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!!

Are You Stalking Me Or Are You Just An Asshole 1?

They say, “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” but it pisses me off. Did you ever have a friend or family member who copied everything you did or wore? I get that a lot. I had a clothing designer friend who would wear everything I wore. I’d be wearing something different and original when we’d go out. Next time I saw her, she’d be wearing the same thing. It became a private joke after a while.

Ok. That’s clothing. But listen to this story.

I really worked hard to get myself out of the rat-infested hole-in-the-wall walk up on the way upper, Upper East Side of Manhattan, I was living in. I saved my money for years in a mutual fund account so that one day, I could own my own apartment. (Well, if prince charming didn’t save me first.) We all know how that turns out. I won’t go into it right now. All you need to know is he didn’t show, so now I’m purchasing a place. Alone.

I mean, I worked my butt off to find something good. I researched for a couple of years, and I pounded the pavement for at least six months. Saw some really scary, shitty places. I finally found a fabulous one-bedroom coop, with an elevator and a doorman. Exactly what I was looking for.

I have a cousin, Yenti, who is something of an opportunist. She’s two years older than me. As children, she would always treat me like she was so much older than me, which I always found annoying. As adults, she sort of kept that up. She was the type that would steal your boyfriend or use you. She’d use people to do whatever; get into a club, get into school, get a job. But of course, she’d never admit it. But she was my cousin and I loved her.

Oh yeah, Yenti is single.

I must have seen her at some family event. As usual, we were catching up. I mentioned my new Manhattan apartment. (She lived with her mother, in New Jersey.) Ok, so maybe I was bragging a little. But I deserved it. I worked hard for it and was proud. She asked me what street it was on. I must have told her. No big deal. Everyone was sharing, ‘What are you doing? What are YOU doing, etc.’

Several months later, my aunt, Yenti’s mom passed away. At the funeral Yenti asked about my apartment. She told me she really like the block and the building. She’d done a drive by to check it out.

Huh?

Do people really do that if they are not stalkers? It freaked my sister, Hadassah and me out a little.

Years passed.

My back goes out of whack again. I’m home from work. In bed, to rest it a few days prior to my nephews wedding that was to take place that weekend.

I’m home in bad. The front desk buzzes me. I hobble over to answer. (That will teach me to ever answer!) “Hi Blue Shoes Manhattan (BSM). Your cousin is here. Do you want to talk to her?” the doorman says.

“What??”

“Hi BSM! It’s Yenti!! A funny thing just happened. I’m in the city looking for apartments, and I just happened to be looking in yours. What a coincidence! Can I come up and see you?”

“Huh? … Yeah…. Sure. .. Great. … Can’t wait.”

I thought, “Shit!”

I said, “Sure. Come on up.”

So, of course I’m in my pajamas and I’m hunched over. Yenti’s all glammed to the max. Hair, full make up, heels.

“Oh, BSM! You’re so cutie cute cutsie!! How are you? Does your backy wacky hurt you? Poor thing. So, show me around your apartment. A friend of mind and I are thinking of sharing a studio in this building. What are the odds it would be yours”?

“Yeah. What are the odds”? I groaned. But I was thinking, “Fuck you bitch!”

“What? What are you in college or something? Why are you sharing an apartment with a married friend? Anyway, you don’t want to live here. It’s roach and rat-infested.” Well I had to say something!! I really didn’t want cousin Yenti living downstairs from me. I had to think quick. I felt like crap. My back hurt. I just wanted her out of there. She wasn’t getting the hint.

She left.

As I limped back to bed, I glanced in the mirror. I was white as a ghost, I smelled, and my hair was standing straight up into the air about three feet.

Ugh! Why me God!!

I called Hadassah, immediately. She was like, “What the …? You have to do something!”

So I decided to contact her sister Tovah, and tell her how I felt. And to try and talk Yenti out of this. I sent her an email. She didn’t write back.

The rehearsal dinner was two days later. Yenti was there. I gave it to her straight. “You know, I’m really uncomfortable about you moving into my building.”

“Really, why?”

“I’m there, doing my thing on my own. You could have asked how I felt about it before you did anything.”

“Really?? Oh, the thought never crossed my mind. No hard feelings, right?”

“Yeah, right.” I fucking hate her!

It was too little too late. I think she already left a deposit.

Myself and my whole immediate family were pissed. Even the bride. That’s my girl!

We barely gave Yenti the time of day at the wedding.

Fast forward a few months. I get a voice mail. From Yenti. She leaves me this elaborate message happily announcing that she’ll be attending her closing soon and do I have any pointers.

I didn’t return her call.

All I know is,

I gotta move.

Saks and the City

As previously mentioned, I’m in the market for a new Chanel bag. Ever since I returned my turquoise metallic quilted 2.55 Chanel flap bag, I have regretted it. I miss it very much.

Yada yada yada.

As a result of this obsession, I have a few stories.

I like to do my homework when I’m in the market for a purchase. So, I go shopping. One day I popped into Saks Fifth Avenue to take a look at the Chanel department. I was inspecting some of the cheaper bags. About $2200. Hmm. A bargain!

Suddenly, a salesgirl was on me. She was statuesque, blond, well dressed, face totally made up, and striking. Her name was Svetlana and she had a thick Russian accent. I made the mistake of telling her that I was looking for a classic flap bag. She ran away for a minute and came back with a black calfskin single flap jumbo bag with silver hardware. It was gorgeous.

She told me it was on sale. Only $4000.

Wow! What a deal!

Except I was looking for a jumbo black calfskin double flap with gold hardware. But it WAS a bargain. The one I wanted would be more.

It was lovely.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a while. And I looked good!

Svetlana needed to excuse herself for a moment to leave me with the Chanel. Before she left she warned, “Do not let go of the bag. People are looking at it.”

I had noticed that another salesgirl kept approaching Svetlana and whispering something, then looked at some other customers. Then walked away.

They were staring. Not at me.

At Chanel.

It was freaky.

And such pressure!

While Svetlana was gone, I was trying to figure out what to do. The bag WAS a good price. But it wasn’t exactly what I had wanted. For that money, it really should be exactly what I want. Right?

But then again, it was fabulous.

Maybe I should just buy it. The vultures are circling. Omg!

The other salesgirl was hovering.

Customers were still staring.

They were like zombies in a Dawn of Dead re-make.

I was sweating.

My heart was racing.

The other salesgirl passed and stared at me again.

As the time passed, I began to calm down a bit.

I thought, I need to either buy this thing or get the heck out of here. But do I have a credit card I can use? Do I have the money? No! Ugh!

If I leave now, I won’t have the pressure of Svetlana and her damn accent trying to convince me to buy this thing.

I kind of had a tiny angel on one shoulder telling me to leave and a red devil on my other shoulder telling me to buy it.

Damn them!

I put down the Chanel and hightailed it outa there.

As I exited the large double doors and stepped onto Fifth Ave.

I was able to breathe.

Holy shit, that was close!

Is That Mold On My Chanel? Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

I’m in the market for a new Chanel bag. Ever since I returned my turquoise metallic quilted 2.55 Chanel flap bag, I have regretted it. I miss it very much. I’ve even contemplated re-buying a used version of it off eBay. But couldn’t really bring myself to do it, in the event that I may end up with a fake.

That would be a disaster. I mean $3000 for a fake??

I would plotz.

It’s very difficult to tell a fake on eBay. Some of them look so good. At least in person you can get a better look.

Some consignment stores carry pre-owned Chanel bags as well. They are guaranteed. And at least you can inspect them. But I’m still having a problem committing to one.

Like, I just can’t see paying so much for a used Chanel. I’m kind of skeeving them. (I’m really not sure how to spell that.) Even the ones that are in good shape.

There’s a consignment chain based in the Hamptons. I will not name names. But I’ve been to all of them. There’s like six stores. Last summer my buddy, Yenta Hessa and I visited them all.

The last time I was in the Hamptons, I dragged her to a few of the stores to look for the Chanel flap bag I wanted.

I have decided, by the way, that I would not re-purchase the turquoise metallic quilted 2.55 Chanel flap bag. Turquoise metallic may go out of style and then I couldn’t wear it. So I’ve decided on a black jumbo classic quilted flap with gold hardware.

Gorgeous.

But expensive.

And not so easy to find.

But I was on a mission. And don’t mess with BSM when she’s on a mission.

We went from store to store, checking out the Chanels.

Nice.

But still. I couldn’t see dropping thousands on a used bag that I’m not even sure is authentic.

And is not really even exactly what I want.

But I continued to look.

Eventually, we made it to the store in Sag Harbor. Low and behold, there was a black jumbo classic quilted flap with gold hardware in the glass display!

Great.

Perfect!

Just what I was looking for.

Only $2995.

I asked to see it.

The woman removed it from the glass display and handed it to me. She started blabbing about how something something it was.

Whatever. Just hand it over lady.

I grab it.

Inspect it.

Lift the flap.

Hmmm.

What’s that greenish whitish stuff inside?

There was a strange blotch on the inside flap of the bag on the black leather.

Looked like mold to me.

I showed the sales girl, who quickly showed the manager, who quickly grabbed it and began trying to wipe the mold away.

They both made some excuse as to why the mold was there or that it wasn’t mold at all.

Yenta Hessa and I just looked at each other. Appalled and disgusted.

I left the black jumbo classic quilted flap with gold hardware there on the glass counter with the manager. I couldn’t look at another item in the store without being grossed out.

I was in the Hamptons this weekend. It rained all day. Yenta asked if I wanted to go to the consignment store.

“No thanks,” I said.

Dancing With the Star

I attended a gala last weekend.

Gilles Marini, the sex-on-a-stick hunk from the first Sex and the City movie was going to be honored there.

Before going, I fantasized about meeting him.

I envisioned the meeting in my head.

It was kinda like the law of attraction.

Because I met him! Almost the same way I pictured it in my mind.

We were at cocktail hour and I saw Gilles from afar. Oo! And he was…

… Sex-on-a-stick all right.

I almost spit up a mini crab cake when I spotted him.

He was even dreamier than he is in the movie and on Dancing With the Stars.

Later on, at the dinner, I saw him taking pictures with some women.

I thought, “Let me get my camera!”

And another woman at my table grabbed me and announced, “We’re gonna meet him!”

I was in.

So we B-lined it over to Gilles, who was glowing on the dance floor.

Snapping pix with this one and that one.

Then, he turned around and looked right at me and said, “Whew!”

I smiled and nuzzled next to him. Unable to breathe.

His arm, around my waist.

Mine around his.

On the outside, I was giggling. But on the inside I was screaming with glee, “Gilles!!!!”

The camera flashed and he was gone.

But it’s three days later and I am still happy.

Head to Head

Yesterday morning, I left for work. As usual. Went down the elevator. Doors opened at the lobby. As they opened, I heard the doors of the adjacent elevator open simultaneously.

Weird.

So, as I exited the elevator, I glanced at the person coming out of the other one through my peripheral vision.

It was a woman.

She looked familiar.

I looked away.

Then realized, it’s my arch enemy.

My stalker.

My cousin Ramona.

The one who followed me to my apartment building, then bought a unit in it. Now she lives downstairs.

Ugh.

I looked at her again.

She was looking down.

I don’t think she saw me or knew who I was.

For a split moment, I thought, “Maybe I can just walk away right now and she won’t realize it was me!”

Um, really? Do you think I’d really get away with that?

I couldn’t turn around and walk the other way, or go back into the elevator and wait for her to leave, like I did one time before.

Or could I?

No. There we were. Head to head.

There was no where to go. No where to run. No where to hide.

I figured, I made enough enemies for one week. I better just take my medicine.

Dammit.

So, instead, I stopped. Stood in front of her with my hand on my hip, and stared at her until she looked at me.

“Oh, hi BSM! How are you?!” Kiss, kiss.

"Hello Ramona." Smooch, smooch.

We walked through the lobby and out to the street together. All the while, I was wishing she was not there.

We talked. But I didn’t hear a word she said. All I could only think was, I need to move!

Immediately.