by tessa and gretchen
"Why can't you just" is often followed by any number of requests but, really, it's all pointless. Whatever comes after those words isn't really what the sentiment is about. What the sentence (however it's completed) really means, "You are pissing me off; quit it."
And it got me to thinking about other things that we say and don't really mean.
1. "Best" as in signing an email, "Best, Gretchen." It's not really my best. I'm usually just sending you my average. Almost certainly my hurried.
2. "I swear to God..." This is my favorite when uttered by those who are atheists and agnostics (of which I know many). I mean, they can swear to God all they want, but it doesn't mean squat. And, even for those who do believe in God, I'm pretty sure God isn't interested in such idle threats as, "If you throw that tennis ball against the wall of my office one more time, I swear to God I am coming over there and making you eat it." Now you aren't, and God doesn't care either way and if God does, I'm not sure it's really God-like.
3. "I'm going to kill him." Wives around the globe utter this empty threat daily and it's only rarely truthful. However, I've watched enough Law & Order to know that if you husband shows up dead, they take those statements very seriously (even though you know if it's investigated in the first 1/2 hour it will be a moot point because the first half hour always takes you to the most obvious but always innocent suspect).
4. "My son/daughter is the _________-est." I bet he/she isn't. You know why? Because every single parent I know thinks their child is superior in some way. Why? Because they are proud parents and that is what they are supposed to think. But here's why it's not true. If every child is above average, how is it that there are so few above-average adults. And if you think I'm being elitist about that, you just go to a NASCAR race. I'm telling you, the math doesn't work.
5. "My wedding day is going to be the best day of my life." All downhill from there? Too bad.
6. "Drop dead. Kill me now. Bite me." Wouldn't you be shocked if your brother followed through on this command and dropped dead at your feet? Or took out a crossbow and murdered you on the spot? How about if he munched a great big chunk out of your leg? That'd be a shocker.
7. "Sorry." Okay, so sometimes (rarely!!!) we are truly, honestly, speaking-from-the-heart sorry. But not usually. It's just a quick bandaid to stick on an argument so that everyone can just move on already. And, btw, the nuns were right. When we say we're sorry, we're generally just sorry that we got caught, not that we did whatever it is we're not truly sorry for.
8. "Literally." How many times have we heard (or, horrors, used) the word literally when figuratively is the appropriate word? "I literally wish I was a fly on that wall." Really? Because that's a very lame wish and you better seriously hope there's no genie around because it would suck to be granted that particular wish. "He literally jumped 20 feet in the air!" Gee, that's quite a leap. I'm guessing he must be a superhero of some sort? Larry Lizardman? Frogman of Fresno?
9. "Personally, I think..." Rarely is this necessary other then when you disagree with something you had to do professionally. For example, PERSONALLY I think we should all get a day off for our pet's birthdays, but in my professional opinion, that's ridiculous. However, most of the time it's a chick thing to say to soften what they really think (translation: I'm afraid of my own opinions). And no, we aren't going to get into female self-deprecation through language today.
10. "That's just me." This really means, "I'm an asshole and I don't care."
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Brewtus
by tess
Throughout this great nation, a simmering agitation seething just below the surface threatens to boil over. Is it due to the economy? The war? Gay marriage? The cancellation of Lipstick Jungle? No, I think not.
Coffee is the catalyst of disquietude.
Each week in every office across America, hours are invested quarrelling over sugar, sweeteners, milk, cream, dairy substitutes, flavors, filters, spoons, stir sticks, unclean coffee mugs, the comparative strength or weakness of each pot, and the inevitable You-kill-it-you-fill-it-That’s-not-fair-I-always-have-to-make-it feud. Simply, coffee is the Godzilla-sized time-suck that is single-handedly dismantling America.
Companies only tolerate this time-consuming addiction because they believe caffeine will boost productivity. I think staunching the argument flow about who last purchased unsweetened, mocha-flavored, low-carb soymilk would escalate efficiency ten-fold. As for caffeine, it seems to be most required by our colleagues who each day recite Letterman’s Top Ten, quote every Conan quip, and critique each Leno guest. Plan B to the reduction of Vitamin Caffeine: Sleep, it’s something new. You might want to try it.
A 1998 episode of South Park rhapsodizes about The Black Ichor of Life, calling it “Country fresh, like the morning after a rainstorm” and “Mild, like that first splash of sun on an April morning.” Sounds swell. Of course the same episode also taught us that singing Underpants Gnomes steal boys’ knickers for profit. So I’ll scrutinize both conceits with all due consideration.
In fact, Morning Thunder tastes like a sewer. I’m sure there are some lovers of Hawaiian-Chicory-Sumatra-Kona-dark-roast-house-ground-robusta-double-shot-breva-cappuccino-hazelnut-flavored-in-a-French-press-by-a-barefoot-virgin-wearing-a-toga coffee-lovers who disagree with me. Taste is in the mouth of the beholder. And I can guaran-dam-tee that your mouth smells like coffee-dregs stench and your teeth look like they’ve been spray-tanned. So that’s cool that you like the taste. Bottoms up.
Throughout this great nation, a simmering agitation seething just below the surface threatens to boil over. Is it due to the economy? The war? Gay marriage? The cancellation of Lipstick Jungle? No, I think not.
Coffee is the catalyst of disquietude.
Each week in every office across America, hours are invested quarrelling over sugar, sweeteners, milk, cream, dairy substitutes, flavors, filters, spoons, stir sticks, unclean coffee mugs, the comparative strength or weakness of each pot, and the inevitable You-kill-it-you-fill-it-That’s-not-fair-I-always-have-to-make-it feud. Simply, coffee is the Godzilla-sized time-suck that is single-handedly dismantling America.
Companies only tolerate this time-consuming addiction because they believe caffeine will boost productivity. I think staunching the argument flow about who last purchased unsweetened, mocha-flavored, low-carb soymilk would escalate efficiency ten-fold. As for caffeine, it seems to be most required by our colleagues who each day recite Letterman’s Top Ten, quote every Conan quip, and critique each Leno guest. Plan B to the reduction of Vitamin Caffeine: Sleep, it’s something new. You might want to try it.
A 1998 episode of South Park rhapsodizes about The Black Ichor of Life, calling it “Country fresh, like the morning after a rainstorm” and “Mild, like that first splash of sun on an April morning.” Sounds swell. Of course the same episode also taught us that singing Underpants Gnomes steal boys’ knickers for profit. So I’ll scrutinize both conceits with all due consideration.
In fact, Morning Thunder tastes like a sewer. I’m sure there are some lovers of Hawaiian-Chicory-Sumatra-Kona-dark-roast-house-ground-robusta-double-shot-breva-cappuccino-hazelnut-flavored-in-a-French-press-by-a-barefoot-virgin-wearing-a-toga coffee-lovers who disagree with me. Taste is in the mouth of the beholder. And I can guaran-dam-tee that your mouth smells like coffee-dregs stench and your teeth look like they’ve been spray-tanned. So that’s cool that you like the taste. Bottoms up.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Foodie fever
by tess
Foodie television is my frenemy. The Food Network, Fine Living, and the assorted cooking shows inundating every network and basic-cable channel (less Gordon Ramsey who is unwatchable in all incarnations!) intensify my obsession with all things food-related.
I want to know about it and cook it. I need to study it, smell it, and swim in it. I want to taste each nuance and every flavor of the dishes being prepared. I don’t necessarily want to understand the chemistry behind it although I bow to Alton Brown’s superior erudition and acknowledge that one can’t become a good cook without a moderate understanding of how components interact chemically.
But because I watch so many food-related shows, I have reached Maximum Overload on a few ingredients including, but not limited to: foam, beets, polenta, figs, panna cota, gelée, fennel pollen, mole, duck confit, trotters, truffles, pâté, squab, celeriac root, venison, and geoduck. The world is a big place. There must be something we can cook with besides these ingredients!
Trends that I’m so over: direct-to-plate sauce applications that resemble multi-cultural baby poop smears, Thai food, spaghetti squash in lieu of actual pasta, Hawaiian pizza, wedding cake competitions, and Bobby Flay’s ancho chile peppers in adobo sauce. Enough. Let’s progress collectively to new fads.
Then there’s the talent. I’m willing to give Marco Pierre White more time since he’s new to my living room but his edginess veers into nastiness a little too often. On the other hand, the restaurant business doesn’t exactly reward chefs for being sweethearts. I’m a huge Tom Colicchio fan. His patented Sniff-n-Sneer is my favorite part of Top Chef and I emulate it whenever The Hubs stumbles his way into the kitchen. If I were to admit to any personal fantasies (which I’m not!) they would certainly include both Tony Bourdain and Mario Batali. Yeah, I know, too much information. But among his other god-like features, Bourdain’s disdain for all things Rachael Ray further elevates him to the realm of deity.
I’m not a fan of the cult-of-personality talent we see on FoodTV. I understand that it’s a business and that they’ve achieved enormous success with Emeril and Rachael, but must we be inundated 24/7 with Emeril- and Rachael-wannabes? Perhaps we could cast our nets far and wide to find The Next Big Thing which is, after all, what the copious cooking competitions are about. Or, if we must look back, let’s time travel to the good old days of food porn. Knowledgeable chefs and semi-likeable cooks illustrating how to prepare food that looks so delicious you want to lick your television set. A more satisfying time when 21 minutes were spent on the preparation and beauty shots of tasty, enticing food rather than giggling, BAMming, and mugging for the camera.
While I may not be overly impressed with every ingredient and trend demonstrated in the cooking shows du jour, and I don’t believe that every celebrity chef should be proffered rock star status, I’m amazed that Julia Child so thoroughly changed the way Americans look at and think about food. I’m pleased that children are learning about nutrition, kitchen chemistry, and cooking skills. I’m thrilled that there are more breads in our local markets than white and rye. Cooking is what we choose to make of it, drudgery or hobby, chore or entertainment. It’s trite but true: cooking can be an expression of love for our families. And if foodie television offers us nothing more than that message, then it’s still a well-spent 30 minutes.
Foodie television is my frenemy. The Food Network, Fine Living, and the assorted cooking shows inundating every network and basic-cable channel (less Gordon Ramsey who is unwatchable in all incarnations!) intensify my obsession with all things food-related.
I want to know about it and cook it. I need to study it, smell it, and swim in it. I want to taste each nuance and every flavor of the dishes being prepared. I don’t necessarily want to understand the chemistry behind it although I bow to Alton Brown’s superior erudition and acknowledge that one can’t become a good cook without a moderate understanding of how components interact chemically.
But because I watch so many food-related shows, I have reached Maximum Overload on a few ingredients including, but not limited to: foam, beets, polenta, figs, panna cota, gelée, fennel pollen, mole, duck confit, trotters, truffles, pâté, squab, celeriac root, venison, and geoduck. The world is a big place. There must be something we can cook with besides these ingredients!
Trends that I’m so over: direct-to-plate sauce applications that resemble multi-cultural baby poop smears, Thai food, spaghetti squash in lieu of actual pasta, Hawaiian pizza, wedding cake competitions, and Bobby Flay’s ancho chile peppers in adobo sauce. Enough. Let’s progress collectively to new fads.
Then there’s the talent. I’m willing to give Marco Pierre White more time since he’s new to my living room but his edginess veers into nastiness a little too often. On the other hand, the restaurant business doesn’t exactly reward chefs for being sweethearts. I’m a huge Tom Colicchio fan. His patented Sniff-n-Sneer is my favorite part of Top Chef and I emulate it whenever The Hubs stumbles his way into the kitchen. If I were to admit to any personal fantasies (which I’m not!) they would certainly include both Tony Bourdain and Mario Batali. Yeah, I know, too much information. But among his other god-like features, Bourdain’s disdain for all things Rachael Ray further elevates him to the realm of deity.
I’m not a fan of the cult-of-personality talent we see on FoodTV. I understand that it’s a business and that they’ve achieved enormous success with Emeril and Rachael, but must we be inundated 24/7 with Emeril- and Rachael-wannabes? Perhaps we could cast our nets far and wide to find The Next Big Thing which is, after all, what the copious cooking competitions are about. Or, if we must look back, let’s time travel to the good old days of food porn. Knowledgeable chefs and semi-likeable cooks illustrating how to prepare food that looks so delicious you want to lick your television set. A more satisfying time when 21 minutes were spent on the preparation and beauty shots of tasty, enticing food rather than giggling, BAMming, and mugging for the camera.
While I may not be overly impressed with every ingredient and trend demonstrated in the cooking shows du jour, and I don’t believe that every celebrity chef should be proffered rock star status, I’m amazed that Julia Child so thoroughly changed the way Americans look at and think about food. I’m pleased that children are learning about nutrition, kitchen chemistry, and cooking skills. I’m thrilled that there are more breads in our local markets than white and rye. Cooking is what we choose to make of it, drudgery or hobby, chore or entertainment. It’s trite but true: cooking can be an expression of love for our families. And if foodie television offers us nothing more than that message, then it’s still a well-spent 30 minutes.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Annoying Things, Part 3,758
by tess
Two words: American Idol. I don’t watch it and I’m sick to death of hearing about it. Each and every morning is filled with The Blathering Boneheads in my office going on and on and on and on and on about this freakin’ show. I know I’m in the minority here, but thank the Singing Angels in Heaven that it’s over for a while. Nattering Nitwit #1 pointedly refuses to believe that I’ve never seen it. It is possible to live a full life without having watched the thousands of hours of American Idol that Fox broadcasts each season. Honest. I’ve never seen Titanic or Forrest Gump either but the Earth hasn’t stopped revolving around the sun. Admittedly I’ve never given AI (or Titanic or Forrest Gump, for that matter) the opportunity to be adored. But as they say, I Get To Pick. And I elect to live my life free of the Idolatry that has consumed my office and so many others.
Because I sit at the front desk, it is APPARENTLY my job to deal with breakfast deliveries. You know, the same deliveries that interrupt the 8:30 AM -- make that 8:45 -- meeting Every Single Morning. The same meetingus interruptus deliveries that the CEO has repeatedly banned. And wouldn’t you just know that the three people who order are the same three people who cry each and every day about being so broke that they can’t afford food. Ummm, really? Because I’m guessing that you could probably eat toast and cereal for under six bucks a day. Optimally you would be capable of breaking your fast within the confines of your own home like a Normal Person. If, for some reason, that’s impossible, you could potentially feed yourself that same breakfast at the office rather than ordering in. But even if all that’s impossible (and obviously it is!), then could you please, please leave a check or the exact change instead of telling me to “just figure out the tip, but don’t leave too much.” Do not make me responsible for your greasy, overpriced kibble or your cheap, under-tipping nature. It’s embarrassing to all of us. You’re the only one who doesn’t know it.
Shouting into cell phones. I don’t know why people feel compelled to shout into cell phones. In fact, I’m not sure why most people need to have their cell phones surgically implanted into their ears at all. Are there important moments – both business and personal -- when a cell phone is useful? Yes. There are also hundreds of thousands of hours worth of cell phone conversations that are completely useless. Like millions of others, I detest being privy to the personal conversations of those around me. When I’m standing in line behind you at Wal-Mart, I don’t want to know that your car insurance was cancelled because you thought your bitch ex-wife was paying the bills. I don’t want to discover while I’m waiting for my slice of pizza that your bumps turned out to be genital warts rather than herpes. I had not planned as part of my flight to Atlanta to hear you instruct your husband how large to dig the hole in the back yard for the recently deceased (and apparently quite large) family dog. And I sure as hell don’t want to sit next to you at TGIFriday’s while you lie to your wife that you’re still at work. For the love of God in Heaven, think about what the people around you are forced to hear when exposed to your personal crap!
In my office every season is hayfever season. Sadly, several of my co-workers are allergic to tissue. Therefore, my office is a veritable symphony of sniffles, a disgusting habit of those people who were clearly raised by decongestant-deprived wolves. Colleagues have even been known to respond to the hours and hours of sniffling, “May I offer you a Kleenex?” Naturally, the answer is always NO followed by yet another round of sniffles. Fortunately, the incessant timpani of sniffling is punctuated by the thunderous percussion of sneezes so deafening that ceiling tiles have been known to fall crashing to the floor. The Earth-shatteringly-loud sneezing has evolved into a competition to see who can be the loudest and most annoying, thereby garnering the most attention via the ceaseless progression of post-sneeze conversation: the blessing followed by the thanking resulting in the welcoming. And so the cycle begins anew. Sniffle. Sniffle. Sniffle.
Like 6.8 million other American adults, I resent my diagnosis of GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder). It’s not the stigma of imperfect mental health that has provoked my resentment. Nor is it the cognitive behavioral therapy and accompanying pharmaceuticals. No, it’s the name: Generalized Anxiety Disorder. It’s such a non-specific name! You might as well just call it Something-a-Little-Screwy-itus! Okay, maybe not that. In lieu of GAD, how about Apprehensivia Syndrome or Catastrophis-obia? Even Definitive Distress Disease is at least specific! Just ask the people who suffer from Legionnaire’s Disease -- it’s not fair to have a crappy-sounding condition. Although I guess it is better than Mad Cow Disease, Flesh Eating Bacteria, Swine Flu, or the Black Death. Okay, I guess GAD isn’t really so bad when you think about it … although I still refer to it socially as (VUF) Vaguely Unhinged Fretfulness.
Two words: American Idol. I don’t watch it and I’m sick to death of hearing about it. Each and every morning is filled with The Blathering Boneheads in my office going on and on and on and on and on about this freakin’ show. I know I’m in the minority here, but thank the Singing Angels in Heaven that it’s over for a while. Nattering Nitwit #1 pointedly refuses to believe that I’ve never seen it. It is possible to live a full life without having watched the thousands of hours of American Idol that Fox broadcasts each season. Honest. I’ve never seen Titanic or Forrest Gump either but the Earth hasn’t stopped revolving around the sun. Admittedly I’ve never given AI (or Titanic or Forrest Gump, for that matter) the opportunity to be adored. But as they say, I Get To Pick. And I elect to live my life free of the Idolatry that has consumed my office and so many others.
Because I sit at the front desk, it is APPARENTLY my job to deal with breakfast deliveries. You know, the same deliveries that interrupt the 8:30 AM -- make that 8:45 -- meeting Every Single Morning. The same meetingus interruptus deliveries that the CEO has repeatedly banned. And wouldn’t you just know that the three people who order are the same three people who cry each and every day about being so broke that they can’t afford food. Ummm, really? Because I’m guessing that you could probably eat toast and cereal for under six bucks a day. Optimally you would be capable of breaking your fast within the confines of your own home like a Normal Person. If, for some reason, that’s impossible, you could potentially feed yourself that same breakfast at the office rather than ordering in. But even if all that’s impossible (and obviously it is!), then could you please, please leave a check or the exact change instead of telling me to “just figure out the tip, but don’t leave too much.” Do not make me responsible for your greasy, overpriced kibble or your cheap, under-tipping nature. It’s embarrassing to all of us. You’re the only one who doesn’t know it.
Shouting into cell phones. I don’t know why people feel compelled to shout into cell phones. In fact, I’m not sure why most people need to have their cell phones surgically implanted into their ears at all. Are there important moments – both business and personal -- when a cell phone is useful? Yes. There are also hundreds of thousands of hours worth of cell phone conversations that are completely useless. Like millions of others, I detest being privy to the personal conversations of those around me. When I’m standing in line behind you at Wal-Mart, I don’t want to know that your car insurance was cancelled because you thought your bitch ex-wife was paying the bills. I don’t want to discover while I’m waiting for my slice of pizza that your bumps turned out to be genital warts rather than herpes. I had not planned as part of my flight to Atlanta to hear you instruct your husband how large to dig the hole in the back yard for the recently deceased (and apparently quite large) family dog. And I sure as hell don’t want to sit next to you at TGIFriday’s while you lie to your wife that you’re still at work. For the love of God in Heaven, think about what the people around you are forced to hear when exposed to your personal crap!
In my office every season is hayfever season. Sadly, several of my co-workers are allergic to tissue. Therefore, my office is a veritable symphony of sniffles, a disgusting habit of those people who were clearly raised by decongestant-deprived wolves. Colleagues have even been known to respond to the hours and hours of sniffling, “May I offer you a Kleenex?” Naturally, the answer is always NO followed by yet another round of sniffles. Fortunately, the incessant timpani of sniffling is punctuated by the thunderous percussion of sneezes so deafening that ceiling tiles have been known to fall crashing to the floor. The Earth-shatteringly-loud sneezing has evolved into a competition to see who can be the loudest and most annoying, thereby garnering the most attention via the ceaseless progression of post-sneeze conversation: the blessing followed by the thanking resulting in the welcoming. And so the cycle begins anew. Sniffle. Sniffle. Sniffle.
Like 6.8 million other American adults, I resent my diagnosis of GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder). It’s not the stigma of imperfect mental health that has provoked my resentment. Nor is it the cognitive behavioral therapy and accompanying pharmaceuticals. No, it’s the name: Generalized Anxiety Disorder. It’s such a non-specific name! You might as well just call it Something-a-Little-Screwy-itus! Okay, maybe not that. In lieu of GAD, how about Apprehensivia Syndrome or Catastrophis-obia? Even Definitive Distress Disease is at least specific! Just ask the people who suffer from Legionnaire’s Disease -- it’s not fair to have a crappy-sounding condition. Although I guess it is better than Mad Cow Disease, Flesh Eating Bacteria, Swine Flu, or the Black Death. Okay, I guess GAD isn’t really so bad when you think about it … although I still refer to it socially as (VUF) Vaguely Unhinged Fretfulness.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
MIschief in the morning
by gretchen
We have a pack. Each morning, at 5:30, the leader of the pack arouses the troops, cued by the birds and chipmunks who still haven't learned that it's smarter to shut up in the presence of The Pack. One cranky human wanders downstairs (swearing), opens the door, and the pack races out. It's the same scene every morning.
Giant Yellow Dog (Laney) runs over the other two and patrols the perimeter.
Small Yellow Dog (Leo) runs over the smallest (often knocking him down) and marks every single bush in the yard. Twice.
Small White Cat (Mookie, The Pack Leader) runs out with them and, after recovering from being stepped on and/or knocked over by at least one of the dogs, starts to slink around the yard, hunting for bees and chipmunks.
Yesterday, snuggled in bed, I heard this exchange:
Cranky Human: Mookie! Drop it! Mookie! Mookie! Drop it.
Mookie: Mmfffmmfff grrrrrr grrrrrr mffff
CH: Mookie! Mookie. Shit. MOOKIE!
Mookie: Crunch.
Thunk.
CH: goddammit
Tap tap tap (dog's toenails on the deck)
CH: LEO! LEO! Drop it!
Leo: GGGGRRRRRR GRRRRRR crunch crunch crunch
CH: LEO!
Leo: crunch crunch
CH: Leo! LEO! Drop it! Drop it!
Leo: Tastes like chicken
CH: (inaudible grumbling)
Leo: BWOOOWWW BWOOWOWOWW
Door slams.
Pack runs upstairs.
Leo tries to get on bed. Can't. He needs to be picked up because he's too little. Crabby man picks him up, drops him on the bed and Leo crawls under the blankets. Mookie then jumps on the bed and decides to go to sleep on top of Leo, despite the growling. "What happened?"
"Mookie caught a chipmunk and was playing with it. When I finally got him to drop it, Leo ate it."
"I think it's great they are learning to get along and work together."
Everyone goes back to sleep.
Two hours later, The Pack is in the bathroom, helping me get ready for work. Mookie does a flying leap onto the shelf with my makeup, obviously to get it down for me. He's very helpful. After knocking everything off and letting it shower upon me as I put lotion on my legs, he decides to dangle from the top shelf for a bit. The little dog waits at my feet, awed and inspired. The big dog guards the door. Finally, the cat dismounts onto my foot, claws extended.
I open the door to leave for work and the cat decides he needs to go with me. He's not invited. I get to chase him around the driveway in 4" heels. Leo cries at the door inside. Laney runs upstairs and reports it all to Sleeping Man, who doesn't care. At. All.
We have a pack. Each morning, at 5:30, the leader of the pack arouses the troops, cued by the birds and chipmunks who still haven't learned that it's smarter to shut up in the presence of The Pack. One cranky human wanders downstairs (swearing), opens the door, and the pack races out. It's the same scene every morning.
Giant Yellow Dog (Laney) runs over the other two and patrols the perimeter.
Small Yellow Dog (Leo) runs over the smallest (often knocking him down) and marks every single bush in the yard. Twice.
Small White Cat (Mookie, The Pack Leader) runs out with them and, after recovering from being stepped on and/or knocked over by at least one of the dogs, starts to slink around the yard, hunting for bees and chipmunks.
Yesterday, snuggled in bed, I heard this exchange:
Cranky Human: Mookie! Drop it! Mookie! Mookie! Drop it.
Mookie: Mmfffmmfff grrrrrr grrrrrr mffff
CH: Mookie! Mookie. Shit. MOOKIE!
Mookie: Crunch.
Thunk.
CH: goddammit
Tap tap tap (dog's toenails on the deck)
CH: LEO! LEO! Drop it!
Leo: GGGGRRRRRR GRRRRRR crunch crunch crunch
CH: LEO!
Leo: crunch crunch
CH: Leo! LEO! Drop it! Drop it!
Leo: Tastes like chicken
CH: (inaudible grumbling)
Leo: BWOOOWWW BWOOWOWOWW
Door slams.
Pack runs upstairs.
Leo tries to get on bed. Can't. He needs to be picked up because he's too little. Crabby man picks him up, drops him on the bed and Leo crawls under the blankets. Mookie then jumps on the bed and decides to go to sleep on top of Leo, despite the growling. "What happened?"
"Mookie caught a chipmunk and was playing with it. When I finally got him to drop it, Leo ate it."
"I think it's great they are learning to get along and work together."
Everyone goes back to sleep.
Two hours later, The Pack is in the bathroom, helping me get ready for work. Mookie does a flying leap onto the shelf with my makeup, obviously to get it down for me. He's very helpful. After knocking everything off and letting it shower upon me as I put lotion on my legs, he decides to dangle from the top shelf for a bit. The little dog waits at my feet, awed and inspired. The big dog guards the door. Finally, the cat dismounts onto my foot, claws extended.
I open the door to leave for work and the cat decides he needs to go with me. He's not invited. I get to chase him around the driveway in 4" heels. Leo cries at the door inside. Laney runs upstairs and reports it all to Sleeping Man, who doesn't care. At. All.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The power of pause
by tess
Just for the record I think that DVRs are the best invention ever. Better than frozen blueberry waffles, better than Super Target, better than Dream Angels push-up bras.
Obviously it’s great to Record your favorite shows. Like many Americans I was too dim-witted to set the clock on my old VCR so using the timer to auto-tape was a little befuddling. DVRs are magic – no clock-setting! And finally the technology to tape two shows at once! Of course that would require two shows being on TV simultaneously that deserve to be recorded … but that’s a different issue.
I love that you can Reverse to re-watch a funny scene (Darrell from The Office asking Michael Scott, “Are you wearing ladies clothes?”) or hear something you missed due to the cat screaming in your ear. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve missed something on the radio (stupid traffic!) and wished I could hit the non-existent rewind button to hear it again. But, DOH!, no car radio DVR.
The best feature is Pause. Of course you can pause to answer the phone and talk to your mother for an hour without missing a single bodice-ripping moment of The Tudors. But more importantly, you can take a break when there’s an uncomfortable moment of confrontation. Sometimes when I’m watching a show I’m not really prepared for the escalating hostility between two characters. I often need to take a moment and consider how I’m going to feel about the forthcoming friction. (Apparently there’s a shrink inside my head incessantly asking me: How do you feeeeeeeeel about that?) Having collected my thoughts, I can rejoin the fray fully prepared to pause again if the battle becomes too bloody.
This quirky little habit makes watching TV with other people very challenging. Some People Who Shall Remain Nameless don’t think you should take a little breather Every Single Time the Show Gets Good. But I’m just not adept at confrontation. Even confrontation that has nothing to do with me. Even confrontation that’s totally not-real and on a huge television.
William Ross Wallace famously wrote “The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.” That may still be true in some places, but where I live it’s the hand that hogs the remote that controls the house. And since that hand belongs to me, we’ll continue to embrace our DVR, to record shows that we’ll never have time to watch, to rewind every jaw-dropping scene again and again, and, most of all, to pause every time Don Draper cheats on Betty or Jack Bauer almost dies trying to save the world.
Just for the record I think that DVRs are the best invention ever. Better than frozen blueberry waffles, better than Super Target, better than Dream Angels push-up bras.
Obviously it’s great to Record your favorite shows. Like many Americans I was too dim-witted to set the clock on my old VCR so using the timer to auto-tape was a little befuddling. DVRs are magic – no clock-setting! And finally the technology to tape two shows at once! Of course that would require two shows being on TV simultaneously that deserve to be recorded … but that’s a different issue.
I love that you can Reverse to re-watch a funny scene (Darrell from The Office asking Michael Scott, “Are you wearing ladies clothes?”) or hear something you missed due to the cat screaming in your ear. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve missed something on the radio (stupid traffic!) and wished I could hit the non-existent rewind button to hear it again. But, DOH!, no car radio DVR.
The best feature is Pause. Of course you can pause to answer the phone and talk to your mother for an hour without missing a single bodice-ripping moment of The Tudors. But more importantly, you can take a break when there’s an uncomfortable moment of confrontation. Sometimes when I’m watching a show I’m not really prepared for the escalating hostility between two characters. I often need to take a moment and consider how I’m going to feel about the forthcoming friction. (Apparently there’s a shrink inside my head incessantly asking me: How do you feeeeeeeeel about that?) Having collected my thoughts, I can rejoin the fray fully prepared to pause again if the battle becomes too bloody.
This quirky little habit makes watching TV with other people very challenging. Some People Who Shall Remain Nameless don’t think you should take a little breather Every Single Time the Show Gets Good. But I’m just not adept at confrontation. Even confrontation that has nothing to do with me. Even confrontation that’s totally not-real and on a huge television.
William Ross Wallace famously wrote “The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.” That may still be true in some places, but where I live it’s the hand that hogs the remote that controls the house. And since that hand belongs to me, we’ll continue to embrace our DVR, to record shows that we’ll never have time to watch, to rewind every jaw-dropping scene again and again, and, most of all, to pause every time Don Draper cheats on Betty or Jack Bauer almost dies trying to save the world.
The Art of Online Shopping
by gretchen
Because I am on vacation, I have decided I do not need to create beautiful prose. It's vacation, people. I shouldn't have to try. Note also, I don't think I should have to be doing laundry, mowing the lawn, cleaning the kitchen, or returning the $25 I found in the wash yesterday to its rightful owner. I consider it a tip for washing people's underpants ON VACATION.
Anyway.
It has come to my attention that many of you simply do not understand the art of shopping online. The allure you get: the variety, the cost comparison, the ability to do it in your jammies, the pleasure of trying on clothing without florescent lights around. It's the ART I think people don't get.
PHASE I
First of all, you have to start with an item you "need" which is defined as something which popped into your head while you stood in your closet and discovered you lacked some critical article of clothing/shoes which would make your outfit but, at that moment, is in some store instead of on the floor of your closet.
Amateurs will start with one reliable site in search of said item. Professionals will have at least five sites going. At once.
Begin looking for item. Quickly, you will find 12 other things you need more.
Guess at the sizes (professionals know to not even bother with the size charts; they lie.
Put them all in your cart(s).
Repeat at several other sites.
Visit YouTube.
Visit the kitchen.
Go on with your day.
Revisit carts several times over the next few days.
Tell yourself you are waiting for the free shipping or 20% off deals.
At one point, you start throwing things out of your cart and putting new things in.
After a few days, you'll throw everything out and start over.
By now, you have forgotten what the hell started you shopping in the first place.
Leave the carts again.
Some sites will send you an email letting you know that you have left things in your cart.
Because they nagged you, instantly empty that cart.
This gives you time to think, to consider, to buy what you really need. In a store, you've got just a few minutes to make a decision. The internet gives you days and days. It's wonderful.
One day, it's usually a Thursday, you'll get a bug up your butt and you'll buy everything in all your active carts. You'll have decided you can't wait for the free shipping or the 20% off.
The following day, you'll get the two-for-one and free shipping deals in your inbox.
You'll swear.
Over the next week or so, you'll be visited by Brown Santa (UPS, not Mr. Hanky) with surprises and wonders. This starts Phase II of online shopping.
PHASE II
The first think you will notice is that you have no idea what you ordered. This means you both forgot which items made the final cart-cut as well as which carts were actually purchased.
As your surprises come in, you'll get to try them on. Some will be instant hits. Some will involved questions such as:
And then, in a few days, you get to start all over because you never did buy that one critical item, now did you?
Because I am on vacation, I have decided I do not need to create beautiful prose. It's vacation, people. I shouldn't have to try. Note also, I don't think I should have to be doing laundry, mowing the lawn, cleaning the kitchen, or returning the $25 I found in the wash yesterday to its rightful owner. I consider it a tip for washing people's underpants ON VACATION.
Anyway.
It has come to my attention that many of you simply do not understand the art of shopping online. The allure you get: the variety, the cost comparison, the ability to do it in your jammies, the pleasure of trying on clothing without florescent lights around. It's the ART I think people don't get.
PHASE I
First of all, you have to start with an item you "need" which is defined as something which popped into your head while you stood in your closet and discovered you lacked some critical article of clothing/shoes which would make your outfit but, at that moment, is in some store instead of on the floor of your closet.
Amateurs will start with one reliable site in search of said item. Professionals will have at least five sites going. At once.
Begin looking for item. Quickly, you will find 12 other things you need more.
Guess at the sizes (professionals know to not even bother with the size charts; they lie.
Put them all in your cart(s).
Repeat at several other sites.
Visit YouTube.
Visit the kitchen.
Go on with your day.
Revisit carts several times over the next few days.
Tell yourself you are waiting for the free shipping or 20% off deals.
At one point, you start throwing things out of your cart and putting new things in.
After a few days, you'll throw everything out and start over.
By now, you have forgotten what the hell started you shopping in the first place.
Leave the carts again.
Some sites will send you an email letting you know that you have left things in your cart.
Because they nagged you, instantly empty that cart.
This gives you time to think, to consider, to buy what you really need. In a store, you've got just a few minutes to make a decision. The internet gives you days and days. It's wonderful.
One day, it's usually a Thursday, you'll get a bug up your butt and you'll buy everything in all your active carts. You'll have decided you can't wait for the free shipping or the 20% off.
The following day, you'll get the two-for-one and free shipping deals in your inbox.
You'll swear.
Over the next week or so, you'll be visited by Brown Santa (UPS, not Mr. Hanky) with surprises and wonders. This starts Phase II of online shopping.
PHASE II
The first think you will notice is that you have no idea what you ordered. This means you both forgot which items made the final cart-cut as well as which carts were actually purchased.
As your surprises come in, you'll get to try them on. Some will be instant hits. Some will involved questions such as:
- Does this make my hips look too big? (Yes)
- Is this too baggy? (Yes)
- I have no idea what to wear this with? (Neither does anyone else)
- It was $9.00, should I return it? (No)
- I wonder how long I can tolerate how tight these shoes are? (Long time)
- Who ordered this? (You did; you were drunk)
And then, in a few days, you get to start all over because you never did buy that one critical item, now did you?
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Employee Manual, Addendum One
by tess
College failed to prepare me for the business world. So like many others of my generation, I relied on films to inform and inspire my modus operandi as it pertained to the Wonderful World of Workaday Wonks.
Movies typically portray the office as an environment where the Underdog who works via unconventional methods wins – if not the most money or the undying gratitude of the Evil Boss, then at least some modicum of satisfaction and/or self-respect. Think about the slackers from Office Space, Working Girl’s Tess McGill, the girls from Nine to Five, Secretary’s Lee Holloway, and obviously J.C. Wiatt in Baby Boom. To differing degrees they worked around the system or relied upon subterfuge; some exploited the failings of the system and others embraced its foibles. All withdrew stronger than they entered.
Of course not all managers embrace Hollywood’s Unconventional Underdog theory. It’s important to temper one’s expectations of real life when compared to that portrayed in reel life. After all, two mice have wielded substantial power in their movie professions not reflected beyond the silver screen: Ratatouille as the best chef in Paris and Mickey as the original Harry Potter à la sorcerer’s apprentice.
So lacking cinematic role models upon whom one can consistently rely, this is the first in a series of employee manual addenda that will help you to avoid the pitfalls and pratfalls that might prove harmful to the advancement of your career.
1. It’s never a great idea to cry at work. Unless you’re an actress on a soap opera, in which case it’s required on a daily basis. But if you should inadvertently find yourself weeping at your desk, I would recommend that you temporarily flee the office building altogether, or at very least hide in a ladies room stall. Unless you’re a man, in which case you should probably slam your hand in a steel doorway and pretend that’s what made you cry to begin with.
One word of advice: blaming your tears on non-existent allergies will not work. Nobody’s going to buy it. And if it’s possible to look even more wretched than you already do with your quivering chin, red eyes, and snotty nose, the allergies lie is sure to punch your one-way ticket straight past Patheticville to Loserland.
2. When preparing for a major presentation, be wary of all external influences that might affect your pitch. Obviously it’s important to watch out for wet paint, fresh tar, birds flying overhead, and dog doodoo among other things.
But even the media can wreak havoc on your delivery. Listening to Paula Deen might modify your South California growl into a shudder-inducing drawl, while watching Gwyneth “Fishsticks” Paltrow could inexplicably transform your Midwestern twang into a teddibly British clip.
Similarly, physical mannerisms can be accidentally adopted. Watching The Godfather too frequently before meeting a high-ranking associate could tempt you to kiss his ring while swearing your fealty. An introduction to important clients could be destroyed by an awkward curtsey or bow after too many viewings of The Sound of Music’s “So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye” number. Trust me, it’s happened.
3. While one has no control over one’s dreams, it’s important to exercise extreme caution when sharing the details of dreams with colleagues. Particularly when those dreams prominently feature co-workers and/or supervisors in extremely X-rated situations and/or acts.
4. If you’re fortunate enough to work in an office that helpfully provides a Suk-O-Meter comparing the daily suckosity of yourself and your colleagues, it would be best to keep the Suk-O-Meter concealed when clients visit your offices. If said Suk-O-Meter is too large and/or permanently attached to conceal, then try disguising it as an inspirational achievement chart.
5. Every office disseminates propaganda regarding their open-door policies and enthusiasm to welcome unfamiliar strategies. Despite what you see in the movies or read online, remember three Words: Rebels Rarely Triumph. Never make waves lest the Anti-Negativity Police goose-step in wearing their high black boots and scarlet sashes, spiriting your quivering (albeit well-meaning) carcass away to enjoy the Wheel of Misfortune, never to be heard from again.
These are just a few job tips that have undoubtedly been omitted from the rules and regulations listed in your official employee manual. Check back frequently for more vocational advice. Future professional pointers include:
Effective Team Building: Depriving a Local Village of Their Idiot
Beyond the Dog: 50 Plausible Excuses for Everyday Errors
Delusions of Adequacy: How to Overcome a Room Temperature IQ
College failed to prepare me for the business world. So like many others of my generation, I relied on films to inform and inspire my modus operandi as it pertained to the Wonderful World of Workaday Wonks.
Movies typically portray the office as an environment where the Underdog who works via unconventional methods wins – if not the most money or the undying gratitude of the Evil Boss, then at least some modicum of satisfaction and/or self-respect. Think about the slackers from Office Space, Working Girl’s Tess McGill, the girls from Nine to Five, Secretary’s Lee Holloway, and obviously J.C. Wiatt in Baby Boom. To differing degrees they worked around the system or relied upon subterfuge; some exploited the failings of the system and others embraced its foibles. All withdrew stronger than they entered.
Of course not all managers embrace Hollywood’s Unconventional Underdog theory. It’s important to temper one’s expectations of real life when compared to that portrayed in reel life. After all, two mice have wielded substantial power in their movie professions not reflected beyond the silver screen: Ratatouille as the best chef in Paris and Mickey as the original Harry Potter à la sorcerer’s apprentice.
So lacking cinematic role models upon whom one can consistently rely, this is the first in a series of employee manual addenda that will help you to avoid the pitfalls and pratfalls that might prove harmful to the advancement of your career.
1. It’s never a great idea to cry at work. Unless you’re an actress on a soap opera, in which case it’s required on a daily basis. But if you should inadvertently find yourself weeping at your desk, I would recommend that you temporarily flee the office building altogether, or at very least hide in a ladies room stall. Unless you’re a man, in which case you should probably slam your hand in a steel doorway and pretend that’s what made you cry to begin with.
One word of advice: blaming your tears on non-existent allergies will not work. Nobody’s going to buy it. And if it’s possible to look even more wretched than you already do with your quivering chin, red eyes, and snotty nose, the allergies lie is sure to punch your one-way ticket straight past Patheticville to Loserland.
2. When preparing for a major presentation, be wary of all external influences that might affect your pitch. Obviously it’s important to watch out for wet paint, fresh tar, birds flying overhead, and dog doodoo among other things.
But even the media can wreak havoc on your delivery. Listening to Paula Deen might modify your South California growl into a shudder-inducing drawl, while watching Gwyneth “Fishsticks” Paltrow could inexplicably transform your Midwestern twang into a teddibly British clip.
Similarly, physical mannerisms can be accidentally adopted. Watching The Godfather too frequently before meeting a high-ranking associate could tempt you to kiss his ring while swearing your fealty. An introduction to important clients could be destroyed by an awkward curtsey or bow after too many viewings of The Sound of Music’s “So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye” number. Trust me, it’s happened.
3. While one has no control over one’s dreams, it’s important to exercise extreme caution when sharing the details of dreams with colleagues. Particularly when those dreams prominently feature co-workers and/or supervisors in extremely X-rated situations and/or acts.
4. If you’re fortunate enough to work in an office that helpfully provides a Suk-O-Meter comparing the daily suckosity of yourself and your colleagues, it would be best to keep the Suk-O-Meter concealed when clients visit your offices. If said Suk-O-Meter is too large and/or permanently attached to conceal, then try disguising it as an inspirational achievement chart.
5. Every office disseminates propaganda regarding their open-door policies and enthusiasm to welcome unfamiliar strategies. Despite what you see in the movies or read online, remember three Words: Rebels Rarely Triumph. Never make waves lest the Anti-Negativity Police goose-step in wearing their high black boots and scarlet sashes, spiriting your quivering (albeit well-meaning) carcass away to enjoy the Wheel of Misfortune, never to be heard from again.
These are just a few job tips that have undoubtedly been omitted from the rules and regulations listed in your official employee manual. Check back frequently for more vocational advice. Future professional pointers include:
Effective Team Building: Depriving a Local Village of Their Idiot
Beyond the Dog: 50 Plausible Excuses for Everyday Errors
Delusions of Adequacy: How to Overcome a Room Temperature IQ
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Vacation: Day One
by gretchen
The Plan
5:30: Get up to let animals out. Make coffee. Pay bills. Check email. Surf Web.
9:00: Shower.
9:15: Take dog for long walk
11:30: Eat a snack
12:00: Head out for bike ride.
3:00: Come home. Shower again.
3:30: Work on latest book which needs help.
6:00: Feed animals. Make dinner.
6:30: Clean off deck. Pull out deck furniture.
7:30: Pour glass of wine. Put in movie.
The Reality
5:30: Got up. Let animals out.
5:45: Went back to bed
10:00: Showered
10:15: Surf Web (I seem to be stuck here)
The Plan
5:30: Get up to let animals out. Make coffee. Pay bills. Check email. Surf Web.
9:00: Shower.
9:15: Take dog for long walk
11:30: Eat a snack
12:00: Head out for bike ride.
3:00: Come home. Shower again.
3:30: Work on latest book which needs help.
6:00: Feed animals. Make dinner.
6:30: Clean off deck. Pull out deck furniture.
7:30: Pour glass of wine. Put in movie.
The Reality
5:30: Got up. Let animals out.
5:45: Went back to bed
10:00: Showered
10:15: Surf Web (I seem to be stuck here)
Overheard at The Trusty Trough
by tess
There’s a two-traffic-light town in Arizona (population according to 2000 census: 457) with exactly one bar (which doesn’t serve food) and exactly one restaurant (which doesn’t serve liquor). But you’re not allowed to call it a restaurant. If you do, the townspeople will inform you that it’s a café. I know that Parisians make distinctions between different kinds of eating establishments: cafés, bistros, brasseries. But I’ve never known Americans to be so adamant about restaurant codification. Especially in a place where (and I quote our real estate agent): “There aren’t many of us and we don’t do much. But nobody’s gonna tell us what we can or can’t do.” Perhaps I was corrected because I’m not one of the favored 457, an Outlander from the East. Or maybe everybody (all 457 of them) knows that it’s called a café and why on earth would you call it anything else?
Conversation One
Floyd (50-ish and trying to impress the waitress): I was thinking of opening a liquor store.
Darrell (40-something and trying to outdo his friend): Yeah, well I was thinking of opening a garage.
Catalina (having listened to variations of this same conversation for 30+ years): We don’t need either one of those. We already have a liquor store and a garage.
Conversation Two
Catalina: What can I get you folks?
Husband: I’ll have the meatloaf sandwich with slaw and she’ll have the grilled cheese.
Catalina: Fries with that grilled cheese?
Wife: Yes.
Husband: You want fries with that, mama?
Wife: Yes.
Husband: She’ll have fries with that.
Catalina: Anything to drink?
Husband: Coffee. You want coffee, mama?
Wife: Yes.
Husband: Two coffees.
Conversation Three
Darrell (into his cell phone): Yeah. (pause)
What? (pause)
Now just calm down. Who’d he hit? (pause)
Well, why’d he hit him? (pause)
Well, he shouldna said that. Where’d he hit him? (pause)
Well, just clean up the blood and I’ll be on home.
Darrell (to Floyd): I guess I better get on home. (pause) You want another piece of that pie first?
Conversation Four
Man (hollering to 50-ish blonde in a pick-up truck): If your husband gets mad, come do me sometime.
Conversation Five
Large man: ‘dju see the news today?
Larger man: Yup. We outta just blow them tail-heads and Israelites away.
Large man: Yup. That’ll shut ‘em up.
Larger man: Yup.
Large man: LBJ. Now there’s a President. ‘ssassinated a President and got off scot free.
Larger man: Yup. Named his dog Ho Chi Min.
Large man: Useta kick it.
Larger man: Yup.
We were sad to go. God knows what else we’d have learned had we been able to stay longer.
There’s a two-traffic-light town in Arizona (population according to 2000 census: 457) with exactly one bar (which doesn’t serve food) and exactly one restaurant (which doesn’t serve liquor). But you’re not allowed to call it a restaurant. If you do, the townspeople will inform you that it’s a café. I know that Parisians make distinctions between different kinds of eating establishments: cafés, bistros, brasseries. But I’ve never known Americans to be so adamant about restaurant codification. Especially in a place where (and I quote our real estate agent): “There aren’t many of us and we don’t do much. But nobody’s gonna tell us what we can or can’t do.” Perhaps I was corrected because I’m not one of the favored 457, an Outlander from the East. Or maybe everybody (all 457 of them) knows that it’s called a café and why on earth would you call it anything else?
Conversation One
Floyd (50-ish and trying to impress the waitress): I was thinking of opening a liquor store.
Darrell (40-something and trying to outdo his friend): Yeah, well I was thinking of opening a garage.
Catalina (having listened to variations of this same conversation for 30+ years): We don’t need either one of those. We already have a liquor store and a garage.
Conversation Two
Catalina: What can I get you folks?
Husband: I’ll have the meatloaf sandwich with slaw and she’ll have the grilled cheese.
Catalina: Fries with that grilled cheese?
Wife: Yes.
Husband: You want fries with that, mama?
Wife: Yes.
Husband: She’ll have fries with that.
Catalina: Anything to drink?
Husband: Coffee. You want coffee, mama?
Wife: Yes.
Husband: Two coffees.
Conversation Three
Darrell (into his cell phone): Yeah. (pause)
What? (pause)
Now just calm down. Who’d he hit? (pause)
Well, why’d he hit him? (pause)
Well, he shouldna said that. Where’d he hit him? (pause)
Well, just clean up the blood and I’ll be on home.
Darrell (to Floyd): I guess I better get on home. (pause) You want another piece of that pie first?
Conversation Four
Man (hollering to 50-ish blonde in a pick-up truck): If your husband gets mad, come do me sometime.
Conversation Five
Large man: ‘dju see the news today?
Larger man: Yup. We outta just blow them tail-heads and Israelites away.
Large man: Yup. That’ll shut ‘em up.
Larger man: Yup.
Large man: LBJ. Now there’s a President. ‘ssassinated a President and got off scot free.
Larger man: Yup. Named his dog Ho Chi Min.
Large man: Useta kick it.
Larger man: Yup.
We were sad to go. God knows what else we’d have learned had we been able to stay longer.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Spawn of Satan
by tess
Linda the Loudmouth (the one whose son is marrying some girl just to escape his mother’s tender mercies) couldn’t hold out the last ten months until the wedding. Nope. She actually uttered the G word this morning: Grandmother. She’s already blathering about these kids (who don’t have an apartment or jobs) having kids. I really believed that the overbearing-mother-in-law-carping-about-Where-Are-My-Grandchildren myth was just a 1950s urban legend. Apparently it’s alive and well (and in serious need of a professional root job) in suburban South Florida.
And speaking of rugrats, I was congratulated Friday on the wisdom of abstaining from having children. If I had a dollar for every time someone has said that, I would be bailing out the banks instead of worrying about my crappy little part-time job. Of course my friends and family know me well enough to offer their sentiments on the matter, and that’s fine. People who are bright enough to gauge my reaction and brave enough to endure my wrath can offer many solicitous remarks without being thoroughly and immediately eviscerated:
Treadmill Tina: “Ever hear of a salad? It’s green and good-for-you. You might want to try one sometime.”
Beauty Shop Barbie: “Gee, your hair looks … interesting today. Flat hair is soooooo The New Black.”
Fashionista Felicia: “Nice shoes. Did they come from that new Wal-Mart?”
Such honesty may not make me weak-in-the-knees with gratitude, but sometimes being forthright is the best way to be a friend. Oh sure, I’ll glare and spend the next four days trying to formulate a witty retort, but I can take it because these people know me. Shockingly, several even have my own best interests at heart. Or at least near that vacant space in their chests where hearts would be in anatomically correct people.
But when a virtual stranger tells me that I shouldn’t have had children? It’s unlikely that he and I are destined to become BFFs. I suppose I should feel grateful that they first confirm I haven’t actually produced devil spawn. Typically the conversation proceeds thusly:
Virtual Stranger: “Do you have any children?”
Tess: “Nope.”
Virtual Stranger: “I didn’t think so. That was probably a good idea.”
Tess: “Yeah, no kidding.”
Tess thought bubble after long … dare I say PREGNANT … pause: Hey. Wait a minute. I think that was an insult. Yeah, that was definitely an insult. Oh well, whatevs. Wonder if there’s any ice cream at home.
Clearly this question will continue to haunt me, so I’m going to devise a better response.
Nothing straight-forward like: “Hello? None of your business, you dung-filled douchebag.”
Maybe something with a religious twist: “No, the Good Lord didn’t see fit to reward me with angels of my own.”
Or tragic: “No, sir; none who’ve survived.” (Fake tears would be a serious bonus here!)
Or possibly hopeful (and hysterical given that I’m nearly 50 and thoroughly ill-equipped): “Not yet, but we’re still real hopeful!”
Or maybe I’ll just stick with the tried and true “Yeah, no kidding.” Perhaps it’s braver to have an opinion but not share it. Possibly the contemplative trumps the clownish. Maybe it’s preferable to consider a facetious response but not express it.
Who am I kidding? No Freakin’ Way is there anything better in the universe than to have The Perfect Smartass Response in your back pocket just itching to come out and play. BOOM, there it is! Woe-unto-you the next silly sod who commends me on my childlessness. You’ve got a bucket full of sarcasm coming your way!
Linda the Loudmouth (the one whose son is marrying some girl just to escape his mother’s tender mercies) couldn’t hold out the last ten months until the wedding. Nope. She actually uttered the G word this morning: Grandmother. She’s already blathering about these kids (who don’t have an apartment or jobs) having kids. I really believed that the overbearing-mother-in-law-carping-about-Where-Are-My-Grandchildren myth was just a 1950s urban legend. Apparently it’s alive and well (and in serious need of a professional root job) in suburban South Florida.
And speaking of rugrats, I was congratulated Friday on the wisdom of abstaining from having children. If I had a dollar for every time someone has said that, I would be bailing out the banks instead of worrying about my crappy little part-time job. Of course my friends and family know me well enough to offer their sentiments on the matter, and that’s fine. People who are bright enough to gauge my reaction and brave enough to endure my wrath can offer many solicitous remarks without being thoroughly and immediately eviscerated:
Treadmill Tina: “Ever hear of a salad? It’s green and good-for-you. You might want to try one sometime.”
Beauty Shop Barbie: “Gee, your hair looks … interesting today. Flat hair is soooooo The New Black.”
Fashionista Felicia: “Nice shoes. Did they come from that new Wal-Mart?”
Such honesty may not make me weak-in-the-knees with gratitude, but sometimes being forthright is the best way to be a friend. Oh sure, I’ll glare and spend the next four days trying to formulate a witty retort, but I can take it because these people know me. Shockingly, several even have my own best interests at heart. Or at least near that vacant space in their chests where hearts would be in anatomically correct people.
But when a virtual stranger tells me that I shouldn’t have had children? It’s unlikely that he and I are destined to become BFFs. I suppose I should feel grateful that they first confirm I haven’t actually produced devil spawn. Typically the conversation proceeds thusly:
Virtual Stranger: “Do you have any children?”
Tess: “Nope.”
Virtual Stranger: “I didn’t think so. That was probably a good idea.”
Tess: “Yeah, no kidding.”
Tess thought bubble after long … dare I say PREGNANT … pause: Hey. Wait a minute. I think that was an insult. Yeah, that was definitely an insult. Oh well, whatevs. Wonder if there’s any ice cream at home.
Clearly this question will continue to haunt me, so I’m going to devise a better response.
Nothing straight-forward like: “Hello? None of your business, you dung-filled douchebag.”
Maybe something with a religious twist: “No, the Good Lord didn’t see fit to reward me with angels of my own.”
Or tragic: “No, sir; none who’ve survived.” (Fake tears would be a serious bonus here!)
Or possibly hopeful (and hysterical given that I’m nearly 50 and thoroughly ill-equipped): “Not yet, but we’re still real hopeful!”
Or maybe I’ll just stick with the tried and true “Yeah, no kidding.” Perhaps it’s braver to have an opinion but not share it. Possibly the contemplative trumps the clownish. Maybe it’s preferable to consider a facetious response but not express it.
Who am I kidding? No Freakin’ Way is there anything better in the universe than to have The Perfect Smartass Response in your back pocket just itching to come out and play. BOOM, there it is! Woe-unto-you the next silly sod who commends me on my childlessness. You’ve got a bucket full of sarcasm coming your way!
Friday, May 15, 2009
Jammies in the Hood
by tess
Admittedly I spend more time in pajamas than most normal people. On Fridays I wear jeans long enough to go grocery shopping, and then don’t dress again until Tuesday. On the three days per week that I actually work, my real clothes rest on my back exactly long enough to return home, but not quite long enough to trek from the garage to the closet.
Consequently I own lots of nighties. But the line between sleepwear and sportswear can be a fuzzy one. Do we define jammies as clothing elements in which one sleeps? Or must they be purchased within the sleepwear section of a store? Nightwear is frequently referred to as loungewear. Where exactly does one lounge and is loungewear appropriate in all lounging areas? Or might pjs be defined as anything you shouldn’t wear in public, therefore more “homewear” than “bedwear.” And who decides what may be worn in public? Stacy London espouses certain strident theories, but I’m betting Whoopie Goldberg’s might be a bit more accommodating.
Pajamas are as varied as the people who wear them, from silky lace teddies to oversized plaid flannel. Sleepshirts, peignoirs, boxers, sarongs, gowns, footies. You can tell a lot about people from their nightwear selection. And exposing pjs to those outside the family tends to be a surreal experience.
On Sunday nights when The Hubs is out of town, I wait until bedtime before stumbling out with the garbage. Since I refuse to “dress” for my 30 seconds of garbage duty, I tend to layer pjs: perhaps a nightgown semi-tucked into shorts with a sweatshirt concealing most of the bralessness. And every Sunday night my neighbor sits in a folding chair in front of his garage, smugly admiring the tidiness of his lawn debris collection, perfectly organized recycling, and barely-used mops. And every Sunday he refuses to do what any normal person would do: Ignore the old fat woman in her terrifying jammy rig. I do my part, I pretend he’s a bush wearing a ballcap and sandals with socks. But inevitably as I escape to my over-bright garage, I hear “Hey, Tess.” Really? REALLY? Must we chat? “Hey, Otis.”
Another surreal moment captured in pajamas: hurricane aftermath. If you’ve never experienced the great pleasure that is a hurricane, basically you’re locked inside your electricity-deprived house which is further darkened and cut off from all possible airflow by heavy metal shutters bolted into every window and door. You spend the first few hours chatting, laughing, drinking, and playing cards by specially-purchased, battery-operated camping lanterns. Then the voice on the specially-purchased, battery-operated radio cuts in long enough to confirm that it’s a big one and it’s headed your way. That crystalline moment separates the men from the boys. Or in my house, it separates The Hubs from The Panicking Freakshow. He sleeps. I vacillate between praying and crying, all the while listening to that voice on the radio, the lifeline that will somehow manage to drag my kicking, screaming, bartering, weeping self through this horror.
A lifetime later, the whistling and howling of the wind abate. The incessant battering of tree limbs and building debris mercifully comes to a halt. En masse the neighborhood emerges from hours and hours of darkness into the odd yellow-green half-light of hurricanes. Shell-shocked and wearing nothing more than jammies we inspect our homes and those of our neighbors, evaluating the damage and wondering if insurance will cover it. Did we make it? Are those my roof tiles? Is everyone okay?
Then for an hour, it’s a hybrid pajama - block party in a Leave it to Beaver community. Everyone smiles and is thrilled to be alive; happy to lend chainsaws, food, propane, and good wishes. But an hour later, somewhere a silent clock chimes. The neighborhood collectively awakes from its dream recognizing we’re wearing only pajamas, realizing we’re behaving like the denizens of some latter day Mayberry RFD. We all return to our homes, shaking our heads, in awe of the dreamscape that had temporarily enveloped us. The bonhomie dispersed, we return to our worries. How soon can I reach my insurance agent? How long until electricity is restored? When will the traffic lights be fixed? Am I ready for the first of many cold showers? What if the roof leaks? When will grocery stores open again? Do we have enough gas for the generator?
But in the days and weeks to come as normal life is recovered, we remember the SpongeBob Square Pants pjs that prim and proper She Who Must Be Adored had on. And The Neighborhood Drunk proudly sporting his fuschia wife beater and tie-dyed Zubaz. We’ve shared not only a potentially life-altering event but a secret glimpse into the personalities (and drawers) of our neighbors. We may only wave sporadically now, but we always smirk. We know what you’re wearing at night.
Admittedly I spend more time in pajamas than most normal people. On Fridays I wear jeans long enough to go grocery shopping, and then don’t dress again until Tuesday. On the three days per week that I actually work, my real clothes rest on my back exactly long enough to return home, but not quite long enough to trek from the garage to the closet.
Consequently I own lots of nighties. But the line between sleepwear and sportswear can be a fuzzy one. Do we define jammies as clothing elements in which one sleeps? Or must they be purchased within the sleepwear section of a store? Nightwear is frequently referred to as loungewear. Where exactly does one lounge and is loungewear appropriate in all lounging areas? Or might pjs be defined as anything you shouldn’t wear in public, therefore more “homewear” than “bedwear.” And who decides what may be worn in public? Stacy London espouses certain strident theories, but I’m betting Whoopie Goldberg’s might be a bit more accommodating.
Pajamas are as varied as the people who wear them, from silky lace teddies to oversized plaid flannel. Sleepshirts, peignoirs, boxers, sarongs, gowns, footies. You can tell a lot about people from their nightwear selection. And exposing pjs to those outside the family tends to be a surreal experience.
On Sunday nights when The Hubs is out of town, I wait until bedtime before stumbling out with the garbage. Since I refuse to “dress” for my 30 seconds of garbage duty, I tend to layer pjs: perhaps a nightgown semi-tucked into shorts with a sweatshirt concealing most of the bralessness. And every Sunday night my neighbor sits in a folding chair in front of his garage, smugly admiring the tidiness of his lawn debris collection, perfectly organized recycling, and barely-used mops. And every Sunday he refuses to do what any normal person would do: Ignore the old fat woman in her terrifying jammy rig. I do my part, I pretend he’s a bush wearing a ballcap and sandals with socks. But inevitably as I escape to my over-bright garage, I hear “Hey, Tess.” Really? REALLY? Must we chat? “Hey, Otis.”
Another surreal moment captured in pajamas: hurricane aftermath. If you’ve never experienced the great pleasure that is a hurricane, basically you’re locked inside your electricity-deprived house which is further darkened and cut off from all possible airflow by heavy metal shutters bolted into every window and door. You spend the first few hours chatting, laughing, drinking, and playing cards by specially-purchased, battery-operated camping lanterns. Then the voice on the specially-purchased, battery-operated radio cuts in long enough to confirm that it’s a big one and it’s headed your way. That crystalline moment separates the men from the boys. Or in my house, it separates The Hubs from The Panicking Freakshow. He sleeps. I vacillate between praying and crying, all the while listening to that voice on the radio, the lifeline that will somehow manage to drag my kicking, screaming, bartering, weeping self through this horror.
A lifetime later, the whistling and howling of the wind abate. The incessant battering of tree limbs and building debris mercifully comes to a halt. En masse the neighborhood emerges from hours and hours of darkness into the odd yellow-green half-light of hurricanes. Shell-shocked and wearing nothing more than jammies we inspect our homes and those of our neighbors, evaluating the damage and wondering if insurance will cover it. Did we make it? Are those my roof tiles? Is everyone okay?
Then for an hour, it’s a hybrid pajama - block party in a Leave it to Beaver community. Everyone smiles and is thrilled to be alive; happy to lend chainsaws, food, propane, and good wishes. But an hour later, somewhere a silent clock chimes. The neighborhood collectively awakes from its dream recognizing we’re wearing only pajamas, realizing we’re behaving like the denizens of some latter day Mayberry RFD. We all return to our homes, shaking our heads, in awe of the dreamscape that had temporarily enveloped us. The bonhomie dispersed, we return to our worries. How soon can I reach my insurance agent? How long until electricity is restored? When will the traffic lights be fixed? Am I ready for the first of many cold showers? What if the roof leaks? When will grocery stores open again? Do we have enough gas for the generator?
But in the days and weeks to come as normal life is recovered, we remember the SpongeBob Square Pants pjs that prim and proper She Who Must Be Adored had on. And The Neighborhood Drunk proudly sporting his fuschia wife beater and tie-dyed Zubaz. We’ve shared not only a potentially life-altering event but a secret glimpse into the personalities (and drawers) of our neighbors. We may only wave sporadically now, but we always smirk. We know what you’re wearing at night.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Destination Dread
by tess
For nearly a decade, people have failed to see why Gretchen and I are friends. After all, we are far more different than we are alike. And our differences are decidedly more substantial (political, philosophical, geographical, physical, professional) than our similarities (sometimes-blonde Catholic school graduates). But we’ve always been bound by one simple fact: we both think we’re hysterical. And the more others refuse to submit to our mutual hilarity, the more convinced we become of our collective side-splitting wit.
When obsessed by the dramatic minutiae, the sturm und drang that consumes my soul in the darkness, I shared with Gretchen my greatest fear: ending up embittered, old, and alone being predated upon by my cats. And with a quick “Oh my God, me too!!!!!” she reassured me that a future substituting cats for men is common among the brightest, funniest women of our time: namely, us. Together we dreamed of knitting pretty sweaters from cat furballs. We rhapsodized about waterproof undergarments enabling us to watch entire episodes of General Hospital without having to leave our barfoloungers. We made peace with the economy rejoicing at the pleasure of sharing Whiskas with our pets. When confronted with pidgeon-flavored Purina, make squab paté!
Thus released from wallowing in my own anxious despair, I inventoried the many ways in which I am not (yet!) my own hellish apocalyptic vision. It was then I realized: I’ve already become the crotchety old woman whom I fear. I know this because I:
* Think pictures of my contemporaries look like old people
* Don’t go anywhere without a stash of Tums, Beano, ExLax, and Imodium AD
* Refer to everyone under 30 as “damn kids”
* Scratch odd, hardened bits of skin until they bleed
* Engage in deeper conversations with my Gastroenterologist than with my shrink
* Sing along to muzak at the grocery store
* Choose foods based not on how big they’ll make my butt, but on how they’ll affect my regularity
* Take it personally when cars pass me and wonder aloud where exactly they need to be going in such a damn hurry
* Don’t even know if we get MTV stations
* Have observed that everyone my age carries pictures of their grand-children
* Choose shoes based on whether or not I have to bend over to put them on rather than how cute they are
* Don’t get my hair re-blonded anymore, having embraced the inevitability of gray
* Realize that I frequently talk aloud to myself about how crazy everyone around me is
* Have the time and desire to share my comments with hotlines and websites
* Go to the store during the day to avoid the after-work crazies who don’t seem to realize that it takes time to select the right ice cream
So what if I’m a crotchety old woman? So what if I’ll be eaten by my cats? I guess it’s better than being mown down by a smelly, axe-wielding, roller blade-wearing midget wearing an Elmo costume. Wait! Wonder if Gretchen’s afraid of that, too?!
For nearly a decade, people have failed to see why Gretchen and I are friends. After all, we are far more different than we are alike. And our differences are decidedly more substantial (political, philosophical, geographical, physical, professional) than our similarities (sometimes-blonde Catholic school graduates). But we’ve always been bound by one simple fact: we both think we’re hysterical. And the more others refuse to submit to our mutual hilarity, the more convinced we become of our collective side-splitting wit.
When obsessed by the dramatic minutiae, the sturm und drang that consumes my soul in the darkness, I shared with Gretchen my greatest fear: ending up embittered, old, and alone being predated upon by my cats. And with a quick “Oh my God, me too!!!!!” she reassured me that a future substituting cats for men is common among the brightest, funniest women of our time: namely, us. Together we dreamed of knitting pretty sweaters from cat furballs. We rhapsodized about waterproof undergarments enabling us to watch entire episodes of General Hospital without having to leave our barfoloungers. We made peace with the economy rejoicing at the pleasure of sharing Whiskas with our pets. When confronted with pidgeon-flavored Purina, make squab paté!
Thus released from wallowing in my own anxious despair, I inventoried the many ways in which I am not (yet!) my own hellish apocalyptic vision. It was then I realized: I’ve already become the crotchety old woman whom I fear. I know this because I:
* Think pictures of my contemporaries look like old people
* Don’t go anywhere without a stash of Tums, Beano, ExLax, and Imodium AD
* Refer to everyone under 30 as “damn kids”
* Scratch odd, hardened bits of skin until they bleed
* Engage in deeper conversations with my Gastroenterologist than with my shrink
* Sing along to muzak at the grocery store
* Choose foods based not on how big they’ll make my butt, but on how they’ll affect my regularity
* Take it personally when cars pass me and wonder aloud where exactly they need to be going in such a damn hurry
* Don’t even know if we get MTV stations
* Have observed that everyone my age carries pictures of their grand-children
* Choose shoes based on whether or not I have to bend over to put them on rather than how cute they are
* Don’t get my hair re-blonded anymore, having embraced the inevitability of gray
* Realize that I frequently talk aloud to myself about how crazy everyone around me is
* Have the time and desire to share my comments with hotlines and websites
* Go to the store during the day to avoid the after-work crazies who don’t seem to realize that it takes time to select the right ice cream
So what if I’m a crotchety old woman? So what if I’ll be eaten by my cats? I guess it’s better than being mown down by a smelly, axe-wielding, roller blade-wearing midget wearing an Elmo costume. Wait! Wonder if Gretchen’s afraid of that, too?!
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Carolyn: The Jock
by gretchen
When you are a kid, you assume that the world you live in is just the same as all of your friends. Whatever life you live, that life is "normal." Great novels have been written on the revelation that occurs when you start to realize there is a world outside your own -- moving tales of rebirth and the blinders falling from an innocent's eyes.
This is not that.
But I can tell you about the day when I realized that my world was different. It was at Julie Carreo's house. Loved Julie. Julie was fun and cool and made me laugh. I'm a sucker for anyone who makes me laugh. And junk food. They had junk food. Come on. I grew up in granola house.
I went to her house for a sleep over and we were going to hang out all day the next day. I watched her mom. She put on jeans and a nice sweater. This seemed weird to me. My mother didn't own jeans. She owned running shorts, cycling shorts ("shammies," which is just fun to say; even better is, "Your shammy is shot; you need a new one!"), bathing suits, tennis skirts and sweats. Julie's mom cleaned the house, went shopping, came home, read a book. It was all very odd to me. There seemed no progression toward work out time. As ther afternoon wore in, I wondered how, in what little time was left, she would manage to run, play tennis, bike, and swim. I was extremly concerned; she was running out of time. Finally, around 4:00, I could take no more. "Julie, when is your mother going for her run?" I demanded, appalled.
"What?" she asked, confused. "Why does she need to run? What's chasing her?"
"Chasing her? Run. You know, exercise. When is she going?"
"My mom doesn't run." This did not compute. Isn't that what moms do? They run? Every day? And race every weekend? Hello? How can you not run? This is the early 80's! But then I understood. I smiled knowingly.
"Oh, of course. She bikes." Julie started at me, chewing a twinkie. "She doesn't bike?" I asked, wondering if this woman had a strange illness. "Swim?" I asked. Julie shook her head. "I don't understand, what does she do to work out every day?"
Nothing.
"She's not a work out person," Julie finally confessed. And this I did not understand at all. I didn't realize it was a choice. I didn't realize that not all moms worked out all day long, that not all moms raced, that not all moms spent the entire day in workout clothes.
It's OK that I was raised seeing her working out and competing. It's OK that this was different from all the other moms. And it's OK that I didn't follow in her footsteps. But what is not OK, people, is that the woman didn't own a single pair of jeans.
That's just unAmerican.
When you are a kid, you assume that the world you live in is just the same as all of your friends. Whatever life you live, that life is "normal." Great novels have been written on the revelation that occurs when you start to realize there is a world outside your own -- moving tales of rebirth and the blinders falling from an innocent's eyes.
This is not that.
But I can tell you about the day when I realized that my world was different. It was at Julie Carreo's house. Loved Julie. Julie was fun and cool and made me laugh. I'm a sucker for anyone who makes me laugh. And junk food. They had junk food. Come on. I grew up in granola house.
I went to her house for a sleep over and we were going to hang out all day the next day. I watched her mom. She put on jeans and a nice sweater. This seemed weird to me. My mother didn't own jeans. She owned running shorts, cycling shorts ("shammies," which is just fun to say; even better is, "Your shammy is shot; you need a new one!"), bathing suits, tennis skirts and sweats. Julie's mom cleaned the house, went shopping, came home, read a book. It was all very odd to me. There seemed no progression toward work out time. As ther afternoon wore in, I wondered how, in what little time was left, she would manage to run, play tennis, bike, and swim. I was extremly concerned; she was running out of time. Finally, around 4:00, I could take no more. "Julie, when is your mother going for her run?" I demanded, appalled.
"What?" she asked, confused. "Why does she need to run? What's chasing her?"
"Chasing her? Run. You know, exercise. When is she going?"
"My mom doesn't run." This did not compute. Isn't that what moms do? They run? Every day? And race every weekend? Hello? How can you not run? This is the early 80's! But then I understood. I smiled knowingly.
"Oh, of course. She bikes." Julie started at me, chewing a twinkie. "She doesn't bike?" I asked, wondering if this woman had a strange illness. "Swim?" I asked. Julie shook her head. "I don't understand, what does she do to work out every day?"
Nothing.
"She's not a work out person," Julie finally confessed. And this I did not understand at all. I didn't realize it was a choice. I didn't realize that not all moms worked out all day long, that not all moms raced, that not all moms spent the entire day in workout clothes.
It's OK that I was raised seeing her working out and competing. It's OK that this was different from all the other moms. And it's OK that I didn't follow in her footsteps. But what is not OK, people, is that the woman didn't own a single pair of jeans.
That's just unAmerican.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Six parties in hell
by tess
Nobody would mistake The Hubs and me as preferred party guests. I should amend that – although I’ve never been even vaguely congenial, I’m quite sure that he was once party animal non plus ultra. But fifteen years of constant exposure to my APG (anti-party gene) infected him, so now he, too, is defective at social functions.
The first party I remember attending is my own fourth birthday bash. I got the chicken pox, or mumps, or measles, or some hideous childhood disease that made my very grumpy little face look all blotchy and sad beneath my little cardboard party hat. I know this because the hideous illness didn’t stop my mother from photographing the “celebration.” So picture it: one pathetic little blonde girl all alone having a sad little birthday wearing a crappy little hat.
Amazingly, it went downhill from there. I attended my first boy-girl party with the older brother of a dear friend. The mercy date began as a disaster since he’d clearly been forced at gunpoint to go out with his little sister’s friend. As seventh grade parties are wont to do, it turned into a make-out binge for everyone but me. Even my date got in on the action, but not with me. By the end of the evening not only had I lost the boy, but also my friendship with his sister. My young psyche heard the death knell of my social life loud and clear.
Fast forward to college. Parties where everyone seems inexplicably to know one another. Parties where everyone else is doing drugs I’d never even heard of. Parties where fraternity boys mack on sorority girls. And this weird blonde chick in the corner trying to look like she belongs. Lonely, desperate, and clueless about how to insert myself into the general mayhem, that cheerless little party hat would have completed the look.
Long ago and far away, The Hubs and I were invited to a Halloween party given by a co-worker. Fran and I weren’t exactly friends but we lived nearby and her table seated 8, so she invited us. Important safety tip: Don’t show up at a Halloween party without dressing up. You might look like a dolt in costume, but you really feel like an idiot without one. The high point of the evening was when The Hubs managed to spill half a glass of red wine on the white carpet in front of everyone and then pretended he didn’t do it. Wait, no. The high point was leaving. Fran had these pumpkin lights set in the snow along the sidewalk. It might have been wine-related but somehow these little pumpkins seemed to leap out of the snow and dance into the pathway beneath our boots. We honestly didn’t mean to kick them, but they finished their lives as collateral damage of an already deeply fractured evening.
Sam, unaware of the shattered pumpkins in the snow, invited us to a dinner party. All four couples were new to the area and the guys were still reveling in the halcyon days of new jobs in a bright and shiny cutting-edge department, convivial with a hint of competitive sneaking out at the seams. Newly divorced from his first family, Sam introduced us to his Russian mail-order bride, Olga, who was clearly 30 years younger than her new husband. At no time during the evening did Olga consider rising from her throne to greet the guests, to offer drinks, to collect empties, to assist with dinner, to serve dinner, to clear dinner, or to bid farewell to us. I wondered if she might be disabled but then remembered that Princess Olga insisted on Sam taking her to South Beach every weekend. She desperately wanted to see and be seen by the SoBe glitterati. Having broken bread with pathetic and deluded Sam and the Pwitty Pwincess Olga, I can tell you exactly how she maintains her 94-pound fighting weight: they eat dreck. Sam served salad, a heinous collection of ancient lettuce and unknown fruit elements swimming in a cloyingly sweet dressing. Our scrumptious repast was completed by thoroughly inedible tofu-veggie lasagna covered in faux-ketchup and soy cheese. Happily he hadn’t bothered to prepare a dessert; choruses of Hallelujah whispered throughout the house. All four couples smiled happily and laughed engagingly. The Hubs didn’t spill any wine or say anything any more outrageous than usual. We all air-kissed our goodbyes swearing to reconvene very, very soon. Clearly six years isn’t long enough to expunge the horrible memories. We have yet to hear from anyone at that table.
Another neighborhood, another party. Devoted Wife asked us to attend the surprise 40th birthday party she was throwing for Loving Husband. We lived next door so they could see our trucks in the driveway. There was no way out. We had mistakenly anticipated something vaguely more upscale than folding tables and warm Pabst Blue Ribbon, and dressed accordingly. Most of the guests were Loving Husband’s co-workers; bad memories of frat parties past danced in my head. Apparently fearing blue-collar reprisal, The Hubs managed to keep his insults minimal. He only once referred to a woman as “beastly” at the top of his lungs while managing to share that she clearly didn’t wear make up often enough to know how to trowel it on properly. [Side note: The Hubs neither wears make up nor works in the fashion industry in any capacity. But to be fair, she was a bit of a beast and her make up was a disaster.] And then it happened. Loving Husband spotted Young Stud who had no reason to attend his festive fortieth. Young Stud was clearly a special guest of Devoted Wife – special as in don’t-worry-baby-Loving-Husband-is-too-fat-and-stupid-to-know-about-our-affair. Public displays of passion belong only on soaps and in romance novels, never at surprise 40th birthday parties. Within days Devoted Wife’s car vanished. During the police door-to-door sweep we learned that a SWAT team was called responding to threats of murder and suicide. It was a surprise party alright, I’m just not sure who was most surprised. Divorce, counter-lawsuits, rehab, bankruptcy, foreclosure and another sweet tale of happily-never-after.
Forty-three years of parties and a formidable anti-party gene later, I know that I’m not fond of attending celebratory functions. Jubilant just isn’t my best thing. I’ve chosen instead to memorialize that morose little girl in the dismal little party hat, the brat who preferred to glare at the camera rather than blow out her candles or mug for her well-meaning mom. She may not be the embodiment of my best self, but she is most truly the essence of my inner party-goer.
Nobody would mistake The Hubs and me as preferred party guests. I should amend that – although I’ve never been even vaguely congenial, I’m quite sure that he was once party animal non plus ultra. But fifteen years of constant exposure to my APG (anti-party gene) infected him, so now he, too, is defective at social functions.
The first party I remember attending is my own fourth birthday bash. I got the chicken pox, or mumps, or measles, or some hideous childhood disease that made my very grumpy little face look all blotchy and sad beneath my little cardboard party hat. I know this because the hideous illness didn’t stop my mother from photographing the “celebration.” So picture it: one pathetic little blonde girl all alone having a sad little birthday wearing a crappy little hat.
Amazingly, it went downhill from there. I attended my first boy-girl party with the older brother of a dear friend. The mercy date began as a disaster since he’d clearly been forced at gunpoint to go out with his little sister’s friend. As seventh grade parties are wont to do, it turned into a make-out binge for everyone but me. Even my date got in on the action, but not with me. By the end of the evening not only had I lost the boy, but also my friendship with his sister. My young psyche heard the death knell of my social life loud and clear.
Fast forward to college. Parties where everyone seems inexplicably to know one another. Parties where everyone else is doing drugs I’d never even heard of. Parties where fraternity boys mack on sorority girls. And this weird blonde chick in the corner trying to look like she belongs. Lonely, desperate, and clueless about how to insert myself into the general mayhem, that cheerless little party hat would have completed the look.
Long ago and far away, The Hubs and I were invited to a Halloween party given by a co-worker. Fran and I weren’t exactly friends but we lived nearby and her table seated 8, so she invited us. Important safety tip: Don’t show up at a Halloween party without dressing up. You might look like a dolt in costume, but you really feel like an idiot without one. The high point of the evening was when The Hubs managed to spill half a glass of red wine on the white carpet in front of everyone and then pretended he didn’t do it. Wait, no. The high point was leaving. Fran had these pumpkin lights set in the snow along the sidewalk. It might have been wine-related but somehow these little pumpkins seemed to leap out of the snow and dance into the pathway beneath our boots. We honestly didn’t mean to kick them, but they finished their lives as collateral damage of an already deeply fractured evening.
Sam, unaware of the shattered pumpkins in the snow, invited us to a dinner party. All four couples were new to the area and the guys were still reveling in the halcyon days of new jobs in a bright and shiny cutting-edge department, convivial with a hint of competitive sneaking out at the seams. Newly divorced from his first family, Sam introduced us to his Russian mail-order bride, Olga, who was clearly 30 years younger than her new husband. At no time during the evening did Olga consider rising from her throne to greet the guests, to offer drinks, to collect empties, to assist with dinner, to serve dinner, to clear dinner, or to bid farewell to us. I wondered if she might be disabled but then remembered that Princess Olga insisted on Sam taking her to South Beach every weekend. She desperately wanted to see and be seen by the SoBe glitterati. Having broken bread with pathetic and deluded Sam and the Pwitty Pwincess Olga, I can tell you exactly how she maintains her 94-pound fighting weight: they eat dreck. Sam served salad, a heinous collection of ancient lettuce and unknown fruit elements swimming in a cloyingly sweet dressing. Our scrumptious repast was completed by thoroughly inedible tofu-veggie lasagna covered in faux-ketchup and soy cheese. Happily he hadn’t bothered to prepare a dessert; choruses of Hallelujah whispered throughout the house. All four couples smiled happily and laughed engagingly. The Hubs didn’t spill any wine or say anything any more outrageous than usual. We all air-kissed our goodbyes swearing to reconvene very, very soon. Clearly six years isn’t long enough to expunge the horrible memories. We have yet to hear from anyone at that table.
Another neighborhood, another party. Devoted Wife asked us to attend the surprise 40th birthday party she was throwing for Loving Husband. We lived next door so they could see our trucks in the driveway. There was no way out. We had mistakenly anticipated something vaguely more upscale than folding tables and warm Pabst Blue Ribbon, and dressed accordingly. Most of the guests were Loving Husband’s co-workers; bad memories of frat parties past danced in my head. Apparently fearing blue-collar reprisal, The Hubs managed to keep his insults minimal. He only once referred to a woman as “beastly” at the top of his lungs while managing to share that she clearly didn’t wear make up often enough to know how to trowel it on properly. [Side note: The Hubs neither wears make up nor works in the fashion industry in any capacity. But to be fair, she was a bit of a beast and her make up was a disaster.] And then it happened. Loving Husband spotted Young Stud who had no reason to attend his festive fortieth. Young Stud was clearly a special guest of Devoted Wife – special as in don’t-worry-baby-Loving-Husband-is-too-fat-and-stupid-to-know-about-our-affair. Public displays of passion belong only on soaps and in romance novels, never at surprise 40th birthday parties. Within days Devoted Wife’s car vanished. During the police door-to-door sweep we learned that a SWAT team was called responding to threats of murder and suicide. It was a surprise party alright, I’m just not sure who was most surprised. Divorce, counter-lawsuits, rehab, bankruptcy, foreclosure and another sweet tale of happily-never-after.
Forty-three years of parties and a formidable anti-party gene later, I know that I’m not fond of attending celebratory functions. Jubilant just isn’t my best thing. I’ve chosen instead to memorialize that morose little girl in the dismal little party hat, the brat who preferred to glare at the camera rather than blow out her candles or mug for her well-meaning mom. She may not be the embodiment of my best self, but she is most truly the essence of my inner party-goer.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Keeping it current
by tess
Here are a couple of updates to past blogs.
1. In Fiestaphobia, I referred to the first wife of The Hubs as being “even more psychotic than me.” When I mentioned this in passing, I was informed that Grizelda was definitely far less psychotic than I am. So I wanted to retract the misinformation I provided to you. Apparently I am his most psychotic wife to date. I know that I feel far more secure in my role as trophy-wife knowing that The First Mrs. Hubs who has been soundly vilified in my presence for twenty years still has qualities far preferable to my own.
2. Wedding Fever discusses Linda the Loudmouth’s preoccupation with her son’s forthcoming nuptials. On my first day back from vacation I was accosted at 7:27 AM to be thoroughly updated regarding the bride’s color selections -- black and blue (my, how very bruise-like!). Also I was treated to digital photos of Linda (mother of the groom) wearing the $437.29 dress she bought for the March wedding. Yes, March. The March which is ten full months from now. Apparently it was important that I spend my first 15 minutes in the office being updated about all of the truly important and time-sensitive issues.
Here are a couple of updates to past blogs.
1. In Fiestaphobia, I referred to the first wife of The Hubs as being “even more psychotic than me.” When I mentioned this in passing, I was informed that Grizelda was definitely far less psychotic than I am. So I wanted to retract the misinformation I provided to you. Apparently I am his most psychotic wife to date. I know that I feel far more secure in my role as trophy-wife knowing that The First Mrs. Hubs who has been soundly vilified in my presence for twenty years still has qualities far preferable to my own.
2. Wedding Fever discusses Linda the Loudmouth’s preoccupation with her son’s forthcoming nuptials. On my first day back from vacation I was accosted at 7:27 AM to be thoroughly updated regarding the bride’s color selections -- black and blue (my, how very bruise-like!). Also I was treated to digital photos of Linda (mother of the groom) wearing the $437.29 dress she bought for the March wedding. Yes, March. The March which is ten full months from now. Apparently it was important that I spend my first 15 minutes in the office being updated about all of the truly important and time-sensitive issues.
Friday, May 8, 2009
...and the agony of de-feet
by tess
There is a blue oodle of unhinged people out there who espouse lifestyles alternative to my own mundane and insignificant existence. That’s cool, the world is a big place and there’s room for everyone so I’m happy to embrace the vast majority of lifestyle choices. Except for the whack-a-mole loonies commonly known as foot fetishists.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve never seen particularly attractive feet. Unlike my own freakishly wee, baby-sized toes, my mom has these alien-sloth toes that must be six inches long. Her second toe is longer than her thumb toe; Wikipedia informs me that’s due to a condition called Morton’s Toe. Following that brief description was a lot of science mumbo-jumbo that sounded like blahblahblah-toes-blahblahblah. I did note, however, that the article failed to reference the superior intelligence of mutant-long-second-toed people to those of us who are toe challenged. So just like Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Boob Goblin, and the Tooth Fairy, another mother-spawned myth has been obliterated.
My feet are admittedly monstrous. I don’t properly respect them and I refuse to mollycoddle them. I know that there are women (and I suppose men) who pamper their feet with a vast array of ointments and instruments. I don’t. My infinitesimal toenails are cropped weekly and my crunchy, disgusting heels are loofah’d sporadically. Otherwise I abjure everything beneath my ankles.
Some women live for their mani-pedis. And just because I don’t relish spending hours at a spa or salon doesn’t mean I am unable to fathom their much-indulged pleasure. At the age of 62, my sister-in-law married the first man who rubbed her feet. (That sounds dirty but it isn’t secret code for anything kinky.) She literally fell in love with the man who was willing to massage her feet. We spent a week with them not long after their honeymoon and, not surprisingly, Felix would have sold his soul to never stroke another needy toe. Alas, poor Felix the Feet Kneader is now, and will be until his death, accountable for his wife’s foot bliss.
I lobster-hate it when people touch my feet under any circumstances but I temporarily shook off my resistance to pedicures a few years ago. I wanted to wear pretty sandals without terrorizing small children who happened to look down. The pedicurist’s grating and poking and scraping and clipping and rasping and grinding of my feet was massively uncomfortable but did result in less heinous-looking feet. I’ve since discovered that to ask your pedicure technician to be gentle is to ensure that her Inner Himmler will be wielding the implements of pedi-torture.
During my final excursion to pedicure-land I was seated beside a woman with monstrously long toenails. Remember those pictures in The Guinness Book of World Records of people with super-long fingernails? That’s how terrifying her long, yellow, curled toeclaws were. None of the young nail technicians spoke much English and they assumed we would misunderstand their gawking and giggling. It would have been impossible for old Pterodactyl-Toes to disregard their scorn and horror. That was my last pedicure. My escalating germ phobia and pain aversion weren’t quite enough to dissuade me, but once I realized that young girls might gossip about my feet, I quit cold turkey.
So now I’m left to fend for myself. My inflexibility contorts and my obesity undulates as I flail toe-ward with clippers, scissors, and files. Finally breathless and cramped I offer thanks to all the gods and goddesses for the foot-phobia that saved me from becoming a pedicurist or a podiatrist. Barely able to tolerate my own feet, it would be a living nightmare to fondle those of others. Gack.
There is a blue oodle of unhinged people out there who espouse lifestyles alternative to my own mundane and insignificant existence. That’s cool, the world is a big place and there’s room for everyone so I’m happy to embrace the vast majority of lifestyle choices. Except for the whack-a-mole loonies commonly known as foot fetishists.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve never seen particularly attractive feet. Unlike my own freakishly wee, baby-sized toes, my mom has these alien-sloth toes that must be six inches long. Her second toe is longer than her thumb toe; Wikipedia informs me that’s due to a condition called Morton’s Toe. Following that brief description was a lot of science mumbo-jumbo that sounded like blahblahblah-toes-blahblahblah. I did note, however, that the article failed to reference the superior intelligence of mutant-long-second-toed people to those of us who are toe challenged. So just like Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Boob Goblin, and the Tooth Fairy, another mother-spawned myth has been obliterated.
My feet are admittedly monstrous. I don’t properly respect them and I refuse to mollycoddle them. I know that there are women (and I suppose men) who pamper their feet with a vast array of ointments and instruments. I don’t. My infinitesimal toenails are cropped weekly and my crunchy, disgusting heels are loofah’d sporadically. Otherwise I abjure everything beneath my ankles.
Some women live for their mani-pedis. And just because I don’t relish spending hours at a spa or salon doesn’t mean I am unable to fathom their much-indulged pleasure. At the age of 62, my sister-in-law married the first man who rubbed her feet. (That sounds dirty but it isn’t secret code for anything kinky.) She literally fell in love with the man who was willing to massage her feet. We spent a week with them not long after their honeymoon and, not surprisingly, Felix would have sold his soul to never stroke another needy toe. Alas, poor Felix the Feet Kneader is now, and will be until his death, accountable for his wife’s foot bliss.
I lobster-hate it when people touch my feet under any circumstances but I temporarily shook off my resistance to pedicures a few years ago. I wanted to wear pretty sandals without terrorizing small children who happened to look down. The pedicurist’s grating and poking and scraping and clipping and rasping and grinding of my feet was massively uncomfortable but did result in less heinous-looking feet. I’ve since discovered that to ask your pedicure technician to be gentle is to ensure that her Inner Himmler will be wielding the implements of pedi-torture.
During my final excursion to pedicure-land I was seated beside a woman with monstrously long toenails. Remember those pictures in The Guinness Book of World Records of people with super-long fingernails? That’s how terrifying her long, yellow, curled toeclaws were. None of the young nail technicians spoke much English and they assumed we would misunderstand their gawking and giggling. It would have been impossible for old Pterodactyl-Toes to disregard their scorn and horror. That was my last pedicure. My escalating germ phobia and pain aversion weren’t quite enough to dissuade me, but once I realized that young girls might gossip about my feet, I quit cold turkey.
So now I’m left to fend for myself. My inflexibility contorts and my obesity undulates as I flail toe-ward with clippers, scissors, and files. Finally breathless and cramped I offer thanks to all the gods and goddesses for the foot-phobia that saved me from becoming a pedicurist or a podiatrist. Barely able to tolerate my own feet, it would be a living nightmare to fondle those of others. Gack.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Wedding fever
by tess
During the holidays, the son of Linda the Loudmouth asked his girlfriend to marry him. And even a vitriolic old curmudgeon like me concedes that it’s a single pleasant note in the murky dirge of daily life that two young adults can have enough confidence in themselves, in the world, in life to want to face it all together. Of course there’s also the lurking knowledge that he’s taking this giant leap into wedded bliss as a small step away from the apron strings that have shanghaied him very firmly to his mother’s breast for 30 years.
And so the wedding blather begins. Linda the Loudmouth provides weekly reports about which issues of Modern Bride, Martha Stewart Weddings, Brides, Bridal Guide, Elegant Bride, and World Bride that Bonnie Brideface is reading. We all oooohed and aaaaahed over the ring Bonnie had re-fashioned from Linda’s own 15th anniversary diamonds. The Gown has been purchased and awaits The Blessed Event. Ongoing discussions of cakes, flowers, bridesmaids, guest lists, vows, photographers, videographers, invitations, caterers, favors, tuxedos, bands, honeymoons, and gifts await us. Bated breath all around. GRETCHEN: I JUST THREW UP. BUT DON'T WORRY; THE DOG IS CLEANING IT UP FOR ME.
Having learned early the convenience of the word NO when delivered in tandem with an eye-rolling grimace, I’ve attended five weddings in 47 years. Two of them were mine but I’m not sure I count the second one as a wedding per se: the five-minute ceremony was conducted en route from work to the grocery store and, since it was casual Friday, we were both wearing jeans. My friends’ weddings appeared to be all traditional claptrap replete with pomp and circumstance but devoid of love and affection. So far only two of those three weddings have resulted in divorce. In fact my best friend’s father recently celebrated the final payment for her reception; the annulment was sealed in 1993. GRETCHEN: WOAH. WAIT A MINUTE. I'M NOT YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Another very dear friend is considering marriage and I wish her the very best no matter what she decides. I speak to her from my heart but it’s nearly impossible for a middle-aged woman to share the exuberance and faith of a much-younger woman. The passage of time and accumulation of baggage give rise to doubts that make me sound like a wretched (and statistically improbable) crone when examining the potential of wedded bliss. GRETCHEN: WAIT -- IS THAT ME? I'M NOT THAT MUCH YOUNGER THAN YOU.
Intellectually I realize that the gown, flowers, photographer, reception, et. al. are meant to celebrate the joyful event and to mark its importance. But the miserable malcontent in me just doesn’t buy it. The promise between two people, whether it’s permanent or not, should be more about commitment and intimacy, and less about spreadsheets and timelines. The event should focus on two people feeling safe and loved rather than friends and families, no matter how well-meaning they may be. GRETCHEN: I TOTALLY AGREE. sorry. I'll stop interrupting. BUT THIS WISDOM IS WHY WE ARE FRIENDS. THIS, THE, "YOU GET TO CHOOSE" ADVICE, AND THE NOW-INFAMOUS: "DO YOU REALLY HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO TALK ABOUT THAN YOUR WEIGHT, GRETCHEN?"
It comes down to this: if you’re a wedding-crazed, starry-eyed 22 year old who needs a toaster oven, then by all means spend $25,000 to get that toaster oven. If you’re adults, then commit or don’t but you’ll find that it makes far more fiduciary sense to spend $25 and buy your own damn toaster. GRETCHEN: I'M BUYING MY OWN TOASTER. BUT I'LL WEAR MY WEDDING DRESS WHEN I USE IT. HOW'S THAT FOR COMPROMISE?
During the holidays, the son of Linda the Loudmouth asked his girlfriend to marry him. And even a vitriolic old curmudgeon like me concedes that it’s a single pleasant note in the murky dirge of daily life that two young adults can have enough confidence in themselves, in the world, in life to want to face it all together. Of course there’s also the lurking knowledge that he’s taking this giant leap into wedded bliss as a small step away from the apron strings that have shanghaied him very firmly to his mother’s breast for 30 years.
And so the wedding blather begins. Linda the Loudmouth provides weekly reports about which issues of Modern Bride, Martha Stewart Weddings, Brides, Bridal Guide, Elegant Bride, and World Bride that Bonnie Brideface is reading. We all oooohed and aaaaahed over the ring Bonnie had re-fashioned from Linda’s own 15th anniversary diamonds. The Gown has been purchased and awaits The Blessed Event. Ongoing discussions of cakes, flowers, bridesmaids, guest lists, vows, photographers, videographers, invitations, caterers, favors, tuxedos, bands, honeymoons, and gifts await us. Bated breath all around. GRETCHEN: I JUST THREW UP. BUT DON'T WORRY; THE DOG IS CLEANING IT UP FOR ME.
Having learned early the convenience of the word NO when delivered in tandem with an eye-rolling grimace, I’ve attended five weddings in 47 years. Two of them were mine but I’m not sure I count the second one as a wedding per se: the five-minute ceremony was conducted en route from work to the grocery store and, since it was casual Friday, we were both wearing jeans. My friends’ weddings appeared to be all traditional claptrap replete with pomp and circumstance but devoid of love and affection. So far only two of those three weddings have resulted in divorce. In fact my best friend’s father recently celebrated the final payment for her reception; the annulment was sealed in 1993. GRETCHEN: WOAH. WAIT A MINUTE. I'M NOT YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Another very dear friend is considering marriage and I wish her the very best no matter what she decides. I speak to her from my heart but it’s nearly impossible for a middle-aged woman to share the exuberance and faith of a much-younger woman. The passage of time and accumulation of baggage give rise to doubts that make me sound like a wretched (and statistically improbable) crone when examining the potential of wedded bliss. GRETCHEN: WAIT -- IS THAT ME? I'M NOT THAT MUCH YOUNGER THAN YOU.
Intellectually I realize that the gown, flowers, photographer, reception, et. al. are meant to celebrate the joyful event and to mark its importance. But the miserable malcontent in me just doesn’t buy it. The promise between two people, whether it’s permanent or not, should be more about commitment and intimacy, and less about spreadsheets and timelines. The event should focus on two people feeling safe and loved rather than friends and families, no matter how well-meaning they may be. GRETCHEN: I TOTALLY AGREE. sorry. I'll stop interrupting. BUT THIS WISDOM IS WHY WE ARE FRIENDS. THIS, THE, "YOU GET TO CHOOSE" ADVICE, AND THE NOW-INFAMOUS: "DO YOU REALLY HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO TALK ABOUT THAN YOUR WEIGHT, GRETCHEN?"
It comes down to this: if you’re a wedding-crazed, starry-eyed 22 year old who needs a toaster oven, then by all means spend $25,000 to get that toaster oven. If you’re adults, then commit or don’t but you’ll find that it makes far more fiduciary sense to spend $25 and buy your own damn toaster. GRETCHEN: I'M BUYING MY OWN TOASTER. BUT I'LL WEAR MY WEDDING DRESS WHEN I USE IT. HOW'S THAT FOR COMPROMISE?
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Fitting
by gretchen
When you are shopping for a wedding gown, you get a little room, with an actual door and you have a nice woman helping you zip and hook and fluff. You walk out in gown after gown of princess dreams and look at your mother, sitting on a couch in front of you. You look at her with hope, thinking she'll be moved to tears seeing her youngest daughter, the one who swore she would never marry, in a wedding dress. You know this happens. You've seen it on TV. But there are no tears. There is the, "only your mother will tell you" feedback.
Which, really, is why you brought her. Big decision here. Can't be left to the somewhat questionable judgment of a still-not-sure-about-the-whole-wedding-thing woman.
The dress you love, the one you have coveted is immediately deemed too old. The saleswoman agrees: "It's for someone very mature, like 40." I stare at her. I look at my mom. "I'm 35. Pretty close."
More puffy dresses. More sparkles and tiaras and netting. Over and over, you think, "This is great, but I'm 35. I mean, seriously." Your mother loves the big foofy white one. Which would be dreamy. If you were 23. The saleswoman brings over more of the same. All dreamy. "I'm 35," you keep mumbling.
You are 35, and so you pick the one you like, the one that's "too old." It's pretty and appropriate.
When you go in for you fitting (alone), the nice little room (WITH THE DOOR) is gone. You are ushered into a small changing room with curtains that don't quite cover the entry way. The seamstress keeps pacing outside. At any moment, she might whip open those curtains and find you in your spanx/sausage casings hooking up your long-line bra which is a total pain in the ass. You step out. You wait for the, "Oh, so pretty."
You don't get it. The seamstress has a job to do: get you into that dress properly. She doesn't really care about much else. She also doesn't speak English, so what does it matter? You stand there, alone (no entourage necessary, again, unlike on TV). You wonder if it's the right dress. Not much you can do about that now... you decide maybe it's the wrong dress. You angst. You stress. You know it's the wrong dress. You decide you are definitely not getting married.
When you come back to pick it up six weeks later (again, alone), you have a new seamstress, and this one has no problem barging in on you. "I am the dressmaker. I see everyone neked," she says with her thick accent. "You tell me ven you need me to help you," she finishes as she sort-of closes the curtains. You try to change as fast as possible so she doesn't come in. In the process, you rip the zipper on your pants which you end up tearing to get them off as quickly as possibly. You can hear her heels clicking around out there. HURRY! you tell yourself. You fling the pants, wondering how you'll deal with the fact that you totally broke the zipper with your big fat butt. She lean over to put your shoes on and notice that very unattractive roll of fat on your belly. You have a very bad feeling about this dress. She barges in and sees you in the scuba suit of Lycra and boning. "Let's put this on," she says and drops the dress over your head. As she starts to shove you into the dress, you realize it's now much tighter.
She ushers you outside, again: all business. There is a cranky old man sitting just down the way and a fat young girl with her frumpy friends trying on bridesmaid dresses. You smell a bridezilla as she commands the tired salesgirl to fetch this and that. You remind yourself that YOU are the anomaly here; most women do think all of this is a very big frickin deal.
The seamstress glares at your boobs. "Vas dis de bra you vore ven you vere fitted?" Oh shit. You tell her is was. She doesn't actually call you a liar but you know she's thinking it as she eyeballs the trashy amount of cleavage exploding out of the top and sides of the strapless dress. You knew strapless was a bad idea... She tells you something you don't understand and suddenly, she's unzipped your dress and is yanking your bra around and moving your boobs. You are being molested in a wedding dress shop. AND NO ONE CARES. She zips you up.
"You see," and no I can't keep doing the accent, "You American girls like to wear your boobs up over your shoulders. You need to have them fall more naturally. Look at me. I am a D," she says proudly as she opens her jacket to reveal what you really doubt are D-cup boobs. She tells you how good her boobs look and then lifts them up higher to show you how ridiculous it would be to have them hoisted. But she's not American. We like the gravity-defying boobs. She shifts you around a bit more and then gives you instructions to not wear your bra too high on your wedding day. She grabs your hand and puts it under her boob: there should be two fingers between the bottom of your breast and the wire in the bra. Do you feel?" You've got my hands on some Russian woman's boob. This isn't really what you thought you would be doing today.
When you get home, your pants unzipped and your sweater pulled as low as it could go to cover that fact, your fiance asks you how your day was. "I got felt up by some Russian woman and then she made me look at her boobs." You walk away, letting him ponder that. From the other room, you add, "And she is totally not a D-cup. I felt them; I know."
When you are shopping for a wedding gown, you get a little room, with an actual door and you have a nice woman helping you zip and hook and fluff. You walk out in gown after gown of princess dreams and look at your mother, sitting on a couch in front of you. You look at her with hope, thinking she'll be moved to tears seeing her youngest daughter, the one who swore she would never marry, in a wedding dress. You know this happens. You've seen it on TV. But there are no tears. There is the, "only your mother will tell you" feedback.
Which, really, is why you brought her. Big decision here. Can't be left to the somewhat questionable judgment of a still-not-sure-about-the-whole-wedding-thing woman.
The dress you love, the one you have coveted is immediately deemed too old. The saleswoman agrees: "It's for someone very mature, like 40." I stare at her. I look at my mom. "I'm 35. Pretty close."
More puffy dresses. More sparkles and tiaras and netting. Over and over, you think, "This is great, but I'm 35. I mean, seriously." Your mother loves the big foofy white one. Which would be dreamy. If you were 23. The saleswoman brings over more of the same. All dreamy. "I'm 35," you keep mumbling.
You are 35, and so you pick the one you like, the one that's "too old." It's pretty and appropriate.
When you go in for you fitting (alone), the nice little room (WITH THE DOOR) is gone. You are ushered into a small changing room with curtains that don't quite cover the entry way. The seamstress keeps pacing outside. At any moment, she might whip open those curtains and find you in your spanx/sausage casings hooking up your long-line bra which is a total pain in the ass. You step out. You wait for the, "Oh, so pretty."
You don't get it. The seamstress has a job to do: get you into that dress properly. She doesn't really care about much else. She also doesn't speak English, so what does it matter? You stand there, alone (no entourage necessary, again, unlike on TV). You wonder if it's the right dress. Not much you can do about that now... you decide maybe it's the wrong dress. You angst. You stress. You know it's the wrong dress. You decide you are definitely not getting married.
When you come back to pick it up six weeks later (again, alone), you have a new seamstress, and this one has no problem barging in on you. "I am the dressmaker. I see everyone neked," she says with her thick accent. "You tell me ven you need me to help you," she finishes as she sort-of closes the curtains. You try to change as fast as possible so she doesn't come in. In the process, you rip the zipper on your pants which you end up tearing to get them off as quickly as possibly. You can hear her heels clicking around out there. HURRY! you tell yourself. You fling the pants, wondering how you'll deal with the fact that you totally broke the zipper with your big fat butt. She lean over to put your shoes on and notice that very unattractive roll of fat on your belly. You have a very bad feeling about this dress. She barges in and sees you in the scuba suit of Lycra and boning. "Let's put this on," she says and drops the dress over your head. As she starts to shove you into the dress, you realize it's now much tighter.
She ushers you outside, again: all business. There is a cranky old man sitting just down the way and a fat young girl with her frumpy friends trying on bridesmaid dresses. You smell a bridezilla as she commands the tired salesgirl to fetch this and that. You remind yourself that YOU are the anomaly here; most women do think all of this is a very big frickin deal.
The seamstress glares at your boobs. "Vas dis de bra you vore ven you vere fitted?" Oh shit. You tell her is was. She doesn't actually call you a liar but you know she's thinking it as she eyeballs the trashy amount of cleavage exploding out of the top and sides of the strapless dress. You knew strapless was a bad idea... She tells you something you don't understand and suddenly, she's unzipped your dress and is yanking your bra around and moving your boobs. You are being molested in a wedding dress shop. AND NO ONE CARES. She zips you up.
"You see," and no I can't keep doing the accent, "You American girls like to wear your boobs up over your shoulders. You need to have them fall more naturally. Look at me. I am a D," she says proudly as she opens her jacket to reveal what you really doubt are D-cup boobs. She tells you how good her boobs look and then lifts them up higher to show you how ridiculous it would be to have them hoisted. But she's not American. We like the gravity-defying boobs. She shifts you around a bit more and then gives you instructions to not wear your bra too high on your wedding day. She grabs your hand and puts it under her boob: there should be two fingers between the bottom of your breast and the wire in the bra. Do you feel?" You've got my hands on some Russian woman's boob. This isn't really what you thought you would be doing today.
When you get home, your pants unzipped and your sweater pulled as low as it could go to cover that fact, your fiance asks you how your day was. "I got felt up by some Russian woman and then she made me look at her boobs." You walk away, letting him ponder that. From the other room, you add, "And she is totally not a D-cup. I felt them; I know."
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Conversations overheard
by tess
There are days when my ears bleed from exposure to the inane chitchat of my colleagues. I’ll share transcripts of actual conversations with you periodically so that you can lie in bed late at night and wish you were me.
Becca de Braindead: So is it cinco de Mayo today?
Kris Krabby: Yup, you’re all over that one.
Carlos from Columbia: Yeah, it means fifth of May and today’s May fifth.
Becca de Braindead: Ooooooh. (Pause) Why is it special?
Kris Krabby: I don’t know. Look it up.
Becca de Braindead: How?
Kris Krabby: Sigh.
Carlos from Columbia: Go to Google and type it in.
Becca de Braindead: How do you spell it?
Kris Krabby: Just go to Wikipedia and type in C-i-n-c-o-d-e-m-a-y-o.
Becca de Braindead: I thought you would just know. You’re Mexican.
Carlos from Columbia: I’m Columbian. That’s different than Mexican.
Becca de Braindead: Oooooooh.
Kris Krabby (summarizes aloud from Wikipedia to The Entire Office): It’s a regional holiday in Mexico celebrating their independence.
Carlos from Columbia (reading along for some unknowable reason): No, it says only Americans think that. Their real independence day is September 16.
Becca de Braindead: What’s that?
Kris Krabby: What’s what?
Becca de Braindead: September 16?
Carlos from Columbia: Mexico’s independence day.
Becca de Braindead: They have one, too?
Kris Krabby: Yup.
Becca de Braindead: What’s it called?
Carlos from Columbia: I’m not sure. Look it up.
Becca de Braindead: I don’t think bars celebrate that.
Kris Krabby: Celebrate what?
Becca de Braindead: That other thing.
Carlos from Columbia: Yeah, I think you’re right.
Becca de Braindead: Well, you should know. You’re Mexican.
Carlos from Columbia: No, I’m Columbian. That’s different.
Becca de Braindead: Oooooh. (Pause) So we should all go out drinking tonight.
Kris Krabby: Nope. Can’t.
Carlos from Columbia: No, I can’t either.
Becca de Braindead: But you have to, it’s Mexico’s independence day and you’re Mexican.
Boss sniffles forcefully and incessantly; this is apparently management-ese for SHUT UP BEFORE I FIRE ALL OF YOU
Blissful silence ensues until the next verse of the If-I-Only-Had-a-Brain Follies
There are days when my ears bleed from exposure to the inane chitchat of my colleagues. I’ll share transcripts of actual conversations with you periodically so that you can lie in bed late at night and wish you were me.
Becca de Braindead: So is it cinco de Mayo today?
Kris Krabby: Yup, you’re all over that one.
Carlos from Columbia: Yeah, it means fifth of May and today’s May fifth.
Becca de Braindead: Ooooooh. (Pause) Why is it special?
Kris Krabby: I don’t know. Look it up.
Becca de Braindead: How?
Kris Krabby: Sigh.
Carlos from Columbia: Go to Google and type it in.
Becca de Braindead: How do you spell it?
Kris Krabby: Just go to Wikipedia and type in C-i-n-c-o-d-e-m-a-y-o.
Becca de Braindead: I thought you would just know. You’re Mexican.
Carlos from Columbia: I’m Columbian. That’s different than Mexican.
Becca de Braindead: Oooooooh.
Kris Krabby (summarizes aloud from Wikipedia to The Entire Office): It’s a regional holiday in Mexico celebrating their independence.
Carlos from Columbia (reading along for some unknowable reason): No, it says only Americans think that. Their real independence day is September 16.
Becca de Braindead: What’s that?
Kris Krabby: What’s what?
Becca de Braindead: September 16?
Carlos from Columbia: Mexico’s independence day.
Becca de Braindead: They have one, too?
Kris Krabby: Yup.
Becca de Braindead: What’s it called?
Carlos from Columbia: I’m not sure. Look it up.
Becca de Braindead: I don’t think bars celebrate that.
Kris Krabby: Celebrate what?
Becca de Braindead: That other thing.
Carlos from Columbia: Yeah, I think you’re right.
Becca de Braindead: Well, you should know. You’re Mexican.
Carlos from Columbia: No, I’m Columbian. That’s different.
Becca de Braindead: Oooooh. (Pause) So we should all go out drinking tonight.
Kris Krabby: Nope. Can’t.
Carlos from Columbia: No, I can’t either.
Becca de Braindead: But you have to, it’s Mexico’s independence day and you’re Mexican.
Boss sniffles forcefully and incessantly; this is apparently management-ese for SHUT UP BEFORE I FIRE ALL OF YOU
Blissful silence ensues until the next verse of the If-I-Only-Had-a-Brain Follies
Checking out
by tess
The Hubs doesn’t read this blog. He’s busy with his big-old-macho, man-sized, uber-important Real Life. I make no pretense about it – I embrace my insignificant little faux life. I tried it the other way but didn’t much fancy it.
In addition to his (insert air quotes and eye roll here) reeeeal liiiife, he maintains (erroneously) that I asked him not to read this blog. He might actually believe it but he’s probably just imagined this to deflect his husbandly responsibility of pretending to care about his wife’s scribbling. Either way is fine. I guess that’s what ten years of marriage gives you: the ability to use the word “fine” and actually mean “In another time and place this might have mattered, but here today it does not because I’m completely engaged in my faux life right now and you are dismissed from it. Thank you for playing and collect your consolation prize on the way out.” Plus if he doesn’t read it, then he won’t feel compelled to point out a) improper grammar, b) incorrect punctuation, c) the fact that I should be working on The Great Romance which will finance our retirement, and d) the occasional ever-so-slight exaggeration which makes my normally sepulchral nature seem vaguely funnier than a funeral.
And so in his absence I can tell you, dear readers, the Truth about Last Night. I was informing him that if he cannot be bothered to go to the doctor and get a prescription for his hypertension meds, then he better not even think of crying to me after he suffers a totally disabling stroke. And who cares anyway if we lose the house and our (non-existent) savings when the hospital takes everything we own because he couldn’t take twenty minutes to go to the doctor. And won’t he be thrilled when we have to move in with my parents because I know I’ll be ecstatic to spend the next 40 years of my life (my sexual prime, by the way, during which I was planning to become a cougar lesbian) changing his diapers. And don’t even think for a second, Mister Man, that I won’t dress you up in purple muumuus and orange lipstick and blue eyeliner before I roll your ass down to the Rec Center because that’s penance, buddy boy, and I used to be Catholic so I know all about it, dammit.
I knew I could, Ever Ready Bunny-like, keep going and going and going because The Hubs had clearly checked out of the conversation. Watching closely, I can see the exact moment it happens. Generally it’s about the time my hands hit my hips. His beady little blue eyes go watery and glaze over as he hides deep within himself like a latter day Sybil. (Sometimes on Brothers and Sisters I wonder if Sally Field will morph back into one of the Sybil personalities. It would make the show a lot less self-absorbed if she’d just totally let go and Sybil-out on their Walker asses.)
And I can almost see the movie that’s playing in his zoned out mind: he (younger, thinner, and taller) is on a big, beautiful sailboat, no land for miles around, surrounded by a bevy of gorgeous, improbably full-figured Asian girls lounging all over the deck. And in the background you can barely hear “Saaaaaailing / Takes me awaay / To where I've always heard it could bee / Just a dream and the wind to carry mee / And soon I will be freeeee.” Although Christopher Cross isn’t really appropriate for the Technicolor fantasy sequence, Jimmy Buffet is just too cliché.
So this how The Hubs and I live our lives. We take turns coping with the realities of life and luxuriating in the bliss of escapism. Perhaps that’s what vacations are for – a period of down-time during which partners can simultaneously indulge in Daydreamia, that place where we’re all taller, thinner, younger, smarter, and surrounded by minions bewitched by our beauty, charisma, and sex appeal. Whether we think of it as Heaven, Fantasytown, or Zoeland, it’s important to have a Happy Place to which we can retreat when the wolves are nipping at our heels. And if it’s healthy to eschew reality, then The Hubs and I will be around for a long, long time.
The Hubs doesn’t read this blog. He’s busy with his big-old-macho, man-sized, uber-important Real Life. I make no pretense about it – I embrace my insignificant little faux life. I tried it the other way but didn’t much fancy it.
In addition to his (insert air quotes and eye roll here) reeeeal liiiife, he maintains (erroneously) that I asked him not to read this blog. He might actually believe it but he’s probably just imagined this to deflect his husbandly responsibility of pretending to care about his wife’s scribbling. Either way is fine. I guess that’s what ten years of marriage gives you: the ability to use the word “fine” and actually mean “In another time and place this might have mattered, but here today it does not because I’m completely engaged in my faux life right now and you are dismissed from it. Thank you for playing and collect your consolation prize on the way out.” Plus if he doesn’t read it, then he won’t feel compelled to point out a) improper grammar, b) incorrect punctuation, c) the fact that I should be working on The Great Romance which will finance our retirement, and d) the occasional ever-so-slight exaggeration which makes my normally sepulchral nature seem vaguely funnier than a funeral.
And so in his absence I can tell you, dear readers, the Truth about Last Night. I was informing him that if he cannot be bothered to go to the doctor and get a prescription for his hypertension meds, then he better not even think of crying to me after he suffers a totally disabling stroke. And who cares anyway if we lose the house and our (non-existent) savings when the hospital takes everything we own because he couldn’t take twenty minutes to go to the doctor. And won’t he be thrilled when we have to move in with my parents because I know I’ll be ecstatic to spend the next 40 years of my life (my sexual prime, by the way, during which I was planning to become a cougar lesbian) changing his diapers. And don’t even think for a second, Mister Man, that I won’t dress you up in purple muumuus and orange lipstick and blue eyeliner before I roll your ass down to the Rec Center because that’s penance, buddy boy, and I used to be Catholic so I know all about it, dammit.
I knew I could, Ever Ready Bunny-like, keep going and going and going because The Hubs had clearly checked out of the conversation. Watching closely, I can see the exact moment it happens. Generally it’s about the time my hands hit my hips. His beady little blue eyes go watery and glaze over as he hides deep within himself like a latter day Sybil. (Sometimes on Brothers and Sisters I wonder if Sally Field will morph back into one of the Sybil personalities. It would make the show a lot less self-absorbed if she’d just totally let go and Sybil-out on their Walker asses.)
And I can almost see the movie that’s playing in his zoned out mind: he (younger, thinner, and taller) is on a big, beautiful sailboat, no land for miles around, surrounded by a bevy of gorgeous, improbably full-figured Asian girls lounging all over the deck. And in the background you can barely hear “Saaaaaailing / Takes me awaay / To where I've always heard it could bee / Just a dream and the wind to carry mee / And soon I will be freeeee.” Although Christopher Cross isn’t really appropriate for the Technicolor fantasy sequence, Jimmy Buffet is just too cliché.
So this how The Hubs and I live our lives. We take turns coping with the realities of life and luxuriating in the bliss of escapism. Perhaps that’s what vacations are for – a period of down-time during which partners can simultaneously indulge in Daydreamia, that place where we’re all taller, thinner, younger, smarter, and surrounded by minions bewitched by our beauty, charisma, and sex appeal. Whether we think of it as Heaven, Fantasytown, or Zoeland, it’s important to have a Happy Place to which we can retreat when the wolves are nipping at our heels. And if it’s healthy to eschew reality, then The Hubs and I will be around for a long, long time.
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Suspects
by gretchen
I have a criminal in my midst and lately, my purpose in life has been to identify, prosecute, punish, and rehablitate the perpetrator, known as The Urinator. To do so, I'll draw from my extensive studies in crime, forensics, prosecution, and effective penal institutions (coursework drawn from Dateline on ID, CSI, Boston Legal, 48 Hours, City Confidential, The Dog Whisperer, and Super Max.)
THE CRIME:
Distributing bodily fluids in illegal zones (i.e., not in the litterbox and/or outside). The crimes are of serial nature and have similar MOs.
THE SUSPECTS:
Laney Janey.
This 12-year-old leggy blonde has no criminal record and her demeanour and alibis put her at the bottom of our list. Additionally, at her 65-lb size, we feel the deposits are too small to come from her.
Mookie Balookie.
The 3-year-old white male has no record of offenses, however he has motive: namely the addition of one Leo the Lionheart to the house has threatened his alpha status. He also has a long history of deviant behaviour, plots his escape constantly, and does not believe there are any rules that apply to him. Furthermore, he has exhibited odd behavior with the litter boxes to include: stalking the female when she is inside, feeling the need to mark the fresh litter immediately upon its arrival in the box (or even when it's still in the kitty litter bucket which is just weird), etc.
Turtle Durtle.
A 5-year-old exotic beauty with a very long history of such offenses, having committed crimes in the bathtub, basement, and kitchen. Such behaviour was associated with confusion and/or intimidation by one Mookie Balookie. She was found innocent by reason of insanity due to her tormentor.
Leo the Lionheart.
This 5-year-old male has a long history of such behaviour and would seem the obvious perp, but he seems to have sound alibis when the crimes were committed (Lots of, "I was alone in my cage, locked from the outside; by YOU."). However, his disinclination to accept he is not the alpha (not even close) does serve as major motivation. Additionally, like the two feline suspects, the size of the evidence does indicate the illegal deposits could be coming from him.
STATUS OF THE INVESTIGATION.
Ongoing. Another crime committed this afternoon. Leo claimed he was being taunted by Mookie in the study. Mookie refused to corroborate his story. Turtle claims she had not left the window in 8.25 hours. Laney was following Jamie around the house.
The CSI Unit said that analysis of the evidence has proved somewhat inconclusive. Our lead suspect, Leo, has been banned from the crime scenes as a precautionary measure. I
Unfortunately, due to a problem with a line up last week in which all four suspects charged the accusor demanding pets and treats and playtime with rope toy, we have decided this method of identification is futile. Additionally, one suspect, Mookie, made a run for it in the mayhem and ended up in the neighbors yard. Again.
If you have information which can lead to an arrest, please contact Detective Krieslip.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
In defense of love handles
by tess
When I was a senior in high school, my best friend and I attended an Orioles game and (surprise!) drank far too much beer for a school night. Once home, we settled into a pot of coffee and our American Lit homework which included a paper entitled Willy Loman: American Tragic Hero. We hadn’t discussed our points of view on much of anything that night aside from the need for more beer and the relative cuteness of Cal Ripkin’s eyes versus his butt; and so we each completed our assignment. A few days later Sister Marylouise Whatevertheheck read two papers aloud. Always a pushover for a sob story, Kathleen was convinced that Willy embodied the tragic hero. And ever the castrating bitch, I condemned him as neither tragic nor heroic. Like an ancient Indian tripping on peyote, my inebriation had opened my mind to Aristotle’s elements of tragedy that I wouldn’t learn for another three years. And so two best friends lying only inches apart had claimed diametrically opposing views and had written so passionately about them that their papers were considered (in that small time and place) the defining arguments in one of modern American dramatic literature’s great debates.
This is not that. This is not my counterpoint to Gretchen’s anti-NASCAR diatribe. Honestly I am completely devoid of opinion about both NASCAR and Formula 1. I only feel compelled to comment because she’s so “batshit loonball” over-the-top in both her adoration of F1 and her disdain for NASCAR. Whenever someone expresses such intense conviction, my contrary nature demands that I disagree immediately and vociferously.
And so I will. But first: what’s perfect about Gretchen’s blog? She has purposely sprinkled her article with elitism: a dash of Porsche here, a smidgen of engineer there. References to the “complexity of racing” and “driving excitement” being far superior to both beer and “talking shit.” (While I’ve never actually heard shit talk, I’m damn intimate with beer, so I feel educated enough to take a side.) Gretchen vividly spotlights the exact differences between the 55 million worldwide F1 lovers and the 75 million (mostly American) fans who spend over $3 billion a year on NASCAR-licensed products.
NASCAR fans proudly believe that it’s okay to drink beer and talk shit. Most live their lives without higher education degrees and fancy foreign cars. So if it’s anything, maybe this is a declaration that it’s okay to be average. America loves Average (witness Joe the Plumber) and will choose Average over FancySchmancy any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Just like it’s acceptable that Willy Loman was a pathetic door-to-door sales-schmuck who couldn’t keep his fly closed rather than The Quintessential American Tragic Hero According to Aristotelian Theory, so too is it acceptable to embrace the simpler pleasures in life: an F-150, a Coors Light, love handles, … and NASCAR.
NASCAR productions aren’t engrossed in delicate nuance and technical cunning. NASCAR revels in its own escapism and entertainment value. Fans open their family rooms to people with whom they feel comfortable sharing a few hours away from the concerns of that big, bad world out there. Viewers become invested in the drivers, their failures and successes, their families and crews, their charities and sponsors, the guys they love, and the guys they love to hate.
I commend viewers like Gretchen who have acquired the specialized technical savvy to enjoy Formula One. But that doesn’t diminish my appreciation of a sport that grew out of bootlegging. And it doesn’t cheapen my respect for the NASCAR fans whom I might refer to as “average” but hail as the backbone of this country.
When I was a senior in high school, my best friend and I attended an Orioles game and (surprise!) drank far too much beer for a school night. Once home, we settled into a pot of coffee and our American Lit homework which included a paper entitled Willy Loman: American Tragic Hero. We hadn’t discussed our points of view on much of anything that night aside from the need for more beer and the relative cuteness of Cal Ripkin’s eyes versus his butt; and so we each completed our assignment. A few days later Sister Marylouise Whatevertheheck read two papers aloud. Always a pushover for a sob story, Kathleen was convinced that Willy embodied the tragic hero. And ever the castrating bitch, I condemned him as neither tragic nor heroic. Like an ancient Indian tripping on peyote, my inebriation had opened my mind to Aristotle’s elements of tragedy that I wouldn’t learn for another three years. And so two best friends lying only inches apart had claimed diametrically opposing views and had written so passionately about them that their papers were considered (in that small time and place) the defining arguments in one of modern American dramatic literature’s great debates.
This is not that. This is not my counterpoint to Gretchen’s anti-NASCAR diatribe. Honestly I am completely devoid of opinion about both NASCAR and Formula 1. I only feel compelled to comment because she’s so “batshit loonball” over-the-top in both her adoration of F1 and her disdain for NASCAR. Whenever someone expresses such intense conviction, my contrary nature demands that I disagree immediately and vociferously.
And so I will. But first: what’s perfect about Gretchen’s blog? She has purposely sprinkled her article with elitism: a dash of Porsche here, a smidgen of engineer there. References to the “complexity of racing” and “driving excitement” being far superior to both beer and “talking shit.” (While I’ve never actually heard shit talk, I’m damn intimate with beer, so I feel educated enough to take a side.) Gretchen vividly spotlights the exact differences between the 55 million worldwide F1 lovers and the 75 million (mostly American) fans who spend over $3 billion a year on NASCAR-licensed products.
NASCAR fans proudly believe that it’s okay to drink beer and talk shit. Most live their lives without higher education degrees and fancy foreign cars. So if it’s anything, maybe this is a declaration that it’s okay to be average. America loves Average (witness Joe the Plumber) and will choose Average over FancySchmancy any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Just like it’s acceptable that Willy Loman was a pathetic door-to-door sales-schmuck who couldn’t keep his fly closed rather than The Quintessential American Tragic Hero According to Aristotelian Theory, so too is it acceptable to embrace the simpler pleasures in life: an F-150, a Coors Light, love handles, … and NASCAR.
NASCAR productions aren’t engrossed in delicate nuance and technical cunning. NASCAR revels in its own escapism and entertainment value. Fans open their family rooms to people with whom they feel comfortable sharing a few hours away from the concerns of that big, bad world out there. Viewers become invested in the drivers, their failures and successes, their families and crews, their charities and sponsors, the guys they love, and the guys they love to hate.
I commend viewers like Gretchen who have acquired the specialized technical savvy to enjoy Formula One. But that doesn’t diminish my appreciation of a sport that grew out of bootlegging. And it doesn’t cheapen my respect for the NASCAR fans whom I might refer to as “average” but hail as the backbone of this country.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Collating, Damn Collating
by tess
Since we haven’t heard nearly enough about The Great Collating Incident that occurred nine years ago, I’d like to provide some additional information. Gretchen very kindly stayed late (or was it one of the many weekends we were locked up together?) to help me work on a project. She did so not only because she is a dedicated employee but also because she could see that I was drowning in a project much too demanding for my tiny little brain. She had ulterior motives: she helped me because she didn’t want to go home and because I paid for her food. Now I may be slightly off base here but I think when a woman hangs out with you for free food that makes her more of a date than a colleague. And maybe that’s why it seemed okay to make her cry. See, all my dates cried. All of them. Every. Single. One. So you can see how that would seem totally normal to me: food = date = tears. Of course there are those who might employ deductive reasoning to surmise that I was a seriously crappy girlfriend. Deduce away, eggheads, I was an awesome girlfriend. I just happened to date every loser between Bangor and San Diego!
But back to The Incident. Gretchen tried to help me collate, but because she’s more of an artistic, outside-of-the-box kind of thinker, the collating was neither as sprightly nor as defect-free as one might have wished for had there been a wishing star handy. Which, sadly, there wasn’t. So there might have been some sighing, eye rolling, and testy words tossed about. For those of you who have spent more than twelve consecutive seconds with me, you know that sighing, eye rolling, and testy words are par for the course on a good day. So why, on a not-so-great day, this completely commonplace behavior struck Gretchen as cry-worthy I cannot fathom. Was she PMSy? Had she quarreled with some lame-ass ex-boyfriend who wasn’t fit to lick the sole of her lipstick-red stiletto? Had she just gained half a pound and split the seam of her favorite boob-sling … errr … shirt? We’ll never know for sure but when in doubt of your own guilt over making a dear friend cry: deflect, deflect, deflect!
Now just relax all you Gretchen Groupies out there in the blogosphere. God gets me back!
The next day I boarded a plane to NYC with my boss’s boss. It was my first business trip ever and I was predictably hella-nauseous. Happily he sat in First Class so I could suffer convulsions in the relative peace of Coach. Not long after takeoff, I started reviewing the pages that I had re-collated after Gretchen tippy-toed out of the office. In a moment of horror forever crystallized in my brain, I recognized that I had twelve copies of The Wrong Version. Thirty seconds later, six and one-half feet of fuming Italian male (looking fabulous in a charcoal suit, might I add) came striding ferociously down the airplane aisle toward me. Apparently he had come to the same God-forsaken conclusion. The next twelve hours were a living hell on earth that I cannot bring myself to re-live nine years later. The Goddess of Getting Even had most assuredly wreaked all kinds of vengeance on my soul that day.
So in conclusion, dearest Gretchen, if the collating was monotonous, I’m sorry. If I was a hateful mega-beast, mea culpa. But I gotta say, G, if you thought my impersonation of Godzilla was scary, then you really should have been there to see The Man’s head explode all over the cabin of that plane. Bones, blood, and brains hanging from every surface. And yet somehow we all lived to tell the tale.
NOTE FROM GRETCHEN:
The Date Theory. Everything makes sense now. And I think it proves something else: We are definitely meant to be friends: bowing to each other's superior greatness, fantastic wit, and deep wisdom. No dating relationship can be built on that kind of thing because a dating relationship sort of needs to dwell in at least a margin of reality.
Since we haven’t heard nearly enough about The Great Collating Incident that occurred nine years ago, I’d like to provide some additional information. Gretchen very kindly stayed late (or was it one of the many weekends we were locked up together?) to help me work on a project. She did so not only because she is a dedicated employee but also because she could see that I was drowning in a project much too demanding for my tiny little brain. She had ulterior motives: she helped me because she didn’t want to go home and because I paid for her food. Now I may be slightly off base here but I think when a woman hangs out with you for free food that makes her more of a date than a colleague. And maybe that’s why it seemed okay to make her cry. See, all my dates cried. All of them. Every. Single. One. So you can see how that would seem totally normal to me: food = date = tears. Of course there are those who might employ deductive reasoning to surmise that I was a seriously crappy girlfriend. Deduce away, eggheads, I was an awesome girlfriend. I just happened to date every loser between Bangor and San Diego!
But back to The Incident. Gretchen tried to help me collate, but because she’s more of an artistic, outside-of-the-box kind of thinker, the collating was neither as sprightly nor as defect-free as one might have wished for had there been a wishing star handy. Which, sadly, there wasn’t. So there might have been some sighing, eye rolling, and testy words tossed about. For those of you who have spent more than twelve consecutive seconds with me, you know that sighing, eye rolling, and testy words are par for the course on a good day. So why, on a not-so-great day, this completely commonplace behavior struck Gretchen as cry-worthy I cannot fathom. Was she PMSy? Had she quarreled with some lame-ass ex-boyfriend who wasn’t fit to lick the sole of her lipstick-red stiletto? Had she just gained half a pound and split the seam of her favorite boob-sling … errr … shirt? We’ll never know for sure but when in doubt of your own guilt over making a dear friend cry: deflect, deflect, deflect!
Now just relax all you Gretchen Groupies out there in the blogosphere. God gets me back!
The next day I boarded a plane to NYC with my boss’s boss. It was my first business trip ever and I was predictably hella-nauseous. Happily he sat in First Class so I could suffer convulsions in the relative peace of Coach. Not long after takeoff, I started reviewing the pages that I had re-collated after Gretchen tippy-toed out of the office. In a moment of horror forever crystallized in my brain, I recognized that I had twelve copies of The Wrong Version. Thirty seconds later, six and one-half feet of fuming Italian male (looking fabulous in a charcoal suit, might I add) came striding ferociously down the airplane aisle toward me. Apparently he had come to the same God-forsaken conclusion. The next twelve hours were a living hell on earth that I cannot bring myself to re-live nine years later. The Goddess of Getting Even had most assuredly wreaked all kinds of vengeance on my soul that day.
So in conclusion, dearest Gretchen, if the collating was monotonous, I’m sorry. If I was a hateful mega-beast, mea culpa. But I gotta say, G, if you thought my impersonation of Godzilla was scary, then you really should have been there to see The Man’s head explode all over the cabin of that plane. Bones, blood, and brains hanging from every surface. And yet somehow we all lived to tell the tale.
NOTE FROM GRETCHEN:
The Date Theory. Everything makes sense now. And I think it proves something else: We are definitely meant to be friends: bowing to each other's superior greatness, fantastic wit, and deep wisdom. No dating relationship can be built on that kind of thing because a dating relationship sort of needs to dwell in at least a margin of reality.
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