I was in spin class, the room cave dark, the music night club loud. Class was crowded for a Wednesday, almost every spin bike taken except for the broken one turned backwards and the lone bike under the stereo. Class had begun, and we were all warming up and getting ready to sweat. CC, our instructor, regaled us in a funny story or two to loosen us up and let us all know that spin was work, but it was also fun.
And then he walked in, a good ten minutes after class began, and everyone turned and looked at him. Not because he was drop dead gorgeous. Not because he was so muscular and fit that we couldn’t look away.
Honestly, we had no idea what he looked like, because none of us could look past his get-up.
He was a Clemson University fan, perhaps its biggest. He wore a bright orange Clemson ball cap, a white shirt with an orange paw print over the left breast, and orange shorts with Clemson scrolled on one leg. His outfit would have been fine for a football game. For a Wednesday morning spin class, it was overkill.
But that’s not the worst part.
He wore sunglasses, in the cave dark spin room. Sunglasses which he kept on for the entire class. I always wear contacts to class because just the idea of my regular glasses slipping on my sweat-drenched face could make my face chafe. Not to mention I could fog up my glasses walking up the stairs. I doubt I would be able to see through them after fifteen minutes on the spin bike. Did he have something to hide?
But that was also not the worst part.
On his legs were tall black socks, pulled up almost to the knee. In case you haven’t noticed, the boys these days are quite fond of wearing black socks, mid-calf, with any kind of shoe. It makes them all look like elderly tourists, but whatever, who understands kids and their bizarre fashion sense anyway. This was no boy; this was a middle aged man, and these weren’t mid calf length socks, they were practically up to his thighs. If I had to put money on it, I would bet they were compression stockings, like those worn by diabetics or people with poor circulation who are prone to getting blood clots in their legs.
But that too was not the worst part.
On his feet were navy blue Crocs. That was the worst part.
I will admit, I am pretty anti Croc. If you are working in the garden, then fine, slip your feet in those duck-like plastic shoes and have at it. If you are an obese red haired man famous for your Italian cooking and you want your signature look to be bright orange plastic shoes, whatever, to each his own. But if you are at the gym, exercising, you might want to at least sport, sport being the key word, some appropriate footwear. Crocs make everyone look like an asshole. Crocs in a spin class, however, are enough to make twenty people question your sanity, your fitness level, and your ability to live independently. If you can afford a gym membership, you can afford some sneakers.
I went to a children’s museum recently, and they had a display of all the children’s Crocs that were eaten by the escalators. My ten year old is now scared to wear hers, and she only wore them to dance class for the easy on/easy off factor before she slips into her Pointe shoes. Grown men at the gym should know better, or at least have some dignity and self respect.
The Croc shod Clemson fan came in ten minutes late and clambered onto the one remaining bike, shoved his Crocs into the shoe cages, and began pedaling. He didn’t bother adjusting the seat or the handlebars. He didn’t have a refreshing bottle of water or an old towel with which to absorb his sweat. And he didn’t take off his sunglasses. He just rode.
At one point in the class, our instructor made a comment about the first football game this weekend. The Croc shod Clemson fan shouted an enthusiastic yahoo, in case we had forgotten he was a Clemson fan, which we had not. A couple of other people might have hooted, but it was drowned out by his yell, which might be an indication of how obnoxious he would be to sit next to at the stadium.
I have seen my share of odd in spin class. There’s the frighteningly thin elderly woman who insists on wearing pearls and hot pink lipstick. There’s the older woman who wears her white sports bras as her top, even though every other woman at the gym wears a shirt. There’s the woman who insists on full make-up and cologne for a morning workout. Sunglasses and Crocs blew them all away.
As we all exited the room after class had ended, I commented to my spin buddies, “Well, that was different.” “What the hell?” asked one of my friends. CC, the instructor, asked, “Were those…Crocs?” And we all laughed, kind of like one of those laughs at the end of a sitcom when image freezes and the credits roll.
If you don’t want twenty people to laugh at you, don’t wear Crocs to the gym. It might even be in the fitness club rules, and if it isn’t, it needs to be. It will be one of those rules that people will read in about five years and say, “Why is that even a rule? Oh, because some weirdo probably wore Crocs to exercise. But who would do something that stupid?”
At least twenty of us know the answer to that one.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Hold the Phone
“This is not a sales call. This information is for …Tina Bennett. If you are …Tina Bennett, please press one. If you are not …Tina Bennett, please press two.”
I pressed two.
“If you would like to find …Tina Bennett…and want to hold, please press one. If …Tina Bennett is not available, please press two. If this is not the phone number for…Tina Bennett, please press three.”
I pressed three.
“Please hold while you wait for the next available customer service representative.”
I held because I am not Tina Bennett. I do not know a Tina Bennett, nor have I ever met a Tina Bennett. But apparently, a Tina Bennett decided to give my home phone number to all of her creditors, and they are now calling my house night and day. No sooner do I hang up from one call to Tina Bennett that the phone rings again, the caller ID showing a phone number that is either unknown or an 800 number. None of these calls is for me or any member of my house. No, they are all for Tina Bennett.
Tina Bennett has received more calls to my house than the entire family combined. Her calls have woken me up on a Sunday morning. They have interrupted my family dinners, and they have made me miss more than one Olympic moment. Tina Bennett, for the love of all things holy, pay your bills and gets these clowns to stop calling my house.
You would think by not answering the phone, it would eventually stop ringing, but no. Those bill collectors are a persistent bunch, and they are not against leaving messages for Tina Bennett. Seriously, folks, do you really think she will call you back? After daily phone calls for over eight weeks, you need to focus your energy on someone else. Tina Bennett is a lost cause.
When we moved to this house five years ago, we were given a new phone number by BellSouth. It was Becky Bowen’s old phone number, and she too was a deadbeat who didn’t pay her bills. For three years, we got weekly phone calls trying to track down Becky Bowen, including a regular follow up from some lawyer in Vancouver. After about three years, the phone calls stopped, although every once in a while an agency will take her account out of dormancy and attempt to harass her again.
For a couple of years, the house was quiet, with only an occasional call for the kids or a distant relative.Sure, the Fraternal Order of Police did their annual drive, and every so often there would be some similar annoyance, political robo calls or the like, but never as frequent as the calls for Becky Bowen had been. We all mourned the loss of the constant phone calls, as if a family member had died, or we had had a fight with our closest friends.
We contemplated getting rid of the home phone number altogether, but decided to keep it, just in case. In case of what, I have no idea, since three out of four of us have cell phones. If the power goes out or the Rapture comes, you can still look me up in the phone book, which might as well be carved on a stone tablet, and call my house. Nothing makes you feel older than maintaining a home phone. Add twenty years to that old feeling if that phone has a coiled phone cord (all but one of ours is cordless, thank you very much).
And now, out of the blue, it’s been the summer of Tina Bennett.
I sat on hold for a phone call that wasn’t even for me, such was the level of my irritation. As if speaking to the anonymous harasser on the other end of the phone would put a stop to the daily phone calls.
“Hello, am I speaking with Tina Bennett?” a young man said to me, finally taking me off hold.
“No, this is not Tina Bennett’s phone number. You have the wrong number,” I said, almost politely.
Are you ready for the best part?
“Well, can you tell me how to get in touch with Tina Bennett?” he said.
“How would I know?” I shot back. “You’re the one calling the wrong number.”
Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why not make up a different phone number, like Tina Bennett did, and try calling that one? Or maybe you can go back to school, earn a degree, and try for a better job. Because I am pretty sure that calling wrong numbers for a collection agency wasn’t part of your American dream.
The young man indicated he would update their records, which I doubted, and I hung up, which was mildly satisfying. At least until my tween pointed out how insane it is to sit on hold to yell at some guy for just doing his job, which is what the constant harassment and endless ringing phone had driven me to do. I should have offered to pay Tina Bennett's bills, just to get them off my back.
Damn you, Tina Bennett.
I pressed two.
“If you would like to find …Tina Bennett…and want to hold, please press one. If …Tina Bennett is not available, please press two. If this is not the phone number for…Tina Bennett, please press three.”
I pressed three.
“Please hold while you wait for the next available customer service representative.”
I held because I am not Tina Bennett. I do not know a Tina Bennett, nor have I ever met a Tina Bennett. But apparently, a Tina Bennett decided to give my home phone number to all of her creditors, and they are now calling my house night and day. No sooner do I hang up from one call to Tina Bennett that the phone rings again, the caller ID showing a phone number that is either unknown or an 800 number. None of these calls is for me or any member of my house. No, they are all for Tina Bennett.
Tina Bennett has received more calls to my house than the entire family combined. Her calls have woken me up on a Sunday morning. They have interrupted my family dinners, and they have made me miss more than one Olympic moment. Tina Bennett, for the love of all things holy, pay your bills and gets these clowns to stop calling my house.
You would think by not answering the phone, it would eventually stop ringing, but no. Those bill collectors are a persistent bunch, and they are not against leaving messages for Tina Bennett. Seriously, folks, do you really think she will call you back? After daily phone calls for over eight weeks, you need to focus your energy on someone else. Tina Bennett is a lost cause.
When we moved to this house five years ago, we were given a new phone number by BellSouth. It was Becky Bowen’s old phone number, and she too was a deadbeat who didn’t pay her bills. For three years, we got weekly phone calls trying to track down Becky Bowen, including a regular follow up from some lawyer in Vancouver. After about three years, the phone calls stopped, although every once in a while an agency will take her account out of dormancy and attempt to harass her again.
For a couple of years, the house was quiet, with only an occasional call for the kids or a distant relative.Sure, the Fraternal Order of Police did their annual drive, and every so often there would be some similar annoyance, political robo calls or the like, but never as frequent as the calls for Becky Bowen had been. We all mourned the loss of the constant phone calls, as if a family member had died, or we had had a fight with our closest friends.
We contemplated getting rid of the home phone number altogether, but decided to keep it, just in case. In case of what, I have no idea, since three out of four of us have cell phones. If the power goes out or the Rapture comes, you can still look me up in the phone book, which might as well be carved on a stone tablet, and call my house. Nothing makes you feel older than maintaining a home phone. Add twenty years to that old feeling if that phone has a coiled phone cord (all but one of ours is cordless, thank you very much).
And now, out of the blue, it’s been the summer of Tina Bennett.
I sat on hold for a phone call that wasn’t even for me, such was the level of my irritation. As if speaking to the anonymous harasser on the other end of the phone would put a stop to the daily phone calls.
“Hello, am I speaking with Tina Bennett?” a young man said to me, finally taking me off hold.
“No, this is not Tina Bennett’s phone number. You have the wrong number,” I said, almost politely.
Are you ready for the best part?
“Well, can you tell me how to get in touch with Tina Bennett?” he said.
“How would I know?” I shot back. “You’re the one calling the wrong number.”
Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why not make up a different phone number, like Tina Bennett did, and try calling that one? Or maybe you can go back to school, earn a degree, and try for a better job. Because I am pretty sure that calling wrong numbers for a collection agency wasn’t part of your American dream.
The young man indicated he would update their records, which I doubted, and I hung up, which was mildly satisfying. At least until my tween pointed out how insane it is to sit on hold to yell at some guy for just doing his job, which is what the constant harassment and endless ringing phone had driven me to do. I should have offered to pay Tina Bennett's bills, just to get them off my back.
Damn you, Tina Bennett.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Presto Chango
It was a boring summer afternoon. The tween downloaded a new app for the iPad, a fun little photo editor. It was free, and it was a tween dream. You take a picture of yourself, your friends, your cat, whatever, and then you embellish it in all sorts of crazy ways. You can change eye color and hair color and style. You can add make up and fake eyelashes. You can edit out your acne and uneven skin tone. You can even do some sort of fake face lift thing to change your face shape and make you look like someone else entirely.
I’m sure it has more practical applications as well, but for the tween, it is a great way to see how she will look in make up since she is not yet allowed to wear it. Especially since I took it all away from her when she wore it anyway and lied about it, as if I don’t know what under eye raccoon circles are. Her make up collection is for experimentation, not snagging pre-pubescent boys at school.
She spent last night with one of her besties, and I am pretty sure all they did is photo editor makeovers on her iPad. When she came home today, she was ready for round two of photo editing. She redid a couple of her pictures, changing her eyes to gray, her hair to blond, and her face to WASP. She redid her sister next. I don’t want to see a picture of my ten year old all tarted up like it’s Alabama pageant time, but I had to admit she looked beautiful in an unnatural whorish way.
I encouraged her to put down the iPad and find something else to do. Something productive. Write a song. Read a book. Send an email. Dance. Take a nap. Scoop the kitty litter. Play piano. Anything that doesn’t involve that damn iPad. She agreed, but only after she made over me.
As I was rolling out dough for tonight’s dinner, the tween approached me with the iPad.
“What color would you want your eyes to be?” she asked.
“I like my brown eyes,” I said. I do. I describe them as shit brown, but honestly, I love them because they looked like my dog’s.
“Well, you have to pick another color.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Just do it, Mom. Your life depends on it.”
“Whatever, I’ll take green,” I said.
“Why green? Why not blue?” she asked me. This is a game the tween has played with me ever since she was a toddler. When she was two, she would walk up to me with an object in each hand, hold them up, and say,” This one or this one?” I would pick one of her hands and she would say,” Wrong! You want this one!”
“What difference does it make? Just give me whatever eye color you want.”
“Fine, green then. What about your hair? Do you want Lady Gaga pink?”
“I don’t know, how about blond? I’m trying to make dinner here,” I said.
She got quiet, her little fingers working on the screen as I filled the dough with sliced roast turkey and Havarti cheese for the stuffed bread I was making for dinner.
“All done,” she said happily, about five minutes later. “Wanna look?”
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and walked over to her. On the screen was a picture of me, only not me. I had bright green eyes and short platinum blond hair. And OH MY GOD, I almost looked just like my mother!
“Aahhh! Stop that! You’re freaking me out!” I screamed at her. “I look like your grandmother. My eyes!” “It’s not that bad,” she said.
“You stop that right now! Get rid of it. Give me back my eyes!” And my identity.
The tween was delighted with herself. She conceded that yes, I did look more than a bit like her grandmother, who incidentally has blue eyes, not green, but the light hair and eyes were disturbingly familiar.
I don’t want to look like my mother. She isn’t an unattractive person, but her horrible behavior over the years has certainly made her less appealing. Looking like my mother is too close to turning into my mother, and nothing scares me more than that.
One time I looked in the mirror and I saw my father’s mother, which is almost as scary. If I started wearing blue eye shadow and hot pink lipstick, I could be her doppelganger. Does that mean one day I too will traumatize my grandchildren by removing my brassiere in front of them?
Privacy was not apparently an issue with my grandmother. Neither was natural looking makeup. And for the record, my grandmother wouldn’t just pop out her titties in front of children for fun. She was undressing to take a bath, and my sisters and I, who were quite young, wanted to keep her company. I recall her breasts flopping down to her knees, and later, when she was in the tub, floating like islands on top of the bath water. I am haunted by that memory to this day. Thanks to that memory, I don't even like to look at myself in a bathtub.
Who knew a free app came with such a high price?
I’m sure it has more practical applications as well, but for the tween, it is a great way to see how she will look in make up since she is not yet allowed to wear it. Especially since I took it all away from her when she wore it anyway and lied about it, as if I don’t know what under eye raccoon circles are. Her make up collection is for experimentation, not snagging pre-pubescent boys at school.
She spent last night with one of her besties, and I am pretty sure all they did is photo editor makeovers on her iPad. When she came home today, she was ready for round two of photo editing. She redid a couple of her pictures, changing her eyes to gray, her hair to blond, and her face to WASP. She redid her sister next. I don’t want to see a picture of my ten year old all tarted up like it’s Alabama pageant time, but I had to admit she looked beautiful in an unnatural whorish way.
I encouraged her to put down the iPad and find something else to do. Something productive. Write a song. Read a book. Send an email. Dance. Take a nap. Scoop the kitty litter. Play piano. Anything that doesn’t involve that damn iPad. She agreed, but only after she made over me.
As I was rolling out dough for tonight’s dinner, the tween approached me with the iPad.
“What color would you want your eyes to be?” she asked.
“I like my brown eyes,” I said. I do. I describe them as shit brown, but honestly, I love them because they looked like my dog’s.
“Well, you have to pick another color.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Just do it, Mom. Your life depends on it.”
“Whatever, I’ll take green,” I said.
“Why green? Why not blue?” she asked me. This is a game the tween has played with me ever since she was a toddler. When she was two, she would walk up to me with an object in each hand, hold them up, and say,” This one or this one?” I would pick one of her hands and she would say,” Wrong! You want this one!”
“What difference does it make? Just give me whatever eye color you want.”
“Fine, green then. What about your hair? Do you want Lady Gaga pink?”
“I don’t know, how about blond? I’m trying to make dinner here,” I said.
She got quiet, her little fingers working on the screen as I filled the dough with sliced roast turkey and Havarti cheese for the stuffed bread I was making for dinner.
“All done,” she said happily, about five minutes later. “Wanna look?”
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and walked over to her. On the screen was a picture of me, only not me. I had bright green eyes and short platinum blond hair. And OH MY GOD, I almost looked just like my mother!
“Aahhh! Stop that! You’re freaking me out!” I screamed at her. “I look like your grandmother. My eyes!” “It’s not that bad,” she said.
“You stop that right now! Get rid of it. Give me back my eyes!” And my identity.
The tween was delighted with herself. She conceded that yes, I did look more than a bit like her grandmother, who incidentally has blue eyes, not green, but the light hair and eyes were disturbingly familiar.
I don’t want to look like my mother. She isn’t an unattractive person, but her horrible behavior over the years has certainly made her less appealing. Looking like my mother is too close to turning into my mother, and nothing scares me more than that.
One time I looked in the mirror and I saw my father’s mother, which is almost as scary. If I started wearing blue eye shadow and hot pink lipstick, I could be her doppelganger. Does that mean one day I too will traumatize my grandchildren by removing my brassiere in front of them?
Privacy was not apparently an issue with my grandmother. Neither was natural looking makeup. And for the record, my grandmother wouldn’t just pop out her titties in front of children for fun. She was undressing to take a bath, and my sisters and I, who were quite young, wanted to keep her company. I recall her breasts flopping down to her knees, and later, when she was in the tub, floating like islands on top of the bath water. I am haunted by that memory to this day. Thanks to that memory, I don't even like to look at myself in a bathtub.
Who knew a free app came with such a high price?
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Who You Gonna Call?
Do you believe in ghosts? I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, if so many people throughout time have experienced supernatural or unexplainable phenomena, they can’t all be making it up, can they? We have whole television shows and film genres devoted to ghosts, not to mention a field of pseudo science. And don’t forget the Ghostbusters. Most of us have had one of those unusual sort of feelings that can’t be explained rationally, or at the very least known someone who was related to someone who felt a presence or saw something or lived in a house where something may or may not have occurred. It all sounds so vague because of its very nature; none of it can be explained rationally.
On the other hand, though, seriously? Just because we had Casper comic books and watched Scooby Doo doesn’t mean we should believe that ghosts are real. Or does it?
Cue the eerie music.
My older daughter, E, has had a sixth sense sort of thing ever since she was a baby. It’s not so much she could see things as sense something that would make her uncomfortable in some way. On her second Thanksgiving, for example, we went to an old inn in North Carolina for our holiday meal. Every time we took her in one room in the inn, the one with the buffet tables, she would freak out baby style, which involved lots of screaming and crying and pushing in an attempt to get us to haul her out of that space. Once outside, she would immediately calm down like nothing ever happened. Which would make us think she was ready to go back in and eat, until we would walk back in the buffet room, when the process would start all over. It wasn’t a fun Thanksgiving, but at least we didn’t overeat.
Another time when she was a toddler, I had taken her to see some goats at an old farm. We walked the property, went into the farmhouse, and avoided the goat pellets while petting the goats, but the minute we stepped foot inside the dairy barn, E freaked out and had to be carried outside, where almost instantly, she behaved completely normal.
E is now twelve. A few months ago, she asked me, “Mom, do you ever get the feeling that something happened in a building? You know, like the old homes in Charleston? Do you ever go inside and feel like something bad happened there, somebody died or something?”
I smiled knowingly. “Oh, that?” I said. “You’ve been doing that since you were a baby.”
Now, before you think my child sees dead people, you need to know something about my family. We value rational, scientific thought very highly in our home. We believe in the power of logic and the ability to explain things. We employ critical thinking skills and do not believe in much that cannot be proven or demonstrated. That being said, I still allow for the possibility of the supernatural and the inexplicable. I don’t think that Big Foot is real, but at the same token, it seems sort of self-important of us Earthlings to think that in all the vast universe, we are the only living creatures. You get where I am going with this, right?
Last week, we vacationed in the low country of South Carolina. We spent our last day before driving home exploring Beaufort and the barrier islands nearby, finishing the day with a stop at Hunting Island State Park. We had never been there before, but they have the only lighthouse in the state that allows visitors to explore inside and climb to the top. The whole family thought that sounded cool.
But it wasn’t cool. With the heat index, it was over a hundred degrees that day. The lighthouse, built in 1873, is constructed of cast iron, with a brick interior. It has 168 steps to the top, and maybe four windows that open. There was nothing cool about it. We paid our admission fee and started the climb to the top. It was a fascinating structure, full of romance and history. As I walked those spiraling stairs, I couldn’t help but think about what it would be like to live on the island alone, to wear a hot as hell lighthouse keeper’s uniform, making sure that I protected the ships along the shore in my lonely existence.
We reached the top and enjoyed as much of the view as we could without getting queasy looking down. E has a decent fear of heights, and after creeping along with her back to the wall of the top of the lighthouse, she was ready to begin the descent. I decided to join her since I looked too far down and had that weak in the knees feeling, although it might have been worse due to the heat.
We walked down the stairs, and with each landing, I was covered in more sweat. Not a dewy, lady like glistening sweat, but more like a Gatorade commercial, or a maybe a hose under my hair had sprung a leak. Sweat was pouring down my face, my back, between my boobs, my butt cheeks. If there was a crevice anywhere on my body, it had become a flash flood zone. I decided to stop and take a rest on the next landing, only a few levels from the bottom.
“Mom, are you alright?” E asked me.
I looked at her, and said, “Watch out. You are going to walk into that woman.” I meant the woman behind her. She had blond hair tucked in a bun, and she was wearing a long cream colored skirt, almost down to the floor. She looked like she was about to walk right into my daughter, as if each didn't know the other was there.
“What woman?” E said.
She was right. It was just the two of us on that landing. It was just the two of us walking down the stairs as well. My husband and younger daughter were still at the top of the lighthouse, and we had not passed any other tourists on the way down. What I saw was a woman who almost walked into my daughter, a woman that was clearly not there.
My rational mind tells me what I choose to believe. I was overheated. The lighthouse was an oven. I hallucinated. I imagined I saw a woman standing beside my daughter. My not right mind tells me otherwise. E did not see a woman, but she does confirm that I asked about one and that I was convinced there was a person next to her. I am a little scared to ask if she felt a rush of cold air or any movement near her at the same time. I don’t want to put ideas in her head, and I also don’t want to know the answer because it would screw with my hallucination theory.
You can believe what you want to believe. I am not claiming I saw a ghost. I’m also not denying it. But I will say this: don’t climb a cast iron lighthouse on a hundred degree day. It’s fucking hot.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Fifty Shades of Bad
Spoiler Alert: In case you couldn't tell, I’m getting ready to unleash a diatribe on “Fifty Shades of Grey” by E.L. James. With details. If you haven’t read it yet, chances are good you aren’t going to read it. Thus, the spoiler alert really isn’t necessary. How can you spoil something that's already rotten?
Yeah, I read “Fifty Shades of Grey.” I even read “Fifty Shades Darker”, the sequel, after which I determined there was no way in hell I was going to read the third one. I get the feeling I don’t need to read the third one to know what it’s about, an argument that could be made for the first two. I read them because it seemed the rest of the women in the US of A were reading them. I didn’t want to feel left out. I also wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Okay, I know I didn’t need to read it to make that determination, but I wanted to see if it was worth it. The short answer? No.
I knew a little about these smutty books before I cracked open the first paperback. They are mommy porn books about an older man who dominates a younger woman. The sex was allegedly hot. The writing was mediocre. The editing was nonexistent. I thought that was enough to work with. Wrong! The first of the trilogy introduces the characters, Christian Grey, the dominating older man, and Anastasia, his naive submissive.
When you think older man and younger woman and throw in the word grey, you would think we are talking a true May-December romance. Not so. They are both in their twenties. Twenties! That’s not old. It’s especially not old considering the target audience.
Okay, so Christian, which is an odd name to pick for the main character of a dirty book, is not only in his mid to late twenties, he is also the multimillionaire owner of his own business. He can fly his own helicopter. He knows a lot about wine. And he was the adopted son of a crack whore. Wait, what? Yes, we, the readers, are supposed to believe that a man in his twenties who started out life as a white trash kid and was adopted in his preschool formative years is now the most eligible bachelor of Seattle. Seattle should feel insulted.
His love interest, Anastasia, is an innocent college graduate who meets the charming Mr. Grey when she interviews him for the school newspaper as a favor to her roommate. And guess what? They are interested in each other. And guess what else? She’s a virgin. Seriously? She just graduated college. The percentage of 23 year olds who are still virgins in the US is roughly ten percent. I Googled it so you know it’s a fact.
Give me a break. Give us all a break.
But wait, there’s more. He is so screwed up by his crack whore mother, to whom he refers as “the crack whore,” that he can’t have a regular relationship with a woman. Instead, he has contractual relationships with submissives, who have hard and soft limits of what they are willing to do, and safety words, and a trial period, and all the alleged sexual relations take place in the dungeon room in his apartment, and oh yes, did I mention they sign a do not discuss clause or some other bullshit, so Ana can’t even discuss her love and unusual relationship with her roommate, who ends up dating Christian’s brother. Oh Jesus. Just writing about this shitty book is making me dumber.
Okay, I will buy the argument that the plot isn’t really that important. After all, the plot lines of porn movies are even worse. And no one watches those for the plot. Which brings me to my next complaint. If you are going to write porn, make it good porn. Make the reader want to read it. In the first book, E.L. James decided to use some words liberally. Like clamber and apex. Clambering into bed is fine every once in a while, but when you start counting the number of times someone clambers, then maybe that characters needs to scurry or jump or crawl or fall into or do anything other than clamber. Plus, clamber reminds me of clabber, which reminds me of clabber milk, which reminds me to empty out my fridge, not take out my vibrator. Likewise for apex. I don’t want to read the “apex of my thighs” over and over. It’s not sexy, it’s weird, and this isn’t an historical romance, it’s a cheap trade novel.
The plot is bad, the writing is worse. So how is the sex? It's like eating at Ruby Tuesday. It still counts as food, but I wouldn't ask for it. It's just not that great, and the menu is all the same. And this inexperienced young woman cums like there's no tomorrow. Yeah, right. She doesn't even touch herself, and we are supposed to believe this twenty seven year old man has unlocked the secret to her multiple orgasms the second time he bangs her?And straight to bondage from virginity? Please. Wouldn't anal come before hogtying?
As horrible as the first book was, the second one was even worse. I will confess to getting occasionally aroused while reading the first book. If you showed me bad porn, I might still get a little turned on despite my rational brain telling me how degrading and stupid and unrealistic it is. Bad sex is still sex, said every man ever.
The second book, however, was so dumb that I swear it made me dry up like a hot Phoenix summer. I sneezed and a tumbleweed blew out of my cooch. Why so bad, you may ask, since you were so embarrassed reading the first one that you couldn’t stomach picking up the next? Because the plot didn’t thicken; it clabbered. Now this young couple are so in love with each other that all their sex is making love. Who wants to read about love in their sleazy porn? That’s disgusting. And then there is the ex-submissive stalker who gets a gun and comes after Anastasia. Oh, and the marriage proposal? How about that plot twist? Did you see that coming?
The apex, if you will, was that Anastasia, when thinking about Christian, would refer to him as her “Fifty Shades.” Oh, my Fifty Shades. There goes that Fifty Shades. What the fuckity fuck? In the first book, Christian Grey tells Anastasia he is “fifty shades of fucked up.” How does that become a nickname?
More likely, it’s some bad tip the author learned in a marketing class. If you keep referring to your product, it will become so ingrained in the consumers’ minds they won’t forget it. Was the author concerned we would be so numb while reading it that we needed constant reminders of what the crappy book was called?
The worst part of all? We, the American reader, made this woman a millionaire by buying and reading this schlock. Could we not find a better use of our time? We need more mental stimulation than Words with Friends, people. Visual porn doesn’t have to be intelligent. We can watch pretty much whatever sick shit we want whenever we want for free online. Shouldn’t our written porn be a cut above?
I read today that E. L. James now has a movie deal. I hope Anderson Cooper would consider playing the lead, with the part of Anastasia played by Kelly Clarkson. Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Just like the books. Or you could stick to this version:
Yeah, I read “Fifty Shades of Grey.” I even read “Fifty Shades Darker”, the sequel, after which I determined there was no way in hell I was going to read the third one. I get the feeling I don’t need to read the third one to know what it’s about, an argument that could be made for the first two. I read them because it seemed the rest of the women in the US of A were reading them. I didn’t want to feel left out. I also wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Okay, I know I didn’t need to read it to make that determination, but I wanted to see if it was worth it. The short answer? No.
I knew a little about these smutty books before I cracked open the first paperback. They are mommy porn books about an older man who dominates a younger woman. The sex was allegedly hot. The writing was mediocre. The editing was nonexistent. I thought that was enough to work with. Wrong! The first of the trilogy introduces the characters, Christian Grey, the dominating older man, and Anastasia, his naive submissive.
When you think older man and younger woman and throw in the word grey, you would think we are talking a true May-December romance. Not so. They are both in their twenties. Twenties! That’s not old. It’s especially not old considering the target audience.
Okay, so Christian, which is an odd name to pick for the main character of a dirty book, is not only in his mid to late twenties, he is also the multimillionaire owner of his own business. He can fly his own helicopter. He knows a lot about wine. And he was the adopted son of a crack whore. Wait, what? Yes, we, the readers, are supposed to believe that a man in his twenties who started out life as a white trash kid and was adopted in his preschool formative years is now the most eligible bachelor of Seattle. Seattle should feel insulted.
His love interest, Anastasia, is an innocent college graduate who meets the charming Mr. Grey when she interviews him for the school newspaper as a favor to her roommate. And guess what? They are interested in each other. And guess what else? She’s a virgin. Seriously? She just graduated college. The percentage of 23 year olds who are still virgins in the US is roughly ten percent. I Googled it so you know it’s a fact.
Give me a break. Give us all a break.
But wait, there’s more. He is so screwed up by his crack whore mother, to whom he refers as “the crack whore,” that he can’t have a regular relationship with a woman. Instead, he has contractual relationships with submissives, who have hard and soft limits of what they are willing to do, and safety words, and a trial period, and all the alleged sexual relations take place in the dungeon room in his apartment, and oh yes, did I mention they sign a do not discuss clause or some other bullshit, so Ana can’t even discuss her love and unusual relationship with her roommate, who ends up dating Christian’s brother. Oh Jesus. Just writing about this shitty book is making me dumber.
Okay, I will buy the argument that the plot isn’t really that important. After all, the plot lines of porn movies are even worse. And no one watches those for the plot. Which brings me to my next complaint. If you are going to write porn, make it good porn. Make the reader want to read it. In the first book, E.L. James decided to use some words liberally. Like clamber and apex. Clambering into bed is fine every once in a while, but when you start counting the number of times someone clambers, then maybe that characters needs to scurry or jump or crawl or fall into or do anything other than clamber. Plus, clamber reminds me of clabber, which reminds me of clabber milk, which reminds me to empty out my fridge, not take out my vibrator. Likewise for apex. I don’t want to read the “apex of my thighs” over and over. It’s not sexy, it’s weird, and this isn’t an historical romance, it’s a cheap trade novel.
The plot is bad, the writing is worse. So how is the sex? It's like eating at Ruby Tuesday. It still counts as food, but I wouldn't ask for it. It's just not that great, and the menu is all the same. And this inexperienced young woman cums like there's no tomorrow. Yeah, right. She doesn't even touch herself, and we are supposed to believe this twenty seven year old man has unlocked the secret to her multiple orgasms the second time he bangs her?And straight to bondage from virginity? Please. Wouldn't anal come before hogtying?
As horrible as the first book was, the second one was even worse. I will confess to getting occasionally aroused while reading the first book. If you showed me bad porn, I might still get a little turned on despite my rational brain telling me how degrading and stupid and unrealistic it is. Bad sex is still sex, said every man ever.
The second book, however, was so dumb that I swear it made me dry up like a hot Phoenix summer. I sneezed and a tumbleweed blew out of my cooch. Why so bad, you may ask, since you were so embarrassed reading the first one that you couldn’t stomach picking up the next? Because the plot didn’t thicken; it clabbered. Now this young couple are so in love with each other that all their sex is making love. Who wants to read about love in their sleazy porn? That’s disgusting. And then there is the ex-submissive stalker who gets a gun and comes after Anastasia. Oh, and the marriage proposal? How about that plot twist? Did you see that coming?
The apex, if you will, was that Anastasia, when thinking about Christian, would refer to him as her “Fifty Shades.” Oh, my Fifty Shades. There goes that Fifty Shades. What the fuckity fuck? In the first book, Christian Grey tells Anastasia he is “fifty shades of fucked up.” How does that become a nickname?
More likely, it’s some bad tip the author learned in a marketing class. If you keep referring to your product, it will become so ingrained in the consumers’ minds they won’t forget it. Was the author concerned we would be so numb while reading it that we needed constant reminders of what the crappy book was called?
The worst part of all? We, the American reader, made this woman a millionaire by buying and reading this schlock. Could we not find a better use of our time? We need more mental stimulation than Words with Friends, people. Visual porn doesn’t have to be intelligent. We can watch pretty much whatever sick shit we want whenever we want for free online. Shouldn’t our written porn be a cut above?
I read today that E. L. James now has a movie deal. I hope Anderson Cooper would consider playing the lead, with the part of Anastasia played by Kelly Clarkson. Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Just like the books. Or you could stick to this version:
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
This is Getting Old
This afternoon, as I put a Toy Story band-aid on my blistered heel, I feel old. It could be because I am hobbling around today with another one of those mystery pains, you know, the ones that show up and are crippling in nature, yet you can’t remember actually hurting yourself and causing that degree of limitation? Then again, it could be because I just spent twenty minutes inspecting my face in the magnifying mirror in my bathroom. Maybe it’s because I cleaned out my baby girl’s underwear drawer to make room for training bras. Or maybe it’s because I’m old.
Old is a relative term on the time continuum. I’m certainly not Egyptian pyramid old, but I am too old to pull off dancing wildly in my car. If a teenage girl is dancing wildly in her car, she’s cute. If it’s someone in my age range, it’s just a spectacle, and not the good kind.
I was hoping by this stage of my life, I would be approaching the self-acceptance, confident phase that comes with experience. Instead, I am still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. The only thing I know for sure, I don’t want to be old.
I wanted to make an appointment for a massage tomorrow, but I won’t because I don’t want the massage therapist to see my roots. You know that inch of dark hair you see on your blond friends every five weeks or so? Well, mine isn’t dark; it’s white. I also plan on avoiding everyone taller than me for the next forty-eight hours until I can go to my hair dresser. Morticia Addams could pull off the white streak. Bonnie Raitt can make it look funky. The rest of us look like we need a babushka to cover our heads on our way out to the field to pick potatoes.
I hung out at the pool yesterday with my friend while my daughters were at day camp. When I told my younger daughter how I spent my day, she asked me if I played in the pool. I pointed out to her that people my age don’t “play.” Normally when I go to the pool, I don’t even get in the water. I sit in a chair and read a book until the heat becomes unbearable. That’s when I slip into the water, complain about how cold it is, then step out and back to my chair and book. I don’t usually swim with my kids because they hang all over me, and they are annoying. Also, I don’t want to lose a contact lens. That happened to me once, when I was sixteen. I was traumatized, clearly, since I still won’t put my head under water after decades. But did my friend and I have an underwater tea party and swim between each other’s legs like tunnels? No, sadly, we didn’t.
Using the word decades also makes me old.
I bought new sneakers last week, and I treated myself to a pair of insoles. I excitedly told my friends at the gym about my new sneakers with insoles. Then it occurred to me that young people don’t get excited about insoles. Old.
My older daughter has been complaining that her ankle is bothering her. She doesn’t remember to take it easy. She just plays soccer and tennis and runs around like the kid she is, and then she wonders why it still hurts. I take the stairs one at a time because even my heel is too mature and set in its ways to try something out of the daily routine.
When you are a teenager, you can sleep until ten o’clock and everyone just thinks you need the rest and are probably growing. When you are my age, they hold a mirror under your nostrils to make sure you are still alive.
Okay, I’m not that old. I can still get pregnant, unfortunately. I can balance on one foot for over a minute. I remember what I had for breakfast and also the score of my IQ test from the second grade. I can order a bottle of wine and sound like I know what I am talking about. I can end a sentence in a preposition if I want to. On the down side, I can’t go backpacking across Europe and stay in youth hostels. If I joke with the bag boy at the grocery store, my daughter finds it creepy. I look like I should be driving a minivan. I can’t shoot pool, but I can fold a set of king sheets in under two minutes. I take vitamins. Lots of vitamins. And those spots on my arms? They aren’t freckles.
I would keep going, but I don’t want to miss the early bird specials.
Old is a relative term on the time continuum. I’m certainly not Egyptian pyramid old, but I am too old to pull off dancing wildly in my car. If a teenage girl is dancing wildly in her car, she’s cute. If it’s someone in my age range, it’s just a spectacle, and not the good kind.
I was hoping by this stage of my life, I would be approaching the self-acceptance, confident phase that comes with experience. Instead, I am still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. The only thing I know for sure, I don’t want to be old.
I wanted to make an appointment for a massage tomorrow, but I won’t because I don’t want the massage therapist to see my roots. You know that inch of dark hair you see on your blond friends every five weeks or so? Well, mine isn’t dark; it’s white. I also plan on avoiding everyone taller than me for the next forty-eight hours until I can go to my hair dresser. Morticia Addams could pull off the white streak. Bonnie Raitt can make it look funky. The rest of us look like we need a babushka to cover our heads on our way out to the field to pick potatoes.
I hung out at the pool yesterday with my friend while my daughters were at day camp. When I told my younger daughter how I spent my day, she asked me if I played in the pool. I pointed out to her that people my age don’t “play.” Normally when I go to the pool, I don’t even get in the water. I sit in a chair and read a book until the heat becomes unbearable. That’s when I slip into the water, complain about how cold it is, then step out and back to my chair and book. I don’t usually swim with my kids because they hang all over me, and they are annoying. Also, I don’t want to lose a contact lens. That happened to me once, when I was sixteen. I was traumatized, clearly, since I still won’t put my head under water after decades. But did my friend and I have an underwater tea party and swim between each other’s legs like tunnels? No, sadly, we didn’t.
Using the word decades also makes me old.
I bought new sneakers last week, and I treated myself to a pair of insoles. I excitedly told my friends at the gym about my new sneakers with insoles. Then it occurred to me that young people don’t get excited about insoles. Old.
My older daughter has been complaining that her ankle is bothering her. She doesn’t remember to take it easy. She just plays soccer and tennis and runs around like the kid she is, and then she wonders why it still hurts. I take the stairs one at a time because even my heel is too mature and set in its ways to try something out of the daily routine.
When you are a teenager, you can sleep until ten o’clock and everyone just thinks you need the rest and are probably growing. When you are my age, they hold a mirror under your nostrils to make sure you are still alive.
Okay, I’m not that old. I can still get pregnant, unfortunately. I can balance on one foot for over a minute. I remember what I had for breakfast and also the score of my IQ test from the second grade. I can order a bottle of wine and sound like I know what I am talking about. I can end a sentence in a preposition if I want to. On the down side, I can’t go backpacking across Europe and stay in youth hostels. If I joke with the bag boy at the grocery store, my daughter finds it creepy. I look like I should be driving a minivan. I can’t shoot pool, but I can fold a set of king sheets in under two minutes. I take vitamins. Lots of vitamins. And those spots on my arms? They aren’t freckles.
I would keep going, but I don’t want to miss the early bird specials.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Deep Space Nine
We start every summer with a week at the beach. It’s wonderful. School is over and the whole family wants a break from our routine, so we go to the South Carolina coast and stay in a small oceanfront condo, enjoying all the sand and sun and relaxation that goes along with it. Every time we leave, we think how nice it would be to stay longer. So this year, we went to the beach for two weeks. Guess what? We were wrong.
You know that idea that less is more? Well, it should apply to everything. I am pretty sure that’s why gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. Two weeks at the beach is gluttony. Two weeks of relaxing sounds fun, but it’s really nine days of bliss and another five of desperately wanting to leave and go home. You can’t even say that out loud for fear of starting yet another argument, so even though everyone is thinking it, no one is saying it. Homesick, we all just get snippy with each other instead of appreciating our good fortune that allowed a two week vacation in the first place.
Here is a list of some of the things that I missed on my extended summer vacation:
• My Bed
You know what you want after two weeks, besides your routine? Your bed. Yes, I said it. I don’t care how old or dull it makes me sound; it’s true. I missed my pancake flat pillow and how high my bed is off the floor and the way my headboard doesn’t make a sound against the wall (no, not because of that) and even getting awoken for a little early morning cat lovin’. By the end of two weeks, my neck and back got sore from the hard mattress and the fluffy pillow combo. I swear it had nothing to do with the noisy headboard.
As much as I missed my bed, my two daughters missed theirs even more. They, who each have their own bedrooms at home, shared a room for two weeks. They can’t even share a cookie. It’s like forcing the Odd Couple in to live in an 8x8 space. One of them tried to tidy up her little bit of room every morning and then step over the other one’s sprawling landfill. By day nine, they couldn’t stand to hear each other breathe. Hot pink ear plugs were all over the room.
• Cleanliness
I hear it’s next to godliness. Let’s face it; the beach isn’t exactly a clean place. Why? Sand. Tiny particles of sand. It sticks to everything. I could take a walk on the beach, then go inside the condo and have breakfast. When I would take a shower, I would have sand in my eyebrows. Eyebrows? Seriously? Add to the sand the sweltering humidity and the lingering sunscreen film, and you have the recipe for a rudimentary concrete. A Silkwood shower wouldn’t scrub that shit off. After nine days of sand build up, why even bother showering? You could make a sand castle on my scalp.
• My space
I am fortunate to live in a very lovely and spacious home. Growing up, my house was a small three bedroom/ two bath Florida home, which means something to those of us who grew up in Florida. I have also lived in my share of shithole apartments both during and after college, so I wouldn’t say I have been spoiled. But the condo where we stay is 800 square feet. It’s not bad for a week, but after nine days, it’s like living in an elevator. Add to that the wet towels and bathing suits draped over every available surface. Scratch the elevator; it’s more like living in a laundry room.
• The Internet
I love having Internet access. I enjoy using my smart phone and I like taking my laptop when I travel. It’s more entertaining to me than a television any day. Luckily, the condo building has wifi. What it doesn’t have is functional wifi. I would start the day with attempting to check email, opening maybe one, and then watching that little wheel spin. Spin, wheel, spin. It’s not a big deal, really. Until the ninth day, at which point the Amish were more on the grid than me.
• Vegetables
I love ice cream as much as the next person. But seriously, did we need to eat that much ice cream in two weeks? Damn you, Ben and Jerry, with your chunky ice cream. I know there are allegedly four servings in a pint, but who divides a pint of ice cream into four servings? So we would have to get more. And more. And pretty soon, we forgot we didn’t have to get more, we just felt obligated to do it. Is this how aversion therapy works? Honestly, how can there even be room for any ice cream after the deep fried feast we have just consumed?
And to the restaurants at the beach, here’s an idea: shrimp can be prepared more than three ways. Just watch any Red Lobster commercial. Cold boiled, scampi, or fried? Why yes, I think I’ll have fried again. I want to see if these fried shrimp taste as good as last night’s fried shrimp. Throw a couple of hush puppies on that plate, while you’re at it. Fried flounder? Don’t mind if I do. Wait a minute; do I detect a hint of clam strip? Don’t skimp on the strips, garcon.
For the record, French fries do not count as a vegetable. Ditto for the cole slaw. Shredded pale green cabbage and a carrot sliver swimming in mayonnaise are not going to undo the ice cream and fried shrimp. By the end of day nine, even tartar and cocktail sauces try to pass themselves off as healthy because they aren’t deep fried.
• Solitude
I love my family and my friends, and I love to spend time with them. Walking together, sitting together, talking or just reading and sharing stories and laughter are all a gift. Until day nine. On day nine, even the word together makes the walls close in. My friends and family start to morph into a Guillermo Del Toro nightmare. I’m pretty sure my husband developed eyeballs in the palms of his hands. I’m no better than they are. I’m not nearly as funny as I think I am. I know of at least ten people who would back me up on that.
• The gym
I work out almost every day at the gym, and I do a variety of classes. I like it. It makes me feel good. When I go to the beach, I happily walk every day, the sand beneath my toes, feeling the water lap up around my feet, looking for shells. Until day nine, when my Achilles tendons go on strike. I could walk in the morning, but after sitting in a beach chair for an hour, I could hardly stand. So I constantly stretched everywhere like a Lipizzaner stallion. Gentlemen, I am no Lipizzaner stallion.
By the ninth day, I hobbled around like I needed bilateral hip replacements. Taking two weeks off a fitness routine can be a good thing, but if you’ve overstretched your tendons and walked the skin off the soles of your feet, you can’t just go balls to the wall. You have to ease back into your workout, starting slowly. Starting slowly, by the way, doesn’t work off the daily dose of fried shrimp and ice cream.
• My Town
When I’m at the beach, I love to go to my favorite restaurants and head up to the pier to watch the fishermen and play a few rounds of skeeball. I want to shop at the shops they don’t have at home. I don’t object to a bit of mini golf if it doesn’t get too competitive. I’m happy to walk the flat sandy shore and smell the marshy air. On day nine, the beach becomes a blur of cheap crappy beach stores and lousy seafood buffets with giant crustaceans on the roof. You’ve seen one go-cart track, you’ve seen them all. Didn’t we just pass that ice cream store and fireworks stand? For the love of God, does this town have a library? I am pretty sure there should be a tree or two somewhere around here. And how is anyone supposed to breathe with all this humidity?
• Sobriety
Nobody made me order vodka or rum or tequila every night. I get that now. It’s a choice. A poor choice. A nightly mixed drink did not take the edge off; it just packed the calories on. It certainly didn’t make me more pleasant to be around.
Actually, it was a good choice. Because if I had to look at those faces in those 800 square feet one more day, something was going to go horribly wrong. In retrospect, maybe I didn't drink enough.
In conclusion, I recommend exactly nine days at the beach. Make sure the weather is good. Pack your baggy clothes. Smile a lot. Have a drink. Maybe get another room for yourself, and don’t tell anyone else where it is. And step away from the ice cream.
You know that idea that less is more? Well, it should apply to everything. I am pretty sure that’s why gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. Two weeks at the beach is gluttony. Two weeks of relaxing sounds fun, but it’s really nine days of bliss and another five of desperately wanting to leave and go home. You can’t even say that out loud for fear of starting yet another argument, so even though everyone is thinking it, no one is saying it. Homesick, we all just get snippy with each other instead of appreciating our good fortune that allowed a two week vacation in the first place.
Here is a list of some of the things that I missed on my extended summer vacation:
• My Bed
You know what you want after two weeks, besides your routine? Your bed. Yes, I said it. I don’t care how old or dull it makes me sound; it’s true. I missed my pancake flat pillow and how high my bed is off the floor and the way my headboard doesn’t make a sound against the wall (no, not because of that) and even getting awoken for a little early morning cat lovin’. By the end of two weeks, my neck and back got sore from the hard mattress and the fluffy pillow combo. I swear it had nothing to do with the noisy headboard.
As much as I missed my bed, my two daughters missed theirs even more. They, who each have their own bedrooms at home, shared a room for two weeks. They can’t even share a cookie. It’s like forcing the Odd Couple in to live in an 8x8 space. One of them tried to tidy up her little bit of room every morning and then step over the other one’s sprawling landfill. By day nine, they couldn’t stand to hear each other breathe. Hot pink ear plugs were all over the room.
• Cleanliness
I hear it’s next to godliness. Let’s face it; the beach isn’t exactly a clean place. Why? Sand. Tiny particles of sand. It sticks to everything. I could take a walk on the beach, then go inside the condo and have breakfast. When I would take a shower, I would have sand in my eyebrows. Eyebrows? Seriously? Add to the sand the sweltering humidity and the lingering sunscreen film, and you have the recipe for a rudimentary concrete. A Silkwood shower wouldn’t scrub that shit off. After nine days of sand build up, why even bother showering? You could make a sand castle on my scalp.
• My space
I am fortunate to live in a very lovely and spacious home. Growing up, my house was a small three bedroom/ two bath Florida home, which means something to those of us who grew up in Florida. I have also lived in my share of shithole apartments both during and after college, so I wouldn’t say I have been spoiled. But the condo where we stay is 800 square feet. It’s not bad for a week, but after nine days, it’s like living in an elevator. Add to that the wet towels and bathing suits draped over every available surface. Scratch the elevator; it’s more like living in a laundry room.
• The Internet
I love having Internet access. I enjoy using my smart phone and I like taking my laptop when I travel. It’s more entertaining to me than a television any day. Luckily, the condo building has wifi. What it doesn’t have is functional wifi. I would start the day with attempting to check email, opening maybe one, and then watching that little wheel spin. Spin, wheel, spin. It’s not a big deal, really. Until the ninth day, at which point the Amish were more on the grid than me.
• Vegetables
I love ice cream as much as the next person. But seriously, did we need to eat that much ice cream in two weeks? Damn you, Ben and Jerry, with your chunky ice cream. I know there are allegedly four servings in a pint, but who divides a pint of ice cream into four servings? So we would have to get more. And more. And pretty soon, we forgot we didn’t have to get more, we just felt obligated to do it. Is this how aversion therapy works? Honestly, how can there even be room for any ice cream after the deep fried feast we have just consumed?
And to the restaurants at the beach, here’s an idea: shrimp can be prepared more than three ways. Just watch any Red Lobster commercial. Cold boiled, scampi, or fried? Why yes, I think I’ll have fried again. I want to see if these fried shrimp taste as good as last night’s fried shrimp. Throw a couple of hush puppies on that plate, while you’re at it. Fried flounder? Don’t mind if I do. Wait a minute; do I detect a hint of clam strip? Don’t skimp on the strips, garcon.
For the record, French fries do not count as a vegetable. Ditto for the cole slaw. Shredded pale green cabbage and a carrot sliver swimming in mayonnaise are not going to undo the ice cream and fried shrimp. By the end of day nine, even tartar and cocktail sauces try to pass themselves off as healthy because they aren’t deep fried.
• Solitude
I love my family and my friends, and I love to spend time with them. Walking together, sitting together, talking or just reading and sharing stories and laughter are all a gift. Until day nine. On day nine, even the word together makes the walls close in. My friends and family start to morph into a Guillermo Del Toro nightmare. I’m pretty sure my husband developed eyeballs in the palms of his hands. I’m no better than they are. I’m not nearly as funny as I think I am. I know of at least ten people who would back me up on that.
• The gym
I work out almost every day at the gym, and I do a variety of classes. I like it. It makes me feel good. When I go to the beach, I happily walk every day, the sand beneath my toes, feeling the water lap up around my feet, looking for shells. Until day nine, when my Achilles tendons go on strike. I could walk in the morning, but after sitting in a beach chair for an hour, I could hardly stand. So I constantly stretched everywhere like a Lipizzaner stallion. Gentlemen, I am no Lipizzaner stallion.
By the ninth day, I hobbled around like I needed bilateral hip replacements. Taking two weeks off a fitness routine can be a good thing, but if you’ve overstretched your tendons and walked the skin off the soles of your feet, you can’t just go balls to the wall. You have to ease back into your workout, starting slowly. Starting slowly, by the way, doesn’t work off the daily dose of fried shrimp and ice cream.
• My Town
When I’m at the beach, I love to go to my favorite restaurants and head up to the pier to watch the fishermen and play a few rounds of skeeball. I want to shop at the shops they don’t have at home. I don’t object to a bit of mini golf if it doesn’t get too competitive. I’m happy to walk the flat sandy shore and smell the marshy air. On day nine, the beach becomes a blur of cheap crappy beach stores and lousy seafood buffets with giant crustaceans on the roof. You’ve seen one go-cart track, you’ve seen them all. Didn’t we just pass that ice cream store and fireworks stand? For the love of God, does this town have a library? I am pretty sure there should be a tree or two somewhere around here. And how is anyone supposed to breathe with all this humidity?
• Sobriety
Nobody made me order vodka or rum or tequila every night. I get that now. It’s a choice. A poor choice. A nightly mixed drink did not take the edge off; it just packed the calories on. It certainly didn’t make me more pleasant to be around.
Actually, it was a good choice. Because if I had to look at those faces in those 800 square feet one more day, something was going to go horribly wrong. In retrospect, maybe I didn't drink enough.
In conclusion, I recommend exactly nine days at the beach. Make sure the weather is good. Pack your baggy clothes. Smile a lot. Have a drink. Maybe get another room for yourself, and don’t tell anyone else where it is. And step away from the ice cream.
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