BeehiveHairdresser.com

MTV VMA Awards Show

I just caught some of this on MTV, of course, but I;ll have you know that it is on MTV2 as well.

Anyways, The Pussycat Dolls just won for best dance video, and their acceptance speech is a very clear example of what happens when you give an idiot (in this case 5 idiots) a microphone.

Also, they just cheated to Nicole Richie backstage, and she looks like a wetfart that I did back in August of 2002 in that shot.

See all y’all tomorrow.

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Dear Mrs. Linda Church,

I wanted to thank you for allowing me to build plenty of trust in you over the past many years. If it were not for this trusted pack in which you inform me of the most accurate weather forecasts that you have access to, and me listening to said weather forecasts, I would have left my place umbrella in hand today.

Instead, based upon 30 seconds of your forecast today I decided to take a gamble, and left my place umbrella less this morning. You so cleverly informed me that you thought the rain would stop this morning and that the rest of the day shouldn’t have any rain. So far you’re right, and for this I applaud you. I hope that your forecast continues to follow your godlike vision for the weather today.

I must admit that when I first left my place this morning I felt kind of foolish walking to the subway without an umbrella since the skies were very dark, and it was ever so slightly misting out. I almost went back for an umbrella, and instead I continued on the two block walk to the subway, all the while thinking “Linda Church said it will clear up, so it must clear.”

Here’s to you Churchie! Here’s to you!

Regards,
Beehive

P.S. I just found out that you are married to the one and only Jim Dolan of WABC-7. Huh??? I will go under the assumption that at the time of this union you did not yet have the godlike life forecasts that you have in your arsenal today, and that you had no idea of what kind of bald man your husband would become. On the other hand he is an enjoyable reporter to watch.

P.P.S I also wonder what the weather was like on that wedding date, and if Chuck Scarborough was there.

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Open Notes To Folks That Will Most Likely Never Read This Blog

To One Of My Childhood Best Friends Sisters,

Please stop talking so fast and so loud on the train to me at 745am, and then proceed the entire ride into work. Thankfully the V train arrived at Broadway/Lafayette, and I was able to make an early escape your speedy loud talk. In the future I would like to chat it up with the small talk with you, at a lesser decibel level, and this said small talk should not involve hearing about this past weekend yet again in which you purchased a coffee table for half price near the Bowery, which just so happened to be the same table that you had wanted to buy last November but didn’t want to pay full price, and how you and your mother walked the wrong direction and decided to enter the coffee table store on the whim, which you think “God” had a plan in leading you the two of you in the “wrong” direction. Once was more than enough.

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To The General Counsel Of The Broker Dealer That I Work At,

Don’t you for a second think that I am not onto you and your 845am morning routine of making a run to the restroom and then let out loud gassy farts from your behind. I realize that you are nervous on days like today when you have a big meeting to talk in. I just want to let you know that I find it amusing, and that as long as you keep it to the non stinky capacity to which you have done so far, I will continue to be entertained by it.

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To The George Papadopoulous (Webster’s Dad) Look Alike Who Rides The Morning D Train,

You are a dead ringer. Please continue to ride the train, and I hope that we (Jimmy and I) are able to get a photo of you and the Kim Jong-il look alike together one day.

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To The Few Folks Who Work On My Floor And Call Me The Wrong Name,

My name is not Justin or Josh. Nor am I a Kevin. I realize that both Justin, Josh, and I all worked on the floor together at one point, and please realize that not all young white males look the same. Yes, we might all have been white, around 5’10/11” and have similar shades of hair, but look again, look deeper, and you shall see that we are not all alike. Even the Chinese guy on my floor is able to tell the difference correctly.

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To Risa Who Works On My Floor,

Thank you for having that loud argument on the phone yesterday with your manfriend who wanted to take you out to dinner, while you did not want to go out to dinner. I thoroughly enjoyed your loud yelling at him that you wanted to go home, stay home, and eat at home. Then how you hung up on him while he was talking to you, and then when he called back twice you picked up the phone and slammed it down on the receiver without hearing what he had to say. This made the 4 O’clock hour go by very quickly for me yesterday. I only wish that you had continued yelling at him long enough after I called KG to come by and listen with me. She would have enjoyed your yelling too, I’m sure.

Regards,
Beehive

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I’m at work, and I keep coming across the last name Rammed Ass.

Spelled “R A M D A S S”

I want to meet this man, and hear his say,”Hi, I’m Mr. Rammed Ass, go ahead and laugh at my name. Go on, Go ahead. Are you done yet? No? Okay, Well then continue.”

1 Comment »

Open Letters To People Who Will Most Likely Never Read This Blog

To The Brenda Who Sits In The Cube Next To Mine,

I know that it’s your name and all, but could you please stop butchering it. It is pronounced Brenda, with an “A” at the end. I know for a fact that it not pronounced “Brender” as you so often like to say.

Also, please note that it is also pronounced “access” not “ascess”.

If I had the gall to tell you these slight differences in speech about two hours ago when you were on the never ending 800 number calls to try and get your “ascess” restored, I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt the need to write this blog, and it most certainly would have prevented me from rolling my eyes every few moments for two hours when you so loudly repeated “This is Brender, and I’m trying to get my ascess restored”.

Note to self, next time say something to nip it in the bud.

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Note To Theresa Who Works On My Floor,

Both KG and I used to work in the cubes next to you, and I hope that you read this in order to find out that the southernmost state in the continental United Sates is pronounced Florida, and not as you seem to think Florider. Get on top of that one, huh?

Btw Theresa, KG informed me of how you always break the unwritten office bathroom rule of sitting in the stall next to the occupied one, and DO NOT USE THE SANITARY GUARD! That is just gross. On top of that KG also informed me that you do you usual moans in the stall as well. I thought that those moans were inappropriate enough when I sat next to you while we were at desks. I definitely do not want to know what you were up to in those stalls. And yes, I laughed very hard and loud upon hearing this of you Theresa.

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Note To My Subconscious Self,

My conscious self awoke to you singing twice in the middle of the night and again when the alarm went off this morning.

You were singing…

I’m so sleepy,
I am sleeping.
I’m so sleepy,
I am sleeping.
(Over and over)

While I find it highly amusing that this was the form in which you kept yourself partially occupied last night, I am saddened that you didn’t fully go through the thought process to having Rob Thomas wanting to grab my ass while I walked down the street after picking something up from my car, while at the same time having me wonder if this was how he seduced Tom Cruise. This too amused me, but please, next time think of some chick, any chick that is not related to me, please.

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Note To Jim, Whose Sits In The Office Near My Cube,

I no longer think that the office affair in which you are having is with Risa, I am now led to believe that it is with Alice.

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Note To Alice,

Good for you shagging it up with Jim. He’s a good 15 years you’re younger. Keep up the good work.

Also, please realize that when you are talking about me, and saying “beehivehairdresser hasn’t worked here for some time now.” Realize that someone didn’t just slap the nameplate up on the cube wall, and pretend that they are I, and that I am in fact still that person, and that I can hear everything you say when you are talking in my doorway, especially when you are saying my name in conversation. It just gets my hearing to bring more attention to you.

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Note To Risa,

My apologies for thinking you were having an affair with Jim.

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Note To The Newly Divorced Blair,

I commend you on finally going through with a divorce from the wife, which you seemed to have wanted for the last 4 years. However, I must inform you that the ring tone on your cell phone, which is some cheesy club song from 1991, is unbecoming to a newly single man such as yourself.

Regards,
Beehivehairdresser

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I’m Feeling All Weird Today

And I don’t know why exactly. I kept trying to write a blog this morning and kept deleting the page. Nothing was coming out the way I wanted it to. I couldn’t even leave a coherent comment on someone else’s blog.

I ended up leaving this after deleting so many times.

How about I just write part of a conversation I had on the phone with my Norwegian grandmother from yesterday.

Grandma: So I guess you aren’t going to have a vacation this summer?
BeehiveHairdresser: Nope, not really, but I at least got away to Montauk last weekend with my girlfriend.
GM: Oh, you have a girlfriend? I haven’t heard of this. Is this new?
BH: We’ve been going out for months, I guess it just didn’t come up in conversation.
GM: Is she black or white?
BH:White.
GM: Oh okay, well that doesn’t matter anyway. As long as they are a good person, yeah.
BH: Yes Grandma.

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I Have A New Goal In Life!

My number one goal of the day is to finally figure out how to set up links to other blogs on the side bar, over there –> –> –> –> –> –> –>

If I cannot figure it out, I assure you that my head will be held low all weekend long, which probably will not work out well for me when I am swimming in the deep end of my sisters pool.

UPDATE!!!

I actually figured it out. I’m amazed at myself, which is kind of sad in a way, I think. I mean, while I am no computer programmer, I should have been able to figure out those “HELP” instruction on one of the first half dozen occasions that I had attempted to do this.

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I Saw It! Yes, IT!

Today around 11am I was called into my managers office. It was one of those “team” meetings, to go over what is happening within the unit, which is dissolving in a few short months due to a merger within the parent company. Her office is long and narrow, and I was standing up against the wall, and there are a number of people sitting and standing about the office.

After my manger went over about how she is moving over to a different part of the company at the end of next week, which we already new, when two of the women in my unit got into a battle of words. Ms. A was sitting near me, and Ms. B was standing across the office. Ms. A’s obvious jealousy came out over the fact that our manager is moving on to bigger and better things, and Ms. A having heard rumors of Ms. B getting a new job within the company at the dissolution of the unit, and had decided to make some inappropriate remarks, which Ms. B took great offense to.

This was quite uncomfortable for all in the office, and we all tried not to look at each other in the eyes while this was going down, and I was trying to look away and down myself. As I did this I caught a peek of something.

Was that a???

Then I did a second glance.

Yes, it definitely is a….

A NIPPLE!!!

Right there, halfway out in the open. Ms. A’s left nipple is saying hello to me while she is in a shouting match. I could see that she had a rather large in circumference dark brown nipple, and I could also see that the outer wall of the nipple was lined with Goosebumps and her headlight was working, which was no doubt already used plenty of times over the past few years to nurse her two children. I kept trying to look away, and yet I kept finding myself taking yet another peek. I know that I shouldn’t have been, but I really just couldn’t stop my eyes from finding it again. It’s not like I was trying to peek in on her nipple, but Ms. A had on a very loose top, and from what I saw, it looked to be an even looser bra. Her nip just kept popping into my line of sight, I was like a deer stuck in the headlights – sorry for the pun, but it’s true.

I was also hoping that no one caught me having seen her nip. I finally got enough willpower, and just turned my body to the side so that it was impossible to see her nip popping out. Then I smiled. I couldn’t get a big grin off my face. I tried to wipe it off, literally, I was pulling down on my mouth, and it was barely working. How could I not smile, I just saw tittie. Tittie puts a smile on my face. It was a justified smile.

The two of them continued their shouts for a minute or two before our manager broke it up, which was just long enough for some pent up rage to have been let out of them. This was one of the more interesting days in the office so far.

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The Constant Dilemma I Have With Eating Chinese Take Out

Growing up I was never a big fan of Chinese take out. My small tongue and even smaller taste buds did not recognize all the spices, which were foreign to my pallet. Whenever my parents decided it was time to order out for Chinese the only thing I would eat were the ribs, Lo Mein, Won Ton soup, and a fortune cookie. Even these I didn’t enjoy eating, but it was much better than whatever else was being served up from the Schezuan style of cooking.

Then one day when I was about seven or eight my oldest sister came home from her boyfriends house, and told my family the true story of how she was eating Lo Mein earlier in the evening, and that she had found a burned up cockroach in the bottom of the aluminum container when she went for seconds.

That one conversation about her Chinese food was enough to make me never want to eat Chinese ever again. That day led me to become prejudice against Chinese food. Whenever I would hear of someone talking about how they had eaten some delicious Chinese I would squirm and want to vomit at the thought that they must have had cockroaches in their Lo Mein or whatever else it was that they ate too. I would even tell them the story of my sisters’ horrors.

I kept good with the promise to myself that I would never eat Chinese food again. Every now and then I would hear jokes about how the chicken in Chinese food isn’t really chicken, but really cat meat. CATS! This rumor was doubly horrifying to my mind. I didn’t want to eat cockroaches, nor did I want to eat cats. I thought that these Chinese restaurateurs must be some of the sickest people in our society.

About 10 years of the promise had been under my belt of not to eat Chinese, and I finally gave in. I was going to “try” it. At the time I was interning at Bloomberg, and it wasn’t so much a “let me try that kind of food again” type of thing, as much as it was that I as the intern didn’t want to walk down to the Ear Inn and pick up the lunch order for everyone in my team, nor did anyone in my team (they went by teams instead of departments) want to order in from the now defunct Hudson Grill. Instead, everyone wanted to eat Chinese.

We all ate together for the most part. There was a big lunchroom/kitchens that were designated for only two teams, and it was a good environment, each day at about 11:15am I would call around looking for the local lunch specials, at 11:30am I would get every ones lunch order, 11:45am place the order, and then at Noon the food would be delivered or picked up. I was anal retentive to this timely manner day after day.

This one-day in particular was different, I just didn’t feel like walking, and everyone wanted Chinese. I remember telling my coworkers that I didn’t eat Chinese, and then naturally wondered why. I told them the cockroach story, and they explained to me that all restaurants have bugs and rodents in them now and then, and that this was just a part of the world in which we lived. This seemed to make sense to me, and these coworkers could see that my guard against Chinese food was beginning to come down, and they seized on the moment to drag it down all the way. After about 15 minutes of reassurances that the food was delicious from this one Chinese take out in particular, and that I would want to order in Chinese once or twice a week after trying them once, I semi reluctantly decided to break the promise to myself that I would never eat Chinese again.

I ended up ordering chicken with broccoli, and ate it at the big tables alongside about a dozen or so of the guys I worked with. They kept joking around that “this doesn’t taste like chicken” to screw with my mind. They were trying to get inside my head, and they were doing a good job of it. At one point I stopped eating and didn’t want to continue. I was sure that I wasn’t eating chicken, and that I was eating some unknown meat. The guys joked, and said it had to be chicken, and they even tried my food and assured me that it tasted normal.

Cut to three days later, and the local newspapers are reporting that the Board of Health in the City of New York closed down two Chinese restaurants. Both had dozens of cats in their freezer at the time of a surprise inspection. One of these restaurants was the very same Chinese take out place that everyone had been ranting and raving about how great the food was. I went into work that day, and wasn’t 100% sure if it was in fact the same place from which I had that chicken with broccoli.

I walked in, and everyone was talking about how we all just ate cat meat the other day. I knew it didn’t taste like regular chicken. I remember this guy named Nelson saying, “Those dumplings were the best dumplings that I’ve ever had.” Most of my coworkers at the time didn’t seem to mind the fact that we ate cat. They actually liked the food, they only wished that they weren’t paying for chicken meat, and that they knew up front that it was cat meat. So really, they just didn’t like the fact of the bait and switch technique of this local Chinese take out place. I on the other had felt like all the blood drained from my head, and that I was going to puke my brains up.

From that day forward I didn’t want to eat Chinese again, ever. I of course gave in to this promise again eventually. I started to eat Chinese again and only from the one near my place in Brooklyn. It’s a small takeout place, and you can go and watch them cook your food. You can see every step of the process. It’s delicious, and I am 99% sure that when I order my food, it is in fact chicken – although I never see stray cats on the same block as the takeout place.

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I Want To Get A Puppy

And name it 800-588-2300, Empiiiiiiiire.

Just like the radio commercial, this was I can yell out, 800 588 2300, Empiiiiiiiire – come get your Goddamn dinner!

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Registration For Fall Semester

Yesterday was the day that I was finally able to register for fall classes online. Since I’m a part time student I get the last choices, and this fall I will get to enjoy a weekly Saturday morning Intro to Psychology class.

I was expecting to wait on line today, which was the day that I had to show proof of immunizations to the college. I only received the notice via mail on Thursday, and hadn’t had an opportunity to get my ancient immunization records from the safety deposit box at a bank. I thought maybe the doctors’ office would be able to use their permanent files to go about it, so I left my place about 7:30am and headed over to the doctors office, only to find out that I did need my ancient records in hand. Oops.

And they also wanted my blood. WTF?

I can understand my old immunization card is needed to show proof, but anyone can forge one of those cards in less than 20 minutes. My blood? That’s mine, and I don’t want to give it to you just cause you want it.

So I went to the bank with my safety deposit key, I go into the vault, the banker puts their key in, I put mine, theirs turns, mine does not.

Banker: Are you sure you have the right number?
Me: This is the number that was written on my key envelope, it’s the same one on your records.
Banker: Well, are you sure you have the right key?

Safety deposit boxes have those long thin keys, very different from normal front door or car door keys. Please bear in mind that the key fits into the slot, and that the key is not turning.

At this point I wanted to tell her that I did not know what she thought I kept in a safety deposit box, but that I only have one, and it does not have 10lbs of gold in it that would make me have the need to keep more than one box.

Me: What other key could I possibly have that would fit this?
Banker: The box is issued with two keys, sir.
Me: Well, I only have one, and it should work. How else was the lock locked without this key having turned the actual keyhole to lock it?
Banker: We’re going to have to call a locksmith to have the lock popped out.
Me: This key should work let’s try again.
Banker: Oh, look at this. It works now.

Me: (silently in my head) I told you so.

I went back down to the doctors’ office, and informed them of my confusion as to why they wanted my blood.

Their answer was “to prove that you had the shots.”

Prove that I had the shot? Why did they make this little immunization card that has my immunization records, if you need to take blood to prove that the very same doctor gave me a measles shot ten years ago. I know he wouldn’t remember administering the shot, but would he not believe his own handwriting stating that he had done such shots?

This seemed to work into their logic, and they realized that this piece of paper, which anyone could forge in 20 minutes, was in fact the real deal, and that it was their handwriting, and that they should trust their 10 to 20 year old handwriting.

I want my blood, and I only give it out if I need a test, not if you just feel like giving me a test. This need could be from some mysterious illness that you have trouble diagnosing; an annual checkup, or I might also give it out to a blood center on the occasion. Otherwise back off from what’s mine!

Btw, the immunization card has my height at 59 and a half inches and weighing 74lbs at age 14. I kid you not.

I hoped onto the subway, fell asleep. It was a good sleep, and I didn’t want to wake up, but forced myself to stay awake at 5th Ave, so I would not miss the Lexington stop. Subway sleep is so good and refreshing.

I get to the “OASIS” center. I don’t know how it got that name for sure, but I’m guessing it has something to do with actual help on a timely basis is an oasis similar to that of a source of good drinking water in the middle of the dessert.

The Oasis center had a line out the door. I stood on it for about 5 seconds and realized that this was a special line for something that I probably didn’t need – I only needed to pick up a bill from the Oasis center. So I hoped on the regular line, which was way shorter than the first line.

Someone from behind the desk shouted out the my line, “if you are here to pick up your bill, go to the other line, the other line is for bill pick up only, no questions.” A bunch of people from my line left the short line and went to the long line; I started too, and then realized that the regular line is still able to get serviced with bills. I stayed on the now even shorter line, and got out of there in an amazing 6 minutes, and headed over to the Bursars office.

The Bursars office had a line even longer than the Oasis. This line was a little odd in my head. It seemed more like a supermarket line than a college payment line. There were lots of really old people for a college line, about a dozen or so that I could see at first, I’m talking about senior citizens that are so old they died 15 years ago types of old people, and it seemed as though they had some unwritten code amongst themselves.

One little old wrinkly lady came out of the bursars office and proclaimed that there was no need to wait on this line, and that you could pay at some magical other place that consisted of no lines. All the old people flocked to this lady as if she was giving out free trips to Atlantic City. They went with her to this magical destination of no line waiting, while I stayed and held my distrust for crazy old ladies firmly in place. Other old people came out, and went up to other old people, and got them to follow. I kept thinking it seemed like this was a cult, and that only old people were allowed to join and or only old people were trusting enough to drink the Kool-Aid. I watched as they preyed on each other, picking each other out very easily by their droopy old hanging flesh while we all stood on the lines full of young tight skin similar to my own.

They all also already new one another, which I suppose is fair, since when you get to walk around for 15 years after you stopped breathing you will befriend all the rest that are undead just as you are.

There was one old woman that seemed immune to all the other old people, and she stood behind me. For a moment I let my imagination get the better of me, and let myself be tricked by myself into thinking that maybe this old lady was sent to spy on me, and was in on a plot to uncover the fact that I realized something was up with all these anciently old folk.

At one point she and I actually spoke, and it was at the magical no line waiting area. Sure enough all those other old people were correct, in that you could pay without waiting on line, but you just put your payment into an envelope and put it into a safe.

I didn’t trust this. This was the same guise as putting any type of deposit into an ATM. They cannot be trusted. Envelopes get lost all the time, and you are S.O.L. This old lady had the same distrust for this safe that I had, and after about 30 seconds of small conversation about how people shouldn’t have that much faith in the people that empty and process the envelopes from the safe I realized that I may have just been roped into a conversation with one of the top 10 oldest people at Hunter College.

I had to think quickly and efficiently. The worst-case scenario I could just run down the staircase and away from said old lady. Then a magical old man appeared, he looked as though he just walked off the set of Cocoon III. He was recognized by the old lady behind me, they chatted, exchanged names again (probably for the 100th time), and he was roped into the conversation.

It was as if I was one of those kids from Final Destination, I was lucky and cheated death, only instead of death I cheated conversation. Now I’ll have to walk around and keep an eye out for old people, and make sure that I am not roped into a conversation.

With a whole new semester about to dawn, I think I will have to do some research into this entire all old people know each other phenomenon.

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I Always Thought I Would Run Someone Over While I Drove

The last time I was behind the wheel of a car, whose ignition was on, and I was the person responsible for getting the car from point A to point B was the autumn of 1998. I had just left a friend from high schools official college apartment, was hung over, and most likely had less than 10 hours of driving experience under my belt. The night before I was almost crushed to pieces on the way to his apartment while attempting to merge onto the Staten Island Expressway, from the Verrazanno Bridge toll booths. I was lucky I had slammed on the breaks as hard as I could and was able to come to a complete stop with about a foot to spare while the 18 wheeler that decided to play a game of chicken with me, unknowingly to myself sped past my car. I almost shit myself while breaking I was so scared. The next day I was slightly nervous about the drive home, not from the near crash, but primarily due to the massive amounts of vodka from the night before that was still having an effect on my early in the morning brain. I got home safe, and then didn’t pick up the keys to drive again.

I wasn’t scared to drive. I just didn’t want to go to Staten Island to see a friend or two, and didn’t see why I should drive around in Brooklyn or to the city to worry about parking, when I could just take the subway and the occasional taxi. After about a year of not driving, I was terrified at the thought of actually getting behind the wheel again. I wasn’t even going to move the car for alternate sides of the street parking in the event of me being the last resort. This is shameful for a licensed driver to have over his head.

Fast-forward to July 2000, a couple of days before I crapped my pants in Toronto, I was at Second City theatre. A bunch of people from a weeklong improve workshop, cast of Second City, and myself were boozing it up. Our driver had managed to have drink himself silly, and informed me that I was the least drunk out of the people he drove, and that I would be driving us all back across Toronto to various homes, and to the college dorm that I was staying at, he knew he was too drunk to drive, and shouldn’t.

I thought, Holy Shit! I need to drive??? I’ve had about five vodka tonics, haven’t driven in a almost two years, don’t know which way is which in this city, and I’m supposed to get us all home safe tonight while everyone passes out in the car around me?

I informed the owner of the car who had driven us to the theatre that I didn’t feel comfortable driving. At the time it was not out of respect for my alcohol limitations, but more so out of fear of driving.

Luckily we all got home alive and without any bumps or bruises that night. I haven’t come close to driving again until this past weekend.

The cheese and I went out to Montauk for a weekend away. The plan was to take the LIRR out to South Hampton, and then get a rental for the rest of the trip. Somehow I ended up needing to be a driver on the rental form, and I thought it might be fun driving around a vacant parking lot for three minutes at some point this weekend.

After the beach on Saturday, Cheese drove the car out of the parking lot since I was to scared I would hit some little kid running around the parking lot, and then we did what I considered to be the unthinkable. We pulled over to the side of the road, I got behind the wheel, and I drove though just about every road of Ditch Plains relearning how to drive. And I must admit that relearning how to drive is much better without a freak of a mother yelling that we are going to burn and die each time we got near an intersection, which was how I first learned the skill of driving.

Hmmm, maybe that had a lot to do with the whole I’m afraid of driving mentality I have had.

After a few minutes of making useless turns within what I image to be the smallest community in the continental United States (Ditch Plains) I pull up to route 27, and make a right. I told Cheese that I’m going to drive us out to the Montauk lighthouse. I made it there safely, and had even gotten the car up to 55 miles per hour, and I couldn’t help but hear Sammy Hager in my head screaming “I CAN’T DRIVE FIFTY FIIIIIIIVE!!!!” We made it safely around the circle at the end of the island, and I drove us back through town, made some stops along the way – I won a free game of mini golf, with a hole in one on the 18th hole at Puff N’ Putt, and made drove us safely back to our cabin on the hill.

For the rest of the weekend I was officially in the drivers seat.

I drove to dinner on Saturday night, drove all over on Sunday, the lighthouse again, to the beach, up hills, down hills, everywhere. On the way back to the South Hampton car rental place I drove to Syrill’s crab shack place, about 4 miles out from Montauk. It was decided I would drive the rest of the way back to South Hampton, and from there we would catch the LIRR and ride home to Brooklyn. This was our plan.

Our waitress at the crab shack disappeared on us, and we couldn’t leave. We didn’t have our bill, didn’t have any idea as to how much our food was, and couldn’t just drive off without paying. (1) We’re both too honest to do that (2) Syrill and his drunken friends would have caught up to us and killed us dead.

While we waited to pay the time slipped away, and by the time we got the car back to the rental place we would have missed our train, and need to take a cab to the train station. We thought, what about driving to NYC? We did some crude mathematical additions in our heads, and decided to just drive home. DRIVE HOME!

Cheese had two drinks, which was good and all, but that meant that I legally had to drive us home. I think Long Island is about 120 miles long or so, and we would have to go the entire distance – we both live in Brooklyn, which is the complete other side of Long Island from Montauk, East to West. I already had some confidence with my driving skills, and didn’t think that I was going to die at every intersection from the driving experience of the previous 24 hours, but I was slightly nervous about getting close to the city, and god forbid the city. About 40 miles into it, we called the rental place to verify again that it was still open, and it turns out that our first phone rep told us some wrong details, and we would need to drop the car off on 24th at 6th Avenue. Now I really was nervous about the Manhattan driving, since I’ve never driven in it before, and I don’t even like being in the front seat while going through the street of Manhattan.

Along the ride across Long Island, I went the speed limit, and at other points I went at the speed of traffic, I felt quite comfortable behind the wheel, and didn’t get honked at once on the long ride – I thought I would get honked at in anger lots of times. I was so comfy, that when I was at the gas station and someone wanted to drive right where I was backing into, I lowered my window and gave them the middle finger. I was finally that guy.

When we got to Queens traffic was thickening up, and I didn’t freak out, didn’t panic, didn’t do anything but kept driving. I had wanted to take the Williamsburg Bridge, and since I am not a usual driver of the city, and I don’t know Queens highways, I ended up at the tolls of the Queens Midtown tunnel.

There was no choice I had to drive through the tunnel. I hadn’t planned on driving trough the tunnel due to the lanes being so narrow, with the wall on one side and polls (similar to cones) in between lanes on the other. I got close to the wheel of the car like an old feeble person would normally drive, and found that it wasn’t that bad. About halfway through the tunnel I had the thought that if I had a choice of going out of lane, it would be better to hit the cones, than to hit the wall. I kept driving, and the thought was still in my head, and this tunnel has lots more curves than the Lincoln, or Brooklyn Battery tunnels do. I was beginning to become mesmerized by my inner thought of “best to hit the polls in the center of the tunnel.”

Then in an instant I hear Cheese make a nervous chirp sound, and my rental car rub up against the wall. I was fine physically, as was Cheese. We didn’t stop in the traffic, nor did any car around us do anything other than keep driving. We were lucky, but what about the side of the car.

Thank God I bought the insurance. I kept thinking I don’t mind if I nick this car, I’m insured. Sure, steal my rental car; I don’t have to pay for it, it’s insured. I drove out of the tunnel, up to Lexington Avenue, down to 23rd, across to 8th, and around to the rental garage. We lived, we did not die, I did not cause any accident, I did not run people over like I thought I might from playing too much Vice City, I only got honked at once on Saturday, and zero honks on the trip back to the city. I got out of the car, and looked at the right side of the car, and saw only white marks on the tires, and lots of dirt near the tires. No damage.

My fear of driving is gone.

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I’m Only Temping Until I Win Mega Millions!

I don’t think that I’ve written much about the new temp job that I’m currently on. So, for those of you who enjoyed reading about all my complaints about the last temp job with the evil Vivian, this is for you.

It’s good overall. So there!

I work about 25 hours a week, have been going to a class in the afternoon 4 days a week. While I will admit that sitting in an office is a waste of time, at least they let my mind be used to help pass the time.

They actually have things for me to do other than waste the entire day trying to find something on the internet to occupy my mind with. They don’t care how long I am on the internet. They treat people like human beings. There are lots of free food in the form of pizza, cupcakes, apple turnovers, cookie, Carvel ice cream cakes, fruit, and sodas, a couple of times a week. I get to watch cranes and ironworkers build a new building out the window close to my desk whenever I feel up to it. I can chat on the phone without having to whisper. I am able to print out my college papers. I get to break chops of people on the floor. I get to type on a Bloomberg keyboard, which for those who have never seen one, they are colorful, with yellow, red, green, white, off white, and blue keys. Plus I make more $$$ on an hourly basis than almost all of the people in the unit.

The people & gossip!

I used to work on this floor, and in this same department for a couple of years, before leaving last November, so I have a good rapport with most people on the floor. There are some new people, and units, the new individuals have taken a liking to me, and the new units and I just don’t bother with one another.

This woman Karen (not her correct spelling, but it is her name) who used to be quiet as a button has become somewhat of a loudmouth, so I shall assume that she is getting laid on a regular basis.

Risa is still getting older, and more desperate in her search for a second husband, who MUST be rich.

Cathy, found a new man, and has toned down her “inappropriate” outfits since. I must say that I miss her prancing around in mini skirts and trying to come off as professional in a banking environment.

Vinny, one of my old bosses actually says “hello” in passing now. He never before did so, to anyone. Not even to any of his direct reports.

This guy Andrew, who had the ugliest baby last year, and who had huge picture of his ugly baby hanging up in his cube, still has said ugly picture hanging, but thankfully I now sit on the other side of the floor, and don’t have to pass what is now a full wall of ugly baby photos.

The cousin of my summer intern from two years ago is now working on the floor. I found this out yesterday after I sneezed in the elevator and we began a conversation. Before this whenever he passed I kept eyeing him, thinking he was familiar, but couldn’t place from where. I hope he didn’t think that I had been checking him out all that time.

Daria is now 50, and even more so officially skanky.

An over 40 woman had a baby, another woman, under 40 this time, is pregnant, and I wasn’t sure if she had gotten fat or was pregnant at first, so I just smiled and looked away, hoping that I would not have a conversation with her. I tend to say the wrong thing at times, and in this particular case I was terrified that I would ask, “When’s the baby due?” and have her response be, “I’m not pregnant!” Then have the most awkward ride in the elevator of my life.

Other than that there isn’t much to gossip of, except that there is a guy nicknamed “Woody” on the floor. A grown man, in his 40s that goes around as “Woody”! I’m guessing it comes from whatever is wrong with his legs. He walks all gimpy, and stuff, like he has wooden legs.

As for the floor and building itself, it’s now cleaner. The view I have usually is of northern Queens, the Bronx, and Long Island. Which on a clear day is a good view, and I can watch planes take off and land at LaGuardia airport. On an overcast day, like today, the view is just depressing, but like I said before I get to watch cranes, and a building being built. It’s the 5-year-old boy inside me who never got enough watching bit machinery get his fill, finally.

The only thing that is bad about this temp gig is that they installed a new “automatic” paper dispenser in the restrooms. It only gives out a small piece of papertowel, then you have to wait about 15 seconds for the machine to recognize that you have been waving your hand in front of the sensor and need more papertowel, which it only gives another have an inch. Then you need to wait another 10 seconds for another small piece of papertowel, which is about the same size as the first. This is all way too much time for me at the drying stage of washing my hands.

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America, Help Save Our Dwarfs

When I was a little kid, I used to see a dwarf sweeping in front of a huge corner house two blocks away from the house that I grew up in Brooklyn. I had always thought that he lived there, and I would later find out that he is known as Little Jimmy.

As a teenager I saw him sweeping up in front of a limo place up on the avenue.

I thought, “he owns the limo place?”

I soon found out that he did not own the limo place, nor did he own the huge corner house.

This was one of the first disappointments life had ever offered me. Not that I hadn’t been disappointed before being a teenager, but this false sense of reality went back to the point of me being a toddler. It is up there with my realization that my balls were in fact not filled with cotton, as my father had said in his answer to my question at age 4 of what was inside my balls.

I really wanted there to be cotton in there, and I really wanted Little Jimmy to own a huge home, as well as being the proprietor of a huge limo business. The contrast of sizes would have delighted me to no end.

It turned out that he does side jobs to make a living. He sweeps up storefronts, he gets dressed up in costumes at events, - I saw him as the dwarf Uncle Sam on ESPN at this years Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest, I’m sure he does more too, and I’ve even heard that he has been in some types of porno magazines, as well as been to parties at the Playboy Mansion. These last two could just be packs of lies from the street, I don’t know.

I have no clue how old Little Jimmy actually is, but I would guess that he is about age 50, and just the other day I saw him, but he wasn’t his normal self. He wasn’t walking along the avenue, or sweeping, or dressed like Uncle Sam. No, he was riding a four-wheeled motorized scooter, the kind that old people use as a way to go about their daily life.

How could Little Jimmy actually need one of those, he’s too young!?1?

It makes me sad to think that one day I will never see Little Jimmy again.

Even though I find it sad, I wish I had made this realization about Madman Tony, who was an elderly man who smoked cigars, and used to march down the middle of the avenue holding a white flag, screaming “HILLARY CLINTON IS A MURDERER! A MURDERER!!! SHE”S BOMBS ISRAEL!!!”

The last anyone has ever heard or seen of Madman Tony was that he was being put into a straightjacket and taken away by ambulance. I didn’t see his being taken away as a possibility to life. It wasn’t fair.

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Naked Toes On The Subway This Morning

Have you seen War of the Worlds with Mr. Tom Cruise? It has these aliens that roam around Earth in pods and destroy the planets inhabitants, and the aliens have longs fingers and toes.

This morning, a beautiful young woman was riding the D train with me, and was wearing flip flops. I had the delight to see that her toes were EXTRA SUPER LONG, and when I say super long I mean grossly wrong. At first they appeared to have an extra joint in the middle of each toe, and upon further examination I concluded that this was indeed a normal joint, and that it was extra wide. The joints on her toes were nearly twice the diameter of her toes, and length wise, they were two to three inches long each. For a moment I almost began to dry heave at the sight of her feet, I muffled word to my friend Jimmy to look at her toes, as I managed to gulp down whatever it was that was trying to escape my body and land on her toes. Her toes were so long I would not doubt that SHE IS ABLE TO PEEL ORANGES WITH HER TOES.

Sometimes it’s best to cover up.

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