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Oh hey guys.  How’s it going?

I know it’s been six months since I went on “hiatus” (sorry for not warning you.  My bad. Things got a lil busy.), but guess what? Now that summer has rolled around and I have a little more free time, I think I can pick this business back up.

Also, and this has NOTHING to do with it, but my little sister C. stared a blog too–not only because she wants to emulate me in every way possible but also because she’s in Hawaii for her post-grad summer. Just hanging out on the beach. Meanwhile, I got a JOB after I graduated college…but that’s neither here nor there.  I’m ecstatic for her and not even the slightest bit smug that she can’t figure out the Hawaiian public transit system.  Look, I’m so un-bitter about this whole thing that I’ll even link to it: http://summerinhawaii.wordpress.com/

She’s a doll and she’s pretty witty so you should go visit.  Also, she gets really tan and I’m sure she’ll document that heavily as I sit wasting away in pale misery in my cube.

Now, you would think that as my blog was lying dormant (it was hibernating!  There you go, that’s my excuse) it would slip through the cracks of the vast internetz.  However.  That was not so.  You see, WordPress has a handy and very entertaining feature called “Top Searches” that shows you how people found Better Off Red. And to my utter surprise, not only did my busiest day come mid-hiatus, but people stumbled onto this site in the strangest of ways even sans-updates.

So, for my grand return to blogging, I give you the list of search phrases that led people to my humble corner of the web:

Search Views
hipster glasses 44
snowpocalypse 16
ironic mustache 9
dirty hipster 9
creep stache 5
better off red wordpress 5
hipster goatee 4
wordpress better off red 4
people with mustaches 3
george leier 3
snowpocalypse new york 2010 3
beard hipster glasses 3
new york snowpocalypse 3
moustache 3
betteroffred 3
you’re doing it wrong stache 3
+”synthesize ddt” 2
ironic mustaches 2
шнауцер 2
better off red blog 2
snowpocalypse.jpg 2
turbot dill 2
tom selleck mustache eyes 2
awesome moustaches 2
snowpocalypse gizmodo 2
hipster with glasses 2
cop with mustache 2
hipster fashion 2
the ironic mustache 2
scraggly beard “angry” 2
novel red led alarm clock sports cool cubby hole design 1
winter squash canelloni 1
noodles for breakfast 1
winter squash manicotti filling 1
turbot fillets en papillote 1
turbot en papillote 1
щенки морки 1
worldpress “better off red” 1
ragey glasses 1
betteroffred.com 1
jamie oliver stuffed cannelloni 1
maryewood 1
julia child’s cookbook 1
betteroffred.wordpress.com 1
fashion disaster exercise clothes 1
your doing it wrong 1
hipsters glasses men 1
the ironic stach 1
turbot en papillot 1
dead fish apocalypse 1
red mustaches that look good 1
snopacalyspe 1
snowacalypse sanitation workers strike 1
david tutera 1
ironic moustache 1
dirty hipster glasses 1
hipster facial hair glasses 1
ferris beuler’s day off 1
snowpocalypse new york 1
snowpocalypse nyc 2010 1
tom selleck black and white 1
ironic stache 1
no no no don’t lie 1
dill papillote sauce 1
better off red 1
hipster beard hat glasses 1
subway snowpocalypse 1
dirty hipster pics 1
hipster in glasses 1
unwonderful 1
ugly hipster 1
“must grow a mustache” 1
pedophilia your doing it wrong 1
“better off red” blog 1
porn stache selleck 1
cop stache 1
mens hipster eyeglasses 1
turbot wine sauce 1
evil genius moustache 1
ironic hipster glasses 1
http://www.betteroffred.fantake 1
tribecataco 1
duxbury croakies 1
turbot en papillote recipes 1
wonderful mustache 1
tom selleck porn stache 1
ultimate hipster glasses 1
alone again naturally flip side 1
hipsters mustaches 1
squash manicotti 1

 

Let me first say that it is so stupidly ironic that the phrase “mustache” and “hipster” bring the most people to my site.  Because, as you know, both things are the bane of my existence.  Funny how life turns out, isn’t it.

A few of my favorites off this list:

– “george leier”: either my dad’s BFF is googling himself a lot OR someone has a stalker!  Sorry George.

– “щенки морки”: I am dying to know A. what language that is and B. what it means.

– “no no no don’t lie”: Okay okay…I won’t.

– “scraggly beard “angry””: Which is how I described H throughout much of college.

– “tom selleck mustache eyes”: Only because the idea of “mustache eyes” kinda freaks me out

– and finally, “red mustaches that look good” : I can answer that one for you.  Those don’t exist.

 

 

 

 

 

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Halloween is without a doubt one of those dreaded “over-hyped holidays” (see example A, here), but I actually am kind of a fan.  Unlike New Years Eve, I’ve never really had a bad, why-am-I-even-out, drunken crying kind of night during Halloween.  They’ve always, without fail, been pretty awesome.  It’s probably because when I was little I convinced myself that I had magical, spooky powers because I was a redhead.  But that’s a story for another post.

Except, Halloween ain’t gonna be so fun this year.

This year, instead of dressing up in a (usually) morally questionable costume, instead of going to  a sweet party and drinking beers out of pumpkins and stealing other people’s props, instead of gorging on sweet, sweet Halloween candy, I. Am. Moving.

*Note: I’ve never actually drank beer out of a pumpkin.  But doesn’t it sound awesome?

Yes, moving.  Perhaps the least fun a person could ever have.

Now, I know that you guys know that I’m moving.  I’ve been whining and complaining about it for the last oh, month or so, via various social media outlets.  And actually, I am really happy that I’m moving.  I’m freaking ECSTATIC.

But here’s what I’m not so ecstatic about: packing.  And unpacking.  And actually physically moving all my crap from one apartment to another.

I have never, ever been a good packer (or a good un-packer).  Me moving to college basically consisted of 25 white garbage bags haphazardly filled and chucked into the back of our SUV on the morning we were set to leave.  My packing up to go both to and from London to study abroad was a trial in patience (for my mother and roommate) and hysteria (for me).  WILL THEY HAVE PEANUT BUTTER IN ENGLAND?  HOW WILL I SMUGGLE IT THROUGH CUSTOMS? (1. No, and 2. Easily)

It’s the starting that’s the hardest part.  I get really overwhelmed with what to begin with that I actually never begin.

Which is where I was last night, around 12:30AM.  All my cardboard boxes were constructed.  I had my bubble warp and stolen office tape ready to go.  And yet…I couldn’t pull the trigger.  I just kept looking around miserably, wailing, WHERE DO I START?!

Maybe this inability to get my ass in gear comes from the fact that I’m pretty bitter I’m not participating in Halloween this year.  This very well could be the very first Halloween in my life where I haven’t dressed up in costume and celebrated.  Please, take a moment and marinate on the seriousness of that.  24 years of doing something that is really fun, and then, suddenly, not doing it.

It feels awful, right?  Exactly.  Now times that by a billion, that’s how I feel.

I suppose I could go out on Saturday night.  But that would involve a lot of pre-planning (which I did not do–too busy obsessing about the apt), as well as having the ability to casually desert a brand-new, extremely disorganized apartment (which I don’t have). I’m stuck.  I probably won’t even get any trick-or-treaters and I haven’t even come close to a pumpkin, much less carved one.  Worst.  Halloween. Ever.

I suppose I’ll have to alternate between living vicariously through my friends, who are all much cooler than me (and also, not moving), and doing things for Halloween, and reliving my greatest past Halloween hits, which is always a nice jaunt down memory lane.

The arguable winner would obviously be Pippi Longstocking in 5th grade.  I mean, I had pipe-cleanersIn my hair. I also felt the (unnecessary) need to draw on freckles (little Mary was in denial, obviously).  However, I’m also partial to my (sexxxy) 3 blind mice costume circa sophomore year of college.  30 degrees out and a chance of snow?  Hey, wearing white tights, white booty shorts, a white tank-top, mouse-ears and sunglasses is a GENIUS idea.  At least, me and my two friends thought so.  It was just the right combo of adorable and trampy.  Which is a hard balance to strike, let me tell you.

Another coping option would be to focus on the bad in Halloween.  I’m talking about the crowded bars where you have to pay $50 bucks cover to bump into sweaty “sexy-policewomen” and 8 million “DJ Paulie D’s.”  Also falling under this category is the stress of finding/deciding upon a Halloween costume and then going about either creating it or procuring it.  Ever tried to go into a Halloween costume store a day or two before the sacred date?  One word for you: Bouncers.  Not kidding.

Also, sorry Halloween costumer companies, but there is no way in holy hell that I will be paying you $75.00 to be a “Sexy Golfer” (in case you haven’t guessed, every female Halloween costume is ‘sexy’).

There’s also the slightest, teeniest, whiff of pathetic that goes along with a full-grown adult going all out for Halloween.  You have to maintain at least a modicum of “oh, I’m dressing up as a Troll doll ironically).  Because otherwise, it’s just a little weird.  Example: man on the subway today wearing a full-body wetsuit and a blonde wig, swinging a FULL-SIZED surfboard around a crowded car.  A for effort, buddy, but where the hell do you work?

I guess I’m just trying to make myself feel better.  What I wouldn’t give to dress up this weekend, ironically or not, and have a good old fashion Halloween!  Guess I’ll have to be content with alternating between walking down memory lane and balefully glaring at everyone else who gets to actually have fun.  Being a grown up is so stupid.

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No Good Very Bad

I’m having a bad day today.

  • Fact: it is 70 degrees outside, delightfully breezy, and sunny as all get out.
  • Fact: I am sitting in my cubicle, shivering in the AC.
  • Fact: Last night was quite possibly one of the worst nights of sleep I have ever gotten.
  • Fact: Still got up on time this morning, showered, and dragged myself to work.
  • Fact: It is Thursday.
  • Fact: That means I still have 1.5 more days of work until the weekend.

Me, Today.

See what I’m getting at here?  I’m feeling tired, headachey, distracted, fat, bored, sad, ugly, mean, disappointed, snarky…you name it.   There’s more, but I don’t want to burden you, dear reader, with my incessant whining (although there is nothing that I like more than good whine, ask my family and my boyfriend, those lucky ducks).

I knew it was going to be a bad day even before the day started, and not only because I had the truly unfortunate experience of thinking today was Friday when I woke up.  So I’ve sort of settled into the badness and intend on relishing it with all my might.  Is it weird that I sort of take some kind of perverse pleasure in being just flat-out grouchy on occasion?  Am I the only one?  Please say no.

I am not one of those Pollyanna’s who try to make the best of everything and always look on the bright side, oh no.  I am quite the opposite of a cock-eyed optimist.  Anything that can go wrong will.  I belong in a garbage can, a la Oscar.  Maybe that’s why I sort of enjoy just giving up all pretense of cheer and wallowing in my own grumpaliciousness.

Now I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.  This isn’t like a daily thing for me.  I am not Eeyore with the constant rain cloud over my head.  I smile (though smiling and walking at the same time is not my forte).  I’m happy.  I take joy in living life.  It’s just that sometimes, when the Universe just spits in your eye, it’s a relief to just give in and be miserable–no effort, no pretending, no forced sunshine…for the appropriate time period, of course.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and it will be better.  First of all, it’ll be Friday.  But even beyond that, I think that days-after-bad-days are always, always good days.  Maybe because it’s all relative–ANY kind of day that isn’t like today is bound to look good.

I do plan on making a few small efforts on improving my day.  There is a plan for a chocolate croissant in the works, as well as some retail therapy (my FAVORITE remedy for a bad day).  Plus, as corny as this is about to sound, blogging helps too.  It’s like the monster under the bed.  As soon as you start talking about it out in the open the power of it just disappears.

And if that fails, I usually self-medicate with doses of http://1000awesomethings.com/ and  http://www.ruminations.com/site/

These always manage to lighten my mood, even against my will.

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There are some things that my boyfriend does that I don’t even pretend to understand.  Fishing in Central Park, for example.  Refusing to take medicine when hurt or sick (very very manly, I know). Getting up really unreasonably early on the weekends.  And the tip-top of this list: going to Nascar races.

Yes, you read that right.  My boyfriend goes to Nascar races.

Now, as a disclaimer, he is not a Redneck by any means.  He grew up in a fancy sea-side town south of Boston.  He owns his fair share of Vineyard Vines clothing.  So it is even more mind-boggling that he likes going to these things.  But I guess it doesn’t really matter what your background is.  In most guys’ brains, Nascar = fun, lady-free, manly, beer-y pastime.

The reason I’m bringing this up now is because this weekend H is going to the Grand-pappy of Nascar Races: Talladega.  Yes, as in Talladega Nights.  As in Ricky Bobby.  If you’re like me, you’re shocked this event actually exists in Real Life (rather than only in Will Ferrell’s imagination).

This actually happens

But it really does happen, all the way down in the foreign land of Alabama (Roll Tide!  That’s for you, brother).  And it draws quite a crowd, apparently (according to H it is 80% dudes, 10% sales people trying to sell said dudes stuff, and 10% “buffalos” aka very unattractive Redneck Women).

Now from what he says, the main point of Nascar races are not watching the races themselves, but rather the RV’ing and the beer drinking and the male bonding.  The race itself is secondary and (apparently) kinda boring.  I mean…it’s 500 laps of the same thing.  The only reason people watch is for the potential crash factor.   And to me, that raises a basic question: how can you count Nascar as a sport?

With enough practice anyone can hop into a car and drive it really fast.  The competition aspect seems pretty dull, too.  In my opinion Nascar falls into the gray-area category of “sports” that aren’t really Sports.  Other examples?

1. Fishing.  I’m going to get shit from H for this (and probably his brother, his Dad, and his friends), but I’m sorry.  You do need some skill to fish, sure.  But this is mostly based on luck and patience.

2. Curling.  I don’t care if it’s in the Olympics.  A bunch of portly guys in overly loud pants (I’m talking to you, Norway) pushing things around an ice rink does not a Sports team make.

3. Hunting.  Another one of H’s favorite activities.  But again, this requires more patience and luck than skill.  I mean yes, you must have a decent shot…but if you really want it to be a sport, why not arm the poor defenseless animals too?  THAT would be a sport.

4. Professional Eating.  They show this on ESPN, so someone out there considers it a sport.  Do I even need to explain why I disagree?  That little asian man who eats the hot dogs does not equal a professional athlete.

5. Golf.  Great napping TV, yes (the commentators are always so darn soothing).  Great sport, not so much.  It’s a hobby, really. Just look at Tiger: you can be hopped up on Xanax and STD meds and still be a great golfer.  To me, that pretty much screams non-sport.

Other activities that toe the line, in my opinion?  Darts, Pool, Bowling, Cheerleading, Figure Skating, Rock-Climbing.

In the end I suppose it doesn’t really matter if Nascar is actually a “Sport” or not.  H is still going to go.  He’ll hopefully return home with wallet, cellphone, and dignity intact, but we can only hope.  He will probably spend the weekend like this:

God help him. More importantly, God help his liver.  And the people who inevitably have to look at his pasty bare torso.  H never passes up an opportunity to be shirtless.

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So I had a bit of a revelation this weekend. A little shining moment of self-discovery. The epiphany was this: I have incredibly bizarre and nonsensical rules for myself regarding clothing.

Okay, I know. This isn’t really super life altering. But it’s something that I’ve been doing subconsciously forever, and I think the fact that I just now am realizing it is quite a milestone.
So, newsflash to all you readers out there: I have red hair. And it’s not strawberry blonde or auburn or anything swishy like that. It. Is. Red. And it is said hair that has given me a clothing complex; a set of personal rules so ingrained that it took me approximately 24 years to realize they were even there.  So what are these weird clothing/fashion rules I have for myself, you ask? Well, let me put it in an easy readable format so that you non-Gingers might understand. As follows, the personal fashion rules of moi.

1. No red. Exceptions: shoes. And possibly Nantucket red pants/skirts/bottoms. This is a cardinal (ha! Get it? Red!!) rule of mine, for obvious reasons. Shades of pink and orange are also forbidden. Yellow too. Also any taupe/ecru shade that comes too close to the color of my skin(read: pale).
2. So what colors are acceptable? Earth tones–just call me Dwight Shrute. Blues are a go-to, greens are a little trickier ( kelly green, for example, equals leprechaun).
3. Nothing too flashy. Nothing with weird built in jewelry, deffinetly no sequins.

4. Not too many ruffles, either.

5. No khaki’s.  They  stopped being an acceptable form of pants in about 8th grade.

6. Sneakers are for exercise ONLY.  Not for everyday wear.

7. I have short little legs.  Cropped pants do not help this affliction.  Therefore, I have decided that Capri pants are not my friend.

8. Be wary of prints and patterns.

9. Pastels wash me out.  Neons wash me out.  Colors in general wash. me. out.

10. Nothing that depends on a nice set of boobs to look good.  This is self-explanatory.

11. And finally, if it is trendy, than I certainly won’t look good in it.  I’m just not hip enough.

It’s like there is a little tiny Tim Gunn inside my head.  It’s exsausting.

My hair and general coloring aren’t the only factors that have made me fashion retarded.  I’m sure the environments where I grew up don’t help.  My super preppy, super conservative, “I’m going to give you the stink eye if you wear anything ‘weird’ ” town/high-school absolutely contributed to my bizarre thinking.  Likewise my tiny, preppy, conservative college.  And I won’t even go into my two lovely but incredibly judgmental and critical sisters.  Why don’t YOU try bringing home something you bought only to get a “why in the holy hell would you spend money on that” look from your own flesh and blood.  See how confident about clothing you are then.

This is a No.

Now, my weird fashion rules does not mean that I don’t like to shop.  On the contrary.  I absolutely love to shop.  It is my preferred Saturday activity, actually.  I like doing it alone, I like doing it with friends, I even like doing it with my boyfriend.  I’m not sure why I like it so much, because it almost always ends with my leaving a store in frustration because I can’t find anything that “I like” (that is, I can’t find anything that adheres to my rules).

I’ve been trying to break free of these self-imposed shackles.  I bought a leather jacket in Italy last fall–gutsy move for me.  I also bought a salmon colored tee shirt a couple weeks ago.  Baby steps, people.

Absolutely Not.

The really sad thing is is that I have a feeling that all these stupid rules are exactly that–stupid.   No one is going to withdraw in horror if I wear a pink shirt that “clashes” with my hair.  No one will blink if I throw on a quirky little dress.  Hello, I live in New York City!  A place where I know that no matter WHAT I wear, there is always going to be someone who is dressed far FAR more strangely than I.

I just have to keep telling myself that.  I need to continue to inch out of my comfort zone, of what is ‘allowed’.  It’s an uphill battle, and my opponent is scary: myself.  But sorry, self.  I’m just getting sick of earth tones and blue jeans and flats.  This girl has had enough

Not even CLOSE to being cool enough to pull this off.

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That is what Frank Lloyd Wright called Television. Which I think is a pretty awesome description, both in total accurateness and in creativity. TV doesn’t really have a point. That’s what ole Frankie is trying to say.

But does that stop me front plopping down in front of our circa 1999 Sony and becoming utterly absorbed in something that is most likely an insult to my intelligence? Absolutely not! Because I LOVE tv.

I get accused of loving trashy tv by a certain fellow who has to share the remote with me, but I like to think that I’m just open-minded. It’s not like I watch Rock of Love or Jersey Shore and don’t realize ‘hey, this is really really trashy and stupid.’ I do think that. I also think ‘this is so horificially entertaining I cannot get enough!”

It’s like a car crash. SO bad, but you can’t stop looking, cause it’s fascinating. I sit there and marvel that there are really people out there who act like that. And it’s not just bad reality tv that I watch—oh no, I’m nothing if not fair. I also watch bad, cheesy, scripted tv.

Exhibit A: Spartacus.
If you can’t guess from the title, this program is a spin on the classic movie staring (St. Lawrence University ALUM) Kirk Douglas. Except it is so cheesy and trashy and overly dramatic that the title is probably the only thing the TV show has in common with the movie.  It’s a typical “Sword & Sandals” series in the vein of Xena, Warrior Princess (and, coincidentally, Lucy Lawless is in Spartacus too).  It is, shall we say, raunchy (we’re on Starz here people, you can show whatever you want), and it’s super blood-guts-gore.  I’m really embarrassed to be admitting that I love it, but I do.  Thank you, Netflix On Demand, for allowing me to watch it in secret (although I guess the secret’s out now, whoops).

AP Photo/Starz Entertainment, LLC

Do you see these abs?  Do you blame me?  That is Spartacus himself, that fuzzy little man peach.

Annnnnyway.  Don’t judge me too much just yet.  I do watch bad tv, but I also watch really, really, REALLY good tv.  Like “Life.”  Now I’m sure you’ve watched “Planet Earth” on the Discovery channel, and, if you have any brains in your head, you recognized it as being an absolutely stunning piece of television.  This is sort of the same thing, but with Oprah, and LOTS more cute animals.  I’m obsessed.

This is really saying something, because anyone who knows me knows that I am not the greatest fan of nature.  Actually, yeah, I mostly hate it.  It’s okay.  I hate nature.  Bugs and weird stinging plants and crazy vicious animals…blech.

But therein lies the beauty of TV.  I can watch something like “Life” that showcases insane nature-y things and totally appreciate it (from the safety of my couch, indoors).  Plus, now I totally would like a baby elephant for a pet.  Please and thank you.

Copyright © 2006 - 2010 by Jason Butler, elephant-photos.com

So, the point of this post is, while I appreciate Frank Lloyd Wright’s clever turn of phrase, I don’t necessarily totally agree with him.  Yes, there is deffinetly TV that is utterly pointless (Real Housewives of…wherever, anyone?) but there is also TV that opens up a whole new world for you, and shows you stuff you’d generally never see.  The History Channel, Discovery, even TLC (I mean where else would I see the “Man Who’s Arms Exploded”).  People sort of poo-poo the notion of educational TV, but I think it’s pretty legit.  I learn tons from TV–from how ad-men in the 1960’s philandered their way to the top (hey Don Draper, I miss you! Come back soon!) to how Guidos get their blow-outs just right.

So I’m proud to say I am a TV lover.  It allows you to turn off your brain and to stimulate it depending on what you’re watching.  I give those who do not have cable credit, and I’m jealous of the money you save, but I could never do it.

Hi, my name is Mary, and I am a tv-aholic.

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Dear NYC Subway Riders:

Hi friends.  You may recognize me as the girl you hip-checked to get by me up the stairs the other day.  It’s okay–you only weighed about 75 lbs more than me, and I’m sure you were in a huge rush to get somewhere extremely important–much more important than anywhere I was headed, or even my personal well-being.  My bruise is fading already, thanks.  I just wanted to voice my opinions on some of your behaviors whilst riding on our glorious public transport system, because I’m not quite sure you realize how you act (I mean if you did, I don’t think you’d act this way.  It’s that bad.)

1. Personal Space.  I like it.  You, as a human, like it too (I assume.  Maybe not?).  So why do you insist on getting all up in my personal bubble when the train is not even full?  Just listen to the nice conductor man and MOVE. INTO. THE CAR.  See all that space down there?  You can have it!  There is no need for your hand to be touching my hand on the pole, and I don’t need to be that well-acquainted with your crotch as you hover over me as I sit.  The intoxicating scent you bathed in this morning–is that Axe, or eau de amateur stripper I smell?–is making me want to vomit, as is the fact that your HAIR is touching me.  Hair is gross when it’s not your own, people!  Now get away from me, or I’ll start fake-coughing on you.  Wouldn’t be the first time.  (Note: I understand this sardine mentality when the train is really full.  That’s acceptable, as long as you pretend you aren’t actually pressed up against me like a 14 yr old at a school dance and avoid eye-contact at all costs.  It’s when there is ample room that I start to take offense to your proximity.  Now shoo.).

2. General Politeness. Did you all miss kindergarten?  Were you raised by proverbial wolves? I mean really, how hard is it. Don’t push and shove.  I know it’s remarkable, but there will be other trains after this one.  And you’d be amazed at what a simple “excuse me” can do.   Don’t glare like you want to murder every other passenger.  Whatever the problem is, it’s not our fault.  Don’t take up 3 seats with your bags/giant obese ass. And for God’s sake, let that poor pregnant lady sit down.  Same goes for the old guy, anyone with uses aid to walk, or people with missing limbs.  I am not kidding–I have seen a ONE-LEGGED guy get on the subway and no one moved an inch.  Except me, because I have a heart (and perfect manners).  The subway really makes me question human decency.

3. Volume Level. I can’t tell you how awesome it is to listen to that awful, tinny sound of super-mega house trance techno music seeping out of your headphones, good sir next to me.  It’s really does the trick for pushing my might-be-a-headache to a full blown migrane.  And you, who loves that jam SO MUCH that you have to listen to it aloud on whatever little device you have there, thanks also!  Everyone else in the car really loves that your sharing.  And by all means, please, keep singing along.  I might be watching the next Jay-Z in the making.  And finally, to the lady who has been screaming on her cell-phone since the moment we came above ground, I really was wondering why Joey left that nice girl for that slutty hooch who is Mike’s baby-mamma.  Thanks for the update.

4. Eating on the Train. Especially, and I think this goes without saying, super stinky food.  We are in a non-ventillated environment here, guys.  Can we finish the street-meat before entering the subway? Also, sometimes the way people eat is unbelievably disgusting.

5. Homeless People. True, this isn’t a behavior per-se, but I figured this special sub-set of subway riders deserves a special shout out, cause they really are the icing on the gross, germ-infested, smelly cake that is the MTA.  Look, I’m sure being homeless sucks, and if I was (which, let’s face it, I wouldn’t be…because I don’t understand how that happens), I’m sure the subway would be my first choice for new digs, but…ew.  You smell like a well-worn tennis shoe covered in pee AND poop, I can practically see the lice crawling all over you, and you make everyone stay as far away from you as possible, which leads to the “homeless guy on one end of the car all alone, 100 regular ppl on the other end crushed together” scenario that really irks me.

6. Tourists. See above re: non-behavior but extremely irritating sub-set.  I know NYC is a really amazing place.  I know that it’s exciting to be in the big-city after living in East Tumbleweed, Arkansas all your life, and the buildings are tall and shiny and it’s so noisy and big and OMG TIMES SQUARE, but come on.  People actually live here, and said people really don’t want to sit on the subway and listen to you yell out every stop on the board (“THE NEXT STOP IS, CANAL STREET!!! ISN’T IT FUNNY THAT I ALREADY MEMORIZED THOSE ANNOUNCEMENTS? OH MY GOOD GOLLY GOSH!”).  They don’t want to be delayed as you hold the door open waiting for cousin Jimmy who can’t figure out the turnstile. And they don’t want to watch you conduct a personal photo-shoot of your first time on the NYC subway system.  Please, take a cab.  You’re on vacation.  Splurge.

Look, I know I’m not the queen of subway etiquette.  Sometimes I take up more than 1 seat with  my bag, sometimes I listen to music on my headphones too loud.  I know I’m not perfect.  However. I would argue that I am a hell of a lot better behaved than maybe 86.7% of subway riders.  Let’s not forget the 1-legged guy.  And who got up for him.

Let’s just try to do better, kay?  Can we try that?  Or is that too much for you to handle, my fellow riders?  I have a feeling your going to go with yes.

Your Fellow Subway Warrior,

Mary “Don’t-EVER-make-eye-contact-on-the-train” Wood

PS- Hey MTA, don’t think I forgot about you. I know a lot has been said against you, MTA, and I don’t want to be one more voice in a chorus of millions.  I really want to like you, because you do make it a lot easier for me to travel around this big city.  But you just make it so hard for me to like you.  Because you really are terrible.  The fare raises, okay, I can handle that.  But the constant delays, the breakdowns, the track changes, and the incompetence of your workers for not letting us, the riders, know about these things, is really just awful.  And, to top it all off, today I read that you had the nerve to go and cancel my ENTIRE. SUBWAY. LINE.  So now, instead of plopping myself down on a W train in Astoria and sittin’ pretty until Prince Street (where I works so I can pay for my $80 monthly pass for you), I have to disrupt my journey and hang around Union Sq until an R train rumbles in to take me the rest of the way downtown.  Thanks. A. lot.

PPS – for those of you who don’t have the distinct pleasure of riding the subway every day and think I might be over-reacting, Exhibit A:

http://www.subwaydouchery.com/

Go. Laugh. Be Enlightened.  I LIVE this.

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