Skylar Gets Swindled

Things were going pretty uncharacteristically fabulous in my life, and then two days ago I was brought back to reality by the most bougie homeless man to ever exist. His dietary choices mixed with my staunch gullibility once again beg the question, “How do these things always happen to you?!” to which I reply, “Shoot me in the face.”

Here’s how my most recent interaction with a hobo friend went down:

I was walking to the gym after work, stopped to watch the game going down at the West 4^th Street Basketball Courts, didn’t get the opportunity to yell, “AND 1!”, got bored and kept going. All of a sudden a man comes up to me and asks, “Excuse me, do you have a dollar?”

Now, everyone knows that the answer to this question is “No.” Not because you’re a bad person, or cheap, or a liar, but because homeless people run rampant and if I gave them all of my dollars I wouldn’t have anything left to impulse-buy Pretzel M&M’s with in my bi-weekly moments of weakness. At this time, I had nine single dollars in my wallet, which is a rarity, and as selfish as it may sound I was guarding them with my over-privileged life.

“No, I’m sorry,” I replied to the man who will now be known as Richie Rich.

“Would you mind buying me some food?”

Ugh, tug at my heartstrings, Richie. I literally don’t know what came over me, but I agreed.

“There’s a Morton Williams right around the corner.”

“Sure, let’s go.”

As we walk and chat about things like the warmer weather and allergies, I started to take stock of what exactly I was dealing with. Number one, he was wearing relatively new looking shoes. In my top 10 most recent homeless-guy experiences, 80% of them are wearing holey black Velcro New Balances with the pinky toe displayed prominently, so this was new. Second, he was wearing clean Adidas track pants and carrying a multi-pocketed Jansport that for the purposes of this story appeared much more high-tech than your standard shopping cart. Interesting, to say the least.

“I’m really trying to get my energy up,” Richie Rich said.

“That’s always a good plan.”

“Have you heard of Kombucha?”

Yes, Richie, I’m a white girl from the ‘burbs who befriends several health nuts, follows fitspo Instagram accounts, and pins quinoa recipes on Pinterest; of course I’ve heard of Kombucha.

“I really like the Multi-Green one. It’s a great detoxifier.”

WHAT WHAT WHAT.

“And I’m a vegetarian so it’s a great supplement to that type of diet.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

Everyone stop laughing immediately. I was already pretty keen to what was happening and it was not cool.

Richie continues to explain the different benefits of a variety of products typically found at Whole Foods and I just nodded in defeat. We arrive at the grocery store and still giving him some semblance of the benefit of the doubt, I think we’ll go straight to the prepared food section, he’ll grab a veggie sandwich and his fermented tea concoction, and we’ll be out.

Nope.

Richie grabs a fucking basket.

So there we are, the Odd Couple shopping for Tuesday Night Dinner. Richie throws Kombucha, premade samosas, two Vitamin Waters (Restore flavor), and a box of Boca burgers in his basket, along with a toothbrush and my trust. It crossed my mind several times to say, “Are you kidding me?” and dipset, but the small chance that this was maybe the only thing Richie would eat for the next couple of days coupled with me potentially being the girl who left a homeless man in the aisle of the grocery store with food he couldn’t pay for made me stay.

We get up to the checkout line and he tosses it all on the conveyer belt like he’s done this a few times before. The cashier looks at me out of pity and confusion, which is something I’m used to but was much more attentive to in this situation. I had let my conscience be my guide and now I was planning on speaking to her in my office the next morning and putting her on leave without pay, because she was an idiot.

Everything is rung up to a grand total of $52.11, which is more than I spend on groceries for myself for an entire week. I swiped with undetectable hesitation and kept the receipt to wipe off my shame later that night. Richie and I walk out of the store holding hands (jk) and I’m just about to launch into a full-on sprint when he says, “There’s a Duane Reade right down the street….”

Really? Really.

“Sorry dude, I’ve got to go.”

“Oh okay, thanks again then!”

“Ohhhh you are so welcome.”

If you think it ends there you clearly need to backtrack and read some more of my life tales because it most definitely does NOT, per usual.

The next night, I was walking with my boyfriend and another friend through the same area. I had just finished telling them this exact story, and they berated me for being naïve and oblivious, and I was agreeing but defending it all by saying, “Hey, at least my karma’s in check.”

We’re about to cross the street when a man rounds the corner.

“Excuse me, do you have a dollar?”

They both automatically say no and keep moving.

I start violently squeezing my boyfriend’s hand.

“THAT WAS HIMMMM!” I hissed.

Predictable “NO WAY”’s and “Are you sure?”’s and “GO YELL AT HIM!”’s were thrown around but obviously did not occur. Richie might’ve been wearing a Rolex and applying a mud mask to his face when he passed on his way to a candle-lit hot yoga class, but who could be sure.

So I’m back and arguably better than ever, friends. For my sake, I hope my life will return to a state of boring normalcy. It won’t, though, and you’re all welcome for that. Raise a glass of brewed yeast and bacteria encased in cellulose to being young and dumb; I have like three more weeks of being able to get away with it!

x

How To Give The Perfect Gift

I'm not gonna sugar coat it: I judge people who give bad gifts.

Yes, this goes entirely against the spirit of the holiday season, and maybe I'm just an exceptional Kris Kringle (hair toss), but I really don't understand people who wrap up a copy of WINE for Dummies, laugh when you open it while explaining, "Everyone knows Skylar can't say NO to MERLOT" (for the thousandth time, I like Cabernet Sauvignon, you thoughtless piece of trash), and sit back giving themselves a pat on the back for half-assing it through yet another birthday party for Jesus.

This is avoidable. You don't have to be the dud who everyone prays doesn't pick them for Secret Santa/Mysterious Maccabi! A few easy tips are all that stand between you and a genuine, "Wow! Thank you so much!" or this:

Step 1: Get your head out of your own ass - The holidays are not the time to change someone; we reserve that for 30th birthdays, interventions, and serious relationships. Giving a friend a box set of Josh Groban's best duets because you yourself are a Grobanite is not a gift, it's sadism with a bow on top. If you attend aerial yoga four nights a weeks and think everyone should attend aerial yoga four nights a week and cornered your petrified sister-in-law after dinner to discuss the overwhelming calmness brought on by swaying savasana, you're just being a holly jolly jackass when everyone unwraps silk hammocks and nods at you with thinly-veiled contempt.

Step 2: Listen, Linda - I am an elephant--I forget nothing. I still remember a guy I was seeing in 2010 mentioning that when he got home from school as a kid, his mom would make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on rye while he watched Captain Planet. I literally have zero use for this information now, but it's stuck in there for life. The key to being an excellent gift-giver is not to rely on what the recipient mentions they want between November 29 and January 1; it's reaching all the way back to May when they talked about how much they loved boudin sausage on their recent visit to New Orleans and signing them up for a Cajun cooking class. How can you not get the warm and fuzzies from knowing you gave the perfect gift they didn't even know they wanted?

Step 3: Stand and Deliver - The above being said, if a loved one asks for something specific, don't go nuts trying to outdo yourself when there wasn't even a competition. Your cousin wants a book on Moroccan culture? Don't buy her a plane ticket to Marrakesh, just give her the freaking book. Most people, myself included, feel like this is the one time of year they can express their want for something without coming off like Veruca Salt; don't make me feel even more unnecessarily guilty by going completely overboard with my simple, "if it's not too much trouble" request.

Step 4: Change it up - We get it, your dad is a Packers fan. How many DVD's can he possibly watch highlighting their 1967 season? How much Green Bay barware can he really drink out of? What is the man going to do with a chunk of grass from Lambeau Field?! You have to realize when enough is enough. While he may be thrilled with end zone seats to the Packers vs. Bears game (duh), if you give him a Fat Head of Jerry Kramer - SURPRISE! - you're paying off your own student loans from now on, fucker.

Step 5: Enjoy it - If you view holiday shopping as a chore, you're 99% of what's wrong with the world (the other 1%: the fact that American Idol is still on the air. What the hell are we even doing). I'd venture to guess that the children of the middle-aged mom I witnessed viciously scream at a Foot Locker employee over the lack of color choices for Nike Hyperdunks would rather just receive a plain old basketball and call it a year. If you're getting bent out of shape over a 20%-off coupon, you need to shred your credit cards and check yourself. Hard. This season is supposed to be fun; don't ruin it for the rest of us just because you didn't manage to snag the last Nerf N-Strike Elite Nerf Cam ECS-12 Blaster. The BOOMco. Rapid Madness Blaster will suffice.

 

New Yorker? Not Yet

I have lived in New York City for about a month and a half now.

The hierarchical years of service metric claims that I still have about seven years and 10.5 months until I can claim official "New Yorker" status, but I'm a fast learner, and until I've earned my stripes I'm at least taking note of what it will really take to be one of those geniuses who knows how to navigate the subway without using a map.

Here's how I know I've got a little ways to go:

I smile at passers-by - "Oh how courteous of you, Skylar." Wrong. This is not okay. People are uncomfortable when you look at them at all. Years of living in Kentucky (where the Kroger greeter met you with a, "Well hi there my darlin', how yew?") and Northern Virginia/DC (where passing a random yogger would at least get you a breathless "hey" plus head nod) completely ruined me for New York social interaction. The only person who wants to tell you how their day is going is the homeless man missing toenails on the 3 a.m. E Train and my friendliness stops there.

I buy too many groceries - In a technical sense, this is not true. Just as I've always done, I shop for enough food to get me through the week, although the added bonus of not having my car here means I buy enough to fit into two bags that I then get to carry a mile home. Apparently, I'm supposed to completely forgo the grocery list and eat all of my meals via Seamless. Why this is such a difficult transition for me to make I have no idea, because if living the American dream isn't getting a meatball parmigiana sandwich delivered at 1 p.m. and then again at 1 a.m. I don't know what is.

I wear color - My closet is color coordinated in rainbow order and is a collection of predominantly red, blue, and pink. I own three black tops and a black cardigan. That's all. New Yorkers don't wear color, primarily because of occurrences like the toenail-less gentleman above being a run-of-the-mill thing. If I'm wearing a bright yellow sweater and I sit down in the seat that he occupied not five minutes before, who really thinks that the layer of sidewalk on his jacket won't make it onto my clothes? Never mind a little dirt on my back, I might also be pregnant. All black errthang is the way to go.

I say "very" - It's "mad," e.g. "That bagel place is mad busy on Saturday" and "Girl your hair is mad long, whatchu use, Argan oil?" (unfortunately the latter has been taken from recent events and was said by a straight dude.) I sound like an idiot when I say anything even remotely slang-y, which is why, wish as I might, I could never move to Boston because I would be the weirdo painfully trying to work "wicked" into conversation. Same applies here.

I never see anyone I know - In NoVA, I couldn't go to a Target 45 miles away from my house without seeing an old soccer coach or the girl from my high school photography class who overplucked her eyebrows (and was still suffering the consequences). In a population of just over 2.5 million people, that's not ridiculous, but it's also kind of ridiculous. I live eight miles away from Midtown in a population of nearly 8.5 million people and I never recognize a soul. I do have friends in the city, but I'm pretty sure most of them are avoiding me as a polite way of saying, "I never actually liked you, bitch" which I totally respect and understand. As far as new friends go, the "psychic" down the street who always sees something in my aura when I walk by and I are like this.

 

I don't care about baseball - Mets, Yankees, it really doesn't matter to me. There were grown men crying over Jeter's retirement and I didn't even know it was his last game until the day of. I've been told I need to pick a team and devote my life to it, but at a recent trip to Citi Field I didn't even realize the game was over until it was over (and the Mets lost, if anyone wanted the biggest shock of their life). I am a Giants fan through and through, and while I own a Knicks jersey, I would scrounge for Nets tickets in a heartbeat if they led to a potential sighting of Queen Bey. Unfortunately I just don't see myself ever genuinely caring enough about the Mets/Yankees rivalry. Not even sorry.

 

 

 

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