“Have a great trip!”
— My doorman, every single afternoon, when I walk out the door with my rolling “work bag.”
I had hoped by now he would have realized that I’m not going on a trip. But he hasn’t.
So now I just yell back, “Thanks! I will!”
Because we’ve come too far.
As I leave for my daily run, trying to get out the door and get started…
Doorman: “Wow, you sure do run a lot. Even in this heat?”
Me: “Yup! But this is nothing compared to how much I used to run! I used to run marathons and half marathons on the regular.”
Doorman: “Wow. But I find that people who run THAT much are running away from something.”
Oh. (awkward stare-down)
Me: “Ok, bye!”
(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.
When I was a 4th grader, I dressed up as Michael Jackson for Halloween by putting on a wig, a glove, and covering my entire face in white face paint.
Fifteen years later, it is just now occurring to me how horribly offensive that was. I somehow managed, at age 9, to unknowingly create a more awkward and offensive scenario than going in blackface. I even remember one neighbor hesitating to give me candy. I figured he just wasn’t a Michael fan.
The year before that, in 3rd grade, I went as a hobo. I wore a sign around my neck that said “Buddy, can you spare a dime?” In the town of Potomac, Maryland, where there is now a Real Housewives series (inexplicably devoid of any Jews or white people, but that’s a subject for another post) being filmed. Enough said. We had a school Halloween parade (this was back in the days when schools let children have fun), and I marched through the halls and recess yard wearing my dirty t-shirt, disheveled hair, and “hilarious” sign. The other Potomac parents loved it. The other students didn’t get it (they had never seen a poor person). The teachers, who could not afford to live in Potomac, looked away. I figured maybe they felt bad that they didn’t have a dime to give me.
“Don’t worry!” I told my teacher, laughing. “You don’t REALLY have to give me money!”
She did not smile.
Finally, at age 16, I decided to be something normal for Halloween. A friend was throwing a big Halloween dance party, and I went as Cinderella. Full-blown floor length ball gown, crown, the works.
“Finally!” my mom cried as she dropped me off at the party, “I’ve tried for years to get you wear something like this for Halloween!”
I rolled my eyes, slid the mini-van door closed, and walked into the party, fluffing my skirt upon entrance.
I was the only one in costume.
It’s a wonder I ever leave the apartment.
A few months ago a girl moved into my building– young, a teacher, seemingly normal and cool. Someone I would actually hang out with. We spoke in the lobby for a bit, exchanged apartment numbers, and said we’d see each other soon. I haven’t run into her since– until just now, in the elevator.
Girl: “Hey! How have you been?!”
Me: “Not much!”
And then our friendship ended.
Last night….
Fair. And true.
But this is exactly the kind of hazardous situation I find myself in when I linger in society past sundown– two young people were having a perfectly lovely first date and I interrupted it, arms flailing, screaming, “Little Michael?!?! Is that YOU?!?!?”
Zero chance he got laid after that.
I’m never leaving the couch again.
Sorry, Little Michael.
(For interrupting your date. And for calling you “Little Michael.” Last night and in this post. Also, sorry about this post).
This is my life:
Except instead of a joyful, dance-filled celebration after I say what I’m thinking, everyone just hates me.
That moment on a plane when you’re so embarrassed by your overactive bladder that you apologetically explain to the annoyed woman in the aisle seat, who is getting up for you for the 3rd time, that you’re pregnant.
You’re not pregnant. You just know that’ll make her sympathetic and less annoyed. And you’re right. It does.
What you don’t know is that this will incite an entire conversation about said make-believe fetus.
How far along am I? About 3 months. I know. It’s crazy, I’m barely showing. I’m sure that won’t last, especially with the aid of these nacho cheesier Doritos! (Woman cackles with laughter, seems less disgusted with my snack choice than she was previously).
The father? He’s amazing. Been married 3 years. He’s in Florida for business right now, so I’m meeting him at The Breakers. Yeah, I know. Ritzy. But the thing is, he, and therefore we, are richer than God. Sometimes we take baths in our dollars and I wear a bra made of diamonds. Don’t be fooled by the hole in this Old Navy hoodie I’m wearing. In public, I prefer to blend.
First child? No. We have toddler triplets. One boy and two conjoined girls. Yeah, that delivery was rough! (finish bag of Doritos, lick fingers, bust open the Toblerone).
Names? Haven’t decided yet. I like Coconut. Maybe Sunshine. Or Palm Tree. No, I’m not just naming things I’m excited to see in Florida.
Am I sure it’s ok to fly? I don’t know. Why? Is that a thing? Maybe that’s why my girls are conjoined…
Oh ok, cool. Now we’re done here.
(Note: nothing past the 4th paragraph actually happened. Except in my head. This is how I pass time on flights. It’s also the effects of Xanax).
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