Confiscated Nail Clippers Make Me a Crackwhore

Aside from the harrowing bus ride from Boston to New York, the aneurysm-inducing hailing of cabs/taking of subways, and the painful lugging of an overpacked suitcase through all these events, my confiscated nail clippers tear at my insides, or rather, my outsides. But let me begin at the beginning...

Giving myself the buffer of seven hours to get from Boston to JFK Airport, I encountered three accidents on the way there by bus. The first one involved an eighteeen wheeler halfway down the slope of the hill, successfully blocking the middle and right lanes. Inefficient clean-up crews and sluggish police/firemen did nothing to help the situation along, thus, an hour and fifteen minutes of bumper to bumper loveliness. A second accident happened when a suicidal decided to speed on the fast lane, yanked his parking brake in an attempt to fishtail into oncoming traffic, so that he may take out a few other innocents along with him. He over-fishtailed and slammed into the separator headfirst, causing all traffic to go from the one left lane to the one right lane; another 45 minutes. By the traffic of the third wreck, I was also one.

Frustrated and sure that I would miss my flight, I asked the Chinese driver for a solution. He told me to run to JFK. I choked on a breath and then he started to get serious. By serious, I mean, he thought up a plan for me to get to the airport in time, a plan which involved trying to hail an empty cab on the Triborough, so that I could jump off my bus, grab my luggage from the storage, and then jump on the cab...in the middle of traffic, on the Triborough. Hell-bent on helping me, he sped up fifteen feet, stopped six inches away from the car in front and flailed his arm wildly to catch the cabbie's attention. All was in vain, however. After engaging in this insanity for a few lurch-and-halts, I convinced him that causing another accident was not worth a flight. Enter second brilliant plan: he left the highway at the next exit and dropped me off in the middle of Queens to catch one of the many cabs there. In the middle of the Burger King parking lot, I looked around to see which empty cab to solicit, hoping all the while that the driver would be full and jolly. No such luck, so I look to the streets. Amidst all the regretful head shakings and the "No, I go only to LaGuardias," I threw my head back in frustration and worry, only to see my answer. My darling MTA.

From the N/W, I needed to catch the local E, and then the AirTrain. Seemed simple, but silliness that is me, it is never that simple. I ran up some flights to catch the closing doors of the E, and yelled, "Is this local?!" A friendly Indian man cheerily answered, "Yes!" A short exchange later, I realized that he spoke a handful of English, but contained a worldful of kindness. Because of that, I supressed my anger as I watched my designated stop go flying by, since the E was an Express, and not a Local, as Mr. Grinny Indian here had affirmed. Getting off at the next stop, I quickly hopped on the Local E going back, flew to the AirTrain station, got on, got off (met a nice man going to Florida on it), checked in and made it on the plane with eight minutes to spare.

As senselessly frustrating as that all seemed, I met many more kind strangers than I had expected. Most were willing to help, despite the proficiency level. Although, there were those who referred to me as "Mamasita," and those who, by the inflection of their voices, thought that they were being hilarious by saying, "Hey sweetie, don't run so fast now. Don't wanna hurt yourself." Pilots, by the way, that second group. Granted, I was in high-heeled sandals and my hurried steps could hardly have counted as "running," as much as "wobbling precariously." Regardless, I made it, with eight minutes to collect the scattered pieces of my nerves; I was well on my way.

Now, at the carry-on checkpoints, looking beyond the boob/crotch fondling frisks, I was asked to remove the contents of my little brown make-up bag. Hello, OB tampons, eyeshadow, atomizer, tweezers, nail clippers and condoms. The guard gingerly picked up the nail clippers and slid out the one inch long nail file. She pointed at it and informed me that it was not allowed on the plane. Perplexed, I took the clippers from her, with nail file protruding, stared at the teeny thing and then said, "THIS?!" while making a slight jabbing motion. Apparently, all the uniformed gentlemen and gentleladies were very much on their guards, whereby my little jabbing motion of the gerkin nail file induced them all to jump backwards and immediately reach for their holstered, yet lethal, buddies of steel. I quickly placed the clippers on the table, "Ok, you can have it." I passed through, frazzled and sneering slightly.

The repercussions of that loss, however, are felt keenly now. Upon my return, the dry Boston air has ravaged my cuticles. Hangnails are caught on sweaters, knits, gloves, etc. Upon closer inspection, the unkempt quality of my cuticles lend an air of crackwhorishness to my hands. I have always taken for granted my well-moisturized, well-kept cuticles. And now, the dryness, coupled with hangnails and a general air of painful untidiness, my hands are the hands of a drugged-up degenerate in the heroine dens.

Why not buy a new pair of nail clippers, or borrow someone else's, you might wonder. Well...I wouldn't have had this tale to tell, then, would I? No, I still could have told the travelling parts, but I would have had to think up some other title, like, "My Crappy Commute," or "Traffic is Shitty McShit When I Need To Get Somewhere Quick," or "Whine Whine Whine."

I'll get new nail clippers tomorrow.

Me and My Big Mouth

Walking to my Visual Arts class in the College of Fine Arts, there was a girl a bit ahead of me. She was pretty nondescript; she wore a black scarf, Converse-esque sneakers, a short outerjacket and carried some tote/bookbag/handbag of sorts that all college girls carry. Then suddenly, a wave of surprise came over me. That poor girl's pair of tight jeans was busted! Horizontally, right below her left ass cheek! I must go to her rescue and save her from public ridicule! I hurried and ran up to her, "Hi, excuse me, but your jeans are ripped...right below your ass on the left side." She stared at me for a few seconds, in that vapid BU girl way, as though she saw me, but didn't quite understand that I was alive and standing in front of her, when she said, "Yeah, I know. I did that on purpose. I cut up all my jeans around the crotch area. It's really sexy." I could only utter an, "Oh."

I have seen crotchless panties before. I have seen and cackled at my friend trying on a pair of pants with zippers up the inseam, right into the crotch. Those two other articles were much less offensive, seeing how they were not worn by a bratty little Scene-ster with a pickle butt, heading into CFA aka Bumdom, as she condescendingly sneered at my preppy sweater/clean, hole-free jeans/boots ensemble.

Next time I see a conspicuous tear, hole, exposed nipple and/or nether regions, I am keeping my mouth shut. I will only stare and perhaps take a picture. This was the wardrobe equivalent of asking a big woman when the baby is due, when she clearly only has a case of the fats. ::grumble::

Perhaps, I Shall Use This Once

After reading "The Princess and the Pea," when I was six, I was intrigued by the princess's sensitivity, which represented the mark of true royalty. To my little heart, her delicate constitution in regards to slumber also represented her preciousness. Not long afterwards, I rolled off my bed during the night and did not even wake up from the fall. When my mother discovered my snoring form the next morning, she proceeded to wake me up and greeted me with, "I see YOU'RE no princess." And thus, I am the way I am.

P.S. How do you say "nursing home" in Chinese, mommy dearest? I'm kidding. I'm so kidding.