Wish I Hadn’t Witnessed
After my last experience in New York City, you would think that I’d had my fill of gag-reflex triggering encounters, but upon my return, I started to find a lot of things in my own fair city that elicited the same response. Did I just not notice them before? Am I now somehow subconsciously seeking them out? Whatever the case, I blame Vivian for heightening my awareness of the nauseating.
But I suspect, however, that she did it because she found that, in sharing these experiences with me, perhaps they seemed slightly less appalling. Horror shared is a horror divided, which leads me to the purpose of today’s entry. My ultimate goal is for this feature to become a short-lived one, but in the event that I continue to be disturbed on a regular basis by things I see throughout my day, I need to have a venue in which to communicate these offensive occurrences.
Years of reading the chapter titles of self-help guides have taught me that holding negative feelings inside, much like eating White Castle after midnight, can destroy you from within. The healthiest thing to do, therefore, is to force all this negativity out onto the universe, so that everyone else feels the same way you do.
While I don’t usually look to biblical verse to guide my daily actions, the passage I keep circling back to is, “If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.” As I only have two eyes to spare, and mine eye doth be offended on a regular basis, I’m afraid I cannot follow this instruction to the letter of the law. Therefore, my updated take on that is going to be, “If thine eye offend thee, blog it out.”
So with that, it is with very mixed feelings that I launch my latest feature, “Wish I Hadn’t Witnessed.”
Wish I Hadn’t Witnessed: Under Where?
This weekend, while shopping for nothing in particular, I found myself magnetically drawn toward the Victoria’s Secret store. Although I didn’t have a particular need for unmentionables, I was strangely intrigued by their claims of a new patented bra technology. I wasn’t aware that there was any technology involved in bras, other than the security sensors that are so darn hard to pry off in the dressing rooms. But as I was looking around at the preferred underwear of Gisele Bundchen, I glanced over and saw a woman shopping with her daughter, who looked to be around five years old. The mother was digging through the stacks of neatly laid out underwear, leaving a trail of chaos in her path.
Just as I was about to tap her on the shoulder and point out that every single pair of underwear on that table was the same size, therefore there was really no need for her to snort her way through the table, like some sort of aardvark in search of grubs, I saw something out of the corner of my eye that made me stop in my tracks. This woman’s daughter was standing behind a headless mannequin, and looking around suspiciously. As I stood there, I watched in horror as the little girl pulled down the mannequin’s patented lilac underwear, leaned in, and pressed her lips to the beige plastic buttocks. After giggling maniacally, the girl would replace the underwear, step back, and then start the process all over again.
As I felt my brow furrowing, and the corners of my mouth turning down in disturbed confusion, I looked down at my hands and saw the identical pair of space age patented lilac underwear. With the same animal instinct I would tap into if I had looked down to see a tarantula in my hands, I threw the lilac underwear about five feet, landing on the shelf right near this girl’s mother.
I hurriedly pushed past the Victoria’s Secret sales woman who tried to block my path by forcing me to put on some hand lotion. But I had no need for hand cream – the stink of that place was already deep in my pores.
Filed under: Wish I Hadn't Witnessed on April 11th, 2005
April 11th, 2005 at 8:30 am
Oh, Jen.
I know from reading your blog that you don’t have day to day contact with children. This incident is minor compared to the antics of my seven year old son. Young boys seem to have a preoccupation with anything bathroom-related, private parts-related, making rude noises-related, etc. I’ve told my husband I’m not taking the little one out anymore until he’s 21. And then only on special occasions, like if the city is being evacuated for a tsunami or hurricane.
April 11th, 2005 at 9:00 am
Dear Jenny,
Children can be bumble bees and children can be monsters, see?
Love,
Vivian
April 11th, 2005 at 11:18 am
When Fred (my 8 lb dog) and I were at my friend N.’s house this weekend, N.’s daughter A. (8) and her playmate M. (also 8) were there as well. And of course, they wanted to hold Fred, who obliged them by lying cradled like a baby in their arms.
“Ooh. . . look at his wee-wee!” one of them says.
“Touch it,” says the other and then, of course, when contestant No. 1 does, exclaimes with pointed accusation, “She TOUCHED it!”
To which the toucher responds, “She TOLD me to!”
To which I responded, “NO TOUCHING FRED’s WEE-WEE!” right before leaning over to snatch my dog away from the vile little child molesters.
Kids can be so gross.
April 11th, 2005 at 12:50 pm
Ok, that’s just disturbing. I was a nanny for 4 years watching 3 kids and I still think that’s disturbing.
The closest I’ve gotten is when we would go shopping and the youngest of the 3 would jump from around the corner, holding is crotch and screaming at the top of his lungs, “I’m holding my peepee!”
I swear, they save all the weird stuff for when you’re in public. Once they’re at home, they’re normal little children again.
April 11th, 2005 at 12:50 pm
I guess another good thing about not having kids of my own is that I can have theoretical children. Because my theoretical children would never pants a mannequin and start making out with its bum.
Jill – keep your eyes peeled for a package in the mail. I’m sending Fred some patented space age underwear so he can roam freely w/o fear of being molested. Just keep him out of Victoria’s Secret, where apparently normal societal laws don’t apply. I’m going to assume he wears an Xtra Small?
April 11th, 2005 at 1:17 pm
Actually, I’m glad we are having a discussion about this subject. I’ve been afraid to bring it up among my friends, and I was afraid I was raising a pervert. The last time we were visiting my mother, she said, “J* sure talks about bathroom things alot.” “Uh,” I said, “not really,” all the time worrying she thinks I am doing a lousy job raising him, and that we all talk that way at home. I’m going to bring up the Fred (the dog) incident if she brings it up again. He has NEVER done that….at least in my presence.
April 11th, 2005 at 2:51 pm
How “proud” my Mom must have been when I was in third grade and she got a call from the school to say I was being sent home for the day because I brought some of my Dad’s PLAYBOY magazines to school and was sharing them with the class.
**note to parents out there – Those ten years worth of PLAYBOYs packed in boxes you think are safely buried in the basement are not as hidden as you THINK they are. haha
April 11th, 2005 at 6:58 pm
Dave, that is SO cool!!! You would have been like my bestest friend EVER! I was one of those kids deprived of a “hidden” Playboy collection, so I always had to depend on kids like you for all my cheap elementary school thrills!
Actually, Jenny, I have to say I’d have laughed if I’d seen the girl kissing the bare plastic butt. That’s just too funny! (Please don’t hate me!)
April 11th, 2005 at 6:58 pm
Dave, that is SO cool!!! You would have been like my bestest friend EVER! I was one of those kids deprived of a “hidden” Playboy collection, so I always had to depend on kids like you for all my cheap elementary school thrills!
Actually, Jenny, I have to say I’d have laughed if I’d seen the girl kissing the bare plastic butt. That’s just too funny! (Please don’t hate me!)
April 11th, 2005 at 8:15 pm
Yeah, it seems that all of my guy friends who heard this story thought it was pretty funny, as well. But my friend Dr. Greene got a bigger kick out of everyone’s comments, particularly those that mentioned “pee-pee’s” and “wee-wee’s.”
My single, childless status is beginning to make more and more sense…
April 21st, 2005 at 1:46 am
C’mon, Jenny. I was just havin’ fun while my mom was shoppin’ for underwears. Butts are funny! I wouldn’t kiss a real butt like that. You shoulda stayed.