James Franco

Living in New York City (well, I live in a Borough, but same diff) can be thrilling. Tonight was no exception. This has probably been one of the longest weeks at work ever, and I still have to wait another day before a day off. The organization that I work for was having one of their annual fund raising events, which is a sample sale–basically a lot of designers and fashion companies donated stuff for a tax write off and we sell it at 50% below retail or even less. There was a big VIP event for it on Thursday night–I got free drinks from it, and a transtastic voyage kissed me on the lips–which was frightening–not because she was a trans, but because girl was sportin’ some stubble. I know it was late, but come on girlfriend! get that waxed! It was a pretty good time, because my actual interaction with customers that evening was limited. However, Friday-Sunday nearly killed me. The people that shop at these stores (I was at a different store from my own the entire week) are savages. They literally have no concept of being a decent human being and picking something up if they drop it on the floor. Most of my time was spent manning the fitting room, picking up clothes from the floor, and hanging them back up. I also gave dirty looks to people. If people would realize that if they said ‘excuse me’, they wouldn’t be forced to say ‘I’m sorry’, after I give them a dirty a look. The bright side to working at a store other than your own is meeting the other people who know what you go through on a daily basis. The employees at this store were pretty cool–except for one. There is this one girl that works there that is frighteningly annoying. She talks about being in a band and was trying to explain how jeans are folded at Abercrombie and Fitch. Other people felt the same way I did, so I know it wasn’t just ’cause I was hatin’.

Moving on. Today after an especially exhausting day at work, my pal Victor met up with me and we decided to get some dinner. We walked over to 8th ave and as we were walking, we stopped to look at a menu outside of a restaurant. We pondered over it for a bit, standing on the sidewalk, when I looked forward, and who should be crossing the street at that exact moment? JAMES FRANCO! It’s almost two weeks to the day that I last saw him. I saw him the Monday before Election day…he was walking down 6th avenue talking on his cell phone, laughing, carrying some books–he was carrying three books this time. I turned around and followed him for a block and a half. He didn’t notice (thankfully) and neither did anyone else, oddly enough. Anyways, when I saw him, I immediately put a death grip on Victor’s forearm and gasped, “Oh my God, that’s Jame’s Franco!” Victor then grabbed my arm, with his other hand, and we both took a step back, squealed silently, and began breathing heavily–because that’s just what you. The rest is as follows:

Victor: Oh my God, what are we going to do?! Where is he going? We should follow him!

(James Franco almost bypasses deli, then decides to go in. Victor grabs my arm and pulls me down the sidewalk into the deli. James Franco is walking towards the back, to get an icy beverage.)

Me: I should go up to him! I should say something! I should get my picture with him! (at this point, I’m freaking out, because HELLO! it’s James Franco. Both Victor and I are both hyperventilating and grabbing hold of each other for support.)

Victor: You totally should, I’ll take the picture!

Me: Do you dare me to go up to him? Do you fucking dare me?! (Seriously, I was losing my shit. My brain fell on the floor and any ability to think logically was lost…as was the ability to form complete sentences.)

Victor: I dare you!

Me: (I am peeking around a shelving unit to see where he is and I look back at Victor): I can’t do this!

(James Franco walks down the other side of the shelving unit that I am hiding behind. I look at him, he looks at me. I sort of put my hand out to stop him…as if I am trying to touch him. He stops. I take a step forward.)

Me: I just wanted to say, that you’re James Franco. (He’s looking at me, through his adorably squinted eyes, he’s smiling. He has dimples.) I mean, you’re James Franco. I’m sorry I can’t think of anything better to say than the fact you’re James Franco.

James Franco: (Laughs softly. Not in a mocking way, in a genuine, warmed way and leans toward me.): What’s your name?

Me: (in my mind, I am freaking out, because he just asked me what my fucking name was!) Meaghan.

James Franco: (sticks out his hand, we SHAKE HANDS. I TOUCHED JAMES FRANCO) It’s nice to meet you Meaghan.

Me: (I was trying to extended this moment for as long as possible, obviously) You were really great in Pineapple Express. (Yes. That’s the best example of his acting that I could come up with at the moment. You try sounding normal when looking at that beautiful face!)

James Franco: (smiling) Aww, well thank you.

Me: (I turn to walk away, because the last thing I would want if I were James Franco, is me at my geekiest, trying to engage me in conversation.) Well, it was really nice meeting. Have a good night.

James Franco: You too. (he smiles and walks over to get some coffee.)

I go over to Victor, who was hiding behind the shelves, just in case I did something really terrible and freaked out. We both start giggling like little girls and he touches my hand, James Franco touched my hand, and he was going to use that hand for sexy times later. ha!

Me: We should go. We don’t want to seem weird. (too late at this point really.)

So we are walking out of the deli, James Franco is getting his coffee and we see each other, I do a goodbye wave to him, and he smiles at me and WINKS. HE WINKED AT ME. I could have died. I could have just died.

I seriously, haven’t been this excited about a celebrity encounter since Ryan Gosling smiled and said hello to me in a bar. I only get excited about A-List. And James Franco is A-LIST. I think Victor was impressed with my ability to approach James Franco. I know I was. Even though I was a complete tool when I was talking to him. I’m just going to go ahead and say that James Franco seems like a really decent human being. He totally didn’t have to be nice to me, because it’s not like I’m some 8 year old girl that be devastated if he was a jerk. He didn’t seemed bothered by me approaching him and having a complete spaz attack. He was very nice and if anything, I wish I had been less of a tool.

Next time I see him, I can be totally cool about it, and be like, “Hey, remember me? I totally spazzed out when I met you in a deli one time. I’m all better now. I see that you like to read, I like to read also, perhaps we can visit a library and pick out some books together?” I have this all planned out.

There is, sadly, no picture. Let a girl keep some of her dignity. There are however, talks of a Victor, James Franco, Meaghan three-way. Victor and I aren’t allowed to look at each other.

Fiddlesticks

First off, I must apologize for my absence, but sometimes, a girl has other plans. Last Tuesday, I saw Barack Obama kick John McCain’s ass in the election. It was very emotional and had me in tears that night and the next morning when I watched his speech again. Then I also watched Maya Angelou be interviewed and was in tears again. However, why do I feel like Harry was doing his best impression of Will Ferrell doing an impression of James Lipton? I think it was a very emotional time for the whole country and I just can’t believe the election is finally over and the outcome is in favor of all American’s and not those who don’t have humanity’s best interests in mind. I was glad to be in the company of like minded people–even if there were some awkward moments that ensued; perhaps at a later date I will share them with you, when we know each other a little bit better. Then over the weekend, I was reunited with my friend Sara from college. It was like old times; we hardly missed a beat. We attended two concerts–one being great. Fran Healy from Travis did a solo performance for the organization that I work for and it was awesome. The other, Creaky Boards, was good, but I think we both could have done without their obnoxious fan base the consisted of bad hair and stupid hats (see, also).

Before I go on, I must also say, that wordpress provides blog stats, where you are able to see how many people visit a day, how they are finding you, etc. The most traffic this blog gets is from people searching the interwebs for Jocelyn Wildenstein. The woman has not lost it. She is as popular as ever. It’s kind of amazing that she still has that sort of draw. In the past two days, 16 people have visited this humble blog via searching for Jocelyn. It’s mind boggling. Perhaps they are people who are given the name by their plastic surgeons and told to “Google” her, in order to persuade them to lay off the ol’ nip/tuck. She is something to marvel at–the idea that this woman has become part of our lexicon to describe or be a portrait of plastic surgery gone wrong, is an accomplishment all on it’s own. It doesn’t matter what this woman did or is doing, all people care about is how scary her face is and if it will get any worse.

On to Fiddlesticks. Fiddlesticks is this terrible restaurant that ate at in Greenwich Village a long while ago, but has remained with me for sometime. Let me tell you why. It was a spring afternoon, and I was with my pal Victor. We had been walking around for a while, and decided it was time to get lunch. We happened upon Fiddlesticks and decided, since they had lunch specials, we would just settle and eat there, instead of trekking onwards in search of perhaps, better food. Victor was wise and went with a turkey burger; I decided to be adventurous and order Penne ala vodka from an Irish Pub. UNWISE.

After lunch, we ventured on, walking the streets of SoHo, making fun of people, looking at things we couldn’t afford. I started getting an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, and as the minutes ticked on, that uncomfortable feeling began making it’s way through my lower GI. I had this bad feeling. I told Victor that we needed to find a bathroom. Unfortunately, we were in SoHo, and nary is a bathroom to be found, because those rich folk do not have bowels. The feeling kept getting worse. Plus, it was a very sunny and warm day, which was adding to my pain. Luckily, Victor, at the time lived in the West Village. He suggested that we go to his apartment and I could use his bathroom. I would have jumped at the chance if this hadn’t of been the first visit I was making to his apartment. What an awful way to introduce yourself into someone’s home space. But I had no choice, because this feeling was only getting worse, and one wrong step or relaxation of a muscle could have ended what has turned out to be, a hilarious friendship.

Imagine a speed walker–because that is what I looked like walking through SoHo to the West Village. Luckily, Victor was a good sport through this seemingly long walk, because he has a sensitive stomach and pretty much anything that he eats upsets his stomach. This walk was probably the longest of my life. People kept getting in my way and the sun kept getting hotter; it was terrible. When we finally got to his apartment, I had to walk up 5 flights of stairs. Five flights is bad enough when aren’t about to crap your pants, but it’s even worse when you are clenching every muscle that you have. Lets just say, when the moment finally came, it was something like this.

I know this is all very graphic and some might consider it an over share, but I am only sharing because I know everyone has been in this situation at least once. I am just trying to help take some of the shame out of it. I personally hate using public restrooms for such business, but sometimes you have no choice and from the times that I have been in Barnes and Noble in Union Square, I know a lot of other people feel the same way. Sometimes, it just happens. I worked with a woman that actually crapped her pants on the train. So, you know, it could always be worse.

Out of this horrible incident came the most useful term to describe such a situation: fiddlesticks. Now, whenever you eat something, and you get that feeling in your bowels, just say that you are having a fiddlesticks moment; if your friend is any sort of friend at all, they will totally help you find the nearest bathroom.

Returned Check

I am sure by now, that all of you are familiar with my financial woes. Well luckily for all of you, I have one more pathetic anecdote. On Friday, when I went to the bank to get my rent check–I don’t like writing a personal check for my rent, I learned that lesson in the 2nd month of me living in this apartment. I took the management company almost an entire month to deposit the check, which is insane, because when I get a check, especially one for a large sum of money, I want it in my account as soon as possible. This whole f-i-asco resulted in numerous phone calls, to a certain Brooklyn-accented young lady who shall remain nameless, that were less than pleasant. Also, my rent is due the 5th of the month, so I wasn’t waiting until the last possible minute, if that is what you all are thinking.

Back to the bank. I went up, all prepared, with my withdrawal slip, prepared to take out $750. Well, the teller looks at me and says, “You only have bubkes in your account.” He didn’t actually say bubkes, but I figure I should keep some things to myself; however my bank account is similar to this. I was caught a bit off guard and started racking my brain, trying to figure out if I had somehow blown through $750 without knowing it, because I had just deposited my paycheck that past Monday, so I should have had enough money. I told him that I had made a deposit for slightly (and when I say slightly, I mean like five bucks). He asked me if I had the the receipt, which I did, and then he says–get ready for this–”That check got returned.” My initial vocal reaction at this poor guy was, “Are you fucking serious?!” I mean, my PAYCHECK, from my EMPLOYER, got RETURNED. The check bounced (how frightening is that video?!). All I could manage to get out of my mouth sans violent swearing was that, “it was my paycheck, and how could it bounce? It’s from a bank.” Backing away from me slowly, he said, “Just because it’s from a bank, doesn’t mean it’s good.” This is coming from someone at Washington Mutual, so they know a thing or two, about a thing or two.

Turns out, the organization that I work for, didn’t have quite enough money to cover everyone’s paychecks. So on Friday I had to go and get a replacement paycheck–I would have preferred piles of cash–and also had to submit a bank statement, so I could be reimbursed for the $12 returned check fee. I don’t really think, that there should be a fee for someone else’s check bouncing. Is it really my fault that I associate with deadbeats who hand out bad checks?

This just adds more fuel to my “I need a new job” fire. Which is reaching forest fire potential. Unfortunately, at the moment, I lack any sort of direction. I was at a party with a friend, and we were talking to some of her other friends, and this one girl said about how her career/life is moving in all different directions. Mine isn’t moving in any direction–except down, if you factor in that bounced paycheck.