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Everything Is Wrong In The World Blossom Festival is what it should have been called.

 

Cheese and I went over to our beloved Brooklyn Botanical Gardens (BBG) yesterday for their annual Cherry Blossom Festival, and to sum it up, ICK!

 

Once inside it the BBG it was clear that our little island of peace and serenity inside of Brooklyn that we go to on a regular basis and are even members of, had somehow morphed into a bizzaro world consisting of all the things wrong with the world.  Since I’m a Cancer sign, and I’m a cranky person at times, I have a long list of complaints about it.  Here they are:

 

• Too crowded.  The usually barren and or only mildly populated BBG was swamped with people; I’m talking Central Park on a summer day crowd.  The types that walk all over each path without the understanding that other people want to walk on a path too.  The types that make you want to just move away to the country and never look back.
• Way too many kids.  It was as though all of Park Slope had emptied out yesterday to see this festival.  There were thousands of little kids running around screaming, crying, and generally being the kind of kids that make me never want to have kids.  I’m sure a leisurely walk down 7^th Avenue in the Slope would have been a better idea for yesterday.
• There was a huge white tent set up for the entire length of the cherry field.  This tent took away from the beauty of the tree blossoms that were happening, and only gave the thousands of people on the field (that can usually only handle a couple of hundred people) justice for their existence in being there.  I was hoping to hear someone ask “Can you take a picture of me with this cherry tree, and can you make sure to get the tent too?”
• Asian people were living up to their stereotypes.  Everywhere I turned there was another group of Asian people, each with a camera in their hands taking pictures of everything in sight.  If you want to take a picture, cool, go for it, but when your “hobby” consists of photographing each pebble that you’ve walked on for posterity, you need to get help.  Put down that camera of yours, take a deep breathe, and just live in the moment – let the plants be engrained n your memory, by seeing them with your eyes, and nose - just live.
• Every entrance to the park was open.  Usually only three entrances are open to the public for access, yesterday all of the small side entrances were open, with long lines at each of them.  Here’s a secret for all of you waiting on those lines: THE CHERRIES WILL BE IN BLOOM FOR WEEKS!!! & IF YOU WANT TO HEAR DRUMS GO TO SEE A CONCERT!*  Congrats!  You people just wasted a little bit more of your lives yesterday, and in the process gave me so much grief that I need to write it all down to get it all out of me.
• “Master Gardeners” were out in force.  This is a real title that some people love to gloat about with, and in the NYC area most of the people that go around gloating this title tend to be the elderly ladies.  OMG, can’t you just walk and talk?  There are tens of thousands of different species of plants in the garden, you don’t need to point out each and every one, butcher the Latin name for it, and then fix your sun visor.  If you really must do such things, go there on a Tuesday - it’s not like you had a job Monday through Friday and you’re trying to relax from on one of your downtime days.
• Too much automobile noise was audible in the garden.  Normally you might hear one or two cars or trucks zipping by on the outside of the garden.  Yesterday it was nonstop car horns blowing.  Did you honestly believe that you were the only one that was going to drive?  Did you think that there was honestly going to be a spot for you within three blocks of the BBG?  All of these misconceptions only led to dozens of car horns being honked out of frustration.  Next time just take your “Precious Little Stevie” and bring him in on the subway.  It’s 2007, and it’s pretty darn quick, and safe.
• People were breaking garden rules left and right.  I’m a stickler for rules, and I apparently love to complain (obviously).  I think in part it is the German heritage that I have, having been very close to my off the boat (yes, they came on boats) grandparents growing up.  I’m all about rules, and can’t stand it when people are breaking them.  People were climbing trees, taking down ropes to get into areas that they shouldn’t be in, and tormenting me in the process.  When a “security” guy would pass the people doing illegal things, they would miraculously find something incredibly interesting in the clouds.  I’d like to just get over this, but when someone is 40 feet up in a hallowed out tree that has a crutch holding it up, it’s quite annoying, and unsafe to everyone underneath the tree. 
• The three ducks were completely stressed out.  Usually you’ll find them relaxing on the side of the water pools near the conservatory, but yesterday they couldn’t deal with the kids, and the people “lookin’ for the fried dough stands” so they were forced to keep swimming in the center of each pool. 
• The volunteers assumed that you want the info that they were giving out.  They were worse than people handing out flyers in Midtown.  Here’s hint number two for you: I don’t care much about the Far East’s Painted Lady Face Dances.
• The coy pond in the Japanese Garden was four and five people thick.  In order to get a glimpse of the coy, you’d have to wait roughly ten minutes for a half decent spot to open up, and then have to deal with little kids and their parents asking, “Can my child look?”  All of you people really need to get out to the aquarium to look at fish, get the whole “WOW A REAL LIVE FISH” thought out of your brain, and then go back to the Japanese Garden some other day, and just relax.

By the time Cheese and I reached the Japanese Garden, we were done.  Way too many people walking everywhere, with too much noise all around us, we had to go.  I napped on her couch, and then it was off to my backyard for some actual relaxing.

 

I’m now done complaining for the day – I hope. 

 *As I was writing this, I went to go taste a sip of my water, and as I brought the cup to my mouth I sort of swung it there, and now the entire left side of my shirt is drenched…ugh…

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Tony, the owner of the store let his niece Jenna start working in the store as a cashier a couple of months after I had started working there as a stock boy at the age of 16.  Jenna was a very petite young 14 year old girl who appeared to be shy, she spoke in an offbeat accent specific to the Sheepshead Bay / Coney Island area of Brooklyn, and she was lacking in the self confidence area, who just wanted to work some hours on Saturday mornings to give her some cash, and as a means of having freedoms from her very religious Roman Catholic parents.

 

From the first day when I met Jenna I never found her to be an attractive girl.  She wasn’t cute in any way shape or form; all of the employees of the store had the same thoughts.  She was and is an ugly duckling that never grew out of it, sad, but true.

 

There was absolutely never any sexual tension between the two of us, there wasn’t a brother and sister sort of bond to develop, there wasn’t even a coworker and coworker bond to develop other than a few words here and there – usually the only words were a question along the lines of “Is anyone in the bathroom?”

 

She was completely the opposite of everyone else that worked at the store, she wasn’t all horned up, she wasn’t loud, she didn’t want to booze it up, she didn’t want to slack off, she was always to herself, just so quiet, and stood up front at the register.  Quietly doing her job, when there was down time, she would quietly stand there, saying nothing, looking down at the floor, occasionally looking down the aisle to see what was going on, and she seemed okay with this, as did I.

 

The best way to describe our relationship would be, Italian bread (her) and breadcrumbs (me) we both might be on the same aisle, in the same store, and working for the same team, but we just didn’t go with one another.

 

After a couple of years of working together I still new very little about Jenna, other than she got good grades in school, was in college, and that she had developed relations with a boyfriend (Mike) over the course of the years.

 

I always was a little grossed out whenever I would think about Jenna having a boyfriend, the stock boys would wonder if Jenna and Mike did things sexually, or even kissed, and we would question each other on our thoughts in regards to this, and this always ended up with all of us being grossed out together, and laughing - especially since her boyfriend Mike was awful.

 

Mike was in essence a big doof.  He stood about 6’5” tall, he was skinny, he stuttered, he could barely walk in a fashion that would appear to be normal due to his brain never quite gaining an equilibrium, he shook hands without looking at the person, his physical look looked as though he couldn’t get laid in a whore house, and he was a jerk in many ways – which is another post completely.

 

Anyway, one Saturday morning the storeowner, Tony, had to step out to go to the post office, which left me as the person in charge - since I had been working there so long I had eventually become a manager.

 

This particular moment would be a breeze to manage, simply because the only employees at the store at 9:45AM was Jenna and I.  Jenna new everything about the store imaginable, and could handle a huge line by herself if it developed without a problem.

 

So I just stayed back, let her do her thing, which is how I like to be managed, and to be even more truthful, I was never a jerk type of a manager that got on people backs or anything like that, I just let people do there thing and did the basics - although many times I was a jerk of a human being in that store, honestly I was.  The basics being setting the alarm, locking up, z’ing out the registers, and ringing up employee discounts.

 

After about ten minutes of Jenna and I doing our own thing, I heard Jenna’s footsteps walk away from the counter, and down to the first aisle.  I stayed put in the second aisle to watch and see that nobody went behind the counter that shouldn’t, then I got distracted and when I looked back at the counter Jenna was there by herself, with many tubes of KY Jelly on the counter.

 

I walked over to her quietly to ask which customer was going to buy that many tubes of KY.  She stood there with a blank look on her face as I approached, and she asked “Could you ring me up for these?”

 

WTF???

 

Ewww…ewwww…ewww….gross.  Jenna was the one who was going to buy all that KY.

 

Remember, this was before they made KY warming lube, so all these were tubes of the thick cold KY Jelly that were sold in those white metallic tubes that looked medicinal, and everyone just knew it was sold for sexual purposes.  Even the back to the tube listed no medical reasoning for such a product, other than “to lubricate”.  FYI: they still make this stuff.

 

At the time a tube of KY was priced $1.99, and she had 21 tubes up there, so I told her to pay $35, which covered to stores cost easily.

 

Jenna immediately bagged all of her KY Jelly into dark black bags, and tied it into a knot so that not a sole would be able to see all of the KY Jelly that she was bringing home.  She excused herself to bring the bag to her car, I assumed that she did this to avoid the awkward look and maybe the accidental small conversation she might have if her Uncle Tony were to see the big bag full of KY Jelly.

 

As she walked out the door, all I could think of was “Jenna…and Mike…have buttsex…and lots of it…”

 

I didn’t want to believe my mind, and immediately began in inquest into what other logical uses they had for KY Jelly.  So I asked everyone that worked at the store if they knew of any uses for KY Jelly other than sexual, and then I made sure to inform all of them about the 21 tubes purchased by Jenna – like I said, good store manager, jerk of a human being while working at the store.

 

All we could come up with was: lube to help with insertion of enema, lube for regular sex, lube for finger banging, and lube to help get a ring off over your finger.

 

In the end I was kidding no one but myself, it was made and bought for BUTTSEX!

 

Awkward buttsex at that!

 

(Shudder)

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This morning I left my place with the thoughts of “Oh good, the storms have let up just in time for me to get to the subway.”  Then halfway up the block it began raining, I’m talking big grapefruit sized droplets of water.  Immediately I popped open my umbrella and was very amused by this rain.  I thought about how if I didn’t have to go to work I would love to just walk around getting soaked all day the way I did as a teenager, and happily kept going to the subway.

Then with only the small block to go to the subway entrance, the clouds grew angry, and parted ways to the point that the Hudson River was sucked up into the sky, and was now falling onto my umbrella.  Thankfully I had my raincoat on as well, which I find to be the best purchase that I have ever made in my life, so only my sneakers and about the bottom foot of my jeans got soaked - yeah, I’m wearing sneakers and jeans to work today, in the name of charity.

Then a few stops into my ride on the R Train, a guy walked onto the car soaked, head to toe as if he just got thrown into a pool on his way to work.  I looked at him, wondered what type of idiot he was, how he was going to never dry out before 3PM, how his glasses were full of water and his hair was soaked to the point that he looked like a five year old boy. 

I thought about how everyone that worked with him was probably going to laugh inside their heads at him each time he passed.  I thought about how it was possible for a grown man who obviously works in an office that isn’t a dress down type of office could not own an umbrella.  How each and every commuter on the way to work today was going to see him, and think to themselves “idiot.” 

I thought about how when this guys boss sees how wet his employee is, they were going to open his employee file, find the line that questions “Weird? & Idiot? Scale 1 - 10?” and that “7” & “10” was most definitely going to be circled today.  I thought about how he must be the only one to be dumb enough to do such a thing today. 

Then I got into work, I read ZFS*, and laughed, as it gave me a moment of clarity of possible reasoning behind the subway guy’s lack of an umbrella.

*Seriously, I was going to write a post about soaking wet guy on my commute this morning, and ZFS just happened to have a post about being that guy.  In no way am I meaning to attack or badmouth him in any way.

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Last night when I was on the R train going home, I looked up and saw this Missing / Reward poster behind the ad banner plastic.  It was tilted to the side, and I still read it, found it so funny that I had to spend an extra 10 seconds at the last stop to get it out for my keeps.

 

If you can’t read it in the picture, this is the direct quote with exception to the full phone number listed:

 

“Have you seen a cat like this? (Only with worn off whiskers) Lost on Uptown R Train on 04/17/2007 please call 718-447- [redacted].

 

The return of Amber the cat is very important to us!!  Reward!”

 

It’s a stuffed animal that one would win at a county fair!  I love it.

 

I took the poster assuming that it was some odd social experiment to see who would call the number, and when, but now I’m thinking about how one of my nephews can’t go anywhere without his “Ducky”, and that if he were to lose this duck, all hell would break loose, causing my sister to mow down a crowd of people at the chance to get another one of the exact same ducks, let alone flood the entire TriState area with wanted posters, and news coverage of the missing duck.

 

So, maybe, just maybe this is for real.  In either case, I love this poster, and it made my commute last night a great one.

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So today I got the chance to sleep in late, and that lasted all of until 7:14AM when the phone rang, and there was a hang up on the other end, figures.  Now I’m left with hours of time that I hadn’t expected on having,  before my nose doctor follow ups. 

So far I’ve watched way too much Vh1, MTV’s, and E! type of channels, while surfing the net.  So far I’ve learned that the females that I eat unch with at work tend to be bigtime haters when it comes to celebrity women.  I have no idea where they get these thoughts of Fergi, Nikki Cox, and Posh Spice being ugly all of a sudden. 

Sure all of them appear to have either lost a little too much weight, or maybe had some cosmetics somewhere, but they still look the same sort of good for the most part, and all of that hasn’t taken away from their looks to the point that I could actually consider them ugly.  I’d still bone each of them if I were single, and if they were banging down my door - I wouldn’t chase these types, I’d save that for the amateurs.

Then there’s the Eva Longoria / Tony Parker thing.  Apparently the lunchtime females can’t stand the fact that Longoria is marrying Parker because as they put it, she is too old for him.  What?  Since when?  At least they think that Longoria is still an attractive woman,  but I’m not sure if I would be able to bone the Longoria if I was single, even if she was banging down my door to get at my crotch. 

The thing is that whenever I see her, I keep thinking of her as JC Chasez sloppy seconds, and wonder just how stupid this gal is to have been with the N’Sync’er for that long.  It’s just that I think of Chasez as being the cheesiest of all of the boy band members from the late 90s, and I get the feeling from him that he actually thinks of N’Sync as being a band that meant alot to so many people, and that the bands music is something that was important, deep, and is something that is timeless.  It wasn’t, and it’s not.

Anyways, that’s my take on things, and I’m getting major de ja voo in that when I go to work later today that I’m going to walk into some type of firestorm.  Meh…

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There are times in life when one comes across people that are outwardly mobile socially awkward conversationalists.  When you speak with one for a first time, you will make the mental note for future reference to spot that person from a mile away, and then attempt to avoid that person at all costs for the rest of your life.

On Friday evening I was at the Orchid Show plant sale area in Rockefeller Plaza, lingering about with the Cheese.  We had been chatting privately amongst ourselves, having our usual great laughing time, when we walked upon the “Asian Long Horn Beetle” public awareness table.

The awareness table was all by itself, not a sole had cared to stop and look at all the information about the bug that could easily destroy much of the North American tree population within a relatively short amount of time, but Cheese and I stopped.

I had wanted to verify from pictures that a bug that I saw two years ago in Long Island City was indeed that little no good lousy beetle.  As the Cheese and I goofed off while I recanted my story of “I was walking, then I saw the bug fly at eye level right past me, and into a glass door.”

Out of nowhere some type of Park Service Officer swarmed us, yes, there was only one of him, but his mouth, along with his nonstop eye contact (he was able to keep eye contact with the both of us at the same time), and his nonstop verbal interest in what I had just told the Cheese made us feel as though we were backed into a corner.

This guy was all about Asian Longhorned Beetles, and asked more about my sighting of one.  He then went on further to pick up a tree branch that was riddled with beetle holes, and thoroughly explained the process of how the beetle lays its eggs, and then the treatment on how to eradicate the beetle infestation.

I did my best to not giggle as he went on his longwinded conversation that I was barely able to keep up with.  I felt as though I was up against an Agassi serve, with me barely touching my racket to it, allowing Agassi to hit more serves harder and harder at me.

Normally I would nudge the Cheese for help, she’s usually much better than I am at keeping up face during weird conversations than I am, but this guy had her in a loop.  She was doe eyed, and appeared to be full of liquid thorozine.

There was only one way out of this conversation, and it was for the guy to talk himself out of all pertinent information, and then get a compliment.

This is exactly what I chose to do.  I had no idea how long he would go on for, and as I worried that the Cheese would just slip away into a coma of bore, I was stuck in this 90/10 conversation.

Then, I heard the guy say, “And that’s how we prevent further infestation.”

To which I replied, “Thank you, keep up the good work.”

Having felt his presence was justified in the world the weird Park Service Officer informed me to take as much literature on the subject as I wished, and then made his Batman style exit – in a pouf, he was gone as fast as he had arrived.

Cheese and I walked away, and I said, “Oh thank God, I thought that guy would never stop talking!”

We later spotted Park Service Officer lying in wait on the far end of the sales tables, and when he spotted someone near his info booth, he lunged like a tiger on a zebra and killed that proverbial elderly zebra with his ramblings about the infestation.

It was a great situation to watch, and awful one to be in.

Then this morning, one of the outwardly mobile socially awkward conversationalists of my floor walked passed my cube, only a mere second before I got up to get a cup of water.  She turned around, smiled, said “Hello Beehive…” In the most frightening of manners, which got me all flustered in the sense that I thought that I was going to be trapped in her presence, and all that I could say back was “Heeeey, Robe.”  As in, “Hold on a sec, she answered the door at 4AM in nothing but her robe?  That’s hot!”

Yes, yes I did call her Robe, but she overpowered my brain with confusion, thankfully my calling her “Robe” appeared to confuse her as well, as she just quietly turned her head around and kept walking.

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The room was dark, with my bamboo blinds pulled all the way down, the curtains were drawn completely across, and the door was at a crack, thereby leaving only the smallest traces of any light entering my bedroom, and yet I had awful sleep last night as I kept tossing and turning.  

I kept having dreams about the phone ringing which involved my getting up to answer it, only to hear another phone ringing in another room, only to hear another and another and another, which was a never ending cycle of phone calls.

I woke up exhausted, knowing full well what this stems from – my not being happy with the job market, and unreal expectations of workplace grandeur.

 

Between late last week and yesterday morning I went through nearly every single job listing on two of the major job websites.  Most of the jobs listed were flat out awful sounding to have as an actual job for anything more than a day, especially on a day like yesterday when it was absolutely gorgeous here in NYC. 

Days like yesterday tend to make me feel as though I have just wasted my life yet again by being in an office, away from windows, behind a computer screen, and surrounded by the ugliest of green cubicle walls circa 1982.

Anyways, after looking through some 10,000 plus job listings I ended up only applying to two of them.  When submitting my resume and completing the questionnaires, I was doubting that I would ever hear back from either employer, due to my experience not being in either of those two fields, but just like the lotto, “hey, you never know.”

I only applied to two postings due to my new rule of thumb of not applying to anything that I know for a fact will be a working environment that I would not want to be in – we’ll see how long this rule of thumb lasts.

Both times that I applied, I began checking my cell phone for missed calls after only a few moments of my applying, as if there was someone at the other end of the job posting anxiously drooling in front of an empty email box while waiting for some buffoon like myself to apply for the posted job position, thereby allowing them to immediately call up said buffoon (me) and take about how great I am, throwing respectable amounts of money my way in the form of a job offer.

Unfortunately, the world isn’t set up like this, which means that they didn’t call right away, but I wanted them to, so my brain allowed it to happen while I slept.

On a side note, I will most likely end up being relegated to applying to jobs that I am either highly qualified for, or just about qualified for, and get calls immediately for such jobs that I find to be nauseating.

“Welcome to the working week….”

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Yes, it’s true.  You’re Uncle Beehive has become an uncle yet again this past weekend to another little boy, whose older sister is a mere 13 months old - so close to being Irish twins.  It’s the fifth of the new generation that finds me to be the coolest and best person in the world.

This little guy got me thinking about the time that I gave birth a couple of years ago. 

Yes, you heard me correctly, I gave birth, or maybe I actually birthed it – depends on your point of view, and grammar.

It was the summer of 2004, and I was fiddling around in the pumpkin patch that I was growing in my backyard.  I was examining the dozen or so pumpkins that were growing on the vine, and looking at all of the flowers that the vine had. 

See, each flower on a pumpkin vine blooms once only.  Early in the morning when the sun rises, it opens up wide and full, flaunting its huge amount of pollen spores for bees and other insects to come and taste. 

By noon, the blooming flower is past its peak, and it begins to slowly close up.  Around 4 or 5 in the afternoon, the flower is mostly closed, never to reopen. 

If it was successfully pollinated, a pumpkin will grow, and if pollination did not succeed, then the now dead and useless flower would fall off to the Earth below the very next day – pumpkin vines are very intelligent in this way.

Anyways, I wanted to get a better examination of a flower, and so I very easily plucked one closed flower off the vine.  As I held it in my fingers it reminded me of the human cotton candy pods from Killer Klowns From Outer Space – only yellow. 

The flower felt oddly hallow, and full of air.  I squeezed it gently to see if I could get some of the air out, or even better, see a small explosion of pollen. 

As I squeezed I heard something.  It sounded like the air was escaping through the tiniest of openings at the top of the flower.  I squeezed again, and heard the same nose, only this time it felt as though something was inside of this flower. 

I took out my clippers, and cut the top of the flower off, and then carefully cut down the side of the flower, peeled back, and there it was, A BEE!

It was at this moment in life that I realized that anyone could be pregnant without even realizing it.

So the tiny little yellowjacket was inside the flower, still digging around in the pollen. 

It must have not realized the speed at which the flower closes, cause it had been stuck in there.  It definitely would have died had I not plucked that particular flower, and opened it up out of sheer curiosity.

After a moment of watching this little creature have the time of its life, doing backstrokes in pollen, it decided to fly up and away, hopefully back to its home. 

I stood there stunned.  I had just saved the life of a bee, it was as if I was a doctor bringing life back into this world, and it felt so cool.

So maybe it wasn’t birth, but it was still one of the coolest things from nature that I have ever seen.

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I hadn’t seen him in months, and I thought about him almost everyday.  I thought about all the fun we had together, and how was always able to make me feel good about myself in less than 20 minutes of his presence.

 

He was my beacon of hope that I had consistently brushed aside so that I could sit around a play video games, sip my vodka tonics, and waste my life force while surfing the internet – for months on end.  He was my rock, and I missed him.

 

Of course I’m talking about none other than fitness guru Tony Little.

He came into my life like a bat out of hell late in the winter of 2006.  It was a winter that marked lots of newfound freedoms and lots of time sitting on a stool drinking the endless flow of Stella.  Oh Stella, I miss you too.

 

All of this hanging out with Stella did one thing to me, well two things actually, first, it got me drunk, and secondly, it ended up giving me a small beer belly for the first time in my life, a life that had up until then been lived in the style of being the svelte nearly hairless wonder that I had always been.

 

Gone were the days of my natural six pack abs, it was the last beacon of life that I had known only as a given, and I now had to face the world knowing that there really was never going to be anything else in life that was just given to me, ever again.

 

I’d like to say that I cried at this realization, and instead I found myself dry eyed, confused, and annoyed.

 

Having remembered how big my dad’s gut was at times, this newfound small gut of mine had to go ASAP.  I wasn’t about to allow it to grow like the invasive yuck that it was.  I needed to drastically cut back on the amount of time that I was spending with Stella, and wanted to spend more time with an 8 Minute Abs on DVD.

 

I wanted to be all Lucille Roberts-like, trim down, and flatten my tummy.  I looked high and low for this DVD, and even swallowed my pride big time by asking people that worked at both DVD and exercise stores if they had 8 Minute Abs on DVD - I asked multiple employees at said stores, and each time I asked, I blushed from sheer embarrassment at the sound of “8 Minute Abs” rolling off my tongue.

 

Turns out, no one had it.  This left me with the task of finding something that would be just as good.  Two hours of looking at just about every fitness DVD case at Virgin Records, and I found it – Tony Little’s Ab Reduction DVD.

 

Having no job to go to everyday, I started waking up at 11AM, and after my usual morning nap that I would have a mere 45 minutes after getting out of bed, I would get down to business with the abs DVD. 

This DVD bacame my own personal meth addiction, minus all the negatives.  Many a day was spent doing lots of varied crunches, and soon enough I had lost my beer belly, but sadly wasn’t able get the abs that I once had – the kind that came from no effort.

 

At first I was kind of disappointed in the fact that Tony wasn’t yelling at me during the entire DVD, part of me wanted him to yell and be all manic, the way he is when pitched the Gazelle (pictured above), instead he came across more caring, and Tony Robbins-like – which was good in and of itself.

 

Months went by, and I kept at it.  “SQUEEZE! SQUEEZE! SQUEEZE!” would be all that I heard from Tony – in regards to abs, ya perv!

 

Then a week went by, and I didn’t touch the DVD, then another, and another, and another, for months on end - until last night.

 

Last night, I was ready to meet that old pal of mine, the one that always had a smile on his face when I would see him, the one that would put a smile on mine, and now today, I left feeling great.  Great in the sense that Tony Little is back in my life, and helping be completely ready for the big upcoming test, and or maybe, just maybe, a morning show reporter interview.

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As you can tell from my two posts yesterday, I have had a lot of time on my hands while on the clock at work this week – I’ve been faux working since Monday afternoon, due to the only thing I’m waiting on, is being held by a mentally unstable coworker, who no manager would dare bring forward to HR due to fear of they themselves getting on the chopping block. 

 

So, I’m here, bored out of my mind.  I even had time to update my resume, which is a task that I’ve been avoiding for months, but yesterday I was so bored with having gone through every blog imaginable, that I couldn’t possibly do anything else at work to occupy my mind other than that resume.

While my resume mainly reads “fully licensed Investment Advisor”, who works in middle and back offices, it doesn’t officially state, “That doesn’t wish to be one.” 

I usually find that looking in the job market for new jobs that I actually might enjoy doing, to be one of the most futile experiences I can possibly go through in life. 

Jobs listed either pay well, because you need a dozen year awful work environment experience.  Or they don’t pay well, yet require an MBA, which in either case I would be miserable in doing both of these types of jobs – let alone the fact that I lack an MBA. 

Or, the job will sound great, but pays little to nothing when it comes to salary in the greater sense that this is NYC, and I’m not talking about the non-profits here.  Why would I want to work somewhere that would never allow me to be able to get ahead in life AND doesn’t really give a greater cause to society?

Or, the job will sound great, and promise all this money, but it is a con artist type of job, that runs through the loop holes of the legal world.  I’m not down for flat out ripping people off on things.

Or, the job will sound great, but it is in a field that I no experience in.  This type of job will usually so great that I would be a fool not to apply - and this is how I just applied to be a reporter for a cheesy local morning news show. 

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You know how when you arrive back in the United States, you end up having to go through customs, and they ask if you have anything that you need to declare that you want to bring into the country?

What happens to the people that went to foreign countries for plastic surgery? 

You know, the men that go to Thailand for the sex change operation, and the women that go to Brazil for the butt implant jobs.    What happens to them?

Do they need to declare something along the lines of “I’m bringing in a new ass.”  Or “These breasts and vagina were bought overseas.” ???

Do these people usually attempt to skirt through customs without having to pay the tax on those items? 

Or do they freely admit that they are bringing in pieces of plastic and silicone? 

Do the customs agents laugh each time they hear about yet another butt implant? 

Are butt implants that popular that the customs agents no longer find it amusing to see someone with a new ass?

What would happen if you got caught, do they send you to jail? 

“What are you in here for?”

“Oh me?  Oh, I never paid the proper tax on my vagina…”

 What happens in these circumstances? 

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It was a warm day sometime in 2001, and we had just received our quarterly huge order from Proctor and Gamble, which meant that we had roughly 600 large boxes of t.p., tissues, and adult diapers along with various other things, spread out all over the corner in front of the store.   

Jack was on the top of the stairs sending down the cases; I was positioned in the basement at the bottom of the roller, and had Tony, the storeowner, down in the basement with me, to pass the cases to.

We were about 30 minutes into the getting the order down into the basement when I heard what sounded like a large Italian American man asking Jack for a specific type of hairspray – TRESemme Ultra Mega Hold to be exact.  Jack informed the guy that we didn’t have that type, and that we had Ultra Fine Mist, and Extra Hold hairspray from TRESemme.  This man didn’t want to take no for an answer, and asked if we could order a case that he would gladly purchase. 

Jack shouted down to Tony, asking if he could order a case of the Ultra Mega Hold hairspray for this guy, which is something that Tony would gladly do if he could, but he couldn’t, due to the fact that Tony knew that none of the wholesale order books carried that specific line anymore. 

Since we used to carry the Mega Hold, and it was no longer available in the order books Tony assumed that they didn’t make the Mega Hold anymore, and told the guy that.

Upon hearing this, the guy stuck his head down into the cellar doorway with this question:

“Hey Tony, do you watch the Sopranos on HBO?”

“No, I don’t have HBO.” Was his answer.

“Well the hairspray isn’t for me, it’s for one of the guys on the show, he’s famous, and he’s in your store right now.”

At this point in time Tony, Jack, and myself had only heard of the Sopranos, we knew that it was about the Italian Mafia, and since none of us had ever watched an episode to date, we didn’t know who was on this show. 

So we went upstairs to check out who this apparently  “famous guy” that was in the store that had previously been graced by Colin Quinn, Lorraine Bracco, and members of the Wu-Tang Clan, the Lordz of Brooklyn, among who were in the world of B and C level celebrities – side note, long ago funnyman Jim Norton had worked for the limo place across the street, he was in all the time.

I walked into the store and spotted one really Italian looking guy in the store that appeared to be the biggest Guido’s that I’ve ever seen, and I grew up in a predominantly Italian neighborhood, and have Italian cousins mind you.  I assumed that this was the guy from the Sopranos. 

His hair was slicked back, it was dyed a weird shade of brown all over, and the sides of his hairline came out like wings.  It looked as though the man could jump off of a cliff and glide safely down to land using only the hairstyle.  Despite this abnormal look, it appeared as though not a single strand of his hair was out of place. 

Had I ever seen the Sopranos prior to this day I would have known instantly that the guy was none other than Mr. Paulie Walnuts.

“Tony (Sirico - a.k.a. Paulie Walnuts), I got the owner outside” The initial guy from outside shouted.

Paulie Walnuts and I walked outside where he went up to the owner, Tony, and shouted,

“The Mega Hold, The Mega Hold” Just like that, no full sentences or anything like that. 

Tony (the owner) informed him that he didn’t think that they made it anymore.

Walnuts then became physical, in a nonviolent manner.  As he shouted that he believes that they still made it, he pulled double duty, by lightly backhand slapping Tony’s gut and lightly touching his own head of hair, going on about how the Ultra Fine Mist and the Extra Hold weren’t strong enough for his hair.

Tony backed up a little with each backhand slap to his gut, and Walnuts kept on him. 

Tony felt very uncomfortable in that this “famous actor” was attempting to shake him down for of all things, hairspray, so he invited Walnuts and his rather large middle aged male assistant into the store to check out the order books that we had, pointed them out the TRESsemme hair products section and it left them speechless for a moment.

Walnuts immediately had that frantic look on his face that I’ve now seen a thousand times from watching the Sopranos, and said aloud something along the lines of “My hair!?!?  What am I gonna do about my hair?”

Walnuts and his assistant left the store empty handed, and disappointed.  By the time Walnuts got into the SUV to pull away just about every guidette within a two block radius was clamoring for a chance to talk to “The Paulie Walnuts” and wondered why he was in Brooklyn of all places…

Simple answers, he was born and raised in Brooklyn, and had apparently just moved two blocks away from the store, out of his “Ma’s” house, and into a luxury condo down near the water.

A couple of months later, the owner of the store, Tony, came across the TRESemme Mega Hold hairspray in the books again, and decided not to order it, Paulie Walnuts or no Paulie Walnuts.

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The news that I received over the weekend of my brother in laws friend having been found dead of an apparent and most likely drug overdose, inside of a YMCA in Jersey, has made me think about some circumstances that I might not find to be all that bad to die under given that we all have to die, and that quick deaths are better than slow ones, and that quick painful deaths are way better than slow painful deaths, and that really odd deaths are always more fun than heart attacks, and car accidents.

Just remember, I’m in no shape or mindset to go anytime soon.

Shark Attack  As long as I could see land somewhere, and knew that it is nearly impossible to swim back to shore, I think that a shark attack in which a good portion of me is eaten wouldn’t be that bad.  The entire time that the shark and I are fighting to my bitter death, I would be thinking How cool would it be if someone from the shore is watching this through binoculars right now!  This is a story that they will be telling their grandkids.  This one thought makes it all worth it for me.

Sunflower Attack  I’ve always had the thought that if any flower or plant could grow a mind of its own and begin walking, that it would definitely be a sunflower.  Seriously, they have those big round shaped flowers in the shape of a head, and those flowers are in the exact place that a head should be - if it were to walk upright. 

Scene:  It’s a grassy field in the rolling hills of Upstate New York.  I’m walking through the field by myself, when all of a sudden I spot one tall and visibly angry sunflower coming my way.  The sunflower sees me, points at me, then motions across its throat with some leaves the you’re dead sign, then it starts plucking out its sunflower seeds, and hurling them at me like there’s no tomorrow.  I try to run, but the sunflower is too fast for me to escape, and then when it gets close enough it knocks me to the ground, and proceeds to beat me dead as if it’s the Joe Pesci character from Goodfellas. 

I wouldn’t mind this one, simply because throughout my being attacked I would keep thinking to myself that any medical examiner that examines my corpse would be left completely clueless as to why there were sunflower seeds jammed in my back, and why the black and blues were had the shape of some unknown object.  As such, they wouldn’t ever be able to solve my death. 

This would create such a mystery and folklore that would have it that aliens kidnapped me, found my packet of sunflower seeds, didn’t like them, and had me whacked because of it.

Elephant Attack  As long as it somehow involves me attempting to save someone that inadvertently wandered into the elephant exhibit at the Bronx Zoo, I’m fine with being trampled, and tossed around like a rag doll for the spectators, and maybe, just maybe, it would become a daily event.  At 1:50PM each day, Bronx Zoo officials would announce,

Ladies and Gentlemen, our elephant show begins in ten minutes.  You don’t want to miss the Beehive Hairdressers mauled body being tossed around like a rag doll by two elephants for 15 minutes until they get bored.  Remember, only ten minutes to til show time!

Giant Squid Attack  If I were ever in the predicament of finding myself alone, floating, exhausted, in the middle of an ocean, when all of a sudden a giant squid attacks me, I think my being eaten would be an amazing thing.  Going out this way would allow me to not have to continue the suffering of a long and drawn out death by dehydration, or suffer death from sun blisters, and the entire time that I’m being attacked I would be thinking about how cool it is to see a giant squid in action.  I would be able to see the mouth opening and closing and it getting bigger and bigger, and for some odd reason I envision a giant squid not only eating me, but slicing me into pieces as I pass through its mouth.  The wonder would grow and grow to such a point that I would have to dive head first into its mouth to see what happens out of curiosity.

Zebra Attack  I always thought of zebra’s as being peaceful and gentle animals similar to horses, only with stripes, however, horses can be angry animals too.  Given this, I wouldn’t put it past a zebra attacking me at any moment in time.

I imagine a zebra attacking and killing me to go something along these lines:

(Giggling) Hey, check out that zebra.

Wow, a zebra!  Now that’s a really beautiful animal.

Look at its cool stripes.

Wait, why the heck is a zebra running loose in Union Square?

Is that thing charging at me?

OWWWW!

Help, this zebra is attacking me!

(Laughing) I mean it!  This thing is really giving it to me.

I think this thing wants me dead!  Help!

Why aren’t any of you helping me?

I think I’m bleeding, but I can’t see that part of my back to know for sure.

(Laughing) Don’t any of you have any compassion?

Can I just see that photo that you just took of me on your sleek new digital camera?

(Laughing) This thing really hurts!

Wait, I can’t see the LCD from that far away, can you come a little closer?

This zebra has a really beautiful coat of hair.  It’s so soft.

(Laughing to the point of tears) Don’t you stick your zebra ass in my face!

And, dead!!! I bet you didn’t think that I envision a zebra sitting on my face until I died as being the way I went, but in my book, that is the mostly likely scenario.  My obituary would read:Beehive Hairdresser, aged 26 years.  Saw the zebra, and didn’t think quick enough.

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This move took way longer than anticipated mainly because I had and still have no idea as to what I was / am doing when it comes to html, and computer codes.  I’m still learning as I go, so for all I know this site could be down at the innocent push of any button - literally. 

The other day I had everything set up in a similar fashion to what the old blogspot looked like, and then, for some ridiculous reason – specifically an extra space after the end of code - I was unable to log into my site as an admin. 

There is apparently some way of going about to fix that problem, but in order for me to do it, I would have had to go back in time 15 years and become a computer geek, or at least spend a month not working or doing anything but learning what code things meant, and I didn’t have time for that. 

So, I did what any All-American Boy would do, I gave up on the fix, and instead just deleted everything and just started over – cause it was easier. 

I’m not done with the set up yet, I still need to redo the blogroll, minimize the categories, add some photos and words to the sidebar, figure out where I can check my domain emails, and how I can fully set up some sub domains – HINT: The domain that you are reading right now is the Dom, or the Top.

Now, I think this setup and file transfer is working, finally, although this morning I don’t see the pics that were transferred over last night, which I was able to see last night.

Geezers… 

Can anyone see the pics in older posts?  I know that I can see the youtube embeds…

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1) Supermarket shopping before the stupid April Nor’Easter hits

2) Fix my grandmother’s stupid tv.

3) Avoid getting stuck inside my grandmother’s stupid apartment for an extended period of time.

4) Figure out how to export my blogspot blog to spuid wordpress - I use stupid google account sign on, if you’ve done this yourself or know someone who could do it, please email me: beehivehairdresser@hotmail.com I swear I would be friendly if being helped.

5) Figure out all of the stupid software available in adding on to the new site.

6) Cuss out my stupid workplace for blocking blogger at work, and making me do items 4, 5 & 6 today.

7) Nap away my stupid crankiness.

NOON UPDATE

Items 1 - 3 done, and found out about the junkie guy that was in one of my sisters wedding parties had an O.D. and died this week in a YMCA in Jersey.

Even though I only met him a few times and had to put up with his idiocy for a few hours here and there, I’m sure that he never wanted to be caught dead inside a YMCA - oh, the irony - se la vee.

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