Wednesday, October 31, 2007

It's Tool Time!

I think that I must look like a fun project to lame-ass men, because all the tools in the tool kit seem to gravitate towards me. After several months, I finally broke my involuntary resolution not to go out with men and agreed to meet up with a guy I’d just met for a few drinks.

Of course, I missed a few red flags along the way, the first being his website I came across when I accidentally googled his first and last name. The website was selling his services as a motivational speaker, or rather, “word artist” as I believe he asked to be called (since when did "motivational speaker" become politcally incorrect?). Unfortunately, I had pumped my volume setting up to “11” when I opened up the page—porno muzak blared from my speakers, and both couples who had just taken a seat next to me in the coffee shop suddenly remembered they all had appointments far, far away from me. Great. Where was I going to find another Starbucks in town? Even worse, gems such as “Happiness is not chance, but a choice” littered the page. If he was a word artist, then he was a really bad one. Like so bad they could have created a Museum of Bad Word Art that just displayed his website. I know, I know, I’m such the word art snob.

Despite this, I boldly set out to meet the man I was pretty sure I was not going to like. A girl’s got to drink, right? In his website profile, he compared himself to an amusement park ride—something about how experiencing him was the same as riding a roller coaster—so I made sure not to eat anything before-hand as I didn’t want to do a repeat performance of that time I took a spin on Space Mountain right after lunch. Let me tell you, those people below me were none too pleased I chose to have a sausage with all the fixins that day.

Our conversation started as most do: very awkwardly and with lots of “umms” and “likes” and “oh-fuck-I-shouldn’t-have-admitted-I-watch-Oprahs” sprinkled throughout. Things were actually pretty OK until he started to tell a story.
“Now before I begin,” he said, (rather dramatically), “I want to tell you that I label everyone for the benefit of the listener. For instance, if I were to tell you a story about my friend Bob, you’d forget his name immediately afterwards. But if Bob was one of my four best friends, who I call the four horsemen, I would call him "the horseman" when talking about him so that you would remember him better.”

I sat up straighter in my chair. “The four horsemen? Like of the apocalypse? Why do I need to remember his name anyway? Is there going to be a pop quiz later? Do I need to run out and get a #2 pencil?”

Ignoring my questions, my date went into a story about one of his four horsemen; he must have referenced this horseman at least 100 times throughout the story. I tried to keep a straight face whenever he mentioned his friend, the horseman, but I couldn’t help a little smile creeping out every now and then. I’m sure I looked constipated.

After another painful conversation about how he was going to save the world by becoming a lawyer, it was finally time to go. This guy had actually made me look forward to taking Boston’s public transit. As I sat on the T, gazing out the window and reflecting on yet another lame date, I began to cheer up at the story I could surely tell about it. And, in the spirit of the guy who has a label for everyone, I have decided to label my date “Tool” to make it easier on you, my dear reader, so that you may remember him long after the four horsemen of the apocalypse have destroyed all of mankind, and hopefully all word art as well.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Happy Whore-oween!

Somehow, the porn industry has gotten ahold of what used to be a children’s holiday. Searching the net for a costume leaves me with little choice but to shell out a lot of money for not a lot of fabric. Now the naughty cat, the naughty pirate, the naughty devil I can understand, but the naughty nun? The naughty angel? The naughty…Amish woman? I might as well go to the downtown pimp and ho shop and save myself the shipping and handling.

I finally came across a costume that looked both cute and cool: the evil nurse from Kill Bill Volume I. It even came with a little white eye patch--I had to have it! It only came in three sizes: small, medium, and large. I ordered the small with some hesitation as the small claimed to fit anyone from a size 2 to size 8. Two weeks later, my costume arrived in the mail. I excitedly pulled from the box what looked to be an over-sized T-shirt.

‘Hmm, that’s strange,’ I thought to myself, ‘From the picture it looked like she was wearing a dress.' Packing peanuts went flying as I tried in vain to find the non-existent matching skirt. There was no getting around it: that T-shirt was my entire outfit.

‘Well, it can’t be that bad. Maybe it looks more revealing than it actually is.’ I quickly slipped the shirt over my head and looked in the mirror. The presence of my butt cheeks quickly confirmed that the outfit was indeed as revealing as it looked.

As I was going to a good friend’s house party and not, thankfully, going out about the town, I went to The Gap and bought a pair of white, boy-cut underwear and called it a night. It wasn’t until I decided to play a round of pool at the party when the shortness of the outfit actually came into play. Unbelievably, I couldn’t figure out why a crowd of guys would suddenly appear to watch whenever I had a particularly hard shot across the table I had to lean into. One of the guys’ girlfriends quickly filled me in.

I shudder to think what the onslaught of recent celebrity bad behavior will add to this year’s ho down. I can just imagine some chick walking into the party as Lindsay Lohan, wearing only a string bikini and shades, or perhaps Britney Spears’ a la the too-tight short-shorts and bustier she wore to the MTV Video Music Awards, or, horror upon horrors, her over-exposed vajayjay, which seems to be becoming more of a star than the pop princess herself.

I’m not sure exactly how and when Halloween became such a whore fest, but I for one would like to bring it back to the innocent days of my youth, where I could throw a simple sheet over my head, walk out blindly into the pitch dark, throw out everything I had been taught and take candy from strangers. Remember how fun that was? No? Well can we at least bring back the popcorn balls people? I need something to distract myself from the fact that my “naughty” costume is riding up my ass.

Stealing Booty

Stealing Booty

Unfortunately for me, I had the bad luck of being a teenager before the word "bootylicious" became part of the American lexicon.

I first discovered I had an ample rear end when my older sister, after suffering a particularly hard loss of "Candyland" to me, said, "You have a big butt."

Of course, being five, the news didn't bother me. My sisters liked to use my bottom as a head rest when watching TV, and I only had to pretend penitence when being punished for stealing cookies out of the cookie jar: my bum conveniently functioned as a protective barrier against spankings.

It wasn't until I was in my teens that having a bubble butt became the source of embarrassment. I started to run 4 miles a day in a feeble attempt to lose the bulge, but my butt stubbornly kept pace. I could feel it jiggling behind me, swaying up and down and side to side; despite my attempts to lose it in a cloud of dust, my booty was actually enjoying the ride.

I wore loose-fitting dresses in an effort to disguise my disformity, but it was like trying to hide the Empire State Building by throwing a washcloth over it. I became an expert at walking with my butt to the walls in school, although when I side-swiped a trash can outside the chem lab with my left butt cheek, I decided that my "drastic" situation called for a drastic measure, lest I inadvertently make my HS a dumping ground to rival that of the Meadowlands.

I soon made an appointment with a local cosmetic surgeon to liposuction the fat out of my butt. He told me that once the fat cells were removed, they would never grow back. I took one last, hard look at my rear end, turned to the doctor, and said, "Do you have anything you could give me for a sore neck?" After he supplied me with some Tylenol, I gave him the go-ahead to sculpt my butt into something less resembling a bubble.

On the day of my surgery, the doctor and his assistant had me undress and marked my butt up with lines and arrows that reminded me of one of John Madden's light-pen diagrams. The anesthesiologist inserted the needle into the back of my hand (a very uncomfortable and weird place for a needle to be, in my opinion), and I promptly succombed to the drugs.

When I awoke, I was freezing. My body trembled, as if in mourning for my ass. Even though I was black and blue and had six more weeks of recovery before I would fully be able to enjoy my new bum, I felt as if a weight had been lifted off of me. Indeed, the doctor most likely sucked up about 8-10 pounds worth of fat from each cheek, if not a ton.

Now, ten years later, as I sit typing on my still small but shapely derriere, I can honestly say I have no regrets. In fact, my self-confidence soared as a result of the surgery. No longer was I self-conscious--I proudly walked in a straight line as opposed to the odd side-step of my youth.

Of course, butt augmentation is at an all-time high now, and what once was considered an embarrassing feature is now a valued asset, but I finally learned to love my body, and that to me, is worth all the booty in the world. I've learned that beauty is subjective, and that there is no ideal, as it constantly changes. Beauty is cyclical: what goes around, comes around.

I'm now excitedly awaiting the time when jiggly underarms become all the rage. Until then, I will raise my arm, jiggly underside and all, and defiantly give the one-finger-salute to anyone who has a problem with my body, because it is mine, and it is beautiful.

Boston: You Can Visit, But Don't Expect Us To Like It

It seems that whenever I am entertaining an out-of-town guest, some asshole does something incredibly rude to perpetuate the myth that Boston is a hostile territory.*
For instance, today when I was having lunch with one of my oldest and dearest friends from Bombay, Vik, our waitress handed me the bill--while I was taking a bite of my sandwich.

“Uh, we actually aren’t done yet,” I said through a mouthful of hamburger (my mom would have been so ashamed), “We wanted a coffee as well.”

Our waitress quickly ran in back and brought out two mugs of what looked to be milk with a splash of coffee. She then brought us the check, which Vik kindly paid for: a thirty dollar bill that she paid for with two twenties.

“Do you want change?” our waitress asked.

I nervously glanced at my friend, who could be rather outspoken at times. To her credit, she did not respond with, “I’d like a change of attitude, you greedy whore,” but rather with a polite, but shocked, “Of course!”

Vik, kind person that she is, then went into her luggage to retrieve a gift for me.

“What are you doing?!” the waitress snapped.

I again nervously glanced at my friend. I could actually see the steam rising out of her head.

“I’m getting a present out of my luggage for my friend! Do you mind?”

To which the waitress retorted, “This isn’t your home!”

At this point, I was sure we were being punked. I looked around for cameras and Ashton Kutcher’s smiling, doofy face, but alas, all I saw were two pissed off chicks.
Vik, enraged, took back the tip she had left on the table.

The waitress laughed. “Oh, like I care about five dollars?” This waitress was obviously not familiar with Ben or Jerry and their tasty ice cream. Five dollars could get you a whole pint!

Unbelievably, we managed to make it out of there alive, although the lunch had been spoiled. It’s been about eight hours since I ate there, and so far, so good. I’m going to hold out hope that we did not receive any special cream in our coffee.

On another occasion, I was entertaining two friends from New York at a local bar. It was during the seventh game of the World Series: Marlins versus Yankees. My friends had no sooner expressed how much they were enjoying the bar, when a loud chorus of “Yankees suck! Yankees suck!” filled the air. The bartenders were passing out free shots to everyone and effigies of Derek Jeter were being burned at the stake; my friends looked on in stunned silence. The Marlins had just beaten the Yankees, and Red Sox fans always enjoy it when the Yankees get a beating, even if it isn’t by their hands.

“We hate this bar,” my friends muttered not two seconds after they were about to buy the joint.

“Heh, heh,” I nervously laughed. “You wouldn’t have by any chance driven into the city?”

My friends looked at each other in confusion, “Yes, why?”

“Oh dear. Does your car have NY plates?”

Confusion giving way to mounting fear. “Yes! Of course! We live in New York!”

I clutched at my heart. “Did you park in a garage?”

Now sheer panic. “No! We found street parking! We’re New Yorkers, what, like we’re going to pay to park? Fuggedaboudit!”

“Well, you can sure fuggedaboud finding your car in one piece. That poor car is going to look like Britney Spears got a hold of it by the time you reach it. Never underestimate how much Bostonians hate the Yankees.”

Luckily, they got away with only a few minor key scratches, but it could have been much, much worse. Now whenever my friends visit from out of town, I preface their visits by playing up the city’s sometimes rude behavior, like it’s a fun tourist attraction: Behold! The crankiest city on earth! If you want a coffee with a smile you can just fuggedaboudit. Now get the hell out of my blog!

*Author’s note: This is true only if one is a Yankees fan.