Sunday, October 31, 2010

Another 99% True Story

Fear is a funny thing. I, for one, am afraid of many things: if I am a passenger in your car, I will be stomping on an imaginary brake our entire car ride. If you are making dinner, I will not let you speak to me if you are holding a knife. If you have a pet, I have to know where your soap is before I can give your dog or cat (or weasel or raccoon) a hug. I sort of tread that fine line between hopelessly neurotic and a whopping nervous breakdown, and I actually like living on that line. It keeps me on my toes and speeds up my metabolism. But, surprisingly enough, when something real and serious goes down, I have been known to not only be fearless, but also aggressive as hell.

Take, for example, the time I was in San Diego on a business trip. First, let me tell you what it took to get me out to the west coast: a lot of alcohol, a lot of prescription medicine, a lot of furious and heartfelt pleading with God and the cutest shoes I could find, because I’m convinced that the universe does not want to see a cute pair of shoes destroyed in a fiery plane crash. When I got to San Diego, I then had to negotiate the California freeways in a tiny rental that essentially had the pickup of a kick-n-go. I screamed all through the 25 minute drive, which probably looked hilarious to the other drivers, but I would like to note that, even the most terrified Ohioan still has much better merging skills than most Californians. Go Bucks!

I careened into my hotel, and checked in, only to find that I had been placed in a smoking room. The reason why I’d been put in a smoking room, the front desk person explained, was because the hotel was packed with professional bicyclers from all around the world, who were finishing up the Amgen Tour of California, basically, the Tour de France of southern Cali, and the hotel was crowded! I changed rooms, and as I made my way to my room, I ran the gauntlet of the aforementioned professional cyclers and their crews, who were all horny little comment-making bastards, who made me feel dirty, dirty, dirty. And a little bit attractive.

I only had enough time to throw my bag on my bed, because I was due for dinner in Vista, about twenty minutes north, where my sister Carroll lives with her beautiful family and adorable dog, Buck. I only had to wash my hands, like, twice on account of the dog and the fear of the crazy mergers on the freeway. We had some wine, and I was back at my hotel by around 9:30.

When I finally got a chance to look around my room, a half-suite with separate sitting and bedroom areas, I noticed that there was garbage in my garbage can and a used towel on my bathroom floor. I knew that there’d been quite a turnover at the hotel and a lot of activity from the race, plus my last-minute room switcharoo, so I called housekeeping and told them that I think they’d forgotten to clean my room before they’d turned it over to me. I didn’t care that much because I’d had a fair amount of wine and xanax and delicious dinner, and anyway, these things happen sometimes. A housekeeper came up right away, cleaned the bathroom, remade my bed, taught me Spanish, and emptied the garbage while I checked my email and got some work done. By the time she left, the Academy Awards were on.

You may remember the 2009 Academy Awards as the year that Slumdog Millionaire won in the Best Picture category. Now, I like Slumdog Millionaire as much as anyone else, but do you know what it was up against? The Reader. The Reader! Boy, that movie sucked! Also: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Ugh. 2009 blew for movies. ( By the way, I finally saw Up in the Air, starring George Clooney. I was not impressed! Does anyone want to talk about that?)

So anyway, I had just settled into my super sexy sleeping outfit of Carhartt overalls, a flannel shirt, a wool coat and size 14 Ugg boots and was sitting on the bed, watching TV, when all of a sudden, there was a thump against the door, the click of a key, and someone’s face peeking through the partially opened door! Thankfully, I had latched the security chain, but that didn’t stop the man from slamming into the door repeatedly, trying to get it open.

It’s a killer! I thought to myself! Someone’s gone all Jack-Nicholson-in-The-Shining on me! Get ready for the axe! Knowing myself, I expected myself to run into the corner, and then wait to die. What I did, however, was the exact opposite.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed, leaping from the bed and running TO the door.

“There’s someone in there,” I heard a guy say. And then another guy answered with something muffled and foreign sounding.

“Get the hell away from my door you fucking asshole!” I screamed. And I mean screamed. Then, I launched myself against the door and slammed it shut.

“JACKASS!” I yelled for good measure.

(Completely unrelated side note: The other day, my mother said to me, “I like your blog, but why do you swear so much?” I told her that I swear so much in my blog because I swear so much in real life. “And besides,” I added, “You are an old lady and shouldn’t know about blogs. Now get back to your slot machine and earn me an inheritance.”)

Anyways. Having dispatched the intruders with a few well-placed curses, I strolled away from my door and back to my bed, where I resumed watching the Academy Awards for, like, three minutes, before I thought to myself, “Hmmmm. There was just a killer standing at my door with a key to my room. I should probably notify the front desk.” So, I called the front desk, and they were like, “Ooooops, sorry. That’s totally weird.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is that all? Do you think that maybe you should reset the key to the room and issue me a new key?”

“That’s a good idea,” the front desk person said. “We’ll send someone up shortly to deliver your new key.” A minute later, there was a soft knock on my door. A bellhop stood at the door with the new key, and behind him, were three sheepish looking bicyclers. The bellhop explained that the bicycler who’d unexpectedly intruded on my room earlier had been the previous occupant of the room. There had been a mix-up about his checkout date.

“Umm…,” I said to the trio of bicyclers, thinking about the launching at the door, the out-of-control swearing, and the fact that I’d been prepared to do hand-to-hand combat with these guys just five minutes earlier, “…..do I owe one of you an apology?”

“We just wanted to say sorry,” the spokescyclist said, looking at me like he was about 70% afraid of me. “And we’re glad that you latched your door.” They didn’t mention my outfit, or how hot I looked in it. I made nice with them, wished them luck in finding a room, and went back inside, shaking a little bit at the fact that, on the instant of sensing my life was in peril, I had run toward the battle, ready to defend my life, instead of away from it, which is what a reasonable person would do.

So my point is this, friends. Maybe you are a scaredy cat like me, but when push comes to shove, never fear. You, too, will have the strength to swear at tired European bicyclers who disturb your television-watching. It will all be okay.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

We never encounter this problem on Arbor Day

Around this time of year, a weird insect outbreak always takes place. You’ve probably seen it yourself: this is the season of the Sexy Ladybug. In five-inch heels, a sexy ladybug is usually around 5’9”, has a red shell with black polka-dots, fishnet stockings, smells like alcohol, and has some sort of headband with antenna on it that disappears before the end of the night. The Sexy Ladybug is found at bars, Halloween parties, and walking down the street after midnight on campus. It may be accompanied by Sexy Santa's Elf, and Sexy M&M, and it irritates the hell out of me.

What do I have against Sexy Ladybugs? How about everything? First of all, they are giant bugs. Would you want a giant bug walking down the street next to you? Not me. I’ve read Metamorphosis, and I think the story should have ended when the family discovered the giant roach: Splat! Dead Gregor, problem solved. There is no such thing as a cute bug. Anything that could end up mistaken for a raisin in my cereal is not okay with me, sexy or not.

Second of all, real ladybugs would never wear high heels. The job of a ladybug is to circle our light bulbs until they get dizzy and then fall on our coffee tables so we can scoop them up and take them outside. A ladybug in heels would be all weighed down and would never be able to fly. Furthermore, a real ladybug would never wear fishnet stockings. Fishnets look waaaaaaaaaaay too much like a spider web, and I am certain that ladybugs grow up learning to stay away from the spider’s lair. Donning something like that would be like one of us wearing a suit made out of crack in a bad neighborhood. That is why I only wear my crack suit in nice neighborhoods. And sometimes to the gym.

And I know that some of you are saying to yourself, “It sounds to me like this blog is really describing a sexy Japanese beetle, and not a sexy ladybug.” Point taken. I don’t care.

But most of all, and most irritating to me, is the whole idea of the sexy ladybug/Japanese beetle. And the whole sexy costume genre in general. No longer is it okay for a woman to dress as an old lady, or a ghost, or a park ranger. Now, we have to be a sexy old lady, or a sexy ghost, or a sexy park ranger. Why? Why has Halloween turned into an affair where women are expected to show as much skin as possible?

My theory is this: we live in a repressed, judgmental, puritanical society where we walk around, on a daily basis, blaming women showing any overt signs of sexuality for all of the evils of the world. If you’re a sideline sports reporter and are sexually harassed by the players on the football team you’re reporting on, it’s your fault for wearing tight jeans and being too hot. For some reason, you deserve it. If you are a woman who goes to a club, wears a form-fitting dress, drinks too much and get raped in the bathroom, you run the risk of the police deciding that you consented to sex. If you’re a single woman, and a married man sends you suggestive text messages and voice mails, you’re the home wrecking tramp, and he’s just an innocent victim. And it’s not just men saying these things, women buy into this malarkey, too! So this impossible situation is created where women are expected to condemn other women for dressing how they would like, but if we want to dress like that, we have to find an excuse to do so. Enter Halloween.

Women feel like the only way we can safely express our sexuality is by pretending to be someone, or something else, and then dressing the way that we want. A ladybug. A French maid. Snookie. It’s all okay on October 31st, but if a woman dares to suggest that she is anything but a demure little innocent on November 1st, she is nothing but a dirty slut or a stripper. (Or Lady Gaga – but even if you look at her, I don’t think her parents named her Lady Gaga. She is playing a part, too. She’d be more interesting if she went by Miriam Finkelstein, or whatever her real name is.)

So here’s my suggestion: this Halloween, ditch the high heels, ditch the stupid bug costume, and just be your own damn sexy self. Make no apologies, and don’t let anyone tell you that you deserve to be treated any way except for with dignity and respect. And save your Halloween candy for me because, seriously, I want it.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right...

At work on Friday, I stood up and loudly asked, “Who here is sick of the Chilean miners?” I was trying to be funny, but nonetheless, I was met with stony silence. Nobody is sick of the Chilean miners, because they are cool as hell! In fact, I think all of us have wondered to ourselves, across the span of 69 days that the miners were trapped underground, how we would have borne the agony and uncertainty of their ordeal. Personally, I would not have fared well.

For starters, I would have been the person to cry out “We’re all gonna die!” the minute I found out we were trapped. In fact, I bet I would be the miner who yelled, “We’re all going to die!” every single time I stepped on the elevator to go down to the mine. I yell that at work every time I step in an elevator, so I don’t see why this would be any different. PS, I am banned from most elevators at work. And I have a low tolerance for discomfort. This past winter, my son and I went running on a cold and snowy day, and I promptly found the nearest snow bank, crawled onto it, told him, “You go on without me, it’s my time,” closed my eyes, and waited to die. My son gave me a quizzical look and said, “We can still see our house, Mom. I don’t think it’s your time.” It turns out he was right, but the point is that my first instincts are just to die. Some people are fighters, and some people are destined to be eaten when everyone turns cannibal.

Speaking of cannibalism, I would be the miner suggesting that we knock off the closest, juiciest looking person for a snack. I hear that the miners subsisted on two spoonfuls of tuna and a half glass of milk every 48 hours until they were discovered. That is not enough food for me, so I would find a knife and start cutting off sections of people’s butts when they weren’t looking. Sorry, but hunger makes me crabby. And stabby. Conversely, I can’t pretend that the other miners wouldn’t consider me Meal Number One when it was survival-of-the-fittest time. I am probably stringy and undelicious, but the other miners would see it as their only chance to stop my incessant complaining.

And that’s the next reason why I would never make it as a trapped Chilean miner: I complain a lot. I am certain that there was an unspoken code in the mine: let’s stay positive and let’s not mention all of the things we’re missing. But that just doesn’t sound like me. I would be the one complaining about how the cave wasn’t “homey” enough and about how Edison Pena needed to shut the fuck up already about how great Elvis was. I would complain a LOT about how the lavatory stunk, and how I observed some people not washing their hands after a poop. When everyone sang the Chilean national anthem to keep their spirits up, I would roll my eyes and ask them if they’d ever heard Finland’s national anthem. “Now that’s a national anthem,” I would say. And if we did resort to cannibalism, I’d be like, “Damn, guys, Pedro’s ass is totally overcooked.”

And we all know that, during the rescue, I would be the one to get stuck in the rescue shaft. And it would be, like, ten feet from the cave, so all of the miners would have to suffer through listening to me scream, “Goddammit, I can’t believe this piece of shit is stuck! You would think with 69 goddamn days those fucking assholes would make a rescue capsule that worked! I cannot fucking believe this! What the hell else did they have to do for 69 DAYS? Couldn’t they have tested this fucking piece of shit before sending it down here just to BREAK like a cheap piece of shit K-Mart brand plastic motherfucking toy car?” And on and on I would continue, each moment producing fresh fits of outrage until the miners found some sort of cave-dwelling dragon to send up the shaft to kill me.

So, let’s all take a moment and bow our heads in gratitude that we, with all of our peculiar foibles and flaws, were not among the 33 Chilean miners. They are brave, courageous human beings, and they have brought to the world an understanding of what true indomitable spirit, teamwork, and perhaps a little grace from above look like. In the words of a famous Chilean, “la cocina está detrás de la tienda.” Roughly translated, this means, “the human spirit will not be conquered.” Indeed.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Hello my name is...

My friend Emily occasionally reminds me of the first day of law school, where we were herded into groups of twenty or so students, and, under the guidance of a couple of third-year students, asked to give our names, where we got our undergrad degrees, and why we wanted to go to law school. As Emily puts it, I gave my name and my undergrad degree without too much protest, but then I said, “Why I’m going to law school is none of your business, so kindly suck it.”

I recall wording it a little differently, but her general assessment of my hostility at the question is pretty accurate; I didn’t cotton to the idea of distilling every single reason I had for going to school into a neat sentence for general consumption. And it wasn’t because I didn’t think that the people in the room were lovely. With the exception of a few heinous fuckwads, they were and are terrific people; I just did not want to affix a label to myself that people would remember every time they saw me for the next few years.

I haven’t always been so sensitive. I don’t think I really noticed the labels until I had my son in 1993. Suddenly, I became really hyperaware of the label “Single Mom.” At that time, when people heard the term, they thought of black women in the projects, raising a dozen or so kids, all by different men, and just waiting for the welfare check to come in so they could get their nails done and pay for their satellite TV. Or they thought of stupid sluts who didn’t know enough to either use birth control or just quietly get an abortion. My son’s kindergarten teacher, who used to call me at ten o’clock at night, slurring her words (I’m not saying she was a drunk! I’m just saying she slurred her words!) went so far as to ask me if “I had men coming and going from my house.” In this world of labels, I was expected to change their mind or live with the label. Did I want to be a welfare queen or a stupid slut?

For the record, I am too dumb to figure out the paperwork required to be a welfare queen and I’m not cute enough to be a stupid slut. (Just joking! I’m totally cute enough!) (Joking again. I’m a hag.) But reality is way more complicated than the label. The reality of Brittney Spears is that she is probably neither a naughty schoolgirl nor a crazy head-shaved umbrella jockey. Bristol Palin is probably neither a fabulous model of abstinence nor a sad shill for a certain mavericky, gun-toting grandma. We can be relatively sure, however, that she’s not a very good dancer. In any event, reality takes a long time to explain, and it also takes a certain willingness to listen on the other end. It’s just easier to stick a label on it and forget it.

In truth, we are all gigantic freak shows. Personally, and I know I’ve mentioned this before, I’d much rather know what the hell is wrong with you than see your pretty postage-stamp labeled self. We all have an uncle who was a cross-dressing, ferret-raising Colonel in the Korean war. We all have a story that takes place at Six Flags amusement park and ends with the line, “That isn’t mine!” Okay, maybe only I have that story, but I am telling you right now, it is embarrassing, and it is hilarious. My point is that we all have our good side and our movie-of-the-week side. One label simply doesn’t fit, so instead of trying to make ourselves fit into a label, and instead of letting others label us, maybe we should just say this: the answer is more beautiful and more terrible than you can imagine, but it sure is interesting.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Undateable

A couple of weeks ago, there was a show on VH1 called “Undateable”. The purpose of the show was to highlight the 100 things men do that make it so that no civilized woman would date or sleep with them in this lifetime. I only saw enough of it to know that men should not wear chef pants in public. Okay, sounds reasonable. But it made me think of a few other things that, at least in my mind, make it impossible for a guy to get past a first date. So here are my additions:

Do not ever say, “I really don’t read books.” Even if it’s true, loser, do not say that out loud. First of all, if reading is good enough for LeVar Burton, it’s good enough for you. Second of all, being able to slog all the way through a book says that you’ve got a can-do attitude. That you’re not the kind of guy who will give up at the first sign of foreshadowing. That you’re interested in something that takes more than five minutes of sustained concentration. Listen, it doesn’t have to be Portnoy’s Complaint, okay, just make it something beyond the latest issue of Maxim. And if you can’t do it, just fake it. You can’t ever go wrong with The Great Gatsby. Just rent the movie.

Do not mention what your weight was or how much you bench pressed in high school. I don’t know why you think this is a conversation point. I can’t date the high school you, no matter how ripped he was, and what I see in front of me is a guy who’s about 5’10” weighs 185, and can maybe bench press forty-five pounds. Also: don’t say, “I’m getting back into shape.” That is just code for, “I am currently fat.”

Do not talk about all of the food you haven’t tried because it’s weird. Everybody knows that a man who won’t try sushi is a man who never deviates from the missionary position, and a guy who insists on eating chicken and potatoes at every meal is going to doom you to watching Two and a Half Men for the rest of your life, which, apparently, is how long that show is going to be on. Can’t you just die, Charlie Sheen? Sure, none of us are as worldly as we would like to be, unless our name is Nicolas Sarkozy, (or Sade), but suck it the hell up and eat something that couldn’t readily be found on the menu at Applebee’s.

Do not pull out your phone. Don’t do it. I know, this may sound unfair, especially if the woman has her phone out or is texting away, but there’s something really unmasculine about a guy on a tiny little phone, sending text messages like a teenage girl. You can try to make it more manly by calling it a Blackberry, but it might as well be a pink princess phone. Also, see above re: showing your ability to concentrate for longer than five minutes. No woman wants to be with a man who has to play with his phone every five minutes. You’re not that important, hotshot.

Do not talk about how much money your parents have, unless they are leprechauns.

Last but not least, and this one is important: do not say anything that you have to follow up with, “I’m just joking.” Example: “If I found out my girlfriend cheated on me, I would kill her. I’m just joking!” Or, “I’ve watched that Erin Andrews video, like a hundred times. I’m just joking!” Or, “Once, I had to go to the clinic to get tested because this girl I’d been...I mean, she was with everyone…and did you know that they used this giant Q-tip and stick it up your…..uh…..I’m just joking!”