Quick Notes on a Nerd in Amish Paradise

Photo by natalie419, via Flickr

In general I try not to listen to people’s conversations on public transportation, at restaurants, or on the street, as about 99.9% of all that I hear annoys me. Speaking a second language doesn’t help, as I can’t block out those annoying conversations that may just sound like a jumble of noises to others. But every once in a while, I hear a real gem that I believe warrants repeating, if only so we can all collectively roll our eyes, readers.

So I’m on the subway this morning going to work. It's already claustrophobically tight in the car, with people smashed against each other and invading personal spaces ad nauseam. In front of me is a balding business man who looks harmless enough—were he not punching a balled-up fist into his other hand and saying, repeatedly “let’s go” to nobody in particular. In back of me is a wolf pack of raging dorks, guffawing unbecomingly.

“So, I used to actually live in Pennsylvania,” says one geek, so loud that the entire subway car flinches. His voice tells me he is a) young, b) a total nerd, and c) not from New York City, as any of these characteristics guarantee that the person in question does not get that nobody wants to hear their MOFO conversation.  

“That’s right, Amish country,” the nerd continues in all his glory, while the Business Freak starts to twitch. “And you know what’s curious about Amish country?”

Geeks 2, 3, 4, and 5: “Herdeeherdeeher what’s that?”

Nerd 1: “Well, I’ll tell you it’s their naming conventions. They may be very serious people, but the names of their towns are . . . let’s just say, VERY risqué."

Geeks 2, 3, 4, and 5, riled up now: “Herdeeherdeeher, like what?”

Nerd 1: “For example," (allowing long pause for dramatic effect) "There’s INTERCOURSE, Pennsylvania.”

Geeks 2, 3, 4, and 5: *explosive laughter.*

Nerd 1: "And there’s BIRD-IN-HAND, Pennsylvania . . ."

Before I could flip out in passive aggressive angst, or get punched by Business Freak, I slipped out at my stop. I could hear the orgasmic laughter of the dweebs as the doors shut behind me. Part of me was relieved I didn't have to listen anymore, part was disappointed—what other wild and crazy names does the Amish country boast? And lastly I was left confused. Unless you're naming your “John Thomas” a bird, men, why is that name risqué exactly? Please answer in the comments section.

The Craft Box

It’s official. I'm old. And what gave it away, do you ask? Well, it all started with some crafts . . . I’m not talking Minecraft or witchcraft, people. Nothing as interesting as that. I'm talking about making freaking arts and crafts.

Working at a journal in Manhattan, I’m expected to stay current on social media (ugh). We recently created a Pinterest page at work, and that’s where it all went downhill. As I trolled around the site learning how to use it, I was suddenly lost in a magical world of recipes, DIY, home décor, and crafts.

It was innocent at first. I saw some cute ideas for Halloween—mummy candles made by wrapping gauze around a mason jar, vampire pumpkins, using a drill to make artful jack-o-lanterns. The possibilities were endless. At first I just “pinned” these ideas because I liked them. Then I started to think . . . hey, I can do this!

Before long, I began to go to sleep thinking about crafts I could make, and wake up with the intention of executing them. I became a frequent flyer at Michaels and AC Moore. I’ve made mummy mason jars, turkeys out of mini pumpkins, gourd candle holders, reindeers out of wine corks (and boy, do I have a LOT of wine corks). My crafts began to take on a life of their own, so much so that for Christmas I was given a craft box to organize all the ribbons, buttons, googly eyes, and other shite I’ve started to accumulate. Friends expressed concern, my father called me “Martha Loser,” my brother asked my mother in confusion, “Why is she so into crafts?!”

Others expressed relief. When focused on crafts, I'm not as cray as usual, and it keeps my anxiety, bossiness, and neurotic tendencies under some semblance of control.

This past weekend, a friend who I was going to visit texted, asking what I wanted to do over the weekend. She mentioned yoga, pedicures, shopping, and then said, almost shyly, “or we could do nerdy crafts.” My eyes lit up like a slot machine. Jackpot! A partner in crime. “Should I bring my craft box?” I replied. And though we got teased mercilessly all weekend for being craft nerds, we had a great time with our creations and drinking wine. The result: the Valentine's Day wreath below (no, it's not a toilet seat cover like my brother thought, or a life preserver).

So readers, if you’re wondering why I haven’t been blogging so often, now you know. I’m too busy a craftin’. And this is how I know I'm old. Instead of going out dancing or partying or socializing, I'm content with my new hobby. This may seem like a cry for help, but trust me, it’s not. If crafting is wrong, I don’t wanna be right. I am a craft addict. And I like it.

The Magnet

In the past few weeks I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m an annoyer magnet. I hear you, I know . . . I’m easily annoyed. But statistically speaking, is it really possible for so many super annoyers to revolve around me in such close proximity? Do we have a statistician in the house?

Obviously riding the Metro North every day doesn’t help. These trains are packed to the brim with people who suck. People who talk on their cell phones loudly (while this used to only occur during “off peak” hours, it is now a vexing regular occurrence), people who let their kids run amuck, people whose voices carry and not in a good way a la ‘Til Tuesday, people who are sick and shouldn't be on the train, forcing those who are healthy to succumb to their spewing germs, and people who sit next to me and then proceed to act weird.

Like last night. I was on the 7:52—not so late that it should have been the twilight zone, as the late night trains tend to be. I was sitting alone and hoping to stay that way. Then an elderly gentleman with a bright sweater, neat little beard, and a bag that seemed to be filled with rocks (I should know, it landed on me when he thrust it onto the seat) asked if he could sit down. He seemed innocent enough, despite hitting me several times with his elbow as he fluttered and settled. As another commuter barreled down the aisle and hit me with his briefcase, my seat companion even expressed concern, “Gee are you okay?” he asked with a friendly smile.

I was just fine. Until he started to make himself at home. Reading his cell phone and texting (with key pad volume on), scratching himself with fervor, as I began to worry about lice or bed bugs, and yawning loudly. “AHHHHHHHHHHH,” said he, while stretching out comfortably, invading my space. This was followed by constant leg jiggling that vibrated the whole chair (I felt like I was suddenly in Kimye’s disturbing Bound 2 video) and more sighs of satisfaction. I began to lean away, using only half of my allotted space.

As luck would have it Jiggles got off at the first stop, and I could have clapped in relief. The guy across from me met my eye and shook his head. “Bet you’re glad he’s gone!” he said. I smiled back, feeling that all was right with the universe. Until the guy across from me started to misbehave.

No sooner had he made the comment, he began to rummage through his bag in search of a beer, which he then took ten minutes to open by clumsily hitting the top of the bottle as if the twist off cap would suddenly untwist itself from repeat slapping. After finally getting it open, he guzzled loudly, smacking his lips. As he continued to try to meet my eye, I leaned away, scooting myself over to the other half of my allotted space. WHY??

As we approached my stop the man suddenly jumped up. “Did I miss my stop?” he asked the guy next to him, who shrugged as if to say, how the helladeria should I know? “FECK!” he shouted, throwing his arms in the air, beer a swingin’.“FEEECCCCKKK.”  He dashed to the front of the train dripping beer in his wake. “FECCCKKK,” he shouted again. Another drunk man in a suit (when did so many people start getting shitfaced on the train?!) shouted out to him sympathetically. “Man that sucks! I feel for ya.”

“It would have been nice if somebody told me!” he shouted to . . . his seat companion? His drunk friend? The collective commuters? Nobody could tell. “I have a feeling it was on purpose too!” he continued. “Let’s watch this guy sleep through his stop,” he said, laughing wildly. I was scared to get off at my stop, but I had to. He followed me off the train.

“Guess what? Someone decided to NOT tell me it was my stop. Can you believe it?” he asked. I quickly gave him a Gilly from Saturday Night Live “Sarry” before running to the shelter and safety of my car. I’m happy to report no incidences on my morning commute. Happy New Year, readers!

Let the Annoyer Who Is Without Fault, Well, Annoy!

Photo by Frank Hebbert, via Flickr.

Recently, a good friend of mine told me that a coworker corrected her grammar from a casual correspondence that was none of the coworker’s concern. The unsolicited advice was (obviously) annoying, and my friend asked me (an editor who never makes mistakes) if she had, in fact, been wrong. Well, yes, she had been wrong. But just out of curiosity, I asked what her coworker’s correction was. Lo and behold, the annoying, presumptuous coworker was also wrong! It got me thinking: why the F would you correct someone (annoyingly) if you aren’t 100% sure that you are correct?! It just opens a can of worms for you to be forever considered a raging a-hole.

Unfortunately, this behavior abounds. Last night I went to the Janis Joplin tribute show on Broadway (which was amazing, by the way—the only downside being the other theater goers). The chairs were all numbered, but confusingly each armrest had a different number, so it was easy to make a mistake and sit in the wrong seat. The usher helped me to my seat and told me to just count the seats from the outside in to know if you were in the right one (i.e., seat 10 was 10 seats down). So these two women are sitting behind me yapping away and another couple comes and tells them they have to move down. They immediately get in a flutter and pull out their tickets, arguing that THEY were in the right seats and that the other couple was wrong. My rampant perfectionism could take it no more, and I turned to tell them that they were NOT in the right seats and to move down. “That’s BS,” the woman said to me. “You’re meant to count from the outside aisle.” I said, wanting to add “it’s the new math.” This was met with a quiet “Oh, right.”

And finally this morning on the Metro North (vessel of all annoyers), I was horrified when an old grumpy woman screeched at some young, pleasant exchange students to get their feet off the chairs. “Hate to break up your party,” said she, “but you’re not allowed to do that here.” (Can only assume by “here” she meant in the good ole U.S. of A., thus being annoying and ethnocentric all in one breath. Okay, yes, it IS annoying when youth put their feet on chairs. But these youngins were actually pleasant and cultured, and having a quiet, intelligent conversation rather than being glued to their smartphones. It wasn’t this commuter’s job to stick her ginger head in their space and lay out the law . . . especially when five minutes later she simultaneously broke EVERY unwritten rule of commuting: she space invaded the young foreigners and tried to make nice by conversing with them, she began to hack her germs all over without covering her mouth, she began to talk on her cell phone, and she began to talk loudly to her seat companion. All that was missing was some nail grooming.

So to all ye who annoy: back up on out of others space, do not attempt to teach others when you yourself know nothing, and don’t get righteous unless you know you are right!

The BBQ Club

Living in what city folk would call “upstate” (but in actuality is only an hour outside of the city), has its benefits. The main one: BBQ Bizatches! Since I have become the owner of a deck, I am using my BBQ day and night, thrilled to have easy meals, no mess in the kitchen, and that nice smoked flavor. You name it, I’ve been barbecuing it: clams, salmon, chicken, corn on the cob, brussel sprouts. (I could go on a la “Bubba” from Forest Gump, but I will spare you the details.)

I can also now revel in the selection of marinades at my disposal. It seems like every cook on the Food Network has their own sauce, from Bobby Flay to Guy Fieri. My current favorite: Stubs. (As I told my BFF last weekend after a day of gardening and home depot visiting, these are the simple pleasures of the (close to) middle-age suburbanites. Oh how things have changed!)

This weekend, I went to my local gourmet shop to get me some Stubs, and to go out on a limb and try a product recommended to me by my friend called Soy Vay, a kosher marinade that she claims is to die for. I admit I was slightly reluctant to ask for it, as it sounded funny to say ‘Soy Vay.’ What if they’d never heard of it? What if they thought I was just saying “Oy Vey!” But as soon as I inquired, the shop owner started raving, telling me he puts it on everything. He said he was practically all sold out. There was but one bottle left, and he told me to guard it with my life.

As I went to pay, a large man with a scruffy beard, a U.S. flag bandana around his head, and a motor cycle jacket who looked like a character out of Sons of Anarchy commented on my Soy Vay, saying he, too, slops that shi-at on everything.

“Man, I am barbecuing practically every day,” I said, trying to be friendly. “I’m so glad it’s summer.”

“What the hell does summer have to do with anything,” My Duck Dynasty-esque companion said in a gravelly voice. “I barbecue ALL year round.”

“True,” I said, wishing I hadn’t struck up the convo after all. “And I have a covered deck, so . . .”

“Covered, shmovered!” he shouted. “I’m out there rain and shine, 365 days a year.”

I hurried to pay when he whipped out his cell phone. “Take a look at this!” The photo showed about a foot of snow, with a small, black weber grill looking lonely and cold in the center; a circle of flattened snow had been shovelled around it.

“Made sirloin on that bad boy. That was New Year’s Day! That’s what I call barbecuing, bitcheeess!”

Slightly disturbed, I hugged my precious Soy Veh to my chest and exited. Apparently I was not cool enough to ride with the big BBQ boys. Yet. But I will be . . . mark my words, readers, this winter I WILL BE.

“Happy grillin!” I heard him call as the door shut behind me.

Happy Valentine's Day (sigh)

Happy Valentine's Day Readers! Although lame, cheesy, and often disappointing, I know you're all secretly craving a Valentine's day card, box o' chocolate or, if you're me, a jug o' wine. This morning when I checked my email to scour the grand influx of well wishes clogging my inbox, I was shocked at the inconceivable notion that I had but one, from my loyal blog reader and dear friend, Jana Lia. She sent this card from someecards.com, possibly the best ecard site out there. I firmly recommend if anyone feels down, depressed, anxious, or like jumping off a bridge, they first visit this site and revel in the hilarity of the sarcastic, spot-on, raunchy, timely cards that aren't afraid to tackle any topic, no matter how taboo. This particular card made my day, because, as Jana Lia pointed out...what IS it that Meatloaf wouldn't do? (For my young readers who don't know this song (the horror), please do yourself a favor and click this link.) Perhaps there is a Meatloaf guru among us who knows the answer? If not I can only speculate and invite you to do so as well:

1) Allow backdoor entry with foreign object? (too obvi?)
2) Wear a thong and parade around the room?
3) Serenade his love with Dashboard Light for the 500th time?
4) Exchange necklaces adorned with vials or each other's blood?
5) Watch a Party of Five marathon?
6) File those scary nails and take off that weird costume from the video?

If anyone has the answer, inquiring minds would love to know. Until then, hope you all have a romantic evening with your significant other or, if alone, that you survive the annoyingness that is Valentine's day. And remember, Dear Readers, I lerve you all.

The Boring Diner

I recently moved to a complex that used to be only for “the aged”. As a result, I’m considered a “young” inhabitant. Sometimes this works to my advantage (I am the youngest person at the community gym and thus eye candy for the 80 plus!). But mostly it just exacerbates my feeling that I’m getting old, especially when these seniors are more hip and happening than me!

Take New Year’s Eve for example. Wanting a “quiet” night, I went with several people to the local Chinese restaurant, predominantly frequented by the oldies who live in my complex. By 9 PM I was beginning to yawn and couldn’t wait to get home, when suddenly a group of 20 octogenarians waltzed in rambunctiously, their rowdy chatter filling the space. The portly barrel-bodied women donned sparkly shirts bedazzled with sequins and the men wore sports coats over black turtlenecks (one even sported a ponytail). They were happy and animated; disturbing thoughts of they might be getting "lucky" filled my head.They were just starting their night . . . and I was done.

And now on top of it I have been called out twice by the waiter at the aforementioned Chinese restaurant for being a boring diner. Tall, wiry, and bespectacled, this particular waiter took my order a few weeks ago with no complaint. A few weeks later, however, when I went again, the waiter laughed nervously as he approached me and my dinner companion. “You again,” he said, chuckling.

We placed our order, and suddenly his friendly face scrunched up in disgust. For a moment he looked lost in thought. Finally he said, “Same as last time? Really?” Me and my companion exchanged looks. Of the dozens of orders he takes per day, how could he possibly remember what we ordered a few weeks back?

We smiled and nodded. “You don’t want something different?” he pushed. Nope . . . we’re boring. He shook his head, laughing as he walked away.

Last night, we went back. It had been several weeks. The same friendly man attended to us. As soon as he saw us he started cracking up (still not sure what is so amusing aside from our obvious boringness!). But this time I had come prepared . . . I was going out on a limb. Instead of the spicy tuna roll and asparagus roll (without sesame seeds, to avoid my faux allergy), I was going to order a vegetarian roll (with avocado, sweet potato, and Japanese pickle). Instead of the Shanghai soup dumplings, I was going to try a steamed vegetable dumpling. This is called “Living On The Edge” people!

But before I could go cahhhrazy and change things up, he whipped out his pad and said “OK, boring customer. So, same thing, right? Boring diners? Hmmm? Soup balls? Edamame? Haha. Spicy tuna and asparagus roll, no sesame? Red wine? Right? Same as usual. HAHAHA. Same. As. Usual.”*

What happened to the crazy, spontaneous, fly by the seat of the pants girl I was for most of my life? The girl nicknamed “Crazy Amy” or “Amiac” by friends? The world traveller who had eaten cuisine in a dozen different countries? Apparently she got left back in my 20s. I can’t even keep up with the old farts I live amongst and apparently to boot I am now the laughing stock of the Chinese restaurant.

As I left, all of the waiters turned their heads to the side, nodding and smiling. I could hear them thinking “Lame. Boring. Diner.” But I will show them. REST ASSURED readers. Next week, when chuckles comes over with his pad, I will say “up up up, I’m gonna change it UP!” Instead of a STEAMED dumpling, I will go for FRIED dumpling. Maybe a little white wine instead of red? How about instead of a spicy tuna roll, a spicy yellowtail roll.** You see where I am going with this?

*Somewhat (very much) exaggerated for effect.
**Readers, feel free to chime in on dining selections I should be making.

Just Stay Home

Ok, Ok. I’ve always been somewhat of a hypochondriac, but things are really getting out of control. And as usual, I’m going to blame it on my least favorite of all people: commuters.

My hypochondria started in grade school with things like wanting a broken leg so I could have crutches and get people to sign my cast or wanting the extra platform on my shoe like the boy on Little House on the Prairie who had one leg shorter than the other. I can only posit that these things had to do with wanting extra attention rather than a fear of illness.

Later, in college, there was four-year lapse in my neuroses, when nothing fazed me and I most definitely did NOT worry about germs, illness, adverse drug reactions, being one step away from needing a stomach pump, or all of those things combined. (Only kidding, I would never succumb to such debauchery. Or would I?) If only I could still be THAT person. My roommates used to yell at me for not washing my hands enough and I teased my BFF relentlessly for once wearing a surgical mask while flying to avoid germs.

The real, crippling hypochondria returned in my mid-20s. I would worry ad nauseam about fatal diseases and believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was about to die from one. But even then I only worried about the real scary ones (cancer, AIDS, brain tumor, mad cow’s disease, African sleeping sickness...). Who doesn’t?

Unfortunately,  I now worry about even the fartin common cold. A slight pain in my head, probably due to dry scalp, becomes a warning sign for shingles. A sore throat is definitely throat cancer brought on by too much wine. Dizziness is not dehydration or the need to eat, but a brain tumor about to spring forth through my right eye. And heart burn is most certainly a heart attack.

And now we have to worry about the flu, which, if you listen to the media, is descending upon us this season like a plague on ALL of our houses. If you listen to the news, we are one step away from Gwyneth Paltrowesque seizure-inducing death a la Contagion. And if you're like me, scared of all medications and the flu shot (not for the needle, mind you, but for the 0.000001% chance I will have an allergic reaction to it), then you are playing Russian Roulette every time you step on the Metro North or the New York City subway. Despite the fact that I have had the flu many times and survived, my mind is now conjuring images of my funeral with family members shaking their heads and saying “if she only got the flu shot, she’d still be with us.”

So who do I blame? Commuters, of course. And their damned “presenteesim” (annoying jargon for the selfish, inconsiderate act of not staying home when one is brimming with illness and spewing their germs all over, getting everyone else sick in the process). Every morning on the train I cringe at the chorus of nonstop coughs that sound like a death rattle. I feel like I am riding the train with a bunch of mogwais who ate after midnight and are now in the process of turning into gremlins. Gremlins who blow their snot all over the place and cough up productive sputum, all while not covering their mouths and wiping their own spittle on their seat to infect the next innocent person to sit down.

Since I can’t just lock myself in my home until April, I have employed the following:

• Manic hand hygiene (my roommates would be proud that this act has gone from once a day [when showering] to multiple times, especially after riding public transport). I now see how OCD develops.

• Social isolation: hard in a city of 8 million, but I now walk to and from the train instead of riding the subway and avoid people at all costs, especially those who are sick.

• Vitamins: to boost my immune system, which in my head, is always failing.

There are only three things left to try:

• Wearing a surgical mask while cleverly hiding it under a big, stylish scarf.

• Starting a movement or campaign along the lines of Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" (to drugs). Mine can be called Just Stay Home (when you are sick and putrid).


• Living in a bubble.

Would that I could do the latter, readers! In my bubble, I’d be sitting in a reclining chair, reading my Nook, playing Bubble Witch Saga on my Ipad, watching Downton Abbey on the tele, and drinking a glass of Spanish wine. I’d wave to all of you from inside, happy as a sandboy, whatever the helladeria that means. You’d wave back with a look that says you "get me" . . . you know . . . with a faux, encouraging smile and nod. But secretly you'd be giving each other knowing glances, suggesting I be admitted to American Horror Story's Asylum, and whispering: “that AmyMC . . . she may be good for a random blog post, but boy is she BATSHIT CAHRAZY.”

The Good Luck Girl

Shit Happens. But does it have to happen to me?

I was happily enjoying a day at Jones Beach on Saturday, laying in the sand, half under an umbrella, half out, listening to the crashing waves and letting each one lull me into a state of relaxation. And while the careless other beach goers shuffled sand into my face and on my towel as they walked by, annoying conversations wafted into my ear space, and too many kids were afoot, I didn’t let any of it get me down. And then, shit happened.

In other words, a seagull flying over head let one go. From where I lay, I could see it as if in slow motion: the Hershey squirt rolling around in the air and morphing into an abstract splash of art before it landed in a warm splat on my leg. NOOOOOOO, I cried. Not again.

According to the World of Feng Shui and other Web sites (yes, I googled bird poop, why me?), bird shit is supposed to be an omen of good luck:

“Many people believe [a bird shitting on you] to be a major sign of wealth coming from heaven. Hence, although, it is really yucky and a major inconvenience, when something like this happens to you, take comfort in the fact that this is described as good luck being just around the corner!”

If this true, I ought to be really freaking lucky. Because this is not the first time I have been crop dusted by an avian bomb squad. No readers, I have been crapped on by birds in several countries, on two separate continents. Once, in my early 20s, it happened as I strolled around the river Seine in Paris. That time, my travelling companions told me I would be lucky in love. Harrumph.

Another time, it happened as I ate lunch at a café terrace in Barcelona. That time, my work colleagues told me to wash my hair quick to ward off cytomegalovirus.

So forgive me if, as I ran into the ocean on Saturday to rinse the fortuitous feces off of my person, I wasn’t feeling particularly comforted by this omen. Further reading suggested that this phenomenon is considered lucky because of the “what are the chances” aspect of being in the right place at the right time for the shit storm. I beg to differ. At Jones Beach, where masses of seagulls swoop around to steal scraps of people’s food, like a scene from the movie The Birds, I don’t think the chances of me being a prime target were so slim.

Looking at World of Feng Shui site, other good luck omens include the following: when you see a shooting star (yay!), when a butterfly flies into your home (cool!), when it rains and the sun is shining, producing a rainbow (oh my!). In fact, among the 18 omens listed, only one was seriously gross. Mine.

So stay tuned to see if I win the lottery, get my dream house, publish my first novel, or have Daniel Day Lewis tell me I’m the love of his life. Until then, I may take to walking the streets of New York City with a parasol.

Life Lessons From Sunny

Reenactment of Sunny in the lake.

We all have “one of those” people in our lives who can’t stop talking about their pets (or kids), obviously pets being the more tolerable of the two topics. And while pets are cute, I often don’t feel the need to hear a play by play of what they’re up to, their furry antics, or their bathroom schedule. It can be annoying, can't it? Great – now that I got that out of the way, I'm going to completely break protocol here and tell an annoying, cute, sentimental pet story.

This past weekend I vacationed with my family in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania. We were all lounging on our floating dock, with Sunny, my golden retriever, included. If we don’t bring the dog to sit with us by the lake, she cries and whines from the house, as she is the neediest dog on the planet. Wonder where she got that from.

Suddenly a small duck was seen making its way across the lake, some 20 feet or so from the dock. Sunny was immediately on red alert, ears lifted, tail straight back, whining away. I had her leash wrapped around a chair on the dock, as she never listens and will run off at a moment’s notice. Not sure where she gets that from either.

“We should let her loose and see what she does,” I said, as I knew she would never get in the water. You see, even though golden retrievers supposedly love water, my dog is deathly afraid of it. As a puppy back in Barcelona, Spain, she’d accidently fallen into the pool at my old house. I'd scooped her out immediately, but she’d never gotten over the trauma. Even years later when I would bring her into the pool with me, she’d cry and scamper out as soon as she could. If I was swimming, she’d run to the other side of the yard and hide. I could have drowned and she wouldn’t have come in to save me.

Now as the duck circled around, teasing Sunny into a frenzy, I unclipped her leash and she bounded off the dock to the shoreline of the lake. In total hunter mode, she bounced back and forth along the shore energetically. Feeling slightly bad for teasing her in this way, I was about to go get her when suddenly and gloriously she dove into the water. She took a few uncertain steps, and then began to swim. Her little head bobbed up and down as she pursued the duck with reckless abandon.

“She can’t swim!! OMG she can’t swim!” I cried, flailing my arms about unbecomingly, like a spastic mother whose seven-year-old child had just jumped into the water. But of course she could swim. She’s a dog.

The gap began to close between Sunny and the duck. And though the whole thing was very comical, I suddenly began to worry for the duck’s life. “She’s gonna eat the duck! OMG she is gonna eat that MOFO duck!” I cried, while continuing to flail.

But the duck, tiring of the chase, eventually flapped its wings and flew a distance away. Knowing she’d missed her chance, Sunny turned back towards us. I could almost hear her saying “Oh sheeeeiiit” as her retrieval mode faded and she realized she was now in the middle of the lake. But after a pause, she began to swim back gracefully, climbed out of the water, shook herself off all over us, plopped down on the grass and basked in the sun and her glory.

As I watched her, so relaxed and unaware of her accomplishment, I began to envy her animal instinct, which was clearly stronger than any fear she harbored. I thought about my fears, which are a plenty (fear of death, fear of illness, fear of flying, fear of the dark, fear of heights, fear of crowds, fear of beards [kidding about the last one, but it is a REAL fear!]). It dawned on me that over the years I’ve let those stupid fears keep me from doing so many things that I love. And that I needed to start diving in head first, letting my animal instinct take over. Be more like Sunny. Except not as hairy, smelly, wayward and gluttonous, of course.

The King of the Cruise Collectors

As some of my five readers may know, last year I took a cruise to Bermuda and was baffled by the subculture that is the cruise ship. I quickly learned that cruise goers are in fact collectors, racking up trips like more sophisticated people might rack up original art. Not only do these collectors show off the number of cruises they’ve been on, vessels they’ve boarded, destinations they’ve ended up in and days at sea, they also feel the need to compete with other passengers by asking “how many?” (For more on this past trip and categories of collectors, read my post from last year.)

Well readers, you will be happy to know that this summer I embarked on cruise number 2, officially launching my career as a confirmed collector. No more would I lower my eyes in shame when asked how many I’ve been on.

Or so I thought. The piano lounge of the Norwegian Star, my recent Bermuda-bound cruise ship (I can now say I’ve “done” Holland and Norwegian), was filled with cheesy cruise goers. Everyone came to hear ‘The Piano Man’, an incredible piano player who sang everything from Billy Joel to Elton John to . . . well, whatever, you get the idea. Each night after my three course meal and bottle of wine I’d stop in to listen before the onboard entertainment started. Being increasingly anal with age, and distraught over the fact that Norwegian has no fartin clocks anywhere on board because we are supposed to be “off the clock”, I leaned over into the space of the large old man next to me and tried to read his watch.

“You’ll never see the numbers,” he said, unclasping the monstrosity from his wrist. “The face is transparent . . . check it out.” The five-pound watch was subsequently thrust into my hands. Panicking over the sure spread of norovirus, I did an obligatory look over and handed it back.

“It’s REAL porcelain,” he said proudly. “On my last cruise my watch got wet and broke. Nothing is going to break this sucker. It can go under 100 feet of water.” My eyes widened.
“Where did you get it?” I asked, feigning rapture.

“Home shopping network,” he said, making a face as if I should have known that. Where else? My interest in the watch opened a can of worms and the next thing you know, he’s asking the magic question. “So . . .uh . . .how many?”

“Two!” I say, excited that I can say more than one. “Last year I did Holland.”

“Pfft, that’s an old person’s cruise,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand and obviously unaware of his own advanced age.

“Well, how many have you had?” I asked, crestfallen.

“This is my 64th cruise,” he said. No readers, no typo here. SIXTY FOUR FAHREIKEN CRUISES.

“Holy shit,” I said, forgetting my manners.

“I am a VIP on this ship. When I get onboard, the waiters know my name. You wanna know who I had dinner with last night? The captain, that’s who. I don’t pay for a single drink on this ship. All of them are on the house. Guess what happened to me last night? The captain asked me which I like better, Norwegian or Holland. I say, and this is the truth, I like Norwegian better but Holland offers king crab on their menu. Guess what I get delivered to me tonight at dinner. You’ll never guess.”

“Um, King Crab?”

“You're goddamned right.”

“But how does one rack up 64 cruises?” I asked, bewildered and feeling inadequate.

“I take one a few times a year. And then there are “repositioning” cruises. When the ship makes its way to a destination to start a new trip. You get BONUS points for those,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “My grandson is five, he’s already been on five cruises. A few months ago I got home from a Caribbean cruise, stayed a week, got bored and tired of snow, called them up and said, put me on another.”

Leaning toward me, winking like a used car salesman, he moved in for the kill.

“If you listen to me and take my advice, you take those repositioning cruises, become a member, and take advantage of their onboard kickbacks for booking next year’s cruise, soon enough you’ll be at my level.”

My eyes light up like a slot machine as a voice inside my head says yes . . . one day you can be at his level. On your 64th cruise. Showing off your home shopping network watch to a cruising newbie while your seemingly mail order bride half your age and size sits primly beside you, letting you regale other ladies in the piano lounge with tales of your great sea adventures.

Let me end this tale by issuing a Cry for Help. Please readers. If you ever hear me bragging about hitting double digits . . . if I start to reposition, demand king crab for dinner or spend more time on a boat than on land . . . help me. Oh lordy, help me. And organize an immediate intervention. Preferably on ‘Royal’– I haven’t tried that line yet.

Right on, Mr. Snivels

This time of year—with pollen a flyin’ and people a snifflin’ at my office—always takes me back to high school English with Mr. S. English had always been my favorite subject, one I later majored in at college. But the year I had Mr. S. almost made me hate the subject, and was my first experience with true panic-inducing fear.

Mr. S. seemed ancient to my young teenage self (he was probably only in his forties). A shock of white feathery hair swept across his head. He was short and stout, his diamond pattern sweaters always taut over his rotund belly. His face looked porcine, with big full cheeks that hung down into jowls, a turned up nose, and a splotchy redness that suggested alcoholism or high blood pressure. His Spartan desk was clear of any clutter, and only boasted a box of Kleenex.

With other “old” teachers, we students had the run of the show—swinging from rafters, talking back, throwing paper. But Mr. S. somehow commanded a militant discipline; each of us sat in our desk, hands folded, looking straight ahead. Nobody dare flinch.

There was one thing, however, that really got Mr. S.’s panties in a bunch—and it was something none of us did on purpose or could control. Sniffling.

The first time we learned of his pet peeve was a few days into the beginning of school. Some poor slouch sniffled and Mr. S., who was writing on the blackboard, suddenly stopped, shoulders hunched in annoyance, before slowly turning around, cheeks flaring up, hands shaking. With undisguised disgust he literally growled: “USE. A. TISSUE.” The boy who had committed the crime timidly approached the desk, took a tissue and returned to his seat. Wiping some snot away, he left the balled up tissue on the corner of his desk and continued to sniffle.

Mr. S. put down the chalk and turned around. By this time his face had taken on the shade of a beet, and looked like a balloon that had been filled with too much helium. “BLOW. YOUR. NOSE,” he said dangerously before turning back to the blackboard. But what teenager likes to blow their nose in class? It’s a recipe for disaster, and can only end with visible boogers hanging out or some other source of fodder for bullies or teasing.

Tension filled the air. The only sound in the room was Mr. S.’s clickety-clack chalk working its way across the board. I was afraid to swallow. But snot boy couldn’t help himself…his faucet was a drippin’. He sniffled—a big one—and all hell broke loose.

Mr. Smith threw down his chalk, jumped over his desk with the finesse of a football player and grabbed the boy by his collar. “GET OUT!” he shouted, escorting the boy to the hallway. “GET OUTTTTT.”

We all looked around, laughing nervously while inwardly assessing our own nasal passages and whether or not they had the potential to leak. Throughout the year, especially during winter and spring, a record number of students were thrown out of Mr. S.’s class. Nerd, dirtbag, punk or prep—nobody who had the sniffles was safe.

I remember being anxious to go to class. I remember using the rest room beforehand to blow my nose. I remember HATING Mr. S. with all of my being and thinking how utterly unfair he was. I remember thinking: what’s the big fartin deal about a sniffle?

Now in my mid-thirties, I can tell you what the big fartin deal about a sniffle is. IT’S ANNOYING. As I sit at my desk amid the sounds of coworkers' throat clearing, coughing up of phlegm, dry hacking coughs, over-the-top sneezing, and sniffles galore, I can honestly say that I totally sympathize with Mr. S. and totally "get" him.

If you’re still out there Mr. S., if you’re still alive and torturing students with poor immune systems or allergies, or even if you are in an old age home ready to go postal on your snivelling fellow residents, all I have to say to you is this: I hear you, man! Right on!

How Very Dare You!

Photo by  blmurch, via Flickr 

It’s spring and one should be humming and enjoying the strange OTT early heat, but unfortunately one (in other words, me) still has to deal with annoying commuters.

The day in question started off good enough. I was on the way uptown to babysit for my BFF. Since I had serious arse ache from sitting too long at work, I decided to walk several blocks to the East Side and catch the 6 train uptown. A coworker mentioned that if I just walked a few blocks more, I could catch an express bus that shot right uptown with only a few stops. She gave me specific directions and explained that a separate machine was used to purchase the ticket for the bus.

I was already happy just to find the bus and the machines, since I don’t have the best internal GPS. But then I was overcome with feelings of “all is well with the universe” when an attractive man in a suit offered me his ticket when he saw me fumbling with the machine. I was clearly not “in the express bus know,” and he took pity on me. I grasped the ticket and smiled, excited for the free bus ride. But boy, did I end up paying for it.

Squeezed between old people with stale breath and teenagers with noxious BO—the kind of stench that warrants a parent discussion that it’s time to use deodorant—I held on to a germ-infested bar and closed my eyes to block out the “others.” The first two stops glided by, and I was starting to feel giddy at the prospect of getting uptown quickly, above ground. At the next stop, a man who thought he was cool but looked like he just stepped off the set of a Miami Vice remake, barged on. He wore a cheap suit and dark shades and immediately started to barrel towards the back of the bus. That’s when I heard the annoying commuter strike.

“What do you THINK YOU ARE DOING?” a woman’s voice raised above the rest in an impossible-to-take-seriously overdramatic voice (think of Meryl Streep’s rendition of Julia Childs.)

“You PUSHED me!” she continued her outrage. Then, “You should be ASHAMED of yourself.”

I couldn’t help but giggle, as the woman’s voice conjured thoughts of the funny British sketch comedy program “The Catherine Tate Show” and her character Derek Faye, who routinely and dramatically screams out, “How very dare you!” (If you haven’t seen it, check it out here).

“DRIVER…STOP THE BUS” the woman called out, at which point my fellow New Yorkers started to lose patience, murmuring ‘what the hell’ and shifting in their seats.

“Look lady, it’s a crowded bus, it’s called ‘Riding the Bus 101’ here, maybe if you’d moved over more, I wouldn’t have pushed you,” said Don Johnson.

A sound like an injured animal spread across the bus as people reached their heads up to see what the ruckus was all about. “So now you’re going to INSULT me in addition to ASSAULT me!”

“Give me a break!” “Shut up!” “Get over it!” were the responses from various riders. But the woman would not be deterred. She continued to scream at the driver to stop the bus, which he did. An overweight MTA officer waddled over and asked Don Johnson to “step aside,” while the complainer (I could now see her: 60s, dress suit that looked like my grandmother’s couch upholstery, a tight bun and bedazzled in gold jewelry) stood red faced and indignant as people shuffled off the bus, shooting daggers at her.

Don Johnson took one look at the officer, laughed, and ran away as the complainer screamed “STOP THAT MAN!” The fellow passengers were told that the bus was now a crime scene and had to wait for another bus. No express bus came, so I got on a local, which stopped on every street from the 50s to the 70s. To make a long story short, I would have arrived uptown faster walking.

So to the bedazzled annoyer in question: Beware. Should our paths cross the next time I take the express bus, I will personally boot ya butt off if you start up with your shenanigans. YOU should be ashamed of yourself for preventing a crapload of people from getting home after a long, hard work/school day. That’s right! How very dare you!

Abbreviations for those who aren’t “with the times”
OTT: Over The Top
BFF: Best Fartin Friend
GPS: Global Positioning System
BO: Smelly FN Body. Slap on some roll-on. Seriously.

Songs You Don’t Want to be Caught Singing in Aisle 4 of the Supermarket*

Have you ever been in the car with someone, humming a nondescript tune, when the person you’re with asks you what you’re singing? You may not have even noticed you were singing, and now, as you focus and think about it, you're horrified by the result.

 

“Erm, nothing,” you say, followed by “Hey look how lovely the foliage is!”

“Yeah…you were singing. And there are no leaves on the trees,” your companion says to your sheer vexation.

“I don’t remember.”

“Sure you do, come on!”

“I was just humming!”

“Nah, but I recognize it! What was it?”

“Oh for the love of all that lives I was singing Air Supply, OK? 'Making Love Out of Nothing At All' by freaking Air Supply. Happy Now?”

But it could be worse. You could be caught in aisle 4 of the supermarket belting out a song and be caught by, say, me—a complete stranger—as one poor muscle head in a Giants jersey recently did. I rounded the corner and I heard, quite loudly and enthusiastically:

“And I said, what about Breakfast at Tiffany’s? She said, “I think I remember the film? And as I recall, I think, we both kinda liked it,” and I said, “Well, that’s the one thing we’ve got!”

As he finished the verse, our eyes met and he turned five shades of scarlet. In response, my eyebrows raised with a look that clearly stated, “Dude, WTF are you thinking?”

What happens when your mind is hijacked and forced to sing Celine Dion or similar? How is it that we never get caught singing some hard core gansta rap or an obscure yet brilliant indie group like the Subterraneans? Oh no, it’s gotta be Hoobastank or Nickelback or anything that Casey Kasem would have put on his Top 40.

So to all of you who’ve been caught singing a strange song—including the waiter at Dish who absentmindedly sang “Abra Abra Cadabra” while Blog Commenter Jana Lia and I sat giggling and finishing up with “I wanna reach out and grab ya!”—I feel your pain. I grew up in the 80s, I liked big hair bands, and have an uncanny knack for singing music my grandmother would rock to at any given moment.

*This post may make no sense to those under 30 who have never heard of Air Supply or vinyl for that matter. Just substitute the bands I mention with any music that you wouldn’t be caught dead humming—is it too soon to be embarrassed by Bieber?

Notable Commuters: Weird Boots Guy

Fig. 1. Weird Boots

It’s been a while since I’ve just written a plain old observation. That, uh, is the name of the blog after all. And what better place to observe strange and fascinating creatures but within the MTA train system. As a creature of habit, I usually sit in the same train car every day. Unfortunately, so does a group of loud, obnoxious old men playing cards on what appears to be a pizza box. The first time I saw it, I was perplexed by how their group defied all unspoken rules of train etiquette. Whereas normally conversations or cell phone calls get you a look of death from other zombie commuters, these men shout, cheer and converse as if throwing back beers in a bar. Amid the noise of their gravelly smokers’ voices is the fluttery flipping of a deck of cards, conjuring images of leaves getting stuck in a bicycle spoke. Or similar. Not a card player myself (unless you count the drinking game “Asshole”), I have no idea what it is that has them so entranced. But I do hear them shouting things like “29? Is it 29? Whattawe got, 45 to 92?” What does it mean, readers? Anyone? Anyone?

This enigma aside, there is one passenger who gets on the train who cannot escape anyone’s attention. He is older, probably somewhere between, say 55 and 100. His tall, burly, Paul Bunyan physique is accented by a fluffy gray beard, a half smoked cigar hanging out of his mouth that he CHEWS all the way to the city, and—the icing on the cake—tall, knee-high funky black boots (see Fig. 1). The boots are what catch my attention every single day. If you only focused on them, you’d think (Punk Rocker? Goth? Motorcycle Mamma? Oktoberfest Partaker? Sadomasochist? Shit Shoveller?) until you look up and see that they are attached to Santa Claus with a bad cigar habit.

Weird Boots gets on the same car as me and immediately gravitates towards the card players like a fly to feces. He leans on the back of the six-seater they occupy and bends down, flagrantly invading their personal space. At first I thought he was part of the group—the silent observer, who, for lack of a seat, participates from above. But over the weeks, I’ve noticed he’s not. He is just a random guy, with weird boots, resting his cigar on the island pattern bald guy dealing the cards, watching every move they make like Big Brother watches all of us. When the train pulls in, he immediately exits without so much as a goodbye. The group in turn never greets his omnipresence with hello, goodbye, or what the feck are you looking at?!

Who is he readers? Only time will tell. For now I will continue to silently observe him as he silently observes them, while snapping secret photos of his boots (can I get a pair somewhere?) as I pretend to text my BFF in Spain.

Elevatoritis

I’ve been trying so hard not to let little things get to me. My therapist (look, everyone in New York has one) says that when annoying people bump into me, play loud music that blares out of their headphones, or just simply exist I should say to myself “I allow these people to inconvenience me” or “I will not let these [a-holes] change my day.” Apparently I'm some kind of perfectionist and hold people to high standards—resulting in continuous disappointment in others. I didn’t really need to pay $150 a session to figure out that peeps irritate me—bad! But though I’ve been doing better, it’s rather hard to keep a smile on one’s face when one has to ride the shittiest and most frustrating elevator that ever existed to work every morning.

I work on the 19th of 20 floors, and there are many offices and people in my building, with six inefficient elevators to cart us to our respective places of work. While some buildings generously program their elevators to stop on the lower floors on one side, and the upper levels on the other, ours does not. The result: sheer vexation when you get crammed into the small space with 10 other people and the elevator stops on floor 2. Really? You couldn’t walk up one flight of stairs?

These antiquated machines are also slow, and when I walk into the building there's always an enormous line of people waiting to get on. There are so many offenders, I don’t even know where to begin: The “I’m just going to ignore the line and waltz up to the front because I’m more important than you” rider, the “I have a double-barrel stroller with children big enough to walk” rider, the “there are already 15 people in here, three of whom are morbidly obese, but I am going to get in anyway and invade your personal space and/or breathe on you” rider, the “I’m the lazy mailman who will stop on every floor, making you use your entire lunch break on the elevator” rider, the “I’m going to pass noxious wind and you’ll never guess which of us it is” rider…and the list goes on.

Today I got on and practiced my mantra, while smiling (grimacing) at my fellow riders, and pressed floor 19. The elevator stopped at floor 2 while everyone sighed with undisguised angst as a young, able-bodied passenger got off (note: next time at least fake a limp). It proceeded to stop on every other floor while my blood pressure creeped up faster than the elevator ever would. Finally, when it stopped at 18 and I only had one more floor to go, I sighed in relief. Until it started to plummet down.

“WTF! NOOO!” I shouted to the bare walls. It stopped on 15. Two men walked in. “Up or down!” I barked rabidly. “Down,” they said. I exited the elevator huffing, puffing and swearing while one of the men said “looks like it’s not her day.” ARGHHH.

On floor 15 I waited 10 minutes for another "up" elevator to no avail. Finally I decided to go back down and start all over. The elevator stopped on floor 6. The doors remained closed. I began to sweat. And still no movement. Panic disorder activated, I was just about to push the emergency button and scream that I was two seconds away from a shit storm, when it began to descend. Back on floor 1, I realized it had now been 20 minutes since I'd arrived to work, and was still not in my office. The cycle repeated itself as the elevator once again stopped on floor 2 to let a lazy passenger out. This time I got off at number 20, the main lobby of my office, and walked down to 19.

I ask, readers, would you be able to maintain calm after this palaver? As I sat down, shaking and twitching, my coworkers started to complain about the fact that the elevator has now been programmed to not stop on my floor due to recent thefts. So now everyone has to go to the main reception area one floor up. Feeling an explosion brewing at the inhumanity of not having received any warning of this from "the man," I was just about to call the CEO (in other words, stew silently) when there in my inbox I saw a vague message about security updates. Sure enough, there was the info I'd chosen to ignore the day before. Guess this time, it was my bad.

Smells Like Halloween Spirit

Fall is my absolute favorite time of year. Living in the Northeast United States, one has the privilege of witnessing the amazing transformation of the leaves. (Or, leaf peeping as my mother recently informed me it was called. Snort.) Vegetable death and decay mingle with smoke from chimneys to create that comforting autumn smell. And we can’t forget Halloween—my favorite of all holidays. I love dressing up as something evil (witch, vampire, devil) to truly get in touch with my inner demon.

My obsession with ghosts and ghouls probably came about at a young age, when my father introduced my brother and me to Stephen King. King was his favorite author, and when we stayed at his house on weekends, he’d read a bit of it to us before bed. He also took us to see scary films, much to our young delight (and subsequent neuroses)—Pet Sematary, Serpent and the Rainbow, Nightmare on Elm Street, The Candy Man. You name it, we saw it. Of course, while this might have been good to brag to our friends about, as we were the only kids under age 10 seeing this stuff, I still sleep with a nightlight at age 35 and check behind my shower curtain to make sure “Zelda” isn’t lurking.

Every year, when pumpkins blaze from neighbors’ windows and witches and skeletons hang from people’s front doors, I’m reminded of a funny ghost story. It was 1998. I was living abroad in Glasgow, Scotland. My brother came to visit me, and I took him around the city and surrounding areas. One day, we decided to hit Edinburgh, which was a short bus ride away. As we walked around the cobblestone streets, we debated whether or not we should pay the few pounds to go inside the castle. As we discussed the pros and cons,  fate stepped in with a gust of eerie wind, carrying with it a flyer that settled at our feet.

The flyer said Auld Reekie Tours, and boasted a guided visit of creepy underground chambers that used to be part of the old underground city along the Royal Mile...a witches' vault, a torture chamber, and plenty of paranormal activity. What could be more exciting? Then we saw a testimonial on the flyer: “I saw a ghost. I REALLY saw a ghost!” We were sold.

So…down we went, after paying more than we would have to see the castle. A hunchbacked (real or fake?) man in a cape led us and the other gullible tourists into what appeared to be someone’s basement. He pointed out a room that used to be a witches' circle. It was a shadowy corner that we could barely see. Several more empty basement rooms followed. And though it was all dank and dark…I didn’t see any ghosts. In fact, I didn’t see ANYTHING. All the while, “hunchy” told cheesy ghost stories that wouldn’t scare a child, much less a professional horror buff like myself.

At one point the guide turned out his flashlight, making the easily-pleased crowd squeal with delight. Next thing I know, I felt something pelt me. As the lights flickered back on, we saw that he had merely thrown rubber spiders at us. My brother and I covered our mouths to keep from laughing.

As we left the tour, heads hanging, we realized we’d been duped. Not only did we NOT "see a ghost," but not even the torture chamber—i.e., a room with papier mache people being tortured in weird devices—could cheer us up. To "quoth" a famous raven....Nevermore!

Here’s to hoping your Halloween, readers, is truly frightful! And feel free to tell your own ghost story in the comments box.

Hey Pool Losers, Your Kids Aren’t That Cute

                                                       

Photo by littlegraypixel, via Flickr

On the last official weekend of summer, I went to my family’s summer home in a small town in Pennsylvania (a place I call Buttcrack because of it’s vicinity to…nothing) for what I foolishly thought would be a weekend of relaxation. Oh how wrong I was.

The small lakefront cottage is inside a “gated community.” This means nobody can get in or out without a key or checking in with security, though somehow this never stops vandals from throwing garden statues into the lake, untying people’s docks, drawing penises on the dock, or other such mischief. But in Buttcrack, PA, what else is there for the punk ass teens to do?

The community shares two swimming pools, tennis courts and a community center. Last summer I made the mistake of going to one of the pools on a holiday weekend, where I witnessed an embarrassing display of ignorance as a morbidly obese woman yelled to a Russian man to go back to his country, that “This is America!” The argument started because the woman, with her skinhead looking husband and two equally obese neo-naziesque children, tried to bugger into the pool and hoard some lounge chairs, cutting other people in line, resulting in the Russian man calling her ignorant. Her subsequent display only proved his point. Later, the man tried to apologize, but the woman's red-faced husband actually stood up and chased the poor speedo-clad Russian away.

This year, seeking a little fresh air and reading time, I decided to try again. It was a cloudy day, so the pool was empty. No sooner had I sat down with my family, a bee began to buzz around me annoyingly, while I swatted and tried to remain calm. Relentlessly, it returned, getting right in my ear and buzzing uncontrollably. Do what I might, the bee pursued me with the reckless abandon of a stalker pursuing a stalkee, until I had to jump into the cold water to escape its hostile attack.

I finally stormed over to the opposite side of the pool and sat down. I was already annoyed by the bee incident and the lifeguards (because they were young, dumb, and not manning their posts. And let’s face it, because I was jealous over the loss of my youth, when I too had been such a lifeguard). That’s when the Pool Losers came in.

The family consisted of a mother, aunt, father and three small children. As they entered, they made the huge empty space seem like a crowded Walmart at Christmas. Their screaming loud voices pierced through my peace and quiet like Jon Bon Jovi and Bret Michaels had pierced through my heart in middle school.

Next thing you know, the kids got it in their head to have a talent show of sorts. The game went like this:

1) Stand as close to our lounge chairs as humanly possible without actually sitting on our laps.
2) The mother and aunt, who planted themselves about 25 feet away from the kids and therefore had to shout across us to converse, would call out a topic, e.g., “THE OLYMPICS!”
3) The kids would do a rendition of “THE OLYMPICS!” while walking towards the water and jumping in.
4) The mother and aunt would clap, guffaw and shout, scoring the child from 1 to 10. That’s IF they were paying attention. If not, the children would screech, as if their young lives depended on it: “MOMMMM watch MEEEE. WATCH MEEEE. MOOOMMMM!!!”
5) The cycle would repeat itself, endlessly.

Now I know a pool is a place for kids to have fun and not even I can begrudge the children their fun (after all, they are the future). But this pool was the size of two Olympic pools and nobody was there but my family, and theirs. So why did these Pool Losers feel the need to get up in our grill? Shout across us? Scream at the top of their lungs? Laugh over their children’s painfully silly renditions? Allow their kids to stand a millimeter away from where others were trying to read? Because they, like most parents and family members, thought their kids were cute. And so should everyone.

After about 20 such renditions, when even my ever-patient stepfather was about to go postal, I contemplated shouting out “LIBRARY!” or “DROWNING VICTIM!” to the kids. Instead we passively aggressively decided to get up and move, all the while huffing and puffing under our breath. As we walked past the mom and aunt, I heard the mother say, “OK kids, time to pack up and go!”

“Are ya kidding? Now you’re leaving?” burst forth from my lips, as we headed around the corner, where the monsters’ father, sitting peacefully with a book and noise cancellation headphones, had the right idea.

So, to end this rant, I’d just like to give the Pool Losers a helpful FYI: Your kids really aren’t that freaking cute. OK? Thanks.

The Cruise Collector*

So sorry I haven’t written sooner, my dear Reader(s). It seems I’ve been lost in the Bermuda Triangle. Or something. To my dismay, summer is over, having only just started. Wasn’t I just on a cruise to Bermuda a few days ago? Or has it already been a month?

Amazing how fast vacation bliss wears off once one is back in reality. As I sat on the train the other day, listening to yet another moronic conversation, I couldn’t help but feel like I was stuck in a version of the movie Groundhog Day:

Annoying commuter #1 (girl donning rock the size of Jupiter on finger): So, how's your new house? What have you done so far?
Annoying Commuter#2 (socially awkward guy who most likely works in IT): Nothing yet. But I have a plan. Electronics first. Then furniture. Rugs will be last.
AC #1: What about Curtains?
AC #2: Curtains will be last.
AC #1: What about art and stuff for your walls?
AC #2: Art will be last.

What?! So I closed my eyes and let the rocking of the train lull me back to the rocking of the ship I was recently on, sailing towards sun, crystal blue waters and cotton candy sand. I picture myself lounging on the coveted lounge chairs, a cool drink in hand. I'm already feeling better when another annoying commuter interrupts. But it's NOT the train commuter–oh no, it's a species far worse and more bewildering. The Cruise Collector.

“How many have you been on?” someone barks in my ear.

I adjust my sunglasses and open my eyes to the dizzying sun. “Excuse me?”

“This is my 15th. This boat has nothing on Princess. And Norwegian is much bigger. I mean, where are all the pools?”

I decide not to tell the collector that this was, in fact, my first. Instead I excuse myself to dip into the hot tub, in other words, the cesspool of human germs.

It doesn't stop here. On the beach in Bermuda, where one goes to escape the other passengers, three women frolick in the sand like a couple of sea lions, mysteriously rubbing sand up and down their legs with fervor.

“What are you guys doing?” My stepmother asks them.

“We’re giving ourselves a spa treatment,” one says in a thick Jersey accent. “Cheapa than on the boat.” We nod, trying not to cringe, while the other demands: “Which are you on?”

“Holland,” we reply.

“Oh, I went on that last year. Too small. The best is Royal, but Princess isn’t bad either. This is our 10th.”

And so it goes. At dinner:

“How many has it been?” (The Cruise Collector never has to define “it.”)

“Um…my first?”

An embarrassed glance as if I'd just admitted to being the 40-year-old cruise virgin. “Oh really? We've been 'cruising' for years." (The Cruise Collector uses 'cruising' as if it's an activity such as running or hiking, when in fact, it's really just 'slothing.') "This is our 25th. Not so much food on this one. On Royal (the cruise collector never has to give the full name of the ship) you could ask for TWO entrees. Here they only let you have one.”

Glancing around at the predominately obese passengers, it’s no surprise to me that most are here for one thing: the abundant food.

“One entree is usually good enough for me!” I say cheerfully.

At the disco:

"Have you 'done' Carnival? It's much more lively."

By the end of the week, I had classified the collectors into the following categories:

The Food Collector: racks up multiple cruises for one thing only: eatfest. These collectors not only gorge on the breakfast and lunch buffets and three-course dinners, but attend the midnight buffet and hoard food in their room.
The Cheap Collector: likes to "cruise" because the price of a cruise is cheaper than getting a hotel and buying meals separately.
The Fearful Flyer Collector: Or, me. Those who want to travel but are at risk of getting stun-gunned by an air marshall as they run down the airplane aisle screaming 'we're all gonna die!'
The 'I Have a Boring Marriage' Collector: These couples spend the entire trip separately whether it be in the pool or at the casino, and are the ones most likely to lean into your personal space and say "So, how many?"
The Priveleged Collector: Thinks cruises are a luxury (when in reality they're kind of cheesy) and has no problem shouting at the already stressed waiter "Put me some more mustard, would ya?" or "Get this wine OUT of my face, it's terrible!"
The Geriatric Collector: My personal favorite, and omnipresent on my ship, these golden oldies throw all shame to the wind, boogie on the dance floor like tweens and are probably poppin Viagra more than Dramamine.

By the end of the week, if one more person asked about my sad collection, I was going to say "It's my 500th! The last one I took was Apollo. You haven't heard of it? I mean, how often do you cruise? It goes to the moon!"

But, we all need to start somewhere. Next year, I'll be able to say I'm on my second cruise. In time, I too will become a collector. In fact, one day you may find yourself on a cruise (Royal, of course). I will sit down next to you at the pool, staring probingly while you pretend to read. But the intensity of my gaze will be too much. You will make eye contact. And when you do, I will pounce, and say:

"So, how many has it been?"

*Dedicated to my father, who has been waiting with bated breath for this post.