meandering neanderthals

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet

2006-03-31T14:07:00.000-05:00

Last week, my coworker started to rant about how certain food products last much longer than they really should. Growing up on a farm, he was used to food spoiling rather quickly, like a carton of milk expiring within a week, or bread molding after a few days. Now, you can have a loaf of bread and after two weeks, it will still show no signs of molding. Makes you wonder what kind of preservatives are really in there.

The conversation then turned to eggs. After complaining about how long they last (and how he throws them out after a week because he gets scared of them, along with his milk and bread), he mentioned how they used to be so much smaller when he was young. And that got me thinking, when I go to the grocery store, I usually buy the extra large eggs. Why? I don't know. I think that's just what I had picked up when I started doing my own grocery shopping and have been getting ever since.

I remember once being in the supermarket and trying to figure out what the difference was between extra large and jumbo - I couldn't figure out which was bigger since both sound pretty big to me. And that was when I noticed the only other size - large.

Why do eggs come in large, extra large, and jumbo? Whatever happened to plain old small, medium, and large? It's like the opposite of how all the clothing and shoe sizes are running big as a marketing ploy to make people believe they're smaller than they really are. In the same way, maybe eggs are sized at large, extra large, and jumbo to make people believe they're getting more for their money. Hey, at the very least, you're getting some large eggs, right? Maybe size really does matter.

Door Close

2006-03-10T12:04:00.000-05:00

Why do elevators have "door close" buttons when they never work? The only door close button I have ever found to work is in my current apartment building, but otherwise, these buttons seem to be a waste of space and only serve to trick people into thinking that they have some control over the elevator.

Yesterday morning I was happy to get into an empty elevator and was looking forward to having a quick ride up to my desk on the 15th floor. I pressed 15, hit the door close button, and stepped back to wait for my departure. Well, I waited. And then I waited some more. I hit door close again and nothing happened.

Then, after what felt like a minute of waiting, just as the doors made a creaking sound and began to close, someone jumped into my elevator and made the doors jolt wide open again. She pressed the button for her floor (of course, it was lower than mine) and stood back to wait for our departure. It must have reset the elevator because it was nearly another minute before the doors started to close again. And just as they began to close, another person jolted the doors open and hopped into my elevator.

After that, a stream of people entered my elevator and once it was full, the elevator finally decided to shut its doors and begin on its merry way. Now that the elevator was packed full of people, it stopped at nearly every floor below mine and when I finally made it to the 15th floor, I found myself the lone person in the elevator. Once again, first in, last out, and all at the hands of a taunting door close button.

Door close button, what is your purpose in life? Why do you exist and tease me so?

I'll Get You, Stall Number 1

2006-02-23T12:29:00.000-05:00

Quite a while ago, I vented about the modern convenience of toilets equipped with sensors to automatically flush at the sign of any movement. Since then, I learned to deal with the excessive flushing. But recently, I changed my regular stall and am now regretting it.

My old stall of preference was stall number 3. My general impression is that everyone passes up the first stall (because who ever takes the first thing they see?) and usually opts for stall number 2. So, as a result, I used to take stall number 3 since I thought it was less used. But I was wrong. To my horror, I have often walked into stall number 3 to find used toilet seat covers still hanging on to the seat and urine on the floor. One too many times have I been burned with stall number 3 that I recently changed to stall number 1.

Now the problem I have is that stall number 1 doesn't flush enough. Whereas my old stall number 3 would flush when I got in the stall, once while I was going, and then again when I was done (I figured out how trigger it without manually flushing), stall number 1 will only flush once when I'm close to being done, and not again. It's the most aggravating thing to see toilet paper still floating in the bowl when I'm finished, and gives me no other choice but to manually flush the toilet by pressing on the idiotically small rubber button that's just an inch above the toilet seat.

I have now learned how to press, and hold, the little button with the corner of my shoe, using my talents in balance and thigh strength (I guess those one-legged squats I did in wushu really paid off!). While it's a nice little workout, I'm getting rather tired of it and am ready to try a new stall. But someday, I'll get you, stall number 1, and your rubber button too.

My Neighbor, Thumper

2006-02-16T11:34:00.000-05:00

In the ever-changing world of an outsourced office environment, we are constantly letting go and hiring people. The cube next to mine has been empty for about a month now, and this week I got a new neighbor.

Now, the cubicle structure in my office is one that is supposed to encourage teamwork. Someone had the bright idea that if people had to stare at each other all day long, then they would have to work together and be "one team." As a result, the cube walls are only waist-high, and when sitting I have a clear view of my coworkers.

Which brings me to my new neighbor, Thumper. Thumper is friendly and kind, and has the vigor of a new employee. The thing about Thumper is that he thumps. On the keyboard. And I'm not just talking about your run of the mill heavy typer. Thumper is of the hunt-n-peck variety.

I noticed this characteristic the first day he started, but in just three short days, it is slowly starting to drive me crazy. From behind me, I can hear him tapping out an email, and, because of his hunt-n-peck style of typing, his thumps come in spurts. The only way I can describe it is "thump.......thump thump thump thump thump......(you can almost hear him thinking and his nose is now getting closer to the keyboard)....thump thump thump...."

Apparently, I was the only one to notice Thumper's loud habit. And now that I've pointed it out to my other cube neighbors (we sit in clusters of 6), it's starting to drive them a little bonkers too. Sometimes, just for fun, we'll start pounding on our keyboards, but Thumper is so in the zone typing his emails that he never notices.

Not only does Thumper thump on the keyboard, but we also discovered he's a heavy walker too and he's not a big guy (what is it with skinny heavy walkers, anyways?). Good thing he's just my neighbor at work and doesn't live in the apartment above mine.

What not to say to your employees

2006-02-09T17:26:00.000-05:00

After much anticipation, bonuses were finally announced this week. With all the press my company was receiving in the media about how the "big bonus" was back, my colleagues and I were reasonably optimistic about our compensation. Unfortunately, we were sorely disappointed.

After presenting me with my compensation, my manager looked at my sad, sad face and said, "You don't look very happy." Now, anyone who knows me knows that I'm not one to hide my emotions. If I'm mad at you, you'll know. If I'm sad, you'll know. I'm not one to keep a person guessing. So, of course, my response to my manager was, "Well, I'm not."

After further discussion, my genius manager then made the following insightful comment: "Wow, I hope I didn't just unmotivate you with this." And if I thought that this review couldn't get any worse, he then went on to ask me how old I was. After some slight hesitation, I told him my age and he responded with, "Well, this is pretty good for a 26-year-old!" I'm sorry, but was that supposed to be motivating?

That night, my disappointment quickly turned into anger and resentment as I kept hearing "I hope I didn't unmotivate you" and "this is good for a 26-year-old!" over and over again in my head. If he hadn't unmotivated me from not compensating me well, he definitely managed to do so with his dumb-ass remarks during my review.

Never before had I felt more lied to by my senior management. I'm a rather naive and trusting person, but I could clearly see through all the BS reasons my manager gave behind the compensation decisions. And as a result of the unmotivating spiel that my manager delivered in hopes of keeping me productive, I have renewed energy to post on my blog, which helps me kill time during the day while remaining minimally productive.

Back to the Bay

2005-06-03T14:26:00.000-04:00

Your Political Profile
Overall: 35% Conservative, 65% Liberal
Social Issues: 50% Conservative, 50% Liberal
Personal Responsibility: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal
Fiscal Issues: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal
Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal
Defense and Crime: 50% Conservative, 50% Liberal
How Liberal / Conservative Are You?

I'm proud to show that I'm more liberal than conversative, although is that a big surprise? But look at my score for Fiscal Issues. Just goes to show that four years at Berkeley hasn't gotten all of the Orange County out of me.

After two years, I'm finally going to find my way back to the bay. It will be my first time where I can really explore San Francisco, and I want to make the most of my time.

On the top of my list of things to do: Eat at Cha Cha Cha and drink sangria. And to those of you gasping and thinking "You've never eaten at Cha Cha Cha???" I respond a defiant "No! But I will have soon!" I can't even begin to count the number of times I've had this conversation with people:

Friend: "The best sangria I've ever had was at Cha Cha Cha."
Me: "Really? I've never been there."
Friend: "You've never been to Cha Cha Cha??"
Me: "No, I've never been to Cha Cha Cha."
Friend: "Wow, you should go there."
Me: "Thanks."

So I will finally get a taste of Cha Cha Cha's famous sangria. And to those of you who may feel the need to comment "You've never eaten at Cha Cha Cha??" in response to this posting, c'mon, you're more clever than that.

Modern Convenience?

2005-05-13T14:25:00.000-04:00

Many things in the modern era make life much more comfortable. The vacuum cleaner, the dishwasher, sliced bread - it all serves to bring efficiency and convenience to daily living. And all of those things are very appreciated, but the one thing I can't take are toilets that flush when triggered by sensors.

The toilets in the ladies room at the office all have sensors installed so that they flush automatically at the first sign of movement. This, at first, seems like a great invention as, like most people, I don't enjoy touching the lever to flush the toilet. However, to circumvent that problem, I typically use my foot to flush. Even though it's worked great for me for the past 20 years, I do run the risk of losing my balance and slipping using that technique, so I was excited to see the sensors in our bathroom. I quickly learned to hate them.

When I first went into the stall, the toilet sensed me moving and flushed. Well, that's okay, since I do like a clean bowl even though I'm afraid of any bacteria whooshing up into the air. With fresh water in place, I got ready to do my business. As mentioned in The Unmistakable Smell of Urine, I prefer the hover technique and settled into a comfortable angle when the toiled decided to flush again. Did it detect any motion? Maybe. But now I had a tornado of water swirling below my bare ass, which made me feel rather vulnerable to incidental splashing.

Finally finishing my business, I stood up and tried to trigger the sensor to flush the toilet again. No matter how many times I waved my hands infront of the sensor or pretended to hover and get up again, the toilet wouldn't flush. If anyone could have seen me, I'm sure I looked like an idiot dancing around in front of the toilet in hopes of tricking it into flushing. Finally, there was no choice but to manually flush the toilet, but the normal lever was replaced with a small button the size of a pencil eraser right above the toilet seat (I'm supposed to touch that??). I had to get a wad of toilet paper to achieve the task.

All in all, it took three flushes to finish one pee. Modern convenience? Seems more like a waste of water and energy.

Blind-Sighted

2005-05-02T14:24:00.000-04:00

Imagine a square within a square. This is what my office looks like. The perimeter of the larger square is lined with offices and conference rooms, while the perimeter of the smaller square is essentially the “hallway” for the entire floor. Between the hallway and the offices are all the open cubes where peons, like myself, are seated.

This type of office set-up lends itself to four very blind turns when walking along the hallway. For example, not long ago I left my cube to use the restroom – a journey that requires two blind turns. As I made the first turn, I threw off the balance of someone coming the other direction. The poor guy ended up stutter-stepping, losing his balance, and running into the wall, all as a result of my unexpected arrival.

Someone here needs to install those mirrors that allow us to see around corners.

Please Watch Your Step!

2005-04-29T14:23:00.000-04:00

Last week I served jury duty for the first time. Although every American seems to dread this civic duty, I spent two very welcome days away from the office.

I decided to go to my favorite restaurant in Chinatown for lunch during my second day of jury duty. After a very filling and greasy meal of sticky rice and scallion pancakes, I headed downstairs to use the restroom before heading back to the courthouse when I noticed a sign I never saw before.

Mid-way down the stairs was a sheet of paper taped on the wall above the handrail at an angle parallel to the stairs. "Please watch your step!" I read. And then laughed. And then wondered, who would think to put that sign here? Usually these signs are posted at the top or bottom of a staircase. I would hope that a person who was halfway up or down the stairs would notice the steps by then.

Too bad I didn't have a digital camera with me. It would be perfect for times like this, and then I could be one of those Asians who take an excessive amount of digital pictures of everyday life and post them on my blog.

Favela Tour

2005-03-20T14:21:00.000-05:00

It may sound odd, but one of the things to do when visiting Rio de Janeiro is to take a tour of the favelas (slums). I mean, who ever heard of visiting LA and taking a tour of East LA and Watts? But while it doesn’t depict the normally glamorous picture most would have of Rio, it definitely illustrates the most realistic. And I must admit, it was the most interesting and eye-opening part of my trip.

We scheduled a tour of the favela on a cloudy Friday morning. The tour began after a scary and windy ride on a motorbike up the mountainside, as we got dropped off just outside the entrance to the favela. At one time, people could drive down the road that leads into the favela, but now it is only big enough for pedestrians. And it doesn’t help that people keep building farther and farther into the road. At one point, our tour guide, Marcio, stopped to show us a house that jutted out into the road about five feet.

“Two weeks ago, this wasn’t here,” Marcio said, putting his hand on the wall of what is now a kitchen.

Our tour begins as we are told not to take photographs of the men guarding the entrance of the favela with machine guns. Our guide says that no one will try to steal from us or hurt us, but because of the drug rings, photos should not be taken when we see men with machine guns. I become a little nervous, as I have my camera out with no bag for it and fear that they may mistakenly think I am secretly taking photos.

Keeping guard with machine guns is the lowest-level position a person could have in the drug rings. When the police come, they set off smoke signals as a warning to the drug dealers, and may even start shooting at the police. Even at this low position, a boy could make as much as R$400 per month, a high salary compared to the average Carioca (native of Rio de Janeiro) salary of R$250 per month.

As we walk into the favela, it becomes quickly apparent that it is a complex web of houses and stores. Steps lead both above and below the pathway we are following – I wonder how anyone knows their address or how to locate someone. Or even how they manage to get the mail.

“If the kids ask you for money, don’t give it to them,” says Marcio. He’s trying to teach the children not to beg for money, but to sell something instead. Two young boys are selling small wooden picture frames for one Real (the equivalent of about 27 cents) each. But before letting anyone in our tour group purchase a frame, Marcio asks the boys why they aren’t in school. They respond that they are going in the afternoon and Marcio chooses to believe them, explaining, “See, it is better for them to sell something, but they make one or two Reais for it and they don’t go to school, and that is not good. But they say they are going in the afternoon, so it is okay for you to buy.”

The Rocinha favela is the biggest favela in Rio de Janeiro. Favela, which is a shanty town, derives its names from the favel tree. Using the wood from the favel tree, the poor would illegally build shelters, which grew into towns known as favelas. Rocinha stretches above the hills that border Rio and into the Tijuca National Park. It is now too large for the government to eliminate and it is estimated that as many as one in four Cariocas lives in a favela.

We continue on the footpath and Marcio notes the electrical wires running above our heads. “Some people pay for electricity, but much of it is stolen,” he says. He later shows us a meter reading “00001.” It is quite clear that this meter will never change. I am also beginning to think that the possibility of being electrocuted in Brazil is rather high.

There are several stops along our tour, including an art studio, a music stop, a bakery, and even a day care center run by an NGO. We also stop several times to speak with the locals, and everyone is incredibly friendly and excited to see us. I am constantly amazed at the happiness the community exudes although they live in such abject poverty.

Upon our descent through the favela, there is an uncovered sewage system running beside the footpath. At many points, I am walking along a wet pathway, afraid of slipping, and with the increasing sentiment that I am walking on human excrement. Around me, children run barefoot up and down the path.

“This is a big source of disease in the favela,” Marcio remarks about the sewage system. Many kids play just inches away from the waste. The kids seem to be everywhere, full of energy and curiosity. They shout, “Photo! Photo!” and love when they can see their pictures instantly on a digital camera. They seem to be completely unaware that their life shouldn’t have to be lived in these types of conditions. One of them asks our guide about the Japanese couple in the back. I have to laugh about being assumed to be Japanese wherever I travel. It seems that the stereotype of the Japanese tourist is as well-traveled as the Japanese tourist itself.

And just like that, we’re told not to take any photos as we approach a man with a machine guy flanked by two young boys. Afterwards, one of our group members asks Marcio if he knows the man with the machine gun.

“No,” says Marcio. “That was the first time I have seen him.” He then goes on to explain that he thinks the man with the machine gun had an argument with a young girl in a pink tank top who rushed by as we approached, clutching her cheek. “He probably hit her, and then he turned to me and asked if we were going to take photos.” After telling the man no, the young boys, who Marcio knows, confirmed that we would not take any photos and told the man to relax.

Then we walked back to our van, past the road where the drug deals occur, and back to the luxurious side of Rio. And above all this, on what could be the most beautiful property in the world on the hill overlooking Rio de Janeiro, life in the favela continues to be a mixture of happiness and struggle.

Location, Location, Location

2004-12-20T14:19:00.000-05:00

At the beginning of November, my department moved office buildings to join the rest of the company down the street. While the office space is much nicer, we now share a floor with at least two other departments, which I never interact with. I also have a wonderfully low cubicle that allows me to stare at my coworker all day if I so choose. Whenever I take a break from looking at the computer, I always manage to make eye contact with someone, and then feel the need to smile and look away as quickly as possible, or else I'll get stuck in a conversation.

The best part about my new cubicle is it's location. I sit right along a walkway, and on the other side of the walkway is the men's bathroom. It's great. I get to watch all the men on the floor and take notes on their bathroom habits. Some men go into the bathroom with their newspapers under their arms, completely unashamed. Others go into the bathroom with cups of coffee (???). Maybe someone can explain that one to me.

The other day, the facilities guy was here on my floor, working on the men's room, which was flooded. After he was finished, he came out of the bathroom and asked me if he could borrow my phone to make a quick call. Poor guy, he just had to clean a bathroom, I wanted to say no, but couldn't bring myself to do it. So I let him use the phone, but made sure to wipe it down with wet naps immediately afterwards.

There is this woman in the neighboring department who always dresses grossly inappropriate for work. And if it isn't inappropriate, what she wears should be banned to save us all from viewing her in all her horror. I may be a fashion train wreck, but she actually thinks she's hip and trendy in her outfits. Today she walked by and was wearing a skirt, stilettos, a button down sleeveless top, and had her hair in a side ponytail tied with a magenta scrunchy.

WTF?

I'm so glad that I'm flying home tomorrow night and will be able to get away from this place.

The Bare Feet Incident

2004-09-22T14:18:00.000-04:00

This past Saturday, my friends and I went out in the Meatpacking district to show an out-of-town friend around. After a large and tasty dinner of Korean BBQ, I figured it would be tough to get buzzed and made quick work of a few gin & tonics. It seems that I completely overestimated the amount of food that was in my stomach.

Things didn’t get quite so weird until we left the bar and headed over to Gray’s Papaya to get some late-night hot dogs. At this point, I wasn’t even hungry, but really, really wanted to go to bed. As we were crossing 9th Avenue, I noticed a guy giving a girl a piggyback ride walking the opposite direction. I also noticed that the girl wasn’t wearing any shoes.

Even though they were quite a distance from me, in my drunken stupor I started screaming, “Ah! Don’t touch me with your bare feet!” This, of course, attracted their attention and planted the idea into their heads. Why did I scream this? I have no idea. I’m not even scared of feet. Maybe I’m just scared of strangers’ feet when I’m drunk, but this is news to me.

So there I am, freaking out about the bare feet and the guy starts running towards me. I keep screaming, they are laughing, next thing I know, he touches me with her bare feet! Now, I’m also laughing while screaming, “Ewww! She touched me with her bare feet! Ewww!”

After this, I found a little stoop outside Gray’s Papaya and promptly fell asleep.

The whole incident remained forgotten until the next day when Gerald asked me if I remembered when they touched me with her bare feet. And it all came flooding back! At work on Monday, all I could see was that grinning couple running at me and hitting me with her bare feet and running away. I burst out loud laughing a few times just remembering the incident, but since all my coworkers who sit near me have been laid off, I was left to laugh at myself in peace and quiet.

This must be the strangest thing that has happened to me since I’ve moved to New York. And even though it’s ridiculously funny, I hope it never happens to me again.

Cigarettes & Gum

2004-08-20T14:17:00.000-04:00

I think that cigarette companies should develop their own gum or breath freshener that they can sell with their cigarettes as a package deal. It's really irritating when coworkers who smoke come asking me for gum or mints. If they're smokers, I think they should be well prepared with their own supply of breath fresheners. Maybe cigarettes could come with a piece of gum, the way baseball cards do.

All in the name of making our world smell just a little better.

Baby Giant

2004-08-13T14:16:00.000-04:00

There is a child in my apartment building who is entirely too large to be in a stroller. When standing, this child actually comes up to my chest. She can walk perfectly fine, but it seems that she just likes to be pushed around all day in her stroller. Let's call her baby giant.

I first noticed her a few months ago and thought to myself, "That kid is WAY to big to be in a stroller." But I let it go. It actually became quite funny to see her around, since she made the stroller look miniature.

But then, just last week, I was home for lunch when the baby giant was in the elevator with me. I was shocked to see that she was standing, and even more shocked when I saw what she was doing. Her mother had hung a large Duane Reade bag on the handle of the stroller, and baby giant was in the process of putting her pacifiers into it. Yes, pacifiers, as in plural. She didn't just have one, but she had TWO! I was in shock. I couldn't believe this kid, or her mother. I mean, don't kids usually get weaned off their pacifiers by the time they're three?

I no longer think it's funny when I see baby giant anymore. I actually feel kinda sad for the next generation.

Stench

2004-08-10T14:15:00.000-04:00

As I was walking to work today, I noticed the distinct smell of urine. Usually, the odor lasts rather briefly as I pass the violated area, but today, the odor lasted an usually long time. I started to walk faster and faster, but the odor would still linger. Finally, I looked up and realized that there was a homeless woman walking in front of me and that I was exactly downwind of her. I stepped to the side and walked around her, and immediately the air became fresher.

Ewww.

Do You Like My Shoes?

2004-05-25T14:14:00.000-04:00

Last month a friend of mine came up with a joke that has provided us with endless hours of entertainment. Let’s call it the fugly shoe joke.

The first time I heard the fugly shoe joke, my friend sent me this link over IM and asked me what I thought, because she was considering actually purchasing the fugly shoes. Good thing I’m pretty damn honest because my response went something like, “They look like orthopedic shoes. Why would you want those??”

After learning that she was just kidding and wanted to see what my reaction would be, I remember thinking, “What a stupid joke!” But for some reason I couldn’t stop laughing. And the more I thought about it, the more funny the joke became, especially when we hit on those friends who were just too nice (or too honest!) to tell us what they really thought about our fashion sense.

We were so amused by some of our friends’ reactions that we started compiling a running list of their responses. Thus far, the best one has been:

“Wait. Oh HAIL NO. Unless you're a total ajima! Designed for fitness walking. Oh hail no. That's wrong squared. I wouldnt even be seen around you. You could like wear them at home, but when ppl came over you'd have to hide that shit.”

After playing this joke on so many people, I have to ask myself, “Why do we find this joke so damn funny?” It’s not that my friend and I are mean people. But it’s almost like Punk’d on MTV. Or like My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance, where everyone’s in on the joke except the main character. Essentially, I think that my friend and I created our own version of reality tv. There is just no substitute for the reaction we could get from our friends by horrifying them with such ugly shoes.

Try it. It’s fun. And addicting. And will also provide you with endless hours of entertainment.

Magic Shell

2004-04-07T14:11:00.000-04:00

Exerpt from an Email from Gerald to Danielle:

Pour on the magic ... and the fun ... with Smucker's Magic Shell Topping. This topping magically freezes in seconds on your ice cream to create a candy-coated topping that can be broken and mixed right in with the ice cream. It's a topping that's fun to make ... and fun to break!

what did you expect - spontaneous freezing at room temperature??..

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I expected. Being the sheltered person that I am, I had never heard of Smucker’s Magic Shell Topping. I’ve never even seen a commercial for it on television. So when I tried using it on some strawberries a few days ago, it’s no surprise that I was thoroughly confused.

After preparing my strawberries, I was ready to pour on the magic shell. On the front of the bottle, there’s a little sticker that says “Freezes in seconds!” and directs the user to see the back for instructions. I turn it over to the back. The only directions I could find read:

"Magic Shell works best when SHAKEN VERY WELL! TURN BOTTLE UPSIDE DOWN AND SHAKE WELL FOR AT LEAST 30 SECONDS! If Magic Shell does not flow easily from the bottle, run bottle under hot tap water until liquid (2 minutes), shaking occasionally. DO NOT REFRIGERATE. If refrigerated or stored in a cool place, Magic Shell will harden. Store at room temperature."

Nowhere in there does it mention freezing. You'd think that with all those capitalized letters, that they would bother mentioning that fact. So I figured that the stuff was magic, and would freeze by itself – wasn’t that the whole point of its gimmick? Freezes in seconds?

I poured the magic shell all over my strawberries and thought I would see a miraculous transformation in the next few seconds. Much to my disappointment, nothing happened. The chocolate looked just as syrupy as it had when I first poured it out of the bottle. I gave up waiting since it seemed like nothing was going to happen, and I started eating the strawberries with chocolate syrup dripping all over them.

Edwin joined me in the kitchen and I tell him that the magic shell stuff is bogus and doesn’t work.

“Really?” he asked. He reached for the bottle and started reading the directions.
“Yeah, and I followed the directions. Shook the bottle 20 times and everything,” I said.
“And it still looks like this even after you put it in the freezer?” he asked.

Now, wait just a second. The directions never said anything about a freezer. Apparently, I mistook “freezes in seconds” to mean “hardens in seconds.” How was I supposed to know to put the stuff in the freezer? The stuff says it’s MAGIC!

I was in such disbelief that I picked up the phone and called Gerald. All I got was “Of course you have to put it in the freezer! Did you think it was going to freeze on its own?”

I put what's left of the strawberries and chocolate into the freezer, and lo and behold, the chocolate froze.

Boy, do I feel sheepish. Lesson learned. Next time something says it “freezes” it really means that I need to do the freezing.

Psycho Rat

2004-04-01T14:10:00.000-05:00

Living in New York City, rats become a common sight. Usually I see them from afar, mostly from the safe height of the subway platform. But last night, I encountered a psychotic rat.

It was after work, and Edwin, my friend Gerald, and I were walking from my apartment to Gerald’s place for dinner. Now, to get from my place to Gerald’s, I have to walk up a street undergoing massive construction. As a result, all sorts of things are getting uncovered – including rats.

As we reached the corner of Wall and William, a rat ran across the sidewalk, attempting to jump into the hole that construction had left in the street. However, in its hurry, the rat ran straight into Gerald’s foot, bounced off slightly dazed, then proceeded to run the rest of the way into the construction site.

Gerald jumped, I screamed, and Edwin started laughing. I never thought I would be the type to scream at a rat, but now I know my true nature. And the rat was scurrying around like it couldn’t see out of one eye.

On the way home, I saw the same rat making its rounds on the same sidewalk corner. Scared, I hurried past the spot. Psycho Rat, I will forever remember you. And so will Gerald, as he can still feel the tingle of your teeny paws on his right foot.

The Stinky Banana Peel

2004-03-31T14:09:00.000-05:00

I usually try to avoid Chinatown on weekends, but felt compelled to brave the crowds on Sunday and stock up on produce for the week. I was glad I did – I got three pounds of bananas for a dollar, and two boxes of strawberries for a dollar each.

Monday morning at the office, I was happily eating one of my bananas. As I reached the end of my banana, I realized that I didn’t want to throw the peel away in my trash can, which is under my desk. I hate the way banana peels smell after they’ve been sitting for a few hours, and definitely didn’t want to odor wafting up from below me. I dangled my banana peel for a moment, considering its fate, when it struck me – put it in the trash can of someone I don’t like.

Now, my department is being outsourced. To make room for the consultants that are going to be taking over most everyone’s job functions, they have been moving some of my coworkers to my side of the floor. One of these coworkers moved into the cube next to mine – someone I don’t like because he’s an arrogant ass. Let’s call him AA from this point forward.

AA typically doesn’t waltz into the office until around 10:30 AM, so I had plenty of time to throw my banana peel into his trash can. I stood up, deposited my trash, smiled, and then sat back down, quite proud of myself. As I sat at my desk waiting for AA to get into the office, I started to get paranoid. Would he be able to smell the banana on my breath and then know that it was I who threw the banana peel in his trash can? How passive-aggressive was I really being by doing this?

I soon forgot about the banana peel, and it turns out that AA had the day off on Monday. So Tuesday, I tried to give him my stinky banana peel again. Unfortunately, he didn’t come into the office on Tuesday either.

It is now Wednesday at 10:32 AM and my uneaten banana is sitting here beside me on my desk. Sadly, AA is already at his desk and I’ll be unable to give him my stinky banana peel. Maybe he’ll come in at his usual time tomorrow, because I only have one more banana. Hopefully, it won’t go to waste.

The Delta Disaster

2004-01-20T14:06:00.000-05:00

Note: This letter was sent to Song’s customer service email today. In my haste, I didn’t catch the name of the disgruntled employee.

To whom it may concern:

I flew Song for the first time this past weekend on a round-trip flight from New York City (LGA) to Fort Lauderdale.

Yesterday, I arrived at the Fort Lauderdale airport to return to New York. Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances, my traveling partner and I arrived exactly half an hour of our flight’s departure time, and as such, were not allowed to use the electronic check-in machines.

After five minutes being outright ignored, we finally managed to get the attention of a Delta Airlines employee behind the ticket counter. We explained our situation and asked her what could be done. Instead of drawing out our options, she proceeded to scold and lecture us.

“We know that we are late checking-in for our flight. What can we do now?” I asked.

“You can’t arrive 20 minutes before your flight departs.”

I looked at my watch. We had 25 minutes until our flight left, and we were standing here being reprimanded by an airline agent. My traveling buddy tried to tell her that we were waiting to speak with her for five minutes while she ignored us. Unsurprisingly, his comments fell on deaf ears. I told her my watch read that we had 25 minutes left.

“Well, my watch says 20 minutes left. You should be arriving at the airport at least 30 minutes prior to your departure time to check in. It’s been that way ever since 9/11. You can’t just expect to show up at the airport and walk onto the plane.” On and on she went. Not once did she address my question. And, for the record, I checked later and my watch was correct – either hers was fast or she was lying to further emphasize how late we were.

Now, both my traveling partner and I have worked as consultants since 9/11 and, as we flew every week, are fully aware of the travel requirements since then. We had already established the fact that we were late for check-in; instead of a lecture, what we needed was someone to help us in this situation and let us know what we could do to fix the problem – not for someone to treat us like children. I feel that the airline agent took my youthful looks to mean that I was a 16-year-old, which I assure you I am not.

All through her tirade, the airline agent was printing our boarding passes. Still berating us, she handed them over, claiming that we were “lucky” that the computer let her print the boarding passes. It was as if she didn’t want to tell us that we would be able to get on this flight until she handed us our passes, attempting to make us suffer for our tardiness as much as possible.

It was undoubtedly the worst service I have received from any airline that I have flown. In addition to making it clear that being late was a sin and making me feel like I was one-inch tall, the airline agent made it clear that Delta or Song is an airline without respect, class, or sensitivity.

Yes, there are many options to choose from when flying, and I will be sure not to choose Delta or Song in the future.

Ode to Christina

2004-01-15T14:01:00.000-05:00

We all have the one friend no one wants to be. The one who does The Disappearing Act when he/she starts dating someone, and then magically reappears when things turn sour.

When I was in high school, my best friend, Christina*, and I did everything together. Things were great – we hung out at school together, were in the same classes, joined the same clubs, and did homework together after school. We actually spent so much time together, that I began losing touch with my other friends, which I didn’t notice until Christina started dating a mutual friend our senior year.

I have always felt responsible for their relationship. I remember spending time on the phone with each of them, getting them to admit their feelings for each other and they actually started dating. There had been confusing times when my friendship with Christina had been tested before, but a boyfriend was the ultimate test. Unfortunately, it was one we failed miserably.

My friendship with Christina slowly deteriorated. She was spending all of her time at school now with her new-found boyfriend, trying to include me as the third wheel. Wanting no part of that, and scared that I was going to be left behind, I realize now that I actually started to push Christina away. If anyone was going to be left behind in this relationship, I sure as hell didn’t want it to be me.

By graduation, the breakup between Christina and me was nearly irreparable. We ended up attending the same university and within a year, Christina ended things with her boyfriend, but our friendship never returned to the way it was. Even now, after so many years and a reconciliation, I know that Christina still feels slightly guilty about how our friendship died when we were in high school. But maybe my defense mechanism is the one to blame.

I’ll never forget having a conversation with one of my closest friends after my fallout with Christina during my senior year of high school. We were talking about what happened, and he said, “Man, it’s like you’re back from the dead.” Did I really seem dead to all my friends? In my grief over my friendship with Christina, I realized I had deserted all of my other friends to be with her. It wasn’t until I feel like a victim of The Disappearing Act, that I managed to recognize I had also been doing The Disappearing Act. I vowed never to do it again. And I promised myself that I would never be the friend who gives up her friends for her boyfriend.

I’ve been in a serious relationship for over three years now, and I have always strived to balance time spent with my boyfriend and time spent with my friends. Since I’ve moved to New York, I’ve had to struggle with this balance less, as all my friends were still in California. However, lately, there has been an influx of college friends, and I feel my social life is about to be resurrected.

My friends have a knack for making me feel guilty for wanting to spend time alone with my boyfriend. Or maybe my guilt from my high school days has yet to wash away from my conscience. Whatever, the reason, I always feel that I have to say “Yes” to my friends, and “No” to my boyfriend. If not for anything more than to prove to my friends that I would never desert them.

My boyfriend is finally coming back to New York tonight after four weeks in Los Angeles. I have been happily anticipating his return (as has he) and we planned to spend tonight having some much-needed time alone. But my friends want to head out tonight, and when I told them why tonight isn’t good for me, on came the guilt-tripping. I know it was all in good fun, but considering my past, it’s not so fun for me.

Was it really so bad that after four weeks with no privacy, I just wanted to have one night alone with my boyfriend? For weeks, we had an unstated plan to be alone tonight. If I headed out, not only would I feel guilty for ditching my boyfriend, but he would probably feel disappointed that I left him on his first night back in town. I felt completely justified in staying home tonight.

Could it be that in my effort to not disappear on my friends, I would start disappearing on my boyfriend? It was then that I had to ask, “When does ditching your friends to be with your boyfriend become ditching your boyfriend to be with your friends?”

Having to choose between your significant other and your friends is a constant tug-o-war, but at least it’s nice to know that you have both sides to choose from. And I know that my friends will understand the times I need to be alone with my boyfriend.

As for my broken friendship, I know things will never be the same with Christina, but we now have a deeper understanding of each other. We’ll always still be there for each other, and there’s a greater sense of independence and individuality on both sides. For that, I will forever be grateful.

*Name has been changed to protect true identity.

Fashion Train Wreck

2004-01-13T13:59:00.000-05:00

When I was home for the holidays, I finally saw first-hand what a TLC freak my sister had become. I watched countless episodes of Clean Sweep and What Not to Wear. And I couldn’t help but become addicted to What Not to Wear and thinking, “What should I not wear?” I didn’t find myself so different from the women featured on the show – did I look like that when I went out in public?

For those of you who have never seen What Not to Wear, it helps people dress better. A person is nominated by his/her spouse, family or friends and is then secretly filmed for two weeks. He/She is then told about the show, is flown to New York for a few days, given general guidelines on how to dress and what types of clothes to purchase, and given a $5,000 credit card and two days to shop.

The problem of having a versatile and professional-looking wardrobe has become my nemesis in the new year. While I find comfort in my current clothes (as in, they are comfortable), I have started to think that I should start dressing my age. Does “dressing my age” = “uncomfortable”? I was perturbed when I heard a woman on What Not to Wear say the same exact thing – that nicer-looking clothes were uncomfortable. But by the end of the episode, she had been converted. She discovered that adult, professional looking clothes could actually be very comfortable.

So the next issue is that of price. Maintaining a fashionable, yet classic wardrobe for a Taiwanese girl who has to eat every-scrap-of-food-on-her-plate-in-order-not-to-waste-food is no easy task. I always go shopping for clothes, finger the clothes I really want, maybe even try them on, but always put them back on the rack after contemplating the price tag a little longer. And then I think, “If I had $5,000 to spend just on clothes, then I would have an awesome wardrobe too!” But would it really be awesome? Or would there just be an eclectic mix of clothes? Is this why I open my closet that is full of clothes and wonder why I have nothing to wear?

I’ve realized that the trick is to have a minimal wardrobe that contains at least one of everything I would need. One light jacket that would go with everything. One heavy jacket that would go with everything. Instead, hanging in my closet you would find several jackets of all different colors, none of which could be worn with everything I own.

I think I’ve been watching too much Sex and the City of late. I can’t stop analyzing how the girls dress, what types of shirts they wear, and how to match patterns and colors. Then I realize that I will never have any style.

Oh, where are you my long-lost (never-had-it) fashion sense? Maybe I do have style, but I think it’s called boring! I don’t know if I can ever be capable of having that stellar wardrobe. Will I forever look like an 18-year-old? Would that be considered a good thing?

I am the fashion train wreck. I can’t mix and match. And I can’t seem to buy anything but black, gray, white, and red. If you need anything in black, gray, white, and red, you know who to call.

P.S. If everything in my wardrobe is black, gray, white, and red, why is it that I can’t mix and match? I need help!

Crying Babies

2004-01-05T13:57:00.000-05:00

As a general rule, I like babies. They’re cute, they’re cuddly, they’re miniature, and they don’t talk. But they do cry. So in its entirety, my rule really reads:

I like babies, except when they cry while I’m trying to sleep.

Last night I took a red-eye flight from LAX to JFK, arriving at 6:00 AM EST. While I don’t really enjoy red-eye flights because I like to stay awake and take advantage of my free movie and food, I was excited last night since my dad upgraded me to business class. Bigger seats and free booze, what more could I ask for? I should have asked for a seat as far away from any babies as possible.

As I was flying west to east, the flight was considerably short, weighing in at only 4 hours, 17 minutes. I didn’t find myself tired until the second half of the flight, and burrowed into my giant seat for two hours of sleep.

Of course, it wasn’t that easy. For what felt like the last hour of my nap, all I could hear was a baby wailing in my ear. I was so tired that I slept through it, but it invaded my dreams and made me slightly agitated. This kid was so freakin’ loud that I’m sure the entire plane was awake.

I think, out of courtesy for the other passengers on the plane, that babies should not be allowed on red-eye flights. Now, I am sympathetic to the parents of these crying babies. But I am more sympathetic to passengers like myself. Crying babies ruin things for everyone. They cry, they poop, and they put everyone on the flight in an irritated state of mind.

Not only should babies be prohibited on red-eye flights, but there should be designated “baby flights” so all these crying babies have company. That way, when we are shelling out hundreds of dollars for a plane ticket, there is the option of having a baby-free flight. I can’t even count the number of times I have been stuck next to, behind, or in front of a baby and would have loved to have had this option.

As I write this, I am tired. Very, very tired. Oh, how I long for the day I can fly baby-free!

Angry Danielle

2003-12-12T13:54:00.000-05:00

I usually have a rather well-tempered personality. It takes a lot for a non-immediate family member to pique my anger, and when I finally reach my boiling point, I can be quite scathing.

I do my personal banking with Citibank. I have never ran into a problem with them, although I have heard horror stories from friends, who have re-Christened the bank “Sh*ttybank”. I now know why.

Two weekends ago, I was reconciling my finances and noticed a $7.50 service fee deducted from my checkings account. Strange, I thought, since my company has an agreement with Citibank. As I have direct deposit into that account, the service fee is waived.

Come Monday, I called Citibank customer service. It seemed that what I wanted would have been easy enough to clear up – give me back my $7.50 since I have direct deposit. Apparently it wasn’t so straightforward to the representative I got on the phone. She insisted that instead of an EZ Checkings account (which has a $1,500 minimum balance requirement) I had a different checkings account that had a $6,000 minimum balance requirement.

“What?” I asked. “Why was the type of checkings account I have changed without any notification or my authorization?”

Of course they didn’t know. She agreed to change my account back to an EZ Checkings account, and then put in a request to have the $7.50 fee refunded to me. And naïve Danielle believed her.

Naïve Danielle soon turned into Angry Danielle when Wednesday rolled around and the $7.50 service fee had not yet been refunded. Refund?! I love how they use refund, as if they asked me if they could take the money directly from my account in the first place.

I do feel bad for the poor representative I got this time around. He sounded like a very nice guy, but I was just not in the mood to be pleasant. Surprisingly, I had a load of work to do and didn’t have time to spend on the phone, riddling with customer service. So, I told him exactly what I wanted him to do.

“There are two outcomes I want as a result of my call today. (1) I want you to remove this $7.50 deduction from my account and (2) I want you to make sure this never happens again. I am telling you this upfront so that when you ask me at the end of this call ‘Ma’am, have I answered all your questions to your satisfaction?’ you already know my answer.”Through all that, the representative kept interrupting me. That just pissed me off even more. “Don’t interrupt me, just listen and let me finish speaking. I know you are going to sit there and explain to me that my average balance for the month fell below $1,500; however, I have direct deposit to my account and the service fee should be waived. I don’t care why the fee was taken, I just want you to fix it. Don’t give me any more excuses.”

Even after that, the representative still tried to give me more explanations. “Look, sir, are you going to be able to do this for me over the phone, or am I going to have to waste more of my time going down to the branch and having this fixed in person?”

“No, no, ma’am, of course I can fix this for you over the phone,” he replied, and then put me on hold.

I think I scared the poor guy so badly that he went to get someone else to handle my call. I heard someone else’s voice start to pick up my call when they dropped it. Bad move (although I would probably have hung up on myself if I were on the other end of the phone). I called back and the lady who answered got the exact same diatribe as above. Except this time it sounded worse because I started off with, “I just got hung up on, are you going to hang up on me too?”

After all this, the only thing that occurred was that the representative screwed up my accounts, mis-linking them, and I did have to go down to the branch to undo her damage in person. There is still a ticket in to have my money refunded, and if it doesn’t go through soon, then I will be sure to give them another earful.

As a side note: I ported my cell phone number from AT&T to Verizon last Monday, and I am still unable to receive phone calls to my new Verizon phone 11 days later. And last week my cable box broke. If an RCN technician were to come out to look at it and find that the cable box was fine, then we get charged for his services. We decided to screw the cable box and return it. Why does everyone suck?

The Fast-Walking Smoker

2003-11-19T13:52:00.000-05:00

One of the worst things I can encounter while walking on the street is a fast-walking smoker. With my tendency to hold my breath while passing up smokers or people I would rather not smell (see Waiting to Exhale), it becomes a challenge and a nuisance when I get stuck behind a smoker I just can’t pass up.

I feel like this is something that has been happening to me more and more frequently. Maybe it’s just the time of day that I happen to be out and about on the street, but mostly, it’s probably because I’m not a very lucky person.

I was once climbing the stairs out of the 34th Street subway station when the person in front of me lit up a cigarette. Mind you, this person’s addiction was so strong that she could not wait until she was fully out of the subway station, but had her cigarette ready to go before she stepped out of the subway car.

Now, for me, the worst part of catching someone’s smoke is getting that first breath, because it is always a deep and particularly potent cloud of smoke. And fresh, cold air (can the air in New York City really be considered fresh?) after a sticky subway ride is something I always look forward to. To have it tainted with the first drag of a cigarette is, to say the least, disappointing and unsavory, especially when I have no where else to escape to.

Don’t get me wrong, I think everyone has a right to smoke, but it just sucks to be me when one of these smokers walks faster than I do – in which case I get stuck downwind and have no choice but to inhale their second-hand smoke. With the narrow walking space available today, it has become more than difficult to pass someone up on the sidewalk. Since single-file in both directions has become the norm, attempting to pass someone can quickly become a game of chicken with a determined walker in the opposite direction. Even when there is plenty of room on the sidewalk, the combination of fast walking and a cigarette still tests the limits of my lung capacity. Would it look weird to these smokers if they saw me run past them, as my face is turning blue, and then resume walking at a normal pace once I was in front of them while gasping for air?

Sometimes, I just have to give up and breathe, and it’s then that I think there’s nothing worse than a fast-walking smoker.

Please Jack Up My Car

2003-11-18T13:50:00.000-05:00

Two weekends ago, I was out with friends, eating dinner and then bar-hopping. As we were walking east on 21st Street, we noticed an NYPD tow truck was attempting to tow a brand-new, silver Solera that was parallel parked across the street. There were approximately four police officers involved in this towing – one in the tow truck, one stopping traffic, and two helping the tow truck officer.

As none of us had ever witnessed the towing of a car that was in a rather tight parallel parking spot, we all stopped to watch this magical feat.

First, the tow truck slid a type of bar under the front of the car, which should have hooked on to both front tires to lift up and then pull the car sideways, rotating it on the rear tires. However, Mr. Tow Truck guy didn’t quite catch one of the front wheels correctly. Well, that didn’t work, so he tried again. This time, he was a little more successful, but still did not manage to catch the far front wheel correctly.

This is the inner dialogue, as I heard it, occurring in Mr. Tow Truck’s head at this point:

“Hmmm…did I get that front wheel? Maybe I didn’t, but do I really want to have to try to get it again? This is taking forever. Look at all that traffic building up behind me on the street. And damn those stupid little Asian people for staring and laughing at me, and putting me under pressure while I’m trying to do my job! Aw, well, even if I didn’t get that front wheel, it’s good enough, I can just force the car out anyways.”

So try anyways, he did. And at first it was pretty amazing – the front of the car started lifting up, up, up! But it was all just a teaser, because then the front of the car went *CRASH* and was suddenly back down on the ground in the same place it started.

We gave a collective gasp, and then started laughing. What idiots! What were they going to do now? They’ve managed to damage the car, create a ton of traffic, and were no closer to towing the car than they were before. Of course, some of the friends I was with felt the need to run across the street to survey the damage to the brand new car. Turns out the front bumper was starting to come off and the front right wheel was completely misaligned.

At a loss of what to do, the police officers decided to call back up. Suddenly there were three other tow trucks on the street, but what did they think they could do that the other tow truck couldn’t? Actually demolish the car?

This was great! It was freezing outside, and we were standing there, shivering, getting free entertainment (of course, I’m sure I was paying for it with my tax dollars). The only thing that could make it better was if the owners were to suddenly show up.

That’s when we heard the yelling. Two women and one man were standing next to the car, wondering what the hell was going on! We couldn’t help but start laughing, and then wondered if they would even notice the damage that had been done to their car.

In the end, the police officers let the owners of the car drive away without even telling them that their front wheel was completely jacked and the bumper was falling off. I was so disappointed that the car owners didn’t even notice the damage – I wanted to see how the police officers would handle that one. I bet those police officers breathed a sigh of relief as they watched the Solera drive away.

Just another reason I am thankful I live in the city and don’t own a car.

Culture Shock

2003-11-05T13:44:00.000-05:00

I am always excited to attend weddings. So when I found out months ago that my cousin was getting married in Taipei, I was even more excited than usual. I was going to get a chance to attend a Taiwanese wedding and learn more about my culture!

So it turns out that a Taiwanese wedding is an all-day event that starts at 11 in the morning. My cousin went to pick up his bride at her parents’ home, and they started the procession back to our house, where we were all waiting. But en route, one of my aunts started babbling something about how my sister and I were not allowed to be downstairs and see the bride until after they finished praying at the Buddhist altar so we better go hide in our room upstairs.

At first I thought my aunt was joking, but then my grandma started to chime in too. Something about not knowing if our birth dates would conflict, so if my sister or I were to conflict on a spiritual level with the bride, then it would be bad luck for the new couple, so we weren’t supposed to see her until after they finished praying.

In disbelief, my sister and I went upstairs and sat in our bedroom. I couldn’t believe that I was going to miss the whole thing! I mean, there was still activity after this small ceremony, and then the huge wedding banquet for dinner that night, but I wanted to see everything. I didn't travel for over 20 hours for nothing!

From downstairs, we could hear the voices floating up through our window. “They’re here! Hurry up!” And then, the sound of firecrackers announced the arrival of the new couple. Sigh, I missed the firecrackers.

Suddenly, my uncle opened the bedroom door and asked my sister and I what we were doing hiding in the bedroom. “They told us that we weren’t allowed to see the bride!” we complained. He then told us that it was all right since we were younger than the bride.

Whoohoo! I was being released! I rushed out of the bedroom to make a dash for the stairs to catch what I could. However, once I made it out to the living room, I came to a sliding, and embarrassing halt.

The Buddhist altar in our house is upstairs in the living room. By the time I was released from my cage, the bride and groom had already made it up the stairs to pray at the altar, and I had just cut them off and probably got in the way of a bunch of pictures. Did I mess up their ceremony? Was this a total cultural faux pas?

Well, I brushed it off and started taking a load of pictures. I mean, c’mon, I missed the firecrackers, at least I should get pictures of all of this. After they finished praying, the wedding procession continued into their new bedroom, where they posed for pictures and drank tea, which I am sure symbolizes something. Too bad no one could explain a lot of these traditions to me.

The wedding couple went back to the upstairs living room, where they sat and ate a rice ball soup. And then the ceremony was over. “Are they married now?” I asked my mom. “I think so,” she replied.

And then it was time for lunch. The bride and groom had to stay at home, but the rest of the wedding party headed out for a huge lunch at a nearby restaurant, after which we would bring the wedding couple food. According to tradition, the bride cannot eat anything before the ceremony, must stay dressed in her bridal gown, and cannot leave the new house until it was time for the wedding banquet that night. Sadly, no one could explain the meaning of this tradition to me either. But it did seem rather painful and sadistic to the bride.

So it makes me wonder, all these traditions that no one can explain make up the Taiwanese culture. And these traditions seem what I would call superstitious in nature. I’m sure that once, these superstitions had more meaning, but now-a-days, it seems that people comply with these superstitions just for the sake of it.

Two days later my family went to the temple where my grandfather’s ashes are kept and the bride and groom couldn’t come with us. Apparently, for four months after getting married, they are not allowed to attend any weddings, funerals, or gravesites. Another one of these superstitions I don’t quite understand.

In high school, my sister and I were bored and decided to rearrange the furniture in her room while my parents were at work. When we were finished, the foot of her bed was facing the door to her room. My mom came home from work and started freaking out about the arrangement immediately.

“You have to change your room. Never face the bed out the door – dead people are taken out of their homes feet-first,” she explained.

Although I found it strange, we eventually moved the bed, and I will never be able to sleep in a room where the bed faces out the door because of what my mother said.

I come from a culture that says not to shake your legs or else all the money will fall out of your pockets. Or not to leave your chopsticks sticking straight up in your bowl because (1) that’s how the incense is placed when you pray and (2) dead people will come and eat your food (which is apparently bad luck). Or to place a mirror over your door if your house faces an electrical structure, like a lamppost, in order to reflect any evil energy away. Or to eat all your rice, because if you don’t, then your future husband will have the same number of pockmarks on his face as the number of rice kernels left in your bowl.

Is that all culture is? Just a bunch of superstitions? Maybe so, and while I might have once thought that would be a bad thing, it makes life a little more interesting.

Please Keep Your Seatbelts Fastened

2003-11-04T13:42:00.000-05:00

I figure that there is good reason that airlines always want passengers to keep their seatbelts fastened while in their seats, even when the “Fasten Seatbelts” sign is not lit. What I find especially frustrating is when an airplane lands, and the second that the plane is stable on the ground, the sound of seatbelts un-clicking can be heard throughout the cabin. We all know that humans have this annoying habit – to be first, whether it be to the baggage claim (even though the baggage takes forever to make it to the carousels), to get off the plane, or to get on the plane. However, I have never been more annoyed with this human tendency than on the way home from a trip to Taiwan.

On the way home from Taiwan, I flew from Taipei to LAX, where I had a three-hour layover before I left for JFK. Due to the tailwind, the flight from Taipei to LAX is rather quick, at just over 11 hours. Still, 11 hours is a long time to spend in a confined area, and I was happy to land and get off the plane.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one. The minute the plane landed, a man across the cabin was already up and out of his seat, getting his stuff down from the overhead compartment. At this point, the plane hadn’t even slowed down. The flight attendant had to get up out of his seat and run over to tell him to sit down and wait for the seatbelt sign to turn off before getting up again.

Not too long after that, two giggly girls were up and out of their seats, waiting for the plane to be towed into our gate so they could disembark. The seatbelt sign still had yet to go off, but they were standing in the aisle, ready to get off. The weird thing is that, instead of going all the way to the very front of the cabin so they could be the first ones off the plane, they decided to stand right next to my seat, which was halfway down the main cabin. There was hardly an inch between my arm and giggly girl’s leg. Basically, they boxed me, and the fellow sitting across the aisle from me, into our seats.

Excuse me, but hadn’t I been sitting in the same seat for the past 11 hours? Was it not clear that when I finally got to stand up, I would need the aisle space they are usurping in order to get my belongings in the overhead bin compartment? I just wanted to tell the giggly girls to back the hell off.

When the seatbelt sign finally dinged off, I was up and out of my seat, reaching for the overhead bin, and trying to edge the giggly girls out of my rightful way. They didn’t seem to get the hint. Taiwanese people are pros at crowding and pretending that they don’t see other people.

I finally wedged myself between the two girls and decided that that was a victory in and of itself. When we actually got off the plane, it was then fun for me to walk crookedly enough to get in the way of the girl I cut off, preventing her from being able to catch up with her friend.

After that short-lived satisfaction, I began to wonder why I felt so territorial about my aisle space and the fact that it was only fair that people get off the plane in the order they are seated. Maybe because there are so few things in this world that are fair, and this is something that can be easily controlled and gauged. Or maybe it is just a common courtesy issue, where you always let the person sitting in the row in front of you have a chance to get up and get out. If they miss their chance, then too bad for them, but at least you did your part.

As an American, I feel the need to have a sense of personal space. This is my space, that is your space. It’s so simple – and everyone can walk away happy. However, when I feel that someone else has no regard for my personal space, well, that’s when I become edgy. But is it really their fault? Or just a byproduct of their culture

Selfishness is so easy to recognize in other people, but so hard to see in ourselves, especially when these emotions seem so justifiable. Maybe it was bitchy of me to try and regain my rightful place in the line to get off the plane, but after an 11-hour flight, I felt that I somewhat deserved it. And the last thing I needed were giggly girls pushing me out of the way.

The Boxed Set Dilemma

2003-10-20T13:40:00.000-04:00

Arrid, extra dry! Remember those commercials? Well, that’s how my mind has been. Extra dry.

The month of October has been especially slow for me. Maybe I haven’t been going out enough, so nothing interesting enough to write about has happened. Whatever the reason, my brain is like a desert. Hopefully November will bring an oasis.

That being said, let me just take a moment to express my frustration with the Indiana Jones DVD Boxed Set.

I am an avid Indiana Jones fan and own the VHS boxed set. I remember how excited I was to get the whole movie series, and how I watched each videotape multiple times. And now, years later, the DVD has finally been released, with a fourth DVD that is chock full of The-Making-of’s and Never Before Seen’s.

What kind of horrible torture is this?

I invested the money in my first boxed set, and was more than content with it, only to now shun it in desire for the DVD set. My poor boxed set is now an outcast in my video collection because it is no longer good enough! But me, being the cheap Chinese person that I am, cannot bring myself to buy the DVD set and upgrade. I mean, what’s the point of having two copies of each movie, just so I can get the one extra footage DVD? That’s no justification.

I must say that those marketing people are pretty damn sadistic. Especially since they’ve released the DVD set now, and the fourth Indiana Jones movie isn’t scheduled to be released until 2005. At which time, I’m sure another newer and better version of today’s DVD boxed set will magically appear. If I give in to the desire, will I then have two rejected and outdated boxed sets in my closet?

Instant gratification! That’s how my generation was brought up, and that’s how I would love to live. But I’ll get the best of those marketing people. Regardless how much my credit card itches to purchase the DVDs on Amazon.com, I will wait until the fourth Indiana Jones movie comes out. At least I’ll have a better excuse to buy it then.

The waiting game really does suck though. I’m still waiting for the last Lord of the Rings movie to come out in the theaters, and then on DVD, so that I can buy the whole trilogy in one boxed set and feel satisfied that I wasn’t duped into buying them all individually.

Which Friend Are You?

2003-10-17T13:37:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, I took a road trip up to Vermont and stayed in a bed and breakfast called the Gray Ghost Inn. We all know that while there are a lot of activities to do during the day, there is not much in the way of night-life there. As a result, Edwin and I turned to good, old-fashioned, fun for the whole family activities. We played Scrabble.

I love playing Scrabble. What I don’t love is losing at Scrabble. Get me into a situation where I’m not playing on a team, and the game is largely dependent on my intellectual abilities, I will get rather defensive and competitive.

So I was kicking ass and ahead by at least 40 points, when I finally tried setting myself up for a triple-word-score. I had finally gotten rid of my three “I’s” and three “O’s” (what horrible luck!) and I was ready to make some words, dammit.

With my heart starting to beat a little faster, I set down the word “kiss.” My plan was to add an “E-R-S” to the end of it at my next turn, and get the triple word score on the last “S”. It was so close to the end of the game that I didn’t think Edwin would have many good tiles left. I thought wrong.

He proceeded to steal my triple-word-score from me by adding an “I-N-G”.

At first I sat dumbfounded and speechless. I totaled the score, and I was still over 40 points ahead. But that was no consolation compared to the satisfaction that I would have had by getting a triple-word-score! My speechlessness soon turned into anger.

“I don’t want to play anymore. You stole my triple-word-score!” I said. Edwin started laughing. I threw the little wooden bars that hold the tiles into the box. Luckily, there were other people in the game room, otherwise, I would have stormed off. And then it struck me. I’m a Monica.

Is this a bad thing? So what if I like to have my towels hanging so they’re symmetrical, or I can tell when someone has rotated the cups in my cabinets so the handles aren’t facing the right direction? So what if, when I was a kid, I would rearrange the gum in the checkout aisles in the grocery store so that the letters all faced the same way? So what if I like to organize my books at home so that they’re alphabetized by author’s last name and arranged by size? And, so what if I make my friends save their eraser bits and throw them into the trashcan instead of sweeping them onto the floor?

Why do I feel like there’s a slightly negative connotation by being Monica? I guess I can only console myself by believing that I balance out the Phoebe’s and the Rachel’s of the world.

So…which “Friend” are you?

Mute This

2003-10-02T13:35:00.000-04:00

At work, there is a man that sits across the aisle from me whom I will call Mr. Dirty Teeth. Yes, he really does have dirty teeth. His two front teeth are tinged gray around the edges. And that’s only the part I can see. I shudder to think about the rest of his teeth.

So, yesterday, Mr. Dirty Teeth was apparently trying to get my attention. He wanted to know how to put his phone on handsfree mute. Without addressing me by name, he calls out, “Do you know how to put the phone on handsfree mute?” I, trying to look busy at my desk, continued browsing the internet. So he tried again, this time getting up from his desk and running across the aisle into my cubicle, still neglecting to call me by name.

“Hey, do you know how to put the phone on handsfree mute?” he said louder.

When he came into my cubicle, I finally realized that he was talking to me. Apparently I have no name. I turned around to look at him, and was rather irritated with the look he was giving me. It was mixed with belligerence and confusion. For some reason, he couldn’t understand that I did not know that he was talking to me. Maybe he should try addressing people with their names instead of “Hey!” and a wave of his hand. Or maybe he should stop assuming that people are listening to him and his all-important phone conversations. At any rate, the look he was giving me clearly showed that he thought I (1) should know how to use the handsfree mute and (2) was purposely ignoring him.

Now, I did not know how to use the handsfree mute. I still don't. But, given that there is a button on the phone labeled “Handsfree Mute,” I concluded that it was pretty self-explanatory. However, with the look he was giving me, I had absolutely no desire to try and figure it out. So I simply replied, “Sorry,” shrugged my shoulders, and got back to my web-surfing. As I turned, I could see his expression darken. My irritation began to grow.

I already have a problem with Mr. Dirty Teeth because he is the type of person that will ask you what you’re eating in hopes that you will offer him some. And then he’ll gobble it up using his dirty front teeth. I remember the first time I noticed this when I had a bag of Rold Gold honey wheat pretzel twists, and was sharing them with some of my coworkers. Out of nowhere, Mr. Dirty Teeth was in my cubicle and asking me innocently, “What are those?” To quote Clueless, “As if!” I would have had no problem sharing them with him had he just asked for some.

As a result, I cannot eat my honey wheat pretzel twists in peace. I am forever waiting for Mr. Dirty Teeth to leave his desk or get on the phone before I reach into my desk drawer, pull out my bag of pretzel twists, put some on a napkin, and then hide my pretzel bag back in my desk drawer before he can notice. All of that just to avoid having to share my pretzel twists with Mr. Dirty Teeth. I feel slightly guilty because he did offer my chocolate once, but after seeing all the chocolate staining his teeth, I quickly declined. I’m not a big chocolate person anyways.

Now, I’m not a selfish person. I always share my food with my friends. But I don’t like sharing my food with people who ask for some in a way that makes me offer food to them. None of my friends do that. When someone does that, it just says something shady about the rest of that person’s character.

The other day, I was walking back to the office from lunch, when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted someone walking extremely (and might I add, unnecessarily) fast. It wasn’t the extremely quick pace at which he was walking that made me notice him, but more the duck-like, speed-walking technique that he had. And when I looked up and saw his face, I was shocked to discover it was Mr. Dirty Teeth. With my quick thinking, I took a different set of elevators up to my floor instead to avoid sharing a slow elevator car with Mr. Dirty Teeth.

He should be renamed Mr. Walks-With-a-Hanger-Up-My-Ass instead.

Random

2003-10-01T13:34:00.000-04:00

I just found out that a guy in my office fell asleep at his desk yesterday and fell out of his chair! Too bad I missed that. He needs to be schooled in the Stall Nap.I really shouldn't be one to talk though. Yesterday, I went home for lunch and fell asleep on my couch. I got back to the office almost an hour later than I should have. Oops.

The Stall Nap

2003-10-01T13:31:00.000-04:00

The most difficult thing about making the transition from college to full-time work was adjusting to being awake for more than eight consecutive hours. Being accustomed to short classes and frequent breaks, sitting in front of a computer for one workday became a rather daunting task.

I first discovered I might have this problem during my internship the summer before my senior year of college. Being lucky enough to work with friends, I was even luckier to share a large cubicle with a close classmate, and we spent ample time discovering new ways to whittle away eight hours of the day in the office.

It started off innocently enough. For the BART ride into the city, I would bring my summer reading novels. With nothing to do all day, and boredom to overcome, I couldn’t help but begin reading these novels while in the office to prevent myself from dozing off. Strategically hiding my novels underneath my keyboard, I quickly ran out of books to read. And so it began. The art of sleeping at work.

During that internship, I perfected the technique of sleeping while sitting up – which I dubbed the “Subtle Sleeper.” My head would just slightly nod over the keyboard, while my right hand peacefully rested on the mouse. And if I were to ever hear anyone walking by my cubicle, I would start moving the mouse around, never opening my eyes. This easily worked during my internship since I sat in the back corner of a cubicle and faced a wall. The only thing people could see while walking by was my back.

However, when I began working full-time, I was faced with a completely new situation. Instead of a cubicle set-up, my office was a sea of open desks. Well, my company was small, so not quite a sea, but more like a puddle. With this open desk set-up, Subtle Sleeper would be a definite failure. I had to come up with something else – something better. Enter the Stall Nap.

It is important to note here that I was not just working a normal eight-hour day. At this time, my typical day lasted anywhere from 12 to 15 hours.

Now, there are other ways to fight sleepiness on the job, and trust me, I’ve tried all of them. I’ve written pages of gibberish in order to keep myself busy. I’ve drank glass after glass of water. I’ve listened to loud music. But all of these methods only offered me five to ten minutes of respite from the power of sleep. When it finally became too painful to fight back falling asleep, I had to resort to the Stall Nap.

For 10 to 15 minute periods, I would go to the bathroom, find a nice, quiet stall (preferably one against a wall to prevent being surrounded by actual bathroom users), put the seat cover down, sit, and sleep. Oh, the relief of being able to close my eyes – what bliss! And then I discovered I wasn’t the only one.

While on a project, one of my coworkers disappeared to the bathroom. Soon thereafter, another coworker also went to the bathroom. When Coworker #2 returned, he described what just transpired.

“I went into the bathroom and [Coworker #1] was just sitting in a stall. There was no movement, so finally I asked [Coworker #1] if he was okay. After a shift of the feet, he said he was fine. And then it dawned on me. ‘Are you taking a nap?’ I asked. ‘Yeah. Go away, I’m trying to sleep,’ [Coworker #1] responded. ‘If you’re sleeping, then why are your pants down?’ I asked. ‘I’m trying to make it look real!’ [Coworker #1] squeaked back. To which I laughed, and then ran back here to tell you guys.”

After this, almost every one of my coworkers admitted that they also use the Stall Nap – and each one had a slightly different technique. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad that I couldn’t stay awake for more than eight hours at one time – I felt like part of the club!

As for me, I don’t go for the realistic look during my stall naps. I’m perfectly happy keeping my pants on while feigning bathroom use, and if someone figures me out, I could care less in the happy dreams I am having.

The Disappearing Toilet Paper Act

2003-09-24T13:28:00.000-04:00

Has anyone noticed how quickly toilet paper disappears? I feel like I am constantly putting out a new roll of toilet paper, and it makes me feel so wasteful.

Now, I must admit that the most guilty of toilet paper users are women. Not only do women use toilet paper every time they utilize the actual toilet, but they also use it while doing makeup and cleaning. At the same time, since men are such less experienced users of toilet paper, they may not know how much they really need.

During college, I once lived with two other girls. With three girls living in one apartment, we were always running out of toilet paper. I finally felt it was getting out of control, and tried to regulate my roommates’ toilet paper usage. It went something like this.

“Okay you guys. We’re using way too much toilet paper. From now on, you can use two squares for a #1 and three squares for a #2.”

One of my roommates thought I was psycho, told me so, and then ignored me. But the other one actually tried this toilet-paper-rationing exercise for a bit. I was very happy she was making the effort, but one day she told me that she didn’t think she could keep it up.

“You know, I’ve tried but two squares is just not enough. But really, I tried.”

Today, I realize that, unless it’s the extra thick toilet paper, two squares probably isn’t enough. Extra thick toilet paper is just a ploy by the toilet paper companies to make consumers need to buy more toilet paper. Since everyone is so used to the normal thickness of toilet paper, they are all accustomed to grabbing enough to normally cover themselves, not thinking that since this toilet paper is extra thick, they probably need less of it. Therefore, the extra thick toilet paper will vanish almost twice as quickly as the regular two-ply type. And it’s just a trick by the toilet paper manufacturers.

So I feel like I’m getting ripped off every time I change a roll of toilet paper. It may be a necessity, but it feels like there’s a black hole into which all of my tp gets sucked.

A Penny Saved is a Penny...Lost?

2003-09-22T13:20:00.000-04:00

Regardless of what my mother likes to think, I make a conscious effort not to squander my hard-earned money. However, sometimes I wonder if I scrimp and save in the wrong places.

I am a notorious collector of packing materials. I have a hard time throwing away things such as tissue paper, boxes (for moving, shoes, you name it), bags (plastic and paper), bubble wrap, and string. I’m convinced that I will need these things again in life, and the day that I will want them, I will not have any of them. So I am something of a pack rat.

There are a total of four closets in my apartment, but I cannot seem to find enough closet room. One of these closets is in the bathroom, so it does not count much towards storage since it is all shelved like a linen closet. The other three are all very useable for storage, clothing, or boxes. However, even with three closets, I have a hard time finding enough room to organize all of my stuff – mostly, as recently pointed out by one of my friends, because it is full of packing material.

Am I really that bad? Have I turned into my mother?

I am also quite the Ziploc bag re-user. No point in wasting a bag that was only used for a day or two to store a tomato, right? So I just turn it inside out, rinse it, and hang it up on some old wine bottles to dry. And the next day, it’s ready to go all over again.

Sometimes I wonder if all my effort in saving things like Ziploc bags and plastic bags and packing materials is really worth it financially. For example, on DrugStore.com a box of 100 Ziploc sandwich bags cost $3.19. So each sandwich bag really costs three cents. Let me repeat that. It’s only three cents. Now, if I average four sandwich bags a week, but I can use one of those bags over and over again instead of four separate bags, then I’ve just saved myself nine cents that week. Instead of using 100 bags in 25 weeks (still assuming the four-bag week), I can use 100 bags in 100 weeks. That means my one box of Ziploc bags can last four times longer than it would if I never reused a bag. How much does that save me? A whopping $9.57.

Does this really help me in the grand scheme of things? Just the other night, I went out for lunch and I had the option of bacon or no bacon on my cheeseburger. The difference in price was only 30 cents. Well, then it’s totally worth it to go for the bacon cheeseburger. But that 30 cents cost me nearly three and a half weeks of using one Ziploc bag per week instead of four. Puts things in a different perspective, doesn’t it? Three and a half weeks of laboring, of washing the bag, or drying the bag, and reusing the bag amounts to bacon on my cheeseburger. Talk about food for thought.

So, maybe I am as ridiculous as my boyfriend likes to tell me I am, but doing stupid things like re-using Ziploc bags or bubble wrap makes me feel like I have some type of control in my life. I may be counting pennies, but at least I’m counting something.

If You Sprinkle...

2003-09-19T13:15:00.000-04:00

There is a smell in the bathroom at my office. It is not a normal bathroom smell – but completely unidentifiable and definitely unpleasant. I can’t figure out exactly what the smell is from, because even when the bathroom is clean, the smell still lingers. But I’m sure that the usage it gets contributes to the everlasting odor.

I have a fear of men’s bathrooms because they are supposed to be filthy. Now, maybe it’s a myth – I haven’t been in enough men’s bathrooms to know. I think it stems from the fact that men may miss their targets when taking care of business. So here is another myth that needs to be dispelled: women miss too.

Women’s restrooms are some of the dirtiest places I’ve been. Some are even so bad that I have to hold my breath while rushing through my business. The women-don’t-miss myth implies that since a woman needs to sit in order to use the toilet, there is no chance of missing. A logical conclusion - I mean, how can a girl miss if the source is already practically in the toilet? But no, a woman can definitely miss…and mostly due to the hover technique.

Now, while I have already discussed the hover technique in The Unmistakable Smell of Urine, let me repost it here to refresh your memory.

*start of excerpt*

Most women just don’t enjoy “sitting” where hundreds of women before them have sat (although I can think of many dirty ones who do). These women actually opt not to completely sit when doing nature’s bidding. This is what I fondly call the “hover technique”. Sounds simple enough: simply hover over the toilet and go. However, the hover technique is one of the hardest things to perfect. Even seasoned veterans of the hover technique can still suffer setbacks, like too-small stalls (which do not lend themselves to the space necessary to hover) or off-balance days – disastrous to women who are in the midst of hovering. And for those novices, things can be even more challenging. Trying to find the right angle at which to hover or the perfect speed at which to let go – not things that can be picked up overnight.

*end of excerpt*

Women who think (key word: think) they have perfected the hover technique do run into little snags here and there. The most common, and most minor, problem is a little sprinkle on the toilet seat. Now, I will be the first to admit, that I have sprinkled on the seat in the past, and probably will again many times in the future. We’ve all had a little sprinkle in our lives. Given our physical makeup, it’s unavoidable. However, all women should know this phrase:

If you sprinkle when you tinkle,
Please be neat and wipe the seat.

I have the urge to print out copies of this phrase in capital, bold letters and tape it into every stall I can find on my floor. And that’s only for a teeny, tiny sprinkle. Some of these women flood the seat, which results in spillover, and then they turn a blind eye!

I would prefer not to be the sign nazi, posting signs to flush the toilet (yes, some women find it very difficult to flush the toilet, leaving seat cover, toilet paper, and all just hanging around for another innocent women to discover), to wash hands, and wipe off a wet counter before exiting (don’t you just love it when you walk too close to the bathroom counter and come away with a line across your shirt because the counter was soaking wet?). Things like this start making my eye twitch and my fingers flinch uncontrollably. I want to post signs. I need to post signs. But instead, I sit here, fume, and write my frustration out like this.

Waiting to Exhale

2003-09-17T13:12:00.000-04:00

It all started with a childhood superstition about cemeteries. Whenever I was in the car and passing by a cemetery, my sister and I would always cross our fingers (mind you, only on one hand, or else you cancel yourself out) and hold our breaths until we passed the cemetery. It was the beginning of a lifelong habit of holding my breath.

Today, as I was walking to work, a man walking in front of me sneezed twice, without covering his nose and mouth. Not just any type of sneeze, but a nice, big, juicy, wet sneeze. The kind that rocked his body so violently, that he had to stop walking in order to double over during the course of both sneezes. It was when he stopped that I made my move.

I took a deep breath, and hurried past him, waiting until I could hold my breath no longer, followed it with a very long, drawn-out exhale, and began breathing again.

After I resumed breathing like a normal person, I realized that this is something I do often, and most times as a reflex.

I do this when people cough, sneeze, or even walk by me. When I was growing up and would see someone approaching me, I would take a breath and hold it while they were passing me by (is it wrong to say that I do this more with very *ahem* large people?). This way, I would not have to smell their odor, which usually lagged behind them by a couple of seconds. I admit that I do not always hold my breath. If I can gauge a situation as short-lived, I usually opt to just breathe out very, very slowly. The exhale method always follows the breath-holding technique, and is always done through the nose. No sense in tasting the smell too, right?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t always do this, and definitely not in huge crowds. But when faced with a mostly one-on-one situation, it’s just a habit I have.

Am I unusual in doing this? I’ve never asked anyone else if they do this, but there must be many people like me out there. I remember learning in Psychology 1 that olfactory memories are unusually potent. Odor-evoked memories can remind us quickly of people and events that we thought we had long forgotten. So I do not find it so strange that I attempt to block out potentially foul odors (and germs!) by holding my breath and exhaling. Why create repulsive memories when avoiding them is so easy?

Clean Subways?

2003-09-16T13:10:00.000-04:00

I have been told that the subway has really cleaned up in the past several years. Apparently, 10 years ago you would never see so many people taking the subway. But now, the subway is always crowded during rush hour, and even at midnight on a Friday night. The more newly outfitted subway cars on some of the subway lines also attest to the changes and renovations being made to create a safer and cleaner commuting environment.

That’s the thing. It’s cleaner, but it’s not clean.

I was once riding the 6 train and saw a little boy licking the subway pole. Yes, he was actually licking the pole. While his mother had her back turned because she was gabbing with her friends, her little boy was twirling ‘round and ‘round the subway pole while his tongue licked the pole. It really was one of the grossest, not to mention unsanitary, things I’ve ever seen. I looked straight at this little boy without hiding the look of disgust on my face, and there was no reaction out of him. Just kept on licking that pole, like it was the best candy he had ever tasted. Damn kids.

With the number of people that currently ride the subway every day, one can only imagine how much bacteria accumulates in each subway car. And there are a few things that should not be done in there. Things like licking subway poles and eating whole meals top the list.

Now, I sit for the majority of my day. When I’m at work, I’m sitting and staring at my computer. When I’m at home, I’m sitting on the couch or at the table. So, sometimes I like to stand, well, just because. But on the subway, I will always take the opportunity to sit. Why? So I don’t have to touch those nasty subway poles. Just thinking about how many people have touched those poles with their grimy, unwashed hands gives me the chills. It’s like I can see all the bacteria crawling on the poles, waiting to get on to me. If there are no seats available, I would rather play the “stand-without-holding-on-to-anything-and-see-how-long-it-takes-me-to-fall-over” game. Or if Edwin’s with me, even better, because then I can just hold onto him while he holds the subway pole. Although, I don’t know how helpful that is, since I’ll just hold his hand after we get off the subway.

While I do not have an obsessive-compulsive disorder (but maybe germaphobia?), I will try and arm myself as much as possible from subway bacteria. If there is enough room in the subway car, I will lean against the pole instead of touching it. If I do have to touch the pole, then I will do so with only my thumb and one finger, to attempt to minimize the area of contact. And after all that, I do carry around a little bottle of hand sanitizer gel if there is no sink and soap available at my destination. But even then, the lack of paper towels can spell disaster when trying to open the bathroom door, because that’s another germ-fest waiting to taint my clean hands. That bathroom door handle is dangerous - and I know I'm not just being paranoid because there is now proof of people's deficiency in handwashing. Just think what the statistics would be like if they did the study in the subway.

So, although the subway oftentimes appears to be clean, just remember all the people who have left their germs on subway poles before you.

Technology, Schmecknology

2003-09-12T13:06:00.000-04:00

I work in the Corporate Purchasing department of a large, international investment bank. My role is to “source” goods or services that the Bank purchases – this could include everything from office supplies to the black cars that take employees home late at night. Part of my job is to create proposals, asking suppliers questions that range from their financial situation to their technological capabilities.

As I was reading some supplier responses this morning, something occurred to me. With the way technology cuts costs today, we are always looking for suppliers who can do more processes via internet, or those who have the latest technology. However, right now I am sitting at work using a computer that is running on Windows NT. The Windows XP rollout is not expected until late this year, and I’m reading a response from a supplier that states they are planning to upgrade to Windows 2003 in the next few months.

Is there something wrong with this picture?

How can a cutting-edge, leading, international investment bank still be running on Windows NT? Or maybe a better question is, why? Where is all their revenue going, if not upgrading internal systems to improve business processes and create an overall more efficient method for their employees to work?

I started working here in June, and imagine my surprise when I was handed a brand new Dell Latitude laptop. “Wow!” I thought. “This company is really on top of technology!” I was even more surprised to find that the computer was running Windows NT and takes exactly five minutes and 22 seconds to get to the log in screen. I know this because it is the exact amount of time it takes for me to walk from my desk, heat up breakfast, get a glass of water, walk back to my cubicle, and sit down. Trust me, I’ve timed it.

With the amount of time I spend using Excel, I was shocked and frustrated to find that my computer also had Office 97. Now, the last time I distinctly remember using Excel 97 was in a musty and dark temp agency, when I nearly failed their Excel test because many of the typical functions were not in the same menus as in Excel 2000. I was even more frustrated to find that many of the shortcuts I used did not work in Excel 97 either.

A month ago I found out my boss managed to get Office 2000 on his computer from the tech guy. With a gasp of surprise and a giggle of excitement, I hurried to my cubicle to call tech support and request Office 2000 on my own machine. I spoke to tech support with a big smile on my face.

“Hi, I’m calling to request Office 2000 on my computer.”
“Okay, let me look for that package and set you up with it,” tech support replied.

My smile soon faded when tech support informed me that the Office 2000 package was not yet authorized and could not explain to me why my boss had it installed on his machine. I felt so tricked and deceived! I felt like a child who had been offered a lollipop like the ones the munchkins from the Lollipop Guild in the Wizard of Oz had, only to find that it was made out of liver! So much for cutting down analysis time with newer (can Office 2000 really be considered new anymore?) technology.

The next morning I found that tech support had called back and left me a voice mail. They were trying to determine how to legitimately get Office 2000 on my computer. Mr. Tech Support even came down to my cubicle to try and install it. My hopes started rising like a phoenix from its ashes.

Now, maybe it’s just me, but I have never seen a tech guy of any sort type with his pointer fingers. Don’t they still teach keyboarding in junior high? And then Mr. Tech Support took three tries to type in the correct URL of the tech support site. Watching Mr. Tech Support riddle with my computer was one of the most painfully slow and agonizing experiences I’ve had. I just wanted to push him aside and have him dictate to me. My phoenix was quickly fading away. After all that muddling, Mr. Tech Support couldn’t do anything to help me get Office 2000 installed on my computer. At this point, another tech guy happened to walk by and ask what the problem was. After being briefed, he asked if I had the Office 2000 disc at home.

“I can just install it myself?”
“Yeah, just bring it in and I can install it for you,” the other tech guy said.

Uh, thanks, but no thanks, I think I can install the application myself. I promptly went home and got my Office 2000 disc and installed it that afternoon. And that is why my boss and I are the only ones in the department who have Office 2000.

So I wonder what all these suppliers would think if they knew what type of operating system the Bank has. Would they laugh, knowing that they are required to run with electric motors while the Bank is still heaving coal into the furnace?

Because that’s all the Bank really is. An F-18 on the outside and a bi-plane on the inside.

The Disgruntled Telemarketer

2003-09-10T13:04:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, I came home from work and the phone starting ringing. As most of my friends have a tendency to call my cell phone, I had a strong suspicion that it was a telemarketer. I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I answered.

Silence. Ahhh, the telltale silence of a telemarketer. Now, the smart thing to do at this point, and the thing that normal people tend to do, is just hang up. But no, not me. Usually I respond to the telemarketer silence with a silence of my own. I feel the need to keep the telemarketer on the phone as long as possible so that s/he cannot make other calls with the phone line I’m hogging. I’ll put the phone down on the counter and wait until I hear the operator message telling me to hang up my phone. Today, I felt like telling the telemarketer to take me off their call list.

The telemarketer finally began to speak. “Is this the person in charge of the phone line?”

“No. Who is this?” I responded.

“This is . Can you make decisions regarding your home phone plan?” said the telemarketer.

“No, I can’t. Please take this number off your call list. We are not interested in changing phone plans,” I said.

“Well, if you can’t make decisions about the phone, then how do you know that whoever does isn’t interested?” the telemarketer spat back at me.

Whoa. Wait a minute here. You do not call me on my home phone and bitch at me. Telemarketers do not bitch at people they call. People who they call are supposed to bitch at them - it’s a fact of life.

In the split seconds after this remark, I wanted to be like the man in Minnesota. Or the comedian who harassed all the telemarketers. I wanted revenge – I wanted to annoy this telemarketer like a gnat – small and barely noticeable, but persistent and waiting for the opportunity to fly up his nose. So far up his nose, in fact, that he would not be able to blow me out. And for those of you who know me, you know how well I can hold a grudge.

So shocked was I by the telemarketer’s response, that all I managed to get out was, “You are disgruntled. Never call this number again.” And I hung up the phone.

I have done many things to get out of talking to telemarketers. I’ve pretended I was a four-year-old child who responded with a cute little “I don’t know” to any question the telemarketer would ask. I’ve hung up on them right away. I’ve pretended to put them on hold while I got the “head of the household” and let them sit there waiting. After the episode with the disgruntled telemarketer, I’ve now started first asking what company the telemarketer is calling from. Then I’ll proceed to tell them that they have already called, at which time I request to be removed from their call list again, that I am noting this second call as I speak, and never to call again. With all the hype about the federal “Do Not Call” list, I’m hoping that this new tactic will work. I recently used it on MCI, and so far MCI hasn’t called me back.

First In, Last Out (Part Deux)

2003-09-10T13:01:00.000-04:00

Two things happened in the elevator today and I can’t help but add this as a continuation of my First In, Last Out entry.

Peeve #4

I was in the elevator, returning to the office from lunch this afternoon. I was by myself, and very happy that I tricked Mr. Elevator into closing his doors on the first try. To my surprise, as the doors opened on my floor, there was a man standing right in front of the doors, waiting to get in to head down to the lobby. Now, how was I supposed to get out of the elevator when there was someone blocking my exit?

I think a generally good rule of thumb is to always assume that someone is going to get out of the elevator and to stand back or stand to the side. That way, when the elevator doors open, you don’t look like an idiot to an elevator car full of people.

Peeve #5

Why do people talk on their cell phones in the elevator? Listening to people talk on cell phones on a bus is bad enough – but in a confined 5’ x 5’ area is completely unacceptable.

Today there was a man in my apartment building trying to put a call through on his cell phone in the lobby. I got into an elevator and pushed my floor. I heard that man start hurrying towards my elevator car, and feeling that I was in need of some good elevator karma after First In, Last out, I held the “Door Open” button for him. As he got in the car, I realized that he’s still on his cell phone. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but overhear. Apparently this man had been trying to get through to someone named Jerry.

“Jerry?” Mr. Cell Phone asked.

“Jerry?” Mr. Cell Phone asked a second time. I think he had poor signal. Gee, I wonder why.

“Yeah, this is John. John. The computers have the latest software installed on them.”

Ooooh, so Mr. Cell Phone-aka-John was on a business call. I guess that should make everything okay then, right? I mean, he’s important, and he has important things to take care of.

“Yeah, the computers have the latest software installed. No, the latest. Yes, the latest software. Okay.” End of conversation.

This conversation took all of 10 seconds. And he couldn’t wait until he got out of the elevator onto his floor because, why? Because Mr. Cell Phone-aka-John was too important, that’s why!

It will never cease to amaze me why people who are trying to talk on their cell phones in elevators do not understand the fact that their signal, if they have any, will be very, very poor. And I consider it to be bad professionalism to attempt to carry on a work-related conversation in the elevator when all that will result will be the “professional” person sounding like a broken record. Later, that person will only have to call again to ensure that everything was heard correctly. I have heard this obnoxious conversation countless times:

“Uh, yeah. Hey, I’m actually getting into an elevator right now. No, elevator. Yeah. So I might lose you. What? I can’t hear you. I might lose you. Hello? Are you there? Hello? Damn.” Cell phone flips shut.

Don’t these people understand? It just ain’t gonna work in there.

The Boogeyman

2003-09-09T12:58:00.000-04:00

Yesterday morning I saw the Boogeyman.

I have a habit of closing all the closet doors in my bedroom before sleeping – a habit that I developed after reading the story of the Boogeyman in 3rd grade. Combine that with seeing the cover of my sister’s copy of the book Cujo, and I was definitely sure that there was something lurking in my closet. Not that I believe there is anything in the closet now, I just have a general feeling of uneasiness if I try to sleep with the closet door cracked slightly open.

Another thing that makes me feel uneasy is a dark bathroom. The bathroom is one of those rooms that have been thoroughly tainted by horror flicks. Starting with Psycho, I don’t think that the bathroom can ever be viewed in the same way. From Bloody Mary legends to enlightening scenes from What Lies Beneath, the bathroom can be a very scary place.

So yesterday morning at approximately 6:11 am, I woke up to use the bathroom. After finishing my business, I turned off the lights and proceeded to feel my way back into the bedroom. And that’s when I saw him. The Boogeyman. A shadow that passed in front of me and was about five feet away.

Usually when I am startled and caught off guard, I gasp loudly and freeze. But for some reason, this time I decided to scream. Not one of those high-pitched screams, mind you. Just an “Ahhh!” that might be heard when a sports team I’m rooting for is losing. And to startle me even further, the Boogeyman started yelling back.

“Ahhh!” I screamed.
“Uhhh!” the Boogeyman yelled.
“Ahhh! Ahhh!” I screamed even more.
“Uhhh! Uhhh!” the Boogeyman continued.

Now, on some unconscious level, I knew that the Boogeyman was really Edwin. When I first saw his shadow, I’m sure I knew it was Edwin. However, I was so shocked at seeing a moving object where I knew nothing would be that I couldn’t help but scream.

Good thing that Edwin had the sense to flick on the light switch. When he did, I’d never seen such a look of shock on his face, or his eyes so wide. I started laughing uncontrollably while continuing to make leftover screaming noises.

I was picturing this: two very sleepy people in the dark. One just finished using the bathroom. The other one needs to go. They run into each other and start screaming bloody murder.

This totally sounds like something that would happen to me.

Last night Edwin was trying to figure out why I started screaming. Apparently, his grunting sounds were a result of not knowing what the hell to say because, well, how did I not know it was him? So he started asking me what I thought he was. Did I think he was a burglar? A ghost? A monster like in Monsters, Inc.? No, no, and no. Finally he asks if I thought he was the Boogeyman.

I think about it for a moment. Yes, that’s it! I really thought I had seen the Boogeyman. Childhood frights revisited. After all these years, the Boogeyman still comes back to haunt me.

A Repented Homo Who Has Found Jesus

2003-09-08T12:50:00.000-04:00

I actually saw a man wearing "A Repented Homo Who Has Found Jesus" on his shirt today. He and a buddy were wearing these shirts and carrying around picket signs with “I Love Jesus” written on them, marching in circles in front of the New York Stock Exchange. And as a straight, non-religious female, I was somewhat irritated and offended. One of my biggest annoyances is unsolicited advertising. I’m not talking about the pop-up screens that appear when browsing CNN.com, or even telemarketers (although that could start a whole new diatribe), but the people who try and tell me what I should believe in.

For example, I used to be staffed on a project in Richmond, VA. As I was working with the state government, I would walk by the capitol building every day to get to the office, which was across the street. On a nice, cold, wintry day, I was walking to the office when I saw protesters in the distance. Now, I don’t have a problem with protesters. But I do have a problem with anti-abortion demonstrators or as they so fondly like to call themselves, people who are “pro-life”. As if the rest of us are pro-death. At any rate, I recognized these “anti-choice” demonstrators about 40 ft away when I saw pictures of large, dead fetuses on their picket signs. Getting enough of this on Sproul, I was used to seeing these graphic images.

As I got closer to the demonstrators, I realized one thing – they were all men. There was not one single woman amongst them. Not only that, but the people who tried to give me anti-abortion literature were young men. Fifteen at the oldest. My first thought was, “Shouldn’t you be in school right now?” And my next, and more striking, thought was, “What do you know about sex, abortion, and rape?” What were these 15-yr-old boys, these brainwashed children, doing advocating anti-abortion? Who were these kids, being spoon-fed beliefs by their parents and pulled from school so they can educate females on how to treat their bodies?

I once saw a sign that said something like “If you were a woman with syphilis, had several children already who were all deaf and mute, and was found to be pregnant, would you abort your unborn baby?” And the next line read, “You just killed Beethoven.” Now, I’m a big Beethoven fan, but if you had killed Beethoven, then who would ever have known? How could you miss something that you never knew existed?
I just hoped that the creators of that sign were not thinking that they were going to find anyone stupid enough to think that if they have syphilis, they should keep their unborn babies because they're going to give birth to the next Beethoven. Pregnant women should be cognizant that major health issues will result from a birth in those conditions.

I believe that everyone is entitled to their own opinions that some people will naturally have opposing viewpoints. All Christians should be allowed to believe in Jesus and think that everyone else is going to go to Hell; homos should be allowed to “repent” and find Jesus; men should be allowed to think that they know what’s best for a woman’s body. But I do not think that blaring their messages in others’ faces is the way to convince others to believe the things they do. Wouldn’t they rather that a person convert to their viewpoint naturally and sincerely of one’s own volition, rather than by constant poking and prodding?

As a person who’s childhood was not too far in the past, I know that constant poking and prodding is the fastest way to get you nowhere - and I’ve learned when to stop. I just wish everyone else would too.

Sense of Belonging

2003-09-05T12:46:00.000-04:00

Why is it that humans (well, most humans) need to feel a sense of belonging? Whether it be to a place, a person, or a group of friends, people have this inherent need to belong. And when a person finds his niche and feels that he has a place in this world, one of the saddest emotions is to feel the loss of that where place he was actually wanted. Or needed. We are such a needy species.

Last night I had a dream. I actually dreamt about Berkeley.

I was in Berkeley with a friend who was going there for the first time. However, in the dream, I was not a real person, more of a ghost watching over this friend. After traveling to Berkeley from Orange County, she was walking around downtown Berkeley alone, exploring the city through a tourist’s eyes. And I could see all the things I thought she was doing wrong – that only a tourist would do in a new city.

Wrong thing #1: Walking around Shattuck and Dwight at midnight, alone.

After finding her way a little more, my friend walked up Dwight towards Unit 2.

Wrong thing #2: Walking on the People’s Park side of the street.

And then after reaching the more student-populated area, I realized that we had no place to sleep that night. This is when I began freaking out. And all of a sudden I was not just a ghostly observer, but instead a real person, traveling with this friend, and we had no bed to sleep in that night. I realized that we were having a conversation. We were arguing about what to do about a place to sleep.

“Just because you know the area doesn’t mean you know the best places to stay,” she said.

Apparently I had been insisting that we go to my old apartment building on Haste and Piedmont, because I was convinced that we would have a place to sleep there. Why I thought that is a mystery, but hey, it’s just a dream.

At this point, I actually eyed People’s Park as another alternative. And then it hit me:

Why didn’t I have a place to stay in Berkeley?

Did I not spend four years of my life here? Where were all the people I once knew? Did I not have a place to stay because I no longer belonged to Berkeley? Where the hell was I from, anyways? Apparently I knew the area, but I didn’t know anyone who lived there anymore.

And now I know why I had this dream. The mobility of people scares me. The idea that a person can just pick up, leave with one suitcase, and move across the country, is frightening.

With the technological revolution, it’s less and less common for people to belong to a place. When people ask me where I’m from, I honestly start stuttering because I’m confused as to what my response should be. I’ve slowly started adjusting to answering with New York, but not without a little nervousness of someone shouting at me, “You’re not a real New Yorker!” and exposing me as a fraud. I even agonized on what I should list as my “Hometown” in my Friendster profile and must have changed it at least three times.

I keep in touch with my group of friends I belonged to through emails and cell phones. With all cell phone plans coming with free long distance calls, it’s not unusual for a New Yorker to have a phone number with an (510) area code. So who knows who is from where anymore.

I now belong to my computer and my cell phone. The conveniences of technology. What a great thing.

Guess that Asian

2003-08-27T12:42:00.000-04:00

This letter was sent to FreshDirect on August 27, 2003

To whom it may concern:

I have used FreshDirect a number of times now, and yesterday was the first time I felt the need to voice concern over the service I received regarding Order #57786119.

I had a delivery scheduled for yesterday evening between 6 - 8 pm. Due to delays on the subway, I arrived home at 6:15 pm, only to discover that FreshDirect had already attempted to deliver. As the delivery man said he would return again, I knew he would come again at the end of his delivery run. However, when it was already 8:45 pm, I was growing concerned and wanted to know if I should have called to notify FreshDirect that I was now home. As a result, I called Customer Service to know if there was anything I could do. The lady I spoke with was very helpful (very nice, I might add), and while I was on the phone with her, the delivery man arrived at my door. I let her know that the delivery was here, and that everything was fine, then hung up. Once I was off the phone, the delivery man began to complain.

First, he proceeded to tell me how he came at 6:30 pm. I know for a fact that he was not at my apartment at 6:30 pm, because I was home. I distinctly remember seeing the end of "Dharma & Greg" on television, which is on from 6 - 6:30 pm. I apologized for not being home at 6 pm, but let him know that I was definitely home at 6:30 pm. Then he told me that just before he arrived again, my doorman called upstairs to my apartment and found the phone line busy - this was because I was on the phone with Customer Service. However, my doorman was smart enough to realize that since the phone line was busy, someone was home, so he allowed the delivery man to come up to my apartment.

As he dropped off my order, the delivery man began insisting that I call Customer Service again to let them know that he made the delivery. I explained to him that when I opened the door, I was talking to Customer Service and already told them that he had arrived and there were no problems. Again, he asked me to call Customer Service, so that they would not call him back and wonder why he didn't make his delivery. Again, I told him that I already did that. Again, he asked me to do it anyways. Then he asked me if I was Chinese, to which I said, "No". Then he asked me if I was Korean, and again, I said, "NO". At this point, I just wanted him out of my apartment. I don't enjoy playing "Guess that Asian" and do not understand people's fascination of knowing what type of Asian I am. Trust me, I do not look like an exotic Asian; however, people, especially middle-aged men, love to try playing "Guess that Asian" with me. I felt the impulse to tell Mr. Delivery Man that I was black.

Here's a poem I wrote that was inspired by Mr. Delivery Man:

Chinese? Japanese?
No, stop asking me please.
Just drop off my food And get out, just leave.

Please note that this is not a haiku.

I finally succeeded in closing the door on Mr. Delivery Man, but not before he told me to call Customer Service again (which I didn't. I had no desire to be on hold).

So the point of the letter is this: please tell your delivery men not to play "Guess that Ethnic Origin" with any of your customers. Not everyone finds the game fun, and some may find it offensive. As a number of people in my building order food from your company, I will be sure to post this letter up so that all can see - and that unless they want to undergo an inquisition by a racist delivery man, they would be better off visiting the local Gristedes.

P.S. I once received an order of moldy asparagus, but let it go. Out of fear, I have not ordered asparagus from your service again. I didn't report it then, but I probably should have, considering that it was $1.99/lb.

First In, Last Out

2003-08-19T12:55:00.000-04:00

When I lived in Southern California, any of my friends who drove with me knew about my road rage. I would zoom in and out of lanes with ease, going ballistic when baseball-hat-wearing, Fred Durst look-a-likes would cut me off in their black F-150’s. However, after getting in a car accident in 2001, my road rage died down substantially. In fact, my road rage died down so much that I thought I was almost cured of these spikes in my blood pressure. Now, living in New York City, with no car and no reason to rage on the road, my road rage has taken on a new form – elevator rage.

Part 1: The Elevator On 34th Street

My first tinge of elevator rage surfaced when I was living in a high-rise luxury building in Murray Hill. As high (35 stories) and luxurious (rent was ridiculous) as my building was, only three elevators serviced my half of the building. It might have been adequate - if all three elevators ever worked at the same time. Add to this that whenever anyone pushed a button to call the elevator, both elevators would rush to that floor. So when someone on the 32nd floor pushed “Down” two seconds before people in the lobby frantically pushed “Up”, both elevators would head up to the 32nd floor. Then on the way back to the lobby-level, the elevators managed to have a race to see which elevator could take the most time coming back down.
Living on the 24th floor, I was usually one of the first people in a “Down” elevator. One day when I was leaving for work, I finally got into an elevator relatively quickly, and prayed that I would have a quick ride down. However, I managed to stop more than 10 times on the way down to the lobby. Walking down 24 flights of stairs with a walker would have been faster than taking the elevator.
Holding my dry cleaning in one hand and my computer in the other, I was discouraged and slightly annoyed when I stopped on the 22nd floor. My annoyance grew as I stopped again on the 21st floor. This continued the whole ride down. However, what really started to bother me was that other people in the elevator were not making room for new people getting in to the elevator. Apparently, I was the only person who noticed this problem and was backing myself into the far corner. My face was becoming hot as we stopped several more times and people kept backing up into me, pushing me farther into the corner. Can’t these people turn around and look to see if someone is standing behind them? I mean, I may be petite, but I am not invisible. For some reason, people never manage to see me. In the elevator, walking on the street, I am forever encountering this problem.

The doors finally opened on the lobby-level and even though I was the first person to get in the elevator, I was the last person to get out. How can this be? First in, last out? It just doesn’t seem fair. I have places to go, people to see, dry cleaning to drop off. Not only am I the last one out, but other people who got into the elevator after me also have dry cleaning. As they got out before me, they managed to get to the dry cleaners before me, and here I was standing at the end of the dry cleaning line. Mind you, I had one piece of clothing. Other people were dropping off whole loads of laundry. I stood there stupefied.

First in, last out. I am slowly starting to think I am being punished for something from a past life.

Part 2: The Elevator on Wall Street

In my current office building, the elevators are separated for different ranges of floors. As my office is located on the 6th floor, the elevators I use service floors 1-7. There are five elevators that go to floors 1-7, so one would think that when called, an elevator would arrive rather quickly. Well, think again.

Peeve #1

Of course, elevators are much more complicated than that. As far as I can tell, these elevators are programmed so that only one elevator can be on the ground floor at a time. Once that elevator leaves the ground floor, then another elevator will immediately open, so that only one elevator on the ground floor is in operation at a time.

So imagine that Elevator #1 is already open on the ground floor. Elevator #2 opens to let people off on the ground floor, and since this elevator is closer to me, I decide to get into this one instead. However, because it was not designated as the next “Up” elevator, it will not move until Elevator #1 goes up first. Hence, I am stuck on the ground level unless I get out and get into Elevator #1, or I wait for other people to get into Elevator #1.

Peeve #2

Now, each of these elevators is equipped with a sensor. I have figured out that the elevator will go up if three or more people enter the car, or after 15 seconds have elapsed. Fifteen seconds seems like a very short period of time, but when standing in an elevator car waiting for the doors to close, it is an eternity. Oh, Mr. Elevator, you think you are so clever. But I have a brain and have figured out a way to trick you.

After getting in the car and pressing “6”, I stick my arm back out twice more, then hit “7” to make the elevator think there are at least three people in the car – and 90% of the time this technique works. The 10% of the time it doesn’t work is usually a result of human behavior.

Peeve #3

Everyone who works on floors 1-7 knows how slow these elevators are and how slow time goes when waiting for the elevator to close its doors. However, someone always manages to come running up to the elevator just as I get the doors to close and stick their arm in the door with just three inches left to close and ruin all my hard work.

Why do humans feel the need to throw their limbs in between closing doors? Do they not realize that people inside the elevator have been waiting to move? Not only that, but didn’t anyone else read the article on the doctor who was beheaded in the hospital elevator?

I try to ignore these types of people – I will read all the numbers on the elevator panel or stare at my shoes to pretend I don’t see them running at my elevator car. And then if they are quick enough to get in the elevator, we have to wait another 15 seconds until the elevator doors will close because now Mr. Elevator is confused! He thought there were already three people in the car, was about to close his doors, and has been startled into having his doors jarred open! So now the whole process begins anew. I can’t stand there and stick my arm out a bunch of times to re-trick Mr. Elevator with another person standing next to me – I would appear a lunatic. So I have to stand there and wait. And since I am on the 6th floor, I am usually the last person to get off the elevator. Again.

Everyone, all together now! "First in, last out!"

The Unmistakable Smell of Urine

2003-07-24T12:35:00.000-04:00

I am convinced that all things wet on the ground are urine. Too many times have I turned street corners to be greeted with the unmistakable smell of urine. I often wonder where all this urine is coming from. Are that many people actually peeing on the street? Doesn’t anyone notice this? It seems that it would be very difficult to not notice someone urinating on the sidewalk.

I was in the subway the other day, and, as is my usual tendency, headed to the very end of the platform in hopes of getting a seat on the train. Unfortunately, I was stopped short of my goal. To my horror, there was a man standing not-quite-concealed behind the last column of the platform taking a whizz. I stared at what I was looking at. No, it couldn’t be. I shook my head in amazement. And then I’m sure my eyes got even wider when I saw proof undeniable: a thin, arching stream of liquid, spewing at waist-level from the other side of the column the man was hiding behind, and onto the train tracks. Evidence to confirm my initial assumption that this man was relieving himself in the 33rd Street subway station.

Did he really think no one else would see this? How could this go unnoticed by anyone but me? I looked around quickly and saw two girls standing relatively close to me, but engrossed in conversation. Apparently I was the only one that noticed what this man was doing. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

What is it with men who feel they can relieve themselves anywhere they please?

Yes, it’s a widely known fact that all a man has to do to urinate is unzip and let loose. Unfortunately, things aren’t so easy for us women, especially faced with a public restroom. Most women just don’t enjoy “sitting” where hundreds of women before them have sat (although I can think of many dirty ones who do). These women actually opt not to completely sit when doing nature’s bidding. This is what I fondly call the “hover technique”. Sounds simple enough: simply hover over the toilet and go. However, the hover technique is one of the hardest things to perfect. Even seasoned veterans of the hover technique can still suffer setbacks, like too-small stalls (which do not lend themselves to the space necessary to hover) or off-balance days – disastrous to women who are in the midst of hovering. And for those novices, things can be even more challenging. Trying to find the right angle at which to hover or the perfect speed at which to let go – not things that can be picked up overnight.

So, needless to say, it is very unlikely that the urine I often smell on the street comes from a woman. Given the amount of clothing that must be removed, as well as the physical position it would necessitate, the instance when it does originate from a woman must be very rare indeed. And now, I am positive where the smell I smell comes from and why it is there. I know that I am not neurotic to step around all puddles and streams of liquid I see on the sidewalks of the city, or to warn all my friends to do the same and tell them it’s all pee-pee.

Ahhh. The unmistakable smell of urine. How I do not long to smell thee again.

I Am A Sucka!

2003-06-25T12:10:00.000-04:00

When I returned to New York from Tami and George’s wedding in Berkeley, I had a most frustrating experience trying to make it back to the tiny island of Manhattan. As I arrived rather late and did not want to pay $40 for a cab, I decided to try taking Super Shuttle, for which I had a coupon. Now I know why they have coupons in tour books for Super Shuttle. It’s to see how many (cheap) people can get suckered into using the damn things. Unfortunately, I turned out to be one of these people. Therefore, I will let my letter of fury speak for itself. I sent this via email to the customer service department of Super Shuttle.

To whom it may concern:

I landed at JFK airport Sunday, 6/22/2003, at 11:30 p.m. and did not reach my apartment in downtown Manhattan until 2 a.m. I am writing to make you aware that your company has issues surrounding the logistics of pick-ups and drop-offs.

I called your service from the ground transportation desk at 11:40 p.m. and was told that a van would be able to pick me up in 20 minutes. I decided to wait, and a driver came to pick up passengers at midnight. However, after hearing where I needed to go, he told me that he could not take me because he was going uptown, not downtown. I thought this odd considering that I told the operator on the phone that I was headed downtown. The driver left without me, and I called your service again to ask if a driver would be coming - one that could take me downtown. The operator assured me that a driver would come in 10 minutes. I decided to wait again, and 20 minutes later, no driver had appeared. I called the operator again, and this time I would told that a van would come in 4 minutes. Sure enough, 15 minutes later a van came. By this time, it was 12:35 a.m.

Of course the van was packed and the driver neglected to check every passengers' destination before choosing a bridge/tunnel to cross over into to Manhattan.As a result, we took a very roundabout path through the city, headed first to midtown, then to the upper west, and finally back downtown - of course I was the last to be dropped off. By the time I arrived at my apartment, it was 2 a.m.

This was the first time I used your service, and trust me, it will be the last. And for anyone who asks me, I will definitely let them know what kind of service they can expect from SuperShuttle.