Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

The big mix-up

March 12, 2006

I was on Creamy Crayons today, the soft crayons that become water color when you paint over them with water. I was seated at a table and had kids come sit down and color with me. Easy peasy.

I ran into the inevitable one year olds who parents see a toy they can actually play with and let them run rampant and even try to eat these crayons. I ran into the parents who left their children with me thinking I was their personal free babysitter. I ran into the children who would tell their parents “No!” and what to do and their parents would do it, if the kids said “Jump!” the parents would say “How High!” while already jumping up and down trying to satisfy their demon children.

Then I ran into the Orthodox family. Normally it’s locals on Saturdays and foreigners and Orthodox Jewish on Sundays. That’s just how the store works. Now this kid, about four, with long curly brown hair tied half-way back with a sparkling bow clip sits down. This child is wearing tights with hearts on them underneath shorts and a fitted denim jacket with coordinating puma sneakers. The kid dropped a crayon and ordered the mom to pick it up, I trying to play nice get to it first and say “Here you go cute Puma shoe girl.” The mom or child hadn’t told the kid’s name and I usually say something similar in this situation.

That’s when the mother said “That’s not a girl, it’s a boy.” That’s when I did a double-take and said “Oh! I’m sorry. Let’s just get back to coloring.”

Awkward.

I had to alleviate the tension and remove myself from the equation. I ran back to Jen who was counting the till  and asked her if that kid was a boy or a girl.

“Girl. Are you crazy. Look at the sparkly clip an the tights.”

“Boy.” I told her.

“Boy?” she shrieks at which point the mother turns and looks at us looking at her. Nothing good came from that interaction.
Let’s just say. It was a big mix-up I’m not making again. I now am going to be completely gender neutral unless the parent makes a “she” or “he” remark first.

Riding the famous’ coat tails

March 4, 2006

I could never be a famewhore’s whore. It wouldn’t work. At the toy store, we get tons of celebs in all the time, and there are two distinct traits divided between the female celebs and the male celebs.

If you are a female celeb it is gauranteed, even indoors, you will purposely try to make yourself appear like a praying mantis. What do I mean? Abnormally large sunglasses that cover 5/8th’s of your face, super skinny legs and arms but adorned with abnormally large bracelets, bags, and boots.

If you are a male celeb you will be adorned, even indoors with a similar praying mantis but with overprocessed hair and a fur coat in attempt to distinguish themselves as the pampered and not the actual working female celeb.

Female celebs for the most part, although insect in appearance tend to be nice. Male celebs could care less about being in a toy store. Male celeb’s female famewhore’s whore, the bitchiest people on the planet. I mean I guess it is quite demanding and taxing to spend other people’s money. And all the time to overfry your hair!

Today I was on the comfy computer, the annoying computer for 1-5 year olds when suddenly Scottie Pippen, former Bulls star, approached. Not that big on the celeb meter but still big enough to warrent two security guards with him. He noticed the comfy computer and in an attempt to break for freedom from being subjected to shopping, he actually listened to the pitch and was going to buy. Yes! Another one sold! But then, I got a whif of the bleach and my sales went from +2 to -139283.

“Oh please, she’s way too advanced for that. She’s two and the smartest princess. And it only comes in clear. Don’t you have something stylish in pink, with crystals? Something more expensive?”

He quickly put it down, resigned looking. She readjusted her fur coat, attempted to flip her fried hair and sent the personal shopper in to a panicked scramble to find something educational for her “extremely” bright two year old that was also “blinged” out.

She’s just spending his money and he doesn’t care.

However that one image of Scottie Pippen putting down the Comfy Computer made another potential customer return the already almost purchased computer and several others walk away quickly.

Thanks famewhore’s whore. You look like an overprocessed praying mantis, and you are devouring your famewhore like one as well.

Love Not Love

February 26, 2006

I don’t believe in love. That’s the first thing you have to know about me. I just don’t. I think love is a social construct created to explain our need to be physically intimate with people and not appear as socially defunct by being alone. I mean come on, do the math. Do you really believe there is one person for everyone else in the entire world? Given the statistical diversity and population spread, why does everyone’s soulmate seem to live in the same town as they do? Who’s to say that these people couldn’t live 3,000 miles away, never meant to cross our path and even perhaps be of a different generation. I don’t get love. I don’t get the preternatural fascination we have with it and why we choose to define our lives around searching for it.

It makes me sad sometimes to realize that I’m the type of person who will always be alone. I accept it, but at the same time when a mysterious copy of Modern Bride makes its way into my post box, I do feel a tinge of sadness. I look at the dresses and wish one day I could feel like a princess, like the people in that magazine, just for one day-then I remember love is just a convenience not an actuality.

Sometimes though…

When I got off the subway the other evening after work, when it was springtime in the winter and the temperature soared above to twice what it should be, I saw something. This something might be called the l-word, and in some ways although I know it won’t happen to me, it gave me a little bit of hope, a sign that love may actually exist in this world. This man, probably over 50 not in the best shape was walking around midtown east with who I assumed was his wife. Suddenly he stopped, put his hands on her shoulders then cupping her face. He then did the most shocking things I’ve seen in NYC, he took off his shoes and gave them to his wife-her feet in obvious pain even from my standpoint from wearing 5? stillettos in a mistaken attempt to merge fashion with functionality. Any man that would dredge around on a nyc sidewalk in barefeet just so his wife could be comfortable must love her immensely. I mean, the spirilla, the streptoccacca, the man-eating flesh virus left from human urination exposed to his poor feet, just so his wife could be comfortable. If that’s not sacrifice and selflessness than I don’t know what is.

Is that love? Exposing one self to pain, discomfort, and future loss of toe just so another can be happy, or is it a pre-emptive strike of self preservation to keep one’s sanity when obvious fashion conflicted wife begins nagging and moaning in two seconds from the obvious blisters that will form from her “Camping heels?? I don’t know. Maybe it is love and that makes me all the more sad. Alone and tough I know I’ll always be, but sometimes I want to be weak, just so someone can be tough for me.

Old Man at the Diner

February 23, 2006

Scrambled Eggs, toast, bacon and juice. That’s what he gets everyday, the old man who sits at the third table in the window at the diner on the corner of my block. I see him every morning in his sweater vest, hair neatly combed, shoes polished and news paper folded next to him on the table. Every day he sits there alone and eats the same breakfast. His Usual. That’s how he probably orders it.

He’s a comfort, something that I check on every morning. Make sure that the Old Man is there. I don’t know why he intrigues me so, but his regular patronage of the same table and the same meal is a comfort for me.

The diner often times makes me sad. All the people sitting at the tables in the window, all with someone, friends, family, smiling and laughing, makes me feel quite alone. He however is my steadying force.

I make up stories about this old man. His life. What he’s thinking. What he plans to do with his day. Sometimes he is this widowed old sod who after years of his wife cooking him the same breakfast before he went to work, now has to resort to going to the diner for his breakfast before he returns home alone to continue reading his paper and listening to the radio. Other times, he just someone who has lived alone all his life, too busy in his work to seek anyone out, and this is the only way he feels he can connect with others, by observing them at their tables. Oddly enough, most of the tales I spin about him have this morose romantic quality to them. He just seems like someone who has lived some sort of tragic life. Maybe that’s because he eats alone every day and orders the same thing, maybe it’s just because I’m alone and that’s how I feel sometimes.

I got worried once. He went missing from his normal spot for almost a week. Did something happen? Was he ill? Did he die? Did he suddenly decide forget this, I’m moving to Florida and leaving chilly New York far behind? I worried. I stressed. He wasn’t there at the third table in the window at the diner on the corner of my block anymore. I became all out of sorts. Then miraculously he returned: scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and juice. All was right with the world.

He must have had a cold I thought. Perhaps, his daughter had a kid and he went to visit her for a bit.

I don’t know. I don’t know even why I’m so taken with him. All I know is that it made me feel safe when I saw him at his table with his usual this morning, and that’s the only reason I feel like I can make it through one more day, tough times and all.

To the left of normal

February 17, 2006

I have a friend whose dad is a Catholic priest. No really. And she’s not adopted, illegitimate, or been? mishandled? inappropriately either. Her dad and mother got their marriage annulled due to his calling to the higher order, and now she’s the daughter of a priest.

Apparently there’s a whole bunch of offspring of priests. Some of them probably are along the veins of the Pope John XII, who like slept with his father’s mistress and his niece (and also castrated a deacon) and had enough illegitimate children to repopulate China, but then there are probably the whole annulled kids, we really exist and are legitimate population too. Her mother is a hippie who “remarried? in the forest. Really her step-dad and mom did some ‘shrooms in the forest, he passed her an old key chain ring and there you go marriage made in bliss. I don’t quite get how any of this works, but she is surprisingly normal. Well I mean she’s not a mentalist and is as normal as can be if your dad is a catholic priest and you mom is a hippie who got high in the forest on’ shrooms and declared herself married by power of the key chain ring. She’s got a proper job and everything. Her boyfriend is a bit dodgy. She met him on the internet and for some reason, he has this q-ball bald head but a fumanchu facial growth thing going on. Seems perfectly nice, but again, bald head, fumanchu facial hair. Makes me wonder if he just woke up one day and decided that not only was he going to shave his head but he was going to grow some ridiculous facial hair in order to make himself a candidate for that i-banking job.

All this drama in her life and yet she is probably the most rational, sane, grounded person out there. Sure, she loves Bill Nye and recently went into morning upon his announcement of marriage, but aside from a few quirks, no Bridget Jones type drama. I however, who probably had a more normal childhood, however am completely living in a David E. Kelly Dramedy replete with a chorus line who performs random choreographed numbers for me on the weekends (Seriously, try working part-time with out of work actors and you can see any broadway show condensed down into five minutes for free on call). On one hand my life seems fairly normal and the people in it surprisingly sane, but I on the other hand run just outside of that lane of normalcy. I don’t middle, I just either have drama, comedy, or both.

It makes me wonder what goes into the cosmic cards to make someone have a balanced life, despite their background, and others who should have become the dullest of the dull have so much randomness and chaos? Did I somehow squish some cosmic cockroach and this is the gods of karma way of getting back at me?