The problem with my wedding dress hanging on a door in our compact apartment for the next few months is that given Eric’s newfound meat-dehydrating hobby, there is a 99% chance the dress, and therefore I, will smell like beef jerky on our wedding day.
“I would only love you more.” — Eric
A mom and her small child get into the elevator with me…
Me (to child): “Ooooh! And what are YOU dressed up as for Halloween? Whatever it is, you look awesome!”
Child: <blank, confused stare>
Mom: “Oh she has no idea it’s Halloween. We don’t celebrate it. This is just what she decided to wear today.”
Oh.
Well then she looks ABSURD.
I’m in the elevator and an elderly lady walks in…
Lady (after staring at me for 10 seconds): “Are you pregnant?”
Me: “No. I am not. And honestly, this is the second time this has happened to me in an elevator and I don’t understand why.”
Lady: “It’s the way you’re holding your stomach. Makes it seem like something’s in there.”
Me: “Yeah, there is. Dairy. I’m Jewish.”
Lady: “Ah. Enough said.”
That moment before heading into a tutoring session when you check your reflection in a parked car window to make sure there are no remnants on your face of the Kind bar you just ate, when 5 seconds into staring at yourself you realize THERE IS A PERSON SITTING IN THE PARKED CAR. Right behind the window you basically have your face pressed against.
I have a constantly-updated note in my phone that lists the bathroom codes of every Starbucks in the neighborhood where I live and tutor.
And yes, I’m blurring them out because I’m genuinely nervous that if everyone knows and abuses them, Starbucks will change the codes and I’ll be back at square 1.
THIS IS THE WAY I LIVE MY LIFE.
My friend and I were going to go out downtown tonight. But it’s raining.
(Part of the Sassy Pedicurist series)
Many of you have expressed your sadness over the absence of Sassy Pedicurist. I know. Thanks to what I can only assume is Stockholm Syndrome, I miss that abusive, cranky old bitch too. So today I went to my old nail salon to inquire about her absence.
Me (to two manicurists sitting in the front): “Hi there! So I noticed that my regular manicurist has been gone for a while. I’m just wondering, is she coming back? Did she switch salons?”
Manicurist 1: “Which lady you talk about?”
Me: “Um…well, she’s older. I mean, not old. But like, older than you guys. I’m assuming. And, you know, she’s…Asian. So…”
(silence)
Me: “I’m not great at describing people.”
(silence)
Me: “Anyway, I’m just wondering where she went, because I really liked her. She did my nails for years.”
Manicurist 2: “What is her name?”
(Long pause)
Me: “I don’t know.”
So the good news is that I managed to eventually uncover that Sassy has been out of town, but will be back at the nail salon in about a month.
The bad news is that I can never go back there.
(Part of the The NYC Effect series)
The gourmet deli next to me has delicious, freshly prepared foods, but it’s not exactly efficient. Every time I go in, the line isn’t that long, yet somehow I end up standing in it for at least 20 minutes, waiting to order.
Today I watched the man behind the counter take the order of a woman a few people ahead of me in line. She asked for half a pound of coleslaw. He took FOREVER to prepare it. And once he did, he gave her way too much. She pointed this out, and he shrugged and said, “Eh, no extra charge. We’re not here to make money or speed you through, we’re here to make friends!”
The old, Maryland me: “I love that! How refreshing! A place in NYC that actually values human interaction over robotic, impersonal efficiency! And he gave her free food! I’m coming here all the time!”
Me after a few years in NYC: “Aw, that’s cute! But still. I’m kind of in a rush here…”
Me today: <immediately walk out>
I don’t need friends.
I need some fucking egg salad.
Now.
(Continuation of Fly Guy )
I was on the phone with Eric and, for what seems like the millionth time this month, a fly flew right into my apartment. I know what you’re thinking– didn’t you JUST post about killing a fly the other day? How is your apartment THAT disgusting that you have this bad a fly problem?
To clarify, I don’t have a fly PROBLEM. But inevitably, every time I open my balcony sliding door (which is the only “window” in my apartment), at least one fly finds its way in and then NEVER. FUCKING. LEAVES.
Last week I spent seven days with the same fly. I pretty much accepted on day 5 that we were roommates now, so I gave him a name (“Fly Guy”….it had been a long day) and I started to contemplate ways I could make the apartment more comfortable for him. Then, just as I’m googling “Do flies like pop music?” Fly Guy landed right in front of me on the coffee table. So I did what any good roommate would do– I beat him repeatedly with a People magazine while screaming “WHO LIVES HERE NOW, BITCH?!?!” and then texted Eric “I killed that motherfucking fly!” with no less than 14 gold trophy emojis.
Anyway, this is all to say, the flies have been an issue.
So an hour ago on the phone, when the fly came in and I screamed, “I can’t handle ANOTHER FLY!”, Eric agreed that this was, in fact, the most stressful situation a human being could possibly find herself in. He then suggested an old trick that works every time– covering a plate in honey. The flies, he promised, would instantly be attracted to it, fly on top, and get stuck. “But you have to cover the WHOLE plate in a thick coat of honey. The more surface area, the better. Don’t just dabble it on there.” I promised I would do it correctly.
Thrilled that I had a new, trusted kill strategy under my belt, I set up the trap and have been excitedly staring at it for the past hour, waiting for the dramatic death-by-honey scene to unfold.
It has just occurred to me that Eric is fucking with me.
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