Halloweenie

In honor of Halloween—rather than chatting up the question of costumed sluttitude or the relevance of trick-or-treating to childhood obesity (and seriously, guys, it’s one night a year, give your kid a fucking break and let him have a Milky Way)—I am going to share a Halloween story which, in spite of having occurred over 2 years ago, remains one of the top ten most humiliating moments of my life.

It was Halloween, 2003. I was on my way to the Greenwich Village parade (which, for the uninitiated, is a costumed extravaganza, with floats and puppets, that wends its debaucherous way up 6th Avenue and ends with all participants spilling into the street and running headlong for the nearest bar.)

My friends and I were all on the subway, healthily buzzed and heading toward West 4th street to participate in the parade, and everybody on the train was in costume. It was fantastic. Mermaids and pirates rubbed elbows with Stepford Wives. Ghouls shared bench seats with Prom Queens. My group consisted of a Slutty Dorothy (complete with red feathered malibu slippers and spanky pants); a Mary Poppins/mime hybrid; an uninspired Elvis; and me, wearing a crepe dress, go-go boots, a beret, a garter, fake eyelashes, and a holster that contained a plastic gun.

“What are you?” someone asked me, as we were getting on the train.

“Attention deficit disorder,” I said.

As the train—which was like a moving Mardi Gras drunk tank at that point—cruised into 14th Street, the doors opened, and a man got on the train wearing the most fabulous costume I have ever seen. He had a long black coat, white shirt, black pants, black hat, and little curly curls dangling on either side by his ears.

Yes, that’s right. He was the Halloween Hasidic Jew.

I was really delighted. This was The Best Costume on the Train, for sure. I was thrilled at his originality, and I wanted to tell him so. I turned toward him, smiling broadly, the words, “That’s the greatest costume EVER!” right on the tip of my tongue.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

His eyes narrowed.

My smile faltered a bit.

“Um,” I said.

His eyebrows arched, ever so slightly. And deep within my brain, a voice cried out, Don’t say it! Don’t say you like his costume! Something is NOT RIGHT!!!

But I had to say something. I mean, I had already inhaled. I stood, eye-to-eye with the black-coated man, struggling to think of something, ANYTHING, and then suddenly, in a moment of total, out-of-body mortification, I heard myself say:

“Like, wow… are you a REAL Hasidic Jew?”


...Oh. My God. ARE YOU A REAL HASIDIC JEW????

The man—who was, indeed, a flesh-and-blood Hasid, fixed me with a disapproving stare and gave me a curt nod. People around me were snickering. My friends were gaping.

The Real Hasidic Jew was still staring at me.

“Oh, I… I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean… um…. well. I… I like your hat.”

The train pulled into West 4th street. The doors opened. I bolted. My friends followed me, one of them shrieking, “Jesus CHRIST, Kat! We can’t take you anywhere!!!”

I will never compliment anyone-- ANYONE-- on their costume again, ever. I'm too afraid. For while Real Hasidic Jews will only fix you with a mirthless glare when you fail to recognize their authenticity, Real Pirates will cut your arms off and beat you to death with them.

Happy Halloween.

Scientists shocked to find that men demand sex while asleep (same scientists later shocked by revelation that "Water is wet")

Sex-somnia: a serious issue, a medical condition, one that causes terrible embarrassment and shame in those afflicted by it! We must not judge these poor, sex-somniac souls, oh NO, we should remain sensitive and understanding and—

I’m sorry, I just can’t do it.

Seriously, I’m not saying it doesn’t happen. I have seen sex-somnia in action. One of my ex-boyfriends was a bona-fide sex-somniac. Only when we talked about it, it wasn’t, “Oh, honey, your incurable sex-somnia is really acting up again.” It was more like, “You really have to stop trying to put your penis in me when I’m asleep and pretending not to remember it in the morning.”

This happened all the time—I’d wake up and think to myself, that’s weird, someone is hitting me with a stick. And then, oh, no, it’s not “someone”, it’s him, and that’s not a stick, but I’m sure as hell gonna have a bruise tomorrow. And then, the next morning, we’d have a conversation like this:

Him: Good morning.

Me: Good morning to you.

Him: How did you sleep?

Me: Well, mostly ok. Except that somebody tried to boner-flog me to death around 4am.

Him: What?! Who???!


Wired suggests that the sex-somniac needs to keep an alternative… um, source of release, near to the bed so that they don’t disturb whoever they’re sleeping with. I consider this a flawed solution, based on some simple logic: Even if you keep a (NSFW!) fake va-jay-jay on the nightstand, if you're confused enough to think that a hard-on-to-the-hip beatdown is a good way to initiate intercourse, it's not too likely that you'll have the wherewithal to remember that it’s there.

Which is why I recommend that all sex-somnia sufferers keep things under control the old-fashioned way.

With saran wrap and duct tape.

No, it’s not as much fun as the plastic taco. But really, gentlemen, nothing says “I love you” like a shrink-wrapped johnson.

I like how they bounce!

Hot air balloons: Weirdly mysterious, and yet, strangely appealing.



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The road less traveled is paved with gold(en showers)

I love the “referrals” page on sitemeter—it tells me how people end up visiting here. I’ve got latent stalker tendencies, of course, so it thrills me to see where you’re coming from (and where you’re going… I think it especially fun that about 90% of you leave my page in order to read about the girl with two vaginas.)

Anyway, most of the traffic comes from other bloggers who link to me (and mucho thanks to Jaime, Taurus, and Hulles, you guys are FAN-tastic), but sometimes, a stranger’s Google search brings them to me. And I like that. I was really elated when, in the midst of Jewish Holiday Season, someone found me by searching for “shiksa meeting jewish parents rosh hashanah”.

(Although given that I showed up at my first Rosh Hashanah dinner and promptly misidentified a matzoh ball, I really hope that person didn’t try to use my story as an educational resource. Unless she wanted a lesson in what NOT to do. Which she may have… honey, I hope that worked out for you.)

But today, scrolling through, I came across something a little bit…. different.



Um, wow. Pee like a man japan???

What IS that? An earnest search for gender-and-ethnicity-specific urination techniques? Or an imperative issued to the country on a whole? (“Pee like a MAN, Japan!”)

However, considering what sort of (very, very NSFW) wholly disturbing results crop up when you query that particular string of words, I’m really amazed that this person graced my blog—which is, by comparison, relatively tame—with even a few moments of their time.

So sir (or madam), a belated welcome. I’m so glad that you took what I’m sure was a well-deserved break from looking at Asian Pee-Porn to troll around on Pink India Ink. Thank you, and God Bless.

I'm pretty sure the politically correct term is "slanty-eyed Chineses"

Last night, I went with my roommate Emily to a breezy evening event at a spa. It was at a place on 5th avenue that I can’t afford, and sponsored by a magazine that I don’t read.

They were, however, serving free hors d’oeuvres.

In between some sad-looking radishes with electric-green edamame dip, and an unfortunate clash between my sweater and the all-organic, curried lentil hummus, Emily and I realized that two Scandinavian-looking gentlemen were giving mini-massages and hurried over to stand in line.

Minutes later, I heard the following exchange. (You’ll need to read this with a fantastically bad Long Island accent in order to take the journey with me.)

Lady # 1: I love massahhhges.
Lady #2: Yeeeah.
Lady #1: I love those guyyys with their strong heeeeaands.
Lady #2: Oh my Gawwwd.
Lady #1: My girlfriend, she hired one of those Orientals to come to her house and give her a massahhhge.
Lady #2: Yeeeeah?
Lady #1. Yeeeah. It’s the best. Massahhge. Evah.
Lady #2: Those Orientals are sooooo taaalented.
Lady #1: I knooow.

Fortunately for all involved, the red hibiscus tea with natural plant steroids didn’t stain too badly when it sprayed out of my nose.

There's no blogging in baseball

I recently got an email from Dave (the boyfriend, for those not in the know). The subject line was, “blog idea”, and I opened it to discover that he’d come across an article on Daisuke Matsuzaka, a Japanese pitcher who’s about to be auctioned off to American baseball in some kind of double secret (probation) bidding war involving truckloads of cash and a great deal of mystery. The suggestion was that I could compile the coverage of Matsuzaka, snark it up, and blog all over it.

This is Very Significant for a couple reasons: First of all, because the high-rollin’ Yankees are an obvious contender for Matsuzaka, and I like the Yankees, and Dave does not, and I felt that this might be the equivalent of an accepting nod toward my love of a team that is, even in my own adoring eyes, tumbling down a slippery slope toward outright, unrivaled soul-lessness.

The other thing, of course, was--- my boyfriend thinks I’m sports-savvy enough to blog intelligently about baseball? Holy shit!

The thing is… I’m not. Or at least, I don’t think I am. Which is not to say that I don’t love baseball—I do. I LOVE it. I love the strategy, the drama, the beautiful green expanse of the outfield. I love the men unashamedly patting each other’s asses on a good play, I love the gasping crowd rising to its feet when the ball is well-hit and sailing toward its inevitable destiny beyond the stadium walls. (SEE ya!) But the mechanics of pitching? Kinda lost on me. I can distinguish a fastball from a breaking ball, but if you handed me a baseball and asked me to throw a splitter, I’d hurl it at your head and run away in shame.

Still, buoyed by the show of male confidence in my abilities and the fact that Matsuzaka might one day be wearing pinstripes, I thought I’d give it a try. Fortunately, there are about a billion websites devoted to coverage of the guy, so it only took a little while to discover the following informative points:

1) Matsuzaka — like Hello Kitty paraphernalia and horror movies populated largely by dead girls with long, wet hair—is preparing to come on over from The Land of the Rising Sun and take our country by storm.

2) Also, he may or may not defy the laws of physics by throwing a “gyroball”, which is (apparently) a monstrous difficult pitch that really needs a better name to convey its iconic status.

*I think they should call it the Samuel L. Jackson Ball, because everyone knows that he is BAD ASS (see diagram below).

3) Major league teams can put in a blind bid for negotiating rights starting in the beginning of November.
4) The Yankees are, indeed, expected to show a strong interest.
5) No one else seems to have picked up on the fact that “Daisuke” looks like “Daisy Duke” squished together.


Now well-informed, I made the following exciting conclusions regarding the possibility of Matsuzaka becoming a Yankee:

1) As shameful as it is to be a fan of the most moneyed team in baseball, and as much as I hate George Steinbrenner, the Yankees—with their infinite wealth—could almost certainly get their hands on this guy. Not only that, but it would be one of the few instances where they’d be buying something they actually need. And that, I must say, would be quite refreshing. The Yankees roster-building strategy has been kinda grossing me out lately. (And when I say “lately”, I mean “since 1999”.) Acquiring Abreu, for instance: that was like an Upper East Side housewife buying her 50th pair of Louboutins, not because she needs them, but because she wants them and she can afford it. Acquiring Matsuzaka, on the other hand, would be differently principled: It’s the same Upper East Side housewife, the same appalling display of unchecked buying power, but it’s more like getting a really expensive gallon of milk because all your other milk is past its sell-by date.

2) It would be a good step toward eradicating the unfortunate memory of Hideki Irabu, who—nonwithstanding his triumphant redemptive showing after George Steinbrenner referred to him as a “fat, pussy toad”— is an embarrassing stain on Yankee history as applied to the acquisition of Japanese pitchers from overseas.

*Steinbrenner was undoubtedly disappointed to find that, in spite of Irabu’s undeniable resemblance to a toad, he does not produce a hallucinogenic high when licked.
**Googling “licking toads” brings up some mighty strange results.

3) Hideki Matsui is still learning English and might like to have a nice, same-language-speaking friend to play with.

And yet… the more I think about this, the more I feel uneasy. I love the Yankees, and I want them to do well, and Matsuzaka (who is not only outrageously talented, but under 30) would be a different kind of addition to a team that, lately, has forgone the development of young pitchers in favor of just throwing money at the seasoned pros.

But is this really, really what the Yankees need? Another deal fueled by their own inordinate wealth? More evidence that a great team can be bought?

In all honesty… I don’t think so. I would—I can’t believe I’m about to write this, I would like to see the Yankees be…. bad. Or at least, mediocre, just for awhile. I’d like to see them make legitimate trades, pull some guys up from the minors, and build a team with something other than buying power. I’d like to see them struggle, grow, and be redeemed. I’d honestly like to wonder, for once, whether they’ll make it to the post-season.

And this is where I hit the Wall of Total Indecision.

Fortunately, it’s not my decision to make. I don’t have a baseball team, or millions of dollars with which to purchase Japanese baseball players. (Although if I did, I would make them play in banana hammocks and cowboy hats. Benevolent dictator, I am not.) But for what it’s worth, given the choice between:

1) seeing my darling boys from the Bronx lure yet another power player, but keep on their downward spiral into million-dollar ridicule, or

2) seeing them suffer for a few seasons in order to build a team that might, just maybe, be recognized for its athleticism and hard work, not its payroll…

Yeah, I think I prefer the second one.

But don’t listen to me, I’m pretty sure that I blog like a girl.

Maxim readers, take note

Not funny, but recommended viewing if you’ve ever gotten depressed over the unattainable standard of beauty promoted by the mainstream media:

Conference Incontinence

9:00am: Arrive at office.
9:02am: First cup of coffee.
9:05am: Overview of agenda for 30-minute conference call.
9:15am: Glass of water.
9:17am: Prepare notes, media update.
9:25am: Second cup of coffee.
9:29am: Place call to team leader.
9:30am: Place call to off-site team members.
9:32am: Phone pleasantries.
9:35am: Begin discussion of media update; experience vague need to pee.
9:45am: Client voices concern over media outreach plan.
9:48am: Listen as team leader quells client fears.
9:50am: Experience less-vague need to pee; register relief when clock indicates that call is nearly over.
9:55am: Team leader begins wrap-up of media outreach plan.
9:57am: Client asks to quickly conference in outside consultant for brainstorming.
9:58am: Conference in outside consultant.
9:59am: Team agrees to extend call by another half hour; Urge to pee intensifies.
10:00am: Uncross legs.
10:01am: Bad idea, cross legs.
10:05am: Client expresses need to reformulate media outreach plan, team leader and consultant acquiesce.
10:06am: Organization of agenda.
10:08am: Reach for cup of coffee on desk, reconsider.
10:10am: Begin discussion of targeted publications.
10:12am: Uncross, recross legs.
10:15am: Begin to shift weight back and forth in attempt to convince bladder that it is not actually full.
10:16am: Chair is creaking; stop.
10:30am: Begin discussion of which particular journalists to target at aforementioned targeted publications.
10:35am: Urge to pee intensifies by another five percent.
10:39am: Conversation show no signs of slowing; check clock; feel concerned.
10:45am: Team leader begins to wrap up brainstorming session; cautious relief.
11:00am: Team leader suggests ending call; unclench muscles, take deep breath.
11:03am: Client realizes we have not discussed electronic media outlets.
11:10am: Begin discussion of radio outreach.
11:11am: Resume rocking back and forth.
11:20am: Drift out of conversation; consider whether it is possible to run to the bathroom undetected.
11:25am: Team leader suggests conferencing in additional participants.
11:26am: Conference in second account team member.
11:30am: Consider amount of liquid consumed; experience intense regret.
11:45am: Need to pee reaches crisis status.
11:46am: Sit on own foot.
11:50am: Foot is asleep; stand up; begin hopping back and forth.
11:53am: Sit down.
11:54am: Stand up.
11:55am: Frantically wave away cubicle neighbor who has come around to see what’s going on.
11:57am: Need to pee reaches crisis status with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.
11:58am: Sit down; begin wildly swinging legs.
11:59am: Seriously consider possible repercussions of accidental self-urination while at work.
12:00pm: Whimper.
12:15pm: Client thanks us for our time.
12:20pm: Exchange of pleasantries while hopping back and forth from one foot to the other.
12:22pm: Client remembers another query; suppress scream.
12:24pm: Google “bladder rupture treatment”.
12:26pm: Google “pee work total humiliation”.
12:30pm: Client thanks us for our time.
12:31pm: Call ends.
12:31:01pm: Run toward ladies room.
12:45pm: Return to desk.
12:50pm: Coffee.

An open letter to the security guard in my office building

Dear Mr. Security Guard,

I didn’t realize until this morning, but I guess that we hate each other.

Don’t get me wrong, I definitely knew that you didn’t like me—you made it very obvious with your sneering expression and nasty tone whenever I came through the revolving doors on my way to work. I had long since given up saying hello to you. You never say hello back. You don’t smile. You are, but for the fact that I can see you breathing, about as warm and engaging as a piece of suet. I don’t know why you dislike me so much—perhaps I look like your ex-wife, or that girl who wouldn’t share her cupcake with you back in fourth grade?— but I have abandoned the idea of ever having a civil, human interaction with you, much less a pleasant one.

We didn’t really get the chance to talk this morning, so I thought I would write you this letter. There are just so many things I want to say! Here’s the thing: I know you were very upset that I forgot my building ID. Trust me, I didn’t do it on purpose. In fact, I strongly considered turning around and walking back to get it, even though I’d already walked a mile to the subway when I found it missing. Be proud, sir— I have jumped off fifty-foot-high cliffs into water of dubious depth. I have ridden a motorcycle without a helmet. I have had a Brazilian bikini wax. I am, by most definitions, a relatively fearless girl. But I was ready to add two miles of additional walking to my commute today, just to avoid interacting with you. You are formidable. You have struck my heart with the icy dagger of guard-fear. It makes me quiver.

But, I couldn’t turn back—I was already late for work. And though I was hoping that I might manage to slip by you undetected, it was not to be. You reamed me out, but good. There’s nothing like berating and screaming at a forgetful young lady, right? It’s awesome! It makes you feel like a MAN! I especially enjoyed watching your grasp of English (shaky at best) desert you as you got angrier, until you were jabbing your finger at me repeatedly and just repeating the word “have” (or was it “half”?) over and over. Hoo boy.

So I get it, sir: You don’t like for people to forget their ID cards. You especially don’t like for ME to forget my ID card. You especially don’t like me, period, exclamation point. For whatever reason, although I can’t imagine it’s a very good one.

But you know what, you lumpy bastard? That’s fine. Really. Because you’re pudgy and pallid and aimlessly angry, and all these things are their own punishments. And when it’s over, and the top of a lovely little pine box closes over your eternally scowling face, I know where you’ll be going. And I’m pretty sure they’ll let you right in… even if you don’t have your ID. You douchebag.

Love and kisses,
Kat

George Steinbrenner may or may not wield evil control over the lives of men

Euugh. Ok, first of all, I want to say that I hope Corey Lidle is ok. I don’t care about his ERA, I just want him safe at home… and damnit, that was an inadvertent baseball pun, ok, please do not laugh, this is a Very Serious and Frightening Time and I am Extremely Worried.

But, while I was refreshing-refreshing-refreshing CNN.com to see whether there was any further news, I couldn’t help noticing what the other “Top Stories” were.
I don’t have the energy to be snarky, but I will say that this woman, in her fun, brazen outspokenness, is a sort of personal hero to me.

And...

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, no. Update, it's confirmed. Poor Corey was killed in the crash. This is awful.

I guess I'll post, anyway, but I really did not intend to liveblog the death of a talented pitcher. Please forgive me.

Kittens of the Damned

These cats are mutants.

No, I’m not kidding. The New York Times reported today that scientists have taken advantage of these poor freaky felines, who have a genetic defect that prevents them from producing the protein that causes allergies in humans, to create… hypoallergenic cats.

Because, you know, a little casual genetic manipulation is totally fine if it means that allergy-afflicted people who’ve been just settling for shitty pets like birds and snakes can finally realize their lifelong dream of cat ownership.

Alright. Well, seriously, maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this will create an incredible, wave-of-the-future scientific movement toward the establishment of other genetically modified animals. That could be good! I mean, think how much we all wouldn’t have had to cry at the end of "My Girl" if Macaulay Culkin had only been stung by HYPOALLERGENIC BEES OHMYGOD he was only getting her MOOD RING because he loved her and why, why, WHYdid he have to die???!!! I saw that movie at age 11 and I'm still completely traumatized.

Anyway, bees and tears aside, here's what I wonder: Even if you loooooo-oooo-ooove kittycats, would you want one of these things? Really? Isn’t their steady, unblinking gaze kind of freaking you out? Who’s to say that snipping away at their chromosomes hasn’t left them dangerously unbalanced? Admit it, they have something in common with those creepy little blondies from Village of the Damned.

Eek. And I fear for the safety of the unsuspecting, hyper-allergic old lady who adopts them. What's in store for her?

Ooooh, Mr. Kittles! Your eyes are so big and starey—

That’s quite a glare, Mr. Kittles. MISTER KITTLES. You stop looking at me like that, you st—

I’m sorry, I... I must have... lost my train of thought. I was ju—

I… Mr. Kit--... I—

I must buy Fancy Feast. I must buy Fancy Feast right now. I must buy Fancy Feast, and then, I must hurt myself with a buzz saw.

Mark Foley, Randy Jackson thrilled by something; Kelly Clarkson silently pleads for release of death

The NYTimes ran this picture today, for the purpose of illustrating Mark Foley’s celebrity-chasing, camera-whore tendencies. It certainly is interesting, but what I want to know is why the men are all sporting that delighted, little-boy-at-Christmastime face, while Kelly Clarkson has turned her saucer-eyed stare on the photographer in what looks like shocked desperation to be anywhere but here.

Obviously, they're looking at something bizarre. Something tragic. Something that titillates the eye, and yet, tears violently at the very fabric of humanity.

Something like… this:

Euuuuuugh. Forget the congressional pages... somebody, help this girl.

What to do when you can't beat 'em

My little brother had a birthday recently.

Wait, no, that’s misleading. I’ve started out the post by misleading you. Shame on me. The truth: My “little brother” is not little at all.

He used to be:

(Awwww! His little FACE! My heart, it melts.)

But that was years ago. He’s now a 6’3 college sophomore who resembles nothing so much as a giant, flesh-colored praying mantis with frat-boy facial hair. (Sorry, kiddo, but in ten years you’ll look at photos from college and wonder why no one took a pair of scissors to that soul-patch-monstrosity in order to save you from yourself.)

So, he DID have a birthday recently—I wasn’t lying about that. Which leads to the problem of buying a gift and card. In spite of all my years of experience, shopping for various boyfriends, friends, etc, I know very little about buying presents for boys, except that 1) it’s hard, and 2) jokey items purchased at Spencer Gifts, i.e. that mug with a cartoon penis on it, lose all of their appeal sometime between purchase and unwrapping.

So I was a little bit lost.

First the card thing—if you’re a girl, buying a card for your brother, the usual selection is just NOT ok. Hallmark seems to envision brother-sister relationships as loving, supportive testaments to the everlasting bond of family, and their merchandise reflects that by featuring poetry, goodwill, and flowery verse. Just once, I want to find the perfect card for my brother— it would say “Happy Birthday, douchebag!”, and when you opened it, a guy would climb through your window and give you a wedgie and then make you chug a beer with your pants around your ankles. That’s what my baby brother needs.

Anyway, I was wandering around Urban Outfitters, looking for something to give him (a flask with Napoleon Dynamite on it? a really ugly hat? should I leave now and just buy the kid a 12-pack of Rolling Rock???) when I brushed past a T-shirt rack and knocked one of them on the floor. Picking it up to replace it, I noticed that it had a certain word on it. A striking word. A word that, though highly entertaining, you rarely see on a T-shirt. I shook the shirt out and looked at it, and I swear that a ray of light shot down from the ceiling in conjunction with unseen choral singers singing a reverent, “AHHHHHH!”

You kinda have to know my brother (or someone like him) to really get this, but in order to give you a sense, this is a recent photo of him.

Yes, that is a clown suit. Yes, that is a classroom behind him. As in, he went to school like that.

And if the photo were bigger, you would be able to see that the calendar on the wall behind him says, “May 2005”.

As in, nowhere in the vicinity of any national holiday that would make it appropriate to wear a clown suit in public.

So you shouldn’t be surprised that I was thrilled to death to find myself holding a T-shirt that read, in big, black letters:

If you can’t beat ‘em… SCROTUM.

(If you’re thinking to yourself right now, “But… that doesn’t make any sense!”—you’re right. You’re also completely missing the point. I mean, c’mon…hee! Ha! It’s just so… ha!!!)

The only problem with buying a shirt like this is that you have to… y’know, buy it. As in, walk with it up to a register, place it on the counter, and—in full view of the cashier and all others present—declare intent to spend actual money on a shirt that says “If you can’t beat ‘em, scrotum”.

I was a little bit embarrassed.

Embarrassed enough that I decided to try and pull off the purchase without having the cashier (or anyone else) actually see what I was getting. I folded the shirt to disguise the key word—which had gone from being a source of elation to one of mortification—and walked it to the register, where I put it down with the tag perfectly positioned for scanning. I would do this. I would beat ‘em.

The cashier didn’t need to unfold the shirt, didn’t need to see it, was (possibly? oh, please?) unfamiliar enough with what they had in stock that I would escape undetected. I was going to win. I was going to beat ‘em!

He rang me up. The shirt remained folded. I was definitely going to beat ‘em.

He placed the shirt in the bag, still folded. It was over. I’d done it. I beat ‘em.

I was putting my wallet back in my purse and taking the bag from the cashier’s hand, when his eyes met mine. In them, a knowing look.

“Heh,” he said. “Heh, heh…
… scrotum.”

Firemen are soo-o-o-o-o cute!

Gag.

Ok, seriously, I wish I’d seen this on the September 11th anniversary, as it would have made for a fabulously sloppy tribute to New York’s finest… but the cuteness abides.

A few nights ago, I wandered into the giant suburban-sprawl supermarket near my apartment in a quest for brownie ingredients. (No, not the “magic” kind.) Somewhere between Aisle 3 (chocolate) and Aisle 9 (eggs), I heard the unmistakable sound of man-bantering.

Man-banter : n : a high-volume exchange of dialogue that takes place between groups of alpha males when out together in public

Peeking around the corner, I saw the source of the noise: Four firemen-- hottie firemen-- all bottom-half-clad in their suspendered uniforms. They'd just come in, and they were pushing a shopping cart.

My first thought (apart from abstract elation at having seen FOUR firemen at ONCE) was that they must be on a beer run.

But they weren’t.

They were shopping!

I don’t know about the rest of you guys, but I didn’t think that firemen had to go grocery shopping. I was sure that there must be some sort of department-appointed Den Mother figure who lived with all the firemen and was entrusted with their care and feeding. She would make pancakes for them, make sure they drank their milk, and pack fruit snacks into their pockets before they ran out to fight fires. “Be sure to eat them before they’re melted by the searing heat!” she would say.

So I was enthralled by the sight of these four, strapping young men, taking charge and doing the grocery shopping All By Themselves. First, one of them disbanded from the group and approached the tomato display, where he looked at them with great seriousness and then selected the five best ones.

Another stood in front of the cheeses and scratched his head.

The last two pushed the cart together down to the end of Aisle 8 (dairy) where they engaged in the following discussion:

Fireman #1: What kind of milk you want?
Fireman #2: (holding up the whole milk) I dunno, this one?
Fireman #1: That’s whole milk. No wonder your ass is so fat. (grabbing the 2%) Let’s get this one.

And then, in a moment that warmed my heart (so much that I nearly overturned an entire display of salsa), the firemen bent together to read the nutritional information from the carton of milk.

Five tomatoes: $3.75
Pack of Kraft singles: $1.99
The sight of two members of the FDNY, wearing rubber pants and concentratedly mouthing the words, “calories from fat”: priceless.

No, this isn't one of the firemen. But just once, I'd like to see something like this on the L train.