Good afternoon, Friday, you freakshow. What a day, folks. What a day. These are the days that try this maven's soul, and just about every other part of her as well. I know I always give you a five spot on Friday- I planned on showing you some boots I'm feeling sexy about right now but instead, I would like to kvetch. I feel that in light of my decision not to fast this week, the Lord decided to punish me with a craptacular Friday. I hope I can finish repenting now. I can't even imagine what tomorrow is gonna be like if not...
So here are some things that annoyed me today, five of 'em to be exact. In the grand scheme, ain't no big whoop, but still. I whooped plenty this am when the day was clearly showing me how totally unawesome it was going to be. Look, I love New York more than anyone, but some days here feel just BEYOND. And not in a good way. Hello, misanthropia. Goodbye, sunny, happy life is wonderful I love fashion kind of chick.
Wanna know what's up? Here go.
Khan's ride does not show up until 8 am. Yea, I know. Khan has a ride. To his fancy daycare. He gets picked up and taken home. It's fancypants. Whatever. He doesn't like to stay alone all day so we have to do it. In any event, I had to be in the city for a most important meeting today in the am, and K usually gets picked up at 7:20 am. The two of us are bleary eyed and barely breathing when we lazily get out of bed, go outside for a pee (he, not me) and eat some venison (again, he, not me) before they come for him. We waited. And we waited. And we waited some more. He finally shows but...
Cleaning woman does not show up till 9 am. Yea, I know. I have a cleaning lady. I schlep around all week and the last thing I'm doing on the weekend is scrubbing floors. She's an amazing wunderkind of sanitary talent, but damn, she is always late. ALWAYS. Just not by an hour when I specifically said I need her here by 8. Needless to say, my shower was frantic as was my attempt to look civil because I was afraid I would miss her ringing the front doorbell. Oof.
Car service is late. And driver has no idea what he's doing. Yea, I know. I use a car service to get into Manhattan. In the am, the humanity of the subway makes me feel insane. I need the relative solitude of a car to help me through it all. But this guy, THIS GUY. He was parked down the block and didn't show up till 9:15, he claims he was honking at me. FROM TWO BLOCKS AWAY. I'm not fucking Spiderman. My senses are not quite that good. He then proceeds to go the totally worst way ever to the Brooklyn Bridge, and then misses the exit on the FDR, making me almost late for a very important meeting. He then tells me it's my fault, because he couldn't focus on the GPS- and why? Because I quickly told him the entrance to my meeting was on a different street than what his jacked up GPS said, so he lost "focus". Pardon me, but I think you need a brain for that. There was more idiocy, but that's all I can tell before I start to feel murderous again. Oh and I ruined a fabuolous pair of shoes in the monsoon. Shite.
Something to know about me- I hate to be late. And I hate when others are late too. If you ever want to piss me off, keep me waiting. I am not a fan. And if I am ever late, it's because somebody else f'ed up, not me. And I will always let you know I'm going to be late. It's one of my absolute biggest pet peeves in life- I broke up a friendship once with a girl who thought it was very cute to be late every time we hung out (it wasn't) and I married a man, who, amongst other things, was often at places before I was when we first started dating (a huge plus). Don't make me wait, ok. Unless you want me to be mad. You don't. Or at least, you better not.
Oh and my neighbors are all trolls. Except for that one little girl in the red canvas motorcycle jacket. She's adorable. I've been railing about my neighbors in this building for some time now- I can remember years ago being well aware that we as New Yorkers don't necessary greet new neighbors with a pie, but would a "hello" or "good morning" kill anyone? Barbarians. Hard to believe you can live in the same concrete slab with people and they act like you don't exist. Perhaps I need to make my presence more felt? Or should I just retire somewhere more friendly? Like my own private cave?
So if we're observing this tale of woe, what have we learned? We've learned the following:
I am entirely too bougie. I need to clean my own house, leave the dog home, and take the subway. I'll get right on that...Moliere was right, ps. There's great hypocrisy when one is trying to live an aristocratic life, and, and, we are all flawed. Even me. Everyone else is worse though. That's him up there, ps. Moliere. He looks like he really hates people. Though his wig is resplendent.
I'm impatient as hell and should probably work on that. I'm too impatient to do so however.
I need to buy crappier shoes. Ruining good ones in the rain hurts too much. (Bougie again).
I am well aware that New Yorkers are not friends with their neighbors. Deal with it. Do you like how I just tough loved myself? Is there a term for this?
I need an ice cold martini. Dirty. Stat. From Balthazar preferably. Yea, bouged out again. But damn, they make a nice one. Is it weird I was thinking about this at 9 am today? Don't tell me, I don't want to know.
Oh, yea- and fashion week is underway in Paris and everyone is gorgeous and skulking about and there are models and celebrities and beautiful things to wear. The problem is, I'm stuck here. Meh. I'm not going to do too many posts like this, but sometimes you just have a DAY, darlings. I need to check myself before I wreck myself. Speaking of which, my best gay is on the way over to drink some much needed wine. So that's all I've got this whiny and whingy 5 spot on this here Friday evening. All the love, kids. All the love, but a little bit of hate for some good measure. Just for today. Piss and vinegar, kids. Goes well with smelling the roses, sometimes. XO
And if you don't know why there's a connection to Moliere and hating people, you've got some reading to do. Because there's one thing I hate more than lateness, it's the ill read. You know who you are. Get to it. Just don't talk about it, because that's pretentious.