The Kindness of Strangers

Ladies, I have some good news and some bad news.

The good news: despite many indications to the contrary, chivalry is not dead. 

The bad news: when it shows itself, it really messes with your head.

Case in point: I was on the subway this evening and out of the blue, someone gave up their seat for me. A man. A YOUNG man. I know! I'll give you a moment to collect yourselves.

Any NYC express train during rush hour is about as close to being herded like cattle as one can get. It's an unavoidable part of the day, especially for those of us commuting from the outer burroughs, but we manage. Some of us see a car busting at the seams with an overflow of people and yet still run towards those closing doors rather than wait another 3-5 minutes on the air-stiffled platform; some of us have become experts at the territorial-but-not-quite-Bruce Lee use of our elbows; and a few of us manage to put on deodorant despite our quiet contempt for those who breach the personal space that God designed to keep strangers away from our armpits. Whether it be an actual seat, a handrail, or a cushy spot standing with your back against the door, the subway is a daily turf war and it's everyone for themselves.

Of course, there are exceptions. I can't speak for everyone but if I manage to actually get a seat, I will give it up for certain groups: the elderly, the handicapped, children, these sorts. That is, if I haven't gotten to the point in the ride where I've tuned out everyone and everything but the book in my hands. In these unfortunate cases, I only realize that I should have given up my seat after the poor schmoe has been standing for several stops. At that point I want to offer up my seat but become paralyzed at my own stupidity of not having done it sooner. They'll probably mentally judge me. "Thanks idiot, you could have given my arthritis-suffering, gout-covered ass a chance to rest BEFORE I had one stop to go." This is the sort of mind game that I'm used to. We may not like the unspoken code of the underground, but we accept it.

But this evening, just as I had grabbed a respectable spot with unobstructed reach of a handlebar, a guy who couldn't have been more than 20 years-old, stood up, looked at me, and offered me his seat. I took it and said thank you. On the outside everything was normal and nice. On the inside, I was reeling.

Why did he offer me his seat? Did I look pregnant? (The knocked-up being another group that I will offer my seat to, although if you speak with these women, they'll tell you it is shockingly rare for someone to surrender a seat for them, and when it happens, it's usually offered by another woman). I had a "Nam"-eque flashback to another time I was offered a seat. My unfortunate choice of an empire-waisted shirt gave me the silloutte of someone on their way to a lamaze class (that shirt has never been seen or heard from again). But that wasn't it. I was wearing a slightly form-fitting top, he couldn't have thought I was pregnant. So what could it be?

Did I look sick? Did I look like continued standing might cause me to faint? I don't think that was it. I'm only 30, so it wasn't the elderly thing. I wasn't on crutches, I didn't have a kid with me, I wasn't singing with mariachi band or telling him that Jesus loved him, so why the hell did this guy give me his seat. What was wrong with him...or me?!  For the love of God what the hell was it?!!!

Then it occurred to me. He was being nice. A gentleman even. He offered his seat and spent the rest of the ride listening to his ipod and minding his own business. Maybe he was congratulating himself on doing his good deed for the day, or maybe he didn't think twice about it. I guess his mama raised him right. He was just doing something nice. I realized this...and that's when the guilt set in.

How hardened and jaded had I become that such a simple thing could send me into a spiral of paranoia and self-doubt? This was a moment. The fates were shining down to let me know that all was not lost. Not all commuters are driven by primal instincts to stake their territory. That it's OK to be a strong, independent woman doin' it for herself and still accept a seat offered by a gentleman. That young adults can be good for something other than annoying the hell out of us with their insanely loud ipods.  I should not have questioned it. I should have enjoyed it. I wanted to do more than just thank him. I wanted to tell him how rare he was and how he'd probably make a great husband one day. I wanted to tell him how his simple act showed me that there is hope for tomorrow! I reached my stop with warm thoughts of how this guy was going to go out in the world and show others the light with his selfless seat-offering and nonchalant chivalry.

Or maybe he's just from out of town.

WWJD?

Bless me friends, for I have sinned, it has been over two months since my last blog post. What can I say? My creative juices were frozen under the unrelenting snow of this winter from hell and it took the premature summer weather to get them flowing again. I'm a little rusty but thank you to those of you who requested a new Silent But Desi post, it's nice to know that someone is reading!

The lesson for this blog is acceptance. It was never my intention to make this blog preachy but this past Sunday was Easter and I actually went to mass (which probably won't happen again until Christmas Eve, sorry Mom and Tammy) and I guess it has me waxing biblical, or at least trying to ask What Would Jesus Do? more often. Why, you ask? Because my friends, there are a lot of stupid people on this planet and killing them is not an option (that's one rule that crosses the secular/religious divide), leaving me no choice but to accept that which I cannot change. Or at least bitch about them in my blog, so here we go...

Public nail clippers: there is a man whose office is in ear-shot of my desk at work and he seems to think that is the perfect place for a personal nail salon.He clips his fingernails (God, I hope it's just the fingernails, my gag reflex is preventing me from thinking of the other possibilities) at work, in his office, with the door open and this has become a regular thing. The metallic "clip".........."clip"............"clip" sound is worse than nails on a chalkboard--yet another spine-tingling sound. Obviously people, this is a part of the human body that was never intended to have auditory functions. Now, if he were the only person I've encountered this appalling habit with maybe I could deal, but there is a large group of people who feel that clipping their nails in public is perfectly fine. Jesus, take the wheel....


Church-goers: My trip to church spurred this one on.  I know, this seems like an odd one. I mean, these people take an hour out their weeks to go mass, they must be good, right? Don't you see friends, that is the genius of it! These people have found a loophole in which to flaunt their social obnoxicity (a new word!). They feel a trip to the chapel gives them carte blanche to ack like idiots, and frankly, if I were God, I'd be pissed. Ok, not ALL people who attend church fit this category, but there are enough to warrant a mention in this blog. These are the people who have conversations with each other during the homily like they're in a coffee shop. Look, I realize I'll never be on the VIP list at the rectory, but I know enough to keep my mouth shut while I stand and sit and stand and sit and stand and kneel and shake my neighbor's hand and sit and stand again. Then there are the people also insist on bringing their bratty kids who are so bored that the only way they can get through the hour is by annoying the hell out of everyone around them. When did parents stop scaring the shit out of their kids with the evil eye in a public place? Is that grounds for calling CPS now too? I experienced it and I turned out just fine. Get a grip on your kids people! Lord, grant me the strength.

And finally...

Republicans: really, does this need any explanation?

We cannot change these people so we have no choice but to accept them--I don't think 10 Our Fathers and 12 Hail Mary's is going to cut it if we kill them.

Jersey $hore

Jersey Shore. Whether you like it or not, this show is everywhere. It's on TV, it's in the gossip mags, it has Facebook applications, and now they're getting ready for season 2. Jersey Shore is not going anywhere. So my friends, let's face our fear and deal with this head on.

The general attitude seems to be that these are vapid, ignorant, juice-head guidos and guidettes who are giving Italian-Americans a bad rep and the Seaside Heights P.D. enough overtime to buy their own summer homes on the boardwalk. For the most part I agree, although being half-Italian and originally from Long Island, I gotta say that while these kids are characaturesque (if that wasn't a word before, I just made it one), all you have to do is walk into a bar on LI and the blinding glare of gold chains and painted on t-shirts lets you know that MTV's casting office knows what it's doing. Do we really have to tell people that not everyone with a last name ending in a vowel from the NY-metro area is like that? Um...unfortunately, I think we do. But that's now what I'm here to discuss.

Everyone talks about the craziness of this show. It's true, it's a train wreck that beckons us to keep watching. But hearing about the negotiations that went into securing a second season has raised some existential questions. WTF you say? Hear me out:

In negotiating for Season 2, the cast pulled a Friends-like maneuver and rejected MTVs low-ball first offer. I don't know the ins-and-outs (isn't it enough that I'm devoting a blog entry to this?) but word has it that they settled on $10,000 each per episode for a 12 episode season. Um, that's 3 months of sitting around talking about protein bars and push-up bras in a rent-free beach house on the boardwalk for a cool $120,000. Plus, they are getting paid for club and party appearances and whatever other ridiculousness reality tv-fame has to offer. And I heard that Snooki is getting a show of her very own, Snookin' for Love. (FYI, I'm 2 inches taller than her, take that Snickers!)

This begs the question, WTF am I doing? Maybe a membership to a tanning salon would have been more lucrative than my graduate degree. It definitely would have been cheaper, and thus, possibly a better investment. Should I have been working on the perfect poof instead of the perfect resume? Instead of climbing the corporate ladder should I be working on my pole dancing?

I joke of course, but you know what they say, there's much truth in jest. I may not have my own show or $120,000 for a summer spent at the shore. But I have my dignity, my self respect, and my student loans. Could I really live with myself if I made a living by being a national laughing stock? Of course not. But then again who knows what I could've become if I grew up being known as The Princess of Poughkeepsie.

No Pain, No Gain

We are now firmly implanted in 2010 and apart for a few stragglers the New Year's resolution crowd at my gym has pretty much given in to their couch potato ways and things are back to normal. I don't have to wait an hour to get on a treadmill and the staff has dropped their phony cheerful dispositions designed to sign up fresh meat to annoying two-year contracts with hidden fees and caveats in favor of their more natural, bored, jogging-suit clad, manicured selves.

For the most part, the "normal" crowd at the gym is your typical working gal trying to burn some calories after work and before the new episode of Top Chef comes on. But there are a few who make you wonder why they bother. Here they are:

"Chatty Kathy": Why else were cell phones invented if not to sit in jeans and boots in the locker room for an hour talking about what a bitch your ex's ex is? I cannot help but overhear these conversations while I'm trying to change into my gym clothes with the speed and dexterity of Romanian gymnast and the self-consciousness of a pimply-faced tween. Does the whole world need to know your business? Do you enjoy watching middle-aged women in their granny panties? It's a locker room, not a phone booth. Sheesh.

"Jane Fonda": You know the type, leotards over the leggings. Inappropriate thong-age. Women dressed like this make you want to find the nearest Delorian and hit 1985. I have to admit though, it is sort of amusing to see people who are either so oblivious to social norms that it borders on sad or they just don't give a shit, and on some level, I respect that.

"Heathers": Chatty Kathies in a bunch. Instead of blowing up each other's phones, they sit in an inconvenient place on the gym floor and just, like, chat, or something. You know the beginning of that song "Baby Got Back" ("Oh my gosh Becky...) picture that conversation in the middle of your gym while you're trying to find the zone so you can squeeze out another 3 squats. What's worse about these stupid beotches is they are ridiculously skinny. They work up a sweat just figuring out the combinations to their lockers and couldn't do a push-up to save their lives, and yet they have bikini-ready bodies just by sitting on their asses and watching the rest of us work out like fiends. My only solace is that time and gravity will catch up with them and all they'll be left with is a muffin top hanging over an old Juicy Couture workout suit.

Despite these pet peeves, I still enjoy the gym. It's true what they say, "no pain, no gain."

29 Again, for the First Time

I am on the cusp of turning 30 (tomorrow to be exact) and like any milestone birthday this one has me questioning my life and the choices I’ve made thus far. For the most part, all is well, (decent career, my own apartment, etc.) but no matter what I have, or could have achieved in my three decades of life, there are of course, stones unturned, paths not travelled, and #1 New York Times bestselling novels not (yet) written.

Which brings me to this blog. Writing seems like an inevitable part of my future and yet I cannot seem to finish anything I write, making the great American novel that I can feel in my bones somewhat atrophied. This blog is an attempt to revive it. (Peeps in the know, did I get that medical metaphor right?). Short little blurbs and observations in my witty yet profoundly thought-provoking prose under no dead-line, for no money, published by the power of the internet seems like a place to start, or at least one that I can stick to (we’ll see). So, if you are intrigued, read on, if not, who asked you?

Ok, tomorrow I turn 30. What have I done with my life? I am not married, let’s just take care of this little Victorian nugget right off the bat. I always knew that if ever I got me a husband, it wouldn’t be until I was in my 30s anyway. My 20s were for me, to move out of my parents’ home, start my career, have crazy parties all over Manhattan until all hours of the night with no one to answer to but myself. You know, your typical Holly Golightly-minus-the mean-reds lifestyle (although let me just state right now that if George Peppard walked into my life looking like he did in Breakfast At Tiffanys, things would have turned out a lot different, I mean, honestly). Sometimes (or mostly) that swinging NYC lifestyle manifests itself in my watching Jeopardy and my latest Netflix selection in the blissful peace that for some reason can only be found in my apartment because, unfortunately, in my world margaritas are $8 a pop if you’re lucky and there’s no such thing as $50 for the powder room (that practice is itself grounds for an entire blog entry). So thank God we’ve evolved beyond the mentality that 30 + single = old maid. So to sum up: single and ready to mingle (cue modern George...or Paul Newman, I'm not picky).

Next up, career, this I'll keep short. I work in publishing and I've read enough manuscripts by people who've gotten fired for writing about their jobs in their blogs enough to know not to do this--then again, these people are getting their books published sooooo....nah, in this economy it's best to play it safe. I have a job, I'm happy to have a job and hope to continue to have a job. 'Nuff said.

I'm dubbing 2009 The Year of Suck because it well...sucked. The year started and ended with death, in my family, my friends' families, my co-workers' families, celebrities and even informercial pitchmen; the economy continued to tank; it rained for the entire month of June; and just when we thought we had seen the last of Sarah Palin, she writes a bestseller (I mean, if that woman can do it, WTF is stopping me?). Obviously the Gods were not happy in 2009. And so, I say bring on 2010 and turning 30! I'm putting all the negativity, grief, and depression about the abundance of Republicans in my life (Lenny, Jayne,) behind me.

My 20s had some highs and lows, but I'm looking to the 30s with optimism, a new set of goals (Pultizer), maybe a new gig as a columnist for the NYT when Gail Collins and Thomas Friedman are on vacation or something, and of course world peace.

Farewell my youth...