bystander intervention af

New York in summer, with its millions of people crammed together like sweaty sardines in an ancient, oily tin, is a veritable wonderland of idiosyncrasies, outbursts and xenophobia. On the other hand, it occasionally provides opportunities to spot moments where one can step in and make this city a little less of an angry, festering butthole. I tend to walk away from these sorts of occasions both encouraged and disturbed. For example:

Yesterday I was walking to the train from Central Park (yep, my ass was in Manhattan on a weekend. I feel like I deserve a freaking award), through the remnants of the Bastille Day celebrations on 60th Street (Now that I think of it, I was given a free pastry just for walking by a dude that was breaking down his tent, so I guess I did get a reward for being in Manhattan after all) and I saw these two dudes smoking a cigarette and staring across the street, chuckling. I turned and saw a woman about my age stumbling with really tall shoes, sort of aimlessly, and I learned from ONE ACT that to not be a total piece of shit, you need to take care of other women, even if it means seeming nosy. Also, fuck those dudes. So I stopped and leaned against a wall to watch her and see if she needed help, and she crossed the street to stand next to me, which is a weird thing to do in New York. It scared me because it made me think something happened to her. She seemed emotionally fine, but she was so drunk or high that she couldn’t meet my eye. Long story short, I got her into a cab, but like, fuck whoever left her alone, and what if something did happen to her? I wanted to ask, but I also didn’t want to pry.

Today, a lesbian couple got on the train and sat across from me, and this older dude sitting nearby started complaining loudly to these two poor Asian tourists that same sex relationships are disgusting and two women can’t make a baby (joke’s on you, dude – that technology is almost here) and two men can’t make a baby and all this garbage. Once I realized what he was yelling about (I had headphones in at first) I asked him to stop yelling hateful language. He was obviously a massive dick about it, but fuck if I’m gonna let this lesbian couple sit here being shouted about while no one even tries to defend them, and plus I grew up with same sex parents. It’s hard to know what to do in these situations, especially if the person being shitty is also a member of a marginalized community, which in this situation was the case.  If it’s a ostensibly cis-het white dude, I will open up a can, but when it’s not, it’s so much more complicated.

Man, hat was a downer. I did have a post all ready when I had my period during the 4th of July, but was too lazy to finish it – here’s how it started:

Last weekend I was lounging in my white underwear and blue shorts and my vagina was like, “Bitch it’s 4th of July. Imma make your ass patriotic as hell right now,” and swooped in to give me the color scheme I needed to make this holiday memorable.

You have to give it to my vagina for spotting an opportunity and seizing it. Get it?? Eh? Spotting? Ugh h8 myself. Joke’s on her, though, because blood stains brown. Anyhow, my underwear is ruined.

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Hopefully that punderful anecdote will make it worth reading this whole post. But seriously, y’all, we have got to take care of each other.

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Summer

It is that time of year again when I am at greatest risk of accidentally having my slightly hairy thigh make contact with a far hairier, far less conscientious thigh due to the careless proliferation of body parts that characterizes men on the subway (and also, everywhere). I think it’s great that everyone is wearing shorts. I think body positivity is wonderful. But your thigh is just objectively gross, and keep it the fuck away from mine, k? As the age-old saying goes, “Your balls are not that big.”

It’s also the time of year when my comfort would be exponentially greater, given the sticky, sweltering heat that gathers all the streets of New York into a sweaty mass of metropolis that smells like an overturned garbage truck, if I could wear dresses every day, but when I still choose jeans and a t-shirt to avoid both the visibility of my crotch to everyone below me on any given subway stairway and unwanted attention from shitty dudes.

Sir, my ass is not there for you to ogle at like you’re watching fucking Chef’s Table. It is for me to sit on and for me to poop out of. Next time I see a dude staring creepily at a woman’s ass I’m going to get really close to his ear and whisper, “She poops out of that.” If he’s really being gross, I’ll be like, “She has explosive diarrhea out of that.”

See also:

  • Copious tourists, whose tanned arms emerging from singlets bearing the acronym “YOLO” inexplicably string across two poles on the subway, giving me the option of jabbing said singlet-bearing torso with my elbow or ducking under disgusting-ass, blond hair-covered armpits;
  • forgetting my office sweater at home and attempting to covertly shove my hands under my armpits like Mary Katherine Gallagher in order to warm them up in the Arctic office atmosphere;
  • Riding my bike to Coney Island, getting sand in my butt crack, riding my bike home from Coney Island with sand in my butt crack;
  • Chafing

My period came early and I am not here for any of y’all’s bullshit

I mean, at least it’s not the same day as Trump’s inauguration this time. But it is the same day as Trump being president, because that’s every day.

I’m sure y’all were wondering with bated breath, When will Leah post about her period again? It’s been an awfully long time. Is she pregnant? Let’s hope so, because then she and Beyoncé will have babies in the same year. But also, let’s hope not, because Trump is the president and also that Pepsi commercial with Kylie or Kendall or Kookie whatever the fuck exists now.

The reality is, I forgot. Because I was busy bleeding out of my vagina. Sue me.

This time, however, I did not forget. Because within the series of moments during which I discovered that my period came early, I was treated to a series of almost-as-exciting discoveries outside of my body.

I was feeling like I wanted some privacy (there must’ve been an instinct deep inside of me that knew my vagina was about to fuck me up) so I went straight to the single capacity bathrooms at work – AKA pooping bathrooms – and all were occupied but two. I went into the first one, and the seat was straight-up COVERED in pee. It was like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting, except instead of a paint brush that an artist purposefully draped over a canvas that no one sits on, it was a stupid fucking penis attached to a stupid fucking man.

I then proceeded into the other bathroom, and, lo and be-fucking-hold, the seat was up, y’all! What in the goddamn ass is going on? I work in a building with literally the smartest computer engineers in the country, who make hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars a year. These people have wives. These people have mothers. And I’m even more horrified to say that there are male coworkers of mine who think it’s fine to leave the seat up in a multi-sex/gender bathroom.

Every time a dude sits on a toilet seat covered in another dude’s piss, somewhere in the world a dog adopts a bunch of orphaned kittens.

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Anyway, after putting down the GOT-DAMNED seat that some piece of shit decided to leave up for my ass to take care of, I had to shove a piece of cylindrical cotton up my hoo ha and proceed back to my desk for several hours of bending double in pain, and I just don’t feel like being cool with dudes being garbage right now!

#pleasegoaway

The tourists have descended y’all. Like, who the motherfuck are all these people? It’s like yesterday New York was Trump’s inauguration, and today it’s Obama’s inauguration. I’m also grumpy as shit because I skipped several doses of medication last week by accident. Also, where is the f-u-c-k-i-n-g C train, ever??

I’m also moving at the end of the month and finding an apartment here is a fresh level of hell that I haven’t experienced yet, as previously I found rooms through other people. Now it’s just Bae and me, and we’ve seen like fifteen apartments in a week (I know I’m prone to hyperbole but that’s actually about how many we went to). Several of these were taken the day after we looked. It’s like we’re the male birds of paradise flashing our stupidly ostentatious feathers and the apartments are the dumpy-ass females. Except instead of obtaining the right to further our genetic information, we get the right to pay someone 2000 bucks to live in a bread box with a hot water heater in the kitchen and most likely a bunch of flattened rats covered with hardwood floors.

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No chill whatsoever

Fortunately there’s The Great British Bake Off, the Xanax of visual media. Good night!

I’m on my period, Grand Canyon edition

If the universe didn’t want me to make a bunch of puns about the Grand Canyon and my period, it wouldn’t have brought my period while I was in Arizona to visit the Grand Canyon.

Unfortunately I didn’t have time to write this while I was actually there because I was too busy *~hiking~* and *~clutching my bloated tummy~* so I may be incapable of producing inspiring puns, particularly because I’m back in New York and there’s nothing red or arid or cavernous about this place. Also, I haven’t written here in ages so I feel a little out of practice.

Bae and I felt that, given the fart-filled balloon we’ve elected as president, we ought to go out and support our national parks while we still have the chance. Some day I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren that I shed my uterine lining while hiking the Grand Canyon. They’ll be filled with awe, like a pad bursting with blue fluid. Or they won’t even know what I’m talking about, because the Grand Canyon will have been filled with concrete to build a Google campus #justkiddinggoogle #idneverinsultyougoogle #iloveyougoogle

By the way, y’all, a body was airlifted out of the canyon the day before we came. I literally experience moments of fear walking down a hallway that I will just fall on my face spontaneously, and I somehow endured the Grand Canyon after finding out that someone had just fallen to their death. Unsurprisingly, most of the people who die in the canyon are men.

All right, that’s enough rambling.

Toni Erdmann

Last night Pat and I went to Lincoln Plaza Cinemas, an *~*art house cinema*~*, to see Toni Erdmann (which was super duper, by the way). As any sane person does, I proceeded straight to the concession stand as soon as I walked in to buy the largest amount of popcorn I thought I could safely consume.

First of all, the dude behind the counter was…I was going to say Eeyore, but it was beyond Eeyore. It was like Squidward and Eeyore mixed together. So, like a human being, I ordered a medium popcorn with butter. And Squeeyore, with no sense of shame whatsoever (in fact, it was possibly Squeeyore’s version of glee), he said “We don’t have butter here.”

Ex

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cuse me??

I don’t care if Kurosawa and Godard themselves christened your movie theater an “art house cinema.” You have motherfucking butter for my popcorn.

So extra.

Anyhow, I’ve been having all these weird stress dreams – in one of them I peed my pants in front of my boss, and in another I was the leader of an ancient ape tribe that was being overrun by Homo sapiens. No one said they were all relevant.

Metrograph Commissary, aka Hell

Alright, I’m about to get all suburban mom on y’all and I apologize in advance. I know I have the privilege, as a relatively average-looking white person, to be treated generally well when I enter customer service situations. But I also worked in service for seven years, including in fine dining. I know how to treat customers, even complete pieces of shit that make you wish voo doo worked. And, more importantly, I know how to treat people in service, and I know the necessity of giving them the benefit of the doubt because they may have just dealt with one of the aforementioned pieces of shit.

But litro, FUCK NEW YORK. Bae and I went to see the documentary Kedi, which, by the way, was cute as hell. I smiled so much during the film, which follows the street cats of Istanbul (like, are you kidding), that my cheeks were sore. The juxtaposition of the experience we had in the theater and the experience we had in the adjoining restaurant – oh sorry, commissary – was so stark that it was funnier than it was infuriating. But only by a little. So I was infuriated.

We made a reservation for 8:30, and the hostess gave us attitude right away. Bae and I were both like, okay, maybe it’s been a rough day for this rude-ass human. But then, we were led to the bar to wait for our table and almost smacked into George Michael Bluth. First sign the night was about to descend into a banana stand on fire.

We were seated after fifteen minutes, despite being right on time for our reservation, and despite the excruciatingly unhurried pace at which all of the staff were walking around the only partially occupied restaurant. Once she told us our table was ready and apologized with as much sincerity as Donald Trump saying, “There’s nobody that has more respect for women than I do,” Bae good-naturely responded with “No worries, it happens.”

She literally responded with “What happens?” Like, did you just start this job within the last hour? Also, are you an actual toddler?

Once she sat us, we remained at our table without menus or water for more than fifteen minutes. We glanced around at the waitstaff, floating about like blackflies inching towards death, but we were aggressively ignored by all. Finally I sheepishly (but overtly) waved at the hard-hearted harpy robot that was the hostess, and she lit-er-al-ly smiled right at me and kept walking only to lean on the hostess stand like a deflating bounce house.

We ended up leaving passive aggressively without looking at or speaking to her and proceeding to New York’s finest dining establishment, Shanghai Cafe Deluxe.

Anyway, protip: don’t eat at a restaurant that calls itself a fucking commissary or everyone will treat you like shit, unless you’re George Michael Bluth.

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