I love your blog. I think you're a brilliant writer who's witty and so relatable. I think your life is pretty much were I want to be in 5 years time, living in NYC with a career in PR. I just thought i'd let you know that i've enjoyed reading over your posts when I have a spare minute. xxx
This may be the sweetest message I’ve received about my writing to date. I only started this blog a few months ago so in all honesty I have no idea what direction I plan to take it but it’s amazing to hear you enjoy reading it. You have no idea how much this just made my day. xxx
I’ve been living in New York City for a little over four years now. While I’ll be the first to admit this is a breathtaking city and I wouldn’t want to live any place else for the time being, I’ll also be the first to admit the longer I live in this environment the less patience I seem to have. And this statement holds true across the board. Before I lived here, I’d have thought twice about stealing someone’s cab or voicing my opinion as often as I do… which is probably too often. This could very well be the result of spending the past several years working in public relations, where if you don’t open your mouth you get brushed aside pretty quickly. My lack of patience could also simply stem from the fast pace of the city and my inability to accept that a one hundred pound girl should be less assertive than a two hundred pound male. Whatever the reasons may be, over time I have noticed an assortment of shudder inducing city dwellers who I have a lack of tolerance for that I’m sure we all encounter on a daily basis. Below is my list of some of the most annoying characters I’ve come across over the past few years. If you don’t identify with any of them I’m probably talking about you… so knock it off.
The tourist who is mesmerized by the ceiling in Grand Central Station. I’m not sure if you come from some country I’ve never been to where structures lack rooftops but it’s there so you don’t get rained on. It’s blue. And it’s not going anywhere. Nor is it planning to do any jazzy tricks you seem to be waiting for. I’m trying to get on a train and you’re making this into an obstacle course where I have to tuck and roll to get where I need to go. I wasn’t planning to jump through tires or plow through a starting line up like a football player to get to Track 12. I’m carrying a bag, a coffee and a newspaper and I won’t hesitate to put you on my back if I have to. I hope you like New Haven pal. We have ceilings there too.
People who stick their arms into closing subway doors rather than wait for the next train. Alright I’ll give it to you, it’s a brave move. I can’t even say I haven’t thought about it once or twice when I’m running late. Maybe I’m more envious than annoyed as I’m fairly certain the one time I’d attempt this move the 6 train would simply take off my arm and deposit it up by 125th Street where someone would steal my watch. But the bottom line is you’re making me late and InHerHazelEyes doesn’t like to be late. There’s three hundred people on this train and you can wait an extra two minutes to get to Whole Foods. I promise the $20 trays of tofu will still be there when you arrive. I promise.
People on the subway who don’t abide by my personal space rules. I understand the subway is crowded but everyone should also be aware of my unnatural fear of acquiring bed bugs from other passengers. I actually spend a fair amount of my time on the subway eyeing who I think may have the critters and then making sure we remain at a safe distance in order to prevent a bug from leaping into my purse. If we’re standing by the door and you happen to brush your jacket against me, I am going to feel like you did this on purpose and are therefore attempting to kill me. It should only be a few more years before I construct my own biohazard suit to protect myself from you freaks. Then no one will dare brush their corduroy jackets on me and better yet - I’ll look cool.
The cab driver who feels the need to ask if you’re going to pay in cash. Well I’m glad you asked sir, I had planned to barter for this ride in used socks but if you insist I will extract some rupees from my treasure chest back here for payment. You say you don’t accept rupees? Ok, how about this broken umbrella then? No? Fine, I will just leave it here on the floor for you anyway.
The oblivious mother who lets her children run wild. I once spent several hours in an Amsterdam airport where a five or six year old girl did her best impression of a Tasmanian devil while her mother sat calmly reading a book. Excuse me maam? Do you not SEE your daughter leaping over other passengers chair to chair while flailing her arms like a hungry chimp? Ohh wait, there she goes up onto the ceiling. Can someone get a broom? But it’s ok because I’m sure you’re enjoying your copy of whatever vomit inducing Nicholas Sparks book you’re reading there. When the little girl later took a face dive off one of counters and cut her head open my mother’s only response was, “That’s what you get for not paying attention lady.” The moral of the story you ask? I take after my mother… oh and keep your slimy kid away from me.
New York City drivers who beep at you as you cross the street. If you knew me better you’d know that contrary to popular belief, the sound of a car horn does not make me want to speed up but rather lie down right where I am in order to block you from moving forever, or until I get uncomfortable and want a pillow… or a sandwich. Either way? You’re asking me to transform into a permanent road block and I am more than happy to oblige as I could use a rest.
The Manhattan Real Estate Broker. Apparently you have to have been a used car salesman at some point to successfully get this position. Yes sir, I can see the 2x2 square foot studio you are showing me for $9,000 a month and no, despite your best efforts you will not convince me that sleeping in the bathtub is a viable option. And no, I will not sign away my first born child just because you’re hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean three inches from my face. Please step back and stop jerking about, you’re making me dizzy.
The delivery man on a bicycle. I understand that you have to get that large bag of tacos to 23rd Street in the next 10 minutes but you seem to be unaware that, in this realm we call EARTH, you cannot drive through me. You can go around me or behind me or even, believe it or not, ON THE SIDEWALK. I did not know a bicycle could get up to speeds of sixty miles per hour before I moved here. Perhaps my daily near death experiences with delivery men stem from the time I hastily opened my cab door in the rain only to completely take out a cyclist full force. I was late to an event and I think he actually flew off his bike into a puddle sending Chinese food cartons all over the street. He leapt up and sped off before I could even help him but I swear I felt guilty… at least for a fleeting moment… I think.
The unmarked livery cab driver. You have slowed down and are now staring at me despite the fact that I am shaking my head and waving my arms at you in what I think is a menacing manner in order to get you to move. You are also blocking any yellow cab from getting to me thinking I will surrender and eventually get in. No, I do not want to take your rapist-mobile three blocks for $45, thank you very much. If I was looking to get raped I’d go hang around outside of The Box or put up a personal ad on Craigslist. Now please move along pal.
The old lady in the Metronorth ticket line. I don’t go home to my family’s house in Connecticut that often but when I do, I tend to prefer it doesn’t take sixteen hours to get there. Over the past four years of making this trip I have developed an ability to read those in front of me in the ticket line. If I see a woman over the age of seventy five I know there is going to be an issue. Despite the fact that there is an INFORMATION BOOTH no more than a few feet away, this gray haired and innocent looking grandma is going to unroll her written scroll of questions to ask in this line before purchasing a ticket. How much is it? Where is the track I need to get to? What’s your name? What? Mary? Oh, Frank, sorry. How long is the trip? Is there anywhere here I can get something to drink? Do they have tea? Can I fill my prescription at this window? Do you take insurance cards? Can I use your phone to call my grandson? Are you my grandson? Where am I? SWEET JESUS, SOMEONE GET HER A MUZZLE.
“In general, lines are there for a reason: for security, for clarity. If you choose to cross the line, you pretty much do so at your own risk. So why is it, that the bigger the line, the greater the temptation to cross it? We can’t help ourselves, we see a line we want to cross it. Maybe it’s the thrill of trading the familiar for the unfamiliar, a sort of personal dare. Only problem is once you’ve crossed, it’s almost impossible to go back. But, if you do manage to make it back across that line, you find safety in numbers”—Grey’s Anatomy
Can someone please tell me if it’s normal to dread meeting someone based on a friend’s recommendation? Is it normal to assume immediately I will hate this person and will be so uninterested I will turn to jelly mid-dinner and slide off my chair into a puddle under the table where the staff will have to mop me up while he finishes the chicken I couldn’t eat?
In my experiences I have found that whenever a friend of mine says they have someone in mind I would be interested in, I will not be interested and better yet, I will spend a substantial amount of time trying to figure why on earth my supposed friend would think I would be interested in this person in the first place.
"Oh, he’s so nice and has a great job," is usually along the lines of how it’s pitched. First of all, have you met me? Nice? What would give you the impression I was looking for nice in any way, shape or form? Of course I want someone who treats me well but when I hear "nice" I envision I’m going to be having a drink with Ned Flanders or one of his fruity high-pitched sons who I’m sure are like 35 and balding by now. And second, a good job? What does that mean exactly? I’ll be the first to admit I don’t have any plans to marry a 7-Eleven manager but if by "good job" you mean he works on Wall Street… I’ll take a rain check. It’s taken me several years to come to this conclusion but I have finally figured out one of life’s biggest mysteries: Wall Street produces some of the douchiest specimen of men available on this planet. I KNOW! Right? Shocking.
Perhaps part of the problem is that what I visualize as my traditional type doesn’t seem to match up with who I fall in love with when it comes down to it. I have only been in love three times in my life and each of these men has been drastically different from one another. Given the chance, I don’t think a single one would be friends with any of the others. The sole quality you can trace amongst the three is that they all made me laugh. It seems once that quality is in place everything else I would take note of just falls by the wayside. If you were to line these men up without having had the opportunity to speak to them first, I think I would have only chosen to meet one of them based on looks alone.
So what does that say for me? I’m shallow? Perhaps. Or maybe I’m just in the process of getting to know what I really want. I’ve taken lessons from every experience I’ve had whether it be good or bad. I’ve learned I don’t need the best looking man in the room. My personality is not compatible with someone who is passive or indecisive. I cannot and will not stay in a relationship with someone who doesn’t put in the effort I do. I do not want to date someone who is selfish or self absorbed. These are all lessons I’ve placed in my pocket along the way.
What I’ve learned I do want from a relationship is several things. I want a best friend. I want someone I can share my inner most thoughts with and not feel judged. I want someone who looks at me like I am their world. I want their glance to take my breath away. I want to know I can fall on my face and they will be there to pick me up. I want butterflies in my stomach upon the mention of their name. I want inside jokes. I want to never run out of things to talk about. I want to have so much to share I can stay up all night and not look at the clock.
Some might call me idealistic or foolish but I’m content in waiting for these things because I know they exist. At one time or another I’ve had them. Maybe not all at once or all from the same person but I’ve felt them. So that means if I have to go out and meet two hundred cheesy friends of friends who are “so nice and have a great job” I guess that’s what I have to do. The first of this next two hundred is apparently going to be on Friday and I can already tell you I’m going to hate him. Can someone please stand by with a mop?