A Brief Follow-Up

*crickets*
I'm blocked.
I can't come up with a thing to write. Well, that's not altogether true... I haven't been able to write anything appropriate to post. I know, I know. That goes against the very principle of this blog. I suppose I could...

OK. Here's something that's been on my mind. If you read "Common Denominator" (March 29) and “got it,” I applaud you. I received a lot of email and posts that completely missed the point of what I was trying to say – which is quite obviously my own fault. Apparently I was too delicate. Now I'm going to break it down:

Common Denominator is not about “someone else” or “Crazy Girl.” It’s solely about being the only constant in your own life – for good or bad. It’s about not blaming other people for your decisions or the unpleasant things that “happen” to you. You were there. You made the decision, choice, leap of faith. If you were ultimately wrong for having done it, don’t blame the person you did it to. Step up and quit acting like a little pussy. If you can’t own your actions, perhaps you should be thinking them through better before you just run off all willy-nilly trying to get attention, get laid, or be a part of something.

Let’s look at how this works with boy/girl relationships since that’s easy. Girl likes boy. Boy just wants to hook-up with Girl. Boy buys dinner and drinks a couple of times. Girl interprets this as a relationship. Now, maybe it is, maybe it’s not. Maybe it turns into something and maybe it doesn’t. Boy is holding the reins because Girl refuses to accept she may be “one of those girls” even though her history clearly delineates this as an ongoing predicament. After Boy is satisfied that he’s gotten all he’s interested in out of the situation, Boy quits calling Girl and she blames Boy’s roommate/friend/ex-girlfriend/new girlfriend/mother.

Truth: Girl just isn’t interesting enough; is too clingy; or just lousy in the rack.
Truth: Boy is a big jerk because he wouldn’t own it and just tell her the truth.

Just to be absolutely clear. This is bigger than just piddly boy/girl freak shows. This spans the width and breadth of ALL relationships. The point of Common Denominator is this: if you don’t like something about your life, blame yourself. Don’t blame me or your upbringing or the Federal government. If you don’t want to accept that your attitude or issue is your problem then might I suggest that you collect your pail and your shovel and get out of the sandbox until you learn how to play well with others.

Huh. Apparently I had something to say about that!

Really, Martha?

I resent Martha Stewart.

It’s not because she’s managed to make a career of staying at home baking cookies and making pillows; it’s the way she implies the rest of us should be finding time to do this, too.

When my alarm clock begins it’s annoying plea for me to pry myself out of the bed at 6AM, I rarely greet the day with love and creativity. No, the day is generally greeted with a heavy sigh and perhaps profanity as I shuffle to the kitchen to start the coffee. During the 36 minutes allotted for my morning toilette, which sadly is little more than a quick post-yoga shower and a ponytail suitable for work, I’ll try to remember which suits might be hiding in dry cleaning bags, coordinate footwear, and double check that I’m not wearing a black brassiere underneath a white blouse. Whatever. It happens.

Given the time constraint, it’s reasonable to assume that I will not be stripping the bed and replacing the sheets. If the bed is empty I’ll yank the comforter up to give the appearance of having been made. Next: gather anything that vaguely resembles wash and toss it into the laundry room, securing the door behind me in case of unexpected company later.

Back in the kitchen, I will not be whipping up a delicious breakfast of Eggs Benedict complete with a lovely sprig of fresh dill from my herb garden placed gingerly in repose upon a quick and easy hollandaise sauce. No, I’m thinking more along the lines of stale pop-tarts and half a carton of expired yogurt. Safe to say I will not be packing a well-balanced, nutritious lunch in a smartly decorated homemade lunch pail either. On a good day I’ll grab a handful of lunch money from the change jar, get the rest of the coffee into a mostly clean Thermos, push the dogs into the yard, then sprint barefooted to the car as that’s apparently where I left the shoes I wore home last night.

There are plenty of stoplights during my commute to concern myself with struggling into pantyhose, digging one shoe from beneath the seat, choking down that pop-tart, then re-applying lipstick. My linen dress will be a wrinkled mess by the time I arrive at work, and no Martha, I do not keep a portable steamer in my desk drawer.

Nine hours on the job, then out the door.

Pulling back into the driveway I attempt to avoid the trashcans, ignore that the recycling bin has been empty at the curb for two days, and make every effort not to make eye contact with the neighbors. Racing for the door with shoes in one hand and laptop in the other, I make a quick stop to pull the gardening clippers from my handbag and collect a lovely array of flowers from my perennial garden for the dinner table arrangement. Oh wait… I don’t have a perennial garden! If I did, I’d be curious to know who planted, watered, and weeded the thing.

Start the wash, head count for dinner, feed the dogs. I will not be keeping this pair of stockings with the new runner in the left leg for use next October when it’s time to get creative with Halloween costumes. They will go the way of aluminum foil scraps, cardboard inserts from the package of Handi-Wipes, laundry soap jugs and empty egg cartons. In my world there are no neatly organized, expensive plastic bins from an overpriced container ware store kept in seasonal order on shelves in the spare bedroom that serves as a “project space.” The only container I’m familiar with is the one under the sink with the removable plastic liner.

OK. Dinner. There will be no poached salmon with asparagus, next to a Caesar salad served on hand-painted dishes created using trendy ideas from a local craft store. I don’t even know if there is a local craft store. Tonight’s delicacy was prepared by the supermarket guy in charge of the chicken roasting oven, the lady who keeps a mindful eye on the salad bar, and may well be delivered on mismatched everyday ware – assuming I have time later to wash dishes. Paper plates are my friend not because they’re so useful when it comes time to make holiday decorations or ribbon bouquets, but because they give me back 15 minutes of my day.

Sure, sometimes I wish I could juggle house, career, and social obligations with the opportunity to grow my own Roma tomatoes and learn to use a hot glue gun for something other than fixing a loose skirt hem. But since the obvious impossibility of that is so great, I’m just gonna work on wrapping my head around who I am in real life – a harried mess without enough time or energy to find the perfect pastry tube, racing through the boring parts of life at breakneck speed, and looking for a laugh.

Hey, Martha? Kiss my découpaged ass.

Common Denominator

Situations, relationships, people, places, things – basically all your nouns – they change. They change every day. Sometimes you notice. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you make a choice for change, and sometimes change happens without your consent.

What I find interesting is how often it isn’t “change” at all; but rather a rerun of your life in syndication. Déjà vu, you wonder?

No. It’s just vous.

Since obviously there’s nothing crazy about you, think of that one crazy friend, ex-girlfriend, co-worker, sister, neighbor – whatever, the Crazy Girl. We all know one. Her business manager may be a psychic? She has an excuse or reason for everything bad that happens in her life and it’s all external. Someone else is responsible for her current state. She’s just trying to do the best, most right thing and she keeps getting punished for it.

*eyeroll*

Crazy Girl’s life is a dull collection of repeated “errors in judgment” which can certainly be twisted about in order to place the blame soundly on someone else. Sadly, but inevitably, the willing world can see the many iterations of the same behavior… and Crazy Girl is always in the big ole middle of it. She created it or assisted it, and was probably looking for a different outcome every time. Definition of insanity, right?

For all of the relationships, bad fashion decisions, and lost drunken weekends, there’s a common denominator. Only one person was there every time. In Crazy Girl’s life, it’s her. In your life, it’s you. That’s right. You’re your own common denominator.

I like to blame my occasionally less than stellar decision-making on the multitude of voices in my head – which at least one of whom believes is totally valid. However, when I look in the mirror, it’s just me. Since I’m not afraid to own my life, actions, or decisions it’s easier to tell the world to “piss off” if need be; apologize when I’ve actually done something hurtful (as opposed to those things I didn’t do but that are nonetheless a very real part of someone else’s imagination), and get a decent night’s sleep.

Stop pushing your retrospectively embarrassing decisions or misdeeds off on everyone else. You did it. You get to own it. If you don’t like your behavior – change it. If you don’t like my behavior, have the balls to say that to me and stop acting like a spoiled little bitch. No one is ruining your happiness but you.

[sidebar: wow… vicious. But I’ll own it. I’ll also share that after I typed it I realized it didn’t come from my usual hypothetical place, but instead was actually directed somewhere… somewhere male. Perhaps I should get off this healthy living thing to ensure I don’t see so clearly... Waiter!]

Embrace yourself before you run out of people who will. Remind yourself that not everything that happens around you is about you. Never forget that you are the only common denominator in your life, so choose your environs carefully.

“And acceptance is the answer to all of my problems today…”

Stag Nation

So in my previous post I eluded to death and the contents of my nightstand. This got me thinking about all the stuff we keep. Stuff we know we might maybe shouldn’t hold onto for posterity, and yet 15 years later, there it is, staring up at you from the bottom of a box you just pulled from your parents attic, or under your bed, or wherever you’re hiding the stuff about your past from the people in your present.

Interestingly enough, it’s been my experience that the really good stuff about people can be found in the boxes scrawled with “school” using Sharpee marker in the unmistakable male scratch.

I don’t care what anyone says about women keeping stuff, y’all men are so much worse. See, we keep everything. Romantic stuff, fun afternoon at the beach with our girlfriends stuff, first college schedule, pictures of everything and every one. Mostly we’re just holding onto lovely memories; stories for the winter of our lives. It’s a lot to sort through if you don’t know your way around, so it’s somewhat more difficult to find the “good stuff.” And of course, by “good” I mean incriminating.

But men! The stuff you keep seems to scream, “all I want in this life is to be in college again!” I get it. I do. Those were great times for all of us. But here’s the thing: You. Cannot. Live. There. Anymore. Your Stag-Nation citizenship was revoked when you left campus. You can’t just sit here reminiscing; hopelessly grappling for your glory days. Whether you’re 25, 35, or 45 you’ve got to face the facts. You’re officially accountable for your actions. Grow up. Move on.

Here are a few helpful hints for you Penis Owners who insist you cannot part with whatever it is that keeps you tied to the 22-year-old version of yourself:

If you’re single and trying to stay that way, it is absolutely unnecessary for you to do anything except continue on your merry way and prepare to die alone. You may want to look into Alumni citizenship to Stag Nation. I believe you only have to produce proof of strip club membership and your "magazine" subscriptions. And though there is no need to continue reading, I would suggest a brief perusal of the last two paragraphs here for the sake of propriety.

If you’re single but trying not to be, hire a maid. No, not the kind in the black fishnet stockings, though I’m sure she’d do a lovely job on your pipes. I mean a real cleaning lady: the kind that will de-gross your bathroom and scrub the unidentified sticky stuff out of your refrigerator. Ask her to pack your athletic trophies in a box and mark it “Mom’s House.” Deliver it on your next laundry day.

You seriously still have a beer bong? I… I… I… yeah. There are no words unless they are “Return to Frat House” with no return address.

I promise you that, as long as you have a pulse and a need, the raunchy text message you elicited from your ex last weekend is not the last bit of sexting you’ll ever experience. Delete it. It will only get you in trouble. Go ahead. We’ll wait…

As for your gentlemen’s magazines: women who don’t know about them, don’t mind that you have them. Should you discover that your extensive collection puts off the woman in your life, you’ve a decision to make. If you’re not going to leave them out on the coffee table or in the bathroom magazine rack for all to admire, you should consider getting rid of them altogether, or moving them to your gym locker with your squash racket. The other option is so obvious I’m embarrassed to type it. *deep breath* Get rid of her.

Finally, take the time to make a list and, if necessary, a treasure map or diagram outlining where all of the embarrassing bits of your life are located in your house, apartment, office – wherever you keep these things. Give said list, associated graphic documentation, all necessary keys, and disposal instructions to a trusted friend… for just in case. You do not want grief-stricken Granny opening a closet door only to be taken out by precariously piled bawdy videos of you and your girlfriend. Is that the conversation you want overheard at your wake?

To everyone I say this: Just keep your stuff, whether it’s sentimental or you plan to “use” it at a later date, in one easy to retrieve albeit concealed place with access for immediate disposal, if required. This really is for your own good, and the good of any relationship you may have with someone besides yourself.

*Blink* *Blink*

Wow. I am really struggling to find something to write about. I counted seven pieces that are more than half complete, all of which are disjointed, unfocused, and worst of all, brain-numbingly dull. I actually threw out two solely because if I should die suddenly, I would be utterly mortified if they were found. The contents of my nightstand would be far less humiliating than those were…


I’m beginning to wonder if this healthier lifestyle I’ve been test-driving has stymied my creativity. All this yoga, and breathing, and green food. I’ve always laughed at how dull people are on “that side of the fence,” but maybe like so many other stereotypes, it’s true. Take away the pink elephants, add some whole grain, clear out the smoke and suddenly life isn’t funny. It’s just… beige… and oddly regular.

*raises eyebrow meaningfully*

I’m in a state of mental atrophy and entirely too high-strung for it. Maybe it’s a case of nearly-Springtime anticipation. Could be paralyzing fear of bathing suit season. Perhaps I need a mini-holiday in a noisy city where no girl leaves her apartment without lipstick. I wonder if that would be tax deductible given it’s purely for mental health purposes... I feel like a doe in the headlights. Eyes wide but absolutely no movement. Whatever the case, I think we can all agree that the time is upon me / us / I / you to make something happen.

*sings*

“Now you're in New York
These streets will make you feel brand new
Big lights will inspire you
Let's hear it for New York”

Eureka, I’ve just had an idea! Sometimes you just have to sing a little song. We’d all better get a cocktail for what’s coming.

Next up: Stag-Nation!

Text This

I hate texting. I hate it for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is the virtually non-existent regard for etiquette.

Texting is to phone calls what instant messaging (IM) is to email. The difference is that I’ve loved IM from the very beginning. Perhaps that’s because it’s confined to a specific location, not chiming at me from my pocketbook every 4 minutes. I can’t begin to imagine the amount of wasted time that could be repurposed into productivity – you know, living life instead of typing about it – with a campaign to be more elusive. Good dating advise as well, but that’s for someone else to write about.

My feeling is that if it takes more than two text messages to tell me whatever it is you need so desperately to say, how about you just save us both some time, unchain me from my phone so I can get on with my life instead of waiting to finish a “conversation,” and use one of those fancy applications to just ring me up? It’ll take half the time and be twice as satisfying!

Here’s another time-saver. There is absolutely no need to text me with “OK” – or worse, “K.” Unless specifically asked for confirmation, acquiescence is implied.

I get what an inconvenience it is to type full words; saying “dis” when what is meant is “disrespect” tells that story.
*sarcasm*
Nevertheless, “c u l8r”? Why? WHY? I’m not in the 6^th grade. It’s not clever. Can someone please tell me why select grown adults find it impossible to use whole words – even with that auto-word completion feature thingy turned on?

How about we don’t text while driving. I know this girl who has wrecked two new cars because she was either reading or responding to a text message. I don’t even try. You can blow that phone up trying to get my attention with a text message, it’s staying right there in the console. If it’s that urgent CALL ME!

[sidebar: yes, I’m aware that in many states it’s illegal to take or place a call while driving, but it’s certainly safer than typing.]

In New York City, most restaurants ban the use of cell phones for verbal conversation. Not only should this be instituted countrywide, I think an addendum should be inserted banning texting as well. It’s just as rude to have a text message exchange as it is to have a phone conversation at the dining table. It’s 30-90 minutes out of your day. Have a modicum of respect for your dining partner. No one is that indispensable.

I think texting should be saved for clandestine conversations in very public places, signaling a friend across the bar of impending doom, quietly getting someone’s attention unnoticed, or other situations when time is of the essence and silence is required. Under these circumstances I get that texting can be a real ass-saver.

Check your 6:00. White patent leather thigh high boots on 400 pound bleached blonde!

Your ex just rolled into the bar. Boobs up!

Bat in the cave…

What I don’t need is anyone’s traffic update when I’m not going that way. I’m not interested in your current state of sobriety – or lack thereof – if I’m not sitting next to you. If you want to know “wassup” begin by accepting that “wassup” is not an actual word, then just call me. Hours can go by before I realize I’ve missed 6 calls and 37 texts because my phone and I are easily separated. The calls I’ll check. But the text messages? I don’t have that kind of time.

*clicks Inbox*
*Erase*
*Erase All*

Speak No Evil!

“The opposite of courage in our society isn’t cowardice, it’s conformity.” ~ Rollo May

I’m not going to pretend like I don’t partake in some juicy gossip sessions with my girls from time to time. It’s true that on occasion we’ll sit about with glasses of wine and vodka, speculating about people for hours. It’s horrible and juvenile and I’ll admit, occasionally a bit mean-spirited, but have you ever laughed harder than when you’re wildly creating random conjuncture about people, situations, or hook-ups?

Believe it or not, I do actually have two rules about gossip.

1. You just don’t air people’s real life personal business on the street. If someone confided in you, you must respect that confidentiality. Only the rudest of the rude would pursue information after you've plainly stated, “It’s not my story to tell.”

There’s no power in other people’s pain. Putting the real life crisis of another person out for all the neighbors to chat over the hedge about is not just in unspeakably poor form. It speaks volumes about the person doing the telling. This is the same person who generally takes obvious delight in the unfortunate circumstances of others. Sadly, don’t we all know one of those?

*shakes head*

For me, the second rule is like telling the bartender not to waste valuable liquor space with that lime – something that must be said:

2. “He/she is my friend. I really need you not to talk ugly, spread vicious gossip, or carry on like this in front of me. And yes, it does make me wonder what you say about me behind my back. Surely you can understand that.”

This takes the courage of non-conformity because I’ll tell you what, it does not always go over well. Sure, you have the choice to just suck it up and sit quietly while others degraded your friend; to try to change the subject, or to walk away. Anyone can do that – it’s spineless. The true test of a person’s character can readily be seen in the face of adversity. Do you excuse yourself to go to the bar, or do you have the balls to speak up?

The only people who can truly speak to whatever story is on Today’s Top Ten are the people who were actually there when the gossip-inciting incident occurred. Not the best friend, not the neighbor, not the guy lurking in the bushes. You want to bounce around a theory? Who can blame you! Just don’t try to pass it off as fact.

Besides, we all know the only person who knows the whole truth about anything is your bartender!