bright pink hot pants and bad hair

and as it's week two of writing this from the pleather goodness from the long island railroad, marge wasn't even playing with me when i called home to say i'd be home a little after ten. 'well, your sister-in-law is going to have to pick you up, again. we opened a delightful bottle of red from the tuscan region. we'll save you some.' 'i just kicked it, ma.' 'oh, well, your brother just poured the last, but it's ok, dear, there is plenty of lovely other ones for when you get home.' 'they got married?' 'you know what i mean. [hic]. i never had a metro before. your brother is such a good bartender.' 'cosmo?' 'oh yes, that's what it is. so good. my my. you must ask him to make you one of these when you get home. you'd love them.' 'honey, you're forgetting you raised a fag. of course i know what a cosmo is. we invented them.' 'oh. well then, you people make good drinks.'

and i'm on the train next to chatty kathy and her mother who got on at woodside. kathy is wearing a pair of bright pink hot pants that may, just may, be burning my retinas, for they border on flourescent, but that's merely semantics: that i need a pair of those glasses you wear when welding just to look at her general direction should say enough. i may be getting tan just sitting here. seems she's moving out soon for college or beauty school or something. called her prospective college roommate and found out, as did my whole car, that her dorm room is 8 x 11 (bitch) with beige carpeting. the living room (bitch) is 'marble gray!' and the kitchen has a brown table and four brown chairs. (now i really hate her.) chatty's mother is wearing gold sequence sandles and really needs to touch up her roots. both of them have been gabbing on their light-up cels with the delightful rings for the last thirty or so minutes, and the is-he-or-isn't-he-homeless guy just took off his shoes. i am very ready for a metro and my big, squishy sheepdogs, believe you me.