Arriving at BWI smelling of liquor and a hint of calamity, I hopped on the airport shuttle bus in expectations of what was sure to be an adventurous day in Boston. Seeing as how I had never been before, I decided it would be a fun last minute trip to explore a city that was full of history, boats, and drunken Irish bastards.
My first run-in happened with a mother of three rowdy children, who so lovingly held the hand of her husband as she turned to me and said, "Sir, you smell very strongly of alcohol." For some reason, I've made it a habit to speak in what I can only refer to as "email lingo" as of late. I'm not sure if it's the fact that I work as a corporate slave Monday-Friday, but "email lingo" is a fantastic new form of passive aggressiveness that I can use on friends, family, and strangers. Just last week, I said to my friend Ashley, "If you sat on my face, would I drown? Please advise." She was seemingly less amused than I was at my newly discovered vernacular. In this particular scenario, I responded to the soccer mom with "Ma'am, kindly note that your spawn are being rambunctious. Please quiet them, as I'm nursing a hangover." These were the type of people that seemed like they were headed for a cheap kids-friendly resort on the outskirts of Cancun, so I felt satisfied in my emailesque response. She, not as satisfied.
Once I arrived in Boston, I was waiting outside for the #55 bus to take me to the blue line T-station, when an empty bus pulled up and an old man opened the doors and asked "where you headed?" I told him I was waiting for the 55 to the blue line, but he told me to get in anyway. The bus was completely empty, save for me and this old nut who had a severe gas problem. Incidentally, the old man was as deaf as the Keller bitch too, so I took this to my advantage. Wrong? Maybe, but at 9:30 am I was feeling succulently bashful. Our conversation was as follows:
Old Man: "You a student?"
Me: *pause* "Sure...a Junior in College studying physiology and undertaking"
Old Man: "What a great profession...people die all the time! So where do you think I'm originally from?"
Me: "Greece."
Old Man: "Well I'll be the son of a bastahd who beats his wife...no one has ever guessed that before! How did you know!?"
Me: "I was just there last September. I studied what Greeks look like in my 2 week stay and committed it to memory. You're the poster child. But a bit older."
Old Man: "Oh, how old am I you ask? Well, I'll give you one guess!"
Me: "112 years old"
Old Man: "That's right! 72 years. And married for 53!!"
Me: "I can't even put up with myself for 53 years, much less anyone else."
Old Man: "Who you tellin? I want to kill that old bitch every otha day! But, what can ya do? She's a good cook, good mutha, and she used to put out on regular occasions. We can't do it so much anymore, what with her heart condition and my irritable bowel syndrome. She's a good lady, though. And wicked smaht. Keeps me on my toes, that one! Yes siree!"
I crept up in my seat and slowly asked him, "Wait, you shit yourself? On her chest?"
"You're a sick bastahd. But that right there is some funny shit!"
Maybe he wasn't as deaf as I thought.
The old man left me with some wise advice: "Be good to your parents. They're your best friends, and at the end of the day, everyone else mine as well be a dirty, hairy-assed Turk." I guess we had a moment, because that strangely made sense to me, considering my utter disappointment in most of the human race as of late.
What became most fascinating to me about Boston was the accents. In fact, this fascinates me about every city. Give me a half a day in NYC, and I'll be hailing cabs and inquiring about the cost of bagels with the distinguishable accent of an old Jewish woman from the Upper East Side. In Boston, I was giving directions to the best Clam Chowdah joint in town by noon. At one point, I found myself following two old Jewish women in the train station who were yapping about their friend, "Bahbrah". This, in reference to a woman who apparently aged like shit and must have slept with one of their husbands at some point. That's the only way I could explain such hostility. "Did you see the wrinkles on Bahbrah's face? She looked like a leather handbag I once bought in Bangladesh! I think it's tha heavy drinkin she does, and that tanning she's always so fond of. Melt the skin right off ya! Her chest must look like a pair of old burlap sacks!" This was interjected by the second woman, who enthusiastically contributed with, "Oh I know it. It's one thing to be a ragin alcoholic, but its anotha to be disrepsectin ya skin and fryin it in the sun like a gad-damn Samoan servant! It's unhealthy, is what it is. And her husband, too! His shmackel is probably the only paht of his body that ain't burnt to a crisp!" It gave me a certain sense of satisfaction to know that, even at the age of 70-something, people still found the time to talk shit about one another. I just hope that, if I'm able to avert cancer and plagues and nuclear warfare and swine flu's 1, 2, 3 and 4, I at least won't be compared to the likes of a Bengali leather handbag or a burlap sack at the age of 70. A raging alcoholic, though? Perhaps.
In terms of traveling alone, there's nothing in the world more liberating. When in the company of someone else, I'm constantly distracted by their needs, wants, and complaints. At the Bunker hill memorial, the only thing I was distracted by was an old Asian man flying a kite. I find Asians so intriguing, as they always seem to have their own agenda. As a fat Asian girl, I know this. Better yet, it seems they don't give a flying fuck what the rest of the world thinks of them. This became evident when I approached the old man, who enthusiastically smiled at me and said, "You fry kite. I stretch". As I held the kite for him, he performed a series of stretches, jumps, and squats that would make any Harajuku girl on the streets of Tokyo proud. Including myself. It seemed that the bewildered look of westerners walking by only fueled his energy. I, for one, was desperately wishing I had brought along my kimono for an occasion like this.
As I made my way back to Quincy market, I stumbled upon what I later found out was a "chili bowl", which basically translated into just another excuse for drinking at a chili tasting competition. People dressed in actual jalapeno chili suits drew me in. I, of course, approached the first group dressed in t-shirts that read, "Chili-Vanili Army". I promised to vote for their chili, and they in turn promised to buy me 8 beers. 3 hours later, buzzed and full of free chili, I headed back to the airport.
As the plane flew over Manhattan on a clear night sky, I could see the dark outline of central park amongst all the bright city lights of NYC. I read once that the Central Park zoo had two gay penguins, and they were in love and faithful to one another until one of the penguins started fornicating with the penguin slut next door. How awful to be fully enthralled in what you think is the deepest form of penguin love, only to find out that your supposed "soul-mate" is in the cave next door, pounding away at the penguin who may have had a slightly better body or whose feathers glistened in a more seductive and youthful way than the yours. As I peered out the window, I couldn't help but look down upon such a massive city, and wonder to myself if the lonely penguin left behind could hear the two penguins next door through the thin cave walls, shaking with anger as he imagines that penguin skank hanging from a wooden beam upside down in pornographic pose, begging for her new penguin lover to just finish her off while she gets donkey punched as her head bangs against the cold, damp walls. I snapped out of it when I looked towards the lights of the upper east side, and thought how fabulous the lives of all those rich housewives and successful NYC interior designer gays must be. And, I wondered how many of them were doing exactly as the Penguins were.
When I landed, I promised myself I would take more of these weekend trips. I've already booked my next weekend trip, so I'll put up an update on where I went and what I experienced when I get back. I'll be living off nuts and berries, and probably joining the likes of the prostitute I met on the street the other day in order to afford all this, but how else can you experience life? Certainly, not behind the desk of an office building. I don't quite know where amongst the chaos we lose ourselves and wake up thinking, "How did I get here? Did I settle? Why is the world passing by my office window, and how, as a Fat Asian Girl, can I make my life more meaningful to me?" I'm not sure of all, or any, of those answers. But when I think about those penguins and the NYC millionaires from 35,000 feet in the air, I laugh and somehow think it all makes sense for now.
~ F.A.G.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Breakfast During a Recession
On most mornings, I'm walking to work in what I can only describe as a trance-like state. I function on autopilot until about 10:30am. I look around me, and most people, with few exceptions, seem to function the same way.
This morning, my trance-like "I don't give a fuck just please don't talk to me" state was interrupted by a female voice asking me, "Hey baby would you like some breakfast, suga?". I turned and saw what I could only describe to be a woman standing 6'2 sporting a feux fur coat, a barbie-sized skirt not designed for her Mo'nique-like curves, and smoking a Newport. But, what was most noticeable was the gap betwixt her teeth. I'm not sure why, but the gap is what told me I should engage in conversation. There's just something about people with gaps in their teeth...somthing so rare and exuding of an attitude that clearly speaks to you: "This is my gap. Name it, love it, deal with it. Because clearly, I don't give a fuck to fix it." How can you not talk to someone like this? Plus, the bitch looked like a tranny mix of Whitney Houston (the latter years), Clarice 'Precious' Jones, and the woman who played Peggy Bundy on "Married with Children". Clearly, she had me at "hey baby".
To be honest, at first I really thought that perhaps she was offering me a discounted coupon to the crepe's and custard place that sits right off I street. It wasn't until 7 minutes into my conversation that I realized this woman was a prostitute. Breakfast to her was codeword for "Pay me 15 bucks and I'll do whatever you want". I, of course, naively thought of the delicious Crepe place just a few doors down. Funny how two worlds can collide over one word.
My conversation went as follows:
Me: "I've been really meaning to try that crepe and custard place? I really hope you're giving out coupons because, you know, it's a recession"
Hooker: "You see Frankie over der? (Pointing at a less-than-well-dressed 5' 6'' black man sporting sweatpants and a periwinkle blazer) Well usually he a good customer but he be slappin me and pullin my hair during our transactions lately so I don fuck with him no more"
Me: "Why would Frankie slap you over a breakfast item?? Did you perhaps ring him up wrong?"
Hooker: "Baby he know what da price is, and he know if he wants extra it costs more so dat aint even no issue. I's a respectful woman, but he disrespectin me in ways I don fuck with no more and, I'ma tell you right now, he aint got nuthin to brag abouts to anybodys cuz he be packin a peanut"
Me: *Awkward laughter* "Well obviously if you want more you have to pay for it. For instance, when I go to Wendy's drive through and I want a side of cheese sauce for my chicken nuggets, I have to pay extra. That's fine with me, it's a part of life and I want my 50 cent cheese. Frankie's gotta check himself."
Hooker: "You a smart muthafucka ain't you? Now how bouts we go get take care of some business." *Blows smoke in my face and adjusts her weave*
It was at this point that I got a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps I had meddled to much in their business? I don't know what it was, and I'll try and blame it on the fact that it was still early and I was half asleep, but it was at this very second that I realized this crazy bitch was a prostitute. Not just a prostitute, but also a cheap imitation of someone I thought was giving away free samples of breakfast items.
Although, I had to give her credit. Most hookers work the streets in sketchy, poorly-lit sidewalks circa 2 am. Not her. This train wreck was getting an early start. But that gap she had in her teeth, it seemed like everytime she opened her mouth it got wider...to the point where I wanted to see how many life sized objects I could fit between it...a coin? a small dixie cup? a wedge of laughing cow cheese? a prematurely born baby? To me, the possibilites were endless, and I couldn't turn away. As she sucked on her cigarette, I couldn't help but wonder how, through one of those violent drags that she seemed to inhale, the cigarette didn't launch through that archway and right down the back of her throat. Sure, she could survive years of casual sex with strangers and a few muggings and beat downs from her pimp, and even the impending lung collapse as a result of smoking, but one bad drag from this cigarette and that bitch was a gonner. People at her funeral would ask her pimp, "How did she die?" and I can only imagine him saying "I told that bitch to fix the damn gap between them tooth. She ain't ever listen to nobody".
Meanwhile, I could picture poor Frankie, sittin in the darkest corner of the church, inconspicuously wiping tears from his periwinkle blazer. All the while, wondering if it was inappropriate to drink at a time like this.
~F.A.G.
This morning, my trance-like "I don't give a fuck just please don't talk to me" state was interrupted by a female voice asking me, "Hey baby would you like some breakfast, suga?". I turned and saw what I could only describe to be a woman standing 6'2 sporting a feux fur coat, a barbie-sized skirt not designed for her Mo'nique-like curves, and smoking a Newport. But, what was most noticeable was the gap betwixt her teeth. I'm not sure why, but the gap is what told me I should engage in conversation. There's just something about people with gaps in their teeth...somthing so rare and exuding of an attitude that clearly speaks to you: "This is my gap. Name it, love it, deal with it. Because clearly, I don't give a fuck to fix it." How can you not talk to someone like this? Plus, the bitch looked like a tranny mix of Whitney Houston (the latter years), Clarice 'Precious' Jones, and the woman who played Peggy Bundy on "Married with Children". Clearly, she had me at "hey baby".
To be honest, at first I really thought that perhaps she was offering me a discounted coupon to the crepe's and custard place that sits right off I street. It wasn't until 7 minutes into my conversation that I realized this woman was a prostitute. Breakfast to her was codeword for "Pay me 15 bucks and I'll do whatever you want". I, of course, naively thought of the delicious Crepe place just a few doors down. Funny how two worlds can collide over one word.
My conversation went as follows:
Me: "I've been really meaning to try that crepe and custard place? I really hope you're giving out coupons because, you know, it's a recession"
Hooker: "You see Frankie over der? (Pointing at a less-than-well-dressed 5' 6'' black man sporting sweatpants and a periwinkle blazer) Well usually he a good customer but he be slappin me and pullin my hair during our transactions lately so I don fuck with him no more"
Me: "Why would Frankie slap you over a breakfast item?? Did you perhaps ring him up wrong?"
Hooker: "Baby he know what da price is, and he know if he wants extra it costs more so dat aint even no issue. I's a respectful woman, but he disrespectin me in ways I don fuck with no more and, I'ma tell you right now, he aint got nuthin to brag abouts to anybodys cuz he be packin a peanut"
Me: *Awkward laughter* "Well obviously if you want more you have to pay for it. For instance, when I go to Wendy's drive through and I want a side of cheese sauce for my chicken nuggets, I have to pay extra. That's fine with me, it's a part of life and I want my 50 cent cheese. Frankie's gotta check himself."
Hooker: "You a smart muthafucka ain't you? Now how bouts we go get take care of some business." *Blows smoke in my face and adjusts her weave*
It was at this point that I got a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps I had meddled to much in their business? I don't know what it was, and I'll try and blame it on the fact that it was still early and I was half asleep, but it was at this very second that I realized this crazy bitch was a prostitute. Not just a prostitute, but also a cheap imitation of someone I thought was giving away free samples of breakfast items.
Although, I had to give her credit. Most hookers work the streets in sketchy, poorly-lit sidewalks circa 2 am. Not her. This train wreck was getting an early start. But that gap she had in her teeth, it seemed like everytime she opened her mouth it got wider...to the point where I wanted to see how many life sized objects I could fit between it...a coin? a small dixie cup? a wedge of laughing cow cheese? a prematurely born baby? To me, the possibilites were endless, and I couldn't turn away. As she sucked on her cigarette, I couldn't help but wonder how, through one of those violent drags that she seemed to inhale, the cigarette didn't launch through that archway and right down the back of her throat. Sure, she could survive years of casual sex with strangers and a few muggings and beat downs from her pimp, and even the impending lung collapse as a result of smoking, but one bad drag from this cigarette and that bitch was a gonner. People at her funeral would ask her pimp, "How did she die?" and I can only imagine him saying "I told that bitch to fix the damn gap between them tooth. She ain't ever listen to nobody".
Meanwhile, I could picture poor Frankie, sittin in the darkest corner of the church, inconspicuously wiping tears from his periwinkle blazer. All the while, wondering if it was inappropriate to drink at a time like this.
~F.A.G.
Friday, March 19, 2010
From FAB to FAG....
Yeah, I was a cute baby but I was milk sucking machine.....no titty was safe from my vacuum powered lips. In fact, I still love titties to this day. Stay tuned to my adventures of eating, love making, and waddling my way through cities across America. Goodbye for now dumplings! Ruv you rong time!
~ FAG
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Here Comes the Bride...and the Shitshow
There's really nothing more invigorating than the hopes of an open bar, balls to the wall wedding. Last weekend, I attended the wedding of Andrea and Terrence Bayly, and the following is a recap of some of the night's events:
At the church, I was trusted to play the role of "Greeter", which for anyone who knows me, that's quite the risk considering how utterly and completely inappropriate I am 85% of the time. You really want me to greet your grandmother and 2nd cousins from the west coast while wearing a suit that may or may not hold a flask in the coat pocket? Superb.
Now, as a fat Asian girl, really the only thing I could think of through the entire Catholic ceremony was binge eating/drinking at the reception. Some may say that I have problems of over-consumption, but I just think I have lofty goals of being hefty and seducing a mate through my inability to carry myself with any dignity whatsoever. I'm also confident that the Jew sitting behind me at church shared the same sentiment, since he kept leaning forward in his pew and ever so gently asking me, "What quarter are we in? I think I'll be optimistic and say we're halfway through 3rd".
This, it turns out, was only the beginning of a series of entertaining questions that would get me through a 1-hour long Catholic mass. A few minutes later, I would hear the pew creaking and, ever so gently, the whisper of the Jew asking, "Is it me, or does Jesus look a lot like Osama Bin Laden?" Moments later, a short and stalky dark-haired man, clearly late for the ceremony, huffed and puffed his way into my row and this time, with a lot less tact, the Jew exclaimed, "Holy shit it's Danny De Vito!" That time, I just couldn't hold my laughter. After all, fat Asian girls are known for giggling. Of course, my Latina mom was there to scold me, even at the ripe age of 24, with "Andres! Shat Ap and poot jur Blackberry away, Jesu Christo is watching!"
To be honest, the ceremony was beautiful but church is church, and it's boring as all hell. Special thanks to the Jew for making my hour that day more pleasant.
The reception that followed could only be described as a classy debauchery, as everyone was wearing their "Sunday Best", but by the 2nd hour their behavior was more akin to "Thursdays in College Park". I, of course, was not wasting anytime and pre-gamed for the open bar reception in the limo ride from the church. Thankfully, Susan's alcohol induced brain plans ahead, much like mine, and we were able to sneak in a bottle of champagne to the limo, cleverly concealed by a transluscent plastic grocery bag which, if bought in DC, was worth every penny of those 5 cents.
Being a half Latin/half American wedding, one could be entertained solely by observing the dance floor. The gringos (Americans, for you non-native spaniards), would flood the dancefloor every time Journey or "Shout" would start blaring from the speakers. Ah, to be white and boring. Then, like a scene from a play, the crowd would quickly shift once Shakira would come on. The gringos would exit and on came the Latin crowd, whose hips were clearly not lying. It was magical, and I could only compare it to watching "A West Side Story" live and up close.
After a drink or ten, or perhaps even 20 at this point, one of the best parts of my night occured. I was in the "powder room", when I ran into my dad. He's somewhat of a quiet fellow, but has an inexplicable ability to drop one liners with impeccable timing. As we finished washing our hands and walked out the door, our conversation went as follows:
Me: "Are you having fun dad?"
Dad " Yes. Andrea looks beautiful. I like the open cigar bar"
Me: "I can't wait for Vanessa Keating's wedding"
Dad: "Yeah, and Andrea Keating and Susan Riley"
Me: "Oh, well ya that's random I only mentioned Vanessa bc she's engaged. But yes, hooray for Susan and Andrea."
Dad : "Damn straight"
Me: "Did you just say damn straight, in a Spanish accent?".....Long silence....
Me: "Aren't you excited to have to pay for Daniella's entire wedding when she gets married?"
...And here comes dad, with all his magic and wit and impeccable timing as we walk past the coat check girl:
Dad: "Are you kidding? Your sister is a god damn Lesbian"
And with that, as quickly as it came, he parted ways with me as I was left clutching a vodka soda and, from the corner of my eye, witnessing the coat-check girl giggling.....like a fat asian girl.
To be honest, I don't like to discuss my complete levels of intoxication in a public forum because it seems a bit tacky and de-classe, but let's just say that as the night went on, I somehow thought it would be funny to go around and invite all the Catholics to my same-sex wedding. I'm not even in a relationship, let alone engaged, but for the sake of entertainment I'll do and say just about anything. Some gave looks of disapproval (particularly the older crowd), some gave looks of encouragement, some gave looks of 'Why are you the only one with your shirt completely unbuttoned?', yet all were hilarious and equally fulfilling.
The night somehow ended with a limo ride to McFadden's in Georgetown and me slipping and falling on someone else's strategically placed pool of vomit somewhere on the top floor. It's ok, I'm not hurt.
Until next time....
- FAG (Fat Asian Girl)
At the church, I was trusted to play the role of "Greeter", which for anyone who knows me, that's quite the risk considering how utterly and completely inappropriate I am 85% of the time. You really want me to greet your grandmother and 2nd cousins from the west coast while wearing a suit that may or may not hold a flask in the coat pocket? Superb.
Now, as a fat Asian girl, really the only thing I could think of through the entire Catholic ceremony was binge eating/drinking at the reception. Some may say that I have problems of over-consumption, but I just think I have lofty goals of being hefty and seducing a mate through my inability to carry myself with any dignity whatsoever. I'm also confident that the Jew sitting behind me at church shared the same sentiment, since he kept leaning forward in his pew and ever so gently asking me, "What quarter are we in? I think I'll be optimistic and say we're halfway through 3rd".
This, it turns out, was only the beginning of a series of entertaining questions that would get me through a 1-hour long Catholic mass. A few minutes later, I would hear the pew creaking and, ever so gently, the whisper of the Jew asking, "Is it me, or does Jesus look a lot like Osama Bin Laden?" Moments later, a short and stalky dark-haired man, clearly late for the ceremony, huffed and puffed his way into my row and this time, with a lot less tact, the Jew exclaimed, "Holy shit it's Danny De Vito!" That time, I just couldn't hold my laughter. After all, fat Asian girls are known for giggling. Of course, my Latina mom was there to scold me, even at the ripe age of 24, with "Andres! Shat Ap and poot jur Blackberry away, Jesu Christo is watching!"
To be honest, the ceremony was beautiful but church is church, and it's boring as all hell. Special thanks to the Jew for making my hour that day more pleasant.
The reception that followed could only be described as a classy debauchery, as everyone was wearing their "Sunday Best", but by the 2nd hour their behavior was more akin to "Thursdays in College Park". I, of course, was not wasting anytime and pre-gamed for the open bar reception in the limo ride from the church. Thankfully, Susan's alcohol induced brain plans ahead, much like mine, and we were able to sneak in a bottle of champagne to the limo, cleverly concealed by a transluscent plastic grocery bag which, if bought in DC, was worth every penny of those 5 cents.
Being a half Latin/half American wedding, one could be entertained solely by observing the dance floor. The gringos (Americans, for you non-native spaniards), would flood the dancefloor every time Journey or "Shout" would start blaring from the speakers. Ah, to be white and boring. Then, like a scene from a play, the crowd would quickly shift once Shakira would come on. The gringos would exit and on came the Latin crowd, whose hips were clearly not lying. It was magical, and I could only compare it to watching "A West Side Story" live and up close.
After a drink or ten, or perhaps even 20 at this point, one of the best parts of my night occured. I was in the "powder room", when I ran into my dad. He's somewhat of a quiet fellow, but has an inexplicable ability to drop one liners with impeccable timing. As we finished washing our hands and walked out the door, our conversation went as follows:
Me: "Are you having fun dad?"
Dad " Yes. Andrea looks beautiful. I like the open cigar bar"
Me: "I can't wait for Vanessa Keating's wedding"
Dad: "Yeah, and Andrea Keating and Susan Riley"
Me: "Oh, well ya that's random I only mentioned Vanessa bc she's engaged. But yes, hooray for Susan and Andrea."
Dad : "Damn straight"
Me: "Did you just say damn straight, in a Spanish accent?".....Long silence....
Me: "Aren't you excited to have to pay for Daniella's entire wedding when she gets married?"
...And here comes dad, with all his magic and wit and impeccable timing as we walk past the coat check girl:
Dad: "Are you kidding? Your sister is a god damn Lesbian"
And with that, as quickly as it came, he parted ways with me as I was left clutching a vodka soda and, from the corner of my eye, witnessing the coat-check girl giggling.....like a fat asian girl.
To be honest, I don't like to discuss my complete levels of intoxication in a public forum because it seems a bit tacky and de-classe, but let's just say that as the night went on, I somehow thought it would be funny to go around and invite all the Catholics to my same-sex wedding. I'm not even in a relationship, let alone engaged, but for the sake of entertainment I'll do and say just about anything. Some gave looks of disapproval (particularly the older crowd), some gave looks of encouragement, some gave looks of 'Why are you the only one with your shirt completely unbuttoned?', yet all were hilarious and equally fulfilling.
The night somehow ended with a limo ride to McFadden's in Georgetown and me slipping and falling on someone else's strategically placed pool of vomit somewhere on the top floor. It's ok, I'm not hurt.
Until next time....
- FAG (Fat Asian Girl)
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The Lost Shoe
Just so you know, like most of my stories this one doesn't really go anywhere or even teach a valuable life lesson. I just felt like I owed it to Chelsea.
Last week, I had just stepped off the metro at Farragut North when a girl, lets say in her mid 20's, shoved past me and cut me off at the escalator. At first I thought "whoa, bitch", but then I reminded myself that for lent I gave up two things: 1. biting my nails 2. cussing out busted chunky white girls. I'm not religious, but I figure I should jump on the sacrificial bandwagon all the religious people and Ghandi seem to rave about.
If you've never been to Farragut North station, then you wouldn't know that the escalators leading to the outside world are long and resemble a stairway to heaven, only filled mostly with angry people who are late to work and will probably end up going to hell or, at best, purgatory. Myself included.
So this girl, we'll call her Chelsea. Generic chunky white girl name, no? Well as soon as chelsea set foot on the escalator, her right heel fell off while the left one hung loosely from her left mammoth-sized foot. I was perplexed because she stood there, barefoot, on the escalator as her shoe lay next to my feet a few steps down. Naturally, I assumed she would switfly look back and reach for her shoe. I guess Chelsea had other plans. She rode that entire 45 seconds with only one shoe on, looking around as if her fat stocking-lined feet were not resting bare against the metal teeth of some grimey ass escalator. It was like witnessing someone doing the "I was walking at normal pace but then I tripped and almost fell so began lightly jogging so hopefully people won't notice" move, only dumber. She even took her phone out and pretended to start texting someone, and I know what pretending to text looks like because I do it all the time when I'm in awkward situations/see someone ugly staring at me. So I decided since she so gracefully cut me off earlier, that I would hold on to her shoe until we reached the top. As we ascended, I caught her taking a quick glance backward in hopes of spotting her shoe. The milli-second look of panic that took over her face when she couldn't find it automatically made me realize that taking her shoe was quite possibly the best decision I would be making all day.
As the escalator reached its ending point, Chelsea took on a whole new persona. Earlier, she was just another moody girl willing to be rude to strangers for the sake of getting to work 30, maybe 40 seconds earlier. Now, she turned into frantic/nervous Chelsea and, I have to admit, I liked her better this way. As I held her shoe, she twisted her body and head so violently in search of her shoe that her pony tail was practically whipping the asian lady standing behind her in the face. Poor Chelsea had tried so hard not to call attention to herself earlier, that in a matter of seconds the Asian lady and 3 sourrounding businessman began to wonder what could she possibly be so frantically searching for. At the end of the escalator, Chelsea stood on the metal grate as a rush hour of hurried bodies shoved past her. I could see her mouthing to people "my shoe, my shoe! I think it fell!". The site of chelsea standing on one 4 inch heel as people rushed past her carelessly was utterly fantastic. As I reached the top of the stair, I found her delightfully frazzled, holding an expression that could only be interpreted to mean "what the fuck am I going to do with only one heel for the rest of the day?" As I walked past her, I stood next to a concrete pillar to continue watching her.
Things took a turn for the worse when, in a dumbfounded panic, Chelsea started tromping down the crowded escalator head-on into the morning crowd. I began to wonder, "Why didn't she just get on the descending escalator to the right?" and laughed. No, more like cackled evily at this point. Was I taking this too far? Maybe, but this shit was so good it had to be fattening. As she came back up the stairs, I held up her shoe and said "I'm sorry, did you lose this?". She responded with, "My shoe! Awesome!" proceeded to put it on, and quickly waddled away. No need to thank me or anything, Chelsea. If anything I should thank you for giving me something to write aimlessly about.
Last week, I had just stepped off the metro at Farragut North when a girl, lets say in her mid 20's, shoved past me and cut me off at the escalator. At first I thought "whoa, bitch", but then I reminded myself that for lent I gave up two things: 1. biting my nails 2. cussing out busted chunky white girls. I'm not religious, but I figure I should jump on the sacrificial bandwagon all the religious people and Ghandi seem to rave about.
If you've never been to Farragut North station, then you wouldn't know that the escalators leading to the outside world are long and resemble a stairway to heaven, only filled mostly with angry people who are late to work and will probably end up going to hell or, at best, purgatory. Myself included.
So this girl, we'll call her Chelsea. Generic chunky white girl name, no? Well as soon as chelsea set foot on the escalator, her right heel fell off while the left one hung loosely from her left mammoth-sized foot. I was perplexed because she stood there, barefoot, on the escalator as her shoe lay next to my feet a few steps down. Naturally, I assumed she would switfly look back and reach for her shoe. I guess Chelsea had other plans. She rode that entire 45 seconds with only one shoe on, looking around as if her fat stocking-lined feet were not resting bare against the metal teeth of some grimey ass escalator. It was like witnessing someone doing the "I was walking at normal pace but then I tripped and almost fell so began lightly jogging so hopefully people won't notice" move, only dumber. She even took her phone out and pretended to start texting someone, and I know what pretending to text looks like because I do it all the time when I'm in awkward situations/see someone ugly staring at me. So I decided since she so gracefully cut me off earlier, that I would hold on to her shoe until we reached the top. As we ascended, I caught her taking a quick glance backward in hopes of spotting her shoe. The milli-second look of panic that took over her face when she couldn't find it automatically made me realize that taking her shoe was quite possibly the best decision I would be making all day.
As the escalator reached its ending point, Chelsea took on a whole new persona. Earlier, she was just another moody girl willing to be rude to strangers for the sake of getting to work 30, maybe 40 seconds earlier. Now, she turned into frantic/nervous Chelsea and, I have to admit, I liked her better this way. As I held her shoe, she twisted her body and head so violently in search of her shoe that her pony tail was practically whipping the asian lady standing behind her in the face. Poor Chelsea had tried so hard not to call attention to herself earlier, that in a matter of seconds the Asian lady and 3 sourrounding businessman began to wonder what could she possibly be so frantically searching for. At the end of the escalator, Chelsea stood on the metal grate as a rush hour of hurried bodies shoved past her. I could see her mouthing to people "my shoe, my shoe! I think it fell!". The site of chelsea standing on one 4 inch heel as people rushed past her carelessly was utterly fantastic. As I reached the top of the stair, I found her delightfully frazzled, holding an expression that could only be interpreted to mean "what the fuck am I going to do with only one heel for the rest of the day?" As I walked past her, I stood next to a concrete pillar to continue watching her.
Things took a turn for the worse when, in a dumbfounded panic, Chelsea started tromping down the crowded escalator head-on into the morning crowd. I began to wonder, "Why didn't she just get on the descending escalator to the right?" and laughed. No, more like cackled evily at this point. Was I taking this too far? Maybe, but this shit was so good it had to be fattening. As she came back up the stairs, I held up her shoe and said "I'm sorry, did you lose this?". She responded with, "My shoe! Awesome!" proceeded to put it on, and quickly waddled away. No need to thank me or anything, Chelsea. If anything I should thank you for giving me something to write aimlessly about.
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