Tag Archives: Writer

My 30 Before 30 List

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Phil turns 30 next month. This has reminded me that, while it’s too late for him, I still have time. Time to accomplish, to embrace life, to experience. Time to carpe diem the crap out of my remaining years. So here’s a list of things I hope to do. You know, before I’m in my (gasp!) 30′s. Some items are ambitious but most, well, are not. A lot of people’s 30 before 30 list have these great big dreams, like driving cross country or losing 15 pounds. I like to keep things more realistic and, aside from a few exceptions, the following list contains mostly attainable items. Still, they are items of merit, because I really do need to satisfy them before I’m 30.

  1. Learn how to pop the hood of my car
  2. Throw away all pants whose waist I hope I’ll  fit into one day but won’t unless the world ends and I’m surviving in a post apocalyptic world where I have to wrestle my food into submission
  3. Sew closed the hole in the sweater I still wear even though there is a hole in it
  4. Understand what an IRA is
  5. Flip through the CD book in my car and toss out what should be tossed out, no strings attached (ahem)
  6. Bake bread without Phil’s help so that when we have kids, he won’t be the favorite parent just because of his sweet bread recipe (sweet, here, meaning cool. It isn’t sweet bread)
  7. Sing Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” at a karaoke night
  8. See Elton John in concert (If I see Elton John outside of concert, that too will satisfy this item)
  9. Watch Braveheart (Phil’s favorite movie)
  10. Beat Phil in Connect Four (I beat him once, but we had played ten games in a row and he was just tired and careless, so I don’t count it… I think we need some local friends)
  11. Sit in a New Orleans jazz club
  12. Rescue a puppy
  13. Buy a home (notice I did not use the word house, allowing room for flexibility ie condo, teepee, etc)
  14. Go to BB Kings for the Harlem Gospel Choir Sunday Brunch
  15. Apologize to my little brother for once convincing him that I was a vampire and reducing his five year old self to tears (Since he is a regular reader, I’ll consider this item done!)
  16. Bike around Governor’s Island
  17. Decide, once and for all, if I like cream cheese
  18. Cut bangs
  19. Grow the bangs out because they were a mistake
  20. Buy prescription aviators
  21. Secure a book deal
  22. Own a piece of furniture that isn’t a hand-me-down, didn’t require assembly, and wasn’t purchased at Salvation Army
  23. Give myself a manicure that doesn’t look as if I let my 4-year-old niece play dress up
  24. Wear my wedding gown at least once more before I outgrow it
  25. Dress up as Bellatrix Lestrange for Halloween
  26. Nail down a decent English accent (This item should come before #25 to optimize the impersonation)
  27. Sprinkle tarragon in something
  28. Memorize a summarizing sentence of what Phil researches
  29. Buy a mini torch for making creme brulee (I can save the actual making of it for my 40 before 40 list)
  30. Wear lipstick

Is This Thing On?

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If I could choose one gift off the assembly line of human talents, it would the ability to sing well.

Scratch that. It would be the ability to eat whatever I want whenever I want as much as I want while never growing beyond a size 6. Hey, if we’re dreaming, make it a size 4. But aside from that, it would be the singing thing. If I were a great singer, I would never speak, and people wouldn’t want me to. Life would be a song, and I its lead soloist.

Having a mediocre voice (at best) does not stop me from trying, although it does limit how much I try in public. Most of my unabashed belting occurs, for the good of humanity, within the confines of my Honda, windows up, radio intentionally cranked to a volume where it almost drowns me out. If I set the volume just right, hints of my voice emerge under the mask of the lead singer and I’m surprised by how good I sound. Anything louder and I can’t detect myself at all; anything softer is an unpleasant reminder, and the volume practically turns itself up.

But at the perfect settings, I am Adele. Or Jennifer Hudson. Or Freddie Mercury. I’m the woman you pull up beside at a red light and find mouth agape, head tilted back, her hand shot up as if to say, “Stop, please. This wave of emotion is just too much to bear.” But she doesn’t stop. She croons until the bridge when her eyes flutter open, and she turns to her right to find you and your passenger laughing and pointing at her. But if you knew how gut-wrenchingly magical she sounded, you wouldn’t think it was so damn funny.

Then The Eagles come on, with their tight harmony. And I’ve gotten a bit too comfortable. The easy melodies of Bruce Springsteen or Journey made me cocky and I think, Let’s crank this up. Let’s deepen the emotional complexity. Alone the melody is catchy, charming. But blended with the harmony it transforms lyrics like, “I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me,” from playful to urgent. You need the urgency to be soulful.

And I want to be soulful.

So I say, “Okay, Eagles. Let’s harmonize.”

I hear the stacked thirds of the harmony. I’ve identified the notes through the first couple rounds of the chorus. So I part my lips, take a deep breath running start, and leap to join in.

Take it eaaasy.

Ouch. That ain’t right.

Desperate, I choose another note.

Oof. Wrong again.

I climb the scale.

Yowza.

I outwardly wince, and somewhere a dog is whimpering.

I don’t understand it. I hear the note through my speaker and in my head, but what I produce is so far off the mark. All I have to do is match it. I’m not asking myself to do anything a parakeet can’t. Yet, it’s impossible. And although it’s just me in the car, I’m embarrassed. My performance embarrassed myself. The volume settings can’t help in these cases– it can never be loud enough to cover tone deafness.

I only manage to create harmony if the consonance is such a prominent line, it’s practically the melody, like in Journey’s “Lights.” When it comes out right, or nearly right, I think I’m Josh Groban, and bob my head like a rooster strutting, certain that I missed my calling. I shouldn’t be in this CRV. I should be on a stage somewhere.

But god forbid I’m feeling whimsical and I try to create my own harmony line. It’s hard enough when I have backup singers to mimic. When I try to develop my own brand of harmony, I sound like the nun choir before Whoopi Goldberg’s character intervenes and changes their lives forever. The results cause me to hate myself, and I abandon whatever song inspired me to improvise. I skip the CD until I land on a tune to match my disparaged mood. Alanis Morissette tends to be the best fit. That way, if my vocals sound crude, it only helps the message.

You, you, you, oughta know!

The Time Is Write Again

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Me and my novel’s plot chart. What you don’t see is the bottle of champagne that led to this moment. Happy New Year, indeed.

It’s been over two months since my last post. I know it’s been hard on everybody. It was like the writer’s strike and the potato famine combined, if the writer’s strike affected unpaid bloggers and if potatoes were moderately humorous anecdotes for a handful of WordPress readers. In any case, I’m sorry I did that to you.

Some thought I died. Some assumed I abandoned all of my earthly possessions to follow David Sedaris around on his book tour carrying with me nothing but a bar of soap and laughter (I wish). Most people, other than the two previously mentioned weirdos, didn’t notice, and are at this very moment trying to figure out how and when they pressed the wrong button that subscribed them to this blog. Whatever the malfunction was, you’re here and I’m here, and that’s enough for me. You can file a complaint to WordPress on your own time.

The truth of my absence is that I’ve been spending the last sixish months on a new novel, and apparently I’m not very good at multitasking. It’s called an obsessive personality, and explains why when I start a television series on Netflix, I finish it within the weekend. This neurotic characteristic also explains why I have a five foot by three foot plot arc diagram taped onto my living room wall, complete with a color key and scribbled notes, so when the Comcast guy stops by, he thinks he’s stumbled into the lair of the Beautiful Mind schizophrenic. It also explains why I’ve spent 70% of the last six month’s waking hours still wearing pajamas. I tell my husband that’s what it means to be an author, but it’s truthfully more indicative of being a scrub.

I’d like to fill you in on the last 60 days, and then I will proceed with regularly scheduled programming from here on out– unless of course I’m struck by a need for revision in the novel and I recede back into my coffee and keyboard hibernation.

  • I’ve begun to shop at Ann Taylor because, while I’m an 8 at Banana Republic, Ann Taylor still thinks I’m a 6, so I like her better.
  • Phil and I went to see Les Mis directly after a eating a hearty meal at an Italian restaurant. I knew the movie was a long one so I decided to make my bulging belly more comfortable by unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. Phil said he didn’t realize that he married a 70 year old man who embarrasses his grandchildren, and that next time I should just go ahead and enter the public eye wearing only tighty whities and a sauce stained undershirt.
  • WARNING- This Next Bullet Is Gross In A Feminine Hygiene Kind of Way. If That Troubles You, Skip: While rushing in an airport bathroom during a short layover, I dropped a plastic tampon applicator because I’m more used to cardboard and the fancy plastic kind is slippery. I watched in horror as it rolled from my stall, into the next stall, and hit the shoe of my neighbor. Her foot froze. My heart stopped. I was legally dead. Then the terror of being found dead with my pants around my ankles defibrillated me back to life. I debated whether I should say something to this woman, like, “Oops, my bad” or “If you just kick that back over to me, I’d be happy to dispose of it.” Then I decided that saying nothing and running from the bathroom was my dignity’s best option, so I did just that. Airport Lady, if you’re out there, I’m sorry. That was an unfortunate incident.
  • Phil convinced me that the name of his colleague, Lance, is short for Lancelot. It isn’t.
  • I was holding a door for somebody. He was that uncomfortable distance behind me where he was still several strides away, but I’d turned and we’d made eye contact, so I would have looked like a jerk if I continued into the building and let the door shut in his face. So I held it and waited. He, also being a decent and courteous human, quickened his pace into a jog to relieve me of my door duties. I felt bad. Propriety dictated that I held the door for him, but also forced him to hurry, and nobody likes to jog on their way into work. And then, of course, he slipped on ice. Now he looked silly and I felt like a big jerk, so from now on to avoid such messy circumstances, don’t be surprised if I actively pull a door shut as you approach so as to take the pressure off everybody. It’s better for both of us.
  • I lied to all of my blog readers. I told them I was a size 8 or a 6, when really I’m a 10 or an 8

Well, now you’re all caught up. I bet you feel like you’ve been alongside me the whole time, through the holidays and into 2013. See you next week! Hopefully…

The Naked Truth

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There are nude beaches fifteen minutes from where I live. This is a fact I wish I knew before setting out for an afternoon in the sun.

Friends were visiting for the day. Up until that point, their previous visits could be filed into the following categories: the time we went to the pitiful winery whose owner was so surprised by our arrival that he said, “Do you realize there are real vineyards only forty minutes from here?” and gave us free cheese nips for our trouble; the time we drove all the way out to the “real vineyards” and I selected the one tasting in a garage; the time we went to brewery in a garage; and the time we paid sixteen dollars for the Fall Harvest and Seafood Festival, which consisted of joining a crowd of hillbillies (of unknown origin) to watch crabs race in a kiddie pool. Obviously this list was incomplete. I was missing “the time we went to a nude beach,” but destiny was fated to course-correct.

In an effort to avoid any further debacles, I had refused to make any plans beyond the elaborate meals we prepared to compensate for our visitors’ risk in venturing over the bridge again. But the day would prove that, established itinerary or not, a trip to the Dillon-Lombardo residence is never what one might expect it to be.

After we ate, we collectively decided to visit a run-of-the-mill, clothing mandatory beach. We threw around a football, we waded into the Atlantic– but these activities alone were far too ordinary for a visit to the island, so the day could not end there.

I’m happy to report that I was not the one who suggested we explore Fire Island’s emblematic lighthouse, but I also did nothing to stop it.

We drove to the lighthouse, climbed it, and wandered onto Lighthouse Beach, where we immediately spotted a beacon even brighter than the one we’d just scaled: a blatantly naked man.

How often do you stroll around public property and encounter another human being without any clothing? We were startled and confused, but also a little giddy. Intrigued by the novelty of his brazen nakedness, we ventured in for a closer look. This, we’d later learn, was a grave mistake.

Phil, who had just had eye surgery, squinted and said, “He can’t be naked. He must be wearing a flesh colored bathing suit. He can’t be naked.”

But he could, and he was.

I did not play it cool. I don’t think I said one coherent word. Starting from that moment and continuing for the next twenty or so minutes, I was just one long nervous giggle.

As we moved closer, my unencumbered giggling frightened the nude creature, and he curled up inside of a blanket and hibernated.

At first we were a little disappointed that we scared off this lone animal, when the sighting of one is so rare. But as soon as this one went into hiding, we spotted another in the distance, and this specimen appeared far bolder. He was applying suntan lotion to his lower legs and–OH NO–he was not squatting, but bending over.

Then we saw one coming straight for us. And he was pierced. Oh boy, was he pierced. Then we saw one lying casually on a towel among four fully clothed friends. (How can you be comfortable lounging in the buff when your pals obviously prefer bathing suits?) Then we saw one sitting naked in the surf, letting the ocean lap at…. himself. I don’t know how we didn’t notice it sooner, but the nakeds were everywhere. We were surrounded.

“I don’t think we’re on a regular beach anymore,” someone whispered.

Then we saw what appeared to be a mirage: a glimmering man in impeccable physical condition, hands on hips, standing proudly, with no tan lines. He looked as if Michelangelo carved him from bronze. His presence was palpable. His physicality was deafening. He didn’t have to say anything– we knew he was the king of his sandcastle, the sun of this solar system. We felt the gravitational pull, and we didn’t like it. It was suddenly clear that if we got too close to him, we’d never be able to leave. We’d get sucked into the mechanism. We’d be caught in the rip tide and pulled out to sea. We’d be no match for this Lighthouse Beach David.

“We have to get out of here right now,” Joe said. And we all heard the unspoken end of that sentence: before it’s too late.

We turned around and headed toward what we thought was the exit of this disrobed dimension, toward what we thought was freedom.

As we began our escape, a man wearing nothing but eyeglasses and confidence approached us, casually flipping through a magazine. I’m not sure what the magazine was, but I’m guessing it wasn’t a Men’s Wearhouse catalog. He stopped and looked us up and down.

“When you’re ready, join us,” he said, and then continued on his leisurely stroll.

“Thanks,” I choked out in the next wave of giggles.

“Oh, we will,” Jon said. To this day we aren’t sure why he said that.

We quickened our stride, trying to create as much distance between ourselves and the oiled up Adonis at our backs. We started to relax, started to unclench our butt muscles. My giggles even changed from nervous to relieved. We were in the clear. We could look people in the eye again! But then we saw another naked person. And then another. And, suddenly, there were too many to count. Instead of retreating, we had entrenched ourselves further inside the heartland. If these people were of one nude nation, we’d just entered their Tribal Belt– a belt that didn’t hold up any pants.

“What should we do? Should I take off my shirt?” Jon asked.

“You should take off your shirt.” Phil said.

So he took off his shirt. Why? Camouflage I guess.

We passed a bodacious babe shaking a booty so vast that her dance threw off the tides. We passed a naked drum circle. Yes, a naked drum circle. We passed a nude family who had painted their naked daughter’s faces with markings of exotic large cat species. Lions and tigers and bares. Oh my, this was Eyes Wide Shut freaky. This so freaky we considered that fleeing via the Atlantic Ocean might be the fastest, safest, most direct way out.

Eventually, we did emerge, but we left a piece of ourselves behind on the beach that day. A naive piece. A trusting piece. A piece that previously had not seen the privates of so many (ugly) strangers.

I just can’t believe that I was so unprepared, so unaware, when I live only fifteen minutes away. Although now that I’m writing this, a vague memory is tickling my brain of a grandmother telling me that Fire Island has naked beaches because it used to be a colony for “the gays.” But I tend to disregard information dispatched by anybody who plugs an article in front of a sexual preference category.

In retrospect, I suppose I should have listened. But at least now you know. If nothing else, I hope this tale serves as a warning to prevent others from making the same mistake we did. Maybe because of what we experienced, fewer future beach goers will find themselves so… exposed

Beware all that lies east of Field Five.

You know, unless that’s your thing.

A Love Letter to My Parents’ Pool

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For the past month or so, I’ve been convinced that this is the hottest summer ever.

I try to suntan on my back deck, but it’s like when kids play, Whose feet can stand on this burning concrete the longest? Except I have no one to compete with, so I pretty much just walk out onto the deck, am engulfed by raging humidity, walk back into my air conditioned apartment, and…. game over. I am the winner, but I am also the loser.

I’ve been trying to figure out what has changed. Does tolerance for heat reduce with age? Am I in some sort of Long Island ozone oven where temperature is amplified? Have I turned into a vampire? Why am I cowering indoors like a 21st century Emily Dickinson? If I don’t go outside soon, the neighborhood children are going to invent scary legends about me, like this generation’s Boo Radley. (Can I be Boo Radley and Emily Dickinson, spliced into, perhaps, a Boo Dickinson, or did I just mix literary metaphors? I’ll leave that for you to decide.)

Then, it hit me, and it’s so obvious. At the risk of sounding like Veruca Salt (Daddy-demanding spoiled girl from Willy Wonka– bam, third literary reference. So what if they were all from a 6th grade summer reading list?), I was lucky enough to grow up with a pool and now, for the first time, I am experiencing summer…. dry. Well, you know, aside from all the sweat. The lovely thing about having a pool, besides the obvious matter of the pool itself, is that if you are sitting outside and feel moisture trickling down your back, you can convince yourself that it’s just residual pool water from your recent dip. On a deck, it’s just sweat, and you have to deal with that awareness.

Suntanning poolside is an entirely different animal, and one that can’t be replicated. Trust me, I’ve tried. You’d think darting straight from the shower to the deck might be a decent imitation, but it’s not. First off, you leave a trail of slick water down the hall, one which you will most likely forget about until you are sliding on it toward the bedroom with slightly less grace than Tom Cruise in Risky Business, arms flailing as you try to regain composure. Second, by the time you race out on the deck and situate yourself with your beach chair and book, you are dry. Pulling a muscle later as you avoid a hallway wipe-out will all be for naught. The other semi-reasonable stab at a pool substitution is lying out beside a stock pot full of cool water. You think– finally, a use for this stainless steel 20 quart stock pot that I requested on my registry but have no practical use for because we are only two people and have no reason to make 20 quarts of anything! But don’t celebrate prematurely, for after the 10 minutes it takes to fill up the damn thing, you will discover that this measure is also a failure. One, because a stock pot, though too large for only a couple servings of chili, is not the same as a pool, dumbass. And two, now you are overheating and you look like a fool on your back deck with views into eight other backyards (two with pools!! Jealousy!!), meaning those eight other families also have a view of you with your feet in a pot, bent over, cupping and dumping water onto your upper thighs and forearms. Now the kids on the block will not call you the neighborhood Scary Lady, but the neighborhood Crazy Lady. Happy? Third, now that your sweaty feet have been soaking in expensive cookware, you must boil water in the pot to bring it up to the sterile standards of its intended function– making food.

There are two expressions that this summer has confirmed to be true:

1) You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

2) People with pools have more friends. If that is not a legitimate expression, it should be. I don’t see anyone lining up with inner tubes and foam noodles to sit on our deck. But the guy next door? He’s either really funny, or people are there for the above ground that takes up his entire lawn. (He, by the way, has looked up from his floating lounge chair numerous times to see me on my deck, streaming with perspiration, and has never once invited me over. I would never accept, because swimming in a stranger’s pool would be kind of creepy, unless it was really really hot out. But it’d still be nice to be asked. I know one neighbor who is not getting Christmas cookies. Okay, yeah. Nobody is getting Christmas cookies. If I’m baking cookies, I’m eating them myself.)

The summer months used to be reserved for getting tan enough that Phil and I could almost pass as an interracial couple. That’s all I want in life. Now, I just don’t have the willpower.

On the bright side, we’re saving on suntan lotion.

The Dream Behind The Doctor

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Doctors had dreams too. That’s what I learned this weekend. They were once children with big, outlandish hopes who shouted things like, “I’m going to be an astronaut!” or, “When I grow up, I want to be cowboy rockstar!” But since we all can’t be Kid Rock, and since some parents insist on a practical education (luckily not mine– three cheers for an English degree!), these people stashed away their extravagant ambitions and begrudgingly earned their medical licenses.

Still, these fantasies live on in the depths of doctors’ subconscious, and sometimes reveal themselves through their practices.

Like my father’s doctor who harbors regrets of never becoming a game show host:

“Your blood results are in, and your lipid levels are….

….. drum roll please ….

….. tension building to an almost unbearable climax ….

normal.”

He waits for his inner audience applause to subside before continuing.

“Moving on. I have your platelet count here. And it looks like that is…..

……

……

also normal.”

Then there was my pediatrician who missed her chance to be one of those actresses that play cheesy Lifetime movie roles, like the counselor who intervenes to save the self-esteem of the young protagonist:

“Do you think you are fat? Do kids at school tell you that you are fat? Tell me, just tell me. Does your mother tell you that you are fat? Look at me. Do you hate yourself when you eat? Or when you are out of breath after climbing a flight of stairs? Because if you think you are fat, you are not. You are beautiful, and you should love yourself, dammit! Come on, let’s hug it out.”

But my favorite is the gynecologist who dreamed of being a horse race announcer:

Spoken in rapid succession taking minimal breaths: “Your feet are in the stirrups, I have my materials, and we’re off. The speculum is first. Prepare for some pressure, here comes the pressure, there’s the pressure, and everything looks normal. That was a good start, and we’re a third through now. Next comes the swab, following up the length of the speculum. You’re going to feel a pinch, there’s the pinch, and it’s done. We’re into the last stretch here, and so far so good. Last up is the finger. I’m going to insert, it’s going in, and it’s in. There’s the cervix, and it’s fine. There are the ovaries, and they’re good. There’s the uterus, and it’s normal. And that’s it! We’re done. It’s all over, folks.”

What a day for an exam, ladies and gentlemen, and what an exam it was.

Letters From A Brawd (Issue #3)

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It must be somebody’s job to screen and select movies to be featured on flights. Somebody has to have this coveted responsibility.

I imagine this person sitting in a cubicle that is designed to look like an airplane, complete with overhead compartments, whirring white noise, a flip-down tray table, and access to a toilet that sounds forceful enough to take her in its flush and drop her somewhere over a large body of water.

Every morning she greets her colleagues and then buckles herself in, stows her purse, releases her office chair from its upright position, and begins to enjoy the inflight entertainment. Maybe a jealous coworker pops by periodically to shake her desk, therein simulating turbulence for a truly authentic experience.

I wonder why it is not this person’s top priority — nay, ONLY priority — to veto movies whose plots include an airplane crash.

Maybe this is just me, but when I’m caught in a metal tube that’s careening through the sky at 500 miles per hour at an altitude of 30,000 feet, pretty much the last scene I want to watch is of a character in my same situation where something goes terribly wrong. Show me war; show me horror; show me tragedy– just so long as the war is not with fighter jets, the horror is not engines failing, and the tragedy is not an unsuccessful emergency landing.

The particular movie I tuned into on my flight last week was not centered around a crash. No, the crash was only the inciting incident resulting in a slaughterhouse, the blood of which attracted a pack of ravenous and conspiring super-wolves that the survivors of the crash attempted to outwit for the remaining 60 minutes. I’ll give this much to the movie screener: the film did not focus on the catastrophe of the plane crash, but rather stressed that the preferable fate of the leading characters would have been to have died in the accident.

You would think that whosever job it was to handpick the movies available for viewing would have considered the emotions such a “moral of the story” might evoke in the 400 passengers trapped in Flight EI0109, all of whom now had no way of combating such a destiny. You would think that the movie screener would have passed on this film in Act I, as soon as the plane began to rattle. You would think, yes, but she didn’t. Who knows, we all make mistakes on the job. Maybe before calamity struck, the movie screener took a bathroom break and was sucked down the drain.

Unless….

Unless this cinematic choice was intentional — some twisted “how to” — a subliminal extension of the pre-take off safety demonstration:

In the event of an emergency, please assume the bracing position. If we land in water, a life vest is located in a pouch underneath your seat. If we land in the Alaskan wilderness, and you have the misfortune of living through the impact, poison is located between the armrests. Trust us, you’re better off.

What a sicko.

Return of the Parodical Daughter

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For the two of you who have been wandering through life as if through a dark hallway, lost, tapping the walls so as not to fall down the stairs, unsure what to do or where to go without the weekly light of my narrative voice– open your eyes. I’m back.

I know, I should have warned you so that you might have had the opportunity to develop some sort of blog patch to ease the cravings/twitching. Alas, in this era of google and yellowpages.com, I couldn’t have risked some superfan out there discovering that I was away for three weeks and  breaking into my apartment to help him/herself to my Friends DVD box set and a half-eaten bag of (now) stale pretzels. Can you imagine the harrowing return to a home without a laugh track or salted snack food? The thought is too painful; it makes me want to lie down with a sitcom rerun and a bag of chips right now….

And for my one friend (who shall remain nameless) who relies on my postings to occupy him (and, I’d like to think, to inspire him) while he’s on the JON, well, I hope I didn’t leave you hanging.

Readers, I missed you too. Whenever something funny happened–when a traveler lunged for his luggage on the baggage claim conveyer belt as if the area was under fire and he was protecting his child with his own body– I wanted to tell you about it. When I ordered a panna cotta in such an awful Italian accent that the waiter thought I requested a pina colada, I wished you were there.

Please don’t pretend that you didn’t even notice I was gone. You don’t have to hide your hurt beneath a mask of indifference. That’s unfair to both of us. And, look, I brought you souvenirs. For the next two weeks, I’ll regale you with trifling anecdotes of my largely uneventful travels. You’ll see, it’ll be like we were never apart.

What? You don’t know if you’ll be able to tear yourself from the July issue of Bacon Busters Magazine? Well that just stings.

(Seriously, that’s a real magazine– an Australia periodical delivering you the hottest in hog hunting since 1961.)

Weight Loss Methods I Wish Worked

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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?

Quit Playing Games With My Heart, The New Yorker

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Oh, The New Yorker:

Wasn’t it you who pursued me two years ago, showing up on my doorstep, without any provocation, to court me, using the utmost seduction: offering me a “professional’s rate,” calling me a writer at a time when no one else did? I didn’t ask you to come. I don’t even like politics and, to be honest, I only skim over your many articles about countries and their governments. But you approached me and won me over with your cartoons, book/movie reviews, and, like I mentioned, by using flowery and confusing language like “professional.”

Was it all lies? Is that what you tell every potential subscriber, just to get in their wallets? I really thought you saw something in me, that I was special. But now I wonder if I’m nothing more than a notch on your readership, an address on your mailing list.

Because, if you really thought I was a professional writer, you’d accept my proposals. You wouldn’t be so afraid of committing to my submissions. I’d be Alena Dillon of The New Yorker by now. But no, I’m just Alena Dillon–has a professional’s rate.

I really thought last week’s would be the one. I imagined myself on a gorgeous white satiny page, standing before all of our family and friends, uniting with you, The New Yorker, for life. But then I got your email: This isn’t right for us despite its evident merit. 

At first I didn’t believe the whole, “It’s not you, it’s me” bit. I read and reread my submission, thinking, What’s wrong with it, with me? Am I being too pushy? Is the prose not pretty enough? 

But then my yahoo homepage lit up with an article from the The New York Observer titled, “Is The New Yorker a Total Bro-Fest?” which discussed the skewed proportion of male to female writers appearing in the publication. And, suddenly, it all made perfect sense. The New Yorker, you’re into dudes. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just wish you had been upfront with me from the start.

It’s okay though, I always wanted a magazine to bring with me to the spa.

Sincerely,

Alena Dillon– has a professional’s rate