The Last Piece I Read...

From the 23rd Show: INTERNATIONAL FLAIR


"The Village"

I’ve come to realize as of late that I rely on heavy artillery of folks to just maintain this vision of beauty and calm that stands before you. But not just any folks. You know how white people like British accents in their car commercials because it makes the car seem more “civilized”? Well, when it comes to my health and beauty, only the best of the best will do for me. So that means I go to the experts—the international experts.

There’s something just so…John McCain white bread about seeing a run o’ the mill Caucasian for my very specific and unique needs. Because here’s the thing. While most people have “things that bother them”, I have “huge issues”. Like, if you have a back ache, I need physical therapy. If you are in a bad mood, I have severe depression. And if you may have a slight headache, I have a mind-blowing migraine. It’s physics, really. So for my migraines, I didn’t see Dr. Shaw or Kaplan. No. I saw a neurologist named Dr. Guthikanda. I could tell you I chose him because his research on migraines and depression at NYU was truly insightful and groundbreaking. But that would be lying. I specifically chose him because his last name was hard to pronounce, and my cell phone couldn’t fit in all the letters.

Walking into his office, and seeing the shrine to Shiva and the stoic faces of his children, I knew I wasn’t seeing an ordinary doctor. No, I was seeing a healer. He tried to heal me with all kinds of special things: Celabrex, topamax, depakote, celexa. None of them worked, but at least Dr. Guthikonda had some insight into why my headaches wouldn’t go away. He told me I had a “special” type of migraine. The type that is practically incurable. Well I’d always known I was…Special. Dr. Guthikonda just confirmed it. He did wonders to my self-esteem so I don’t entirely regret my choice.

A friend of mine suggested I look into acupuncture. Man I loved me some acupuncture. A few times a week, I went to this tiny herbal-smelling office on 57th street to see a lovely woman named Dr. Heng who specialized in women’s reproductive health. And for some reason, headaches too. So there I’d be in the waiting room with all these couples, and I’d be sneaking glances at the “Book of Miracles” filled with acupuncture miracle babies. The other women would look at me with pity like “poor her, and her crap husband who won’t accompany her to the miracle of acupuncture baby making”. And I’d be all “Oh, no, I’m not here for THAT. Me? Want a baby? Bitch, PLEASE.”

Then I’d go into Dr. Heng’s office and she’d ask me to stick out my tongue and she’d mumble about it either being too pink, or not pink enough. Who can remember? Then I would lay down while Dr. Heng would tug the neck of my shirt down and roll my jeans up so she could put needles on my pressure points. I was usually so exhausted I took that precious hour with needles in my head to take naps. One day Dr. Heng got an assistant—a creepy middle-aged dude whose hands smelled like Kim chi and who always poked his head in while I was undressing and then would pretend it was an accident. He’d also accidentally leave needles in my big toe, which I wouldn’t find until I was putting my socks on. Ow? The last straw was when I was on my belly for some back and neck acupuncture, when Rico Suave yanked down my pants so that half my ass was exposed. For no reason. Because last I checked there is no ass pressure point that I know of. Or at least one related to my head. And he put the needles in my neck and back, then took a few steps back and just stared for a while. Then he left.

I was too shocked to say anything at that visit, but I tried to call the office a few days later to complain. But when I heard Dr. Heng’s sweet voice on the phone, “I am sorry. We are not awailable to answer your phone right now”, I couldn’t tell her about her assistant with the wandering eye. I just never went back.

Well all this was extremely stressful and did little to help the cause of my headaches. So of course matters called for a facial at a little spa in Soho with my favorite Russian lady Mariela! You have to shout it like she does. Mariela! She’s ruthless when it comes to dirty pores and unwanted body hair. I had sent a friend of mine to her for a bikini wax, and during the wax she had kept telling my friend that she was a “good girl. You good girl.” And when it was over she had declared; “Now you are ready for hugs and kisses.” Mariela doesn’t say very much but when she does talk she is encouraging. I needed some encouragement. When I was done being poked and prodded, she held a mirror up to my face—and said, “Freakin’ amazing. You look freakin’ amazing. God I love my job.” I love being told I look amazing. And by a woman who was staring into my pores with a magnifying glass no less. I felt like Giselle. Until the moment, when on my way out she suggested I look into an eyebrow waxing.

Not one to poo poo good beauty advice I ran straight to the local eyebrow threader. I hadn’t touched my brows since 9th grade, when my mom’s friend, a perky Midwestern blonde named Dana who was training for beauty school—asked to train on my eyebrows. She had taken a cigarette break while the wax was drying and when she came back it was too late—and off came half of my brows. I’d worn a permanent question mark expression all through high school. It had taken ten years to grow them back. I wasn’t going near wax on my face ever again. Luckily, the eyebrow threaders were Indian—renowned experts in the world of hair removal, second to Persians (who usually just keep to themselves. They don’t make a profit out of it). I was happy to see that it took not just one but two threaders to perfect my arches and I relaxed under their expert touches, and quick flits of their wrists. I was on my way to having fresh skin and a perfect arch…And then one of the women had to ruin it by asking, “Have you ever thought about your upper lip?”

I’d felt like I’d done enough physical damage to myself lately. I needed emotional help. Too much emphasis on the superficial. And the migraines were still coming faster and faster. Luckily I’d been recommended to a biofeedback expert named Kevin. For those of you not in the know, a biofeedback expert helps raise the patient's awareness and conscious control of their unconscious physiological activities (thanks Wikepedia!). Even though he is of Jewish origin, here is how I knew that Kevin was qualified: 1) He studied with the Dalai Lama. Multiple times. 2) He has a perpetual tan and a ponytail. 3) He lights incense.

He suggested a couple things to help my migraines. One of the things he suggested was that I buy a bowl. Not a fruit bowl, or a recreational one for drug use, but one that you can play that makes soothing sounds, for meditation. So I walked to this little store on MacDougal called “Land of Buddha” and tried out a few of the different bowls. I got really into it, but before I could fork over the hundreds of dollars for a bowl, I explained to the shop guy that I’d need to try it out the way I’d be using it at home. Which meant lying down on the floor with it and balancing it on my stomach like my Kevin had taught me. The shop guy closed the door and played some soft muscic and laid me down on the floor. He placed one bowl at my head and the other at my feet. “Just relax,” he said. “Just relax”.

I started feeling a bit uncomfortable. I didn’t think this trial required dim lighting or a closed door with the curtains drawn. So I asked to try it a different way. He suggested I put the bowl on my head. I sat there like a ninny with this giant bowl on my head and the shop guy started hitting it with this gong-like thing. Just then, three hot guys walked in. I didn’t know they were hot until a few minutes later when I removed the bowl from my head. “Dude, is that like some sort of Buddhist ritual she’s doing?” the cutest one asked. I threw the bowl on his head and booked it out of the store. Enough torture for one day.

Feeling light (in my wallet), clean in my pores, and headache free—for the time being, I realized something. One of the great things about being in Manhattan is that you can practically travel the globe for your every whim without ever flashing your passport. And I would shudder to think—what kind of disaster I would be without my exotic doctors, therapists, and meditative home goods. They say it takes a village…For me, it takes a global community.

Come to the show on Dec 3rd!