NBC Order
First of all, I promised I’d dedicate this post to Keith, who goes to sleep much earlier than I do and is quite cute.
I also must admit that I am double-fisting between WordPress and the last NBC episode of Medium (which will reappear on CBS this fall). It’s not right, I know. But I desperately need to find out the fate of the du Bois family and Allison’s brain tumor. I also desperately need to share this brief tale, as there will never be a more appropriate occasion.
Side note/spoiler alert: the tumor is benign, but Allison is in a coma after suffering a stroke during surgery.
A little more than 15 years ago, in the frigid winter of 1994, I was a college senior in baggy, used Levi’s, dark brown lipstick and Doc Martens. I had spent the last four years surrounded by short, stocky, dark-haired, middle class Jewish boys in backwards baseball caps who wanted no part of me. (I’ve always suspected things would have gone a different way if my boobs had been more reminiscent of a Hungarian shtetl peasant’s, but what can ya do?) The unrequited loves of my college life had graduated the year before, and I lacked diversion. I couldn’t stand being there anymore but was terrified of the real world, I lived with the knowledge that Jan thought I was fat, I couldn’t sleep, I was depressed, and my friends had had it with me. Good times.
But there was one lone light in my life. We met during a bout of insomnia, when I turned on the little pink TV my grandma had scored when she opened a checking account. He made me laugh. He introduced me to people I’d never otherwise have met. He was an underdog, just like me. Physically, he couldn’t have looked more different from the people around me. He was nine years older than me, 6′4, with red hair, freckles and pasty skin. He was, as someone famous once said, the least Jewish-looking person you could imagine. But he’d gone to Harvard, he was the son of a doctor and a lawyer, and his little brother had gone to the prom with my friend Lauren.
The not-so-little talk show host who could
His name was Conan O’Brien, and I seemed to be the only person in the world who thought he was funny. Rumors of cancellation swirled around me, and I felt a certain kinship — he was the celebrity equivalent of me. Smart, lovable and misunderstood. He just needed more time! People mocked me when I told them I found his wit chuckle-worthy, much as they mocked me at the height of my Duran Duran obsession. On our spring break that year, Kiki, Wendy, Jen, Lisa and I were fortunate enough to attend a Late Night taping. I was very concerned beforehand that we wouldn’t be able to get tickets. The NBC page laughed when I expressed this concern and told me they’d been PAYING people to sit in the studio audience and clap on cue.
In June of that year I went again, and this time, actually got to shake hands with and talk to the giant comedic genius.
“I went to school in Boston too,” I said, sure that he’d find this FASCINATING and a sign of our soulmate-hood.
This prompted Conan to ask me if I was Irish, and I wondered briefly how someone who’d gone to Harvard could look at ME and pose such a silly question.
The first and only thing I could think to say was this: “No, but I use Irish Spring soap.”
Hey, it’s better than what I said to Pete Sampras.
Not surprisingly, this did not compel him to get down on one knee and propose.
“You’re my idol,” I blurted out.
And even Conan himself could only reply with, “Please. Let’s not get crazy here.”
No one thought he’d make it. But I believed in him. I knew he could do it. And tonight, Conan O’Brien has become the 5th host of the Tonight Show — the loftiest position in post-prime time television. This is one small step for a dork, and one giant step for dork-kind. I’m kvellin’ like Magellin’.
But you should know that in addition to feeling certain I’d one day be an O’Brien, I also fantasized about being discovered by Conan. So I decided to send him some of my brilliantly comedic writing samples. Except of course that I had none, so I had to be crafty.
Andy Richter, Sidekick Extraordinaire
There was no time to develop full-fledged sketches or sit-com scripts; I’d have to convey my unparalleled genius some other way. I remembered a brain game I’d once played at camp. It involved the penning of a poem or song containing 26 words, in alphabetical order. The fate of my comedy writing career lay with this gem of a plan, executed with a Macintosh SE and dot matrix printer, late one night in Waltham, MA. I think we all know what the fate of my comedy writing career turned out to be. But this, ladies and gentlemen, is my 1994 alphabetical Ode to Conan — mailed to Rockefeller Center, signed for by someone in the mailroom and never seen again until right this minute.
At Banter, Conan’s Deft. Educated Finely, Graduated Harvard. Imparts Jokes. Kismet! Letterman Moves, Now O’Brien Presides. Quipping Richter, Sidekick. Throw Us, Very Witty Xanthrocroid, Your Zeal.
The Wheels on the Bus
In an effort to fuel my blogging momentum, I shall now share a brief New York tale for the “What is WRONG With People?!” files. This morning, in a rare moment of mass transportation luck, I was able to get a solo seat on the 86th Street crosstown bus. This is highly unusual, as the bus is often jam-packed during rush hour. Furthermore, it was a particular blessing today, because I was feeling a bit self-loathing and it meant that the unfairly gorgeous Israeli girl I see every time I ride that bus – the one with the unfairly perfect body and unfairly ginormous Tiffany engagement ring – would be out of my line of vision. I could pretend that my jeans were not ridiculously tight and that my under-eye circles did not really make me look like I had recently used a Sharpie to craft decorative half-moons on my face.
Somewhere after Second Avenue, a woman began invading my personal space as she stood in the aisle, freakishly close to my seat. There was no real reason she needed to do that, but people are odd, so I didn’t think that much of it. She wasn’t old – I’m guessing mid-50s – and had no obvious physical handicaps, and I didn’t think to offer her my seat. I fully admit that this might have been rude, but it was not deliberate – I truly just didn’t think to do it, for whatever reason.
About a nanosecond after I realized she was giving me the evil eye and that I probably should have offered her my seat, I heard a very cute little boy – approximately three and toting a sandwich bag full of toy trucks – tell his nanny that he was quite tired and wished he could sit down. Again, I’m not sure why, but I did tell the little boy he could have my seat since I was getting off at the next stop. He thanked me in the kind of voice I’d give one of my stuffed animals and I knew it was the right thing to do.
But before I could even stand fully upright, the space invader dove into the seat with incredible speed, knocking me off balance and mortifying everyone who saw what happened. She’d heard me tell the little boy he could have the seat. She could SEE that he was just a little boy! She literally stole the seat from him. The surrounding bus riders all called her names and conveyed their disdain for her action. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her face, because I feared she’d say something really mean and my whole day would be ruined. Mostly, I just felt bad for the little boy, who probably didn’t understand why I’d told him he could sit down when in fact, he could not.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get an even better seat in a minute,” I said, and then was very happy when a man much older than the space invader stood up and instructed the little boy to take his newly vacated spot. I continued to feel appalled for the duration of my subway ride downtown to 23rd Street. I snapped out of it only when my boss called to tell me he was picking up Krispy Kremes for our impending trade show meeting.
Unreal. What is WRONG with people?
Meltdown on 84th Street
Each year, for her annual “well-woman” visit, Jan still sees the very same doctor who delivered me. I am always surprised to learn that Doc Baker, of “Little House” fame, is not part of his practice. I’m also always alarmed when I realize that it’s obviously legal to practice medicine well into your 100s. But anyway, much like Jan, I am loyal to my long-time gynecologist, Dr. A. Because I generally see Dr. A roughly once a year, and because these visits inevitably conjure thoughts of child-bearing, I often find myself taking stock of my life while there.
I first met Dr. A in 1996, when I was young, innocent and still hopeful that I’d get married and become a mother before the chances of having a kid with Down’s Syndrome octupled. In the early years of my relationship with Dr. A, I didn’t really pay much attention to pregnant women surrounding me in his waiting room. Their lives were about to suck, as far as I was concerned, and I was just glad I wasn’t them.
I remember once Dr. A walked into the exam room and apologized for being late.
“I had to tell a patient she wasn’t pregnant,” he said.
“Wow. PHEW! Right? Dodged a bullet with that one!” I replied, feeling incredibly relieved on behalf of the unknown patient in question.
“You know,” he informed me, “Some people actually WANT to get pregnant.”
A few second passed as I attempted to process this news.
COME ON! You expect me to believe that?! Sheesh.
Actively wanting to be pregnant was such a foreign concept to me at the time that I literally could not fathom such a possibility.
It’s not that I didn’t or don’t like kids. I happen to be quite fond of them and some are even fond of me as well. It’s just that the whole thing scared the bejesus out of me. Pregnancy and childbirth and breastfeeding filled me with an almost unbearable sense of anxiety. I certainly did not see anything beautiful about pregnancy, between the weight gain and the excessive gas and the puking and the “cankles” and the pooping on the delivery room table. I knew about post-partum depression and the toll kids could take on a marriage. I envisioned my theoretical husband losing all interest in me and my 400-pound body, turning instead to his nubile, boob-implanted secretary whose name was always Tiffany or Heather. I knew there were no fewer than 10 bazillion things that could go wrong. And I really, really, really questioned my own parenting ability. What if my child turned out like me?! I shuddered to think. How could I risk doing that to someone?
People told me that I was going to be a great mother one day, and that my lack of enthusiasm was just the fear talking. I hoped this was true, because what kind of horrible, selfish, sociopathic person didn’t want kids? Jan told me repeatedly that if it was such a horrible ordeal, no one would do it. I wasn’t convinced that she herself would have done it if she’d known what a disappointment I’d turn out to be, so this was not particularly comforting.
But the tide began to turn on October 23, 2004. That was the day Sloth dragged me to Bumblefuck, Michigan, where a litter of champion-sired Wheaten terrier puppies had been born six weeks earlier. I agreed to go ONLY because Sloth promised me we’d just be surveying the options. I can’t believe I fell for that bullshit. Once a Wheaten puppy licks your face, you’re doomed.
Happy bday, Ollie!
Ollie could not have been a bigger pain in the ass, and Sloth could not have been less helpful in the puppy-rearing process. For all intents and purpose I was a single doggie mother who easily qualified for Snausage stamps. There were many, many times (usually after the destruction of a pair of costly shoes and/or the eighth indoor pee incident of the day) I really wasn’t sure I could keep him. But at the same time, I felt a kind of love for Ollie I had never before experienced. No matter what he did, ate, tore up or peed on, I could not stay mad at him. When other dogs stole his toys or refused to play with him, I wanted to cry. When other dogs sniffed his nether regions, I was ecstatic that he’d made friends. When he was sick, I drove him by myself to the vet, through the ghettos of South Philly, without batting an eyelash. I went out of my way to patronize supermarkets that carried Frosty Paws. I told endless stories about the cute things he’d done. I truly believed he was the cutest dog in the history of dogs. I created an email address for him (snausagefan@yahoo.com); he corresponded with Jan, Dave, Howie and Jamie on a regular basis. I’m only a little embarrassed to admit that I threw him a first birthday party. He and his canine friends – Howie, LuLu and Dolly – all wore little hats. I’m in no way equating a dog to a human baby, but the point is, for the first time, I finally started to get it. There was a reason everyone did it. There was a flip-side.
A few months after we adopted Ollie, my friend DB called to tell me she was pregnant. I expected to feel the same way I had for many years when friends shared news like this: Oh well. Another one bites the dust. I was shocked to feel something completely unfamiliar to me instead: happiness for her, and a faint hint of jealousy.
Friday morning at Dr. A’s office, I saw an attractive couple come out of the exam room holding a sonogram print-out. They admired the image for a few minutes and then attempted to find a time slot during which they could both be available for some high-tech, supersonic follow-up test. They pulled out their Blackberries and took turns posing different dates, unable to agree on anything until long after the baby’s due date.
At first I found this mockable. Then I picked up some of the helpful pamphlets for expectant mothers and read about such fascinating things as chorionic villus sampling, second trimester terminations, the potentially lethal H.E.L.L.P Syndrome, cord blood, eclampsia, gestational diabetes, and a host of other issues not all that relevant to someone who was not weeks away from giving birth.
What a relief, I thought. I am SO glad I’m not dealing with all this stuff.
But suddenly I found myself getting teary.
What the hell? Eek. I guess the smell of my aging, rotting eggs is irritating my eyes.
Of course, that wasn’t exactly the allergen. It was this realization: I still worry a lot about all the scary things. But I worry more that I’ll never have a real reason to worry about them.
Sleepless at the Service Line
For the past two weeks, a particularly virulent strain of insomnia has plagued me. If you must know, I didn’t fall asleep until 5 a.m. last night. I’ve battled insomnia on and off throughout my life, and I’ve found that long-term exhaustion intensifies all my anxieties, fears and concerns. For a few nights, I lay awake obsessing over the fact that I could very well have fatal familial insomnia, one of the most fascinating genetic diseases I’ve ever read about. It didn’t matter that there was virtually no way in hell that anyone in my family of Eastern European peasant, mule-owning Jews had ever even come in contact with — much less done the nasty with – a member of the one family (Italian royalty, I should add) whose blood carries this horrid disease.
For a few more nights, I obsessed about instant messages I’d sent at the office. What if my boss had been paying my so-called work friends to entrap me? What if their snide comments were only meant to lure me into making even snider comments, which were then printed out and handed in to upper management? On other nights, the 70s-infused theme song of Swingtown refused to stop coming into my head while I tried to slumber; thoughts of those mysterious little holes in my t-shirts drove me crazy; and/or the sound of the air conditioner kept me up.
Then, inevitably, came the nights when I reviewed every mistake I’d made in my life, starting with the selection of red Buster Brown lace-ups instead of the brown leather Mary Jane-type shoes in 1976. My nocturnal regretting also included trading a “Virginia is for Lovers” reflector sticker for four Butter Rum Life-Savers in 1981; never getting to say goodbye to Ollie; spending money to see “Opportunity Knocks”; leather Keds; eating a Pizza Hut individual pan pizza before getting on that one flight from Boston to Newark; choosing the wrong college; choosing the wrong graduate program; choosing the wrong first job; sliding downhill from there; and just generally failing to do anything right, ever.
All this brought back a particularly regrettable incident in December of 1996. I had decided that I loved Pete Sampras a few months earlier after being completely moved by his public barfage at the U.S. Open that year. At the time, I was working as the editor of a dinky, now-defunct magazine for military wives, and as such was able to secure press credentials for use at a benefit tennis tournament at Madison Square Garden. My future husband P. Sampras, along with Andre Agassi, Jim Courier and John McEnroe, was playing to raise money for the Tim and Tom Gullikson Foundation and brain cancer patients; the press credentials meant I could partake of the press conference beforehand. I arrived early and managed to secure a front-row seat. It was my first (and only) celebrity-related press conference, and in addition to being the only female in attendance, I appeared to be the only ”reporter” not employed at a major newspaper or sports magazine. P. Sampras and co. were on a first-name basis with all the inquiring journalists. While they swapped private jokes and referenced famous tennis matches going back to the 70s, I tried to figure out why THE HELL I had thought it was a good idea to wear ill-fitting and too-light Gap jeans, a hideously colored Norwegian print sweater and the ugliest square-toe boots ever manufactured.
Even though I was hardly the world’s leading tennis expert, it was hard not to be awed by the close-up sight of P, A, J and J. I spent a few seconds just staring at each of them. When I landed on P, I thought for a nanosecond that he might be looking at me. This struck me as ridiculously unlikely, but still …
I conducted a test — I looked down at my sham of a reporter’s notebook for a minute, then back up.
FRICK ON A TOP-SEEDED STICK! PETE SAMPRAS IS CHECKING ME OUT IN MY ILL-FITTING GAP JEANS!
If cell phones had existed back then, I would have sent a big, fat “OMFG” to everyone I knew.
I forced myself to raise an arm and come up with an entree into the King of Swing’s life. When I did, P. Sampras called on me and SMILED. Did I mention that Pete Sampras smiled at me?
Miraculously able to speak, I asked them if they’d consider making this benefit an annual event if it proved successful. (They would, but never did.)
A few minutes later, the press conference wrapped up, and I found myself a smidge surprised that P. Sampras had not stood up and said, “Now I have a question for YOU. Will you marry me?”
I filed out of the room with the real journalists and bent down in the hallway to re-organize my bag.
When I stood up, P. Sampras was standing right in front of me.
OMFG. OMFG. OMFG.
He smiled and said, “Hi. Pete Sampras. Nice to meet you.”
OMFG. OMFG. OMFG.
December 1996, New York: P. Sampras cries upon learning I am too retarded to say hi to him
Now, there were any number of logical responses I could have given. For one thing, I could have, oh, I don’t know, SAID HI BACK TO HIM. I could have introduced myself. I could have given him my card. I could have told him how much I liked watching him play and/or what a great idea this benefit was. But did I say any of those things? DID I SAY ANYTHING AT ALL?! No. In fact, I’m not even sure I smiled. I can only remember emitting some kind of unintelligble, Chris Farley-esque sound and being completely paralyzed. While I can imagine how much of an absolute moron I must have looked like to him, I prefer not to.
And so, P. Sampras and I went our separate ways, he to the court and me to the stands. I would meet John McEnroe two more times, at his gallery in Soho, and I would pass Jim Courier several times on the streets of Manhattan. But P. Sampras and I would not cross paths again. Twelve years later, the leggy blonde actress Brigitte Wilson sleeps with my husband in a Los Angeles mansion. OMFG. I HAVE to get some Ambien.
10 Days in Texas, Part 1
I have officially returned from 10 days in Texas! I actually arrived back in New York a week ago, but was not fully recovered from my southern travels until today. Further complicating my mental exhaustion was the aching disappointment that has plagued me since I realized my sister could not be counted on to blog-sit. Sheesh.
I shall hereby provide some highlights from my time in the Lone Star State, in installments. That way, I can ease back into blogging and there’s less risk you’ll die of boredom.
- Friday, June 27. The trip from New York to San Antonio generally involves a connecting flight. While the exotic Kansas City and the notoriously delayed O’Hare airports were both plane-change options, I flew through Dallas so that I could spend a few days with Dave, Rob, Howie, LuLu on the way home. This afforded me another perk: the best selection of airport eateries under the domestic sun. After landing at DFW and then riding the little tram to an American terminal I’d never seen before, I came upon an incredibly vast array of international nourishment vendors: Au Bon Pain, Whataburger, Blue Mesa, Bennigan’s, Blue Bamboo, Champp’s, Chick-fil-A, Cool River Cafe, Cousin’s BBQ, La Bodega Winery, Camille’s Sidwalk Cafe, Einstein Bros. Bagels, Ben & Jerry’s, Popeye’s, McDonald’s and 360 Burrito, just to name a few. This place puts the massive food court at the Bridgewater Mall to shame! I was overwhelmed, yet drawn to the aroma emanating from Blue Mesa. Insert image of me in my Club Monaco cargo pants, black Splendid t-shirt, Nike Air Rifts and Juicy hoodie wafting through the air in a Flintstonian manner, towards Blue Mesa. Then, insert image of me crashing to the industrially carpeted ground as I remember that I will be eating nothing BUT Mexican food for the next week, and, more important, that there could be turbulence on the flight from Dallas to San Antonio, in which case, anything with flavor and/or color was a bad idea. When the puke receptacle is a puny airsick bag, better to puke turkey and brie from Au Bon Pain than to puke Blue Mesa enchilada and salsa. Thankfully, the flight was smooth and barfage-free, but still, in retrospect, I made the right call. After landing safely, I collected my 75-lb suitcase – for which I had NOT been charged, miraculously – got into a cab driven by someone named Billy and ended up at the Marriott Rivercenter, where I discovered that my Frederic Fekkai shampoo had exploded all over my Kiehl’s toiletry bag, and I had forgotten to pack socks. Thankfully, later that afternoon, Hope and I made one of five weekend trips to the Target Greatland, Home Depot, Hobby Lobby, Lowe’s, Office Max and Staples in a sketchy part of San Antonio called Balcones Heights. At Target, I was able to procure replacement shampoo, a very stylish replacement toiletry bag, a pack of socks ($1.99) and some hotel room snacks. Hope appeared to need a pick-me-up, so I treated her and myself to $2.99-bottles of delicious-smelling, appealingly pink shower gel called “Clean on Me.” We finished the night on the disappointing and Vegas-y Riverwalk, at County Line BBQ, where I am convinced I ate smoked moose.
- Saturday, June 28. Rising at 7 a.m., which should be illegal on Saturdays, I joined PK, Hope and MPC at Booth 8074 in the Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center, where we spent the bulk of the day attempting to create the ultimate trade show experience for our fans and potential new customers. Most of the work involved assembling the mod white furniture we’d purchased at Ikea, hoping to create an inviting, un-corporate environment. Given the size of the shelving – which would stand approximately 8 feet off the ground and weigh what seemed like several tons – and the size of me (5 feet, no inches and approximately 100 pounds) –I really couldn’t be counted on for much manual labor. I was therefore given the very important task of screwing together 14 Ikea stools made of flimsy wood and then adorning them with brightly colored, shag toilet seat covers. On first glance, the project didn’t seem that difficult, and after all, Hope had just handed me a snazzola battery-operated screwdriver! Sadly though, the aforementioned battery was on its last leg and seemed willing only to screw OUT, not IN. I had to turn the power off and manually connect the hollow legs to the round stool tops. When all 14 Ikea stools were arranged in front of me, I felt a sense of pride. What I did not feel, however, was my right hand, which had lost all sensation and was stuck in an unnatural c-shaped, claw-like position from all the heavy-duty screwdriver gripping I’d just done. The rest of the day was spent having lunch at Chili’s with PK, returning to the fine shopping district of Balcones Heights for plants and mouse pads, getting completely lost on the 27 Interstates that intersect and share numbers around San Antonio, having “China Grove” stuck in my head, and being about to pass out from hunger yet unable to find any chain restaurant anywhere without a 60-minute wait. The end result? A glamorous business dinner at Denny’s. Thrilled at the thought of actually being able to eat after what felt like five hours in the car, I glanced longingly at the beautifully photographed breakfast specials. I announced to Hope and MPC that I was going to order something sad and mockable, yet delicious: Moon Over My Hammy. Hope was going to have pancakes, but then MPC lectured us on the inappropriateness of breakfast foods at night. Hope stood firm and got her pancakes. I got a turkey melt.
The Icing on the (Cup)Cake
I’d like to give a special shout out to my friend L, who taught me a nifty cupcake-eating tip this weekend. We were attending a lovely bridal shower at PS 450, held in honor of our friend J, in whose June wedding we and the rest of our channel 13 posse will serve as b’maids. As J neared the end of the gift-opening process, the girls and I noticed an impressive tray of cupcakes approaching our table. Cupcakes: dee-LICIOUS! [Yet again, insert Cookie Monster voice.]
DB, CO, A, L and I each selected one of the delicacies and commenced ingestion. I found it interesting that we all had very different techniques when it came to eating cupcakes. I’m sure the same is true among any group of adult cupcake eaters, but I’d never really noticed it before. In fact I think the last time I had cupcakes with my friends on a Sunday afternoon, it was 1979. The renaissance that this perfect dessert is now enjoying has opened up a whole new can of social mores. Can you lick off all the icing with your future mother-in-law nearby? How well do you have to know the people you’re with before you’re comfortable risking a frosting ’stache? Is it cool to just pull off the bottom and eat that first, delaying the butter creamy gratification of the top?
Frankly, I don’t really care what does and does not appear lady-like while eating a cupcake. The only thing that matters to me when I have one in my hand is attaining the right ratio of cake to icing in every bite. It’s always been a Seinfeldian struggle, and to overcome it, I must know the nature of the cupcake very well.
But then L revealed something she’d learned recently at Magnolia, the famous Bleecker Street cupcakery that is now conveniently located on Columbus Avenue as well. She advised us to pull off the bottom half of the cupcake and then place it on TOP of the frosting, creating a cupcake SANDWICH. It was neat, it was simple, it was proportioned, it was brilliant! Thanks, L!
Note: In order to successfully pull off the cupcake sandwich technique, you must ensure that the cupcake in question features significant frosting. The cupcake pictured here exemplifies the correct frosting situation. Do not attempt this trick if you’re facing a thin layer of frosting or a delicate glaze of any kind – you’ll end up with a mouthful of cake and very little else. You’ll be sorry, and you’ll need milk.
Freak Magnet, Part Deux
Dear Five or Six Loyal Readers:
“The Letter T” has NOT been cancelled! The hiatus you have just experienced is due to extreme fatigue, nightmarish conditions at work, the return of new ER episodes and creative paralysis. I shall respond to those of you who supported me through last week’s urban traumas, I promise!
In the meantime, another tale from the sidewalks. Please note that I am not nor have I ever been the type of girl who attracts viable, unsolicited male attention on a regular basis. So it’s somewhat odd that on Monday, I received the second peeper-related comment from a random freak in less than seven days.
This time, it occurred at Rickshaw Dumpling Bar on 23rd Street. There, one can choose one’s noon-ish meal from among six or seven types of dumplings. The purchaser may also select one of six salads or extra tasty miso soup. I placed my order and a moment or two later, the “dumpling master” indicated that it was ready. I walked to the counter to fetch it.
I could not have felt more dejected at the time. It was pouring out, my jeans were rolled up dorkily so the bottoms didn’t get wet, and my thick hair was in full Chia Pet mode from the humidity. Additionally, my runny mascara had enhanced the already dark circles under my eyes. Boy did I look purdy.
As I approached, Dumpling Master slid the Rickshaw bag towards me but maintained his gloved grip on the handle and stared at me in a stalkerish manner.
“Wow. You have really mystical eyes,” he said in the voice of a low-talker. “Do you need dipping sauce?”
Once again, ew! Creepy McCreeperstein!
His inquiry posed a tremendous dilemma. I most certainly DID need dipping sauce, but I most certainly did NOT want to accept it from anyone who used the word “mystical” to describe my eyes. Nor did I wish to have any contact at all with his hand, which remained on the bag.
Just fork over my fucking dumplings, I wanted to say, but didn’t have the psychic energy. Plus, how could anyone take seriously the combination of the words “fucking” and “dumplings?”
My love of condiments got the best of me and I muttered, “Sweet miso soy.” I was weak, I know. But I just couldn’t face the dumplings with plain old soy sauce packets from my sad desk cache.
When I returned to the office with my dumplings and dipping sauce, I searched my portable mirror for signs of the alleged mysticism. Perhaps, in my sleep, Rasputin had possessed me. Or wait! Maybe I was actually a long-lost Kabbalah princess, heiress to Madonna’s fortune!
Alas, I didn’t notice any signs of mysticism whatsoever — just my standard, haggard face and perhaps the early stages of a stie.
Freak Magnet
That, apparently, describes me.
This morning, a bright and unseasonably warm Thursday in New York, I was walking down 24th Street on my way to work when I was accosted by a man I’ll call “Freak 1.” From the looks of Freak 1’s very natural orange skin tone, I surmised that he’d spent the better part of the week in a spray tan booth. He was sporting a snazzola purple polyester button-down, open to his bellybutton. How generous of him to share his chest with all of Chelsea! Freak 1 had paired the purple polyester button-down with shiny black pants and of course, a ginormous medallion on a heavy chain. His well-groomed and not at all dyed jet black hair resembled that of one Silvio Dante, official consigliare of the Soprano crime family.
Freak 1 appeared to be gainfully employed as a perfume salesman. He was toting a cardboard box packed with such coveted designer fragrances as Channel No. 5, Ralph Lauren Rolo and Mallomar by Guerlain.
As he jumped in front of me and shoved the box in my face, he instructed me to try some perfume today. Having already sprayed some lovely, aromatic and AUTHENTIC Pink Jasmine by Fresh just 45 minutes earlier, I really didn’t feel it was necessary, so I declined politely.
Freak 1 was insistent. “Come on! Try a spritz. You’ll love it!”
I looked straight ahead and ignored him as I continued down the block. As I neared my office building, I heard him yelling, “Fine! Keep stinking, bitch! It’d kill ya to smell good for a change?!”
Naturally, this prompted me to sniff my pits just to make sure he was an irrational nut job. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that I was being watched by Freak 2, who was waiting for the elevator. Freak 2 was wearing carpenter jeans that sat on his knees instead of his waist, a quintuple XL Giants t-shirt, work boots, and, it was clear to see, navy blue boxer briefs.
“Nice day tuh-day, huh?”
I nodded, not wanting to engage him and still worrying that perhaps I reeked a smidge.
“Ya gotta love dis weath-uh,” he said as he stepped into the elevator and pressed the Floor 3 button.
“Oh silly me. I woik on duh fiff floo-uh. Guess ya gotta spend suh moo-uh time wit me.”
I hit the 7 button and tried to appear pleasant but not at all interested in conversing.
He moved closer to me, invading my personal space.
“Ya know wuh? You got boo-tee-ful eyes.”
I thanked him.
“Can I touch ‘em?”
Um, EW!
Naturally my first thought was not, “What a sick fuck” but rather “THAT IS SO GERMY! WHO KNOWS WHAT KIND OF RHINOVIRUS HE’S CARRYING ON HIS GRIMY, PERVY PAWS?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to a question like that, so I simply said, “I’d reeeeally rather you didn’t.”
Safely at my desk, feeling violated and smelly, I wrung my hands with Purell and tried to kill the freak molecules. Now, I feel violated, smelly, sticky and 62 percent ethyl alcohol.
New at the Viennese Table!
I should be adding this to my “Annoyances” page, but it may even be too irksome for that forum. Have you seen the latest in a series of commercials featuring interracial female friends and the foodgasms they experience while eating Yoplait yogurt?
“This is cute check-out boy good,” says one.
“This is thank god my cramps are gone good,” says the other.
“This is I got the big promotion you wanted good,” says the first one, a little smugly.
“Oh yeah? Well screw you! This is I bashed your funny-looking face in good.”
In this particular installment, the girls are sporting heinous lilac bridesmaid frocks as they kick back on a pair of folding chairs that were obviously used during their friend’s very recent outdoor wedding ceremony. We can safely assume that the bridesmaids have access to a plethora of hors d’oeuvres, but yet they’re eating Yoplait. And I just want to know: how often are individual containers of Yoplait actually SERVED at wedding receptions these days? I got married three years ago, and yogurt was not one of our butlered options. Nor was there talk of a yogurt station, a yogurt fountain or a yogurt bar. Have times changed that much?
What a Gas!
I was just re-reading my post about the soon-to-launch product ”Farty Pants.” I clicked on the tag “gas” to see what some of the other morally upstanding citizens on WordPress had to say about this favorite topic of mine. Surely in an online community full of funny, literate individuals, there would be a wealth of entertaining stories about man-made gas. Imagine my surprise when the posts that came up in my search were all about GASOLINE prices, fuel, oil, energy and the like. Am I the only one here who obsesses about gastrointestinal woes?! Am I the only one here who cracks up when Peter Griffin lets one rip?!
