At the time, I had thought what I had written so far sounded pretty good. Then I reread it at home, and here’s what I had, verbatim: “Why Chris Columbus direct Rent? Movie is about drugs, aids, sex. He does children’s movies! Completely incongruous. Would be like Quentin Tarantino directing Charlotte’s Web…which would actually be awesome! Charlotte would be all, “Wilbur, though you ain't got sense enough to disregard your own feces, you are one charming motherfucking pig.”* And then they’d dance. GET CHEESE and teeny batteries for DVD player remote!!!” Ahem.
I get sidetracked easily. Do you see why I abandoned that potential post? Maybe another day, when I can actually form a cohesive thought and stick with it, but for now? I’m all over the place:
Today, there was a crazy hobo on my subway train who smelled like an asstray. An asstray? Yes, an asstray. That is to say, he smelled like someone who'd just smoked this many cigarettes…
Photo credit: cellar.org
…and carried with him the unmistakable and intoxicating aroma of old, moldy ass. An asstray, if you will. I felt bad, but not bad enough to want to hang around and inhale any of his stenchparticles (totally a word). I tried my best to edge as far away from him as possible, but my efforts were hindered by: a) every other person in the car attempting to do the same thing, and b) the large metal pole against which I was standing. (Damn you, solid matter!) As you may know, I mysteriously tend to attract hobos like moths to a flame. This one, predictably, was no different. He stared at me for a moment, and flourished his hand in my face, whereupon he whisper/shouted to me, “You are the sexy!”
Now, I most definitely was NOT the sexy today; I couldn’t find the cute suit I wanted to wear (read: I know EXACTLY where it is—in the bottom of our “To Be Dry Cleaned” bag, and it’s only there because I was too lazy to hang up the jacket the last time, and now it’s a ball o’ wrinkes), and consequently had to wear a suit that makes me look like a young Barbara Bush. Furthermore, instead of the funky heels I’d been planning on wearing, I took one look at the slushy weather, said, “screw this,” and put on boots. Totally NOT the sexy.
But my point is this: I have heard this weird “You are the sexy” phrase exactly one other time in my twenty-six years, and wouldn’t you know it, it was also uttered to me by a crazy street person. Which begs the question—is it possible that there are hobo get-togethers? Where they preview the season’s new fashions (Derelicte!), and decide what weird things they’re going to say just to mess with you? (“Let’s go with ‘You are the sexy!’” “That’s fine for you, but I think I’m going to go with demanding to pet people’s coats!”)
I must know.
************* Moving on. I have some more makeup recommendations. Unlike the last ones, these are not juxtaposed with a discussion on whale vomit.
As I’d mentioned before, I was attempting to track down a new NARS lip gloss , and it was all but impossible to find in New York. I finally found it in Vegas, and it is SO pretty. It’s called Rose Birman. I am in love. In addition, I found a blush which is apparently made out of magical fairy dust and angels’ wings: Smashbox’s O-Glow. “The first intuitive blush, this clear gel reacts with your personal skin chemistry to turn cheeks the exact color you blush.” People. Sephora is not lying. It sounds crazy, but the stuff works, and it lasts all day. It makes you look flushed and glowy, and incredibly natural. I’m intrigued, and obsessed.
************** Finally, you’ll be happy to know that Toopweets is 100% recovered from Baby Virusearinfectionvomitfest-itis. Please watch the following, and tell me: Does the fact that you can literally hear me laughing in the background make me a bad mother? You decide! (Please note: the clean folded baby laundry on the left had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Wonder Nanny.) *Yes, I knew that by heart on the train. I used to have a thing for Pulp Fiction.