As if winning the basketball league championship weren't cool enough, tonight my team attended the end-of-the-season party to accept a check for our chosen charity. And with a name like Hoop Doggy Dogs, of course our charity has to benefit dogs. So we were thrilled to be able to accept a check for Mighty Mutts, a no-kill organization that helps the stray dogs of New York City, as winners of the Penny Division of Zogsports.
Though I was hoping for one of those over-sized checks you see people accept with two hands and maybe a grip and grin photo, no such luck.
Nevertheless, we are going to take the check that unfortunately fit inside an envelope and present it proudly to Mighty Mutts.
And of course we had no choice but to celebrate at the Gael Pub until almost 3 a.m. If we don't win best drinking team next season, I'd like to hang out with the team that does!
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Burgers, beer, and owls?
If you ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at a different restaurant in Manhattan every single day, it would take you FIVE ENTIRE YEARS to eat at every restaurant on this island. While that statistic includes all the Olive Garden and TGI Friday’s chain restaurants peppered around Times Square, it also counts tiny wine and cheese bars spread out like gems around the city.
So on one of my very first free weekday evenings – where I don’t have to worry about going from my main job right to the coffee shop for another eight hours of work - I decide to spend it with my former coffee shop colleagues – Rigo, Deirdra, Maxi and honorary colleague, Blair. At Hooters.
Full disclosure – I was in mixed company, meaning one person who I very much like and wanted to hang out with, is 20 years old. That automatically disqualified any and all bars (thanks Maxi). Secondly, I was with several college students, so that, understandably, automatically disqualified anywhere expensive. Thirdly, I was not going to Wendy’s or McDonald’s, so we settled on Hooters on West 56th St. and Broadway two blocks away from my apartment
Now before you go making any judgments, at least this particular Hooters location has a claim to fame. The final scene of the movie Big Daddy starring Adam took place there. Yep – that’s how I’m justifying it. And hey – it was a place with beer and burgers. What more could you want?
So on one of my very first free weekday evenings – where I don’t have to worry about going from my main job right to the coffee shop for another eight hours of work - I decide to spend it with my former coffee shop colleagues – Rigo, Deirdra, Maxi and honorary colleague, Blair. At Hooters.
Full disclosure – I was in mixed company, meaning one person who I very much like and wanted to hang out with, is 20 years old. That automatically disqualified any and all bars (thanks Maxi). Secondly, I was with several college students, so that, understandably, automatically disqualified anywhere expensive. Thirdly, I was not going to Wendy’s or McDonald’s, so we settled on Hooters on West 56th St. and Broadway two blocks away from my apartment
Now before you go making any judgments, at least this particular Hooters location has a claim to fame. The final scene of the movie Big Daddy starring Adam took place there. Yep – that’s how I’m justifying it. And hey – it was a place with beer and burgers. What more could you want?
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Rested for the first time in awhile
It's Saturday morning... and I'm home.
It's 9:45 a.m. and I just rolled out of bed after waking up on my own. And I don't have to go to work today or tomorrow.
This may sound like a typical weekend for many people, but for the past two years, it hasn't been for me. Since January, 2008, I've had to try to go to bed early every Friday night in order to wake up at 4:35 a.m. every Saturday morning. By the time I got off work at noon or later, I'd crash in bed until around 4 or 5 p.m., then wake up even more tired than when I went to sleep. This, unfortunately, made for some cranky Saturday evenings.
But now I feel rested, happy, and looking forward to an entire day that I can fill with whatever I want.
Now if only I knew what that should be! Nevertheless... goodbye coffee shop job forever!
It's 9:45 a.m. and I just rolled out of bed after waking up on my own. And I don't have to go to work today or tomorrow.
This may sound like a typical weekend for many people, but for the past two years, it hasn't been for me. Since January, 2008, I've had to try to go to bed early every Friday night in order to wake up at 4:35 a.m. every Saturday morning. By the time I got off work at noon or later, I'd crash in bed until around 4 or 5 p.m., then wake up even more tired than when I went to sleep. This, unfortunately, made for some cranky Saturday evenings.
But now I feel rested, happy, and looking forward to an entire day that I can fill with whatever I want.
Now if only I knew what that should be! Nevertheless... goodbye coffee shop job forever!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Was that a pickup line or were you just happy to see my dog?
"Oh my God; that's an amazing dog!" shouts a relatively normal-looking, 20-something guy as Chloe and I were walking toward him on our evening stroll.
"What kind of dog is it?" he asked, lightly touching my arm before bending down to pet Chloe.
"A Shepherd/Rottie mix," I replied, watching him pet her before he straightened up and I started to walk past him.
"You're hot," he said, watching me walk away.
"Um, thank you," I replied over my shoulder as I saw him turn and continue down the sidewalk in the opposite direction out of the corner of my eye.
"Was that supposed to be a pick-up line?" I ask Chloe as she shook her tail at me. "Maybe he was looking for the shock value 'cause that came out of nowhere. Weird."
"What kind of dog is it?" he asked, lightly touching my arm before bending down to pet Chloe.
"A Shepherd/Rottie mix," I replied, watching him pet her before he straightened up and I started to walk past him.
"You're hot," he said, watching me walk away.
"Um, thank you," I replied over my shoulder as I saw him turn and continue down the sidewalk in the opposite direction out of the corner of my eye.
"Was that supposed to be a pick-up line?" I ask Chloe as she shook her tail at me. "Maybe he was looking for the shock value 'cause that came out of nowhere. Weird."
Monday, December 7, 2009
To the woman in the white hat with the cane: Thank you for being brave enough to say what we were all thinking
"Shut up... Shut UP... WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP!?!?"
Eh, what I heard on the 86th Street crosstown bus tonight wasn't anything unusual in New York City. People are bound to get annoyed at constantly being around other humans in such close quarters. But what soon followed made my stomach lurch, and brought tears to my eyes.
I started to hear a child cry, then someone standing in the aisle of the bus shifted and I was able to turn my head to my left and clearly see that the probably early-20s-year-old woman was screaming "Shut up" to her son, who looked to be about 5 years old.
It only got worse from there.
As children often do, the child made the "mistake" of taking an innocent swing at his mom, who was bending forward from her seat on the bus to get her face closer to his and pacify him by screaming "SHUT UP."
In response, she HIT. HIM. BACK. Nevermind that this display of child abuse was on a public bus, SHE REPEATEDLY slap-hit her child over and over while telling him to "shut up, just shut the f*uck up! You stupid! SHUT UP!"
I could see people taking note of the situation, and saw plenty of raised eyebrows, but no one, including me, said anything. I don't know what everyone else was thinking, but I can tell you what I was thinking: If this woman is pissed off and perfectly fine hitting a defenseless child, what the hell would she do to me if I said something and put myself right smack in her business? Though I can be honest with myself and say that I was caught up in self preservation, that in no way excuses my doing nothing. That said, I can't see this intense weight of shame going away anytime soon.
By this point, the bus had slowed down to Lexington Avenue, and this person got up, yanked up her kid up out of his seat and gave him a sharp shove forward by the back of his head.
That was enough for the woman wearing a white knit cap and carrying a cane sitting across from me in the front of the bus to say what we were all thinking.
"Please stop hitting that child," she said softly, but firmly, which - no surprise - unleashes a spout of profanities from this woman, including "don't stick your f*cking nose in my business. That's MY child, bitch" and the even more shocking "Did you see he f*cking hit me first."
Ummm... where do you think that child got the idea that hitting was OK? And what may be even worse - what if he grows up and still thinks hitting is OK? Will he in turn hit his child? His wife?
After the horrible woman made an even bigger scene yelling at the woman in the white hat who was brave enough to stand up for that child - screaming profanities all the way down the steps of the bus - I caught the eye of that woman across from me and we exchanged a raised-eyebrow look. Though I am ashamed to admit that I didn't have the courage to stand up for that child, I definitely wanted to make sure that her bravery was acknowledged, so I thanked the woman in the white hat.
Then, silently to myself, I thanked God that there are people like her and continued to pray that that child will be OK and will grow up to be nothing like his mother.
Eh, what I heard on the 86th Street crosstown bus tonight wasn't anything unusual in New York City. People are bound to get annoyed at constantly being around other humans in such close quarters. But what soon followed made my stomach lurch, and brought tears to my eyes.
I started to hear a child cry, then someone standing in the aisle of the bus shifted and I was able to turn my head to my left and clearly see that the probably early-20s-year-old woman was screaming "Shut up" to her son, who looked to be about 5 years old.
It only got worse from there.
As children often do, the child made the "mistake" of taking an innocent swing at his mom, who was bending forward from her seat on the bus to get her face closer to his and pacify him by screaming "SHUT UP."
In response, she HIT. HIM. BACK. Nevermind that this display of child abuse was on a public bus, SHE REPEATEDLY slap-hit her child over and over while telling him to "shut up, just shut the f*uck up! You stupid! SHUT UP!"
I could see people taking note of the situation, and saw plenty of raised eyebrows, but no one, including me, said anything. I don't know what everyone else was thinking, but I can tell you what I was thinking: If this woman is pissed off and perfectly fine hitting a defenseless child, what the hell would she do to me if I said something and put myself right smack in her business? Though I can be honest with myself and say that I was caught up in self preservation, that in no way excuses my doing nothing. That said, I can't see this intense weight of shame going away anytime soon.
By this point, the bus had slowed down to Lexington Avenue, and this person got up, yanked up her kid up out of his seat and gave him a sharp shove forward by the back of his head.
That was enough for the woman wearing a white knit cap and carrying a cane sitting across from me in the front of the bus to say what we were all thinking.
"Please stop hitting that child," she said softly, but firmly, which - no surprise - unleashes a spout of profanities from this woman, including "don't stick your f*cking nose in my business. That's MY child, bitch" and the even more shocking "Did you see he f*cking hit me first."
Ummm... where do you think that child got the idea that hitting was OK? And what may be even worse - what if he grows up and still thinks hitting is OK? Will he in turn hit his child? His wife?
After the horrible woman made an even bigger scene yelling at the woman in the white hat who was brave enough to stand up for that child - screaming profanities all the way down the steps of the bus - I caught the eye of that woman across from me and we exchanged a raised-eyebrow look. Though I am ashamed to admit that I didn't have the courage to stand up for that child, I definitely wanted to make sure that her bravery was acknowledged, so I thanked the woman in the white hat.
Then, silently to myself, I thanked God that there are people like her and continued to pray that that child will be OK and will grow up to be nothing like his mother.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Nah, nah, nah, nah, hey, hey, hey... GOODBYE!!
Even though I have been waiting for this day since the first day I was hired back in January, 2008, I still left the coffee shop for the final time as an employee with mixed emotions.
On one side, I was absolutely thrilled to never again set my alarm for 4:05 a.m., be at work after midnight, or go from one job to another. Because I work typical hours at the food magazine, I will have weekends again – meaning two whole days where I don’t have to be at or worry about work. And most of all, I was looking forward to forever closing the chapter of my life where I will have to utter, “Welcome to [some food establishment]. What can I get for you?” like a broken record while at work.
On the other hand, I got a bit teary-eyed at the thought of not seeing my colleagues, many of whom are now my friends, and some of the customers whom I’ve gotten to know and really like on a daily basis.
But then I cheered right up thinking about how I could CHOOSE to see the people who I would miss simply by walking into the coffee shop – without my hat or apron – for a visit. It would be a visit where I could stay for as much or as little as I wanted without having to worry about being late or having a certain number of hours ahead of me before I could leave.
So knowing that I will never again be a barista, and will be able to enjoy what has now become a foreign concept to me – free time - is a blissful feeling. It’s something that can be filled with painting or knitting classes, another basketball team, walks in the park with Chloe, or simply enjoying a glass of wine at home in front of the TV.
Who needs a vacation when I have the simple pleasure of FREE TIME!
On one side, I was absolutely thrilled to never again set my alarm for 4:05 a.m., be at work after midnight, or go from one job to another. Because I work typical hours at the food magazine, I will have weekends again – meaning two whole days where I don’t have to be at or worry about work. And most of all, I was looking forward to forever closing the chapter of my life where I will have to utter, “Welcome to [some food establishment]. What can I get for you?” like a broken record while at work.
On the other hand, I got a bit teary-eyed at the thought of not seeing my colleagues, many of whom are now my friends, and some of the customers whom I’ve gotten to know and really like on a daily basis.
But then I cheered right up thinking about how I could CHOOSE to see the people who I would miss simply by walking into the coffee shop – without my hat or apron – for a visit. It would be a visit where I could stay for as much or as little as I wanted without having to worry about being late or having a certain number of hours ahead of me before I could leave.
So knowing that I will never again be a barista, and will be able to enjoy what has now become a foreign concept to me – free time - is a blissful feeling. It’s something that can be filled with painting or knitting classes, another basketball team, walks in the park with Chloe, or simply enjoying a glass of wine at home in front of the TV.
Who needs a vacation when I have the simple pleasure of FREE TIME!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Why do the laundry every week when you have more than enough to last a month?
"That's something you can't get me enough of... yep, either black, gray, or navy blue," I overhear Brent say to his mother over the phone.
"I know you did not just ask your mother to get you more dress socks for Christmas," I say, as I poke my head around the bedroom door to glare at my husband sitting on the couch.
His impish smile in response told me that's exactly what he asked her to buy for him.
So, to prove my point (because I AM RIGHT... in this case anyway) I yank out the giant drawer we reserve for our socks and pull out all the black, gray, and navy blue socks that are sitting one right on top of another on the right side of the drawer and lay them out on the bed. They stretch from one end to another and there are 32 - that's right, THIRTY TWO - pairs of work socks. And this is BEFORE I've done the laundry for the week.
After hearing my dear husband hang up the phone, I call him into the bedroom and point at the ridiculous amount of socks sitting on the bed while giving him THE LOOK.
To men, clothes should be worn until they can't physically be worn anymore; meaning until they disintegrate in the washing machine. It amazes me that men can ignore the brown, deoderant-crusted pit stains or huge rips in their beloved boxers or T-shirts. This is why my husband has the larger side of the closet. (Not that I mind so much... it means I get the larger side of the shoe rack.
"Still think you need more dress socks?" I ask as he's picking through the pile muttering, "Didn't know I had this one... didn't know I had THIS one... thought I lost THIS pair in high school..."
"Honey, just because you can't SEE all THIRTY TWO pairs of socks piled deep into the drawer doesn't mean they aren't occupying a ridiculous amount of space in there. Now, why don't you call your mom back and tell her 'nevermind.'"
"No."
When pure logic fails, what else is there to say?
"I know you did not just ask your mother to get you more dress socks for Christmas," I say, as I poke my head around the bedroom door to glare at my husband sitting on the couch.
His impish smile in response told me that's exactly what he asked her to buy for him.
So, to prove my point (because I AM RIGHT... in this case anyway) I yank out the giant drawer we reserve for our socks and pull out all the black, gray, and navy blue socks that are sitting one right on top of another on the right side of the drawer and lay them out on the bed. They stretch from one end to another and there are 32 - that's right, THIRTY TWO - pairs of work socks. And this is BEFORE I've done the laundry for the week.
After hearing my dear husband hang up the phone, I call him into the bedroom and point at the ridiculous amount of socks sitting on the bed while giving him THE LOOK.
To men, clothes should be worn until they can't physically be worn anymore; meaning until they disintegrate in the washing machine. It amazes me that men can ignore the brown, deoderant-crusted pit stains or huge rips in their beloved boxers or T-shirts. This is why my husband has the larger side of the closet. (Not that I mind so much... it means I get the larger side of the shoe rack.
"Still think you need more dress socks?" I ask as he's picking through the pile muttering, "Didn't know I had this one... didn't know I had THIS one... thought I lost THIS pair in high school..."
"Honey, just because you can't SEE all THIRTY TWO pairs of socks piled deep into the drawer doesn't mean they aren't occupying a ridiculous amount of space in there. Now, why don't you call your mom back and tell her 'nevermind.'"
"No."
When pure logic fails, what else is there to say?
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