Strangedays

The sweaty dog days of August are upon us, so now is a good time to catch up on what a weird summer it's been pour moi. Strangeness is in the air this summer and the stench of the weird and unexpected perpetually has me at the very edge of popping off, losing my cool, and getting vewwy vewwy angwy. And that's not me, though some of my co-workers might beg to differ. Most of the time I'm pretty laid back. I don't walk around looking for problems. But this summer trouble has been finding me. It's clear to me now that my patience is being tested by an invisible adversary with a sadistic sense of humor. Here are a few examples:

The Whole C.A.C.A. Experience. I don't mean to belabor this, but I'd never missed a flight in my life before that debacle. That was the first time. Now it seems that a lightswitch in the cosmos has been tripped and every time I have to go somewhere, I can expect problemos. Obstacles. A plague of douches. Going anywhere has suddenly become a very sharp thorn in my ass. Example within an example: my most recent travel frustrations involved my flight to and from Boston last weekend, which was delayed, purportedly due to the weather even though other planes were taking off. On the way back to New York, USAir canceled my flight after a two-hour wait. After I'd left the airport and headed over to P.'s house, I checked online, and my flight was mysteriously reinstated. The plane finally took off at 8:30 p.m., four hours late. That's around the time I was typing to Bloggy about The Police concert. I even had to argue with a USAir douche on the phone for ten minutes just to get my money back. For a flight THEY supposedly canceled. (I'm really starting to like the word "douche." I'll try not to overuse it. I'm not doing too well so far.) I took the Acela train the next morning and even that was delayed by an hour. I think it's time to buy a fucking car.

Fruits and Consequences. I've been trying to eat more healthy lately, the occasional ice cream and schlag dessert notwithstanding. So two weeks ago, I ordered all this fruit from Fresh Direct, which is the only way to shop for food in Williamsburg if you don't own a car. Rather than let it all rot in my refrigerator like I normally do, a few nights ago I decided to partake of one of my purchases, a juicy, ripe nectarine. I ate everything but the core. Within seconds of my last bite, my lips and tongue began to itch, a feeling I haven't had in years. I sauntered to the bathroom, looked in the mirror and couldn't believe what I saw: my lips were all red, puffy, and swollen and they looked like they'd grown three sizes thicker. I looked like a horny sea bass. At first, I examined my sea bass mouth like a curious scientist, marveling at the complexity of the human body and its sometimes bizarre reactions to even the simplest things, like a nectarine. Then I saw how freakish I looked and lost it a little. What if it stays like this? I'll never get laid again! (By a non-fish.) It's kinda scary when a part of your face suddenly explodes.

Then I remembered that I was allergic to apples as a kid. Every time I bit into one, the middle of my lips would swell into two little bumps. Something about the apple's skin and acid caused a bad reaction. So I stopped eating them entirely, even though my parents live a stone's throw from a very large, popular apple orchard in The Shire. I could pick 'em, but I couldn't eat 'em. In the summertime, my mother always bought peaches and plums and the same thing would happen. I don't remember having a problem with nectarines, but apparently I can't eat them either. From now on, no nectarines, apples, plums, peaches, or kiwis for me. I'm getting old, so I'm writing it down so I don't forget. Just hope I don't get scurvy.

Sister J. getting tossed from Fenway Park. On second thought, that's probably not too weird after all. Nevermind.

Norelco Thievery. One day last week, I got out of bed and, just like every other weekday morning, I showered, got half dressed, and prepared to shave with my trusty Norelco electric shaver. I use a regular blade sometimes but I prefer the Norelco because I'm always running late and it's just faster to go electric rather than lather up. Since I'm usually half-asleep when I shave, Norelco also means fewer bloody nicks on my face, which never seem to stop bleeding once they appear. Well, that morning I reached for my Norelco in the place I always keep her, a small basket on my bathroom basin, and she wasn't there. Hmmmmm. I looked everywhere for her, even in places I knew she wouldn't be. I searched every drawer and crevice in the bathroom. I looked in my living room, my closets, my kitchen, my dressers, under the bed, everywhere. I couldn't find her. She was gone. That's a picture of her up there. She was a Spectra. Isn't she beautiful? Now I'll never see her again. Sniff.

I harkened back to my childhood days of playing Starsky and Hutch with A. There could be only one conclusion: someone got into my apartment and stole the fucking thing. Now I know what you're thinking. Why would someone steal an electric razor of all things? You lost it, you putz. No I didn't, I swear. I used her the day before and I'm an anal bastard Virgo, so like I said, I kept her in the same exact place every day. Someone took her. And I know who. I live up a few floors in my building, and we have a doorman. The only way someone could have gotten in is if (i) the doorman let them in without my permission, which is highly unlikely; or (ii) they got in from my balcony, which has two doors that I don't lock because I'm so high up. Also, I was never given a working key to one of the doors when I moved in.

For three weeks, we've had these contractors working on the exterior of the building using one of those rope and pulley platforms. I went out on the balcony the day I discovered my beloved Norelco was gone, and saw four thick ropes lined up right next to my balcony, a few floors down. Two guys in red bandanas were adjusting the platform in order to do more work on a different section of the building. To gain access to my apartment, all they had to do was raise the platform up a few floors, get off at my stop, open the door, and they were in. I wasn't home, so they had free reign over the place. It had to be one of them.

After lathering up, shaving with a regular blade, and cutting myself twice, I locked one of the balcony doors, lowered all the shades, and slid a chair in front of the other door (as if that was a deterrent). Then I went downstairs and raised hell with the doorman and Super, who told me he'd get me a key for the second door. They also told me they'd let the Platform Crew know about this, right after they found someone to translate their words into English. Apparently all the workers are Mexican and they only speak Spanish. Fucking lovely. Good thing "Norelco" reads the same in both languages. Why they would only steal a Norelco razor and leave behind my laptop and other, more valuable things I won't name, is utterly beyond me. I swear, if I find anything else missing, I'm going to sue somebody. Cuz I know how.

The "Waiting Time" Controversy. A couple of weeks ago, I worked late, until about 11:30 p.m. When you work past 9 p.m. at most law firms in the city, you're allowed to take a car service home and charge the trip to the client. I ordered a car and was told there would be a five minute wait. I went down at the appointed time and stood there for 15 minutes, waiting for my car while other people who'd come down long after me happily threw themselves into their cars and headed home. Fed up with waiting, I called the car service. They told me he was on my street waiting. I'd been there the entire time, and I didn't see him anywhere, I said. The way you can tell which car is yours is the driver puts a square plastic sign in his window that has a big number printed on it.

On a whim, while I was on hold with the car service I walked up to one of the cars parked on the street in front of me. He had no number showing in his window. I went and looked at the back of the car, where they sometimes have a number stamp just to the left of the trunk. There I saw the number "100," my car's number. I'd seen the driver talking on his cell phone ear piece the entire time I was waiting. I think he was Indian, maybe Pakistani. Annoyed, I went up to his open driver's window and suggested to him that it would be really helpful if he'd put his car number in his window so people could actually see it. I also told him that I'd been waiting there for fifteen minutes while he was sitting there. He indignantly retorted that he'd been there for twenty minutes and that he did have his number card out showing. He pointed to a plastic number card that was lying flat on its back in the middle of his dashboard, just under the windshield. I asked him if he wanted to step outside the car to see whether anyone waiting on the sidewalk would be able to see the number card where he had it. He declined. The only way for anyone to see his number would be if they were standing right in front of his car, or maybe on the hood.

Unbelievably, when he dropped me off at my apartment, he had the huevos to ask me to initial his 10 minutes of waiting time. (They get paid more if they wait for you ten minutes or longer.) I refused. Told him I wasn't paying for even 5 seconds of waiting time. I even crossed out where he had written "10 min." on the receipt. The prick scolded me for crossing it out, wrote it back in, and then scribbled "passenger refused to initial W.T." on the invoice, before handing me a copy. Just what I need at midnight, after working all day: more bullshit. The next day I made sure to contest the bill with our Office Services department. It's not the money, it's the damn principle.

It's been a good summer in a lot of ways, but boy, it's been kookie too. I'm totally ready for fall.