So, the much awaited spawn of Brad and Angie has arrived. I tell you, there is no justice in the world.
Consider this: A woman steals another woman's husband, is knocked up within weeks, publishes photographs of herself and stolen husband "playing house" in a major national magazine, proceeds to rub nose of stolen hubby's ex in endless pictures of stolen husband, mistress, and adorable children romping everywhere from Kathmandu to Kenya. What is the appropriate "karmic payback for said woman?"
1. Voted most beutiful person alive (inside and out)
2. Stolen family voted most beutiful family
3. Snags major spokesperson contract for much $$$$ from hot designer
4. Love child with stolen man is honored by her birthday becoming an official holiday in a mid-size Southern African nation
Meanwhile, wronged ex wife makes three bad movies in a row (yes, it is true The breakup was panned by the Hollywood reporter) and (drumroll please) walks off into the sunset with a bruised ego and one slightly doughy boyfriend replete with receeding hairline.
This is the "what goes around comes around" stuff the self-help schlocks are always talking about?
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
I Need Some (Cyber)Space
I hav'nt even gone on my first date, yet I have to get away from the boards for a while. First off, let me say that if you want a man your own age, you're considerably out of luck. The common male preference is something like this: Male, 38; searching for women age 25-35. So some of us are already cut out of a pool of guys our own age.
If you are searching in New York, many of the men are looking for love with a baseline salary of $50,000 a year, which definately rules out this teacher cum dogwalker/writer.
Searching is addictive. I click deeper and deeper into the pool, eating my way into the second sleeve of oreos tryimg to squelch the "He's cute, why didn't he wink at me?" feeling. When you've sunk lower than low, then it's time to go over to the 'men seeking women side' to take a look at the competition. Then that's where the real hooror is. twenty-six year old, big-breasted pediatric residents from Oklahoma. A 29-year -old Hungarian international journalist with Jolie lips. The beyond cute 26 year-old personal assistant with doe eyes and the introduction "Will anyone love me?"
What are they doing on here? This is supposed to be a haven for the dumped, duped, and forgotten. For women who's eggs are nearing the expiration date. What's wrong with them? Who needs internet dating in their twenties?
When you're not getting good responses, there is a kind of desperation that overwhelms you, one that is (thankfully) limited to your cyberspace sessions. It is a desperation that leads me to consider winking at a guy who wants to talk about extraterrestrial life (probably in the same conversation when he describes his hometown.) It is this desperation that almost led me to send an ice breaker to a balding man in a white robe, propped on a couch sitting alone in front of a champagne bucket. Why is this strange man looking at me in his robe? We have'nt even even had a first date and I know what he looks like coming out of the shower. (I don't want to know more.)
If y'all were wondering about the status of my yahoo personals profile, here's what happened. I took the offending picture down, determined to take the photo myself using the timer on my 35 mm camera. The display read that there were 14 shots left, a key piece of information being that this film would have last been loaded about a year and a half ago. (This information did not enter my head at the time.)
I had to dogsit at a lovely penthouse apartment, which seemed like an ideal place for a photo shoot. I started arranging myself in different positions: on the balcony, in front of the fireplace, etc. It was just as uncomfortable as when my brother was taking my picture. I felt like I was at Glamour Shots at the mall, only instead of the photographer with the Awmay poly blend pants stretched over a Grinch body, this time I was the greasy photographer. And I was trying to arrange my cleavage, just like Amway pants would-"If you want to be a serious model, you need to show us a little bit more..." I was embarrassed in front of myself. Possibly more than that, as I later learned the penthouse was equipped with cameras. So the doorman downstairs were probably eating their salami sandwiches in the back room, laughing at me.
I was taking out the film at the development place, I realized it was black and white. Oh well. Happy that the whole thing was almost over, and hoping that I got almost one usable shot, I excitedly went back to the pharmacy an hour later, hastily handing over my stub. "This film is blank, ma'am. There's nothing on this film," said the woman behind the counter. She pulled out the roll to prove it to me. It was indeed a clear strip. Could it have been the year and a half old film? I don't get it. Why would it be blank? Some sort of divine intervention is protecting me from internet dating. For now, I am listening.
If you are searching in New York, many of the men are looking for love with a baseline salary of $50,000 a year, which definately rules out this teacher cum dogwalker/writer.
Searching is addictive. I click deeper and deeper into the pool, eating my way into the second sleeve of oreos tryimg to squelch the "He's cute, why didn't he wink at me?" feeling. When you've sunk lower than low, then it's time to go over to the 'men seeking women side' to take a look at the competition. Then that's where the real hooror is. twenty-six year old, big-breasted pediatric residents from Oklahoma. A 29-year -old Hungarian international journalist with Jolie lips. The beyond cute 26 year-old personal assistant with doe eyes and the introduction "Will anyone love me?"
What are they doing on here? This is supposed to be a haven for the dumped, duped, and forgotten. For women who's eggs are nearing the expiration date. What's wrong with them? Who needs internet dating in their twenties?
When you're not getting good responses, there is a kind of desperation that overwhelms you, one that is (thankfully) limited to your cyberspace sessions. It is a desperation that leads me to consider winking at a guy who wants to talk about extraterrestrial life (probably in the same conversation when he describes his hometown.) It is this desperation that almost led me to send an ice breaker to a balding man in a white robe, propped on a couch sitting alone in front of a champagne bucket. Why is this strange man looking at me in his robe? We have'nt even even had a first date and I know what he looks like coming out of the shower. (I don't want to know more.)
If y'all were wondering about the status of my yahoo personals profile, here's what happened. I took the offending picture down, determined to take the photo myself using the timer on my 35 mm camera. The display read that there were 14 shots left, a key piece of information being that this film would have last been loaded about a year and a half ago. (This information did not enter my head at the time.)
I had to dogsit at a lovely penthouse apartment, which seemed like an ideal place for a photo shoot. I started arranging myself in different positions: on the balcony, in front of the fireplace, etc. It was just as uncomfortable as when my brother was taking my picture. I felt like I was at Glamour Shots at the mall, only instead of the photographer with the Awmay poly blend pants stretched over a Grinch body, this time I was the greasy photographer. And I was trying to arrange my cleavage, just like Amway pants would-"If you want to be a serious model, you need to show us a little bit more..." I was embarrassed in front of myself. Possibly more than that, as I later learned the penthouse was equipped with cameras. So the doorman downstairs were probably eating their salami sandwiches in the back room, laughing at me.
I was taking out the film at the development place, I realized it was black and white. Oh well. Happy that the whole thing was almost over, and hoping that I got almost one usable shot, I excitedly went back to the pharmacy an hour later, hastily handing over my stub. "This film is blank, ma'am. There's nothing on this film," said the woman behind the counter. She pulled out the roll to prove it to me. It was indeed a clear strip. Could it have been the year and a half old film? I don't get it. Why would it be blank? Some sort of divine intervention is protecting me from internet dating. For now, I am listening.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Internet Dating for Dummies
First off...NO MS.DunThat you CANNOT re-email someone with a better picture of yourself after you went and sent him a picture where you looked like a the dude from "The Mask" in hippy-dippy tie-dye tank top. It is beyond cyber-stalking. It says "I am not only desperate, I am also crazy".
To Ms. DunThat's credit, though, internet dating would drive anyone crazy. I will never divorce (even if my hubby gets a sex change operation) simply b/c I fear internet dating ( or really, any kind of dating) so much. 25 percent of the guys on Match.Com and those other internet sites look like criminals. 25 percent of them seem to think the way to a woman's heart lies in taking off your shirt and posing a. in the woods, b. in their bedroom by a fake fireplace or c. lounging on their mock leather couch with a bottle of cheap champagne chilling in a bucket. Another hefty portion of them look like the type of dudes that played way too much Dungeons and Dragons in high school. The rest are just unattractive and weird.
That dope who wrote 'He's Just Not That Into You' should take a cyber-surf through the yahoo personals if he really wants to understand why women are unwilling to give up on a halfway decent guy--even if he does treat her like crap.
From what I can tell, life is no better for famous women, either. Terri Hatcher (who we love by the way) has had the worst dating luck ever. Her first husband only had sex with her once a year. She earned all the money and had to take care of their daughter. The a-sexual a-hole then divorces her and makes her pay HIM alimony!Vanessa Williams...cheated on and kicked to the curb. Jen Aniston (don't get me started....). Meanwhile...Erik Menendez. Married. AFTER he offed his parents and was serving a life sentence without parole. Scott Peterson...oh, he managed to get engaged while trial for murdering his pregnant wife. Even O.J is doing pretty well in the dating dept. These are the statistics and women are supposed to dump a dude just b/c he hasn't called her in three days????!!!! Yeah, whatever.
To Ms. DunThat's credit, though, internet dating would drive anyone crazy. I will never divorce (even if my hubby gets a sex change operation) simply b/c I fear internet dating ( or really, any kind of dating) so much. 25 percent of the guys on Match.Com and those other internet sites look like criminals. 25 percent of them seem to think the way to a woman's heart lies in taking off your shirt and posing a. in the woods, b. in their bedroom by a fake fireplace or c. lounging on their mock leather couch with a bottle of cheap champagne chilling in a bucket. Another hefty portion of them look like the type of dudes that played way too much Dungeons and Dragons in high school. The rest are just unattractive and weird.
That dope who wrote 'He's Just Not That Into You' should take a cyber-surf through the yahoo personals if he really wants to understand why women are unwilling to give up on a halfway decent guy--even if he does treat her like crap.
From what I can tell, life is no better for famous women, either. Terri Hatcher (who we love by the way) has had the worst dating luck ever. Her first husband only had sex with her once a year. She earned all the money and had to take care of their daughter. The a-sexual a-hole then divorces her and makes her pay HIM alimony!Vanessa Williams...cheated on and kicked to the curb. Jen Aniston (don't get me started....). Meanwhile...Erik Menendez. Married. AFTER he offed his parents and was serving a life sentence without parole. Scott Peterson...oh, he managed to get engaged while trial for murdering his pregnant wife. Even O.J is doing pretty well in the dating dept. These are the statistics and women are supposed to dump a dude just b/c he hasn't called her in three days????!!!! Yeah, whatever.
Internet Dating Starts Off on a Bad Foot
I remember that video. I think they were dancing in a diner, or something. Brangelina woudn't ever be in a situation like this because a)they would never park in the discount parking lot, b)Angelina wouldn't be caught dead traveling with John Voight, and c)Brad isn't allowed to hang out with his parents. The only thing Mrs. BeenThere's weekend had in common with a Brangelina vacation was the signature oversized child on hip.
Anyhoo, I would like to take this opportunity to caution all those internet dating hopefuls out there. No, I'm not going to warn you about the safety or anything like that, but a much more unexpected side effect: rejection and humiliation.
I cannot stress enough the importance of a well thought out, attractive picture. Now, I happen to hate having pictures taken. It is a well known fact that my pictures bear almost no resemblance to how I look in the real world, as confirmed by friends and family. I am one of those people who puts on make up and gets dressed up but no matter what, my face in the photo ends up looking like Farah Fawcett in 'The Burning Bed.' But my heart was really into this, I just could not wait to find my first date in the yahoo personal ads. I actually registered for the site before I had a picture, as I was eager to find my match. First off, I emailed the guy who I had chosen to be the best for me, a possible soul mate who looked like Dr. Drew Pinsky, was done playing games, and didn't mind being the only couple on the dance floor. In the email I explained that I would be sending him another email with a picture in a few days, that I understood if he didn't get back to me until then. Contact.
Then I enlisted my brother and sister, who took turns arranging me in different positions and under different lighting, snapping away with my mother's new digital camera. Things were already not going well. At one point, my brother actually said "Hey, guys, look at this one! Doesn't she look like the kid in that movie 'Mask?" To make it worse, the next day I woke up to learn that my parents had loaded the photos onto the computer, and were critiquing them. Further mortification, not to mention a gross boundary violation. I was pretty saddened by the results. I never knew I was perpetually shiny with a Michael Jackson nose. Oh well. I loaded up the picture I figured looked best onto the site.
The responses that started to trickle in were heartbreaking. One or two a day from guys who looked like they should be friends of my dad's. Not exactly anyone that I would consider for a steamy romp. No response from Dr. Drew guy. He'd obviously rejected me, taken my profile and dragged it right over to the trash bin. Although mortified at the whole thing, I decided to ask some friends what they thought of my profile. When Mrs. BeenThere looked it up, she screamed "Take it down! Now! Why do you look like a 55-year-old with bad plastic surgery?" My friend Cynthia told me I looked witchy, and asked "Why on earth did you wear a tie-die tank top?"
Why on earth did I wear a tie-die tank top? Immediately I could see what they were talking about, and deleted the offending picture. I can't believe I've ruined my chances. Dr. Drew guy doesn't even think I'm good enough for a grande caramel macciatto and 25 minutes of his precious time. Asshole. Or wait,I could try to get a better picture, and resend it to him, explaining as briefly as possible my misjudgement? What do you think, Mrs. BeenThere? Anyone? Would that be cyber stalking?
Anyhoo, I would like to take this opportunity to caution all those internet dating hopefuls out there. No, I'm not going to warn you about the safety or anything like that, but a much more unexpected side effect: rejection and humiliation.
I cannot stress enough the importance of a well thought out, attractive picture. Now, I happen to hate having pictures taken. It is a well known fact that my pictures bear almost no resemblance to how I look in the real world, as confirmed by friends and family. I am one of those people who puts on make up and gets dressed up but no matter what, my face in the photo ends up looking like Farah Fawcett in 'The Burning Bed.' But my heart was really into this, I just could not wait to find my first date in the yahoo personal ads. I actually registered for the site before I had a picture, as I was eager to find my match. First off, I emailed the guy who I had chosen to be the best for me, a possible soul mate who looked like Dr. Drew Pinsky, was done playing games, and didn't mind being the only couple on the dance floor. In the email I explained that I would be sending him another email with a picture in a few days, that I understood if he didn't get back to me until then. Contact.
Then I enlisted my brother and sister, who took turns arranging me in different positions and under different lighting, snapping away with my mother's new digital camera. Things were already not going well. At one point, my brother actually said "Hey, guys, look at this one! Doesn't she look like the kid in that movie 'Mask?" To make it worse, the next day I woke up to learn that my parents had loaded the photos onto the computer, and were critiquing them. Further mortification, not to mention a gross boundary violation. I was pretty saddened by the results. I never knew I was perpetually shiny with a Michael Jackson nose. Oh well. I loaded up the picture I figured looked best onto the site.
The responses that started to trickle in were heartbreaking. One or two a day from guys who looked like they should be friends of my dad's. Not exactly anyone that I would consider for a steamy romp. No response from Dr. Drew guy. He'd obviously rejected me, taken my profile and dragged it right over to the trash bin. Although mortified at the whole thing, I decided to ask some friends what they thought of my profile. When Mrs. BeenThere looked it up, she screamed "Take it down! Now! Why do you look like a 55-year-old with bad plastic surgery?" My friend Cynthia told me I looked witchy, and asked "Why on earth did you wear a tie-die tank top?"
Why on earth did I wear a tie-die tank top? Immediately I could see what they were talking about, and deleted the offending picture. I can't believe I've ruined my chances. Dr. Drew guy doesn't even think I'm good enough for a grande caramel macciatto and 25 minutes of his precious time. Asshole. Or wait,I could try to get a better picture, and resend it to him, explaining as briefly as possible my misjudgement? What do you think, Mrs. BeenThere? Anyone? Would that be cyber stalking?
Sunday, May 21, 2006
ROAD TRIP!!
Ms. DunThat's past reminds me of another vacation I took with my commitment shy guy (our very first vacation as a matter of fact). This vacation was to a developing nation with unreliable road transport. We were planning to do a lot of walking, biking, etc. to get around. One week before the vacation he decided to run a major city marathon (27 miles) WITHOUT TRAINING--just a couple of hurdler stretches at the start gate and he was off!. He finished the race but had to be on crutches and a cane for our whole trip. Perhaps he was trying to tell me something? But, I digress. This post is actually to you about my latest vacation...to the midwest...with my parents.
So, we finally make it out of the house and to the airport. Just as we are parking the car at the remote parking lot (to save money) a huge cloud appears and the sky gets all dark and all that so my father says I should drop him, ny mother, and my 3 year old at the bus shelter so they don't have to get wet. so, I drop them off and park the car. As I'm getting out of the car it starts raining cats and dogs. I'm holding my 18 month old who weighs twenty seven pounds and I've got a HUGE bag over my shoulder. As I'm hobbling towards them (getting pelted with rain) I see my parents and 3 year old get on the airport shuttle, which then begins speeding out of the parking lot. I start running like mad with this heavy kid and even heavier bag, in the rain. My kid is laughing his head off, like it is some huge joke.
We finally make it into the terminal and we are standing in line. My mom (who is, by the way, 72 years old) for some odd reason, is wearing a pin striped man's tailored suit and jacket. Not exactly comfy travel wear, if you know what I mean. Her suit was exactly like the one Janet Jackson wore in the 'Alright' video during her 'Rhythm Nation' days--except my mom didn't have that hanging glass pocket watch thing that Janet did. She did, however, have extremely high heels on. Further complicating things is the fact that she has recently put her hair in extremely long extension braids (much like the kind Janet Jackson had in the Poetic Justice movie come to think of it). Unlike Janet, however, she did not have a headband or any kind of elastic band to hold the braids out of her eyes. Which is probably why the following accident happened.
So, she is holding my 3 year old by the hand and he is holding his little brother's hand. The three year old decides to bust that move that the kid did in Jerry Maguire, you know, when you are being held by two people bigger than you and you kick up your feet while you are walking and swing in between. The problem with this is that, unlike the kid in Jerry Maguire, he was not being held by two adults. Rather, he is holding hands with a 72 year old Janet Jackson impersonator and a baby.
Well, you can guess what happened. He kicks up his legs and they all went down like a house of cards. The three year old crashes into 'Janet' (aka grandma) those spiked heels gave out and she went crashing to the ground. The three year old fell on top of her and pulled the 18 month old down on top of him. They crashed into our pile of suicases. It was a three car pileup.
The flight was reasonably uneventful. When we got to the hotel, however, thr 'fun' started up again. We get to the front desk and try to check in. My husband had made the reservation over the internet. However, he was not with us. When we get to the front desk I try to check all of us in. The clerk will not let us take posession of the keys becuase my husband is the only name on the reservation. He and I don't have the same name b/c (being the modern missy that I am) I didn't change my name when we got hitched. So, basically she says she can't let me in the room b/c I could be an imposter or something.
I try to call my hubhby so he can tell her he authorizes me to get into the room. He of course has his cell phone off. Things are getting hairy and my parents are meling down. Further complicating things is the fact that when I was on the plane my sinuses started acting up due to th change in pressure and my ears went all funny as well. When we landed something in my nose and ears 'popped'. My nose would not stop running. It was gushing like a fountain. I, of course, had no tissues and had to keep using my sleeve. In addition, I was now temporarily deaf in one ear. I kid you not, I could hear nothing but muffled sounds out of my right ear.
The snotty clerk says 'we need a photo ID with the last name of the person who is on this reservation--nothing less'. My nose is gushing like Niagra Falls. I have no tissue, and I can't hear. So, in a moment of desperation I pull out my 18 month old kid's passport (I travel with it to prove to people that he is actually under 2 and can fly for free since they never believe he is under 2 since he is so huge). So, I pull out the passport, the photo on which was taken when he was 2 weeks old and he looks dazed and angry. (Ms. DunThat thinks he looks like a miniature Albert Brooks, which he does).
Miraculously, it works. Since he and dear hubby have the same last name and the baby had a photo ID, we were able to use his ID to get into the room. I think they gave in b/c my nose was dripping onto the reservation counter. Just as we are checking in (finally) I hear a huge commotion behind me. Hotel employees are running from everywhere. As I move closer to the elevators I see what is going on. My kid (the mini Albert Brooks one whose ID we have just used) has plunged into the decorative waterfall that is the centerpiece of the lobby and is soaking wet. He has also gotten water EVERYWHERE. As I approached and scooped him up, they were putting up all these yellow sighs that said CAUTION, HAZARD, SLIPPERY SURFACE.
Our last act of the disastrous day was to go to the 'Happy Hour' sponsored by the hotel. Everyone wanted to go, so we had no choice but to take the little kids with us. So there we are: me, my parents who are in their seventies, and two small children sitting at a hotel bar eating mini-hotdogs (pigs in a blanket) and driking free apple martinis. Somehow I don't think Brangelina ever have to deal with things like this....
So, we finally make it out of the house and to the airport. Just as we are parking the car at the remote parking lot (to save money) a huge cloud appears and the sky gets all dark and all that so my father says I should drop him, ny mother, and my 3 year old at the bus shelter so they don't have to get wet. so, I drop them off and park the car. As I'm getting out of the car it starts raining cats and dogs. I'm holding my 18 month old who weighs twenty seven pounds and I've got a HUGE bag over my shoulder. As I'm hobbling towards them (getting pelted with rain) I see my parents and 3 year old get on the airport shuttle, which then begins speeding out of the parking lot. I start running like mad with this heavy kid and even heavier bag, in the rain. My kid is laughing his head off, like it is some huge joke.
We finally make it into the terminal and we are standing in line. My mom (who is, by the way, 72 years old) for some odd reason, is wearing a pin striped man's tailored suit and jacket. Not exactly comfy travel wear, if you know what I mean. Her suit was exactly like the one Janet Jackson wore in the 'Alright' video during her 'Rhythm Nation' days--except my mom didn't have that hanging glass pocket watch thing that Janet did. She did, however, have extremely high heels on. Further complicating things is the fact that she has recently put her hair in extremely long extension braids (much like the kind Janet Jackson had in the Poetic Justice movie come to think of it). Unlike Janet, however, she did not have a headband or any kind of elastic band to hold the braids out of her eyes. Which is probably why the following accident happened.
So, she is holding my 3 year old by the hand and he is holding his little brother's hand. The three year old decides to bust that move that the kid did in Jerry Maguire, you know, when you are being held by two people bigger than you and you kick up your feet while you are walking and swing in between. The problem with this is that, unlike the kid in Jerry Maguire, he was not being held by two adults. Rather, he is holding hands with a 72 year old Janet Jackson impersonator and a baby.
Well, you can guess what happened. He kicks up his legs and they all went down like a house of cards. The three year old crashes into 'Janet' (aka grandma) those spiked heels gave out and she went crashing to the ground. The three year old fell on top of her and pulled the 18 month old down on top of him. They crashed into our pile of suicases. It was a three car pileup.
The flight was reasonably uneventful. When we got to the hotel, however, thr 'fun' started up again. We get to the front desk and try to check in. My husband had made the reservation over the internet. However, he was not with us. When we get to the front desk I try to check all of us in. The clerk will not let us take posession of the keys becuase my husband is the only name on the reservation. He and I don't have the same name b/c (being the modern missy that I am) I didn't change my name when we got hitched. So, basically she says she can't let me in the room b/c I could be an imposter or something.
I try to call my hubhby so he can tell her he authorizes me to get into the room. He of course has his cell phone off. Things are getting hairy and my parents are meling down. Further complicating things is the fact that when I was on the plane my sinuses started acting up due to th change in pressure and my ears went all funny as well. When we landed something in my nose and ears 'popped'. My nose would not stop running. It was gushing like a fountain. I, of course, had no tissues and had to keep using my sleeve. In addition, I was now temporarily deaf in one ear. I kid you not, I could hear nothing but muffled sounds out of my right ear.
The snotty clerk says 'we need a photo ID with the last name of the person who is on this reservation--nothing less'. My nose is gushing like Niagra Falls. I have no tissue, and I can't hear. So, in a moment of desperation I pull out my 18 month old kid's passport (I travel with it to prove to people that he is actually under 2 and can fly for free since they never believe he is under 2 since he is so huge). So, I pull out the passport, the photo on which was taken when he was 2 weeks old and he looks dazed and angry. (Ms. DunThat thinks he looks like a miniature Albert Brooks, which he does).
Miraculously, it works. Since he and dear hubby have the same last name and the baby had a photo ID, we were able to use his ID to get into the room. I think they gave in b/c my nose was dripping onto the reservation counter. Just as we are checking in (finally) I hear a huge commotion behind me. Hotel employees are running from everywhere. As I move closer to the elevators I see what is going on. My kid (the mini Albert Brooks one whose ID we have just used) has plunged into the decorative waterfall that is the centerpiece of the lobby and is soaking wet. He has also gotten water EVERYWHERE. As I approached and scooped him up, they were putting up all these yellow sighs that said CAUTION, HAZARD, SLIPPERY SURFACE.
Our last act of the disastrous day was to go to the 'Happy Hour' sponsored by the hotel. Everyone wanted to go, so we had no choice but to take the little kids with us. So there we are: me, my parents who are in their seventies, and two small children sitting at a hotel bar eating mini-hotdogs (pigs in a blanket) and driking free apple martinis. Somehow I don't think Brangelina ever have to deal with things like this....
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Traveling with a Commitment-Phobe
Mrs. BeenThere, there are so many of us out there who feel your pain. Each of my ex BF's tended to develop commitment-itis when confronted with an approaching vacation. I have also witnessed the psychosomatic illness. But now that I think about it was really manufactured illness and personal injury. Mr. BeenThere had a choice- to either eat the questionable shellfish or leave it alone. A previous ex boyfriend was even better than your husband. We were supposed to go to the jazz festival in Montreal, and he was sooo not excited about it. He took his mountain bike out the evening before, in the dark, and flipped over it, puncturing something in his shoulder that would actuallyrequire surgury. For the next week, instead of staying in a nice hotel, we stayed at his parents house where I slept on the floor next to his bed, and if memory serves me correctly, holding his hand. Gag, ugh, ughh, gag. I can totally imagine Brad having exploding diahrrea on a vacation with Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, and David Arqette.He would probably eat some stale pork rinds to avoid having to participate in group karaoke or something. But he wouldn't with Angelina, or George Clooney for that matter. They would look down on him if he had to take a day off from working in the soup kitchen or whatever he's doing that day. Plus, Angie would so rip him a new one and go sleep with that Jenny Shimuzu model.
My most recent ex, you know, the BIG ONE also had a bad case of travel jitters. But he was truly the worst. Countless times he would take me on a field trip to the Barnes and Noble, to look excitedly through travel guides. I can't describe to you hhow excited he was. He would say things like, "I'd love to stay at a little rustic pensione just like this, with a window just like this." Then I would start to really plan the vacation, and after confirming he was available and booking the tickets, he would mentally back away and act like he was doing me a favor, like I'd been nagging him to go with me. Like it was all my idea! I swear, I would be on the cover of 'Duh' Magazine!
My most recent ex, you know, the BIG ONE also had a bad case of travel jitters. But he was truly the worst. Countless times he would take me on a field trip to the Barnes and Noble, to look excitedly through travel guides. I can't describe to you hhow excited he was. He would say things like, "I'd love to stay at a little rustic pensione just like this, with a window just like this." Then I would start to really plan the vacation, and after confirming he was available and booking the tickets, he would mentally back away and act like he was doing me a favor, like I'd been nagging him to go with me. Like it was all my idea! I swear, I would be on the cover of 'Duh' Magazine!
Namibia is for Commitment-phobes
You know how they say Paris is for lovers? Well, I have a new promotional schame for the Namibian tourism board: Namibia is for Commitmentphobes. I was reminded of this story when I read Ms.DunThat's post about her ex's aborted trip to visit her. I too, have a similar story.
Most of you are probably aware that Brangelina and family are tucked away at a $5,0000 a night resort in Namibia. This makes me sour for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I once went on a "vacation" with my boyfriend (we got married ten years after this happened but I'm still sour about it). He was in a heightened state of commitment-phobia and didn't even want to be on vacation with me. I begged and begged him to go on vacation with me. I really wanted to go on vacation becuase we were living in Southern Africa at the time and we lived with a bunch of other Americans who were Peace Corp volunteers, Fulbright scholars and the rest. Anyway, come to find out these people who I thought were my friends planned this huge vacation, rock climbing and safari-ing. Like ten people were going, and they didn't invite me. I felt like I had like the biggest "L" for LOSER tatooed on my forehead. My boyfriend was like "who cares, those people are dumb." But I, of course, did care. A lot. So, anyway, I really needed to go on a vacation to make myself feel better and so it wouldn't look like I was such a total loser to these people. Anyway, since my boyfriend didn't even want to be my boyfriend he didn't exactly want to go on vacation. But I begged and he relented. We chose Namibia becuase it was within driving distance. Well, it was like ten hours away. But it was cheap.
Instead of staying in a $5,000 a night place, our place cost $50 a night. It was about 103 degrees everyday in Namibia and the place had no central air. Only a rickety fan. At that time my boyfriend's commitmentphobia generally manifested itself in various forms of illness. Usually stomach related. Anyway, one night we went out for fish. I ate a couple of bites of mine, but it didn't taste right, so I left it alone. My boyfriend, however, decided to eat the fish I said smelled funny. He wolfed it down. About six hours later he got a really bad case of exploding diahrrea, which lasted the rest of the horrendous trip. We couldn't do anything in that god-forsaken country except sit in that hot room which, quite literally, smelled like ass. WE only left the hotel once, to go to an open air market and buy these baskets woven out of grass. My boyfriend thought it would be really funny to go up to the guy selling baskets and say: "I need six baskets, one for my girlfriend, and one for each of my wives". Har-de-har-har.
On the last night of our trip he dropped another bomb on me (this time outside the bathroom). He told me he had been offered a job in Europe and was leaving the following week. I was like, huh? And then he left me and we had a long distance relationship (different time zones) for like the next four years.
Once I saw this Dr. Phil show and this woman had made really bad choices in her love life. Dr. Phil looked at her and said "What are you? The center=fold for Duh-Magazine?" I guess if she was the centerfold, Ms. DunThat and I have lifetime subscriptions!!
Most of you are probably aware that Brangelina and family are tucked away at a $5,0000 a night resort in Namibia. This makes me sour for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I once went on a "vacation" with my boyfriend (we got married ten years after this happened but I'm still sour about it). He was in a heightened state of commitment-phobia and didn't even want to be on vacation with me. I begged and begged him to go on vacation with me. I really wanted to go on vacation becuase we were living in Southern Africa at the time and we lived with a bunch of other Americans who were Peace Corp volunteers, Fulbright scholars and the rest. Anyway, come to find out these people who I thought were my friends planned this huge vacation, rock climbing and safari-ing. Like ten people were going, and they didn't invite me. I felt like I had like the biggest "L" for LOSER tatooed on my forehead. My boyfriend was like "who cares, those people are dumb." But I, of course, did care. A lot. So, anyway, I really needed to go on a vacation to make myself feel better and so it wouldn't look like I was such a total loser to these people. Anyway, since my boyfriend didn't even want to be my boyfriend he didn't exactly want to go on vacation. But I begged and he relented. We chose Namibia becuase it was within driving distance. Well, it was like ten hours away. But it was cheap.
Instead of staying in a $5,000 a night place, our place cost $50 a night. It was about 103 degrees everyday in Namibia and the place had no central air. Only a rickety fan. At that time my boyfriend's commitmentphobia generally manifested itself in various forms of illness. Usually stomach related. Anyway, one night we went out for fish. I ate a couple of bites of mine, but it didn't taste right, so I left it alone. My boyfriend, however, decided to eat the fish I said smelled funny. He wolfed it down. About six hours later he got a really bad case of exploding diahrrea, which lasted the rest of the horrendous trip. We couldn't do anything in that god-forsaken country except sit in that hot room which, quite literally, smelled like ass. WE only left the hotel once, to go to an open air market and buy these baskets woven out of grass. My boyfriend thought it would be really funny to go up to the guy selling baskets and say: "I need six baskets, one for my girlfriend, and one for each of my wives". Har-de-har-har.
On the last night of our trip he dropped another bomb on me (this time outside the bathroom). He told me he had been offered a job in Europe and was leaving the following week. I was like, huh? And then he left me and we had a long distance relationship (different time zones) for like the next four years.
Once I saw this Dr. Phil show and this woman had made really bad choices in her love life. Dr. Phil looked at her and said "What are you? The center=fold for Duh-Magazine?" I guess if she was the centerfold, Ms. DunThat and I have lifetime subscriptions!!
The Dunkachino Disaster
As Ms. DunThat was unsuccesfully trying to get to the Aquarium with her 'rents, I was attempting to get my father to buy me a Dunkachino at Dunkin Donuts. For those of you who are not frequent Dunkin visitors, a Dunkachino is half-hot chocolate, half coffee. Anyway, so the conversation goes something like this:
Me: Dad, can you get me a medium Dunkachino and six donut holes for the kids
Dad: Donut holes? What are those?
Me: They are like, little donuts, little round things. Don't worry, they are going to know what they are, get 3 jelly flavored and 3 glazed.
Dad: What? Ok, where are my sandals? Has anyone seen my sandals?
Sister: Can you pick me up a regular coffee? Hezelnut Vanilla?
Dad: Oh no, I'm not going to be able to do this. Can someone get me a pen? I need to write this down!!!
My 3 year old: Grampa, can I come with you?
Dad: What's that now that you wnat me to get, a Grampachino?
Sooo, he writes it all down, what everyone wants. He comes back half an hour later with....four regular coffees, z smoothie, and a dozen donuts. No Dunkachino, No Munchkins, no Vanilla Hazelnut coffee for my sister. Where he got the notion in his head for these other items, I can't begin to fathom. I mean, he HAD a list...
Me: Dad, can you get me a medium Dunkachino and six donut holes for the kids
Dad: Donut holes? What are those?
Me: They are like, little donuts, little round things. Don't worry, they are going to know what they are, get 3 jelly flavored and 3 glazed.
Dad: What? Ok, where are my sandals? Has anyone seen my sandals?
Sister: Can you pick me up a regular coffee? Hezelnut Vanilla?
Dad: Oh no, I'm not going to be able to do this. Can someone get me a pen? I need to write this down!!!
My 3 year old: Grampa, can I come with you?
Dad: What's that now that you wnat me to get, a Grampachino?
Sooo, he writes it all down, what everyone wants. He comes back half an hour later with....four regular coffees, z smoothie, and a dozen donuts. No Dunkachino, No Munchkins, no Vanilla Hazelnut coffee for my sister. Where he got the notion in his head for these other items, I can't begin to fathom. I mean, he HAD a list...
Monday, May 15, 2006
Vacation musings
On the last day of my trip, I got in trouble and received the 'silent treatment' from my father. I had planned to go to the zoo or the aquarium with my sister and brother. I know what you're saying already, 'what kind of loser goes to the zoo or the aquarium for the highlight of their vacation?' Especially because this zoo is the world's most horrible, politically incorrect zoo. Monkey cages are tiny and splattered with feces; they throw things at you because they are (rightfully) mad at the world. A huge lion lays lethargically in a cage exactly like the old fashioned one on the side of the Barnum and Bailey Animal Crackers box. Underneath the cage is a crappy sign that says 'Simba.' Indeed, last year we tried to report the zoo but nothing came of it. But it would be fun. The three of us never get a chance to go anywhere together, but when we do, it tends to be very carefree and leisurly. My sister ended up not being able to go because her friend saw a sign for free skin care consultations at Sephora. This opportunity clearly superseded the zoo or the aquarium.
My parents, noticing the time gap left between 'The Ellen Degeneris Show' and 'American Idol' later that evening, volunteered to go with my brother and I instead. Now don't get me wrong, I like doing things with my parents, but it's a totaly different vibe than taking a leisurly drive to observe some wildlife.
My parents got to it with the same zeal and authority as a couple of camp counselors, minus the T-shirts and the whistles. My father got busy plotting out the physics of available time verses possible ground cover and activities. Mom got to work on the hospitality element. By the time she mentioned the dreaded cooler, I was tired out. The cooler, THE harbinger of useless, endless errands. Luncheon meats would have to be bought, ice packs cooled.
Mom: "If we lunch on the beach after, we'll bring the tent, otherwise sand will get in your food. You don't want sand to get in your food. We need that tent for your brother. He's already red and I don't think he should be getting anymore sun."
Me: "We're not going camping, we just want to go for a drive. Just forget it." I was already thinking about the trip there, sitting in the back seat with my brother, getting windblown from the front window rolled down all the way, bobbing and weaving the ashes flicked carelessly out the driver's seat window. When I pointed out that the whole day was turning into a rigamarole, my dad got in a huff. He acted hurt, and thy gave up on the whole idea.
The wierd thing is that this doesn't happen when you have a boyfriend, this type of automatic regression. He's usually there with you, or as much of it was in my case, the idea of him is there at least. The last year we were together, he was supposed to take a trip down there with me for a week long vacation. He kept putting off buying the plane ticket. I kept hasseling him, and waiting to buy my ticket. Finally he said I should just buy it, he had to wait a little longer and would just pay the extra money, and if he wanted to cut the trip short, well, I could just go to the airport and they would switch it around to accomadate us. I wasn't too sure. THEN he said he wanted to drive down there. He seemed really excited about it, and kept talking about visiting my parents, and then driving around and doing our own thing, maybe going to some little B and B, and what not. But I was so uneasy, like I KNEW somehow this trip wasn't going to happen. I just knew part of him wasn't into it. Then, his mom got sick. I still believe that part is true, maybe I'm a shmuck. Some condition that required hospitalization and included possible transfusions. So of course, I was horrified, and couldn't say anything. I offered to stay with him, but he said to go, she might need surgery, but the condition wan't life threatening or anything. Bought the ex mom a card and went to my parents. Now, ex didn't really get along with his mom, but still. Halfway into my trip, when I askd him how his mom was, he told me blankly he never got around to visiting her over the weekend. When I got back from the vacation, I found out he never bothered to visit her at all. I was stunned, but what was I supposed to say? If I got pissed at him, I would also basically be accusing him of being a bad son, and what if something did then happen to the mom?
My parents, noticing the time gap left between 'The Ellen Degeneris Show' and 'American Idol' later that evening, volunteered to go with my brother and I instead. Now don't get me wrong, I like doing things with my parents, but it's a totaly different vibe than taking a leisurly drive to observe some wildlife.
My parents got to it with the same zeal and authority as a couple of camp counselors, minus the T-shirts and the whistles. My father got busy plotting out the physics of available time verses possible ground cover and activities. Mom got to work on the hospitality element. By the time she mentioned the dreaded cooler, I was tired out. The cooler, THE harbinger of useless, endless errands. Luncheon meats would have to be bought, ice packs cooled.
Mom: "If we lunch on the beach after, we'll bring the tent, otherwise sand will get in your food. You don't want sand to get in your food. We need that tent for your brother. He's already red and I don't think he should be getting anymore sun."
Me: "We're not going camping, we just want to go for a drive. Just forget it." I was already thinking about the trip there, sitting in the back seat with my brother, getting windblown from the front window rolled down all the way, bobbing and weaving the ashes flicked carelessly out the driver's seat window. When I pointed out that the whole day was turning into a rigamarole, my dad got in a huff. He acted hurt, and thy gave up on the whole idea.
The wierd thing is that this doesn't happen when you have a boyfriend, this type of automatic regression. He's usually there with you, or as much of it was in my case, the idea of him is there at least. The last year we were together, he was supposed to take a trip down there with me for a week long vacation. He kept putting off buying the plane ticket. I kept hasseling him, and waiting to buy my ticket. Finally he said I should just buy it, he had to wait a little longer and would just pay the extra money, and if he wanted to cut the trip short, well, I could just go to the airport and they would switch it around to accomadate us. I wasn't too sure. THEN he said he wanted to drive down there. He seemed really excited about it, and kept talking about visiting my parents, and then driving around and doing our own thing, maybe going to some little B and B, and what not. But I was so uneasy, like I KNEW somehow this trip wasn't going to happen. I just knew part of him wasn't into it. Then, his mom got sick. I still believe that part is true, maybe I'm a shmuck. Some condition that required hospitalization and included possible transfusions. So of course, I was horrified, and couldn't say anything. I offered to stay with him, but he said to go, she might need surgery, but the condition wan't life threatening or anything. Bought the ex mom a card and went to my parents. Now, ex didn't really get along with his mom, but still. Halfway into my trip, when I askd him how his mom was, he told me blankly he never got around to visiting her over the weekend. When I got back from the vacation, I found out he never bothered to visit her at all. I was stunned, but what was I supposed to say? If I got pissed at him, I would also basically be accusing him of being a bad son, and what if something did then happen to the mom?
Friday, May 12, 2006
I'VE STILL GOT IT
Now I have to get it while the getting is hot!
Although I still (sadly) miss my ex, I am pleased to report that a 21 year old boy tried to pick me up tonight. It was a record low, and was obviously very flattering. I believe 21 is off limits, as it even exceeds the Demi/Ashton gap. I'm not going for any Guiness world records, it's just nice to think that maybe I can at least find a guy my own age. I was having doubts, considering all the guys on match.com who only want to date women 2-15 years younger than them. So screw them all, the pigs!
Although I still (sadly) miss my ex, I am pleased to report that a 21 year old boy tried to pick me up tonight. It was a record low, and was obviously very flattering. I believe 21 is off limits, as it even exceeds the Demi/Ashton gap. I'm not going for any Guiness world records, it's just nice to think that maybe I can at least find a guy my own age. I was having doubts, considering all the guys on match.com who only want to date women 2-15 years younger than them. So screw them all, the pigs!
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Damn, I wish I'd seen that Oprah. Now, Sheryl Crow seems like a real nice lady. I find it interesting that although she's always been described as 'strong' and independent, she too put her professional life on hold for a year for Francy-Pants and then got dumped to the curb like a crumbled up bottle of Gaterade. I don't know about Lance, but it seems like there are a lot of guys out there who get real nervous when you put them in front of your own career. That's so stupid. I would think a man who's lived through cancer would be appreciative of a woman who wanted to make sacrifices to be with him. And about his wife, I mean, what woman wouldn't relocate to France for a seemingly nice guy who's on his way to becoming an international superstar and who is recovering from cancer? Why is that pathetic? I guess you're just not supposed to give anything up anymore. I mean, you would give up where you live and your job if your kid had the opportunity to go to a better school, right? That would be courageous. But if you do it for a man, you're a sap. Sometimes you want to celebrate other parts of your life aside from your 'work' life, but you know what that means-Uh,Oh- she might expect something BACK, something EMOTIONAL. She let her guard down. She's just not attractive anymore. I guess I'm a litttle bitter.
The hospice vacation continues. We were loaded up into the van yesterday to finally go to the beach. For the first time in years, I barely fit into a one piece bathing suit, thanks to my mom's home cooking. But I was able to narrowly escape the 'maillot with skirt' style suit by pairing my bathing suit with a cotton miniskirt. I have been here for four days so far and I would like to make a list of what I've been fed: BLT's, chips, homemade macaroni and cheese, take out chinese, homemade pizza, German chocolate cake with cherry filling, molasses cookies, pancakes and sausage. On the ride to the beach, my sister and brother and I took turns complaining how 'wrong' the scale was in mom and dad's bathroom. It seems it's a good 5-10 pounds off. We hope. But unlike my younger brother and sister, there is nobody at home to be horrified by my acute weight gain.
And yes, we made a family field trip to Reed's Jewelers, to pick out the setting for the diamond my brother bought for his fiance. When we walked in, they were playing a song by Al Green, OUR old song, me and you-know-who's. I am always uncomfortable in those places because they are like a foreign country I am supposed to have visited. They speak a strange language and use words like carrots. My sister who's 29 knows what they are talking about but I do not. She brought along her three diamond rings to use as examples.But the only time I've seen the inside of a jewelry store was with the ex, who had gifted me diamond studs with embarrassing and cautious reserve. Then we went to the store because we had to exchange the studs because they were so small they were actually falling out through my ear hole. Jewelry stores also remind me of how he kept the earrings and any other piece of jewelry he gave me when he broke up with me. He sent all my stuff back in boxes but kept those and the one of a kind Native American jewelry. This was not because he was angry with me but because he 'didn't want me wearing it with anyone else." Huh?So helping my brother was bittersweet. I mean my God, I remember when I used to babysit with Mrs. BeenThere and we used to watch Love Boat. Now my baby brother is a big man getting married and I'm still waiting to find a man who doesn't expect to go dutch on a vacation.
The hospice vacation continues. We were loaded up into the van yesterday to finally go to the beach. For the first time in years, I barely fit into a one piece bathing suit, thanks to my mom's home cooking. But I was able to narrowly escape the 'maillot with skirt' style suit by pairing my bathing suit with a cotton miniskirt. I have been here for four days so far and I would like to make a list of what I've been fed: BLT's, chips, homemade macaroni and cheese, take out chinese, homemade pizza, German chocolate cake with cherry filling, molasses cookies, pancakes and sausage. On the ride to the beach, my sister and brother and I took turns complaining how 'wrong' the scale was in mom and dad's bathroom. It seems it's a good 5-10 pounds off. We hope. But unlike my younger brother and sister, there is nobody at home to be horrified by my acute weight gain.
And yes, we made a family field trip to Reed's Jewelers, to pick out the setting for the diamond my brother bought for his fiance. When we walked in, they were playing a song by Al Green, OUR old song, me and you-know-who's. I am always uncomfortable in those places because they are like a foreign country I am supposed to have visited. They speak a strange language and use words like carrots. My sister who's 29 knows what they are talking about but I do not. She brought along her three diamond rings to use as examples.But the only time I've seen the inside of a jewelry store was with the ex, who had gifted me diamond studs with embarrassing and cautious reserve. Then we went to the store because we had to exchange the studs because they were so small they were actually falling out through my ear hole. Jewelry stores also remind me of how he kept the earrings and any other piece of jewelry he gave me when he broke up with me. He sent all my stuff back in boxes but kept those and the one of a kind Native American jewelry. This was not because he was angry with me but because he 'didn't want me wearing it with anyone else." Huh?So helping my brother was bittersweet. I mean my God, I remember when I used to babysit with Mrs. BeenThere and we used to watch Love Boat. Now my baby brother is a big man getting married and I'm still waiting to find a man who doesn't expect to go dutch on a vacation.
OK Ms. DunThat, Mrs. BeenThere is here and I feel your pain.
For those who haven't met me yet, I'm Mrs.BeenThere and I have been Ms.DunThat's co-conspirator for about 25 years now.I am also spending the week with my parents. They decided to visit me this year in lieu of a vacation. My parents are odd birds. My dad has a PhD and my mom has two Masters degrees. My dad has written four books and is currently working on two more. My mom proofreads all his stuff and is his co-author on a number of articles. They are in perfect health and neither one of them is senile. Nevertheless, once their feet cross the threshold of my house, neither one of them can complete even the most simple task without assistance. They are unable to turn on the t.v by themselves or change the channel. They can't turn on the shower by themselves. They can't find objects that are right in front of their faces. I spend most of my time running around doing basic things for them. It is sort of like taking care of my two toddlers, except my parents are a lot more bossy.
So, here we both are, on the wrong side of 35 spending close to every waking hour with our parents! Becuase of the collective oddities of both of our families, we have to communicate via blog becuase we actually cannot communicate any other way when our families are around. Yesterday I tried to call her in the morning and after about 100 rings her grandfather finally shuffled to the phone and picked up. He demanded to know why, if I was calling from the East Coast, the caller ID showed a number from the midwest. I had to explain I still had my old cell phone that I used when I lived elsewhere. He wasn't buying it. He acted very suspiscious, like I was trying to pull one over on him. I finally got him to tell me that she had gone engagement ring shopping. For a brief moment my heart soared. I fantasized that Mrs. BeenThere had met the man of her dreams and would finally get hitched so my husband and I (who have no couple friends becuase every other married couple we know is horrifically boring) would actually have another cool couple to hang out with. OK, I know, she hasn't actually been on a date in a while so the chances of her finding a guy and getting hitched within 24 hours of the last time I spoke to her are slim, but hey, I can dream, can't I? Anyway, no such luck. She was going ring shopping with her little brother. Who I have known since he was in diapers. Who is now getting married. To an actual adult woman becuase he is an actual adult man and not an fourteen year old. Which means I am really, really old now. Depressing. So, anyway, I get grandpa off the phone (he didn't offer me any toothbrushes) and decided to call her later.
The next time I called her her father picked up. He started droning on about possibly using my name as a reference for some volunteer opportunity he was pursuing. Once again I felt horrifically old when I realized that the same man who used to drive me to the movies in eigth grade now considers me old enough to write a letter of reference for him. Which again underscores the fact that I am one old broad. So, anyway, the worst thing of it was I was just trying to call her quickly to tell her that Lance Armstrong's ex was on Oprah. Did anyone catch that? Lance Armstrong is (after Brad Pitt) possibly the most dangerous commitment-phobe out there. And now his wife was on t.v, presumably to ditch the dirt. Thank god for TIVO becuase her father droned on and on for close to twenty minutes. I was dying.
You know, I'm getting really really sick of Oprah. She always blames the woman for every crappy thing a man does to her. Take the interview with Lance's ex (who, by the way, looks exactly like Sheryl Crow) She is blaming herself for the fact that Lance Armstrong is basically a self-involved son of a gun. The basic gist of the interview was that she was saying that she lost herself in her marriage and became a 'yes woman' who didn't stand up for herself, which eventually led to her divorce.Oprah went into her whole "yeah girl, you women out there better wake up, if your man is mistreating you it is probably becuase you taught him to do that" routine. Ok, sure, I get it, no one is blameless in any situation, but COME ON. What I saw on that stage was a woman who fell in love with a man, sold her house, her car, and her DOG. Moved to France, got pregnant, and was just trying to hold it all together to support the man she loved. She should be blamed because she didn't ask for help? What about blaming him for never OFFERING to help??? A woman gives up a great life for you, has your babies, moves to the land of bad showers, rude people, and chain smokers (ok ok I hate France), cooks your meals and washes your dirty drawers and you never once think to ask "can I help you?" and it is HER FAULT when the marriage tanks!!! Get your ass off that bike and change a diaper already Lance!! Take your wife out to dinner!!Use some of that dough you won at the Tour-de-Fancy Pants France to fund a getaway weekend for her and some girlfriends!!! And what are we supposed to think about him ditching Sheryl Crow? A woman who had a great career, was independent, and was no "yes woman" as far as I could see. It didn't keep her from getting kicked to the curb once bicycle boy had had his fun. Can I get a witness, Ms. DunThat??? Oops, wait, I gotta go, my father is calling me from downstairs. He needs me to turn on the t.v. for him so he can watch C-Span.
For those who haven't met me yet, I'm Mrs.BeenThere and I have been Ms.DunThat's co-conspirator for about 25 years now.I am also spending the week with my parents. They decided to visit me this year in lieu of a vacation. My parents are odd birds. My dad has a PhD and my mom has two Masters degrees. My dad has written four books and is currently working on two more. My mom proofreads all his stuff and is his co-author on a number of articles. They are in perfect health and neither one of them is senile. Nevertheless, once their feet cross the threshold of my house, neither one of them can complete even the most simple task without assistance. They are unable to turn on the t.v by themselves or change the channel. They can't turn on the shower by themselves. They can't find objects that are right in front of their faces. I spend most of my time running around doing basic things for them. It is sort of like taking care of my two toddlers, except my parents are a lot more bossy.
So, here we both are, on the wrong side of 35 spending close to every waking hour with our parents! Becuase of the collective oddities of both of our families, we have to communicate via blog becuase we actually cannot communicate any other way when our families are around. Yesterday I tried to call her in the morning and after about 100 rings her grandfather finally shuffled to the phone and picked up. He demanded to know why, if I was calling from the East Coast, the caller ID showed a number from the midwest. I had to explain I still had my old cell phone that I used when I lived elsewhere. He wasn't buying it. He acted very suspiscious, like I was trying to pull one over on him. I finally got him to tell me that she had gone engagement ring shopping. For a brief moment my heart soared. I fantasized that Mrs. BeenThere had met the man of her dreams and would finally get hitched so my husband and I (who have no couple friends becuase every other married couple we know is horrifically boring) would actually have another cool couple to hang out with. OK, I know, she hasn't actually been on a date in a while so the chances of her finding a guy and getting hitched within 24 hours of the last time I spoke to her are slim, but hey, I can dream, can't I? Anyway, no such luck. She was going ring shopping with her little brother. Who I have known since he was in diapers. Who is now getting married. To an actual adult woman becuase he is an actual adult man and not an fourteen year old. Which means I am really, really old now. Depressing. So, anyway, I get grandpa off the phone (he didn't offer me any toothbrushes) and decided to call her later.
The next time I called her her father picked up. He started droning on about possibly using my name as a reference for some volunteer opportunity he was pursuing. Once again I felt horrifically old when I realized that the same man who used to drive me to the movies in eigth grade now considers me old enough to write a letter of reference for him. Which again underscores the fact that I am one old broad. So, anyway, the worst thing of it was I was just trying to call her quickly to tell her that Lance Armstrong's ex was on Oprah. Did anyone catch that? Lance Armstrong is (after Brad Pitt) possibly the most dangerous commitment-phobe out there. And now his wife was on t.v, presumably to ditch the dirt. Thank god for TIVO becuase her father droned on and on for close to twenty minutes. I was dying.
You know, I'm getting really really sick of Oprah. She always blames the woman for every crappy thing a man does to her. Take the interview with Lance's ex (who, by the way, looks exactly like Sheryl Crow) She is blaming herself for the fact that Lance Armstrong is basically a self-involved son of a gun. The basic gist of the interview was that she was saying that she lost herself in her marriage and became a 'yes woman' who didn't stand up for herself, which eventually led to her divorce.Oprah went into her whole "yeah girl, you women out there better wake up, if your man is mistreating you it is probably becuase you taught him to do that" routine. Ok, sure, I get it, no one is blameless in any situation, but COME ON. What I saw on that stage was a woman who fell in love with a man, sold her house, her car, and her DOG. Moved to France, got pregnant, and was just trying to hold it all together to support the man she loved. She should be blamed because she didn't ask for help? What about blaming him for never OFFERING to help??? A woman gives up a great life for you, has your babies, moves to the land of bad showers, rude people, and chain smokers (ok ok I hate France), cooks your meals and washes your dirty drawers and you never once think to ask "can I help you?" and it is HER FAULT when the marriage tanks!!! Get your ass off that bike and change a diaper already Lance!! Take your wife out to dinner!!Use some of that dough you won at the Tour-de-Fancy Pants France to fund a getaway weekend for her and some girlfriends!!! And what are we supposed to think about him ditching Sheryl Crow? A woman who had a great career, was independent, and was no "yes woman" as far as I could see. It didn't keep her from getting kicked to the curb once bicycle boy had had his fun. Can I get a witness, Ms. DunThat??? Oops, wait, I gotta go, my father is calling me from downstairs. He needs me to turn on the t.v. for him so he can watch C-Span.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
I am on vacation
Yes, I am on vacation. Not at a tropical island, not in Vegas, not on a singles' cruise (something I probably should do considering I'm hurtling at the speed of light toward middle age.) I am at my parents. The plus side: They live 15 minutes away from the beach, and there is a thriving downtown with quaint stores and big city nightlife. The down side: There is a cold front, I have no access to a car and nobody wants to do anything.
That is not entirely fair. On Saturday night, my sister and her friend took me out to a biker bar. We were going to go to a nice club but there was no parking so we left. The allergy fueled flu that I'd had in New York had settled into an easily ignorable cold, so I grabbed the chance to go out. I danced to a few songs, dodging the 'octopus arms' that occasionally reached from behind me to secure the bump and grind position. There was a lot of cigarette smoke which I guess aggravated my condition because I couldn't speak for the next 24 hours and now I think I have walking brochitis. But at least I was out there.
That was the only time I've been out for three days, except when my dad brought me to the QwikMart to get some Tampons, where he stayed in the car, but gave me $4 to buy his Merit Menthols. I don't drive a car, and my sister doesn't like leaving the house during the day. I wake up in the morning and play Scrabble with my brother. My mother asks me what I'm going to eat. I watch old movies on TV, and watch my grandfather shuffle back and forth to the bathroom. This morning he brought out a cigar box filled with new toothbrushes and asked me to pick one. He says there's more where that came from, that he's got 100's of them. I play with the dogs for a little while. I read, and sometimes I take a bath.
I am 36 years old. I am on vacation but it looks more like i've checked into a hospice. This stuff only happens when you're single or in a stagnant relationship. Can anybody else relate? Mrs. BeenThere?
That is not entirely fair. On Saturday night, my sister and her friend took me out to a biker bar. We were going to go to a nice club but there was no parking so we left. The allergy fueled flu that I'd had in New York had settled into an easily ignorable cold, so I grabbed the chance to go out. I danced to a few songs, dodging the 'octopus arms' that occasionally reached from behind me to secure the bump and grind position. There was a lot of cigarette smoke which I guess aggravated my condition because I couldn't speak for the next 24 hours and now I think I have walking brochitis. But at least I was out there.
That was the only time I've been out for three days, except when my dad brought me to the QwikMart to get some Tampons, where he stayed in the car, but gave me $4 to buy his Merit Menthols. I don't drive a car, and my sister doesn't like leaving the house during the day. I wake up in the morning and play Scrabble with my brother. My mother asks me what I'm going to eat. I watch old movies on TV, and watch my grandfather shuffle back and forth to the bathroom. This morning he brought out a cigar box filled with new toothbrushes and asked me to pick one. He says there's more where that came from, that he's got 100's of them. I play with the dogs for a little while. I read, and sometimes I take a bath.
I am 36 years old. I am on vacation but it looks more like i've checked into a hospice. This stuff only happens when you're single or in a stagnant relationship. Can anybody else relate? Mrs. BeenThere?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)