Gas.

Indian weddings, man. Should have booked my own hotel room.

Antoinette

Before we found our sweet apartment in Quincy, we saw a real gem in JP. “You shovel?” asks Antoinette, the over-sassed, lunatic landlady. She continues to challenge my boyfriend. “I want somebody out here in the winter.” Here’s her other query: “You guys smoke?” “No,” we reply truthfully — thinking that’s what she wants to hear from prospective tenants. “Oh, well sometimes my brother is here and he smokes. So I don’t want any complaints about the smoke,” she says, all while waving a magenta acrylic nail at us. I wait a beat. “So does your brother smoke cigarettes or crack?” I ask. Yep. That shut her up. And just like, we walked out the door and she was out of our lives forever.

Drowning.

Got a lesson in scuba diving on the Red line last week. The drunk ones always find me. Guess I look empathetic. He told me I was running out of time. That it was necessary I slap on a wet suit and get the hell out there. And that if I had to puke, to quickly remove the mask under water and puke, puke, puke. When I told him my stop was next, he realized he missed his own stop and belched all the way out.

Leprosy

The skin around my mouth and nose is flaking off at a rapid rate. I thought I would "treat" myself to a facial this week, but now I resemble a sad paper mache project.

Note: If you are hoping your next facial comes with an ego boost, I'm sorry, it doesn't. Unless of course, you were born without pores. Or you are a porcelain doll.

Anywho, the facialist told me my face was dirty, I should watch for sun spots, and, "For heavens sakes, start using an eye cream." Needless to say, I have never felt so unattractive and "aged" in my life.

She also kept touting a cleanser that is apparently a favorite of Jennifer Lopez's. Upon hearing this, I scoffed beneath the 5 lbs. of cream and said, "Oh right, because J.Lo and I bring home the same paycheck." This comment only made the facialist scrub harder, of course.

Alas, aside from the leprosy, my face is squeaky clean and aging slower (or so I'd like to believe) because I purchased the lavender shit she scared me into buying.

I'll end with this:

Dear Facialist,

If you are in fact reading this, please make your clients feel pretty when they come in for an appointment. (A compliment on my eyebrows wasn't enough). By doing so, they will want to come back and purchase more lotions and potions and (gasp) eye cream.

Fondly,
Psoriasis

ATM Face-off

I got the impression that a woman wanted to race me to ATM the other day. Now, just to be clear, it was the just 2 of us approaching an ATM building with 2 machines, so I’m not sure what the deal was. Needless to say, I reached the ATM door first and heard her sigh behind me. Again, there were 2 machines and NO ONE IN LINE. Anyway, we both made our transactions, with hers being more aggressive than mine. What I mean to say is that she entered her pin really fast and hard as if to beat me! Then, while we both waited a few seconds for our money to dispense, she turned to me and sized me up. I kid you not, this woman looked me up and down, heaving like a bull. A pretty aggressive daytime stance if I say so myself. I’m happy I was wearing sunglasses because I think I kind of recognized this brash broad. She then grabbed her cash and stormed out, the ATM door swinging behind her. Drugs? Gambling? Frazzled soccer mom? Really had to pee? Who knows. All I can say is, take the money and run, woman. Take the money and run.

Ain't no ___________ high enough

The guy high on (drugs, life, you choose) sitting across from me on the Orange line (where else?) was singing about Jesus during my morning commute. And the more the train emptied out, the louder his vocals became. Unfortunately, I couldn't make out any lyrics other than, “I CAN MOVE A MOUNTAIN.” (Note: He was referring to himself at this point and not Jesus. I know this because he was patting himself vigorously on the chest). I tried my best to suppress a giggle but of course, failed. Failed because A) I was nervous, and B) he was getting off at my stop and was ready to move that mountain.

Saucy lips

As if lip locking with a British rose seller didn't raise enough street corner skepticism, I seemed to have glossed over the incident with the non-Italian busboy at NYC’s Little Italy’s, De Gennaro. (By the way, is it still open, Erin Leigh Schmoyer? And did I get the name right? De Gennaro? San Gennaro? In any case, thanks for introducing me to all the fun.)

Said place has/had great food and apparently, phenomenal wine. It must be true because the bus-boy-turned-tour-guide, led me by the hand to the kitchen where I was entranced by vats of pasta and could try the meat-ah-balls! But naturally, next thing you know, I'm making out with him. Did it happen in the kitchen or by the dessert case? It all gets fuzzy...

Pull it together, Caroline. Have a cannoli instead. What was my deal?

Answer: College and Chianti.

He thought I pulled a Winona

A few years ago I visited a good friend in San Diego (I’ll be a bridesmaid in her wedding next summer, what what!) and we stopped at a beach shop that sold, to no surprise, bathing suits, towels, etc. The figure running the place at the time was a 15-year-old freckle face kid. My friend and I had stopped in so I could use the shop’s dressing room to change into my bathing suit. (I forget why I wasn’t wearing it in the first place. Fail.) When I asked the 15-year-old freckle face kid if changing was OK, he muttered, “Yeah, no problem,” as if I were a turd.

A mere 10 seconds later I was wildly accused of shoplifting. Or more accurately, “jacking some shit.”

Here’s the exchange that followed my exit of the dressing room.

“Um I know you just jacked some shit.” – Punkass Mutant

“Excuse me?” - Me

“Dude, just empty your bag and hand over whatever you just jacked.” – Punkass Mutant

“Jacked?” - Me

(Prepubescent sigh of the century) “Stole! Fuckin’ jacked! I’ll like, call the police.” – Punkass Mutant

“Um, I asked you if I could change into my bathing suit. And you said, “No problem.” - Me

“Whatever. I still think you were trying to jack some shit.” – Punkass Mutant

I then emptied my bag to show the little jack-shit, jack-off, jerk-off that I indeed, “jacked” nothing.

Eminem had to start somewhere too.

I plopped down (unbeknownst) to a Smirnoff sipping, sweatpants swaggering, aspirational rapper on the Orange line the other day. His arc of rapping gestures nearly took my face off, but I kept my mouth shut in fear of the glass bottle he was swigging. When he caught my eye, all I could do was nod in agreement to the blasting lyrics of Nas.

Pudgie gets a pedi

In her attempt to compliment me, the pedicurist told me I looked better with a little more weight on. Um, American women don't want to hear this. Even in broken English, it's still hard to forgive. And I think I look the same sans a week of dining in the North End. Anywho, the conversation went something like this:

"Oh my Gahh... you look gooo.... little moh weight.... So skinny befoh...." - Lucy

Ha ha! "You mean to say I'm fat, now?" - Me

"No, no! Just a little mooh. So skinny befoh! Look gooo now..." - Lucy (you're skating on thin ice, Lucy)

"No tip for you!" (I thought this, didn't say it, and still tipped her, because I'm a nice person.)

:-(

West Nile

I ran out today to pick up a piece of fruit and rather, I found myself standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring down at my feet. I was oblivious to what I was doing or how long I had been standing there until a man approached me in a suit and asked me twice if I was ok. I think it took two times to break from my reverie.

Without thinking, I loudly blurted out, “Yeah, I’m just covered in mosquito bites!!!” He paused and stared at me, confusedly and rightfully so. “Um, ok,” he replied as if I had Asperger's.

But it's true. I was staring at 10-12 fresh mosquito bites painting my ankles and feet. Where? How? When? Why? Ahhh! They itched like hell. Enough to raise public concern on the sidewalk. And to leave me embarrassed, confused and blood-sucked.

Lonely Leslie

Saturday was a beach day. A beautiful beach day. My Mom and I were blissfully reading our books in the hot sun when the woman under the umbrella near us proposed question #1 out of 1,546. She wanted to know if we preferred spray lotion to cream. Fair enough. But this simple question & answer turned out to be nothing more than a thinly veiled segue way to learning all about her daughter moving to Raleigh, her psycho ex-boyfriend and the growing concern of where to find a Costco.

Even with my nose planted firmly in my book and a sudden feigned interest in the clump of seaweed at my feet, I remained a fixed target of her questioning. She wanted to know our family's story. And possibly if we had room and board. It may sound unsympathetic of me to speak this way of um, a stranger, but like I said, it was a BEAUTIFUL beach day. And this lady interfered. Over-shared. And talked about Pier One.

Again, weird shit happens to me. My Mom and I were sitting quietly. Books in hand. Minding our own biz. And still, she clung on. Like the seaweed to my foot.

Scrotum

Nothing quite wakes you up on your morning commute than getting stuck behind a dangly ball sack. The black SUV driving ahead of me (it never fucking turned) had a sparkly pink scrotum hanging off its rear bumper.

Eat fish.

Typical Monday:

I rode the elevator up with 3 other women this morning. One of them was telling her friend that her grandpa lived to be 102. When the two of them got off, the third one turned to me and proudly said,

"Well, my great uncle lived to be 106."

"Oh, wow. Really? (awkwardness ensues) Good genes." - Me

"Yep, it must have been the whole 'early to bed, early to rise, no booze, eat fish thing.'”


Happy Monday.

St. Mary's

When I left the post office today and got into my car, a woman appeared at the passenger's side door and motioned for me to roll down the window. She was maybe holding 10 bags — plastic grocery bags, canvas bags, a cloth purse, things that were floral, etc. No, she was not homeless.

But as soon as I rolled it down, she gasped. "Oh! I thought you were someone else! I was about to ask you how much weight you lost! Did you go to St. Mary's? I'm thinking of someone from St. Mary's. Drives the same car... she used to be chunky... chunky like me. Well, a little more chunky than me. Wonder if she still is. But she was chunky."

"NO." - Me

"Sorry, then!" - Her

And she watched me drive away, determined to believe I was her once-fat, or still-fat friend.

Deaf at 28.

A guy introduced himself to me as Jorge. But I heard Horne (accent over the e). And continued to call him that all day. FML.

He saw me in white.

The Blue Cross Blue Shield of Georgia health insurance dude recently left me a voicemail. He was at our school at orientation, selling us all nicely priced health plans. But between graduating, re-locating to MA and finding a job, my peach-state health insurance naturally did me no service. After calling him back to tell him I was recently employed and had health insurance again, he thought it was good an opportunity as any to ask me about marriage.

Now, there’s no way this man remembers me from orientation in April 2008, and likewise, I doubt I could pick him out of a crowd. But still, from the sound of my voice he said, “Marriage is next in the cards for you.” And then asked if I was taking the appropriate steps to get to the altar.

Because he’s Southern (take no offense, y’all), I absolutely could not get off the phone with him. With each attempt, he managed to find a new chapter. If it wasn’t marriage we were discussing, it was how high the taxes were in the North East, or the humidity in Hotlanta, or get this… the divorce rate across the country. Cue Alanis: And isn’t it ironic?

I should have mentioned earlier that this whole conversation took place on the commuter rail with the conductor, a Spanish woman and an ADHD kid all screaming in the background. And still, Mr. Blue Cross Blue Shield talked a blue streak, completely unfazed. Probably reclining in his socks with a gimlet in hand. And picturing me in a veil. Cringe.

Come see the softer side.

I'm unemployed at the moment (recently finished Grad school) and I run errands. Today's list included brown paper trash compactor bags from Sears. (The hot pink Timex watch was not on the list but found a home on my wrist. Shh...)

The Sears salesman who helped me locate the trash compactor bags turned out to be more talkative than Joan Rivers. I should have searched for the unexciting bags myself, but I'm unashamed to admit that I'm a female who asks for directions, help, jobs, etc. on a daily basis.

In the course of finding the banal bags and paying for them, it seems I had unwittingly agreed to a Sears ShopYourWay Rewards card (acts no differently than a CVS card), a Q+A session about today's service, and a chance to win $4,000 in a Sears sweepstakes. I naturally perked up when hearing the latter. The Sears dude then circled 15 things on the receipt with detailed instructions on how to win the said money. My head hurt.

When he wouldn't part with the receipt, I started to get antsy and glanced furtively at my frivolous, but fabulous hot pink watch. But I listened patiently because I sensed he was bored. Or worse, lonely. Or stuck in the Sears basement for far too long. Think 'Milton,' from Office Space.

I listened because he was a nice guy who was just doing his job. And right now, I have all the time in the world. Because I'm unemployed. And strangely, I'm OK with this is. Because I know it's only temporary. And work is forever. So is Sears, come to think of it. The company has been around since 1893. Imagine that.

Wimp

Dusting off the old blog. It’s been a while. My last couple of entries feel weak. Maybe it’s because nothing weird has happened to me recently. I suppose that’s a good thing, right? I think so. But for the blog? Well, that could mean demise. ☹

Anywho, let’s talk about the massage. Just the other week, I was the first time recipient of a hot stone massage. The male masseuse was incredibly soft-spoken. No, really. I couldn’t hear this gentle, New Age dude at all. Come to find out, he was telling me to be honest with him about the temperature of the rocks. Yeah, in one ear and out the other. Got scalded.

“Iceland’s volcano. Those rocks must have been hot, too,” was all I could think of. I winced as the skin on the back of my legs melted off the bone like lamb’s meat. The masseuse, although a kind fellow, (I sensed this through his smile and sincere eyes) could not manage to mutter an audible apology. So I took it upon myself to fill the room with sounds one might associate with an injured horse. Or perhaps a llama. A chorus of weird neighs and high-pitched ninnies.

Turns out, I just couldn’t take the heat.

(Not me.)

City of Embalms

Ft. Myers, aka "The City of Palms," is where the Red Sox Spring training is held each year. It coincided with a school break so I agreed to go with my Mom, Dad and Grandmother. We then met up with my Grandmother's brother and brother-in-law, ages 92 and 80-something, respectively. In fact, the mean age of the fan base in the baseball stadium was give-or-take 1,358 years old. I got strange looks for not having a walker. Or maybe they just couldn't see me at all.

My great-uncle (age 92) jokingly asked me during the 7 inning stretch, "So when are you getting married? I'm running out of time here." I then left my seat to eat some bad sushi.

Also, the city of Ft. Myers shuts down around 8pm. There were no signs of life on the streets. Like Emily Dickinson, I went stir-crazy until the last night when my Mom suggested I go downstairs to the hotel bar and have a drink. Fine.

As I pulled up a stool, I kid you not, the Red Sox minor-league baseball team strolled in. Young, hot and sweaty after practice. I tried not to look like an alcoholic, sitting at the bar by myself.

I lost my breath when the Australian pitcher pulled up a stool next to me. He was a young Heath Ledger and I'm not just saying that because he was from down under. I fell in love with this 19 year-old after just one drink. We talked for hours and then he walked me up to my room...

At this point, I'm just going to say FML, because a) I met this hottie on my last night in Ft. Myers (wtf?) and b) I was sharing a room with my 82-year-old Grandmother.

Strike 50.