The NY List

I’ve only got a few more months as an official NYC resident.  And you know what?  I’ve still got a surprising amount of shit that I want to do before I leave.

The problem with living in this city is that this “tourist attraction” is just your home.  Friends in other cities are all, “what’d you do this weekend?  Statue of Liberty?  The Met?” And you’re all “no, dude, I slept till 11, made a really greasy breakfast, took a nap, and then watched a movie b/c it was raining and I didn’t want to go outside.”  Because that is what you would do if you lived anywhere else.  But when you live in New York City people expect that you spend every weekend touring museums and eating at fabulous restaurants (which, in all fairness, is kind of true–even the crappy delis have some of the best sandwiches you’ve ever eaten).

That said, there is still a lot of stuff I need to do before I move.  A lot of stuff that, because I alternate my weekends b/w New York and CT, I haven’t gotten to yet.  I have done some stuff though.

I’ve seen the Rock Tree (TWO YEARS IN A ROW!) and been ice skating at the Natural History Museum.

I’ve seen David Blaine at Central Park.  I’ve seen Brooke Shields in SoHo.  I’ve shared a cab w/a Law & Order regular extra (you know the type I’m talking about–they play a killer at least once a season).

I’ve been to Chinatown and Brooklyn.  I’ve been to all of the villages.  I’ve hung out on the Upper West Side.  I’ve been to the Met. I’ve seen at least 3 shows on Broadway.

I’ve sunned myself in Central Park and had Sunday brunch on the sidewalks in front of some of my favorite cafes.

I’ve made friends with my doorman and half the staff at my regular breakfast joint.  I’ve run into old friends on subways and at airports (proving that this city really is just a really big small town).

But I still have a lot to do.  I decided to compile a list so I wouldn’t forget everything I wanted to get done before I packed up and headed to…um…someplace that Boo and I have yet to figure out.

• Have frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity.
• See the Statue of Liberty/Ellis Island (and find my family’s name!).
• Check out the view from the top of the Empire State Building.
• Visit Ground Zero.  I know it’s not really what it was but I can’t live here and NOT see it.  Boo saw it last year w/his brother so I need to make sure I see it too.
• Have my caricature drawn at Times Square.
• Go on the Double Decker Bus Tour.
• Buy something at Bloomingdale’s or Bendel’s.
• Go to a ballet (but somehow I feel we missed ballet season this year…whoops!).
• Visit the Bronx Zoo.
• Visit the Botanical Gardens.
• Hit up either the MoMA or the Guggenheim.

I know, I know.  It’s a super touristy list.  It’s all the stuff that non-New Yorkers think we do EVERY weekend.  But just b/c it’s touristy doesn’t mean I don’t want to experience it before I leave!

In fact, Boo and I crossed one thing off the list on Saturday:

Carriage Ride at Central Park

–

On a bummer of a side note, if you are expecting blogger meetup tales, you won’t find them here.  When Boo and I arrived at the bar we had to wait in line for 25 minutes (stupid Bulls/Celtics game).  We texted our whereabouts, never heard anything back and when we made it into Village Pour House it was blogger-less.  Definitely a shame, but Boo and I ran into a friend I haven’t seen since graduation (2 years–whoa!) and we got to visit our favorite UES bar so the night wasn’t a total bust for us.

I’ve finally found a use for allergies

Spring is here (um, well, sort of here–we seem to have skipped it and jumped right into summer weather.  I’m not complaining, mind you, it’s just that I kind of like spring.  I need transitions people!) and that means that spring allergies are here too!

That means that for the next few weeks I’ll be sneezing every time I go outside (which really makes getting any semblance of a tan difficult), my eyes will be itchy, watery and accessorized with dark circles reminiscent of NFL players, my throat will be simultaneously sore AND itchy and I’ll spend most of my waking hours sniffling.

While this is normally nothing more than a massive annoyance, this year it’s something a little more.  This year, it’s a panic inducer.

Oh yes, dear readers, thanks to the uber-hyped swine flu press, every time I sniffle or sneeze, I see people around grimace uncomfortably and move away me from as quickly as possible.

New Yorkers are in SUCH a panic that they’ve neglected to realize it’s that time of year where the tree pollen makes half the city a sneezy, drowsy mess and they automatically assume that everyone near them has swine flu.

I may just use this to my advantage.  I may decide that after every sneeze I’m going to yell “OH GOD I HAVE THE SWINE FLU!  IT’S THE PIG! IT’S THE PIG!” And then start oinking and convulsing.

Sure, it may get me arrested but least it’ll keep people away from me on the subway.  And that, my friends, is nothing to sneeze at.*

la

*Yeah, I did just do the allergy pun.  But I’m only partially sorry for it.

What a difference you see with the dentist

For about 8 months now I’ve been meaning to schedule a dentist appointment.  There’s no pressing need really, just that 8 months ago I finally got insurance and I needed to schedule a cleaning.  Oh, and this one other tiny thing.

I need to have my 2 broken front teeth replaced.

When I finally got my insurance, 11 months after moving to the city, I searched around for really good doctors.  In November I got a recommendation for my lady doctor but still hadn’t heard about a good general physician.  Since I’m in decently good shape, nothing too wrong with me (other than my acid reflux and tendency to throw out my back), I figured I’d just book with the doctor’s office below my apartment building.

I called the lady doctor first.  My appointment would be in February.  Are you kidding me?  How many months away was that?  I kind of assumed that this was because she, and her practice, came highly recommended and therefore had people clamoring to get in all the time.  Besides, the co-worker who passed her info along said she always waited about 3 months for an appointment but it was definitely worth it–this chick new her stuff.  Fine, I’ll wait.

Then I called to book my regular doctor.  That appointment?  End of February.  What the hell, NYC health system?!  I swear I’ve never waited this long for doctor’s appointments (though this does remind me of an incident with strep throat in college that I’ll have to discuss later…).

My appointment with the lady doctor was worth the wait–the woman knew what she was talking about and was very helpful (ooh, sorry, I guess I should have warned the male readers–specifically my father and brother–that they may want to just skim this post.  whoops!).  The general physician however was kind of a moron nimwit joke.  When I told her I got migraines and asked what she could do for that, her response was “make sure you stay hydrated.”  Yeah, lady, drinking water will not have the same effect as say, Immitrex.

Anyway, after that appointment was such a massive waste of time I decided I needed to really scout out a good dentist.  I asked around for awhile and finally Rebecca suggested her dentist.  Said he was the best.  Totally fabulous.

So I called his office today.  I figured I’d need at least a 3 month-lead time for just the cleaning and then, who knows how long it would take to schedule the repair work.

What happened?  I got in for Monday morning.  No 3-month wait.  It was 4 days.  4 measley days.  86 days less than what I was waiting to see any other health care professional.  WHAT?!  And this guy isn’t some chintzy dentist either.  Their web site has directions to their office via air.  AIR people!  That means he’s got patients flying in to see him he’s so fabulous.

Now, let’s just hope he takes my insurance….

la

la

la

Oh please, calm down people.  Of COURSE I asked if they took my insurance before I booked.  They’re double checking.  That’s all.

Oh, and I promise I’ll get into the whole “my 2 front teeth are broken” story tomorrow.  Pinky swear!

Design details, or, why hipsters shouldn’t be allowed to making clothing choices

Raw edges.

A design detail that, apparently, isn’t always recognized for what it is.

An artistic, aesthetic detail.

I was content to let this go.  I was going to drop it, roll with the punches, try to forget about it.  But I just can’t.

This past weekend my friend Rebecca, (aka my stylist, whose blog you should go check out and then pelt her with emails and comments so she gets back to it) graciously offered to go shopping w/me.  Sorry Rebecca, I’m about to seem ungrateful here (I’m not, I swear, I love shopping with you, please shop with me more!) but I need to bash some hipsters.

We went to Buffalo Exchange in my first trip to Brooklyn.  Okay, wait, hold on.  Stop LOOKING at me like that!  I’ve done Brooklyn before but it was always in the Elle car, running to and from the photographers or a photo shoot and carrying 30+ lbs of clothing.  This time we took the subway (we still had the excessive amounts of clothing).  When we walked into the hipster-populated store full of budding fashionistas and thrifters alike we were met with a line.  When we finally made it to the front, the girl at the register explained the process to me:

I’ll go through each item and investigate it for wear and tear, wearability, style, seasonal appropriateness, etc.

Translation: I’ll judge you on all of your fashion choices, eventually rejecting most of what you brought in, including things that you will later find replicas of already on our shelves/things that are in way better condition than things on our shelves, and I will somehow make you feel bad about yourself while I do it even though this is the closest I’ve gotten to brands like Marc Jacobs and Vera Wang and you and your friend worked with those brands extensively–oh, and we’ll give her $28 (which really means $19.60)  for dresses that retail at $500, which we didn’t actually know until we asked you.  (End rant–and run-on sentence).

As she pawed through my potential merch, she came across a tunic with a deep v-neck.  Something that, if you’ve walked around recently and seen, well, any females, you’d know is still quite “in” right now.  They are being paired with leggings, tights and jeans.  Boots and flats.  Short girls and tall girls.  Everyone is rocking the tunic.  Except that my tunic (worn just a few times since I purchased it) seemed to have one fatal flaw.

Hipster: Um, well, okay, so I’m not going to be taking this item because the sleeves appear to have been cut.

Me: They aren’t cut, they are raw edges.  That’s a style detail.  I bought it that way.

Hipster (investigating the garment again): Hm, well, yeah, it just looks badly hand cut to me, and that’s how our customer will see it too.

Me (seething): FINE.

I was irritated to say the least.  Not only had this little “fashionista” wannabe insulted my taste in clothes, she’d also implied that I was lying about cutting the sleeves off my shirt AND that I had done so with shoddy craftsmanship.  ARE YOU FREAKING FOR REAL?!

I was set to just sort of brush the experience off as a, “well, now I can say I’ve been to Brooklyn.  And I’ve mingled with the hip kids.  And now people will stop trying to make me go back.” (NOTE: I have nothing against Brooklyn.  I know lots of cool people in Brooklyn.  My aversion, if you could call it that, to Brooklyn is simply that it’s far.  I have to change trains and I’m on the train for at least 40 minutes.  And it’s not a set up like a grid.  And I don’t do well without grids.  That’s why I have trouble with the Villages, both East and West.  And those are basically the same reasons that I lived less than 30 minutes away from downtown Pittsburgh for YEARS and never really ventured into the city).

So, like I was saying, I was about to just forget the whole thing but then a strange thing happened to me at work the other day.  I was going over styles from our new line and I saw raw edges.  On men’s styles, on women’s styles, on sleeves, plackets, and hems.  And it struck me as odd that the same detail that deemed my otherwise still “trendy” garment COMPLETELY UNSELLABLE was the same detail making an appearance on not some, but many, of our current pieces.  As well as (I realized as I thought back on it) many of our past season’s styles.

So I would like to just break it down for you, just point out, if you will, the item rejections that I disagreed with.

Items rejected simply b/c the cashier/”buyer” didn’t immediately consider them items she herself would wear, without regards to their actual retail value:

• Sweet Pea top (retails at Nordstrom for $96)
• 2 California boutique tops (retail is approximately $78)
• 1 Audrey Hepburn top
• 1 Barbie studded top (Barbie is back.  She had a show at fashion week.  And her line of self-merch is expensive!)
• 1 tank dress (retail in CA in the mid-50s to mid-60s…oh, and “faded” is a washing technique.  Just so you know.)

Items rejected b/c their styling details didn’t fit this particular hipster’s aesthetic (yet which are details that are seen in upcoming lines (as well as past lines) of a certain company with which I am fairly familiar):

• 1 dress w/satin sleeves–it was though that the sleeves would pose a problem for the customer…if that’s the case, that customer shouldn’t check out our new line.
• 1 tunic w/raw edge sleeves–moments later I found a wool top that was totally unraveling, causing me to wonder about who was working register THAT day.

Also, discovered: a leather jacket that was more destroyed than distressed.  Paint/ink stains and holes where the “leather” is scratched away to reveal the lining underneath are apparently in more wearable condition than my sweater that barely needed the sweater shaver on it (oh, and by the way, some yarns have a more fuzzy look–they are called mohair).

So that was my hipster experience.  Do I want to go back?  Not necessarily.  Will that stop me from buying shirts with raw edges, sweaters that are fuzzy and therefore cozy, or boutiquey graphic tees?  Not a chance.  I just know that when I’ve finally gotten all the use I can get out of them they’ll be going to the Salvation Army instead.

I got stunk up

This morning, as Rachel and I were walking to the train, we heard the AMNY lady shouting about the day’s headlines:

AM! AM! READ ABOUT THE HOMELESS!

Not exactly the best way to sell a paper (yes I know it’s free, but that’s an expression so back off!).

I said as much to Rachel and she just shrugged her shoulders.

“Meh, they aren’t a problem.”

Not a problem?!  How are they not a problem?  When they stink and panhandle and creep me out and lay face down on the sidewalks with no pants (I really saw that) and take up whole benches on the train during rush hour and–

She clarified.  Not a problem for her.

Well, that’s fair I suppose.  I was content to let it go after that.

Then we got to 42nd street and Rachel got off the train.  And in her place came one of the most offensive homeless people I’ve ever encountered.  He stumbled on the train, his pants, well, I can’t even describe them because I’d prefer to keep a readership–let’s just say that the open fly was the least of his worries.

He was stumbling and swinging his arms at purse level.  I thought for a minute that he might be pickpocketing people.   You know, gross them out with his stink while he reaches into their purses and pulls out their wallets.

People began scrambling away from him.  The poor women who he chose to stop in front of couldn’t get up fast enough.  Then he took a seat.  Sort of.  He kind of crawled on to the bench, causing the woman to my right to move basically onto my lap.  I let her.  And trust me, that is the ONLY time that that is ever OK behavior.  I couldn’t take the stink anymore so I got up and moved to the end of the car.  Everyone around me followed suit.

The next thing we knew this guy was sprawled out on the bench.  No easier way to clear a subway car I suppose.

At 28th street I was happy to breathe in the fresh air when the doors opened.  Yeah, you read that right.  I just called stanky subway station air “fresh.”  Does that paint a picture yet?

I was so happy to rush out of the car at 23rd and I took huge breaths the entire walk to work.

But, as I sit here, I’ve noticed something upsetting.

I got stunk up!

I’ve sniffed my hair, my coat, my hoodie–everything.  And I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.  But I can still smell the stink of that dude.  It’s been burned into my nostrils.

And that, dear readers, is a problem.

But look on the bright side, I’ve saved you all the trouble of picking up an AMNY to read about it.

2015 isn’t soon enough

This. Morning. Blew.

Every month I buy an unlimited Metro card.  It’s just easier that way.  I like not having to keep track of how many rides I have left, when I need to refill, yadda yadda yadda.  The only problem with that is that I never seem to remember what date I actually purchased said card and therefore spend 2 or 3 days at the end of the month (well, the bought month, that is) cringing every time I swipe my card, wondering if THIS will be the morning it stops working.

Today was that morning.

I swiped, I was out and I left Rachel at the turnstile to jump into the card line.  I bought my new card and pressed the button for a receipt.  Nothing printed.  After waiting a few seconds I just said “eff it” and walked away–I know how much I spent and it’s not like I’m getting reimbursed for this crap; I don’t really need the receipt.

I walked to the turnstile where the woman in front of me was swiping her card.  And swiping it.  And swiping it.  After about 4 or 5 swipes, she turned around and was all “hehehe sorry!” and I had to refrain from yelling “BITCH MOVE!” at her.  I think the visual daggers sent the message though and she got out of my way.

I walked down to the platform and scanned for Rachel.  Found her.  Just then a train was barreling into the station.  Perfect timing right?  Wrong.  It just sped on by.

No worries.  We waited, we chatted, we talked about our deep-seated love for Tool Academy and her bearded dog.  Then a train pulled in.  Too full to get on, so we stepped back.  We continued to wait.  Rachel told me that she looked up “shorty” on UrbanDictionary yesterday.  Another train pulled in.  Too full.  And yet the people who got there after us were pushing through.

“At the risk of sounding like an old person, I feel like there should be some sort of single file line sitaution or something.” I agreed with Rachel whole-heartedly on that one.

Finally, a fourth train pulled in.  It was now 8:46.  We shoved our way on to that one and wound up with awkward yet prime positions (aka we were right by a super cute guy.  Rush hour has to be good for something, and what is it better for than oggling the pretty boys in their suits?).  We crawled to 86th and then to 77th where some guy got shoved and was whining about it.  Then we heard the shover say “Well I am SORRY but I HAVE to be on THIS train!”  Yeah, dude, we get it.  You need to get to work.  So do the rest of us.  We’re not all crammed in here, getting cozy with strangers, for our health.

We slowly made it to 59th street where I realized a minute too late that I probably should have transferred to the NRW.  Oh well.  We got to 42nd street with no further incident and Rachel got off the train.  I grabbed a seat and rode to 33rd…where they decided to announce that due to delays (What? There was a delay? You’re SHITTING me, MTA!) the next stop on that train would be 14th street.  Fan-freaking-tastic.

I stepped off the train and had to immediately dodge a pile of what appeared to vomitted up cranberry juice.  Yummy.  I attempted to walk down a bit to avoid the vom pile and maybe have a chance at grabbing a less crowded car.  I was hugging the wall when this stupid cow of a person (I think it was a woman, but I couldn’t be sure) was walking towards me and just halted in front of me, refusing to move.  After a quick standoff I slammed past and muttered “BITCH” loudly enough that he/she/it should have heard me and kept going.

It was now 9:15.  EFF!  But not to worry because train had just pulled into 33rd street.  But, keeping with the theme of the morning, I couldn’t get on it because the damn thing was too full.

I waited a few more minutes for another train to pull into the station.  I shoved my way on to that one because at that point I was so over the day that if I didn’t get on THAT train I was getting on an uptown one and calling in sick.

At 9:23 I finally surfaced.  A full hour after I left my apartment.  I walked down 23rd to my office and hit the construction zone, where everyone but ONE stupid woman on a cell phone was walking against pedestrian traffic.  Of course she hit me with her stupid puffy coat and purse.  I must have groweled audibly because one of the construction guys, my bad day heroes, said good morning and smiled.

I tried to tone back the scowl on my face after that.  And then I started counting down until 2015 and the desparately (at least if this morning was any indicator) needed 2nd avenue line.

Conclusion?  2015 can’t get here soon enough.

It’s snowing and I’m busy…

…but I didn’t want to leave you hanging.

So take a gander at this chick:

Yes.  Those ARE high heels she’s wearing in the snow.

Yes.  She most likely IS missing brain cells.

Like I tweeted to Matt, “i kept hoping she would fall. why not pack the heels and wear boots? or at least sneakers? you don’t look cute, you look dumb.”

I was going to flesh out this lack of post with what would have been a very topical one of my LionConnection columns but since that Web site is now completely useless, it wasn’t online anymore and I didn’t think to email it to myself earlier today.

So consider this short but sweet post my snow day post–because let’s face it, who does work on a snow day?

Daytime vs. nighttime P.D.A., or, my day with the Disgustingtons

Saturday Rachel and I were assaulted.  Twice.  By unnecessary (and gross) public displays of affection.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate P.D.A.  Boo’s planted one on me in an empty aisle at Target or while we’re waiting for the subway.  And don’t talk to me about the goodbye kiss at the train station.  That one’s allowed, so shut up!

Anyway.

There is a time and a place for P.D.A. and Rachel and I were front row witnesses to times when P.D.A. protocol was violated.

Up way earlier than is appropriate for a Saturday, Rachel and I made our way to the Cole Haan sample sale.  We arrived at 9:10, just 10 minutes after it started and were already faced with a 30-minute wait in line.  No problem, we can easily amuse ourselves.

After about 15 minutes we noticed The Disgustingtons.  They caught my attention when the girl started complaining about how the line wasn’t moving and how “that guy should just get off his Blackberry and walk already!!” despite the fact that there was someone directing the flow of traffic to avoid having 70 people on the stairs at one time.

The next thing we know, they are going at it.  He’s got his hands all over her face and her hands are on his ass and they are macking.  Hard core.

We tried our best but couldn’t tear our eyes away.  It was like roadkill–you didn’t want to look but it was too nasty to actually avert your eyes for long.  Rachel and I decided that if they were an attractive couple we wouldn’t have been as offended.  Sadly for their sake (or I guess for ours, geeze I am MEAN) they were gross.  Girlfriend had a bleached blonde perm and sweatpants tucked into her Uggs and homeboy wasn’t much better off.

Let me remind you again that the time is now 9:25am.  No one has had their coffee.  Even if they have, there’s not enough caffeine in the world to make that level of tonsil hockey okay at that hour.  At that point we started debating the differences and societal acceptability of daytime P.D.A.

There never seems to be a time or place where that’s okay.  At night, we justified, P.D.A. is usually b/w drunk people at a bar and that’s not a big deal.  That’s standard Friday night activity.

I’d already decided that the morning’s events would become blog fodder.  I had planned to leave it at what you’ve just read.  The argument being that daytime P.D.A should be avoided at all costs but nightttime P.D.A. is doable.

Then Rachel and I hopped a 6 train at 9:30 Saturday night.

A mere 12 hours after our initial assault our eyes were again attacked.  The Old Disgustingtons, filling the car with the smell of alcohol and swaying, got on the train at 86th St., splitting a pair of guys who had gotten on together.  Before the doors even shut I saw the little lady (and she was quite tiny–barely up to the man’s shoulders) do the drunk “lean in, tilt head back, and groan…’sexily’”  Too bad the groan is never sexy when you’re as plastered as this chick was.  It was more of a moan…and again, not a sexy one.  A pained one.

Gross old man went in for the kill.  He was so tall that he had to bend his knees and fall forward before he could vacu-seal his face to hers.  Then hands were roaming, limbs were flailing and the doors kept bouncing back open.  Once G.O.M realized that he and his chicky were the culprits, he inched them forward and they continued their quest to gross out all the passengers in the car, specifically the dudes they’d split up, one of which had a front row seat–no options for his eyes except to watch them get it on or squeeze his eyes shut and pray to forget that visual.  I wanted to get a picture but Rachel wouldn’t let me.  Maybe it’s for the best.  That’s not a visual most of you could handle.

Let me remind you again that the time is now 9:40pm.

The macking continued until 59th St when the Old Disgustingtons moved from their post in front of the door to set up shop in front of 2 poor girls sitting on the bench, minding their own business.  I lost it at that point.  I was laughing hysterically, Rachel was cursing her lack of view, the lost dude, also laughing, rejoined his friend who looked totally scarred for life.  And then I looked up and saw the sheer horror on the faces of the girls on the bench.  One looked on the verge of tears.

We got off the train at 51st St and changed our stance on P.D.A.  Everything we’d thought about out-of-house macking got turned upside down in the course of 12 hours.  And we realized–daytime P.D.A. is NOT okay.  Ditto for nighttime.

Unless of course you’re good looking.

Or the people around you are as drunk as you are and don’t notice the fact that you’ve attached your face to someone else’s and are now blocking the exit.

If they aren’t, take a cab.  I hear that’s what they’re for.

Girl dies in tragic tomato sauce incident, news at 11

Tonight I went to Gristedes.  I spent $37 on ONE bag of groceries.  And I put BACK the $8.99 pesto.

I feel like I am perpetually bitching about my market, but when I look at the above sentence and realize that that is basically my only option, I die a little inside.  But I suck it up, and I go grocery shopping.

Tonight I had a few things in mind that I needed to buy–bread being the most important one, mainly b/c the cold cuts I’d ALREADY picked up weren’t going to do me any good w/o something to put them in between.  So I peruse the bread aisle.  There’s no Pepperidge Farm.  There’s no D’Italiano.  There’s nothing.  FINE Gristedes, thanks, anyway, I’ll just buy rolls.

There are no packs of rolls.  FINE Gristedes, I’ll just buy a single roll.

The single rolls are all stale.

You have GOT to be kidding me ‘Stede, you really do.

I finally went back to the bread aisle and after scrounging for a bit managed to find something that seemed at least mostly edible.

Then I went in search of something to eat with my tortellini.  That’s when I found, and then vetoed, the $8.99 pesto sauce.  I went back to the tomato sauce aisle.  All I wanted was a small jar of sauce.  I’m Italian, yes, and pasta is a massive part of my diet, but I tend to mix up my sauce intake so a big jar is stupid.  Do you KNOW where the little jars are in Gristedes?  Do you know?  Do you want to take a guess?

They are on the highest shelf in the freaking store. The HIGHEST shelf.  Do you know how well that works for someone who is my height?  NOT WELL!  And do you know how many tall people walked by me, while I was on my tippy toes, pinky-inching this stupid jar of sauce (which was OF COURSE 1 jar’s width back on the freaking shelf) to where I could finally, hopefully, reach the damn thing?  A LOT!  And do you want to GUESS how many of them helped me?  None.  No one even offered to help.  It was about to be a blood/sauce bath in that stupid aisle.  What would my last words have been in that situation?  DAMN YOU GRISTEDES!

My mother went grocery shopping this weekend.  She spent $33 and got a TRUNKFUL of groceries.  And we don’t live in some podunk little town.  We live in the suburb of a major metropolis.

$33 for a trunkful.

$37 for a bag.

If you ever hear about a Gristedes massacre on the news, I swear–I was at home the whole time.

That’s what I get for being early for once

This morning I was early.  I am never early.  I am on time, sure, but I am never early.

Since I was early though, I decided to take advantage.  Well, actually I decided to stall so that I would be closer to “on time” than “early” to the office.  Early on a Monday is just lame.  (No, I’m kidding.  Being early/on time is awesome!)

Anyway…I decided to pop in to Starbucks for a cup of tea.  My throat is a bit sore this morning so I decided tea would be the best call.  I was following a girl who was power walking in heels (not easy) and when we got to the door we met another girl coming from the opposite direction–one that had “bitch” written all over her face.

So Power Heels held the door for someone who was leaving and OD Bitch scowled and snarled (okay, it was more of a disgusted grunty sigh, but that’s harder to make into a verb, no?).  We walked inside, me still following Power Heels and ODB slid right up to the counter.  I assumed she had bad eyes and couldn’t read the board and wanted to figure out what she wanted.

But I was wrong.

Power Heels orders her drink at the closest of the the 3 registers and ODB is still standing in front of the middle one.  That cashier finishes w/whoever she’d been helping and ODB steps forward.  The cashier goes “were you in line?” and ODB says, without pause but DRIPPING with attitude, “uh yeah.  I was next.”

I stood there.  I just stood there.  I was in such SHOCK that this bitch–who walked in the door right behind me…BEHIND me–passed the line-abiding customers and rolled right in front.  I was shocked and I was pissed.  You don’t mess with people’s morning beverage!

But, given the scowl she had after Power Heels was being NICE to someone, I thought it in my best interest to keep my mouth shut.  I’m pretty sure she would have killed me.

My one small victory was that my drink was ready before her breakfast was (tea is easier to throw together than a bagel that has to be toasted…with butter…AND cream cheese) and I got to say, partially snippy but partially politely “excuse me” and reach, a little more in her way than needed, to get my drink.

Of course I immediately went up to the office, put sugar in my tea and then sloshed it over the side of the cup and burnt my hand.

There’s really no such thing as karma.