Pleurnichard….. look it up.
More to come soon…. I swear!
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve overheard several conversations, and in my head is what I want to say.
Overheard while walking in Riverside Park: “Yeah, I exercise. I go up that damn big-ass hill every day. Then I sit on the bench, have a smoke, and walk back down.”
To which I wanted to say: “Yeah, how’s that working for you?”
Overheard while at the Union Station metro card machines: (And the woman was barking- the poster child for defining barking – to her husband) “Did you PAY with a credit card? Did you? Did you!?! Are you even listening to me? Why aren’t you fucking listening to me?)
To which I wanted to say: “You know it’s only a metro card, right?”
Heard while on the metro at Union Station and my suitcase accidentally rolled away from me as the train stopped: “You know you have to hold on to your suitcase!”
To which I wanted to say: “You think?”
Overheard while at a diner on the upper west side:
Lady #1: “Well, remember she was dating that Chinese man.”
Lady #2: “ I thought he was Colombian.”
Lady #1: “No, no, he was Filipino.”
Lady #2: “Oh, well, she suffered!”
To which I wanted to say: “WTF?!!
traveling by train.
Forewarned is forearmed… so let it be known this post is going up in draft form…
Bored on the train, I have started making a mental list of things I didn’t know before today with regard to traveling on Amtrak….
So, I make it a point of trying to avoid writing about my dating escapades online. First, my dates need not be unwilling victims of my verbal skewering… if there is skewering to be had. Second, it seems a common theme – Sex & the City sort of killed it already. But, when I get an offer from a dating site I subscribe to- to join other potential dates at a Sword Class – skewering is not only required, it’s the point. Get it? OK foils are more point; swords are blade, but really the essential reflection here is, is it wise to combine dating with swordplay? We’re not talking metaphor here. It’s not Beatrice and Benedick, after all. (Shakespeare, people, stick with me. This is my rare foray into pretension)
First, my competitive nature requires me to ask, do I have to feign weakness? Is it bad form to win? Do I have to let him win? (Because of course, I’m assuming I would reign supreme on the fencing/swordplay field, lacking any evidence to the contrary.) What if despite my efforts to be a damsel in distress, he’s just really bad at swordplay? Heretofore, swordsmanship hasn’t been a criterion on my list of things I look for in a potential boyfriend.
What if instead, he does the super manly thing, and it’s just, ugh…too much? Are they serving giant turkey legs and leather cups brimming with mead? Is this just an excuse to call me a wench?
Finally, do I really want my first encounter with a prospect of the opposite sex to include a foray into deadly weapons?
This could all end badly.
As ever,
Quinn
So, the start to my day….
1) Dropped a fresh cup of coffee in the kitchen after fixing it with just the right amount of milk and sugar
2) Ran into not 1 but 2 guys I had gone on dates with while walking to work
3) The bottom inside of my shoes stuck to the bottom of my feet – and peeled off in scrappy pieces when I took my feet out of my shoes
4) Left my packed lunch on the table by the front door where it will melt until I get home from work.
What is the universe trying to tell me?
I visited your old-haunts today.
The tall trees whispered with the breeze of new leaves but they wouldn’t tell me your secrets.
I missed your urgent tugging on the lead…
To snuffle out a rabbit or startle a groundhog
Racing through the butterfly garden – with its tangles of vines and pitcher plants
Charging down the path to greet the morning
The ramble was empty but the grass beckoned…
But, you aren’t here to roll and shimmy against the lush new grass.
In the distance, the dog park is calling with playful yaps…
And, you aren’t here to answer their calls.
The horses nibble and paw at the tall grass growing along the fence…
You would only startle them, barking your greetings.
Spring is turning into summer,
Life continues with its seasons,
And my heart still aches to feel your warmth, and to see the world through your eyes.
Dear Sir,
As you spritely leapt down the street, what possessed you to carry your umbrella unfurled?
You were quite the spectacle in in your crisply pressed linen trousers with the pleat just so; a starched white shirt, fashionable tie, and jacket, your leather loafers clattering as a military tattoo to announce your arrival. (We couldn’t help but to hear you coming. )
Your decision to impose as a standard-bearer begs the question as to your chosen use of banner – the open umbrella – did you draw upon images of a proud Maasi warrior’s shield or a heroic knight’s coat of arms? It wasn’t raining. The sun wasn’t at its pinnacle. Were you buffeting the wind? The breeze was mild. Passers-by were left to lunge and scuttle out of your path as you deflected potential blows from who knows whom.
I think I can speak for all of my fellow pedestrians and Bodega shoppers on the corner of Second Avenue and E. 28th, when I say that we weren’t too eager to lose an eye, nor experience a facial scrape from the raptor-like wingspan of your pseudo-parasol-shield-whatever you were trying to make it, nor suffer impalement on the adorning ferrule.
Was this necessary?
Pourquoi? La parapluie, monsieur, pourquoi?
Well, you did, you know.
I suffered a serious wardrobe malfunction today, and where were you? Reputation and/or legend has all the well-dressed and in-the-know promenading up and down Madison and Park Avenues. I would think that would be enough for you to come to the rescue of a damsel in deep fashion distress. So what happened? Because your less refined cousins have so far proven their merit:
Washington Heights: A woman pulled me aside to let me know I had baby powder down my backside. Actually, she said, “You have baby powder on your buttocks.” Humiliating but a rescue none the less.
Harlem: A man warned me that my skirt was hitching up thanks to my carry-bag rubbing against me as I walked. Thankfully, it was still at a prudent length – a preventive rescue.
Midtown: A woman pointed out I was about to lose a button. Minor yet helpful.
Eastside: Do you let me know that the back of my skirt has rent a large split in the most exposing of areas? Do you pull me aside or shelter me from the onlookers and passer-bys as I trudge half a mile with a gaping hole causing me to moon lower Manhattan?
No, of course not. You blithely mind your own business. It wasn’t until I sat on a cold metal chair and discovered more of me was touching than ought.
“Didn’t you feel a breeze?” You might ask, sneeringly.
I would remind you that a women’s skirt often has a slit at its hem, rendering the feeling of a breeze as part and parcel of the wearing experience.
So, no thanks Eastside for allowing me to bare all.
Yes, it’s an utterly boring acknowledgement. I’m sitting in my apartment baking, as is most of the city. I’m reminded of several other heat challenging moments… and I don’t mean the overheating that occurs in the winter here with enthusiastic radiators that turn my apartment into a sauna.
When I was younger, my sister and I had a joke about it being hot. We were having a ‘slumber party’ up in my room in the attics of my family’s house, and we were in sleeping bags on the floor in front of the air conditioner. There was, however, a thunderstorm, and my mother insisted we turn off the air conditioner because of the storm. For some reason, that single action started a series of rhymes and sing-song antics that brought us to hysterics. It started with one of us saying, “I’m hot. You wanna know why I’m hot? Because there was this big thunderstorm, and noooooooobody was expecting it…. ” The patter went on and on, and none of it made any sense after that. And, it wasn’t particularly funny. But ever after, if we heard someone say that they were hot, we would resort to our monologue on being hot. I still remember all of the ‘verses,’ but it’s not doing much to relieve me of the heat tonight.
I also remember one of my last summers in Santa Monica. It was an incredibly hot Labor Day weekend; it was so hot in the apartment that I took the dogs to the park. I bought a pack of popsicles, and we lay in the grass as I and the dogs licked cherry popsicles for relief.
Tonight, it’s just me. My sister is in Oregon. One of my dogs is still alive and enjoying retirement with my parents in Pennsylvania. And, I am seeking relief from the heat in front of the fan in my apartment. Maybe this will be my memory on the next hot night.
As ever,
K. Quinn
Well, as some of you may know, I have been battling mice. This is a whole new experience for me – never had mice in LA. Truthfully, they freak me out. I know they are much, much smaller than me, but they belong outside and not in my apartment.
My super was pretty much unresponsive – so I took things into my own hands. I paid for an exterminator to come out and fill holes and after a while, it seems like we have had success in eliminating. What I noticed, however, was some little baby roaches that were getting stuck on the glue traps. So, today, I took advantage of the monthly exterminator visit that the building schedules.
Doorbell rang, and I opened the door to a very young man wearing a back pack that appeared to have a canister of some sort of spray. He also carried an aerosol can. I asked him how this would work. He asked what I wanted; which sort of confused me. I told him that there had been a mouse problem, which appeared to be solved, and then I showed him the glue trap with the little bugs. He looked. Then he looked around corners and edges of the walls. He told me that he didn’t see any mice. Then, he asked if I wanted him to spray.
Seriously? Isn’t that why you’re here? I responded in the affirmative.
He shook the aerosol can and sprayed in the spots along the wall where I had cleared furniture.
THAT’S IT?!?! I could have bought a can of toxic stuff and sprayed. I’m pretty sure I would have been more thorough – and ensured that both the roaches (and probably myself) would be asphyxiated. What about the canister on your back? Really?
Underwhelmed.
As ever,
K. Quinn
quinnkdotme 