relationship revelations
“It’s not catastrophes, murders, deaths and diseases that age and kill us; it’s the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.” Virginia Woolf
Some of us totally decompensate in times of crisis. Others rally.
Some relationships end because of tragic circumstances. Betrayal. Infidelity. Mental illness. Substance abuse.
Others dissolve because of leaving crumbs in bed or humming the theme song to “Greatest American Hero.” My mom recently reminded me of a scene in the “Bridges Over Madison County” where the protagonist Francesca, after enduring years of her husband’s annoying screen door slamming habit, sees her photographer beau’s silent door close as a sign that he appreciates and respects her. They are soulmates. I don’t remember this scene because I wouldn’t watch that movie if you paid me in Jimmy Choos. But I can appreciate Francesca’s moment of clarity.
After witnessing relationships unravel around me at an alarming rate, it seems that more often than not it’s the screen door that has us calling it quits. It’s a symbolic gesture that means, “I’m not sure I care about you enough to respect your wishes, let alone wipe your ass down the line should you get rectal cancer.”
I have a dear friend who has been in the throws of a passionate, fast-paced love affair for the past six weeks or so. She was shocked to hear her lover express some concerns about moving forward. His explanation?
“When you returned to bed the other night with a banana…you didn’t ask me if I wanted a bite.”
For the record, I wish it was my torrid love affair to which I was referring. I laughed for 10 minutes straight after hearing her post-mortem, so I cannot imagine how much more amusing it would be to witness him actually try to explain that not offering up what seems like a pretty unshareable fruit would serve as his dealbreaker. Even after my friend, um, “shared” an unprecedented amount of herself.
I clearly have no idea what comprises a successful romantic relationship. But I’m beginning to think it probably lies somewhere in between the banana and the betrayal.
what’s annoying me this week (and why i may need midol pms)
- The people who swear off caffeine because they are “naturally hyper,” but then later admit to being on Ritalin and amphetamine-like appetite suppressants.
- Jeggings
- Anyone replying to a text with “Teehee.”
- The Starbucks customers who after 10 minutes of waiting in line, say, “Ummmmmm…” followed by a long pause when asked for their order.
- My mother’s electrician who made me feel like an imbecile for not knowing the difference between xenon and halogen undercabinet lighting, but then proceeded to walk into her sliding glass door.
- Laser hair removal machines who discriminate against fair-haired women, cursing me with blonde fur forever while my black-haired, ape-like friends become hairless.
- The mall kiosk people who commit borderline assault with flat irons, fairy wings and dead sea salts when I just want to cash in my Gymbucks. Can’t I file a restraining order?
- My ass in these yoga pants.
- Anyone who is cold. All. The. Time.
- Sun Chips bags. Apparently being “100% compostable” means they are loud enough to be 100% annoying.
- Use of the word “Jeggings.”
top 10 reasons to boycott busch gardens
10. The Tap Out/Affliction to non-douchebag ratio is alarmingly high.
9. There is a 100% chance you will eat something that has you running an extra mile tomorrow morning or at the very least to Walgreens to buy Prevacid.
8. You will spend $50 on games and still come home empty handed.
7. You will play one game and end up winning a husky the size of Winnebago that you are then forced to carry on your back through the park.
6. You will have to explain to your 6-year-old daughter at least three times why some boys think it’s appropriate behavior to spit on the sidewalk.
5. No drink lids may help save the environment, but they will not save your Badgley Mischka purse from lemonade spills.
4. Amazingly, all the sex offenders seem to congregate in the Jungala area where your daughter just crawled out of sight into a tunnel.
3. Thanks to the overabundance of tourists and popcorn, the odds of a bird pooping on you are about 80%.
2. The turkey leg concessions are scattered throughout the park, but concentrated in areas where you are already most nauseated from smelling the elephant excrement.
1. Public flossing.
sparkling citrus and the ephemerality of life
Between high school and leaving for UF, I worked in the radiology department of Naples Community Hospital. When most girls my age were serving Monte Cristos at Bennigans and earning 10 times more, I was appreciating the sterility of the hospital environment and working in a place where no one wondered about my mental health as I wiped down phone surfaces with alcohol preps. Plus, I just couldn’t bear the thought of washing the chipotle chicken sandwich stench out of my hair each night.
My job was fairly simple. I was to do anything the radiologists asked me to. Often it was hanging x-rays or grabbing bagels from the cafeteria. But sometimes it was just lounging around in a dark reading room, regaling them with stories of what my friends and I did over the weekend.
“Your generation is the generation of useless conversation,” Dr. Napoleon once quipped.
I don’t think I realized at the time that this midget (sorry, little person) was insulting me, and instead went on to debate the merits of hosting the “Billy Can’t Hang” beach volleyball tournament on Saturday instead of Sunday because we wouldn’t have to wait until 11 am to buy the keg.
One of the daytime assistants who was a dead ringer for Laverne of Laverne and Shirley was a bit resentful of me showing up to relieve her each afternoon, five minutes late with sand from the beach still caked on the bottom of my flip flops. Her favorite pastime was reminding me about the dress code policy. More often than not the radiologists (yes, all men) would defend my mini-skirts and sundresses while Laverne shot 45-year-old, single-mom daggers in my direction.
I distinctly remember Laverne making a snide comment one day about how well the doctors treated me. “What kind of perfume do you wear that has these guys under your spell?” she snorted.
Amazingly, this remark, meant only to imply I wasn’t worthy of their attention, actually had me considering my perfume.
I was a loyal user of Victoria’s Secret Sparkling Citrus body splash. Just the right blend of fresh lemon to leave you smelling clean, without any Lysol undertones. I contemplated whether I had hit on some powerful pheromone that had professional, educated, married men trying to talk me into undressing for test films on the CT scanner. Ignoring the disturbing fact that my mother wore the same scent, I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of olfactory influence Sparkling Citrus was having on my ability to attract the opposite sex.
It wasn’t until much later that I realized what was attracting them: I was 18.
Nevertheless, I maintained my loyalty to Sparkling Citrus for many years. It had become my “signature scent.” That was until about 1995 when I discovered Victoria’s Secret was discontinuing it due to lack of sales. I tried to boost their revenue by snagging every bottle from Jacksonville to Key West, but supplies eventually were depleted, leaving my mom and I bitching about how only products we like are discontinued. And not seeing myself as a sun-ripened raspberry kind of girl, I embarked on a mission to find my new scent with the same dread one approaches her GREs.
When I got down to my last bottle of body splash, I began to ration my usage. I’d reach for it before heading out on a date and actually wonder, “Is this guy really Sparkling Citrus-worthy?”
More often than not I’d decide to save it for a “special occasion.” Because I had already lost my virginity, very few Citrus-worthy occasions cropped up between 1995 and my wedding in 2001. It wasn’t that I didn’t have an enormity of “special occasions,” just that there always seemed to be something “more special” coming down the pike. It’s like the radio station phenomenon: you’re listening to a song that you love, but change the station halfway through confident there is a song on another station that you’ll like even more. This is either a common occurrence among most people, or a debilitating character flaw for which I should seek therapy.
As years went by and it became evident Victoria’s Secret never was resurrecting my body splash, my lone bottle was used less and less.
It survived a honeymoon in Italy in 2001, an anniversary trip to the Bahamas, six moves, the premature labor of my daughter (I remember splashing some on my elephant-like neck before heading to the hospital at 3 am), and just a handful of moments in between.
Recently, I caught a glimpse of the nearly empty bottle amidst a rather vast collection of runners up. With great reverence and nostalgia I unscrewed the cap, closed my eyes and took a big whiff. Waiting to be transported back to a time when I counted sit ups, not crow’s feet.
I was horrified at what I smelled. An acrid mix of turpentine and nailpolish remover without a single trace of lemon fresh.
In this last decade or so of me waiting for that “special occasion” my Sparkling Citrus had withered away, leaving behind something closer to my mom’s Jean Nate perfume from the 70s that came in an umbrella stand sized bottle.
And all those missed opportunities to sparkle were lost because I was too busy waiting for something more.
It’s clear to me now that when you change the radio station and find that the next song is no better than the first, you can always turn back. But sometimes…the song is over.
not the most cost effective way to untangle your christmas lights
Shortly after I busted out the kitchen shears, I began calculating the cost of another few tangled strands of lights versus my sanity and decided they needed to be thrown into the trash with the angry force of Godzilla hurling a building. After awhile, it was like playing Tetris. I knew eventually I’d have nightmares if I didn’t stop.
Maya Angelou is quoted as saying, “I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way s/he handles three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.”
When it rains, I shop (and wear white, natch). When I lose my luggage, I buy new clothes. And when my Christmas lights are tangled, I toss them out, not caring if they are recyclable or not. So, I’m not sure what that says about me, but I really hope my living poor life coach skips this blog.
In my defense, about seven strands still survived my Chuck Norris-like attacks. Ripping off branches and cursing, I managed to unwind a lucky few twinkling white lights as dried-out tree needles flew into my nose and every crevice of my marble floors. They’re now neatly coiled away in Ziploc totes, smug as Buzz Lightyear and Jessie, happy to survive another year.
Of course half of them will be burned out next year. Since when did Christmas lights become a one-season use item anyway? Doesn’t anybody remember their grandmother carefully unwrapping strands of bubbling candle lights that have survived four children and as many decades? Well, I don’t either. But it seems somebody should.
Throughout this process, especially while I dragged the 12-foot tree out the front door and down the steps by a leash of tangled lights, I wondered why in the hell I don’t just get a faux Frasier fir from Frontgate like everybody else. But de-Christmasing is like childbirth. You get caught up in all the excitement and forget how bad it fucking hurts.
Surgical gloves are a great way of avoiding sticky tree sap. And letting people know how bat ass crazy you are.
my new year’s resolution
To use my Magic 8 Ball for all decision making.
“Should I leave my Christmas Tree up until Easter…”
what’s more disturbing
That there are 78 ingredients in my latest eye cream. Or that I actually counted them.
why i should not be allowed to do laundry
Just when I thought, “Thank Charlie Crist it was not my clothes that lost the ink pen battle,” was when I realized the undiscovered pen was still in the washing machine. With a load of my clothes.
bedtime convo with my 6 year old
AEB: “Mom. Can I tell you something?”
Me: “Sure, love. What is it?”
AEB: “I’m pretty sure that reindeer have tea parties. Goodnight.”
i only wear white when it rains 