Day 363: A startling confession from a stranger

The guy smiles and says
"I'm just as behind as you
On my New Yorkers"

I was perusing the issue from the first week of April on the subway platform. I didn't have the heart to admit that I am actually backlogged to late January. Truthfully, the New Yorker is too smart for me. The articles are usually about 10 pages long. I lose interest in Callista Gingrich after 2 pages, TOPS. I mostly just read the cartoons.

Also, that might have been the New York-iest pickup line ever.

Day 262: More Unmentionables

Old school girdles and
Voluminous underpants
Sold by two old men

I forgot to mention that Mattie paid me one of the kindest compliments ever. After we'd been chatting for a long time he paused, smiled, and said "You're a very good listener. Something about you just makes me want to tell you these stories. "

Aw, shucks. Blush.

Day 261: Old is the New New

Surrounded by change
An old man tells tales of a
Neighborhood that was

The first thing you should know is that I hate shopping. The second thing you should know is that I loathe going to a giant store when all I need are black socks. Imagine my delight when I read this article about a tiny old shop in nearby Carroll Gardens (the author says Cobble Hill. She's wrong.) that could help me to avoid the soul-sucking abyss that is Target. So I went.

Honestly, it was love at first sight. There are boxes of unmentionables stacked to the ceiling, you can buy a floral-print house dress for $8 (I may be back for one -- don't judge), and the sock selection is excellent. I am also now lifelong friends with co-owner Matty, age 83, who spent about an hour telling me stories about the shop, his clientele, and his long Brooklyn life. He was surprised and tickled pink to hear that his shop was mentioned in the Times. You can read an even better article about the shop (with pictures) here on a local blog.

So if you like cheap dry goods and old-timey stories, pay a visit to Marietta -- and encourage Matty to write a book!

I had so much fun that I wrote two haiku. Check back tomorrow.

Day 259: So shines a good deed in a weary world

I'm a slow runner
You held the G train for me
I think I'm in love

And yes, I just mentioned Shakespeare and the MTA in the same breath.

Day 231: Undercover

A young woman weeps
Hiding her face and her tears
In a long brown scarf

She got on at Bergen Street during rush hour and sat next to me. She buried her face, but it quickly became apparent that she was crying. And not just whimpering a little -- really crying. After a few moments, I felt compelled to ask if she was okay (since she obviously wasn't). She gave me a watery smile and told me that it was just one of those days. I understood. I had her day three days ago. The only difference is that my scarf was purple.

Day 215: Dog envy (again)

Our laughing eyes meet
Over your dog's yellow back
His wet brown eyes smile

Day 191: Mmm. Sticky.

Dozing on the bus
Tiny fingers poke my back
And play with my hair

It was actually kind of cute. See? I don't really hate kids after all. I just have to try hard not to think about the fact that those little fingers may have recently been up little noses.

Day 189: for the woman who drives the B67 bus

She's got the sunshine
Greets each rider with a bright
"How you doin' love?"

Day 184: Nice tonsils

You yawn in my face
Not bothering to cover
Your cavernous mouth

It's not just that I'm a germaphobe (which I am), it's also that no one likes to start their day with a close, unobstructed view of a stranger's uvula in a crowded subway car.

Day 156: Raspberries

"How about this one?"
He smiles, combining two pints
Of berries for me

(There's a guy who works at the Borough Hall Greenmarket who is a shameless sweet talker. He regularly convinces me that I need more peaches and plums, because how could I possibly get through two whole days with only four plums? [He's right; I can easily eat all four before I've left the market.] Today I desperately wanted to buy raspberries as well, but decided against it because Intrepid Boyfriend and I are on a tight budget. Sensing his opportunity, Mr. Sweet Talker began to work his magic.)

Day 128: Roadblocked

I say "excuse me"
You huff, sneer, move a single
Atom to the left

(I will never, ever understand New Yorkers' inability to use escalators. Sigh.)

Day 123: Taking my life in my hands twice a day

Yes, you drive a car
That makes you better than me
Please run me over

(Various [financial] circumstances have led to my becoming a bicycle commuter. If you believe the NYC Bike Month posters that you see on the subway, you may think that I sail off to work in a pristine white sundress that is magically immune to both bicycle grease and perspiration. Other common misconceptions: that bike lanes are safe, that Brooklyn is flat, that motorists are not secretly trying to kill me, and that my commute is "refreshing."

Now, I know that many cyclists in this town are real ass-holes who refuse to obey traffic laws. I am not one of them. And even if I were, is that any excuse to yell at me after you've doored me in the bike lane? Or to drop your cigarette ashes onto my arm at a stop light?)

(Oh, crap. I just remembered that my mom reads this. Hi Mom. I'm fine. Really.)

Day 117: Unsolicited advice

Hey falafel guy
Put on a chest hairnet or
Button up your shirt

(On a humorous side note, my computer thinks that I meant to say "Falstaff.")

Day 92: vocabulary building

"Kick his ass, Aidan*!"
Hell hath no fury like a
Toddler soccer dad

(They say the Vale of Cashmere is the most dangerous part of Prospect Park, but the people who say that have never seen a toddler soccer league game. It's a simple program: children learn teamwork, make friends, refine their gross motor skills...and gain valuable exposure to obscenities thanks to Aidan's dad.

*This haiku is based on an actual event, but the boy's name wasn't Aidan [anonymity, blah blah blah]. However, I will bet you money that at least one of the kids in the group was named Aidan. You can't swing a canvas shopping bag at the Greenmarket without hitting an Aidan.)

Day 87: A rant

Hey there screaming kid
Mommy has priorities
That's why she's texting

(Intrepid Boyfriend and I go out for dinner very rarely, so when we do we want it to be special. You know what is the opposite of special? Trying to enjoy a meal while a nearby mother busily fiddles with her Blackberry, studiously ignoring Hellion 1 as he runs around the restaurant, touching things on other people's tables, and the other stands, shrieking like a banshee, in the middle of the room. On the other hand, it made for pretty effective birth control.)

Day 82: Divine intervention on Joralemon Street

Before I know it
The Bible is in my hand
Those sly Gideons

(I knew they left Bibles in hotel rooms, but did you know that some stalwart Gideons hand them out on the street? I usually don't even fall prey to people with restaurant fliers, and yet I recently became the accidental owner of a pocket-sized green Bible. It seemed rude to give it back. What should I do with it? Suggestions?)

Day 68: ...or it could be that I'm just old and unfashionable

You may think you're hot
But your pleather minidress
Screams "I'm from Jersey!"

(Nothing says "classy" like a hot pink rubber dress and a Snooki bouffant.)

Day 65: At least he didn't fart

You're young and robust
Going to the second floor?
Take the effing stairs

(If you're like me, you work on an upper floor of one of those
fabulous Cold War-era government buildings that was never meant to
accommodate as much elevator traffic in a day as it sees in an hour.
After waiting for 15 minutes for an elevator that's apparently powered
by a hamster in a wheel, I don't understand why the strapping young
lad who waited next to me disembarks at the second floor. And yes, I
know that not all disabilities are readily apparent. I'm not
completely heartless.)

Day 49

"Pretty today!" smiles
The sweet lady from downstairs
Who just made my day

Day 33

He yells in Russian
At a cashier whose face shows
This happens often