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.