Man Down

This morning I got a text that someone had gotten run over by the F train,* so in turn no trains were running. This news comes dangerously close to me watching a video last week of some drunk woman falling on the tracks, the approaching train stopping about 2 inches from her head (intense) I checked GMA, nytimes.com and the MTA service Advisory website and didn't see anything other than the normal trailing list of road blocks, so I headed figured I would be in the clear. I was wrong.
Here we have the mass exodus from south Brooklyn to jay street where all of these suspecting commuters expect to catch a running F. After being bullied by a small, elderly Asian woman in a poofy coat, I'm here waiting on the Manhattan bound track like all of the other chumps late for work. I decide to make a hopefully time saving decision to take the A and transfer at west 4th. Maybe it's because this delay has put me past the morning rush, but the A is surprisingly spacious. Other than the slow jams blasting through earbuds behind me and a woman applying chapstick to her grown husband's lips in front on me, I have a seat where I can comfortably think about Bollywood routines and whether I should have fruit or juice when I get to work. It's surprise tragedies like this that keep my relationship with the F Train interesting.

*Update: Well, first I thought someone got run over, then I thought someone got stabbed, and now I kind of think someone got run over and someone else was on the tracks. Three cheers for accurate and time-sensitive news reporting!

How to stuff a woman's stocking (this is not a metaphor) by Ryan D'Agostino

Yesterday in a weekly work status meeting, I went to present something from this month's Esquire magazine and was met by "I think you're the only person left who reads Esquire!" Touche, I do read Esquire, and I love it. I love the graphics, I love the articles, I love the funny jokes by a hot woman. Maybe it's my increasing void of testosterone, or maybe it's the hilarity of Dr. Oz's face knitted onto a Christmas sweater. Whatever the case, reading this magazine during my commute is a close second to not-finishing the New York Mag crossword puzzle.

This morning I came across this sidebar of How to Stuff a Woman's Stocking (this is not a metaphor) by Ryan D'Agostino. In the Matheny household our stockings consist of the necessities: deodorant, toothbrush, santa chocolate, socks, mixed in with a few big ticket items like makeup, jewelry or music. What I'm saying is that if I were ever on the receiving end of this stocking jackpot, it would be a very happy holiday. I give it to you:

The first step in filling a Christmas stocking is:
Remember to do it. Women tend to love us for performing gestures that are thoughtful, time-consuming, and surprising. This one is (potentially) all of the above.

The clue:
A small piece that represents a greater whole. If you bought her a new flat-screen (ed note: !), put the remote in her stocking. A new bike (ed note: !!)? The key to the lock.

Ticket:
Nothing delivers more excitement while taking up less space. Plane tickets are thoughtful. But so are movie tickets for December 26.

The old "box-with-a-map-to-the-closet-where-the-big-expensive-gift-is-hidden" trick. (ed note: a grandma Matheny favorite)

A gadget:
An option your dad never had—camcorders didn't fit in stockings. Digital cameras and iPod nanos do.

Perfume:
Small. Smells good. No-brainer. A good heavy anchor to place in the toe.

Something old-timey:
A candy cane and some clementines poking out will make it look like a stocking in the movies.

Filler:
Candy. (Obvious and affordable. Go right now to bespokechocolates.com and order the pretzel-covered caramels.) Matchbooks from restaurants you two ate at this past year. (ed note: swoon) A few pair of the running socks she likes. (ed note: double swoon) The earbuds she's always losing.

Something funny:
A meat thermometer, because she overcooks the steak? A nutcracker and some walnuts? You know her better than we do.

Kids

I can't look at that obscene photo any longer, so here's an oldie but a goodie.

Friday morning treat: Rooster

(photo courtesy of poops)

Half lycra blend

We're currently in the grey area of seasons where no one knows what footwear is appropriate. I'm on the train surrounded by thong sandals, boat shoes, winter boots, sneakers, strappy sandals with tights, strappy sandals without tights, cowboy boots, hiking boots, and me. In rain boots when it's clearly not raining.

Choosing the correct footwear in the morning is directly proportional to how comfortable you are during the day. Chances are your office is either still sub-zero from our faux-summer, or has switched over to pumping dry dry heat for winter.

For these uncertain times I prefer to sport the almost full foot tights and strappy (usually closed toe) sandal. Almost full foot tights are where you buy footless tights, then pull the back of them down around your heel. This prevents your circulation from being cut off at the ankle and also slenderizes the foot, showcasing your pedicure (Ed note: just because there wasn't any summer and now we're in a wet fall does not mean you should forgo ped maintenance).

The longer I can avoid wearing tights the better. Holla back.

It's Martha, Betch

The past two days I have had the pleasure of taking the 3 train into the City. This experience has proved meh at best. It's still crowded, people are more obese and generally have more bags. I attribute this to the fact that commuters on the F know it's going to be an extremely cramped and hot ride over the bridge where you are thisclose to the construction worker standing next to you that normally would be forgiven for not wearing a clean shirt, but at the start of the work day you wonder if he just never made it home last night. So the 3 train gets a C, and now I'll tell you the real reason for this post:

I WAS FRONT ROW ON MARTHA STEWART'S BROOKLYN SHOW.

Obviously, I am the picture of a Brooklyn resident, so when the stage hand turned the corner and sat us in the front row ONTHESTAGE instead of with all the other chumps in the bleachers, you can bet your organic tote bag that my face looked like this for the remainder of the show.

These streets will make you feel brand new

Last night's post went unfinished as I couldn't commit to an entire entry on whether it was possible for a person to generally just smell like fart. This morning, however, our routine commute is taking a detour to the DMV's office for my very first New York license.(shout out to Florida campus police for utmost douchebag move of cutting up my best expired license photo ever taken right in front of my face. And on gameday!) This chore was also supposed to happen yesterday, but my hair wasn't in any shape to be photographed (note: think twice when teasing your hair out then locking it in place with mega hold spray for the sake of a Halloween costume). A bottle of leave-in conditioner later and we're all set to go.

They say you have to live in New York for ten years before you can call yourself a New Yorker, and not knowing if I'll ever make it to that point, I consider myself pretty seasoned. I think it's mostly about not letting little things effect you—germs on the train, copious amounts of money spent on shitty umbrellas, animals relieving themselves on the sidewalk. Once you're able to get past that, you're able to appreciate other little things like heavy duty tote bags, free samples at the farmer's market and 4 hour bottomless mimosa brunches. It's those things that have people waking up realizing they've spent so many years here that they need a new license to prove it.

Go yanks.

Friday Morning Treat: This guy

I've seen this guy a handful of times on the train, and as you can see, he is really the shit. Look closely and you'll see he has one of those ironic faux-ish hawks but with a silver fox twist. His facial hair is like a work of art that I've never quite seen before. It's like he shaved his beard into a thin strap curving down the cheek bone, then making an abrupt turn into the corners of the mouth. Fascinating. This particular species of older breed gentleman got off before we hit the bridge and tunnel, which makes me think he's probably got wealth to support his ego in one of those gutted artist lofts in the lower east side. Probably outfitted with original art and a cappuccino machine.

Guest photo: CCC!

Today this happened

Bonus #1: it was raining
Bonus #2: passenger 2 was reading "The Origin of Satan"
Bonus #3: the heat was on