I am warning you now, this story is more distasteful than usual. For those of you who get offended easily, now is your turn to look away.
I have always been sort of a mess when it comes to visiting the gynecologist. Not because I have a history of bad results, or shudder when coming face to face with the speculum. My problem, believe it or not, are the robes. When I lived in New York, I was spoiled rotten by my gynecologists office. It was right on Madison in a high rise building, and each patient was greeted with brand new robes so comfy you could sleep in and sat in a room where on each ceiling displayed a video of ocean waves crashing on a beach. If I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn I was secretly entered into Promises Rehab Center.
I went there for so long that I must have forgotten that most OB-GYN offices did not operate this way, nor did they have these fabulous facilities. I had to go back to reality the hard way. I was living in South Florida for a month when I made my first gynecologist appointment. The doctor had a very nice reputation and I was looking forward to getting the whole thing over with. Her office was nice enough, a building that had a great view overlooking Miami Beach, and the waiting room was very clean.
After waiting a few minutes, the receptionist called me in and showed me into my room. She handed me a small package, told me to undress, and assured me that the doctor would be in shortly. That was when I looked down and saw what was in the package. There was no robe to be found; instead I saw what appeared to be 3 pieces of paper towel with 2 holes. I panicked- this could not have been what I was supposed to wear when meeting my doctor for the first time. What would she think of me? I tore the paper towels open and stuck my arms through its holes. I sat on the exam chair, put my feet in its stirrups, and looked down to see that my entire vagina was exposed. I got out of the chair, looked around, and saw to no avail a cover for my lap.
“Well if this is the way the office operates, so be it.” I admit defeat, sit back onto the exam chair and hold my breath, accepting my fate. A few minutes later, the doctor walks in and is greeted by my vagina.
“Hello, I am Doctor ___”, says the doctor.
“Hello, my name is Ashley,” says my vagina.
“Um Ashley…you’re…um…sitting on the lap cover…I don’t know if you are aware…” the doctor pointed out that the 4th sheet of paper towel I was sitting on was actually the paper towel that was supposed to cover my bits.
“Oh…right. I should have known.” I sheepishly pull the paper out from underneath and cover myself up, feeling stupid and strangely unattractive. I mean, she was going to see it regardless, what did it matter at that point if she got an eyeful of cooter?
I obviously could not bring myself to see this doctor ever again. And I wish I could say that that was the worst situation I have ever been in at the gynecologist. Sadly, it was not.
The last time I went for a check up, it was at an office right by my home. This one was even less attractive than the former, with no high rise building or fancy views of the city. This one was loud and had The View playing on a static television that would cut in and out every few minutes. A woman that made Precious look like Naomi Campbell was sitting right next to me in the waiting room, and when she wasn’t hacking up a lung or sweating profusely she would fall asleep and snore so loud I thought she was having a heart attack. Finally after what felt like eternity, I was called into my room.
“Please let there be a normal gown to put on” I wished with all my might.
I get into the room and am greeted by that same stupid package of paper towel I was dreading. However, being that I am a grown woman and not 12 years old visiting the doctor for the first time, I believed that there was no way I would screw this up again. My confidence was sky-high and I start putting on the robe, but I notice right away that this robe is a lot smaller than the last one. There are also no holes to put your arms through, so I proceed to awkwardly wrap the paper towel around my body. When I go to sit down, the paper towel stars to rip and tears right across my left boob.
“FUCK!!!!!” I scream. “Why the hell can I not figure this out???” I am in full panic mode at this point, as I obviously cannot have the doctor walk in to find me bottomless, my vagina fully exposed, and a boob hanging out of a paper towel rip. She would probably file a sexual harassment law suit against me and THEN where would I go for a pap smear? I rip a piece of the paper covering the exam chair and place it over my lap, my ass and the used chair getting way too personal. The doctor walks in immediately after.
“Ashley!” cried the loud mouthed doctor. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Wardrobe malfunction?” I shrug.
“Out of all my years practicing, I must say I have never seen a patient more confused. Why aren’t you wearing the robe? It was right on the counter!” The doctor points to a separate package that held the robe inside. Basically, I was wearing the lap cover as a robe, and a piece of the chair as a lap cover. What the hell is wrong with me?
I honestly could say I have never felt more stupid in my life than at that moment when the doctor pointed out my failure. I have another appointment coming up next year, and when I go, I hope that I will be wiser.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Blockheads.
Matt and I had just gotten married last May, and we decided to go to the most romantic city in the world for our honeymoon: Vegas. Actually, it just ended up being the cheapest trip we could find without staying at a Cockroach Inn. We were super excited to go since Matt never visited Vegas and I was there once when I was 15, which clearly does not count. We found an online special to fly Southwest Airlines and to stay at the Bellagio, which altogether cost less than 2 nights at a Sandals resort. We never flew Southwest before, but figured it had to be a decent airline and it would have been a crime not to take advantage of the package.
We get to the airport feeling high on life and thrilled about how perfect our wedding turned out to be. However, that feeling quickly changed soon after we checked in.
“Matt…how come we don’t have an assigned seat?” I look at my ticket and it just shows that we are boarding group C.
“I guess we will find out once they start boarding,” Matt assures me.
We walk over to the security line, and right away I notice the random groups of large, dumpy women wearing New Kids on the Block paraphernalia. Women wearing NKOTB shirts, sporting NKOTB baseball caps and holding NKOTB pictures were huddled together like some deranged sports team going through security and singing “Step by Step”. I decided not to make a big deal of this, for flying is not one of my favorite past times and I just wanted to get to Vegas unharmed. Besides, I was sure the odds of them being on the same flight as me were slim to none.
We go through security and walk to our gate, and we see signs that read A 1-30, A 31-60, B 1-30, B 31-60 and C 1-17. It all of a sudden hits me that for some stupid reason Southwest Airlines does not believe in assigned seating, but instead you must go by groups and pray that you get to sit next to the person you are flying with.
“This is the most retarded thing I have ever heard!” I say to Matt. “We are one of the first people to check in to our flight, yet we are part of the last boarding group!”
“I know this is ridiculous, but we are on our honeymoon,” Matt assures me, “I’m sure someone will give up their seat if needed so that we could sit together.” As Matt is saying this, I see out of the corner of my eye a herd of animals galloping toward our gate. As they get closer, I could make out the 5 letters I was dreading to see on my flight. “Oh great, what the hell is this?” I say outloud.
“Blockheads.”
I turn around and see a frizzy haired woman in her 40’s wearing a see through tank top and what might as well have been pajama bottoms. She had a rose tramp-stamp tattoo which I found very classy. “Excuse me, what did you just say?” I ask her.
“They are Blockheads. And you are surrounded by us.”
“And what, may I ask, is a Blockhead?”
Pretty told me that a Blockhead is a New Kids On The Block fan, and they all had just gotten off the NKOTB cruise (yes, they have their own cruise ship) and were on their way back to whatever cave they crawled out of. “So you better watch what you say about us.” she threatened me.
“Yeah whatever, I could take them.”“Trust me,” Pretty growled, “you don’t want to mess with us.”
I had enough at this point and walked away from her and got into my group. They start the boarding process and I already know that I am going to be seated by myself in the middle of 2 Blockheads, and Matt will be seated in the toilet. About 5 hours later they call group C and we walk to the plane. On a side note, the whole time we were waiting there we were lucky enough to be entertained by a group of hillbillies singing a whole medley of New Kids tunes. By the time they were done singing “The Right Stuff” I wanted to call the whole honeymoon off.
We get into the plane and what do you know, the entire flight is packed with single fliers, all who have decided that the middle seat was plagued and therefore took up all the aisle and row seats. “What did I tell you, I knew we weren’t going to be able to sit together!” I wanted to scream.
Matt all of a sudden pushes me out of the way. “EXCUSE ME EVERYONE! MY WIFE AND I HAD JUST GOTTEN MARRIED AND ARE ON OUR HONEYMOON AND WOULD GREATLY APPRECIATE IT IF SOMEONE MOVED A SEAT SO THAT WE COULD SIT TOGETHER!” He stops and waits for a good humanitarian to graciously give up their seat so we could be together. Instead, nobody moves but just stares at us as if we had just announced we were part of the Taliban and would be hijacking this plane. I swear I saw someone start to drool.
“Please, could anyone give up their seat so that we could sit together?” Matt pleads. “This is a full plane and everyone is eventually going to be sitting next to a stranger anyways!”
We seriously wait another 5 minutes for someone to say something when Jesus, aka seat 15A stands up. “OK, you can have my seat. But you owe me a drink!”
We kindly thank the heroic man who so bravely left his seat in search of another one and we take our spots. I am relieved, and so is Matt, and we slowly drift off to sleep to the lulling voices of 20 Blockheads singing “Hangin Tough”.
We get to the airport feeling high on life and thrilled about how perfect our wedding turned out to be. However, that feeling quickly changed soon after we checked in.
“Matt…how come we don’t have an assigned seat?” I look at my ticket and it just shows that we are boarding group C.
“I guess we will find out once they start boarding,” Matt assures me.
We walk over to the security line, and right away I notice the random groups of large, dumpy women wearing New Kids on the Block paraphernalia. Women wearing NKOTB shirts, sporting NKOTB baseball caps and holding NKOTB pictures were huddled together like some deranged sports team going through security and singing “Step by Step”. I decided not to make a big deal of this, for flying is not one of my favorite past times and I just wanted to get to Vegas unharmed. Besides, I was sure the odds of them being on the same flight as me were slim to none.
We go through security and walk to our gate, and we see signs that read A 1-30, A 31-60, B 1-30, B 31-60 and C 1-17. It all of a sudden hits me that for some stupid reason Southwest Airlines does not believe in assigned seating, but instead you must go by groups and pray that you get to sit next to the person you are flying with.
“This is the most retarded thing I have ever heard!” I say to Matt. “We are one of the first people to check in to our flight, yet we are part of the last boarding group!”
“I know this is ridiculous, but we are on our honeymoon,” Matt assures me, “I’m sure someone will give up their seat if needed so that we could sit together.” As Matt is saying this, I see out of the corner of my eye a herd of animals galloping toward our gate. As they get closer, I could make out the 5 letters I was dreading to see on my flight. “Oh great, what the hell is this?” I say outloud.
“Blockheads.”
I turn around and see a frizzy haired woman in her 40’s wearing a see through tank top and what might as well have been pajama bottoms. She had a rose tramp-stamp tattoo which I found very classy. “Excuse me, what did you just say?” I ask her.
“They are Blockheads. And you are surrounded by us.”
“And what, may I ask, is a Blockhead?”
Pretty told me that a Blockhead is a New Kids On The Block fan, and they all had just gotten off the NKOTB cruise (yes, they have their own cruise ship) and were on their way back to whatever cave they crawled out of. “So you better watch what you say about us.” she threatened me.
“Yeah whatever, I could take them.”“Trust me,” Pretty growled, “you don’t want to mess with us.”
I had enough at this point and walked away from her and got into my group. They start the boarding process and I already know that I am going to be seated by myself in the middle of 2 Blockheads, and Matt will be seated in the toilet. About 5 hours later they call group C and we walk to the plane. On a side note, the whole time we were waiting there we were lucky enough to be entertained by a group of hillbillies singing a whole medley of New Kids tunes. By the time they were done singing “The Right Stuff” I wanted to call the whole honeymoon off.
We get into the plane and what do you know, the entire flight is packed with single fliers, all who have decided that the middle seat was plagued and therefore took up all the aisle and row seats. “What did I tell you, I knew we weren’t going to be able to sit together!” I wanted to scream.
Matt all of a sudden pushes me out of the way. “EXCUSE ME EVERYONE! MY WIFE AND I HAD JUST GOTTEN MARRIED AND ARE ON OUR HONEYMOON AND WOULD GREATLY APPRECIATE IT IF SOMEONE MOVED A SEAT SO THAT WE COULD SIT TOGETHER!” He stops and waits for a good humanitarian to graciously give up their seat so we could be together. Instead, nobody moves but just stares at us as if we had just announced we were part of the Taliban and would be hijacking this plane. I swear I saw someone start to drool.
“Please, could anyone give up their seat so that we could sit together?” Matt pleads. “This is a full plane and everyone is eventually going to be sitting next to a stranger anyways!”
We seriously wait another 5 minutes for someone to say something when Jesus, aka seat 15A stands up. “OK, you can have my seat. But you owe me a drink!”
We kindly thank the heroic man who so bravely left his seat in search of another one and we take our spots. I am relieved, and so is Matt, and we slowly drift off to sleep to the lulling voices of 20 Blockheads singing “Hangin Tough”.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
CUJO...but not really.
So this literally happened last weekend.
My adorable little gremlin, Stella hadn’t had a walk in forever. Matt and I were out all day and had plans to meet my parents for dinner so we agreed that I would be on walking duty if Matt was on cleaning duty. I had an ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach; for some reason when I walk Stella by myself, I always end up having some sort of conflict. “OK Stella, lets get this overwith.” I leash her up and we go outside.
It was a beautiful late Saturday afternoon and I was thoroughly enjoying my quiet time with the gremlin. I always want to unleash her but we have strict rules in our building that you must have your dog on a leash. It’s not an unfair rule to abide, considering the large amount of psychotic dogs that live in my building. However, time and time again I have seen these idiotic owners who feel like they are above the law and can have their stupid dog do and bother whatever and whoever they want.
I was standing there waiting for Stella to finish her poops and pees when I see out of the corner of my eye some figure charging toward us. At first it was just a tiny speck that I could barely make out, but the speck became larger and larger and soon I saw it was a Cavalier King Charles Terrier full out hurtling into us. Now I know this sounds silly because it wasn’t something scary like a Rottweiler or a Pit Bull, but this was clearly a special needs Cavalier King Charles Terrier loaded on steroids. It was running so hard its cheeks were flapping. It soon smashed its stupid face right up and into my gremlin’s ass, and Stella aint nobody’s bitch. She started growling which provoked the dog to hump Stella. I am clearly starting to lose it.
“HELLO???? Whoever owns this dog, can you please come get it??” I shouted across the dog park. At this moment I have Stella in my arms and the dog is humping MY leg. “Somebody, please get this dog away from me!”
“Ja, we’re comin, cheel out!” I look up and see from far away, there are 2 bitchy little men taking their sweet time to come over and get their dog. They are clearly in no rush, and about half an hour later they finally sashay over to where I am. They take their dog and walk away, no apologies or anything. I am in complete shock so I just walk away, Stella still in my arms, and go to the front of the park where I think it is now safe to let her go. And what do you know, as soon as I put Stella on the ground that dumb fucking dog is sprinting back over. “GET OUT OF HERE!” I scream at the little bitch, and I start kicking the dog (don’t worry animal lovers, I didn’t kick the thing hard, just enough to show him who’s boss). So here I am kicking this dog and these 2 morons are too high or stupid to care and don’t do anything about it at all! I mean if someone was kicking MY dog I would go ballistic on them. Maybe they appreciated the fact that I was kicking it because it was tiring him out. He finally leaves us alone and I go back upstairs, my whole body shaking. Matt sees me and knows something just went down. “What happened now??”
“These 2 idiots didn’t have their dog on a leash and it just attacked Stella and then myself and it was AWWWWFUL!!” I am literally about to cry, I am being so overdramatic.
“Well lets go down there and say something!” I say ok and follow Matt downstairs. We get outside and there they are, that dreadful beast and his bitchy dads.
“Do you guys live here??” I ask.
“Jes, we do.”
“Ok, well there is a rule here that you must have your dog on a leash at the dog park and you guys stood there and allowed my dog to be attacked by yours!”
“Oh pleeeease.” bitched the bitch. “Was jour doggy hurt?”
Matt is pissed off. “Ok we don’t need to hear any of your bullshit and we don’t need you to waste our time. Did your dog attack our dog or not??”
The other one started getting all uppity. “I no haf to leesten to jou!!” The other one was giggling and twirling his hair. Their dog was shitting on his foot but I didn’t have the heart to tell him.
“Yeah, well I don’t have to listen to you either!” Matt yells.
“No, I no leesten to jou, go away.” said the angry one. “Ya, go away, we no leesten!” said his sidekick.
“Well guess what assholes??” I shouted, “I am going to call the condo manager and tell him that you two were BREAKING THE LAW! You guys are fucked now!!” (Clearly, nobody was breaking the law, but these 2 weren’t the brightest colors in the box and I thought they would believe me).
I was still going off on the guys when they turned their backs on us and walked away. I guess they felt like they had the last laugh, but I wasn’t the one walking around with yucky on my shoe. I was exhausted, and just wanted to go back inside; my parents were on their way to our place and it still had to be cleaned. We took the elevator back to our apartment and when the doors opened, we were face to face with our friendly neighbor: Fred. “I can’t deal with you right now,” I said, feeling my headache increase. I stormed back into our place and poured myself a large glass of vodka on the rocks. “Are you going to help me finish cleaning?” Matt asked.
“Forget the cleaning,” I muttered. I decided to go online instead and find a doggy martial arts class. If Stella is going to be dealing with crazy dogs unleashed, it’s time for her to learn some self defense. And I really, really hope I don’t see those guys again.
My adorable little gremlin, Stella hadn’t had a walk in forever. Matt and I were out all day and had plans to meet my parents for dinner so we agreed that I would be on walking duty if Matt was on cleaning duty. I had an ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach; for some reason when I walk Stella by myself, I always end up having some sort of conflict. “OK Stella, lets get this overwith.” I leash her up and we go outside.
It was a beautiful late Saturday afternoon and I was thoroughly enjoying my quiet time with the gremlin. I always want to unleash her but we have strict rules in our building that you must have your dog on a leash. It’s not an unfair rule to abide, considering the large amount of psychotic dogs that live in my building. However, time and time again I have seen these idiotic owners who feel like they are above the law and can have their stupid dog do and bother whatever and whoever they want.
I was standing there waiting for Stella to finish her poops and pees when I see out of the corner of my eye some figure charging toward us. At first it was just a tiny speck that I could barely make out, but the speck became larger and larger and soon I saw it was a Cavalier King Charles Terrier full out hurtling into us. Now I know this sounds silly because it wasn’t something scary like a Rottweiler or a Pit Bull, but this was clearly a special needs Cavalier King Charles Terrier loaded on steroids. It was running so hard its cheeks were flapping. It soon smashed its stupid face right up and into my gremlin’s ass, and Stella aint nobody’s bitch. She started growling which provoked the dog to hump Stella. I am clearly starting to lose it.
“HELLO???? Whoever owns this dog, can you please come get it??” I shouted across the dog park. At this moment I have Stella in my arms and the dog is humping MY leg. “Somebody, please get this dog away from me!”
“Ja, we’re comin, cheel out!” I look up and see from far away, there are 2 bitchy little men taking their sweet time to come over and get their dog. They are clearly in no rush, and about half an hour later they finally sashay over to where I am. They take their dog and walk away, no apologies or anything. I am in complete shock so I just walk away, Stella still in my arms, and go to the front of the park where I think it is now safe to let her go. And what do you know, as soon as I put Stella on the ground that dumb fucking dog is sprinting back over. “GET OUT OF HERE!” I scream at the little bitch, and I start kicking the dog (don’t worry animal lovers, I didn’t kick the thing hard, just enough to show him who’s boss). So here I am kicking this dog and these 2 morons are too high or stupid to care and don’t do anything about it at all! I mean if someone was kicking MY dog I would go ballistic on them. Maybe they appreciated the fact that I was kicking it because it was tiring him out. He finally leaves us alone and I go back upstairs, my whole body shaking. Matt sees me and knows something just went down. “What happened now??”
“These 2 idiots didn’t have their dog on a leash and it just attacked Stella and then myself and it was AWWWWFUL!!” I am literally about to cry, I am being so overdramatic.
“Well lets go down there and say something!” I say ok and follow Matt downstairs. We get outside and there they are, that dreadful beast and his bitchy dads.
“Do you guys live here??” I ask.
“Jes, we do.”
“Ok, well there is a rule here that you must have your dog on a leash at the dog park and you guys stood there and allowed my dog to be attacked by yours!”
“Oh pleeeease.” bitched the bitch. “Was jour doggy hurt?”
Matt is pissed off. “Ok we don’t need to hear any of your bullshit and we don’t need you to waste our time. Did your dog attack our dog or not??”
The other one started getting all uppity. “I no haf to leesten to jou!!” The other one was giggling and twirling his hair. Their dog was shitting on his foot but I didn’t have the heart to tell him.
“Yeah, well I don’t have to listen to you either!” Matt yells.
“No, I no leesten to jou, go away.” said the angry one. “Ya, go away, we no leesten!” said his sidekick.
“Well guess what assholes??” I shouted, “I am going to call the condo manager and tell him that you two were BREAKING THE LAW! You guys are fucked now!!” (Clearly, nobody was breaking the law, but these 2 weren’t the brightest colors in the box and I thought they would believe me).
I was still going off on the guys when they turned their backs on us and walked away. I guess they felt like they had the last laugh, but I wasn’t the one walking around with yucky on my shoe. I was exhausted, and just wanted to go back inside; my parents were on their way to our place and it still had to be cleaned. We took the elevator back to our apartment and when the doors opened, we were face to face with our friendly neighbor: Fred. “I can’t deal with you right now,” I said, feeling my headache increase. I stormed back into our place and poured myself a large glass of vodka on the rocks. “Are you going to help me finish cleaning?” Matt asked.
“Forget the cleaning,” I muttered. I decided to go online instead and find a doggy martial arts class. If Stella is going to be dealing with crazy dogs unleashed, it’s time for her to learn some self defense. And I really, really hope I don’t see those guys again.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Vampire Stories
I live next to a vampire.
His name is Fred and he doesn’t look anything like Edward Cullen. Instead, he looks like a big fart stain. I wish I never met him, but he came into my life about a year ago. My friend was in town visiting from New York and we were hanging out at my place with my husband Matt, drinking and catching up. We were having a good time, when I hear a loud knock on my door. I initially freeze up, thinking it’s the cops and we just got busted. Then I came to my senses and realized the narcotics I had sprawled out on my dinner table were well deserved after a hard days work, and at least half legal (thanks grandma!)
The cop knocks again. “I know you‘re in there! I can hear you!”. Matt opens the door and the dude standing in front of us is definitely not a cop, but a 98 pound balding guy with pale skin and a less than intimidating scowl. “It’s 3:00 in the morning and I just got home from work!” cried out the little man. “Can you guys keep it down a little?” Fred attempted to put on his strongest “tough guy“ face. One might have actually bought it if he wasn’t wearing such tight, girl shorts. I could have sworn he had the words “juicy” on his ass.
“What kind of work do you do?” I slurred (I was pretty wasted at the time). “It‘s a night business…that‘s all you have to know.” I wasn’t going to ask anymore questions after that. "Sure, no problem man. Sorry about the inconvenience.” Matt closes the door and we’re sure that is the end of the situation.
A few weeks go by and there is no word of Fred. In fact, we don’t see him at all. I’m pretty sure I made him up in my head except for the fact that there is a basket of fresh red roses constantly decorating his balcony. One Saturday afternoon I go to close our bedroom door when I hear something thump my wall. It completely freaks me out, so I open the door to see if a rat committed suicide in our room. I don’t see any corpses, so I close the door again. Once again, there’s a thump.
“Matt! Our crazy neighbor Fred is totally punching our wall right now!” I open the bedroom door again, only this time I slam it shut. That must have pissed off our neighbor because the thump was way more aggressive this time. I start kicking the wall with all my might and was about to throw a hammer into it when Matt yanks it out of my hand and tells me to stop.
Matt walks over to my nemeses’ door and knocks on it. There is no answer. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back!” I shout at the door. Later on, we knock on his door again and this time he answers. “Hey Matt. Hey Ashley. I was hearing a strange noise this morning so I decided to knock on the wall to experiment and see what was causing it.” By this point I am seeing red.
“Listen Fred. I don’t know what your problem is, but it’s 11:30 on a Saturday and you don’t live in a cottage in the middle of the woods. YOU’RE GOING TO HEAR NOISE!”
Fred turns his head slowly and I swear it’s going to start spinning. “You know, Ashley…I can hear everything. Sometimes when I come home from my “night business” I can hear when you and Matt have relations.”
I almost throw up my egg salad. “That’s enough dude. You are being completely inappropriate right now.” Matt closes the door on him and we can hear his scary vampire laugh behind it.
A few weeks (and many awkward nights) go by and we decide to put flooring into our apartment. I begged and pleaded for the guys to be quiet and not to wake the slumber of the pale beast, but as soon as they brought out their jackhammer, I knew we would be hearing from him. And just like that, as soon as that jackhammer touched our floor, Fred was knocking on our door. “Jesus, you’re KIDDING me!” I open the door and there’s that familiar fucked up face.
“Hey guys, this is totally inappropriate for you to be doing on a Saturday afternoon. I’ve been keeping track of how loud you have been and it hasn’t been good. Last weekend I was sick and you guys kept me up ALL DAY, with your shouting and strange conversations!”
At this point, all hopes of being a civil and decent human being have been erased. I am no longer Ashley Hobbes, but Lucifer, the wild Draconian. I got so mad that a clump of my hair came out. I don’t even remember what exactly happened here, but I do remember clawing at Fred’s face and making fun of his lame pants. Matt pushed me out of the way and closed the door. He tried reasoning with Fred and told him to calm down and that’s when I hear him say: “I should have done what I wanted to do a long time ago, called the fucking cops!” Of course when I hear this I charge outside like I’m Andre the fucking Giant. “CALLTHEFUCKINGCOPS,YOU PSYCHO!I’DLOVETOHEARTHEMLAUGHATYOURSORRYASS WHENYOUGIVEANOISECOMPLAINTATNOONONASATURDAY!CALLTHEMRIGHTNOW!” When I was done my lung collapsed and Matt once again pushes me back into the apartment. “I’m sorry, but I hate your wife” I hear Fred tell Matt as the door is closing…
A few days later, I went to the manager of our condo and told him the situation we had with Fred. And do you know what I was told? Not only is his bedroom nowhere near ours, but our good buddy Fred rents month to month! I’m guessing he spoke with him because the next day we received a typed up note taped on our door. It read:
Matt and Ashley,
I wanted to let you know I did not initiate a complaint with the building about the noise in your apartment on Saturday. The reason I feel I have to mention this is that I received a phone call from management today apologizing for the noise. I wanted you to know that after we discussed it, I did not complain (though later the noise was so excessive I left my apartment for several hours).
I haven’t seen Fred since. I know he’s still here; I can see his blood roses blooming on his balcony, and if I listen really close I can hear the faint sound of videogames being played. I know our vampire neighbor is out there, but hopefully he has found a new victim to destroy. I’m sure this isn’t the last of Fred, so I will keep you all posted about our next endeavor!
His name is Fred and he doesn’t look anything like Edward Cullen. Instead, he looks like a big fart stain. I wish I never met him, but he came into my life about a year ago. My friend was in town visiting from New York and we were hanging out at my place with my husband Matt, drinking and catching up. We were having a good time, when I hear a loud knock on my door. I initially freeze up, thinking it’s the cops and we just got busted. Then I came to my senses and realized the narcotics I had sprawled out on my dinner table were well deserved after a hard days work, and at least half legal (thanks grandma!)
The cop knocks again. “I know you‘re in there! I can hear you!”. Matt opens the door and the dude standing in front of us is definitely not a cop, but a 98 pound balding guy with pale skin and a less than intimidating scowl. “It’s 3:00 in the morning and I just got home from work!” cried out the little man. “Can you guys keep it down a little?” Fred attempted to put on his strongest “tough guy“ face. One might have actually bought it if he wasn’t wearing such tight, girl shorts. I could have sworn he had the words “juicy” on his ass.
“What kind of work do you do?” I slurred (I was pretty wasted at the time). “It‘s a night business…that‘s all you have to know.” I wasn’t going to ask anymore questions after that. "Sure, no problem man. Sorry about the inconvenience.” Matt closes the door and we’re sure that is the end of the situation.
A few weeks go by and there is no word of Fred. In fact, we don’t see him at all. I’m pretty sure I made him up in my head except for the fact that there is a basket of fresh red roses constantly decorating his balcony. One Saturday afternoon I go to close our bedroom door when I hear something thump my wall. It completely freaks me out, so I open the door to see if a rat committed suicide in our room. I don’t see any corpses, so I close the door again. Once again, there’s a thump.
“Matt! Our crazy neighbor Fred is totally punching our wall right now!” I open the bedroom door again, only this time I slam it shut. That must have pissed off our neighbor because the thump was way more aggressive this time. I start kicking the wall with all my might and was about to throw a hammer into it when Matt yanks it out of my hand and tells me to stop.
Matt walks over to my nemeses’ door and knocks on it. There is no answer. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back!” I shout at the door. Later on, we knock on his door again and this time he answers. “Hey Matt. Hey Ashley. I was hearing a strange noise this morning so I decided to knock on the wall to experiment and see what was causing it.” By this point I am seeing red.
“Listen Fred. I don’t know what your problem is, but it’s 11:30 on a Saturday and you don’t live in a cottage in the middle of the woods. YOU’RE GOING TO HEAR NOISE!”
Fred turns his head slowly and I swear it’s going to start spinning. “You know, Ashley…I can hear everything. Sometimes when I come home from my “night business” I can hear when you and Matt have relations.”
I almost throw up my egg salad. “That’s enough dude. You are being completely inappropriate right now.” Matt closes the door on him and we can hear his scary vampire laugh behind it.
A few weeks (and many awkward nights) go by and we decide to put flooring into our apartment. I begged and pleaded for the guys to be quiet and not to wake the slumber of the pale beast, but as soon as they brought out their jackhammer, I knew we would be hearing from him. And just like that, as soon as that jackhammer touched our floor, Fred was knocking on our door. “Jesus, you’re KIDDING me!” I open the door and there’s that familiar fucked up face.
“Hey guys, this is totally inappropriate for you to be doing on a Saturday afternoon. I’ve been keeping track of how loud you have been and it hasn’t been good. Last weekend I was sick and you guys kept me up ALL DAY, with your shouting and strange conversations!”
At this point, all hopes of being a civil and decent human being have been erased. I am no longer Ashley Hobbes, but Lucifer, the wild Draconian. I got so mad that a clump of my hair came out. I don’t even remember what exactly happened here, but I do remember clawing at Fred’s face and making fun of his lame pants. Matt pushed me out of the way and closed the door. He tried reasoning with Fred and told him to calm down and that’s when I hear him say: “I should have done what I wanted to do a long time ago, called the fucking cops!” Of course when I hear this I charge outside like I’m Andre the fucking Giant. “CALLTHEFUCKINGCOPS,YOU PSYCHO!I’DLOVETOHEARTHEMLAUGHATYOURSORRYASS WHENYOUGIVEANOISECOMPLAINTATNOONONASATURDAY!CALLTHEMRIGHTNOW!” When I was done my lung collapsed and Matt once again pushes me back into the apartment. “I’m sorry, but I hate your wife” I hear Fred tell Matt as the door is closing…
A few days later, I went to the manager of our condo and told him the situation we had with Fred. And do you know what I was told? Not only is his bedroom nowhere near ours, but our good buddy Fred rents month to month! I’m guessing he spoke with him because the next day we received a typed up note taped on our door. It read:
Matt and Ashley,
I wanted to let you know I did not initiate a complaint with the building about the noise in your apartment on Saturday. The reason I feel I have to mention this is that I received a phone call from management today apologizing for the noise. I wanted you to know that after we discussed it, I did not complain (though later the noise was so excessive I left my apartment for several hours).
I haven’t seen Fred since. I know he’s still here; I can see his blood roses blooming on his balcony, and if I listen really close I can hear the faint sound of videogames being played. I know our vampire neighbor is out there, but hopefully he has found a new victim to destroy. I’m sure this isn’t the last of Fred, so I will keep you all posted about our next endeavor!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
A Turkish 3some
A long, long time ago when Dubya was ruining the world and Lady Gaga wasn't, I was a struggling actor trying to make it in the big shi-tay aka NYC. Only months after moving there did I realize that talent had absolutely nothing to do with success. A good hairstyle was the key! I came to New York with long, coarse curly hair that would easily dread if I didn't wash it for a few days (which occurred very often, as I was severely depressed for a while and gave up showers). Month after month, I would go to auditions just to be ridiculed and laughed at. What was a nappy headed girl to do?? After a while, I had enough of all the rejection and finally mustered up the courage to chop it all off. I marched right into this tiny hair salon in Astoria (the city I lived in at the time) and ordered them to make me over. A tiny, bald turkish man decided he would be the one to take on this task.
His name was Baja, and we immediately fell in love. He was older, barely spoke any english and reeked of turkish cigarettes. However, he transformed me from an awkward Rob Zombie lookalike into an awkward Posh Spice lookalike. I couldn't have been happier. I wrapped my arms twice around Baja's 90 lb frame, and when I hugged him I heard his back crack.
One morning I had to get my hair done for professional headshots that I was taking the next day. When I walked into the hairsalon, Baja wasn't there! I panicked, grabbed the front desk receptionist by the collar and begged her to help me. She pushed me away, and told me that another hairstylist, Sarcon, would help me with this disaster.
Sarcon was different. He was tall and strong and had a creepy, I-wanna-rape-you smile. Although he was bald and turkish as well, his english was perfect and he didn't smell like Camel Turkish Royal. I was immediately turned off from him. I sat in his chair and he took a long whiff of my hair. "Mmmmm...you are a very beautiful girl."
"Thankssssss..." I mutterered, staring down at my 3 day-old crusty pajamas I crawled to the salon in.
Sarcon asked me if I would like a brighter red color for my hair. I wasn't sure if it was such a good idea, considering I was going to get my headshots done the next day, but he insisted upon doing so. "Welllll...ok. Sure, why not?"
Sarcon procedes to put the dye in my hair. Time goes by, and as I am waiting for the color to process, Sarcon comes over and stands right in front of me, his crotch inches away from my face. His rape-smile is ever present.
"You are very sexy. I've decided to invite you to engage in a threesome with my wife and I."
I almost choked. "Excuse me?"
Sarcon continued, "My wife and I have been together for a few years and I am not a cheater. However, she allows me to have threeways as long as she is into the 3rd partner and I know she would just love you."
I catch myself in the mirror and I notice 2 things: 1. my eyes are so wide with shock that they look like they will fall out of my sockets, and 2. my hair is flaming, fire-crotch red.
"Ha ha...thaaanks but I don't think my boyfriend would be cool with that. I do appreciate you thinking of me for the job though!"
I didn't know what to do. Half of me wanted to turn around and smack the tribal tattoo right off his shoulder. The other half was freaking out over Lindsay Lohan's vagina on my scalp.
"Ok! But the offer is always available!" Sarcon finally finishes my hair and I have to hold back tears. I leave the salon and bump into a small child with his mother. "MOMMMYYYY LOOK AT HER HAAAAIR!! IT'S SOOOOO RED!!! SHE LOOKS LIKE A CLOWN!!!"
I smack the child and run home crying. I never went back to see Baja or Sarcon, it was just too much to bear. A few months later, I moved to South Florida and from then on, I have strictly only seen female hairstylists. And the new headshots didn't help score any new jobs, anyways.
His name was Baja, and we immediately fell in love. He was older, barely spoke any english and reeked of turkish cigarettes. However, he transformed me from an awkward Rob Zombie lookalike into an awkward Posh Spice lookalike. I couldn't have been happier. I wrapped my arms twice around Baja's 90 lb frame, and when I hugged him I heard his back crack.
One morning I had to get my hair done for professional headshots that I was taking the next day. When I walked into the hairsalon, Baja wasn't there! I panicked, grabbed the front desk receptionist by the collar and begged her to help me. She pushed me away, and told me that another hairstylist, Sarcon, would help me with this disaster.
Sarcon was different. He was tall and strong and had a creepy, I-wanna-rape-you smile. Although he was bald and turkish as well, his english was perfect and he didn't smell like Camel Turkish Royal. I was immediately turned off from him. I sat in his chair and he took a long whiff of my hair. "Mmmmm...you are a very beautiful girl."
"Thankssssss..." I mutterered, staring down at my 3 day-old crusty pajamas I crawled to the salon in.
Sarcon asked me if I would like a brighter red color for my hair. I wasn't sure if it was such a good idea, considering I was going to get my headshots done the next day, but he insisted upon doing so. "Welllll...ok. Sure, why not?"
Sarcon procedes to put the dye in my hair. Time goes by, and as I am waiting for the color to process, Sarcon comes over and stands right in front of me, his crotch inches away from my face. His rape-smile is ever present.
"You are very sexy. I've decided to invite you to engage in a threesome with my wife and I."
I almost choked. "Excuse me?"
Sarcon continued, "My wife and I have been together for a few years and I am not a cheater. However, she allows me to have threeways as long as she is into the 3rd partner and I know she would just love you."
I catch myself in the mirror and I notice 2 things: 1. my eyes are so wide with shock that they look like they will fall out of my sockets, and 2. my hair is flaming, fire-crotch red.
"Ha ha...thaaanks but I don't think my boyfriend would be cool with that. I do appreciate you thinking of me for the job though!"
I didn't know what to do. Half of me wanted to turn around and smack the tribal tattoo right off his shoulder. The other half was freaking out over Lindsay Lohan's vagina on my scalp.
"Ok! But the offer is always available!" Sarcon finally finishes my hair and I have to hold back tears. I leave the salon and bump into a small child with his mother. "MOMMMYYYY LOOK AT HER HAAAAIR!! IT'S SOOOOO RED!!! SHE LOOKS LIKE A CLOWN!!!"
I smack the child and run home crying. I never went back to see Baja or Sarcon, it was just too much to bear. A few months later, I moved to South Florida and from then on, I have strictly only seen female hairstylists. And the new headshots didn't help score any new jobs, anyways.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The woman with a desperate need to find the perfect Orange Juice.
I get that I live in sunny Florida, where the locals are most proud of their citrus. However, this was just unnecessary. Nobody should love orange juice this much.
I was grocery shopping after work with my husband, Matt. It was Monday after work and we were exhausted; however, our grocery store is awesome and we like to visit and see the sights. Some people visit museums; I visit my grocery store. That‘s just how I roll.
I decided to test my culinary skills and cook spaghetti squash with balsamic beans. I was super focused on my task; so much that I didn’t see/hear/acknowledge the messy looking woman in front of the orange juice section. I’m in grocery store-zone, and nothing could distract me right now.
All of a sudden, I am taken aback by a mumble. “Kuh uh burruh yuh phuh?” I look up and see that I am face to face with a B rated version of Heidi Fleiss.
“Excuse me?”
“Kuh uh burruh yuh phuh?”
I see that she is staring at my phone lodged in my pocket. “Oh, you want to borrow my phone?”
“Juh fuh a suckin. Muh phuh bruhk.”
I sigh. This is the situation that I HATE being in, that I try with all of my might to avoid. Once I am in grocery store-zone, the only people that exist are myself, Matt, the sweet old check out lady and the mentally retarded bag boy. That is my happy family, and there is no room for Heidi Fleiss.
“Ok, I guess you can borrow my phone…”
“Uhh thunk yuh”. She nearly bites the phone out of my hand and starts dialing. I try to stand away from her, give her some privacy. I feel good about myself! I did my mitzvah of the day, helping this poor ex madam get a hold of someone she desperately needed to talk to. Maybe she was running away from her past life and trying to start over, going to culinary school to become a cook. Chef Heidi Fleiss, making the world a better place.
All of this is going through my mind when I notice that 5 minutes have gone by and she has disappeared. I look around and see her pacing through the orange juice section, laughing and having a gay ol time. I make eye contact with a grocery store attendant who looks like Biggy Smalls, and he is shaking his head at me, clearly thinking I am a big pussy. Not one to lose my street cred, I approach her, trying to keep my cool.
“Excuse me?”
She doesn’t hear me/ ignores me. .
“HELLO? Are you done with my phone yet?”
Heidi turns around, surprised to see me there. “Yuh, gimme a suc, I need tuh know wuh orunge juhc tuh buhy” I am ready to drop a bitch at this point but I looove my grocery store and would be really depressed if I got kicked out. I take a deep breath (the super deep breath that they teach you in Pilates) and walk away from her so she could finish up. I’m thinking to myself, she’s probably just going to say good bye now. I mean, that’s what I would do and she should be happy to have met such a kind, giving person such as myself. Just be patient…
I look over and see that she is in NO rush to end her conversation! I walk over and Heidi is still trying to figure out what orange juice to buy! This is not a woman who is trying to change her life for the better; she’s probably out right now buying orange juice for the whole damn brothel!
I’ve reached my limit at this point. I storm over, take the phone right out of her hand, end the conversation and walk away. I hear her apologizing behind me, but I am not ready to accept. I was in grocery store- zone, after all.
I was grocery shopping after work with my husband, Matt. It was Monday after work and we were exhausted; however, our grocery store is awesome and we like to visit and see the sights. Some people visit museums; I visit my grocery store. That‘s just how I roll.
I decided to test my culinary skills and cook spaghetti squash with balsamic beans. I was super focused on my task; so much that I didn’t see/hear/acknowledge the messy looking woman in front of the orange juice section. I’m in grocery store-zone, and nothing could distract me right now.
All of a sudden, I am taken aback by a mumble. “Kuh uh burruh yuh phuh?” I look up and see that I am face to face with a B rated version of Heidi Fleiss.
“Excuse me?”
“Kuh uh burruh yuh phuh?”
I see that she is staring at my phone lodged in my pocket. “Oh, you want to borrow my phone?”
“Juh fuh a suckin. Muh phuh bruhk.”
I sigh. This is the situation that I HATE being in, that I try with all of my might to avoid. Once I am in grocery store-zone, the only people that exist are myself, Matt, the sweet old check out lady and the mentally retarded bag boy. That is my happy family, and there is no room for Heidi Fleiss.
“Ok, I guess you can borrow my phone…”
“Uhh thunk yuh”. She nearly bites the phone out of my hand and starts dialing. I try to stand away from her, give her some privacy. I feel good about myself! I did my mitzvah of the day, helping this poor ex madam get a hold of someone she desperately needed to talk to. Maybe she was running away from her past life and trying to start over, going to culinary school to become a cook. Chef Heidi Fleiss, making the world a better place.
All of this is going through my mind when I notice that 5 minutes have gone by and she has disappeared. I look around and see her pacing through the orange juice section, laughing and having a gay ol time. I make eye contact with a grocery store attendant who looks like Biggy Smalls, and he is shaking his head at me, clearly thinking I am a big pussy. Not one to lose my street cred, I approach her, trying to keep my cool.
“Excuse me?”
She doesn’t hear me/ ignores me. .
“HELLO? Are you done with my phone yet?”
Heidi turns around, surprised to see me there. “Yuh, gimme a suc, I need tuh know wuh orunge juhc tuh buhy” I am ready to drop a bitch at this point but I looove my grocery store and would be really depressed if I got kicked out. I take a deep breath (the super deep breath that they teach you in Pilates) and walk away from her so she could finish up. I’m thinking to myself, she’s probably just going to say good bye now. I mean, that’s what I would do and she should be happy to have met such a kind, giving person such as myself. Just be patient…
I look over and see that she is in NO rush to end her conversation! I walk over and Heidi is still trying to figure out what orange juice to buy! This is not a woman who is trying to change her life for the better; she’s probably out right now buying orange juice for the whole damn brothel!
I’ve reached my limit at this point. I storm over, take the phone right out of her hand, end the conversation and walk away. I hear her apologizing behind me, but I am not ready to accept. I was in grocery store- zone, after all.
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