The Broadway Curse

I met a guy on line a few weeks ago.  He seemed nice enough, so when he asked for my number, I gave it to him.

He called a couple of weeks later.  Of course, I didn’t pick up.

Called him back a few days later.

He reported, “If we had spoken on Sunday, I would have had a whole different outlook.  But, on Tuesday, I was laid off.”

“I have to hang up now.” I replied.

Of course I was just joking, and agreed to meet him for a drink later in the week.

As planned, he called the day before to confirm.

About an hour later, he called back.  I thought, “He’s definitely cancelling.”  But he wasn’t.  He told me, he had a friend who plays in the orchestra of the Broadway musical, Chaplin.  He had free tickets.  Would I like to go.

Against my better judgement, I said yes.

I just can’t turn down Broadway.

Then, I thought, “But what about the Broadway curse?”

The relationship was doomed before it began.

What is the Broadway curse, you might ask?

It’s just whenever I am dating someone, if they take me, or I take them, to see a Broadway show, we break up shortly after.

I call it a curse, because it never fails.  It doesn’t matter how good the relationship is.  As soon as we go to Broadway, something bad happens.

The worst one was when I was dating Peter.  Peter was a rich and handsome man I was dating when I was in my 20’s.  I really liked Peter.  And he was starting to really like me too.  To make a long story short, I asked him to Les Miserables on Valentines Day.  The night was such as disaster.  I parked in a no parking zone and my car got towed.  I couldn’t get my car until the next morning, so I had to sleep over Peter’s.  We weren’t at the sleep over stage and it was all very awkward.  I slept on the floor.  He thought I was a jerk and a prude.  We never saw eachother again, except for when I met him to pay him back the $250 he loaned me to retrieve my car.  Ugh!  I get nauseous just thinking about it. 

Anyway, I said yes to Broadway on the online blind date. 

I normally only like to spend about an hour on a blind date.  If I don’t like the guy, I can always hightail it the heck outa there.

We met for a drink before the show.  We also had a snack.  Cheese.  Really, not enough food for a hungry girl like me.

When I get hungry, I get cranky.  This will be important later on in the story.

We had some things in common, except for Jesus.  Now, I don’t have a problem if people don’t beleive in Jesus.  But, when you meet on a Christian website, it’s a little strange when they tell you they’re not a Christian.

“So, you’re really into being a Christian, huh?”

“Umm, we DID meet on Christian Singles Dot Com, asshole!”  (I didn't say asshole out loud.)

What the fuck?

So, we went to the show.  Which sucked.  It couldn’t end any sooner.  And I was hating my date more and more as each never ending second of the show went on.

I wanted to blow outa there as soon as the show ended.  (I actually wanted to blow outa there during intermission.)  But then the friend in the pit texted that we should come backstage.

Ugh!  Really?  Do I have to spend another minute here?

But, I did.  And being backstage and on stage was actually a highlight of my life.

But when that was done, I just wanted to go home, eat a cheeseburger, and go to bed.  And not necessarily in that order.  But I couldn’t find a cab.  And the date was trying to help me find one.  I suppose that was nice, but for some reason, I just wanted to not be with him anymore.

I noticed a piece of white goo starting to form in the right corner of his mouth.

I told him it was ok if he wanted to jump on the subway.  He kind of tried to kiss me good bye, and all I saw was the piece of white goo in the corner of his mouth.  I turned my head and wanted to gag.

I just couldn’t get out of there soon enough.

Later that night, when I was finally snuggled up in my leopard print pajamas, I thought, 

“The Broadway curse strikes again.”

Is it a deal breaker if your date is packing…heat?

In my twenties, I worked at my brother-in-law’s business.  A customer saw me and asked me out for a date.  I remember being really excited about it.

The guy was a restaurant owner.  It seemed like he was pretty successful. 

And cute.

Except for the handlebar moustache.

That was pretty narley.  But, at the time, I figured I could get him to shave it if things got serious.

But could they ever get serious with him and that stache?

I guess we’ll never know.

Anyway, he picked me up for the date in a nice ride.  It was the first time I’d ever heard the beeping from setting the car alarm.  Shoot.  I guess it was longer ago than I thought!

So, he drove us to the restaurant.  When we arrived there, he turned off the car and took his jacket off before getting out of the car.

The date removed his jacket to reveal a holster with a gun in it.  It was like the kind that the cops wear in police shows.  The kind that goes over both shoulders.

I almost swallowed my breath mint!

My eyes googled out of my head.

I immediately asked him about it.  He told me that he needed the gun for working at the diner, just in case of a robbery.

“Are you going to wear that all night?” I asked him.

“Sure.  Why not,” he replied.  “At least you will be safe.”

Safe?  Why would I not be safe?

Maybe because my DATE WAS CARRYING A FUCKING MACHINE GUN!!!!!!

I nodded politely, and we went into the restaurant.

How did the dinner go, you might ask?

Let’s just say, I spent it in the bathroom.

Taxi Driver

Sometimes I treat myself to a cab ride to work. 

It’s nice to skip the hustle and bustle of the commuters, the traffic, and the time it takes to

get just a few blocks downtown during the morning rush.

So, on this particular day, I grabbed a cab and was off.

I asked the driver, politely, to take me to my destination.  He agreed happily, “Of course!  That is why I am here!” and we were on our way.

I always try to be nice to any cab driver.  One time, I think I was rude to one, and he nearly threw me out of the cab on cold winter night.

Anyway, the ride was going fine.  That is, until we were stuck for three red lights, trying to make a left turn to my destination.  The cab fare was getting higher and it was getting later and later as we waited.  So, I told the driver I would get out of the cab there.  We weren’t at the curb, so the driver told me I couldn’t get out there.  He said it was illegal.

I told him I only wanted to get out because we got stuck for the three lights, etc.

He started making excuses about the lights and that it was not his fault, etc.

I told him I understood, as he droned on and on.

We finally turned the corner and he stopped at my building.

It usually costs about $12.50 to get to work with a cab.  Then I add a couple of dollars tip.

Today, it was $15.50.  $15 and an extra 50 cents for something else.  I gave the taxi driver a twenty and asked him fort three dollars back.  I informed him, I would normally give a better tip, but I was now low on cash since I didn’t expect for it to cost that much.

The cab driver gave me 50 cents and then my three dollars change.

I told him that I did not want the 50 cents.

He insisted.

I took the three dollars, then reached down and put the 50 cents back on his seat, and exited the cab. 

Another person entered the cab.

As I walked away, I heard the sound of coins hitting the pavement.  Then I heard yelling coming from the cab.

The taxi driver had thrown the 50 cents out the window at me.

As I bent down to pick up a quarter, I asked, “Why did you do that?”

He screamed back, “YOU INSULT ME!”  In his Russian accent.

I only found one quarter.  Didn’t see the other one, so I started walking away.

A woman on the street pointed the other quarter out to me, as the taxi driver continued yelling out the window.

The woman said, “Take down his badge number and report him.”

I suppose I should have.  But I just picked up the second quarter and kept on walking.

So much for treating myself to a quiet cab ride to work.  

A crowded M15 bus ride with my face pressed up against the door window and my ass pressed against a smelly business man is beginning to sound much more attractive to me right about now.

Poke Me With A Stick

I was walking down 22^nd Street today, with my nephew.  Behind us was an elderly crippled woman.

I felt a poke on my back.

“Hey, you!”  I heard.

I turned around.

It was the elderly crippled woman poking me in the back with her cane.

“Hey!  I love your hat and scarf.”  She said, while waving her cane.

I was wearing my turquoise sequined scarf and hat set that my sister, Sookie, knit for me last winter.

“Did you make it?”

“No.”  I said.  “My sister did.”

“Well, tell her she did a good job.”  She said, as she waved her cane in the brisk winter air.

My nephew and I looked at each other.

And shrugged.

Donkey Booty Badonkadonk

I was out to dinner a few weeks ago. 

An Italian restaurant on Second Ave.

It was a gorgeous October night in Manhattan.  So gorgeous, in fact, that the weather was warm enough for outdoor seating.

We sat at a comfortable table.  But the tables were all very close together.  So close you can hear the conversation at the next table.  So close, that when you try to squeeze out of your table, your ass ends up in the linguini of the guy at the next table.

There was an empty table to the right of us.  That is until a couple came.  They were a stunning couple.  In their twenties.  The guy was tall, dark, and handsome.  With a great body and shaved head.  The girl was a Brazilian bombshell, who looked like Sofia Vergara on steroids.  She was tall, dark, and exotic looking, with a slammin’ body, a Spanish accent, long brown hair in a high ponytail, and a donkey booty.

The couple was having small talk. 

I was having small talk too.  But, who could concentrate on my small talk?  I couldn’t stop looking at the couple.  I was more interested in their small talk than mine!

Of course, my date’s hair was shaved.  But that’s where the similarity between him and our neighbor ended.  My date was the complete opposite.  Short, old, and wrinkled, with secretary's spread.

Jessica Rabbit got up to go to the ladies room.  As she did, her ass cheeks knocked over all the glasses on the opposite end of my table.  “Oops!” She exclaimed, as her badonkadonk skimmed my veal parmigiana.

Sofia was very animated.  She was talking and flirting with her date, with her Latin accent.  She was flicking her hair left and right.

At one point during the dinner, I reached down to get something from my purse, and I felt something smack me in the face.  It was the Brazilian bombshell’s hair.  She flicked it and it was so long that it hit me in the head.

I looked up in surprise.  I think I made a noise.  And she looked at me and said how sorry she was, in her thick Brazilian accent.  I told her it was fine and we both laughed.

I think I was having a girl crush.

My date had no idea what had just happened. 

A few minutes later, I felt something hit me in the noggin again. 

Again!  It was Sofia flicking her frigging horse ponytail. 

Again!

Ok.  This is getting ridiculous.

I didn’t say anything.

My date was like, “What happened?”

Clueless.

He missed it again.

Sure enough, another few minutes later, it happened again!

What?

She flicked her hair again, and…bam!

More horse dung in my eye!

This is getting out of hand.

Enough is enough. 

Can this chick please keep her stinky tail on her side of the restaurant??

Thank you!!

I Found Love in a Hopeless Place

I had a date the other night.

I was going to be meeting him for dinner in the neighborhood. 

It was an 80 degree day in October.

I had labored over what to wear and decided on my little black long sleeved Versace dress and turquoise suede Manolo pumps.  I threw on a fitted denim jacket to funk it up a bit.

I did my make up and headed out.

The restaurant was several blocks away, but I thought I’d walk.  Half way there, I began to perspire.  After all, it was 80 degrees!  So I took off the jacket at a stop light.

While doing so, I spotted a handsome man also waiting at the corner for the light to change.  I thought I saw him glance my way.

I thought to myself, “I must be lookin’ good in my Versace and my blue shoes in Manhattan.”

The light changed.  And as I began to walk, the handsome guy came over to me.  He reached over to my neck as he said, “I think you have a tag.”

How embarassing!  There was a friggin’ Verace tag hanging out of the collar of my LBD.

He continued, “You look so beautiful tonight.  You don’t want to ruin it by having a tag.”

I thanked him in my humiliation. 

We ended up chatting for about a half a block and then he went on his way.  I thought he was going to ask me out any minute, but it didn’t happen.

Imagine, finding love on the street in New York City. 

Well, not quite.

There’s No Place Like Home

I was invited to the New York Philharmonic on Saturday. 

Ok. 

It was with my plastic surgeon date.

Season tickets.

Front row center. 

Mezzanine.

It’s not everyday I get to attend the symphony, so I was breaking out some fabulous duds.  I decided to wear my black knit YSL dress, Versace coat, Chanel bag, and Christian Louboutin Lady Claude Swarovsky crystal peep toe pumps in fire opal red.

I must say, I looked fabulous.

Everything turned out great.  Hair, makeup, and outfit.

Jumped in a cab, and off I went.

Asked the cab driver to take it slow.  I didn’t want to be early.

How often does that happen?

Turns out I arrived about ten minutes early.  I hate being early for a date.  I much prefer to make a grand entrance.

I also dislike being late.  But I’d rather be a minute or two late than be there waiting for a date.  Don’t wanna look too desperate.  Even if I am.

So, instead of going into the restaurant, I dipped into Duane Reed to kill a little time.

I looked around for something my Mom needed, then roamed around.  I was a little overdressed for Duane Reed.  But, whatever.

I stepped up to the cashier to pay for my purchase.  There were some folks ahead of me, so I waited patiently.  As they left I stepped up to the counter, the salesgirl shuffled away from the counter.

I thought she was going off duty, and I was going to be pissed.  But then she said, “I just have to come out so I can see your shoes.  I saw you walking around earlier and needed to take a closer look.  They are so beautiful!  They look like Dorothy’s ruby slippers in Wizard of Oz.”

I thanked her, grabbed my bag and made my way up the escalator.  As I approached the revolving exit doors another young lady complimented my Louboutins.

I met my date.

After dinner, I hit the restroom.  A woman in there commented as well.

Well, my date didn’t mention anything.  Hopefully he was interested in more than my shoes!  And I don’t mean my chicken neck.

Botox and the City

I’m dating a plastic surgeon.

Does that mean he’s looking at the bump on my nose during dinner?

I have no idea.  I don’t know him well enough to ask.  But that is what I’m thinking a lot of the time.

The bump on my nose and the eleven on my brow. 

Oh, and my chicken neck. 

Did I mention my parentheses?

Normally, these things really don’t phase me.  But I can’t help but be a little self conscious. 

It’s fine with me.  I know just where to go if I ever decide I need Botox in the City!

My First Fashion Show

Believe it or not, I’ve never been to Fashion Week. 

Well,

Not until this year.

I went to the Rachel Zoe show on Thursday.

And.

It was

Fabulous!

I mean, not just the show, but the whole experience.

I’ve been dying to go for years.  It’s just that, at first, I didn’t know how to score a ticket.  Then, I got shut out a few times.

Last year, I went to Fashion’s Night Out.  That was awesome.  I bought Chanel nail polish.  All I could afford last year.

Walked so much, that I got huge blisters on the bottoms of my feet!

Well, anyway, the show was very exciting. 

Although I was on the look out, there were no celeb sitings.  Well, aside from Rachel Zoe and her cute hubby.

Aside from the near fainting spell from not eating dinner, and near wipe out from my seven inch peacock suede Daffodile Christian Louboutins, I was in heaven.

And I can’t wait for February!

Is That Who I Think It Is?

Last week I was sitting in my car, waiting for six o’clock, when it would be legal for me to park my car in that parking space for the night. 

New York City parking rules.

I often do this because I am parked right outside my door.  I wait about half an hour.  While I wait, I keep busy listening to the radio, blogging, emailing, making phone calls, and people watching when I run out of things to do.

The people watching is fun, and sometimes I see folks I even know.  On this particular day, I saw three people walking together on the sidewalk that I was parked next to.  Two guys and a woman.  One of the guys was sucking on a straw.  He kind of looked like P Diddy or Puff Daddy, or Sean Combs, whatever his name is this week.  I think Diddy sucks on straws.  The woman with him looked like his baby mama.  The other guy with them looked like a bodyguard.

All of this was going through my mind as they were passing.  I was wishing I could have gotten out of the car to see them more clearly.  But I couldn’t leave the car there, for fear of getting a ticket.  Then, I thought, “Take a picture!  Take a picture!”

I whipped out my phone and fumbled with it.  By the time I got it going, they were ahead of me with their backs to me.  But I figured I’d take a pic anyway. 

Well, you know how when you are trying to take a great picture, and you think you are?  But just when you are about to, you click, and then there is a delay before the camera to actually takes the shot?  And then you end up with some wacky photo of someone picking their nose?  Anyway, I didn’t think I’d get a good pic of Puffy, maybe just his back.  But… I clicked the camera while they trio had their backs to me walking away.  And, for some strange reason… just as the camera engaged, they all three, turned around and looked in my direction.  My camera snapped at the exact time that they turned around.  And took the picture shown on this blog.

I analyzed it, and analyzed it.  Was it really him?  I wasn’t sure.  I was too emotionally invested, at this point, to decide.

So, I thought I’d get other opinions.  I texted the photo to family, who never responded.  Then, I just forgot about it.  Two weeks later, I remembered, and showed some folks the shot and asked who they thought the guy looked like.

Puff Daddy, they said.

“Yey!!! Woo hoo!!”  I screamed.  “It was him!  I was really him!!”  I was just so excited that I had actually saw Puffy in person, no matter how long after the fact it was.