You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
This was supposed to be a normal human post, recounting my vacation time in Florida. But then I realized: how am I even human in this format? I am a blog-bot, and you don’t know me. YOU DON’T KNOW ME. So a normal vacation re-cap to strangers would be slightly pathetic.
But a WEIRD vacation re-cap?
Why yes strange Internet reader sir (or madam), that you most certainly may have.
Orlando is a family destination, particularly so within a five-mile radius of Disney World. Nobody does anything after 10pm.
UNLESS…you end up in a bustling wing joint at midnight, while the Lakers are playing the Mavs on the big screen. The woman who was dressed head-to-toe in Lakers gear was more serious than a Canadian Mountie’s face when he’s seriously riding a horse. I went along with the crowd and cheered for the Mavs, not because I like basketball, but only because I wanted to make her feel ridiculous for wearing so much purple. And yellow. She left when she knew the score was hopeless (the Lakers lost, then apparently kept on shitting out terrible basketball for the rest of the playoffs), and probably burned her Lakers clothes whilst still in them. It’s still worse to be a Leafs fan.
I’d also like to mention that this wing joint smelled like cleaning agents used to mop up corpse-residue from corpses that have been corpses long enough to smell like corpses. Mixed with a blue cheese essence. Let that settle in your nostrils for a bit.
This beach in Cape Canaveral was scenic to say the least, but it also had that small-town/down-south American feel to it, which is slightly disconcerting but also hilarious, it you’re seven brown people traveling in a herd. Mostly what I mean is that the people were VERY friendly, but they were also selectively friendly. Since I was the fairest looking of all (this was only day three, so the sun hadn’t yet darkened me into a shade considered “unmarriageable”), the waitress was nicest to me, whilst she was practically flippant towards my darker-skinned brother-in-law. I imply no racism at all, but to me she always said “Sure thing, hon,“and to him she always said “uh-kay.” This isn’t a 20/20 scandal featurette where Barbara Walters’s “let’s make-babies with the candle-lighting on my face” face will suddenly appear and spout off wild accusations. So please, draw your own conclusions.
Harry Potter Theme Park
As a thirty-year-old scandalously-single (sorry mom!) Indian-Canadian woman, the Harry Potter theme park was the obvious highlight of my trip. What pleased me most was to find so many others in my age bracket and beyond. Forty-something women in mom-jean-shorts guzzling Butter Beer in ecstasy, mature-most-definitely-out-of-college men pushing children out of the way so they could photograph themselves in front of the Hogwarts Express, it was glorious! The experience renewed my belief that books about kids, magic wands, potions exams, and first kisses are meant to be read by grown adults with frown wrinkles and upcoming prostate exams, whereas children should stick to this new-found era of “XBox Kinects” and not knowing how to read.
As sad as it is to say, I’d never been on a “lay by the pool/beach every day” vacation until this year. What an idiot I was, for never realizing the jealousy that’s felt towards an ethnic girl when she returns. Let’s just say I’ve been back for two weeks, have gotten almost zero sun since my return, but them pale white bitches STILL be jealous!
It’s all I have, this mocha-chino skin, and I will prostitute it in an office environment for several weeks more. “Excuse me clothing store attendant, give me everything you have in white…”
I can tell from your Internet-stranger eyes that you’d like me to go on many more vacations, so I can tell you many more things just like this.
Request granted. Look out Paris, here I come!…
Visits to New York City seem to always come equipped with insane moments and/or people, captured by my inability to ignore ANYTHING (which is why I walk way too slow to ever be a New Yorker, they would trample me like a herd of elephants as I made sweet love to my thoughts!).
So here is the February 2011 edition:
That murderer-Wallstreet-guy on the plane
Just when I thought there would be no one beside me and my arms could stretch out freely…he arrived. All beige suit, stressed-out face, no hair, small teeth, sensible tie and piercing blue eyes, he was an older businessman and I was fit to be his concubine (but this isn’t a Continental Airlines version of “Memoirs of a Geisha” so let’s move along…). I was impressed by his bitchy phone call to a business associate, and doubly impressed that he was juggling between a Blackberry AND an iPhone. When he pulled out that morning’s copy of the Wallstreet Journal, I was at serious risk of unzipping my jeans in his honour (a true New York businessman just for me , how exciting!).
I gazed at the window with a mischievous smile on my face; perhaps I would abandon my original plan and follow this epic man all the way to Manhattan? Hmm??? Surely.
Until of course, I turned back around in his direction. There he was, with a ballpoint pen and his crazy blue eyes, not READING the Wall Street Journal, but frantically colouring in the letters and any white spaces he could find. My GOD the colouring, it was a beautiful madness.
So he’s an obsessive colouring serial killer. I bet he colours in his victims with ink. I wonder how many people he’s offed since February 18th…
That murderer-guy in Central Park
So it’s a beautiful warm evening in Central Park, and a man in short-shorts runs past me (yes they were short-shorts, and yes he had muscular thighs. A very relevant fact to the tale). “Where did he come from?” I wondered. “I didn’t even hear his approach!”
Of course I didn’t hear his approach, because before he ran too far ahead of me, I noticed that he wasn’t wearing shoes. Barefoot on the pavement, barely making a sound. For those of us with sensitive ear drums who still might hear the rhythm of his feet, his shoeless strategy was aided by the muddy padding on the pavement. I’m quite certain all that sound-softening mud didn’t get there on its own. He must’ve been there the night before, with buckets upon buckets of mud, creating the most silent serial-killer run he could manufacture.
As night fell, I shuddered and wondered if he’d double back around in silence and strangle me from behind. But his sprint into the Central Park Zoo was the last I ever saw of him. I bet he’s still there in the sea otter reservoir as we speak; crouched behind a rock…waiting for you.
The barefoot Central Park killer.
That guy who needs to pick up a girl…badly
Imagine thinning hair, too much hair gel, big eyeglasses, inadequate height and a massive erection. That last part I made up, but the “erection of his mind” was growing strong as last call approached. As time ticked down his desperation grew; first he was dancing with some girl and holding both her hands, swinging them to and fro. He must’ve thought the hand-to-hand contact would seal the deal but she turned away. The sweat beads began to gather on his forehead, and eventually he just started humping the stale club air, hoping for a woman’s ass to unwittingly back into his growing erection (I’m still making that last part up). I myself became a little distracted by the end of the night, so I’m unsure of what became of him. I can only suspect that his trustworthy hand and a pool of tears are what carried him through to sunrise…
That guy in the red t-shirt who can dance like no one’s watching
I admire him. I want to be him. No one danced with him all night, but would he ever have even noticed? His eyes were always closed and the music was his mistress. At one point he began to clap fiercely, like the way those wind-up monkey toys from the 1980′s with the clapping cymbals would do.
He is my inspiration in life and I want to be him.
That guy in Harlem who undressed me with his eyes
I think the title says it all. I’m not sure how many Indian-Canadian women frequent Harlem, but I strongly suspect he’d never seen one of me before. So there I was, on a sunny cool day in Harlem at three p.m., as this seventy-year-old man carrying a grocery bag sauntered towards me, licking his lips and giving me the “eye fuck” of my life.
The world may end in 2012, but I will never be cleansed of the Harlem “eye fuck” man.
There may have also been some crazy WOMEN in New York city, but I was singularly focused on this trip…you know what I mean?
Until next time and my next location…
Dear New York City,
Thanks for letting me inside your pleasure center, for a fabulous four-day jaunt. Some crazy things happened, which as you know is the juiciest dinner for my readers. It’s like when pigs in a farm get that extra-special feed, the kind that makes them grow three times as large (probably because the grains are packed with steroids). That way the pigs can produce a lot more ham and bacon for the world’s enjoyment. I too want my blog to grow large like a piggy’s round bottom, to be devoured by my readers worldwide. So…if you’ll be so gracious New York, allow me to publish this romance letter that I wrote…
…I loved Giovanni or whatever his name was. He worked at the hotel and told us if we waited two hours to check in, he would offer up a corner room with a view of Central Park. I was so enthused that in exchange I offered to be his best friend forever. He accepted the terms with glee, but after that I never went back to find him. I hope he wasn’t too upset. Maybe he quit his job and is busily building a “Romi shrine”, hoping I will one day return. Or maybe he hates me for dangling the fake friendship. In that case, maybe he made a voodoo doll of me that he will stab. I don’t look forward to that.
I also loved my best friend (read: Internet BFF who I randomly decided to meet in a big scary city), and we christened our new affection with a tour of NBC studios. We quickly became the most awesome people on the tour, which wasn’t hard to do, since the rest of the people were old and boring. We soon went from being awesome to being scorned by the NBC Pages. This happened when we cheered in delight as they described Sinead O’Connor’s bad-ass desecration of the Pope, during a Saturday Night Live performance from many years ago. I think we are now banned from NBC studios (just like Sinead is banned for life, true story).
Feeling energized by our misbehaviour, we went out later that night, for five-dollar cokes with no alcohol (ahem). There we met some cool cats working for MTV. They claimed to be producers but were probably only interns. If they were interns then I really feel sorry for them, because the leader of their pack ended up buying us two whole rounds, without ever telling his friends. Then he skipped the bill, leaving his friends kind of drunkenly scratching their head. I loved that. I also loved that one of the dudes thought his cell phone was SO damn cool, that he proceeded to play with it all night long. Did I mention it was a flip phone from 2002? I don’t think he scored any ass that night. The evening ended without any sickly incident, and that is all I will say on the record.
What I loved about Day Two was going to FAO Schwarz and visiting the Muppet Workshop. I actually got to stick my hand up a sexy male muppet, which was as close to any action I would get on the entire trip. I will always remember it. I also loved a second day of lunch with my other awesome Internet bestest friend (who I also met for the first time in a scary big city), and from her I made ANOTHER new friend who works with her, which I assumed was assurance that he isn’t a serial killer. These new special friends were starting to pile up, right around the time I remembered I hadn’t given anyone at home my contact info…
The day turned into night and after a wonderful dinner in the East Village, my original bestie and I went to Webster Hall. Though renowned for youngsters and unsavoury clientele, there was a one-dollar cover charge that night, plus a very cool DJ set to play. And what I loved about that? Staying sober, watching the trashy individuals try to score with each other, and making fun of them at every turn. I talked for three straight hours and lost my voice. I loved that too, because the dudes seemed to like my raspy tone of talk.
The next day I met ANOTHER new Internet friend for the very first time (inside YOU, New York, you loveable scary city!). He I’d known for two years via email, and he was my second Internet BFF’s husband (another form of assurance that there wasn’t a serial killer in my midst). We all banded together and headed for Central Park. What I loved about that (aside from the beautiful day), was the delightful assortment of freaks:
-A couple making out, but not moving their faces at all (leading us to believe they were either the worst kissers on earth…or the best)
-This rollerblading lady who skated around like a pro, sat down on the bench for a rest, then exclaimed “Fuck yeah!“, when a big beefcake dude in a tank top walked by. I lost track of her after that, but I assume she hid behind a tree to pleasure herself
-Some three-year-old girl strutting around all arrogant, thinking she was hotter than me (umm, I don’t think so)
-A girl in a white face mask, but the mask didn’t have a face. She was moving around in a shaky fashion and some dudes were recording it all. I’m pretty sure it was a third installment of THE RING, and it freaked me the hell out. But I didn’t have any nightmares, and I loved that
After we strolled out of Central Park, I noticed a dirty Persian cat, sitting underneath a homeless man and woman’s shopping cart. I love cats, so I naturally exclaimed “Aww…poor homeless cat!” The homeless woman must’ve misheard what I said for “Eww, dirty homeless people!“, because she started to chase me down 6th Avenue. Then she said the following and I quote: “You think I’m homeless? I have a big house in Jersey! And who are you? Just some bitch on vacation with no money?!” The only thing I loved during this was that even though she was carrying a giant wooden stick, she opted NOT to beat me with it. Crisis averted.
The evening turned into an amazing boat cruise, which traveled past all the New York City landmarks. The stellar cruise was followed by a night on my new friend’s (read: NOT serial killer) rooftop, with a spectacular view plus oodles of ice cream and booze…what’s not to love? I am trying to remember if there were any freaks that night, but mostly it was Internet friends plus new friends turned into amazing friends…all turned into people that I now really love. People who made me feel like…whatever I already am, is actually more than enough. I haven’t felt that way in a long time, and it’s because of you, New York. You put all these freaks in one place just for me, and I was crazy enough to go meet them on a whim. So YAY for you, New York, you sexy bitch!
At the risk of sounding cheesy, which is the same as throwing piles of New York garbage on this so NOT cheesy blog, I’ll quickly switch topics to the last day in the city. We went to Brooklyn for brunch, and I loved this because I had two whole meals at once (because I ordered two, and I ordered two because I said so). I also got to almost step in a pile of dog shit (but I didn’t, and I loved that).
I did NOT love heading back to the airport to leave Manhattan behind. Nor did I love the brat sitting behind me on the plane, who kicked my seat as a professional sport.
But everything else? It all makes me want to sloppily make out with you, New York.
So pop in a breath-mint, won’t you? I’ll be back…
A two-week trip in India is not that long at all. Too short to get properly acquainted with the way bread tastes so different (yet delicious), but long enough to fall ill in that special and agonizing way (chills, diarrhea and puking, it’s a party!).
Brevity aside there are some details I can’t leave out:
1. I am too fat for rickshaws. I knew this was true, because from what I’d seen, three Indian women could comfortably fit on rickshaws, every day, pretty much all the time. But when my sister (my THIN sister) and mother took a seat and I joined them in the middle, it did not go as planned. More like my ass bones were digging in their thighs, which they were not very happy about. I myself was terribly upset, ’cause no one wants to be upstaged by their native folk. But fat and upstaged I was. Apparently I need one rickshaw all to myself, complete with a pillow for my achy fat back, and a platter of Indian sweets since I guess all I do is eat all day. I can only hope that the abundance of fast food chains in India will fill out the thin girls in years to come (thus supplying me with faux self-esteem upon my future visits). I can only hope.
2. Textile shops are full of young boys who are experts in the trade of women’s wear! Indeed, go to any decent textile shop in India, and they will seat you in this room (sometimes with bench seating, sometimes cross-legged on the floor), then welcome in the throng of adolescent boys. The boys never say a thing, but as you mention different colours of saris you’d like to see, they reach towards the shelves lined with clothing, throwing down option after option. They then remove the fabric from the clear packages, draping each one against their bodies. I never would have imagined 14-year-old boys draped in saris, but it helps when they’re in that “middle” phase of growth, when the shoulders aren’t yet too broad. The smaller the shoulders, the more we can envision ourselves in these very saris. So yay for boys draped in saris, who were crucial in my purchase decisions.
3. Indians effin’ LOVE their gold. I could have sniffed this one out from my very own upbringing, as my parents have always been obsessed with melting down and then re-casting their gold. From chandelier earrings to big fat man-rings to huge necklaces, gold is the ticket! And in India, there are so many freakin’ gold stores. Sure, you can call them “jewelry” stores if you want, but when you enter inside and wonder if the sun is shining bright at high noon? You’ll decide for yourself that there’s ass-loads of gold on display. What I liked most is that the jewelry store owners TREATED us like gold, if you don’t mind my use of a horrible pun. They had little boys working at the shops, and they would run out to the restaurant next door, to bring us fresh tea in glass mugs, or Sprite, or sweets, or whatever we desired. Meanwhile deep discussions on melting and re-casting ensued. That part I found a little boring, but I knew it was important. In fact any Indian cause for celebration (engagements, weddings, birth celebrations) involve the gifting of gold, even if you don’t have money. An absence of gold-gifting is frowned upon I’m sure, so skip your meals for a month, but you sure as hell better have a stockpile of thick and golden man-chains (or possibly anklets, for those uncles who live life outside the box).
It seems fitting to end this year’s blogging on the topic of gold, not because my blog is golden, but because it’s Christmas, and there’ll be golden foil-wrapped chocolates a plenty (three-inch belly expansion predicted).
And on that note, I hope everyone has a festive holiday. I shall return sometime in January, with the same URL but a different theme, since I tend to get repulsively sick of myself.
Happy New Year and thanks for reading. See you in 2010…
Continuing on with my Indian travels from 2006: we traveled up high into the mountains, in a quest to see the Dalai Lama. It was a spiritually awakening experience, but I’m pretty sure I don’t write a blog to be “spiritual”. So let’s get back to the freaks (which sometimes includes yours truly)…
In today’s installment, the freak-man came in the form of a party guest, as my parents decided to throw themselves a housewarming party. This was different from my visit in 1995, where all we did was squat at the abodes of various family and friends. But now my parents were rocking their very own vacation home, which they now visit once a year ['cause Florida doesn't work as a winter escape for Indian people, since we aren't good at swimming, and since women in bikinis are scandalous---and usually gross. Seriously, I'm wise enough to expose myself strategically, why not you?---Angry feminists, please exit my blog at the door on the right, because I don't care, and 'cause I DON'T need to show off grossness to prove I love myself. Would rather take my cues from the super-hot women in Hollywood. Thanks.]
Hmm…I lost track somehow.
Oh yeah, I’m recalling the preparations for party night, which actually weren’t that hard…because of all the specialized servants. Now my family isn’t rich by any means, but in India the dollar stretches far like a piece of chewed-up gum, it’s fabulous! I don’t find the variety or abundance of servants to be inappropriate (floor-sweeper servant, laundry-servant, dishwashing-servant, shirt-ironing servant), since “servantry” creates jobs, and the low cost of living allows for a comfortable existence.
OR I’m trying to prove that we weren’t really running a sweat-shop. Take your pick.
Once the preparations were made, I chose the appropriate jeans and casual shirt, along with the most complementary shade of eye shadow (I refused to wear Indian garb while in India for some odd reason, whereas now I am addicted to wearing saris in Toronto. Weird.).
And then came the guests. Before I get to”freak-man extraordinaire”, I must make one small confession of my own freakish ways.
It’s just that…one of the first guests had volumous hair, sparking white teeth, and symetrical features that would’ve put Mr. Jude Law to shame.
I was totally crushing.
Until five minutes later when I found out he’s my second-cousin.
Eww…I know. Look away I’m hideous.
On the other hand “to err is human”.
So please let’s keep on going.
Next the door opened and in came the neighbours. I immediately recognized the woman and her three-year-old daughter, as I’d met them before and the kid actually liked me! I liked her too because she named me “Barbie doll”, and when someone compares me to an unattainable ideal of the female form, I smile.
The one I’d never met before was the three-year-old’s father. I can only describe him as an “almost man” of hobbit height (four-feet eleven inches…I think). He also had the hobbit-trait of extremely hairy feet (Indian people don’t wear socks), though his ears didn’t point at the tips. I normally wouldn’t be so scathing in my physical assessment of another (ha), but due to his behaviour it’s entirely deserved.
It started with an instant glazing of his eyes as he looked in my direction. I can’t be sure what other type of glazing or bodily liquid came into play, but luckily I never found out. Next was his smile, revealing a set of jagged random teeth (random as in several missing here or there).
And then…he decided to talk to me. I was busy making paper airplanes for his daughter, and that’s when he took his moment to strike.
“I speak English very good.”
I awkwardly smile.
“I speak very good English.” He sits down next to me.
I do not acknowledge.
“I can speak so much English.” Our thighs make contact.
I REPEAT, thigh-contact. Or more accurately, “half thigh” contact, since his midget-leg was half the size of mine, and so he sat near the front of the couch seat.
Half-thigh harrassment or not, I was in no mood for unsavoury advances, particularly not from this hobbit who was raised on the shady end of The Shire.
So I totally ditched the kid (whatever, I’ll be nicer when I’m a mom), rushed through dinner, changed into my pajamas, and…started to watch TV.
With the meanest expression ever.
And no one in India ever messed with me again.
And neither would you…or would you?