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.

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!