score

I pulled off the highly improbable yesterday afternoon.

I had one hour to kill before my regularly scheduled second trip to Starbucks, so I decided to flit around* for a bit and walked into a nearby store.

Almost immediately something caught my eye--it was a conflagration of neon hues, metallic fringes and animal prints. It was an explosion of tie-die and polka-dots. It was (pause for dramatic effect) the bathing suit rack.

I'm not sure what came over me at that point. I paused, deliberating over my next step. Good god, woman, I thought. GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF! This is insane! This is Girl Scout Cookie Season! This is the tail end of winter in Ohio! You cannot cannot cannot try on bathing suits today.

Now, for the four males who are reading this blog in order to fully understand this situation, it should be duly noted that for most women preparing for bathing suit shopping is at least a one month affair (Spring training, if you will boys), which consists of a consistent regimen of exfoliation, self-tanner, non-starchy carbs, sugar deprivation, extended sessions on the treadmill, getting estates in order (explanation forthcoming) and prayers that 1. You shall not die from shock under those fluorescent lights obviously invented by a misogynist and 2. Shall it be God's will that you do in fact die from shock under those fluorescent lights, someone will throw a cover up or at least a towel around you before you reach the Gate. I mean, nothing like an ill-fitting bikini to put a damper on eternal bliss...

Like a woman possessed, I grabbed five contenders and bee-lined it to the dressing room before I had my wits about me again. After the fitting room attendant counted my items, she looked at me with that same kind of sympathetic I hear you sister expression women give each other in the waiting room of OBGYN offices around the world.

"I always order mine from a catalog," she said with a little laugh. "I hate crying in public."

I will admit that by the time I was in the dressing room, I was having doubts. So, I took a deep breath and uttered a little prayer for good measure. I actually shut my eyes as I slipped the suit on and repented for all the times I pinched my weasel brother when we were little, for putting Frisky--the neighbors' stupid cat--in the grill** when I was in fourth grade, oh and for that one time I took the abandoned STYLE section of the newspaper from Starbucks.

When I opened my eyes...SWEET LOLITA...it fit.

I took the suit off in 5 seconds flat and proceeded quickly to the register. Ladies--you hear me on this one. If the first swimsuit you try on is passable, you do not hesitate. You do not falter. You do not second guess. It does not matter that you don't have anywhere to wear this bathing suit until one of your more socially relevant friends (or parents) invites you to the Country Club in August when it has finally stopped snowing.

No, you whisper a little word of thanks and whip out your Amex. As you pay, you realize that not only are you buying swimming attire, you also are buying yourself the perfect day. Now, no matter what may come your way, you won't get too ruffled. It won't matter if you find out that your collision deductible (from that little run in with your garage) is $500. It won't matter if Ricky Martin is officially batting for the other team. It won't even matter if your skirt gets caught in that surprisingly powerful vacuum hose thingy while you are cleaning out your car in clear view of a steady stream of rush hour motorists on at least the second busiest road in your town.***

You win.

*flit around: (verb) to float in and out of various stores with no intention of purchasing anything while paradoxically knowing you eventually will. Modern day equivalent of "foraging and gathering," as in After thousands of years of picking berries and edible twigs, women have fine-tuned their ability to flit around for the day in search of nothing and something at the same time.

It should be noted here that women ought to take advantage of their primitive drive to shop. For like forever we were relegated to grassy meadows and the thorny underbrush while men were out having fun chasing deer and such. Now we have TJ Maxx and Nordstroms while the boys have the frozen food aisle and paintball.

** Settle down, the grill was not on.

***Yeah, true story.

VINDICATION

This posting is dedicated to all of my friends and family who rolled their eyes when they found out what I was up to during that week two summers ago when I locked myself in my bedroom and read the Twilight saga in its entirety.

Admittedly, reading Twilight falls squarely under the category of Things English People Do But Pretend They Don't. It probably also falls under the category of Things 30-Year-Olds Do But Pretend They Don't, as well.

As a side note, I did find it somewhat unsettling that the only people who noticed my absence during my self-imposed lock-in were the baristas at Starbucks. "We were a bit concerned," they said. And I think they really were. On the other hand, my brother, with whom I lived at the time, thought I had moved without notice. In his defense, moving without notice is one of my defining personality quirks.

Anyway, I didn't exactly announce that I was reading these books. The first volume came my way via one of my freshman English students. One day I pulled her over in the hallway and asked her what the deal was with this GIGANTIC book I had begun to notice under the arms of many of the girls at my school. As their English teacher, I knew that nine out of ten of my students did not read. So, I was curious about what was enthralling enough for them to carry around all day and read in between classes.

At the end of the week, my freshman English student came to my classroom and in what was an unspoken agreement that the little exchange was to stay between the two of us--handed over Twilight to me. "You're going to die, it's sooooooooooooooooo good, Ms. M," she said (saying that something will make you die is the highest compliment bestowed by a high schooler). So that's how it happened. I walked out of school with Stephanie Meyers in my bag, right next to Shakespeare and Vonnegut.

Two days later I slinked into Barnes and Noble to get my next fix. In response to the cashier's raised eyebrows, I explained as nonchalantly as possible "My niece. She's hooked. But, I'm just glad she's reading." Yeah...in retrospect, it's possible I was just a bit paranoid.

Flash forward a few years. I met a newish friend who works in the art auction world at the Cleveland International Film Festival a few weekends ago. After the movie, we were feeling very smart and cultured and having a semi-serious conversation about several semi-serious topics when somehow the town of La Push, Washington came up.

"I know La Push!" I said, realizing almost instantly my mistake.

"Oh, you've been?"

Now anyone who has read Twilight knows that La Push is a favorite haunt of the, um, werewolves. My friend looked at me waiting for a further explanation, and I knew I had a decision to make. Given my demographic profile and occupation, telling people that I have read Twilight is always a bit risky. It is entirely feasible that they will love me just a little bit less. After a moment of deliberation, I came clean. Yeah, I read them. I. Read. Them. All.

Hello, My Name is M. and I read Twilight.

I met up again with my now less newish friend last night, and she told me that she had been given a copy of Twilight earlier this week by a here's--where it gets good everyone brace yourselves--RARE BOOK DEALER.

Ha! So there! So there to everyone who has judged me--the English person--for reading young adult fantasy! Take that cashier lady with the twitchy eyebrows! Take that Mr. and Ms. You Know Who You Are! In the world of serious literature, RARE BOOK DEALERS trump English instructors, if not in the scope of what they have read, then at least in their literary taste (the perennial Beowulf and anything by Charles Dickens is a perfect example of English teachers having very little taste). I left last night feeling very smug and told you so. Yes, I've been vindicated! Validated! Exonerated!

*I'm happy to report that my now less newish friend (who shall remain anonymous for obvious reasons) is savoring the book into the small hours of the morning, as she should be.

http://www.shewholoveslunges.blogspot.com

Spring Break Cleveland 2010! Woohoo! Day 2!

I want to live in an Anthropologie catalog.

If I did, I would awake awashed in my Bird Song Duvet ($248) and imported Parrot Ruffle Sheets ($168 from the online collection only). I would sit up and stretch in my Italian Campaign Canopy bed ($1,898) perched pertly on the landing of my recycled bamboo staircase overlooking my villa's library. Apparently, Anthropologie girls do not buy into such passe traditions as putting the bed in the bedroom.

If I lived in an Anthropologie catalog, I would then take a moment for myself despite the fact that the rest of the day will be a daisy chain (sustainably made no doubt) of moments for myself because, apparently, girls who live in the Anthropologie catalog don't "work." They are either independently wealthy or the best dressed call girls in print. I

If I lived in an Anthropologie catalog, I would then glance over at my Washed Ashore Lamp ($228) and then my Sevilla chair ($884), strewn with sun-bleached books written in French. I would feel comforted by these literary acquisitions, even though I wouldn't be able to read maybe more than a line or two. But no matter, Anthropologie girls apparently have better things to do than stick their noses in books--like straightening their Safari Sighting Pillows ($88 each) before deciding what to wear for the day.

If I lived in an Anthropologie catalog, my morning attire options would be endless!

Hmmmm...let's see...there's my Rustling Treetops dress ($188) which would be tres cute paired with my Glassflower Cardi ($148) and Solar Knots sandals ($238) or perhaps my Walkabout Shorts available in more colors ($78) with my Floating Fronds Blouse ($98) to match my Floating Fronds Bag ($198)! Wait...wait...I know... there's my Cloudfish skirt ($148), which would be fabulous with my imported Rainforest Sunset Wedges ($238) and my Treasured Petals necklace ($498)! And just in case I decided to sit and ponder how my Cloudfish skirt is neither a Cloudfish nor a skirt, my Shadowy Chair by Tord Boontje ($2,898) would be nearby for my repose.

If I lived in an Anthropologie catalog, I would shower in my curtain-less outside shower without worrying whether the neighbors were spying on me because--as I'm sure you can guess-- Anthropologie catalog girls are used to people looking at them and are above other people's dirty tendencies. I would just whistle away in the shower and use my monogrammed Tisket Tasket Soap Dish and matching Tisket Tasket Shampoo Dispenser (available as a set $79 or separately) while thinking about how very lovely my Anthropologie Catalog existence is.

Once showered and dressed I would float towards the kitchen where all of my cupboards and teapots were abloom with peonies and Glittering Trove brooches ($78 each) because--as I'm sure you can guess--Anthropologie girls do not actually eat or drink (the Chelsea aprons $97 hanging on the imported Chirping Parakeet Knobs $20 are just for show). Instead, we chew on how it is exactly we own three One-of-a-Kind Nomad Necklaces (handmade in France $328) and what the secret is of our Secret Dragonfly pot ($38) full of--you guessed it--three more One-of-a-Kind Nomad Necklaces and Joe's Raw Hem Kickers ($152), whatever those are.

Of course, if I lived in an Anthropologie catalog, I wouldn't ponder any of this too long; Anthropologie girls have things to do! Like what? Like constructing little birdhouses out of Deep Tropic Tiebacks ($68), Eterne Curtain Rods ($58-98) and Citrus Swirl Finials ($68), whatever those are.

And like changing into our Equinox Calling Dress ($168) and Maru Sash ($38) before washing our Sundra Blossom Quilt ($228) in the nearby babbling brook.

And like donning our Macaw Maillot bathing suit ($188) before lying supine on our Color Waves Towel ($36) next to a barrel of impossibly ripe stone fruits daydreaming of the magic tree in the back garden that sprouts handbags! The Javanica Tote ($88)! The Molten Folds Bag ($198)! The Foliage Unfolding Duffel ($128)!

If I lived in an Anthropologie catalog, everything would be nearly perfect. I would walk through my green house with a wreath of wildflowers in my hair whenever I pleased, and I would never ever have to pay a shipping fee. I wouldn't even care that Anthropologie is se la vie spelled wrong.

Spring Break Cleveland 2010! Woohoo!

Day One:

At first everthing went according to plan; I slept in, worked out, arranged to have my wrecked car fixed before my father noticed, and settled on the sofa (OK, OK, it's not really a sofa-- it's more like a chair. What, mom? There are PLENTY of 31-year-olds who do not own a stupid sofa) just in time to watch fluffy afternoon talk shows while eating frozen peanut butter out of the jar.

Alright that last bit is lie--no matter how bad it gets, I will ALWAYS put the frozen peanut butter in a bowl before I eat it. However, "Aging Brilliantly" and "I Love You, but Your Sister's Baby May Be Mine" turned out to be my only fluffy talk show options, and given that I currently have enough denial in my life, I turned my attention to pondering where I could go last minute for Spring Break.

After wading through some more of said denial, I decided Tahiti was out. But shopping for clothes that I could wear in Tahiti --should Mr. Bond so be inclined to send me a telegram requesting my presence--was in. Hey, this is my denial, which means I say who. I say when. I say who! (Extra credit to anyone who can name the movie).

Anyway, on my way to the shops I got caught at the red light on Chagrin and Van Aken and Winslow and Warrensville and Two Other Streets Whose Names I Can't Remember and realized that by the time the light changed at this particular intersection (which has been referred to by local politicians in a rare moment of candidness as the devil's handiwork) Spring Break would be over. So, I turned around and did what I have been doing since the November 2008 election in moments of despair or general ick.

Dear President Obama,

I believe there's been a mistake. I still have not received my stimulus check and well, you see, I want to go on vacation. As a person who has dedicated her life to teaching people how to read, write and think, I am obviously not paid well enough to actually go on vacation during those alleged three months I have off every year.

I thought I would write to you while I was sitting in a state of denial on a sofa I don't own in the middle of the day eating peanut butter out of a bowl so that you would maybe help me. You haven't seemed to have heard me when I was playing by the rules--that is, trying to alleviate some of the burden of this country's shameful illiteracy rate, working like crazy to pay off my huge graduate school loans, paying my bills on time, showing up day in and day out, and paying my taxes.

I'm sure it was just a simple mix up, and I know you are like so busy, but I would really appreciate any kind of check you could send me or any kind of bill you could pass to help me out of this quagmire of personal responsibility and accountability I've found myself in.

Love and dos besos,
m.

Tomorrow: Spring Break 2010! I Want to Live in an Anthropologie Catalog

*To my dear students in English 253 and English 334: No, I was not at all bitter last week when I asked you where you were going for Spring Break and you rattled off (with a readiness and efficiency hitherto unknown to me to exist in you) a list of exotic destinations. Perhaps you'll have better luck with el espanol y le francais than you've had with your mother tongue thus far this semester.