Recently, I have been walking alone in the city at night. I think that the safest thing for a young, meek, sexy female to do is walk around New York City alone at night. It was Wednesday night, I went to see two really good one-woman shows at the UCB theater, and I decided, since it was a nice night and not too late, I would walk home from 9th Avenue and 26th street to the Upper East Side.
As I walked along, I saw so many potential fathers for my future children. They were everywhere: eating dinner at restaurants, waiting for buses, unhappily holding hands with unfortunate looking women. I decided that it was time to open myself up and let others in, it was time to embrace my opportunities. Therefore, I tried to walk with a sexy, confidant bounce-a small bounce due to improper support- in my step. Note: I have massive beautiful breasts: please see past articles for further details. So, I am somewhat bouncing along the streets of New York, all by myself, on a Wednesday night. I am basically shouting out to all mankind, "Here I am. Get me drunk, take advantage of me, and bring me home to meet your parents!" And that is when the mating calls began.
Why do men in cars honk at women? Why? Why?! I guess it makes sense. I am positive that most women are walking along and thinking, "God, I wish I was having casual sex with some strange dude in a car! Why won't one honk at me?!" Naturally, when I hear a car horn I think that the driver is trying to communicate a grievance to his fellow motor vehicle operators. Yet, sometimes horns are used to warn pedestrians that they are about to be hit. It is the latter thought that caused me to stop in fear every time I heard a car horn. This, of course, triggered a number of confrontations.
One man actually slowed down his car, rolled down the window, and shouted out as he went by, "NIIIIIIIIIIICE TIIIIIIIIIIITS!" I looked around me and realized I was the only one on the block, "THAAAAAANK YOOOUU!" I shouted back, hoping that the complimentary, deep-voiced man with impeccable taste heard my polite reply. Another man actually opened the door to his car at a stoplight and said, "Get in baby. I wanna take you for a ride." I suddenly remembered all those crime prevention advertisements in the eighties. I saw that dog in a trench coat telling me that "users are losers and losers are users" and to "not get into the car of a stranger even if he tells you he has candy." So, I did what any smart female in my situation would do and answered back, "Got any candy?" Maybe this night will not be so bad. I suddenly pictured myself lounging in the passenger's seat of a dirty, lime green, four-door sedan sharing a box of Raisinettes with my future soul mate. Yet, my dreams faded away faster than the red color on my dry clean only sweater in the wash when the words of my mother rang true in my head,
"Your body is a Temple, and you are not to let visitors in unless they can pay Temple dues."
Keeping this important mantra in mind, I asked the man if he had five hundred dollars on him (religion by the month is expensive), and he made some comment about giving me $125 an hour. I was flattered yet, without Raisinettes, I did not see anything happening.
I continued my walk, and about halfway home I took out my earplugs since the honking had somewhat subsided. That is when I saw it. It was beautiful, it was bright, and it was glorious. The stars had aligned themselves in my favor. I told myself to embrace opportunity, and by golly there it was: a beacon in the dark night, the two words I had unknowingly been waiting to see side by side since the beginning of my arduous journey, "Haagen-Dazs, Open."
I ordered a small cup of vanilla chocolate chip ice cream (I only had 5 dollars on me and therefore could not get my usual: waffle cone, sprinkles, and a chocolate milkshake). The man behind the register handed me my cup. I looked at it in dismay. I was hoping that this was some sick joke, and that Ashton Kutcher would run into the store and tell me I had been punked. I sadly remembered that I was not famous, and that this was an all too disappointing reality. I type this next statement with great sorrow and shock. HAAGEN-DAZS HAS DOWNSIZED! Their small is now their kiddie cup! And, the scoop of ice cream is even SMALLER than what can actually fit in the cup. I looked into my itty-bitty, sorry excuse for a size-small cup, and my anguish transformed itself into bloody rage. I looked into the cup and saw that the scoop of vanilla chocolate chip ice cream was about the size of one of my boobs when I was in the third grade and, trust me, that is not enough ice cream! And, it was $3.75! I was outraged, and I screamed out the first thing that came to my head, "THE AMOUNT OF VANILLA CHOCOLATE CHIP ICE CREAM IS ABOUT THE SIZE OF ONE OF MY BOOBS WHEN I WAS IN THE THIRD GRADE!" The man behind the register shifted his focus to my breasts (which presently would be more than enough ice cream for one person), and then asked me if I wanted a topping.
I left the overpriced dessert establishment feeling used and unsatisfied. I walked along the brightly lit streets of New York broke, hungry, and vulnerable. I walked along and thought, "The next guy to honk his horn with five hundred dollars and a box of Raisinettes on his person is going to be one lucky man."