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Humor Tag

New York has been on my mind, over the past few weeks. When things get difficult or uncertain, I do an audit, to determine whether this place is worth it. Obviously after fourteen years, the pros have won, but it has been a real struggle. My first apartment in New York was a fifth floor walk-up, jr. one bedroom, that I shared with my former college roommate.  The building was near the UN, so technically I lived in a good neighborhood. It's just that my building

I realized in my final political science class that I wasn't emotionally equipped to handle American politics on a professional level. My political ambitions were extinguished in a class called American Campaigns. It was three hours once a week, the first half was a straight lecture by the co-professors. The second half was a guest speaker from the trenches of local and national American political campaigns. Before I took the class, I thought my calling was in campaign work. The class was great and I learned a

I think it is pretty well established that I procrastinate my way through life. Some would even call me a Master at it. (See any of my past posts.) My friends Viking and Maya came to NYC last week. Viking actually stayed with me for part of the time. Most normal people would start preparing for guests at least the night before. Not me. Why, when you can run around like a crazed chicken? That sounds more like me. Viking and Maya were due to arrive at my house last Tuesday

I haven’t been the most gracious about my new neighborhood. Most of my surliness comes from being overworked and feeling out of place. My opinion has drastically changed since I left my job and started roaming around during the middle of the day. I discovered that's when the neighborhood comes alive. Last week at Frank’s grocery store, I got caught in some drama. As I walked through the sliding door, I saw all the signs of a hot mess. There was an ancient woman in a woolen bonnet

You may not believe it but the paparazzi struck again.  This time a professional, well a semi-professional, he has a business card (see above.)  I met Ken walking to the subway, one morning.  Morning punctuality is not a skill I will ever lay claim to, so I was rushing as always.  I was on the home stretch and in real danger of being on time and that’s when Ken’s SUV rolled up on me.  His car pulled up right next to me, but I kept moving with my head forward giving him the sideeye to check his distance.  (No one is going to make a Lifetime movie about me.)  Ken leaned out of his window, but I kept walking without acknowledging him.  Ken slowed down some more and started yelling Hey, Hey.  I kept my pace up and refused to look directly at him.

Occasionally random people decide they must have a picture of me. It feels like I am being followed by paparazzi.  They appear out of nowhere with their phones, sometimes hiding behind poles, sometimes blatantly flashing in my face.  I assume they need the photos to show their friends, because I am not famous (yet.)  I don’t understand the compulsion to take pictures of me getting toilet paper at Walgreens or looking haggard on the subway.  But as my mother always says, there is no accounting for taste.

I share my body with another person.  Well, she's actually a monster that takes control in the morning.  My parents met her when I started pre-school.   Morning always began with one of them standing beside the bed calling my name sweetly "Cara, Cara, Cara time to get up."  When I didn't move, they added a gentle shoulder tap to their effort.  I still didn't budge, so they resorted to mild shaking.  Eventually, the shaking worked and the monster woke, crying wildly.  My poor parents

I don't understand close talkers.  The ones who get so close to your face, you can see their tonsils and smell their breakfast.  Due to my height, many people believe it is a requirement to get right in my face to hold a conversation. (Is there a manual out there being passed around entitled "How to talk to little people?" If this is the advice being disseminated by said book, all copies must be thrown out.) There are three types of close talkers, the leaners, the kneelers

Recently, I have had a couple of strange encounters that makes me think I may not be the only black, female, little person with a red afro in Bed Stuy. The other night, I got off the subway and headed towards the corner grocery store.  As I  approached the store, I heard this woman frantically screaming.  This being a fairly common occurrence in Bed Stuy, I didn't turn around right away.  But this woman just kept screaming "Miss, Miss." "Excuse Me!!!"  Um Hellooo..Miss."  When I

I have some friends who fantasize about my life in New York. They say things like "Riding the subway must be amazing,  you can sleep, read, even have a little breakfast while you commute."  I think they envision the subway as something akin to the Orient Express.   I found the best way to convey the reality of subway commuting is by telling this story. I frequently share my subway car with a group of ladies I like to call "The Angry Birds." (Ten middle-aged Caribbean

I woke up early today to prepare for my annual trip to St. Louis (Home.) Because I am a chronic procrastinator, I had not packed a stitch of clothing three hours before my plane was to depart. I am pretty adept at packing quickly, which really means I pack everything I own.  My suitcase is the size of a dresser. Anyway, I called a car and dragged my enormous bag downstairs, along with a hiking backpack and my purse. (Told you, I packed everything.) The

Several months after I moved to Philly, Reuben and I were able to rent an apartment.  We both had been living with his parents, until I could find a job. It was early December when we moved in. We spent the next few weeks trying to furnish our apartment and buy Christmas presents on our meager salaries. He suggested Wal-Mart.  I had never actually been in a Wal-Mart. I only shopped at Target. I'm kinda high-end.  Nevertheless, I acquiesced, because my wallet said Wal-Mart,