baby, it's cold outside: when frigid is good

For the record, as an English instructor, I do NOT read Cosmopolitan. Ever. Such smut and fluff does not, of course, interest me in the least. But let’s just say that if I were to have maybe picked up a copy of the January issue last night to distract me while on the treadmill, it would be safe to say that I would now maybe be a little more depressed than I already was.

If I were to have read it, suffice it to say that some light (arguably the wrong word to use in this scenario) would have been shed on the Current State of My Life.

For One: Las Vegas recently has been ranked as the number one city in the country to meet a guy, based on the fact that the ratio of men to women is greater in Vegas than any other city in the country.

Now, that the majority of these jerks get on a plane without you on Monday morning to make their Monday afternoon final tuxedo fitting in Memphis is beside the point. Rather, the take home is this: DO NOT MOVE FROM THE CITY WITH THE GREATEST ODDS OF MEETING A MAN* TO A CITY WITH SOME OF THE WORST ODDS.**

For Two: Loosely connected to For One is Cosmo’s announcement that given my age I have exactly three years left to easily conceive. After that, it’s all in vitro and quadruplets and declaring bankruptcy. Yeah, that’s great just great, especially in light of the fact that it now apparently takes at least one year of texting before a boy will actually ask you to dinner (please see ** again). And, I’m pretty sure a first date is an essential step towards conceiving.***

*Wow, I sure am glad I didn’t do anything crazy like move from the city with the greatest ratio of men to women to a place like Cleveland. I sure am glad I didn’t leave such promising odds and my sweet dog and my swimming pool and my sense of all that is good and just in the world to do that. Oh yeah, I sure am glad I didn’t do anything so utterly unstrategic (yes, I made this word up).

**WORST ODDS is admittedly my unscientific designation based on the fact that Cleveland’s mayor now apparently has the authority to close down all area restaurants due to so-called intrepid winter weather, which consequently leaves gas stations as the only viable option for dates with men that you do not know well yet and, well, we all know what happens to women who meet men they do not know well yet at gas stations. And that’s after they are dismembered.

***HOWEVER I will not deny the obvious here. While 8 out of the top 10 cities for meeting a man enjoy the warmer climes of the west coast and the south, Cleveland girls toward the end of their most fecund years have a decided advantage over women from everywhere else in the country because I’m pretty sure that last week while I was pumping gas at BP and reading grammatically atrocious text messages that mentioned nary a nice dinner in person BOOM my eggs froze. Maybe things in 2011 are looking up after all.

On my way to NYC. Next up: Text And the City

what I've learned or how to score a free spring wardrobe

I admit that my last post was a bit depressing as I detailed all of the things that have gone horribly awry this year for me, so let me say that 2010 was not a complete disaster. In fact, the more I think about it the more I realize that I actually learned quite a bit:

1. I've learned that Ohio boys are under the assumption (ahem, the false one) that texting is the new dating.

2. I've learned that Ohio boys still show partiality to wearing blue button downs.

3. I've learned that it is entirely possible, even for a rational human being, to mistake that lady from OnStar who calls you when your car is smashed from behind by a van going waaaaaaaaaaaay too fast for an angel.

4. On a related note, I've learned that not all injuries incurred during a car accident are immediately apparent. Case in point--a conversation I had during my first real live ambulance ride while boxed in on the stretcher:

Me to the paramedics: Um, don't you think you two are being just a bit dramatic? I don't feel any pain.

Paramedic #1 to me: You two? Sweetheart, there's only me.. Now, see if you can follow this little light with your eyes.

Paramedic #2: Obviously silent.

OK...moving on...

5. On yet another related note, I've learned that car salesmen still assume I'm stupid when I show up to buy a car. Funny, because the last car salesman that did this ended up across a table from me with sweat on his brow waiving a white piece of paper in lieu of a flag declaring "OK, OK, you win." *

6. I've learned that I still can't cook.

7. I've learned that I still don't care.

8. I've learned that while I'm no longer a "winner" when it comes to bocce, I am surprisingly adept at not hitting chickens, rogue cows, or Amish horseman on my way to work everyday.

9. I've learned that the worst movie ever made is called I Know Who Killed Me starring Lindsay Lohan. The first logistical problem (of many I assure you) is the title.

10. I've learned that one red sock in the washer= Your Spring Wardrobe 2011 (whether or not you believe in pink, which I don't).

*true story

James Franco Didn't Really Cut His Arm Off

Be forewarned, as there are A LOT of asterisks. Even for me.

Three nights ago as I stood around a table with good friends and watched the $30 pool go to the chick* next me in what was a highly contentious game of Left Right Left even though Iwasthisclosetowinningit, I realized that in addition to the stress I've endured due to the exponentially growing number of remote controls on the living room coffee table that require at least an intermediate knowledge of algorithms and genomic sequencing, this has been an extraordinarily awful year for me.

I've dealt with a broken heart, a totaled car,** a sick mother,*** a sick dog,**** and a suspiciously official looking written notice that I am IN FACT "geographically challenging to date."*****

Adding insult to injury: in what was a misdirected attempt to indulge my new crush on James Franco,****** I went to the theater to see 127 Hours last week. I sat there and watched James Franco ponder cutting off his arm for nearly 90 excruciating minutes before I sat there and watched James Franco end the pondering. Excruciatingly.

Now, I admit the following: I am aware of the fact that 127 Hours is a mere cinematic depiction of someone who is not actually James Franco cutting off his arm. I am also aware of the fact that due to aforementioned fact that James Franco and his arm--as of this writing--are fine.

Still, the horror of it all is messing with me a bit and has threatened the feasibility of my Prince William back-up plan, which was a plan that very much so included James Franco carrying me in his arms (both of them) across the quad at Yale.*******


*G, I'm not really calling you "some chick." It's part of my creative license as a writer. You deserved the 30 bucks. You can buy your sister the pre-cut fruit and Pop Tarts she loves now. I'm happy for you both. Really. I am.

**problematic in more than the most obvious way--since having declared permanent residency in my car last August, I have been using my car's VIN # as my return address for every TOTALLY sane letter I have been writing to Prince William gently urging him to ditch Whatsherrname. When he comes to his senses, I may never know.

***apparently a person can have her stomach pumped through her nose for at least seven days in a row. Modern medicine never ceases...

****apparently it costs just as much to treat a dog that has nothing wrong with it as it does to treat a dog that actually does

*****Uh, duh. (And because I know you are soooo wondering--this astute observation was not made by an heir to any throne).

******The real tragedy regarding James Franco this year is that he wrote a book. Oh, that's great, you say? Not so quick. Why? Because here is a man who is tall, dark, and handsome. Here is a man who is also pursuing a doctorate in English. And! And! Now this man has recently penned a fictional homage to his youth in his novel Palo Alto. These last two facts strongly suggest that James Franco can read and knows the difference between a colon and a semi-colon. I did not know such a creature existed! Alas, I'm perhaps ruined forever now. The pool of datable men shrinks and my standards go up. A winning strategy, I'm sure.

*******A similar thing happened to me several years ago with Leonardo DiCaprio, in that I couldn't quite shake off the scene of him drowning in the frigid Atlantic waters in Titanic. Even to this day I always feel a little burst of relief and joy when he pops up in a new film.^

^I realize this statement gives a particular impression about my intelligence level. Like, whatev.

No, It's Not the Apocalypse--It's Football Season in Ohio (The Second Half)

Second Half (continued from last week...)

Top seven pieces of evidence that in this matter of OSU fanaticism I do not jest:

1. The fact that while the majority of males in the world bleed red-- Ohio boys bleed scarlet.

2. The long held debate as to which came first: the Ohio State Buckeyes (as in the team) or Buckeyes (as in the seeds) that can be found on trees throughout the state (an inordinate –I’m pretty sure--number of which are in my father’s backyard).

3. The existence of Buckeye offspring and offshoots, which include the best tasting ball of chocolate and peanut butter you will ever be so fortunate to put in your mouth and a perennial no-fail go-to Halloween costume for all ages that will inspire high fives (and perhaps other odd male gestures) because dressing up like Brutus makes you a winner. No matter what.

4. The uncontested truth that should a woman commit the faux pas of scheduling her wedding on an in-season Saturday afternoon, she will either be A) secretly cursed behind her back for the rest of her life or B) standing alone at the altar.

5. The fact that the short phrase “Script Ohio”* is readily identifiable and meaningful to even the youngest of Ohio residents.

6. The fact that the following conservation does not sound nearly as unlikely to any good Ohio boy than it does to you: “No, Megan Fox, I cannot fly out to have a picnic with you and your bikini on the beach next Saturday. What do you mean why? Are you kidding me? Ohio State is playing. No, it doesn’t make a difference that Gisele is coming too.”

7. Ditto for “Well, he’ll just have to be buried tomorrow.”

As I mentioned earlier, current residency** does little to diminish a native Ohio boy’s undying love and loyalty to the Buckeyes. Natives elsewhere are just as likely to disappear and hunker down at either 1) the aforementioned “OSU” bars, which are strategically located in every city with a population above two, or 2) in the basements of fellow Bruti.***

Last week I was IMing with one such native who currently lives in California. Please keep at the forefront of your mind, that it was Monday. I asked him what he was up to, and he replied “Oh, you know, just preparing for Saturday.” Now, usually if a man says on Monday that he is preparing for Saturday it means he is taking his state bar exam… for the third time. But if an Ohio man says this, it means exactly one thing: “The Buckeyes are playing.” My friend, under the condition of anonymity, agreed to allow me to share with my readers his take on the need for Ohio boys to ritualize their fanaticism. I won’t go into all of the details, but do know that parallels to the way girls prepare for prom, to the way women prepare for the birth of their baby, and to the way candidates prepare for the Presidential election were made—and made quite well, I might add.

Ohio women, of course, are pros at dealing with all of this.

We know not to panic should we be walking the dog down the street one Saturday afternoon in the fall and notice that in almost every half cut yard a lawn mower runs idly at a standstill without an operator. In this case, we do not wonder if the males of the neighborhood have been abducted, as the much more sensible explanation is that the game is on.

Primed from a young age, we know, too, how to gracefully dodge any flying object while crossing the family room during the game. We do not hold such potentially violent actions against our brothers, dads, boyfriends, or husbands. Ohio women also know to never ever ever marry a Michigan fan. At any given moment, in fact, at least 39 Michigan boys are fleeing across Ohio lawns from rifle-wielding angry fathers-in-law. And—contrary to popular belief-- we Ohio women also know that real men, in fact, do use gray puffy paint.

*Case in point—my little brother’s current FB profile picture: It’s not a bird! It’s not a plane! It’s not even his face! It’s…half time at the OSU game!

** Unless of course an Ohio boy moved to Michigan. In this case, stoning is appropriate from both sides.

***Bruti, as has been seen in recent events, always take one for the team—whether that be opening their homes to other wandering OSU souls or being pounded by some stupid Bobcat (Go on, little brother, admit it. You’re proud I even knew that).

No, It's Not the Apocalypse--the Buckeyes are Playing or What Every Ohio Woman Knows

Part One (as I am aware that tomorrow is Game Day)

As of late social scientists, anthropologists, psychologists and the woman who wrote that ballsy article for The Atlantic in July called “The End of Men” have recently begun to speculate what the world would look like if there were no men.

Well, I’ve got news for you, sweethearts: you are—so to speak--a bit late to the game.

Any female living in Ohio, myself included, has been witnessing this sudden—if temporary—disappearance of men every autumn Saturday since the day we were born. Officially, the weekly phenomenon is called “The Buckeyes are Playing.” This, interestingly enough, is also a handy phrase that can explain away all sort of otherwise inexplicable activity and unacceptable behavior among carriers of the Y chromosome.*

I am aware that women who are not natives of Ohio may think I am exaggerating or writing in jest. Their naïveté only leads to pointless anxiety.

Case in point:

Frantic text from non-indoctrinated woman (an East Coast native who at the time was dating my brother**) on what she perceived to be an idle Saturday afternoon: “OMG,M! Have you heard from your brother? Is he OK? Is he dead? I haven’t heard from him in like three hours and he hasn’t returned any of my 15 phone calls.”

Calm, if somewhat condescending, text from me: “GF, the Buckeyes are playing.”

Final frantic text from same non-indoctrinated woman to my brother after the fifteen phone calls: “WTF?”

Calm, if somewhat condescending, text from my brother: “GF, the Buckeyes are playing.”

It should be noted here as well for the non-indoctrinated woman that close cousins to the response “The Buckeyes are playing” include “The Buckeyes lost,” as in “GF, why is your living room wall punched in?” or “Why did I see Andy standing on the bridge alone crying hysterically Sunday morning?” and “The Buckeyes Won,” as in “Wow, GF, so you’re telling me that Andy just woke up this morning, went out and bought you a new car filled with 24 dozen roses?” or “GF, was I imagining things or was that Andy passing out chocolate bars and free beer in Ohio City last Sunday morning?”

Take home lesson: Sunday behavior among Ohio boys is determined by Saturday’s final score. As someone wiser in this matter, I suggest to women everywhere who are dating or married to Ohio boys that if the Buckeyes lose, just bake your man brownies (No peanut butter in the batter! No need to rub it in his face!--I'll explain in next post) and don’t take his bridge strolling too seriously (there are after all, only six more days until possible redemption at this point). If Ohio State wins, on the other hand, the following Sunday would be the time to tell him that after much thought you think the eggshell white he used to paint the entire interior of the house last week is maybe just a tad not white enough and you’d really like to see it---pleeeeease, baby--redone in porcelain white.

*as near to impossible as I find this to understand, some Ohio women I know seem to disappear and otherwise act strangely during football season as well. When confronted, they initially exhibit symptoms of the nonchalant and somewhat defeatist "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" mentality. It quickly becomes apparent though that faking interest in OSU sports is a slippery slope. Within weeks, women who were once perfectly sensible have been seen sporting red mesh football jerseys and spouting off statistics with a thoroughness formerly reserved for counting carbs.

**I have witnessed my brother's fanaticism first hand on many occasions. He is part of an elite sect which takes vows of week-long silence following a loss.

The Pitch: Do I Look Like a Batter to You?

Boys are always playing a sport. The evidence is in their use of sporting terms off the court. For example, if they nail a new client, 99% of men will say at some point—even just to themselves--“score!” Or they will opt for the more obnoxious “And he scores!,” which is almost always accompanied by that gesture when one arm goes out and then in while one leg is momentarily lifted off the floor. This need for third person play by play commentary follows boys well past adolescence.

In recent weeks it has been brought to my attention that the use of sports-related vocabulary is a favorite among men who are trying to date a woman. Of course there is the ubiquitous “No, man, I totally struck out with her.” But there is also “the pitch.” Oftentimes, “striking out” follows “the pitch.” The pitch entails a presentation of information about the man that is intended to be impressive enough to the woman that first base is at least visible when squinting.

In recent weeks I’ve also noticed that the amount of so-called relevant information offered in the pitch is indirectly proportional to the amount of time a man has to make the pitch. The less time a man has, the more he has to show off. So, if a woman has accepted an invitation to dinner, she can expect a more diffused pitch in which bits of impressive—if boring and somewhat slimy-- information salt and pepper the conversation over the course of several hours.

Boy says:

Glenmorangie on the rocks and a glass of the house pinot noir= “You know, I used to sneak Glenmorangie in a flask to my World Economics class. Wharton profs soooo didn’t care.”

Buffala Salad: “I learned to appreciate the simplicity of a salad with really great olive oil while I was traveling for two months in Italy last summer. You’ll have to come with some time.”

Mahi Mahi with Garlic Mashed Potatoes: “I felt like such a drone on Wall Street. Capital investment is much less constrictive.”

Chocolate Pots de Crème: “I normally wouldn’t eat this. But I did run the Boston Marathon last weekend. Doesn’t hurt to treat oneself, now does it? Go ahead, have some. You’re a little on the too skinny side.”

Espresso: “I felt a little off balanced, you know? As though my entire life was consumed with the dire need to make lots of money. So I took in a stray beagle puppy and I bought season theatre tickets. I’ve found Saturdays are much more pleasant when they start on my boat and end in a standing ovation.”

Fair enough. You hear him, as any woman can expect a reasonably good effort if a man has several hours to impress her. However, the true MVPs of the pitch shine when time is short. And I am of the opinion that the slightly more mature man performs better in this sudden death* situation than a rookie.**

Let me illustrate. Say you are a woman who goes to the gym regularly. And say that one Tuesday evening you are doing your thing on the treadmill when one of the aforementioned more seasoned players hops on the treadmill next to you and says somewhat nonchalantly “So, beautiful, how much longer do you have to go? You’re going to make me look bad if I’m next to you."***

This is not small talk. The opportunist is determining the precise time frame in which he has to make an effective pitch. Now, of course you are annoyed because all of a sudden there you are—on a date! between mile six and seven in yoga pants and your hair in a bun. You are gasping for breath, your legs are not shaved, and despite the fact that this creep is creeping you out, you refuse to cut your workout short due to your recent spike in chocolate pots de crème consumption.

“Five minutes left,” you barely choke out. Your relative lack of adequate oxygen is an advantage for the visiting team. Reciprocity in conversation, after all, is such a time waster during the pitch.

As has been my observation, you astonishingly may learn the following in 5 minutes about a man who is truly genius—if, again, boring and somewhat slimy--when it comes to the time-restricted pitch:

1. He is a doctor. Either of the spine or of the hearts of infants.
2. If he is the first sort, you really should come in for some full-body alignment work soon. Pro bono, beautiful.
3. He is a third degree black belt.
4. When not aligning the spines of tragically disenfranchised youth or when not at the hospital performing emergency surgery on the tiny heart of co-joined newborns, he offers free martial arts lessons to inner city orphans. The Big Guy Upstairs, after all, will one day inquire what it is exactly he did with all of his disposal income and Wednesdays off.
5. He single-handedly tripled the number of some kind of nearly distinct exotic panther when he took in three or four cubs from either Mike Tyson or some other Hollywoodish friend whom he still meets occasionally for seared tuna. You’ll have to come with some time.
6. He has both an outdoor and indoor pool. The indoor pool is for when he can’t escape to Bali in February—and of course, you should come with sometime.
7. He loves to pamper women, beautiful.
8. What? No! His daughter and ex wife are perfectly accepting of any woman he is dating even when she is the same age as his daughter. Slumber parties with them catered by Wolfgang Puck have even been known to occur on occasion.
9. He’s really into Napa in the fall. And really—you should come with.
10. He can’t see even one ounce of body fat on you, beautiful. Which is why he would love to take you to dinner on Saturday. He knows the chef at this restaurant that serves the most extraordinary chocolate pots de crème you will ever have.

*to be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea if “sudden death” is the appropriate term here, but anyone who knows me and my fairly pathological aversion to sports spectatorship in general has to give me credit for even writing a post related to sports.

**rookie move of the year, boys: texting does not qualify as wining and dining. It does not make a woman swoon, nor does it mean when she responds that the two of you are dating.

***If this makes you want to gag just reading it, imagine the “conversation” at 9.0 mph on a respectable 5% incline.

taking my talents to south beach

For the single woman attending a family reunion on one of the last weekends of the open mating season is absolutely the poorest use of time, as any good looking men are immediately ruled out as prospective husbands. On the other hand, attending one is priceless in the quest to understand where one's disproportionately long arms came from or where one's now svelte figure may be going if she doesn't IMMEDIATELY knock it off with the Oreo Balls.*

I spent a little bit of time going through the books of my family tree with its roots planted in Bohemia (as in Prague and its surrounding province in the Czech Republic--not flowy dresses and a guitar case). But mostly I misbehaved with my little brother who was in from Vegas for no better reason other than the fact that we are really good at it.

In addition to general mischief (No, dad, we did not see who poured a half of case of Pilsner Urquell in Great Great Aunt Katrine's fish pond**), we had some fun at Lebron's expense. During the volleying of insults, I discovered my brother's fervent (somewhat startlingly so) desire to somehow have the phrase "I'm taking my talents to South Beach" enter the English vernacular. After a few moments of consideration, I decided--as painful as it is to admit--that my little brother was on to something here.***

The phrase is at once concise, culturally relevant, and impressively agile.

For instance:

You've had a bad day. Lose your cool, grab a beer, slide down a plane's emergency chute and say "I'm taking my talents to South Beach."

Your ex calls you. Again. You say: "Um, didn't you get the text? I took my talents to South Beach."

I could go on, but the fun will be in your own personal application of the phrase.

*Oreo Balls!!?? Has anyone else ever eaten one of these things? I mean, I feel somewhat slighted that in all of my years on this planet nobody tsk tsk bothered to tell me about these little truffle cream cheese frosting cookie sugar bombs. I found them to be sublime despite the fact that I abhor Oreo cookies.

**Contrary to the culprits'(who shall remain nameless) hypothesis, fish cannot get drunk. Contrary to common sense, in the state of Ohio there is an actual law against attempting to get fish drunk. Contrary to Great Great Aunt Katrine's otherwise pleasant mood this day, alcohol kills fish.

***It has been my observation that one of two things happens when an East Coaster (or Midwesterner) moves out west.

1. He or she turns into a still recognizable but somewhat more obnoxious and tanner version of himself or herself who is overly concerned with juicing and/or Juicy Couture.

or

2. He or she turns into a slightly cooler, more relaxed version of himself or herself who is overly concerned with, well, not much.

I came back East before there was a chance for either, but my little brother five years in, seems to have gone the latter route. NO ONE BY THE WAY UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES IS TO DISCLOSE THIS INFORMATION TO HIM FOR REASONS THAT ARE SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OBVIOUS. Anyway, I thought my brother was on to something with this "taking my talents to South Beach" business, so I told him I would help him institute it. That he let me drive his black Mustang convertible around all weekend had absolutely I swear no bearing--none whatsoever--on this decision.

this is not goodbye

Hello to my readers--

The muses--so it seems--are calling my name. Sure, now they want to talk about serious things--just when I was having a fabulous time being silly. So, I will continue to post here once and a while (promise), though I've decided to turn my creativity toward spinning a story of a very different yarn. And, I've made a pact with a dear friend to complete the manuscript by mid-May so that we can travel to Africa, Istanbul, Budapest, Prague, London, and Gibraltar. This gives me--fittingly--nine months. The creative process feels very much like giving birth (so I imagine) and, well, I believe it is time to push.

This being said, I will be posting regularly on my blog for Skirt! Magazine at skirt.com. The link is to your left.

m.

cartharsis: get it out of and off your chest

http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/catharsis

Never underestimate the cleaning skills of a scorned woman. Dust bunnies shall die and any smudge in sight stands not even a teeny tiny chance. Now, had I been able to actually locate any dust bunnies or smudges last Saturday while I was staying at my parent's house, I assure you I would have shown no mercy.

I did however locate my old bedroom closet, which for the last 15 years has been the dumping ground during my frequent Ohio pit stops in between moving from one side of the country to the other side and back again. And again. (Oh, OK, and AGAIN). I found ruby red pants I wore dancing in underground clubs in Barcelona, purses and scarves from Rome*, coats from Manhattan**, four dresses from Chicago, oodles of heels from Vegas, and olive green boots I wore while walking along the streets of all of these places.

I was ruthless. I sorted, folded, rearranged, mended, mixed, matched and then--save the green boots--threw it all away anyways. It was one of the most cathartic experiences of my life--so much so that it has inspired me to purge everything that has been piling up in my psyche for an indeterminate amount of time before fall descends upon Ohio***. Like lone socks and ruby red pants that don't fit anymore****, I've come to the realization that sometimes you just have to throw it out (there).

So, despite the risk of sounding a bit (insert any derogatory term you please), here goes:

1. Hipsters are dead. So, if you see one, send him back to Brooklyn, which in my opinion is the only not entirely aggravating place to run into him. Here, he can be observed in his natural habitat and go on mistaking his mere strangeness and his fondness of retro-recreational activities such as bowling and hopscotch for profundity without contemptuous eye-rolling by passersby, such as myself. And yes, residents of a particular westerly suburb of Cleveland, I'm looking at you.

2. Looks like September fashion issues are on the racks: So, how about not saying that brown, gray, purple, or stay-at-home dads are the new black is the new black?

3. I'm calling the boys out: Not only do you want us to look like we don't eat, you want us to look like we don't eat while actually cutting into a fillet Mignon and tucking into a slice of cheesecake with you at Lolita's.

4. I think if I'm really honest with myself, the fact that lecturing on Nietzsche last week cheered me up means that I may be clinically depressed.

5. To that lady about five months ago in the produce section who went into a rampage about how she couldn't believe that Trader Joe's sold leeks because--and I quote-- "Why the *&^%&^&#* would they sell leeks? We could *&&E^^#^#*O go into the woods and get *&$#*% leeks ourselves." At the time, I just smiled and shook my head, but in the name of today's extirpation: SERIOUSLY,lady? Did you SERIOUSLY just waste a perfectly good electric pulse along a neuron coming up with that brilliant observation?

6. I admit it. Despite the go green movement (commodified and exploited, by the way, by corporate America so that it can make money off your clear conscience), I still want a gas-guzzling Land Rover.

7. I'm not the mother of a human being under one year of age (or any age for that matter), so I will tread lightly here: But I remain unconvinced that those swaddling pajama things that people are using to wrap their babies up like chicken burritos before bed time are a good thing.

8. Contrary to my recent performance and evidence that convincingly suggests otherwise, I used to be good at bocce. I was. I really was. I swear.

9. I really don't care if you give me a printed receipt of my $1.05 drive-thru purchase. Despite the fact that I understand that this policy has something to do with quantity control, I'm not going to contact the manager for a refund. Just saying.

10. I don't care what the flimsy weekly women magazines at your doctor's office are saying. Using fat-free whipped cream on your double banana split is NOT a good way to lose weight. And while I'm on the subject, a 100-calorie pack of processed chocolate chip cookies is still a pack of processed chocolate chip cookies.

11. Since when did texting constitute dating? In my universe, texting will never ever replace taking me to dinner, to the movies, or to Nepal. Pick. Up. The. Phone. And speak, boy. Also--Dear Oxford Dictionary of the English Language people, Spellcheck people, and Dictionary.com people, it is soooooooooooooooooooo past the time to include the word "texting" as part of our lexicon.

*Never go to Rome by yourself: no matter what you will look like an idiot standing alone, mouth agape, as you stare at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. And by day three, you will in fact be talking to your imaginary friend about the magnificence of all the magnificent things you are seeing.

**I know, I know. The first step is to admit that I am powerless over buying cute coats.

***By the way, it's August in Cleveland, everyone! Time to start stocking up on ice picks, firewood, and intravenous drips of pure Vitamin D.

****Please see Numbers 3 and 11.

Things that fall

There are very specific, inherent disadvantages to your friends trying to set you up with a plastic surgeon. And, of course, I imagine that there are also very specific, inherent advantages to actually dating a plastic surgeon.

Yesterday well-intentioned friends took me to a seminar ("Things That Fall"-clever) given by Dr. PS in order to "accidentally" introduce us to one another. It would be a subtle maneuver--they had insisted. Right. OK. Fine. Easy enough, I thought.

WRONG.

I had never been to such an event before and was surprised to find that my friends and I were in a sea of women who were mostly over the age of 70. As I sat there waiting for the good doctor to speak while nibbling on a cream puff,* I couldn't help but wonder if all of these older women had come to the seminar by mistake. Had they ducked into the wrong room? Was there another seminar next door called "Things That Have Fallen (Some Time Ago)?"

At 32, I felt downright perky.

That is, until the obvious groupies started filing in. These women were unarguably beautiful, but their balloon-ish proportions gave them away. They had surely attended such events before. Feeling then a bit deflated, I shoved the rest of the cream puff in my mouth and looked at my friends with a knowing glance: this was going to be tricky.

And it was.

Therefore, in the name of sisterhood for any woman whose friends convince her to attend a plastic surgery seminar with the intention of getting a date with the doctor, I've compiled crib notes on how to navigate the inevitable obstacles and disadvantages of doing so. Before you write off eharmony, or match.com or your elderly aunt's neighbor's granddaughter's lawn boy, take heed, sister:

First, you must find and strike the perfect balance between showing polite interest while he is speaking and exhibiting too much eagerness. If you err on the former side, you're rude, obviously came only for the free cream puffs, and disinterested in his career, which no man wants. If you err on the later side, you're one booked appointment and 10 days of rest and recovery away from being a mere balloon-y groupie.

Second, as Dr. PS gives his power point presentation, realize that pretty quickly you are going to have to become comfortable with the fact that Dr. PS will be working with other women's breasts on a daily basis. In fact, his number one aspiration in life is to make other women's breasts look better than yours. And should the relationship progress to the stage when jewelry is involved, you will always have to wonder just how many 34 Double Ds it took to buy that carat.

Third, at first you may be impressed with the fact that Dr. PS even knows what an areola is, but eventually and in a different context, such as one where overhead fluorescent lights in an auditorium are not involved, this anatomically-correct vocabulary will be downright creepy.

Fourth, you will doubtlessly fall in love with his obvious regard for the beauty of the female body. But then, as you watch the slide show of various Greek statues of naked goddesses and semi-erotic Asian paintings of half-clothed courtesans behind him as he speaks eloquently of symmetry and proportion, a semi-sickening feeling will begin to erupt in your gut. You will realize that never again will you be able to calm yourself down when your jeans don't freaking! fit by saying: You know what, (insert your own name), you are your own worst critic. No one else is going to notice that these jeans are a bit snug...because oh, Dr. PS will notice alright.**

And finally, girls*** I have two words for you: pelvic prolapse.

Prior to my friends' utterly brilliant idea to tow me to this seminar I had never heard of pelvic prolapse. And now my life can be divided into BEFORE knowing about pelvic prolapse and AFTER knowing about pelvic prolapse. I can't go into too much detail here less I dry heave, so you'll have to Google it for yourselves(if you so choose to alter your sense of benevolence and fairness in the world).

I can say that I was fully cognizant of the fact that should I live a long life, certain things will fall. However, my previously naive assumption was that these certain things would only be on the outside of my body, rather than the oh-woe-is-me inside. Egad, ladies! The universe--I tell you--is conspiring against us. First comes the crinkles, then the wrinkles, then the loss of elasticity, and then...pelvic prolapse. Excuse this small melodramatic linguistic breakdown, but I mean, is there no end to it?

I'm telling you this now so that should you find yourself eating a cream puff as an eligible PS slaps a projected map on the wall of certain organs spilling out of a woman's body (while you are just innocently wondering if he is a good kisser), do not do not do not think for one second that the fact that he has the years of education and practical experience to put these organs back where they belong will be a relief to you. It will not. You simply cannot date a man who knows this nauseating truth.

*As an aside in the name of smart consumerism, it should be noted that the auditorium was lined with tables of cookies, candy bars, and cake, and the women in attendance were piling up their plates. Um, hello? Could they not see through this cheap ploy to garner business? Go ahead, ladies, eat up. Have another brownie. Cheesecake is over there. Treat yourselves. Just call my office girl Jill and we can lipo it off next Friday.

**Of course, if you play your cards right and are so inclined, he'll notice and then he'll fix it.

***I'm not usually aiming to be gender specific in these posts, but--sorry boys--there is no way around this one.

airports a la Ali

Stepped up security at airports after 9/11 is perhaps the only ripple in that pond that to some degree has worked in my favor. Now that only passengers can pass through security, at least I'm not the only one whose running start from seat 22 C up the connecting ramp to bombard* a long distance boyfriend who in fact is NOT waiting just outside the gate for me would be 100% futile and OK a bit deranged.

Still, I will not be so selfish as to suggest that the fact that loved ones can no longer wait just outside the gate of an arriving plane is a good thing. In fact, while 9/11 destroyed many things, I think one of its greatest tragedies is that it tore down this last bastion of American romance. Sadly, running-start reunions replete with butterflies in the stomach have gone the way of all those other lovely things archived in black and white movies: kissing in a telephone booth during a rainstorm, drive-ins, handwritten love letters, and parking.**

*a la Ali style in The Karate Kid when Danny LaRusso crane kicks Johnny was when I first witnessed this amazingly melodramatic technique. Twenty five years later, running and almost knocking over a man I love is STILL my favorite way to show affection, whether he has just blasted a Cobra Kai or not.

**I mean, I think most women today would agree that if a date were to take us in his car alone to a secluded place by a lake late at night only one logical conclusion could be drawn: some Ted Bundy wannabe just bought us dinner, and great we ordered the salad and herbal tea for dessert. HAD WE KNOWN, Mr. Serial Killer, that it was going to be our last meal, we sooooo would have ordered the freaking pommes frites and cheesecake thank you very much.

Down and Out

Hemingway had a thing for Spain. I have a thing for airports.*

In fact, nothing depresses me more.

As a single woman, I think nothing of crossing out the word "guest" in the same stroke that I check "Chicken Cordon Bleu" on RSVPs to wedding invitations. I have no issue with attending movies, parties (even my own), dinners, or sunset networking events on yachts solo. I excel at being the third wheel, fifth wheel, and as of late the seventh wheel.

Showing up by myself whether it's to the Sistine Chapel or a Scorsese film, in fact, has become one of my signature traits, right along with wearing black and Thierry Mugler. And really, the thought of sharing my space with someone, the weight of someone else next to me on the sofa, and someone else's coffee cup in my sink, feel a bit stifling to me. I'm a girl who historically has always needed room...space...simultaneous residence in various states.

Turns out, I am singularly good at being, well, single.

HOWEVER whenever I land at an airport I feel acutely and particularly single, as in alone. The independence and free spiritedness I usually revel in seem to morph into some kind of affliction I've been in denial about, like a dull ache for which I've been putting off seeing the doctor.

It seems to me that everyone--even fiercely independent types who have deftly adapted to a couple friendly world**--should have someone waiting for her--and the cab driver whom I am about to fork over $65 to doesn't count--on the far end of any 35,000 foot descent. I mean, what if I didn't make it? There are, after all, risks involved...statistics at work. And while I know that I am many times more likely to die driving 45 mph down the street in an SUV with turbo airbags to see The Departed, such a demise would not be nearly as dramatic as disappearing over the Atlantic.

There is first and foremost the issue of timely notification. Who--I ask you--among people who may (or may not) care would even know if I went the way of Amelia Earhart if I'm traveling stag? Even my dogs whom the neighbor fed for the last time that morning as agreed upon due to my anticipated return wouldn't know know. They'd just be hungry.

Now some pragmatic types might be saying to themselves right now "Well,pick up your cell phone, woman, and call someone if you're going down. Duh." And to these pragmatic types I might reply: there is one person I'm calling if I'm taking a nosedive into the Atlantic, and I'm pretty sure He doesn't subscribe to T Mobile.

I just think I would feel better dying on a plane if I knew someone would notice that I wasn't at carousal B at the specified time. The only thing sadder than no one noticing I wasn't at carousal B at the specified time would be no one noticing that I was expired on the kitchen floor of my apartment with my 8 cats eating my fingernails. This is perhaps--come to think of it-- why I have always refused to own a cat.*** We all know taking in one stray kitten is a slippery slope: feed Fluffy once and five years later, you're her--the cat lady who knits alone on Saturday nights while the whole kit-n-caboodle sleeps in her bun. And a few years after that, you're indistinguishable from catnip.

And these issues of timely notification and cats and such are just the beginning of why airports depress me. If I do in fact land safely and there is no one to witness this, things only go down hill from there anyway. First, there is the little ping of self-pity I feel when I see that even strangers are welcomed by other strangers no less! with nicely crafted bi-lingual signs directing them to the hospitality of this hotel or the care and guidance of that tour group.

Second, there is the line of expectant lovers and those just reunited in human knots of public displays of affection, which fills me with the kind of dread reminiscent of how I felt as a five year old engaged in a particularly competitive game of Red Rover on the playground--except that if I fail to break through this line, no one is going to ask me to join the group hug.

Finally, there is the inevitable humiliation of retrieving checked luggage alone.
It plays out the same every time. I lodge my one permissible carry-on bag, as well as my one permissible personal item (which is really my big purse stuffed with my other not permissible carry-on bag) on the floor between my feet and wait until I spot my luggage on the belt. When I finally see my checked suitcase (which weighs in at a oh-you-are-so-not-charging-me-extra 49.9 lbs) coming towards me the real dilemma starts.

As a fairly compliant air passenger and a former New Yorker in a post 9/11 world, I know two things:

1. If I see something, I'm supposed to say something.
2. I am not to leave my belongings unattended for even a minute at the airport.

Combine these golden rules with the fact that I am someone who has disproportionately long arms, and you'll believe that I really do make an earnest effort every time to bend at the hips and reeeeeeeeaaaaach for my suitcase while keeping my belongings securely close to me. And every time I miss. I am then forced to resume an upright posture, take a quick glance to see if perhaps a strong James Bond or Johnny Depp look-alike noticed my struggle (no) and wait for the next round.

It is usually not until round three or four when I have been dragged half way around the carousal by the sheer momentum of my suitcase that a 50-year-old Midwesterner who is neither a James Bond nor a Johnny Depp look-alike finally springs into action (as though he hadn't been watching with some amusement all along), and says "Let me help you with this, Ma'am." Oh, sure, now you're seeing something and saying something.****

*This is where any and all comparisons between Hemingway and myself should stop.

**Two for one dinner specials, double banana split sundaes, bags of pre-washed organic spinach that serve two, the tango, etc.

***I have three dogs; I've nursed birds with missing wings; I've collected dead bees and halves of butterflies, but alas I have never detected a soft spot for cats.

**** "Ma'am!" Don't even get me started on this one. Being called "Ma'am" depresses me only slightly less than arriving at the airport alone.

(In my last post I mentioned that I would be addressing big purses and vanity sizing in my next. Well, apparently, I've already done this, so for those of you who were really looking forward to commiserating with me over the inherent evil of vanity-size distortion, please refer to the Wednesday, January 7, 2009 post. I'm obviously still not over it, so I don't expect you to be).

handbags are the new horoscopes

As of late it has been brought to my attention by old friends, new friends, acquaintances, and the guy bagging my groceries that my purse is inordinately or at least relatively large.

So, on my way back to Ohio last weekend (Why? Why?), as I sat in the Atlanta airport reading fluff to pass the time during my two hour layover,* an article called “The Contents of Your Purse and What It Reveals About You” caught my eye.

Yeah, I went for it.

There was…

1. The usual arsenal: lip gloss, lip balm, lipstick, lip liner. This would suggest that I spend an inordinate amount of time on my mouth, but this hypothesis in order to be true, would require that I actually use any of these items.

Accuracy rating= dubious

2. Gum. Lots of gum. This would suggest that I am an unrepentant gum chewer. I have in fact been called “non-compliant” by a British abs class sergeant (go ahead say “non-compliant” in your best British accent for the full effect—you know you want to) on more than one occasion.

I’ve also had to, on more than one occasion, swallow my gum whole when the principal popped in unannounced to observe my teaching. In my defense, it has been scientifically proven that chewing a piece of gum lowers the production of stress hormones by at least 15%, so I made the very logical leap that if I chew at least 7 pieces of gum at a time...whatever, you try explaining ONE MORE TIME to 30 17- year-olds the difference between lie and lay without a little help.

Accuracy rating=right on and proud of it


3. Fistful of bobby pins in various colors and sizes. This would suggest…what? What exactly would this suggest? Some people leave paper trails. Some people leave fingerprints. I leave bobby pins.

Accuracy rating=undetermined

4. 1.5 liter bottle of water, which cost me $5.69 at the imposter Starbucks in terminal D (we all know that’s Folgers in those ‘air pots.’) This would suggest that I am 1) thirsty 2) a thirsty fool who is willing to pay $5.69 to quench a God-given need 3) an unwitting victim of discriminatory TSA regulations (see No. 7).

Accuracy rating= guilty, guilty, and guilty

5. Large calculator. On first glance this would suggest that I am a number person. But then again, number people (strange breed that they are) don’t need a calculator.

Accuracy rating=zero

6. Umbrella. This would suggest that I am an over-prepared person --perhaps a type A personality or a former Girl Scout—or Mary Poppins.

Accuracy rating=nil. I’m on my way to Ohio.

7. A so not stolen 5 oz. bottle of body lotion from the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami that has gone through airport x-ray NOT in a clear plastic bag at least four times undetected, which suggests one of two things, neither of which are about me: 1. God really wanted me to have the body lotion and 2. Despite the delays, rules, and hassles, the TSA still doesn't really know what it is doing.

Accuracy rating=two stars

8. A hard-boiled egg and Greek yogurt. This would suggest I just returned from a lovely two month sojourn on a farm in Mykonos.

Accuracy=false (protein, people—we all need to eat more protein)

9. Ibuprofen. This could suggest a myriad of things, including the possibility that I was suffering from back pain due to the third illicit carry-on bag I was lugging through the airport because I refuse—let me say that again—REFUSE to pay $65 to GOODNESS FORBID travel with any belongings (see No. 11 and then refer to No.7 part two again).

Accuracy=seemingly true, but the real reason is that 'tis the season when my students begin their grade "negotiations" with me via emails**

10. Ticket stub to a movie whose identity shall not be revealed due to my day job and need for some semblance of professional dignity. This would suggest I went to a movie whose identity shall (still) not be revealed due to my day job and need for some semblance of professional dignity (for what it’s worth, though, I swear I read all of the books first)

Accuracy=the fifth

11. Carry-on bag. Yes, in my purse. This would suggest that my purse is big. Very big.

Accuracy= we’ve covered this. My purse is very big. So what.

*direct flights are typically number three on my list of non-negotiables right behind pedicures and good coffee, so having one on Friday in conjunction with the faux SB Breakfast Blend clearly testifies that I’m batting way below average as of late.

** Dear Student Who Is Trying to Convince Me to Change Grade,

If I don’t know who you are when you write to me pleading to not fail you even though you never came to my class, well, you are already at a distinct and dare I say insurmountable disadvantage.

If you send me an email from your touch phone that looks anything like this: C’mon, Proff. Puleeez. i realy need u 2 give me a bee not a see + Puleeeeeeeez, well, thnx 4 xpressing ur concern 4 ur academic future but idfreakingtsntj.

And, if neither of these scenarios applies to you then please recall that final grades are subject to a simple premise that almost anyone can understand: they are final.

Next up: Big Bags and Shrinking Jeans

in my suitcase: a serious note (for once)

As I've officially hit the two month mark since I bought a one-way plane ticket and traveled to Naples, it seems appropriate for me to share with you at least some of what I've learned during my self-imposed exile.

People had said that the sun and the water and the salt in the air would be good for forgetting. But I realize now that I came to remember.

It is impossible to stand on the seam of the sea and the land and not recall just how small you are. And in turn your smallness reminds you of the infinite breadth of God's hands.

The word "crisis" comes from the root of a Greek word that means to decide. We find ourselves in crisis when we have to decide about something that we are not, well, ready to decide about: hence the anxiety, the fear, the shock, the anger and the sadness.

But rest assured, our crises come at exactly the precise moment they are needed in our lives, spurring us on so that we may survive. By the time the crisis arrives, the change--whatever it may be--has already occurred. Either we move forward humbly and gently trusting in our Divinely appointed capability of meeting the new, or we mourn forever.

So, moving forward only take with you your compassion, your faith, your ability to see the beauty in this world. Do not bring anything else. Leave room for the unexpected gifts that God and the universe will doubtlessly bestow upon you as you walk this new road simply by taking one breath after the other and putting one foot in front of the other.

And sooner--maybe sooner than you had feared--or later--maybe later than you had hoped--you will be walking again in cadence with your own heart beating.
And this song, my friend, no matter where you go, will serenade you home.


*Speaking of changes: I'm officially blogging now for Skirt! Magazine (a gift!). I will still be posting here, though slightly less often. I invite you to follow me at
http://skirt.com/lucie79

Why Your Barista is Better Than Your Boyfriend

The blog “Coffee First & Then Love” (coffeefirstthenlove.blogspot.com) got me thinking about priorities, and long story short, I concur. In fact, for some people* coffee is love.

Now while you can't exactly date your coffee, you can wish that your boyfriend was more like your Starbucks barista.

So, I present to you:

Why Starbuck Baristas are Better than Boyfriends

1.Baristas understand you in the morning. You don’t have to feel bad about not wanting to talk to them pre-Grande Bold No Room, and they never mistake your pre-Grande Bold No Room mood as the silent treatment.

2.Some 3,709 Grande Bolds No Room later, which is roughly equivalent to five years of dating the same boyfriend, baristas can actually anticipate your needs.

3.Baristas always notice when you are wearing a new coat, get bangs or dye your blond hair red (duh).

4.Gender politics never enter the equation. Under those aprons, baristas—I’m pretty sure--are all the same.

5.Baristas are always there, exactly where you need them.

6.Baristas are always there, exactly when you need them.

7.Baristas never push their oatmeal raisin cookies on you. They respect your boundaries regarding shriveled fruit.

8.Baristas don’t care that you can’t cook.

9.Baristas speak Italian.

10.Baristas don’t lecture you about your totally legal addiction. In fact, they recognize and appreciate your undying loyalty with free refills, free WiFi, and the occasional free pumpkin scone.

11.Should a highly unlikely break up with your Starbucks barista occur, there is always another one just like him or her right down (or across) the street.**

12.Baristas never tell you that the only dog you’re ever getting is a pretend one or threaten to shoot the one you have.

*OK, OK, I speak of myself.

** Should this not be the case, a rebound with the Folgers pot at the Shell Station is always a viable if last resort option. It's called slumming it, and everyone from Tiger Woods to Jesse James has done it.

Not in Cleveland

In what many east coasters and west coasters are calling a typographical error, The Atlantic (The Atlantic!*) declared that Cleveland is "having a moment."

This "moment"--a reference to the new "Hot in Cleveland" sitcom--comes at the eleventh hour for me as I've been oscillating between returning to Cleveland or staying put. A few weeks ago, when I asked readers for input on what I should do, only one person said I should return to Cleveland. Her reason was valid enough as she eloquently hit on premature aging due to sun exposure and made an earnest comparison between Lake Erie and the Gulf of Mexico in one grammatically impressive sentence. Still, my decision was all but made.

And then: entrent Betty White and Valerie Bertinelli.

The start of “Hot in Cleveland” is convincing enough. Three middle-aged women are on a flight from LA to Paris when Bertinelli’s character Melanie runs into her ex-husband who is sitting in first class with his new-ouch, beautiful-ouch, younger-oh no he didn’t--fiance. But alas he did, and while Melanie is understandably in the throes of a small meltdown, the pilot comes on over the speaker and says "Everyone, brace yourselves for impact."**

However, rather than imminent death, in a keyboard stroke of mercy the writers of the show decide to lead the ladies to what they obviously consider the second worst fate***, which is heralded by "Everyone, we have made an emergency landing in Cleveland."

Well. Thank. Goodness.

The potential genius of the show is that it offers a look at the city from the perspective of an outsider who is neither A) on ESPN or B) Drew Carey. Also, it was smart for the show to premiere in late June since the NBA playoffs are in fact over--otherwise let's be honest even the hypothetical men in the hypothetical bar wouldn’t notice if Lara Croft walked in.

While it is too soon to call, I can say as someone who has regularly made emergency landings in Cleveland on my way to somewhere (oftentimes anywhere) else, the writers of “Hot in Cleveland” got a few things right.

For example, upon entering a nondescript bar full of women scarfing down party peanuts and Ohio boys who can’t seem to take their eyes of the trio despite the fact that the women are over the age of 20, Wendie Malick’s character Victoria looks around in astonishment and says plainly:

"We've landed in a new dimension where people eat and are not ashamed.”

Yes, it’s true Victoria: you’ve entered a new dimension where eating cheese fries and beer makes for a light supper and really you should order some pie because you are looking a little too frail, where the sexual orientation of good-looking men is not necessarily a question, where men pull out chairs from the table to make room for you-- not their super egos, where a 7,000 square ft. house is nearly free, and where on this side of the rainbow even plumbers own boats.

Very clever.

Thus far.

*Yes, you know it is a cold day in hell (or at least a warm day in Cleveland) when a group of editors who consider anywhere west of the Potamac and east of LA uninhabitable are giving a shout out not only to Cleveland but to a television show about Cleveland.

**Sorry but aside from the blatant absence of blue shirts, this was the biggest oversight on the part of the writers because in the event of engine failure the head-to-knees position is doing nothing for you. Yeah, I’m here to say in the spirit of verisimilitude, "Everyone, you're going to die."

***I question the validity of this plot maneuver, particularly for anyone who 1) likes Girl Scout Cookies (see previous posts), 2) left her swimming pool, dog, and health benefits in Vegas (see previous posts) or 3) all of the above (you know the drill).

hiatus: be back next week

Off for the week to see what other small marine life I can find, bleach, and boil.*





*Kidding, of course.

The Antidote to Dumb

I've been feeling a bit dumb* lately given the striking absence of anything even remotely academic down here. So, imagine my delight today when I discovered a secret swimming pool** that wonders never cease harbors in one of its cabanas a small library!

There I was happy to come across this past Sunday's New York Times Magazine stashed between Edgar Sawtelle and some book about pie. I was glad for two very specific reasons, and their names are Ben Zimmer and Freddie Ljungberg.

Ben Zimmer is not my newest crush.*** Zimmer took over where (All hail) William Safire left off with the magazine's "On Language" a few years back. Some people loyally follow Heloise or the Peanuts; I follow Ben Zimmer.

So, here we go.

The word reiterate is redundant. The word iterate all by itself is a verb that means to repeat. Therefore, to say reiterate as in "Let me reiterate how Prince William is soooo going to regret marrying whatsherface," is in itself iterative, or repetitive. The "re" in reiterate is as unnecessary as the "re" in reduplicate. Think about it.

Good, don't you feel better now?

* recent examples include turning the heat on two nights ago instead of the air conditioning and the fact that the most intellectually engaging conversation I have had of late is one discussing what exactly a caper is. If anyone has any idea whatsoever...please...please...

**Admit it. It's one thing to find a secret garden, a secret code, or a secret sample sale, but it is another thing entirely to find a secret swimming pool with a library!

***Freddie Ljungberg, on the other hand, is (see brilliant).

Dear Prince William: Big, big mistake. Huge.

A few weeks ago I stated that I wanted to date Prince William for the summer, thus inheriting The Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., for which I would get to wear a tiara, attend cricket and other strange English sporting events, as well as drink tea, pinkie out, every afternoon.

Well, it was most disappointingly brought to my attention this morning while standing in the checkout line at The Tiara Unlimited that Billy boy has gone and proposed to whatshername. This news, of course, was unnerving--namely because great now I suddenly would have no excuse to offer nonplussed neighbors and friends for my recent odd behavior. And, and! I was getting reeeeeeeeeeeally good at being a princess.

First of all, I've got the princess wave down (fingers together, slight rotation only at the wrist). Some of my neighbors have even begun waving back as I drive down the street waving out my rolled down windows (which were tinted last week as a preemptive gesture).

Second, Larry, the gate guard at the entrance to my "planned community" (as there doesn't appear to be any other kind here) has started curtsying after I say "Much appreciated, Jasper" in my now nearly native--and obviously convincing--sounding Queen's English accent.

Third, my new friends, who have been serving as royal body guards and security (admittedly unpaid and unbeknown to them) like me because I'm always up for going to a sports bar to feed my almost maniacal obsession with the World Cup. In one of those ironic twists my life is oh so prone to, it seems as though in practicing to be England's next princess, I've become one of the American guys.

Fourth, I've perfected the unemployment/leisure thing. I've taken to wearing gowns to the beach and I've been practicing my inevitable royal maritime etiquette by racking up as many hours as possible on the yachts of other people who have the unemployment/leisure thing down perfectly, and who also take to wearing gowns to the beach.

And then of course there was the little tea fiasco.

Yes, people, in a bold, bold move, I replaced my daily afternoon appointment at SB* with tea, pinkie out, at home on the linai.**

At first I was quite reluctant and actually somewhat angry over the prospect of giving up one half of my favorite addiction for subjects who weren't even loyal yet. But, I took a deep breath and in the name of foreign diplomacy headed to the Tea Emporium for what was supposed to be a quick trip for some English freaking Breakfast and whatever...raspberry scones.

Little did I know that this little jaunt would turn into a fascinating 90 minute research expedition and literary extravaganza: seriously, the writers at The New Yorker have nothing on those anonymous scribes who specialize in tea literature. Tea boxes, it turns out, provide an abundance of information that rivals both Shakespeare and Dr. Phil in the genres of wisdom, self-help, and love.

So now that Billy boy has made the Biggest. Mistake. Of. His. Life. by not officially offering me The. Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., I've decided that I want to date a man who espouses the same qualities as my Earl Grey and White Blossom Passion Fruit.

I mean, really, who wouldn't want someone who is "robust" or "full of character yet peaceful and serene?"

And who wouldn't be happy to go to dinner with someone of a "noble blend" or with the "the perfect marriage of sweet and spice?"***

I'm all for a man--royalty or not--who is "surprisingly potent and offering an ample dose of inspiration" or a man who is "bold in both depth and character." And for the record, I'm totally fine with a man who is "scented with bergamot from Italy."

"A well-rounded infusion with refined lingering notes" whatever that means exactly sounds good to me, as does a man who offers "sweet contemplation from dawn til dusk." Asking sweet contemplation of what, seems--at this point--beside the point.

*SB's CEO was understandably alarmed by the dip in profit as of late before I explained to him the whole prospective Best. Summer. Gig. Ever. thing. (soooo not looking forward to the certain groveling that awaits me tomorrow afternoon at 4).

**translates roughly to the American "screened-in porch"

***Boys, I'm informing you that, on the upside, soon potential girlfriends will no longer be comparing you to that Noah guy in The Notebook (yay!) or Johnny Depp just in general (whatever, you have Megan Fox, we have JD) in terms of a set of standards they want you to live up to. However, this means that, on the downside, you will soon be competing with tea leaves and other herbal infusions.

The Lake: A Cautionary Tale for Boys Everywhere

Continued...

As I was saying in my last post, I'm going to help the boys out again by relaying a story I heard from an undisclosed, yet reliable--I assure you--source.

I can vouch personally for the fact that if an Ohio boy takes you on a boat, you're going to be returned to land in pretty much the same condition as when you first pushed off. However, the same cannot be said for the unfortunate Ohio boy who is taken to the Lake* by an Ohio Girl.

So boys, should an Ohio girl pull into your driveway one bright and early morning and quite officiously inform your father who is innocently picking up the Sunday paper that she is taking you to the lake, remember that where this story is going is downhill. In fact there is evidence that these occurrences are two of several warning signs.

Others may include but are not limited to the even vaguest of vague notions that you have somehow made her angry the night before and that she is still in her pajamas, her hair is in a bun, and she is wearing no makeup. Why should her physical appearance tip you off? Because, you see, she is making a sartorial point: taking you to the Lake has NOTHING to do with her and EVERYTHING to do with you.

And even if you aren't the brightest bulb in the box and you receive a text message in all capital letters from a girl in your driveway telling you to GET DRESSED OR NOT WHATEVER because YOU ARE GETTING OUT OF BED AND COMING DOWNSTAIRS AND GOING TO THE LAKE, at the very least recall the mobster movies of your not so distant youth--nothing good ever came from some poor chap being escorted to the Lake. In other words, things are not going to shake out well for you,Russo.

Now should you--despite the obvious aforementioned red flags--still find yourself in the car on the way to the Lake one bright and early morning, there are still opportunities for you to realize that you, son, are not on your way to a picnic:

1. There is--now that you're looking--a conspicuous absence of a picnic basket or anything that resembles or could serve as a picnic basket.

2. There is a very large empty coffee mug next to the Ohio girl. This should be reliably read as she's caffeinated and ready and, well, you're not.

3. Despite her proximity, she is still texting you in all capital letters and ever so slowly that vaguest of vague notions that you may have somehow made her angry the night before is becoming increasingly, nauseatingly less vague with every 75 mile per hour minute that passes.

4. She pulls a bottle of your favorite whisky out of her purse and tells you to drink up. Hellooooooooooo.....this is NOT an early morning toast to your overall wonderfulness, nor should it be misinterpreted as a final act of affection. Or mercy. In fact, in certain circles, this act will later be called "criminal intent**."

*I've capitalized "Lake," so that it may serve as an Everylake. Ohio is blessed or cursed--depending on what side of the car you're sitting on--with a plethora of lakes.

**I don't want to mislead you here in anyway. The Ohio girl has no intention of physically hurting you when she drives you to the Lake. She's after a very specific brand of mental alteration that begins with her telling you to get out of the car and saying calmly but pointedly: now talk. You see, she wants answers; she wants explanations for your bad behavior. And, it is in this way that she will have you wishing you had woke up to a horse head in your bed that morning rather than her in your driveway. :)

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...a prelude to "The Lake, A Cautionary Tale for Boys Everywhere"

A few days ago I was happy to be invited to go boating, as this is what people here do in early June, standing in notable contrast to thinking about maybe just maybe hanging up the ice-skates for the season, which is what people in Ohio do in early June. The people who invited me were people I didn't know, as these kind of people--at the time--were the only kind of people here.

My mother and my more sensible friends were beside themselves with worry when I told them about my plans, and I believe ineffective arguments involving words like "Van Der Sloot" were built on several different occasions.

Why? Because(mom)the captain was an Ohio boy and thus not Van duh Sloot. And and! (mom) the last time I was on a boat with an Ohio boy he TOTALLY didn't strangle me.* Not even when our boat broke down an hour before dark and I had to swim to shore for help because how was I supposed to know that no one ever replaced the old anchor that fell off the summer before (little brother) or that the boat was headed straight for the rocks due to the dangerously high winds or the exact quadrant of our exact location (Ms. Not So Helpful Coast Guard lady)? I mean, who do you think I am? Amelia flying Earhart**?

Sorry. Ahem. My point is I explained to my mother and more sensible friends that as a girl you are in good hands with an Ohio boy,*** even one you don't know and even on a boat.

As a tangent to my recent shout out to Ohio boys, I'm going to go ahead and say it: while it's true that as women we are subject to all sorts of inequities**** and while it is true that as women we are raised to be afraid of the dark, parking garages, and nice men offering us ice cream cones and ponies at the park, we rarely if ever have to deal with being too easily pegged as some sort of pervert.

We, as women, rarely have to think about our proximity to playgrounds as coming across as lewd or be concerned with a new boy thinking we are potential Texas Chainsaw Massacre girl if we ask him to go for a walk with us alone. So, it is in this vein that yet again I'm going to help the boys out in my next post with a lesson inspired by a story I heard not so long ago involving an Ohio girl, an Ohio boy, and a lake.

*he did not strangle me, though after nearly three hours in the cold water while I walked through all kind of hill and dale and sticky thorns to get help and after a close and no doubt chilly brush with hypothermia, he certainly--I know--considered it.

**case in point

***unless his name is Jeffery Dahmer, Anthony Sowell, Gary or Thaddeus Lewingdon (I'm going to stop here as the list of serial killers from Ohio is actually disturbingly long and well, now, I'm feeling a little nauseated. However, this new tidbit of information is not lost on me and is certainly being classified as yet another pro! to not returning to Ohio)

****I'm currently stewing over the latest one that I've observed: now not only should a woman look like she doesn't eat steak and dessert but she actually should look like she doesn't eat steak and dessert while simultaneously eating steak and dessert so that she doesn't offend her date's sensibilities with any hint of dietary neuroticism. Right.

Next Post: "The Lake, A Cautionary Tale for Boys Everywhere"

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day 28

I know it was only a short time ago when I took a poll about whether I should leave Las Vegas. And granted, it was only a year before that when I asked for input about whether I should move to Vegas. And OK, yes, before that the phone lines were busy with Chicago and New York. Well, surprise surprise I'm taking an official vote again on whether I should stay here or return to Ohio. I believe voters should be well informed, so I've provided some pros and cons about living in Naples that I've observed thus far and am currently weighing.

CON: SLOOOOOOOOOOOOW TRAFFIC


PRO: LOOOOOOOOOOOOONG SUNSETS


PRO: BEAUTIFUL BIRDS


CON: KILLER BIRDS


CON: REPTILES


PRO:FAIR WARNING


PRO: RITZ CARLTON RESIDENT PEDICURIST WHO--I KID YOU NOT--BELIEVES HIS IS A CALLING FROM GOD (Formally, Prince Bryant--as the locals like to call him--served the Lord as--I kid you not again--a US Army special operations soldier).


CON: RITZ CARLTON PEDICURIST WHO DOES NOT BELIEVE LINCOLN PARK AFTER DARK AND ALL THE OTHER GUNMETAL SHADES I LIKE ARE BECOMING ON THE FEET OF ONE OF THE LORD'S DAUGHTERS (at least you can sleep better tonight, mom, knowing that finally! finally! your daughter is wearing pink toe nail polish).


PRO: AMAZINGLY NEIGHBORLY NEIGHBORS (Please note that I don't know Mr. Whitinger and am now presently wondering if this is actually a bit creepy)


CON: CHALLENGING REGIONAL COLLOQUIALISMS (such as linai, which in American means "screened in porch")


PRO: AN ABUNDANCE OF STARBUCKS


CON: AN ABUNDANCE OF HURRICANES*


Polls are open, people...

*BUT and this is just in...a reliable source, which is soooooo not Cosmopolitan Magazine, took a poll of 1.3 million Americans and listed the people who live in Florida as the second happiest in the country. And, interestingly, those in Louisiana were listed as the happiest, which obliterates the common misconception that hurricanes make people, um, unhappy.

ohio girls

I received lots of responses from readers regarding my recent post on Ohio boys. And no one seems to disagree with Ohio boys' general goodness. My favorite response, however, was actually a forward with a wink about Ohio girls.

Marrying an Ohio Girl

The first man married a woman from Florida . He told her that she
was to do the dishes and house cleaning. It took a couple of days,
but on the third day, he came home to see a clean house and dishes
washed and put away.

The second man married a woman from Michigan..He gave his wife
orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes and the cooking.
The first day he didn't see any results, but the next day he saw it
was better. By the third day, he saw his house was clean, the dishes
were done and there was a huge dinner on the table..

The third man married a girl from Ohio. He ordered her to
keep the house cleaned, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry washed,
and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he
didn't see anything, the second day he didn't see anything but by
the third day, some of the swelling had gone down and he could see a
little out of his left eye, and his arm was healed enough that he
could fix himself a sandwich and load the dishwasher.

Disclaimer: I am not a proponent of violence, but I (as someone who only very recently acquired a coffee table and as someone who presently still has not acquired a kitchen) am also not a proponent of marrying a man who can't feed himself. Only children and pet goldfish should not be able to feed themselves.

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day 22

I woke up this morning with the grim suspicion that Naples may be getting to me, as in making me--if not exactly stupid--then at least slightly duller than usual. This suspicion was confirmed just moments later when I threw my car keys instead of my pajamas down the laundry shoot on my way out.

I blame my strenuous schedule.

9 am: Coffee on the veranda duhling with all of the other Neopolitans with strenuous schedules.
10 am: Sitting by the Gulf
11 am: Boating on the Gulf
12 pm: Swimming in the Gulf
2 pm: Sitting by the pool
3 pm: Reading by the pool
4 pm: Swimming in the pool
5 pm: Oprah (yes, by the pool)
6 pm: Reading by the pool
7 pm: Swimming in the pool
9 pm: Still swimming in the pool

So, I wondered...

Could it be that my new summer reading schedule, which consists of paging through other people's left behind, dog eared Vanity Fairs and Cosmos (please note here that I have been doing this not only by the pool but also whilst in the pool, as I'm aiming to be not a TOTAL slacker) is not quite as academically rigorous as, say, lecturing on Mamet?

Could it be that my current preoccupation with timing my strolls along the beach with the sunsets is not as mentally demanding or invigorating as, say, trying to OK ONE MORE TIME, PEOPLE explain that YOU DO NOT, DO NOT, DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, EXTENUATING (well, Aubry, look it up if you don't know what it means)OR OTHERWISE, USE "U," "BTW," "WINCYSIMGIS" (whatever that means) or any other textual shorthand in college English classes?

Could it be that coordinating my various bikini tops with my various bikini bottoms* does not provide the same quotidian calisthenics for the mind as, say, explaining the difference between "lie" and "lay?**"

Luckily for me--just as I thought my worst nightmare was coming true***--I came across a revelatory book entitled The Book of General Ignorance, which was fortuitously left behind at Starbucks this morning by a comparatively less ignorant person than myself (at the time). I've spent the majority of the afternoon reading it, and doing so has without a doubt constituted the greatest (and only) intellectual effort I have put forth thus far to not turn dumb while I am here.

And in one word, the book is fascinating...

1. The blue whale is 105 feet long, three times bigger than the biggest dinosaur, and weighs as much as 2,700 people. Its tongue weighs more than an elephant and its heart is bigger than the average family car.

2. A chicken can live up to two years without its head. There was a chicken in Colorado named Mike who did just that.

3. 45 billion people have been killed by a mosquito bite.

4. Not all frogs "ribbit." In Thailand they "ob ob," in Algeria they "gar gar," and in Bengali they "gangor gangor."

5. (Initially I read this one with much anticipation) If you happen to come face to face with a crocodile, your best best is a rubber band. While the downward force of its jaw closing is equivalent to the downward force of a truck falling off the side of a mountain, the upward force of its jaw opening is almost nil and can easily be contained by wrapping a rubber band around its mouth (Yeah, this is real helpful because I'm pretty sure your real trouble is over before it is time for the jaw to open).

6. Work kills three times more people on the planet every year than alcohol, drugs, and war combined. Phew...at least here's one I don't need to presently worry about.

7. 10% of your body weight is the bacteria that lives on you and in you (and they don't care about your carb intake or your P90X).

8. Gorillas sleep in nests.

9. Shrimp make the loudest natural sound by any individual animal on land or in the sea. Their sound, which is produced by the popping of the bubbles that form when they snap their claws, can white out a submarine's sonar and are waaaaay beyond the human threshold for pain. Also, when the bubbles pop, they do so so loudly that they also produce light in the rare phenomenon called sonoluminescence.

10. The largest living thing in the world is a mushroom. The largest recorded specimen of Armillaria ostoyae is in Oregon and covers 2,200 acres.


*In my defense: I am not nor ever was depressed. Multi-colored wardrobes are overrated, and now I know why. While mixing and matching bathing suit tops and bottoms is not traditionally an intellectually fruitful endeavor, over the weekend I did make an interesting connection hitherto unbeknown to me while doing exactly this: New Yorkers (present and former) and generally intense people everywhere (artists, nuns, etc.) wear all black or some shade of it to save their precious mental stores for more pressing tasks than trying to determine whether the canary yellow paisley in their bandeau top off sets nicely or sets off poorly the emerald thread in their bathing suit bottom. In other words, the variance found in the wardrobe palette of a particular demographic is directly proportional to how seriously it takes its work (or at least itself).

**Eh, on second thought…I’ll return to this come September.

***Contrary to what you may believe due to my previous posts on my fear of aliens, gorillas, raisins, and cantaloupes, waking up really, really dumb is actually my worst nightmare.