As I have probably mentioned, our apartment, including our bedroom, has spectacular views of the Empire State Building. This has lead us to often wonder whether the people using the high powered binoculars on the observation deck can see into our bedroom. Being the Queen of the Acrophobics that I am, I figured that I’d either we’d never know, or one day I would send The Boy up there to find out.

The other night we went out for dinner on the west side of our street and were wheeling/walking home in the nice cool spring air. As we were passing the ESB, I impulsively said to The Boy, “let’s go up!!!” He didn’t even hesitate, giving me no chance to reconsider. Before I knew what hit me, he was wheeling me right into the front door, giving me no time to be deathly terrified. On a big plus side, the building staff was SUPER DUPER wheelchair friendly (I even got a $5 discount off the ticket price!). While the lines weren’t insane, there were still plenty of people milling about. No matter for us, we were whisked passed all lines and crowds directly to the top. Seriously, I’ve never encountered such amazing treatment. But again, no chance for changing one’s mind.

Oddly enough, the 80 story ride that is the first part of your journey to the stop probably took about the same amount of time it takes me to get to my 33rd floor office. The elevator was whisper quiet, no rocking, no shaking, just smooth as silk. Not to mention all of the inlaid marble walls that kept me occupied marveling at their beauty. With The Boy chatting with me as a further distraction, there wasn’t really anything scary at all. The next six floor ride was, obviously, not even an issue.

Once at the top, the nice people continued to open special doors and ramps for us. Again, really outstanding on the accommodation issue. Out on the observation deck, it was a gorgeous evening. 25 mile visibility. Slight chill in the spring air. Light refreshing breeze. I was stunned that I wasn’t at all scared. Oddly enough, my mom called just as we arrived outside. She asked where I was and I proudly responded “on top of the Empire State Building!!!!” She was completely stunned, but I suppose it was so out of left field that even were I not Queen of the Acrophobics it would have still stunned her.

After a brief chat with mom, we spent time enjoying the views, identifying all the landmarks on our own, and working our way over to the side where we would be able to see our building. We found it, and could actually see a little orange dot of color coming from our apartment. Helps that we left the lights on the living room and that they give off an orange glow (but of course). Looking for the nearest binocular thing, the one closest to us was miraculously a wheelchair friendly one. I took this as a sign we would be able to see our place.

And then my husband did what my husband does so well. He forgot to get quarters for the machine prior to riding up the 86 floors. He went to the souvenir shop, no luck. So we’re finally sitting at the place we’ve talked about for the last ten months and we have no quarters to use the binoculars. He decided to go into what he called his “Amazing Race mode” and wandered off asking everyone and anyone for change for a dollar. Considering we were probably one of four Americans in the whole place, I was a bit skeptical about his chances of success.

But succeed he did. And I managed to locate our apartment using the high powered binoculars. I am also very pleased to report that while you can see some of the detail of our terrace, you cannot, in fact, see inside the bedroom, or any other room.

Good to have one less thing to worry about, ya know?

Having previously humiliated myself by admitting to purchasing a subscription to Star Magazine, there really isn’t much lower I can go, right? I mean, at least I’m not paying money for my addiction to Reluctant Whore and semi-addiction to Perez Hilton.

Sadly for me, there is actually an even lower point of humiliation, and I hit it last night. Star’s subscription service is sucky, at best. The magazine will hit the stands, but you won’t get your copy in the mail for anywhere from two-five days later. Given that it’s a weekly magazine, a five day delay in receipt almost defeats the point. And see, that I even notice this keeps dragging me lower and lower into the abyss. I so crave reading about Katie’s Scientology boot camp, that last evening I became enraged that yet another day has passed where the tantalizing headlines are screaming at me from the checkout line in the supermarket, but are not yet in my mailbox.

I became so crazed, that I actually took valuable time from my day to call the subscription services department to have a chat about this with them. First line person tells me that the magazine is not considered by the publisher to be “late” until the Thursday prior to the date on the cover.  I explain that every magazine I have ever subscribed to has arrived prior to the newsstand date, something generally considered a “perk” of subscribing.  This in no way moved her.

So I did what any “rational” person would do.  I ask to speak to a supervisor.  Yes, I asked to talk to a supervisor about my subscription to a crappy tabloid being a few days late.  Said supervisor repeats the same story over and over.  I sum it up for her thusly:

So basically you front date issues (the issue on the stand as of  April 30 was dated May 12), and then screw your subscribers by having a policy that doesn’t guarantee them timely delivery based upon your own manipulation of the dates.

That was the lawyer in me talking.  She replied, “I guess you could say that.”  After which I asked what she thought was the benefit of being a subscriber.  “Basically the cost savings.”  My choices were to cancel my $1 a week subscription or pay $4 a week on the newsstand.

I hung up feeling defeated, even more so when I realized that the number of subscribers they are able to show potential advertisers is what gets them higher rates for ads and thus drives up their revenue, more than compensating for my “cost savings.”   I guess some battles you just can’t win.

May 12. William Shatner and his ego will be right here in NYC. There should be enough room for both of them.  And we, along with a friend, have tickets!

There was a small spat about their wheelchair seating policy. Apparently “how many (if any) companions are in your party” means “only one companion” if you’re talking to a line level ticket person. When you talk to her supervisor, two companions is just peachy. Sorta peeves me that the first line of customer service isn’t very well trained in accessibility policies. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a problem like this.

My mother-in-law says I should start some sort of business helping people with this stuff, not in a legal way, just a practical way. Not such a bad idea from her, for a change!

That’s what I found myself saying to my plastic surgeon today — reconstructive, not cosmetic, just to head off the wiseass comments. I was supposed to have a consultation on May 5th (not just Cinco de Mayo, but more importantly Boris’ 9th birthday), but I got a call from one of his staff today asking if I could come in this afternoon (Friday) instead because an emergency surgery has popped up. Now I know you’re thinking “how can it be an emergency if he knows about it three days in advance.” I promise, it can be. I’ve been there. So I totally cut him some slack.

But not when they tell me to show up at 4 (thus spoiling our afternoon movie plans), but he doesn’t get back to the office until 5. I’m used to waiting long periods of time for Mr. I Have No Sense Of Time, and yet somehow I still worry about arriving on time. Just to wait. I think that’s the definition of stupidity, right? Doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result.

Oh yes there is more »

I sort of hate to keep blogging. The post about the bitch from hell will be pushed off of the top. But oh well. Life goes on, and so does blogging. And this story is just funny enough that I have to share.

A few weeks ago I finally located the Phantom Dog, which turned out not to be a phantom at all. The Not Phantom Dog lives one floor below us and one apartment over. His/her incessant barking drives me up the fucking wall. All. Fucking. Day. However, once locating said dog, I was able to call 311 and file a noise complaint. Back some time ago, the City, in it’s infinite wisdom, passed what is probably the stupidest law ever prohibiting dogs from barking for more than ten minutes at a time. Obviously the dogs don’t go to jail for barking, but owners face some stiff fines. I may think the law is ludicrous, but that doesn’t stop me from taking full advantage of it when I am the recipient of the nuisance. This is clearly why people hate lawyers. I know.

Oh yes there is more »

Remember that whole thing where the bitchy instructor (who can now be identified as one Jennifer Belle) was an asshole to me and I filed a complaint and got me some awesome satisfaction? Well, I finally perused the school’s site and picked my free class for the summer session — Beginning The Novel. Noticeably absent from the faculty roster of said school website was one, you guessed it, Jennifer Belle. Gleeful as that was, I wasn’t sure about how to go about getting my free course. I called the nice dean back, and with just two sentences jog to her memory after the few passed months, she had me on my way.

So the other day The Boy and I wheeled on down to the school to meet with the dean. She was out, but one of her assistants was happy to help us. I briefly explained the situation, and without really the need for many other words, I had my free class ticket in hand, along with some interesting reactions to the name Jennifer Belle. God I wish I knew what happened. Hey Jennifer, if you stop by, mind leaving the details of your disciplinary action in the comments? You being such a good writer and all, I’m sure it will make for fascinating stuff.

Anyway, a quick stop at the registrar and I’m all set to start again in June. What’s been good is that I’ve kept up with the writing I was trying to learn about in the first place. So I’ll have lots of samples, which appear to be needed, and material to draw on. I even branched away from the “Bus Book” and into the “Katie” book (long story) which is pure fiction, as opposed to a stretched truth. It’s been fun and enlightening to say the least. I’ve also been drawing from the NaNoWriMo book that MeanLouise sent me when I set out on this whole writing thing in the first place. Of course, Jennifer scoffs at NaNoWriMo, being that it’s not elitist enough for her delicate sensibilities. But I figure hell, if she doesn’t like it, it must be useful for something.

Oddly enough, the other day, a friend brought an interesting article to my attention regarding my buddy Jennifer (he knew all about her and her apparent chick lit, had checked her out for me prior to my registering for the class to begin with). Apparently she is SO bitchy, that not even her husband can stand to be around her. Must be true, the New York Times said so!

The thing I find most bizarre is that she — an admitted high school dropout with no college training at all — holds “court” in her own home disguised as some sort of writing workshop. I wonder if she treats the folks paying her $300 to bullshit in her living room the way she treats the students at the university. I can almost hear it. “Welcome, gimmie the cash, you’re a crappy writer, have fun basking in the wondrous glow that is me.” I wonder if she reports that income to the IRS. Gotta give her credit though — as someone who probably should be paying people to be her friends, she’s found a way to turn the tables on them. That’s a business model that I could learn from. Figure out a way to have people pay me to be my friends. Start ponying up, folks. ;) I didn’t learn much from her class, so maybe this little nugget makes up for it.

Have a nice day, kiddies, I know I will!

I think the headline speaks for itself: “State Moves To Ban Fake Testicles On Vehicles“. I had to do a double take. I mean, why would people actually WANT testicles hanging from their cars? Who would even THINK to make such a product? The Truck Nutz people are happy to help us with at least that question on their “Dumb Ass Questions” page. They drank a case of beer and, being men, were naturally fully consumed with the area between their legs.

What’s remarkable is not just how dumb of an idea this truly is, but that the Florida senate is so “offended” that they’re wasting their time passing clearly unconstitutional bills that would fine people $60 for hanging a $15 ($39.99 for chrome) item from their vehicle.  Don’t these people have anything better to do?  Like improve their schools, strengthen policies to prevent Cuban floaters from entering their shores, fighting crime.  You know, unimportant things that don’t involve male genitalia.  Really.

After The Boy puts down a plate of sliced salami and cheese on the cocktail table on the terrace. . .

Me:  What kind of cheese is that?

Him:  The kind from the refrigerator.

Oy vey!

I’ll take the lack in interest in my loss of fertility as a sign that (1) the 337 of you passing through here each day are really looking for information on dyslexic chickens and are sorely disappointed; (2) it’s just not entertaining enough; or (3) no one gives a shit.  Oh well, back to free association.  Waaaaay more relevant to society than my little problems.

1. Money :: Uncle
2. Unhappy :: Grumpy
3. Joking :: Knock, Knock
4. Chipmunk :: Alvin
5. Date :: Night
6. Sideshow :: Bob
7. Chicago :: Illinois
8. Lifetime :: Television For Women
9. Skid row :: Bum
10. Edward :: Father-in-Law

Here we go.

1. Questioning :: Deposition 
2. Immunity ::Diplomatic 
3. Online dating :: Match.com 
4. Calcium :: Deposit  
5. Dressing :: Table 
6. Bucket :: of Fish 
7. Stain :: Black 
8. Advanced :: Forward 
9. Dramatic :: License
10. Self-medication :: Booze

Oh yes there is more »