I’m Not a Cat Lady

The Shame

This is not a post about Teri Hatcher. It's about me. But the reason I'm posting her photo is because I think, like her, I've developed Crazy Eye. Unlike her, I don't have the botox to blame.

I've have noticed over last few years that practically every time I walk into certain places, like a clothing store or maybe a wine shop, somebody says, "Can I help you?" This isn't so strange if I'm standing there lurking meaningfully by a salesperson or rummaging hopelessly through a rack. And not if I've just entered a Sephora or a Staples, where, to my continued outrage, people are hired to stand at the door and bellow greetings at everyone who enters. (Although, God forbid that once inside those places you should ever be in need of help; the staff are all at the front door.) Or walking through the dreaded ground floor  of Saks, where the assistants manning (womaning?) various makeup stations holler, "Can I help you?" as if they're specially wired robots and your body heat sets off a vocal mechanism as you pass.

No, this is happening in places where nobody ever wants to help you, like Duane Reade. Today I walked into one of those massive Duane Reades that forces you to go down the escalator if you want anything remotely drug-related or personal. I needed, well, something personal. I knew what I was looking for, I walked straight up to it, took it from the shelf, and got back on the escalator. A floor-walker who'd hopped on in front of me turned around and said, "Can I help you?"  I'm like, What? I'm on the escalator! I said, "Do I look like I need help?" I said this nicely, not rudely, because I genuinely wanted to know. And he goes, sheepishly, "Well, yes. You were looking around like this." And then he did an imitation of what might have been Stevie Wonder stepping into the light for the very first time in his life.

I sputtered, "Well, I don't need any help but thank you anyway," and pretty much sprinted out the door. How mortifying. I guess I asked for it, though. Maybe this is what I get for making cracks about iDags or celebrities with Crazy Eye in the first place.* But holy fuck. Is that what I look like when I'm walking around? I'm thinking I'm wearing a benign expression; meanwhile, my eyes are spiralling all over the place like Marty Feldman's in Young Frankenstein. What horrible news. I may never leave the house again.

* I'm not as mean as the Fug Girls, though, whom I happen to adore. See what they said about Hatcher's Crazy Eye Syndrome.

photo courtesy of Go Fug Yourself

Go to Whole Foods, Feel the Burn!

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I just got burned at Whole Food. No, I mean really burned. I was unloading my groceries onto the checkout counter and as I reached in my wallet for my credit card, I noticed a white residue on my fingertips. I know how that sounds, but it wasn’t that. It looked like my fingertips had been dipped in white paint, and as I held my fingers up to look closer, the white began to spread into splotches and started to sting.

I was very confused by this and just stood there with my mouth agape looking at my fingers and watching the white splotches spread, and then the stinging intensified and I suddenly thought something really weird was about to happen, that my whole body would spontaneously break out in white splotches and start burning all over ... And then I thought, “Anthrax!” My mind went from zero to panic in two seconds flat. I held my hand out for the cashier, who by now was looking at me askance, and said, a bit wimpily, “There’s something on my fingers!” and she nodded, kind of, “Yeah sure whatever,” but I insisted, “This is really weird, it’s really stinging,” so she handed me her hand sanitizer, which I rubbed on but it just stung more. So I asked if there was a ladies room and she escorted me way to the back of the store—walking a little casually, if you ask me—as I trotted behind convinced that my skin was about to blister and fall off like the Incredible Melting Man and then what would I do? 

We finally go back there and, hey, not too glamorous where the poor Whole Foods employees have to go to seek relief. Clean, but cheerlessly industrial, and only two loos. Naturally, both were occupied, so I headed for a huge sink and rinsed the hell out of my hand in cold water, and the stinging stopped. But the chalky white residue remained. Then it dawned on me that this was the kind of reaction peroxide has on the skin—I’ve bleached my own hair enough times, it’s happened. But this was seriously out of context in the Palace of All Natural and Organic, I must say.

A very nice girl who was back there arranging batches lovely Whole Foods flowers (in a sad, grey little room, bless her) called a floor manager and they both helpfully produced burn-relief items from a first aid kit. The manager was seriously puzzled by the idea that anything in the store could possibly burn a person, but still, he donned rubber gloves and searched through my bags to see if he could find anything untoward. He didn’t. He took my name and number, gave me his and advised me to go to the D*O*C*S nearby, where they have an account, to have it checked out, which I did—just in case I did suddenly self-combust later on, I wanted it to be on record. The guy at the reception thought it looked like an acid burn. Eek!

By the time the doctor saw me an hour had passed, my Ionic Awakening frozen pizza had defrosted, and 90 percent of the white whatever had disappeared. But there was still enough left for her to deliver the prognosis that it was, indeed, a reaction to peroxide.

Sure enough, when I unpacked the groceries at home, white splotches reappeared on my hand, and disappeared again shortly after I rinsed it. I still don’t know which item or items are drenched in peroxide, and I’m a little nervous about eating anything I’ve bought today. Which is not how you’re supposed to feel after shopping at Whole Foods, now are you?