last night after the nail appointment, but before i ate an entire bag of indian corn (which i highly recommend doing if you never want to sleep again), i rode the elevator to my apartment. i live on the second floor so you can imagine the climb. i was facing the doors like normal people do, when the glossy woman to my left turned to face me. she was in her early 40s or late teens, it can be so hard to tell.
she was wearing chanel ballerina flats, a cartier tank watch, black trousers, and a pat-a-cake face. i was wearing running shorts, flip flops, and a hoodie that i have owned since this woman was doing keg stands at Princeton. her matchy sons, whom i've seen before with "the help," were uncoordinatingly bouncing some kind of ball behind me. they were below boob level so probably about seven or eight unless they are elves in which case that's AWESOME!
with crossed arms, she gave me the 4 Times Square up-down, glared at the elves, and began to whine. yes, whine:
"i wish I could get a pedicure on a sunday night."
long pause.
"must be nice."
no response.
"IT ALL CHANGES."
the doors opened.
i turned to face her.
"this isn't fun for me," i said. i don't like pedicures."
i smiled. i can't tell if she did or not because her face was filled with canine cologne or whatever they're injecting these days.
what i wanted to say was, "tsk tsk. you poor thing. it's so terrible that you only have a nanny for each child. YOU need a nanny TOO!"
2 comments:
Nina, you're strangely hilarious in a way I never realized through everyday interaction with you. Half the time I'm not even sure what you're saying, yet it strikes me as some sort of subversive brilliance.
You know I'm serious.
Like that shit about Timbaland and Tourette's. WTF?
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