July can be easily summed up for me. I lost some things, but I gained some much more valuable things. Only the things I gained weren't really things, they weren't really experiences, they were barely nouns. It's as if pieces of myself were missing and this month, by losing some things I actually found myself more. In a city where we have more taxes on shopping than on homes, it can be easy to get caught up in things and forget who we are. Sometimes all we have to do is lose a few of those things to remember.
And I won't say that this month was without material gains. There was a vintage Christian Dior navy trench that fits like a dream and then there's all of that great Lord and Taylor 80s back stock I found at my hidden vintage gem, a twenty-five dollar handmade leather ammunition satchel from the army navy surplus, an amazing Ralph Lauren chalkline pinstripe suit from Ragstock. This month I really got caught up in the thrill of the hunt with thrift shopping. As the summer stock mostly empties out of stores after three tiers of markdowns and light transitional fall clothes start to appear the highlight of July shopping is really the thrift and vintage stores, which are ripe with selections after months of "spring cleaning" everyone does to prepare their closets for the seasons to come.
Fall is the turning point of the year, not just in fashion but in life. Fall is supposed to be the falling action of the year. With one more month of real summer crowds, heat, and white pants left there seems to be an internal clock ticking. The impending change of season begs the question: What have I accomplished? Am I on track to meet my goals, or am I tied to the track about the be run over my them? Am I even close to where I want to be?
Sometimes, in life less is more. However, I don't operate under that principle. More is more and too much is just enough. There are some people that lead minimal lives and I envy them. But I simply adore, j'adore, my excess. I have too many people, too many experiences, and too many clothes (that's actually subjective) in my life, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Emily Dickinson once wrote, "I dwell in possibility." Well, I dwell in excess.
In my month of emotional chutes and ladders I lost a boyfriend and a friend in Baby Daddy, but I gained a companion in Gucci. I lost a Crate and Barrel throw but I learned a new lesson in buying things to fit my life, not trying to fit life to the things I own. In ancient China, women bound their feet to keep them from growing, probably to fit into a pair of size four sling backs. Now, we just buy a size that fits. I lost parts of my routine, but gained a bit of freedom from my obsessive rituals. I lost a lot of money, but I gained a lot of value.
And as I look on the horizon and see the turning point of 2012 I think I am more complete now than I've ever been.
As for the cat pee: Gucci learned an important lesson this month as well. While I was eating dinner I saw him fascinated by my suede Varvatos wingtips. Then he decided to squat shakily over my shoes. Some people like to use a spray bottle to train their cats to stay away from something. I like to channel Annie Oakley with a super soaker I bought from the dollar store. From emotional chutes and ladders to shoots and bladders, before even a droplet of pee could descend upon and irreparably damage my suede shoes my shot with swift and aim was true. Annie get your gun, and Gucci get your ass off my shoes.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Shoulda, coulda...Target?!?
In life, and in fashion, there are patterns. There are metaphorical patterns, like trends coming and going. Then there are literal patterns, like gingham. Then there are other patterns, behavioral patterns. People, animals, everything works in pattern. Supposedly, if you stand far enough back from anything you'll notice a pattern. And when the pattern in cat urine, it's not hard to stand far back.
Gucci went to the vet for the first time today. I learned how much he hates being in confined spaces, so much so that he broke the carrier box to escape in the lobby of my building where he made a run for the east entrance, and I can only assume from there he would make a left on wabash to Nordstrom where he would avail himself of the pre-season sale on the new kiltie monkstrap loafers from Prada. From there he would spend a lovely afternoon stopping for lunch and sitting on the patio of Tavern on Rush, buying some socks and a belt from Paul Smith and then maybe he would bang a right on Michigan which would take him to 900 north, where his namesake store was and he could then pick up the new beige leather diamante change purse I've had my eye on.
Oh wait, never mind. That's not my cat's perfect day, that's mine-- the afternoon I woulda shoulda coulda been having it it weren't for my grand pooh-bah poo factory cat. I again, for the second time this week, in front of my neighbors, dove on the floor to rescue him from having a fabulous afternoon about town so he could be stuffed in a dark box and instead spend the day at the vet with me.
Support for Gucci has flowed from all (twenty-three) directions since I've begun blogging about it. Almost all (twenty-three) of my readers have expressed concern and asked how the cat is doing. How is the cat doing? Don't let this anecdote in the lobby of 440 north miserable street fool you. My cat leads a spoiled and wondrous life even more fabulous and entitled than mine. He eats organic food while I eat ramen. He uses organic almond-based litter while I'm forced to use 99-cent toilet paper so that I can afford his extravagant lifestyle. I haven't bought a single pair of shoes this month. In fact the highest tab I ran in any store was the one at Target yesterday where I re-bought cheap, shittier, and more bleach-able versions of all my home decor. When the sales lady told me the amount I almost coughed up a hairball.
"I coulda bought a pair of shoes for that much!"
"Just one pair?" She said incredulously, while trying to stuff my new bathmat in the same bag as my new less-than-100 thread count comforter.
"Well, if they were on sale."
Oh yes, there will be no more fancy cashmere pillows, velvety duvet covers, or silky smooth linens. Welcome to home by target, where everything is cheap and machine washable.
Once I finally got Gucci to the vet his doctor wanted to get a urine sample but said he couldn't feel a bladder.
"Well, I know he's got one, believe me he's got one."
"No, I mean it feels empty. I doubt we'll be able to get a urine sample from him."
"Yes, he decided to pee all over my Jonathan Adler throw this morning so he's probably out."
The vet looked at me, back at the cat, and back to me.
"Well, he's got good taste." This, unfortunately, was true. My cat must have been channeling Clint Eastwood's daughter, only instead of setting fire to Birkins and Louboutins he's simply peeing on designer things. My little darling, and his $100,000 bladder.
All of this, though, has given me a different perspective on what really matters in life. It seems like some people are quick to tell me to take the cat back to the shelter. My theory is that those people have never had their heart broken. Those people have never lost the love of their life because they weren't good enough or things got a little tough. Those people have a self-serving idea of what forever means. When I adopted this cat it wasn't forever, or until the road gets rocky. When I say forever, this is a forever home, I mean it. I know many people don't believe this. They cite extenuating circumstances. People change. Things happen. They forget that when you enter into a pact with someone, as I did with this cat, it is no longer just about them. My life isn't just about me anymore. And I'm all he has. After two owners, a medical history and the fact that he's almost eight, this is it. If I don't work out he's not going to get adopted. I owe it to him, and the promise I made to make this work.
I sometimes feel like that cat though, so maybe I'm sympathetic. In the past people were quick to give up on me when I wasn't everything they'd imagined. When I wasn't as great as they once thought. It was if their love were merely contingent on how much fun they were having. I could never do that to someone after having it done to me. I could never give up on someone just because things weren't east or neat and tidy. I may be obsessive about my home and my lifestyle, but for as materialistic as I may be living things have always come first for me. Even if the cat destroys all of my loafers (which is an impossibility as they are boxed and catalogued well out of his reach) I could never get rid of him. I will make more money. I will buy more shoes. But this is his one life to live with me and that, as soap-opera-y as it sounds, is worth something. That's a target worth aiming for.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Who can say if I've been changed for the better
When you're a hip young mover and shaker in the city with a wildly unpopular blog that all of 22 people read and a high input low yield job your days can be full of all the finest things the city has to offer: a little brunch, cappuccinos, some retail therapy, a stroll through the neighborhood, a glass of your favorite Malbec. Or your days can be like mine: knee deep in shit and up to my eyeballs in cat urine.
Gucci has decided to boycott his now littler box which, might I add, was the Cadillac of litter boxes. I bought my cat a large secluded lunar space station to do his business in. I had to empty half of my coat closet. I moved my shoes, I relocated Prada for Gucci. And the cat lovingly repays me by refusing to use the litter box and instead peeing all over my Ralph Lauren cushions. And for good measure he took out my bathmat too.
I wrote previously about my routine. I wrote about how the first thing I do on any day is make espresso. Today I never even made it to that first step. I woke up to Gucci pacing frantically looking for a place to eliminate what probably amounted to three liters of urine. My paisley cushions seemed to do the trick. Then the list starts, like a news ticker in the back of my mind; I start thinking immediately of all the things I need to do. I need to call the vet, I need to spray that area of carpet down before it dries, I need to vacuum I need to shampoo Gucci, I need to take down the new litter box and bring out the old one, I need to buy new litter for the old one, I need to return the space station to Petco but before I can do that I need to empty the litter that was never used and bleach it down and come up with an excuse for why I wasn't able to use it, I need to dispose of the two cushions and bathmat immediately, I need to brush Gucci as soon as the no-rinse shampoo in his fur dries. I need to wash my hands before touching anything. I need to put on pants before doing about 40% of those things. But wait, I have to change my socks first, then I can put on pants.
It's at this point in the frenzy that I lock Gucci in the bathroom with his food and water, sit down on the kitchen floor and, on the verge of tears, call the one person who would be able to talk me down from my imminent nervous breakdown: my mother.
After a day of cleaning, re organizing and stressing about the cat I finally decided to go to Jewel and buy my weekly box of wine. Jewel is, of course, out of my Pinot evil so I have to buy some other shitty wine I've never heard of. I finally get home ready to kick my heels up and drink my box of wine and Febreeze everything I own. The second I open the door to my apartment Gucci runs out between my legs. He runs toward my neighbor who is standing, slightly aghast, in her doorway. She issues me a look of disgust because:
A. I can't control my pet
B. She realizes that it is me singing don't rain on my parade in the shower every morning
In this moment time conveniently slows down as to allow me a moment of reflection on the events of the day. Gucci, seems hellbent on ruining my life. Despite the fact that I do nothing but love him, give him pets and attention and spent ridiculous sums of money so that he can eat the most expensive food and refuse to piss in the most expensive litter, this cat hates me and wants to destroy my life as I know it. He is stubborn, moody, constantly complaining, destroying my things and making me feel incompetent. If he were a forty-year old gay man this is the point when I would break up with him. As I watched him run down the hall of my condo building toward my disgruntled neighbor there was a pert of me, the darkest part of me, that wanted to just let him "run away." Go ahead go to my neighbor's fancy renovated apartment and take a dump in her shoe. Go right ahead. See how far you get before someone throws a glass of water at you or swats you with a broom. It's a tough world out there on the tenth floor of my condo building, and if you want to explore the hard knocks of my high rise go ahead.
Then my better judgement kicks in and I realize that this cat is the last man in my life and he was hightailing it just like all the other. And where I let every other man get away I felt an impossible to ignore tug for this one. I threw my box of wine down and dove on the floor to catch Gucci. I skinned my knee, hit my head on the door molding and saw enough of my neighbor's apartment to be jealous of her light fixtures. Before she slammed the door on me and Gucci.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It's okay I caught him you can come back out. Or, well, you can stay inside do. Just forget me and go about your day. Nice meeting you.
Gucci howled. He dug into me with his back claws. I don't believe in god and I don't believe animals have a higher conscience but I do believe that someone or something in this world was punishing me. I brought Gucci home and threw him on the bed and went to make dinner. Then he just stared at me sweetly with his big eyes and meowed at me. The same cat that is so miserable here after only a week that he tried to make a run for it.
I remembered the last song from Wicked, where Galinda and Elphaba sing about how they were drawn to each other to learn something but also to teach the other something-- and that in life we're drawn to the people that will teach us the most. I wonder if, like shoes, each animal is perfectly fit to their person. And even if they're not comfortable at first they become a perfect fit over time. Maybe there is something that this disgruntled rescue cat is supposed to teach me that all of the other men in my life were unable to.
Gucci has decided to boycott his now littler box which, might I add, was the Cadillac of litter boxes. I bought my cat a large secluded lunar space station to do his business in. I had to empty half of my coat closet. I moved my shoes, I relocated Prada for Gucci. And the cat lovingly repays me by refusing to use the litter box and instead peeing all over my Ralph Lauren cushions. And for good measure he took out my bathmat too.
I wrote previously about my routine. I wrote about how the first thing I do on any day is make espresso. Today I never even made it to that first step. I woke up to Gucci pacing frantically looking for a place to eliminate what probably amounted to three liters of urine. My paisley cushions seemed to do the trick. Then the list starts, like a news ticker in the back of my mind; I start thinking immediately of all the things I need to do. I need to call the vet, I need to spray that area of carpet down before it dries, I need to vacuum I need to shampoo Gucci, I need to take down the new litter box and bring out the old one, I need to buy new litter for the old one, I need to return the space station to Petco but before I can do that I need to empty the litter that was never used and bleach it down and come up with an excuse for why I wasn't able to use it, I need to dispose of the two cushions and bathmat immediately, I need to brush Gucci as soon as the no-rinse shampoo in his fur dries. I need to wash my hands before touching anything. I need to put on pants before doing about 40% of those things. But wait, I have to change my socks first, then I can put on pants.
It's at this point in the frenzy that I lock Gucci in the bathroom with his food and water, sit down on the kitchen floor and, on the verge of tears, call the one person who would be able to talk me down from my imminent nervous breakdown: my mother.
After a day of cleaning, re organizing and stressing about the cat I finally decided to go to Jewel and buy my weekly box of wine. Jewel is, of course, out of my Pinot evil so I have to buy some other shitty wine I've never heard of. I finally get home ready to kick my heels up and drink my box of wine and Febreeze everything I own. The second I open the door to my apartment Gucci runs out between my legs. He runs toward my neighbor who is standing, slightly aghast, in her doorway. She issues me a look of disgust because:
A. I can't control my pet
B. She realizes that it is me singing don't rain on my parade in the shower every morning
In this moment time conveniently slows down as to allow me a moment of reflection on the events of the day. Gucci, seems hellbent on ruining my life. Despite the fact that I do nothing but love him, give him pets and attention and spent ridiculous sums of money so that he can eat the most expensive food and refuse to piss in the most expensive litter, this cat hates me and wants to destroy my life as I know it. He is stubborn, moody, constantly complaining, destroying my things and making me feel incompetent. If he were a forty-year old gay man this is the point when I would break up with him. As I watched him run down the hall of my condo building toward my disgruntled neighbor there was a pert of me, the darkest part of me, that wanted to just let him "run away." Go ahead go to my neighbor's fancy renovated apartment and take a dump in her shoe. Go right ahead. See how far you get before someone throws a glass of water at you or swats you with a broom. It's a tough world out there on the tenth floor of my condo building, and if you want to explore the hard knocks of my high rise go ahead.
Then my better judgement kicks in and I realize that this cat is the last man in my life and he was hightailing it just like all the other. And where I let every other man get away I felt an impossible to ignore tug for this one. I threw my box of wine down and dove on the floor to catch Gucci. I skinned my knee, hit my head on the door molding and saw enough of my neighbor's apartment to be jealous of her light fixtures. Before she slammed the door on me and Gucci.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It's okay I caught him you can come back out. Or, well, you can stay inside do. Just forget me and go about your day. Nice meeting you.
Gucci howled. He dug into me with his back claws. I don't believe in god and I don't believe animals have a higher conscience but I do believe that someone or something in this world was punishing me. I brought Gucci home and threw him on the bed and went to make dinner. Then he just stared at me sweetly with his big eyes and meowed at me. The same cat that is so miserable here after only a week that he tried to make a run for it.
I remembered the last song from Wicked, where Galinda and Elphaba sing about how they were drawn to each other to learn something but also to teach the other something-- and that in life we're drawn to the people that will teach us the most. I wonder if, like shoes, each animal is perfectly fit to their person. And even if they're not comfortable at first they become a perfect fit over time. Maybe there is something that this disgruntled rescue cat is supposed to teach me that all of the other men in my life were unable to.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Seeing myself
For those of you who are not quite sure what you're looking at don't worry you're in good company. This screen caused me to do a double take as well. And when I realized what I was looking at it seemed to summarize all of my frustrations with the website over the past two months. Match.com has, in no uncertain terms, just told me to spend the rest of my life alone by attempting to match me up with, of all people, myself.
It is a sort of iconic moment for me, like the friend of mine before who was told by e-harmony that she is the one percent that cannot be matched. I have officially dated or been rejected by all eligible men and am left with only myself to spend the rest of my days with. So I can either accept this fate or move.
This message was simply the cherry on the revelation cake. The icing being my decision to part ways with and not see baby daddy anymore. It just became all to apparent, that despite being 24 years my senior he is not ready for a relationship. Ordinarily I'd cry bullshit, that he just doesn't want to be in a relationship with me. I could say that he it trying to make himself seem undatable when the clear and simple truth is this: he doesn't want to make room in his life for me, so he doesn't make room in his life for me. It's not, I'm busy, I have a kid, I have back pain, I'm stressed, I have melancholia. It's none of that. It's never any of that. And if you don't know this yet you should know this about men:
It's never them. It is, in fact, you that is the problem.
They will always make circumstances in their life seem insurmountable but if a man were interested in you come hell or high water he's not going to let anybody else have you. And if he's okay with you seeing other people you'd better be okay with him seeing other people.
And I'm not okay with that. I am now old enough and mature enough to draw a hard line in the sand. I want to sleep with one man, and not all of the men he is also sleeping with. I no longer am interested in the thrill of promiscuity. The lack of self respect veiled as sexual liberation us unacceptable to me. I will admit that I had a period of "playing the field." That stopped being fun the moment I realized that none of the men in my life had the least bit of respect for me. I used to think that love an romance and chemistry were the most important things in a relationship. I know now that it is respect.
So, unable to agree on terms and conditions of dating I suggested we part ways. It was not what I wanted to do but I've learned in the last year that part of growing up is learning to make difficult un fun decisions that are not immediately gratifying. Suffice to say, I'm pretty bummed. But most of all I'm disappointed in Baby Daddy.
And from disappointment on the corner of State and ultimatums, to 400 North pulling-my-hair-out street. I came home to an anxious frustrated cat with a dire need to eliminate but a stubbornness to use the litter box. It was as if all the men--even the cat--in my life had conspired to make things difficult. If I leave the swinging door off of the litter box, kitty with stand up mid-pee and spray out of the box. If I put the door on the litter box he will boycott it and instead pee on the bathmat, which I have had to bleach twice now.
Gucci seems insistent on me spending $180 on a top-entry letterbox from Modcat. If I had known what money-sucking irony would follow naming my cat Gucci I would have picked a more modest name, like Macy or Banana Republic. So now I have to buy my cat what basically looks like a contemporary kitty space shuttle so that he can pee freely.
These are my options now. I can buy my cat a two hundred dollar space ship to pee in or let him urinate on the floor. I can settle for being one of several guys or simply a party of one. It seems like lately the choices are not hard because I don't know which to chose but hard because it seems like no choice at all.
minus one plus one
Most people can coast through life casually ignoring distraction and clearing obstacles with ease, that is until one day you open your mailbox and find the most dreaded type of letter imaginable. There is all kinds of annoying mail, spam mail, returned mail, blackmail, but nothing compares to the horror contained this mail: the invitation to a work party. Yes the prospect of free cocktails and nosh on my employer's dime is worth an hour of my free time, but the words "RSVP with or without plus 1" is notorious for striking fear into the hearts of singles everywhere. Suddenly your life flashes before your eyes, your heart starts beating faster, adrenaline sets in--isn't this how people describe near-death experiences? Two simple unassuming words, plus 1, can have such a powerful impact. Suddenly, you're being forced to do the math for one minus a plus one.
Relationships are all about numbers. Don't move in with someone until you've been together one year. Don't have sex until the third date. Don't bother talking to the perfect 10s, which isn't hard because the first thing I realized about the midwest is there are no 10s, the 9s are all slutty, the 8s think they're 9s, and I've already dated all the 7s. It's a mathematical nightmare. But why is it that we can be content with our lives and what we have until someone invites us to a party, wedding, or vacation? Then suddenly, being single seems to be an insufficient sum. And this sum is fine for some, but I can't hold out for my sum-one one more day.
I foolishly responded plus one. So now the clock is ticking, and unlike my internal relationship clock, which gives me another ten years to find a relationship, my plus one clock gives me about ten days to find a man I can dress up and drag around for a night.
I scroll though my digital dating rolodex and see a lot of exes and a lot of Xs too--men that you didn't break up with but have been crossed off for some reason or another. I stupidly brought up to baby-daddy the other day (guy I'm dating that is Plus 1 kid, and plus 24 years on me) that I was thinking about where this is and could be going. Men hate this conversation. All men. I hate that I even need to have it. But my plus 1 caused a chain reaction in my attitude about dating. I don't want to coast along anymore. I don't need the relationship and all the bells and whistles right now, but I do need to know I'm working toward something.
We went on a date to an italian restaurant, split a bottle of wine shared a salad and then cut the check in half as well. Normally halfsies on dates are a clear sign that someone thinks of me as a friend and not a lover. Half a check equals not wholly interested. The whole dinner I kept trying to segue into the conversation. Then as we walked around the neighborhood I tried to bring it up. Then as we sat on the couch watching bad TV I tried to bring it up again. I of course waited until he was in bed and about to fall asleep to blurt out (like an amateur, I'd like to add), "So what do you think about us?"
"I like it, it's good."
"I mean, what about where this is going?" This time I was met with silence so I went out on a limb, "I mean I know you're probably sleeping with other people."
"Some."
"So, yeah. How about not, and just sleeping with each other. We don't have to change anything, but we would just stop seeing other people. So this would be exclusive. Just, you know, taking your temperature here."
"Yeah, I don't know." Temperature taken, and no fever present whatsoever. In fact, I don't even think my thermometer is working any more. "It's just a tough time right now." And 180° later,
"It's just something to think about. I don't even want to do that. Pshh, that's, no I mean we're like 24 years apart you've got a house and dog and stuff. Okay goodnight."
I clearly misread the situation. In the financial world, that conversation was the emotional equivalent of a risky investment that plummeted almost instantly. It seems that lately my ability to read men has been really off. Is this just a case of not checking my math, or are the variables just too variable? And now I'm going on a date tonight with baby-daddy tonight and I don't know what we're doing. I know where we're eating, but not what's eating me. Am I mad because he doesn't want a relationship, or because he was the last guy standing. I mean it's like I'm on the bachelor, I was down to the last contestant, presumably the winner, and just as I was ready to declare him the winner he decided to pull out.
And then there were none, which would be fine if I wasn't in need of one. Relationships are complex equations, the kind with not only tons of numbers but strange inexplicable symbols involved too. I'm starting to think it's like reading the matrix, this trying to figure out where guys are going. Shouldn't it be easier now as we get older? Or is age like a multiplier for complications?
Relationships are all about numbers. Don't move in with someone until you've been together one year. Don't have sex until the third date. Don't bother talking to the perfect 10s, which isn't hard because the first thing I realized about the midwest is there are no 10s, the 9s are all slutty, the 8s think they're 9s, and I've already dated all the 7s. It's a mathematical nightmare. But why is it that we can be content with our lives and what we have until someone invites us to a party, wedding, or vacation? Then suddenly, being single seems to be an insufficient sum. And this sum is fine for some, but I can't hold out for my sum-one one more day.
I foolishly responded plus one. So now the clock is ticking, and unlike my internal relationship clock, which gives me another ten years to find a relationship, my plus one clock gives me about ten days to find a man I can dress up and drag around for a night.
I scroll though my digital dating rolodex and see a lot of exes and a lot of Xs too--men that you didn't break up with but have been crossed off for some reason or another. I stupidly brought up to baby-daddy the other day (guy I'm dating that is Plus 1 kid, and plus 24 years on me) that I was thinking about where this is and could be going. Men hate this conversation. All men. I hate that I even need to have it. But my plus 1 caused a chain reaction in my attitude about dating. I don't want to coast along anymore. I don't need the relationship and all the bells and whistles right now, but I do need to know I'm working toward something.
We went on a date to an italian restaurant, split a bottle of wine shared a salad and then cut the check in half as well. Normally halfsies on dates are a clear sign that someone thinks of me as a friend and not a lover. Half a check equals not wholly interested. The whole dinner I kept trying to segue into the conversation. Then as we walked around the neighborhood I tried to bring it up. Then as we sat on the couch watching bad TV I tried to bring it up again. I of course waited until he was in bed and about to fall asleep to blurt out (like an amateur, I'd like to add), "So what do you think about us?"
"I like it, it's good."
"I mean, what about where this is going?" This time I was met with silence so I went out on a limb, "I mean I know you're probably sleeping with other people."
"Some."
"So, yeah. How about not, and just sleeping with each other. We don't have to change anything, but we would just stop seeing other people. So this would be exclusive. Just, you know, taking your temperature here."
"Yeah, I don't know." Temperature taken, and no fever present whatsoever. In fact, I don't even think my thermometer is working any more. "It's just a tough time right now." And 180° later,
"It's just something to think about. I don't even want to do that. Pshh, that's, no I mean we're like 24 years apart you've got a house and dog and stuff. Okay goodnight."
I clearly misread the situation. In the financial world, that conversation was the emotional equivalent of a risky investment that plummeted almost instantly. It seems that lately my ability to read men has been really off. Is this just a case of not checking my math, or are the variables just too variable? And now I'm going on a date tonight with baby-daddy tonight and I don't know what we're doing. I know where we're eating, but not what's eating me. Am I mad because he doesn't want a relationship, or because he was the last guy standing. I mean it's like I'm on the bachelor, I was down to the last contestant, presumably the winner, and just as I was ready to declare him the winner he decided to pull out.
And then there were none, which would be fine if I wasn't in need of one. Relationships are complex equations, the kind with not only tons of numbers but strange inexplicable symbols involved too. I'm starting to think it's like reading the matrix, this trying to figure out where guys are going. Shouldn't it be easier now as we get older? Or is age like a multiplier for complications?
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Rituals
The Aztec people were known for their massive human sacrifices to appease the gods. Ritualistic sacrifice was a way of life. Modern Chicagoans know another form of ritual sacrifice: 7am construction on the parking garage in my high-rise. I, having a preternatural and superhuman ability to sleep through just about anything, was not awoken by this cacophony of jack hammering outside. Gucci, on the other hand, was greatly disturbed. You see people think we invented OCD but this disorder has been found in cats for ages. A cat whose routine has been disrupted with act out. Acting out, in Gucci's case, means batting my face with his paw until I wake up to alert me of the noise that has disturbed him.
One of the reason I like cats so much is that they believe in routines. They like things to be the same way every single day. Cats hate surprises. I share this trait with them. After years of shit hitting the fan, bad relationship revelations, and unhappy surprises, I prefer my life get stuck in a rut and stay there. I like waking up even day at the same time and performing the same actions in the same order every day.
Every day I wake up, turn on the Today show, brew espresso and try to convince Gucci to eat his dry food as he rubs his face on where he believes tuna to be located. I then wrangle him into positions that allow me to brush his fur so that he can remain the well groomed handsome kitty I brought home from the shelter. Occasionally I give him a spritz of dry shampoo. Then I eat yogurt and check my empty inbox on Match.com. Some days I will get an e-mail from some misguided bachelor in a faraway land like Somalia or Berwyn. After this I Facebook for approximately five minutes, make an effort to "like" one post every day, though I find that increasingly difficult as elections draw closer and every one of my friends list has a liberal soap box to stand on.
Then after five minutes of play time with Gucci I brew more espresso and sit down to write for about twenty minutes. I then try to read a chapter of a nookbook, scoop and vacuum the space around Gucci's litterbox, load the dishwasher, dust, make my bed and file any papers left out from the day before. After this I go downstairs to the indoor pock to swim twenty laps. Then comes the cleansing ritual. I floss, brush, and mouthwash in that order then I like to stare at my pores in the mirror while envisioning myself making lots of money at work that day. Then I condition my hair, every day, to avoid having it dried out from the chlorine in the pool. I like to shower from the top down so after conditioning I move on to a facial cleansing black soap a la Diane Keaton in Annie Hall, a sea weed exfoliating soap and body conditioner bar. Then I like to close my eyes and stand perfectly still for about thirty seconds and pretend I'm in a rainstorm.
After showering I like to wet my entire face with an ice cube to firm up the skin. Then I spray tea tree oil and witch hazel on my face and dry with a cleansing pad. After that I apply an enzymic moisturizer that absorbs oil throughout the day. I use a powdered herbal deodorant and spray 100 spf sunblock on every day even in the winter. Then I rub a hair fiber on and spray a cologne that matches my mood for the day. Today I'm feeling eccentric so I use Tom Ford. Then I bleach down my bathroom sink and flip the reeds in my scent diffuser. Then I go to the closet, which is serenaded by a choir of angels every time I open the door, and pick out an outfit for the day. I try to set the tone of the day with my outfit. Today is a Marc Jacobs day. Then I pick out a pair of loafers to wear to work, which sounds easy but I have more loafers than the mens department at Nordstrom, so this process can take up to fifteen minutes.
I know at this point I must seem like a crazy person but this post is about perspective. When most people close their eyes they see the dark inside of their eyelids. When I close my eyes this is what I see:
One of the reason I like cats so much is that they believe in routines. They like things to be the same way every single day. Cats hate surprises. I share this trait with them. After years of shit hitting the fan, bad relationship revelations, and unhappy surprises, I prefer my life get stuck in a rut and stay there. I like waking up even day at the same time and performing the same actions in the same order every day.
Every day I wake up, turn on the Today show, brew espresso and try to convince Gucci to eat his dry food as he rubs his face on where he believes tuna to be located. I then wrangle him into positions that allow me to brush his fur so that he can remain the well groomed handsome kitty I brought home from the shelter. Occasionally I give him a spritz of dry shampoo. Then I eat yogurt and check my empty inbox on Match.com. Some days I will get an e-mail from some misguided bachelor in a faraway land like Somalia or Berwyn. After this I Facebook for approximately five minutes, make an effort to "like" one post every day, though I find that increasingly difficult as elections draw closer and every one of my friends list has a liberal soap box to stand on.
Then after five minutes of play time with Gucci I brew more espresso and sit down to write for about twenty minutes. I then try to read a chapter of a nookbook, scoop and vacuum the space around Gucci's litterbox, load the dishwasher, dust, make my bed and file any papers left out from the day before. After this I go downstairs to the indoor pock to swim twenty laps. Then comes the cleansing ritual. I floss, brush, and mouthwash in that order then I like to stare at my pores in the mirror while envisioning myself making lots of money at work that day. Then I condition my hair, every day, to avoid having it dried out from the chlorine in the pool. I like to shower from the top down so after conditioning I move on to a facial cleansing black soap a la Diane Keaton in Annie Hall, a sea weed exfoliating soap and body conditioner bar. Then I like to close my eyes and stand perfectly still for about thirty seconds and pretend I'm in a rainstorm.
After showering I like to wet my entire face with an ice cube to firm up the skin. Then I spray tea tree oil and witch hazel on my face and dry with a cleansing pad. After that I apply an enzymic moisturizer that absorbs oil throughout the day. I use a powdered herbal deodorant and spray 100 spf sunblock on every day even in the winter. Then I rub a hair fiber on and spray a cologne that matches my mood for the day. Today I'm feeling eccentric so I use Tom Ford. Then I bleach down my bathroom sink and flip the reeds in my scent diffuser. Then I go to the closet, which is serenaded by a choir of angels every time I open the door, and pick out an outfit for the day. I try to set the tone of the day with my outfit. Today is a Marc Jacobs day. Then I pick out a pair of loafers to wear to work, which sounds easy but I have more loafers than the mens department at Nordstrom, so this process can take up to fifteen minutes.
I know at this point I must seem like a crazy person but this post is about perspective. When most people close their eyes they see the dark inside of their eyelids. When I close my eyes this is what I see:
I'm well aware that I'm not like other people. I'm so far outside the realm of normalcy that I've almost done a full lap around the solar system of crazy and come back to normal. I like my rituals because they create order in my life, which is otherwise a supernova of histrionic brightly colored exploding bedazzled drama. Nothing in my life is toned down. It's like my brain is a music switchboard and where some people merely tweak the treble or bass up or down I move every single slider to it's maximum. I dwell in my ridiculousness, I adore it. I mean, one of the considerations of picking a cat to adopt was, "Will he or she match my home decor?"
I've given up trying to live like other people. I see other people as the listless peons one by one stepping off a cliff to appease the gods of modern times. I think I've spent so much of my life being different than the people around me that instead of resenting it or trying to change it I've become a little infatuated with the parts of me that are absurd and over the top. As far as I'm concerned too much is just enough.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Trials
In this capitalist republic, we learn quickly that nothing in life is free or we lose all of our money to telemarketers and internet scams. So, often, we turn to the seductively labeled free samples, or worse, free trial periods. After all, we try everything on before we buy it, why not try out things like cars, cable providers, and quick weight loss cleanses. However, has all of this sampling of this and that, and testing the waters culture turned the dating tide pool into a tidal wave of rejection? Is dating turning into the new try before you buy?
And if we manage to connect in the cyberspace world of emotional spam filters there's no guarantee we'll let any of our firewalls down long enough to fall in love. I mean a few months ago I wrote about a guy I thought was perfect. After two dates I let him spend the night, gave him a toothbrush head and lent him some clothes (clothes!) to wear to work the next day. Did I need to lend him my favorite Brooks Brothers tie? No. But there was something sexy about tying it for him. And how was I supposed to know he'd turn out to by a psychopath and I'd never see my clothes again.
Now, a mans lucky if I even want to share a cab with him after the first date. And if he should ever be lucky enough to spend the night I'm not giving him so much as his own pillow--he can share one with Gucci-cat.so maybe it's not so much the consumerism that's made us picky shoppers when it comes to men, maybe it's just too many trial and errors and test run relationships gone horribly wrong.
But when a consumer good goes horribly wrong they can issue a recall for that product. For relationships there's no such safeguard. If, after the trial period, a man is deemed unfit for dating do we get our money back or were all the feelings felt simply wasted on the gamble of romance? And if love is such a crapshoot why is it always packaged and advertised as something better? I think someone ought to report all of the dating sites to the better business bureau because there's been some serious false advertising when it comes to romance. And I'd like my money back.
A popular ad campaign warned users to phone first, call the store before schlepping all the way across town to find out if what you're looking for is in stock. But didn't shopping used to be simple. You didn't go to the store looking for a brand or a style. You just needed a blue sweater or black pants. Now, I need the Prada double monk wingtips, or the Balmain Python trim tuxedo jacket. And the blue sweater is Saint James and the black pants are Dior. We can no longer buy just a vacuum cleaner, no, now it must be a multi surface bagless gyrating Dyson hovercraft with four hundred attachments that all suck dust through a tube.
This pickiness is largely based in the fact that we are a consumer society. We are trained to be shrewd shoppers. And the frugal will settle for anything that meets their basic criteria, and the elitist are rewarded with Napa leather and thousand thread count sheets. But, now it would see that the selective process for singles is almost agonizingly improbable. Getting a first date is about as difficult as getting on American Idol, and nowhere near as rewarding. You'll be lucky to find a guy that doesn't want to go halfsies on the bill and tell you not to get attached because he's moving to New York soon.
We interrupt this programming to point out how pathetic it is to move to New York for the first time in your forties with no job and no apartment lined up. The starry eyed wonder of youth no longer applies, living like a pauper is just about as attractive as carrot cut jeans.
And now, the selection process has so many steps to get through, it's as if our inside label is being scanned for any sign of weakness or synthetic fabric. Sure they want to know your age height and weight, but now we've also got to disclose our income bracket, neighborhood, pets owned, marriage history,
And if we manage to connect in the cyberspace world of emotional spam filters there's no guarantee we'll let any of our firewalls down long enough to fall in love. I mean a few months ago I wrote about a guy I thought was perfect. After two dates I let him spend the night, gave him a toothbrush head and lent him some clothes (clothes!) to wear to work the next day. Did I need to lend him my favorite Brooks Brothers tie? No. But there was something sexy about tying it for him. And how was I supposed to know he'd turn out to by a psychopath and I'd never see my clothes again.
Now, a mans lucky if I even want to share a cab with him after the first date. And if he should ever be lucky enough to spend the night I'm not giving him so much as his own pillow--he can share one with Gucci-cat.so maybe it's not so much the consumerism that's made us picky shoppers when it comes to men, maybe it's just too many trial and errors and test run relationships gone horribly wrong.
But when a consumer good goes horribly wrong they can issue a recall for that product. For relationships there's no such safeguard. If, after the trial period, a man is deemed unfit for dating do we get our money back or were all the feelings felt simply wasted on the gamble of romance? And if love is such a crapshoot why is it always packaged and advertised as something better? I think someone ought to report all of the dating sites to the better business bureau because there's been some serious false advertising when it comes to romance. And I'd like my money back.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Matchmaker
In Fiddler on the Roof, two Jewish milkmaids asked Yente to make them a match. In modern times, we ask Match.com to find us a find. And what it finds us is, well, lets call him Mr. Schmo. Mr. Schmo lives in Schaumburg, and for those of you who don't live in Chicago: Schaumburg is to my zip code as Delaware is to yours. There, can you believe I didn't do better on the analogies portion of the SAT? Mr. Schmo is in his fifties, and thinks that 25 miles is as insignificant as 25 years apparently. His profile is usually one anemic paragraph lacking substance, or any definite description of himself. He has one picture of himself in which he's about 20 yards away from the camera and wearing a baseball cap. Instead of saying something to you he simply avails himself of the wink button.
Lets discuss the wink button (and comparable actions) and its function on dating sites. How I use this tool is to express interest to someone who is clearly out of my league and is unlikely to be interested in someone without abs, but I wink on the off chance that this very handsome guy is the 1% of non shallow gay men that has a thing for sassy big-nosed guys. The other reason I use the wink button is in cases of physical attraction where I find that there's not enough in the profile to determine if we'd really be a match. Me, being the bigmouth queen of TMI that I am, have plenty in my profile that will let you know that I'm a witty smart fast talking knitting swimming mover and shaker. So, assuming that those are really the only two reasons there are to use the wink button lets examine Mr. Schmo's wink:
You are clearly too old for me. However, I tend to date older men, and will forgive this fact if you are attractive and upbeat enough to keep up with a twenty-something like myself. If you want to woo someone like me you should live within convenient public transit to me. You should probably, at the very least, live in the same city as me. It would help to share and interest with me like books, or loafers or steak tartare. It also helps if you are willing to go a little above and beyond to impress me. If you're winking for the reasons that I wink you want me to take a chance on you and see something in your profile that piques my interest. However the four sentences you write about how you like TV and staying at home, and you work as a software developer, and you like pizza tell me that your lifestyle is my biggest nightmare.
So, Mr. Schmo, of the Schaumburg Schmos, obviously your wink is the dating equivalent of shouting out the window of a busted ass car as you drive by me on the street. It's not flattering. It doesn't pique my interest. And it annoys me even more because it seems to be the only attention I get on this website.
So I ask of you web Yente, powerful cyberspace concierge of romance and questionably sourced information, is there not anything else out there for me? Can you not find me a successful handsome open minded presumably Jewish suitor that lives within 10 miles of downtown Chicago. I know he exists. It's impossible that I've exhausted all of this species. True, maybe there are no more eligible bachelors in the Gold Coast but there are a lot of zip codes in Chicago. Surely there must be someone who lives in the City of Chicago proper and not just Chicagoland on your internet meet market of eligible bachelors.
So, disappointed with one matchmaker, I decided to turn to another. I went to the Anti Cruelty Society and told the woman to make me a match and catch me a cat. It was like trolling the profiles on Match.com as I scrolled through the rows of cages with eager cats of all shape size and coloring. Each had a tiny paragraph describing their personalities. They all posed and trying to look cute. They meowed their cutest meow. The kitties courted me in any way they could. In the group "social cat" room one actually walked over another to get to me, pushed all the other kitties out of the way for my attention. Some were outgoing cats, some were overweight, some were a little too old, and some even a little to young and immature for my liking.
The staff asked me what I was looking for in a companion.
"What?" I asked
"What features are important to you in a companion?"
"Well," I said after a short moment of consideration, "I want someone friendly and outgoing at times but can be quiet and reserved when we need to be. They should be active enough to stay healthy, and love to cuddle. I don't want someone mean or secretive or too damaged. I want someone old enough to know how to behave, but still young enough to grow with me." After I said it I wasn't sure if I was describing a man or a cat. It dawned on me that I might have been looking for a cat when what I really wanted was a man. But maybe, I was just accepting the fact that by looking for a boyfriend I was simply looking for a friend and someone to keep me company.
Maybe I was looking for a man when what I really wanted was a cat.
Finally I narrowed my selection down to two kitties, two men who both seemed desperate for someone to take them home. One was physically affectionate, climbing all over me, giving kisses, rolling on his back letting me scratch his belly. The other was a big loudmouth. From the moment I took him out of the cage he wouldn't shut up. This kitty Oscar, genuinely knew his name and if you said it he would light up and meow even more. I asked the staff if this was just a show and they told me no, that his last owner got rid of him because he was too vocal. So it came down to the kitty that showed his affection, or the one that was all talk.
And, while there are a lot of variables in the man I'm looking for there is one constant: actions are always more important than words.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Selling points
When I started as a server I had next to no wine knowledge. I ordered and bought under the general assumption that more expensive meant better. I used to judge wines by the typeface on their labels. However, my training as a server was less about understanding the wine and more about how to describe it.
I learned that the most important step in serving is the description. Most people don't know diddly-poo about wine. If you tell them this wine has magical properties that make you more attractive to other people they'd order two bottles. It's like coffee- you never love your first sip but over time you acquire a taste for it. The same is true about wine, if a wine doesn't taste good to the unlearned drinker they'll just assume they haven't acquired the taste for it. The trick to this is
A. Convincing the guest that you know more about wine than them (even if you don't)
B. Using language that makes the wine sound better than it is.
Psychologically, the guest now wants to like the wine because if they don't they will feel less sophisticated than there server for not appreciating the wine.
Obviously there are a myriad of other factors involved in the selection and recommendation of wine but the most important part is the description. The language you use says as much about you as a server than it does about the wine. Over time I learned to say fruit forward, high or low tannins, dry, notes of this or that, light medium or full body smooth or crisp finish. These words, though short and sometimes vague, create a story about the wine. Now, when drinking you're going to slow down and notice how the wine changes on your tongue. You're going to play wino where's Waldo with the ingredients. If I tell you to expect juicy dark fruit and a velvety texture you're going to search for that.
As a writer I know words, I know descriptions, I understand how to play people. Some woman comes in wanting Koolaid wine, she'll try to order a moscato or something. But she wants to seem sophisticated, she's from Berwyn or some other periphery suburb, trying to be a real housewife of Chicago. I know she wants the Pinot Gris which is nothing like a Pinot grigio its way sweeter and approaches a Riesling in terms of fruit. Yes I can judge her for being unwilling to venture outside of her comfort zone and order something that would pair better with her salad. But I can also realize that it's in my best interests to sell her a wine she can quaff down rather than something that she'd slow down and maybe appreciate more. Yes if I say delicious and zesty Sauvignon blanc she'll order it enjoy it, but probably only drink one glass because it doesn't taste like fruit juice.
All of these decisions are carefully calculated and must be thoughtfully applied. There's an art to selling people things they didn't know they wanted.
I often think of these techniques while wasting my time in the wading pool of bachelors known as match.com. Here is a website of mostly disgruntled and slightly desperate singles all trying to convince potential suitors that they're a surprising new napa valley blend with a lovable flavor profile. These profiles are like emotional resumes, and like resumes our good traits ate exaggerated and our flaws are cleverly repackaged as pros or at least merely quirks. Are the men on dating sites simply dead stock wines with some fresh adjectives applied?
After several consecutive bad dates I've started to understand the language of dating sites and what he really means when he says active (narcissistic).
What he says........what it means:
Down to earth........boring
professional........have a job
want to meet the same type........unimaginative
don't go out to the bars........homebody
have a great sense of humor........not actually funny
have a dry sense of humor........don't actually understand dry humor
am sarcastic........aren't sarcastic
don't take things too seriously........will probably cheat on you
i like to travel.........i've been to florida
i'm well traveled........you'll see a lot of my back walking out the door
i work hard........i work too much
i'm a workaholic........I work about as much as a normal person
laid back........incredibly boring
kind........unbelievably boring
nice........painstakingly boring
I learned that the most important step in serving is the description. Most people don't know diddly-poo about wine. If you tell them this wine has magical properties that make you more attractive to other people they'd order two bottles. It's like coffee- you never love your first sip but over time you acquire a taste for it. The same is true about wine, if a wine doesn't taste good to the unlearned drinker they'll just assume they haven't acquired the taste for it. The trick to this is
A. Convincing the guest that you know more about wine than them (even if you don't)
B. Using language that makes the wine sound better than it is.
Psychologically, the guest now wants to like the wine because if they don't they will feel less sophisticated than there server for not appreciating the wine.
Obviously there are a myriad of other factors involved in the selection and recommendation of wine but the most important part is the description. The language you use says as much about you as a server than it does about the wine. Over time I learned to say fruit forward, high or low tannins, dry, notes of this or that, light medium or full body smooth or crisp finish. These words, though short and sometimes vague, create a story about the wine. Now, when drinking you're going to slow down and notice how the wine changes on your tongue. You're going to play wino where's Waldo with the ingredients. If I tell you to expect juicy dark fruit and a velvety texture you're going to search for that.
As a writer I know words, I know descriptions, I understand how to play people. Some woman comes in wanting Koolaid wine, she'll try to order a moscato or something. But she wants to seem sophisticated, she's from Berwyn or some other periphery suburb, trying to be a real housewife of Chicago. I know she wants the Pinot Gris which is nothing like a Pinot grigio its way sweeter and approaches a Riesling in terms of fruit. Yes I can judge her for being unwilling to venture outside of her comfort zone and order something that would pair better with her salad. But I can also realize that it's in my best interests to sell her a wine she can quaff down rather than something that she'd slow down and maybe appreciate more. Yes if I say delicious and zesty Sauvignon blanc she'll order it enjoy it, but probably only drink one glass because it doesn't taste like fruit juice.
All of these decisions are carefully calculated and must be thoughtfully applied. There's an art to selling people things they didn't know they wanted.
I often think of these techniques while wasting my time in the wading pool of bachelors known as match.com. Here is a website of mostly disgruntled and slightly desperate singles all trying to convince potential suitors that they're a surprising new napa valley blend with a lovable flavor profile. These profiles are like emotional resumes, and like resumes our good traits ate exaggerated and our flaws are cleverly repackaged as pros or at least merely quirks. Are the men on dating sites simply dead stock wines with some fresh adjectives applied?
After several consecutive bad dates I've started to understand the language of dating sites and what he really means when he says active (narcissistic).
What he says........what it means:
Down to earth........boring
professional........have a job
want to meet the same type........unimaginative
don't go out to the bars........homebody
have a great sense of humor........not actually funny
have a dry sense of humor........don't actually understand dry humor
am sarcastic........aren't sarcastic
don't take things too seriously........will probably cheat on you
i like to travel.........i've been to florida
i'm well traveled........you'll see a lot of my back walking out the door
i work hard........i work too much
i'm a workaholic........I work about as much as a normal person
laid back........incredibly boring
kind........unbelievably boring
nice........painstakingly boring
Thursday, July 12, 2012
The gottahavits
There is an evil in this world, more dangerous than Beelzebub or McDonald's or Sarah Palin. It is a subtle and often unrecognized evil. Some are immune to it. Some go through life and never know the lure of this evil, like those weird people who never had to have a tooth filling. It sneaks up on us when we least expect it and grabs us by the purse strings: it's the end of the season sale.
This time of the year is dangerous for several reasons, here are my top two:
1. Those shoes I spent 500 smackaroos on now cost $300.
2. That other pair of shoes I wanted but couldn't afford are just as discounted.
And, among other things, fresh new items are coming in to tempt me while I'm balls deep in a two for one trough of back stock.
I'd like to backtrack and reiterate I am not a shopaholic, despite what magazines and bravo tv would have you believe the east coast is actually quite conservative when it comes to spending. New Englanders, especially those from the more affluent parts, are vehemently against flashy boisterous spending. It's looked down on and understood as wasteful and tacky. That said I grew up with a wardrobe from the Boscov's clearance rack and never wore expensive or nice clothing. After moving away I developed an appreciation for beautiful design like a small woodland creature discovering shiny objects. After years of restraint I felt the tug of gotta-have-it syndrome, or the gottahavits. Usually I'm good about shopping, I only buy things that really get my pulse going- the things that make me catch my breath when I see them. Like a merino sweater with a sequined German Shepard on it. Or the Alexander McQueen harness shirt. Or ever pair of slip on shoes at Neiman Marcus.
But it's not just clothes, food gets me. I try to cut down on spending but how long must I go without bison tartare from The Gage or Ralph Lauren's escargots. And the Pimms Cup at Sable. I go too long without dining out and I get an itch no freezer food from Trader Joes can scratch.
I know that it's important to have savings and to travel and have experiences rather than things, but for me the clothes are an experience, being able to wear those clothes that make the blood rush and heart beat faster, it feels like something inside me is realized. I know its partly shallow but there's something so personal about the clothes for me. To be able to dress exactly the way I want is important to me. It feels good to strut down oak street and get photographed by fashion bloggers, or even just to turn heads at the bar. It's not just empty validation either, because how I dress has to do with who I am.
And if that's evil I'm ready to succumb, someone's gotta put the Gucci kids through college.
This time of the year is dangerous for several reasons, here are my top two:
1. Those shoes I spent 500 smackaroos on now cost $300.
2. That other pair of shoes I wanted but couldn't afford are just as discounted.
And, among other things, fresh new items are coming in to tempt me while I'm balls deep in a two for one trough of back stock.
I'd like to backtrack and reiterate I am not a shopaholic, despite what magazines and bravo tv would have you believe the east coast is actually quite conservative when it comes to spending. New Englanders, especially those from the more affluent parts, are vehemently against flashy boisterous spending. It's looked down on and understood as wasteful and tacky. That said I grew up with a wardrobe from the Boscov's clearance rack and never wore expensive or nice clothing. After moving away I developed an appreciation for beautiful design like a small woodland creature discovering shiny objects. After years of restraint I felt the tug of gotta-have-it syndrome, or the gottahavits. Usually I'm good about shopping, I only buy things that really get my pulse going- the things that make me catch my breath when I see them. Like a merino sweater with a sequined German Shepard on it. Or the Alexander McQueen harness shirt. Or ever pair of slip on shoes at Neiman Marcus.
But it's not just clothes, food gets me. I try to cut down on spending but how long must I go without bison tartare from The Gage or Ralph Lauren's escargots. And the Pimms Cup at Sable. I go too long without dining out and I get an itch no freezer food from Trader Joes can scratch.
I know that it's important to have savings and to travel and have experiences rather than things, but for me the clothes are an experience, being able to wear those clothes that make the blood rush and heart beat faster, it feels like something inside me is realized. I know its partly shallow but there's something so personal about the clothes for me. To be able to dress exactly the way I want is important to me. It feels good to strut down oak street and get photographed by fashion bloggers, or even just to turn heads at the bar. It's not just empty validation either, because how I dress has to do with who I am.
And if that's evil I'm ready to succumb, someone's gotta put the Gucci kids through college.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Off Menu
On every menu there's one thing that nobody ever orders. Sometimes it's a verbiage problem, on paper the dish just doesn't sound good. It could be that the dish has an unpopular ingredient like brussels sprouts or blood pudding. Maybe the dish is just too expensive. Maybe it's not worth the cost. Or it could be a case same old same old, something every restaurant has that people are tired of eating.
There are a lot of reasons one item might not sell. Our butter lettuce salad wouldn't move last year. It was delicious, simple, light, a perfect first course--but for whatever reason it got no bites. Maybe it was too simple, too few ingredients, maybe people don't know what butter lettuce is and thought it was high in fat.
Whatever it was nobody wanted it and it got the axe. Nobody stood up for it, nobody questioned its disappearance; we welcomed a new sexier salad with more ingredients and crowd appeal.
I sometimes think that certain people are like that salad, despite all their great features they just don't appeal to the masses. Or anyone.
Okay I'm not exactly being subtle here. Let's face it, I'm a butter lettuce salad. Nobody's picking me off the menu. And I can examine and over analyze all the likely reasons but I can't figure out exactly what it is about me that is driving people away.
I'd like to think that maybe I'm an acquired taste. But maybe that's just a clever spin on the dish thought up by a server trying to sell something that nobody wants. In life, are some people just resigned to being off-menu items?
There are a lot of reasons one item might not sell. Our butter lettuce salad wouldn't move last year. It was delicious, simple, light, a perfect first course--but for whatever reason it got no bites. Maybe it was too simple, too few ingredients, maybe people don't know what butter lettuce is and thought it was high in fat.
Whatever it was nobody wanted it and it got the axe. Nobody stood up for it, nobody questioned its disappearance; we welcomed a new sexier salad with more ingredients and crowd appeal.
I sometimes think that certain people are like that salad, despite all their great features they just don't appeal to the masses. Or anyone.
Okay I'm not exactly being subtle here. Let's face it, I'm a butter lettuce salad. Nobody's picking me off the menu. And I can examine and over analyze all the likely reasons but I can't figure out exactly what it is about me that is driving people away.
I'd like to think that maybe I'm an acquired taste. But maybe that's just a clever spin on the dish thought up by a server trying to sell something that nobody wants. In life, are some people just resigned to being off-menu items?
Saturday, July 7, 2012
A case of the okays
In restaurants if someone tells you that their dinner was just okay it usually means they're not very happy with it. Even if there wasn't anything particularly wrong with the food, something about it just didn't stir them the right way. It didn't excite them. It didn't justify the price tag. People eat okay food all the time, they make okay food at home all the time. However, the act of going out to eat is supposed to be a departure from just okay, it's supposed to be a break from the metronome of frozen meals that make up our workweeks. If a customer says their food was okay and do the ever recognizable patron pout (that slight pursing of the lips intended to let me know they want something for free) I'm most likely bringing them another meal or if they don't want to wait I'm just going to have to take it off their bill. So, if in matters of food 'just okay' just won't do, then why do we settle for okay in other areas of our lives?
Most people are in okay shape. They're not unhealthy but they float through life with a so-so BMI and refuse to give up fried foods. It wouldn't take much for these people to be in shape but they way they look and feel is good enough for them. Maybe there is something to be said about just being okay with how you are and not wanting to be better, it must be a lot less stressful. I'm sure people like that don't have the neurotic issues I have about body image. And conversely, these people must have okay hobbies, okay careers and okay relationships to go with their okay health. They live the okay life. I say okay but what I really seem to talking about is mediocrity. Middle of the middle class suburban middle american living at it most uneventful.
The rest of us are not so laissez faire about the world. We agonize over gossip and other people's doings. We have the normal unhealthy body image developed from years of comparing ourselves to others. We are restless in relationships constantly looking for someone to better satisfy us. We work ourselves half to death to get ahead in our careers. We worry about any and everything, even things that don't even pertain to our life, like which celebrity's vagina appeared on a red carpet and which person wore flip flops to the office.
Maybe, we're the people at eat out too much. From an early age we've been trained to never accept okay. But is our better than okay life any better than the flatline of okay living? Would it be better to meander through life without ever having your finger near the pulse?
And especially in relationships, are we supposed to settle for "good enough" guy? Good enough guy is another archetype of relationship I've categorized over the years. This is the guy that doesn't have the bells and whistles of your most exciting relationships. He's the mini-van of men. He's reliable and maybe a little dull but they kind of guy you'd want a family with. He's not the best at anything really but he's great in a lit of ways. He's fun in bed, easy to talk to and be around, generous, kind. He's usually not exactly what you were looking for and you don't have any sparks flying but you feel comfortable. He's home cooking, but you favorite kind of home cooking. He's not the sweep you off your feet guy, but he's good enough for you.
I used to be wary about this guy because it felt like giving up. It felt like finally accepting that I'm not good enough or worthy of the guy I really want so I might as well stop expecting that guy and stick with what I can get. Now it's at this point the philosophy splits. Some will say always hold out and wait for the person of your dreams because you deserve them. And thats an okay philosophy if you want to be single in your forties with nothing to show for it but a series of failed one month relationships because you were holding out for the one. Then the other philosophy is a form of serial monogamy, jumping from one relationship to another, learning a little bit each time but never really figuring yourself out alone because you've always been with someone. Both philosophies are flawed and unfulfilling. I am definitely of the latter though.
I think the whole wait for something better causes you to miss out on some great stuff. Some of the best moments of my life I had because I settled in some way and was in a relationship with someone who wasn't everything I wanted. I spent three years with someone I wasn't very compatible with and despite all the fighting and bickering if I could go back and do it again I wouldn't change a thing, they were some of the best and worst years of my life. But I had some incredible experiences I wouldn't have had otherwise. And yes, when I look back over all the courses of the relationship, some were good, some were bad, and some were just okay. If I look at individual moments I might say that was a bad meal. But If I look at the relationship as a whole it was a blast, and I'm happy I did it.
And if you ask those diners, the ones that got an appetizer or dessert that was just okay, if you ask them now what they thought of the meal as a whole, they're probably say it was great-- they had a fun time with friends, ate some tasty food, had fabulous cocktails. We never regret those meals, even if part of it was just okay.
Most people are in okay shape. They're not unhealthy but they float through life with a so-so BMI and refuse to give up fried foods. It wouldn't take much for these people to be in shape but they way they look and feel is good enough for them. Maybe there is something to be said about just being okay with how you are and not wanting to be better, it must be a lot less stressful. I'm sure people like that don't have the neurotic issues I have about body image. And conversely, these people must have okay hobbies, okay careers and okay relationships to go with their okay health. They live the okay life. I say okay but what I really seem to talking about is mediocrity. Middle of the middle class suburban middle american living at it most uneventful.
The rest of us are not so laissez faire about the world. We agonize over gossip and other people's doings. We have the normal unhealthy body image developed from years of comparing ourselves to others. We are restless in relationships constantly looking for someone to better satisfy us. We work ourselves half to death to get ahead in our careers. We worry about any and everything, even things that don't even pertain to our life, like which celebrity's vagina appeared on a red carpet and which person wore flip flops to the office.
Maybe, we're the people at eat out too much. From an early age we've been trained to never accept okay. But is our better than okay life any better than the flatline of okay living? Would it be better to meander through life without ever having your finger near the pulse?
And especially in relationships, are we supposed to settle for "good enough" guy? Good enough guy is another archetype of relationship I've categorized over the years. This is the guy that doesn't have the bells and whistles of your most exciting relationships. He's the mini-van of men. He's reliable and maybe a little dull but they kind of guy you'd want a family with. He's not the best at anything really but he's great in a lit of ways. He's fun in bed, easy to talk to and be around, generous, kind. He's usually not exactly what you were looking for and you don't have any sparks flying but you feel comfortable. He's home cooking, but you favorite kind of home cooking. He's not the sweep you off your feet guy, but he's good enough for you.
I used to be wary about this guy because it felt like giving up. It felt like finally accepting that I'm not good enough or worthy of the guy I really want so I might as well stop expecting that guy and stick with what I can get. Now it's at this point the philosophy splits. Some will say always hold out and wait for the person of your dreams because you deserve them. And thats an okay philosophy if you want to be single in your forties with nothing to show for it but a series of failed one month relationships because you were holding out for the one. Then the other philosophy is a form of serial monogamy, jumping from one relationship to another, learning a little bit each time but never really figuring yourself out alone because you've always been with someone. Both philosophies are flawed and unfulfilling. I am definitely of the latter though.
I think the whole wait for something better causes you to miss out on some great stuff. Some of the best moments of my life I had because I settled in some way and was in a relationship with someone who wasn't everything I wanted. I spent three years with someone I wasn't very compatible with and despite all the fighting and bickering if I could go back and do it again I wouldn't change a thing, they were some of the best and worst years of my life. But I had some incredible experiences I wouldn't have had otherwise. And yes, when I look back over all the courses of the relationship, some were good, some were bad, and some were just okay. If I look at individual moments I might say that was a bad meal. But If I look at the relationship as a whole it was a blast, and I'm happy I did it.
And if you ask those diners, the ones that got an appetizer or dessert that was just okay, if you ask them now what they thought of the meal as a whole, they're probably say it was great-- they had a fun time with friends, ate some tasty food, had fabulous cocktails. We never regret those meals, even if part of it was just okay.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Good on Paper
I went to my doctor last week and as he was reading through my blood work, good blood sugar, liver function, etc., he told me something that should have made me happy to hear: I'm good on paper. He said it very deliberately as if to suggest that he knew that although my blood pressure was a cool 120/70 my blood was boiling about something.
He knows me well enough to know when I'm not doing well. He went to the usual suspects. How much are you drinking? Are you feeling depressed? Do you feel anxious. But none of these things hit home. Really, I'm just angry. I have now trained myself to skip the whole sad insecure part of the process when anything upsets me and I go straight to being furious. And that, that's not so good on paper.
I have now added another type of bachelor to my undatable list: Triennial man. This man pops into your life once every three years, takes you out for an amazing dinner with conversation so good you completely forget that there is anyone else in the restaurant. You feel close and comfortable with this man. He usually has blue eyes and is almost uncomfortably handsome and has some dangerous sexy feature about him that raises his irresistibility to thermometer shattering territory. He's great in bed. And he has what seems like the most important characteristic in any man: he's genuinely interested in you. He seems to be perfect and you prepare yourself for an amazing three month relationship (three months is my arbitrary amount of time I give men to get tired of me).
You ignore your usual hard to get routine and text him that night after the date. You wake up the next day feeling amazing. Your skin is glowing, people are complimenting you and you're telling everyone that you met the most amazing man that you're going to spend the rest of your three months with. You wait two more days and then over the weekend decide to leave a really cute voicemail for him. It's perfect: funny, sexy, impromptu. You wait another two days and try to set up another date. Then after a week you e-mail him. You see on Facebook he is alive, going out, doing things, and maybe posing a little to close with another guy in some of the pictures.
It's at this point you figure he's keeping you on the back burner in case nothing better comes along, and let me tell you I am no stranger to the back burner. I'm basically the queen of until something better comes along. This doesn't even bug me enough to cut off communication. He responds infrequently citing business trips and cell phone problems. This behavior is not to be mistaken for he's not that into you, because he his, he's just into someone else more at the moment and you are being kept on the sidelines of his social life because you are clearly not fit enough to be in the game. Yet.
A month will then go by and you will have started dating other people who actually return your calls but the dates will just not compare to this guy. You'll think of him about once a week and send a text message to let him know on the off chance that he might have nothing better to do than get coffee with you or maybe he'll let you tag along as he runs some errands, or maybe he will at least let you pick up his dry cleaning, and being the idiot that you are you might even pay for it. At this point I am aware of how stupid and pathetic even contacting this person is. But at this point it becomes a challenge. This is like the olympic sport version of dating. And thus comes this bachelor's name, because like the olympics you'll see him about once every four years. Because after you've have two-to-three other short term relationships he'll just randomly appear back on your radar looking for a little something something. And because so much time has passed you'll have forgotten his pattern and go on another amazing date with him.
But now you're wiser. You're graduated from college and working, and you're wildly successful with your blog that all of ten people read. And you know better than the send a cute text message. You're just going to ignore this guy. Then you get home after this amazing date and a ride on his Vespa and you're compelled to send that message. That message that dooms you. "Thanks for a great time." When what you really mean is, "I'll see you in another four years," and you will and you'll hope that by then something has changed in you that will make you more worthwhile and valuable to him.
But really, the thing that needs to change is him. Or rather, the act of giving him the power to treat you with such an epic level of disrespect as to not release you from his lunar cycle of one night stands. And like my bloodwork, triennial man looks great on paper. He looks cool as a cucumber martini, but he's really just lukewarm and has his finger nowhere near your heartbeat.
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