Dr. Pepper Tastes Like Aqua Net: Why I like not having too much responsibility (originally posted March 27, 2006)

This morning, I woke up hung over. And not only that, I woke up late. I jumped out of bed at the cusp of sleeping in and oversleeping. It was 7:15 a.m., and I needed to be uptown by 8:30. I brushed my teeth as the shower heated up, and I frantically ran around my apartment trying to get things in order. All the while, I felt as if I was going to throw up. The room was spinning and I was freaking out. I didn't want to be late when I had only been at my new job for a week.

After setting the new world record for vomitting AND shampooing my hair at the same time, I clocked the rest of my morning ritual in under 15 minutes flat. I typically don't like to rush, so I was amazed at just how slow I must be in the morning if I typically wake up at 6:15 a.m. and don't leave my apartment until 7:45 a.m. Apparently I can stretch the task of eating a small container of yogurt into a 15 minute ordeal.

After cleaning up what was left of the half eaten bagel and goat cheese I ate the night before in a drunken haze, I headed out the door, telling myself that once I got some fresh air, I'd feel better. I learned an important truth this morning: I am, in fact, retarded. To think that New York City air is going to make you feel better is something that only lends itself to the mentally challenged, and I, my friends, am apparently running on half a brain most of the time.

Getting on the F train was the closest thing to nailing my own coffin that I've ever experienced. People crowded around me, and all the while I thought "Oh god. I hope that man doesn't like his suit too much because I can give no guarantees about my ability to projectile vomit" and "please little kid step away from me. I don't want to yack on your head. I imagine bile and goat's cheese is impossible to get out of corn rows."

The V train was a bit better, as I was able to get a seat, and the train was relatively empty. The V train has this magic ability to always remain half empty despite the fact that it runs a very central route through the city. My seat was right by the door, so I was lucky enough to get a nice breeze every time the doors opened. Also, a man who resembled Superman sat across from me, and I believe that the 20 minutes of incessant staring at his chest to see if I could see his trademark costume did a fine job of creeping him out. His chest was also acting as a point of reference as to stop the spinning in my head. And oddly enough, I think being on the subway whilst experiencing the hung over spins is the closest thing to LSD I'll ever experience. If only Led Zeppelin had been playing in the background, the scene would have been complete.

Luckily, the train was moving fast, so I made it to work with time to spare. I immediately raided the pantry and learned that Doritos and doughnuts with pink frosting and sprinkles cure any sort of beer-induced headache. Also, Dr. Pepper tastes like Aqua Net if you drink it with Doritos. But the most important part is that I'm getting paid to do all this. My boss asked me if I was feeling okay, and of course I lied and said "Never been better." She replied with "I'm so hungover right now. God, I envy your job. No responsibility except to answer the phone and look cute." And she's right. I look like a fucking angel while eating a pink donut, and the FedEx guy told me I had a cute white girl giggle. Then he winked at me, so I'm guessing that was a compliment. The mailman even said that he liked my hair, and that he reminded him of the girlfriend he had when he was 22, because apparently I look "mod." I've noted this and plan on wearing shift dressed and big earrings for the forseeable future.

Envious? Well, you shouldn't be. Anyone can achieve this level of fame. All it takes is a severe lack of direction, fear of adult responsibility, an office that occasionally buys donuts and stocks their pantries with good snacks. Also, if you can look adorable while hungover, you're on the fast track for success.

Sips: "I bet it tastes like compromise."; Me: "I don't find that very funny." (originally posted March 29, 2006)

The title of this entry really has nothing to do with the entry itself. That small exerpt is from a conversation I was having about Snapple. Apparently, the British are not schooled on the most Jewish drink in the world, so I was giving a lesson plan. Don't worry Sips, you'll get to try it properly upon your arrival.

So onto the rest of it:

I always considered myself an observant person. Actually, that is only half true. I discovered that human resource hiring managers love to hear a potential job candidate say that, so I would always toss that little gem out during my job interviews, with the end result being H.R. smiling enthusiastically and offering me the job at some point down the road. However, I learned two days ago that I am somewhat observant, but only when it comes to noticing extremely gross things about strangers and people I know.

On Monday, I was sitting on the V train on my way home. I had gotten on at 53rd and Madison, so my journey had just begun. At 47th Street, a very attractive gentleman entered my train car, and I was immediately drawn to his excellent choice of suit and tie combo. But within seconds, I noticed something odd. He kept scratching his nose.

Now I'm not talking about the type of scratching you get from a tiny itch or the type of incessant nose knocking you get with a coke addict. I'm talking about the type of scratching you see when someone sticks their entire index finger up their nostril and proceeds to move said finger around. At first I thought I must be hallucinating. No man wearing that suit and that particular tie could possibly be displaying this horrible habit in such a public place. I looked around at other passengers hoping to match a set of eyes that saw what I was seeing, but alas, everyone was oblivious.

This man kept his finger in his nose all the way from West 47th Street to West 4th Street, and I shit you not, not one person took notice except for me. At some point, my mouth must have been hanging open out of the sheer ridiculousness of the whole scene, so for all I know, I was the weirdo on the train, as far as the other passengers were concerned.

I'm still baffled by the events, obviously since this happened on Monday and it is now Wednesday and I'm still thinking about it. This man was well dressed: nice camel colored wool coat, tailored pin stripe suit, silk tie, very proper and VERY British. His hair was slightly messy, but in that way that only British men can perfect. And then he had to ruin the whole image by sticking his fucking finger up his nose. I'd like to write him off as a sociopath, but frankly, I think he either knew that no one but me was noticing and was willing to take the risk, or he simply just really enjoys picking his nose. I've also batted around the idea of it being part of some hidden camera show, so if any of my friends abroad see me on BBC 1, BBC 2, or Channel 4 looking like a typical New York asshole, my apologies.

It was after this train ride that I realized what a dirty city New York can be. The train itself covered in spit and loogies, coffee cups and unidentified liquid, and now there is a good chance that some of you might find boogers hastily stuck on the seats and handle bars of the 2nd Avenue-bound V train.

Happy riding.