I ordered an adorable pair of red heels from Zappos last week. They're to match the champagne dress I will be wearing in roughly a month, as I walk down the aisle as a bridesmaid. My last time until one of my four sisters gets married. If one of my four sisters gets married.
Today, as I walked home from school, I thought about those red shoes, and decided how marvelous it would be if they arrived. Lo and behold, as I started to unlock the front door, I happened to glance down, and spot a piece of paper, lying on the floor. I nearly disregarded it. Brooklyn is not known for its cleanliness. But then, something urged me to look closer. I stooped; I picked it up. In the dim light offered by the street lights, I saw my name in the right hand corner and I could just make out the scribbled "Zappos."
Today was the first attempt of three, and then my shoes would be sent back to the store. I knew I wouldn't around for the second delivery, and chances were also slim for the third. I went to UPS.com and did some research. I spent 20 minutes of research, trying to figure out their site. Then I finally discovered that yes, I can indeed go pick my package up instead of risking the chance of missing the UPS guy again.
Only, I found that the place I need to go is in Canarsie somewhere. Canarsie is not easy to reach by public transportation, I hear. *Lame stereotypical joke that I deleted because it offended my sensibilities* I did a little bit more research through HopStop, and, as the French say, WALA! I CAN take trains to the UPS location.
In summary, see below:
TOTAL TRAVEL
4.78 miles
1 hour 40 mins
Aaaand that is why I am frustrated. I cannot help but compare it to Pennsylvania, where traveling 15 miles is something like 20 minutes or less by car, depending on who is behind the wheel. And how bad tourist traffic happens to be that day. Additionally, you're not sitting next to a complete stranger who coughs into your air space every two minutes.
These shoes better be awesome. I go Friday. Which was also supposed to be my day to drop my dress off to be hemmed, because right now the length makes me look like I'm playing dress up with my mother's clothes. I'll do that next week instead.
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Why my computer is as slow as molasses
“Mother!”
I think I whined it. No, I’m fairly certain I whined. I whined out of impatience and exasperation. She was still on the computer, hours later, uploading pictures and chatting with strangers.
“You’re giving me viruses,” I told her, plopping down next to her on my sister’s bed.
“I’m not giving you viruses,” she responded, her eyes remaining glued to the computer screen. An error box suddenly popped up—for Internet Explorer, a browser I had uninstalled weeks ago.
“See?!” I said, pointing to the screen. “That’s a virus, and all the strange sites you visit are giving me more viruses.”
She pooh-pooh’d me, and went back to her web browsing. Only, my computer had mysteriously slowed down within minutes, and I watched her jab mercilessly at the built-in mouse (which was broken, I would later learn).
“You’re going to break my computer,” I said, my heart aching for the aging machinery (it’s only three years old, but Dell computers age at seven times dog years). My frustration frustrated her, and she surrendered the laptop, suggesting that I give it to my dad to fix.
My dad is something of a computer guru, or so I’ve been led to believe all my life. He even attended my current college years ago, taking programming classes. Yet, I hesitated. Not only did my computer contain sensitive material about my THOUGHTS and FEELINGS (about EVERYTHING), I wasn’t even sure if he could fix it, or if he’d ever give it back to me, unscathed.
Familial pressure got to me, and the next day, I shoved the computer into my ancient computer bag (okay, it’s also three years old) and handed it to my little sisters as they ran out the door to spend the weekend with dad. I had to resort to reading books and watching movies, like “Meet the Robinsons”, that I’ve already seen 15 times. Not having the Internet or even a word processing program made my brain work harder. I know, I know. Poor me! Ha.
With the weekend over, my sisters returned, sans computer.
“I’m still working on it,” said my father.
“It never left the car,” said my sisters.
“AGH!” said I.
Several days passed, and then, somehow, it was decided that I would go home Tuesday night, and my mother would drive me because she didn’t have work the next day. I called my father to find out where he was with the computer.
“Important clients … blah, blah … another computer with the same problem … blah … blah … still working on it.”
“Can you mail it to me?” I asked, not about to wait a few more days just to see if he could fix it.
He agreed, and I returned to Brooklyn. I used my roommate’s computer, and I ached for the people I’d left behind in Pennsylvania. Then, even more days later, he called me. “What’s your password?”
My mouth literally dropped open; I felt it. I password protected my laptop my sophomore year of college, when I had a psycho, unpredictable roommate. It was a simple password, and he should have been able to guess it from the hint.
I said, after a heavy moment of silence passed (a "pregnant pause"), “You didn’t even start?!”
“Important clients … blah, blah,” he said. “Blah, blah. What’s your password?”
I told him, my brain still stunned, for some reason. School was about to start, and I really, really needed my lap top back. Plus, I needed to start applying for real jobs, using limitless online resources.
I don’t think I said good bye at the end of that conversation. My computer had sat in his car or house for about a week and a half, and he hadn’t even turned it on. I was confused about why I’d even given it to him.
The weekend before school started, I escaped Brooklyn to visit my aunt and uncle in Jersey. On the way to the train, I stopped by the post office – I had a package slip; my computer had arrived.
My father packed it in a humungous box, and I carried that box, along with a duffel bag and a purse, all the way into the city and then onto the NJ transit train. People stared at me.
(That was new, because I’m usually invisible. Which would totally be my super power – real invisibility, not just the kind where people forget you’re there, trying to join the conversation. Would make a brilliant CIA agent, I think. ... moving on ...)
At my uncle’s house, I unpacked my computer and tried turning it on. That’s when I found that my computer, which had previously been able to pass as a spry 50 year old, was now 80 years old.
But, my dad had worked his magic. My computer was virus free, and now sporting a new software program that detected and deleted viruses. Every other day, it deletes at least seven more infections.
Some things just need time.
I think I whined it. No, I’m fairly certain I whined. I whined out of impatience and exasperation. She was still on the computer, hours later, uploading pictures and chatting with strangers.
“You’re giving me viruses,” I told her, plopping down next to her on my sister’s bed.
“I’m not giving you viruses,” she responded, her eyes remaining glued to the computer screen. An error box suddenly popped up—for Internet Explorer, a browser I had uninstalled weeks ago.
“See?!” I said, pointing to the screen. “That’s a virus, and all the strange sites you visit are giving me more viruses.”
She pooh-pooh’d me, and went back to her web browsing. Only, my computer had mysteriously slowed down within minutes, and I watched her jab mercilessly at the built-in mouse (which was broken, I would later learn).
“You’re going to break my computer,” I said, my heart aching for the aging machinery (it’s only three years old, but Dell computers age at seven times dog years). My frustration frustrated her, and she surrendered the laptop, suggesting that I give it to my dad to fix.
My dad is something of a computer guru, or so I’ve been led to believe all my life. He even attended my current college years ago, taking programming classes. Yet, I hesitated. Not only did my computer contain sensitive material about my THOUGHTS and FEELINGS (about EVERYTHING), I wasn’t even sure if he could fix it, or if he’d ever give it back to me, unscathed.
Familial pressure got to me, and the next day, I shoved the computer into my ancient computer bag (okay, it’s also three years old) and handed it to my little sisters as they ran out the door to spend the weekend with dad. I had to resort to reading books and watching movies, like “Meet the Robinsons”, that I’ve already seen 15 times. Not having the Internet or even a word processing program made my brain work harder. I know, I know. Poor me! Ha.
With the weekend over, my sisters returned, sans computer.
“I’m still working on it,” said my father.
“It never left the car,” said my sisters.
“AGH!” said I.
Several days passed, and then, somehow, it was decided that I would go home Tuesday night, and my mother would drive me because she didn’t have work the next day. I called my father to find out where he was with the computer.
“Important clients … blah, blah … another computer with the same problem … blah … blah … still working on it.”
“Can you mail it to me?” I asked, not about to wait a few more days just to see if he could fix it.
He agreed, and I returned to Brooklyn. I used my roommate’s computer, and I ached for the people I’d left behind in Pennsylvania. Then, even more days later, he called me. “What’s your password?”
My mouth literally dropped open; I felt it. I password protected my laptop my sophomore year of college, when I had a psycho, unpredictable roommate. It was a simple password, and he should have been able to guess it from the hint.
I said, after a heavy moment of silence passed (a "pregnant pause"), “You didn’t even start?!”
“Important clients … blah, blah,” he said. “Blah, blah. What’s your password?”
I told him, my brain still stunned, for some reason. School was about to start, and I really, really needed my lap top back. Plus, I needed to start applying for real jobs, using limitless online resources.
I don’t think I said good bye at the end of that conversation. My computer had sat in his car or house for about a week and a half, and he hadn’t even turned it on. I was confused about why I’d even given it to him.
The weekend before school started, I escaped Brooklyn to visit my aunt and uncle in Jersey. On the way to the train, I stopped by the post office – I had a package slip; my computer had arrived.
My father packed it in a humungous box, and I carried that box, along with a duffel bag and a purse, all the way into the city and then onto the NJ transit train. People stared at me.
(That was new, because I’m usually invisible. Which would totally be my super power – real invisibility, not just the kind where people forget you’re there, trying to join the conversation. Would make a brilliant CIA agent, I think. ... moving on ...)
At my uncle’s house, I unpacked my computer and tried turning it on. That’s when I found that my computer, which had previously been able to pass as a spry 50 year old, was now 80 years old.
But, my dad had worked his magic. My computer was virus free, and now sporting a new software program that detected and deleted viruses. Every other day, it deletes at least seven more infections.
Some things just need time.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Going back
I haven't seen my high school in four years. As I walked down the steps and into the cafeteria, my heart climbed into my throat and remained lodged there all evening.
I owe them $500 or so for tuition. They almost didn't let me graduate because of it. But there is a God, and for some reason, He cares about me, and through His grace, I graduated.
I am still embarrassed about that debt, however, and I had planned not to show up again until I had it. My plans changed with the re-introduction of a certain boy, and then the re-connection of a certain friend, who told me that she was starting a newspaper. Good-looking boys and newspapers, all in one night? I managed to bribe my brother into driving me. My brother brought his girlfriend and his best friend, and then my sister tagged along, and thus it was that the five us crammed into my brother's friend's mother's car.
All of them smoke, and during the ride home, they not only froze me to death with the windows hanging open, but they also nearly scalded my eyeballs out of my head because my sister was unable to get her cigarette ashes out the window. Today, nothing was more frightening than little bits of embers in the dark shooting towards my face. However, the screaming definitely released some tension, while simultaneously annoying everyone else, which was an added bonus.
We've always been outsiders at my high school. I was never sure why, but I do know it seems as though not much has changed. People were friendly, yes, but there was that nagging, underlying feeling that told me I didn't quite belong. I believe that's a reason why I value my family so much. No matter what happens or how they treat me, it is an undeniable fact that I belong. We're a broken, neurotic mess, but we care about each other; we'd give our lives for each other.
----
All of the above was written yesterday. Today is my birthday. (Edited after some more thought.) Suffice it to say that while I view my family as a neurotic mess, myself included, I love them to death.
And about that good-looking boy that I mentioned both above and in previous posts? I saw him when I visited the high school. He spent all his time ogling and not talking, and I have several Facebook messages that include the phrase "u look good," with nothing else of substance. Dud. Good-looking, but a dud.
----
I can't quite see the lesson here, in all of this. It's somewhere, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be learning, or what I'm supposed to be doing. I walk down the halls of my old high school, and aside from new paint and faces growing older, nothing's changed. What am I waiting for? What am I looking for? What do I want?
I haven't the slightest idea.
I owe them $500 or so for tuition. They almost didn't let me graduate because of it. But there is a God, and for some reason, He cares about me, and through His grace, I graduated.
I am still embarrassed about that debt, however, and I had planned not to show up again until I had it. My plans changed with the re-introduction of a certain boy, and then the re-connection of a certain friend, who told me that she was starting a newspaper. Good-looking boys and newspapers, all in one night? I managed to bribe my brother into driving me. My brother brought his girlfriend and his best friend, and then my sister tagged along, and thus it was that the five us crammed into my brother's friend's mother's car.
All of them smoke, and during the ride home, they not only froze me to death with the windows hanging open, but they also nearly scalded my eyeballs out of my head because my sister was unable to get her cigarette ashes out the window. Today, nothing was more frightening than little bits of embers in the dark shooting towards my face. However, the screaming definitely released some tension, while simultaneously annoying everyone else, which was an added bonus.
We've always been outsiders at my high school. I was never sure why, but I do know it seems as though not much has changed. People were friendly, yes, but there was that nagging, underlying feeling that told me I didn't quite belong. I believe that's a reason why I value my family so much. No matter what happens or how they treat me, it is an undeniable fact that I belong. We're a broken, neurotic mess, but we care about each other; we'd give our lives for each other.
----
All of the above was written yesterday. Today is my birthday. (Edited after some more thought.) Suffice it to say that while I view my family as a neurotic mess, myself included, I love them to death.
And about that good-looking boy that I mentioned both above and in previous posts? I saw him when I visited the high school. He spent all his time ogling and not talking, and I have several Facebook messages that include the phrase "u look good," with nothing else of substance. Dud. Good-looking, but a dud.
----
I can't quite see the lesson here, in all of this. It's somewhere, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be learning, or what I'm supposed to be doing. I walk down the halls of my old high school, and aside from new paint and faces growing older, nothing's changed. What am I waiting for? What am I looking for? What do I want?
I haven't the slightest idea.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Merry Christmas Eve
Oddly enough, I've realized that I've misplaced my bad luck, and while I can't say I miss it, it does feel strange not to have it around. I fully expect it to show up relatively soon, especially because I'm writing about it, and writing about something like bad luck automatically jinxes the writer. It's a rule. These rules are printed in gold on parchment, and they are handed out in elementary school, along with cooties and crushes.
Somewhere, somehow, I switched a fully panicked interior and exterior for a much calmer version.
For example, when I made it to Penn Station today and found my train, I fully believed that I'd gotten on the wrong train. This has become a tradition for me.
Yet I didn't panic, which is what I normally do. I normally start to sweat and freak out and call my mother and explain that, well, I'm sorry, but I might be a little late for the holiday.
Instead, I realized that if I had gotton on the wrong train, I was still headed to Dover, and I'm fairly certain I could just disembark at Dover and get on a train headed in the other direction. It's like driving. If you make a wrong turn, you can turn around. This sage piece of advice was given to me by a friend, and, I must say, it was a breath of fresh air in a dank room--especially because I tend to freak out on a regular basis.
Or, shall we say, I tended to freak out on a regular basis. I don't know why I am suddenly so calm and collected.
As if in homage to my new thought processes, when I was faced with traveling, on two separate occasions, down a flight of stairs, and then up a flight of stairs, two different gentlemen carried my over-stuffed, two-ton bag for me.
It made me feel all grown up and something like a lady.
I'm sorry, fellas, that it was so heavy. After all, I'm going to be in Pennsylvania for awhile, and I couldn't figure out how to pack any lighter. But thanks again, and Merry Christmas.
I'm off to be surprisingly calm and collected ... my family is coming to get me tomorrow. I'll see if they can break me. They usually do.
Have a great holiday, faithful readers. Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. Happy New Year.
Somewhere, somehow, I switched a fully panicked interior and exterior for a much calmer version.
For example, when I made it to Penn Station today and found my train, I fully believed that I'd gotten on the wrong train. This has become a tradition for me.
Yet I didn't panic, which is what I normally do. I normally start to sweat and freak out and call my mother and explain that, well, I'm sorry, but I might be a little late for the holiday.
Instead, I realized that if I had gotton on the wrong train, I was still headed to Dover, and I'm fairly certain I could just disembark at Dover and get on a train headed in the other direction. It's like driving. If you make a wrong turn, you can turn around. This sage piece of advice was given to me by a friend, and, I must say, it was a breath of fresh air in a dank room--especially because I tend to freak out on a regular basis.
Or, shall we say, I tended to freak out on a regular basis. I don't know why I am suddenly so calm and collected.
As if in homage to my new thought processes, when I was faced with traveling, on two separate occasions, down a flight of stairs, and then up a flight of stairs, two different gentlemen carried my over-stuffed, two-ton bag for me.
It made me feel all grown up and something like a lady.
I'm sorry, fellas, that it was so heavy. After all, I'm going to be in Pennsylvania for awhile, and I couldn't figure out how to pack any lighter. But thanks again, and Merry Christmas.
I'm off to be surprisingly calm and collected ... my family is coming to get me tomorrow. I'll see if they can break me. They usually do.
Have a great holiday, faithful readers. Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. Happy New Year.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
More exciting news, for me, anyway
I get to see widdle Greg on Wednesday. AHH! SO EXCITED! I dressed, inadvertently, like a mom today, and therefore I believe that it is only fitting that I will get to be the one getting up that night every two hours to feed the little tyke and change his diaper.
Normal people, I know, don't get excited about losing sleep for an adorable, helpless infant, but I make no claims and try to tell no lies. I first started sleeping lightly, anyway, when I was 13, which is when my littlest sister was born. I would wake up in the middle of the night and bring her to mom. It was very traumatizing, one night, after she'd developed a bad cough that would only go away if she were picked up, when my mother and I both rushed to the crib during a particularly awful coughing spell, and mom, getting there first, broke her toe on a little stool accidentally left there by one of my many other siblings.
I hope to break no toes this Thanksgiving, get very little sleep, and eat plates of ham, turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, stuffing and pumpkin pie. I might eat some vegetables, too, but I'm not sure about that yet.
AHHHH!! SO EXCITED!!
Normal people, I know, don't get excited about losing sleep for an adorable, helpless infant, but I make no claims and try to tell no lies. I first started sleeping lightly, anyway, when I was 13, which is when my littlest sister was born. I would wake up in the middle of the night and bring her to mom. It was very traumatizing, one night, after she'd developed a bad cough that would only go away if she were picked up, when my mother and I both rushed to the crib during a particularly awful coughing spell, and mom, getting there first, broke her toe on a little stool accidentally left there by one of my many other siblings.
I hope to break no toes this Thanksgiving, get very little sleep, and eat plates of ham, turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, stuffing and pumpkin pie. I might eat some vegetables, too, but I'm not sure about that yet.
AHHHH!! SO EXCITED!!
I make up words when I'm lonely
Hup-lah (hoop-la) (noun): An epic trip that usually takes place after college graduation to stave off the real world. For example: Abigail plans to go to California after May to go on a huplah with her friends.
Huplah must not be confused with hoopla (bustling excitement or activity; commotion; hullabaloo; to-do), even though spelling and meaning are oddly similar.
--
I had been thinking of going on a huplah to Peru. After all, when would I really ever get the chance again to blow some hypothetical dollars using a credit card and have the adventure of a lifetime, all without worrying about classes (because they've ended), and student loans (because they're not due for six months)? My sense of adventure is not as strong as Jamaican rum, however, and, as a result, I want to share my huplah with someone. That someone is a good friend who lives in a cozy little town somewhere north of Sacramento, California.
Which means, of course, that I've got some plannin' to do. Huplahs have very specific guidelines, especially because they signify the end of freedom as relatively carefree college students know it.
Huplah must not be confused with hoopla (bustling excitement or activity; commotion; hullabaloo; to-do), even though spelling and meaning are oddly similar.
--
I had been thinking of going on a huplah to Peru. After all, when would I really ever get the chance again to blow some hypothetical dollars using a credit card and have the adventure of a lifetime, all without worrying about classes (because they've ended), and student loans (because they're not due for six months)? My sense of adventure is not as strong as Jamaican rum, however, and, as a result, I want to share my huplah with someone. That someone is a good friend who lives in a cozy little town somewhere north of Sacramento, California.
Which means, of course, that I've got some plannin' to do. Huplahs have very specific guidelines, especially because they signify the end of freedom as relatively carefree college students know it.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
In other, more exciting news
For our "extra credit" quiz/mid-term/whatever in Spanish, I earned a 9/10. I'm not sure what that means for my grade overall, but a 9/10 is much better than a 61/100.
Next Tuesday, for more "extra credit," these three slackers from my class and I will give a presentation on Peru. I will be talking about the weather, and giving the introduction. During the rest of my research, I will be trying to stay from any sites involving airplanes and booking possibilities, because I've already discovered that a flight there and back, not flexible, costs about $500. It's so very tempting to purchase such a ticket when the wind in Brooklyn sneaks up your sleeves and into your bones, while it bites your nose and clips off the tips of your ears.
I don't care if the weather in Peru is unpredictable. The natives are going to the beach this time of year and what am I doing? I'm sitting in a drafty apartment and trying to figure out how to fix the computer-related mistakes I foolishly made.
Next Tuesday, for more "extra credit," these three slackers from my class and I will give a presentation on Peru. I will be talking about the weather, and giving the introduction. During the rest of my research, I will be trying to stay from any sites involving airplanes and booking possibilities, because I've already discovered that a flight there and back, not flexible, costs about $500. It's so very tempting to purchase such a ticket when the wind in Brooklyn sneaks up your sleeves and into your bones, while it bites your nose and clips off the tips of your ears.
I don't care if the weather in Peru is unpredictable. The natives are going to the beach this time of year and what am I doing? I'm sitting in a drafty apartment and trying to figure out how to fix the computer-related mistakes I foolishly made.
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