Words of wisdom

Clipping ones fingernails in a thirty person workshop in one's place of employment

may not be the most professional approach.

It is not a silent activity.

Fingernail clippers are one of the.most.distinct.sounds.ever.

We all hear you.

The jig is up.

Additional snippets:

- You know she's pretty big. My doll. She's 22 inches high.

- Well this company is Japanese. The CEO's name is Mr. X. and he brings his family and they don't speak much English but they are just the loveliest sweetest people. And I'm just trying to figure out when we're sitting at the table how I can turn her [the doll] so [the scarf/garment/whatever the F she made for the doll] it's best displayed. I'm trying to figure out if I can just turn her head to she's looking over her shoulder or something like that.

Overheard: Cubicle Conversation

- Oh, that's beautiful.

- Yes, it's for one of my dolls. I thought I could just drape it over her shoulders so it trails down the back.

- That's great...

- But I actually think I could wear it. I could put it right hear...or wear it over here like this... It's kind of trendy now. I think it would work.

- So you have a doll collection?

- Yes. I'm actually going into new york city this weekend. We have a little informal meetup. But of course its really a bit of a competition for whose stuff looks the best.

- Oh that's definitely a winner!

Today I Got Hit on by a 50+ Year Old Man

I don't really know what it is, but I don't think I have ever ever in my whole wide life been hit on by someone my own age.  Let alone my own age, my own decade.  My own generation.  

This is particularly ironic because most people manage to convince themselves that I'm in high school.  And then I get hit on by grandpas.  

The whole thing is just flat out disturbing.

So today, there I was sitting in Borders with my laptop, finally out of my pajamas and leaving the house, and typing away on The Next Great American Novel (or not).  

A professorly-looking fellow, white haired and fully bearded, walked past me a few times en route to the cafe or magazines or who knows what.  He was sitting somewhere behind me.  

Since I have the attention span of a squirrel (although, honestly, squirrels might have great attention spans - when they're chowing down on some nuts or standing in the middle of the road waiting to get slammed by my car they seem pretty focused) I feel the need to look up every single time I sense a movement/noise/odors/a change in the rays of the sun...  Unfortunately, this meant that I made eye contact with Professor White Beard a number of times as he passed by, smiling paternally.  

A while later, he comes up behind me and says, "So, what kind of writer are you?"

Me:  Ummm, uhh,  well I'm not really a writer, well not yet, I mean I want to be.  (Have I mentioned that I can be rather awkward when speaking to strangers?  Especially when I'm trying to contain the verbal diarrhea that naturally pours forth when strange men start asking me questions?)

Him:  Well, what's your preferred genre?  

Me:  Uhhhh

Him:  Novel, short story, poem, epic poem....

Me:  Um, whatever strikes me at the time I guess....

Him:  Well what are you working on right now?

Me:  Some essays?

Him:  I'm a science writer.

Me:  Oh, interesting.

Him:  I just published my 100th paper.

Me:  Wow, congratulations.

Him:  Do you go to college around here?

Me:  No, no.  I graduated last year.  A year and a half ago?  But, um, no.

Him:  So you're just here for fun?

Me:  Yes, I guess so.

Him:  Do you come here often?

Me:  Yes, sometimes.  I also go to the other Borders.  

Him:  Oh, I have a friend in that area.  I get up there occasionally.

Me:  Huh.

Him:  Well, maybe I'll see you around again sometime.  

Me:  Ok, nice meeting you.  Bye.

He leaves.  Phew!

Then, a couple hours later, right as I'm about to pack up and leave, someone comes up behind me again.

Him:  You're still here!

Me:  Oh, haha, um, yes.  Just about to pack up.

Him:  Send me a story.  I'll send you a paper.

He hands me piece of paper with his name (Dr. S something or other), email address, and phone number.  He says goodbye and leaves.  

I pack up and leave.  Very.  Very.  Quickly.

Too bad I'm not in the market for a Sugar Daddy....

A(nother) Train Story, or - A Tale About Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome Incurred on Today's Trip via NJ Transit

Today I spent much of the day thinking about The Lost Year.  

Or more specifically:

What on this green Earth could have possibly possessed me to commute FOUR HOURS every single day for almost a year on a completely horrendous train line filled with the most obnoxious specimens of human nature ever to breathe air?

Some highlights to incite pity from the masses:

9:05 a.m. - Board train.

9:10 a.m. - A bevy of six guffawing senior citizens sit behind me and proceed to screech and scream their way to Newark.  Apparently, their already-poor hearing must subsequently result in my hearing loss.  

10:25 a.m. - I transfer trains in Newark and stand in the vestibule between cars.  

10:27 a.m. - I am joined by a middle-aged tattooed couple that clearly had a bit too much experience with brain-altering substances in their youth.  (And probably in the present day.)  Hence their heavily delayed speech patterns.  They slur their way to Secaucus, peppering every other sentence with a drawn out "Maaaannnn," and then gallop off into a drug-addled sunrise.

10:57 a.m. - The conductor makes the following announcement:  "If you are traveling with small children, the elderly, or the intoxicated, please take them by the hand and watch the gap between the train and the platform."  Laughter ensues.  I'm grateful for this man's early morning train humor.  

  

11:00 a.m. - Arrive at New York Penn.  Walk 30 blocks.

12:00 p.m. - Interview (aka point of trip)

12:30 p.m. - Meet old coworkers for lunch.

1:30 p.m. - Subway back to Penn Station.  Wait for train.  Wait.  Wait.

2:07 p.m. - Board train.

2:30 p.m. -  Arrive in Newark.  Wait for train.  Wait.  Wait.  Read.  Read.  Wait.  Board train.  Wait.  Wait.

3:06 p.m. - Train leaves.

3:25 p.m. - I determine that the "woman" sitting across from me is almost assuredly a man in drag.

3:35 p.m. - I'm 98% percent sure that one of the many screaming children on the train experiences some gastrointestinal distress, the result of which wafts throughout the train car for innumerable minutes.

3:37 p.m. - Finish book.  Bored.  Jittery.  Anxious.  Bored.

3:45 p.m. - Mother:  Kids, quiet down or they're going to kick us off.

Kid:  How can they kick us off?  The window isn't even open!

...

Mother:  Honey, we don't need to see your underwear.

Kid:  But what's so wrong with it?  

3:48 p.m. - Conductor announces that we are being held at a stop signal.  We wait.  Again.

4:30 p.m. - Finally arrive home, twenty five minutes late.

Just another day in commuting hell.  

KB does DC with SG, and - A Train Story

Much to J's dismay, until this past weekend I had spent virtually zero time in our nation's capital.  

For J, this was just one more indication of the fact that I did not begin interacting with human civilization on Planet Earth until I was beamed into the Brett Hall dormitory at Rutgers University in August 2003.  (Other examples of my supposed alien status include never having watched "The Cosby Show," seen "Titanic" or vacationed in Disney World).

So, I was very excited about finally getting a chance to quiet the boy down and say that I had osmosed the American history floating in the DC air.  And mainly, to visit my good friend SG who has been reigning in DC since graduation high school.  

Now I can safely say that DC has been added to my (very short) list of Places Acceptable to Live at Some Point in The Future Once I Obtain Gainful Employment and Some Semblance of an Income.  

I was smitten with how low and clean and open and new DC is.  Compared to NYC that town is like a freaking scrubbed down hospital.  I could practically lick the sidewalks and only catch a very minor disease (as opposed to a fatal one, a la NYC).  Truly though.  When we walked into a very buzzing Rocket Bar filled with pool tables and shuffleboard, I could literally smell bleach.  

Funny, because as I raved about the cleanliness and mellowness of the city, SG rolled her eyes and said that's exactly what she was sick of - after 5 years in DC she's sick of the shiny veneer - bring on the grit and grime and creepster frenzy that is NYC!

So thank you again to SG for opening my eyes to the delights of DC, obscene quantities of Havarti cheese, and addictively soft American Apparel t-shirts.  

And now, A Train Story 

As some of you may know, I have a bit of a history with trains.  After commuting to NYC for a year via train from central NJ (i.e. TWO HOURS EACH WAY) I have become a bit of a train Nazi.  Or perhaps a train prisoner.  Whichever it is, I become even more hyper-observant than normal when zooming along at high speeds enclosed in narrow spaces with hundreds of other weirdos.  

On Friday afternoon I boarded the Northeast Regional Amtrak train in Metropark.  

The first thing that came to mind?  

Boy, do I miss the Acela.  

My only other pseudo-visit to DC was for a two-day work conference last November.  I got to see a whole slew of sights, like Union Station, the highway, and the hotel.  

However, work DID pick up the $376 tab for the Acela and let me tell you, it was transportation heaven.  At this point please keep in mind that I was in the midst of 4-hour-a-day train HELL on the Satan of all trains, NJ Transit.  The Acela, with its ample leg rooms and cushiony seats was like freaking paradise.  Best of all, my colleague and I found ourselves in the Quiet Car, probably the best invention in the history of public transportation.

So I was already missing the glories of the Quiet Car from the moment I stepped on the train.

Next obstacle:  Find available seat with relatively normal looking individual who will not make me want to rip out pages of my library book and give myself fatal papercuts

Now, I have extraordinary experience in this realm.  I'm a virtual train expert.  I am a seat-selection maven.  And I am ashamed to say that, on Friday, September 19th, I failed.

Basically, I overshot.  I rejected so many potential seatmates that I finally reached the end of the car, and because I was stupid enough to bring a duffel bag without a critical invention called wheels, my arm was about to pop out of its socket and I couldn't bear to go on.  I saw a harmless looking old man and chose him.

Idiot!  Idiot!

My old man smells like he hasn't been acquainted with a toothbrush in about three months.  

He keeps listing to the right and keeps popping my personal space bubble with his little old elbow.

I'm crossing my fingers that he gets off at the next stop and leaves me alone with non-morning-breath air.  

The girl behind me has a cell phone that chirps the first few bars of a Beach Boys song every two minutes, and it's immediately stuck in my head.  

At this point I'm having a funny little mental conversation with myself, because when I stood on the platform waiting for the train to arrive, I almost MISSED it.  I almost MISSED the train.  OK, not the train itself, but the sense of going somewhere, the anticipation.  

And now I'm chastising myself wondering what the hell I could have possibly been thinking, because clearly every train on earth is filled with complete nutjobs and limited ventilation.

The old man leaves and returns with a yogurt.  Strawberry.  

I eat yogurt everyday.  I love it.  It's delicious.  But in all honesty, it smells gross.  Especially when you are not the one eating it. 

Now he smells like yogurt morning breath.

The old man is surprisingly into his cell phone.  To be honest I'm impressed with his technological savvy.  

Until I realize that he has the key tone volume on, so that as he scrolls through his contact list, types a number, or browses his calls it BEEPS AND BEEPS AND BEEPS.  

LOUDLY.

Soon my old man breaks out one of those mini DVD players and a little remote control.  The title comes up on the screen and I realize he is watching the unrated version of "Talladega Nights."  I am simultaneously peeved and fascinated by this old dude.

Fortunately, he gets off in Delaware.  

I breathe a sigh of relief. 

I thank my lucky stars when a clean-cut younger businessman replaces my old man.  He is potentially gay, and quietly reading his magazine and shuffling through some work papers.

Then he answers a phone call.

He speaks.

As God as my witness, I have never smelled such horrible, traumatizing, make-you-want-to-bury-your-head-in-the-sand-like-an-ostrich-and-never-emerge breath.  

His breath makes the old man smell like the petals of a rare and beautiful flower.  The old man was the sweetest smelling object my nostrils have ever had the privilege to sniff.

This is not an exaggeration.  

For the next hour or so I literally plastered my face against the window in an attempt to avoid the trade winds of his breath.  

This was not normal bad breath.  This was knock your socks off, sear your nostril hairs, make-you-want-stick-mothballs-up-your-nose-because-even-that-scent-is-more-desirable breath.  

Does no one practice personal hygiene outside of the Tristate area?

I was in physical pain (probably from attempting to hold my breath at unhealthy periods of time).  

I sent SOS text messages to SG and J.  

I considered the fact that after this I may never be able to smell again.  

I almost whimpered in fear every time he exhaled.  

At one point I took out my container of Tic Tacs and I swear that I was thisclose to offering him one.  Seriously.  I almost did it.

When we finally reached DC I waited for Stinky Man to leave, and then stumbled down the aisle and out into the station gasping for air.  Never has the stench of train exhaust smelled so sweet.  

I remember why I hate the train.

The End.

Location: County Library

Ring ring ring

Ten-year old girl answers cell phone.

Hello?

...

Daaaad.  

...

I'm very busy right now.  

...

I'm in the library with my tutor.  I'm focused.

...