The Not It Girl is changing into The Chrysalis Collective.
I’m ready to board. I’m wearing a black cashmere sweater, black joggers, and ankle boots. I have no reason to think you care about what I’m wearing. And I have no post prepared due to all of the fun I had. See you Monday in Jersey, I have some good stuff for your next week. Enjoy the weekend.
(This post will be quick. I’ll post more about my skiing adventures some other time, but since my time in Montana is almost at an end, and it appears I am actually connecting to the Wi-Fi in my room, I want to take advantage and post this before my luck runs out. Yesterday I had to sit in the lobby at 6:00 a.m. with other Wi-Fi orphans):
The first time I went skiing with my late husband, he took me right to the top of a black diamond. I hadn’t skied since college, so I was rusty. And nervous. Much to his delight I had just fallen trying to get off the ski lift, so my confidence was already shot.
When we got to the top, and I looked down into the gaping snow maw of death, I shook my head and backed up. “No way,” I said. The relationship was new, and I didn’t want to appear like a diva, but it was really steep. “I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can,” he answered.
I laughed. “How? How in the world do you suggest I get to the bottom of this mountain?”
He adjusted his goggles. “Point your skis downhill. And try not to get yourself killed.”
Sage advice. I’ll spare you maudlin ski metaphors, but sage advice for life, too.
I fell a lot that day, and many days after that. And through the years skiing has handed me busted knees, dislocated thumbs, and thunks to my noggin. But after forty exciting years, my skiing career can finally be summed up in one word:
Competent. I’m a competent skier. I’m not fast, or fancy, or daring. I don’t have bright expensive outfits or flashy equipment. I don’t feel compelled to visit the big commercialized brag-worthy ski mountains that boast high-end apres-ski villages
What I do have is awe. Awe that I live in a world that has such a thing as skiing. That I can click my boots into my light blue Rossignols, take a chairlift to get above that tree line and then let gravity propel me downhill as I easily move through the snow.
I’ve skied in a lot of different places through the years, even out of country, and I have a lot of great stories. But my time at this little ski mountain this week reminded me why I began skiing in the first place.
Nature. Simplicity. Quiet. Solitude.
And we’re off for some more.
Most times in life people agree to disagree, right?
I mean, everyone has his or her own favorites: favorite football teams, favorite condiments, favorite bands. And while there may be good-natured jesting that takes place, usually that’s all it is.
Good-natured jesting.
For example, say you only like writing with medium-point pens, and you mention this to someone who considers anything other than extra fine-point pens as blasphemy. Chances are he will just give you an odd look as if to say, “Whatever turns you on, go on ahead and live your sad medium-point life,” and that will be it. He thinks you’re weird. You think he’s weird. Life goes on.
But I find there are some peccadillos that people just will not accept. Ever. They see the fact that you don’t like these things as character flaws, or something just inherently wrong in your personality. And they take it as a personal challenge. You are now a problem to be solved. I try not to broach the following subjects with people, because it’s exhausting defending myself. My answer is usually some version of the following:
“For fuck’s sake I’m 54 years old, I think I know what the fuck I like and don’t like.”
This is my list of
Ten Things I Don’t Like That People Get Mad at Me for Not Liking
Red Hot Chili Peppers. I just don’t get it. Anthony Kiedis’ voice just does nothing for me, the music does nothing for me, I’m sorry. Don’t hate me for it. And please don’t play the 85-song compilation for me to get me to change my mind. I won’t. I never will. Everyone I know and love adores RHCP, and I wish I could share their joy. I always get the question “How. Can. You. Not. Like. Them?” delivered with a deadpan expression. I don’t. So sue me.
“The Office.” Let’s get this straight once and for all. I love Jon Krasinski. I adore Steve Carrell. I appreciate the dry humor of the show, I love hearing it on in my living room when my boys watch it, and I love the memes. I GET IT. I just don’t binge-watch it, so I don’t get the references. It doesn’t really even belong on the list because it’s not like I don’t like it. I just don’t really watch television, so the cult phenomena of it has eluded me. That’s all. People get so angry at me if they can’t talk to me about it. I understand. I’m the same way about “Seinfeld.” I mean, how can you not know who Schmoopie is?
Avocado Toast. Again. I enjoy guacamole. But the thought of spreading mashed avocado on a piece of toast and then eating it makes me want to retch. The consistency is abhorrent to me the way hummus is, with its unpleasant mealy-mouth feel. This is just my opinion. Feel free to eat your fucking avocado toast, and let me enjoy my eggs in peace. I mean, shit. I’m never gonna eat it, so move on with your own life.
Bloody Marys. I don’t like cold tomato soup in a glass. So I don’t care if you stick celery in it or beef sticks in it or cocktail onions in it, or even if you sprinkle special herbs from your garden in it. I’ve tasted them, and I don’t like them. I’ll drink a mimosa at brunch, if you don’t mind, or a nice glass of wine. You want to drink your iced ketchup, enjoy yourself.
Hot Sauce. I know it’s a craze. My sons pour it on eggs, pizza, nachos, chicken, meatloaf, steak, you name it. But doesn’t the food then taste like hot sauce? Is that the point? Why would I grill a twenty-dollar filet mignon then drown it in hot sauce? People buy me hot sauces, push them towards me, tell me, “Try this.” No. Why? Go away.
Tom Brady/Tiger Woods. If I see the acronym GOAT one more time to describe these two athletes, I will scream. I’m tired of them. There’s no rhyme or reason to my distaste for them, I’m just tired of them sucking all of the oxygen out of the room. Can’t they retire and just GO AWAY? I hope Patrick Mahomes tears Tom Brady a new butthole at the Super Bowl. And watching Tiger Woods’ smarmy smug pissed-off expression when he had to put that green jacket on Dustin Johnson at the Masters’ was the highlight of my year. Suck on that, TIGER. I hope Charlie chooses soccer, it would serve you right.
Sushi. No. I’m not trying it. And you will not be the one person in the universe who will say something convincing to get me to eat it. And if you bring it to my house as an appetizer, you and your dead stinky rubbery raw fish rice seaweed concoction will be thrown out onto my front lawn where you both belong. Swim with the fishes, bitches.
Cruises. Cruise People hate me, because I have the temerity to dislike cruises without ever actually having BEEN on a cruise. That drives Cruise People crazy. Things Cruise People say: “How can you say you don’t like cruises if you’ve never taken one?” And “Those boats are so big, Mary, you won’t even notice the movement.” And, “There are so many stops, Mary, you’ll never get bored.” And “The food alone is worth it.” Let me say that the only cruise I will ever take will be the one that takes me to Antarctica. Other than that, it’s not happening. I don’t want to be stuck on a boat for a long-extended period of time, I don’t care if it’s like being in a “city.” How do I know I don’t like it if I’ve never experienced it? Well, I’ve never experienced hari-kari either, but I don’t go around trying to get disemboweled. I just know it would be an unpleasant experience, so I do my best to avoid it. FUCK OFF I DON’T WANT TO GO ON A CRUISE.
Taylor Swift. She’s not talented. Her songs suck. She’s pretentious. Her bangs look ridiculous. No one gives a shit about her “Squad.” Change my mind.
Heat versus Cold. My comfort zone, as in the temperature in which I am comfortable and not overheated, has been documented as being 42 degrees. I shit you not. I AM A COLD-WEATHER PERSON. I can’t even remember the last time I was cold enough to even make the observation that it was cold out. I don’t need to be dressed in layers like you, I don’t need to wear a puffy coat and hat in 50-degree weather like you, I don’t need my house thermostat at 75 degrees in the winter like you, I don’t sleep in long fluffy thermals like you. Winter is my happy place. I’m sorry if you get cold easily and it makes you uncomfortable that I don’t, but that’s life. Just because I don’t even wear a hat and gloves when you’re wrapped in a Goretex bubble suit doesn’t make me a bad person. I can’t help that my core body temperature is what it is, and neither can you. I get hot and uncomfortable in the low 60’s and 70’s, and Jersey humidity is my nemesis. Will you now please stop asking me, “Aren’t you cold?”
I’m not.
What is the one thing you could never live without? And you can’t say “my kids” or “my dog,” or any other living thing. That’s cheating.
My answer is always the same. Black coffee. It doesn’t matter to me whether it’s a freshly brewed mug from the Keurig machine at my dentist’s office, an espresso from the Italian patisserie, a mug made lovingly from freshly ground beans in my French press, or a stale 3:00 p.m. cup of mud from the dirty pot at the local bakery, I’ll take it. I love the smell, I love the taste, I love the mystique.
Coffee completes me.
I developed my taste for black coffee out of necessity. Back when I was a wee lass, and student teaching in the Pocono mountains, there was always a steaming pot of coffee available in the English department office. I never ate. I was a skittish big-haired 21-year old kid trying to teach All Quiet on the Western Front to 17-year old kids, and any food I tried to eat would rumble and bumble around in my stomach, threatening to regurgitate at the slightest teenage provocation.
“Heeeeeyy, Miss Dispoto,” Matt drawled.
Social invitations were always extended by tall, lanky athletes with million-dollar smiles. On this day Matt was leaning back, hands clasped comfortably behind his head, legs crossed at the ankle, his vocabulary lesson sitting incomplete and ignored on his desk. He grinned lazily at me as I tried to give a diction lesson.
“Wanna come to a party this weekend? And don’t pretend you don’t party, you’re our age.”
They weren’t wrong. I could see my master teacher sitting in the back of the room, watching to see how I would handle this request. I always appreciated that no matter what situation arose in the classroom, she never interfered, and always let me handle it. She had told her students when I started that she would be invisible and mute. Man, did they take advantage of that. And now when I look back, I realize how hard it must have been for her to ignore such an inappropriate question. And since Matt extended this friendly invitation every Friday for three months, I soon developed a craving for the confidence-bolstering qualities of coffee.
Since the English department office’s vile powdered creamer was difficult to digest, black coffee was it for me. I drank it all day. Strangely its caffeinated qualities and diuretic effects settled my stomach. It calmed me. Just holding a mug of black coffee in that classroom (times were different back then- a mug of coffee was a teaching accessory) was like Thor holding his hammer. Captain America with his shield, Hawkeye with his quiver. Hulk with his fist?
I love the Avengers. But I digress.
The smell of coffee can take me back to any place or time I choose. The olfactory sensation is like my own personal time machine, Doc Brown’s DeLorean in a mug. Just one whiff can send me back to my early years of teaching. To early 3:00 am diner plates of eggs and pancakes scarfed after a drunken night of reveling. Miserable mornings spent praying to the porcelain gods. Long nights spent visiting loved ones in the hospital. Work conferences, weddings, family dinners, holidays, ski trips, chilly mountain hikes, early surf mornings, funerals. Long afternoons spent huddling around a table discussing sad things like burial wishes, and happy things like new babies.
And it takes me back to childhood. I had a ridiculously idyllic childhood. Just long days and nights filled with friends, sleepovers, tennis, kickball games, gymnastics, snowforts, sledding, and lazy bike rides. And while my parents rarely fought, of course sometimes there would be an argument. This can be a scary thing to hear when you’re a kid. But they argued so rarely that when it did happen, it was like some angry exotic bird had gotten loose in our house, and was fluttering around in a panicked state. Their raised voices were like flapping wings around our heads.
But when I would wake in the morning, and the smell of brewed coffee hit my groggy nostrils, I knew all was right with the world once again. Because there were Mom and Dad in the living room, contentedly drinking their coffee and reading the morning paper. Coffee put everything where it belonged. To young me, coffee was the Great Equalizer. The Ref. The Conduit. The smiling translator straddling the area betwixt two chaotic worlds.
Now, as a woman of advancing years, I cannot drink coffee all day the way I used to. My last cup is at 10:00 a.m., excluding special occasions. Coffee is like a dehydrating sponge in my innards. All-day coffee is no longer possible. And drinking it in the middle of the day will most certainly lead to a restless sleepless night tossing and turning and pondering age-old questions like:
Why did I say that in sixth grade?
How in God’s name did my boss hear me mashing avocado on Zoom?
Is an otoplasty the most extreme example of vanity? And what is the recuperation like?
My current part-time job is my passion project, but it has strange shifts. So there are many occasions when I work until 10:30 p.m., or even midnight. It is during these shifts that I stray outside the bounds of my coffee-drinking parameters. I’ll drink a cup at 2:00 p.m., 8:00 p.m., 11:30 p.m. if I’m especially tired.
I have a theory of coffee drinkers, and the time during which they indulge in the world’s favorite beverage.
4:00 a.m.- 6:00 a.m.: You’re expecting a baby, or you had one. You’re up with a loved one in the hospital. Leaving early for airport, you need to be at work by 7:00 (teachers), you didn’t sleep well, and got up early and said, “To hell with it,” or a shag session went well past midnight.
6:00 a.m.- 8:00 a.m.: You’re normal. You work a 9-5 job, you exercise in the morning, you have kids to get off to school.
9:00 a.m.- 10:00 a.m.: You bond with co-workers over the coffee machine, and it’s either your first cup, or second. Possibly your third. You’re a non-working mom, you did your yoga or Crossfit or whatever workout you do, and you’re drinking your first well-earned cup.
10:00 a.m.- 3:00 p.m.: You think of coffee as not just a morning beverage, but as a beverage. You work weird shifts, and need the liquid propulsion. You throw ice and sugar in it in the summer, and call it “iced coffee.”
3:00 p.m.- 5:00 p.m.: You need a little extra oomph in your day. You use it to fend off the mid-afternoon munchies. You drink it in the cold weather just as a mid-afternoon treat.
5:00 p.m.- 6:00 p.m.: You drink it with dinner; therefore, you are a 92-year old immigrant from the old country.
6:00 p.m.- 9:00 p.m.: You live in the world of psychotics, like night shift workers. Or you’re out to dinner, and you like to have it with dessert.
9:00 p.m. and on: You are psychotic.
(I am forced to post this early on Sunday afternoon from a mountain resort bar. Go away, don’t read it until tomorrow morning as usual. I have reached the Bermuda Triangle of the technology world. My blog thinks I’m an administrator. BlueHost thinks I’m a bitch. WordPress thinks I’m insane. And all I wanna do is freaking ski. So here it is. Thanks for your patience, we’re all gonna need it).
There are few certainties in life. But some we know for sure, right? Death. Taxes. Ted Danson is in another sitcom.
And we can all agree that Grandpa Joe was an asshole. He laid around pretending to be sick for twenty years until it was time to dance around the room and celebrate Charlie finding the Golden Ticket. To make matters worse, he stole fizzy-lifting drinks and almost got Charlie disqualified. I mean, what a dick. He’s supposed to be the adult, in charge of his impulses. If I was Charlie, I wouldn’t have let Grandpa Joe and those other freeloading old bags move into my chocolate factory. Just my mom. Start fresh, no baggage. Just getting those Oompa-Loompas under control would have been a project in itself.
And let me add that it was Heather’s fault that Kevin got left home alone. She never caught any heat for miscounting. She had one job, count the kids, and she fucked it up. Even if that other kid did look like Kevin from behind, no one ever confronted her or asked her to explain herself. If I was that mom, I would have made Heather make the trip back with me, in reparation.
Yeah, and ok, Jenny only wanted Forrest once he was a military hero and shrimping millionaire. She used him to raise her son while she died of AIDS. But let’s move to the most burning question of all:
Could Jack have fit on that door?
This is no small debate. There are entire websites devoted to answering this question. A Newsweek article says yes, when scientifically calculated, he could have fit, easily. But only if Jack and Rose had had the wherewithal to tie a lifejacket under the door to make it more buoyant. But were they able to think clearly? Hypothermia can be disorienting.
So I don’t think the question here is “Could he have fit?” I don’t even think the question is, “Why didn’t he try harder?” I think the question is, “What if he had fit? And they had both survived?”
Some Alternate Endings
(All scenarios assume that the Heart of the Ocean was in Rose’s jacket pocket):
To wit: it has always struck me that if Rose truly loved Jack, if she truly wanted to be with him in death, she wouldn’t have thrown the necklace overboard. She would have thrown herself overboard. She could have given the necklace to the treasure-seeker guys. It’s implied that Bill Paxton is going to end up with the granddaughter, so if Rose had given him the necklace, it would have benefitted her granddaughter, too. Wouldn’t that have been a more fitting testimony to the love she had for Jack? Her body now at rest with his body?
I think James Cameron missed the boat on that one.
(Readers: There is no way to overemphasize my frustration at my website redesign. Good things take time. I know it’s tougher getting to my daily post, but in the end, it will be worth it, so don’t give up on me. I will be working on it this week, when I am away).
Of course I didn’t buy it. Silly.
The whole shebang (pun intended) was way too sketchy. But when I exited from the video without clicking “Purchase Now,” I was lucky enough to be diverted to another shorter video reprimanding me for being foolish enough to not jump at the bargain price of $69.95 for a video package that would normally go for $7,682. And honestly, if there was a gun pointing at my head, and the difference between life and death was one guess as to how much this video package was going for, I would have lived. Of course it was $69.
How could it NOT be $69?
So while I did not purchase the final product, it did give me some extra information which I will now share with you. Since I don’t know what the “secrets” actually are, please enjoy my guesses as to what they might be.
“Stealth Attraction” Package:
(My guesses: Show up with takeout. Walk her dog. Separate the whites).
(My guess: “You’re so amazing and beautiful, and you’re so good to me, just tell me what I can do for you today- anything, you name it, even if it’s to just leave you alone.”
(My guess: Keep doing whatever you’ve been doing. She obviously likes it).
(My guesses: Polo. Drakkar Noir. Gray Flannel?)
(My guess: “I just washed these sheets in All-Temperature Cheer”).
(My guesses: a can of Raid. Hemorrhoid cream. A One Direction CD?)
(My guesses: A phone charger. A reed diffuser. A picture of his mother or dog. A plate of Oysters Rockefeller?)
(My guesses: Rufies or a sledgehammer)
(The video divulges one of these to the viewer: Men should ask about her father in order to tap into her patriarchal desires. Seriously).
Imagine. All this for only $69. Amazing. I didn’t know we required so much work. Have a great weekend, and men, just remember:
When in doubt, just buy her some freaking dinner. Sheesh.
(Readers: Thank you for your patience as my website undergoes a re-design)
Scene 2: Patent Pending
“Are you binge-watching ‘SNL’ again?” my son said smiling, as he approached me. I had been on my laptop laughing for an hour straight, and I’ve been known to OD on “Californians” clips.
I immediately flipped down the screen.
“No.”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Then what’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I can’t show you.”
The infomercial video was hilarious in its comic inappropriateness. Sixty minutes long and titled “Stealth Attraction,” it begins by suggesting to the male viewer that he watch the video the whole way through, because it can’t be paused and also might not be available for much longer. For the record I watched it three times over two weeks to get the information down accurately. Still up. Still available. Still comedy-gold.
Yep, the narrator warns us that feminist groups are working hard to get the video taken down. That “feminist groups don’t want men to know these secrets, because the secrets have the power to break down women’s defenses and remove their ability to mate with the partner of their choosing.” Turns out these tricks are so effective that if used on an unsuspecting woman, she will succumb to anyone, anywhere, anytime.
My goodness, I thought. Do tell. I watched, rapt.
The video features a series of animated male and female cartoon characters engaged in a series of day-to-day interactions: at the gym, in a bar, on the street, and quite often, engaged in cartoonish sexual acts. The animated buffoons are caricatured with enormous features- big breasts and asses, low overhanging guts, and hugely exaggerated lips and eyes. Many scenes depict frustrated unkempt men with bad posture getting rejected by gorgeous females. Nothing they do or say seems to work.
But the makers of the infomercial make a promise:
Buy our TED-talk! This Product Will Get You Laid! Learn How to Attract Hot Women Using the Same Brainwashing Techniques Used by the CIA When Interrogating Prisoners!
Hm. I honestly considered the investment. While I don’t know the context of the product they were hawking, I honestly thought about plunking down the money for it. A good laugh and some valuable blog material are priceless commodities, and I have no doubt that it would deliver plenty of both. The thing is, I didn’t want to start receiving too many inappropriate promotional emails. I have enough crap in my inbox already.
But I digress.
The first 15 minutes of the video shows men getting rejected by women. But as you watch the men use the invisible secrets of Stealth Attraction, they undergo a drastic transformation. Their posture and physical appearances improve (somewhat), they walk with a more confident stride, they smile more unabashedly. Even better, the narrator assures the viewer that if he uses the secrets of program, he will be able to actually watch the physical manifestation of Stealth Attraction transform the woman before his very eyes.
Turns out the mental and sexual power you have over her will eventually manifest into a physical one.
Whoa. You don’t say.
In one poignant scene, a male doofus is talking to a woman over dinner. You are not privy to his words, but as he talks, you can see the woman begin to pant. Her face turns red. She loosens a button of her ill-fitting blouse, then another. She begins to touch herself in inappropriate places, and then suddenly, without warning, she excuses herself to use the ladies’ room.
(This is me when I get a hot flash. But I digress yet again).
The implication of her sudden exit from the table is that she is most certainly not going into the restroom to wash her hands. The curious fellow inevitably follows her into the women’s bathroom, to see for himself if she is doing what he thinks she is doing.
She is. You can’t make this stuff up. He joins in of course, and they do it right under the Xlerator Hand Dryer. Ruffles her hair just right.
Another particularly humorous scene takes place in a gym. A slovenly man is talking to a buxom blonde girl running on a treadmill (with her triple-G cartoon rack, I don’t know how she was even managing to stay upright). Her back is to him, and at first she’s ignoring him; then magically, for no apparent reason, she turns hypnotically in his direction. And while you can’t hear what he is saying to her, it is obviously significant enough to get her to push the “Stop” button on the treadmill. And suddenly, in a romantic twist of fate, they leave the gym arm-in-arm.
He had somehow achieved game. And in the next scene, the viewer sees that he got more than just game that night. Much more. Marone.
I have to buy this program. I don’t see any way around it. I don’t think I can sleep or live without knowing what he said to her.
I would like to thank the makers of the infomercial “Stealth Attraction” for providing me with side-splitting laughter for over a week and also for providing me with enough material for three blog posts, which will be presented in three scenes over the next three days. Enjoy Scene 1.
Scene 1. Silvio the Interrogator
Bright lights. Gorgeous young woman sits in small hot room, looking neither perturbed nor concerned. Silvio circles her, eyeing her, intensely smoking a cigarette. He is sweaty, overweight, and frustrated. She looks up at him with her beautiful blue eyes, smiling slightly.
Silvio: (Slams his hand down on card table) Eeenouf vit dese games. You vill tawk! I have vays of mekking you tawk!
Her: (Innocently) I don’t know what you mean.
Silvio: You know perfectly vell vat I tawk about! And I vill use vatever means I must to break you!
Her: But what do you want to talk about?
Silvio: (Blurts) Golden retriever pawppies!
Her: What?
Silvio: (Unsure) Corgi pawppies?
Her: Why do you keep saying puppies?
Silvio: (Leans in and gets very close to her) You vill be interested to know I have a sizeable feenancial portfolio. Now, vat do you tink of DAT?
Her: So what? So do I. Can I go now?
Silvio: No! You vill remain until I get vat I vant!
Her: And what is that?
Silvio: Your attention, dat is vat!
Her: (Sighs)
Silvio stalks around the room, puppies and money obviously not having had the intended amorous effect. He turns on her, rubbing his hands together.
Silvio: So, preetty leetle one. Maybe later when I vaterboard you, it vill convince you to tawk? By the vay, you like pumpkin lattes and moonlit beaches, no?
Her: (Unsure) Sure, I guess, they’re ok.
Silvio: Yust ok? Vat does dat mean?
Her: I mean, they’re OK.
Silvio: You don’t vant to drink pumpkin lattes on a moonlit beach vit me?
Her: (Disgust barely concealed) No, thank you.
Silvio: Vy?
Her: Because I don’t.
Silvio: (Stops and stares at her). I see it vill be necessary to use dramatic means to mekk you tawk. Sleep deprivation vill commence tomorrow.
Her: (Bored, she rolls her eyes)
Silvio: (Thinking hard)
Her: Are we done here? Can I have my phone back?
Silvio: No! You vill bend to my vill! (Agitated, he begins to stalk around the room). Er, Lululemahn! Meemosas! Mani/pedis! Long veekends! Fuzzy sockz! Good night texts! Merloh! Almond croissants! Chik-Fil-a zauce! Tik Tawk! “Ze Notebook”!
Her:
Silvio: (Continues, becoming desperate) Diamond studz! Sunset boat rrides! Ski lawdges! Big fireplaces! Diffused light! Sundresses! Flip-flawps! Vite Claws! Rrrompers! Brrrrunch! Stuffed French Toast! Vanilla candles! Bath salts! Tvinkle lights! Sherpa hoodeez! Horse-drawn sleigh rrrides! Cheese frries! Milkshakes! Sephorra!
Her: (Staring at him) What are you talking about? Are you insane? I’m out of here.
She gets up to leave.
Silvio: (Plops down in chair, defeated) Yes. You are free to go. You zeem dezensitized to my rrromantic interrogation techniques. I geev up. I vill not try again.
Mary’s Closet: I contain 83 different styles of black dresses.
Mary’s Brain: I could definitely use another black dress.
What is it about the LBD? Even if a woman is not necessarily gaga over fashion, odds are she has one favorite go-to black dress she wears for funerals, cocktail parties or other special events.
You’re picturing yours right now.
Mine is a Nicole Miller sleeveless sheath I wear to weddings and fancy events. I also have a long-sleeve sheath I wear for teaching, funerals and interviews (wait, is this list redundant?) Absolutely sophisticated and no-nonsense.
We love the LBD because it’s instantly easy. Effortlessly glamorous. Astoundingly versatile. Magically forgiving. Consistently low maintenance. It can be dressed up or down with any kind of shoes or jewelry. Whether you are wearing makeup or you are makeup free, it always looks perfect. Blonde, brunette, hair up, hair down, always looks amazing.
This post will be about my favorite LBD moments of all time. First, let me pay a quick homage to four older moments:
Yawn. Glad that’s over. Not that I don’t think these women weren’t LBD stunners, but to me, they were more like beautiful mannequins. The modern moments I am presenting next are from women who made the LBD fluid and authentic in the context of the moment. These are in alphabetical order, because I could never choose between them:
Elizabeth: John, aren’t you going to ask me if I like this?”
John: (Smiles and shakes his head) No.
So there I was, innocently watching Dr. Jordan Peterson’s YouTube interview with Matt McConaughey, minding my own business, and video suggestions on female “hotness” kept popping up. Fascinating subject, and the video clips were cerebral, many based on science.
Most of the clips were from Joe Rogan’s podcasts. Subjects like what kind of women make the best wives. Why the ultimate goal for a relationship should not be bliss. Why no woman should want to date a pushover, and vice versa. Why men managing to procreate with a woman and then not having to be responsible for the child is like hitting the genetic lottery (this got very complex). Why hot women are not necessarily beautiful women. Why beautiful women are not necessarily hot women. Why “ugly women with hot bodies still get plenty of action.” Discussions about hot women with bodies distorted from excessive plastic surgery, hot women with body dysmorphia, hot women with “diaper-butt” (never heard that term, but read: Kim Kardashian), hot women who have too much power in society, and the “fact” that there is no direct correlation between the words “hot” and “beauty” when describing women. Oh, and let’s not forget about society’s unrealistic expectations when it comes to the definition of universal feminine beauty.
(I adore Joe Rogan. He mesmerizes me. Joe Rogan gets, like, three-zillion views for every podcast he posts. But strangely enough, I rarely listen to him. I mean, I love doughnuts too, but I rarely eat them, because I can’t eat them in moderation. I simply don’t have the time to devote myself to Joe’s podcasts the way I would like to. And I can’t sit still for very long. Maybe one day).
But I digress.
My use of the word “hot” in this post refers of course not to the physical ideal promoted in movies, magazines and on social media, but to heat and energy. Lifeforce. The fabric that dresses women’s days and fancies their nights, the substance that lights us up from the inside, the medium that brings us to that place, either from our past or into our future, that takes us outside the mundane. The je ne sai quoi that makes us feel special. Fabulous.
Influencer Pat McNamara (#tmacsinc) posts IG videos called #basicdudestuff, and they’re super fun to watch every Wednesday. McNamara is retired Special Ops, and his basic dude stuff can be intense- stuff like sharpshooting, making traps, designing maps, chopping wood and listening to heavy metal music. But sometimes his Basic Dude Stuff is as simple and sweet as complimenting his wife, picking up trash in his neighborhood, and fixing stuff around the house. After every task, he looks mock-menacingly at the camera and states: “Basic Dude Stuff.” He’s off-the-charts adorable.
Men have their Basic Dude Stuff. Women have their Hot Girl Shit.
Hot Girl Shit differs for every woman. There are equestrian women who consider shoveling shit out of their horses’ stalls as Hot Girl Shit (and the boys they like probably think they’re hot when they do it, too). Hot Girl Shit can be flying your own airplane, getting an arm-sleeve tattoo, buying colored pushpins, listening to Christian gospel music, making a casserole, buying new butter-soft onesies for your grandchild, playing Fight Club, cage-diving with sharks, staring at the Mona Lisa, scrapbooking, nesting, doing Crossfit.
The possibilities are endless, and remember: No matter if we’re eight or eighty, we’re all hot. So enjoy your shit, whatever it is.
This is far from being a full and comprehensive list, and running the gamut of personal taste is not the point. It really had no point. Does everything have to have a point?
Just enjoy your Hot Girl Shit. And Basic Dude Stuff.