Happy Mother’s Day (and so help me, you better be mothers)

So I’m coasting on some great spring weather and good visit-with-my-mom vibes, and decide to pop into a bodega before I head home. It’s not my usual spot: it stinks of cat, the lighting is sketchy and there’s always some young neighborhood person who vaguely guards the door. But it’s closest to my house and so for that, I have only myself to blame. The following took place at about 5 pm. It’s approximately 5:20 now.

I’m buying two rolls of toilet paper. The storekeeper wishes me a cheerful “Happy Mother’s Day,” to which I genially reply, “I’m not a mom but thanks!”

The below conversation was transcribed verbatim.

SO: (astonished–kiddingly, I think) “Why no kids?”
Me, chuckling: “I’m an auntie to many, many children.”
SO: “What are you, 35?”
Me: flinging hair and pulling off glasses in dramatic reveal. “Thank you, I’m 41.”
SO: His sudden pounding of the counter deadens my sails. Pounding does not mean kidding. “WHAT? And no kids? Can you have them?”
Me: “Theoretically? Me-Medically? I think… I mean…” (not prepared for this level of interrogation when picking up tp) “Yes, I’m pretty sure I could…” (trying to count out change simultaneously)
SO: Pounding again. My posture keeps tightening. “Listen, you go home & tell your boyfriend, you tell your husband to give you babies NOW. You must have babies. Babies are life.”
Me: “Uhhh–” (contemplate telling him I’m single, decide I’m way over my head already)
SO: “Without babies you become these women with the dogs and cats. They walk them and they have 5 and 6. It’s NO. GOOD. Don’t wait till 50. No babies after 50.”
Me: “Fifty,” I repeat dumbly.
SO: “Tell your husband TODAY. Babies are the answer!” He pats my black plastic bag and with that, I’m dismissed into the bright sunlight, slightly dazed but knowing I need to share this ASAP.

This entire ‘chat’ was over so fast it would take me a full day to process. But if I’m honest with myself, is it really Mother’s Day unless a stranger remarks on my fertility? I feel oddly at peace now.

(Note to self: never be nice to anyone AGAIN.)

eta: Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms and women who have been moms to me. I hope my chronicles make you smile, or just shake your head in disbelief, as I think that’s funny too.

choc lab

And then, the moratorium as I switch to chai…

I swear, something bad doesn’t go down every time I buy coffee. It just seems that way. No, actually, something jacked does happen to me at least 50% of the time, but I’d guess that’s average, no? Anyway, I wanted to mention a very normal, enjoyable visit I had at DD just on Monday. The employees were friendly, professional, and quick to help. I sent their regional office a note about them on the Dunkin’ Donuts site–I’m quick to write up a bad experience, so it’s only fair I do the same for a good one. But…

BUT…I feel it’s only fair to mention what happened the last time I was at this DD. It was winter, and I was on my way to a local big-box store. I was drinking lattes back then and as it was around 8 am, I truly needed a huge cup of flavored, milky meth to get me through the morning. I got there and realized half my neighborhood had the same idea. I queued up behind the 10th or 11th person–all of us wearing hats, scarves, and heavy goose down jackets–and tried to look alert as the person up front ordered cheese on a cheeseless sandwich, sugar on a sugarless donut, and other time-consuming, self-indulging BS.Things got curious when a very thin white guy, dressed poorly for the weather in holey jeans and a thin windbreaker, peeked his uncombed head through the back entrance, then suddenly jumped out again. As opening the front or back doors let in Arctic-level gales that caused everyone on line to gasp and turn, most costumers tried to minimize their entrances/exits.

Apparently no one had sent any sort of winter etiquette leaflet to this man, nor to his girlfriend. Also dressed more for spring than winter–capri pants, denim jacket and inexplicably, a Jamaican-style beret–she slipped in as he squeezed out. She stood against the wall, rubbing her nose enthusiastically, occasionally nibbling at her thumb. She didn’t look at the menu; she seemed more interested in the coffee makers, or possibly the birthday cake refrigerator.

Beware the well-dressed man.

I was out for a few hours yesterday cheering on one of my besties as she ran her first full marathon in NY. Great weather (another good friend ran in Chicago recently and it was well into the 60s–great for spectators, and that’s about it). Saw her around mile 9, looking  incredible, not even breathing hard. I’m doing five miles in a few weeks and although I tend to joke a lot, I’m secretly terrified. I don’t want to be one of those people they just lead off the course as they’re shutting down the park. Or what if they find me slumped across a bench and just leave me there, thinking I’m a hobo, and then my mom puts out a missing persons report for me and I become a laughingstock until I get sued by the NYPD for the manpower I cost the city, and then I’m an even bigger laughingstock and even hobos are snickering at me?

Clearly, I’m all about procrastination right now. Important deadline coming up and here I am. Are you not entertained? What, that’s overused? Sorry, I love movies too much to care. Ha!  (Know any cool movie blogs? E-mail me at bedstuychick@gmail.com, please.)

Continue reading “Beware the well-dressed man.”