I Am Ashamed That Women Are So Simple

"My mind hath been as big as one of yours, my heart as great, my reason haply more to bandy word for word and frown for frown. But now I see my lances are but straws, my strength as weak, my weakness past compare, that seeming to be most which I indeed least am." -- William Shakespeare

Last week, I hacked my TV remotes to control devices other than their intended targets. I combined traditional drawing and digital ink and paint to create an advertisement that's currently hanging all over two boroughs. I finished writing a scientific research paper. I made and decorated a birthday cake using a recipe I designed myself. I built a theatrical prop out of plaster, polyurethane, and chicken wire that's able to support up to 300 lbs. I knocked back a few pitchers of beer with a few surgeons. I knitted a sock. I re-tiled my kitchen floor. And I did all of this by myself. In fact, this sort of laundry list is a typical week in my world.

As those closet to me know, I'm a whole lot of tough-as-nails wrapped in a deceptively sweet, feminine, cookie-baking package. I work hard and I have a lot of hobbies. I keep busy. I get shit done. I'm independent. I'm worldly. Not much shocks me. I'm a problem-solver. I don't need anyone or need to feel needed by anyone in order to be happy. The female relatives who spent my childhood encouraging me to find a strong husband to take care of me have admitted defeat because I'm stronger than every man they know. My friends call me a badass and I wear the word like a badge of honor. This is who I am.

How, then, do I reconcile who I am with something else I did last week -- namely, how I reacted to the appearance of a mouse in my kitchen? To put it bluntly, the mouse kicked my ass. Yes, I multitasked the crap out of him (i.e. barricaded him in my kitchen, bought and laid traps, scheduled for an exterminator) and caught him within fifteen minutes of first spotting him. But once that walnut-sized ball of fur was covered in peanut butter and stuck to a patch of glue on my kitchen floor, I panicked. And we're talking real panic here. The little bastard was squealing and galloping the glue trap around my kitchen for the better part of an hour while I was standing on my coffee table with my hands over my ears sobbing and hyperventilating.

For the first time in my adult life, I was physically and emotionally incapable of solving a simple problem. And as I stood on the coffee table like an idiot struggling to regain control of my breathing, all I could think about was how much I wished I had a husband or live-in boyfriend who could take the mouse away for me.

Obviously, as a woman normally secure in her ability to handle anything and smash gender stereotypes to pieces along the way, the fact that I longed for a man in my hour of need worried me far more than the mouse did.

The next day, I tracked down One Doc In Particular and told him the story. He laughed his ass off at my plight -- especially the kitchen barricade -- but grew serious when I described my desperate coffee table regrets and how defeated they made me feel.

He leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, and eyed me thoughtfully. "It's not a bad thing to need a man, you know."

"For some people, maybe. But a lot of my self-worth comes from my self-sufficiency. I only surround myself with people that I want in my life, not people that I need in order to get by."

"You're certainly not co-dependent, that's for sure."

"Right now, I can pretend like this never happened and/or chalk it up to panic-induced hallucination. But what if it happens again?"

He shrugged. "If it happens again, you'll have been through it already. And you're a smart lady. You're good at getting your learn on. You'll be able to deal."

Perhaps he's right. Yeah, I had a moment of weakness, but it's not a life crisis unless I make it one. Badasses are adaptable, after all, and I can still wear that label with pride if I move on and learn from the experience.

It's also good to know that I have people on speed dial to help me down off the coffee table... and I told him so. "No problem," he said. "If it ever happens again, let me know."

I smirked. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Oh, absolutely nothing. Those things freak me out. But I still want to know."

Guess I wasn't putting gender equality back into the stone age after all.

I Know This Looks Bad, But...

"It's the same old song, but with a different meaning since you've been gone." -- The Four Tops

It's been raining on and off all day -- and by "raining" I mean "walking outside feels like having buckets of water thrown on you." I was fortunate enough to get stuck outside during one of these deluges, and while I have no problems walking in the rain, my feet were sliding around in my shoes too much to make any semblance of walking possible. Thus, I conceded defeat and ducked into a drugstore to wait it out.

I checked my appearance in one of the cosmetics aisle mirrors; aside from my dripping hair and a black ring of mascara around each eye, I didn't think I looked too terrible. I wandered around, picked up a couple of items, made small talk with a couple about the deliciousness of Pop Chips. When I saw that the skies had cleared, I made my way to the register.

I greeted the cashier. He looked at my runny makeup, then he looked at the two items I was purchasing. He picked up the package of feminine products, scanned it, and placed it into a bag. He picked up the bottle of Drano, scanned it, started to place it in the bag, then hesitated. He held it up and raised an eyebrow. "You're not planning on drinking this, are you?" he asked.

I didn't look that awful. I swear.

Three Genius Moves

"You had the ability to choose what you were going to make me feel, so take responsibility for who you lose when the pain you inflict becomes real. So before I go, you should know that other human beings don't f*ck with each other unless they want to lose each other. And you just lost me." -- from Glory Days

You know those days when your most brilliant ideas tend to fail in a myriad of spectacularly embarrassing ways? Multiply it by one and you've got an unfortunate situation. Multiply it by two and you've got a bad day. Multiply it by three and you've got a pretty awesome story.

Last Thursday, near the end of my workday, I stood on a swivel chair to reach a high shelf. Genius Move #1. Yes, I know that steadying oneself on a platform that can slide AND rotate is an inherently dangerous thing to do, but my colleagues and I navigate our cabinets this way at least once every few hours without a problem.

This time, however, the chair slipped as I hopped down from it. And sent my high heel-clad right foot straight through the sleeve seam of my coworker's coat.

I apologized for my (literal) misstep, assured her that I know how to sew, and promised to come into work the following day (i.e. my day off) to repair it.

Last Friday, i.e. my day off, I decided to go for a run prior to playing tailor at work. I then realized that it would be a better use of my time to kill two birds with one stone, take a jogging route that passes my office, and pop into work to sew my coworker's coat. Genius Move #2.

I dressed in my normal running gear -- sneakers, sweatpants, a cropped sportsbra top, and a ponytail -- skipped the makeup and contact lenses, tucked a needle and thread into my pocket, and set off.

It was a warm, sunny day, so I was red-skinned and drenched by the time I arrived at work. And Lord knows what my hair looked like; my curls don't stay put in an elastic band even on a good day. I couldn't exactly walk through a waiting room full of patients looking the way I did, so I decided to take the elevator up to an office floor and take the back stairs down to where my colleague's coat was stored. Genius Move #3.

The elevator doors opened on my intended floor... and instead of its usual emptiness, the hallway was completely filled with anonymous men in suits. And a spectacular lunch buffet. And a bunch of doctors I barely know. And a PowerPoint presentation.

And, as is always the case when I arrive somewhere in a sportsbra and sneakers looking sweaty and disgusting and intending to remain unseen, the doctor standing closest to me was my clinic's Jake Ryan. Or Zach Siler. Or Finn Hudson. Or [insert the name of your favorite gorgeous popular jock with a heart of gold here]. Perfection in Scrubs was working the room, chatting animatedly with a few of the suits, until he saw me. Then he stopped in mid-sentence. And stared. And not in a good way.

I shot him a look that was part "hey" and part "holy crap." Then I hightailed it the hell out of there and down the back stairs as fast as I possibly could.

At least my coworker's sleeve seam looks fantastic.

Safety first!

"Always wear expensive shoes. People notice." -- Brian Koslow


Last night, Dan told me that a combination of snow and rain covered the sidwalks of DC with an eighth of an inch of slush, i.e. "just enough to make you slip and die." I replied that NYC was due for the same disgusting weather today. We discussed the treacherous conditions, strategized how to navigate them without running the risk of cranial fractures, and ended the conversation by telling each other to stay safe.


This morning, one of my colleagues told me a story from her walk to work. As she trudged through the sleet from the bus stop to clinic, she couldn't help but stare at the woman about to cross her path. Or, rather, at the woman's feet. Alone in a sea of miserable boot-clad commuters, this daring lady was wearing sky-high purple suede heels and was blithely hopping over puddles and ice floes en route to her destination.


My colleague stared at the woman for a moment, then realized that she recognized her. She punctuated this part of the story by shooting a glance at my feet and quirking an eyebrow.

Ahem.


In my defense, I was just popping fifty feet across the street for a meeting! And the sky-high purple suede heels are made by Melissa... meaning they're injection-molded from flexible polyvinyl chloride and are thus nonslip and waterproof! And I did wear sneakers for my real commute! And... yeah, I'm out of excuses.

Pwned.

"ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US." -- Zero Wing and its associated meme

I'm a geek, I work on a small research team filled with geeks, and we spend an inordinate amount of time trying to outdo each other with nerdspeak, SAT words, and pop culture references. Last week, I neatly hid the phrase "all their space are belong to us" under the fourth bullet point of our team meeting agenda.

I expected at least three of my colleagues to recognize the phrase and get a kick out of it.

I didn't expect to arrive at the meeting and find several surgeons, a couple of nurses from a different department, and some new research staff -- all of whom are woefully unfamiliar with my sense of humor and the shenanigans my teammates and I enjoy in our spare time -- sitting at the conference table.

My target audience of three individuals chuckled when we reached the fourth bullet point. Judging from the facial expressions of the newcomers, I surmised that none of them got the joke.

And judging from the fact that one of them muttered the words "subject-verb agreement" after the meeting adjourned, I knew I was right.

Pwned.

An Open Letter to the Upper East Side After A Snowstorm

"Hardly dashing through the snow because I bundled up too tight." -- The Waitresses

Uggs are not snow boots. They are not waterproof and they have no traction. If you move unnaturally slowly and keep falling over yourself because you insist on wearing them, don't look insulted when I scoot past you on the sidewalk.

Rubber rain wellies are not snow boots, either. I thought this would be obvious, especially considering how loudly you were screeching "OMG my toes are COLD!" in the middle of the street. I know some companies make cold-weather inserts for them; perhaps you should invest.

I've ranted about this in the past, but I'll say it again: you do not need an umbrella in the snow. Snow is the solid form of water, so if it lands on you, brush it off. All an umbrella does is impede the visibility of the person standing behind you, i.e. me, and make already treacherous conditions more dangerous for everyone around you.

I understand you're young and in love. But walking side by side and hand in hand during rush hour after a blizzard isn't a good idea, especially when the shoveled path through the snowdrifts on most sidewalks is only a foot and a half wide.

Dogs do not need sweaters. They manufacture their own sweaters. However, if you insist on putting a sweater on your dog and said dog sits in the middle of the sidewalk trying to chew the sweater off instead of doing its business, "I wonder why he's doing that...?" isn't a bright observation.

Yes, I'm aware that you own a darling mom-and-pop establishment that, by some miracle, has stayed open for sixty years in a tough retail neighborhood. Good for you, and kudos on beating the odds! However, you have no excuse not to shovel your damn sidewalk. If the tiniest old woman I've ever seen has enough strength to sling snow around outside that deli on 74th St., you can certainly do the same.

If your awning collapses onto the sidewalk under the weight of all that snow, drag it to the curb so people can pass. Scaling the thing and vaulting myself over the top, mountaineer-style, isn't on my list of things I like doing at 7:30 in the morning. And circumnavigating your garbage involves walking in the street -- and puts me directly in the path of the oncoming M15.

And speaking of the M15, don't feel bad about taking photos of the three buses stuck in the snow in the middle of the 68th St. intersection. It's hilarious. One of the bus drivers chilled in his seat eating pizza and doughnuts for ten whole hours; I was watching from the window.

Lastly, stop blaming the Dept. of Sanitation for this mess. It's not their fault that a good chunk of their workforce was laid off and remaining staff members have to contend with restricted overtime.

Epica Insuccessa

"Say it's over. Say I'm dreaming. Say I'm better that you left me. Say you're sorry -- I can take it. Say you will, say you won't. Say you love me, say you don't. I can make my own mistakes. Learn to let it bend before it breaks." -- Brandi Carlile

I don't usually follow recipes when I cook. I learned how to cook from my grandmother, which means that I work in the kitchen the same way she did -- measuring in terms of pinches and handfuls, feeling out the consistencies, tasting things along the way, applying heat until the food looks right. Even when baking, I use ratios and basic chemistry concepts more often than I use cookbooks.

That doesn't stop me from owning many cookbooks, reading tons of food blogs, and subscribing to half a dozen cooking magazines. One of them, La Cucina Italiana, has long been a favorite because it's as much of a resource about Italy as it is about Italian cooking. It teaches you where to stay and what to see in the country, discusses tools and techniques, and breaks down all of its food writing by region. (This is especially useful due to the insane degree of cultural variation across Italy; my Parmense grandfather and my Abruzzese grandfather might as well be from different planets.) Today, I spent my Saturday at home as a consequence of the snowstorm that never happened, which gave me an excuse to go through a year's worth of La Cucina Italiana back-issues to tear out the recipes worth keeping.

One recipe, for a sticky, delicious-looking chocolate espresso layer cake, haunted me all day, and since I had all of the required ingredients on hand, nothing could stop me from making it. The recipe was surprisingly simple -- it was a foam-based cake, made using whipped eggs and only enough butter to grease the pan -- and came together in no time at all.

I poured the batter into several miniature cake pans, whipped up the recipe's chocolate and coffee liqueur frosting while my cake was in the oven, and waited expectantly. After half an hour, I pulled my cake out of the oven. It had basically exploded -- the batter was everywhere except my miniature cake tins, and I was thankful that I had the foresight to place the tins in a roasting pan before baking. I soldiered on, though -- hacked the cake out of the pan and glazed it anyway.

So it looked gross. But that doesn't matter if it tastes good, right?

Well, it didn't. It was so disgusting that I ate a few forkfuls and threw away the rest of the cake.

I then went online to check out what people were saying about the recipe. (I figured half a dozen horrible reviews would make me feel better about my culinary misfire.) Well, it turns out that the reviews on the La Cucina Italiana website were... pretty good. Very good, actually. The cake was downright praised.

I scrolled up to look at the recipe on the website. It called for six tablespoons of softened butter. I then grabbed my torn-out recipe off the kitchen counter. It called for no butter. The recipe on the website gave very specific instructions about how to incorporate all that butter into the batter. There weren't any references to butter in the text of my recipe.

Now I have a garbage can full of disgusting cake and a folder full of recipes that I will never, ever use... on principle alone. I'll read through them tomorrow morning and jot down any meal ideas that they inspire. Then they can join the damned cake in the trash.

Coming Clean

"Lift up your head. Wash off your mascara. Here, take my Kleenex -- wipe that lipstick away. Show me your face clean as the morning. I know things were bad, but now they're okay." -- from Little Shop of Horrors

Though my Sephora bills may claim otherwise, I don't wear a lot of makeup. I love experimenting with colors and contouring and shading, but frankly, I don't have the time to transform myself into a bombshell before work every day. I normally favor a natural look -- a little concealer under my eyes, blush, mascara, and lip gloss. Though I add cat-eye liner or red lipstick on certain days, I've always believed that my efforts are, for the most part, pretty invisible.

I didn't have enough time for even my minimal makeup routine yesterday morning, so I washed my face and ran out the door. I entered my building at 8, left my meeting at 9, and promptly got cornered in the hallway by two of my colleagues.

"Do you feel okay?" I said I was fine. "Are you sure?" I told them I was. They pointed out the shadows smudged under my eyes, the tiredness of my expression, and the sallowness of my skin. I then realized what they were driving at and revealed that I wasn't wearing any makeup.

"Oh." Pause. "Sorry."

I found some blush in my handbag, swiped it on, then asked for a second opinion. "Much better! You looked sick before!"

In a cruel twist of fate, this article was waiting for me on my RSS feed when I checked it later in the day.

Sick Sad World

"You've gotta love to hate." -- 114th Annual Varsity Show

6:22 PM: I sprint down the escalator to the subway platform and a W train is waiting for me. SCORE.
6:23 PM: I lean on the door to the conductor's compartment and load Doom: Resurrection on my iPod.
6:25 PM: Take THAT, chaingun zombie sergeants!!!
6:27 PM: I notice that the train hasn't moved and the car doors are still open. I lower the volume on my iPod.
6:28 PM: "We are being held momentarily by the train's dispatcher. Please be patient."
6:30 PM: My fellow passengers are starting to lose patience. Everyone starts to fidget.
6:32 PM: The conductor finally speaks. There was an incident at the next stop and service is temporarily delayed.
6:33 PM: The guy standing next to me curses out the MTA.
6:34 PM: The couple seated on my right decides to find somewhere nearby to get dinner. They exit the train and two other passengers take their seats. All of this takes some effort, since the train is now so packed that people can barely move.
6:35 PM: The conductor again informs us that there was an incident at the next stop and service is delayed all along this branch of the BMT. I'm slightly impressed that the conductor knows what the BMT is. More of my fellow passengers bail off. Cursing Man curses even more.
6:38 PM: DOOM level boss is annihilated after a few well-placed headshots. Gosh, my aim rocks.
6:40 PM: The conductor explains the nature of the incident. A woman didn't feel well on the train at the next station, so all trains on the line are being held until the ambulance arrives to examine her. The volume level in my car explodes.
6:41 PM: The woman next to me yells, "These a**holes! What part of 'Do not get on the train if you feel ill' do they not f***ing understand?!"
6:42 PM: Cursing Man curses a lot, bashes the handrails a few times, and calls the sick woman a pretty impressive array of insults.
6:43 PM: More people bail off the train.
6:45 PM: The conductor repeats his announcement about the sick woman at the next stop. Several passengers wonder aloud why the MTA can't "just make the b*tch get off the train" so service can resume.
6:46 PM: Another fellow wonders how long it takes to get a f***ing ambulance to a major transit hub.
6:50 PM: The conductor repeats his announcement. The mumblings, hisses, and sniping resume. The subway car is filled with an almost palpable haze of pure hatred, all directed at the ill woman at the next stop.
6:55 PM: I realize that I have to pee.
6:56 PM: I start to become enraged at the ill woman's audacity. Hell, I've fainted in the subway system several times over the years -- but each time, I had the decency to run off the train and pass out on the platform to avoid causing a train delay!
6:57 PM: It dawns on me that the New York City subway system is the only place on the planet where people will hear about a sick lady and respond with hatred and rage rather than concern and empathy.
6:58 PM: I remember that I'm a healthcare professional who has devoted her life to curing people. Part of me starts to feel guilty for resenting the sick woman.
6:59 PM: The doors close. The train moves.
7:00 PM: Cursing Man sighs an expletive of relief. For the first time all evening, I take a good look at him. He's wearing scrubs and hospital clogs.

A Lesser Babka

"What are we going to do now?! If we can't get the babka the whole thing's useless!" -- Jerry Seinfeld

I had dessert in my favorite bakery this evening, and after I settled my bill, I decided to buy some pastry for the road. I waited in line with the intention of purchasing a particularly delicious-looking chocolate babka I had been eyeing in the window all evening. Then, when I approached the counter, a woman appeared out of nowhere, cut in front of me on line, and ordered my babka. She left, I repeated her order, and, as luck would have it, she had nabbed the last one right out from under me. With no babka alternatives, I left empty-handed.

As someone who can quote whole episodes of Seinfeld from memory, this was one of the most thrilling things that has happened to me in a long time.

The Beholder

"I have an eye for spotting men with designs. I have a sense for all the obvious signs. And pal, I know when someone's feeding me lines! Don't feel too bad; you had your try. You have the touch, but not with me! I have an eye." -- Lucie Arnaz

That quote sums up yesterday morning, and as such, it was a pretty amazing morning. Then I went to make copies. Scanned my document, asked for 60 collated and stapled copies, wandered away, wandered back, found the thing jammed and beeping on copy 47.

I'm unnaturally gifted at fixing copiers, so like any engineer with too much time on her hands, I peeled off my sweater, dropped to my knees, and popped the casing open. I twisted knobs, I flipped switches, I slid trays, and I found all the usual problem areas blissfully clear of paper. Then I noticed that one of my documents had been shredded in the narrow crevasse between the stapling tray and the output tray. And after a few moments of fruitless exploration, I realized that the machine manufacturers didn't account for paper ever getting jammed there.

I have thin arms and long fingers, so I was able to carefully reach inside the machine to tease the paper free in pieces. The jammed area had lots of sharp parts and little room for error, though, so I emerged from the experience with my right hand bleeding in four places. Open wounds aren't a good thing to have in my work environment, so I washed, treated, and bandaged my hand before returning to clinic. It looked pretty strange, but I swore off handshakes for the day and trusted people to not draw attention to it.

Then I got the hiccups. Big, scary, near-constant hiccups that refused to go away even after several hours. I held my breath, I swallowed three times, I drank water upside down, rightside up, and with a spoon in the glass, I endured countless colleagues jumping out of the shadows to spook me. Nothing worked, so I just came to terms with the fact that I'd have to talk to people around hiccups all day.

I perfected a little speech: "Hi, my name is Ashley. Before we speak about the research, you'll have to excuse me if [hic] I need to pause every sentence or so. I've had the hiccups all day [hic] and they won't go away." People tolerated it for the most part, surprisingly -- they laughed if I laughed first, but they had the grace to ignore my hiccuping if I didn't draw attention to it.

Then, at the very end of the day, after I had been speaking for several hiccupy minutes, one woman burst into hysterics. "Oh my god, this is terrible!" she said between giggles. "I can't believe you've been working like this all day!"
"It's been an interesting day."
"And if you don't mind me asking, what happened to your hand?"
I flexed my heavily bandaged appendage. "I had an altercation with the copy machine."
"Oh boy. You know what you need to do? You need to go home and go to bed before anything else happens to you today. Just get rid of August 20th a little earlier than usual and hope that August 21st is better."

I'm usually the one who sits in exam rooms and dispenses information to people, so to have it turned around on me was a peculiar change. Her treatment plan worked wonders, though -- I decided not to work overtime, declined happy hour with my colleagues, went home, changed into my oldest nightgown, and watched hours of Project Runway in the air conditioning. I woke up this morning with no hiccups and four beautifully formed scabs on my right hand.

Living Proof

"Almost cut my hair; it happened just the other day. It was getting kind of long. I could have said it was in my way. But I didn't... and I wonder why I feel like letting my freak flag fly. I feel like I owe it to someone." -- Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young

I have ridiculously thick, riotously curly hair -- the kind of hair that a person can lose a hand in. When it's cooperating, it flows over my shoulders and halfway down my back in loose, glossy ringlets. When it's not cooperating, my head is covered in a vaguely triangular cloud of brown.

For the last few months, my hair has been more cooperative than usual thanks to Living Proof frizz products -- and as a result, I praise them to anyone who will listen. Developed by a team of biomedical engineers, they contain a novel polymer that seals the hair shaft against moisture better than silicone does. I don't have fierce loyalty to many beauty products (cough except for Tarte Flush, Too Faced Lip Injection Extreme, Hope in a Jar, and Kiehl's leave-in conditioner cough), but Living Proof's curl-making cream is an essential part of my daily routine. I've been able to ditch my arsenal of serums and treatments as a result of it; I get out of the shower, comb in my leave-in conditioner, smooth on a little frizz, and let my hair air-dry. Et voila.

The stuff works miracles, but having great hair in mid-summer in New York City in the rain needs more than a miracle. Thus, while my curls looked okay yesterday, they didn't look as good as usual.

I arrived early for an 8PM dinner reservation, so I killed some time by wandering around SoHo. I browsed through Michael Kors, J. Crew, Banana, Victoria's Secret, then eventually found my way to Sephora. Directly inside the front doors stood an enormous display of Living Proof products, and I approached the pyramids of bottles to see if they were offering anything new.

Almost immediately, a salesperson swooped down on me. "This is a fantastic new line, and you have the perfect hair for it! It will tame your flyaways and frizz, define your curls, give you shine..."

I let the guy ramble on for a few minutes, then when he paused, I gave him my most brilliant smile. "I actually use these products. I'm wearing that one right now."

"Oh," he said after a moment's pause. "Sorry?"

I thanked him, left, and headed back towards the restaurant. I had a good story to tell my dinner companions.

Carrie On

"After years of living in the city, I assumed that if my friends and I ever got our fairytale endings, that would be the end of the story. But real life always has a twist." -- Carrie Bradshaw

The mid-summer sun shone warmly over First Avenue as my colleague and I left our building for a mid-afternoon caffeine run. A crowd was gathered just outside our doors, and after sidling to the front of it, the reason for the traffic jam became clear: despite the sun, the skies and streets were slick with pouring rain. My colleague and I glanced at each other, smirked, simultaneously pulled jewel-toned mini-umbrellas out of our bags, and continued on our way.

We were paused at the corner of our block, waiting for the light to change, when it happened. A bus sped through the yellow traffic signal, crossed in front of us at top speed, and sent a sheet of puddle water straight at us. Neither of us were quick enough to lower our umbrellas against the deluge or even jump back out of its range, so we were completely drenched by it. We're talking wet hair, dripping hems, splatter-painted dress pants, and semi-transparent blouses here.

I spat a mouthful of puddle onto the sidewalk as my colleague stared after the bus, water dripping steadily from her chin. "That's never happened to me," she said. "I've seen it happen in movies and on TV, but it's never happened to me." I concurred; the opening credits of Sex and the City flashed through my mind. The light changed and we continued on our quest for coffee, soggier and strutting slightly less than when we started out. With my luck, I thought, watch me run into Mr. Big, Aidan, Smith, or Dante while I'm drenched and disgusting.

We entered the coffee shop and, luckily, it was full of middle-aged women. My colleague placed her order with a squat, smiling lady, then she stepped aside to make room for me at the counter. I tried to catch the barista's eye, but she moved away and headed towards the shop's back room.

Six and a half feet of olive-skinned, muscular man took the barista's place at the counter. He flashed me a brilliant smile with at least one dimple, tossed back his glossy black curls, and asked for my order in a stereotypically perfect French accent. I mumbled my request for a fresh mint tea -- my 'cute guy, ignore really hard' instinct had kicked in by that point -- and I fled the scene as soon as humanly possible.

Halfway back to our building, my colleague started laughing. "We got soaked by a bus, then we went to a trendy Upper East Side coffee house and a hot French guy appeared out of thin air to take your order. I believe we just had a Carrie Bradshaw moment." I chuckled and revealed that I had been thinking along the exact same lines.

Ten minutes later, as the fabric of my pants dripped little puddles onto the carpet under my desk, I thought of all the times I've openly laughed at women for moving to New York City in an effort to become like Carrie. To be honest, though, my ten minutes in her shoes felt like time well spent.

Hello, Norma Jean

"It's wonderful to feel the way a woman feels! It gives you such a glow just to know you're wearing lipstick and heels!" -- Lee Adams

Poked

"If I could call one last truce, we've given it all we've got. If we've got nothing left, this could be worth remembering with a smile upon my face." -- Brandi Carlile

Today was a rainy, snowy, rainy, snowy day in New York City. I love the rain and I love the snow, but the slippery sidewalks and unpredictable precipitation meant that two of my pet peeves monopolized the streets and eliminated any opportunity to enjoy the weather.

One of the annoyances -- slow-moving pedestrians who occupy most of the sidewalk and force me to break my stride -- has been discussed at length here. The other, luckily, only appears a few times a year: people who use umbrellas during a snowstorm. ('Snow' implies the solid form of water, people; suck it up and brush it off before it melts.)

It was snowing as I walked to the subway this morning -- and we're talking gorgeous, serene snow here, with big fat flakes that caught prettily in my hair as I walked. Of course, though, I was blessed with a double-whammy two blocks from the station: a large slow-moving man with an even larger umbrella. I couldn't pass him because the sidewalk was too narrow and too poorly shoveled, I couldn't even see beyond him because of the vastness of his umbrella, and I couldn't yell at him to move because our shared path was too icy to warrant it. Thus, I shuffled along behind him, growing increasingly more frustrated with every stunted step.

We reached the steps up to the subway platform and he closed his umbrella. However, instead of carrying it in front of him like a civilized person, he held it parallel to the ground with the sharp pointed end facing me. He then decided to swing his arms wildly as he climbed the stairs, and said umbrella point stabbed me squarely in the left thigh.

"Excuse me!" I yelled. He turned his head a fraction, pretended not to hear me, swung his arm again, missed me by inches. "EXCUSE ME!" I yelled again, and he turned and glared at me. "Watch the umbrella!"

He rolled his eyes and continued to mount the stairs even more slowly than before. He then "accidentally" misplaced his Metrocard as I waited to swipe through the turnstile after him, miraculously located it when I switched to a different turnstile, half-sprinted to ensure that he was in front of me as I climbed the second set of stairs to the platform, and stole the corner seat I was eyeing practically out from under me.

By the time I exited the subway near my office, the snow had turned to rain.

Four on the Fourth

"I wander lost in yesterday, wanting to fly but scared to try. But... if someone like you found someone like me, then suddenly nothing would ever be the same." -- from Jekyll & Hyde

Back in the day, I wrote three blog entries likening the game of chess to the game of love and explained how my playing styles in both games are shockingly similar. In the last of my three posts, I pinpointed the endgame as one of the weaker parts of my chessplay and likened my inability to achieve checkmate to my astonishing inability to seal a romantic deal. Anyway, after umpteen more failed exchanges with a favored opponent, I realized that the sense of frustration I was enduring felt EXACTLY like trying to win a rook-and-pawn endgame under time pressure with the fifty-move mark looming.

"If I see her standing there alone at the train station three stops from her home, I have half a mind to say what I'm thinking. Anyway, I don't know. I don't know." -- Sufjan Stevens

In accordance with the MTA's ridiculous new plans for beating their deficit, the W train is slowly being phased out of service and the Q line is being extended. Thus, I rode a Q into Queens today. It was an odd, odd feeling.

"'Would you like me to do it now?' asked Snape, his voice heavy with irony. 'Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?'" -- J.K. Rowling

I received The Tales of Beedle the Bard, J.K. Rowling's collection of fables "from the world of Harry Potter," as a gift and read it through in twenty minutes. Yeah, it was interesting and yeah, I love the fact that the title page states that the book was "translated from the ancient runes by Hermione Granger with extensive commentary by Albus Dumbledore," but I wasn't overly enthusiastic about the complete product. J.K. Rowling killed my favorite character in a really crappy way in the seventh book and nothing has really mattered too much since. Could it be that I'm finally starting to outgrow the Potterverse?

"He don't eat no meat? What you mean he DON'T EAT NO MEAT?! Oh, that's okay. That's okay. I make lamb. Come." -- Aunt Voula, from My Big Fat Greek Wedding

For a quick, easy, and delicious lamb marinade, whisk together 1/4 cup lemon juice, 1/8 cup extra-virgin olive oil (or, for an extra kick, an infused olive oil from O&Co), six sliced-up cloves of garlic, half a chopped-up large white onion, 1 tsp dried or 2 tbsp fresh parsley, 1 tsp dried oregano or rosemary, pinch of salt, pinch of pepper. Throw all the ingredients into a large Ziplock bag, shake it up, then throw in 4-8 eight lamb chops, shake it up again, and place the bag flat in the fridge for at least four hours. Grill the chops without brushing off the seasonings. Alternatively, bake the contents of the bag (minus the bag itself, of course) for 30 minutes (which will yield medium-well chops) at 400 degrees. Let chops rest for ten minutes before serving.

Closing Doors

"When I look at you, he is touching me. I would reach for him, but who can hold a memory?" -- from The Scarlet Pimpernel

My working group scheduled a 7AM meeting for this morning; the sun hadn't yet risen when I walked into clinic at 6:45. I didn't have time to make or purchase coffee before work, so, by 8:30, I was listless, unmotivated, and staring blankly at my computer screen.

In desperate need of a little caffeine therapy, I took a walk to Gotham, one avenue away. I purchased my caffeine fix and began my powerwalk back to clinic, but my pace slowed to a near-crawl after a mere few steps. As is often the case when I'm trying to get somewhere, the majority of the sidewalk was monopolized by a slow-moving couple. Now, very few things on this planet piss me off more than people who break my stride on the streets of New York City, but I couldn't get angry at these two.

Why? This lady and gent were ancient -- so old that they were shrunken and shriveled and barely reached the five-foot mark, with wisps of pure-white hair peeking out from under their hats. They were chatting animatedly with each other as they walked, whispering, glancing at each other with unbelievable fondness. And, most notably, they were holding hands -- even swinging their clasped fingers in time with their careful steps. It took me five minutes to walk one block because I was stuck behind them, but the waves of pure, unabashed love radiating off of the couple warmed my under-caffeinated heart. In light of the beauty of their union, I decided that, just maybe, my general hatred of public displays of affection was due for a little re-evaluation.

I moved to pass the couple as I approached my building, but they veered off towards the front doors along with me. The little old man held the door open for his lady, leading her through the entrance by the small of her back.

He then turned his head, looked me square in the eye, and let the door slam in my face.

PDAs should be outlawed. Outlawed.

Painful on Many Levels

"It's always a woman -- the hand in the till, the five-dollar diamond, the three-dollar bill, a genius for trickery who's second to none. There's nothing as low as a woman... isn't this fun?!" -- Stephen Sondheim

After a heinously awful five days at work, I had the good fortune of spending my entire weekend in bed, violently ill. What, you may wonder, does a girl do for two and a half days that doesn't involve moving or interrupting her Tylenol schedule? She watches four seasons of Coupling and all four Indiana Jones films in a row. She knocks out the entire desserts chapter of the cookbook she may or may not be writing. She works on a Halloween costume she probably won't end up wearing.

She also clears out space in her yarn stash by knitting half of the most horrifically ugly sweater anyone has ever seen:


It's itchy pea soup-colored wool with a subtle shine, and yes, it's cabled. And I'd really appreciate it if you have the courtesy to smack me if you ever see me wearing it in public.

The Way The Cookie Crumbles

"O, I am fortune's fool!" -- Romeo Montague

I had Chinese take-out for the first time in forever tonight and ended up with the strangest, most brilliant fortune cookie message I've ever seen:


Reading the fine print revealed that the cookie was produced at the largest fortune cookie factory in the nation -- in Queens, New York -- and the tongue-in-cheek message was probably written by a moonlighting grad student. In any case, it made my weekend!

Best Foot Forward

"Ah, I do not wear ze shoes because... zey make-a me fall down." -- Agador Spartacus, from The Birdcage

I fell asleep on the living room (read: uncomfortable) couch at about 9PM last night, and, as a result, I didn't get to accomplish any of the necessary tasks to ensure a smooth morning routine. Thus, I woke up with a chill and a sore back on said couch at 7AM, swore, then scrambled to get ready for work. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, pulled my curls up into a bun. A little eyeliner, a lot of red lipstick, eyeglasses, undergarments, deodorant, a spritz of Lanvin Rumeur. Breakfast, coffee, and earrings could wait until I got to work, but clothing couldn't.

I never got around to ironing before I dozed off, so I pulled my one un-creased pair of dress pants off the drying rack and ran back to my bedroom to put them on. I was halfway there when I felt it: a scrape at first, then a jolt of pain radiating up my leg. I sat on the edge of my bed and lifted my foot, revealing a massive splinter buried deep in the dancer's callus on my big toe. Since I wasn't about to perform foot surgery on myself in my frantic, underwear-clad state, I slapped a bunion pad over the splinter, pulled on a pair of dress socks, and decided to hope for the best.

I slipped into my pants and my favorite pair of flats, but I didn't even have to move to realize that my cuffs would clean the sidewalks with every step. Wearing a skirt was out of the question owing to my socks, so I instead opted to stick to the pants and wear most comfortable pair of high heels with them.

However, because of the socks, my most comfortable pair of high heels didn't fit. I tried on pair after pair -- and trust me, I have a LOT -- and they all felt uncomfortably snug. Finally, I tried on my super-soft, super-comfortable pointy-toed black pumps, which I only wear on my water-retention days because the leather has stretched so much that they tend to fall off when I walk, and they fit beautifully.

My choice of footwear functioned perfectly in the house, but when I tried to ease into my usual speedwalk en route to the subway, I knew I was in for a disatrous day. I had to walk slowly and hold my feet very stiffly to avoid falling head-first out of my shoes, and if I let my guard down for even a second, one or both shoes would fly off my feet. Despite the added bulk of the bunion pad, I lost my right shoe approximately once every hundred feet and my left shoe half as frequently. The walk to work from the subway was even worse; little old men and massively pregnant women moved faster than I could. I thought I'd be okay, though -- I had a day of desk work ahead of me, and as anyone who has ever taken Fluid Biomechanics with Dr. Kevin Costa knows, a desk-bound woman's feet swell massively over the course of eight hours.

Wishful thinking, yeah. The morning passed into afternoon and I still couldn't move correctly. Aside from the fact that my shoes felt strange, I felt like crap without the ability to bounce and sway my way around the city. I was still moving slowly and stiffly when I arrived home at 6:15 -- far later than usual because I was walking so damned slowly. Dad was outside smoking a cigar when I approached.

"Why are you walking like Frankenstein?" he asked. I told him. Ten minutes later, I had my foot up on the kitchen table as Dad squinted at it through his magnifying glasses. I glanced away for a moment, and when I focused on my father again, he was raising a very pointy pair of scissors to my toe with a manic glint in his eye. I don't remember much about the following half-hour, but I no longer have a splinter in my toe.