Tattoo Ew

xman-nipple-tattoo.jpeg.pagespeed.ic.bLbUkIkcpmPerfectly curvaceous she clings to him. Pouty lips, come-hither stare, full ripe breasts, often blatantly bared for all to see. Sometimes she’s human, other times she is some mythical creature like a mermaid or genie. You know her from the pinup posters and girlie magazines. You question why she’s bound to this loser for life. As you look him up from head to toe, you realize she might be right there, but she’ll always be just an inked fantasy. He could never attract a girl like that. What girl would want a guy like him?

Running on Empty

old-running-shoesMarathons are ruining my friendships. Something awful happens to people in their late 30s and early 40s that compels them to run marathons. I understand it’s a lofty goal that can give one a sense of accomplishment. But, when a friend tells me she’s training for a marathon, I know what that really means. Our friendship is on hold. She will spend every spare moment of the next few months training for this run. On the rare occasions I see her, our conversation will be a tedious account of how many miles she’s up to and her training regimen. She will stop drinking because it interferes with her running. So, I will drink more in order to listen to her myopic topic. Soon her goals get loftier, instead of just finishing the marathon, she wants to do it in a reasonable time. Requiring more training. All the while, I am secretly wishing her a nasty ankle sprain that will stop this madness. It’s not that I don’t want her to achieve her goals, it’s just that I hate how our friendship suffers.

Perhaps I’d be more sympathetic if I ever had the desire to run a marathon. I’m not even tempted to run a measly 5k. Honestly, I hate running. I’ve put in the time, and never get past the feeling that my heart is going to burst through my chest and kill me on the spot. The fact that I know of no one who has ever died of a heart explosion does nothing to allay my fears. I’m also seemingly incapable of the runner’s high. When a bumbling recent convert to the gym told me of his runner’s high, I just wanted to tell him to go to hell.

Now that I’ve been through this marathon business several times with a variety of friends, I realize that unless one becomes a regular marathon runner, the drive that pushed them out there – the search for something: happiness, accomplishment, recognition, is never attained. Once the race is run, they go back to their same daily questioning of their purpose in life. Then come the complaints about all the pounds they packed on after they stopped training. It starts all over again as they talk about running another marathon, which they never do. So, do us both a favor. Don’t run a marathon. Keep drinking, and let’s have some fun hanging out together.

 

Maybe. Not.

I am having a party – maybe. That is Imaybe -x am decorating, cleaning my house, preparing food and beverage, but I have no idea whether anyone will show up or how much food and beverage to prepare. When did “maybe” become an officially acceptable reply to attend an event in someone’s home? I was raised in the era of “yes” or “no,” which wasn’t all that very long ago. The only other acceptable answer back in the day was, “Yes, but I will be late,” which had to be cleared with the host of the party long before the day of the event. Of course, I blame technology and Tupperware.

First came Tupperware, the “party” that forces unsuspecting friends to purchase something they don’t want or need from the host. This idea has since expanded from Longaberger baskets to custom-made clothing. It used to be obvious that you would have to shell out. Now you just might arrive and discover you have to buy candles in order to leave lest your friend think you unsupportive of her hard work – meaning opening a bottle of wine, a bag of chips and salsa as well as going to the trouble to invite you. Even though I have never hosted one of these “parties,” their very existence make friends wary when you invite them to anything.

Technology legitimized “maybe.” It is an official option on Facebook as well as evite. “Maybe” is the equivalent to all the kids get trophies now because we don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Saying that you will not attend my party, does not hurt my feelings. I recognize that you have a life and other obligations. Just tell me, “No.” Depending on who you are, that could save me a lot of money on alcohol or another hour of cooking just to make something that fits within your crazily narrow dietary parameters that I seem to feel the need to accommodate because I consider you a friend, albeit not a good enough friend to have the courtesy to tell me whether you are or are not attending my party.

Chicago Outshines NYC

Leave it to me to offend New York pride with innocence and honesty. I am going to state it for the record, New York is not the greatest city in the world in every aspect of everything. Those may be my last words as despite their PC positions, people here are more intolerant than many others I’ve experienced throughout the country. Either because many of them have never been anywhere else or when they go anywhere else, they immediately expect elsewhere to be NYC. Guess what, that’s why New York City is what it is, it’s different. You will not find it elsewhere. What you can find elsewhere are other things well done.

Recently a New Yorker with great swagger and confidence (is that redundant?) asked me what I thought of the holiday displays in the city. I had the audacity to state that in my opinion Chicago does a better job uplifting the entire city in lights. It really comes down to the difference between the Democrats and the Republicans. Chicago laces the trees in public parks and lining the streets in a spectacular array of lights evoking a feeling of festivity for any soul wandering or lost. New York throws up a few leftover, bargain bin light features on random light poles and calls it a day, relying on private businesses to provide the spectacle for shoppers. Well, not every business is Rockefeller Center or Harry Winston (currently my favorite commercial light display ever). Most of New York is dark, lit only with store windows featuring the same old mannequins sporting sparkly clothing surrounded by items the storeowners want you to buy. Seriously Michael Kors you can’t afford anything better than a bit of silver garland? “I’m sorry, but you’re out! Auf Wiedersehen.” (Kiss. Kiss) Tiffany & Co, the inventors of lavishness barely eke out a boring display of white buildings dotted with Tiffany boxes and designs so dull you wonder if not for the box, did he get it at Kay? Come on, folks. Get into the spirit. Pay your taxes for an uplifting holiday display to counter the short, gray days.

I had to smile though, when I received the pat answer to any criticism of Manhattan. “You should see the holiday displays in Brooklyn.”

PS I am only able to post images of Chicago because since the streets of NYC are so pathetic there are no images online. I will have to photographically update some time this week. Check back.

Magnificent Mile Chicago

Magnificent Mile Chicago

Lincoln Park, Chicago

Lincoln Park, Chicago

Unlicked Cub

March's Thesaurus

Blame my hiatus on Superman. “If you are writing a blog, you are accomplishing something,” he noted. To prove I was accomplishing nothing and doing it well, I stopped writing my blog.

My writing didn’t cease though. One can still accomplish nothing well spending hours playing with words – shifting locations, inserting clarification, deleting, rewriting and changing subtle meaning with a synonym.

Finding the perfect word is by far my favorite game these days. Getting lost in my mother’s old thesaurus and dictionary, it’s hours before I find myself back on the page. Francis Andrew March’s definitions are pure precision. He spent his lifetime studying the discriminating use of the English language.  I can only imagine, if he were still alive, his vehement hatred of the standard usage of acronyms, emoticons and profanity. Personally, I attribute the demise of language the fact that March’s Thesaurus and Dictionary has been out of print since 1980, and digital media is destroying our ability to communicate effectively. Unfortunately, I am as guilty as my contemporary peers.

The precision of language is almost magical. Take some possible nouns describing an impolite person, say someone who discourages you from writing a blog. Today any one of the following might leap off the tongue: asshole, bastard, fucker, motherfucker, cocksucker, dickhead, shit, prick, son of a bitch or ass. There are other iterations of crudeness, but surely you get the point.

March presents us with a whole host of words to accurately describe impolite people. Most are still nouns co-opted from other nouns, but somehow they seem more dignified and precise. There’s a bear, which is someone ill mannered or morose. A beast is brutal or rude, but a brute is brutal and coarse. Aren’t rude and coarse synonyms? True, but rude is ignorant or impolite.  Coarse is indelicate, crude or vulgar. The more I delve the more enthralled I am. A blackguard can only be a man. A frump is an old, ill-tempered woman. Cullion is a mean-spirited and cowardly bad man, while a caitiff is just cowardly. There are derogatory references from before our pets became the center of our lives: dog, cur, mongrel, Hellhound and Hellcat. And if you really want to charge a bad man of being of the lowest order, call him a hangman.

Then there is the lost gem. An expression fallen out of use long since March died in 1911 but so brilliant I hope to incorporate into my repartee. An ill-mannered person is an “unlicked cub.” I told Superman the definition and my intent to include this expression in my vocabulary. He replied, “No one will know what you are talking about.” To which I replied, “You will.”

 

Disclaimer: Not every word used in this entry was checked for proper usage as defined by March’s Thesaurus and Dictionary.

Bumper Crop of Wisdom

webblue-bumper-matrixwebsilver-bumper webblue-bumperwebtruck-bumperIt’s a matter of opinion. To make your viewpoint known on your car in this town, either stop at one or go for a minimum of five. I’m not sure why this mandate holds, but it does. I could delve into the numerological reasons, but that subject is entirely beyond any expertise I have. Suffice it to say, it’s an odd phenomenon.

In our hippy mountain town, the majority of opinions run the gamut of the usual subjects: peace, love, coexist, yoga, animal welfare and local food. Some choose to support their favorite indie band, who will most likely never make it big, or Tori Amos, who has a surprisingly large fan base in this tiny town. Just as the liberals are entirely predictable, so are the conservatives sporting election stickers for like-minded politicians whose ideology aligns with their own or who slather their vehicles with Biblical quotes.

Every so often the irony of one sticker is the trumper on the bumper. Recently while wending my way though the mountains, I arrived behind what I can only describe as the God’s wrath minivan condemning me to hell. Amidst the various verses plucked from the Bible, there was one particularly large sticker websilver-suv-sidetaking up the entire left side of the rear bumper. It read, “Attention: The party in hell has been canceled due to the fire.” Damn! Now I have to scramble to find another party at this late date.

With so many opinions, it is rare webwhite-suv-bumperthat any are witty, which is the point of a bumper sticker. You will change no one’s opinion by expressing your own. The best you can hope for is that someone with similar ideals may try to pick you up in a parking lot. If you must express your viewpoints on your vehicle, please have the courtesy to remember your readers don’t care what you care about. We just want to be amused.

Living in the Land of Santa

Santa-and-meIn my town, most of the men over the age of 65 look like Santa. Upon moving here in July, my first inclination was that Santa was on vacation. It is a resort town, after all. The summer turned to fall, and the leaves fell and browned. The tourists left. Santa sightings continued on a regular basis. Clearly my Santas are residents.

As the population here is rather insignificant, surely the competition for seasonal Santa work is pretty stiff.  There are two malls in our village. Both are pretty sad, but one is clearly fairing better than the other. The thriving mall features a Santa of such incredibly natural likeness he made me believe a sleigh and reindeer were on the roof ready to whisk him away at a touch of his nose. In the other mall, Santa is a guy wearing a fake, shiny satiny beard and fat suit. I look more like Santa than he does. Clearly, this mall has fallen into such a shameful state that no self-respecting guy who looks like Santa will even enter the building.

The appearance of fake Santa is just a greater symptom of this mall’s demise. A last chance, all sales final Dillard’s outlet store is the anchoring attraction. Other stores include a broad array of specialty interests. Fashion Latina features only the lower half of manikins with pants stretched so tightly you are relieved they never have to breathe or move. Diametrically opposed to the sexy booty store, there is Totally Christian Karate aka TCK. Instead of traditional belt colors, techniques are identified with a scriptural word or concept and enhanced with required bible study. Then there’s Dollar Tree. Yes, you read that correctly, Dollar Tree in the mall. If I owned this mall, I would hightail it over to the other mall, plop onto real Santa’s lap and ask him to make Nordstrom and Saks 5th Ave anchor in my mall and bring all the high-end fashionista stores with them. It’s current state clearly indicates the mall owners are entrenched on the naughty list. They can’t even attract Santa.

I went to the real Santa and placed my three Christmas wishes before him. He promised he would grant one. The other two he will do the best he can. Every time I see townie Santas, it will just remind me that real Santa is working on my wishes. Who needs TCK, when Santa is ready to whoop ass?

Boobs in Hollywood

I am not a prude. I do enjoy a little organization in life, like the good old days when there was a difference between mainstream entertainment and soft porn. Now female actresses seem to be required to bare all onscreen, no matter how trivial the role, how unrelated nudity is to the plot or whether it’s TV or film.

Tonight I saw Flight. Spoiler alert: Flight opens with a naked woman rising from a bed where a flabby Denzel Washington lies discretely covered. She walks towards the camera exhibiting full frontal nudity. Does it forward the plot line? No. Does it have anything to do with the plot? Barely. In the end, Mr. Washington’s character has enough integrity not to slander a dead woman, but the director has no respect for her acting career. Yeah, that full frontal shot is really gonna get her noticed when award season rolls around.

At the recommendation of friends, I recently watched the first two seasons of Shameless. the breasts of every female character on the show have been revealed except for Joan Cusack, who is famous enough not to have to bare it all, the 15-year-old who is a minor character and plays a strict religious cult figure, and the 11-year-old actress, who as she ages on the show, I am sure we’ll see hers, too. Granted, we have, unfortunately, seen a few, mostly unwelcome, quick glimpses of male full frontal nudity on this show. But it still makes me ponder what genius really feels any of this enhances my viewing experience.

As women we could rise above this, boycott, write letters, start petitions, but it will do no good. Men love boobies. Some women do, too. So, I say, embrace it. Let’s reward our actresses for their endowments. Every award show should have its gimmick. At the Academy Awards breast appeal will have to be taken into account for Best Actress consideration. (Sorry Meryl, no more awards for you.) To boost the flagging viewership of the Oscars, the Best Unaugmented Actress and Best Enhanced Actress could mud wrestle to see who gets to go home with the Oscar.

Make the People’s Choice a true people’s choice. All the female nominees throughout the evening grace the stage topless while America texts or calls to vote for the Best Hooters. Ryan Seacrest could host it and Hooters could sponsor the show. Fashion designers will jump at the opportunity to create outfits versatile enough to go from the red carpet to barely on the stage.

The Emmys could add a new subcategory: the Rack Emmy Awards. They could highlight the work of some lesser know actresses by showing clips of “Best Gratuitous Sex Scene in a Comedy,” “Best Naked Dead Victim in a Drama,” or “Best Innocent Reference to Breasts in a Children’s Show.”

The list could go on and so could I. Let’s just say, I am looking forward to consulting on this idea. My mother would be so proud to see that I found my calling in the exploitation of women.

Birds of a Feather

Image

My closest friends all have the same thing in common. When I first met them, I instantly desired their friendship. Some required little to no effort on my part. It was mutual love at first sight. Others I had to woo. Some frustrated me by keeping a distance, but I am persistent when I crave a friendship. Is it a sixth sense or soul recognition from a past life? Whatever the case, I still recall the first time I laid eyes on each of them.

A Latin god with a wicked laugh toasted s’mores and spun me right around. Two goth girls walked across campus like alert crows taking in everything and blowing smoke at it all. A goddess with ice blue eyes donned a daisy dress and grinned with the fecundity of the universe. A gypsy wrapped in exotic fabrics melted my heart with cocoa eyes and a shy smile. The man of my dreams stood in my path and walked me down another. The cool professional tipped his hand revealing a wink and biting sarcasm. A mystical fairy whisked me into her haven and plied me with the necessary comforts the universe had to offer. A gorgeous nymph played it cool at first, but later we found commonality over our shared wounds.

Each time I talk with them or meet them, I’m again struck by how lucky I am. My therapist doesn’t believe in luck, just karma. If that’s the case, then I must have made some serious retribution in past lives to enjoy the perks of this one. I am so grateful for the people I have the fortune to call my friends.

Oh actually, they have two things in common. They are all complete freaks, too. Maybe that’s the draw. I should have thought about that before I started writing this entry. Maybe it’s not cosmic at all.

Saling Away

Image

My family loves to sale – yard, garage and estate. Countless times I’ve almost suffered whiplash as my father made an abrupt turn after spotting a small sign marked “sale” with an arrow. He wends through neighborhoods just to see if there is some treasure he can’t do without. An odd behavior considering the fact that there is nothing he needs. My sister arms herself with an inhaler to survive digging through boxes in attics and basements in search of Christmas past – one of the largest collections of which can be found at her house. My extended family spends hours regaling one another with tales of magnificent finds and bargaining skills the envy of any Middle Easterner.

Fortunately this gene seems to have skipped me. Occasionally, I go along for the ride. For the most part garage and yard sales strike me as places where people display their junk in hope of getting a little cash before making a charitable donation. These people no longer want the items for sale, yet they need to tell one more unsuspecting sole the story behind it to establish its value at $10 instead of just $5. My family members will still ask for $5. Most of the time they get the discount and more.

Estate sales are just creepy. I can’t help but think of the story behind the owner. How odd to suddenly have all the nooks and crannies of one’s life exposed. Typically, everything in the house is for sale. Cupboards are open. You can get ¾ of a can of Raid, canned goods, a full set of vintage china or start a collection by buying someone else’s collection. Once we happened upon binders containing a collection of sugar packets from restaurants. They were carefully organized in plastic sheets to reveal both sides. One side read, “sugar” while the other side of the packet stated the restaurant name, like “Shoney’s.” Someone spent a lot of time accumulating and organizing that collection. What was this person’s story?

I don’t collect anything. At times I amass items but seem to have no problem letting them go, mostly without even bothering with a sale of my own. It’s a recessive gene that makes me a freak in a family whose members collect collections. I will never make a good saler. Fortunately, my loved ones are able to overlook this flaw.