Help This

I went to Sephora at lunch today, to buy many things that I don't need. This often happens at the tail end of winter, when I'm feeling as pasty and vitamin deficient as I will all year. I wind up buying a hundred dollars worth of sugar scrubs and sparkle lotions, trying to wake up my face.

So OK. All well and good. Here's the real problem: The women at Sephora, the salespeople, will not leave you alone.

In my 20 minute trip through the store, no fewer than SIX different women asked me if I needed anything. One of them asked me three times. Through an effort of will, I managed to keep repeating, through gritted teeth, "I'm fine, thanks."

What I really wanted to say was: "Look, I'm trying to figure out if I need a $70 microdermabrasion kit. So can you just fuck off?"

Gawd.

OK, But OW

Because I know you live for updates on my menstrual cycle, I need to tell you that my boobs hurt right now, possibly more than boobs have ever hurt.

This is at least partially because I wore a low-cut dress to the Mouse's housewarming party last weekend, causing several people to grab my bosom as they walked by, as though it were a party favor. I seriously had thumb-prints on my nipples the next day. People were raised in a barn, apparently.

In any event: Ow.

The Pope Is Such a Cheerful Guy

Hell is a place where sinners burn in an eternal fire, and not just a religious symbol designed to galvanise the faithful, the Pope has said.

The pontiff further declared: "Jen Hubley is going there immediately, both for making fun of me and for preferring the African dude."

Remember him? I can't find his name anywhere, but he was in the running for Popehood and he was all pro-condom and stuff. He pretty much never had a chance. This Pope looks like he might be one of those creepy people who never ever blink. There's something reptilian about him, and because I am the queen of denial, I can never remember his name. It's Benedict the Something-Something, but I'll be darned if I can get the numeral straight.

Anyway, in my mind JP the Deuce is still Pope. He's riding around in his little Popemobile, with just his feet sticking out from underneath his gigantic hat.

News of the Obvious

I just received the following text from a friend:

"Just got called a fag on 17th steet and 8th ave."

For those of you who don't live in New York, this is one of the gayest streets in America, for sure. Storefronts all along the street are filled with pictures of naked oiled men holding lubricants. Seriously, the local deli has a poster up of a dude in tightie whities. It appears to be advertising sandwiches. There's a connection somewhere, but I couldn't tell you what it is.

I feel that the only appropriate response in my friend's position would be to say, "Doy."

Oh. My. God.

I will obviously not be wearing pants of any kind until this trend is over.

Chocolate vs. Snow

It's going to snow again tonight and I'm seriously not going to make it. The bodega across the road is making a mint off me in daffodils and chocolate. I've got to cheer up somehow.

I do wonder what they think about people's regular purchases over at the bodega. I usually buy cheese or chocolate and flowers. There's another dude who buys a whole bunch of hardware-type stuff and condoms. I stand back when he orders: "I'll take the duct tape, a glue-stick and ... uh ... some Trojans." Ew!

Late-night, the drug dealers are always there. These guys are pros. They're not like the dudes who brush by you in Union Square hissing "smoke." They only ask if you're interested. I suspect that most people who buy cheese, chocolate and daffodils are bad business. We've already got our synapses sorted. Perhaps at the expense of our thighs, but what can you do. Anyway, they never ask me.

The only reason I know they're drug dealers is that there's no other reason for a 16-year-old white kid to be there.

One More Photo from the Bidnez Trip

Me 'n Solly in our complimentary robes:

Stay Classy, San Diego

I couldn't resist. Sorry.

Anyway, part of the reason I've been scarce around these parts is that I've been working a ton. Last weekend, work included an all expenses paid trip to San Diego. Now you don't feel so sorry for me anymore, do you?

The one problem with this is that I am a pale, pale lady, and San Diego is sunny all the time. All. The. Time. So I spent much of the trip hiding under umbrellas and awnings and in one case, my jacket, while my colleagues pointed and laughed:



But I've missed you and I have stories. Thank you for your patience during this service interruption.

I'm the Worst

Been busy at work, kids, but that doesn't mean I don't love you. (Both of you, at this point.)

Because I love you, I leave you with the following quote. It's from the blog portion of Obsessed with Julie and Jackie, which is a comedic experience you must, er, experience if you're in New York. Basically, these hilarious ladies put on a show once a month in which they allow maniacs to talk about things they're obsessed with. This could be anything from hummus to the parrot population of Brooklyn to Morton Downey, Jr. (No, I'm not kidding.)

Anyway, I leave you with this quote from the estimable Julie Klausner:

"I am no longer afraid that men will kill me. I am just scared that they will bore me."

Doesn't that really say everything about dating these days? Goshdarnit?