Like a Rhinestone Thong

My friend, Yenta Hessa, had a booty call boyfriend. You know, a friend with benefits? A fuck buddy? Yeah, that. She’s still friends with him now, but the benefits have expired. His name is Motke.

Yenta met Motke through her ex-boyfriend, Issur. Motke was a good friend of his. Several years following the bitter break up from Issur, she saw Motke again. They always got along and still did. She ended up seeing him a lot, as friends. But she was beginning to have feelings for him. He didn’t have a girlfriend. She didn’t have a boyfriend. Maybe it could work. And wouldn’t it just be a sweet revenge against Issur as a bonus?

Although, she flirted a bit, Motke didn’t bite. But one night, after a pretty wild party, they slept together. “I guess he likes me!” Yenta Hessa thought, girlishly. But the next day, he hightailed it out of there, not to speak of it again.

“Huh? What the heck was that?” Yenta pondered. I guess it was just a one-night-stand to Motke, while Yenta Hessa thought it was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. She’d never had a one-night-stand before. She never wanted to. If she knew it was going to be that way, she never would have done it.

So, she continued being friends with him. They saw each other. Stayed in touch. Then. Another party. Guess what? Same thing. Guess what happened the next day? Same thing. Oy.

Well, at least Motke wasn’t just a one-night-stand anymore. Whew!

A few months later, Yenta Hessa saw Motke again for drinks in the city. Seemed like just friends again. She went back to his place afterwards. It was much too late to cab it home alone, so he asked her to stay. Of course, he made a move, and sure enough, they were doing it again. Afterwards, he went to sleep in his room and left her on the convertible sofa in the living room. What?? She woke up in the morning wondering why the hell she was sleeping, alone, on this guy’s couch?? She was fabulous!! There was something very wrong with this.

She did the walk of shame back to her apartment. While walking, she vowed never to sleep with Motke again.

She really had feelings for him and all he thought about her was a friend he could screw with no ties.

Yenta Hessa continued to communicate with Motke and see him periodically. But she didn’t sleep with him again, even though he begged and pleaded. He tried to talk her into it. ‘Why didn’t she want to, why shouldn't they? They were both healthy and single.’ Blah, blah. Yenta felt like she was in high school with all the convincing. She was single so long, a couple of times she almost caved. But she really didn’t want to have the feeling of emptiness that she had had after being with him before. So she didn't succumb to his persuasion.

It’s been around nine years since that last time with Motke. Recently, she’s been getting emails and texts from him. He continues to ask. She gets these texts, “Meet me at such and such bar tonight. Can I sleep over your apartment afterwards?” Yenta just blows it off. But lately he’s been sending her pictures of Fredericks of Hollywood lingerie he wants to buy her, “…for putting up with me all these years. I just want to do this for you. I don’t even have to see you in the outfit.”

Yeah, right. I bet.

Yenta's like, "Why don't you just buy me a sweater?"

One of the outfits is a rhinestone thong and bra set. She showed it to me. It’s really nice. But, really, what would you do with it? It probably hurts like hell! What’s worse than a thong underwear in your ass?

A rhinestone thong in your ass.

A metaphor for Yenta Hessa’s booty call relationship.

Saggy Boobs, Bloomers and Crinkled Thong Butts: Adventures at Loehmann’s Back Room

Speaking of undergarments, or lack there of, have any of you ever experienced the Back Room at Loehmann’s? Well, if you haven’t, it’s truly an experience to remember. For those of you who don’t know, Loehmann’s is a designer clothing discount store. One of the first of the genre. It’s a chain in New York. I’m not sure if there are any Loehmann’s outside of New York. The clothes are fantastic. Designer all the way. And the prices are really good.

Back in the day, they used to cut the labels out of the clothing, so you didn’t know who the designer was. Well, not unless you were very savvy. I think that’s how they were able to sell the stuff so cheap. Years later, they started keeping in the labels. So you know which designer you were getting for sure. Labels intact. You didn’t need to be as well informed as a consumer/fashionista.

But the real experience is in the Back Room… Actually, I’m not sure if all the stores have a Back Room anymore, but they used to. Talk about an experience to remember. Ok, so the Back Room is a section of the store where there are even better high-end designer finds. When you walk into the Back Room, there are racks and racks of clothes, just like you see in a department store (Bloomingdales, Lord & Taylor, etc.) but all the women are naked!

Ok, so they’re shopping, right? Dressed. Then they see something they like and want to see if it fits. Boom. They strip down and try it on, right there where they stand. Can you imagine? Shopping at Bloomies in the evening dresses department, then all of a sudden all the shoppers are naked! Yikes! It’s very scary. Horrifying.

Now, let’s get this straight. These women do NOT look like Heidi Klum. They are mostly shriveled up old ladies! And do you think they’re wearing big fat bloomers? Nope! They’re wearing tiny thongs or Victoria’s Secret bikini underwear. Sometimes panty hose and no panties at all! And on top? Tiny little brassieres. Or sometimes NONE at ALL!

Have you ever seen a 1000 year old woman’s boobs? They are very scary. Very long and pancake-like. Well, you don’t want to. But you will at Loehmann’s Back Room. In broad daylight.

Oh yeah, and it stinks in there too.

Yuk!

Yes. When I told you it was an experience, I was not kidding. Sorry if you’re all getting a visual, but I’ve lived it. And I’m scarred for life!

Bitches On My Bus

Today I was on the bus. I was wearing a cute pair of Miss Me flare leg jeans, a red leather short jacket, leopard print shoes, and Dior sunglasses. Nothing outrageous, right? I know, I didn’t think so either. I’ve worn a lot worse, let me tell you.

So, I get on the bus. I walk to the back to maybe get a seat. No luck. So, I stood in front of a couple of women sitting down, and held on. I noticed they were looking me up and down, then looking at each other saying something I couldn’t make out. They did that several times. I’m watching this, thinking, “What the fuck? What are they looking at? I mean, is my fucking zipper open or something?” And they were no great shakes. They were old and haggard and not dressed up. Nothing impressive at all. Who the fuck were THEY to judge ME?

So, I looked at them and waved, “Hi.” And smiled.

They immediately stopped and looked at each other again. Shrugged. One of them said something to me. I really couldn’t hear anything because I wear earplugs on the bus and subway. Hey, it’s really noisy. They expose you to bus noises. That really loud beeping sound when they are lowering the bus. Then the breaks are really loud. Then, when you get on the bus the people are really annoying yapping on their cell phones like they are home alone in the privacy of their apartments. Speaking freely and louder than they would than if they were at home. It’s a pet peeve. So, that’s why I wear earplugs.

So, the older woman looked at me and said something along the lines of, “I wasn’t looking at you," or something. Then she looked at her buddy.

I just responded with a shrug.

Then the other bitch looked at me and looked surprised. I waved ‘hello’ to her as well. She glanced back at her friend like, “What? We weren’t saying anything about her.”

They were so totally busted and were guilty about it. I just stood there, over them, and looked straight ahead. I mean, I looked calm. But all the while, I was thinking, “What were they all flipped out about? My zipper WASN’T open. (I looked to make sure.) I matched. I was not dressed outrageous. I know when I am dressed a bit outrageous.

I just decided that they were jealous. And chalked it up. Shook it off.

I’m minding my own business, not bothering anyone. I mean, I’m just out there, taking the bus. Trying to get to where I need to be. You can’t even get on the friggin’ bus without dopey people givin’ you shit.

Pick Me Up At The Pierre

I only met one guy on Match.com. In person, that is. I was contacted by a man whose profile said he was 44, a businessman, tall, dark, handsome, and we shared the same background. Sounded great, right? I thought so too.

He wrote to me a few times, then suggested we meet. I figured, why not? I was going to chance it.

We made arrangements. He was going to be at a business meeting at the Pierre Hotel, which was near my apartment. He suggested meeting there after his meeting. I arrived at the Pierre at the scheduled time. I wore a cute pair of black slacks, turquoise blue sweater (it was winter) and a beautiful pair of turquoise blue suede Christian Louboutin booties, of course! Oh, and a little black and gold Chanel purse. Mmmm. Let’s just say, Blue Shoes was rockin’!

I looked for him at the bar. A tall, dark, handsome man in a suit got up and walked towards me. The closer her got, the more I realized it was him. My date, Hyman. Not bad, I thought.

He smiled, “Are you Blue Shoes Manhattan?” “Yes. Hyman?” He gave me a kiss hello and walked me over to his table. On the way, he informed me that he was not yet finished with his business meeting, but I could join them. He didn’t want me to mention that we were just meeting for the first time on a blind Match.com date. I agreed, but thought ‘Here we go!’

So, we are at the table, of about ten men. He introduced me. Everyone was very nice. But it really seemed like a very high-powered business meeting. It was actually really fun. I got along with them all so well, that they were all kissing me good-bye by the end of the meeting.

Hyman was really impressed with me. Hey, I made him look good. I probably made him like a couple of million dollars or something. What’d I get? A martini. But it was a really good martini, by the way.

Anyway, afterwards, we went to another spot nearby. I had another martini. Probably NOT a good idea, since I never ate dinner. He didn’t drink at all. But we were really getting along. Really connecting. He seemed to be into me. I seemed to be into him. Although I got a little tipsy from the martinis. The millionaire matchmaker, Patty Stanger says, “No more than two drinks on a date.” She’s right. Well, I only had two.

He walked get me in a cab at the end of the date. Then, called me when he got home, to tell me what a wonderful time he’d had. I was thrilled. So happy that Match.com had worked! I was really looking forward to seeing him again.

………

………………

Hmmm.

………

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Haven’t heard from Hyman. I’ll email him.

………

………………

Hmmm.

Maybe I’ll text him.

………

………………

………

………………

Maybe I’ll call him.

………

………………

Valentine’s Day. I got a text picture of a rose. Great. Happy Valentine’s Day to me. And you wonder why I hate Valentine’s Day?

………

………………

………

………………

This is torture already.

Ok, ok. You get the picture, right?

Right. You guessed it. I never heard from friggin’ Hyman again.

Screw Match.com!!

AND the freakin’ Pierre Hotel.

Why I Hate Flowers

Receiving flowers from a suitor is like the kiss of death. I don’t really understand it myself. But when I get flowers from a man, I get totally turned off. Does anybody out there feel this way?

Do I need therapy for this?

It goes way back to my high school days.

I have to tell you some stories I have about receiving flowers. The first time I got flowers from a man was at my sweet 16. There was a senior in high school who was crushing on me. Actually, I think he was in love with me. And that really scared me. I mean, I was only 15, and mentally, I was about 7. But I was cute and had a sexy body even then, which had just started to develop, and I didn’t know what to do with.

I was smart and talented and by my early teens, caught the eye of several guys in school. I was even involved in a love triangle at this age. I had these two hot seniors after me. I liked one as a friend, but was attracted to the other. One was a good boy, the other a, you guessed it, a bad boy. Guess which one I was attracted to? Hmmm. Right. The bad boy, of course. It was only high school, but it was the set-up for the rest of my life. Always attracted to the bad boys and making the wrong choices about men.

But I’m supposed to be talking about flowers today. I’ll get to the whole bad boy syndrome another day.

Shimmel was the good boy. I knew he had a crush on me. When Valentine’s Day came that year, he gave me a love card and a romantic gift. Now, mind you, I was not dating him at all. He was just a friend in the theatre group I was in. At a rehearsal, he hands me this card and gift. I did not know what to do with it. I was afraid to tell my mother because I thought she would kill me. She eventually found out. But after I got that card I felt really nauseous and uncomfortable.Just a really bad gut feeling. Even thought he was a nice guy. He was not a player in any way.

My 16^th birthday was the following month. My parents threw me a sweet 16 party at our home.Close friends and family were invited. Shimmel didn’t come, but the doorbell rang during the party. I answered. It was a flower arrangement. From who? Shimmel.

I said, “Oh, thanks.” Meanwhile, I was thinking, “Yuk.” And I had that uncomfortable feeling in my gut again. I didn’t know what the feeling was, but I would get that feeling often throughout the rest of my life. I came to learn that it was my body telling me something was wrong. I learned how to listen to it in order to make better decisions in my life.

The flowers made me feel very uncomfortable about being around Shimmel. I couldn’t help it.

Fast forward to college. A school friend was setting me up on a blind date. She thought the date and I would get along because we were from the same background. Yeah, that’s always a great only reason to date someone. I thought I was much better than blind dating (at that time, I did, now I’m all for it). He was also supposed to be a great dancer. At least that would be something we had in common. I was really excited though. We were going to double date with my friend and her date. The blind date shows up at my house, skinny, dorky, in a three-piece suit, holding out one rose. I was immediately unattracted and grossed out by the flower.

We went to a really cool restaurant, which became a club after hours. I’d always wanted to go to this club. When the music started, he asked me to dance. We got on the dance floor and started to hustle. Ok, it was 1979. HE SUCKED! He sucked so bad, he was throwing me all over the dance floor. Then all of a sudden I was on the floor! Oh no! How embarrassing.

I never saw him again.

Flash to my mid twenties. I was casually dating several people. Not ‘dating’ in the biblical sense, mind you. Two of them were named Hasatan. The one Hasatan #1 was the son of a very successful New York City businessman, handsome, and pampered. We had some really great chemistry, but he was pressuring me and so we were not getting along very well anymore. I liked him a lot, but we had decided to call it quits.

Hasatan #2 was a loser, long haired, ugly, immigrant from Queens, who I’d met at a Queens nightclub. He had asked me out several times. I refused. He wore me down, so I decided to go.We had an ok time, but when my parents met him, they thought the devil just walked into their home.

I refused follow up date invitations from Hasatan #2.

Several months later, I received a gorgeous flower arrangement at my parental home. From Hasatan.

Hasatan who? Which Hasatan? I was hoping it was from the rich Hasatan and not devil Hasatan. Days passed and I didn’t call either of them.

Well, I thought whoever sent them, it was a nice gesture. I was softening in my older age.

Phone rang. It was Hasatan #2. “Did you get my flowers?” Of course it was Satan Hasatan. I know I’d been turned off to flowers in the past, but this time, I kind of thought it was sweet. It must have been the devil’s work penetrating my brain.

I softened, and accepted another date with him. I’m sure it’s because the flowers worked that time.

P.S. Hasatan #2 ended up being my husband. Yes. I married Satan. And within months I left him, after months and months of torture that I will not go into here. Let’s just say, it was hell.

After I left him, he tried to make contact.

In the months following, it was Valentine’s Day. I was at work. The secretaries called. I should come to the office, I had a delivery. When I got to the front office, I saw a huge arrangement of red roses sitting at the counter. I felt sick. My gut felt like someone had jabbed a knife in it. I asked my friend, Debby to read the card, but not to read it out loud to me. I didn’t want to hear it.

She told me, it was from him. Hasatan #2.

It made me frightened, sad, and ill simultaneously.

No wonder I hate Valentine’s Day

... and flowers.

Taxi Cab Confections

Once I went out with a New York City Taxi Cab driver. IN his taxicab.

But I got to sit in the front.

I was in my early twenties at the time. How’d you guess?

It didn’t last.

Here’s how we met.

Well, once I was out at a club in Long Island. (I was pretty much a party girl back then.) Although I admit, I dated my share of DJ’s, I really was never into the club workers (bar tenders, doormen, DJ’s, etc.). But one night a lighting guy caught my eye. I supposed I noticed him because he was in the DJ booth. (So much for that theory.) Really cute. I didn’t meet him that night.

Several months later I was at another club in Queens. (See, I told you about the party girl thing.) There he was, the cute lighting guy. I don’t remember his name. He wasn’t working or anything, just at the bar. So, somehow we met and hung out the rest of the evening. He took my number and called the following week for a date. He was so cute, of course I accepted.

So on the evening of the date, he shows up to pick me up in a yellow cab! I was like, “Who cares! He’s so cute.”

“Taxi!!”

He took me to the Hard Rock Café in the yellow cab. I was sitting up front. People were trying to hail him as we drove over there, even though he had his light off.

At the Hard Rock, we spotted Brian Setzer from the Stray Cats (an 80’s punk band). That was exciting. Taxi driver and I got along. He was really nice. He even drove me back to Long Island. No charge!

My girlfriends started to make fun. When I, or they would talk about him, they’d reach their arm out, point, and yell, “Taxi!” We all kinda thought it was hysterical. And it was! That private joke lasted years after Taxi was gone. Actually, ‘til this day.

We saw each other several times after that. I liked him, but I don’t think it was really going anywhere. I was doing a play in Manhattan. He stopped by the theatre before rehearsal one night, in the cab, of course. I went outside to meet him. He needed to get something from the cab.

Flowers. For me.

Hmm.

Normal women would have loved the gesture. But it freaked me out. Flowers have always have had that effect on me. But, he gave me flowers.

That was the last time I saw him.

Don’t know, was it the flowers? Was it him? Or was it the yellow cab? I guess I’ll never know. But it was sure nice having a personal limo driver for a couple of weeks.

Bacteria On My Couch: To wear underwear or not to wear underwear? That is the question.

A reader, Mary Catherine Lunsford , commented on the VPL (visible panty line) dilemma that we are facing these days. This is a very serious matter. Critical, in fact. To wear underwear or not to wear underwear? That is the question.

Mary mentioned the fact that many women are ditching the whole underwear/VPL problem along with their panties. No thong, no boy shorts, no bikini. In fact, no bloomers at all! Commando.

Ok, fine. So that takes care of that. Right? Well, yeah. It alleviates the VPL. But what about the bacteria on my couch?

She is worried about peoples’ “disgusting body secretions on public seating,” which is why she avoids the subway! According to Mary, “the world has enough bacteria … pretty soon we’re all going to have to stay in our houses…”

She’s right. As it is, we all have to run around with anti-bacterial cream in our purses. Because God knows what is hanging around on banisters, counters, and doorknobs. And countless other things we haven’t even thought about!

But you can’t. You can’t think about this too hard or you’ll go crazy. You WON’T ever leave the house, for sure.

But you CAN think about whether or not people are wearing underwear. That never hurt anyone. Well, unless, of course, they are sitting on your couch. Or, on the bus before you. Ok. Stop. Here we go again, getting germ phobic!!

My sister, Hadassah, does this. Well, she doesn’t NOT wear underwear. When she people-watches, she looks for,,, not VPL, but VTL (Visible Thong Lines). When she sees them, she gets all out of whack. She gets angry and thinks that the women wearing white pants and very apparent thong lines are bad people. They are not bad people. They are just people without mirrors.

My poor sis. Works herself into a frenzy. I just laugh.

What should these women do? Should they wear big fat bloomers with their white pants? Should they wear no undies at all? I’m not 100% sure of the answer either. You will hear fashion experts say that you should wear nude boy shorts with white pants. I think you’ll get a weird line with that. Or wear a nude panty. But then you run the risk of the panty riding up into your crack - wedgy. And you know how horrifying that looks. You know, but if you wear a thong, man, you’re gonna be able to see the thong line!! Even if it’s a nude color.

Now, I’m assuming we all know that we have to wear nude undergarments with white, right? Let’s just make sure we’ve got that straight. Ok. Good. Now I can continue.

You know, it’s springtime, summer is coming. People will be wearing white pants or shorts or white sundresses with their flip flops. (Do people HAVE to wear friggin’ flip flops with EVERYTHING? Which is a whole other story.) So we’ve gotta talk about this now, before anyone gets caught on the bus or on Fifth Avenue with their cellulite showing through their white garments while texting on their Blackberry thinking their shit doesn’t stink.

That’s actually fantastic! It could make my entire day!!

We can make fun of those women, we just don’t want to BE them! So, let’s continue.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah, the white pants panty party. I once wore an off-white pantsuit. The pants were snug and didn’t have a lining. The jacket was short. I wore an off-white sequin top with it. I opted not to wear a thong, but a pair of nude panties with them. There may have been a very faint panty line just under my touché. Nothing that was offensive at all. But people commented on my panties! Someone said, “You should have worn a thong with those pants.” Someone else said some other stupid thing.

What?

Who died and made them the fucking fashion police? Why did they have the right to comment on my panties anyway?? Even if I WAS wrong. Which I do not believe I was.

I don’t feel I should have worn a thong. You definitely would have seen the VTL. And that to me is obscene. A stupid normal brief line is not. Now, I’m a straight woman, and when I see a thong line, I kinda think of sex. Now, if I’M thinking it, what the heck are the perv men out there thinking? I’d rather be wearing a bloomer than have every degenerate homeless guy or business man on the street be thinking of sex when he sees my thong line in my ass as I strut down Lexington Avenue.

Also, with a thong, you will see cellulite, which you won’t see as ealily with panties. Who needs that? A little material goes a long way. As I said, I need to have more of a barrier between me and my co-workers. Just one piece of thin material is not enough!

Another thing panties do is prevent jiggling. Even if you’re real thin, let’s face it people. Butts jiggle like jello. Even the most in shape butts do. They don’t want to jiggle. But they will if they are not tamed. So, if your pants, shorts, skirt are not tight enough and you’re wearing a thong, that shit’s gonna flap in the breeze not to mention every time you blink. Ok, maybe there’s a time and place for moving butt cheeks. But it’s not in the office or on Fifth Avenue at noon.

Another option would be no panties at all with the white pants. Talk about cellulite, no barrier, AND jelly jello badunkadunk. Not pretty. Please don’t do it. It’s bad for white pants and with skirts and dresses. Well, let’s just say, do you really wanna leave your DNA all over Manhattan?

One more option is Spanx! Yey! Perfect! No cellulite, a strong barrier between you and the world, no jiggling badunkadunk, no VPL, no VTL, no bodily fluids! I think we’re good!! Now we can leave the house.

Here's Mary Catherine Lunsford's website. http://marycatherinelunsford.com/default.aspx

The Right Shade

My sister, Hadassah, and I have been on a quest for the right shade of red lipstick for the past 30 plus years. You’d think it was easy. Red is red. No so much. There are a million shades of red. Some are bluer, some more orange. Then there’s the consistency; matt, glossy, creamy.

Trying them on in the stores is impossible. If you wanna go cheap and use a drug store brand, you can’t try them on because they are sealed shut by cardboard and plastic and you need a jack hammer to remove it. Sometimes they have a picture of the color on the front of the package. Sometimes you can see the tip of the lipstick through a clear portion of the packaging. Sometimes neither. If you CAN open up a tube and look at the color in the store, do you really want to try that one after a million people have tried it? There’s more than bacteria in those. Then, if you do buy one of these, the color is never the same shade as it looked in the packaging when you take it home. And then you can’t return it!

Speaking of more than bacteria, have you been to Sephora? There, you can try on any makeup you like. Anyone off the street can go into Sephora and try anything they like. They provide alcohol and clean applicators. Even if people do use the alcohol, I’m sure they’re not using it properly. I’m positive that if they tested the sample make up in there they’d find way more than bacteria on the stuff. I’ve gotten deathly ill after some visits to Sephora. There’s more bacteria in one tube of lip gloss at Sephora than on a toilet seat at Lucky Chang’s washroom.

But even if you don’t get deathly ill trying on the stuff, the lighting is so bad, that if you find something that you like, it never looks the same when you get it home. If it is any consolation, you can return at Sephora.

Same goes for shopping for make up at a department store make up counter. It has to be a whole production to try something on. The salesgirl corners you and has to sit you down and apply the make up for you. She doesn’t even put it on straight and then does a big sales pitch and you feel all obligated. So much pressure! How can you make decision?? I can’t. When you finally do pick one, you bring it home, try it on, at it’s a totally different color than when you tried it on in the store!

Then, when you finally finally love one, they discontinue it! And you find yourself scraping your favorite lipstick out of the bottom of the container with a tiny brush in order to get one more use out of it.

Not to mention, now they tell you you have to throw your make up out after two months of wearing it, otherwise it’s laced with bacteria! Even if you just spent $45 on it! What a racket!

The same goes for bras and underwear too. As soon as you find the exact right panty in the exact right size and the exact right material, that doesn’t ride so far up your butt crack and give you the biggest wedgy you ever had, it gets DISCONTINUED!! So then, you end up wearing your old scrap pairs of panties, that don’t ride up your ass crack, forever. Sewing up its holes by hand in order to get just one more wearing out of them.

Yea, right! Panties that cover your touché. What a concept! Maybe you don’t feel like wearing a thong. Maybe you don’t feel like having the only thing between you and the world be a thin piece of material. I know I don’t! I need to have more of a barrier between me and my platonic friends and co-workers!!

So, what’s the big freakin’ deal with the VPL (visible panty line) anyway? Why is it so horrible? Taboo? Oooo, she has VPL! She’s a fashion disaster! People are so appalled about it. They’re so obsessed; they venture to risk UTI’s (urinary tract infections) galore. Not to mention the discomfort of a bleeding, scabbing, shitty, dingle berry ass crack.

I was watching VH1’s 50 most horrible fashion ‘DON’TS’. I watched that friggin show for two hours to find out the number one fashion DON’T. It was so boring, I wanted to poke my eyes out. So, you know what #1 was? VPL. Are you freaking kidding me? If, God forbid, I wear underwear, I’m a fashion DON’T?! Kiss my ass in Macy’s window! With my big fat bloomers!!

Okay, okay. I gotta calm down.

Now no one really wears red lipstick anymore. Instead we wear light-colored gloss. But it’s still the same story. It’s still really hard to find the perfect shade for the right occasion. You need an everyday color and a going out color. Or various versions for the same occasions.

Because of this dilemma, I have a draw full of never been used lip products. Even if I like the color, they’re over two months old and now they’re no damn good anyway.

My Mom never buys lipstick. She just waits until Hadassah and I are getting rid of ours. Then she steals them. Chanel, YSL, Dior, Max Factor. She’s not picky. She takes ‘em. Bacteria and all.

Tiki and Me

It was last summer. I was parking my car across the street from my building. Of course I was excited about my ‘good spot’, as well I should be. It was a real find. There I was, in the car, parking perfectly. Then, I was unloading; bending, lifting, etc. Let’s just say, I was there for a while. I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a man standing at the curb, about eight feet from me, watching me. I then looked up at him. He kept his head down but his eyes looked up, as he spoke on his cell. He made no eye contact. Just talked and stared, not at my eyes, but more on my butt as I leaned down and up, moved back and forth, from the front seat to the trunk.

He was an African American man, dressed in white. White shirt, white shorts, white sneakers, white baseball cap.

Hot.

Wait a minute. He looks familiar. Is that? No. Maybe it is? Could that be…

Tiki Barber?

I think it is.

Cool!

Tiki Barber AND he was totally checking me out.

I was sure it was him. Didn’t speak to him. But Tiki and I totally had a moment. I walked away to go inside. I looked back. Tiki was gone. I think he walked into the building. I think Tiki Barber lives across the street from me!

It was quite an ego boost that Tiki checked out my butt. I told my whole family! My mom and sister were like, “Who’s Tiki Barber?”

“Ugh!”

A few weeks later, I was happily parked on my block, across the street from my building again. (I was having a lucky couple of weeks!) Well, it was a Saturday, and I was going to drive to Long Island to see the fam. I left the building, walked towards my car. As I approached it, I noticed another car double parked, blocking my Toyota. It was a gorgeous, white, Bentley convertible.

Hot.

The driver, however, was an asshole.

He took his sweet time, moving to let me out. I really didn’t notice what he looked like. I was much too intent on getting the heck out of my great spot! As I pulled out, there was a little traffic on the street. Some trucks and cars double-parked as well. So, it was taking a moment. All of a sudden some obnoxious car pulls out and darts in front of me to try to make it out before me.

“What an asshole!”

I look over at the jerk who cut me off.

“What?” It was the gorgeous, white, Bentley convertible. With Tiki Barber in it!! Or was it his twin brother? Maybe. Either way, they’re both assholes!

There it was. My second Tiki Barber moment.

I told Doris (my sis) about the Tiki encounter. She goes, “Yeah, I think he lives on your block.” She remembered him reporting on a little incident we had on our block a few years back. He had mentioned that he actually saw the incident happen out the window of his apartment. Who would think Tiki and I shared something so special.

Today, I was walking into work and passed a newspaper stand. The headline and front picture of the daily news said something about ‘Tiki something or other.’ I did a double take and walked back to see the paper. Tiki, my Tiki was pulling a Tiger Woods. Oh no! Not my Tiki! Say it ain’t so.

But of course Tiki is a dirt bag. Isn’t everybody these days? After all, he WAS checking out my ass a couple of months ago! Right outside the home he shares with his wife and kids for the love of God!

As I walked towards my building that evening, daydreaming, I noticed a shleppy guy in the street, carrying a few huge cameras with really long lenses. He was on my side of the street, but was looking at the building across the street and walking back and forth. Tiki’s building.

PAPARAZZI! Cool!

I didn’t hang around to watch the media frenzy.

Hmm. Maybe I can sell my Tiki story to TMZ and cash in. LOL.