The Aftermath

People gawking at you. Children tapping the window with their sticky fingers. Everyone shouting at you to look his or her way. “Do something interesting for Christ’s sake.” Animals can’t understand English. But I can.

“Jesus! Did you see that girl? She just fell!”

Why thank you, sir, yes, I did just fall and really, I was completely unawares that that’s what that was.

It’s snowing and I don’t care because I’m sick of being locked up in my apartment. I’ve been on crutches for six weeks. My left foot hasn’t been in a shoe in more than five months.

I live on the third floor, walk up. The palms of my hands ache. The innards of my upper arms are speckled with popped blood vessels. My knees are kissed with bruised strawberries. My right leg is twice the size of its partner. My left foot is purple, swollen and scarred. It’s no longer the foot I was born with. A metal plate and four screws will outlive me.

“Can we go see a movie?” I ask my boyfriend. “There’s a theatre right down on 62nd and 1st.”

I live on 71st and 1st. Nine streets away, totally negotiable. No avenues required. I’m sick of paying for cabs. I’m tired of going from one inside to another to another. I want to feel air.

“You think you’re up for it?” he asks.

I say yes even though I mean no. I’m exhausted. The day before I had crutched downstairs to get the mail and had trouble breathing because my heart was in my throat the entire trip. I like my teeth. I don’t want to loose them. I liked my foot too.

I broke the metatarsal of my second left toe in September. I don’t know how. I still don’t know what’s worse—not knowing how I broke my foot so I can tell people when they ask or the pain I suffered after I had to get surgery because it never healed.
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I am an ageist in that it is a rare moment indeed when I befriend, nonetheless date, any human whose age is smaller than or equivalent to mine. I tend to find members of the younger generation self-absorbed, egotistical and unaware of the fact that their skinny jeans will, in fact, one day be revealed as the cause of some terminal disease. People aged twenty-seven and under lack perspective in that to them, there’s only one—theirs. This, my friends, is fucking annoying.

That said, I am currently head over heels in love with a twenty-three year old. Yes. Two, three, as in born in 1985, as in four years younger than me, as in we wouldn’t have even attended high school together, as in yes, a Baby Young Gun.

Aston and Demi notwithstanding, I can’t help but be amazed at how ingrained the social mores of this world are in that at first this genuinely felt slightly awkward to me. But after more than three months, I’ve decided whip out my under-eye cream and flare my nostrils at those who call me cradle robber. This boy has swept me off my feet and here’s why:

Baby Young Gun is the cutest most precious member of the opposite sex I have ever had the opportunity to lay eyes on. When I first saw him I took a triple take, no joke, and that never happens to me.

Baby Young Gun doesn’t play mind-fuck games. He called—not texted—the day after we first met to ask me out. When the day arrived, it was pouring rain, but I later found out that he arrived a half an hour early to the general area where we had agreed to meet in order to “find a nice place” to take me.

Baby Young Gun does not play by the “rules” because he’s unaware they exist. On our first date we were already discussing gas and diarrhea. Our third date? Dinner with his grandparents, his great-aunt and uncle and his aunt and her boyfriend. Perhaps a little early, but I could’ve cared less. He has always called me when he wanted to and said whatever comes to mind. “If you ever fart in front of me I’ll propose,” is just one example of his innocent, yet absolutely genuine nature that will always make me smile.

Baby Young Gun is the sweetest boy I have ever met. Besides my parents, no one has ever told me so many flattering things. It flustering, because I’m totally not used to it, but in a good way. My mind doesn’t know how to react and/or process so my heart just swells a little and I bury my head in whatever’s available.

Baby Young Gun makes me laugh, but never when he’s trying. Whether it’s seven a.m. in the morning (when I have to get up to teach) or three in the afternoon, this twenty-three year old can send me into a fit of giggles with one line. One night, he was to meet some of my older school friends, fabulous women who are or have been married and have grown-up kids. “Oh, so they’re around your age,” he replied.

I could go on, but I’ll stop here because it’s probably getting disgusting. Has Tuffie turned into a total sap? Probably. I mean, what the hell am I writing about after having been MIA from the BAT for three months? Is Tuffie a cougar? Likely. I mean, my favorite movie, “Sixteen Candles,” came out before he was born.

But does Tuffie give a fuck? Far from it. Baby Young Gun makes me happy and I know that’s all that matters. I don’t feel this way about people, ever, and I never thought I would. So some times I feel uncomfortable, and I don’t know what to do with myself, but then he’ll say something like, “One two three, poof” (code for he has to fart), and I’ll snap back into just living in the moment and tell him to go for it.

My nephew, Alex, turns five tomorrow. He’s having a birthday party in Las Vegas at some place called The Bouncy House. Apparently, every room is “bouncy”, and they have themes like “basketball” and “obstacle course” and the like. Except for the last room, which serves sweaty, bounced-out adolescents pizza and cake, on solid ground, probably to avoid lawsuits. Sounds pretty awesome to me, I must say, and I’m thirty-two…

Anyway, so yesterday I went to a rather forlorn Toys’R’Us in Jersey City to procure a rad birthday present for the little dude. They actually had some pretty dope shit in that ratty place. All of which served to remind me of my own fortunately deprived upbringing in the sense that I had about 10 toys total, mostly of the matchbox or GI Joe variety, and was relegated to either get creative with my time or go the fuck outside if I wanted to get my play on. I certainly had no access to a Toys’R’Us, that’s for damn sure. Luckily, Alex has the benefit of having many toys to play with, and also the wisdom to cast them aside and romp around for awhile. Unfortunately, he doesn’t live in a world in which he can just “go outside and play and be home by dinner time”, like I once did. Times change…

Hopefully I won’t contribute to discouraging any further freneticism on his part thanks to the gift I got him. Last year I got him a Leapfrog Leapster, which is like a gameboy laptop for kids that tricks them in to learning by exploiting their fanaticism for Dora and Elmo and Spiderman and such. A strange gift, admittedly, from someone who has ranted the Unabomber fantastic at times, railing against America’s techno-dependence. But hey, that’s what he wanted, dammit. So to further my hypocrisy, this year I got him a new game, called Creature Create, which looks pretty freakin’ cool, people. The objective is to customize your own monsters, utilizing the millions of designs and anatomical monster parts at your disposal. They claim it “Teaches creativity, vocabulary, problem solving, and cause and effect!”, which is all fine and good as nerdy unintended consequences go. I just think it’s kinda badass to be able to play Monster God with your exploding five year old (or thirty-two year old) mind, and become a kinda digital Dr. Frankenstein in the process… (more…)

Photo: Associated Press

“John McCain chose a woman who is almost completely unprepared for the job and who disagrees with me on every core value I believe in, but I will be voting McCain in November because he understands. Woman don’t vote with the big head. They vote with the little hood. Am I right ladies? You’re with me!”

This, from Senior Female and Women’s Issues Correspondent Samantha Bee, who appeared recently on Jon Stewart’s show to explain exactly why she’s decided to switch her vote from Obama/Nobody to McCain/Palin. Thanks to Bee’s eloquence, I’ve been sucked back into this year’s Presidential elections.

Until now, I have not paying close attention to The Race. Why not, you ask? Simple answer: First of all, I can’t get excited about a couple of guys whose declared positions are light years to the right of my highly progressive value system. Understand that I have a very big head (aka a fivehead), one that allows me to more room to generate liberal thought than these more normally endowed candidates. Secondly, what’s to follow? It’s a done deal: Obama will paste McCain by five points (that’s as big a margin possible, given that members of both parties will knee-jerk vote for a moldering moose corpse if given the choice), unless of course the Dems implode, which they often do, due to the fact that they left their liberal values behind three decades ago.

Which brings us, of course, to Sarah Palin aka The Gover-Mater (I’m taking full credit for this awesome nickname based on her fondness for uninhibited baby making). Here’s what I know of her: She won a beauty pageant. She was nicknamed “Sarah Barracuda” on her basketball team and led team prayer. She digs shooting wolves from helicopters. As mayor of Podunk, she considered banning ‘certain’ books. She wants the polar bear removed from the Endangered Species list.

What’s not to like? As Correspondent Bee added, she also has a “fun pouch”. Total bonus points. Almost makes up for her animal blood lust and professed indifference to the fate of the beluga whale. Clearly, she’s never heard Raffi belt out “Baby Beluga”. Makes me wonder if she’s really had kids, or she’s just renting the whole “Family Values Package” from some Colorado-based outfit. Think she got a refund when the teen daughter they delivered turned out to have allowed a spelunker access to her hallowed cave?

Mr. McCain, you made a curious pick with this Palin person. Yes, she’s a woman, all right. And what a woman.

Hola, my people. I return from a month spent in Spain visiting the Virg, with more than a few food-for-thought souvenirs.

Numero Uno: I am no American patriot. Rather, it would appear that I am somewhat ashamed to be a citizen of the United States. And I’m not the only one. As opposed to exuberantly promoting our American-slang-slinging skills, the Virg, my sister and I spoke under our breaths in public. Given the Euro currency’s tour de force, it was a rare moment indeed to spot a compatriot, but when we did, instead of giving them a what’s-up head nod, we simultaneously began operating under a code of silence. We stared at them and were embarrassed by their Teva Velcro sandals and futile attempts to blend in with the surroundings by sporting the MC Hammer pants that are all the rage right now.

Numero Dos: Spanish people are fucking crazy. The Virg hails from San Sebastian, a small town located in the Northern Basque region of Spain. The second week of August is known as La Semana Grande (The Big Week), during which, for seven days straight, the world goes explosive. Each night a different European city puts on a fireworks show as part of a competition, and seriously, what can be better than that?

The explosiveness doesn’t end there. Immediately following every fireworks show, small children, teenagers, adults and even old timers line the streets of La Parte Vieja (the old part of town). A shot fires and suddenly men with plastic bulls mounted on their heads and shoulders come catapulting down the street. But these are not just your average plastic bulls, were there to exist some type of norm. These turbo bulls are instead loaded with white-hot sparklers that shoot out at least five feet in all directions. What’s more, this is not simply a parade or a moment for gawking. This is participatory event, no legal release required. People chase the bulls and bulls chase the people and it’s not uncommon to walk away with multiple wormhole-sized second-degree burns. And the drinking hasn’t even started. (more…)

Home improvement is in my blood. Almost as soon as I stopped breast feeding, I was suckling at the teet of PBS, taking in the sights and sounds of This Old House as my dad snoozed on the couch. I’m confident that had I been tall enough at age 2, that I could have used a router to carve a rocking chair out of a solid piece of oak. My early years were spent watching him work his handy magic around the house, fixing all the strange things that new houses don’t have; pocket doors, weighted window sashes, horsehair plaster, and weird locks.

Before I was allowed to actually “fix” things myself, I was given some random tools and I tinkered. I nailed stuff to trees. I made wooden “gifts” for my family at Christmas time. I sawed shit in half for no reason. I customized my neighbor’s Nash skateboard to give it a “fish tail look”. When my hamster died I built a creepy little wooden cross for his grave. I made trip wires from green floral wire and inevitably tripped over them a week later (success!). I built a tiny fort out of an old door and some cinder blocks that we covered in snow. After wailing on cars with ice balls I’d duck into it, totally invisible to the angry motorists who prowled my yard (success!).

My senior year in high school I felt ready to put my skills to a much bigger test. I took a job with a friend to fix up a house for resale, the real estate move now known as a house flip. His father’s friend had bought it at auction, and couldn’t have paid more than thirty-five dollars for it; if only you could have it torn down for that much. The house was in Revere, a grimy sea town just north of Boston, famous for it’s dog track, polluted beach, and vast fleet of junky Cameros. The house was as shitty as it was big; 3 floors and a basement apartment. We had no boss on site, no tools to speak of and no set list of things to do. This is what we did have:

1. Big fucked up house
2. Wad of cash
3. Sense of manly purpose

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I’m like a stunned animal when men hit on me. I just kind of stand there, nod, smile and acquiesce to the interaction. What this ultimately means is that I often end up giving out my phone number and/or email address even though I’m completely disinterested.

Retarded, I realize this. I just can’t say no because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I hate being rejected, and so I have no desire to be the rejector. And what am I supposed to tell them? “Absolutely not. Never. I find you completely unattractive.”

The bullshit logic in this is, of course, the fact that I end up having to blow off their later advances. I guess my hope is that they just won’t ever actually establish contact.

My latest suitor hit me up at an especially weak moment, when I was caffeine deprived and attempting to order a tea from Starbucks, only to be told they were out of my desired flavor. In my flustered state, Starbucks Dude went in for the kill.

“Nice canvas,” he said.

“Huh? What?” I replied, confused, turning my head from side to side. I wasn’t carrying a painting. Then it dawned on me, ahhhh, the typical one-liner men use to break the ice with me””my tattoos.

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” I continued, before turning back to the barista to place my order.

While waiting for my drink, Starbucks Dude sidled up next to me. “Are you in the arts?”

“Um, no. Well,sort of, I’m a writer.”

“Ohhhh, I don’t ever see tattooed girls who aren’t graphic designers,” he continued.

“Really? Well, I’m not from here, I’m originally from LA,” I said, wondering what planet he was from. (more…)

For those of you who didn’t notice, I thought I’d make it official and point out that What Would Tuffie Do? will, in fact, no longer be known as WWTD? I’d been hearing it on my end, so when someone I didn’t even know felt compelled to bitch about the name, I decided that after more than a year, it was time to say sayonara.

But not without a proper farewell. I realized that I have never actually shared the birthing story of WWTD? with you fine readers. It begins with a good friend of mine named Jubba, in a far far away land known as Tallil, Iraq.

Feeling lost in life, unsure of what path to follow and deep in school-loan debt, Jubba decided it was a bright idea to become a contracted worker for a division of Halliburton in Iraq. The pay was amazing, and if he stayed his full fourteen months he’d get a bonus and wouldn’t have to pay taxes on any of it. But like everything in life, easier said than done.

Upon arriving in Tallil, Jubba was put in charge of a group of Indian workers who didn’t always appreciate being told what to do by a young white dude. After a week of insubordination, frustrated, Jubba sat down and wondered what his former roommate, Tuffie, would do, if she were in his shoes.

And right then, he knew what needed to happen. He had to lay down the fucking law, so help him god, but do it with a cheerful smile. Make it seem like he was doing the men a favor by telling them what to do. Needless to say, because Tuffie logic is always supreme, it worked, and they fell into line.

Unfortunately for Jubba, however, work as a contracted carpenter did not end up panning out. Jubba didn’t like bossing people around, but even more so, he didn’t like experiencing true missile and fire drills at least two to three times a week. He came home after just a few months out.

Regardless, I prided myself on having been there for him, in spirit, in his time of need. And hence sprung WWTD? with the idea that I’d share my stories with the world and hopefully they’d come in handy for someone else in dire circumstances.

Alas, the name has outlived its utility, and so it is with heavy heart that I say adieu. Tuffie posts will now each feature their own unique and individual title.

WWTD?, it’s been fun, and most importantly, it’s been misanthropic. I’ll miss you.

My best friend the Virg* and I are going to hell. We always go back and forth over who’s saving whom a seat, but no matter which of us ends up behind the wheel, we both know in what direction the vehicle’s going: down.

After nearly a decade of friendship, the past couple of years the debate over who’s going to sit shotgun has turned into a game of one-upmanship, each of us trying to best (or would it be worse?) the other. The Virg always likes to whip out her tried and true phobia: fear of the midget (aka Lollypopguildophobia). I’ve gotten not one, not two, but three panicked phone calls from her when she’s had no choice but to get up close and personal with a little person. She thinks they’re going to bite her ankles.

I typically counter with my inexcusable and legitimately unintentional mockery of genuinely mentally and/or physically retarded people. I don’t know what my problem is, but I can’t help but consistently stick my foot in my mouth when in the presence of said individuals.

Just last weekend, for instance, I attended the annual Coney Island Mermaid Parade. It was a long metro ride out there, and it was made all the more longer by an obnoxious kid who kept screaming and shouting and just making all kinds of strange noises.

“God help me if I ever have a child like that,” I whispered to my friend. When the look he shot me nearly gave my eyes paper cuts I knew I had committed some kind of egregious faux pas.

“Tuffie, that child has Down Syndrome,” he said.

Oh, right… That would explain why he was strapped to a wheel chair. (more…)

My sister and I were talking on the phone the other day when suddenly she interrupted my diatribe with: “Shit! I just hit my funny bone! It’s like a tear in my eye!” While technically that last sentence made no logical sense, I instantly knew exactly what she meant, it fucking hurt.

I’ve heard it said that the bond between twins is sometimes so close they create a special language that only the two of them can understand. My sister and I, however, are not twins. We are actually nearly three years apart in age (and she is, ahem, the older sister). But, despite not having shared the same womb for nine months before becoming members of this world, we are about as close as two people can get without being legitimately attached at the hip or head. And this means we do oftentimes speak in tongues.

For starters, we both call each other B. This confuses pretty much everyone. To complicate matters, the origins of this one letter name-calling completely defy logic. Allow me to elaborate.

Although the letter does match the first initial of my first name, contrary to popular belief, that is not where the moniker came from. Rather, it stems from “Little B,” as in “Little Bitch,” a warm and cuddly nickname my sister developed for me in high school. And when I say warm and cuddly, I mean it. For the most part, my sister and I have always gotten along and she truly meant it as a term of endearment. It’s much like the way “bad” was used to describe something “good” in the late 90s.

The B I use to indicate my sister is also lazy shorthand for a nickname that she deemed inappropriate and undesirable for me to shout out in public, Beavis. The spurious logic only gets worse in that “Beavis” was not created in retaliation for Little Bitch. It was just something that I started calling her because it felt right, the way frozen yogurt and oreo cookies feel like they were made to be swirled together. Truth be told, not a single thing my sister does resembles in any shape or form said MTV cartoon character.

What compounds the issue further, again, only for others, is the fact that my sister and I nearly have identical voices, oftentimes making it hard to identify who shouted out the B. Back in the day, we used this to our advantage, calling in sick from work for each other when nerves were too high or breaking up with the other’s boyfriend when emotions would’ve gotten in the way. (more…)

Daily, for more years than was healthy, I whipped through my neighborhood on bike, foot, or skateboard, rain or shine to deliver a junky local rag called the Patriot Ledger. My friends teased me about it and I left many a pre-teen-light-stuff-on-fire-session for it, but come Christmas time, I was the one looking crispy in a brand new hundred dollar shirt, bought with my own cold cash.

What I will tell you is that I got to know every single person in my neighborhood, their dogs, how well they tipped and how they looked surprised in a bathrobe. My customers sit in my head, not aging, just paying, or not paying, complaining or complimenting. They are the people who populate Suburb, USA. Maybe they are the future us, lawnmowers, pets and all. God help us if they are. I present to you The Route, Part 2.

Mr. Bronson
Whether the result of some paper route turf war, a paper boy devoured by suburban dogs, or just a new subscriber (never the case), once in a while I’d get a visit from the head office with news that I’d have to add the so-and-sos to my route. The Holy Hand of the Patriot Ledger reached down from the heavens in the form of Mr. Bronson to deliver the news. He drove a light blue Dodge K car, was bald with a sandy mustache and in retrospect seemed, um.. alcoholic? Is that the word? Yes it is.

He always wore a stained dress shirt which I thought defeated the purpose of dressing up. He had way too much shit on his dashboard, keys of various kinds, empty coffee cups and empty packs of Newports. He kept it brief, I was only one little shit he’d have to deal with in a day. He’d hand me a barely readable digital printout with the new customer’s name and address and was gone, chugging down the street in his crappy car. I would later come to understand that this is what happens to you when you are a paper boy… for life. (more…)

Before last weekend, a single Sex and the City episode was all the insight I had into the Hamptons. Which meant I knew to watch out for crabs, and I’m not talking about the sand-dwelling variety. That said, upon arrival via the notorious Jitney Bus (during which I was provided with better beverages and snacks than my last cross-country flight), the beachy conglomeration of towns was exactly as I had expected: lots of rich New Yorkers with too much money to spare, looking to party and get some color. Oh, and let’s not forget, relax.

This is where I came in. I was hired on as a second babysitter for a family of four (mom, dad, two boys, ages four and five) that a friend of mine works for. The woman’s brother and wife were also coming out, along with their three-year-old and twin fourteen-month-olds, to celebrate the long Memorial Day weekend. Five children required two babysitters to occupy them so that the parents could, functionally, relax.

Aside from the autistic-like tendencies of the three year old who treated both my friend and I as if we were the plague, and listened to nothing we said, the weekend was actually a total breeze of duck, duck, goose, or buttocks, buttocks, diddle, as the giggling boys preferred to play it, peppered with freeze tag and Red Rover. Other than being woken up at 7:30 am every morning to feed the kids Cookie Crisps (this being, the one time of the year they are allowed sugar cereal), I can’t complain.

What’s more, both sets of parents were fucking awesome. (Did I mention Father Unit #1 slipped us each an extra bill at the end of the weekend?) In addition to not treating my friend and I as if we were hired help, they also encouraged us to help ourselves to the liquor cabinet once the kids were fast asleep. (more…)

Last weekend was one of my best friends’ bachelor party. Naturally, we went to Vegas, rolling seventeen men deep. There was cocaine, ecstasy, alcohol, apricot mousse, more cups of creme bruleé than I care to mention.

Here’s how it went down, according to the notes I kept on my iPhone:

Screwdrivers & chess on the plane. I’ve always found drinking on a plane to be somewhat akin to the feeling James Bond gets when he wakes up in the morning. For me, there is nothing more Adult & Decadent than drinking at forty thousand feet. And both the bachelor and myself are avid chess fans. And yes, I play better drunk. I do believe I had the excellent idea to become some sort of drunk chess savant, cackling, slurring and burping my way to a world championship.

Beer tasting chart. The best man, as part of his Vegas Bachelor Party Master Plan, created a game revolving around tasting disguised beers. The person who correctly identified the most beers won…something. We never found out, as most everyone got too drunk to complete the challenge.

TV in the bathroom mirror. Welcome to the Flamingo Hotel, enjoy, and if you’ve got to go Number Two, we’ve provided you with a TELEVISION SET IN THE BATHROOM MIRROR, so you need miss not a minute of Celebrity Poker.

Jon keeps counting his money. Another of my oldest friends, inexplicably, would over the course of the weekend take his roll of money out of his pocket and count it at least a dozen times. We never found out why. He’d just slowly count it, put it back, then, perhaps an hour later, repeat the maneuver. And no money was spent during that gap.

…Nobody gets him, man, he’s the wind.

Will won’t sit down. Big Will, we call him, because, well, he is rather large. And he doesn’t sit. Over a three day period, I saw him sit a total of zero times. Never saw him eat, either, but he’s just gotta do that. Big Will, remember? (more…)

It’s one thing to be the honorary black sheep of a family, but it’s quite another to own that shit and not give a fuck. Meet Harry W (or H Dubs, as he prefers to be called on the streets) the star of my Passover weekend. Harry is cousin to one of my most favorite NYC friends, who, knowing my fascination with Judaism, invited me to celebrate the Pesach with her family in Falls Church, Virginia.

Given that we were greeted at the door of her aunt’s house with shots of tequila (apparently it’s kosher), I knew the night was already going to be memorable. But when we sat down and Harry told the only other non-Jew there that she was “Jewing the wine,” I knew the evening would be something I’d never forget.

We began reading from the Haggadah and just after my friend’s uncle split the matzah and began passing half of it around for each of us to taste, Harry decided it was the perfect moment to burst out laughing and announce that that morning, whoops, he’d had a bagel for breakfast. Needless to say, his glassy eyes and Tourette-like outbursts were making it clear that he was not just operating under an alcoholic buzz. (more…)