and pack your bags tonight.
MTA rates have increased and nobody is happy about it. I recommend they try to keep up with the competition when it comes to destinations.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Stick
There are times when I really wonder about life, the whys and whatfors, and from time to time the cosmic and nihilistic "what is the point of it all?!" crosses my mind. During these times I rarely come to any great conclusion, but I usually think it is to create. Whether it be for the good of mankind and progress, or simply for the grandeur of mankind. Be it art or science, human beings need to thrive for the next best thing. I think we can all be thankful for penicillin, modern laser surgery, and developments in cancer research. Many can praise those who have made advancements in the realms of vision and hearing, some dole out accolades to the scientists who have brought us viagra and silicone implants. I am thrilled to be writing this from my kitchen table while I boil eggs (this recipe is killer). However, a new item has come into my life which has altered my existence instantaneously, and I have no idea how to thank the creator enough. Ladies and Germs, I introduce you to the Dirt Devil StickVac.
If you live in a city apartment smaller than 800 square feet with hard wood floors, area rugs and lots of pre-war molding, this is the must have item of the season. Make that year. It is 4 pounds of plugged in power. Not only can it cover rugs and bare floors, but it converts to a stick for the hard to reach crevices that some half rate contractor figured would just fill in with grime. THEN, it can be a hand vac, which is great for small dark corners and terrifying your cat when he is trying to eat.
All this action for less than 25 bucklngs. I had my doubts, but they were sucked up and chucked away along with the large grey wig I managed to collect in the bagless canister. Life altering, my friends. Life altering.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
A little bit ironic...
Among the many fantastic experiences of my German wine tour was the opportunity to visit a giant bath house. The town where I stayed was a bit rough around the edges, but the BÄDERHAUS was a veritable oasis. Multiple saunas at varying temperatures and levels of humidity surround a large pool where people can just bob around and soak in the relaxing vibe. Ideal, right? But for me the record scratches at "co-ed" and "nude". I admit I am an outgoing person in most ways, but I am exceptionally shy, and the thought of lounging (and sweating) next to droves of German men did not appeal to me. Lying the in the Turkish Hamam room, I talked myself down and realized that a number of things were on my side
1) I will never see any of these people again
2) Most of these people are older-by about 30 years
3) None of these men are really attractive really, so who cares?
By the second visit I was confident that I was invisible and thought nothing of tossing off my bathrobe and running into the Ice Grotto (basically a giant Snoopy Sno-Cone machine made to look like a cave with ice shavings. Quite incredible after baking in the 90 degree Celsius dry tank). In fact, there were a few times when I thought that the robe was just a pain in the ass, and I would just wear it like a cape to the next station on my circuit. Like a boxer stepping into the ring if a boxer wore white waffled cotton robes.
So increased was my comfort in this situation, that when sitting in the whirlpool, I actually beckoned the tall young male employee in little white short shorts over to ask when the whirling would begin again. I was in the pool with my travel partner looking up at the bespectacled German youth who was quite animatedly explaining the schedule, when suddenly I realized with horror that he was actually quite handsome. Looking up into his aquamarine eyes (they could have been grey, but simply reflecting the blue of the unwhirling water I was in), I took in his perfect features-tan toned arms, smooth skin marred only by a small wispy moustache that was the same sunshiney blonde of his hair. Had I not just emerged from the lavender room (60 degrees Celsius) he would have surely seen me blush. It was the most vulnerable I had felt in at least a decade, and it was not fun. Luckily, seconds after this happened, the water started to roil and froth and we joked and laughed and he walked away so I could slowly dunk my head under the water and scream.
1) I will never see any of these people again
2) Most of these people are older-by about 30 years
3) None of these men are really attractive really, so who cares?
By the second visit I was confident that I was invisible and thought nothing of tossing off my bathrobe and running into the Ice Grotto (basically a giant Snoopy Sno-Cone machine made to look like a cave with ice shavings. Quite incredible after baking in the 90 degree Celsius dry tank). In fact, there were a few times when I thought that the robe was just a pain in the ass, and I would just wear it like a cape to the next station on my circuit. Like a boxer stepping into the ring if a boxer wore white waffled cotton robes.
So increased was my comfort in this situation, that when sitting in the whirlpool, I actually beckoned the tall young male employee in little white short shorts over to ask when the whirling would begin again. I was in the pool with my travel partner looking up at the bespectacled German youth who was quite animatedly explaining the schedule, when suddenly I realized with horror that he was actually quite handsome. Looking up into his aquamarine eyes (they could have been grey, but simply reflecting the blue of the unwhirling water I was in), I took in his perfect features-tan toned arms, smooth skin marred only by a small wispy moustache that was the same sunshiney blonde of his hair. Had I not just emerged from the lavender room (60 degrees Celsius) he would have surely seen me blush. It was the most vulnerable I had felt in at least a decade, and it was not fun. Luckily, seconds after this happened, the water started to roil and froth and we joked and laughed and he walked away so I could slowly dunk my head under the water and scream.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Bridget Jonesin'
I just finished packing for a 25 degree temperature variable (that is just daytime temps, night time is more like 50 degrees). I am sure everything in my case will be cast aside for one great outfit/uniform that I will wear all 7 days.
Jennie and I have decided to buy a bottle of something refreshing in Duty Free and one of those giant Toblerones for the flight. Which reminds me, the title of Bridget Jones's Diary auf Deutsch is Schokolade zum Frühstück (Chocolate for Breakfast). How very quaint. And hilarious. And mildly depressing...
Jennie and I have decided to buy a bottle of something refreshing in Duty Free and one of those giant Toblerones for the flight. Which reminds me, the title of Bridget Jones's Diary auf Deutsch is Schokolade zum Frühstück (Chocolate for Breakfast). How very quaint. And hilarious. And mildly depressing...
Shark Sandwich
It's 6:21 a.m., and I have a huge list of things to do before I pick up Jenniekins and head to the airport. Sadly, I am rendered immobile with the crushing discovery that while in flight with Icelandair no meal will be provided, but instead we are offered "Food for Purchase". There is nothing savory about that phrase. To me it translates to "If You Are Hungry You COULD Buy This, Though, If You Look Around You, Nobody Else Has--Except That Creepy Guy With A Neon Green Baseball Cap Advertising "Hot Doug's House of Tube Meats".
If it were Air France I would feel confident in the fact that perhaps a baguette avec jambon and brie is available-shrinkwrapped and made three days ago, sure, but it is a cute sandwich in theory. Whereas a fermented shark hoagie or Hangikjöt is never cute. This begs the question: Does the plane have a smoke room? Will my air hostess talk in a high pitched voice and beg me to not step on my flight fairy? I am suddenly getting a bit anxious. What were we thinking?! Three months ago the chance to stopover in Reykjavik was compelling (not to mention cheap), but now it looms ahead like a dormant volcano spewing weird green gases! Why why why?!
On the flip side, after we endure a flight of crackers and cheese and slightly mashed grapes (lap picnic!), we make our way to our adorable hotel in the lovely town of Bad Kreuznach. I don't know if Jennie realizes this yet, but the name of the street we are staying on is Eiermarkt - Egg Market. We are just a few kilometers from a duck emporium/restaurant and need I remind anyone that it is all about spas spas and more spas in this town. Ima gonna take a Roman bath, a Turkish bath, a bath bath, then I am gonna rinse it all off with thermal healing waters. When I return I will be unrecognizable, and not because I was on a steady diet of quark and marizipan, but because I will have spent a week soaking in these waters. Also because I avoided the shark sandwich.
If it were Air France I would feel confident in the fact that perhaps a baguette avec jambon and brie is available-shrinkwrapped and made three days ago, sure, but it is a cute sandwich in theory. Whereas a fermented shark hoagie or Hangikjöt is never cute. This begs the question: Does the plane have a smoke room? Will my air hostess talk in a high pitched voice and beg me to not step on my flight fairy? I am suddenly getting a bit anxious. What were we thinking?! Three months ago the chance to stopover in Reykjavik was compelling (not to mention cheap), but now it looms ahead like a dormant volcano spewing weird green gases! Why why why?!
On the flip side, after we endure a flight of crackers and cheese and slightly mashed grapes (lap picnic!), we make our way to our adorable hotel in the lovely town of Bad Kreuznach. I don't know if Jennie realizes this yet, but the name of the street we are staying on is Eiermarkt - Egg Market. We are just a few kilometers from a duck emporium/restaurant and need I remind anyone that it is all about spas spas and more spas in this town. Ima gonna take a Roman bath, a Turkish bath, a bath bath, then I am gonna rinse it all off with thermal healing waters. When I return I will be unrecognizable, and not because I was on a steady diet of quark and marizipan, but because I will have spent a week soaking in these waters. Also because I avoided the shark sandwich.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Kenneth Cole's Reaction
As you may recall, I posted a world wide web log about an unsavory experience at Kenneth Cole (See "What to Expect When You Are Not Expecting - 4/10/09). I am sure my readership has been resting on tenterhooks waiting to know the next chapter of this heartbreaking tale. Here is a bit of a follow-up:
On April 20th I sent an email to Kenneth Cole expressing my dissatisfaction with his ad campaign and more importantly, the less than stellar customer service. When I was writing this letter a good friend asked why I even bother and what I expect from it. Quite honestly, I expected nothing but the satisfaction of conveying my feelings. There is something wholly gratifying about saying something that not only gets the point across, but also stirs enough in the receiver of such information to react. The moment I sent the email, I felt confident that I would never get a reply. Why would Kenneth write back to someone who had a minor annoying customer service experience? So I hit send, thought about it a bit, then carried on with my life. Much to my dismay, I got a response from the CEO of Kenneth Cole expressing her apologies. Shortly thereafter, I was contacted by the director of customer service. She and I wound up having a lengthy chat about everything from customer service to fashion to travel and then to type A personalities. Finally, just now I signed for a FedEx envelope in which is a gift card which will grant me with a few new pieces for my Autumn wardrobe.
Not bad for expecting nothing, and not expecting. I'll drink to that (because I can...)
On April 20th I sent an email to Kenneth Cole expressing my dissatisfaction with his ad campaign and more importantly, the less than stellar customer service. When I was writing this letter a good friend asked why I even bother and what I expect from it. Quite honestly, I expected nothing but the satisfaction of conveying my feelings. There is something wholly gratifying about saying something that not only gets the point across, but also stirs enough in the receiver of such information to react. The moment I sent the email, I felt confident that I would never get a reply. Why would Kenneth write back to someone who had a minor annoying customer service experience? So I hit send, thought about it a bit, then carried on with my life. Much to my dismay, I got a response from the CEO of Kenneth Cole expressing her apologies. Shortly thereafter, I was contacted by the director of customer service. She and I wound up having a lengthy chat about everything from customer service to fashion to travel and then to type A personalities. Finally, just now I signed for a FedEx envelope in which is a gift card which will grant me with a few new pieces for my Autumn wardrobe.
Not bad for expecting nothing, and not expecting. I'll drink to that (because I can...)
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Discoteca
Second to last night...so so very sad. so sad.
On my way to the disco last night, several police motorcycles were driving by and I heard an Italian say °Ecco Chips°
Someone in 2009 made a Chips reference. In Rome. This town gets better and better.
We found a very bizarre alternative market in Testacchio today. It was in an old slaughterhouse area which was crazy, but somehow worked. We all bought delicious goat cheese from an old man who had made up for his lack of English skills with gap toothed smiles and cheese samples. The only way to describe the area we are in aside from a combo of Beruit and Sao Paolo is with the panoramic video I took. Uploading to follow in two days. WEEP!!!
On my way to the disco last night, several police motorcycles were driving by and I heard an Italian say °Ecco Chips°
Someone in 2009 made a Chips reference. In Rome. This town gets better and better.
We found a very bizarre alternative market in Testacchio today. It was in an old slaughterhouse area which was crazy, but somehow worked. We all bought delicious goat cheese from an old man who had made up for his lack of English skills with gap toothed smiles and cheese samples. The only way to describe the area we are in aside from a combo of Beruit and Sao Paolo is with the panoramic video I took. Uploading to follow in two days. WEEP!!!
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