taking my talents to south beach

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

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

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

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

For instance:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

or

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

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

this is not goodbye

Hello to my readers--

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

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

m.

cartharsis: get it out of and off your chest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****Please see Numbers 3 and 11.