You are currently browsing the bangsandabun.com blog archives for the year 2007.
Sunday, December 30th, 2007
Rihanna’s Umbrella
When even your mother says ‘ella ella’ after the word umbrella, you know it’s gone too far.
The British Invasion
Between Amy Winehouse’s smack sagas and Lily Allen’s whining about her weight on her blog, the only sane Brit to break through (and yet still be underrated) was M.I.A.
The Iraq War Raged on
For the love of Christ (and Allah) – withdraw your troops bitches! Seriously, withdraw your troops.
That Green Dress Keira Knightly Wore in Atonement
If Knightly doesn’t win the Oscar, that dress should. And I’m not talking about some ‘best costume design’ bullshit. I mean literally that dress should walk up on stage and take the statue.
The Sopranos Ended
But it hasn’t for me yet. Due to my lack of a TV, I’m catching up on the show from the beginning via DVD (on my computer). I figure sometime in 2009, I may actually know how it ends.
Iranian Leader Practiced How to Make Enemies and Alienate People
Apparently unaware that Jews and the gays run this shit, President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad went to America and offended every last one of them by making some outrageous comments about both groups. Not that he cares – he’s hardcore like that.
Britney’s Meltdown
Try as you might to avoid it, there was no escape. The divorce, the vagina monologues, the shaved head, the umbrella (ella ella) incident, the custody battle, that MTV performance. She introduced the world to a new and improved, loud and proud, wear-it-on-your-sleeve brand of crazy.
That Final Scene in Michael Clayton
Played out by Clooney to absolute perfection. And if you look close enough, you can clearly see George giving me the bedroom eyes.
Feist
Canadian and not at all boring! Yeah, she’s been around for years, but nothing says ‘I’ve arrived’ like your song being featured on an iPod commercial. C’mon admit it, a little bit of 1,2,3,4 comes up when you hit shuffle.
Al Qaeda’s Failed Attempt to blow up Glasgow Airport
Random and ridiculous.
Conrad Black’s Demise
Who doesn’t love to see a villain go down? He deserved every day of that time for being so stupid as to not turn off the CCTV cameras while sneaking evidence out of his office. I’d be happier if he was doing ‘Oz’ kind of time, but he’s just doing ‘Martha Stewart’ kind of time, which means he’ll probably come out of there promoting some new line of home furnishings or something.
Transformers
Overall, it was disappointing and about 30 minutes too long, but I include this for the circumstances under which I saw it. It was when my parents and bro were over visiting. As we were staying in the boondocks and neither my brother nor I drive, we had to get our parents to give us a ride to the movie theatre and pick us up. I even had to borrow money from my dad to see it. Basically, it was the ‘80s all over again.
Sao Paolo Cleaned Up
In January, it became the world’s first ‘clean city’, with a ban on all outdoor advertising. High fives all round.
Tony Blair Stood Down
About fucking time! If only Bush would follow that lead.
Princess Diana is Still Dead
Yet, the British authorities seemed to feel that yet another inquiry into her death would change that fact. Can’t anything just be a tragic accident anymore?
In the Case of Benazir Bhutto, No it Can’t
Benazir Bhutto gets assassinated and the Pakistani government immediately starts a cover up by saying she just hit her head while trying to get out of her vehicle to wave to crowds. Yeah, sure she did. And the bullet wounds and bomb blast were just coincidental.
Pete Doherty Became a Cat with Nine Lives
Though he’s supposed to be on probation for drug charges, making his cat smoke crack, shooting up on camera and squirting a syringe full of blood at a camera man still didn’t land this jammy bastard in prison. Does probation violation even exist anymore?
Louisiana Thought it was Still 1967
It would be nice to think that the racially charged events that led to the Jena 6 case don’t happen in 2007. The southern state of Louisiana seems to have made little progress in terms of race relations. Al Sharpton was working overtime.
Facebook
Myspace took a beating as this new kid on the social networking block took over and kicked ass. And for future reference, no, I don’t want a Fun Wall, Superwall, or any other kind of wall, so please stop asking me.
Overall, in 2007 we became greener, but meaner. Everyone took baby steps to do their part for the environment, be it recycling more or just toting around an ‘I’m not a Plastic Bag’ bag. But politically, it was like a big gang fight with more and more countries jumping in to go for the jugular. Lets hope that getting that idiot out of the White House (providing Americans don’t replace him with an equally ignorant imbecile), might go some way towards improving foreign affairs.
Roll on 2008 – have a great one bitches!
Tags: a years worth of nonsense
Posted in life | 2 Comments »
Friday, December 28th, 2007
On this day, a few years ago (I will not mention how many for fear of getting a good old fashioned ass whooping), my fabulous Mama was born. And so Mama, here’s to you;
- For your ability to make me laugh till I cry
- For your insistence on only shopping in charity shops
- For still managing to look a complete diva even though your entire outfit may only have cost £7.50 (incidentally, how the hell do you do that?)
- For your warm hands
- For your infectious laugh
- For all the times you wanted to bitch slap me, but hugged me instead
- For those six months before I went to Japan when all that mattered was Funday Friday (ahhhh, I miss Funday Friday!)
- For your chicken and bacon tetrazzini
- For your awesome culinary skills in general
- For always knowing the right thing to say
- For showing me what it is to be a lady
- For being a shining example of everything a mother should be
- For the way you always sing along to the radio a little bit off beat
- For always speaking your mind
- For never judging me
- For always encouraging Our Kid and I to be who we are
- For the frozen peas
- For ‘giving us the rope but never letting us hang ourselves’
- For your creativity
- For always putting the kettle on
- For your constant and unwavering support
- For having no idea how truly wonderful you are
For all these reasons and so many more, I love you.
When people tell me I’m my mother’s daughter, I hope you know how wide I smile.
Enjoy your day. I wish I could be there to enjoy it with you – next year I will be, I promise!
Until then, see this little fingernail……
Tags: family, love, Mama
Posted in life | 1 Comment »
Friday, December 21st, 2007
The last time I had a bra fitting was at Marks and Spencer in England. A middle aged Irish woman had me doing some kind of military drill/bra gymnastics (“bend forward, stand up, pull the shoulder straps up and the back straps down…”). There were way too many instructions. The woman was rough, yanking straps and pulling me around with little regard for the fact that I was getting my tatas out in front of a complete stranger and may not be all the way comfortable with that.
While living in New York, I had piled on a few pounds as a result of my *ahem* enormously healthy diet. A good portion of that weight seemed to have settled in my chestular region, so I figured I should invest in some new boulder holders.
I took myself to Victoria’s Secret, fought through the crowds and picked out some styles I liked. Once in the fitting room, some 19 year old from the Bronx threw back the curtain and barges in with her tape measure. She threw the tape around my back. There was that awkward moment when your personal space is invaded, the tape is brought to the front and comes to rest in the centre of your bosom as the measurement is read.
She engaged in idle chit chat while I ‘uh huh’d my way through it, looking at the ceiling trying to pretend her face wasn’t two inches from my tits. Then she scurried off to get me the styles I liked in the correct size.
As I tried on the different bras, none of them seemed quite right. I couldn’t figure out if it was the sizing, the bad lighting or the tacky techno music blaring from the speakers that was throwing me off.
I stood there in my jeans and bra, hands on hips, head tilted to the side, trying to figure out whether or not I liked the undergarment, when the 19 year old Bronx assistant peeked around the curtain.
“How is it?” She asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said, contemplating.
Then, all of a sudden, she came up behind me, shoved her hands up my bra, engaged in full on cuppage of my fun bags and pushed them up and together. Before I had a chance to protest, her hands were out and she was looking at me in the mirror.
“See, much better,” she smiled as she flung the curtain back and jetted off again.
“Ummm” was all I managed to say as I stood there wondering what the hell had just happened.
I was more than a little thrown off by the fact that I’d just been molested by a 19 year old in a Victoria’s Secret fitting room. But once the smoked had cleared and I looked down at my girls, I realized that she was right – they did look pretty spectacular.
Tags: boobs, bras, marks and spencer, pervy 19 year olds, victoria's secret
Posted in fashion | 7 Comments »
Thursday, December 20th, 2007
I had a blast living in Spanish Harlem. I was pretty much the only white person in a 10-block radius, but that never bothered me. The UK tends to be much more liberal in terms of race relations and with upwards of 60 million people living on that tiny island, you live side by side and on top of people from all corners of the world. But even in the melting pot that is New York, it’s incredibly segregated by comparison, which kind of freaked me out. Whenever I told people where I lived, they’d always say ‘Oh, so you’re looking for a new place right?’ I had a great apartment in a cool neighborhood with very little trouble (well, there was that one guy who got killed in the bodega across the street, but apart from that…)
When I first moved there, the locals were very wary of me, pegging me as an undercover cop. If the police department ever sent someone as pale as me undercover in that part of town, I don’t think it would be a very successful rouse.
Over time, I got to know a girl in my building. Fatima was a 250 pound black girl. Her entire bottom row of teeth were gold and she looked like if she blew on me hard enough, she could knock me out. Obviously, this was someone I should be friends with.
No matter what time of day or night I got home, Fatima was always outside the building talking on her cell phone. The more we saw each other, the more we’d exchange a word or two.
“Hey mama, how you doin’?” She’d ask when she’d see me crossing the street. “Oh, yo outfit so cute! Yo accent so cute too! Listen to her talk,” she’s say, nudging whoever was standing next to her.
Arriving home one night in the wee hours to see Fatima outside on her phone (I don’t get why none of her phone calls could be conducted in her apartment, but whatever). She hung up and we engaged in our usual banter. There was a group of guys outside, all eyeing me skeptically. I said goodnight to Fatima and walked past the guys, their eyes burning through me, to get into the building.
The next day, I saw Fatima. She approached me, wide-grinned.
“Ooooh girl, all the boys be askin’ ‘bout you. They be all ‘yo, who that Russian chick?’”
I got a good laugh out of that one. Luckily, my gold-toothed amigo set them straight on my origin.
From that point onwards, the locals couldn’t have been friendlier. They’d find any excuse to talk to me just to hear this accent they’d heard so much about. I did half consider playing along with the Russian thing for a while. I think everyone was so happy I wasn’t an undercover cop, I might just have pulled it off.
Tags: east harlem, gold teeth, london, mistaken identity, race relations
Posted in life | 2 Comments »
Wednesday, December 19th, 2007
The restaurant had been all but shut down. Special linen had been purchased. An entire new menu had been created. All the managers seemed particularly on edge and had implemented a specific ‘if they ask, they get’ policy. Yes, this was the night the Mafia dined at my workplace.
The barman had told me the night before that they’d be coming. One of the restaurant managers had some kind of mob connection and made special arrangements for them to eat like kings. Having always had a keen interest (okay, obsession) with mafia culture, I was more than a little excited by this prospect.
By the next morning, when the news headlines consisted of the police digging up a construction site in Queens believed to be where John Gotti buried his victims, my excitement had turned to something resembling terror.
The night came and one by one, the Mafioso began to trickle in. All in exquisite suits, pockets squares matching ties, perfectly polished shoes and neatly coiffed hair. It was like something out of a movie. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I just stood there in awe at my hostess stand as they shook hands and kissed each other on the cheeks. Pinky rings, big bellies, laughter. I was like an extra on the set of The Sopranos. Unable to snap me out of my blank stare, one of the managers showed the guys to their table in the back.
With the strict no smoking policy in New York (though for some reason no one objected to cigars being smoked at the table), every couple of minutes, one of these gangster gentlemen would go outside for a cigarette, stopping each time for a bit of a flirtation with me. Coming back in from the cold, one of them paused to chat. He told me I should come to their table and sing for them. Through my laughter, I kindly rejected his offer, assuring him I can’t carry a tune. But he was persistent, grabbing me by my shoulders, leading me to the back of the restaurant to their table.
I shot a worried glance to my manager at the bar. He returned a look that said ‘don’t argue with this individual’. So, there I was, literally being dragged, kicking and screaming on the inside. This table of 20 mafia dons, in their Armani suits, plumes of cigar smoke veiling their identities, was a little intimidating to say the least.
‘She’s come to sing for us!’ he proudly announced to the table.
“Ay Bella!’ they shouted in unison.
‘Oh no, I can’t sing’ I say. ‘Seriously, you don’t want me to do this’. I pleaded, but they were undeterred.
‘C’mon Bella, just one song.’
Then, I don’t know what came over me, but I decided to take a chance. ‘Why don’t you sing for me?’ I asked. I then pictured my life ending St Valentine’s Day Massacre style for making such a ridiculous suggestion. But, it turned out, they liked the idea.
It was decided that Mario (their musical accompaniment for the evening) would do a little number for me.
I perched on the arm of my new friend Jimmy’s chair. As Mario was tuning up, one of the other fellas informed me he’d be singing in Italian. I asked Jimmy if he’d translate, he agreed.
Mario stood next to me and began his serenade. Being serenaded is a little uncomfortable at the best of times, but when you have 20 mobsters looking your way, it doesn’t give the experience that tender feeling one would hope for.
Mario crooned away in Italian. Each line ended with the words ‘Way Marie’. After three or four lines, I look to Jimmy for the translation.
“He’s singing about a woman,’ he tells me. ‘Her name is Marie.’ Blown away by Jimmy’s profound understanding of the Italian language, I focus my attention back on Mario and wait for this increasingly embarrassing moment to end.
Eventually, after what seems like an age, ‘Way Marie’ finishes to rousing applause. There was a sobering moment as I looked around the table. I was probably the only person who hadn’t killed someone, chopped them up and dumped the body on some waste ground in New Jersey.
Seeing this as my chance to return to the safety of the hostess stand, I thank Mario and the rest of the guys and begin to back away. But I don’t get a couple of feet before I’m dragged back and Mario launches into his version of ‘I can’t get no satisfaction’ by the Rolling Stones. His thick Italian accent made the rendition virtually unrecognizable, yet highly hilarious. The table erupts with laughter and claps to the beat. ‘In honor of the English!’ one of the guys shouts and everyone raises their glasses to me. I curtsy (then mentally slap myself for doing something so corny).
I thank them once again and attempt to slip away for a second time. By this time, Mario was in the middle of a full on Beatles medley. As I walked off, I felt a strong grip take hold of my hand and pull me back to the table. Lowering me so my eyes met his, I came face to face with Billy. Billy, I had figured, was the main Don at this gangster gathering. The epitome of ‘tall, dark and handsome’ butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I lost myself in those big brown eyes.
‘What’s your name again sweetheart?’ he asked.
‘Muireann’ I replied. I had to repeat this several times.
‘How’d ya spell that?’
I took a deep breath, knowing that this was not going to clear up the confusion but I spelt my name regardless, adding ‘It’s Irish, it’s not meant to make sense. My people have issues with spelling.’ I laughed nervously as his grip tightened and he pulled me closer to him.
‘Hey,’ he said, locking eyes with me. ‘They might spell things funny, but they don’t do things funny. You’re a very beautiful girl.’ I blushed, feeling half chastised, half complimented. I thanked him and as several of the men around the table invited me to join them for dinner, I managed to make my escape back to the front of the restaurant.
As I passed him, the barman winked at me. ‘Looks like you’ve got some fans,’ he said.
The rest of the night passed almost without incident (except for when a health inspector turned up for an impromptu inspection, as the Mafia sat puffing on cigars in the back). During one of his cigarette breaks, Mafia man Anthony, stopped to talk to me. He quizzed me about how long I’d been in New York and wanted to know if I had seen much of the city. I’d been there 10 months and hadn’t gotten to know the city nearly as well as I’d wanted to. Anthony kindly offered to show me around. I said OK.
‘Great, I’ll get your number when we’re leaving.’
‘OK,’ I said. I watched him walk back to the table and it slowly dawned on me; had I just agreed to go on a date with a Mafia soldier? How the hell do you get out of that one?
My mind went into overdrive. I imagined being asked to sing at a million other gangster gatherings, being barefoot and pregnant with Anthony Jr, the look on Anthony’s face when I asked for a divorce and I ran through the places I would like to live when I entered the Witness Protection Program. (I decided, if the police would allow it, I’d quite like Nantucket).
The meal ended and Billy strode down to the front of the restaurant to settle the bill (which, I overheard, was somewhere in the region of $3000). While the manager and Billy’s right hand man quibbled over the figures, Billy came to talk to me. He took my hands in his, commenting on how cold mine were and rubbed them to warm them up. I swooned. We laughed for a moment and he told me how adorable I was before being summoned back over to settle up. Once the money matters had been dealt with, Billy strutted back over to me, hands outstretched, presumably to keep warming me up. But this time I felt some paper transfer from his hand to mine. He held our hands together there for a moment.
‘Thank you sweetheart,’ he said and kissed me on the cheek. As he returned to his friends, I glanced back at the barman.
‘Fifty or a hundred?’ he asked.
I opened my hand and looked down. Sure enough, there lay a crisp $100 bill.
The night was far from over for the Goodfellas, but it was time for me to clock out. My managers shooed me back to the ‘mafiosi only’ section to say my goodbyes.
‘Aww Bella! Don’t go!’ a few of them said as they came up to give me a kiss on the cheek. The effects of the night’s numerous bottles of wine were beginning to show and as I left the loud laughter, thick New York accents and even thicker clouds of cigar smoke, I walked away from my gangster’s moll dream, after a night of a very real, very close up, gangster party.
Tags: mafia, new york
Posted in life | 9 Comments »
Tuesday, December 18th, 2007
Thankfully, I’m not traveling anywhere for Christmas this year. Last year I had to. Here’s the story of that marvelous adventure:
It was an early start to catch my flight from Toronto to Halifax. With no appropriately sized suitcase for an eight-day trip, I threw everything into a huge green monstrosity and was out the door by 8.45am. To save money I decided to take public transport (two trains and a bus) to the airport. On reflection, if a cab had cost my entire life savings, it would have been worth it.
Firstly, there was the five-block walk to the first train. Then I had to lug my huge case down two flights of stairs. I should say at this juncture, I was wearing an outfit which didn’t really allow for physical exertion: an oversized chunky knit jacket, thick sweater, skin tight jeans and high-heeled, knee high boots.
I hurl my handbag over my shoulder, pull up my sleeves and pick up the case. One hand on the railing, the other hoisting my luggage, I’m only a few steps down before I’m breaking a sweat and the entire population of Toronto is lined up behind me. I’m directing people around me like cars. And, as if any more proof were needed that chivalry is well and truly dead, men literally pushed and shoved their way past me. Thanks fellas.
Finally, I make it to the bottom, only to be confronted by turnstiles. I dig in my purse for a train token. Hurried commuters push past as I make my way to the ticket booth. Now, how to get me and my trusty suitcase through the turnstile? Just as I’m ready to pick it up over my head and throw it, the man in the booth points to the gate behind me. I push the gate. Nothing happens. I keep pushing but to no avail. I look over at him. He gestures and mouths something at me, but I’m plugged into my iPod and don’t have a free hand to take out an earphone, so I don’t know what the hell he’s saying. Finally, a passerby realizes that it’s entirely too early for a game of charades and opens the gate for me.
I follow the signs for the northbound platform and discover more stairs. Better yet, there is a whole bunch of people coming up, meaning a) I just missed a train, and b) I have to battle against the flow of traffic. I pick up my suitcase and weave through people ungracefully, trying to make it to the bottom in one piece. When I finally do, the doors of the awaiting train are closing. I must have been a sorry sight as, shockingly, the train driver opened the doors. I jumped on and collapsed for two stops.
At my next stop, I put on my game face, ready to tackle the crowds and find the stairs down to the platform. Swarms of people are pushing up. Before I knew it, I was being carried unwillingly on a wave of people, desperately trying to hang onto my monster suitcase. Actually, they did me a favor and I ended up at another stairway that was less busy. Out of breath, I got to the platform and boarded the train, exiting at the last stop to catch the bus for the airport.
Thankfully, there were escalators, though they can be both a blessing and a curse when you have luggage. No matter which way you do it, you never know which step your luggage will end up on. I got on first and naturally my case missed a step so I had to do a casual lean back trying to maintain my grip. Once at the top, I find myself doing a lap of this huge bus station trying to find the airport bus. Needless to say, having reached one end, I’m told it’s at the other.
The bus, though billed as the ‘airport bus’ is actually just regular city bus, which doesn’t easily accommodate large numbers of people with multiple pieces of luggage. I’m wedged between two people, all three of us with our suitcases lodged between our knees and chins. At each stop more people get on, tripping over people, bag straps and whatever else, making it possibly the most uncomfortable bus ride in history.
Finally, we make it to the airport and I’m able to check in my cumbersome case. Lines through security are long, as people bundle their things into grey trays to be scanned. I take off my coat and pile it onto the conveyor belt. I see they’re asking certain people to remove their shoes, but I’m confident that the woman will appreciate the amount of work that went into my jeans/knee high boots (with no zips) combo and won’t ask me to remove them. As I begin my stride through the metal detector, the woman points at my boots. Before I can say ‘I know, they’re nice aren’t they?’ she says ‘Off!’ I smile sweetly and say “Are you kidding me?” Apparently not. We had a boot Nazi in our midst. Resistance was futile.
Knowing the removal of these boots is a ten-minute operation; I take a seat and start pulling. Meanwhile, a girl wearing Ugg boots marches right on through. She should have been asked to remove those purely on the grounds of having no taste. Ugg boots? Seriously? Take them off and leave them off. Do the world a favor and travel barefoot. It’s clear I’m being singled out because I have great sense of style. But seriously, skin tight jeans and tight knee-high boots – what was I going to smuggle down there? Ugg boots on the other hand, don’t even get my started on the number of concealed weapons you could stash in just one of those woolly wonders.
After ten minutes of yanking, pulling and stuffing jeans into boots, I was finally allowed to pass through. I applaud the vigilance, but as a rule, ugly footwear should always be the first to come off.
At last on board, I sink into my seat and start dreaming about Christmas trees and Grammie’s pumpkin pie. A bit of a kafuffle breaks out around me as people in the row in front are asked to check their seat numbers – I pay no attention, but silently chuckle at people who can’t read a ticket correctly. Then I hear: “Excuse me, Miss, excuse me.” You’ve guessed it; I’m in the wrong seat. As is always the case with these things, I was sitting in a window seat so had to disrupt two whole rows and keep a huge line of people waiting to get to their seats as I moved. As much as I paid for that seat, it should have come with the ability to open up and swallow me whole.
Tags: christmas, motherf**king uggs, subway
Posted in life | 3 Comments »
Monday, December 17th, 2007
Finding an apartment in New York is hard. When I finally realized I was living beyond my means in my East Harlem apartment, I decided to take the plunge and look for the cheaper option of renting a room. It was highly likely that I would end up living with a lunatic, but it’s a chance I would have to take.
Looking through the local listings, I found what sounded like a nice room. I was drawn to it because the ad said it had a fire escape. That was my big Breakfast at Tiffany’s/New York fantasy. Either that or a Brownstone was my idea of idyllic New York City living. The apartment was on 137th Street and Amsterdam Avenue – the heart of Harlem.
I went to view the apartment on a hot and humid August afternoon.
I found the building and rang the bell for apartment 12c. The owner told me to ‘come on up. It’s on the 6th floor’. I walked into the dark, narrow foyer, looking for the elevator. There wasn’t one. The sixth floor was twelve flights of stairs. If nothing else, it would save me forking out money on a gym membership, I thought as I began the climb to 12c. In the summer heat and high heels, this was no easy feat. By the time I reached the top, I needed CPR. The humidity had made my freshly straightened hair frizz beyond all recognition and my make-up had sweated clean off my face. My clothes were stuck to me and sweat trickled down the small of my back. I imagined this was what I would look like if I ever embarked on a journey deep into the African jungle and I had merely ventured uptown.
As soon as she opened the door, I knew I wasn’t going to move in. The whole apartment was just about big enough to swing a cat, which was lucky, as she had three. She was a pleasant woman, tall, with wild red hair (the humidity hadn’t done her any favors either). She showed me the kitchen and all I wanted to do was clean. There were dirty dishes in the freestanding sink and no kitchen units. The stove was so old it looks like it might run on firewood. She offered me a glass of water and, as horrified as I was at the thought of what a CSI team might find on one of her glasses, I had to accept to stop me panting like a dog.
The rest of the tour went downhill from there. The bathroom was tiny and had no sink. She told me she washed her face and brushed her teeth in the kitchen sink. A lovely thought. The living room was what estate agents would describe as ‘bijou’ and was covered in cat hair. Her bed was right there in the corner, underneath more cat hair. You had to walk through this to get to the room she had advertised. There was a paper-thin door to the bedroom which may as well have been one of those long beaded curtains, for all the good it was doing. It would be hard but I thought I might be able to overlook the bad points for a decent fire escape.
She opened the door in true ‘what’s behind door number three?’ fashion and I walked into my nightmare. Again, another tiny room. To my left, a rickety old desk and chair. To my right, a bunk bed. I hadn’t climbed a ladder to get into bed since I was about six and even then, it wasn’t much fun. I walked to the window to check out the fire escape. Even that couldn’t save this hot mess of an apartment now. I bowed my head as I realized there would be no singing of ‘Moon River’ on that. And to think, this haven of cat hair, kitchen grime and bunk beds could have been mine for a mere $650 a month.
I thought I should ask some questions, just to be polite. I refrained from asking the obvious ‘so, how the hell do you live here?’ and opted for the more generic ‘is it a safe area?’ She replied ‘well, you hear the occasional gun shot, but apart from that…’
And with that, I shook her hand and thanked her for her time. I removed my high heels before beginning the 12-flight descent out into the land of the ‘occasional’ gunshot. I got my newspaper out of my bag and resumed my search. A fire escape was no longer a requirement.
Tags: fire escapes, harlem, new york, occasional shootings
Posted in life | 4 Comments »
Friday, December 14th, 2007
Back in June, I went to New York to see my good friend, The Koom, for a weekend of good times.
The night I arrived we went out to shake a leg at a couple of parties. We met up with a friend of hers. He promptly introduced me to a friend of his, who we’ll call Beef Cake.
Beef Cake was easy on the eye, tall and muscular. We chatted, He seemed nice enough, though a little too touchy feely (he virtually had me in a choke hold all night to make sure no other guys talked to me). We exchanged numbers, which all seemed a little pointless since I was only in town for the weekend, but there was talk of the group of us going out again at some point during my stay.
For one reason or another, we didn’t meet up again. When I got back to Toronto, we exchanged a few emails, just pleasantries really, nothing deep and meaningful. Then, sooner rather than later, I lost interest and couldn’t be bothered with the upkeep. It seemed the feeling was mutual, as I didn’t hear from him either.
Then a few weeks ago, I received this email:
Hey sexy. Do you remember me? Beef Cake that you met in NY? [Redacted’s] boy? So how have you been? I know it has been a while since we spoke. To be honest with you, I was dating someone when we met. I thought you were attractive and wanted to get to know you better, but I stopped to be faithful and do the right thing by my girl at the time.
Now I am single though, and I have been thinking about you and was wondering if I could see you some time soon. Are you still making regular trips to NYC?
Well I hope that all is well with you and I look forward to hearing from you soon. Have a wonderful day!!!
Beef Cake
Oh, where to begin?
I didn’t bother to respond because the whole thing is way too deep in the realm of douche for me to continue the dialogue, but these were my thoughts:
- Thanks for being so honest with me, months after the fact, that you had a girlfriend. Shame you didn’t think to mention it when your hand was on my ass, uninvited.
- The extremely delayed nature of this email leads me to believe that you’ve been through your entire Rolodex attempting to get laid with no luck. So you resorted to someone who lives across the border. Yikes, times must really be hard. (Oh and if you actually own a Rolodex, you’re too old for me anyway).
- Umm, yeah, I live in Canada. It’s a pretty long distance booty call you’re attempting to pull off here.
- Did you call me ‘Sexy’ because you can’t remember my name? That’s how much time has passed.
- If I was going to New York soon, you really wouldn’t be anywhere near my agenda.
- If I’m not good enough to leave your girlfriend for – screw you! I play second fiddle to no one my friend – I AM the band
Tags: Lame dudes, new york, too little too late emails
Posted in relationships | 2 Comments »
Wednesday, December 12th, 2007
In September of 2004, I was working at a crappy Irish bar on the Upper East Side in Manhattan. The customers loved me; the management hated me. I’m not sure why they hated me, but it might have something to do with me being the worst waitress mankind has ever seen (the comedy value of which, is probably why the customers loved me).
It was a Saturday. I just found out the night before that my grandmother had died. My eyes were dewy all day but I knew I had to suck it up if I was to make any money. Well, that and the managers were the variety of asshole that would have fired me for shedding a tear over a dead relative at work.
I drifted through my shift in a daze. Finally, 11pm rolled around and it was time for me to clock out. A guy who’d been there most of the night asked me if I’d like to get a coffee. I let him know I probably wouldn’t be the best company. He said he didn’t mind. I figured if he was willing to put up with my long face, then fine, I’d go.
We walked a couple of blocks to an all night diner. He bought me a milkshake and asked me what was up. I told him and for the next four hours, this man, who’s name I can’t even remember, asked me all about my grandmother and just listened as I talked about her.
I’d never met him before and he wanted to know all my favorite memories of her. Before you knew it, the urge to cry had been replaced with laughter at all the hilarious moments I’d shared with my grandma.
It was a muggy night and I was wearing a tank top. As I was taking a particularly long slurp of my milkshake through my straw, this guy paid me the best compliment I’ve ever heard;
“Those freckles on your shoulders are cute. They look like cinnamon on whipped cream.”
I laughed, loudly, a lot and high-fived him for originality. Either this guy was genuinely really nice or he had serious game. My luck with the fellas in New York had not been great. It crossed my mind that his M.O might be preying on young girls with recently deceased relatives. Though that was a little cynical, even for me.
As he hailed me a cab, he asked for my number. I gave it to him. I went off to Ireland for the funeral, got a new job when I got back and was working a lot. He called me a few times every day for about six weeks, but I never answered. I think I was embarrassed about how candid I’d been with him that night.
And the ‘cinnamon on whipped cream’ line was good but not that good.
So, now when I hear people talk about New Yorkers being rude and cold, I think back to that night when a complete stranger listened to me drone on for four hours. I think about cinnamon on whipped cream and smile and say ‘nah, they’re alright.’
Tags: grandma, milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, new york, random dudes
Posted in relationships | 7 Comments »
Tuesday, December 11th, 2007
While on the job hunt, I randomly meet this woman. She said she was looking for people, could she interview me tomorrow? Great! I said. She said she would come see me at home. This seemed a little odd, but if it saved me a trip, I was all for it.
The next day the doorbell rings and I answer it to see Carolyn, all smiles and ready to interview me. I invite her in and as she strolls past me, to my horror I see her wheeling a small suitcase behind her. Sweet baby Jesus – I’d been duped! As the reality sunk in that I was about to be introduced to the wonderful world of direct selling/pyramid schemes, my palms got sweaty and I frantically searched for ways to get her out of my house.
Before I knew it, she was setting up shop on the kitchen table. I reluctantly sat down and she said she would pamper me for a bit before showing me ‘the program.’
She took a folding mirror out of her kit and set it up in front of me along with a rather sad looking palette into which she had squeezed various lotions.
She began by showing me the cleanse, tone and moisturize stage. Taking her time and showing me how to do it myself, she annoyingly never deviated from her script. “How good does it feel? Great. How easy is this? It’s so simple.” Here she was just laying the groundwork for a day of questions she would answer herself. Having known for quite some time how to wash my face, I doubted we would make any groundbreaking discoveries during this ritual humiliation, but I ‘oooh’d’ and ‘aaah’d’ my way through it.
With that stage completed, she then subjected me to a series of ‘1-5 scales’.
“On a scale of 1-5, how does your skin feel? One being: ‘fabulous’ and five being: ‘not quite what I’m used to’. On a scale of 1-5, how would you rate the moisturizer? One being: ‘I’ve never felt anything like it!’ and five being: ‘I’ve used better’’.
On to the make up stage! First: the foundation. As there isn’t a shade called ‘pasty Irish’, she had to make her own concoction by mixing a few colors together to get the right blend for my skin. She smoothed some on my cheek and pulled me to the kitchen window to check it in the natural light. Unsatisfied with the natural light there, she marched me through the apartment and out the front door to the street. As she pondered over whether or not the tone was right, I was just praying none of the neighbors would see me with this crazy woman.
Finally content with the shade of foundation, she took me back inside and plastered layer upon layer of hideous make up on my face, all the while raving about how beautiful I was. When she was finished, I looked in the mirror to see that I had been transformed into a second-rate drag queen. ‘How fabulous is this? You look great!’ she cooed as I tried to keep myself from gagging.
At least now that the make up was done, I thought the end was in sight. But no, she then spent seven minutes (yes, I was counting) giving me a ‘hand facial’, which basically consisted of her putting hand cream on me. She kept raving about the lotion, asking and answering her own questions and then busting out the trusty 1-5 scale.
So, I now had a clown face (but extremely soft hands) and figured she was going to wrap things up. But no, I had to sit there for another 35 minutes, while she told me the story of how she got into the business and showing me ‘the program’. She’d pepper her script with random 1-5 scales. I’d made my own series of 1-5 scales in my head which mainly revolved around the theme of ‘on a scale of one to five, how badly do I want you out of my house right now? One being I would rather claw my own eyes out than listen to you utter one more word, five being….oh no, wait, that’s the only option.’ I sat there with one eye on the clock letting my mind wander to far more important issues; what would I have for dinner? Should I get a pedicure today? Do I need to buy milk? Could I take my second-rate drag queen show on the road?
When I snapped out of it, she was asking me if I could envision myself doing this. Clearly my tactic of being polite in the hope that she would go away quicker, was not working. There was no choice, it was time for some straight talking. I told her, I really couldn’t see myself doing that. I’d just moved here and I had full confidence in the fact that I would find a job in my field soon.
Seemingly not content with my answer she tried one last 1-5 scale to win me over. ‘OK, so on a scale of 1-5, what would it take for me to change your mind? One being: ‘I’d rather jump off a bridge before doing this’ and five being: ‘I will come to a group meeting to hear more about it?’
I decided to stick with my policy of straight talking. ‘Where’s the bridge?’
At long last, after an hour and a half of holding me hostage with nothing more than a mascara, she took the hint and left.
Tags: beauty, jobs, make up
Posted in fashion | 3 Comments »