I'm wise to the notion that my Eastern-European co-worker may have a better grasp on the English language than he lets on - he is just secretly charmed and delighted by American attempts at translation when words fail them. I can see him chuckle to himself as we begin to describe things with sign language, as if wild hand (or whatever body part we're utilizing in expression) motioning can assist us in more accurately explaining our point.
I consider communication to be one of my best qualities. My friends, acquaintances, and cohorts are generally well-informed of my daily life situations. Then again, I've got an affinity for trashy gossip and I tend to babble at great length over subject matter that is relevant to nothing. Which I why I have a blog. Look, I'm doing it again!
Anyway. As my nature would suggest, I often become impatient and frustrated when I am unable to convey myself with ease. What! You don't understand me? Well fuck this. You don't deserve an explanation. This perspective, however, is usually disregarded when mingling with foreigners. If I can't come up with a series of adjectives they recognize, I will resort to uncouth gesticulation. Such were the circumstances today as I described to my co-worker the Lucha Va Voom. For those who are unaware of this happening;
...that should clear things up completely.
The first word to perplex him was "burlesque." 'I do not know this,' he insisted. His blank stare mandated that I further clarify. "Burlesque dancers are kind of like stripper girls..." I began; only to have my foreign friend excitably interject, 'SO, they take off ALL THEIR CLOTHES?! They were...naked girls??'
"No. They still wear g-strings and pantyhose and pasties. So they are somewhat covered."
More blank stare. He shook his head as he envisioned the wardrobe he had deciphered, and then cautiously disputed me.
'...Pastries!...??'
"No, not PASTRIES. Payy-steeeeeeees. Pasties." I wasn't getting through. And there he stood, in amused anticipation, silently suggesting, "now you have to show me. These...what you call? Pasties."
Okay fine. I drew my fists to my chest, hovered over my boobs, and quickly flashed open palms at him. Only after repeating this action three times did I realize I wasn't accurately getting the message across. In fact, I seemed to be relating breasts to car headlights beaming on and off. He was understandably confused.
My second approach was to pinch my thumb and forefinger together, creating a circular imitation. I then made a half-twisting motion above my nipples. Really, I was tweaking my nipples in sign, without the actual tweakage. His eyes big as two suns and burning just as bright, I had to quickly revert back to language. "Pasties. Like little cups! To cover you!" For a brief moment, I felt very dirty.
He smiled. "Ahhhh." Comprehension. I achieved my goal.
"So. Why did you not just Google 'pasties' for me to see?"
You fucking! Damn!! Son of a BITCH. I couldn't image-search 'pasties', BECAUSE THAT IS TOO LOGICAL. And in doing so, I don't have the opportunity to embarrass myself enough. This is why I resorted to hand gestures. My words alone were not terribly mortifying, and needed a little action in accompaniment. That, and fuck you.
You understand.
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