August 16, 2011
Per Beau’s comment on my $200,000-aire suitor, I would like to share the following failed fairy tale…
Once upon a time, there was a young peasant girl who lived in the shiny city of New York. She went on a date with a seemingly nice lad who took her to a beautiful restaurant and treated her like a princess.
On this lovely night out, the two shared their hopes and dreams and realized that they were very well matched in many ways. He lavished her with drinks, gourmet food and compliments. He even told her that she was the classiest girl he had ever met. She imagined walks in the rain with this man, the children they’d have, the trips to Paris…
There was a major hiccup when the young lad asked the peasant girl what she thought his kingdom was worth. Unable to comprehend the reason for such a question, the peasant girl laughed it off and made funny comments, and her suitor did not take this lightly.
Despite this moment, the couple continued to have a good time and they even closed the restaurant, talking and kissing and flirting. On their way out, the hostess handed the young girl a little bag that contained a loaf of Grand Marnier soaked pineapple bread. She said, “This is for breakfast” and then winked at the darling couple. The peasant girl blushed understanding the innuendo.
The lad leaned in to kiss the peasant girl good night. All of sudden, she remembered the courses of cheese, fois gras three ways, bottle of wine, glasses of prosecco and shots of grappa. She felt it all coming up and pushed the lad away. She swiftly said good night and threw herself at the first taxi she saw coming down the street.
While in the cab, she could not hold it down much longer. She looked around and realized she still had the bag with the pineapple bread. She tossed the loaf across the seat and hurled right into the bag–a puke that rang through Central Park all the way to the East River. The cab driver tried to throw her out, but she started crying and pleaded with him to let her stay.
When he finally reached her cross streets, she tipped him $20, stepped out of the cab, threw the bag of barf away and entered her apartment.
After the best toothbrushing of her life, she poured herself into bed wondering when she would meet her real prince charming…and if her boss would notice her hang over the next day. (He did notice and made fun of her.)
August 12, 2011
I think it’s pretty clear that I’m not very comfortable about sex. Thankfully, there are people out there who know what they’re doing and know how to talk about it. IT! One of my favorite people in the world has a blog dedicated to educating you, the general public, on all the peculiarities of sex and making you feel oh-so-good about it. A while back, she told me the funniest awkward story that nearly made me pee my pants. Oh yes, self-urination.
So I present to you Julia of www.itsnotthatweird.com and her awkward moment, THE BANG:
If I’m kidding myself, I refer to the stretch of time between first grade and fifth grade as my “avant-garde” period. I was a confident, peppy little freckle-faced kid who was just taking a risk to distinguish myself. Maybe I was trying to stand out so the cute Japanese math whiz (it might be a stereotype, but it’s true) would take notice of me. Maybe I was saying “eff you” to the popular kids with their glossy ponytails and perfect freckle-free skin by establishing my own definition of style. Whatever the reason, I was breaking out of the perpetually confining middle school culture.
But if I’m being honest, I was suffering from a self-esteem issue so bizarre I now have a self-esteem issue about having had this self-esteem issue. (Don’t follow that? Neither do I.)
When I was younger, I had long, unruly hair that I would only brush if my mother threatened to take away my library books (I am sounding nerdier by the second here. Yikes). I typically kept it in a low ponytail or, if I was feeling particularly festive, in Princess Leia-inspired buns that my mother would have to painstakingly create before going to her slightly-less demanding job as a patent attorney (am I the only person you know who ran an eight-minute mile in gym class in Princess Leia buns? I hope so). This would have been relatively run-of-the-mill “young girl hair weirdness” except for one idiosyncratic fact: I for some reason believed that when my hair was pulled back off my face I looked exactly like our nation’s first president, Mr. George Washington. And it wasn’t like I thought I resembled him – I thought I was a dead ringer. I thought people would be pulling dollar bills out of their wallets to compare as I walked down the street. It was pretty fucking serious to me.
This left me in a bit of a mess hair wise. I didn’t want bangs like the other girls had because I thought they looked girly. I also couldn’t have a bare forehead because I’d never be able to let my hair loose (it was so snarled I probably would have snagged on a door and starved to death) and when it was pulled back, I thought I looked like a founding father. So I invented a solution that I now call “The Bang.”
The premise was simple. I didn’t want “bangs.” I only wanted one. So I forced my mother to cut a jagged, single chunk of hair that fell right in the middle of my forehead. I sincerely believed that this small hunk of hair would disguise my eerie resemblance to Washington, and no one would confuse me for a miniature version of him and ask me for my opinion on matters of states’ rights.To this day I am simultaneously proud and incredibly embarrassed by the whole thing. I kind of can’t believe that I wore my hair that way for FIVE of my most formative years. I’m also proud of myself that I never realized that I looked like a total idiot. I just did my thing, and I was able to grow up to be the bizarre person that I am today. I no longer have the bang (although I do have bangs plural) but to this day I still try to avoid being scrutinized in the presence of a dollar bill. You just never know.
July 22, 2011
Everyone has a local, whether it’s the Italian place that puts crab on their pizza or the dive bar known for cake batter shots. Having a local bakery, coffee shop or dry cleaner may not seem like a big deal to many, but in New York where one can find two Starbucks across the street from each other and three delis on the same block, it’s a big deal.
I don’t have many locals, but I was reminded of one of the very few I’m currently committed to when someone sent me the following picture.
For three years now, I have been a loyal customer of the Brazilian waxer around the corner from my apartment. Prior to discovering this spa, my waxing regimen was dictated by what Spa Week deal was in my inbox. I’m still poor, so I don’t go bare down there every month like them 20 year old Park Avenue gold diggers. I only wax the vaj around beach time and go about three times a year.
My most recent visit was definitely the most awkward waxing experience I’ve ever had. This is quite the feat given what a Brazilian already entails—being naked waist down in front of a relative stranger, having hot wax poured over your delicate private parts and then ripping out hair and sometimes skin. (I loathe being a woman at times.)
I walked in and the spa was dark. The receptionist said they had lost power and air conditioning (this was during one of those unpleasantly hot days), but she reassured me that the wax heaters were still functioning. While we were chatting, this woman walked in and asked if there were any available walk-ins. The receptionist politely said, “No, I’m sorry. It’s peak season and we are already behind with this client right here (she points to me). Usually at this time of year, you have to book two weeks in advance.”
This woman responded with the following: BAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. FUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCK.
Um, really? Were you really that upset about not getting waxed? Although, I fully appreciate the exceptional job these waxers do, I can only imagine not getting waxed at the time you planned is similar to your dentist postponing your cleaning. Sure you’re annoyed, but aren’t you relieved you don’t have to go to the dentist? And lady, this was your goddamn fault. If you are a jungle down there, just march your ass to the nearest Korean nail salon or take a razor to that shit. My god, it’s just hair.
But the most awkward moment happened later into the appointment. My waxer came out to greet me and asked if I had been to this establishment before. I said yes, and she didn’t believe me. I was adamant about me being a regular for the following reasons:
- When you’re a new patron anywhere, they make you sign up for stupid newsletters. I hate that shit so I always say that I’ve been before even when I haven’t.
- I really wasn’t new.
I entered the private room, de-panted and laid down on the table of pain. As soon as the waxer got a good look at my vaj, she exclaimed, “Oh you have been here before!”
If that doesn’t prove that I’m local, I’m not sure what does.
Maybe she recognized the fade she gave you last time.