Where have I been, you guys?

Guess!

Sunbathing in a tropical climate?

Eloping with a very wealthy financier?

Learning how to Irish step dance?

If you guessed ‘In bed, dying of consumption’, GUESS WHAT? YOU WIN.

Consumption is one of many of my father’s favorite ‘old days’ diseases that he busts out whenever any of us are feeling bad.

“YOUR MUTHA’S NOT FEELING WELL. MUST BE DIVERTICULITIS.”

This was all hilarious until my grandmother came down with ACTUAL diverticulitis a few years ago.

She was fine.

And then it was even funnier.

Apparently some of dad’s diseases still exist.

Just like consumption.

Which I got last Saturday out of the blue.

I was in the middle of working out, took a sip of water and thought ‘Hm, that’s a sore throat’ and by the time I got home I just stared vacantly at a wall and told my boyfriend I was pretty sure death was imminent and BAM, there it was. Fever. Chills. Sore muscles. Sore throat. Sore everything.

IT WAS THE FLU, YOU GUYS!

At least I’m kind of sure that’s what it was/is. BECAUSE I STILL HAVE IT! A week later. It has knocked me out in a way that I was just not expecting. I’m a relatively healthy human being who maybe gets the occasional cold so no matter what illness it is, I always give it 2-3 days and I’ll be brand new, right?

Seven days and counting…

I was stuck at my boyfriend’s place from Saturday until Wednesday, feeling too sick to go home. And I’m using ‘stuck’ loosely because do you know how awesome it is to have someone else bring you Theraflu, three types of soup, various juices and then a chocolate milkshake when they walk in the door from work because your throat hurts?

Geez.

Let it be said that I spent lots of time weeping at his generosity and mumbling things about the true meaning of love and self-sacrifice and…I blame the fever.

ALSO! Because he is awesome, my boyfriend has a Roku which streams Netflix directly to the television so I watched more TV in two days than I have all year. (FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS! GREATEST SHOW EVER, RIGHT GUYS? Don’t spoil anything for me, I’m on season three.)

Sadly, most of the time I felt so sick the glare of the television wasn’t even worth it and I sort of drifted in and out of sleep wondering if I had meningitis because that there is some scary stuff and I never got vaccinated and what if my life is over? Right here? Right now?

Deeeeep.

I finally left my boyfriend’s apartment on Wednesday (not dead! yes!) to get some fresh air and to head back home to Queens.

On Thursday morning I woke up and walked out the door to move my car which is a weird thing you have to do in New York City and I stood in the middle of the street staring at where my car was supposed to be wondering if I was still asleep because…what is happening? My car has disappeared? In its place was a yellow taxi cab.

The owner of the cab was walking toward me, about to move his car so I asked him if anything had happened over the past few days while I’d been gone.

“What?”

“Uh, my car? It was…right there. And now…it is gone. So…?”

“OH, THE TV!” he shouted. “THEY FILM THE TV HERE! THEY POST SIGN TO MOVE CARS OR THEY TOW IT!”

Greaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.

I called ’311′ and gave the lady my license plate number, my head pounding, my nose stuffy, standing outside wandering the streets of Astoria in the RAIN because I like to paint the most pathetic picture imaginable whenever I can and the woman on the phone said she had no record of my car being taken away.

“Did you call the precinct?” she asked me.

“AM I IN TROUBLE?”

“No, baby girl, sometimes with movie shoots, they’ll just tow your car around the block to get it out of the way. If you call them, they might know where it is.”

Then she transferred me to my local precinct and I talked to an actual cop which made me nervous EVEN THOUGH I AM INNOCENT and sure enough, he gave me the address of my car which was parked three blocks away.

Is that not the weirdest thing ever?

Law & Order: SVU comes to my street, shuts it down to film (WHICH I AM DEVASTATED TO HAVE MISSED!) and the cops just tow my car for free and put a big sticker on it that tells other cops not to ticket it or tow it for 48 hours because NOT MY FAULT! DETECTIVE STABLER NEEDED TO SOLVE A CHILD MOLESTATION CRIME!

What!?

In the end, I still have the flu, the remnants being an awful pounding headache every night at 7 am (someone explain this to me?), a stuffy nose, some delicious post-nasal drip and the desire to eat lots and lots of Halloween candy.

But I found my car! And I hope I get better soon. I’m just not used to being so…sick?

WHICH SHOULD HUMBLE ME.

But instead makes me angry.

Of course.

Alright, guys.

Have a healthy weekend! I hear we’re supposed to get some snow tomorrow! I BET THAT WILL BE GREAT FOR MY COLD!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! The end.

In high school, I spent a lot of my time wearing a WWJD bracelet, singing along to showtune CD’s in my bedroom and chatting online in Broadway chatrooms hogging the phone line with my parents’ brand new internet connection.

(My first screen name on AOL was L24601rent – L for Laura, 24601 for Jean Valjean’s prison number and rent for the musical Rent, ‘No Day But Today’, etc. And there you go, I have single-handedly wowed you with my adolescent awkwardness.)

As such, I didn’t have a lot of time for kissing boys.

Much of what I knew about sex came from surreptitiously reading all the Stephen King novels from the school library in junior high. I’m not sure my mother knew I was reading them and I’m not sure she knew that along with being completely horrific and disturbing, Stephen King novels each contain a few graphic sex scenes.

My mom repeatedly tried to have the puberty/sex talk with me over the course of a few years (she even went to the religious ed library at church and brought home a movie or two and a copy of the book Our Bodies, Ourselves) and each time she tried, I basically put my hands over my ears and ran screaming from the room.

What can I say? I didn’t need my mother to explain to me the gross details of THAT. And thus, all I ever knew about sex, I learned from Cujo.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I had a callback for the spring musical, Grease. My theater director in high school took his art very seriously. This was no goof around high school cheeseball acting program. THIS WAS MUSICAL THEATER. And damnit if he didn’t require us to commit to showing up to every single rehearsal, act like a freaking grown up instead of the children we were and learn some self-discipline.

I love that guy.

Initial auditions were held privately one-on-one but callbacks were held in front of everyone else who was called back.

This was to ensure that we could handle the material appropriately in front of our friends other people.

As such, my theater director always chose the most difficult or potentially embarrassing (on a high school level) scenes from the play to use at the callback.

If there was a kissing scene, you better believe he wanted to see if you could mash your lips against a fellow classmate’s without laughing out loud or getting uncomfortable.

SO PICTURE IT:

I am fifteen years old.

I have never kissed a person romantically.

Everything I know about kissing is gleaned from It.

I am instructed to get onstage and act out the scene from Grease with Sandy and Danny in the car at the drive-in where he tries to make out with her and she freaks out and runs away.

IN FRONT OF ALL THESE OTHER PEOPLE THAT I KNOW, I AM SUPPOSED TO HAVE MY FIRST KISS.

WITH A HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR WHO HAD A SERIOUS GIRLFRIEND AND WAS, LET ME BE HONEST, NOT VERY ATTRACTIVE.

Kissing a boy for the first time is one thing.

Kissing a boy for the first time in front of a group of people and several adults is quite another.

I don’t remember much about the kiss itself. I do remember that it felt super weird and I didn’t know which way to turn my head. I also remember that my friend Jackie was sitting watching in the audience and she LAUGHED OUT LOUD WHEN IT HAPPENED SO THANK YOU FOR THAT WHEREVER YOU ARE.

And then it was over.

And I got the part.

And I kept having to kiss that senior again and again during performances IN FRONT OF MY PARENTS and he would eat tunafish beforehand ON PURPOSE.

Alas.

That is the story of my first kiss.

You’re welcome.

I’ve been really stressed out lately. It’s a culmination of things – still being unemployed, not sure what my next steps should be, tightening up things financially, getting really into hot sauce for the first time in my life and then standing in the grocery aisle wondering which hot sauce to buy because what on earth, how many brands of hot sauce do they MAKE!?

You know, usual stuff.

I was pushed over the edge Saturday afternoon while walking up 2nd Avenue talking to Alayna on my phone.

A girl my age who seemed perfectly normal walked up to me and asked me if I had a dollar or two to spare.

Now, I try to make a habit of giving money to people who ask me but I live in New York City and I just cannot give it to everyone and unfortunately right now, I really can’t spare much so I politely said, ‘Sorry! I can’t help you’. And proceeded to keep walking.

And so did the girl.

Who followed right behind me.

Leaning over my shoulder and yelling.

DO YOU HAVE A SOUL?

I…what?

DO YOU HAVE A HEART?

She kept yelling while I awkwardly asked if Alayna could hold on one second, I’m being verbally accosted by a girl who is obviously on some kind of drugs! Yay!

DO YOU HAVE A PERSONALITY??? she screeched.

At this point, I decided that it wouldn’t be all that weird if she then pulled out a knife and started stabbing me so I quickly crossed the street in an effort to get away from her and she just stood there staring after me screaming about what a huge bitch I was to anyone who would listen.

In the middle of the afternoon on Saturday. In broad daylight.

I…

Guys?

That was like, IT for me.

THE END.

I’d pretty much been walking around all week like a depressed zombie, an exhausted and exposed raw nerve and then psycho girl gets all up in my business screaming about how I don’t have a soul or a heart or a personality.

NONE OF THOSE THINGS ARE TRUE, RIGHT GUYS?

I almost prefer the cracked out gentleman who walked up to me a few weeks ago and eerily whispered, “I’m going to kill her”.

GO RIGHT AHEAD, BUDDY.

This stuff ain’t personal. It’s New York City. It’s just that, my God, I can’t ESCAPE it sometimes. You walk out your apartment onto the street and there is just no buffer from anyone, really. And mostly I like that! Diversity, guys! RIGHT? ME! YOU! THE DRUG ADDICTS! JUST HANGING OUT!

I feel strongly that constantly having to get in the car to get anywhere is one of the things I like the least and that is why I love New York City the MOSTEST EVER except not lately because just leave me alone everyone, I need to go meditate in the middle of a field for like, a week.

Oof.

SO THAT’S WHAT’S BEEN GOING ON WITH ME!

Sincerely,

Laura
No Soul, No Heart, No Personality
xoxoxo

Sweet September! I went to the US Open to watch some tennis, went to Chicago for a wedding and all of my dad’s brothers were in the same room for a 40th anniversary party. All six of them! So, yahoo for September!

* I bought a Groupon for 10 sessions of bootcamp in the park near my apartment a few months back. It was $20 for 10 sessions and I am unemployed and even if I wasn’t, that is only paying $2 for someone to kick my butt. I recently realized that I should use it up as soon as possible because I am not going to want to work out IN THE PARK, OUTSIDE when it gets cold outside.

And oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that it’s at 6 am.

SIX O’CLOCK YOU GUYS.

During my first lap around the track, the stars are out above me. By the time it’s over and I’m stretching, morning has arrived, the sun glowing over everything.

It is a seriously great way to start the day. And then it’s only, like, 7 am and I’m wide awake and bouncing into The Roommate’s room with coffee going WAKE UP WAKE UP WHAT SHALL WE DO TODAY!? And he’s like, um, work, some of us have a job? And rolls over and goes to sleep and that’s the problem with being wide awake at 7 am. THERE IS NO ONE AROUND TO HANG OUT WITH.

So then I go back to bed. Problem solved!

I really like it though! Bootcamp in the dark/sunrise was such a great $20 investment!

Well. Except for the instructor who this morning was like let’s do 1400 planks followed by 10,000 crunches with this medicine ball thing and after 3 sets of this, he asked for another and I simply said “No”.

You can do that, right?

I can. I paid two whole dollars for this. I can do or not do whatever I want.

* I bought pumpkin spice coffee at Trader Joe’s. It is DELIGHTFUL.

* My iPod from 2007 finally died and I was so sad to be without my music because I LOVE MY MUSIC! Showtune Playlist, let’s DO IT! So then my boyfriend generously gave me his old iPhone to use as an iPod except…my Macbook is from 2006 and the operating system was never upgraded because I barely know what that means so it wouldn’t recognize the iPhone.

So I ordered a new operating system for $30.

I joyously tried to install it.

Lo and behold, an error message popped up that said my little 2006 Macbook did not have enough RAM to support the new operating system.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

So I took a deep breath and called Apple and was all hey you guys, how can I get more RAM? And they said SUPER EASY! Take it to the Apple Store and pay $200! $100 per gig of RAM! You need two!

And then I picked up my Macbook and threw it out the window.

No, I made a genius bar appointment and then emailed my friend Laurie and was like CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS? RAM FOR $200 WHAT IS RAM? And she linked me to a website that showed a video tutorial for how to install your OWN RAM. You just need to order RAM on the internet!

So I did.

(Remember, this whole story is about how I desperately need to be able to listen to the original cast recording of multiple Broadway shows. And maybe some of Sarah McLachlan’s “Surfacing”. WHO REMEMBERS HOW GREAT THAT ALBUM IS?)

Guess how much RAM costs on the internet?

$27 including shipping.

$200 MY BOOTY, APPLE.

The RAM showed up yesterday (without antlers, which super disappointed me even though I should’ve expected as much) and The Roommate installed it for me! Because he is a computer genius! As soon as he did it, we installed my new operating system which works perfectly. And then I got on the internet and found out Steve Jobs died.

I…woah.

iWoah.

I actually took the Macbook into the Apple store anyway today because IT STILL WOULD NOT RECOGNIZE THE IPHONE and I won’t tell you what they told me and how they fixed it because I’m still embarrassed THE POINT IS, there was a memorial already outside on Fifth Avenue with flowers and notes and I just took a breath and thought man, that guy changed the world. And also my whole entire week because dang if it doesn’t take a LONG TIME to get some music back in your life THANK YOU STEVE JOBS FOR YOUR VARIOUS INVENTIONS.

* This list is getting long. My brain is really busy.

* On Tuesday afternoon, I saw a man on a bicycle in midtown STEAL A WOMAN’S BAG off her person and take off down the street. She stood there screaming after him some not nice words that my mom doesn’t want me to write on here because Father Bob reads this blog and he would NOT APPRECIATE those terms.

Anyway, as this lady is screaming at what a @#%@#!@#!@# this thief on a bicycle is, everyone is staring and feeling so helpless and just as I thought he was going to get away with it, A COP CAR SHOWED UP and blared its sirens and took off following the bicycle thief and THEY WENT ON A CHASE and the thief turned into a parking garage to try to escape and THE COP CAR FOLLOWED HIM and there is no end to the story because they drove out of sight and I have no idea if they caught him and I know you hate me because this was so anti-climactic but it was completely out of a movie and so random and so New York that I just loved it. HOW EXCITING AND HILARIOUS!

* I told my therapist today that I thought that story was exciting and hilarious and she kind of cocked her head and was like “Um, maybe not for the lady whose bag got stolen?”

Ugh, therapist. Stop pointing out how heartless I am.

* I just got off the phone with my dad and he told me that he joined a gym, asked my mom if he could get an iPhone and ordered a pumpkin ale at a restaurant and they lined the rim of the glass with cinnamon-sugar and he THAWT DAT WAS DA MOST INCREDIBLE THING.

The End.

O: That bike went through a red light!

R: That was not cool.

Me: I know, guys. It’s alright.

O: NO. LAURA. THERE SHOULD BE A LAW AGAINST IT.

Laura: Well, there is a law.

O: So he goes to jail?

Laura: Well, no. If no one sees him break the law, he doesn’t get in trouble. WHICH IS NO REASON TO BREAK LAWS.

O: So Mayor Michael Bloomberg has to catch him?

Laura: Not exactly. Police officers are the ones who notice if people break laws.

O: So if a police officer catches that bike, he goes to jail!!!

Me: Weeellll, probably not for running a red light. You just get tickets for things like that. Speeding, parking in the wrong area. You have to pamoney for those. You need to do something serious to go to jail.

Silence.

O: OHHHH RIGHT. LIKE EXPOSING YOUR PRIVATES!

Me: Um. Well. Yes.

R: LAURA DID YOU KNOW MY WINGSPAN IS GREATER THAN MY HEIGHT?!?!?!

Me: …

O: IT IS. IT’S BIGGER. WE FOUND OUT AT CAMP.

Me: Wow. I wonder if mine is. I do have long arms.

O: Louie is my friend.

Me: Awesome!

R: In first grade, he hated Louie.

O: Yes but now he is my friend.

R: He is a twin TOO! But his brother Oscar is mean.

O: Yes! Oscar is the meanest.

Me: Why?

O: He calls R stupid.

Me: WHAT.

R: Yeah, he does. He says I’m stupid all the time.

Me: WHAT?!?! THAT IS HORRIBLE.

O: Don’t worry, Laura.

R: Yeah, I always say something.

Me: You do? You tell a teacher?

R: Nope. When Oscar calls me stupid, I just say ‘Touché, Oscar, TOU-CHÉ.’

Me: …

O: R always says touché.

Me: Well done. Stick up for yourself, kid.

R: Yes. Plus also I have a big wingspan.

I went to a 40th anniversary party this past weekend for one of my dad’s brothers and oh, there was so much blog fodder! It shall keep me busy and entertained for weeks! But while I mull it over in my brain, I have yet another My Dad story for you in the mean time.

(As to what’s up with me lately, HECK IF I KNOW. This blog now belongs to my dad.)

My parents live on a hill and at the bottom of the hill in their front yard sits a huge rock which we referred to as kids as ‘The Rock’ or ‘The Bowlda’, which is Long Island speak for ‘The Boulder’.)

I don’t know if it’s actually considered a boulder. What is the definition of boulder? It’s just a big hunkin’ thing left by the ice age. Or a glacier. Or at least that’s what we used to say. I will just come out and say right now that I do not know much about the ice age or glaciers or how this big ass thing got on my front lawn but last week I heard on NPR that not only was there a woolly mammoth long ago, there was also actually a WOOLLY RHINO!!!! Doesn’t that blow your mind? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN LOOK LIKE? COME BACK FROM EXTINCTION, WOOLLY RHINO! LEMME SEE YOUR FACE!

Anyway.

Sometimes we would climb on the rock and pretend we were under attack but that got old quickly as we soon realized we were playing on…a large rock. That gets old fast. Mostly we just tried to avoid it while sleigh riding down the hill in the winter because damn, if you slammed into that bowlda, your sled was probably wrecked and you were probably headed to the ER for multiple fractures.

THIS IS A BIG ROCK WE ARE TALKING ABOUT.

The point of this story is that my dad called up my mom at work last week and was all WIFFEY, I HAVE HAD A DAY.

I think I have pointed this out before, but my parents call each other ‘Hubby and ‘Wiffey’ except it’s not WIFE-y, it’s pronounced wiffey like ‘whiffy’ and hell if I know how THAT EVEN HAPPENED but they do not refer to each other by their first names.

Ever.

I think I’ve heard my mom call my dad ‘Paul’ maybe twice in my entire life. (That’s his name, you know.)

So anyway, Hubby called Wiffey and was all I HAVE HAD A DAY.

And Wiffey was all WHAT HAPPENED?

Let’s just say dad was outside mowing da lawn.

I SHOULD JUST INTERJECT RIGHT HERE AND SAY THAT SHOULD NOT BE HAPPENING.

Dude broke his hip and almost died and now that he’s back to normal with barely a limp, he’s outside all day mowing the lawn and chopping firewood and being generally reckless, IF YOU ASK ME, for a 66 year old person who is prone to injury.

DAD – HIRE SOME GUY TO MOW THE LAWN.

But he hasn’t yet.

So he was outside, mowin’ da lawn, as he says, when he discovered that he ran over the hose with the mower.

Now, this is comedy enough for me that my dad was so intent on…who even knows…that he didn’t realize that his huge lawn mower (from 1994) was headed straight over an enormous coil of garden hose but eh, I’m not one to judge someone who daydreams and gets themselves into predicaments.

Ahem.

It should be said that for a Brooklyn boy, my father loves the outdoors. LOVES LOVES LOVES! When New York gets cold and dreary and everyone is like OH MY HELL WHERE IS THE SPRING, my dad is hanging outside in a flannel shirt with a puffy vest shoveling snow in the middle of a blizzard, talking to himself about how wonderful life is and how God is in nature and my mother is like THAT IS FINE, I AGREE WITH YOU BUT PLEASE SHUT THE DAMN DOOR, YOU ARE GETTING SNOW INSIDE THE HOUSE. And my dad just gives her this huge thumbs up like ISN’T WINTER AWESOME? And all of us inside are just like, nope.

So I imagine my dad was mowing da lawn and dreaming about God and how Jesus is in the blades of grass that he was murdering with his mower and he wasn’t really paying attention to the garden hose which, let’s be honest, is also green and maybe blended in a little bit with his surroundings?

At this point in the story, my mom interrupted him and reassured him that it was fine that he punctured the hose with his lawnmower.

WE NEED A NEW HOSE ANYWAY! she said brightly. IT’S JUST A HOSE! YOU CAN GO TO HOME DEPOT FOR A NEW ONE! YOU LIKE HOME DEPOT!

DAT’S NOT ALL THOUGH, said my father.

He sighed heavily.

I STOPPED THE MOWA FOR A SECOND SO I COULD INSPECT DA DAMAGE TO DA HOSE AND BEFORE YOU KNOW IT, THAT MOWA WAS ROLLIN’ DOWN THE HILL AND SMASHED INTO THE BOWLDA.

…

Yes, ladies and gentleman. In a true sitcom of errors, my father turned his back on the lawnmower only to turn around too late to realize it was steadily rolling down the front hill, picking up speed before slamming mightily into the huge ass rock that has been hanging out down there since woolly rhinos roamed Long Island.

IT WAS AN OLD MOWER ANYWAY! my mom chirped, eager to let my dad know that it was alright.

I KNOW I KNOW, he moaned. I WANTED TO RUN AFTER IT BUT WIT MY HIP AND EVERYTING, I CAN’T RUN DOWN HILLS AFTER LAWNMOWAS ANYMORE.

And that is a fact, you guys.

Once you break a hip and almost die, it’s probably a good idea not to go running down hills after lawnmowers as you did so many times in your youth.

And that is the story of Hubby and how he “HAD A DAY”.

Just when I think my dad can’t get more awesome, he does.

How is this possible?

As soon as my parents heard the news that my best friend Alayna was engaged, they decided they would definitely be going to her wedding.

WE ARE SO THERE! exclaimed my mother.

This is prior to receiving an invitation, of course.

My father was still in his wheelchair then, unable to walk due to some cement in his hip from a botched surgery.

“Hm,” he said looking at the calendar. “JULY? I CAN BE STANDIN’ UP DANCIN’ IN NASHVILLE IN JULY.”

And he was.

And thus it was settled.

The Dlugs were going down South.

My parents and I booked our flights together so we could all fly out at the same time. It was a late flight on Thursday and my boyfriend and I rushed to the airport separately and met up with my parents who were sitting patiently at the gate, having arrived twelve hours beforehand as is my father’s custom to show up painstakingly early to everything lest the airline decide just to mess with you intentionally and take off hours and hours before they say they will.

Oh wait, you never heard of them doing that?

Funny. Neither have I.

My dad perked up as soon as he saw us.

GUESS WHAT? he asked.

YOUR MUTHA AND I SHOWED UP HERE AND GUESS WHAT WE FOUND ON THE FLOOR UNDERNEATH OUR SEATS? A SNICKERS BAR AND A BOTTLE OF WATA!!!

I’m sorry. What?

WE FOUND A CANDY BAR! WRAPPED AND EVERYTHING! JUST SITTIN’ DERE!

That’s great?

SO WE ATE IT, he proudly declared.

Hold. Up.

You found candy and water just sitting under your filthy seat at one of the many American Airlines gates at LaGuardia airport and you weren’t like oh maybe I should throw this out, you were all FREE FOOD?

Of course. Just. Of course.

I SAVED THE WATA THOUGH, my dad continued. IN CASE YOU WANT IT.

I’m good, I said.

I sat down next to him and moved one of his bags to the side with my foot.

HEY HEY WATCH THAT ONE, he said. DAT’S MY BALLOON BAG.

You didn’t.

I DID. I’M GONNA MAKE ALAYNA SOME BALLOONS.

And here is where I confirm what you may or may not have known, that my father is a professional balloonist.

When I was in high school, my dad got super into the clown ministry at church which should’ve possibly been weird but wasn’t because my dad has sort of always been a goofball. At any rate, before you knew it, he was dressing up in a purple wig and putting on skits for the children’s Vacation Bible School and at 14 years old I wanted to just die of mortification but I couldn’t because my dad is adorable and HE IS DRESSED UP LIKE A CLOWN IN CHURCH COME ON NOW.

Pretty soon, my dad became obsessed with all things clown. He ordered a clown costume from a catalog (blue wig this time, no red nose, he painted that on himself with face paint, blue orange and yellow polka dot pants, etc.) and started watching VHS tapes of magic tricks and how to twist balloon animals and thus, a star was born in the name of one Floppy The Clown, named after the floppy disk of course because my dad is a nerd.

And also has a doctorate in education and published eight books.

BUT DID YOU KNOW HE BALLOON TWISTS???

Because that is his proudest accomplishment.

When he heard Alayna was getting married, he packed his bags for Nashville and yes indeed, that included his BALLOON BAG! full of balloons and an air pump because, what? Try and tell me you don’t do the same.

Within the first few minutes of Alayna’s wedding reception, my dad took in the scene.

LAWRA, YOU TINK DOSE KIDS MIGHT WANT A BALLOON?

It’s definitely possible, dad.

YOU TINK I SHOULD GO GET MY BAG FROM THE CAR?

GO FOR IT, DAD.

So dad got his balloon bag.

And he stood in a corner at the reception while everyone mingled and soon had a line of children and adults waiting patiently for a balloon animal.

Throughout the course of the evening, flashes of color would appear, balloons somewhat magically drifting throughout the wedding. A green flower on someone’s table, a wide-eyed ladybug on a wrist, a bright yellow alien guy my dad calls “The Hitchhiker” attached to someone’s head, twirling around the dancefloor. My father, doing what he does best, spreading joy and life wherever he goes.

WHAT A GREAT IDEA, some woman next to me exclaimed. ALAYNA HIRED A PROFESSIONAL BALLOONIST.

Yeah, I said, proud as can be.

That’s my dad.

New York City is a crowded place. There’s mobs of people clogging up the sidewalks, five people fighting over the same taxi, a line of people around the block outside the Ugg store. (Seriously.)

As such, at restaurants, I often find that I’m sitting VERYCLOSE to people I don’t know. On most occasions, this is alright! Once you’re engaged in conversation with the person you’re with, you can kind of tune out the people around you, even if they’re seated within inches of you. It’s not ideal, but I’ve learned to adapt.

This weekend, however, my boyfriend and I could not escape the Loud Obnoxious LET ME TELL YOU MY LIFE STORY New Yorkers who were just, everywhere.

On Saturday night, we were able to excuse ourselves from the intimate details of a certain celebrity’s personal chef who was just NOT DOING WHAT THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING AND I CALLED JOHN AND I SAID JUST FIRE HIM ALREADY BUT JOHN WOULDN’T…

We were subjected to about 20 minutes of this conversation before our heads exploded and the waiter re-seated us a few tables away because dear Lord, John’s not going to fire the personal chef and I really, really am not interested. (The restaurant was also clearing out and we got to sit in a booth and DAMNIT IF I DON’T LOVE A BOOTH.)

Sunday morning at brunch we were not so lucky. Since we ordered our food already, the hostess said it would mess things up too much to move tables and that was fine, I don’t want you to think I’m constantly asking to move seats because that’s almost as obnoxious but OH MY GOD if you could’ve heard these two girls chattering next to us for the entire length of our meal.

Well, one was chattering incessantly. The other just seemed to be…tolerating her. (Which was interesting to observe. Have you ever been stuck in a conversation like that? Where the other person just goes and goes and goes and doesn’t really give you any space to answer? Or doesn’t really ask you any questions about your life? I have. And it is awful. And happens in my extended family CONSTANTLY. So I suppose I should just admit right now that that is a huge button of mine to begin with. MOVING ON.)

One girl took the train in from New Jersey and I got the impression the two of them were friends from…college? Maybe? Somewhere long ago? Because the entire conversation was either about the New Jersey girl’s daughters, Madison and Olivia! and EVERY SINGLE PERSON SHE COULD THINK OF that they both knew and their various ailments, ugly weddings, injuries, etc.

My boyfriend and I decided to be as zen as possible about it but the girl was just speaking so loudly that our conversation was constantly punctuated by the most insane sentences. They were so sort of…over the top that my boyfriend actually said that if I blogged it, no one would believe me because people in real life don’t talk about crackwhores and seizures in the SAME CONVERSATION.

Oh, but that girl from New Jersey did.

Here’s a sample of what we listened to while digging into some omelets:

She was just having all these unexplained seizures but it sounds like from what the doctor said it was totally normal. Sometimes, people just have seizures.

Oh God, that wedding was hideous. NOTHING MATCHED. I am telling you, NOTHING. But, story for another day.

No, she’s the one whose son has LEUKEMIA. But it’s fine.

Madison and Olivia are both in hip hop class! IT IS SO CUTE. I mean Maddy is kind of at that awkward stage where she’s developing a little? So I had to buy her a bra? Not a real bra! Like a little training bra? LET ME TELL YOU: I CRIED. MY LITTLE MADISON! WITH BOOBIES!

Well apparently that’s what she’s like now after she got hit by that car. I know! HIT BY A CAR.

No, she is like a straight up crackwhore. I know. I KNOW. Well. I don’t know if the crackwhore part is true exactly but someone said she was selling drugs and she seemed to think she could get lots of money for the drugs because she was hot? I just think she’s the sort of person who will do ANYTHING for money so, yeah.

IT WAS SO CUTE! We took the girls to Disneyworld and their favorite parts were the train! I told Olivia I was taking a train to the big city today and it was SO CUTE because she LOVES TRAINS.

…

Trains and crackwhores, people.

Now, I realize I am being…possibly…snarky. And rude. Maybe that girl just…had a lot to say. Maybe she doesn’t get out much. Maybe she doesn’t realize the volume of her voice. All things could be true.

So in an effort to not make this about OH GOD THAT GIRL WHO WOULD NOT SHUT UP, may I ask, what is proper etiquette here?

Is it rude to ask someone in a restaurant to dial their volume down?

I would’ve asked if I had been on an airplane with such a person (DEAR GOD JUST IMAGINING AN AIRPLANE RIDE WITH THIS WOMAN IS GIVING ME ANXIETY) or something like that. But in a restaurant, is (discreetly!) asking the host to switch your table the only option? Do you kind of have to just focus on your croissant and laugh about it later?

I realize that choice comes into play here, just as with any annoyance that has the potential to obstruct your life – you can own the fact that it bothers you and you can choose whether or not to let it ruin your morning. I was lucky enough that I (mostly) found the entire thing incredibly amusing (if overwhelmingly grating on my nerves). But I got a good laugh out of it and my boyfriend enjoyed strolling down the street later randomly blurting out A CRACKWHORE! and SEIZURES ARE NORMAL!

I do realize it was up to us to choose to let the anger/annoyance go and just get over it.

But I guess I’m wondering if there was anything else that could be done.

I just imagined that if I asked her if she could keep her voice down, it would probably be awkward sitting next to her for the rest of the meal. So it was better NOT to speak up?

And yet, my God. SHE WAS TALKING SO LOUDLY. About…so many strange things.

What say you? Speak up? Ignore? Blog about it later? CRACKWHORE.

Go.

On any given day, on any given busy New York City street, I am stopped regularly by people who want my money people who want to change the world.

“Do you have a second for Children International?” some eager fresh out of college kid asks me.

I’m supposed to say yes and then they will energetically recite some schpiel about why Children International is amazing and I can sign up to give them money every day for the rest of my life! Awesome!

“Sorry!” I say instead and sometimes the volunteer (do they get paid to do this?) waves and says thanks and sometimes I’m subjected to a few more tries as they frantically call after me down the street.

“It’ll only take a second! I know you want to help! YOU’VE GOT A GREAT SMILE!!!”

Well thank you sir, I think that’s true but I have no interest in saving the children.

Well I do, of course but I can’t save everyone and money is tight and I’M SORRRRYYYYY.

Often, my guilt gets the better of me and I feel horrible for blocks because I didn’t have a minute to stop for Gay Rights. I felt so bad in fact about dismissing this specific cause that I actually turned around one time after declining and gave a thumbs up shouting “I’M IN A RUSH BUT I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!” reassuring the volunteer (who was most likely not even gay himself) that I was no homophobe! Not me! Me? I’m just busy!!! Love the gays though! Smooches!

While these people are mostly nice about it, wishing me well and moving on, sometimes stuff just gets weird. This past weekend in Chicago, someone stopped me and my boyfriend wanting to know if we had a second for Greenpeace. We didn’t. And as we were walking away, the guy just yelled out “WELL. YOU BOTH LOOK LIKE AN AD FOR LENSCRAFTERS!!!”

Well. We both wear glasses so that is very observant of you, my good man. But are you complimenting us? Or is that a weird dig trying to make us hate ourselves enough to turn around and donate some money? “YOU’RE RIGHT! WE DO WEAR FANCY DESIGNER GLASSES! WE SHOULD GIVE MONEY TO GREENPEACE!!!”

I…hm.

My friend Sylvi told me a few months ago that whenever people stop her, she just goes, “Sorry! I’m pregnant!” and they immediately back off and go SORRY!!!

???

How does this work?

People just give pregnant women a break as a general rule? She’s not showing yet so maybe they think she’s feeling too queasy to stop? Or they’re okay giving her a pass because pregnant people can’t be expected to donate money to worthy causes, SHE’S GOT DIAPERS TO BUY. ?!!?!?

All I have to do is use the pregnancy card and I stop getting badgered by sweet looking people in matching t-shirts supporting a worthy cause!?

Sylvi insists it works. Every time. And thus, I finally got up the gumption to give it a try with a perky girl who got all up in my face with an EXCUSE ME, MA’AM DO YOU HAVE A SECOND FOR–

And I blurted out SORRY, I’M PREGNANT without bothering to hear what cause she was supporting.

Guess what specific organization makes the ‘Sorry, I’m pregnant!’ excuse completely awkward?

Planned Parenthood, that’s who.

Because….now that volunteer is confused. She said Planned Parenthood, I confessed a pregnancy to her out of nowhere so she stares at me, mouth agape like OH CRAP as if I am going to grab her and beg her for an abortion right there on the street.

And then it’s like oh my God! No! I’m not coming to you for help with my pregnancy! I mean, it’s a fake pregnancy! I’m not actually pregnant! I just don’t like being harassed on the street! I have three nickels in my bag, hold on one second. NO REALLY TAKE THE NICKELS. You can’t? OKAY. I REALLY HAVE TO GO.

Ahem.

The moral of the story boys and girls is don’t tell lies.

Not even tiny white pregnancy lies to strangers trying to take your cash.

Carry on.