Fuck tuk-tuks.

Fucking tuk-tuks.

They're wheeled bicycle carts in Vietnam.

You're supposed to negotiate a price with them before they take off.

I tried.

The girls told me that two nights ago, they paid 20,000 Dong and last night they paid 10,000. So I figure I'll start at 10,000 and, worst comes to worse, 20,000. (20,000 is about $1.20) So I say to the guy, "10."

He says "you decide."

I try to settle on 10,000.

He re-affirms, "you decide."

I get in.

He drives me a little, and he tries to communicate with me. In vain. I tell him I don't understand.

He stops the bike, gets out, and takes a piss.

Why he can't fucking wait until the end, I'm not sure.

He bikes me the rest of the way, trying again to talk to me, tapping me on the shoulder (please note that he has not washed his hands at this point, probably all day, I'm thinking.)

He stops about 500 yards from the entrance of the B&B.

Now I know I'm in for it.

I give him the overly generous 20,000.

He demands 50,000 and at the same time telling me that he told me that I could decide.

Now I'm pissed, because I knew full well he would do this (it's practically obligatory from what I hear) and he's posturing in the street, showing all kinds of emotions from angry, to pissed off, to near tears, trying to get me to pay him what he wants.

I'm not having it.

Now I'm just offering him the 20,000, and I start walking away.

"This, or nothing."

He's still pitching a fit.

I go to the entrance of the B&B, and now I'm waiting for him to come in. He motions for me to come back out.

I give him the 20,000 and he tells me to go fuck myself.

Fantastic. Next time I'll just risk the burn on my inner right calf.

Me versus NYC pothole.

I tripped and fell in a pothole, on the corner of 23rd and Park ave south.

Smash. Knee perpendicular to the pavement, thank goodness, because there was no need for painful abrasion scrubbing. But it hurt and swelled up pretty quickly.

So I hobble over to the New York Sports Club (where I am NOT a member) and ask for some wipes, a bandage, an icepack. 5 minutes later, I ask for an EMT. They were really nice to me (must write a thank-you note.)

Just last week, a girl I met at the gym twisted her knee in the dance class. It was totally deja-vu.

They check me out, recommend I go to the hospital for x-rays.

They wheel me into the street.

Then I hear my name being called out.

Nothing like having one of your STUDENTS watch you get wheeled into an ambulance to add insult to injury. Literally.

(I'm OK, though. Bruised and battered, but nothing broken.)

Three math wrongs = pants for $17 a pop.

I need new pants.

That is, I NEEDED new pants, and now I don't need to buy any again for the next 10 years.

I go to unnamed retail chain this morning to look at some pants. I don't usually go here, buy I've heard people rave about their pants. Even the girl at Club Monaco (where I bought three pairs of pants.... I LOVE Club Monaco) said that she gets her pants at this particular mall-rat favorite.

The pants are normally $70 - $80. They fit like a glove, and they're on sale for $30. I pick out 5 pairs, thinking that I would take them home to make the final decision. The guy in the fitting room says "They're 20% off the sale price, and if you open a credit card, you'll get an additional 15% off. That's 35% off!)

I smile.

Because he's wrong. Percents don't add that way.

If an item is on sale for 20% OFF, then you're paying 80% OF (100% - 20%) the sale price. That means that if you're getting 20% off, and then an additional 15% off, then that's the same as (.80)(.85)=.62 of the price, which is really only 32% off.

Granted, this is a marginal amount. On a $100 purchase, it's only $3 difference. But the greater the amount of sale, the greater the error. On $1000 purchase, there's a $30 difference.

I knew the cash register is programmed to get the answer right, anyway. Total cost of my purchase: $115.

I happen to walk by another store of the same chain, and see two more I want to add to the collection I'm now bringing home, sure I'll return at least three of them.

The girl at the register says, "Everything today is 30% off, and then an additional 15% off for opening your credit card. That's 45% off!

I can't let this go anymore. I explain to her that 15% off a 30% off purchase is not 45% off. She is reluctant to believe me. I finally convinced her. Total cost of the two pairs of pants: $36.

I think to ask the manager if the sale is the same for all of the stores, because I only got 20% of at the other store. He offers to do a price change.

The original cost of the 5 pants at the first store was $170. After 20% off, $136. After the additional 15%, $115. If they did it right, it would have been $170, after 30% discount, $119, after additional 15%, $101.

So they owed me about $14.

Instead, the guy returns the 20% discounted pants, $136, which is correct. He rings up the $136 again, and takes 10% off of THAT to "total" 30%. This is WRONG. Taking an additional 10% off 20% discounted merchandise does not equal taking 30% off the original for the same reason. Percents still don't add! Except this time, it counts AGAINST me. $3 worth.

I don't even have a chance to think about this, because the cashier tells me that $32 is going to be returned to my card.

$32??

It turns out that he returned the $136 to my card and forgot to "return" the $20 of discount that I received on the pants!

Not for a second did it seem to occur to this cashier that $30 is a lot more than a 10% error on $115.

Perhaps it was unscrupulous of me to not point out his error, but I was done educating for the day.

Three errors for mall store, and I pay $119 for 7 pairs of pants. That's $17 a pop.

And now I don't feel like I can return them!!!

Never trust anyone who tells you "We can do it in a day"

Old Floor (looks pretty here, but so not up close....)











(New Floor: african walnut - chocolate brown)

Day 1
The flooring guys were supposed to be doing my flooring today. At 12:30 pm (after I woke up at 8:30) they arrive and say "we're going to drop off the materials and start tomorrow."

No question if that's even OK, and tomorrow is the start of Labor Day weekend. I don't even bother with the installer, who has nothing to say in the matter, and has weak english.

I call the company, and they say "We can't help it, two of the guys on the team are sick." This is after the guys told me they had traffic from Jersey.

I tell them that it's not a problem that it's a two day job, BUT THEY SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME IT'S A TWO DAY JOB." I can't believe that they just expect that people can just take two days off from work like that. (I'm not working right now, but still.)

So they're coming tomorrow. God help them if they don't finish, because then they can't finish 'til Tuesday and there's not way I can take tuesday off from work (it's the 1st day!!)

Day 2
When I called the manager yesterday, I said "Do you understand that if the job cannot be finished tomorrow, it can't happen at all. I have to go back to work on Tuesday, and no work can be done over the weekend." (building rules.)

David GUARANTEES ME that the guys are going to come, look at the floor, and if there's ANY DOUBT that the job cannot be done, they won't start.

Disappointing, but in two weeks I'm off for the jewish holidays. Two days to get the job done, and the materials have already been delivered.

The guys show up bright and early this morning, and get started right away at 9 am. They barely take time to snack on the breakfast I made them. They're working!

At 1 in the afternoon, one of the guys tells me that the floor is indeed NOT LEVEL like the salesman told me, and that a layer of plywood needs to go down in order for the floor to come out even.

Oh, there's NO WAY this is going to be finished by 4 pm, I'm thinking.

The foreman asks if they can go until 5, because if they don't finish today, their boss is going to kill them.

That is, if I don't kill their boss first.

Tuesday's my first day back to school. I can't take off next week. My cat, who I left in the apartment because she's such a scaredycat is OK in hiding for the afternoon (behind the counter in the kitchen) but if the apartment isn't done then I have to get her out so she doesn't walk around in the debris.

Atalanta was so gracious to offer to apt-sit when they come back Tuesday, but this means that she's relegated to the only part of the apartment that is untouched by the mess... my 10 sq ft kitchen.

Argh.

That;s how they get you

I recently changed my email address, so I've been updating all my bill pay stuff.

I realize I have premium cable. HBO, Cinemax, etc.

$30 a month.

I HAVE NEVER WATCHED ANY OF IT.

Ever.

I am remembering now that I got it free for a month, as a promotion.

Last July.

That means I've spent about $400 over the last year, paying for HBO that I've never watched. Argh.

Men are icky in Argentina, too, it seems

MOM AND DAD... YOU MIGHT NOT WANT TO READ THIS ONE

I leave the comfort of Nega Maluca to go to the Salvador airport. I get there quickly, having treated myself to a taxi versus a taxi + bus in the middle of the hot winter daylight. I arrive to discover that my plane was delayed an hour and a half. I also discover that I don’t technically have a connection, I’ll be waiting on the plane at Sao Paulo while we pick people up to go to Buenos Aires.

Smooth flight. And thank goodness, as just a couple of days prior there was a horrific, completely avoidable, 200+ fatality airplane crash on TAM landing at Sao Paulo. There is a runway there that was deemed too short for dangerous weather, and it had been shut down for a while, but it was decided they were loosing too much $ with the runway being closed that they used it. The plan landed too fast in wet weather, sped down the runway, crashed into a gas station, and blew up. Awful.

I’m tired, I’ve got a throat infection. I can’t lie down on the airport floor as everyone else does, as this particular floor isn’t carpeted. But Salvador airport has one thing that I’ve always said should exist at airports: a salon offering MASSAGE.

I don’t feel stressed enough or sore enough to warrant a massage, but at USD45 an hour, I felt like maybe it was a good idea. I could lie down. Nap. Wait.

They sure are a lot more open than we are. She didn’t leave the room while I undressed, and didn’t feel it necessary to cover me with a towel at some point. I had to tell her I was going to sleep, to stop her from talking to me for the full hour as it appeared would happen. It was a pretty bad massage. But I did get to rest. Naked, On a table.

I’m glad I got that massage, as perhaps it prevented the total meltdown that should have happened later on.

I land at Buenos Aires at around 3 am. An older couple I met on the way allowed me to share their car service, as we were both going to the center of town, and the next bus wasn’t to arrive for an hour.

The husband is annoyed that I gave his wife 50 pesos. But it was worth it to not have to wait. I was getting quite tired.

I get to V&S Hostel Club, a familiar sight, as I stayed here a couple of months prior.

I ring the bell.

No answer.

I ring two, three times more.

No answer.

I ring the bell for what feels like (and may have actually been) 15 minutes. I bang on the glass door, as I remind myself of the time I put my hand through my bedroom window at college. It was a highly unpleasant experience, and I made sure it didn’t happen again, despite my growing anger.

The night watchman, Juan, comes to the door.

I tell him that I have a reservation, that I’ve paid. He says no one is there.

“What do you mean, no one is there?, I ask”

“No one is there.”

No one is coming until 8 am, and it is only 4:15.

This same conversation goes on back and forth too many times. He will not let me in the vestibule. I am yelling. I try to convince him to let me in the vestibule. He won’t. He repeats himself over and over again, without a change in disposition. I’m thinking he’s a bit slow. I am yelling in the middle of a quiet, desolate street, that I cannot believe he is going to allow me to be alone in the street for hours.

He tells me there is a hotel a block away.

I walk a block away, with my 25 kilo bag,, backpack, and knitting. I am exhausted.

I come back. He has already gone away. I pound again. He comes out and says he will walk me to the other hotel.

I start crying. Oy yes, I pull the meek female card. Except it was pretty real. Bawling.

Now he totally changes.

He lets me in, sits me down on the stairwell, rubs my arm, and says over and over again, don’t cry, don’t cry. It’s OK. Don’t cry. I sat there crying this way for a good couple of minutes, with him rubbing my back and telling me not to cry. It was very sweet, actually.

I stop crying, and tell him that he was very kind, that I just want to go to sleep. The cold marble floor was so much better than being outside, waiting in the cold for four hours, with all my stuff, but without the jacket I had planned to buy once I arrived.

He still was petting my back. At this point, it was enough, but I didn’t say anything.

I lay down on the floor. He comes over and pets my arm some more. I try to go to sleep.

He sits on the stairwell, right next to me. Watching me. I figure he still thinks I am going to break in and rob the place. Quite a good plan, actually, if that was what I was into.

About 20 minutes later, he comes down the stairs and tells me that there is a small library where I can go and be warmer. I thank him again for his kindness.

He tells me to sit on the chair, it’s comfortable. I tell him I want to sleep, and the floor is wonderful, thank.

I lie down. Put my towel on top of me like a blanket. He sits in the chair right next to me, petting me to go to sleep. I am quite annoyed by this already.

He is now petting my face, my arm, my back, whispering me to go to sleep. I can’t, with all this touching. It was definitely overkill, and it was so annoying and uncomfortable, but the last thing I wanted to do was to piss him off so he’s throw me out again. I loie perfectly still, to make it seem like I am sleeping. I’m not worried… we’re right next to the dorm rooms that I stayed in the last time I was at this place, I’m just annoyed and tired and wanted so much to be left alone.

Every time I turned to adjust, he would start again, telling be to go back to sleep. This went on for about an hour. Then, right before 7 am, he comes over, pets me some more, tells me that he has to go. He wants me to call him, He gave me his number. I was so happy he was leaving, I say, OK, bye, goodnight.

This response was not what he was hoping for.

He told me again that he had to go. His hand is now up my shirt. I said “Please, I’m trying to sleep, go, leave me.”

He doesn’t stop. He told me again he had to go. I take his hand off me and tell him I am sleeping.

He lies down next to me. I say no and push him away.

He tells me to keep my voice down, everyone is sleeping.

He tries to kiss me full on the mouth.

Now I start screaming in English, “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANT MORE. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST PLEASE LEAVE ME BE” and he runs off.

It wasn’t traumatizing, just completely exhausting. I don’t know if he was mentally changellened as I had originally thought, but there was definitely something wrong. I really can’t understand how he could have gotten the impression that I was interested in a fling on the floor of this hostel. I was crying, begging to sleep. The weired thing is that I really think he thought there was something between us. He left me his number!!

8 am sharp, I went upstairs, looking like something the cat had dragged in. I said “Good morning. I’m Cindy. We have a problem. I arrived late at 4 am yesterday, and was locked out, I have no idea why no one thought to tell me that there wasn’t a 24 hour reception when I said I was arriving at 3 in the morning, but when I got here, your night watchman felt me up in my sleep. All night. I’d like to talk about this later, as I really just want a bed right now, and I see you have other people waiting.”

As this is Latin America, I knew I wasn’t going to be compensated for this financially. I didn’t even bother. He didn’t do anything wrong enough for me to press charges. They say he’s worked here for 10 years without any problem, and they were horrified,

I didn’t have to pay for sleeping on the floor, luckily.

Awesome Things to Eat in Bahia

And yes, I have eaten all of these things. The food is very rich, very delicious, usually very affordable. I've eaten Bahian food every day, for every meal, just about, and I am not remotely sick of it and do not have a hankering for ANYTHING from back home.

Acai na tigela: acai is a huge amazonian blueberry-like fruit that they serve freezing cold, in a bowl, with granola and bananas. I ate it for breakfast, but they eat it all day long. Very refreshing and nutritious (although they load it with sugar, so who knows?)

Empada: I love anything in a crust. Uma empada is anything in a crust. They are a bit dry, but I like them that way. Besides, the brazilians seem to like slathering it with ketchup and/or mayo, which is just gross in any country.

Coxinha: A fist-sized teardrop-shaped fried thing stuffed with (dry) chicken.

Acaraje and abara: Black-eyed pea mash, fried (acaraje, the better of the two) or boiled (abara), served by a Baian women in traditional white dress and turban. They split it up the middle, and fill it with vatapa, a shrimp and dende-oil paste. They cost anywhere from 1 to 4 reals, depending on the neighborhood and if you want it com or sem shrimp. Order it spicy (picante) or not. note: The shrimp are heads-off but shells-on, which horrified the young brit at the hostel. He couldn't imagine why anyone would eat shells, as pulling the shells off the shrimp was the whole point of it all. Silly boy.

Sorvete: Brazilian ice cream. My personal opinion: the hierarchy of ice cream goes something like this: Italian gelato is the big winner, with Spanish gelado coming in a close second. Brazilian ice cream is a tie with Argentine, depending on whether you prefer exotic fruits (Brazil) or crazy dulce de leche flavors (argentina.) American ice cream lags far behind, unless you consider Chinatown ice cream factory ice cream. Flavors I've had: milho verde (sweet corn. It's buttery!), coco, graviola (also known as soursop or guanabana), maracuja (passionfruit, the brazilian passion), banana carmelada, amendoim crocante (chunky peanut butter,) the ubiquitous tiramisu. My favorite to try was cupuacu, some Brazilian fruit Sean didn't like, but told me I had to try it. I asked for it at the ice-cream place, and the asked "Are you sure? You should try it first." He was right. It was odd.

Comida a kilo: You know those buffets they have by the pound in Korean delis? Same thing, except in a restaurant. And all the food is Brazilian. Costs anywhere from 1.30 per 100 grams and up, depending on the day and the neighborhood. My favorite way to eat here. Fast, cheap, and you can have a little of this, a little of that... Perfect for the harried or the indecisive. Oh, you weigh it first, then you eat (don't lose the ticket!!) then you pay. Weird. There's one called O Quilombo on Avenide Sete de Setembro that's pretty good and one called "Komida a Kilo" on Largo de Carmo (right around the corner from my hostel) that is good, cheap, and has a couple of tables overlooking the bay.

Stuff from the corn cart: All over, there are guys selling corn (milho) from a cart. They sell ears of corn, sweet and delicious I've heard, except that I can't eat corn on the cob because of my fake tooth. Also from the cart, there are two types of corn product. One looks like a tamale, it's a sweet corn pudding wrapped in a corn husk. The other is some corn-flavored tapicoa (?) thing, chewier in texture, wrapped in a banana leaf. Both are delicious. I have no idea what they're called. They'll ask you if you want it for now (agora), in which case they'll slice it open for you.

Dessert: Eat it. Whatever it is, it is bound to be good. Budim (flan) made wither from milk or from sweet corn. Moist cakes made from tapioca, covered with sweetened condensed milk. Casadinhos are balls made of two kinds of sweetened condensed milk, condensed further, rolled in sugar. Get the smallest one possible. They're tooth-rotting sweet. Sonhos (Donuts) the size of sandwiches. Share with a friend. Or make one.

The worst tattoo ever.

I have been hanging out with the gaggle of young English girls, and I've become pretty fond of Jenny, perhaps the coolest 19-year old I've known since I was 19. They're all part of some English program called "gap year" or something like that, where they fly off to some country to do a volunteer program of some form of another. Jenny taught English in Parana.

Jenny got a tattoo on her ankle and a particularly gruesome tongue piercing in Sao Paolo. The guy gave her something to numb her tongue, except it didn't work, and then he used a needle instead of a gun. Ick. Being 19 , a number of them got a tattoo as well.

And being 19, some of them are making poor choices.

One chose a tattoo that was just words, no art.

It said, "Woo-Hoo!"

Woo-hoo indeed.

Flight #955: NYC to BA with a layover in NYC

I had a flight to leave JFK for Buenos Aires at 10:10 pm January 15.

I show up at the airport 7:40, and queue up on what might be the longest line I've ever seen in my life. I patiently wait on this line for 2 hours to check in. After all, even though I hate to stand and wait, I knew I'd be sitting and waiting for 10 1/2 hours cramped in coach on a redeye.

At this point, I had already gotten two phone calls from Orbitz saying that my 10:10 flight was postponed to 11:10, then 11:30. I laid down, listened to This American Life, and waited.

It wasn't until about midnight before I boarded and realized that by some miracle of miracles, I was bumped to Business Class.

BUSINESS CLASS!! WOO-HOO! I get into my reclining, wide seat, buckle up. Pump up my lumbar cushion. Cozy up in my QUILTED American Airlines blanket. Put my shoes in the American Airlines shoe bag that was thoughtfully placed on my seat. Lubed myself up with my AA complimentary hand lotion.

"Do you want a drink before take-off? Some champagne?" purrs the flight attendant.

Of course.

I peruse the wine and dinner menu, specially selected for American Airlines flight #955 business class passengers. I decide on the dessert Port to help whisk me off into oblivion. I decide to skip the pepper-crusted beef and potato-leek soup, as delightful as it sounded. All I wanted to do was sleep. Although yes, Ms. Flight Attendant, I would like to be roused from my sleep to have breakfast in the morning.

I figure I got about an hour's nap before the lights turned on, having moved only a couple of feet from the gate, when the pilot says "Prepare for Landing."

This was not a good sign.

We were deplaned at 2:00 a.m., for what we were told were "mechanical difficulties."

I called "same seats."

I lie on the moldy, carpeted floor, bra undone for comfort, contacts out, rendering me near-blind, dopey from having been awake since about 5:30 the previous morning. I wait.

They claim there's another plane, and they're going to try their best to get us on it in about an hour and a half.

4 a.m. Flight canceled.

Not due to weather. It's because since so many flights had been backed up for DAYS since the storm, crews were working overtime as it was, and at some point, it is deemed unsafe for them to fly. I agree, I must say. The crew goes home.

Needless to say, people are angry. There is yelling. Chaos. Crying children. Crying adults. I just stare into space. Speechless. There are 3 people working. There are no flights. They look anyway. They patiently and calmly field all sorts of questions and abuse. They advise us to call AA to try to get a flight, although I had to ask 3 times for the number. I try in vain to get a flight. So do countless others. My phone dies in the process, as one helpful Texan tries her best. I watch people stand at a desk for hours, in hopes of scoring some kind of ticket the hell out of New York.

One woman was missing her own wedding. Her and her whole wedding party.

Another was going to miss connecting with her 6 year old son waiting at the BA airport for her.

Countless families with two, three, four young kids. Some of whom not only can't get to BA, but can't get back to Boston, where they live and where they flew from earlier this morning.

A woman from Moscow, who had better luck calling her travel agent IN MOSCOW, who was on her 2nd of 4th leg of a journey taking her from Moscow, to NY, to BA, and then to ANTARCTICA. She was able to get a flight within the 1/2 hour to BA (through Miami?) but couldn't seem to get her luggage. Can't go to Antarctica without clothes, obviously.

Howard Jones' 80's ballad "No one is to blame" is poignantly playing in the background.

As tired as I was, as disappointed and depressed as I was, and as much as I had just about given up hope of ever leaving NY at this rate, I knew I was not going to compete with the problems most of these people were going to face over the next couple of days. The earliest flight ANYWHERE wasn't going to happen until Monday. At least I had a home to go back to.

Except that I had promised it already to Maria and Mireille, Rik's friends from Amsterdam, who were hopefully going to have less trouble coming to NY than I was having trying to leave.

I give up. I feel as though my soul has left my body. I want to curl up into a ball and sleep for 7 days. See no one. Talk to no one.

Just then, a man in his mid 40's asks me if I got a flight. If I was from Buenos Aires, because he heard me talking in Spanish. Tells me that he's going to Sao Paulo, to BA. He'll get there tomorrow night. He has to give a couple of lectures on Sanskrit.

He asks me to have coffee with him. I tell him that I appreciate the offer, but I am really in no mood to have coffee. I want to go home and go to sleep. It is now 5 in the morning. He keeps pressuring me to have some coffee with him. Asks what I do. Why I wanted to learn Spanish. Why I'm going to Argentina.

I really can't tell you how little I wanted to be hit on at this point and time. I am really surprised I didn't get more aggressive.

I get away from HornySanskritMan and, deflated, trudge downstairs to get my luggage.

Just when you think it can't get any worse. I now see about 200 fellow flight members. They can't find anyone to unload the luggage.

It wasn't until 6:40 in the morning that I was able to get out of there.

***

I get home about an hour later, after a $50 cab ride that AA is damn well going to pay for. I nap for a couple of hours. I decide to call AA again.

My mom always says that no matter what pile of shit I step into, I always land on my feet. Something good always happens.

I calmly convince one of the managers that simply crediting my account for the $1078 ticket was not sufficient after my suffering. She helps me find and reserve a $820 ticket for spring break, and issues me a $250 credit for my troubles as well. I'm sure there will be no Port wine nor pepper-crusted beef this time. I had to go to Columbus Circle (after a big plate of Pad Si Ew to fortify me...) in the freezing cold, on minimal sleep, to get the voucher applied.

So, Buenos Aires, I know you won't wait for me, with your blazing summer sun, open-air milongas, carnival in session. Pero espero que te conocere pronto.

Animal Advice to Parents from the Childless

OK.

So, when I'm volunteering at CityCritters, we're basically all stuck in a 3' x 10' space. Sometimes it gets pretty crowded.

For some reason, there were 4 volunteers there, including myself, and a couple of people who were eyeing the kitties.

And then she arrives.

By biggest nightmare.

A mom, with a DOUBLE WIDE STROLLER, occupied by twin girls, about 1 1/2 years old, writing and screeching upon arrival.

There are lots of parents who bring their kids by to see, touch, and talk to the kitties. Some of them every week. This, in theory, isn't a problem. What IS a problem is that most of these parents don't understand/take time to/care to explain the nuances of introducing one's self to an animal that doesn't know you.

I remember this lesson well when my dad taught me. First I was to ASK THE OWNER IF IT WAS OK. If the animal was friendly. He told me to approach slowly, not with the fingertips but the back of the hand. Let the animal sniff you. See how it reacts.

But no.

Most of these parents let their kids jam their hands in the cages. Without asking. These animals are, well, ANIMALS, and almost all of them are rescued from the street, still traumatized, displeased to be in a cage.

So "double-wide" walks in, and instantly, my colleagues turn to me. This is my unofficial job. To deal with the children and their parents. Which, if you know me at all, is a huge testament to how much the women I work with HATE kids. I OF ALL PEOPLE am the most patient with them.

"Double-wide" crams her stroller in as far as it will go. It doesn't go far, but blocks all entrance and escape from our little workspace. The kids are screeching. I say "Are you interested in a cat?" because if she's not, she's gotta go.

"Oh yes," she says, "we already have one at home. But she runs away from the girls when they try to pet her, and it upsets them."

As I glance at the two banshees squirming in their carriage, I'm not really wondering why that might be.

I explain that NO CAT is going to allow toddlers to run after them, pick them up and squeeze them. But maybe she should consider an older, mellow cat.

Their cat is 19, she says.

"Double-wide" is now perusing the cats, judging solely on appearance, inquiring "This one's cute! what about this one? Can the girls pick them up?"

No.

I explain that I had just walked in myself, that I didn't know any of the cats, that I don't just reach in and pick up cats I don't know.

She keeps asking. I keep saying no. I tell her that if she really wants, I would open the cage so that the girls could pet them. At her own risk.

She lets one daughter out of her stroller. She reaches in vain to try to pet the cat. The other one is now screaming bloody murder out of what I figure to be manipulation, frustration, and jealousy.

She lets the other one out. She is totally in the way of the other 8 people in our cramped space. Yelling, stomping, screaming, totally ignored. I physically pick her up and move her so that she doesn't slam her head into one of the open cages.

Mom asks about the cat that was literally brought in from the city shelter 3 minutes prior. The cat has had no adjustment time. The cat was evicted from her home, separated from her owner and sister. Mom insists I let her screaming daughters pet her.

I suggest she leave her daughters at home and pick a suitable cat then. She ignores me, almost as much as she is ignoring the incessant wailing of the terrors I can only assume she created in her own image.

I open the bottom cage. Mom pets the cat. She allows one of the girls TO WALK IN THE CAT'S CAGE TO PET THE ANIMAL.

I pull the kid out and say "OK. That's enough. I can't allow you to put your children in danger. I can't do this anymore."

Parents, please follow the advice my dad gave me. Teach your child to ASK PERMISSION to touch ANY ANIMAL. Accept that sometimes it's not a good idea, even if your kid might not like it. Teach them that NO ONE, including small, scared animals, do not like to have even well-meaning fingers poked in their faces.

UNDERSTAND that people who work with animals are usually only responsible for those that are not human. They're not there to babysit or educate your kids.

Take them to the damn zoo instead.

Customer Service my ASS.

Dear Customer Service,

I have been receiving weekly phone calls from your "customer service" people for as long as I can remember, in regards to my "lack of payment" of $1777.89 that I actually paid from my Washington Mutual account on September 6 of last year.

Each customer service representative is exceedingly polite (except for the one who implored that I "really need to get this taken care of") and each on has promised me that they would "look into it" after I provided proof of payment.

Each one has, evidently, not.

My bank has already sent me two letters (if not more) saying that their research department has proven to Bank of America that the check was received and cleared electronically. I have tried to fax the information TWICE and both times, the fax number that one of your representatives gave me, does not work. The third time I tried to fax, I was actually IN A BRANCH OF YOUR BANK, and THEY couldn't seem to find a way to fax my proof of payment to yet another one of your lovely, yet seemingly incompetent, representatives.

Last week, I called your customer service number TWICE (in addition to the what must be dozen phone calls I've made about this in the past 5 months), and each time I was left on hold for more than 25 minutes before I was "thanked for my patience" for what seems like the HUNDREDTH time before I gave up, in total frustration.

I know this will not be the last correspondence between myself and Bank of America customer service, but I think I'm going to try to find God this weekend, prey my little heart out, and maybe, just maybe, you people will leave me, and my ailing credit line, in peace.

Cindy Phillips

Is it worth getting your tires slashed?

Parking is a bitch in NYC, especially in my neighborhood.

I usually get home about 4 pm, and at that time you can park in front of schools. But normally, there are people stalking out those spots at 3:30.

Parking is an option between 2nd and 3rd avenues, but those spots are rare. There are meters everywhere, and I usually leave the apartment every 55 minutes until I don't have to fee 'em anymore, at 7 p.m.

That's a lot of quarters, a lot of overnapping leading to $55 tickets.

So, needless to say, when I see a spot, I am elated.

I drive up my block, and there is a spot on the right. I see it a good 50 feet ahead, so I put on my signal, slow down, immediately back up to parallel park into the spot.

Now, you'd figure EVERYONE has seen that Seinfeld episode where George has a standoff with some guy... one backing in, one trying to work his way in, nose first.

So as I'm backing up, this guy is nosing in. I back up aggressively, and look at the window.

"You're KIDDING, right?!?" I yell.

He says, "I was here first," with a shit-eating grin. Even though I was IN FRONT of him.

I yell "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE" and back up more aggressively.

I win.

He pulls up at a pump to unload some stuff from his van, and as I walk by him, with a look of disdain, he has the NERVE to say to me:

"Next time, you can say 'thank you.'"

Oh, like I was going to let THAT go.

"THANK you?? That was a REALLY rude thing to do. Are you kidding me MOTHERFUCKER? Get the fuck out of here."

I am now wondering if my tires are slashed and my window is shattered.

A Clown Car Full o' Lesbians (Happy New Year!)

My friend Amy hosts a glorious New Year's Day brunch every year in her Park Slope apartment. It takes a good 45 minutes on the N/R to get there, so I take the car. "Park Slope" is a misnomer, as there is never any parking to be had.

So we drive by her apartment, and we see two young women standing next to their car.

Are they getting out?

It's too good to be true.

It's RIGHT in front of the apartment.

In New York, as I'd imagine in many big, crowded, parking-sparse cities, there is a universal, unspoken, body language that takes place between people looking for parking and people who HAVE parking.

There's one girl by the driver's side, and one by the passenger's side. Both are wearing standard-Park Slope-Lesbian-Food Coop-Non-meat-eating attire: low-slung colored khakis, no makeup, rubber earrings, short cropped hair, sweatshop-free t-shirts that are wrinkly, but not too wrinkly.

I motion to the girl near the driver's seat in that way that can only mean "are you staying or going?" and the girl gives me this unwarranted stare that can only be read "how DARE you oppress me by asking me for this spot, you BREEDER?"

I figure she just doesn't speak the language.

So I back up a drop, and make eye contact with the passenger-side lesbian and ask her the same mimed question. I roll down the window a bit and she motions back this wishy-washy response, not a yes or a no, but the same kind of response you would give someone who just asked for directions to a place you vaguely remember having been to once.

She says, with a huff and a sigh, "Well, we're going to TAKE a while."

They had to clean out the car, and I very OVER-politely explain that we'll wait and they should take their time.

And take their time they did.

The two now-disgruntled lesbians now start cleaning out their itty-bitty car, which had more stuff in it than I keep in my apartment. They take out three HUGE jugs of water, piles of clothing, shoes, an empty tampon box (I kid you not) and god knows what else. They are taking forever. And making no eye contact whatsoever.

Now four more women, all donning the same lesbian uniform (were they going to a rugby match?!?) come out and start hugging and kissing each other. One plays a bit with the volleyball that was taken out of the car. And they pile into the tiny car, the clown car full o' lesbians.

They're finally leaving.

But they don't. It took them about a minute and a half, in their final act of defiance, to turn on the car, and about 15 maneuvers more than they needed to pull out of the spot, the one I so rightfully earned at this point.

Not a moment after getting out of the car, someone pulls up and motions "are you getting out?"

I flipped him off.

Happy New Year to the 3 people who read this blog 'o mine. May 2007 be full of stress-free parking and a great lack of subway delays.

Washington Mutual Can Suck It.

I use Washington Mutual's online system to pay my bills.

I don't know how other banks' bill pay systems work, but Washington Mutual sends paper checks. Not electronic fund transfer (EFT), but paper checks.

I am pretty diligent about paying my bills as soon as I get them. When I travel, I overpay a month in advance so that I don't have to worry about missing a bill.

I don't carry a balance on any of my credit cards.

So, needless to say, when I get TWO bills that state that I didn't pay last month, I am pretty pissed. First of all, there's now a $39 late payment charge, and that's in addition to the the large percent of each purchase that incurrs interest whenever you're late. So, on each of two cards, I had about $70 worth of fees. FEES!!!

I look at my history, and the payment of one of my cards had been posted, and the other had not. Now, I couldn't prove that I actually submitted payment for the other one, but I distinctly remember doing so... especially since when I'm done paying a bill, I itemize it and put it into a spreadsheet.

So, the woman at Washington Mutual has me on hold for about 1/2 hour. And tells me that there will be an investigation of the payment that was posted, but that there was nothing she could do about the other one.

I told her I was sure I had paid it, and that this was not the first time I had submitted a payment to find it had not been posted.

Then she asks, "Did you print a confirmation for your records?"

WHAT?

WTF?

Did she really mean to suggest that I use a paperless, online system, but that I should PRINT A FUCKING CONFIRMATION FOR EACH BILL I PAY? I let her have it.

If Washington Mutual thinks that I should print a record for every bill I pay, then there's something wrong with their system. And by the way, there is. Don't use their online bill pay. It sometimes takes two weeks for their paper check to get to where it's going. Especially if it's some kind of clearing house.

So, in order to save the $.40 postage, I'm now paying $70 in late fees.

Thanks, Washington Mutual. You can suck it.

Even if you don't know the language, there's no need to be RUDE.

Rome is full of tourists. More tourists than actual Romans, I assume.

I have gone to a number of places in the world, and it's always the same. Foreigners are RUDE.

I completely understand the embarassment of not being able to speak the local language. I have only traveled to countries where the language is a Romance language: French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese. And the most basic of English is generally understood...uh...EVERYWHERE.

I also understand not wanting to make yourself heard when you DON'T speak the native tongue. You don't want to make yourself a target for rip-off. And I hate these people who just speak English as though everyone can and should understand them. Speak softly, or slowly. And look apologetic because you're speaking your mother tongue.

But, you know what? "EXCUSE ME" or "I'M SORRY" IS NOT THAT DIFFICULT TO LEARN. And, if you step on someone's foot, and say "I'm sorry" and look like you mean it, I can guarantee you will make yourself understood.

I can't tell you how many times I've travelled and someone has walked into me, jammed their elbow into my boob, stomped on my foot and PRETENDED IT DIDN'T HAPPEN, just because they don't speak whatever language they don't speak.

I realized this today, when I was on line at the store, underneath the train station, to buy a skirt. I get in line, there's a line (big sale), about 3 people in front of me, and this Asian woman gets behind me. She looks as though she's in a hurry, and I see her trying to get on the side of me insead of staying completely behind me.

The next person goes, and the next. she's looking at her watch. She looks a bit anxious. When the person in front of me is being checked out, I SHIFT MY WEIGHT to my right foot, and she looks at her watch, takes a slight step forward to my left, reaches in her wallet and pulls out 20 euro.

At this point, I am fully aware that she thinks she's going to go ahead of me. 'Cause she's in a fucking hurry.

So now it's my turn, and she plunks down her sweatshirt, and I say to her "Scusa, sono devanti de te." Angrily. She turns to me, and in Italian, says "Non capito." so I say in English, "I am ahead of you." The cashier looks at her, explains to her in Italian that there is a line, yadda, yadda... I say, in Italian "go ahead." she starts apologizing, apologizing, in broken Italian, how she was on the phone, she didn't know.

This woman was completely full of shit.

Now, I don't know where she was from, or if she lives in Italy, or what. but her move was completely calculated. And there was no way I wasn't going to give her some shit for it.

On a completely different note, Rik has left and I am here navigating Rome on my own for a few days more. I am ready to go home. I have eaten all the gelato I wish to eat (although I am sure I will have some more,) the clothes are too damn expensive, even the crappy summer ones that are on sale. In fact, the stores don't really even carry too much non-summer stuff until they get rid of the old stuff. I spent all day trying my damndest.

I also went to a gelato place that supposedly has a wonderful variety of gelato- 100 flavors! 100 flavors indeed. But that't the problem. There's too much, the whole place is FULL of tourists. you get to one part of the counter, and the gelato you want is another 18 gelati away from you, and all the tourists do is cross this huge bar back and forth, back and forth, till they figure out what they want. Then the guy gets to you, and he's in a foul mood. I can't really blame him. At that point, you totally forget what you want. So you piss him off even further. Today's flavor: glazed chestnut and Irish coffee. And totally overrated.

Worse than ''ugly american''

The Duomo, a glory without tourists.

A reproduction of a Da Vinci machine at a very small museum of repros. (My first, and probably last, museum in Firenze.)




Lunch... foccacia with roasted tomatoes, peppers, and artichokes.


Leather Market... view from my classroom.

So, this morning I got up at 6 in the morning. No reason. Just couldn't sleep. I decided to take advantage of the situation and go to see the gorgeous Duomo at a time where there were no tourists. It was beautiful in the morning light. And completely empty. Kinda like the East village in the morning... you can hardly believe that it could ever be peaceful.

Classes start at 9 in the morning, so after a much needed cappucchino, I headed off to change the level of my class. In the beginner class, we spent three days learning how to say "what's your name'' and ''where are you from.'' Basta. No one spoke any Italian at all.

So I changed my class. It was fine... I was on page 13 in the other class and in this class I'm on page 101. So, I taught myself how to conjugate verbs in the present tense last night, and today we learned the simple future. No problem.

Then things took an ugly turn for the worse. Across from me was sitting a 15 year old Austrian boy who seems to have ADD and had forgotten to take his meds. He spent the whole time drawing fancy script of the band AC/DC (are they even still alive?!?) and making sure the teacher saw it. He kept rocking in his chair, making jokes, not paying attention and responding in English when asked a question. I really wanted to slap him. In the last hour of class, which is supposed to be conversation practice (which everyone seems to hate but I love), he would talk loudly to his friend when someone else was speaking. The teacher really didn't do anything to stop it. So there's this old Brazilian man trying his best to talk, and this kid is yapping with some austrian girl, so I yell at them, in English "WILL YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?" and they did.

Then there's the australian boy, living in Barcellona, 16 years old, who could not be more holier-than-thou if he tried. At some point in the lesson, the teacher gives some instructions, and leaves the room for a few minutes. No one seemed to understand what we were supposed to do. I didn't either, which was pretty much the first time since I arrived. So this kid, [insert lofty English here] says ''**SIGH** You don't UNDERstand? **SIGH**. What we're SUPPOSed to do is ask a question, and the other person is TO ANSwer it. And then we're SUPPOSed to guess what the person is. NOW do you get it [rolls eyes] ? ''

There are very few times in my life I am at a loss for words. In English or any other language for that matter. I was flabbergasted. It was the single most obnoxious, condescending, insulting comment I've ever heard from another person in my life.

Of course, he was wrong.

There comes a time in one's life where you recognize that you have become an adult, the one you made fun of as a kid. I was that person today. I am that senior citizen in the back of a college classroom, trying to better myself, where everyone else is on mommy and daddy's dime (in this case, euro) just waiting for class to be over. I always hated those old people, showing off, truly interested and better than I was. Now I am that person.

On the other hand, I may just beat the shit out of those boys tomorrow.