Archive for April 2012
my relationship truth-o-meter
As I peruse the paper in my car waiting for the gym (Nordstrom) to open (cardio Wednesday), it strikes me as odd that we have a truth-o-meter for politicians, but not for relationships.
I’m far from a shining example of relationship success or even good judgment, but I have amassed a fair amount of knowledge in my 30-cough years and can finally put my journalism background to work at debunking a few common myths and misconceptions.
So just as political fact checkers toil to research the accuracy of statements such as:
“The majority of Americans want Rick Santorum’s amygdala studied to determine if his insanity is congenital or the result of environmental pollutants.”
I too will try to bring some clarity and truth to the mind-numbing white noise we consider love.
This is specifically dedicated to those of you whose dysfunction combined with my own will hopefully one day fuel a reality TV show capable of earning us enough money to pay for our Botox and/or children’s therapy. Or, at the very least, cocktails at the Gimpy Vomit.
You know who you are.
“There are two sides to every story.”
(the second most annoying statement you will hear during a break up)
Sure two “sides” exist, but think of those sides as individual perceptions of reality. And some people’s reality is so completely distorted, it bears no actual resemblance to the truth.
So the next time a guy friend tells you his wife howls at the moon and sharpens her talons right before giving him half a hand job, you might want to recognize that his “side” should be given as much credibility as, say, Rick Santorum’s.
“The grass isn’t always greener on the other side.”
(the single most annoying thing you will be told during a split)
Look, it’s a ridiculous statement that undermines the intelligence of any person experiencing challenges in a relationship.
Of course it’s not always greener, but who the fuck cares if your lawn is already dead?
“Divorce is the most effective diet plan out there.”
Next to salmonella poisoning, going through the trauma of a divorce is truly the best way to shed that baby weight.
But be careful. There is a fine line between fitting into your high school jeans and looking like you’re undergoing chemotherapy.
“Dating is the best form of entertainment.”
Because when that mature, charming, seemingly perfect 50-year-old guy who left a Gucci purse on your doorstep starts pulling up his dead wife’s Facebook page while you’re with him at a romantic retreat in Napa, you have to stop and appreciate the universe’s sense of humor.
And even if you’re finding it hard to laugh it off in between feeling obligated to say how pretty she is and “not at all sick looking despite the kidney dialysis,” at least know that you always can count on me to snort vodka out of nostrils from laughing so hard when you tell me about it later.
Plus, I will blog about it.
“If you’re smart, you’ll be the second wife.”
Shortly before I graduated college I was dating a sweet, successful JFK, Jr. lookalike who adored me.
The problem? I would have been his second wife.
Still so green and naive, this prospect had me feeling like a second round draft pick.
I was in my early 20s, 10 pounds thinner and had no gag reflex. I thought I deserved to go in the first round!
Here’s what I wish somebody would have shared with me then: the second wife is always held in higher esteem. She’s revered and recognized as the do-over that men are determined to make it work with since it’s a universal truth (to men) that one failed marriage is always the fault of the first wife. The second failed marriage, however, has the husband looking like the crushed, taped-up box of returned toys covered in clearance stickers on the Target endcaps. They will do anything the second time around to avoid looking like the unwanted throwback (again).
Their first wife was like the first pancake. Automatically tossed out because the second one always seems to turn out better. This determination not to be wrong (again) combined with the coaching and potty training of the first wife makes for a winning combination.
You see, the first wife always looks like the nagging bitch for whining about the toenail clippings all over the bathroom floor. But the second wife doesn’t bitch about that at all. You know why? Because there are no more toenail clippings on the floor! (you’re welcome)
“Women should marry a man about 10 years older.”
Because no matter how old they get or how many ear hairs they sprout, men never really stop wanting a 25-year-old (and we can only pull that off for about five years, max), it’s in every woman’s best interest to marry up about a decade.
The age difference is not vast enough to make you look like you have daddy issues, but it’s sufficient enough to ensure that your husband will worship you for years to come.
For instance, if guys your own age find you attractive, guys about 10 years older will find you beautiful. If you’re rocking less-than-average intelligence, to that older guy you’re simply adorable. Slutty? No problem. An older man will just think you’re adventurous! And no worries if you’re completely insane because to an older guy, that’s just idiosyncratic.
Not to mention older men are less likely to leave you for a younger woman since their ego prevents them from wanting to be mistaken for their wife’s father.
I really see no downside for either party when sticking to this rule since women are not afraid of a few grey pubic hairs or decreased sex drive.
All we really want is someone other than a Vietnamese woman we can’t understand to give us a foot rub and tell us we’re skinny.
“Men are complicated.”
Men are about the only math problem I can solve without a calculator. That’s not to say I like math or have any daily use for it, I’m just pointing out that I don’t think it’s astrophysics.
Men like breasts.
They expect you to swallow, stay thin, water them every once in awhile with a light beer, and not remind them how bat-shit crazy their mother is. They want you to let them watch endless, uninterrupted sports without judgement. They need to know they are your biggest and best.
Men like breasts.
“Monogamy is a simple formula.”
As long as the fear of losing the person you’re with outweighs your desire for another, you’ll remain monogamous:
I’d be lost without him/her >; Hot sex with spin instructor/nanny = Monogamy
Also, it’s helpful to realize that women cheat because they’re miserable. Men cheat because they can.
“Your soul mate & life mate are never the same person.”
The person who is so inexplicably tied to your soul that there is a cosmic collision whenever you’re together is rarely the same person who remembers to use a coaster.
The sooner you accept this as truth, the happier you’ll be.
Also, men like breasts.
america’s got sweat glands and why i am the worst groupie ever
Nick Cannon: Actual Size
When the Mahaffey Theater offered free tickets to yesterday’s taping of “America’s Got Talent,” I gladly accepted the opportunity to see judge Howard Stern and the contestants he might draw. A former Tiger Woods mistress refilling a maple syrup dispenser while yodeling through her trach tube perhaps? One could only guess what Howard would do to resurrect the old days of being fined by the FCC.
I ordered the tickets online while trying to suppress a recurring nightmare I have that I’m standing naked under a floodlight in Howard’s former E! Studio while Gary measures my inner thigh fat with calipers, Fred administers an IQ test, and Ralph suggests I press charges against my hair stylist.
The taping information on the tickets was vague with the exception of a dress code policy that rivaled that of an Arab country.
It specified NO open-toed shoes!! Or heels!! with enough all caps and exclamation points to make me wonder why I’d consider associating myself with such American keyboard abuse.
I can only imagine this is because of (justified) fears that Floridians don’t get pedicures with any regularity and should Nick Cannon interview any members of the studio audience their high heels could further emphasize that he is shorter than his infant twins.
Nevertheless, I slipped into flat-as-my-shoes-get Mary Janes and a simple black Betsey Johnson dress just in time for the 5pm taping.
Or was it that I was to arrive at 5pm for a later taping?
Line up at sunrise for the 5pm taping?
It was all very unclear, and the search for shoes in my closet that were less than four stories tall left me frazzled and unable to count out five dollar bills for parking.
Nana insists these are silver. I thought they were gold, but I think we can all agree that their public appearances should be limited to quick trips to Walgreens to refill her thyroid medication.
We arrived at the Mahaffey at 4:59pm. Because that’s how Nana rolls.
Yes, in her never-ending quest to be the cool mom who’s not the least bit offended by irreverent assholes like Howard Stern (or her own children), Nana joined us after managing to locate gold ballet flats somewhere in the bowels of her own closet. Or perhaps, from the looks of it, the local Goodwill bin.
“What?!” she said after noticing my brother’s face twist up in a grimace similar to that of someone who just licked battery acid. “I don’t have a lot of closed-toed shoes that are flat.”
Bottom line: if we were going to wait in a queue that choked the perimeter of both the Mahaffey Theater and Dali Museum like a noose, then we were not getting turned away for making Nick Cannon look like a Pygmy.
Worst Groupie Ever
This might come as a shock given the Mary Janes, but I am not a good groupie.
For instance, I’ve been fairly obsessed with Dave Matthews Band my entire adult life. They DJ’d everything from my drunken hook-ups in college to my wedding. A good litmus test for my boyfriends involves putting their iPod on shuffle. If DMB isn’t playing by the third song, I’m well within my rights to end the relationship. And during my pregnancy, I swore that “One Sweet World” actually made my daughter kick. But when DMB comes to Tampa each Summer, I find myself saying things like: “I dunno guys … the amphitheater is pretty fucking hot in July.”
That being said, because a sitter was already being paid $15 an hour for me to be at this taping, I felt I owed it to my forehead to at least get a basal cell carcinoma while standing outside in the blazing hot Florida sun.
America’s Got a Bunch of Idiots … Namely Me
It didn’t take long for me to notice that even though hundreds of people were waiting in line, only a few who may or may not have been wearing pirate costumes (I was hallucinating and close to passing out at this point) were escorted inside.
TV crew members walked by the line suggesting we wave, look at the camera, don’t look at the camera, and squish closer together to determine who remembered deodorant and who didn’t.
Me standing in line
Several pictures were taken, and I can only imagine I looked like a glob of freshly poured asphalt having stupidly obliged the dress code which clearly screamed: DARK COLORS APPRECIATED!!
As 5:45pm approached, and a total of two people were relieved from the steaming cauldrons of waiting purgatory, my brother joked that maybe there wasn’t even a show.
“This is just a sociological experiment to see who would actually stand here and for how long,” he suggested, while giving me a look that said, “I was ready to bolt 44 minutes ago, for the record.”
But here’s the tricky part: there comes a time when your fears of becoming a total moron are overruled by the investment of sweat that’s dripping down your back.
Sure, the rational part of me yearned to say “fuck this” and pass out in a puddle of perspiration on my couch at home instead, but the other sunburned, very dehydrated part of me that spent an afternoon with a leaf blower trying to unearth these not-so-flats was pretty determined to see Howard Stern make somebody cry, dammit.
Luckily for my electrolyte balance, at about 6pm, the crew who pretended to be too important to answer questions, avoiding all eye contact and pressing their earpieces further into their ears as if receiving life-saving information, was finally finished taking pictures of the sweat cascading down our ass cracks.
It was now time to address the crowd and Nana’s 14kt gold lamé flats that shone in the afternoon sunlight like a beacon of bad fashion:
“Sorry guys. We’ve already filled the theater. You’re going to have to come back tomorrow.”
There were other words said, but it’s amazing how much faster your heels can turn when you’re not wearing any.
I was already buckling my seatbelt in the car when the crew promised priority passes and details about the next taping that basically translated into:
“We used you all to make this venue look completely packed. Made you stand out here for AN HOUR knowing the theater was already at capacity with 1,200 people who presumably knew enough to line up here last week. We took pictures of you waving like imbeciles for our season premiere and/or a Summer’s Eve douche commercial.”
In summary, America’s Got Talent at pissing off people and making them question the effectiveness of their deodorant.
Howard Stern Can Still Make You Cry
Beth Stern not at all wearing flats or DARK COLORS!!
Amazingly, I didn’t even need a judge on a reality TV show to remind me of my genetic inferiority.
As I sat outside at Parkshore Grill later that evening, Howard’s beautiful wife Beth turned up looking completely gorgeous, thin, and in no need of Photoshop.
So thanks a lot, America’s Got Talent.
Nothing quite boosts one’s self-esteem like sweating off all your makeup right before standing in almost-flats next to a 6-foot-tall supermodel.
i only wear white when it rains 