From the Archives:
I’m exhausted and starving.
I sit with G in a corner booth at a hamburger joint on the Upper West Side while I contemplate the purchase I just made at a posh cosmetics outlet next door. I’m pretty sure the saleswoman up sold me. Yep, I’m pretty sure I let that happen. I know I don’t NEED this NARS blusher in ‘orgasm’. Why didn’t I just say NO when she said the word orgasm. This is why I don’t run errands when I’m hungry. I went into the store just to pick up the one facial moisturizer on the planet with SPF 30 that doesn’t make my face break out and I walk out with a NARS blusher called orgasm. I know, I’ll stop saying it.
As I replay the events in my head of how that saleswoman bamboozled me, I suddenly hear G squeal with delight. I look up to see him practically hurl himself over the top of the booth to get to the table next to us.
‘Whoa mister!’ I laugh as I grab his thick little waist, ‘Where are you going?’
And then I see her. She’s about 6, maybe 7. She’s wearing a darling little marinière dress with a tousled mess of dark curls and a devilish grin on her face that’s missing a couple of teeth. G is trying to get to her table. I pull him down.
‘Sorry,’ I smile to the girl’s father. I look down at my menu and there is the squeal again, only this time it’s in response to the little lady shoving her hand over the booth and under G’s armpit to give him a ticklish squeeze. Her tongue has popped out the side of her mouth due to her concentrated effort and I’m pretty sure I just saw an actual twinkle in her eye. G flops down on the bench as he tries to catch his breath. Then he jumps up again to surprise her and she shoves her hand under his arm again while peals of those great and pure toddler giggles come pouring out of him.
My goodness, I think. How am I going to put an end to this? I’m not even sure the iPad stands a chance against this little mouse. But then I see her father sign his credit card slip.
He looks up at G and says, ‘Bye, we have to go,’ to which our little hero responds with what we like to call, stink face.
This is a classic nose scrunch/mouth frown combo that makes him look like an 80 year old man who just accidentally passed gas and tries to blame it on someone else.
The father laughs and says…’I’m sorry! We have to go.’
The little girl’s eyes suddenly grow larger as she shoots her hand over the booth for one last armpit squeeze. With a wicked little grin she waves a playful goodbye.
As she leaves the table, G chucks himself face first down onto the bench, crestfallen. He lies there catatonic, his face is frozen in disappointment. The other patrons around us try to suppress their giggles.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘There are plenty of other girls in the sea.’
The waitress comes over to take our order and says, ‘Your son was just flirting with Tina Fey‘s daughter. They come in here all the time,’ she laughs, ‘I just thought you’d like to know.’