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Posts Tagged ‘cliches’

There are two things that come to mind when I say “Renaissance Faire”: Turkey Legs and Cleavage. Am I right, or am I right?

This is not me. This is what you get when you search Turkey Legs + Cleavage. Yes, I am brave/stupid enough to make that search.

I am not very comfortable with cleavage. This may be the reason for my wacky rather than sexy pirate. Cleavage just doesn’t come naturally to me (I’m more a member of the IBTC) and it’s not something I personally think should be forced. Many people do not agree with me on that. All those people go to Ren faires.

Every day at 2:15pm the entire cast, all entertainment acts and musicians gathered for the “Mid Day Parade”. This meant 15 minutes of walking  around the entire shire, waving at people on the side lines, and listening to my pirate captain bitch about the speed of the thing. Today “It’s too fast, I can not keep up, you know I have me a stiff leg.” The next day, “Wherefore is it going so slow? At this rate we will never get through the dern thing.” I started calling him Goldilocks on account of his belly aching. He hated that and that made it funnier to me. Ay Goldilocks, I say to this pirate with a huge gray beard, I pray that some day thou dost find a parade that is just right.

Through out the parade sidelines you’d see groups of women who came every weekend, always dressed up. For the duration of the parade they would bend over so their cleavage was on display in all its horror, gory glory. Oh Lord did I see some awful cleavage on display. Cleavage that would make you flinch if I described it to you (wrinkly! extra creases!) These ladies would call out for the attention of the men in the parade. That only got my pirate captain belly aching more “Oh God, must we be besieged by breasticles? Tis too much for me and I got but one of me eyes, t’other’s patched.”

On the flip side: Turkey legs! A wondrous rip off. Eight dollars for a huge leg of dry meat! I was constantly agog at the number of people who shelled out. On the flip, flip side they make a wondrous prop. Ripping of the meat of a huge turkey leg with your teeth and pronouncedly chewing it? That gets people’s attention. What gets their attention even more is if you challenge them to a Turkey Leg Duel.

I only came up with the Turkey Leg Duel idea the very last weekend. I noticed people are usually tired of their drumstick when there is still plenty of meat left on the bone. Combine this with the fact that turkey legs usually got sent up for the cast and no one usually wanted them, you’ve got a great combo. Challenge a patron to a duel, whip out  you weapon of choice- a turkey leg, you clash drumsticks with them and they let you win, even if you’re trying to let them win. It’s pretty funny. Challenge the sheriff of the shire to a duel (which is what I did the very last day) and a crowd will gather, as you and he passionately bash legs, no hesitation, as if your very lives were at stake. Turkey meat goes flying, getting all over the ground and your clothes. The sheriff grovels in defeat and announces you the Turkey Leg Duel Champion. A crowning achievement.

I had more than my fill of both turkey legs and cleavage this summer. Two things I do not miss about Bumblefuck. But Turkey Leg Duels? I’d love to bring them to the streets of New York.

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Will someone please buy me this necklace? Don't you agree I NEED it?

Will someone please buy me this necklace? Don’t you agree I NEED it?

After Trader Joe’s Boy revealed that he’d read my blog, he looked deep into my eyes and said with nothing but sincerity: “You are not a cliché. You are a unique wonderful person. Little self esteem issue, huh? Trust me. I know people who are clichés. You are not one of them.” I had no idea how to react to this. Had I not just broken up with him, I think that declaration would’ve been enough to seal the deal.

Another reason to need the above necklace, I can wear it on a first date and find out immediately if they have a prayer of “getting it”. (Ha ha double entendre!)

I’ve never had someone “not get me” so completely. Well, not to my knowledge. My humor is often dry as toast (other times it tries too hard- I’m aware). I’d venture as far as saying most of my friends have had a moment “Wait, stop, are you joking? I can’t tell!” I say credit goes to my Theatre BA and natural feminine mystique (“Wait, are you kidding? I can’t tell!”).

If you’re reading this, I imagine there’s a good chance you get it. I thank you for that. As a little token of thanks, I’m going to give you more frequent reading material (maybe you noticed this is my 3rd post this week!) Given that you “get it” I especially value your opinion. Therefore I ask: Do you appreciate small posts such as this? I’m conflicted with quality (as in sporadic but quality stories) vs. quantity (more posts…likely ranging in quality). I’m so accustomed to 1,000 worders, brevity feels weird to me. I’m also afraid to write meaningless tripe. Guess that makes me a non-cliché blogger.

I’ve changed the appearance around here a bit too. Like I said, I value your opinion, so tell me what you think. Really, I just want to make sure everyone’s met the “Leave a Comment” tab. Hey, maybe I do have plenty “cliché blogger” in me after all!

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boxers

[img: sproducts.com]

He’s sprawled out on the bed wearing only his cornflower blue boxer briefs (his description, not mine… In the time we’ve dated he’s switched from boxers to boxer briefs which must be a milestone- from boyhood tighty whities to adolescent boxers to, finally, adult male boxer briefs?- because he’s made a big deal about it. To the point of identifying the exact shade of his underwear. Yeah. Definitely one of those kinda cute in the beginning, kinda weird by the end things. Also as something so uncharacteristic of straight males, it did, in vulnerable moments following this story, make me want to condemn him to stereotype: Gay! even though I know he’s not.) In the back of my mind where the lessons of my liberal arts education and the wisdoms of my best friend (a self-described feminist who minored in gender studies) lie I consider the machismo nature of his pose, the male dominance his body language is begging me to acknowledge. He’s looking at me.

I can’t do this anymore.

I listen to the phrases fall out of his mouth, aware I’m responding to several but I am completely not in this scene. I am having an out of body experience where I’m watching myself in a poorly written, badly acted, made-for-tv movie:

It’s not you, I think you’re great.

We come from too (two?) different places.

We want different things.


And I think I’m the New York cliché?

Had he said “It’s not you, it’s me.” I would’ve laughed uproariously in his face. But he didn’t say that so it didn’t end in peals of laughter, it just ended. The finale of my Central Park Guy saga. It was a fun episode for the most part, an interesting introduction into the perils of dating in Manhattan. “No shame, no regret”. Those aren’t my words, those are the words the guy has tattooed, one phrase on each forearm. Insignias he did not have when I first met him in the park. Now they are permanently etched in his flesh and in my memory, a trivia fact that makes a brilliant ending to his story arch.

It really came down to “We want different things” – the only line that didn’t raise my bullshit! flags. Yep, like so many of the men and women of New York, we wanted different things.

If you’ve seen the Sex and the City movie, you know women come to New York looking for two L’s: Labels and Love.

SATC20ladies

I came to New York not looking for the labels I knew I couldn’t afford and not looking for love but rather to figure out what the hell I wanted. Well it’s six months later and after this Central Park Guy experience, I have a much better idea of what I want. Carrie Bradshaw had it right all along. Yes, here I am- single, fabulous (exclamation point), lusting over a pair of Chanel eyeglasses (I tried them on at Lenscrafters just for fun- big mistake), and looking for love in the big city (and apparently in danger of becoming the cover sleeve blurb of a chick lit novel. Still, it beats “It’s not you, I think you’re great”).

Now the problem as I see it, and Carrie neglected to say this, is that while women come to New York for those two L’s, men come for two F’s: Food and Fucking. Both of which are available on many a street corner for a price far below any kind of designer duds. Even the most decadent meal and a high class hooker? Still cheaper than one high end handbag. (And yet men make more money than women? WTF)

We want different things.

And so the task is to find someone whose wants match up with mine (and whose weirdnesses mesh with mine annnnd about 100+ other things). The odds are against me, but when aren’t they in this city and when isn’t that half the fun?

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