American Hustler

I’ve been dying to see the movie American Hustle since it came out.  Didn’t get a chance to catch it in theatres.  But when it became available on demand, so I was excited to see it.  I had a free night the other day and decided to rent it.  I snuggled up, got cozy, popped some pop corn and settled in to watch the movie. 

Yay!

During opening credits, it stated that the movie was going to take place in 1978.  Great!  I thought.  I am a child of the seventies.  I graduated from High School in 1979.  I wore all the hottest clothes, listened to all the music, and danced the hustle.  I even snuck into a couple of discos with my sis!

I was enjoying getting into the movie.  Then, during a scene with Jennifer Lawrence, she was wearing a sheer white dress.  It was quick, but I thought I spotted a thong under her dress.  Hmmm.  But we didn’t wear thongs in the 70’s.  Umm, they weren’t invented yet.

Ok.  I kept watching.

Jennifer was trying her best at a Long Island housewife accent.  Unfortunately, she was falling in and out of it.  Half Long Island, half Chicago.  “Go to the stawh (LI for ‘store’) and buy a cahh (Chi Town for ‘car’). 

Hmmm. 

And she was nominated for an Oscar for this performance. 

By the time she got to her last scene, the Long Island/Chicago accent was completely gone and it sounded like just sloppy Hollywood.  Really surprising that they let that happen AND it got her an Oscar nom to boot.

But, I continued to watch.

All of a sudden, in a very poignant scene, Amy Adams whispers to Bradly Cooper, “You got this.” 

Huh?  Wait a minute.  Did she just say, ‘you got this’?

She couldn’t have just said ‘you got this’.  It wasn’t invented yet. 

Maybe it was just the popcorn crunching. 

Let me rewind.

Watched it again.

Increased the volume.

“You got this.”

UGH!!!!  Oh, no she didn’t!!!!!

But she did.

I’m sorry, but nobody said ‘you got this’ in the 70’s!!!!  This is ridiculous!!!

I continued to watch...

Later on in the movie, Christian Bale was taking about being ‘real’ a lot.  Something else we never said.

He also made a speech in which he says something about being in, “that place.”  Today, we say stuff about going to “that place” when referring to bringing up a topic of conversation or emotional state.  In the 70’s we would use “that place” when referencing a physical location.  

I hate to complain or nitpick , but this is a multi million dollar film.  Performances were Oscar nominated.  Didn’t anyone check for references like this?  Wasn’t anyone on the film older than 30? 

What the fuck??

In a film where they tried to replicate the fashion, the music, and the culture of the 70’s era, they dropped the ball on the dialogue.

Although, they also dropped it on the fashion.  I’m sorry, but no one walked around with an ultra low cut blouse down to there all day everyday.  To business meetings and lunches with their boobs popping out.  Maybe, just maybe they’d wear it to a disco.  But even then, if they were hustling (dancing) their boobs would never stay in.

Amy Adams’ hair was also super long.  But the Dorothy Hamil wedge cut was what everybody was wearing at the time.  This was a very short hair cut.  Very few women wore very long locks then.  And if it was long, it was not that long.  That was the 60’s.

So, needless to say, I hated this movie.  How could I get through it with all of these ridiculous anachronisms!  I’m sorry, I’m not a professional film critic, but if you’re going to make a movie that takes place in a particular era, get your shit together.  You must pay attention to detail.  Right?

I mean, the 20 and 30-somethings will never know the difference, but don’t you want to make an authentic quality film?

This film bites.  In other words,

“They don’t got this.”

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!!

Oh Rats!

Today I had to run some errands during lunch hour.

I had to go to the bank, pick up sunscreen for my trip (yey!), and grab a salad.

It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was bright, the weather is getting warmer, I was able to zip up my favorite emerald green Prada pencil skirt this morning. (Thanks Weight Watchers!)

So far, it’s a good day.

So good, in fact, that I was practically skipping down the street to the bank, in my stunning turquoise blue spring coat, black suede platform wedges, and my Chanel rhinestone shades.

As I was saying, I was frolicking across 23^rd Street. Suddenly I spotted a small animal running towards me, trying to cross 23^rd Street as well!

Is it a cat?

Is it a dog?

Is it a squirrel?

Oh no! I think it’s a …

Dare I say it??

… RAT!?!?!

Yes. It is!!!

And it is coming right for me!

Then it swerved to the right. I swerved left.

Then it swerved to the left. I swerved right.

I wasn’t walking anymore. I was sort of jumping and screaming at the same time.

Then it came B-line for me.

Right in the middle of crossing 23^rd Street, I started skipping, hopping, and screaming simultaneously.

Can you get a visual?

That thing came so straight for me that I jumped over it to avoid it running right up my black suede platform wedges and emerald green Prada skirt.

There I am, hopping and screaming in the middle of the street as cars waiting at the red light!

I could see people looking at me and giggling, but I couldn’t help it. There was nothing I could do. It was goin’ down.

As I passed the rat and made it to the opposite street for safety, I was still screaming a little, giggling, and jump skipping. Then I made several grossed out, ewww body shakes.

More pedestrians on the corner saw it and were also amused.

Some bald, leather jacket, motorcycle guy turned to look at me as I approached the corner of 23^rd Street and 3^rd Avenue. He chuckled. “Wow, that’s something you don’t expect to see!”

I turned to him and agreed.

Have the rats now left the subways and taken over the streets? Do we have to step aside as THEY pass?

The streets are not big enough for the both of us Mr. Rodent!!

Another leisurely lunch hour stroll gone to shit.

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.

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!

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.

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.