that's more like it

[freezing, 701a, waiting for grates of competition laundromat to go up. guy stumbles over ~715a.]

'oh i am terribly sorry i'm late, sir, let me help you with your bag.'
'oh it's ok. [shivering.]'
'subways a little slow today.'
'no problem. do you have quarters?'
'oh sure. soap, too?'
'no, just quarters.'
'oh, of course, sir. you sure you don't need help sorting?'
'no, i'm fine, thank you.'
---
'25 minute wash?'
'oh no! 35 here. much better. same price.'

i think i'm in love.

spitting nails

is the theme of today. bosslady was in her office in tears when i walked in with the floor den-mother, have no idea what her drama was, but after the meltdown, she was spitting nails. at the 7th floor staff. in emails. everything. thankfully, those of us on her 'team' got an email in advance warning of her demise. poor dear. i'll be sure to bring a grover in 9 months.

(just a hunch...)

and tonight, i am spraying my shirts, separating my whites from the colors, get there at 715 and see a new sign: last wash at 630. wtf? since when? so i ignore it, and put my three loads in, from a bag that weighs, so help me, more than 200 pounds. 'excuse me, last wash at 630.' 'what? since when?' 'two weeks ago.' 'what? well, i'll do a quick dry, i'll be out by 750.' 'no, i leave at 8.' 'and i'll be done by 8.' 'you wash tomorrow morning. i'll be here at 7.' 'if i leave, i'm never coming back.' 'you wash tonight. no dry.' 'and dry when?' 'tomorrow morning. [hahahahahaha.]' 'i've been coming here for over four years, but can assure you that i'll never come here again.'

looking forward to some place where i can select hot water and get it, and where i won't have to go through this again, even if it's the place on west fourth that caters to nyu students. as you are all my witness, i'll get another hernia lugging my dirty laundry all over town before i'll go back THERE again. i hope the bastard goes bankrupt.

olé

a horrid little 'mexican' outpost up the street has this little guacamole-making cart in the front that is charming, gimmicky, and tragic all in one. situated at the foot of the front door in the midst of all this outdoor seating, it's a nice ploy to lure in clueless tourists who don't know where to go around here for real mexican. it's fine that they have the gimmicky guac cart in front, for it keeps the tourists out of the restaurants i frequent, and for that i'm thankful on an one level, but it's oddly offensive, too, for the big business behind this place is probably thinking, 'ooh, look at our lovely guacamole made by a genuine mexican on staff-- as authentic as it gets! no cans here, tourists! table of four? come right in!' and during the summer months, it's brilliant logic and marketing: guac, chips, sangria, yum. but today was the first genuinely cold day of the fall that seems have gone zero-to-sixty in about a week: it is about 48 degrees, rainy, and blustery enough to make winnie the pooh blush.

walking by on the way to meet friends at a much better restaurant, the same poor gent who is the guac maker during the fairer months was out there with the same maracas at his hip and wearing his sombrero (that has clearly seen better days) slinging avocados all the while trying to hold on to said sombrero for dear life whilst garlic peelings are going flying and rain water is blowing in the bowl. he's clearly not a happy camper, and watching him left me to wonder why it would be SO hard for the restaurant to make the goddam guac in the kitchen. instead, as he's trying to hold on to his hat, supplies, and self-respect, a bus-load of tourists let out just as he was getting ready to bring it inside to the, undoubtedly, gaggle of southern tourists. so help me, two of them, not missing a beat, go running up to the cart and get a quicker-than-a-new-york-roach picture in front of the cart taken by a third who looked a bit like lucille ball if she were in her 30s today. perhaps one of the more disturbing things i've seen in awhile in my little enclave down here. poor guac-making dear.

stupid teeth

recall my dentist visit stain removal trauma of a few weeks ago. well, to prevent the 'i love coffee and red wine' stains on my teeth for the next six months before i see candy again, i've been brushing like a crazy person, harder and with a 'professional grade' (what?) toothbrush. well, pretty much all my gums are torn apart, and i look like a prostitute with a vitamin c deficiency. but i don't have any stains, and that's the important thing.

and just when i think it can't get any more bizarre...

...at the asylum, it does. recall cubefarm director was transferred, big bossman (aka non-bossman) resigned after being demoted to her job, and my cube-partner-in-crime was transferred to room 101. today i found out that i have a new cubefarm director and that ladyboss was transferred as well. let me dumb this down, it's getting hard for even me to follow: my coworker with whom i share a job: transferred. my manager: transferred. her director: transferred. her group director: resigned. inmates running the asylum? pretty much.

thank goodness i have an interview later this week: i think it would be groovy to completely turn over my department in only a month, hahahahahahaha. whoops.

and it's been confirmed: v.p. auntie mame will be underwriting the nonbossmanbabyshowerfest2005:
me: 'open bar? really? is that true?'
useless admin: 'yep. [auntie mame] wants to make sure [you proles] put your money toward nice gifts for [mr. and mrs. nonbossman] and not a bar tab.' [grammar corrected by me.]
'they're not mutually exclusive events: one surely doesn't guarantee the other. and who is underwriting it, her or [the cube farm asylum]'
'[auntie mame.]'

clearly. stupid question.

is there a patron saint of job interviewees?

a lovely weekend indeed

finally finished napoleon dynamite. a completely bizarre movie from which i got some good laughs, but it was ruined for me when mancat told me that it was made by mtv. even bizarre indie flicks are big business. made me sad.

and speaking of mancat, i think he wanted to kill me when he came over last night and i've had madonna on ad nauseam. i just noticed you can get updates on her texted to your cel by signing up on the website. interesting... 'hold on- i just got a text. oh another from madonna, she needs to stop the drunken texts at 2am.'

we had lovely indian from the surly and slow restaurant up the street. interior a bit scary, and like i said, the whole surly and slow thing, but hot damn the chefs really have their act together. probably one of the best indian restaurants in nyc.

this was unmentionable replacement weekend as well. wore a lovely and comfy and warm pair of new black socks today, trial run, but the dye came off all over my poor feet. (think farmer tan gone wrong and for the feet.) and after the shower, it hasn't budged. i look ridiculous and will, no doubt, be a hit at the gym tomorrow. grr. but, i stocked up on boxers from american body at the street fair on broadway. you heard it here first, kids, these people really got it right finally: soft and makes me arse (and, um, other things) look lovely. nice folks, too.

so all in all, a quiet weekend. a nice contrast to last weekend which was a tad wild and crazy with the austrian baby shower. no, baby showers aren't inherently wild and crazy, but the crowd was a bunch of lovely and fun booze hounds, so when with austrians, do as the austrians do... [hic...] i knew it was time to leave when they ran out of wine and the youngins all started screaming en masse. (maybe they, too, noticed the wine was gone?) this week is the shower for nonbossman: mrs. nonbossman went in to labor on friday, so it's a tad, how you say, locking the barn door after the horse escapes. rumor has it that v. p. auntie mame will be breaking out her black amex and underwriting the whole thing at one of the local watering holes... (hic...) that can only mean trouble. also, do i bring a grover stuffy for the youngin or a bottle of booze for the new parents? both are equally necessary, i suppose...