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…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
