Time, Why You Do Me Like That?

I’ve fallen into a certain morning routine. My alarm goes off at 7am. I turn it off. Somewhere around 10:30, my cat (and I don’t know how he does it) somehow manages to get my tired bones out of bed (I think he uses the Jedi mind trick; “You will feed me”). Some days I’ll do a minute and a half of yoga. Then I put on the coffee, check my email, and get to writing. My brain works better in the morning because I’m not alert enough to get distracted yet.

So this morning I’m sitting here typing, and I have forgotten to put on my glasses. You know how I realize this? Because, sitting here, two feet away from the monitor, I’m starting to get a headache. I don’t have that strong of a prescription- in fact my optometrist said that I could pass a driving test without them. So why the hell are the words right in front of my face all blurry?!?!?

Aging. The one thing I fear (besides sociopath serial killers and sharks, but sharks I can avoid and I sleep with a lead pipe in case of the former). I look at pictures of myself at 22 and say, what happened to my beautiful perfect skin? I’m 25. I’ve started using wrinkle cream as a means of prevention (god-willing). My dad was on his way to the dentist the other day and to make him feel better, I was going to joke, “At least you still have all your own teeth.” But I couldn’t say it, because I was paralyzed with fear. One day I won’t have my own teeth anymore. I don’t want to know what that feels like. When I was a kid, I somehow was accidentally at the dentist as the same time as my grandma, and I was talking to her and she had to cover her gums with her lips because she ain’t have no teeth in. Needless to say, it scarred me (and I mean both scarred as in trauma and scarred and in, “Ooohh gurl, I’m scarred all my teefs gone fall out my head).

And it’s not like you can say, Kate, you’re pretty stupid and reckless, I’m sure you’ll die young and beautiful. No, it’s not going to happen. My stars say that I will die old and happy- which I believe because as much as I have a Death Wish, I have the amazing power to out-wit death (those of you who have ever driven in a car with me can attest to both). Plus, the people in my family live to be really old, I mean, really, really old. My grandfather was 94. My great-grandfather was 95. I’m in for it. And don’t even suggest suicide, because I’ve already tried and it just ends in failure.

So, you may suggest, perhaps I should stop with the boozing and the smoking and the high-fat diet. Perhaps I should. I’m not going to, but I appreciate your suggestion. Perhaps you should stay out of the sun, or at the very least put on sun-screen, you might say. Ok, now you’ve gone too far. If I have to live for a hundred and eighty freaking years, I’m going to enjoy every minute of it. I’ll tell you exactly what my toothless 86-year-old grandmother told me, “Honey, when they lay me out in that coffin, you tell them I earned every wrinkle.”

Born to Serve

I was at this fabulous fundraiser the other night- the décor was over the top, the food was exquisite, and everyone who is anyone in the art world in Boston was there. I met Diane Lane. And she looked fabulous. We had a great conversation. “Salmon Ceviche?” I said, to which she smiled and politely declined. Did I mention I was the caterer?

I’ve been really lucky to land many a job after graduating with honors where these kinds of up-close and personal interactions with celebrities happen quite often. Steven Tyler and Bonnie Raitt performed at an event last year. After he sang (I could give two shits about Bonnie Raitt), I put my tongue back in my mouth and ran to the stage exit (which was adjacent to the catering tent). I was too stunned to actually speak to him because I think he is a god (I’m not worthy), but knowing that this was my one moment with Steven Tyler, I instinctively turned and did a “bend and snap.” Where would I be without my good instincts?

Then there was the two months I worked as a cashier at a certain nameless, upscale pretentious hell hole of a designer department store here in Boston. Carly Simon and I hit it off. “I don’t need a bag,” she said. My girl Kate Hudson (who was in town filming Bride Wars) spent four hours trying on clothes, and as she walked through the lobby without seeing me, I felt that she knew that we'd be best friends if we had the chance. Michelle Williams and the baby came in a mere two months after Heath Ledger tragedy. I told off the paparazzi that were hanging out outside the store, because she had dealt with enough already. And shortly before their engagement, Ryan Reynolds and Scarlett Johansson came in to do some shopping. Technically I only saw Scarlett’s black AmEx (which I got to run through the credit card machine) and the back of Ryan’s wrist as he spoke to her through the dressing room door- but the back of his wrist was enough to send me.

Speaking of black AmEx’s, have I told you of the time I met Bruce Springsteen? He came up to the counter and was purchasing a few things (I was working at a paper store and he was in town for a sold-out concert at Fenway) and as I swiped his card (there ain’t nothing on this earth {besides the back of Ryan Reynolds’ wrist} sexier than a black American Express), I casually mentioned that I had just bought Born to Run on vinyl. “Oh man,” he said in his gravely voice, “that’s such a good album. I love how it opened like an invitation, like we were inviting you into our sound… into the music....” I don’t remember what else he said, because I was trying not to emit the high-pitched scream that would deafen him (and ruin my rep with The Boss).

And then of course was the time I was a high-end event coordinator in New York City. I had the pleasure of running an event that featured a big band I can’t name from the 70’s who LE FREAKed OUT. “We’re not going on stage until we have 22 white hand towels!” And who can forget the time I mouthed off to whom I later found out was Donald Trump’s son. Whoops! I'm just saying, no one tells me what's what. Especially when I'm that drunk.

Where would these people be without me to feed them and bag their purchases? So go ahead. Be jealous. Who knows who I’ll be offering crab cakes to tomorrow?

Language of the Apes

My newest guilty pleasure is all the ridiculous quizzes they have on Facebook. I even take them and click “Skip” instead of “Publish” so no one thinks I’m a bigger loser than I am, sitting home drunk on a Friday night taking ridiculous Facebook quizzes, like “How Black are You?” (100%, Thank you very much!).

I clicked on one such quiz recently that promised to give me a Full Personality Analysis. Since my therapist was out of town last week, I figured, great! However, I couldn’t even start the damn quiz, because immediately upon attempting to read the first question, I was confronted by lots of new words I’d never seen before, like “emediately” and “unappritiated.” This was after I had to skip over the misused punctuation, missing prepositions and stumble through the lack of spaces in between words and phrases. I mean, “words” and “phrases.”

My brother and sister can’t even spell “you’re.” It is a really difficult word though…and it’s not like in the top ten most commonly used words in the English language or anything. And speaking of the “English language,” what the hell is happening to it?? The first problem was spell check… so now no one needs to know how to spell things correctly. Then it was texting, so no one even needs to spell at all.

Of all the things I love that are becoming extinct (stationery, sun bathing, trans-fats…) I think the English language is probably the most important. However, I eventually recognize a lost cause (once I’m bleeding, battered, and completely exhausted), and this is a lost cause. What’s the point of trying to teach the difference of the verb tenses of lay and lie when people don’t even understand simple sentence structure?!? Deep breaths, wwhhhooooohhh ok. There’s nothing to be done. Our only choice at this point is to breed into the new culture, or run- run far far far away and live in the mountains somewhere where they’ll find our descendants 1,000 years from now speaking very properly (and kill them on sight).

I think it’s a good thing though. At the beginning of every language is a period where it slowly evolved from another language, like an awkward teenager going through puberty. English itself didn’t become what it is today until like 500 years ago. So, my guess is the English that we speak in America today is slowly going to devolve into a combination of English, Ebonics, and Spanglish. Although at the rate we’re going, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it completely devolved into a language of numbers and stick figures.

In the effort of trying to build a bridge to the future, I took the Full Personality Analysis quiz. And somehow through my screams and whimpering, and mounting feelings of rage and speechless awe, I finished it. I even expanded my vocabulary to include words like “cyrcles” and “eanugh.” And I was happily surprised to find that the outcome of the quiz was correct. I am unique and indescribable. At least these people have some cognitive ability, although if they could express they-selves in a way that don’t give me a massive headache and the urge to bludgeon someone with a dictionary, son, I would love it. I can’t wait for the future. Where’s the aspirin?

Prince Nonexistent

A very dear friend of mine posted on Facebook recently, “Why are the men in books so much better than men in real life? I guess that’s why they call it fiction…”

No, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus; nor are there any men in the world. Most of the adult males I happen to know get filed under other descriptions:

Gays: Perfection.
Little Boys: Immune to filth, sophistication, and emotional reciprocity.
Bastards: What do you mean, what venereal disease?
Pigs: Dear Sir, Thank you for your generous offer of money in exchange for allowing you to have your way with me. I politely decline.
Women: Regular manicures and pedicures do not make you metro; they make you a woman.
Men: Intelligent, respectful, well-adjusted, understanding, honest, handsome, interesting, self-sufficient, single heterosexual males who are also emotionally available are as plentiful as, well, princes. I’m sure they exist somewhere, but, honey, good luck.

There is no end of good raw material out there. I know you can’t change a man, but you can at least change his footwear or teach him to clip his toenails. The problem is that there are so few boys to begin with (mostly because the gays recruited all the best ones for their team, and then the remaining decent ones got snapped up out of college) that all the single ladies end up treating them like seats at a free movie preview- you may not want to sit in the front row, but that’s all that's left... and some other bitch is making a beeline for it.

The problem is, in essence, one of supply and demand. Instead of having to straighten up and fly right, they’re out there having a field day, and acting as childish or irresponsible as they want to, because at the end of the night, there is always a woman out there who will take him the way he is.

I, for one, am taking no part in it. (Any more. What I do, I do not do for love. I do it for research. I do it for you. You're welcome.)

Little Boys? Maybe when I’m 50. If I wanted someone constantly needing me to tell them what to do, clean up after them, feed them, or wipe their tushie, I would have had a baby by now. Besides, my idea of a date is not sitting on some mangy third-hand couch drinking Miller Lite and alternatively screwing and watching cable. I am not interested in a project.
Bastards? This is why I drink at home… alone. This way if my judgment is impaired, the only person who can take advantage of me is me.
Pigs? I’ve learned the hard way that if you play in the mud, you get dirty. It’s one of the many life lessons I learn the hard way, like: Don’t walk alone through the projects late at night, or Metal + Microwave = Fire. Besides, I don’t fall for the pick-up line, “So, have you ever made love to a woman?”
Women? No. Just no. If I think that you spend too much time grooming- you have a problem. This is getting ridiculous. Where have all the cowboys gone?

So there it is. Until an actual candidate comes along, I’m spending time with the only men I love: the ones who also love men. It is not in my nature to squabble over offal. The rest of you ladies are encouraged to do the same. Spinsterhood, here I come. Better go stock up on batteries….

So Long, Ralph

Finally! Time for spring cleaning. Ok, I do spring cleaning about every two months (except I usually call it “OCD Clean the Apartment Day,” and I schedule it on my calendar). But now that it almost isn’t freezing anymore and baseball season has started, it gives me occasion to do a Real Spring Cleaning. That means every surface, every corner, no mercy. I love spring cleaning.

I was looking at my shoe wall the other day and I thought to myself, hmmm… maybe it’s time to go through my clothes again. Yes, I said shoe wall as in a wall of shoes. It’s adjacent to the mirror wall. The truth is, for various reasons (like “my personalities need options” and “oh look, there’s an Old Navy right next to the grocery store…”) I have more clothing than it would ever be possible for me to wear. Since it is time to put away my winter sweaters and get out my spring sweaters (oh, New England…), the timing was perfect for a good purge. And the one thing that bulimia gets right is that purging feels good.

However, as vicious and judgmental as we can be when it comes to the wardrobes of others, when it comes to ourselves we’re much too soft. I called up my fabulously stylish friend A, told her of my plan and asked her if she would help me whittle down my wardrobe. “Do you want me to be brutal or girl brutal?” she asked. Now, when a girl generally asks for “honesty” or “brutality” or “truth” what she means is- tell her that she looks great in everything and she’s perfect the way she is. “Brutal brutal,” I said. “This is getting out of control. My closet is overtaking the apartment and I have nothing to wear.” “Perhaps it’s time to pick a dominant personality,” she said.

A few days later, A came over to help attack the closet (and the suitcases… and the Tupperware under the bed). To my immense surprise, she ended up approving most everything. A few ratty sweaters and some maidenly dresses were shown the proverbial door… and half of my Ralph Lauren collection ended up in the “consignment” pile. Sorry, Grandma, I know you did your best, but the name of this column is not and will never be “Pretty Pretty Polo Princess Goes to the Country Club and Plays Bridge with the Ladies while Sipping Iced Tea and Making Polite Conversation.” It’s simply much too long.

My personal philosophy when it comes to dressing is if I’ve worn it once, I can’t wear it again (this applies mostly to combinations of outfits as opposed to individual pieces, although very few pieces are in heavy rotation to begin with). But A helped me to see my clothing with fresh eyes. “You’ve got a style,” she said. “You’re just not using it.” Those low-slung corduroys don’t make my legs look short and stumpy, they just need to be paired with an empire waist blouse to visually extend the line of the leg by defining my natural waistline. And, hello! Why is my favorite red dress stuck in the closet when those ripped jeans and paint-spattered t-shirts get to go to the grocery store?

But as A helped me put together outfits and accessorize, I realized that my current stylistic rut is not my closet’s fault for being too big, it’s mine for being lazy. I’m the one who is doing the disservice to my wardrobe and myself by limiting my own fabulousness. During the winter months, I abhor getting dressed (when I change out of pajamas at all) because all I can focus on is staying warm- and the clothes are so bulky and itchy and awful. But now, it is Spring! Time for rejuvenation, time for change, time for fashion, and time to send those polo ponies packing.

Pour Some Sugar on Me

Everyone I talk to seems to be stressed out these days, from the collection agents for my student loans to the collection agents for my credit cards. What I need is a good beach vacation. Unfortunately, MasterCard isn’t in the mood to indulge needs like plane tickets or groceries, so a beach vacation is as likely to happen as finally getting that call back from America’s Next Top Model.

I was treating myself to Trader Joe’s the other day, and since it is a luxury for me to be in any kind of store at the moment, I thought I’d buy something frivolous. I stopped by the “beauty” department, which, as one could rightly expect from the hippie-world-savers at Trader Joe’s, is paltry at best and literally shoved into a corner. Then I saw them… on the shelf under the organic toothpaste and next to ylang-ylang acne treatment oil, were giant Noxema-sized jars of Sugar Scrub.

Now, I had recently been toying with the idea of making my own Sugar Scrub, for profit, naturally, because if I’m going to go to the effort of making something, I’m going to make a lot of it and sell it at an escalated price to people who aren’t imaginative or resourceful enough to do it themselves. But I’m lazy enough to recognize the merits of letting Trader Joe’s make it for me, and besides, they had the most wonderful concoctions like relax: lavender, and purify: tangerine, and the price… a whopping $6.49. Thank you Sugar Daddy.

After torturing myself by watching a marathon of beach vacation shows on the Travel Channel while blustery “spring” winds whipped around outside, I thought I’d float away in a nice hot bath and dream myself to the beach (also because I wanted to try my delicious new sugar scrub). Here is my recipe for the perfect bath: First, clean the tub (because a dirty bathtub is not a place I can relax), and fill it with scalding hot water. Then, if you’re out of bubble bath, just use body wash… I figure if the water is already filled with soap, you don’t have to do anything to clean yourself beyond just lying there.

As the bathtub filled, I excitedly opened the jar of Tangerine Sugar Scrub. The scent was lively and sweet, and the crystals of sugar were super-fine and delicately luxurious. I sugar scrubbed my whole body (which, to my delight, barely made a dent in the humongous jar of perfumed sugar) and stepped into the steaming hot foamy bath water. And then the most amazing thing happened. The product worked. As I washed off the sugar, my skin was as soft and smooth as a baby dolphin’s bottom. And feeling like a dolphin made me feel like I was at the beach. And feeling like I was at the beach made me happy.

Now if only those new razor/vibrators were more affordable… (the people who invented them are geniuses and should be nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize, by the way). But, after all, this gal is on a budget. Someone should tell Robert Plant you can buy a stairway to heaven… and it only costs $6.49.