(less)fluff(y): Newsweek magazine in general. Looks like the magazine is aspiring to be more like The Atlantic, if not in the way it leans than at least in the way it looks. However, just because it looks smarter, doesn't mean it is. Case in point: Fareed Zakaria's "The Capitalist Manifesto" in the June 22 issue. Sooooo close.
smut: the one too many employment ads I read this past week written by presumable managing editors who were "loking" for freelance writers and paying a stipend "commisirate" with experience trumps anything I saw on the tabloid rack while waiting in the checkout line. Grrrrr...
relevant: Maggie McGuane's "Reality Check" in the July Vogue. McGuane's unsentimental account of how she got over herself when her husband left her to raise her two young children and she couldn't get a line of credit above $500 by (gasp!) buying less stuff. Elitist magazine's first brush with reality without the usual smugness.
Do You Speak American? by Robert MacNeil and William Cran, those clever (if nerdy) coauthors of the The Story of English. Even if you don't closet a fetish for linguistics, you'll appreciate your new, cursory understanding of why when you say "black" you are referring to the color, but when your college roommate from Chicago says "black" she is referring to the block of houses along her street.
random: and finally, for anyone who is not pissed off enough about the state of the world, pick up Geraldine's Brooks' Nine Part of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women and boom! You're ready to explode. Very incendiary. Very insightful. And, might I add, very timely, even 15 years later.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
summer school is for suckers...
...namely--me.
I taught summer school last year and even went to the trouble of writing in red marker a fairly large note to myself to UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES TEACH SUMMER SCHOOL EVER EVER AGAIN. I posted the note on my bathroom mirror and looked at every single morning and every single night for nearly 350 days.
Last year I knew knew knew! that come the following May when the sign up sheet was passed around at the faculty meeting, I would think: Oh, it wasn't that bad. It's quick money. It's two weeks. Who really needs to sleep in that much? Who really needs 2 months in a row off?
Well, the note was a premptive move that failed. Miserably. Why? Because while it is true that I saw it on the bathroom mirror as I washed my face every morning and every night for a year, I also saw the slightest-oh-just-the-very-slightest burgeoning of what the fine lines across my forehead (F#%&!!!!zzzz).
Which brings me to my next and not wholly unrelated point: A few days shy of my birthday I can say that 31 is the new 30. 30 does not seem different than 29, but my oh my by the time one reaches 31 things have undeniably begun to fall apart (or at least crease a bit).
Which brings me back to my first point. I, despite the clever note to self, signed up for summer school again this year. I realized that in only two days I could make enough money to cover my first vial of Botox. Now, some (mom!)may say that getting Botox at the age of 30 is premature. Others (liars!) may say that it is something they would never ever do. I, however, am neither "some" nor "others," and so I called my dermatologist thinking myself a very prescient* girl. Call it pre-corrective treatment. Spending 80 hours with the flunkees, the scoundrels and the general delinquents when I could be floating in the pool at Mandalay, I reasoned, would be a small price to pay.
I taught summer school last year and even went to the trouble of writing in red marker a fairly large note to myself to UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES TEACH SUMMER SCHOOL EVER EVER AGAIN. I posted the note on my bathroom mirror and looked at every single morning and every single night for nearly 350 days.
Last year I knew knew knew! that come the following May when the sign up sheet was passed around at the faculty meeting, I would think: Oh, it wasn't that bad. It's quick money. It's two weeks. Who really needs to sleep in that much? Who really needs 2 months in a row off?
Well, the note was a premptive move that failed. Miserably. Why? Because while it is true that I saw it on the bathroom mirror as I washed my face every morning and every night for a year, I also saw the slightest-oh-just-the-very-slightest burgeoning of what the fine lines across my forehead (F#%&!!!!zzzz).
Which brings me to my next and not wholly unrelated point: A few days shy of my birthday I can say that 31 is the new 30. 30 does not seem different than 29, but my oh my by the time one reaches 31 things have undeniably begun to fall apart (or at least crease a bit).
Which brings me back to my first point. I, despite the clever note to self, signed up for summer school again this year. I realized that in only two days I could make enough money to cover my first vial of Botox. Now, some (mom!)may say that getting Botox at the age of 30 is premature. Others (liars!) may say that it is something they would never ever do. I, however, am neither "some" nor "others," and so I called my dermatologist thinking myself a very prescient* girl. Call it pre-corrective treatment. Spending 80 hours with the flunkees, the scoundrels and the general delinquents when I could be floating in the pool at Mandalay, I reasoned, would be a small price to pay.
Monday, June 22, 2009
four days is not "always" part two
By the end of the night, Bird realized that the Hardy shirt had been misleading. Robert, in fact, was a Nevadan cowboy. He grew up on a ranch 15 miles outside of Las Vegas near the California border. He was no secret agent or up and coming casino mogul, which is what boys who pay $150 for a t-shirt usually hope to suggest.
"Poser," said Ullah as she fished for something in her purse.
"Any. WAY," said Bird. "He seemed sweet. I thought, well, why the hell not?"
Turns out, there were several reasons why the hell not.
Bird gave Robert her number and before she even made it home that night, he texted her:
IT REALLY WAS A PLEASURE TO MEET U. LUNCH TOMORROW? YOU SAID IT WAS YOUR DAY OFF, RIGHT?"
At this point, Bird was flattered. It had been her experience that most men wait the standard three days before calling. Usually eight in Vegas. She ended up meeting him at Roadrunner the next day, and the two of them had a very civilized conversation.
"He was nice. Seemed fun. I liked his company," explained Bird.
"She's the kind of girl that likes company alright" said Ullah before the waxer beckoned for her to go to the back room.
After lunch, which Robert insisted on paying for, Bird drove back to her condo off Blue Diamond to nap before heading out to her moonlighting gig as an ambiance model at Tryst. (Yes, such a position exists in Vegas and it is exactly what it sounds like--gorgeous people are paid $30/hour to make it look like gorgeous people fill the clubs for the totally fair $30 cover).
Before Bird pulled in the driveway her cell rang. It was Robert.
"So it's Robert, and he calls me Birdy! I was like, 'Birdy?' and then he wants to know if he can call me that. I was like 'Ummm, OK.'"
Robert went on to tell her what a nice time he had at lunch with her and that he might swing by Tryst later on if that would be OK. Bird tried to politely explain that she would be busy and would feel bad because she wouldn't be able to talk to him much, which of course was a total lie--all ambiance models do is look gorgeous and talk. But Bird was starting to feel just the tiniest bit smothered.
"I mean, I've known this guy for like 18 hours and he's down my throat, but he's so damn nice so I tell him to come by."
Which he did.
"At 9 pm--a time that anyone who has ever been to a club in Vegas knows is the time that only the employees, the losers who don't want to pay a cover or concierges' neices from Idaho show up," explains Bird and her eyes get really big as she says this. "I mean, duh."
According to Bird Robert stuck by her side until nearly 4 in the morning. Her boss, who thought she should have been mingling with other guests, gave her dirty looks all night. But--Robert was nice. And Robert, unlike all the other guests, was not getting on plane in a few hours.
"OMG," said Ullah, back from her bikini wax. "Are you still freaking telling this story? Let me finish."
Ullah's eyebrows were red. She sprang for the works. "I'll just retouch them on photobucket.com if we take any pictures tonight."
"So anyway," said Ullah. "Robert called Bird like 25 times in the next day and a half. Wednesday night he called her again and asked her to come to his place for dinner. And Bird...I'm sorry, Bird, but it is the freaking truth...and Bird being the naive one accepts his invitation."
"So what?" interjects Bird. "It was nice. It was freaking nice for him to invite me over for dinner."
"Um, yeah," said Ullah as she licks her finger and smooths over her brows while looking in the mirror. "Yeah, it was real nice that you show up Thursday night at his place, which happens to be his parents' place and then you go on to meet not only his parents, but his two sisters, little brother, his aunt and uncle and his freaking dog."
"It was his cat."
"Same difference. Yeah, Elle, do you freaking believe that?"
I barely do.
"What did you do, Bird?"
"I ate and then of course on my way home he called me to tell me what a nice time he had and would I mind meeting him for breakfast in the morning?"
Ick.
Bird couldn't come up with any valid excuse, so she told him she would meet him at the Pancake House at Green Valley at noon. Robert was obviously happy to hear this, but then he wanted to talk on the phone some more.
"I couldn't take it. So, I told him I needed some space. I mean J freaking Christ. I couldn't breath at that point."
"What did he say?"
"He started to cry. OMG! He started to cry. He said he didn't understand why I was acting this way. I was like 'What way?' He said he was just so used to me being there for him. That I was always there."
And this is when Bird said flatly making eye contact with me in the mirror: Since when is four days "always?"
"Poser," said Ullah as she fished for something in her purse.
"Any. WAY," said Bird. "He seemed sweet. I thought, well, why the hell not?"
Turns out, there were several reasons why the hell not.
Bird gave Robert her number and before she even made it home that night, he texted her:
IT REALLY WAS A PLEASURE TO MEET U. LUNCH TOMORROW? YOU SAID IT WAS YOUR DAY OFF, RIGHT?"
At this point, Bird was flattered. It had been her experience that most men wait the standard three days before calling. Usually eight in Vegas. She ended up meeting him at Roadrunner the next day, and the two of them had a very civilized conversation.
"He was nice. Seemed fun. I liked his company," explained Bird.
"She's the kind of girl that likes company alright" said Ullah before the waxer beckoned for her to go to the back room.
After lunch, which Robert insisted on paying for, Bird drove back to her condo off Blue Diamond to nap before heading out to her moonlighting gig as an ambiance model at Tryst. (Yes, such a position exists in Vegas and it is exactly what it sounds like--gorgeous people are paid $30/hour to make it look like gorgeous people fill the clubs for the totally fair $30 cover).
Before Bird pulled in the driveway her cell rang. It was Robert.
"So it's Robert, and he calls me Birdy! I was like, 'Birdy?' and then he wants to know if he can call me that. I was like 'Ummm, OK.'"
Robert went on to tell her what a nice time he had at lunch with her and that he might swing by Tryst later on if that would be OK. Bird tried to politely explain that she would be busy and would feel bad because she wouldn't be able to talk to him much, which of course was a total lie--all ambiance models do is look gorgeous and talk. But Bird was starting to feel just the tiniest bit smothered.
"I mean, I've known this guy for like 18 hours and he's down my throat, but he's so damn nice so I tell him to come by."
Which he did.
"At 9 pm--a time that anyone who has ever been to a club in Vegas knows is the time that only the employees, the losers who don't want to pay a cover or concierges' neices from Idaho show up," explains Bird and her eyes get really big as she says this. "I mean, duh."
According to Bird Robert stuck by her side until nearly 4 in the morning. Her boss, who thought she should have been mingling with other guests, gave her dirty looks all night. But--Robert was nice. And Robert, unlike all the other guests, was not getting on plane in a few hours.
"OMG," said Ullah, back from her bikini wax. "Are you still freaking telling this story? Let me finish."
Ullah's eyebrows were red. She sprang for the works. "I'll just retouch them on photobucket.com if we take any pictures tonight."
"So anyway," said Ullah. "Robert called Bird like 25 times in the next day and a half. Wednesday night he called her again and asked her to come to his place for dinner. And Bird...I'm sorry, Bird, but it is the freaking truth...and Bird being the naive one accepts his invitation."
"So what?" interjects Bird. "It was nice. It was freaking nice for him to invite me over for dinner."
"Um, yeah," said Ullah as she licks her finger and smooths over her brows while looking in the mirror. "Yeah, it was real nice that you show up Thursday night at his place, which happens to be his parents' place and then you go on to meet not only his parents, but his two sisters, little brother, his aunt and uncle and his freaking dog."
"It was his cat."
"Same difference. Yeah, Elle, do you freaking believe that?"
I barely do.
"What did you do, Bird?"
"I ate and then of course on my way home he called me to tell me what a nice time he had and would I mind meeting him for breakfast in the morning?"
Ick.
Bird couldn't come up with any valid excuse, so she told him she would meet him at the Pancake House at Green Valley at noon. Robert was obviously happy to hear this, but then he wanted to talk on the phone some more.
"I couldn't take it. So, I told him I needed some space. I mean J freaking Christ. I couldn't breath at that point."
"What did he say?"
"He started to cry. OMG! He started to cry. He said he didn't understand why I was acting this way. I was like 'What way?' He said he was just so used to me being there for him. That I was always there."
And this is when Bird said flatly making eye contact with me in the mirror: Since when is four days "always?"
four days is not "always" part one
In relationships, persistant women are called "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence." Persistant men are called "stalkers."
At first glance, this may seem one of the few instances when men end up with the shorter end of the stick when it comes to double standards. And yet, a stalker at least has the privilege of flying his freak flag, which in many ways makes him easy to dismiss as simply "crazy," rather than catagorizing him as someone who is otherwise sane and, well, quite frankly, wants too much for herself, as we often do with women.
It is true that women make some of the most formidable stalkers, oftentimes adding a feminine finesse that is otherwise lacking. And it is also true that otherwise sane men are sometimes "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence"--even by the second date. Take Bird's story.
Bird is a normal girl living in Las Vegas. She is 22, a native of Tallahassee, and a talented colorist who has a knack for doing exactly what her clients ask her to do, unless she thinks they are wrong. And in this case, she simply does something better.
I have a standing appointment for highlights, a trim and a blow out with her every five weeks. I don't need a gossip magazine while she works--J.Lo, LiLo, or JoJo has nothing on her. Bird's escapades across the slippery landscape of Sin City are second to no one's and yet somehow defiantly typical of the women who live here.
Friday's story was especially entertaining since Ullah, Bird's roommate, was sitting nearby waiting to have a Brazilian done. It went something like this:
Bird met Robert at Blue Martini on the previous Sunday night. She was out with Ullah and a few other single friends. Any relationship-minded girl in Vegas knows that Blue Martini is one of a handful of places where at least 50% of the males will NOT be boarding a plane back to Sacramento or Buffalo, broke and hungover, on Monday morning. Women in big cities all over the country can whine about the dismal prospects of any given night out, with many of the hazards unique to the particular location--entitled egos on Wall Street, early morning football practice in Dallas, stringent religious rules in Salt Lake--but Vegas women, more so than women in any other city, can complain about the fact that their city's tourism department has made it the official slogan that what happens or WHO HAPPENS here should stay here. Ouch.
So Bird and the girls knew they had a 50/50 shot at finding local boys. Of those, at least half would be at least semi-employed--otherwise the $20 drinks would be prohibitive. Not bad odds.
Within moments, Bird saw Robert across the way.
"I nudged Ullah immediately and said 'There's my man.' He was freaking beautiful."
"He was so NOT beautiful, Bird," quipped Ullah. "You liked his freaking shirt."
"I did not like his freaking shirt. I didn't even notice his freaking shirt."
Ullah raised her eyebrow. "Uh huh." She then turned to me in the mirror and said, "What. Ev. Er. She liked his freaking shirt." Ullah is from Jersey, which means she has that innate talent to make you believe that whatever she is saying is the obvious truth, morons.
"OK. So I liked his shirt. It was Hardy. Even if his face wasn't that great."
(Hardy shirts, on the west coast, possess the qualifying signals of a male's ability to provide for a woman and her offspring or at least to buy her a membership at Anthem country club, as say, a Benz or Rolex on the east coast. The shirts are actually the locus of a growing schism between west coasters--you are other all for them or they make you kind of nauseous in the same kind of way eating too much cake or cotton candy does. Trust me, Issue 8 has nothing on this.)
Anway, Bird, despite Ullah's obvious indifference, walked right up to Robert and introduced herself.
At first glance, this may seem one of the few instances when men end up with the shorter end of the stick when it comes to double standards. And yet, a stalker at least has the privilege of flying his freak flag, which in many ways makes him easy to dismiss as simply "crazy," rather than catagorizing him as someone who is otherwise sane and, well, quite frankly, wants too much for herself, as we often do with women.
It is true that women make some of the most formidable stalkers, oftentimes adding a feminine finesse that is otherwise lacking. And it is also true that otherwise sane men are sometimes "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence"--even by the second date. Take Bird's story.
Bird is a normal girl living in Las Vegas. She is 22, a native of Tallahassee, and a talented colorist who has a knack for doing exactly what her clients ask her to do, unless she thinks they are wrong. And in this case, she simply does something better.
I have a standing appointment for highlights, a trim and a blow out with her every five weeks. I don't need a gossip magazine while she works--J.Lo, LiLo, or JoJo has nothing on her. Bird's escapades across the slippery landscape of Sin City are second to no one's and yet somehow defiantly typical of the women who live here.
Friday's story was especially entertaining since Ullah, Bird's roommate, was sitting nearby waiting to have a Brazilian done. It went something like this:
Bird met Robert at Blue Martini on the previous Sunday night. She was out with Ullah and a few other single friends. Any relationship-minded girl in Vegas knows that Blue Martini is one of a handful of places where at least 50% of the males will NOT be boarding a plane back to Sacramento or Buffalo, broke and hungover, on Monday morning. Women in big cities all over the country can whine about the dismal prospects of any given night out, with many of the hazards unique to the particular location--entitled egos on Wall Street, early morning football practice in Dallas, stringent religious rules in Salt Lake--but Vegas women, more so than women in any other city, can complain about the fact that their city's tourism department has made it the official slogan that what happens or WHO HAPPENS here should stay here. Ouch.
So Bird and the girls knew they had a 50/50 shot at finding local boys. Of those, at least half would be at least semi-employed--otherwise the $20 drinks would be prohibitive. Not bad odds.
Within moments, Bird saw Robert across the way.
"I nudged Ullah immediately and said 'There's my man.' He was freaking beautiful."
"He was so NOT beautiful, Bird," quipped Ullah. "You liked his freaking shirt."
"I did not like his freaking shirt. I didn't even notice his freaking shirt."
Ullah raised her eyebrow. "Uh huh." She then turned to me in the mirror and said, "What. Ev. Er. She liked his freaking shirt." Ullah is from Jersey, which means she has that innate talent to make you believe that whatever she is saying is the obvious truth, morons.
"OK. So I liked his shirt. It was Hardy. Even if his face wasn't that great."
(Hardy shirts, on the west coast, possess the qualifying signals of a male's ability to provide for a woman and her offspring or at least to buy her a membership at Anthem country club, as say, a Benz or Rolex on the east coast. The shirts are actually the locus of a growing schism between west coasters--you are other all for them or they make you kind of nauseous in the same kind of way eating too much cake or cotton candy does. Trust me, Issue 8 has nothing on this.)
Anway, Bird, despite Ullah's obvious indifference, walked right up to Robert and introduced herself.
Friday, June 12, 2009
the hangover
...the movie, not mine.
This film fits squarely in the Smut catagory and I would never ever admit to seeing it if it wasn't so hilariously, if grotesquely, funny. Per my directions for partaking in Smut, I followed my own advice and went alone. I had no intention of telling even Bliss that I was going to see it Wednesday night but gave myself away when he called afterwards, and I couldn't stop laughing. No, really, baby, Revolutionary Road is freaking hilarious. He didn't buy it. The fact that The Hangover, which is a cautionary tale about a bachelor party in Vegas gone very very wrong (or right, depending on one's degree of--made up word alert--dementedness), hit the spot might have had something to do with the fact that I see these man-children roving in blue-button-up-clad groups every single night I am out. They seem as indigenous to Sin City as dirt. What irks me most is that these man-children are utterly oblivious to their total lack of originality*. They think their predatory strut, their encounters with strippers named Cheyenne, and their tequila shot tally are all things they have come up with on their own. Not so! In the two years I have lived here I have personally driven to the ER four times after an old high school friend was found naked in one of the casinos' fountains and put on an IV drip due to (gasp) alcohol-induced dehydration. Four times I have brought these boys back to the house and allowed them to sleep it off on my couch. I've let them down easy when they awake 18 hours after their return flight has left. I've nursed them back to health with pancakes and Gatorade. I've called their fiances. I've called their mothers. As they struggle to recall WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, I've nodded my head, shook my head and gasped in disbelief, letting them believe: You are the craziest, wildest, most "off the hook" (gagging here) guy who has ever come to party in Vegas! Damn. They should write you up in Frommers.
*In the name of fairness, I must say that in NO WAY are the boa/crown/is-it-a-shirt or-a-skirt wearing bachelorette party girls less pandemic or tiresome.
This film fits squarely in the Smut catagory and I would never ever admit to seeing it if it wasn't so hilariously, if grotesquely, funny. Per my directions for partaking in Smut, I followed my own advice and went alone. I had no intention of telling even Bliss that I was going to see it Wednesday night but gave myself away when he called afterwards, and I couldn't stop laughing. No, really, baby, Revolutionary Road is freaking hilarious. He didn't buy it. The fact that The Hangover, which is a cautionary tale about a bachelor party in Vegas gone very very wrong (or right, depending on one's degree of--made up word alert--dementedness), hit the spot might have had something to do with the fact that I see these man-children roving in blue-button-up-clad groups every single night I am out. They seem as indigenous to Sin City as dirt. What irks me most is that these man-children are utterly oblivious to their total lack of originality*. They think their predatory strut, their encounters with strippers named Cheyenne, and their tequila shot tally are all things they have come up with on their own. Not so! In the two years I have lived here I have personally driven to the ER four times after an old high school friend was found naked in one of the casinos' fountains and put on an IV drip due to (gasp) alcohol-induced dehydration. Four times I have brought these boys back to the house and allowed them to sleep it off on my couch. I've let them down easy when they awake 18 hours after their return flight has left. I've nursed them back to health with pancakes and Gatorade. I've called their fiances. I've called their mothers. As they struggle to recall WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, I've nodded my head, shook my head and gasped in disbelief, letting them believe: You are the craziest, wildest, most "off the hook" (gagging here) guy who has ever come to party in Vegas! Damn. They should write you up in Frommers.
*In the name of fairness, I must say that in NO WAY are the boa/crown/is-it-a-shirt or-a-skirt wearing bachelorette party girls less pandemic or tiresome.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
the list
My recommendations--
Fluff: "Cheaper Than Therapy" in the July issue of Marie Clairemagazine. An earnest, if surfacy, look at how five modern career woman have turned away and then toward religion. While more of a glance, rather than a hard look, at how Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, Judaism and Protestantism provided the answers these woman were looking for, a commendable attempt by a consumer magazine to delve below the shallow waters of eyeshadow shades and hemline lengths.
Smut: Intouch magazine's zillionith article about Lindsay Lohan's fluctuating weight and sexuality. One redeeming factor: brings up interesting game to play by yourself in your head while waiting in line at the DMV or having blood drawn. Li.LO and J.LO are not the only ones who get a cool two-syllable moniker. It works for everyone! Mo.MO, J.WO, Phi.NA, Li.RI. Go ahead, try it with your own name and then with the name of every person you've ever known. You know you want to.
Culturally Relevant: Spent by Geoffrey Miller, an evolutionary psychologist who explains the burgeoning connections between evolution, sex and human consumerism. Marketers and snobs take heed: reading this book is the equivalent of someone throwing cold water in your face.
"Crazy Talk: Oprah, Wacky Cures & You" in the June 8th issue of Newsweek. Weston Kosova and Pat Wingert call Oprah out on the flimsy, often downright inaccurate medical advice spewed forth by the guests on her show. It's. About. Time. Most intelligent article I've read in Newsweek in a looooong time. Check out, too, the publications new layout, which makes it look like The Economist or The Atlantic, though it still reads like its usual left-wing, watchdog fodder.
New finds:
Best Life : A magazine about "what matters to men." Useful for women who were afraid that their husbands and boyfriends were secretly like the men who write and edit Maxim.
Engagement 101 Magazine: The Magazine to Read BEFORE You Get Engaged (emphasis mine). I'm split as to whether I should throw up or applaud this brilliant, if shameless, marketing move by the publishers.
e.
New find:
Fluff: "Cheaper Than Therapy" in the July issue of Marie Clairemagazine. An earnest, if surfacy, look at how five modern career woman have turned away and then toward religion. While more of a glance, rather than a hard look, at how Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, Judaism and Protestantism provided the answers these woman were looking for, a commendable attempt by a consumer magazine to delve below the shallow waters of eyeshadow shades and hemline lengths.
Smut: Intouch magazine's zillionith article about Lindsay Lohan's fluctuating weight and sexuality. One redeeming factor: brings up interesting game to play by yourself in your head while waiting in line at the DMV or having blood drawn. Li.LO and J.LO are not the only ones who get a cool two-syllable moniker. It works for everyone! Mo.MO, J.WO, Phi.NA, Li.RI. Go ahead, try it with your own name and then with the name of every person you've ever known. You know you want to.
Culturally Relevant: Spent by Geoffrey Miller, an evolutionary psychologist who explains the burgeoning connections between evolution, sex and human consumerism. Marketers and snobs take heed: reading this book is the equivalent of someone throwing cold water in your face.
"Crazy Talk: Oprah, Wacky Cures & You" in the June 8th issue of Newsweek. Weston Kosova and Pat Wingert call Oprah out on the flimsy, often downright inaccurate medical advice spewed forth by the guests on her show. It's. About. Time. Most intelligent article I've read in Newsweek in a looooong time. Check out, too, the publications new layout, which makes it look like The Economist or The Atlantic, though it still reads like its usual left-wing, watchdog fodder.
New finds:
Best Life : A magazine about "what matters to men." Useful for women who were afraid that their husbands and boyfriends were secretly like the men who write and edit Maxim.
Engagement 101 Magazine: The Magazine to Read BEFORE You Get Engaged (emphasis mine). I'm split as to whether I should throw up or applaud this brilliant, if shameless, marketing move by the publishers.
e.
New find:
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
smut, fluff and culturally relevant specimens
Contrary to popular assumption, English teachers do not read Shakespeare over the summer. In fact, it is not a stretch to say that we make up a signficant portion of the readership of publications like InStyle, People, and Oprah Magazine between the months of May and September (Vogue is post-summer reading, due to it's serious treatment of the current season's on-trend eyelash length and the generous sprinkling of foreign surnames and words like "haute couture").
I admit to devouring the written word year round, but in the summer the spam filters are turned off and, therefore, I find myself more often than not reading one of the two of the following:
FLUFF.
Fluff may be defined as any irrelevant and mostly benign specimen of modern culture. It garners you cheery inclusion among the staff at the nail salon, your remedial summer English class, and 95% of tourists from LA. Fluff, I have found, is the perfect antidote to maybe Macbeth, and certainly remedial summer English class essays, and fat days. Examples include Angels and Demons, Twilight,Glamour magazine, and any book that if made into a movie would star Cameron Diaz. Instructions for use are simple: don dark sunglasses, stear clear of any casino pools where bored, spoiled (i.e. unemployed) Canyon Day School students hang out in between golf lessons with Tiger Woods and microdermabrasion appointments at Red Rock, and read away with dignity in tact.
SMUT.
Smut may be defined as any irrelevant and slightly insulting specimen of modern culture that must not, under any circumstance, be seen in your hands. Smut is the antidote to nothing. It is the only suitable reward after a day of teaching a remedial English summer class while your more fortunate contemporaries are writing a travel story from Bali. Examples include Newsweek , romance novels, and Cosmopolitan magazine* or any book that if made into a film would star Lindsay Lohan.** Instructions for use are just as simple as those for fluff, though failure to comply perfectly is hazardous: don dark sunglasses, feign that said publications are for your 12-year-old cousin who is suffering from mono at the check out line at Vons,and peruse only in the privacy of your bubble bath, preferably with a dry martini or shot of Goose to loosen yourself up and calm any self-depricating scoffing. Delve in only after too drunk to care about dignity or any other multi-syllabic word.
CULTURALLY RELEVANT PIECES of WRITING.
Culturally relevant pieces of writing are, ironically, not that relevant. In fact, mentioning such an article or book during a dinner party discussion while seated at the (presumably) grown-up table will most likely bring about blank stares or a strategical verbal volley--usually a reference to LeBron's shooting average in last night's NBA game. Reference to Bill Buckley or Toni Morrison offers a paltry return in both conversation and peer-group esteem at best and the presumption that you are just showing off at worst. Examples include 95% ofThe Atlantic, any play by Oscar Wilde and any book that if turned into a film would star Johnny Depp, Leonardo DiCaprio or Meryl Streep. Directions for use are even more simple than for Fluff and Smut: Unless you are discussing it with the man you are sleeping with (who, of course, given your general good taste would not meet you with a blank stare when you cross reference Salome with the bible), keep it to yourself.
I admit to devouring the written word year round, but in the summer the spam filters are turned off and, therefore, I find myself more often than not reading one of the two of the following:
FLUFF.
Fluff may be defined as any irrelevant and mostly benign specimen of modern culture. It garners you cheery inclusion among the staff at the nail salon, your remedial summer English class, and 95% of tourists from LA. Fluff, I have found, is the perfect antidote to maybe Macbeth, and certainly remedial summer English class essays, and fat days. Examples include Angels and Demons, Twilight,Glamour magazine, and any book that if made into a movie would star Cameron Diaz. Instructions for use are simple: don dark sunglasses, stear clear of any casino pools where bored, spoiled (i.e. unemployed) Canyon Day School students hang out in between golf lessons with Tiger Woods and microdermabrasion appointments at Red Rock, and read away with dignity in tact.
SMUT.
Smut may be defined as any irrelevant and slightly insulting specimen of modern culture that must not, under any circumstance, be seen in your hands. Smut is the antidote to nothing. It is the only suitable reward after a day of teaching a remedial English summer class while your more fortunate contemporaries are writing a travel story from Bali. Examples include Newsweek , romance novels, and Cosmopolitan magazine* or any book that if made into a film would star Lindsay Lohan.** Instructions for use are just as simple as those for fluff, though failure to comply perfectly is hazardous: don dark sunglasses, feign that said publications are for your 12-year-old cousin who is suffering from mono at the check out line at Vons,and peruse only in the privacy of your bubble bath, preferably with a dry martini or shot of Goose to loosen yourself up and calm any self-depricating scoffing. Delve in only after too drunk to care about dignity or any other multi-syllabic word.
CULTURALLY RELEVANT PIECES of WRITING.
Culturally relevant pieces of writing are, ironically, not that relevant. In fact, mentioning such an article or book during a dinner party discussion while seated at the (presumably) grown-up table will most likely bring about blank stares or a strategical verbal volley--usually a reference to LeBron's shooting average in last night's NBA game. Reference to Bill Buckley or Toni Morrison offers a paltry return in both conversation and peer-group esteem at best and the presumption that you are just showing off at worst. Examples include 95% ofThe Atlantic, any play by Oscar Wilde and any book that if turned into a film would star Johnny Depp, Leonardo DiCaprio or Meryl Streep. Directions for use are even more simple than for Fluff and Smut: Unless you are discussing it with the man you are sleeping with (who, of course, given your general good taste would not meet you with a blank stare when you cross reference Salome with the bible), keep it to yourself.
Monday, June 8, 2009
i love this song, part two
Like I said, wrong.
Colin Cowie had been there.
And Christian Louboutin, Alexander McQueen, Salvatore Ferragamo and a bit of Baby Phat (for it's slutty-but-not-easy cred, which is the card every self-respecting Vegas girl plays) were there, too, on the soles and the tags of the dolls on prom court, who looked more Pussy Cat and less Barbie. And yes, I'm rolling my eyes as I write this.
There was a throng of tipsy, silicon-pumped mothers fluffing their spawn's Oscar Blandi extensions (flown in special for requisite show of conspicious consumption) with their Mason Pearson brushes and smoothing their progeny's custom-designed eyebrows by Anastasia (also flown in special--Anastasia, not the eyebrows, which--according to resident Perez Hilton wannabe Zacharay Sanders--caused an unmendable rift between (formally) BFFs Zenith Michaels and Natasha W.--yes, that W). It was during this moment that it struck me what upper echelon genes (stripper genes!) populate Vegas. Why I hadn't noticed before, I don't know. The equation is simple: dashing, successful hotel and casino magnate plus reformed Spearmint Rhino girl= Canyon Day School coed. Regardless of insinuations, no one can deny the exceedingly high hotornot.com scores of the offspring.
For some reason this display of Vegas flash and maternal mettling made me want to text Bliss, who was attending an affair at the Mandarin Oriental in New York, where there were real, live grown-ups and presumbably adult conversations in progress (something I have yet to experience at any affair in Sin City). Given my self-imposed "break," to text Bliss would be breaking my own rules I knew, but I was suddenly possessed by a horrible thought: at that very minute he was charming a crudite-nibbling, leggy brunette by deliberately trying not to charm her. I couldn't help but to imagine it--Bliss, with martini in hand, had stopped mid sip as said crudite-nibbling, leggy brunette (let's call her Nadia) helped herself to his olive, sucking it off the little black sword and then making an offhand comment about how she love, oh my god just love, a man in a tie it must have someting to do with the fact that she go to an all-girls school yes the kind wit ve short skirts and knee highs and oh my god vose St. Petersburg Academy boys across the river vas always too yummy for her to standing.
Now given that Bliss is Bliss, in response to Nadia he would most certainly say something conspicious about his current "taken" status. He would mention something brilliant, like how his girlfriend (me) named her first dog Olive and how he had never ever pictured himself as a small dog kind of guy until I, by the grace of God, sauntered into his life and how he will be lonely without me and Olive sleeping next to him tonight in the hotel. He would laugh, amused by his own brilliance in fending the vixen off without being impolite. He would be oblivious to the fact that in Manhattan "taken" loosely translates into "worth stealing." Yeah, that conjugation-challenged harlot was about to go down when Beatrice Longfellow tapped me on the shoulder.
"eLLe, you're in charge of the nameplates. They are listed alpabetically. Can you handle that? Once Mr. Bone wands them, they'll check in with you to see where they sit for dinner, k? You got that?"
Colin Cowie had been there.
And Christian Louboutin, Alexander McQueen, Salvatore Ferragamo and a bit of Baby Phat (for it's slutty-but-not-easy cred, which is the card every self-respecting Vegas girl plays) were there, too, on the soles and the tags of the dolls on prom court, who looked more Pussy Cat and less Barbie. And yes, I'm rolling my eyes as I write this.
There was a throng of tipsy, silicon-pumped mothers fluffing their spawn's Oscar Blandi extensions (flown in special for requisite show of conspicious consumption) with their Mason Pearson brushes and smoothing their progeny's custom-designed eyebrows by Anastasia (also flown in special--Anastasia, not the eyebrows, which--according to resident Perez Hilton wannabe Zacharay Sanders--caused an unmendable rift between (formally) BFFs Zenith Michaels and Natasha W.--yes, that W). It was during this moment that it struck me what upper echelon genes (stripper genes!) populate Vegas. Why I hadn't noticed before, I don't know. The equation is simple: dashing, successful hotel and casino magnate plus reformed Spearmint Rhino girl= Canyon Day School coed. Regardless of insinuations, no one can deny the exceedingly high hotornot.com scores of the offspring.
For some reason this display of Vegas flash and maternal mettling made me want to text Bliss, who was attending an affair at the Mandarin Oriental in New York, where there were real, live grown-ups and presumbably adult conversations in progress (something I have yet to experience at any affair in Sin City). Given my self-imposed "break," to text Bliss would be breaking my own rules I knew, but I was suddenly possessed by a horrible thought: at that very minute he was charming a crudite-nibbling, leggy brunette by deliberately trying not to charm her. I couldn't help but to imagine it--Bliss, with martini in hand, had stopped mid sip as said crudite-nibbling, leggy brunette (let's call her Nadia) helped herself to his olive, sucking it off the little black sword and then making an offhand comment about how she love, oh my god just love, a man in a tie it must have someting to do with the fact that she go to an all-girls school yes the kind wit ve short skirts and knee highs and oh my god vose St. Petersburg Academy boys across the river vas always too yummy for her to standing.
Now given that Bliss is Bliss, in response to Nadia he would most certainly say something conspicious about his current "taken" status. He would mention something brilliant, like how his girlfriend (me) named her first dog Olive and how he had never ever pictured himself as a small dog kind of guy until I, by the grace of God, sauntered into his life and how he will be lonely without me and Olive sleeping next to him tonight in the hotel. He would laugh, amused by his own brilliance in fending the vixen off without being impolite. He would be oblivious to the fact that in Manhattan "taken" loosely translates into "worth stealing." Yeah, that conjugation-challenged harlot was about to go down when Beatrice Longfellow tapped me on the shoulder.
"eLLe, you're in charge of the nameplates. They are listed alpabetically. Can you handle that? Once Mr. Bone wands them, they'll check in with you to see where they sit for dinner, k? You got that?"
Sunday, May 3, 2009
I love this song, part one
Roped in by Activities Director Beatrice Longfellow (think Patty Simcox four years after graduation with big hair) to chaperone The Canyon Day School Junior and Senior prom. You may or may not be wondering how a 4'10" dimple-cheeked, Merle-Norman-wearing brunette could possibly talk me into voluntarily spending my Saturday night with 400 high school students. She's from Jersey. That's how.*
Anyway, after careful deliberation regarding my attire (such a fine line between "nice" and "Nevada Teacher in Slammer after Downing Cherry Bombs with Sophomore Track Star in Freemont Street Area Bar," I put on something boring and drove to what is arguably the swankest of the casinos. As I pulled up to the valet I debated for a what seemed to be an inordinately and unnessesarily (oh, alright...and pathetically)long time whether to bring my cell phone inside with me. The self-imposed communication ban with Bliss due to his recent conversion to the democratic party was becoming increasingly tenuous, even only five days in. Caving, I knew, would be easy that evening since he was in New York attending a very grown up work function at The Mandarin Hotel (replete with top-shelf cocktails, champagne and a bevy of leggy--and no doubt liberal,laid back, and utterly non-verbal--Eastern European models who shared an apartment in the Village and who were sent in for the sake of atmosphere after Bliss's boss doubtlessly made a phone call to his old college roommate who is a top fashion photographer in the city)while I was holding a punch ladle and doing bathroom duty, which, by the way, would not factor in as any sort of valid deterent towards keeping Emily T.and Natasha W. from snorting coke in the third stall--it was, after all, Natasha's daddy's casino and therefore, as she oh so logically explained, his third stall as well. Duh.
I tossed the phone on the passenger side seat, handed over my keys, and at the very moment prior to stepping through the rotating door of the casino made a realization that would sadly be the high point and the only worthwhile 5 seconds of my evening: Valet was making me fat.
"Ma'am, excuse moi, may I help you find where you are going?"
A lanky, somewhat gender-ambigious casino host stepped in front of me.
Ma'am?
"Oh I'm OK, uh, Pat (from Louisville, Kentucky according to his/her nametag). I know where I'm going. I see it's right that way," I said nodding toward Claire and Deirdre who were standing across the lobby at the bottom of the escalator, which snaked it's way upward around a 30 foot dripping chandelier.
"Kelly!" Claire yelled out waving her hand (yes, an admittedly bad joke among the three of us made in a feeble attempt to laugh when we really wanted to cry over our sorry Saturday night fate that Claire was Brenda and Deirdre was Donna and I was Kelly Freaking Taylor from the new 90210. Go ahead, cringe with me).
"Ah, Mademoiselle Kelly, you are here for the Canyon Day School prom. How vonderul."
Yes, how vucking vonderful, Pat from Louisville, Kenvuckingtucky.
"Do you have a son or a daughter attending this evening?"
I screamed in my head for a second and then sidestepped this stalker.
"Great, I said to Claire who was wearing her high school prom dress, "I'm not Kelly Taylor. Oh no, I'm Cindy Walsh."
Claire flashed a confused look and before I could explain came from behind us the sonorous voice of Tammy Faye, the school's requisite cougar. "Girls, you look gorgeous." Tammy Faye (an alias if you didn't catch that)is not the pitiful, washed-up, desperate kind of cougar. She's the smoking hot, whip smart, The Police's Don't Stand So Close to Me kind of cougar and so, it's impossible to entirely hate her (for, let's be honest in the Worst Case Scenario she was what of any of us would hope to be).
"You should the group of boys in the reception room down the hall," she said and then put her finger to her mouth, touched her ass and made some kind of syllabic hissing sound (this, of course, was grounds for complete abhorrance and best depicts my emotional conundrum regarding the Science Department Chair).
The four of us took the escalator up to the mezzanine level.
"Look at you," said Deirdre to me. You're wearing white! You have a flower in your hair! I've never seen you look so...(desperate searching)...pretty."
"This is a girl in love," said Tammy Faye.
"I do love the flower," said Claire.
"Just don't eat it," I said flatly, "It's oleander. It'll kill you." And it would.
We entered the ballroom. I don't know why I was so surprised. The Canyon Day School is no ordinary school, so why did I think its prom would be an ordinary prom? I had pictured tables strewn with some confetti and maybe a few candles floating in an oval vase, some helium balloons and a buffet table lined with slightly tarnished silver serving trays.
Wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Anyway, after careful deliberation regarding my attire (such a fine line between "nice" and "Nevada Teacher in Slammer after Downing Cherry Bombs with Sophomore Track Star in Freemont Street Area Bar," I put on something boring and drove to what is arguably the swankest of the casinos. As I pulled up to the valet I debated for a what seemed to be an inordinately and unnessesarily (oh, alright...and pathetically)long time whether to bring my cell phone inside with me. The self-imposed communication ban with Bliss due to his recent conversion to the democratic party was becoming increasingly tenuous, even only five days in. Caving, I knew, would be easy that evening since he was in New York attending a very grown up work function at The Mandarin Hotel (replete with top-shelf cocktails, champagne and a bevy of leggy--and no doubt liberal,laid back, and utterly non-verbal--Eastern European models who shared an apartment in the Village and who were sent in for the sake of atmosphere after Bliss's boss doubtlessly made a phone call to his old college roommate who is a top fashion photographer in the city)while I was holding a punch ladle and doing bathroom duty, which, by the way, would not factor in as any sort of valid deterent towards keeping Emily T.and Natasha W. from snorting coke in the third stall--it was, after all, Natasha's daddy's casino and therefore, as she oh so logically explained, his third stall as well. Duh.
I tossed the phone on the passenger side seat, handed over my keys, and at the very moment prior to stepping through the rotating door of the casino made a realization that would sadly be the high point and the only worthwhile 5 seconds of my evening: Valet was making me fat.
"Ma'am, excuse moi, may I help you find where you are going?"
A lanky, somewhat gender-ambigious casino host stepped in front of me.
Ma'am?
"Oh I'm OK, uh, Pat (from Louisville, Kentucky according to his/her nametag). I know where I'm going. I see it's right that way," I said nodding toward Claire and Deirdre who were standing across the lobby at the bottom of the escalator, which snaked it's way upward around a 30 foot dripping chandelier.
"Kelly!" Claire yelled out waving her hand (yes, an admittedly bad joke among the three of us made in a feeble attempt to laugh when we really wanted to cry over our sorry Saturday night fate that Claire was Brenda and Deirdre was Donna and I was Kelly Freaking Taylor from the new 90210. Go ahead, cringe with me).
"Ah, Mademoiselle Kelly, you are here for the Canyon Day School prom. How vonderul."
Yes, how vucking vonderful, Pat from Louisville, Kenvuckingtucky.
"Do you have a son or a daughter attending this evening?"
I screamed in my head for a second and then sidestepped this stalker.
"Great, I said to Claire who was wearing her high school prom dress, "I'm not Kelly Taylor. Oh no, I'm Cindy Walsh."
Claire flashed a confused look and before I could explain came from behind us the sonorous voice of Tammy Faye, the school's requisite cougar. "Girls, you look gorgeous." Tammy Faye (an alias if you didn't catch that)is not the pitiful, washed-up, desperate kind of cougar. She's the smoking hot, whip smart, The Police's Don't Stand So Close to Me kind of cougar and so, it's impossible to entirely hate her (for, let's be honest in the Worst Case Scenario she was what of any of us would hope to be).
"You should the group of boys in the reception room down the hall," she said and then put her finger to her mouth, touched her ass and made some kind of syllabic hissing sound (this, of course, was grounds for complete abhorrance and best depicts my emotional conundrum regarding the Science Department Chair).
The four of us took the escalator up to the mezzanine level.
"Look at you," said Deirdre to me. You're wearing white! You have a flower in your hair! I've never seen you look so...(desperate searching)...pretty."
"This is a girl in love," said Tammy Faye.
"I do love the flower," said Claire.
"Just don't eat it," I said flatly, "It's oleander. It'll kill you." And it would.
We entered the ballroom. I don't know why I was so surprised. The Canyon Day School is no ordinary school, so why did I think its prom would be an ordinary prom? I had pictured tables strewn with some confetti and maybe a few candles floating in an oval vase, some helium balloons and a buffet table lined with slightly tarnished silver serving trays.
Wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
vegas is a city of odds
Regardless of who you ask, the odds of being struck by lightening are slim.
Some guy on Wiki says 1: 280,000. Scientists are more generous claiming 1: 700,000. And the Brits (those chipper cheery Brits) state 1: 3 million.
On a bit of a roll, I researched a few others.
The odds of being attacked by a shark (not killed--just attacked)are 1 in 11.5 million. The odds of winning the lotto vary, of course, though usually fall somewhere in the 1 to 10-14 million range (or zero to 10-14 million if you don't play, as my mother likes to remind me every Christmas when she gives me a stocking stuffed full with PLEASE NOTE losing lottery tickets without the slightest sense of irony). The odds of both your main and reserve parachutes failing on a jump are less than 1 to a million. And, while there is no official data available regarding the odds of wearing the same dress as your boyfriend's other girlfriend to a mutual friend's wedding, I can personally assure you that it has happened at least once.
It should, therefore, come as no surprise to you that the odds of running into one of your sophomore English students and her impeccably dressed grandmother while trying on a black satin corset (complete with ribbons, lace and other whorrish accoutrements) at Victoria's Secret on an idle Sunday afternoon are IN FACT not insurmountable, as I can once again personally assure you that it has happened at least once.
Ah-hah. True story.
Some guy on Wiki says 1: 280,000. Scientists are more generous claiming 1: 700,000. And the Brits (those chipper cheery Brits) state 1: 3 million.
On a bit of a roll, I researched a few others.
The odds of being attacked by a shark (not killed--just attacked)are 1 in 11.5 million. The odds of winning the lotto vary, of course, though usually fall somewhere in the 1 to 10-14 million range (or zero to 10-14 million if you don't play, as my mother likes to remind me every Christmas when she gives me a stocking stuffed full with PLEASE NOTE losing lottery tickets without the slightest sense of irony). The odds of both your main and reserve parachutes failing on a jump are less than 1 to a million. And, while there is no official data available regarding the odds of wearing the same dress as your boyfriend's other girlfriend to a mutual friend's wedding, I can personally assure you that it has happened at least once.
It should, therefore, come as no surprise to you that the odds of running into one of your sophomore English students and her impeccably dressed grandmother while trying on a black satin corset (complete with ribbons, lace and other whorrish accoutrements) at Victoria's Secret on an idle Sunday afternoon are IN FACT not insurmountable, as I can once again personally assure you that it has happened at least once.
Ah-hah. True story.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
choose the best answer
According to smut and fluff this ahem friend of mine was reading last night (and no, she was NOT in the bathtub with candles lit and no, Nina Simone was NOT playing on her IPOD), the average American woman gains between 10 and 20 pounds after settling into a serious, in-it-for-the-long-haul, monogamous relationship.
(The limitations of our options even in 2009 never cease to infuriate. Choose one: single and skinny or attached and fat. Ponder this for no more than three seconds and then MOVE ON).
According to my ahem friend, a checklist was provided to safeguard against tipping the scales in the wrong direction once Mr. Right shows up. I ran through the list in my head and realized that it was mostly useless. Since 2500 miles separate us 95% of the time, there is little danger of me snuggling on the couch with him every night with a big bowl of chocolate chip ice cream between us or blowing off the gym on a regular basis so that we can linger over a two hour dinner of linguini and wine (both of which are major culprits according to my ahem friend).
This may be the only upside to a long distance relationship. And, in exchange for the constant low-level nausea that plagues me due to our separation, I think I deserve to have all of my jeans fit me the way they did last month (OK maybe the way they did pre-Christmas cookie spree).
I felt a kind of euphoric relief when I realized all of this. And then, just while my eyes were closing (again, NOT when I was soaking in the bathtub NOT listening to Nina Simone's lulling voice) I realized I wasn't in the clear yet.
At that very moment downstairs in the freezer were a box of frozen Twinkies, a gallon of rocky road ice cream, and two boxes of orangecicles. What? When did I turn into the kind of girl who keeps children's frozen novelties in my freezer? It was quiet subterfuge.*
Along with his t-shirts, cufflinks, and toothbrush, a Particular Someone, had in factleft behind the props for his totally unacceptable diet of sugar and saturated fat. What was next? Mounds of raw red meat and Cheetos! Fish and Chips! Cheesticks.
I then wondered: Is this how a man feels when his new girlfriend slowly starts leaving more and more of her belongings in his apartment? Is this how he feels when he finds her hairbrush in the bathroom cabinet? Does he fear that he may turn into a woman if he opens his closet and finds her pencil skirt hanging there?
Logic dictates that I will not get fat just by opening my freezer, right? Right?
eLLe speLLs subterfuge- noun. deception by artifice or strategem in order to conceal, evade, or escape. Or fatten.
(The limitations of our options even in 2009 never cease to infuriate. Choose one: single and skinny or attached and fat. Ponder this for no more than three seconds and then MOVE ON).
According to my ahem friend, a checklist was provided to safeguard against tipping the scales in the wrong direction once Mr. Right shows up. I ran through the list in my head and realized that it was mostly useless. Since 2500 miles separate us 95% of the time, there is little danger of me snuggling on the couch with him every night with a big bowl of chocolate chip ice cream between us or blowing off the gym on a regular basis so that we can linger over a two hour dinner of linguini and wine (both of which are major culprits according to my ahem friend).
This may be the only upside to a long distance relationship. And, in exchange for the constant low-level nausea that plagues me due to our separation, I think I deserve to have all of my jeans fit me the way they did last month (OK maybe the way they did pre-Christmas cookie spree).
I felt a kind of euphoric relief when I realized all of this. And then, just while my eyes were closing (again, NOT when I was soaking in the bathtub NOT listening to Nina Simone's lulling voice) I realized I wasn't in the clear yet.
At that very moment downstairs in the freezer were a box of frozen Twinkies, a gallon of rocky road ice cream, and two boxes of orangecicles. What? When did I turn into the kind of girl who keeps children's frozen novelties in my freezer? It was quiet subterfuge.*
Along with his t-shirts, cufflinks, and toothbrush, a Particular Someone, had in factleft behind the props for his totally unacceptable diet of sugar and saturated fat. What was next? Mounds of raw red meat and Cheetos! Fish and Chips! Cheesticks.
I then wondered: Is this how a man feels when his new girlfriend slowly starts leaving more and more of her belongings in his apartment? Is this how he feels when he finds her hairbrush in the bathroom cabinet? Does he fear that he may turn into a woman if he opens his closet and finds her pencil skirt hanging there?
Logic dictates that I will not get fat just by opening my freezer, right? Right?
eLLe speLLs subterfuge- noun. deception by artifice or strategem in order to conceal, evade, or escape. Or fatten.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
something like this (part 2)
So anyway, I make it to the gym parking lot by 4:29 p.m. only to see that there are no parking spaces available. I'm going to be honest--as someone who is at the gym religiously six days a week, I do become annoyed when all the posers decide to drop in at the same hour on the same day just because it is supposedly the coldest day of the year in Vegas and allegedly too cold to eat ice cream outdoors at the Dairy Queen down the street. I'm going to continue to be honest--as someone who shows up to spinning class even when she has a fever I'm doubly annoyed when I see that all of the posers who took my parking spaces also took my spinning bikes.
After 45 looooooooooooong minutes on the treadmill I go to the water fountain for a drink. This is when a perky brunette (immediately identifiable as a poser due to her conspicuous lack of sweat) steps out of the spinning room, sees me and says: Oh my god, I have to tell you: My daughters are sooooooo funny. They saw you last week and asked me to ask you for an autograph. They think you are one of the Olsen twins. How cute is that?"
Now, despite the endorphin rush I'm experiencing from high intensity intervals, I cannot find my manners for the sake of a woman who potentially displaced me from my rightful spot in Mandy's class. I zip through my possible responses.
"Yeah, I've never heard that before."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Really? If I was two feet shorter, 8 years younger, and a billion dollars richer then sure, I could see how your cute little daughters would make such a stupid mistake."
I realize these are all a little harsh and a bit unfair to the gradeschool set so I ask flatly
"How was your Sunday ride through the park?"
And then I leave.
Quickly.
After 45 looooooooooooong minutes on the treadmill I go to the water fountain for a drink. This is when a perky brunette (immediately identifiable as a poser due to her conspicuous lack of sweat) steps out of the spinning room, sees me and says: Oh my god, I have to tell you: My daughters are sooooooo funny. They saw you last week and asked me to ask you for an autograph. They think you are one of the Olsen twins. How cute is that?"
Now, despite the endorphin rush I'm experiencing from high intensity intervals, I cannot find my manners for the sake of a woman who potentially displaced me from my rightful spot in Mandy's class. I zip through my possible responses.
"Yeah, I've never heard that before."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Really? If I was two feet shorter, 8 years younger, and a billion dollars richer then sure, I could see how your cute little daughters would make such a stupid mistake."
I realize these are all a little harsh and a bit unfair to the gradeschool set so I ask flatly
"How was your Sunday ride through the park?"
And then I leave.
Quickly.
Monday, February 9, 2009
something like this
Lunar eclipse today in Leo. Delilah called me this morning to let me know--as though I didn't already know something was up when I accidently poured half the nutmeg (as opposed to just a shake of the cinnamon) into my $3 coffee at Starbucks. What exactly you may be asking does a lunar eclipse in Leo have to do with anything?
Well, if you're me, the answer goes something like this:
That a morning without coffee is not worth living in my world goes without saying, as anyone who has ever called me before 6:30 am and promptly and indiscriminately been hung up on can attest to.
That a morning without coffee happens to be the morning I am evaluated by the head of school and her minnion Ms. V during second period is downright cruel.
I'm sure that the rest of my school day was awful, but the migraine induced by caffeine deprivation has apparently affected my short term memory of anything that may or may have not passed.
I thought for sure that once I grabbed my afternoon double espresso, the day would take a turn for the better. Um, no.
I headed straight to a particular deli to buy a particular sandwich for a particular someone. No big deal, just a sweet gesture as long as you overlook two truths. 1. Particular someone lives over 2500 miles away and 2. 95% of the people who live in Vegas are slow at best and plain inept at worst. I'm sure you can already see my dilemma: I had to get this very perishable present on a plane to Particular Someone and I had to make my 4:30 spinning class.
First stop is Siena Deli. A pound of prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes, and lettuce on ciabatta later I'm standing in a line at the Post Office in Albertson's. Forty five minutes later I'm still standing in line at the Post Office in Albertson's (queasy flashbacks to my days of interning at an art magazine in the city were suddenly no longer repressed--but this is another entry altogether). I finally make it to the counter where the clerk tells me that I've missed the 3:30 cutoff. The clerk also tells me that yes, I am correct in my observation that while the man who makes the final pick up for the day is in fact standing right behind him in plain view, the computer states that Particular Someone will not recieve the package until Wednesday.
"Yes, Wednesday is guaranteed for an additional $35.99."
"In addition to the standard overnight fee?" I ask.
"Yes. So that would be $55.98."
"But it's not overnight if it is delivered on Wednesday."
"I understand that but it's only not overnight because you missed the cutoff."
"Does Fedex or UPS have a cutoff?"
"I don't know, ma'am. I don't work for Fedex or UPS."
I take the package back, huff and head to UPS.
"Yes, ma'am, of course the package can be delivered by tomorrow. Our cutoff isn't for another 5 minutes."
"Perfect. Let's do it."
"That will be $95."
My reaction was not unlike the day the woman at the DMV told me that my tags would cost $425 dollars.
I take the package back, jump in the car, and think about the proliferation of salmonella in the prosciutto and then whether the root of the word salmonella is Greek or Latin and whether it's etymology is at all related to the fish. The topic fascinates me enough that I drive right past Fedex (the big white building I can't miss according to UPS boy).
Two u-turn laters I am standing in front of the Fedex clerk who assures me that the sandwich will be on Particular Someone's doorstep by 10 a.m. She tells me the price and realizing that I'm between a rock and a hard place and that I'm right on schedule to miss my spin class if I don't drop this package off 5 minutes ago, I do what any sibling would do. I charge it to my little brother's corporate account.
I speed back to the house while talking to my mom on the phone, which is the equivalent of driving whilr putting on mascara (not that I've EVER done that). When I walk in the house I see that Bentley has eaten my IPOD for lunch.
Continued...tomorrow. Cake is calling.
Well, if you're me, the answer goes something like this:
That a morning without coffee is not worth living in my world goes without saying, as anyone who has ever called me before 6:30 am and promptly and indiscriminately been hung up on can attest to.
That a morning without coffee happens to be the morning I am evaluated by the head of school and her minnion Ms. V during second period is downright cruel.
I'm sure that the rest of my school day was awful, but the migraine induced by caffeine deprivation has apparently affected my short term memory of anything that may or may have not passed.
I thought for sure that once I grabbed my afternoon double espresso, the day would take a turn for the better. Um, no.
I headed straight to a particular deli to buy a particular sandwich for a particular someone. No big deal, just a sweet gesture as long as you overlook two truths. 1. Particular someone lives over 2500 miles away and 2. 95% of the people who live in Vegas are slow at best and plain inept at worst. I'm sure you can already see my dilemma: I had to get this very perishable present on a plane to Particular Someone and I had to make my 4:30 spinning class.
First stop is Siena Deli. A pound of prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes, and lettuce on ciabatta later I'm standing in a line at the Post Office in Albertson's. Forty five minutes later I'm still standing in line at the Post Office in Albertson's (queasy flashbacks to my days of interning at an art magazine in the city were suddenly no longer repressed--but this is another entry altogether). I finally make it to the counter where the clerk tells me that I've missed the 3:30 cutoff. The clerk also tells me that yes, I am correct in my observation that while the man who makes the final pick up for the day is in fact standing right behind him in plain view, the computer states that Particular Someone will not recieve the package until Wednesday.
"Yes, Wednesday is guaranteed for an additional $35.99."
"In addition to the standard overnight fee?" I ask.
"Yes. So that would be $55.98."
"But it's not overnight if it is delivered on Wednesday."
"I understand that but it's only not overnight because you missed the cutoff."
"Does Fedex or UPS have a cutoff?"
"I don't know, ma'am. I don't work for Fedex or UPS."
I take the package back, huff and head to UPS.
"Yes, ma'am, of course the package can be delivered by tomorrow. Our cutoff isn't for another 5 minutes."
"Perfect. Let's do it."
"That will be $95."
My reaction was not unlike the day the woman at the DMV told me that my tags would cost $425 dollars.
I take the package back, jump in the car, and think about the proliferation of salmonella in the prosciutto and then whether the root of the word salmonella is Greek or Latin and whether it's etymology is at all related to the fish. The topic fascinates me enough that I drive right past Fedex (the big white building I can't miss according to UPS boy).
Two u-turn laters I am standing in front of the Fedex clerk who assures me that the sandwich will be on Particular Someone's doorstep by 10 a.m. She tells me the price and realizing that I'm between a rock and a hard place and that I'm right on schedule to miss my spin class if I don't drop this package off 5 minutes ago, I do what any sibling would do. I charge it to my little brother's corporate account.
I speed back to the house while talking to my mom on the phone, which is the equivalent of driving whilr putting on mascara (not that I've EVER done that). When I walk in the house I see that Bentley has eaten my IPOD for lunch.
Continued...tomorrow. Cake is calling.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
the chalkboard
In "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" T.S. Eliot's lonely speaker says that he has measured his life with coffee spoons. This timid calibration of his life breaks my heart each time I read it. Of course my juniors failed miserably when I asked them to go home and think of what it is they use to measure their lives. At worst their answers were pedestrian (sands through an hourglass) or literal (passing seconds), and at best they were contorted metaphors (inscrutible calculus problems to which she doesn't know the solution). Still, I think it a worthwhile question to ask yourself...how do you measure your life? So, how do you?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
tip for free
Admittedly, I'm a bit late with this, but trust me ladies, tuck it away with your cashmere sweaters, as it is just as perennial* in its usefulness.
Next Superbowl Sunday when the streets are emtpy and the Y chromosomes (and less informed double X chromosomes) have gathered around a bowl of nacho dip, GO JEAN SHOPPING.
You will shave at least 2.5 hours off your time--guaranteed.
Sizes will be found in the right pile, dressing rooms will be empty and the shopgirls will be bored. These three factors alone will allow you to try on 10 pairs in the time it has normally taken you to try on five. Add in the fact that you can spare yourself the horror of standing with 25s down around your ankles as you take an audible breath in preparation for a major suck in. Don't get me wrong--this unfortunate event may come to pass even on Super Bowl Sunday, but the point is no one is around to witness your gross miscalculation of the shrinkage of your thighs since you started that kickboxing class on January 1.
Depending on your philosophical school of thought, the jeans may not fit despite having no witnesses or they may NOT not fit because there is no one there to see them not fit. You--in denial--don't count.
If you're not sold on this brilliant gem of an idea yet, then consider this: if you shop for the jeans rather than eating the nacho dip you are more likely to avoid the above scenario altogether.
My only caution is this:
Do not, I repeat, DO NOT start thinking about said Bliss and beaches in Greece and adoring letters written on the inside of the shirt off his back left for you under your pillow while doing Super Bowl Sunday shopping. Hyperventilation and passing out underneath a pile of Rock and Republics and True Religions may occur whether there are witnesses or not and in this case, denial would be a potentially life-threatening mistake.
At school, librarian approaches, have to run, so eLLe speLLs "Perennial" tomorrow.
Next Superbowl Sunday when the streets are emtpy and the Y chromosomes (and less informed double X chromosomes) have gathered around a bowl of nacho dip, GO JEAN SHOPPING.
You will shave at least 2.5 hours off your time--guaranteed.
Sizes will be found in the right pile, dressing rooms will be empty and the shopgirls will be bored. These three factors alone will allow you to try on 10 pairs in the time it has normally taken you to try on five. Add in the fact that you can spare yourself the horror of standing with 25s down around your ankles as you take an audible breath in preparation for a major suck in. Don't get me wrong--this unfortunate event may come to pass even on Super Bowl Sunday, but the point is no one is around to witness your gross miscalculation of the shrinkage of your thighs since you started that kickboxing class on January 1.
Depending on your philosophical school of thought, the jeans may not fit despite having no witnesses or they may NOT not fit because there is no one there to see them not fit. You--in denial--don't count.
If you're not sold on this brilliant gem of an idea yet, then consider this: if you shop for the jeans rather than eating the nacho dip you are more likely to avoid the above scenario altogether.
My only caution is this:
Do not, I repeat, DO NOT start thinking about said Bliss and beaches in Greece and adoring letters written on the inside of the shirt off his back left for you under your pillow while doing Super Bowl Sunday shopping. Hyperventilation and passing out underneath a pile of Rock and Republics and True Religions may occur whether there are witnesses or not and in this case, denial would be a potentially life-threatening mistake.
At school, librarian approaches, have to run, so eLLe speLLs "Perennial" tomorrow.
Monday, February 2, 2009
call me eLLe
Man, I want to be an art teacher.
I was asked* to cover sixth period Drawing and Painting during my prep this afternoon.
Unbelievable.
Ms. Fines was not discernable sitting among her students when I first walked in. She did not possess the telltale woebegone* look indigenous to the English Department from years (or months) of bleeding* over the papers of the dilletante offspring of Las Vegas' high society. Vegas is, afterall, a city--maybe more than any other-- built on numbers. Grammar and spelling and complete sentences never factored in never had a chance, though we* masochist English teachers hope otherwise.
No, Ms. Fines looked fresh-faced and happy from her side of the eisel--oblivious to the true state of our country's future. She doesn't realize that in a few short years the torch is going to be passed to a generation whose greatest contribution and legacy will be monosyllabic if even pronouncable: cuz, u, ur, lol, btw, ttyl.
"Hey Fines, check it out," said a boy at a table in the back of the room as he waved his chalk interpretation of emoticons.
Hey Fines?
When she left the room what I suspected was confirmed--I was in an alternate universe where Harvey Danger's Paranoid plays on the radio (did I even know we had radio access in our rooms?), illegal candy bars are consumed without an ounce of fear of retribution and colored Sharpies and scented Mr. Sketch markers* overflow in pencil holders on desks. There was not one red pen in sight.
For a moment I imagined what it must be like to never ever ever have to explain the difference between a colon and a semi-colon or to take a Dramamine before settling into a long night of English 2 T.S. Eliot explications. I mean, how amazing would it be to just put my hand in a jar of cold green paint and swirl it across a blank piece of paper and call it teaching? Much more amazing than the task at hand--correcting a past deadline student newspaper article on the dangers of high schoolers overdosing on prespcription drugs that was reading more like a how-to guide to get high when you're parents are rich, absent, and strung out.
*good grammar is the new black: asked*
asked in this case is a euphenism, which is the substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant ; also : the expression so substituted for the word "told." Given that said bliss had arrived on a late flight Thursday, I called off Friday last minute forcing last minute shuffling on the part of the substitute coordinator. This means that I will be his "beck and call" girl for at least the next three weeks, which means I will be called three minutes prior and politely asked to show up for any teacher who has an emergency doctor or pedicure appointment before the official end of the school day. This also means that I will politely, if not chirpfully, accept and graciously give up my prized prep period (equivalent to a breath of air). So, this is me...blue in the face chirp chirp chirping away.
*bleeding: NOT a euphenism. Instead a metaphor. 1: a figure of speech in which a word or phrase literally denoting one kind of object or idea is used in place of another to suggest a likeness or analogy between them (as in drowning in money NOT ME, or as in bleeding red ink all over high school writing SO ME)
* We versus us: a grammar problem that plagues people well beyond their school days. We in the sentence "We masochist English teachers..." is used as a subject and therefore us is disqualified. Use we as the subject (or agent of the action in a sentence) and use us as the object of the sentence (or the receiver of the action in a sentence) as in "The least you could do is give us woebegone schoolteachers an annual allowance for Botox and seaweed wraps."
eLLe speLLs *woebegone: adjective, exhibiting great woe, sorrow, or misery being in a sorry state (as in, did you see her at Pure on Saturday? Her outfit was woebegone).
*scented Mr. Sketch markers. Do not even try to tell me you don't remember these as second only to the perk of sniffing glue in elementary school.
I was asked* to cover sixth period Drawing and Painting during my prep this afternoon.
Unbelievable.
Ms. Fines was not discernable sitting among her students when I first walked in. She did not possess the telltale woebegone* look indigenous to the English Department from years (or months) of bleeding* over the papers of the dilletante offspring of Las Vegas' high society. Vegas is, afterall, a city--maybe more than any other-- built on numbers. Grammar and spelling and complete sentences never factored in never had a chance, though we* masochist English teachers hope otherwise.
No, Ms. Fines looked fresh-faced and happy from her side of the eisel--oblivious to the true state of our country's future. She doesn't realize that in a few short years the torch is going to be passed to a generation whose greatest contribution and legacy will be monosyllabic if even pronouncable: cuz, u, ur, lol, btw, ttyl.
"Hey Fines, check it out," said a boy at a table in the back of the room as he waved his chalk interpretation of emoticons.
Hey Fines?
When she left the room what I suspected was confirmed--I was in an alternate universe where Harvey Danger's Paranoid plays on the radio (did I even know we had radio access in our rooms?), illegal candy bars are consumed without an ounce of fear of retribution and colored Sharpies and scented Mr. Sketch markers* overflow in pencil holders on desks. There was not one red pen in sight.
For a moment I imagined what it must be like to never ever ever have to explain the difference between a colon and a semi-colon or to take a Dramamine before settling into a long night of English 2 T.S. Eliot explications. I mean, how amazing would it be to just put my hand in a jar of cold green paint and swirl it across a blank piece of paper and call it teaching? Much more amazing than the task at hand--correcting a past deadline student newspaper article on the dangers of high schoolers overdosing on prespcription drugs that was reading more like a how-to guide to get high when you're parents are rich, absent, and strung out.
*good grammar is the new black: asked*
asked in this case is a euphenism, which is the substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant ; also : the expression so substituted for the word "told." Given that said bliss had arrived on a late flight Thursday, I called off Friday last minute forcing last minute shuffling on the part of the substitute coordinator. This means that I will be his "beck and call" girl for at least the next three weeks, which means I will be called three minutes prior and politely asked to show up for any teacher who has an emergency doctor or pedicure appointment before the official end of the school day. This also means that I will politely, if not chirpfully, accept and graciously give up my prized prep period (equivalent to a breath of air). So, this is me...blue in the face chirp chirp chirping away.
*bleeding: NOT a euphenism. Instead a metaphor. 1: a figure of speech in which a word or phrase literally denoting one kind of object or idea is used in place of another to suggest a likeness or analogy between them (as in drowning in money NOT ME, or as in bleeding red ink all over high school writing SO ME)
* We versus us: a grammar problem that plagues people well beyond their school days. We in the sentence "We masochist English teachers..." is used as a subject and therefore us is disqualified. Use we as the subject (or agent of the action in a sentence) and use us as the object of the sentence (or the receiver of the action in a sentence) as in "The least you could do is give us woebegone schoolteachers an annual allowance for Botox and seaweed wraps."
eLLe speLLs *woebegone: adjective, exhibiting great woe, sorrow, or misery being in a sorry state (as in, did you see her at Pure on Saturday? Her outfit was woebegone).
*scented Mr. Sketch markers. Do not even try to tell me you don't remember these as second only to the perk of sniffing glue in elementary school.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
cover blown
As a relatively young and new teacher at my school, I have worked overtime to project a serious, stern demeanor in front of the little teenage heathens. Only a little over a decade separates us, and trust me, this is not enough of a gap to command automatic respect. My diligence has been rewarded with the certain knowledge that no one will ever say that I'm the cool teacher and with the fact that my classroom is so quiet you can hear you know what drop at any given moment.
So, imagine my horror this morning when a foreign exchange who I've never seen before walked into my very silent study hall full of sophomores and asked, "Ms. eLLe...you at the Wynn last Saturday?" Um, yes? "Yeah yeah, we see you. We all see you and want to say hi, but you with some guy."
Damn.
The way he said guy and the way he laughed as he left the room was either very foreign or very perverted. I simultaneously gave the death glare to the 30 pairs of eye looking over my way and did a quick replay in my mind of that night. Was there one moment, even one half of one moment, that the students could have feasibly seen me that was an appropriate moment to be seen?
No, no there wasn't. In fact the night was nothing more than a long string of wholly inappropriate moments on all accounts.
So, imagine my horror this morning when a foreign exchange who I've never seen before walked into my very silent study hall full of sophomores and asked, "Ms. eLLe...you at the Wynn last Saturday?" Um, yes? "Yeah yeah, we see you. We all see you and want to say hi, but you with some guy."
Damn.
The way he said guy and the way he laughed as he left the room was either very foreign or very perverted. I simultaneously gave the death glare to the 30 pairs of eye looking over my way and did a quick replay in my mind of that night. Was there one moment, even one half of one moment, that the students could have feasibly seen me that was an appropriate moment to be seen?
No, no there wasn't. In fact the night was nothing more than a long string of wholly inappropriate moments on all accounts.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
bliss
Thought about grading rough drafts of essay on William Carlos Williams last night, cringed, and then opted for quick peek of The Bachelor--not so much as a stalling tactic but as clever trick to motivate myself to delve (to plunge) into the very broken world of the sophomore mind.
Normally two minutes of vacuous* brunette pondering fateful connection between her and Prince Charming based on last week's horoscope and their (astoundingly!) mutual love for the color red is enough to make little Caesar (as in Palace, not Shakespeare he assured me) Brown seem positively genius. Case in point: one contestant last night likened her emotions to butterflies whenever Prince Charming walked into the room. This metaphor, of course, is perfectly acceptable, if trite.
However, she then went on to say that during their one-on-one date the butterflies were flapping.
Normally this would be my cue to turn the show off and, fortified by the obvious fact that there are people in the world who need my verbal services, whip out my red pen, but c'mon...flapping!!!! When was the last time you saw a butterfly flapping its wings? I found myself irate and suddenly performing grande gestures that I can only explain as something I must have picked up over the years of watching my brother tell the Browns off in front of the television on Sunday afternoons.
Nearly twenty four hours have passed since my tantrum, and I've had time to reflect. Given healthy portion of chocolate-covered almonds prior to show, my behavior couldn't be blamed on low blood sugar. Nor could my outrage be blamed on bitterness, given my current state of bliss*. No, the cold hard truth is that my behavior was perfectly justifiable based on nothing more than my inherent disdain for dumb girls. Nothing--I repeat--nothing is more hateful to me than dumb girls.
Still, as an act of solidarity, I've decided to do my sister a favor and do what seems like the thing to do as of late.
Dear Mr. President,
Please please please lend your speechwriters to this chic I saw on television last night. She could surely benefit from the linguistic powerhouses you employ. I am aware of the fact that this is much to ask of someone who has a lot of upcoming public speaking engagements penciled in, but surely you could help a first-time voter like herself out. If funding a replacement for yourself doesn't fit into your budget, just bill it to the White Male. He won't even notice.
Sincerely,
Ms. Elle
eLLe sPELLs : vacuous \VAK-yoo-uhs\, adjective:
1. showing no intelligence or thought
2. having no meaning or direction; empty
bliss* as in I'm feeling inspired to wear both pink and a dress, maybe even a dress that is pink. And, anyone who knows me knows that this HAS NEVER EVER HAPPENED.
Normally two minutes of vacuous* brunette pondering fateful connection between her and Prince Charming based on last week's horoscope and their (astoundingly!) mutual love for the color red is enough to make little Caesar (as in Palace, not Shakespeare he assured me) Brown seem positively genius. Case in point: one contestant last night likened her emotions to butterflies whenever Prince Charming walked into the room. This metaphor, of course, is perfectly acceptable, if trite.
However, she then went on to say that during their one-on-one date the butterflies were flapping.
Normally this would be my cue to turn the show off and, fortified by the obvious fact that there are people in the world who need my verbal services, whip out my red pen, but c'mon...flapping!!!! When was the last time you saw a butterfly flapping its wings? I found myself irate and suddenly performing grande gestures that I can only explain as something I must have picked up over the years of watching my brother tell the Browns off in front of the television on Sunday afternoons.
Nearly twenty four hours have passed since my tantrum, and I've had time to reflect. Given healthy portion of chocolate-covered almonds prior to show, my behavior couldn't be blamed on low blood sugar. Nor could my outrage be blamed on bitterness, given my current state of bliss*. No, the cold hard truth is that my behavior was perfectly justifiable based on nothing more than my inherent disdain for dumb girls. Nothing--I repeat--nothing is more hateful to me than dumb girls.
Still, as an act of solidarity, I've decided to do my sister a favor and do what seems like the thing to do as of late.
Dear Mr. President,
Please please please lend your speechwriters to this chic I saw on television last night. She could surely benefit from the linguistic powerhouses you employ. I am aware of the fact that this is much to ask of someone who has a lot of upcoming public speaking engagements penciled in, but surely you could help a first-time voter like herself out. If funding a replacement for yourself doesn't fit into your budget, just bill it to the White Male. He won't even notice.
Sincerely,
Ms. Elle
eLLe sPELLs : vacuous \VAK-yoo-uhs\, adjective:
1. showing no intelligence or thought
2. having no meaning or direction; empty
bliss* as in I'm feeling inspired to wear both pink and a dress, maybe even a dress that is pink. And, anyone who knows me knows that this HAS NEVER EVER HAPPENED.
Monday, January 26, 2009
strippers...they're just like us
A common question: You live in Vegas? OMG. Is like everyone there a stripper?
My stock answer: Life off the Boulevard is as ordinary as life off the strip in any small town. It as much a slice of Americana as Piedmont, North Dakota and Youngstown, Ohio. We have dry cleaners, mailboxes, and Dairy Queens. We have Targets, school crossings and bike lanes. We have churches, parks, and girls next door, even if the girl next door is in all likelihood a stripper. Or the sister of a stripper. Or the roommate of a stripper. Or even the girlfriend of a stripper, which is another topic altogether.
The one deviant variable off the strip in Vegas is the number of strippers per capita who are buying groceries, standing in line at the bank, and showing up at Starbucks barefaced wearing Juicy yoga pants. Still, even in plainclothes you can't really miss these women. They are always perfectly tan and pedicured, and if their Amazonian proportions don't tip you off, then the rolls of cash they pull out of their Fendi and Ferragamo bags will.
I happen to have befriended a few real live strippers since moving here. The evening I met them at a birthday party I threw for a mutual friend felt momentous, not unlike the days I knew I was going to the mall to meet Santa Claus, or more recently the day I shook the hand of the President. As someone whose starstruckability* wore off years ago in New York, I was downright smitten when I sat down to make small talk with Fiona and Chrissie. What I found is that these women are ordinary--with as many wins and losses tallied as the rest of us.
Since that night I've met other women in the industry--as it is ubiquitously referred to here in Vegas. And while the fact that these women make three times what I do taking their clothes off brings up all kinds of icky feelings about the value of woman's body versus her brain, I've come to understand that they are neither as weak nor as strong as I had presumed. They are, however, amazingly resourceful when it comes to advice on how to repair a torn pair of fishnets and the best place to buy dresses for a night out. When it comes to matters of sequins and stay-put foundation, Fiona and Chrissie are my go-to girls, suddenly as invaluable as those other members of every girls' entourage--our gay hair stylists and our moms.
Which isn't to say that I haven't witnessed them behaving very badly, but bliss calls so...more on that tomorrow**.
*Yes, I made this word up. It's called a neologism.
** I really will write tomorrow. Admittedly I've been slacking with posting, though in my defense let me say that any one of you would be slacking as well if you were in my recent (unexpectedly) blissful position. Oh. Trust. Me. You would be.
My stock answer: Life off the Boulevard is as ordinary as life off the strip in any small town. It as much a slice of Americana as Piedmont, North Dakota and Youngstown, Ohio. We have dry cleaners, mailboxes, and Dairy Queens. We have Targets, school crossings and bike lanes. We have churches, parks, and girls next door, even if the girl next door is in all likelihood a stripper. Or the sister of a stripper. Or the roommate of a stripper. Or even the girlfriend of a stripper, which is another topic altogether.
The one deviant variable off the strip in Vegas is the number of strippers per capita who are buying groceries, standing in line at the bank, and showing up at Starbucks barefaced wearing Juicy yoga pants. Still, even in plainclothes you can't really miss these women. They are always perfectly tan and pedicured, and if their Amazonian proportions don't tip you off, then the rolls of cash they pull out of their Fendi and Ferragamo bags will.
I happen to have befriended a few real live strippers since moving here. The evening I met them at a birthday party I threw for a mutual friend felt momentous, not unlike the days I knew I was going to the mall to meet Santa Claus, or more recently the day I shook the hand of the President. As someone whose starstruckability* wore off years ago in New York, I was downright smitten when I sat down to make small talk with Fiona and Chrissie. What I found is that these women are ordinary--with as many wins and losses tallied as the rest of us.
Since that night I've met other women in the industry--as it is ubiquitously referred to here in Vegas. And while the fact that these women make three times what I do taking their clothes off brings up all kinds of icky feelings about the value of woman's body versus her brain, I've come to understand that they are neither as weak nor as strong as I had presumed. They are, however, amazingly resourceful when it comes to advice on how to repair a torn pair of fishnets and the best place to buy dresses for a night out. When it comes to matters of sequins and stay-put foundation, Fiona and Chrissie are my go-to girls, suddenly as invaluable as those other members of every girls' entourage--our gay hair stylists and our moms.
Which isn't to say that I haven't witnessed them behaving very badly, but bliss calls so...more on that tomorrow**.
*Yes, I made this word up. It's called a neologism.
** I really will write tomorrow. Admittedly I've been slacking with posting, though in my defense let me say that any one of you would be slacking as well if you were in my recent (unexpectedly) blissful position. Oh. Trust. Me. You would be.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
that's strange...i went to bed a blonde...
Woke up and (against my better judgement, I'm going to say it) OMG. Roots.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
cabbage soup is for amateurs, or squats are for suckers
Woke up this morning unable to walk. I deem my stepped-up workout routine effective, (if counterproductive, since the only further physical activity I am able to do is eat cake in bed).
Back East you have a good two or three months to recover from post-Christmas cookie weight gain. And to do so in private underneath a great knee-length wool coat that drapes strategically. In Vegas? Not so much. Bathing suit season starts in a month.
I called Brighton—a fellow East Coast transplant—to commiserate.
Brighton: Yeah, no kidding. What happened to full-coverage fuzzy sweaters and cute boys who can’t keep their hands off them?
Me: What are you eating?
Brighton: Biscotti.
Me: Biscotti?
Brighton: Yeah, and I lost five pounds this week.
Me: Pray tell.
Brighton: It was Anne’s idea.
I hear Anne laughing in the background. She gets on the line.
Anne: You know how they say to take your clothes off and give your body a good hard look in the mirror the night before you start a diet? For inspiration?
Brighton: For confirmation that your ass is in fact bigger than it was yesterday. She saw it on Oprah. Dr. Green or Mr. Bob Oz or whoever said it’s a good idea.
Anne: Well, it’s a bad idea. And totally unnecessary. I came home on Tuesday and without even realizing it I sat on the sofa and watched all my shows without taking off my sunglasses. When I went to the bathroom I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and noticed that maybe I looked a little thinner.
Me: Uh huh.
Anne: So I took everything off except the sunglasses and... CONFIRMED. Sunglasses make you lose weight.
Me: Uh huh.
Anne: Now, I don’t have to diet as long as I keep sunglasses on.
Brighton chirped in, noting my skepticism (she’s good like that) and said, “Seriously, eLLe. It works.” I imagined both Brighton and Anne sitting on the sofa, wearing their Michael Kors sunglasses, eating biscotti and believing they were thinner while I, on the other hand, was wondering if that whole bit about not exceeding 10 aspirins in a 24 hour period was really true when a sore ass was involved.*
“Perception is truth,” said Brighton channeling a pretentious art professor, which of course was way less ironic than she had intended because she is a pretentious art professor.
“I think it’s brilliant,” said Anne.
“Now I just make David wear sunglasses whenever we are in bed,” said Brighton.
“And he’s OK with this?” I ask.
“Of course, baby. He just thinks it’s one of my new bedside fetishes.”
“Like the dish soap thing,” explained Anne.
“Yes, like the dish soap thing.”
Good grammar is the new black.
* Run on sentences: I am aware that this sentence may indeed be a run-on. A good rule of thumb, which I always tell my students when they are working on papers, is to read the sentence aloud to themselves, preferably alone in their bedrooms. If they pass out due to a lack of oxygen, the sentence is too long. Not that I want them to pass out or anything when they are alone in their bedrooms.
Back East you have a good two or three months to recover from post-Christmas cookie weight gain. And to do so in private underneath a great knee-length wool coat that drapes strategically. In Vegas? Not so much. Bathing suit season starts in a month.
I called Brighton—a fellow East Coast transplant—to commiserate.
Brighton: Yeah, no kidding. What happened to full-coverage fuzzy sweaters and cute boys who can’t keep their hands off them?
Me: What are you eating?
Brighton: Biscotti.
Me: Biscotti?
Brighton: Yeah, and I lost five pounds this week.
Me: Pray tell.
Brighton: It was Anne’s idea.
I hear Anne laughing in the background. She gets on the line.
Anne: You know how they say to take your clothes off and give your body a good hard look in the mirror the night before you start a diet? For inspiration?
Brighton: For confirmation that your ass is in fact bigger than it was yesterday. She saw it on Oprah. Dr. Green or Mr. Bob Oz or whoever said it’s a good idea.
Anne: Well, it’s a bad idea. And totally unnecessary. I came home on Tuesday and without even realizing it I sat on the sofa and watched all my shows without taking off my sunglasses. When I went to the bathroom I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and noticed that maybe I looked a little thinner.
Me: Uh huh.
Anne: So I took everything off except the sunglasses and... CONFIRMED. Sunglasses make you lose weight.
Me: Uh huh.
Anne: Now, I don’t have to diet as long as I keep sunglasses on.
Brighton chirped in, noting my skepticism (she’s good like that) and said, “Seriously, eLLe. It works.” I imagined both Brighton and Anne sitting on the sofa, wearing their Michael Kors sunglasses, eating biscotti and believing they were thinner while I, on the other hand, was wondering if that whole bit about not exceeding 10 aspirins in a 24 hour period was really true when a sore ass was involved.*
“Perception is truth,” said Brighton channeling a pretentious art professor, which of course was way less ironic than she had intended because she is a pretentious art professor.
“I think it’s brilliant,” said Anne.
“Now I just make David wear sunglasses whenever we are in bed,” said Brighton.
“And he’s OK with this?” I ask.
“Of course, baby. He just thinks it’s one of my new bedside fetishes.”
“Like the dish soap thing,” explained Anne.
“Yes, like the dish soap thing.”
Good grammar is the new black.
* Run on sentences: I am aware that this sentence may indeed be a run-on. A good rule of thumb, which I always tell my students when they are working on papers, is to read the sentence aloud to themselves, preferably alone in their bedrooms. If they pass out due to a lack of oxygen, the sentence is too long. Not that I want them to pass out or anything when they are alone in their bedrooms.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
smut, fluff, and a crib sheet
After I awarded Golden Globes to two of my juniors for their applause-worthy reenactments of students who actually have cogent* excuses for not turning in their composition notebooks, I thought about grading essays while my class pretended to study for its final tomorrow. Instead, did a bit of illegal web-surfing to research handwriting analysis and infidels.
Crib sheet results:
Gaps, words tightened up or words out of alignment mean* he is a liar.
Large lower loops should be construed as phallic in nature, meaning he is obsessed with sex. And a liar.
Words written outside of the margins mean he is a Social Deviant. And a liar.
Forked tongue stroke through an O (such as is evident in O.J. Simpson’s signature) means he is a bad communicator. And a murderer.
Ambiguous letters mean he is a con artist. And… a liar.
I also came across a tidbit which, while useful, could be filed under smut and fluff*: Blue-eyed men subconsciously choose light-eyed partners. Why? Since both parties carry recessive genes, dark-eyed offspring would be an inarguable indicator of infidelity.
*eLLe speLLs cogent means convincing, as in an argument, and theirs were not: Really, Cecily, you’re telling me that a rogue gust of wind blew your five-subject notebook into the swimming pool last night? And honestly, Blaze, you’re saying that you left it on the school bus by mistake this morning? After the adrenaline wore off from performing cardiopulmonary resuscitation on the driver, Mr. Prufrock? Yes? Really? Aren’t you an angel. Never mind that we DON’T have school buses, Blaze. Bless your heart.
OK, Kate and Leo, stop making spectacles of yourselves, and SIT DOWN.
*Good Grammar is the New Black
Subject Verb Agreement: while it may be tempting to use the word means in this sentence, please note that the rule states that whenever the subject of a sentence is compound (more than one) and is separated by an “or” or “nor” the verb agrees with the subject closest to it. Therefore, in this sentence means must agree with words. NOT ALIGNMENT! Alignment is the object of the preposition and therefore it dictates NOTHING in the sentence.
*No, I don’t actually read smut and fluff, and no, I certainly don’t read fluff and smut in the bathtub by candlelight. I’m a lit teacher. Duh.
Crib sheet results:
Gaps, words tightened up or words out of alignment mean* he is a liar.
Large lower loops should be construed as phallic in nature, meaning he is obsessed with sex. And a liar.
Words written outside of the margins mean he is a Social Deviant. And a liar.
Forked tongue stroke through an O (such as is evident in O.J. Simpson’s signature) means he is a bad communicator. And a murderer.
Ambiguous letters mean he is a con artist. And… a liar.
I also came across a tidbit which, while useful, could be filed under smut and fluff*: Blue-eyed men subconsciously choose light-eyed partners. Why? Since both parties carry recessive genes, dark-eyed offspring would be an inarguable indicator of infidelity.
*eLLe speLLs cogent means convincing, as in an argument, and theirs were not: Really, Cecily, you’re telling me that a rogue gust of wind blew your five-subject notebook into the swimming pool last night? And honestly, Blaze, you’re saying that you left it on the school bus by mistake this morning? After the adrenaline wore off from performing cardiopulmonary resuscitation on the driver, Mr. Prufrock? Yes? Really? Aren’t you an angel. Never mind that we DON’T have school buses, Blaze. Bless your heart.
OK, Kate and Leo, stop making spectacles of yourselves, and SIT DOWN.
*Good Grammar is the New Black
Subject Verb Agreement: while it may be tempting to use the word means in this sentence, please note that the rule states that whenever the subject of a sentence is compound (more than one) and is separated by an “or” or “nor” the verb agrees with the subject closest to it. Therefore, in this sentence means must agree with words. NOT ALIGNMENT! Alignment is the object of the preposition and therefore it dictates NOTHING in the sentence.
*No, I don’t actually read smut and fluff, and no, I certainly don’t read fluff and smut in the bathtub by candlelight. I’m a lit teacher. Duh.
Monday, January 12, 2009
sex, lies, and handwriting: a cautionary tale in two parts (part two)
By all outward appearances Marguerite had forgiven Michael. She had not kicked him out of the house, and the couple showed up in tandem as they always had at various standing social engagements including Friday night wine walks at Lake Las Vegas and Sunday baccarat at The Bellagio. However, inside the four walls of their home Marguerite held her husband captive by holding his indiscretion like a thin blade to his neck. In a few short weeks—under the watchful eye of his mother-in-law by day and the pugnacious scowls of his wife by night—the entire downstairs had been retiled and repainted. In addition to the punitive lists of chores she handed him, Marguerite also prohibited him from speaking to her. Whenever he began to utter a word, even in response to a question she had clearly directed toward him, she would raise her hand and say cale a boca (Howtosayin.com—deemed worthy.)
“You know, I tought stooopidly it had been a one time affaaaire. Ta kind tat can safe a mar-i-age,” she said pulling apart a little piece from the green wasabi globe with her chopstick. “But of course our mar-i-age didn’t needed safe until de afaaaire. Te dawg.”
Marguerite had begun seeing a therapist on Gibson who was allegedly a renowned expert in the burgeoning hybrid field of infidelity and handwriting analysis. “You know, in Portugal we don’t go to terapists. We go to Madeira island with the pool boy.”
Landlocked, Marguerite was desperate. Dr. J had recently published a book, The Scoundrel: Caught by His Own Hand (OK, I made that up—I have no idea what his book is called), and that was enough for her. He had asked Marguerite to bring in something that Michael had written recently for in-depth analysis. She hadn’t been able to find anything, so one day she placed a pad of paper and pen on the kitchen table, instructed him to sit down, and began dictating a grocery list to him. She would have to put up with several nights of discount produce and cheap pasta (te cheap bastard), but decided it would be worth it.
She secured the list when Michael came home and took it with her the next day to Dr. J.
“Dis terapist,” she said while pulling a cigarette out of her purse, “He is very good. Renowned. And he should be. He costs me my arm and my leg.”
After examining the list, Dr. J had told Marguerite the obvious: it was quite possible she was living with a man who was a cheater, but he needed more material to be certain.
While Marguerite cried a bit more, I silently ran my own analysis on Dr. J’s groundbreaking prognosis.
Let’s see:
Cheater: um, yes. I believe this has been established.
Anyway, Marguerite shrewdly went home, made soup with expired vegetables and penned a letter to Michael expressing her (so false) conviction that they as a married couple would survive his infidelity.
Marguerite’s plan worked. Michael responded via a handwritten note. In fact, he kept responding via handwritten notes—9 in total.
“Tey were boootiful letters. One more gorgeous than te one before,” she said.
I could see the lights of the strip reflecting in her eyes as they welled up again with tears. “He apologized over and over again and professed his love and…”
“And?”
“And called himself a patetic dawg. I started forgiving him. I really did.” Her voice was quavering then. ”We had sex like fifteen times last week, but ten I took te letters to Dr. J Friday.”
Marguerite stopped and then was suddenly, embarrassingly inconsolable. I shooed the concerned waiter away and after a minute (or ten) Marguerite composed herself once again and pulled out a small pile of papers from her purse. She flattened them on the table--they had obviously been folded and flattened many times. I leaned over; Michael’s handwriting was, for the most part, surprisingly legible.
According to Dr. J’s further analysis, Michael was indisputably a cheater, obsessed with sex, a rule-breaker, a social deviant, and a con artist who was living a double life.
“It’s heartbreaking. Te letters are so beautiful. Beautiful f****** lies,” she said as she lit the cigarette. When the waiter came over and told her she couldn’t smoke inside the restaurant, but that she was more than welcome to step outside on the balcony, Marguerite said flatly, “Only if you want me to joomp.”
On a serious side note I must comment on the fact that Vegas annually vies for the top spot for suicide in the country. Out of the over 40 million visitors that come to Vegas each year, a little more than one every month successfully takes his or her own life. And, the risk of committing suicide for Sin City residents is twice as high as in the rest of the US.
Looking into this a bit more I learned that there is a bit of a debate going on in the ivory tower. On one hand some researchers argue that Vegas itself is conducive to suicide due to its culture of anonymity, impossible odds, and suspended rules regarding personal conduct. There is also the bacchanalian last hooray that lures those who have made up their minds and the potentially winning one last hand to be played for those who haven’t. As far as residents go, Harvard sociologists note that the odds of someone committing suicide drop if he or she moves or takes a vacation. However, others argue that the city itself is not to blame. They posit that Vegas is an appealing home to those who are depressed and in despair. I, of course, take issue with these guys and what their argument says about me, but then again…I didn’t arbitrarily move to Disney World, now did I?
Back to Marguerite. Before I had a chance to commiserate or to insert a bit of rational thinking regarding Dr.J.’s prognosis, she swept up the letters, announced that she was exhausted and snuffed out her cigarette in the middle of a squishy peach mound of Hamachi. Her short square fingernails were painted glossy Vamp. Marguerite’s nails were, in fact, always painted glossy Vamp.
On the ride home I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the letters Michael had written her were a mash of Kanye songs. It seemed, somehow, beside the point, as did the realization I had that if Dr. J.’s expert opinion is correct, then probably at this very moment Michael (Codename Rhonda) was in bed with an alien.
“You know, I tought stooopidly it had been a one time affaaaire. Ta kind tat can safe a mar-i-age,” she said pulling apart a little piece from the green wasabi globe with her chopstick. “But of course our mar-i-age didn’t needed safe until de afaaaire. Te dawg.”
Marguerite had begun seeing a therapist on Gibson who was allegedly a renowned expert in the burgeoning hybrid field of infidelity and handwriting analysis. “You know, in Portugal we don’t go to terapists. We go to Madeira island with the pool boy.”
Landlocked, Marguerite was desperate. Dr. J had recently published a book, The Scoundrel: Caught by His Own Hand (OK, I made that up—I have no idea what his book is called), and that was enough for her. He had asked Marguerite to bring in something that Michael had written recently for in-depth analysis. She hadn’t been able to find anything, so one day she placed a pad of paper and pen on the kitchen table, instructed him to sit down, and began dictating a grocery list to him. She would have to put up with several nights of discount produce and cheap pasta (te cheap bastard), but decided it would be worth it.
She secured the list when Michael came home and took it with her the next day to Dr. J.
“Dis terapist,” she said while pulling a cigarette out of her purse, “He is very good. Renowned. And he should be. He costs me my arm and my leg.”
After examining the list, Dr. J had told Marguerite the obvious: it was quite possible she was living with a man who was a cheater, but he needed more material to be certain.
While Marguerite cried a bit more, I silently ran my own analysis on Dr. J’s groundbreaking prognosis.
Let’s see:
Cheater: um, yes. I believe this has been established.
Anyway, Marguerite shrewdly went home, made soup with expired vegetables and penned a letter to Michael expressing her (so false) conviction that they as a married couple would survive his infidelity.
Marguerite’s plan worked. Michael responded via a handwritten note. In fact, he kept responding via handwritten notes—9 in total.
“Tey were boootiful letters. One more gorgeous than te one before,” she said.
I could see the lights of the strip reflecting in her eyes as they welled up again with tears. “He apologized over and over again and professed his love and…”
“And?”
“And called himself a patetic dawg. I started forgiving him. I really did.” Her voice was quavering then. ”We had sex like fifteen times last week, but ten I took te letters to Dr. J Friday.”
Marguerite stopped and then was suddenly, embarrassingly inconsolable. I shooed the concerned waiter away and after a minute (or ten) Marguerite composed herself once again and pulled out a small pile of papers from her purse. She flattened them on the table--they had obviously been folded and flattened many times. I leaned over; Michael’s handwriting was, for the most part, surprisingly legible.
According to Dr. J’s further analysis, Michael was indisputably a cheater, obsessed with sex, a rule-breaker, a social deviant, and a con artist who was living a double life.
“It’s heartbreaking. Te letters are so beautiful. Beautiful f****** lies,” she said as she lit the cigarette. When the waiter came over and told her she couldn’t smoke inside the restaurant, but that she was more than welcome to step outside on the balcony, Marguerite said flatly, “Only if you want me to joomp.”
On a serious side note I must comment on the fact that Vegas annually vies for the top spot for suicide in the country. Out of the over 40 million visitors that come to Vegas each year, a little more than one every month successfully takes his or her own life. And, the risk of committing suicide for Sin City residents is twice as high as in the rest of the US.
Looking into this a bit more I learned that there is a bit of a debate going on in the ivory tower. On one hand some researchers argue that Vegas itself is conducive to suicide due to its culture of anonymity, impossible odds, and suspended rules regarding personal conduct. There is also the bacchanalian last hooray that lures those who have made up their minds and the potentially winning one last hand to be played for those who haven’t. As far as residents go, Harvard sociologists note that the odds of someone committing suicide drop if he or she moves or takes a vacation. However, others argue that the city itself is not to blame. They posit that Vegas is an appealing home to those who are depressed and in despair. I, of course, take issue with these guys and what their argument says about me, but then again…I didn’t arbitrarily move to Disney World, now did I?
Back to Marguerite. Before I had a chance to commiserate or to insert a bit of rational thinking regarding Dr.J.’s prognosis, she swept up the letters, announced that she was exhausted and snuffed out her cigarette in the middle of a squishy peach mound of Hamachi. Her short square fingernails were painted glossy Vamp. Marguerite’s nails were, in fact, always painted glossy Vamp.
On the ride home I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the letters Michael had written her were a mash of Kanye songs. It seemed, somehow, beside the point, as did the realization I had that if Dr. J.’s expert opinion is correct, then probably at this very moment Michael (Codename Rhonda) was in bed with an alien.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
sex, lies, and handwriting--a cautionary tale in two parts (part one)
Marguerite and I went tonight for sushi at Roku in Caesar’s. We had planned on going to The Ranch for a movie, but when she called to tell me she’d be by at seven her voice was muffled and the usual hairpin turns of her Portuguese accent were round. She had been crying.
“Look. Look at this,” she said unfolding a piece of paper on the table, the hooks in her voice back. It appeared to be a list. “He’s such a bastard.”
The bastard to whom Marguerite was referring was her husband. She had met Michael when he was stationed in France three years ago with the Air Force. The American pilots had been regulars at the cabaret where Marguerite was ahem dancing for the summer. While her mother had strongly disapproved, the money she said had been puxa, especially for an elementary teacher who worked two months to make what she made in a weekend as a ahem dancer. (Don’t even get me started on the fact that I would make 357% more per hour taking my sensible cardigan off than I do putting it on every morning—not that I actually ran the numbers or anything).
At first Marguerite hadn’t noticed Michael as anyone special, but his tips were another story. One night he stayed behind and offered to buy a private ahem dance. Marguerite, of course refused such a blatant proposition, claiming he could never afford her. But Michael was relentless. After weeks of stalwart, Marguerite acquiesced and when they were through Michael left a grand on her nightstand. Later Michael confessed that he would have paid more and much later Marguerite confessed that she would have accepted less.
They married in Cannes in September and she returned with him to the States after he accepted a job offer working for Area 51, which is 90 miles outside of Vegas. Being Portuguese Marguerite had never heard of Area 51 and understandably she was horrified when she learned everything she did, which of course wasn’t much. The secrecy involved in Michael’s job created a rift, but one she explained they were able to cross with consistently amazing sex.
A month ago Marguerite and Michael had hosted a masquerade Christmas party at their Anthem home. There was a dark chocolate fountain and an assortment of berries in martini glasses rimmed with sugar that hired cocktail waitresses carried around on little black trays. The waitresses were topless and wore white bowties around their necks—a touch that would have been perceived as tres European if not for the fact that this was Vegas.
After a few hours of mingling with friends and people who may or may not have worked with her husband, Marguerite went upstairs to check on Asia. The Persian cat had been locked in one of the guestrooms for safekeeping. “It was the bastard’s f****** brilliant idea. We argued about it, but then the caterer showed up.” When Marguerite opened the guestroom door she found Michael in bed with one of the blonde cocktail waitresses. She immediately reverted to a long line of multisyllabic sounds, which guests could only surmise to be Portuguese curses as she kicked everyone out. She then called her mother in Lisbon who promptly boarded a plane and has been in the house with Marguerite and Michael now for over nearly a month.
“It is a special kind of hell for such a filthy bastard,” Marguerite hissed.
To be continued…promise—my phone doth ring…
“Look. Look at this,” she said unfolding a piece of paper on the table, the hooks in her voice back. It appeared to be a list. “He’s such a bastard.”
The bastard to whom Marguerite was referring was her husband. She had met Michael when he was stationed in France three years ago with the Air Force. The American pilots had been regulars at the cabaret where Marguerite was ahem dancing for the summer. While her mother had strongly disapproved, the money she said had been puxa, especially for an elementary teacher who worked two months to make what she made in a weekend as a ahem dancer. (Don’t even get me started on the fact that I would make 357% more per hour taking my sensible cardigan off than I do putting it on every morning—not that I actually ran the numbers or anything).
At first Marguerite hadn’t noticed Michael as anyone special, but his tips were another story. One night he stayed behind and offered to buy a private ahem dance. Marguerite, of course refused such a blatant proposition, claiming he could never afford her. But Michael was relentless. After weeks of stalwart, Marguerite acquiesced and when they were through Michael left a grand on her nightstand. Later Michael confessed that he would have paid more and much later Marguerite confessed that she would have accepted less.
They married in Cannes in September and she returned with him to the States after he accepted a job offer working for Area 51, which is 90 miles outside of Vegas. Being Portuguese Marguerite had never heard of Area 51 and understandably she was horrified when she learned everything she did, which of course wasn’t much. The secrecy involved in Michael’s job created a rift, but one she explained they were able to cross with consistently amazing sex.
A month ago Marguerite and Michael had hosted a masquerade Christmas party at their Anthem home. There was a dark chocolate fountain and an assortment of berries in martini glasses rimmed with sugar that hired cocktail waitresses carried around on little black trays. The waitresses were topless and wore white bowties around their necks—a touch that would have been perceived as tres European if not for the fact that this was Vegas.
After a few hours of mingling with friends and people who may or may not have worked with her husband, Marguerite went upstairs to check on Asia. The Persian cat had been locked in one of the guestrooms for safekeeping. “It was the bastard’s f****** brilliant idea. We argued about it, but then the caterer showed up.” When Marguerite opened the guestroom door she found Michael in bed with one of the blonde cocktail waitresses. She immediately reverted to a long line of multisyllabic sounds, which guests could only surmise to be Portuguese curses as she kicked everyone out. She then called her mother in Lisbon who promptly boarded a plane and has been in the house with Marguerite and Michael now for over nearly a month.
“It is a special kind of hell for such a filthy bastard,” Marguerite hissed.
To be continued…promise—my phone doth ring…
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Area 51
In lieu of talking about American Realism and Jack London today in class, my juniors and I discussed Area 51 and the disconcerting fact that it really isn't far. Of course it isn't. Las Vegas is the land of lost stragglers and why wouldn't extraterrestial stragglers not feel right at home here as well?
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Vanity Sizing
Went straight to Saks after school today for a new bag and a new pair of Sevens since mine are inexplicably (OK, that's a lie) a little snug.
Knowing that it will take at least a month of zero Christmas cookies before I shimmy gracefully back into my normal size, I need a little tiding over. I handed over most of my Christmas money in exchange for the biggest bag I saw. My Vegas chums, I know, will insist on scoffing and making rather boring remarks about carry-ons and Mary Poppins, but these are women who have never left their apartment at 7 a.m to hit the gym, the office, the power lunch, the after-work cocktails, the after-cocktail dinner and the grocery store before returning to their apartments just past midnight. Without a car.
Every smart New York woman truly keeps her life in her Birken. Where's my lipstick? In my Birkin! Where's my running shoes? In my Birkin? Where's my dissertation? In my Birkin! And every really smart New York woman knows that THE BIGGER YOUR BAG, THE THINNER YOU ARE. It is an undeniable axiom of truth in the same golden vein as water freezes at 32 degrees Fahrenheit and the more money you have to blow, the less likely it is that you will find anything you like.
I moved on to the designer denim area of the store and begrudingly grabbed my favorite cut in the next size up. In the dressing room I was surprised that the jeans seemed a bit...loose. What the...did I not nearly bust the button last night on my pair at home? And did I not die just a little on the inside when I couldn't fully sit down on my bed with my jeans on? What was going on? I huffed for a split second and rang the bell for the salesgirl to bring me another pair in my usual size.
"Isn't that the best?" she said from the other side of the door as she handed me the next size up. While I couldn't see her face, I imagined her nose scrunching up and her eyes twinkling as she said this to me. There was that warm cameraderie in her voice that magically happens between two women who are perfect strangers when it comes to matters of jackasses, mother-in-laws, and going down (or up) a jean size. Such exchanges, sadly, are rare today for me. I'm forced to get my fix by rewinding and replaying certain beauty parlor scenes in Steel Magnolias.
The jeans slipped on beautifully. Unless I sleptwalked around the block about, oh say, 10,000 times last night in my sleep, I thought to myself...something is very very wrong.
Which brings me to my next point: vanity sizing
While the marketing Einsteins behind the rack will never admit it, there is a quiet conspiracy going on across the country. Tiny white tags with misleading information are being sewn into pants, skirts, jeans, and dresses. The genuiuses concerned with the bottom line know that studies have shown that American women are more likely to part with their moola when they fit into a smaller-than-expected size of something, anything. Vanity sizing cannot be merely written off as just another duplicitous maneuver part and parcel to capitalisim. It is impossible not to imagine something a little more sinister.
Think about it. In the name of a buck, someone has gone and changed the rules. It used to be that the fit of our jeans were a reliable marker of where we stood when it came to pounds and inches. Putting on our old jeans from college was a trusted method of gauging just how long ago we fell off the wagon. And--doing so was much less humilating or harsh than stepping on the scale, and allowed for a little sensible rationalization.
I, like any woman, would go through the normal battery of excuses when my jeans didn't fit:
Did they shrink due to repeated washings?
Have my underwear grown thicker?
Am I just bloated?
Denial of course only ever lasted for so long and soon I had to face the cold hard truth: abstinence from eating anything that may qualify as good and doubling my efforts at the gym were the only options. And, after many miles, and many paltry salads and (seemingly) many sober weekends, my prize was fitting back into my jeans.
Now, the free market place, which is more than happy to feed our hunger for quick fixes has made it entirely too easy on all of us. I can pop over to Gap or Nordstrom and voila, I'm a 26 again. I can wait one month to a half a year--all the while eating cake and kicking it on the couch--knowing that my favorite designer will increase the girth and decrease the size on the tag of the very jeans that are hibernating in my closet. At first this sounds dreamy, yes. But then you go to Europe for Spring Break. And, as you are trying to get your calf in the hot black pants you found on sale at a little Milan boutique surrounded by svelte Italians who are eating cheese with a little pasta sprinkled on top, you realize damn the truth hurts.
Dear Mr. President Elect-I think that we need is a little less change.
Healthcare wouldn't be nearly as big of an issue if our jeans told us the truth. We wouldn't spend money on food full of high fructose corn syrup and trans fats if it meant eventually we would have to sit in Micky Ds naked.
Knowing that it will take at least a month of zero Christmas cookies before I shimmy gracefully back into my normal size, I need a little tiding over. I handed over most of my Christmas money in exchange for the biggest bag I saw. My Vegas chums, I know, will insist on scoffing and making rather boring remarks about carry-ons and Mary Poppins, but these are women who have never left their apartment at 7 a.m to hit the gym, the office, the power lunch, the after-work cocktails, the after-cocktail dinner and the grocery store before returning to their apartments just past midnight. Without a car.
Every smart New York woman truly keeps her life in her Birken. Where's my lipstick? In my Birkin! Where's my running shoes? In my Birkin? Where's my dissertation? In my Birkin! And every really smart New York woman knows that THE BIGGER YOUR BAG, THE THINNER YOU ARE. It is an undeniable axiom of truth in the same golden vein as water freezes at 32 degrees Fahrenheit and the more money you have to blow, the less likely it is that you will find anything you like.
I moved on to the designer denim area of the store and begrudingly grabbed my favorite cut in the next size up. In the dressing room I was surprised that the jeans seemed a bit...loose. What the...did I not nearly bust the button last night on my pair at home? And did I not die just a little on the inside when I couldn't fully sit down on my bed with my jeans on? What was going on? I huffed for a split second and rang the bell for the salesgirl to bring me another pair in my usual size.
"Isn't that the best?" she said from the other side of the door as she handed me the next size up. While I couldn't see her face, I imagined her nose scrunching up and her eyes twinkling as she said this to me. There was that warm cameraderie in her voice that magically happens between two women who are perfect strangers when it comes to matters of jackasses, mother-in-laws, and going down (or up) a jean size. Such exchanges, sadly, are rare today for me. I'm forced to get my fix by rewinding and replaying certain beauty parlor scenes in Steel Magnolias.
The jeans slipped on beautifully. Unless I sleptwalked around the block about, oh say, 10,000 times last night in my sleep, I thought to myself...something is very very wrong.
Which brings me to my next point: vanity sizing
While the marketing Einsteins behind the rack will never admit it, there is a quiet conspiracy going on across the country. Tiny white tags with misleading information are being sewn into pants, skirts, jeans, and dresses. The genuiuses concerned with the bottom line know that studies have shown that American women are more likely to part with their moola when they fit into a smaller-than-expected size of something, anything. Vanity sizing cannot be merely written off as just another duplicitous maneuver part and parcel to capitalisim. It is impossible not to imagine something a little more sinister.
Think about it. In the name of a buck, someone has gone and changed the rules. It used to be that the fit of our jeans were a reliable marker of where we stood when it came to pounds and inches. Putting on our old jeans from college was a trusted method of gauging just how long ago we fell off the wagon. And--doing so was much less humilating or harsh than stepping on the scale, and allowed for a little sensible rationalization.
I, like any woman, would go through the normal battery of excuses when my jeans didn't fit:
Did they shrink due to repeated washings?
Have my underwear grown thicker?
Am I just bloated?
Denial of course only ever lasted for so long and soon I had to face the cold hard truth: abstinence from eating anything that may qualify as good and doubling my efforts at the gym were the only options. And, after many miles, and many paltry salads and (seemingly) many sober weekends, my prize was fitting back into my jeans.
Now, the free market place, which is more than happy to feed our hunger for quick fixes has made it entirely too easy on all of us. I can pop over to Gap or Nordstrom and voila, I'm a 26 again. I can wait one month to a half a year--all the while eating cake and kicking it on the couch--knowing that my favorite designer will increase the girth and decrease the size on the tag of the very jeans that are hibernating in my closet. At first this sounds dreamy, yes. But then you go to Europe for Spring Break. And, as you are trying to get your calf in the hot black pants you found on sale at a little Milan boutique surrounded by svelte Italians who are eating cheese with a little pasta sprinkled on top, you realize damn the truth hurts.
Dear Mr. President Elect-I think that we need is a little less change.
Healthcare wouldn't be nearly as big of an issue if our jeans told us the truth. We wouldn't spend money on food full of high fructose corn syrup and trans fats if it meant eventually we would have to sit in Micky Ds naked.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Coffee as Savior
Confirmed--the honeymoon is over.
There is nothing less sexy than being in a room full of 15-year-olds at 6:59 on a Monday morning.
Nothing.
At least half of them were still in Vail coming down with an upper respiratory infection, which will be duly noted by their family physicians in the attendance office tomorrow.
Considered grading one of the 150 essays that have been sitting on my desk for over two weeks. Last year at this time they made it to the overhead bin on my flight Back East and that's where they stayed. For good. So, I learned my lesson and decided this year not to pretend that I was going to do any work over my break and read smut and fluff for the duration of the 2200 mile flight.
Am watching the season premier of The Bachelor instead, and the transition from Hamlet to mindless fake romance and shameless rose ceremonies is surprisingly easy. One woman introduced herself to Jason as a native of Idaho. He said he had never been, and the woman looked shocked. "Really? Never? You've got to go there. You know, potatoes!"
Reminds me of the countless times I told people in the city that I was from Ohio and they replied on cue--"Ohio! Ah! Potatoes!" It took me many months to figure this out.
Anyway, found another upshot of being 30. I think I'm too old to be on the show in much the same way I am too old to donate an egg. Potentially happy endings both, but irreversible and unpredictable consequences in the wake. You never know when someone will dig up an old youtube video to show your fiance how you slipped a laxative into one of the other contender's fat free salad dressing on the afternoon of her one-on-one date with the bachelor. And, you never know when an 18-year-old boy named Curtis will knock on your door while you are at spin class and tell your husband that he came to meet his mother.
The show reminds me, too, of the boy I dated in the city who was (unbeknown to me) a contestant on The Bachelorette just months before the two of us were sitting at Coffee Shop in Union Square discussing mutual contempt for stale marshmallows in hot chocolate. That evening his cell phone blew up with calls from enthusiastic friends who were at home watching the premier of the pre-taped show. After my inital surprise wore off, I said, "Well, I guess I don't have to ask how that went for you."
There is nothing less sexy than being in a room full of 15-year-olds at 6:59 on a Monday morning.
Nothing.
At least half of them were still in Vail coming down with an upper respiratory infection, which will be duly noted by their family physicians in the attendance office tomorrow.
Considered grading one of the 150 essays that have been sitting on my desk for over two weeks. Last year at this time they made it to the overhead bin on my flight Back East and that's where they stayed. For good. So, I learned my lesson and decided this year not to pretend that I was going to do any work over my break and read smut and fluff for the duration of the 2200 mile flight.
Am watching the season premier of The Bachelor instead, and the transition from Hamlet to mindless fake romance and shameless rose ceremonies is surprisingly easy. One woman introduced herself to Jason as a native of Idaho. He said he had never been, and the woman looked shocked. "Really? Never? You've got to go there. You know, potatoes!"
Reminds me of the countless times I told people in the city that I was from Ohio and they replied on cue--"Ohio! Ah! Potatoes!" It took me many months to figure this out.
Anyway, found another upshot of being 30. I think I'm too old to be on the show in much the same way I am too old to donate an egg. Potentially happy endings both, but irreversible and unpredictable consequences in the wake. You never know when someone will dig up an old youtube video to show your fiance how you slipped a laxative into one of the other contender's fat free salad dressing on the afternoon of her one-on-one date with the bachelor. And, you never know when an 18-year-old boy named Curtis will knock on your door while you are at spin class and tell your husband that he came to meet his mother.
The show reminds me, too, of the boy I dated in the city who was (unbeknown to me) a contestant on The Bachelorette just months before the two of us were sitting at Coffee Shop in Union Square discussing mutual contempt for stale marshmallows in hot chocolate. That evening his cell phone blew up with calls from enthusiastic friends who were at home watching the premier of the pre-taped show. After my inital surprise wore off, I said, "Well, I guess I don't have to ask how that went for you."
Sunday, January 4, 2009
To assuage the guilt I am feeling regarding all of the small, measurable, achievable, realistic, time-sensitive goals I did not make as New Year's resolutions, I decided to revisit all of the small, measurable, achievable, realistic, time-sensitive goals I made the morning of my thirtieth birthday post party while staring at the ceiling in the bed. I I immediately countered each goal with a perfectly valid excuse. I repeated the points and counterpoints many times as a stalling tactic. I reasoned that I was not officially thirty until my feet hit the ground. The truth is--it was only the undeniable need to vomit that got me out of bed that morning. Otherwise, I'd probably still be 29 and composing a bestselling novel in my head in the same fashion of J.K. Rowling while she took that long, boring train without a pen.
Anyway, I'm hoping that a jaunt down memory lane will remind me of the futility of making lists of goals on arbitrary days of the years.
The B-list
Point: Quit smoking
Counterpoint: What would I have to look forward on January 1, 2009, as this is my favorite annual resolution to break? And no, the irony is not lost on me.
Point: Have Botox
Counterpoint: Pretty certain a year of teaching at the Las Vegas version of 90210 would render my 31st birthday a more appropriate occasion. Plus, I needed something shallow to look forward to when shock of turning 30 would wear off and depression would perhaps set in.
Point: Calling a truce with Candy as an outward sign of my newfound thirtysomething maturity.
Counterpoint: Um, no. Just no.
Point: Deleting all of the awful 80s songs on my ipod.
Counterpoint: Bananarama's Cruel Cruel Summer just feels so apropos. Yes, I knew and will always know who sings Cruel Cruel Summer.
Point: Reintroducing refined flour, sugar, partially hydrogenated oils to my diet.
Counterpoint: What then, I ask, would I have to look forward to when I got pregnant?
Point: Join eharmony
Counterpoint: Dr. Phil
Point: Tracking down one of those Thunder from Down Under guys shown on various billboards by the airport or any guy who can't read for some feckless, non-verbal summer fling.
Counterpoint: Clearly the most probable winner. In addition to skipping sunscreen for one day.
So there I was in bed hungover and clearly defeated. At least I would be tan.
Anyway, I'm hoping that a jaunt down memory lane will remind me of the futility of making lists of goals on arbitrary days of the years.
The B-list
Point: Quit smoking
Counterpoint: What would I have to look forward on January 1, 2009, as this is my favorite annual resolution to break? And no, the irony is not lost on me.
Point: Have Botox
Counterpoint: Pretty certain a year of teaching at the Las Vegas version of 90210 would render my 31st birthday a more appropriate occasion. Plus, I needed something shallow to look forward to when shock of turning 30 would wear off and depression would perhaps set in.
Point: Calling a truce with Candy as an outward sign of my newfound thirtysomething maturity.
Counterpoint: Um, no. Just no.
Point: Deleting all of the awful 80s songs on my ipod.
Counterpoint: Bananarama's Cruel Cruel Summer just feels so apropos. Yes, I knew and will always know who sings Cruel Cruel Summer.
Point: Reintroducing refined flour, sugar, partially hydrogenated oils to my diet.
Counterpoint: What then, I ask, would I have to look forward to when I got pregnant?
Point: Join eharmony
Counterpoint: Dr. Phil
Point: Tracking down one of those Thunder from Down Under guys shown on various billboards by the airport or any guy who can't read for some feckless, non-verbal summer fling.
Counterpoint: Clearly the most probable winner. In addition to skipping sunscreen for one day.
So there I was in bed hungover and clearly defeated. At least I would be tan.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Homelust
Dress was a hit last night, if underappreciated. I kept my coat on the entire time due to frigid northeastern Ohio temperature.
Date left time for only 5 hours of sleep, 1 hour on the treadmill, and 2 hours of what felt like remedial packing for dummies.
Eight hours later I am back in Vegas.
Tired.
Dehydrated.
Annoyed that I was forced to eat a hamburger on the plane in vague, misguided attempt to block out the crying baby sitting behind me.
Annoyed that my bedroom was turned upside down today for the new carpet and not turned right side up.
Annoyed that I paid a $40 fee to check two bags. Since when is luggage optional when traveling?
Depressed that I have no more valid reasons to eat Christmas cookies.
Depressed that school is back in session in 32 hours.
Very depressed, actually.
And don't even get me started on the sad goodbye I made at the airport today. It seems as though my chronic wanderlust* is morphing into... what is the word? Homelust*?
eLLe speLLs wanderlust: noun, sounds like wonder lust--German word for the irresistibly strong desire to wander.
Homelust: my own coinage. I'm sure you can figure it out.
Tomorrow--I really am going to get to that B list.
Date left time for only 5 hours of sleep, 1 hour on the treadmill, and 2 hours of what felt like remedial packing for dummies.
Eight hours later I am back in Vegas.
Tired.
Dehydrated.
Annoyed that I was forced to eat a hamburger on the plane in vague, misguided attempt to block out the crying baby sitting behind me.
Annoyed that my bedroom was turned upside down today for the new carpet and not turned right side up.
Annoyed that I paid a $40 fee to check two bags. Since when is luggage optional when traveling?
Depressed that I have no more valid reasons to eat Christmas cookies.
Depressed that school is back in session in 32 hours.
Very depressed, actually.
And don't even get me started on the sad goodbye I made at the airport today. It seems as though my chronic wanderlust* is morphing into... what is the word? Homelust*?
eLLe speLLs wanderlust: noun, sounds like wonder lust--German word for the irresistibly strong desire to wander.
Homelust: my own coinage. I'm sure you can figure it out.
Tomorrow--I really am going to get to that B list.
Friday, January 2, 2009
I met my friend Delilah (a bona fide New Yorker per her fervant and consistent pursuit of shaved white truffles and Helmut Lang sample sales) for coffee in order to review her personal mission statement for 2009. Her statement consisted of 11 bulleted goals ranging from running a marathon to doubling her numbers in sales. Delilah and I were roommates for several years on the Upper West Side and let me say as a reliable reference, this girl doesn't mess around. I have no doubt in my mind that the .001 % of Americans who actually keep its resolutions is an elite group with one member-- Delilah. When she urged me to compose a personal mission statement for myself, I chose efficiency over responsibility for self and piggybacked my main goal on to her list: Bullet Point #12-- Find ms.eLLe a job in the city. Delilah will get it done. Even as I type she is shooting an email to her J.Crew friend to see if he will have a need for someone to write about pointelle sweaters or monogramming options. I told her to be sure to mention that I can come up with like 30 different words for the color blue in less than 60 seconds. Leaving Las Vegas has nothing to do with securing another teaching job, just another job. My goal is more likely to be met in Delilah's hands rather than my own. As proof of this, consider my I'M NOW THIRTY resolution list, which I simultaneously composed and countered the morning of my birthday while lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Running late for date...I should win an award for getting ready in 5 minutes flat. And, I'm wearing a dress. With a zipper up the back. Perfect for a second or third date except that it is, by design, the kind of dress a woman needs her husband to zip up for her. More later...
Thursday, January 1, 2009
home is where the pen is
Depending on the time zone, I either have or have not already broken my single New Year's resolution-to post daily on this nascent* blog of mine.
Eastern Standard Time, the zone in which I am actually writing, is 12:14 a.m., January 2. Pacific Standard Time, the zone in which I live, pay state taxes, and receive mail, is 9:14 p.m., January 1.
Let's go with PST for the sake of momentum.
Now that that's taken care of*, I'm assured a warm, fuzzy feeling of smugness when I put my head down on my pillow tonight as I think of all those poor souls who didn't make it through Day One without using the Lord's name in vain or a quick run through the drive thru.
eLLe speLLs nascent
nas*cent--adjective--begininning to exist or develop.
good grammar is the new black
As an aside, I am fully aware that "of" is dangling. Everyone else ought to be aware that I have been on hiatus from teaching for nearly two weeks in addition to the fact that I had quite the evening last night and therefore, must be given at least a bit of the slack I give to all of the non-English teachers of the world every single day of the year.
Tomorrow: Wanderlust and the B List
Eastern Standard Time, the zone in which I am actually writing, is 12:14 a.m., January 2. Pacific Standard Time, the zone in which I live, pay state taxes, and receive mail, is 9:14 p.m., January 1.
Let's go with PST for the sake of momentum.
Now that that's taken care of*, I'm assured a warm, fuzzy feeling of smugness when I put my head down on my pillow tonight as I think of all those poor souls who didn't make it through Day One without using the Lord's name in vain or a quick run through the drive thru.
eLLe speLLs nascent
nas*cent--adjective--begininning to exist or develop.
good grammar is the new black
As an aside, I am fully aware that "of" is dangling. Everyone else ought to be aware that I have been on hiatus from teaching for nearly two weeks in addition to the fact that I had quite the evening last night and therefore, must be given at least a bit of the slack I give to all of the non-English teachers of the world every single day of the year.
Tomorrow: Wanderlust and the B List
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