NEWSLETTER

Day Three
I woke up with the realization that what was keeping me from really being normal was a hot set of fake nails and a glowing tan! Duh! I hopped off to the local nail salon, where a quiet Vietnamese woman took the chewed-up ends of my fingers and turned them into beautiful French-manicured lady nails. She sanded and polished and suddenly I was a new woman. A new woman who no longer had the ability to type, zip up her pants, put her hair in a ponytail, pick things up, or wipe her ass with ease. Oh well. Look at how pretty they are!

Next up was a spray-on tan! I kind of thought I would have to stand in a room naked while a tiny blond woman hosed me down with brown spray. Nope. Instead, I just popped into a very doctor’s-office-looking room wearing only booties and a shower cap. They give you a little red tube to breath through, then you get in this metal shower-looking contraption, press a button, close your eyes, and spin around while a disgusting, toxic-smelling sugar-syrup chemical gushes all over you. My experience was especially awkward because I couldn’t get it to work twice in a row, so I had to stomp out in the white robe they gave me into the lobby full of young girls waiting for the room to become available and admit that I couldn’t make it work. Twice.

Anyway, the actual process only took a minute, and a few hours later it was a pretty natural-looking tan, not the bright orange tint I assumed I would get.

That night I decided it was a really appropriate time for some sporty action. I asked an acquaintance if I could hit the Jewish country club with her and scope out the racquetball courts. I told her to take some photos of me for my MySpace and match.com profiles looking “sexy” and “full of life.” I must say it’s been a while, but I love racquetball! After the game, we went to the hot tub and scoped “hotties” (actually there were mostly senior citizens there, the only hotties were the towel guy and the bartender). We also sneered as hard as we could at the 17-year-old girls wearing sunglasses at the bar, spending Mom’s credit cards on virgin pina coladas and Shirley Temples. Oh, and we hit the sauna and steam room to clear our pores. Normal girls have clear pores.

For dinner we went to the Cheesecake Factory, a popular tourist restaurant with really gross decor and a ten-mile menu of food from all over the world. But it’s all so Americanized that even a spring roll can somehow taste like a hamburger. I attempted to flirt with our waiter by having my friend tell him she was a photographer and wanted to take a picture of him feeding me. (Gross me out!!)


Day Four

Again, woke up early to exercise, shower, and do myself up. Then I spent two hours with a friend working out. It was hardcore gym day, gearing up for a weekend of partying. I worked my butt off (literally!) and tried to fit in while I was doing it. It was rough, but this is what normal girls do: Sweat and strain until they puke.

Later on I hung out at a friend’s parents’ house and we all watched Oprah. I had to get home soon though for my first experiment with clubbing. My normal-girl research taught me that the biggest part of clubbing is doing your makeup and hair in preparation.

I’m lucky enough to have a friend who had just quit his job at MAC cosmetics, and he was willing to help me on the quest for normal beauty.

I figured an hour of tips would suffice, but five hours later I had received 12—TWELVE—pages of handwritten notes and tips, hands-on lessons, a mini-makeover for my night out, and new knowledge on the glorious techniques of waving, curling, straightening, and styling. I learned all kinds of outlandish shit. Do you know how many “areas” there are on an eyelid?! OMG!

Afterward, I tried on about 20 atrocious outfits and came up with a boring one once I finally realized that the true art to the “outfit” is the accessories! I know I still look like shit, but at least I look like different shit than before, right?

We cruised to a bar called KARMA—the grossest name ever. The DJ had a Misfits haircut and a Misfits t-shirt and was playing 90s hip-hop. Party time!

My “normal” friend and I sat down and after five minutes it started: “I’ve never seen you ladies here before.” I got the most awesome dudes—the chubby ones with soul patches, vertical striped button-up shirts, and spiky gelled hair. Seriously. They flocked to me. And they all work in “landscaping” and “their work bought them a truck.” I wouldn’t usually be such a bitch about it but this one guy was a serious turd. He literally spent two and a half hours talking to me. I was being nice and normal, answering questions thoughtfully, and trying to make the conversation engaging (this was an experiment, after all). I never got all wasted-face on him. I never made it “obvious I was going home with him.” But the second they were kicking us out of the bar, the mood totally changed. This evil, fast-paced desperation kicked in and suddenly all the guys were saying, over and over, “You can come over, we can have some beers, just talk and hang out.” And it was being said like a million miles an hour while they were scanning the other girls who were lingering outside the front door. Finally, I said, point-blank, “You know, I really, really can’t tonight, but if you want to give me your number I can call you.” And he bolted! He was willing to fuck me but not even give me his phone number! I was so seriously grossed out by this. I mean, my friend and I laughed about it, but I was perturbed. Is that really how normal people do it?

JAIMIE WARREN

The heart glasses were a bit of flair that walked the edge between normal and quirky.		Gym time!
I got our waiter to feed me.

CONTINUED:
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