When someone isnt gonna finish their dinner
I wrote dis for Nerve. It will make you want to wear a male chastity belt for life.
Bra shopping is an intense experience in a woman’s life. You know what makes it more uncomfortable? Peeping Toms.
It was Saturday night and I was eating a full pasta dinner by myself at a restaurant where my friend works in Williamsburg.*
As with most of my solo-dining experiences, I was more than a little buzzed, frantically typing “Harriet the Spy”-esque notes on my iPhone with traces of marinara sauce on my face.
“It’s my birthday, bitches!” a 30-something year-old man in khakis slurred to an old couple at an adjoining table.
"I need to buy my pants bigger because my dick’s so big. Like I need more room for my balls."
(to the older couple) “Why didn’t you guys and my mom and dad just get a room at the Wythe Hotel and kick it Brooklyn style?!”
Soon another bro with black slicked-back hair and a paisley pocket square walked outside accompanied by a cheetah-print clad woman in her late 50’s.
"Ooh maybe I’ll join her!”, he full-voice whispered to his frost-tipped companion, motioning to me, to which she replied loudly, “Yeah, not my cup of tea.”
"Come on, Mom!" he said.
Now I was intrigued.
"No, I just don’t like women," she continued. "I’m a woman. I know how they are. I really don’t fucking like them. I really disdain them."
"Hey Tina/Tammi/Bernice!", I wanted to say, "Hey. Yeah, you. Come over here. Wanna ‘Lady and The Tramp’ this pasta with me? I swear we’re not all bad…"
Just then, my friend Asher showed up with some of the birthday boy’s stolen party favors including a pedophilic melange of Bourbon-flavored lollipops, Chinese finger traps and Play-Doh.
After watching full grown men lick lollipops for 20 minutes I ran to the bathroom where, as fate would have it, Tina/Tammi/Bernice and I met again.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask her like:
"Were you at Woodstock?"
"What actually is a placenta?"
”Where’d you get that top? TJ?”
But instead I said, “Is that your son over there?” motioning to the paisley bro.
"Yes," she smiled, "I have some magic ovaries."
And I said, “I bet you do Tammi, I bet you do.”
And she said, “What?? My name is Evelyn.”
And I said, “Shhhh. You’re all the same.”
JUST EAT THE FOOD
* Much like this man, only not as endearing:
My spirit animal
This is what loves is. Mac and Cheese Burger anyone?
This words are majic (bom shaka laka bom ) say it next to your vagina and the jenie will come out to make your wishes come true
- an actual message on OKCupid
Even now, I can’t recall whether it was the soft accent on the word “majic”, the rhythmic onomatopoeia of the bom shaka laka bom or the tender advice to whisper to my vagina so that a mystical “jenie” would come out that made me fall for you, Rider911.
But I fell hard.
I studied your provocative beach picz with a hookah in hand for hours.
What I wouldn’t give to be a grain of sand on that beach!
Your glorious room, where the real majic would happen…
But then I tried your request, Rider, and nothing happened.
Just me alone in sweatpants whispering to my vagina.*
Waiting for an answer that would never come…
YOU MADE A FOOL OUT OF ME, RIDER!
I see now that the jenie was a metephor.
You’re the jenie; the jenie who broke my heart.
So why don’t you and your chic oversize black coat and XXL vespa helmet go toy with another woman’s emotions and leave me here.
I hope I never see your hauntingly sexy blurry face again.
Also, cute dog.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*It was, after all, a Tuesday
Today I woke up from my Xanax-induced slumber with a chihuhau-mix puppy on each breast.
I’d like to tell you that the night before I had left my crack den apartment, white-girl twerked the night away & made an emotional connection with a human woman/man, but no. Instead I spent my night frantically Wikipedia-ing Gouda cheese, lisping along to Drake through Crest Whitestrips, and forcing my two 8-lb dog-children Taco & Nacho into a position so that I would be middle spon.
I recently moved to Bushwick aka “Tha Dirty B” aka “Rape St. USA” and am living with my friend Roman and a Canadian male model named Tina*
They sleep in a bunkbed in the next room, and our apartment is something like a bizarro world Threes Company, only with more hair products.*
I also now have a corporate j-o-b where I have started wearing Hillary Clinton pantsuits and I like it.
Now instead of waking up hungover next to a pizza box that looks like a raccoon has attacked it, my mornings consist of me:
(I assume he’s referring to the flats, but he could be a shoulder-pad guy.)
Check back soon for my next post “OKcupid? More like OKSTUPID!!! #LOL #SINGLE”
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*Names have been changed for privacy
*Thanks to Tim Garbinsky for this lucid and haunting comparison
This recent presidential election highlighted an intense divide in our nation.
It is now more clear than ever that some people are Democrats, some people are Republicans, some people are vampires and some people are humans who love them.
But the one thing we can agree on across the political and mythical spectrum is that everyone enjoys a good bowl of soup.*
This is why 3-7 nights out of the week you can find me at the Hale & Hearty Soup on 23rd and Madison, taking up an obscene amount of window-seats with a hoarder’s cocktail of bags, coats and empty soup containers, dunking my chicken salad sandwich into a jumbo container of Tomato Cheddar soup with a fervor that can only be described as “NSFW.”
My neighborhood Hale & Hearty Soup is like Cheers! where everybody knows your name, only here absolutely no one knows who you are or gives a sh*t about you, and there is a surly Hispanic teen named Marco whose sole purpose, it seems, is to remind you of this.
The scenes of sexual tension between me and the aforementioned Marco usually go something like this:
Me: Hey there! How’s it going?
Marco: (surly and wearing a hairnet in silence, staring ahead)
Me: So what’s good today?
Marco: (dead eyes, more silence, more staring, thrusts hand at board)
Me: Alright! I think I’ll try a sample of the loaded baked potato! Sounds cheesy!
Marco: (removes lid from vat of soup and slams it down, throws ladle into liquid, slops soup into a tiny plastic cup and skids it across the counter at me)
Me: (catching cup) Woo! Looks good today. (sips) I’ll take a large one of this please! This’ll get the juices flowing for my writing today!
Marco: (rolls eyes and speaks flatly) 7-grain or sourdough
Me: Sorry, what?
Marco: (annoyed) I said, 7-grain or sourdough
Me: Oh, both please!
Marco: (looks me up and down and tosses both breads on counter with disgust)
Me: Thanks bro! (goes for fist bump)
Marco: (systematically denies fist bump and shifts entire body away from me)
Despite this particular love-hate relationship, there is a striking sense of camaraderie among soup-lovers. It seems that hot, savory, liquid truly transcends race, gender, age and sexual preference.
As if to prove this, at the present moment this Hale & Hearty crew* consists of: a serial-killer-esque man in a a trench coat silently watching his Asian girlfriend eat soup in the studious and determined way of someone plotting how to murder their next victim, a 20-something blonde woman in post-workout gear pawing at her lentil soup, and a small Indian child in a stroller screaming for his mother.
As I sit, staring at them from my window perch, with traces of Tomato Cheddar around my mouth, looking out the window at trash bags piled outside on the sidewalk, the dog with three legs, and the woman who looks like she bathed with a can of tuna, I am overwhelmed with a sense of hope and unity for our country.
It reminds me of Obama’s famous speech at the Democratic National Convention in 2004 where he said, “There’s not a liberal America and a conservative America; there are people who like soup and then there are people who are idiots.”
So I sit back, comforted by the fact that I am that small Indian child, I am that creepy white dude, I am that … Ok I am not that girl in workout gear.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*For vampires, that’s blood soup.
*As I call them. I got us jackets but no one wears them.