Further Adventures In Strange Guys Hitting On Me

Tomorrow is my birthday. Last year on my birthday, this happened:

So it's my birthday and I got all dolled up and took myself to see a show. Coming home on the Q train, there's this drunk and/or insane guy who looks like a cross between an albino and someone with that disease where they can't grow any hair, like eyebrows or anything. He starts shouting, "Miss! Hey, miss!"

Please don't let him be talking to me, please don't let him be talking to me...

"Hey, miss! White girl!"

Damn it, he's talking to me.

I'm wearing open-toe heels, and when I make the mistake of shifting a fraction of an inch in his direction when the train hits a bump, he says, loud enough for the rest of the car to enjoy, "Those are some sexy shoes. Can I kiss your toes, baby?"

I'm trying to just ignore him, but he keeps repeating himself, and women all around me are trying not to laugh and murmuring, "Oh, you poor thing," so finally I shout, "Sorry, I've got someone." Even though I don't, and I'm actually kind of bummed about that. And why do I always feel the need to be polite to these lunatics?

"Ok, ok, I respect that," he says. "But I'm real good. I'm real good! I bet I could do it better for you than him!"

"Probably not," I tell him. "He has a foot fetish." [Based on actual events.]

Everyone around me bursts out laughing. My admirer is only momentarily thrown for a loop, but eventually bounces right back and keeps yelling shit and trying to get my attention until he finally gets off the train 2 stops later.

Once the doors close and he's gone, the other passengers all start looking around and shaking their heads and laughing under their breath. The girl in the seat next to me leans over and says, "That was good. How does that not creep you out?"

Lady, I want to tell her, I'm used to it.

Psychic Misadventures

Some highlights of my family's group psychic reading held last Monday night:

Sister, in regard to grandparents who died before my siblings and I were born: "What do they say about us?"
Brother, interrupting before psychic can answer: "They're very disappointed in you. Me and Becky are fine, though."

Psychic, holding a picture of our other grandfather: "I'm seeing him surrounded by a ring of fire..."
Me: "Grandpa is Johnny Cash?!?"

Additional Tidbits:
* I am getting married in 2015. It will be a small ceremony. It will probably be held in a VFW hall. [EDITOR'S NOTE: This sounds so tacky that it saddens me.]
* I'm joining the Peace Corps.
* No mention of whether or not I am still gay.

This psychic was a customer at my mom's job who, incidentally, was also the father of a friend of my cousin. A co-worker had invited him to her house to do a reading for some friends, just for kicks, and he had been surprisingly accurate on a few things (except for that minor gay one...), so we thought we'd give it a try, too, again, just for fun.

My mom had informed us that at the end of the session, we could each ask 3 questions. I couldn't think of a single question all day. No, correction: I could think of many questions, but as mentioned in a similar scenario in Eat Pray Love (put your literary objections aside for just a moment), "I was rightly ashamed of myself for these thoughts: who travels all the way around the world to meet an ancient medicine man in Indonesia, only to ask him to intercede in boy troubles?" ["Dear Psychic Man: Will Neil go out with me? Check yes, no, or maybe."] I mentioned this troublesome dilemma to my sister, who wisely replied, "He's not a Balinese medicine man, though. He's just Lisa Altieri's dad."

The only legitimate inquiry I could come up with was, will I ever have kids? As I've written here before, I'm approaching an age at which my fertility will soon be plummeting, and from a practical standpoint, I am in no position to support a child — I'm barely responsible enough to take care of a cat. And so, intellectually, I have come to terms with this. I know I am not ready, and anyway, I am terrified of the idea of childbirth [NOTE TO SELF: NEVER watch Agnes of God and Rosemary's Baby back-to-back ever again.] And, as I frequently remind myself, adoption is always an option. Yet there is still that occasional pang of loss when I spy a chubby, giggling baby on the subway, or when imagining how gorgeous "our" kids would have been if I was married to [insert boy-du-jour here]. It's really the only issue in my life about which I have no real measure of certainty. So at least I had one question.

The psychic arrived at the house, we all settled around the dining room table, and the first thing he said, pointing directly at me before I even asked, was: "You're going to have twin girls."

I don't necessarily believe him, but...wow.

I Was Here First.

The fucking neighbors were at it again last night, right on schedule, with the obnoxious, wall-thumpingly loud shitty rap music, so I decided to battle back with this, full volume, on repeat, while singing along:

Ruby — Tiny Meat

Just as gratifying as it was in college, despite Lesley Rankine's disturbing facial resemblance to Michael Jackson...

Thank you, Cleveland!

We Are Glam-ily...

Got my early birthday present from my mom and my sister tonight:

I AM GOING TO SEE ADAM LAMBERT!!!

Passport to Glam Nation gets stamped June 23rd. I can not WAIT to put together an outfit for this!

Thank you, Cleveland!

UPDATE: Ticket says "16+". Thank goodness I just squeaked by there...

The Customer Is Always Right

About a week ago, I bought a movie from Border's. Idiot that I am, I didn't realize until I got home and opened the case and tried to play said movie that it was a Blu-Ray disc and not a regular DVD. My DVD player does not play Blu-Ray discs. So today I tried to return it.

Me: "Hi, I'd like to return this movie. I have the receipt."
Cashier: "The box is open."
Me: "I know, I didn't realize it wouldn't work in my DVD player until I tried to play it."
Cashier: "We can't give you a refund if the box is open."
Me: "Well, what about store credit?"
Cashier: "Umm...let me ask my manager."
[Cashier confers with manager. Manager approaches.]
Manager: "I'm sorry ma'am. We can't give you a refund if the box has been opened."
Me: "Not even store credit?"
Manager: "Not unless the disc is damaged. Is it damaged?"
Me: "No."
Manager: "We can only give you a refund if it's damaged."
Me: "Well, what if I damage it myself right now. Then can I return it?"
Manager: "Umm...I'm sorry. That's not our policy."

So I think I'm just going to "damage" the disc tonight and try another Border's tomorrow...

Timing Is Everything/Life Goes On

Someone was shot outside my building today.

I don't know when it happened. I didn't even know it had happened until I went downstairs around 4 to pick up my food from the delivery guy. There was police tape all up and down the block and an officer at the door explaining that no one could leave the building.

I was bewildered. "What happened?"

The cop replied, with a look like I had 2 heads, "Someone got shot."

Jesus Christ.

I went back inside, joined the others loitering in the lobby — the couple watching out the window, the guy waiting to walk his dog — and called the restaurant to cancel my order: "I'm sorry. There's police activity outside my building and I can't leave."

Two women in suits came in to take our names and apartment numbers. In typical unfazed New Yorker fashion, we all asked how long it was going to take before we could go back outside. No one asked about the victim. I waited around for a few more minutes then went back upstairs.

I was still hungry. About an hour later, I wandered back down to see if any progress had been made. We were allowed out of the building now, but the road was still blocked off to cars. Crowds had gathered on both sides of the street. There were two cops standing off to the side of the courtyard next to a white sheet on the ground. I naïvely thought nothing of this. Just some sort of clean-up thing, I assumed. I walked down the block to the deli and got a sandwich.

Back home, about 2 hours later, I got up to feed the cat and realized there was only about a scoopful of food left in the bag. Walgreen's is still open, I thought; I figured the police must be done by now. I put on my sneakers, grabbed my keys and headed back outside.

Downstairs, they were just beginning to roll up the police tape. Someone was wailing. I looked over to the spot on the right where the cops had been before. There was an ambulance parked by the curb. They were wheeling out a body.

Jesus Christ.

There were 2 guys standing near me, looking pensive. "Do they know who it is?" I asked. "Was it someone from this building?"

"I don't know," the guy closest to me answered. "Crazy shit. It's like something you see on TV right here in front of you."

His friend shook his head and said, "Just some punks. And all these people taking pictures and taping it on their phones. That's just ignorant."

We stood in silence until the ambulance drove away. The wailing had stopped. The cops rolled up the last of the tape. I made my way to Walgreen's.

On my way back, it seemed like business as usual back on the block — the same old guys sitting on folding chairs in front of the bodega, the same women pushing strollers and shopping carts past the laundromat, the same bunch of kids shouting on the sidewalk across the street.

There were faint traces of blood on the concrete outside the building, and a single flickering white candle.

They Sure Know How To Pick Their Battles...

Westboro Baptist Church To Picket Funeral Of Ronnie James Dio

Please, God, let this be true: I can not WAIT to see what happens to these assholes when they show up in front of thousands of grieving Black Sabbath fans. And it's going down on my birthday! Some badass biker beating the shit out of Fred Phelps would be one of the BEST PRESENTS EVER!!!

GOD HATES DOUCHEBAGS!!!