This morning, I popped into a corner market for a cup of coffee. I go to this place all the time and the old man behind the counter and I chat about the surfacey things in our lives. He told me that when he was collecting change in a small jar on the counter to help victims of the earthquake in Pakistan, I was the only one who gave without lecturing him about Hurricane Katrina. Back in Pakistan, he was a research scientist. Now, he is old and runs a bodega. I’m not saying there is anything less than noble about bodega work, I just see a glimmer of sadness in his eyes when he talks about his life back in Pakistan.

So, he and I were chatting this morning when the doors flung open and in walked a couple. The man was in a velour track suit and the woman was in tight capri pants, clompy heels, a bare-midriff top with fabric-y sleeves, wore a terrible-looking hair weave and long, curved nails. They walked in with great commotion as she immediately began clomping up and down every aisle of the store, occasionally adjusting her camel-toe (blech) and handing her companion items to buy with, “Oh, buy me this” attached to every find. I was frozen, unable to leave or take my eyes from them, even though I felt terribly rude as I was doing it. When I finally did manage to wish my friend a nice day and head out down the block to my apartment, the duo had amassed a pile at the counter which included: a Massengil douchebag (I love saying douchebag), a box of tampons, Vicks Vaporub, a frozen pizza, several packaged pens and pencils, a box of Pop-Tarts (“Ooooohhhhh, SHIT, I love me some Pop-Tarts. Buy me these!”), a bottle of Windex, a jar of Vaseline, eight packages of string cheese and box of pantyliners. Call me crazy, but if I went on some golddigging bender, I don’t think a corner market would be on my itinerary. I’m just thinking out loud, though. What the hell do I know?

Then, as I walked back to my apartment, I saw an old lady in a Cadillac covered (the car, not the old lady) in pink jack-o-lanterns. Some had sharp, pointy teeth, some were smiley, some were made of plastic, some were plush. Huh. So, I cocked my head to the side like I often do and kept thinking about what a terrible gold-digger I’d be.

Later, just a bit, I ran a car-requiring errand. A jackass cut me off and slammed on his brakes, which pisses me off unendingly. I honked and flipped, my usual response, and, must like a similar experience a few weeks ago, the dude jumps out of his car and puffs his arms and elbows at me (you know that thing that Brohams do). Like I always say, the best remedy for testosterone poisoning is emasculation therapy. With my sunroof open so everyone could hear me, I pointed at the crotch of the jackass and howled with laughter. He looked left, then right, then down at his crotch before flipping me off, shouting, “Shut the fuck up! Stop it! C’mon!” and driving away.

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