The Bloomin' Onion

Anyone who's had the Bloomin' Onion from the Outback Steakhouse knows well its fried clarion call.

If it weren't for this, Outback Steakhouse would be nothing. A nonentity. The steak is crap. The food all has the same salty-peppery seasoning. The drinks are watered down. The waitstaff is overly-friendly and annoying. It is my belief that the Bloomin' Onion is single-handedly keeping the place afloat. If they were to close down their entire operation and instead have a Bloomin' Onion kiosk, they would do just as well, if not better. But, I digress.

The Bloomin' Onion is solely responsible for my very first date experience. The date that set the bar so low, that all dates after it were a smashing success. I first met Steve online via gay.com. I was 16 years old. He was 20 and in community college. I didn't even have a car or license yet, so like a gentleman he picked me up at my parent's house (they loved that, by the way). He asked me where I'd like to go for dinner. I replied with the response I gave my parents whenever they asked me—Outback Steakhouse. We drove 30 minutes to the nearest Outback. On the way I was incredibly nervous, so I did what I always do when nervous—tell wildly inappropriate jokes and stories, then laugh so hard I snort. The first time I exploded in cackle-snorts I thought he was going to drive off the road. I could see the shock and horror written on his face, but couldn't seem to keep my mouth shut. I kept filling the silence with bawdy, unflattering stories. Each one was received with more terror than the last. To Steve's credit, he did have the courtesy to fake a smile.

When we arrived at Outback Steakhouse in Tyngsboro, MA there was a 30 minute wait.

"Do you mind waiting a little bit for a table?" He asked me.

"I'm starving. Let's just sit at the bar." I urged.

"Oh... okay... are you sure you don't want to wait for a private table?" He coaxed.

"Nah. Let's just sit at the bar. I see some empty stools next to that old couple." I pointed.

"Umm... it's a little loud over there. Are you sure you don't want to wait?" He practically begged to deaf ears.

"I don't mind a little noise. Let's go eat!" I led him over to the crowded bar area and perched happily on a stool.

We were greeted cheerfully by the bartender who took our drink order.

"Have you boys been here before?" A waitress asked, siddling up next to us and handing us menus.

"I've never been--" Steve started to reply.

"Oh my god, yes! My parents and I come here all the time. In fact, I don't even need a menu." I interrupted loudly, pushing the menu back at her.

"Well that's great. Welcome back." She smiled at me, then turned to Steve apologetically, "I'll just give you a few minutes to look over the menu then."

"Wow... you really like this place huh?" Steve asked.

"Not really. There's just one thing I like here." I chirped while sucking down my soda.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"The Bloomin' Onion. Oh my god it's so good. It's like this onion the size of a coconut, all cut up into slivers and deep fried and it comes with this spicy, tangy sauce thing in the middle. It's amazing." I said with lots of hand gesturing.

"That does sound pretty good." He said looking at the menu. "Oh, it's an appetizer? Shall we split it then?"

"Oh no." I replied wide-eyed. "I get it as my meal. You can get your own though... if you want."

"Oh." Disappointment was evident in his face and voice, but it went unnoticed.

After we placed our orders, we sat mostly in silence—me not knowing what to say—he probably not wanting to say anything. We picked at the free loaf of bread speared with a steak knife at the table.

Ten years later, the waitress returned with our meals. He ordered something sensible like steak and potatoes. It looked tough, overcooked, and over-salted. My Bloomin' Onion was emitting steam and each onion petal was perfectly fried golden and looked like something from a magazine. I could see the lust in his eyes.

"That does look really good." He said.

"Yeah. It's amazing." I slurred through a mouthful of fried heaven.

"Would you like to try any of mine?" He asked, sawing at his steak. "I'd gladly trade some steak for some onion."

"No thanks." I gurgled. "I don't really like the steak here."

"Some mashed potato?"

"No thanks. I'm happy with mine."

"That's really all you're going to eat? No meat? No vegetables?" He asked skeptical and incredulous.

"I'll see how I feel afterwards. Maybe dessert."

Concentrating solely on our food at this point, we finished in ten minutes. The waitress came over to clear our empty plates.

"Did we save room for any desse--" She turned to me and stopped, her mouth hanging open.

"What? Do I have onion on my face?" I started touching where my cheek should have been. It was about 3 inches out from where it ought to be.

"Something's wrong with your face..." Steve and the waitress said in unison.

I got up from the table and went immediately to the bathroom. There was a man washing his hands at the sink in front of the mirror. He looked up into the reflection, saw my bulbous face, looked immediately away, and made an exceptionally fast exit. I bolted over to the mirror and examined my freakish face. My cheeks looked like I was hiding golf balls in them. My lips were bigger than Angelina Jolie's. It looked like I had a severe sunburn from my eyes down to my adam's apple. My tongue hurt, so I stuck it out for inspection. It was much larger than normal and was throbbing. It literally felt heavy and clunky. I stuffed it back in my mouth with my fingers and returned to the table, hiding my face behind hands.

"I think I have to go to the hothpital." I slurred. "It hurth."

Seeing his opportunity for an early date escape, Steve offered to drive me to the nearest hospital. We left cash without getting the check and rushed out to the car. As he drove, I pulled down the visor and looked at my swollen face in the mirror and cringed.

"It's not so bad." He comforted. "I'm sure you just have an allergy and need some benadryl."

I tried not to cry, but some tears escaped down my puffy face.

"Does it hurt much?" He asked.

"Not weawy. Ith not tho bad." I managed, "But I weawy wanted detthert."

I was kidding of course, but I'm pretty sure he was appalled anyways.

He dropped me off at the emergency room entrance and told me to go inside while he found parking. When I got to the emergency front desk, the nurses were very accommodating and ushered me back to a triage room. A doctor entered the room a couple minutes later and inspected my face and mouth.

"You're having an allergic reaction. A pretty strong one. I'm giving you a cortisone injection that should relieve the swelling. What did you eat that could be causing this?"

"I think ith the bwoomin' onion" I said.

"How much of this onion did you eat?" He inquired, taking my pulse.

"Aww of it." I croaked.

"How big is it? How much onion?" He pressed.

"Wike a coconut thize."

"Oh my... with that much in your system we need to get it out of you. I'm going to give you a solution that will induce vomiting. You need to expel as much of it as you can."

I spent the next 20 minutes hurling spicy fried onion into a hospital basin. As good is it was going down, it was reversely bad coming up. A nurse made me drink a gallon of water when I was done, before I was allowed to be discharged.

When I got back out to the waiting room, there was no Steve. I asked a nurse at the front desk if she had seen anyone fitting his description. She said no. I sighed, dreading what was to come. Reluctantly, I asked her if I could use their phone. I dialed home.

"Hello?" My Mom asked sweetly.

"Hi mum. Ith Joth. I'm at the hothpital and--"

"YOU'RE WHAT?" She shouted.

"I thaid I'm at the hothpital and I need a ri--"

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?"

"I'm had an awwergic--"

"ARE YOU HURT? DID HE HURT YOU? WERE YOU RAPED?"

"Jethuth chritht mom! I'm fine. I need a wide home. I'll expwain in da caw."

If being ding dong ditched at a hospital emergency room wasn't evidence enough that it was not a successful date, my mother driving me home while crying was a pretty good indication. Because I was 16, a typical idiot teenager, and full of misdirected rage, I started yelling at my mother.

"Thith ith all yaw faulth!" I burst at her.

"I know. I never should have let you date."

"No! Ith that you never taw me how to date! I wath a jerk to him!"

"He left you at the hospital alone and without a ride home! He is a pig. You're sweet and too young and men are pricks. You won't be dating anymore!"

"YAW NOT THE BOTTHH OF ME!" I shrieked.

"You're right! You can date all you want! As long as they're women!"

We rode home in an angry silence. We didn't speak the rest of the night and we went to bed angry with each other. In the morning, we both apologized.

"Your face looks all better. How's your tongue?" She asked, giving me a hug.

"It feels pretty normal again."

"Why don't we go out to lunch and spend the day together?" She smiled.

"Sure." I acquiesced.

"Where would you like to go?"

"Outback Steakhou--"

"Shut the fuck up Josh!"

I love my mom.

Mystic Tan

It is about this time of year, every year, when I'm reminded of how painfully Albino-like I am. My choices are either white or red skin. I choose the less painful white. But there was one summer when I was orange.

My mother is very interested in my physical appearance.

"Those jeans make you look fat." She'd say out of the blue.

"You need a haircut. You look like a Beatle." She'd inform me, unprovoked.

"Josh. You're so pale...I can't even look at you. How are you going to get a date like that?" She'd shudder.

My parents live in South Carolina and have fabulous tans. I live in Boston where there's about 340 days of clouds, rain, or snow and about 20 days of pesky interruption by the sun. When I fly home to visit they always seem to forget this. I'll make my way out of the airport gate and they will be waiting for me at baggage claim.

"I could see you coming a mile away! You're a big, pale beacon!" Mom would greet me squinting.

One summer I flew down to visit them with my friend Leanne for a week. We mentioned how we wanted to go to the beach the next day. My mom looked suddenly horrified.

"You can't go to the beach like that!"

"Like what?" I asked.

"That PALE!" She groaned. "Everyone will think you're a yankee.

"I AM a yankee."

"Not in this house. We need you to blend in. What would the neighbors think if they saw you leaving here like that?"

"That you keep me locked in the attic?" I retorted.

"Probably!" She moaned. "You need to get a tan before you can go to a public beach."

"That's kind of the point of going to a beach in the first place."

"Absolutely not. You're getting a tan first."

"How?!" I shouted.

"I'm making a tanning appointment for both of you tomorrow. No buts." She declared.

I thought that laying in a tanning bed for 30 minutes wouldn't be so bad, so I didn't think much of her demand. If it would allow me to go to the beach unmolested, so be it.

In the morning she drove us over to a nearby stripmall. The sign out front said "Mystic Tan" and again, I didn't think anything of it. Inside I expected to see a bunch of coffin-like tanning beds and not much else. Instead, there was a grand, spa-looking lobby with curtains shrouding the back. Above the reception desk was a list of services.

Mystic Tans:
Level 1: $30
Level 2: $40
Level 3: $50

My mom informed the receptionist that we would be needing a Level 3 immediately. She looked at us and nodded agreement.

"Have y'all ever been here befo'?" She asked.

We shook our heads no.

"Have y'all ever had a Mystic Tan befo'?"

We shook our heads no.

"Ummkay, well follow me and I'll show y'all what to do."

She led us back behind a series of curtains into a private sitting area. Surrounding the area were a series of black shower stalls with a curtain leading into each one.

"Inside these two stalls is where your tanning experience will begin." She pointed to two designated Level 3 stalls. "You will remove your clothing out here first, and then proceed into these here stalls when ready. Once inside, there will be a display monitor with instructions and an audio recording will guide you through the process. It's quick, painless, and more efficient than traditional tanning beds. You've come to the right place to get a beautiful, instant tan without the tanlines. Do y'all have any questions?"

Leanne and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

"Good. Y'all will do just fahn. Relax and enjoy yo'selves. I'll see y'all back out front when you're dried off and got yo'selves dressed again." She walked through the curtains to the front desk area.

We didn't waste any time stripping down to nothing and tossing our clothes on the floor. We both wanted to be done quickly and get to the beach. When naked, we walked over to our designated stalls and peeked through the black curtains inside.

"Mine's pitch black..." I said

"Mine too." She said with an echo—her head poking through the curtain.

"You go first." I whined.

"No. You." She said.

"Together." We said in unison.

We pulled our curtains of our gas chambers aside, stepped upward and inward, then closed the curtain behind us. Small floor lights lit up after entering, like you'd see on an airplane. A 6 inch monitor on the wall infront of me flicked on and started playing a prerecorded welcome message. The woman's voice indicated that I should listen carefully to ensure the best possible tan.

"Please stand on the indicated footprints on the floor, and hold your arms out straight to the sides as indicated." (It showed a picture of a woman with her arms level to her shoulders and held out.) "Tanning spray will be released from the nozzles directly in front of you, and will cover the front of your body with tanning solution. Please do not move from this position until asked to turn around to ensure even spray on your front and backside. In just a moment, your mystic tanning experience will begin."

"It's about to start!" I shouted over to Leanne.

"Yup. It's kind of exciting!" She shouted back.

We waited anxiously for our "tanning experience" to begin.

A minute or two went by and nothing was happening in my stall. My arms were getting tired.

"Is anything happening in your stall?" I yelled.

"No! Is yours doing anything?" She yelled back.

"No!" I shouted, "Maybe we should go—" A hard blast of tanning solution erupted into my mouth with a hiss.

"KAHK...WHORK...GAH..." I choked and coughed, doubled over and dropped to my knees.

"YEEEEEEP!" I heard Leanne shriek, followed by loud bangs as she smashed into the walls.

Above me, I could hear the spray jets blasting over my head and hitting the curtain behind. My mouth was on fire from my open-mouthed blast of Mystic Hellfire. My eyes were burning from Satan's spray and I was completely blind. I couldn't see that the spray nozzles were actually descending on the opposite wall, and were nearing me. I was hacking up Mystic Sewage and rubbing furiously at my eyes when it started pelting me in the head. The unexpected force of it sent me reeling backwards and I went sailing out of the stall, taking the curtain with me. I hit the lower ground of the sitting area with a sloppy, wet thwack. Mystic Tan was continuing to spray out of the stall and directly onto the lobby floor now.

Leanne was still screaming as she burst through her stall curtain, slid on the wet floor with a SKREEE sound, and crashed down next to me in a heap. She was flailing and gagging as I flopped around on the cold, wet floor like a displaced goldfish. Tangled in the curtain and blind, I was making very little headway on getting up.

As suddenly as the spray jets started, they stopped. The only sounds in the lobby were our coughs and a gentle dripping sound from inside the stalls.

"Phase one completed," chimed the automated voice. "Please turn around 180 degrees and keep your arms raised. Tanning of your backside will begin momentarily."

We both groaned, knowing that we had to get up and get back in there or else our fronts would be bronze and our backs completely white. Shakily, we managed to get back on our feet and feel our way back to our stalls. My mouth, nose, eyes, and throat were burning as I climbed back inside and turned around with my arms out wide, this time bracing them against the stall walls. I was not going to be bested by this Mystic Bitch.

The cold liquid blasted against the back of my head and shoulders, sending goosebumps down my body. I shivered and shook, but held my footing despite the slippery, wet floor. I could hear Leanne screaming again and heard a thud as she fell down a second time. Panicking, I took a step forward to exit the stall and make sure she was okay. I lost my footing and the continuous blast of Mystic Shit sent me over the edge, crashing onto the lobby floor yet again, and skittering several across the slick tiles with a SQUEEE! I opened my eyes to see Leanne crawling out of her stall on hand and knees, Mystic Napalm firing over her head.

"UGH!" She was sobbing through closed eyes, clawing her way over to my twisted body.

"IT HURTS and BURNS!" I wailed.

The front desk receptionist must have heard our cries from the war zone and burst through the curtain to see us in a heap—Mystic Death squirting unabated from the stalls and further slicking the floors.

"Oh mah lord!" She screamed. "What in the hell happened to y'all?"

"Make it stop!" I begged.

"Full body tanning complete. Please exit the stall and proceed to the air drying station." Chimed the Mystic Whore from the stall.

"I am NOT going to the 'air drying station!' You can't make me!" I yelled at the receptionist standing over our nakedness.

After we dried off, inspected our wounds, and pulled our clothes back on, we returned to the front desk area where my mother was sitting and reading Southern Living. She looked up at us and her mouth dropped open.

"What the hell happened to you?" She exclaimed, getting up from her chair to inspect us.

"Mystic Tan happened to us!" I barked at her, furious for making us go through this, just to go to the beach.

"You're both orange! And spotted! It's awful!" We looked down at ourselves and confirmed that she was correct. We were indeed bright orange in splotches and white in others—like a creamsicle that's been unevenly licked.

"You have to go back!" She yelled at us, then turned to the receptionist, "You have to do it again! You have to fix them!"

"I'm sorry ma'am, we can't allow that. It's a mess back there. I need to spend my lunch break cleaning up. I've never seen anything like it." She tisked at us, "I've seen children get Mystic Tans with less fuss."

"Let's go." My mother commanded, grabbing us and hauling us out to the car.

As soon as the car doors closed, the tirade began. "I can't believe the two of you. I send you in to get a simple spray-on tan and you come out looking like you have leprosy. Not only was that a waste of money and time, but now I can't show my face in there again. 'Aren't you that Albino's mother? You know, the one that turned orange and flopped around on the floor like a retarded sea bass?' We're supposed to go out to dinner tonight and you look like you're dying of sepsis." She continued clucking and grumbling the rest of the way home.

When we got in the door, my father was making coffee in the kitchen.

"Holy hell!" He said wide-eyed when he saw us. "What happened? Was there an explosion?"

"Add Mystic Tan to the places we're not allowed back to." My mother spat.

We didn't go to the beach that day, nor did we go out to dinner. We ordered take out and rented a movie. While we all sat in the living room watching it, my parents sat behind Leanne and I, peeling flecks of orange off our backs while we peeled it off our legs and arms. We looked like a family of apes cleaning each other, but it did work.

After a few hours of peeling and scraping, we were back to pale and there was a pile of orange paint chips on the floor that the family dog was very interested in. In their defense, it was a very Mystic Pile.

Dear Phil

Dear Phil,

How are you doing, you old so-and-so? It's been a while! Since September 22nd of 2004 to be exact. That was the day I moved out of your house while you were at work.

It was a pretty awful day, but thinking about it now kinda makes me laugh. I mean—what must you have thought when you came home that day and all my stuff was gone? All that I left behind was a note, house key, and several scratches on your walls from moving furniture down the narrow staircase and hallway. The scratches were, for the most part, unintentional. The note, however, I thought you'd really enjoy. You seemed to really like leaving me notes. All sorts of notes. Sometimes I'd walk into the den and there would be a note on the TV.

"Josh—You left the TV on sleep mode again. I'd really appreciate it if you'd turn the TV all the way off. It saves electricity and prolongs the life of the TV."

Well, Phil, as much as I appreciate your concern over the longevity of my television set—the one that's been alive and well since 1995—I'd appreciate it even more if you'd mind your own fucking business. It's especially interesting as to why you're so concerned about the electric bill—the electric bill that I pay for. I also don't see the difference between me leaving the TV slightly on and you keeping your laptop on and plugged in 24/7. I'd also appreciate it if your plane crashed on a remote archipelago filled with cannibals and wasps.

I also really enjoyed the note you left on the washing machine for me.

"Josh—I noticed the last time you did laundry that the size of your loads were too big for the washer and dryer. Can you please stop putting so much in at once? It's going to damage the machines."

Well, Phil, I'm glad you're taking such a keen interest in my laundry practices. I'll tell you what. When there's "damage" to your washer and dryer from my filling them up with a reasonable amount of clothing, I'll be happy to pay for your grievances. Until then, drown in a fire.

Or the notes on the refrigerator.

"Josh—I'd really appreciate it if you would pay more attention to the food you buy at the grocery store. You know I'm on the Atkins diet and hardly any of the food you bought is appropriate for me to eat. Do you want me to fail? Do you want me to be fat so you feel more secure about yourself?"

Well, Phil, that's an interesting point you raise. The funny thing about the Atkins diet is that it basically consists of eating meat and broccoli. Did you by any chance peek in the freezer? The one full of meat and broccoli? The one that even has low-carb ice cream for you? If that's no good, you could always—oh, I don't know—do your own fucking food shopping. It may even do you good to step foot in a grocery store with the rest of us peasants. The common folk who don't have someone else doing their food shopping for them like an indentured servant. It may also do you some good to fall on a pitchfork.

And then there was the very last note. More of a letter really. This one was particularly noteworthy (pun intended) because you actually handed this one to me. And then, smiling, you asked me to read it in front of you. Because of this, I thought it was a good letter. I thought maybe it was a letter of apology. A peace offering in our tumultuous relationship. An olive branch extended because of how inhumanely passive aggressive and rude you had been since the day I moved in with you. After you asked me to move in because you hated how far away I was from you. Because you wanted the chance to get to know me better and spend more time with me. Because you said it was stupid of me to pay a landlord money when you had two empty rooms. Because you knew I had nowhere to go right after college graduation and a limited budget until I found my first real job.

However, it was about as far from these things as a letter could be. Do you remember? I still have it.

Dear Josh,

I hope you don't mind me writing all of this down instead of talking to you. I am just too emotional to have this conversation with you. I'm not trying to be passive aggressive or to surprise you, I just want you to know my feelings clearly without me stumbling through them verbally and incoherently.

The last few months of living with you have been a living nightmare. I was hoping that we could be adult enough to be roommates while we continue to date, but I can see you are not mature enough to handle such a complex situation. Ever since you have moved in, you have disrespected me, my property, and our relationship. Whenever I have tried to bring something to your attention that bothers me with a thoughtful note, you laugh it off dismissively or get angry with me for not discussing it with you in person. Unlike you, I don't enjoy confrontation. To me, it seems more civil and respectful to leave a note. Instead of responding in kind, you insist on having a nasty dialogue about everything. What kind of a future does this relationship have if we can't communicate?

I don't want to break up, but I think you have to be a better communicator if this is going to work out. I hope that you will make more of an effort to address my concerns, and in the meantime I will try and be patient with you. I look forward to knowing you better and progressing our relationship in a more healthy environment.

Love,
Phil

The entire time I was reading your letter, my mouth was hanging open. I couldn't believe a 40-year old man had to write down his feelings for me. When I looked up, trembling with rage, I saw you still smiling sheepishly. Like you were expecting me to give you a big hug and apologize for being so immature. I was speechless.

"So... what do you think?" You finally asked.

I continued sitting there, staring at you. And then I exploded.

"A LIVING NIGHTMARE?" I shrieked.

"NOT MATURE ENOUGH?" I bellowed.

"MORE CIVIL AND RESPECTFUL TO LEAVE A NOTE?" I screamed.

"YOU'LL TRY AND BE PATIENT WITH ME?" I boomed.

I got up from the couch, threw down your letter, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" You asked of me as I opened the front door.

"I'LL SEND YOU A LETTER!" I screeched, slamming the door behind me.

The next morning, while you were at work, my friend and I moved all of my meager belongings out of your house. The first two times we scratched the paint off your wall with my dresser it was an accident. The third, fourth, and fifth times it was on purpose.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you all this sooner. I thought it would be more civil to leave you a little note.

Modeling Days

Yep. You read the title correctly. Once upon a star, I was a fashion model. Allow me to explain.

I was recruited in college at the age of 20 by our yearbook photographer. She was blinding me slowly by testing her flash setting as I held up a light meter for her.

"What's your name hun?" She asked, fiddling with an aperture setting on a camera so massively clunky that it was making the tripod creak and groan.

"Joshua." I replied looking into the camera—unsure if I should be—then trying to look anywhere but.

"That's a beautiful name. Joshua. I think if I ever had a son, I'd name him that." She shook her head, "But I won't. I had a hysterectomy after a really messy abortion." She said, nonchalantly snapping a photo of my suddenly horror-struck face.

"I'm really sorry to hear that..." I trailed off.

"It's okay. I think everything happens for a reason. Jesus didn't want me to have kids I guess. Maybe they would have grown up to be murderers or something. Even normal people like us can have kids that kill."

"Anything's possible I guess..." I was so uncomfortable that my back was bolt upright in the chair, as if we were in a plane that was going down, and my eyes were the size of dinner plates.

"You have excellent posture." She said, snapping a few more photos.

"Thanks. I think I'm just nervous. Usually I shamble around like Igor on a bender."

"You also have an exceptionally symmetrical face. And your eyes are gorgeous. What color would you say those are?"

"My ex called them baby-poop green. The description kinda stuck."

She shook her head. "You don't give yourself enough credit. The camera loves you. If you want to make some extra money, give me a call. I always need models for the talent gigs I shoot." She handed me her business card.

Weeks went by before I called. It took my credit card being declined at the school bookstore when I tried to buy a used copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. At first she didn't remember who I was. She didn't even remember coming to my school.

"Who?" She asked irritated, as if I were a telemarketer.

"Baby-poop eyes." I said.

"Oh yeah. That guy. Come down to my studio and we'll take some portfolio shots."

And so I did. She photographed me in jackets, polos, t-shirts, sweaters, khakis, jeans, swim trunks, and lastly, underwear. After 2 hours of costume changes and photography, she showed me some digital proofs. I didn't see whatever it was she saw that made her so confident in my ability to shut up and look pretty, but I wasn't about to argue with free money. She invited me to a function she was going to the following weekend to meet the organizers of a talent agency—ProScout.

ProScout apparently was a big deal. Had I known this, I wouldn't have eaten 2 helpings of spaghetti and meatballs at the school cafeteria before arriving in my fat jeans and Frankenberry t-shirt. I was introduced to Sean and Rebecca who gave me a run-down of the event.

"Today is a big day. Hopefuls from all over New England are here to audition to become runway models." Sean said, clapping his hands together and practically skipping with delight.

"Sean and I are the judges. We pick who stays to work with us, and who goes home." Rebecca said flipping her hair and checking her Blackberry .

"That's great!" I said with all the feigned enthusiasm I could muster. "But what does this have to do with me? Mary, the photographer, said I should come and help you guys out today?"

"Mary has worked with us for 15 years. We trust her implicitly. Normally, we'd have you try out with the rest of the talent, but we want you to sit with us at the judge's table, observe, learn how a runway works, and tell us who YOU think would make good models. We want a fresh eye." Sean whispered to me while holding my shoulder.

"I'll certainly try my best, but I don't really know what to look for." I replied.

"Oh. You'll know it when you see it. Just look for star quality. Mary sees it in you, so maybe you can see it in others." Sean said in the manner of a life coach or camp counselor.

"I don't really follow that logic, but okay. I'm happy to help."

"Good." He took my hand and led me over to a curtained-off area behind a large stage.

I was handed over to a team of production assistants who, without saying a single word to me, took my clothes off, measured my torso, inseam, waist, chest, and neck, and then dressed me in a pair of tan capri pants, sandals, and a military shirt. They tussled my hair into a jumbled mess and threw in a pair of sunglasses to keep the nest together. I was then led over to a make-up artist who sprayed my face with something that burned, tweezed my eyebrows, and put on enough foundation to build a condo.

I tried speaking to the staff and offering protestations, but it didn't seem to matter. I was told I needed to look the part, not to struggle, and that I required a lot of work. Gee thanks.

After about an hour of prep time, the lights were dimmed in the giant conference area which had a makeshift runway set up and big curtains at it's start. Parallel to the stage on the left-hand side was a judge's table. To the stage's right were hundreds of seated people—parents of the talent—all come to watch their children be "discovered." The show was ready to begin. An announcer introduced Sean and Rebecca as the judges, and I followed them out to join them at the table. We were all set up with sparkling water, notepads, pens, and an alphabetical roster of the evening's talent. Next to each hopeful's name were 5 columns: Age, Height, Weight, Nationality, and a large blank box for Notes.

As the announcer was psyching up the crowd and the lighting was going wild, Sean leaned over to me and whispered "Just pay close attention to how they walk, how comfortable they feel in the spotlights, and then write 'yes' or 'no' in the notes column. We'll compare all our notes after the show and the talent with two or more yes's will be given contract opportunities. Sound easy enough?"

"Yes, actually. That sounds pretty easy." I replied, starting to think that this may actually be kinda fun.

All the lights except those directed on the stage were cut off. Music you'd expect to be playing at a rave started blaring, fog machines erupted—spilling mist onto the stage, and the first girl strutted out onto the runway. She was stunning. I'll never forget how confident she looked, strutting her stuff and looking like she owned the whole building even though she must have been terrified going first. I looked down at my alphabetized roster to the first name: Libby Abraham, 19, 5'10", 125 lb, English American. I picked up my pen and started to write "yes" in the notes column at the same time as Sean wrote "no" in his. I looked down the table and saw Rebecca write "fuck NO" on hers. I was at a loss for what to do. I looked back up at the stage and Libby had begun her retreat towards the curtain. The next girl was already center stage. A third girl had begun her stage entrance.

I hadn't written a single thing down yet. I panicked and began writing "maybe" for the first three names because I'd already missed the majority of their walks. By the time I looked up again there were three entirely different girls on the stage. The one walking back towards the curtain had leopard print leggings on so I wrote "no" next to her name—at least the name I thought would be hers. The girl center stage at the tip of the runway looked like a bitch so I wrote "no" for her too, and the one barreling down the runway with wild arms and elbows looked more like a freight train than a model, so I wrote "no" again. I thought I was caught up at this point and I leaned over to Sean and whispered "That was the sixth girl on the list, right?"

"Seventh." He replied while writing feverishly but never even looking down at his roster to do so.

"Fuck." I said, and started crossing off all that I'd written down and writing arrows indicating that it should be for the name one line down instead.

"The girl with the leopard pants—Jessie Adams?" I asked, thinking I'd had it all sorted out now.

"Melanie Aclent." Sean whispered back.

"Shit." I started drawing more arrows branching off of the previous ones.

"What number are we on now?" I whispered down to Rebecca, tired of interrupting Sean.

"Fourteen." She said, never looking away from the stage.

"Jesus Christ!" I snarled, and started writing yes's and no's furiously and at random to catch up.

I whipped my head around and got the attention of the nearest staff member. "I need a fucking pencil! Fuck this pen shit!" I hissed louder and angrier than I'd meant to. I think a girl on stage heard me and stumbled.

The production assistant returned with a pencil for me and I started scribbling feverishly with it. So feverishly in fact, that the tip broke after about ten minutes.

"F-U-U-U-C-K" I mouthed to nobody in particular, but Rebecca and Sean both saw me struggling and sniggered. Sean gave my shoulder a squeeze while Rebecca snapped her fingers at a crew member and a few moments later he returned with several pencils, a pencil sharpener, and a little nip of vodka which he handed to me. Not being of legal drinking age, I wasn't sure what to do, but Rebecca gave me a nod. I looked down at the list and saw that we were only up to the letter C so I chugged it down and kept writing.

It took about three hours before we reached the end of the list. The nips of vodka kept coming the entire time, so I was feeling pretty good by then. Sean and Rebecca weren't far behind me either. After Amy Zuranakis finished her walk, the lights came back on.

"Thank GAWD!" I crowed at them, standing and giving them both a high five. "It's over! We earned our paychecks today, eh kids? I am getting paid for this right? That wasn't really discussed."

And then the announcer boomed overhead "We'll take a twenty minute intermission and begin the Men's Competition!"

I fell back into my chair. I was crushed. Despondent. Defeated. My fellow judges saw me on the verge  and offered their condolences.

"Don't worry, it's almost over. The Men's Competition is much shorter."

Needless to say, it was one of the longest days of my life. But, when it was over and I was thoroughly shitfaced, I had a check for $1,000 in hand as well as a modeling contract from ProScout. Sean and Rebecca thought I was not only funny, but "totally adorable." I disagreed entirely but for money like that, I was going to do whatever was required of me.

My first few gigs were as a "promotional model," which is a nice way of saying "meat puppet." Basically, you are hired to attend high brow events, looking your absolute best, and attempt to draw more people into attendance out of sheer fabulousness. One event was the opening of a Mercedes dealership. Another was the unveiling of a new line of perfumes and colognes at Neiman Marcus.

I can't possibly explain how bad I was at these jobs. Not only did I look incredibly out of place amongst my model brethren, but our personalities clashed like the cymbals at an elementary school band. Every event was composed of the same ratio of models—three or four tall, thin, beautiful women between the ages of 18 and 30, three or four incredibly buff, gym-obsessed men between the ages of 23 and 35, and myself. I was told that I was the epitome of the "boy next door." Just attractive enough to fit in with the other models, but not so attractive as to appear unobtainable or make people uncomfortable. I took this to mean that I was basically hired to be the fat girl who is kept around by her skinny friends to make them seem even thinner and prettier. Nevertheless, I was incredibly flattered. It's sort of like being told that you're upper-middle class. I was deigned upper-middle pretty.

It wasn't until after several years of working with the same agency that I transitioned into fashion modeling. In 2007, I was offered a spot in a Fall Fashion Show in New York City. I was asked to model an upcoming line of Kenneth Cole clothing and accessories to bigwig retail distributors who would hopefully like the line and carry it in their stores. My agent, Kim, was the one who told me about the offer.

"It's potentially a career highlight." She squealed excitedly over the phone. "There will only be about 20 models total. They've been hand-picked by Kenneth's own people!"

"A career highlight? I have a career—and it's not modeling. This is just to get by. And why me? I've never done fashion before. Let alone runway. I don't know what I'm doing." I fretted.

"Because with the bad economy, high fashion is changing to accommodate the masses. You represent the masses. You're the boy next door."

"Ugh! Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because it's true. You have a very likable face and you're tall and thin—but not too thin as to look like an addict—so stuff looks good on you. Plus, pale is very 'in' right now. People aren't spending money on tanning anymore."

"Gee. Thanks Kim."

"Now, let me go over the details of the contract with you. There's some things you should be aware of first."

"Such as?" I sensed her nervousness at telling me everything.

"Well... for starters the show is in less than 2 months."

"Okay... so what?"

"That gives you only a month before your fitting—before which you need to drop about 12 pounds." She said solemnly.

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah. They want you at 150 lb or less."

"You just said I was thin but not too thin! What happened to that?"

"Don't take it personal. It's just business. There's more."

"What else?" I snapped.

"You can't cut your hair between now and the show."

"Okay."

"You can't bite your nails."

"Okay."

"You can't shave for at least two weeks before the show."

"Okay."

"They will be sending you a skin care package. You have to use everything in the package prior to the show."

"Okay."

"If you go outside between now and then, you have to wear SPF 50 or higher. You can't be tanned."

"Okay."

"You have to go to New York one month before the show for a fitting."

"Okay"

"You have to attend an after party following the show wearing a designated outfit from the line and mingle with the retailers."

"Okay"

"At the after party, there will be an open bar and h'orderves. You cannot eat or drink while in attendance."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Is that ALL?" I asked, my voice dripping with venom.

"Yes. That appears to be everything."

"You can tell Kenneth Cole to FUCK HIMSELF!" I screeched.

"It pays $5,000 and you get to keep the clothes." She chirped.

"Sold."

For the next month I was a hermit. I didn't leave the house except to go to work and back—for fear of the sun. I didn't cut my hair. I didn't shave towards the end of the month. I spent hours putting on all the lotions and creams and vials that were shipped to me. And, I was a raging bitch to everyone around me because of my soup-only diet. I was miserable. I would step on the scale every morning and fly into a frenzy when it wasn't going down fast enough. I would burst into tears at the drop of a hat. I became hated and feared by friends and coworkers alike. They all wanted to hear specifics about the show and thought it was all very exciting—which in hindsight is true—but in my current state I would just complain sourly.

Three days before my fitting in New York City I was having a tantrum in my tiny bathroom in Somerville, Massachusetts. I had stepped on the scale again—156 pounds. I had only lost 6 pounds during my diet and was expected to lose another 6 in three days. I had never felt fat or ugly in my life before then. Strange how being selected for something that was supposed to be an honor—a testament to your looks—only made me feel hideous and ashamed. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself with scraggly, long hair, beard stubble, and a sunken, paler-than-usual face. It was then that I decided this would be my last modeling venture. It simply wasn't worth it.

In the meantime, I was determined to see my contract through. I had come this far and wasn't going back. Plus, the money had already been spent. I stopped eating altogether and was only drinking water until my fitting. Occasionally I would switch it up by drinking a diet soda or lemonade. It was a wretched experience but I made it down to 152 pounds by my fitting. I figured that was close enough.

The drive to New York City from Boston was riddled with traffic so I was an hour late for my fitting. When I arrived, there was a squad of stylists and irritated tailors at the ready.

"Hi!" I chirped at the sour-looking group. "I'm really sorry I'm late. The traffic was awful and I couldn't find any parking so I had to use a valet. I've never used a valet before in my life. I Don't suppose you guys validate?"

A man in black with a headset and clipboard held up his hand to silence me and grunted "Name?"

"Josh." I said. "Degregorio." I quickly added when he scowled at me.

"Ah yes. Here you are. At the very bottom of the list." He said smugly, and implying that the bottom of the list was somehow fitting.

"So... what do I do now?" I asked.

"Nothing." He replied, turning his back to me and assessing several racks of clothing. "It's what you people are good at."

The man in black—I never did learn his name—was so surly and rude during my entire fitting that at one point I had to excuse myself to the bathroom just to cry in a stall for a while. When I returned, I was greeted with another dig.

"I hope you were throwing up in there. You need to fit into these corduroys."

There were a million insults I wanted to hurl at this odious man, but none of them were worth five-thousand dollars so I kept my mouth shut. I was also paranoid that he would purposely ruin whatever I was supposed to wear and send me down the runway in pajama jeans and a windbreaker.

The man in black and four minions all took my measurements—being extremely careful to call me fat at every opportunity—and then began tailoring whatever I was supposed to wear for the show. After my measurements were taken, my confidence shattered, and the tailors had set to work on altering the clothes, I was sent to the lounge to wait for my fitting. In the lounge there were about fifteen beautiful models relaxing in chairs and on couches, all chatting up a storm. Until I came in.

A hush fell over everybody when I entered the room. I thought I was in trouble when they set their scrutinizing gaze upon me, but it only lasted a few seconds. Then they were all smiles and eager to welcome me into their clan. Apparently, I was deemed "not a threat" to their careers and they could all relax again. My mediocre boy next door looks had put people at ease once more.

The hotel that we were in was kind enough to leave out a tray of finger sandwiches while we waited for our actual fitting. The platter of sandwiches was completely untouched. As was the tray of cookies. The only thing my model kin were consuming was bottled water for the girls and some foul-smelling protein shakes for the guys. I felt terrible that somebody went through the trouble to arrange all this food and it was all being wasted. Not to mention that I hadn't eaten in days. I walked over to the table and picked up a large peanut butter chip cookie with chocolate swirls and chunks. There was a collective gasp as I took a bite of it, and stunned silence as I devoured it before their very eyes.

When we were called back into the conference room to try on our freshly tailored outfits, I was excited to see what was laid out for me. I was completely giddy when I saw the tailored jacket, jeans, cardigan, cute suede boots, and messenger bag. The second and third outfits I was to wear were also cute. Relief flooded over me. The Man in Black hadn't screwed me over.

Tailors and seamstresses helped me get dressed and pinned everything in place because it was ridiculously tight. I was warned that I should drop some more weight if I didn't want to look like a summer sausage in the getup. When I asked why they didn't simply tailor the clothes to fit me, I was told, quote:

"We would run out of fabric trying to work around those hips."

I spent the remaining month before the show on the Atkins diet. I managed to drop down to an all-time low of 148 pounds (not bad for someone that's 6 feet, 2 inches). I was determined not to give any of the horrible production crew reason to call me fat or have some sort of "costume malfunction" on the runway and make the local news.

The runway show was to begin at the W Hotel in Times Square at 7 pm. You might think that we had to show up an hour or two before-hand to get changed. In fact, we had to show up at 7 am. Because we had to be on-site so early and I lived far away, they put me up in the hotel the night before. It was beautiful and even though I had to share my room with a frat boy hick from Tennessee, I enjoyed myself. A beautiful breakfast platter was delivered to the room at 5 am. I was so nervous about the day's events that my stomach roiled at the sight of food and I threw up for twenty minutes after the room service man left. I've always wondered why the production staff sent us food knowing that we weren't allowed to eat anything. Was it all pure spite and malice? Was there a hidden camera in the room? I bet the Man in Black got a big kick out of me heaving up peanut butter cookie with chocolate swirls and chunks. Emphasis on chunks.

When we all stumbled down to the giant hotel conference room, we were introduced to Trevor and Dee. They were our runway coaches for the day. In the conference room there was a 50-foot long, 6-foot wide runway set up. We were informed that for the next 4 hours we belonged to Trevor and Dee and that we had to get our walks perfect. To do this, we had to make sure the conditions would be identical to how they would be that night.

The curtains were drawn completely closed and we were plunged into darkness. Stage lights were turned on to illuminate the runway. At the beginning of the runway in front of gold curtains, Trevor and Dee appeared suddenly in a plume of smoke. They glided down the stage towards us, like a pack of Nosferatu, reached the end, backed up several steps, turned around sharply, and glided back to the starting point, struck one last pose, and disappeared behind the curtains.

Most of the models clapped and applauded the display. I was dumbstruck. To me, it looked completely ridiculous and I was dreading it.

We broke out into groups for the next few hours. First we were handed over to tailors for final fittings and to put on an outfit we would be wearing this evening. Then we were given to stylists for hair and makeup preparation. And finally, when looking just as we would for the show, we were given over to Trevor and Dee for more private runway lessons.

The morning got progressively worse as I went through these stages of preparation. The final fitting was awful and nothing fit quite right. The tailors lamented and chastised me for losing weight since the last fitting—even though I was told to—because now everything had to be reworked.

When I went to styling, I was informed that my hair was going to be cut shorter. This, I was happy about. Until the stylist started cutting and moussing and gelling and brought out a mirror to show me what remained—a fauxhawk. For those of you that don't know what a fauxhawk is, it's like a mohawk except instead of being shaved on the sides of your head, the hair is gelled flat to your skull while a longer, middle patch of hair is left tussled and un-gelled. It looked awful. Tears started to rise, but I pushed them back down, knowing that I could get it all cut tomorrow when I was rid of this place.

"There. Now you're the boy next door with an edge!" The stylist said, admiring her work.

"I'm a monster." I retorted.

She just chuckled and sent me over to Trevor for runway lessons.

Unlike the majority of the production people, Trevor was a kind and patient teacher. Locked away in the dark conference room, he taught me the best ways to walk on the narrow runway, how to not be blinded by the lighting, how to walk in rhythm to the music that would be playing, and how to be pose more subtly than he had demonstrated earlier. I'd like to point out how difficult it is to walk a straight line in bright lighting, on a runway covered in mist, and keep time to techno music all the while. My cute, but exceedingly large boots didn't help matters and it was a struggle to not make noise stomping around in them. The trickiest part, however, was actually passing the oncoming model as you are entering and exiting the stage. Why they don't make runways wide enough to accommodate two people side by side is a mystery, but they don't. You both have to sort of fold yourselves up and make room so you don't smash into each other in passing. This is when I had my first collision.

I was doing fine until The Man in Black arrived to witness everyone's progress. I knew something insidious was coming when he actually complimented me on my walk.

"It's really coming together Josh. You're doing an excellent job with them Trevor."

Trevor beamed at this.

"Uh... thank you." I stammered from the stage.

"But there's something not quite right here...your messenger bag. It looks flat and lifeless. See how it swings as you walk on the stage? We need to weigh it down a bit. We need it to look full and utilitarian—like you're a student on the way to class."

"Want me to put some books in it?" I asked.

"No...something more weighty but not so big as to make it look like its bursting..." He pondered aloud.

"I've got it!" He snapped his fingers. "I'll be back. As you were."

A few minutes later the Man in Black returned with 2 bricks stolen from a construction site down the block.

"Put these in your bag." He handed them to me. "It will calm the bag down without it looking too full."

"Bricks? Really? This seems excessive." I worried aloud.

"It's perfect." The Man in Black was grinning at me.

At the first runway rehearsal with everyone outfitted and walking in order of actual appearance, I slammed into another model with my wrecking ball of a bag and he went tumbling off the stage. Thankfully, he was mostly unharmed.

"What the fuck is wrong with you dude?" He shouted from the ground. "Are you fucking retarded?"

"Well I must be—walking around with a bag full of fucking bricks!" I yelled back.

"Calm down boys. Let's start over." Trevor said from the sidelines, shaking his head.

We did 10 full rehearsals before everyone got it right. Not only is it a combination of everyone walking properly and without conflict on the stage, but it's also a task for the production crew to strip everyone naked as soon as they get back behind the curtains and change them into their second and third outfits without messing up hair and makeup. There was a lot of pushing, shoving, cursing, sweating, and yelling to be heard over the music. If you're ever wondering why the music is so loud at fashion shows—it's so you don't hear the shouting behind the curtains and clomping of heavy shoes on the runway.

The actual show went off without a hitch and was well-received. The clothes were beautifully designed and well-made. A lot of work went into everything, and it showed. There was much applause from the crowd as we were backstage. Trevor was behind the curtains clutching a crucifix necklace and praying silently. Admittedly, I was praying too.

Before the after party began, I had to go up to my room and take a shower because I was drenched in sweat. I don't think I have ever been so nervous in my life. I thought for sure that I was shaking as I was walking the runway, but nobody said anything if I was. I was just so incredibly thankful the show was over that I was actually looking forward to the party. It was supposed to be a chance to relax a bit and give retailers a closer look at the articles of clothing they liked. Relaxing it was not.

Maybe for those people who could eat and drink it was a fun time. For the rest of us, it consisted of being poked and prodded like mannequins. I had several drunk men and women cop a feel with the claim that they wanted to see  how the clothes "breathed" in the crotch and ass area. The poor female models had it the worst. Horny old men were blatantly grabbing their breasts and asking how the clothes offered "support."

I had one middle-aged woman with gin on her breath shove a martini in my face and tell me to drink because I "looked like I needed to loosen up." Three polite refusals later, she was still pushing a drink on me and when I pushed it back towards her she spilled it all over herself and stormed off in a huff.

By 10 o'clock the party was still going on and I was getting light-headed with hunger. Watching everyone eat and drink when your stomach is empty is torture. I decided that eating something was crucial to not passing out in the middle of the party—regardless of the rules, I'm sure they wouldn't want that on their hands. When I was sure nobody was looking in my direction, I stole a tray of vegetable tempura with dipping sauce and ran into the bathroom. I locked myself in a bathroom stall and devoured the entire platter, washing it down with the sauce. I left the empty tray in the bathroom, gargled with some tap water so I wouldn't be accused of—dare I say it—eating, and quickly hurried back out to the party.

By midnight, the party was winding down and we were excused to our rooms. I insisted on not spending the night and just wanted to drive home. I was given the remaining clothes I wore in the show and my choice of several other designer items in my size and ran out the door.

Before I started the long ride home on I-95, I stopped at the first restaurant open late—McDonald's—and ordered a 50-piece chicken nugget, 3 Big Macs, 2 large fries, a chocolate shake, large Coke, and 2 apple pies. The cashier didn't even bat an eye as the boy slathered with makeup, a fauxhawk, and wearing Fall clothes in the middle of Summer devoured a meal meant for 5. That's one thing I love about New York City—no matter how crazy you look, people have seen worse.

Several weeks later, I got my $5,000 check in the mail. Along with the check was a 1099 form indicating I had to file the wages on my taxes, as well as a dry cleaning bill for $135 from the old bat who spilled a drink on herself. By this time, none of the cute clothes I'd received from the show even came close to fitting. I gave most of them to Goodwill and was glad to be rid of all remnants of the  experience.

Anybody want an autograph from The Boy Next Door? Thought not.

Mistaken For A Prostitute

Not too long ago, on a beautiful Fall morning, I was outside on the corner waiting for my bus. It was on this morning that I was solicited as a prostitute.

The morning started out pretty spectacularly. I love autumn. I love the weather, the changing leaves, the way the air feels so crisp, and I love that it enables the layering of cute clothes without the necessity of a jacket. I woke up, showered, shaved, and picked out what I thought was a snazzy outfit—skinny-fit tan cords with a bright yellow t-shirt and matchingly bright, retro cardigan. I was fortunate enough to be working for a church at the time and there was no corporate dress code—it was come as you are. So, to match my hipster clothes, I had let my hair grow longer than usual so that it came down to my eyes and shoulders.

Before I left the house, I did the standard mirror-check while brushing my snaggle-teeth. Looking good.

I grabbed my messenger bag with requisite ipod and book for the ride into work, and left to go wait at the empty bus stop. Situated on the corner of my fairly busy street and an even busier thoroughfare, there was a lot of street traffic. Occasionally I would glance up from reading my book and look down the road to see if the bus was approaching, but mostly I was engrossed in my sci-fi and indie music. No sign of the bus. Which is why I was surprised when I heard a vehicle pull up to the curb.

I looked up to see a large silver Lexus idling there. The tinted passenger side window started rolling down. I saw a man in his mid-40's or so leaning over the column to get my attention. I thought nothing of this behavior at all. People are always pulling me aside in my neighborhood to ask me for directions—usually how to get the hell out of my neighborhood. I took my earbuds off, closed my book, and approached the car so I could hear the man.

"Hi!" I chirped.

"Hey there." He replied with what I thought was an abnormally large grin.

"...Can I help you?" I asked after a few seconds of quiet.

"Oh yes. I think so." He said in a half-chuckle.

A few more seconds of quiet.

"So... you workin'?" He asked in typical Bostonian.

At this point, any sane person would have stepped away from the car, realizing instantly what was happening—possibly before he even spoke. I, however, stood there, bent over, looking at him with a blank stare.

"I'm sorry?" I stammered.

"Are you workin'?" He repeated.

I didn't understand what was happening. My feeble mind couldn't grasp the very clear scenario. It was full of sweaters and shoes and Project Runway and thousands of miles from the stupid boy being propositioned. It felt like I was standing there, hunched over for hours even though it was only minutes at most. I tried desperately to comprehend what he was asking. Do I work at the bus stop? Like a driver taking a break? Does he think I work for the city? Oh! Maybe he thinks I'm an undercover cop?

The man with the wedding ring, mustache, and Lexus was getting impatient, watching his trick stand there like a deranged banana slug. He let out a very deep sigh and shook his married head.

"ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A DATE OR WHAT?" He barked, snapping me out of my ponderings.

Something all of my friends and family know about me is that when I'm nervous, I laugh. I laugh so hard that I start snorting and can't breathe. This poses particular problems in job interviews and being pulled over.

I was very nervous. I started giggling. Realization hit me like a pigeon turd from above—sudden and sloppy. The absurdity of the situation got the better of me and I wasn't even able to reply. I started backing away from the car, shaking my head, and giggling uncontrollably. I started snorting and dropped my book to the sidewalk, doubling over.

Clearly annoyed, the man rolled up his window and sped off through a red light to get away from the crazy laughing hooker. This happened just in time for the bus to arrive.

I got on the bus, paid my fare, and found a seat. I was laughing and crying the whole ride. Fellow riders gave me a very wide berth that morning.

When I got to work and told my coworkers what had happened, they were shocked.

"I can't believe a man was looking for a prostitute at 8 a.m. at a bus stop!" One said.

"I wonder why he thought you were for sale, you look fine to me. Especially if you were reading a book." Another chimed in.

I marched into my boss's office to get his outraged thoughts on the scenario.

"Do I look like a hooker to you?" I asked indignantly.

"I could see that." He replied after not much thought.

"WHAT?!" I shrilled.

"Well, with your long hair and weird clothes, you look like you could be on drugs. Plus you're really pale. I can see the confusion."

And so, my nice Fall morning ended abruptly.

I thought I was totally cute and hipster, but I was really just hooker.

Why I Hate Dating

There are plenty of reasons to hate dating. It is time-consuming, expensive, and most of the time proves to be fruitless. My biggest fear about dating is the first disappointment—whether it's disappointment in my date or theirs in me—typically it's the latter.

Like most of us, I've had my share of horrendous dates. Few are so scarring that you remember them years after the fact. My worst one started out so good and went downhill so fast that it felt like a bad dream. It was like I was watching some sitcom and the poor schmuck dating is all giddy with hope and then the date says or does something so heinous that it comes crashing to a halt.

I met Noah at a coffee shop while I was waiting for an interview to start. I arrived too early and didn't want to be rude so I decided to kill time with a tea. I walked into a Starbucks and was waiting in a long line when Noah walked in behind me. It began with an off-hand comment about how the lines here are always long. It ended with him buying my tea and sitting at a table with me. He was clearly interested in more and I was completely in shock. I'm not the kind of beauty that often gets hit on in public and certainly not in daylight. Before I had to go to my interview he asked me for my phone number. I wrote it down on a napkin for him, with "Joshua" above it. I don't know why I wrote "Joshua" instead of "Josh". I blame never being asked for my phone number before for not knowing how to handle the situation.

The very next day, Noah called. I almost thought it was a prank. A handsome, gentleman caller was calling ME the DAY AFTER meeting. No 3-day rule or game playing or googling me and finding out that I write a stupid blog and am practically a mental patient. He even wanted to see me again after our phone conversation (I give TERRIBLE phone and am incredibly awkward) which went like this:

Noah: Hi, it's Noah from Starbucks yesterday. How did your interview go?

Me: Is this a prank call? I swear to God if you're one of my asshole friends pretending to be the coffee shop guy I'll hunt you down, slit your throat, and shit down your neck.

Noah: Excuse me?

Me: It's really the coffee shop guy?

Noah: Yes. It's Noah. I was wondering if you'd like to do dinner sometime and what your availability—

Me: YES!

Noah: Okay... that's good... and when are you free?

Me: ANYTIME! I mean... I don't have that job yet so my schedule is pretty open. I mean except for Tuesday night because I have to watch the West Wing and Gilmore Girls... but I mean I could always tape it if it was important. I still have a vcr. Tivo is kind of expensive and I hate Comcast so I try to limit their services. Aren't they the worst? I mean my internet always stops working and when you call them they're all like 'We can come next Friday between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.' and I'm all like 'You're damn lucky I don't have a job or I'd be so pissed off right now.'

Noah: Yeah... Comcast is the worst... so what kind of food do you like?

Me: LOBSTER! I'm just kidding. Isn't that what the person getting the free meal is supposed to ask for? I was only kidding. Not that I don't like lobster. It's good. Uh... I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. I don't get many phone calls from strangers. Not strangers! I mean like strange guys... guys that ask me out.

Noah: Do you like French cuisine?

Me: I'm not sure. I've never had it. When I was younger there was this bully who used to give me a 'french crépe' which consisted of him wrapping his fist in a plastic bag and trying to get me to eat it at recess. But I'm guessing that doesn't count?

Noah: Do you like French wines?

Me: I'm not sure if I've ever had one. Most of the wine I've drank have been out of a jug that says 'Paisano' or 'Riunite'.

Noah: Ok. Why don't I introduce you to French then? I think you'll like it if you enjoyed that tea yesterday.

Me: You remembered what I was drinking? You're really nice.

Noah: You must know how attractive you are.

Me: I... You're... Thank you.

Noah: So how does tomorrow night sound for dinner? I'll call you beforehand with the address and time once I make a reservation.

Me: That sounds great. Thanks Noah. I'm really glad you called.

Noah: Me too. I'll see you tomorrow cutie.

I was elated the rest of the night and the following day. I called everyone I ever knew and told them all about my upcoming date and how some handsome stranger thought I was a "cutie." Before I'd even had my first date with Noah, my friends and family were sick of him.

Panic set in about 2 hours before the allotted date time. I didn't know what to wear. He'd seen me in my only interview outfit the other day. Anything else I put on just made me look homeless and pale. I settled on my best cardigan with funky houndstooth pants. On my train ride over to the french bistro, I heard another passenger whisper "70's porn star" to her friend while looking at me.

When I arrived Noah was already in the lobby, looking incredibly dapper in a suit jacket with a new haircut and trimmed beard. I gave him a big hug, a kiss on the cheek, and he took my arm and ushered me to our table. He helped me take off my jacket and even pulled out my chair for me. I thought I might faint. Guys did that in the movies for glamorous women, guys didn't do nice stuff like that for other guys—let alone a disheveled looking ragamuffin.

Noah ordered a bottle of wine for us, helped me translate the fancy menu, and then ordered for us. The waitress returned with a beautiful bottle of wine, poured us both a glass, and we toasted to our chance encounter. We talked for a few minutes and he even seemed to enjoy my stupid sense of humor. In the beautiful restaurant with shimmering candles and a single chandelier providing the only lighting, the scene took on a magical quality. I was completely smitten and swooning when he looked up from his glass and asked:

"So... where do you go to Temple?"

Confused, but not thinking anything of it, I replied "I don't go to any temples."

"Oh." He said, "So you're a bad Jew?"

"No." I replied. "I'm a no Jew."

"You're not Jewish at all?" He asked, incredulous.

"No... Why would you think that?" I asked.

He hesitated, unsure of his words. I knew something awful and insidious was coming but I wasn't prepared for exactly what it was.

"Well... your name for one thing... it's a very Jewish name."

"It's a biblical name." I said non-chalantly. "Not specifically Jewish. My parents aren't religious at all. They just liked the name."

He continued. "And... well... to be honest... with a nose like that, I just assumed..."

"A nose like what?" I said much more shrilly than I'd hoped.

"It's just... it's a very Jewish nose..." He said sheepishly. "Anyways, Judaism plays an important part in my life. I only date Jewish boys... I'm sorry if I've misled you."

"Oh." I said, still in shock. "Well I'm sorry if I've misled YOU with my giant, hideous nose!"

"It's my fault." He said blushing slightly. "I shouldn't have assumed... I can't believe I'm the first person to tell you this though..."

"Well you ARE the first person to tell me this." I huffed.

"Maybe we should call it a night. Can I get you a cab?" He asked.

"No thanks. my nose might not fit in the backseat."

The long train ride home I spent touching my face, feeling around my nose, closing my eyes and pretending to be blind, learning my own face strictly through its contour. It didn't seem particularly big to me, but the more I touched it, the more gargantuan and grotesque it felt on my face. Other passengers started to look at the ill-dressed boy fondling his own face as silent tears trickled down.

When I got home, my roommate asked me what happened and why I was home before eight o'clock. I ignored her and went straight to the bathroom mirror. I stared at my hideous, ruinous, date-crushing, false-heritage nose. I pictured a plastic surgeon cutting into it to remove some cartilage.

"I'm sorry Joshua, I don't have a knife big enough for this job. And we may have to remove the excess cartilage in installments. I've never seen anything like this."

My earlier excitement about my date had completely betrayed me. Before bed I was flooded with phone calls, all wondering how my perfect date had gone and when was the wedding? Several times I had to recount the story of my mammoth nose and how appallingly bad the evening had gone.

To this day, I don't pass a mirror without looking at my nose in profile—a twisted Pinocchio look-alike. I also don't flirt with any strange men without first introducing myself by saying "Hello. My name is Josh. I'm agnostic. Nice to meet you."