she lives and writes

she liveth (at least presently)-in a pickle

2011-05-31T12:11:00.000-07:00

(I am willing to overlook the fact that I have not posted for five months, if you are.)

So let's get to it: My recent trip exceeded all of my expectations, and I refuse to allow this fact to be eclipsed by my present situation, which mainly involves me sitting on the sofa in front of the computer with a quite recently empty plate by my side and also a quite recently empty glass (more on the dishware in a moment--ahhh, the plot here thickens, I assure you).

An hour ago I was being very responsible by parsing through my backed-up email accounts, separating the "World Will End if You Do Not Immediately Respond to This" emails from the daily "I Wasn't A Girl Scout but That Doesn't Make Me a Lesser Person Just Because I Can't Build a Canoe Out of Postage Stamps" emails, which I admit are of the motivational kind. The world, so it appears, did not stop during the weeks I stopped* while traveling abroad.

Now I find myself in a bit of a bind. Mere minutes have passed since the house phone rang and, as is my habit, I let the call be picked up by the answering machine.** And then came an important, perhaps even life altering, message in what was a strange vocal crisscross among God, Big Brother, and that GPS woman with the overwrought British accent, whom all of your boyfriends select to be the one to navigate them to Dick's Sporting Goods around the corner, as they are pretending:

1) to be dating her
2) to be James Bond
3) or to be both dating her and James Bond.
(This little vixen, by the way, obviously refers to Strunk and White regularly--her grammar is irritatingly spot-on always), though trust me--if she could, she'd be a lifetime subscriber to Cosmo, too. See ** or strumpet).

Over the answering machine, the voice spoke to what could have easily been a non-existent audience were it not for my previously mentioned self-discipline and responsibility.

"Hello. It has been brought to our attention that someone***in your household purchased an organic cucumber from the Howland Giant Eagle between May 25 and May 29. We are calling to inform that person, our valued customer, that an urgent recall has been initiated as it is believed that some or all of our organic cucumbers purchased between May 25 and May 29 may be linked to a salmonella outbreak. Please do NOT (emphasis mine) consume your organic cucumber. You may bring your organic cucumber along with your receipt to the Howland Giant Eagle where you, as a valued customer, will receive a full refund. Should you have any further questions, please contact your Howland Giant Eagle, the Center for Disease Control, or your closest emergency room."****

Right. As I assume my readers are the quick and clever sort, you have already guessed at my problem here (beyond the creepy feeling induced by my stalker local grocer). For anyone who is not putting two and one together: my plate, only very recently empty as just mentioned, and my glass, also only very recently empty as just mentioned, are both so because it seems as though my afternoon tea at The Claridge Hotel in London 2 weeks ago (consisting of not a list, but a book, of tea choices, confections that Kate What's Her Name swore off the day William proposed and you guessed it: an abundance of cucumber sandwiches) inspired me OH BRILLIANT GIRL THAT I AM to make my own little feast of cucumber sandwiches for lunch, which of course required that I buy organic (no pesticides for this Brilliant Girl oh no, no, no) cucumbers from the Howland Giant Eagle. Yes, between May 25 and May 29.

Oh. God save the Queen! I'm fairly certain that I just felt the first pang of a bacteria-induced cramp in my stomach. Just moments ago, I was feeling very prim and cultured as I nibbled on dainty little cucumber sandwiches. And, and! I was feeling very full-speed-ahead-life-is-too-short-for-plain-old-drinking-water, so I decided to spike mine with...OH GOD NO.

Now we feel a bit silly, don't we? It is one thing to be taken down in convulsions from eating the exotic likes of puffer fish or even some disgustingly good chicken salad at a Memorial Day Picnic, but a cucumber? An organic cucumber!!!!

I can see the obit now:

Woman, 32, dies from playing tea party in her parents' house (where she lived)

or

World traveler, 32, perishes not while doing something brave like horseback riding on a cliff or driving on the left hand side of the very (obscenely, really) narrow road in the Irish countryside but from a certified organic cuke

It is very considerate of the Howland Giant Eagle contact me, its valued customer (Business 101: DO NOT KILL YOUR CUSTOMER), but perhaps in the future (God willing) but perhaps in the future, it could be a bit more prompt in stalking me and my purchases.

I imagine that as I sit here on the sofa waiting for the first sweat-inducing wave of nausea to hit, I feel very much like a woman about to go into labor, or a recent graduate skydiving with one foot in the airplane and one foot not in the airplane. THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN. YOUR CONSENSUS AT THIS POINT IS IMMATERIAL.

Should I survive, I have much to write about my recent travels including the present working titles:

The No. 1 Fix When You are an American in Paris Who is Quickly Developing Low Self Esteem Despite Decades of Self-Esteem Education Due to Your Increasingly Obvious Inability to Speak French.

When the Utterance of the Simple Phrase "1776" while Visiting London is Not Only NOT Rude but Totally Called For.

and oh I just thought of this one:

The Bright Side of Food Poisoning: Yeah, Those Five Pounds You Gained from the 10,000 Scones You Ate in Ireland? Consider Them Gone. Cheers!

Keeping calm. Carrying on.
m.

*"Stopped" of course is used here for the dramatic effect which can be achieved through the careful and well-plotted use of parallel grammatical structure and repetition, as astutely pointed out by Strunk and White (for those to whom this reference means nothing, Strunk and White's language guide is to English professors what Cosmo is to strumpets). Visiting nine cities and a (now dead) duck who unfortunately crossed my path suggest that I did not, in fact, stop much in Europe.

**I realize that this post forces me to admit to the world (and myself) that I am in fact living with my parents just a few weeks shy of my 33rd birthday. My parents are one of only four people I know who still have a land line, though I am NOT judging because I was the girl who made all the tenants in my Manhattan brownstone sign a promise to not disconnect their landlines so that in the highly unlikely event that something like the Great Blackout of August 2002 occured again, my then boyfriend who lived downstairs in the building could not entirely ignore me by claiming his cell phone was out of commission and he swears baby he was just in his living room with his roommates having a prayer circle the entire night and sooooo not out with the Wall Street boys wreaking nocturnal havoc in TriBeCa while I was stuck in an elevator. ANYWAYS.

***Me!!!!!!!!!!!!

****OK, OK, I made up this last bit.

Dear Girl Scouts Troop Leader #6,791 or Whomever

2011-01-27T05:45:00.000-08:00

Today is Friday, January 28, 2011. Snow emergency advisories are popping up on cell phones throughout the northeastern part of the country. Dr. OZ has announced that sunscreen causes major depression.* And in a short text from a concerned friend on the other side of the country, I have been notified: WARNING!!! They are starting to sell Girl Scouts cookies. Order forms have been sighted.

Soooo? you may be asking yourself. What's her problem? (her meaning me)

I will tell you the problem, my friend.

No one** eats just one Thin Mint.

Now, the Girl Scouts, being the clever, honest, upstanding girls that they are, ought to be applauded as it seems at first glance that they recognize this universal truth; the serving size on the back of the Thin Mint box is in fact clearly marked as being 4 cookies.

However.

No one** eats just four Thin Mints.

I mean, they are air-like by definition. Their very paltriness is advertised in their moniker. Four Thin Mints are the equivalent of one regular cookie, and just like no one eats only four Thin Mints, no one eats only one cookie.**

So...

Dear Girl Scout Leader** Troop Number 6,791 or Whomever:

I am writing to petition for truth in labeling so that the innocent consumer is well aware of the penalty before committing the infraction with regard to your deceptively benign and cheery looking little cookies. But before I do so, a little about myself:

First things first--I was never a Girl Scout (or a Bluebird or a Brownie). I freely admit that I am still working on straightening out the surprisingly tightly-woven ball of deep psychological hurt nested inside of me due to this childhood deprivation.

For nearly 25 years I have repressed the awful truth. Last year around this time I saw the top of someone's head just barely peaking out from a four foot tall snowbank at the end of my neighbor's driveway. As a concerned citizen I approached the oddity and was, as you can imagine, shocked to see that the top of the head belonged to a small girl child. I began to dig and in so doing discovered that this girl child was in fact one of your very own--a full-fledged be-ribboned Girl Scout. In her small, frozen hands were two boxes of cookies-Samoas and Tagalongs.

I am no stranger to living in cities where snowbanks are in fact large enough in size to swallow relatively large objects. However, it has been my experience that a little shoveling usually uncovers a bicycle or, say, a frozen cat, or perhaps a person who has lived his life in such a way that it is not unexpected that he has found himself lodged in a snowbank. But a Girl Scout! As far as I can reason Girl Scouts belong in the salt of the earth category (God, Country, Cookies). It was at this moment that as a 32-year-old woman I realized I was wholly shafted during my youth. I mean, imagine the sort of perseverance and inner fortitude this little girl must surely have been taught to tolerate being frozen in a dirty snowbank in the name of delivering cookies to their rightful owners!

Had I been allowed to participate in such life-skill development, I'm fairly certain that I would have by now:
a) thought of the Red Box idea before the Red Box guy did
b) found a clever way to convince Prince William to marry me and not Whatshername
c) climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro
or
d) at the very least circumnavigated New Zealand in a mere rowboat.

But no, I was forced to spend my Thursday afternoons sitting at Mrs. Zoss's piano breaking out in a cold sweat as I tried to play my scales without allowing my wrists to touch the ruler she had taped to the keyboard several years earlier when she had grown tired of telling us brats "Wrists up! Keep your wrists up!" and subsequently hunkered down at the dining room table, silently chain smoking (arguably a run-on sentence).

And while my friends who were Girl Scouts were learning how to make bow and arrows out of felt and silly string, all I have to show from my extracurricular curriculum is a half-remembered Fur Elise and panic attacks at the mere sight of a Steinway (which of course renders any talent for a half-remembered Fur Elise obsolete).

And now that I am on a bit of a roll, my lack of enrollment in the Girl Scouts meant I was shafted in an entirely different manner as well. I clearly recall now that every Thursday the Girl Scouts were permitted to wear their official Girl Scout uniforms to school, which by my calculations means that they escaped approximately 180 days of having to wear the stupid black watch plaid uniform that I had to wear for nearly thirteen years of my life. And what did I have to show for that? Another string of panic attacks my first year away at college when I realized that I would actually have to choose clothes (as in different, non-school-issued clothes that were supposed to match) to wear to class.

And finally in regards to how disadvantaged my girlhood clearly was as a non-Girl Scout is the fact that these little strumpets of yours Mrs. Troop Leader #6,791 or Whomever have easy access to the goods. Probably the craftier among them--with all due respect Mrs. Troop Leader #6,791 or Whomever--simply say things like "Oh, I'm sorry Mrs. Smith, we are out of Shortbreads" all the while stockpiling the buttery treasures for their closet-diabetic aunt or "You know Mrs. Smith, you could simply pay for a box of Lemon Chalet Cremes and I'll mail them off to Kuwait for our men and women in service there straightaway. Scouts honor." (Grrrr....)

OK. I'm OK.

Anyways, now to the reason for my correspondence, Mrs. Troop #6,791 or Whatever.

It is the opinion of this experienced Thin Mint consumer that you ought to change the serving size on the back of all your boxes of cookies to include the number 8 or perhaps the word "sleeve." Pushing your ethos of "moderation in all things" onto your paying customers (who were likely not fortunate enough to be taught your ethos because they were busy holding their wrists up in precarious situations) is neither realistic nor nice, and the last time I checked the Girl Scouts, if nothing else, aim to be nice.

Also, now that I have broached the subject directly, I would like to point out that "Thin" Mint may be slightly misleading, if not downright cruel--especially given the fact that Girl Scout Cookie season is quite in line--thankyouverymuch--with Countdown to Swimsuit season.

Next up: New Year Resolution Math vs. Girl Scout Cookies' Calorie Count

*And I thought all along it was just my paper white paleness that was bumming me out.
**Liars--each and every one of them that says he or she eats just one (or four).

up it's sleeve: 2011 So Far So Good. Mostly.

2011-01-15T14:44:00.000-08:00

2011: So Far So Good

I am happy to report that given the general thematics of 2010, the first 15 days of 2011 are looking exponentially better, which is NOT to say that every silver lining doesn't come with a bit of its own cloud.

Silver lining: in the summer I will be traveling to a particularly intriguing city that straddles Asia and Europe to write feature articles about young women and faith.

Cloud: according to Fodor's guidebook, men from this particularly intriguing city tend to assume --I kid you not--that all youngish, blondish women are Russian sex workers.

Silver lining: I will be paid to go undercover at an undisclosed location as part of a sting operation to smoke out suspected employee rats.

Cloud: While I can't discuss this too much yet, I am told that truckers and math tests will be involved--neither happen to be my forte.

Silver lining: According to Vogue, long arms* are in for Spring 2011

Cloud: As is orange lipstick.

Silver lining: Any day now, both refined white flour and an AOL email address will be retro-cool.

Cloud: Ditto Milli Vanilli.

Silver lining: Officially, Girl Scout Cookie season in Northeastern Ohio is only four weeks away.

Cloud: Officially, Spring in Northeastern Ohio is four months away.

Silver lining: In about a week, I will no longer feel guilty about breaking my New Year's resolutions...
Cloud: ...if I had made any.

Silver lining: Soon, all the salespeople of the world will stop saying "Take an additional 50% off the lowest marked price" while pointing to one of the 250 blaring red signs in the store that say "Take an additional 50% off the lowest marked price."

Cloud: Soon, we fools in Northeastern OH (delirious from lack of sunlight and in a sort of defiantly hopeful gesture) will be paying full price for the new Spring arrivals, which of course we cannot wear for four more months.

Silver lining: After an inordinately long conversation about the topic over dinner last week, I have reason to believe that I am thisclose to cracking the age-old mystery as to why all males** insist on turning down the thermostat in the winter to the temperature that is just one degree below bearable.

Cloud: As suspected all along, spreadsheets and ego are both involved.

Silver lining: My guy friends are much more verbally descriptive and imaginative than I have ever given them credit for.

Cloud: I apparently look like a Russian spy who has stolen Sherlock Holmes' winter coat after having moved to London and taken residence in Paddington Station. Huh?

*'bout time. AMEN.

**and I do mean all.

***this observation would have meant very little to me if it weren't for the fact that I happened to be present at the little caucus held among FOUR of my male friends during which this verdict was declared despite my protestations. That they spent even five minutes discussing my sartorial choices instead of prowling among the hundred or so hot women in attendance at this party can only imply that these boys felt VERY strongly about my winter attire.

The Last Decade Part Two or What I've Learned Now That It is Over

2011-01-09T13:54:00.000-08:00

Major lessons learned (the hard way):

God is good.
Even beyond what we can humanly understand.

Lover never ever fails you.
But people sometimes do.

Wherever you go, there you are.
So...go wherever you are.

Bloom anyways.

Minor lessons learned (also the hard way):

Using two bunny ears to tie your shoe is a perfectly respectable way to get the job done.
In private.

Addiction to Splenda is totally legit.
Go cold turkey.

Narcissists are the most under-recognized threat to society.
And the most dangerous.

There is a way to ALWAYS sit in the best seat when flying Southwest.
And when you are my husband, I will tell you what it is.

Shih tzus are contagious.
So is generosity.

Weekly pedicures are not frivolous.
What? They're not.

P90x works.
But, like most things, only if you do.

Sow to reap.
Reap and then sow some more.

Flossing and good grammar are as important as they say.
Celebrities are not.

Making an emergency landing in Atlanta due to a failed engine is not the end of the world.
But having to sleep in a Howard Johnson instead of your room at the W in the French Quarter in New Orleans due to your missed connection is. Almost.

:)

The Last Decade Part One or What I Noticed Now That It is Over

2011-01-03T18:59:00.000-08:00

Just realized I have been slacking with the posts. The whole "Text and the City" plan was abandoned because I realized that I am entirely too much in love with Manhattan and entirely too serious about my relationship with the city to actually write about it. As you've probably noticed, I only write about things that I am not serious about.*

This admission is not to say that I haven't been thinking about serious things because oh I have. In fact, I have spent the last few days pondering the best and worst moments (ironically often one in the same), as well as the lessons--both major and minor--of the last decade.

So, the moments, in no particular order...

Going to Italy all by myself just because.

Going to Italy and coming down with mono all by myself (not just because; yeah, Mr. Non-Disclosure, you know who you are).

Corollary moment:
Waking up in the apartment I was staying in only to find that the pipes had burst in the living room--yes, while I STILL had mono as people with mono usually do.

Discovering when I had to find a new place to stay that the only available room in the entire city was a suite in the Ritz! Mom, no, seriously, it was.

My first day of graduate school at New York University.

On September 11, 2001.

Kissing Paul.

There is--admittedly--no downside to this moment.

But "So what?" and "Paul who?" you are probably asking yourself. I can't for the life of me recall Paul's last name, but Paul's last name is not the point. You see, Paul was a recent Harvard graduate from South Africa** whom I dated for a few months in New York. Just prior to dating me, Paul had dated his college classmate Natalie Portman;the real point is that one rainy afternoon my friend and I actually took out a piece of paper and after an hour of racking our brains and IMDb we discovered that by kissing Paul I had in fact kissed Johnny Depp by way of a constellation of on-screen co-star kisses. This was sort of like playing the six degrees of Kevin Bacon minus Kevin Bacon.

Falling in love possibly twice. Falling madly in love definitely once.

Falling out of love three times due to the usual players: secretaries, geographical itches that I had to scratch, and more recently, Facebook.

Realization that James Franco may be my new Prince William/James Bond/Johnny Depp.***

Revelation that James Franco may be gay (it took my friends several weeks to muster up the courage to tell me this, and one of them finally volunteered to do so, sweetly and wisely, while my feet were in the hands of a skilled nail technician in a very public place). I'll be OK. Really, I will.

Realizing that when it comes to the plan for my life God has a sense of humor.

Realizing that when it comes to the plan for my life God has a sense of humor.

Finally (!) becoming a gold Starbucks card member, which saves me approximately $5,673 per year in coffee refills.

Which means I spend approximately $5,673 per year on coffee fills.

*English professor translation: I only write things about which I am not serious. Grammatical calisthenics are now in play as the spring semester starts in 6 days, though realistically-speaking spring does not start in this neck of the woods for five more months.

**the only downside of kissing Paul (which I did maybe twice) was that when I was kissing Paul, Paul was not talking in that very South African way Paul had of talking.

***to be perfectly honest here...

Dear Prince William,
Now that you've gone and proposed to Whatsherface I suppose it is only fair for me to tell you that I was less a fan of you and more a fan of the possible career change which surely would have ensued should I have married you.

Dear 007,
I like you, I really do, but you are a tricky one to keep track of, and I mean seriously, how many times can a girl meet you at a chateau in the French Alps or on a yacht off St. Barth's?

Dear Johnny,
You will always be my favorite, but I think I speak for all women when I say that the last decade was not your best. I mean, I get it. I get that the reason you have played no one but a pirate, a guy with scissors for hands, a Mad Hatter (whatever that is exactly), and a closet pedophile candy maker in the last decade is because you don't want to be George Clooney--that is, you don't want to be pigeon-holed as a talented, charismatic, handsome actor who basically plays himself. I think I also speak for all women when I say "It's 2011. New Year. New leaf. So pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease, go ahead, play yourself."

Next Post: The Last Decade Part Two or What I've Learned Now That It is Over

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

2010-12-17T11:49:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-12T16:16:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-07T12:59:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-09-26T14:32:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-17T13:25:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-09-05T16:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-28T18:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-18T11:54:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-10T12:26:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-30T06:03:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-24T13:30:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-16T07:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-13T13:34:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-07-05T07:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-30T07:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-27T13:58:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-20T08:32:00.000-07:00

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

*Kidding, of course.

The Antidote to Dumb

2010-06-17T07:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-12T07:08:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-10T07:47:00.000-07:00

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"

2010-06-08T14:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-05T06:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-04T06:22:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-02T05:11:00.000-07:00

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.

little fluffy dogs: a field guide to flexers, charmers, and ostensibly sensitive types part 3

2010-05-31T07:18:00.000-07:00

Let me preface this final part of the field guide series by saying two things.

First, Ohio boys should be given the benefit of the doubt before being pegged as flexers, charmers, or ostensibly sensitive types. In fact, I love-just love-Ohio boys, particularly my Ohio boys. Cases in point: A boy from, say, California or New Hampshire would never willingly climb INTO a Taco Bell dumpster late at night searching for the wallet I was pretty sure I threw into the trash with the leftovers earlier that evening.* Nor would a boy who was not from Ohio gather his brothers to meet me at a inconveniently located gas station in the middle of subzero January night to--in what was a true gesture of Ohio masculine teamwork and effort--pull off the super cute boots that try and ugh try as I did WOULD. NOT. COME. OFF.**

Second, unlike the first two parts of the field guide series, what I have to say below is not so much for women as it is for the Ohio boys themselves. While it is true that Ohio boys can misbehave with the best of them (both the Vegas millionaire flexers and the Wall Street charmers***), at the end of the day, they are just solid guys who love Jesus (OK, OK, and Lebron), horses, their mamas, and their girlfriends, too.

The pointers below were borne of my observation that the attendant difficulty of being recognized as a good guy in a state full of, well, good guys is an unfortunate one, and that ultimately the onus of distinguishing one good guy from all the others belongs to the fellas themselves.

So, gentlemen: listen up.

Here's what to do...

1. Refuse to wear a blue dress shirt. By not wearing a blue dress shirt, the Ohio boy can automatically separate himself from 95% of other Ohio boys. Don't believe me? Well, then, go ahead and look in your closet. Do it now. What you are seeing is exactly what 95% of all the other boys are seeing. Most likely there is a disproportionate number of blue oxfords hanging there. And yes, for the record, light blue, slightly less light blue and sky blue all still qualify as blue.

2.Eschew all public displays of sports mania. I know I know BUT if you can do this in addition to wearing a not-blue shirt, you will automatically belong to the upper echelon of good guys in Ohio.

3. And, finally, pretend like you have never seen The Shawshank Redemption, let alone that it is your favorite movie OF ALL TIME and congratulations just like that you, my friend, are a member of the elite 1% of the male population in Ohio.

4. If you cannot imagine following any of the above, you, alternatively, could move out of the state. It is out of state--trust me--where you can truly shine. (Now you may end up a small fish in a big pond, but at least it is guaranteed that you will be a small fish not lost in a massive school of other small fish wearing blue shirts, genuflecting Lebron, and gushing about the profound depth of The Shawshank Redemption). And take heart, many of your brethren have already made such a move. It has been my experience that regardless of where I live in the country, Ohio boys abound. In fact, 8 out 10 boys who live in Naples, Florida are from--surprise surprise--Ohio.

*This is a true story and may persist as the single sweetest thing a guy has ever done for me even though he didn't find my wallet. And...AND when I found my wallet under the car seat the next day, this gem of an Ohio boy only yelled and chased me around for 5, 10 minutes tops.

**When I made this late night SOS call, NOT ONCE did this Ohio boy nor his (Ohio) brothers say to me "Just sleep in the freaking boots...who cares?" or "Why would you buy boots that won't unzip?" Ohio boys do not presume to understand you--if you refuse to sleep in boots or buy footwear that is super cute but highly nonfunctional then the Ohio boy smiles, shrugs, and simply says One! Two! Three! Pull!

***Please note that no self-respecting Ohio boy would ever hire a personal stylist, as color coordination of wardrobe has by default been rendered unnecessary because blue goes with everything (duh). Likewise, no self-respecting Ohio boy would ever be caught dead walking a little white fluffy dog just to impress a girl. Plus, little white fluffy dogs tend to get lost among the snowbanks 9 months out of the year, which makes the whole facade less than worth it anyways.

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day 17

2010-05-29T07:51:00.000-07:00

While most of the world lined up for Sex and the City Part Two* and barbecues last night, I opted for what I thought I was going to be a decidedly more masochistic and less patriotic evening--a spinning class in a converted warehouse off Imokolee.

Uh, I thought wrong.

As it turns out every drag queen east of Ft. Lauderdale and north of Havana apparently opts for this particular spinning class in this particular converted warehouse off Imokolee every Friday night as well.

Now, some may argue that spinning is spinning. Oh but au contraire mon frere. True, all spinning classes hurt, but this is where the similarities between last night's class and all of the others I have ever taken end. Abruptly.

Exhibit One
When a spin instructor in other cities yells on a Friday night "Who has to work this weekend?" it is not surprising that very few people raise their hands. However, when a spin instructor in Naples asks a room full of drag queens "Who has to work on Monday?" oddly still no one raises his hand. Ditto for Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and next Friday. Of course, I'm not fully convinced that this phenomenon is specific to drag queens in Naples, as it has been one of my curious observations that really no one in Naples seems to work.**

Exhibit Two
In other cities it would be unlikely for 29 out of the 30 participants to be related. However, last night I was the odd woman out as David, Samuel, Michael, Richard (there's always a Richard, isn't there?), Ferdinand, Enrique, David again, Christopher, Daniel et al share not a genetic lineage so to speak, but rather a lineage that can be traced back to Madonna or Her Highness, as they call her. Two of them grew up across the street from her in Michigan, one of them keeps an apartment next door to her in London, and the rest of them--so they told me--channel her on the dance floor or in the shower on a regular basis.

Exhibit Three
In other cities in which I have resided (seven and counting...),spinning is defined as cycling very, very fast on a bicycle that is--let's be honest--going nowhere. However, in Ricki's class, the definition of spinning is apparently open to interpretation--though it may be loosely translated to mean dancing or "freaking it out" while on bicycle that is--let's be honest--still going nowhere

Exhibit Four
The mirrors, I have found, in most spinning rooms are there for instructive purposes, that is, they are there to verify proper spinning posture and form. There remains no doubt in my mind that the the mirrors in last night's spinning room are also there for instructive purposes, that is, to verify each individual's hotness.

Exhibit Five
Spinning classes elsewhere provide an education on, well, spinning. However, Ricki's spinning class provides an education on Lady Gaga. I now know more about Lady Gaga than she does.

Think what you may--judge me if you like-- but I'm fairly certain that I have never had so much fun in my life.

*I should note that after class last night I headed to Sanibel Island to watch the sunset. In Naples, sunsets are events--the hottest tickets in town. And after witnessing the most gorgeous one I have ever seen, I can say unequivocally
that Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte had nothing on me last night.

**I'm currently in very good company.

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

2010-05-26T06:54:00.000-07:00

So last night I decided to write on the back porch because, well...on a good night, this is what writers do.

I was lost (as is usually the very unfortunate case)somewhere in the quagmire of Chapter 2 when I heard a branch break in the miniature everglade that is my back yard. Heh, a bird, I thought. It's just a bird. It's just a very fat bird. A very fat bird who landed on a very thin branch. I put my head down again, feeling rather proud for ignoring the distraction that would so obviously entice lesser writers (such as myself on any one of the other 364 days of the year) to stop writing in order to investigate.*

And then the rustling started.

Heh, I thought. It's probably a turtle. Yes, it's probably just a turtle. Or maybe a large frog. But then I wondered, do turtles rustle? Do turtles or frogs--even large ones--really rustle in the proper sense of the word? I put pen to paper again, but this time admittedly I was pondering the anatomy of frogs and turtles in attempt to determine whether rustling could be considered one of their feasible modi operandi.

And then...and then--I kid you not--the rustling turned into the sound of very distinct foot falls. Now, frogs have legs--we all know this--and presumably they have feet. But frogs jump. They do not walk. Hence "foot falls" can safely be eliminated. And turtles have feet of some sort, too--no one would deny this. But turtles' normal pace, it was clear to me in this moment, would also in fact impede them from making the distinct sound of foot falls.

As only a former Indian Princess and New Yorker** could do, I took a quick inventory of the remaining possibilities and none boded well: alligator, crocodile, panther, or serial killer.

I sat there frozen trying to match the sound of the very distinct foot falls with the possible predator for a good 10 minutes and then--I'm not proud to say--realized I'm her. I'm the girl who sits frozen on the back porch for a good 10 minutes playing Name That Predator while that predator lurks nearby waiting not to welcome me to the neighborhood with some lovely gift (say, perhaps a pie or a box of Girl Scout Cookies) but to POUNCE AND SHRED ME TO PIECES.

So, yeah...one minute I'm Earnest Hemingway and the next I'm the get-up-and-run!-run!-you-dumb-dumb-girl! in scary movies who sits frozen when she should be hightailing it out of there. Had I been shredded to pieces I would have fully deserved it.***

*investigation is only one of a thousand perfectly legitimate alternatives writers turn toward to in order to avoid writing. Others to which I can personally attest include day-tripping to discounted vitamin outlets, french braiding my shoelaces, and googling my middle-school boyfriends.

**Both Indian Princesses (that's Princess Raindrop to whomever is asking and yes, we were waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay cooler than the Brownies (minus the cookie thing)) and New Yorkers are very skilled in, as Chief Thundercloud and Rudy Giuliani used to like to say, "Situational Awareness."

"Situational Awareness" exponentially reduces your chances of being eaten by a black bear should one sneak up on you while you are sleeping in a tent in one of your fellow Indian Princesses' backyards. It also exponentially reduces your chances in NYC of being kidnapped, robbed, or mowed down by a kidnapper, robber or tipsy hipster on a retro-cool Huffy--respectively.

***It is true that I survived last night's potential attack, but let me assure you that contrary to the popular notion that Naples is a tame, laid back place, other southwestern Florida perils exist.

The ones to which I can also personally attest include covert sprinkler systems with haphazard "OH LOOK I'M NAILING YOU NOW, LADY, REGARDLESS OF THE HOUR YOU JUST SPENT GETTING READY FOR YOUR DINNER DATE WHICH HAHHAHAHHAHHAHA YOU WILL NOW BE LATE FOR" timing, traffic cops with such a fierce propensity for issuing a ticket for something! anything! they make Cleveland feel like the autobahn, and large beetles that apparently have a thing for tallish blonds with long arms.

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

2010-05-24T06:34:00.000-07:00

MondayisTuesdayisWednesdayisThursdayisFridayisSaturdayisSunday and I'm telling time not by a watch or a clock, but by how many pages I have left to read in as many back issues of Vanity Fair I can find in deserted poolside cabanas (you'd be surprised).

little fluffy dogs: a field guide to flexers, charmers, and ostensibly sensitive types part 2

2010-05-22T08:42:00.000-07:00

I'm interrupting the flow of things today, by request, to continue my "Little Fluffy Dogs" series. The first post of the series, which addressed 25-year-old millionaires in Las Vegas, appeared on May 10. The girl (me) with a one way ticket and a house by the beach will resume as scheduled on Monday. Promise.

Charmers

Given the geography of Manhattan, would be charmers face two inherent challenges.

First, there are the streets.

The barely comprehensible alternative side street parking rules require New Yorkers to move their parked cars every other day from one side of the street to the other between the hours of 11 am and 1 pm, 1 pm and 3 pm, or 2 pm and 4 pm. The after school club "M.I.T, HERE WE COME," based in Des Moines, Iowa, has recently revealed that the Manhattan parking rules can be determined by the following mathematical equation: (xy+7)-23%+4(z)(Y)/pi.

Since double parking is illegal, common sense tells us that it is impossible for all of the cars on one side of the streets in Manhattan to move to the other side of the streets in Manhattan. The only viable alternative is the common one, and this is to not have a car in Manhattan. So (and here's where this is all going to come together for you), most would be charmers in Manhattan do not have a car,* which puts them at the distinct disadvantage of not having a car at their disposal to make some sort of charming statement regarding their economic status or prowess, sexual or otherwise.

What’s a would be charmer in Manhattan to do, then?

Enter the $23,000-$68,000 wristwatch. Admittedly, such a watch is somewhat effective while vying for the attention of the single Manhattan woman, who is (by virtue of her geographic location) well-versed in the intricacies and price points of Swiss-made time keeping pieces. In fact, a moderate percentage of Manhattan women at Ciprianis or One Oak will in fact be impressed--or at least intrigued enough to accept a drink--by the quick flash of a Patek Philippe from under the cuff of a well-made suit.

However, herein lies the second geographical challenge presented to would be charmers in New York (and I came up with this one all on my own, thank you very much "M.I.T, HERE WE COME"): at any given moment, the number of single women inside Ciprianis or One Oak is much less than the number of single women outside Ciprianis or One Oak and furthermore, interaction with single women outside Ciprianis or One Oak is dismally limited to short jaunts to and from the train** or to a brief, and highly unlikely encounter in the lobby of a shared apartment building.

In other words, Manhattan charmers have to be FAST in their display of resources and mating potential. From across the street, a Rolex tucked under a shirt sleeve or winter coat might as well be a Swatch, as it is all but invisible to the discerning eye of a New York woman.

A dog, however, is not.

And, in an unscientific poll of my male friends, little fluffy dogs seem to be the least invisible of all.

The sight of a man walking or perhaps cuddling in his arms a little, fluffy dog speaks to several things--all favorable-- regarding his potential date-ability in the mind of an unsuspecting woman (which you, by virtue of simply reading this thank goodness, no longer are).

From across Sixth Ave, the unsuspecting woman sees the would be charmer with a little fluffy dog and the poor thing thinks to herself

1. Now, this man must be responsible and capable of sustaining life in an organism more complicated than a potted bamboo stick.

2. And surely he must not prescribe to antiquated ideas of "masculinity," such as beer pong, twice weekly reunions with his old fraternity brothers at the Princeton Club, or any other vulgar behavior involving chest beating or declaring "me hungry."

3. And! And! He must be at least minimally employed, as dog food at those little corner delis IS NOT CHEAP (By the way, there is a marked difference between the ulterior motives of a dog walker and a man who walks a dog. The former doesn't have them, the latter does).

Take home lesson: the telltale sign of a man out to charm in New York is not a Ferrari; it's a puggle.***

*if a man does have a car in Manhattan, be careful: unless you can verify that he rents a $2500 per month spot in a parking garage, he is NOT at work between the hours of either 11 am and 1 pm or 1 pm or 3 pm or perhaps 2 pm and 4 pm every other day of the week, which should set off its own stadium wave of red flags in the clever woman's mind.

**Any kind of interaction with single women on the train is considered poor form (you say one word too many, pal, or stare one second too long and sorry, freak, you're a serial killer).

***Manhattan men, though many things, are not uninformed. They read the Science section of The New York Times on Tuesdays too, and science says that women decide within 11 seconds of seeing a man whether or not she is interested in mating with him.

PS and by the way--I've got two more words regarding would be charmers for any woman who has lived, presently lives or will live in Manhattan: Bud Fox.

On the surface Wall Street is a cautionary tale about greed not being good, and it is lost on none but the most dim of us that the real charmer on Wall Street to avoid is the wolfish Gordon Gekko, but I would like to posit that just below the surface is the more relevant lesson.

If you one) are female and two) reside in the city, there is at least a 95% chance that you have dated, are dating, or will date one version or another of Bud Fox—the less obvious predator of the two.

The reason? Well, while little girls across the country were watching Jem in the late 80s and dreaming of growing up to be a Hologram, little boys were watching Wall Street and dreaming of growing up to be Buddy Fox. If the last time you watched the movie was when you were 13 and bored, rent it again and lo and behold the dots of a constellation of strange coincidences you've noted, are noting, or will note, will be connected for you. Suddenly, the slicked back hair, the strange preoccupation with Persian rugs, the careful placement of The Art of War on the bedside table, the I-swear-baby-she's-just- my -interior -decorator line and even the Haagen Daaz in the fridge will all make sense.

And, ladies, while it's true that Buddy Fox ultimately reconstitutes his moral fiber by story's end, he’s STILL BROKE and HE'S STILL GOING TO JAIL. There are no happy endings here. I'm just saying.

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day eight (nine?)

2010-05-20T08:26:00.000-07:00

Against all odds--cottonmouth snakes, crocodiles, alligators, panthers, black bears, thunderstorms, mosquitoes, menacing dragonflies, yellow-bellied turtles, bogs, swamps, slightly off kilter pontoon operators, poisonous coffee beans*, and daunting ferns, I made it to, through, and back from the Everglades.**

Oh, yeah, and I did it in heels.

So take that, Carrie Bradshaw. It is one thing to trek in heels from Bergdorf's to Scoop in NYC without tripping*** on one of those ill-conceived (obviously by a man) sidewalk grids; it is quite another to trek from salt marsh to salt marsh through a black water terrain that is an eerie, oxymoronic brew reminiscent of scary junior high sleepover movies, such as Jurassic Park (post security meltdown) and Predator.

Now since I am writing this, it is apparent that I was in fact not swallowed by a crocodile (see, dad, I told you). The crocs, it turns out, are rather shy. The snakes, on the other hand, are rather not.

Regardless of my disappointment in not seeing nary an alligator, I was rewarded with the peculiar beauty of the cypress trees and the water orchids, as well as all sorts of other unidentifiable botanical curiosities. And, I learned that a mangrove is not at all what it sounds like--that is, it is neither a man nor a grove nor a grove full of men.

*a sick joke, isn't it?

**If you possess the same etymological curiosity as I, you are probably already wondering from where exactly the word "everglade" came. Its definition is agreed upon--a large, subtropical, marshy swamp south of Lake Okeechobee in southwestern Florida--but as far as the origin of the word is concerned, no one freaking seems to know--not even Dr. E. Wallace McMullen from Hartley, Iowa whose 1953 PhD dissertation on the matter I read almost in its oh-no-this-isn't-a-waste-of-a-perfectly-good day entirety in search of the answer.

***tripping on one of these things is the best case scenario. Legend has it that more than one well-heeled woman on her way to dinner has unknowingly lalalallala laaaaaaaaaaaa fallen through a sidewalk grid to the subway tracks below-- much to the consternation of her blind date, who, several months later, is still bitter about being stood up.

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day five (or six?)

2010-05-17T07:24:00.000-07:00

As of late, I had been thinking about what I want to do with my myself (if not forever, then at least for the summer). I had taken a half-hearted step toward figuring this out by browsing the classifieds, and up until Saturday, my best prospect in a town that subsists on the volunteerism of retired executives and their wives was scooping forty rotating flavors of gelati at The Ritz Carlton. But then I decided to attend an exhibit of Princess Diana's dresses at the Old Naples art museum and suddenly...I knew! I knew what I want to do with myself this summer!

I want to be a princess!

Duh.

Why hadn't I considered this before?

This would be the Best. Summer. Job. Ever.

Ahem...Dear Prince William:

Yesterday I attended a lovely exhibition of your lovely mother's lovely dresses, and I found nestled among her childhood spoons and tiaras a short list of the requirements for being the Princess of Wales. I read it, committed it to memory, and after sleeping on it, am certain that I am perfectly capable of carrying out the role. Now, I understand that you are in love with whatsherface and probably just about ready to propose, but hear me out on this before you do anything rash.

I hereby declare
1. To produce an heir, as well as a "spare," so the monarchy will continue. Um, admittedly the most difficult of all five requirements to fulfill as may be biologically impossible due to typical brevity of summer employment, but plenty of summer jobs, my dear William, have turned into long-term gigs.

2. To serve as a Goodwill Ambassador for Great Britain by participating in Royal Tours, hosting foreign dignitaries, and officially representing her husband or The Queen when so asked. Now it is true that I have hosted exactly one party in my life and have baked exactly one dessert for said occasion--but ask anyone in attendance, my flourless chocolate cake was divine.

3. To do everything possible to present Great Britain and its people in a positive manner. Working on my wave at this very moment. And! And! I believe anything ultimately lacking in my waving skills can be more than made up for by my abilities to twirl a baton, turn my feet inward almost 180 degrees, and proofread all of your royal correspondence.

4. To head numerous British charities and assist with their fundraising efforts. I am well-versed in the art of fundraising. Namely my own--ask any one of my 37 employers.

5. To encourage worldwide purchase of British goods. So obviously capable of this one...look what I've done for Starbucks.

And my dear William, should you be concerned about my American habit of drinking coffee, rest assured, most addictions I have found are transferable, and I'm sure that within a week or two, I'll be more than happy to sit down for proper tea.

Sincerely,

Your Lady in Waiting

*I realize I'm a bit late to the parade regarding the well-deserved worldwide reverence for Princess Diana. The day of her funeral I was an undergrad preoccupied with studying for an Eastern Arts and Religion test and in retrospect, my priorities were decidedly off. At the exhibit I learned that Princess Diana's amazing wardrobe was probably the least amazing thing about her. Of course, one must applaud her very public humanitarian efforts, but I found the details of her private self equally captivating. She was it seems, at the beginning of all things, a hopeless romantic--"I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world when I looked at Charles through my veil. I had tremendous hope in my heart." And, at the end of things, she was a consummate realist- "I kissed a prince. He turned into a frog." Interestingly, after her divorce, Princess Diana did what any tall, heartbroken woman ought to do: she threw away all of her flats and bought Jimmy Choos heels, as she it was no longer necessary for her to be concerned with towering over her husband at dinner parties or in photo ops. Very good advice indeed.

Tomorrow: Day Six (Seven? Eight?)

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

2010-05-15T08:17:00.000-07:00

People are funny without the daily
accoutrement of their lives.
We are on common ground here.
The beach is the great equalizer
and yet one place where
all of our differences are on display.
The sun doesn't know your title
0r the car you drive
or even if your heart is broken. And the water,
in all of its primeval wisdom, doesn't care...

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

2010-05-14T07:07:00.000-07:00

I had every intention of chasing crocodiles yesterday. No, really, I did, but as is often the case while one is on vacation, I got sidetracked.

I walked the pier (not to be confused with walking the plank as I did in fact stop at the end of it) and met a motley crew of fishermen and fisherwomen who were more than happy to indulge my curiosity about why in the world people are so hooked on fishing. And fisherman and fisherwomen, by the way, have mouths like sailors.

Admittedly, I have never understood the draw of throwing a string into a body of water and waiting for a Spanish Mackerel to bite. I have never understood the pure, unadulterated joy reeling in a catch seems to bring these people. And, I have never understood why so many of my male friends have pictures of themselves knee high in rivers and lakes brandishing a mediumish fish above their heads while sporting grins usually reserved for those who have just completed the Boston Marathon.

Is there a legitimate sense of accomplishment in catching a fish? It's not as though it's really a fair fight. I mean, imagine if a more intelligent, superior being who was 100 times our size lowered some tempting morsel (a Kate Spade handbag, an Ipod, a box of Girl Scout Cookies) on the end of a rope just within our grasp. Who among us--I ask you--wouldn't take the bait?

Perhaps my tepidness towards fishing can be traced to a particularly vivid moment gleaming from the murky depths of my childhood memories: I stand beside my father as he helps me reel in a rainbow trout from a well-stocked pond. As a three year old, I'm feeling quite proud of myself for having caught this pretty fish. As it flips and flops around on the ground, I think to myself: this will be the best pet ever! I will call him Henry! Wait til mom sees!

And then in what must have surely been my full induction into the adult world of violence and death, the stocked-pond guy comes over, grabs the fish by what I considered to be his throat, and cuts off Henry's head! Oh my God--he cut off my pretty fish's head!

I cried all the way home that day knowing that my poor headless Henry was wrapped in butcher paper and stashed in a cooler in the trunk of our car.

Um, OK, enough of that--I'm thoroughly depressed now. I had no idea I had so much to say about fish. Off to Barefoot Beach today, where fishing is thankfully and utterly illegal as is stepping on the sea oats (no idea) and running over one of the thousands of turtles that supposedly reside there. As a very wise woman reminded me before I got on the plane: M, watch out for the turtles. If you hit one or drive over one in your car, someone is going to jail--and it's not the turtle. ;)

Tomorrow: Day Four

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

2010-05-13T06:35:00.000-07:00

One would assume that a moneyed resort town made up of a patchwork of gated enclaves would be relatively safe. However, the evidence of late suggests otherwise.

Exhibit One
The Red Tide
As I type this, a nefarious algae bloom is slowly but decidedly floating itself inch by inch toward the shores of Lee and Collier Counties. Word on the street is that this particular algae bloom brings distinct and acute suffering to allergy sufferers ON LAND. Algae is one thing, but clever algae is another thing altogether.

Exhibit Two
"Flying Torpedoes"
Apparently, Collier County ice cream parlor owners have an issue with securely tying down the umbrellas to their outside tables. On the front page news yesterday, the lawyers of several unsuspecting patrons stated that their clients' sustained serious injuries (herniated disks etc.) from rogue umbrellas during a particularly gusty stretch of days last week. The reporter writes "Umbrellas, an invention that can be traced back about 4,000 years, originally were designed to protect people from the sun and, later, rain. However, a strong wind can tip an umbrella or turn it into a 'flying torpedo," causing serious injuries--or (gulp)* death." I consider myself warned.

Exhibit Three
"Residents Swap UFO Stories"
Oh, I kid you not. For those of you who know me, you know how very troubling I find this second page headline. To know me is to know that I fear aliens, serial killers, gorillas, raisins and cantaloupe (in that order). A few months ago I wrote about the alleged sightings in Northeastern Ohio. One Port Royal resident, Delicia Raft, 79, described the unidentified flying object as looking like the ball that drops in Times Square on New Year's Eve. While some may interpret this as proof that aliens like a good party, I interpret it as proof that aliens like a good countdown. Great.

So now that the streets, the water, and the sky are not safe, I've decided to spend my day doing the only logical thing a girl in my position can do--go crocodile sighting in the Everglades.

*writer's own embellishment

Photo courtesy of me. Look closely.

Tomorrow: Day Three (should the good Lord permit)

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

2010-05-12T06:38:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, I'm interrupting the planned three post series "little fluffy dogs: a field guide to flexers, charmers, and ostensibly sensitive types" for something a little more apropos to my current experience: my maiden voyage to a land far, far away. I believe there is very little in this world to which sun, water, and prayer are not remedies. Keys to the car I wish I had owned in high school and long, lazy sunsets don't hurt either.

First things first...
I've located a nearby Starbucks and as I sip my grande bold at this very moment, I realize that the only difference between this Starbucks and mine in Cleveland is that it is actually not raining outside. I consider this a good sign.

First impressions...
Not everyone here is old. In fact, the 10 0'clock news reporters all appear to be about 15 years-old (perhaps it's past everyone else's bedtime?).

There is a plethora of dragonflies, water fountains, and freckles.

That older gentleman you see in all the Sunday paper ads modeling suits and watches for Dillards, Macys, and Saks lives down the street from where I'm staying. His name is Hal.

The photo is courtesy of me. And no, NO ONE looked at me strangely as I stood in the parking lot to take it.

Tomorrow: Day Two

little fluffy dogs: a field guide to flexers, charmers, and ostensibly sensitive types part I

2010-05-10T06:59:00.000-07:00

It is common knowledge that men use cars, dogs, and cute children to pick up women. As someone who has lived, well, everywhere, I have found that the preferred tactic of entrapment depends less on a man's personality and more on his geographical location.

Now, a thorough treatment of my observations over the years is beyond the scope of this blog, so here is the abridged version. Print it out, fold it up, and keep it handy.

Sure, there are lots of men in Las Vegas. Most, however, can be ruled out as a potential threat since 9 out of 10 of them will stumble their way to a departing plane by late Sunday night. There is, though, one peculiar subset of men indigenous to Las Vegas to watch out for--the 25-year-old millionaire, also known as flexers.

What separates this man from the 25-year-old millionaire in New York is that his last name is not Waldorf, Carnegie, or Vanderbilt. And, what separates this man from the 25-year-old millionaire in Los Angeles is that he is not an actor --at least not in the strictest sense of the word. (The comparison to the 25-year-old millionaire in Cleveland remains N/A.)

Why is it that there is a disproportionate number of 25-year-old millionaires in Las Vegas? The answer is two-fold.

First, that glittering, self-transformative arch of the American Dream is alive and well in Las Vegas. With its vast amount of open space and unmarked territory, Sin City lends itself to the building of empires and hence produces unlikely emperors out of former valets and bag boys. Vegas is, arguably, the last great American frontier, and it is not nearly as tricky to maneuver your rags-to-riches dreams there as it is in older places where the glue has already dried and nepotism has long ago wrapped its stubborn tendrils around the corporate ladder.

Second, upward mobility in Vegas is mostly a matter of the intersecting vectors of space (as mentioned) and speed. Things move so quickly in Vegas that no one really notices that YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING until he or she already works for you. So, as can be imagined, this is a huge advantage for the coat boy* at The Spearmint Rhino who wants to start a GPS-activated umbrella company in the middle of the desert.

For all would be 25-year-old millionaires, there is the added incentive of the relentless sun, which provides the perfect opportunity for all their new bling and flash to shimmer and shine away.

So, what is the defining characteristic of the successful, young man in Vegas? It is the flagrant display of wealth and flex. Taste does not factor in, as there has been no time for refinement. The nouveau riche are de rigueur, and subtlety in Vegas gets you nowhere--not even past the doorman at Lavo.

Other tip offs include

1. The entourage, which consists of the Personal Assistant, the Personal Assistant's Assistant, the Housekeepers, the Club Host (a member of a peculiar subset himself), the Opportunistic Friend(s), the Girlfriend (a stripper, a former stripper, a Maxim cover girl, a former Maxim cover girl, or a personal trainer), the Personal Trainer (separate and distinct from the Girlfriend who is also a personal trainer), the Plastic Surgeon, the Dog Walker (regardless of the existence of a dog), the Contractor (House #1), the Contractor (House #2), the Stylist, the Personal Shopper at Versace, and the Annual Halloween Party Planner.

2. An inaccessible Facebook Wall due to discrepancy in your Wall's tax bracket compared to 25-year-old millionaire's Wall's tax bracket.

3. Strict adherence to daily horoscope advice and fervent interest in hair gel made out of rare jellyfish stingers and imported lotus leaves.

Coming soon: Given the geography of the streets in Manhattan, men face two challenges.

*let's stop and think about the absurdity of the very existence of a coat room inside a strip club located in the middle of the desert. See what I mean.

i hereby bequeath

2010-05-07T10:29:00.000-07:00

in the case that someone does find me under a desk covered in red ink at some point of over the weekend...

and in lieu of an estate* or anything else of real monetary value...

i hereby bequeath to

Maggie: All of my books (author names A-M)

Jamey: All of my other books (author names N-Z)

Ryan: All of your books (regardless of author name)

Mom: The coffee table you bought me (whether out of principle or pity, no matter)

Bimbus Varner: The Jeep (since everyone--except the dead girl--looks hot in a Jeep)

Lindsay: The crib notes to our secret plan to become Kelly Pavlik's new managers (we were closer than you think, lady)

Wabe: My unfinished manuscripts (may you do with them what I couldn't)

Mans: All rights and my blessing to be the one and only Alice

Patrick: Bentley and my Scattergories (maybe you can beat me if I'm not actually there)

Mr. President: All of the unused points on my very sexy gold Starbucks card (may you never drink Folgers and yes, you are expected to share with Julia Child, Margaret Thatcher, Curtis, et al.)

Meg: My direct line in heaven and no consultation fees

007: My (still) undying devotion

Dad: Bean One and Bean Two and my shares in Trident Sugar Free Gum (though HEADS UP--without me and my pack a day habit, value is most likely to plummet)

Erin: My title as the Queen of Starbucks (make me proud, sister, and stick to the hard stuff--milk and sugar are for wusses)

And finally, Madonna, Ludicris, Bon Iver, The Rolling Stones, and the cast of Glee: All of your illegally (sorry) downloaded tracks (you've helped me more than I can possibly express)

*as for my hypothetical summer residence on the Costa del Sol, there will be a hypothetical drawing of straws

the red death

2010-05-07T09:45:00.000-07:00

Misplaced commas and the erroneous use of the personal pronoun "you" in academic research papers may in fact be the death of me. Should you find a blonde with distinctly long arms on the floor covered in red ink...you know what happened.

spin instructors are the new therapists

2010-05-01T13:58:00.000-07:00

Now, I am no wuss when it comes to working out. I never wear pink t-shirts, and I can hold a plank for four minutes. I've ran a half-marathon against myself. I've got my whey protein intake down pat and synchronized with the needs of my mitochondria. I've eaten egg whites in lieu of anything with taste and gulped down salt-free tuna from a can. I have foregone cake.

However, a few weeks ago I joined a spinning class that nearly kills me every Tuesday and Thursday. I learned fairly quickly that each woman in attendance is there for a very particular reason, all of which pertain to a man who has 1) cheated 2) cheated and lied about it 3) returned after having cheated and lied about it and then proceeded to cheat and lie again.

I heard about the class through a kind of murmur among sweat-soaked women in the locker room. With my curiosity piqued, I finally asked a particularly stoic looking brunette what the deal was. "Yeah, take a number, sweetheart," is all she said to me. Um, OKAY.

"Nadia is killer," piped in a petite woman. "And she doesn't put up with non-compliance. Get here early if you want to get in. And don't be surprised if you throw up after your first class.*"

The next week I showed up 45 minutes early, which turned out to be not early enough. I was informed that I had to sign up at least 48 hours in advance at the front desk. Um, OKAY.

At the start of my first class, Nadia performed a kind of roll call by pointing to each woman in the class and yelling "Why are you here? Huh, sister? Tell us why you are here?" Two months later, I still don't know the names of my "sisters"; I only know them as "Because he's a bleeping bleep!" and "Because he bleeping thinks flowers bleeping mean bleep right now!" and "Because his bleep of a lawyer called to tell me that he is bleeping trying to get the bleeping house!"

When Nadia pointed to me on that first day I made the mistake of answering "Because I ate two blueberry bagels last night!" While no one stopped spinning, it was obvious that I had broken stride. "After 7 pm!" I added. "I ate them after 7 pm!" It seemed to appease Nadia enough and before I knew it we were at 95 RPMs and listening to Alanis Morisette, Blu Cantrell and Pat Benetar.**

I had no idea I was so angry.

But by the end of March I was sure that I was over the imaginary man with whom I had an imaginary relationship with before our imaginary break-up. I was also sure that try as he might, he would never get our imaginary house, nor our imaginary dog, nor the imaginary mink coat he bought for me with his pathetic imaginary bonus.

Nadia keeps me focused and on track much much better than any therapist or hair stylist (sorry, Joey) ever has. Despite the obvious, which is the fact that twice a week I pedal like a madwoman to absolutely nowhere for 60 minutes, these two hours are two of the sanest of my week.

It trumps Yoga and meditation in everyway because LETS FACE IT, when you're angry or sad the last place you want to be is "inside yourself" and the last thing you want to imagine "is a warm wave of cleansing water rushing over and erasing your pain" and the last thing you want to say is "I see only doves and pink ponies having tea parties where I used to see emotional scars."

Nadia's order to Spin Til You Spew is much more apropos. Her class, I think, has helped me work through both my old issues (Regan will never EVER be re-elected, Molly, face it) and my future ones (What do you mean you want to teach the children how to be Browns fans????) It's also helped me learn that raisins have no power over me.

* I did NOT in fact throw up after my first spinning class with Nadia. But I wanted to.

**http://www.fiql.com/playlists/angry_chick_music/

work it, girl: glam part one

2010-04-16T10:18:00.000-07:00

Summer jobs can be dangerous. I mean this both literally and figuratively. For example, let's suppose that your father makes you don steel toe boots and a hard hat when you are 18 years old and throws you on the swing shift at the local steel factory so that you understand from the top of your pretty little head all the way down to your pedicured toes that your life "could be very different.*"

If, say, we do suppose this, then we can also safely suppose that you will spend your summer dodging a myriad of very real dangers in the form of questionably licensed overhead crane operators, unidentifiable red levers on machinery that everyone--you are pretty sure--assumes you can identify, and truckers who inexplicably greet you every single morning with "Hello Little Red Riding Hood, it's the big bad wolf."

Summer jobs can also be figuratively dangerous. There may not be glowing red coils of steel or any other assortment of objects seemingly designed to cut off appendages to tip you off to a figuratively dangerous summer job, but there are other indications, namely that the job is neither lucrative (or paid) nor even remotely related to the vague outline of a career path you sketched for yourself in that one lucid moment you have had since your undergraduate studies regarding what you want to do with your life.

While figuratively dangerous summer jobs can be found in any city in the country, there is doubtlessly a concentration of them in Manhattan. You may (or may not--just go with it, people) be asking yourself how it is that so many reasonably sensible young people with hotshot degrees and Elle Woods ambition get caught up in such jobs in New York? Well, I've got a one word answer for you: GLAM.

GLAM does not discriminate.
GLAM knows no gender, race, or socio-economic class.
GLAM doesn't care that you planned on being a lawyer, a kindergarten teacher, or an accountant with excellent health benefits.
And GLAM really doesn't care that you owe your landlord $2500 next Wednesday.

Tomorrow: work it, girl: glam part two

*Sure is, dad. Now I can add illegal forklift operating to my list of secret talents.

work it, girl: glam part two

2010-04-16T10:15:00.001-07:00

If GLAM can lead Harvard graduates with degrees in business to work the midnight shift at The Metropolitan Museum of Art for $7.00 an hour, then I shouldn't be so surprised that it lead me to work at a posh gym headquartered in the Flat Iron District for a salary that was so low I'm still paying off the year's worth of Starbucks I had to put on my credit card.* What can I say? GLAM jobs make you dumb.

Other indicators that you have been sucked in by the GLAM?

1. You mistake mere proximity to the cool people's offices as validation--as in, well, I'm in the same building as Anna Wintour/Oprah Winfrey/Walt Disney Junior...

2. You mistake your employee identification card with the GLAM logo for a legitimate show and tell prop at dinner with your parents, friends, roommates...

3. You mistake company T-shirts, water bottles, and vinyl knapsacks for fair compensation for your 12 hour days.

4. You mistake your very sophisticated title (such as "Client Experience Arbitrator" or "Ambiance Associate") for anything except what you actually are--because you are uncertain exactly of what you are and, well, slave is a bit outdated and technically illegal.

The gym where I work prided itself on single-handedly making working out sexy again--not unlike Olivia Newton John did in the '70s and Jennifer Beal did in the '80s.

Gym X appealed to the snob in New Yorkers--the same snob that pays $39 for a sea salted caramel truffle. Monthly memberships cost more than most people elsewhere in the country pay each month on their mortgage.

Gym X's corporate office was minimalist by design and ran mostly by gay men and Bianca. Bianca oversaw (as one says in polite company) a marketing team that created ads with a more than slightly creepy resemblance to Calvin Klein's during his little child pornography phase. Even now, five years later, I see the the glossy ads posted on bus stops or the sides of slick buildings whenever I'm in a city with a high snob demographic. All of the ads invariably show Kate Moss and Ashton Kutcher look-a-likes engaged in well...NOT EXERCISE. Inexplicably, mud, leather wristbands, and torn t-shirts are almost always involved. Oh, Bianca.

To this day, I'm uncertain what I did there. Aside from notifying Front Desk Associates when Ethan Hawke or Jesse from Saved by the Bell was on the way to work out and sneaking into Tae Low High Spinning Yoga classes on my lunch break, I mostly just cared for the 100 year old Bonsai tree in the CFO's office I was mistakenly given when he was fired on my first day. Yes, I got lucky and pulled off what normally takes someone 25 years to pull off in Manhattan--a corner office. Had the floors not been made of exceptionally hard teak wood, I would have slept there since it was bigger than my apartment on the Upper West Side. It took my immediate boss (who I never actually met--we had a Charlie and Angel kind of relationship) seven months to realize the mistake. But by then, the GLAM had worn off and I quit.

*Hey Ryan, this is for you, since I must give credit where credit is due. Starbucks is considered a non-negotiable in my life regardless of my checking account balance. As are highlights and flights with no layovers.

Designing Women - Julia The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia Speech

2010-04-15T13:39:00.000-07:00

the cardigan chronicles

2010-04-14T11:21:00.000-07:00

November 25, 2008
School Day #58 (is that all!!!???)
English 3, Period 4

They would not shut up.

Me: That's it. I'm done. I understand the play.

I closed my copy of Macbeth and went to my desk.* Willow came to me lightly, beseechingly. She honed in on her $2,000 Aura Motorola cell phone, which I had taken from her sometime during Act 2. According to Willow, the phone's exquisite interface and 62-carat sapphire crystal lens was aspired (inspired, Willow, inspired!) by the design of high end watches, such as the TAG Heuer her brother wears. Apparently the Lexus for her birthday wasn't enough.

Willow: Ms. M! Please please please can I have my phone? My parents will massacre me!

Me: A massacre, Willow, implies slaughtering a quantity greater than one. For your parents to inflict massacre by definition would require that they slaughter more than just you.

Willow: Miss M., pleeeeeeeease. I studied, like, so hard for this test today, and I know I did good..."

Me: Well, Willow. The word is well. You may have done good, but you certainly didn't do well. Well is an adverb and good is an adjective and did is a...um, what does your test have to do with your illegal texting in my class?**

Willow: Miss M.! If I get my cell phone taken away. They'll call my parents.

Me: You already did get your cell phone taken away, Willow.

Willow: If you take my cell phone to the office, Miss M., they'll call my parents. They'll kill me. And I'm supposed to leave town for Thanksgiving.

Me: Where are you going?***

Willow: Vail.****

I handed back the phone.

Me: Happy Thanksgiving, Willow. Don't do it again. You shall never experience such leniency on my part again.

Willow (jumping up and down): Miss M. I love you! Thank you thank you thank you. Wait, experience what?

*This move on my part may seem harsh to those who have never helmed a classroom full of 16 year olds. However, I assure you that ending the very lesson to which no one is paying attention midway through is classified as HIGHLY EFFECTIVE among high school teachers. Such a move may also be classified as a preemptive one on my part.

**I know the answer to this before the question is out of my mouth. There is no connection. This move, which is intended to disorientate authority figures with its faulty logic, is classified as HIGHLY EFFECTIVE in the minds of all 16 year olds.

***This move is not strategic in nature. I'm just being nosy.

****Of course she's going to Vail for Thanksgiving. Of course she is.

anyone hiring?

2010-04-13T13:03:00.000-07:00

It dawned on me this morning that I have to find a summer job. My professorly* skills are applicable and therefore exchangeable for cash only nine months out of the year, which leaves me in the most unfortunate position of having to break the most solemn vow I ever made to myself: I SHALL NOT WAIT ON ANOTHER TABLE.

Particularly bitter corollaries to this vow included

I SHALL NOT FOLD ANOTHER WHITE NAPKIN INTO A BOAT, A FAN, THE SMALL OF A WOMAN'S BACK, OR ANY OTHER INANIMATE OBJECT OR PERVERSE GEOMETRIC SHAPE THAT THE GM DREAMS ABOUT THE NIGHT BEFORE.

I SHALL NOT POLISH ANOTHER PIECE OF SILVERWARE THAT COSTS MORE THAN THE GRADUATE SCHOOL EDUCATION I WAS FINANCING.

I SHALL NOT SERVE LAMB TO THE NEW YORK TIMES FOOD CRITIC (and I do mean THE as in THEEEEEEE New York Times Food Critic) WHO ORDERED, ummmm, BRANZINO?

I SHALL NOT AGAIN NARROWLY ESCAPE MY OWN DEATH AT THE HANDS OF AN IRATE** CHEF OVER A STUPID LITTLE LAMB PROBLEM.

I SHALL NOT SPEND 95 MINUTES MAKING AN EXTRA FROTHY EXTRA EXTRA HOT HALF CAF HALF DECAF CAPPUCCINO WHICH INCREASES MY TIP BY ABOUT 10 CENTS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PRE THEATER DINNER RUSH BECAUSE Hey lady, This is Manhattan and freaking Starbucks is across the street. TWICE.

*Yes. Guilty. I made this word up and yet, you knew exactly what I meant...
**The phrase "irate chef" is admittedly a little redundant. Chefs, by nature, are irate, which explains why they are so good at using sharp knives, tossing smallish, helpless animals into ovens or boiling pots of water, and throwing root vegetables and heirloom tomatoes at your head.

15 MORE things you always wanted to know about your high school English teacher

2010-04-08T05:47:00.000-07:00

1. Yeah...the nurse's office? We know you're faking it.

2. Silent in-class reading assignments benefit us as much as you.

3. No, I don't have a stapler or cough drops.

4. We resent hall duty, bus duty*, and detention duty, but we inexplicably enjoy chaperoning your prom.

5. On that note-- lunch duty every Friday is our own personal version of hell.

6. We blame you for our little Twilight problem.

7. Whether we enjoy running into you outside of school depends on the location: Trader Joe's, Starbucks, the movie theater--fine. The dressing room at Victoria Secret's while you are with your grandmother and we are trying on a slip, the Wynn when it is waaaaaaaay past your curfew and we are on a date (hello, does not ANYBODY card these people?), the Cliff Notes aisle at Barnes and Nobles (self-explanatory)--not so much.

8. We actually do read your research papers--all fifteen pages of run on sentences that make us want to stab our eyes out with our red pens and curse that fateful day we changed our major from International Law to English for nothing more than the love of language which you are so very adept at destroying without even trying while we could be working on that little illegal immigration problem with a better chance of achieving results than teaching you how to spell. And. Every. Single. Painful. Fragment.

9. We will not accept your friend requests on FB under your flimsy guise of "friendship." Nice try, you little Perez Hilton wannabes.

10. Would be cheaters, we kid you not: Turnitin.com is truly a wonder to behold.

11. No, we don't think you will ever actually have to diagram the Star Spangled Banner in the real world, but trust us-- your ability to do so may one day unexpectedly come in handy, if say you bet your little punk brother $50 that you can do it and he can't.

12. We find our lesson on gerunds as boring as you do.

13. Regardless of what Joan and Frank (aka your parents, as in "mom" and "dad") say, we are not equals. Their house, their rules. Our house, our rules.

14. Yes, that Starbucks coffee cup is directly linked to the temporal lobes in our brains. Without it, we would not be able to talk to you at 7 freaking 15 in the morning.

15. And no! I still don't have a stapler or cough drops!

*mentioning bus duty is just me being quaint as I'm pretty sure high school students don't ride the bus anymore.

15 things you always wanted to know about your high school English teacher...

2010-04-07T16:24:00.000-07:00

1. When you're not around, we split our infinitives and end our sentences in prepositions.

2. As far as your little high school romances go, we secretly wonder what you could possibly see in her. And what she could possibly see in you.

3. We check out your new shoes and whether you wore the same shirt on Tuesday.

4. Yeah...lie vs. lay? We have no idea.

5. We hate your papers more than you do.

6. We love snow days more than you do.

7. We abhor Beowulf. We just pretend to like it.*

8. We are somewhat bitter that more than likely within four years your tax bracket will surpass ours despite the fact that you don't even know what surpass means.

9. We watch 90210, too.

10. Those long cardigans we wear are strategic in nature.

11. On some days we can't stand you more than you could ever imagine.

12. On some days we love you more than we could ever imagine.

13. We dream in red pen.

14. That old saying about how teachers do it for the easy money is intrinsically flawed because 1. It's not easy and 2. There is no money.

15. That old saying about how someday you'll thank us? Yeah, that one's true.

*Whatever! Beowulf by Anonymous pretty much says it all. The rookie who wrote it wouldn't even admit to it. AND, it is the first story EVER written in English, so really I ask you: how good could it be?

strippers...they're just like us

2010-04-06T06:10:00.000-07:00

People who don't live in Las Vegas have a lot of misconceptions about people who do live in Las Vegas.

"I would die if I tried to live in Las Vegas," was the most common response by people when I told them I lived there. And they literally meant "die," since most trips to Vegas--at least for the 35 and under set--are nothing if not--let's face it--very close calls. A small sample of friends' and acquaintances' close calls include blurry-at-best nights that inevitably terminate in the emergency room, jail,* or the water fountain at Caesar's. For one poor soul I know, it included all three.

But the truth is that life off the Strip is as ordinary as life off any main drag in any town--almost. There are dry cleaners, post offices, and Dairy Queens. There are Targets, school crossings, and bike lanes. There are churches, parks, and girls-next-door, though--and here is where Vegas distinguishes itself from places like Piedmont, North Dakota--there is a 89% chance that the girl next door is a stripper. Or the sister of a stripper. Or the roommate of a stripper. Or the boyfriend of another stripper, which, of course, is another topic altogether.

The one defining characteristic, I noticed, in life off the Strip is the disproportionate number of strippers per capita. LA has waiters who aren't really waiters; New York has Ford Models; Gary Indiana has deliquents and well, Vegas has strippers. They are everywhere: buying groceries, dropping off dry cleaning, and showing up barefaced at Starbucks in their Juicy yoga pants. Even in plainclothes, you can't really miss these women. They are always wearing anklets, and if their Amazonian proportions don't tip you off, then the rolls of hundred dollar bills they pull out of their Fendi and Ferragamo bags when buying a latte will.

And I'll never forget meeting my first real live stripper. It felt momentous, not unlike the day I met President Clinton on the Capitol Steps or Santa Clause at the Eastwood Mall. I had thrown a birthday party for a friend at a cigar lounge and not one but two real live strippers had been on the list of invitees. My friend had worked in the service industry in Vegas for three years at that point, he was plugged into the stripper circuit by default. All service industry people in Vegas whether they keep their clothes on or take them off, mind you, know one another, and Kevin Bacon has nothing on their interconnectedness.

When the two women introduced themselves at my friend's party, I was admittedly fascinated. As the women told me about themselves, I leaned in for the Faustian plot--after all, haven't all strippers made a deal with the devil? I had assumed that Vegas strippers fall into one of two categories: magna-cum-laudes paying their way through med school or high school dropouts on the lam.

But as it turned out, Chrissie and Fiona were surprisingly...ordinary. Their stories, like the stories of most women I know, fall on a continuum that starts with heartbreak and ends with happily ever after. Both women seemed ambivalent about their jobs. They were supporting themselves, as well as their young daughters. Both of them were taking classes at a nearby community college and biding their time until they could find "better," though less lucrative, jobs. These women, nor their stories, were nearly as heroic or pathetic as I at first had imagined them to be.

Except for the fact that Chrissie and Fiona were veritable fountains of information when it came to where to find the best go go boots in town and how to repair a snagged pair of fishnet stockings with lip gloss and a mascara wand, they really weren't that different than me.

They were just normal girls doing the best the could--like the rest of us--with the hand they were dealt.

*I have to say here that anyone who does actually end up in jail deserves some kind of special mention because getting thrown into jail in Sin City is actually A LOT more difficult than getting thrown out of jail. In fact, Las Vegans know that the subplot regarding police enforcement in The Hangover is the only part of the film that is not a documentary.

score

2010-04-03T10:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-01T05:37:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-31T12:28:00.001-07:00

Spring Break Cleveland 2010! Woohoo! Day 2!

2010-03-30T10:02:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-03-29T12:02:00.000-07:00

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.

boots don't lie

2010-03-27T08:14:00.000-07:00

Personally, I would never ever date a man from Texas.

I have my reasons.

Pop Quiz

1. So, how long have you lived in Vegas/Chicago/New York?
(Truth be told, the answer to Question 1 is irrelevant. It's a lead-in meant to loosen up the guy sitting across the table from me. I mean, I don't want him to think this is an interrogation or anything).

2. So, what brought you here?
(The answer to Question 2 is also irrelevant, unless it involves alien drop-offs or a die-hard dream of becoming a male-figure skater).

3. So, where are you from originally?
(Now, if the answer is anywhere and I mean ANYWHERE but Texas then I proceed to Question 4. But, if the answer is Texas then I let the waiter know on my way out that the nice gentleman over there would like his check thank you.)

4. Asked with baited breath at this point: Are you from a state bordering Texas?
(If the answer is yes, then I must revisit his answers to both Questions 1 and 2 and determine if the once irrelevant makes up for his proximity to the Lone Star State. If the answer to Question 4 is no, we are good to go--though we aren't through yet.)

5. How do you feel about raisins?
(This question is a red herring in case he is becoming suspicious or starting to feel uneasy due to my somewhat pointed interest in his geographical origins. However, hating raisins does in fact earn him some bonus points).

The real Question 5. Have you spent any substantial amount of time in Texas since oh, I don't know, your ninth birthday or so for say longer than oh, I don't know, a long weekend?
(While asking this real Question 5 I open my purse and pretend to be fishing for a bobby pin just to seem more casual and in preparation for my possible next move).

If the answer to the real Question 5 is yes, I pretend to drop the phantom bobby pin on the floor so that I can look under the table. Boots=exposure and infection.

When I return to the upright position I pause to allow him a moment to explain. If he tells me that he spent a summer in Austin eating sprouted bagels and doing the Dave Matthews Groupie Thing after college, then fine. Austin (and pretty much anything one does right after college) doesn't really count anyway.

If the answer to the real Question 5 is no, I go ahead and order dinner. I proceed with caution, though, keeping my ear open for dead giveaways such as "Darling" and "All y'all."

Like I said, I have my reasons.

it's the little things...

2010-03-26T10:56:00.000-07:00

On my official list of "Things Academics Do But Pretend They Don't"* is listening regularly to the Gayle King Show on Oprah XM.

This morning Gayle complained about an email she received from a man with whom her friends had arranged for her to meet on a blind date. The man wrote of the plans he had for their first meeting, which included getting "buzzzzzzzzzzed in the lounge of a bowling alley" on Manhattan's west side. Mind you, Gayle and Casanova were meeting for lunch. Mind you, Casanova also offered "if we get too buzzzzzzzzzzzzzed to bowl, then we can shoot some pool." Mind you, even I know that Gayle King does not drink and even if I didn't know this, I would still know that no woman over the legal drinking age actually wants to get buzzed at 11:30 am and use a stick to push balls with a buzzzzzzzzed man she doesn't know. Despite the lame date proposal, Gayle announced that the real reason she cancelled the date was that she could never ever date a man like this--that is, a man who onomotopoeiad getting rocked.

I reference scenarios like these to explain why I am a conscientous objector to blind dates. If you're reading this mom, I know, I know--I need to be "open" to the possibilities. BUT I wouldn't buy a pair of shoes without having seen them first, and in my book, the analogous relationship between men and shoes is one that I could wax eloquent on for a surprisingly long time, though I'll spare you.

Anyway, Gayle's little anecdote this morning led me to contact a few of my single friends to find out what that one thing is that is a dealbreaker when it comes to dating men. I wasn't asking them about serious issues like religion or politics. Life has a funny way of crossing stars and pairing unlikely couples together just for the fun of it anyways and the BIG non-negotiables often aren't. I was interested in the little things my friends refuse to compromise on right from the start. A random sample:

"I would never date a man who wears white socks with black shoes."

"I would never date a man who wears turtlenecks."

"I would never date a man named Dale."

"I would never date a man who contemplated for even one minute going into the priesthood."

"I would never date a man whose mother still does his laundry." (Amen, sister.)

"I would never date a man whose hands are smaller than mine."

"I would never date a man who has better legs than me."

"I would never date a man who calls his pants 'trousers' or 'slacks'."

"I would never date a man who actually knows and understands the difference between 'trousers' and 'slacks'."

The problem, of course, is that you have to date a man first in order to find out whether you would never ever date him. Unless of course, you get a little creative.

Hence, tomorrow's post: The Questionaire

*M's "I Do But Pretend I Don't List"
Read Teen Vogue in the bath tub
Kinda like Tyra Banks
Harbor a long-standing desire to play Roller Derby
Vote Republican
Listen to Bananarama's Cruel Cruel Summer and the Glee soundtrack without a smidgen of shame
Use serious literature, such as Sun Tzu's The Art of War for personal, self-serving purposes
Wing a lecture here and there

the cardigan chronicles

2010-03-24T06:39:00.000-07:00

The scene is my classroom several years ago on a hot September afternoon--a few days into my short-lived career as a high school teacher.

The phone rings.

Me: Hello?

GC: Miss M.? Fiona Guidance Counselor here. We have a problem (misplaced, if strategic, use of pronoun "we" as I am 100% sure that "we" means "you" as in "me").

Me: Hi Fiona. Sooo nice to hear from you. (A lie, of course, as there are two kinds of high school guidance counselors in the world. One is the kind you want to befriend and with whom you want to talk because she (or he) is the secondary education equivalent of US Weekly magazine. The other is the prep school equivalent of The Gestapo or Anna Wintour).

GC: Let's cut to the chase, shall we Miss M.? Did you make a phone call home to Maximillian Pervesie's parents?

Me: Regarding...

GC: Regarding Max's summer reading test grade?

Me: Ummm, well....

GC: Did you or didn't you?

(Imagine a single shadeless light bulb falling from the ceiling at this point and the walls of my classroom receding into the dark for dramatic effect)

Me: Um, yes, I did. I called the number provided to me by the school, but Max answered and said his parents were in Versailles.

GC: Miss M., I realize there was no way of you being aware of this, but Max's father is dead. Alleged yacht collision, trunk of a Cadillac blah blah blah. So, Mr. Pervesie is certainly not in Versailles.

Me: Oh, I...that's awf--

GC: And the number given to you by the school is for Max's residence, not his mother's.

Me: Max's residence?

GC: Yes. Max's mother bought him a house in Summerlin since the family residence is in Anthem. The commute, the carbon footprint, et cetera blah blah blah...(tautology...But I don't bother--her redundancy is lost on her)

Me: Is Max even old enough to drive? He's in ninth grade.

GC: Let's not get off track here, Miss M. (No, let's not, Fiona).

Me: I had no way of knowing I was given the wrong number by the school, Fiona.

GC: Yes, well, Miss M. It's the oldest book in the trick at The Canyon Day School. You always have to be one step ahead of these students. Our students are sophisticated in alluding (Eluding! The word is eluding!) authority.

Me: I, uh...I'm sure I can...

GC: Here's our problem. You cannot, according to school policy, give a student a failing status in your class for any amount of time without having first notified that student's parents or parent, as the case may be.

Me: Um, yes. OK, Fiona, but how could I have notified Max's parents--parent--if the school gave me the wrong number? How could Max not be failing my class if the summer reading test is the first and only grade for the semester thus far?

GC: Regardless of your internal ratiolizing (Grrrrrr...), Miss M., you are going to have to change the grade according to school policy as listed in the handbook, which believe you me is the only school-issued material our students actually read.

Me: Fiona, Max did not read the summer book.

GC: Can you prove this?

Me: Well, in addition to failing the test over it, Max told (with impressive yet unconvincing animation that a great gust of wind blew the book into the swimming pool) he didn't read the book.

GC: Classic He Said She Said, Miss M. Second oldest book in the trick (Right. Whatever.). I'm going to need you to fill out the Grade Change Form and give it to Vivienne in the Grade Change Office.

Me: Fiona, I...

GC: Miss M., I've been here for 25 years. This is a preemptive move on your part. I'm doing you a favor. Please do try to keep up.

Right.

*The latest statistic claims that only 34.4% of Cleveland's high school students actually graduate. The rate is slightly higher than only one other city in the United States--Indianapolis. It's a black mark on an overall dismal report card for a nation where, on average, just 70% of high school students graduate. Statistically speaking, this is the equivalent of every third senior class across the country not graduating. The graduation rate for inner city schools is even worse hovering just above 50%.

public service announcement

2010-03-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

If you want to know the truth, the answer is yes. As an "English person," I am usually correcting everyone's grammar in my head when he or she is speaking with me. I can't help it. I've tried. While judgmental, I assure you I am not biased; I'm usually correcting my own grammar, too.

Still, I sometimes wonder if this is off-putting to my friends and family in the same way it has always made me nervous to get into too deep of a conversation with a psych major, a liberal, or a mortician who is in all likelihood envisioning oh what she would do to me if she could get me on her slab.

All of this being said, I do feel the need tugging at me almost constantly--I feel it is a calling* even--to un-apologetically clarify something for everyone despite the risk of sounding pedantic or overly bookmarmish.

The Difference between "Well" and "Good" and How to Decide

"Well" is an adverb, which means that you should use it whenever you are describing a verb. For instance, if someone says to you "Hello, how are you?" you should reply "I'm well" because you are describing your state of being--that is, the verb of how you are doing. Ditto for "How did your date with James Bond go last night?" Should the heavens be favoring you, you would reply "It went very very well, thank you" Well describes the verb went.

"Good" is an adjective, which means you should use it whenever you are describing a noun. For instance, "This is a good Girl Scout cookie" or "This is a good day to move back to Las Vegas." In the first sentence, good is the adjective describing the noun Girl Scout cookie. In the second, good describes the noun day.

*Due to my said fear of gorillas, I am unable to travel to remote outstretches and build houses with running water for those in need. In lieu of this decidedly superior act of altruism, please allow me this one small contribution to humanity.

for the love of spring...

2010-03-20T13:22:00.000-07:00

I realized this morning that my last few posts have been a bit, um, cynical. Cynicism, in my opinion, is really just laziness in disguise-- in much the same way profanity is really just a lack of linguistic creativity. Now, don't get me wrong--there is a time and place for both. Cynicism is perfectly appropriate during the last month of winter in northeastern Ohio and profanity is appropriate--maybe even required-- in any situation regardless of the calendar month where the car--or third car--your dad bought you and a tricky garage door are involved.

However, today is the first day of Spring, so...

There seems to be much smack being talked about Cleveland lately. Admittedly, it's an easy thing to do:

1. We have the worst weather in the country--namely an utter lack of sunlight and snow accumulation that approaches the obscene, both of which cause a peculiar set of symptoms involving a paradoxical mix of sluggishness and depression due to widespread Vitamin D deficiency and a twitching, stir crazy kind of hyperactivity brought on by cabin fever.

2. While many cities are reinstating their farmers' markets, our food options this time of year fall into one of two categories: fish dinners and pancake breakfasts. If it isn't Friday night or Saturday morning, well, you're out of luck... (and don't EVEN get me started on the Girl Scout cookie fiasco in these parts...)

3. We have the second worst high school graduation rate in the country, which is strange since surely our students attend more days of school than most as our school administration is all but entirely IMMUNE to blizzards and snow squalls that bury small children (and Girl Scouts) waiting for the bus in the morning.

4. We seem to have a disproportionately high incidence of roads named after a serial killer. There's Bundy Street. Bundy Avenue. Bundy Way. Bundy Circle. Need I continue?

5. We seem to have a disproportionately high incidence of signs along the roads that say "Raise your plow." Huh?

6. We also have that little problem of how to proceed exactly whenever we see smoke and flames in the Cleveland sky as smoke and flames in the Cleveland sky could signify
a-nothing--two of the 30 steel factories are, after all, still open
b-the river is performing an encore
c-your house is in fact on fire soyoubettermoveitnowinevitablespeedingticketandpotholesthesizeofparkinglotsbedamned (go ahead, reread it, you'll get it).

I could go on, but I'm so over even pretending like I pay any attention to sports and so, in the name of--Ok I'm about to make up this word--equinoxical optimism I won't.

What I'm really trying to say is that Vegas and places like it have nothing us on days like today. No one, and I mean NO ONE can appreciate one of the first warm, sunny days of the year like we can.

So there.

as luck would have it...

2010-03-19T08:47:00.000-07:00

Let me speak plainly. I am not overly upset by the fact that on Wednesday, without one drink dyed green mind you, I wrecked my car pulling out of the garage (or pulling into the garage, as the case may be since I'm uncertain at what moment precisely the damage occurred because well--are you listening, All State and Dad?--common sense tells you that if your car is lodged--as in stuck-- against the frame of the garage door you have two options: wreck it moving forward or wreck it backing out).

I am also not overly upset by the fact that on Wednesday the Dean of the English Department decided to drop by my class for what she likes to call an "impromptu" observation with nary a warning. (I, of course, call this something else)

Nor am I overly upset that this week alone I lost one of my lucky silver charms, an hour of perfectly good sleep due to this Spring Forward nonsense and all hope that I will get to eat one--just one! please!--Girl Scout cookie before I grow old and develop diabetes (I'm wondering if giving up something for Lent can be done retroactively and still count at this point...thoughts, anyone?)

What I am overly upset about is that Sandra Bullock's husband cheated on her.

No, really, I am.

I am tired of hearing about men cheating on their accomplished wives and girlfriends.

I am tired of hearing about men leaving their accomplished wives and girlfriends for women who are less so.

Trading up is human. Trading down seems organically wrong to me. I mean, c'mon guys, you don't trade in your Wii for an Atari. You don't trade in your 2009 Saab for a 2004 Huffy Ten Speed. So, if there is anyone out there who can explain this strange phenomenon to me, please please do so. Psychobabble welcomed.

Herein Lies the Problem or The Appellation Trail Part 3

2010-03-17T16:43:00.000-07:00

If only my mother had named me Sloane, or Candace, or Tai, or Adrienne, or some other name glamorous enough to permit me entry into the world of grown up coffee tables and Vanity Fair bylines.

I don't think it was too much to ask.

Some people dream of their names lit up in lights or laminated on baseball cards. In comparison, all I wanted was was a half inch of space on the editorial masthead--my name squeezed in demurely between Winter Cavendish and Fiona Leopold. Granted, I did score that internship at the art magazine despite my name, but that was only because there was a 99.9% chance that no one there actually knew my name (the .1% I'm leaving to chance is due to the harsh reality that no one actually spoke to me the entire year I was there--save the saffron velvet and lightbulb command, which was more like barking than speaking--so I cannot prove beyond a doubt whether anyone knew my name or not).

But alas, my mother (bless her sweet Irish soul!)named me Molly and I was, without any input whatsoever, forever relegated to the world of livestock and golden retrievers. I was, without any say whatsover, destined to be associated with best case scenario: large, handsome women who are not sinkable or that Molly Bloom character created by that author who is too confusing for anyone to even want to read or worst case scenario: an Irish band interested in some sort of sadomasochistic flogging. Or a bucket.

Yes, I was sentenced to an old-fashioned moniker that lacks the pedigree or classicalness of say, Ann, or the Biblical cred of say, Mary. And it certainly isn't an old name that is coming into vogue again like, oh I don't know, Esther. Sure, my name does connote a certain patriotic resourcefulness, but in an Encyclopedia Brown's kid sister sort of way rather than in, say, a Bond Girl kind of way. I mean, I highly doubt that 007 has ever taken a Molly to his chateau in the Swiss Alps to seduce her right prior to her being revealed as a double agent.

Yes, mom, I know, I know: Molly is a perfect name for three year olds with blonde pigtails. But then, of course, as the course tends to go, all the little Mollys grow up and want to write something with a little more heft than their own name for a publication that is a little more respected than Sister Leona's chalkboard.

Yes, No. 4 Refers to Me, and No, Mom, I Don't Have a Coffee Table or Child Yet (or The Appellation Trail Part 2)

2010-03-16T05:07:00.000-07:00

Out West (compound prop.noun) is not just a longitudinal direction. It's an attitudinal* direction. So, when I packed up and headed west three years ago despite my mother's plea that I needed to stay put for like two seconds**, I wasn't worried. I mean, COME ON, I pointed out to her, I was in good company: Christopher Columbus, the pilgrims, the gold rushers, the Mafia and other visionaries, retired Hollywood cowboys, stoned journalists and most recently crime scene investigators.

And, truth be told: the fact that I felt the need to head out west was all her fault anyways.

Back East I had had a dream of living in one of those TriBeCa lofts where the elevator door would glide open and directly deliver into my living room something other than the fourth! Victoria's Secret Semi-Annual Sale catalog this month (I'm no math professor, neither is Bar, Allesandra nor Leilani--I understand this--but how is this even possible?). Namely, the door would open and out would come glamorous friends, witty editors, morose (but brilliant) photographers, and brilliant (albeit morose) art directors armed with complex Cabernets from the Loire Valley and little boxes of nuanced truffles from SoHo's Vosges promptly at 7:30 every Thursday evening.

In this dream of mine, we would gather around my very grown up coffee table and complain about the incompetence of the interns*** at the magazine (I SAID A VENTI TRIPLE HALF CAF HALF DECAF MOCHA GREEN TEA LATTE WITH SUGAR FREE CINNEMON DULCE SYRUP EXTRA WHIP EXTRA DOUBLE HOT NO ROOM BECAUSE IT'S THURSDAY, DILL WEED) where we all worked together and then would move on to a more civilized discussion about the merits of the mock turtleneck versus a real turtleneck, Woody Allen, and then perhaps Rick Moody and post-modernism.

I also imagined small, but stylish photos of me on the contributor page of other equally relevant magazines. I must have fashioned these portraits in my mind a thousand times. They were to be expertly composed, but never obvious or strained. They were to allude ever so subtly to the very real and envy-inducing possibility that well, yes, I do just happen to be standing against this sun-splashed wall wearing a custom-fitted Brooks Brother white shirt with a cashmere sweater playfully wrapped around my shoulders at the US Open and well, yes, that does just happen to be Tom Ford, JD Salinger, and Princess Diana behind me playing croquet on this lovely little piece of violet-strewn heaven that, well, yes, is the front lawn of my house in the Hamptons. I admit I sometimes didn't pay much attention to the logistics of the dreams--the point was supposed to be yes, people, the world has just opened up to me and my pen.

In these photos, I wouldn't be smiling, but my expression would belie a secret life beneath the serious demeanor--a secret life of said coffee table conversations and morning jaunts for Dean and DeLuca coffee and crepes. Over time, I conjured up more sophisticated snapshots--there were hammocks and a frothy ocean behind me, a YSL tuxedo jacket and my boyfriend's jeans. Often, a small purebred dog or two would be involved. And always always always the caption beneath the photo would read: She lives and writes in New York City.

Tomorrow: Herein Lies the Problem or The Appellation Trail Part 3

*I am aware of the fact that attitudinal is not a real word. But if my students can make up words, so can I.

**or two months...

***OK. OK. Admittedly in reality I was usually the intern--though I had the special pleasure of fetching things like saffron-colored velvet fabric that was "neither too yellow nor too not yellow" and "the craziest, most unique, UNROUND lightbulbs you can find. In bulk!" Um, yeah. Mr. Sam Bennet, oh I'm sorry, I mean Mr. Publisher and Editor in Chief, if you are reading this, I want you to know that attempting and actually finding these things for you in Chinatown in less than two hours is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life and yet it is wholly unlistable on my resume, jerk.

And God said...Walk. Away. From. The. Thin. Mints.

2010-03-11T06:08:00.000-08:00

Oh, HE did.

I'm a Christian, and a sliver of what being a Christian is is tithing to the church to which I belong. Full disclosure here: I have found it easier to believe that Christ did in fact walk on water than to believe that a sliver of what being a Christian is is in fact tithing to the church to which I belong. I mean, does God really really need my Louboutin money? We are not even 100% sure if the man has feet. I've gone round and round with this requirement and still carry a fairly impressive--if unpublished--dissertation in my head regarding the finer points of giving or not giving money on Sunday mornings. Last week I came to the conclusion that despite my hesitation, I was going to start handing over the cash.

Well, as they say, no good deed goes unpunished.

For those of you who have been reading for the last couple of weeks, you are well aware of my current situation regarding the utter lack of Girl Scout cookies in my life. I, apparently, have been systematically ignored by all 400 troops in the northeastern corridor of Ohio. I know just know that my ex is presently harboring Samoas in his cupboard, but obviously these are going to go the way of my toothbrush and my favorite pair of fluffy white socks as casualties of war.

Anyway, after leaving church last Sunday I went to Wal Mart for well, um, a toothbrush and LO AND BEHOLD there in the parking lot in all of its green glory was Girl Scout Troop #359! Alleluliah! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Thin Mints would be mine, afterall. Praise Jesus! Heeheeheehee. They can't ignore me, I thought, if I walk right up to their table as a paying customer. And this, of course, would have been true

IF
I
HAD
ANY
CASH
LEFT
AFTER
TITHING.

Curses! The sweet little ladies at church were at that very moment counting my dollars and there I was in the parking lot. Of Wal Mart. In Ohio. In March. Single. Penniless. Toothbrushless and in the cruelest of all cruel twists--Thinmintless.

My only solace is that I have faith that I will be duly rewarded for my small sacrifice. So Dear God, if you are listening, in addition to that little date with James Bond scenario I was confiding in you about, I fully expect Girl Scout cookies to be plentiful in heaven. I also fully expect for them to be delivered on time and, of course, to be non-caloric.
m.

Back East and The Appellation Trail Part One

2010-03-11T06:00:00.001-08:00

***
Out west, I learned that Back East (prop. n) is local parlance for anywhere east of the Hoover Dam. It is an ubiquitous term bandied about by West Coasters* as much as, say, rad or--more recently--pro, as in "Ms. M, I saw Kim Kardashian at my dad's casino last night and DANG, she is pro" or "Ms. M, that cardigan of yours is real pro" (and no, I didn't give the little punk an A on the essay he handed in that morning).

Saying you're from Back East conjures a kind of unqualified rugged mysteriousness, as though you had hitched your wagon to a horse and hit the Oregon trail (typhoid and coyotes be d******) when in reality you took a perfectly pressurized flight fully stocked with honey-roasted peanuts, iTunes, and cute flight attendants, checked into Caesar's for a bachelor party two years ago and--just like everything else in Vegas--stayed.

What I started to notice was that most transplants to Vegas (which, really, is everyone given that NOTHING--save dirt and silicon implants--is actually indigenous to Vegas) are there for various undisclosed and hence most likely unsavory reasons. For instance, you

1) fell in love with Jade (dude, she's so pro) at the Mint Rhino and remain hopeful that she meant it when she said she'd call you after you wrote your number on that one dollar bill...

2) lost your house at the craps table at the Mirage.

3) are still waiting for the hangover to wear off so you can find your wallet/room key/luggage/the airport.

or

4) were dealt a bad hand by your mother when she decided to name you Molly consequently shutting you out from any possibility of ever being a successful writer living in New York City, dating Mr. Big, or brunching at Balthazar's with Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte.

Monday: Yes, Number Four is Referring to Me and No, Mom, I Still Don't Have a Coffee Table or a Child

*Las Vegans continue to consider themselves to be West Coasters despite my insistence that Las Vegas is in fact in the middle of the desert and by default is not on nor even remotely close to the west coast or any coast for that matter.

Schooled

2010-03-10T14:32:00.000-08:00

Fifty-three percent of college graduates are now female, and the majority of those pursuing professional degrees beyond an undergraduate education is women. Despite the dismally slow climb toward equal pay for equal work*, women have recently outpaced men as far as earnings growth and given the close relationship between education levels and pay, this trend will most likely continue.

Sounds wonderful and very well it's about time until you consider the implications of such a turned table on the dating scene. Among college-educated adults, the pool of potential mates has expanded more rapidly for men than for women. Yes, ladies, there are now less fish in the sea who can read as well as you.

Several of my female college students have told me that they refuse to "date down," meaning they refuse to date a man who is not as educated as they are. Statistically this presents a new problem for women who are marriage-minded. It makes sense, too, that men who are not college-educated make up the fastest growing segment of people who remain single throughout their lives.

So, we have roared and come a long way, baby, but a pesky new question must be asked: have we priced ourselves out of the market? Have we schooled ourselves out of the sea, so to speak?

*the pay gap is closing at a rate of a half cent annually...so, in about 60 years someone like me won't make $2 million dollars LESS than a man doing the same job over her lifetime. awesome. really.

Dear Mr. Cop Hiding Behind the Bushes or Why I Should Have Been a Serial Killer

2010-03-08T05:17:00.001-08:00

disclaimer: this is for entertainment purposes only. I have never displayed any of the tell-tale signs that suggest someone is likely to grow up to be a serial killer. For example, I have never hurt a small animal. In fact, I once saved a one-winged pigeon from my swimming pool (which my dog had bit off in one of his lesser moments) and tried to nurse it back to health for a week, despite the snickering from family and friends. Henry's eventual death, by the way, nearly killed me.

Dear Mr. Cop Hiding Behind the Bushes:

You don't remember me, but I remember you. Fairmount Blvd. The 20 mph zone. That bend by the church. Just. Past. Sunset.

I was the tall blonde driving the car you chased after having jumped out of the bushes brandishing that big radar gun of yours (twice). I must say that I'm somewhat flattered. You have displayed a kind of diligent concern for and devotion to my safety hitherto unmatched by any of my previous male suitors.

If you weren't always wearing that ridiculous pseudo-Columbian guerilla camo outfit while skulking about the manicured lawns, I might actually consider dating you. I mean, you wouldn't have to spend much time getting to know my friends: you've already met several of them at our little rendezvous spot (if I was a jealous woman, I might take issue with this, you bad boy). But the fact that my friends currently hate you wouldn't worry me. I'm sure that over time they, too, could forgive you the fact that you have thwarted several of their well-planned trips to Whole Foods and a Disney vacation here and there for the kids with your generosity when it comes to handing out speeding tickets.

Well, I have enclosed for you yet another $95.00 check, and being the good sport that I am, I'd like to express my concern for your safety as well. One of these days YOU ARE GOING TO GET HIT--as in vehicular homicide. Of course, let's be honest. There would be some benefit to this: I could finally make Louboutin happy and buy those shoes I've been saving my discretionary money for FOR LIKE FIVE YEARS, and you would no longer be mistaken for a lost and missing trick or treater. Nor would you be punched again by our less inhibited Cleveland motorists. And the hate mail would stop, too.

I have a point here, Romeo.

Given the crime rate in Cleveland, I think you could be spending your time elsewhere. Like, say, oh I don't know, finding Mr. Sowell the Serial Killer BEFORE he buried 11 women in the walls of his house. Word is that Mr. Sowell has been at it since 1989. And you, Mr. Cop Hiding Behind the Bushes, are participating in the equivalent of speed dating with women drivers in Cleveland Heights. Very poor form, Mr. Cop Hiding Behind the Bushes.

Had I been a serial killer in Cleveland, at least I'd have the shoes.

m.

P.S. one of the priests over at the church even cut down the bushes after his parishoners started complaining about your little Rambo antics and stopped attending services. It's one thing to mess with a girl's footwear or a child's love for Tinker Belle. I don't think you need me to tell you that it's quite another to mess with the Big Guy. In this regard, I've got to tell you-- you're playing with fire. The super long eternal kind...

the biology of a breakup

2010-03-06T13:35:00.000-08:00

Eventually you will begin to wonder (obsess is such a strong word) what your ex has been up to while you, in the mean time, are SO NOT busy determining which navigating clicks on Facebook qualify as creeping exactly.

It is at this stage when the fantasies kick in. Even for those who were handed the short end of the stick when it comes to imagination, the brain will shock and awe with the sheer creativity of the possible scenarios it will oh so very vividly paint for you. On a bad day, that leggy harlot of a secretary of his will be involved. On a good day? A drowning in a puddle of regretful tears, which takes the full 11 minutes to work itself out.

Rest assured here, you are not crazy, nor do you actually want your ex to drown. In fact, it's been proven that for sixty days after a breakup the front lobe of your brain is four times more busy than usual imagining what your ex is doing, thinking, and feeling. You are also suffering from a chemical withdrawal from oxycotin, dopamine, and vassopressin. So, short of going all Lindsay Lohan, you are fighting a losing battle, my friend.

I say ride it out.

In the near future you will probably learn that he is NOT wining and dining Whatshername nor is he writing you weepy, apologetic letters. In the near future, in fact you will probably learn that he has simply replaced with you something mundane like growing house plants while he is SO NOT busy wondering you've been up to...

Tomorrow: Dear Mr. Cop Hiding behind the Bushes or Why I should have been a Serial Killer ;)

hate: winging it

2010-03-04T13:35:00.000-08:00

more notes from my lecture:
Dovetailing the question "What is love?" is the question "What is hate?" Hate, like love, is one word and, well, usually one word tells us less not more.

However, American English journalist Andrew Sullivan does an exquisite job of trying to tell us more in his essay "What's So Bad about Hate," which--in a provocative twist--ends in the verdict that hate is an "unwinnable" war that is best left "unfought."

He posits that there are as many varieties of hate as there are of love: There is hate that fears, and hate that merely feels contempt; there is hate that expresses power, and hate that comes from powerlessness. There is revenge, and there is hate that comes from envy. There is hate that was love, and hate that is a curious expression of love. There is hate of the other, and hate of something that reminds us too much of ourselves. There is the oppressor's hate, and the victim's hate. There is hate that burns slowly, and hate that fades. And there is hate that explodes, and hate that never catches fire.

Finally, he says that "Hate, like much of human feeling, is not rational, but it usually has its reasons."

On a whiter note, things are looking up here in Cleveland: the small mountains of snow that have temporarily lined the streets and parking lots on the east side since early January are in fact melting. Since Wednesday, several missing troops of blue-lipped Girl Scouts with order sheets and jars of dollars frozen in their arms have been uncovered. This in my eyes is a satisfactory explanation as to why no one even tried to sell me thin mints when I needed them most. So, rest assured, people: while you may be stumbling around a bit and bumping into things due to sun-induced blindness (eerily reminiscent of crawling out of a dark cave or coming out of the birth canal, right?), excavation continues and Samoas are doubtlessly and mercifully and LOVINGLY on their way...

hate is a very specific brand of love...

2010-03-04T12:44:00.000-08:00

So apparently I'm the genius who in January scheduled a two-week-long lecture series for my college classes on the topic of Love. WHAT??!!! Had I looked ahead on my syllabus last week, I would have skipped ahead to something a little less dark, perhaps Hamlet or Milton's "Paradise Lost."

Love? The way I see it, "love" can mean everything or nothing at all.

Surprisingly I came across some noteworthy thoughts on the subject. bell hooks writes "Our confusion about what we mean when we use the word 'love' is the source of our difficulty in loving."

M. Scott Peck, though, pegs it best: Love is as love does. Love is an act of will--namely both an intention and an action. Will implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love.

Amen.

Tomorrow: Hate--winging it

Raisins and gorillas...

2010-03-03T06:19:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, on February 21 a reporter from The Vindicator wrote a story about several recent UFO sightings in northeastern Ohio. Anyone who knows me well knows that aliens rank right up there with cantaloupe, gorillas, and raisins on my supposedly irrational but defensible list of things that frighten me. (I know there are people out there who feel me on the raisins: how many times have you bit into a perfectly good oatmeal cookie only to encounter a squishy grape that feels like larvae in your mouth?)

Turns out at least 25 sightings have been reported in our area in the last year, which of course means that there have been more. We can safely assume, I think, that only a small percentage of people who have seen UFOs flying about would actually admit they are the kind of people who actually have seen UFOs flying about.

Since I don't have Sigourney Weaver's number, I'm thinking of contacting Forbes Magazine. Perhaps the editors who so thoroughly revealed Cleveland as the worst, most miserable city to live in the country a few weeks ago could tweet the aliens and let them know that, really, their efforts are lost on Cleveland. They'd be better off, according to some very convincing data, to drop in on Burbank, CA; Amityville, NY; Gary, Indiana; or apparently EVEN DETROIT.

i should write a letter

2010-03-02T11:29:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. or Mrs. Starbucks,

I told myself last week that if your Cleveland staff kicks me out one more time five minutes before the store closes, I was going to write you a letter. I could go on here about the obvious lack of time-telling skills among your Cleveland baristas, but really it all comes down to mathematics. AND LUCKY FOR YOU, I've found myself with a bit more spare time than usual as of late, so I've gone to the trouble of crunching the numbers for you.

I have been drinking Starbucks coffee consistently for five years. By "consistently," I mean twice a day without fail. Yes, I'm that one customer who has shown up twice before noon on Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve and twice after 5 pm on Christmas Day for the last five years (picture me waving and smiling at you here).

I'm the girl who has chosen one place of residence over another depending on proximity to one of your stores in various US cities, including New York, Chicago, Las Vegas and as you already know, Cleveland.

I'm the girl who is still pen pals with several baristas from said various US cities.

I'm the girl who boldly (get it?) puts up with the inevitable "coffee snob" label that comes along with refusing to drink coffee from any other establishment, including my good mother's own kitchen.

I'm the girl who tows your coffee around the gym like a walking billboard (do you have any idea how effective a marketing tool this is for you?).

I'm the girl who forgoes cashmere sweaters and new cars for Christmas in lieu of Starbucks gift cards from everyone I know.

I'm also the girl who entrusted my heart to Starbucks when I met the man I was planning on marrying there one snowy morning--I figured that he at least had enough sense to drink only the best coffee, and this was a good enough start for me. Now, of course, this assumption has turned out to be horribly horribly wrong, and we are currently in the process of a custody battle over regional Starbucks locations and even the baristas are taking sides BUT I DIGRESS...

Here's my point:
Five years=1,825 days.
1,825 days X 2 grande bolds at $1.95 each with regional differences in cost and inflation taken into account= $7,117.50

Did you get that? $7,117.50!

I'm sure you have heard of this thing called the "Latte Factor?" Well, I AM THE LATTE FACTOR. Look down at that expertly tailored suit and Italian-made shoes you are wearing right now. Look outside your corner office window at the Jag you just made your monthly payment on right now. You're freaking welcome.

As it turns out, nine days out of 10 I have more money on my Starbucks card than I do in my checking account. In return, all I am asking for is the five minutes of free WiFi I have diligently sipped my way to earning.

venti love,
m.

p.s. Pike's Place sucks

all is fair in love and war and baby, this ain't love...

2010-03-01T18:22:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning with a tiny shred of hope unfurling somewhere deep (OK very very) deep inside of me: It's March 1st, which means for all us here in northeastern Ohio, we do in fact only have three more months of winter! The groundhog, as far as I'm concerned, is a fraud.

On Saturday, I washed my hair (full disclosure: Commandment #31 addresses the sad sad truth that you SHALL not wash your hair for 5 days--yes, I do mean in a row). I took washing my hair as a good sign as the state of my hair is often an apt indication of my emotional state until I walked outside and--I kid you not--an entire rooftop worth of snow fell on me. The whole ordeal reminded me of my one and only near death experience with a grotesquely large and free falling icicle on the Upper West Side of Manhattan six years ago. Given the strange similarity between these two events in my life--both involving aggressive water in frozen form--I figure there must be a take home lesson. What is it? I have no idea--though that little fit I took on Friday night during which I actually threw snowballs at God (again, misappropriated anger) probably didn't help. Don't antagonize God. He will always win.

Anyway, I brushed myself off and met a friend for a little window shopping. We did amazingly well for two girls who were not going to spend any money. And for all those haters out there who say money can't buy you love, I beg to differ. Aside from Girl Scout cookies, nothing eases heartache like bagfuls of clothes you don't need bought with money you don't have. Commandment 32? You SHALL look fabulous the next time you run into your ex, even if it means wearing a "poppy sorbet" sundress from the J. Crew resort collection while standing in line outside Velvet Tango shivering like a fool--albeit a fabulous looking fool.

Tomorrow: I Should Write a Letter

brilliance vs. um, no

2010-02-27T13:32:00.000-08:00

I'll keep an ongoing short list parsed from an ongoing long list of what's worth reading and what's not in my somewhat inconsistent, but always honest opinion. Textbooks, fashion magazines, nonfiction, literary tales, and the back of shampoo bottles: I read them all. So check out the lists below.

Eat again. Pray again. Love again.

2010-02-25T16:55:00.001-08:00

16. You SHALL realize that actually any man anywhere reminds you of your ex.

17. Including the meat heads at the gym--so, you SHALL do 150 squats instead of 50 squats and smugly think to yourself "Let me show you how it's done, boys."

18. You SHALL rediscover the merits of refined sugar, white flour, trans fats and Vodka(see #17 again).

19. You SHALL stop shaving your legs every. single. freaking. day.

20. You SHALL be fully aware of all the things you shouldn't say and then you SHALL say them anyway. Ditto for the rebound you shouldn't date, the dog you shouldn't buy, and the red hair that looked so so cute on Rachel McAdams.

21. You SHALL run into your ex with his new girlfriend for the first time when stumbling out of a cab one morning with crimped hair and glitter on your cheek. You SHALL be wearing an acid-washed denim skirt and ripped leggings after having attended an 80s bash in the Hamptons the night before. (I swear! No seriously! I meant to look like this and oh my, yes, it's soooo nice to finally meet you, Katarina).

22. You SHALL assign a totally unfair,impromptu, in-class essay and blog when you should be teaching and not feel even a half of an ounce of professional guilt.

23. You SHALL be left only with photos of you with your ex, taken by your ex, or taken for your ex, which leads to the unfortunate "No photo available" on all those dating sites you plan to join, like, now.

24. You shall promise yourself you won't call and then you will.

25. You shall promise yourself you won't cry AGAIN and then grrrr... you will.

26. Sad but true-you SHALL once more contemplate the convent or perhaps updating your spring wardrobe with large maroon cardigans, but you (listen very very carefully here, ladies)SHALL NEVER EVER contemplate buying a multitude of cats.

27. You SHALL spend an inordinate amount of time in the hosiery aisle at Target weighing your options. Ditto for the "Guides to Amish Quilt-making" aisle at Barnes and Noble.

28. You SHALL take a stroll down your dark side. Oh you SHALL.

29. You SHALL contemplate all sorts of unsavory things that fall squarely under the category of "Hell hath no fury..."

29. You SHALL, however, restrain yourself. For your sake, dear. Not his.

30. You SHALL swear by all you know to be true in this world that you won't laugh again AND THEN...AND THEN...
one random Friday afternoon you will.

Don't eat. Don't pray. Don't love.

2010-02-25T13:23:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I promised the 10 Commandments of a Break Up. Well, there's more like 30 (sorry, grief makes me wordy)-- and yes, they've all been personally tested and approved by moi at one time or another. Here's the first 15.

1. You SHALL suffer from an inferiority complex and at first try to remedy it in a non-agressive way, such as scanning the New York Times for misspellings and grammar mistakes glibly muttering to yourself: You think you're so smart Mr. Big Dog Editor well take that as you circle the erroneous use of a comma. Unfullfilled and unvindicated, you then SHALL get real and pick a fight with people who can actually hear you, such as the mailman and the boy who bags your groceries at Trader Joe's.

2. You SHALL take a cue from the Bible and give yourself exactly six days to mourn and then look up on day 7 (and counting...) and say to yourself "Oh, this is soooo NOT good."

3. You SHALL contemplate joining the Peace Corp., the convent, and the circus, but then settle on Knitters Anonymous (in the name of prevention of course).

4. You SHALL reacquaint yourself with Insane Clown Posse, Ludicris, Dr. Dre, and KISS.

5. You SHALL be "unfriended" and it SHALL sting a bit more than expected.

6. Your godsister SHALL also be "unfriended" in the first move of what is sure to become a cyber custody battle.

7. You SHALL fill an entire dry erase board with lecture notes in black permanent marker. You SHALL remind yourself that someday this will be funny.

8. You SHALL suddenly rediscover the often overlooked brilliance of Winston Churchill when you read his quote: "If you find yourself going through hell, keep going." You SHALL say it over and over to yourself in your best English accent when necessary.

9. You SHALL get up at 5 a.m., shower, dress, pack a lunch, and drive 25 miles to work. You SHALL then realize it is Saturday.

10. You SHALL dislike Jennifer Aniston just a little bit less.

11. You SHALL assign triple homework to the poor fools in your class. You SHALL later learn that this is called "misappropriated anger."

12. You SHALL sleep on your friends' sofas for a slightly humiliating number of nights and then you shall buy your own freaking sofa (one that someone can actually get up the stairwell this time).

13. You SHALL realize that every man in a suit at Starbucks reminds you of your ex.

14. You SHALL contemplate giving up Starbucks.

15. You SHALL promptly realize that he can take your dignity, your sanity, your sleep, and your appetite, but BY GOD! HE WILL NOT TAKE YOUR COFFEE!

Tomorrow: 16-30.

all is fair

2010-02-24T11:03:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of looking on the bright side, I'm reinstating my blog. If the return of my sense of humor is my consolation prize, so be it. Bear with me as I am uncharacteristically clumsy with my words and thoughts as of late, though I assure you that I catch in the corner of my eye pieces of my old self glimmering among the wreckage.

Now that the sappy stuff is out of the way, please note that this blog has necessarily changed directions. Last year I was a singlesomething high school teacher at a private high school living in Las Vegas. Now, I'm a singlesomething professor at various institutions of, ahem, alleged higher learning caught in the frigid tides of a Cleveland February (Hello, God. It's me, Molly. WHY? WHY? WHY?).

I've archived the old posts from Sin City should you be extraordinarily (even by Cleveland standards)bored one evening, and am now moving forward. I'm on the plane, and while I checked my heart at the gate, I'm certain it will arrive safely and in tact at my destination. So here's to fair skies, a smooth landing, and some decent in-flight reading.

Tomorrow: The 10 Commandments of a Break Up

summer reading: the list

2009-06-30T17:24:00.000-07:00

(less)fluff(y): Newsweek magazine in general. Looks like the magazine is aspiring to be more like The Atlantic, if not in the way it leans than at least in the way it looks. However, just because it looks smarter, doesn't mean it is. Case in point: Fareed Zakaria's "The Capitalist Manifesto" in the June 22 issue. Sooooo close.

smut: the one too many employment ads I read this past week written by presumable managing editors who were "loking" for freelance writers and paying a stipend "commisirate" with experience trumps anything I saw on the tabloid rack while waiting in the checkout line. Grrrrr...

relevant: Maggie McGuane's "Reality Check" in the July Vogue. McGuane's unsentimental account of how she got over herself when her husband left her to raise her two young children and she couldn't get a line of credit above $500 by (gasp!) buying less stuff. Elitist magazine's first brush with reality without the usual smugness.

Do You Speak American? by Robert MacNeil and William Cran, those clever (if nerdy) coauthors of the The Story of English. Even if you don't closet a fetish for linguistics, you'll appreciate your new, cursory understanding of why when you say "black" you are referring to the color, but when your college roommate from Chicago says "black" she is referring to the block of houses along her street.

random: and finally, for anyone who is not pissed off enough about the state of the world, pick up Geraldine's Brooks' Nine Part of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women and boom! You're ready to explode. Very incendiary. Very insightful. And, might I add, very timely, even 15 years later.

summer school is for suckers...

2009-06-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

...namely--me.
I taught summer school last year and even went to the trouble of writing in red marker a fairly large note to myself to UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES TEACH SUMMER SCHOOL EVER EVER AGAIN. I posted the note on my bathroom mirror and looked at every single morning and every single night for nearly 350 days.
Last year I knew knew knew! that come the following May when the sign up sheet was passed around at the faculty meeting, I would think: Oh, it wasn't that bad. It's quick money. It's two weeks. Who really needs to sleep in that much? Who really needs 2 months in a row off?
Well, the note was a premptive move that failed. Miserably. Why? Because while it is true that I saw it on the bathroom mirror as I washed my face every morning and every night for a year, I also saw the slightest-oh-just-the-very-slightest burgeoning of what the fine lines across my forehead (F#%&!!!!zzzz).
Which brings me to my next and not wholly unrelated point: A few days shy of my birthday I can say that 31 is the new 30. 30 does not seem different than 29, but my oh my by the time one reaches 31 things have undeniably begun to fall apart (or at least crease a bit).
Which brings me back to my first point. I, despite the clever note to self, signed up for summer school again this year. I realized that in only two days I could make enough money to cover my first vial of Botox. Now, some (mom!)may say that getting Botox at the age of 30 is premature. Others (liars!) may say that it is something they would never ever do. I, however, am neither "some" nor "others," and so I called my dermatologist thinking myself a very prescient* girl. Call it pre-corrective treatment. Spending 80 hours with the flunkees, the scoundrels and the general delinquents when I could be floating in the pool at Mandalay, I reasoned, would be a small price to pay.

four days is not "always" part two

2009-06-22T14:38:00.000-07:00

By the end of the night, Bird realized that the Hardy shirt had been misleading. Robert, in fact, was a Nevadan cowboy. He grew up on a ranch 15 miles outside of Las Vegas near the California border. He was no secret agent or up and coming casino mogul, which is what boys who pay $150 for a t-shirt usually hope to suggest.
"Poser," said Ullah as she fished for something in her purse.
"Any. WAY," said Bird. "He seemed sweet. I thought, well, why the hell not?"
Turns out, there were several reasons why the hell not.
Bird gave Robert her number and before she even made it home that night, he texted her:
IT REALLY WAS A PLEASURE TO MEET U. LUNCH TOMORROW? YOU SAID IT WAS YOUR DAY OFF, RIGHT?"
At this point, Bird was flattered. It had been her experience that most men wait the standard three days before calling. Usually eight in Vegas. She ended up meeting him at Roadrunner the next day, and the two of them had a very civilized conversation.
"He was nice. Seemed fun. I liked his company," explained Bird.
"She's the kind of girl that likes company alright" said Ullah before the waxer beckoned for her to go to the back room.
After lunch, which Robert insisted on paying for, Bird drove back to her condo off Blue Diamond to nap before heading out to her moonlighting gig as an ambiance model at Tryst. (Yes, such a position exists in Vegas and it is exactly what it sounds like--gorgeous people are paid $30/hour to make it look like gorgeous people fill the clubs for the totally fair $30 cover).
Before Bird pulled in the driveway her cell rang. It was Robert.
"So it's Robert, and he calls me Birdy! I was like, 'Birdy?' and then he wants to know if he can call me that. I was like 'Ummm, OK.'"
Robert went on to tell her what a nice time he had at lunch with her and that he might swing by Tryst later on if that would be OK. Bird tried to politely explain that she would be busy and would feel bad because she wouldn't be able to talk to him much, which of course was a total lie--all ambiance models do is look gorgeous and talk. But Bird was starting to feel just the tiniest bit smothered.
"I mean, I've known this guy for like 18 hours and he's down my throat, but he's so damn nice so I tell him to come by."
Which he did.
"At 9 pm--a time that anyone who has ever been to a club in Vegas knows is the time that only the employees, the losers who don't want to pay a cover or concierges' neices from Idaho show up," explains Bird and her eyes get really big as she says this. "I mean, duh."
According to Bird Robert stuck by her side until nearly 4 in the morning. Her boss, who thought she should have been mingling with other guests, gave her dirty looks all night. But--Robert was nice. And Robert, unlike all the other guests, was not getting on plane in a few hours.
"OMG," said Ullah, back from her bikini wax. "Are you still freaking telling this story? Let me finish."
Ullah's eyebrows were red. She sprang for the works. "I'll just retouch them on photobucket.com if we take any pictures tonight."
"So anyway," said Ullah. "Robert called Bird like 25 times in the next day and a half. Wednesday night he called her again and asked her to come to his place for dinner. And Bird...I'm sorry, Bird, but it is the freaking truth...and Bird being the naive one accepts his invitation."
"So what?" interjects Bird. "It was nice. It was freaking nice for him to invite me over for dinner."
"Um, yeah," said Ullah as she licks her finger and smooths over her brows while looking in the mirror. "Yeah, it was real nice that you show up Thursday night at his place, which happens to be his parents' place and then you go on to meet not only his parents, but his two sisters, little brother, his aunt and uncle and his freaking dog."
"It was his cat."
"Same difference. Yeah, Elle, do you freaking believe that?"
I barely do.
"What did you do, Bird?"
"I ate and then of course on my way home he called me to tell me what a nice time he had and would I mind meeting him for breakfast in the morning?"
Ick.
Bird couldn't come up with any valid excuse, so she told him she would meet him at the Pancake House at Green Valley at noon. Robert was obviously happy to hear this, but then he wanted to talk on the phone some more.
"I couldn't take it. So, I told him I needed some space. I mean J freaking Christ. I couldn't breath at that point."
"What did he say?"
"He started to cry. OMG! He started to cry. He said he didn't understand why I was acting this way. I was like 'What way?' He said he was just so used to me being there for him. That I was always there."
And this is when Bird said flatly making eye contact with me in the mirror: Since when is four days "always?"

four days is not "always" part one

2009-06-22T11:29:00.000-07:00

In relationships, persistant women are called "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence." Persistant men are called "stalkers."
At first glance, this may seem one of the few instances when men end up with the shorter end of the stick when it comes to double standards. And yet, a stalker at least has the privilege of flying his freak flag, which in many ways makes him easy to dismiss as simply "crazy," rather than catagorizing him as someone who is otherwise sane and, well, quite frankly, wants too much for herself, as we often do with women.

It is true that women make some of the most formidable stalkers, oftentimes adding a feminine finesse that is otherwise lacking. And it is also true that otherwise sane men are sometimes "clingy," "desperate," "needy," or "high-maintainence"--even by the second date. Take Bird's story.

Bird is a normal girl living in Las Vegas. She is 22, a native of Tallahassee, and a talented colorist who has a knack for doing exactly what her clients ask her to do, unless she thinks they are wrong. And in this case, she simply does something better.

I have a standing appointment for highlights, a trim and a blow out with her every five weeks. I don't need a gossip magazine while she works--J.Lo, LiLo, or JoJo has nothing on her. Bird's escapades across the slippery landscape of Sin City are second to no one's and yet somehow defiantly typical of the women who live here.

Friday's story was especially entertaining since Ullah, Bird's roommate, was sitting nearby waiting to have a Brazilian done. It went something like this:

Bird met Robert at Blue Martini on the previous Sunday night. She was out with Ullah and a few other single friends. Any relationship-minded girl in Vegas knows that Blue Martini is one of a handful of places where at least 50% of the males will NOT be boarding a plane back to Sacramento or Buffalo, broke and hungover, on Monday morning. Women in big cities all over the country can whine about the dismal prospects of any given night out, with many of the hazards unique to the particular location--entitled egos on Wall Street, early morning football practice in Dallas, stringent religious rules in Salt Lake--but Vegas women, more so than women in any other city, can complain about the fact that their city's tourism department has made it the official slogan that what happens or WHO HAPPENS here should stay here. Ouch.

So Bird and the girls knew they had a 50/50 shot at finding local boys. Of those, at least half would be at least semi-employed--otherwise the $20 drinks would be prohibitive. Not bad odds.

Within moments, Bird saw Robert across the way.
"I nudged Ullah immediately and said 'There's my man.' He was freaking beautiful."
"He was so NOT beautiful, Bird," quipped Ullah. "You liked his freaking shirt."
"I did not like his freaking shirt. I didn't even notice his freaking shirt."
Ullah raised her eyebrow. "Uh huh." She then turned to me in the mirror and said, "What. Ev. Er. She liked his freaking shirt." Ullah is from Jersey, which means she has that innate talent to make you believe that whatever she is saying is the obvious truth, morons.
"OK. So I liked his shirt. It was Hardy. Even if his face wasn't that great."

(Hardy shirts, on the west coast, possess the qualifying signals of a male's ability to provide for a woman and her offspring or at least to buy her a membership at Anthem country club, as say, a Benz or Rolex on the east coast. The shirts are actually the locus of a growing schism between west coasters--you are other all for them or they make you kind of nauseous in the same kind of way eating too much cake or cotton candy does. Trust me, Issue 8 has nothing on this.)

Anway, Bird, despite Ullah's obvious indifference, walked right up to Robert and introduced herself.

the hangover

2009-06-12T10:13:00.000-07:00

...the movie, not mine.
This film fits squarely in the Smut catagory and I would never ever admit to seeing it if it wasn't so hilariously, if grotesquely, funny. Per my directions for partaking in Smut, I followed my own advice and went alone. I had no intention of telling even Bliss that I was going to see it Wednesday night but gave myself away when he called afterwards, and I couldn't stop laughing. No, really, baby, Revolutionary Road is freaking hilarious. He didn't buy it. The fact that The Hangover, which is a cautionary tale about a bachelor party in Vegas gone very very wrong (or right, depending on one's degree of--made up word alert--dementedness), hit the spot might have had something to do with the fact that I see these man-children roving in blue-button-up-clad groups every single night I am out. They seem as indigenous to Sin City as dirt. What irks me most is that these man-children are utterly oblivious to their total lack of originality*. They think their predatory strut, their encounters with strippers named Cheyenne, and their tequila shot tally are all things they have come up with on their own. Not so! In the two years I have lived here I have personally driven to the ER four times after an old high school friend was found naked in one of the casinos' fountains and put on an IV drip due to (gasp) alcohol-induced dehydration. Four times I have brought these boys back to the house and allowed them to sleep it off on my couch. I've let them down easy when they awake 18 hours after their return flight has left. I've nursed them back to health with pancakes and Gatorade. I've called their fiances. I've called their mothers. As they struggle to recall WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, I've nodded my head, shook my head and gasped in disbelief, letting them believe: You are the craziest, wildest, most "off the hook" (gagging here) guy who has ever come to party in Vegas! Damn. They should write you up in Frommers.

*In the name of fairness, I must say that in NO WAY are the boa/crown/is-it-a-shirt or-a-skirt wearing bachelorette party girls less pandemic or tiresome.

the list

2009-06-10T09:37:00.000-07:00

My recommendations--

Fluff: "Cheaper Than Therapy" in the July issue of Marie Clairemagazine. An earnest, if surfacy, look at how five modern career woman have turned away and then toward religion. While more of a glance, rather than a hard look, at how Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, Judaism and Protestantism provided the answers these woman were looking for, a commendable attempt by a consumer magazine to delve below the shallow waters of eyeshadow shades and hemline lengths.

Smut: Intouch magazine's zillionith article about Lindsay Lohan's fluctuating weight and sexuality. One redeeming factor: brings up interesting game to play by yourself in your head while waiting in line at the DMV or having blood drawn. Li.LO and J.LO are not the only ones who get a cool two-syllable moniker. It works for everyone! Mo.MO, J.WO, Phi.NA, Li.RI. Go ahead, try it with your own name and then with the name of every person you've ever known. You know you want to.

Culturally Relevant: Spent by Geoffrey Miller, an evolutionary psychologist who explains the burgeoning connections between evolution, sex and human consumerism. Marketers and snobs take heed: reading this book is the equivalent of someone throwing cold water in your face.

"Crazy Talk: Oprah, Wacky Cures & You" in the June 8th issue of Newsweek. Weston Kosova and Pat Wingert call Oprah out on the flimsy, often downright inaccurate medical advice spewed forth by the guests on her show. It's. About. Time. Most intelligent article I've read in Newsweek in a looooong time. Check out, too, the publications new layout, which makes it look like The Economist or The Atlantic, though it still reads like its usual left-wing, watchdog fodder.

New finds:
Best Life : A magazine about "what matters to men." Useful for women who were afraid that their husbands and boyfriends were secretly like the men who write and edit Maxim.

Engagement 101 Magazine: The Magazine to Read BEFORE You Get Engaged (emphasis mine). I'm split as to whether I should throw up or applaud this brilliant, if shameless, marketing move by the publishers.

e.

New find:

smut, fluff and culturally relevant specimens

2009-06-09T08:42:00.000-07:00

Contrary to popular assumption, English teachers do not read Shakespeare over the summer. In fact, it is not a stretch to say that we make up a signficant portion of the readership of publications like InStyle, People, and Oprah Magazine between the months of May and September (Vogue is post-summer reading, due to it's serious treatment of the current season's on-trend eyelash length and the generous sprinkling of foreign surnames and words like "haute couture").

I admit to devouring the written word year round, but in the summer the spam filters are turned off and, therefore, I find myself more often than not reading one of the two of the following:

FLUFF.
Fluff may be defined as any irrelevant and mostly benign specimen of modern culture. It garners you cheery inclusion among the staff at the nail salon, your remedial summer English class, and 95% of tourists from LA. Fluff, I have found, is the perfect antidote to maybe Macbeth, and certainly remedial summer English class essays, and fat days. Examples include Angels and Demons, Twilight,Glamour magazine, and any book that if made into a movie would star Cameron Diaz. Instructions for use are simple: don dark sunglasses, stear clear of any casino pools where bored, spoiled (i.e. unemployed) Canyon Day School students hang out in between golf lessons with Tiger Woods and microdermabrasion appointments at Red Rock, and read away with dignity in tact.

SMUT.
Smut may be defined as any irrelevant and slightly insulting specimen of modern culture that must not, under any circumstance, be seen in your hands. Smut is the antidote to nothing. It is the only suitable reward after a day of teaching a remedial English summer class while your more fortunate contemporaries are writing a travel story from Bali. Examples include Newsweek , romance novels, and Cosmopolitan magazine* or any book that if made into a film would star Lindsay Lohan.** Instructions for use are just as simple as those for fluff, though failure to comply perfectly is hazardous: don dark sunglasses, feign that said publications are for your 12-year-old cousin who is suffering from mono at the check out line at Vons,and peruse only in the privacy of your bubble bath, preferably with a dry martini or shot of Goose to loosen yourself up and calm any self-depricating scoffing. Delve in only after too drunk to care about dignity or any other multi-syllabic word.

CULTURALLY RELEVANT PIECES of WRITING.
Culturally relevant pieces of writing are, ironically, not that relevant. In fact, mentioning such an article or book during a dinner party discussion while seated at the (presumably) grown-up table will most likely bring about blank stares or a strategical verbal volley--usually a reference to LeBron's shooting average in last night's NBA game. Reference to Bill Buckley or Toni Morrison offers a paltry return in both conversation and peer-group esteem at best and the presumption that you are just showing off at worst. Examples include 95% ofThe Atlantic, any play by Oscar Wilde and any book that if turned into a film would star Johnny Depp, Leonardo DiCaprio or Meryl Streep. Directions for use are even more simple than for Fluff and Smut: Unless you are discussing it with the man you are sleeping with (who, of course, given your general good taste would not meet you with a blank stare when you cross reference Salome with the bible), keep it to yourself.

i love this song, part two

2009-06-08T14:55:00.000-07:00

Like I said, wrong.

Colin Cowie had been there.

And Christian Louboutin, Alexander McQueen, Salvatore Ferragamo and a bit of Baby Phat (for it's slutty-but-not-easy cred, which is the card every self-respecting Vegas girl plays) were there, too, on the soles and the tags of the dolls on prom court, who looked more Pussy Cat and less Barbie. And yes, I'm rolling my eyes as I write this.

There was a throng of tipsy, silicon-pumped mothers fluffing their spawn's Oscar Blandi extensions (flown in special for requisite show of conspicious consumption) with their Mason Pearson brushes and smoothing their progeny's custom-designed eyebrows by Anastasia (also flown in special--Anastasia, not the eyebrows, which--according to resident Perez Hilton wannabe Zacharay Sanders--caused an unmendable rift between (formally) BFFs Zenith Michaels and Natasha W.--yes, that W). It was during this moment that it struck me what upper echelon genes (stripper genes!) populate Vegas. Why I hadn't noticed before, I don't know. The equation is simple: dashing, successful hotel and casino magnate plus reformed Spearmint Rhino girl= Canyon Day School coed. Regardless of insinuations, no one can deny the exceedingly high hotornot.com scores of the offspring.

For some reason this display of Vegas flash and maternal mettling made me want to text Bliss, who was attending an affair at the Mandarin Oriental in New York, where there were real, live grown-ups and presumbably adult conversations in progress (something I have yet to experience at any affair in Sin City). Given my self-imposed "break," to text Bliss would be breaking my own rules I knew, but I was suddenly possessed by a horrible thought: at that very minute he was charming a crudite-nibbling, leggy brunette by deliberately trying not to charm her. I couldn't help but to imagine it--Bliss, with martini in hand, had stopped mid sip as said crudite-nibbling, leggy brunette (let's call her Nadia) helped herself to his olive, sucking it off the little black sword and then making an offhand comment about how she love, oh my god just love, a man in a tie it must have someting to do with the fact that she go to an all-girls school yes the kind wit ve short skirts and knee highs and oh my god vose St. Petersburg Academy boys across the river vas always too yummy for her to standing.

Now given that Bliss is Bliss, in response to Nadia he would most certainly say something conspicious about his current "taken" status. He would mention something brilliant, like how his girlfriend (me) named her first dog Olive and how he had never ever pictured himself as a small dog kind of guy until I, by the grace of God, sauntered into his life and how he will be lonely without me and Olive sleeping next to him tonight in the hotel. He would laugh, amused by his own brilliance in fending the vixen off without being impolite. He would be oblivious to the fact that in Manhattan "taken" loosely translates into "worth stealing." Yeah, that conjugation-challenged harlot was about to go down when Beatrice Longfellow tapped me on the shoulder.

"eLLe, you're in charge of the nameplates. They are listed alpabetically. Can you handle that? Once Mr. Bone wands them, they'll check in with you to see where they sit for dinner, k? You got that?"

I love this song, part one

2009-05-03T16:22:00.000-07:00

Roped in by Activities Director Beatrice Longfellow (think Patty Simcox four years after graduation with big hair) to chaperone The Canyon Day School Junior and Senior prom. You may or may not be wondering how a 4'10" dimple-cheeked, Merle-Norman-wearing brunette could possibly talk me into voluntarily spending my Saturday night with 400 high school students. She's from Jersey. That's how.*

Anyway, after careful deliberation regarding my attire (such a fine line between "nice" and "Nevada Teacher in Slammer after Downing Cherry Bombs with Sophomore Track Star in Freemont Street Area Bar," I put on something boring and drove to what is arguably the swankest of the casinos. As I pulled up to the valet I debated for a what seemed to be an inordinately and unnessesarily (oh, alright...and pathetically)long time whether to bring my cell phone inside with me. The self-imposed communication ban with Bliss due to his recent conversion to the democratic party was becoming increasingly tenuous, even only five days in. Caving, I knew, would be easy that evening since he was in New York attending a very grown up work function at The Mandarin Hotel (replete with top-shelf cocktails, champagne and a bevy of leggy--and no doubt liberal,laid back, and utterly non-verbal--Eastern European models who shared an apartment in the Village and who were sent in for the sake of atmosphere after Bliss's boss doubtlessly made a phone call to his old college roommate who is a top fashion photographer in the city)while I was holding a punch ladle and doing bathroom duty, which, by the way, would not factor in as any sort of valid deterent towards keeping Emily T.and Natasha W. from snorting coke in the third stall--it was, after all, Natasha's daddy's casino and therefore, as she oh so logically explained, his third stall as well. Duh.

I tossed the phone on the passenger side seat, handed over my keys, and at the very moment prior to stepping through the rotating door of the casino made a realization that would sadly be the high point and the only worthwhile 5 seconds of my evening: Valet was making me fat.

"Ma'am, excuse moi, may I help you find where you are going?"
A lanky, somewhat gender-ambigious casino host stepped in front of me.
Ma'am?
"Oh I'm OK, uh, Pat (from Louisville, Kentucky according to his/her nametag). I know where I'm going. I see it's right that way," I said nodding toward Claire and Deirdre who were standing across the lobby at the bottom of the escalator, which snaked it's way upward around a 30 foot dripping chandelier.

"Kelly!" Claire yelled out waving her hand (yes, an admittedly bad joke among the three of us made in a feeble attempt to laugh when we really wanted to cry over our sorry Saturday night fate that Claire was Brenda and Deirdre was Donna and I was Kelly Freaking Taylor from the new 90210. Go ahead, cringe with me).

"Ah, Mademoiselle Kelly, you are here for the Canyon Day School prom. How vonderul."
Yes, how vucking vonderful, Pat from Louisville, Kenvuckingtucky.
"Do you have a son or a daughter attending this evening?"

I screamed in my head for a second and then sidestepped this stalker.

"Great, I said to Claire who was wearing her high school prom dress, "I'm not Kelly Taylor. Oh no, I'm Cindy Walsh."

Claire flashed a confused look and before I could explain came from behind us the sonorous voice of Tammy Faye, the school's requisite cougar. "Girls, you look gorgeous." Tammy Faye (an alias if you didn't catch that)is not the pitiful, washed-up, desperate kind of cougar. She's the smoking hot, whip smart, The Police's Don't Stand So Close to Me kind of cougar and so, it's impossible to entirely hate her (for, let's be honest in the Worst Case Scenario she was what of any of us would hope to be).

"You should the group of boys in the reception room down the hall," she said and then put her finger to her mouth, touched her ass and made some kind of syllabic hissing sound (this, of course, was grounds for complete abhorrance and best depicts my emotional conundrum regarding the Science Department Chair).

The four of us took the escalator up to the mezzanine level.
"Look at you," said Deirdre to me. You're wearing white! You have a flower in your hair! I've never seen you look so...(desperate searching)...pretty."
"This is a girl in love," said Tammy Faye.
"I do love the flower," said Claire.
"Just don't eat it," I said flatly, "It's oleander. It'll kill you." And it would.

We entered the ballroom. I don't know why I was so surprised. The Canyon Day School is no ordinary school, so why did I think its prom would be an ordinary prom? I had pictured tables strewn with some confetti and maybe a few candles floating in an oval vase, some helium balloons and a buffet table lined with slightly tarnished silver serving trays.
Wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

vegas is a city of odds

2009-02-25T13:54:00.000-08:00

Regardless of who you ask, the odds of being struck by lightening are slim.
Some guy on Wiki says 1: 280,000. Scientists are more generous claiming 1: 700,000. And the Brits (those chipper cheery Brits) state 1: 3 million.

On a bit of a roll, I researched a few others.
The odds of being attacked by a shark (not killed--just attacked)are 1 in 11.5 million. The odds of winning the lotto vary, of course, though usually fall somewhere in the 1 to 10-14 million range (or zero to 10-14 million if you don't play, as my mother likes to remind me every Christmas when she gives me a stocking stuffed full with PLEASE NOTE losing lottery tickets without the slightest sense of irony). The odds of both your main and reserve parachutes failing on a jump are less than 1 to a million. And, while there is no official data available regarding the odds of wearing the same dress as your boyfriend's other girlfriend to a mutual friend's wedding, I can personally assure you that it has happened at least once.

It should, therefore, come as no surprise to you that the odds of running into one of your sophomore English students and her impeccably dressed grandmother while trying on a black satin corset (complete with ribbons, lace and other whorrish accoutrements) at Victoria's Secret on an idle Sunday afternoon are IN FACT not insurmountable, as I can once again personally assure you that it has happened at least once.

Ah-hah. True story.

choose the best answer

2009-02-11T12:39:00.000-08:00

According to smut and fluff this ahem friend of mine was reading last night (and no, she was NOT in the bathtub with candles lit and no, Nina Simone was NOT playing on her IPOD), the average American woman gains between 10 and 20 pounds after settling into a serious, in-it-for-the-long-haul, monogamous relationship.

(The limitations of our options even in 2009 never cease to infuriate. Choose one: single and skinny or attached and fat. Ponder this for no more than three seconds and then MOVE ON).

According to my ahem friend, a checklist was provided to safeguard against tipping the scales in the wrong direction once Mr. Right shows up. I ran through the list in my head and realized that it was mostly useless. Since 2500 miles separate us 95% of the time, there is little danger of me snuggling on the couch with him every night with a big bowl of chocolate chip ice cream between us or blowing off the gym on a regular basis so that we can linger over a two hour dinner of linguini and wine (both of which are major culprits according to my ahem friend).

This may be the only upside to a long distance relationship. And, in exchange for the constant low-level nausea that plagues me due to our separation, I think I deserve to have all of my jeans fit me the way they did last month (OK maybe the way they did pre-Christmas cookie spree).

I felt a kind of euphoric relief when I realized all of this. And then, just while my eyes were closing (again, NOT when I was soaking in the bathtub NOT listening to Nina Simone's lulling voice) I realized I wasn't in the clear yet.

At that very moment downstairs in the freezer were a box of frozen Twinkies, a gallon of rocky road ice cream, and two boxes of orangecicles. What? When did I turn into the kind of girl who keeps children's frozen novelties in my freezer? It was quiet subterfuge.*

Along with his t-shirts, cufflinks, and toothbrush, a Particular Someone, had in factleft behind the props for his totally unacceptable diet of sugar and saturated fat. What was next? Mounds of raw red meat and Cheetos! Fish and Chips! Cheesticks.

I then wondered: Is this how a man feels when his new girlfriend slowly starts leaving more and more of her belongings in his apartment? Is this how he feels when he finds her hairbrush in the bathroom cabinet? Does he fear that he may turn into a woman if he opens his closet and finds her pencil skirt hanging there?

Logic dictates that I will not get fat just by opening my freezer, right? Right?

eLLe speLLs subterfuge- noun. deception by artifice or strategem in order to conceal, evade, or escape. Or fatten.

something like this (part 2)

2009-02-10T14:58:00.000-08:00

So anyway, I make it to the gym parking lot by 4:29 p.m. only to see that there are no parking spaces available. I'm going to be honest--as someone who is at the gym religiously six days a week, I do become annoyed when all the posers decide to drop in at the same hour on the same day just because it is supposedly the coldest day of the year in Vegas and allegedly too cold to eat ice cream outdoors at the Dairy Queen down the street. I'm going to continue to be honest--as someone who shows up to spinning class even when she has a fever I'm doubly annoyed when I see that all of the posers who took my parking spaces also took my spinning bikes.

After 45 looooooooooooong minutes on the treadmill I go to the water fountain for a drink. This is when a perky brunette (immediately identifiable as a poser due to her conspicuous lack of sweat) steps out of the spinning room, sees me and says: Oh my god, I have to tell you: My daughters are sooooooo funny. They saw you last week and asked me to ask you for an autograph. They think you are one of the Olsen twins. How cute is that?"

Now, despite the endorphin rush I'm experiencing from high intensity intervals, I cannot find my manners for the sake of a woman who potentially displaced me from my rightful spot in Mandy's class. I zip through my possible responses.

"Yeah, I've never heard that before."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Really? If I was two feet shorter, 8 years younger, and a billion dollars richer then sure, I could see how your cute little daughters would make such a stupid mistake."

I realize these are all a little harsh and a bit unfair to the gradeschool set so I ask flatly
"How was your Sunday ride through the park?"

And then I leave.
Quickly.

something like this

2009-02-09T19:53:00.000-08:00

Lunar eclipse today in Leo. Delilah called me this morning to let me know--as though I didn't already know something was up when I accidently poured half the nutmeg (as opposed to just a shake of the cinnamon) into my $3 coffee at Starbucks. What exactly you may be asking does a lunar eclipse in Leo have to do with anything?

Well, if you're me, the answer goes something like this:

That a morning without coffee is not worth living in my world goes without saying, as anyone who has ever called me before 6:30 am and promptly and indiscriminately been hung up on can attest to.

That a morning without coffee happens to be the morning I am evaluated by the head of school and her minnion Ms. V during second period is downright cruel.

I'm sure that the rest of my school day was awful, but the migraine induced by caffeine deprivation has apparently affected my short term memory of anything that may or may have not passed.

I thought for sure that once I grabbed my afternoon double espresso, the day would take a turn for the better. Um, no.

I headed straight to a particular deli to buy a particular sandwich for a particular someone. No big deal, just a sweet gesture as long as you overlook two truths. 1. Particular someone lives over 2500 miles away and 2. 95% of the people who live in Vegas are slow at best and plain inept at worst. I'm sure you can already see my dilemma: I had to get this very perishable present on a plane to Particular Someone and I had to make my 4:30 spinning class.

First stop is Siena Deli. A pound of prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes, and lettuce on ciabatta later I'm standing in a line at the Post Office in Albertson's. Forty five minutes later I'm still standing in line at the Post Office in Albertson's (queasy flashbacks to my days of interning at an art magazine in the city were suddenly no longer repressed--but this is another entry altogether). I finally make it to the counter where the clerk tells me that I've missed the 3:30 cutoff. The clerk also tells me that yes, I am correct in my observation that while the man who makes the final pick up for the day is in fact standing right behind him in plain view, the computer states that Particular Someone will not recieve the package until Wednesday.

"Yes, Wednesday is guaranteed for an additional $35.99."
"In addition to the standard overnight fee?" I ask.
"Yes. So that would be $55.98."
"But it's not overnight if it is delivered on Wednesday."
"I understand that but it's only not overnight because you missed the cutoff."
"Does Fedex or UPS have a cutoff?"
"I don't know, ma'am. I don't work for Fedex or UPS."

I take the package back, huff and head to UPS.
"Yes, ma'am, of course the package can be delivered by tomorrow. Our cutoff isn't for another 5 minutes."
"Perfect. Let's do it."
"That will be $95."
My reaction was not unlike the day the woman at the DMV told me that my tags would cost $425 dollars.

I take the package back, jump in the car, and think about the proliferation of salmonella in the prosciutto and then whether the root of the word salmonella is Greek or Latin and whether it's etymology is at all related to the fish. The topic fascinates me enough that I drive right past Fedex (the big white building I can't miss according to UPS boy).

Two u-turn laters I am standing in front of the Fedex clerk who assures me that the sandwich will be on Particular Someone's doorstep by 10 a.m. She tells me the price and realizing that I'm between a rock and a hard place and that I'm right on schedule to miss my spin class if I don't drop this package off 5 minutes ago, I do what any sibling would do. I charge it to my little brother's corporate account.

I speed back to the house while talking to my mom on the phone, which is the equivalent of driving whilr putting on mascara (not that I've EVER done that). When I walk in the house I see that Bentley has eaten my IPOD for lunch.

Continued...tomorrow. Cake is calling.

the chalkboard

2009-02-05T13:16:00.000-08:00

In "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" T.S. Eliot's lonely speaker says that he has measured his life with coffee spoons. This timid calibration of his life breaks my heart each time I read it. Of course my juniors failed miserably when I asked them to go home and think of what it is they use to measure their lives. At worst their answers were pedestrian (sands through an hourglass) or literal (passing seconds), and at best they were contorted metaphors (inscrutible calculus problems to which she doesn't know the solution). Still, I think it a worthwhile question to ask yourself...how do you measure your life? So, how do you?

tip for free

2009-02-04T13:38:00.000-08:00

Admittedly, I'm a bit late with this, but trust me ladies, tuck it away with your cashmere sweaters, as it is just as perennial* in its usefulness.

Next Superbowl Sunday when the streets are emtpy and the Y chromosomes (and less informed double X chromosomes) have gathered around a bowl of nacho dip, GO JEAN SHOPPING.

You will shave at least 2.5 hours off your time--guaranteed.

Sizes will be found in the right pile, dressing rooms will be empty and the shopgirls will be bored. These three factors alone will allow you to try on 10 pairs in the time it has normally taken you to try on five. Add in the fact that you can spare yourself the horror of standing with 25s down around your ankles as you take an audible breath in preparation for a major suck in. Don't get me wrong--this unfortunate event may come to pass even on Super Bowl Sunday, but the point is no one is around to witness your gross miscalculation of the shrinkage of your thighs since you started that kickboxing class on January 1.

Depending on your philosophical school of thought, the jeans may not fit despite having no witnesses or they may NOT not fit because there is no one there to see them not fit. You--in denial--don't count.

If you're not sold on this brilliant gem of an idea yet, then consider this: if you shop for the jeans rather than eating the nacho dip you are more likely to avoid the above scenario altogether.

My only caution is this:
Do not, I repeat, DO NOT start thinking about said Bliss and beaches in Greece and adoring letters written on the inside of the shirt off his back left for you under your pillow while doing Super Bowl Sunday shopping. Hyperventilation and passing out underneath a pile of Rock and Republics and True Religions may occur whether there are witnesses or not and in this case, denial would be a potentially life-threatening mistake.

At school, librarian approaches, have to run, so eLLe speLLs "Perennial" tomorrow.

call me eLLe

2009-02-02T15:12:00.000-08:00

Man, I want to be an art teacher.
I was asked* to cover sixth period Drawing and Painting during my prep this afternoon.

Unbelievable.

Ms. Fines was not discernable sitting among her students when I first walked in. She did not possess the telltale woebegone* look indigenous to the English Department from years (or months) of bleeding* over the papers of the dilletante offspring of Las Vegas' high society. Vegas is, afterall, a city--maybe more than any other-- built on numbers. Grammar and spelling and complete sentences never factored in never had a chance, though we* masochist English teachers hope otherwise.

No, Ms. Fines looked fresh-faced and happy from her side of the eisel--oblivious to the true state of our country's future. She doesn't realize that in a few short years the torch is going to be passed to a generation whose greatest contribution and legacy will be monosyllabic if even pronouncable: cuz, u, ur, lol, btw, ttyl.

"Hey Fines, check it out," said a boy at a table in the back of the room as he waved his chalk interpretation of emoticons.

Hey Fines?

When she left the room what I suspected was confirmed--I was in an alternate universe where Harvey Danger's Paranoid plays on the radio (did I even know we had radio access in our rooms?), illegal candy bars are consumed without an ounce of fear of retribution and colored Sharpies and scented Mr. Sketch markers* overflow in pencil holders on desks. There was not one red pen in sight.

For a moment I imagined what it must be like to never ever ever have to explain the difference between a colon and a semi-colon or to take a Dramamine before settling into a long night of English 2 T.S. Eliot explications. I mean, how amazing would it be to just put my hand in a jar of cold green paint and swirl it across a blank piece of paper and call it teaching? Much more amazing than the task at hand--correcting a past deadline student newspaper article on the dangers of high schoolers overdosing on prespcription drugs that was reading more like a how-to guide to get high when you're parents are rich, absent, and strung out.

*good grammar is the new black: asked*
asked in this case is a euphenism, which is the substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant ; also : the expression so substituted for the word "told." Given that said bliss had arrived on a late flight Thursday, I called off Friday last minute forcing last minute shuffling on the part of the substitute coordinator. This means that I will be his "beck and call" girl for at least the next three weeks, which means I will be called three minutes prior and politely asked to show up for any teacher who has an emergency doctor or pedicure appointment before the official end of the school day. This also means that I will politely, if not chirpfully, accept and graciously give up my prized prep period (equivalent to a breath of air). So, this is me...blue in the face chirp chirp chirping away.

*bleeding: NOT a euphenism. Instead a metaphor. 1: a figure of speech in which a word or phrase literally denoting one kind of object or idea is used in place of another to suggest a likeness or analogy between them (as in drowning in money NOT ME, or as in bleeding red ink all over high school writing SO ME)

* We versus us: a grammar problem that plagues people well beyond their school days. We in the sentence "We masochist English teachers..." is used as a subject and therefore us is disqualified. Use we as the subject (or agent of the action in a sentence) and use us as the object of the sentence (or the receiver of the action in a sentence) as in "The least you could do is give us woebegone schoolteachers an annual allowance for Botox and seaweed wraps."

eLLe speLLs *woebegone: adjective, exhibiting great woe, sorrow, or misery being in a sorry state (as in, did you see her at Pure on Saturday? Her outfit was woebegone).

*scented Mr. Sketch markers. Do not even try to tell me you don't remember these as second only to the perk of sniffing glue in elementary school.

cover blown

2009-01-28T19:26:00.000-08:00

As a relatively young and new teacher at my school, I have worked overtime to project a serious, stern demeanor in front of the little teenage heathens. Only a little over a decade separates us, and trust me, this is not enough of a gap to command automatic respect. My diligence has been rewarded with the certain knowledge that no one will ever say that I'm the cool teacher and with the fact that my classroom is so quiet you can hear you know what drop at any given moment.
So, imagine my horror this morning when a foreign exchange who I've never seen before walked into my very silent study hall full of sophomores and asked, "Ms. eLLe...you at the Wynn last Saturday?" Um, yes? "Yeah yeah, we see you. We all see you and want to say hi, but you with some guy."
Damn.
The way he said guy and the way he laughed as he left the room was either very foreign or very perverted. I simultaneously gave the death glare to the 30 pairs of eye looking over my way and did a quick replay in my mind of that night. Was there one moment, even one half of one moment, that the students could have feasibly seen me that was an appropriate moment to be seen?
No, no there wasn't. In fact the night was nothing more than a long string of wholly inappropriate moments on all accounts.

bliss

2009-01-27T15:12:00.000-08:00

Thought about grading rough drafts of essay on William Carlos Williams last night, cringed, and then opted for quick peek of The Bachelor--not so much as a stalling tactic but as clever trick to motivate myself to delve (to plunge) into the very broken world of the sophomore mind.

Normally two minutes of vacuous* brunette pondering fateful connection between her and Prince Charming based on last week's horoscope and their (astoundingly!) mutual love for the color red is enough to make little Caesar (as in Palace, not Shakespeare he assured me) Brown seem positively genius. Case in point: one contestant last night likened her emotions to butterflies whenever Prince Charming walked into the room. This metaphor, of course, is perfectly acceptable, if trite.

However, she then went on to say that during their one-on-one date the butterflies were flapping.

Normally this would be my cue to turn the show off and, fortified by the obvious fact that there are people in the world who need my verbal services, whip out my red pen, but c'mon...flapping!!!! When was the last time you saw a butterfly flapping its wings? I found myself irate and suddenly performing grande gestures that I can only explain as something I must have picked up over the years of watching my brother tell the Browns off in front of the television on Sunday afternoons.

Nearly twenty four hours have passed since my tantrum, and I've had time to reflect. Given healthy portion of chocolate-covered almonds prior to show, my behavior couldn't be blamed on low blood sugar. Nor could my outrage be blamed on bitterness, given my current state of bliss*. No, the cold hard truth is that my behavior was perfectly justifiable based on nothing more than my inherent disdain for dumb girls. Nothing--I repeat--nothing is more hateful to me than dumb girls.

Still, as an act of solidarity, I've decided to do my sister a favor and do what seems like the thing to do as of late.

Dear Mr. President,
Please please please lend your speechwriters to this chic I saw on television last night. She could surely benefit from the linguistic powerhouses you employ. I am aware of the fact that this is much to ask of someone who has a lot of upcoming public speaking engagements penciled in, but surely you could help a first-time voter like herself out. If funding a replacement for yourself doesn't fit into your budget, just bill it to the White Male. He won't even notice.
Sincerely,
Ms. Elle

eLLe sPELLs : vacuous \VAK-yoo-uhs\, adjective:
1. showing no intelligence or thought
2. having no meaning or direction; empty

bliss* as in I'm feeling inspired to wear both pink and a dress, maybe even a dress that is pink. And, anyone who knows me knows that this HAS NEVER EVER HAPPENED.

strippers...they're just like us

2009-01-26T15:02:00.000-08:00

A common question: You live in Vegas? OMG. Is like everyone there a stripper?

My stock answer: Life off the Boulevard is as ordinary as life off the strip in any small town. It as much a slice of Americana as Piedmont, North Dakota and Youngstown, Ohio. We have dry cleaners, mailboxes, and Dairy Queens. We have Targets, school crossings and bike lanes. We have churches, parks, and girls next door, even if the girl next door is in all likelihood a stripper. Or the sister of a stripper. Or the roommate of a stripper. Or even the girlfriend of a stripper, which is another topic altogether.

The one deviant variable off the strip in Vegas is the number of strippers per capita who are buying groceries, standing in line at the bank, and showing up at Starbucks barefaced wearing Juicy yoga pants. Still, even in plainclothes you can't really miss these women. They are always perfectly tan and pedicured, and if their Amazonian proportions don't tip you off, then the rolls of cash they pull out of their Fendi and Ferragamo bags will.

I happen to have befriended a few real live strippers since moving here. The evening I met them at a birthday party I threw for a mutual friend felt momentous, not unlike the days I knew I was going to the mall to meet Santa Claus, or more recently the day I shook the hand of the President. As someone whose starstruckability* wore off years ago in New York, I was downright smitten when I sat down to make small talk with Fiona and Chrissie. What I found is that these women are ordinary--with as many wins and losses tallied as the rest of us.

Since that night I've met other women in the industry--as it is ubiquitously referred to here in Vegas. And while the fact that these women make three times what I do taking their clothes off brings up all kinds of icky feelings about the value of woman's body versus her brain, I've come to understand that they are neither as weak nor as strong as I had presumed. They are, however, amazingly resourceful when it comes to advice on how to repair a torn pair of fishnets and the best place to buy dresses for a night out. When it comes to matters of sequins and stay-put foundation, Fiona and Chrissie are my go-to girls, suddenly as invaluable as those other members of every girls' entourage--our gay hair stylists and our moms.

Which isn't to say that I haven't witnessed them behaving very badly, but bliss calls so...more on that tomorrow**.

*Yes, I made this word up. It's called a neologism.

** I really will write tomorrow. Admittedly I've been slacking with posting, though in my defense let me say that any one of you would be slacking as well if you were in my recent (unexpectedly) blissful position. Oh. Trust. Me. You would be.

that's strange...i went to bed a blonde...

2009-01-15T21:45:00.001-08:00

Woke up and (against my better judgement, I'm going to say it) OMG. Roots.