"Wired" Starbucks Patron/Cardiac Patient Demands Cocoa

Me amidst my fellow Starbucks patrons

Happy new year and all of that. And like every year, I'm making the exact same resolution to write more and complain less. But since all of my writing is actually (not so) thinly veiled complaining, I'm splitting the difference which is to say I'm probably going to do exactly what I've always done and just post when I have something to bitch about. Thankfully, 2012 has already handed me some excellent grist for the mill (Note, I've also resolved to use lots and lots of esoteric 16th century expressions rendered practically meaningless now that grist comes pre-ground in, you know, the iCloud).

The best place to begin is always with a health condition, especially a health condition involving the heart. Nothing is more entertaining than a budding cardiac condition. In a nutshell: J. and I were on vacation in Chicago and one night, I had some wine, and then I had some chocolate (a winning combination), and then it felt like my heart was going to explode. But I'm in pretty good physical condition so I didn't take it very seriously. "I ALWAYS feel like I've run a 10K when I'm lying in bed at 3am," I thought to myself. "No biggie." But then we got back to NYC and I went to the doctor and she noted - with only mild terror in her eyes - that my blood pressure was "elevated" and so began my return to the bizarre world of cardiology.

In the past few years, I've seen more than my fair share of medical specialists after some health weirdness that started back in 2005. In fact, just a couple of years ago my blood pressure was so low that I wound up getting carted off in an ambulance after passing out in the middle of the night for absolutely no fun reason. Afterwards, I was sent to a young male cardiologist who performed an echocardiogram on me about 5 minutes after he had finished eating an egg salad sandwich that resulted in some pretty fierce indigestion. All I remember was my gown wide open and him belching into his hand. I learned nothing about anything having to do with my heart, but absolutely which Upper West Side deli to avoid. After that gem, I was referred to a 60-something female cardiologist with a visible eating disorder and a penchant for dressing like Baby Jane complete with hair bows. All she could tell me about my heart was that I was "Younnnnggg....And thhiiiinnnn." When I questioned her on all points, she fiddled with her polka dot hair bow, blew her nose, wiped at her incredibly excessive eye makeup, and sent me on my way. So it should come as no surprise that I was dreading being sent off to someone new.

Turns out Dr. New Cardiologist is far more medically thorough, though just as hilariously physically quirky. This time, in the way of older unmarried WASP-y ladies who have lamps with fox hunt themes in their office. Also a devotion to penny loafers. And thick eyeglasses from their halcyon school days at Brearley back in the late 60s. Her eyes were magnified to such a disturbing degree that at times I thought I might be hallucinating. I couldn't actually tell her that my racing pulse was the result of her 100x magnified eyes. But I digress.

So she takes my pulse with her incredibly clammy hand and decides to have me hooked up to a holter monitor for 24 hours. If you don't happen to be 80 years old, you might not know that a holter monitor looks very much like a bomb. The multiple wires taped to your chest are left to dangle outside of your clothing and then connected to a small purse which is then worn in the casual, across-the-body fashion of the early 80s (Or, if you happen to be German, last week). This gives the impression that you were previously very fashion forward before beginning your second career as a terrorist. Dr. Enormous Eyes also alerted me to the "Incident" button on the side of the holter monitor that I was supposed to press in the event of an "incident" such as a heart palpitation or, in my case, humiliation.

Like any disgruntled cardiac patient, I decided I needed something sweet to get me through the next 24 hours. At some point during my return trip to Brooklyn from the Upper East Side - and likely due to massive amounts of self-pity - I forgot that I was wearing my Unibomber gear and I headed into the Starbucks determined that a cup of hot cocoa - despite the 60 degree weather -would make everything better. Massive amounts of self-pity also meant that I forgot that my coat was wide open so when I entered the Starbucks I effectively alerted everyone that I was there for one reason only: To have my demands for a 1000 free cake pops and egg nog lattes met or I was going to go all Hurt Locker on the joint. First, a woman looks at me completely terrified and then runs out. I bitch slap her in my head because clearly she thinks she's cuter than me (which she is). The nerve of some people. And then I notice that the coffee line clears a path for me. Now I'm wondering if I smell. True, the puffy coat was excessive for a 60 degree day. Now I'm at the front of the line and the barista guy looks at me with a kind of nauseated panic. Still completely blocking out that I look like a homicidal Small Wonder, I point to my chest and tell the guy that I'm just going to have a cocoa today because "You know (point point), I can't have any caffeine today." He nods. Of course, caffeine will only contribute to my psychotic break. And then I remember. "It's not what it looks like," I say. And he says "That's good because it looks bad." And I blather something about my heart and a little about my self pity and he nods and then I notice that he's sweating a little bit beneath his Starbucks pins.

In the end, I got my hot chocolate and I buttoned up my coat and I'm still waiting to find out if humiliation can actually be detected on a heart monitor. P.S. I did end up hitting the "Incident" button and had to tell the doctor that my heart was pounding while I was in the process of terrorizing the neighborhood. She batted her enormous eyes at me, but seemed to take it in stride.

Next time: Fun with blood work

The Taste of Sadness: Halloween in August

Today was a mighty crap-storm of a day and I came home seriously considering throwing it all in and joining my beloved assortment of locals, most of whom have been drinking since...well, they haven't actually stopped drinking...and raising my own bottle of Boone Farms. A nice sunny afternoon usually perks me up, but not today. And then there was the matter of my hip which I completely jacked while participating in the two month joint-destroyer exercise program "Insanity." So I'm walking like a cripple and feeling more and more sorry for myself. Even the homeless man who has tied a paper cup to his face and is sitting at one of the decorative table and chairs outside of my building doesn't even make me crack a smile. Obviously, things are pretty grim.

I check my mail expecting to be angered by what will inevitably prove to be an exercise in tossing junk mail in the recycling bin when I discover the "Wish Craft" catalog. I knew immediately this little gem was going to be an insta-pick me up. Any catalog that sees Halloween as an opportunity to lure folks into completely humiliating themselves, their infants, and their pets is a keeper. Observe:

Look Ma, I'm a roll of toilet paper.

While these children are supposed to be mummies, I think these outfits could easily be called "Remnants from the Bottom of The Shredder" or "Beat The Bullies At Their Own Game." The poor kid on the left looks like he's trying to pre-toilet paper himself. Maybe he should crack some eggs on his own head? Perhaps carry a flaming bag of dog poop. The strip across his mouth is a nice touch. No one will know that he's that nerd from the 6th grade. Nope, he's just a roll of Charmin out on the town.

I'm the Lord Speaker. God talks to me. Sheep are magic!

What's there to say about this one. I actually thought the kid had a George Washington / Parliament wig on her head. And then the staff (hoop?) made me think of the Pope. Top left the same kid is "riding" an enormous sheep. Clearly, this is Wish Craft's acid trip costume.

Screw you mom and dad

Come on people. Your kid has no idea who or what KISS is. You can tell them that this costume is "KISS Demon" (as it says in the description)" but really you're just trying to capture your own sad, sad glory days before Gene Simmons tied a squirrel to his head and officially became gross.

Photo evidence for the years of therapy coming up

Here's one for moms and kids: Dress up like two, pretty realistic looking, and therefore terrifying dead people. And make extra sure the kid looks like something out of everyone's worst nightmare with lots of dark circles under her eyes. Love the photo in the upper right that looks like photographic evidence of creepy little ghosts blowing around in our midst. To make myself feel better I told myself that the kid actually looks homicidal because someone dropped a curtain on her head. That would make me pretty ornery too, little person. Don't kill me in my sleep.

The most embarrassing photos ever taken.

I give you: "The Stuff That Depression Is Made Of"

While I am not a pet person, I do not believe in animal torture. Aren't little sweaters and dog boots bad enough you have to give the poor animal a head of hair and a basket? Or a pair of Yoda ears. Or a Princess Leia bun. Thank god they didn't pimp the dog out in that gold bikini and force the kid into a Jabba suit. There's always next year!

Friday Night at the Pharmacy and the Gym: How to Make Yourself Depressed In Two Easy Steps

My Friday night gym mate without his pajamas.

Thanks to J.'s wicked stomach flu, I got to hit some real Friday night hot-spots tonight: the Duane Reade super-sized drug store, and our building's gym. This is the stuff that overdoses are made of.

Let's start with "The Duane Reade":
1. Upon entering I notice that Barry Manilow's "I Write The Songs (That Make the Whole World Sing)" - also known as the anthem of self-delusion - is playing at top volume.
2. Entenmann's is on sale. So is the DVD of Adam Sandler's "You Don't Mess With The Zohan."
3. Judging by the number of folks buying condoms and cigarettes, the entire borough of Brooklyn is getting laid tonight. Or the self-delusion isn't limited to Barry Manilow.
4. I load up with Gatorade, Lysol spray, and saltines (Clearly I'm NOT getting laid tonight).
5. I'm in line behind two guys wearing slip-in dress shoes. This is an enormous pet peeve of mine: Guys in slip-in shoes. Especially when the shoes are accompanied by those thin pantyhose type socks. One of these guys is in a particularly delicate pair of slip-ins and is really enjoying looking down at his feet, like he's a ballerina or something. He's so fucking fancy. I don't know. Then the Gatorade falls out of my hand and the fancy footwear dudes stop to watch it roll away before continuing their conversation. I nearly crash into a guy with a box of Magnums. I'm starting to feel insane.
6. Another two guys in line (Apparently, it's man-date night at the Duane Reade) are carrying two enormous cases of Coors Light. They ramble about finance, drift seamlessly into sports, pepper their remarks with a lot of "duuuude," and then one of them notices the cover of Maxim and an absurd amount of remarks about "tits" follows.
7. A very bored woman named Bi-Naka rings me up at the cash register. And by rings me up, I mean she ignores me, taps out a few texts/emails on her heavily bedazzled phone, tells the cashier to her left that she needs to stop drinking soda because it gives her gas, and then yells at me to swipe my card 15 different times.

So now I've got a whole lot of agita. J.'s in bed feeling nauseous and I decide to go downstairs to the gym where I expect to be completely alone. Wrong. If Sunday afternoon at the gym is for football fans who want to work off the half-time snacks, Friday night most closely resembles what I imagine the locker room of 8th grade band camp to be like.
1. A 20-something guy who looks like the chubby gay love child of Morrissey and Elvis (c. 1977) is working through the do-a-couple-of-squats / check-the-butt-in-the-mirror-to-see if-the-squats-worked / what's-on-the-big-television? circuit.
2. A beanpole thin guy with the nerdy white guy equivalent of an Afro, thick eyeglasses, a pair of fitted plaid pajama pants, t-shirt, black socks, and bedroom slippers is bent over a piece of equipment trying to work out his core. With every move upwards, his hairdo blows back, and he looks not unlike the love child of Richard Simmons and Billie Jean King tied to a broken shutter in a windstorm.
3. His friend who is, oddly enough, wearing actual gym clothes keeps challenging him to "a duel" that seems to involve sparring with 5 pound hand weights.

Just as the hand weight sword fight gets going, Richard Simmons Jr. loses his slipper and nearly wipes out, and I decide it's time to head on upstairs for a late dinner and some Ghost Adventures. Nerd. Out. 

Civil Unrest, Government Atrocities, Nerds on a Train: FML

There's a whole lot of government stupidity in the news right now: civil unrest in Egypt and the government's "take that" approach of unplugging the internet; ultra-conservative American morons attempting to redefine rape to insure that only women who fought back extra, extra hard will be entitled to a subsidized abortion or, if you're a kid, if your father impregnated you, but not if the creepy old man next door did. Combine this with the crappy weather and it's enough to make anyone want to retire to bed with a half gallon of Ben and Jerry's and call it a week. 

So today's Ennui is short and sweet and features a group of five teenage boy nerds with a passion for mass transit on the R train. They laughed too loud, their backpacks were too big, and their shoes were enormous in direct proportion to the size of their noses which, though I have yet to do a scientific study of the matter, appear to go hand in hand for teenage boys. What they lack in height for a brief period they make up for in noses the size of the average mountain and feet the size of skis. It's like god's little outdoor sporting joke. 

The lead nerd - who resembled Terrence Trent D'Arby if TTD was 15 with an acne problem and a penchant for the catchphrase "the fuck?" (the stoner's take on "what the fuck") - liked to stir his far rounder and less attractive followers into a frenzy by noting certain highlights of the train stations and the numbers on other trains: "There's a real slow down in this station. The cans aren't moving" and "I wonder when THAT one was dispatched?" he noted of a B train across the platform. "The fuck??" The followers would cackle and chorus along, particularly Follower #1 who could have been borrowed from nerd central casting. This kid had skin like a Brillo pad, Coke bottle glasses, a backpack the size of most steamer trunks...on wheels, and a pretty pronounced lisp. I kind of loved this kid. Or I wanted to love him when he wasn't dropping Skittles on the floor and throwing his arms in the air in a display of ecstasy every time TTD said "the fuck??" which he did constantly. Ten stops in and these guys were headed towards hysterics. The MTA trivia and occasional Hentai porno video clips on TTD's Smartphone had worked the group into a frenzy. 

So I'm only a few stops from home and I'm quite literally starting to feel insane. Then, at Atlantic Avenue, Follower #1 sees a D train across the platform. He laughs maniacally and grabs TTD's wallet chain: "Look it's the Doot-bag train!" For the first time, there's silence in the group. "D! D is for doot-bag!" The group slowly starts to catch on. High on life and animated porn, they high-five each other. "Yeah! The Doot-bag train!" Follower #1 crows again. "The fuck??" the group yells back and they exit. 

And in case you were wondering, this was on Monday. And I still have a headache.

Two Coffees and a Grande Pain in the A**

What's a poor therapist to do when the overblown "arctic blast" evaporates the weekly client roster? Answer: Buy coffee. And then buy some more coffee. Also offer to pick up coffee for other people. 

This week has been what those of us in fee-for-service clinical social work refer to as A Crappy Week. Thanks to the snow and the news media's insistence on referring to it as "practically the storm of the century," my client show-rate was grim which meant that instead of earning enough money to comfortably graze the poverty line, I was pretty broke. This is largely Bay Ridge's fault. I'm only out in the boondocks of Brooklyn 2 1/2 days a week (the other 2 1/2 I work in the more bustling Downtown Brooklyn area), but while there I normally see almost 30 clients (Translation: $$$). I've learned quickly, however, that any weather incident means the folks in Bay Ridge aren't going anywhere since they won't be able to access/drive their cars and no one in Bay Ridge seriously considers public transportation or, god forbid, walking as a viable option (Translation: 1/2 $). 

So Thursday afternoon, after broasting in my overheated office space for awhile following two client cancellations, I decided to brave the snow banks, unsalted ice, and river deep slush puddles to walk the few avenues over to the one and only Starbucks in the area. On my way out, I checked in with the folks at the reception desk and offered to pick them up some stuff at the Dunkin' Donuts which is just a few more blocks away and would allow me to breathe a little extra fresh air before returning to the office to sit around thinking about my student loan. Off I go, hurdling fallen garbage bags and icy snow piles,  and arrive at the Starbucks having worked up a decent sweat. I place my order and wait by the bar. Suddenly an older woman - decked out in the Bay Ridge universal dress code for women above 60 of skinny jeans, be-spangled storybook sweater, and Ugg boots -  comes flying out of the bathroom that is located right near where I'm standing. 

"The terlet! The terlet!" the woman hollers. No one, except for me, pays any attention and I'm largely focused on her sweater.

 "THE TERLET!" Clearly she figures it was a volume problem. 

I get the attention of one of the baristas who looks at us with an expression best described as somewhere between disgust and total boredom. 

"What's going on?" the barista asks while simultaneously hosing down a drink with whip cream and steaming a canister of milk.

"THE TERLET! THE TERLET!"The barista looks to me for translation. Before I can say anything, Bay Ridge's answer to Paul Revere hollers again: "THE TERLET! PAPER TOWELS IN THE TERLET!" Perhaps it was the absence of a verb, but the barista isn't getting it. While leaning in closer to hear better she manages to get whip cream all over her apron. Suddenly all hell breaks loose.

"JESUS CHRIST. PAPER TOWEL IN THE TERLET!"

"I think she's trying to say that there's paper towel in the toilet," I say as calmly as possible. But the barista is trying to wipe the whip cream off her person. Paul Revere can't stand it any more and takes off running. I grab my drink and follow her lead. Disaster nearly averted.

Now I'm off to the Dunkin Donuts to pick up the stuff I offered to get for my pals in reception, except now the snow banks and black ice patches have become even more treacherous thanks to the steaming cup of coffee I have in one hand. The DD is conveniently sandwiched between the  local car wash that likes to turn the sidewalk into a sheer block of ice and the BMW dealership where new car owners - pumped at their enormous purchase and desperate to find a radio station that will match the douche-bagginess of their new hot wheels - like to pretend they're on the Auto-Bahn while pulling out of the driveway. In other words, this is my very own corner of hell. 

I enter the DD and am immediately transported back to the days of my childhood when eating an entire box of Munchkins did not instigate mortal fear for my cardiac health and pant size.  I place an order for  large light and sweet iced coffee and a ham and egg on english muffin for the bargain price of 4 bucks. Life is so much simpler here at the DD. I step aside to wait for my order and ogle the tantalizing baskets of donuts in front of me. Maybe I drool. It's hard to say. Two guys approach the counter. The young woman at the cash register stares with that familiar look of boredom and disgust that I recognize from the Starbucks. Guy #1 clears his throat and goes in for the smooth and sultry kill: 

"Do you accept 1000 dollar bills here?" he says in his best bedroom voice. The young woman stares at him without blinking.

"How about 500 dollar bills?" he oozes and smiles at his friend.  The woman still hasn't blinked. 

"What about 300 dollar bills?" Clearly he's been reading up on how women love to have their time wasted, especially with questions regarding imaginary denominations of currency. The woman adjusts her pink and brown cap and continues to stare. 

"How about "200 dolla..." Guy #2 wacks Guy #1 in the arm realizing their chances of getting an actual donut are diminishing rapidly. Guy #1 clears his throat and speaks in a low voice so no one will sense his failure.

"Just gimme two of the french crullers" he whispered. The woman with the eyes of steel, gets the donuts and sends the guys - who paid in a couple of very crumpled one dollar bills and some nasty looking change - on their way. 

I complimented her approach and got a free Munchkin which helped ease my pain after I nearly wiped out on the black ice before almost getting plowed down by a new Beemer pumping Sean Kingston. All coffee and sandwiches arrived safely.

Things That Scare Us: Pizza With Wyngz, Cookies, and a Side of Taco Bell 36% Meat

Ouch.

Wasn't it bad enough that I woke up at 5am to the sound of about 100 enormous metal pipes being dropped, one by one, in the street? A sound that in half-sleep almost sounds like a sitar and had me convinced that I had truly teleported myself to Bombay as I knew that I could if I just tried hard enough? By the time the 50th pipe had dropped, I had long realized that I was not in Bombay, but wide awake on a cold dark morning in Brooklyn experiencing the New York City's version of Chinese water torture. And I don't want to hear about how much it must have sucked to be the guy out there dropping the pipes. That pipe dropper is definitely making more money than me. I'll happily throw pipes on the ground at the crack of dawn for health insurance and a couple of coffee breaks. Thanks America!

So clearly I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. And then I checked out the news and discovered these two items making the rounds on the www. Apparently, a class action lawsuit has been filed against Taco Bell for only including 36% beef in its taco meat filling. Other ingredients include "anti-dusting agent" and "oat product." Um...Wow?

And then, in other hold-on-to-your-arteries news, DiGiorno has come out with a couple of new items: Frozen Pizza and "Wyngz" and Frozen Pizza and Chocolate Chip Cookies. All in one box. You can get your heart attack with a side of heart attack and fat ass. And in case you weren't wondering, "wyngz" aren't actually chicken wings. They're "white meat chicken fritters." I have two things to say to this: Just say "White Meat Chicken Fritters." Do not ever, ever, ever use a made up word to describe a man-made food item. Just come out with it. This is actually a box of Frozen Pizza and Dust Resistant Oat Product. And in another box, a greasy pizza and a pound of cookie dough. Also, DiGiorno has a Facebook page where they are hocking their creepy wares and responding to commenters like some modern day version of H.A.L. if H.A.L's deal had been trying to kill everyone with microwavable "food stuff." And in case you were wondering if DiGiorno is the least bit remorseful for giving America more junk food, here's their response to Dalton T. - a bespectacled DiGiorno fan who was the first to comment on the big news that wyngz, cookies, and pizza would be descending on our guts soon: "Thank you Dalton. We're pretty proud of ourselves too." Is it just me, or can you almost see the trailer for 2011: A Food Odyssey.

Team Spirit: Don't Make Me Hate You

+

 =

I'm not ashamed to admit that I didn't watch the "big" Jets-Steelers/Packers-Bears games on Sunday. I didn't paint any part of my anatomy, eat a platter of chili dogs, or stretch a team jersey over my jeans and sweatshirt like the sad chubby white man's version of American Girl: "Mark Sanchez and I are wearing the same shirt. Mark Sanchez likes football, I like football. Mark Sanchez is hot, I'm hot! We're, like, totally the same in every way. Now pass me the cheese fries."

No, on Sunday afternoon, I took myself downstairs to our building's gym figuring that absolutely no one would be around. What better time to board the treadmill and feast on a marathon of "When Vacations Attack" then during a playoff game. But I had blocked out one very important detail: we live in the equivalent of a glorified, extremely expensive dorm. Problems with the water, the heat, the toilets, and the floors aside, if I see one more guy in a cashmere coat bump knuckles with another guy on the elevator with the salutation "Dude!" I'm going to shoot myself.

So I'm on the treadmill. I've fired up the Discovery channel. I'm settling in for some quality power walk time, when suddenly I notice an influx of douche-bags. Fresh off the salsa bowl and beer pong, these guys have decided to burn off a couple of nachos without missing a moment of the game. The only clue that they're here for exercise are their sneakers (untied). Otherwise, the dark socks and haphazard exercise gear is giving them away. I work on sending voodoo to the treadmills near me in the hopes that the par-tay will be in more of a elliptical machine mood. No dice. One guy - heretofore known as King of the D-Bags - sidles up to the treadmill to my right, beer in hand, hot sauce drying on his Jets jersey. Sneaker is untied in keeping with his tribe. He boards the mill and quickly turns on the game on the personal TV in front of him. Headphones are in. King D-Bag takes a long swill from his bottle and puts it in the water bottle holder. I try not to give too much side-eye because I risk hurling myself off the machine. However,  I can't stop staring. The guy, who reeks of beer and fried food, is standing still. On the treadmill. That isn't turned on. Intently watching the TV. It becomes abundantly clear that King D-Bag thinks I'm checking him out, so he puffs himself up and powers up the machine at what is best described as Glacial speed. So now, even though he's creeping along, he starts breaking into a substantial sweat and I'm wondering at what point in this escapade he's going to throw up or have a heart attack, possibly both. Then in a sudden move he grabs the handrails, and heaves himself in the air so that his untied sneakers come to rest on either side of the treadmill platform. Clearly all the exercise has become too much and now he's standing with his legs wide apart as the conveyor belt continues to slowly turn.

King D-Bag holds my attention for about five minutes and then I lose interest and go back to watching my own TV. I'm back in the zone when all of a sudden I'm startled by a clap of thunder to my right. D-Bag is clapping. But not just any clapping. This is full on D-Bag clapping. Claps loud enough that the Jets just might hear him. Claps to remind everyone around him that - even though he's in a gym, straddling a piece of exercise equipment with a beer in his water holder, with just me in his immediate vicinity - he's the Jets biggest fan. For the next 15 minutes D-Bag has a number of fits of open-handed clapping, a couple of fist pumps, and a few shouts of "Keep it up! Don't get discouraged!" A couple of times, when the clap or holler has come particularly suddenly, it scares the crap out of me and I nearly fly off my own machine. I almost hate this man. And then a couple of his "teammates" shout over to him that they're heading upstairs to "re-load" and "hit the head" and the King, all excited now at the prospect of more beer and a bathroom break, stops the treadmill and runs to catch up with his buddies leaping like a gazelle to high five the pull down bar on the Nautilus machine which swings wildly and nearly hits him in the head. But King D-Bag shakes it off, fist bumps three other Mark Sanchezs, and exits. Touchdown.