Before I begin, check out this picture my sister made for me on her blog, it's me barfing bubbles. (hold ctrl+the minus sign to shrink it, its huge, then ctrl + to bring it back to size). So my wife is looking for new jobs, she used to be a fitter at a boutique in Manhattan's upper west side called The Bra Smyth. It's that "y " in the name that lets them charge and extra $50 for their bras (actually its the handmade stictching, fine lace, silk, and/or french/italian designed imports that almost make them worth every penny of $90-250).
She was robbed at knife point in this store. A junky came in jittering and brandishing a long butcher knife, much like a meat cleaver with a long point. I'm sure theres a name for this knife, but sod off, I didn't go to culinary school. He walked to the counter where my wife stood alone and proceeded to bang the knife against the glass counter top and insist that this was not a joke. He walked around the counter and had the knife to her back and demanded all the money in the register, but she didn't have the keys. The manager, who was taking her lunch break in back, came forth nervously with the keys and he left with a whopping $300. It's the upper west side, "women be shoppin," but they use plastic, fool.
He didn't get away with it for long, he tried a few more stores in the next couple weeks and was stupid enough to try one store twice in a week. He got rushed by the store manager and landed on his knife, and dashed out the door,bleeding, leaving behind his knife, wallet, and with it, his I.D. card. He is in jail for grand theft with a weapon.
This is not the point of todays blog, but it is quite a story nonetheless, and is only one of the many hardships we endured living in New York City last year. NO, I want to talk about Victoria's Secret, quite a step down for my wife, but she applied there nonetheless. I often get dragged into the store with my wife and have try to stare ahead at nothing in particular while she tries things on in the no-man-zone. This is no small feat, even the maniquinns are hot. As a teen I used to joke that a funny thing to do would be to go into a VS and when an employee asks "can I help you today," you reply, "no thanks, I'm just here to feel up the mannequins."
I think its funny, but Chelbie doesn't.
She also didn't laugh when she showed me the new Memory Foam bra and I said "is that in case your boobs forget?" I am laughing at my own jokes right now. I can't help it, I even find it funny that she doesn't think it's funny. Sometimes the less funny she thinks I am, the more funny I think something is. Like yesterday when we passed a billboard of Celine Dion and I said she looks like a greyhound. She said I was mean, to which I replied that I thought mean was funny, mainly because I don't really mean it (Celine really does remind me of a greyhound, though). I have a snarky sense of humor, but I hate the word "snarky." It makes me think of snaggletooth and snorks for some reason. My friends and I used to say "that's so mean...but it's so funny."
Nowadays i'm forced to reckon whether I truly am mean, or a comedic genius. I think its not much of either, but I'm from the male species, albeit a very sensitive and thoughtful specimen compared to the average joe.
She did laugh when I told her Victoria's Secret: they don't have any of the bras you like in your size.