Bush Hour

Yesterday I found myself on the 4 train at the height of rush hour.

i don't take the 4 train for a number of reasons. Too crowded, TOO crowded, TOO FUCKING CROWDED. Especially before the 9am hour. Unfortunately for me, that is the hand that was dealt to me that day, so I sucked it up, put my ipod on full blast and jammed out to some Les Savy Fav to tune everyone out around me.

When I got off at my stop, 4 bajillion people got off with me. I tried to dart around all the assholes who were in absolutely NO hurry to get to work on a Monday morning, preferring to shuffle through the subway station like a bunch of zombies. I'm guessing nobody had had a chance to get their coffee yet or else everyone was feeling more than slightly shitty at the financial downturn and disaster we are about to experience. But I digress.

I found myself behind an older gentleman who was carrying a few plastic bags. I was hot on his trail as he moseyed through the turnstile. Right behind him, I pushed through, and then found myself stuck.

Somehow, the old dude's plastic bag handle had wrapped itself around the turnstile while I started to go through it, and after he extricated the bag...the turnstile wouldn't move. I was trapped inside of it, and realized that the only way I was getting out was to do a high kick over the offending piece of metal that had me in its grasp.

As I am known to do, I was wearing the miniest of minis, with the tiniest of thongs underneath, so my high kick was basically a free show to the old man, and basically the entirety of the subway station.

Throw in the fact that I have given up all but the bare minimum of grooming essentials, and well...I'll just let you use your imagination there.

And another case of the Mondays was born..

They Don't Call Me Cheese for Nothin'

I'm sitting on my couch, furiously knitting away at a hat that I have been obsessing about for weeks. It's after midnite, and I've just gotten home after a long day of work and a not so long night of booze n yarn {by the way people, knitting and booze do NOT mix. Another blog for another time. I know I know, you're counting the minutes...}

When I got home, I pulled off my boots and many layers of tights, sweaters, etc. Threw on a tshirt and little else and flopped down on my couch, as previously mentioned, to knit til I can't see straight.

I notice a very unsavory smell wafting up from my lap. Jesus Christ, I need to shower.

I guess all that knitting and fretting over the knitting, plus the layers of clothing that have been worn since 7am are taking their toll on my sweat glands. By God do I smell like sour milk.

I found it very curious, however, as I have never quite smelt like that before. I've smelt myself sans shower, post sex, post workout, post swimming in the Hudson even, and never in my life have I given off the odor of sour milk. Damn, I'm getting nasty in my old age I guess...

I noticed a small stain on the ultrasuede sofa, it had just appeared out of nowhere. I wiped it up with one of the many blankets that are strewn about the couch {cuz I'm classy like that} and realized it had a very familiar stench.

Sour milk.

The culprit, it seemed, was a tupperware bowl I brought home from work and stuffed into a backpack, which also happened to contain my knitting. The bowl still had droplets of milk from my cereal several days prior, and it was becoming rancid and leaking.

Thank the fucking Lord! I may be Old Cheese, but damn if I want to smell like it!