Category: Tango Mike India

Wherein I divulge too much information.

VIHR

Sometimes I get really dedicated to Very Important Hair Removal. Now there’s one thing I’ll never do, unless maybe I start a porn career. (My doctor friend: “It’s mucosa! Would you ever shave your tongue?!” Exactly.) But I do wax my eyebrows, trim the ol’ nostril cilia, and use a

medieval torture device

on my leg and armpit hair.

And then there’s the mustache. The mustache that my friends swear they can’t see, and I usually don’t either, until I’m sitting in my car with the late afternoon sunlight pouring in, and I flip down my visor mirror, and GOOD GOD, I LOOK LIKE GERALDO RIVERA.

And I can’t help myself, I head for the wax. This is a bad move, a stupid move, because it always ends the same way. Whether I wax it myself, or I have it waxed by a professional, no matter what kind of wax I use, or if I pluck it with tweezers, or if I steam my pores open first, or even get it threaded at the mall, I always spend the next five to seven days with tiny whiteheads on my upper lip.

What’s worse? A mustache that can only be viewed on sunny days between 4:00 and 6:00pm in my vehicle or a week’s worth of lip acne?

The mustache, right?

(Everybody pretend you don’t see my lip acne for the next week, K?)

You & the Night-Swimming

You’re not an exhibitionist—the opposite really, both you and your friend are, if anything, too modest—but there’s really only one way to go night-swimming, isn’t there?

Besides, it’s pretty dark—no moon or stars to speak of—so the two of you run down to the water’s edge, peel off your clothes, and dive, giddy, into the Atlantic. The waves are tumbly and fun, the temperature perfect: seemingly chilly at first until, at some point, you realize the air is colder than the water and you just want to stay in forever and become a mermaid.

But eventually your eyes get burny and your knees are bashed up from being tossed into the shallows, and you want to get out.

And that’s when three people come and situate themselves in beach chairs between you—butt nekkid—and your condo.

At this point, if you’re my sister-wife, you begin to giggle uncontrollably. If you’re me, you spin paranoid fantasies about how they’re voyeur/entrepreneurs, who’ve positioned themselves there with night-vision cameras, and your bare-assed jiggliness is gonna be on YouTube tomorrow, followed by a string of less-than-complimentary comments.

Eventually, you sprint out of the water at a half-crouch and wrap yourself haphazardly in your towel, or maybe that’s your T-shirt—whatever—and scurry up to the boardwalk over the dunes, hoping you managed to pick up your underpants in the kerfuffle.

The next day, you learn it was just the folks in the condo next door who had come out to sit and drink some beers, and who had set down their chairs there because they mistook your squeals of delight for dolphin calls. No spy cameras, no Internet-wide embarrassment. The neighbors didn’t even really see anything.

But that’s when you realize, it didn’t even matter if they did, because the previous evening’s blood pressure spike and worry and insecurity won’t stop you from skipping down the beach that night and doing it all again. And it’s a good thing too because

the stars are out,

the half-full moon has propped itself on the roof of a villa down the beach,

the tumbling waves are phosphorescent,

and there is just nothing,

nothing,

nothing,

like skinny-dipping

in the ocean

at night.

What Did the Angel Moroni Say About This Situation?

You may not know this about me, but I love dogs. I know! We all have our secrets.

Last weekend I had my two babies, plus Barley, their best friend who is sorta transgender AND Katie the Beagle Dog, who weighs about 15 pounds and has Cleopatra eyeliner. Barley had to go home, but for this weekend, I still have Katie the Beagle Dog AND Moby, a skinny, neurotic Shepherd mess who belongs to a former student of mine. He’s so sweet and crazy! I yub him!

My student and her mom and brother dropped Moby off this afternoon, and for about fifteen minutes, it was a cacophonous tumble of canine greetings. When the family left, I was pretty sure I could still make it to the gym by 5:00, so I quickly peeled off my work clothes. I had my workout pants and socks on when I heard a knock at the door. I figured Moby’s family had forgotten to give me his leash or something.

Now there are women in this world who can go braless. Alas, I am not one of them. It’s really unpleasant for all involved parties. But I thought, I’ll just sorta hide behind the door, and threw on the first thing I could get my hands on: a holey, old, too-tight, no-longer-totally-opaque T-shirt. I turned the locks and peeked around the door to find two Mormon missionaries smiling at me from the stoop.

I said, “I’m just running out to the gym,” but then one of them proffered a card, which I had to reach around the door to take. That was the moment Redford decided he needed a better look at his new friends so he bashed the door open with his body. I stood there in all my braless, partially see-through glory.

Those poor boys. I wonder if they reconsidered the whole “mission from God” thing at that point.

I’m Registered at Tiffany

Tomorrow’s my two-year blogiversary! In researching what y’all are supposed to buy me (China, though traditionally it was cotton—and I just bought a new gin), I somehow ended up watching the music video for the theme to Ice Castles on Youtube. In its entirety. And then scenes from the 2010 remake.

I don’t know why I’m telling you that.

Anyway, if you didn’t want to get me a new set of teacups, or some textiles, you could tell me a post you really liked so I could update my greatest hits links over there to the right.

Lo Que Pasa en el D.F., Part 1

Before we get too far into the story, let me clarify that I, personally, was not doing anything illegal in the Federal District of Mexico. That being said, associating with people who do illegal things while in a foreign country, a foreign country in which the police force is notoriously corrupt, is not the wisest decision.

What can I say? I was 22.

Jeff Polish, the director of the Monti, said August’s StorySlam theme might be Heat. Well, this story has two kinds: the kind that slaps blue lights on the roofs of their cars, and the kind that makes you feel all tingly in your bits.

My friend and roommate, Sarah, had this boyfriend, Cristian. Cristian was a good dude, but his cousin Juan Pablo was pretty much a delinquent. He and his brother “owned a garage” in which they supposedly “fixed cars”… I just know that he used a customer’s Jetta as his own personal vehicle for a good month before returning it.

Juan Pablo was constantly trying to get in my pants, but I brushed him off. It wasn’t that he was unattractive or anything. He was cute. I just knew that he was bad news, and I was trying to maintain the tiny bit of self-respect I had left after a debacle of a relationship with a guy who, turned out, hadn’t actually broken up with his girlfriend who, turned out, was pregnant with his baby. That’s a story for another time. The point is, I didn’t think hooking up with Juan Pablo would do good things for my self-image.

It wasn’t easy though. I was 22 and in Mexico City. My body was saying, ¡Ándale, muchacha!

(Continuará…)

What Happens en el D.F.

Last night, I went to the ever-entertaining Monti StorySlam. Between studying for the Praxis and my new job, I hadn’t gotten it together to prepare a story, so I just spent the evening eating takos and tots from the Kokyu food truck—em… eff, that stuff is good—and

listening.

Boy, is it a different experience. Whenever I do put my name in the hat, my limbs go numb, and all the other stories reverberate with the din of a turbine supercharger inside my head. Instead, last night was pleasant for me, sitting there listening to stories without wondering if and when my name would be called and trying to discern whether the other stories were better than mine.

When the theme for the event (Law and Order) was announced last week, I couldn’t for the life of me think of a good story. I’ve been pulled over one time in my life—because I had a headlight out—and that was nearly 20 years ago. There was also that night in high school when my best friend and I were told by a cop that we couldn’t park on that dead-end side road, and we breathed huge gasping sighs of relief after he left because he must not’ve smelled what we were cookin’. As it were.

But as I sat there last night, I realized, really, even though I’ve never been a super-straight arrow, I haven’t had any brushes with the law.

Except—Oh, yeah. I forgot about Mexico City.

Wanna hear that story?

I Gave at the Office

I’m going to be 36 in September. Let’s say I meet someone tomorrow. We do the dating thing and discover, miraculously, that we’re perfect for each other. That would take—what?—minimum a year, right? Let’s pretend he proposes, and we plan our wedding. That’s another year. And then imagine that I’m Fertile Myrtle, which I’m not convinced that I am, and I conceive on our wedding night. Grant all that, and I’m going to be 38 when I have my first child.

Now, let’s say I don’t meet him tomorrow. Or for another year, or two years, or five years, or ever. Which is totally plausible, because there’s clearly something very, very wrong with me.

How long do I wait before I have kids? I don’t really want to be a single mom, but I don’t want to be an ancient mom, either. And it’s not like I wouldn’t have help. Last year, when I was in a relationship and had that random 6-week stretch between periods, and I called my sister to freak out, I could hear her smiling over the phone. “…I’d help you raise it!” she cooed.

And yesterday at brunch, I saw this dude. Guy I’ve known casually for years. He doesn’t even live in Durham anymore, but he comes back frequently to visit. He’s fucking gorgeous. An artist. And he gives hugs that make your panties fall off. I thought when I saw him, as I have many, many times in the past, “I want to have his babies.” If I could whisk his sperm and my eggs together, I think the result would be a ridiculously cute tan-skinned artist/writer baby omelet.

You may be wondering, if I like him so much, why I don’t just ask him out. The answer is, I kinda did. A few years ago, I basically told him I was gonna make him my boyfriend, and he was totally flattered and ultimately just not down with it. I don’t know. One of my friends says he has some relationship baggage, but most likely he just didn’t find me attractive.

But he’s clearly got some phenomenal genes, and if I could get ahold of some of them and a turkey baster….

How would he react if I asked him though? Two friends of mine, a lesbian couple—no, not them…not them either…not them either…jeez, I have a lot of lesbian friends— Anyway! They’re trying to start a family. They thought about going to a sperm bank but decided instead just to ask a friend who they thought was really awesome to donate. He said he would do it gladly.

But is their friend the exception? Would most men be into it? Or would they be uncomfortable, or horrified, or upset?

So this question is for the dudes out there (and I know there are so many of you who read this blog):

How would you feel if someone asked you to be their sperm donor?

Feel free to answer anonymously.

A Shot of Tequila and a High Five

I remember, after seeing the movie Amélie for the first time, having a conversation with someone, probably my mom, about how we should re-watch it every Sunday night before we had to go back to work on Monday. I know exactly jack shit about cinematography so I’m not sure how Jean-Pierre Jeunet rendered the colors that bright and the soundtrack that poignant and the characters that sublimely flawed and the story that enthralling and delightful. All I know is I walked out of the theater all teary and smiley, repeating “Bredoteau! Bretodeau!” in a distinctly Le Pewian accent to myself, wanting to go out and live life! Do good deeds! Find love!

Last night, I decided to watch The Road.

So the opposite.

I mean: enthralling story, yes. But Jesus. I wanted to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head. Which I did. But before I did, I checked Facebook one more time and saw the news of Osama’s bin Laden’s death.

Some people were rejoicing (“Bin Laden is DEAD!!! Rot in hell you dirty piece of shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”).  Some were sober (“No death is worth celebrating.”). Some questioned others’ Christianity (“Christians, we have been called to live a life that is pleasing to Jesus Christ. How does harboring so much hate glorify our Lord and Savior?”)

My first reaction was surprise—I never thought we’d get him—followed by relief, that this guy who orchestrated a movement that has killed thousands finally got his. And then I had a little Toby Keith moment, where I was like, “And at the hands of the Amurricans goddammit!” I shook that off but quickly realized this little operation would greatly increase Barack Obama’s chances of getting re-elected in 2012. So I posted something like: “Ten years. Obama ftw! Seriously, men and women of the U.S. Military and Commander-in-Chief Obama, I’m awed.”

Of course, what followed was quotes from MLK Jr.: “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

And videos from Ground Zero and DC, where people were straight up celebrating, and it reminded me of the footage from Muslim countries around the world, of crowds rejoicing as the Twin Towers collapsed. And I thought, “What are we doing?! We’re doing the same thing we found reprehensible!”

The horror of The Road, combined with the ambivalent feelings I had about the assassination, made for some pretty extraordinary bruxercising for me. I woke up this morning and felt like someone had punched me in the ear infection. That’s right. Like I had had an ear infection and then someone punched me in it. I ground my teeth so hard that my jaw’s still all tender on the left side.

I was grumpy all day. One of my students was doing everything in her power to be my Buddha, and my uterus started causing me my monthly strife. I ate too much. Carbopalooza. I got home to find Violet’s limp not any better than it was yesterday. The WOD kicked my ass. And not one of you, MY SO-CALLED FRIENDS, had told me that my nostril hair had gotten completely out of control.

Downtrodden.

But then my friend (the one I quoted at the beginning of this post) updated her status to: ok, y’all: i get and agree that the death of any human, yes even osama bin laden, is not to be taken lightly, and that his death marks the beginning of yet another period of uncertainty, but before we get all “spiritual” and “now, now kids…”, i think we as americans, and for fuck’s sake definitely our troops, deserve a shot of tequila and a high five. we can go back to being “the better person” tomorrow…

It wasn’t Amélie, but it sure made me feel better.