Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

"Who is this Kim Kardouche-ian?" "She married a guy with an MBA? Did he go to Wharton?" "Is that their picture? Wow, that guy looks just like a basketball player on the Nets."

I like the Zumba. With brutal repetition, I can even manage all the steps. I can shake it in the grand style of a non-latin white girl, olay olay olay. My Zumba career mostly goes down at the YMCA in New Jersey. There's a class right after work. In Zumba class, I like to stand way over to the side and keep to myself. A lot of scuffling for position goes on in the middle of the room and despite the impressive nature of my moves, I see no great need to grandstand front and center. As it turns out, this peripheral position also afforded me a measure of safety when the fight broke out recently. The one lady got a little angry when the other lady spun wild with her salsa twirl. A spandex New Jersey catfight broke out, slap slap slap. The instructor turned off the music and we all silently watched the two of them go at it. Some others were really worried the brawler ladies would hurt themselves, but mostly I just damned it all to hell that I didn't have my phone on me with t...

Scene: Ella and Jackson’s 4th Birthday party at the community pool. Shallow end. Bright afternoon sunshine. Three chubby-cheeked girls in flouncy pink bathing suits cluster over a soggy stuffed dog with mangy tan fur. The dog has been laid out on miniature boogie board near the edge of the water. Little Girl 1: “The doggie wants to go swimming!” Little Girl 2: (Hands on hips) . “No he doesn’t. That dog is dead.” Little Girl 3: “Quick! Maybe we can do CPR!” (Plucks off Ariel Princess Ring from forefinger, starts pounding the drenched stuffed animal on and about the chest and head.) Tan colored water sluices from patient, fur barely visible under earnest paramedic wallops.

Nothing exists in this world that compares to Swedish candy. They don’t call it gummy candy for nothing. Screw teeth, who needs ‘em. When you're toothless (and gum-my, get it), you can tear into floppy gelatinous sugar like a rabid herring. In fact, that’s probably the inspiration behind the Swedish fish. Besides Swedish fish, there are also green frogs, race cars, worms, pop bottles, pacifiers and what I had previous thought were unquestionably mice. At Swedish Club on Saturday, Tom got his hands on one of these mice. It was a green little sucker. After some careful study, Laura piped up that Tom had eaten, not a mouse, as previously suspected, but a gummy ferret. Personally, I was skeptical of Laura’s provocative remark. First, the creature in question was green. Not a soft, pleasing green, but a really radioactive green. I felt that a ferret would be too self respecting to parade around like a charlatan frog. Second, the gummy rodent exhibited what I considered very mou...

“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” – Ben Franklin, famously It sends chills down my spine, this axiom of Franklin's. I do not sing in the shower welcoming the new day as a gift from our Creator. I am not a pre-10 AM self-starter. I do not let my first hour set the theme of success and positive action that is certain to echo through my entire day. Frankly I have no idea what happens before 9. I'm not coherent in that timeframe. But while I'm strewn out on my petard, come to find out the Morning People are gloriously prancing about checking priority to-do's off their ambitious daily plans. By the time I get to work, it's practically the next day for them. Each and every crack of noon, I hear about the miles run, the pages turned, the hostile takeovers accomplished. So you can't blame me for concluding there's some sort of occult jubilee that goes on at dawn in which time is warped and one hour becomes like seven or eight....

People think midsommers eve is all about frolicking around a may pole like a bunch of dew fairies, all spirit fingers and butterfly wings. Yeah, no. It’s an outdoor mixed martial arts smackdown set to polka music. It is frankly lawless underneath that pole: people teaming up, holding hands and skipping over the weak. I almost got mowed down by a really machiavellian old lady in a peasant costume. As the Scandinavian Club’s default organizer, my original intention was to have everybody meet up by this landmark in Battery Park: That didn’t work out so well, but I did accomplish my goal of sending a photo of majestic bronze boob balls to my legions of Scandinavian Club members, thus locking down my reputation as an erudite patron of the arts. Again this year, Laura amazed the crowd by turning out some beautiful flower crowns for herself and Amy. She needs to open up a kiosk. Last year, before I finally gave up and Laura saved me, my crown consisted of a smallish clumped ball of ...

On the occasion of my surprise birthday party, the OC Girls, Kenny, Tom & Michael round-tabled the Subject Bidet over dinner at Cookshop: “ I have very limited experience with bidets. They scare me. I wouldn’t want to flood the house.” “You can just splash around in there. Usually there’s an adjustable faucet head. The bidet comes with a soap dish and a special towel rack.” “I would approach any towel in the proximity of the bidet with extreme caution.” “I just tripled my knowledge of bidets. This is all news.” “I turned a bidet on once and it gurgled. I thought bidets were supposed to shoot up like a fountain.” “Can someone ask our waiter to weigh in on this?” “I’m going to find a bidet manual on you tube.” “Are we still talking about bidets?” “Yes, there’s a lot to talk about.” “Why is the man in the bidet instruction video shirtless? You don’t have to take your shirt off to use a bidet.” “I would not want a toilet that transforms into a bidet. That is simply wrong.” “I’m really ...

I make it a point to know very little about an extremely wide range of topics; this is how I stay objective. I’m like the ombudsman of fact-free opinion rendering. Given the level of my notoriety in this specialty area, I was unsurprised when no one asked me to record my observations and/or insights relative to the Gotham Girls Roller Derby bout last night. Things to remember to bring next time: Bleacher Cushion Pizza Pinocle deck Roller derby is transcendental when it comes to the passage of time. Fanhood requires rising above such trivialities as an hour here, an hour there. What is 90 minutes of clenching your hiney on a wooden bleacher waiting for the opening bell when in the proximity of so many fine athletes dressed up like dominatrixes? On deck for the bout were Queens of Pain vs Manhattan Mayhem. The Queens of Pain had the practice track first. They spilled out of the locker room decked out in some incredibly stylish black spandex set-ups. A few sported reckless hotpants in a ...

Foaming soap that does not foam, but splooges into your hand like half-rabid Smeagol spit. Salmonheads who refuse to stand aside to let the people get off the subway before they push their way onto the subway. Way to create a completely unnecessary melee of full-frontal collisions! I paid to ride the E train, not participate in a fucking sumo wresting pick up game. Luckily, I’ve noticed the culprits are inevitably a squad of fat girls in bedazzled shooties so you can always stomp on their toes. People who fancy themselves stoic and warrior-like yet suffer from frequent episodes of quiet whimpering and resolutely do nothing to attenuate their tragic contretemps, which may or may not involve the 1 train, movie selections and/or vegetarian tacos. Citizens on a crowded escalator who stand to the left like solid walls of ass barricading those of us with places to go, people to see attempting to hurry past them. Multi-packs of toilet paper sold on soap.com that look normal in the pictures bu...

As a rule, I do not enjoy watching women’s sports. I do not enjoy watching any sports, even those involving tight pants on hotties. Retract that. If there was a sport involving tight pants and hotties, I would probably watch it, but only if the competition somehow involved swordplay, vampires, a fire pit, and dramatic lighting. There would probably also need to be a backstory around avenging unbridled malice. But yesterday, I went all mercurial, if you will. My heretofore repugnance for sitting in a gym shattered in a gritty sweat-drenched pile up of pleated mini-skirts. Plus one of the jeerleaders threw a mini-Snickers right at my head which has possibly impaired my judgement. The evening began thriftily enough. Tom and I squeezed every red cent out of our Metro cards on a train ride to Harlem. I felt like we got a lot of distance for our $2.25. We were en route to spectate the Gotham Girls Roller Derby: Bronx Gridlock vs Brooklyn Bombshells. I decided to cheer for the Bronx, given it...

It's not that I don't appreciate a good hard-boiled propositioning. You don't spend as much time as I do trying to talk people into things without developing a soft spot for a little florid salesmanship. And I certainly had a great time in Florida. I enjoyed lolling around on the patio, taking in Butterfly World and the Wakadoheeko wildlife preserve, chatting up the octogenarians on the walking path and inspecting gold seashell bracelets in some shops on the main drag. However, I wondered at the final salvo of Tom's mischievous mom's pitch to visit her snowbird winter place. She had heralded Delray Beach as "The New York of the South." Our friend Guy was fully on board with the description. He and Erin moved down to the Sunshine State last year and we were lucky enough to hook up with them the second night of our trip. Guy sat back in his chair as a wizened dude in a motorized wheelchair whizzed past beachside. "The New York of the South. Yes....

We trotted over to Pure Food and Wine in the East Village on Saturday. Have Groupon will travel. Very cozy red velvet and brick, smelling like cardamom kind of place. After the adorably lanky waiter served our entrees, and following much talking amongst ourselves about the pros and cons of doing so, we called him back to our table. "Umm, I mean, this food is really tasty, but it's kind of cold." "Ah yes," our waiter explained in a helpful tone, "you're in a raw food restaurant , so that means we don't heat the food up past room temperature." Oh right. Yes indeed. Good answer, Sir.

Tom, the Golden Child, considered going pantless to my cousin's wedding. T minus twenty minutes until departure, he couldn't find his suit pants. Anywhere. Besides the option of screaming "mazeltov" in his scanties, Tom also contemplated going to the wedding as "that guy" in jeans. After all, he rubbed his chin, "jeans are my go-to pant" and "at weddings in Pennsylvania, there's always one dude in jeans." In the end, he ran across eighth Avenue to Banana Republic and bought a new set of wedding-type trousers. On the way to the nuptials, I declared that I might just steal the Golden Child crown right out of Tom's clutches. I proudly displayed my little gold clutch handbag-- the same one my Mom carried when she was crowned Prom Queen. She'd given it to me a decade ago. "I'm so in as soon as she sees this," I cackled. Tom smirked, a picture of confidence. "And right after she notices the handbag, I'll...

Growing up, my brother and I wrestled (both figuratively and literally) for the honor of 'golden child.' Contemporaneously, it's a lost cause for both of us. Tom has the deal sewn up solid. He's charming and occasionally amusing, I'll grant you, but there's a clincher when it comes to my parents. He's a computer nerd with the patience of a 1-900 line charge-by-the-minute astrologist. So when my dad calls and I greet him warmly, "Hello Father," he will normally grunt and ask if Tom is home. If I say no, Tom is not home, Dad will pause. Then he will ask with little enthusiasm something like, "Well, do you know how to do the GPS?" Tom was not home on Saturday. Dad had to work with the B team. "I think this woman is flirting with me on the email," he tells me, equal parts distressed and baffled; Dad's been fully and completely married for forty-five years. "Why do you think she's flirting with you on the email?" ...

First thing in the morning, Tom accused me of savaging his business. In other words, I unintentionally punched him in the crotch while crawling out of bed. Granted, he was lying there motionless, aka sleeping; but I am fully innocent of the charge. The length of his upper body torso simply surprised me. I always thought his legs were longer given their rangey stride.

So the time I was hopping into a cab, went to grab the doorhandle and mistakenly chucked my iPhone out the window and it skidded down Park Avenue while I shrieked at the driver to hang on a sec... Nothing happened. By that I mean my iPhone remained stoic and unfazed by its wild aerial adventure. Maybe a tiny scratch, but otherwise pristine. So I was a little cocky when the iPhone flung itself out of my pocket on the Central Park Outer Loop and I jogged on it accidentally. Sad face shaped big crack right down the middle of my poor little iPhone. Maybe stress impact is cumulative. Or maybe I run a lot faster than previously suspected. I like to be delusional, so it's still a conundrum.

So it's a done deal. I am steadfast. I'm talking about jazz acts featuring a lead singer who sits motionless with her eyes closed for lengthy stretches of my night out. I don't care how tight the backing musicians lock it up or if her lovely voice conjures rainbows. It always plays out with me flatlining into a brainspace occupied previously by long car rides-- the ordeals where I'm wedged in the backseat with my little brother, a pile of wrinkled maps and three hardshell suitcases, my entire torso covered by a thin layer of saltine cracker crumbs, my soaring soul crushed beneath the pungent smell of old pleather and motor oil. It's not just the ennui of it all. The no rhythm, no peaks, no valleys. It's the part where she banters between songs in this tone of voice that makes me expect her next words to be "schwetty balls." If only. That would certainly be a highlight for me.

When it comes to babysitting sleepovers, I go pumpkin at say 8pm. It takes me about six hours to get ready for bed and handle critical tasks like playing Angry Birds. So when I heard my five year-old nephew had a thing for ringing in the wee hours, I immediately crafted a plan. Although beautiful in its raw simplicity, admittedly the plan lacked a more detailed timeline and rigorous statement of purpose. Mostly I just figured we'd head out into the backyard and do tiring things. I told Mark that we were going on an adventure in the forest. Where the terrain is savage and requires a lot of running to and fro. Specifically for the under 10 set. My nephew nodded in what I mistakenly assumed was mild-mannered acceptance. Then he declared, "While we're out there, we need to hunt down Werewolf Boy. My arch nemesis." Oh. Indeed. Game on. I am so in. Given the change in overall mission, proper equipment was of course required. We shambled out to the garage and collected the b...

If the time I almost beheaded the midget in Whole Foods didn't tip me into the abyss, it's now a done deal. I am going to Hell. I did not actually run over the blind lady with my new scooter, but I did get tangled up in her cane. Since it was only a near miss, I thought I might have dodged the damnation bullet, but then Mary informed me that, "To blind people, a cane is like another finger." I'll be spending the weekend working on scooter speed and endurance in case the townspeople chase me around with torches.

Don't blame me. The sexy girlfriend who hopped on the uptown E within a squeaker hairsbreadth of the "stand clear of the closing doors" was everything I have dreamt about: vintage wool jacket with leather darts and big-ass skull-kickin' buckle, velvet cuffs, steampunk black boots. And ooo la la. A folded-up scooter on a strap flung over one shoulder. I began to covet the scooter immediately. Imagine what a person could do with a scooter that folds up so you can toss it across your back like a two-wheeled samurai sword! I could make it crosstown to the East Village without waiting for the goddammed L train. I could scooter to East 42nd at rush hour without squishing tushies. OMG, I could roll over to the Union Square green market with a bungie cord and lash groceries to the scooter. It would surely happen if I only had a scooter. I mentioned the scooter possibility to Tom. Once or twice. I said I wanted a scooter with handbrakes and also a back fender because I saw a k...