I’ll Tackle You to the Ground at Filene’s Basement Blowout Sale

I went over to Filene’s Basement in Union Square last night to check out the sale. They will be closing this Friday. I actually had a present to shop for and figured I could do pretty well there.

I’d been visiting Filene’s periodically since I first learned of their closing. The first time, I bought a fabulous Valentino jacket for 30% off. The next time, I found a pair of black Valentino trousers for 60% off the Filene’s price. Yesterday, the high end designer stuff was 80% off.

Oh yeah! I was gonna buy something if it killed me.

Pickings were sparse, but there was still some Valentino and Escada left. Some of the items were trashed, too big, or too small. But I didn’t care. I tried everything on I could squeeze myself into.

It’s so hard to shop for those Italian designer pieces. A size four in Italian is NOT a US size four. You can’t fit your big toe into a size four in Italian. And the numbers are 38, 42, etc. It’s fine. It just makes shopping a little tricky.

I tried on some pants, skirts, and a black silk Escada wrap dress with ruffles. It looked like trash on the hanger, and there was a size 40 and a size 42. I think that meant a US size 10 and 12. I tried it on. It was a little big on me, but I wasn’t sure. The price tag read $599.99, so I put it back and proceeded to take my two items to the checkout.

I walked over to the check out line. And made my way to the end of the line. I walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Are you kidding me right now??

And walked.

The line wrapped around the floor from one end to the other.

Oy! Do I really need this stuff?

Yes. When else can I get a pair of winter white Valeninto flare leg trousers for $79.99?

I also had an ankle length black satin Escada skirt. It was a little too tight, and I’m not sure I can sit in it, but I couldn’t put it down. It didn’t have a price on it. I asked the funky looking sales girl, with the most fabulous haircut I ever saw, the price. She told me it was probably about forty bucks. They’d tell me at the counter.

She had very short, cropped hair on the sides and a huge pompadour on the top. Kinda like Elvis in jailhouse rock, but higher.

I got on the end of the line with my two items.

And waited.

I waited. Even though I didn’t even know how much my stuff was going to cost!

Everyone on line had these huge garbage baskets on wheels, filled (and I mean filled) with all kinda crap. Crap was dripping off the sides!

And then there’s me.

The woman in front of me was cracking jokes. The woman behind me kept hitting my buttocks with her hanger.

Whatever.

I was getting hot and bored after about 25 minutes waiting and wondering why I was there. I thought about the black silk Escada ruffled wrap dress. Hmm. I wonder what 80% of 599.99 is? I took out my iPhone.

What???!!!

$119???!!!!

Are you flippin’ kidding me right now?

That’s it???

Why didn’t I just buy the damned thing for the love of God!

I decided to ask the woman who kept hitting my tucus if she would hold onto my spot for a moment while I checked on the black silk Escada ruffled wrap dress. I would just go and get it. Bring it right back to the line. And I would feel better...

Are You Stalking Me Or Are You Just An Asshole 2?

A year later, I still hadn’t bumped into her. I was happy, but plagued with the anxiety of the fateful day when I’d be stuck on the elevator with Yenti. But it hadn’t happened yet, so I was in denial that she even was lurking. In the meantime, I was house hunting. Seriously.

One morning, I was doing my make up in my car outside my building. Why, you ask? Well, it all comes back to parking. I was parked in a spot in front of my place, which was only legal until 7 a.m. So, I decided to get in the car and do my make up there instead of in the bathroom like a normal person.

So, I’m doing my face and listening to Howard Stern, when all of a sudden, I see Yenti walking out of my building. I immediately ducked! When I saw her for the first time, I didn’t want it to be while applying mascara, in the front seat of my Toyota, like a friggin’ homeless chick. Like I’m living in the back seat of my freaking car or something. So, instead of looking like a loser, I’m ducking in my Toyota, holding my friggin’ YSL mascara thing out so I don’t get it all over my face.

I couldn’t pick my head up. I was afraid she’d see me.

Yeah right. Like she was really going to see me in my little Toyota. Like she had nothing better to do at 7 a.m. than to be looking in cars to see if people are hiding from her.

But to me. I had to hide. When I see her for the first time, it was gonna be on MY terms! And I definitely WASN”T going to be in a 1995 Toyota applying mascara when it went down dammit!

On Monday, I was schlepping home from work and my chiropractor appointment. About 7:30 at night. My back’s been out lately, so I’ve been wearing sneakers to work in order to get through the day. I was wearing black skinny trousers, a white T, a silver rain jacket and magenta sequin Converse All Star sneakers. I wasn’t wearing glasses, so I can’t see twenty feet away. But as I got closer to my building, I saw a woman out front. I got closer. NOOOOO. It’s not her! It can’t be …

Yenti!

Damn!! It’s her.

And I’m too close to turn around and take the back entrance. Of course she’s glammed to the max and I’m wearing a T-shirt and magenta sequin Converse All Star sneakers!

Busted!

“Hi Yenti.”

“Oh! After a year and a half, we finally see each other! Hi cutie, sweetie pie, cupcakes!! You look sooooo adorable in your magenta sequin Converse All Star sneakers.”

“Yeah, right.”

Ok. So, it went down. We exchanged polite ‘how are you’s’. Blah. Blah. Blah.

As I walked away, I thought, “I gotta move”.

So, He Didn’t Kick the Cab THAT Hard, Did He?

I saw him today.

The ‘kick the cab’ guy.

After five years.

And he looked as handsome as ever.

Damn.

I was still attracted.

Shit!

I missed him.

Fuck!!

About six years ago I dated Lafayette. I was really crazy about him.

Really.

But I had to break up with him after three months because of his bad temper.

One evening out in Manhattan, as we were crossing the street, a cab cut us off. Lafayette became so angry so quickly that he kicked the cab as it passed. And I got scared.

It was at that moment that I decided I couldn’t be with him even though I was crazy about him.

I know that I mostly write about the nutty stuff that goes on in my life here, as a single woman in the big city. But what you don’t know is that I was in an abusive marriage. It was so scary that I can never go back. So, any sign of any kind of abuse from anyone; a boyfriend, girlfriend, boss is a red flag for me.

So, you can imagine my fear when the kick the cab moment took place.

To make a long story short, I broke it off with my sweet heart.

Seeing him again today really hit me.

So, here I am.

Alone,

As usual.

Thinking about it. Six years later.

And wondering if people can change.

When we all know they don’t.

Then, wondering if I over reacted.

He Didn’t Kick the Cab THAT Hard, Did He?

All I Want for Christmas is Shoes

It is a week and a half before Christmas.

And I am a little down.

I can’t quite get into it.

Is it just me?

We should all feel happy and thankful and full of love.

But me?

I feel poopy.

I can’t even get into shopping.

And I love shopping!

I don’t really feel like getting a tree.

Or decorating it.

Last year, nobody ever saw my tree. Just me.

How sad is that?

I guess it’s my fault. I should have invited someone over.

I don’t know what it is.

I have a lot to be thankful for.

Well, I guess a lot of people get depressed at Christmas.

I’m so not into it, I don’t really even want anything.

Well, I guess maybe one thing.

All I want for Christmas is shoes.

Are You Stalking Me Or Are You Just An Asshole 1?

They say, “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” but it pisses me off. Did you ever have a friend or family member who copied everything you did or wore? I get that a lot. I had a clothing designer friend who would wear everything I wore. I’d be wearing something different and original when we’d go out. Next time I saw her, she’d be wearing the same thing. It became a private joke after a while.

Ok. That’s clothing. But listen to this story.

I really worked hard to get myself out of the rat-infested hole-in-the-wall walk up on the way upper, Upper East Side of Manhattan, I was living in. I saved my money for years in a mutual fund account so that one day, I could own my own apartment. (Well, if prince charming didn’t save me first.) We all know how that turns out. I won’t go into it right now. All you need to know is he didn’t show, so now I’m purchasing a place. Alone.

I mean, I worked my butt off to find something good. I researched for a couple of years, and I pounded the pavement for at least six months. Saw some really scary, shitty places. I finally found a fabulous one-bedroom coop, with an elevator and a doorman. Exactly what I was looking for.

I have a cousin, Yenti, who is something of an opportunist. She’s two years older than me. As children, she would always treat me like she was so much older than me, which I always found annoying. As adults, she sort of kept that up. She was the type that would steal your boyfriend or use you. She’d use people to do whatever; get into a club, get into school, get a job. But of course, she’d never admit it. But she was my cousin and I loved her.

Oh yeah, Yenti is single.

I must have seen her at some family event. As usual, we were catching up. I mentioned my new Manhattan apartment. (She lived with her mother, in New Jersey.) Ok, so maybe I was bragging a little. But I deserved it. I worked hard for it and was proud. She asked me what street it was on. I must have told her. No big deal. Everyone was sharing, ‘What are you doing? What are YOU doing, etc.’

Several months later, my aunt, Yenti’s mom passed away. At the funeral Yenti asked about my apartment. She told me she really like the block and the building. She’d done a drive by to check it out.

Huh?

Do people really do that if they are not stalkers? It freaked my sister, Hadassah and me out a little.

Years passed.

My back goes out of whack again. I’m home from work. In bed, to rest it a few days prior to my nephews wedding that was to take place that weekend.

I’m home in bad. The front desk buzzes me. I hobble over to answer. (That will teach me to ever answer!) “Hi Blue Shoes Manhattan (BSM). Your cousin is here. Do you want to talk to her?” the doorman says.

“What??”

“Hi BSM! It’s Yenti!! A funny thing just happened. I’m in the city looking for apartments, and I just happened to be looking in yours. What a coincidence! Can I come up and see you?”

“Huh? … Yeah…. Sure. .. Great. … Can’t wait.”

I thought, “Shit!”

I said, “Sure. Come on up.”

So, of course I’m in my pajamas and I’m hunched over. Yenti’s all glammed to the max. Hair, full make up, heels.

“Oh, BSM! You’re so cutie cute cutsie!! How are you? Does your backy wacky hurt you? Poor thing. So, show me around your apartment. A friend of mind and I are thinking of sharing a studio in this building. What are the odds it would be yours”?

“Yeah. What are the odds”? I groaned. But I was thinking, “Fuck you bitch!”

“What? What are you in college or something? Why are you sharing an apartment with a married friend? Anyway, you don’t want to live here. It’s roach and rat-infested.” Well I had to say something!! I really didn’t want cousin Yenti living downstairs from me. I had to think quick. I felt like crap. My back hurt. I just wanted her out of there. She wasn’t getting the hint.

She left.

As I limped back to bed, I glanced in the mirror. I was white as a ghost, I smelled, and my hair was standing straight up into the air about three feet.

Ugh! Why me God!!

I called Hadassah, immediately. She was like, “What the …? You have to do something!”

So I decided to contact her sister Tovah, and tell her how I felt. And to try and talk Yenti out of this. I sent her an email. She didn’t write back.

The rehearsal dinner was two days later. Yenti was there. I gave it to her straight. “You know, I’m really uncomfortable about you moving into my building.”

“Really, why?”

“I’m there, doing my thing on my own. You could have asked how I felt about it before you did anything.”

“Really?? Oh, the thought never crossed my mind. No hard feelings, right?”

“Yeah, right.” I fucking hate her!

It was too little too late. I think she already left a deposit.

Myself and my whole immediate family were pissed. Even the bride. That’s my girl!

We barely gave Yenti the time of day at the wedding.

Fast forward a few months. I get a voice mail. From Yenti. She leaves me this elaborate message happily announcing that she’ll be attending her closing soon and do I have any pointers.

I didn’t return her call.

All I know is,

I gotta move.

Saks and the City

As previously mentioned, I’m in the market for a new Chanel bag. Ever since I returned my turquoise metallic quilted 2.55 Chanel flap bag, I have regretted it. I miss it very much.

Yada yada yada.

As a result of this obsession, I have a few stories.

I like to do my homework when I’m in the market for a purchase. So, I go shopping. One day I popped into Saks Fifth Avenue to take a look at the Chanel department. I was inspecting some of the cheaper bags. About $2200. Hmm. A bargain!

Suddenly, a salesgirl was on me. She was statuesque, blond, well dressed, face totally made up, and striking. Her name was Svetlana and she had a thick Russian accent. I made the mistake of telling her that I was looking for a classic flap bag. She ran away for a minute and came back with a black calfskin single flap jumbo bag with silver hardware. It was gorgeous.

She told me it was on sale. Only $4000.

Wow! What a deal!

Except I was looking for a jumbo black calfskin double flap with gold hardware. But it WAS a bargain. The one I wanted would be more.

It was lovely.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a while. And I looked good!

Svetlana needed to excuse herself for a moment to leave me with the Chanel. Before she left she warned, “Do not let go of the bag. People are looking at it.”

I had noticed that another salesgirl kept approaching Svetlana and whispering something, then looked at some other customers. Then walked away.

They were staring. Not at me.

At Chanel.

It was freaky.

And such pressure!

While Svetlana was gone, I was trying to figure out what to do. The bag WAS a good price. But it wasn’t exactly what I had wanted. For that money, it really should be exactly what I want. Right?

But then again, it was fabulous.

Maybe I should just buy it. The vultures are circling. Omg!

The other salesgirl was hovering.

Customers were still staring.

They were like zombies in a Dawn of Dead re-make.

I was sweating.

My heart was racing.

The other salesgirl passed and stared at me again.

As the time passed, I began to calm down a bit.

I thought, I need to either buy this thing or get the heck out of here. But do I have a credit card I can use? Do I have the money? No! Ugh!

If I leave now, I won’t have the pressure of Svetlana and her damn accent trying to convince me to buy this thing.

I kind of had a tiny angel on one shoulder telling me to leave and a red devil on my other shoulder telling me to buy it.

Damn them!

I put down the Chanel and hightailed it outa there.

As I exited the large double doors and stepped onto Fifth Ave.

I was able to breathe.

Holy shit, that was close!

Your Money or Your Shoes

My sister, Sookie, just reminded me about a shoe story that happened several years ago and decided I must share.

I’m going to tell you something and I beg of you, please don’t judge… I used to shoe shop at Nine West.

Yes, I said it.

It was before I discovered where to purchase my lovely Louboutins, Diors, Manolos, Prada, and Yves Saint Laurents.

I had been eyeing a pair of turquoise blue satin peep-toe sling backs with green and blue beading, in the window of Nine West on Fifth Avenue. One day I decided to go in and try them on. And so I did.

I was definitely going to buy them. Now it was just a matter of which size; the eight or the eight-and-a-half. Every time I buy a new pair of shoes, that is the main dilemma. I agonize over it every time.

So, it’s 45 minutes later and I finally decided on the eight-and-a-half. It turned out, the shoes were very rare and there were limited sizes. I asked my sales girl wrap them up and agreed to meet her at the register.

I was standing at the register, waiting for the girl to ring up my shoes, when all of a sudden a SWAT team burst into the shop. They locked the doors and announced that no one could come in or go out of the store. There had been a robbery.

Everyone in the store stopped what they were doing and looked around at each other. I was still at the counter. I grabbed my shoe box and ducked, just in case of gun fire.

Then I looked up at my sales girl, standing behind the counter and whispered, while hugging the box, “Could you please just ring these up real quick so I can get out of here?”

She looked down at me in disgust as the SWAT team handcuffed the assailant.

Well, I do have my priorities.

Diapers or Depends?

I attended a party recently. There I saw many old friends and acquaintances. It was very nice to see old familiar faces. One of those faces was my frenemy, Malice. I hadn’t seen Malice, since she stole my boyfriend for like the umpteenth time two years ago. But all the same, somehow, it was nice to see her.

As she waved frantically at me from the bar, I noticed a crusty old man standing next to her.

Naaah. It couldn’t be, I thought.

It was.

Malice introduced me to her ‘boyfriend,’ Old Crusty Guy. No, his name was Bob.

Bob was tall, balding, white hair. Pasty.

Malice told me he was 62. Looked more like 102 to me.

Wow. Malice used to steal the cutest guys from me. Now look at what she ends up with. But really, good for her I say. It’s more than what I got. A whole lotta nothin.

Later on, our friend Julianne started bitchin’ to me about Malice’s beau.

But when you think about it, that’s the guy we want. That’s the age we should be going for. It’s good. If our man is so old, we will never be. We will always be young.

Julianne goes to me, “Did you see Malice’s boyfriend? We don’t go for that. We got for the young ones!”

Who’s we?

That’s not true. I’m not attracted to a guy in diapers.

I’m not attracted to a guy in Depends either.

Hmmm. That doesn’t leave me with many options.

This sucks.

Single women my age are screwed.

Thou Doth Protest Too Much

The first time Yenta Hessa and I went to our Hampton house this summer, we went up to the house and knocked on the door. A leprechaun opened the door. It was a 40-50 year old man with shoulder length red curly hair, a 1970’s break dance lid and plaid pants. Like one of the Fat Albert cartoon characters. His name was Jesus (pronounced ‘hey-soos’; accent on the ‘soos’). He was very nice and helped us with our bags.

Jesus had a bangin’ body and turns out was staying at the house for the entire summer. He lived there in the summer, Miami in the winter, and the Upper East Side the rest of the time. He drove a BMW sports car. So, I thought it was natural to ask what Jesus did for a living.

His reply was, “Umm. Uhhh. Ohh. A little bit of this and a little bit of that. Umm. Uhh. Ohh.”

“Huh? What kind of answer was that? What did that mean?”

Jesus could not answer and seemed offended by the question.

Anyway, he was actually very sweet and believe it or not, one of most normal guys at the house all summer! And as the summer progressed, I started to find him very hot.

But he had no interest, and I’m sure it was much better that way.

Our summer pass time was to figure out what Jesus did to earn money. There was a rumor that he was a male escort.

Then a strange thing happened in October. Jesus called me and asked Yenta Hessa and me to dinner and/or a movie that weekend.

Hmm. Interesting.

I figured it wasn’t a date and accepted that. He was going to a protest and would meet me afterwards. He is something of an activist.

But on the day of, he asked if I wanted to invite Yenta to come. He said, she can come along, but it would be dutch. I decided not to call her.

Dutch? Does that mean it will be dutch for me too? Is it a date? Or is it not a date? If it is, what should I wear? If it’s not, what should I wear?

Then it began. I needed to figure out what to wear. A dress or jeans? Sky high heels or flats? Heels would be a date. Flats would be just a friendly dinner.

It took hours.

I finally decided on cute skinny jeans, cute T, and sky-high Yves Saint Laurent Tributoo platform pumps. Fabulous.

We were going to meet at a neighborhood restaurant and then take it from there. I was a few minutes early, as I always am. I waited outside. It was a beautiful night.

All of a sudden I saw him. He was approaching me fast wearing …

… Wait for it …

Roller blades.

As he reached me to kiss me hello, he nearly knocked me off my Yves Saint Laurents because he used me to stop himself from rolling.

Really?

He was wearing sweat pants, a plaid shirt, and again, in case you missed it,,, roller blades!!!

I could do nothing but laugh about how funny that was. There I was in YSL, having dinner with a guy in roller blades.

No. He never took them off. They stayed on the whole time. He told me he wore them because he was late for the protest and needed to make some time.

He walked me home after dinner. Well, it’s more like I walked and he rolled.

God, I better not see anybody I know.

Oh, by the way, it was a date. He paid.

Damn!

Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side

I’ve been a little short on funds lately. Well, what else is new? So, I decided to sell some of my lovely closet items on eBay. I sold a pair for a steal this week, and I was at UPS mailing them out during my lunch hour.

As the young clerk wrapped my box of $2100 Christian Louboutin black leather peep-toe booties, which I sold for $500, an old scary woman walked in.

She was about 102 years old, wearing a long black coat, black pointy hat, a cane, grey frizzy hair and bright red lips. She started talking to my clerk. The clerk was not really paying attention to her and she was getting pissed.

She started talking to the other clerk instead.

My clerk was still putting together my package.

Then she summoned the other clerk and she asked him to tie her shoe and to adjust something down there by her shoe. The poor thing had to kneel down and help her as she ordered him.

It was quite amusing. I felt kinda bad for him.

I paid my bill and the clerk handed me my receipt. He thanked me. I thanked him, and then I said, “…and can you please fix my shoe?” as I kicked up my heel.

He giggled. I giggled, and began to walk away, when I heard the lady squeal, “What a sarcastic witch you are!”

I looked at her to see if she was kidding, and she glared into my eyes with hate and daggers. “You wait until you’re 83 and then you’ll see!!” She screamed as I walked out the door.

Oh my god, have I just been cursed by the wicked witch of the Upper East Side?

I was totally spooked as I placed my receipt in my purse and went back to work. When I got there, I reached into my purse for the receipt. It was gone. Nowhere to be found. And I just had it two minutes ago.

It MUST be a curse!

Then later in the day, I started to feel funny. Weird. Not myself.

Maybe I’m coming down with something.

I’m cursed! I just know it. Why couldn’t I just keep my trap shut for a change?

“I’ll get you, you pretty. And your little dog too!”

I was Dorothy and she was the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side. Only instead of ruby slippers, I was wearing fuscia sequin Christian Louboutin Pigalle pumps.

The Day the Earth Stood Still

Today marks the tenth anniversary of the September 11th terrorist attack. We all know what took place on that fateful day. We all can remember where we were and what we were doing when we learned what was happening on the day the earth stood still.


We all have a story. This is mine.


My father was in the hospital in Long Island, recuperating from a mild stroke he’d suffered days prior. Sookie, my sis, had called me from the hospital the evening before. I was in the City. She was on Long Island. My father was not having a good day and I made arrangements to call into work the next day and go over to the hospital instead. I had my car in town, so I’d be able to easily drive over in the morning.


So, the next morning, I was going to be able to sleep a little longer and drive to LI after rush hour. As usual, I awoke to Howard Stern and Robin. I guess it was about 8:30 A.M. I snoozed it a couple of times. Ralph called in and through my haze, I noticed the conversation seemed to get serious. They were saying something about an explosion at the World Trade Center. I immediately woke up and turned on the T.V. where I saw the twin towers. One on fire. They were replaying the footage of the plane crashing through it, minutes earlier.


I instantaneously recalled that Obama Bin laden had placed an explosion at the World Trade Center a couple of years earlier, during Clinton’s reign. And I just knew that it was a similar attack.


The reporters announced that all the bridges and tunnels were being closed. All but the Triborough Bridge. When I heard that, I knew that I needed to be on that bridge or else I would not be able to get to my father in time.


I quickly called Mom and told her what I’d heard and what I planned to do. She was in agreement. I’d meet her at the hospital later.


I hung up, grabbed a bag and was out the door.


As I walked down the quiet Upper East Side street to my parked car, parked in a fantastic spot by the way, I noticed life as usual taking place. Folks were calmly walking their dogs, strolling to the corner deli, grabbing coffee. I wondered, they don’t know what’s going on just a few blocks away right now. People are jumping out of the windows of the World Trade Center to their fiery deaths, children were losing their parents. Parents were losing their children. Just blocks away, we were losing our loved ones and our city in terror and none of these people knew.


I jumped in my car and continued on my mission to get to the Triborough Bridge before it closed. I was focused. There was nothing else that mattered. I was going to get over that bridge. I turned on the radio as I drove. Howard Stern. Then 1010 WINS.


I thought, Hmm. Sounds like the bridge is still open. Keep going.


And I did.


As I made my way toward the bridge, it was clear sailing. I was near the tolls. The Easy Pass line was long, so I paid cash and swooped right through to the bridge. It was open! I was entering it! I did it!


Ring! Ring!


I picked up my cell. It’s Sookie telling me about the attack.


“I’m already on the bridge! I’m on my way!”


I was happy to get cell service. It seemed others weren’t.


As I continued onto the bridge, I looked to my right. In the distance I could see both Twin Towers on fire now. There had been a second plane crash.


I turned Howard Stern back on. He was giving a serious account of what was happening through callers who were witnessing the devastation with their own eyes.


Then I lost reception.


I got to Long Island.


Went to 7-11 to get a coffee. The people there were watching the TV. One of the towers had begun to collapse. I paid for my coffee and continued on to the hospital.


I got to my Pop’s room, where about six nurses were staring at my Pop’s TV and then few ran out crying, as my father lied sleeping in his hospital bed.


Sookie wasn’t there yet. As I waited for her at my father’s bedside, I asked the remaining nurses, “What happened?”


“The second tower collapsed.”


It was horrifying. But at least I’d made it to my father’s side.