Notes From The Carlyle – July 2013

k7905334 It’s three in the afternoon as I sit sipping a hardy glass of burgundy.

I’m feeling a bit down since I was due to come with my friend Joey, but because of my erratic, unpredictable lifestyle, our plans were put on hold. I even had a dress all picked out since we were celebrating my birthday…had the best time trying on a dozen as if I were Carrie Bradshaw.  images-1

Haven’t seen Joe in a good long while. We’d meet once a month for lunch or an early dinner at an Italian joint we both like, but our friendship kind of got lost a bit even though he’s an avid athingirl fan.

A few weeks ago on the hottest day who do I see loping up Fifth Avenue but Joe, his long sleeve button-down drenched from fast walking from 30 Rock where he works. This is when you know Manhattan is really Mayberry when you randomly bump into a pal out of the blue. He was running for Gay Pride the next day and was en route to pick up his number from the Road Runners Club. It was nice to see him looking so fit and happy. He always says such sweet things to me like, “Ya look great Susannah…you’re so beautiful…”sigh…while I bask in the praise like a cat in the sun.

Anyway, to make a long story longer, it’s a pity he’s not here.

I look around to see who is and it’s one of those light summer crowds…it’s Thursday, so the city has already begun to empty. The only ones left are me and poorly dressed tourists who sit at the bar disappointed the game’s not on. Bemelmans is not the kind of place that would ever have a TV. It’s too old-fashioned even if they have branched out by putting potato skins on their bar menu.

“What are you drinking,” I ask a woman with what comic Rich Voss calls, freak of nature breasts (HUGE).

“What that there is Darlin is whatcha call a pa-ink squir-rol.”

“Wow,” I said, wondering if on top of everything else, I was going color blind too, “that there sure looks green to me.”

Just then the bartender appeared and said, “You wanted a pink squirrel…I thought you said a daiquiri.”

Way-ell, what ever-a, id’ees, darlin, eet’s GRRR-ATE.” It was so Tony Tiger the way she said GRRR-ATE.

Like I said, it’s just me and a bunch of  ‘whatever it is I’ll take it’ down-home folk. Her name was Millie, short for Millicent, who hails from I want to say the Ozarks, but she said Tennesssay. She’s married to Big Bob who’s here for some golf tournament on Long Island and they always stay at the Ca-ly’-ol because, and no I did not make this up, it has the best mina ba.

Her boobs were positively hypnotic the way they swayed to and fro. After my second glass of wine I so wanted to ask, what’s it like having them that big.

I didn’t, but now wish I had since wouldn’t we all like to know?

“So where’s Big Bob,” I ask instead.

Golf-in.”

“Don’t you like to go watch?”

“Eh..ya seen one ball, ya seen-em all.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“You and Big Bob have any kids?”

“He duz…bunch of-em. That seed a’his is vera popula in Mamphis.”

“I always wanted to go to Memphis, you know, to see where the King lived.’

“Ya mean Gracelen?”

No the local Burger King..of course I meant Graceland. We all know how much I love anything historic not to mention dead, so the thought of  seeing Elvis’s final resting place after this much wine left me in a ghoulish swoon.  images-2

“Yes, I’m just dying to go there.”

“We day’ded. me and El.” Okay, you want to lose your buzz real fast, let someone who’s wearing this much polyester with bionic body parts tell you she dated Elvis. Not only does it make him look let’s just say, BAD, but you can’t help being disappointed that she’s here telling you about it instead of him.

“Ah was much slimma back thay’en, but he luvved ma boobas.”

“I’ll bet.” Yes, I said that.

We were then joined by Minerva, I’ll call her since she’s a regular and scares the hell out of me. She’s Persian on the perennial prowl for a rich husband. Minerva arrives with her laptop, iPhone and iPad plopped on a stool from late afternoon till evening. I can only compare it to fishing the way she patiently waits till she feels a tug on her line. She ends up throwing many of them back, but what’s a good fisherman to do when they’re either too small or too slimy.

Minerva loves telling me about those poor unfortunate fellows snared in her narcissistic net. She’s not that great looking, but she thinks so even though she has a nose you could hang your coat on and an ass that rivals J.Lo’s, images except she’s Minerva, so its size isn’t always so celebrated. She thinks I’m gay because my hair’s short and I’m not out there looking for anything but a blog post. The bartender told me this. You can just kiss that old, the bartender never tells, adage good bye because this guy, for a buck, will sing like a canary.

Minerva and Millicent have plunged into a dull conversation on brassieres since Minerva  is also well endowed. Seems Millie feels you can never go wrong with Playtex while Minerva is more a La Perla girl.

“What about you Susannah,” Minerva asked, “what bra do you prefer.”

“Oh, the kind that only comes out on special occasions.”

I’m happy Joe isn’t here. I would have made him sit at the bar because it’s cheaper since at a table, after five, you get smacked with a cover charge. I could see Joey being polite to both women while Minerva mouthed over his head, “Is he straight?” See, if I was with Russell Crowe and she asked me that, I’d lie and say no. She’d be like a raccoon loose in his wallet.

I’m convinced men know when they’re about to be potentially fleeced even if their dicks conveniently ignore it. When Minerva told me she found Aristotle Onassis attractive that’s when I knew love was just a four letter word, to quote Bob Dylan. I know Jackie married him, but there were extenuating circumstances, like her clothing allowance the Kennedys kept bitching about. When Ari heard the paltry amount they gave her he said, ‘That’s all?” Like I said, there was more than meets the eyelid that was drooping even then.

After my two burgundy limit I was ready to go. Millie wasn’t talking about Elvis or inviting me to stay at her house so I could save on a hotel, and Minerva was chatting up an Asian from Manilla who came up to her waist. Well, I suppose that could be handy on a late Thursday night. He offered to replenish my glass but I demurred and lied when I told all three how sad I was to leave.

It was actually the only thing I was happy about.

I then tooled home thinking how great it would be to have a piece of baked brick-oven white pizza with garlic and extra olives.

“Hello, Farinella, I’d like to place an order to be delivered please…

yes I’ll hold…

thanka vera much.”                images-3

SB.

About Susannah Bianchi

I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves. My eBooks, A New York Diary, Model Behavior: Friends For Life and Notes From A Working Cat can be found on Amazon.com. Thanks.
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8 Responses to Notes From The Carlyle – July 2013

  1. Priceless. This is pure gold. A hunka-hunka-pure gold.

    Like

  2. D. D. Syrdal says:

    Poor Joe, sounds like he missed quite a show there 😉

    Like

  3. anon says:

    I wouldn’t have guessed you to be an Elvis fan, though I don’t suppose that’s important for the swing of your tale. Another entertaining piece Susannah: thanks.

    Like

  4. anon says:

    He had a certain style, though I can’t say I was ever a fan. Now the day Hendrix died is a different matter: that day I wept.

    Like

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