Monday, April 30

The nyc laws put in place to make me a better, healthier person tend to have the wrong effect on me. In economics class, we probably would have called this something fancy and dire, like unintended negative consequences.

A classic example: after the city passed a smoking ban in bars and raised the cigarette taxes drastically, I stopped being a occasional smoker, bumming drags and half cigarettes from friends. Instead, I became a smoker who bought and carried a pack at all times. Who wants to be the person who sits in the bar guarding the coats while the fun kids go outside to smoke & flirt? And with cigarettes costing the better part of a ten dollar bill, who feels comfortable bumming one without spending at least 15 bantering moments with a potentially troll-like person?

The new branded condoms -- the ones given out in every single bar -- are unbelievably appealing to me. Not because I have plans to use them. Sadly, no; there are no plans. No: It's the free that gets me. And so I've been taking them by the dozen, much like I scoop up handfuls of those dreadful diner mints, the ones that are suspiciously gummy on the inside, and chalky on the outside.

I'm addicted to the free.

But here's the part where the consequences get unintentionally negative. I've taken so many -- greedy, unnecessary handfuls -- that they're everywhere. I lend a friend a purse, and she reaches in to stash her lipstick and wallet, and then glances up, smirking. I put my hand in my back pocket at a party (of course, while flirting with a boy) only to pull out the distinctive package. Even at work, I fear opening up desk drawers in front of coworkers.

Any day now, I assume my roommate will come home to find me chugging a gallon bottle of trans fats.

Sunday, April 29

Perhaps I should have predicted that asking my mom to pay for an HPV vaccine for my birthday would result in a strange conversation.

It started out bad:

Mom: Aren't you too old to get that now?
Me: Ouch.

And then it got worse:

Mom: But you are using some kind of barrier when you know...when you know...she glances around, furtively.

Her word choice there -- barrier -- confirms an assumption I've always had about my mother. When faced with the words "madeleine" and "you know..." in the same sentence, she chooses to picture me and whoever the someone else is in bed, but handily encased in layers upon layers of bubble wrap. From within our plastic chastity belts, we vainly grope for the good stuff. Thank god for barriers.

Sunday, April 1

Huge Dork

We were all sitting around in the West Village, drinking nasty fruit-based sangria. We'd been there hours. We'd been there for so long that the waitress had moved us from our outside seats to couches inside. We'd played "what's a trilogy where the second movie is better than the first" and "who can spot the most eurotrash on MacDougal Street?"

Conversation wandered around, and it was only once we were all slightly tipsy that Jen revealed that in fact, she did have a gmail address.

"Really," I said, "then why have I been emailing you at el-crappo hotmail every day?"

"Oh," she said, "it's better that you do that. 'Cause I forward the gmail to my hotmail account."

I think I sputtered for a solid five minutes about how that was the most illogical thing ever, and then a friend, sitting next to me, said: "Just let it go."

"But I can't! I mean, I know I should shut up. It's just that I love the internet so much." File that under sentences I wish had only been said inside my head.

Related: HR agency automatically rejects all applicants who have a hotmail account, since the company's ad requested internet experience. (link via)