(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.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Dear Girl Scouts Troop Leader #6,791 or Whomever
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).
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).
Saturday, January 15, 2011
up it's sleeve: 2011 So Far So Good. Mostly.
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.
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.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
The Last Decade Part Two or What I've Learned Now That It is Over
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.
:)
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.
:)
Monday, January 3, 2011
The Last Decade Part One or What I Noticed Now That It is Over
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
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
Friday, December 17, 2010
baby, it's cold outside: when frigid is good
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
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
Sunday, December 12, 2010
what I've learned or how to score a free spring wardrobe
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
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
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
James Franco Didn't Really Cut His Arm Off
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.
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.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
No, It's Not the Apocalypse--It's Football Season in Ohio (The Second Half)
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).
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).
Friday, September 17, 2010
No, It's Not the Apocalypse--the Buckeyes are Playing or What Every Ohio Woman Knows
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.
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.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
The Pitch: Do I Look Like a Batter to You?
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.
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.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Down and Out
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).
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).
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
handbags are the new horoscopes
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
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
Monday, July 5, 2010
in my suitcase: a serious note (for once)
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
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Why Your Barista is Better Than Your Boyfriend
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.
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.
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