Point Break of the Speed Matrix

Do not be fooled by his "ahh boo boo boo who's a cutie cute? who's the best boy?!" appearance. He's an evil genius.

It’s true.  Brian is my very adorable, very young, very calculating arch nemesis.  He’s the Goblin to my Spidey, the Joker to my Batman… the Bobby to my Whitney.  BOBBY!!

Yesterday I arrived home at 6:30 which only gave me a short time to walk Brian and change before my 7pm improv class.  It was misting a little outside but I thought it was nothing serious.   I was rushing but also confident that Brian would be quick to do “his business” as he has been in the past.   Need I remind you of the lightening fast crapola he took in my lady space when I wasn’t looking?  So yes, I did not grab an um-ber-ella… ella ella ella.

I take Brian outside and for the first time he is just taking his sweet ole time.  He sniffs everything and it disgusted by everything.  No patch is good enough for his rear.  Before I know it we have travelled two blocks out of the way and are now a little too far from the apartment to make it home dry if it really does start to rain.

I swear to God the little villain looked up at me, the sky rumbled, he peed and then instant downpour!  Like bad, you can hide form this rain.   I believe  Forrest Gump would have described it as “big ole fat” rain.

I panic.  I flail.  I scoop up Lex Luthor and I cling fiercely to a little wet dog as I run two blocks back towards the apartment.  We get back to the apartment with 5 minutes to spare for me to crate Brian and get changed for class.  Thanks to Brian’s unrulyness in the apartment and an adorable factor that makes me give him excessive belly rubs… I do not change and end up getting to class soaked and smelling of wet dog. 

This round goes to you, Yoko, but I am ready for tonight’s rematch.

"Hello, I'm Helen. I'd love to do your nails for you and nothing else. I will not recommend any other beauty treaments for you today because you are perfect." This is my fantasy manicurist, Helen.

Every time, man.  Every time! 

I got a manicure today.  I love them and I hate them.  I hate the process.  I love the end result.  For me, walking into a nail salon is probably what it feels like for scheevy  whorebags when they are taken into the doctor’s private office for a “chat”.  I share the same amount of dread and the same defensiveness.   ”Don’t look at me that way!  You don’t know me!  I take care of MY kids,” we scream in our heads or something close.   Of course, in the end all they get is a pitch for safer sex methods, told to incorporate more folic acid in their diet and are sent along their scheevy way.   When I leave the nail salon, I imagine that we share the same overwhelming relief and happiness in leaving an awful cold, sterile place of judgment and… touching.

I’ve been getting my nails done on the rare occasion for years.  This is how it goes down EVERY time.

I walk in skiddish to a very bustling salon with at leat 10 Korean women working on other patrons.  They can smell my fear and hate my dawdling.   Receptionist yells aloud “Manicure!”

Me:  Yes.

Manicurist [has just appeared by my side out of nowhere]:  Pick color!

Me: [walking to the wall slowly as if I'd never seen so many versions of pink]

Manicurist [realizes I will not be making a quick decision]:  Ok! Ok, you like natural.

Me:  Yes.  Thank you.

[Manicuring Manicuring Manicuring - me silent]

Manicurist [bends three of my rigid fingers down]:  Relax!

[Manicuring manicuring manicuring...and it's DONE!]

Me [Happy; relaxed]:  It looks great.  Thank you. 

Manicurist:  Now maybe eyebrow or uppa lip?

Me [Rigid; now touching my lip and eyebrow to check]:  No, thank you.

Manicurist [smiles]: Ok!  We see you.  Thank you!

Me [walking out the door happy & relaxed... touching upper lip occasionally for the next 3 hours]

Last night Cleveland  and I met up at a new sushi place that openned this week next to the pub we usually grab pints at after improv shows.  In my opinion, these establishments are located in the only tolerable location within the Ballston Mall.  They are tucked away in a little cul de sac away from the crazy bizarro world of useless shops and keyosks of crap that populate the mall. 

I don’t really know how to get into this other than to say that the Ballston Mall is the weirdest place I find myself in more often than I’d like.   If you haven’t been there it will be hard for me to describe without turning this post into a novella.  I will say these two things.  I spend a lot of time in this mall because of work and improv.  As soon as I walk through the doors, I feel weird and dirty.  Part of it comes from being a Manhattan snob and not liking poorness (blech!)  and the other part comes from being a person.  That was more than two things.  Let’s just say, if the Ballston Mall was a woman it would be Woody Harrelson’s landlady from “Kingpin“.

So Cleve and I meet in front of the sushi place.  There are balloons and a hostess outside the door at a podium.  There is also a sign that says “Dinner 50% off Feb. 2 -4th” and “Free Tasting Tonight!”.  Great.  Grand.  We walk up and ask the young woman for a table for two.   Now the following is going to sound very uncharitable but I do believe Tom Colicchio would agree with me when I say that this woman should not have been put at the “front of the house”.  She responds with what can only be described as a SEVERE speech impediment coupled with broken English.  It was as if her lips and tongue were in a battle for territory over her teeth.  We gather that she has asked us to wait and sign the guestbook with our email addresses.  Without conferring amongst each other Cleve and I both immediately smile and sign using our dead aol and hotmail accounts. 

We then decipher that the hostess has just said, “Just another minute.”  If  we only had audio to rely on it would have sounded like a clip from “The Miracle Worker“.  Cleve and I look and nod in compliance.  We figure there must be reservations or something because it’s the openning week and tonights the night for the half priced dinner and free tasting.  It started at 5pm and it is  now 6:15pm.  After more suspense, we believe she has just told us we can go in because she lifted her arm in the direction of the doorway. 

We walk into a completely empty restaurant.   (TO BE CONTINUED…)

Grand.  Today’s work day was yet another one for the ole blog.  I had another embarassing run in with my boss.  I think it’s equal parts his fault as well as mine.  I debated about sharing this because it’s pretty embarassing.  Actually, there is nothing pretty about it, just the opposite in fact.

Maybe it's not this bad, but I've looked better.

I don’t know what the junk is up with my face this week but I have two new little friends hanging out on my chin and my neck.  Wait, did I say little?  Actually, that’s a lie.  Let me put it this way, if most zits could be compared to lithe waiffish Eastern Europeans then these two abominations are their husky cornfed middle American cousins.  I am UG to the LY today.

Anyway, there is really nothing I can do about Captain Acne on my chin.  Trying to cover it up would be like covering up a murder scene with a doily.  It’s just pointless.  I have to be patient and ride this one out.  The other guy found a lovely home dead center on my neck.   I thought a turtleneck might do the trick but of course it’s just above the the fabric line.  So I decided to wear a scarf all day in a pathetic attempt to lessen the humiliation of having blemishes well beyond my teen years.

I should have known better.  In hindsight, I realize that wearing a scarf indoors only draws more attention to me, my face, my neck, and of course what lies beneath.  I now think disguising them with little baby moustaches might have been less conspicuous.

Here is what transpired:

Boss:  The scarf?  Are you really cold or are you trying to cover up hickeys from the weekend?  

Me:  (so thrown by the comment I wasn’t quick enough to lie, instead full verbal diarrhea)  I don’t know what’s going on with my face this week but see?[points to chin]  Well, I got another doozie right here.  See?   [pulls away scarf and points at  neck] I think maybe it’s from all the rich food my mother cooked, or stress or this new make-up I tried.  I am just not used to this and I am really not ok with it.

Boss:  [laughing at me] I realize how inappropriate the question was.  You didn’t have to answer.  You know I was just kidding, right?  

Me:  Yes.  But I couldn’t think fast enough to lie and then I thought that if I didn’t show you my shame that you would think it’s hickeys… especially since I plan to wear it again tomorrow.  

Boss: It’s probably stress.

We then dial into our conference call.