Monthly Archives: May 2011

Once Upon A Time…

Once upon a time I lived in NYC…  and sometimes, shit like this would happen:

It was a dreary, rainy day in NYC when I landed at Laguardia after a 6 week out of town gig.  Instead of the hour train ride back home, I decided to take a cab. Being a freelance designer, cash was not always in abundance.  At that moment I literally had $0.72 cash to my name.  I had a large check in my wallet from the gig, but it was Sunday and so I knew the cab ride would be put on my mastercard.  It shouldn’t have been a problem.  All yellow cabs in NYC are required to accept credit cards.

We got to my apartment without incident, which is a rare blessing in a NYC taxi.  I took out my credit card and swiped it.  Nothing happened.  I told the driver and he told me to swipe it again.  Still nothing.  We proceeded to do a 10 minute dance of turning the meter off and on again while I swiped a good dozen times.  Finally he told me I had to pay with cash.  After explaining that wasn’t possible and offering a half dozen solutions he turned down, I called the NYC Transit info line for help.  I explained the situation and she informed me that, according to their new policy, this guy wasn’t allowed to be on the street without his credit card system working.  She said I didn’t have to pay and I could even file a complaint if I wanted to.  I told her that wouldn’t be necessary if she could just explain it to the driver.  I put my cell on speaker phone and she explained it all to him.  I hung up, apologized to the driver and asked him to open the trunk where all my luggage was waiting.  This is where the shit hit the fan.

The driver started screaming and punching his steering wheel and dashboard.  He was literally beating the crap out of his own car.  I grabbed my purse and jumped out into the rain.  I tried to talk reasonably to him from outside the car about opening the trunk but he just kept yelling about how the taxi company was trying to screw him over and what I was trying to do was illegal and how he wouldn’t open the trunk until he got his money.

I didn’t feel like battling a crazy man in the middle of the street, especially while he was holding my luggage & laptop hostage.  So, still holding the car door open, I called the police.  At this point the driver was no longer yelling, just white-knuckling the steering wheel and breathing heavily like a madman.

Thirty minutes passed.

I called the police again.  The dispatcher told me someone was already on their way and asked if anybody was hurt.  I told her, “No, I’m just being held hostage by a lunatic behind the wheel of a car.”  She assured me someone would be there soon.

This stand-off continued for 2 hours.  Me: drenched, freezing and desperately clinging to the car door as if that would stop him.  The driver: still looking crazy in the front seat, not moving.  My belongings: locked in the trunk.   I made three more phone calls to the police who were supposedly still “on their way.”

At this point I figured I had two options.  I could collapse into a puddle of tears on the sidewalk…. or….  I could say, “Fuck the police, this cabbie and the weather” and figure this out myself.

Guess which option I chose?

I got back into the cab.  Slammed the door and took out a piece of paper & pen from my purse.  I wrote down his name & license number.  Then I threw open the door again, got out, stormed around the front of the cab and stood there blocking his car. I signaled for the driver to roll down his window.

“Look, sir.  You’re obviously having a crappy day, but now, so am I.  You just wasted over 2 hours on a $35 fare that you are no longer entitled to.  I’m sorry it turned out this way, but if the police ever decide to get here, I think things are going to get a lot worse for you.  I have all of your information written down.  The way I see it, you have two options.  #1.  You can run me over, taking my belongings with you, but you will most likely lose your license, your job and probably go to jail.  Option #2.  You can open the trunk and give me my luggage and never let me see you on this street again.  I won’t report you, your mechanical errors or this little luggage-hostage incident.  Your choice.”

He looked at me for a long minute, then got out of the car.  I braced myself to get hit in the face or possibly stabbed.  I mean this guy was crazy after all.  He went around to the back of the taxi, opened the trunk, got my luggage out and carefully set it on the sidewalk.  Then he walked over to me, shook my hand, apologized and politely gestured for me to move onto the sidewalk so he could drive away.

P.S.  The police never showed up.

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Bowling, Anne Geddes and Va-jj. OH MY!

Why is it that no matter how bitchy I act, strangers still see me and are stricken by a sudden urge to over share?  I know for a fact that I am not inviting you in to my warmth with neither a friendly smile nor welcoming body language.  Why then, do I know more gruesome & disgusting shit about complete strangers than I do about myself?

Example:

Last month at bowling.      Pause.       Yes, I’m in a bowling league, and yes I have my own purple ball & matching shoes.  Moving on.

Last month at bowling, a woman came around collecting money for a fundraiser she was participating in for premature babies.  I don’t particularly like this woman.  I actually find her quite obnoxious.  And to be honest, I’m not usually too ecstatic about babies either (except for my nephew).  Most babies are kinda scary looking and seem to have no talent other than to scream & shit on themselves in public.  We don’t make calendars of the winos on the subway who do the same, sitting in a head of lettuce and call it cute, so what makes the babies so special?   I digress…   So this obnoxious woman is collecting money for a fundraiser for premature babies.  I can get down with that.   I give the lady five bucks.  Mostly, to make her go away, but also for the sick babies.  I guess, in the midwest, showing any little bit of generosity opens the flood gates of sharing.  She starts telling me all about the fundraiser and how she’s had three premature babies and how all of them are going to be doing this walk to raise money together.  I think that’s actually pretty cool, so I say, “Wow, that’s really amazing that you’re all able to do that together.”  It’s true, I did think that.  But I also thought it would be a nice segue for a thank you, and good bye from Ms. Obnoxious.  Oh boy, am I still learning my way around the midwest.  Let’s replay the scene that followed:

“Wow, that’s really amazing that you’re all able to do that together.”

Imagine this next part in the most stereotypical Chicago-smoker-voice possible,

“Ya know what’s amazing, is how these docs can stitch ya back up.  I mean, I’m sittin’ there spread-eagle with my legs in the air and my vagina tore open, thinking I’m gonna die from all the blood and guts poorin’ outta me for hours and them docs are able to sew me back up good as new.”

Umm…. polite, but awkward smile…. I don’t know what to say, so I just respond,  “It’s my turn to bowl.”

Yes.  FACT.  That really happened.  Here I was, thinking the cause I’m donating to is the miracle of tiny precious lives and the men and woman who defy the odds in saving them.  Turns out, no.  Wrong.  It’s all about the miraculous salvation of the torn va-jj.

Just one question…

Can I have my five bucks back?

I Don’t Want to Talk to You…

I don’t want to talk to you during a movie.  I don’t care who you are, what our relationship is, whether I love you, hate you or don’t know you.  If you talk to me while I’m watching a movie at the theatre, I will mentally snap your jaw in thirds.

I don’t want to talk to you, Stranger-Lady, while I’m bra shopping at Target.  Yes, I agree the plain grey Fruit of the Loom cotton, frill-less, no-nonsense bra is the most comfortable out there.   I. Don’t. Know. You.  I don’t want to chit-chat about your 44DD’s.

I don’t want to talk to you, Mr. Skeazy-Dude-With-A-Kid, while riding the subway.  I don’t want to talk to you and I DEFINITELY don’t want you to hit on me while you’re sitting next to your 7-year-old son.  You don’t think you’re being obvious, you say?  I’m pretty sure your son just asked you, “Daddy, why you talking funny to that lady?”  Good question kid.

I don’t want to talk to stupid people.  Sorry.  I just don’t.

I don’t want to talk to you Ms. 76-Year-Old-Cashier-Lady.  I normally wouldn’t have anything against chatting with you for a hot second, but after watching the girl in front of me with the awesome hair pay & leave (with the hairstyle I’m planning on stealing tomorrow) you just smiled and said to me, “Don’t you wish we were young & cute enough to have hair like that?”  …                   bitch.

I don’t want to talk to you, Airplane-Seat-Neighbor.  I don’t.  Ever.  I mean it.  I will play deaf.  I will pretend I don’t speak English.  I don’t want to be your single-serving-friend.

I don’t want to talk to you, Nice-But-Annoying-Co-Worker-Girl, when I’m in the bathroom.  It’s always awkward.  Always.  Two reasons:  A.  You’re Awkward.  B.  It’s a bathroom.

To all you Chatty-Patty’s out there; If you are lonely, get a dog.  Not a cat.  Dogs are better.  Get one from a shelter.  Not a puppy-mill pet store.  Shelters are better.

Word.


The Nicest Bitch You’ll Ever Know…

I believe it’s customary to begin your very first blog with some sort of apology for inadequacy or a variation on a “bare with me” plea.  It’s not that I don’t feel the same self-deprecating fear to do the same.  After all, everyone hears that nagging little shadow of yourself from middle school in the back of your head saying, “They’re all going to laugh at you…”   But this is not the time for pig’s-blood-covered-self-doubt.  This is an exploration into the inner bitch and an explanation of why the world some times needs a swift kick in the ass.  So, for better or for worse just plain awesome… welcome to “The Nicest Bitch You’ll Ever Know.”

“The Squirrel Did It”

I’m driving home from work last week in my sexy ’97 Oldsmobile, when I receive a text from my Dad, “FYI, your mom fell at work. She dislocated and fractured her shoulder.  We’re at ER now. Call later.”  Even as my initial panic starts to rise, I can’t help but reflect on how inappropriately casual text messages sound 75% of the time (case in point).  I try to drive calmly until I can call him back, but just as I’m pulling on to my block, I receive another text.  “The squirrel did it.”

Ummm….  WTF?  Is this some sort of secret code I don’t know about?

After several confused minutes of back-and-forth texting with my Dad, I finally get a hold of him at the hospital.  Here’s what happened (or so the story goes)…

My mother is a property manager for a condominium complex.  She works alone in a crappy little clubhouse on the property.  For the record she reports to “The Board of Owners.”  This board consists of “The Asshole”, “The Douchebag” and “TheBitchHagFromHell”.  (These characters will be important later.)  Anyway… she enters the run-down shack they call a building that houses her office and finds that she has a visitor:  a “cute,” “fluffy,”  “innocent” little squirrel.  My mother is an animal lover, but let’s be honest, we all know a squirrel is little more than a rat in a cuter outfit.  (Stolen from SATC. fact.)  This Chanel-wearing rat must have had it’s bowl of rabies this morning because it makes a v-line for my mom.  She runs (probably screaming) into her office and slams the door (probably double-locking it).  She calls Sam, the maintenance guy, who comes over and searches everywhere for the little beast.  He doesn’t find it, however, and reports that it must have gone out the hole in the wall (refer back to the shack-reference).  As the day is nearing its end, she has to leave her office, hoping that Sam’s assessment is true.  She opens the door very slowly, listening for the tiny evil snicker of the fluffy-tailed villain.  Satisfied that she’s alone, she heads down the hall.  No sign of it, she begins to relax.  She retrieves whatever she was looking for and turns to head back to her office.  Suddenly the background music diverges into a minor key… the bass line starts to  mimic a beating heart…  There, at the end of the hall, with his tiny black cape, twirling his tiny mustache and ringing his tiny evil hands, sits the squirrel waiting to pounce!

No, but for real, she turns around and the same fucking squirrel lunges out of nowhere straight at her.  She jumps, turns to run, trips and flies shoulder first into the doorframe.  It takes her a moment of trying to get up before she realizes she can’t move her arm, then of course, there’s the pain and the “wellllll…. crap” as she realizes she’s really hurt.  She drags herself back to her office and calls an ambulance.  Knowing that the League of Extraordinary Shitheads will bitch her out the moment they realize she left early (in an ambulance or not), she throws her dead-limp right arm on to the desk and slowly, painfully types them an email one left-handed finger at a time, explaining that she was hurt at work and is on her way to the ER.

Fast forward several hours.  I’m sitting at my parents’ house, after she’s been released from the hospital, listening to the story in disbelief and hearing about how they had to put her under twice in order to re-set the dislocated shoulder because she also fractured the top of the humerus.  Ouch…and also… gross.  I decide to take the next day off of work so I can stay and help her.

Fast forward to the next morning.  I’m running around, taking care of my Mom, and the dog, and the house.  We call the specialist and they tell her that she can’t make an appointment until she gets a letter from one of her employers signing off on the incident.  I check her email hoping to find at least three concerned notes, best wishes, etc.  Open inbox.  No new messages.  I shouldn’t have been surprised, I mean, look at their names.  I write them all a very polite email explaining in detail what happened and what we need from them and how imperative it is that this happens ASAP.

Fast forward 8 hours later.  REALLY?  REALLY??!!   Not a single phone call, email… anything?  I finally convince my Mom to call Mr. Asshole.  I offer to do it, but the steam coming out of my ears must have persuaded her to do it herself.  I listen as she begins to explain.  I listen as she is clearly cut-off by whatever Mr. Asshole is saying.  I listen as she apologizes, begins to cry, then hangs up.

HELLLLLLLLLLLL NO.  For those of you who don’t know me.  I’m actually a very nice person.  I’m a very nice person until I’m not.  I don’t stop to listen to what happened on the other end of my mom’s conversation before I grab the phone and hit redial:

“Hello?  Is this Mr. Asshole?  Hi, this is Jen, I’m Debbie’s daughter.  Oh, you were just talking to her?  What a coincidence.  I need a minute of your time.  What’s that?  You’re going through some personal shit?  I’m sorry to hear that, but the sooner you stop talking and listen to what I need, the sooner you can get back to that, and yes, I will keep calling until I get what I want.  What’s that?  I’m sorry to hear that you’re having trouble with your mother.  Yes, I do understand.  I’m VERY protective of my mother as well, so I’m really going to need you to start doing the listening now.  My mother hurt herself at work, at YOUR building, due to YOUR lack of upkeep.  She’s VERY hurt.  She needs to see a specialist or there may be permanent damage.  Permanent damage that YOU will have to pay for for the rest of her life.  All I need from you is a signed letter as requested and I can take it from there.  What’s that?  You don’t have time to think about anyone else right now?  Well, then YOU need to get one of the other members of the board to deal with this because your number is the only one I have and you better believe this is going to get settled tonight.  What’s that?  You’ll have it to me in 20 minutes?  Thank you, so much sir.  Good luck with your mother and have a wonderful evening.”   click

Alright, so that may not be EXACTLY how it went.  In fact, I have a gift for sounding extremely polite & professional while at the same time making someone want to piss their pants.  The transcript of the actual conversation would probably read very benign and boring, with a lot of  “yes sirs”, “thank you’s”, and “of course sirs, “ but trust me when I say that my true intent always shines through.  When I go into bitch mode, I get results.  Maybe it’s the tone of my voice, maybe my opponents can feel that I could kill them with my mind.  Whatever it is, it comes in handy.  Fifteen minutes after the click, we received a signed letter on official letterhead, the appointment was set and my mother is on her way to recovery.