Love in an Elevator

I just wanted some more tea bags from downstairs. I had depleted all the Earl Grey, Lipton, and Chai and I will certainly not settle for “Cold Season” or “Snappy Lemon.” I was going for cup number three this morning with a week tea tally of 20.

Down button.

Step in.

Press 2.

Look up and watch the numbers light up- 5, 4, 3 and then a hard stop that made me grab the rail and hold my breath.

le sigh.

I tried pushing the second floor button. Nothing. So I pushed every other button. Nope. I sunk to the dirty elevator floor. At least I don’t have to pee.

I hit the alarm button a couple times, but that ringing is so annoying. Do you hit it staccato? Should you just hold it down? I was embarrassed just touching it. It brought back memories of hitting the alarm button in Towers’ elevators freshman year, especially when passing the 11th floor because that’s where Devious Dan lived. I hit that button on the 11th floor every time… until “the hot RA” told me to knock it off. Besides, if the front desk here is anything like Caneris, they’ll just roll their eyes anyway and turn up the volume.

[Love me, love me. Say that you’ll love me]

I felt like two hours passed. I examined closely the grates on the elevator ceiling, my belly button, turned all the numbers sideways. The buttons in Towers were always turned sideways. And melted like someone took a lighter to them. I think they’ve fixed that though.

“Don’t worry, Miss. Don’t be scared. It’ll be just one-a more minute, yes? Imma open the doors now. We get you out.”

He’s got a voice like Domenico from “A Shot at Love”- Italian, thick. Crowbar against the elevator door, the outer one. It hits the metal and makes a sound not so unlike tires screeching when you spin out. I know he has the doors open a little because it gets quiet… but then the doors slam shut again.

[Fool me, fool me. Go on and fool me]

le sigh.

The Bellevue on South Broad. Snazzy elevators with attendants to hold the door for you at the bottom. Offer you a paper or to call you a cab. Those elevators were a dark wood with nice carpet and lots of mirrors- which were great for those mornings when it rained or I had a poppy seed bagel. Check your hair, check your teeth. Sip your venti double mocha-choca non-fat sugar-free latte that some child in Guatamala labored to bring me. Fab. Doors open. Strut.

That’s where I usually saw the guy that looks like Henry Winkler. A dead ringer… and a silver fox, as they say. That’s where I met the mayor, but had no idea who he was. Then again, who else would randomly ask a stranger what they think about the new lights on Avenue of the Arts. “I’m not really sure. It’s like South Street on South Broad. The lights on the Wachovia building make it look cheap. I think it’s a travesty”

[Love me, love me. Pretend that you love me]

The floor moves a little and the outer doors are pried open. Definitely not what I expected that Italian guy to look like. His face was weathered. Maybe in his 50s. Wearing plaid flannel. The floor is shoulder high and he wants me to grab his hand so he can pull me up. Um no. Gimme a chair… and a god damn timpani roll. I get the chair and hurriedly pull myself out. I was waiting for the elevator to fall and cut me in two. I wonder if that would have made the news…

[Leave me, leave me. Just say that you need me.]

Weekly tea tally: 24 cups.

[I can’t care about anything but you]

[anything but you]

Awareness by Amnesty


Vargas Boy

-I think you're a little devilish too you just don't let people know.
-I think people know just fine…or at least suspect
-I think the only reason people suspect you're devilish is because of the way you wear your mascara.
-Probably doesn't help. It's eyeliner actually.
-That's what I meant.
-The eyeliner does scream 'temptress' I suppose.
-It does.
-Plus your hair and the way you dress. See I'm dangerous because I don't look devilish
-Wait, the way I do my hair and the way I dress? I usually dress like a dirty 13 year old boy and my hair... is a mess
-Yeah but it's not conventional
-Non-conventional equals dangerous, makes people uncomfortable. Like a vargas boy.
-No, but it makes you an unknown quantity
-Ew math.
-I just dress like an eccentric old person. People don't know I'm devious. They can never tell what I'm thinking…which I like.
-I don't usually know, but when I do, I'm worried.
-Good, I like it that way.


Happy Thanksgiving (teacups)

Whenever I reach for a mug for my tea, I grab the smallish blue teacup with the matching saucer. It’s the color of a Tiffany’s box (I’ve never actually had a Tiffany’s anything, but because I have a vagina, I’m in the know) It has dainty blue flowers and I use the saucer because I like the chink sound it makes when I return cup to the saucer. It’s one of a kind and I picked it up at my favorite Philadelphia thrift shop.

That said, I never, ever use one of the six Twister mugs in the cupboard. (those are for the rare occurrence that I have to serve coffee to more than 3 people at a time). Occasionally I’ll use the gold leaf mug, but only if the small teacup is dirty. I notice closely what mug people choose at work when getting the morning caffeine fix. The big bold colored ones go first. The plain white ones grow dusty in the back.

So this morning- very early this morning- when I was enjoying cartoons, I examined the blue teacup closely. The tea is not affected by which cup it is in. I usually go for seconds with the teacup. Not really convenient. Why do I need to be so pretentious as to use a fancy cup and saucer in the privacy of my own home, when no one is looking, when no one else could give a shit even if they were looking?

So I thought: life is the tea, and the cup is the fixins- the clothes, the job, paying $65 for a haircut, taking a cab from Spring Garden to Market when it drizzles. The tea is what counts, right? A little Splenda here and there is nice.

I even brought a Twister mug to use at work- in all its plain white out-dated glory.

"The richest person is not the person who has the most, but who needs the least"- Grandma

happy thanksgiving.


Remember the Babysitters Club by Ann Martin? That never-ending series of tough middle school chicks who solve mysteries, have crushes and get the kids to bed on time? Remember the fashionable Claudia?! The artsy Asian one?

So this chick, Kim, blogs about what Claudia wore in each of the books.

I'm so in love.


A Love Letter

While doing my morning blog run, I came across a black woman’s love letter to her hair. She wrote about how she appreciates it as a source of expression, a symbol of her ethnicity and womanhood.

At first I thought “that’s way dumb.” I love my hair too, but I’m not going out of my way to write it a letter, loser… but maybe I should. Maybe I should take time out and write a love letter to some part of my body. Not that part. Or those. something more meaningful.

“Hey thanks for the support, knees!” Nah. “Oh, collarbones you’re so hip and trendy!” No. “God, I haven’t seen you in forever, bony hips.” Nay. So this is what I’ve come up with:

Dear Feet,I’ve been awful to you. Truly I have. Where would I be without you? (besides in a chair) I am so sorry that for years I’ve been binding you up in strappy sandals, plastic-y flip flops, and all round torturous shoes, (unless that’s what you’re into) but you know I’ve been working on it. When was the last time I went clubbing in Megan’s pumps, hmm? I feel I owe you a special apology for that time when I went walking around the city in new flip flops in the rain. I totally didn’t expect that to happen. At all. (see pic) I would have taken a cab if I weren’t a freshman devoid of cash. Me and cabs are good friends now you see.

I really do appreciate you and I think you’re beautiful. I used to think your pinkies were a little weird looking, but everyone’s pinkies are weird. You’re beautifully weird… like Molly Ringwald in “Sixteen Candles.” And your big toe isn’t really that big, honestly. I should show you off. I should celebrate you. I should let people touch you once in a while. I think it’s way cute that you get fuzzy when I wear new socks. I like that I can paint all toes neatly with my right hand. And I like that I can play that piggy game with you-

This little piggy went to the market

This little piggy stayed home

This little piggy had tofurkey

And this little piggy had none

And *this* little pig went wee wee wee wee wee!

Ah, that one never gets old. *knee slap* I’m straying. What I want to say, feet, is that I do appreciate you because you’ve always been there for me. And you’re as pretty as they come. I love you.

Yours truly,

The ankles on up

p.s. IOU one pedi.


Me > Death v.1

This morning I woke up in my makeup (which is kinda a relief. I like waking up and looking like a female). My mouth was dry, my legs sore from elliptical-ing, and my stomach felt like I had consumed too much wine the night before. Regardless, I showered, painted on my public face, and went to go donate blood.

I took the earliest appointment so I wouldn’t be late for work. Donating was fine. I like watching when they fill those little tubes. Blood moves way fast, yo. After giving the gift of life, I quickly grabbed my tea (which they had meanly taken away from me) and sped towards the train station. I got about a block before the thought of ‘this sprinting is not a good idea’ floated through my pillowy head. So I took one of my favorite forms of transportation: cab. I told the friendly driver to take me to 417 north 8th.

He said, “American Cross Center?”

I said, “close enough.”

So I’m in the backseat chilling with my tea (which is now 10 degrees away from iced tea), watching the trees swoosh by. Picking at my chipped nail polish. Looking at my argyle shoes. Wondering what kinds of meetings I’ll have today:

a. conference call into Seattle begging them to work faster.

b. Lunch meeting… free lunch. Sweet.

c. Pharmaceutical creative meeting (oxymoron)… what’s a nicer way to say ‘Cope with Depression?’

d. All of the above.

We’re moseying on up 7th Street. My neck becomes jello, my head weightless, and the picture fades to black. I wake up and the driver is hovering over me. “Miss! Miss! I take you to the hospital.” I’m so thoroughly freaked out that a strange man is hovering over me that I just look at him wide-eyed. I’m disgusted that I’m laying in a cab (gross). I’m pissed that I have blood and tea on my favorite blazer. Where the fuck is my ‘Be Nice to Me. I Donated Today” sticker?! Oh, there it is.

I tell him I’m fine. He’s clearly upset and possibly on the verge of tears. I wonder if he thought I was on drugs. Nah the sticker gave it away probably, oh well. I try to sit up, and he tells me to stay. Uh, no, Complete Stranger. I will not stay lying in your cab. This prompts me to get up faster. I give him a twenty for a $10 ride… and the inconvenience of leaving the drivers seat.

So now I’m safety at work recovering from giving away some of my lifeblood. (which reminds me how Nana used to affectionately call me her ‘hearts blood.’ Kinda gruesome). Slowly I recover my strength, only a fraction faster than how work drains it away.

p.s. did you know that when you clean iodine off with soap and water it turns dark blue?! Way awesome!

p.p.s. i appreciate all your concern and sincerely hope you now understand how fragile my life is. dinner? sure. thats sweet of you.