I had a quite entertaining phone conversation with Regan the other night. What did we talk about? After catching up on the minutiae of our working lives we talked about boys, of course.
"Dude, I've met someone," she said.
"Really, who? And where?"
"We met at a coffee shop and then I went on a date with him. I really like him."
"Tell me about him!"
"A semi-retired tech guy, nice house, does photography for a hobby, and is an Iron Man triathlete. Can you Google him? You don't think he's a stalker, do you?"
So while I was Googling and reading New Boyfriend's marathon and triathlon stats to her while trying to stifle my laughter over her stalker concerns, I asked her one more crucial question.
"So, Regs, is he a good kisser?"
"Oh.... my.... gosh..... yes. And he doesn't make me itch."
"Uh, what?"
"He doesn't make me itch!"
"What do you mean, itch?" I asked.
"You know, when a guy kisses you and then your face itches? I mean, I'm like, dude, I just put foundation on and now it's flaking. That's not cool."
Thus began a conversation about unnecessary kissing, inappropriate touching and personal space invaders. Regan lives much of the time in Italy where she encounters people who constantly want to kiss on both cheeks and touch entirely too much for our more staid American upbringing. It bothers her that people constantly kiss her, leaving stringy drool stains on her cheeks, and I don't blame her.
"I mean, seriously, is it necessary to constantly kiss everyone? It's just so.... gross! Unhygienic or something," she groaned.
Our conversation reminded me of my own thoroughly unpleasant encounters with saliva-ridden kisses, inappropriate touching and personal space invading during my marriage to Ex.
Ex's family, being from a foreign culture, had a habit of always kissing on both cheeks and touching inappropriately even if you had never met the person before. Literally, I would witness his family members meeting someone on the street for the first time, and while still holding the person's right hand in the handshake, planting wet kisses on each cheek of the newfound acquaintance. I have nothing at all against other cultures' practices, but I'm originally from the northeast. We don't do that there. Ever.
I told Regan that I knew with great pain exactly what she was talking about and could actually one-up her on that score. During the first month that Ex and I were married, we had Christmas at his aunt's house. I walked into the house when his aunt, whom I'd not met until that time, opened the door and I was immediately barraged with wet kisses on both of my cheeks. In and of itself, that wasn't so bad despite my surprise at the kissing thing, but what followed truly horrified me. As I entered the front hallway, Ex's aunt put her hand on my uterus. My uterus!
She exclaimed, "You too skinny! Are you pregnant yet? I know my brother wants to be grandpa!"
I froze in awe-struck shock. Not only was I just one month into the already deteriorating marriage, but I have never wanted children and a strange, beehive-haired woman had her hand dangerously close to The Goods and I was still wiping saliva off of my face, bringing along with it my makeup. In retrospect, I believe that I must have stood there with my jaw literally hanging open as I swiped at my cheeks with the back of my hand because the aunt looked at me with what I can only guess was suspicious consternation and meandered off to the kitchen, never to speak to me again during the evening (except when I almost shattered her ice bucket, but that's another story).
Later in the relationship, I was forced to go to a holiday BBQ at Ex's parents' house. The home was filled with random people I'd never met, but all were apparently relatives. I was inevitably the odd person out at these gatherings because I didn't speak their language, so I usually sat at the kitchen table alone and waited the day out. At this particular gathering, one of Ex's many cousins came over and sat with me. After the unavoidable sloppy kiss on each cheek, she put her hand on my stomach and admonished, "You have been married way too long to not have baby. Why you no have baby? You have problem with plumbing?"
"I don't want a baby." I was too astonished to even address the plumbing comment.
At this revelation, she practically fainted. "How you don't want baby? Every woman want baby! Look at my beautiful baby here. He's three months. Isn't he most gorgeous thing you ever see?"
I'm pretty sure that my attempt at an "I like babies" face fell flat.
Later in the marriage, I attended one of Ex's family functions in which his grandmother approached me. Obligatory wet kisses ensued, after which she grabbed my right boob and, manipulating it while I was sewn to the floor in shock, announced, "Is good for to make milk for baby."
I told Regan these stories on the phone as she laughed uproariously and said, "Shut up! You're making this up!"
File this under I Couldn't Make This Up if I Tried, because it's all true. When Regan soon returns to Italy and faces the inevitable kissing onslaught, I hope she remembers that at least she isn't getting felt up by New Boyfriend's family for baby making potential. Wiping a bit of drool off of your cheek? Child's play. Graciously excusing yourself when your in-laws are your personal space invaders with a penchant for grabbing your baby maker? That takes some skill.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Pardon Me, While I Remove This Knife From My Back
My fingers have been itching to write about this for 2 weeks, but I've been so insanely pissed that my eyes were crossed and it took me some time to get sufficiently clear-headed in order to put it in words. Now that I've banged my head against the wall a few times in frustration, I'm finally ready.
Awhile back, I wrote about how I had called Anastasia, wondering how in the world Ex found out about my $600 face peel. I was absolutely positive that Plastic Surgeon and her staff wouldn't have disclosed that information, not only because it's covered by HIPAA, but also because PS and I have been friends for several years now and she loathes Ex sometimes more than even I.
What I failed to mention in that post was that PS had been looking for help in her office, and I had a "friend" (I use that term loosely with her now) with whom I used to bartend. I've known B.B. (can you guess what that stands for?) since 2001 and we've always been friendly. She used to tell me how she looked up to me and wanted to learn my secrets of making great cash from being a good bartender. She is a very sweet-seeming girl, strikingly pretty, and very personable. For the last couple of years, B.B. and I have had occasional lunches together, many nights in which I'm a patron at her bar, and late-night phone calls where I'm comforting her on the latest heartbreak, of which there have been many. Of course, during the course of our "friendship," I disclosed things as well. I never had any reason not to take her at face value, so when PS asked if I knew anyone who was looking for this particular position (which B.B. was) I didn't hesitate to recommend her even though she wasn't truly experienced enough for the position.
After B.B. promised PS that she possessed a desire to learn the medical approach to skin care, wanted a long-haul position and was ready to hang up her wine key, she was hired and thus began what would have been a lucrative career for her. She continued to tend bar for awhile until she built up her own clientele at PS's office and I, of course, continued to see her on an almost-weekly basis. She seemed so grateful, always telling me how much she loved working for PS when I'd see her at the bar, and she even took me out one evening for dinner and drinks to thank me.
Unfortunately, I found out that B.B. quit her job with PS after only 6 months and gave her a paltry 2 week notice when a month is standard in her industry. I apologized to PS because I felt so responsible, to which she assured me that it wasn't my fault.
Fast forward to two weekends ago, when Designer threw his party back in my city after our trip to Greece. I took the group that wanted to go out afterwards to a new club in town owned by my old boss from The Bar. B.B., who worked there at the time, bounded up to me and threw her arms around me.
"Almost! Why aren't you at my bar? I'm moving to Hawaii with a new boyfriend who's going to be on Lost! Ya know, the TV show?"
"Yes, I heard."
"Ohmigosh, are you mad at me? PS told you I'm leaving, didn't she? Is she sooooo mad at me? Please don't be mad, I'm in love!"
"I'm not mad, B.B., that was your business between you and PS. As far as I'm concerned, after I recommended you I was out of the situation."
"Oh, good!" she squealed, "Then you can come to my going away party next weekend!"
I mumbled something into my champagne and squirmed out of her embrace to go talk with someone else. Truth be told, I was kind of irritated because I felt that her lack of respect for PS in not giving sufficient notice reflected on me and I was embarrassed. I also thought it was fairly naive to uproot and move to Hawaii after dating some random dude for 3 weeks, who's going to work on a show that's probably going to be canceled in a month anyway. But worse was yet to come. The kind of worse that made me not go out for the last 2 weeks to avoid seeing her and ending up in jail for assault. I'm not the least bit violent, but I may have been just infuriated enough to haul off and uppercut her in front of all her bar patrons.
The next day, I went to a beautiful outdoor lunch with Ava, Anastasia, Designer's business partner Regan, and a few other people. During the course of the lunch, I came to find out that Anastasia's husband had disclosed something to her which was about to make me want to grab the Santa Margherita from the ice bucket and drink right out of the bottle.
Ex recently told Anastasia's husband that he had found out all of his information about me from B.B. on nights when he would hang at her bar alone for hours. Upon his giving her astronomical tips (the kind where, had Ex not been there, she wouldn't have walked out that night with even close to as much.... the thousand dollar kind), she would share critical information about my whereabouts, my associates, what I was wearing, if anyone had kissed me on the cheek, how much money I was spending when I was out, and of course, the $600 peel. Anastasia, in her wily ways, had finagled this out of her husband and then told me.
Shouldn't that type of bartending prostitution/betrayal of your "friend" & former colleague be illegal in all states? I'd like to lobby in front of Congress on that one.
I consulted my friends and eventually decided that I would do nothing. Stooping to her level was not going to earn me any karma brownie points, so I thought the better route would be to just let it go. Until PS called me yesterday and I told her the story.
"Almost, why aren't you reporting her to the State Board? She violated HIPAA."
"Because I didn't want it to reflect badly on you in any way and I wasn't sure what it would do to you."
"It does nothing to me. You of all people know that's a serious violation," PS said. "That's what I'd do if I were in your position."
I submitted my online complaint to the State Board yesterday and expect a phone call from them on Monday. At least I know that she won't be able to betray anyone else in this state when she inevitably moves back. And when she is back? I suppose I'll keep my friends close and my enemies as f*cking far away from me as possible.
Awhile back, I wrote about how I had called Anastasia, wondering how in the world Ex found out about my $600 face peel. I was absolutely positive that Plastic Surgeon and her staff wouldn't have disclosed that information, not only because it's covered by HIPAA, but also because PS and I have been friends for several years now and she loathes Ex sometimes more than even I.
What I failed to mention in that post was that PS had been looking for help in her office, and I had a "friend" (I use that term loosely with her now) with whom I used to bartend. I've known B.B. (can you guess what that stands for?) since 2001 and we've always been friendly. She used to tell me how she looked up to me and wanted to learn my secrets of making great cash from being a good bartender. She is a very sweet-seeming girl, strikingly pretty, and very personable. For the last couple of years, B.B. and I have had occasional lunches together, many nights in which I'm a patron at her bar, and late-night phone calls where I'm comforting her on the latest heartbreak, of which there have been many. Of course, during the course of our "friendship," I disclosed things as well. I never had any reason not to take her at face value, so when PS asked if I knew anyone who was looking for this particular position (which B.B. was) I didn't hesitate to recommend her even though she wasn't truly experienced enough for the position.
After B.B. promised PS that she possessed a desire to learn the medical approach to skin care, wanted a long-haul position and was ready to hang up her wine key, she was hired and thus began what would have been a lucrative career for her. She continued to tend bar for awhile until she built up her own clientele at PS's office and I, of course, continued to see her on an almost-weekly basis. She seemed so grateful, always telling me how much she loved working for PS when I'd see her at the bar, and she even took me out one evening for dinner and drinks to thank me.
Unfortunately, I found out that B.B. quit her job with PS after only 6 months and gave her a paltry 2 week notice when a month is standard in her industry. I apologized to PS because I felt so responsible, to which she assured me that it wasn't my fault.
Fast forward to two weekends ago, when Designer threw his party back in my city after our trip to Greece. I took the group that wanted to go out afterwards to a new club in town owned by my old boss from The Bar. B.B., who worked there at the time, bounded up to me and threw her arms around me.
"Almost! Why aren't you at my bar? I'm moving to Hawaii with a new boyfriend who's going to be on Lost! Ya know, the TV show?"
"Yes, I heard."
"Ohmigosh, are you mad at me? PS told you I'm leaving, didn't she? Is she sooooo mad at me? Please don't be mad, I'm in love!"
"I'm not mad, B.B., that was your business between you and PS. As far as I'm concerned, after I recommended you I was out of the situation."
"Oh, good!" she squealed, "Then you can come to my going away party next weekend!"
I mumbled something into my champagne and squirmed out of her embrace to go talk with someone else. Truth be told, I was kind of irritated because I felt that her lack of respect for PS in not giving sufficient notice reflected on me and I was embarrassed. I also thought it was fairly naive to uproot and move to Hawaii after dating some random dude for 3 weeks, who's going to work on a show that's probably going to be canceled in a month anyway. But worse was yet to come. The kind of worse that made me not go out for the last 2 weeks to avoid seeing her and ending up in jail for assault. I'm not the least bit violent, but I may have been just infuriated enough to haul off and uppercut her in front of all her bar patrons.
The next day, I went to a beautiful outdoor lunch with Ava, Anastasia, Designer's business partner Regan, and a few other people. During the course of the lunch, I came to find out that Anastasia's husband had disclosed something to her which was about to make me want to grab the Santa Margherita from the ice bucket and drink right out of the bottle.
Ex recently told Anastasia's husband that he had found out all of his information about me from B.B. on nights when he would hang at her bar alone for hours. Upon his giving her astronomical tips (the kind where, had Ex not been there, she wouldn't have walked out that night with even close to as much.... the thousand dollar kind), she would share critical information about my whereabouts, my associates, what I was wearing, if anyone had kissed me on the cheek, how much money I was spending when I was out, and of course, the $600 peel. Anastasia, in her wily ways, had finagled this out of her husband and then told me.
Shouldn't that type of bartending prostitution/betrayal of your "friend" & former colleague be illegal in all states? I'd like to lobby in front of Congress on that one.
I consulted my friends and eventually decided that I would do nothing. Stooping to her level was not going to earn me any karma brownie points, so I thought the better route would be to just let it go. Until PS called me yesterday and I told her the story.
"Almost, why aren't you reporting her to the State Board? She violated HIPAA."
"Because I didn't want it to reflect badly on you in any way and I wasn't sure what it would do to you."
"It does nothing to me. You of all people know that's a serious violation," PS said. "That's what I'd do if I were in your position."
I submitted my online complaint to the State Board yesterday and expect a phone call from them on Monday. At least I know that she won't be able to betray anyone else in this state when she inevitably moves back. And when she is back? I suppose I'll keep my friends close and my enemies as f*cking far away from me as possible.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Birthday Fun and Don't Drink and Text Part II
My birthday just passed and I am so relieved because I hate that day. It has nothing to do with aging, since I've hated it for as long as I can remember. The year that I turned 11, my mother threw a surprise birthday party for me, at which time I locked myself in my room and refused to reemerge until everyone was gone. My poor mother - she really had her hands full with me.
Actually, this year's birthday wasn't too traumatic, since I spent the evening with friends at Scarlet and Guido's restaurant and wound up the night attending a drag queen show that I've been dying to see for years.
But since it's that dreaded time of year for me again, I can't help but dredge up my horrific birthday from last year. Ex had gotten the not-so-bright idea to throw me a surprise party despite the fact that he knew very well how much I hated them. This was during the period of time when he realized that the marriage was deteriorating faster than Britney on a coke and vodka binge, so he was going all out to try and do everything he could to save it.
Ava called me and tipped me off so that we could avoid the disastrous consequences, and we collaborated to get Ex to understand this plan was about as good as booking a ticket on the Titanic. Long story short, we ended up going to Vegas with the Doc, Ava, Anastasia, and a few other people so that I had a buffer.
The weekend was not progressing well. Ex and I weren't getting along and by the night of my birthday dinner, our last evening in Vegas, The Debacle began.
At some point during the weekend, Ex had gone through my purse and had found a business card from an attorney in Ava's city. I had spent the previous weekend with Ava attending a concert, and we ran into some of her old law school friends. We had hung out with them for a bit, and one of them ended up giving me his business card. I didn't think anything of it and just put it in my purse. When Ex went through my purse in Vegas and found the card, he assumed that I was having a torrid fling with the mystery attorney from Ava's city.
As we were walking to dinner, Ex apparently grabbed both Ava and Anastasia and growled, "I know that both of you are helping my wife have an affair," to which they were both too stunned to even respond.
Unfortunately I didn't hear about this until later in the night, or I might have just called off the dinner altogether. When we were seated in the restaurant, Ex began flipping through the pictures in my digital camera. He came across one from the previous weekend of me with Ava's attorney friend, which featured us simply sitting next to each other, not even touching. Though nothing inappropriate had happened and the picture was utterly innocent, he threw the camera at Ava and stormed away from the table. The first course hadn't even been served. And he never came back.
It turned out that he was taking turns pacing the hallway and sitting at the bar, crying and becoming increasingly drunk while smoking cigarettes like he was going to the electric chair. When dinner was over, I found him at the bar and thanked him for the lovely dinner. He responded, "You should be thankful. It was two thousand dollars."
I had become accustomed to comments like that, so I just sighed and suggested that we go to Pure for some cocktails and dancing. As we entered the club, I headed for the back bar and soon realized that I was alone. Turning around, I saw our entire group still at the entrance, featuring Ex wagging his finger right in Ava's face and screaming something. I returned to where they were standing and heard Ex finish his rant with, "F*ck you, and f*ck your friend!" She stood rooted to the floor in shock, looking at him wide-eyed.
He turned to me and followed me around in a little circle at the entrance of the club screaming various things at me and accusing me of sleeping with the guy from Ava's city, to which I replied, "Yeah, I always keep business cards from my sexual conquests. Sort of like a memoir," which of course, enraged him even more. I kept trying to walk away from him, but he wouldn't let me, screaming, "You always f*cking walk away from me! You're not going to f*cking walk away from it this time!"
By that point, my friends were looking on horrified and a group of onlookers had gathered to watch the spectacle. I was mortified. And scared. I hadn't seen him that out of control in public before. I tried everything I could to calm him down, but he was in an unstoppable rage. After 10 minutes that seemed like an eternity, he took off his wedding ring and shoved it at me.
"Here, Almost, I don't want to be married to you anymore. I want a divorce."
I shrugged my shoulders and said, "OK." I put the ring in my purse and said, "Come on, girls, let's go have some fun."
I was not about to let him ruin the evening, so Ava, Anastasia, my friend Kay who lives in Vegas, and I went to get drinks at another bar in the casino. We were having a nice evening, despite the drama that had already unfolded when I began to receive texts.
Over the next several hours, I received over 50 text messages and one very crazy phone call. Unfortunately, at the time I had a phone that only held 10 messages, so they're all gone now but I do recall the nature of the texts. They began with groundless accusations, to which I didn't even respond. Along with the usual accusations that I was getting it on with every man who had ever existed except for him, bizarre accusations began to emerge. At one point he accused me, Ava, and Anastasia of laughing at his man boobs. None of us had ever laughed at his man boobs, but the text itself did make us giggle.
As the evening wore on, the texts became cruel, replete with name calling and yet more bizarre accusations. When he realized that I wasn't going to respond to any of them, he chose another tactic. He sent me a text that said, "I'm leaving tonight," to which I responded, "OK, understood. Have a safe trip."
A few minutes later, I received another text. "At the airport."
I looked over my shoulder and saw him sitting at the blackjack table about 20 feet away, which made all of us girls howl with laughter.
I sent him one back and said, "Safe flight - let me know when you land."
This continued until 6 am, with text messages flooding my phone that insisted he was at the airport and me watching him type furiously on his phone just 20 feet away. It was not the show I expected to see in Vegas, but it was a show nonetheless.
I finally went back up to the suite, exhausted and sick of dealing with the situation. Anastasia had a 6 am flight home so she had already left, but when I got up to the room she forwarded a text to me as she sat on the runway.
Much to my surprise, Ex had been text stalking her as well, and his final text to her read, "Thanks for all of your support tonight... NOT."
Imagine my shock this year when I received only one text from him. It simply said, "Happy birthday."
Actually, this year's birthday wasn't too traumatic, since I spent the evening with friends at Scarlet and Guido's restaurant and wound up the night attending a drag queen show that I've been dying to see for years.
But since it's that dreaded time of year for me again, I can't help but dredge up my horrific birthday from last year. Ex had gotten the not-so-bright idea to throw me a surprise party despite the fact that he knew very well how much I hated them. This was during the period of time when he realized that the marriage was deteriorating faster than Britney on a coke and vodka binge, so he was going all out to try and do everything he could to save it.
Ava called me and tipped me off so that we could avoid the disastrous consequences, and we collaborated to get Ex to understand this plan was about as good as booking a ticket on the Titanic. Long story short, we ended up going to Vegas with the Doc, Ava, Anastasia, and a few other people so that I had a buffer.
The weekend was not progressing well. Ex and I weren't getting along and by the night of my birthday dinner, our last evening in Vegas, The Debacle began.
At some point during the weekend, Ex had gone through my purse and had found a business card from an attorney in Ava's city. I had spent the previous weekend with Ava attending a concert, and we ran into some of her old law school friends. We had hung out with them for a bit, and one of them ended up giving me his business card. I didn't think anything of it and just put it in my purse. When Ex went through my purse in Vegas and found the card, he assumed that I was having a torrid fling with the mystery attorney from Ava's city.
As we were walking to dinner, Ex apparently grabbed both Ava and Anastasia and growled, "I know that both of you are helping my wife have an affair," to which they were both too stunned to even respond.
Unfortunately I didn't hear about this until later in the night, or I might have just called off the dinner altogether. When we were seated in the restaurant, Ex began flipping through the pictures in my digital camera. He came across one from the previous weekend of me with Ava's attorney friend, which featured us simply sitting next to each other, not even touching. Though nothing inappropriate had happened and the picture was utterly innocent, he threw the camera at Ava and stormed away from the table. The first course hadn't even been served. And he never came back.
It turned out that he was taking turns pacing the hallway and sitting at the bar, crying and becoming increasingly drunk while smoking cigarettes like he was going to the electric chair. When dinner was over, I found him at the bar and thanked him for the lovely dinner. He responded, "You should be thankful. It was two thousand dollars."
I had become accustomed to comments like that, so I just sighed and suggested that we go to Pure for some cocktails and dancing. As we entered the club, I headed for the back bar and soon realized that I was alone. Turning around, I saw our entire group still at the entrance, featuring Ex wagging his finger right in Ava's face and screaming something. I returned to where they were standing and heard Ex finish his rant with, "F*ck you, and f*ck your friend!" She stood rooted to the floor in shock, looking at him wide-eyed.
He turned to me and followed me around in a little circle at the entrance of the club screaming various things at me and accusing me of sleeping with the guy from Ava's city, to which I replied, "Yeah, I always keep business cards from my sexual conquests. Sort of like a memoir," which of course, enraged him even more. I kept trying to walk away from him, but he wouldn't let me, screaming, "You always f*cking walk away from me! You're not going to f*cking walk away from it this time!"
By that point, my friends were looking on horrified and a group of onlookers had gathered to watch the spectacle. I was mortified. And scared. I hadn't seen him that out of control in public before. I tried everything I could to calm him down, but he was in an unstoppable rage. After 10 minutes that seemed like an eternity, he took off his wedding ring and shoved it at me.
"Here, Almost, I don't want to be married to you anymore. I want a divorce."
I shrugged my shoulders and said, "OK." I put the ring in my purse and said, "Come on, girls, let's go have some fun."
I was not about to let him ruin the evening, so Ava, Anastasia, my friend Kay who lives in Vegas, and I went to get drinks at another bar in the casino. We were having a nice evening, despite the drama that had already unfolded when I began to receive texts.
Over the next several hours, I received over 50 text messages and one very crazy phone call. Unfortunately, at the time I had a phone that only held 10 messages, so they're all gone now but I do recall the nature of the texts. They began with groundless accusations, to which I didn't even respond. Along with the usual accusations that I was getting it on with every man who had ever existed except for him, bizarre accusations began to emerge. At one point he accused me, Ava, and Anastasia of laughing at his man boobs. None of us had ever laughed at his man boobs, but the text itself did make us giggle.
As the evening wore on, the texts became cruel, replete with name calling and yet more bizarre accusations. When he realized that I wasn't going to respond to any of them, he chose another tactic. He sent me a text that said, "I'm leaving tonight," to which I responded, "OK, understood. Have a safe trip."
A few minutes later, I received another text. "At the airport."
I looked over my shoulder and saw him sitting at the blackjack table about 20 feet away, which made all of us girls howl with laughter.
I sent him one back and said, "Safe flight - let me know when you land."
This continued until 6 am, with text messages flooding my phone that insisted he was at the airport and me watching him type furiously on his phone just 20 feet away. It was not the show I expected to see in Vegas, but it was a show nonetheless.
I finally went back up to the suite, exhausted and sick of dealing with the situation. Anastasia had a 6 am flight home so she had already left, but when I got up to the room she forwarded a text to me as she sat on the runway.
Much to my surprise, Ex had been text stalking her as well, and his final text to her read, "Thanks for all of your support tonight... NOT."
Imagine my shock this year when I received only one text from him. It simply said, "Happy birthday."
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Ridicule of Appearances
Appearances are so deceiving. I know that's a grossly obvious statement (I do have the dubious talent of observing the blatant), but I've been pondering that notion for several reasons.
Thanks to the hilarious Michael K of DListed, I came across a photo retouching company called iWANEX, and if you visit their site, click on "portfolio," and run your cursor over each celebrity's picture, you'll see the wonders of Photoshop in all of its glorious, glaring clarity. I entertained myself mindlessly for about 20 minutes yesterday doing just that and decided that if I ever purchase another fashion magazine, I'm sending myself to Promises for Idiot Rehab. Or hiring a permanent team of retouchers and lighting techs to follow me every second of every day. Since my legal fees are approaching the cost of a Bentley (ok, I might be exaggerating just a tad) and I can't afford rehab or a make-me-hot team, I think I'll wear a string of garlic and a Fiddy-Cent sized cross around my neck to ward off the temptation at the checkout stand.
In any case, iWANEX's site also recalled something that I learned in Greece, and that is the extent to which appearance can so often be wrong, both for me and about me. I wasn't acquainted with too many of the people who attended the party prior to the trip, but I was aware that they were, for the most part, members of the Fabulous Crowd. What I mean by that is that many are in the fashion and design business, so I was expecting some supercilious attitudes that my shoes were from two seasons ago and that my attire was from (*gasp*) three seasons ago. Instead, what I found was a fascinating mix of people who were, indeed the Beautiful People, but who were also intelligent, intuitive, genuine, and after some ice-breaking, had much more going on below the surface than the pretty façade.
Take Alexis, for example. She's quite famous in her own right, having traveled the circuits of the most fabulous designers on the planet for a high-profile job. Alexis looks the part: her clothing is impeccable, hair is flawless, and accessories green-with-envy-worthy. You might think that she would refuse to engage with anyone less fabulous than she, but rather, she's a down-to-earth entrepreneur who upped and moved from one of the fashion capitals of the world and is forging out on her own, unaided. She surprised me with her perspicuity as well, being someone forthright with her depth of personal matters apart than just details of her new venture.
Aside from my own misjudgment, I was also misread in a way that made me laugh until I cried. These are some of the questions I had to answer early in my trip until people actually got to know me:
"Yes, I know I have a stripper name, but no, I've never been an exotic dancer and yes, this is my birth name."
"No, I have never been a porn star." (I'm pretty sure this one was based on the name as well, since my assets aren't quite what's required for such a task.)
"No, I am not a sex therapist."
"A sex surrogate?! Uh, no."
The genesis of these rumors remains a mystery to me, but they amused me nonetheless and were proof positive that anyone can misjudge upon first making another's acquaintance.
Then there was a couple in Greece, Scarlet and Guido, who just opened a restaurant in my city. I met Scarlet quite some time ago, but only had the opportunity to really get to know her on our trip. She's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in person and you might expect her to be shallow, simply based upon her looks. However, once you sit down with her and really talk to her, you realize that she's talented and beautiful on the inside as well. The restaurant that she and her husband just opened hosted the party for Designer on Friday night, and the walls were fully decorated with her artwork. She had told me of some of her work in Greece, but I never anticipated the beautiful torture she expressed in every piece. I think I bugged the crap out of her, making her take an hour to tell me about each piece and her exact process in creating them, but they were such striking paintings that I couldn't hear enough about them.
What's more, I had my court date for my pedestrian run-in the day after I returned from Greece. The case was dismissed (thank God!!!) and Officer Lentil and I ended up having an hour-long conversation in the courthouse hallway afterwards. Initially he exclaimed, "Hey, Almost, I had another pedestrian run-over the other day and I thought of you!" But subsequently, we spoke about other matters that didn't make me feel like the city's moniker for Morons Who Run Over Joggers. I pegged him for being a kind and very funny man, but I also misjudged him, thinking that a man in blue probably spends his free time watching the idiot box or hanging out at a bar and I could not have been more wrong. (This is not a discriminatory statement, by the way, it's just that I know cops see too much horror on their jobs and need to decompress somehow.) Officer Lentil spends his free time finding relics from churches that are being torn down in our city and dedicating months to restoring them to the gleaming beauty they once boasted. He scours antique shops and flea markets to find that one piece that speaks to him and asks him for help to return it to its original elegance. And he went to a very prestigious art school. I'm ashamed to say that I never would have guessed, but it was quite a pleasant surprise.
And perhaps this is just me, but even after knowing someone intimately for a substantial period of time, the well-practiced appearance can still mask the gruesome reality. I've already told just a few of the stories of how Ex snowed me in certain ways (forgery, Levitra, and Granny Porn, anyone?), but I secreted away things of my own. In that sense, both Ex and I had our own permanent staff of retouchers and lighting techs who glossed over the flaws and created a poreless quality to the marriage, at least to the outside world. Not always, but appearances can deceive to the point of ridiculing what you thought was your own accurate judgment, even after years.
And to answer the other question I first faced in Greece? No, I'm not a dominatrix, either, although I hear they make a very good living.
Thanks to the hilarious Michael K of DListed, I came across a photo retouching company called iWANEX, and if you visit their site, click on "portfolio," and run your cursor over each celebrity's picture, you'll see the wonders of Photoshop in all of its glorious, glaring clarity. I entertained myself mindlessly for about 20 minutes yesterday doing just that and decided that if I ever purchase another fashion magazine, I'm sending myself to Promises for Idiot Rehab. Or hiring a permanent team of retouchers and lighting techs to follow me every second of every day. Since my legal fees are approaching the cost of a Bentley (ok, I might be exaggerating just a tad) and I can't afford rehab or a make-me-hot team, I think I'll wear a string of garlic and a Fiddy-Cent sized cross around my neck to ward off the temptation at the checkout stand.
In any case, iWANEX's site also recalled something that I learned in Greece, and that is the extent to which appearance can so often be wrong, both for me and about me. I wasn't acquainted with too many of the people who attended the party prior to the trip, but I was aware that they were, for the most part, members of the Fabulous Crowd. What I mean by that is that many are in the fashion and design business, so I was expecting some supercilious attitudes that my shoes were from two seasons ago and that my attire was from (*gasp*) three seasons ago. Instead, what I found was a fascinating mix of people who were, indeed the Beautiful People, but who were also intelligent, intuitive, genuine, and after some ice-breaking, had much more going on below the surface than the pretty façade.
Take Alexis, for example. She's quite famous in her own right, having traveled the circuits of the most fabulous designers on the planet for a high-profile job. Alexis looks the part: her clothing is impeccable, hair is flawless, and accessories green-with-envy-worthy. You might think that she would refuse to engage with anyone less fabulous than she, but rather, she's a down-to-earth entrepreneur who upped and moved from one of the fashion capitals of the world and is forging out on her own, unaided. She surprised me with her perspicuity as well, being someone forthright with her depth of personal matters apart than just details of her new venture.
Aside from my own misjudgment, I was also misread in a way that made me laugh until I cried. These are some of the questions I had to answer early in my trip until people actually got to know me:
"Yes, I know I have a stripper name, but no, I've never been an exotic dancer and yes, this is my birth name."
"No, I have never been a porn star." (I'm pretty sure this one was based on the name as well, since my assets aren't quite what's required for such a task.)
"No, I am not a sex therapist."
"A sex surrogate?! Uh, no."
The genesis of these rumors remains a mystery to me, but they amused me nonetheless and were proof positive that anyone can misjudge upon first making another's acquaintance.
Then there was a couple in Greece, Scarlet and Guido, who just opened a restaurant in my city. I met Scarlet quite some time ago, but only had the opportunity to really get to know her on our trip. She's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in person and you might expect her to be shallow, simply based upon her looks. However, once you sit down with her and really talk to her, you realize that she's talented and beautiful on the inside as well. The restaurant that she and her husband just opened hosted the party for Designer on Friday night, and the walls were fully decorated with her artwork. She had told me of some of her work in Greece, but I never anticipated the beautiful torture she expressed in every piece. I think I bugged the crap out of her, making her take an hour to tell me about each piece and her exact process in creating them, but they were such striking paintings that I couldn't hear enough about them.
What's more, I had my court date for my pedestrian run-in the day after I returned from Greece. The case was dismissed (thank God!!!) and Officer Lentil and I ended up having an hour-long conversation in the courthouse hallway afterwards. Initially he exclaimed, "Hey, Almost, I had another pedestrian run-over the other day and I thought of you!" But subsequently, we spoke about other matters that didn't make me feel like the city's moniker for Morons Who Run Over Joggers. I pegged him for being a kind and very funny man, but I also misjudged him, thinking that a man in blue probably spends his free time watching the idiot box or hanging out at a bar and I could not have been more wrong. (This is not a discriminatory statement, by the way, it's just that I know cops see too much horror on their jobs and need to decompress somehow.) Officer Lentil spends his free time finding relics from churches that are being torn down in our city and dedicating months to restoring them to the gleaming beauty they once boasted. He scours antique shops and flea markets to find that one piece that speaks to him and asks him for help to return it to its original elegance. And he went to a very prestigious art school. I'm ashamed to say that I never would have guessed, but it was quite a pleasant surprise.
And perhaps this is just me, but even after knowing someone intimately for a substantial period of time, the well-practiced appearance can still mask the gruesome reality. I've already told just a few of the stories of how Ex snowed me in certain ways (forgery, Levitra, and Granny Porn, anyone?), but I secreted away things of my own. In that sense, both Ex and I had our own permanent staff of retouchers and lighting techs who glossed over the flaws and created a poreless quality to the marriage, at least to the outside world. Not always, but appearances can deceive to the point of ridiculing what you thought was your own accurate judgment, even after years.
And to answer the other question I first faced in Greece? No, I'm not a dominatrix, either, although I hear they make a very good living.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Dancing on the Tabletop with a Married Woman Does Not Earn Points With the Greek Mafia
I'm back from Greece after an indescribably fabulous week which culminated in a party in my city for Designer and his mother's birthdays this past weekend. I did not think about Ex once, which was a welcome relief. I don't feel rested in the least, but it was utterly worth it. I had planned on posting at least every other day from Greece, but was unable to follow through for a variety of reasons.
First of all, when you log on to Blogger in Greece, everything on the page is in Greek. I could not for the life of me figure out how to change the language back to English, so I just gave up. Actually, chalk it up to sheer laziness because every day I lounged at the pool, drank wine with my friends, and allowed my good intentions to float away on the Mykonian breeze.
Secondly, there's a sense of impossibility in attempting to capture the essence of the trip, Designer's party, and the amazing people who flew all the way there to celebrate with him. I feel so honored to have met some of the most brilliant, creative people I've ever known and to have had the chance to get to know them. It was truly a fabulous collection of people.
However insurmountable the task to describe the events, there are a few funny stories that just have to be told.
To grasp the craziness of this trip, you have to understand the schedule. Generally, you wake up around noon, go to the pool or beach, and begin with some lunch, mimosas, and chat with your friends. Around 7:30, you return to your hotel room, nap until 10, then ready yourself for dinner around 11:30. Dinner ends at about 2 am, then you dance until 7 am, go back to sleep and do it all over again. I believe that this is a regular schedule for all in Greece, at least during their 6 weeks of tourism in which they make all of their money for the year.
I'm pretty sure at this point that my liver is laying somewhere in an alley in Mykonos, crying out for mercy. I'm also pretty sure that I'm not the only one whose liver absolutely forbids them to ever return to Greece.
One evening, a group of about 35 of us went to a beautiful outdoor restaurant situated right on the water. We were all forewarned that the music would gradually become louder and that by the end of the night, everyone would be dancing on the tables. I frankly didn't believe the notion, but indeed, that is exactly what transpired.
After a wonderful dinner replete with many bottles of wine, big plates of fresh watermelon and ouzo showed up. Matthew, one of the most entertaining people in the party, proceeded to drink his way into utter oblivion. He, being one of the few straight men in attendance, was entertaining everyone with his grabbing of random women to dance on tabletops with him. Unfortunately, Matthew grabbed the wrong woman to dance with him toward the end of the evening. Correction: toward the beginning of the morning, since it was about 4 am.
He drew out a woman from a completely different party than ours, not realizing that she was not part of Designer's group. The two of them were dancing quite fabulously on top of one of the tables when Matthew lost his balance, grabbed the woman for support, and proceeded to take the two of them down. They fell onto the floor, knocking over all of the chairs within a 10 foot radius, both laughing hysterically.
As we all looked on giggling (because they weren't hurt), a quite intimidating looking man materialized out of nowhere and grabbed the woman, yanking her to her feet. It turned out that the woman was married and her husband had observed the entire debacle. To say that he appeared livid would be a gross understatement. Matthew is a really good guy, so he wouldn't have undertaken any of these actions had he known she was married and not part of our group. Or had he been sober. Or perhaps both.
In any case, the woman's husband was displeased to say the least. His wife walked back to her table while the husband took a swipe at Matthew's chin, just barely grazing him. Matthew apologized profusely and the husband growled something in Greek, which I think might translate to, "I'm in the Greek mafia, motherf*cker, so if you ever touch my wife again, you'll have free swimming lessons with a cement kickboard." But that's pure speculation. (And as a disclaimer, I don't know if he was in the Greek mafia or if such a thing even exists, but he appeared to me as the Tony Soprano of Mykonos.)
The next day, we were rehashing the prior evening's events. I jabbed Matthew in the ribs and said, "You were so funny last night when you fell off the table!"
"What? I didn't fall off the table. What are you talking about, Almost?"
We ended up having to retell him the story, of which he had no recollection. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "Hmmmm. I was wondering where all of those bruises came from."
Uproarious laughter ensued from all of us, and then we toasted Matthew's near-miss with some champagne.
That is just one of many stories from our trip, and more will come in future posts, but cheers to you, Matthew. And may you get your luggage back soon, since you've had no clothes for the past 2 weeks. At least you escaped the wrath of the Greek mafia and looked fabulous doing it.
First of all, when you log on to Blogger in Greece, everything on the page is in Greek. I could not for the life of me figure out how to change the language back to English, so I just gave up. Actually, chalk it up to sheer laziness because every day I lounged at the pool, drank wine with my friends, and allowed my good intentions to float away on the Mykonian breeze.
Secondly, there's a sense of impossibility in attempting to capture the essence of the trip, Designer's party, and the amazing people who flew all the way there to celebrate with him. I feel so honored to have met some of the most brilliant, creative people I've ever known and to have had the chance to get to know them. It was truly a fabulous collection of people.
However insurmountable the task to describe the events, there are a few funny stories that just have to be told.
To grasp the craziness of this trip, you have to understand the schedule. Generally, you wake up around noon, go to the pool or beach, and begin with some lunch, mimosas, and chat with your friends. Around 7:30, you return to your hotel room, nap until 10, then ready yourself for dinner around 11:30. Dinner ends at about 2 am, then you dance until 7 am, go back to sleep and do it all over again. I believe that this is a regular schedule for all in Greece, at least during their 6 weeks of tourism in which they make all of their money for the year.
I'm pretty sure at this point that my liver is laying somewhere in an alley in Mykonos, crying out for mercy. I'm also pretty sure that I'm not the only one whose liver absolutely forbids them to ever return to Greece.
One evening, a group of about 35 of us went to a beautiful outdoor restaurant situated right on the water. We were all forewarned that the music would gradually become louder and that by the end of the night, everyone would be dancing on the tables. I frankly didn't believe the notion, but indeed, that is exactly what transpired.
After a wonderful dinner replete with many bottles of wine, big plates of fresh watermelon and ouzo showed up. Matthew, one of the most entertaining people in the party, proceeded to drink his way into utter oblivion. He, being one of the few straight men in attendance, was entertaining everyone with his grabbing of random women to dance on tabletops with him. Unfortunately, Matthew grabbed the wrong woman to dance with him toward the end of the evening. Correction: toward the beginning of the morning, since it was about 4 am.
He drew out a woman from a completely different party than ours, not realizing that she was not part of Designer's group. The two of them were dancing quite fabulously on top of one of the tables when Matthew lost his balance, grabbed the woman for support, and proceeded to take the two of them down. They fell onto the floor, knocking over all of the chairs within a 10 foot radius, both laughing hysterically.
As we all looked on giggling (because they weren't hurt), a quite intimidating looking man materialized out of nowhere and grabbed the woman, yanking her to her feet. It turned out that the woman was married and her husband had observed the entire debacle. To say that he appeared livid would be a gross understatement. Matthew is a really good guy, so he wouldn't have undertaken any of these actions had he known she was married and not part of our group. Or had he been sober. Or perhaps both.
In any case, the woman's husband was displeased to say the least. His wife walked back to her table while the husband took a swipe at Matthew's chin, just barely grazing him. Matthew apologized profusely and the husband growled something in Greek, which I think might translate to, "I'm in the Greek mafia, motherf*cker, so if you ever touch my wife again, you'll have free swimming lessons with a cement kickboard." But that's pure speculation. (And as a disclaimer, I don't know if he was in the Greek mafia or if such a thing even exists, but he appeared to me as the Tony Soprano of Mykonos.)
The next day, we were rehashing the prior evening's events. I jabbed Matthew in the ribs and said, "You were so funny last night when you fell off the table!"
"What? I didn't fall off the table. What are you talking about, Almost?"
We ended up having to retell him the story, of which he had no recollection. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "Hmmmm. I was wondering where all of those bruises came from."
Uproarious laughter ensued from all of us, and then we toasted Matthew's near-miss with some champagne.
That is just one of many stories from our trip, and more will come in future posts, but cheers to you, Matthew. And may you get your luggage back soon, since you've had no clothes for the past 2 weeks. At least you escaped the wrath of the Greek mafia and looked fabulous doing it.
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