and to think i paid $10.75 for THIS
going out to see my babies. she's off the junk, so i'm told, and he's still chilling out twice a day. perhaps tomorrow, as we'll be in a heat wave, we can all go for a walk, me and the elderlies. i imagine i'll be walking, they'll be shuffling, but that's fine. not that there is a countdown to the end, but any time i can spend with them, i will. he's on something called 'clomiCALM', and the bottle has this placid-looking golden retreiver looking just. so. perfect. they should show my needy sheepdog staring blankly, more true to life.
and any entry to ye olde longe islande isn't complete without a countdown of the cast of characters. we have the power! broker! to my left, the window seat of a three seater. about five years my senior, very good looking, uber-straight guy who felt the need to extend his scarf from his seat to the aisle seat. well, dear, i don't take such sanctimony lightheartedly. it was a seat going in the direction i like, it wasn't next to a crazy-looking lady as in aisles 1, 2, and 3, and, yeah, well, that's enough. i stopped in my tracks, throwing him the, 'i am sure as hell not sitting with her' look and he moved his scarf to reveal a seat that may have had coffee dripped upon its unfortunate self at some point in the past few weeks. certainly not posing a threat to today's casual friday khakis. ok, i could, could have gone to seat five, but it was the principle involved. i mean, the whole, 'but are you paying for two seats' thing is almost obsolete, this smug little twat had his SCARF extended, scarf, i mean, come now! and that he's clearly this power broker, it was even more fun to get MY way. check. mate.
called marge to tell her that i missed the express, again, by one fucking minute. ONE MINUTE. this time, not me dicking around me flophouse, but the a-train wouldn't cooperate. why wouldn't the a cooperate? simple reason: people in new york city won't take criticism. anywhere. coffee too hot? fuck you, your parameters are too narrow. coffee too much? fuck you, get your coffee from another street vendor. coffee too strong? deal, this is new york, after all. and so the same dream, different pajamas drama ensued. none of the blue trains were at west fourth for clearly quite a bit (about 5 long new york minutes, i'd infer...) when the a-train shows up. several people from the local track side cross over, and everyone from the express side get ready to move. it's when i get next to (i'll call her esther, she just looks like an) esther. and esther is clearly mad: she piles onto the train just as the doors open, not to be outdone by a woman who, well, wouldn't be outdone. 'let us the HELL off the train. bitch.' 'bitch who you call BITCH. me no BITCH, you BITCH. YOU BITCH WITH FAT ASS BITCH' and me not having any part of 'my train leaves in four minutes so move it along' (not a problem usually....) start in, 'cmon cmon cmon cmon, move it along sister.' 'you bitch too.' 'yes, and you're making this bitch late, move it, sweets.'
and she did.
the woman on the other side of the aisle, one seat up, is frou-frou to the n-th degree. her perfume? pungent. (and expensive...) her jewelry? she's not playing. her wardrobe? yeah, i've seen that suit set once or twice already this season, but it IS signature chanel... and the pashmina? well, it's the real deal, but it's half on her and half on the floor. i don't get it. she's so put together otherwise, i almost want to tap her and tell her, but she doesn't seem to be the tapping 'excusemeyou'renotdoingsomethingright' kind of person. i imagine her to be this ball busting corporate exec who has gotten where she is by being a ball busting corporate exec. and with the completion of that last sentence, she itched her head with her left hand and the ring finger was naked. surprise, surprise... she's also hugging a clear liquid in a clear plastic cup from the little platform vendors. poor dear is a mess...
and then came the battle o' the scarves with my seat neighbor. he folded his scarf, from that store with the plaid you know so well (augh) just. so. perfectly. i scrunched my drycleanonlybutiwasstonedandthrewitinthewashingmachine scarf in a bunched ball next to me. he folds his again, with longer sections between the folds and it hits mine. he smoothes it out to straighten it, and pushes mine just *that* much toward me. i throw him a look. 'is there a problem?' 'just straightening out my scarf.' 'watch the coffee stains.'
augh, and now the ball buster is giggling and talking with the guy directly across the aisle from her, the guy in the seat directly in front of me. this won't end well.
and any entry to ye olde longe islande isn't complete without a countdown of the cast of characters. we have the power! broker! to my left, the window seat of a three seater. about five years my senior, very good looking, uber-straight guy who felt the need to extend his scarf from his seat to the aisle seat. well, dear, i don't take such sanctimony lightheartedly. it was a seat going in the direction i like, it wasn't next to a crazy-looking lady as in aisles 1, 2, and 3, and, yeah, well, that's enough. i stopped in my tracks, throwing him the, 'i am sure as hell not sitting with her' look and he moved his scarf to reveal a seat that may have had coffee dripped upon its unfortunate self at some point in the past few weeks. certainly not posing a threat to today's casual friday khakis. ok, i could, could have gone to seat five, but it was the principle involved. i mean, the whole, 'but are you paying for two seats' thing is almost obsolete, this smug little twat had his SCARF extended, scarf, i mean, come now! and that he's clearly this power broker, it was even more fun to get MY way. check. mate.
called marge to tell her that i missed the express, again, by one fucking minute. ONE MINUTE. this time, not me dicking around me flophouse, but the a-train wouldn't cooperate. why wouldn't the a cooperate? simple reason: people in new york city won't take criticism. anywhere. coffee too hot? fuck you, your parameters are too narrow. coffee too much? fuck you, get your coffee from another street vendor. coffee too strong? deal, this is new york, after all. and so the same dream, different pajamas drama ensued. none of the blue trains were at west fourth for clearly quite a bit (about 5 long new york minutes, i'd infer...) when the a-train shows up. several people from the local track side cross over, and everyone from the express side get ready to move. it's when i get next to (i'll call her esther, she just looks like an) esther. and esther is clearly mad: she piles onto the train just as the doors open, not to be outdone by a woman who, well, wouldn't be outdone. 'let us the HELL off the train. bitch.' 'bitch who you call BITCH. me no BITCH, you BITCH. YOU BITCH WITH FAT ASS BITCH' and me not having any part of 'my train leaves in four minutes so move it along' (not a problem usually....) start in, 'cmon cmon cmon cmon, move it along sister.' 'you bitch too.' 'yes, and you're making this bitch late, move it, sweets.'
and she did.
the woman on the other side of the aisle, one seat up, is frou-frou to the n-th degree. her perfume? pungent. (and expensive...) her jewelry? she's not playing. her wardrobe? yeah, i've seen that suit set once or twice already this season, but it IS signature chanel... and the pashmina? well, it's the real deal, but it's half on her and half on the floor. i don't get it. she's so put together otherwise, i almost want to tap her and tell her, but she doesn't seem to be the tapping 'excusemeyou'renotdoingsomethingright' kind of person. i imagine her to be this ball busting corporate exec who has gotten where she is by being a ball busting corporate exec. and with the completion of that last sentence, she itched her head with her left hand and the ring finger was naked. surprise, surprise... she's also hugging a clear liquid in a clear plastic cup from the little platform vendors. poor dear is a mess...
and then came the battle o' the scarves with my seat neighbor. he folded his scarf, from that store with the plaid you know so well (augh) just. so. perfectly. i scrunched my drycleanonlybutiwasstonedandthrewitinthewashingmachine scarf in a bunched ball next to me. he folds his again, with longer sections between the folds and it hits mine. he smoothes it out to straighten it, and pushes mine just *that* much toward me. i throw him a look. 'is there a problem?' 'just straightening out my scarf.' 'watch the coffee stains.'
augh, and now the ball buster is giggling and talking with the guy directly across the aisle from her, the guy in the seat directly in front of me. this won't end well.
posted by tom at 12:32 PM
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