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.