Friday, February 27, 2009

Phonebook entries of a senior citizen

On a recent visit with my boyfriend to his grandmother's condo in New Jersey, we spent a few minutes together flipping through her phone book. The findings were terrific.

Of course, you had your expected entries: children, grandchildren, cousins, friends, the synagogue, Medicare. But the true gems were the following:

Chicken of the Sea Tuna: (800) 456-1511
Golden Blintz: (732) 364-4100
KMart: 731-8210
Manischewitz Co.: (201) 333-3700

I miss my halmunee.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Craigslist never led me astray. Until it brought me my roommates.

I really don't think that I'm an uptight roommate. There are general rules of conduct, right? Keep common areas clean, buy paper towels every once in awhile--it's not rocket science. But apparently for my current roommates, it is. Exhibits A, B, and C:

A: The door: They either neglect to lock the door when they leave or are locked out. More than once, at 2AM (naturally when bars close), I have awoken to drunken screaming of my name and banging on the the front door.
B: The trash: Try taking it out some time. The little triangle? It's called recycling.
C: BACON EVERY MORNING. Ok, this is a personal judgement call. But seriously, I wake up to the smell of bacon every morning. I might be the weird one here who doesn't like bacon but fortheloveofgod at least turn on the fan.

My friends have heard all the stories. If you guys are sick of hearing my complaints, I'm sorry. I just have this one last vent: I spent the last half hour cleaning out the nastiest, most fully developed, mushroom-like fungus in a jar of cheese sauce. Maybe I'm being a little elitist here, but who the hell buys jarred cheese sauce? Well, I guess it would be the same person who buys a bigass block of Velveeta (She must have liked that much more b/c that disappeared a long time ago.) Anyway, this is the worst I've ever seen refrigerator fungus. Sure, every once in awhile you see the little black fuzzy spots, get grossed out, and toss it. This looked like it came out of the coral reef--it had ridges, colors, folds.. ohmygod.

I've been spoiled with awesome roommates in the past. Froman, we really do need to live within three miles of each other. This is horrible. Screnci, I miss the days when we cut bathroom shelves with steak knives.  Reza, no one here understands my immigrant jokes.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Sitting on the bus to Nueva York

It's a rite of passage for twenty-something northeasterners: a bus ride to New York. A few years ago you had two options: Chinatown and Greyhound. Whichever one you opted for meant that you didn't mind being on the edge of life and death, or that you could afford to splurge and spend more than $20. I have never taken Greyhound. Bring on the Russian roulette.

Ah, the ever-frightful Chinatown bus. Whether it was Fung Wah or Lucky Star, the company name was glued onto the side of the bus in Chinese so you weren't quite sure which company you had your ticket with. The gathered crowd wasn't sure either, but you had solidarity in numbers and slips of paper with a confirmation number. The attendant, who finally appeared minutes before the scheduled departure, was usually screaming into his or her phone in Chinese--probably at the bus driver for being lost. If you had been approved to board, a process that seemed pre-determined by fate and had nothing to do with where and when you purchased your ticket, you squeezed through the aisle and sat down next to an irritated person who did not want you there. That person would then bring out a snack--a pastrami sandwich, egg drop soup, a roast turkey--while watching bootleg movies on his computer. Thirty minutes later, you were too distracted by the speeding death trap your bus had become to notice his snoring rivaled Pavarotti's vibrato.

My, my, how far we have come. I write this as I am comfortably reclined in my Bolt Bus seat. Yes, the bus has WiFi. Lap of luxury, my friends. Don't get me wrong, I dream of avoiding this altogether one fine day and being handed my complimentary New York Times on the Acela. But for now, this suits me just fine.

Side note: I am slightly annoyed by the guy behind me who's been taking calls since this trip began and who's currently eating an orange. However, it's a delightful scent, so I can't complain too much.

Correction: I just heard that Bolt Bus is a joint venture between Greyhound and Peter Pan. Merde, I am a bonafide yuppie.