Why I am a hypocrite.

Because I obsessively check all my favorite blogs and if they’re not updated every other day, I’m pissed. Meanwhile, here’s my very own blog, which is so less than fresh that it needs some gentle guidance on blog hygiene, perhaps from an understanding counselor it looks up to.

That’s why!

Changing the subject:

My friend F. -- who, despite years of my undoubtedly creepy pleading for him and his wife J. to move to NYC, actually did so, packing up their San Francisco lives and settling down smack dab in Brooklyn, much to my unfettered delight—what was I saying? Wait! Yes! So F., a native Californian, has insisted since he moved here that New Yorkers are rude.

Rude! Us! Have you ever!

Specifically (and I don’t want to put words in his mouth although that’s exactly what I’m doing) he takes issue with the curtness of NYC service people—the cashiers and salespeople and waitstaff whose brusqueness and lack of cheer wear away at one’s soul.

When he first brought this up, my response was one of hysterical denial—“We’re so not rude you just have to get to know the way we are and then you’ll love it here because WE LOVE YOU DON’T LEAVE US”—but then once I calmed down and realized F. and J. were not about to pack up and scamper off in the night because a cashier didn’t say “Good morning,” I gave his complaints some serious thought.

And now, damn him, I keep noticing the horrible service I’m met with at every point of purchase. While occasionally you’ll find a chatty salesperson (like the cashier at the Container Store who was so damn sunny, someone in front of me demanded to know what they were giving her, to which she replied, “A fantastic workplace!” and every one else on line threw up), by and large when you purchase something in New York, you’ll be helped by Muttery McSullenhead or Sneery O’talksonhercellphone. (Yes—the rude salespeople are always Irish. )

I always assumed that salespeople were cruel because the territory on the other side of a cash register is a terrible, terrible place to be. I’ve done it. I was the worst sales associate ever in the history of Saks Fifth Avenue; I was a bank teller who routinely doled out the wrong amount of money to unsuspecting money-takers; as a waitress, I poured scalding-hot coffee on someone’s hand (accidentally) and a mixed drink on someone else’s head (also accidentally).

On the other hand. Wasn’t I always the friendliest incompetent? Wasn’t I grasping for some human connection across the gulf separating customer from employee? You can’t answer this, so I will: yes! I was so damn likeable! My customers seemed to regret it when they asked if I was disabled! My employers always apologized when they fired me!

So the misery is no excuse. Okay. But is it true that New Yorkers are necessarily ruder than people in other parts of the country? I can’t say I’ve noticed any dramatic difference in service in, say, Oklahoma. But I’ve never been to Oklahoma. So I need your help. Are sales staff in Boise kinder? Do tellers in Tallahassee mean it when they order you to have a nice day? Or, if you work with the public in NYC (and if you do, I am so sorry): why you gotta be like that?

Thank you. And have a nice day.

Why I haven't posted in a while.

- I’m writing this week for a dog food company publication. No, really. You know what I’ve learned? Dogs like to be fed! And housed! Also: loved.

- I’m obsessing about how awful our living room is. It’s really awful. Papers are piled on every available surface, toys are scattered on every available inch of floor, our rugs are prickly with dog hair, our furniture is ugly and causes us injury, the lighting makes everyone look like they have cancer. I’m determined to change everything, make it all pretty and good and healthy and THEN I'LL BE HAPPY, RIGHT? but I haven’t the resources or know-how. I’ve heard those are two good things to have. I’m so obsessed that I actually borrowed from the library not one but two books on feng shui. So far I’ve learned that our living room is so un-feng shui that we should have developed leprosy long ago. If we don’t cover our walls in mirrors and wind chimes and scatter goldfish all about the floor, hungry ghosts will knock open our cupboards and steal our rice. I’m fairly convinced it’s all a lot of hoo-ha invented by those funny people over in the East, but I’m willing to think differently, should anyone care to convince me. As one concession to the mysteries of the Orient, I moved a (miraculously, through no effort of my own, still living) plant to a dark corner that had hitherto only housed spiders and dust bunnies (sometimes together! Spiders love company!). We’ll see if the improvement in our chi flow leads to increased riches and improved relations with our elders.

- My son is REFUSING TO NAP. Naptime is post-time. So you see. Instead of napping, Henry sits in his crib and shouts, “Mommy no! No, Mommy, no!” I’m convinced he knows that this will always get me to give up on the nap, because I’m afraid the neighbors will think I’m a child abuser. It’s only a matter of time until he’s learned “Please, Mother, not the iron! Oh, why must you drink so much?”

- You, my loyal audience of readers, have been composing such hilarious and entertaining comments that I hate to interrupt with my prattle. Really: if any of you haven’t been reading the comments, you’re missing out. Apparently everyone who reads my blog is even more beset by vermin, poop, and Jehovah’s Witnesses than I am. I’m amazed you people can do anything but lay your head in your hands and weep. So: carry on!

The following post should be blamed on bone-crushing, soul-destroying fatigue.

Dear men,

It’s been a long while since I’ve been catcalled, wolf-whistled, leered at, been given the ol’ creepy-murmur-in-the-ear, or subjected to the unwanted viewing of what should be very, very private behavior.

What gives?

I know it’s winter, and it’s not easy to lurk outdoors, waiting for a worthy female to pass your way. It’s hard to unbutton and unzip the many not-quite-clean layers, should someone happening by warrant exposure of your privates. But what about the comment shared from a passing van? The obscene gesturing in the vegetable aisle of the supermarket? The suggestive use of a coffee stirrer in the coffee shop? These are all viable cold-weather options. Get creative!

Is it the kid? It’s the kid, isn’t it. Look, he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s way more interested in making tthhhhttthhthbt noises at the planes overhead than what that unusual-smelling man is saying to Mommy. Besides, I saw some of you making eyes at the young nanny lifting her ward from his stroller outside Joe’s Pizza. While it’s true that her booty did, in fact, say pow, I don’t see why mine can’t be afforded the same courtesy. I had a heavy coat on—lined with Thinsulate. You are not aware, no doubt, of how Thinsulate can muffle the booty as it pows and bams and does what the very, very hot booties do. So, you see. Until the weather improves, you’re going to have to take it on faith that I do, in fact, shake that ass.

I may be a teensy bit unwashed and, no, I’m not wearing any makeup; yes, those are cottage cheese curds nestled in my hair, and yep, that’s “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” I’m singing to my shrieking child. Not very sexy, I know. So simply avert your eyes and make with the politically incorrect comments, already. You provide the commentary, I'll give you the finger, and balance will be restored. I thank you.