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.”

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.

I Don't Know What it is, But I Got It!

Did you ever have one of those days when everything was going great? Well, I don’t get them often enough, but last week, I had one.

I was extremely busy at my new job that week. Team meeting was being held in Manhattan and folks were in from out of town and staying on the upper west side, so I was jetting around from one part of the city to the other.

I looked cute that day, but nothing really out of the ordinary. Mostly, I was sweating a lot because it was the end of October and something like 75 degrees outside. There are some days when I know I look fantastic and the day winds up like crap. Other days, not so much, and the day turns out terrific. So, it’s not a matter of looks or what you’re wearing I guess. But I know that when I feel like I look good or I’m dressed the way I like, or I’m having a great hair day I feel better and then I give off a certain vibe.

This day, everything was average; average outfit, average make up, average hair. I was, however, feeling good because I was doing some cool stuff with my job and I do enjoy flitting around Manhattan.

Oh, I guess I forgot to mention …

… one minute detail.

Shopping.

Bergdorf’s.


Yes, I know. I’m not supposed to be shopping. (Who died and made YOU the shopping police?) Let alone stepping my foot into Bergdorf Goodman. But I’ll tell you why I was there.

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’s. So, we carved some time out of our busy schedule to do it and we did.

Ahhh!

How amazing it felt to be back in my favorite store!

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.

I waited for April to arrive at which time I proceeded to show her around. There’s a whole story about our little adventure at the shoe salon that day, but I will give you details in another post. All you need to know for now, is that April bought three pair of shoes…None of them under $795.

And I bought one.

Feeling guilty, we left Bergdorf’s, lavender bags in hand.

We had dinner plans in about an hour, but I needed to stop by my neighborhood to a) move my car b) change oh, and c) drop off my Bergdorf bag.

So, I moved my car and was entering my building, glowing I guess, from my purchase and from the great parking spot I just got. When I saw this cute guy from my building talking to the doorman. I say “hi’.

He says, “hi”. And “Wow! You look amazing! What did you do, get married or something? Is that why you look so fabulous?”

I was surprised this guy even spoke to me. He usually ignores me in the elevator. “No. Not that I know of.” And I kept walking.

“Why?” He asked.

“Because Anthony (the doorman) didn’t ask me.” I kept walking.

“Well. What about me?”

“You haven’t asked me either.”

“Ok then, Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” And I kept walking. Now I’m way past him half way down the hallway.

He kept talking. “Great!”

I turned back and yelled, “Since we’re engaged, what’s your name again?”

“Dan.”

“Mine’s BSM.”

“Hi!” Dan said.

Now I’m at the elevator. “See you at the wedding!” The elevator doors opened. I stepped in and they closed.

I giggled to myself. What was up with that?

Went in. Dropped off my purchase. Changed. Left.

As I passed Anthony on my way back out, I began ask him what the heck had just happened, when he handed me a business card. It was Dan’s! He had left it with Anthony for me.

I asked Anthony what Dan’s story was. “Is he a player?”

“He ain’t got no game to be a player!” Anthony replied.

I laughed and grabbed a cab to dinner.

At dinner, I told the ladies my story. I said to April, “Between Bergdorf’s and dinner, I got a marriage proposal!” I was taking out the card to show them it really happened, when I saw writing on the back of it.

Hi BSM

It would be nice to chat!

Dan

I said to April, “What’s going on today? I don’t know what it is!”

She snapped, “I don’t know what it is either, but you got it!”

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.

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.

Oh, My Aching Back

My back went out last week. Holy mother of God! What a nightmare! What pain. It’s a week and a half later and I’m still on my back, and not in a good way.

It is not the first time this has happened. It happened twice; once about five years ago, and just three months ago. It’s really weird. It’s not like it happens when I’m doing something strenuous. It happens when I’m placing down something light or reaching for something. This time, I was at a painting party. Painting about four strokes with the roller. When,

Bam!

Snap!

You can hear it pop.

When it snapped the other day, my nephew told me he heard it.

So, I was perfectly fine … and … Snap! … Next thing I knew I was on the floor, holding my neon green paint-filled roller in the air, as my sister, Sookie, stepped over me so not to ruin the painted area I was just working on. I asked my niece to give me tequila shots in order to numb the pain. She reluctantly did as she was told.

Sookie is so over me. She is always picking up the pieces of my messes. And I get into a lot of trouble. Always have. The first time this happened, I was alone in my apartment, dressing for work.

Snap!

And I fell on my bed. Excruciating pain! Took me two hours to crawl over to the phone. Sookie came from Long Island, mind you, to help. She took me to the chiropractor. I couldn’t get any clothes on without pain, so I went to the doctor without a bra or underwear. Talk about bacteria on my couch! I was wearing a ripped T-shirt and unzippered pants. Well, what can I say? I couldn’t get them zipped without hitting the ceiling. And my hair. My hair immediately goes from soft curls to wire spikes sticking straight up.

Sookie’s like, “Aren’t you going to do anything about your hair?”

I’m like, “No!”

When it snapped this time, Sookie told me the same thing happened. My face contorted and my hair, which I just had gotten done at Ouidad earlier that day, went from pretty to shitty in a matter of minutes.

I went for an MRI today. I’d never gotten one before. I figured just the bottom half of my body would need to go into the thingy. But the technician started setting me up headfirst.

Side note: I had to strip for this. I was only wearing a hospital gown. Mind you, my hair was plastered down in a clip so that it wouldn’t just stand straight upward. Like a caged wild animal. But she asked me to remove it for the test. Up it went! Oy! Then I remembered, as I lifted my legs up onto the slab, that they are not shaved and they still have a little paint on them. Now, let me explain. My legs are hairy because I’d been growing them out in preparation for waxing. When the incident happened no waxing was going to be happening. There’s some blue paint on one leg because I haven’t been able to reach down to wash it off. So sue me.

So, as I lie down on the slab, I make a joke and say, “Listen, my legs are hairy. I need a waxing. Do you think you could wax them while I’m here?”

The technician really didn’t get it. But I thought it was hysterical.

I lied down. She was giving me instructions and earplugs, when I glanced back at the mummy’s tomb I was going to be rolled into for twenty minutes. I freaked. I began to panic. I didn’t think that I could get in there in that space and be still for twenty minutes, or for twenty microseconds for that matter. I sat back up. I tried to compose myself, and breathe. But I really didn’t know if I could handle it. I was ready to walk out. Then I thought, ‘If I had a blindfold, and couldn’t see anything, maybe I could do it.’

And just then, the tech suggested the same thing. I placed the blindfold on and immediately began to calm down.

Tequila probably would have worked just as well.