Karma

This morning, Christina and I spotted the perfect parking spot in front of the Container Store. We were at a red light and just as the light was about to change, a taxi pulled up beside of me and took the spot. I actually yelled at him out loud, as in "That's my spot, you fucker!" — forgetting Christina was in the car with me. This unfortunately led us to 45 mintues of driving around looking for a spot, with streets being closed off in the interim, so that Manhattan can have even more condos being built. I did not even have any candy in the car, and the radio does not work, so I was completely on the verge of losing all sanity. And since the spot hunt took so long, Christina and I could not get our nails done before the shower.

Now, this makes us sound like we are sort of prima donnas, which is not the case. For me to get my nails done it involves them trimming my nails and just hacking off all of the dead skin and gross cuticle stuff. No polish, not even clear. I guess I must abuse my hands because I actually have to go once a week to have this done.

So my hands felt like a giant, nasty hangnail, all day long. I could barely stand it. (I ate lots of chips to compensate.) After the baby shower, I had to get my nails cut immediately. So I drove around the block, and found a spot a block away on the corner of 8th Avenue at 21st Street. Ok, so it was two blocks away. But when I got out of the car to stick quarters in the meter, I realized that the meter was BROKEN! I actually screamed with delight, and the homeless person near me might have thought I was deranged.

I think this might be how someone is trying to convince me not to leave New York.