No, you cannot count my calories

There's something about going to a restaurant and ordering things that are clearly not good for you, yet somehow this reality doesn't exist in the moment you choose the onion ring appetizer or three-cheese enchiladas topped with cream sauce.  I employed this way of thinking when meeting a friend for breakfast at the new IHOP located on 14th street in Manhattan.  Unfortunately, the New York City Department of Health decided in 2008 to force food establishments with 15 or more locations nationwide to display all calorie information prominently in menus.  This would not be an issue if IHOP offered anything- besides a glass of orange juice and half of a grapefruit- for under 1,800 calories.  Country omelette- 1,100 calories; Breakfast sampler- 1,450; White chocolate chip mint holiday pancakes- don't even go there.

At some point my eyes meander to the bottom of the page where a disclaimer which could save one from a low-grade heart attack states, "The USDA recommends that adults limit caloric intake to 2,000 calories per day... stated nutritional values are approximate; values obtained by laboratory testing may be different."  Though I'd love to only have a Belgian waffle and half of a scrambled egg count as my day's worth of food, the silver dollar pancakes on the kids menu somehow seemed much more appealing.

No, you cannot fill your own cavity

Fixing a leaky faucet, changing your car's oil, haircuts- some things are better left to a professional.  Case in point, my co-worker told me she was in the toothpaste aisle at Walgreen's when she came across a product that is blatantly inappropriate to offer consumers.  There next to the dental floss and canker sore medication was Dentemp One Step, for repairing lost fillings and loose caps.  Not only does this company enable people to perform their own dental work for the low price of $5.99, but makes them believe this is actually a good idea with quotes like "Recommended by Dentists" and "You can eat on it!" sprawled across the packaging.  Directions include "remove as much of the old cement from the crown as possible"; I can just imagine someone laboring over their bathroom sink wondering why they didn't go to dental school- they're basically a pro!  Fast forward a few days when that pro work ends in a massive toothache and gaping hole in your mouth; guess the 8+ repair promise left a lot to be desired.

No, you cannot check my carry-on

I've learned for my wallet's sake, and overall sanity, to pack lightly to avoid checking luggage on short trips.  For a recent flight I strategically chose a seat near the cabin door in order to quickly escape back to my apartment and get ready for the week ahead.  Note to self: when closest to the exit you are last to board.  As the plane filled with noisy passengers, I saw one last spot in the overhead compartment that should fit my suitcase just right.  As I attempted to stuff it in the shrunken space, I was dutifully notified by my neighbor that it wouldn't fit due to the plane's life boats located in the same small area.  In a failed attempt to keep my luggage in the cabin, I walked halfway down the aisle looking for an open spot, creating quite the pile up and gaining zero new friends. 

Fast forward to Baggage Claim 2 where I was sent to wait with the tourists ready to pick up their recently-purchased, unnecessary amounts of Disney-themed paraphernalia.  The only thing worse than the flight attendant prying the luggage from me was hearing the shrill sound of the bell which notifies passengers of luggage arrival.  A few renegade strollers and a strangely shaped instrument later, my suitcase came around on the carousel begging to go home.  I understand the need for the life boats on board but I suggest a less crowded place to store them, like in first class and/or the cockpit.

No, you cannot produce snow in October

Snowtober, Snowpocalypse, Snowlaween- no matter what nickname was used, it was completely unnecessary.  The weather man warned that a random nor'easter storm would blow through the Saturday before Halloween.  I had yet to see one leaf fall (note the green foliage) and barely broken out my autumn wardrobe, it surely was not time for gloves.  Nonetheless, the rain froze on its way down and the wind was beyond cold; this was obviously Mother Nature's cruel joke on all girls who decided to dress up as a sexy cop, sexy nurse, or other form of generic costume in which you can place the adjective 'sexy' in front of.  So please keep your snow until at least December, I cannot be expected to enjoy a good pumpkin ale in 3 layers of clothing- it's just not natural.

No, you cannot make the street dirtier than it already is

If you live in Manhattan you can tell the difference between a city bus, delivery truck, and a taxi cab just by the very distinct and ostentatiously loud noises they make.  Every Tuesday and Thursday on my walk to work I am greeted by the New York Department of Sanitation's beloved street sweeper, a monster truck that comes trudging down the streets and avenues of the city, weaving in and out of cars who decided not to follow the alternate-side parking codes that day.  One would assume that this vehicle is used to clean the mean streets, leaving a shiny finish for pedestrians to stride upon.  Unfortunately, assuming that would be incorrect because this truck does nothing but slosh around the trash and grime pitted near the curbs.  Not only that, whatever 'cleaning fluid' comes out of the super-sized scrubbing brushes positioned below does not look at all sanitary.  Anytime I hear the roar of the engine approaching, I shimmy up against the closest building as the brushes spew out the fluid infusing with trash juice and debris, which in turn splash on to the sidewalk in attempt to soil my cute fall boots.  Once it finally rides by, the aforementioned liquid now gives the street an aroma of fresh garbage peppered with 5 dogs walked in that very spot that morning and lo mein left for the mice the night before. I didn't think it was possible but I'm pretty sure the street sweeper is actually making the street more soiled; how about we suspend service for a while so I can save my tax dollars and walk to work in undisturbed filth?

No, you cannot run a pet store on the street corner

Only in New York can a simple task like dropping a letter in a mailbox render difficult because of an unexpected obstacle. Today I crossed the street in front of my office to perform this everyday errand; if you time it just right, there's a few seconds of leeway to cross and return within one stop light cycle.  I've got this down to a science but was prevented from completing my usual mission when I noticed a crowd near the drop box.  There on the sidewalk were a multitude of animals accompanied by a man unpacking his cart full of their various cages, beds, and toys.  I stepped over a cat and dog fight and nearly tripped on a leash just to reach the mailbox.  Why yes, there's the pet store owner himself with 2 dogs, 3 cats, a canary, and the always necessary gerbil.  (Surely the gerbil has it best as his bed consists of a Cinderella pillow positioned atop a cardboard box pedestal.) 

You may be wondering why the man decided this was a prime location to park his furry friends?  When I walked by later on a coffee break, passerbys thought it sanitary to pet the animals and even compensate the man for letting them do so.  Oh the ways people find to make money here; if only I had a turtle and a few hamsters, I could quit my day job.

No, you cannot press the button after me

It’s a frequent trait that every human displays: impatience.  I myself do not fall short of this flaw; I’ve certainly channeled by previous road rage into walk rage on the streets of the mean city.  Though if ever there was one thing that brings out the antsy in us all it is waiting on an elevator.  We somehow believe by pressing the button multiple times in a row that the floating box will come down more quickly.  Along those lines of thinking, if you press the button harder the second, third, and fourth times, the doors may just be willed open faster.  I’m totally on board with this theory because, if anything, it routes my angst to the button rather than the wait time.

One unspoken law in the elevator waiting game is pressing the button when it’s already lit up, on its way to retrieve passengers.  Worse than standing idle is when some rando walks in and presses the button after you already have the aforementioned four times.  Do you think I like to hang out in lobbies staring at myself in the mirrored elevator doors while others whip by me with somewhere to go?  Do you assume that I am such an unpracticed citizen that the first action I take when walking into the elevator area is NOT pushing the button?  Confirm your building mate’s competence by hanging out like everyone else for a second.  If a couple of minutes pass and there seems to be no activity on the front, permission granted to press the button another six times; surely the sixth round will make all the difference.

No, you cannot forget your manners

I don’t know about your office but mine has a constant need to clean the bathrooms, which is timed perfectly to occur at the exact moment my morning coffee meets my bladder.  Though the sinks and porcelain thrones receive multiple wipe downs a day, I cannot figure out at what point the room becomes a disaster. Toilet rolls unraveled on the floor stretching across stalls, non-use of the seat protectors, stray paper towels clogging the sink- it’s amazing what professional women are capable of with only 2 minutes between meetings to take a bathroom break.

My friend was at a doctor’s office last week when she noticed a sign placed at eye level on the back of the stall door.  It’s not so much the reminder to clean up after yourself that is unyielding; it’s the use of the phrase ‘nasty ladies’ to address the female population and far too many exclamation points that makes me wonder if this was approved prior to posting. My plea to professional women everywhere is to remember your manners and practical rhymes learned in kindergarten- “If you sprinkle where you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie”; life advice that will always apply.

No, you cannot match your doll

It’s always a fun moment to open my email and find a gem like this.  My friend forwarded a photo taken on the subway of a man looking completely comfortable wearing a pair of python pants and a turtleneck while holding a doll in his lap with a matching ensemble. 

That was a sentence loaded with things that are wrong. 

I’m not sure which to address first, the outfit or the doll.  Let’s ignore the turtleneck, as torturing and unnecessary in September as it may be; no sane grown man should feel at ease walking out of his apartment in a number like this with a twin mini-me doll in tow. I wonder if the man is jealous that they happened to have a full python outfit to fit the doll but not one in his own size?  I venture to assume he made the outfits himself because I have yet to come across a store in New York that sells this type of pairing, though I’m sure St. Marks has something very close.  I would also like to note the innocent subway riders seated nearby, who seem to be trying very hard to ignore the fact that they are in the presence of a person with agalmatophilia.  As strange as it is, this is just another example of a moment where you almost allow yourself to get worked up about the ridiculousness of the situation, then remember you’re in New York and, frankly, this isn’t the strangest thing you’ve seen today.

No, you cannot leave me barefoot

The month of August was a whirlwind as I was rarely in the city.  I was sure in all of my travels that the stories of real people doing really ridiculous things would flood in, leaving me with a mean case of temporary carpal tunnel from all of the blogging to be had.  Funny enough, it took coming back to the city that never sleeps and hearing a co-workers morning commute horror story to confirm that New York never fails to deliver great material.

It was Friday morning; everyone woke up praising the weekend Gods because, though it was a short week due to the Labor Day holiday, four days is really all any sane person can take.  As I was logging into my email and getting the day started, I overheard a co-worker relaying a story about the shoes currently on her feet and how they were not her favorite.  Never missing an opportunity to distract myself with a convo on shoes, I asked her why she wore them if they did not suit her taste.  It was not the time to be asking this question.

Earlier that morning as she stepped off the express train to cross the platform for the local, a distracted commuter stepped on the back of her shoe, causing it to come right off her foot and fall through the very small space between the train and the platform.  The almighty subway voice is continuously reminding people to ‘mind the gap’ when stepping off the train, which is virtually ignored seeing as the ‘gap’ is really only 5 inches wide.  The man pushed right past her running towards the closing doors of the local train, not even offering a quick yet heartless apology.  As it starts to compute what has just happened, my co-worker was faced with a fight-or-flight situation, options including:

1. Catch an uptown train back to her apartment, where the station is five blocks from her front door. 
2. Make a mad dash for the local train as previously planned.
3. Jump on to the track, retrieve lost shoe, and use super upper-body strength to propel back on the platform.
4. Cry.

Because New Yorkers tend to take the fight rather than flight options, said co-worker goes with #2, giving the consequences of this choice a few more stops to set in until reaching her final destination.  Once in Union Square, she is forced to hobble onto the platform, up the subway stairs, and through the concrete jungle they call a park, all with one shoe.  Every female in Manhattan knows the cardinal rule: you may be out on the town in your cutest pair of 5-inch stilettos, to which no surprise will kill you 2 hours in.  You will form blisters, wobble at the ankles, even chance mild bleeding, but at no cost will you take off your shoes and walk barefoot through the streets of New York.  This is not college, people; there are REAL germs here.  Knowing this, my co-worker really had no choice but to hobble to the nearest store to obtain an intermediate pair of anything in order to get through the day.  Being 8:30 am, the nearby H&M’s and Gaps of the world were not yet open for business, leaving just one option- the Payless Shoe Source an avenue and 2 blocks away.  Though the possibility of contracting a mild foot fungus was high, she walked tall- past the Green Market vendors, past the bum outside of the McDonald’s, past the piles of trash which had been leaking their guts onto the sidewalk since 2pm the day before.  She just kept walking.  Poised as a petunia, she was almost there when a naysayer with no heart yelled, “Hey, where’s your other shoe?” as he passed her by.  Clearly this woman did not leave the house and forget one shoe.  Did this man also yell to the guy who walks around with a cat on his head or the woman who pushes her rainbow-colored poodle around in a shopping cart? Did he ask them why they did these strange things?  No, he did not; he decided to zero in on the one thing that, though odd, was more than likely not the product of crazy town thinking.  Ignoring this defeating question, she made it to the Payless where the cheapest, work-appropriate shoe left much to be desired.  After shelling out unnecessary cash, she finally found herself in the office, explaining a story about why these shoes just weren’t her favorite while I questioned why her foot was not currently soaking in a vat of hand sanitizer.  In hindsight, knowing where the original decision to catch the local train would take her, I’m pretty sure the slim possibility of death in option 3 now seems more appealing.