Poker? I Hardly Know Her...

SO…every christmas my mom gives me lottery ticket (a scratch off). Every year I don’t win.


This year I didn’t bother scratching it off, til this morning.

It’s some poker thing. I know nothing about poker. But you have to make the best hand on the card to beat “the champ”.

Anyhoo…I scratch it off and almost died because I think I’ve won five hundred dollars with two pairs (3s and 8s). Then I look again and I realize I’ve won a million dollars (two pairs, Ks and 8s). the Champ doesn’t have anything.

I show our intern because…well…he’s a straight guy who plays poker with his friends in the dorms, and he confirms that it looks like I won a million dollars.

So I run down to the convenience store in our building. Wait on line. Text CawfeeMate that he may be married to a millionaire. we cyber-gag.

When the guy at the counter scans it, it comes up LOSER. So I’m trying to explain that I won and he’s like NO. if it doesn’t scan as a WINNER you LOST.

GOOD DAY, SIR.

So I walk upstairs...all dejected...and try to figure out how I lost. when the champ has no pairs, no three of a kind, no straight; just a bunch of random diamonds.

Poop.

Flush.

Husband Material

The other day, a business associate called and, as is our custom, we chit-chatted for about 10 minutes prior to getting to the point of her call. See, she’s originally from the Jersey Shore and now lives in San Francisco, so she has this fantastic East Coast mentality with West Coast energy-thing, which I find both interesting and friendly. Having worked together for a number of years, she always asks how Rufus and CawfeeMate are doing, and refers to him as my “partner”; CawfeeMate, not Rufus.

Let me be honest (‘cuz, y’know, I’ve been lying this whole time): of all the ways that one could refer to CawfeeMate, “partner” is one of my least favorite (behind “special friend” and “roommate”); by now, most of you know that words matter to me. When I hear the word “partner” I think of two things: 70’s/80’s cop shows like Cagney and Lacey and Starsky & Hutch, where you were bound to hear one refer to the other as their partner when talking to a third party and Bewitched where Darren worked for McMahon and Tate; we always saw Larry Tate, but never his partner, _____ McMahon*. I’m a child of the TV generation; sue me.

Anyway, the point I’m driving at is this: to me, “partner” is such an emotionless and clinical term for a relationship; it purports that the relationship would not be there if the two people weren’t working towards a common goal and removes all romantic connotations. Even the alternatives provided by the MS Word Thesaurus sound decidedly unromantic (“associate”, “colleague”, “cohort”, “equal”, and “co-worker”). While one might certainly argue the homo-erotic subtext found in both Cagney and Lacey and Starsky & Hutch, the relationships were work related. That’s not my relationship with CawfeeMate; he’s my husband. Emotionally, spiritually and legally.

Card Attack

I used to love getting Christmas cards in the mail. i look forward to seeing what kinds of cards people; religious? secular? funny? serious? modern? classic? i look at them like mail-order art and, as was the tradition in my family, would hang them on a wall to brighten up the living room during the Season. A couple of years ago, at Pier 1, i bought an enormous wire wall hanging in the shape of a Christmas tree, that's made to hold about 50 cards; by New Years the thing barely has room to fit any more and there's usually a small pile underneath from the ones that fall off. Yup, Christmas cards used to make me so very happy. then came...the children.

the cards we used to get contained hand written well-wishing, greetings and signatures; sometimes the envelopes were also handwritten but sometimes they were labels. either way, there was still the personal element involved with the card that said: my friend and/or his/her significant other, took the time to send me a Christmas/holiday card; they really are thinking of us this season! 90% of the cards we receive now, though, are just pictures of my friends' and family's kids; some are studio shots and some are snapshots that have been Walmarted or Zazzled into a card. this card is then stuck in an envelope with an address printed address label on it. no greeting. no signature. not even spit on the self-adhesive stamp. it may as well have come from our plumber or the guy who sold us our car.

now i know some might argue that we're lucky to be receiving cards at all, and that my feelings fly in the face of the spirit of the holiday, when it's the "thought that counts", and to those folks i say:  i am so very over these kinds of cards; i'd rather not receive a card from someone, than get one that's just a picture of their kid, because cards with just a photo of a kid on it usually shows no thought at all. i get that you're busy wiping snot and changing pull-ups and driving to tae kwon do or indoor, coed, non-denominational soccer (in addition to your 9 to 5 job); you're busy and i get that. so don't send a "card". you know who wants to get pics of your kids; e-mail them, save the postage and call it a day.

that's not going to happen, though. most, parents don't get the message that their little sun and/or moon is not the center of everyone's universe. they shouldn't be surprised though, that their "card" is somewhere in pile under our card tree, along with other pictures of people's kids...

You (Unfortunately) Can't Spell Christmas Without Christ

The other day I was goofing off at work on break, checking out Facebook, when I saw a friend’s status update mention that he and his husband were out to eat and he was less than thrilled because a religious Christmas song came on. It got me thinking:

I, myself, am not religious. While I was raised Roman Catholic, and spent about 16 years in the Catholic educational system, I remember reaching a point in that education (around senior year of high school) where I found it all quite distasteful, duplicitous and shameful; owing to having known too many Catholics (both professionally and recreationally) who were just awful, rotten people. Still, I wound up attending a catholic college (for the education) and it’s been more than a decade since I last received Communion or sought penance; since to do either seemed hollow and hypocritical. Nowadays, with all the crap being handed to the gays by right wing religious nuts, I find most organized religions abhorrent and especially bristle when it comes to “Christians”. The “Christians” drive me particularly nuts, since most of them are so ridiculously cult-like, preying on the dimwitted, weak-willed and empty; not to mention the tentacles of evil that have wound their way into politics. Nope, I’m not a fan of religion.

 Except when it comes to Christmas. I love Christmas; always have and always will.

 

the Clap

The other day I was on the F train, heading home from work, knitting the 2nd in a pair of socks for the huz, when a woman tapped me on the shoulder to chat. Now, you regular reader(s) of my blog know that this is not uncommon, especially on the train; people women will randomly tap me on the shoulder (on account of my headphones) and tell me one (or all) of the following:

1. how much they like/love/are impressed by whatever I’m knitting
2. relay a quick anecdote about their mother/grandmother knitting
3. how they used to knit when they were a little girl
4. how interesting/odd/nice it is to see a man knitting

Well, this woman was no exception, she tapped my shoulder on Delancy Street and talked me up ‘til I got up at 34th and hit all 4 topics; insisting that I was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen. Though she used to crochet, she wasn’t very good and couldn’t imagine making a sock with such tiny needles (“especially four of them”)! She was an absolute sweetheart and totally made my day, as random well-wishers tend to. See, that’s the thing: I love having strangers (with whom I’d normally have absolutely no social interaction) randomly telling me how awesome I am; it’s become a bit of a drug.

It Can Get Better

A few weeks ago, a friend updated his Facebook status to say:

“I am so sick of all the ‘stop the hate. Together’ and associated ‘it gets better’ bullshit. Enough with the pussification of america. How about ‘sometimes it sucks’ and ‘stick up for youself’ and ‘don’t be a coward’ hate and bullying are a lot older than any of us and cannot be stopped. Teach independence, not cowardice”.

Naturally, I was outraged. A few weeks later, I posted a link to Unicorn Booty’s article on the suicide of Jamie Hubley with the comment “he shoulda just manned up, right” and his response was:

“Well, he did want to be a unicorn. Self cutting? Suicide blogs? Where’s mom and dad? Sad, yes, but necessary, no. I was the only out gay kid in HS and I got out and graduated in 3 years rather than taking a swan dive off a bridge. My point is, there are options other than suicide. Now it seems almost fashionable, which, in my opinion, only increases the level of cowardice of the act”.

again, I was outraged...but a little less so... See, on one hand he’s right. Where were this kid’s parents? Teachers? Didn’t his doctor/pediatrician notice the kid was cutting himself?

That said, I continued with the outrage…

Knitting Takes Balls

Last Thursday, I shared a 2 hour car ride to Long Island* with three straight guys; one was a (new) co-worker, the other was his brother-in-law and the 3rd a mutual friend of theirs. Don’t get me wrong, I was mad lucky that the brother-in-law worked close by and offered to pick us up. The two hour car ride, though, was spent with the three of them talking ‘sport’. Now, please don’t misunderstand: I am eternally grateful that I got the ride (and thanked the driver profusely). Had I not been with my co-worker, I’d have been totally screwed; I would’ve had to wait until the trains ran again at 11:30, since I don’t know how else to get to LI from DT Brooklyn. I’m also not complaining that I couldn’t join in the conversation; I was the odd man out. I don’t need to talk and actually am okay with being silent while other people talk around me; I was fine not engaging in the ball related chit-chat.

God Complex

I’m getting mighty pissed off that natural disasters and atrocities are constantly being blamed on The Gays. It seems we’re responsible for last weekend’s hurricane, last week’s earthquake, the butchered boy a month or so back; hell even 9/11. Everything bad, according to the Crazy Christers (and friends), is their god’s way of telling them that he’s pissed off at us; all this drama is his way of saying that DADT should remain, DOMA is A-OK and that New York is the new Sodom (ok…maybe that last one’s not that far of a stretch).

R-E-S-P-etc.

This post probably won’t win me Miss Congeniality; it might actually be cause for the Boy Scouts of America to revoke a few merit badges and the ACLU to cut up my membership card.

I was heading home on the bus the other day and people were getting on, at various stops, along 42nd street. By the time the bus had hit 7th avenue, all the seats were taken, which is nothing new; usually, the bus home is packed, with only one or two empty seats. When the bus hit 8th avenue, the bus driver explicitly told the people waiting that the bus was full and it was SRO. Again, this isn’t uncommon, either; at least once a week, there are people standing in the aisle. Well this particular night, only one person opted to stand. He was a heavy set, older man (late sixties?), clearly as affected by the heat as everyone else. What struck me, though, is that he got on knowing there weren’t any seats available and then looked from passenger to passenger with an expression that I interpreted to mean “ok, which one of you is going to stand so I can sit”? I don’t know why I interpreted it as such, he never said that out loud (at least not that I could hear over my headphones), but that’s what my inner Jean Grey picked up. He just looked so…expectant. i won’t lie and tell you that I leapt up and gave him my seat, because that’s not what happened. I’ll admit, I was very tempted to give him my seat; but I didn’t.

You Don't Have to Be Crazy to Work Here...

It seems there are a few things that weren't covered in the new hire orientation or in the employee handbook we need to read and affirm annually:

1. Elevator etiquette: if you see someone running towards the elevator, and there’s room, hold the door for them. We’re all in a hurry to go somewhere, whether it’s home or up to your desk, would it kill you show some courtesy? Oh and when/if they do make it in time and cause the doors to re-open so they can get on, don’t give them attitude/face; you’re the jerk, not them.

2. Speaker of the House: unless you’re in your own office, with a door that closes, speakerphone is incredibly irritating to those around you. how 'bout picking up that receiver, buddy?

3. Potty Mouth: guys, if you’re too pee shy to use a urinal, at least have the decency to lift the seat in the stall. Or, if you can’t wait that long, clean it off afterward, y’filthy animal.

4. Spellbound: outlook has spell check, built-in, let it do its job…please.

5. Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood: your cubicle is not a self contained biosphere sealing you off from your co-workers, other people can see you picking your nose, hear you belching and smell your wretched lunch.

6. Door Jam: ladies bitches, having a door held open for you is a privilege, not a right; try saying “thank you” and reciprocating once in a while



7. Finger Print: Printer etiquette has been a pet peeve of mine, for years; so much so, that it had a list of its own, way back when and then again, a few years later. i still stand behind both posts.
ladies

People Are People, Right?

Where is all this hate coming from? I know it’s nothing new and it’s also nothing I haven’t touched upon, on this blog, before, but I’m really at a loss lately. There’s so much about the militant anti-LGBT movement that I just don’t understand; like the rationale of the Nazis and the Klan. My pink liberal brain just can’t quite comprehend what it is that one gets out of limiting the rights, freedoms and happiness of others. I don’t get how anyone can say that “the gays” want to “redefine marriage” when, in all actuality, most of us agree with the current definition: “two people, in a legally binding contract, joined together forever”; just not the interpretation of “two people”. The gays aren’t the ones who want to redefine it to only mean men and women marrying. I don’t understand how our marriage has any affect on anyone else’s life, but mine and my husband.

Quite honestly, I blame religion. The 1st thing you learn in almost all religious education is that only “believers” get into heaven; everyone else is doomed until they see the light. Non-believers are pitied, scorned and in extreme cases fought to the death. In a country built on freedom from religious persecution, you’d think we would be less apt to let religion have a hand in writing our laws. With the vitriol with which right-wing Christians and Catholics criticize Muslims for their hateful zeal, you’d think their anti-LGBT rhetoric would be less focused on cramming their faith and beliefs down the throats of non-believers. Most are so afraid of having any Muslim influence on our political system (read: the Birthers) that they can’t see their devotion to Jesus are just as rabidly fanatical.

It just seems that the entire anti-LGBT faction has gotten completely out of control and has become counter-productive to this country’s basic tenets, and raises more questions about its ethics and purported morals. You’ve got men and women who, despite all the hate and rhetoric directed at them, love their country enough that they’re willing to die to defend it. How can anyone rationalize not giving them the opportunity to defend that country because of who they sleep with? You’ve got millions of people who want to add more stability to the country by “legitimizing” their relationships and creating the standard family unit; how can that destroy it, especially when it's current state is in such horrible disrepair? How can a country founded on the ideals of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness seriously think that creating laws to limit all three, for a large section of the population, be in that country’s best interest? Did we learn nothing from our country’s past when the nation treated African Americans and women of all races as second class citizens?

Sometimes i get really scared about our future. Thinking about Proposition 8 and the recent news on DADT, it seems like the steps we've taken towards freedom and equality can be undone at anytime; that those freedoms and rights are wholly contingent on how many democrats or republicans are sitting where...

Snatch

I was perusing the message boards of one of the Ravelry groups* I belong to, the other day, when I read a woman’s post about how she was on the 2 train, attempting to master a the purl stitch, when the woman next to her snatched her knitting out of her hands and proceeded to show her how to do it, without so much as a “how do you do”. Furthermore, after her post, there were about three or four other women who wrote that they had experienced similar, if not identical, situations; perfect strangers taking their knitting from them, without warning, and showing them “the right way” to do something!

Reading these stories, I was absolutely livid beyond words (though not so livid that I didn’t comment on their stories in much the same way I’m about to, here). I can’t imagine sitting on the train or bus, minding my own business, and having some random stranger take my knitting out of my hands, for whatever reason. I really think I’d punch someone if they tried to do that; just out of knee-jerk reactionary, gut instinct. you just don't do that in in New York city; that's how a bitch gets cut.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had people talk to me about my knitting while I’m on the bus or on the train** or even just out someplace***; it’s not every day that you see someone knitting in 2011, especially someone with a goatee. The difference is anyone who ever talked to me about my knitting tapped me on the shoulder or excused themselves for “bothering me”; if they wanted to see what I was working on (like the young lady from this morning), they asked to see it and then waited for me to hand it to them. Even the couple of women who offered advice or pointers didn’t try and take my knitting out of my hands.

Maybe it’s because I’m a guy; I don't think a woman would think about taking something (even knitting) out of a guy's hands (even a guy who knits hands); even when the guy looks like me. maybe it's because, with my headphones and body language, I give off a "don't grab my knitting" vibe; I rarely interact with other straphangers. I mean, granted, my Rules for Mass Transit are a bit neurotic and a little over the top, but they work for me. i didn' think that i'd ever need to add "don't grab shit outta other people's hands", that's one we all learned in Kindergarten, no?

* the NYC Bus/Subway Knitters and Crocheters

** There’s this really lovely woman I usually see on the express bus home who was fascinated when I was making my Wallaby, and every time she saw me she’d ask how it was coming along, until I finished it and showed her the pictures I’d posted online; she was equally fascinated by my CawfeeCozies. then there’s the other lady I see in the mornings who, one day, told me that she enjoyed watching me knit on the way into the city every morning; that it reminded her of her grandmother teaching her to knit, when she was a girl.

***just this morning, I was sitting on a bench, outside my office, when a woman walked up to me and told me how great she thought it was to see a man knitting; that her mother had taught her to knit and would be thrilled to see someone knitting on a park bench. She proceeded to tell me how great a job I was doing on the Cabled Laptop cover I was making, walked away, and then came back and asked me to talk to her mom, who was on her cell! They were both incredibly sweet and totally made my day!

Park It

Not too long ago, the huz and I started doing our weekly food shopping at the local Wegman’s (which is hardly local as it is in a completely different state, but still only 15 minutes away) in Perth Amboy, New Jersey. See, to a Staten Islander, Wegman’s is the Disneyworld of supermarkets, with obscenely amazing meat, cheese, and produce sections; their quality in all three greatly eclipse the SI supermarkets. But this post isn’t about better brussel sprouts, fresher organic chicken thighs or fourteen different kinds of gouda; this post is about parking*.

see, I have a really big problem with this sign. Can anyone tell me why parents need specialized parking? Is procreation finally considered a handicap? Are kids finally being seen as crippling external tumors which have been expelled and given animus? or maybe they're life sucking parasitic viruses? I guess it depends on who you ask.


Now, I know the purported rationale is probably…um…er…actually, I can’t even fathom the rationale behind it is. I seriously don’t know why Mom and/or Dad (or Mom and Mom, etc.) would need special parking. I’m straining my brain on this one, but is it so they don’t have to walk with their kid(s) through the parking lot to the minivan (whose doors, trunk and engine open and start remotely)? That’s just nonsense. I mean really though: a good parent would have their kid sitting in the wagon or they’d be keeping an eye on it so that it doesn’t run, tear ass, through the parking lot (or the store); and Maury knows that most of the kids in the US could use the exercise a walk to the mom-mobile would give.

Believe it or not, this isn't about the kids (for once); it's also not a "gay/straight thing". it's about how the store views parents versus the rest of us. Regardless of the rationale behind the “preferred parking”, it’s clearly a complete crock of shit. There is absolutely no, legitimate, reason people with kids can’t park in the 1st available spot they see, just like everyone else; this is tantamount to those people who drive around with handicap placards they faked their way into getting**.Luckily, though, while you can get a ticket for parking in a handicap spot (sans placard), this Parental Parking nonsense is not enforceable. It’s something made up by the store to show their patrons “they care”, about some of them. Parents’ money must be greener and fresher than those of us who don’t have kids. I guess they never heard the expression “disposable income”.

Since this ridiculousness isn’t enforceable, the huz and I have absolutely no problem parking in one of those spots, should they become available while we’re attempting to park. The last time we went shopping some soccer mom decided to mouth off about us parking thereand we put her in her place right quick but stating that it doesn’t state that the child has to be present, or even human; our child was home…in his cage.

She was not amused and blanched suitably.

* and was evoked my Facebook status, today “David wonders what the HRC and other LGBT groups will do when The Gays finally achieve marriage equality (and we will, goddamn it)”. to which Breen Lantern commented “LGBT PARKING”!
** and don’t give me the “not all handicaps can be seen” nonsense, you know who I mean; if you can climb down out of a Hummer, the handicap can’t be that bad.

I'm Not Kidding

Every so often, the huz and I will meet a new group of people who find us to be something truly unique: a happy, committed gay couple in a long-term relationship. They’ll engage us in conversation about how long we’ve been together and how we met and all the usual stuff a couple gets asked. Inevitably, though, conversation will turn to that topic that is an instant buzz-kill: children. People want to know when CawfeeMate and I will begin our own family and adopt some one eyed, club footed Chinese kid or ADD crack baby; they nearly spit out their drinks when we tell them we’d rather undergo hemorrhoid surgery from a near-sited proctologist with Ectrodactyly.


Let me set the record straight, folks, we don’t want kids. Ever. Not all the gays are like the ones on Brothers & Sisters or Modern Family; We don’t all crave Burberry baby booties or Louis Vuitton diaper bags. Some of us are quite content lavishing our “disposable incomes” on ourselves and each other. Okay, I really can’t speak for CawfeeMate, but (as if you haven’t heard my opinion enough on the topic), here’s how I feel about Daddyhood:

I grew up with the most absolutely amazing parents. They were loving and attentive and there for me whenever I needed them. My dad worked three jobs to put us through catholic school and keep my mom home to tend to the house and still found time to be Scoutmaster, soccer coach, little league coach and do all the other proto-typical dad things a dad should do. My mom cooked like Julia Child, kept house like June Cleaver and swore like Sam Kinison. She was a Den Mother, Sunday School teacher and PTA mom and did without nice clothes, new shoes and even a new coat for years, but never complained. they were both incredibly supportive of anything I did and encouraged me in all my pursuits and interests. They really were the best parents a kid could ever have and I can, honestly, say that I was tremendously lucky to call them “mine”; even as a kid they made me feel lucky without telling me I was. it's only now, years later they told me that the main reason was because, as parents, it was their obligation to us to provide the best possible life they could; that they owed it to us.
That having been said, I do not believe that I could ever, under any circumstance, be that unselfish and giving to any other human being on earth (with the exception of my husband). As much as I love my friends and feel as strongly for them as other people feel about their family, there is still a limit to how giving I would be with them. My parents love was…is…completely limitless. they are the bar i measure all parents by. God forbid I was a parent, I’m confident that I would be forever comparing myself to them and find myself to be a dismal failure; there’s absolutely no way I could do without for the sake of a child who, may, turn out to be just as ungrateful and “entitled” as 90% of the kids I see every day. I’m just not that kind of person.

The wii is mine; no you can’t have a turn.
Saturday mornings are mine; I’m not blowing off my sock making class to take you to violin lessons.
The muscle car is mine; mini-van my ass.
My disposable income is mine; braces? The cannery has good dental, or so I hear.
(most importantly) CawfeeMate is mine; if there’s one thing you learn, as you go through This Gay Life, it’s to be wary of anyone younger and cuter than yourself*; there’s no way in hell I’m letting the wolf in when he knocks.

i give all of you (gay and straight) who decide to become parents, alot of credit for jumping into that with both feet, but it's just not me. I’ll admit it readily and with little shame: I’m a selfish faggot and, yes, i'm judging you by how you raise your kids.

*the puppy doesn't count as he has a brain the size of a ceci pea and no opposable thumbs.

the Other Kind of Knitters (or Neither a Lender Nor a Borrower Be)

So my regular knitting shop was closed yesterday when I decided I wanted to try this One Hour Scarf idea I’ve been seeing on the bulletin boards and chatrooms on Ravelry. so i go to Michael’s and all they have are size 13’s in plastic (have you ever used plastic? I haven’t and I don’t know how I feel about them…). So, on a whim, I swing by my other knitting store (the Naked Sheep) and she’s open. Score.

Well I tell her my plan (blah blah blah worsted blah blah blah double yarn blah blah) and she’s like WELL you can use a size 11 or 13 (she said they don’t make a 12; who knew?) and it’ll work just as well but she’s all out of 13s. then she says that she knows me and I’m in there enough that she trusts me, and that if I want to borrow her size 13’s she’d be fine with it. she's super sweet and super nice and really great, but this seems kind of inappropriately kind since i'm not there nearly as much as i'm at the Yarn Girl, and to be quite honest, i only shop there when Yarn Girl is closed; that's my knitting "home away from home". I politely decline and she takes me to the size 11’s. it's all good.

Suddenly, this woman who’s sittin there knittin, leaps up outta her chair and tells me I must borrow her size 13 Addi Turbos*. She’s got the ones like my mom, with the interchangeable cable, etc, only they’re the version 2.0 that people  like. I’m all, Thanks but no and she refuses to take no for an answer. So I’m starting to get really uncomfortable and she’s still thrusting these needles at me like the mother of an ugly fat girl on prom night, but I’m trying really hard not to be a dick to this woman who’s all “we’re a community of knitters” and “this just means you have to come back and show us what you’re working on”, etc. I know, at this point, I’m blushing like a virgin, but only because I don’t know how to get her to leave me alone without jamming the needle in her neck.

So I stop and I’m like, “Ma’am thanks; I really appreciate it and I’m absolutely, positively touched that you’d loan your needles to a perfect stranger, but I really really can’t accept them. I can’t tell you how wonderful the gesture is, and I know you mean it, but I just can’t”. she has no idea what to say. Really. she's dumbfounded that i won't take her needles.  i paid for my needles and got the hell out of there leaving only dust bunnies and yarn balls behind me.

i mean, i get why she was all We Are the World and shit, but it hit a level of creepy i haven't experienced in years. besides: i'm a new yorker; the minute you, a complete stranger, act nice to me, i check my wallet and fight off the crippling feeling of vertigo brought on by instant and incalculable sense of mistrust.

next time i go needles shopping i'm bringing pepper spray.

*these are the Lamborghini of knitting needles, kids.

How to Be a Good Commuter (or How Not to Get the Crap Kicked Out of You By a Fellow Commuter)

CawfeeGuy's Bubble Theory: think of your "personal space" as a bubble; a very small, very tight  and form fitting bubble. you and your actions should not extend beyond your bubble. this includes smells, so go easy on the cologne/perfume or (on the flip side) bathe.

That having been said...

1. One person, one seat: we all pay the same fare, guys and it only entitles you to one seat; there's really no need to spread yourself out like you're trying to fend off a bear attack and i'm sure you're junk isn't so big that you can't close your legs. if it is i'll be glad to help you hold them up. and ladies, there is absolutely positively no reason to bring more than two bags with you to work (and honestly with the size of the bags out there, i can't even begin to fathom why you'd need more than a pocketbook). if you need to bring enough stuff with you to take up two seats, you should probably find another mode of transportation. and don't get cunty when someone asks you to move your shit so they can sit down; you're wrong and you will be read.

2. Cellphones are fucking annoying:  once you swipe that Metrocard, it doesn't matter if you're Donald Trump or Martha Stewart, you're just another schmuck riding a bus and nobody gives a flaming shit about your business. more often than not other folks are trying to nap on the way in to the city and decompress on the way home. keep it on vibrate, in your pocket. keep it brief and low; don't be that guy or that girl that everyone stares at with daggers in their eyes as you yammer away for 20 minutes about last night's Jersey Shore or your kooky Korean nail girl. try texting; you can think of it as aerobic exercise.

3. Headphones are for personal use only:  nobody should be able to hear what's being piped directly into your head, regardless of how hot the song is (or how hot you think it is).

4. Save it for the beauty shop: ladies, please shut the fuck up. if you need to chit chat and gossip with your Bus BFF that badly, do it quietly. you are not on the View and nobody wants to hear your conversation,  for the entire two hour bus ride; you sound like a yard full of chickens. see #2.

5. Procrastinate on your own time: if you know your stop is coming up, don't wait until the absolute last second to get out of your seat  and make your way up the aisle. chances are you're not the only person trying to get off the bus; waiting until the bus has already stopped is too late and just blocks the aisle for everyone else (especially when you're in a window seat and have to move another person out of the way to get out of your seat).

6. Dentist seat syndrome: this previous post pretty much sums it up.

7. Mind the kaboose: sometimes we're forced to stand, on the way home; it's a sad fact, but a fact nonetheless. if you're one of the unfortunate souls who has to stand for the entire ride, while all the people sitting can sympathize with your circumstance, they shouldnt be forced to have your ass in their faces. granted, some people don't mind certain people's asses in their face,  but still: it's polite to ask prior to expecting a rim job.

8. Metrocard Ettiquite 101: have it ready before you get on the bus, it will really save alot of angry glares, especially when it's raining. have an idea of what your balance on it is versus how much the fare is before you try getting on. it doesn't take MENSA membership to use one, either. if you're at a complete loss, look at the person who got on before you and do the exact same thing.

i know i have pet peeves about the bus, but since i spend about 4 hours of my day on one, i consider myself somewhat of an authority. i'm pretty sure that following these rules will make everyone's day a little better and may save your life one day. see, y'never know when a fellow commuter is gonna snap and strangle you with a circular knitting needle...i'm just sayin...

Sophia Petrillo: Sicily

special thanks to my best girl, Mrs. Bri-the-Pie-Guy, for posting this on Facebook!

Diane Savino: Brooklyn

this is speech made me cry, it was so good. please watch the entire thing...

Another Disgusting Day in Albany

i can't even begin to describe how diappointed i am about this.

Bleeech Friday

this is the 1st Black Friday i've worked in about 6 years and, lemme tell you: never again.

my tradition of taking off, the day after Thanksgiving, dates back to my days in retail. See, for those of you who don't know, i was a retail whore for close to ten years. The Staten Island Mall was my stomping ground, and i worked the corner of a Ma & Pop suit store (where i spent nearly 9 years) and Sam Goody, throughout college and beyond. looking back with the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, smeared with the vaseline of being a corporate/finance drone, i can honestly say that those were good days; the hours were great, the pay was good (well above minimum wage) and i liked the people. Black Friday was the high holy day of retail, which meant a guaranteed open-to-close work day for senior staffers and commission on the sales you made (or those "given" to you by the cashiers). Black Friday set the tone for entire Christmas Season, and its psychotically frenzied atmosphere was a harbinger of the crazy days which lasted till New Year's Eve. it was not at all uncommon for the hours to fly by like minutes, leaving you hungry and thirsty because you'd skipped both breakfast and lunch. it was glorious.

the meaning of Black Friday changed, post-retail. sure i'd haul out the Christmas CD's and start writing out cards, but it also meant i didn't have to work, to make money. joining corporate america meant "paid vacation days" and what better way to use one than to give oneself a 4 day weekend following a bi-annual schlepp to Long Island*? after our 1st Thanksgiving spent on Long Island, i realized that getting home close to midnight and having to get up for work the next day was about as palatable as CawfeeMate's WASP aunt's cooking. There began the tradition of taking off on Black Friday.

Black Friday now took on a new meaning: post-Thanksgiving clean up and Christmas decorating! it was a glorious tradition which went wonderfully smooth, until this year. just like all the previous years, i put my vacation request in on January 2nd and didn't give it a 2nd thought. That is, until K---y, my dimwitted co-worker, came to me in September to let me know she'd be off this week. When i asked her how that was possible, she shrugged and told me that Cunty had granted signed off on her request that day. Apparently, Cunty never put me in for the day; livid does not even begin to explain how i felt.

so, here i am, at work on Black Friday wishing i wasn't. Everybody else in the world seems to be off, but i'm here at my desk (despite the numerous commuting hurdles i had to jump this morning, which got me here half an hour late). it could be worse, though. my office could've had a Door Buster.


*When the huz and i had 1st met, we realized that the holidays would be dicey. Both coming from Italian-American backgrounds, the holidays are a big deal to our mothers; in the interest of fairness, equinimity and to minimize agita, we decided to alternate the holidays: Thanksgiving at Casa Del CawfeeGuyMom, Christmas Eve at Chateau CawfeeMateMom, Christmas Day at Casa Del CawfeeGuyMom, Easter at Chateau CawfeeMateMom; the following year we'd switch (despite my mom swearing we spent all the holidays with my in-laws). on the years we'd spend Thanksgiving with the CawfeeMate family, we'd drive out to Long Island which meant leaving early in the morning and getting home late at night (the drive between LI and SI is nothing but bumper to bumber traffic).