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 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.

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.

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 Have Good Socks in the City

Since I broke up with my job, I’ve been staying at Mom’s in Long Island. I have a whole wardrobe there…here, so it’s comfortable. But my good clothes are in Manhattan.

I’ve noticed, though, since I’ve been here (in LI) that my clothes here are really a lot worse than I originally thought. My LI closets are usually where I bring my city stuff to die. If I’m not wearing the clothes in the city, I take it to LI. Then I think about it for a couple of years, until I donate them.

Problem is, I look like crap when I’m staying in LI.

Everything I’ve worn in the past two weeks is either too short, too tight, or too holy. And I don’t mean the religious kind.

I put on a T-shirt. It’s a belly shirt.

I put on a pair of jeans. They’re mom jeans.

I put on a robe. There’s a huge hole in the but.

I go to put on some socks. My big toe pops out. Or I wear them and they end up off my foot in my shoes after I walk a couple of steps. Ugh! They’re too loose, too tight, too polyester and make my feet freeze.

I have good socks in the city!

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.

Armrest Anyone?

I’m flying home from a business trip tonight. Of course, when I arrived at Buffalo airport my flight to Philly was delayed, which was going to make me miss my connection. I was re-routed to get to my destination via Washington DC. This whole thing was going to extend my trip about five hours. But who’s counting?

After waiting around a while at the airport, and changing gates a few times, we boarded. Now, the airline had taken it upon themselves to choose my seating. Now, I’m a little particular about my seating. So I’m sure to check-in and print my boarding pass up the night before a trip. Which is what I did for this one. I choose my seat wisely. I’ve learned to get an aisle seat at all cost so as not to be monkey in the middle or squished up against the window by Biggie Smalls next to me. Also, I don’t want a seat near the bathroom. So, it’s a whole thing.

Last night I was trying to choose a seating row which could maybe be empty today. Should I sit in row nine? The exit row? Or should I sit in row ten, where there are two empty seats next to me and hope that they don’t show last minute? I finally made a decision on my seats.

Now that I agonized over my seating last night, I would have no choice in the matter today.

So, I board the plane and walked back to my assigned seat. It was going to be a window seat.

Damn.

I get to the row and see my seat near the window – 10A. Next to my seat is a seat without a back. There’s a sign on the seat cushion, which reads, “Not for passenger use” That’s the seat I’m next to. There are two seats in the row, and one of them is unsittable. Cool! I’m in a row by myself. I can spread out!

As people passed the seat they made jokes about it. Like, “That’s the cheap seat.”

The guy behind the cheap seat was also psyched because it gave him more leg room. And we know the men need their damn leg room. He was actually nice.

So we spread out. I elbowed the nice guy behind the cheap seat a couple of times by accident. We joked some more.

When the plane landed, people said some more stuff to the nice guy and they laughed yet again.

I got up and headed toward the overhead bin to grab my turquoise carry-on. (Yeah, it’s turquoise. But that’s another story for another day.) As I did so, I hit the cheap seat’s armrest. And it fell off!

I held it up in the air and yelled, “Armrest anyone?”

The whole plane cracked up laughing!

More comments started to circulate; “Did you pay extra for that seat?”; “How’d we just get here in one piece?”; “I’m glad the inside of the plane works better than the outside.”

You get the idea.

When things like this happen, it opens up conversation between strangers. The guy behind me was traveling because he was on his way to visit his girlfriend. He had a ring in his suitcase to ask her to marry him. He was staying on the plane to his destination to do so. I had overheard him telling his neighbor this exciting news. I hated to appear that I was eavesdropping on their conversation. But on my way out of the aircraft I turned back and exclaimed, “I hope she says yes!”

The plane giggled again.

It appears I'm funny at twenty thousand feet.

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.

Eat Shit Purge

The movie, Eat Pray Love is out, with Julia Roberts. I’m boycotting. I boycotted the book too. I boycott all of Oprah’s books.

I was intrigued when I first heard of the book because everyone was reading it. But then I saw the author’s interview on Oprah. And I didn’t get it. So big deal, she ate some pasta, walked around in bare feet for a couple of weeks, then met some old, hot Latin dude and went home. What the fuck? What’s all the damn fuss about?

Do you think she would have given two shits about the pasta if she had met the hot Latin guy first? Nope. If she met the hot guy in Italy before gorging on bow tie pasta in pink cream sauce, she would have avoided gaining twenty pounds and been done with it. Screw praying with the monks. I’m outa here!

But no, she had to go on her journey. Gain ten pounds. Find peace. Then, meet the guy. Like she was never gonna meet the guy until all that happened?

I think it’s bullshit.

It all sounds so philosophical until she meets the hot dude. Then, it’s bullshit. Because why are we never happy until we meet a guy? Why couldn’t Julia do all the stuff; eat the pasta, meditate. Then go home? And write the book.

No. She wasn’t happy enough.

Until she found a man.

Gee, ladies. Whatever happened to us not needing a man to fulfill us? I guess that’s all out the window. ‘Cause Oprah says so.