Monthly Archives: May 2012

Don’t Look At Me. I’m Disgusting

by

When you live with someone, you can go a long time without ever being alone. I had gone so long that I forgot how disgusting I can be by myself.

Phil went to a conference last week and left me in the apartment unsupervised for 30 hours. It took about 30 minutes for my civility to unravel. The Hunger Games kicked off with a box of Velveeta and a dollop of disregard.

The cheesy shells meant to serve 4 heaped golden florescence on my plate, which was so heavy it strained my bicep. I carried it right past the kitchen table and into bed, where my laptop waited, radiating the Netflix screen paused on Season 3 of How I Met Your Mother. For the next day, I only left the bed for bathroom breaks and to get more food.

I was full after two servings and one episode, so I took an eating break roughly the length of Ted’s relationship with Stella. Then I wiped away some cheddar perspiration and returned to the challenge. The artificially colored food was cold and the cheese had dried, but I persevered.

Barney fell in love with Robin, Marshall and Lily fell into a bad investment, and I fell asleep with an almost finished plate of macaroni and cheese resting on my bulging belly.

The next morning looked about the same, except for the addition of sunshine trying to penetrate through the lowered blinds of my shame cave. I swapped out the day-old pasta for a bowl of cereal and tuned back in to see how Ted would deal with his latest heartache.

Dishes stacked, my pajamas stained with passing meals, the apartment grew increasingly stuffy, and I watched on.

Then Phil texted me that he was on his way home from the airport and shattered my sloth haze. I looked around the apartment and I looked at myself. I saw everything that I had made and, behold, it was not good.

I rubbed the pillow lines from my face and showered. I changed into a new pair of sweatpants (okay, still lazy pants, but at least these were clean). I carried all the dirty dishes piled around my bed to the kitchen and washed, dried, and put them away. I opened the doors and windows and turned on the fan, reintroducing my apartment and me to fresh air.

By the time Phil walked in, the only indication of what went on in the apartment without him was the lingering ass imprint on the sheets, the guilty glint in my eyes, and the subtle scent of self-reproach.

Some versions of me are for my eyes only.

A Tale of Fire, Thievery, and Mary Higgins Clark

by

It all began with That Night. Not a specific evening in my history, but a book of that title.

The package looked like any other Amazon package. I don’t consider myself a superstitious gal, but it arrived on my doorstep on Friday the 13th of April, so maybe I should have known better. I carried it up into my apartment without the slightest inkling that I was also carrying out the final step in a crime. (I was probably distracted by the all-consuming desire to stuff my face– a sensation that often accompanies the act of arriving home after a long day away from my kitchen.)

It all felt so normal. When you hear about this kind of thing on the news, you always think, “How could she not know? She must have known.” But I didn’t. I swear; it was just like any other package.

That is, until I opened it.

With one smooth slice of the scissors down the center, it was suddenly so obvious.

The scent hit me first. An odor so tangible, so familiar. It smelled like a bike ride followed by two hours curled up in a dark corner with Mary Higgins Clark; a fragrance of childhood afternoons. It stunk of adventure, mystery, and mildew– the aroma of time with a subtle bouquet of knowledge.

It smelled like a library book.

No, that isn’t possible. Not even the basest Amazon seller would have the stomach to consign a book stolen from the library, one of the few remaining institutions that still lends goods for free. That’s what I thought too. I would have sworn that my olfactic sensory cells were deceiving me. But then I lifted out the book.

The hardcover was wrapped in plastic and secured with tape that had long since lost its stick. A white label on the bottom of the binding read “FIC McD.” I fanned a few yellowed pages until I reached confirmation: a red stamp with the words, “Property of Cliffside Park, PUB. LIB.” Unnerved, I already knew what I would find inside the back cover, but I couldn’t help myself. I flipped the book and gasped. Not only was there a barcode sticker for faster checkout, there was also an empty envelope for the Date Due card. Sadly, this book would never again need such a card. This book would never again be stamped with a blue or black month abbreviation and date. It would never again be smashed through a Return Book slot. This book was forcefully removed from circulation long before its time, only to be sold on the black market for $4.32. That’s the price put on greed by Amazon seller Accessory International LLC, a fitting name for a company that would involuntary make all of their customers into accessories.

Curious about the rightful owner of this book, I googled Cliffside Public Library. The first headline? “Fire rips through Cliffside Park library.”

Books, computers, and town treasures including historical maps and yearbooks were all ruined in the fire two years ago. After extensive renovations, the library was reopened this past September.

But the book I hold in my hands is by no means a bouncing eight month old book. This book is riddled with stains and tears. This book has seen kitchen tables, train rides, and the inside of purses. Which means this book is not just the product of a lame money making scheme by a New Jersey Amazon seller. This book narrowly escaped one of the worst fates imaginable. This book is a survivor that has more than one story to tell, if only you are willing to listen.

……

Okay, okay. I’ll return the book.

To All Those Anti-Left-ites

by
Left-handedness is not a choice– it’s a quality people are born with. You think they would choose to be left-handed? You think that’s the easy way out? No, not in this right-handed society. Not in this world where every left-handed schoolchild is forced to sit unnaturally in a right-handed desk; where they must train themselves to use scissors meant for an inherently different kind of person; where they can never fairly arm wrestle. Even the most fundamental interaction with our fellow man– a handshake — is a constant reminder that lefties are not, and never will be, the norm. It takes a special kind of bravery for a left-handed person to constantly introduce him/herself to their fellow man with a lie.
*
Society claims to be tolerant, saying, “Oh, I’m not a leftist. I have friends who are left-handed.” It’s a nice sentiment, but if our culture really understood, we would stop looking at lefties with disgust as they write with their hands curled around a pencil (I know it looks gross, but have some compassion.) What’s worse are those ignorant individuals who argue that handedness isn’t even an issue anymore, saying things like, “We have a left-handed President, how much more hand tolerant can we get?” Just the fact that someone could boast tolerance when we live in a world where all left-handed people are still marked with lead smudges on their pinkies proves that this topic requires greater awareness.
*
When was the last time you heard, “Now raise your left hand?” or “Place your left hand over your heart?” Never. Your left hand never vows or pledges. Our society systematically distrusts all things left-handed, as evidenced in the expression “a left-handed compliment,” (meaning questionable or deceptive) which, despite how we claim to be a politically correct nation, still remains an accepted idiom.
*

Still incredulous about this prejudice? Well, answer me this: Do we have rights? Yes. Do they have lefts? No! Can our wrongs be righted? Yes. Can their wrongs be lefted? No!

*

Really, still not seeing it? Well, would you rather be left behind or right behind? Have you ever been grooving on the dance floor only to be told that you have two right feet? No, I didn’t think so.

*

What lefties need is a spokesperson– a famous face for left-handedness. How about Tom Cruise? No, too controversial; we’d lose support from pro-height people. How about Jerry Seinfeld? Yes, yes, he’s likable, and I can’t think of any additional bigotry he’d incite. Together with Jerry, let’s send out a call to arms to put our hands together.

*

Lefties should no longer use a can opener or a stick shift or a baseball glove with shame. That’s right, I mean, left! They’re here, they’re…. er…. get used to it!

*

I am a proud left-handedness activist. To join the movement, raise your left fist in solidarity.

Weight Loss Methods I Wish Worked

by

Lying down is one of my favorite pastimes.

Because of this preference for passiveness, it’s very difficult for me to workout. Why move around, sweat, and increase my heart rate when I can curl up on my bed and…. not? I don’t just enjoy lying down, I’m good at it, and like I learned from the biblical story my mother so often referenced when trying to motivate/guilt me into practicing the piano, I shouldn’t bury my talents.

Sadly, every three months or so, against my will, my pants tighten. Jeans are difficult to reason with– they don’t respect my passion for lethargy– so I am forced to abandon my life’s love, push myself out of bed, dust off my workout DVDs, and commence the squatting.

Then I look at an iPad or an origami swan and am reminded of all the amazing things my fellow humans have accomplished. And yet, nobody has figured out how to stay slender without the inconvenience of getting up. Has no engineer ever been as drowsy as I am while still wanting to shake her fist at these injustices without her arm flab getting in the spirit?

Sure, there have been attempts, and I appreciate these attempts because every failed trial gets us one (metaphoric) step closer to maintaining a six-pack while drinking one.

The Ab Belt: Strap on this belly blaster and zap your stomach into submission without ever having to voluntarily flex a muscle. Equipped with 30 settings ranging from static electricity to electric chair, this core stimulator gives you the extra jolt you never knew you never wanted. Plus, it makes the ideal birthday present if you’re looking to end a friendship.

This was the most painful $50 plus shipping my parents ever spent. At least I thought so. I returned during a college break to find my Mom and Dad sitting on the couch watching Everybody Loves Raymond while passing this electro strap-on back and forth. Upon hearing that this device crunches your stomach while you kick back with a bag of chips, I plopped down in line. I now know what it feels like to resist arrest, as my parents set their Ab Belt to Taser.

It was like countless needles stabbing my stomach in a synchronized beat. I yelped and my mother said, “Yeah, you have to build up a resistance to the pain. We started at a low setting and worked our way up.”

As I struggled to pull off the belt that was punishing me for a crime I never committed, my thumbs throbbed as if I’d stuck them in an electric socket.

“Oh, and you aren’t supposed to touch it while it’s on.”

That was the last time I subjected myself to this torture regimen, but the fact that I haven’t heard its rhythmic buzz in eight years suggests that it only left abs worse for wear.

The Frozen Food Fat Froster: Freeze out your blubber because fat cells are like New England seniors: once it gets to cold, they travel down south. This method is inspired by Cryolipolysis (the medical procedure popularly known as CoolSculpting, which dissolves fat cells using laser, ultrasound, or rf current at very low temperatures), but The Frozen Food Fat Froster is designed for huskies on a budget. Why pay thousands of dollars to a plastic surgeon when you can shop at your local grocer? 

How it works: Hold frozen food against those problem areas. Flabby butt? Shove a bag of corn into your underwear. Pouchy stomach? Defrost your dinner meat against that tubby tummy. This should yield the same results as the medical method, proving there’s no need for laser, ultrasound, or rf current when you stock your freezer with peas, steak, and ravioli. Plus, after the food reaches room temperature, you can eat it– guilt free! (Insider’s tip: Unless you want your new slender shape to have frostbite, wrap your food item in paper towel).

(You can also purchase the FreezeAwayFat Cool Shape Shorts with cold gel inserts featured above, but the frozen food method is patented by the Dillons so, who do you trust– a corporation informed by NASA scientists or a desperate suburban family? I think the answer is clear and, remember: when your skin tingles with freezer burn, that’s when you know it’s working!)

The Diet Fork With its short, dulled teeth, small shape, and uncomfortable grip, this fork is actually the anti-fork, engineered to inhibit eating. For the irresistible price of $10 for 10, you too can make eating a struggle. Alternatives include eating soup with a regular fork, or spaghetti with a spoon. (Caution: For the hungry dieter, this method may result in dropping the fork and eating like a starving Pit Bull).

Weight Loss Earrings Get thin through fashion with these aesthetically-pleasing ear magnets. Place on your lobe one hour prior to meals, and keep them on as long as you can stand “the pinch.” For those who believe in pressure point therapy, that’s the design of these magnets. For those who believe in aversion therapy, that’s the design of these magnets. For those who believe in God, that’s the design of these magnets. Just order them, okay?

Why JCPenney’s New “Fair and Square” Price Policy Takes the Fun Out of Shopping

by

When I go shopping, I like to leave the store feeling as if I’ve just robbed them blind.

I arrive equipped with a stack of coupons, two forms of ID for a possible store credit card application, and a thirst for savings. Then I comb through the racks and don’t stop until I see red.

Red tags. Sales.

Sale stickers on a price tag are like the before and after photos of a Biggest Loser contestant. It’s all about contrast. A 180 pound woman never looks so skinny as when she’s placed side by side with her 280 pound former self. You need the sight of inflation for effect.

Which is why, if the sale sticker is covering the original price, I peel it off. How am I supposed to decide if I like a shirt unless I know its full retail value? Neon plaid isn’t really my thing, but if I’m saving over $50, I can make it my thing.

To cap off the entire endeavor, at the register, I slap down one of the 25% Off Entire Purchase coupons that arrive in the mail more often than Catholic charity donation solicitations.

But with JCPenney’s everyday low prices (which is 40% off 2011 full retail prices), I’m missing the satisfaction that comes with feeling as if I’ve legally ripped-off  a corporation. There is no radiating $18.99 sticker stuck haphazardly beside the perforated-edged $30. There is just the sullen, unembellished $18.99. Sure, my wallet doesn’t notice the difference, but the frugal part of my heart does.

Is the new policy fair? Yes. But the thrill is gone.

The most blatant difference in the shopping experience presented itself after I checked out at the register and walked down the aisle toward the parking lot. I pulled out the white ribbony receipt, my pulse quickening.

In the good old days, my eyes skimmed over all the items with their original prices and, just below it, their individual subtracted amounts, until finally landing on the grand total. Below that, JCPenney used to list your grand total savings. It was there that I found the ultimate confirmation that my purchases were sound investments. If I was thrifty enough, I saved more than I spent. On those days, I slept well, mentally spooning my bank account, completely ignoring the fact that, no matter how much I saved, I never paid the $1.50 it cost to make the item a Korean factory. Come to think of it, I also never lost sleep over the idea that these garments were manufactured by Korean factory workers making only $2 an hour. I guess I’m a horrible person, but that’s another story.

Now, without sale tags or coupons, the receipt only offers the grand total and, although I’ve spent the same amount as I would have before, the disappointment in my core suggests that I’ve accomplished nothing. I just stood there and let JCPenney charge me their “fair and square” prices, without putting up a fight.

This Is Acceptance

by

This is Rejection

“Dear Writer: We regret to inform you that your submission is not a good fit for our publication. This is a subjective business, and we hope you continue trying to find placement elsewhere.”

This is Your Blogger When Rejected

She opens the email with the expectation (instilled from its countless predecessors) that it is a rejection and, when reading the form letter, she thinks, “Yup, that sounds about right. Another one for the excel sheet.”

This is Acceptance

“I love this, I love you, and I’d love to publish your writing.”

This is Your Blogger When Accepted

She reads the email just out of the shower with a towel still wrapped around her. She yelps. She shrieks to Phil, “Funny Women. The Rumpus. Accepted me! The Rumpus is such a good placement! Shut the front door! The Rumpus! The Rumpus!” Her shrieks turn into a sort of “The Rumpus” chant, which is outwardly senseless, but so impassioned that Phil can’t help but join in. The enthusiasm builds until they are screaming “The Rumpus” like a literary battle cry. Because they are already shouting at the tops of their voices and therefore can no longer heighten enthusiasm through volume, she continues the chant and begins jumping around the apartment, still clutching the towel to her body (the windows are open and they are in a suburban neighborhood after all). Now that the two have both reached the point of full-out shouting and jumping, surely they cannot possibly elevate their fervor further. No, no they cannot…. at least not without the assistance of Freddie Mercury! Between leaps and blurts, Phil manages to enlist the help of all four members of British rock band Queen, to the tune of We Are the Champions. With the inspiration of the most motivating song to ever grace the ears of victors, their chant has morphed into an even more inexplicable version– We are The Rumpus. Fist pumps are involved, and their downstairs landlord is one electric guitar solo away from pounding a broom against his ceiling.

Any Questions?

Birds That Prey

by

Not enough people appreciate that birds carry weapons on their faces. Combine those beaks with their ability to fly, and they’re an explosive warhead away from being missiles.

If you believe that birds descended from dinosaurs, and if you’ve seen Jurassic Park, you should share my healthy fear of feathered beasts. It’s called the transitive property, and you can’t argue with math. (To the question, “How many ridiculous statements were just made?” the answer is six. But I stand by all of them.)

Given these facts, you can understand my horror at finding two blond girls and an elderly woman at the local state park, feeding a bag full of breadcrumbs to a flock of geese.

I went to this park for exercise, not an adrenaline rush. If I wanted a brush with death, I would go to Jones Beach on a Saturday in August and yell, “Real men don’t wax their eyebrows!” If these females care to act on their suicidal impulses, fine, but do it on their own time– not when it threatens the livelihood of fellow park-goers just looking for a good speed-walk.

So now, instead of the geese floating in the lake at a safe distance like dragons in the dungeon of a castle, they were crowding around their wranglers, squawking and boasting their intimidation, their necks craning like King Cobras about to strike. And yes, I believe dragons and royal snakes are appropriate comparisons.

As I mentioned earlier, I do not have a death wish, so I clearly could not, would not, walk through this swarm of famished fouls. I abandoned the path to avoid being…. ::gulp:: attacked.

Flash to summer 1995

My family climbed out of the paddle boat, looking forward to exploring the tiny island right off the coast of Watch Hill, Rhode Island. It was not much more than a patch of land peaking out from the ocean, spotted with rough grass and pebbles, but we happily skipped along, probably holding hands and singing the Brady Bunch theme song, pausing only to compliment each other. 

“Nice over-sized Chicago Bulls t-shirt, Greg.”

“Thanks. Cool spandex shorts, Alena. It looks like you’re going biking, but you’re not. That’s sweet.”

“Oh, look at this pretty blue rock,” my mother said. She bent down, picked it up, examined it, and then dropped it.

Splat.

It was not a rock, but a bird egg.

That’s when disaster struck this picture-perfect day. Within seconds, the sky turned black. Birds from all over New England were directly overhead, and these were the original Angry Birds. One by one, they dove and pecked at, not just the woman responsible for the splattering of their unborn chick, but every member of the Dillon family. We screamed. We swatted. We ran– over the prickly grass that sliced our feet– and to the paddle boat. It was every man for himself; I think I used my little brother’s head as a footstep into the vessel. Somehow, we all made it aboard, and my father paddled, literally, for our lives.

I don’t like to curse, but that was some Hitchcock shit.

Back to Belmont Lake State Park 2012

As I veered onto the grass, recalling that traumatic day when the Dillon clan was almost struck down by dive-bombers, a goose lurched, and I shrieked. It turns out that the goose was lurching, not at me, but at one of its cohort, to discourage him from a particularly crusty hunk of bread. Greedy bastard. In any case, at my high-pitched squeal, one of the brute-feeding girls looked at me judgmentally, like I was the odd one– as if she didn’t look like a kid from a horror movie who would have a goose perching on each shoulder.

It took almost as long for me to stop trembling as for Phil to stop laughing, but I’m not embarrassed by my reaction. Looking at a bird, you can’t tell if it has a friendly disposition. All you can see is its beady eyes and dagger-like nose.

Birds are devious by nature. Think about it– has a bird ever been portrayed as lovable and heroic in the media? Don’t be fooled by the long lashes and chirpy voice of Tweety Bird. What is he other than a cross-dressing, conniving canary who lives to frame his foe (this may be the only time I sympathize with a cat). Then there’s Iago, the cunning macaw who roosts on the malice of Jafar. But what about Mother Goose? you say. Please, I’ve seen geese. That hag would drown her biddies for a good piece of Italian bread. And, seriously, what do we really know about Big Bird? Where did he come from, how did he get so big, and what does he do that he can afford to nest in a brownstone right off Sesame Street?

No, birds cannot be trusted.

(I salute the girl in the above photo for recognizing the grave capabilities of a Parakeet.)

Stage Fright Fest

by

I’m going to be honest with you, Readers. I can’t see you, but I know you are on the other side of my laptop screen, and you scare me.

Up until today, the majority of my followers shared at least some of my DNA. My blog comments consisted of remarks like, “Daughter, you make me laugh” and “Yes, I remember that time, and it was funny.” My point is not that I’m related to robots, but that I’m accustomed to a readership who must love me unconditionally– I may be their only hope for grandchildren.

Then, by some stomach cramp of the universe, WordPress must have run out of blogs to feature, shrugged, and Freshly Pressed me. My adrenaline has been pumping ever since.

I don’t do well under pressure (the only time I’ll play competitive sports is if I’ve shared a meal with every single person on both teams, and the game takes place in my backyard). I’m not a person who grabs the bull by the horns. I’m not even confident that I’d poke the bull with a really long stick unless I was in a secure location and the bull was drugged.

This is why I chose writing– a profession that comes with a delete key. I don’t understand how people handle careers that require functioning well in emergency situations that cannot be undone. If I were a surgeon and a patient on my table started spurting blood, I think I would turn to the nurse beside me, look at him/her regretfully, and say, “Do you mind taking care of this? I just remembered I have a thing.” Actually, that’s giving myself too much credit. I’d probably just stand there, blinking and sweating.

I still have well under one thousand followers, so me writing a blog isn’t exactly Bono walking out into a crowd at Madison Square Garden. It isn’t even a toupee-wearing principal walking out into a half-sleeping high school assembly. And yet, as I stared at the blank screen, watching the cursor wink at me, my hands trembled and I was lightly coated with fingernail shavings and balled up peanut butter cup wrappings. I had the composure of a recovering heroine addict.

“Funny. Why can’t you think of something funny?” I scolded myself, my left eye twitching.

I’d like to say that this is when I had some sort of meaningful revelation– that humor is an attitude, a lens through which one views life’s absurdity.

But no, this is actually when I got up to use the bathroom and mindlessly walked straight into a wall.

What I needed was not a revelation, but a shoulder/ego bruising.

Anyway, thanks to all who pressed the “Follow” button. I like to set low standards for myself so that I won’t be disappointed, so my goal will not be to make you laugh out loud, but perhaps only IHS– In-Head Smirk.

I’m Beginning to Think Strippers Don’t Eat Indian Food

by

I can’t seem to make tasty Indian food. Unfortunately for Phil and me, that doesn’t keep me from trying. The first time, I attempted Chicken Tikki Masala. I followed a recipe but, somehow, the chicken tasted too…. chickeny. I’m not sure I can better describe what I mean except that, with every bite, we were hyper aware that we were eating poultry. Anyway, two days ago I tried my hand at Chicken Curry with Peas and, I don’t know how I managed it, but the smell of the dish was reminiscent of my family Cockapoo after he escapes and returns from the neighboring marsh. Yes, the food reeked of wet dog.

The main problem in each of these cases is that I cook in bulk– and I don’t throw food away– so we’ve had to suffer through. Bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. Then we look in the refrigerator, see three remaining Tupperware full of leftovers, and swallow again.

Yesterday at lunch, I plugged my nose and pushed my way through a bowl of marshy curry– then I went off to a pole dancing class.

Because my grandmother reads this blog, I must emphasize that I am not interested in a career change. It’s just that, last year, my girlfriends treated me to a pole dancing class during my bachelorette party, and it was quite possibly the best exercise I’ve ever had. Combine that with the winter weight I’ve accumulated this season and the fact that I can’t resist a deal: I purchased six pole dancing classes from Living Social for the price of two.

But this class was not like my bachelorette party where we giggled and made funny faces. This class had actual strippers in it.

I walked in wearing basketball shorts and a white t-shirt that’s yellowing under the armpits. The other girls wore shorts booty-er than boxer briefs. They let their hair hang loose while I tied mine in a high ponytail. They looked sexy, and to say that I looked like a stereotypical butch lesbian would be an insult to stereotypical butch lesbians.

Alas, class began. We danced a little and swung a little. They climbed the poles– I sort of jumped at the pole, clung for dear life, and then slid to the floor like the fat kid on the rope in gym class. As expected, it was a good work out and I was sweating. That’s when I first smelled it. A familiar fragrance. Exotic and pungent. Not just body odor, not just something you might expect in a workout environment. More like….

Curry.

Or more specifically, marsh curry.

The spice wafted from my pores together with my workout stink.

There were real professionals in the room. Talented strippers. Legitimate athletes. At one point, one of the girls climbed up, pinched the pole between her triceps and torso, released all four hands and legs, flipped upside down, and hung– held up by only her arm! And there I was, smelling like Mumbai. I swear the girl I shared a pole with sniffed me and wrinkled her nose. Then she got a paper towel and wiped down the pole.

Yup, I grossed out a Long Island stripper. I guess I can scratch that off my bucket list.

One class down, five more to go.