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Thursday 8 September 2011

THE BLIND DATE


I recently read that an actress went on a blind date with a media mogul when she was eight months pregnant. I’m not sure if I admire her for having the nerve to wrap her large bump in a curtain and try to put her 'sexy' on, or if I think she’s nuts for thinking a man is going to be attracted to her current condition - as if blind dates aren’t hard enough.

To be blunt – one of my specialties as you know – I hate blind dates. For me they rank right up there with having a root canal or shaving one’s legs (despise it; actually, resent it. seriously don’t we women have enough to do?) The only good thing about blind dates as far as I can tell is the story you have to tell afterwards that can often provide hours of amusement – this is years later mind you. At the time blind dates can often be scarring to one’s psyche, sending the person back into the hermit cave with a pint of Hagen Daz. Before you all start writing in telling me you met your husband on a blind date, I’m sure that happens. But let’s be honest, it’s an exception to the rule.

I think the two worst blind dates I ever went on was thanks to my dear sweet Mother. In her defense, friends of hers referred them to her and she had never met these gentlemen in question; clearly friends that either drink too much, or at the time thought I was so desperate I would take just about anything. Bachelor behind door number one was certainly not bad looking, tall, dark, built like a linebacker in the off-season. The problem became quickly apparent however when he ordered veal, a whisky and started telling me about his summer home next to George Bush. To be frank, veal and George Bush are not the way to my heart. That evening, he actually used the phrase ‘when we summer at our summer house,’ so many times I was pushed to begin describing my autumn, winter, and spring homes in detail (I do NOT have seasonal homes, but boredom often drives me to mockery). By the time he lit up his cigar, I knew he and I would not be sitting in a porch swing when we were eighty.

Behind door number two was an entirely different matter all together. In short, he was a tool. There is just no way to sugar coat it. I showed up at the door and he was heavily tattooed – I have two, so I don’t care really – his hair was slicked back like a bad version of Buster Poindexter and he was dressed like Dylan McKay from 90210 with a little mechanic thrown in for good measure. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a surface kind of girl – I’ve dated my fair share of well, let’s just call them ‘acquired taste’ men – but the unctuous L.A vibe this guy was throwing off damn near knocked me off the sidewalk (sorry Brits; pavement). He also had his own special lingo with annoying catchphrases that peppered his conversation, and spent most of our car ride over to the restaurant telling me how he was an amazingly successful screenwriter that was often hired to make scripts sound more black. Yes, cause he was SO down like that. (Um, btw, he was white. Need I say more).

The worst part was that when we got to the restaurant he claimed that he had already eaten – seriously WHO does that??? – but handed me the menu and implored me to ‘Mangia, mangia!’ We were at sushi. I wasn't aware one mangia-ed at sushi, but anyway. It got worse when he spent the entire night going back and forth to the bathroom, spending an egregious amount of time in there; let me put it this way, he was NOT making paper mâché out of the toilet paper. The one positive is that at least I got to dine alone and wasn't forced to make inane conversation.

Needless to say, I looked for lobster on the menu and contemplated ordering twelve orders. The kicker of course was when we got back to his house, he pretended he wanted an early night, waited for me to drive away (I of course furtively hid, knowing what this dirt bag was up to) and then sped away in his car; probably to go have dinner.

These of course are the times when I gaze at my lover-man playing with our son and thank the mighty cosmos abound that I do not have to go another blind date. Oh, and my partner’s dead hot, so that’s an added bonus of course. Okay fine, maybe I’m a little superficial.


Wednesday 7 September 2011

THE WRITER'S MIND


My mother asked me the other day how I find things to write about for my blog. My knee-jerk response to this question was, "trust me, it is not easy." But the more I have thought about it, the more I realized that my answer was not necessarily true. These days it is not as much not having things to write about, but finding the time in between making sure the King does not empty out our bedroom drawers of all their contents, or trying to negotiate with him over mealtimes. Of late, he’s decided he’s on a hunger strike – his cause I’m not sure, but something tells me that he is striking in honor of the charity of ‘will,’ as in, I WILL do what I want.

As far as writing goes, the great thing about this world is that every day no fail there are a plethora of crazy, unbelievable, outrageous and mind bending stories that fill our media airwaves – and that’s just in the political arena (I wish I were joking). Visit any news website and half the stories will dazzle you in their preposterousness, not to mention confirm that the common man/woman is a complex and often frightening creature. In short, for a writer, the crazier our world gets, the more there is to write about. Not that I’m hoping we continue on this trajectory of course, but you get the idea.

In my experience, having a writer’s mind puts you somewhere between schizophrenia (between the voices, the characters and the inner dialogue that always seems to be running in one's head; don't be alarmed, I don't have a giant rabbit in my head telling me to hurt the neighbor or anything) and whatever disease results in your synapses firing on full, sponge-like tilt. And I wonder why I am an insomniac. 

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes if I’m tired enough, my brain slows down and about all I can muster is vegetating in front of an episode of (insert country)’s Next Top Model (I’m not proud of this addiction, but I'm able to admit it, okay). But on the fun days, as soon as I step outside the house, everything and everyone is fair game for material. From the mundane to the downright surreal, the world simply offers up stuff to write about; be it the eccentric folks in line at the bank (everyone has a story, and if they don’t, a good writer can certainly make one up), the latest story on the front page of the newspaper, or the hysterical or maddening things the King does in a given day - watching a human develop before your very eyes is a pretty surreal experience.

So you see, it’s out there; writers are simply on red alert for it. Try it one day, just go about your business and open your eyes and ears a bit wider; you’ll be amazed at how much is going on around you and would be fodder for the most amazing tale on the human condition. Then again, ignorance is not only bliss, but it’s a lot more conducive to a good night’s sleep.  

Monday 5 September 2011

THAT'S PANTS


This weekend a lead singer from a very successful rock band was kicked off an internal U.S Southwest flight for wearing pants (trousers, for you Brits) that were hanging too low. Apparently, the stewardess came up to him right before takeoff and told him - I'm postulating here, as I don't know her exact words - 'sir, you're pants are too low and if you don't hike them up you will have to leave the plane.' He then appropriately asked if the stewardess did not have better things to do before takeoff than worry about his pants. You know, like securing the door, or showing people how to use a seatbelt – seriously, who still does NOT know how to use as seat belt; If you raised your hand, you should not be flying – or making sure there is enough duty free items in the little cart that no one ever seems to purchase.

The lead singer eventually left the plane and ended up catching a later flight. As expected, when the higher-ups at the airline caught wind of this, they, in true PR fashion, said that the airline ‘profusely apologized to the customer and that he elected to take a later flight.’ Um, I think he elected to take the flight he was booted off of, but apparently his pants were too revealing for Miss Fussy Fashion in the Southwest uniform - the hideously offensive polyester uniform that never seems to fit, I might add, and you don't hear us complaining. 

Aside from being one of the most ridiculous stories I have ever heard, it also begs the question, what the heck is going on in our airways if stewardesses are placing their attention on a passenger’s pants and how they are being worn. What is she, his mother? Fine, if the man is not wearing any pants, that’s one thing; at least that would be grounds to tell the gentleman politely, that even in the friendly skies, people need to cover up their hardware, or ahem, software (sorry, I couldn't resist). Or let’s say, if the person wrote on his pants, ‘I'm going to bring down this flying tin can with a big fat bomb,’ then I would understand the intervention on her part.  But asking someone to leave the plane because his pants are resting too far below his boxers would mean half the passengers below the age of 25 would have to deplane. What’s next, asking the woman wearing her shorts too short to get off, or even better, ‘Mam, I find your panty lines offensive, I’m going to have to ask you to choose another airline.’

I’m not even sure what to call a situation like this: Sartorial profiling? Clothing racism? I tink those ‘working’ the plane so to speak – sorry I am laughing as my imagination is running wild at this terminology – should reevaluate what we need them to do up there. I’d say the primary tasks should be to keep their eyes peeled for suspicious individuals carrying weapons; ascertain who are the booze heads and make sure they don’t charge the cockpit in some drunken claustrophobic tirade, and of course make sure the damn pretzels aren’t stale. 

I don’t think this is too much to ask, is it?


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