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.

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.

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!

Your Heels Are Too High, You Can't Walk. You Can Only Drive!

As I mentioned last week, one of my co-workers was in town from Tennessee. I had promised her that when she came to town I’d take her shopping at Bergdorf Goodman. I was to meet her there.

Ahhh!

How amazing it felt to be back in my favorite store! I had not been in a while due to my poverty.

As I stepped through the revolving doors, entering the handbag department, I swam in the smell, the look, and the feel of the surroundings. Colors and sound and beauty everywhere. As I passed through the Chanel department, on my way to the escalator to the shoe salon, I stopped and scanned the merchandise. I was on the lookout for my 2.55 quilted turquoise metallic flap bag. It was no where in sight.

Then, I stepped onto the escalator. Headed to the shoe salon. As the escalator glided up, I could see more and more of the salon in my vision, on the horizon. Inch-by-inch. The Christian Louboutins are the first off the escalator. As they came into view, my heart raced more and more. I gasped a little when I arrived. Looked right and left at the hustle and bustle of the department. Beauty everywhere.

When April arrived I proceeded to show her around. Here’s the story about our little adventure at the shoe salon that day. During the tour, I noticed folks taking photos. Then I noticed handsome waiters in white jackets, passing out champagne on silvers platters. Hmm.

Shop. Shop. Shop.

It looked as if the people were taking pix with a handsome grey-haired man in black.

Hmmm.

Shop. Shop.

We found shoes we wanted to try and sent a salesman to find them.

The grey-haired man was sitting on a couch.

When the salesman returned, with shoe boxes piled high above his bald head, he gestured for us to take seats on the couch next to the grey-haired man. We did.

I only tried the Christian Louboutin black leather peep-toe bootie. They were gorgeous (like butter) but the heel must have been 7 inches. I was wearing a blue silk mini dress. The shoes looked amazing with it. My legs looked extra long. Oh, and I should mention, I was having a fabulous hair day during which I received a marriage proposal from a stranger. I was on fire!

April proceeded to try on her numerous selections.

Meanwhile, Mr. Handsome Grey-haired in black man eyed us. He kept looking at me in my stilettos and shaking his head “no” in disapproval.

I was just walking around the store, looking at myself in each mirror. Admiring the beauty on my piggies. Then, I’d sit back on the couch next to April and friend.

The grey-haired guy finally said to me in a thick French accent, “Those shoes are too high!”

I replied, “The higher the better!”

He said, “Do you have a car?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Good. Because your heels are so high cannot walk anywhere. You can only drive!”

I said, “I can take a cab. I don’t have to walk! I only need to get from the cab to the door!”

He shook his head in disgust.

Then after a while he continued, “You have beautiful legs, but the shoes are still too high!”

Waiters offered us champagne on a silver platter. And of course! We accepted! I asked one of them what the occasion was. He said they were celebrating a shoe designer, Carlos somebody with a French name. I asked which man he was referring to. And he pointed out the Mr. Handsome Grey-haired guy in black as the shoe designer.

We both tried on a design of the handsome grey-haired guy in our sizes.

We hated them.

How the LIRR Helped Me Find My True Love

I am sitting on a Long Island Railroad train to Penn Station, Manhattan. Spent the weekend on Long Island with Mom. I love Long Island, but I hate the Long island Railroad. I mean, it’s great that we have the LIRR, but I have the right to hate it, don’t I? I’ve traveled on it for the past 30 years. The LIRR is the reason why I now live in Manhattan. I was so sick of using the damn thing that I moved out of Long Island because of it!

I hate it for several reasons; it is expensive, during rush hour you can’t get a seat, even though you paid an arm and a leg for your monthly ticket, if it drizzles out the trains stop running, it is seldom on time, ticket prices increase every year and service stays the same, you can’t get a parking spot in the parking lots of the stations, changing at Jamaica, the gap.

Shall I continue?

I suppose that’s enough for now.

My relationship with the LIRR began many years ago, when I would spend the summer at temp jobs in the city. I’d travel in with my father, who commuted daily. He was very regimented, to say the least (OCD is more like it). We’d have to sit on the same seat in the same car every day. The smoker car. Well, actually, when I first started riding they ALL were smoker cars. You could cut the smoke with a knife.

After a few years, smoking was limited to a certain couple of cars, “The Smoker Cars” or just “The Smokers”. The smoke was even worse in there. And through the tobacco haze, there I was, I inhaling all the lovely toxins that the smokers exhaled. It didn’t really bother me at the time. I’d grown up with my father’s second hand smoke all my life.

I remember, a woman would bring along her five-year-old daughter every day. In the smoker. I think back on it now, and can’t believe she did that to that poor child! I can just imagine what the girl is like now; wrinkled, grey skin, and hacking up lugis.

Back then, I’d wear my most fabulous pumps with my most fabulous outfit and walk through the streets of the city that way. All the time, trying to catch up with my Pop, who was power walking in his most fabulous shoes and most fabulous suit. Never slowing down for a moment. I was mostly behind him the entire way. We’d stop for coffee and a cinnamon bun, and continue on our way.

Pop taught me a lot, those summers. How to maneuver the city as well as the commute. It was an education. He educated several of us over his 40 years of commuting; me, Sookie, our across the street neighbor (and my first crush) Tommy, and our cousin Sam.

Years later, after Pop retired, I’d do the commute on my own. That’s when I taught myself how to use the subway system. It was a difficult commute, as I had to get to the Upper East Side once arriving at Penn Station. So, then, sometimes I would drive instead. That was also no picnic either. Sometimes taking two and a half hours door to door. I would think, “Which was the lesser of the two evils? Driving or training?” Both sucked.

After twenty years of this, I tried reducing my commute time by moving to a town which had the shortest LIRR commute, like Rockville Center and Merrick, Long Island. I also looked for apartments in these towns, but walking distance from the train station, so to lessen the commute time even more. But even this was not good enough. Better. But not good enough.

That’s when I decided to bite the bullet and try my luck in Manhattan. That’s when the love affair began.

I Left My Change In San Francisco

I’m in. Well, yea. You guessed it. I wasn’t looking forward to coming because I was here last summer. And I froze my booty off. I hate going to California and then it’s cold. It seems very wrong. It’s not supposed to be cold in Cali.

Got in early yesterday morning. My room wasn’t ready yet, so I walked over to Fisherman’s Warf. It was sweltering hot! I had brought a sweat shirt and jacket because I was still freezing from the plane ride. But I stripped down and enjoyed the heat. I don’t think the people there liked it very much, but I did.

I looked in the shops. Explored a bit. Sat on a bench to listen to some live street music. There were lots of homeless around though, begging. It was close to lunch time and I was starting to get hungry. So, I stopped at In and Out. I usually don’t eat that stuff, but you can’t get that in New York, so I decided to try it. Got my stuff and sat at an outdoor table to eat. I passed a little homeless woman holding a cup, on the way.

So, here’s my thing with the homeless. I pass so many homeless folks at home in Manhattan, that I can’t give to everyone. Therefore, I really don’t give to anyone. It’s a shame, but you can’t give to everyone.

I didn’t give anything to the little woman with the cup. But I sat down and kind of ate across from her. I felt a little guilty doing that. But I did. There was no place else to sit.

Half way through my burger and fries, a woman came out of the Sunglasses Hut across from me. She started talking to me about a dog she saw in the eye glass store. I answered her and smiled. Then, she asked me for money to buy some In and Out. I’m thinking, Oh snap! She got me. I told her I spent my last dollars on what I was eating. She asked for a nickel or a dime. I reached into my bag and pulled out some change and gave it to her, then offered her my fries. She turned it down.

I just wanted to get rid of her without a fight.

I look across at the little homeless woman across from me, and I could swear she shook her head at me. But, no, she couldn’t have.

The woman I gave the money to left, then came back and spoke to me again. I answered again. Looked over at my little lady, and sure enough she gives me a dirty look. I think she’s pissed at me! I can’t believe it. This lady is annoyed with me. I guess she was pissed because I gave the one homeless woman a dime and gave nothing to her. And to boot, I sat right in front of her and ate.

I high tailed it out of there after a few moments. I didn’t want an altercation with her just in case she was feisty.

I think I like the homeless folks in New York better. They are much more polite.