Intruder/I Ate Fish Food

You must look back at this entry, to get the full effect of this post. I was off from work today, and went to the mall to get my eyebrows threaded. I am rather obsessive about having my eyebrows threaded every two weeks. I have black eyebrows, and this is exactly what I look like if I don't adhere to my strict grooming schedule:

Once I was finished, I went to grab something to eat. You know how at the food court, usually a bunch of two-person tables will be pushed together to form larger tables? Well, I was sitting at one of those-- I think it was about three tables pushed together. Since it was a Monday afternoon, there were approximately 12 million empty tables in the food court. I was eating, and happily reading a book on the Kindle app on my phone. Suddenly, I felt the presence of an intruder. I looked up, and standing there was this guy with his stupid little lunch, hovering over the table. I noticed he was in possession of food from Sbarro, which is only the worst pizza, ever. Does Sbarro exist outside of malls? I just Wikipedia'ed Sbarro, and found that they filed for bankruptcy three months ago because the company's financial structure was found to be unsustainable. THAT'S PROBABLY BECAUSE THEIR PIZZA TASTES LIKE BLEACH (maybe they wouldn't be in bankruptcy if they had gotten to the root of the problem a little sooner).

By the way, my dad would get so perturbed by my food-to-inedible-substance-or-object analogies. I would say something like, "This cookie tastes like pencils," and he would be all, "That is so dumb. Have you ever eaten a pencil? How would you know what a pencil tastes like?!" Now, if I had compared something to fish food, and he was like, "Have you ever eaten fish food? Do you even know what it tastes like?" My answer would have been "Yes, I do know what fish food tastes like because I have, in fact, eaten it." I did eat fish food (flakes, not pellets) when I was about seven. The flakes taste exactly like they smell, which is somewhat comforting, because at least you know what to expect.

Back to the food court situation. So I glanced up at the eater-of-bad-pizza who was standing at my table. "Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked. I was in disbelief. There is a universal rule (or so I thought) that if someone is sitting at a big table in the food court, made up of smaller tables pushed together, that you ONLY sit at that table if ALL OTHER FIRST-LEVEL SEATING OPTIONS HAVE FALLEN THROUGH. First-level, by the way, refers to being able to sit by yourself at any large-sized table in the mall. If every single large table is already occupied by one person or more, and no small tables are available, then first-level seating is no longer an option, and one must move to seek second-level seating. I would rather eat my food on the floor, than have to seek second-level seating. Now the problem here is that eater-of-pizza-that-tastes-like-bleach was seeking second-level seating when first-level seating was plentiful. My reaction to this guy was quite similar to my reaction to the guy on the train (again, you must read this post to understand what I'm talking about). I grabbed my stuff and got up before this guy could even put his bleach-pizza down on the table.

When I told my boyfriend this story, he immediately said that the guy wanted to hit on me, so that's why he sat down at my table. I disagree, as he didn't even attempt to speak to me (although I did get up pretty quickly). I just think he was another clueless person, with zero social boundaries, unaware of the rules of the universal, multi-level seating system. I think that if you enjoy eating bleach disguised as pizza, while seeking second-level seating when there is no viable need, then you really have to take some time to get your life together.

I am such a liar.

I was in the store "Ross," trying on a pair of black, peep-toe flats. As I was checking them out in the mirror, I became aware of a lady down the aisle who was also trying on shoes. I heard a couple sounds, and to my horror, realized she was trying to get my attention. I pretended to be deeply fascinated by my shoes, hoping that she would go away. She called out to me again. I feebly answered, "Yes?" knowing what was about to happen.

"Do you think these are ugly?" The lady was about 40-years old, and had a heavy European accent. She was trying on a pair of four-inch heel, peep-toe ankle boots. They were tan, had little square-shaped cutouts all over them. They were the ugliest shoes I had ever seen.

"I love them," I told her. "They are really nice."

I had lied, and I felt bad. A terrible cycle happens each time someone asks for my opinion about something that looks awful. The only way I know to cope with this is to go even further, rather than walk away, in an attempt to compensate for how bad I feel, and how much I don't want to tell the person the truth.

"Really?" she asked.
"Of course," I answered. But more importantly-- are they comfortable?"

I should have stopped here, given I had already taken this too far. Unfortunately, when this type of situation occurs, I continue to dig myself into a deeper grave. It is a vicious cycle-- the more I lie, the worse I feel. In an attempt to manage my own feelings, I make up more lies about the item(s) in question.

"They look like they could be uncomfortable, but if you are able to walk comfortably, then I say-- go ahead and get them! I love them."
"Yes," she replied. "They are comfortable."

As I continued to fail at managing my own discomfort, I shamefully took it to a another level-- I began volunteering additional reinforcement-- questions and opinions outside of what the lady asked of me in the first place.

"Are you going to wear them with a dress?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "I'm planning on wearing them with a dress."
"Good, because that's what I was envisioning," I said. "I think they would look great with a dress. In fact, if it was a bit of a shorter dress; a little above the knee--well, that would just look perfect!"

I had a similar occurrence a few months before this. Incidentally, it also happened in "Ross." Anyway, a woman was trying on a dress. She said she was planning on wearing to a wedding. It was a metallic blue color, had a thick strap that went across one shoulder, and was pretty short. It looked horrible. It just didn't even come close to fitting her. She asked for my opinion, and I told her that it looked beautiful. Once again, I also went further with additional comments that were unnecessary, telling her that the color was just right for her skin tone, and "I especially love the cut of the dress," which is something my mom would say.

Days later, I began to worry. What if she purchased the dress as a direct result of the positive feedback I provided (lied about), only to wear it to the wedding and be shamed and humiliated by harsh family members and so-called friends, inevitably leading to a severe mental breakdown, and eventual involuntary commitment to a state hospital?

I should probably stop going to "Ross."
I should probably learn to shut the hell up.

The end.

It's a Beautiful Evening in South Philly

What seemed like a perfectly pleasant South Philly neighborhood interaction quickly went downhill. Here's what took place in the South Philly Walgreen's at Broad and Snyder:

Female shopper: Hey, do you happen to know where they would keep blue cheese dressing here?

M: It would be down there (pointing to bottom shelf).

Female shopper: Yeah... they only have ranch.

Me: Why don't you go across the street to Rite-Aid? They probably carry it there.

Female shopper: I already did. They also only have ranch! It's for my husband. He wants blue cheese.

At this point, it still seemed perfectly normal. I mean, yes, the lady located the ranch dressing and still felt the need to ask if we knew where the blue cheese would be. I understand, though. She was probably just sharing her frustration, and also, M and I definitely look like the type of people who would know if a store had a secret hiding place for additional salad dressing flavors.

Then the situation fell apart.

Female shopper: (voice rising) I don't even eat blue cheese! I don't eat that crap. I'M ITALIAN!!! I DON'T EAT BLUE CHEESE! THAT'S FOR RABBITS AND HAMSTERS! My husband wanted this shit!!!

M and I: ....

Female shopper: (walking away) ...AND HE CAN FUCKING DROP DEAD!!!

PS: I think that rabbits enjoy eating carrots, but I'm not sure what hamsters eat. However, I am pretty sure neither of these animals accent their food with salad dressing. If they did, I would guess that it would be something more mild than bleu cheese, such as a low-fat Italian dressing.