like I was in some sort of extra-gritty episode of Sesame Street. We continued to the top of a flight of stairs, where the entire crowd stopped, looking down at the sea of people below. I could see it, this R train, and the doors were open. I pushed my way through the crowd, and the way I remember it is that I leaped over the stair railing, elbowed a couple of innocent bystanders, and made it onto the train just as the doors closed. I was, after all, on my way to meet people for drinks, so it was acceptable to be a Subway-riding badass.
Immediately I realized that this train was going uptown instead of downtown. I mean, right away. And I had that sinking feeling that comes with doing something that was stupid and avoidable. But it didn’t seem like a big deal—after all, the train would stop at the next station and I would just turn around. Except…the train didn’t stop. I don’t know how long it actually took, but it seemed like forever that we were crawling through the tunnels. And then to make things even more fun, the train did stop for a while, but in the middle of the tunnel. I looked up at a sign that said “Litter on the tracks catches fire and causes delays.” I felt like attacking any person who dared to leave trash on the tracks, potentially causing this very delay.
Lest you think I’m some sort of alcoholic who nearly had a meltdown on the R train because a drink was awaiting me, please know that I was mostly feeling the pain of leaving people who don’t really know each other waiting for me at some random bar. I was 30 minutes late from going ONE stop out of my way.
Oh, I had my drink(s)--and then I went to a performance of the New York City Gay Men's Chorus (totally another story.) But the real crime is that I didn’t get to enjoy the glory that is Queens. Maybe someday I’ll go there on purpose.

Deepish Thought Tuesday

I had a bad day at work yesterday. It's nothing worth explaining, just the kind of day where all of the little things that should be manageable on their own combine to make you miserable before noon and murderous by the time you leave the office.

It reminded me of my trip home for Thanksgiving, when I was typing a short email and someone asked me how I know how to type so fast.

I said, "It comes from sitting at a desk in front of a computer all day, slowly dying."

And later, I thought: That was an inappropriate thing to say to a 9-year-old.

Allow me one Scrooge moment

I've been watching tv for about 20 minutes and I believe I have counted 37 jewelry commercials. You would think that was impossible, but you're wrong. Maybe it's because of the writer's strike, but I'm fairly certain there are actually not any programs on tv and instead stations are airing only Zales commercials.

In the latest affront to my senses, Woman and Man stand in front of Christmas tree...box containing hideous pair of earrings hangs from tree. I actually had to look away from the tv as the couple gazed at each other and the woman said, "This is the one."

Please, Santa, make it stop. I can't watch one more 30-second spot of saccharine suckiness.

I love the holidays. Really. It's fun to give gifts, to go to parties, to eat cookie after cookie, secure in the knowledge that you're eating them because you have the holiday spirit. You must eat those cookies. Christmas depends on it.

But my love of the season simply does not extend to the embarrassing commercials with gushing women and self-congratulatory men. "He went to Jared!" Ew. And he got you that?

Our communication skills are enviable

I’m trying to stop making fun of Rob so much on the blog. He has asked if perhaps I could make him more of a supporting actor and not give him so many lines. For example, under these new regulations, I wouldn’t tell the story of last weekend when we were sitting on the couch, both with computers on our laps, and I received an instant message from him that said “Get your feet off me.”

Models: you can paint them

Last night a group of Brazilian models came to my pilates class. It was not, how shall we say, entirely motivational for me. But it was fascinating. They were very long-limbed and talkative. One of them crouched down beside the other and I swear to god, she was still taller than me. Before class began, I was outside in the hall staring at them and doing the thing in my head where I go “Stop staring” to myself, but myself doesn’t really listen. When I saw a friend from class standing with her husband up at the front desk, it seemed like a good opportunity to walk away and try to act like a normal person.

“There are models coming to our class.” I said, and I agree with any of you who think that’s not the most normal of the things I could have said.

However, it turned out that compared to some people, I am generally in control of myself. Because that was when I learned a bit about the husband, who I will call Ned. Ned eyes bugged out of his head, and his voice rose as he said something along the lines of “Don’t let the models bother you! Models are just tall, thin, weird-looking people. They’re idiots with heads full of rocks. They’re only important because you can paint them and take their pictures. Soon they’ll be replaced by robots.”

Me, in my head: Whoa. Let’s walk away.

Me, out loud: "Umm. Hmmm."

This actually went on slightly longer than I would have liked and after nodding a few times, I did turn to walk away, 100% sure that at some point in his past, Ned was jumped by a gang of supermodels and given one mean wedgie.

I am influential

So, the New York Times picked up my story on spam and ran with it, featuring the issue in their technology section today.
Their piece focuses on Steven Kirsch, an engineer who has started several companies, improved mice (the computer kind), and now thinks that he has a viable solution to the problem of email spam. I don't want to bore you guys (again) with this, but...wait. Yes I do.
Kirsch's new company is called Abaca and he claims that it can eliminate up to 99% of email spam by studying messages and determining their "spaminess." And in a twist that only the Times technology section could pull off, this brilliant entrepreneur has just discovered he has a rare form of cancer. So his work has taken on a greater sense of urgency. This guy is racing the clock and I know this doesn't sound like the most important of issues, but if he can rid us of spam? He will go down in history. Not to mention the made for TV movie.

Rob's announcement

"I want to do nothing for 10 minutes. I don't want to do anything. For at least a few minutes. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to be looked at. I don't want to think about anything."

7 seconds of silence.

"You could get me this as an engagement present if you want.*" Hands over a brochure for an Ernst Benz watch. "They sell them at John Varvatos."

Closes eyes. Has said nothing since.

*This will NOT be happening.