The Lady in 3J – Christmas Edition

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So I was away all last week dog-sitting (so. much. blog. fodder. I need to get on that.), and got home at around 7am on Christmas day. I was trying to be cautious because I had a suitcase to unpack, a laundry basket to fill, Darth Vader mask to set up, etc.

(I was actually quite surprised that the thumping didn’t start as soon as the suitcase rolled across the floor…)

So I get myself set up, take a shower and am ready to crawl into bed. I might have dropped something, or maybe my purse fell…nothing major, compared to the ruckus I had already made. 

And then I heard it. Just three or four thumps at first, then a lovely serenade of eight taps in rapid succession. I smiled and thought, “Aww, I think she missed me!”

Merry Christmas to you too, crazy broomstick lady…Merry Christmas. 

Miss USA

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Another symptom of my reverse culture shock is that I still have trouble remembering not to be nice. I would say that this is also a remnant of my years in retail; I automatically have an “I can help you!” face that causes people to ask me, “Do you work here?” in stores, even when I have my coat on.

So I smile and make eye contact often…and, given the ugliness that we are surrounded by these days, I guess I’m okay with that.

Today, I held the door for a gentleman behind me, and he smiled and said, “Thank you, Miss!” in a very exaggerated fashion. I quickly glanced at him and was debating whether he was about to ask me for money, then kept walking. He called out, “Miss?” and I thought, “here it comes…”

(In the interest of full disclosure, I was walking towards Starbucks. The other thoughts that flashed through that mind in that moment were, “He’s going to ask me for money and I’m going to say ‘no’ even though I’m about to walk into Starbucks and pay $3 for tea* and Jesus is not going to be pleased with my choices.”)

But no.

“Miss, are you Miss USA?”

My smile got even bigger as I laughed to myself at the thought of this. “No, I am not!” I assured him.

“Because you look like Miss USA.”

I hope that I said “thank you”. I certainly couldn’t stop grinning.

Just another day in Brooklyn!

(*Yes, I am buying $3 tea, aka “Trenta Shaken Black Tea with extra ice, please!”, even though I am barely making my rent. Don’t judge me. No, wait. Judge me. It’s ridiculous. I blame Dunkin’ Donuts for having tea that I am certain is not really brewed.)

My virgin ears…

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I guess it’s safe to say that I am still working through a bit of reverse culture shock being back in NY…which makes sense, since I just spent over 15 years living in what is commonly referred to as the “Northern Bible Belt”.

I love a well-placed curse word as much as anyone else. With that said, if I had a dollar for every time I heard the f word used in the past twelve hours, I would not only be able to make my own rent, but probably could pay yours as well. (Assuming you live anywhere other than NYC, of course…let’s not get crazy here…)

The F bomb* is a delicate flower, and should be carefully cultivated to be used at the perfect moment. It hurts my heart to see people use it so casually, cheapening its beauty.

See, New York? This is why we can’t f*&king have nice things.

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