Careful

I was walking home on Dekalb avenue last night, listening to my iPod, and a guy walking next to me started talking, so I removed one headphone to hear what he was yacking about.

"...it's kind of dangerous you know, you really shouldn't walk around with an iPod at night, I know this is supposed to be a good neighborhood and all, but this street at night, I've seen people get mugged, they take their iPods..." Really? Here? But there are so many people around, walking home from the train... "Listen, my friend for example," he continued, "he was walking with his baby in the stroller and his other little kid, and he got mugged and they took his iPod, they have no mercy, he was out there with his children and he got mugged, so, I didn't mean to interrupt or be intrusive, but just be careful on this street."

What I want to know is - Why was his friend listening to his iPod when he was out walking with his kids?

Halloween

The best part of Halloween is the dog-costume competition that takes place in Fort Greene Park, right across the street from our place. This year 67 (!) dogs participated. Check out some of the pooches:

Princess...

Dumbledore...Cockroach...The G train...Papertowels...
Pumpkin... Not sure...Pavarotti...Cowboy...Elephant (his tail is the trunk!)Bumblebee...Sunflower...The three tenors....And the WINNER iiiiiiis... ...THE NASA ASTRONAUT!!

Yankee

A friend of mine who has been a Yankee fan his whole life recently jumped ships and is now a Mets fan. This is a guy who used to tell me: "If you're a Mets fan, you must be either from Queens or you're just really stupid." And now he left the Yankees for the Mets....? How is this possible? It's not kosher to switch teams like that. You just can't. It's like an ethnicity. You can't just not be what you are...

To make matters worse, the same day I get this Yankee-Mets shift news, I see Giuliani on the front page of the Daily News wearing a RED SOX ball cap!! What is happening in the world?!?!?!?

Rent

Rent is so ridiculous in this city that the first thing everyone asks when entering someone else's apartment is: "Soooo, what do you pay for this place?" You just have to compare. You just have to know. If you get offended, or think this question is too private, it means you must be new to the city.

Our rent increases every year and I get a stomach ache every year. So much money just to live somewhere decent. I can't live anywhere else. We're too old to compromise and live in a shitty neighborhood, saving money while dodging bullets. No thanks. I also have no interest whatsoever to live in the suburbs where people drive big cars and eat at Appelbee's and T.G.I. Friday's. No thanks.

We'll stay here for now, work a little harder, make a little more $...

Adults

Sean and I have come to the conclusion that it's time for our apartment to look a little bit more - grown-up. So we started throwing out furniture that I had originally stolen from my old college dormitory (as I moved out, years ago). If we didn't buy something, we shouldn't have it in our apartment. No more garbage picking. No more stealing. We're too old.

Although I have to say, a friend of mine used to drive around on the Upper East side to pick up furniture that rich people had thrown out. And she got some pretty good stuff.

Anyway, I cleaned the living room. Also a thing grown-ups do (except for our neighbors upstairs who have a cleaning lady that comes by every Friday, those mf-ers). I scrubbed, swiffered, transfered clothes out of the room and into appropriate laundry bags. The living room is immaculate. Check out the shiny floor!
* Oh, the flag in the window is a Skåne flag, not the Danish flag. Not my fault that it is there.

(Mal)nutrition

As a massage therapist I would like for everyone, especially my clients, to think of me as someone who is in excellent shape. People should look at me and see a well-balanced meal and an intense exercise program. I even wear a black t-shirt that says 'Individual Fitness Solutions'. Gives me a little bit more credibility.

I do not, however, eat well. I don't even exercise that much. My sister who has never been on a treadmill before beat me to the gym twice this week.

One of my massage clients is a nutritionist. She likes to talk about healthy stuff during our sessions. I've done a good job pretending that I'm right there with her on the health train. Until today, when I foolishly revealed to her some of my eating habits. It was not intentional. It all went downhill after I told her I don't eat meat (which is in and of itself not a bad thing).

Nutritionist: "Oh cool, so you're a vegetarian, huh?"
Me: "Well, I just don't eat meat."
Nutritionist: "Sounds like a vegetarian to me."
Me: "Yeah...thing is, I don't really eat vegetables either."

Gasp!! Silence. Stare.

Me: "I mean, I eat bananas sometimes..."
Still silence. And then:
"So what do you eat? No meat? No veggies? How do you get protein, beans?"
"Naw, I eat pasta."
"What about lunch, what do you eat for lunch?"
"Pasta."
"And dinner...??"
"Pasta, usually."
"Pasta TWICE a day and no protein and no vegetables?? Do you take a multi-vitamin??"
"I used to...."
"Oh my God! You're a mess, what do you put on your pasta?"

Shit. No way I can tell her I put ketchup on my pasta and then sprinkle half a cup of cheap parmesan on top of that.

"You know... sauce....?"

I also decided not to tell her that I dip my pizza in mustard.

She did, however, find out that I sprinkle Lucky Charms on top of my Total cereal for breakfast. And that I quite often order cheese-fries in bars. The conversation went on for quite a while and I could tell that my image as a health-guru had been shattered.

But I assured her that I am familiar with some veggies and that yes, I do know what an avocado is, even though I only eat it in guacamole form to supplement my nachos.

She's taking me grocery shopping next week at Whole Foods Market, a block away from the studio.

Time

The Time Warner Cable woman I talked to on the phone yesterday informed me that our cable box is beyond repair. No shit. They can send over a cable guy on Monday to replace the box with a new one. Or, I can go to their service center and pick up a new cable box today. I went for option number two.

At Time Warner:

Me: "Hi, I just talked to one of your service representatives on the phone and she told me to come here to exchange my cable box."
Big Scary Angry Lady Behind Bullet Proof Glass: "Picture ID and account number?"
(I slid my ID through the little hole on in the glass, along with the account number)
Big Scary Angry Lady: "This is the name on the account?"
Me: "Actually, the account might be under my husband's name..."
BSAL: "Why don't you have the same last name??"
Me: "Well, we were very young...confused....."
BSAL: "I can't give you no box if yo' name is not on the account!! You have your husbands ID on you??"
Me: "Nooo..."
BSAL: "Can't give you the box!!"
Me: "Bbbut, but, cable....but...the box.....ooooooooooooohhhhhhh......"
BSAL: "Ok, this time ONLY, I'll give you the box, but you can't do this again."

Got the box. Order has been restored.

Whining and dining

I come home from work and the fucking cable box is dead. It went completely black, no hint of a little green light next to the power button. I want my VH1. How can I unwind properly without watching trashy celeb reality TV?

Sean is out at some show with Darren, and my sister doesn't want to go out because she is "already in my pajamas..." click, hang up on her. What else can I do? Read a book? No. Clean? No. There's only one option left. Pick up a bottle of wine.

Turns out our posh wine store, The Greene Grape, is closed. Since when does our wine store close before 9pm? Outrage. Where are those California schmucks when you need them? This leaves me with only one other option - the ghetto liquor store down on Fulton Street.

No way I can buy wine in the ghetto liquor store, it has to be the real deal. So I pick up a tiny bottle of vodka, Absolut, to stay true to the Swede that I really am. Small, so that I won't feel guilty.

Now all I need is tonic water, diet tonic water. So that I won't feel guilty. On my way to the corner store for tonic water (diet) I unexpectedly make a right turn into the tiny, dirty, Indian fast food store that has a psychedelic smoke-machine and a stoned Indian man who talks about global warming, behind the counter. No one else is in this place except for me, my vodka, and stone-head. I hear my voice order the spiciest chick-pea & spinach thing they have, and after 10 minutes of global warming and me shifting from one foot to the other, my dish is in a brown bag and I'm heading for tonic water. I bet I'm the only person who is not a cab driver who has ever set foot in that Indian place (not to sound prejudiced).

I'm at home, my nose is running from the spicy Indian food that I wash down with vodka and diet-tonic. This is what happens without VH1.

L.I.

I keep meeting people from Lebanon. I was chatting with the nice lady who owns our laundromat and it turns out that she is from Lebanon.

"Yes, I used to practice law in Beirut," she said, "I got my law degree in Syria."
"In Syria?" I inquired as I dropped a dirty sock on the floor.
"Yes," she said, "it's practically the same place as Lebanon. We drive an hour and we're in Syria, they speak Arabic the way we do, same dialect, accent everything, the same."
"Oh yeah...?" I said picking up the dirty sock.
"You know," she continued, "Lebanon and Syria, it's just the same as New York and Long Island, you know, you drive an hour, you're on Long Island. Syria is Long Island."
That's so awesome - Syria is Long Island, or Long Island is Syria.
"And, Lebanon is the best place in the Middle East, not like the rest. Great food too, great food."

Wow, that comparison really is right on the money. Everyone knows that New York city is the best place in the USA. And that we have the best food. Just like Lebanon. And Long Island is nothing but Syria.

Peanuts

Sitting on the Q train at 57th street, waiting for the 'stand-clear-of-the-closing-doors' announcement, I accidentally spilled a notable amount of my peanuts-and-raisins snack mix on the empty seat next to mine. Damnit. But then I thought to myself: "Ha, I'm not going to clean that up. This way no one will sit next to me." And no one saw me drop that stuff since I was practically the first person to get on, so I can't get yelled at (57th in Manhattan is the end station on the Q). Brilliant!

And the train took off, crowded in the end, people scurrying to find seats, others holding onto the straps or poles. And I had the seat next to me empty, for extra elbow room. At 14th street some lazy woman took my peanuts-and-raisins seat - it was the only empty seat left - but she sat as far out as she possibly could, at the edge of the seat. Giving me lots of elbow-room.

First Day

I did my first shift as an EMT and I survived it. Other people survived also. More importantly, I think I love doing this work. And I don't use the term 'love' very often. Ok, so I've only done one shift... But based on that one shift, that's how I feel. Love.

The shift began at 7:15 am at the police precinct. I met the crew there: Maggie, an EMT and an ambulance driver who has worked in the field for the past 6 years, and PJ who has 1 year experience. We picked up our radios from the cops and headed out to the ambulance.

The most serious call we got throughout the day was an MVA, motor vehicle accident, on the upper west side. The driver was hurt and we had to assess him for trauma injuries, and of course, we followed New York state protocols... We stabilized his spine by putting a c-collar around his neck and strapping him onto the long board. We lifted the longboard up onto the stretcher (heavy, heavy, heavy) and wheeled the patient over to our ambulance.

Cops controlled traffic and tourists took our picture as we rushed by. I felt like a total rock star. How cool is this?? And I love wearing the stethoscope around my neck too. Back to the story. In the ambulance we continued with standard protocol, taking vitals etc and we gave him high concentration oxygen via non-rebreather mask. His vital signs improved as we approached the hospital where we dropped him off with more trained medical personnel - doctors and nurses and such.

Yeay, I want to learn more. My partners were great coaches for me throughout the whole day since the first day (on any job) I feel completely clueless. But I started to get the hang of it! For real. And I love wearing the uniform and all the equipment. Ok I'll stop now.

Uniform

My very first ambulance shift is on Sunday. I picked up my uniform at Schlesinger's & Sons today. To enter the uniform store you have to show your special New York State license which shows that you're either with the NYPD, FDNY or EMS. Or with the post office. I flashed my EMT card and proudly entered the exclusive uniform store.

Once you're in the store, you show some other guy your license, and he picks out the correct uniform for you. Turns out that my type of uniform pants are the exact same blue cargo pants that NYPD uses - I'll be wearing cop pants!

"Actually," said Mr. Schlesinger (or maybe this guy was one of the sons) "EMS wore these pants before NYPD did, so they're really EMS pants." How awesome. I couldn't believe I was picking up a real uniform, a real uniform, for me.

"How do I look?" I asked Schlesinger as I got out of the dressing room in my awesome blue cargo pants. Schlesinger looked up from behind his newspaper and said "Good." And I said: "Seriously though, they're not too big around my waist....? Look, I can pull them out like this."

Schlesinger put the paper down, sighed, and went to the back room and picked up a smaller size. The smaller size didn't fit me at all, I couldn't even button them. "I guess I'll have to go with the first ones... I have to wear a belt with them anyway, right?" and Schlesinger said "Right."

"Do you have anything more 'low rise' or just a little more hip hugging? I mean are they really supposed to be this bulky in the front?"
"Miss, they're uniform cargos. They were made for men initially. This is the model that you get."
"Ok..."

I also picked up big black boots (they make me look like I'm 5'10), and the black belt that goes with the pants, and a pair of EMT scissors to cut off injured people's clothing with, and a key to the oxygen tanks, and my official EMT badge-thingy that goes on the sleeve of the shirt.

I will get the medical unit's shirt when I show up at the Precinct on Sunday morning. And I get a radio too. How exciting. I want to wear this stuff all weekend.

Wondering

I hope Katzu forgives us for bringing in the two new silly cats into his castle. In a way I'd like to think that Katzu has something to do with them being here. Perhaps one day Katzu sat on a cloud in kitty heaven and he hand picked our new trouble-makers, Bentley and Kompis, "here, take these little bastards!"

I also think Katzu was responsible for our freak-out moment when we thought Ben had run away (see prior post "Ben"). Katzu is playing pranks on us, for sure. In a witty, but loving way. From heaven.

Grief, from the New York Times: "The Ambivalent Bond With a Ball of Fur"