I was incredibly proud of the heights of Oreodom to which I ascended this weekend. I was at a financier’s wedding in Wine Country that was totally hipstered out (bride and groom walked down the aisle to Bon Iver or some such, food trucks sported locally sourced, organic quinoa kale pizzas and for every tux trouser, there was a pair of Tom’s poking out of the bottom).
The attendants basically looked like this (source)
At one moment, I took my glass of Northern California Shiraz in one hand, my Starbucks in the other and went for a stroll through the adjoining vineyard. I looked back at the scene and reveled in a couple’s lovely commitment to love and at my pulling off being the only black person in attendance.
It’s the little things.
Then something caught my eye. A black guy. Surely, I thought, he’s here to hand me the keys to my car or take away this biodegradable wine glass. But no… he was a guest like me. When I figured that out, the competition was on! I was not going to let this handlebar mustachioed, Steampunk suit sporting dude out Oreo me.
Naturally, I couldn’t talk to him directly lest people think we were extras from Real Housewives of Atlanta, so I ran my reconnaissance and found out that he was doing an excellent job at Oreoing.
He was an accomplished equestrian, a fine artist photographer, had clearly trained in ballroom dancing…and did I mention the handlebar mustache. I imagined him twirling it like an old timey villain if and when he found out he had bested me. He spoke French, made a delicious tapenade, had been a vegan since he was 12 and was from Connecticut!
Even I have a hard time matching those stats.
Damn you, home state! Why couldn’t you have been a Dakota? (source)
I was about to tip my french veiled hat in concession when I saw his date… She was White! A black guy dating a white women. That is SUCH an RBP thing to do!! I win.
So instead of stopping, I grabbed another glass for a victory lap around the wine bar safe in the knowledge that I finally made up for the other wedding party that, despite my best bestest efforts, went terribly. An unfortunate loss for him, but it was a game well played, sir. Well played indeed.
And yes, I get the Catch-22 that Oreo guys are in. Date a black girl and people start thinking you’re just escorting her to her next john. Date a white girl and you look like an RBP. Oh well, we all have our crosses to bear. Anyone have any suggestions?
Zumba. I love it. Especially on nights like tonight.
Zumba is actually tricky for an Oreo. During the dance-style group exercise class, some of the moves can come dangerously close to looking like popping and/or locking. So as a good Oreo, I always try to stiffen up a little on some of the hippier moves so as not to frighten the other dancers or myself.
What I feel like when I work out
And then tonight, something wonderful happened. I don’t know what the song was (Sondheim didn’t write it, so I was at a loss), but everyone else in the room did. As we danced, they sang along and sang along and sang along. Suddenly, a group n-word was dropped.
I couldn’t have been more thrilled.
Usually, when there’s an RBP in the room, people would shy away from one of the most offensive words in the English language. They’d think twice about shouting out in unison a word that has probably gotten people killed. At the very least, it’s gotten people into debates on Oprah’s couch–which for an Oreo might be a scarier place than the business end of a revolver. Normally, if an RBP was in a room, people would maybe try to be polite.
But not with me there. It was like they didn’t think I was black at all!!
Unfortunately, as quickly as my happiness was upon me, it disappeared. For seconds after they said the word, they caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and everyone looked embarrassed. No one sang along for the rest of class.
What I look like when I work out
My apologies, ladies (and you, one rockin’ gent) for sullying tonight’s good time. I will work on my pointe and hopefully blend in much better next time.
Granted, some of the following did go through my head, but thanks to my Oreo training, they stayed inside and my outside voice never took control:
What the effing eff??! Why do you all know this song???!
What the effing eff???! Why did you include this song in your playlist??!
I might need to speak to management about this.
I’m concerned you might not understand some basic points of everyday etiquette
You’re right, it is ~just~ a word after all, you stupid whale cunt.
*sobs*
Any of those responses would have seemed really RBP-like. Sure, the growing ulcer in my stomach might one day take over my entire digestion system. But I’ll look darn good while I’m convalescing. Yay, Zumba!
Leaked video of Republican nominee Mitt Romney at closed-door fundraisers show him saying that “no matter what” he does, 47 percent of the population is going to vote for Obama because they are “are dependent upon government.”
The video clips, which were posted by Mother Jones, show Romney telling donors that 47 percent of voters will chose Obama “no matter what” because they are people “who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it. That that’s an entitlement. And the government should give it to them. And they will vote for this president no matter what…These are people who pay no income tax.”
The core principle of Oreodom is hating the skin you were born in. Oreos revel in our self-loathing. And there’s no way you can communicate this kind of disdain for nearly half the population of the country of your birth and not kinda think you’re the yuck.
Romney’s picture of America is one full of lazy, shiftless people who don’t have jobs and don’t care to. Who don’t work and who just expect someone to give them whatever they want. That’s his version of “American” and he’s got to claim that nationality, too! I imagine his heart hurts just a bit every time he looks at his passport the way mine does whenever I have to fill out census forms.
It must pain him so much when he sends cash to the Caimans, Switzerland and his horse to know that’s he doing something that looks so much like what those embarrassing Americans do. It’s like when I Zumba and I know it looks like I’m shaking what God gave me like an RBP would, but really I’m just trying to add a bit of Paso Doble to a straightforward Cha Cha. But alas, people often can’t tell the difference. And that’s just like Mitt! There’s a huge difference between what Romney does with his cash and the poor think about doing with the cash they don’t have. Romney isn’t avoiding paying taxes, trying to game a system or using loopholes in his favor. He’s saving his money. Maybe if those jobless baby mamas had done that, they’d be able to cure their own cancer and set their own bones and not come crying with their hands out.
And it only gets worse for Romney. Not only does he share the country code of a bunch of asshole losers, he also had to look at their names on pieces of paper and spreadsheets for years—a constant reminder of how many people didn’t have to good sense to be born to millionaires. Sure, he was one of the lucky Americans who managed to escape the curse of his birth, but he shares eye color and body type with so many dicks that I’d be shocked if he didn’t consider some sort of surgery—the way all ethnic Oreos try colored contacts at least once.
When he was busy buying companies, Romney probably had to occasionally stroll through hallways next to people who get paid wages and not salaries. It’s likely that some of their “we’d really like insurance” sweat might have rubbed off on him. No wonder he had to fire so many of them. He needed to get them as far away from his as possible so he didn’t have to risk being associated with being so disgusting. It’s the same reason ethnic Oreos sign up before attending Regattas. We go in shifts so we don’t start clumping together and looking like a gang.
And how did those people who lost their jobs on a dime because Bain came in and ripped it out from under them repay Mitt? By becoming good for nothings who “need help” during “the worst economic climate since the Great Depression.” When really, he was giving them training they would never get on the job or in the colleges they could never afford to attend–the value of a birthright.
Settle down. Look, you were told there wouldn’t be extra credit on this exam at the beginning of life. It’s not his fault you didn’t re-read the syllabus. (source)
With all this guilt by association to deal with, Romrom must hate himself a little bit. Especially since it was clear he didn’t do enough. If he had really been on his game, he would have just shipped the people along with their jobs overseas. Instead, he’s forced to walk around a country where, in the right light or if he gets caught without a suit, he might be mistaken for someone who doesn’t have the means to exploit, evade and enact the will of in God we Trust. Poor guy. I’m sure he won’t make the same mistake twice. Like the time I went out with a hip hoppy guy just because he was white. Sure, he wasn’t an RBP, but it was too close for comfort. Never again. I still have nightmares.
Every now and then, someone turns up to be a surprise Oreo. (I’m looking at you, Tyler Perry!) And it appears Romney’s joining the ranks as well. How should we welcome him?
(In the interest of full disclosure, the alliteration is only in the title)
On 9/14/14 (that’s 1814 to you!) Francis Scott Key wrote the poem that would eventually become the U.S.’s national anthem and secured his place in history as one of the people for whom students have to learn all three names.
I’ve sung the anthem twice at baseball games. I was invited three times, but thanks to a healthy dose of nerves and a crushing unfamiliarity with feedback and echos in stadiums, I’m not sure that what happened the first time qualified as singing. I was glad that I had earplugs that day. I wish the rest of the crowd had them, too.
It’s interesting to me that despite all the things that countries in the world cannot see eye-to-eye on, that for some reason, we’ve all decided that we need a few things: a flag, a song and a passport that looks like everyone else’s.
During the Olympics, you never saw some country walking in with what was clearly a hastily-produced emblem crayoned on cardboard. When athletes take the podium, there’s always a regal piece of music for them and never some Regina Spektor song they’re really into right now.
(This would be my anthem)
(or this)
(okay, fine, or this)
And when everyone went home after the Games, no one pulled out a banged up manilla folder with construction paper stapled to it and called it a government document. Some of these countries don’t even have running water or a uniform sanitation system. How on earth do they have time to find exactly the same sized piece of pleather to emboss? There are municipalities that can’t pay the taxes to free themselves from exploitative relationships with superpowers, where do they find the cash to give to a composer?
Maybe, just maybe, if the population of the globe can come together around these three issues (and also: Antarctica. Seriously? It currently belongs to every continent. Equally. We’re all sharing. No one’s made a war or tried to Christianize its inhabitants or moved there and pretended it was theirs all along), then maybe we have chance at world peace after all.
Seriously, everyone even signed a treaty or something. It’s like the world’s biggest time share.
Or at least a chance at consistent sporting events.
***
Do you have any favorite anthems? Or songs you think should be anthems. Let us know and leave links in the comments!
So it’s understandable when Oreos mess up. It might be that they didn’t check the roster and so now there are two of you at the regatta. You may have received an inappropriate gift and now you don’t know what to do with this Beyoncé CD…or why people are still using CDs these days. Or you yourself might end up rooting for the wrong athlete during the Olympics and now need a place to hide all your Gabby Douglas swag.
These mistakes are forgivable.
Some Oreo mistakes are not.
Would definitely rather risk all my Oreo cred by eating okra than by putting this anywhere near my mouth hole. (source)
(PS: For those of you keeping score at home, yes, I’m back in the states. Told ya on Day 1 I wouldn’t update this travelogue in any sort of organized fashion. And I am an Oreo of my word).
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Attended the largest street party in Europe…and left shortly before it became absolute mob madness. The Notting Hill Carnival is definitely something that would have been a blast if I had companions at moment. When I got there, it felt very much like Halloween in West Hollywood. Everyone in the streets, lots of drinking and both men and women wearing very few clothes. I have never seen so many women’s bottoms in my life!!
Though, great ideas for Halloween costumes.
The English seem to have a different standard of body-shaming than we do in the states, or at least LA. The video above is some of the best of the best looking folks, but there were a good number of people who I’m sure had sparkly personalities, but maybe could have done with bigger sparkly bikinis. To be fair, most people couldn’t pull off the dearth of clothing featured on the street that day. Myself included. There are plenty of things I look lovely in. Floss and carpet swatches are not among those things.
While I’m watching this parade of self-esteem exercises, the imperfect human in me thinks this is great and is glad to know that while I’d never allow someone to stick a sparkly triangle onto my front butt and then parade around the streets, but that if I did, there is a place that would accept me. And that place is Notting Hill, London, UK.
For reals, though. Pasties technology has come a long way! It’s muggy in this city and the fact that none of those ladies’ codpieces got moist and slipped right off is pretty spectacular. I imagine they use similar adhesives on space shuttles.
The English also have a different attitude toward partying. Included in the brochure I was handed at the mouth of the event was a note about how to most effectively get drunk (neat Rum), a post script saying that the gaggles of scary lads with their sagging pants are just there to have fun and chase girls, so please don’t mind them and an invitation to go ahead and grind up on someone because that’s what Carnival is about–dancing with strangers.
I feel like in the US, the brochure would have pretended that only sluts get drunk and/or dance and that there would be no boys with saggy pants on the grounds because they would have been arrested upon arrival just for good measure.
The only knowledge I’d had of Notting Hill was the movie Notting Hill, so it was nice to see the street alive and real. It would have also been nice to see Hugh Grant, but the samba bands were pretty spectacular.
By the time I left, the crowd was shoulder-to-shoulder and mostly drunk. I can see how this would be an amazing place to be with a group of friends. Alone, though, it started to feel a bit like the one Mardi Gras street fest I went to. I was young then. And willing to get beads. At first it was silly and fun, but by the end, I was being lifted off the ground by strangers. Not okay. I’m sure nothing like that happened in Notting Hill last night, but I felt like I had enjoyed as much as I needed to. So I found the prettiest park I’ve ever seen, I sat there and I wrote a bit.
It’s pretty here.
Now having a cup of tea and I think I understand why I didn’t like tea before. I never drank it with milk. Or actual sugar. Or from leaves. Always bagged tea with no milk and with Splenda.
I’m realizing that it’s very possible that I actually only like milk and sugar; but never mind that. This tea is amazeballs.
You’ll think this picture is sweet until you read the first paragraph of this post. (source)
I’m pretty sure the mother and son who sat next to me on the plane on the way over here were sleeping together. This was days ago, but I know they’re in this city somewhere. I hope I don’t run into them again. Except that I kinda hope I do.
They first sat behind me even though, per their conversation that I overheard, they were meant to sit next to me. About 10 minutes later, a guy told them that they were in his and his husband’s seat. The Mother and Boy moved to the seats next to me and the boy said, loudly enough to be heard over the drone of the engine: “Uhhh, did you hear that guy say ‘husband’? He’s a guy and he called that other guy his husband.” Then he turned around and looked at them.
His attention was stolen, however, by a very tall guy who took the edge seat on the other side of the aisle from me. To be fair, the guy was very tall. Nearly 7 feet. To also be fair, sure, he’s tall. But that’s it. Just tall.
“Wow!” The Boy yelled again. “That’s guy’s tall! Have you ever seen someone so tall? I haven’t seen anyone that tall. He’s so tall.”
And I get it. It’s interesting to see things we haven’t seen before. I myself have been blown away by the number of full body burkas I’ve seen in London. But after your eyes take it in for about a second, it becomes imperative to think: “Yes, there are people who aren’t like me. Ah, well, back to my life.” … Unless those people who are different from you are an incest couple. Then you include them in your travelogue and talk about them at parties. Open incest is interesting. Height is just the luck of the genetic draw.
The Boy then pulled out a gallon-sized bag of Famous Amos cookies and said, “Whatever. As long as I have these, I’ll be happy.” Then he looked in the bag. “They’re all gone already?” Then he kind of started to cry.
It should be noted that by “boy,” I mean a man of maybe 25 to 27 years old.
To console the cookie-less kid, the Mother gave him a hug and offered to tuck him into the seat so he could sleep. The Boy barked orders at her to move his pillow, move his blanket, move his pillow back, take the blanket off, tip his hat the other direction, pull the blanket up by his ear, NO NOT THAT EAR, JESUS! Each time, the mom didn’t punch him in his lazy face. Instead, she just took her orders and cooed at him. Then, right before he fell asleep, the Boy grabbed the Mom’s hand and held it. The way you might if you were, I don’t know, sleeping with that person.
Their hands curled around each other like vines on a post and there they drifted off.
A few hours later, we were all awake and the woman was drinking a gin and tonic. Sure, it was nearing noon where we were landing, but it was like 9 a.m. back in our own time zone. Though, I supposed if I were fucking my son, I’d need a drink at 9 a.m., too. She also had a grip of bruises on both of her arms above the elbow.
Later in the “afternoon” the Boy woke up and said a host of other very pleasant things like: “I know I’m fat, but I only like thin girls. I can’t help it.” And: “Marcie said that if she was 32 and still not married, she wants my sperm. I told her she can come and get it now.” Mom just listened and laughed along. Which was the best course of action because every time she would start to do anything for herself like read or watch TV, the Son would take it from her – rip the book out of her hands or change the language on the TV to Chinese.
All these events were punctuated with odd moments of sweetness. Like when he told her that he was really glad they were all taking this trip together. That it was nice that everyone was at an age where they could enjoy it. They both smiled sweetly like regular people and it was just enough for me to think that I was nothing more than a cynical jerk who can’t appreciate families who are close. But then the Mom teased the Boy by saying: “You know, I should make you and your sister room together.” And in my head, I screamed “YES, YES YOU SHOULD!!” and when the trolley came by, I ordered a glass of red wine to get through this “afternoon” of family love.
Now yes, it’s possible this wasn’t a Mom and Son. They could have been an Aunt and Nephew and the part of their family two rows behind us could have been an Uncle and Niece and not a Father and Daughter. Either way, they shouldn’t have been holding hands that much and the adults should have roomed together.
Exhausted early by the fact that my hotel has no elevator.
Took double-decker bus tour – hopefully most touristy thing I’ll do.
Watched horses do royal things.
Found bar near hotel and got drunk with lovely family from Leeds.
And now, the rest of the story
Woke up this morning, nearly this afternoon, to the very blaring sounds of a fire alarm. I stood in my room for a whole minute, trying to get my bearings, listening to this alarm and never once thinking “wow, I’m glad this hotel is built to code and I won’t die to death in hot, fiery flames.”
Instead I was annoyed that it was so loud.
When was the last time a fire alarm meant a fire?
I can hear other lazy people who haven’t managed to leave their hotel by 11 a.m. opening their doors and wondering in a variety of languages if they really have to get out. And if so, if they really are forbidden from taking the lift. I can get by in French and Dutch, none of what I’m hearing is in those languages, but it doesn’t matter. Some things really are so universal that you don’t need words.
This alarm, like every other alarm, does not mean that there’s a fire.
My hotel room is odd. The reviews castigated it for being far too small. I don’t think it’s too small, I just think it’s odd. It’s definitely not big, but for a single traveler and a place that’s not a resort, I think it’s fine.
I mean, look at it. Who cares how small it is inside when it’s this adorable outside! (source)
The lights don’t come on in the room until you put the key card into a slot on the wall illuminated by a tiny red light. It took me a few minutes too many to figure this out last night.
True enough, there’s not enough room between the sink and the tub, you have to turn sideways to get out. But that only comes into play a couple of times a day, so it’s not really a big deal.
The fact that there is no shower curtain is a bigger concern. Not because of the time spent in the shower, but rather because after the shower, the floor doesn’t dry instantly. As I wander back and forth and back and forth to brush teeth and hair, wash my hands again, wee one more time, etc., my feet remain wet and I’m too worried about upsetting the staff to wear shoes and make footprints in here.
I walk to the Tube. It’s less than five minutes away. My hotel is just off the Earl’s Court stop. Apparently, there’s a football stadium nearby. My hotel is also in the middle of a rather ethnic neighborhood. While I appreciate the smells—lots of spice and lightness—I I haven’t run into too many pasty British faces or bouncy little accents. Am vaguely disappointed by this.
I’m overly proud of the fact that I choose the right train immediately. In New York once, I tried to get to Manhattan from Brooklyn. Ended up in Brighton Beach instead. This time, I go right to Piccadilly Circus. Later I will learn that a piccadilly is a fancy, fluffy necktie. I had no idea.
I don’t know why I choose Piccadilly Circus. It sounded familiar and like there might be a lot going on around there. There is. The main statue thing looks exactly like it does on TV and in movies and I don’t know why that surprises me. It also makes me feel bored for a moment. Thanks to a bunch of shows and films, I feel like I’ve been here before and the point of travel is to go where you haven’t and to see what you’ve never. So I start walking.
A few blocks later and I find a double-decker bus tour. It’s the one super touristy thing I plan on allowing myself to do. I stand in line for one, but am stalled by a group of old, fat Midwesterners who want to go to Madame Tussaud’s later. I wait for them to finish paying for like 15 minutes and give up. There’s another double-decker guy right behind them and he has no line.
Good on you, The Original Tour, for catering to my laziness! (source)
On the bus, I feel like an adult because I am interested in the history. Nelson had one arm and when he died at sea, his body preserved in rum that sailors drank while his corpse was soaking in it. Tapping the admiral they call it. How shitty must it be on boats? The Thames stopped flowing once because there was too much poop in it. There’s a statue dedicated to the animals forced into the War Effort. Once upon a time, brides could wear whatever color they wanted and a white dress has nothing to do with purity. Queen Victoria just wore white so she could incorporate a piece of family lace. Now we’re all suck with it. “One for the road” originated in the public hanging days—during which more than 60,000 people were hanged to death. Men on their way to the gallows were paraded by pubs where the owners would give them beers. If the guys got lucky, they were too pissed to know what was happening by the time it happened.
I also realize I get real hard for Neo-Gothic architecture. I could stare at Parliament all day.
For realsies: I want this thing inside of me.
To say it started raining would be an understatment…I think. I live in Los Angeles where it never rains. So thought I was soaked to the bone, it was rather nice to feel it. I get to so seldomly.
Eventually, we all scurry off the top of the bus and hole up underneath. Between the rain, the advertisements painted on the windows and the breathy windows, we can’t see anything anymore. That doesn’t stop our tour guide, however, from continuing with his spiel. Which he must know better than he ever hoped to.
Behind me, some American woman asks if he’ll tell her where to get off to see Churchill’s underground rooms. He tells her it’s the next stop. She asks if he’ll remind her. He repeats himself. Good on you, tour guide.
I then realize what a difference one word can make. I have absolutely no interest in watching the Changing of the Guard. However, when our tour driver told us we would be passing the Changing of the Horse Guard I couldn’t have gotten off the bus fast enough.
I leave the bus a stop away from the Changing of the Horse Guard. I don’t have a camera or a phone that’s worth a damn, so I video it and almost get trampled. They don’t have ropes up that clear the way or send a friendly Brit on ahead to make a path, they just run out of the stables, and God help you if you’re in the way.
I stand there and watch not just the horses but the people running up to take pictures next to the horses. There’s a steady stream. One after another after another after another. Some smile big, some barely smile at all. Some touch the horse, some stand closer to the sign that says “warning, horse may bite or kick.” I feel sorry for the horses and their mounts. I’d hate to have that many strangers touching my tools of work while I was doing my job. Especially if my job was rooted in tradition and prestige and had now been turned into a tourist attraction. I wonder how I’d feel if production staff suddenly became trendy. What it would be like to have people running up to my cubicle one after another after another to have their picture taken. I’d train my keyboard to bite on command just to keep things moving along.
After the horses, I decide to look for a jacket and dry ground. I’m soaked through now. My jeans weigh a couple of pounds more than they did before and my knitted sweater is useless. I also want to photograph the rain, so it’s a bit of a catch-22 which I remind myself to read again. I hole up in a souvenir store with a bunch of other Americans and look for a rain jacket. They don’t have any.
They do have, however, a Nigerian guy minding the door who tells me that if I come back, he’ll take me to some great places. I don’t actually know that he’s Nigerian, but I assume he is I’m apparently racist and he is extraordinarily assertive.
I get on the train and back to my odd hotel, which has not burned to the ground. I spend an hour drying off and talking to Lovely. I can’t decide if I wish he were here or if I’m glad that he’s not so I’m forced to be a big girl. I miss him. But I also miss myself and that’s what this trip is about—finding a bit of me again. (That’s what writers do every now and again, isn’t it?) I could have taken a week off of work and working on finding myself in Los Angeles; but I doubt it would be as effective.
Back home, I would have been in all the old habits, all the old haunts. I would have discovered nothing. Here, I’m forced to discover at least something. I don’t know anyone, I speak the language, but I’m not part of the culture. I have no responsibilities except to myself which is nice. I can’t be concerned about my cats or my artists at work or my friends. Admittedly, the first night of this felt strange. Even this morning was odd to realize that all I had on the agenda was to make myself happy. I’m getting used to it, though.
After Lovely and I log off, I take a shower and ruin the floor again, squeeze past the sink a few times and climb back down the stairs to head to this pub I saw my first night in. Couldn’t go to it then because things close down at midnight. This is maybe the worst thing about London. Midnight is too late to start an evening, surely, but it’s the perfect time to be in the middle of something. Why would a city so full of theater be so down on Act II?
A woman walks in who has just been to visit Jimmy Choo. They look American. Why would you waste time buying the same expensive shoes over here that you can back at home?
She nags her boyfriend and I hear that they are American. I’ve never been so aware of my accent before. In other countries, I don’t speak much, so I never have to deal with my accent directly. I also hear less English, so frankly, all voices collect into one vague din of noise that after a while disappears from my ears all together.
Here, I can talk to anyone and when I do, I sound aggressive and entitled.
There’s something vaguely 1990s about the style here. I kind of like it and wonder if I would be prettier if I lived in the UK. I can totally rock some side bangs.
It’s the first time I’ve been drunk overseas without someone to blame but myself. If I play my cards right, tomorrow will be the second time.
One of the best things about London: When you ordeer booze, they ask you if you want a Large or Small…as if they needed to! Cheers! (source)
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Where was the last place you travelled to? What did you find there? Let us know in the comments!
The first time someone said to me: “Hey, have you tried one of those Chinese foot massage places,” my first response was “of course not because I don’t hire prostitutes.”
For some reason, when you put a culture name in front of a verb, it takes on a whole new meaning.
“Dancing” = okay, sure that sounds fine. “Latin Dancing” = now I’m hot and bothered. And there’s a rose in my mouth. (source)
But Chinese Foot Massage is about a billion times better than any prostitute could ever be. Unless that prosti threw in a CFM during whatever else s/he’s doing.
Here’s how it works: You sit in a room full of a dozen or so very large, very comfy recliners. Your pants legs are rolled up and your feet are dropped into a bucket of scalding hot water. You kind of want to scream, but you don’t want to look like a pussy about it. I mean, if that 80-lb Mandarin octogenarian next to you can handle it, so can you.
And you can.
After a few seconds, the herbs or magic or chlorine or whatever is in that water takes over and it just feels goooood.
While your toes are soaking, the nice masseuse starts the rub down. They rub your head, your face, your neck, your arms and your shoulders before pulling your feet out and starting up. They spend a lot of time down there and they must be doing something right because you start feeling like you really need to fart, but you don’t want to be a jerk about it.
Then you realize if that 80-lb Mandarin octogenarian next to you can let one slip, then you can too. So you wait for them to leave to get a towel and you do.
They come back, dry off your legs, turn you over and rub you down top to bottom again. And if you’re me, when they get to your bottom, there’s a tittering of Sino-Tibetan language and then some laughter. And that’s okay because it just feels so dang amazing.
The whole thing lasts just over and hour and costs $15.
Yes. $15. Let’s hear it for folks having been indoctrinated in factories.
I took my Lovely to my favorite local CFM place this weekend and noticed for the first time that among the recliners, there was also this curtained room.
“What happens in there?” I asked the host.
“Prostitutes,” I kinda wanted him to say for good measure. But he didn’t. Not even to humor me. Instead he said “oh, we focus more on your back and neck than the feet.”
I’d never gotten a massage behind a curtain and I had just finished a couple Irish Mules, so I thought this was a great idea. Lovely didn’t argue. So behind the curtain we went.
“Okay, take off your clothes,” the host said. “We’ll be back in a minute.”
Mind you, just on the other side of this thin sheet of linen were people. Strangers. Regular folk who were just there to get their feet rubbed and who had no idea that nude little me was going to be running around 2 feet from them.
You never know what’s behind the screen. It could be me. Or Pauly D. Either way, my apologies. (source)
But I had just had a couple of Irish Mules, so I thought that was fine.
We disrobed, in walked a dude and a girl and they went to work. And so did my brain. I know that you’re supposed to “relax” during a massage or at some point in your life. But that’s just not how I do. Instead, I do like this:
Not sure how I feel about the heart-shaped face hole on this table. What if I had come here with a girlfriend?
Oh, good, I get a girl masseur and he gets a guy one.
Not that I’d be upset if he got a girl one. I’m not the jealous type.
Am I the jealous type?
Oh wow, she just climbed right on my back. That’s fine.
I wonder if that guy is standing on Lovely’s back?
Is it wrong that I don’t get jealous?
How much am I going to tip?
Why can’t I get the timer on my AC to work?
Maybe my cats will be fine if I don’t leave the AC on.
Why am I trying to kill my cats??
I wonder if my cats and his dog will get along.
I should really write something about the election.
Probably just gonna blog about this massage instead.
Is she still kneeling on my hamstrings?
And oh, is she stretching my Achilles’s tendon with her toes??
She has really dextrous toes.
Is he stretching Lovely’s Achilles’s tendon with his toes?
Does that make me jealous?
No really, I should write about the election. It’s nuts out there. “Legitimate rape, wtf?!”
Eh, a list piece’ll be fine.
Should I have booked a hotel in London by now?
I’m sure I’ll find something.
If I don’t find something, will I have to stay at a hostel?
If I stay at a hostel will I be robbed?
Oddly enough, Hostel 2 had a decent plot and really beautiful set design.
Why the eff did I watch Hostel 2??
I think I know someone who watched The Human Centipede. I’m at least doing better than whoever that was.
He and I are both nudey on these tables. Should I be feeling sexy right now?
Because wanting to fart is not sexy.
I think if I felt sexy right now, this would be come prostitutey.
Kinda wish I couldn’t feel her breathing on my face. Really like having my face touched though.
You had to go and do it again, didn’t you? Seriously, you couldn’t let it go just this once. You just had to make a point, exert your will, control this situation, get the last word in and piss me right the eff off.
These beautiful Mossimo pants, which were once a pleasant size 8 are now, despite my having dried them on your “delicate” setting, a stomach crunching size 4. Thanks, dryer! There’s not a Target on every corner. It’s gonna take me days to replace these. Days! Oh, what’s that?? I should just order something online so I don’t even have to leave my desk? Whatever. Ease of acquisition is not the point. What is the point is that you’re a dick.
You mess with Target clothes, you mess with the Mizrahi. And you don’t want to see the Mizrahi when he’s angry. PS: He’s always angry. (source)
I see what’s going on. You want me to think that there’s something wrong with me. That my metabolism has suddenly stopped and that I didn’t deserve Friday’s donuts or today’s burritos. That marathon training and Zumba are lost on me. But you’re wrong, dryer, you’re wrong! This isn’t about my shortcomings, this is about your inability to communicate!
And seriously, wtf?! If this is what you do on “delicate,” what horrors do you inflict on people who dare to dry their clothes on the “regular” cycle? Is the latter setting there just in case people want a creative way to make doll and dog clothes? Or do you just want us all to hate ourselves and go bankrupt, one pair of now-too-tight slacks at a time?
You know, it’s this kind of passive-aggressive behaviour that keeps you all alone in that room with only Washing Machine to keep you company. Notice how everyone in the apartment complex only hangs out with you for a few seconds at a time? Yeah, it’s because you’re an asshole and we’re all just using you. There, I said it. I wanted to be nice, but I just can’t anymore.
Don’t think that you’ve won just because your assholery has caused those pants to be the last pair of my pants that fit. I’m still ahead of you! I have skirts, Dryer. Three of them. And 2 work-appropriate dresses. TWO! And I can wear these items with various scarves and jackets in such a way that my coworkers will have no idea that I’ve sported the same 5 articles of clothing every week for the last 6 months. They may occasionally have their suspicions, but only you and I will know the truth. And I, like the elephant you’d like me to believe that I am, will never forget your transgression.
Good memories and super adorable! Also they can crush you with their thoughts. (source)
See if I waste my shiny 2012 quarters on you from now on. It’s rusty 1950s coins only from now on.
If you do find yourself with something to say, you know where to find me.
Signed,
TheOreoExperience, AKA, The B in apartment 14 1/2
Yeah, Dryer, I know it doesn’t rhyme, okay?! Jeez get off my back!
The Oreo Experience 
