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.

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.

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.

The Sleepover

A few weeks ago I posted about a friend who invited herself for a sleepover at my apartment after a gala.

Well.

It hit the fan.

A few weeks prior to the gala, she asked (over text message) if I wanted to go. She had a table. I accepted.

Then she asked if she could sleep on my couch.

I reluctantly texted, “kk.”

I hate it when people put me on the spot like that.

She asked what ‘kk’ meant. I answered that I meant ‘yes.’

So, the day before the gala, she texted me, “What are the logistics for tomorrow?”

I answered, “You can park on my block and we can go to the gala together.”

She started writing something about putting her car in a lot, yadda, yadda, yadda. I’m like, ok, do whatever.

Next day. Day of the event, she called on her way to New York. (She was driving in from New Jersey.)

I told her to come and park her car on my block. We’d take a cab to the gala. But since she was running late, she said she’d meet me at the venue.

“Ok. Whatever.”

So, we met at the venue.

We were having a fun time. The whole time, I’m still assumed she was staying over. Heck, I’d spent the whole day cleaning. She’d better stay over! (But you know what they say about assuming.)

But neither of us spoke about it. I just figured it was a done deal.

Toward the end of the evening, Yenta Hessa said to me, “I asked her if she was sleeping at your place and she said, ‘No’.”

“What? What do you mean she’s not staying over?”

I was confused.

--

--

And happy at the same time.

Is that bad?

My instinct was to confront the friend. But something made my stay silent. I don’t know why.

I wanted to say, “What’s going on? I thought you were staying over.” But it wouldn’t come out of my mouth.

So the rest of the night passed and I didn’t say anything. And she didn’t say anything.

At the end of the night, I went home. And she went home. And we never said anything.

The next day I felt really bad about it. I called her. Left a message.

She called back, so she couldn’t be mad, could she?

She was.

She told me she was waiting for me to invite her over. That her bag was in her car.

I was nauseous.

Are you kidding me?

“What do you mean? You asked me if you could stay over. I said yes. I didn’t realize I had to invite you!”

“Well,” She said, “You only said ‘kk’. I gave you several opportunities all night long, to ask me to stay, and you didn’t.”

So what does that mean? Does that mean a communication over text message is not as binding as a verbal communication? Then, why the fuck did you text me bitch?

Personally, I think texting is stupid. But if that’s the mode of communication one chooses to correspond in, then I’ll go with it.

I had a guy I was dating tell me he loved me for the first time over text message. I was highly insulted. What the heck was I supposed to do with that information over text?

Anyway, I apologized, but I was secretly happier that she didn’t stay if she was going to friggin’ play head games with me.

F- that!

The shit hit the diva fan. And it’s on her.

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.

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?