Wasn’t there a mailbox there just yesterday?” I said to myself. Is it time to put the one hitter down?
“Wasn’t there a mailbox on the corner of LaBrea and Franklin?” “They stole the mailbox from Gardner and Hollywood too? WTF” I cursed. Seriously, who would steal a mailbox? This blows because mailing a letter in LA can take a whole day. Obvious mailbox placement is not of this culture. Some apartment buildings with tenant mailboxes don’t have outgoing slots, that’s crazy.
Furthermore, mailboxes are disappearing all over Los Angeles. According to urban legend, if a mailbox doesn’t receive over a certain number of letters, it costs the city money. Really?
How bad is it going to get? “Is the post office going out of business too? Aren’t they entitled to a federal bailout?”
The mail pushing west was the beginning of our country’s expansion. However, due to my fondness for Marijuana, I tend to have a crappy memory – I remember certain things, then forget others. In fact I remember what I ate for lunch yesterday but have no idea who I ate with. Crickey. Hate to admit that. Yep still focused on the food. Oy.
My attempt to recall specific dates of American History will fail. The only things I remember are the following: “Lewis & Clark’s Expedition,” “Sackajewweiner,” (a hilarious kosher sex movie), and “Bonnie & Clyde.” I know one was in the 1700’s, one in the 30’s and the other at Susan Stern’s 9th grade slumber party…
Bottom line, getting rid of the mailman would be a crime against society. It’s part of history.
On to happier notes:
Because I can’t find a mailbox to post my bills, I forget to mail them and find out the hard way that my account is past due as I attempt to pay for new bras on my Bloomies credit card.
“I love these bras,” I say to Unique, the awesome Bloomingdales salesgirl, who fitted me with my new 36 DD Calvin Klein bras.
“It’s Calvin’s first foray into designing bras for a full figured woman,” opines Unique. “Your account is past due.”
”Oh damn, I forgot to mail my bills because I couldn’t find a mailbox!” I quipped. ”Oh, you too? I can never find a mailbox either, they don’t even have an outgoing one in the mailroom here!” said Unique. “I have to have these bras! I love them! By the way, first foray into designing for a fuller woman? Figures he always fancied boys.” I teased Unique.
The thought of going up a size in bra freaks me out. I’ve put on about 10lbs since breaking up with my boyfriend and my “funbags” have turned into “tonbags.”
Success! I got two bras for 30% off, my friend Jennifer (also a publicist) wasn’t as successful, so we decided to pop over to the shoe department. I spied a pair of sandals that screamed, “I want you on top of me. You’re delicious. Get on me now.” Said the voice emanating from the shoes, which sounded distinctly Aussie male.
I circled the display table not wanting to appear so desperate. I picked up the shoes that sparked desire the moment the heel hit my hand. “Jen have you ever heard of this designer? Pour La Victorie?”
“They are so high,” said Jen.
”They are deceiving though because of the platform, see?” says Michael, our incredibly astute salesman. “What size? Do you want whiskey or blanca?
“Can you bring me an eight and an eight and a half? Had Margaritas and chips last night. So bloated.”
Oh I wish I could shut up and not over explain myself!
“Be right back!”
He was so right. The most perfect shoes a woman should buy themselves after breaking up with her boyfriend. “I look so fierce right?”
A fellow sista and her blond mother (I love Black women who have the balls to go blond!) walk up to the table and eye the shoes that I’m holding.
“Look I don’t work here and I’m not hitting on you, but you would rock these,” I say to this woman who could either be Vivica A. Fox or a woman who was conjuring up her black ‘Betty Page.’
“You got a good eye. Thank you. I will try them on. They are fine!” She sassily states, followed by,
“you should try on a pair.”
“No I just got paid, I’m flying to New York tomorrow and I can’t go hog wild. However I just broke up with my beau and still trying to wake up my inner goddess.” I blather on.
“Girl. you get these shoes and wear them to the airport. You have to walk real slow, let everyone know you are from Los Angeles, take your time and twirl around and make sure every man notices you.”
The camaraderie began.
“Get out. I’m in a bigger bra, my Levis with extra spandex, and I always travel with carry-on,” I tell her like we’ve been hanging for years.
“Girl, then this is the time to own your power. No man is worth you feeling bad about yourself. Sheet girl, buy the damn shoes!”
“I don’t know. I’m always running late for the plane.”
“You’re Jewish right?“
“Yea, why?”
Because you people always talk yourself out of stuff! “Girl dump that negative energy and get on with living, starting with these shoes,” said beautiful Black Betty Page.
“Jen I’m getting them.”
“Can you walk in them?”
“I’m going to start right now.”
