There is an epidemic of bad decision making affecting Americans en masse. Worse, it may even be a global phenomenon. I hate to call further attention to it, but, as we all know, before you can fix a problem, you must first admit you have one. Here it is, plain and simple, Spandex. I know, maybe not what you were expecting in this age of east coast earthquakes, New York City hurricanes, and hippies occupying Wall Street (talk about an oxymoron...)
But as I live in the land of amusement parks, tourists and churros, I feel it's a critical problem to tackle. And no one is immune, as you will see, to this problem. The fact is, mainstream American clothing trends that celebrate the use of spandex and lingerie as everyday items worn as the backdrop, or worse - to accent one's outfit choices - is adding to our universal laziness and overall lack of personal responsibility. There, I said it. My grandmother, who was raised by a strict Austrian mother said it best, "It doesn't matter how you feel, it matters how you look." So, let's talk about how we look.
Let's start with Spandex. Don't get me wrong, I like spandex a lot. For working out. Yes, I said, for working out. The very nature of the word Spandex - which is an anagram for the word "expands" reflects its intended use. Spandex is meant for use in exercise. It was made so that you can be covered while your clothes expand with your yoga bends, your cross-fit lunges, and your boxing kicks. Spandex was not created and not intended for use as a permanent independent fashion item. Sure, plenty of clothiers include a percentage of spandex in their fabric blends for added comfort. But, clothing that is 100% Spandex is surely not intended to replace the "pant" in your pantsuits. I assure you, you do not look as "cool" in that Spandex as you think you do. And if you think we don't notice that you have replaced your "leggings" with standard yoga pants - think again. We do. Change it back.
Spandex is being abused by masses of Americans. The masses, if I may add, who really should not be wearing Spandex to begin with. I witness this daily - and I assure you it's a breach of the social contract. Oh come on, don't be so tame. You agree with me 100%. There are rules and etiquette that apply to the use of spandex (as an aside, these are the very same rules, by the way, that should apply to bikini use - but that's a summer topic). People somehow have fallen under the impression that Spandex is a right. It is not.
Plainly put: Spandex is NOT a right, Spandex is a privilege.
It is not fair for me to have to see the outline of your overly curvaceous backside, not to mention your aggressive muffin top. And what of the FUPA? I can't even go there. To quote Cindi Lauper - Gag me.
I fear we Americans have slid into a culture that has lost a sense of discretion. When I was growing up, my parents wouldn't even allow us to wear denim on an airplane. It was a special passage, a passage reserved for a skirt and stockings, or, at the very least, a lovely pantsuit. I remember the first time my father and mother spotted a family in matching sweat-suits (we were flying to Newark of course), blasphemy! They covered my eyes, and spouted "never-evers" to my siblings and I. But then, as time passed, we became the exception and sweat-suits became the rule. And then they started showing up everywhere. Brunches, dinners, teas (well not teas - most of those well mannered enough to appreciate tea do not wear spandex or sweat-suits as a rule). You get it. It was a slippery slope, and we went down fast.
Before we knew it, sweat-suits and spandex had become high fashion items with entire sectors of the fashion industry dedicated to them and once exclusive store fronts on Madison Avenue showcasing them. Surely we never imagined in the 1980s that sweat suits would earn a section in the coveted corners of Bergdorf Goodman. So where did we go wrong? I keep asking myself when it happened exactly. Was it the late 80's? The mid-90's? And what was the tipping point? Was it the deregulation of the airlines? (My least favorite Ronald Reagan move, FYI). I get the comfort level, sure. They are easy to move around in when you travel. But the low rise sweat-suit on an oversized behind on a commercial aircraft? Yuck. Just what I want to have in my face when you bend down to re-tie your shoes in the security line, not to mention the eye-level shot of your plumbers crack as you slide by my extra leg room seat on the airplane.
And what of lingerie as external to your sensible clothing fashion? Today, young girls leave the house in boxer shorts and bras, barely covered by the offensive "wife-beater" tank top that pretends to hide their young, still buoyant, chests. Newsflash, that is not clothing. It is underwear. Not that I have anything against underwear. I just don't want to see it. Sexy lingerie was meant for the bedroom or the brothel. Not the street. As I say on other subjects, if you can't keep it in your pants, then keep it at home.
But these are not just problems that plague the masses. Manhattan struggles with its own spandex dilemma. So let me just come out with it: The Birkin Bag does not an outfit make. There, I said it. I feel better. So here's my message to all of you Birkin Bag owners. You cannot pair the Birkin with spandex and lingerie. It doesn't matter that your bag is $12,000 if you dumb it down with spandex - yes, even if it's LuLu Lemon. FYI: It's just NOT chic. Not at all in fact. You can carry your uber-expensive bag around all day, but it still does not give you carte-blanche to dress like a slob around it.
Carrying the Birkin is a responsibility. It doesn't just deserve respect, it commands respect. Would Jackie O have paired a Birkin with Spandex? Would she have ever worn Spandex in public at all? I say NO! And I think we should all abide by Jackie O. Wouldn't the world just be a much prettier place if we all thought to ourselves every day, "what would Jackie O do?" Perhaps in the absence of Jackie O's influence it's time for Hermes to release a set of rules to go along with the purchase of Birkins. Yes, a Birkin Bag Code Of Conduct, if you will.
Here are some suggestions:
"I the undersigned, in purchasing this $12,000+ bag, agree to adhere to the following rules of engagement when wearing my Birkin Bag".
While toting my Birkin bag, I will not:
1) wear Juicy clothing (Couture or otherwise)
2) wear sweat pants, sweat shirts, or full sweat-suits
3) wear spandex
4) take my Birkin Bag to the gym with me (even if it's a private gym)
5) where it with extra tall Ugg boots in warm weather with a short skirt and no stockings (seriously!?)
6) wear it with still visible Botox injection marks on my face
7) take it to birthday parties in an attempt to compete with the other pre-school parents
8) make it the topic of conversation at a dinner party, luncheon, discussion, cocktail or any other venue where I open my mouth and try to make it a topic of conversation - even if the other person initiated said conversation.
9) wear it when I am volunteering in an area of the city where the cost of the bag is more than the annual household income of the families I am trying to help
10) Oh, and of course, I agree to abide by the "forced casual terms of the Birkin look" and therefore, will keep the bag detached from its locking mechanism, placing the upper flap inside the bag, leaving the bag essentially unsecured so that any pick-pocket on Madison avenue can have easy access to my wallet (after all, that's okay, at $12,000 per bag - I can afford to periodically give up my wallet to someone who needs it more).
But, back to spandex. My final thoughts, a plea if you will. For those of you out there who are currently parenting the young, sassy tween and teen set - please - break the cycle now. Just say no - NO to spandex, NO to the external use of lingerie, NO to these items in your core wardrobe. Say yes to stockings, leggings, tights (preferably with skirts that travel past the lower buttocks) and pants. Travel only in jeans at the very least (besides, who wants to be separated from those dirty seats by a material as porous as spandex anyway). And be diligent about these rules. Sure, debt is a HUGE problem in this country, but let's start with the problems we can truly affect in our daily lives. Let's start with personal, visual accountability. If not for you, do it for the sake of your children and their future.
And PS - one glaring contradiction, or shall we call this my indemnity clause, if you come to visit me in San Diego, do give me a heads up - because I definitely break the Spandex rule every day all day... What would Jackie O say? What I always say in SoCal: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em...
Cranky out (for now...).
Friday, November 18, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Culture Shock
Greetings from the left coast. I recently returned to San Diego after a trip to the east coast. After a week of the hurried pace, the intense meals and the long (albeit fun) nights, it was hard to reset my internal compass to the slower pace, the not so good food, and the 10pm deadline for bedtime. It all resulted in a huge dose of culture shock. It's just SoCal I'm sure you are saying - it's not like I live in Mexico or Asia or anything like that. Chill out. But trust me, the transition is extreme pretty much every time I come back. That's not to say that there aren't some lovely things about returning to a more low key, more casual environment. Sure, here, no one asks what you do for a living (a major social taboo in San Diego by the way), no one asks where you are going or what you are working on. No one asks anything, and there is rarely anything more to talk about than how recently you have been to the car wash, how bad the weather has been compared to normal, or how often you work out.
Then, after three days, there's the moment of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em!" And what better way to fit back in then to take a trip to the gym, not to work out though, but to shop! In San Diego, Lulu Lemon is not a brand, it's a life style. To put it plainly, LuLu Lemon is to San Diego as Louis Vuitton is to New York. Before moving from NYC last spring, a friend encouraged me NOT to bury myself in a wardrobe of Banana Republic, despite my instinct to do so. "Dress cute," she said. "Be the hot mom at school. Where a Prada dress." "What a waste," I told her. "No one will appreciate it." And how right I was... On the first day of school I decided to heed her advice and dress up for the occasion. LOST on the audience, as anticipated. Lesson learned: there are places where ked's shoes are still a household staple, where people don't understand the negative impact of high fructose corn syrup, and where the trans-am is still considered cool. After much Lulu Lemon and seven sessions with the trainer, life gets a bit boring again, and 10pm seems like a great time to go to sleep.
Moving someplace new is always a challenge. I, for one, make friends pretty easily. I am not bashful (those of you who know me are laughing now) and I am not intimidated easily. Not that I am here, by the way. I would say it's more like a fish out of water scenario. I guess then that the problem is a misalignment of incentives? Or maybe goals? No, aspirations? All of the above? Yes - the latter. I come from a world where the incentive to exceed expectations is commonplace, almost unappreciated. In San Diego, ambition is a dirty word. My friend's father once said that Southern California is the land of fruits and nuts, and certainly, he was not referring to the crop production. Here, for example, expectations and ambitions are mainly reserved for the pursuit of plastic surgery (oh yeah, it's that bad). That's not to say that there are not any ambitious people here, or that people are not successful, smart or inventive. Some are. It's just a difference in the over arching attitude. I constantly remind my husband, who continues to be surprised by the San Diego work ethic, that this is a place where people move and then get a job. Not a place where people move for a job.
When I first arrived here, I tried to "dial it back," not be the aggressive New Yorker. I started to cook, I didn't bring my nanny to birthday parties (or g-d forbid send her without me - sacre-bleu!), and I stopped honking in the car (Okay, well at least I tried to stop honking). Why not fit in, right? Cooking was a great idea because the restaurants here are pretty terrible and I love the Food Network. Therefore, one plus one equals three. Problem? Despite my discerning palate, my ADD makes me a problematic chef. Some dishes are good, but others are forgotten, and therefore, overdone. I cooked for the first three months that I was here. I searched high and low for really high quality fresh foods (the dirty little secret of San Diego is that they send all the best fish and produce out of state, because most people here don't appreciate it, won't pay up for it, and don't care how it tastes). Anyway - I cooked to the extent that when my grandmother visited last summer, she was freaked out. She came with my mother to my house for a home cooked meal (already they knew they were in trouble). When she arrived she insisted that I must be short handed with help. I insisted, of course, I had little else to do, and cooking was a great outlet. That was until... Until the night that my ADD and my cooking ambition collided. I was on the cell phone talking to my husband, while making a pork roast at the same time (shh, don't tell the rabbi). The smell from the oven was overwhelming, and it was time to remove the Iron Clad and let the roast rest. Lo and behold, I grabbed the roast from the oven. But, the hand with the oven mitt remained on the cell phone, the bare hand stuck to the 500 degree roasting pan. In a split second of extreme pain I realized one thing that was paramount. I needed more help. Oh, and I needed to go to the emergency room...). In the emergency room at 11pm (an hour past the local bedtime deadline) with ice on my blistered hand, I had an epiphany. After the young doctor on call told me he'd be back after he looked up on the internet what to do, it hit me. Don't try to fit in... Be who you are. In my case, that is a person who doesn't cook, who has a 24 hour a day nanny, and who would really like to hire a driver.
There are some other important things I have learned as a resident of San Diego, and if you decide to come visit me (and please do - there is a great hotel down the street), these are some of the things you should keep in mind:
1) Don't ask people what the "do", rather, ask them only "what they are in to" (answers, by the way, range from hiking, biking and surfing, to smoking pot - yes, that is a sport here)
2) You can spilt a restaurant bill ten ways at a lunch where woman only eat salads, not to mention that you will pay extra on your one-tenth if you add chicken (Oh, and don't offer to pay the whole bill, they will think you are showing off)
3) Mall is a verb here, as opposed to a noun, which it is in most other places
4) The mall is also not a bad after school activity for the kids. They have a bouncy castle and choo choo train.
5) If you honk, people will just give you the finger
6) It's acceptable, here, to get naked on the street as long as it's because you are changing from your surf clothes into your work clothes
7) Il Fornaio's food is not half bad (that's a lie)
8) Don't cite articles from major news publications, you will just be met with blank looks and empty stares
9) Restaurants close on Monday nights
10) It's okay to shower every third day
Oh, and if you are a New Yorker and you try to fit in, you are bound to stand out even more...
Then, after three days, there's the moment of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em!" And what better way to fit back in then to take a trip to the gym, not to work out though, but to shop! In San Diego, Lulu Lemon is not a brand, it's a life style. To put it plainly, LuLu Lemon is to San Diego as Louis Vuitton is to New York. Before moving from NYC last spring, a friend encouraged me NOT to bury myself in a wardrobe of Banana Republic, despite my instinct to do so. "Dress cute," she said. "Be the hot mom at school. Where a Prada dress." "What a waste," I told her. "No one will appreciate it." And how right I was... On the first day of school I decided to heed her advice and dress up for the occasion. LOST on the audience, as anticipated. Lesson learned: there are places where ked's shoes are still a household staple, where people don't understand the negative impact of high fructose corn syrup, and where the trans-am is still considered cool. After much Lulu Lemon and seven sessions with the trainer, life gets a bit boring again, and 10pm seems like a great time to go to sleep.
Moving someplace new is always a challenge. I, for one, make friends pretty easily. I am not bashful (those of you who know me are laughing now) and I am not intimidated easily. Not that I am here, by the way. I would say it's more like a fish out of water scenario. I guess then that the problem is a misalignment of incentives? Or maybe goals? No, aspirations? All of the above? Yes - the latter. I come from a world where the incentive to exceed expectations is commonplace, almost unappreciated. In San Diego, ambition is a dirty word. My friend's father once said that Southern California is the land of fruits and nuts, and certainly, he was not referring to the crop production. Here, for example, expectations and ambitions are mainly reserved for the pursuit of plastic surgery (oh yeah, it's that bad). That's not to say that there are not any ambitious people here, or that people are not successful, smart or inventive. Some are. It's just a difference in the over arching attitude. I constantly remind my husband, who continues to be surprised by the San Diego work ethic, that this is a place where people move and then get a job. Not a place where people move for a job.
When I first arrived here, I tried to "dial it back," not be the aggressive New Yorker. I started to cook, I didn't bring my nanny to birthday parties (or g-d forbid send her without me - sacre-bleu!), and I stopped honking in the car (Okay, well at least I tried to stop honking). Why not fit in, right? Cooking was a great idea because the restaurants here are pretty terrible and I love the Food Network. Therefore, one plus one equals three. Problem? Despite my discerning palate, my ADD makes me a problematic chef. Some dishes are good, but others are forgotten, and therefore, overdone. I cooked for the first three months that I was here. I searched high and low for really high quality fresh foods (the dirty little secret of San Diego is that they send all the best fish and produce out of state, because most people here don't appreciate it, won't pay up for it, and don't care how it tastes). Anyway - I cooked to the extent that when my grandmother visited last summer, she was freaked out. She came with my mother to my house for a home cooked meal (already they knew they were in trouble). When she arrived she insisted that I must be short handed with help. I insisted, of course, I had little else to do, and cooking was a great outlet. That was until... Until the night that my ADD and my cooking ambition collided. I was on the cell phone talking to my husband, while making a pork roast at the same time (shh, don't tell the rabbi). The smell from the oven was overwhelming, and it was time to remove the Iron Clad and let the roast rest. Lo and behold, I grabbed the roast from the oven. But, the hand with the oven mitt remained on the cell phone, the bare hand stuck to the 500 degree roasting pan. In a split second of extreme pain I realized one thing that was paramount. I needed more help. Oh, and I needed to go to the emergency room...). In the emergency room at 11pm (an hour past the local bedtime deadline) with ice on my blistered hand, I had an epiphany. After the young doctor on call told me he'd be back after he looked up on the internet what to do, it hit me. Don't try to fit in... Be who you are. In my case, that is a person who doesn't cook, who has a 24 hour a day nanny, and who would really like to hire a driver.
There are some other important things I have learned as a resident of San Diego, and if you decide to come visit me (and please do - there is a great hotel down the street), these are some of the things you should keep in mind:
1) Don't ask people what the "do", rather, ask them only "what they are in to" (answers, by the way, range from hiking, biking and surfing, to smoking pot - yes, that is a sport here)
2) You can spilt a restaurant bill ten ways at a lunch where woman only eat salads, not to mention that you will pay extra on your one-tenth if you add chicken (Oh, and don't offer to pay the whole bill, they will think you are showing off)
3) Mall is a verb here, as opposed to a noun, which it is in most other places
4) The mall is also not a bad after school activity for the kids. They have a bouncy castle and choo choo train.
5) If you honk, people will just give you the finger
6) It's acceptable, here, to get naked on the street as long as it's because you are changing from your surf clothes into your work clothes
7) Il Fornaio's food is not half bad (that's a lie)
8) Don't cite articles from major news publications, you will just be met with blank looks and empty stares
9) Restaurants close on Monday nights
10) It's okay to shower every third day
Oh, and if you are a New Yorker and you try to fit in, you are bound to stand out even more...
Monday, March 21, 2011
Welcome to the World!
It's the most joyous time in our lives, welcoming a new little one into the world. We are brimming with excitement, we have boundless emotion and we promise with devout earnestness that we will make the world a better place for our new arrival. We enroll in infant music, yoga, martial arts, and we promise them they will be bi-lingual by age three. We will re-direct all of our own misfortunes and make a better life for our future world leader.
Go for it! I am SO happy for you. I promise to get you a gift, a donation, a onsie, whatever it takes, just please DO NOT SEND A PICTURE of your baby by mail.
You know what I am talking about. That perfect print of your infant, the cutest creature on earth, the one of him or her with their eyes as wide as saucers, their perfect smooth skin, that adorable little outfit (the dorky one they will never wear again and hate you for at high school graduation). The "bundle of joy" picture. KEEP THE PICTURE! I don't want it, no one wants it, and no one knows what to do with it.
For years, I had a drawer full of them. I was riddled with heavy guilt. I could not throw them away. There was another drawer next to it,the Yarmulke and goody bag drawer. That was where we kept all the monogrammed yarmulkes from dozens of wedding and bar/bat mitzvahs for fear that if I threw them out, I'd be stricken down by a swift bolt of lightening from the sky. There were also plenty of odds and ends from showers, christening and the occasional bris. (By the way, isn't it an oxymoron to give a gift at a bris? I always imagined it would be accompanied by a note that said, thanks for coming to our snip; here's a little gift to remember the occasion, forever.")
Last year when we were moving I emptied both drawers. I took the yarmulkes and "goodies" to the temple and left them on the Rabbi's door step. I was afraid if I declared my gift, I would have been sent away, with the box. So, if you should find yourself in the temple next fall on Erev Rosh Hashanah in a yarmulke that says "Gary's Bar Mitzvah," please, do not send a thank you note, especially if it has a picture of your baby with it.
There is one exception, the picture of the baby by email. I love it. Perfect. I can comment. I can say things like. "Oh! Pure joy! She's truly one of the most beautiful babies I have ever seen." Or "He is gorgeous. You should model him, now."
Email is perfect, because you can observe, comment, delete, and you don't have to kill any trees in the process. In fact, that's what you can do. Send an email with the picture, say you are trying to start respecting our planet by teaching the next generation how to save trees by NOT sending out a picture that all your friends will throw away because it's creepy to have a picture of someone elses baby around when you are not related to them.
It's just food for thought. I hope you don't take offense. I am really so happy for you and I cannot wait for the email. Just trying to save you a stamp.
Go for it! I am SO happy for you. I promise to get you a gift, a donation, a onsie, whatever it takes, just please DO NOT SEND A PICTURE of your baby by mail.
You know what I am talking about. That perfect print of your infant, the cutest creature on earth, the one of him or her with their eyes as wide as saucers, their perfect smooth skin, that adorable little outfit (the dorky one they will never wear again and hate you for at high school graduation). The "bundle of joy" picture. KEEP THE PICTURE! I don't want it, no one wants it, and no one knows what to do with it.
For years, I had a drawer full of them. I was riddled with heavy guilt. I could not throw them away. There was another drawer next to it,the Yarmulke and goody bag drawer. That was where we kept all the monogrammed yarmulkes from dozens of wedding and bar/bat mitzvahs for fear that if I threw them out, I'd be stricken down by a swift bolt of lightening from the sky. There were also plenty of odds and ends from showers, christening and the occasional bris. (By the way, isn't it an oxymoron to give a gift at a bris? I always imagined it would be accompanied by a note that said, thanks for coming to our snip; here's a little gift to remember the occasion, forever.")
Last year when we were moving I emptied both drawers. I took the yarmulkes and "goodies" to the temple and left them on the Rabbi's door step. I was afraid if I declared my gift, I would have been sent away, with the box. So, if you should find yourself in the temple next fall on Erev Rosh Hashanah in a yarmulke that says "Gary's Bar Mitzvah," please, do not send a thank you note, especially if it has a picture of your baby with it.
There is one exception, the picture of the baby by email. I love it. Perfect. I can comment. I can say things like. "Oh! Pure joy! She's truly one of the most beautiful babies I have ever seen." Or "He is gorgeous. You should model him, now."
Email is perfect, because you can observe, comment, delete, and you don't have to kill any trees in the process. In fact, that's what you can do. Send an email with the picture, say you are trying to start respecting our planet by teaching the next generation how to save trees by NOT sending out a picture that all your friends will throw away because it's creepy to have a picture of someone elses baby around when you are not related to them.
It's just food for thought. I hope you don't take offense. I am really so happy for you and I cannot wait for the email. Just trying to save you a stamp.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Hey Cabbie, Got Change for a Twenty?
Change for a $20 will be given. No bills more than $20 will be changed.
Isn’t that what the sign says in the taxi cabs? So why is it that eighty percent of the time that I hand a $20 bill to a cabbie he asks me for something smaller? “I don’t have change for that – you got to give me something smaller” – he snickers from the front seat (a comment barely audible over the back of his head through the thick plastic divider). Despite the fact that I’m in a rush – we drive to six street vendors begging for change before he’ll release me from the slush covered cab. I am late, and I have a $20. Give me change – or let me out and you worry about it. It’s your problem anyway. Or is it?
There are many inconveniences of everyday life in New York. This is one of the more frustrating ones. Why do cabbies think that we should walk around with $20 in singles? After all, we are the fare – by definition – our only obligation is to come up with the money to pay for our ride. In fact, we are already subject to strict rules of monetary conduct. $20 is the largest bill for which change will be given.
And yet, even with a $20 in hand, we are made to feel guilty, unprepared, disrespectful! Don't they understand that it is actually their job to make sure they have that change. When I was working in an office, I made sure that every day I was prepared with the tools I needed to complete the day. I’d bring my computer, my cell phone, and all appropriate paperwork. For meetings, I did my research and I came prepared. So it seems that to prepare appropriately for the day, a cabbie would have wads of change ready to go. Maybe a trip to the bank at the end of your shift? You're already in your car. And don't tell me you don't have time. You all play that "I'm off duty game" on your way back to your garage, you know, the light says OFF DUTY, but the man in the car still roles down the window and asks: "Where are you going?" "To the bank, with you" I'd like to say, "to get change for tomorrow." Or what about those lunch hours when I see all the cabs idling in the 20's off of Lexington Avenue. I've seen lots of ATMs in that student filled neighborhood. Surely the banks have singles in those locations too.
Why not go to the bank to assure this level of preparation? Or install change facilities in all taxi outposts in New York City, so that all cabbies have the option to get change in their garage before they head out for their shift.
So what is the revenge...what could we do to get back at them! Do I have anything smaller? Sure I do – I have lots of quarters… Last week, I decided I was going to bring my twenties to the bank, and arm myself with change just in case the cabbie refused to change the twenty and asked me for something smaller. Less than $20 for an $8 fare? Sure – I have change, and here it comes, 44 quarters out of the Zip-lock bag labeled “change revenge” in my purse ($1 tip included of course).
Try giving that change to your next passenger – and try getting a street vendor to take those quarters. It's enough we have to listen to you on your cell phones when you're not supposed to use them while on duty. For the love of New Yorkers, could you just bring some change?
Cranky Out! (for now).
Isn’t that what the sign says in the taxi cabs? So why is it that eighty percent of the time that I hand a $20 bill to a cabbie he asks me for something smaller? “I don’t have change for that – you got to give me something smaller” – he snickers from the front seat (a comment barely audible over the back of his head through the thick plastic divider). Despite the fact that I’m in a rush – we drive to six street vendors begging for change before he’ll release me from the slush covered cab. I am late, and I have a $20. Give me change – or let me out and you worry about it. It’s your problem anyway. Or is it?
There are many inconveniences of everyday life in New York. This is one of the more frustrating ones. Why do cabbies think that we should walk around with $20 in singles? After all, we are the fare – by definition – our only obligation is to come up with the money to pay for our ride. In fact, we are already subject to strict rules of monetary conduct. $20 is the largest bill for which change will be given.
And yet, even with a $20 in hand, we are made to feel guilty, unprepared, disrespectful! Don't they understand that it is actually their job to make sure they have that change. When I was working in an office, I made sure that every day I was prepared with the tools I needed to complete the day. I’d bring my computer, my cell phone, and all appropriate paperwork. For meetings, I did my research and I came prepared. So it seems that to prepare appropriately for the day, a cabbie would have wads of change ready to go. Maybe a trip to the bank at the end of your shift? You're already in your car. And don't tell me you don't have time. You all play that "I'm off duty game" on your way back to your garage, you know, the light says OFF DUTY, but the man in the car still roles down the window and asks: "Where are you going?" "To the bank, with you" I'd like to say, "to get change for tomorrow." Or what about those lunch hours when I see all the cabs idling in the 20's off of Lexington Avenue. I've seen lots of ATMs in that student filled neighborhood. Surely the banks have singles in those locations too.
Why not go to the bank to assure this level of preparation? Or install change facilities in all taxi outposts in New York City, so that all cabbies have the option to get change in their garage before they head out for their shift.
So what is the revenge...what could we do to get back at them! Do I have anything smaller? Sure I do – I have lots of quarters… Last week, I decided I was going to bring my twenties to the bank, and arm myself with change just in case the cabbie refused to change the twenty and asked me for something smaller. Less than $20 for an $8 fare? Sure – I have change, and here it comes, 44 quarters out of the Zip-lock bag labeled “change revenge” in my purse ($1 tip included of course).
Try giving that change to your next passenger – and try getting a street vendor to take those quarters. It's enough we have to listen to you on your cell phones when you're not supposed to use them while on duty. For the love of New Yorkers, could you just bring some change?
Cranky Out! (for now).
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