I am an astute observer

This morning I got in the elevator at my home and it smelled like a big stinky fart.  I was thinking about how cruel the previous patron must be to capture their disgusting farts in an elevator for the next person.  When the elevator stopped on the sixth floor and a little construction worker dude got in, I could tell he could smell the elevator fart stink.  And since I was the only person in the elevator, I’m sure he blamed me.  I had to ride the rest of the way down imagining that this construction dude was probably thinking to himself “Man, that little girl can really rip some nasty ass gas.” 

If I were to cut off one part of my body and so that it can bionic parts surgically replaced, I’d choose my right hand.  That’s because, while walking, I hold my heels that I will be wearing for the day in my left hand (I walk to work in sneaker to preserve my heels).  This leaves my right hand free to attack cars that jump in front of me while walk or attempt to run me over.  This happens numerous times, including today.  If I had a bionic hand, then my counter-attack on the offensive vehicles would leave me in less pain and them with more vehicular damage.  Until that time, I will deal with the right hand pain and hope that my whacks sound bigger and badder to the offending driver because it is the PRINCIPAL of the moment.

While walking to work, I saw a lady wearin some bad-ass hooker heels.  More accurate, they were dominatrix heels; black leather with excessive buckles and straps and an insanely high heel that tapered to needle-thin prick.  But, she was wearing a very demure skirt.  Like Sunday-church attire, hitting below the knee with precious little flowers and pastel colors.  I wanted to inform her that those two styles don’t necessary ‘go’ well together and she needs to wear something latex and lace-up.  But she stumbled (those heels are hard to walk in on uneven city sidewalks) off before I could alert her of her horrendous fashion faux pas.

The past two days, while climbing the escalator in my office building, I have tripped on the stairs.  Since I ALWAYS climb the escalator, and I have been doing this for YEARS, the only plausible conclusion is that the building has changed the individual stair heights, sometime over the evening of Monday.  Not that I am escalator-climbing challenged.  Now that I have realized their sneaky stair-height-changing ways, I’m hip and did not trip on my escalator climb this morning.

BUT!  On my morning escalator climb, I was behind a behemoth of a man wearing leather pants.  Tight leather pants.  He was huge, like two Fleurs put together, tall and wide, a giant of a man.  And he was redheaded.  Like a big Irish, tight-leather pants wearing man.  My office building is a corporate office building.  We wear suits and dress shoes, we are a conservatively dressed bunch of professionals.  So I walked behind him giving him my best “Who do you think you are, Irish, tight-leather pants wearing, redheaded man?” look the entire way.  Because he lacked other apparel that would lead me to believe he just biked in on his Harley, I was forced to make the conclusion that he is an Irish, tight-leather pants wearing, redheaded homosexual.  Which I’m fine with.  And because he’s so ‘massy,’ like enormous, and occupying so much space, I concluded he’s a ‘bear’ homosexual.  So this morning I climbed the escalator behind an Irish, tight-leather pants wearing, redheaded, bear homosexual.  Interesting.

After getting a cup of coffee, I went to hop into an elevator to return to my office.  At the far end of the elevator bay, I spotted two chubby girls, waiting for an elevator.  They were more like two panda bears, and they were stuffing their panda bear faces with Starbucks sugar-death goodies.  But, I was drinking a Starbucks Americano, so I cannot judge.  The elevator immediately in front of me was open, so I made eye-contact, then pointed to the open elevator.  Then I stood in the elevator, pressing the ‘open doors’ button, waiting for the panda bears to clamber into the elevator, testing the load capacity with their combined girth and giving me a fright-ride while I anticipate the elevator failing to lift us, snapping cables and ultimately plummeting to our death.  I was being NICE by holding the doors open, because I am a ‘door close’ button person on any other given day.  They never clambered over.  Perhaps they found an extra petite vanilla scone hidden in the folds of their hand fat, thus becoming distracted and forgetting their goal of acquiring an upward moving vehicle to deposit them behind their desk jobs, where I’m sure a box of Ding Dongs is sitting next to a 42 pack of Diet Coke is awaiting their thunderous arrival.  Panda bears suck.

I’m wearing white pants.  I look damn good in white pants.  I like white pants because I have a big butt, and I’m proud of being a pasty pale white girl who has a big butt.  And the white pants enhance the big butt.  So I look damn good today.

This concludes my morning observations.