Lip-gloss and Happy Feet

The other night, I was in Holland Village with Brigitte, whom I am now calling "The Lip-gloss Police", because she claims that lip-gloss is passé and has forbidden me to wear it in her presence. She also hates my sunglasses and is so happy that I smashed one of the lenses to bits on Orchard Road the other day. Little does she know, I’m having them fixed and will soon be seen sporting them again all around Singapore, just to annoy her. I assure her that I look like Audrey Hepburn in them but she assures ME I look like a fly.

Anyway, we get a bite to eat and as I’m taking my farewell of her, she spontaneously decides she needs a massage. As I leave her at a place called My Happy Feet, I spot a brochure that says, “Dr. Fish comes to Holland Village!” My interest is piqued and I take a closer look. Turns out it’s what they call a “Fish Spa”. A treatment where the little fishes nibble at the dead skin on your feet removing the dead layers of skin, “to reveal a soft, smooth and glowing layer”. What? Soft, glowing layers of skin on my feet? Who knew this existed? I’m in! Where do I sign?

The next day I con my mom into going with me (not a hard sell, since she loves spas) and off we go to have Turkish fish nibble at our toes. We pay $15 for a 15-minute session and are promptly escorted into the feet cleaning area. Apparently you have to clean your feet first of all lotions and such because the fish are very expensive and they don’t want you killing the poor little bastards. I didn’t point out the obvious fact that Mom and I were both wearing toe nail polish, which last time I checked is toxic if eaten. But I keep my mouth shut because I want smooth, glowy feet and the pool in which they swim looks enticing.

I gingerly put my feet into the pool and instantly begin, to my embarrassment, to squeal, not in delight, mind you. This is the freakiest sensation I’ve ever felt. Like little electrical currents, the tiny fish, called Garra Rufas, surround my feet like hungry piranhas, minus the teeth, and begin tickling them. After a few minutes of feeling a little creeped out, I begin to relax and actually enjoy the feeling. Mom joins me and has the same reaction but eventually calms down with a tight smile on her face.

I ask the therapist (I call her that in the loosest of terms) to take our picture. She smiles, takes the photo and hands me back the camera with a polite smile that says, “Haha, stupid Americans, we scammed you. Wanna buy a sacred healing rock from Nepal?”

In the end, my feet didn’t seem much different…but the lemongrass tea was nice…

Singapore-Finally!

Upon arriving in Singapore, the first person I contact is my old friend, Brigitte.Twenty-one years after I first came to Singapore, we still click. Brigitte is Swedish and hysterically funny and adventurous. Our brains work very similar when it comes to witticisms and silliness. We always had fun together when we were younger and I see unadulterated madness in our near future once again.
She’s already informed me, that’s right, NOT ASKED me, INFORMED me that we are going to Bangkok in November with a gay couple. I’m completely deferring to her on this one because, number one, I LOVE Thailand and two, I’m the biggest fag hag there is and I need to find some gays in this town to hang out with. The conversation goes something like this:

Brigitte: “So, who have you contacted so far?"

Me: “You”

Brigitte: “uh-huh. So, here’s the plan sweetie, we find you a job, I’m trying to get you in at my company (She works for a media group that publishes three magazines and an online site), then we go to Bangkok in November with the gays because…hold on…Sheila, you can’t go in the water bowl!” (She’s talking to one of the three kittens she’s adopted)…sorry…fucking cats! My house is a goddamn zoo! Anyway, we go to Bangkok because I want to get a tattoo from the same guy that did Angelina Jolie’s ink.”

Me: “Good, because I want to get my nose pierced.”

Brigitte: “ Oh, that you can do here, we can go this weekend.”

Me: “Well, I want to wait until my parents are in the States for a few months.” (I start to back pedal…pathetic.) “I don’t want them to worry, you know how they are.”

Brigitte chuckles: “Yes, I remember. Send me your CV (resume).”

After a few more phone calls she once again, INFORMS me that she has a plan to find me a job, get me over my broken heart (which she assures me will happen in two weeks) and help me find the path to enlightenment through a yoga instructor she knows. I just have to promise her that I will help her get healthy. She’s already toned down on the drinking but she needs to exercise and eat healthy. I tell her she needs to quit the cigarettes and she laughs at me. “I have to have SOMETHING!” she says. Too bad, because that’s her worst health issue. But I table the argument, for now. I tell her I’m down with all of that and we make plans to meet on Arab Street on Sunday afternoon.

Hong Kong Part 2

Just as I begin to get my warm and fuzzy feeling back (after a little nap), I am awakened by the smell of the deliciousness that is known as airplane food. Yes, of course I say that tongue in cheek. The ironic thing about airplane food is that it’s like a big “haha” to airline passengers. It smells good just before they serve it but then they pull a “haha, gotcha!” after you take the first few bites. I am always quickly reminded as to why my friend, Keven swapped his food for cake on our first trip to Singapore all those years ago.
After this fabulous gourmet meal, I get up to stretch so that I don’t get a blood clot and end up with an aneurism (I know, I’m such a drama queen). I move about the cabin with the other passengers, all doing the same exercises in silence like a bunch of mimes on acid. We all smile and exchange pleasantries, all the while pointing at the televisions which are showing some dude on the Discovery channel putting a scorpion in his mouth for sport. He then proceeds to lock himself in a glass booth with bees…in his UNDERWEAR. It’s kind of like a classier version of the movie “Jackass” only it strictly involves insects for some reason. I’m ready to get off the plane and we’re only two hours into a fifteen and a half hour flight. Don’t they know my new life is waiting for me???
About halfway into the flight from hell I join the Mile High Club with a hottie named Hugh Jackman from Australia…haha…just kidding, had you fooled, didn’t I? Just making sure you were still paying attention. No but seriously, I begin to get, oh my God, who would have thought…HUNGRY! I’m either getting my appetite back or I’m just bored. I don’t smell appealing aromas coming from the galley and I forgot to get snacks. Thankfully, the sweet, still not smelly, couple next to me offers me an apple, which I gratefully accept and scarf down in record time.
By this time, I’m missing my internet access. I simply cannot accept that they do not have WiFi on this airplane. I’m having withdrawals and am willing to pay any price for it at this point. In fact, I’m even willing to trade the Chinese noodles they just gave me, even though I’m starving, for a chance to get on Facebook for just five little minutes.
Upon arriving in Hong Kong, after nearly 16 hours on an airplane, I dash to the nearest WiFi station and, to my joy, it’s free! So, there I sit in front of the Gucci store enjoying one whole hour of internet surfing and Facebook blogging.
Next stop, SIngapore...where I will joyfully kiss the ground when I arrive.

Hong Kong-Part 1

The next leg of my journey is the loooong flight to Hong Kong. I almost always get stuck sitting next to smelly guy but to day, thankfully I’m sitting next to a sweet young Chinese couple who so far, don’t show any signs of stinkiness, but it’s still early. As we begin to slowly taxi down the runway, the pilot comes on the PA system to tell us that two pieces of luggage are on the plane, but their owners are not. So, what do you think goes through my head? He continues on to say that we have to go back to take them off the plane (per FAA rules, and something which I personally do not have a problem with) AND we need more fuel.

So, let me get this straight: Two mysterious bags are underneath me right now, with Lord knows what stashed inside them, AND we were going to take off without enough fuel? What?

In the end it all gets resolved in about 30 minutes and the pilot tells us that the delay only makes us five minutes late to Hong Kong. I’m no mathematician, but how can we leave 30 minutes later from our departure city but only arrive five minutes late to our destination? (For the record, I’m sure there is some way they make the time up in the air, I’m just not confident it’s according to FAA regulations)

Chicago O'Hare-an excerpt

People watching is one of my favorite pastimes. One by one they go by on the people mover. There’s a Vietnamese woman wearing gloves and a surgical mask. I’m not sure if she’s a germaphobe (sp) or just coming out of surgery. But then again, maybe she’s the smart one because there are people sneezing all around me and all I can think of is the bird flu. The next interesting human is a guy with his pants up to his armpits, and a really bad combover, whom I’m pretty sure has to be a pedophile. Two women go by with orange and purple Crocs on (I still don’t get that trend). And apparently some Floridians have followed me here because there is a woman walking by with lime green pants, a yellow flower print shirt and a sun visor on that screams, “I just vacationed in Naples where we looked at condos the days it was raining, but didn’t buy anything from the poor real estate agent that drove us around for two days!” But the best one is the Japanese woman who looks like the Louis Vuitton store vomited all over her and she didn’t bother to clean it up. That’s right, head to toe in Louis. Hat, purse, belt, sunglasses, AND even the suitcase! Maybe Louis is paying her to advertise. THIS is why I love airports.

Miami International-an excerpt

My first run-in with the pleasant, LaRonda, behind the check-in counter, is a reminder of why I am leaving Florida. If I had any doubts, this intolerant woman just solidified my decision when she gleefully announces, for all to hear, that my luggage is 15 pounds overweight and I have to fork over $150 dollars. I keep my poker face on and respond, “Can I pay cash?” I almost add, “Can I get some lubrication with that?” But it’s four o’clock in the morning and I haven’t had my latte yet, so I thank her for raping me and move on to the security checkpoint.
This is always fun because walking through the x-ray machine with my bare feet on the cold dirty floor is a really pleasant experience, and, brain fart, I never remember to bring socks. Next, I walk all the way to my gate, which is conveniently, ALWAYS at the end of the terminal, only to have them announce over the loudspeaker, in a syrupy sweet fake voice, that our gate has been changed and we have to hurry and get on the plane before they give our seats away. (Which is funny because I don’t see ANY standby passengers waiting around).