shoes and social lubrication August 1, 2008
Posted by thevirginreview in A Tall Tale.Tags: alcohol, going out, shoe stories, shoes, The Shoe Dish, Tribeca
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When I was younger, my mother used to always tell me that you don’t have to drink in order to have fun – she didn’t, mind you, ever warn me about getting too involved in soles, which is probably what she should have been doing, seeing as that’s my one true vice – and this coming from a woman who lives to drink margaritas and whose lasting impression of New York was the sangria we drank at the Yucca Bar. Okay, so she’s not a whino by any standards, but we all know what happens when your parents tell you not to do something.
As a young adult and throughout my college career I drank at every social function I attended, though I might make the argument here that my use of alcohol then wasn’t to aide in my fun factor, though I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t use it to lubricate the murky waters of some rather awkward social encounters. How many times have you said, “I need a drink” only minutes after entering your office Christmas party? Drinking makes socializing easier, whether you’re a social butterfly or a wallflower. If only I knew then what I know now.
My real “ism” as most of you well know is not liquid courage, but rather a much more reliable source of love and affection and the only thing that truly makes me feel good when everything else seems lost. Here’s the story of how I used my “lovah” to “lubricate” a very promising mystery social encounter.
The setting: I was sitting at a bar in Port Vell with a group of girlfriends when the cocktail I was sipping on ran dry. The rest of my crew was still happily slurping along, so I went up to the bar for a refill and pulled up a stool as I waited for my new drink…
“Nice shoes,” he says, as he pulls the empty bar stool next to me and straddles it haphazardly.
Out of instinct I look down, though I know exactly what shoes I’m wearing – cherry red espadrilles with satin metallic silver ties that I’ve wrapped more than a dozen times under the sole and around my arch instead of the cut-off-your-legs mistake of up the ankle. “Thanks,” I say, pressing the satin pleats of my olive green skirt down and switching the cross of my legs to point into to him. He was cute and even with the stereo blasting some old school Britney Spears, I could hear that he was British.
“They’re the reason I came over here,” he says. With this he smiles and his nose scrunches up, making his gentle orange freckles mesh into a messy ameba across the arch of his nose.
“My shoes,” I ask, looking down once more?
“Yeah.”
“Really?” I curl the side of my left lip into a downward scowl. Now, I’m skeptical. I look around the bar, half imagining my girlfriends to be snickering in the corner, mocking me with their half-assed plan to lure some poor guy unknowingly into a hook line and sinker with flattering lines about my shoes. “Who sent you?” I pull my knees back so they are pointing straight forward.
He fumbles. “Well, not just the shoes,” he says, loosing his cocky charm as he stumbles to recover what he thinks might be a loss.
I laugh. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told – by girlfriends, boyfriends, family, and random acquaintances – that I’m intimidating and not in a sweet, independent, tough girl kind of way. My friends may put it nicely, but the end resolve seems to be that I’m “kind of” a bitch. It is not a purposeful disposition I can assure you, but none-the-less.
“What,” he asks in response to my laughter. “What?”
“Guys don’t notice girls shoes.” Unless they’re gay. I only think this as I try to avoid that “kind of” bitch behavior.
“I bet guys notice your shoes.”
“Okay, seriously, who sent you? Did my friends put you up to this?” I look around the bar again and spot the girls huddled around a high top, sipping in order of appearance a rum and coke, vodka soda and something – not a cosmopolitan – that is pink. Someone must have paid this guy to shoe flatter me as a joke – which was almost equal to pure flattery in my book – but if they had, wouldn’t they be watching their game unfold?
“Who are you looking for?”
I look back down at my shoes – they were pretty cute – and then up to him – he was cute too. Still, what straight guy notices a girls shoes? “Are you gay?” Whoops.
“Ouch!”
“It’s not an offensive comment,” I say, wiping the rim of my vodka tonic. “So?”
“So, what? Am I gay?”
“—-”
“No.”
“Good, because I think my shoes have a crush on you.”
Okay, so the truth is that I’m drinking a vodka tonic as this story unfolds, but did you see how I made my shoes do the flirting. That’s how alcohol met its wing man shoes. The perfect Batman and Robin team to fly the cloudy skies of girl meets boy in bar. Shoes really are the most solid of friends.
“Do your shoes want to dance,” he asks with a grin?
Who needs alcohol or a wing man when you have really cute shoes?
*This piece was originally published by The Shoe Dish.
Ubiquitous May 18, 2006
Posted by thevirginreview in A Tall Tale.add a comment
Got cha', this is not another WOD! But, feel free to look it up if you don't already know what it means. I was thinking about this word yesterday, because I used it in an email, and laughed at myself for the wit and charm it perceives. But, alas…what/how/why/when did I use it? That's not really the point you thieves. But, I wanted to go over some rules of the ubiquitous; because it's everywhere…
1) Any and all cliche's can be considered ubiquitous.
2) All common, overused, and ridiculously frustrating statements should be considered ubiquitous.
3)Starbuck's in the city is ubiquitous.
4)Paris Hilton and/or (insert various young celeb starlets here) are ubiquitously ubiquitous.
5)Get it!!?!!
titty bit nipply May 17, 2006
Posted by thevirginreview in A Tall Tale.3 comments
Following my post yesterday I remembered this story:
During my short beach vacation this last April with my family, I was swimming with my cousins. They were screaming and diving into the waves, begging me to get my hair wet as I trembled waist deep at the sharp, freezing pain of the Atlantic Ocean. As I pondered how they had talked me into this, my thoughts were burst by the sudden question, blurted through salt-choked sea giggles, "Why did you peirce your nipples?"
Instinct shot my glance instantly down to my chest as I surveyed the small peaks that roll of my ribs. I was wearing a white bathing suit, but lucky for me, having small boobs leads you to purchase padded swimming suits, so the inch-thick foam had certainly protected me from any THO my cousins could have spotted. I looked back up at him and responded, acting quite retrospective, "What are you talking about?"
He giggled in response and dove under a wave and that was that.
Later, after I'd climbed out of the waves and dried off in the heat of the sun, my mom came to sit beside me. My grandma was on one side and my cousin was standing in front of me, watching her kids that were still screaming in the waves.
"Mom, Hayden just asked me why I pierced my nipples."
She laughed and looked at my chest.
"How does he know?" I asked.
"Amy probably told him." She replied.
"What! He's six! Why would you tell a six-year-old that his crazy New York cousin pierced her nipples. As if this family needs any help stereotyping me. Amy, did you tell Hayden I pierced my nipples?" I yelled.
Amy turned to me. "I don't think so."
I looked back down at my chest. "Well, you can't see them and even if you could, how would he know what it was anyway?"
At this, my mom whispered to me, what I barely caught as something having to do with my "grandma" and "know", but it was too late.
Just then my grandma blurted out, "You did what?"
I tried to calmly and maturely explain the entire situation. "You didn't know?" I asked.
"I've always respected you, every choice you've ever made. I didn't get upset when you got your tattoo, I didn't say anything when you wanted to join the Peace Corp. But, this…I DO NOT respect you for this." She looked a bit defeated, her lip stuck out over her chin in a glorious pout.
"Grammy!" I protested. "I did it 5 years ago; it's not a big deal. I've been thinking about taking them out anyway."
"WHY would you do that to yourself? Why?"
"Why'd you pierce your ears?" I shot back, having no other defense. Truth was I didn't know why. Why do you do anything when you're in college? Isn't 'being in college' excuse enough?
"I'm disappointed in you."
"Well, I'm disappointed in you for being disappointed in me for something so silly. Me having my nipples pierced doesn't change the person I am and you know that!"
A couple minutes later she'd forgiven me, but not before baring my chest to the world as she checked out the goods, squealing in some horrendous act of fright and disgust.
After six years of titty punctured nipple decor, I decided to take them out this morning.
…And I still want to know who told Hayden.
pieces, the bible, and a little know fact May 11, 2006
Posted by thevirginreview in A Tall Tale.add a comment
I was telling my friends my sordid story from my vacation when I realized the damage of telling white lies. If I didn't have proof of the disasters in my life, would anyone believe my stories? This is true of a friend of mine. He will remain unknown for now, but every time he tells a story, we all nod and laugh, because it is funny. What makes it funnier, is that no one actaully believes a word he's saying. He is the master of the tall tale. The problem is that if he were - on some rare occassion - actually telling the truth, no one would believe him. This truth will come full circle as I brilliantly link in James Frey. He hooked a nation on his memoir; in fact, I am still one of the few who defend him in the public eye, but was it the truth of his story that hooked us or simply the story itself?
Most scholars would tell us that the Bible is a brilliant work of fiction and a handful of practicing religions who teach the Bible would agree that the stories are fiction based on actual events, but the Bible is still a work that is taught; it is used to explain and enforce morals. People live by its ethical code. Others are willing to die for what it represents.
My question here is: is a story truth because it happened or is it truth because of the reaction it receives and the lessons it teaches?
