The Unwanted Guest

It all started normal enough. My alarm goes off. I hit snooze. Eight minutes later, I hit it again. I grumble, roll over to look at the clock, and slide out of my side of the bed. As I walk around the bed I see something on the floor. Thinking it’s a gray T-shirt, I lean over to pick it up, when I stop.

It’s not a shirt.

I scream before diving back into bed headfirst, whimpering.

“What? What is it?” my boyfriend demands, rousing himself out of sleep. I can only point. He looks in my finger’s direction and screams himself, much like a little girl, though he denies it.
It’s a dead pigeon.

The pigeon isn’t bloody, or old, or terrifying. He actually looks kind of peaceful, folded up into a ball of gray iridescent feathers, his small head resting to one side. But pigeons are not supposed to be on your bedroom floor.

We debated under the covers for a long time as to who should take care of our visitor. He felt because I found it first, it was my job. I hated myself for pointing out that he was the man, and that was why one kept men around—to handle these types of situations.

We compromise. He will get the pigeon into the trash and I will discard of the evidence. My boyfriend carefully scoops up the body into a dustpan. We both cringe at the thump the pigeon makes as it hits the bottom of the trashcan. I crawl back under the covers. I stick my head out to watch as my boyfriend sprays an entire bottle of disinfectant onto the crime scene. He ties up the bag and sticks it next to the front door.

“How did it get in here anyway?” my boyfriend asked. We both looked toward the open window that has a large, industrial sized fan blocking its entrance. There was no space for a pigeon to fit through.

“Maybe someone is trying to send a message,” I surmised. “A horse’s head is expensive, but pigeons are free.” But there is no mafia presence in our neighborhood, unless there is a Caribbean or Orthodox Jewish mafia that I don’t know about.

“Possibly. Maybe it’s the fish.” We had recently gotten a goldfish. My boyfriend repeatedly called the fish a bird by accident, so he decided to name him Bird. “Maybe it’s Bird’s way of telling me that there’s a difference between a fish and a bird.”

Both possibilities. Both highly unlikely.

A friend told me later that sometimes animals come out from their hiding places to die. I imagined passing the pigeon in my hallway before his demise, him wearing a tiny bathrobe. When I’d ask him how he was, just to be a polite neighbor, he’d say “I’ve been better, but enough about me.” I mean, seriously. I would have noticed if there was a pigeon wandering around my apartment. We truly had no idea how our visitor had gotten in.

I got dressed, checking to make sure all our other windows were closed, jerking at everything I saw out of the corner of my eye. I put my coat on, took a deep breath, and got ready to leave. “Don’t forget your lunch, honey,” my boyfriend said with a smile, kissing me on the forehead and handing me the ominous trash bag. Damn you, teamwork.

I closed the door behind me and carried the dead pigeon to the trash room, trying not to jostle him. I wondered if he might come to life at any moment and try and fight his way out of the bag. Impossible. Was this how hit men felt after their first kill, the body of their victim rolling around in their car trunk? I had to stop: This was not productive.

I opened the door to the trash room and placed the pigeon gently in a large trashcan, shutting the door quietly so as not to disturb him.

Outside my apartment building I tried to shake off the events of the morning. “No big deal,” I said out loud. “It could happen to anyone.” I turned the corner and walked right into the path of a pigeon. He stopped and stared at me with what looked like suspicion before looking in the direction of my apartment building. I dug through my bag, found the sandwich I had packed for lunch, and threw the whole thing to the ground. Can’t hurt to make amends, I thought. Again, the bird eyed me and sauntered over to my offering. “Sorry for your loss,” I said, and then hurried for the subway.

Missing the Man in the Mirror

I woke up this morning, remembered that Michael Jackson is gone, and was struck by sadness. And I was surprised. When Princess Diana died, I barely gave it a second thought. Heath Ledger? Bummer. Farrah Fawcett? She fought the good fight. But Michael Jackson hasn’t been relevant for me in years. I’ve watched with horror and sadness at what a convoluted mess his life has become. I’ve watched with more horror and sadness as stars like Usher and Chris Brown have stolen MJ’s mojo.

But watching countless videos from his career last night, I remembered why he’s so special to me: Michael Jackson’s music is my childhood.

I still remember when my parents bought me Thriller. I remember opening the record and choreographing dance routines with my brother all over our house. The first concert I ever attended, at the ripe old age of 8, was Michael Jackson on his Bad tour. My dad took me and we sat in the noseblood seats of the arena behind a couple of teenage girls that were screaming their heads off and holding up a sign with their Jackson devotion. As I was only about a foot tall, it completely blocked my view, so my dad politely asked them to move their sign. He was greeted with a tirade of curses, some of which I had never heard before. Between the concert and my newfound words, it was a night for the record books.

Several years ago, I was on a cruise ship in China on the Yangtze River and there was a karaoke night. My brother and I dusted off our old dance moves and sang “Thriller,” (which is entirely too long to perform without backup dancers).

I would say that he’s too young to die, that Michael Jackson had more to accomplish, but I don’t know if I feel that way. He left us a hell of a legacy. It’s amazing to me that someone who delighted so many people with his music and positivity would seem to be such a sad, lonely, conflicted person. I just hope he can find some peace in that big Neverland Ranch in the sky.

RIP MJ.

Calling Masseur Feelgood

“I bet they have the best pad thai!”

“Is it like the movie The Beach!”

“We should go! No! I love you, man!”

“Oh my god, but did you see Brokedown Palace? Claire Danes was badass.”

“Did you just throw up on my shoe?”

It was during this drunken conversation at a bar in Australia that Jason and Sejul—two friends I had become close with while studying abroad—and I decided we should go to Thailand. So the next day, perhaps still tipsy, we bought our tickets and two days later we were on our way.

What exactly am I going to do in Thailand, I thought to myself, sitting on the plane shortly after takeoff. I realized, sitting there, flipping through a Bangkok tour book, that our drunken conversation was the extent of my knowledge about the country. For a planner like myself, it felt completely alien, but I figured, no, for first time in my life I am going to be spontaneous, even if it kills me. And I hear it can be a dangerous country, so it just may.

Two hours later, we got off the plane and were accosted with the most humid, sweltering heat I had ever felt in my life. I imagined that this is what heart of darkness felt like. We headed into the airport and groaned when the air conditioning hit us as we went through customs. After a quick taxi ride, we were in Bangkok. It was only a matter of time before the exhaustion set in, so we decided to start exploring.

Within five minutes we realized that not only was the city oppressively humid and smelly—many people wore paper hospital masks, which was not reassuring—but it was so incredibly crowded, Times Square on New Year’s Eve seemed spacious by comparison. Within seconds several rickshaw drivers approached us smelling fresh, tourist meat. We decided to go for it—if things got wacky, we could always jump out of the rickshaw Chinese fire drill-style at a stoplight.

“Where you want to go?” the rickshaw driver asked.

“Wat Po, please” I said, pointing to a picture in my guidebook of the largest reclining Buddha in Bangkok. I had tried to cram in a little research on the plane ride, but quickly got overwhelmed with the sheer number of buddhas in the city, which seemed to cover the area like Starbucks stores in the States.

“Okay dokay,” he shouted, taking off before we could negotiate a price.

“But wait! How much?” Sejul yelled, as we all gripped each other and the sides of the rickshaw as he sped off. Sejul was beautiful and petite and exotic with her Indian background, so she often managed to get things done her way.

“I give you special visitor tour!” he said, smiling.

This did not sound promising, but we figured, what the hell. First the driver stopped at a market, replete with every cheap knickknack and piece of crap imaginable. Apparently before everything made in China was dropped off at our ninety-nine cent stores, they made a quick stop here. While there was a Buddha there—a fact that we would soon learn was not surprising—he was not very big and he definitely wasn’t reclining.

“I’m so not paying, and I’m not getting out of this rickshaw,” Jason said, looking frustrated and angry, which was difficult as he was stick thin and wearing a very tight Care Bears T-shirt.

“We want to go to Wat Po,” I said to the driver, the tension apparent in my voice. “Come on guys, let’s just go,” as we started to collect our things.

“Yes! Yes! Wat Po. I take you! You calm down! So many buddhas here. I sorry!”

We settled back into the rickshaw, feeling like we had taken charge but also already exhausted from the 112 degree temperature. We sat back, enjoyed the limited breeze and soon were at our destination.

Except, once again, it wasn’t our destination.

“Ah, this isn’t our buddha. It’s a diamond center, whatever that means,” Sejul exclaimed. “Listen! We don’t have money, okay? We’re poor college students!”

The rickshaw driver's head drooped sadly and the dollar signs in his eyes receded. “Okay dokay, I take you to Wat Po.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said getting out of the rickshaw. “This is bullshit. I’m not being taken advantage of. I’ve only been here for three hours.” I handed the rickshaw driver 100 Baht which equals about $2.88. “Don’t even think of giving me a hard time.” As he was a small man and I was feeling feisty, I was ready for a battle, and arranged myself in my best crouching tiger, hidden monkey pose.

The rickshaw driver screamed something at us I was glad not to understand. Jason glared at him, which strangely did the trick, as he drove away.

“Well, what do you want to do now?” Jason asked.

“How about a massage? Aren't they known for that here?” Sejul said.

“I could use one,” I said, feeling guilty as I had no other ideas as to what we should do. We sat on a curb, clutching our belongings to our chests as I checked in the guidebook. “It says to watch out because a lot of them are brothels.”

“Great” Jason remarked. “Let’s just end up as sex slaves and”—

“It just says we have to be careful, not to be worried that we’ll be sold and bartered. I just don’t want to end up with an STD.”

Sejul checked the map and it turned out that there was a massage place within walking distance. We started along as our spirits lifted with the idea of our awaited bliss. But the parlor was sketchy at best. A woman not only rushed out of the storefront to greet us as we looked in the door, but started to lead us down a back alley. I figure massages, much like abortions, should never be started by leading you to a “special entrance.”

Our search stretched into hours, as parlor after parlor gave us a not-so-fresh feeling.

“This humidity is killing me. It’s like walking through soup,” I said. My hair, which had once been straight was now so curly I couldn't even run my fingers through it. We noticed the outdoor vendors around us covering their wares with plastic, which we found odd as there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Two minutes later it started to pour. Not rain so much, as it felt like the world was ending and frogs would soon be falling from the sky. We ran for cover but were already drenched. Five minutes later the rain stopped and the vendors pulled away their plastic as if this was a common occurrence. Apparently we were here during the rainy/typhoon season. The planner side of me cursed the new spontaneous side.

“Well, I’m not hot anymore, but Sej, I think I can see your nipples,” Jason said.

“You’re lucky you’re gay,” she replied. “Where is a freaking legitimate massage parlor in this town?”

We started walking and then we saw it. It looked clean, inviting, and non-brothelly. The Mecca of the non-red light district. When we walked in the front door, they simply welcomed us in. We were ecstatic. A plainly dressed, non-slutty looking Thai woman led us to a clean, good-sized room and told us to strip down and put on our robes, not seeming to care that Jason was a boy. We did so willingly, peeling off our wet layers.

We lay facedown on our strawlike mats and three miniature Thai women entered, chatting away with each other. With little more then a smile in our direction, they got to work molding our backs to their whim, never stopping their discussion. And it was a good thing they kept talking because they drowned out our yodels of happiness.

When I was turned over on my back and the woman started walking to the very top of my inner thigh, I learned I was tense in places I hadn’t even considered. I felt like we should share an after-massage cigarette and maybe spoon. By the time the women were done, the three of us were puddles of relaxation. It literally took everything we had to get back into our soggy clothes.

It had been a strange day but we were finally relaxed. That night we decided to go out and asked the concierge at our rather nice hotel—thanks to the exchange rate—where was a good place to go. We knew the red-light district was questionable, but asked if it would be fun.

“Oh yes, very exciting,” the concierge said.
“Is that good or bad,” Sejul asked.

“Oh, you must see,” he said, winking at Jason.

We decided to take a look anyway. As we walked around the area, we noticed every bar had scantily clad women dancing with what looked like forced abandon. Every time we looked in one of the bars some man would run out and beckon us in.

“I’m not sure if they want us to work there or buy a dance,” Sejul said.

“This feels like the massage experience all over again. Let’s find somewhere to get a drink without the boobies,” Jason said. “I mean, they’re fine to look at if you’re into that, but I’m not paying for them.”

So we continued wandering. We walked out to the open air bars where things were rowdy but the clientele was mixed. We continued to stroll along and take it all in. And then, as we learned was apt to happen on our trip, it started to unexpectedly pour.

We ducked into the first bar with some cover and shook ourselves off. The bar staff was completely mind-numbingly beautiful Thai woman and every single patron was an overweight middle-aged balding white guy.

“Ah, this is weird,” Sejul whispered.

“Yeah, but it’s pouring and I could really use a drink,” I said. I looked over at one of the women behind the bar. “Singha beer?” She nodded and brought it over. The woman and the three of us stared at each other for a while.

“You not from here?” the closest bartender asked, a very pretty, dark haired woman whose clothing looked like it was borrowed from Britney Spear’s tour closet.

“No,” Jason answered. “Vodka tonic, please?”
“Vodka who?”

He opted for a Singha. We stared at each other some more realizing that a conversation would be difficult. And then one of the women leaned down behind the bar and pulled something out, laying it in front of us.

“Jenga?” We looked at each other. The women behind the bar smiled and began to set up the blocks in a tower of the popular Hasbro game and gestured for us to pull out the first piece. It felt like I was reliving my childhood but on acid.

And so, that night we played Jenga. As the game progressed we became friendlier. By the end of the night, we were drunk, the bartender had given us free reign of the music, and the male patrons of the bar left us alone and concentrated on their respective imported lady friends. Outside the rain had stopped but we weren’t ready to leave.

“Weird night, huh?” Jason said.

“Definitely. I like this beer though. Oh, sorry!” Sejul said, trying to steady herself by accidently placing her hand on one of the male patron’s bald heads.

“And unexpected. I had no idea that we spoke the international language of Jenga,” I said. And with that we turned to do a shot of something we hoped wasn’t a date rape drug and began to play another game.

Don't Hate the Player, Hate the Genetic Game

I have always slightly resented families that look like they’re cut from the same cloth. “Oh my goodness, it’s like you’re twins!” “That’s your mother? I thought you were sisters!” These are not ever things that are said about my family.

Every so often, after much squinting from the observer, I’ll get “ooooh, I can see it. In the eyes.” Yes, my whole family has been blessed with two eyes of varying degrees of vision. That might be where the similarity ends.

Perhaps this discrepancy is because my mother is blue eyed and blond haired and my father is brown eyed with black hair, encouraging my genetics to play tug-of-war. Maybe it’s because half my family are midgets and the other half are way above the national height average. Whatever the reason, my parents have had to reassure me several times that I’m not adopted. And they always hug me hard after, as if trying to assure everyone involved that they are telling the truth.

Most of the time this chromosome mishmash is not that much of a problem, but there are times when these differences make me slightly sad. After all, I can’t look at my mother and ascertain what I’ll look like in thirty years. I can’t share clothes with anyone in my immediate family because they’re all taller than me by at least five inches.

I notice the differences most with my brother. It’s like mother nature split up all our genetic traits and decided we couldn’t share. He’s 6”3, with big blue eyes and wavy thick brown hair—the kind of hair that makes girls jealous—which he wears in a ponytail. Fred is a musician and dresses the part, wearing relatively tight, worn-in jeans and ratty T-shirts. He has a propensity for both cowboy boots and sneakers. His most recent addition is a tree tattoo that creeps all the way down from his shoulder to his hand. The tattoo is complete with colorful leaves, a character from Where the Wild Things Are, a heart with an arrow through it which holds my deceased grandparents’ initials (my father seems to think that they might not have appreciated the homage), and a knot in the bark of the tree that incorporates his strange scar, the result of a car accident. He carries himself with confidence and has the long stride that only a tall self-assured person can have. My friend once noted that Fred looks like “an Argentinean tango instructor.”

As for me, my look is noticeably different. I may be the older and wiser sibling, but I’m five feet tall, a point that seems to greatly amuse him. I also have wavy brown hair, but not quite as thick. My hazel eyes are my most striking feature, and carry my vaguely Mediterranean/Eastern European-looking face. (According to a cab driver I once met, my face takes on different nationalities based on the lighting.) I dress in what fits me, which is a constant struggle for a petite girl blessed/cursed with a good-sized rack. While I have a tattoo as well, it’s a small tramp stamp—a not-so-affectionate term for a tattoo located on one’s lower back—that’s an American Indian god called the Kokopelli, a symbol of wine, fertility, mischief, and all sorts of other good stuff, which I came across when I was visiting New Mexico. We also share a fondness for shoes. While I also enjoy cowboy boots—mine are gold—I additionally enjoy any shoes that make me taller. What I lack in my short strides, I attempt to make up for with a sarcastic wit. Occasionally this is successful.

Despite our differences, we get along quite well now that we’re all grown up. Long gone are the days when we’d scream at each other for using the bathroom too long, or hogging the phone, or just misunderstanding each other because there was a great deal of teenage angst and a three and a half year age difference between us. I fondly look back on the days when I blamed my brother for the lone beer can my parents found in our soup cupboard after they had been away on vacation. (This blame most likely backfired because I was the one who had had a party, and Fred was 10 years old at the time.) Or when we’d war so ferociously when forced to share a bed on vacation, kicking each other and yanking the covers to our respective sides, that my parents made one of us sleep on the floor. Or when I’d get so frustrated I’d wrestle Fred, which must have been particularly amusing to watch in a David and Goliath kind-of way—if David had wrestled Goliath and not had a slingshot. My best chance for any kind of success was usually to punch Fred in the kidney before fleeing for my life.

These days we go out together whenever we can. And this is fine when we’re in New York, because we’re out to see each other, but when traveling it’s a whole other story. Part of soaking up the culture of a new place isn’t just going out, but mixing with the locals. Sure, you might not be able to speak the same language, but that’s what charades is for.

Several years ago, Fred and I were on vacation with the family in Scandinavia, a place well-known for its drinking and nightlife. After hunkering down at a bar in Copenhagen, Denmark, and chatting and looking around for several hours, we realized something.

“You know, I think we cockblock each other,” I said, with my usual subtleness.

“I know. This would be so much easier if we were the same sex. Then maybe people would hang out with us,” Fred replied.

And it was true. We weren’t actually blocking each other from getting a date, but more “foreign friend blocking” each other. We weren’t approachable because people thought we were on a date. This is a thought we both found revolting. And sure, we look comfortable with each other, but you know what you’ll never see? Me softly caressing his cheek. Or Fred looking deeply into my eyes. Or either of us calling each other honey, shmoopy, or any other pet name.

In Stockholm, Sweden, on that same vacation we stumbled upon a small bar where a band was playing. We stopped to listen and ended up getting in a long, lively conversation with the band’s manager. As the bar was closing we said our good-byes, Fred leading the way.

“Well, good-bye, Mrs.,” our new friend said. And it was then that I realized we had never explained ourselves.

“Oh, no! No, he’s my brother,” I explained, smiling.

“Sure he is,” he said, winking at me. “You’re a cheeky one.”

“No, I know we don’t look alike, but I mean it,” I said, feeling a need to set the record straight.

“Oh, really? Then kiss me.”

I had less than no urge to do this. While our new friend, Jörgen, was a wonderful conversationalist he was not my type. He was not my type because he obviously had spent a lot of time out in the sun, and his skin resembled leather. And I don’t think he had ever gone to a dentist, because he had a lot less teeth than one should have. But most importantly, he was old enough to be my grandfather.

“Well, I know my brother wouldn’t mind, but I think my boyfriend might,” I said. And as the conversation had now gotten a little awkward, I decided it was time for me to leave.

But this was not Fred and my only awkward interaction with strangers. When we were at a club in Bergen, Norway, a girl gestured from across the room for my brother to dance with her. I was sitting right next to him. I thought her move was a little aggressive, and well, rude.

“Why are you offended,” Fred asked. “I’m not dating you.”

“Well maybe I don’t want you fraternizing with some girl who obviously has no manners,” I explained, trying to summon up all my big-sisterness.

And with that, Fred patted me on the head—one of my least favorite things—and proceeded to dance with her. While I was slightly peeved, it was amusing watching them try to both dance and converse, as the girl was very drunk and English was not her first language. Every so often Fred would look over her head at me and grin sheepishly.

Lucky for me, her friends also found her move to be ballsy, so they motioned me over to figure out exactly what was going on and apologize. I found this especially fortuitous; otherwise I would have looked slightly creepy sitting alone in a crowded club, leering as my brother danced with some girl because I had nothing better to do. It was nights like this that made me realize how many foreign friends I was missing out on making, how many couches I could have crashed on later in life. Not to mention all the fun facts one can only learn from talking to someone that’s native to the country.

“Jah, I’ve heard that. In some remote parts of Norway, they really DO eat sheep eyeballs,” one of my new friends said in response to my question. And with that, I politely thanked my new friends and left Fred to his own devices. Somehow, it had turned out to be a pretty good night.

My Mama Said Knock You Out

I’ve always considered myself more of a lover than a fighter. I’m all for someone fighting for my love, however, but the most involved I’ll get is cheering from the sidelines. What I didn’t bank on was what happens when you’re caught completely unaware.

I was on yet another of my infamous family vacations. This particular year we had chosen Brazil because we wanted to be both adventurous and experience the beach in a country where winter temperatures mean a balmy eighty degrees. This also happened to be after the movie City of God came out, a film about one of the most dangerous slums, or favelas, in Rio de Janeiro. My mother saw the movie after we returned from our trip and said that she “might have rethought Brazil as a vacation destination” if she’d seen this first. After doing some reading on my return of my own I learned that Brazil is a not a good place for tourists. I looked at the US State Department’s website on said country and learned about all the things I shouldn’t have done, like:

· Be outside at night.
· Use an ATM.
· Be in “areas surrounding beaches, hotels, discotheques, bars, nightclubs, and other similar establishments that cater to visitors. The incidence of crime against tourists is greater here.”
· Not be Brazilian. Apparently “Good Samaritan” scams are common. If a tourist looks lost or seems to be having trouble communicating, a seemingly innocent bystander offering help may victimize them.
· Take the bus. Incidents of theft on city buses are frequent and visitors should avoid such transportation.

I imagine Brazil’s travel industry wouldn’t be too pleased if it knew the US government was talking so much trash about its country.

But enough about all that crime. Did I mention that Brazil is amazing? Like incredibly beautiful. Like beaches so gorgeous that you think Brooke Shields might appear in a scene from Blue Lagoon at any moment. Like a mountain that has a statue of Jesus on the top that is so intriguing a Jew like me just had to get to the top. That would be the Christ the Redeemer statue at the top of the Corcovado Mountain, which happens to be one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Like clubs that are full of world-renowned music and dancing beautiful. One of the clubs we visited (and yes we had to be outside at night to get there) was an old antiques warehouse that was several floors with balconies the overlooked the stage on the ground floor, which showcased an eighteen-piece salsa band. Brazil is so beautiful that even the hookers are gorgeous. I didn’t see one woman of the night that looked even slightly “crack whorey.” There is, however, something very creepy about watching a hooker hit on your father in broad daylight. And then your father, in his high-waisted “dungarees,” as he likes to call them, and a monogrammed shirt that says Saúl on the pocket (don’t ask), smiles shyly and replies, “no, thank you, maybe later.”

One afternoon, my family visited the Museo de Arte Moderna in Rio de Janeiro. While the art was fascinating, it seems that artists are a tortured bunch regardless of their country of origin. My brother had decided to opt out after a night of doing many activities that the US State Department would frown upon. After, we walked through the financial district of the city, which on a Sunday afternoon was pretty deserted.

We passed a guy that looked to be in his twenties. He had wavy black hair that curled around his ears and was wearing a nondescript facial expression and matching black T-shirt and jeans. Sensing that we might be from out of town, he gestured to us for the time. Being that we didn’t have any fanny packs on us, I was sad that it was that obvious. Perhaps my sunburn and not being a six-foot tall gorgeous-looking Brazilian woman gave it away. My father, who was walking in front of us, showed him his cheap digital watch, which read 5:27 p.m. We continued on our way, with me in the middle and my mother bringing up the back.

All of a sudden I heard a scream coming from behind me and then a thump. I turned around to see that very same nondescript man holding on to my mother’s handbag and pulling for dear life. My five foot five, short blond-haired soccer-hairdo coiffed mother—perhaps due to her upbringing on the mean streets of the suburbs of Philadelphia—was gripping it just as fiercely.

It all seemed to unfold in slow motion. I simply couldn’t believe it. It was broad daylight! We were on vacation for crying out loud! Did he have no decency? This was not a relaxing situation! I think it took me about twenty seconds to process what was happening, but as soon as I did, I started screaming at the Brazilian, using every curse word I knew in combinations like “youmothershitfuckingassdoosheface!”

And all the while the mugger was sweating, and looking slightly frazzled but pulling as hard as he could. He tugged so ferociously my mother’s legs came out from under her, her Saucony-sneaker clad feet flailing in the air, but she still held on to the bag, not saying much of anything except for the occasional grunt, her eyebrows set in a firm line of determination. As far as she was concerned, this was war.

And then I thoroughly surprised myself. I walked right up to the guy, who was literally two feet away from me this entire time and said “Don’t touch my mom!” and then slapped him across the face. I actually smacked a criminal across his ugly mug. Granted, there was no force behind my slap (adrenaline works in mysterious ways) and it probably felt more like I was caressing his face or smacking him Victorian-style with a white glove, but he got the idea.

And then he did something even more surprising: he ran away. Even better, he ran away empty-handed. What was this, his first mugging?

This entire ridiculous exchange took place in about a minute and a half, but it wasn’t until after the Brazilian escaped that my father actually turned around. He was just far enough ahead of us that it took him a minute to realize that all the scuffling that was going on behind him actually concerned his own family.

“That’s okay, we can handle it,” my mom said sarcastically. She sat in the street, slightly winded, dirt covering her black shorts and white T-shirt with a Monet painting across it, gripping her small, vinyl, brandless pocketbook with both hands. I think she still hadn’t processed what had just happened. I, on the other hand, was in awe of her.

My father and I helped her up and gave her a big group hug. She continued to hug her purse.

“Should we go to the police?” my father asked.

“What’s the point?” my mother said almost nonchalantly. “They wouldn’t catch him in the States; you think they police are better here? And you know what’s funny? All I had in there was my reading glasses and a novel,” she said. “I read in the tour book that you shouldn’t keep anything valuable on you because of the crime. But I really liked that bag.”

If only that Brazilian mugger had known: never come between a woman and her accessories.

No Sex in the Showroom

“I tried to be gangster, but I’m sorry, I just couldn’t do it,” Jamel, our Sleepy’s mattress professional said, smiling sheepishly. He was a big black guy, with a bald head, and he looked slightly uncomfortable in his button-down shirt and tricolor striped tie.

“I can’t even imagine how weird that would be,” I said, as my boyfriend, Elon, and I shook our heads in unison. And though I didn’t feel sorry for the guy, it did make me wonder about his life choices.

This was not how I had imagined my mattress shopping experience. But then again, I guess I hadn’t given much thought to the plight of these sleep experts. All day long they must paste on a smile while trying to help perfect strangers with their nighttime needs. They must explain over and over again why there is a Vera Wang-brand Serta bed. (Vera's a genius with fabrics, blah, blah, blah.) They must be courteous but forceful when attempting to stop children from running into the store and jumping on random beds like it’s their own personal Neverland ranch.

And there is indeed nothing stranger then a job that entails asking someone to lie down in a bed, in the middle of a huge showroom, and ask them to get comfortable and “pretend like you’re in your own home.” Should I actually sleep like I’m told I sleep: on my stomach, mouth open with most likely a little drool on the pillow, one of my hands gently cupping my own ass? Should I snore to simulate real life? Should we climb on top of each other to make sure the bed doesn’t squeak when we “pretend like we’re in our own home?”

Yet somehow, over the course of our shopping venture, Elon, and I, and our Sleepy’s tour guide transcended the customer/salesman relationship. We connected. And this was despite the fact that our new friend kept calling my boyfriend my husband. (This, of course, resulted in my getting a stern talking to by Elon. “Could you stop full-body twitching every time he says husband,” he said, in a loud whisper. “I mean, we are planning to do that at some point.”) This was also despite the fact that he said “axe” instead of “ask.” (What can I say? I’m an asshole.)

As we sat down to discuss finances, the conversation somehow turned to inappropriate conduct. Perhaps it was the fact that there were beds, or as I like to call them, “sexytime areas” all around us. Maybe it was the fact that all three of us just have dirty minds. All I know is that I liked the mattress our sleep professional had shown us, but I didn’t like the price. So being the frugal lady that I am, I tried to find out the best places to check out the competition.

“I’d say Sleepy’s pretty much dominates the industry,” Jamel reported.

“Yes, but who’s your biggest competition,” I asked, pressing him.

“I’d say Rockaway Bedding. No! We bought them last year,” he said.

“Okay, well, who else? 1-800-Mattress?” I said, hoping he’s just give up the goods already. I mean, wouldn’t it be rude to just come out and ask “Where can I get your product but cheaper?” My boyfriend rolled his eyes at me.

“Hmmm, I guess Macy’s…” he said, thinking intently.

“Jesus,” Elon responded. And while we’re at it where did you go to college? Have any kids? What’s your favorite color?”

I glared at him. So much for trying to be subtle.

“Ah, LaGuardia Community College, 1, and green,” our bed representative responded. “What? I’m here to answer any questions you may have.”

And I must say, the man was indeed honest. Somehow in the midst of all this conversation it came out that he had been married for a year but has a five year old. And that he met his wife five years ago while he was working at Foot Locker. And that he and his wife were both fired because they were caught having sex in the employee back room. I was really beginning to like this guy.

“So,” I asked, leaning in close, “ever caught anyone doing anything inappropriate here?” Sometimes I feel like I come off as one of those Midwestern stay-at-home moms desperately in need of a sex toys party to add some adventure to her life.

“Oh, I have some good stories,” he said, smiling. “The best one? That was when I worked at the Sleepys in Queens. They had a huge showroom and an additional one downstairs. I had just sold this crazy $5,000 mattress set to this couple. And they seemed to really take a liking to me so they axe me if I’m hungry."

I think at this point we both scooted to the edge of our seats.

“‘Go across the street and get us some food to celebrate and get whatever you want,’ the guy says. So I bring something back and I sit down and start eating my food right away, cause you know, I’m a big guy and I like to eat.”

My boyfriend nodded his head appreciatively.

“So I finish my food and bring it down to the other showroom thinking they’re still there and then I see them. Actually, first I hear them. The guy is making these weird guttural moans. It sounds like some kind of animal dying.”

“Like a cow?” I ask.

“Not exactly.”

“More of a goat, maybe?” Elon chimes in.

“Well, whatever animal it was, it’s not common in Queens,” Jamel says. And it’s loud. And then I see them. Not only are they doing it, but they are butt-ass naked. In my showroom! On my bed! So I’m not going to lie to you, I watch for a little while. For like 5 minutes.”

I have to say, I think I would have done the same thing.

‘And they’re not stopping!” he continues. “So I clear my throat. Nothing. I get a broom and pretend to clean really loud. They don’t even look up. Then I pretend to be talking to another client. I think they actually got louder.”

“You didn’t like tap them on the shoulder did you?” Elon asks, looking slightly disgusted.

“I’m not touching that! So finally, I just go upstairs. They come up 25 minutes later! No apologies. Nothing. The guy is all kinds of sweaty and they sit down at the table like nothing happened.”

“Seriously? Not even like a wink?” I ask.

“Nothing. So we go to sign the paperwork and the wife keeps looking at me and then back at her husband. And her husband is looking at her looking at me. So he goes ‘do you like him honey?’ And she nods her head. ‘You’ve never been with a black man, have you? Do you want to take him home?’ And she nods again! So they invite me to this party they’re having that weekend. I guess they’re swingers.”

“What? You’re like a 2-for-1 special with the mattress? Did you go?” my boyfriend asked.

“Yeah! I mean, I axed my wife first, but I was so curious. So I get there, and you have to leave you clothes at the door and there were drugs and alcohol and anything you wanted on the table. I tried to be gangster, but I’m sorry, I just couldn’t do it,” our Sleepy’s mattress salesman said, smiling sheepishly.

And I had to give it to him. I probably would have gone too. And I imagine I wouldn’t have been gangster enough to stay either.

“That’s some story,” I said.

“Yeah, I have a lot of them. And that’s why you should never buy mattresses that they’re selling straight off the showroom floor.”

“Done,” I said. For some reason I was kind of glad he wasn’t a swinger. Then we put down our deposit and shook hands. As we walked out of the store a little kid ran in the entrance and started ferociously frolicking on the beds and after Jamel’s story I couldn’t help but cringe. I felt like if I squinted hard enough I could see the STDs on the bed. I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to take a shower.

We turned around to smile and offer our apologies to our mattress connoisseur even if he wasn’t our child. “I do love this job,” he said and shrugged as he rolled his eyes slightly. And the thing is, I really think he did.

Useless Facts of the Barely Legal World

I am a very black or white when it comes to making decisions. [Insert reference to interracial dating here.] But there certainly are a whole lot of gray areas when it comes to law and life and it’s an area that I love to explore.

I know that if you grow four marijuana plants in Australia, it’s tolerated because it’s for personal consumption. But if you have five, that’s the intent to sell. I also know that the South Australian police don’t know that. When I went into the police station to ask them while I was studying abroad—I was working on a paper comparing marijuana regulation—they were as helpful on the topic as if I had asked my own mother, and she’s no hippie. This is because the Australian police are barely competent.

I know that in Ventura County, California, cats and dogs must have a permit to have sex. I’m not sure if that means you need a permit if different species are doing it, thus creating a cog or a dat, but it’s still weird. In Fairbanks, Alaska, they do not allow moose to have sex on city streets. That alone would make me not want to own a moose, because I would not want to be the one to tell a randy moose that he can’t get his swerve on.

In Oxford, Ohio, it’s illegal for women to strip in front of a man’s picture. I’m glad I don’t live there, because growing up I was kind of in love with Michael Jackson—you know, when he actually looked human—and I had a big old poster of him on my wall. And I like to dance. I’m sorry; I just can’t contain myself when PYT comes on. You put the pieces together.

In Helena, Montana, it’s illegal for a woman to dance in a saloon or bar unless she has on at least three pounds, two ounces of clothing. I don’t know if there’s a weigh station in the bar, but apparently pasties weigh two ounces, which I think is a good thing to know.

In Cleveland, Ohio, it’s technically illegal for women to wear patent leather shoes. Why? Because it might reflect up and men may see something they oughtn’t. First of all, which females over the age of 10 are wearing patent leather shoes? And B) in order for that to happen, I feel like the shoes would have to be especially shiny, the sun would have to be at a 45 degree angle, and you’d have to be a huge pervert to figure that out in the first place.

In Clinton, Oklahoma, it’s illegal to masturbate while watching two people have sex in a car. Once the windows fog up in the car, what can you really see? Personally, I don’t think that should be illegal, because I think it’s pretty obvious that that’s just gross.

I think that when you get a Brazilian bikini wax it looks like your vagina is barely legal, but it sure is smooth. Additionally, after getting said treatment, I think it should be mandatory practice that you spoon with your waxer and have a cigarette together. After all, what you did together was pretty darn intimate.

I know that it’s illegal to use someone else’s ID, even though you can get away with it. This is especially the case when you find it in the back of a cab and you’re nineteen and you try and use it to get into a club. Additionally you look like me, but the ID says that the girl’s name is Arvesha Patel and she’s 27 and 5”9 and Pakistani. And when the bouncer tells you it doesn’t really look like you, you tell him you got a nose job. And then he lets you in the club. That really feels barely legal.

Having parties when you’re underage is never a good legal idea either. I had a huge party once where about 80 people showed up. My friend with a big mouth told everyone and then had the nerve to show up at the party, but came bearing the gift of Chinese food. But then I noticed it was half eaten. You can call it “leftovers” but that still doesn’t make it okay. Also, when you have a party and don’t get caught by the police, why don’t your parents just sense you were up to no good? I mean, the house is cleaner when they return, then when they left it. Children never have the burning desire to tidy up unless they’re obsessive compulsive.

Another way parents know you had a party? When they open up the soup cupboard, and right between the minestrone and the chicken noodle soup, there’s a Bud Light can. And another note? Don’t blame it on your eight-year-old brother. Parents never fall for that.

I don’t know if it’s legal or not, but I do know that my company is theoretically very aware of everything I look at online. And one time, right when the Vanessa Hudgens naked pictures came out (the chick from “High School Musical”) I was looking at them with my coworker. And I thought we clicked on the safe for work version, but all of a sudden we saw underage lady parts. And I kept expecting a red light to start flashing, an email to simultaneously appear telling us we’ve been terminated, and a door to open in the floor and swallow us up.

I found a movie called Barely Legal. The tagline is “they couldn’t rent it, so they filmed it themselves.” I don’t that’s a good idea. I also don’t think I’d ever be able to make a good sex tape because I’d be so aware we were filming. I’d be in the middle of things, and be like, you wanna do it doggystyle? Does that make my ass look big cameraman? Oh, that totally reminds of this joke… That’s because I barely have a comedy career. Sigh.

Another fun fact? Impersonating an officer of the law is illegal. For my friend’s twenty-first birthday we got a stripper to come to her apartment. He knocked on the door because he heard a call about a “noise disturbance.” Then he proceeded to rip off all his clothes until he was down to a very policeman-like g-string. Without pausing for a second, he turns on his boom box (this was a few years ago), and proceeds to pick up the birthday girl and whirl her around. Only problem is that the birthday girl is almost six-feet tall. And there’s a ceiling fan that I notice, even in my drunken stupor, is dangerously close to her head. And I’m very afraid we’re going to celebrate my friend’s twenty-first birthday with a decapitation. I was so flustered by the event, in fact, that when the stripper came over to where I was perched on the arm of a chair to grind on my leg, I lost my balance and fell on the floor. That’s because I’m barely classy.

And while we’re on the subject, begging for change on subway cars is illegal. Unfortunately, this doesn’t exactly cover the guys that try and do freaking back flips down the subway corridor during rush hour. I’m not sure if that’s completely legal, but you’re still completely dooshebags. Go play on a jungle gym.

I’m not sure if preaching the word of God on the subway is legal or not. But if you are going to do it, please make it amusing. These pointers were developed after watching an actual event:

• Please tell people they should say “amen” if we think you look good.
• Please greet every man or woman who looks vaguely Hispanic by the names Juan and Maria. Additionally, when a Hasidic Jew gets on the train, please inform us that you’re going to go talk to your “Jewish brother about money.”
• Also, please end your spiel with the fun fact that you used to be a male prostitute.

So there are a whole lot of useless fun facts for you. So just remember, when in doubt, don’t do things in a car, without pasties on, or in patent leather shoes and you should be fine. And it makes me realize that there really is a lot of gray area when it comes to the law, but I hope that never changes, because if so, all my friends that are lawyers would be out of a job. And I know a lot of lawyers.