Christmas Eve Boomeranging

We go to the park to try out Sean's boomerang that's been hanging on our wall forever, and a real Aussie sees us tossing it around and he promptly struts over to show us how it's done.

<--- (Viveka (sister) throwing the boomerang.)

[Read with Aussie accent/twang/brogue] "You hold it on an angle like this, and you have to feel where the wind is coming from, and then you throw it against the wind on a 30 to 35 degree angle, like this." Swwwoosssh.
(Australian guy, facing camera, talking to Sean, back towards camera) -->

What are the chances that we'd get a personal boomerang training session with an Australian dude on Christmas Eve?
(Below: my sister, me, and the boomerang)

Tree

The tree is up! Complete with Swedish flags and all. I woke up with vertigo this morning, strange, and I had to stay in bed until 1pm. My first day off and my body reacts by making me dizzy. Oh well. The tree still turned out nice, despite grogginess.

Prospect Heights

Took a walk through my old neighborhood, Prospect Heights (more on Prospect Heights), where we lived from 2000 - 2002. It's shaped up quite a bit since we were there, new restaurants and cafes. More importantly, I didn't get a single "hey white girl!" comment as I strolled about.

Our old crazy landlord lady still seems to be in charge at Lincoln Place.
The same gaudy Christmas decorations that she used to put up around the building during the holidays were there today as well. When we lived in the building, there used to be a glowing plastic snowman on the fire escape right outside our window, and it lit up the whole bedroom (which was basically the entire apartment). The plastic snowman wouldn't come down until the plastic Easter bunny replaced him months later. Not only did the landlord lady have poor taste in....everything....she also threatened to kill her husband on several occasions, as they often argued outside in the hallway - "shut up or I will get my gun!" - and I would hide under the covers in my bed.

The liquor store is also still there, despite flashier places and bars opening up all over Washington avenue. But the laundromat, where I one early morning inhaled lots of smoke from a seemingly nearby fire (which turned out to be the World Trade center burning, but I didn't know that until after I loaded the machine), is gone.

Friday night (or evening)

6:30 pm - Drank free wine and ate free cheese at Soho art thing (some opening). Lots of artists and musicians talking, talking, and talking about themselves. More wine please, more wine.

8:30 pm - Left the artists and musicians behind. Ordered two margaritas and a quesadilla at sleazy Mexican place on Broadway and Bleecker. Had to wipe the toilet seat before taking a piss. Dropped all my stuff from my bag - credit cards, id, insurance cards - on the floor. Hesitantly picked it all up and pretended that never happened.

9:43 pm - Joined the artists and musicians at their after party at some lower east side lounge. Stumbled over one of the couches on my way to the ladies room, but recovered gracefully.

11:20 pm - Hailed a cab on the Bowery.

11:43 pm - Home. In bed!

Stayed out until double-digits, and made it home within double-digits. Being 32 is not so bad.

Sigh

We're at constant war with dirty dishes and laundry. It's an unwinnable war, just like the phone bill that keeps coming every month. And it's not our fault, the dishes and clothing are self-proliferating when we're not at home, I swear. And every week we fight it, only to lose the war again. But not this time... maybe this time adulthood will win.

Yoga

Yoga has never appealed to me. Stretching and holding your body in strange positions, no thanks. Another reason not to like yoga is that some yoga instructors are just a little bit to 'earthy' in my opinion. Like instead of telling the yoga students to stretch their arms over their heads, they say stuff like "Reach uuuup towards the skyyyyyy...." Why sky?? Why not the ceiling, if anything? And they always speak with this sort of soft whispering-type voice and they drag out the vowels on every other word. The way someone from California might sound if they'd talk in their sleep.

At one gym/studio where I work as a massage therapist, they also offer yoga classes. Whenever I pass the yoga class I get to listen to these ridiculous instructions. Here's what I heard today, verbatim.

• "Tuck your tail towards the eeeeeeeaaaarth..." (again, why earth, why not floor? And... tail??)
  
• "Breathe into the kidneys, that's above your pelvis area, straighten that pelvis, feel the air reaching the kiiidneeeeeys..." (huh?? kidneys? air??)
• "Your feet are the rooooots, imagine swaying like a treeeeeee with your feet grounded to the eeaaaarth, feel the photosynthesis...." (she actually said the word photosynthesis, swear to God)
• But the absolute worst thing I ever heard from this yoga woman was this: "....and relax your reeeectuuuuum...and relax your vagiiiiinaaaa..." (don't need to hear stuff like that unless at the OBGYN's)

Here's what I have to say to all Yoga people - What the fuck?!?!

Fight or Flight

A woman in her 20's, dressed rather stylishly and with a hipster hair cut and dark make-up on, sits a few seats away from me on the Q train. As the train stops on top of the Manhattan bridge (as it often does for no apparent reason) she throws an angry fit. A sudden psychotic outburst. "I'm NOT gonna say I'm FUCKING sorry!!!!" she yells. Who is she talking to? There's no one next to her. In fact, I'm the only person sitting sort of close to her. She's not talking to me, is she? Avoid eye contact.

She takes off her eye glasses and throws them as hard as she can against the seats opposite to her, and they shatter into a bunch of pieces and land on the floor, close to my feet. Oh no, she's really crazy. Avoid eye contact.

I look around the car to see if other passengers are noticing what's going on over at my end. The two women across from me are already doing what New Yorkers do best when confronted with unstable people or pregnant women looking for a seat - pretend to be asleep. I look at other passengers and they are also doing the pretend-sleep-trick. I wish I could join them, but I'm too scared of this woman. I need to have at least one eye open. More yelling and screaming "FUCK, I'm NOT sorry!!! FUCK!! FUUUUUCK!!" and then she bangs her fists against the window, hard. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

Come on train, start moving please, please. The crazy girl stands up suddenly, I sink into my seat, and she walks past me. She walks with loud angry steps all the way to the opposite end of the car. The train starts moving again. Thank you, God, I think to myself. Then, the crazy girl stomps back to my end and screams: "Don't FUCKING turn AROUND!!" I'm really scared of her at this point. If she begins to involve other people into her craziness, it will be me, since I sit so close to her. I consider my options if this happens: 1) Curl up into fetal position and cover my head with my arms 2) Hit her first.

More screaming and hitting the windows and doors. Still, everyone else on the train is asleep. The train slowly rolls into the station. I plan my escape - don't stand up too soon, don't move until the doors are fully open, and then run out fast. She won't have time to react. It worked. I'm off the train, safe.

Walking towards the exit someone taps me on my shoulder from behind. My first thought is that it must be the crazy girl. It's not. It's a young blond woman. It takes me at least five seconds before I realize that the blond girl is my sister. "Heeeey, we were on the same train?? Were you in the same car as that crazy girl??" I ask. "Yes!" my sister says, "she walked right by me when she did that walk!"

Ha. So this whole time when I was frightened I had back-up all along. My sister would totally have helped me out if need be. Unless, of course, she was asleep.

Fate

Ever since that random guy on Dekalb Avenue told me that I might get mugged if I keep walking home on that street at night with my iPod on, I have had a hard time walking home on that street at night with my iPod on.

He has totally ruined my evening strolls home from the subway. I enjoyed listening to my iPod at night, especially late at night. It makes the train run faster and it makes me walk faster, and I get home faster. But now I'm too paranoid to do it. I would totally get mugged now, no doubt. That guy jinxed it. Thanks a lot, asshole.

This actually reminds me of an old college-friend who has avoided the corner of 23rd street and Lexington Avenue for the past 10 years. On that very corner, he was approached by a crazy homeless person who pointed a finger in his face and screamed: "Youuuu!!! are going to DIIIEEEE heeeeere!!!!!" and then the bum pointed to the street. Obviously he can never pass that corner ever again.

Learn

No one can pronounce our cat Kompis' name correctly. Everyone says "compass" instead of Kompis. And then they come up with stupid things to say about him, like - "Compass always faces the right direction" or "Compass is never lost."

How hard is it to say Kompis? Put the emphasis on the first syllable only. So instead of saying compass (kom'pes) you say KOMpis ('kompes). Capisce? (ca-peesh)

Blood

Bentley - the cat - scratched my wrist so badly it started bleeding. I guess it was an accident.
I picked him up a little bit too quickly and he freaked out and slit my wrist. I had to put a tissue on it and apply pressure and elevate my hand and everything. That's when the appliances guys rang the doorbell to come in and install our new fridge.

I opened the door with blood dripping down my forearm. "Kitchen's right there" I said, pointing with a bloody wrist to our little hallway that's actually a kitchen. The men stepped around me, sort of awkwardly, and started working. I continued to wrap my wrist with a dressing and a gauze bandage. "Let me know if you need any help" I told the guys who didn't respond.

That's when I realized - This totally looks like a botched suicide attempt. Like some stupid teenager in need of attention, not really trying to end her life, but just in need of the scar and the bandage, the attention, the pity, the mystery. These guys must not think I'm a suicidal teenager. "You know I'm married you know" I said trying to seem like someone in her thirties, "my husband actually had to take that door frame off for us to get the fridge out, you know, so that you guys could move the new one in also..." No response from the guys.

I had to go into work looking like this as well. But to be honest, it actually feels kind of cool to have my wrist all bandaged up. People stared at me curiously on the subway. And at work, my patients were concerned and asked me questions about it, all that stuff, attention. Of course I told my patients that the cat did it, not me. But the people on the subway, they will never know.

To Do

I just made a "To do" list. I don't make those lists very often. Thing is, I feel so good about making the list that I think that's enough work for today. Aaaah, what a productive day.

Don't ask

It's amazing how people walk up to uniformed personnel to ask random questions, like directions to the nearest restroom etc. Don't cops have better things to do than pointing people to the bathroom?

Yesterday we were on stand-by with the ambulance at mile 25 of the marathon, which is in Central Park, and we also got some of this treatment from the public. Since our ambulance was practically parked at the side of the road (the engine still running), people thought it was totally fine to bother us for directions: "Where's the finishing line?" and "How do I get to the west side?" and "Is there a bathroom around here?" and "How do I cross to the other side?". Ugh.

Granted, we weren't with any patients when they asked, but still. Our radios kept going off and it's hard enough to decipher what the dispatchers are saying without having some bozos around asking where they can take a piss.

The worst offender of the day was a woman who approached us as we were leaving the park. We were crawling into traffic with sirens on, and she came up and knocked on the driver's window to ask: "Is everything ok?"

Parenting

I never thought of my old cat Katzu (who passed away in August) as my child, like some pet-owners do. Katzu was more of a partner, a peer, a soul-mate. Sorry if this sounds corny, but it's true. I got Katzu when he was 7 years old which means he was already a grown-ass man when we moved in together. And I didn't so much take care of him as a parent, I was more like... his servant. Served him food, cleaned up his crap, massaged his scalp. I miss Katzu.

But now that we have two new cats, young cats, less than a year old, I get it. I understand why idiots think their pets are their children. They sort of are. I take at least 20 pictures of the cats everyday to make sure I don't miss out on any developments - oh look, they're together on the couch! (take picture) Oh, look, how cute, they're eating together! (take picture) Oh look, they're sleeping! (take picture), etc. We weigh them on a regular basis to see how much they are growing. When the cats play with loose change that they find lying around in the apartment, Sean and I even get to say annoying things like: "Stop throwing money around!" and "Do you think money grows on trees?!?" and "Do I look like a bank to you??" Stuff that real parents get to say.

I love having the two new boys around even though I miss Katzu tremendously.

Patient

I saw one of my massage patients from the chiropractic clinic on the train today. He was dressed nicely in a dark suit and was conversing with his girlfriend, or maybe wife, who was also dressed up. Perhaps they were going out for dinner or to a show or something. He didn't see me, and I pretended to be asleep. I kept thinking how weird it is that I know this man's whole medical history. And I know that he has a big tattoo on his shoulder blade; in fact, I'm extremely familiar with his tattoo. And I know that his right quadratus lumborum muscle is restricted. I bet his wife doesn't know that. And I know that he's running the marathon on Sunday. How strange it is to touch people for money.

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"

Visit

My mother doesn't notice when I switch channels on the TV. I'm flipping back and forth between CNN, that she insists on watching all night ("The Iranian president is about to talk soon!"), and Animal Planet, where they're showing 'Animal Cops Houston'.

The fact that she doesn't notice me switching channels right in front of her eyes has nothing to do with age or absent mindedness. Nope, though she's retired, she's really not that type of a senior.

It's simply because she's not used to American TV. Tons of commercials, fast paced editing, different shots and angles, and short-short-short news segments. Not exactly like TV in the old country, Sweden, where there are no interruptions and where the news anchors don't smile.

Anyway, this enables me to check out Animal Planet without protest. Flip to Animal Planet - Texan cops picking up abandoned dogs from parking lots - flip to CNN - Anderson Cooper reporting on new terror threats - flip back - Texan cops raiding a trailer park with roosters used for fighting - flip -Anderson Cooper talking about dangerous prescription drugs on the market - flip - Texan cops saving emaciated horses on a farm - flip - Anderson Cooper telling us that the Iranian president canceled his scheduled appearance on CNN. Huh? No interview after all this?

My mother concludes: "American news is really stupid."

She's flying back to Sweden in a couple of days which gives us a few more nights of CNN / Animal Planet.

Shield

Finally!! After months of paper work and other official red tape crap, I've been cleared to do ambulance work in New York City - EMT (Emergency Medical Technician).

I'm going to work with a medical unit uptown, upper west side and Harlem. I'm picking up my dark/navy blue uniform this week, and boots. I'm getting a badge also. How incredibly cool to have a badge. I can't wait.

Actually, the VP of Operations for this unit advised us not to get a badge just yet. Apparently there's some controversy over some EMTs that were mistakenly taken for cops when they flashed their badges. What kind of bullshit is that?

"Just wait until this controversy is over," the VPO said. Is he on crack?? We've done all this training and taken all kinds of abuse from the medic instructors and now he tells us we can't get our badges to show for it?? Screw him. That's all I have to say. I'm getting my badge. With my name and EMT number written all over it.

Kompis

The flashlights we used when we were running around late at night in the park looking for an escaped Bentley (our new cat) , we now use to look for his toy mice that he places under the couch. I'm flat on my belly with my nose on the floor reaching for these stupid things at least 20-30 times a day. Bentley does the same, crouches and sticks his arms under the couch, but he does not have the same reach as I do. So ultimately I'm responsible for rescuing the toy mice from the dark quarters under the couch. And Ben continues to play.

We decided Bentley needs a friend. Not some random friend that we abduct from the park (see prior post "Ben"), but a real friend that we acquire legally, a cat friend, an adopted cat friend. So we adopted a buddy for him, a rescue cat. He's here now. Amazingly, they get along great. Our two boys party all night and sleep all day.

Ben's new friend's name is Kompis.

Fine

People or friends will occasionally greet me with a "What's wrong?? You look upset..." and usually nothing is wrong. That's just my regular face. I really can't help it if my eye-brows and forehead signal a message of constant worry, those are just my features. I won't smile just to smile. A smile is what happens before you start laughing at somebody.

"Nothing's wrong, I'm fine, really" I'm forced to say, defensively.
"Woah, someone is grumpy...." or "someone didn't have their morning coffee...."
"I'm NOT grumpy!" I say, although at this point, I am.
But it's true. If I'm not ok, you will hear about it. I'm a talkative worrier. There will be no silence when I'm rocked out of equilibrium. Or if I'm hungry.

I'm not alone in having a deceptive face. Quite often I hear boyfriends ask girlfriends "Are you mad at me?" But then again, they probably are. Oh, and one time a friend of mine in college feigned illness, hoping she would get an extension on her term paper - "Yeah, you look awful, go home and rest" the professor responded. Why this tactlessness? Respect people, respect.

Pinot?

Drinking Merlot is no longer in my repertoire. I had to dump Merlot after watching "Sideways." Not that Merlot was ever my favorite wine. In bars and restaurants I go with Pinot, usually.

I have a great method of picking out wine at our local store. First of all, you have to consider the season. Not the year or season of the wine, but the season we're in right now. White wine goes with summer, and red wine goes with fall and winter.

The other most important thing to watch for is simply - what do other people buy? If I look at all the racks in the store and I see that one type of wine is almost out then, hey, that's gotta be a good one. I always go with that one. Maybe not so original, but safe. You really should never play around with drinks or food.

Price of course, cannot be ignored. I stick to the $10-dollar range, although an $8-dollar bottle makes me nervous (can't taste good) and a $13-dollar bottle pisses me off, especially after they add taxes and suddenly the bottle is $14.75. An $11-dollar bottle of wine is perfect, with a cool label, of course. It's got to have a nice label.

Butta'

There's a makeshift shrine commemorating the shooting victim from yesterday, on my sister's neighbor's stoop. Viveka is worried that the candles might accidentally cause a fire. And rightfully so. This is not an unreasonable source of worry, nor is it insensitive thinking. I'm talking from experience.

A few years back, when I rented a studio in Prospect Heights, people in the neighborhood lit candles outside the local firehouse. I believe this was around Sept. 11th in 2002, so it was a particularly emotional and sad anniversary. Sean and I were on our way to Buttafly, a bar on Washington Avenue, when we saw commotion and lots of smoke and flames at the firehouse. The candles from the shrine had put the firehouse on fire.

A bunch of neighborhood teenagers were trying to put the fire out.
"Fuck! What do we do??" one of them yelled as she moved towards the flames.
Another kid ran over to the entrance door and tried to open it, unsuccessfully.
"OPEN UP, OPEN UP!! THERE'S A FIRE!!!!" he yelled while banging his fists against the door. No response. "Shit they're not here!"
"Quick! We gotta call 911!" the girl yelled.
"What the fuck are we gonna say?!?!?! Yo, your firehouse is on fire?!?!?"

Then, the firetruck pulled up around the corner and the firefighters rushed out with their water hoses and put the fire out.

They nodded a silent 'thank you' to the kids and walked inside.

Sean and I defrosted from our deers-in-headlights-pose and continued our walk towards Buttafly.

Guns

Shooting on Clifton Place, Brooklyn.

I was studying molecular Biology around noon today when I suddenly heard a couple of helicopters fly by. That's a little odd, I thought to myself, usually they only come by if there's a crazy traffic-jam (like during the black-out) or something like that. Or at night, scanning for fugitives with those big head-lights. But I don't think I've ever seen that in this neighborhood, at least not on this side of the park or this time of day. Then, Viveka (my sister, she lives about ten blocks down) called.

Viveka: "There was a shooting on my street! In the building next door!!"
Me: "No way!! What happened?"
Viveka: "We just heard about seven shots and saw a guy run into the building that's being renovated next door, cops are here and the ambulance took out a guy who got shot from that building.... and then we heard shots again and all the cops ducked and took cover behind their cars, but the shots were from another block...."
Me: "Woah, you sooo can't tell mom about this"
Viveka: "I'll tear down the yellow crime-scene tape if it's still up by the time she comes over."

This story in the news: "Man Gunned Down In Front of Neighbors"

Ben

After I told Sean that I want a tattoo of Katzu (my old cat) all over my upper arm, like a sleeve, he suggested that maybe we should just get a couple of kittens.

And so, the very next evening we were the proud owners of a 6-month old oci-cat. Beautiful, silver-chocolate color, and with spots. He was a little shy, but he started exploring the apartment with great alacrity.

His previous owners came over to drop him off, two spunky Brooklyn-Russian girls in their twenties, one of them a student at Hunter, like me. They talked so much and so excitingly about the cat that neither Sean nor I could make any sense of what was being said. Except the thing about allergies, or something. Anywho, the kitten was cute and the Russian chicks liked us, so they left him here with us and said goodbye to their little boy.

Sean and I decided to let the kitten get comfortable on his own so I went out for drinks with my friend Jeannine while Sean stayed at home on the couch.

*** Here's where the drama begins ***
As I leave the bar a couple of hours later I see that I have 9 missed calls, and a text message. The text message is from Sean - "come back cat missing" Shiiiiiit!! I run home, Sean's not home but I see two huge flashlights on the table. I call Sean.

Me: "What happened???"
Sean: "He must have run out through that hole next to the air conditioner, I bought flashlights, go look for him outside!"
Me: "I'm already out looking, where are you?"
Sean: "I'm at Kinko's printing out 'missing' signs, I can't believe this."
Me: "Oh God, what are we going to do... I'll call Viveka to have her help us too."
Sean: "Ok, I'll be back soon also."

***The Chase***
I walk towards the deli on Dekalb so that I can ask the deli guys if they've seen a scared cat run by, and then..... on the other side of the street, next to the big tree, there he is!! He's just sitting there. I approach him slowly. He starts walking around the tree and into a little hole in the tree. We make eye contact. I reach my hand out to grab him... and off he goes, running at gepard speed down Dekalb. I dart after him in my flip-flops - the fastest I've ever run in any type of shoes - flipflopflipflopflipflopflipflop. A man sees us run by and he shouts "It ran into the park over there!!" I yell back "Thanks!" and duck into the park as well. At this point I can't see kitty anymore. I'm going through bushes and wild life. No cat. It's dark out and I'm hoping his eyes will reveal him if I hit them with the beam of my flashlight.

***The Capture***
I see Viveka and Sean entering the park, carrying flashlights, from the northeast corner. Back-up has arrived. We're combing through the area as if we're looking for a dead body in the Midwest.

What if we can't find him? What if we can't catch him? He runs so fast. And what will we tell the spunky Russians when they call to see how he's doing? We will have to lie. No way we can tell them we lost him.

"I GOT HIM!!!" Sean yells from the big lawn. He had thrown the flashlight to the ground as he made the capture and Viveka was running towards him. I only see their silhouettes in the dark - Sean with something in his arms and Viveka picking up the flashlight. I start running back to our apartment - "I'm gonna make sure everything is closed and safe!!!" I yell, flipflopflipflopflipflop.

***Great Relief***
The poor kitten is scared and looks traumatized, he's hiding in the corner by the bookshelf. "Poor little guy, it will probably take him some time to calm down." We put water, food and cat candy next to him. Maybe this will make him feel more at home.
Me: "I can't believe we caught him, what are the chances????"
Sean: "I need a glass of whiskey."
Me: "I'm sooooo relieved..!"
Sean, exhaling: "Me too..."

***The Twist***
We're sitting on the couch in complete post-trauma-whiskey mode, discussing what had just gone down. And how lucky we are in the end. Viveka insists that our new kitten looks like her cat a lot, and we remind her that our kitty is a pure breed an oci-cat, and hers is not.
Sean says he's ready to hit the sack "what a stressful evening, and I spent $40 at Kinko's for nothing."

I say, "maybe I should double check all the windows again...." and I pull back the curtain to give the window a push and a shake. There's kitty resting and stretching comfortably behind the curtain.

Me: "When did he move over here?"
Viveka: "What do you mean? He's still over here."
Me: "No, he's not, he's right here, look!"

Kitty jumps down from his spot on the window sill behind the curtain and walks over to the traumatized kitty by the book case. The cats start sniffing each other.

This is when we realize we've made a huge mistake. Why are there two cats in our apartment??

***And in the end...***
Well, turns out that our cat had never escaped at all. He had been in our apartment the whole time. Meanwhile, we spent hours in the dark park looking for him and at Kinko's, printing out signs.

But what's even worse, we had abducted some random cat from the park. Who was this little guy? We let this fellow back out, he probably lives with some of our neighbors. (Note: For those of you who are concerned about the abducted cat, he does live with a neighbor)

We named our cute pure-breed Bentley.

9/11

This year September 11th falls on a Tuesday, like it did in 2001. It was raining earlier and now it's cloudy, which makes this morning different from 2001. I'm working in lower Manhattan now, close to the trade center, hopefully today won't be too strange.

Scared

I'm trapped in the apartment because a big water-bug is roaming around outside in the hallway. What if it tries to enter our place?? I will die. Die, die, die. I threw three different books at it, but none hit the target. I don't know what to do, other than not go out there.

Roller

The other day I went biking next to Sean as he was running the lap around Prospect Park for exercise. It was pleasant to roll along effortlessly on my bike. Trees were green, kids were happy, dogs were cute.

As we neared the 9th street entrance, where all the bbq-ing usually takes place, a fiery woman on roller-blades headed right at us. She motioned with her arms and hands for me to move out of her way, and I followed her directions and swerved slightly to the left. "Pay the FUCK ATTENTION!!!!" she screamed at me as she swooshed by, legs kicking to the sides, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.

Ok... that didn't go along with the perfect scenery I was taking in. But anyhow, I wasn't that bothered by it. Not to sound arrogant or anything, but I think if it came down to it, I could probably beat up any living girl on this planet in a fist fight. Except for maybe professional athletes, but if I practiced I could. It helps to think this way.

Fred

The receptionist at the chiropractic clinic poked her head into my treatment room in the middle of a massage I had with a new neck-injury patient.

"Who's that...?" she whispered inaudibly and pointed to my patient who couldn't see her since he was face-down on the table. "Fred..." I whispered back, also inaudibly. She nodded and closed the door.

A couple of minutes later she came back into the room, "That's Fred...?" she whispered, with poor Fred still not knowing what the hell we were discussing. "YES" I hissed back. "Ok," she said and disappeared. How annoying, I thought, it's on the schedule, his file is right there, why can't she just look at that?

A minute later she comes back again, now motioning with her hand horizontally in front of her neck, as if chopping her own head off. I said "excuse me one moment" to Fred and stepped outside into the hallway to figure out what was up. She blurted out "Fred just arrived, he was running late, who the hell is in there??"

That's when I realized I had been massaging the wrong Fred.

We hustled the wrong Fred into a waiting room for the physician and then brought the right Fred into my space and told him not to worry about that he was late, we will always have time for him.

Stink

May, June and July are usually ok. But in August it's as if the male species run out of deodorant in this city. The stench of armpit sweat is unbearable as men stretch their arms up to hold on to the straps (or bars or whatever) on the subway, and the rest of us stand there with our noses at armpit level, inhaling this crap.

Guys, it's simple - shower on a daily basis (use soap) and then you deodorize. There's no excuse not to. Especially for hairy guys. Hairy guys smell worse than regular guys. Get a grip.

Now where's my f$^#&-ing wine?

Struck

There are 700 students in my Bio lecture, I kid you not, seven hundred. Even more amazingly is that the first person I strike up a conversation with turns out to be a helicopter paramedic for the University of Maryland's Medical Center (UMMC). That is the best shock-trauma center in the world. For real, not just in my opinion, it's a fact, just turn on Discovery Health. As a rookie in the field (soon to be) I was in awe, completely star-struck to be in such noble company. Email-addresses were exchanged.

Defeated

My iPod has decided to rebel against me and it only allows me to listen to music from my '80s-folder. This would be semi-ok if I had any respectable eighties-music in my '80s- folder, such as classic Prince or Bowie, maybe tracks from "Purple Rain" or "Let's Dance" or something, but I do not. Instead, it's jam-packed with Cindy Lauper, Madonna and Bananarama - music you'd think only gay men would listen too.

Not only that, but the volume is stuck too, really high. So I'm doomed to walk down the streets in my neighborhood with "Venus" blasting against my eardrums. Other people can probably hear it too, when I pass them, that's how high the volume is. If I get beat up by some tough neighborhood punks over this, I'd deserve it.

I have always been worried about accidentally leaving my iPod somewhere in a public space, like a cafe or a bar, and somehow a good samaritan would track me down and call me up and say "Hey, I think I found your iPod at such-and-such bar, and I'd like to return it to you so call me back at yada yada yada". I would not be able to claim my iPod. For sure, whoever found it must have checked out what music I listen to, and I'd rather buy a totally new iPod than admit to listening to that stuff. And I'm not just talking about the '80s folder.

I do have good taste in music, I do, I really do, but somehow that just never translated electronically.

Back in the USA

Vacation is over. We're back in New York and I feel great. I didn't even mind that the construction workers called me nice names when I passed them by. I know as women we're supposed to frown upon such male behavior, but whatever, we all know that our egos deep inside kinda like it when random guys give us some attention (be honest now)...

Anyway, I enjoy visiting Sweden, but it sure feels fine to drink New York city coffee again.

Television

There are about ten networks (or TV channels) in all when you subscribe to basic cable in Sweden. First, there are the two nationwide nets (state-owned) that I guess are equivalent to the broadcast nets in the States - they're called SVT 1 and SVT 2. There are no commericals on these state-owned channels which means you can practically never go to the bathroom while watching SVT 1 or 2.

When cable was introduced in the 80's , TV 3 and TV 4 popped up, both with limited commercial time (TV 4 only had short commercials in between programs). As a kid I loved this new thing called 'commercial' (or 'reklam' in Swedish) and I would never go to the bathroom during one.

Today, the other basic channels include TV 4 Plus, Kanal 5, TV 6, Eurosport, Discovery Channel and MTV Europe. That's pretty much it.

About 30%, maybe 35%, of the programming is in English (this is my own estimate and may not be accurate at all, but probably it is). American sit-coms, dramas and movies, and British sit-coms, dramas and movies galore. Everyone on MTV speaks with a British accent, or with some European accent.

Many of the shows are the same as in the US, but they're produced in the UK. For example - and this is almost sacrilege - "Pimp My Ride" on MTV Euro is hosted by some scrawny, spindly English bloke instead of x to the z Xzibit. That's just not right.

When you turn on the Discovery channel, you get either TLC, Animal Planet, or Discovery Science, it's completely random. It's a medley. And the voice-over is never American.

The game shows seem more brutal here than in the US. In the States you always have the "good cop/bad cop" thing among the judges, Paula and Simon, but here it's almost exclusively "bad cop/bad cop" - "aaaaaand you just lost ten million quid, that's a bloody shame, isn't it?"

On Swedish-speaking channels, weather is extremely important. Not in the tacky American way where the weather forecast is entertainment and a window to other people's misery - flooding, tornadoes, storms. In Sweden weather is all about praying for sun. There's no friendly banter between anchormen, no smiles, no joking around... just straight business. Will the skies be gray? Will there be sun? Each weather map has at least five layers of information that are completely incomprehensible to the untrained eye.

Oh, I almost forgot Danish TV - DR 1 and TV 2. Pretty much the same as Swedish 1 and 2 but they speak much, much sillier.

Strong

The coffee in Sweden is so strong you can probably make tobacco out of it. Sean and I can hardly finish half a cup. We pour tons of sugar and milk in our coffee to dilute it which is something I would never do at home in New York.

Another thing about coffee is that people drink it at anytime of the day, not just in the mornings. If you turn down a cup at let´s say 10pm, Swedes look at you like you must be sick. Something must be wrong with you. And when you explain that ordinarliy you'd love to have a cup, but just not this late because you don´t want to be up all night, they look even more confused. Often, any type of conversation ends right here, with the rejection of coffee.

Sweden

Sean and I are in Sweden. It sure is a quiet country. It's evening as I write this and my ears hurt from the silence. No sounds of cars, no sirens, no people walking around. All the birds and hedgehogs and other animals seem to have gone to sleep already. It is beautiful and peaceful here though, a good place to think about Katzu.

We met an orange cat today. His name was Sven (we later found out). Sven let me pet him after I had sat down and talked to him for a little bit. He meowed and then he walked away and started cleaning himself where my hand had touched him. Cats are very subtle that way. Sean and I argued whether Sven was a tabby or not.

There are many cats in my mother's 'hood. The neighbor names all his cats after Swedish soccer-players. "Zlatan" was recently hit by a car and he passed away. Now they have "Chippen" (Christian Wilhemsson, Bolton) instead. I have not met Chippen as of yet.

Tomorrow we're going to church to light a candle for Katzu. ;)

Sweet Katzu

Katzu went to kitty heaven on 8/14/07.

I love him tremendously and he will forever be in my heart. It was the saddest and the hardest day of my life. He and I had a remarkable relationship (at least in my opinion...). We miss him so, our lives are not the same without him.

Love you Katzu.

Neuro

Spent a day volunteering at the hospital (in the neurological unit's physical therapy department). The department I was assigned to deals almost exclusively with patients with neurological damage caused by head trauma. Many patients had long irregular scars with sutures across their scalps. Some were noticeably unaware of their surroundings while others were mentally present.

There were about a dozen physical therapists in the hospital's gym, guiding the patients through their physical rehab. My role was to help the therapists with whatever they needed.

So - I fetched sheets, towels and pillow covers, I disinfected machines, beds and heart/oxygen monitors, I pushed patients around in their wheelchairs, I carried oxygen tanks, I followed the patients around as they struggled to walk, I kicked a soccer ball back and forth with a patient who could barely stand up by himself, I threw a ball back and forth to another patient who was learning how to balance, and I stabilized tables and chairs and other structures as patients leaned on them for support.

I also got enormous blisters on my feet which made it quite hard to keep up with the patients ambling about in the hallway. It seemed kind of inappropriate to complain about blisters in this company though, so I had to work through the pain - which I did heroically...

EMT for real

After a month long wait I finally received my EMT license and certificate, wohoo. My plan is to get on an ambulance asap, sending in all my stuff on Monday. I'm totally laminating my EMT card.

Peg is already hooked up with an ambulance in Westchester. She has a badge with her EMT number and her name on it. And she wears a dark blue uniform that makes her "look like a giant lesbian" she says.

Beirut

When I was about five or six years old, my older sister told me and my brother that she wasn't actually our biological sister - she was adopted, from Lebanon.

She was very serious about it so we weren't really sure if she was lying to us or not. "Mooooom, is Victoria from Le-baaaa-noooooooon???" and our mom would yell back from upstairs "Of course not!!", but without offering further explanation or proof that she was actually not. Victoria would then add: "She's just saying that so that you two won't get upset, but I really am from Lebanon." For years, my brother and I weren't sure if we had an adopted sister or not.

A few years later I told my younger sister (child #4 in our family) "you know that every fourth kid that is born in the world is Chinese, right?" and she'd look at me with suspicious five-year-old eyes and then I'd say: "that means that you are Chinese!!"

"Moooooooom, am I Chiiiiiiiineeeeeeeeeseeeee???"
"Of course not!!"

Today, whenever I meet or hang out with people from Lebanon (the receptionist at work, for example) I feel like we're somehow from the same place, related.

Burn

Met up with Amy and Jinwon at Doc Watson's on 77th for beer, unhealthy bar-food and gossip. The best thing about being a girl is that there are always so many things to talk about, no matter what topic (if there even is a topic).

Anywho, I burned my arm on the hot plate with cheese fries and now I have an inch long burn mark on my arm. I'm pretty sure it's a second degree burn. It's still burning and stinging and it's been 15 hours since the accident.

Afternoon

Biked over to the 4th Ave Pub to meet Yona and her dachshund Sophie who is blond (although Yona claims Sophie is "cream", not blond) for an afternoon beer. Sean guilted me into wearing the bicycle helmet.

He: "Wear the helmet!"
Me: "But I don't want to! We never wear helmets when we're biking over in Sweden"
He: "That's because there is no traffic there!"
Me: "But it's Saturday, there's no traffic here either"
He: "Do whatever you want, but I'll worry about you"

So off I went wearing the helmet. I took if off right after I crossed Atlantic and Flatbush. I don't want to run into people I know, wearing that helmet. It also doesn't really mesh with my ponytail. Yona and Sophie crossed the street just as I was stuffing the helmet into my bag.

In the bar's garden we ordered coronas and veggie burgers but ended up eating only the buns -no burger- with cheese, mustard and ketchup since there were no veggie burgers left. Sophie stole popcorn and unabashedly spit the chewed pops on our bare feet.

Bag

Heading towards the little Mexican place on 12th street in between massage appointments, I suddenly realize how strange it is to walk around the city without my bag hanging over one of my shoulders. Not carrying a bag is just like walking around naked. Can people see me??

Most women are chronically attached to their bags but guys (or men) are not carrying anything. How is that? Sean leaves our apartment in the mornings NOT carrying anything other than his keys and wallet - he just strolls out onto the streets whistling, hands in pockets. "You're going out like that?" I sometimes ask and he says "What else do I need?"

What else? You need a bag you can put stuff in. Like your cell phone, metrocard, receipts (old and new), loose change, maybe a book to read while waiting for the train, or a magazine to peruse while on the train, pieces of paper in case you need to scribble stuff down, pens, pencils, an extra shirt if you get cold, a different shirt if you get tired of what you're wearing, business cards, other people's business cards, the address to where you are going. Stuff, stuff, just stuff.

Cigars

Every weekend, and sometimes during weekdays too, there's a group of men congregating outside our deli. They sit on black milk crates and smoke cigars, play cards and chit chat with the deli guys. Occasionally they play chess. Frankie, the oldest and most Italian-looking man, is bald and has a big belly. He walks with a cane and his lips are chronically malformed from sucking on that cigar. The other guys remain nameless. They wear their cell phones on their belts.

A friend of mine who is a retired police officer told me: "You know, those guys in front of your deli are either cops looking over the market across the street or mafia guys with the deli."
"What would the mafia do with our deli?" I asked, and he said "Gambling."

A week later he called me and said "They're cops. I saw them at the market in the Heights too." "Oh ok," I agreed, not really sure how hanging out in Brooklyn Heights proofs the cop-status. But whatever, I guess there's a thin line between the two.

Regardless of who they are, Frankie always says "How y' doin' sweetie?" when I walk by, cigar still in mouth, and sometimes one of the younger guys helps me carry my bag of laundry.

Ride

Riding my bicycle to work reminds me of being a kid in Sweden. In Sweden everyone bikes everywhere. I'm serious. Adults too. Going to the store? Take the bike. Going to the train station? Bike. The beach? Bike. Going to a party? Bike over there. The pub? Take the bike. To work? They bike there too.

In general, if the distance you want to go is longer than 200 yards but less than 3 miles, the bicycle rules. It's quite nice actually. The only times it sucks being on a bicycle is when it's cold, windy and rainy out, and also when the cops pull you over late at night because the lights on your bicycle are not working. It's illegal to bike at night without head-lights on and you will get a ticket. It's also very illegal to bike with your friend riding along on 'pakethållaren' (we don't really have those here) - basically, you can't be two people on a bike. Two people on a bike and no lights is the biggest crime possible.

Anyway, the bike-ride through Carroll Gardens and Cobble Hill kind of reminds me of biking in Sweden - old houses, tree-lined streets, tiny shops, coffee places. The only stressful aspect is speeding through the housing projects on Bond street, but for the most part that area is totally cool too.

Worked out

Haven't been to the gym in a while and today I went and overdid it - 60 minutes of cardio. I did 10 minutes on each cardio-machine, so six machines all together. That's some serious cross-training. I feel so depleted that I think I need to pick up a bag of chips to neutralize the madness. I think I will do that.

4th

The Fourth of July is the perfect holiday to do nothing (except for bbq-ing). Everything is closed, obviously, so even if you'd want to take care of business, you really can't. Paying bills makes no sense since nothing will be processed until tomorrow anyway. You get the drift.

Happily relaxed and free from responsibilities, the whole neighborhood decided to chill out with the Times today. Sold out everywhere at an early hour (11am, outrage!). "It's the holiday," said deli-man. And at 3pm all the coffee was gone...

Melting

Summer is officially here (for a week now) which means that it's ok to complain about the weather. It's so hot and humid I almost vomited today, for real. I've taken two showers already, going on my third. The cat doesn't want to be touched and neither do I. It's time to install the AC.

(Det finns inga dåliga kläder, bara dåligt väder.)

Lock

I just bought one of those humongous chains to lock up my bicycle. I've decided that I'm going to bike to work when I work at the studio in Brooklyn; hence, the purchase. The lock is so heavy it makes my bike tip over when the lock rests on it. It makes me tip over too when I carry it over my shoulder, but it looks pretty damn cool.

Massage

Being a massage therapist is pretty awesome. I can support myself - pay rent and bills and have money left over for a bottle of pinot on Fridays - by only working about ten to twelve hours a week. That's one quarter of the time that normal people put in weekly.

Also, I get to set my own schedule (will never work before 11am) and I decide where to work (won't travel north of 14th street, ideally). Not too shabby if you'd ask me. I'm affiliated with three different places, one chiropractic clinic and two trainer/yoga studios. They hook me up with clients, I hook myself (and them) up with some dough.

Oh, and I've also learned how to file my nails like a pro. No more biting.

Hooky

There's a guy in my physics class who's a post-bacc student (like me), in his early thirties (like me), who's still working his office-job (unlike me), sales for some Internet security company or something. He 's applying to med-school.

I asked him how he's able to take summer-classes with a full-time career type o' job, since summer classes take up the 8am-1:30pm hours of the day.

"You can be that flexible with your hours at your job?" I asked, and he said "Not really, they think I'm 'working-from-home' in the mornings."

Careful

During neurotic times it's easy to fall into thought-patterns and worries such as - "did I lock the door?" (when you're on the way to the train) or "did I turn off the stove?" (after you convinced yourself that you did lock the door), or "is the cat inside?" (even though you know he's jumped back into bed).

If you're in an especially neurotic mood you might even walk back to the apartment to check the door, the stove and the cat. All in order.

If you're Swedish, you might even make sure that all the outlets are left unplugged (especially if there's a thunderstorm) and that none of the radiators are on (and forget stepping on leaves or cracks in the sidewalk).

Anyway, I came home this evening and the iron was still on. God have mercy. It just sat there on top of the ironing board, hot as hell, and did nothing other than being steamy hot. The house didn't burn down, as you'd think it would if you left an iron unattended.

This experience has left me utterly confused.

Physics

Back in the day when I was in college for real, my dorm-friends and I coined the phrase "How Hunter of you" if someone did something totally irrational or stupid. This refers to the incompetency of, or maybe I should say - the lack of care for the students by the administration at Hunter College.

How many Hunter students have cried outside the Bursar's office? How many students have hyperventilated at the Registrars office aka the Oasis, or "The O-aaasis" if you get the answering machine? A lot. Probably a huge percentage of the student body.

Last week I got Hunter-ed again. Now as a real grown-up. I went online to check my summer schedule and magically I had been dropped from Physics. What the...?

Called Hunter. Result: "If we ain't got yo' check, you ain't got no class." Without warning they had deleted me from the class.

Luckily, Monday morning, after begging the Physics lady to get into the class (she said no) my sister went online and randomly entered numbers to try to register me. Voila! She got me in! Must be because she's good with Math. I'm in.

Tears

Urrrrrgh, I just got a hefty bill from Verizon. My stomach is in knots and I want to crawl under the bed. How could I have used so many minutes during peak hours??

I used to rely on my office phone at work for my daytime calls (when I had a real job), and now that I don't have that land-line I'm screwed. Not that I ever made any long personal calls at work (are you guys still reading this, bosses?).

Anyway, stupid lesson learned - yacking away during peak hours = disaster.

Cycle

Somehow I once again ended up in one of those "spinning" classes at the gym. It's pure torture. Five minutes into the warm-up I regret being there. I always feel like I'm dying in that class and this is despite cheating my way through the exercises.

Scary cycling trainer yells "Turn the resistance up THREE TIMES TO THE RIIIIIGHT!!" and I turn the knob one time to the right. And then she screams "Turn it TWO MORE TIMES TO THE RIIIIIIGHT!!!!" and I turn my knob one time to the left.

Still, my face gets tomato-red from exhaustion and I sweat buckets, probably more than anyone else in the class. I look around and I see everyone else turning the resistance-knob in the right direction and they follow along in the exercises perfectly "And STAAAAAND! And SIIIIIT! And STAAAAAND! And SIIIIIIIT!". I don't understand.

I leave the class with spaghetti legs (cooked spaghetti).