My business cards arrived today. They’re gold and black with my web address written at the bottom in red foil and they’re beautiful except for one thing: you need an industrial magnifying glass to read my number and e-mail address. I think it’s size 6 font, seriously. My first thought upon seeing them: ‘WHAT IS THIS, a business card for ANTS?’
What is it with people who don’t understand the rules that govern spatial boundaries between strangers? If I’m patiently waiting in line at Dean & Deluca (and hopefully not https://cnierman.wordpress.com/2012/03/19/daily-aggravation-15-waiting-in-line-at-dean-deluca/), then you should be at least six inches away from me at all times. Here’s a tip: if you’re standing so close to someone that you can lecherously smell her hair, you’re standing way too fucking close.
The week I was in Dublin, I had my nails painted the most beautiful sky blue. Actually, I bite my nails so badly that they’re not even quantifiable as nails and I’ll rephrase that: I had my stubs painted the most beautiful sky blue. I was pretty sick of it by the time I got home, though, so I got out my trusty nail polish remover and took all of it off. Sort of. This stinking nail polish stained my nails so badly that now my hands look like they belong to a dead prostitute whose bloated body was just pulled out of the East River.
I’ve been mistaken for being pregnant twice in my life. The first time this happened, I had just bummed a homeless woman a cigarette. She paused before lighting it, gave me a once over, and said, “You know, you really shouldn’t smoke while you’re pregnant.” I mean, did you ever? How insulting is that? Unfortunately, she was already smoking the cigarette and I was frozen with horror or I would’ve snatched it back from her and said something to the effect of, “Actually, I’m pregnant with the Devil’s baby, and I just decided that his first earthly chore after being born will be to find and harm you.”
The next time it happened was a few years later, as I was standing on a street corner smoking another cigarette and waiting for the light to change. I had just bought the dress I was wearing; it was blue satin and spaghetti strapped with an empire waist, and I thought I looked fly as hell. Then a WASP tapped me on the shoulder and leaned in conspiratorially. “You know,” she said, staring at my gut, “you really don’t see a lot of pregnant women smoking these days – but I’ll be honest with you, I smoked through my entire pregnancy, too!” I guess she was expecting me to high five her for making the awesome and responsible decision to damage my unborn baby with toxins, just like she did, but instead I said, “I’m…not pregnant. This is a new dress. I guess I’ll be taking THIS back later.” She didn’t even apologize! She just awkwardly stood next to me until the light changed, and then we parted ways while I fumed.
The moral of the story is this: unless a woman is in the actual process of bearing down and expelling a baby that you can SEE CROWNING, you don’t know if she’s pregnant or not. Some of us ladies just like to eat mad cake, so it’s safer to assume that everyone you see who looks pregnant is just fat and sedentary.
Few things irk me more than being told to be quiet by a stranger. Once a man on the Jitney told me and my friend to ‘quiet down’ because we were on the ‘quiet bus.’ He then proceeded to knock back four shots of vodka in ten minutes and pass out with his shirt unbuttoned and beer gut on display. Hey dude: it’s called the ‘quiet bus,’ not the ‘thinly-veiled alcoholic’s mobile nudist retreat.’
I just don’t want to have to worry about the old woman in the aisle seat breaking her hip when the bus stops short while she’s standing to let me out.
Because there’s nothing worse than having “Copacabana” stuck in your head while you’re trying to go to sleep.
I’m pretty sure ‘spiritual but not religious’ means ‘I smoke weed, I’ve read Siddhartha twice and I’m too slutty to be down with God.’ I prefer the lesser-used ‘religious but not spiritual,’ which means ‘I get what a crock of shit organized religion is but have too much Catholic/Jewish guilt to let it go.’
Because nothing whets my appetite for yogurt like listening to a hermaphrodite talk about being constipated.
One time when I was alone, I had a cab driver who told me that he was having bowel issues and needed me to read him the instructions on the back of a box of laxatives. I did. Then he asked me if I could write said instructions down in his journal, which was a crazy person composition notebook filled with the rantings of a madman. I did. Then we pulled up in front of my building. It totally bums me out that he was just an uber-weirdo and I wasn’t on a hidden camera show that took place in the back of his cab.