Archive of ‘random rantings’ category

First Impressions of NYC.

My first view of the city was as the plane began its descent, plummeting out of the roiling gray clouds that hugged the sky. And what a view it was. Hundreds and hundreds of buildings competing for their space in the sun, their spiky turrets and jagged edges reminding me of nothing so much as one of the lego cities my brother used to build.

Then we were on the ground and in the airport. Hundreds of people bustled to and fro, making the Indianapolis airport look like a ghost town in comparison.

Then, after being hustled by two Cicilian looking fellas wanting to drive me into the city, I got my cab—and my kind-faced, graying lady cab driver. She heaved my suitcase into the trunk (over my embarrassed objections) and got us on our way, spinning me the story of her life as she drove through Queens.

After teasing out what I do for a living, she told me she graduated from the Parsons School of Design. Wanted to be a jingle writer. But her mom got sick and her dad skipped out…and somewhere along the way, she became a cab driver instead. Her eyes lost her sparkle as she admitted that. But she still paints. Oils. Even exhibits them from time to time.

Soothed by the kindness in her voice and saddened by her story, I gave her what the scam driver at the airport had wanted me to pay—which amounted to a $20 tip for her.

Then it was out on to the busy streets, the smells of exhaust, sewers and cooking hot dogs mingling in my nose.

The people looked like people everywhere. Some in shorts, some in suits, and one horrifyingly badly dressed woman in a crop top and three-size-too-small jeans.

But there are a lot of good looking people here. More than are in the entire state of Indiana, I think. And the men? Actually know how to dress. The Bloomington male uniform of Old Navy ringer T and baggy shorts is nowhere in sight.

Meandering down Fifth Avenue, I window shopped to my heart’s content, trying on $200 dresses and even (mistakenly) a $300 cotton pullover. I repeatedly pulled out my credit card, only to put it away again, unused. It is only the first day. Wouldn’t do to spend all my cash so soon.

Then, it was time for dinner. A hot dog from a street vendor. I plopped myself down on a marble bench and dug into the bun full of processed goodness, watching the ever-changing flow of people wander by.

I pulled myself out of  my trance when I noticed a man standing in front of me. He made up a poem for me, featuring my hair, my eyes, my outfit—even the Sunkist I was drinking. As a performance, it was impressive, and I felt bad that I couldn’t give him the $2 he was requesting.

All I had was $20s. And greedy me couldn’t convince myself to part with that much. Sigh.

Now I’m in my hotel room, showered and powdered and perfumed. Soon I’ll head over to the Hilton for the People’s Party…but first, I have to present myself at the conference check in and hangdoggedly admit I left my badge at home.

It seems you can take the girl out of the mess, but you can’t take the mess out of the girl.

Look Out: It's Time For Another Virtual Temper Tantrum.

If you’re offended by foul language, you might want to stop reading now. Seriously. Well, okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

When Tori’s upset (or even just a tiny bit bothered), she throws herself backwards on the floor, arches her back and screams for all she’s worth.  And you know what? That’s exactly what I feel like doing right now.

My insides are still a mess. I have no appetite, and probably have not eaten more than 800 calories in the last five days, but I’m so ridiculously bloated that my pants barely fit. That fucking sucks, people. Everybody knows that if you can’t eat, the reward is supposed to be artificially loose pants.

Fuck you, body.

And you know what BabyCenter just sent me? An email with an article titled, “Why you might still look pregnant.” I clicked on it, thinking it might make me feel better about myself, only to find the following gem of advice, “it might take weeks for your belly to go down to pre-pregnancy size.” Weeks? Weeks? I’m on month nine, people, and my belly is nowhere near its pre-pregnancy size.

Fuck you, BabyCenter.

Oh, and speaking of Internet fails, today’s How To on my iGoogle page is “How to Sleep When You Are Not Tired.” Really? Google, the king of data collectors, can’t sort its content better than that? I mean, come on. Even the text ads next to my facebook profile know I’m a tired, fat new mom who hasn’t gotten enough sleep in the last 18 months. Are you telling me google can’t figure that out, too?

Fuck you, google.

Oh, and you know what else makes me mad? NBC. They’re threatening to bump Conan in favor of Jay Leno. NBC, you know what? The reason you have to cancel Jay Leno’s show is because he’s not funny anymore. Say it with me. Jay’s. Not. Funny. Don’t go replacing actual wit and humor with the vapid nothingness that is Jay Leno’s show. And Jay? If you still feel the need to work five days a week, have some respect for yourself and go be a greeter at Walmart or something.

You thought I was going to say fuck you again, didn’t you?

Okay, fine. Fuck you, NBC.

Sarah Palin. She makes me want to stab things. Why won’t she go away?

Also, the racist idiots of the tea party. They need to go drown themselves in a big vat of tea-flavored urine.

Glamour magazine? You make me mad, too. How many years can you continue to recycle the same 14 stories? There’s a world full of freelancers out there. Find some with original ideas.

Authors of parenting books? Stop making me feel like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing (I don’t. I know it. You don’t need to remind me).

Makers of baby products? Stop making me feel like I’m depriving my child if I don’t have the thousand dollar stroller, the five hundred dollar car seat and whatever gee whiz super cool gadget you’re going to come out with next.

World? Stop looking at me. You’re making me paranoid.

I could go on, but I think I’ve probably alienated enough people already. So I’ll stop. Normally, this is where I’d go pour myself a big drink, except for the fact that my fucking body is fucking messed up and in need of prescription meds to continue to function.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

See? The F-bomb. It has magical healing powers.

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