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.