A guy in my office just had a baby (well, technically, his girlfriend had the baby) and sent this announcement via e-mail:
"Baby Causes Havoc In Brooklyn"
Stats:
Birth date: Dec. 20, 2011 (1st day of Hanukah; exactly one year before end of Mayan calendar)
Weight: 7 pounds, 1 ounce (3+ kilos)
Height: approximately the height of one baby
Eyes: very dark
Hair: too much for a baby
Feet: small
Languages: baby patois, fluent Yiddish, Yoruba, and several Cantonese dialects; restaurant Spanish
Interests: making fists with both hands and feet, looking at stuff in a confused manner, small business development, small gray cats, environmentally friendly diapers, public radio
I love my job. ♥
Showing posts with label Ice Ice Baby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ice Ice Baby. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Post-Snowpocalyptic Park Slope
Monstrously Compelling Reasons To Be Grateful I Don't Own A House Or A Car:
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
These are not parked cars. They have been abandoned in the street.
Exhibit C:
This man is not a city worker. He's just a neighbor.
Exhibit D:
Don't even think about trying to use the side streets.
Exhibit E:
This kid is standing in the middle of an intersection.
Exhibit F:
Thistle Hill Tavern is open for business! If you can find the door!
These photos were all taken within a single one-block radius.
Your Honor, the prosecution rests.
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
These are not parked cars. They have been abandoned in the street.Exhibit C:
This man is not a city worker. He's just a neighbor.Exhibit D:
Don't even think about trying to use the side streets.Exhibit E:
This kid is standing in the middle of an intersection.Exhibit F:
Thistle Hill Tavern is open for business! If you can find the door!These photos were all taken within a single one-block radius.
Your Honor, the prosecution rests.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
BP2K6
Since the weather's starting to get warmer, I thought I'd share a fond summer memory with all y'all. Circa July 2006:
I get back from the gym around lunchtime and park my car around the corner on the next block over because our street's been barricaded off for today's block party. I expect there to be music blasting, people out on their lawns barbecuing, kids playing in the street, but except for the lack of parked cars — replaced by party tents and patio furniture — it could be any other dull suburban weekend. But I guess it's still early.
An hour or so later, though, after I've showered, changed and read the paper, there's still nothing going on. Unless you count the people across the street blaring an instrumental lounge version of "Gangsta's Paradise" from the stereo of one of the trucks still parked in their driveway.
"Man, this sucks!" I complain to my brother. "Doesn't anyone on this block know how to party? What the hell did they do with the 20 bucks everyone paid? We don't even have one of those inflatable castle bounce things [which, by the way, are AWESOME]! I guess it's gonna be up to us to get something started."
His response is: "Hey, what would you do if I just started walking up and down the street buck-naked, making small talk with the neighbors, like there was nothing weird about it, and if anyone asked me what I was doing, I'd just be like, 'Man, I did so much acid last night I don't even know where I am!'?"
Well, I guess that's one way to start something...
A quick scan of the neighboring houses leads me to the conclusion that our set-up is definitely the lamest on the block. While everyone else has circus-size canopies and ping-pong tables set up on their lawns or matching white plastic patio chairs and picnic benches lined up neatly along the curb, my family's rocking a chaise lounge without a cushion relocated from the back deck, a folding beach chair my sister pulled out of the trunk of her Jeep, and the wooden park bench from off of our front porch. The only way we could look more ghetto would be if we had saved the old living room couches we threw out a few weeks ago and set those up on the lawn instead. And maybe if we were drinking 40s wrapped in brown paper bags instead of Mike's Hard Lemonade.
A few hours in, after the DJ has set up and people have started to slowly venture forth out of hibernation, there's a commotion on the corner: everyone's descending on these two guys pulling a giant cooler down the street on a little kid's wagon. "Are those Jello shots?" my sister asks excitedly, and faster than you can say "power of suggestion," we're running after the guys, too. My brother tries to box me out, citing my notoriously low tolerance for alcohol of late, but the way I figure, I'm already in my own yard, so if I get trashed and decide I want to sleep under a tree, at least no one will have to ditch their beer pong partner and leave the party to come pick me up from the park and drive me home with my head out the window, puking, like they did the last time. I mean, just hypothetically.
Turns out it's just ice cream, which I guess is still good...until you consider that every house on the block paid $20 for this shindig and this is what they decided to spend it on.
What would YOU do for a Klondike bar, motherfucker?! [to be read in the manner of Stephen Baldwin's character during the line-up scene in The Usual Suspects]
So now it's after dark, we've done a few laps [highlights: our end of the street is the deadest (lucky us), the castle bounce is around the corner on Johnson (bastards!), and no one but my brother was really into the idea of banding our side of the street together and calling them out, starting a neighborhood civil war], and the DJ is still playing disco and that god-awful baseball-metaphor Meatloaf song. "Let's request something," we decide. "Yeah, something actually good." Opinions on this vary from "Ice, Ice Baby" to "Ghostbusters" to "Riding Dirty." We decide to go with anything by Bob Marley, in honor of the kids smoking pot across the street.
The DJ waves us over. "So," we mock, "is this the most rockin' block party you've ever worked or what??"
"Bro, I want to kill myself," he replies.
"I could be on Fire Island right now with half-naked drunk chicks climbing into my booth, and instead I'm here." With boozy middle-aged suburban mothers apparently requesting the entire Billy Joel back catalog, I imply. Poor guy.
He never plays our song, though, so screw him.
"Next time, bro, I promise," he calls out as he's packing up.
Yeah, right — like we're actually going to do this again next year.
I get back from the gym around lunchtime and park my car around the corner on the next block over because our street's been barricaded off for today's block party. I expect there to be music blasting, people out on their lawns barbecuing, kids playing in the street, but except for the lack of parked cars — replaced by party tents and patio furniture — it could be any other dull suburban weekend. But I guess it's still early.
An hour or so later, though, after I've showered, changed and read the paper, there's still nothing going on. Unless you count the people across the street blaring an instrumental lounge version of "Gangsta's Paradise" from the stereo of one of the trucks still parked in their driveway.
"Man, this sucks!" I complain to my brother. "Doesn't anyone on this block know how to party? What the hell did they do with the 20 bucks everyone paid? We don't even have one of those inflatable castle bounce things [which, by the way, are AWESOME]! I guess it's gonna be up to us to get something started."
His response is: "Hey, what would you do if I just started walking up and down the street buck-naked, making small talk with the neighbors, like there was nothing weird about it, and if anyone asked me what I was doing, I'd just be like, 'Man, I did so much acid last night I don't even know where I am!'?"
Well, I guess that's one way to start something...
A quick scan of the neighboring houses leads me to the conclusion that our set-up is definitely the lamest on the block. While everyone else has circus-size canopies and ping-pong tables set up on their lawns or matching white plastic patio chairs and picnic benches lined up neatly along the curb, my family's rocking a chaise lounge without a cushion relocated from the back deck, a folding beach chair my sister pulled out of the trunk of her Jeep, and the wooden park bench from off of our front porch. The only way we could look more ghetto would be if we had saved the old living room couches we threw out a few weeks ago and set those up on the lawn instead. And maybe if we were drinking 40s wrapped in brown paper bags instead of Mike's Hard Lemonade.
A few hours in, after the DJ has set up and people have started to slowly venture forth out of hibernation, there's a commotion on the corner: everyone's descending on these two guys pulling a giant cooler down the street on a little kid's wagon. "Are those Jello shots?" my sister asks excitedly, and faster than you can say "power of suggestion," we're running after the guys, too. My brother tries to box me out, citing my notoriously low tolerance for alcohol of late, but the way I figure, I'm already in my own yard, so if I get trashed and decide I want to sleep under a tree, at least no one will have to ditch their beer pong partner and leave the party to come pick me up from the park and drive me home with my head out the window, puking, like they did the last time. I mean, just hypothetically.
Turns out it's just ice cream, which I guess is still good...until you consider that every house on the block paid $20 for this shindig and this is what they decided to spend it on.
What would YOU do for a Klondike bar, motherfucker?! [to be read in the manner of Stephen Baldwin's character during the line-up scene in The Usual Suspects]
So now it's after dark, we've done a few laps [highlights: our end of the street is the deadest (lucky us), the castle bounce is around the corner on Johnson (bastards!), and no one but my brother was really into the idea of banding our side of the street together and calling them out, starting a neighborhood civil war], and the DJ is still playing disco and that god-awful baseball-metaphor Meatloaf song. "Let's request something," we decide. "Yeah, something actually good." Opinions on this vary from "Ice, Ice Baby" to "Ghostbusters" to "Riding Dirty." We decide to go with anything by Bob Marley, in honor of the kids smoking pot across the street.
The DJ waves us over. "So," we mock, "is this the most rockin' block party you've ever worked or what??"
"Bro, I want to kill myself," he replies.
"I could be on Fire Island right now with half-naked drunk chicks climbing into my booth, and instead I'm here." With boozy middle-aged suburban mothers apparently requesting the entire Billy Joel back catalog, I imply. Poor guy.
He never plays our song, though, so screw him.
"Next time, bro, I promise," he calls out as he's packing up.
Yeah, right — like we're actually going to do this again next year.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
O Canada!
Thank you, Team USA and Team Canada, for the most thrilling series of Olympic hockey games I have ever beheld. You deserve those medals and more.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Snow Day
This morning, I actually braved OMG SNOWPOCALYPSE!!! and forged my way to work because I have no vacation days left. Already. Yes, it's only February and I haven't even gone on a vacation yet. It's a long story...
So anyway, upon waking up, I call the office weather hotline, which clearly states that we are still open. Bastards. I call again — just in case — right before I leave: "Today is Friday, February 26th. The office is open for regular business hours." Bastards.
The cool part about going out in this ZOMG BLIZZARD!!! is that I get to wear my funky leopard-print snow boots. The not-so-cool part is that apparently no one in the vicinity knows how to properly utilize a snow shovel or operate a plow.
Amazingly, I don't break any bones or nails navigating the ice fields, though I do pull out a few impromptu crazy-slide dance moves. Also amazingly, the subways are running on or close to schedule, so I get to work at my regular time of 9:00.
And there is literally NO ONE on my floor.
My entire department: missing. Every surrounding cubicle: empty. My boss and my boss's boss: gone.
Maybe three people, max, wander in during the next 15 to 20 minutes. I figure, as long as I'm here, I might as well do something. Turn on my computer, open up my e-mail...
...and read a message from the executive director, sent at 8am, after I had already left the house, stating that we don't have to come in if the weather is bad.
God damn it.
About 15 minutes later, another message goes out, stating that the office will be closing at 10:30 due to inclement weather.
God damn it!
So, basically, I battled my way through SNOWMAGEDDON!!! HALP!!! for a whole lousy hour and a half.
...which I spent on Twitter.
So anyway, upon waking up, I call the office weather hotline, which clearly states that we are still open. Bastards. I call again — just in case — right before I leave: "Today is Friday, February 26th. The office is open for regular business hours." Bastards.
The cool part about going out in this ZOMG BLIZZARD!!! is that I get to wear my funky leopard-print snow boots. The not-so-cool part is that apparently no one in the vicinity knows how to properly utilize a snow shovel or operate a plow.
Amazingly, I don't break any bones or nails navigating the ice fields, though I do pull out a few impromptu crazy-slide dance moves. Also amazingly, the subways are running on or close to schedule, so I get to work at my regular time of 9:00.
And there is literally NO ONE on my floor.
My entire department: missing. Every surrounding cubicle: empty. My boss and my boss's boss: gone.
Maybe three people, max, wander in during the next 15 to 20 minutes. I figure, as long as I'm here, I might as well do something. Turn on my computer, open up my e-mail...
...and read a message from the executive director, sent at 8am, after I had already left the house, stating that we don't have to come in if the weather is bad.
God damn it.
About 15 minutes later, another message goes out, stating that the office will be closing at 10:30 due to inclement weather.
God damn it!
So, basically, I battled my way through SNOWMAGEDDON!!! HALP!!! for a whole lousy hour and a half.
...which I spent on Twitter.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Ice Hockey Terms That Make Me Snicker
...despite the fact that I've been following this sport since I was 5 (GO RANGERS!).
In honor of today's marquee Olympic match-ups between the Czech Republic and Russia, and the US and Canada (GO CZECHS! GO CANUCKS!), some of my favorite funny phrases:
* stick handling
* puck handling
* power play
* shorthanded
* hooking
* holding
* back checking
* in the crease
* bouncing puck
* slow whistle
* slapshot
* poke check
* penalty box
* first period
* snow shower
* two-man advantage
* pulling the goalie
* waffle pads
* Zamboni
In honor of today's marquee Olympic match-ups between the Czech Republic and Russia, and the US and Canada (GO CZECHS! GO CANUCKS!), some of my favorite funny phrases:
* stick handling
* puck handling
* power play
* shorthanded
* hooking
* holding
* back checking
* in the crease
* bouncing puck
* slow whistle
* slapshot
* poke check
* penalty box
* first period
* snow shower
* two-man advantage
* pulling the goalie
* waffle pads
* Zamboni
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Trashy Romance
A new Subway opened up across the street from me a few weeks ago. Since it's so conveniently nearby, hasn't been around long enough to turn seedy yet, offers somewhat healthier fare than the Burger King and KFC just around the corner, and saves me from the chore of actually having to cook something for myself (let's put it this way: I make really great omelets...and that's it), I've patronized this establishment pretty often already. I decided to pick something up from there on my way home tonight.
Incidentally, I live in a pretty trashy neighborhood. Literally. As in, there's garbage all over the place. The sidewalks can get pretty hazardous on sanitation day. They're usually streaked with rivulets of what I can only imagine is toxic sludge leaking from the mountains of plastic bags piled up on the curbs. Then there are all the other obstacles blocking the path and requiring avoidance — you know, those common, everyday yet unwieldy items, like...mattresses. There's never a scarcity of paper plates, plastic bags and empty bottles on the ground, pick-up day or not. And during the summer, all pet owners within a 10-mile radius collectively forget about the "curb your dog" laws.
So, expectedly, during the winter, not every walkway gets shoveled in a timely or efficient manner after it snows. In the half a block I need to traverse to get to the Subway, there are about 8 slush puddles, a couple patches of black ice, and a gigantic plow-created drift spilling into the crosswalk on the corner.
As I'm waiting for the light and devising a strategem to somehow get over or around the pile of snow in front of me, I notice a cute guy walking in my direction. I'm brazenly gazing at him in admiration as he passes by, when he suddenly stops and turns around, heading back in my direction. OMG — did he notice me?? Is he coming back to say I've so stunned him with my beauty and superb fashion sense that he simply couldn't resist the opportunity to steal another look and get my number?!? How does my hair look??
He stops a few steps away from me, bends down, picks a cigarette butt out of the snow drift, and tosses it in the trash can behind him. Then he smiles right at me before walking away.
This small act so warms my heart I'm almost sure it could melt all the snow in my way.
I totally should have got his number.
Incidentally, I live in a pretty trashy neighborhood. Literally. As in, there's garbage all over the place. The sidewalks can get pretty hazardous on sanitation day. They're usually streaked with rivulets of what I can only imagine is toxic sludge leaking from the mountains of plastic bags piled up on the curbs. Then there are all the other obstacles blocking the path and requiring avoidance — you know, those common, everyday yet unwieldy items, like...mattresses. There's never a scarcity of paper plates, plastic bags and empty bottles on the ground, pick-up day or not. And during the summer, all pet owners within a 10-mile radius collectively forget about the "curb your dog" laws.
So, expectedly, during the winter, not every walkway gets shoveled in a timely or efficient manner after it snows. In the half a block I need to traverse to get to the Subway, there are about 8 slush puddles, a couple patches of black ice, and a gigantic plow-created drift spilling into the crosswalk on the corner.
As I'm waiting for the light and devising a strategem to somehow get over or around the pile of snow in front of me, I notice a cute guy walking in my direction. I'm brazenly gazing at him in admiration as he passes by, when he suddenly stops and turns around, heading back in my direction. OMG — did he notice me?? Is he coming back to say I've so stunned him with my beauty and superb fashion sense that he simply couldn't resist the opportunity to steal another look and get my number?!? How does my hair look??
He stops a few steps away from me, bends down, picks a cigarette butt out of the snow drift, and tosses it in the trash can behind him. Then he smiles right at me before walking away.
This small act so warms my heart I'm almost sure it could melt all the snow in my way.
I totally should have got his number.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Ice Queen
Ladies and gentlemen, just when you thought the sport of men's figure skating couldn't possibly get any gayer, I present Johnny Weir as Lady GaGa!
Check this hand 'cause I'm marvelous, bitches! ;)
Check this hand 'cause I'm marvelous, bitches! ;)
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