As I’m leaving an hour-long tutoring session…
Kid (to her mom): “Mom, you always say I have to take those off (points to nape of my neck) but Miss Emily didn’t!!”
Me (confused): “Wait, what?”
Parent: “Something tells me Miss Emily did not know it was there. And I was going to try to let her leave without embarrassing her, but I guess that’s not happening now.” (opens drawer, grabs scissors, cuts this off my sweater and hands it to me):
At my bachelorette party, my friends had Eric record answers to a bunch of questions, which I also had to answer, then we checked to see if our answers matched up.
First question: WHAT IS YOUR “PET NAME” FOR ERIC?
Me: “Oh, well. I usually just call him ‘Babe,’ but I also sometimes refer to him as my Corgi. My little Corgi. [confused friends faces] You know, because he’s really excitable and has short little legs!”
Eric (on video) “Just ‘Babe.'”
“Oh my god, have so much fun [at your bachelorette party] tonight! At my bachelorette party I got so drunk, there were MULTIPLE strippers, and there are just these ridiculous photos of me hanging off of stripper poles and, like, penises EVERYWHERE.”
— Parent of former student, just now on the street, while holding her 5-year-old daughter’s hand.
I get into the elevator with my headphones on, reading an email on my phone. An older man gets into the elevator with me. After a few seconds riding in silence…
Man: “So, I hear you like sauvignon blanc?”
Me (pulling out my headphones): “I’m sorry, what was that?”
Man: “You like sauvignon blanc. Especially from New Zealand.”
Me (nervously laughing): “That is correct…”
Man: “David [who I assume is another neighbor] spoke with your husband-to-be. Nice guy! Eric, right?
Me: “That’s right…”
Man: “And you’re getting married this summer, congratulations!”
Me: “Thank you so much! We’re pretty excited.”
Man: “But yeah, you two should join us for our wine parties. David and I are both big collectors.”
Me: “Yes, that would be lovely! We’re great at drinking wine!”
Man (as we reach lobby): “Ok great, so now we know each other. We don’t have to be silent on our phones in the elevator and hallways. We can have a conversation when we see each other. Isn’t that nice?”
Me (laughing): “You know what? It really is nice!”
This is literally my worst nightmare.
That time I got off the elevator, tried opening my apartment door, started cursing at the key/kicking the door when it wouldn’t open, then almost fell over when, while mid-kick, a man opened the door and angrily asked “MAY I HELP YOU?!”
Not my apartment.
Got off on the wrong floor.
I got a referral for a wedding hair stylist and gave her a call…
Stylist: “So tell me a little about yourself.”
Me: “I am a sweaty, frizzy-haired Jew. I have lots of anxiety. I feel prettiest when I wear my hair down, but, due to my aforementioned sweat problem, that might not be an option for the wedding. But the idea of wearing my hair up is giving me anxiety, because I never wear my hair up for special occasions. And now I’m starting to sweat just thinking about it.”
Stylist: (laughs) “Ok…”
Me: “Sorry, was that not the information you were looking for?”
Stylist: “Well most people start by telling me their name.”
The kind of convo you’d only have with your best friend….
Best friend: “Your ring! Oh my god! Give me your hand right now (grabs my hand)– let me look closer. How many carats is that?!”
Me: “I don’t know…”
Best friend: “You don’t KNOW?! Oh, honey, you better find out. Who doesn’t know how many carats their ring is?!”
Me: “I don’t know…it’s his grandmother’s diamond, I’m not even sure he knows…”
Best friend: “Oh he KNOWS. Trust me. You go home tonight and you ask him.”
Me: “I’m not really concerned with that kind of stuff…”
Best friend: “Well, you’re wearing the ring so GET concerned, honey.”
Only this wasn’t my best friend. This was a random lady who lives in my building. Who I met ONCE.
This is why I don’t talk to people.
Trying really hard to learn all the doormen’s names before Christmas.
Sitting at a Starbucks communal table reviewing some math work. A random guy is sitting next to me and eyeing my papers.
Guy: “Looks like some tough math. I don’t know how to do any of that stuff!”
Me: “I know, right? 8th grade math is no joke!”
Guy: “You’re in 8th grade? Really? I assumed high school, like maybe a senior!”
Me: (Confused stare. Not sure if he’s serious. Realzing he is.)
Guy: “Jeez. Should you be sitting here doing homework all alone? Where are your parents?”
Me: “I tutor an 8th grader. That’s what the papers are for.”
Me: “I am 34 years old.”
Guy: “Well this is embarrassing.”
On so many levels.