notamatch.com

Match.com

Gave it a try.

Searched under keyword "kosher"

35 results, 25 of which are preceded by "I do not keep"
The word bacon showed up a lot as well.
Jewish match.com boys sure do love their bacon.


Keyword search "orthodox"
5 results

#2 "Raised orthodox but not religious at this time "

#3   "Reform. My family would describe themselves as exceptionally orthodox: we follow all of the exceptions."   #4 "Raised orthodox Jewish till my teens, but not religious at all now."   #5 "I grew up in a modern orthodox home. I don't observe anymore."   But, #1 was actually orthodox! Hurray! #1 could be "The One" With a surge of adrenaline I read his "About me" section. Highlights included: " diagnosed with Bipolar disorder....rely on medication....wake up late and have my first cigarette....I don't have a job.....I live with my parents........."   I kid you not.   Now, I don't mean to rag on individuals with mood disorders, medication takers, late sleepers, smokers, the unemployed, guys or gals in their 30s who still live with mom and dad, but..................really?   Hmmm, maybe those guys just mean turkey bacon........ Refund please.

Sympathy for the Lawyer

Please allow me to introduce myself I'm man of wealth, not taste.

I've been around for many a long year;
stole many a man's soul and faith.....

Pleased to meet you, hope you get my name.

Just as every case is a parody and all the suits, war-paint
As heads is tails, just call me counselor, cause I'm in need of some restraint.

So, if you meet me, have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste.
Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste....

Me and a phone

4:00 AM
Friday morning
Thursday night
Far from sleep.....

So, I go out for a walk and some fresh air.
With a fuzzy mind it didn't occur to me that a woman should need to think twice before walking alone through New York City in the dead of night.
Several blocks down Amsterdam, I saw only men. I passed a dozen or so; sober and drunk; single and in groups. Not a woman in sight. A couple of crude remarks, a bit of leering and I did think twice. Would something happen? Not likely, but I knew it could.
So, I took out my phone; pressed 911 and walked with my thumb hovering over the trigger of the Call button-ready to shoot at a moment's notice.

I was embarrased to feel even a bit of fear. Why? Why should I need to think twice?

Why are the dark streets ruled?

By men?

Oops...

Monday morning. 2 train.

Lady who looks like a school-marm (sp?) scrutinizing my right hand that is grasping both a pole and a cup of Starbucks: "You need to be careful with that coffee"*

Me: "Don't worry, it's fine."

School-marm: (scowl)

Train: (screeches to a stop)

Coffee: (splashes on 2 fellow riders)

Them: (scowl)

Me: (apologies everywhere, followed by an attempt to will a hole to open up in the ground for me to fall into)

Napkins: (none in my bag)

School-marm: (snicker)

Me: (switches to a different car)

Mondays: suck.

Wow, I completely missed June

Occupational hazaard

Looking down; knuckles scraped and scabbed,
At the fax machine.
Source unknown, I must be tougher than I think.
Oh wait,
It is pudding

Unholy Union

If my union would just give me the money it spends on postage to send me inane letters every day that are completely irrelevant to my profession I would be a rich woman.

B-day

And Rachel said "let there be cake!" And behold, there was cake. And it was good.

Authenticity

I was on vacation, sipping espresso at independent coffee houses, shopping for one of a kind pieces of jewelry by local artists, browsing quirky little bookshops, looking for inspiration to get my writing started. And I happened upon it- a small black leather bound notebook on the bottom shelf. I looked at the insert giving the history of this book "Moleskin is the legendary notebook used by European artists and thinkers for the past two centuries....." Ah, that was what I needed to put it all together. I purchased the book and curled up in yet another adorable coffee shop to write.

I picked up the insert again to read the history and get my head in the creative, authentic game. "Moleskin is the legendary notebook used by European artists and thinkers for the past two centuries, from Van Gogh to Picasso, from Ernest Hemingway to Bruce Chatwin---"
Wait, stop, rewind. Europeans like Van Gogh- Dutch, Picasso-Spanish, Chatwin-English and Hemingway???
My little leather book that I found in my search for authenticity just listed possibly the greatest American writer (from the suburbs of Chicago...) as a European artist/writer.

And alas, I'm back to my Toshiba laptop at Starbucks.

Rachel Underground

Whiteboard2007 felt a bit....dated. So, welcome to version two- Rachel Underground- which is the closest title I was happy with that was still available on blogspot. All my posts are being imported to this blog, so feel free to ignore the grand old whiteboard.

Here's what you have to look forward to from here on out:

- More posts! There were dozens of draft entries on Whiteboard that I never published because I didn't think they were 'good enough', whatever that means. The idea here is to stop overthinking before publishing. The result? More good posts! and More bad posts!

- Some way to subscribe, (still trying to figure that out) so you will no longer have to eagerly check back on the site every day, only to find that the last post was from a month ago. Because I know that's how you spend your time.

Stick around.....

It's ten o'clock, do you know......

I can't be held responsible for anything I write after 10pm. My ability to reason, filter and make wise decisions fades and then drops off after that hour. At 9:59 I'm fine, but one minute later becomes "It's 10 o'clock, do you know where my brain is?" time. It happens when I interact with the real world as well, but for some reason, it's more pronounced on a keyboard. My equivalent of drunk dialing maybe? Spellcheck becomes more important because I start typing words like oclock' and equivilent. In the past I've written manifestos on the hypocricy of green celebrities, philosophy on why the new flooring in one of the #3 trains puts me in a good mood and grand schemes to build an entirely new NYC social services system. Then I've re-read the entries in the daylight and find them a bit too out-there, or personal or just plain too non-sensical to post. Prime example- I started this entry 20 minutes ago to write about guarana and I just got lost... But it's going up anyway.

Where do you cop your drugs at?

Sometimes I love my job. 7,000 employees of the Agency and I get to see only the worst and most bizarre. My gripes with Labor unions and collective bargaining agreements frustrate me to no end. It is nearly impossible to fire civil servants without the Ageny being subject to assorted union grievences and lawsuits. But back to the 'I love my job' part. The attorneys in my unit file internal disciplinary charges against employees of the Agency for violations of the code of conduct, fraud, gross incompetence and the like. Some of my cases boggle the mind in a 'truth is stranger than fiction'/ 'who are these people' kind of way. And the scary part is that after almost 2 years in the unit, almost nothing shocks me. I've learned to boil down the most whacked-out situations into sanitized legalese. One of my personal favorites.... (names and dates have been changed to protect me from getting fired) CHARGE 1: On or about September 6, 2008 at approximately 1:22 p.m., while in a conference meeting between caseworker John Smith, Deputy Director Johnson and subject birth mother, Jane Doe, the employee was observed to be pacing back and forth with a white powdery substance on his nose. Approximately four (4) times during the conference, the employee jumped up, pointed to the corner and asked with an uneven, elevated voice, "Is that a mirowave?!?" and proceeded to reheat his cup of coffee. Charge 2: On or about October 5, 2008 at approximately 7:03 p.m., while sitting in on a safety conference with Assistant Commissioner Gilbert and an allegedly drug and alcohol addicted birth mother, the employee was observed to have reddish-tinged eyes and was sniffling repeatedly. At approximately 7:17 p.m., while AC Gilbert was questioning the birth mother, the employee leaned across the table towards the employee and whispered loudly into her ear "Hey, hey! Where do you cop your drugs at?????" And these moments make it all worth it......

Crock the Vote?

So, I just excercised my Constitutional right to vote at the local public school. I voted for President as my real self, based on my own political beliefs (or disbeliefs) and semi-informed opinions. But I was a bit shocked to find that I needn't have been myself to cast the vote as myself. At no point did the astute voting attendents ask for identification. When I go to Macy's and buy something with my Macy's card they ask for my identification. When I go into a bar, the bouncers almost always ask for my ID (thanks guys!). When I try to get into the building I've worked in for the past 2 years, and where all the security guards already know me, I still have to show my ID. Yet when I cast my vote in what is being called the most important presidential election in US history, no questions asked. If I were a bit less ethical, this phenomenon could have all sorts of fun ramifications. Let's say that, theoretically I wanted to go completely against society's expectations of me as a young, Jewish, pro-choice, anti-death penalty (for reasons far from what you might expect), unionized (I'm in the Teamsters, baby), female, New Yorker, and voted Republican. Theoretically. What's to stop me from going back to the polls as a particularly liberal friend of mine and casting a red vote? Vote early and often, Rachel

Opposite Day

I never thought I'd say this, and I'm certainly no economy expert, but given the recent collapse of Wall Street and inevitably deepening recession (depression?), today seems like a good day not to leave one's City government job.....

I do not like dem apples...

So, I like fresh apples. I went apple picking once, I think I was in the 6th grade. It was raining, but that seemed to make it more fun. And then it got windy and it was basically raining apples. Funner. Good times... I get an email a couple of weeks ago that the Jewish Outdoors Club (hereinafter "JOC") is going apple picking. I've done a few JOC things before. It's cute. Like a yuppie Fresh Air Fund. So I RSVP'd. But, tonight I checked my email..... "Hi, If you are getting this email, then I received your registration after the email indicated the trip limitations and I regrettably am unable to accomodate you. This is a bit of an unusual thing for us to have to do, but the trip would likely have been unsuccessful with 10 men and 50 women, and I thank you for your understanding." Is there some kind of gender, apple-picking equation? What makes an apple picking trip successful? Does it have anything to do with apples? In a second email I learned that registration had been "closed to women" because there was a "huge imbalance" they needed to "rectify." I get that one of the goals of the group is to be a social mixer kind of thing, but this is apple-picking. You don't go to apple orchards to pick up men. You just don't. I dare you to name a single orchard couple.

Ways to tell you no longer work with Jews #254

The only time breakfast has ever been sponsored by the office, it has consisted exclusively of:
Bacon
Eggs
Sausage
Cheese
Grits

Yes, that's 2 types of pork....and not a bagel in sight.
Oy.

Treat yourself, have some gefilte fish....

Every so often I make the mistake of admitting to my grandmother that I haven't gone grocery shopping in a month and don't know what I'm going to eat when I get home from work. I'll be walking out of the building, call Grandma to say hi and unless there's any news, within a block I've been asked what I'm having for supper. It's actually exciting when I have the correct answer. I'll proudly describe the balanced, nutritious meal I will be eating later. Grandma will be happy and all will be right with the world. But if I don't, I can either lie and all will be right with the world, or tell the truth and suffer the consequences. The consequences often consist of audible worry and suggestions of canned fish. "Rachel, have you got a can of sardines? You take that with a nice slab of onion. It's deLISCHious and it's good for you." And sometimes it's jarred. Like the voicemail I got last week, (complete with pauses so perfect that I sometimes accidently respond to the recorded questions): "Rachel, you don't have to call me back, honey. Have you got a jar of gefilte fish home?...... You know, that with a little coleslaw and chrain (horseradish) and a piece of bread or matza......But alright, I took a piece of gefilte fish. I don't know, I hope it's good. Rachel, treat yourself, no matter what they charge you for the gefilte fish, take it. Alright, Mrs. whats-her-name, Adler, you know the sweet fish is good......"

NO...SLEEP...TILL BROOKLYN

I just want to go to sleep, man. These 70 hour city government workweeks are killer. Send help.

Truth in Excercising

I've been lying to the elliptical machine at my gym for as long as I can remember. "Please enter workout type" the machine asks. Interval training I respond. "Time?" 30 minutes "Level?" 8 "Weight?" ummmmm..... what if somebody is walking by and sees the display screen? For a bit of context I'll remind you that I live in the shark tank that is the Upper West Side (for those of you thrown for a loop I'll explain in a later entry). And my gym, at the epicenter of the neighborhood, is the home away from home for single modorth populace that I suppose, for lack of a better word, would be considered my community. Anyways, always image-conscious (read: obsessed) I felt the need to fudge the number by a couple of pounds. Okay, 5....fine, sometimes maybe 7.......ocaaaaaasionally 10. 11. This is objectively ridiculous. But what really took the habit down the rabbit hole was when I began to find myself changing the numbers even when I knew no one else was around. A new trend arose in the last couple of years. I became a bit less psycho about the poundage, but started getting heart palpitations with the machine's next question: "Age?" My new and improved number obsession really got me glancing around to make sure no one was watching and even then I'd type it in and hit enter as quickly as possible. Fast forward to April 28, my birthday. As far as I was concerned I'd just turned a hundred. Double knot my sneakers and start entering my program info into my elliptical machine display. "Time?" 30 minutes, "Level?" 8, "Weight?" I've started giving an almost honest answer. But "Age?"? I couldn't handle it. I lied. Only by a year, but this was officially a new low. Embarrassed, I can no longer look my display panel in the face. Note to self: seek professional help.

Donate Now

Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, I don't mean to disturb you. I am a lawyer. I went to the most expensive law school in the country and Citibank has a claim to my firstborn child. My plight is a typical riches to rags story. For a short time I basked in a salary so obnoxious and unjustified that I could have purchased your home right out from under you before you could say 'gentrification'. Straight out of school I was a shining manifestation of the quickly widening gap between America's rich and poor and the disappearance of any legitimate middle class. But I've been working for the City government for over a year now. Since then I've been forced to share my Upper West Side apartment, I haven't had a manicure since October 2006. I barely remember what the inside of a town car looks like. I've had to start getting my cocktails with Stoli instead of Grey Goose. and I'll have to live with the reality that I will never own a summer home in Montauk. Please help me so I can stay off the streets and out of trouble. Any small donation would help- a Bloomingdales gift card, Dolce & Gabbana handbag (this season please), a vente mocha frappaccino, even if you can spare only 40 or 50 dollars.... Thank you. Good night and God bless you.

Conversation I think I had this morning

Setting: Slow elevator in unnamed non-rent-controlled building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Cast: me and Alex- the rude, behemoth of a handyman who rings the doorbell a million times when he shows up unannounced to make repairs at 7am. Disclaimer: I was really sleepy and I can never be sure exactly what he's saying. But here's my recollection...... I stumble out of my apartment into the elevator. Me: Hi Alex: Okay Alex: Weren't you on the computer before when I came into your apartment? Me: No, I just got out of bed. That must have been A who opened the door (one of my many roommates). Alex: Well, you're all new faces to me. Me: I've lived here for seven years. Alex: Oh, you all look alike (we don't) except for the girl with the different face. Me: What? Alex: I don't know. ----Elevator opens a the lobby. I head for the front door----- Alex: Oh....you're the one they call the short one! (who exactly is 'they'?) Me: Have a good day. Hmmmm....Christmas tip? What Christmas tip?

The Breakaway Refrigerator club

Before I was asked to join the breakaway refrigerator club I'd forgotton how bizarre it was that there was an original refrigerator club. Complain all you want about wasteful government spending, you can rest assured that while millions of your hard-earned tax dollars are going towards the active perpetuation of inefficiencies, beaurocracy and general toilet flushing of the budget, the city must be saving a bundle by denying its poorly paid employees a place to keep their yogurt. So, much like alcohol during Prohibition, necessity is the mother of invention and a refrigerator blackmarket was born, complete with a dark underbelly of greed and extortion. But because that isn't part of orientation I had to learn about it the hard way. And so, when I found the dorm size refrigerator (the rectangle shaped one, not the square) in the cubicle farm and put a tupperware of shabbos leftovers inside I didn't expect to turn around and walk into an "EXCUUUUUUSE ME!" from the enormous woman who sits in a glass office next to the refrigerator and watches soap operas all afternoon on the mini black and white television she thinks other people can't see. "Did you pay for that refrigerator? Do you own that refrigerator? What did you put in that refrigerator???" Stunned, I mumbled out an apology, said I would never do it again and scuttled back to my office, away from the locals asking each other who I thought I was. Later that afternoon the president of the refrigerator club came by to collect. $5 to become a member of the refrigerator, $10 for use of the microwave as well. The membership dues, while weird, weren't exorbitant. So I joined and started to get fewer glares. Slowly, but surely, though, I started getting approached for periodic 'cleaning' fees. Apparantly that service, performed by one of the members consisted of a few spritzes of Windex. Someone was making money off this. A lot of money. And that's when I was invited to join the breakaway refrigerator club....

Jesus walks with me

Big sparkly tree in the foyer, giant wreaths over the elevators. Government building. Every year it takes me a little while to get used to the grand cultural significance of Christmas. It's big, it's bright, it's everywhere. This year it's feeling a little too full-frontal Christian. Kind of alienating as a non-Christmas-observer, as I'm reminded that I'm part of a tiny religious minority. Maybe it's because I've never been in an environment before where I daily walk by Christmas cards from years past scotch taped up on cubicle walls. Virgin Marys adorning desks. 'Every day is a blessing from Jesus Christ' screensavers scrolling across computer monitors. The irony that this is all happening in my first government job only intensifies my newfound oppression. Mind you, I have no interest whatsoever in equality. I would probably die of embarrasment if I walked into a tree-sized Menorah next to the security desk. If I don't think too much about it I really don't mind all the Christmas hoopla. The tree at Rockefeller Center is pretty. People on the street are nicer to each other. The excitement of the holiday season, or whatever, is a fantastic pretext for slacking off at work. And of course there are the sales. The greetings, though, really need help. The blatant "Merry Christmas" or the veiled "Happy Holidays". Are the people who ask me how my Christmas shopping is going oblivious that there are non-Christians out there (please, of all cities), or do they just not care? I almost (almost) admire them for their honesty, as narrow-minded as it may be. Then there are the "Happy Holidays", which, though seemingly more inclusive, is kind of nonsensical. Chanukah this year is the evening of December 4 until the sunset of December 12. Yet the 'Holiday' parties and greetings don't start till after the Jew holiday has come and gone. A more accurate greeting might be, like, "Happy Belated Holiday." Which really sounds more like an apology than a greeting. Or maybe I should just suck it up, enjoy the day off of work, and keep up the Jewish Christmas tradition of getting Chinese take-out and going to the movies...

Securities 101

I realized that I'd reached adulthood when I opened up the Times last winter and learned that the guy who sat next to me for a semester of Securities Regulations was convicted of insider trading. Holy crap, I was at the age and point in my career where my peers got arrested not (just) for disorderly conduct outside of the Republican convention, but for white-collar crime?! I had been convinced that I was the most clueless in the class. Maybe I wasn't. Well no, I probably still was, but I was smart enough to recognize my denseness and refrained from crossing the line to stupidity. I wouldn't know how to go about committing securities fraud if I tried. I ended up with a B- and he got an A. But apparantly now he also got 3 to 5.

Apropos of nothing

I wonder what the world would be like if people did clap their hands every time they were happy and they knew it......

Jewmunity?

Really there's no way around it. Old Testament first name, Yiddish last name. I'm short, bookish, neurotic, and yeah, I do have the tendency to answer a question with a question. I'm so Jewish it's not even funny. Occassionally accused of equal-opportunity misanthropy, I'd really like to have at least one subculture where I can actually come out and call it like I see it. There are, of course, the subgroups that we, as a progressive, open-minded people are practically encouraged to bash: Americans, men, whites, the wealthy, the Republicans. But other than those, it's ixnay on the patriotism/sexism/racism/classism- ay. Evangelical Christianity, but in today's world Islam certainly isn't. Judaism? As far as I know it's probably closer to the Muslim end.
We'll see how far I can get to the line.
Until then I'm lucky to have one of the most highly bashable careers out there.
What do you call 100 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?
A good start....

The fine

I took this book out of the library. Didn't particularly care for it. Put it in my bag to bring it to work to return it to the library, which is near work. Planned to go to the library during lunch. The problem is I don't take lunch. I often think I'm going to, but by midday the 10-minute walk seems like too much of a hassle. Anyway, at the end of the day I take the book home to return to the library near my apartment. But similarly, when I arrive home, walking to the library would be a chore. But that's okay because I can just take the book with me to work the next day and return it at the library near my office. Long story short, I end up toting this boring, hardcover book up and down Manhattan for most of early fall.
But this afternoon, as my eyes became blurry from excessive Microsoft Word, I took the break. I stopped at the ATM in anticipation of whatever fine I would be subjected to and then, at long last, motored down to the library carrying the dumb book for the last time.
Me to Librarian #1: "I have to return this book and I think it's really, really late. I'm really sorry."
Librarian #1 to me: "You're a bad girl."
ooooooookayyyyyy....... time to find another Librarian....
Me to Librarian #2: "So, how much is the fine?"
Librarian #2: "$23.50" (Gulp, that's like 3 days pay....) But, I fork over the cash and an interesting thought occurs to me.
Me: "Hey, where does all the library fine money go to, anyway?"
#2: "To buy more library stuff and programs and stuff. Mostly children stuff." Me: "Wait, so my $23.50 is going to help fund library programs for children?" #2: "I guess.....sooooort of."
Me: "Ha! I should really return all my books late!" (charitable tax deduction, anyone?)
#2: "That's not really such a good idea. Goodbye. Have a nice day."

Holy cow, I just took off time from my job of helping the children of New York to help the children of New York.
I am just that freakin good....

An open apology to the MTA

As I saw this weekend, Chicago's subway stations are just spiffy. Clean and spacious, they do not smell like a bathroom. The conductors are courteous, the passengers, relatively attractive. Unfortunately, the actual trains don't frickin go anywhere. They're slow as molasses and only 2 lines run 24 hours. I can't be with a train like that. The experience made me appreciate how good I've got it with NYC public transportation. So I'm going to take this opportunity to put out a public apology to the system I so often malign.

My dear Metropolitan Transportation Authority,
I'm sorry for doubting you. I know you've heard that recently I've been talking trash about your trash. I've gone out to play the metro field and I want you to take me back. You're the best. I've been so focused on your shortcomings that I've been blind to the fantastic transit system you really are. You're old, but you're wise, efficient. Your poles are perfectly placed, your seats hug my every curve. With you, Subway, I can go anywhere. I'm sorry it took me so long to see that no relationship is perfect. In fact, I........I love you Subway. I'd forgotten all of the good times we've had together. You took me to my first day of school, my first job, and even though you had a million other places you had to be, you were there to pick me up at the end of the day. Sure, we've had our share of problems. Like back in 2006 when you went on strike and left me out in the cold for days. Your passive-agressiveness pushed me over the edge, and I admit that I started seeing cabs. Taxi after taxi, they're all the same. They were demanding. They made me give and give. And when I finally got out I felt cheated and used. But not you, Subway, you understand me and you understand my paycheck. And I guess sometimes we all shut down. So what if you are unsanitary, so what if you smell? A small price to pay. Graffiti? It's art. Rats, shmatz. Unsavory characters? Who am I to judge. You've been there for me, 24/7. You keep me going.
Please take me back,
Rachel

Ode to Stacey Nightmare

For years I've been wearing the same pair of Steve Madden slides to work that I wear to the beach. It is not unheard of for me to be walking around with chocolate on my face. My morning routine includes pulling my unbrushed hair into a bumpy ponytail, throwing on a probably wrinkled, but hopefully not very stained, sort of almost business-casual outfit, and sometimes brushing my teeth. The bright-eyed, stylish (or even just neat) career girl getting on the subway kind of bewilders me. Hair flatironed, eyeshadow applied, seams smoothed, lashes curled, stockings...not torn. We're from different planets. On the topic of 'blogs that used to be good' I recall Stacey Nightmare. Totally nuts and beyond crude, we're not exactly spiritual twins. But on this one, I hear you Stacey, I hear you. Ladies and gentlemen, circa Friday, January 28, 2005, Stacey Nightmare- YOU’RE DRINKIN’ A CHAI TEA, RIGHT? RIGHT? I CAN SMELL IT!! Sometimes I get the urge to act like a lunatic. To be “this person”, as in when people are like: “ So I was just sitting there, minding my own business when this person says--” I was sitting next to this girl on the L train and I could totally smell her tea....It was all warm and spicy and cinnamony and it made me feel like this girl really had her shit together! You know what I mean? It was 11 am and I hadn’t even put my socks on yet (whatever, I’ll do it at my desk) and this girl was drinking spiced tea. I felt like we were on some sort of scale together, I sat at the crazy end, and she was at the “put together” end. I knew what kind of tea it was too! Chai tea. I was sure of it! Yes! And that’s when I got this urge to be one of those crazy people who talks to you on the train for no reason in a loud voice about something you are wearing or doing. Like: “Hey I bet that scarf keeps ya warm!” Or “That book looks interesting!” Or like what I was tempted to do: “Hey! I smell that! Smells good! Chai tea, right? Right? Am I right? I can smell it! MMM-MM!” and then keep talking to the person, undeterred as they try to ward me off with muttered, monosyllabic answers: “Well sure people are getting all sorts of teas today, am I right? You must be some a kind of gourmet! You probably are only use that sea salt stuff, right?” Kudos, Stacey dear.

Rail Rage

I heard that there are people in Japan who have the job of physically pushing commuters into the overcrowded metros to utilize every square inch of the car. If not for insurance issues and potential civil liberties violations, I think the MTA might consider similar rush hour policies. Squishing onto the 2 train at 8:37 a.m. (I'm early for work today) I brace myself for the ride. As usual, the majority of the passengers tower over me and and I identify with Baby Jessica at the bottom of my own man-made well. I stand on my toes and seek up. I am part of Emma Lazarus's huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
And then I see it- an empty seat across the aisle, seductive in its orange plastic-ness, beckoning to me. Miraculously, there are no elderly, disabled, or pregnant individuals around. So in keeping with the unspoken New York mass transit custom, as a female it can be mine. Heart racing, I nonchalantly (as nonchalantly as one can be snaking through an urban mosh pit) wiggle my way ("sorry", "excuse me", "excuse me", "sorry") close to the seat that for some reason the entire standing train mob must not have noticed.
I give a quick glance at my potential seat-neighbors, a conspiritorial glint in my eyes, as if to say "Behold, Comrades, we've beaten the system." But they give me no response! In fact, my fellows seem to be avoiding my glance! But I've got no time to concern myself with their refusal to join the revolution. I do a graceful half-turn, body already properly bent for seating, drop myself down onto the seat and....splash!
My bottom is in shock. "God, I hope this is water", I think as the rear layers of my clothes saturate. I feel betrayed, I feel hurt, I feel wet, I feel......rage. I turn to my enemy on the right and for the first time I speak aloud.
Excuse me?!?! (the she-devil averts her eyes)
Yeah, you! (hint of eye contact) Did you see when I was about to sit down? (barely audible 'uuuuuuuh')
Did you know this seat was wet when you saw I was going to sit down? ( mumbled 'I dunno')
WHATever. Soon the train jerks to a halt at the 14th Street stop. The seat on the other side of my former-potential-comrade is free. I clear my throat, cover the new seat with a newspaper to absorb the (hopefully) water from my skirt, etc., and plop down. I cross my arms across my chest looking smug. Sure, maybe she and everyone within earshot thinks I'm crazy, but I'd finally said my piece.
I am not a victim. This is MY orange seat. Damn straight

Awake

I woke up on Saturday morning. Today is Monday. My conscience is forcing me to admit that yes, over the past 2+ days I technically did manage to slip into the beautiful oblivion a few times for a total of 5ish hours. But tell that to my nervous system. Don't know why, but the sleep just doesn't come. But now it's daylight again, so I can escape the cruel bed that has been mocking me all night. Now I'm dressed and out. For every 5 seconds that I've got my mental/physical coordination, there's a split second where I briefly fall off the face of the earth. My actions are on autopilot and I'm just hovering above myself and watching. In some kind of fugue state. Or like walking in a cumulus cloud. Not tired or sleepy, just detached, oblivious and a bit dangerous. Thoughts last just a moment until they evaporate from my head. I don't trust myself to cross Broadway safely. I eventually follow a group across the street. I get a seat on the train and stay there despite the old woman's evil eye. Falling off at my stop it's pure muscle-memory that gets me from the subway to my office. Will go explain my state to my boss, though I'm not remembering her name. What am I wearing?

Just a Girl....

Blanket statement- women aren't taken as seriously as men. Especially in money matters, men (and unfortunately some women as well) try, and often succeed, in putting things over on women that they wouldn't dare try with a man. I've got plenty more to say about this in a future post, but for now I've gotta talk about the bizarre phenomenon of weakness as a source of power. The unfortunate power of tears.
At midnight on a Saturday last month I was pulled over by a state trooper for weaving and general poor driving down the Palisades Parkway on suspicion of DUI.
I had a mild heart attack.
"License and registration please."
Another mild heart attack. Why? I was driving on an expired license, with no registration, in someone else's car who was not present. Neither did I have my cell or the owner's phone number on me. There was no doubt I was going to jail. And I was going to get disbarred. I was going to go to jail, get disbarred, lose my job, and be unable to find any other gainful employment because Lord knows law school provides you with no other marketable skills.
And then came the tears. Not quiet weeping, but a ferocious torrent of tears, bawling, bawling and gasping for air, bawling and eventual hyperventilation.
Long story short, no arrest, no ticket, only a mild warning. "Stop driving without a license" Mind you, my embarrassing display wasn't an act. Also, I did have a pretty decent excuse for driving, an almost decent excuse for driving poorly, and I certainly wasn't intoxicated. But there's no way a man would have gotten out of there without at least one, if not more, tickets and a little walk down the pavement in a straight line while touching his nose. I would trade in the power of tears in a heartbeat if it meant the end of infantilization of women in our society. But, would I would have preferred incarceration (or even a ticket) in the name of gender equality that night?
Please, I'm a feminist, not an idiot.

It's August and the City Smells Like Garbage

It's August and the City smells like garbage. Well, I can only vouch for the Upper West Side, Upper East Side, Chinatown and Tribeca (took the long way to work today), but I'm pretty sure it holds true for the rest of the island as well. August in the suburbs the nighttime air chirps with the sounds of crickets and cicadas. August in the city the daytime air wafts in heavy plumes of trash, urine and humanity. The subways are the best, and the East Side lines are the best of the best. Descending into the bowels of the earth and each step adds another degree farhenheit and another level of olfactory delight. If 'Crash' symbolized the distance, absence of human contact in Los Angeles, New York should respond with 'Squish,' symbolizing the claustrophobic, forced, daily, human skin to perspired skin contact of the City. Setting: a 6 (or maybe a 2/3) subway car during rush hour. It'll use that skipping around series of perspectives of strangers with nothing in common but their stuckness in the same car that is delayed in the middle of a dark tunnel due to an earlier incident, train trafic ahead of us, and suspicious activity at 42nd street. Their lives will become entwined in that interminable stretch as they dance the paradoxical city dance of avoiding eye contact even while positioned in a full body press.
We will be moving shortly? Not likely.

Whiteboard 2007

Living in the dorms back in college, before texting, sidekicks, ubiquity of cell phones..., we had whiteboards on our doors and dry-erase markers dangling (and frequently stolen) for all our pals to leave crucial messages for us-
"Dining hall at 7:00", "Where are you?????", "Thanks for last night."
And we would leave messages on our own boards informing the world of our whereabouts-
"Napping till 4", "At the gym", "In the shower," knowing (hoping) that everyone in the universe cared and was at that very moment trying to track us down. Our hearts might sink just a tiny bit if we returned from orgo or macro to an empty board.
But we graduated and the physical display of relative popularity disappeared. Sigh of relief. Maturity and the "real world", even grad school, made us less reliant on external validation and the "look at me! I need attention!" drive began to fade.
Enter blogs, enter myspace, enter facebook.
We're all in the dorm now.
The whiteboard is back.