A Little Bit Crazy A Lot Of The Time

The first deadline for my thesis is Monday and it’s been a real bitch to finish. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer the past few days surrounded by pages and pages of notes, stacks of books, and enough Red Bull to wake the dead. 

That’s why I decided to take a mini-study break and use the Green Tea Calming Face Mask that I had been saving for just such a stressful occasion.  The woman on the box looked happy and calm.  I wanted to be happy and calm!  As my face was on its way to happy calmness, I saw my hair in the mirror. Dear god, this fall weather is wreaking havoc on my hair.  I needed a hot oil treatment.  But not just any hot oil treatment.  I remembered reading about a super-moisturizing-organic-whisk-together-shit-you-have-in your-kitchen-hot-oil-treatment.  But since I never have time to actually finish an entire magazine article, I wasn’t sure if I need to include olive oil and avocado and egg and mayo and honey.  I figured a lot of moisture is better than none and whipped up a foul smelling brew with all the ingredients I had on hand.  Mr. Dingo decided that it was time to say good-night and ran to bed. 

So, with the entire contents of the Whole Foods produce section composting on my head, and a Calming Face mask drying into a Google Maps image of Death Valley on my face, Dingo Girl decided she needed to go out.  Thinking that the Chinese Food I fed her earlier must not agree with her, I threw on a hoodie and sunglasses before we had a Def Con 4 situation on our hardwood floors.  I was confident that I was sufficiently incognito to take her for a quick walk down the street.  After all, who’s out at 2am, right?  I’ll tell you who.  Everyone.  Everyone had decided that one of the coldest nights we’ve had so far was a fine night for a leisurely stroll.

Dingo Girl’s urgent need to poo dissipated as soon as we left the apartment.  She suddenly decided, like everyone else on the street last night, that near-arctic temperatures provide a delightful backdrop for window shopping and unhurried wandering.  I was afraid that I would run into someone I knew who would either run in horror or ask me to explain my Halloween costume.  The great thing about New York, however, is that no matter how out of place you think you are, there’s someone else more fucked up than you.  Last night was my lucky night.

As Dingo Girl and I walked down the street we passed a old man in a trench coat and tube socks.  Tube socks like the hipsters now wear thinking that it’s retro when it’s actually just stupid.  Trench coat and tube socks.  And a fedora.  But only the brim.  Yes, the top of the fedora was missing so the brim of his hat surrounded his head like a monk’s tonsure.  Well, Dingo, you ask, how do you know it was a fedora if the top part was missing?  Oh you sneaky Innernetz, Dingo can’t slip one past you, can she?  I didn’t know if it was a fedora but I do like typing that word.  Fedora, fedora, fedora. 

Anyway, as we passed by this man he yelled out, “Fuck you!” I turned to tell him that I wished him a good night and that I hoped the blessings of the upcoming holiday season descended upon him like cherry blossoms in spring. He yelled, “Fuck you!” again.  Now I realized he wasn’t talking to me.  He was talking to a taxicab on the street that was bleating its horn like a Jeopardy game show contestant on meth.  They made an odd musical pair.

Honk.

Fuckyou!

Honk.

Fuckyou!

Honk.

Fuckyou!

The man never broke stride and was oblivious to the stares and shocked looks he was attracting as his tube-socked, trench-coated, fedora-brimmed self walked down the street.  The scene took on an added element of ridiculousness when both the cab driver and Fedora man increased the tempo of their night music.

Honk. Fuck.

Honk. You.

Honk. Fuck.

Honk. You.

This continued until the man turned the corner.  A woman who might have been a man wearing a red-sequined evening gown under a pink fur jacket, but also wearing tan construction boots and a utility belt complete with foot-long flashlight attached, was standing at the bus stop where Dingo Girl decided she needed to make her night deposit.  She turned to me and, looking directly into my moon-colored hardening-face masked oliveoilavacadoeggmayohoney hair treatment hoodied person, said, “Can you believe the freaks that walk the streets around here?”

“No, m’am,” I said, my face mask cracking a little around the corners of my mouth.  “No, I can’t.”

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