Justin Time: Lu Who?

Good news. Justin Bieber got in a fight with a 12 year old while playing laser tag. Apparently the pre-teen verbally harassed Biebs, before he decided he’d had enough and gave the little d-bag a little shovey shove.

Don’t worry, Biebs. I’m on your team. Kids think that just because they’re smaller and not mentally developed that they can walk all over you, but it’s high time we teach them a lesson.

I remember the last time I was at Libby Lu getting a makeover, chilaxin to some Selena Gomez. I was picking out my nail color when I heart a high pitched squirrel behind me. That squirrel turned out to be a blond tween in a sick pink boa.

“She probably wears Limited Too Plus,” the girl whispered to her group of mini-skanks.

“What’s that?” I said, whipping around, my pigtails stinging my cheeks. The girl ignored me, so I started to get hostile. “That’s not even a thing!” I shouted.

“Limited Too Plus? Yeah it is,” she said. She and her friends laughed, and I really started to get PO’d.

“You shut your stinking mouth,” I said, kneeling, putting my finger under her nose. A middle-aged woman wearing a handsome shawl from Chico’s walked over.

“Whoa, what’s going on here?” she said, wrapping her arm around the girl who had begun to cry.

“This is between me and the kid, Old Lady,” I said, shaking with anger.

“Haley is my daughter!” the woman shouted.

“YOU’RE my daughter!” I said. No one really knew what that meant, and it was quiet for a second.

 Then, the child grabbed a vile of body splash and threw it in my face shouting, “Destruction!”

“My eyes!” I fell to the ground. “MY EYES!” Mother and daughter laughed as I writhed on the ground. I could barely see through the combination of cheap fragrance and purple eyeliner, but I grabbed the woman’s low, sensible heel from under her, causing her to fall backwards into a rack of animal print hats. I made my way to standing, and grabbed the girl, lifting her above my head, WWE style. Screaming, I spun in circles as the girl wailed. I flung her body into a pile of pillows, which was far less dramatic than what I had hoped for. When the police arrived, I told them I had done this on purpose, to prevent the girl from getting hurt, but it was really just the result of fatigue and bad aim.

Justin, take it from me. These kids are a-holes. I respect you for showing him who’s boss, and I hope you will not hesitate to lay down the law at Gymboree next time some toddler gets in your face.


Sliding Doors

It’s no secret that I have a mild obsession with the New York City subway system. Today, I would like to praise one particular aspect of said system. The doors.

The doors on a subway train have the ability to dictate one’s day. One of my favorite tragedies is when I am sitting on the train, minding my own beeswax, only to hear someone shouting as the doors close:

“Hold the door! HOLD THE DOOR!”

You can hear the terror and rage in their voice as the rest of us just sit their, unmoving, heartless. Slowly, the doors close as the desperate individual pounds against the metal shell. You see them mouth profanity, and they hit the train as it creeps away. I sometimes like to look in the train-missers eyes. I smile with my eyes (the way Tyra teaches on ANTM). The person’s day has obviously been ruined, as they will likely be late to work and thus fired, or because their fiance gave them an ultimatum and said, “If you are late to my cousins bat mizpah, this is over.” It’s over.

Once, when Christina and I were riding the train on the way to Fashion’s Night Out (where I’d read they give out free stuff), a woman did just this.

“Stop! Hold the train!” she shouted at the top of her 40-something lungs. She was falling over with her bags. “Mother f*@$er!” she screamed. Everyone’s eyes grew wide, as she stumbled onto the train. The doors closed behind her. No one really said anything. She just stood there, huffing, puffing, and looking slightly embarassed. One does not shout “Mother f*@$er” at a train full of strangers, unless one believes she will never see these strangers again. People began to whisper, as she hung her head. I may or may not have cried from supressing laughter.

Aside from not holding subway doors, it is also highly illegal to lean on them. I have made an active decision to go rogue and lean on a subway door at least once a day. This has nothing to do with my weak core and inability to stand unsupported for over 10 minutes. It’s a choice. I do, however, stand up straight each time the train stops at a station. It is not that I am concerned about falling a little onto the platform. That, I can handle. It is rather that I don’t understand how the trains work, and I believe that the conductor operates the doors. Human error plagues us all, and will there not be a day when the conductor accidentally pushes the left button instead of the right, and the wrong doors open? I can just see myself falling into the rat infested sludge, ruining my white outfit and new hairdo (ponytail). I’d get tetanus, which would suck, and there would be pictures of me looking foul on every newspapers with headlines like “Idiot Falls Onto Tracks” and “Man Teaches Us All a Lesson, Falls into Filth, Gets Many Diseases” (because I’ll look like a man all covered in slime and wearing a ponytail). I wouldn’t blame the conductor. After all, pushing the wrong button for them is like replying all for you and me, and we all know how awkward that can be.

I think what’s most important is that we follow the rules some of the time. Some people will have to miss the train and get fired, and some will have to hold up their own body weight for up to 30 straight minutes. But it’s better than hepatitis.

Barista Betrayal

Last week, while sipping coffee at Café Prague, a quaint shop in Chelsea, I became quite bitter. My barista (yes, that’s MY barista) seemed to be getting cozy with another girl. I had long felt that there was something between the two of us: the way he said, “What can I get you?” in that adorable Czech accent, the way he looked at me when as I ate my snack that I brought from home, because the treats there are like $3. It was love, or so I’d thought. But last Friday, I saw him cozy up to some blonde girl in a tacky jacket, and I couldn’t take it. Right in my face, Barista whose name I don’t know? I thought. That’s low.

It’s true, I wasn’t terribly bothered by the fact that he had neglected his coffee-making duties to make out with what was either his girlfriend or a high-class prostitute. It crossed my mind that it might violate the sanitation code to return to serving cappuccinos and baklava after such frolicsome activity, but my main concern was my heart. I was inclined to cause a scene.

“How could you do this to me?” I’d shout, mascara running down my face, my hands shaking. “I thought you loved me!!!”

They’d both just stare, as the girl had never seen me before, and my barista had really only seen me four times over the course of a month, and probably didn’t recognize me at all.

“You’re a cheater! A BASTARD!” I’d shout, throwing a cup of hot coffee in his face (a move I’d immediately regret, realizing that it would probably warrant some sort of legal action).

But instead, I kept mum, as the two nuzzled, finishing my coffee and leaving in a huff.

This is not the first time I’ve been shocked to find that the service man of my choice (waiter, bartender, cobbler) is in a relationship with someone besides me. I’ll develop a crush on a handsome librarian, only to see him one day chatting up some stupid girl in glasses (he wears glasses too, but they make him look smart, not like an ugly NERD, how they make her look). I’ll imagine getting into a whisper fight with the nerd.

“He’s mine!” I’ll whisper shout.

“No he’s mine!” she’ll whisper shout. “Seriously. We’ve been together for three years.” I’ll check out my latest Nora Roberts book, and maybe a pilates DVD, and leave. I won’t return the book, out of spite, and because I lose it.

Or I’ll find myself flirting with the salesman at Zara. I might notice that he’s always smiling at me, complimenting my earrings, and convincing me that I am fierce. Then, one day I’ll see him leaving a cupcake shop in the West Village with some ultra-toned jerk wearing linen pants and boat shoes. They’ll look rather handsome, and he’ll look over to me, wave and say “Hey girl! Cute belt!” and I’ll run into the  shop crying, and shove my face into the giant display cupcake in the window. It will ruin everyone’s day, mainly the children and the baker who spent three weeks creating said cupcake. I will also have a severe allergic reaction to the frosting, causing my face to swell and redden, and teenagers will point at me and pantomime vomiting when they see me.

I guess I need to learn not to get attached to people whom I have never spoken to, or more often than that, people whom I have never met (I still don’t want to talk about Carey Mulligan and Shia LaBeouf…she’s not even that pretty).