the manhunt for osama

Don't bother combing the caves of Pakistan or Afghanistan. Osama bin Laden lives in my kitchen.

Except he has taken the form of a mouse, a tiny shitting-machine, elusive to all methods of capture. At first I decided to ignore him. I thought that maybe we could just live side by side, each pretending the other didn't exist. But I didn't go and shit in his kitchen now did I? No I did not. Being a vegetarian, I decided that killing him in the nicest, most humane way was best, so I went and bought a $25 electronic zapping trap. Supposedly with 4 AA batteries, little Osama's heart would painlessly cease to beat, and his tiny soul would float away to a much better place.

Instead, he scorned my nice-death gestures and shit on top of the trap. And on my bed.

By this time, I was pissed. My vegetarian-guilt flew out the window and a craving for Osama's spilt blood took over my mind. I went out with the intent of purchasing the most brutal killing machine built for total mouse decimation. I pictured a mini mouse sized guillotine. Instead I ended up with the traditional squish trap thingy. I knew that wouldn't give the dramatic crime scene bloodspray I wanted, but as long as it did the job, whatever.

Weeks have passed. Osama has shit next to the traps, has eaten cheese off of them, and just continues to mock me. I feel I've been outsmarted. I've been broken down. I'm less afraid at this point. Hell, I'm impressed.

An exterminator is due to come on Monday for the ultimate killing spree, hopefully armed with weapons that aren't sold to the general public.

'uncle' cliff and his expensive gifts

Every once in a while I have the pleasure of encountering a truly bizarre customer at Kid O. Last week while holding down the fort by myself, a beefy Miami beach-looking dude walked in and immediately came right up beside me at the counter, just a bit too close. I could tell he was one of those people with no regard for the personal space of others. He also didn't feel the need to obey common social norms, like staying in front of the counter at a store.

This is how it went down (it helps paint the picture better if you read all of his parts in a creepy, deep, beefcake-ish voice):
Him: (gesturing toward a wooden toddler bike) I want to buy this bike for a two month old.
Me: Well, that is very generous of you, but seeing as the child won't be able to use it for at least two years, perhaps I can recommend something along those lines for a younger--

He cut me off, and soon we settled on a ride-on toy that was appropriate for a one year old. It was our last one and had been out on the floor for a while, so I offered to clean it for him. As I began wiping it down, he decided to talk at me while leaning over the counter:
Him: I'm divorced. No kids. You know, it's real hard to find a good woman. Am I being too demanding? I've been drinking all day...
Me: Ummhmm. Do you want to fill out a gift card?
Him: Yeah but you write it. You have good handwriting? Put from Uncle Cliff. With Uncle in quotes.
Me: Okay...

Uncle Cliff with Uncle in quotes left without harming me or anyone else in the store.

Two days later, I saw a tall and beefy shirtless man wearing reflective sunglasses in my peripheral vision, and he barged into the store and stalked up to me, once again much too close.
Him: I don't know if you remember me.
Me: (taking two steps back) Oh I remember you.
Him: I need another gift. I want the same thing as the other day for a three week old. I'll pick it up later. I'm spending all this money on other people's kids so I'm going to go buy myself a present.

It was a much swifter transaction, but I couldn't shake the feeling that 'Uncle' Cliff was off to buy himself a hooker, get drunk, and diddle small children. Another day, another freak, I guess.

Below, enjoy a photo of Gary Busey, a similarly creepy person, though with less muscle.

winner: Kid O, I think, because at least we got a solid $400 out the dude
loser: the innocent children in 'Uncle' Cliff's life

a whale of a vacation

I just got back from a week in Cape Cod with my mom and one of the major highlights was whale watching. We drove out to the tip of the cape and boarded a boat that took us out to the Stellwagen Bank, an underwater plateau that is a popular feeding ground for whales. Check out these videos I took on the boat. The quality is pretty good, a little shaky, and try to disregard my commentary and gasps of excitement.

a matter of defecation

It has recently been brought to my attention that human shit seems to follow me.

Earlier this summer, I woke one sunny Saturday morning to find my wallet empty (as usual after a Friday night out), and headed to the Citibank ATM located conveniently down the block. It really was a truly glorious day, until I swiped my card for entry, pushed open the door, and was met with the most truly heinous odor I have ever encountered. It was like hot boxing with diarrhea. I quickly located the source of the problem: in front of the handicapped for the visually impaired ATM was a pile of human crap directly centered on an open newspaper. Nearby, a man stood holding a broom and dustpan, obviously a poor choice in cleaning supplies for this job.

The really sick part is that I still took out cash. Does that make me a true New Yorker yet?

If you've been reading my posts regularly, you know that I dealt with a lot of little kid poo this summe, but the real cake topper occurred Thursday night. I was out with Lauren and another friend Anna, and we stopped by the reliable Waverly Restaurant (for coffee ice cream, a grilled cheese, and a chicken salad sandwich) and I went to use the restroom. As soon as I opened the door, I noticed two human turds next to the the toilet. Right next to the toilet! I mean really, how does one miss?

We also have a mouse that has made our kitchen its bathroom. Hopefully the trend soon ends.

winner: bathrooms in the comfort of your own home
loser: my shattered confidence in the cleanliness of my local Citibank
auxiliary winner: our mouse, because he has succeeded in making us his own personal maids

My hair feels long again and it's stressing me out.

I used to get my hair cut by an adorable gay man in the East Village, who looked as if he took a break from gallivanting with the Lollipop Guild to style hair. Unfortunately, his services were a little steep and I decided to look for a cheaper option.

While perusing Yelp.com one day, I discovered what seemed to be the super cheap haircut mecca. The Aveda school: $20 haircuts by students. The catch is that they take longer than normal haircuts and you have to stand for part of it. I thought that sounded just fine; after all, what could really go wrong other than a terrible cut?

I arrived on the day of my appointment and was escorted to the back of the salon, where chairs were crammed together rather tightly. I noticed it was a little warm. And there were a lot of strong smells. I had a consult with my assigned student, who then consulted his teacher, and then had my hair washed. Back in the chair, after having the sides of my hair cut, I was asked to stand up so he could cut the back. I did as instructed and soon started feeling a little weird. I was suddenly really warm and a bit weak. Luckily I was soon told to sit, which I thought would make me feel normal, but I quickly realized things were getting worse, and fast.

I asked for some water. My student disappeared as I sat there all sweaty and clammy trying to get a hold of myself. (I was looked really good at this point, I'm sure.) I ripped off the smock that suddenly seemed to be choking me and told the student I wasn't feeling well. Even though I felt terrible, I was so mortified as another person came to see what was going on.

This is when I made a scene. Slowly my eyesight blurred and it sounded like I was underwater at the end of a tunnel. I was led by the elbow by someone out front where I was told there would be more air. I actually considered that I might be dying. I mean, doesn't it make sense that you would slowly lose your senses and then you would eventually just fade away into the light? Or dark? Whatever. This crossed my mind, as well as a terrible sense of guilt at being the ruin of my budding stylists' career (obviously he wouldn't be able to carry on his training after a client died in his chair, right?).

But alas, I lived. Slowly my senses returned, and after about a gallon of water and being seated in a chair in the front of the salon, I emerged with my haircut. Three hours after my scheduled appointment, and for just $25 (I had to leave the poor guy $5 for the trauma).

The question is: do I go back? Would you?

winner: my wallet?
loser: my poor, innocent Aveda student

potty training: a fiasco

For the past year I have spent my Wednesday evenings babysitting a cherubic little munchkin called Sabine. I met her mom at Kid O and immediately fell for this little girl—she’s just so darn cute, ask anybody. She’s the funniest kid—a little neurotic actually. She likes her toys to be neat and organized, and she gets stressed out about playdates with a certain little girl, to the point where she begs her mom to hide her favorite toys the night before the scheduled visit. (‘Hide baby flopsy, hide big flopsies, hide pink highchair…’)

Anyway, last week Sabine’s mom informed me that she had successfully potty-trained the tot. I was surprised by how quickly this happened, but excited at the prospect of not changing another poopy diaper. I was instructed to ask Sabine if she needed to ‘wee’ every 20 minutes or so in hopes of avoiding an accident.

So, I asked the ‘do you have to wee?’ question every 10 minutes, give or take, until I could tell she was getting annoyed with my persistence. Then as I stood stirring her pasta dinner, little Sabine appeared beside me, looked up and proclaimed, ‘I weed.’ I looked down and saw that since she was wearing a dress, the ‘wee’ had not only soaked her. No, she had gone, apparently beginning in her bedroom (I later learned from following the trail) and then came to find me, all the while still going. I changed her, found some cleaning supplies and wiped up the floor, from the kitchen, through the living room around the corner and into her bedroom.

I figured I was in the clear by this point. After dinner and bathtime, we were working on a giant floor sized jigsaw puzzle and Sabine had tons of energy. She was standing in front of me, jumping up and down with a big smile on her face. Suddenly she stopped and looked me dead in the eye. ‘I poo-ed in my underpants,’ she said. Shocked and trying to figure out how I missed that this was happening right before my eyes, I picked her up, held her at arms length, and rushed her to the bathroom. At first glance it seemed to be a false alarm. At second glance, we had poo on the floor, but then poo on the potty! It was exciting. Until she stood up and decided she had to wee. It went like this:

Her: I have to wee.
Me: Ok, just sit back down on the potty and go ahead.
Her: But there’s poo in it!
Me: It’s ok, poo and wee can go together!
Her: No.
Me: (audible sigh. Remove poo from potty with toilet paper.)
Her: (looking into now empty potty) It’s dirty.
Me: I will clean it after you wee. (really!?)
Her: (clearly not pleased with the arrangement, sits back down and goes wee.)

Conclusion: Sabine is evidently not potty trained.

Winner: Fantastik and paper towels
Loser: clearly, me.
Auxiliary winner: baby flopsy, because he was there throughout the whole ordeal for moral support.