Come Fly With Me

Have you ever thought while at the airport “Wow this process is enjoyable, well organized, and reasonably executed!”?  Of course not.   I have a theory that what we know as modern day air travel was originally designed by the military as some form of psychological torture, the blueprints for which accidentally landed on someone’s desk at the department of transportation. Let’s address the current situation and my recommended adjustments, shall we? “Oh yes, let’s!”, you say and we hold hands and skip over to a picnic in the park*

The check-in counter: I don’t care where I’m going; Paris!  Rome! Sheboygan! How lovely it would be for the ticket agent to feign, for the briefest of moments, a shred of excitement.  “Oh Isn’t that nice, you’ll  have so much fun”! would be a pleasant way to start me on my journey but alas the robot behind the desk only offers a grunt and the briefest of gestures toward the gate.

The security line: Off to a not so great start, I next approach the security line.   The gate agents screaming instructions on loop seem not to have noticed that I am two feet away and fully prepared.  My shoes are removed! Do you not see the well organized 1 quart Zip-Loc bag in my hand?  If anyone out there associated with the TSA is reading this, please be informed that we are not all deaf. I don’t know how you got this impression.  Is there a morning meeting where you’re fed this lie?  “hey by the way, again today, every single person coming to this airport is deaf, every last one.  So, go ahead and continue to scream at them when they are directly in front of you”.  This is inaccurate and you should really check your sources.  

Oh but perhaps my theory is wrong.  Maybe the security agents are shouting so that, at some point during the 30 minute wait, even the least observant nitwit will realize that bottle of Fiji water is not making it through the checkpoint.  I’ve got a solution for that too.  Airports should start charging an idiot tax for anyone who’s unprepared by the time they reach the front of the line.  It could even be fun for the rest of us.  Picture it; once the non-compliant is standing on the yellow foot markers for the body scan, a voice announces their ineptitude over an intercom.  We fellow travelers waiting our turn can sing along to a catchy tune about the perils of burdening society as the belt-wearing, liquids-over-3-ounces carrying fool is directed to the idiot tax payment booth.  

Airport Food: I’m past security, my shoes are tied and the next thing that greets me is a great hall of neon signage and the wafting scent of meat by-products sizzling in vats of oil.  It’s a never ending sea of overpriced, refined starch, binge-inducing garbage calling my name. In the perfect world my solution would be to have Jillian Michaels standing in front of the Auntie Anne’s counter yelling “Don’t do it, you’re gonna regret it in like 5 minutes” and, when I buy that butter laden caloric endeavor anyway, running to the other end of the counter to  tackle me before I can take a bite. I realize that Jillian is only one woman and this is obviously not a scalable solution, which is why I propose installing Jillian Michaels life size plasma screens in front of every Auntie Anne’s.  

Strangely enough, missing from the menu of every airport I’ve ever been to, is coffee.  Airports don’t have coffee.  They have vats of hot dark swill that they pour into coffee cups but no actual liquid I’d define as the stuff.  I’m sorry but airport coffee is the Taco Bell ground beef of hot caffeinated beverages.  It’s disgusting, but we still consume it while lying to ourselves about what’s really inside, clinging to a thin veil of ignorance that’s just one 20/20 special away from being ripped to shreds.  My solution is to not watch that exposé when it comes out.  I just can’t risk a confined space for an extended amount of time with no caffeine.

On-board the aircraft: As for the experience once I’m actually on the plane, I think we could all spend the better part of the next decade commiserating, but that’s not a great use of anyone’s time. So, in rapid succession, just the actionable items that will contribute to the general sanity of travelers in society:

• Leave the cologne/perfume out of your morning routine on travel day, I know you think it smells nice in a “subtle” way and people like it but it doesn’t, and we don’t.
• Gentleman, I can say with scientific certainty that, whatever you may be carrying between your legs, it does not require you to spread your knees halfway into the seat to either side.  I paid for all of my seat, I expect to be able to use all of it.
• I get that your sweet Johnny is a wee little one, and he’s not accustomed to confined spaces but perhaps you could refrain from allowing him to run up and down the aisles arms flailing.  The first five seconds of his menacingly gleeful squeal were cute but the twenty minutes following had me wondering whether my insurance would pay to get my tubes tied, and I’ve spent the last ten reminding myself that binding and gagging a toddler is simply not the Christian thing to do.

I think that about does it. I strongly encourage the forwarding of this information to any fellow travelers you may know, leaders in the aviation industry, or Kinkos for mass order lamination and distribution at your local airport.  Thanks for flying.

* yaaaa about that, there’s no picnic.  I’m not even sitting next to you...ya weirdo.

Kids These Days: The early twenty-somethings

Let’s take some time to talk about what self obsessed, media guzzling mooches these little bastards are, and why I have no use for them.

First of all, kids in their early 20’s remind me I’m no longer in mine, which immediately makes them horrible little beasts.  Secondly they have essentially no knowledge of a world without internet which means they are not only disinclined, but more or less incapable of forming original thoughts or functioning without a constant stream of validation.  Still, I wouldn’t really mind them were it not for the societal burden these attention seeking, uber indulgent monsters force us to bear. You see, they’re not content living exclusively in their culturally void filth.  They frequently mingle with the rest of us in the most uncouth of ways.  They’ve derived a sub-language intended to reduce everyone’s IQ by a minimum of 20 points, and they openly carry on conversations with the rest of us, carlessely flinging these pollutants out at whim as casually as if they were saying hello.   I find this abhorrent.  

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, it’s likely you yourself have recently exited your teens.  I’ve compiled a short list of examples for your education:

“Presh”: There is nothing precious about your idiocy.

“YOLO”: You’re going to live short if I hear you yell this one more time, particularly when paired with a sideways peace sign. That hipster garb came from Nordstrom, you’re fooling no one.

“Def”: I wish I was deaf so I could definitely avoid hearing you lazily shorten this word.

“Bestie”: As in your “bestie” is totally about to steal your boyfriend AND your favorite shoes AND never talk to you again, which you deserve.

“Totes”: If I had a tote full of rocks I would totally swing it at you right now.

Additionally, I’m sorry your company’s stock went down 10% but you’re 22, you barely know what stock is.  Really, what impact does this have on your life?  You’ll have to order the Bud Light instead of the microbrew?  This is not cause for concern.  And I’ve heard you singing those songs of self-praise given you’re a trilingual ivy league graduate, but I got that email you accidentally cc’ed EVERYONE YOU KNOW on, and I recall you not being able to figure out how to change the little light bulb in your refrigerator so I’m going to have to ask you to sit down and shut the hell up.

Yep, kids these days are horrible foolish dimwits.  They juice cleanse and then binge on Jack in the Box.  They post environmental rants via one of the 8 devices sucking electricity out of their wall. They whine and obsess and mope and complain, and they think the world owes them something.  Basically they’re me with faster metabolisms and better skin... and I hate them for it.

10 Reasons I Didn’t Go to My Ten Year Reunion

Ah the high school reunion, a time when grown adults flock to their hometowns in a last ditch effort to relive glory days that weren’t really all that glorious, and reconnect with people they purposely lost touch with during college.   

Ten years ago, I walked across a stage and accepted a diploma from the state of New york, slightly perturbed the half-wit at the podium couldn’t pronounce my name, but otherwise pretty jazzed I’d made it through without any form of nervous breakdown, incarceration, pregnancy scare or regrettable piercing.  And every day of the last decade has more or less been a celebration of the closure of that chapter of my life. Still, when I got the invite to my ten year reunion, I considered going.  Maybe it would be nice to reconnect after all, perhaps I’d forgotten some glory days I was in need of remembering.  So, I hopped online to check airfare to good ‘ole hometown USA and, after wondering what one of my kidneys would fetch on the black market, decided it just wasn’t worth the holiday weekend airfare.  I did my due diligence though, and came up with as many reasons not to go, as there are years since I graduated.  Without further ado, I give you:

10 Reasons I Didn’t Go to My Ten Year Reunion

1.  I wasn’t really popular.  I didn’t run track or organize school dances or run for student body president. There weren’t an overwhelming number of people to reminisce with.

2.  I wasn’t really unpopular: I don’t have anything to prove.  I can’t recall a single person in whose face I’d like to rub my general success.  They’re probably out there, but I’ve long since forgotten them.  Which brings me to my next point.

3.  I don’t remember people:  Of my entire graduating class I think I can list 20 people.  Even if you put my yearbook in front of me I think I might be able to string a memory to a face with another 10.   Dear people I’ve forgotten:  It’s not that you’re forgettable per se, I have just forgotten you.  I doubt this fact impacts you in any meaningful way.  

4.  I hate pretending I do remember people. There are only so many times I can call people “hun” and glance at their nametag before someone catches on.  Which doesn’t matter anyway because after cocktail four I’d  just start telling people I had no idea who they were.  That’s not a good look for me.

5.  I don’t care about your kids:  This one is going to sting a little, but I don’t.  Please don’t misunderstand,  If we are currently friends, I care about your kids.  I’m not completely heartless, but if we were lab partners 12 years ago, I don’t care that little Johnny just took his first steps, I just don’t.  8 photos in I am not suddenly going to realize what a miracle he has been in your life.  

6.  I”m not a raging success:  I  won't lie to you, if I actually had invented Post-Its, hell yes I would be at that reunion because who doesn’t love a moment of celebrity?  As it stands I’m doing fairly well for myself. I’ve lost some weight, my credit score is in the pre-qualified-for-lots-of-stuff-I-don’t-need range , and I finally figured out what to do with my hair.  But none of these changes really qualifies for a FOX reality tv special.  If there aren’t going to be any spotlights or velvet curtains really, what’s the point?

7.  There are too many potential drinking games: “I can’t believe it’s been ten years” heard 20 or so times becomes necessarily acknowledged with tequila shots.  Strangers become friends, friends become enemies, someone calls the cops, and it’s all my fault for starting the whole damn thing.   I have made it 28 years without so much as a parking ticket.  I’d like to keep that streak going.  

8.  There’s no long lost love I was hoping to rekindle: No high school sweetheart, no unspoken crush, no “special friend” I was looking to go all Dawson’s Creek on.  Kids, if you’re reading this, the CW has been lying to you.  You have a better chance of getting hit by lightening than experiencing any of these scenarios.  

9.  I’m still a little afraid of being a grown up: I don’t have a mortgage, or a husband, or children siphoning off the lion’s share of my shoe fund, and out here in sunny California that’s pretty normal for someone my age, but at my reunion there would be, lying in waiting, a concentrated group of people my EXACT AGE who have all of these things, and I am terrified of facing them.  

10.  There wasn’t any dancing The modern sitcom has taught us that reunions include a Saturday night dance ala high school standard procedure but it turns out almost no one does this anymore and this point  just put me over the edge.  Reasons 1-9 I could maybe get over, but If I couldn’t spend too much money on a cocktail dress I may never wear again for the sole purpose of looking good in front of people I couldn’t even remember, while dancing to music I most likely now hate, then I just couldn’t justify going to a reunion.

For all my fellow 2003 graduates, congratulations on making it through a decade of the real world.  With any luck, I’ll find 20 reasons I should go to our 20 year reunion, and I’ll see ya then.

October and November: I Was Busy

I'm going to stop starting these posts with “sorry it’s been awhile since I’ve posted” apologies.  The truth is, it typically takes at least a month for me to come up with something I think anyone would find entertaining to read about.  Actually, you should be grateful I'm not filling the internet with yet another daily blog that rambles on about being single or cookie baking or “going green”.  That’s 5 more minutes a day I'm giving you to stalk your ex on facebook or wrack up another 28% interest credit card payment via online shopping.  You’re welcome, America.  

Truth be told a lot has happened in the past couple of months.  I flew back east for a friend’s wedding, I spent a weekend in Vegas, I went on a vacation to Barcelona and I got promoted.  I get how a normal person would give a general overview of those events.  I prefer the drive by observations I'm about to spit out.  It focuses on none of the important aspects of any of those events:

• When you’re drunk and the lighting is really low sometimes a ball of butter NEXT to your salad looks like one of those mini mozzarella balls IN your salad.  No amount of wine will get the taste out of your mouth OR erase the humiliation when the person across from you, who is only slightly less drunk, decides to point your error out to the entire table.  Thanks random girl, thanks a million.
• No matter how many times you casually mention it, people on the dance floor at a wedding will NOT request Super Bass on your behalf.  This is something you cannot outsource.
• Sometimes you have to trust your friends when they say it’s a good idea to leave the strip and take a $30 cab ride to Old Vegas.  Sometimes you have to tell them ‘no you do not want to go downstairs at 3am to play black jack, yes you do know you’re in Las Vegas, and won't they please shut the hell up and get the hell out of your room’.
• Confetti is ALWAYS AWESOME.  I don’t care how many countries you’ve visited, how cool your car is or what you do for a living.  Someone throws a shit ton of confetti into the air, you will throw your hands up, stare at the sky and spin like you’re freakin Julie Andrews.  
• People in Europe smoke like chimneys, drink like fish and eat cheese, basically nonstop.  It’s not a stereotype, it’s the real deal over there.  They’re still living longer and looking better than us.  I have no explanation for this.
• When you get promoted, in your head you meet your gal pals for $20 martinis wearing a cocktail dress and stilettos.  In real life you high five over draft beers.  You’re wearing sweatpants.
• Also, when you get a promotion, everything becomes more expensive in direct proportion to the raise you just got.  Suddenly it makes sense to buy clothes, shoes, and wine that are that percentage more expensive.  Pre-made PB and J sandwiches continue to be an idiotic waste of money.  (Seriously who is buying those things?  I don’t get it)

Life Lessons with Lea: Rich People

By now you're well aware I'm the product and current member of Middle Class America.  (If not, my Target wardrobe and base model hatchback should have been clues). And given my formidable years were spent with fellow austerity budgeters it's taken me several years to understand how the wealthier world functions. Below are a few Do's and Don'ts I've compiled  regarding the affluent.   Alrighty, here we go....

Life Lessons with Lea, RE:  Rich People

Rich people don't think they're rich:  Average rich people don't think they're rich, they think the obscenely, disgustingly rich people are rich and they're just upper middle class.  Let me paint a scenario for you:  A dog burglar has sent the family dog's collar in the mail telling you the ransom is $500,000 or Fido goes to the fire hydrant in the sky.  If there is even the remote possibility of you being able to liquidiate assets and pay that ransom (or call your parents for the cash) you are a rich person.  Stop trying to rub elbows with us middle classers.  

If that first lesson just provided you with the revelation you are in fact a rich person, you can stop reading now.  

Never joke about trust funds: The idea of actually having a trust fund is, in my mind,  so hilarious  it never occurred to me NOT to use the concept outside of sarcasm.  Turns out Scrooge McDuck isn't the only one with enough money to swim in and mocking that particular form of income is actually frowned upon by those advantaging from one.

Never ask "where did you get that?": I shop at TJ Maxx and Target and outlet stores, so it took me a really long time to get this one down because when someone says they like my dress I have the uncontrollable urge to tell that person I got it for $14.99 and if they hurry they can probably get it too.  This is the opposite of how you interact with rich people.  You're not supposed to ask, you're supposed to know who the designer is and whether it came from Saks, Bloomingdales or a boutique shop.  If say, you're just curious, or you want to splurge or oh, gee I dont know you plan on winning the lottery, and you do ask "Wherever did you get that coat?",a rich person will not tell you.  They will say they don't remember, which is a lie.  Rich people won't tell you where their clothes come from because in that moment of being asked they realize how ridiculous it is they've spent so much money on a sweater and they don't want to own up to it in the face of reality... or maybe they just don't want to be assholes and rub it in your face... I think it depends on the rich person.

Raising children is something the help does:  When a rich person has a baby, you're suposed to say congratulations and then ask them if they "have help".  Seriously, I'm not joking,  Everyone who knows rich people will ask this question.  If they say yes, it is followed by several details.  There's the nanny, the day nurse, the night nurse, daycare and  a gammot of credentials to match.  You're supposed to respond saying how great it is that this person is paying other people to raise their child.  If they say no they don't have help and have actually braved the frontier of raising the offspring they've born, you're supposed to throw them a parade.  

Trailers, above ground pools and coupons are off limits:  You cannot mention these things in front of rich people.  If you do, they'll look at you momentarily like you're some sort of crazy homeless person and then they'll change the subject to something completely irrelevant to the conversation. It's really too bad because I know lots of people who live/have lived in trailers and have/d lovely homes.  I grew up with an above ground pool that was AWESOME (and I'm willing to bet no less fun than my in-ground pool counterparts') and coupons, well coupons are free money, which you would think rich people would be ALL ABOUT but apparently not so much.  I'd consider launching a campaign to end the stigma behind these things but rich people obviously wouldn't donate to the cause, and I'm guessing most everyone else would be averse to paying for the upper class to understand what middle class living actually consists of. 

On the off-chance I someday find myself in the trust-fund-designer-clothing-nanny-employing-in-ground-pool-owning tax bracket, you can rest assured I won't forget that that's not how most of the world is living.  For now, I'm off to clip some coupons.

Life Lessons with Lea: What Lea Needs to Learn

Occasionally I throw out these Life Lessons with Lea posts but I was thinking maybe the tone of them is starting to sound a little holier-than-thou.  Like maybe you're just going about your day, you see my update via whatever technology doo-dad you use, and you're thinking "Shucks I sure could use a pick-me-up tell-tale sign of the times from Miss Giametta.  Maybe she'll retell that story of the woman shitting her pants. That post sure was a doosy". (You speak like this because everyone is from Nebraska circa 1953 in their mind's eye, yes?)  But instead of my Wal-Mart heyday or my latest dating debacle you get yet another kick in the pants about all the things you don't do well.  And maybe you don't like that.

I am, after all, a people pleaser so I figured I'd turn the tables and share some of the lessons I still haven't learned.  Chances are you already know most of these.  If that bitch from Romper Room taught us anything it's that people are watching.  But just in case you don't, and to prove I'm a good sport, I give you:

The Life Lessons Lea Needs to Learn:

1.  Remembering peoples' names:  People out there whose names I know; I guarantee you it took me no fewer than 3 times being introduced, reminded, or referenced via electronic communication for me to remember what your parents named you.  If I had even a sip of an alcoholic beverage on any of those occasions, the number doubles.  I am genuinely horrific at retaining this information. 

2.  Reading Maps: I cannot find my way out of a  cardboard box.  I have zero sense of direction.  On the upside I think I would survive were I dropped in the middle of the Sahara.  You know how they say humans have an inherent tendency to travel in circles in the desert?  I would find a way to mess that up.

3.  Sorting through mail:  How hard is this?  You collect the mail from the box.  Open the stuff you care about, recycle the junk, pay the bills and you're done right?  I don't know how to do this.  I only know how to let the paper grow to a beastly heap before finding the time to pare it down half way, i then wander away and let it double again. 


4.  Putting away laundry:  I don't actually mind washing, drying, or folding laundry but that's where the process dead ends.  I bring the fresh basket to my bedroom, set it on the floor, and leave it there until all of the clean clothes have been worn and I need to wash them again. I own a dresser.  It's functionality is completely lost on me.


5.  Driving aggressively:  You read aggressively, NOT dangerously, which is not a lesson anyone should learn.  Which reminds me, to all the motorists I share the road with; I beg of you, please learn what a signal light is.  You're going to love it.  But back to my lesson, I'm not an aggressive driver.  Look, I'm from a small town.  The only "traffic" we ever experienced was when the fireworks on the 4th of July ended and everyone had to rush home to either put the kids to bed or put on their fancy Carharts and swing over to the local bar.  Lanes didn't merge, metering lights were never on and the only traffic report we ever got was a drunk on a tractor directing vehicles at the intersection of one rural route and another.  That said I'm fully aware most rural transplants learn to adjust in suburbia.  I'm working on it. In the mean time just factor an extra few minutes of transit time if I'm driving.


Obviously there are several lifetimes of things I still need to learn.  These five just seem to create the most critical and prevalent hinderance to me functioning normally in modern society. Please do not add additional suggestions.  Another lesson I've yet to learn is handling criticism well.

Everyone's Smarter Than Me...Thank God

When I was a kid my mom had a way of keeping me "grounded" when it came to my moderately above average accomplishments.   Making honor roll was never anything to celebrate.  A supporting role in the spring musical meant "you'll have to try harder next year for a lead" and when I graduated 23rd in my class it was "too bad I hadn't made it to the top ten percent".  Perhaps a few more words of encourgement and a little less criticism would've propelled me further forward, but frankly, I doubt it.  And now that Im grown and out here in the big bad world Ican't help but feel greatful not to be saddled with delusions of grandeur.  And oh what delusions they would be, as I have discovered since graduating from my, apparently substandard, top-tier school.

My first job out of school was as an assistant at an investment firm wall-papered with ivy league diplomas and wreaking of that long-term stable success us underachievers are terrified of.  No dot com bubble burst, big government bailout failures for these folks, unh unh. By my calculations, their achievements were due to 1 part luck, 3 parts favorable government policy and 8 parts SUPER SMART PEOPLE.  Mostly super smart people pretending not to be super smart, possibly so as not to frighten the dingbat (me) handing them the weekly report.  Still, I wouldn't have realized what a slacker I was had it not been for their across the board outside the boardroom, high flying achievements .  Nauseatingly, everyone seemed to be some combination of varsity athlete/trend-setter/philanthropic dynamo; or, as I liked to call them, sample resumes on steroids.

I was too dumb to know I was a dummy so I started asking questions.  After I got through the really dumb ones ("What's a ticker?") I moved onto the only slightly less rudimentary  ("One more time, which one's 'net' and which one's 'gross'?). Until after 3 years with the firm I left with the knowledge baseline that I know nothing about investments and should stick to my idiot-proof 401k plan.  My bank sends me a pie chart of how they're investing the funds but I'm smart enough to know I'm not smart enough to assess whether pink,  green and yellow are really diversified properly or not. 

You're thinking these people are the exception not the rule, right?  That it's rare for someone to be a well rounded, well traveled, well versed and well dressed individual, and that these folks are few and far between.  I thought that too.  And then I started working at Bloggle.

Minus the well-dressed piece, my current coworkers are very similar to the former, except they've lived in the 12 different countries the investment folks have vacationed in and they speak the dozen or so languages...fluently.  I'll admit, it was disheartening to discover yet another tribe of super smarties. Frankly it stressed me out for some time.  It doesn't anymore though, and here's why.  You may recall a certain son of a former president who managed to get himself elected to the same position based on the notion that he was just a common guy who liked to hunt and couldn't pronounce "nuclear".  Politics aside, I never understood the logic behind that. I don't want the leader of the free world to be as smart as I am, I want him (or her) to be much, much smarter. I want the person steering the ship to make my head spin when he explains the mechanics of the vessel.  Why?  Because he's the one steering the damn ship!  

The same logic shore side tells me Im actually in a damn good position here at Bloggle. I have walking talking examples of all the things I should strive for and,  more or less, an unwaivering faith in the folks leading my team every day.   Am I still self conscious about the one language I speak and my BA from a non-ultra elite school?  Hell yes.   But I'll take being the dumbest of the smart people over the smartest of the dummies any day of the week, and that is something I know Im smart enough to have chosen right.

Working out is (mostly) working out

If you've been paying attention, you'll notice I frequently allude to working out but have never really approached the topic with full force so I think it's finally time to acknowledge the elephant in the room.  Maybe elephant is a bit much.  How about hibernating squirrel, or maybe adolescent panda?  This isn't working.   It's just me in the room ok?  We're talking about me... being chubby.

I've got these great friends, who are themselves thin as rails, who like to pretend I don't have a little extra meat on my bones.  Dear sweet skinny friends, I appreciate your kindness but I own mirrors so really you can stop lying to me, it's ok.  Really, it is, because I am in fact doing something about it. No, let me rephrase that.  I am doing EVERYTHING about it.  So I'd like to share the many, MANY methods to my uber slow, but still steady weight loss.

I am coordinated only if there is no device, ball, disc, net, stick or glove involved.  Translation, any and all traditional sports as a means of exercise are off the table.  I can however shake my groove thang like no no other, so I take every dance/dance cardio/dance conditioning dancey dance class  ever invented.   I love these classes because half the people there have 2 left feet and an AARP card.  I get 60 minutes of staring at a mirror thinking "I'm so young, I've got moves, God I'm good looking!".

If there are no classes I'm interested in at the gym, I hop on an elliptical.  Tina Fey writes in Bosspyants (a novel everyone and their mother should read) about how she dreams up ways of killing people while working out.  This is how I know Tina and I should be best friends.  I don't plot people's deaths though, I plan my fabulous life. I swear I'm not stealing your idea Tina, I've been doing this for years.

The following events all happen in Elliptical Lea's life:

• I have a rocking body, I mean ROCKING.  But not like the over toned greased down 8 pack.  Even elliptical Lea doesn't want that.  I'm just your run of the mill perfect 10. I have pool parties where I wear french bikinis and high heels (high heels around a pool make no sense to me but Elliptical Lea manages to pull them off). 

• I've built my own chain of group fitness/girls night out centers.  We all work out together and I make other chubby women feel good about themselves while groovin to Britney Spears.  Then we hit the showers, do each others hair, and go out on the town.  Somehow people pay me to be a catalyst for making friends and finding hot spots.  Why and how this actually makes money is fuzzy but it does.  On the side I have a non-profit that does the same thing (minus the booze) at after school centers in low income neighborhoods.

• An equally smoking hot boyfriend frequently picks me up in MY luxury car and we go on incredible dates. If the TV I'm watching is on ESPN and there's a NASCAR race, he's a professional race car driver, if it's hockey he's a hockey player, if its a rerun of Real Housewives... I pick between the race car driver and the hockey player.  There is no one on that show I'd want to be within a ten mile radius of.

• I go on Jay Leno to talk about my best selling novel.  I'm somehow enough of a celebrity to warrant an appearance.

One afternoon I spent an exceptionally long time working out.  The rest of the day I had to constantly remind myself none of these things had actually happened.

Back east I used to do quite a bit of walking.  Fun fact, when you remove 20ish blocks of walking a day from your routine, you will gain 5 pounds in 6 months.  Even more fun fact, you'll gain another 5 pretending you didn't gain the first.   After you gain 10 you realize it's time to get your shit together.  So, I recently bought a bike.  Want to laugh?  Watch a grown women with the coordination of jello ride a bike for the first time in ten years.  I've also taken to hiking.  Want to cry? Watch an 80 year old man with walking sticks beat you to the top of the hill.

My ultimate goal is to get down to a healthy weight I can feel good about, and still I know I had some fun getting there.  And if that means I spend the next five years exploring acroyoga or hay bale throwing or unicycle competitions well then by golly sign me up because one way or another I'm getting there. 


 For your amusement, a partial list of additional classes I have actually taken in the name of physical fitness

• Urban rebounding (small trampolines, big fun).
• Step-N-Slide: a device i can only describe as a plastic mat that feels like it's been rubbed down with vegetable oil, affixed with 2 "stoppers" at each end.  The goal of the class is not to die, I think.
• Polynesian (Hula and Tahitian)
• Bikram Yoga: 110 degree room, you literally rain sweat

Socially Slow in Sillicon Valley

I can't believe it's taken me this long to broach the subject on the egregious lack of social skills in Silicon Valley but we're here now so let's get started.

Around here it's no secret the male:female ratio is, statistically, in they lady's favor but that hasn't really provided me an upper hand in the dating scene.  As a good friend recently pointed out, the odds are good, but the goods are odd.  Maybe this sounds overly critical but hear me out.   I think we can mostly agree I'm a fairly attractive, moderately successful woman.  I've got a good sense of humor, and I clean up pretty good; it's only fair to expect similar standards in my male counterparts. Sadly that's currently not what I'm seeing out there, ergo:

Suggestions for Solving the Socially Slow Situation in Silicon Valley

The basics.

Fellas,  if you have any snowball's chance in hell of interacting with anything better than a mop you're going to need to bathe, cut your hair regularly, and corral that facial mange into something presentable, or else get rid of it...daily. You've also got to spend more than 10 seconds choosing clothing to put on, and that clothing needs to be clean.  I don't want to count the number of men I've seen out here wearing high-water khakis, dirty gamer tshirts and Tevas with sport socks.  Do not tell me you coordinated that outfit, passed a mirror and thought it looked good.  No one is that stupid.  But just in case you are, try remembering the four S's: Shower, Shave and no Socks with Sandals.

Alrighty, moving on.  

You look like a normal human being, hooray!  But now you also have to act like one.  I'm amazed how many men are incapable or unwilling to approach a woman.  We're not all cold hearted bitches... okay that's a lie, yes we are.  Nevertheless, you crave our company.  So, when you're out after work and you see a gal you'd like to get to know, just remember the reverse law of gravity applies; any drink that's emptied must be replenished: what goes down must be filled back up.  Listen, this is good news. For a mere five to ten dollars you get to skip trying to coordinate any type of meet-cute.  You can avoid the 99.9% failure rate of a pickup line.  All you have to do is say "Hello, my name is...", and then utter the six most beloved happy hour words a woman can hear, "Can I buy you a drink?".  I've heard men insist it's hard to muster the courage to do this.  Is it?  I mean I guess all we ladies do is shove miniature humans out of our hoo hahs but you're right, sounds pretty painful to say hello.

Just a side note to all the "gentleman" out there complaining about this added expense in their lives, I guarantee I've spent five times as much on bras, tampons,and mascara; and I'm still making 70 cents to your dollar.

Onward charge.

Okie Dokie, we know each others names and my martini is in hand.  What next?  Oh, you thought buying me a drink was the extent of your responsibility for this interaction?  You assumed you were purchasing my undivided attention and sole propulsion of this conversation? As if that cocktail is tuppence in a hat and your silence is screaming "Dance monkey dance!  I've bought you a drink now entertain me."  Let's be super duper clear here.  The drink bought you an introduction and my fleeting attention, nothing more.  It's not a proxy for your personality.  You have to actually open your mouth and form complete sentences that make me want to continue to engage in conversation with you.


Final thoughts.

I'm obviously not the leading authority on successful dating as, to state the obvious, I'm still out there on the hunt.  I have however had a decade of experience and have run the gamut of failed approaches.  Some final suggestions to avoid questionable social skills:

• Don't lead with your money: I really don't care how many billions that app you're developing is going to make.  This approach is literally screaming at me with flailing arms "I DON'T HAVE  A PERSONALITY.  REPEAT, I DO NOT HAVE A PERSONALITY. I HOPE YOU'RE A GOLD DIGGING WHORE.  I DON'T HAVE A PERSONALITY"
• "Noticing" a woman, making eye contact and walking over to introduce yourself is good, staring at her for 30 minutes is creepy.  We've seen the 20/20 specials.  We've got mace for that.
• A little cologne can smell nice.  Bathing in it will induce allergic reactions, to you AND your scent. 

 


 

Simple Simon

If you have ever been to a baby shower, chances are you've wasted a perfectly good weekend afternoon.  In my experience these events are attended by women who are  a.  pissed they can no longer have children, b. intent on pestering me because I don't have children or c. overly enthusiastic about sharing every painful moment of their childbirth experience. They are not fun events.... unless there's booze, and only the really cool showers have booze.  (God bless those sweet sweet women who are willing to take one for the team and serve up the sauce even though they can't partake).  Why go at all then?  Because I love my friends.  No seriously, pregnant friends, I love you. That is the only reason I'm at these things.

Assuming the shower does not have booze, or sometimes even if it does, some form of entertainment needs to fill the otherwise silent gathering, because even if you ooo and aaaah over every freakin onesie mommy-to-be unwraps, this still only takes 45 minutes.  What do you do with the rest of the time?  BABY SHOWER GAMES!!!  You might be asking 'Why the hell would grown women sit in a circle and do cross word puzzles, or list diaper brands?'  Well let me tell you why.  We are, all of us, starved for conversation.  Co-workers are wondering which side of the family the hillbillies are from, college roommates are wishing it's still ten years ago and you're celebrating finals with tequila, Great Aunt Mildred is wondering when skirts got so short and girls stopped being ladies, and the future grandmothers are both wondering who the favorite is going to be and who's going to get left out of baby's first Christmas.  The whole thing is one overextended silent moment from blowing up and it makes us all so desperate to keep the conversation going that we are willing to play a game called "Lick the Melted Chocolate Bar That Looks Like Baby Poo and Guess Which Brand It Is". 

The problem with the games is that all they do for me is remind me how little I have in common with present company and how not ready I am to enter that stage of my life.  Take my most recent experience.  At the last shower I attended we played "Finish the nursery rhyme".  Out of 25 I think I knew 4.  One of the answers I got right was Simple Simon.  The line goes:

Simple Simon met a pieman going to the fair

Now I seem to remember this being maybe number 19 or so down the list. And up to this point all the ladies are recalling stories they told to their children or were told to them as children and oh aren't these sweet memories.  Do you know how I know the Simple Simon rhyme?   It's in the movie Die Hard with a Vengeance. My connection to this situation is a terrorist wreaking havoc on Manhattan. I'm no expert but I doubt this bodes well for any future in motherhood.  It certainly didn't help to connect with the other ladies in the room.

Who knows, maybe the former roommates and the moms and Mildred have that same out-of-place feeling I do.  Maybe we're all suffering through the activities with the same sense of unease.  If that's the case, maybe we should start a new tradition.  No more baby showers.  If a woman you know and love gets knocked up you make plans to meet over a meal where you congratulate her, write her a check for Baby X and wish her the best of luck.  No tea, no awkward moments, and no candy bar poo. 

And just for the record,  there is one baby shower game I love to play.  It's called "guess which gifts mommy's going to return".  I don't have hard evidence, but I'm pretty sure I win every time.