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Houston, we have a leg-warmer problem.

5 Dec

Someone alert hospice care, I’ve lost my dignity.

I knew things were getting bad when I mistook my reflection for Jane Fonda before leaving the apartment last night.  I thought, ‘no matter Ry, this is part of the character.  Part of the girl named Rachel you’ve decided to portray to anyone who approaches you tonight’.

This, evidently, is my idea of a good time.

Rachel, the aspiring actress/waitress who couldn’t wait to ‘understand’ British culture.  Rachel of the no IQ.  Rachel, the blonde girl with a propensity for hair twirling, loud giggling, and repeatedly asking: “wait, what does that mean?”.  Rachel, traveling Europe with her oldest and longest friend.

Loyally at my side, Man_Shopper too had chosen a persona.

Kayti the Starbucks barista.  Kayti with the chip on her shoulder.  Kayti the indy girl full of Ani references and eye-rolling.  Kayti, Miss too-cool-for-school.  Kayti from Boston, traveling with her oldest friend-despite said friend’s irritating qualities.

She looked like a rock chick.

Dark, mysterious, sexy.

I looked like an 80s escort.

Pasty, curvy, moronic.

Seriously, I even had leg warmers.

Rachel's accessory of choice.

Granted, I had voluntarily clad myself in 80’s attire for the evening, so it’s not like there’s anyone else to blame here.

Blasting Pump up the Jam (full with video-courtesy of youtube), she and I took our time getting ready.  Hair, make-up, and jewellery choices were all discussed at length.

When we got it perfect, it was time to go.

Bellies full of sandwiches, make-up piled on faces, Kayti and I headed off to Camden town with a mission.

I desperately wanted to make a man wake up the following morning and say to himself:

“Dear holy God, I think that was the dumbest girl on the planet.  Cardboard brains.  How in the name of Manchester United was I able to stand the conversation?”

I vowed not to break character.  No sarcasm would pass through my thick lipstick.  No sir.

Man_Shopper wanted to research how differently men would react to her if she were someone else.  She has a dating blog, so this was a prime opportunity to play a different part.

I didn’t have a cool excuse.  I just love to play.

So off we went.

It never once occurred to me that no one would approach us.  My narcissim is too great for such a thought to enter my brain.

But yet…

Sadly….

That is what happened.

Operation Hot Sister was an EPIC FAILURE BECAUSE NO MAN APPROACHED US, LOOKED AT US, OR DID SO MUCH AS NOD IN OUR DIRECTION.  ALL-CAPS USE TO EMPHASIZE THE HUMILIATION OF REALIZING ONE HAS LOST ONES MOJO.

Gone.

Finito.

No characters.  No conversation.  No free drinks.  No eye-flirting.  No. Anything.

Just the two of us idiots, tequila shots, and late-night sandwiches.

The longest conversation we had with any man was at Subway when we ordered foot-longs to devour our sorrows.

So that’s it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we no longer turn heads.

I’m sure there’s an argument for karma somewhere in all of this nonsense.  Just as soon as my ego recovers, it’ll warrant further investigation.

One things for certain though.  Tomorrow, I’m gonna wear the sexy tight pants I bought today to make myself feel better.

Zilla down bloggers, Zilla down.

If you want her version of the events, click here please.

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Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and my pledge for adventure

3 Dec

When Sleeping Beauty was banished to eternal snoozetime, I doubt anyone took the time to make sure she was on memory foam.

I’d rather be Cinderella.

At least she has stories.

I went to the ballet last night, in case anyone’s wondering why on Earth I’ve chosen to discuss fairy tales.

When I got the invitation, I was less than excited.  I mean, punk-shows are one thing, but the ballet?  Anyone who follows me will recall my childhood ballerina nightmare. So it’s not surprising that I wasn’t overly ecstatic about the idea of watching a bunch of dancers flutter about onstage.

Turns out I was wrong.

With just the right amount of wine warming my cheeks, and the amazing set-design and choreography, Cinderella done post-modern was inspiring.

I mean, not enough to make me want to twirl about in slippers, but still.

The whole show took place in London 1940 and the stepmother was a drunken ballerina.

So that was fun.

They even did an inebriated dance which was pretty creative, all things considered.  I walked in expecting Disney on Ice or some unholy equivilant, and was happy to discover art.

Just goes to show, I should be getting out more and trying new things.

No time to start like the present.  I’m sitting in the Eurostar train station as I write this, awaiting the arrival of one very crazy, very witty, very good friend.

I’m meeting Man Shopper, and yes-we have a plan.

It involves characters, corsets, and my pledge to attempt an evening sans sarcasm.

Stay tuned.  Like the ballet, this could turn out surprisingly inspiring.

Either that, or I’ll be forced to locate some memory foam, a hot water bottle, and my pj pants.

Girl on girl, beads, and keeping my boobs in check.

1 Dec

My best friend P.J. and I spent an entire weekend making out for charity.

By charity I mean a foundation we created on Bourbon Street.

In the middle of Mardi Gras.

An organization dedicated to the promotion of more beads, if you will.

Specifically, more beads for she and I to merrily don around our necks as we swam along with rest of the crowd.

If her husband is reading this, I’m sure he’s intrigued.

Approximately twenty minutes after landing at the airport, she and I were whisked away to the apartment of our French friend.  He was living in New Orleans, decided we had to give the festival a try, and invited us down to the booze-infested mess.

It was awesome.

Except that I didn’t want to flash anyone.

I know, I’m lame.

So when the first group of guys on the crowded street came up asking to reveal our racks for the beads around their necks, I turned to P.J. and loudly proclaimed:

“I’ll kiss her for your beads”

Just for a frame of reference, P.J. and I were not in the habit of kissing each other.  At all.  She had no idea I was about to suggest we lock tongues for beads.  In fact, I had no idea this was my plan.  It just seemed like a good move at the time.

So, quite rationally, this statement threw her off guard.  Staring at me with huge eyes she blurted out:

“What?! You want to kiss me?  Here?! I don’t think I can…. Isn’t that weird?”

I bet you can’t guess what kind of audience we were collecting at this point.

Forever egged on by a crowd, I grabbed her hand, gave her a coy smile and said:

“Come on, it’s no big deal.  I swear I’m good.  It’ll be soft.  And gentle.”

Her expression now completly confused she nervously looked at the growing crowd of testosterone surrounding us and said:

“With tongue?  Like French kissing?…”

At this point a burst of chanting broke out around us.  Frat boys, men, and other creatures began pulling beads off their necks while hollering:

“kiss her! kiss her! kiss her!”

So, doing what any menace in my situation would do, I grabbed her face and kissed her.  With tongue.

It was really good actually, as far as kissing goes.  Far better than some of the other smooches I’ve experienced in my time.  It was soft and nice, and there was no tongue sword-fighting, just gentle twisting and turning.  Our rythm was incredible.

When it was over, we had many, many beads.

So it became the game of the weekend.

One of us would shyly announce to men who requested flashing, that instead we’d make out for beads. The other would instantly become offended and appalled at such a suggestion.  We’d discuss it as the crowd formed.  Eventually, we’d give in.

At some point someone said the kissing had to last at least a solid minute, but considering we both know what we’re doing in the lip department, that didn’t bother either of us.

At the end of the weekend, I had more beads than my little neck could bear.

What can I say, P.J. is the greatest best friend a girl could ask for.

Long. Live. Her. Smooches.

Wizards, fox-roaming, and a mild cocaine addiction

30 Nov

I knew she was drunk when she repeatedly picked up the receiver in the public phone booth to ask for the Minestry of Magic.

When that didn’t work, she started hollering:

“Dumbledore, Albus.  Just trying to make this damn phone booth work m’am.  Just a muggle in need.”

It was two days after Christmas.  It was cold.  My cousin and I were stalking the streets of London in search for excitement.

Being two outgoing American ladies, we managed to finagle our way into a conversation that led to an invitation for pub-crawling.

Obviously this was a good plan.

Or not.

By the time the invitation was offered, we had both consumed several beverages.  The woman suggesting this great adventure was British and judging by the manner in which she kept licking her gums and disappearing into the bathroom-I’m guessing she was a little too into powdering her nose.

But no matter, her friends were fun.  They knew a club.  We chose to follow.

It was on the trek to the establishment when my cousin and I fell behind due to her fascination with the phone booths.  Well, that and my obsession with spotting a fox.

I know what you’re thinking, but hear me out.

Wild foxes roam about London.  Seriously.

I saw one in front of the National Gallery one day that stopped traffic.  The thing was so tame it wandered up to a woman on her cell phone and started sniffing her shoes.  She glanced down expecting to see a dog, but found a red-furred carnivore lazily seeking sandwich crumbs.

So while my cousin sought out Hogwarts’ finest, I set about looking under parked cars for Robin Hood.

It took us some time to catch up to the others.

By the time we did we could no longer locate our sniffing companion.

Not that it mattered.  The club was interesting and full of characters.  I talked to a man who claimed to have seven toes on one foot.  She managed to get herself tangled up in a conversation where she attempted to convince a British chap that she was speaking with a proper English accent.

She didn’t succeed and I didn’t get a proper toe reveal.

As the club grew stale, she and I wandered back outside in search of a taxi and the warmth of our beds.  Giggling in the car, we came to the conclusion that we’d just started our own Christmas tradition.  Forget roast goose, with pub-crawling, wizard-seeking, and near fox-spotting this was true holiday bonding.

If Dickens was watching, I’m sure he was proud.

teenage wasteland: wishing I’d been a punk rocker in my prime

24 Nov

Last Sunday I discovered that when surrounded by London’s original punk rockers, it is difficult to appear cool and collected.

But pear cider helps.

I was invited to a show at the Scala to watch Agent Provocateur, Chiefs of Relief, Bow wow wow, and Adam Ant.

Clearly, my air-guitar skills were no match against the professionals.

I mean really, these were band members from a scene I only wish I had been cool enough (or old enough for that matter) to be a part of.  Trust me, had I been British and a teenager in the late eighties, I would have plaid-skirted it up with the best of them.

As it was, I happened to meet them at 29, over beers, in the VIP bar of the show.  Not a teenager anymore by any stretch of the imagination, but definitely still awestruck to be in the same room as a former Sex Pistol and the many talented punks I was happily watching onstage.

I chatted it up with some of the band members, but tried to remain as quiet as possible for fear that my obvious lack of knowledge regarding music would deem me intolerably boring.  I’m pretty sure I just looked like a groupie anyway, so for the most part the band members ignored me.

I mean seriously, I’m a wandering menace.  They are punk rockers.

My narcissism does not reach so far as to question who is cooler here.  Come on.  There is no question.

-Insert that doe-eyed stare that always gets me into trouble here-

So to report to any of you who still have a place in your heart for the Brit punk scene-let me state, these guys are awesome.

I even got in a discussion about Obama with one of them.  Which I can assure you, I did not see coming.

For the record, musicians are my kryptonite.  Doesn’t matter if they’re old.  Doesn’t matter if I’m not even attracted to them.  They rock, they know it.  I know it.  I end up gazing.

In my next life I am coming back as a rockstar.  Maybe in a Zilla costume, but a rockstar nonetheless.

All the pear cider in the world can’t bring on the confidence of standing onstage, fist-pumping, leg-kicking, and collecting admirers.

God. Bless. Punk. Rock.

g’night bloggers

24 Nov

I am generally convinced there are monsters under my bed.

I’m still awake tonight because I heard a bump in the hallway and despite the fact that this is an apartment building susceptible to the noises from neighbors, I’m pretty sure it’s a ghost.

Which basically means its a hologram.  Trust me, in my head this connection makes sense.  Ghosts=holograms=1980’s graphics=childhood fears coming alive.

So while I’m catching zzzzzzz’s

tired zilla

 

One of these is outside the door.

 

note the accessories to emphasize time-era. Terrifying.

Overall it’s safe to assume I’ll be periodically waking up to the echoing haunts of the Flashdance soundtrack, A-team references, and maybe even Slimer.  Who knows?

What I’m saying is I’m sleepy.  But as usual, my imagination is not.

So I’m gonna try once again to ignore the damn haunt in the hallway.  Wish me luck.

Drawing this will make me sleep better. Maybe.