We tripped the life fantastic on the sidewalks of NY

[Ed note: Did someone really link to me on Fark? I'm sorry, was there a shortage of exploding dogs and size JJJ boobies yesterday or something?]

I've begun my annual, fruitless mission to find a styling product that keeps my hair from being frizzy without making it look all Jermaine Jackson. My hair never used to be frizzy, not even when I lived in GA. Now, however--and I blame my nascent early menopause*--my once-soft-and-curly locks have gone all wiry and Smith College-y.

So dig this big crux: Last fall, I actually found the miracle product. It was remaindered at The Christmas Tree Shoppes. Fifty cents! Had I known how perfect it was, I'd have bought every last bottle. Now I can't find it anywhere. So I have to press on.

In my search, I had consciously avoided the hated Ricky's NYC, a chain that carries specialized hair and cosmetic products. I can't quite put my finger on why I hate Ricky's so much; it could be the fact that often their products are overpriced and old and dusty. And that sometimes the price of the product will vary from bottle to bottle. And they put stuff on high shelves.

And also they won't allow you to try on more than three wigs per visit. What nerve.

However, since my search for this elusive magical "grooming cream" had turned up nothing, I went to Ricky's. Resignedly.

No luck on my particular brand, so I picked out various "grooming creams" and opened them all, partially because I wanted to find the one with the closest consistency and also because they expressly ask you not to open the bottles. Ha, suck it, Ricky's.

I ended up purchasing a cream that wasn't altogether satisfying, but it was cheap. And then I headed up to the train. La la la, lovely spring day; it was that time in the afternoon when the sky is just beginning to pinken and everything is gorgeous because you're about to go home and drink seven tumblers of scotch.

I walked about eight blocks when my arm brushed up against something cold and sticky on my coat. I looked down.

I had somehow managed to squirt seven tumblers of grooming cream down the front of my jacket. White, viscous ooze. All over my stomach. It looked like I'd had a chance encounter on 4th Ave. with Peter North.

Eight blocks like this. I frantically shook off my coat and ran into the nearest napkin-dispensing establishment--a Tasti-D-Lite, yet another chain store I don't go into. (To add insult to injury, I had to ask for a napkin. Is there no unfettered access to napkins anymore in this city? If it's really such a big problem that homeless people are helping themselves to them, why can't we just dispense toilet paper next to the ketchup and Equal?)

Anyhow. Fuck you, Ricky's.

*Fun fact! My grandmother went through the Change at age 35. I've already ordered the Carvel cake for my party. It's going to say Goodbye self-lubrication, Hello moustache! Naturally, it's a Cookie Puss.