The holidays, for me, are a time to cherish loved ones, to appreciate one's blessings and to enjoy family traditions.
It's also a time to remember that my brother is a rich-ass motherfucker.
You see, I am a wage slave who is struggling to pay down her manageable-but-significant credit card debt. Like a yuppie version of the Little Match Girl, I huddle by my Archipelago Botanicals candle in my rented apartment and gaze into the flame, imagining such sugarplums as home ownership and cosmetic laser treatments.
My sister is strapped for cash even more than I am, only she incurred her debt with three small humans (instead of with three-margarita nights, like me). She and her husband have a house, but they also have ravenous, rapacious toddlers and a small business to run.
My parents are doing fine, but they're headed toward retirement and... well, imagining all the potential heartache and financial issues down that road, we'll just save that for another U.M.
Then there's my brother. My brother lives in the Ritz-Carlton, where he owns two places and rents the other one out as a corporate apartment. He drives a BMW SUV, gets his shirts custom-tailored, and buys his furniture in Georgetown. In other words, he could buy and sell my family. I mean, he really could -- he turned a dinky Web business into a small fortune, couldn't he do the same with the Nunezes, make us into a franchise or something? We don't have anything better to do.
Each year in the last decade or so, my family has been a disturbingly accurate microcosm of this country's economy: the rich get richer, the middle class gets middler, the credit debt goes rampant and the parents pick up the slack until they can't anymore. Christmas highlights this issue. It's a very businesslike affair for us: Lists are forwarded and cc'd, briefings are held as to who will handle which gifts for whom. Occasionally partnerships are formed for pricier gifts, sort of the way corporations have had to consolidate in order to survive: "This gift was brought to you by MomChris, a division of Nunez."
A couple of years ago, the family leadership had to acknowledge that the economy had fallen on hard times, and instituted a $50 cap on person-to-person gifts by Nunez siblings. None of us liked the idea of the cap, but I also heaved a sigh of relief. After all, there was no way I was going to be able to match my brother in terms of gift expense, and I was too embarrassed to say so. My sister had already issued warnings that she would be spending less than everyone. So the cap seemed like a good way of preventing anyone from going deeper into debt.
My brother, on the other hand, felt like he wanted to spend more than $50, because even though he's a RAMF, he's a generous guy too. So I got like half my Amazon wish list from him last year, and from me he got... I don't know, an umbrella?
It does make me feel weird and uneasy to know that no matter what we say, this year I will probably not spend nearly as much on my brother's gift as he will on mine. I'm older, and have always been a bit of the Jeanie to my brother's Ferris. Two years ago at the family dentist, when I was forced essentially to put my own teeth on layaway, the receptionist said with dreamy eyes, "Why don't you get your nice brother to help you? He's doing very well..." I've gotten used to it, but still.
When gift-giving time arrives, though, I manage to soldier through my guilt. Somehow it melts away -- maybe it's the warmth of that new cashmere sweater, or the massage bought with my Elizabeth Arden gift certificate.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Thursday, November 03, 2005
You've Got Hate.
The community wankfest Friendster must be getting hit hard by MySpace. I'm not talking about the "Friendster Misses You!" pleas that regularly stream through my inbox. I am talking about a very special message that arrived today.
Subject: Re: * Reminder: Christina Nunez has invited you to join Friendster
Sender: [A man with whom I ended a relationship two years ago]@aol.com
Message: I assume you didn't mean to send this. If you did, I'd prefer never to hear from you.
Alrighty then.
There was no indication of what precisely had been sent to J.C., but it wasn't from me. I did invite him to join Friendster -- in 2003. He joined, and was among my friendsters. When we broke up, I took him out of my list. End of Friendstory.
Friendster earns nothing but enemies in this scenario of Internet marketing E-vil. For his part, J.C. gets a reminder of pain and bitterness. And I get my own an unsolicited "reminder" : "Don't forget! I still hate you."
My first reaction to this message was a mixture of confusion and amusement. But then something else took its place: Hurt and sadness. Though I too would check the "prefer never to hear from you" box in my J.C. account settings, it doesn't feel good to inspire such enduring hostility in anyone.
It's a common refrain at the end of relationships: "Do you hate me?" "Now you hate me." "I don't want you to hate me or anything." Some people I know, both male and female, knock themselves out to stay "friends" with people they should leave well enough alone. Nobody wants to be hated, sure -- that's just bad karma. But what's worse about ex hate is you can't control it. Once somebody decides how they feel about you in retrospect, there's nothing you can do (assuming you decide to stay broken up).
Sometimes it gives me a pit in my stomach that in anybody's version of a story, I'd be the bad guy. Still, I accept that if you hurt or disappoint someone, you don't always get the benefit of forgiveness or understanding.
Apparently, even if you do forgive, Friendster ain't never gonna let you forget.
Subject: Re: * Reminder: Christina Nunez has invited you to join Friendster
Sender: [A man with whom I ended a relationship two years ago]@aol.com
Message: I assume you didn't mean to send this. If you did, I'd prefer never to hear from you.
Alrighty then.
There was no indication of what precisely had been sent to J.C., but it wasn't from me. I did invite him to join Friendster -- in 2003. He joined, and was among my friendsters. When we broke up, I took him out of my list. End of Friendstory.
Friendster earns nothing but enemies in this scenario of Internet marketing E-vil. For his part, J.C. gets a reminder of pain and bitterness. And I get my own an unsolicited "reminder" : "Don't forget! I still hate you."
My first reaction to this message was a mixture of confusion and amusement. But then something else took its place: Hurt and sadness. Though I too would check the "prefer never to hear from you" box in my J.C. account settings, it doesn't feel good to inspire such enduring hostility in anyone.
It's a common refrain at the end of relationships: "Do you hate me?" "Now you hate me." "I don't want you to hate me or anything." Some people I know, both male and female, knock themselves out to stay "friends" with people they should leave well enough alone. Nobody wants to be hated, sure -- that's just bad karma. But what's worse about ex hate is you can't control it. Once somebody decides how they feel about you in retrospect, there's nothing you can do (assuming you decide to stay broken up).
Sometimes it gives me a pit in my stomach that in anybody's version of a story, I'd be the bad guy. Still, I accept that if you hurt or disappoint someone, you don't always get the benefit of forgiveness or understanding.
Apparently, even if you do forgive, Friendster ain't never gonna let you forget.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Store Front.
I was reading about where to find pumpkin-flavored ice cream (duh, everywhere) on washingtonpost.com, and noticed that my local ice cream shop was not mentioned.
This made me glad, because I hate my local ice cream shop. I am convinced, in fact, that my local ice cream shop is a front for terrorism or drugs. I do not say this just because the guy who runs it appears to be of foreign descent. I say this because I have never seen such indifference to customer satisfaction in my life. You can walk by the Connecticut Avenue establishment on the brightest, sunniest weekend day and there will be only a 50 percent chance that it is open.
Let us say, for the sake of argument, that it's a day they've decided to open. When you get inside, you are met with middling ice cream, surly service and overpriced product. The last (and I mean last) time I was there, the cashier said to the guy I was with, "How did YOU end up with HER?" referencing the fact that I paid. It was not cute. It was mean. And we had paid like $10 for two cones.
When I lived in New York on Second Avenue at 27th Street, I used to go into this convenience store on Second all the time. I would go in there to buy Little Debbie Snack Cakes. I always thought it was weird that there seemed to be no other twentysomething girls buying snacks in the store -- indeed there were no other females at all in the store. It was almost always full of men, seemingly of Middle-Eastern origin but honestly I couldn't say. Then I saw some TV segment about how "fake storefronts" are set up to "sell heroin." You can spot them, I was informed, by the fact that the windows are always blocked by boxes of cereal and detergent, and by the fact that none of the foodstuffs for sale ever seem to get bought.
This is how I figured out that the Tide-adorned store where I had been buying my dusty Nutty Bars was probably a drugstore in the literal sense. I felt really dumb, just like I felt for patronizing my local ice cream store after I realized what a sham it is. Potbelly, on the other hand, sells a nice, cheap, generous cone.
This made me glad, because I hate my local ice cream shop. I am convinced, in fact, that my local ice cream shop is a front for terrorism or drugs. I do not say this just because the guy who runs it appears to be of foreign descent. I say this because I have never seen such indifference to customer satisfaction in my life. You can walk by the Connecticut Avenue establishment on the brightest, sunniest weekend day and there will be only a 50 percent chance that it is open.
Let us say, for the sake of argument, that it's a day they've decided to open. When you get inside, you are met with middling ice cream, surly service and overpriced product. The last (and I mean last) time I was there, the cashier said to the guy I was with, "How did YOU end up with HER?" referencing the fact that I paid. It was not cute. It was mean. And we had paid like $10 for two cones.
When I lived in New York on Second Avenue at 27th Street, I used to go into this convenience store on Second all the time. I would go in there to buy Little Debbie Snack Cakes. I always thought it was weird that there seemed to be no other twentysomething girls buying snacks in the store -- indeed there were no other females at all in the store. It was almost always full of men, seemingly of Middle-Eastern origin but honestly I couldn't say. Then I saw some TV segment about how "fake storefronts" are set up to "sell heroin." You can spot them, I was informed, by the fact that the windows are always blocked by boxes of cereal and detergent, and by the fact that none of the foodstuffs for sale ever seem to get bought.
This is how I figured out that the Tide-adorned store where I had been buying my dusty Nutty Bars was probably a drugstore in the literal sense. I felt really dumb, just like I felt for patronizing my local ice cream store after I realized what a sham it is. Potbelly, on the other hand, sells a nice, cheap, generous cone.
Monday, October 24, 2005
New York.
A few years ago, I decided I'd had it with New York and was moving to D.C., because I could finally admit to myself that I just liked living here better.
Upon hearing this, people generally regard me with the same polite stare they would give someone who said she really enjoys needlepoint, or who perhaps has gone too long without a diagnosis of some kind. People move to D.C. because they got a job, or because they want to be involved with government, or because they are going to school. Nobody moves here because they like it better than someplace else, especially when that someplace is New York.
After all, New York is Radiohead; D.C. is Kelly Clarkson. New York is Jon Stewart; D.C. is Jay Leno. New York is Brooklyn; D.C. is Fairfax. New York is Tiffany; D.C. is Kay Jewelers.
I'm not going to sit here and type up how D.C. is "cool" or the ways in which New York sucks. D.C. is not cool, and New York doesn't suck, much as I'm tempted reflexively to say that it does. The fact is that I could not enjoy living here without having lived in Manhattan. New York was my fantasy town from about 12 years old and I love many things about it.
This year I have had five personal ties of varying significance vanish in some way, and two of those were friends who joined girlfriends in NYC (p.b., I ain't mad atcha). They're psyched. Why wouldn't they be?
Still, I reserve my right *not* to be jealous, and not to particularly care about New York anymore. Wow, I lived there for seven years of my life... do I miss it? Do I visit a lot? Well, no and no. I miss very much my friends who happen to live there. But the first time I went back, months after leaving, was surreal: Had this really been my home for so long? I felt shame mixed with a sense of unworthiness. It was like running into someone with whom you had a serious love relationship, and feeling absolutely nothing. Who was the me who lived, worked and thought there? I couldn't channel her anymore. Now, the Sunday Times (if I even read it) is like People magazine to me.
You could explain part of my allegiance to D.C. by pointing out that I am "from here," but that wouldn't quite be right. I am from Potomac, Md. -- a land of McMansions, chain stores and bar mitzvahs -- and ventured into D.C. only occasionally during my time at home. Still, I'll admit that's part of my having developed a comfort level here. This weekend included trips to the Target on Rockville Pike, a concert at the Black Cat and a corn maze in Fredericksburg, Va.: aka big-box retail, a middling rock venue and provinciality supreme. It's home. For a change I'm not ambivalent, but grateful.
Upon hearing this, people generally regard me with the same polite stare they would give someone who said she really enjoys needlepoint, or who perhaps has gone too long without a diagnosis of some kind. People move to D.C. because they got a job, or because they want to be involved with government, or because they are going to school. Nobody moves here because they like it better than someplace else, especially when that someplace is New York.
After all, New York is Radiohead; D.C. is Kelly Clarkson. New York is Jon Stewart; D.C. is Jay Leno. New York is Brooklyn; D.C. is Fairfax. New York is Tiffany; D.C. is Kay Jewelers.
I'm not going to sit here and type up how D.C. is "cool" or the ways in which New York sucks. D.C. is not cool, and New York doesn't suck, much as I'm tempted reflexively to say that it does. The fact is that I could not enjoy living here without having lived in Manhattan. New York was my fantasy town from about 12 years old and I love many things about it.
This year I have had five personal ties of varying significance vanish in some way, and two of those were friends who joined girlfriends in NYC (p.b., I ain't mad atcha). They're psyched. Why wouldn't they be?
Still, I reserve my right *not* to be jealous, and not to particularly care about New York anymore. Wow, I lived there for seven years of my life... do I miss it? Do I visit a lot? Well, no and no. I miss very much my friends who happen to live there. But the first time I went back, months after leaving, was surreal: Had this really been my home for so long? I felt shame mixed with a sense of unworthiness. It was like running into someone with whom you had a serious love relationship, and feeling absolutely nothing. Who was the me who lived, worked and thought there? I couldn't channel her anymore. Now, the Sunday Times (if I even read it) is like People magazine to me.
You could explain part of my allegiance to D.C. by pointing out that I am "from here," but that wouldn't quite be right. I am from Potomac, Md. -- a land of McMansions, chain stores and bar mitzvahs -- and ventured into D.C. only occasionally during my time at home. Still, I'll admit that's part of my having developed a comfort level here. This weekend included trips to the Target on Rockville Pike, a concert at the Black Cat and a corn maze in Fredericksburg, Va.: aka big-box retail, a middling rock venue and provinciality supreme. It's home. For a change I'm not ambivalent, but grateful.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Note to Self.
I am not alone in my car.
I am not alone in my car. When "Nasty" by Janet Jackson or "Somebody Else's Guy" by Jocelyn Brown comes on, it is not okay to belt it out and do an upper-body running-man. It is not okay to talk out loud about the traffic or what I have to do when I get home, when it is clear I have no ear bud attached to me and my scratched-ass minicar is not outfitted with a speaker phone. It is not okay to talk back to the radio deejays, to gyrate, or to yell at other drivers and make gestures.
It is not okay, because my windows are not tinted and I forget. People, being nosey and intrusive, are liable to look at me in my car and shame me with their judging glances so that I cannot safely commit these behaviors. It is not alright to be illegal in the car, which is a lot easier in D.C. now that one drink could mean you are rolling peril. It is not okay to talk to my friends because a police man might yell at me "THAT'S A $100 TICKET" like one did today, a comment I found startling, not to mention unnecessarily true.
When I am seen flipping someone off or talking to myself or having my own private "American Idol," that is when I become not only me in my car but also, a travesty behind glass. I must remember this in order to avoid becoming a source of entertainment or revenue on the streets of Washington.
I am not alone in my car. When "Nasty" by Janet Jackson or "Somebody Else's Guy" by Jocelyn Brown comes on, it is not okay to belt it out and do an upper-body running-man. It is not okay to talk out loud about the traffic or what I have to do when I get home, when it is clear I have no ear bud attached to me and my scratched-ass minicar is not outfitted with a speaker phone. It is not okay to talk back to the radio deejays, to gyrate, or to yell at other drivers and make gestures.
It is not okay, because my windows are not tinted and I forget. People, being nosey and intrusive, are liable to look at me in my car and shame me with their judging glances so that I cannot safely commit these behaviors. It is not alright to be illegal in the car, which is a lot easier in D.C. now that one drink could mean you are rolling peril. It is not okay to talk to my friends because a police man might yell at me "THAT'S A $100 TICKET" like one did today, a comment I found startling, not to mention unnecessarily true.
When I am seen flipping someone off or talking to myself or having my own private "American Idol," that is when I become not only me in my car but also, a travesty behind glass. I must remember this in order to avoid becoming a source of entertainment or revenue on the streets of Washington.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Cheese, Pate, Whine.
I can explain my blog delinquency by saying that the last week has constituted one long uncomfortable moment, being that I was sick. It started last Thursday, when I met friends at the venerable sinkhole Fox & Hounds. Keeping it "light," I ordered a salad with blue cheese dressing and some onion rings to go with my two drinks. Then it got ugly. We convened to a back patio, where our hostess had an inspired idea: since we were drinking red wine, why not get out the cheese she had, along with some other gourmet goodies? We put all the comestibles out on a board: stinky, stinky cheeses, some truffle-oil-infused honey (as Lil' Jon would say, WHAT? Yay-yes!), pate de foie gras and apple slices.
As far as I was concerned, this was great. I thought not of the other fats commingling in my tract and dug in, thoroughly enjoying the fare. It wasn't but a half-hour before I found myself pretending to nod along with the patio conversation but only able to listen to one voice, which was coming from my stomach: It was saying, "I am in grievous distress and you are not going to get away with this."
All of a sudden I was greenly proceeding to the hosts' bathroom, where untold dollars in pricy goose liver were deposited. When I came back after too shaky an exit and too prolonged an absence, I felt like Olivia Newton-John as Sandra Dee in Grease, after she smokes her first cigarette. Everyone else, having pulled more or less the same digestive stunt, was fine and looking at me with pity and concern. I, on the other hand, was a gastronomic Urkel.
Depending on whom you ask (well okay, just ask my mom), this was not a "real" reaction but a precursor of what was to follow, which was congestion, pains, sneezing and overall misery. I, the person who scoffs at the flu shot, who waves off Purell, who "never gets sick," was SICK. We're talking not just sniffly but laid-out, bring-out-the-hazmat-suit, hack-up-a-lung, NyQuil sick. The upside is, instead of working, I got to catch up on my New Yorkers and watch Collateral along with just enough director's commentary to ascertain that Michael Mann is a disappointingly earnest and self-indulgent guy (darned if he isn't talented though).
Be sure to check out the random link at right if you haven't already, it's pretty good.
As far as I was concerned, this was great. I thought not of the other fats commingling in my tract and dug in, thoroughly enjoying the fare. It wasn't but a half-hour before I found myself pretending to nod along with the patio conversation but only able to listen to one voice, which was coming from my stomach: It was saying, "I am in grievous distress and you are not going to get away with this."
All of a sudden I was greenly proceeding to the hosts' bathroom, where untold dollars in pricy goose liver were deposited. When I came back after too shaky an exit and too prolonged an absence, I felt like Olivia Newton-John as Sandra Dee in Grease, after she smokes her first cigarette. Everyone else, having pulled more or less the same digestive stunt, was fine and looking at me with pity and concern. I, on the other hand, was a gastronomic Urkel.
Depending on whom you ask (well okay, just ask my mom), this was not a "real" reaction but a precursor of what was to follow, which was congestion, pains, sneezing and overall misery. I, the person who scoffs at the flu shot, who waves off Purell, who "never gets sick," was SICK. We're talking not just sniffly but laid-out, bring-out-the-hazmat-suit, hack-up-a-lung, NyQuil sick. The upside is, instead of working, I got to catch up on my New Yorkers and watch Collateral along with just enough director's commentary to ascertain that Michael Mann is a disappointingly earnest and self-indulgent guy (darned if he isn't talented though).
Be sure to check out the random link at right if you haven't already, it's pretty good.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Eau de Toilet.
One of the reasons that I can barely be bothered to finish reading a book these days is because my five magazine subscriptions tend to keep me busy. I was recently sprawled on the couch reading Elle magazine, which I love for several reasons. One is the way in which its articles seem scientifically calibrated to my age and station ("Single and Loving It: Is Now the Best Time to Be on Your Own?"; "Metabolism Magic: Exercise Less, Live Longer"). Another is how it reminds me of Nora Dunn's "Saturday Night Live" character Pat Stevens (a former model... "thank you") and how she occasionally likes to pick up "a big book," which would always turn out to be a fat fashion magazine. My "big book" is Elle, and it arrives each month stuffed chock-a-block with pictures of clothes I can't afford, skin products I can't afford, hilarious achievements, and perfume samples.
If the perfume samples don't totally suck, I usually rip them out of the magazine and rub the bejeezus out of them on my wrist. Here are some brands recently seen in my latest issues:
Chanel
Burberry
Christian Dior
Calvin Klein
Tampax
I was flipping and ripping when my eyes rested on this last example. I blinked. Were they for real? Here is what I saw: On the front flap, a woman kneels in a white dress (white's big in the menstruation industry) in a placid pool of water, blue sky behind her. There's a fragrance flap and the copy reads, "Beguile your senses. Succumb to the freshness."
I am not shitting you, I swear.
When you turn the page, there's a coupon for a dollar off any Tampax Fresh product, and the words "Get fresh. The new cardboard tampon with a light, clean scent."
I was being invited to smell a tampon. I could even rub the tampon scent on my wrist if I wanted to. This made me glad I was alone in my apartment, alone with the tampon smell. It's not something you want to be caught sampling in the presence of other humans. We're talking, after all, about something you put inside yourself to keep blood from coming out. Do I really need to smell it? Does anyone really care what their tampon smells like? Am I behind in fashion trends and wearing some hopelessly outdated tampon? Shouldn't this be in a men's magazine? Is Tampax hoping this fragrance will "cross over"? Conversely, will Chanel start making its own tampons, thereby creating a whole new way to layer scent?
The sample, in case you were wondering, smelled like a teen perfume, or maybe a car deodorizer. It was very floral and sweet. I could not detect any base notes of blood, estrogen or uterus. I imagine that it would protect me quite well if I happened to have my period but also was swimming in shark-infested waters. Other than that I couldn't really see what the fuss what was about.
If the perfume samples don't totally suck, I usually rip them out of the magazine and rub the bejeezus out of them on my wrist. Here are some brands recently seen in my latest issues:
Chanel
Burberry
Christian Dior
Calvin Klein
Tampax
I was flipping and ripping when my eyes rested on this last example. I blinked. Were they for real? Here is what I saw: On the front flap, a woman kneels in a white dress (white's big in the menstruation industry) in a placid pool of water, blue sky behind her. There's a fragrance flap and the copy reads, "Beguile your senses. Succumb to the freshness."
I am not shitting you, I swear.
When you turn the page, there's a coupon for a dollar off any Tampax Fresh product, and the words "Get fresh. The new cardboard tampon with a light, clean scent."
I was being invited to smell a tampon. I could even rub the tampon scent on my wrist if I wanted to. This made me glad I was alone in my apartment, alone with the tampon smell. It's not something you want to be caught sampling in the presence of other humans. We're talking, after all, about something you put inside yourself to keep blood from coming out. Do I really need to smell it? Does anyone really care what their tampon smells like? Am I behind in fashion trends and wearing some hopelessly outdated tampon? Shouldn't this be in a men's magazine? Is Tampax hoping this fragrance will "cross over"? Conversely, will Chanel start making its own tampons, thereby creating a whole new way to layer scent?
The sample, in case you were wondering, smelled like a teen perfume, or maybe a car deodorizer. It was very floral and sweet. I could not detect any base notes of blood, estrogen or uterus. I imagine that it would protect me quite well if I happened to have my period but also was swimming in shark-infested waters. Other than that I couldn't really see what the fuss what was about.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Shake It Like a Salt Shaker.
The setting was Margarita's, an indoor/outdoor establishment on a lonely road in Hedgesville, W.Va. The mode of arrival was a black limousine, outfitted with blue neon accents along the sides and a forbearing young driver with spiky hair. The contents of the limo were thirtysomething and amused with themselves: one bride-to-be wearing a tiara with attached veil and an airbrushed T-shirt that read "Brian and Mandi 4ever," five married and newly minted mothers, one married woman (not yet a mom) and one single woman.
Leaving empty bottles of Michelob Light and a half-eaten box of Penis Gummies in their wake, they streamed toward the outdoor bar, which featured churning frozen drinks, two deep-fryers, an Avril-friendly soundtrack, a roaming cat and gravelly stations for games of horseshoes. The female patrons: mostly plump and bottle-blond. The male patrons: mostly tattooed and not fond of razors. The limo party ordered their drinks: more Mich-Lights, a strawberry-banana daiquiri for the guest of honor, and a margarita for the single girl, who generally forgoes beer and felt very heartened by the sight of hard liquor by this point.
The limo party was almost immediately told that their first round was being paid for by a man named Hercules, who was quiet and mustachioed and older and amused. The party was then left to their discussions, which primarily involved workouts and in-laws.
Meanwhile, the bride-to-be had been so focused on her aversion to being "one of those girls" with the tiara and veil that she forgot to be concerned that someone might order her a "blow job," until someone did. This meant the b-t-b was forced to bend over the bar and attempt to dump something into her mouth without hands. Though the whipped-cream-topped shot came a bit on her airbrushed T-shirt, everyone was highly entertained by her performance. It was decided that the party should move inside at that point, because inside there was a dance floor, and because in America we are aggressive in seeking humiliations for a person who is about to be married, especially if we are female.
The indoor scene at Margarita's was considerably grimmer. The air was smoky, the floor was carpeted and country music blared across an empty dance floor. The limo party, however, was lubricated, and ready to initiate change. A conversation was held with the DJ. The music became more dance-friendly ("Joy and Pain" etc.). Hercules silently bought another round. The single girl thought of unhappy frat parties as a freshman at Wash. U., her partying senior-year housemates at Penn, with whom she never identified, and sorority rush. Then everyone, grateful for a chance to ditch their troubles, joyfully made asses of themselves on the dance floor.
For much of the dance portion of the evening they were accompanied by a sole stranger. The stranger was, like the other male patrons, tattooed and had facial hair. But he was smaller, and wirier, and he had a wife-beater on and relished dancing to hip-hop. His gyrations were targeted toward a certain ladyfriend who sat front-and-center at the dance floor, captivated. She outstripped him in weight and height by about 40 pounds and four inches.
Then two things happened that scandalized the limo party, who were by this point a little overstimulated and were gathered around a table of half-empty drinks and a ravaged basket of chicken tenders and fries from the outdoor bar fryer. The first thing that happened was that a birthday was announced, and another blow job was ordered. However, in this case the blow job was placed on the center of the dance floor and the "fellator" was a heavy, older woman with bleach-weary hair and a too-tight skirt that revealed her underwear when she bent over. She made quick, dirty, expert work of the blowjob and accepted her kudos from the crowd and the DJ ("Wow, baby, what's your name, you have to come over to my place some time!"). Then the Chippendales couple resumed their routine, even more fiercely than before. The ladyfriend was wearing a big white T-shirt, khaki pants, sneakers, and a bitten lip. It was possible to imagine that she and her private dancer had rolled out of bed at 5 p.m. and come straight to Margarita's as both afterplay and foreplay. When the ladyfriend wasn't cheering on her lover's dance moves, she was up on the floor kissing him or grinding with him. These unexpected displays of sexuality, along with a surfeit of songs featuring Lil' Jon, did most of the limo party in. They straggled toward the door, chanting Hercules' name with forced spirit.
In the car on the way back, the party finished off the Penis Gummies and deconstructed the evening. Much was made of the dance-floor couple and how they "ruined" the atmosphere with their exhibitionism. The single girl defended them as carelessly as she opened a leftover bottle of Mike's Limeade. All she had seen was a couple in love who didn't give a fuck, and she drank to that.
Leaving empty bottles of Michelob Light and a half-eaten box of Penis Gummies in their wake, they streamed toward the outdoor bar, which featured churning frozen drinks, two deep-fryers, an Avril-friendly soundtrack, a roaming cat and gravelly stations for games of horseshoes. The female patrons: mostly plump and bottle-blond. The male patrons: mostly tattooed and not fond of razors. The limo party ordered their drinks: more Mich-Lights, a strawberry-banana daiquiri for the guest of honor, and a margarita for the single girl, who generally forgoes beer and felt very heartened by the sight of hard liquor by this point.
The limo party was almost immediately told that their first round was being paid for by a man named Hercules, who was quiet and mustachioed and older and amused. The party was then left to their discussions, which primarily involved workouts and in-laws.
Meanwhile, the bride-to-be had been so focused on her aversion to being "one of those girls" with the tiara and veil that she forgot to be concerned that someone might order her a "blow job," until someone did. This meant the b-t-b was forced to bend over the bar and attempt to dump something into her mouth without hands. Though the whipped-cream-topped shot came a bit on her airbrushed T-shirt, everyone was highly entertained by her performance. It was decided that the party should move inside at that point, because inside there was a dance floor, and because in America we are aggressive in seeking humiliations for a person who is about to be married, especially if we are female.
The indoor scene at Margarita's was considerably grimmer. The air was smoky, the floor was carpeted and country music blared across an empty dance floor. The limo party, however, was lubricated, and ready to initiate change. A conversation was held with the DJ. The music became more dance-friendly ("Joy and Pain" etc.). Hercules silently bought another round. The single girl thought of unhappy frat parties as a freshman at Wash. U., her partying senior-year housemates at Penn, with whom she never identified, and sorority rush. Then everyone, grateful for a chance to ditch their troubles, joyfully made asses of themselves on the dance floor.
For much of the dance portion of the evening they were accompanied by a sole stranger. The stranger was, like the other male patrons, tattooed and had facial hair. But he was smaller, and wirier, and he had a wife-beater on and relished dancing to hip-hop. His gyrations were targeted toward a certain ladyfriend who sat front-and-center at the dance floor, captivated. She outstripped him in weight and height by about 40 pounds and four inches.
Then two things happened that scandalized the limo party, who were by this point a little overstimulated and were gathered around a table of half-empty drinks and a ravaged basket of chicken tenders and fries from the outdoor bar fryer. The first thing that happened was that a birthday was announced, and another blow job was ordered. However, in this case the blow job was placed on the center of the dance floor and the "fellator" was a heavy, older woman with bleach-weary hair and a too-tight skirt that revealed her underwear when she bent over. She made quick, dirty, expert work of the blowjob and accepted her kudos from the crowd and the DJ ("Wow, baby, what's your name, you have to come over to my place some time!"). Then the Chippendales couple resumed their routine, even more fiercely than before. The ladyfriend was wearing a big white T-shirt, khaki pants, sneakers, and a bitten lip. It was possible to imagine that she and her private dancer had rolled out of bed at 5 p.m. and come straight to Margarita's as both afterplay and foreplay. When the ladyfriend wasn't cheering on her lover's dance moves, she was up on the floor kissing him or grinding with him. These unexpected displays of sexuality, along with a surfeit of songs featuring Lil' Jon, did most of the limo party in. They straggled toward the door, chanting Hercules' name with forced spirit.
In the car on the way back, the party finished off the Penis Gummies and deconstructed the evening. Much was made of the dance-floor couple and how they "ruined" the atmosphere with their exhibitionism. The single girl defended them as carelessly as she opened a leftover bottle of Mike's Limeade. All she had seen was a couple in love who didn't give a fuck, and she drank to that.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Romantic Dramedy.
Everybody likes to pretend that they have pop-cultural taste, but everyone has fatal blind spots threatening to expose them at all times. One guy at the gym was talking a pretty good game to me, lending me his iPod, until he handed it over loaded with Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera. For me, I was embarrassed to admit that sure, I would see Must Love Dogs. It has John Cusack and Diane Lane, right? I would see Must Love Dogs, even though it's a cheesy romantic comedy, but for some unexplained reason I'm going to get snobby and say I would never see something as stupid and gay as Maid in Manhattan.
Well, I'll tell you. I saw Must Love Dogs and they should call it Must Love Crap. The film does manage to establish John Cusack as some kind of prodigy for pulling off romantic, man-boy patter at his advanced stage of puffiness, but it all still falls flatter than the EKG on Dave Chappelle's career.
Meanwhile, I just saw the end of Maid in Manhattan on cable, and I'm ashamed to admit that I enjoyed it more, with the exception of Ralph (Rafe) Fiennes' poor American accent. Maybe it was the subzero expectations. Still, I don't know anyone who would endorse Maid and I know of at least two people who would endorse Dogs. Considering I have a Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam Greatest Hits CD in my collection, I don't know why I ever thought my opinion was credible in the first place.
Well, I'll tell you. I saw Must Love Dogs and they should call it Must Love Crap. The film does manage to establish John Cusack as some kind of prodigy for pulling off romantic, man-boy patter at his advanced stage of puffiness, but it all still falls flatter than the EKG on Dave Chappelle's career.
Meanwhile, I just saw the end of Maid in Manhattan on cable, and I'm ashamed to admit that I enjoyed it more, with the exception of Ralph (Rafe) Fiennes' poor American accent. Maybe it was the subzero expectations. Still, I don't know anyone who would endorse Maid and I know of at least two people who would endorse Dogs. Considering I have a Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam Greatest Hits CD in my collection, I don't know why I ever thought my opinion was credible in the first place.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Please Return Overdue Humans
So, I work for this national media outlet and this story was proposed as a possible item for broadcast. This made me uncomfortable. When the idea was floated, everyone in my meeting said things like, "Hey, that's great!" and "What a great story, we should totally do that."
Am I alone in thinking that the concept of using one person to represent an entire community of people is perhaps a flawed way to combat stereotypes, as this program is alleged to do? I was certainly alone at my table of coworkers.
In other news, if you are the type of person to worry about what you haven't yet done in life or could be doing better, check out the random link of the week as a little kick in the pants for more worrying.
Am I alone in thinking that the concept of using one person to represent an entire community of people is perhaps a flawed way to combat stereotypes, as this program is alleged to do? I was certainly alone at my table of coworkers.
In other news, if you are the type of person to worry about what you haven't yet done in life or could be doing better, check out the random link of the week as a little kick in the pants for more worrying.
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