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 I've gone round and round with this requirement and still carry a fairly impressive--if unpublished--dissertation in my head regarding the finer points of giving or not giving money on Sunday mornings.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.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Back East and The Appellation Trail Part One
***
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Schooled
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.
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.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Dear Mr. Cop Hiding Behind the Bushes or Why I Should Have Been a Serial Killer
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...
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
