To Storm, or Not to Storm

Now I know what you’re saying. Not another blog about rain. But yes my friends. This is going to be another blog about rain.

We were cheated out of June - it rained practically every day. July was OK. But August has been one big threatening thunderstorm. Key word: threatening.

Mother-Nature-Dearest has been quite confused as of late. I think she’s suffering from an onset of dementia.

Or maybe she enjoys soliloquizing, à la Hamlet: To thunderstorm, or not to thunderstorm.
Or perhaps she’s volatile and Father Time did something to piss her off.

Who knows. But if I go on weatherchannel.com, or accuweather.com, or if I see on NY1’s Weather on the 1’s that there is a slight chance of thunderstorms one more time this month, I think I’ll scream.

Come ON Al Roker. Break out of that safe, secure mold, yo! Spice it up a bit! Be original! No one wants to hear for the umpteenth time that there is that there is a chance of thunderstorms, later this afternoon.

Least of all me.

Alas, there has been several times this month that I've been down the street without an umbrella, so to say. And, as you can only imagine, it ain’t pretty.

Of course I was forewarned - if you can call that commonplace, blasé phrase, that slight chance, a warning. Fine, I guess when it comes down to it, it was my own fault. 



But seriously, what pedestrian in their right mind actually wants to carry around an umbrella all day when there’s but a negligible chance it’ll come in handy?

Not I!

In fact, I always laugh when I see people wearing rain boots on a SUNNY day, or carrying those long (albeit cute) umbrellas when there’s not a cloud in the sky. I think what silly, high-strung, Nervous Nellie’s they are, then pat myself on my über nonchalant back

Tsk, tsk, though. My bad. Cause as much as I haterate on those ninnies, the joke forever seems to be on me.

Right before a downpour, the air gets eerily quiet - I’m talking cab-honking-less quiet. It feels hot and electric on your skin. Lightning bolts shatter the darkness of the sky. Piercing thunder rips through your eardrums. And then...and then.
And then, when the clouds feel they’re properly positioned, the rain commences. But it’s not just “rain” - that’s the understatement of the century. Nor does “downpour” seem adequate.

We’re talking Niagara Falls. Yes. It’s like that natural wonder was suddenly beamed from Upstate New York and is falling directly on Manhattan; sheets of opaque water tumble from the sky.

Sure, I’ve enjoyed the rain. I’ve jumped through the puddles and felt four years old and carefree. I’ve pretended I was Carrie and thought I might chat up a Man-hattanite under an awning. I’ve welcomed the cooling-off factor (even though it often feels like I’m being spritzed by a fire hydrant).

But mostly, I just hate my too-cool-for-umbrella-carrying self. When I get caught in that not-so-slight slight chance of a storm, it sucks. Suuuuuuucks.

Especially when I'm wearing a see-through dress and there’s no chivalrous Richard Gere with an umbrella to rescue me right back.

Nightmare on Metro North

I’s been a vewy vewy bad blogger – sorry buddies! My massive whirlwind of a vaca is totes to blame. I promise to be more persistent now that I’m back! Here’s a nice long one for yas.

The theme of today’s bloggie hadn’t so much as crossed my mind 48 hours ago. But I should have known. Of course I should have known. I Secret-ed disaster to myself.

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

Ooooh la la Connecticut! My oh my Rhode Island! Wahoo, yipeeeee Cape Cod! Such an incredible week with ridiculously amazing people. Alas (I think part of me was positively off my rocker for even thinking this), I was kinda looking forward coming back to the city.

My lovely lady friends, Ri and Michelle, have found themselves some brand new digs in the EVills. Being the magnanimous/ stupendously-outrageously-indebted friend that I am (they helped me move last year – yep that's my old apartamento on moving day to the right), I offered to help them paint it.

Sure, I was pretty burnt out after my Tour de New England, but I opted to take the 8:30 am train Tuesday morning for optimal painting time.

Big.

Effing.

MISTAKE.
If there was ever a Metro North, Wassaic to Grand Central, cataclysmic-Perfect-Storm-of-goddamn-events, this was it. And I....I was in the eye.

Papa P dropped me off around 8:10. He had to go to work and I was perfectly content reading my book that I had no problemo sitting there for 20 minutes.

We left on time and were pulling into Harlem Valley-Wingdale, just twenty-five minutes away, when the train started showing sicky signs. But we made it out of that station. Slowly, yes, chugging along at approximately four-and-a-half miles per hour...then poof. We stopped. The lights went off. The air stopped blowing. The train broke down.

Half an hour went by. Forty-five minutes. An hour. An hour and twenty minutes. Sure, the lackadaisical conductor was updating us with “They’re ahhhhh sending out ahhhh mechanic now.” And “Looks like ahhhhh there’s gonna be ahhhh buses running to Southeast.” And “We’re still ahhhhh waiting to see if they can ahhhhh fix the engine.” And, my favorite, “We’re still ahhhhh waiting here.”

Really? Thanks.
The mechanics couldn’t do jack shit to the stupid electrical engine (clean air be damned, at least diesel engines were dependable!) Gah! And so we sat.

Now let me just say that when I go home to Connecticut, I usually bring one or two bags with me. However, like rabbits, those incestuous couple of bags duplicate and multiply and pretty soon I have four bags, five, to contend with on my trip back to NYC.

Five would have been manageable. I woulda been fine with five, sure. But of course, of COURSE, on this particularly unspecial occasion, I was carrying seven separate bags.

I was flustered, frenzied – yeah, it’s not like I had to get back to go to work but I did have a paint-date obligation to fulfill...and seven goddamn bags to carry.

A new engine came down the tracks and pushed us back 100 feet to the platform. Buses it was! I threw the three heaviest bags over my shoulders, heaved the remainders onto my forearms, and booked it. Booked it as fast as I could with scores of pounds of clothes, perishables, and bags-o-goodies from Targ.

There was a line for the bus but I was, oddly, optimistic. It was somewhat of an unusual experience for me, not being overly anxious. Not being in a particularly huge rush.

That should have been my warning sign. I should have known better...should have seen the ironic foreshadowing, should have realized that they Law of Attraction is not something to be taken lightly.

The bus was full. The nerve. The nerve of Metro North to send one measly coach bus to pick up three – THREE – cars worth of train passengers.

Overtired, overdrinked from the week, overweighed by my bags, overwhelmed, overanxious, overheating (wow, you can really put the word “over” in front of just about anything and it works), my eyes pooled and big, fat crocodile tears spilled over.

I snatched my oversized sunglasses, with some difficulty, out of my purse and called my mom. And, like the twenty-six year old baby that I am, I cried. Yes. Yes, there was snot.

After a few deeps breaths, I got myself together, left my plethora of bags, and went to ask a mechanic what the deal was. Metro North had the impudence to call back that stupid broken train to Harlem Valley-Wingdale, the one we had gotten off of fifteen minutes earlier, to pick up Those Left Behind.

So silly. So atrociously, preposterously silly. WHY COULDN’T THEY JUST BRING US ALL THE WAY TO SOUTHEAST IN THE FIRST PLACE????

Sure, there’s laws about riding on “broken” trains and shit, but whatever. They had a perfectly good engine pushing the train. Why make a girl cry, yo?

About ten of us limped into Southeast station with a “Ha, HA!, you selfish little bus-takers! We win!”, then got on our very own “special” train to take us from Southeast. I felt like a VIP. It was positively amazing...for ten minutes, till I heard them say we had to transfer at North White Plains.

What? WHAT? To compound the idiocy, the illogical whirlwind of nonsensical stupidity, the frustration of train to bus to train to train, we had to take (yet) ANOTHER train from North White Plains to Grand Central.

AND of COURSE it was a goddamn local train stopping at Scarsdale, Tuckahoe, Botanical Gardens – every stupid stop we Wassaic-ers usually bypass. Ugh! Four different trains. Four! When the conductor asked me for my ticket on that last leg, I gave him my best pout-scowl. He saw it was from Wassaic, looked at me, then said, “Just wanted to see where you were coming from. You’re OK.” Really, buddy? As if you’re doing me a favor by not punching out one of the trips on my 10-Trip ticket? How kind. How very generous.

Five hours later, I finally arrived in New York. Goody, goody gosh darn gumdrops.

But what perhaps irked me most about this experience - aside from the neverendingness of it all – was that no one offered to help me with my gazillion heavy ass bags.

“That’s a lot of bags you have for all these trains!” one man had the gumption to say as he picked up his briefcase and squeezed by me. No shcnocky Sherlock.

Oh wait, I lied. Actually a middle-aged man caught my dress bag from falling completely off the seat.

But other than that, not a single finger was lifted. Not one. And my heart sank along with my slumping, weighed down shoulders.

Chivalry, and my love for Metro North (for their dependability, their timeliness), are both, indeed, dead.

Faux Fall

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who believe summer ends with the Fourth…and those who are Labor Day holdouts.

I, unfortunately, belong to the former school of thought.

Why everyone doesn’t feel that the Fourth is it, I know not. (Especially with those Fashion Gods controlling our every fancy - “Fall Arrivals are HERE!” Umm...it’s still July. Thanks.)
So yeah, I’m generally the pessimistic, gloomy defeatist that everyone (especially Kelly Cobb) yells at when I start complaining how summa is already ova. Wham, bam is practically September!

However, this year I’ve been trying something called optimism on for size. I’ve been reminding myself that I still got lots of vaca left – the entire month of August. Atlantic City! Rhode Island! Cape Cod! I’m really trying to remain fairly upbeat about it.

And yet…my quasi cheerful/cynical nature was caught off guard by Mother Nature the other day when, on my walk to work, I noticed a scattering of leaves on the sidewalk.

Anger bubbled up in my veins and my downcast, lackluster eyes noticed nothing but more dead leaves. And more. And MORE.

Really? Really???

I’m sorry you have bipolar disorder Mama Natch but come on. It’s not autumn yet!!! Why you dropping dried leaves already? As if I need another reminder that we’re spiraling downward toward coldness!
WTFssss???
Has anyone else noticed this phenomenon?

What I find most puzzling and paradoxical is the fact that it has been a ridiculously wet spring AND “summer” and therefore there should be no reason those stupid leaves have shriveled up and died.

Why they so confused? It’s not your time, buddies!
I know I been complaining lots about air conditioning and back sweat this week, but there have been quite a few days this month that have felt more like October than August.

It’s just downright mean.
The gusty winds, the gloomy skies, the cool temps, the dead leaves everywhere.

I mean, really. Come on.

I guess it’s back to counting the seconds till Mellowcreme Pumpkins, long sweaters, and tall leather boots for this stick in the mud.

Pump Up the Jam Air!

Now it’s fairly funny and not just a little ironic that my AC has been decidedly AC-less.

Perhaps it read my last blog.

I’m so quick to judge though (surprised?) Maybe my body is just not used to “summer”. It’s been so unavailable that when the heat finally reared its ugly head, I suppose I just wasn’t ready for it.

To put it plainly: I’ve never sweated so much in my entire life as I have these past couple of weeks. Vulgar, but true.

It’s disgusting!
If I could click out a couple hundred sticks of soft solid antiperspirant and take a bath in it, I would.

For reals though, I think my air conditioner heard that I was talking shit about its brethren and decided to not do its job properly.

What’s up with that? Either there’s too much AC or not enough. Never a happy medium.

And lately mine has been the latter.

I left it on last night while I was out for the evening (unheaaard of...again: I hate you ConEd!)

Alllllll I wanted after a long day of working/cooking/laundering/cleaning then going out in this stinky, soupy, sweaty heat was come home to a nice cool apartamento. But no.

Drafts from the subway grates blow cooler than my AC.

When I got home – can you guess? – MY APARTMENT WAS STILL HOT.

I’ve mentioned the size of my apartment many a time. So we all know that it ain’t that big. That’s why I don’t understand why oh why oh why it has such a difficult time keeping cool.

Why are you dysfunctional, AC? Why don't you get it? Why do you insist on punishing me? You've got enough BTUs to do a stand up job! Stop being selfish and needy and wanting more!

It’s an evil, ne’er-do-well of a technological temperature system. Like the wood stove in “Home Alone”.

And I…I’ve had to endure the unthinkable – I’ve learned to sleep without so much as a SHEET covering me. How crazy is that??

Come on AC! Pump Up the Air!

Spittin' AC's

Ahhh. Summertime. And the livin’s easy.

Well, at least there’s been a week or so of summertime. And my livin has certainly been easy - what, between my days off and my gym’s pool. Throw some Billie/Miles/Nina/Ella/Louis on the iPod and wham bam, thank you ma’am, I’s in heaven.

Heaven isn’t always a pretty, pretty picture though. Sometimes there’s melting snowman makeup faces and dripping popsicle back sweat.

No, no. No one likes a sweat ball.

And that, my friends, is why God invented air conditioning.

Who doesn’t love them some AC? It’s the best invention...well...since fire I suppose.

When summer hits, we all sacrifice our paychecks to the ConEd gods to keep our AC alive. Who can sleep in the heat? Who can eat in the heat? Who can LIVE in the heat?

No. Hot apartments just aren’t acceptable.

However, with the refreshing cold air, so too comes the not-so-refreshing drops of water.

My GOD, as if we city-dwellers don’t have it bad enough.

Ugh! Rain pouring so hard from the sky it seems like the world is going to end. Muddy, mucky, stinky street soup flopping up the backs of our legs, staining our white dresses. Crazy cab drivers splashing puddles all over us.

Noooooo. We have to have all sorts of Chinese water torture thrown our way.

It’s happened to everyone. And if it hasn’t happened to you, then you’re one lucky SOB.

There’s nothing worse than getting spit on by wayward, unruly, RUDE air conditioners. OK, well there are worse things but still...it’s so unfair!
Is it raining? AGAIN??

Was that bird shit?

Did someone just hock a loogie out the window?

Is someone pissing off the fire escape??
Oh no. No, no. It’s just a stupid selfish air conditioner who’s so mad that it’s working overtime, it just has to spit on you.

As if!

I suppose (realistically) that it's impossible not to encounter drippy air conditioners. Especially in this humid, soupy city. But come onnnnn inventors!! Why can’t you come up with a dripless AC unit? Why can’t you create a catch-all spit collector?

Bleh!