All posts by Emily

There Are TWO Lessons Here

Being Awkward/Dumb Stuff I Do, , , , , , ,

I initially resisted posting this story because I am legitimately afraid my parents will read it and immediately send someone to come to NYC, pack me up with all my belongings, and bring me home to live in their basement because clearly I have not earned the right to be an adult citizen living on my own in society.

Regardless, here we go. (Mostly because I know they already have a kid in the basement).

On Saturday, I decided I needed a new cocktail dress. I have a couple weddings coming up this summer, and I’m tired of all my clothes and need something new (in this case, “tired of all my clothes” = “I got fatter. Nothing fits.”) I decided this would be a good opportunity to use the $600 in tutoring cash I had stored up in my nightstand (nope, this isn’t even the irresponsible part) and go pay for a new dress in cash.

Like a hooker.

I grabbed the wad of cash, stuffed it in a jewelry bag labeled “Charm and Chain” that had once held a pair of costume earrings, shoved it in my purse, and headed out on the town (again. Like a hooker).

I ended up finding the perfect dress for $150, because it turns out I’m not quite as classy as I thought.

So I had $450 left when I headed back home with my new purchase. On the way, I passed Wankel’s Hardware store and realized I needed a dust buster because yes, sometimes I clean. (Full disclosure: I recently moved my couch off the wall to try to locate a lost earring, and discovered a mountain of sesame seeds behind it. What can I say, I love a good flatbread. Not exactly sure why I can’t seem to land them in my mouth, though. Eating is hard, guys!)

Anyway, I went into Wankels, purchased a $30 dust buster with the cash, and left.

Fast forward two days later. Yes, TWO days later. It suddenly dawns on me that I never put the bag of cash back in the nightstand. So I go into my purse, where, lo and behold, underneath the Advil, Prozac, chewed gum balled up in wrappers, two sets of headphones (why? I don’t know), 4 tampons, several stray Junior Mints and at least 3 Chipotle receipts there is….nothing.

The bag of money is gone.

$420. In cash. I lost A BAG OF CASH.

That’s not something real humans do in real life. That’s something Phoebe Buffet does on an episode of “Friends,” as the canned laugh track plays because the live audience refuses to chuckle at something that is THAT FUCKING STUPID.

So after breathing into a paper bag for 5 minutes (except I didn’t have a paper bag, so I used an empty wine bottle, and let me assure you that does not have the same effect), I decided to retrace my steps.

I went back to BCBG, where I had to sheepishly say to the cashier, “So this might seem like a crazy question but….did you guys happen to find a wad of cash in a black jewelry bag?”  Needless to say, the impossibly skinny bitch behind the counter was NOT friendly in her response. “Ummmm….NO….”

Alright. Fuck you.

I walked out, head in hands, sweating, and broken out head to toe in hives.

Then to Wankels, where I almost didn’t even go because I was so mortified by the BCBG exchange. But you know what they say– “When a fucking idiot in Rome….keep being a fucking idiot in Rome.” Or something.

So I went into the hardware store, swallowed every ounce of pride I could muster (which was a challenge, as I had zero left), and asked the same humiliating question– “Um, this might seem crazy but I came in here the other day, paid for something with cash, and I think maybe I left a bag of cash on your counter. It was in a black jewelry bag. Have you seen it?”

The cashier stared at me wide-eyed. “That was YOU?!”

I could barely respond. “Oh my god, you know what I’m talking about?”

Her: “Yeah, we have the bag in the back.” (then, screaming over her shoulder): “Mike! Jason! Sandra! James! You won’t believe this! The girl who left the cash! She’s HERE!”

Then, faster than my whole family assembles when Dad offers to buy us dinner, the entire staff of Wankles Hardware congregated by the cash register. They stared at me, kind but smirking.

Me: “Hi! Hi yes that’s me. I wish I could say this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life…but that wouldn’t even be true.”

They all laughed. And then told me how lucky I am. And then, I’m pretty sure, snuck a photo of me that they later posted on Instagram with the caption “Village Idiot.”

After some friendly-but-mortified banter, a burly bearded man escorted me to a shady back room area (where I gleefully followed him, as the tone of bad decision making had already been set) and handed me the bag of cash.

Every single dollar was there.

So there are two lessons here, guys.

1) Be as dumb as you want. Everything will turn out fine.

2) Shop at Wankels.

That’s it. There are no more lessons.

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I Changed That Kid’s Life

Humor, Kids/Teaching, , , ,

  
My proudest moment as a teacher is when I taught a kid how to not laugh at his own jokes. He had a great sense of humor, but ruined it by cracking up at himself. In order to prevent this, I told him to picture something really serious after telling the punchline. 

So there’s a solid chance this kid spends 90% of his waking hours thinking about death. 

He SO much funnier, though. 

Things You Realize Too Late

Dating/Single Life, Family, , , , ,

Guy: “Wait, your dad used to be Howard Stern’s lawyer?”
Me: “Yes.”
Guy: “So did you listen to Howard on the radio growing up?”
Me: “Actually, no. I never listened to his show. But my dad gave me his autographed copy of ‘Private Parts’ to read when I was 11. Then we went to go see the movie. Together. As a family.”

And now, 21 years later, I realize how fucking weird that was.
Howard_Sterns_Private_Parts_Hardback_Cover

The Guy Who LARPed, Part 2

Dating/Single Life, , , , , , , , , ,

(Continuation of The Guy Who LARPed )

larping

The second time I went out with the LARPer (because oh yes, there was a second date), he showed up wearing what can only be described as shower shoes. You know those blue, waterproof Adidas sandals you wore in the shower at sleep-away camp, that by the end of the summer would be completely worn in, torn, slightly moldy, and smell like garbage?

He wore those.

I don’t even usually notice men’s footwear, but I swear to god these were emanating a stench that rocked me to the core. I thought about them the entire night.

I thought about the shoes as he ordered himself a cosmo in a Mexican restaurant (so you know that shit came with a tiny umbrella), and I thought about them as he regaled me with stories of his LARPing adventures (“I haven’t always played the monster, you know“). I thought about the shoes as he told me he makes a living by subletting his apartment to foreigners for 3 seasons out of the year and sleeping on his mom’s couch. “Why not in the summer, too?” I asked. Because in the summer he likes to be near Central Park.

For the LARPing.

I still thought about the shoes as he chewed with his mouth open and told me he doesn’t own a credit card (“Why would I?” he asked, as bits of cosmo-soaked guac flew from his mouth into my eye).

I thought about the shoes as he told me about his best friend, Leonard.

Leonard is a cat.

But mostly I thought about the shoes as he walked me home, stopped at my awning, and tried to kiss me goodnight. The doorman happened to be standing outside. He caught my “For the love of god, help me!” signal, but rather than doing so, he leaned against the wall of the building and essentially pulled out a bag of popcorn and a fountain soda.

The scene was as awkward as they come. He stopped and clumsily fished for my hand, which I attempted to hide in my pockets– only to discover, regrettably, that I didn’t have pockets. Then he went for it. I did the half turn, letting his lips land simultaneously on both my cheek and mouth. This had happened one other time in my life– when I was 13 and ran into my 60-year-old rabbi at the mall. We each went for the wrong cheek and ended up weirdly half-mouth kissing. It was mortifying and terrible.

But in this moment, I found myself missing Rabbi Weinberg.

Post-“kiss”, he attempted to say something, but I giddy-up U-turned for the door and ran inside. Literally. I ran. I ran like there was free Chipotle and I was…well…me.

Then, as I’m in the elevator, I get a text.

“I can do MUCH better than that kiss, but the doorman was killing my mojo.”

Oh, LARPer. Everything about you was killing my mojo, including your use of the word mojo. You literally could not have made yourself any less attractive in the past 3 hours, and no girl with any self-respect would even think about responding to this text.

I think we only went out one more time after that.