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.

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.

Shoenniversary

I recently went on a Shoenniversary to the Bergdorf Goodman shoe sale with my BFF’s Sookie, Pam, and baby Tara.

A few years ago, my niece, Pam, suggested we go to the Bergdorf Goodman shoe sale to celebrate the start of summer.  She had never been, and we thought it would be fun.  And it was.  I think I even blogged about it.  You can take a look at past blogs if you like.

Anyway, we had so much fun, (we purchased about ten pair of Louboutin and Manolo Blahniks combined) that we decided to go every year.  So, this year rolled around and we found ourselves back at Bergdorf Goodman’s shoe sale.  This time, we also added a visit to the Christian Louboutin store on Madison Avenue.  They were having their bi-annual sale as well. 

I was in shoe heaven at our Shoenniversary.  And so was baby Tara.  She was happy as a clam.  Perhaps we’ve created another shoe-aholic.

Although, I really wanted to purchase that day, I didn’t.  For some reason, I just couldn’t find anything I loved in my size.  I was sad, but my wallet was happy.

I thought, "I made it through without buying!  Maybe I’m making progress with my shoe-aholic-ism.  Yay for me!"

Well, that was a month ago.  Yesterday, I returned, to the Bergdorf Goodman shoe sale.  It was still going on!  And the prices were further reduced. 

Oh, it was so much fun. 

I tried on a pair of crystal Jimmy Choo’s.  OMG!  They were beautiful and $2000.  But for half price, they were a steal!  They were exactly my size and looked fantastic on.  Only, they heels were wobbly.  So.  No big deal, right?  They were gorgeous!  I was considering them, but I didn’t purchase.

Something made me leave the building without doing it.

I emailed my BFFs, this morning, the following:      

I have a confession to make...  I re-visited Bergdorf's shoe sale yesterday.  

Without "yous guys"

Made it out alive.

Without buying anything.

Even though now EVERYTHING's 50% off.  

Even the LOUBOUTINS!

Really low stock.  

But still some good stuff, according to me!

 I've been thinking about it ever since.

Even though I made it out alive, I thought about them all night long, in my dreams, and again this morning. 

That’s not healthy.

And that’s why I shouldn’t have gone.

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.

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.

A new couch or a new pair of shoes?

My couch is ripped.

But I have thousand dollar shoes.

---

Hmmm.

What’s wrong with this picture?

Hmmm.

I can select and buy a pair of fabulous and expensive Christian Louboutins in a hot minute. But a couch?

I can’t decide.

Too expensive.

A pair of my shoes are most likely much more expensive than a couch.

So, I’m dragging my feet on this.

But I guess I really don’t care that much. Otherwise I would have bought a couch by now. Wouldn't I?

I’d rather look fabulous outside the house than in.

But then, I wonder why I don’t invite anybody over.

Then again, really. Who’s coming over?

I thought we were going to go out for drinks, not have a sleep over!

I decided to move to Manhattan so I’d have an easier social life.

I was wrong.

It was difficult living in Long Island and going to events in the city. I always had a million bags with me and was wearing goofy work clothes to an after-work party. Then, it was a whole ordeal getting a train back to Long Island.

I remember one time, driving in to a party with my LI girlfriends. They drove. They were so late picking me up, that we literally missed the party!

I really have a pet peeve about lateness. But that’s a whole other blog post I guess.

So, once I started living in the city, yes, getting myself to events was easier. The problem is, NOBODY ELSE LIVES IN THE CITY!!!

None.

None of my friends live in the city. Half live in LI. Half in New Jersey.

So, when there is an event in the city, they want to sleep over on my couch.

Now, I’m a generous kind of gal. But I’m no push over.

If I let them stay over once, they would assume they’d sleep over every time they bought a pack of gum.

They’d be like, “Ok. So, we’ll go out for dinner, then drinks, then in the morning blah, blah, blah.”

“Huh? Um. Excuse me? Did I say anything about the morning?”

Why is it, if I make plans to have drinks with someone that I have to be prepared to make them coffee, scrambled eggs and bagels the next morning?

Fuck that shit.

I wanna sleep late in the morning. I want to walk around my apartment with hairy legs and my hair in a three-foot afro all morning. And not brush my teeth until noon, dammit!

If I have company I can’t do that. AND my place has got to be tidy.

What the Fu--?

Ok Mom. So I didn’t curse that time. That one was for you. You, who does not even read this unless I force you too!

I once had a friend who wanted to hang out in the city. We were making plans for weeks. Then she popped the question. “What are we gonna do the next morning?”

To which I replied, and which is the reason I no longer have this friend, “Oh. I thought we were going to a concert, not having a sleep over.”

Ok. So was that so bad?

The friend then said, “Oh. Then let’s do it another time.”

You mean to tell me that if this person wasn’t going to be able to sleep over my place that we weren’t going out?

Yep. It’s true. And it’s not just one person. This happens all the time.

F- them!

If they want to sleep in the city so bad, let them pay rent and New York prices. Or get a friggin’ hotel room.

It’s different if I offer. But THEY ask. How rude.

It just happened again the other day, which is why I’m thinking about this again. A friend from Jersey asked if I wanted to go to an event with her in May. I said yes. She said, “Can I sleep on your couch?”

Damn! I was caught off guard. I didn’t know what to say. How to respond. But it’s hard finding girlfriends in New York City. And beggars can’t be choosers, right?

So, I guess I should clean the bacteria off my couch.

Hmmm. Or should I??