Adventures of Me and Mii Boy

I have just returned from a midday Starbucks/mail run. I don't go to Starbucks often, as I am neither a coffee person nor idependently wealthy. But today I had a hankerin' to go- mostly because I was bored, I think- and I have returned with this delicious concoction called a "Tall Mocha Skinny Latte" which only has ninety calories. Score!

At the Starbucks, I stood in line next to a girl who is the spitting image of what I imagine Joanna Gleason would look like if she were my age and a hipster. I sort of wanted to become friends with this girl but instead I just gave her a couple of quick glances before falling in love with my latte and forgetting all about her.

En route to the Starbucks, I had my second conversation ever with the building's 'concierge' (this is, apparently, his official title) who has hair like a Mii character and always dresses in somber-colored suits and brightly colored ties. From that description alone, it is probably easy for any observant reader to deduce that I have quite the crush on this kid.

Our conversation went like this:

Mii Boy: Hi. How can I help you?
Me: CJ asked me to drop this off for you? It's our 1099?
Mii Boy: Oh. Thanks.
Me: You're welcome.
Mii Boy: Want to run away to a tropical beach somewhere and drink lots of red wine together?
Me: Yes, please.

All of that is true, except the last two lines.

Smells like activist...

I don't want to write about school, because I spend all the time thinking about it.

Instead, I will write about:
A- The party I attended on Friday night.
B- My new tendency to say "Boo, whore!" all the time.

A: On Friday night, I attended a loft party in Brooklyn. This party represented, to me, all that the crazy-city bohemian life should be (not my life, per se- I'm a sell out). Everyone brought a bottle of alcohol and just hung out all night- evenly distributing time between the loft and the hodgepodge of broken patio furniture set up on the roof. The loft had been a huge, single room studio, and the four inhabitants built walls and rooms- some of them with multiple stories. It was covered in home-made art work and lights and had three couches and reams of mismatched fabric and was the most wonderful mess. The party was inhabited mostly by drunk activists. When I first headed up to the roof with a red, plastic solo cup of red wine (which I later spilled all over myself- while still completely sober), I was warned by one of the guys: "Don't sit next to him! He smells like activist!" We didn't spend too much time speaking of activism, but I did learn that a bunch of the guys road-tripped down to Texas where they protested outside of an Exxon dressed in tiger suits and got arrested. The party ended in the wee hours of the morning. I was made to salsa dance with one of the hostesses before I left, and I danced right into a table. The bruise is a glorious grey-blue.

B: Saw Mean Girls the other day, and have been running around the apartment saying "Boo, whore!" to the roommates. Nothing wrong with this, though I do have this fear that I will carry my new favorite phrase into grad class with me...

DRAMATIZATION

Classmate: I disagree with William James on this point. 'To You', and ultimately 'Song of Myself' as well, cannot be whittled down to pluralism. If you interpret the superlative terms as comparitive terms, you do eliminate some of the abstractions, but you also lose the essential essence of Whitman's work.
Me: Boo, whore.

Adventures in the nail salon...

(or another reason to learn Vietnamese)

Today, I went to get my fingernails painted bright, bright red, because I feel that witches should have blood red fingernails. But there is some self-consciousness involved in blood red fingernails when they don't match your mild mannered secretary alter ego.

So I'm sitting in the chair, getting my nails painted by the little Asian woman, who I believe is Vietnamese. And she's talking to the other Asian people in the salon, and they all seem very amused. Here is their conversation, as translated in my head:

Asian Woman Painting My Nails: Look at this red! Wow. Is this girl a prostitute?
Asian Man Painting Nails Next to Us: I think she must be. Have you seen some of the tops she wears in here? Cleavage City!
Asian Woman Who is Sitting in the Pedicure Chair Watching TV: No way. Not a prostitute.
Asian Woman Painting My Nails: How can you tell?
Asian Woman Who is Sitting in the Pedicure Chair Watching TV: I've done her pedicures before. No man would pay to have sex with a woman whose legs are that hairy.
Asian Man Painting Nails Next to Us: That's true. I've done her pedicure before, too. No man could be paid to have sex with a woman whose legs are that hairy. She is obviously single.
Asian Woman Painting My Nails: So she must be overcompensating in a desperate plea for sexual attention. It won't work.
Me (silently, in my head): No! I'm being a witch for Halloween, dammit! A witch!

I did not let their rude behavior affect the amount I tipped.


Won't they feel foolish when my beautiful red nails attract all the menfolk?