The number one rule in writing is: Write about what you know. Well, I am a female. And I know about being a female. So, here are two entries I wrote that deal with issues of being a female.
(Note: I am also sarcastic, lazy, overly-dramatic and quite self-absorbed. So, I like to write about that stuff, too.)
Two Eggs, Over Easy
March 28, 2001
Continuing with my on-going attempt to experience things I don’t normally experience, I went to a reproductive/infertility clinic last week to attend a seminar on egg donorship.
Lest you all think I was attending the seminar to learn how I can distribute my DNA to all four corners of the world (a frightening thought for us all), let me assure you that I was there merely as an interested party who is fascinated by this process. I wanted to know what was involved in this modern miracle and I also wanted to know what kinds of people actually take part in this procedure. I, myself, am too selfish to ever consider giving such a gift. I don't even buy cards for people on their birthdays. But I can respect that there are woman out there who want to help, and I went simply to learn more about it.
I will begin by saying that the going price for a viable female egg plucked farm fresh from the ovary is $5000. This is, of course, the standard National Coalition of Egg Gatherers agreed-upon rate. I have no idea how much you could get for one on e-bay. This price was determined to be a suitable compensation for the time and effort put forth by the donor without being so much that it would incite those who would simply be donating for the money. And believe me, after I learned all there was to know about this procedure, I knew that $5000 was definitely not enough for an altruistic-deficient person like me. The price would have to be much higher for me to hand over my genes -- and then it would no longer be about helping unfortunate couples battling infertility, but about buying me a new car. So, it seems the Coalition has set the right price.
But even if they were offering me a new car in exchange for half the ingredients needed to cook a human being, I still don’t think I could go through with it.
The next thing I discovered was that not just anyone can toss their eggs into the gene pool. These programs have extremely high standards, as well they should I suppose. But as an insecure neurotic freak whose paranoid fantasies include the fear that I am constantly being rated and judged in every aspect of life, I immediately began to feel the pressure to succeed. The ideal age range for a female egg donor is 21-years- to 29-years-old. Right away I allowed myself to panic thinking that my eggs were only good for another two years. There is also a weight requirement based on what The Man calls the "ideal weight" for a woman in relation to her height. I don't meet this requirement. A slightly ill part of my brain takes pride in the fact that I am eight pounds under this "acceptable average" category. I often take pride in the wrong things.
Before you are accepted into The Program, you must submit to an extensive physical, psychological and genealogical screening. Past medical records are studied while results of personality and psychological tests are interpreted. Blood and hormone levels are checked and rechecked, and a session is scheduled with a genealogist who maps out your DNA with the precision of a Human Genome Project technician. You’re being judged on a genetic level, people. That's not something you can study for. You can exercise, get in shape, try and pass the physicals. You can do a lot of soul-searching, bone up on your lying skills, try and out-smart the psychiatrist. But your genes? There ain't no changin' 'em. As any woman who has tried to retrain a man will tell you.
I have to wonder how I would handle it if I were not accepted into The Program. And, quite frankly, I don't think I could take the kind of rejection. All my self-esteem needs right now is -- after all that testing and screening and consulting with psychiatrists, physicians and genealogists -- to get a phone call and hear, "Um, yeah, Regina? About that egg donorship thing? Well, while we really appreciate the gesture, we're just not so sure you should be reproducing. Yeah, in fact, we've never actually recommended sterilization to anyone before, but after examining you case, we'd like you to at least entertain the idea. Look, what we're saying is, for the love of all that is ovarian, please keep your DNA to yourself. Have a nice day."
But let's just say, for the sake of a really funny argument, that I (and all my physical, psychological and let's not forget genealogical problems) slip past the guards and actually get accepted into the program -- the eggs now have to be harvested.
In order to prepare your ovaries to produce the maximum amount of healthy human seeds, hormones are injected into your system for weeks before the harvesting. These hormones are given by injection (which you can give yourself if you are so masochistically inclined), three times a day for a week -- two in the morning, one at night. 36-hours before the eggs are taken, one last double-duty shot is given intramuscularly in the hip or butt area.
And, lastly, we were told how the eggs were retrieved. Ladies, go ahead and start internally clenching your ovaries right now.
In yet another example of how unfair this cold, cruel world is for women versus the sunny, happy land inhabited by the penis-barers, removing just one fragile, precious egg from an ovary is not nearly as simple as releasing the floodgates to allow millions of mindless sperm to splash into a paper cup. Nor is it as pleasurable. All the girly magazines and skin flicks in the world won’t ease the discomfort of having a needle inserted through your vaginal wall directly into your ovary.
Needle.
Vaginal wall.
Pierced ovary.
Sign me up.
Now, all talk of money, discomfort and/or inconvenience aside, there is still the issue of why a woman would do this. I just can't seem to tap into this uber-humanitarian desire to help total strangers in such an extraordinary way. Giving them 50% of a human? I've never even given anyone a puppy.
Also, I won't get into a discussion on nature versus nurture or what constitutes a family. I have several friends who are adopted and I have never seen any difference between their family and my own biologically-grown one. However, I, personally, can't seem to separate myself from my DNA. Maybe I’ve seen too many episodes of "The X-Files" and, therefore, don't want to let my eggs out of my sight. You've seen what's happened to Scully, for the love of all that is reproductive. And as much as I think the world would benefit immensely from thousands of Regina Clones, I just can't take the risk that one of my clones may go on to be happier or more successful than me. Because that would be so like me to try and show me up.
And, finally, I think I am just egocentric enough to want to take credit for anything that may come out of my body. I believe that if I produce something, I should be able to point to it at any given moment and say, "See that? I made that."
So, for now, I'm keeping all my eggs in my basket and not even the Easter Bunny will be able to get at them. Unless, of course, the Easter Bunny has a brand new car to offer. Then, we'll talk.
Feminine Journey
August 8, 2001
I am posting this entry at 6:00 in the freakin' morning. Just so you know.
I was very tired yesterday. As a result, when 10:30 PM rolled around, I made the horrible mistake of thinking I could simply go to bed early and catch up on some much needed sleep. At 3:30 AM, I was wide awake again, watching an infomercial for the latest and greatest in herbal fat burning products.
After dismissing the legitimacy of this product, and finding no other believable products for sale on the other 78 channels' offerings of early morning inventions, I decided that perhaps I would go to the store to buy some feminine products (as I am a female and occasionally in need of products). Also, the familiar feeling of uterine rebellion was upon me and there were currently no products of a feminine nature in my apartment.
So, at 4:30 in the morning, I got in my car to go to my local 24-hour Kroger. God bless a nation the offers us the opportunity to buy feminine products (or any products, for that matter) on a 24-hour basis.
Not too many people frequent Kroger at 4:30 AM. I wasn't surprised by this, of course, and was in fact glad to have the store practically to myself. While I am quite confident and at ease with myself (hey, I hardly think a sarcastic laugh was necessary there), I still like to have my privacy when buying my feminine products. Not that it isn't a perfectly natural process (this need for feminine products), but when you walk up to the check-out counter with nothing but a box of Tampax and a box of sani-tree towels, you just know the cashier is making conclusions about the activeness of your sex life for the next five to seven days.
I wanted to add a couple of decidedly non-feminine products to my purchase, just to divert some of the attention from the true nature of my business in that store. Unfortunately, due to a $100 Target shopping spree made over the weekend (funded by my benevolent Mother) the only thing I could think of that I still needed was a box of Kleenex. Unfortunately still, the only other people in the store happened to be two, big, burly men stocking the shelves on the Kleenex isle. I debated returning my feminine products to their shelves, going to select my box of Kleenex, and then returning to the Chick Isle to reclaim my products -- but then I decided that would just be plain silly.
So, I just didn't buy the Kleenex.
I know, I know...but at 4:30 in the morning, in a relatively deserted Kroger, with a war raging in my uterus, I was in no mood to lecture myself on the need for a more Gertrude-Stein-I-am-woman-this-is-my-uterus-and-I'm-not-ashamed-of-it attitude.
Now, I'm back home (after buying only what I went to the store to buy, thank you very much), watching the early-morning news and wondering if I shouldn't just go ahead, get in the shower, and be at work hideously early.
(Again, with the sarcastic laughter.)
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Just How Smart Do They Have To Be?
I cannot put it off any longer. A decision must be reached on where L will be attending kindergarten. Arrgggh! Why is this so hard? It’s not like I’m trying to decide which college she will attend! But somehow this decision seems just as monumental.
As parents, we want to present our children with the very best opportunities. We want to place them in a school where they will grow and excel. We want to choose an environment that will nurture their minds, as well as their souls. We want to promote self-reliance, cultural- awareness, community-activism, team-work and tolerance of all people and lifestyles. We want them to be challenged to reach their highest potential and to strive to do their best, live their best, be their best!
There. Did I say all the right politically-correct, no-child-left behind, up-with-people, we-are-the-world things?
Okay, here’s how I really feel…
Today’s society expects our kids to know way too much, way too soon.
“Your Baby Can Read?” Seriously? That’s necessary? Why? It’s not like they can read the streets signs they pass on the road because they’re still sitting backward in their flippin’ car seat! And if you teach your baby to read, you’ve missed out on a good four-to-five years of being able to have adult conversations in their presence by spelling out the things you don’t want them to understand. They aren't taking any tests, they aren't applying for any jobs. The only reason you would teach a baby to read is so you could point to your offspring and say, "See that? I made that. And it can read."
Parents believe their children’s progress translates into a reflection of their own intelligence and success. If your baby can read, then you must be one, smart parent, right? So, if my baby is drooling and chewing on the sofa cushions and still -- gasp! -- pooping in a diaper, does that mean I am an idiot? Or does it simply mean that I am the parent of, oh, I don’t know -- A BABY?!
Sigh. Perhaps my view of this is a bit skewed. I suppose I should confess that no one in my past (and dare I say no one in my present) would ever accuse me of being an over-achiever. I know, I know, big shocker. But, what you might not know is that I was once a straight-A student and in the gifted program. That’s right, you heard me -- I was “gifted.”
This was all up until the 7th grade, however. It was at that point that I decided it was way too tiresome to continue on such a path. I declared to my parents that I was no longer going to be a straight-A student nor was I going to be labeled “gifted.”
And, I say with misplaced pride, I excelled at that.
But then God gave me L -- a beautiful, Type “A”, over-achieving, ultra-motivated, driven-by-the-obsessive-need-to-succeed daughter. Most of the time, I look at her as if I have no idea who she is. And, truth be told, I don’t. Her determination, while it is something I know I should admire, actually just makes me kind of tired.
Examples:
When she wanted to learn to whistle like her Daddy, she walked around the house for days blowing through her lips trying to make a sound. She would get frustrated, but then get right back to it, day and night. The afternoon that she was able to make that first whistle emit from her lips you would have thought she just discovered how to fly. Now, she can whistle any tune even better than JAO. I’ve tried a few times to perfect my whistle, but I really only have one note. I can flutter my tongue and make that one note sound like a bird, though! So, I’m really okay with just the one note.
Then there was the day L was determined to learn to jump-rope. She had my parents’ dog’s leash and she must have swung that dang thing over her head 250 times in a matter of an hour-and-a-half until she successfully cleared the swinging leash with her feet.
Just yesterday, we were working on shoe tying. I showed her how to do it one time, then we walked through it together, and then she insisted that I stop helping her -- “I know how to do it now, Mom, you don’t have to keep telling me.” Of course, she forgot a step, the loop didn’t pull through correctly and she threw the shoe across the room and announced, “I can’t do it. I’ll never be able to tie my own shoes!”
But then she regained her composure, marched across the room, picked the shoe up again and proceeded to tie it eight or nine times in a row until she was satisfied that she had mastered the art.
People, I am 35-years-old and I only own one pair of shoes with laces. Slip-ons are so much easier.
So, I’ve started to cringe every time she says, “I’d like to learn to…” because I know it only means I have to put up with the dogged determination and almost adult-like level of frustration and the hours and hours of doing whatever it is over and over again until success is reached.
Sure, it’s lazy of me, but I’m like, “Come on, lady -- give it up! Isn’t there something on TV we could be watching?”
I just want her to be a kid. To have fun! She has a lifetime of responsibilities and expectations ahead of her. What is wrong with just wanting her be my little girl?
I know, I know...I have to be careful not to let my slightly less-than-stellar academic reputation taint my daughter’s scholastic future. If she is showing signs of wanting to -- shudder -- excel, then I don’t want to stand in the way of that. And now I am brought back around to the whole kindergarten dilemma.
Well, at least God gave me Z. My precious baby boy, who is 2-and-a-half and has yet to pee or poop in the potty. He is definitely showing signs of being much more like his mommy. Good boy, Z. Way to under-achieve!
(You know, I feel I should qualify the above statement that I was gifted by saying that once you are considered “gifted” you never really lose that title. Just because I don’t always chose to use my “gifts” to their fullest potential, doesn’t mean they aren’t still there. I could access them at any moment. And I will -- just as soon as Z and I are finished watching this episode of “America’s Next Top Model.”)
As parents, we want to present our children with the very best opportunities. We want to place them in a school where they will grow and excel. We want to choose an environment that will nurture their minds, as well as their souls. We want to promote self-reliance, cultural- awareness, community-activism, team-work and tolerance of all people and lifestyles. We want them to be challenged to reach their highest potential and to strive to do their best, live their best, be their best!
There. Did I say all the right politically-correct, no-child-left behind, up-with-people, we-are-the-world things?
Okay, here’s how I really feel…
Today’s society expects our kids to know way too much, way too soon.
“Your Baby Can Read?” Seriously? That’s necessary? Why? It’s not like they can read the streets signs they pass on the road because they’re still sitting backward in their flippin’ car seat! And if you teach your baby to read, you’ve missed out on a good four-to-five years of being able to have adult conversations in their presence by spelling out the things you don’t want them to understand. They aren't taking any tests, they aren't applying for any jobs. The only reason you would teach a baby to read is so you could point to your offspring and say, "See that? I made that. And it can read."
Parents believe their children’s progress translates into a reflection of their own intelligence and success. If your baby can read, then you must be one, smart parent, right? So, if my baby is drooling and chewing on the sofa cushions and still -- gasp! -- pooping in a diaper, does that mean I am an idiot? Or does it simply mean that I am the parent of, oh, I don’t know -- A BABY?!
Sigh. Perhaps my view of this is a bit skewed. I suppose I should confess that no one in my past (and dare I say no one in my present) would ever accuse me of being an over-achiever. I know, I know, big shocker. But, what you might not know is that I was once a straight-A student and in the gifted program. That’s right, you heard me -- I was “gifted.”
This was all up until the 7th grade, however. It was at that point that I decided it was way too tiresome to continue on such a path. I declared to my parents that I was no longer going to be a straight-A student nor was I going to be labeled “gifted.”
And, I say with misplaced pride, I excelled at that.
But then God gave me L -- a beautiful, Type “A”, over-achieving, ultra-motivated, driven-by-the-obsessive-need-to-succeed daughter. Most of the time, I look at her as if I have no idea who she is. And, truth be told, I don’t. Her determination, while it is something I know I should admire, actually just makes me kind of tired.
Examples:
When she wanted to learn to whistle like her Daddy, she walked around the house for days blowing through her lips trying to make a sound. She would get frustrated, but then get right back to it, day and night. The afternoon that she was able to make that first whistle emit from her lips you would have thought she just discovered how to fly. Now, she can whistle any tune even better than JAO. I’ve tried a few times to perfect my whistle, but I really only have one note. I can flutter my tongue and make that one note sound like a bird, though! So, I’m really okay with just the one note.
Then there was the day L was determined to learn to jump-rope. She had my parents’ dog’s leash and she must have swung that dang thing over her head 250 times in a matter of an hour-and-a-half until she successfully cleared the swinging leash with her feet.
Just yesterday, we were working on shoe tying. I showed her how to do it one time, then we walked through it together, and then she insisted that I stop helping her -- “I know how to do it now, Mom, you don’t have to keep telling me.” Of course, she forgot a step, the loop didn’t pull through correctly and she threw the shoe across the room and announced, “I can’t do it. I’ll never be able to tie my own shoes!”
But then she regained her composure, marched across the room, picked the shoe up again and proceeded to tie it eight or nine times in a row until she was satisfied that she had mastered the art.
People, I am 35-years-old and I only own one pair of shoes with laces. Slip-ons are so much easier.
So, I’ve started to cringe every time she says, “I’d like to learn to…” because I know it only means I have to put up with the dogged determination and almost adult-like level of frustration and the hours and hours of doing whatever it is over and over again until success is reached.
Sure, it’s lazy of me, but I’m like, “Come on, lady -- give it up! Isn’t there something on TV we could be watching?”
I just want her to be a kid. To have fun! She has a lifetime of responsibilities and expectations ahead of her. What is wrong with just wanting her be my little girl?
I know, I know...I have to be careful not to let my slightly less-than-stellar academic reputation taint my daughter’s scholastic future. If she is showing signs of wanting to -- shudder -- excel, then I don’t want to stand in the way of that. And now I am brought back around to the whole kindergarten dilemma.
Well, at least God gave me Z. My precious baby boy, who is 2-and-a-half and has yet to pee or poop in the potty. He is definitely showing signs of being much more like his mommy. Good boy, Z. Way to under-achieve!
(You know, I feel I should qualify the above statement that I was gifted by saying that once you are considered “gifted” you never really lose that title. Just because I don’t always chose to use my “gifts” to their fullest potential, doesn’t mean they aren’t still there. I could access them at any moment. And I will -- just as soon as Z and I are finished watching this episode of “America’s Next Top Model.”)
Friday, January 15, 2010
How Embarrassing
I am no stranger to being caught in embarrassing situations. As are most people, I suppose. But, it is not the level of embarrassment you may feel, it is how you react to the situation that really matters. For instance, if you slip and fall in the middle of a crowded room, your best bet is to jump right up, take a bow and say, “Thank you! And for my next trick…”
Since I am not that graceful, I’ve had to use that one a lot -- most recently at White House/Black Market. Both of the kids were in school and, for whatever reason, I had actually taken the time to fix myself up. So, I walked into the store feeling all confident and happy that I was about to enjoy a nice morning of shopping without having to bribe anyone with suckers or gum to get them to stop hiding in the racks or pulling up the mannequin’s dress.
I stepped inside and was just about to reply to the nice saleslady’s chipper, “And how are you today?” when my foot slipped across the tile one way sending my butt another way and I ended up sprawled in an awkward half split on the White House/Black Market floor. So, I did the only thing I could do -- hop up, take a dramatic bow and say, “Thank you! I’ll be here all week!”
Sadly, the saleslady was not amused. She was, instead, overly-concerned with my well-being. I told her not to worry, that I wasn’t going to sue. But I did think a nice discount was in order.
This morning, I spent about twenty minutes with the stereo cranked up, dancing around the house and belting out GLEE songs. Then, I realized that there were workers outside rebuilding our fence. Nice. I hope they like GLEE.
This is not unlike the time I ran downstairs topless to get my upper-body wear out of the dryer, completely oblivious to the fact that all the blinds were wide-open and the lawn-care crew was outside. I didn’t take a bow that day. But, I guess I should have.
Once, back when I was working in the cubicle jungle, I was caught talking out loud to myself. (Okay, I’m sure I was caught talking to myself more than once, but this particular incident was the only one I recorded.) I was alone in the elevator chatting me up as I am wont to do when I am alone in an elevator. I was right in the middle of explaining to myself why I needed to have a chicken salad sandwich for lunch verses an egg salad sandwich, when the doors opened to reveal a man waiting to get on. As I happened to be holding my arm out looking at my watch at the exact moment that this gentleman appeared, I did the only thing I could do: I got off the elevator and continued talking into my watch in the hopes that he would simply think I was an undercover operative relaying information back to headquarters via the transmitter hidden inside the wrist band. Because otherwise he would have just thought I was crazy.
I don’t know why I feel the need to constantly try and involve strangers in the continuous comedy routine that is my life. But I love when people join in on my humor.
However, I think I love it even more when they don’t.
Last year, some friends and I were going to see “So You Think You Can Dance” at the Gwinnett Arena. We were late so we were running across the parking lot. We got there, all out of breath, and I handed my ticket to the lady at the door. I said, “Phew! We made it! Did you hold the show for us?”
She just looked at me, scanned my ticket and said flatly, “The show hasn’t started yet.” And then she moved on to the next person.
Once inside, my friend Tonya said, “Does that happen to you a lot?”
And I said, “Yes. Yes, it does.”
Since I am not that graceful, I’ve had to use that one a lot -- most recently at White House/Black Market. Both of the kids were in school and, for whatever reason, I had actually taken the time to fix myself up. So, I walked into the store feeling all confident and happy that I was about to enjoy a nice morning of shopping without having to bribe anyone with suckers or gum to get them to stop hiding in the racks or pulling up the mannequin’s dress.
I stepped inside and was just about to reply to the nice saleslady’s chipper, “And how are you today?” when my foot slipped across the tile one way sending my butt another way and I ended up sprawled in an awkward half split on the White House/Black Market floor. So, I did the only thing I could do -- hop up, take a dramatic bow and say, “Thank you! I’ll be here all week!”
Sadly, the saleslady was not amused. She was, instead, overly-concerned with my well-being. I told her not to worry, that I wasn’t going to sue. But I did think a nice discount was in order.
This morning, I spent about twenty minutes with the stereo cranked up, dancing around the house and belting out GLEE songs. Then, I realized that there were workers outside rebuilding our fence. Nice. I hope they like GLEE.
This is not unlike the time I ran downstairs topless to get my upper-body wear out of the dryer, completely oblivious to the fact that all the blinds were wide-open and the lawn-care crew was outside. I didn’t take a bow that day. But, I guess I should have.
Once, back when I was working in the cubicle jungle, I was caught talking out loud to myself. (Okay, I’m sure I was caught talking to myself more than once, but this particular incident was the only one I recorded.) I was alone in the elevator chatting me up as I am wont to do when I am alone in an elevator. I was right in the middle of explaining to myself why I needed to have a chicken salad sandwich for lunch verses an egg salad sandwich, when the doors opened to reveal a man waiting to get on. As I happened to be holding my arm out looking at my watch at the exact moment that this gentleman appeared, I did the only thing I could do: I got off the elevator and continued talking into my watch in the hopes that he would simply think I was an undercover operative relaying information back to headquarters via the transmitter hidden inside the wrist band. Because otherwise he would have just thought I was crazy.
I don’t know why I feel the need to constantly try and involve strangers in the continuous comedy routine that is my life. But I love when people join in on my humor.
However, I think I love it even more when they don’t.
Last year, some friends and I were going to see “So You Think You Can Dance” at the Gwinnett Arena. We were late so we were running across the parking lot. We got there, all out of breath, and I handed my ticket to the lady at the door. I said, “Phew! We made it! Did you hold the show for us?”
She just looked at me, scanned my ticket and said flatly, “The show hasn’t started yet.” And then she moved on to the next person.
Once inside, my friend Tonya said, “Does that happen to you a lot?”
And I said, “Yes. Yes, it does.”
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The Aging Process
In less than a month, I will be 36. It’s not a very significant age – not like 35 which requires me to now check the Age 35-to-40 box on surveys. But, at this point in my life I don’t feel like fighting my age or my increasingly rapid acceleration toward being able to claim the extra 15% discount every Wednesday at Kohl’s. I'm at peace with the few errant grey hairs, the faint appearance of lines around my eyes and the way nothing on my body seems to be in quite the same position it once was. I don’t care if I ever wear a bikini again, nor do I feel the need to capture the eye of passing men.
(Though I feel pretty confident that if I did wear a bikini now, I’d certainly capture everyone’s eye – just not quite in the way one would hope.)
Poor L is already beginning her stage of the battle, which actually begins by wanting to grow older as fast as possible. Ever since she turned five in back in October, she has been asking when she will be five-and-a-half. We keep telling her she won’t reach that milestone until around the time her brother turns three in May. However, she overheard me tell someone the other day that she was five-and-a-half. L gasped with joy, got a huge grin on her face and said, “I’m finally five-and-a-half! Yea!”
“And-a-half” is a big deal to the young. It can be a big deal to the old, too, just not in the same way. When I was 16-and-a-half and my mother would tell people that I was 17, I was thrilled. Years later at a family reunion I found myself repeatedly reminding my mother that I was not 27, but 26-and-a-half.
So even though I am now comfortably chugging across this mortal coil, I’m sure there will come a time when I turn around and start clawing my way back to the past. I bet when I’m 40, and I'm frantically dying those grey hairs back into extinction, and the "faint" lines around my eyes start resembling a country road map, and nothing on my body is in the same place it once was, then I'll start staring longingly at that bikini again.
Here are a couple of entries from a time when I was having an immense amount of trouble accepting the aging process…
The Growing Older Thing
October 9, 2000 – 26-and-a-half years old
I am not enjoying the Growing Older Thing. Not only have I recently come to the conclusion that there is now an entire generation of men that are too young for me to date, but there is also an entire generation of women whom the generations of men before during and after me desire -- and are legally allowed to pursue. I feel that I am too young to start popping out the babies -- and not old enough to handle any type of responsibility whatsoever -- yet I'm too old to get away with this mentality. And little things keep happening to me that make this situation even worse.
Perfect example of why I am not enjoying the Growing Older Thing:
Last week I entered a QT station to pay for my gasoline purchases and a pack of cigarettes. (For those of you reading this who did not know that I smoke, well, I do. I also eat poorly and drink too much. Yes, I will die early. I've accepted this.) Anyway, the cute young man behind the counter asked to see my I.D. I naturally assumed this was because I look so darn youthful, and not simply because it is the law, so I handed it over with a flirtatious smile.
This boy looks at my I.D. and says, "Yeah, I thought you looked older than me."
WHAT?! What the heck was that?! I just stared at him willing his head to pop off his immature little boy body. Then I snatched my I.D. back from the child and went on my way, careful not to bump into anything on my way out lest I fall down and break a hip or something. Thank God that Boy Scout was waiting in the parking lot to escort me back to my car.
When Nude Photos Are No Longer A Good Idea
February 20, 2001
I became another year older yesterday. Yea, me. I didn't die for another whole year.
Actually, I have handled turning 27 fairly well, I think. I had a great weekend and a great birthday. I found myself enjoying the benefits of being born. You get free stuff, people treat you just a bit more special. You even begin to feel a bit special.
But then the next day you're back to being just you again. Only, an older version of you.
Yesterday I had a friend suggest that I have someone take nude pictures of myself now while my body still looks good naked before I reach the point where I don't look good naked and I then won't have proof that I once did, indeed, look good naked. (This suggestion came from a guy friend, of course. No woman would ever encourage or condone such masochistic behavior.) And while I was appalled by this idea -- at first -- I am now considering its merits. I mean, there's some truth in there somewhere, right? Do we not owe it to ourselves to document our youth before it's so long gone we've forgotten that we were ever young in the first place?
I think this nude picture thing ranks right up there with traveling to distant lands while you're still young enough to hike across Europe, or going to that one last club that is open 'til 5am while you're still energetic enough to stay out all night and yet still go to work the next day, or making out in weird places while you're still flexible enough to maneuver around inside a public phone booth. We should do these things while we're young because we have the excuse..."Hey! What do you want from us? We're young!!"
I am teetering on the edge of being able to use this excellent excuse to get away with spontaneous, wacky behavior, and being looked upon with pity because I'm trying to use this lame excuse to get away with irresponsible, immature behavior.
And, I must say, my big fear is that I will get the nude pictures back and realize that the time to have taken those photos was actually two years ago and I have already passed the point where I could take good nude photos. Maybe I just don't need that kind of disappointment in my twilight years. And the thought of hiking across Europe makes me tired just thinking about it. And I have, on more than one occasion lately, looked at my watch and said, "My God! It's almost 11:30! I have to be at work in the morning!" And getting all romantic in a public phone booth? You know how many germs there are inside one of those things? Not to mention the fact that they are very drafty.
Hmmmm…I may have to reevaluate my list of things to do while I'm still young. Would you consider staying up 'til midnight playing Trivial Pursuit with a small group of friends, drinking wine and discussing current events a crazy celebration of youth?
Nah, I wouldn't either. But until they start making public phone booths larger, more sterile and better insulated...Trivial Pursuit it is.
(Though I feel pretty confident that if I did wear a bikini now, I’d certainly capture everyone’s eye – just not quite in the way one would hope.)
Poor L is already beginning her stage of the battle, which actually begins by wanting to grow older as fast as possible. Ever since she turned five in back in October, she has been asking when she will be five-and-a-half. We keep telling her she won’t reach that milestone until around the time her brother turns three in May. However, she overheard me tell someone the other day that she was five-and-a-half. L gasped with joy, got a huge grin on her face and said, “I’m finally five-and-a-half! Yea!”
“And-a-half” is a big deal to the young. It can be a big deal to the old, too, just not in the same way. When I was 16-and-a-half and my mother would tell people that I was 17, I was thrilled. Years later at a family reunion I found myself repeatedly reminding my mother that I was not 27, but 26-and-a-half.
So even though I am now comfortably chugging across this mortal coil, I’m sure there will come a time when I turn around and start clawing my way back to the past. I bet when I’m 40, and I'm frantically dying those grey hairs back into extinction, and the "faint" lines around my eyes start resembling a country road map, and nothing on my body is in the same place it once was, then I'll start staring longingly at that bikini again.
Here are a couple of entries from a time when I was having an immense amount of trouble accepting the aging process…
The Growing Older Thing
October 9, 2000 – 26-and-a-half years old
I am not enjoying the Growing Older Thing. Not only have I recently come to the conclusion that there is now an entire generation of men that are too young for me to date, but there is also an entire generation of women whom the generations of men before during and after me desire -- and are legally allowed to pursue. I feel that I am too young to start popping out the babies -- and not old enough to handle any type of responsibility whatsoever -- yet I'm too old to get away with this mentality. And little things keep happening to me that make this situation even worse.
Perfect example of why I am not enjoying the Growing Older Thing:
Last week I entered a QT station to pay for my gasoline purchases and a pack of cigarettes. (For those of you reading this who did not know that I smoke, well, I do. I also eat poorly and drink too much. Yes, I will die early. I've accepted this.) Anyway, the cute young man behind the counter asked to see my I.D. I naturally assumed this was because I look so darn youthful, and not simply because it is the law, so I handed it over with a flirtatious smile.
This boy looks at my I.D. and says, "Yeah, I thought you looked older than me."
WHAT?! What the heck was that?! I just stared at him willing his head to pop off his immature little boy body. Then I snatched my I.D. back from the child and went on my way, careful not to bump into anything on my way out lest I fall down and break a hip or something. Thank God that Boy Scout was waiting in the parking lot to escort me back to my car.
When Nude Photos Are No Longer A Good Idea
February 20, 2001
I became another year older yesterday. Yea, me. I didn't die for another whole year.
Actually, I have handled turning 27 fairly well, I think. I had a great weekend and a great birthday. I found myself enjoying the benefits of being born. You get free stuff, people treat you just a bit more special. You even begin to feel a bit special.
But then the next day you're back to being just you again. Only, an older version of you.
Yesterday I had a friend suggest that I have someone take nude pictures of myself now while my body still looks good naked before I reach the point where I don't look good naked and I then won't have proof that I once did, indeed, look good naked. (This suggestion came from a guy friend, of course. No woman would ever encourage or condone such masochistic behavior.) And while I was appalled by this idea -- at first -- I am now considering its merits. I mean, there's some truth in there somewhere, right? Do we not owe it to ourselves to document our youth before it's so long gone we've forgotten that we were ever young in the first place?
I think this nude picture thing ranks right up there with traveling to distant lands while you're still young enough to hike across Europe, or going to that one last club that is open 'til 5am while you're still energetic enough to stay out all night and yet still go to work the next day, or making out in weird places while you're still flexible enough to maneuver around inside a public phone booth. We should do these things while we're young because we have the excuse..."Hey! What do you want from us? We're young!!"
I am teetering on the edge of being able to use this excellent excuse to get away with spontaneous, wacky behavior, and being looked upon with pity because I'm trying to use this lame excuse to get away with irresponsible, immature behavior.
And, I must say, my big fear is that I will get the nude pictures back and realize that the time to have taken those photos was actually two years ago and I have already passed the point where I could take good nude photos. Maybe I just don't need that kind of disappointment in my twilight years. And the thought of hiking across Europe makes me tired just thinking about it. And I have, on more than one occasion lately, looked at my watch and said, "My God! It's almost 11:30! I have to be at work in the morning!" And getting all romantic in a public phone booth? You know how many germs there are inside one of those things? Not to mention the fact that they are very drafty.
Hmmmm…I may have to reevaluate my list of things to do while I'm still young. Would you consider staying up 'til midnight playing Trivial Pursuit with a small group of friends, drinking wine and discussing current events a crazy celebration of youth?
Nah, I wouldn't either. But until they start making public phone booths larger, more sterile and better insulated...Trivial Pursuit it is.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Off Night
The other day I touted JAO's wonderfulness as a husband and father. And while I still believe that to be true, I thought it only fair and balanced to include a story about a time when he was not so wonderful. Heh, heh. Actually, I'll let you judge for yourself who was at fault here. And I strongly encourage you to agree with me. After all, JAO isn't the one filling your days with clever stories and witty observations.
Anyway, as you all know, in the very beginning of a relationship there is the "honeymoon" phase where everything is all rose-colored glasses and The Voice. All personality traits are cute and any imperfection is deemed adorable. You can't get enough of each other, your body is one big tingly, excited mess and your world is giddy and fun.
And then the honeymoon ends. The glasses come off. The traits are annoying and the imperfections are downright inciting. And The Voice is replaced by, well, it is still called The Voice, only this Voice is laden with sarcasm and a touch of spite.
Some will argue that this euphoric honeymoon feeling cannot be sustained -- and isn't meant to be sustained -- and that it is then replaced by a deeper, more meaningful feeling. A feeling that signals a life of dedication, devotion and mutual respect and love.
Whatever.
I don't believe there is a person out there who is now in a long-term, stable relationship that doesn't, at least partly, miss the pleasant euphoria that is the honeymoon phase.
So, I thought I would share the first time I caught a glimpse of the end of my honeymoon phase with JAO. The rose-colored glasses started to slip off my nose a bit -- and then it was all downhill from there. (And when I say "downhill" of course I mean our descent into a comfortable, loving, stable, deeply-emotionally-bonded relationship built on mutual respect and love.)
Whatever.
You know I love you, Boo. I wouldn't trade our life for anything. But, again...badder is funnier. :-)
Off Night
November 11, 2001
Last night, The Boyfriend and I had an "off" night. We just weren't in sync with each other. Have you ever experienced one of those nights? Oh, what fun. Nothing you say or do seems to help.
I suppose I may have started it. I was feeling a bit "off" myself and I allowed that mood to take me over. Though, I'm not completely convinced that he was merely reacting to my mood or if he was in his own funk and, therefore, forcing me to react to him. You decide.
This is how it went...
When I got there, he was folding his laundry. I sat on the bed and watched. I was trying to come down off of the high "Buffy, the Musical" had put me on. I think that somewhere on my way down, I made a wrong turn.
He was matching his socks and rolling them up in a ball. I was only trying to help when I said, "You really shouldn't roll your socks up that way."
"Why?"
"Because it stretches them out at the top. You should just put them together and fold them over." Very Martha Stewart of me, don't you think?
"Thanks for the tip." He looks me in the eye -- and continues to roll his socks up in a ball.
There is some silence and then he says, by way of striking up a conversation I guess, "So. What's up?"
"Oh, not much. How about you?"
"Well, I'm just trying to get all this stuff done before you got over here."
Inwardly, I say, "Well, you didn't succeed, since I am obviously already here and you have obviously not finished with your chores."
Outwardly, I say, "Hmmmm."
More silence as he finishes the folding of his laundry. Then it's on to dusting.
As he's dusting the top of the wardrobe, and the white cloth he's using is turning black, I'm thinking, "Darn, how long has it been since you've dusted the top of that thing?" But I say nothing. Until...
"Do me a favor?" I ask, full of innocence.
"What?" (Is it my imagination or was that a defensive 'what?')
"Open that third drawer and dust underneath it."
"What?" (Okay, that one was downright incredulous.)
"The third drawer. Open it up and dust the strip of wood underneath it. You dusted the top rim of the drawers but you neglected the strip of wood underneath." (Am I wrong in saying this?)
So, with a sigh, he does so.
"Um, and the door."
"What about the door?"
"Open it up and dust the inside of the cupboard area."
I don't even get a response to this one. But he does it. So I won, right? I mean, how can I be expected to sleep in a room that I know is not properly dusted? But I tactfully decline to ask him this.
I decide, instead, to change the subject. Get back to something light. I know! We can talk about our upcoming New York trip! That's guaranteed to lift our spirits! Last week, when Delta had its mad marked-down ticket prices sale, we booked a flight to New York for $74.26 for each round-trip ticket. Since then, I have been unable to think of anything else.
The Boyfriend has never been, so one night last week I pulled out all my maps of the city and spread them out on the floor for his first New York lesson. I explained all I knew about the layout of the city, the position of the neighborhoods, the location of all the favorite tourist sites. But I sensed that he wasn't as into the lesson as I was. He kept watching the television -- and reruns of "Friends," while entertaining for sure, shouldn't win the attention of someone who's supposed to be learning about the greatest city in the world, should it?
See, I didn't think so either!
Anyway, I poured over our hotel choices with the obsession and care of someone picking out her child's name. I was so proud when I found the most beautiful hotel right at 52nd and 6th for the low, low price of $129 a night. Unfortunately, as someone who was born and raised in the significantly less expensive town of Stone Mountain, Georgia, The Boyfriend was shocked at our $608 hotel bill. As I was justifying that reservation (as well as the $145 price tag that came with our Broadway show tickets) it dawned on me that this poor boy didn't quite realize what he was getting into when I called and said, "Hey, you wanna go to New York?"
That notwithstanding, I was still determined that he was going to love this city as much as I did and assumed that he was equally excited to the point of insomnia over the idea of our trip.
All bubbly and cute, I ask, "Did you get a chance to go on-line and look at the hotel I booked for us?"
"No."
"Oh. Well, that's okay. I brought pictures!"
"Pictures of what?"
"Of the hotel -- so you can see what it looks like. Wait until your see our room! It's really beautiful. You're gonna love it!"
"Okay."
Hmmm...I try another tactic: "You know, Jen and Mike are going to Philly right after Christmas. I was like, 'Philly? Why would you choose Philly?' But she said that neither of them has been there before and Michael is a big Eagles fan -- whatever that means. She said something about wanting to drive into Atlantic City while they were there and I was like, 'Jen! If you're going to drive somewhere, got to New York! You're almost as close to the city at that point.'" (I mean, why wouldn't someone want to go to New York if given the chance? No offense, Jen, but come on!)
Again, am I wrong here?
Apparently, I am.
With a sense of cruelty that I never knew he was capable of, The Boyfriend said, "You know, not everyone is as infatuated with New York City as you are."
Boom! Silence.
Inwardly, and with great consternation: "Excuse me?!....What?!"
Outwardly, and very calmly: "I told you before, if you don't want to go, I'll change your airline ticket to someone else's name." (Half joking/half I'm serious if you aren't going to be excited about this then I don't even want to share it with you.)
He said (and rather explosively, I thought), "Look. I told you. I want to go. I'm excited about it. Really."
"Okay." (Hmmm....I think I'll suddenly become engrossed in this brochure touting all the best golfing resorts in the Florida panhandle.)
"Are you okay?"
"Of course!" (Big smile. Gee, I had no idea there were so many golf courses in the panhandle of Florida.)
"I really do want to go."
"I know you do." (The resort in Destin seems nice.)
"Fine."
"Fine."
Then he goes about his dusting duties.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Beat. Beat. Now with hurt indignation, my speech designed to explain it all and regain his love and affection while simultaneously filling him with the wonder and joy that is New York:
"I know that my obsession with New York may seem crazy. But I love that place. I have never felt more alive than when I was there. I was born to be in that city. There's no place on earth that I would rather be!" (Oh, my. Did I just quote Ava Gabor in "Green Acres?")
Silence.
Okay, so that speech didn't go exactly as I had planned. Guess it's back to the brochure.
When he stands on the bed to dust the fan blades, which are directly above my head, I stand up to leave the room. I don't want the dust to fall on my head, now do I?
"Where are you going?" he demands. (Okay, he just kinda asks, but I heard "demands.")
Inwardly: "I'm leaving and I'm never coming back, you New York-hating, sock-ruining, poorly-dusting, insensitive man!"
Outwardly: "To the bathroom."
"Oh. Okay."
Geez. Is it just me, or was he being sensitive or what?
Anyway, as you all know, in the very beginning of a relationship there is the "honeymoon" phase where everything is all rose-colored glasses and The Voice. All personality traits are cute and any imperfection is deemed adorable. You can't get enough of each other, your body is one big tingly, excited mess and your world is giddy and fun.
And then the honeymoon ends. The glasses come off. The traits are annoying and the imperfections are downright inciting. And The Voice is replaced by, well, it is still called The Voice, only this Voice is laden with sarcasm and a touch of spite.
Some will argue that this euphoric honeymoon feeling cannot be sustained -- and isn't meant to be sustained -- and that it is then replaced by a deeper, more meaningful feeling. A feeling that signals a life of dedication, devotion and mutual respect and love.
Whatever.
I don't believe there is a person out there who is now in a long-term, stable relationship that doesn't, at least partly, miss the pleasant euphoria that is the honeymoon phase.
So, I thought I would share the first time I caught a glimpse of the end of my honeymoon phase with JAO. The rose-colored glasses started to slip off my nose a bit -- and then it was all downhill from there. (And when I say "downhill" of course I mean our descent into a comfortable, loving, stable, deeply-emotionally-bonded relationship built on mutual respect and love.)
Whatever.
You know I love you, Boo. I wouldn't trade our life for anything. But, again...badder is funnier. :-)
Off Night
November 11, 2001
Last night, The Boyfriend and I had an "off" night. We just weren't in sync with each other. Have you ever experienced one of those nights? Oh, what fun. Nothing you say or do seems to help.
I suppose I may have started it. I was feeling a bit "off" myself and I allowed that mood to take me over. Though, I'm not completely convinced that he was merely reacting to my mood or if he was in his own funk and, therefore, forcing me to react to him. You decide.
This is how it went...
When I got there, he was folding his laundry. I sat on the bed and watched. I was trying to come down off of the high "Buffy, the Musical" had put me on. I think that somewhere on my way down, I made a wrong turn.
He was matching his socks and rolling them up in a ball. I was only trying to help when I said, "You really shouldn't roll your socks up that way."
"Why?"
"Because it stretches them out at the top. You should just put them together and fold them over." Very Martha Stewart of me, don't you think?
"Thanks for the tip." He looks me in the eye -- and continues to roll his socks up in a ball.
There is some silence and then he says, by way of striking up a conversation I guess, "So. What's up?"
"Oh, not much. How about you?"
"Well, I'm just trying to get all this stuff done before you got over here."
Inwardly, I say, "Well, you didn't succeed, since I am obviously already here and you have obviously not finished with your chores."
Outwardly, I say, "Hmmmm."
More silence as he finishes the folding of his laundry. Then it's on to dusting.
As he's dusting the top of the wardrobe, and the white cloth he's using is turning black, I'm thinking, "Darn, how long has it been since you've dusted the top of that thing?" But I say nothing. Until...
"Do me a favor?" I ask, full of innocence.
"What?" (Is it my imagination or was that a defensive 'what?')
"Open that third drawer and dust underneath it."
"What?" (Okay, that one was downright incredulous.)
"The third drawer. Open it up and dust the strip of wood underneath it. You dusted the top rim of the drawers but you neglected the strip of wood underneath." (Am I wrong in saying this?)
So, with a sigh, he does so.
"Um, and the door."
"What about the door?"
"Open it up and dust the inside of the cupboard area."
I don't even get a response to this one. But he does it. So I won, right? I mean, how can I be expected to sleep in a room that I know is not properly dusted? But I tactfully decline to ask him this.
I decide, instead, to change the subject. Get back to something light. I know! We can talk about our upcoming New York trip! That's guaranteed to lift our spirits! Last week, when Delta had its mad marked-down ticket prices sale, we booked a flight to New York for $74.26 for each round-trip ticket. Since then, I have been unable to think of anything else.
The Boyfriend has never been, so one night last week I pulled out all my maps of the city and spread them out on the floor for his first New York lesson. I explained all I knew about the layout of the city, the position of the neighborhoods, the location of all the favorite tourist sites. But I sensed that he wasn't as into the lesson as I was. He kept watching the television -- and reruns of "Friends," while entertaining for sure, shouldn't win the attention of someone who's supposed to be learning about the greatest city in the world, should it?
See, I didn't think so either!
Anyway, I poured over our hotel choices with the obsession and care of someone picking out her child's name. I was so proud when I found the most beautiful hotel right at 52nd and 6th for the low, low price of $129 a night. Unfortunately, as someone who was born and raised in the significantly less expensive town of Stone Mountain, Georgia, The Boyfriend was shocked at our $608 hotel bill. As I was justifying that reservation (as well as the $145 price tag that came with our Broadway show tickets) it dawned on me that this poor boy didn't quite realize what he was getting into when I called and said, "Hey, you wanna go to New York?"
That notwithstanding, I was still determined that he was going to love this city as much as I did and assumed that he was equally excited to the point of insomnia over the idea of our trip.
All bubbly and cute, I ask, "Did you get a chance to go on-line and look at the hotel I booked for us?"
"No."
"Oh. Well, that's okay. I brought pictures!"
"Pictures of what?"
"Of the hotel -- so you can see what it looks like. Wait until your see our room! It's really beautiful. You're gonna love it!"
"Okay."
Hmmm...I try another tactic: "You know, Jen and Mike are going to Philly right after Christmas. I was like, 'Philly? Why would you choose Philly?' But she said that neither of them has been there before and Michael is a big Eagles fan -- whatever that means. She said something about wanting to drive into Atlantic City while they were there and I was like, 'Jen! If you're going to drive somewhere, got to New York! You're almost as close to the city at that point.'" (I mean, why wouldn't someone want to go to New York if given the chance? No offense, Jen, but come on!)
Again, am I wrong here?
Apparently, I am.
With a sense of cruelty that I never knew he was capable of, The Boyfriend said, "You know, not everyone is as infatuated with New York City as you are."
Boom! Silence.
Inwardly, and with great consternation: "Excuse me?!....What?!"
Outwardly, and very calmly: "I told you before, if you don't want to go, I'll change your airline ticket to someone else's name." (Half joking/half I'm serious if you aren't going to be excited about this then I don't even want to share it with you.)
He said (and rather explosively, I thought), "Look. I told you. I want to go. I'm excited about it. Really."
"Okay." (Hmmm....I think I'll suddenly become engrossed in this brochure touting all the best golfing resorts in the Florida panhandle.)
"Are you okay?"
"Of course!" (Big smile. Gee, I had no idea there were so many golf courses in the panhandle of Florida.)
"I really do want to go."
"I know you do." (The resort in Destin seems nice.)
"Fine."
"Fine."
Then he goes about his dusting duties.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Beat. Beat. Now with hurt indignation, my speech designed to explain it all and regain his love and affection while simultaneously filling him with the wonder and joy that is New York:
"I know that my obsession with New York may seem crazy. But I love that place. I have never felt more alive than when I was there. I was born to be in that city. There's no place on earth that I would rather be!" (Oh, my. Did I just quote Ava Gabor in "Green Acres?")
Silence.
Okay, so that speech didn't go exactly as I had planned. Guess it's back to the brochure.
When he stands on the bed to dust the fan blades, which are directly above my head, I stand up to leave the room. I don't want the dust to fall on my head, now do I?
"Where are you going?" he demands. (Okay, he just kinda asks, but I heard "demands.")
Inwardly: "I'm leaving and I'm never coming back, you New York-hating, sock-ruining, poorly-dusting, insensitive man!"
Outwardly: "To the bathroom."
"Oh. Okay."
Geez. Is it just me, or was he being sensitive or what?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Other People's Stories
I choose to surround myself with funny people. Not necessarily funnier than me, of course. I don’t need that kind of competition. But, funny people nonetheless.
And often, these funny people have funny stories. And since I am bizarrely compelled to share funny stories with the world, I will share with you now, the funny stories of Emma, Renee and Debra...
Emma’s Story
July 29, 2000
My friend, Emma, is the most adorable British woman that I have ever met. She's genteel, proper and kind, and I love her accent. Being a sucker for a proper British accent, I could listen to her read the ingredients on a cereal box and find it the most charming monologue I have ever heard. So, to hear her recount her tale of the most publicly embarrassing female-related incident, made me bray with laughter as only an improper Yank would do.
After I stopped laughing, I told her she needed to start her own on-line diary and begin it with that tale. She told me that I should just post it on my web-log instead. So, here it is: Emma the Proper Brit's Most Publicly Embarrassing Female-Related Tale (as told by me, the Improper Yank).
Needing to purchase some, uh, feminine products, Emma rushes into her local deluxe pharmaceutical chain (CVS Pharmacy, to be precise) with the intention of buying a box of sanitary towels. (She pronounces it "sani-tree" towels, making them sound all exotic and everything. Where I come from, we just call 'em pads -- or worse, rags. But, then again, I'm from Georgia.)
Anyway, with only mere minutes before CVS is to close, Emma dashes about the store in search of these items, but to no avail. There is not a sani-tree towel to be found. Finally, she spots a familiar site -- a box marked "Kotex." In a haste she grabs the box and rushes to the check-out.
Immediately, a line forms behind her consisting of (of course) three men. The first two are young, college types, and the third man is an elderly gentlemen of about eighty. Even though it is a natural process, one that everyone on the planet over the age of at least 12 knows about and understands, very few women are still comfortable purchasing sanitary pads (towels, napkins, whatever). Few men will do this, while even fewer men will talk about or even acknowledge this wonder of nature. So, to have an audience of three men while buying any item even remotely related to this phenomenon makes Emma a bit uncomfortable. But, hey, even the British reproduce, right?
The cashier is a female and for this Emma is grateful. A fellow sufferer of "the curse" will be quick and discreet, allowing Emma to make her purchase and scuttle out of the store while still maintaining her dignity.
Or so Emma thinks.
The female cashier looks at Emma's purchase, and in a volume of voice usually reserved for capturing the attention of someone standing several miles away asks, "Are you sure this is what you wanted, dear?"
Stunned by this sister's betrayal, Emma politely stammers, "Why, yes." While thinking, "What is happening to me?! Just hurry up!"
The cashier again looks at the purchase, then back at Emma, and again asks, "Are you sure, dear?"
Looking around for that hole that would mercifully appear in the floor and swallow her up, Emma again replies, "Yes, I am sure." While thinking, "Please, please let this end soon!"
Obviously feeling like she hasn't made her point, this evil traitor to her gender explains the reason for her seemingly rude questioning, "Honey, these are incontinence pads. I think you want sanitary pads."
In a state of horrified mortification, Emma grabs the box, mumbles, "Thank you," and rushes to return the embarrassing would-be purchase to its shelf. As she passes her fellow customers, the two young men quickly duck their heads and avert their eyes (as any polite young man in this situation would do), embarrassed to have been anywhere near this conversation, much less anywhere near a box that would contain either incontinence pads or sanitary ones.
However, the last man in line, the elderly gentlemen, catches Emma's eye - and winks.
Mortified, Emma deposits the offensive box on the nearest shelf and ducks out the door without having made her intended purchase.
She has not been back to that store since -- for fear she ever run into that old man again.
Thanks for the story, Emma. :-)
Renee’s Story
March 30, 2001
I will begin by saying that this is, indeed, a true story. I did not experience it first-hand, however. I am relaying this story from my cousin, Renee. But after having heard this story, I soooo wish I had been there.
Renee attends a large church with an even larger choir. Being an extremely talented and gifted singer, Renee is a member of this choir. (And often a featured soloist. As I said, she is extremely talented and gifted. She gets it from me.) Anyway, Wednesday night during choir practice she and her fellow singers had an encounter with one of those truly random and bizarre people who wander this earth in search of situations in which to present their true randomness and bizarreness.
Just as the choir director was stepping to the podium to begin his directing duties, a woman entered the rehearsal hall, walked the length of the room, and stopped in front of the choir director. She then asked him if she could say a few words.
Let me point out that no one knew this woman. Dressed in a somewhat grungy fashion and carrying a backpack, she was a stranger to everyone in the room. Confused, I am sure, but curious, perhaps, about what she had to say, the choir director stepped aside and allowed her the floor.
This woman stepped in front of the podium and, speaking clearly into the microphone, began to lecture the choir on the dangers of confusing live wires with ordinary clothes lines.
Seriously.
She spoke at length about how people should be made aware of the fact that if you pick up a live wire thinking that it is just a clothes line you will be badly injured, maybe even killed. People should also take caution not to step on these live wires that crouch hidden in the grass disguising themselves as harmless little clotheslines just waiting for some hapless victim to stumble across them. Some people just do not know, she said, and they have to be told. Live wires can kill.
When she was finished, the choir director thanked her, and she began to leave. She then suddenly whipped back around and asked, "You don't want the Devil to get you, do you?!"
To which the choir director responded, "Uh, no ma'am, we sure don't."
Then the woman turned back around and departed, leaving the bewildered choir to ponder the dangers of confusing clotheslines with live wires, and just what exactly that has do with Satan.
The choir director watched her walk out the door, turned back to his charges, and went directly into the next song. No one spoke of the incident, no one commented on their strange visitor. Renee, fearful of setting off a non-stoppable chain-laugh reaction, chanted "don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh" inside her head while attempting to sing. Even after rehearsal was over, no one talked about it. I guess some things just don't need to be discussed. Everyone chose to mull over this important life lesson in private as its profound meaning began to sink in.
Later, Renee said (and I quote), "Just think. I could have been out in my yard this summer, about to hang up my clothes to dry, and unwittingly grabbed onto a live wire! I could have been killed simply because I didn't know any better! I thank the Lord for sending this real-life guardian angel to us all."
Okay, so that's not a direct quote. But you get the idea. I mean, who knows how many innocent lives this woman has saved, how many horrible electrocutions she has prevented in her crusade to educate and enlighten? She is probably out there, right now, spreading the word, stopping choir practices all over the nation to teach, to warn, to save.
Because I'm telling you, people -- they are out there. And they are in larger numbers than we care to admit.
Debra’s Story
September 26, 2001
One week, Debra came to Atlanta for a visit and she stayed with me for a couple of nights. On a Tuesday, I left her at my apartment while I went to work fairly confident in her ability to take care of herself in my absence. How wrong was I?
In the early afternoon, I got a phone call from her and she was laughing hysterically. After she told me why, I was laughing hysterically. And after I shared this story with all of my co-workers they, too, were laughing hysterically.
Here is what she told me:
After spending the majority of the day lying on the sofa watching television, Debra decided she would be productive and take a shower. (Just so you know, she was on vacation from work and school and was looking forward to just lying around and doing nothing. I tell you this so you don't think that Debra has nothing better to do with her time than lie around on other people's sofas watching television on a Tuesday.) Before getting into the shower, Debra placed two towels on the toilet seat. While in the shower, she realized that she had left her facial cleanser on the counter by the sink. She reached through the shower curtain and leaned over the toilet to get the cleanser, placing her hand on top of the towels to support herself.
Unfortunately, Debra had forgotten one very important detail -- she had not put the lid down on the toilet. The towels, and her hand, went straight to the bottom of the toilet bowl, pitching her body forward and sending her legs flying up in the air. She froze for a moment, still in that position, and thought, "Okay. I am wet. I am naked. And my arm is in a toilet up to my elbow."
She laughed through the rest of her shower, as well she should have. And while that story still makes me smile, I am glad that she wasn't hurt beyond a nice bruise that appeared on her arm. I would have hated to come home and find her lying passed-out-naked on my bathroom floor with my toilet full of towels.
Thanks for the entertainment, Deb. I know I can always count on you to make me laugh.
And often, these funny people have funny stories. And since I am bizarrely compelled to share funny stories with the world, I will share with you now, the funny stories of Emma, Renee and Debra...
Emma’s Story
July 29, 2000
My friend, Emma, is the most adorable British woman that I have ever met. She's genteel, proper and kind, and I love her accent. Being a sucker for a proper British accent, I could listen to her read the ingredients on a cereal box and find it the most charming monologue I have ever heard. So, to hear her recount her tale of the most publicly embarrassing female-related incident, made me bray with laughter as only an improper Yank would do.
After I stopped laughing, I told her she needed to start her own on-line diary and begin it with that tale. She told me that I should just post it on my web-log instead. So, here it is: Emma the Proper Brit's Most Publicly Embarrassing Female-Related Tale (as told by me, the Improper Yank).
Needing to purchase some, uh, feminine products, Emma rushes into her local deluxe pharmaceutical chain (CVS Pharmacy, to be precise) with the intention of buying a box of sanitary towels. (She pronounces it "sani-tree" towels, making them sound all exotic and everything. Where I come from, we just call 'em pads -- or worse, rags. But, then again, I'm from Georgia.)
Anyway, with only mere minutes before CVS is to close, Emma dashes about the store in search of these items, but to no avail. There is not a sani-tree towel to be found. Finally, she spots a familiar site -- a box marked "Kotex." In a haste she grabs the box and rushes to the check-out.
Immediately, a line forms behind her consisting of (of course) three men. The first two are young, college types, and the third man is an elderly gentlemen of about eighty. Even though it is a natural process, one that everyone on the planet over the age of at least 12 knows about and understands, very few women are still comfortable purchasing sanitary pads (towels, napkins, whatever). Few men will do this, while even fewer men will talk about or even acknowledge this wonder of nature. So, to have an audience of three men while buying any item even remotely related to this phenomenon makes Emma a bit uncomfortable. But, hey, even the British reproduce, right?
The cashier is a female and for this Emma is grateful. A fellow sufferer of "the curse" will be quick and discreet, allowing Emma to make her purchase and scuttle out of the store while still maintaining her dignity.
Or so Emma thinks.
The female cashier looks at Emma's purchase, and in a volume of voice usually reserved for capturing the attention of someone standing several miles away asks, "Are you sure this is what you wanted, dear?"
Stunned by this sister's betrayal, Emma politely stammers, "Why, yes." While thinking, "What is happening to me?! Just hurry up!"
The cashier again looks at the purchase, then back at Emma, and again asks, "Are you sure, dear?"
Looking around for that hole that would mercifully appear in the floor and swallow her up, Emma again replies, "Yes, I am sure." While thinking, "Please, please let this end soon!"
Obviously feeling like she hasn't made her point, this evil traitor to her gender explains the reason for her seemingly rude questioning, "Honey, these are incontinence pads. I think you want sanitary pads."
In a state of horrified mortification, Emma grabs the box, mumbles, "Thank you," and rushes to return the embarrassing would-be purchase to its shelf. As she passes her fellow customers, the two young men quickly duck their heads and avert their eyes (as any polite young man in this situation would do), embarrassed to have been anywhere near this conversation, much less anywhere near a box that would contain either incontinence pads or sanitary ones.
However, the last man in line, the elderly gentlemen, catches Emma's eye - and winks.
Mortified, Emma deposits the offensive box on the nearest shelf and ducks out the door without having made her intended purchase.
She has not been back to that store since -- for fear she ever run into that old man again.
Thanks for the story, Emma. :-)
Renee’s Story
March 30, 2001
I will begin by saying that this is, indeed, a true story. I did not experience it first-hand, however. I am relaying this story from my cousin, Renee. But after having heard this story, I soooo wish I had been there.
Renee attends a large church with an even larger choir. Being an extremely talented and gifted singer, Renee is a member of this choir. (And often a featured soloist. As I said, she is extremely talented and gifted. She gets it from me.) Anyway, Wednesday night during choir practice she and her fellow singers had an encounter with one of those truly random and bizarre people who wander this earth in search of situations in which to present their true randomness and bizarreness.
Just as the choir director was stepping to the podium to begin his directing duties, a woman entered the rehearsal hall, walked the length of the room, and stopped in front of the choir director. She then asked him if she could say a few words.
Let me point out that no one knew this woman. Dressed in a somewhat grungy fashion and carrying a backpack, she was a stranger to everyone in the room. Confused, I am sure, but curious, perhaps, about what she had to say, the choir director stepped aside and allowed her the floor.
This woman stepped in front of the podium and, speaking clearly into the microphone, began to lecture the choir on the dangers of confusing live wires with ordinary clothes lines.
Seriously.
She spoke at length about how people should be made aware of the fact that if you pick up a live wire thinking that it is just a clothes line you will be badly injured, maybe even killed. People should also take caution not to step on these live wires that crouch hidden in the grass disguising themselves as harmless little clotheslines just waiting for some hapless victim to stumble across them. Some people just do not know, she said, and they have to be told. Live wires can kill.
When she was finished, the choir director thanked her, and she began to leave. She then suddenly whipped back around and asked, "You don't want the Devil to get you, do you?!"
To which the choir director responded, "Uh, no ma'am, we sure don't."
Then the woman turned back around and departed, leaving the bewildered choir to ponder the dangers of confusing clotheslines with live wires, and just what exactly that has do with Satan.
The choir director watched her walk out the door, turned back to his charges, and went directly into the next song. No one spoke of the incident, no one commented on their strange visitor. Renee, fearful of setting off a non-stoppable chain-laugh reaction, chanted "don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh" inside her head while attempting to sing. Even after rehearsal was over, no one talked about it. I guess some things just don't need to be discussed. Everyone chose to mull over this important life lesson in private as its profound meaning began to sink in.
Later, Renee said (and I quote), "Just think. I could have been out in my yard this summer, about to hang up my clothes to dry, and unwittingly grabbed onto a live wire! I could have been killed simply because I didn't know any better! I thank the Lord for sending this real-life guardian angel to us all."
Okay, so that's not a direct quote. But you get the idea. I mean, who knows how many innocent lives this woman has saved, how many horrible electrocutions she has prevented in her crusade to educate and enlighten? She is probably out there, right now, spreading the word, stopping choir practices all over the nation to teach, to warn, to save.
Because I'm telling you, people -- they are out there. And they are in larger numbers than we care to admit.
Debra’s Story
September 26, 2001
One week, Debra came to Atlanta for a visit and she stayed with me for a couple of nights. On a Tuesday, I left her at my apartment while I went to work fairly confident in her ability to take care of herself in my absence. How wrong was I?
In the early afternoon, I got a phone call from her and she was laughing hysterically. After she told me why, I was laughing hysterically. And after I shared this story with all of my co-workers they, too, were laughing hysterically.
Here is what she told me:
After spending the majority of the day lying on the sofa watching television, Debra decided she would be productive and take a shower. (Just so you know, she was on vacation from work and school and was looking forward to just lying around and doing nothing. I tell you this so you don't think that Debra has nothing better to do with her time than lie around on other people's sofas watching television on a Tuesday.) Before getting into the shower, Debra placed two towels on the toilet seat. While in the shower, she realized that she had left her facial cleanser on the counter by the sink. She reached through the shower curtain and leaned over the toilet to get the cleanser, placing her hand on top of the towels to support herself.
Unfortunately, Debra had forgotten one very important detail -- she had not put the lid down on the toilet. The towels, and her hand, went straight to the bottom of the toilet bowl, pitching her body forward and sending her legs flying up in the air. She froze for a moment, still in that position, and thought, "Okay. I am wet. I am naked. And my arm is in a toilet up to my elbow."
She laughed through the rest of her shower, as well she should have. And while that story still makes me smile, I am glad that she wasn't hurt beyond a nice bruise that appeared on her arm. I would have hated to come home and find her lying passed-out-naked on my bathroom floor with my toilet full of towels.
Thanks for the entertainment, Deb. I know I can always count on you to make me laugh.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The JAO Chronicles
Yesterday was a horrible day as far as my head was concerned -- migraines are miserable things. However, it was a great day as far as my marriage was concerned. JAO was such a great husband and father! He took care of the kids, did some laundry, cooked, cleaned the kitchen -- he even had some of Lily's friends over to play! All while I languished upstairs willing my head to stop pounding and my stomach to stop rejecting anything I attempted to put into it.
And, after the kids were in bed, he went out and got me some Ginger Ale and the cheese and peanut-butter crackers that have ultra stomach-healing powers.
Sigh. What a man. Since I have a tendancy to only report the bad things that happend in life -- because, well, let's face it, badder is funnier -- I really wanted everyone (and him) to know how much I love and appreciate my husband.
See? That's not funny at all!
Okay, back to the funny...
While I was keeping up this online diary, JAO and I began (re-began) the relationship that would lead to our marriage. Lucky for him, I was able to document some of our finer moments. Heh, heh.
Before we began dating seriously, I was the queen of first-dates. I was a commitment-phobe who invented Seinfeldian reasons for rejecting men and had no clue how to behave normally in a stable, loving relationship.
So when an obsessive-compulsive, neurotic, red-hot-mess of a girl meets a calm, dependable, has-it-all-together boy...well...you can see what happens...
The Coolness Factor
May 10, 2001
Last night I went to the Mario Andretti Speed Lab. Named such, because they have made a science of racing. (This is just a guess.) It is an indoor racetrack where you can suit up and race like the pros. Well, if the pros only went twenty-miles-an-hour, that is. I didn't actually get to race, however. Being a silly little girl, I left the house in fashionably clunky open-toed sandals. And while my feet looked fabulous, these sandals are not accepted race wear. So I just had to sit and watch while the boys (wearing their less-fashionable, yet more-race-friendly sneakers) pretended they were Mario (or one of the other Andrettis) for seven, action-packed minutes.
I was there with The New Guy and some of his colleagues. This was a big deal as these colleagues were also good friends of his and I was meeting them for the first time. Since he and I have known each other since high school (therefore, not really making him all that "new" I suppose), we've already met the families. But we haven’t really ventured into the "meeting the friends" arena. So, because I choose to put pressure on myself for the stupidest reasons, I was slightly nervous about the evening.
However, I can now say with arrogant pride -- I performed magnificently.
When I excused myself to go to the ladies' room, his friends told him that I was "cool." I wasn't surprised by this because, well, I am pretty damn cool. Of course, being the only girl in the group upped my chances of being cool as there were no other women there to compete against in the coolness category. So that helped me.
And now, because I think this is a useful service, allow me to share with you some tips on how to be the "cool girlfriend."
1.) Do not be offended by the boys' occasional foul language and/or off-color jokes.
2.) Throw in your own occasional choice word or phrase. But limit those instances to at least three. Remember, there is a fine line between being cool and still remaining a lady.
3.) Order cheap, redneck beer. Southern men feel that you are one of their own kind and Northern men just find it charming.
4.) Compliment your boyfriend. Do not do this is a gushy, baby-talkie way, of course -- that is nauseating. Simply make a few well-timed comments here and there that say, "Yes, I am very pleased to be dating this man." He feels propped-up in front of his buddies and his buddies are pleased that he is with a nice girl who really seems to care about him.
5.) On the flip side, don't be afraid to get in a few good-natured jibes as well. It establishes your sense of humor and sends the message that you can hold your own if need be.
There are obviously a few other things you can do that will earn you the "cool girlfriend" title, but you wouldn't want to do them in front of his friends. Well, unless, of course, you are all into that. To each her own.
Now, ladies, I am in no way suggesting that you try and be anything you are not simply to ingratiate yourself to your man and his friends. Nor am I saying that you have to abandon your free-will as a woman in order to mold yourself into a guy world. I am merely saying that men are easily manipulated. It only takes a few simple strategic moves on your part to gain the "cool" title. And once you have established yourself as the "cool girlfriend," then you can begin to be the true bitch that you are. He won't even know what hit him.
Again, with the kidding.
Diary of a Mad Woman
June 5, 2001
Monday, June 4, 2001
Weight: 110 (but scale in kitchen is off by six pounds -- not telling you which way). Cigarettes: 3 (if you are my mother); 8 (if you are not someone who will lecture me). Alcohol units: 1 1/2 (v.g. for a Monday).Calories: no idea. Number of times felt all warm and tingly over New Guy: 57 (nice). Number of times felt panic over possibility of screwing things up with New Guy: 32 (v.g. -- down from yesterday). Resolution: Mustn't let Bridgett Jones's warped theories and paranoid fantasies about men effect my new-found relationship.
9:15 a.m.
When read Bridgett's first book, thought she had brilliant insight into the complicated and heartbreaking world of Singletons. But, at the time, I was a Singleton myself. Now that I am sinking comfortably into the safety of the Smug Newly Datings, feel she may be a bit self-destructive and ultimately incapable of maintaining a healthy adult relationship. Because I certainly am capable of maintaining a healthy adult relationship without the aid of constant conversation dissection and body language analyzaiton or dependence on "Mars/Venus" theology. Right? Aren't I?
9:25 a.m.
Still...can't help but identify with Bridge even now. And, must say, still sneakingly suspect she may be right when says in a relationship, "Men must feel they are the pursuer." Could this be true? Could C. have been right when said, "Be careful. You're going to burn this one out. Don't chase him. Make him call you." Is that possible? Is the phrase, "I really need to just stay home tonight and catch upon some work" a legitimate excuse and not a tactful way of saying, "Bugger off, woman, seven days in a row is plenty of you?" Beginning to obsess.
10:00 a.m.
Resolution: Need to be aloof, yet attentive; detached, yet caring; independent while still making it clear that my life would fall apart without his existence. Easy enough.
12:00 p.m.
He has not called yet today.
12:15 p.m.
Still has not called. What could be...Ahhhhhh! Phone!
12:30 p.m.
Blast. Was Mother. Shared The Pursuer Theory with her. She responded by saying, "Dear, we live in the year 2001, not the year 1901. Things are different now." Oh, no, Mother. You only wish. We are fighting millions of years of the collective unconscious. One decade of bra-burning isn't going to erase centuries of social morays and opposite sex patterns. If men have always been the hunters, one chorus of "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar" isn't going to change that.
1:00 p.m.
Began Pursuer Theory test. Resisted urge to call by sending emails in waves to friends who have vowed to not let me screw this up. Watched the clock, watched the phone, imagined all the reasons why he would not have called: 1.) trapped under something heavy and, therefore, unable to get to the phone (however, always has his cell phone on him so could use that to call me and have me come rescue him); 2.) extremely busy at work as he is a dedicated and hard-working man who will make wonderful provider (though too hardworking will leave me at home with five screaming babies and no life of my own); 3.) desperately wants to call but is testing his own theories about pursuing and is sitting staring at his phone as I am sitting starting at mine. (No. Least likely of them all.)
7:00 p.m.
It worked! Hurrah! He called me! Even got an "I miss you" without having to illicit. I am woman, hear me roar! Resolution for tomorrow: Do not play games or test theories or obsess or become paranoid lest sabotage a potentially long-term, legitimate, stable, adult relationship with wonderful, normal, practically-perfect-for-me-in-every-way New Guy. In other words, do not be usual self. Well, can be self, just not typical relationship-sabotaging self. Be confident, calm, together, fun-loving, supportive, whimsical self.
10:00 p.m.
Called again! Double hurrah!! Listened to long story of his day's troubles while practicing being the nurturing, supportive, loving partner. Think I succeeded.
1:00 a.m.
Must stop playing Free Cell and go to bed. Big day of no-game-playing and no-theory-testing tomorrow. Must rest up for challenge.
Note to self: Do not let New Guy read dairy posts. Not just yet. Possibly already thinks am deranged.
Note to everyone else: Do not give out diaryland URL to New Guy. You already know am deranged. No need to share just yet.
The Voice
August 29, 2001
Okay, fine. So, The New Guy has officially become The Boyfriend. There. I said it. I have a boyfriend. Whom I love. To whom I have actually said, “I love you.” And from whom I have actually heard, “I love you, too.”
Phew. That wasn't so hard to say.
Wait. Why is everything going black...? fuzzy...Toto? Toto? Is that you...
Okay. I'm fine now. Seriously, The Boyfriend is great. And that's all I have the ability to articulate right now. I won't go into any of the mushy stuff, because, quite frankly, you don't want to hear it. Instead, I'll continue to share the more amusing aspects of this learning process.
Yesterday, while on the phone with The Boyfriend, I realized with shocked dismay that I was using The Voice. The Voice that you use on the phone when you’re talking to The New Guy who has since become The Boyfriend. The Voice that usually indicates the predication of the “L” word. Not the annoying, baby-talky, goo-goo-gaa-gaa voice, but the other one -- the one that is really a lack of annunciation and the drop of an octave. The Voice that is made through a sly smile and a coy duck of the head -- which is, of course, not something The Boyfriend can see, but rather something he can hear. I hung up the phone with the sly smile still on my face and my head still coyly cocked to the side. And then I snapped out of it and thought, “What the hell am I doing?”
And then I thought, “Oh, yeah. I'm falling in love.” And then I started smiling again.
HAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAA!! Ohhhhhhhhhhh!!! I'm sorry! I'm sooooo sorry! I just can't end this entry like that. I have a reputation to uphold.
Sigh.
Oops. The Boyfriend just called me. I used The Voice. Right here in the office. This is getting serious.
And, after the kids were in bed, he went out and got me some Ginger Ale and the cheese and peanut-butter crackers that have ultra stomach-healing powers.
Sigh. What a man. Since I have a tendancy to only report the bad things that happend in life -- because, well, let's face it, badder is funnier -- I really wanted everyone (and him) to know how much I love and appreciate my husband.
See? That's not funny at all!
Okay, back to the funny...
While I was keeping up this online diary, JAO and I began (re-began) the relationship that would lead to our marriage. Lucky for him, I was able to document some of our finer moments. Heh, heh.
Before we began dating seriously, I was the queen of first-dates. I was a commitment-phobe who invented Seinfeldian reasons for rejecting men and had no clue how to behave normally in a stable, loving relationship.
So when an obsessive-compulsive, neurotic, red-hot-mess of a girl meets a calm, dependable, has-it-all-together boy...well...you can see what happens...
The Coolness Factor
May 10, 2001
Last night I went to the Mario Andretti Speed Lab. Named such, because they have made a science of racing. (This is just a guess.) It is an indoor racetrack where you can suit up and race like the pros. Well, if the pros only went twenty-miles-an-hour, that is. I didn't actually get to race, however. Being a silly little girl, I left the house in fashionably clunky open-toed sandals. And while my feet looked fabulous, these sandals are not accepted race wear. So I just had to sit and watch while the boys (wearing their less-fashionable, yet more-race-friendly sneakers) pretended they were Mario (or one of the other Andrettis) for seven, action-packed minutes.
I was there with The New Guy and some of his colleagues. This was a big deal as these colleagues were also good friends of his and I was meeting them for the first time. Since he and I have known each other since high school (therefore, not really making him all that "new" I suppose), we've already met the families. But we haven’t really ventured into the "meeting the friends" arena. So, because I choose to put pressure on myself for the stupidest reasons, I was slightly nervous about the evening.
However, I can now say with arrogant pride -- I performed magnificently.
When I excused myself to go to the ladies' room, his friends told him that I was "cool." I wasn't surprised by this because, well, I am pretty damn cool. Of course, being the only girl in the group upped my chances of being cool as there were no other women there to compete against in the coolness category. So that helped me.
And now, because I think this is a useful service, allow me to share with you some tips on how to be the "cool girlfriend."
1.) Do not be offended by the boys' occasional foul language and/or off-color jokes.
2.) Throw in your own occasional choice word or phrase. But limit those instances to at least three. Remember, there is a fine line between being cool and still remaining a lady.
3.) Order cheap, redneck beer. Southern men feel that you are one of their own kind and Northern men just find it charming.
4.) Compliment your boyfriend. Do not do this is a gushy, baby-talkie way, of course -- that is nauseating. Simply make a few well-timed comments here and there that say, "Yes, I am very pleased to be dating this man." He feels propped-up in front of his buddies and his buddies are pleased that he is with a nice girl who really seems to care about him.
5.) On the flip side, don't be afraid to get in a few good-natured jibes as well. It establishes your sense of humor and sends the message that you can hold your own if need be.
There are obviously a few other things you can do that will earn you the "cool girlfriend" title, but you wouldn't want to do them in front of his friends. Well, unless, of course, you are all into that. To each her own.
Now, ladies, I am in no way suggesting that you try and be anything you are not simply to ingratiate yourself to your man and his friends. Nor am I saying that you have to abandon your free-will as a woman in order to mold yourself into a guy world. I am merely saying that men are easily manipulated. It only takes a few simple strategic moves on your part to gain the "cool" title. And once you have established yourself as the "cool girlfriend," then you can begin to be the true bitch that you are. He won't even know what hit him.
Again, with the kidding.
Diary of a Mad Woman
June 5, 2001
Monday, June 4, 2001
Weight: 110 (but scale in kitchen is off by six pounds -- not telling you which way). Cigarettes: 3 (if you are my mother); 8 (if you are not someone who will lecture me). Alcohol units: 1 1/2 (v.g. for a Monday).Calories: no idea. Number of times felt all warm and tingly over New Guy: 57 (nice). Number of times felt panic over possibility of screwing things up with New Guy: 32 (v.g. -- down from yesterday). Resolution: Mustn't let Bridgett Jones's warped theories and paranoid fantasies about men effect my new-found relationship.
9:15 a.m.
When read Bridgett's first book, thought she had brilliant insight into the complicated and heartbreaking world of Singletons. But, at the time, I was a Singleton myself. Now that I am sinking comfortably into the safety of the Smug Newly Datings, feel she may be a bit self-destructive and ultimately incapable of maintaining a healthy adult relationship. Because I certainly am capable of maintaining a healthy adult relationship without the aid of constant conversation dissection and body language analyzaiton or dependence on "Mars/Venus" theology. Right? Aren't I?
9:25 a.m.
Still...can't help but identify with Bridge even now. And, must say, still sneakingly suspect she may be right when says in a relationship, "Men must feel they are the pursuer." Could this be true? Could C. have been right when said, "Be careful. You're going to burn this one out. Don't chase him. Make him call you." Is that possible? Is the phrase, "I really need to just stay home tonight and catch upon some work" a legitimate excuse and not a tactful way of saying, "Bugger off, woman, seven days in a row is plenty of you?" Beginning to obsess.
10:00 a.m.
Resolution: Need to be aloof, yet attentive; detached, yet caring; independent while still making it clear that my life would fall apart without his existence. Easy enough.
12:00 p.m.
He has not called yet today.
12:15 p.m.
Still has not called. What could be...Ahhhhhh! Phone!
12:30 p.m.
Blast. Was Mother. Shared The Pursuer Theory with her. She responded by saying, "Dear, we live in the year 2001, not the year 1901. Things are different now." Oh, no, Mother. You only wish. We are fighting millions of years of the collective unconscious. One decade of bra-burning isn't going to erase centuries of social morays and opposite sex patterns. If men have always been the hunters, one chorus of "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar" isn't going to change that.
1:00 p.m.
Began Pursuer Theory test. Resisted urge to call by sending emails in waves to friends who have vowed to not let me screw this up. Watched the clock, watched the phone, imagined all the reasons why he would not have called: 1.) trapped under something heavy and, therefore, unable to get to the phone (however, always has his cell phone on him so could use that to call me and have me come rescue him); 2.) extremely busy at work as he is a dedicated and hard-working man who will make wonderful provider (though too hardworking will leave me at home with five screaming babies and no life of my own); 3.) desperately wants to call but is testing his own theories about pursuing and is sitting staring at his phone as I am sitting starting at mine. (No. Least likely of them all.)
7:00 p.m.
It worked! Hurrah! He called me! Even got an "I miss you" without having to illicit. I am woman, hear me roar! Resolution for tomorrow: Do not play games or test theories or obsess or become paranoid lest sabotage a potentially long-term, legitimate, stable, adult relationship with wonderful, normal, practically-perfect-for-me-in-every-way New Guy. In other words, do not be usual self. Well, can be self, just not typical relationship-sabotaging self. Be confident, calm, together, fun-loving, supportive, whimsical self.
10:00 p.m.
Called again! Double hurrah!! Listened to long story of his day's troubles while practicing being the nurturing, supportive, loving partner. Think I succeeded.
1:00 a.m.
Must stop playing Free Cell and go to bed. Big day of no-game-playing and no-theory-testing tomorrow. Must rest up for challenge.
Note to self: Do not let New Guy read dairy posts. Not just yet. Possibly already thinks am deranged.
Note to everyone else: Do not give out diaryland URL to New Guy. You already know am deranged. No need to share just yet.
The Voice
August 29, 2001
Okay, fine. So, The New Guy has officially become The Boyfriend. There. I said it. I have a boyfriend. Whom I love. To whom I have actually said, “I love you.” And from whom I have actually heard, “I love you, too.”
Phew. That wasn't so hard to say.
Wait. Why is everything going black...? fuzzy...Toto? Toto? Is that you...
Okay. I'm fine now. Seriously, The Boyfriend is great. And that's all I have the ability to articulate right now. I won't go into any of the mushy stuff, because, quite frankly, you don't want to hear it. Instead, I'll continue to share the more amusing aspects of this learning process.
Yesterday, while on the phone with The Boyfriend, I realized with shocked dismay that I was using The Voice. The Voice that you use on the phone when you’re talking to The New Guy who has since become The Boyfriend. The Voice that usually indicates the predication of the “L” word. Not the annoying, baby-talky, goo-goo-gaa-gaa voice, but the other one -- the one that is really a lack of annunciation and the drop of an octave. The Voice that is made through a sly smile and a coy duck of the head -- which is, of course, not something The Boyfriend can see, but rather something he can hear. I hung up the phone with the sly smile still on my face and my head still coyly cocked to the side. And then I snapped out of it and thought, “What the hell am I doing?”
And then I thought, “Oh, yeah. I'm falling in love.” And then I started smiling again.
HAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAA!! Ohhhhhhhhhhh!!! I'm sorry! I'm sooooo sorry! I just can't end this entry like that. I have a reputation to uphold.
Sigh.
Oops. The Boyfriend just called me. I used The Voice. Right here in the office. This is getting serious.
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