Tag Archives: NYC

No. Just NO.

I am sitting in a large window nook at Starbucks doing work. The nook is meant for sitting– there is another woman here too, working on her laptop. As we’re typing away, a man walks in with a screaming baby. That’s fine– babies scream. You know what’s NOT fine? When he lay the baby down 6 INCHES FROM MY LAP and changed his shit-filled diaper, right next to my Peach Tranquility tea and half-eaten Kind bar.

Then, AFTER he changed the diaper, he took the baby to the bathroom with him so he could wash his hands, leaving the shit-filled wipes sitting on the ledge, right between me and the other woman.

starbucks2.jpg

 

This begs two questions:

  1. If you ended up taking the baby into the bathroom with you anyway, and therefore clearly knew there was an available bathroom, why didn’t you just change the baby in there?
  2. WHAT. THE ACTUAL. FUCK?!

This is a public restaurant. WITH FOOD! People are eating and drinking. You are NOT allowed to whip out a mountain of poop in my face. At least not on purpose!

NYC lost 10 points today.

So did parenthood.

Adventures in Marriage Licenses

So Eric got a new job recently, and HR informed him that in order for me to be on his health insurance plan, we would have to get actual documentation stating that we are domestic partners. This came as a surprise, because at Eric’s last job they were like, “Oh, your girlfriend wants health insurance? Cool! Health insurance for dayzzzzzzz!” We literally didn’t even have to show proof that we were living together. I’m not even sure we had to prove we were human beings. I could have been Eric’s pet hamster Chubbles*, and they would’ve covered me. For whatever reason, they just took our word on the honor system, which is the way it should be. (hahah no, I’m kidding. That is DEFINITELY not the way it should be. If it was that way, I would have put myself on the health insurance of every person I’ve lived with since college, including that summer subletter who drew a huge penis on my window).

So we went down to the City Clerk on Wednesday and diligently signed our Domestic Partnership license. It was a beautiful day. The clerk could not have been less interested in us, and was scrolling on Facebook the entire time she processed our paperwork. Which immediately made me like her. I was super hopeful that when the license printed, it would accidentally have one of those creepy FB stickers on it.

sticker-facebook-computer.jpg

But alas, no. Disappointment abound.

Meanwhile, Eric and I tried to make small talk with her, as an attempt to engage her in this somewhat meaningful moment in our lives.

Us: “We’ll be back here in 5 months for our wedding license!”
Clerk:img_2021
Us: “Thanks yeah we’re excited too!”

This lady was the physical and spiritual embodiment of “Ain’t nobody got time for that.” We gave up, took our license, posed for obligatory photo and left.

16105726_10158018665255545_7712757648970237926_n.jpg

Clap, clap, done! Easy as pie! Right?

Wrong. That’s not how my life works. You should know this by now.

Eric skipped back to his office, Domestic Partnership license in hand, only to find out that HR had given him false information– “Oooooh, our bad. Turns out domestic partnership only gets your partner covered if you’re gay.” And apparently, shouting back, “Ok, ok– we’re gay! We’ll be gay!” doesn’t solve the problem.

What DOES solve the problem? Getting married.

Eric: “But we’re basically married!”
HR: “When is the wedding?”
Eric: “June!”
HR: “Cool. She’ll have health coverage in June.”
Eric: “HAVE YOU MET HER?! SHE NEEDS IT NOW.”

Ok obviously the conversation didn’t exactly go down like that, but the point is that the rules insist we show legal intent to wed (aka, get a marriage license)– and I, as someone prone to mental/physical/invented health issues, cannot wait until June for coverage.

Can I get temporary insurance until then? Yes, of course. For a CRAPLOAD of money. And what is the point, if we are getting married soon anyway? Why not just get the license a little earlier? We already live together and love each other and occasionally want to kill each other and that’s all marriage really is, right? (If not, don’t tell me. I’m a learn-the-hard-way kind of girl, which is why my life tends to be a complete disaster but also interesting).

So, with the most romantic of reasons driving us forward, we went back to the City Clerk this morning to obtain a marriage license. (No, this does not mean we are married. This means we have a document to prove INTENT to marry. Everyone calm down, Mom.)

Not many people get to experience the City Clerk office twice in 3 days, but I guess most people just aren’t as lucky as we are.

Gun emoji.

So there we are this morning, sitting in our seats, waiting for our number to be called, and, like all couples about to take that first legal step in joining their lives forever, we were on our iPhones playing Words With Friends.

With EACH OTHER. We’re not heartless sadists.

As I sat there waiting for Eric to play the next word, I took a moment to look around and do some people watching. There were several couples there who were getting not just a license, but having their official ceremony as well, so they were wearing nice white dresses and suits. Naturally, I then questioned my own appearance, which led to an existential downspiral (aka, a typical Friday morning). “Is it ridiculous that it didn’t even occur to me to look nice for this event? I just threw on jeans, a sweater, Uggs and headed out the door. Does that say something about my maturity level and my preparedness for marriage?”

“Oh, Emily, stop it,” I counterpointed in my head, because having full conversations with myself is normal. “That’s just your anxiety going into overdrive. Yes, you’re dressed casually, but so are most people here. You’re a perfectly mature, responsible adult who is more than ready to enter this very significant stage of life.”

And that’s when I spotted the gigantic glob of Junior Mints melted into my pant leg.

FullSizeRender-1.jpg

Yes. It’s as big as it looks.

Some background context here, because I’m sure you’re having difficulty understanding how it’s humanly possible that I did this to myself without noticing:

Last night, Eric and I went to see Dear Evan Hansen on Broadway (fucking phenomenal, by the way). And like all people watching a show with themes of loneliness, pain and depression, I like my trauma with a side of  Junior Mints.

Kramer gets it.

anigif_original-grid-image-8500-1399483421-5.gif

At one point during the show, I accidentally dropped one of the Junior Mints (again, Kramer-style) while attempting to put it in my mouth. I thought it fell on the floor and so I quickly forgot about it– but, apparently, it got squished between the seat and my leg for the rest of the night, where it slowly melted (because, as you can always assume, I was very sweaty) and spread across my pants. And yeah, I did wear the same pants two days in a row without washing them. You do it too, so SHUT UP.

“But how did you not notice it when you were getting dressed this morning, Emily?”

Because it was early, I hadn’t had coffee, and in general I am not a noticer of things.

“But how about when you took them off last night?”

I AM VERY BAD AT LIFE, OKAY?!

Which brings us back to this moment in the City Clerk’s office, when Eric and I are about to be called forward to sign a marriage license, and I have what appears to be a giant ball of (minty fresh!) shit spread across my pants.

Eric suggested I go to the bathroom and try to clean myself up.

I suggested we take a photo.

glob.jpg

Needless to say, the papers still got signed (not by an officiant– just by us, Mom!) and Eric is still willing to marry me.

Now let’s see if I can make it down the aisle without a giant shit stain on my wedding dress.

img_8433

* Chubbles = actual former pet of Eric’s

 

 

Pot. Kettle. Black.

Kid: “You talk funny.”
Me: “I know. I have what’s called a lisp. It makes it hard to say certain words. Like lisp.”
Kid: “No, not that. Well, also that.”
Me: “Cool.”
Kid: “But like…you sound like you have gum in your mouth.”
Me: “Ok, well. I don’t.”
Kid: “And you say ‘four’ weird.”
Me: “Do I?”
Kid: “Yes. My mom thinks it too.”
Me: “Well that’s nice…”
Kid: “She says it’s because you’re from Maryland. And people talk funny there.”

Your mom’s from STATEN ISLAND are you shitting me?

img_1179-2

Why I Don’t Go To Clubs

Last night I went to a club.

No, not a country club.

A club where the music is loud, the crowds are abundant and sweaty (me always being the sweatiest) and everyone is super drunk.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t even understand what clubs aremuch less go to them. I don’t even like leaving my Upper East Side neighborhood, and on the rare occasion I do make it downtown, it’s to pursue a buzzed-about meal of bacon, or because I fell asleep on the subway and got lost.

But last night I made the exception for a friend’s dad’s birthday party. Yes, you read that correctly. My friend’s dad, David, the coolest 60-year-old on earth, decided to celebrate his birthday by clubbing in New York City. And it just so happens that the only way you’re going to get me to go to a club is if you tell me that a 60-year-old man and all his 60-year-old friends will be at a reserved table with bottle service.

I’m not being sarcastic. That is my ideal club situation.

So I went with bells on, and we had a blast! David is cooler at age 60 than I ever was or ever will be at any point in my life. And his wife doesn’t look a day over 35. (They also happen to be the loveliest people ever, but I feel that is secondary to how fucking great they look). #lifegoals

So we all partied until 3am, when David decided it was time to call it a night, and the rest of us didn’t really see a point in being there without him.

At 4am I went to bed thinking to myself, “Huh, look at me! I totally CAN do this club thing!” and I gave myself a soft little pat on the back as I drifted into a self-satisfied slumber.

At 5am I projectile vomited. EVERYWHERE.

In the bed. Across my nightstand. Onto the wall. All over my iPhone, alarm clock, and various electrical cords. Then again, at 6am, in the toilet.

David woke up this morning feeling great.

 

IMG_9414

(This was the best selfie we managed to take last night. #notgood)