Marguerite and I went tonight for sushi at Roku in Caesar’s. We had planned on going to The Ranch for a movie, but when she called to tell me she’d be by at seven her voice was muffled and the usual hairpin turns of her Portuguese accent were round. She had been crying.
“Look. Look at this,” she said unfolding a piece of paper on the table, the hooks in her voice back. It appeared to be a list. “He’s such a bastard.”
The bastard to whom Marguerite was referring was her husband. She had met Michael when he was stationed in France three years ago with the Air Force. The American pilots had been regulars at the cabaret where Marguerite was ahem dancing for the summer. While her mother had strongly disapproved, the money she said had been puxa, especially for an elementary teacher who worked two months to make what she made in a weekend as a ahem dancer. (Don’t even get me started on the fact that I would make 357% more per hour taking my sensible cardigan off than I do putting it on every morning—not that I actually ran the numbers or anything).
At first Marguerite hadn’t noticed Michael as anyone special, but his tips were another story. One night he stayed behind and offered to buy a private ahem dance. Marguerite, of course refused such a blatant proposition, claiming he could never afford her. But Michael was relentless. After weeks of stalwart, Marguerite acquiesced and when they were through Michael left a grand on her nightstand. Later Michael confessed that he would have paid more and much later Marguerite confessed that she would have accepted less.
They married in Cannes in September and she returned with him to the States after he accepted a job offer working for Area 51, which is 90 miles outside of Vegas. Being Portuguese Marguerite had never heard of Area 51 and understandably she was horrified when she learned everything she did, which of course wasn’t much. The secrecy involved in Michael’s job created a rift, but one she explained they were able to cross with consistently amazing sex.
A month ago Marguerite and Michael had hosted a masquerade Christmas party at their Anthem home. There was a dark chocolate fountain and an assortment of berries in martini glasses rimmed with sugar that hired cocktail waitresses carried around on little black trays. The waitresses were topless and wore white bowties around their necks—a touch that would have been perceived as tres European if not for the fact that this was Vegas.
After a few hours of mingling with friends and people who may or may not have worked with her husband, Marguerite went upstairs to check on Asia. The Persian cat had been locked in one of the guestrooms for safekeeping. “It was the bastard’s f****** brilliant idea. We argued about it, but then the caterer showed up.” When Marguerite opened the guestroom door she found Michael in bed with one of the blonde cocktail waitresses. She immediately reverted to a long line of multisyllabic sounds, which guests could only surmise to be Portuguese curses as she kicked everyone out. She then called her mother in Lisbon who promptly boarded a plane and has been in the house with Marguerite and Michael now for over nearly a month.
“It is a special kind of hell for such a filthy bastard,” Marguerite hissed.
To be continued…promise—my phone doth ring…
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Area 51
In lieu of talking about American Realism and Jack London today in class, my juniors and I discussed Area 51 and the disconcerting fact that it really isn't far. Of course it isn't. Las Vegas is the land of lost stragglers and why wouldn't extraterrestial stragglers not feel right at home here as well?
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Vanity Sizing
Went straight to Saks after school today for a new bag and a new pair of Sevens since mine are inexplicably (OK, that's a lie) a little snug.
Knowing that it will take at least a month of zero Christmas cookies before I shimmy gracefully back into my normal size, I need a little tiding over. I handed over most of my Christmas money in exchange for the biggest bag I saw. My Vegas chums, I know, will insist on scoffing and making rather boring remarks about carry-ons and Mary Poppins, but these are women who have never left their apartment at 7 a.m to hit the gym, the office, the power lunch, the after-work cocktails, the after-cocktail dinner and the grocery store before returning to their apartments just past midnight. Without a car.
Every smart New York woman truly keeps her life in her Birken. Where's my lipstick? In my Birkin! Where's my running shoes? In my Birkin? Where's my dissertation? In my Birkin! And every really smart New York woman knows that THE BIGGER YOUR BAG, THE THINNER YOU ARE. It is an undeniable axiom of truth in the same golden vein as water freezes at 32 degrees Fahrenheit and the more money you have to blow, the less likely it is that you will find anything you like.
I moved on to the designer denim area of the store and begrudingly grabbed my favorite cut in the next size up. In the dressing room I was surprised that the jeans seemed a bit...loose. What the...did I not nearly bust the button last night on my pair at home? And did I not die just a little on the inside when I couldn't fully sit down on my bed with my jeans on? What was going on? I huffed for a split second and rang the bell for the salesgirl to bring me another pair in my usual size.
"Isn't that the best?" she said from the other side of the door as she handed me the next size up. While I couldn't see her face, I imagined her nose scrunching up and her eyes twinkling as she said this to me. There was that warm cameraderie in her voice that magically happens between two women who are perfect strangers when it comes to matters of jackasses, mother-in-laws, and going down (or up) a jean size. Such exchanges, sadly, are rare today for me. I'm forced to get my fix by rewinding and replaying certain beauty parlor scenes in Steel Magnolias.
The jeans slipped on beautifully. Unless I sleptwalked around the block about, oh say, 10,000 times last night in my sleep, I thought to myself...something is very very wrong.
Which brings me to my next point: vanity sizing
While the marketing Einsteins behind the rack will never admit it, there is a quiet conspiracy going on across the country. Tiny white tags with misleading information are being sewn into pants, skirts, jeans, and dresses. The genuiuses concerned with the bottom line know that studies have shown that American women are more likely to part with their moola when they fit into a smaller-than-expected size of something, anything. Vanity sizing cannot be merely written off as just another duplicitous maneuver part and parcel to capitalisim. It is impossible not to imagine something a little more sinister.
Think about it. In the name of a buck, someone has gone and changed the rules. It used to be that the fit of our jeans were a reliable marker of where we stood when it came to pounds and inches. Putting on our old jeans from college was a trusted method of gauging just how long ago we fell off the wagon. And--doing so was much less humilating or harsh than stepping on the scale, and allowed for a little sensible rationalization.
I, like any woman, would go through the normal battery of excuses when my jeans didn't fit:
Did they shrink due to repeated washings?
Have my underwear grown thicker?
Am I just bloated?
Denial of course only ever lasted for so long and soon I had to face the cold hard truth: abstinence from eating anything that may qualify as good and doubling my efforts at the gym were the only options. And, after many miles, and many paltry salads and (seemingly) many sober weekends, my prize was fitting back into my jeans.
Now, the free market place, which is more than happy to feed our hunger for quick fixes has made it entirely too easy on all of us. I can pop over to Gap or Nordstrom and voila, I'm a 26 again. I can wait one month to a half a year--all the while eating cake and kicking it on the couch--knowing that my favorite designer will increase the girth and decrease the size on the tag of the very jeans that are hibernating in my closet. At first this sounds dreamy, yes. But then you go to Europe for Spring Break. And, as you are trying to get your calf in the hot black pants you found on sale at a little Milan boutique surrounded by svelte Italians who are eating cheese with a little pasta sprinkled on top, you realize damn the truth hurts.
Dear Mr. President Elect-I think that we need is a little less change.
Healthcare wouldn't be nearly as big of an issue if our jeans told us the truth. We wouldn't spend money on food full of high fructose corn syrup and trans fats if it meant eventually we would have to sit in Micky Ds naked.
Knowing that it will take at least a month of zero Christmas cookies before I shimmy gracefully back into my normal size, I need a little tiding over. I handed over most of my Christmas money in exchange for the biggest bag I saw. My Vegas chums, I know, will insist on scoffing and making rather boring remarks about carry-ons and Mary Poppins, but these are women who have never left their apartment at 7 a.m to hit the gym, the office, the power lunch, the after-work cocktails, the after-cocktail dinner and the grocery store before returning to their apartments just past midnight. Without a car.
Every smart New York woman truly keeps her life in her Birken. Where's my lipstick? In my Birkin! Where's my running shoes? In my Birkin? Where's my dissertation? In my Birkin! And every really smart New York woman knows that THE BIGGER YOUR BAG, THE THINNER YOU ARE. It is an undeniable axiom of truth in the same golden vein as water freezes at 32 degrees Fahrenheit and the more money you have to blow, the less likely it is that you will find anything you like.
I moved on to the designer denim area of the store and begrudingly grabbed my favorite cut in the next size up. In the dressing room I was surprised that the jeans seemed a bit...loose. What the...did I not nearly bust the button last night on my pair at home? And did I not die just a little on the inside when I couldn't fully sit down on my bed with my jeans on? What was going on? I huffed for a split second and rang the bell for the salesgirl to bring me another pair in my usual size.
"Isn't that the best?" she said from the other side of the door as she handed me the next size up. While I couldn't see her face, I imagined her nose scrunching up and her eyes twinkling as she said this to me. There was that warm cameraderie in her voice that magically happens between two women who are perfect strangers when it comes to matters of jackasses, mother-in-laws, and going down (or up) a jean size. Such exchanges, sadly, are rare today for me. I'm forced to get my fix by rewinding and replaying certain beauty parlor scenes in Steel Magnolias.
The jeans slipped on beautifully. Unless I sleptwalked around the block about, oh say, 10,000 times last night in my sleep, I thought to myself...something is very very wrong.
Which brings me to my next point: vanity sizing
While the marketing Einsteins behind the rack will never admit it, there is a quiet conspiracy going on across the country. Tiny white tags with misleading information are being sewn into pants, skirts, jeans, and dresses. The genuiuses concerned with the bottom line know that studies have shown that American women are more likely to part with their moola when they fit into a smaller-than-expected size of something, anything. Vanity sizing cannot be merely written off as just another duplicitous maneuver part and parcel to capitalisim. It is impossible not to imagine something a little more sinister.
Think about it. In the name of a buck, someone has gone and changed the rules. It used to be that the fit of our jeans were a reliable marker of where we stood when it came to pounds and inches. Putting on our old jeans from college was a trusted method of gauging just how long ago we fell off the wagon. And--doing so was much less humilating or harsh than stepping on the scale, and allowed for a little sensible rationalization.
I, like any woman, would go through the normal battery of excuses when my jeans didn't fit:
Did they shrink due to repeated washings?
Have my underwear grown thicker?
Am I just bloated?
Denial of course only ever lasted for so long and soon I had to face the cold hard truth: abstinence from eating anything that may qualify as good and doubling my efforts at the gym were the only options. And, after many miles, and many paltry salads and (seemingly) many sober weekends, my prize was fitting back into my jeans.
Now, the free market place, which is more than happy to feed our hunger for quick fixes has made it entirely too easy on all of us. I can pop over to Gap or Nordstrom and voila, I'm a 26 again. I can wait one month to a half a year--all the while eating cake and kicking it on the couch--knowing that my favorite designer will increase the girth and decrease the size on the tag of the very jeans that are hibernating in my closet. At first this sounds dreamy, yes. But then you go to Europe for Spring Break. And, as you are trying to get your calf in the hot black pants you found on sale at a little Milan boutique surrounded by svelte Italians who are eating cheese with a little pasta sprinkled on top, you realize damn the truth hurts.
Dear Mr. President Elect-I think that we need is a little less change.
Healthcare wouldn't be nearly as big of an issue if our jeans told us the truth. We wouldn't spend money on food full of high fructose corn syrup and trans fats if it meant eventually we would have to sit in Micky Ds naked.
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