I left at noon yesterday for a companywide retreat to Bowlmor lanes at Union Square. I am positively awful bowler.

The most annoying part of the day was when an entire, freshly manicured thumbnail broke off into the bowling ball. The gutter ball that came directly following said tragic event was well expected. Now, I have one unpainted nail. It’s short and out of place. I never once had fingernails before this year. When I was a teenager I would buy Lee Press-On Nails and wear them around until one snapped off but I never actually had nails before. Now that they are here, I have grown used to them and quite attached to them as well. When they break, I feel a small sting of depression.

Tonight, Tobyjoe and I are heading to Bond Street Sushi with Keith and Melanie who embark on a two-week vacation to Belize tomorrow. (Lucky bastards.) Tomorrow, we’re off to watch the England/Portugal game at either Nevada Smith’s or some other dark, dingy bar, which means I will need to either run my necessary 8 miles today at 3 when I am let go from work, tomorrow before 9 am or Sunday morning.

I picked up some freelance work with The Barbarian Group, which will mean working all weekend, which I am totally OK with because I need the money. Working all weekend pretty much means a guaranteed bunch of pointless and excessively boring updates on mihow.com. I hope all those away and celebrating the fourth of July have a good time not reading Web sites and instead having fun in the sun. IF YOU’RE AN AMERICAN (sorry!), what are you doing for the fourth?

Even if Enland doesn’t win The World Cup, at least they will hold this title. Like I needed another reason to love and admire the Brits.

(Photo taken at Nevada Smith’s right after England beat Ecuador.)

What’s your beer of choice? Lately, I have been enjoying Paulaner Hefeweizen or any cool, cloudy wheat beer. But if I had to choose one, I’d still pick the thick, velvety Guiness.

I work on 42nd Street and Madison. I have worked here for a little over a year. I’m not crazy about Midtown. Actually, I really can’t stand Midtown. The people are grumpier, yet they seem to be wealthier. It’s weird, Midtown. And even the bodegas, delis, and chain restaurants take note of the higher income bracket; bottles of water are 50 cents more than they are in Brooklyn or anywhere else for that matter. I can buy a Snapple in Brooklyn for 1.50. It’s 2.50 here in Midtown.

Another problem I have with Midtown is the obscenely high number of tourists. They’re everywhere. It’s especially frustrating during lunch when you’re given such little time to get from one place to another. They stop in the middle of the sidewalk with their maps and their fanny packs and try and figure out which is North, and which way is South. My biggest irritation with the tourists of Grand Central is they very rarely move to the right of the escalator. It’s not a ride. MOVE PEOPLE! MOVE!

When I am visiting another city, I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to blend in, which actually kind of sucks because I spend so much time trying to forget I’m there as a visitor, I forget to actually visit. Lame. I forget to mindlessly absorb everything. So, the tourists – the ones who carelessly wander about Manhattan like it’s one big movie set designed specifically for their enjoyment – are doing things the right way. I know this. I actually kind of envy their ability to live within the moment, nowhere to go, and no one to tell them they’re late when they get there.

I do my part, too. I carry a camera everywhere I go in New York City, which makes me look like a tourist. And I’m OK with that especially since I’m not. But sometimes, something happens that makes me feel like a tourist regardless of where I am in the city or whom I’m with.

For example, it’s the only place I have ever lived where they cover an entire Midtown street with snow in the dead of summer. Reaction, visitor or not, were all pretty much the same. At first glance, people didn’t think much of it at all. It looked so real! We just figured, “Oh, yeah, old snow built up on the sides of the street. Right.” And then, seconds later, “Oh, wait, it’s summertime. What the hell?”

The snow looked so real, and was so well done, I think that the only person who would have thought it was actually strange would have been someone who had never, ever seen snow before. Ever. Everyone else fell right in with it. When I first saw it, I actually thought, “Why isn’t that snow black from pollution and covered in trash?” It took something that simple for me to realize that something was wrong with the snow today in midtown. Every New Yorker knows that a New York City snowfall looks more like rotting Styrofoam after a couple of hours. But not this snow.

It turns out Doug Liman, director of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, The Bourne Supremacy, covered 42nd street and 43rd street in snow on Monday and Tuesday in order to film scenes for his upcoming film entitled Jumper.

Can you imagine having that kind of power? Can you imagine having that kind of money?

I took a few pictures of the aftermath today on my way into the office all the while having New Yorkers kick my ass out of the way as they hurried themselves to work. Unfortunately, I did not actually carry my camera to and from work with me yesterday or Monday so I missed the bulk of the weirdness. But, just like with most snowfalls, the remains were still there today and people were still unbelievably confused.

Today I discovered that Jimmy Buffet has a song called Dickhead

When he’s out drivin’ he’s a Dickhead in his car.

When he’s out drinkin’ he’s a Dickhead in the bar.

When he’s at a party he’s a Dickhead drinkin’ beer.

He’s got to be the winner of “Dickhead Of The Year”.

“Surgeon General Richard H. Carmona declared today that the evidence is now ‘indisputable’ that secondhand smoke is an ‘alarming’ public health hazard, causing tens of thousands of premature deaths from heart disease and cancer among nonsmokers each year.”

Surgeon General Warns of Secondhand Smoke

“There is no safe level of secondhand smoke, and even brief exposure can cause harm, especially for people already suffering from heart or respiratory diseases.”

(Thanks to Brad for the link.)

Tobyjoe and I headed to Nevada Smiths on Sunday to watch the England vs. Ecuador game. At 9 AM the upstairs bar was already full so we headed downstairs where there was more room. Soon, the downstairs was packed as well. We stood there for about an hour and a half watching people trickle in and stake out a spot. Slowly, we were pushed closer and closer together. I began to regret my decision to watch the game in public away from the airiness of our couch but their tagline had read: “Where Football is Religion” Still, it was crowded and very early and we hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet.

Little did I know at the time was by the end of the game we would have witnessed a crowd of people sing the words to Football’s Coming Home in unison all the while bouncing up and down like human pogo sticks. I would also have a foreign vagina spotting under my belt. Only retrospectively would I realize that we had made the right decision to stick around. Plus, the photo-ops were spectacular.

Prior that realization, however, my regretful thoughts about being there became even more intense. And the climax took place at the bathroom directly following halftime.

The bathroom was at the rear of the bar beneath two out of a total of seven TV sets. I asked the two girls standing there if they were waiting. They shook their heads and immediately turned back to the TVs. And so I advanced.

I put my hand on the doorknob and turned. It creaked into motion but grudgingly so. I pulled the door open. Inside the one-person bathroom, stood a woman. She hovered in place. Her legs were open as she peed. Before I figured out exactly what I was looking at, she let out a blood-curdling scream. In all of my life, I don’t think I have ever heard a woman scream like that. And that scream was well called for considering the bathroom sat beneath two TV sets, which held the attention of hundreds of eyes.

She pulled the door shut. I went into a state of shock. I’m not sure who was more humiliated: me, for exposing such a vulnerable act and for having to stand there as everyone else shook his or her heads in horror, or her for being the one I had exposed. Obviously, her mortification outshone my own, but I still felt ugly.

Thinking someone might seek revenge, I chose to wait a while and watch the game instead of relieving myself. She came out and did the walk of shame back to her horrified group of friends. Even though they had seen everything and heard her scream, she retold them the story from her point of view. I listened quietly as I waited to pee.

About a week ago, Tobyjoe and I were having dinner in SoHo when the same thing took place. Tobyjoe had come back to the table looking a little pale.

“I just saw the most disturbing thing in the bathroom. You know how I’m always spotting women’s vaginas? Well, this time, I wish I hadn’t.”

It’s true, Tobyjoe is always spotting women’s vaginas. We’ll be walking down the street and he’ll see one ride by on a bike. One time, we were at Brooklyn Industries, a local clothing store, when he saw one on the couch reading a book. He spots vaginas all over the place. And you thought programming was his forte. He’s seen them on stairs, on LES fire escapes, boarding buses, and eating bagels. He’s a superhero. I have named him Vagina Man.

This particular spotting was not one he was proud of. He went on to tell me about how he had opened an unlocked bathroom door and saw a woman peeing while hovering. He was a lot freaked out by this. Vagina Man was freaked out. She yelled at him. He scolded her for not locking the door. The two went their separate ways and I got to hear about it. One might say I was better prepared for my experience on Sunday.

While I was away showing the entire British pub another woman’s vagina, someone stole my breakfast. Granted, my breakfast was one pint of Guinness. This is the point in the story where you’re not supposed to judge me for actually having a beer for breakfast, or opening the bathroom door while a woman peed you’re supposed to judge the bastard who stole my beer.

I went to the gym to watch the second half of the Italy/Australia football game. (I promise you, I won’t talk about soccer forever but for now I am really, really into it and it makes me happy.) I ran for 45 minutes and hopped off to watch the last 3 on the floor. At 2 minutes and 54 seconds I walked downstairs and hit the shower. The game was tied 0 – 0.

I’m now at work and I read on FIFA that Italy won at minute 95 on a penalty kick? What the hell? First of all, I thought there were only 3 minutes of stoppage. Second of all, what the hell happened? Someone must give me a really, really good description. I will never, ever walk away from a game ever again.

On a related note, I ran 6.0 miles on Saturday, which has me quite pleased with myself. I have decided to run 3.5 to 4.5 during the week and step it up on the weekends. I plan to do 8.0 this Saturday if all goes well. I learned I am about 1 year overdue for buying a new pair of running shoes. (The things you learn from career runners.) I’m currently in search of a good runner’s magazine any suggestions one might have would be greatly appreciated.

Now, about that soccer game…

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(You so want to be able to click on that nonlink, don’t you?)

There is an awesome article in the WSJ about long-term goals for soccer in the U.S.

“The hardest thing for people to accept and understand - longtime fans, soccer haters, the awakening media, the gleefully dismissive European football world - is that soccer in the U.S. has to be viewed through a lens more suitable for the Hubble telescope than for our nearsighted sports culture.“

When I left the house yesterday morning, I felt incredible. I was walking on air. Never before have I commuted with such a grin on my face. I was going to meet my brother in a downtown Manhattan pub. I was going to put life and work on hold for a few hours and just exist. I was elated. I even ordered deep fried mozzarella sticks before noon.

And then we lost. We lost on a bad call, too. I told myself that it wasn’t that big a deal. I thought, “There’s always next time. In four more years, we’ll get ‘em.” And then, after I hit the street, I began to deflate.

Over the course of the day, I began to feel even worse. I wonder how it is sports fans do this all the time. If your team wins, that’s one thing. But when they lose it just hurts. You feel empty. You feel kind of sick. You feel like someone broke up with you. It really, really hurts! I know! That sounds silly coming from me, but it hurts. Suddenly, I understood why people at Penn State were so mean after a game. I began to understand why, as a waitress, I dealt with some of the grumpiest people. Their team had just lost. They were deflated.

Of course, I immediately began to hear the comments. I read them on line, off line, in papers, I had them emailed to me, said to me, and I overheard them said to someone else. It hurt. Hearing people say really negative things about the U.S. soccer team really stung. Granted, there were some wonderful things being said as well, but unfortunately, wearing the face of a loser, the negativity spoke much louder.

But hearing negative comments and being teased wasn’t the worst part. The part that really hurt was that this negativity wasn’t coming from people from other countries or opposing fans. It was coming from my fellow Americans. The situation was like having someone call my son or daughter stupid, say that my brother will never amount to anything, or claim that my mother and father could have done better.

Ouch, people. Ouch. The USA lost. I’m aware of that. It sucks. But why does that mean we shouldn’t even play the game? Why do some people think we don’t even have a place at the World Cup? What’s wrong with having a go at another fantastic sport? And the people who really upset me were the ones who brought up the war and the Bush Administration. The U.S is evil, they should lose! Blah blah blah. What in God’s name does Bush and the war have to do with our place at the World Cup? To those people I have one question: What’s wrong with you?

But I digress. I played soccer as a kid and somewhere along the line I stopped. I stopped going to games. I stopped talking about it. I don’t even own a soccer ball anymore.

“If Argentina can win Olympic gold in men’s basketball, the U.S. can certainly become a global force in men’s soccer.”

In a perfect sporting world, we’d allow ourselves to become a soccer nation. It’s the only sport where the rules are the same for both a male and a female. The balls aren’t different sizes nor are the fields. It’s the only sport where girls grow up playing the exact same game as their brothers. I want my daughter to enjoy it on TV like my son does a baseball or American football game. I want to consistently be able to sit in a bar and watch the USA play a soccer match. And I really don’t want to have to subscribe to some unknown sports channel in order to do so. I want ABC to carry the games all the time. I don’t want the USA game to be tucked away on ESPN2 where virtually no one can watch it. I want it on primetime. I want the sport to grow.

Let’s give America’s children in soccer leagues all over the U.S. another profession to aim for.

And, friends, what do you say we drop all the hate and insecurity.

I have been keeping this Web site for just under five years. In that time, I am proud to say that I have somehow avoided becoming obsessed with another blogger (in that really unhealthy way). I have met people through mihow.com, but I haven’t developed any unhealthy online girl (or guy) crushes. Thus far, I haven’t flown to the far ends of the Earth in order to meet another Web site personality. Thus far, I haven’t ever hunted a blogger down in order to spend a little time with them. That is, up until last weekend.

About two weeks ago I was visiting Gothamist where I discovered a new community blog. The most exciting part about my discovery was that the blog was being written from Williamsburg, Brooklyn, not 15 small blocks from where I currently reside. What’s more, the blog was being maintained by a public business. This Blog didn’t try and deter having obsessive readers, nor did it secretly want but look down on having obsessive readers, this blog wants obsessive readers to come forward and show their faces.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s the day I discovered and became obsessed with the personalities that power Barc Shelter Cat Loft.

I was introduced to Smokey first. Smokey is a Greenpoint Warehouse fire survivor. He looks pretty bad in that picture but I know firsthand, he’s doing much, much better. And he really, really likes attention. As a matter of fact, he’s an attention whore. Right after I read about Smokey and immediately sent Tobyjoe the link, I discovered Molly on the blog. Molly sealed the deal; I simply had to meet these fine bloggers.

Tobyjoe and I took a walk down there last weekend and became volunteers. We spent just under 2 hours with them all. We were able to open their cages (if they were in them) and pet them, brush them, feed them, get them new water, pull them off of one another, talk to them, let them head butt us - you name it. We met Hermes who is known as the “Big Daddy” and is known for nurturing orphaned kittens. (Who knew?!) We met Oren and Onyx and Licorice and Sabrina and Miao and Princess - we met them all.

We’re heading back to the cat loft this weekend to spend more time with them and take pictures. And while we’d love to meet the dogs as well, they are swamped with dog volunteers so we’re there specifically there for the cats.

(Here is where I ask for your help.)

If you are an animal lover and you are living in Brooklyn (or anywhere near here), help out your fellow orphaned felines and canines. Swing by the Barc Web site and donate a few bucks. (If you don’t live here, donate to a shelter near you.) Barc is a no-kill shelter. Some of its cats have been there for over a decade. Cody (the big guy in that picture) has only one eye and is the best head-butter there is. (He really liiked Tobyjoe.) Barc needs all the help they can get to keep these babies alive until someone (hopefully) adopts them.

Lastly, if you would like to see all of Barc’s inhabitants and bloggers, visit Lisacat’s Flickr page. Make her a contact. Send her a message. Say hello to the orphans. Tell her you like what she’s doing. Tell her you’ll visit her blog. Leave her a comment; just let her know you’re out there and that she’s doing a great thing for fuzzy things without human voices.

(I don’t ask for much so I simply must do this. If you can help in anyway at all, even if it’s just linking to their site or telling a friend about them, please help them out in whatever way you can. I mean, how can you resist a face like this one? Click on it, I dare you.)

Edited to add: Seriously, read Cecil’s story. It’s heartbreaking but has a good ending.

Cecil was abused very badly by a not so nice human being. But he’s OK now. He’s received help. I’m so glad to know that there are people like the Barc Animal Shelter out there.

Go visit them . I’m asking really, really nicely. Stop by, and say hello.

I headed downtown this morning to watch the USA play Ghana in what was to be their last match of the 2006 World Cup. The USA lost 2 – 1. Italy did their part. They won against the Czech Republic, 2 – 0. I had a good time. Although, it would have been nice to see us win if only to help boost America’s enthusiasm for football.

I wasn’t bummed out enough when I left The Punt on Exchange Place so I decided to check out the FDNY September 11th Memorial and really seal the deal.

(There are more photographs here).

In other news, Tobyjoe, Brad, his wife, Laura, and I headed to the New York Public Library last night to check out KITCHEN SECRETS: BILL BUFORD with Mario Batali and Anthony Bourdain, It was really quite entertaining especially considering we were in the very last row and really it was just an evening watching three men chatting. But, oh how entertaining their chats were. I was particularly amused by Anthony Bourdain. Best quote of the night: “ultimately, we stand around in clogs and aprons doing the work our mothers always did.”

Laura was kind enough to give us a copy of Buford’s latest book, Heat. And here is where I’ll attempt to put this random post back together again. Are you ready? Bill Buford also wrote Among the Thugs, which is a book about British football hooligans. If you haven’t read that book and you’re a soccer fan, I highly suggest picking it up. It’s amazing.

I have the rest of the day off and it’s blazing hot. I’m trying to figure out what to do. Chances are, I’ll clean for the rest of the day; our apartment greatly needs the attention.

Runners, I need your help. Let’s start with my ankle. It hurts. I have been running anywhere from 3.5 to 4.5 miles a day and upping my distance on the weekends. I love it. My heart rate has even gone down. (Before it would shoot up well above 70. Now, it takes a while before it gets above 60 and it rarely ever hits 70.) Of course, I have hit some snags. About a week ago, my left ankle and shin started to hurt. It’s not excruciating, I can still run, but it does hurt. It hurts the most when I first get up in the morning or directly after I finish running. What’s up with that? Has anyone out there had something like this happen? Is there something I can do? I bought on of those ankle braces but I think it might be too small. I have no idea. I wish there were a runner’s doctor.

This next bit is going to make people laugh at me. It’s about the ass. That’s right, the ass. Is there such thing as runner’s lube? Tobyjoe joked about it last night after I told him my predicament. He also told me to get myself waxed, which I will not do. It’s not that I can’t handle pain, I can. But I am not spreading my cheeks so some Asian woman at Siss can wax my privates. Tobyjoe also suggested Nair. I would rather hand pluck each individual hair than let anyone near my ass with a can of hair-eating Nair.

I have heard of people taping up their nipples. I have no need for that, as my sports bra is super duper and stops any movement from taking place at all. Without going into too much glorious detail, is this normal? Is there something I can do? I need a therapist for my work out routines; this stuff is freaking me out. Also, what other hidden, future problems do I have to look forward to?

Anything goes today. But if you bring up jock itch, I will cut you.

A lot of people new to football (soccer), or just those who have never played, have a big problem with offsides. For those who are unfamiliar with offsides. In order to be offsides a player “must be on their attacking half of the field, be involved in the play, and be closer to the goal line than the ball and any of the opposing team’s players.” It keeps people from camping out.

I played soccer for many years. I understand the need for offsides. I also understand what it is and how it works. You get used to it when you play soccer. You know what to look for and how to avoid it.

Over the past week, I have had several conversations with people who are irked by the concept entirely. Either they don’t know what it is or they’re totally confused as to why it’s called when it’s called. Tobyjoe didn’t quite understand what was happening at first. I explained it. He watched. Now, I think it makes more sense. Some people have compared soccer to basketball, which, I am told, doesn’t have such a rule.

I understand what it is and simply defining it is easy. But I am finding that I can’t articulate offsides to newbies or people who simply haven’t played the sport before. I guess I’m having trouble “selling it”. Some people think it takes the fun out of the game and destroys major breaks. So, I’m asking you, Internet. Help me do this. Help me make sense of offsides.

I took Thursday off. I am taking a comp day for working over the weekend. On Thursday at 10:00 AM EST the USA plays Ghana in their third World Cup game. If the USA wins that game and Italy wins their game, we advance to round two. It’s going to be a heckuva day.

Here’s the deal: the USA lost their first game (and badly) against the Czech Republic. Italy beat Ghana 2 – 0. This weekend, the Czech Republic lost against Ghana 2 – 0. (People are calling their loss the biggest upset of the World Cup.) USA tied with Italy on Saturday. Granted, our point came from an own goal from Italy but we played really well and we played with only 9 men on the field since the ref was handing out red cards like the hookers at Hunts Point hand out blowjobs. The good news about the Czech Republic losing against Ghana is the USA is back in the running. The US team has to beat Ghana, which could be difficult as they are blazing fast. If we beat Ghana and Italy beats the Czech Republic, we’ll advance to round two. But that’s not the most exciting part about all of this, the most exciting part, and the reason I took off work, is the USA/Ghana game takes place at the exact same time (10 AM EST) as the Italy/Czech Republic game. I guess the idea is to not influence one another. I am a little confused. Why does Italy have to beat the Czech Republic? This has been explained to me over and over again and I just can’t get it straight.

My goal is to find a bar on Thursday with at least two TVs. I’m going to sit my ass down and watch them both. Oh, and I won’t be at work. And after the week I had, I really, really need it.

Tobyjoe and I went to Paragon Sports at Union Square on Thursday to pick up a mitt and some running gear. I was seduced by Prana and this shirt while we were there. I discovered a new brand as well. (I also discovered that I went down an entire pant size. Granted, I don’t seem to be losing weight according to our scale but I’m trying not to pay too much attention to that.)

Yesterday, I thought I’d wear the new Lolë shorts and my new Columbia button-down. I felt happy.

We met Missy and Ryan to watch the USA/Italy World Cup match. After that ended, we all had dinner at Sweetwater where I dropped a big fat glob of olive oil onto my new shirt. I was not too happy.

When I got home I did a little research on the Internet and read that talc powder, if left on for an extended amount of time, has been know to absorb oil stains. The bad news is I didn’t have any actual talc powder. The good news is I did have Gold Bond Foot Powder whose first ingredient happens to be talc. The even better news is my shirt is now spotless.

I love the Internet. I also love the fact that my feet are stinky and sweaty and gross enough to have Gold Bond Foot Powder just lying around the house.

Oh, and GO USA!

WalMart made the news again. Someone has been stealing copies of Cheaper By The Dozen from WalMart stores in Beckley, MacArthur, Summersville, Lewisburg and neighboring Virginia. 270 copies of the film have been swiped. The perps are still at large.

“A man and woman were captured by video surveillance that showed the pair entering the Beckley store and getting a shopping cart and storage container. They were briefly joined by three other people. The man and woman then went to the electronics department, where the man stuffed the DVDs into the storage container, Efird said.“

They also stole 22 copies of Hollowman 2. You tell me.

Somewhere along the line I picked up a crush on Hislop, the goalie for Trinidad and Tobago. And I found myself rooting for them the entire time I was at the gym watching the first half of their second game. They have a decent defense, which is how they fought off Sweden but their offense needs a little help. Plus, they are ranked number 46 and I have to love a team ranked 46.

I sat down just now to write a post about how watching Hislop feels like watching the computer casually play Breakout on Atari when the BBC page in the background refreshed and began to spit out goals for England.

England won, 2/0. I missed the actual goals but I guess Hislop can’t stop everything.

In related news, Nora just sent me an email about this book. She writes:

It’s a collection of essays about the soccer culture in every country represented in this years Cup. It will help feed the mania!

Today, Tobyjoe and I are going to buy mitts to play catch after work. Perhaps I’ll grab this book as well.

Poor Trinidad but England’s pretty rad, too. And check out Crouch’s legs!

All shots from the BBC Photo Gallery

Yesterday morning on the train a man yelled at me. I’m still trying to figure out why he yelled at me and I’m still trying to figure out what I can do in the future to avoid it. Either way, he yelled at me and it bugged me greatly.

I was getting onto the 4/5/6 at the time. It wasn’t that crowded; yet people don’t ever seem to want to move into the center of the car. While I understand this need for being the first one out once I’m at a stop, moving into the middle of the train is just part of the social contract. You get into the car, and you continue moving into the car so everyone else can move into the car. I can’t tell you how often this simply does not take place. In fact, I would say 90 percent of the time people choose to not do this. Some of them even stand right in front of the doors. Many times there are two people in front of the door giving any loading passengers one body-sized opening to fit through. It’s so frustrating. But it’s part of living in the city. You deal with it. You grunt and you deal with it.

Yesterday, however, a guy just yelled at me. He said, “WELL YOU’RE THE ONE AT MY F*CKING BACK!” Of course I was at his back, I was trying to board the train. I lowered my head and chose to ignore him. (This has happened to me before.) And one might think that I’m used to it. But I’m not. Each time it affects me greatly and I wear it for the rest of the day.

At lunch, I went to the gym. I have been doing that for the past several weeks. I run 3.5 miles and then I head back to work. It’s been fantastic lately as I have had soccer games to watch while I run. I head over there at noon, watch the first half, and then head back to the office. I figure if soccer players can run for 45 minutes straight, I can too. (I’m going to be hard pressed for motivation once the World Cup is over.)

I am usually high when I’m finished running. My heart rate goes from 160+ back down to 70 and when that happens, my head buzzes with pleasure. It’s the best feeling since discovering dark chocolate. I am addicted, quite frankly.

I wore a t-shirt and a pair of brown slacks. My hair was still wet from the shower. I sat down to put on my shoes. I set my bag to my left on the floor. I set my left shoe onto my foot and my right shoe on the bench next to my bottle of FUZE. But I wasn’t entirely aware of all of this when I sat down.

A woman walked over carrying a large backpack. She wore a baby blue skirt suit, super high black heels, and wore her hair high above her head. She has tightly pursed lips. Had we not been in a gym, I’d have guessed she were a career smoker.

“EXUSEMETHANKS!” She spit at me and another woman.

I try so hard to be polite. When I say excuse me, I generally mean it. This woman, however, immediately just expected everyone to part for her. How rude.

I moved my legs so she could get by. She opened a locker and then began to place things on the bench next to me. I had a little more than half of it (maybe). She then went at me again.

“CANIMOVETHIS?THANKS!” She didn’t wait for me to respond. It came out as all one word. She picked up my bottle and moved it close to my legs. I looked down and then back at my feet. I shook my head in amazement; annoyed she was ruining my buzz.

“I DO NOT HAVE ANY ROOM HERE.” She said down to me.

I began to shake my head even more. I looked down the entire time.

From her, this must have come off as an act of passive aggression. It was not. Instead, I really didn’t want to deal with her. I was literally 1 minute from being out the door, out of this woman’s way and life forever. I figured she could wait that minute and I could carry on feeling good.

“YOU KNOW, IT’S REALLY UNECESSARY FOR YOU TO SHAKE YOUR HEAD.”

I looked up at her at this point. My running buzz drained from my head like air from a balloon. Her voice was sharp. It poked a hole in my ego.

Tobyjoe said I should have elbowed her in the head and kicked her in the vagina. My coworkers told me I should have responded with absolute crazy anger, that crazy works with people like that, that I should have treated her like a dog. But I chose to take the highest road I could given my location.

“You know, you should really try being a nice person. That’s all it takes. Just be nice. I’m almost out the door. You can have the entire bench at that time. Just be nice.”

She freaked out. Her voice rose so that everyone around us could hear her.

“I AM A NICE PERSON! I AM A VERY NICE PERSON! I WAS BEING VERY NICE! YOU ARE TAKING UP TOO MUCH ROOM!”

I grabbed my bag and my iPod and began to head out the door. As I was leaving she threw one last sarcastic comment at the back of my head.

“HAVE A NICE DAY!” She yelled.

I went from feeling elated with accomplishment to embarrassed and insulted. Each and every time something like this happens, my body feels enlarged. I feel like a massive human being, a big fat finger, an ugly piece of flesh, something everyone is watching and wants removed, a human wart.

This morning, I was getting on the elevator. I had my headphones on and a guy was trying to use his umbrella to push the “Up” arrow. I pushed it with my finger on the other wall. When the elevator came, he waited outside and put his hand in front of the doors so they wouldn’t close. I got onto the elevator. Before I had the ability to say anything he said, “YOU’RE WELCOME!” My face sunk. I thought I was done with yesterday.

I can’t help but wonder if others experience encounters like this. Do I call it upon myself? Do I give off “bitch vibes”? If I do, I want to put an end to them. I asked my coworkers if this ever happens to them. Both of them are men and said that, no, it doesn’t. They talked about having to carry myself better, and try coming off as someone who is unlikely to take crap from strangers. They said I look like a nice person even if that’s not the case at all. They said men don’t do that with one another because there is always the belief that things can become physical. They said that outside of some nasty looks or eye-roll exchanges, they don’t get much crap from women either.

I feel like this happens to me a lot and I know it could be worse. Some people are stabbed by complete strangers while riding the C Train. I know it gets worse. But, like most people, I’m selfish.

I don’t think I’m particularly cruel to people. Perhaps it’s where I live and how often I am out in public. And if this doesn’t happen to others why does it happen to me? I do hope that I’m not a minority.

Yesterday, I was almost hit by a little bus on my way in to the office. I wasn’t even jaywalking at the time. Instead, I absent-mindedly decided to cross the street when it was not, in fact, OK to do so.

I guess you might say my signals got crossed. I looked at the green light and thought, “Green means go.” Which is totally and completely true if you’re driving a car. I was not driving a car. I was walking.

I was halfway across one street when I realized what I had done. The cars began to lurch forward at me; annoyed I was standing in there. I had two options: I could continue across by running and hope that the third lane wasn’t hiding a moving car, or I could walk back to the curb where I had come from. I decided to walk back to the curb where I had come from. It was at that very moment where the little bus began to move. I thought it would stop as soon as it saw me. It did not stop. It continued on until it came so close, I felt it against my shoulder.

A few things when through my mind at this point, and I’m not quite sure in what order they came because it all happened so fast. But here they are in no particular order.

“I’m going to die.”

“A little bus is going to kill me”

“Why is this guy not stopping?”

“I am stupid.”

Perhaps the weirdest thought, and the most shameful one, and, incidentally, the one I feel most shameful about having thought was:

“Strangers are going to laugh about how you died when they read about it in the paper.”

Finally, he saw me, but it was only after I had returned to the curb. Terror turned into relief and then immediately relief turned into shame. A young man stood on the curb next to me. He said something. I am unsure what that was. Using that lever I watched get pulled time and time again on hundreds of school buses all along the Eastern seaboard, the bus driver opened the bus door. He began screaming obscenities at me. The little bus driver was yelling obscenities at me. And then the kids on the little bus stood up, moved to the side of the bus I was on. They began to gawk. The little bus driver was screaming at me. The boy on the corner was talking to me in an accent I could not place. And a bunch of little kids on the little bus were collectively staring at me. Some of them were laughing.

I wasn’t sure what to do and so I lifted my hand and held it flat against the sky in the direction of the little bus driver. I figured that if I couldn’t see him, the sound of his voice would stop. The boy on the curb next to me said something else I couldn’t understand.

“I admit, I screwed up but what does he want me to do about that now?” I asked the boy next to me. He stared at me and finally said nothing. I suppose the bus driver got whatever anger out of his system through whatever angry words, because finally he did his best at slamming the door and continued on down the street.

Like one might wear sunburn after an eventful day spent under the sun, I wore my shame and stupidity all day long. And even last night as I lay down to sleep near no cars, or curbs, or crying bus drivers, I kept replaying it over and over again in my head each and every time being run over by the bus, each and every time differently.

Do we do this to ourselves to avoid being killed in the future? Because I was hit and killed 250 different times yesterday by a little bus that came close to killing me once.

I’m a little late getting to this post because, well, yesterday I spent most of my free time trying to figure out a way to watch the USA play their first game in the World Cup. Too bad they lost.

Anyway, I read an article yesterday that really piqued my interest. At first, I didn’t believe it. There is a now a cell phone ring tone that adults cannot hear. The technology began as a way to deter teens from loitering outside of businesses. (I guess the sound is considered so irritating, no one can stand to hear it for any lengthy amount of time.) Well, the technology has backfired a little bit. Kids are now using the sound to hide cell phone calls during class.

Here’s the deal, the technology relies on the fact that most adults lose their ability to hear high-pitched frequencies. And yesterday, a few of us tested it out. One of the guys I work with heard it and came close to screaming. The other guy said he only heard it faintly and even then he wasn’t sure. I couldn’t hear it at all. (Then again, I am nearly deaf in one ear and the other has a constant high-pitch ring. I don’t need a cell phone ring to annoy me. I live with it 24/7.)

So, if you can hear this sound welcome to my every waking minute and you’re hot.

We have been diligently following the World Cup this year. Yesterday, we spent several hours at a local brunch spot where we watched Trinidad tie with Sweden, England win after Paraguay’s captian Carlos Gamarra headed in an own-goal, and Argentina beat the Ivory Coast, which was a must-see game. I rooted for the Ivory Coast. Not only are they the underdog, but also their economy has been stunted by political turmoil and civil war. The World Cup, and the camaraderie it brings with it, inspired the nation to call for a ceasefire thereby pausing its ongoing civil war. I can’t tell you how awesome that is, just another reason to adore soccer and worldwide sporting events.

I’m a little irritated that the United States plays for the first time at noon on Monday. I think a long lunch may be in order. I might even hit the ESPN Zone at Times Square. I’m also annoyed that it’s not being shown everywhere. For example, we were at the gym this morning and you can’t get it on the TVs there. Instead, they were talking about Barry Bonds and his juiced induced records, teenage cheerleaders, and old football stats. Why are American’s so turned off from soccer? Why do we follow football like it’s a religion and totally snub the World Cup? I will never understand this. People say that it’s because there aren’t enough points scored, and while I know that Americans tend to prefer quantity to quality, points does not an exciting game make.

I haven’t been so enthusiastic about a sport in quite some time. Perhaps it’s because I played soccer for a long time and therefore understand exactly what’s going on. Perhaps it’s due to the game’s constant movement. It’s so much fun to watch. It’s even more fun to play. And it’s been fantastic sitting in a room filled with people who are cheering for whatever team they choose.

Currently, we’re watching Mexico play Iran and even though Mexico is up one point and we’re 30 minutes into the game, I am rooting for Iran. There is a part of me that believes that it could be something as simple as winning a soccer match that might help an entire country cooperate and identify with the rest of the world.

Update: Monday, June 12th, 9:10 AM Trying to figure out a way to watch the US game at noon. (Checking score between Australia vs. Japan online.) NYSC doesn’t have ESPN2 but the kind gentleman working desk informs me over the phone that I might possibly be able to watch it on the Spanish channel, Univison. Cross your fingers they’re showing the game.

Update: Monday, June 12th, 10:14 AM This is how I’m “watching” the game:

Update: Monday, June 12th, 1:39 PM Ouch for the U.S. Ouch. I ran for the first half. Left at halftime and then headed to an Irish pub, which was packed with people there specifically to see the game. I left right when Czech scored their third goal. Bummer, dude. At the office again hoping for a miracle.

I received an email from someone yesterday that had me thinking. I know them personally but I won’t say who wrote it. In fact, I’d like to keep most of this post as private (for everyone) as possible. They posed a question that I thought might be interesting to post here. They asked me how many times per month I think most couples have sex. I thought about this for a while and then answered them. Granted, you can’t put a number on everyone. I realize this. But it did make me think.

So, I figured I’d put that question up here as well. Now, I don’t want anyone to use his or her real names. (Please, especially since I know some of you personally and I wouldn’t feel right about asking you this on line, in person, maybe. But not on line.) I also know that some of you might think that we’ll try and hunt you down by way of an IP address. All I can say to that concern is that you have my word that I will not do this. I will keep this entirely anonymous. I promise. If you haven’t ever believed anything I’ve ever said before, believe this. In another life, I would have loved to have been some type of sex therapist (especially for women). I will stand by my word.

So, how often do you have sex? How often do you think other couples have sex?

(If anyone actually answers this question, I, too, will chime in under a fake name. Ultimately, I am hoping that this post opens up a constructive dialogue.)

Police have arrested a homeless man in connection with the Greenpoint warehouse fires that took place back in May. I guess it wasn’t Guttman after all. (Thanks to Brad for the information.)

A St. Louis minor-league baseball club came up with the most horrific hamburger ever. A little over a year ago, Burger King released a breakfast sandwich that packed in 750 calories and 47 grams of fat. The Gateway Grizzlies rank in at 1,000 calories. The donut alone has 10 grams of sugar. (For those of you who don’t have to count calories or pay a lick of attention to how much you eat that’s half of the daily recommendation. And if you’re dieting, that’s more than half.) Here’s the surprising part, however, the Gateway Grizzly doesn’t win for being the most caloric. A Hardee’s out of St. Louis released a 1,420 calorie hamburger in 2004. That burger has 107 grams of fat. Methinks St. Louis might be looking at some heart disease.

The Gateway Grizzly features a burger with cheese and bacon tucked between a Krispy Kreme donut. And I thought the sandwich my brother had from ‘Wichcraft was bad.

Bowers told one Gateway Grizzly diner, “You’re ruining it! You’re not supposed to put ketchup on it!” At 1000 calories for just its foundation, I would insist on as much as well.

In other news, my father is moving to St. Louis.

As Rachel Maddow pointed out on yesterday’s radio show, it’s entirely comical (and telling) that Anne Coulter’s new book comes out on 6/6/6. If it’s not purposeful, it sure is funny. Hell, it’s funny anyway.

Someone needs to feed her.

I have nails. For the first time in my life, I have nails. They’re kind of nice, too. Yesterday, I went ahead and got my first ever manicure to celebrate their arrival. I spent 20 bucks (that includes a tip.) They were so pretty and pink and shiny and I found that I kept looking at them reminding myself that they are really my own wondering if they are here to stay. I told Tobyjoe that I plan on becoming one of those girly wives, the kind that spend money at the spa and wear dresses and get hairdos and wear lipstick. He said that was fine. (What a great man I found.) And so I went ahead and booked a facial and a massage.

Today, I noticed something strange on my left pointer finger. It seemed that the paint on one of my nails was bubbling up a bit. At the very top, near where the nail curves down toward the side, I noticed that the paint seemed to be coming up from nail. I was so sad and so I chose to ignore it.

The problem is, I couldn’t ignore it. I kept thinking about it. The impulsive desire to take another fingernail and peel it up was almost too much to deal with. But I fought the urge. I knew that it would only last a split second and then I’d be left with only 9 shiny nails.

About an hour ago, the whole piece of paint lifted up and I had no choice but to peel it back. At first, it was exciting, but then it felt like I had just torn a 20-dollar bill in half.

Now, I have 9 beautiful shiny fingernails and one regular one and I’m 20-dollars poorer.

I have nothing to compare this to. Sure, I have had pedicures. I had one that lasted nearly 6 months. (They chipped, but they were troopers.) Is this normal? I am so annoyed right now.

Tobyjoe is in the process of developing some film he shot at the Derby bout on Friday night. I shot with a digital camera. His look so much more interesting, in my opinion. Please swing by. He can talk more about what he used if he wishes. There will be more in the next couple of days.

Click the image below to see more of Tobyjoe’s.

On Friday, Leggs Luthor (aka Anna) hooked us up with press passes to the Gotham Girls Roller Derby bout between the Queens of Pain and The Brooklyn Bombshells. It was amazing. Leggs Luthor broke the record for most points scored during a jam. (I think her total was 12, a shutout.) I know I’m slightly biased because, well, it’s Anna but I really felt that she stole the show last night. Leggs was outstanding.

I dealt with some growing pains using the new camera (trying to figure out how it performs under low light, at 1600, etc.) but everything ended up OK. I see a new flash in the distant future.

Here are some images from the bout. There are 31 more over on Flickr. Please stop by.

This is Suzy Hotrod. This woman has the most amazing body I have ever seen in real life. It’s inspirational. Her arm muscles are fantastic. She’s got great hips. She makes me want to hit the gym 8 days a week.

This is Donna Matrix She has a great name. Some other favorites: Hyper Lynx (her number is 404 – made me giggle), Anne Phetamean, Penny Larceny Lil Red Terror, and, of course, Leggs Luthor.

Below, we have Rolletta Lynn who took a fall during the first half and got pretty banged up. We do hope that she’s OK.

Last night, after we left, I couldn’t help but come up with names should I ever find I’m hot enough to be on a Roller Derby team. I came up with a few: Die Anna, Loosey Lips, and Betty Rage. A girl can dream, right?

Again, there are 31 more over here.

The Department of Homeland Security announced yesterday that it’s cutting New York City’s antiterrorism dollars by 40 percent. I would be speechless, but I am still gloating over the fact that my Nano survived a wash cycle, a spin cycle, a rinse cycle, and another spin cycle.

New York officials were given a one-page tally that explained, in part, how the region’s risk-based standing was calculated. The document said the region had no “national monuments or icons,” four banking or financial firms with assets of over $8 billion, 28 chemical or hazardous material sites, as well as nearly 7,000 other possible important, high-risk targets, like hospitals or major office buildings, a tally that some city officials said had major omissions or errors.

Are you kidding me? The Brooklyn Bridge isn’t an icon? The United Nations? Times Square? What in the hell?

“This is indefensible,” Mr. King said. “It’s a knife in the back to New York, and I’m going to do everything I can to make them very sorry they made this decision.”

I agree with Mr. King for the most part. But methinks that the NSA might want to put on the ol’ headphones and give Mr. King an eavesdrop.

Seriously though, Omaha? Really? Louisville?

Also, it’s a good thing this has become common knowledge don’t you think? That’s why the catcher always just yells to to the mound during a baseball game.