bad decision making. Depending on how old you are, you either thought I was going to say “alcohol”
(editor’s note: I think that whole video can be blamed on the alcohol. I mean, Ron Howard? Really? And while we are at it, I am blaming Jamie Foxx’s “singing career” on the alcohol too. Shit is whack. Who let this happen? But I do love T-pain, which makes it hard to hate the song, dammit!)
or “rain”.
(editor’s note: Honestly, Milli Vanilli was ahead of their time. What they did wasn’t much different from auto-tune. R.I.P Rob Pilatus. Also; I like using editor’s notes because they make feel important.)
Back to the matter at hand. There have been times; recent times; when I wish that I could blame the activities I was engaging in, on some sort of behavior altering substance–but I can’t. There may have been a (few) times where I have answered personal ads on Craigslist. Sad, I know. I’ll save the gory details for some other shame cleansing blog post; I’m not sure how much dignity will be left after this one; so stay tuned! I also may have joined an internet dating site–or two–and possibly met up with someone from one of them and then proceeded to make out with them in their apartment. Again, another post dear readers, another post. But the most horrific offense of them all happened about a month or so back. At a work function. Do you see where this is going?
So in early October, the organization that I work for, threw a staff appreciation party…on a boat…with an open bar. Now it’s not an exaggeration to say that the people that I work with cut loose–especially if there is an open bar. I’ve seen many a disgraceful thing happen at these parties. I only had a couple of beers, because I know better than to get all wild and crazy at a work party. Or so I thought. I was dancing; I honestly wish I could say that was the worst of it; but it’s not. At one point I went down to the bar to get another drink, maybe my 3rd Bud Light (keepin’ it classy!) and ran into a guy from another store that I had met last year at one of our fundraisers. This was near the end of the night, so I am just going to cut to the gory details and say that we ended up making out in the parking lot of the boat dock, with other employees watching. I mean, the guy I was making out with was wearing a shirt/jacket like this:
I wish I was kidding, I really do.
However, in my own defense, I didn’t agree to make out with him until he took off the shirt/jacket thing. I have some standards. I actually put up a pretty good fight too–he thought it looked cool. And I think we all know, that it didn’t. That thing was a big F.A.I.L, if I have ever seen one. So finally, he came to his senses and realized what a prime piece of real estate I am and took off the crumby jacket. This makes me realize that I was not drunk, because if I was, I wouldn’t have cared about that stupid jacket. But I did care…that was the part of me that was saying, “hey sister, this is a bad idea, but if you must, at least make him take that off, he looks like a broke down Chris Tucker in Rush Hour 2.”
He had the nerve to ask, “So are we going back to your place or mine?” Um, excuse me? I don’t be thinking so. I firmly told him that he was going to his place, ALONE. I then, however, felt compelled to put my number in his phone. This learning curve is a hard one for me to get around. So later that night–after the work shindig, I kept the party going with a few coworkers–he texts me to ask if I want to hang out the next day. I had the day off, so I figured, “why not?” and plus I still thought I was hot shit for making out with someone (ugh, it had been a while! Give a girl a break!). If I had known, what I was going to be walking in to, I never would have said yes.
It looked a little something like this:
track jacket? check!
Combined with:
Terrible sungless? Check! Puff Daddy swagger...check and mate.
It was AWFUL. The moment I saw him, I knew that this was going to be one of the most painful experiences ever. The lenses of his sunglasses were two different colors. There are just some things, that are never okay. Thinking about it now still upsets me.
So, we decided to see the movie Whip It; about the roller derby. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Although, it would have been better if I wasn’t with someone who was complaining the whole time about the people sitting behind us, not doing anything. And then he put his head on my shoulder. NOT IN TO IT. And it wasn’t like I was inviting it. I was practically sitting in another chair.
Afterwards, we went to get something to eat. We went to a taco place and he was really obnoxious and rude to the people behind the counter…which I can’t stand. And it took him forever to figure out what he wanted and was being an total spaz about it. When we sat down to eat, he started unloading all this personal information. It was a first date. I don’t need to know about your ex-girlfriend and how she dumped you because you didn’t want to marry her and now you have to live with roommates that you don’t like because they are gay and use your dishes. Then when two police officers came in, he said, “I was this close to taking the police officers test. Can you imagine me as a fucking cop?” He said it loud enough for them to hear. And then he said it again. I wanted to die. There are certain things you say in public when cops are around and certain things that you don’t. I would file “fucking cop” under the “Don’t” section. And he said that he collects knives and swords. And that he has the sword from the movie Blade that Wesley Snipes used. ::shudder:: Then on the way to the train we passed a Dunkin Donuts and he said, “You probably don’t want to hear my theory on Dunkin Donuts” and I was like, “Um, not really.” I mean, that is what I said…and he proceeded to tell me! So everyone out there, reading this. I went on a date with someone whose theory on Dunkin Donuts is this: “They are all owned by middle easterners and they are trying to poison America.” If a train had been approaching at that moment, I probably would have pushed him in front of it–that is one of the most atrocious and stupid things I have ever had to listen to.
The train ride home was painful because all he was doing was complaining about the train and trying to touch my knee. I was trying to debate whether or not it would be worth it to get off at the wrong stop and walk all the way back to my apartment. So about an hour after I got home, he sent me a text message saying, “Why’d you let me run my mouth like that? now I feel stupid.” I wrote back, “thanks for dinner.” I mean, what was I supposed to say, “Trust me, I wanted you to shut up more than you regret talking”? Then the next night he texts me at 2am! We are not on the 2am text level. That is reserved for family and close friends. I didn’t respond. Again! The next night he texts me asking if I got his last text or if I don’t want to talk. I. Didn’t. Text. Back. He got that message.
But! and this is important people! Don’t make out with people that you work with! Even if they work at a different store than you. Because they might come into your store a month or two later! And come over to you and say “hi”! And then you’ll have to not look up and say “hi.” and then walk away. Because that is how it always goes. Until you get another job. Which doesn’t seem likely.
Which is why, I wish I could blame it on the alcohol, but at this point, it’s just bad decision making.
I’m back again, this time to elaborate on my love for Beverly Hills, 90210; the original. It is safe to say that I am addicted to this show. It all started with me watching reruns of later episodes (much later, like the last few seasons) on SOAPnet before I would go to work or when I got home for work–and I got sucked in. Mostly because I have become disturbingly fixated on Luke Perry’s character Dylan. He’s so brooding, guarded, deep, but somehow manages to be warm. The writers sure did me a solid with this Dylan character! So someone donated the first season of 90210 where I work and I seized my opportunity and I haven’t looked back since. Literally, because I am so mesmerized by this show, I have no time or interest for anything else.
Last post I included the opening credits to Season one, which are frankly, classic. I watched it along with every episode–normally I’ll fast forward right through it. My favorite part is when Dylan is on his surfboard shouting something–it’s hot. I LOVE IT. I shout out, “oh my god, I love it!” at least twice an episode. The first season is amazing, if you want to see television at it’s finest, I am recommending the first season of 90210. They managed to cram so many issues in to it and also have it wrapped up in a nice little package in 45 minutes.
They were able to cover both drug use and alcoholism in one episode with Kelly’s mom–by the end of the episode she was off to rehab and practically clean. They also hit on teenage alcoholism with Dylan’s character–who struggles with this problem for a couple of episodes–especially in the second season when his mom moves back to town. Also dealing with teen alcoholism is Brandon, who apparently gets drunk and addicted after one drink and then goes out and drives, totals his car, gets arrested, swears off drinking, and at the end of the episode, Dylan takes him to an AA meeting, which oddly enough is held on their high school campus and is full of teenage alcoholics. We can’t forget date rape! This is covered in both season one and season two. In season one, there is a teen hotline that kids can call to talk about their problems and this girl keeps calling and talking to Brenda about how she is basically being raped by football players after every game. Brenda tells her it’s not her fault, but that’s not enough, she has to find the girl! Which is against probably any anonymous hotline policies, but she finds her and freaks the girl out from calling again, but Brenda knows what is up and calls the police and has them hide in the bushes near the parking lot because she knows that these football rapists are going to strike again at the same time and same place and they do! And they are arrested. Sweet justice! In the second season, it is Kelly who accidently gets herself into a sticky situation at a Halloween party by wearing a provocative costume. Some low class a-hole dressed as a cowboy thinks that just because she is dressed seductively, she is asking to be sexually assaulted; we the viewers learn a valuable lesson that this is not the case–you have the right not to be attacked no matter how slutty your Halloween costume is.
Losing your virginity to Dylan McKay is also covered in the first season. I took notes; because if I had a time machine you can bet that I’d be setting that thing for 1990 and getting myself on that show!
Season two brings us new opening credits. I love this one almost as much as I love the first season opening. I especially love the part where they are trying to pass off some surfer who looks nothing like Luke Perry as Dylan surfing; it is so obviously not.
In season two Brenda breaks up with Dylan–because she got all scared when she thought she was pregnant she needed to slow things down. I can tell you one thing, I would not be slowing things down with Dylan McKay! Boy is fine! So up until episode 8, there is this back and forth thing with them–it’s only ’til Emily Valentine goes on a date with Dylan that Brenda realizes what a moron she is letting a piece of man like that wander free! Brandon eventually starts dating Emily, but she is all cray-cray and slips E into his drink at a club to get him to dance or some shit. Then he freaks out and breaks up with her, but she calls all psycho on him and stalks him and ruins their homecoming float that they built, but Brenda talks her out of setting the thing on fire and she goes to a mental hospital for a while. Brandon’s cute, but he’s no Dylan, come on now!
We also see David Silver’s friend Scott bites the dust and learn and important lesson on locking up fire arms in an out of the way places in our homes. Homeslice Scott wasn’t too bright and liked playing with guns and he accidently shot himself. It was a little bit sad because not only did he die, so did his career. We also learned that sometimes it’s not a good idea to set out and try to find our birth mother like Steve tried to do. You’ll most likely find out you went to Albuquerque for no reason, because your birth mother died a few years back in an auto accident. The Christmas episode touched me a little bit–I love Christmas and I love 90210 so it was like double fun. There is a magic santa who brings everyone together–including Dylan and his father. Dylan’s emotions are so real! I LOVE IT!
I haven’t finished season two yet, I only have six more episodes left and I am trying to save them, because I’m not sure when my season three dvd that I ordered is going to be here. It is killing me that I am not watching it right now! I have no idea what is making me so cray-cray about this show (besides Luke Perry)–but in some weird, pathetic way, I am really relating to it. Well, I don’t know if relating is the right word, but I am connecting to it. Watching it makes my life feel a little less shitty–if work sucks, which it most always does, I just come home and watch some 90210 and I’m in the early 90’s where people can’t get a hold of each other very easily because they don’t have cell phones and they have to make and effort to talk to one another instead of sending text messages and emails and all that.
It makes me wonder what it would have been like to be a teen in the 90’s. I’m guessing pretty awesome, especially if I went to West Beverly. I also like the fact that the majority of the actors and actresses looked like real people. It’s hard to imagine those same teenagers (or 30 year olds playing teenagers) being able to be cast in a show like this today. Just look at Ian Zeiring:
This is what passed for a goodlooking, jock, ladies man, in the early 90s. Also, Shannen Doherty (love her!), today would not be considered your conventional teen t.v. beauty:And who could forget Gabrielle Carteris who played Andrea Zuckerman, the resident brain of West Beverly. If this same woman (I say woman, because she was 29 years old when she started on 90210) walked into a casting today, I seriously doubt she would be given even the role of the nerd; we don’t even want our nerds to be believable anymore!
Now I’m going to post a picture of Luke Perry just for fun:
And now, Sideshow Luke Perry:
And for some reason, when I watch the opening credits to season two, whenever this part comes on:
I am reminded of this part from the Schmitt’s Gay beer commercial with Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live:I’ve had 22 episodes to make me think about this. Don’t judge me!
I’m back after my hiatus. I got a little distracted, but I am back for the New Year, hopefully more often, hoping that this blog will really take off and have more than 3 readers. I moved to a new apartment before Christmas. I now live in Manhattan proper…well, I don’t know how proper Washington Heights is, but it’s a Manhattan address. I miss Brooklyn and my bodega, but I’m sure that I will soon fine something comparable here.
Now, on to the subject at hand. The subway. Now, I’ve ridden my few share of subway lines. When I was up in the Bronx, I took the 2 or the 5 train–bright and usually clean. When I lived in Brooklyn, I either took the D or the R train. They weren’t overly bright or all that clean. The D train was always packed during rush hour, but the R train I could always find a seat–plus the people that lived along where the R-train stopped, seemed to be more attractive. Now I take the A train every day. The A train is dingy like the D and the R and it has a diverse ridership.
The cleanliness of the train really isn’t the issue here–it’s the people riding the subway that are grossing me out. You know how sometimes you are in a place that has lots of people and you focus on one or two people because they have some sort of nervous tick, crossed eyes, or hair plugs? Well this is how I feel on the subway every day. I feel like there is always some on there, that my attention gets focused on. Sometimes it’s funny/uncomfortable; like the lady on Christmas eve, who was taking off her close while singing Alanis Morrisette’s “You Oughta Know“. It was actually more uncomfortable because she was obviously cray-cray, and that meant that I had to stifle my laughter and not look at her for fear that she would cut me. Other times you can make a connection with another subway rider who recognizes the ridiculousness that is taking place–like the time there were two voguing gay t’weens being obnoxious on the train. I love my gays and I love the voguing, but those two were dressed so brightly and screeching so loud it was harming my senses. But if you ever get the chance, go to the Christopher Street Piers and check out the voguing…occasionally there is a battle, and it’s awesome.
I’m getting sidetracked again. I’ve been on plenty of trains with gross people. It’s always gag-inducing when someone is clearing their throat and hocking up phlegm while they are sitting next to you, or picking their nose, or clipping their nails. Yes, clipping their nails. Why someone would do that on the train, is really beyond me. I should not be subjected to a stranger’s dirty nail clippings flying in my direction. It’s almost as if people don’t know any better.
Yesterday’s train ride home is really what triggered this post. So the train was packed because it was rush hour and a few stops into the ride this girl, who was probably around my age, or slightly younger got on the train. She was reading The Alchemist–that point really has nothing to do with anything, just so you know. She looked like your typical winter hipster; boots, stupid winter hat, wool coat, etc. She had to stand and hold on to one of the bars because there was no place to sit. She looked fairly normal, except that her hands were a little dirty. Which is fine, it happens–but she kept touching her face. Every few minutes she would keep touching her face in the same pattern–the forehead, the cheeks, the nostrils, and then the chin. EVERY FEW MINUTES. Then she would go back to holding on to the bar. Thousands of people touch that bar…and your hands are already dirty…and you’re rubbing them all over your face. She probably had some form of OCD, but it was seriously making throw-up a little in my mouth.
On top of being transfixed on this hipster girl’s gross OCD, there was this little girl who was standing next to me, holding on to the bar that I was holding on to. Her hand kept slipping and touching mine, which I could have overlooked, had she NOT BEEN STICKING HER FINGERS IN HER MOUTH! That is disgusting. You are basically sticking like 100o other fingers in your mouth too. I hope her parents get her tested. I’m surprised I didn’t throw up on that little girl, she was grossing me out so much. Her parent’s didn’t even tell her to get her fingers out of her mouth or anything. They should probably be reported to child protective services. It sort of reminded me of the episode of the Simpson’s where Homer has to go to NYC to get his car back and Bart is on the subway panhandling and licks the subway pole. I would link you to a clip, but YouTube is lacking.
I hope I don’t do anything gross on the subway that makes people want to throw up. I know I do some stuff that turns guys on and makes them follow me off the train in the dead of night. Chapstick really gets a guy worked up. Too bad he wasn’t cute. Ha! I laugh about it now, but at the time it was frightening and also shows that I sort of have no regard for my personal safety by allowing him to actually talk to me. I need help.
This is a cautionary tale of the subways and the subway stations–and possibly any sort of place where homeless people in NYC might dwell or stop by; like Barnes and Noble in Union Square. Seriously, I think a few might live in there.
Last night; after a delightful dinner at a Thai restaurant with Victor; I was waiting for the D train at Bryant Park. I was sitting on one of those benches reading, when this homeless man (I’m assuming this because of his lack of hygiene, dirty attire, and massive amounts of possessions in plastic bags) comes bounding over and sits next to me. He had this giant black puffy coat that he was carrying and it invaded my personal space–I felt as though he was sitting on me, which is uncomfortable, given his smell. The B train had just pulled up and he was asking me how to get to Dekalb Avenue in Brooklyn. I was trying not to look at him, as I told you before, I know better than to make eye contact with the cray-crays. He smelled something awful and then started shouting to the subway conductor (is that even the correct term?) about how he needs to get to Dekalb Ave. So the conductor said, “well you better get on this train”, then smelly homeless man said something along the lines of, “aw, shit.” grabbed his plastic bag belongings and jogged towards the remaining open door. As he was doing this, I made the mistake of looking. And that’s when I saw it: his ass. His dirty, homeless ass. I don’t say this to be crude or malicious–but to be descriptive, to paint a picture for you, my dear readers. I want to you experience things as I have experienced things. You all must suffer with me.
This is not the first time that I have seen dirty, homeless ass. Once before I saw it on the downtown 6 train platform at Grand Central. He was sitting on one of those benches, with his pants halfway down his thighs, and he was scratching at his dry, patchy, dirty skin while letting his bare posterior touch the bench. People were willing sitting next to him, which I found somewhat disturbing, because he had some of his body parts out, and Xenu only knows what sort of subway vermin had attached itself to him. I have not sat on a bench on the 6 platform since. I will now, most likely never sit on a bench in on the downtown platform at Bryant Park.
The orange line (B/D/F/V) creates a nice straight (somewhat) line of stations where you don’t want to sit or touch anything. They all stop at 34th st Herald Square, which is gross in general, so I don’t really need to delve further. West 4th always has someone sitting on the stairs or holed up somewhere. My favorite is Broadyway/Lafayette. There is always the same homeless guy, sitting or laying out in the same spot. A few times I’ve thought he was dead. I’ve never really seen him do anything, like get up and walk around. He smell is permanently wafting along the platform. It’s always entertaining to see the people who want to see down, but the only seat left is sort of next to him, or behind him. His head is always tilted back, so he usually takes up about 4 available seats. I’ve seen his head actually touch the hair of some girls. I don’t think you can understand how skeeved out, I get from just seeing that. Days/weeks/months of grime are living in his hair. On a particularly hot, humid, smelly day I thought I was going to throw up in my mouth because every time a train would go by, his smell would fly all up in my nostrils.
Also, once in May of 2007, I was getting off the shuttle train at Times Square (the most heinous place on Earth), well, as I was stepping off the shuttle, I see a man with one hand up on the side of the subway car with his head down. I was a little out of sorts, because I had been up for over a day finishing a project, and I was like, “ugh, is this guy sick or something?” So I look down to what he is looking at. It was his PENIS. He was peeing on the subway car. From what I remember, his peen was small and diseased looking, he might have had an enlarged prostate–as he seemed to be having trouble relieving himself–and totally ruined the rest of my day. It almost made me cry, seriously.
I hope the next time any of you are in one of the places that I have mentioned, that you remember this cautionary blog post. I know, I know, plenty of other people sit or touch or pee on things all the time, and you can’t control who sat on or touched something before you. But it’s really in your best interest to not sit on a bench in either a Grand Central or Bryant Park subway station. Just trust me on this one.
I had a delightful weekend, jam-packed with excitement: A friend’s apartment warming party–there was a drunk foreigner and a transgen; doesn’t get more warm than that! As a small side note, I have not yet revealed to all you readers how much I love the transgen community. I have a special name for them, but that will be an entirely separate post sometime in the near future. However, this particular Transgen, reminded me a little bit of James St. James, if James St. James had an ongoing meth addiction. Then on Saturday my old roomie from college came down for a visit. Unfortunately the weather was completely disastrous, which killed some of the fun. Although, we did go to Shake Shack (also). Let me tell you. I walk past this place pretty much every day. In the summer, that line was kickin’, and people would be lined up practically around the park at like 1pm–now I know why. I’ve been hearing people rave about this place and now I can rave about it too. I had the ‘Shroom Burger which is a portobello mushroom that is jam packed with muenster (my fav!) and cheddar cheeses…and…wait for it….FRIED TO PERFECTION! It was delicious. Try it. If you love cheese half as much as I do, you won’t be disappointed. Finally on Sunday, after work, my associate (power adjectives to describe coworkers is all the rage) and I, retreated to the Crocodile Lounge near Union Square. You get a free personal pizza with every drink you order. After that we went to the Donut Pub. The old Polish man running the joint agreed with me that deciding whether or not to buy a house is easier than choosing a donut. So that was my weekend–I just wanted to bring everyone up to speed. I was not neglecting you.
So the post office. Does anyone remember back in the late-80’s early-90’s when the term “Going Postal” was pretty much the funniest thing you could say besides, “I’m gonna go medieval on your ass!” Well, every time I go into the post office, I can understand why they were disgruntled. Frankly, working in customer service has made me somewhat empathetic to those who harbor feelings of going postal. Customers are lame! Coworkers can be annoying! Management is stupid! It can be stressful. It’s a challenge to not throw a pen at a customer’s face when ask you to double bag a used t-shirt, because they have to go on the subway. What does that have to do with anything?! These people are cray-cray.
There is a post office next to where I work, so occasionally, I will pop in there to buy a stamp to mail my rent, or mail my brother’s birthday gift 3 months late. Now that they have that automated shipping thing, it really cuts down on time spent in the post office, unless you are behind someone that is technologically challenged. I can say, that speaking from my personal experience in this post office, it is usually the customers who are causing the delays. It is almost as if they have never mailed anything before and they don’t know how the post office works. It takes them almost 10 minutes to figure out how to mail something Priority. As I have learned, or maybe I am only speaking for myself on this, the teller, the cashier, the postal worker, etc., is only as fast as their slowest customer. So if I am at the cash register and am ringing up some confused old biddy, and have a line of people, they are just going to have to wait while she digs around in her purse for exact change. Short of snatching the purse from her and getting the change myself, there is nothing I can do.
Since I work next to the post office, a lot of the postal workers come into the store on their break. There is this really nice lady that I see pretty much every day, and she said that if there was ever a line, and I had to mail something, just to come to her, because she knows how it is trying to run an errand on your break. So today, I finally scrounged up the change to mail my absentee ballot (Obama/Biden, in case you were wondering). However, as I carefully placed that $.42 stamp on that over sized envelope, I began to have doubts that that was going to be enough postage to carry my vote all the way to Alaska where it would (hopefully) be counted. The line was long, and I had somewhere to be, and it was just a quick question, I figured I would ask and then go carefully place another stamp on the envelope and be on my way. So I stood next to the long line of people, trying to make eye-contact with my postal lady, which I did, and she waved me over as her previous customer was leaving. The best thing that has ever happened to me in a post office is as follows:
Me: I just have a quick question, is this enough postage? I just want to make sure my vote gets there!
Fav Postal Lady: Oh no! It’s too big, let me check for you. (she goes to weigh my ballot to see how much more postage I need)
Cray-Cray Line Lady: Aren’t we all waiting in line?! (I didn’t turn around, because I know better than to make eye-contact with the cray-crays.)
FPL: Excuse me? (Read that as sassily as you can)
CCLL: I said aren’t we all waiting in line?
FPL: (Sassily) Yes. And you will be called. Okay, it need’s another $.41.
Me: (Handing her my change) Thank you so much! (I start to walk away)
FPL: Don’t forget your receipt, baby
Me: Thanks! See you Wednesday probably! (running away from angry line members)
I got special treatment at the post office. I got to the jump the queue! I made other people angry by feeling entitled to go directly to my favorite postal lady. My favorite postal lady encouraged it and hates the other customers because they don’t understand the way that I can understand.
I am an elitest east coaster, who jumped the line at the post office–a real american institution–to send my ballot back home to elect Obama! I doubt what those people were mailing was as important as that.
Every day, I encounter someone interesting, or gross, or weird, or smelly–but occasionally, some of these people have an interesting story to tell. Some have no story to tell you at all. Some ask you for a dollar. And some leave some pee for you to clean up at closing time while their ingrained stench offends your olfactory system. All of this can happen in the span of two days.
Yesterday, Wednesday: On my way to the train yesterday morning, a young girl, somewhat resembling Notorious B.I.G; weird eye included, was shouting on her phone to someone saying that she would call them when she got off the train. Then I hear her shout, “EXCUSE ME!”, so I turn around and she asks me where the subway is. So assume my role as good Samaritan, and tell Biggie Smalls that I’m on my way there now, so she can follow me if she wants. So I start on my way again, and she asks, “can you hold this, while I put on my coat. It’s cold out,” then hands me her purse, her cell phone, and her cell phone case. I must look trusting, because I would not be asking some random girl on the street to hold my purse. Bitches be all cray-cray! So as we are walking, the most conversation we really have is, “it’s so cold!”, because it was–and blustery–and I was ill prepared for such weather. Then, we are about a block away from the subway station, she asks, “Do have a dollar I could borrow?” Borrow?! Really?! Was she planning on getting my information to mail my dollar back to me? I really doubt it. I was like, “Um, I have no money. I’m broke.” I do not give handouts. Especially when I am in need of a handout of my own. She was less interested in me after that.
To end my day on Wednesday, there was an older homeless (I don’t actually know what his living situation was. Mole person maybe? Crazy, older eccentric? Hygienically challenged, most definitely.) gentlemen who came in to the store. He comes in very rarely, but the last time he came in, he fell asleep on a couch and my coworker had to wake him up–I thought he was dead–and the guy had a giant carbuncle (be thankful this is the image I chose. I threw up in my mouth at least 75 times researching, trying to find one that most resembled what ails this man) on his had. I think my coworker roused him gently by tapping him on the knee, using the very tip of his fingernail, which he then ripped off. Anyways, on Wednesday evening when he came in, to say his odor was offensive is an understatement. Every sense I had was accosted, harmed, DAMAGED. There are really no words that would be able to describe his odor in a way that could make you understand. He smelled worse than Times Square on a hot summer day. And his odor lingered. For an hour after he left. You know why? Because he piddled. Piddled on himself, and our floor. When I find when we were fixing up the store after we closed. Cleaning up hobo urine was not in my job description. I used a mop. Which came in handy for cleaning up my VOMIT. I feel bad for this old guy. I mean his suit is all wrinkled and stained and he ended up paying for a coat he couldn’t afford because I think he felt ashamed. It’s terrible. And I know making fun of a helpless, old man in a blog makes me terrible, but you know what, I feel somewhat justified, because I cleaned up his urine. Which didn’t smell like any urine I’ve ever expelled, which is also another sign of poor health, most likely, but I’m no doctor.
Today, Thursday: I was talking to my work BFF about Jocelyn Wildenstein and how she looks like a lion. I’m not sure how this really got started, but I think it had something to do with my work BFF pulling her face back with her hands and saying “plastic surgery” and from there I lept to Wildenstein–it’s not really that big of a leap, more like a shuffle over a crack in a sidewalk. Well, this middle aged gentleman; who I am assuming is a male gay because I don’t know that many male straights who care about Jocelyn Wildenstein; comes over to me and the conversation is as follows:
Presumed Male Gay: I heard you talking about Jocelyn Wildenstein, but I didn’t hear the last part. What were you saying about her?
Me: Oh, just that she looks like a lion.
PMG: I have a story about her. I was the 6 train going Uptown and she was sitting there reading a magazine. Well she wasn’t really reading it, but was pretending to read while everyone was staring at her. But everyone was staring at her because she had a wrap top on and she had her purse strap going across her chest, and it had moved the top so that her breast was exposed! Everyone was staring, but she didn’t notice. I guess she’s had so much plastic surgery that she couldn’t feel it. But there was a famous actor sitting down and we just looked at each other and were like, “oh my god, what the fuck?!”, it was really crazy!
Me: [laughing politely, would have laughed genuinely if hadn't tossed in that bit about a "famous actor"] That is crazy!
Pretty soon Jocelyn Wildenstein’s face is going to look like this. If I am going to have nightmares and choke on my own vomit, so is everyone who reads this.
This is what passed for a goodlooking, jock, ladies man, in the early 90s. Also, Shannen Doherty (love her!), today would not be considered your conventional teen t.v. beauty:
And who could forget Gabrielle Carteris who played Andrea Zuckerman, the resident brain of West Beverly. If this same woman (I say woman, because she was 29 years old when she started on 90210) walked into a casting today, I seriously doubt she would be given even the role of the nerd; we don’t even want our nerds to be believable anymore!
I’ve had 22 episodes to make me think about this. Don’t judge me!
