putting the baby in a corner

Christmas was spent in West Virginia, a state that’s actually quite lovely, a state with fewer gun shops and cars in front yards than I remember. We stayed at a spa, a destination equal parts Dirty Dancing and the Shining. Cottages dot the perimeter of the greater campus, which looks like a tiny college, if colleges were full of old white people personally responsible for the existence of both the Polo brand and the grilled cheese sandwich made with Velveeta. According to my imagination, these cottages are also where young women wearing rolled up jean shorts go to make sweet love to men who teach ballroom to young women wearing rolled up jean shorts, where illegal abortions happen to further plot, and exceedingly poor hair and makeup decisions are made. A large main house sits in the middle of the grounds. It’s a multi-storied expanse of a resort home that may or may not have been decorated by a large flamingo. Or Blanche Devereaux. It’s indulgence, all right, hot pink and lime green indulgence, yet I still fail to pinpoint the exact draw of the place.

It was my mother’s idea. In part for fun, in part to indulge a fantasy, perhaps, as I imagine most people do when making their reservations. We’ve not a care but an overdue oil change. We’ve tailored furs and eat beef tournedos on a regular basis, none ever cooked at our hands, of course. We prefer robust reds to rosé and golf to the gym. More likely, it was a fantasy that all is okay with our family, that this is not the first Christmas spent without the man of our house. The man who would have enjoyed the wassail to a point and but would rather have passed the evening sampling each dish made with Stilton. Homeostasis. We’re fine, we’re smiling and we’re walking, heads held high, even if at times we’re holding hands while we walk. Even if at times we’re gripping hands while we walk.

The room was spacious, room to move, room to breathe, room to brush teeth while another puts on an appropriately done face. My sister made sure that was the case, given a long history of overdosing on our togetherness. A walk-in closet would ensure that there was room enough for the finery of three women, the majority of whom wore heels to dine before noon. A bathroom with two sinks would allow for simultaneous face washing, not to mention space enough for several dozen toiletries. It was big, yes. Big enough for three. Turns out, it was also ample room for conflict, for grudges long held, for the complete and recurring metamorphosis from adult to 12 year old. If I’m honest, maybe 8 year old. I’ll take 10.

I spent a good portion of the trip by myself, because even as a grown ass woman, I get into a ridiculous amount of trouble. I didn’t light a Marlboro while mother and sister were at the makeup lesson, although admittedly I very, very, very seriously considered it. That of course would have constituted a familial federal offense, but the lesser transgressions involved a good bit of sassing. As they generally do. Of barking in a most unpleasant tone and huffing for hours with lower lip extended. I was not a woman born to bite her tongue, and missed school days we were taught that elders are to be revered rather than used as models for voodoo dolls made from sandlewood hose. Women like me must be caged at family events, particularly ones of extended duration. We must be plied with cabernet to let veiled insults roll off our backs. So yes, I spent much of my time alone, working or sleeping or eating when the others were at play.

I spent the remainder of the trip being insanely jealous of my sister. A light goes on in my mother when she is around; she effuses pride and delight when she talks about her every accomplishment, whether it’s a promotion at work or a newly purchased couch. “Kris,” my mother will ask, “don’t your sister’s highlights look fantastic?” I nod my very blonde head in the affirmative and wait seconds before commenting snidely that she failed to notice my own. I’m a ball of resentment, of fury at being the kid who isn’t good enough in some way, the one who is somehow second rate. It makes my sister miserable, because she does not have a clue as to what to do about it. It gives my mother the upper hand, because she knows all too well that I was born unable to wear emotion anywhere other than the sleeve. She never fails to call me on it. “When will you get over this?” she asks. “This jealousy of your sister. You really need to get over it.”

It’s a perfectly executed punch to the gut, of course, the downfall of Houdini. It’s a routine that’s been in play for years, practiced with great commitment and a fierce love of the game. Maybe it’s because it’s what we do, what we know, our daily routine. But it’s also because we’re a whole lot of angry, this year more than ever, and there has to be someone toward whom we can hurl that rage. Women who wear pants only when bedridden don’t take anger out on bus boys or friends who manipulate. No, these are the kinds of interpersonal guns pulled only on family.  “At least your sister cares about me,” she said at one point, following a perfectly scripted argument. Cue tripping over self to make things right, digging nails into rock and grass and dirt to prevent sliding the entire way down the hill of family relations. “Get past it,” she says.

Turns out I’m not past it. As was evidenced this week , and I’m sure will be brought out more often this year than any of our photo albums, at 35 I’m filled with such anger that it’s as if all the room’s air is caught in my chest. I’m cornered and I have no choice but to yell, to scream full speed ahead, whether it be at the first person in line of sight or into a pillow. It’s a tantrum all right, and I employ them with great skill. Babies use them for what exactly? Catharsis? To get noticed? To get just what they want out of their mothers?

We left wearing strained, painted smiles and chitchatted the bellman before leaving. And on the long drive home, like everyone else who spent Christmas at the resort, booking daily facials and outdressing the Joneses for dinner, I wondered just what it was that I was really after.

Diminishing Romantic Returns (or The Call of the Bullshit)

While I continue to eat bonbons and obsess over whether or not online sex can in fact get me pregnant, I’ve again farmed out site duties in the interest of furthering my understanding of men. Of life. Of exactly why every time I buy tampons I’m in line behind Hot Dad. The following was written by a male friend–a big strapping one with great shoulders–with whom I may or may not have had sex in the JMU library stacks in the summer of 1994.  The Fountainhead, indeed. Enjoy. 

Dear Kris –

I’m writing to you as a friend, a reader, and a citizen of the kingdom of men (which is something like the Planet of the Apes, only there’s more deodorant and less riding around in leather armor).

I’d like to address a phenomenon that I’ve noticed floating about in the culture at large which has found voice, albeit in passing, in your blog. [Massive disclaimer: I heart your blog and none of this is in anyway a criticism of you or your writing; you know I think you’re the crème de la.] What I’m talking about is a form of Despair that has become pervasive among a certain set of otherwise self-confident, intelligent urban women.

You’ve already guessed what I’m talking about, I’m sure – let’s call it the Theory of Diminishing Romantic Returns. It goes something like this – you’ve loved, you’ve lost, you’ve loved again. Your expectations are correctly high, for you are, in fact and indisputably, a gem. But whither the man you seek? Dating, never your favorite sport, has become a chore. The men your friends attempt to set you up with – how could they think you were a match for that guy? The men you meet through work – you can see why they’re still single. You can construct a dozen more of these on your own (I just deleted a bunch in a vain attempt to avoid sounding pedantic). So after months or years of hopefulness and bucking-self-up, you arrive at the following conclusion here composed as a syllogism for reasons soon to be clear:

All dates are bad/boring/not worth my time.

All dates are with (presumably available) men.

All (presumably available) men are bad/boring/not worth my time.

This syllogism ends up being told and recycled in a variety of ways: “This is all that’s left”; “It’s hell out there”; “Dating sucks”; and the inimitable “What’s wrong with me?” Like many cultural conventions, finding people to commiserate and agree with this assessment is ridiculously easy. (Well, hopefully not many of your friends would nod and say “Yep, there is something wrong with you,” but you get the point.) There’s a whole industry of films, books, TV series, and Web sites devoted to the Truth that dating pretty much sucks.

The trouble with this massive cultural agreement (there’s a whole mess of trouble with it actually but this is one) is that it slaps blinders on you – you can’t see anything else. The pickpocket who meets the saint only sees the saint’s pockets, right? If the Truth is that the men who are available are uniformly unworthy of attention, if facing the prospect of meeting new people is an effort of will, of mind over despair, you’ve created the kind of hurdle barely anyone can clear. Perversely, your expectations rise dramatically as you invest more and more hope in an ideal, as every moment of time together with a potential mate becomes an investigation – after all, something must be wrong, right? What man worth the time is 35 and single? It’s true, isn’t it?

The trouble is that it’s not. For a syllogism to prove out, it has to move from the general to the specific, and this one does not. The first premise – that all dates are bad/boring/unworthy – is not only immeasurable, it’s unqualifiable. You have, of course, not gone on “all dates.” And while some dates can surely be chalked up as purely bad (restraining order), you have to agree there’s a spectrum; nothing is purely black and white, is it?

But this is all a lot of gobbledygook in the end. What gets under my skin about this is the pervasive despair that it allows to leak into your life. Despair, more than anything, will color everything around you, and the world is as full of beautiful, amazing men as it is full of women like you. What I love the most about you, my dear Wino, is your capacity for joy, excitement, wonder, and delight. Allowing yourself – choosing – to buy into this culture of despair, it’s deadly. It’s the grinning monkey portrait of home decorating; it’s the pale, bald neighbor’s potbelly on an otherwise flawless weekend morning. Look away! Look. Away.

All my love and lascivious glances,

Jack “The Monkey King” London

Room with a view

One of DC’s very own men, Restaurant Refugee, is guest posting today while Mama eats bonbons and makes the cats do acrobatics. Thanks RR for indulging me. Whaddya think - has he got it covered?

A man’s guide to dating women – in a restaurant:

  1. Go to a bar
  2. Order a beer
  3. Take one sip
  4. Understand that the collective knowledge of men about women couldn’t fill the rest of the glass

While I am a man and therefore my knowledge is commensurate with the points above, I am the Restaurant Refugee and have seen more than my fair share of restaurant dates excellent, tragic and all variety between. Gents, I offer you the limited benefits that my observations might provide.

Know that because you have a Y chromosome you will get distracted by French fries, bright lights and shiny things. It is important that you reduce the appearance of potential distractions in your field of view. Get over your fear of a mob hit and sit with your back to the room. Besides being the generally courteous thing to do, it may also help you with your naturally wandering eye.

Like a job, you’re on time if you are early; you’re late if you’re on time. Ten minutes early gives you enough time to familiarize yourself with the place – know the location of the wash closets, the emergency exits just in case your date necessitates a swift escape (just kidding – mostly,) make friends with whomever is staffing the host stand. Let your host know that you are on a date, smile a bit, DO NOT ASK FOR A NICE TABLE – that usually inducts you into the fraternity of assholes with whom s/he deals all night. An easy smile, proper salutation, and the occasional please and thank you will almost always ensure a better table than a direct request. Should you get a great table, a tip to the host is in order. This is tricky in restaurants where the host is also a manager – most common in smaller restaurants – as it is rude to tip a manager anything less than enough to buy a couple drinks after their shift. If you are certain that the host is only the host, then a $5 tip is sufficient. If you believe that the host is also a manager, a tip is only appropriate if above and beyond service is provided in addition to the great table in which case a palmed twenty is the right way to go.

Do not fake wine knowledge – asking for assistance is a sign of strength not weakness. If the wine list is offered to you, ask your date if she would like to see it as well. Do not attempt a pronunciation with which you are unfamiliar. Read this if you want some more detail about ordering wine in a restaurant.

Under no circumstances should you do anything that could be perceived as flirting with the waiter, bartender, host or anyone who has the same chromosomal values as your date. Understand that your date mostly likely has a more sensitive flirt-o-meter than you.

Do say thank you to the bussers – the people who pour your water, bring your bread, clear your plates, etc. – besides being good for your karma as these are generally the hardest working/least paid people in the restaurant – this will mark you as a stand-up guy.

Do have an idea of where to go when dinner is finished – two ideas are even better. A swank lounge for quiet conversation and a dive bar where you can throw back some beer and darts are both great post-dinner destinations. Also of great note is going to a place just for dessert. Though you have all of these plans in your back pocket, do not cleave to them blindly. A date is a conversational dance best done in a semi-improvisational style.

Knowledge of the fact that the same words with the same delivery can be alternately charming and repulsive depending upon your date’s level of interest and attraction is important. If your date likes you, then ordering for her – after consulting with her – can be a great thing though still not advised unless it is a maneuver with which you are practiced. If her feelings are tepid or worse, then it is an affectation of bygone era.

If your date was arranged with the assistance of the interwebs, saying her name as a declarative rather than a question is a strong precursor to a good evening.

Contrary to popular belief, sharing dishes is not a marker of excessive frugality which might convey to your server the potential for an equally frugal tip. Sharing an appetizer or two is a good thing – food is sensual when done properly and sharing it can be great foreplay.

Unless your service is awful, do tip at least 20%. 9 out of 10 dates will try to sneak a look at the bill and take note of your tip. The 10th date didn’t have an opportunity because you smartly settled the tab while s/he was freshening in the restroom.

I don’t care how fabulously your date is going do not be the last table in a restaurant. Movie scenes paint a romantic picture of a couple lingering in an otherwise empty restaurant gazing into each other’s love struck eyes – that’s unadulterated bullshit. Every member of the staff of that restaurant has lives they’re all eager to resume and you are the speed bump in that process. The bad karma of impeding their path to shots of Grand Marnier at the bar next door is not worth it.

Do have story about why you selected this restaurant – stories make food taste better. However, in the vain of “do as I say, not as I do,” do not be pretentious about your story.

I just had a conversation with the three women to the left of my perch at the bar where I wrote this. Besides their wholesale agreement to all of the aforementioned points, they had the following helpful additions:

  • If your date chose the restaurant, refrain from being hyper-critical as it is a criticism not just of the restaurant but of her, and her judgment.
  • Do offer to share whatever is on your plate.
  • Do say thank you to everyone who serves you – this is a repeat but it bears repeating
  • Do not push anything – a drink, dessert, a nightcap, a dish of which you are particularly fond whatever.
  • Don’t be a tool.
  • Do not let her pay any part of the check (on the first couple of dates.)
  • Do notice if she at least offers to pay the check.
  • Assuming that any level of PDA is appropriate, do keep it to a minimum [ed. note – the staff will mock you for excessive PDA.]
  • Unless your job involves national security, you’re a doctor on call, or you have a sick child at home (in which case what the hell are you doing on a date?) for the love of bacon and all things holy, do not answer your phone.

Kris, thank you for letting me borrow your place for a spell; I hope your readers found it helpful or at least amusing.

Camped

It is a well-established fact that I hate shopping, even more than I hate reality shows in which by season’s end contestants are coated in a thin layer of silt and human oil. I don’t enjoy the fact that it’s always 90 degrees in any given department store, that the restrooms are hidden in some lounge area right behind the gift wrapping on a half floor. I don’t enjoy the people who have clearly never been in a common shopping area before, or quite possibly out in public, those who stop repeatedly in the middle of pedestrian travel lanes while texting or sharing a cinnamon Auntie Anne’s with grandma. I get in; I get out. In a dazzling display of compulsivity, I’ll occasionally plot my course in advance with the assistance of an online mall map and an extra hour of sleep. I do not mess around.
 
So it shocks not only you that I’ve had a recurring dream lately about living in a mall. Four, five, six times? It’s a tale told not in cold sweats, but comforting fairy tale precision. A story of living in its bowels, in its depths, in the parts smelling like a rail cocktail of bleach and burnt popcorn. It’s strangely appealing, like having an affair, the allure of going undiscovered and living off of unlimited fountain soda in the food court. No fro yo, because as you quickly learn they clean the machines long before the day is done, but plenty of groomed room to spread your arms while singing show tunes. It’s like summer camp, only with your period.

In the dream, I have free reign. I run the halls; I shop taffeta and cashmere at full discount. I hang clothes on an ancient radiator that fails to radiate, arms and neck smelling entirely of almond soap only meant for hands. I’m free and complete and without worry about cat food and the ridiculous total of the week’s dry cleaning, not to mention the utter frustration of an order of one dozen cottons pressed without starch. In my dream there is no cell phone, no laptop, no George Foreman Grill with which to ruin perfectly viable chicken breasts.

It’s simplicity, a life complete and free of accountability. And Twitter and StatCounter. And three-inch heels only worn for show. And TiVo, Whole Foods, the Blackberry, and hostile 2 pm meetings. It’s life without the extras, the fringe.

Then again, it’s also life without love and friendship, unless you count random encounters with Old Navy staff. It’s the complete absence of freshly grated cheese or wasabi. And the nestling of a companion on your chest, whether purring or drooling. It’s very Dawson’s Creek: Minneapolis, but like midwestern charm it has its limits. It’s somehow freeing to go without these emotional staples for a while, but it’s a state best kept in dreams. Even if in dreams you’ve got much better bedding.

On irons in the fire, fish to fry, and full plates

I’m not sure how to account for my silence, other than to say that life has taken interesting turns as of late. No coke and strippers to speak of, no last minute flights to Heathrow, and no peeing on plastic sticks while swearing to God that you will never, ever make fun of ugly people again. All of that would be beautifully bloggable, and sadly, my week has not been. Busy, upside down, full of drama and news, but none of it on the record. At least not the record that remains evergreen on the Web long after you and I are nothing more than dust.

I come home most nights completely exhausted, have a glass of wine and completely numb out courtesy of Access Hollywood or whatever Law and Order will hand carry me to a dramatic conclusion without making me think. I’m not taking care of myself. The fridge currently holds a case of Diet Coke, beer, ketchup, hot sauce, and half of a green pepper. The freezer contains three veggie burgers and - absolutely no lie - prepackaged hors d’oeuvres I bought two years ago for a snowed-out Oscar party. My office holiday festivities are tonight, and I have yet to try on the dress that arrived three weeks ago for the event. Have not yet tried it on. Not sure my shoes fit. T minus five hours.

I also killed a plant this week and cannot vouch for the exact location of one of my cats. Or the last time I saw her.

Please send help. Or at the very least, some buns for these veggie burgers.

Self-preservation

Not sure if you’d heard, but it appears Obama’s coming to town. He’s bringing a family in tow, and many a better steak from Chicago, I’m guessing. And a puppy. You may not have caught it, what with those few rounds shot in India and Johnny Depp attacking cruise ships on random Tuesdays, but the Obamas are bringing a hypo-allergenic dog to the White House. It’s the biggest thing to hit DC since that stained blue dress.

The people in town are pleased. There are still Dem signs adorning many windows, stickers proudly placed on cars that seemed to have escaped being stolen. We’re a proud city. Something new is on its way, even though we have license plates bearing evidence that we feel little responsibility for change. We feel good. We might high five you in the street. We won’t trample you as you get off the Red Line. We’ll refrain from running over small children and cyclists. Toddlers, at the very least.

The out of towners? They’re fanatics. This is the best thing to hit their parts since Pat Sajak, apparently, and they’re scrambling to come to DC. It’s the only thing that could explain such citizens emptying their bank accounts, giving up all they’ve saved for Johnny’s college fund and that longed-for botox to come to the District for the inauguration. The Blessing? The Coronation. The Unveiling of the Puppy, the one we all hope won’t be some God awful afghan or hairless anything. Let’s be honest.

To accomodate the hysteria, locals are most begrudgingly abandoning their homes to the masses. How much, you ask? The prices are exhorbitant, upwards of 20K per week in prime spots, 5-10K in more distant spots. That K indeed represents thousands of dollars, by the way, just as it likely did in your once-thriving 401K. In one fell swoop, residents are sucking Moms and Pops dry, and in turn making enough dough to support a child at GW for an entire month, or a regrettable Chipotle habit, if only for a full season. No one’s really buying Caps tickets, so that can’t be it.

I’ve thought about subletting my place, with full landlord approval, of course, given that I’m that girl who’s never used a fake ID or a pot brownie, but I’m clearly reticent. I worry about my new slipcover; it’s a clean beige right now. I have some concern over the bathroom too, because it’s a proven fact that all out-of-towners don’t have access to shower shoes or podiatrists. But mostly I have a fear of global attack, my subsequent demise, and the tenants not having the good sense to hide that damn vibrator before my mother arrives. Armageddon, indeed. 10K would be nice, but a girl has to have her priorities.

It’s a bird! It’s an alien! It’s a baby!

Today I am proud to be part of an Interwebs baby shower for one of my favorite people in this here Websphere: Gorillabuns. Despite the pen name she’s adopted, I have seen no signs of gargantuan, hairy primates in her family. Then again, the baby has yet to arrive. Fingers crossed, people.

I’ve only met the fair goddess once, at BlogHer ‘07 in Chicago, where many a glass of wine was imbibed and one was broken on my leg in mega-party foul fashion, but it was time enough to know that Buns is an absolute keeper. We’ve kept in touch via regular emails about blogging, the size of our asses, and plans to drink large amounts of vodka once the baby arrives and can drink Coke on it’s own like most normal people.

Buns is a warm, supportive, hilarious woman any of us would be lucky to call a friend, even if forced to move to the sweltering epicenter of Oklahoma she calls home. I’m proud to know her and can’t wait to accost her and her beautiful hair again sometime soon.

I hope you’ll join me in raising a glass of Similac to toast the upcoming arrival of her third child, who will hopefully be named after me or one of my cats, even if “Wino” did catch me hell on the playground. If s/he’s anything like her mother, the world will be most lucky to have her/him/it.

See more shower love at these sites:

I can’t seem to find the real pic of Stacy, Buns, and me, the one in which we’re all the same color, but you get the gist: friendship, smiles, me staring longingly from the back corner of the room. Pretty standard.

Case of the Mondays

There are bad Mondays, Mondays that you discover a guy you’ve been chatting with isn’t as unattached as claimed, or actually unattached at all, and then there are shitty Mondays. Shitty Mondays start out great. New grown-up work blouse with perfectly matched accessories, clear skin, enough time to shave and moisturize, blue bird on your fucking shoulder. These are the days one should know to retreat to the bunker before something goes wrong. Grab the cats and all the mac and cheese in the house and batten down the hatches, ladies.

On a really shitty Monday, you arrive at your car to see that the door is unlocked. Silly me, you chastise yourself, because obviously you must have been the asshat who left it open. Obviously, because how often do you go out to your car and find that someone has broken into it, jamming the ignition with such force that it’s undriveable? Unmovable.

Unmovable you are not, of course, and after calling the police and AAA and the your dependable repair guy, who tells you a new steering column will cost you at least 600 dollars, and your mother, who tells you you’ll need to move to the safety of the Commonwealth immediately, you dissolve into no more than 60 seconds of tears. Dry eyes, break into laughter. Because this is Thanksgiving week, after all, and there is still lots of mac and cheese in the house.

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