Last night, Ryan the Wandering Menace and I completed Operation Hot Sister. This is our code name for an experiment that we devised in order to test the theory that dressing sluttaciously and exuding off-the-charts stupidity yields greater man-shopping success. It was also an opportunity for some introspection, as Operation Hot Sister required us to play a character who is our opposite in every way.
This is the profile that we created for me:
Name : Kayti
Style : Rocker glam
Intelligence : Minimal
Personality : No sense of humor, plagued with pretentious angst
Profession : Barista (and bitter about it)
Man-shopping goal : Charm at least one gentleman into giving her his number
So I decked myself out all in black, including the mini-est mini-skirt on the market, I eye-lined the shit out of my eyes so that I looked like a raccoon, and I piled on as much jewelry and hardware as I could (including a belt buckle that was a rhinestoned skull with a bandana). For a comical visual, you can check out Ryan’s depiction of me here.
As for sounding unintelligent, this is a skill that I was born with, as I am a native Californian.
In a similar vein, Ryan’s character was a bimbo/aspiring actress named Rachel who, on a good day, has the IQ of mud. She rocked a skin-tight leopard print number, leg-warmers and a pompadour (see photo to the left). For her full account of Operation Hot Sister, complete with kickass illustrations, check out her blog post here.
Our preparation for Operation Hot Sister consisted of six easy steps:
- Buy bottle of sparkling wine from cute French man at Nicolas, who seemed somewhat appalled by our lack of knowledge about champagne.
- Buy pastrami sandwich from Pret for dinner.
- Buy turkey and stuffing sandwich from Pret as a back-up sandwich, just in case. One always needs a back-up sandwich when one intends to imbibe alcohol.
- Once home, put on Katy Perry’s “California Girls” to help us get into character.
- While primping, consume wine and primary sandwich.
- Place back-up sandwich in refrigerator. Congratulate ourselves and feel smug about our foresight.
After picking up some last minute essentials (i.e. ridged salt and vinegar chips), we hopped on a bus to Camden Town and commenced Operation Hot Sister in earnest. We wandered into the first pub/bar that we saw…
A photo of all the guys NOT checking us out. This is what things looked like from our point of view... only the backs of men's heads.
… and promptly left after realizing that the male patrons of this particular establishment were between the ages of 18 and 20, sported hair that was longer than ours, and looked like they only tore themselves away from playing World of Warcraft in their mothers’ basements once a week.
In the next bar that we entered, the male clientele was age-appropriate and did not cut their hair to look like Legolas from Lord of the Rings. This seemed like a much more promising venue, so we decided that this would be our base of operations for the evening.
However, despite the fact that we looked smokin’ hot, nobody even glanced in our direction.
NOT EVEN ONCE.
Not even THIS guy would look in our direction.
I mean, COME ON, Ryan was wearing leopard print, for god’s sake. Somebody should have at least glanced in our direction. The genetically-challenged girl with the 80s side ponytail got more male attention than this scantily clad blonde-Asian sandwich of hotness.
We never got a chance to unveil our characters and test our theories.
Honestly, at this point, my goal of getting a guy’s number was no longer on the table. At this point, we would have settled for getting one glance in our direction.
I am not exaggerating. The most attention that we received was from an elderly gentleman who tried to force us to dance. But he was drunk enough to be legally blind, so that doesn’t really count.
It occurred to us that something horrific had occurred and that overnight we had become repulsive to the opposite sex.
This revelation was difficult — nay, IMPOSSIBLE — to stomach.
So what did we do?
"No mojo? What the hell, Man-shopper??"
We drank.
And judging from the pictures that I found on my phone the morning after, we must have drunk a copious amount.
After an undetermined number of shots and hours of watching our self-esteem crumble like dust between our fingers, we decided that the only way to salvage the situation was to leave and buy foot-long sandwiches from Subway. (In our drunken haze, we probably forgot that we had back-up sandwiches waiting for us at home.)
And finally, in the wee hours of the night/morning, at the Camden Town Subway, Ryan and I finally received the male glances that we had been craving all night.
Except that it was from Subway employees. And instead of desirous glances, we received some wow-you-broads-are-gluttonous-pigs looks.
And then a fellow Subway customer loudly and vehemently criticized our choice of sauce.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So to sum up, here is what I have learned from Operation Hot Sister:
- I am repulsive.
- I should probably never drink tequila again.
- Chili sauce is not popular at Subway.
In short, Operation Hot Sister was an unmitigated disaster.
Except for the sandwiches.
The sandwiches were delightful.
ESPECIALLY the chili sauce.
Like this:
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Like the rest of the masses, I figured that I should take the time to put in my order with Papa Christmas.
Please deliver all gifts to the family compound in California, and I will arrange for transport back to Paris. My stocking is the one with the obese snowman on. Do NOT, under any circumstances, give Justin Long to either of my sisters. As God is my witness, I will hunt you down and beat you with a stocking full of fruitcake-shaped rocks.
