Once Upon An Appendectomy....

Clouds tend to follow me.

I'm sure it's obvious by now that I was in the hospital for appendicitis, but I doubt many of you know the wonderful story behind it. It's probably a little conceited of me to assume you'd want to read about my experiences before and after my surgery, given that it's such a personal story, and also that you probably don't give a crap.

But whiners gonna whine, so you must accept that this blog entry will continue as thus.

It seems fitting that I'm documenting my ailment once again, as my first blog entry after a long hiatus came about after a grueling wisdom tooth operation. I was bored, heavily drugged, and feeling like a depressed, chipmunk-cheeked coward. These are all perfect circumstances for writing. It seems that when I'm at my worst, my inspiration to write with anger and fervor are at their best - so when suddenly I found myself without an appendix, but with a catheter, I felt an instinctual need to rant my head off to the Goddess of Curmudgeons.

Dear Una,

(Not sure if reading your blog daily qualifies me to address you informally, so forgive me Mrs. LaMarche, if it does not....)

I'm writing to you in hopes of being christened a curmudgeon; it's something I've been meaning to ask for a few weeks now, but I've been too much of a pussy to do it. (I'm cutting to the punch here; I can pretend I had "things to do", but I know myself better.) Let me first say that you are an inspiration to curmudgeon writers everywhere, and if I hadn't found your blog I might not have continued mine.

My blog, Interrobang (formerly called "Goy Vey".....it's a long story) is a completely selfish personal account of things I like to whine about. Also, bittersweet nostalgia (mostly about childhood). And self-deprecation. So essentially, it's Freud's wet dream.

However, I haven't written in awhile, as I often suffer from bouts of crippling writer's block. There are times when the self-deprecation doesn't even make it to the page, because of, well....me being so self-deprecating. And for awhile I was unsure if being a curmudgeon was something I deserved. But I think this quote pretty much sums me up:

A curmudgeon's reputation for malevolence is undeserved. They're neither warped nor evil at heart. They don't hate mankind, just mankind's absurdities. They're just as sensitive and soft-hearted as the next guy, but they hide their vulnerability beneath a crust of misanthropy. They ease the pain by turning hurt into humor.....
Perhaps curmudgeons have gotten a bad rap in the same way that the messenger is blamed for the message: They have the temerity to comment on the human condition without apology....Their versions of the truth unsettle us, and we hold it against them, even though they soften it with humor. (Jon Winokur, whoever the fuck that is)

Sure, I've been known to start loud, obnoxious scenes to vent my anger; complain openly and adamantly about my life, even though it's incomparable to the rest of the world's woes; and my amount of negativity is seriously impressive, if not frightening. Whether I'm to be proud of this, I'm not sure. Sometimes it's just nice to have the knowledge during your monotonous commute that at any point your rage can be directed into a fistful of bitch out.

At other times, this behavior seems more attributed to say, criminals, or schizophrenics.

But, I can honestly say that at this point, I've racked up enough grievances to warrant my curmudgeon-dom. These passed two months have truly been filled with the stuff of curses:

1. Tara has email hacked. By some asshole in Nigeria. Apparently I am in London, was robbed at gunpoint and need money to get back to the states. Since my life is on Gmail, this ultimately blows. It takes a week of troubleshooting and lengthy explanations to friends, family, coworkers and my gynecologist that I am safe in Brooklyn. Although London sounds preferable.

2. Tara has credit card stolen. This happens 2 weeks after the hacking, yet is completely unrelated, and blows infinitely more. Some bitch in Brooklyn decided to go on a shopping spree at Burberry with card numbers that were most likely stolen by someone delivering me a burger. Bank freezes my account and the $1800 they stole until they verify that I'm not lying. I insist that I'm really more of a Kmart girl.

3. Student Loans Increase. Rent Check Bounces. Sobbing, screaming phone calls are exhibited in the workplace as a result. Those around me shrink upon my presence to avoid evil eye.

4. Tara has emergency appendectomy. I can only guess that the amount of stress and pure bloodcurdling anger at recent events was cause enough for my appendix to peace out. Three days of hospital hell later, I'm infected with a UTI. Six days later, I am sitting at home typing this with a catheter tube up my hoo-ha and a bagful of urine hanging from my leg. I have degenerated to an 80 year old.

I'm hoping that, with your blessing (as you are indeed the queen of curmudgeons), I will break through the walls of writer's block and continue to share my rantings with all who will listen. But most importantly, I'll be giving myself a reason to express myself again. Perhaps being an anointed curmudgeon will light that fire under my ass and scare my critical ego into slinking away into obscurity. I know that writing this has already done wonders.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to empty my bag of pee.

Yours truly,

Tara

So why expound further? Well, why not? I've been thinking about why so many unbelievably odd and inopportune experiences so often plague me. It's a dumb luck inherited from the Stromberg clan, the depths of a past which I have only begun to discover.

OR...perhaps the universe just wanted to give me some great material to write with. If that's the case, then I better do so - don't look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say.

Here are the cliff notes of that fateful day:

• I eat tacos. Immense abdominal pains follow. I assume I have really indigestion.
• After attempting to use the bathroom, I realize I can hardly walk. Okay...it must be really bad indigestion.
• I frantically Google "appendicitis." I then fall asleep wondering if I'm going to die.
• I wake up, thankfully. I must REALLY need to poop.
• Stay home from work because....I need to take a dump? This is greatly embarrassing....So, I travel limp-like-a-hunchback-ready-to-hurl to the doctor in hopes of finding a better excuse for skipping work.
• Doctor sends me to ER. I am seen at 5pm. I drink lots of iodine.
• The cleaning lady walks in while they're doing my uterus scan. She refuses to leave until she takes out the garbage, which is right next to my straddled legs.
• I get a CAT scan and some crazy drugs that make me feel warm and squishy inside.
• While waiting in the aisle of the ER at 9pm, doctor greets me with an enthusiastic "You have appendicitis!"...........at least it wasn't diarrhea? 
• I am introduced to 15 doctors, only 5 of which will actually be in the OR.
• I use the anesthesiologist's iPhone to update my Facebook status per my imminent surgery (so cheeky, am I.)
• They ask me what music I would like to doze off to as they fiddle around with my insides. I say, anything but Lady Gaga....
• ......"Ra-ah-ah-ah"-CRAP!
• Last thing I remember is funky smelling oxygen mask....

I find it suiting that I should end this entry with a graphic interpretation (emphasis on "graphic") of how my surgery probably went down:

Pretty symbolic if you ask me.

‽

So About My Family [Briefly]....

I spent the weekend before last in my hometown of New Jersey, for quality time with the aforementioned fam. It was dad's surprise 50th, so there was an immediacy to this visit (don't want you to think I'm going all soft.)

Well really, I just needed a haircut, but the family was there, so I figured, what the hey - might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Like most family functions, my father's thirteen Stromberg siblings and boyhood pals decided twas best to use this celebration to roast all 50 years of his wonderful memories. I was also chosen to write  a roast speech. When my Uncle Robby, the organizer of these shenanigans, first proposed this, it was September. By the time I arrived in October, I still had nothing written.

Frantically nearing the hour of truth, after driving around crazily like a Jersey housewife on steroids, dragging my victims (er, guests) for the night, Josh and Cara, through confusing U-turns and overpriced Halloween stores with costumes like "Money Ho," "the Blow-Me Breathalizer" and "Testey Tea Bags" (we're really not trying to overcome stereotypes in Jersey, it seems), I finally came to a realization:

I needed to write this freakin' speech.
(Even if my audience would be mostly intoxicated by then.)

So I did what any normal twenty-something would do in this situation - I winged it improvised. Using a previous blog entry, and sketches drawn by my sister, I put together what I thought was a lovely summary of dad's life.........of pain.

Surprisingly, for such little preparation it drew quite a bit of laughs (story of my life.) And coming from the Strombergs and one Joshua Goolsby ("sarcasm extraordinaire"), this is saying a lot.

After a lovely experience of living at home again for two days amongst the Strombergians, I've realized that I haven't described my incredibly unique family members to all of the folks out there who probably don't give a damn. Why goodness, in order to understand the Strombergs, you must take a close look at the dynamics! We are a highly complex system, that has a massive weekly intake of 2% milk. And the best way to observe this rare species of American family at its peak of dysfunctionality is in their natural habitat.

*DISCLAIMER: Since I know they're reading this right now, jaws agape at the sheer audacity of the use of "dysfunction" to describe them, please realize: there are no families that exist without dysfunction, at the risk of being incredibly boring.

∆ Mom

Aside from inspiring my love of books, you may remember her from previous flashback entries concerning shitty cars. She was my first impromptu guest blogger....albeit without consent.

• Childhood Revisited...Again
• Wedding Bell Blues
• Mom Speaks of the Curse!

∆ Dad

Alas, you've had your days in the spotlight already. As well as here.

• The Stromberg Family Car Curse
• Wedding Bell Blues

∆ Nick, brother
For his last birthday, I devoted a blog entry to my little brother, praising his eccentricity. That's enough, right?

• Cinco de Birthday

∆ Ceri, sister
Her psychologically-fused drawings of sarcasm have shown up in this entry, as well as my previous one highlighting our quirks of humor.

• Insult to Injury

[NOTE: I realize that this has turned into a "Greatest Hits" list rather than a for reals blog entry.........I got lazy.]

∆ Lili, sister, &; Lexy, dog

There's a reason I've lumped these two together; obviously they're not equal on the totem pole of family hierarchy (one crawls on the floor for godsakes; although I guess you could argue that they both did at one time.)

When Lili was born, I was 14 years old and Lexy was closing in on middle age. I acted as mommy and Lexy, well, acted like a dog, as expected, as well as her counterpart. She was there to guard against ghosts in the dark and provide entertainment for the new baby. (Their trust was tested when Lexy decided to leave a nervous trail of poop all over her room; there were a few months of uncertainty, but eventually the deed was forgotten, once the smell wore off.)

Lili also provided her own entertainment, as she was the first to be caught on the family's new video camera. Even though she's grown to 10 years old now, I can still remember the cartoon-ish adventures of the two of them, which eventually inspired me to capture their sweet yet short adventure in baby/puppy-dom....

Lexy, with her two quirky ears: one Collie, one Doberman.
Lili, with her beloved stuffed pal, Fishy - a somewhat preschool Calvin and Hobbes, if you will.  

(Fishy once braved an 8 floor plummet through an elevator shaft in my old NYU dorm. Somehow he fit perfectly lengthwise through when dropped; poor Lili proceeded to scream uncontrollably. Those in the elevator with us were quite unsure of what to do. Luckily, NYU was able to retrieve Fishy, showing how persistent a stuffed fish - and an NYU janitor for that matter - could be.)

No matter how old they get - Lexy, with her arthritis and deaf ears; and Lili, with her Justin Bieber and Bratz dolls - I'll always choose to remember them this way.

‽

It's Time for "WTF Is Your Problem Now?"

Oy, I'm kvetching.

....with the queen of complaints: me.
I have to remember, my workplace is a pit of disease, much like a kindergarten play room.

I compromised my attitude for coming into work by promising it'd leave me some time to write in my blog: all the things I've been saving up to finish in my drafts, everything that's been waiting on handwritten notebook pages to be copied into a long column of writing that people will probably groan about having to read through....things of that nature. Including yesterday's journey through Park Slope with the Rybotz, buying comics at Bergen, visiting KingCon, chatting with a bored Jonathan Ames, scoffing at overpriced vintage wares, and switching locations of stifling to frigid temperatures faster than that stupid Katy Perry song. (Like how I just summarized my day in a sentence? I need to try this more often - less bored readers.)

That said, somewhere in between sweating in my coat, freezing because of the sweat caused from excess coat when sprinting outside with my long impatient NY legs, then reverting back to sweating once my coat was recovered with all the winter items I had since peeled away.....I got sick.

This also might have been a result of my skimpy Frosted Flakes + Fiber Bar diet, which was finally topped off with a hasty dinner that I eagerly devoured within 5 minutes, out of fear it might disappear before I could finish. These are the illogical realities of a New Yorker; or just a starving idiot - not sure if there's a difference.

Anywho, walking up and down the subway stairs made me realize that I was dizzy, almost weak, and that my irritation at being slow was not as important as my fear of possibly becoming that loathsome sick passenger responsible for delayed F train service. I'm usually guilty of despising that person, but now all of a sudden I'm guilty of being that person who forgot to eat their Cheerios in the morning and passed out in the middle of the closing doors. (However, rest-assured I'll still be complaining about the asshole who throws himself in front of the train in the near future - some of us have lives you know.)

My answer to this faint feeling was protein in the form of a McDonald's double cheeseburger. I have never glared at a cashier with such pale, sickening intensity. How long does it take to get a pre-made patty slapped on a bun and thrown into a bag? Apparently, longer than it takes me to get angry about it.

Later on at friend's, head still woozy while watching 1977's Tentacle by Italian director, Assonitis (don't think the pun was lost on me, and don't judge my off the cuff selection of entertaining Saturday night fare), I began to retrace my steps in hopes of discovering what the hell was wrong with me.....

OhmygodIhadaTamponinfor8hours. I'm probably going to die.

This provided me with at least 3 hours of pure hypochondriacal panic, as I fretted over my symptoms in relation to TSS, along with the possibility of seeing a giant octopus eye suddenly emerge from the depths of the ocean in HD.

Luckily, as I sit here the next day at work, there are no rashes to be seen; but my stomach is still unhappy with anything I feed it, and my eyes refuse to stay alert enough to focus on my typing. What could it be? What plague hath befallen me this time?

It's not a far stretch to assume I contracted something while working. All week, there have been bodies walking around with the cold, allergies, stomach flu, who knows what else. Come to think of it, ever since I started working here 2 years ago, I've been to the doctor more frequently than ever. Perhaps this is a direct result of the gift of health insurance....perhaps not.

In any case, the condition of my health and those of this morose, dust-filled prison seem inextricably connected. That, and my editor is playing crappy early 2000 Emo music with shrill guitars and thoroughly annoying twentysomething tirades about burying graves, wasted time or some shit.

And I shall continue to whine about it.

‽

Fun With Organs...Though Not the Ones You Think

I know how much all of you are just dying to know what the silence these past few months has been about (isn't it funny how I just materialize an audience out of nowhere?). However, I enjoy teasing too much to give it all away so soon.

Instead, I'll play a little game: I give you a clue, and you see if you can't figure it out before I decide to share (ie, procrastinate, file my nails, worry about what the hell I'm going to write next.) I fear that building this up too much might result in a huge let down, but then I guess that's your problem isn't it? I'm just going to keep thinking that for my own peace of mind. Kthanks.

My sister, Ceri, has inspired me to go back to my artful origins (yes, it's true; once upon a time I drew), and create my own comic of injury  - though, slightly more "cerebral." (It's a joke that will pay off later, I promise.)

My therapist brought up a great juxtaposition of emotional and physical conditions that I thought would be perfect fodder for a comic that took all of my recent bad luck and packaged it up into a neat little bow of witty self-discovery.

*NOTE: I bet I know what you're thinking: "Therapist‽ Um, yeah, I'll see you later" ::runs away:: If not, kudos to you, because you're open-minded and not an asshole. If you do happen to be rolling your eyes and starting to lose your credibility in this blogger persona I have so artfully created for myself, then I probably don't like you, so I don't care. HOWEVER, consider that my therapist is the mechanism by which the things I should be discussing with myself are reflected back at me in a way that is both enlightening and a slap in the face. Much like broccoli, you really should try it sometime. It's a good source of nutrition.

Here's a review of the players, introduced by their medical definitions, which will be useful in interpreting what the hell I'm trying to say:

• Hippocampus: An area buried deep in the forebrain that helps regulate emotion and memory.
• Amygdala: A small oval structure in the temporal lobe of the brain that is closely connected to the hippocampus and plays a role in the sense of smell, motivation, and emotional behavior. 
• Cerebral Cortex:  The cerebral cortex is responsible for the processes of thought, perception and memory and serves as the seat of logic and problem solving (among other functions). It is not formed until later in adolescence.

(Thanks Med Terms)

*My appendix either look like a muppet, or a really dinky representation of male genitalia. But we are talking about organs here, so it's all good.

Insult to Injury

I'll be the first to admit that when I blog about my family, it's usually tinged with sarcasm. How awful you must think me to be. Don't I think of my poor mother‽

Of course I do. Where do you think the sarcasm comes from?

In our home, sarcasm was the #1 coping mechanism. Our family has been through some unusual unpleasant experiences; however, nothing that can't be cured by good ol' sardonic aplomb. Give us a glass half-empty, and we'll see it as such; and then we'll fill it with beer and suck it down. Cause we figure you might as well drink it up, and toast to the irony.

And while my mom was the first to point out the facts in my blog about family car woes, she did it with the hilariously flippant cynicism of a champ. You see, I learn from the best. That said, it's not surprising that I write to express myself (and that my early dream was, in fact, to become a comedian.)

My siblings are no different. Creativity by way of self-deprecation is the way to go. Our work is almost always reflexive.

Another fun fact about my family: we are accident prone. This is most definitely a Stromberg trait. I could go on and on about this one, but I'll save it for another day. For now, I'd like to use it in context with my recent situation...

As I was [finally] leaving the hospital a few weeks ago (I know, the suspense must be killing you by now - explanations to come later), my sister, Ceri, was on her way to a hospital, via ambulance. This is her first year at Savannah College of Art and Design. I suppose that the only way to celebrate this wonderful opportunity was to do so in the Stromberg tradition: accidental, self-inflicted injury.

It was a deep cut, but only to her finger. Conveniently enough it was during an attempt to cut a bagel.  All she was trying to do was eat. By 4am she was glued up and sent back to school with another scar to add to her collection. The perfect college initiation, by way of bagel. (Jewish joke anyone? Anny-body?....)

The most amusing part about this story is that it was in no way surprising to the family. Upsetting? Yes. Stressful? Most definitely. Inevitable? Of course; and thus, pretty hilarious.

Now, before you decide I'm quite possibly the worst sister in the world, I must remind you of the nature of my family. Instead of being bitter, Ceri takes it all in stride, by using her injuries to fuel her creative musings. It's a running gag that both she and my father (most likely the giver of the accident gene) have racked up a long line of ridiculous impairments. And since she has an artistic gift, Ceri decides to document them:

Since then, there has also been the Bagel incident, as well as the Bowl incident, which occurred when a glass bowl exploded over an open flame in Home Ec, sending shatters of glass into her arm. Ironically, the scars look suspiciously like the result of some retardly botched suicide attempt.

This constant barrage of bad luck, though it sucks terribly at the time, is just another Stromberg oddity. We're so used to it by now that it's almost a given that something will almost always go wrong when you least expect it. And, conversely, something incredibly right must follow. This irony is reflected in much of my writing - it's at once a curse and a blessing; the mark of my namesake.

The fact that my sister is also using it to her artistic advantage, is deserving of applause. I believe her most recent work says it best:

 

Check out Ceri's other works below. (And please buy her merchandise to fund her future hospital bills):

• Official Corrsolla Robot Website
• Deviant Art
• Facebook 

‽

Back, with a Vengeance‽

I sit here on my couch this Sunday evening in a strange, dreamlike stupor, trying to salvage the day after a waking hour of 3pm, sipping groggily on flat Wild Cherry Pepsi. I believe it is time.

I'm finally going to say it, even though I hear my inner critic already chastising me for defying the unwritten "Blogger Code of Ethics." It cries, "No one wants to hear your sap story! Save it for your diary, Wendy whiner."

 To this I say "Fuck you," evil ego, and watch as it slinks away spinelessly into the dark recesses of my mind. It's my blog and I'll cry if I want to, which includes admitting certain truths that I've been neglecting to face.

"It took awhile for me to allow myself to start writing again, because I was afraid."

There, I said it. And so far nothing has exploded or ended in an engulfment of flames. So I guess I'm safe........for now. I apologize if this doesn't seem a sufficiently exciting beginning to a blog entry - in time you will realize that the most recent turn of events have a somewhat cartoonish quality that will test your belief. In short, I can't make this shit up.

For those of you who need a visual aid in order to understand, this is a pretty accurate representation of what I've been dealing with over the past two months:

It is due to this rather unlucky and preposterous chain of events that I have made a few changes in the Unkosher world. However, only as far as my blog is concerned. What used to be "Goy Vey," a title which heralded my Woody Allen-esque views of life in lieu of my very non-Jewish heritage (clever as it was), has now been replaced with something less offensive, less religiously charged, and a lot more arrogant.

"Interrobang" is a word I always thought to be interesting. I remember it popping up in my Google web clips and thinking it was some nerd's idea of an apocalyptic grammar explosion. In a way, I guess it sort of is. The definition, as you can see on the sidebar to the right (for those of you who are too lazy for Dictionary.com) defines "Interrobang" as the combination of both question mark and exclamation point, used to express incredulity and disbelief......loudly.

This little punctuation mark, my friends, is the definition of my life.

To find out why, I invite you to continue reading, as more [incredulous] truths are revealed.

‽

The Unkosher Guide to Subway Survival

There's nothing I love better than not having to pay car insurance, deal with mechanical failures or release pent up road rage by instead allowing public transportation to do the brunt work for me. However, the daily commute let's loose a whole new kind of rage that could drive some to the brink of bodily harm.

Thus, I'd like to share some coping guidelines that I've learned (or am trying to anyhow) on surviving the New York subway experience:

Walk swiftly, and don't stop in the middle of the walking paths on the platform, looking like a lost orphan. People, ie me, have places to go, faster than it takes you to figure out that you're on the wrong platform or to look at your shoes forlornly. If you don't move, then there will be nothing to hold against me when I accidentally push you off the platform. Which brings me to my next point....

Stay Away From the Edge of the Platform. Seriously, it makes me nervous.

Especially if you have kids. Why, as a parent, you are allowing your kids to venture any more than 1 foot in front of you in either direction, let alone screw around near the edge of the tracks is beyond me. And I'm no mother.

What To Do If You Fall on the Tracks. You won't, because I just told you to stay away from the edge. And if you went down there to get something you dropped, you're an idiot.

Subway Etiquette
Regardless of chivalry, good manners and all the other morals that humans should uphold, the subway-riding experience is more akin to the cutthroat ravages of the wild. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. There is a delicate balance that must be found between the human and animals instincts within us.

Sitting. I don't care how much you've convinced your delusional mind on the size of your "package;" if you're sitting in a seat with other passengers, your legs should be reasonably equidistant from one another, not spread out like you're ready to hump the poor person who is forced to stand directly between them. If this person refuses to accept the fact that his dick can't possibly need that much breathing room, then even a female passenger seating beside him has the right to obnoxiously take up more leg space than needed until they close that shit up.

Eating. I've done it a few times myself, so I won't go so far as to condone eating on the subway; however if you must, please mind what your mother taught you. Don't eat with your mouth open (that's gross anywhere, at anytime). Also, anything that requires a utensil or sloppy enough to require a bib is absolutely NOT cool. It already reeks of BO and urine; do you really need to eat right now?

Loud Music. When dealing with a passenger who's trance/hip hop/death metal/Whitney Houston music volume is blaring through their headphones, I encourage the use of pre-made signs as an initial polite request:

If this method fails, feel free to use the following retorts:

If you'd rather not spend the time making communicative signs, there is always the possibility of beginning to dance in an obnoxiously spastic way, relative to the passenger's music of choice. If they are not dense, they will soon understand that you are making fun of their shitty music, to the delight of all other passengers.

Violence/Harrassment. If this is happening to others, don't be a hero unless someone is in serious danger and you have the balls. If the violence/harrassment is happening to you, verbally or physically, you MUST have the balls.

I won't speak for everyone, but I know that personally, if anyone utters any disrespect or purposely lays an extremity or other unwanted substance on me, there will be hell to pay. Subways are shitty places to begin with, and I can bet that at any point in the day I am not in the mood to deal with assholes. I will not hesitate to react. I'm not sure how, but let's just say I'm most likely taller than you, equipped with nails, and have at least 25 years of pent up rage waiting to be unleashed. Try me. I dare you.

Musical Subway Chairs
You deserve to sit down on your long journey. Why?
Because you've done a shit load of walking.
Because you're pregnant.
Because you didn't have time to do your make-up.
Because you're old and feeble, or have a lame leg.
Because you worked until almost midnight and need to catch some sleep before you go back to doing it all over again.
Because it's a free fucking country.

There is most certainly an art to finding a seat on a crowded subway. This often becomes a meditative study on human behavior, where one must "hide in the bushes" - metaphorically speaking - acutely observing any possibility of flight, in order to pounce at the most opportune moment.

Here are a few key observations to make whilst scoping out the next possible open seat:

Sleeping Passengers. Granted there is a BIG difference between fully conked out/drooling on oneself to simply closing one's eyes. Most likely, a person won't be getting off at the nearest stop if they aren't alert and awake. But then again, I'm the best at maintaining a state of half-conscious awareness which allows me to intuitively know when I need to open my eyes, stop dreaming about killing the person next to me, and get ready to bolt at the next stop. So don't completely rule out the sleepers.

Reading Passengers. If someone's stop is coming up, they will almost ALWAYS put their reading material away beforehand. Watch for movement.

Anxious Passengers. Many commuters will glance anxiously outside the subway car doors at each stop, making sure they haven't reached theirs yet. They will also glance at their watch or curse under their breath in frustration.

By Occupation. I don't want to make generalizations about all suits working in midtown, and all students going into the village, and all Asian bag ladies getting off at Canal Street. Okay, I am.

By Frequency. Get to know the people that you've seen leave seats early on previous morning commutes. That's your best bet.

The hardest time to grab a seat is rush hour times and in the middle of the subway car sections (where traffic usually gathers.) Also note that standing close to the chairs and hanging on the above bars will place you in an ideal position to grab any seats that free up along the edge of the car. If you decide to stand against the door or in between the door area, there's no way in hell you're getting to an empty seat fast enough.

And lastly, a note about manners. If you are one of the few who still have them, good for you. You will stand up for the elderly, disabled or with-child. But these are the only times when you should let your guard down and the politeness in.

The majority of the general public doesn't give a crap about your gender or physical state; they will take a seat in a heartbeat, regardless of whether you think you're entitled or that you're standing directly in front of it. Remember, kill or be killed. You will dart over the feet of others, push through the idiots who think it's okay to stand against the poles, cut in front of the asshole who tries to trick you into thinking he just needs to get to the door, or if needed, throw your bag/coat/whatever you have in your hands onto the empty seat before someone else's ass hits it first.

We all gotta survive somehow.