What a nice day today! That's what I thought while trotting happily (not really) to the Canal St. post office (btw, on Canal St. the temperature is always 10 degrees hotter and the noise is 100 decibel louder) to pick up a very important piece of express mail for my company.
According to my tracking number, a notice has been left in our mail box. Ok, step 1: open mail box. No notice present. Step 2: I have the receipt, so I walk to an agent explaining the issue and asking for my mail to be given to me. First issue: mail nowhere to be found. Fifteen minutes pass and nobody seems to have any idea about this mail, nor seems to care that much either. Ok, breathe.
Search search search and the mail is found in a remote corner of the post office, with a sign on it saying "for the mice noon party, this way!".
I lean over to get the envelope and the clerk starts her series of inquiries: "NAME?". So I tell her the name of the company. "ID PLEASE!" (she didn't really mean that 'please' though'). I give her my passport. And here it starts.
Clerk: "Well, the names don't match"
Me: "Well, YEAH, as you can see, I am not a company"
Clerk: "Are you the owner?"
Me: "No, I'm the manager".
Clerk: "How do I know?"
Me: "I don't know how you know, but I definitely DO know"
Clerk: "I need an ID the proofs that you really are the manager"
Me: "No such ID ever existed, unless you work for Google"
Clerk: "I can't give you the mail, unless you show an ID with your picture and the name of the company"
Guy standing in line next to me: "GIVE THE POOR GIRL A BREAK FOR GODS SAKE!"
Me: "I have a deposit slip from the bank with our company name on it"
Clerk: "Not enough"
Me: "I have my iPhone with emails sent from my email address, that has the company's domain on it!!" (insert very high voice level)
Clerk: "I will talk to a supervisor"
15 more minutes.
Clerk: "We will redeliver to the same PO BOX"
Me: "And what? Should I go get a fake ID with my smile on it and my company's name??"
Clerk: "Miss, go to the Supervisor Window"
I go and the same clerk shows up: I guess at the post office the window you work from determines how high in the hierarchy you are.
Me: "I have the PO BOX KEYS!! How do you think I could get the other mail?"
Clerk: "mmm"
10 more minutes.
Me: "I seriously don't have the time to work as a professional criminal specialized in stealing random mail"
Clerk: "Miss, I will meet you in the hall. I want to see you opening the PO BOX"
My brain refuses to reply to this insanity. I march to the po box, hold the keys so she can see them (and what if I killed the manager of a company and actually STOLE the keys?!) and slowly turn the key into the po box. Magic! It opens.
Clerk: "Alright then. I guess I can give it to you"
YOU GUESS!!??
Next time I need something delivered quickly, I'll use that pigeon that pooped on my head about a month ago. He owes me big time anyway.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
How ny real estate scene has never been affected by this stupid recession
Being in the sudden and unexpected (and awful) situation of having to find an apartment to live in less than a week, I started again where everybody starts from: craigslist.
And here is one of the 'precious' STEALS (as they call them) that I just found:
http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/abo/1332965919.html
This gives the perfect good idea of how way too many people are way too desperate to live in this city that is really starting to get on my broken nerves.
First, they call it LARGE studio - now, does the person that wrote this posting consider measurements in Lilliputians standards?! If THAT is big, then I can start playing basketball in the NBA.
Second, it's priced CHEAP because the bathtub is in the kitchen?! What kitchen?! and what CHEAP?! $1,250 for a room the size of my brain is not damn cheap. And seriously, ENOUGH with this bs of putting showers and bathtubs in the kitchen - I dare the owner of this place to show me how he enjoys his bath in the kitchen while his guest (if he fits) waits for dinner to be ready in this spacious living room. F*ck it.
And here is one of the 'precious' STEALS (as they call them) that I just found:
http://newyork.craigslist.
This gives the perfect good idea of how way too many people are way too desperate to live in this city that is really starting to get on my broken nerves.
First, they call it LARGE studio - now, does the person that wrote this posting consider measurements in Lilliputians standards?! If THAT is big, then I can start playing basketball in the NBA.
Second, it's priced CHEAP because the bathtub is in the kitchen?! What kitchen?! and what CHEAP?! $1,250 for a room the size of my brain is not damn cheap. And seriously, ENOUGH with this bs of putting showers and bathtubs in the kitchen - I dare the owner of this place to show me how he enjoys his bath in the kitchen while his guest (if he fits) waits for dinner to be ready in this spacious living room. F*ck it.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Say Hello and Wave GoodBye (to my Dear Pen)
My favourite pen's life is coming to an end.
I realized it this morning: not at all ready to face another day of work, I picked it up with the same joy toddlers show when they destroy crayons, only to find, few seconds later, its poor fragile body torn in at least 8 different pieces (5 of which I didn't even suspect existed), all of them laying like autumn leaves on my homicide hands.
Not having a paper bag to help me prevent hyperventilation, I had to be strong and tried to reconstruct the tiny little body as well as I could. The pen reacted with an unpredictable shot of life, spreading its springs towards me and spinning its cap, but eventually gave up and I was able to restore its original settings. But that was just an illusion. We all know that the pen will not be the same from now on, and every time that I need to scribble a note, I do it with the same cautious anxiety I have when I find myself driving 80 miles away from home with only 1/10 of the gas tank left in the car, and no fuel station to bee seen around (it actually happened to me twice that I had to be rescued in the middle of the highway, and if that is not humiliating enough, your mother calling you 'an idiot' in front of the neighbors will do it).
The importance of a good pen is often underestimated. My handwriting definitely has a tangible shift whenever I write with a pen that I love: if an handwriting psychologist were to analyze my personality based on something I wrote with my dear soon-to-be-gone pen, it would come out that I am a successful, accomplished, loved by everyone (like Raymond) 29 years old funny girl; on the contrary, let him analyze what I wrote with that ink-dripping, coarse Bic I found the other day, and he will probably think he has the privilege of reading an old secret manuscript from Jack the Ripper, although he would not be able to explain why Mr. Jack is so much into shoes.
The content of my writing also changes, based on the pen: a nice pen will produce company strategies (ok, not really, but it will at least pretend), marketing ideas, the lyrics for the next U2 album, a perfectly done reproduction of my subway-neighbor's nose, and other important things like that. A bad pen will barely make it to write 'pff, you're not even my real mother!' as a reply to my boss' note that tells me to call a magazine for a photo shoot.
All this to say what? That I will be very sad when my pen will leave me for good, and that I should stay away from any piece of paper until somebody will be kind enough to save me and give me a nice replacement - Mont Blanc's highly appreciated, by the way.
I realized it this morning: not at all ready to face another day of work, I picked it up with the same joy toddlers show when they destroy crayons, only to find, few seconds later, its poor fragile body torn in at least 8 different pieces (5 of which I didn't even suspect existed), all of them laying like autumn leaves on my homicide hands.
Not having a paper bag to help me prevent hyperventilation, I had to be strong and tried to reconstruct the tiny little body as well as I could. The pen reacted with an unpredictable shot of life, spreading its springs towards me and spinning its cap, but eventually gave up and I was able to restore its original settings. But that was just an illusion. We all know that the pen will not be the same from now on, and every time that I need to scribble a note, I do it with the same cautious anxiety I have when I find myself driving 80 miles away from home with only 1/10 of the gas tank left in the car, and no fuel station to bee seen around (it actually happened to me twice that I had to be rescued in the middle of the highway, and if that is not humiliating enough, your mother calling you 'an idiot' in front of the neighbors will do it).
The importance of a good pen is often underestimated. My handwriting definitely has a tangible shift whenever I write with a pen that I love: if an handwriting psychologist were to analyze my personality based on something I wrote with my dear soon-to-be-gone pen, it would come out that I am a successful, accomplished, loved by everyone (like Raymond) 29 years old funny girl; on the contrary, let him analyze what I wrote with that ink-dripping, coarse Bic I found the other day, and he will probably think he has the privilege of reading an old secret manuscript from Jack the Ripper, although he would not be able to explain why Mr. Jack is so much into shoes.
The content of my writing also changes, based on the pen: a nice pen will produce company strategies (ok, not really, but it will at least pretend), marketing ideas, the lyrics for the next U2 album, a perfectly done reproduction of my subway-neighbor's nose, and other important things like that. A bad pen will barely make it to write 'pff, you're not even my real mother!' as a reply to my boss' note that tells me to call a magazine for a photo shoot.
All this to say what? That I will be very sad when my pen will leave me for good, and that I should stay away from any piece of paper until somebody will be kind enough to save me and give me a nice replacement - Mont Blanc's highly appreciated, by the way.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
What the Hell
Wednesday, August 5th, 8:15 pm. Long day of work, long day indeed. After today's mess, the least you would hope for is to be, in this life or another, rewarded, someday, somehow.
As I make my way through the crowd on the subway platform, I see the 6 train instantaneously approaching. It rarely happens. 'See?' I tell myself, 'the reward (as little as it can be, although not on NY standards) was not that far after all!'. OR I thought that it was a reward...
Still not being able to deal with the fact that the 6 train will be MY train now (everything UES-bound makes me itchy), I rush to sit down and try to focus on the book I'm currently reading.
As the train approaches Astor Place - an area that for some reason I believe has a lot to do with the city's ghost population, or maybe it's just a spooky name - I hear a voice. And no, not one of those voices I'm usually the only one to hear. It grows louder and louder, to the point that I just can't really pretend anymore to be fully involved with my book. "The Good Jesus has died for YOUR sins! You must fear God!!! If you don't obey to the Sweet Lord's law, you will ROAST in HELL!". Wait-a-second! ROAST?!?! I had no clue that Hell was actually located inside BBQ Dallas' basement kitchen! Then what do we have all this Google Earth crap for if it can't even point out secret stuff like this?! Who cares about China secret nuclear stations anyway!?
I have the feeling that refusing to take one of the 50+lbs pamphlets that the voice's owner is trying to distribute would fall into the "not obedient to the Lord's law" category, therefore I shall get ready to ROAST in Hell as amusingly predicted.
And according to the voice (I'm having a pretty hard time here finding a different name for it, since this dude is all covered in facial hair or beard, and the letters on his "FEAR GOD" t-shirt are way too big to keep you focused on his face anyway), that must be happening pretty soon, too, given that he is hurrying us up to be sorry for our sins and save our poor miserable souls.
Regardless, after a day like the one that just went by, I think I'll just go ahead and buy myself some nice expensive Worcestershire sauce. If I have to roast, I'd better taste pretty damn good!
As I make my way through the crowd on the subway platform, I see the 6 train instantaneously approaching. It rarely happens. 'See?' I tell myself, 'the reward (as little as it can be, although not on NY standards) was not that far after all!'. OR I thought that it was a reward...
Still not being able to deal with the fact that the 6 train will be MY train now (everything UES-bound makes me itchy), I rush to sit down and try to focus on the book I'm currently reading.
As the train approaches Astor Place - an area that for some reason I believe has a lot to do with the city's ghost population, or maybe it's just a spooky name - I hear a voice. And no, not one of those voices I'm usually the only one to hear. It grows louder and louder, to the point that I just can't really pretend anymore to be fully involved with my book. "The Good Jesus has died for YOUR sins! You must fear God!!! If you don't obey to the Sweet Lord's law, you will ROAST in HELL!". Wait-a-second! ROAST?!?! I had no clue that Hell was actually located inside BBQ Dallas' basement kitchen! Then what do we have all this Google Earth crap for if it can't even point out secret stuff like this?! Who cares about China secret nuclear stations anyway!?
I have the feeling that refusing to take one of the 50+lbs pamphlets that the voice's owner is trying to distribute would fall into the "not obedient to the Lord's law" category, therefore I shall get ready to ROAST in Hell as amusingly predicted.
And according to the voice (I'm having a pretty hard time here finding a different name for it, since this dude is all covered in facial hair or beard, and the letters on his "FEAR GOD" t-shirt are way too big to keep you focused on his face anyway), that must be happening pretty soon, too, given that he is hurrying us up to be sorry for our sins and save our poor miserable souls.
Regardless, after a day like the one that just went by, I think I'll just go ahead and buy myself some nice expensive Worcestershire sauce. If I have to roast, I'd better taste pretty damn good!
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