There's No Map in the Sky: A Guide to Tourism in New York

Imagine this, if you will. You’re at work. It’s 1:41 and you have a meeting at 2. This meeting won’t be over until 5 and you need to run to the bank. The bank is less than five minutes away, ergo this quick errand is entirely doable. So, you head out. You walk briskly to your car, hop in, and start the engine. You're pumped up and ready to take care of business. And suddenly, there I am. Standing in front of your car, staring at the sky.

You wait a moment to see if I move. I don’t. You sigh dramatically, hoping I’ll get the hint. I don’t. You look around, hoping to find some way around me. There's none. You’re starting to get pretty pissed so you honk at me. Now that I realize you've noticed me, I pull out a map and ask you how to get to Dash. You know, the Kim Kardashian store? Annoyed, you point me in the right direction. Instead of moving, I hand you a camera and ask if you’ll take a picture of me. I want everyone to know that I was here. Standing in your way. Fucking up your flow.

So, how does this whole scenario make you feel? Do you hate me? Do you find me incredibly obnoxious? Do you wish I would go back to the fanny-pack wonderland from whence I came so you could take a 19-minute break and not return to work in a homicidal rage?

Welcome to my world.

You see, I've gotten a lot of flak for expressing how I feel about the tourists who turn my lunch break into a game of Frogger. Granted, the majority of this criticism comes from people that don't live here. They remind me that it comes with the territory. And they're absolutely right. I'd be a jackass if I moved to Oklahoma and then constantly bitched about all the tornadoes. But then again, someone's gotta get on TV and tell everyone what the twister sounded like when it went through the trailer park. And that someone is me.

Last year around this time, something magical happened. This showed up right outside the Flatiron Building.

Beautiful, isn't it? I was devastated to learn that this ingenious idea was actually the work of an anonymous prankster. At least that's what the media called it. A prank. Honestly though, is it that outrageous that slow movers go in one lane and fast movers go in the other? Doesn't every highway in America provide both options? If you're in a hurry, get in the left lane. If you're not, get in the right. It's just that simple. In fact, let's explore this traffic analogy a little more, shall we?

Let's say you're driving down the highway and you realize you have no idea where you are. Do you slam on the brakes in the middle of the fast lane so you can pull out a map? Because if you do, then you deserve to get hit by the semi that slams into you a few seconds later. However, chances are you do what any normal person would do in this situation and you pull over. You get out of the way of moving traffic so you can collect your thoughts and come up with a plan. So, Mrs. Bonnie Hapshatt of Elk City, Idaho, I ask you this—why the hell aren't you pulling over when you're lost on my highway? You think that just because the millions of people that live and work in New York aren't in cars that traffic rules don't apply? Walking as a mode of transportation?! Pshhh! What buffoonery! Well, you know what, Mrs. Bonnie Hapshatt? I hate you. I hate you, Mr. Hapshatt, and your moon-faced Hapshatt children. And everyone else here hates you too.

I work in SoHo. I've worked in SoHo for nearly four years now, save for the eight-month stint at another job about two blocks south of Penn Station. Penn Station is infuriating because of the lost, luggage-wielding morons who stare at the sky as if a map will appear from the heavens, but SoHo is a far more hateful beast. Not only do we get our fair share of sky-starers, we also get the shoppers. When tourists come to New York, they're just dying to spend some money in SoHo. I'm totally fine with that. SoHo's awesome and, quite frankly, I don't blame them one bit for wanting to be here. However, if a tourist, once again, slams on the breaks because of a shiny distraction, then that tourist must be fully prepared for the upcoming impact from a semi, or in this case, an irate editor on her way to Duane Reade.

There's also the tourist who decides to make a sharp left turn into Uniqlo or Steve Madden, for instance. This behavior is essentially the same thing as cutting someone off on the highway. So, go ahead and call me a bitch, Amber Oakdale of Branson, Missouri. Your entourage of airheads will surely be impressed that you got sassy with a local when she shoved past your oblivious ass.

I know it seems as though I hate absolutely every tourist that visits New York. This is not true. In fact, I do notice the group of tourists that pulls over when lost. And as my special way of saying thank you, I pull up next to them to ask if I can help. Sadly, these tourists usually don't speak English, so my kind gesture usually leaves me feeling guilty because I'm almost certain I've inadvertently sent them to the Bronx. But it's the thought that counts, right?

In conclusion, all I'm asking is that tourists remember that people live and work here too. Remember—if you wouldn't do it on the highway, don't do it on Broadway. And to all the Mrs. Bonnie Hapshatts and Amber Oakdales of this world, don't resent me for making you feel unwelcome. Thank me for enhancing your cultural experience in New York.

A Bitch Reflects

It’s recently been brought to my attention that I am a bitch. More specifically, I am a bitch toward cab drivers. Cabbies, if you will. This came as a huge shock to my best friend Kelsey who was visiting me this past weekend.

She hopped into the backseat of a cab just as I said, “Will you just take us where I tell you to go?” Personally, I don’t think it’s that bitchy to ask a cabbie to do the one thing he’s supposed to do, but whatever. Kelsey stared at me in shock, mouth agape, and quietly said, “Oh my god, you’re such a bitch to cabbies!” I shrugged and said I’d give her some background information when the man I just snapped at was no longer holding our lives in his hands. When we finally reached our destination, I explained.

“Dude, I ran out into the street when it was pouring so I could grab that cab and you know what that bastard did? Stared at me while I tried to open a locked door. Instead of unlocking it, he cracked open the window, scowled at me, and asked where we were going. When I told him that we were just going a few blocks up the street, he sighed like I had just asked him if I could take us to Denver.”

Kelsey nodded. “That’s professional.”

“Oh, it gets worse. When I waved to you guys to cross the street and then tried to get in the cab, he yelled at me and said, ‘Don’t get anything wet.’ Like that’s possible during a torrential downpour, which, by the way, he had just made me stand in so he could make it known that I was inconveniencing him. So, by the time you, Nick and Allie had reached the car, my bitch switch had been flipped.”

“So that’s why you told him to just take us.”

“Exactly. He was a turd, so I treated him as such.”

“Got it. You are excused.”

Even though I had Kelsey’s approval of my behavior toward this particular cabbie, I couldn’t help but think about other cabbies with whom I’ve quarreled. And after living in New York for nearly four years now, believe me, there have been many.

It’s an absolute guarantee that I will throw down with a cabbie on New Years. Why, you ask? Because cabbies refuse to take a passenger from Manhattan to Brooklyn on New Years Eve. They assume they won’t get a fare to take back to the city when they drop off said Brooklynite, so they just don’t bother. It’s frustrating, rude, and, not to mention, illegal. Cabbies, by law, may not refuse a passenger. And nothing pisses them off more than when you remind them of this.

A personal favorite moment of mine occurred on around 4 AM New Years Day 2010. I’d hail a cab, cabbie would stop and roll down the window to ask where I was going (doors locked, mind you), and as soon as I’d say “Brooklyn,” he’d speed off. After the seventh cabbie did this to me, I was ready to fight. So when lucky number 8 pulled up and refused to take me home, I stuck my head in the window and said “fuck your mother” in the friendliest tone possible, almost as if I was saying "thanks anyway!" I felt victorious. That is until the cabbie drove off and I realized I was still in Manhattan, still had to pee, and still had blood pouring into my strappy heels. By NYE 2011, I had another plan.

When I hailed a cab, he rolled down the window, as expected, and asked for my destination.

“42^nd and 3^rd.” I tried to hide my smirk.

“Hop in.” 42^nd and 3^rd is basically Times Square and this man was more than willing to deal with that madness. Brooklyn? Hell no. Hoards of drunk, cold, lost tourists? Abso-fuckin-lutely!

I hopped in and shut the door. I began laughing, perhaps a little too maniacally, and then said, “I lied. I’m going to Brooklyn.” Let me tell you, homeboy was pissed.

“Get out.”

“No.”

“I said get out.”

“And I said no. Take me to Brooklyn.”

“I’m not going to Brooklyn.”

“Actually, you are.” This is when I began raising my voice.

Cabbie and I went at it for a solid ten minutes. Sitting in some alley in the Lower East Side, this guy was flat-out refusing to do the one requirement of his job. When someone brings me manuscript and tells me to edit it, I edit it. Because that’s my job. When someone tells a cabbie where to take them, they take them. End of story.

“Should I call 3-1-1 and ask them if you’re taking me to Brooklyn?” 3-1-1 is a local service for New Yorkers. Neighbors being too loud? Birds pooping on you too much? Need to quit smoking? Call 3-1-1.

He sighed deeply. “Fine.”

“You want me to call?” I pulled out my phone but soon realized he had actually agreed to my original request, as we were now moving toward the Manhattan Bridge.

When he finally brought me home, I struggled to bring myself to give the man a tip, but I did it nonetheless. I’d already drunkenly screamed at the bastard; no point in adding insult to injury.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it,” I said as I walked out of the cab. I can assure you that that man hates me. But it’s okay. I hate him too.

So, back to last weekend. When Kelsey and I were ready to head home after our night out in the city, I decided I’d show her that I could actually be nice to cabbies. Friendly, even. During our trip home, we chatted casually with our driver. He told us about his favorite places to eat, good curry, and how he had gained all this weight when he moved from Bangladesh because he just loves his donuts. I’m not much of a donut fan myself, but Kelsey is, so she said, “I love donuts, but I try not to eat them because they’re bad for you.” Cabbie looked at Kelsey in the rearview mirror and said, “Oh, you’re fine!” Kelsey and I were pleased with this cabbie. He was a nice, chubby man who had just encouraged Kelsey to have her donuts and eat them too.

When we finally got to my place, I decided I’d tip him well since he had been so friendly. (I'm talking 30% here, people!) Just as I handed him the money, Kelsey stepped out of the car. When I got out, I could hear the cabbie say something, but he drove off before I could ask him to repeat it. Kelsey stood in the rain, shocked.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Did you hear what he just said?!”

“No…”

“He said, ‘On second thought, maybe you should lay off the donuts’ when he saw me get out of the car.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” I was floored.

“He said that! After we were so nice to him! Why even bother being polite when someone’s gonna say something like that?”

And just like that, I had more than Kelsey’s approval for how I treat cabbies. I had her support.

We just call them cats, honey

During my commute home this evening, I needed to make a pit stop at the vet to get cat food. Why the vet, you ask? Because somebody has to scratch himself silly and tear apart his flesh unless he gets the $26 bag of hypoallergenic food. Not naming names here, though. (Falcor)

Once I arrived to the 6th Avenue Animal Clinic in beautiful Park Slope, I got in line at the receptionist's desk and kindly waited for the lady in front of me to complete her transaction. I happened to notice the rather cute and chubby preschooler sitting nearby. He appeared to be doodling on a pad of paper as his older brother, seated to his right, became hypnotized by whatever was going on on his Nintendo DS. To the left of the young man, a older, friendly-looking gentleman was talking to a woman I assumed to be the boys' mother.

"How old is he?" asked the ol' chap, gesturing towards the young artist.

"Three," Mama said proudly.

The man began to reply, but was interrupted before he could finish his thought.

"Look, Mommy!" said the little boy, shoving his artwork towards his mother. "It's a pussy!"

What the fuck did that kid just say?!

Stifling back laughter, I looked over at the pad of paper he was showing his mother. I should have known better than to think I would have gotten clarification by investigating the drawing myself. A three-year-old's artwork has the same effect on me as a Picasso. So, for all I know, that drawing could be a cat. Or it could be labia. It was a toss-up, really.

"It's very pretty, baby. But it's called a pussy cat. Or just plain, ol' cat. Okay?" Mama was trying to do some damage control because I'm sure she noticed me turn my head and giggle.

"Yeah, Mommy. Okay. Pussy cat." He went back to his artwork and continued drawing.

At this point, it was finally my turn in line, so I approached the counter and told the receptionist my last name and what I needed. She went in the back room to fetch the cat food while I looked over at the kid again, still rather amused.

He was adding a few finishing touches to his latest work. He paused, inspected his drawing, then presented his mother with his masterpiece.

"Look at it! Look at the pussy!"

Holy shit, someone kill me. I couldn't help it. I had to laugh. And of course, this was the moment the receptionist came back to her desk with the cat food. So, I pulled myself together and did my best to redirect my attention. But Mr. George O'Keefe was too riveting and I can multi-task, so I continued to eavesdrop while paying the receptionist.

"Baby! They're called pussy caaaats!"

Mimicking his mother's inflection of the word cats, the kid responded, "Puuuussies."

If I didn't have my wallet in my hands, I would have been biting my fist at this point. I looked over at the kid's older brother and saw him smirking as he played his DS. Even though she was completely mortified, it looked like Mama wanted to laugh, too. But she knew better. The last thing you want to do is encourage a kid by laughing, especially when the kid has no idea what he's doing that's so goddamn hilarious. And bless his heart, the old man sitting next to him was keeping a straight face. Obviously, he didn't want to make the mother feel any more embarrassed than she already was.

Slightly exasperated, Mama said, "Baby. Just call them cats, okay?"

"But I like pussy." (Who doesn't?)

"Okay, then say pussy cat. But say cat, don't just say pussy, okay?"

"Okay, Mommy. Pussy. Cat. Pussy cat."

The receptionist handed me my receipt, I signed it, then took the bag of overpriced cat food from her. As I walked towards the door, I decided I must immediately text all my friends and tell them about this kid. So I paused to pull out my phone and was lucky enough to catch the finale of the best overheard conversation between a parent and child.

The boy had gotten up to sit next to his mother and show her the drawing again. "Very good. It's beautiful, baby," Mama said.

"Thanks, Mommy. You like my pussy?"

I had reached my breaking point. Thank God I was headed out the door because I did not hold back. I was laughing hysterically as I walked out on to the street, frantically texting my friends with the tale of a young man who loves drawing pussy.

Top 5 MTA Moments

Yesterday, I was pushing my way through rush hour at the Herald Square BDFV station when I smelled it. Then I saw it.

A human turd in the corner.

Before you ask, I know a human turd when I see one. We all do. It wasn't a dog turd. It wasn't a cat turd. It could've been a bear turd, but that seems unlikely. I can say with 95% certainty that that turd came from the ass of a human.

Because I'm the kind of person to become inspired by poop, I decided right then and there that it's time to share my top 5 MTA moments.

#5 Lil' Mumbles

So, one day, my good friend Allie and I were on the 4 train coming back to Brooklyn. We were standing up and I was telling her a story when she suddenly started laughing uncontrollably. Considering the fact that I hadn't gotten to the punchline yet, I was slightly confused. She gestured toward the guy standing behind her and I redirected my attention. And there he was. In all his glory. Lil' Mumbles. Freestyling like a goddamn fool. His muse? The picture of Coney Island behind me.

Ain't it pretty? I admit, it's a delightful treat to see all this New York-inspired artwork on the train. And I'm guessing Lil' Mumbles was especially affected by the MTA's initiative to create a more cultured customer base. But due to his limited vocabulary, all he had to mumble about was what the rest of us could already see.

"There's a rollercoaster. And a ferris wheel. Look at the ferris wheel. It's by the rollercoaster."

Well, thank you, Lil' Mumbles. I appreciate your creative spin. And now, I can't ride a train that has this poster on it without chuckling to myself and thinking fondly of the aspiring hip-hop artist I saw on the 4.

#4 They Say That Breaking Up is Hard to Do

About two years ago, Allie and I were on the C and we noticed an adorable little boy flirting with an adorable little girl. They were both toddlers, so this scene was especially endearing. They were poking at each other and giggling and talking about their crazy exes, all the while, their mothers were ignoring this match made in Heaven. Then, we arrived at Jay Street. The mother of the little girl grabbed her child's hand and suddenly whisked her off the train. Obviously, Young Edward was not at all prepared for this. Allie and I knew what was about to happen. First, he took a deep breath. Then, his face contorted into a twisted display of torture and longing. He didn't breathe or make a sound for a solid 7 seconds, which, in Devastated Kid Land, is when you know it's coming. Then, it came. As soon as we heard that kid gasp for air, the wailing ensued. He screamed from Jay Street all the way to Franklin Avenue. It was the saddest display of heartbreak I've seen since Britney shaved her head to cope with a divorce.

#3 Umm...thanks?

Okay, so this didn't happen in New York. It happened when I lived in Baltimore and used public transportation there. But it's just too good not to mention. I was on the bus and fumbling through my purse, looking for some Chapstick. The derelict sitting next to me must have been spying because as soon as he caught sight of the pack of cigarettes in my purse, he asked, "Can I pay you for a cigarette?" Without hesitating, I pulled one out of my pack and handed it to him, saying "You don't need to pay me. It's fine." However, he insisted. So, I waited for him as he fumbled through his pockets, searching for my payment. When he finally found what he was looking for, he handed it to me.

A button.

#2 OH LAWD!

It happened on the Manhattan-bound 2 train not too long ago. Due to an obnoxious deadline at work, I was leaving Brooklyn at an especially obscene hour. Sometime around 7:30 AM. The problem with taking the train at this time of day is that you may as well be on Bus #232 since every high-school kid within a 10-mile radius is on the train with you.

On this particular morning, the group of attention-hungry youth standing next to me was being especially obnoxious and forcing me to wish bad things upon them. So, you can imagine my surprise when a member of their party toppled over like all the bones in her body had just dissolved, landing her in the arms of her completely bewildered peer. Everyone in the car became concerned, but I was most amused by the reaction of the large black woman sitting across from me. She was a mama through and through. At first, there was the "OH LAWD!" followed by "SOMEONE HELP HUH!" When the girl's friends helped huh and they left the train at the next stop, Mama followed them to the door and screamed, "DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN HER MOUTH!" I immediately donned my best WTF face and wondered what the hell that had to do with anything. I thought that rule applied to a person having a seizure, but whatever. All I know is I'd like that lady around if I ever pass out or seize on the 2.

#1 This is My Stop

Drum roll, please! Are you ready?! This is my absolute, all-time favorite subway moment in the history of ever. It's brief, so lower your expectations now if you were hoping for some long-winded anecdote.

Two winters ago, I was waiting for the shuttle near my apartment. The platform is outdoors, so I was pretty damn cold on this particular morning. When the train finally arrived, I walked to the doors and gyrated as I willed them to open. And that's when I saw him.

A pigeon, patiently waiting to get off at his stop. The doors opened and he walked off the train, following the rest of the commuters. He didn't run. He didn't fly. He maintained the pace of his fellow Brooklynites and trudged off the train like the rest of them.

I leave you with that image, my friends. Feel free to tweak it a bit. Give the pigeon a briefcase and a Blackberry if you want. Lord knows I always do.

Hello, my name is Single and Available

A few months ago, my best friend Kelsey was visiting me from out of town. We were on the train and she was jibber-jabbering about something or other when suddenly, she stopped.

"I know what you're doing," she said.

What the hell? "What am I doing?"

"You're making your single-and-available face." She started laughing. I can only imagine it's because I immediately went from looking single and available to looking offended and mortified.

I pulled it together. "Praytell, what is a single-and-available face?"

"Well, it changes from person to person. But your single-and-available face is when you purse your lips out a bit, and you get all shifty-eyed 'cause you're looking around, thinking 'Anyone looking at me?'" I stopped looking around and focused on Kelsey. "I mean, you could be talking to someone and listening to them and maybe even comprehending what they're saying. But you're not looking at them. You're looking around, hoping to catch someone checking out your single-and-available face. "

"Anything else?"

"Oh! If you're standing up, you stick your ass out and get a little sass in your stance."

"Fuck." She was right.

"No, no. It's okay. It's not a bad thing. It's just something you do. And now you're aware. Embrace it. Embrace your single-and-available face!" She demonstrated. I decided to embrace my middle finger and call her a married bitch instead.

That's the thing about Kelsey. That girl can read me like a book. And for damn near twenty years, her favorite thing to do has been calling me out for acting a fool. And she's almost always right. Case in point. I most definitely have a single-and-available face. But, how else am I supposed to snag me a suitor if I'm not pouting my lips and desperately searching for just one man to check me out? (Won't someone look at me, god dammit!)

This shitty picture on the left. This is my single-and-available face. It says "Date me." Maybe even "Lay on top of me for a minute." It's ridiculous, I know. But I'm feeling shameless tonight, so what the hell.

As you can see here, I take my single-and-available face to the extreme when I add some liquid self-esteem to the mix. Things can get very messy when I get my drink on. This look does more than say "Date me." This shit says "I have condoms in my purse. Whaddya say we use these bitches before they expire."

Anyway, after Kelsey called me out, I vowed never to look single or available ever again. This lasted for about three days, before I caught myself checking out my single and available reflection in the train window. Eh, to hell with it. At that point, I figured I may as well take Kelsey's married and pregnant advice and embrace the fact that I pose like there's a myspace photo shoot on the 4. Plus, now that I know that I make a single-and-available face, I like to spy on other girls and catch them making theirs. Oh, I see you, ladies. We're the same, you and I. We know what's up. Who needs eHarmony when you've got lip gloss, jeans that hug your ass, and a 30-day unlimited Metrocard.

Subway Superlatives

So, as I was coming home from work on the 2 this evening, I decided to play a little game I like to call Subway Superlatives. It originally began as Who I'd Like to Fuck on This Train, but that set me up for a lot of disappointment, as well as a general sense of creepiness. So, it morphed into Subway Superlatives, thus giving me the opportunity to judge just about everyone.

Our first superlative goes to the "The Home I'd Most Like to Wreck." Now, by no means am I homewrecker. But if I could find it in me to destroy a couple, this is the one I'd want to destroy. Not because the dude was hot. Au contraire. He was short and going gray (not in the hot, salt-n-pepper kinda way) and he had the face of a person who just smelled something questionable. His woman was way higher than him on the food chain, which is normally something I like to see. When Christina Aguilera married that goofy-looking motherfucker, my heart nearly burst with delight. But not this time.

This couple was making me homicidal. They were snuggling, giggling, hand-holding... just making sure everyone on that train knew that they were in love. In fact, they were so hell-bent on making sure everyone knew that they were ape-shit for each other that when she was able to snag a seat and he had to remain standing, he hovered over her and continued to hold her hand. Even if that meant all he was holding onto was a pinky, three feet above her head. I fiddled with the hangnail on my thumb and decided that I hated them. I'm all for hoop-jumping and taking it to the limit for the person you love, but that just looked stupid.

After sneering at K-Fed and Britney for a while, I decided to focus on the others. There was the hot guy leaning against the door. He got the obvious superlative...which he managed to keep even after I noticed him flirting with the boy that accompanied him. He was just that hot. But, in an effort to avoid complete fag-haggery, I focused my attention elsewhere.

I spotted a girl around my age digging through her purse. Curious, I continued to watch her, using my thumb-picking as a decoy. I gnawed on my thumb as I saw her pull out a pair of tweezers. Okay, this is weird. Then, I saw her lift up her shirt, ever-so-slightly. Okay, this is really weird. Then, I saw her begin to pluck invisible hairs from her tummy. Then her arms. I realized, Oh, this is trichotillomania. Great. Now, I'm an asshole. And my thumb is bleeding.

NEXT!

I looked around. Saw nothing. Looking, looking...nothing of interest. Until I looked straight ahead and saw this crazy Asian lady straight-up glaring at me. I was slightly taken aback, so I looked away. I waited a few seconds, then looked back at her. Still staring. I stared back. Crazian was playing 'Chicken.' I stared. She stared. I felt creepy. She was creepy. I stopped staring and pretended to play with my iPod, even though I was perfectly content listening to Discovery's "Osaka Loop Line." She won. I was too disturbed to give her a superlative at the time, but looking back, I think she'd get "Most Likely to Participate in a School Shooting."

Luckily, my stop was the next one, so I didn't have to deal with Hannibal much longer. I gathered my crap and stood up to wait by the door. I overheard an older gentleman say, "Mmm...booty" when I stood up. I wished I could've farted at the moment and taught that skeeze that beholding my behind when I haven't invited you to do so is a major offense. Sadly, there were no farts. The best I could do was award him with "Least Likely to Tap This" and walk out the door.