Yesterday, having been declared an official Snow Day, turned my three day weekend into a mini-vacation. Fun you might think, but I hadn’t planned on all this extra solo time and was ill-equipped to handle such solitude. I was stir crazy. I called upon friend and neighbor, Christian, to help me blow some stink off.
In my hasty, I-have-to-get-out-of-the-house-please-don’t-make-me-do-it-alone state of mind, I suggested we watch Daredevil. He, helpful friend that he is, unwittingly agreed. After seeing a cheesier than usual Ben Affleck, decked out in a maroon leather body suit with matching bondage mask, beat up some bad guys and catapult himself in the air, Christian whispered, “Now why can’t he do that in, say, sweatpants?”
I actually groaned, out loud, more than once. It was that ridiculous. Eric Mitchell, New York Times critic, summed it up best with three words, “Tacky and disposable.”
New York Rage
It’s been a while since I felt some good old fashioned New York City dweller rage. This morning it all came back to me when I heard a familiar sniff. That bitch was back and she was still sniffing wildly, sucking in faux snot. The trains were late and slow and packed and I’m stuck next to HER again? I snapped my head to face her and glare at her a while before I directed my rage at the woman taking up more than her fair share of a bench and sleeping cozily while we all stood waiting for imaginary congestion to clear. I waited till she woke up and made eye contact with me then said in my most sugary sweet voice offset with curled lips and feral eyes, “Comfy?” And then I was happy.