I made a purchase this afternoon at a bodega. Paid with cash. The change due back was forty cents. The guy behind the register gave me four dimes. There was plenty of quarters and nickles in the cash-drawer.
"Just a question," I started "why did you give me four dimes instead of a quarter, a dime and a nickle?"
His face was blank. "'Cause your change is forty cents. That's four dimes."
"Okay. But so is a quarter, a dime and a nickle."
"A quarter, a dime and a nickle-- they add up to forty cents."
"So does four dimes."
"True, but a quarter, a dime and a nickle is fewer pieces of change to carry around."
"If you don't want to carry around change-- use a credit card."
"Why would I use a credit card for a $2.60 purchase?"
"Don't know. Probably because you don't want to carry around change."
"Okay. Makes sense" I was just going to give in and leave. But then I saw the little sign at the register that read: $5.00 MINIMUM ON ALL CREDIT CARD TRANSACTIONS. "But according to this sign, I couldn't have used a credit card here on $2.60."
"You'd have to buy more stuff." At this point he was annoyed. I, however, having had an adult beverage earlier, was now just amused.
"Okay, okay, one last questions, then I promise to leave you alone. So if my change back was seventy-five cents-- what would you have given me back in change?"
"Seven dimes and a nickle."
I started laughing like a crazy man and walked out the door.
"...they directed the driver to find the nearest White Castle hamburgers stand and go in and get them doughnuts and hamburgers and coffee. When Taylor unwrapped her order in the back of the car, something was missing, so she and Halston decided to go into the deserted White Castle and get it themselves... 'Pardon me,' the counter girl asked, 'are you really Elizabeth Taylor?'...
Taylor said, 'Yes, I'm fucking Elizabeth Taylor. Now, where's my ketchup?'"
source: people.com from Steven Gaines' Simply Halston
Happiness is Pussyfoot on the back of Marc Antony.
A few moments ago I pulled up in front of my building and parked. A woman, in her late forties, was out for a stroll. As she walked past my building she saw my neighbor going through his mail, tossing a bunch of it into the blue recycling bin. She stepped out into the street and hid behind a car all the while spying on him.My neighbor pulled a piece of paper out on an envelope, folded it up and placed it in his jacket pocket. He walked up the steps to the sidewalk and headed off down the street towards Douglass.
"Oh. Thank. God. I thought identity theft!" she sang with a gravitas often reserved for an operatic tragedy.
"No worries" I said in a tone I hope conveyed: you're a racist-- just keep walking down the street to the cleaners to pick up your white robe with the pointy hood.
I can understand why she thought this guy might be going through someone's mail trying to steal their credit card statements. It does happen. But I wonder, if I were going through my mail and tossing it into the recycling bin would she have even paid attention? I doubt it. But hey, everyone's a little bit racist, according to the puppets on Avenue Q, so I'll cut her some slack.
Do you have a monster that lives in your luggage? I do.
One of the unexpected surprises of not traveling very often is opening up an extra suitcase to see what's been stored in there. My mom used to make these monsters in the late '70s. I think this one was given to my grandmother. I forgot I had him. He deserves to live on my bed-- or under it if that's his preference.
By the time package actually showed up at the door, I'd be curled up on the floor in a self-soothing state of rocking back and forth muttering to myself covered in cuts with a bloody knife by my side. I would have no energy to get up and even sign for the package. The driver would leave one of those fancy Post-It Notes saying he would try to deliver the package the next day, between the hours of such and such and such and such, knowing full well he wasn't going to adhere to a real time schedule. I would have to log in again, if I had the energy, and start the whole tracking process over again.
Oh my god, this is the worst idea I've ever had. Well maybe not the worse but I can write with some certainty I never want real time tracking of packages now. I really do have a hard time processing anxiety the anticipation of waiting requires. Every time I order delivery my life is cut short by a few months because I worry a lot about being able to hear the door bell ring.
God, I need some Xanax, stat.
I did not engage him. I did not turn around. He started singing "We Will Rock You." I got to the corner and of course the light turned red. I was going to have to stand at the intersection with this crazy guy. But as soon as he got to the corner, he made a quick right and walked down Howard Street.
*sigh of relief*I'm standing there at the intersection and in the left hand lane of 8th Street, closest to me but across the intersection, is this 20-something tranny wearing moon boot platforms running in that lane. She starts running through traffic and I'm just staring at her thinking "she's going to get killed."