I would like to open the blog (in these final hours of this special day) to any and all reflections and memories of, and roasts and toasts to our awesome friend Ellen.
Here are mine.
1. When she was sick (and if my memory serves me correctly, maybe potentially just "sick" as in HUNGOVER). Having spent a day out in the city, I returned to to ph d to find Ellen in her bathrobe, splayed on the floor in the hallway of the apartment, with a big empty bowl in her clutches. It was about 3 in the afternoon. Despite my many attempts to figure out why she wasn't in her bed, a whopping 10 feet from where she lay, I couldn't get a straight answer. She just kept laying there on the floor, mumbling every now and then, but more importantly, blocking my way to bathroom, and I had to pee. In retrospect, I probably should have been a little more tender because she was nursing the worst hangover of all time AND food poisoning simultaneously, but I wasn't, so she called mychal and told her how tough I'd been. Tough, you say, elle? No, tough I SAY: Tough LUCK, Elle. Lay off the vod next time.
2. I also have very fond memories of seeing Ellen crossing 39th street at 8th Avenue in the dead summer heat. On crutches. She was HUFFING and PUFFING across that street. Why, you ask? Why, what. Why was she on crutches? Because she broke her toe for the eighth time. Why was she coming to my workplace? Because BEFORE she broke her toe she had agreed to sign on as a telemarketer for the American Symphony Orchestra. Did the girl back down simply because she had been gimped? No. She trekked it all the way from Union Square sans taxi (the fare would have cost as much as she earned calling strangers.) to Hell's Kitchen. More like Elle's bitchin' kitchen.
3. Watching the bachelor with Elle. Especially when she a. DEMANDS silence or b. DEMANDS we rewind to watch a squirrel cross the street or c. DEVOURS a bento box. Or sharing with her the utter destruction and disaster that was the outcome of season 13. MES-FUCK. WE WILL NEVER FORGET AND WE WILL NEVER FORGIVE.
These represent the proverbial (hi katie) tip of the iceberg when it comes to the titanic that is Ellen Wert, our beloved birthday girl. Ellen, sail-on, live-on, cornbread-on, child. LOVE and HB.
I'm so very glad that you were born.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I'm so bored and boring I can't even think of a title
Pee-pee people? Parking tickets? Being Amy Coenen? You guys kill me! Write more and write quickly. I need something else to do besides the dishes.
Have I anything to share? I read a lot. Actually, I've read 10 books since summer. Now on my eleventh. It's called Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle? Have you heard of it?
I noticed that the neighbors are repairing their garage? They are. I think they're building some storage units along the walls and in the rafters. Good for them for being organized. But the woman is a little off - she slobbers, too - and her husband has had his hips replaced twice already. That's bad. He drives a corvette because he's going through a mid-life crisis, which is totally understandable if you've had your hips replaced twice before age 40.
The other neighbors aren't really doing much – at least nothing I can see. I spy out the windows before going to get the mail each day. I do that to avoid any awkward run-ins, and also to create the illusion that I don't actually live here. You may think that's crazy, but a few months ago I was accosted on the way to my car with a yell from across the street. Usually cool as a cucumber, I just lost it. I told the nosy neighbor that I was looking for work in NYC and when he asked what type, I said something about babysitting and tutoring and haha, it's a living! What? It's a living? I've never sat anyone's babies.
What I wanted to say was BACK OFF, TITANIUM TITS - he's the one with the hip replacements. They're probably made of titanium.
Titanium... Unobtanium - Have you guys seen Avatar?
Avatar... Tattoo Bar - Did you know that I have a tattoo? Well, I don't. I do have a picture of the design I want, and that means I may get it soon enough, so don't bullshit me, okay?
Okay... Today - Today, I bored my friends by sharing this post.
Good riddance.
Have I anything to share? I read a lot. Actually, I've read 10 books since summer. Now on my eleventh. It's called Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle? Have you heard of it?
I noticed that the neighbors are repairing their garage? They are. I think they're building some storage units along the walls and in the rafters. Good for them for being organized. But the woman is a little off - she slobbers, too - and her husband has had his hips replaced twice already. That's bad. He drives a corvette because he's going through a mid-life crisis, which is totally understandable if you've had your hips replaced twice before age 40.
The other neighbors aren't really doing much – at least nothing I can see. I spy out the windows before going to get the mail each day. I do that to avoid any awkward run-ins, and also to create the illusion that I don't actually live here. You may think that's crazy, but a few months ago I was accosted on the way to my car with a yell from across the street. Usually cool as a cucumber, I just lost it. I told the nosy neighbor that I was looking for work in NYC and when he asked what type, I said something about babysitting and tutoring and haha, it's a living! What? It's a living? I've never sat anyone's babies.
What I wanted to say was BACK OFF, TITANIUM TITS - he's the one with the hip replacements. They're probably made of titanium.
Titanium... Unobtanium - Have you guys seen Avatar?
Avatar... Tattoo Bar - Did you know that I have a tattoo? Well, I don't. I do have a picture of the design I want, and that means I may get it soon enough, so don't bullshit me, okay?
Okay... Today - Today, I bored my friends by sharing this post.
Good riddance.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I Saw the Sign Follow-up
So I didn't have to teach sign language. My boss (luckily) watched the youtube clip and realized that that shit was crazy hard so she called it off. Good thing, because I hadn't watched it but once. But because I was stressing so much about all that finger wagging, I was utterly unprepared for all my other classes.
Now. When I find myself utterly unprepared for classes, which, in full disclosure, happens pretty much all the time, I have to think on my feet. I have to pretend to know what I'm doing. And I have to make up games. Sometimes all I can do is just start talking and see what happens. So yesterday, I sat everyone down (all four students. side note: you would think that less students would make an unprepared teacher's job easier. Wrong. What games can you play with four people? Four square? Yes. Except that's a sport. And this is musical theater class. Just try playing mafia with four kids. Try it. I dare you.) and did just that. I started talking.
Turns out that what you you CAN do with four students is make up a story about a super chihuahua (I cannot believe I spelled that right on my first TRY.) and act it out. Many times in a row. For an hour.
"Super Chi, Mrs. Fluffy Shirt and the Poison Coconut Juice" was our creation. It involved a plane flight to hawaii, strawberry daiquiris (I did NOT spell that correctly on my first try.) barking, a sad girl named Lily, talking palm trees, secret passwords, death by poison, fist-fights and, of course, a kick line.
They performed it four times. I sat and watched. And gave notes.
They didn't care about my notes.
But they effing loved my story.
Class dismissed.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Why do I care what crazy people think of me?
Friends,
I recently had a run-in on the subway which was noteworthy in and of itself, but more importantly than the actual event is my incredibly odd reaction to it. Maybe you can shed some light.
I went to a friend's in Brooklyn the other night (I know, I'm kind of a changed woman) and ended up on the 3 train back to Manhattan the next morning at a fairly decent hour. Now, this is not just Williamsburg or Park Slope...this is BROOKLYN Brooklyn. Like closer to the ocean than Manhattan Brooklyn (changed woman).
When the train finally comes (how do those people ever get ANYWHERE on time?!?), I am relieved to find several open seats (because that far out in the middle of nowhere is pretty deserted). Needless to say, I felt pretty insecure in my heels and designer jeans and my pasty-ass skin. I immediately tried to look like a gangster so people would know I was tough (this inevitably made me look like a loser).
After I relaxed a little into my germ-infested seat, I began taking in my surroundings. And wouldn't you know it, I chose a seat directly across from a crazy man. He looked something like this:
So at first I'm like, ok another crazy in New York, big whoop. Then my horribly deficient olfactory finally kicks in, and I realize perhaps the reason I am the ONLY person in this man's vicinity is he smells like URINE. Like SO MUCH URINE. Like HOLY LORD, WHO JUST PEED ON MY NOSE.
Here is where my first bout of horrible judgement occurs. Instead of simply moving to another part of the train where the smell was more bearable, I decided it would be rude to do so as the CRAZY man might think I thought he smelled bad and get offended. So I stayed and breathed through my mouth.
Somewhere more towards the middle of nowhere-Brooklyn, Crazy Man takes out a packet of cheeze-its from his bag. He then proceeds to mash them up and smash them into his face, giving the illusion he has a beard of orange vomit. I look around and realize that still nobody has come close to me and my crazy friend in the past four stops even though the train keeps filling up. Though now I am sufficiently disgusted, I am sure if I move it would be a direct insult to this man's dignity to move (what is wrong with me).
Then, to my utter disgust, Crazy Man begins to sweep the plethora of crumbs that have fallen to the FLOOR OF THE SCURVY-RIDDEN, DISEASE-ENCRUSTED, URINE-STAINED 3 TRAIN into to his hand and then INTO HIS MOUTH. At this point with the image I was faced with and the lingering stench in the air, I am actually gagging. But I can't leave because I must not insult this foul, foul, crazy man.
Now the train is getting packed. And this man seems to have a stockpile of snack crackers (of all varieties) in his "recycled" grocery sack. He is getting verbal and physical, kicking the air and yelling racial slurs at the subway pole directly between us. As the train gets more crowded, people start to pass by him out of necessity. At first, he throws crackers at them. Handfuls of cracker crumbs he has mashed, dropped, and picked up again. Everybody is very grossed out. Eventually, he just starts kicking at people (thankfully missing most of the time). And the whole while I expect him to start lashing out at me, as I am the only one remotely close to him (about 3 feet away).
But just as I am about to get off the train after nearly an hour with this Crazy Man lashing out at every Tom, Dick, and Harry that passes his way, he looks at me. And instead of hurling crumbs or shouting at me, he SMILES.
My immediate reaction?
Oh how cool, this guy likes me!! I knew it was worth it!
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?! Why do I want to be friends with crazy people?
I think all of you leaving me has had a direct impact on my social standards. Please come back. All of you.
Igg.
Yeldah
Monday, January 25, 2010
My life: injustice, unqualified, and unfrickenbelievable
3 things you should know about MY life these days
1) I am being summoned to court. Not jury duty. No. That's a civilians duty. I have been summoned on March the 25th to the CRIMINAL COURTS OF NEW YORK CITY where I will be representing the waffle truck as we are charged with over $5,000 in fines for parking misdemeanors (none of which have ever happened when I was working and are NOT my fault). I can't get into this too much, because I don't want my fellow phdlitters to be an accomplice to my criminal behavior. All I know is, I am actually not exaggerating about this one. I have a court summons and am a suspected criminal. If I do not show up for court, there will be a warrant for my arrest.
2) I am teaching the following classes that should be of note: improvisation to 8th graders in Harlem who scream "nooooo not her!!!!" when I walk in the room, an URBAN FUNK fitness dance class twice a week to 7th and 8th graders, and...Songwriting to 5th very white fifth graders (several parents have already told me they expect us to write a full length musical. They're serious).
3) Today I was outside in a monsoon. An african american woman and her (well not HER) white 2-year old boy were trying to cross the street. We both fought the monsoon, but because I was not holding a toddler's hand, I was able to keep hold of my umbrella. This woman (who might have been speaking West African or something) lost her umbrella from her hands. [Side note: the umbrella went flying from her hands, into my face, crashing into a taxi cab, to the top of a tree, and then in the middle of a median on broadway and 113th st]. She started saying things to me in her language that I, obviously, didn't understand. I was also confused when she gave me the boy's hand and ran off. I assumed she was going to search for her umbrella. That was in the first 2 minutes. When I had asked Alec (the boy who was 2 and a quarter years old and had a stuffed monkey named Tony with him) almost every question I could think to ask him in the rain, I realized that I was in quite a pickle. What if she never came back? Would I be charged with kidnapping too???? I got nervous . It had been nearly 5 minutes. I saw that the umbrella was gone from the median, but WHERE WAS THE WOMAN. The boy started to cry because he said his feet were wet. Mine were too. So I decided to play peek-a-boo with him, which he LOVED. So...10 mintues. TEN FUCKING MINUTES and IM PLAYING PEEK-A-BOO with a TODDLER in the RAIN who I have just KIDNAPPED and finally, when I was about to call 911 (seriously), the woman shows up. Umbrella in hand and....McDonalds (shout out to Mychal). She ended up giving me a breakfast sandwich and saying "god bless you" maybe 20 times.
Moral of the story: you can serve breakfast to people once a week and become a criminal, it is possible to be paid to teach things that you have NO skill, ability, or experience teaching, and finally, kidnap kids. You get McDonalds.
1) I am being summoned to court. Not jury duty. No. That's a civilians duty. I have been summoned on March the 25th to the CRIMINAL COURTS OF NEW YORK CITY where I will be representing the waffle truck as we are charged with over $5,000 in fines for parking misdemeanors (none of which have ever happened when I was working and are NOT my fault). I can't get into this too much, because I don't want my fellow phdlitters to be an accomplice to my criminal behavior. All I know is, I am actually not exaggerating about this one. I have a court summons and am a suspected criminal. If I do not show up for court, there will be a warrant for my arrest.
2) I am teaching the following classes that should be of note: improvisation to 8th graders in Harlem who scream "nooooo not her!!!!" when I walk in the room, an URBAN FUNK fitness dance class twice a week to 7th and 8th graders, and...Songwriting to 5th very white fifth graders (several parents have already told me they expect us to write a full length musical. They're serious).
3) Today I was outside in a monsoon. An african american woman and her (well not HER) white 2-year old boy were trying to cross the street. We both fought the monsoon, but because I was not holding a toddler's hand, I was able to keep hold of my umbrella. This woman (who might have been speaking West African or something) lost her umbrella from her hands. [Side note: the umbrella went flying from her hands, into my face, crashing into a taxi cab, to the top of a tree, and then in the middle of a median on broadway and 113th st]. She started saying things to me in her language that I, obviously, didn't understand. I was also confused when she gave me the boy's hand and ran off. I assumed she was going to search for her umbrella. That was in the first 2 minutes. When I had asked Alec (the boy who was 2 and a quarter years old and had a stuffed monkey named Tony with him) almost every question I could think to ask him in the rain, I realized that I was in quite a pickle. What if she never came back? Would I be charged with kidnapping too???? I got nervous . It had been nearly 5 minutes. I saw that the umbrella was gone from the median, but WHERE WAS THE WOMAN. The boy started to cry because he said his feet were wet. Mine were too. So I decided to play peek-a-boo with him, which he LOVED. So...10 mintues. TEN FUCKING MINUTES and IM PLAYING PEEK-A-BOO with a TODDLER in the RAIN who I have just KIDNAPPED and finally, when I was about to call 911 (seriously), the woman shows up. Umbrella in hand and....McDonalds (shout out to Mychal). She ended up giving me a breakfast sandwich and saying "god bless you" maybe 20 times.
Moral of the story: you can serve breakfast to people once a week and become a criminal, it is possible to be paid to teach things that you have NO skill, ability, or experience teaching, and finally, kidnap kids. You get McDonalds.
I Saw the Sign
Hello friends.
Last night, Hadley informed me that she and Doc had agreed that it was time to bring the blog back. (Thanks for checking with me and the other phdlitefuls). Lucky for them, I'm in full agreement with this re-re-resurrection (that sound like it could be the hook to my first rap single. BiA+ch, in case you forgot, is the name I will go by.).
Just like last night's episode of Big Love, where Bill waits for a sign from God on how to win Senate (If I were God, by the way, I would strongly urge Bill to reconsider. What a stupid idea. Good idea? No. Good tv? YES. Not as good, though, as Alby shackin' up with some lawyer dude he met in a park.) anyway, just like Bill (I'm SO similar to Bill), I was waiting for a sign from the blogging gods of what to share with you people. Because let's be honest, I didn't feel like recapping the last 4 months and you didn't feel like reading it (by the way, this might be the right time to out hadley (she's just like Alby). Here's a recent exchange. You draw your own conclusions:
Had: omg i BET
Last night, Hadley informed me that she and Doc had agreed that it was time to bring the blog back. (Thanks for checking with me and the other phdlitefuls). Lucky for them, I'm in full agreement with this re-re-resurrection (that sound like it could be the hook to my first rap single. BiA+ch, in case you forgot, is the name I will go by.).
Just like last night's episode of Big Love, where Bill waits for a sign from God on how to win Senate (If I were God, by the way, I would strongly urge Bill to reconsider. What a stupid idea. Good idea? No. Good tv? YES. Not as good, though, as Alby shackin' up with some lawyer dude he met in a park.) anyway, just like Bill (I'm SO similar to Bill), I was waiting for a sign from the blogging gods of what to share with you people. Because let's be honest, I didn't feel like recapping the last 4 months and you didn't feel like reading it (by the way, this might be the right time to out hadley (she's just like Alby). Here's a recent exchange. You draw your own conclusions:
Had: omg i BET
now
have you been to peopleofwalmart.com yet?
me: I went once and then forgot about it
I LOVED it
Had: ok good
9:52 AM me: but I just can't remember all these blogs
Had: it's not really a blog
that's why i love it
i dont have to read stupid shit to enjoy it
I lied about drawing your own conclusions. I will draw them for you. Hadley doesn't like blogs. Especially ones that "require reading." In fact, she's probably not even reading this post right now. Some friend.
Anyway, this is to say, I didn't know what to write but still wanted to post something. I know, what else is new?)
[an aside: I just got locked in the bathroom of Jittery Joe's coffee shop. Deep breath. That was intense. But not the subject of this blog post.]
Onward: I awoke this morning to the following email from my boss:
I lied about drawing your own conclusions. I will draw them for you. Hadley doesn't like blogs. Especially ones that "require reading." In fact, she's probably not even reading this post right now. Some friend.
Anyway, this is to say, I didn't know what to write but still wanted to post something. I know, what else is new?)
[an aside: I just got locked in the bathroom of Jittery Joe's coffee shop. Deep breath. That was intense. But not the subject of this blog post.]
Onward: I awoke this morning to the following email from my boss:
"Hi Amy
Do you think you might have time to learn the sign language for Imagine and teach that tomorrow?"
Yep. The last 2 hours I've been watching "Imagine" from Glee. For those of you who, oh, I don't know, DESPISE that show, let me give you some context. Matthew Morrison's glee club invites this other glee club to come to their school and perform a song at their practice. The glee club shows up and the opening chords to Imagine start playing. We then discover (gasp!) that the members of this glee club are deaf! And yet, they still perform! And with gusto! And then, if you're me, you get all goose-bumpy and tear up but try really hard not to cry because you're not that lame. Oh, but you are. The tears come. You are Putty in Fox's hand. Anyway, then you get an email from your boss asking you to LEARN all the signs to the song and teach them to a group of 14 year olds tomorrow night. So you find the clip on youtube and watch it for two hours. Well, actually that's where I'm lying (the part about crying: sadly, TRUE.). I've watched it once, thought to myself "Oh wow. This is hard. I'm, like, really not qualified to teach this. I'll blog about it instead." And let me tell you, this stuff IS really hard. There are fingers wiggling and hands circling around heads and it all happens so fast AND I have to reverse everything I'm seeing. For one who never was the quickest ant in the hill when it came to picking up dance moves, this task is nothing short of Herculean. But what can I do? Ask an old high school friend's husband, who I have spoken to once about 18 months ago (and what did we speak about you ask? Oh, SIGN LANGUAGE. Which he STUDIED as his FOREIGN LANGUAGE at uga), to come teach it in my place? Maybe. Nevermind that I know not another thing about him. He could be a serial killer for all I know. What I do know: The guy can sign.
Yes, These are the things I do these days. I learn sign language to songs (or stress about learning sign language to songs and blog about it instead), fail, and debate whether it would be too weird to fb message this dude saying "hi! Want to teach a handful of teen agers sign language from the hit show Glee tomorrow night? By the way, we HAVE met before. And I'm not crazy, yet. But if I have to do this on my own, there is no doubt that I will be."
This is NOT something I would be doing at the American Symphony Orchestra. And yet, I'm happy.
Yep. The last 2 hours I've been watching "Imagine" from Glee. For those of you who, oh, I don't know, DESPISE that show, let me give you some context. Matthew Morrison's glee club invites this other glee club to come to their school and perform a song at their practice. The glee club shows up and the opening chords to Imagine start playing. We then discover (gasp!) that the members of this glee club are deaf! And yet, they still perform! And with gusto! And then, if you're me, you get all goose-bumpy and tear up but try really hard not to cry because you're not that lame. Oh, but you are. The tears come. You are Putty in Fox's hand. Anyway, then you get an email from your boss asking you to LEARN all the signs to the song and teach them to a group of 14 year olds tomorrow night. So you find the clip on youtube and watch it for two hours. Well, actually that's where I'm lying (the part about crying: sadly, TRUE.). I've watched it once, thought to myself "Oh wow. This is hard. I'm, like, really not qualified to teach this. I'll blog about it instead." And let me tell you, this stuff IS really hard. There are fingers wiggling and hands circling around heads and it all happens so fast AND I have to reverse everything I'm seeing. For one who never was the quickest ant in the hill when it came to picking up dance moves, this task is nothing short of Herculean. But what can I do? Ask an old high school friend's husband, who I have spoken to once about 18 months ago (and what did we speak about you ask? Oh, SIGN LANGUAGE. Which he STUDIED as his FOREIGN LANGUAGE at uga), to come teach it in my place? Maybe. Nevermind that I know not another thing about him. He could be a serial killer for all I know. What I do know: The guy can sign.
Yes, These are the things I do these days. I learn sign language to songs (or stress about learning sign language to songs and blog about it instead), fail, and debate whether it would be too weird to fb message this dude saying "hi! Want to teach a handful of teen agers sign language from the hit show Glee tomorrow night? By the way, we HAVE met before. And I'm not crazy, yet. But if I have to do this on my own, there is no doubt that I will be."
This is NOT something I would be doing at the American Symphony Orchestra. And yet, I'm happy.
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