Audrey Griswold is back, but this time, she's being force fed by someone else: her husband, Tim. She came home late last night, not hungry, even though she didn't have dinner. Because her husband firmly believes in dinner, he proceeded to take out a big old order of Indian food including her spinachy, cheesy favorite, palak paneer. Tim placed that delicious dish right down in front of her, and not being one to deny a good meal, hungry or not, she had a taste. And then another and then another. Now, she definitely would have stopped at this point because while slightly piggish, it was still at an acceptable point, especially for a gal who enjoys food. But then Tim proceeded to sit down right across from her, coaxing her to take another bite and then another, telling her that he wanted her to put on some weight. What girl doesn't want to believe that she actually needs to gain weight, especially when she is right in the midst of an abusive pig out session? I don't think I need to go into explicit detail here, because I think it's pretty clear what happened next. She ate and ate and ate as her husband coaxed her to go on until she felt like her eyeballs had turned dark green and she felt like she was going to vomit and pass out. And then the pain began. All night, she was tossing and turning while nightmarish visions of palak paneer danced in her head.
I seriously almost just threw up writing that. I'm not sure what the significance of this story is or how it relates to farming, but I really wanted to let you know that it's not my fault, just in case you're wondering why I look like I put on 15 pounds since the last time you saw me. It's not my fault
it's not my fault
it's not my fault
it's not my fault
Friday, April 30, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Boobquake
I made the mistake of talking to a reporter for the New York Post yesterday when he stopped me because I was wearing a "revealing top". It wasn't. But I suppose when you are searching for boobs in Chelsea, the gayest neighborhood in New York and possibly the world, my little guys in a v-cut shirt will do. Anyway, this guy stops me, asks me about my thoughts on Boobquake to which I replied that I supported it in theory, but was not actively trying to partake. He then went on to get my "political" take on the matter and I of course replied that the theory that exposing one's cleavage leads to earthquakes is absolutely preposterous and something to the effect of "why are we even having this ridiculous conversation?" So then Newsdude goes on to print the story(click here BOOBQUAKE!!! )which I am praying shows my deep sarcasm although it sort of reads as though I am serious.
The real catastrophe here is that my crazy husband now posits that we are going to be attacked by Muslim extremists and that we must have a gun in our apartment also. Yes, to protect us from the Muslim extremists. Even he had a hard time saying that with a straight face and when I gave him the similar look of doubt that I gave to the Newsdude, he wiped the smile off and said, seriously though, they could find you very easily using the Internet in order to seek revenge. I married a lunatic.
See? I told you I had small ones
The real catastrophe here is that my crazy husband now posits that we are going to be attacked by Muslim extremists and that we must have a gun in our apartment also. Yes, to protect us from the Muslim extremists. Even he had a hard time saying that with a straight face and when I gave him the similar look of doubt that I gave to the Newsdude, he wiped the smile off and said, seriously though, they could find you very easily using the Internet in order to seek revenge. I married a lunatic.
See? I told you I had small ones
Monday, April 26, 2010
Mud Couture
Or, alternatively, Haute Mud.
Seriously though, who knew that the muddy farm girl look is in? This is a real window display at big dept store in Manhattan. I am so ahead of the curve, hot damn
Even better news is that I hear the new look on the Paris runways is "voluptuous" and that they are using models that are, gasp, size 2's and, double gasp, even size 4's this season! Fat chicks in mud boots? These are incredible times, my friends, incredible times.
Seriously though, who knew that the muddy farm girl look is in? This is a real window display at big dept store in Manhattan. I am so ahead of the curve, hot damn
Even better news is that I hear the new look on the Paris runways is "voluptuous" and that they are using models that are, gasp, size 2's and, double gasp, even size 4's this season! Fat chicks in mud boots? These are incredible times, my friends, incredible times.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Poacher
I love my husband more than anything in the world, I really do, but some of his hick-like tendencies frighten me. He openly admits to having these tendencies, which I think is probably a good thing, but it worries me nonetheless. I just try to play it off as his inner caveman. All men have them I think. The only hick thing that really bothers me, though, is his ever growing shotgun collection. I'm pretty vehemently anti-gun and consider the NRA to be an offshoot of really horrible organizations and Old Boys' Clubs like the KKK. Yes, I hate it that much. So as you can imagine, we have had many debates that just end up in a fight, but at this point in our relationship, I know it's better to avoid the subject altogeher, but he called me last night with a pretty funny gun story that I had to share.
So while I am stuck in Manhattan this weekend to cover the Tribeca Film Festival for work, Tim is down on the farm, working away. At the end of the day yesterday, I guess he decided to pull out the gun collection and started firing off shots. Well, the neighbor in the old stone barn next door heard the shots and though there was someone on our property trying to hunt out of season. Tim, with his ear protectors on, did not hear her SCREAMING at him until after she had already called the police. When he did finally hear her (he emphasized that she was actually, really and truly SCREAMING), he walked up the long driveway and chased after her that it was just him, the owner. She was like whoops, but the cops were already on their way. She was really embarrassed when they showed up but, Tim being Tim, he really yucked it up with the copper, talking about the crazy old lady. In fact, turns out the cop was the one who discovered Steven, the farmer who hung himself, hanging in our barn. Weird stuff. After a lot of standing around and chatting, as only cops can do, he put his cap back on then drove off. To add a little more humor to an already strange moment, our stupid dog ran after the cop car for about a mile with Tim waving and running behind the car but that damn dog is fast and the cop didn't notice and almost killed the poor dog. I guess she finally ran out of steam and then trotted back to Tim unharmed. Tim however almost had a heart attack from the sprinting and seeing her almost die. Meanwhile, I was drinking a glass of 15 dollar wine at a swank hotel bar chatting about all the movies I had seen all day. And we go back to the overall theme of this here blog; why would anyone in their right mind want to be shooting cans on a pile of dirt while they could be doing something so much more refined and elegant?
So while I am stuck in Manhattan this weekend to cover the Tribeca Film Festival for work, Tim is down on the farm, working away. At the end of the day yesterday, I guess he decided to pull out the gun collection and started firing off shots. Well, the neighbor in the old stone barn next door heard the shots and though there was someone on our property trying to hunt out of season. Tim, with his ear protectors on, did not hear her SCREAMING at him until after she had already called the police. When he did finally hear her (he emphasized that she was actually, really and truly SCREAMING), he walked up the long driveway and chased after her that it was just him, the owner. She was like whoops, but the cops were already on their way. She was really embarrassed when they showed up but, Tim being Tim, he really yucked it up with the copper, talking about the crazy old lady. In fact, turns out the cop was the one who discovered Steven, the farmer who hung himself, hanging in our barn. Weird stuff. After a lot of standing around and chatting, as only cops can do, he put his cap back on then drove off. To add a little more humor to an already strange moment, our stupid dog ran after the cop car for about a mile with Tim waving and running behind the car but that damn dog is fast and the cop didn't notice and almost killed the poor dog. I guess she finally ran out of steam and then trotted back to Tim unharmed. Tim however almost had a heart attack from the sprinting and seeing her almost die. Meanwhile, I was drinking a glass of 15 dollar wine at a swank hotel bar chatting about all the movies I had seen all day. And we go back to the overall theme of this here blog; why would anyone in their right mind want to be shooting cans on a pile of dirt while they could be doing something so much more refined and elegant?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Flashbacks
I stopped by the B-Bar last night to pick up a friend on the way to a Tribeca Film fest party and found her out on the back patio. I sat down at the table and was chatting away but felt this presence looming over me. Watching me. I couldn't shake this creepy feeling and it really didn't make sense. I was with friends drinking cocktails on an outdoor patio, nothing sinister there. Until I looked up....
That's when I saw the twisty vines looking down at me, laughing and tempting me to come chop them down. I felt my clipper hand shaking with excitement and my heart started beating faster. I HAVE to get those vines down, I thought. Those hideous invasive poison ivy vines. Thankfully, my friend pulled me back to earth by reminding me how bad my hair looked (lumpy pony) and I was able to resume normal conversation. But I just had to take a pic before I left. See? there is really no difference. (except for the Christmas lights that are unsuccessfully trying to mask the horror)
Whoever designed the B-Bar will probably never realize the cruel joke that he/she played on me but I'm confident that a big hunk of poison ivy is having a good laugh down at the farm right now, knowing that it has me in its grips no matter where I may be, no matter what I may be doing.
That's when I saw the twisty vines looking down at me, laughing and tempting me to come chop them down. I felt my clipper hand shaking with excitement and my heart started beating faster. I HAVE to get those vines down, I thought. Those hideous invasive poison ivy vines. Thankfully, my friend pulled me back to earth by reminding me how bad my hair looked (lumpy pony) and I was able to resume normal conversation. But I just had to take a pic before I left. See? there is really no difference. (except for the Christmas lights that are unsuccessfully trying to mask the horror)
Whoever designed the B-Bar will probably never realize the cruel joke that he/she played on me but I'm confident that a big hunk of poison ivy is having a good laugh down at the farm right now, knowing that it has me in its grips no matter where I may be, no matter what I may be doing.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Piles
This is what I did this weekend.
I made giant piles of weeds, vines, rocks, branches, and trash. Jealous? Didn't think so. Nursing a hangover on Sunday never seemed so fun until we started working on the farm.
This pile here was monstrous...
(I'm almost afraid to share this shot and admit the decrepitness of my favorite barn but it has so much potential. You see it too, right?)
((Or maybe you just see the gremlin...))
Anyway. I also managed to pull a muscle in my back by throwing one of those cinder blocks that you may or may not be able to see in pile #3
At least it was nice out...
Friday, April 16, 2010
Let's Get Philosophical
Is opportunism wrong? Discuss.
We had dinner at a very well-to-do woman's home last night. And by woman, I mean someone much younger than me. And by well-to-do, I mean absolutely ridiculously fucking loaded. She has a four bedroom-3 bedroom apartment in downtown Manhattan with killer views. It is probably worth 3 million, if not more. She also has a compound at a very famous ski resort. And by compound, I mean compound. Did I mention she's twentysomething? Okay, she's loaded. No denying it. You get it. And now the conundrum.
My issue is that I am having a hard time wondering if I can ever really be friends with her or will her ridiculous wealth ruin that possibility? I really like her and get along with her. If I met her at a bar, friendship would be inevitable, but now that I know that she eats pieces of shit like me for breakfast, I am not sure that we can be friends. Part of that comes from doubting myself and my motivations. I saw one of my other friends bending over backwards to kiss her ass and shower her with compliments and get all snuggly bunny with her in a manner that was just shy of prostitution. No sex was exchanged in reality of course but let's just say, had Rich Girl asked, it could have happened. And now I'm referring to her as Rich Girl. See? It might not be possible for me to overlook her wealth. I will constantly be second guessing my motivations. Do I like her or do I just like her lifestyle? Maybe my friend really truly likes her and is not trying to weasel her way into the will. Maybe the world is full of good people who get along regardless of stature. And maybe I will win the Lottery. Sigh. You may say I'm a dreamer...
but I'm not the only one.
We had dinner at a very well-to-do woman's home last night. And by woman, I mean someone much younger than me. And by well-to-do, I mean absolutely ridiculously fucking loaded. She has a four bedroom-3 bedroom apartment in downtown Manhattan with killer views. It is probably worth 3 million, if not more. She also has a compound at a very famous ski resort. And by compound, I mean compound. Did I mention she's twentysomething? Okay, she's loaded. No denying it. You get it. And now the conundrum.
My issue is that I am having a hard time wondering if I can ever really be friends with her or will her ridiculous wealth ruin that possibility? I really like her and get along with her. If I met her at a bar, friendship would be inevitable, but now that I know that she eats pieces of shit like me for breakfast, I am not sure that we can be friends. Part of that comes from doubting myself and my motivations. I saw one of my other friends bending over backwards to kiss her ass and shower her with compliments and get all snuggly bunny with her in a manner that was just shy of prostitution. No sex was exchanged in reality of course but let's just say, had Rich Girl asked, it could have happened. And now I'm referring to her as Rich Girl. See? It might not be possible for me to overlook her wealth. I will constantly be second guessing my motivations. Do I like her or do I just like her lifestyle? Maybe my friend really truly likes her and is not trying to weasel her way into the will. Maybe the world is full of good people who get along regardless of stature. And maybe I will win the Lottery. Sigh. You may say I'm a dreamer...
but I'm not the only one.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Quote of the Day
"If you buy one more pair of shoes, we are getting a divorce."
My question to him is does that only include the shoes that he knows about or does it count retroactively so that it includes all shoes purchased before and up to that moment? Because I bought two pairs of shoes last week and another pair the week before that he still hasn't seen and I am wondering if I should have the receipts on hand as proof of the dates of purchase or if it doesn't matter anyway because he's talking about the specific set of shoes that he knows about and despises, from today onward. Just need a little clarity so I can prepare myself mentally if I'm going to be signing divorce papers.
MALE JUDGE: Too many shoes? I hear you, brother. My ex and I parted ways over handbags. Who pays a thousand dollars for a handbag? Christ almighty.
FEMALE JUDGE: Too many shoes? I'm sorry, but that is not grounds for divorce. What do you want, some nasty slopdog who lets it all fall to shit the day after you get back from the honeymoon, eating french fries and farting out loud and trading her sexy, strappy sandals in for Naturalizers and Crocs? Men. You can't win.
Divorce not granted.
My question to him is does that only include the shoes that he knows about or does it count retroactively so that it includes all shoes purchased before and up to that moment? Because I bought two pairs of shoes last week and another pair the week before that he still hasn't seen and I am wondering if I should have the receipts on hand as proof of the dates of purchase or if it doesn't matter anyway because he's talking about the specific set of shoes that he knows about and despises, from today onward. Just need a little clarity so I can prepare myself mentally if I'm going to be signing divorce papers.
MALE JUDGE: Too many shoes? I hear you, brother. My ex and I parted ways over handbags. Who pays a thousand dollars for a handbag? Christ almighty.
FEMALE JUDGE: Too many shoes? I'm sorry, but that is not grounds for divorce. What do you want, some nasty slopdog who lets it all fall to shit the day after you get back from the honeymoon, eating french fries and farting out loud and trading her sexy, strappy sandals in for Naturalizers and Crocs? Men. You can't win.
Divorce not granted.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Rake Tree and the Buried Treasure
As I was clearing out the hideously overgrown front yard this weekend, I stumbled upon things you cannot imagine. And I am not talking about things conceived in nature (although those can be a little scary too -we saw a spider on Saturday that looked like it belonged in the Amazon rather than New Jersey), I'm talking about mounds of trash. Weird trash at that. You've already seen the old fashioned adding machine. Hiding in the bushes, I also discovered an Adirondack chair, an igloo thermos, a roll of fiberglass, a car door, motor oil and metal poles, buckets filled with some sort of black oily substance that I think may have been moonshine, and millions of soda cans just thrown all over the place. My favorite, however, was definitely Rake Tree.
Initially I saw the handle of this thing lodged in the tree and thought it was a ski pole. I tried to pull it out but it was not moving. I assumed it was just stuck under the gross pile of leaves and decided to come back to it after I cleared out the vines more thoroughly. Hours later, after tearing down piles and piles of vines with my bare hands, I discovered the end of a rake underneath the vines and the fiberglass roll. I tried to pull it out and then realized that it was on the other end of what I thought to be the ski pole and it had actually grown into the tree. That pretty much sums up not only the state of our farm, but also the state of mind of the man who lived there before us. How do you let a beautiful piece of property fall into such despair for so long that a tree can grow itself around a rake?
My husband and his father were wondering the same thing down at the barnsite where they were digging a trench. Our questions were answered later that day when we were paid a visit from the neighbor, Tony, who lives across the street and used to be friendly with the owner, Steve. Turns out Steve hung himself in one of the barns after years of fighting with his wife then discovering that she was sleeping with the farm hand. Apparently Steve was so upset with her that he not only hung himself, but he took all of his money out of the bank so that she could never touch it. According to Tony, local legend has it that he buried a million dollars in cash in a cooler somewhere on the property. Now, I am the most cynical person in the world and obviously don't believe that one day Tim
Initially I saw the handle of this thing lodged in the tree and thought it was a ski pole. I tried to pull it out but it was not moving. I assumed it was just stuck under the gross pile of leaves and decided to come back to it after I cleared out the vines more thoroughly. Hours later, after tearing down piles and piles of vines with my bare hands, I discovered the end of a rake underneath the vines and the fiberglass roll. I tried to pull it out and then realized that it was on the other end of what I thought to be the ski pole and it had actually grown into the tree. That pretty much sums up not only the state of our farm, but also the state of mind of the man who lived there before us. How do you let a beautiful piece of property fall into such despair for so long that a tree can grow itself around a rake?
My husband and his father were wondering the same thing down at the barnsite where they were digging a trench. Our questions were answered later that day when we were paid a visit from the neighbor, Tony, who lives across the street and used to be friendly with the owner, Steve. Turns out Steve hung himself in one of the barns after years of fighting with his wife then discovering that she was sleeping with the farm hand. Apparently Steve was so upset with her that he not only hung himself, but he took all of his money out of the bank so that she could never touch it. According to Tony, local legend has it that he buried a million dollars in cash in a cooler somewhere on the property. Now, I am the most cynical person in the world and obviously don't believe that one day Tim
and I are going to come across a million dollars cash, but the evidence does point to that fact that poor Steve, God rest his soul, lost his marbles in the end and it seems possible that he could have done something as bizarre as burying cash on the land. So while I'm certainly not going to consider it an asset when I figure out my worth for the gov next April 15, there is definitely a teeny tiny part of me that thinks that it is POSSIBLE. And that will carry me through the darkest hours of weeding and tearing down vines and cleaning up trash. Because believe me, it can get very dark when you're all alone for 6 hours with a pair of hedge clippers and an endless battle against vines as thick as your ankle.
Friday, April 9, 2010
The lost Collyer Sister
Margaret's shit is rapidly spreading into our domain. The pile of stuff that she had out there last week is gone but it has been replaced by this giant bureau. It’s actually hard to squeeze by it.
And I spared you all this stuff at the end of the hall last week when I reported on Mat, her doormat, but I can’t hold it back any longer.
This is insane. I went in there one time and you can’t even imagine. I only made it as far as the kitchen because the rest of the apartment was blocked with boxes and chairs and crap. Her stove was covered with stuff, the top of her refrigerator piled to the ceiling with stuff. There was even a table in front of a table in front of a table in front of the stove, all of these tables covered with knick knacks. There was a small, winding path to the bathroom between the towering piles of bags and boxes stacked precariously on chairs. On a side note, the clearly nonfunctioning kitchen explains why she’s so damn skinny. I’ll take a photo of her one of these days. She also loves to wear pigtails and little girl clothes. Yes, she is 80.
Okay, now I realize that Tim and I don’t live in the nice doorman building we used to, and yes, our rent is unbelievably cheap for a two bedroom, but knowing this madness exists a mere 3 feet away from the place in which I sleep and hang my clothes really cheapens my identity. The reality is that I am not that fancy but I do like to give off a certain illusion of some taste and class. But it’s constantly threatened, especially when I can’t walk down my (already ugly) hallway without completing an obstacle course through a crazy old lady’s random objects. Damn, I am really struggling with this class thing!
I’m still recovering from the (non-denominational and yet clearly a Christian holiday based on Christ saving our souls) Easter weekend at my parent’s house in Pennsyl-tucky last weekend. But that’s another story. And a longer one. And I’m not in the mood to go there right now. Some things need to be fueled by alcohol and that’s just the truth. Next time I sit down with a glass of wine, I will go into the argument I had with my mom about whether or not The Da Vinci Code is a work of fiction. She is certain that it is not. Ladies and gentleman, she is an English professor. Oh my.
And I spared you all this stuff at the end of the hall last week when I reported on Mat, her doormat, but I can’t hold it back any longer.
This is insane. I went in there one time and you can’t even imagine. I only made it as far as the kitchen because the rest of the apartment was blocked with boxes and chairs and crap. Her stove was covered with stuff, the top of her refrigerator piled to the ceiling with stuff. There was even a table in front of a table in front of a table in front of the stove, all of these tables covered with knick knacks. There was a small, winding path to the bathroom between the towering piles of bags and boxes stacked precariously on chairs. On a side note, the clearly nonfunctioning kitchen explains why she’s so damn skinny. I’ll take a photo of her one of these days. She also loves to wear pigtails and little girl clothes. Yes, she is 80.
Okay, now I realize that Tim and I don’t live in the nice doorman building we used to, and yes, our rent is unbelievably cheap for a two bedroom, but knowing this madness exists a mere 3 feet away from the place in which I sleep and hang my clothes really cheapens my identity. The reality is that I am not that fancy but I do like to give off a certain illusion of some taste and class. But it’s constantly threatened, especially when I can’t walk down my (already ugly) hallway without completing an obstacle course through a crazy old lady’s random objects. Damn, I am really struggling with this class thing!
I’m still recovering from the (non-denominational and yet clearly a Christian holiday based on Christ saving our souls) Easter weekend at my parent’s house in Pennsyl-tucky last weekend. But that’s another story. And a longer one. And I’m not in the mood to go there right now. Some things need to be fueled by alcohol and that’s just the truth. Next time I sit down with a glass of wine, I will go into the argument I had with my mom about whether or not The Da Vinci Code is a work of fiction. She is certain that it is not. Ladies and gentleman, she is an English professor. Oh my.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Spring Hormonal Rage
The weather in NYC has been absolutely horrible for so long that people go effing nuts when it is finally nice out. This happens like clockwork every year, but this year seems to be particularly insane, perhaps because of the interminable winter. Who knows. Who cares. The point is that people are fucking nuts. And by people, I should really narrow that down to approximately half of the population. Even Tim has admitted that, like all other dudes, he gets spring fever. He's even been kind enough to get into explicit detail about bare nipples rubbing against silky dresses and stuff like that that I don't really want to hear. Anyway...
I WAS A VICTIM of Spring Hormonal Rage last night. It started with your typical hoots and hollers. Fine. Whatever. I'm old, I must admit I kind of enjoy a turn of the head and even a hoot once in a while. A holler is a bit much, but I guess it's nice to be noticed in any way at my old age. Things got progressively weirder and more aggressive as the night went on and a crazy man started laughing and screaming about how pornography has really changed since the 20's. Honestly, it was sort of funny and my two friends and I laughed about it for a while. When we parted ways and headed home, I was stalked for about fifteen blocks by a nice young man named Frank who had the hiccups. Frank was about 23 and not so great at chitchat and I finally had to say "Frank. You seem like a very nice guy, but I'm married and you live in Hoboken and it's just not going to work out for you with me tonight. I don't want to ruin your chances with someone else." I gave him a firm handshake and a leftover bottle of water for the hiccups and sent him on his merry way. I then made a strange decision to get on the subway. The strangest part is that nothing happened down there. Everything was still somewhat normal until I got to the Upper East Side and was crossing 86th St/ 2nd Ave when all of a sudden a car full of bridge and tunnel dudes tried to run over me. I was in the damn crosswalk and they sped at me. AT me. Little old me! When I gave them the finger, they pulled up beside me and yelled obscenities and laughed at me. I was furious as you can probably imagine and, fueled by wine and prosecco, I yelled back at them. Mistake! They tried to swerve at me, laughing and laughing and then they got stuck at the traffic light while I quickly stormed after them. I then made the fatal mistake of getting REALLY mad and seeing my opportunity to "get them" while they were stuck at the light, I ran like mad at the car, screaming "I hope you fucking die you fucking assholes." I honestly couldn't believe what I was saying or doing as I simultaneously threw my purse at the car in a rage. The best part was when I fell flat on my face in my heels and nice dress in the middle of Second Avenue with my purse in the middle of the road. Not one of my finer moments. I guess I sort of deserve the bloody knees for not being able to control my temper and dropping the F bomb so freely like that. Not very ladylike. It's probably not nice to wish death upon people either, but they sort of deserved it. My husband just called me an idiot when I told him the story. He's the best.
P.S. Stop your judging. I am fully aware my knees are fat.
I WAS A VICTIM of Spring Hormonal Rage last night. It started with your typical hoots and hollers. Fine. Whatever. I'm old, I must admit I kind of enjoy a turn of the head and even a hoot once in a while. A holler is a bit much, but I guess it's nice to be noticed in any way at my old age. Things got progressively weirder and more aggressive as the night went on and a crazy man started laughing and screaming about how pornography has really changed since the 20's. Honestly, it was sort of funny and my two friends and I laughed about it for a while. When we parted ways and headed home, I was stalked for about fifteen blocks by a nice young man named Frank who had the hiccups. Frank was about 23 and not so great at chitchat and I finally had to say "Frank. You seem like a very nice guy, but I'm married and you live in Hoboken and it's just not going to work out for you with me tonight. I don't want to ruin your chances with someone else." I gave him a firm handshake and a leftover bottle of water for the hiccups and sent him on his merry way. I then made a strange decision to get on the subway. The strangest part is that nothing happened down there. Everything was still somewhat normal until I got to the Upper East Side and was crossing 86th St/ 2nd Ave when all of a sudden a car full of bridge and tunnel dudes tried to run over me. I was in the damn crosswalk and they sped at me. AT me. Little old me! When I gave them the finger, they pulled up beside me and yelled obscenities and laughed at me. I was furious as you can probably imagine and, fueled by wine and prosecco, I yelled back at them. Mistake! They tried to swerve at me, laughing and laughing and then they got stuck at the traffic light while I quickly stormed after them. I then made the fatal mistake of getting REALLY mad and seeing my opportunity to "get them" while they were stuck at the light, I ran like mad at the car, screaming "I hope you fucking die you fucking assholes." I honestly couldn't believe what I was saying or doing as I simultaneously threw my purse at the car in a rage. The best part was when I fell flat on my face in my heels and nice dress in the middle of Second Avenue with my purse in the middle of the road. Not one of my finer moments. I guess I sort of deserve the bloody knees for not being able to control my temper and dropping the F bomb so freely like that. Not very ladylike. It's probably not nice to wish death upon people either, but they sort of deserved it. My husband just called me an idiot when I told him the story. He's the best.
P.S. Stop your judging. I am fully aware my knees are fat.
Monday, April 5, 2010
From Guns to Wigs
This is a real conversation I had with my husband yesterday while driving to the farm.
Him: Once we get settled I want to start a wig collection.
Me: A what?
Him: A wig collection.
Me: A wig collection?
Him: Yeah a ridiculous wig collection. Yeah just get a big closet and line the top shelf with wigs.
A very long pause.
Me: Why?
Him: Sometimes you just want to rock a mullet. Like that guy with the long flowing blonde donger last night.
Me: Is this some sort of overcompensation for your hair loss?
Him: Not at all.
Me: Okay. But what does the farm have to do with wigs?
Him: Nothing. I just need that shelf space.
Me: I still don't understand.
Him: Some days you just want to change it up.
Me: Right.
Him: I mean, like ridiculous ones. But nice though. Made of real hair. Not Halloween style.
Him: Once we get settled I want to start a wig collection.
Me: A what?
Him: A wig collection.
Me: A wig collection?
Him: Yeah a ridiculous wig collection. Yeah just get a big closet and line the top shelf with wigs.
A very long pause.
Me: Why?
Him: Sometimes you just want to rock a mullet. Like that guy with the long flowing blonde donger last night.
Me: Is this some sort of overcompensation for your hair loss?
Him: Not at all.
Me: Okay. But what does the farm have to do with wigs?
Him: Nothing. I just need that shelf space.
Me: I still don't understand.
Him: Some days you just want to change it up.
Me: Right.
Him: I mean, like ridiculous ones. But nice though. Made of real hair. Not Halloween style.
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