Monthly Archives: October 2013

Some Glam Geek Thoughts on The World Series

No where in any of my books does it say what sports team a girl should root for, but if I was going to guess, I’d say that Arlene would suggest rooting for your husband’s team.  Since Ian doesn’t watch sports (this is fine with me) I guess I’m safe from having to choose.

My last boyfriend, Aaron, like the Buffalo Bills and the Montreal Expos, now the (Washington Nationals) because he enjoyed things that had no chance of working out (i.e. our relationship).  And since he had this annoying habit of completely abandoning me while he watched games (especially when he would drag me over to a stranger’s house and then ignore me while I tried to make small talk with a bunch of other abandoned girlfriends I’d never met), I’ve developed a healthy dislike for sports and a fantastic ability to make conversation with strangers.

Now Mike, wonderful Mike, is a die-hard Yankees fan.  Like, the kind of guy who wouldn’t date a girl who WASN’T a Yankees fan, even though I half-heartedly tried to set him up with my friend Melissa in TX.  And part of his being a Yankees fan means he HATES the Red Sox.  I’ve never had a man love me with the passion that Mike has for hating the Red Sox.  I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much as he hates the Red Sox, and I can get pretty angry. Like at James Franco.  Goodness, I just hate his smug, stupid face!

Anyways, I just can’t get behind the Yankees. I don’t know what team Mr. W roots for, but both Matthew and a former professor of mine who’s company I greatly enjoyed are both Sox fans, so my inclination is always to cheer for them if they’re playing and I happen to notice/care.  Mike, if you’re reading this (and I know you are) I am sorry.  If there were two different teams in the World Series, I wouldn’t even care, but since it was the Sox, I had to root for them.  And by “root for” I mean “noticing the score in the next day’s paper and thinking, “Oh, Matthew/My Professor will be happy’ and then carrying on about my day, because sports scores have no other effect on my life.”

Thus concludes our discussion of baseball.  Let us never speak of it again.

Advertisements

Keep It Spooky, Stupid

“If the sweater and the skirt are that tight, a man figures that you are distressed merchandise” Helen Gurley Brown, Sex and the Single Girl

I love Halloween.  It’s my favorite holiday, followed by Independence Day (where we play Fizzball & watch Independence Day) and then Christmas.  Ian always makes us great, award-winning couples Halloween costumes–we’re two of Buzzfeed’s 25 Best-Ever Costumes (The Maitlands and Alien & Ripley)–and this year, well, you’ll just have to wait and see.

Image

Hi. I’m Completely Boring.

But ladies, LADIES, the “Sexy NOUN” costumes have GOT to stop.  I don’t mean to be harsh, but you all look like idiots.  There is no such thing as “Sexy Beetlejuice.”  Corn is never going to be “Sexy.”  You might as well just announce, “Hi, I’m dressed up as Daddy Issues,” when you cram yourself into a Sexy Chewbacca costume.

Image

How You Doin’, Baby?

There’s nothing wrong with being attractive or flaunting what you’ve got (unless you don’t have it, which seems to be the trend among girls who pick up a “Sexy” Halloween costume at whatever sad Spirit store popped up in the abandoned JCPenny’s near their college).  But for Heaven’s sake, have a little class and creativity.  Nobody think you’re hot.  Do guys hoot and holler when you do that little finger-to-the-duckface pose?  Yes.  But those type of guys would hoot and holler at a lamp if someone put a lacy bra on it and anyways, they’re probably bad in bed, which is why hey have to go to bars and pick up sorority girls dressed like Slutty Cinderella.

And before all you fake-feminist tramps start accusing me of being a “hater” and “slut shaming” (oh grow up) I’m not against costumes that happen to be sexy.  If you want to dress like Lara Croft or Bettie Page, rock on.  Just put some effort into it–the kind that doesn’t come in a plastic bag for $49.99.

On Having It All And Nothing At All

Image

Today I put on a cute outfit, went to the dentist and had three cavities filled, scrubbed the upstairs bathroom (full), cleaned the downstairs bathroom (half) vacuumed all the rugs, swept everything, laundered the linens, dusted, laundered the clothes (three loads), washed dishes, folded the clothes, made dinner, participated in my local government while simultaneously being at my job, laundered bath mats and updated my company’s website.

I had it all!  Work! Career! Man! Home! Clean teeth!

And it all kind of sucked.

I felt so alone.  Everywhere I turned, someone was snarking, either directly at me or in my direction.  I sat through an hour-long meeting where a woman shouted about bags of leaves on the curb, zoning laws, and possibly some combination of the two.  I sat patiently while Ian sulked about the car even though his sulking makes my guts rot from anxiety.  I sat patiently while my father-in-law ranted about banks and how too many people destroy old beautiful homes.  And I did this all without screaming, “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!” because I am a lady.  But inside, I’m pretty sure I’m developing an ulcer from the constant stress of trying to make everybody happy.  Because if I don’t sweep, the house won’t get cleaned.  If I don’t cook, everybody eats garbage in front of the TV.  Being a reporter means going where the news is, whether it’s a city council meeting or a murder scene, so I am constantly on high alert, waiting for the phone to ring.

My boss, Jim, remarked the other day that I try too hard to be helpful, which often shields other people from blame and piles it on my doorstep.  This is very true.  Because I’ve learned that if I don’t try to fix it, I get blamed by the party I’m shielding, and if it doesn’t actually get fixed, I get blamed by the original party.  It’s like being the middle child at work and at home.  It’s like being asked to do sorcery.

Arlene would say to grin and be pleased that I have a job and a home and a man to take care of (in my case, two).  But f*** if I don’t want a day where no one snarks at me, where someone helps me carried my load, where I’m not asked to constantly asked to explain away or shoulder what feels like the entire world.

Damsel in Distress

“If you really like men but would like to seem a little softer and less self-sufficient, go on a “helpless campaign.”  Let a man push open every door…have difficulty with your packages. He’ll help carry.” Helen Gurley Brown, Sex and the Single Girl.

Image

I got a badge for looting!

Self-sufficiency is kind of something that I do.  I was a member of Girl Scout Troop 23 when I was a kid, and we were a rough-and-tumble, no nonsense kind of troop.  Once, we met with another troop who’s idea of camping was throwing down sleeping bags in their troop master’s living room and making s’mores in the microwave.  We all had a good laugh, because for us, outhouses were considered fancy-camping.  We used a “dripilator”–a gallon milk jug filled with water and plugged with a stick–to wash our hands.  Mrs. C had one-pot goulash down to such a science she could do it with her eyes closed over an open campfire.  We were pretty badass little girls.  

But the other day, I had a helpless attack, and luckily, I had a good man around to rush to my rescue.

I spent the weekend in the city with my BFF/writing partner Matthew; we went to Greg Sestero’s book launch for The Disaster Artist and saw Steely Dan play Gaucho at the Beacon.  Both were awesome.  But when it came time for me to catch my train back upstate, he dropped me off at the curb (there was no parking) about two blocks too early.  I hurried along, arms aching from hauling my heavy vintage suitcase, and no one could tell me how the heck I was supposed to get to Penn Station.  I was going to miss my train.

I could have bucked up and figured it out on my own, but something inside me just couldn’t.  I started to cry.  I was tired and sore and frustrated.  I called Matthew sobbing, begging him to come back and get me.

And he did.

I found my way to the ticket line a full ten minutes after my train left and as I stood there, trying not to faint and he appeared like magic.  He’d parked the car in an overpriced lot and come running when I called.  That’s the mark of a friend.  He hugged me until I could breathe a little slower and helped me get a new ticket and sat with me until my heart rate came down.  

The strange thing was, I was floored by his generosity.  These days we have such an independent spirit, even so much as allowing our leaders to deny other people food, shelter and a healthy life because of the “I worked for mine, why should you get yours free?” mentality.  This, “you packed the suitcase, you carry it” is a pretty ugly little space to occupy.  I didn’t expect him to come back and was even prepared to be angry at him for not being at my beck and call.  What an awful way to think of a friend!

It’s no sin to ask for help.  No one likes a wilting flower, but even Tina Fey says that if you are mad enough to cry, turn on the waterworks.  Show your vulnerability, and people will respond.  And in turn, you will help out when you see someone in need.  It’s pretty easy, but it takes practice.  So go out there and give it a try, on both sides.  Help and be helped.  It’s nice when you get used to it.

(But getting a rolling suitcase probably wouldn’t be a bad idea either.)

 

Silence is Golden (or at least the cost of my sanity)

“Talking all the time about anything is unsexy.  Sphinxes and Mona Lisas knew what they were doing!” Helen Gurley Brown, Sex and the Single Girl

I ran into a friend the other day–okay, I use the term “friend” loosely, we’re friendly by convenience even though I think she’s a lunatic and she thinks I’m a heretic and possibly a *slut*.  Point is, we were trapped in a small room together, and she started telling me this long story about being at a dinner party and this girl was getting drunk and it was weird and she was getting sooooo drunk and it was soooo weird watching someone get sooooo drunk….you get the point.  And that’s the short version.  The entire five minutes we were together she drove this thrilling story home.  Good to see you too, dear.  (She didn’t ask about my weekend, naturally).

Now for instance, my friend Pete can tell the same story every time I see him and it’s entertaining every time.  He managed to make a story about missing the bus absolutely riveting.  It’s a talent, and one that can be cultivated.  

I’ve started being a little more reserved in how I speak, and in doing so, I’ve begun to notice how often people a) talk about nothing and b) reveal too much.   I don’t plan on zipping my lips anytime soon (I do love to chat!) but try taking notice of when you talk and what you say.  Do you need to tell the cashier about your ear infection?  Does your boss really need to know exactly what you did over the weekend?

Save your gossip for your girlfriends.  Save your best stories for parties.  And when in doubt….zip it.