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Age: The Gift That Keeps on Giving
Let’s see: after running around like crazy, making phone calls, sending emails, etc., I finally have a little time to contemplate my lint-ridden navel.
As this post indicated, I recently had a birthday. I have been so busy I haven’t even had the time to celebrate it, but rest assured this will come to pass. Instead, I spent my birthday peacefully and for that I am grateful. Once you have become grounded FIRMLY in your thirties the novelty wears off, trust me.
Lackadaisically touching-up my hair has become a thing of the past; I have one petulant grey hair in the middle of my forehead that serves as constant reminder of this fact. One of these days I’ll name it. I’ve been tossing around the notion of naming this hair after one of my shitty ex-boyfriends (because I have no doubt that one of them is responsible for it), but shitty exes are to me what child molesters are to NAMBLA: there are many. Too many.
No, sir: getting older doesn’t bother me much (it’s not like I can do anything about it anyway). Being sneered at by the affluent nubiles who are rapidly (and vapidly) colonializing my ‘hood doesn’t bother me much either. I suspect know I did the same thing when I was their age and now it’s their turn. The only thing that does piss me off about getting older is being gently reminded about it by people who are OLDER than me. Misguided attempts to shame me into behaving like a responsible adult, about this I have no doubt. I have tried to be an ‘adult’: it was the worst two years of my life.
To date my favorite example of this not-so-subtle (familial) chiding was a turd of a message my husband’s aunt left on our answering machine a few months ago (for my husband’s birthday):
Hello, this is your aunt Judy wishing you a happy birthday. I suppose you’re both out painting the town red. Better enjoy it while you can because you’ll both be forty soon.
WTF?!? Perhaps I am in denial, but I find this woman (who is nearing retirement) stating (OVER A FUCKING ANSWERING MACHINE) that I’m getting old a bit hypocritical— and foolish. Unlike my husband (who is painfully nice), I have a mean streak. A mean streak, I will add, that has only gotten more virulent with age. Experience has taught me how to exact the maximum amount of punishment for the various and sundry offenses perpetrated against my person with the minimal amount of effort.
God has it ever.
Thankfully, that bag of Polaroids my buddy Racheal gave me has proven to be a veritable arsenal for my vengeance. It has become to me what the “magic bag of tricks” is to Felix the Cat. Only meaner. Much meaner.
Guess what “Aunt Judy” is going to find in her inbox when she retires this April? Don’t everyone answer all at once…
Miss Heather
P.S.: I love the bottle of booze under his left arm. I wonder if this is some secret Greenpoint burial ritual I don’t know about?
Vigil Against Harassment
Last weekend I came across this flyer advertising a vigil against landlord harassment. I strongly recommend that anyone who has been denied essential services (such as heat or hot water) or has otherwise been harassed or intimidated by a crooked landlord should attend. The details are as follows:
Vigil Against Harassment
1/11/07, 6:00-7:30 p.m.
202 Franklin Street
Miss Heather
Dung of the Day: Guttman Style
Today’s (admittedly FOUL) “Dung of the Day” hails near the recently-deceased Greenpoint Terminal Market. Be sure to click on the photo if you want to behold all the diarrific details. Enjoy!
Miss Heather
Readywrap Deluxe
Or: Miss Heather’s Birthday Comes a Day Early
Shortly after completing the previous post I received a call from my good buddy Rachael. This surprised me a bit because my birthday is tomorrow, not today. She told she was walking down Diamond Street on the way to work and had found something I must have. I asked her what it was— and honestly I thought what she told me next sounded too good to be true.
It wasn’t.
The man in this photo bears an uncanny resemblance to my husband, save the solitary (but important) fact that I know of no time when my husband has been duct-taped to a chair. Maybe this transpired when I wasn’t around, who knows? Even the khakis and undershirt are right on the mark. In fact, the only thing that is amiss are the empty White Castle boxes in the background. My husband eats all manner and variety of repulsive foodstuffs but even he thinks White Castle is disgusting.
I pointed out the likeness to my husband. He didn’t seem to derive the same amount of amusement from it that I did (and still do). Maybe this photo dredges up dark memories from his past? Regardless, I am going to email this photo to his mother just to see what happens. Hell, I’ll send it to my mother as well just for shits and giggles.
After getting these photos from my friend, I asked her where she found them. She said she found them on Diamond Street in a box with a pair of walkie talkies. When I went there I did find such a box —but what cracked my ass up was the label on it. It read “Readywrap Deluxe“. Very appropriate.
At this location I also found one of the most disgusting piles of bum shit I have ever seen. To my recollection, only this mountain of effluvia would (could?) qualify as being worse. On the other hand, the bits of apple peel in today’s specimen lend a substantial measure “added-value” to it… Hmmm…
Miss Heather
P.S.: This photo (and the others she gave me) were found across the street from a film studio. I suspect hope that’s where they came from.
UPDATE: I sent an email to my mother, my father and my husband’s parents with said “gimp” photo attached. It went as follows:
Looks like Sam is into some really weird stuff. I s’pose the wife is always the last to know…
H
I got two emails back from my mother. The first one was blank. I suspect she freaked out and hit the “send” button before writing anything. The second email, however, said this:
Say what???
I just about pissed my pants laughing. Thankfully my husband thought I was laughing at the television, which was belching “The Lawrence Welk Show” into our living room at the time. My mother is an intelligent person and I love her. The only reason she would fall for this ruse is:
- The man in the photo DOES look like my husband and
- I have dated enough degenerates and freaks that anything goes.
As it happened, my husband called his parents tonight and I spoke to to his mother. I told her to check her email, as she would find something “very interesting”. She told me she wouldn’t have email access ’til Tuesday, but that she would check it ASAP.
To be continued…
Buttplugs (in more ways than one)
This week I had the pleasure of going to the Post Office. Anyone truly in the know will tell you that going to the Greenpoint Post Office SUCKS. On any given visit you, the patron, can expect one (or more) of the following:
- A person who speaks no English whatsoever, but continues yelling at the Postal clerk anyway. These folks have the mistaken belief that 80+ decibels will enable the person on the recieving end to understand the salvos of Spanish/Russian/Polish/What-the-fuck being volleyed at them. It doesn’t.
- Someone who seeks to pick up a package without tendering ID and becomes outraged when he/she becomes aware that the rules do, indeed, apply to them too.
- A person trying to mail a package that might as well have “Fragile: anthrax inside” written on it. My favorite example of this phenomenon came right before last Christmas. I had to wait behind a woman who had brought in one of the sorriest-looking packages I have ever seen in my life. She had taken a mashed-up box, covered it with butcher paper AND THEN haphazardly wrapped it with duct tape. When confronted about this by an employee at the Post Office, this woman reverted to behavior #1 featured on this list.
This trip was no better, but it simply paled in comparision to the treasure trove I found on my way home (on Leonard Street).
Dog shit and plugs. Or if you prefer…
plugs and dog shit.
Call it whatever you want, it’s still a whole bunch of “what the fuck” if you ask me. A dude (talking on a cell phone) watched me as I took these pictures. I suppose my behavior struck him as being strange. And it probably is. But I suspect my eccentricities are nothing compared to the story behind this creation.
Miss Heather
Your Music Sucks
I was awakened at 6:00 a.m. New Year’s Day by music. Music from the Mark Bar, which (unfortunately) blights my block. Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti”, to be exact.
I did not call the police (like the time they blared Elvis at 4:37 a.m.).
I do NOT like Elvis.
ANYTIME.
ANYWHERE.
(Buddy Holly is far superior.)
Waking up to Little Richard in the morning (literally or figuratively) makes my morning (and New Year) much more provocative. At least the night before would be interesting— I spent my New Year’s Eve watching the “Twilight Zone” marathon on the Sci Fi Channel. WOO HOO!
That said, here is today’s “Dung of the Day” from Franklin Street (between Huron and India Street). It says “Your Music Sucks.”
Miss Heather
King Dong
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
SHIT! Freud would have a fucking field day with this one. Why didn’t the man who did this (and I can assure you only a man would do this) just wear a sign reading “Ask me about my castration anxiety” instead? He would have saved a lot of money on paint. Not that I am complaining mind you… I like it! I give it two enthusiastic thumbs dongs up.
I bet the United States Postal Service employee on this route derives a great deal of satisfaction from giving King Dong his daily priapism. (Or hand job.)
Miss Heather
Blitzen, The Polish Reindeer
Santa Claus doesn’t come to Greenpoint anymore. This task was delegated to middle management after Santa jack-knifed his sled on a pile of icy dog shit and borscht-laden vodka vomit on McGuinness Boulevard in 1998. He broke his coccyx and no amount of Viagra or Levitra could redress the injuries he sustained— much to Mrs. Claus’s dismay.
Sex in traction is not Mrs. Claus’s preferred means of action, if you now what I mean.
A heated exchanged followed (between Mr. and Mrs. Claus) and it was agreed that Santa’s solitary Polish reindeer, Blitzen*, would be responsible for servicing Greenpoint. Drunk with newfound Managerial power (and a shitload of vodka), he sub-contracted his duties out to the most plentiful (and cheap) labor force to be found in Greenpoint: RATS.
Looks like this one** didn’t make it. Too bad. The list of people who deserve dog (bum?) shit in their Christmas stockings only gets longer and longer nowadays…
Miss Heather
*His real name is “Blitzed”. Santa thought this name would not set a good example for children, therefore it was changed to “Blitzen”. “Blintz” was totally out of the question.
Disgruntled readers: send me angry missives deriding my stereotyping of Polish people to your heart’s contentment. I have a last name so Polish I might as well draw a slab of kielbasa instead of writing it out. Let me suffer in peace.
**From 261 Banker Street
Shithead of the Year
Two days ago something remarkable happened at Chateau de Ghetto: actual professionals were spotted on the premises doing plumbing work in my neighbor’s apartment. I even saw them dragging a dysfunctional toilet down the stairway.
Un-be-fucking-lievable.
I am not so naive as to think that my landlord (or the Stupor) was behind this development. I have lived in this building for four years and know better. The overall demeanor of the Stupor (worried) and his toadie (anxious) leads me to believe that someone in this building took matters into his own hands. Good for him.
Not knowing the particulars of the situation, the one thing I can safely assert is that whenever the Stupor gets that ashen expression on his face, it was precipitated by something that will make me quite happy. Getting ripped a new asshole (or being fined by one of the city’s various housing/building code enforcement agencies) is the usual catalyst for his despondent face.
I won’t lie: I derive a great deal of pleasure from his misery. This is because he is a lazy, lying fuckweasel whose ineptitude and bad attitude have made me (and a number of other tenants in this building) very unhappy on a number of occasions.
That said, after seeing a number of online solicitations for “Douchebag of the Year” I have decided to create my very own award for the Stupor: “Shithead of the Year”. What garnered him this prestigious title, you ask? Read on and find out!
Category #1: Distinguished “Workmanship”
Here are a few pictures taken after he replaced our sink (because a pipe broke and flooded our kitchen with raw sewage).
Not surprisingly, after being thoroughly saturated in murky water that area of our kitchen floor sunk. This made installing the new sink a challenge. How did the Stupe make it level, you ask? By throwing a dozen of filthy, old floor tiles under one corner! *DUH*
Where do you start with these two photos? Well for one thing, while our Stupor grasps the concept of a second class lever (see the photo featuring the linoleum tiles above) he is not endowed with much mental mettle when it comes to abstract reasoning. Concepts such as “time”, “space” or “planning” are incomprehensible to him.
To his credit, he did secure a real plumber ASAP to fix our busted pipe. What he did not do, however, was to TAKE MEASUREMENTS so he could purchase a cabinet that would accommodate the new plumbing. His attempt to “bring the mountain to Mohammed” netted us:
1. another water leak and
2. no hot water in our kitchen for 24 hours because he torqued the spigot so tight that even a pair of vise grips couldn’t make it budge. BRAVO!
Category #2: Rousing Rhetoric and Fuzzy Logic
Management? WHAT MANAGEMENT?!?
On second thought… I suppose if one were to apply the kind of ‘logic’ (sophistry?) that proves that Iraq and Afghanistan are functioning democracies, this building is, indeed, ‘managed’. BADLY.
Category #3: Words Fail Me
Thus far we have reviewed the Stupor’s lack of abstract reasoning, ghetto-fabulous work and lack of proficiency in written English. While annoying, none of the previous (individually or combined) are enough to earn him the title “Shithead of the Year”. The following narrative (which I posted in the public area of our building a month ago for everyone’s edification) describes the crowning achievement which, in my humble opinion, makes the Stupor a shithead par excellance. Enjoy!
***READ THIS***
As my last tale (regarding having to turn away KeySpan 11/5/06) indicated, the Superintendent claimed not to have a cell phone. Today I discovered that nothing can be further from the truth.
You see, several months ago (July?) the landlord (Dumb) gave me a phone number to contact the Super (Dumber) so we could coordinate a time for him to work in our kitchen. The number I was given is 718-669-WXYZ.
Jump forward to September of this year.
I needed to contact Dumber, so I called this number. I got no answer, so I left a voicemail. I got no call back.
The next day I asked Dumber if he got my message. He said no. I asked him if 718-669-WXYZ was his cell phone number.
HE SAID HE DID NOT HAVE A CELL PHONE!!!
Jump forward to today, November 9, 2006. At 7:55 a.m. We got a call from Dumber. The caller i.d. indicated that this call came from, you guessed it:
718 669 WXYZ!!!Frankly, I do not know which bothers me more:
1. The fact that he lied to me.
2. The fact that I fell for it.
3. He thought I would/could not get his phone number off our caller i.d…-Sick of this bullshit
Way to go, Stupor! Your inability to even LIE competently (and your unawareness of caller i.d. which has been around for ages) have netted you the title “Shithead of the Year”!
You can rest assured that you are NOT getting a tip this Christmas. And although this title doesn’t have a trophy per se, I don’t want you to go away empty-handed.
Mazel tov!
Miss Heather
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