Category: boheme

Remember the whole recent bra issue at Boheme? Well, Dave came in a couple of days after Mother’s Day with the coda to the story.

The poor man. He was aghast at the prospect of overnighting the butterfly bra to his mom. His face literally went white at the retelling of his trip to UPS.

“What’s in the box?” the clerk asked.

“Uhm, well, it’s … well, it’s a bra.”

“Uh-huh. Is there any metal on the bra?”

Dave was dying.

“Well, yeah. I mean, I guess.”

“Okay. Open the box, please.”

So poor Dave was forced to open the box with the butterfly bra in front of evvverybody. Forced to watch as the clerk thoroughly “checked it out.” Finally, though, the box was shut and sent off to mom.

His mom who has Alzheimer’s, you see.

So a few days later, Dave’s phone rang. His mom, exclaiming, “Ohhh! Honey! I got the bra you sent me for Mother’s Day! I can’t believe it. Thank you! HOW did you know my size?”

“Mom, what — what do you mean?”

“The bra! It’s just my size!”

“Mom ….. it’s your bra.”

“It IS?”

“Yeaaah.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Mom, I swear. You left it here, you called me, I sent it back to you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

There was a pause.

“Hm. Well, it’s real pretty.”

Again, with the cruppy cell phone cam. It is all too too exciting, I know, so please calm thyselves.

Part of the backyard patio at Boheme. Say hi to some of the coffee peeps.

Oh, I see what’s going on here with me and my lazy butt. I need to put these cups away but get distracted by the crossword puzzle. What if the owner catches you, Tracey? For shame.

The cups are in their spot. The peeps are on the patio. The puzzle has been finished. And now I really need to mull over the ugliness of my shoe. Please be silent whilst I do so. Thankee.

After that, I really need to think about the nifty stone egg in front of the museum. I mean, it’s an egg … made of stone.

A stone egg.

My very favorite stone egg.

After that, I scurry home quick like a bunny to post these bombshells right here, on my blog!

So my friend and customer M left today on a trip with a friend to Central America. She came in yesterday, chainsmoking her head off, panicked because she’s never flown, panicked because she can’t smoke on the plane, and panicked because what if I need time alone on the trip and what if it hurts my friend’s feelings and then what if she ends up hating me and such?

These are two women who’ve been friends for a long long time. Still, at one point, M paused, cigarette at her lips, and said, all morose, in her dry drrry deadpan:

“Well, baaasically … I’ve already planned on never speaking to her again once we’re home.”

Hahahahahahaha.

At Boheme today ….. some of my favorite gay guys, raving about, uhm, periods and bras:

GUY 1: Oh, Gawd. Why was Rosie O’Donnell talking about PMS today?

GUY 2: Ew. I know. I was freaking OWWT.

GUY 3: Yeah. Why do women think we want to hear that, Tracey??

They all turn towards me.

ME: Well, uhh —

GUY 2: Yeah. Like my sister? She’s got these really big bo*obs. And she’s always talking about them, about her big stupid bo*ob problems. To ME. And I DON’T WANNA HEAR IT. T. M. I.

GUY 3: Oh, yeah. I know. Like when my mom (ed.: she’s about 75) was here — she left one of her bras in my guest bed. And I found it! Ugh! I was so freaked out. And she called me and she’s all, “Daaaave, I can’t find my brrraaa! My good butterfly brrraaa! (he flutters his arms, a butterfly) Will you look for it? It’s the only white one I have! If I don’t have that one, all I have are a bunch of black ones!”

GUYS 1 & 2: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

GUY 3: I know. I know! My mom. In a black bra. My mind just shut down. So I tell her, “Yeah, Mom. I already found it, your butterfly bra (flutters his arms again). It was in the bed.” So she goes, “Oh, good! Will you send it to me overnight? I neeed it!” I can’t BElieve I’m going to the post office to overnight my mom some stupid $70 butterfly bra!

I was too busy wiping the tears of laughter off my face to say anything at all.

My born-again Christian lesbian customer, M, who has her own cleaning business, continued her vicious tirade against witches’ houses today. She is just over them. I wish you could actually hear her diatribes, though. They are even more hysterical because of this dry downward deadpan she has. I cannot tell you how much I absolutely love this woman.

So today she came in, toddling in her ducky bike shoes, chainsmoking and gearing up for her big healthy bike ride. And she was just pissed OFF about witches again:

“Okay. So. There is just no way for me to tell you how horrible this witch’s house was. I mean, it was just brutally filthy. SO gross. I swear it’s like these witches become ONE with the dirt or something from all their woodsy demon rituals. You go into their houses and it is just filthy crappy pigginess. So this last witch? I go in there and I just want to DIE from the horror of it all. It is like a junkyard of evil. And she has this dresser and it’s covered with these little plastic bugs and little plastic dinosuars. And they are gross. So dirrrrty. Like, there is just mung everywhere. You know mung? Just disgusting MUNNNG. And you know how theses witches are — how they arrange things in certain positions as entry points for power? Well, I’m standing there in a freakin’ panic from the mung, putting on my gloves and scrubbing each individual plastic wing on these gross filthy bugs. And then it dawned on me, like, what the hell am I doing?? But I cleaned them because I couldn’t stop, but I didn’t know exactly where everything went when I was done because there’s literally just crap everywhere, so I just arranged them all nice, you know? So she came home and — let me tell ya — it was just a devvvastating moment for the witch. She was instantly all pissed off because I rearranged her devil arrangement or whatever. Like, just trying to clean her filth, I ruined her connection with evil or something. And that was IT. She was having a fit about plastic bugs and I was just done with her. This horrible old witch who’s dating some 25-year-old guy, by the way ….. and what the hell is HE doing?? Seriously. Hanging out with her. In THAT house. Having filthy mungy witch sex. Dear God. It’s the trauma of it. I am totally retraumatized. All that filthy filthy mung.”

And I was howling. Literally crying. I just could not take the word “mung” being uttered one more time. But then again, I wanted her to say it again and again and again. Mung. Mung. Mungy. I was howling so loudly that the Overlord came over from his deli and said, all tight and disapproving, “Um, I can totally hear you laughing.”

Dude, one word: MUNNNG.

I dare you not to laugh.

Well, I knew it would happen, I just didn’t think it would be so soon.

I have become a conjoined twin.

The reflection in the steam pitcher doesn’t lie. I got a gander at myself this morning after making Big Norm’s latte and that’s when it became clear. My newly conjoined status. My looming head head. You know, I think it was nice that Norm didn’t comment about it. That all he said was, “Oh, such nice foam!” That he didn’t inquire about the identical human head growing upside down on top of my regular head. He’s a sensitive guy, that Big Norm.

MB, however, started immediately snapping pictures, all proud and excited about the latest addition to the family. Someone else to talk to! Maybe someone better! Just someone who speaks English, for Lord’s sake! Stuff like that.

Unfortunately, I did not share his elation. Neither did my head head. See how glum we are upon learning of the other’s existence? Right after this shot, I downed, like, 137 Ibuprofen.

A few frames later, though, with a little encouraging patter from MB like look at you! so much taller! and hey! no more bad hair days, and well, men won’t stare at your boobs now we lightened up a bit, embracing our cross-eyed double-headed future together.

Now, let’s not get ugly here. Keep your jealousy to yourselves, please.