Tuesday, August 10, 2010
cartharsis: get it out of and off your chest
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/catharsis
Never underestimate the cleaning skills of a scorned woman. Dust bunnies shall die and any smudge in sight stands not even a teeny tiny chance. Now, had I been able to actually locate any dust bunnies or smudges last Saturday while I was staying at my parent's house, I assure you I would have shown no mercy.
I did however locate my old bedroom closet, which for the last 15 years has been the dumping ground during my frequent Ohio pit stops in between moving from one side of the country to the other side and back again. And again. (Oh, OK, and AGAIN). I found ruby red pants I wore dancing in underground clubs in Barcelona, purses and scarves from Rome*, coats from Manhattan**, four dresses from Chicago, oodles of heels from Vegas, and olive green boots I wore while walking along the streets of all of these places.
I was ruthless. I sorted, folded, rearranged, mended, mixed, matched and then--save the green boots--threw it all away anyways. It was one of the most cathartic experiences of my life--so much so that it has inspired me to purge everything that has been piling up in my psyche for an indeterminate amount of time before fall descends upon Ohio***. Like lone socks and ruby red pants that don't fit anymore****, I've come to the realization that sometimes you just have to throw it out (there).
So, despite the risk of sounding a bit (insert any derogatory term you please), here goes:
1. Hipsters are dead. So, if you see one, send him back to Brooklyn, which in my opinion is the only not entirely aggravating place to run into him. Here, he can be observed in his natural habitat and go on mistaking his mere strangeness and his fondness of retro-recreational activities such as bowling and hopscotch for profundity without contemptuous eye-rolling by passersby, such as myself. And yes, residents of a particular westerly suburb of Cleveland, I'm looking at you.
2. Looks like September fashion issues are on the racks: So, how about not saying that brown, gray, purple, or stay-at-home dads are the new black is the new black?
3. I'm calling the boys out: Not only do you want us to look like we don't eat, you want us to look like we don't eat while actually cutting into a fillet Mignon and tucking into a slice of cheesecake with you at Lolita's.
4. I think if I'm really honest with myself, the fact that lecturing on Nietzsche last week cheered me up means that I may be clinically depressed.
5. To that lady about five months ago in the produce section who went into a rampage about how she couldn't believe that Trader Joe's sold leeks because--and I quote-- "Why the *&^%&^&#* would they sell leeks? We could *&&E^^#^#*O go into the woods and get *&$#*% leeks ourselves." At the time, I just smiled and shook my head, but in the name of today's extirpation: SERIOUSLY,lady? Did you SERIOUSLY just waste a perfectly good electric pulse along a neuron coming up with that brilliant observation?
6. I admit it. Despite the go green movement (commodified and exploited, by the way, by corporate America so that it can make money off your clear conscience), I still want a gas-guzzling Land Rover.
7. I'm not the mother of a human being under one year of age (or any age for that matter), so I will tread lightly here: But I remain unconvinced that those swaddling pajama things that people are using to wrap their babies up like chicken burritos before bed time are a good thing.
8. Contrary to my recent performance and evidence that convincingly suggests otherwise, I used to be good at bocce. I was. I really was. I swear.
9. I really don't care if you give me a printed receipt of my $1.05 drive-thru purchase. Despite the fact that I understand that this policy has something to do with quantity control, I'm not going to contact the manager for a refund. Just saying.
10. I don't care what the flimsy weekly women magazines at your doctor's office are saying. Using fat-free whipped cream on your double banana split is NOT a good way to lose weight. And while I'm on the subject, a 100-calorie pack of processed chocolate chip cookies is still a pack of processed chocolate chip cookies.
11. Since when did texting constitute dating? In my universe, texting will never ever replace taking me to dinner, to the movies, or to Nepal. Pick. Up. The. Phone. And speak, boy. Also--Dear Oxford Dictionary of the English Language people, Spellcheck people, and Dictionary.com people, it is soooooooooooooooooooo past the time to include the word "texting" as part of our lexicon.
*Never go to Rome by yourself: no matter what you will look like an idiot standing alone, mouth agape, as you stare at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. And by day three, you will in fact be talking to your imaginary friend about the magnificence of all the magnificent things you are seeing.
**I know, I know. The first step is to admit that I am powerless over buying cute coats.
***By the way, it's August in Cleveland, everyone! Time to start stocking up on ice picks, firewood, and intravenous drips of pure Vitamin D.
****Please see Numbers 3 and 11.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Things that fall
There are very specific, inherent disadvantages to your friends trying to set you up with a plastic surgeon. And, of course, I imagine that there are also very specific, inherent advantages to actually dating a plastic surgeon.
Yesterday well-intentioned friends took me to a seminar ("Things That Fall"-clever) given by Dr. PS in order to "accidentally" introduce us to one another. It would be a subtle maneuver--they had insisted. Right. OK. Fine. Easy enough, I thought.
WRONG.
I had never been to such an event before and was surprised to find that my friends and I were in a sea of women who were mostly over the age of 70. As I sat there waiting for the good doctor to speak while nibbling on a cream puff,* I couldn't help but wonder if all of these older women had come to the seminar by mistake. Had they ducked into the wrong room? Was there another seminar next door called "Things That Have Fallen (Some Time Ago)?"
At 32, I felt downright perky.
That is, until the obvious groupies started filing in. These women were unarguably beautiful, but their balloon-ish proportions gave them away. They had surely attended such events before. Feeling then a bit deflated, I shoved the rest of the cream puff in my mouth and looked at my friends with a knowing glance: this was going to be tricky.
And it was.
Therefore, in the name of sisterhood for any woman whose friends convince her to attend a plastic surgery seminar with the intention of getting a date with the doctor, I've compiled crib notes on how to navigate the inevitable obstacles and disadvantages of doing so. Before you write off eharmony, or match.com or your elderly aunt's neighbor's granddaughter's lawn boy, take heed, sister:
First, you must find and strike the perfect balance between showing polite interest while he is speaking and exhibiting too much eagerness. If you err on the former side, you're rude, obviously came only for the free cream puffs, and disinterested in his career, which no man wants. If you err on the later side, you're one booked appointment and 10 days of rest and recovery away from being a mere balloon-y groupie.
Second, as Dr. PS gives his power point presentation, realize that pretty quickly you are going to have to become comfortable with the fact that Dr. PS will be working with other women's breasts on a daily basis. In fact, his number one aspiration in life is to make other women's breasts look better than yours. And should the relationship progress to the stage when jewelry is involved, you will always have to wonder just how many 34 Double Ds it took to buy that carat.
Third, at first you may be impressed with the fact that Dr. PS even knows what an areola is, but eventually and in a different context, such as one where overhead fluorescent lights in an auditorium are not involved, this anatomically-correct vocabulary will be downright creepy.
Fourth, you will doubtlessly fall in love with his obvious regard for the beauty of the female body. But then, as you watch the slide show of various Greek statues of naked goddesses and semi-erotic Asian paintings of half-clothed courtesans behind him as he speaks eloquently of symmetry and proportion, a semi-sickening feeling will begin to erupt in your gut. You will realize that never again will you be able to calm yourself down when your jeans don't freaking! fit by saying: You know what, (insert your own name), you are your own worst critic. No one else is going to notice that these jeans are a bit snug...because oh, Dr. PS will notice alright.**
And finally, girls*** I have two words for you: pelvic prolapse.
Prior to my friends' utterly brilliant idea to tow me to this seminar I had never heard of pelvic prolapse. And now my life can be divided into BEFORE knowing about pelvic prolapse and AFTER knowing about pelvic prolapse. I can't go into too much detail here less I dry heave, so you'll have to Google it for yourselves(if you so choose to alter your sense of benevolence and fairness in the world).
I can say that I was fully cognizant of the fact that should I live a long life, certain things will fall. However, my previously naive assumption was that these certain things would only be on the outside of my body, rather than the oh-woe-is-me inside. Egad, ladies! The universe--I tell you--is conspiring against us. First comes the crinkles, then the wrinkles, then the loss of elasticity, and then...pelvic prolapse. Excuse this small melodramatic linguistic breakdown, but I mean, is there no end to it?
I'm telling you this now so that should you find yourself eating a cream puff as an eligible PS slaps a projected map on the wall of certain organs spilling out of a woman's body (while you are just innocently wondering if he is a good kisser), do not do not do not think for one second that the fact that he has the years of education and practical experience to put these organs back where they belong will be a relief to you. It will not. You simply cannot date a man who knows this nauseating truth.
*As an aside in the name of smart consumerism, it should be noted that the auditorium was lined with tables of cookies, candy bars, and cake, and the women in attendance were piling up their plates. Um, hello? Could they not see through this cheap ploy to garner business? Go ahead, ladies, eat up. Have another brownie. Cheesecake is over there. Treat yourselves. Just call my office girl Jill and we can lipo it off next Friday.
**Of course, if you play your cards right and are so inclined, he'll notice and then he'll fix it.
***I'm not usually aiming to be gender specific in these posts, but--sorry boys--there is no way around this one.
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.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
airports a la Ali
Stepped up security at airports after 9/11 is perhaps the only ripple in that pond that to some degree has worked in my favor. Now that only passengers can pass through security, at least I'm not the only one whose running start from seat 22 C up the connecting ramp to bombard* a long distance boyfriend who in fact is NOT waiting just outside the gate for me would be 100% futile and OK a bit deranged.
Still, I will not be so selfish as to suggest that the fact that loved ones can no longer wait just outside the gate of an arriving plane is a good thing. In fact, while 9/11 destroyed many things, I think one of its greatest tragedies is that it tore down this last bastion of American romance. Sadly, running-start reunions replete with butterflies in the stomach have gone the way of all those other lovely things archived in black and white movies: kissing in a telephone booth during a rainstorm, drive-ins, handwritten love letters, and parking.**
*a la Ali style in The Karate Kid when Danny LaRusso crane kicks Johnny was when I first witnessed this amazingly melodramatic technique. Twenty five years later, running and almost knocking over a man I love is STILL my favorite way to show affection, whether he has just blasted a Cobra Kai or not.
**I mean, I think most women today would agree that if a date were to take us in his car alone to a secluded place by a lake late at night only one logical conclusion could be drawn: some Ted Bundy wannabe just bought us dinner, and great we ordered the salad and herbal tea for dessert. HAD WE KNOWN, Mr. Serial Killer, that it was going to be our last meal, we sooooo would have ordered the freaking pommes frites and cheesecake thank you very much.
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.
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