Chococlate? Vanilla? Chocolate…? Vanilla…?

I can just hear this kid as he stood in front of the Mr. Softee truck.
Chocolate or Vanilla? Well, it appears he couldn’t make up his mind because when I saw him walking down the street he had an ice cream cone in each hand. One chocolate and one vanilla. And he was licking them both. Though the vanilla was smaller than the chocolate, so that was obviously his preference (well, unless the vanilla cone started out smaller than the chocolate one…but we’ll just assume they were created equal). Anyway, I just thought it was really funny. He looked as happy as a clam in six feet of water.

Bring Your Kid To Work

Today is bring your kid to work day at 1221 Avenue of the Americas (And I think it is other places too because I saw a lot of children walking into buildings and standing with their parents at the bagel carts this morning…one approximately 8-year-old girl was wearing black knee-high leather boots (with heels, I might add), a shoooort black lace bubble skirt barely covering up her little panties and a I couldn’t see the top because she had a suede jacket on but ten bucks says it was a midriff. She looked like she was trying out to be the next Pussycat Doll, not going to work with daddy).
I love kids and I think it will be a lot of fun to have them around for the day, but I kind of feel sorry for them. I guess I just never understood the excitement of going to work with your parent for an entire day (But I guess it was different for me because my dad owned his own business so I would go in all the time). What are they going to do all day? I walked in to the pantry and heard one father exclaiming “isn’t this cool?!” I turn to see that he is talking about the coffee machine of all things. Apparently “it slices off the bottom and shoots hot water through it and you get a cup of coffee in about 30 seconds”. As I walk to my desk I see a mom who has her son sharpening pencils. I don’t know how these kids are going to contain their excitement.

What Am I?

What am I? I get asked that question a lot. Am I Russian? Ukrainian? It still amazes me that I get stopped so frequently and asked about my background. Am I that different looking?
So, after work one day I decided to go unwind by getting a drink (non-alcoholic of course) at St. Harry’s bar in the Waldorf Astoria. I love it there. Walking into the Waldorf is like breathing a huge sigh of relief (relief from what, I don’t know, but there you have it). It’s timeless. And I love the oversized, fresh lily bouquet. I love lilies, have I mentioned that? LOVE them; any and all kinds: stargazer, tiger, of the valley, calla, etc. And the fragrance permeates the air and it’s just heavenly. I think Cole Porter really knew what he was doing when he decided to live there. Genius. I would love to walk home to that every day. Anyway, back to my story…So, I decide to go there for a bit. I walk into St. Harry’s bar and grab a table in the back, against the wall. I start crunching on the nuts they have there. What is it about this place that makes everything wonderful? Even the simple nut mix is something I get excited over. I like the almonds and brazil nuts. They have toffee peanuts mixed in there as well and the sweet/salty combination is fantastic. I got a diet coke and sat there sipping and crunching, thoroughly enjoying myself. I was writing in my journal when this man comes up to me and asks “working hard after hours are we?” Assuming he was hitting on me, I curtly reply “no” and turn back to what I was doing. He is a persistent fellow and keeps talking. He is about 50 years old and is bald on top with gray hair around the sides. He was a pleasant sort of old looking though and wore glasses. I wasn’t going to get rid of him, I could see that. Thank goodness I was going to meet some friends for dinner in about 30 minutes so had that excuse. He asks where I was from and I told him Ohio. He starts asking about my ancestry and said he assumed I was Native American. That was a new one. I’ve gotten many things: Russian, Ukrainian, etc. but never Native American and then he threw in another kicker: Asian. I was like, okay, this guy’s off his rocker. But then he found out I was Czech and explained that the high cheekbones and the Asian look came from the Mongolian invasion and that’s where he saw those traits in me. He knew where my light eyes, hair and skin colors came from as well. It turns out he is fascinated with cultures and has studied them since he was a child. I guess there was a black out here (he’s a Native New Yorker) when he was like six years old and he spent the time reading a new set of Encyclopedias (by candlelight) his family had just gotten and ever since then he has learned all he could. He knew so much about Czech history; it was fascinating!! And he was so shocked to learn that I am Mormon because he says that is just so rare to find a Czech who would be Mormon and not Roman Catholic…it’s just not in our blood, he said. It was kind of funny how awestruck he was by that. All in all, it was quite the experience.

Stephanie?

So get this...the mail guy in my office calls me Stephanie. Why? I have no idea. My nametag says Karen, and I even put an additional nameplate up at my desk. He's even called me Karen before and then corrected himself to say Stephanie. Now he's even given me a nickname for my fake name: Steffi. Sometimes it even comes out Ka-Steffi. If I'm not there he asks people "Where's my Steffi girl?". Crazy, right? But, each day as he walks past it's the same conversation:
Him: Hello Steffi, how are you today?
Me: Oh, I'm doing well, thank you. How are you?
Him: I'm good, always better when I see you. That color looks so nice on you, then again, you always look nice (seriously, he says this every day). And those flowers (referring to the fake orchid plant I have on my desk, which, in his defense has fooled many a person) are so beautiful. But you deserve them.
Me: Oh, thank you. That's very sweet.
Him: You have a good night Steffi.
Me: Thank you. I hope you have a good night too.
Seriously, this happens every day at approximately 4:15pm. If you don't believe me call me around that time and I'll hold the phone so you can hear our conversation when he passes.

Elevator

It is a truth universally acknowledged (among McGraw-Hill employees) that if you do not hit the elevator button to select your floor the doors will close more quickly. Once the doors have closed it is then appropriate to hit the button…

Whether or not the doors actually close faster if you wait to press a button is debatable…however, there are those who are FIRM believers. If you happen to get in the elevator with such a person and ignorantly hit the button before the doors have closed, you may expect to receive looks of disgust, pity (at not knowing the secret), annoyance or any other such sentiment. It really is quite comical. Sometimes you will have an elevator filled with 6-7 people who have yet to hit a button, all waiting in eager anticipation for the doors to close, only to have their hopes of a quick closing dashed to pieces by some young buck who comes jaunting in and immediately presses a button…the veterans groan within themselves and resent the 30-second (if that) delay…haha. Too funny.

?

I don't understand people who put food in the microwave (at work) and then go back to their desks to work for a bit. It takes all of 3 minutes. Plus, you're just making it awkward for the rest of us...I mean, if you're not there and the timer has gone off, is it okay for me to remove your food? What if it's obvious that your lean cuisine isn't completely heated? And, what's the grace period for waiting? Do I wait 3 minutes? 5? Indefinitely until you return to claim your food? I just don't know...which is why I tend to bring peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.

And here we go...

This is a lot of pressure, the whole writing-the-first-post-for-your-blog thing...

Why ice cream vignettes? Well, I love the word vignettes, I just think it's fun. Certain words are just fun, you know? Like bevy. That's another good word. Thicket is fun to say too. I could go on, but I'll spare you. And, I love ice cream. Particularly strawberry (extra points if it's from the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory...not only does it have my favorite ice cream, but it's my favorite spot in New York...the pier, the bridge...LOVE IT!), with lots and lots of whipped cream (not cool whip). And ice cream always seems to accompany my most vivid memories or important decisions...I have ice cream on vacations, I had ice cream to celebrate getting my job in NY, I eat it when I'm trying to clear my mind if I have a tough decision or need to unwind from stress, it's my splurge food (that and raisins, I love raisins, go figure).
I've always wanted to write a book called Ice Cream Vignettes, but this is the closest I may ever come, so there you have it. The address for my blog was either going to be "ice cream vignettes" (in honor my beloved book that will never be published) or "eating my way through life" because I feel like there's always food involved in activities, especially in Manhattan. Manhattan is like one big diner. You go from one eating experience to the next. My morning walks to work are filled with the scent of black coffee from the carts on the corner, french toast, eggs sizzling on the grill...when I leave work the aroma of the Nuts4Nuts (Love them!) flows throught the air, broken up sporadically by the smell of pretzels, hot dogs or the kabobs. But you know, I'm not really a cart-eater. I love the Nuts, but as far as everything else goes - I don't know how clean that stuff is, or how long the meat's been sitting there...no thanks. Then there's the smell of all the restaurants you pass as you walk. You can tell the good ones from the cheap (well, inexpensive, I really dislike the word "cheap", it's on my do-no-like list of words). The nicer ones smell of spices and fresh breads, the inexpensive/blah ones smell like grease.

And...I should finish now...I think you'll come to find that when I write I'm a rambler. My mom accuses me of never stopping to come up for air. Well, now I'm stopping...until next time!