is for losers and dogs…take that, Monday crankiness.
There are lots of things I miss about living in the West Village. Even seeing pictures of the cobblestone little side streets and cute little store fronts (NOT of the new wave of Marc Jacobs and other upscale pricey places) that feels like looking at photos of an ex, like major pangs of missing that neighborhood.
But one of the things I miss specifically is my old gym, the West Village Workout. The place had all the charm of church basement and almost everyone who worked out there was a senior citizen. So not fancy, which I frigging loved. The owner Joel often checked in guests at the front desk, and when I was going through my long phase where I would only go on the treadmill for ten minutes before losing all motivation, he would give me grief on my way out.
“Really, Tina? Ten minutes? That’s it?”
And I’d mumble something about feeling tired or being busy. The worst was when Kristen Johnson from “Third Rock from the Sun” started working out there, not that she was so outlandish in her workouts, but she’s a celebrity and that upsets the equilibrium of any normal space. Do you know how distracting it is to work out when someone famous is there? (Even if you’re only running for ten minutes?)
Unfortunately, once the West Village and Meat Market area started gentrifying, commercial rents quadrupled and poor Joel had to close his gym, and the tranny hookers are like now in front of Baby Gap b/c there’s no where else to hang.
Here’s a Times article on organizing your office space. I frigging love reading about organizing, although I rarely adopt any of the approaches I’ve read for myself. (I’m not pretty good at organizing for other people.) My ex-co-worker Holly reminded me how our office manager had asked me to clean my cube because the president was coming in. I just seem to inevitably end up in a working space that has the multiple-pile feel of a chaotic garage. And you know what? It’s not that femme. Whatevs.
I have only taken an office nap once in my life and I got busted. Hardly seems fair.
I was running around a lot at the time, and I think back on it as a very fertile time of my life. I was in grad school, taking tae kwon do, and working, and I had a moment where the commuting and craziness of my schedule was catching up to me, and so I thought, I’ll just lie my head down on my desk for a few seconds and close my eyes. I was working on the fifth floor, the only one with an office in this wing, so it was presumably safe. I quickly fell asleep…and then my supervisor walked in. Nice. I wonder if that’s the only memory she has of my year there. I was actually a pretty conscientious employee other than that slip-up, but you know, I could be the one forever known as The Girl Who Took a Nap at Her Desk.
Anyway, I now know office naps are a no-no, no matter how tempting. Hardy har har. I mean, duh, I knew that before but it didn’t stop me. Maybe too many naps during college at the library made my sense of social decorum foggy.
This following pic is for Cousin Ed:
Dudes, today, The New York Times posted a story how if your face turns red when you drink booze, you might be susceptible to certain kinds of cancer, which is a bit of a bummer, seeing as how I light up like a Christmas tree every time alcohol enters my system. Turning bright red had prevented me from drinking during college — too embarrassing. The red face plus the fact that I always inevitably got doused with beer whenever I tried to drink cut any potential shenanigans short.
I had always heard red-face happens to Asians because we’re missing some kind of enzyme to process alcohol, but I don’t know, doesn’t that sound kind of vague and urban-myth-y? They actually name that said enzyme in the article, so am I supposed to quit drinking? Hmmm.
By the way, this is what you get when you Google “Asian drinks”:
And this is what you get when you Google “Asian drunks”:
Know what I can’t stand? When people preach on the subway. It’s the worst added surprise when you’re jamming your body into a rush-hour car and someone is screaming at the top of their lungs about hell and damnation. It’s not only annoying, it’s like a really bad commercial for the subway preacher’s religion. Like seriously, I’m going to sign up for something that makes you so angry? I think you’d have better luck if you demonstrated how pursuing your religion led to free spa treatments and candy.
There are two times in my life I remember my mom running up to me and hugging/jumping with her arms around me in a very un-mom-like happy-happy-joy-joy expression. The first time was when we found I got into Yale. The second time was this past weekend when I managed to get her Time Warner triple play bill at a lower rate. Huh.
If I go to a funny movie, I usually elbow the hell out of who’s with me. My friend Becca thinks it’s to make sure whomever I’m with doesn’t miss the joke. Up until yesterday when I saw “I Love You, Man,” I think Nancy had the worst with-Tina movie experience. When I saw “The Host,” which is both funny and scary, I think I like gripped her forearm to death and I definitely slapped myself in my face at least once. (It had very scary parts.) “I Love You, Man” was hilarious. Went with Husband and whenever there was a part that made me laugh hard or uncomfortable, I would push his head off his neck. (Or I guess, more like away from his neck. Nothing fell off.) Luckily, he didn’t get mad.
The New York Times didn’t seem to think much of “I Love You, Man.” But then sometimes, I think critics should really try to write or take an acting class so they can really understand who’s good or not. They rated Paul Rudd as having a limited range, and I don’t think they get it. He has a lot of bits where he’s trying to fit in with other guys by giving them nicknames, which is painful and believable. Andy Sandberg, who plays his brother, is not really anything noteworthy. So go ahead and say Andy Sandberg is limited as an actor, because it’s true, but Paul Rudd? Dude, try again.
Man, I know it’s semi-sad, but I checked “Music for the Masses” from the library, and I love it! I love Depeche Mode! Unabashed love expressed here, thank you.
Tangentially, my husband told me that Yes was the first of the alternative bands, because they did funky times in their music — but I was like huh? I thought alternative music was all like from Manchester England and had Morrissey in it.
Chances are if you are a pretty good break dancer, Iâ€™ll give you buck — especially you have tiny children in your act and you do that trick where it looks like your shins are their legs. (Can you picture it?) Iâ€™ll also give you buck if I like your music, because you are easing the unpleasantness of the commute, you are making something beautiful in some of the funkiest smelling places on earth — and thatâ€™s a public service. (The awesome Hypnotic Brass Ensemble and Nuttinâ€™ But Strings have gotten money from me.) If youâ€™re a Chinese immigrant (Iâ€™m pretty sure theyâ€™re Chinese), Medicare-age musician playing that mystery instrument with three strings and youâ€™re not bad, rocking out the Celine Dion, Iâ€™ll give you a dollar. And also, if you’re the random homeless person who moves me and you don’t seem like you’re going to hit me with a blunt object, I will also give you money. I don’t know. A dollar is not going to change anyone’s life, but maybe it can add up.