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
Friday, December 17, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
