Man, I’m Good

But it poses a problem.

I recently launched a new product at work.  The one detail that wasn’t nailed down was a name for this glorious thing.  In my infinite wisdom, I decided to hold a contest, soliciting input from far and wide.  To encourage people to send in their best ideas, I offered a $10 gift card for the person who submitted the winning name.  We narrowed down the options, and then held a round of blind voting to determine the winner. 

Voting ended in a tie.  I can deal with that.  The real problem?  The two names that are tied to win were both submitted by yours truly.  Which is nice.  Kind of.  But it does make for a very awkward congratulations message out to the team.  How exactly am I going to word that?  “Thanks for all of your great ideas, but it turns out mine were better.”  I think I need to keep working on that.

White Dresses with Blue Satin Sashes

Early last week I decided to take the day off of work Friday.  And then I started to think that if I was going to take a day off, I really should plan to do something special.  And then I decided that I should turn it into a whole weekend of favorite things.  For me, on this weekend, my favorite things included:

• Taking the day off of work and sleeping in
• Watching morning TV, and a horrible made-for-cable movie
• A quick surprise visit from a friend
• Shopping during the work day (without all the weekend crowds)
• Getting my hair cut
• Going out for drinks with friends
• A delightful cupcake delivery from Butter Lane
• A nap without an alarm
• Re-buying a pair of shoes that I loved and returned once
• Treating myself to a manicure, pedicure, and chair massage

And the heat wave broke on Saturday, which I considered a lovely bonus.  And really, unless you were to throw in some bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, who could ask for anything more?

Inedible Dilemma

I must say that when New York introduced this whole restaurant grading thing, I was quite taken with it.  In a city with quite literally endless dining options, it’s nice to be able to have an additional element in the decision making process.  NYC requires all restaurants to post their inspection grades in their front windows or doors.  I love seeing those letters, and keep my eyes open for the 800-point font blue “A” that tells me my chosen establishment is as clean as it gets.

Walking home a few months ago I noticed that the pizza place on my block had received its grade: a big green “B.”  I wasn’t sure how to proceed.  The pizza is good.  The guys are friendly.  It’s a three-minute walk from my door.

One friend offered that this place would now be inspected more often, unlike those clean places that the inspectors would probably ignore for a good long while.  Another friend offered to look up the specific violations (yes, this is all public info).  Her thinking was that the violations may be minor, non-food related things that would make me feel better.  I didn’t dare take a chance on looking.  I knew that once I looked, there was no going back.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that the “B” was gone, and in its place was a notice that they were being re-graded.  Problem solved.  I was sure they would become an “A” and I would be able to enjoy the occasional slice in peace.

Last week I saw it.  The big orange “C.”  And, like everyplace I’ve seen with that letter out front, it’s empty.  I couldn’t help myself: I looked up their violations.  And what started out as a dilemma has been definitely solved. 

Anyone have a recommendation for a new pizza place?

Odd Jobs

As I glanced a critical eye over the office bathroom, I realized that no one here knows I have a background in the janitorial arts.  And that got me thinking about all the other jobs that never made it to my resume.  Read more here.

Call me an Instigator

One of the ways I amuse myself on public transportation is by attempting to make small children laugh.  I test the waters with a quick smile and fleeting eye contact.  If the child seems receptive (and the mom doesn’t seem pre-disposed to irrational anger), I move into material.  My repertoire isn’t broad.  I start out with smiles of escalating size, move through variations on peek-a-boo, and wind up in a series of silly faces.  If all goes well, I can keep the average 2-year-old entertained for about two subway stops.

Last night there was an adorable little boy sitting across from me on the subway.  (My best guess is that he was 18-24 months old.)  He couldn’t stop laughing and smiling at me, even when I was just sitting there.  So of course I played along.  His mom got in on the action by holding her son’s hands over his eyes so he was playing peek-a-boo back.  Somewhere along the way he got a little too rambunctious.  I hadn’t noticed, but I know this to be the case because his mom started reprimanding him.  Apparently when the little boy got laughing, he was bumping into the man seated next to him.  Mom considered this extremely rude.  When the boy didn’t immediately stop, she pinched the back of his leg.  And big tears started rolling down his cheeks.

This is not the first time I found myself in this situation.  Last fall I witnessed a little girl on the bus get slapped by her mother after I got her too wound up.

So now I’m wondering if I’m to blame.  Neither of these children was behaving in a way that I thought required correction, let alone physical reprimand, so I’m not sure I could have predicted this outcome. 

Should I just go back to reading Scottish Life and pretending that I don’t see anyone?

Goodbye, Crazy

It’s been a long time since I’ve lived in a stand-alone house.  I’m somewhat used to sharing walls and hallways with strangers of all kinds.  There have been plenty of stories, though none of them seem particularly memorably right now.  But why do so many people play loud techno on Saturday mornings?

Anyway.  The people in the apartment next door don’t get along very well.  I base this judgment on the number of yelling matches I’ve overheard and the volume at which said matches occur.  About a week ago I woke up at 2am to horror-movie-worthy screams in the hallway.  There are door slams and fights that continue into chase scenes down the hall.

And then there’s the weed.  I’m about as laissez-faire as it gets: I couldn’t care less what anyone does in the privacy of their own home.  But when the elevators in my building open on my floor, I can tell by the smell whether my neighbors are entertaining.  Apparently, good hosts provide copious amounts of pot.  Apologies to all of the people who have left my home disappointed by my lack of hospitality.

As I left this morning, I almost tripped over the movers taking the neighbors' boxes out of the apartment.  I have no idea if they will be moving to one location together or going their separate ways.  All I know is that I breathed a great big sigh of relief.

Can’t say I’m gonna miss you.

A Dog’s Life

Walking down my block the other night, I couldn’t help but notice a golden retriever out for a stroll with his human friend.  He caught my attention because of how often he stopped to sniff things, and how long he attempted to linger when he did.  The person on the other end of the leash kept urging him forward, trying not to break her already slow stride.

I arrived home and collected my mail, and then, as I was waiting for the elevator, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “C’mon.  We’re home.”  I looked toward the door and saw that same golden retriever splayed on the sidewalk in front of the building, while the woman tried to talk him into standing up and coming inside.  I’m still wondering if he was lying down in protest, insisting on staying outside because it was such a nice night.  Or, had the day been so long that he simply couldn’t go any farther?  I know that feeling, but what I’ll never know is what that sweet doggy was thinking.