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I never forget a face- and I rarely have happy endings- but tonight I was shocked on both counts.
A couple of blocks from my office, walking home from work, I spotted a super super hot man. Like, man of my dreams hot. I couldn't help but stare. I was walking east on the north side of Grand, he was getting ready to cross Grand from the north side to the south side. As I got closer, he smiled and waved, pulled his sunglasses off, said something like "I know you, I've met you", so I walked to where he was standing. Looking and sounding as perplexed as humanly, or inhumanly, as possible, I said "Have we met?" He replied "Yeah, I'm Tom". Remember, hotness. I said, idiotically, unbelievably, so unbelievably it's like from a movie, "Sorry, I don't think we have", smiled, said have a good day, and WALKED THE FUCK AWAY.
I instantly regretted this move. Even if I really had never met him, he was wide open to meeting me right there on the street. And instead I walked away. I never meet people on the street, never mind meet any of the sexy men I constantly walk past. I felt like the biggest idiot the rest of the way home. With each step I figuratively kicked myself. I had to smoke a cigarette. I was making faces, rolling my eyes at myself, shaking my head, passers-by must have thought I was insane, or possessed. I called Laura to recount my idiocy, leaving a long, loud, detailed message. My only consolation was that he might be gay, and then it wouldn't even matter.
When I finally made it to my apartment there was a little traffic jam in the entryway. This almost never happens, I rarely see my neighbors, and certainly not more than one at a time. I was in the foyer checking my mailbox. A man who'd just tossed an empty glass liquor bottle in the recycling bin (reminding me of my glass-tastrophe yesterday morning when I dropped an empty bottle of vodka on the stairs) was heading for the exit door. As I locked up my mailbox, glass bottle man grabbed for the door handle of the door in front of me, and I heard keys jangling in the door behind me. I turned around to chuckle with this other, newly entering neighbor, about the pile up in the hall. It was Tom.
And that's when it all hit me like a ton of bricks. Flash back to a couple of months after I moved in. I bought a book case and antique radio on craigslist. A friend was going to help me bring them up to my fifth floor apartment after I got them to the building, but right after the cab driver dropped me and my heavy-ish items off in front of my building and I began struggling to just get them inside the front door, dammit, Tom showed up. Someone raised him right, because he offered assistance without batting an eyelash. Well maybe he batted them, but only in a very seductive way. I told him that if he could just help me get them inside it would be fine, someone else would come help me take them upstairs to my FIFTH FLOOR apartment. But he insisted on going all the way. After we got both pieces upstairs, I offered him a drink and told him to knock on my door any time. That's the last I saw of Tom. I sometimes wondered if he still lived here or if he'd moved on, if he had a girlfriend, or maybe a boyfriend.
Flash forward to our second encounter of the day in our hallway. I was all shock. How did he catch up to me when he was going in the opposite direction and I am a fucking speed walker? How did he remember me, when I'm the one who never forgets?? Was he behind me, watching my insanity the whole way home? I said "Oh my god I'm an idiot!" I actually slapped my forehead. "I helped you move some furniture remember?" And then I was all apologies. I described myself as an "ass" and "asshole" numerous times as we walked up the stairs. I told him again to knock on my door anytime. This time he's not getting away. Gay or straight, I'm taking him out for a fucking drink.
Where were you, Mr. fucking Softee?? Where were you this afternoon? Where were you when I needed you? When it was 96 degrees but felt like 104? Where were you when I, when New York, really could have used a fucking soft serve vanilla cone? I searched every major corner in Soho, but you were nowhere to be found. Damn you. Mr. Softee. Damn you!!!
Anyone who knows me knows my mean grill. A frightening proportion of my friends tell me that before we became friends they thought I was a bitch, or otherwise feared me in some way. I just don't have a very inviting persona. I've been getting this since high school, this "Man, I thought you were such a bitch!" It's the frownie face, they say. It's intimidating. But that's just how I look, I can't help that. A lucky few have been able to see past the frownie face to the rainbow and unicorn filled interior. In fact, I kind of look like Candyland inside.
However, I fully admit to having a mean grill. I know it's there. I usually don't make an effort to change it to a nice grill. Especially not when I'm walking down the street and don't want to be bothered. Most especially first thing in the morning on my way to work. The only person I may be ok with talking to before 9 am would be someone who spent the night. If you're allowed in my bed, you're allowed to talk to me in the morning.
Now, here's what confuses the hell out of me. I have this scowl on my face. A scowl that has already started to make its permanent mark on the skin between my eyebrows. This scowl keeps away nice girls that I would want to be friends with and dreamy boys that I would want to make out with, but it doesn't seem to keep away douchebag assholes that I would never give the time of day to. I'm walking to work in the morning past all these delivery trucks and the guys making the deliveries, mostly food deliveries, and it's just non-fucking-stop with the "Hello beautiful", "Morning gorgeous", "Let me see you smile sweetie", "Hey sexy". Non-stop.
Why doesn't the scowl stop them?? Doesn't it basically say, almost out loud, "Leave me the fuck alone I'm trying to fucking get to work"? I really feel like it does, but I guess I may have to take to using my vocal cords to let them know.
Ok so we got the Dean & Deluca summer catalogue at work today and when I saw the cover photo my mind immediately, I'm talking zero hesitation, went straight to dirty-ville. Look at it. Am I the only one that sees this? So wrong. 
I'm the kind of nice gal who is happy to help tourists with directions, even though I kind of loathe tourists. If I see people struggling with a map, I'll even approach them and offer assistance! I don't often need to, though, as they somehow find me very approachable. Supposedly I am too intimidating for hot studs to talk to me, but this rule does not seem to apply to tourists who find my mean grill welcoming.
This happens a lot, as I work in Soho. A lot of people are looking for...Soho. We're in it, I'll say. Many want to buy those knock off bags or watches on Canal. Easy enough, follow that pungent odor. At the very least, they're always looking for something uniquely New York, whether it be a store, a street, a neighborhood, a subway. But this morning on my way to work, when my grill is at it's meanest since I'm tired and usually running 3-5 minutes behind, some ladies from the UK asked for assistance in finding...Old Navy. Old fucking Navy? Are you kidding me? They had the name and address written on the map. I wanted to give them the wrong directions so they wouldn't go there, get awful things, and go back home and misrepresent New York. But I told them where. Oh, I told them. Woe. Woe to the tourist ladies who are currently shopping for hideously plain/freakishly patterned/sweatshop made clothing.
I just had one of those moments where some sense memory whips you back in time so fast you get whiplash. In Duane Reade of all places. It didn't whip me back to any specific event or moment; just to an era. The 90210 era. The Melrose Place era. The Heights era. Yes, The Heights. How do you talk to an angel, I wonder? I knew I recognized it the moment it came on, but not until it got to the chorus did I realize just what song my aural sense was being treated to.
Oh, how I long for those simple days of the early nineties when I was a huge dork and I knew people didn't like me and I knew why. Twelve year olds are much more honest about their scorn than adults are. They'll tell you right to your face. Refreshing.
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