The mind altercating powers of fog. (originally posted January 14, 2007)

This morning, I had a New York moment, something I haven't had in quite a while. The last city-specific event occurred on the subway while Allison and I were heading uptown to see a movie. A man was playing a saxophone in the 14th Street and 8th Avenue station, and Allison made the comment that she loved old jazz standards. About .5 seconds after she said this, we realized he was playing the theme song from "The Family Guy." Only in New York we thought. However, this morning I had another one of these moments, this someone be somewhat more symbolic.

On Sundays, I work at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. I started the job because I needed the second source of income, but now I do it simply because I love the job. But it's never easy to get up in the mornings on a Sunday, and today was no different. It was cloudy and drizzling outside, making it that much more difficult to give up the safety and warmth of my bed. But alas, it was not a decision whether I got out of bed or not, it had to be done.

Making my way to the subway was cold and quiet. I only passed about four to five people on the street. I assume everyone was either in church or asleep, or possibly in church asleep. The population of Brooklyn being hung over and in bed was more likely. The subway platform was the same. Desolate, with the exception of two pigeons, sparring over an abandoned bagel.

Once on the J train, the passengers, including myself, sat in silence. That early in the morning, it seems that no one has much to say. The day has just begun so any stories relating to what's to come are, well...yet to come.

One of my favorite things about the J train is the view you get while entering the city. Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge, one has the ability to see the entire island of Manhattan. I imagine it's how tourists feel when seeing the city for the first time, and admittedly, I still get the chills when I have this view. People who have never been to New York won't understand, but seeing that vast expanse of skyscrapers, capped off by the classic symbol of the Empire State Building is both terrifying and utterly exciting at the same time. It's as if you are part of something important, and no one else in the rest of the world can say the same. But this morning, the view was obstructed by fog, the type of fog that obscures everything around you.

I'm guessing we were probably over the middle of the East River, but I forgot I was in New York. The moment only lasted for about thirty seconds, and afterwards I thought that I could be in any city in the world, the only reminders of my actual location being the occasional Fung Wah tourist bus racing past on the bridge. But almost as if the city could sense the train's confusion, the fog cleared as we hit the coast of the island. And at that moment, the woman next to me began speaking in Chinese on her cell phone. A middle aged Mexican man walked into the train car, strumming a three stringed guitar and began singing in Spanish. All of the noise of the city was back as we entered into the Delancey Street station. Tourists on the train would have been unnerved, but living here, you come to depend on the noise. When it's not there, you lose all sense of direction, all sense of where you are and where you're going. For a brief second, the chaos that makes this city unique was captured in the first car of a J train.

Someone recently told me they would never come to New York if they could avoid it. I used to understand that sentiment, as the city CAN wear on you at times. But now I wonder if I can ever leave. I mean, where else can you find a jazzified version of a cartoon theme song?

Anus bleaching is the new Match.com: How to find love amongst the cyber savvy. (originally posted on March 26, 2007)

I was diagnosed today as having adult attention deficit disorder. Granted, I was the one who made the diagnosis, but I have factual evidence to back this up. Please see the following blog post:

Right before 2:00 p.m. today, I posted my very first personal advertisement online. I originally had this idea this past Friday, thinking that I had some time to kill, and filling it with a social experiment of sorts would be a good way to kill it. I haven't had much to write about lately, so why not create something to write about? Hence the ad.

Advertisement (including link):

Anal bleaching dog lovers - 29 (Downtown)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reply to: pers-300724484@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-03-26, 1:32PM EDT


I'm seeking someone interested in the areas of dogs and anal bleaching, but not anal bleachers who practice on their dogs.

Let me know if you'd like to meet up for a coffee!

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/w4m/300724484.html

---------------------------------------------------------------

For those of you that know me, you know this ad makes no sense on some levels, some sense on others. For one, I love dogs and have wanted to purchase a puppy for sometime. Also, I am currently single, so it would make sense to be seeking a mate. However, until about two minutes ago, I wasn't even sure what anal bleaching* was (except for what I've learned from the web comic www.nataliedee.com), and I have strong opinions about dating people that you meet via the Internet. I've done it twice, and I'll never do it again. Also, and most importantly, I'm not 29 years old. I chose the age as it would hopefully entice both the 20 and 30 something year old dudes.

In line with the adult ADD, about fifteen minutes after I posted the advertisement, I forgot about it. Really, who can keep up with fake e-mail addresses, Craig's List, as well as the job they are technically getting paid for? After woofing down a cookie and some frozen yogurt, I was back on track for triple tasking (i.e. instant messaging with friends, reading the gossip blogs, and tracking down my new web-based pet project). I checked my temporary e-mail account, and to my suprise, there were already ten responses. This is a good turn out in my opinion considering that the ad had only been online for about an hour and a half.

The respones ran the gamut. The groups can be broken down as such:

1. The dude that got the joke and simply wanted to commend me on my comic genius.

2. The dude that got the joke, but wanted to take the opportunity to ask me out. Obviously one can gauge compatibility by the topics of anal bleaching and the love of dogs.

3. The broken english dude. I can not figure out which nationality category these dudes will fall into, but I'd like to stereotype them as the sweaty Indian dudes I used to see out on the weekends when I was living in Dundee, Scotland. Picture strategically placed gold chains, as to not matt down the chest hair artistically crafted to poke out of the top of the opening of a buttoned down shirt. Now everyone knows I have a big crush on Kumar from Harold nad Kumar Go to White Castle, so don't call me a racist. I just know what I'm talking about when it comes to greasy ethnic dudes.

4. The dudes that tried to be funny, but instead completely creeped me out. There was one response in particular that involved me having sex with this man's dog. I got the impression that he was trying to be outwit me, but I'm sorry my friend, you are just a pervert.

5. The guy that was so lazy he simply wrote "sure, lets meet."

6. The guy that was too lazy to look up anal bleaching, but lame enough to actually use the abbreviation "lol". Buddy, I can tell you right now we wouldn't work...

Here are some of the full responses:

"Hi - I am 36 years old. My traditions and family are still important to me. There
are still many twist you will find out about me. Physically, I am 6' 2" , Brown hair ,hazel eyes and in very good shape. Live/ work in Wall Street area
Women are pleased with my company because I am true gentleman. I am
established in life but there are many goals that I am after. Last minute travel is
one of my loves. Having someone special to travel with would be a great
experience. The water and water sports are part of my life. Yes, do you love to
laugh because humor is important to me. Maybe we laugh together. Are you as
adventurous as I hope to find, Lets chat. And see where this can go. Take Care"

"You're too funny! As I browsing through, I came across your ad and I just had to take a chance. I'm cute, respectful, and a gentleman believe it or not. I'm 26 with brown hair and stellar hazel eyes. I work in midtown live on the ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Upper East Side. I'm funny, playful, and have more personality than the other 150 guys that responded to you so give me a shot and drop me a line. So please get back to me if you wish and let's just see what this crazy website might bring us"

"sure lets meet"

"I'd meet only if you were attractive and agreed to allow me to give you a bleach enema. In the end, the strongest arm manages to bend the bow."

"What the hell is anal bleaching?!. Lol..."

"hi sweety email me"


In the end, I feel like my opinions of online dating have remained the same (i.e. Not for me). I've also learned another important lesson. Under the hidden darkness of the Internet, men are fucking scary as hell. "Bleach enema"? That's not even funny. And for some reason, I read all these e-mails in an extremely effiminate voice, which in my brain means all dudes in New York are closeted gays. God I'm good at analyzing.

Keep checking back for further e-mail postage. And the extra creepy ones will include the e-mail addresses of the weirdos so you can look them up on MySpace! I've already done some investigating, and I can't say I would even eat a cheeseburger with the likes of these suitors. And in the end, I feel as if I have the ultimate laugh, as I now have a personal record of guys I know read personal ads in my area. I can only hope that I will one day interview these men for jobs, etc, and will recall the e-mail address posted on their resume. Picture the scene:

"So, you have excellent credentials, but I've got one last question. Have you anal bleached recently?"

* Wikipedia has shared the following definition of anal bleaching:

Anal bleaching is the practice of bleaching the darker pigmentation of the skin around the anus. It is used for cosmetic purposes. A cream is used containing around 2% hydroquinone (a suspected carcinogen banned by several countries including France and the UK)as an active ingredient.

Tofu "Turkey" tastes like finger and tetanus shots. (orginally posted April 2, 2007)

To say that having to go to an emergency room because you've cut your finger open while trying to open a package of tofu fake turkey is degrading is the understatement of the year.

It happened at 8:27 a.m. this morning. I was rushing to make it to the subway stop by 8:45 a.m. as to get to work by 9:10 a.m. I retrieved all my lunch making materials from the fridge and began to construct the usual sandwich, fruit, salad, cheese esemble, also known as "Mary Ann's Packed Lunch." Since the clock was ticking, I was trying to cut corners, but the tofu "turkey" package was not on the same schedule as myself. Believing that the .05 seconds it would have taken to turn around and grab a pair of scissors from the drawer was going to severely hinder my arrival into work, I decided to cut the package open with the knife I had just used to slice a wedge of cheese (Ed. note: Please notice that I did not write "Cut the cheese" - no fart jokes today kids!).

Apparently, for the past 25 years I have been severely overestimating the durability of the plastic they use to package sandwich meats, because my small knife cut through the plastic and into/down the side of my left hand's index finger like it was made of soft butter. Wouldn't it be cool if butter bled like a stuffed pig? I think so. Fingers? Not so much. One bright spot in this whole debacle was that I didn't bleed on the fake turkey (yay!).

Thinking that I might have a somewhat severe wound, which I was using the pool of blood on the kitchen table, the kitchen stove, the counter, and the floor on the way to the sink, I decided to go into work, and if it was still bleeding by the time I arrived, I would go to the hospital. I made a makeshift bandage with a bit of gauze and 47 million Band-Aids and headed out the door. And may I add, that I finished packing my lunch even in my newly found crippled state?

By the time I got into work, the wound was still bleeding, and it was the general consensus of my coworkers that I go to the emergency room. I stayed at work just long enough to garner some sympathy and change my Band-Aids.

One would assume that if someone is bleeding, they will take priority over say, someone with a cold. The cold isn't go anywhere, but the blood flowing out of my finger is in fact starting to become worrisome. But the fine folks of the New York City medical industry do not in fact distinguish between the two. Coughing? Oh! No worries! You're next! Hey, you with the bloody wound and lack of spirit in your eyes! Mind the pool of blood! You better plan on mopping that up before we see you...

After one hour and 34 minutes, I finally made it past the pre-waiting room, as I like to call it, to the exam room a.k.a waiting room #2. Another six minutes passed before the nurse arrived. She was pleasant, and reminded me of an Asian female version of Richard Mulligan who played Dr. Harry Weston on the hit comedy sitcom of the 1980s, "Empty Nest." She did the standard blood pressure and temperature check (Result: Normal! At least in regards to my blood pressure and body temperature...). I was told that the doctor would be in shortly, so I could sit back and relax. What she should have said was sit back and take a nap. As she exited, she turned and asked,"By the way, how did you cut your finger?" I replied that I was trying to open a package of vegan turkey to make a sandwich. I could hear her laughing down the hall.

Seventeen minutes later, Dr. Choo arrived. He asked me what happened, but before I could explain, he said,"Oh wait! You're the bologne girl! Ha! That must be one hell of a sandwich!" My first reaction was to correct him and say that it was not bologne, as I am a staunch non-bologne advocate. But realizing that I was most likely being made fun of at nurse's station at that very moment, I simply said,"Yes. I am the bologne girl." My shame must have been evident.

After examining my finger, I was told I would need a single stitch. A single stitch? I believe that is also known as "You have such a miniscule wound...you must be a huge pussy for coming in here to seek treatment." I also was signed up for a tetanus shot.

After receiving the stitch and the shot, I made my way up to the counter to take care of my insurance copay. After I paid my $15 and was packing up my stuff, the man behind the counter said,"Hey. I hope that sandwich is the best sandwich you've ever eaten." Apparently, news about me being retarded travels fast.

50% Attractive (originally posted June 12, 2007)

On Friday night, I headed to the East Village to see Bovine Homecoming play at Mo Pitkin's. My good friend David is the bass player in the band, and I figured it would be good to catch up since I hadn't seen him since I got back from Paris.

The show was great, I had a couple of drinks, and headed home. Then it happened. At the corner of Avenue A and East 2nd Street, a 20 something year old man walked past me and said "You're kinda cute." I stopped in the middle of the intersection.

Kinda cute? What the hell does kinda cute mean? Like I'm only 50% attractive? What does kinda mean percentage wise? 25%? 75%? I would think that saying kinda cute accompanied by a shoulder shrug would quantify to 25%, while just a straight forward kinda cute (no shoulder shrug) at least gets me to the half way mark. 75% would be achieved with "you're cute" and a full on 100% would be "daayum girl, you is hot." Granted the vernacular may changed, but overall it's the same.

In my complete disbelief that I was only deemed kinda cute, I spun around and yelled "Kinda cute?! I wouldn't even give you 10% marks!" Thank god the majority of America is perplexed by simple math, because the man looked at me with a confused stare and continued walking up the avenue.

Looks like somebody is having a case of the Mondays... (originally posted June 25, 2007)

On Friday, I took the day off from work and went to the American Museum of Natural History. This is probably my favorite place in all of New York City. Some people might find it odd that I prefer the company of historical artifacts, stuffed animals, and gift shops to the general population of New York, but once you've lived here for three years, you start to prefer things that won't talk back to you. The museum is air conditioned, smells normal, and is generally staffed with helpful people. Take the exact opposite of all that and you have the rest of New York.

My favorite part of the museum is the oceanic exhibit. Let me preface the rest of this with the following disclaimer: I'm by no means a new age music fan. Frankly, the musical careers of Kenny G and Enya terrify me - when did a diggery doo become the musical instrument of choice? So the fact that I can appreciate the ocean sounds they pipe in over the PA system is pretty impressive. However, during this visit, I noticed I was afflicted with the same conclusion after viewing the varying exhibits, which started with the ocean animals. Now, before I tell you what this conclusion was, you'll have to lay down any sharp, weapon like objects because I can guarantee you'll want to either stab me or yourself after I tell you.

"Looks like somebody has a case of the Mondays."

That's it. Everything I looked out I pegged with this description. A walrus lying beached on the ice? "Looks like he's got a case of the Mondays." Whale eating a squid? "Looks like that squid has a case of the Mondays." What about that monkey pondering quantum physics? "Looks like he's got a case of the Mondays." I'm not sure why I saw a look of desperation and despair in those animals, similar to what you see on a Monday morning in every office in America, but it was almost as if all of them were saying,"Where in the hell did my Sunday go?"

"Looks like you have a case of the Mondays" might be the single dumbest phrase in the history of mankind. It's a close second behind anything that includes the word "Fabulous" and right before the discussion you get in middle school about sexual relations. Can anyone honestly say they haven't punched someone in the face for saying "looks like you have a case of the Mondays"? If you can, that only means no one has said this to you. Give me a call. We'll put your restraint to the test.

So here I was, mentally pissing off all these poor stuffed animals from America, Asia, Europe, etc. with my flamboyantly retarded observation. I spent an inordinate amout of time viewing the fox exhibit, perhaps because the fox looked as if he had beat Monday and was already onto Wednesday (Hump Day). He looked, well...foxy. As I stood there staring at the exhibit, I was reminded of a time in elementary school when the back drop for school photos was a woodland scene. Besides looking utterly fake, the background served as a sharp contrast to my bright Land's End clothing selection. I looked completely out of place in that photo, almost as if I had...oh lord...a case of the Mondays.

About five minutes went by where I just stood and stared at the fox exhibit, when I was suddenly surrounded by a small family - a son, daughter, and mother. The mother was obviously trying to cram a day of learning into the summer afternoon as she kept asking her kids to describe what they saw. Apparently, the average four year old is much more aware of its surroundings as the two kids noticed a white bunny hiding under a tree in the same exhibit I was viewing. Well, it made sense. The fox was certainly looking for something. Then, the mother asked "What is the fox going to do to that bunny?" The young boy shouted "He's gonna eat the bunny! For dinner! Eat him for dinner!" The mother clapped and proudly rewarded her son with a rustle of his hair.

"What do you think the fox is going to do to the bunny, honey?" asked the mother of her young daughter.

Have you ever seen a four year old have a complete mental break down? I hadn't either until then. What can best be described as a fine mix of mild seizure and complete drug dependency withdrawl, this young girl collapsed on the floor, head in her hands and proclaimed (between sniffles and stifled sobs),"I don't want the bunny to die! I don't want the fox to eat the bunny! No dinner for the fox! I don't want the bunny to die!"

As I walked away, I mumbled,"And I thought that bunny was having a case of the Mondays..."

I think God got my panties in a bunch (originally posted July 9, 2007)

In the past 24 hours, two very strange things have happened. I'll get right to the point:

1. I dropped off my laundry Sunday morning on my way to work at the museum. Perhaps because it was the Sabbath, but the little Mexican lady that washes and folds my clothes at the laundromat had knotted every single pair of my thong panties. And I mean knotted. As in knotted so hard that it took me 30 minutes to get all the knots out. I can literally say that my panties are in a bunch. And I don't like it.

2. I did not have Internet Explorer pulled up on my desktop today at work, but out of nowhere a web page popped. On this site, you could purchase books about how to become a better Christian. Is God trying to tell me to buy less slutty underwear and follow his path? I don't know, but I'm pretty creeped out.

Vintage Porch

I'm going to copy and paste some of the postings from my previous blog onto this one. I actually like them quite a bit more than the most recent stuff I've written. I'm beginning to think my move overseas has sucked out my cynical creativity. Lordy be, let's hope that hasn't happened. However, I'm confident that a trip back to New York sometime this year will bring back my creative writing skills. Fingers crossed. I hope you enjoy them.

XOXOXO.
Mary Ann

I just learned about the possible origins of werewolves.

I've never been a fan of Cancun, Mexico. The only thing that comes out of that place is misplaced virginities, a massive date rape drug industry and probably some severe cases of the clap. Well, not to talk down to the rest of Mexico, but I've learned you've got another skeleton in your closet: Werewolves. Yeah, you heard me.

Last night I watched a health show that just happened to feature a family in Mexico with the disease known as hypertrichosis, also known as Werewolves Syndrome. To be honest, I thought a show like this was going to focus on a bunch of kids with cancer or something similar, but I can appreciate the producers' off beat approach to what should be featured on a health show.

I can sum up this disease very simply: "Hairy, really hairy" or "hairy ass sonofabitch" if you prefer. I'm sure both are used quite often, depending on what country/region you are in.

For more clarification, here is the Wikipedia entry on the phenomenon:

"Hypertrichosis, congenital generalized Hypertrichosis or werewolf syndrome is a medical term referring to a condition of excessive body hair. Werewolf syndrome comes from the characteristics of a mythological werewolf of which the person is completely covered in hair or fur. It can be generalized, symmetrically affecting most of the torso and limbs, or localized, affecting an area of skin. It may be mild or severe. In most cases, the term is used to refer to an above-average amount of normal body hair that is unwanted and is an aspect of human variability. Although the statistic has been cited that this only occurs for 1 out of 10 billion people,19 people alive today have hypertrichosis, out of ~6.5 billion people in the world, makes for an average of 1 in 340 million."

"Severe hypertrichosis is quite rare, almost certainly due to unknown genetic defects, and can result in excessive or animal-like hair on both face and body. Some of these people have been displayed in carnival sideshows with names such as "dog-boy" or the "bearded lady." Fedor Jeftichew, Stephan Bibrowski and Annie Jones are well known examples."

"Most of the people recently featured in the media with hypertrichosis are from the Aceves clan of Loreto, Zacatecas, Mexico, some of whom have emigrated to the United States. Many of them have worked for circuses. The brothers Victor Ramon "Danny" Ramos and Gabriel "Larry" Ramos have worked as acrobats. Their cousins, Jesus "Chuy" Aceves, and his sister, Lili, have worked in sideshows."

The family mentioned in the last paragraph were the same people profiled on the show I watched. There appearance wasn't really gross...just confusing. I had loads of questions by the end of the program, such as "do they get alot of hair in their mouth? The only concentrated amount of hair I have is on my head, and I'm constantly pulling stray hairs outta there. Do they get hair in their eyes? I'm guessing they do since they have hair on their eyelids. The other questions are probably the most politically incorrect thoughts I've ever had, so I better not post them. Until the U.S. gets proper border control, I'll keep my comments to myself, thank you very much.

I can see how these people would be considered werewolves. I'm sure the image came from some guy, completely fed up with his situation of having a hairy face and back, literally flipping out one day and biting someone. Everybody knows teething makes you feel better...even if you are covered in more hair than a border collie.

Oh New York (and the rest of America). I miss you.

To my friends in New York, Kansas City, San Francisco, Oklahoma City and everywhere else:

I will pay you a million dollars to come visit. Granted, it will be on a post-dated check for somewhere around the year 3040, but still. That check is as good as gold. Good. As. Gold.

I'm homesick. Please help.

XOXOXO.
MAP

You need to sit down for this.

I think if you ask any of my friends the following question, they would laugh in your face and say "Are you insane? Lord no!"

That question is "Would Mary Ann ever go hiking?"

Well folks, you are going to want to sit down for what I'm about to tell you. Are you sitting? Good. Okay, here it goes: I went hiking on Saturday. I'll let the initial shock waves past before I go on.

On Saturday, I did the Spit to Manly walk which took over three hours. And portions of it were uphill. That's right. Uphill. And I didn't complain once. Well, complain out loud. I probably mentally bitched more than I have ever bitched in my entire life, but as long as no one else hears it it doesn't really count.

As a result, I still have shin splints three days later, but I feel "healthy." Will I ever hike again? Probably not. But I'm breaking down barriers people. Granted, I'm rebuilding same barriers three days later, but still. Did I say part of the hike was uphill? Did I mention that already?

I know I keep promising photos, and I swear they are coming. I just need to get Internet access on my laptop at home. Soon.