I Covet Your Pants


  To the overtly effeminate, dapper young Asian man wearing skin tight yellow and black acid wash jeans on the N train last night, I only have one thing to say to you. Where can I buy a freakin’ pair? I want them…nay, I need them. I can understand why you may have thought I was staring at your not so discreet bulge—which was made even more painfully apparent by the tightness of the sausage casing over your legs—especially as it was at my eye level. The way you flaunted it, putting your hand on your hips and shifting side to side, was like watching a psychiatrist’s gold watch swinging back and forth, inducing a momentary state of hypnosis.


But what I was really hypnotized by was your pants. A rare, bright gem amid a pile of pale subway riders. Those blackboard-chalk-yellow pants swirling around in front of me got me spinning until suddenly I found myself back in 7th grade, outside of the window at Jean Country BEGGING my mother for a pair of acid wash jeans. They had every color imaginable hanging up on a wall—hot colors on black and bright pastel colors on white. I wanted them as badly as I secretly wanted to keep playing with Barbies and Jem and the Holograms, despite the fact that it was no longer cool to do so in middle school.

I’m sure it wasn’t the pants my mother objected to, but we didn’t have very much money, so I missed out on a lot of the “hip” styles of the times. Mind you, these were fashion’s worst ever times—the 80s. At the end of this decade, when we awoke in a horrifying haze of big hair and shoulder pads, we swore that we’d NEVER go back. But one only need to trot into Brooklyn to see how the Hipsters have brought the most questionable of the 80s trends back into fashion. Thus the reason, I am sure, that you yourself were wearing those glorious pants.

So, when all of my predominately Italian American junior high school classmates were wearing IOU sweatshirts and gold chains – I had on the Sears wannabe special. If I had been a boy, I would have begged for Z.Cavaricci pants as well, surely to no avail, and drench myself in Drakkar Noir. When Skids became the fad, my mom said they looked like pajama pants and refused to pay the outlandish price for a pair. Even if she had, those baggy checkered pants wouldn’t have fit me, even in size small. Because I was a 90 pound, gangly dork with braces, a spiked mullet and bad taste. And later when even my father had those MC Hammer pants, I was not able to get a pair.

Despite the fact that I was convinced I was stylish, I once overheard a friend saying I needed help in the fashion department. I guess my ruffled skirt with spandex half leggings and tie dye shirt with suspenders didn’t impress. But I did have some cool things. For example, I saved up for ages to get an acid wash jean jacket (from Sears), and made it cool by sewing a huge, airbrushed Jon Bon Jovi face patch onto the back. I still have it. Maybe I should throw it on next time I go into Williamsburg. And for my college friends who claimed I was stuck in the 80s in 1994, the reason is that once I could afford the clothes, I didn’t want to give them up so fast!



AmyMC, circa 1987

And now I bet you are wondering, pants boy, did I ever get the acid wash jeans that I wanted so badly and that I wish with all of my being I still saved, despite the fact that I probably couldn't get one leg into them now? The answer my friend, is in this photo- which is worth a thousand words.

Mixed Nuts

Have you ever been to the kind of restaurant that has long tables at which you are seated with people you don’t know? Presumably the “pro” is to pack in as many people as possible into a small space. The con: you never know what kind of nut job or annoyer you’re going to get stuck sitting next to. FYI: overheard convos aren’t any less annoying in a restaurant just because it’s a place where talking is acceptable.

Take the quaint Italian bistro I recently tried in Brooklyn. To the right was a harmless, quiet couple who I could barely hear (thank you), followed by two old ladies with smokers’ voices who ordered “a half a glass of wine” each. To my left, however, was a painfully obvious first date couple plagued with cringe-worthy convo. The couple looked to be in their thirties, the man a chubby-cheeked dork with thick black plastic glasses of the variety so frequently sported by Brooklyn hipsters. The girl was thin, had an '80s hairdo and a sour puss, and was wearing a hooded sweatshirt. The man’s voice immediately penetrated my space with geeky, radio personality-like flare as he demanded that the girl “not be a lady.” When she looked confused he said: “Don’t be a lady, just don’t be a lady. Actually, be whatever you want to be. Don’t let me tell you what to do…but what I mean is take these [mussels] and slurp them up.” As he explained, he himself slurped one up noisily, wiping drool off of his chin in the process. “Just slurp them up, mussels are meant to be slurped,” he continued, his mouth full. A barely hidden look of disgust flashed across the girl’s face as she opted to scoop her mussel out with a spoon.

“So, you said you’ve traveled all over the world?” she asked. Internet date, I immediately thought, picturing his profile blurb “World traveler seeks equally motivated companion…”

“Maybe it’s better to say where I HAVEN’T been,” he said smugly with a nerdy guffaw. He then continued to name most of the globe. “I haven’t been to Asia. Africa. South America. Antarctica. Eastern Europe….Basically I have been to North America and ALL of the countries in Western Europe, well, those on the Atlantic, except Spain and Portugal.”

Was this guy kidding me? So, he’s been to Canada and three other countries?

She looked equally disappointed as he tried a new tactic.

“Sooo, what’s your favorite dessert?” he quizzed.

“Oh, I like all desserts,” she said, unadventurously.

“Come on, you must have a favorite…let me help you narrow it down. Let’s say you have a choice between…..ice cream, homemade cake, homemade pie, homemade croissant, homemade tart, homemade brownies, homemade muffin…”

As the list went on I asked myself on what planet this was considered NARROWING it down. Just give him an answer, I thought, so I could go back to my meal in peace.

“Well, they’re all homemade...so I’d probably like them all equally.” Weeerwerrrrrrrr. Lame alert.

Dish number two came out at this point—cavatelli with goat’s cheese. They were apparently sharing and ordering a dish at a time (his idea). After a few spoonfuls she admitted it wasn’t up to much.

“Yes…I see what you mean,” the geek mused, looking pensive. “But it’s like…I can TASTE the quality. It’s like, QUALITY food. The pasta has quality. The cheese has a quality, non-processed, non-pasteurized taste to it. But maybe you’re right. Maybe it needs something else. Maybe some sage or thyme to spice it up.”

At this point I think everyone at the table was rolling their eyes heavenward. He then made the cardinal first date sin of complaining to the waiter and suggesting what could be done to improve the dish—this time throwing in parsley and rosemary as a suggestion. (Was he perhaps thinking of the lyrics to "Scarborough Fair" rather than having actual knowledge of food and what tastes good together? I’d venture yes.) The girl squirmed in her seat, looked at her watch.

“Let’s say we get another dish!” he said, undeterred.

“I’m really not going to finish another dish.”

“Well, we’ll share it…”

“Well, if we must…”

“And I know exactly what you want…the pork loin. Right?”

The girl wrinkled up her face. Cardinal sin number two—don’t presume to know what someone you just met wants to eat, or order for them.

The arrival of my food must have distracted me for a moment, 'cause the next thing I knew, their check was on the table and they were leaving.

I immediately thought of Chuck Woolery saying, “Well, I’m sorry your date didn’t work out for you, Samantha. If you’d like to go out with Daniel again, we’ll pay for it, or you could try to see who the audience picked…”

Meantime, I think I’ll try sticking to a table for two.

Parting of the Subway Sea

Question: have you ever been on the subway when some sort of unidentifiable substance prevents you from sitting on a highly coveted chair? And, more importantly, is it really bad that I secretly hope someone DOES sit in it?

Seats on the subway are a luxury, especially in New York City where the trains are always overcrowded. While I commonly complain about the Metro North on this blog, it is nothing next to the shitshow that is the subway. Any hopes of silence, decorum or manners are thrown to the wind when on this mode of transport. People eat full meals on the subway, listen to music without headphones hoping to serenade you with their hideous selection, and will fight tooth and nail—against pregnant ladies or old fogies—to scap up a seat. Just the other day I myself was guilty of stealing a seat from a preggo…well, sitting down faster than she could waddle…while feigning a “feeling like shit” face to compete.

So when one walks onto the subway and the aisle is parted like the red sea, with nobody standing in a certain vicinity and empty seats a plenty, you know something is amiss.

Like the other day, for instance, when an unidentifiable smear of brown material frosted the top of the plastic seat. The smell emitted from the substance gave a good indication as to what it consisted of. When I first got on the subway, I saw the empty seat and immediately walked towards it. Till I noticed that half of the car was empty. Kinda of like when one has to recover from an unreturned high-five, I nonchalantly did a 180 and walked away, positioning myself close enough to see if anyone else fell for it, but far enough to avoid the noxious odor.

The several people after me who almost fell into the trap provided much amusement, as I watched with anticipation, almost as if waiting for a soccer (football to my European readers) player to score a goal. One by one I watched their eyes light up as they move determinedly to the spot, only to back away in horror as they got closer.

Then came the victim. She was a young, pretty, Asian girl who was obviously too tired to care. She marched over to the spot, looked at it, shrugged and plopped down right on top of it. “Argghhh…” I heard myself moan out loud before alighting at my stop. Was it REALLY worth it?

Anyway, this got me thinking…would this not make for a great reality show? A candid camera of sorts? Or am I just seriously sick in the head?

The Pleasures of Paddy’s Day

Help! My feelings towards fellow commuters have reached an all time high of annoyance and hypocrisy! As an Irish American who, yes, is wearing green today, I should be delighting in the joy of other revelers as they mill about the train platform ready to join the herds heading into Manhattan for the St. Patrick ’s Day parade and subsequent drink fest. But I’m not. Instead I’m seething with irritation. It’s 8 a.m. and they’re already here! With their shamrock sunglasses and strange props, talking excitedly in flagrant disregard of the commuter train’s ‘no talk zone,’ a beer already in hand. And to make matters worse, among the horde I see my Worst Date Ever, the second such sighting on this train, looking as put out as I am by the invasion.

Just as I start to think to myself that the Paddy’s Day throng should have its own special train, I begin to realize how bitter—or amargada, as they would call me in Spain—I’ve become. When did this happen? Not so long ago, when I was ‘young,’ I too was heading down to the city with my friends, wearing green, carrying props, drinking in the street with glee. One year my best friend and I came to NYC to “watch the parade” but somehow couldn’t find it. Whether it was because we were under the influence of green beer, or just newbs to the big city, we traipsed about with the lonely call of bagpipes in the distance, drinking all day and ending up in St. Patrick’s cathedral chatting it up with an equally wasted priest.

So why the sudden change? Well, age, obvi. There have been other signs of the affliction (I cringe at today’s music, don’t know what a Bieber is). But in reality it comes down to this: I’m FN jealous. I secretly wish, with all that I am, I could shove the papers off my desk and announce I’m leaving work, finger guns a blazing as I exit the building, pull my hair out of my sensible ponytail, grab a beer from the first bar I pass, and do a freaking jig down 5th Ave with the rest of them. My envy, dear reader, is as green as their shamrocks!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

GPS Makes People Stupid

And that includes me.

We’ve all read about the morons who turn onto a train track because they’re intently following a GPS that hasn’t been updated. And we’ve probably all laughed at the episode of The Office when Michael and Dwight plunge into a lake while following their GPS’s instructions. Plus there's nothing more annoying than people fiddling with a GPS and pressing all kinds of buttons while they’re supposed to be driving.

In fact, one of this blog’s followers had a dumb GPS moment. While I'm ever discreet and won’t reveal names, this particular friend was so obsessed with his/her Tom Tom that s/he once drove to the wrong town for a job interview, even though s/he KNEW what city the interview was in. When s/he arrived to the mistaken locale, tumbleweeds were blowing across the dusty street and whistling wind could be heard all around. His/her answer: “Tom Tom told me to come here!”

I myself once scoffed at owning a GPS, a feeling that was compounded by the horrible mishap of driving home from Long Beach Island, NJ, for FOUR hours with a borrowed GPS set to the voices of Beavis and Butthead. Do you know irritating it is to make a wrong turn and hear “You’re going the wrong way, dumbass. Hehehehe”?

Eventually I broke down and am now the proud owner of a Magellan (we’ll call it Madge). I don’t usually use it, but this past weekend I put it on while taking a different route than usual to my father’s house. While approaching a traffic light I heard the GPS demand that I make a right turn. As my brain had already settled into a low-functioning state while I let Madge do all the work, I blindly made the turn. Not two seconds later, I saw the bright, intrusive flickering lights of a cop car on the prowl.

The worst part? It was a female cop and my charms, or what remain of them, had no impact on her. She was large, in charge, and pissed off. Sauntering up to my window with her hands on her abundant hips and her black hair pulled into a fierce, angry ponytail, she barked whether or not I knew what I’d done wrong.

“Ummm, no” I said, making matters worse. “You made an illegal right turn. There were TWO green arrows pointing left AND a sign,” she said, before stalking off to write me a ticket. I glared at my GPS while I waited for her to come back and toss the ticket into my hand. I then followed Madge’s instructions down through a loop until suddenly I realized I was back at the same fartin traffic light.

“Don’t do it again!” warned my brother, from the passenger seat.

“WTF?!” I shouted looking at Madge closely. That’s when I realized that the right turn the device was telling me to make was in 1.7 miles, not at the immediate light. No wonder I’d made an illegal turn. Thanks for thinking ahead Madge, but NO thanks. As I approached the light, it turned yellow and I sped through it.

“You’re gonna get another ticket!” my brother shouted.

But alas, I didn’t. I arrived at my destination where my father, a police officer, had to hear about the latest in my string of traffic violations dating back to the time I first got my license. My only defense: “But at least this time I wasn’t speeding!” So let this be a lesson to you all. Screw all the Tom Toms and Madges and electronic guiding devices you're using and instead of being their slave Engage. Your. Brain.

Happy V-Day

Artwork by ECOL, http://www.ecol-art.com/

Give Me a T-Shield!

Did anyone else think the 2011 Super Bowl was boring? Maybe I’m an unfair critic, as I’m not particularly fond of football. Even when I am a fairweather fan, I only really like New York teams. But this year, I can barely recollect one funny commercial let alone a play that made me gasp or jump up and clap. Is this why people turn to betting? To inject some adrenaline into things?

Admittedly I’m a poor excuse for a sports fanatic. I was kicked out of ballet class at age 5 because I made up my own routine during a recital that consisted of leaping across the stage while kicking my own butt. Other unfortunate displays of athletic ability followed throughout my childhood (picture a 5 ft 7 in 90 pound gangly dork with braces and a mullet swingin' and a missin' every ball that came her way!). As for watching sports, with the exception of a live baseball game or two, and a cool experience attending a live World Cup qualifier game in Scotland in 1998, I steer clear of viewing sports events on television because I find them boring.

But I watch the Super Bowl for several reasons: 1) to throw my diet to the wind and eat an obscene amount of comfort food washed down with nice beer; 2) to watch the commercials; 3) to see if the pre, opening, or half time acts are entertaining.

This year only number one satisfied my needs. The commercials were lame (except the strange Doritos commercial in which a guy licks Doritos remnants off someone’s finger and then off a pair of pants – disturbing yet fascinating). And as for the half time show, all I have to say is @Fergie: FYI, please don’t sing a Guns N’ Roses song again! Slash couldn’t save you and even looked mildly disturbed at you gyrating against him as he tried to play. I did a better rendition of Axl while doing karaoke  three sheets to the wind at my 32nd birthday party!

Anyway, all of this got me thinking about Nipplegate: the infamous Janet Jackson boob horror (and the nip-shield she donned). That’s precisely what the ‘bowl was missing! Some boobage! Screw the subsequent outcry across America against the evil of all evils: the exposure of a woman’s body. F the innocent children who were forced to see the spine chilling boob in all of its glory (despite the fact that, as children, it was in their face feeding them for the first months of their lives). And yes, of course I know that a boob is far more dangerous than the abundance of guns and violence we have on television. When you think about it, boobs could, if left to their owner’s devices, rule the world. Call me Canadian (only about 50 complained about the 2004 half time show), but instead of a demure Christina Aguilera in a tacky dress suit and the Tronned up Black Eyed Peas, I say we listen to Justin Timberlake (the accomplice) and next year, Bring Boobies Back.