Friday, March 14, 2008

City of Mugus

In my hotel, it costs $16 to use the internet for 24 hours (mad), $14 for coffee and orange juice if you buy it in the restaurant (shocking), and $30 if you send for it through room service (outrageous!)

The last time I was in New York City, I had a whale of a time. Everything was so new and so fresh and so exciting. The noise, the stench, the mad folk... it all went down pretty well with me. I was a happy bunny.

Now I find myself easily sparked off and ready to bash a cab driver over the head with my handbag whenever he has the audacity to attempt to keep my change. I have also taken to tipping less than 10% if a waiter's service has been satisfactory, and 10% if it has been good (apparently this is an abomination, it should only ever be 15 and above). I have also refused to tip the many doormen and luggage boys I have encountered, and no there ain't been no $2 on my pillow for the turn down maid either.

You may think I am doing this because I am a cheapscate, but that is only half the truth. I am doing this because I am pissed off. Why does every "service provider" or "facilitator" in this place think it my duty to contribute to his financial wellbeing?

Last time I was here, my friends gave me some long shpeel about waiters etc receiving only the minimum wage and being expected to make it up through tips. Now my question was, and still is, is that my business? Did I sign up (when I queued for 30 mins for one bloody stamp at stinky Newark airport) to any agreement that somehow made me responsible for the shafting of all workers in the "Tri-State Area"?

Yesterday, I had lunch. The bill came --> $55. I put down --> $60.

Waiter (who took bloody ages to do anything, talk less of proffer a smile) goes "You're leaving a $5 tip?" in the frostiest tone ever.

I looked him square in the eye and said "Yes" and then I left, to the backing track of his mumbling and muttering.

I ask you... since when did gratuity become compulsory? If they're going to act like you're breaking the law every single time you decide not to tip, or tip less than what they expect, then WHY call it gratuity at all?

Bitchy is angry.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Period Pains, Blocked Noses & Marriage Proposals

I proposed to Mista Fanutastiki yesterday.

And what did he do?

He laughed, gave me a hug and then ignored me.

Now when this happened, I was just a little pissed off. How dare he ignore me, I thought. Should he not be honoured that a super fly chica mohita like me is proposing to his silly self? Instead he laughs it off and says NOTHING?

I began to have flashbacks to all the times in my *cough* youth, when some poor clueless sucker would pour out his feelings of love and deep deep deeeep affection to me (always over the phone, they never seemed to have the balls to do it in person) and then I would respond with a very long and very eery silence (I got a kick out of it you see - yes I'm twisted, and no, I've never been in a mental institution of any kind).

Well I can assure you that it was NOT fun when I received a taste of my own medicine yesterday. In fact, it was mortifying, embarrassing and downright annoying!

Later in the evening, I asked, very calmly and in my super-cool voice "Did I or did I not propose to you this afternoon?" He laughed again, and then changed the topic. A third time I said, actually yelled, "Are you okay? What the hell is your problem? Didn't I ask you to marry me?"

Mista Fanutastiki yelled back (and I quote), "What kind of rubbish proposal was that? Are you well?"

Leaving me... gobsmacked... and just a little peeved.

Fine, he may have had a point or two. Prior to my utterance of the words "Will you marry me?" I had yelled at him for talking too loudly on the phone, freaked out when one of London's dumbest delivery men ever arrived with a massive box that he expected me to go downstairs and then lug all the way back into my flat with my spectacularly muscle-free arms. I had then proceeded to yell at Mr. F for standing around, and then shoved him downstairs to deal with my very heavy package and the box-bearing buffoon. (Seriously though, what is wrong with this city? How can a company accept your payment for a very heavy item, arrive with it and then tell you at the door oh, not at the online checkout counter, that their delivery is to "doorstep only"?)

Anyway by the time Mista Fanutastiki made it back upstairs with the very heavy box, I was sitting on my bed, the bright red insect biting my brain had departed, and I was beginning to blubber... like a baby. In my defence, it had been a very very stressful day. I had contracted the flu overnight, been working on my flat renovation since I got up at 6am whilst sneezing like a monster, I had a job interview coming up at 2 pm, it was already 1 pm, I was running late, I wasn't even prepared for the interview, and oh... (super huge factor)... all this was happening on the most painful strength-sucking day of my period. Sorry I know I'm supposed to say "lady week" but I think that's just ridiculous. Men need to learn to deal with the fact that every single woman on this planet has a week when blood, yes, blood, not red paint or ribena, seeps out of her. They also need to learn that it can make her very cranky and moody and emotional and downright insane as in my case, and that she can get incredibly pissed off at the fact that she is expected to tread on eggshells for no apparent reason by referring to her PERIOD as her "lady week", "time of the month", "red monster", (insert other annoying cover-up metaphor here) even though SHE is the one suffering the pain and discomfort!

I appear to have digressed, but in the middle of my crying and wailing ("I'm not going to my interview!", "I'm too sick!", "I hate my life!", "The world is over!") Mista Fanutastiki held me, and hugged me, and allowed me to cry for as long as I needed to. (If the shoe was on the other foot, I would probably have slapped him and yelled at him to get a grip.) Then he sat me upright, told me he was going to help me sort things out and that I was going to be just fine at my interview, and then said (the magic words) "You need to eat. What do you want me to get you?"

He left the room and the only thing I could think to say (actually yell, because he'd gone to the kitchen) was "Will you (sneeze, cough, sniff) marry meeeeee?"

Lucky for me though, he didn't say yes. I am in no position to get married anytime soon - I don't even have a car, a decent savings account or a National Insurance number!

But it would've been nice if he had at least played along and said yes, and had allowed me to believe that he wanted to marry me. When I told him this last night, he said, "The only reason you want me to marry you is so that I can be your butler."

So... A word of advice to any young chica looking to blurt out the big question? Wait for him to come to you, and when he does, laugh it off and leave the room, make him wait, make him ask again until he is forced to yell "OI! DID YOU NOT HEAR ME? I SAID MARRY ME, YOU FREAK!"

Mista Fanutastiki may not know it yet but that is sooooo the treatment he is going to get if he ever does propose. I am certainly not asking him a fourth time, that's for sure!

[Feel free to share your own embarrassing, or mushy, proposal stories at this juncture. Or to lament and side with me on the PERIOD (still yelling it) point I raised earlier.]