* The Contest is still going on…It appears that everyone is leaning towards Toopweets, in which case I'll have to devise a new contest in order to give away the prize, but for now, I’ll give it until Sunday for you to submit your proposed nickname for my kid.
* I’ve also updated Flickr, for those of you who were asking me (very nicely, I might add) to do so.
Earlier this evening, J and I were talking, and he reminded me of one of My Most Insane Stories Ever. I cannot believe I haven’t written about this before; this is the type of story for which blogs were invented. (Oshi, this one’s for you.) When I was in college, I had a summer internship at a large company in NYC. Being all of 19, with no appreciable income (I think I got a $400 stipend for the internship. If that.) I lived at home in New Jersey for the summer. This arrangement necessitated dragging my broke, tired ass out of bed each morning, taking a commuter bus to midtown Manhattan, walking across Times Square, then through an underground tunnel which reeked of hobo pee, to a subway which I then took all the way downtown. It was even lovelier than it sounds, I assure you. Here’s where the story takes a very personal turn, but stay with me. At some point that summer, I became obsessed with cute underwear. (Hello, fetishist googlers! Welcome!) Well, to be more accurate, I don’t think it was me, so much as it was the fashion powers-that-be deciding that a full court press of adorable boy shorts/thongs/general lacy cute things was the theme of the summer. Anyway, I succumbed. One of the items I purchased was (what I thought at the time was) a very cute pair of purple underwear. The cutest thing about them, to me, was the adorable tiny plastic flowers on either side. (Whatever, I was 19.) I suppose you want to see a picture? Perverts, all of you! I’ll indulge you nonetheless…Here’s my artistic rendering (I can't figure out how to make it bigger):
You’re probably wondering why a small bug has stumbled onto my artistic rendering. That is actually my attempt at replicating the purple glittery lion that was ALSO on the panties. (Because, I suppose, when you’re designing purple underwear with plastic flowers, why not go for broke and add a sparkly mammal?) A note: I hate writing the words “underwear” “panties” and “thongs,” and this is NOT a sexy story at all, as you will soon learn, so from now on, let’s just call this pair of purple plastic flower and glitter lion-adorned underwear…my “Mildred"s, as that is the least sexy name evah. (Except if it’s yours, of course. No, even then. I’m very sorry.) Anyway, one morning, I got up for work and donned my Mildreds. I boarded the bus, and we hit some traffic, so we arrived into the city a bit late. The bus stop is at Port Authority in Times Square, one of the busiest spots in NYC. I weaved my way through the meandering crowds, and attempted to cross a very busy street just as the “Don’t Walk” sign began to flash. I ran, and made it midway, and was on the median strip in the middle of the road with about 10 other people. Something, however, was not right. I felt…breezy. Instantly, I knew what had happened. I tried to subtly turn around, just to see what I already knew to be true, and confirmed my worst suspicions…how do I put this? My Mildreds were NOT on my person. They were in the street. This street, mind you, was the middle of Times Square:
(Okay it wasn’t THAT crowded, but it was pretty bad.) The things that I thought were cute plastic flower decorations? Yeah, they were actually SNAPS. Which came undone when I was running across the street. The worst part was that, as unassuming as I tried to be, people tend to notice a girl’s Mildreds flying off in Times Square. Who’d have thought? A smarmy gelled broker guy next to me looked back at the Mildreds, looked me up and down in the way only a perverted pervert can, and, without missing a beat, went, “Need my help with anything?” (Miss Peach, maybe he’s friends with your gross Wall Street guy!) I tried to summon as much dignity as possible. I put on a multifarious expression that can only be described as “Sigh…okay, I guess I’ll pick these up, but I’m going to be very nonchalant and roll my eyes while doing so, because whatever, I don’t need them, so…HEY! Suck it, stupid tour group that’s staring at me! You’re no better than me! You’re wearing matching t-shirts for crap’s sake! Don’t you judge me!” I walked over to my poor Mildreds, which were singing "Born Free" by this point, and tried to be as blasé as possible as I stuffed them in my bag. I ran to catch my train, far away from the prying eyes of the tour-shirt people and Sleazy O’ Gelhead. And wouldn't you know it, I actually saw a mom drop her son's pants so he could pee in an actual moving subway car a bit later, but that sort of paled in comparison to my adventures with Mildred.********************************** PS: Speaking of embarrassing stories, my friend Rose just started a blog, and her most recent post is perhaps even more embarrassing than this one. Check her out!