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.

little fluffy dogs: a field guide to flexers, charmers, and ostensibly sensitive types part 2

I'm interrupting the flow of things today, by request, to continue my "Little Fluffy Dogs" series. The first post of the series, which addressed 25-year-old millionaires in Las Vegas, appeared on May 10. The girl (me) with a one way ticket and a house by the beach will resume as scheduled on Monday. Promise.

Charmers

Given the geography of Manhattan, would be charmers face two inherent challenges.

First, there are the streets.

The barely comprehensible alternative side street parking rules require New Yorkers to move their parked cars every other day from one side of the street to the other between the hours of 11 am and 1 pm, 1 pm and 3 pm, or 2 pm and 4 pm. The after school club "M.I.T, HERE WE COME," based in Des Moines, Iowa, has recently revealed that the Manhattan parking rules can be determined by the following mathematical equation: (xy+7)-23%+4(z)(Y)/pi.

Since double parking is illegal, common sense tells us that it is impossible for all of the cars on one side of the streets in Manhattan to move to the other side of the streets in Manhattan. The only viable alternative is the common one, and this is to not have a car in Manhattan. So (and here's where this is all going to come together for you), most would be charmers in Manhattan do not have a car,* which puts them at the distinct disadvantage of not having a car at their disposal to make some sort of charming statement regarding their economic status or prowess, sexual or otherwise.

What’s a would be charmer in Manhattan to do, then?

Enter the $23,000-$68,000 wristwatch. Admittedly, such a watch is somewhat effective while vying for the attention of the single Manhattan woman, who is (by virtue of her geographic location) well-versed in the intricacies and price points of Swiss-made time keeping pieces. In fact, a moderate percentage of Manhattan women at Ciprianis or One Oak will in fact be impressed--or at least intrigued enough to accept a drink--by the quick flash of a Patek Philippe from under the cuff of a well-made suit.

However, herein lies the second geographical challenge presented to would be charmers in New York (and I came up with this one all on my own, thank you very much "M.I.T, HERE WE COME"): at any given moment, the number of single women inside Ciprianis or One Oak is much less than the number of single women outside Ciprianis or One Oak and furthermore, interaction with single women outside Ciprianis or One Oak is dismally limited to short jaunts to and from the train** or to a brief, and highly unlikely encounter in the lobby of a shared apartment building.

In other words, Manhattan charmers have to be FAST in their display of resources and mating potential. From across the street, a Rolex tucked under a shirt sleeve or winter coat might as well be a Swatch, as it is all but invisible to the discerning eye of a New York woman.

A dog, however, is not.

And, in an unscientific poll of my male friends, little fluffy dogs seem to be the least invisible of all.

The sight of a man walking or perhaps cuddling in his arms a little, fluffy dog speaks to several things--all favorable-- regarding his potential date-ability in the mind of an unsuspecting woman (which you, by virtue of simply reading this thank goodness, no longer are).

From across Sixth Ave, the unsuspecting woman sees the would be charmer with a little fluffy dog and the poor thing thinks to herself

1. Now, this man must be responsible and capable of sustaining life in an organism more complicated than a potted bamboo stick.

2. And surely he must not prescribe to antiquated ideas of "masculinity," such as beer pong, twice weekly reunions with his old fraternity brothers at the Princeton Club, or any other vulgar behavior involving chest beating or declaring "me hungry."

3. And! And! He must be at least minimally employed, as dog food at those little corner delis IS NOT CHEAP (By the way, there is a marked difference between the ulterior motives of a dog walker and a man who walks a dog. The former doesn't have them, the latter does).

Take home lesson: the telltale sign of a man out to charm in New York is not a Ferrari; it's a puggle.***

*if a man does have a car in Manhattan, be careful: unless you can verify that he rents a $2500 per month spot in a parking garage, he is NOT at work between the hours of either 11 am and 1 pm or 1 pm or 3 pm or perhaps 2 pm and 4 pm every other day of the week, which should set off its own stadium wave of red flags in the clever woman's mind.

**Any kind of interaction with single women on the train is considered poor form (you say one word too many, pal, or stare one second too long and sorry, freak, you're a serial killer).

***Manhattan men, though many things, are not uninformed. They read the Science section of The New York Times on Tuesdays too, and science says that women decide within 11 seconds of seeing a man whether or not she is interested in mating with him.

PS and by the way--I've got two more words regarding would be charmers for any woman who has lived, presently lives or will live in Manhattan: Bud Fox.

On the surface Wall Street is a cautionary tale about greed not being good, and it is lost on none but the most dim of us that the real charmer on Wall Street to avoid is the wolfish Gordon Gekko, but I would like to posit that just below the surface is the more relevant lesson.

If you one) are female and two) reside in the city, there is at least a 95% chance that you have dated, are dating, or will date one version or another of Bud Fox—the less obvious predator of the two.

The reason? Well, while little girls across the country were watching Jem in the late 80s and dreaming of growing up to be a Hologram, little boys were watching Wall Street and dreaming of growing up to be Buddy Fox. If the last time you watched the movie was when you were 13 and bored, rent it again and lo and behold the dots of a constellation of strange coincidences you've noted, are noting, or will note, will be connected for you. Suddenly, the slicked back hair, the strange preoccupation with Persian rugs, the careful placement of The Art of War on the bedside table, the I-swear-baby-she's-just- my -interior -decorator line and even the Haagen Daaz in the fridge will all make sense.

And, ladies, while it's true that Buddy Fox ultimately reconstitutes his moral fiber by story's end, he’s STILL BROKE and HE'S STILL GOING TO JAIL. There are no happy endings here. I'm just saying.