“Vhat a tough vorkout.” Shouted Marta in a thick German accent, apparently unaware she was still plugged into her ipod.  I nodded, unable to speak, still winded from our advanced spinning class. I   motioned toward her ears, which prompted her to remove her ear buds. 

“You barely broke a sweat, you going to sauna?”  I gasped

“I’m going to steam.”  Marta said, barely winded.  “See you later?”

Marta scurried toward the ladies locker room.  Although she was well into her sixties, her butt was as high and tight as any twenty year olds.  I’m half her age and my butt, well…let’s just say it has blended somewhere south of the back of my thighs and knees.

I manage to make my way toward the sauna room, only to find someone had taken my usual spot on the top bench, which meant, I would have to take the lower bench, in front of the door.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to have a spot in the crowded sauna, but it’s sort of like being sat by the kitchen at your favorite restaurant.  As I sat waiting for that first bead of sweat to fall.  I tried to close my eyes and drift off into the comfort of the moist heat, when I noticed a strange ritual occurring outside the sauna in front of the "Big Mirror".  There are many mirrors, but only one “Big Mirror”.  The mirror which compels every woman to stop and perform the same ritual (performed to Madonna’s Vogue) frontal pose, smile, turn slightly to your right smile, look at your butt, smile, stand up straight, smile, suck in your gut, smile…off she goes.  On and on it went.  Didn’t matter the age, size or race, every woman performed the same ritual.  As I sat there witnessing this, I felt a strange twinge of guilt.  How dare I invade this intimate custom.  Finally puddles of perspiration.  Ten more minutes and I’m done.  The sauna clears, and I find myself alone.  My usual spot on the top bench, free, but I decide to remain where I am, intrigued by the power of this mirror.  A zaftig young woman enters the locker room.  Her head down, face obscured by a mounds of long dark ringlets, looking like something only Slash and Cousin It could have spawned.   She seems self conscious in her large baggy sweat pants, and oversized t-shirt.  An obvious “newbie”, for no self respectable woman at this club would be caught in anything other than an Under Armour, or yoga wear by Lucy.  She clumps her mound of curls in a scrunchie, another fitness club fopaux, and walks slowly toward the fitness area, first stopping in front of the “Big Mirror”.    I expect her to go thru the normal posing routine; frontal pose, smile, turn slightly to your right, smile, look at your butt, smile, stand up straight, smile, suck in your gut, smile…wrong.  She glances around, careful to insure she is the only one around, (performed to Mary J. Blige’s The One), She whips her mounds of curls back and forth banging her head faster than any heavy metal six string hero.   She stops, and gives her reflection a come hither stare.  Glancing around again, she squats, springs up, and flips her head back, finally ending with the “cartwheel” the classic stripper move, sans stripper pole.  She regains her composure and exits the area. 

How many times have I been mesmerized by the “Big Mirror”, performing my unabashed display of vanity?  How many times has someone sitting in this spot, bore witness to it? 

I finish my sauna session, and prepare to exit the area.  Embarrassed, I walk past the “Big Mirror” with barely an acknowledgement.

 I love visiting my local zoo, especially early in the morning on a wintry day.  I’m always the only one there and the animals seem to be pleased by my visit.  As I made my way toward the reptilian den, I stopped to look at the water buffalo.  They were huddled together enjoying a trough of hay, their backs facing me.  I smiled and shouted “you guys are so cute.”  Suddenly one of the buffalo glanced over his shoulder and stared my way.  He snorted causing the other buffalo to stop feeding and also stare my way.  I could tell by the reaction of the other buffalo, the snorting buffalo was a buffalo of some importance.  He left the group and headed toward me, hanging his head over the barricade.  He again snorted and although I don’t speak water buffalo, I’m sure he challenged me to a staring contest.  “You want to go toe to toe with me?” (I communicated telepathically, because as you know, I don’t speak water buffalo), again he snorted.   Let the visual jousting begin.  The tension was broken when one of the zoo employees walked over to me and said, “Love your red beret, red is the call of love for the water buffalos” I laughed and nodded as the zoo employee walked away.  Embarrassed, I made a hasty retreat toward the reptilian den.

I pressed my face against the glass separating me from the Komodo dragon exhibit careful to remove my beret this time.  While waiting for the Komodo dragon to appear I was distracted by the frolicking of the chameleons.  Amused by their playfulness, I directed my attention toward them.  Their ability to change colors and blend into their environment, made me think about my red beret.  After further reflection, one could deduce by my short banter with the zoo employee, I had some knowledge of water buffalo aphrodisiacs.  Truth is, I didn’t want to look stupid. I wanted the zoo employee to think I had insight into his world.  I use to think I was more of an, assess the situation and blend in kind of person, similar to the chameleon.  However, it was apparent I was an Emperor’s New Suit kind of person, going along for the sake of being cool, or accepted.  Just the other day I agreed Dan was the Funnier of the Cajen brothers, when in fact I had no idea which of the two brothers, Dean or Dan was funnier?  All I knew was that I liked Dsquared2, especially their jeans. Or how I agreed a screen print of skull and bones on a cotton t-shirt was absolutely worth one hundred and fifty dollars.  Or better yet, how I marveled at how good my feet felt after ten hours of standing in a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos. Why is it so hard to admit the emperor has no Clothes?   If the dress is ugly say so, if the movie sucked say so, and if the guy can’t sing, say so.  Finally, the Komodo dragon makes his appearance.  He was magnificent and I don’t care what anybody else thinks.

I can’t believe my BFF dragged me all the way to Celluloid Den in a snow storm to pick up a copy of Jean Jacques Beinux’s 1981 classic, Diva    My disbelief was fueled in part by the fact that you can get a copy of this film on Netflix, and my BFF already owns it.  I languish in the humor section debating whether or not to purchase a copy of the The Big Lebowski, when it occurred to me, my BFF has a crush on a very cute cashier by the name of Michael.  Did I mention my BFF is named Carlos?  Yes, I have entered my own Will and Grace Scenario.  I make a bee line to the cashier counter, The Big Lebowski in hand, slowing my pace as I observed the animated interaction between Carlos, and Michael.

            “Oh my God who are the real Diva’s? Michael said searching a shelf labeled reserved.”

            “Well spare me the Beyonce’s and Fergie’s of the world.  Fergie?  Seriously?  It use to be Madonna, before she got all Angelina.  What about Angelina?  Asked Carlos.

Michael stretched to reach for the copy of Diva which was located on the very top shelf of the reserved case.  He retrieved the DVD, and turned to walk toward Carlos.  It was obvious he was a blue light special.  That was how Carlos described muscular but lean compact men, who dress well and are well groomed.

          "Angelina?  I don’t…she really doesn’t have that Divaesque quality.  I use to think Nene from the Real Housewives of Atlanta, but after season two, I don’t think so”. 

Michael handed Carlos the case containing the DVD, Carlos stroking the case as if he had never seen it.  They continued their diva debate, finally deciding Mariah Carey was the quintessential Diva.   Another evening spent with my “Homobesty” That’s how the urban dictionary defines a straight person’s relationship with a gay best friend.  I’m checking my watch thinking if we hurry I can the Alien marathon on cable.  I circled around Carlos, tugging at my watch, which prompted him to grab my arm and pull me close him, giving me a warm hug.

“Now this is a Diva”.  Carlos said as he kissed me on the cheek.

“Girl you are fierce.  I dig your style,  pow…pow…pow!”  Michael said,

with a finger snap after each “pow”.

“Look at that coat.  I styled Miss thing.”  Carlo said, gazing at me like a proud parent.

“Barbie with a slice of fruit cake” Carlos said, imitating the southern drawl of my late grandmother.  

Barbie with a slice of fruit cake, I mused.  That statement harkened me back to my first encounter with Carlos.  We were in first grade and it was show and tell day at Saint Ignacio’s Loyola.  Carlos proudly showed off his Barbie doll collection, which were stored in a large card board marked “Barbie”, in orange crayon.  As he carefully removed each doll, and placed them in various poses on Miss Peonio’s, our first grade home room teacher’s desk, the male members of our classroom, silently jeered and looked at him with disdain. Undaunted, Carlos continued his presentation, proudly stating how he made each of his dolls sweaters out of his sister’s old socks.  I was amazed by how many Barbie dolls he had.  He even had Christie, Barbie’s African American friend.  I only had three Barbie’s, all given to me by my grandmother on my birthday, compete with a slice of fruit cake.  I’m not sure why she included a slice of fruit cake in each gift.  I figured she was trying to get rid of all of her Christmas pastries, and since my birthday was several months after Christmas, she probably thought the fruit cake  would keep.  Fruit cakes like cockroaches will be here long after were gone.  In any event, I loved my Barbie’s as much as Carlos loved his, a fact that was not lost on Carlos.  Our friendship bonded the day he asked me if I wanted to make Barbie clothes with him, an invite I gladly accepted.  We would spend hours perusing the Barbie doll clothing catalog Carlos showing his talent for styling even then, making tiny jewelry out of the discarded foil portion of a chewing gum wrapper.   Even our male classmates came around, marveling at his ability to make functional gadgets out of the most obscure things, Carlos becoming the MacGyver of our grade school.  .

With the help of my Aunt Alice’s fabric scrap bag, and her two sewing machines, we would create Barbie clothes, inspired mostly by Charlie’s Angels and Laverne and Shirley, and always with that flair that only Carlos could give.   By the time we reached high school Carlos became the Tim Gunn of our senior class, having retired his Barbie in exchange for a Wolf dress form.  I became his muse as well as his fitting model for his many creations.  Who could forget the Matrix/Titanic inspired rubber laced rain coat.  The design I’m convinced secured his spot at the Fashion Institute of Technology.   Carlos, Barbie and even the perpetually preserved fruit cake are responsible for the style I’m so undeservedly lauded for.  I was snapped back to the present by the sound of Carlos finishing  telling the story of how Barbie with a slice of fruit cake shaped his life.

“….Fruit cake…wrong on so many levels, but thank you very much.”  Carlos chuckled

Michael’s laugher revved up as Carlos collapsed on the counter, Michael hugging himself he continued laughing.   Carlos pulled the DVD I was cradling out of my hand and placed it on the counter.  He removed his wallet and smiled at me.  Suddenly everything became quiet which was usually my queue to exit the area.  While I waited near the front door, I caught the reflection of Michael and Carlos in the shimmer of the glass pane window.  Michael handed Carlos a bag containing the DVD’s.  Carlos handed Michael his business card.  As Carlos made his way toward me, I was hypnotized by how easily he wrapped his heather grey pashmina and flipped the collar on his jacket.  Barbie with a Slice of Fruit cake, and Carlos…what a work of art.

Mimi finished her glass of wine, and slurred,

“You ain’t got no style, mutha…remember”?                                     Mimi collapsed onto the table and began trembling with laughter as the other members of our dinner party joined in.   

After six bottles of wine, everybody began tossing out their favorite lines from  Pineapple Express, which honestly became a fusion of lines from all Seth Rogen films.  The topic of our conversations always vacillated between religion, breast implants,  politics, shoes…my favorite subject, and the never ending topic, whether or not my affable but quirky office assistant Judy, was a space alien. 

“Way dude.  She’s a pod or in the parlance of our times,Space Alien”

Lucy howled as all three of my other friends joined in the laughter.

“Just what makes you think she’s a Space Alien?  I challenged.

Lucy regained her composure, and picked up her glass of wine.   She paused for a moment and then glanced at me, becoming distracted briefly by a painting on the wall behind me, which I must admit was a confusing depiction of a goat playing a tambourine.  Lucy smiled, and returned her focus back to me, placing down her glass of wine, her  well manicured hands strumming the sides of the glass.  She leaned forward and announced,    

“She’s watched every season of the Real World including London.  Seriously who watched that season”.   

Susan the Vegan, (by the way, that is her unofficial name), added.

“That season sucked, so did Hawaii”

Kayla, taking a break from French twisting her dread locks reaches in vain for a bottle of wine, pausing first, to snatch a fry off of Lucy’s plate.

“So did New Orleans’s…these fries are good”.

Lucy nods and clears her throat, bringing the focus of the group back to the subject of Judy.

“She knows all of the lyrics to all of the Blind Melon songs.  She filled in all fifty slots on the US mint quarter map, and calls everyone Grasshopper.   Greg told me she has a cases of Pop Rocks in her apartment..  Pop Rocks?

            Where do you get those?  Weren’t they anned in the eighties?”

Mimi stared at Lucy incredulously, and then glanced around the table.

“What are pop rocks?”

Lucy stared at Mimi.

“ Seriously?  You don’t know?”

Mimi shook her head, as she shoved the wine bottle toward Kayla, causing Kayla to chuckle and say,  

“Don’t even think of telling her about Mikey.”

As hard as I tried I could not suppress the laughter welling up inside of me.  Everyone at the table focused their attention on me.

            “That would explain Lady Gaga.”

The group gave me a quizzical look.

“ By your definition, Lady Gaga is a Space alien.  Eclectic, if not   questionable fashion sense.  An obsession with nostalgic pop culture…”

            “Just because Lady Gaga, channels Grace Jones, Annie Lennox circa the Eurythmics, and Cyndi Lauper, does    not make her a space alien.”  Interrupted Mimi.

“ I’m sorry, did I miss some additional criteria?”  I chuckled.

“Brain farts, and lapses in pop culture chronology” Yelped Kayla

“What?” I snapped.

Mimi curled up her top lip and leaned into me, lowering her voice.

 “Have you ever noticed she has these weird lapses in thoughts?  Brain farts for lack of a better word.   It’s like her brain needs recharging, and to Kayla’s point she has these gaps in her pop culture references.  You know.  Like her favorite television characters are Kurt Hummel from Glee, and Rhoda from the Mary Tyler Moore show?  It’s like she missed a couple of planet earth pop culture classes on her way to planet earth.”

Kayla finally grabs the bottle of wine and pours out all of its contents mixing white with the remainder of red swirling in the bottom of her glass.

“Do space aliens pass through some kind of time warp or something, when they travel from planet to planet?” 

Kayla grimaces as she sips from her glass of wine.

“They must use something like an intergalactic transporter?”

Mimi nods as the waitress fills her glass with water.  

“Yeah like Captain Kirk. I bet she got stuck in a vortex between decades. Even Captain Kirk lost a couple of seconds when Scotty beamed him up.”

Mimi began wiping off the beads of water streaming down her glass.

            “You guys can’t be serious” I said.

Lucy not hearing a word I said sat quietly, pursing her lips.    

“I read somewhere that it would take about forty years to travel to Neptune and back on the space shuttle.” 

Mimi glanced at Lucy.

“Forty years? Well that would account for Judy’s unusual fashion sense.  The Flash dance cut up Dsquared sweat shirt.  The leg warmers…my God the leg warmers, those Kermit green Crocs and what’s up with the

 Flava flav clock around her neck. “  

Kayla finished her fusion of white and red wine, and said,

“It isn’t a clock.  It’s a compass”?

            “Why does she wear a compass around her neck?”  Mimi said in frustration.

Kayla reaches for another empty bottle of wine and turns it upside down in an attempt to extract any remnants of fluid.

“The green crocs are a beacon, for other pod…I mean space alien’s”.  Kayla said, confidently picking up her glass of wine.  

“That’s how they communicate.  Through those ugly ass Croc shoes.

 Hey if she’s from Neptune.  Would that make her a Neptunian?”  Said Mimi. 

Lucy appeared pensive and nodded. 

 “How do you know all this?  I said.

“ Intergalactic transporter, green crocs… You guys are ridiculous.”  I motioned for the dinner check.

The following day at work I decided to do some research on The invasion of the Body Snatchers, circa 1956.  I fast forward to the scene where Miles kisses his fiancé Becky.  She opens her eyes, and is devoid of all human emotions.  Mile’s recoils in terror as he realizes his beloved Becky is now a pod person.  I anxiously await the ending when, Jimmy the mail room guy walks in, handing me a stack of correspondence.   Before he exited my office, I asked.

“Hey Jimmy, do you know what Pop Rocks are?

“Yeah.  That’s what Homer used to make a grenade.”

“Homer?”  I said

“Homer Simpson, from the Simpson’s” He said condescendingly.

I laughed, and nodded.

“Why would anyone buy cases of pop rocks?”  I asked jokingly.

“I don’t know.  Maybe their trying to launch a rocket or something” Jimmy smirked as he exited my office.

Judy is dressed in purple harem pants, and a tan "Kid-a-Dy-no-mite" t-shirt. She maneuvers the mouse on her laptop, moving her cursor to select an icon on the Pop Rocks home page reading, “buy in bulk”.  She selects the twenty-five pound container of strawberry Pop Rocks, and clicks the “returning buyer” tab.  Smiling she standing and walks toward a large window, grabbing the large compass swinging from her neck.  Concentrating on the compass dial, she takes two steps to the right, one step backward and turns a few degrees counter clock wise.  Glancing up at the sky she begins clicking the toes of her Kermit green Crocs.

Can it be, seventy-percent off Christian Louboutins?.  Say it ain’t so.  I closed my eyes and chanted, “I do believe in miracles, I do…I do…I do.”  .   I salivate at the sight of my leopard printed shoes, red soles glistening,  as the shoe curator, that's right, shoe  curators, are what those chic boutiques call their shoe sales people, wrapped my purchase, in fancy tissue paper.  I imagine myself starring in my own music video.  I’m wearing an Amber Rose inspired cat suit, belting out some lyrics with several references to Christian Louboutins.  Beyonce and Lady Gaga are my backup singers, providing the chorus “her Louboutins, she loves her Seventy-percent off Louboutins”.

The shoe curator handed me my sales slip, pausing as he  sighed.

                        “Great find, and what a good price.”  He said through tightly pursed lips.

He hesitated before handing me my shopping bag, giving it a longing glance, sort of like how a six year old looks when they find a puppy and ask, “mom can I keep it”?  I grabbed my bag and swaggered toward Sephora.   The smell of Louboutin leather, ensconcing me back to the fantasy of my music video.  Suddenly I feel an annoying jab. A relentless jab,  coming in the form of a familiar voice.  

                        “Over here.”

I was snapped out of my rocking fantasy (sorry Beyonce and Lady Gaga), and found myself centered in front of the OPI nail lacquer counter.   The jabs came from a voice that belonged to the Umbrella Vendor.  For those of you not aware of and do not have one among your  peers, an Umbrella Vendor is a friend or acquaintance who has the ability to lasso the sun, and sap your happiness with shower of well timed words.  

“It’s a good thing Louboutin’s make shoes in your size. Your feet don’t look big at all in those shoes”, she said  nonchalantly.  

Umbrella Vendors are always at the ready.  Their umbrella’s open,  waiting for an opportunity any opportunity, to rain on your parade.   Oh, and once the sprinkle begins, it will in no time, become a shower.

“Once you buff out the heel scuffs, they won’t even look like last  seasons”  Her eye’s glancing at my shopping bag.  

Don’t get me wrong, Umbrella Vendors have a place in your life.  They’re comments are like those annoying red underlines on a Microsoft word document.  Unvited yes, but ultimately correct.  Seriously though, why ruin my moment of happiness. “Louboutin’s she loves her seventy-percent off Louboutin’s…Beyonce and Lady Gaga, I’ll be with you in a minute.  

We end up at the Alice in Wonderland OPI nail lacquers.  The Umbrella Vendor skimming the various nail colors.

“These colors are so cool” she muses.

I’m trapped in a Let’s Make a Deal scenario.  Which door do I chose, one, two or three?  Doesn’t matter, the rain will fall no matter what I do.

“I love Mad as a Hatter, I said sheepishly, almost as if asking a question.

The Umbrella Vendor sighed deeply and rolled her eyes proclaiming,

“Way too Las Vegas hostess…no wonder you like it.” She chuckled, as she

walked toward the mascara section.

I stood there confused wondering, do I look like a Las Vegas hostess?  Did Rachel Uchitel wear purple glitter nail polish?     Shaking my head, I picked up another offering from OPI,  Off with Her Head.  I close my eyes and imagine myself the starring in my own mad slasher movie.  Who would I be?   Leather Face?  Hmm, I wonder who the damsel in distress would be.   One guess.