Boats, Bananas, Bulls and Buzzards

Today’s post was supposed to be about automatic soap dispensers, but it’s not ready. It’s more complex than it sounds. Here is some random stuff, and I know the formatting sucks. I’m still learning, cut me some slack: 

TOM HANKS appeared in a boat in a minimum of ten movies: “Forrest Gump,” “Castaway,” “Saving Private Ryan,” “Captain Phillips,” “Sleepless in Seattle,” “Sully,” “Polar Express,” “Apollo 13,” “You’ve Got Mail,” and “Splash.” I unearthed this revelation all on my own. Is there a stipulation in his contract that says he has to appear in a boat at least once in every movie he makes? And this doesn’t include movies that I have never seen, so there could be more than ten. Please note that I’m counting the train that almost falls into the icy lake in “Polar Express” as a boat. Poetic license at its finest, baby.

When is a person officially old? I think it’s when she only eats half a banana and saves the other half on the counter. Then the next day she can’t wait to say to anyone who will listen, “But that’s just ethylene, there’s nothing wrong with it,” when they recoil in horror at the exposed brown end. Yep, time for that senior citizen discount.

RED BULL CLIFF DIVING is an extreme sport I have only recently discovered. It’s so cool that I might travel to Australia in November to watch the Red Bull Cliff Diving World Series 2021. 2020 was cancelled, obviously, but I watched some of the 2019 World Series’ on my gym’s big television screen. These athletes are jumping off of old bridges, from the tops of craggy caves and from the ledges of crumbling ten-story buildings. I mean, I have to go. Our three Americans in the competition look how you would expect: slightly deranged, happily disheveled and wholesomely gorgeous. Here are some fun facts about them:

  • David Colturi lives in Los Angeles and lost his spleen from a hang gliding/ diving accident in 2018. (This was probably the conversation: Friend: “Yo dude, you wanna hang-glide or dive today? Dave: You know what would be cool? To do both at the same time!” Dave supposedly signs his emails, “Spleenless Dave.” Dave has said that the only thing that scares him more than a cliff dive gone wrong would be having to get a 9-5 job.
  • Andy Jones lives in Santa Monica and was a stuntman in the Avatar movies and a performer with Cirque de Soleil. He has taught himself the art of filmmaking, and when not diving, films scenes in the life of a cliff diver.
  • Steven LoBue lives in Fort Lauderdale and is popular with the crowd not only for his diving skills, but also because of his sweet personality. He once hit his head on a platform during a difficult dive, and came out of the water smiling and waving to the concerned spectators. On his bucket list this year is to eat different foods everywhere he goes and to swim with whale sharks.

Local real estate agents: Thank you for your attention, but you have to stop sending me letters and flyers. I don’t know where you have gotten your information, but I’m not moving or selling my house. You have been grossly misled. I’m thinking of you. Your busy season is approaching, and I am a serious misallocation of your valuable resources. If I need advice, I will call the agent I always work with. Buzz off, buzzards.

Buzzards is a funny word. Look what I found out about them: “In North America, a vulture is a vulture, a buzzard is a vulture, and a hawk is a hawk. In the rest of the world, a vulture is a vulture, a buzzard is a hawk, and a hawk is sometimes a buzzard, though there are still other birds with the name hawk that would not be called buzzards.” Well. I’m glad they cleared that up.

A friend sent me a list of gender-neutral greetings that she thought would amuse me:

  • Hello, cowards.
  • What’s the word, baby bird?
  • Hello, my sweet summer children!
  • Avast, m’hearties!
  • What it do, baby?
  • Listen up, fives. A ten is speaking.
  • Hello friends and enemies.
  • What’s up, Demons. It’s me, ya girl.

Have a great weekend, rat bastards. JK!

The Nipple, Objectified

In 2019, the U.S. Tenth Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that it is illegal for any town in Utah, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, Kansas and Oklahoma to create any law forbidding female public toplessness.

What started as a small-scale fight has turned into a major win for the Free the Nipple movement, a global gender equality campaign that emphasizes women’s rights to choose how they display their bodies. It stemmed from anti-topless laws that were based on “negative stereotypes depicting women’s breasts, but not men’s breasts, as sex objects.”

(Article is yahoo.com/free-nipple-movement-women-now)

I thought Cheryl Tiegs freed the nipple in 1978? When her SI cover debuted, it showed more skin than SI had ever published. The white one-piece suit’s fishnet material made her breasts and nipples fully visible. Originally a throwaway photo not intended for publication, it caused so much controversy that Sports Illustrated editor Terry McDonell told CNBC he wouldn’t publish it today.

Wait, so it was freed? Then taken hostage again? And then freed again in 2019? I demand a timeline. And I’m confused, do we want it covered? Or out in the open? The opinion changes day by day. Joking aside, women’s bodies as sexual objects is a complex subject, one I don’t have the time to tackle fully, which means I probably shouldn’t have brought it up if I don’t have the time to argue my point. My apologies to my feminist friends, and I promise to delve into it more fully in a Part II, so you can send me hate email. But today I have nothing else prepared and anyway, like Jerry Seinfeld once said about the nipple, what’s the big deal? “It’s just a little brown, circular protuberance.”

So here are ten more iconic bathing suit moments.

  1. Babette March (Sports Illustrated 1964) When Babette March appeared on the cover of the premiere Swimsuit issue in 1964, the models only got five pages. Despite the lack of coverage compared to modern issues, readers cried, “What does this have to do with the sports?” SI acknowledged a loss in subscriptions, but carried on, printing angry letters to the editor and capitalizing on each year’s controversy.
  2. Kate Upton (Sports Illustrated 2012 and 2013) The caption next to Kate’s 2012 cover photo read, “Any Questions?” Um, no. She had every blonde on the planet looking in the mirror and wondering, “Do I look a little like her?” Strangely, the cover with Kate in a tiny red bikini caused backlash because it shows Upton’s stomach looking uncharacteristically flat, and she has a “strangely absent nether region.” Even Upton’s face doesn’t look like her real features, clearly showing how the designers went overboard on the airbrushing. A woman this gorgeous needs to be airbrushed? In 2013, she posed in Antarctica sub-zero temperatures with cavorting penguins in the background. This was at the time when people liked their supermodels anorexically stick-thin, so Kate got in trouble for having curves and for getting hypothermia. She can’t win. She is now considered the ideal female physical type. Go figure.
  3. Carrie Fisher as Slave Leia (1983). Not a “Star Wars” fan, but even I remember Princess Leia’s metal bikini.
  4. Bo Derek running out of the water in “10.” (1979). Bo had to do that scene three times, and she hates running. When she and her husband John Derek watched the scene in the cutting room, he turned to her and said, “This is going to make you a huge star, and it will majorly fuck with our lives.” It did both.
  5. Brooke Shields in “Blue Lagoon” (1980). It flopped with critics but was a blockbuster at the ticket booths. Roger Ebert called it “the dumbest movie of the year,” and it is terrible, almost painful to watch in its horribleness. It also dealt with the taboo subject of sexualized innocence. Fourteen-year old Brooke in her tiny bikini top and white sarong wasn’t the last time she stirred up controversy.  
  6. Pam Anderson in “Baywatch” (1995). Her red lifeguard suit straining tightly against her…well, you know. Love or hate her, that suit caused quite the stir, and gave a huge boon to the plastic surgery movement.
  7. Cameron Diaz and Demi Moore in “Charlie’s Angels” (2003). Cameron the good girl in white, Demi the bad girl in black. They pass each other on the beach, both with surfboards under their arms, and you just don’t know where to look first. Iconic.
  8. Farrah. Red Suit. (1976). The poster every boy, my brothers included, had on their bedroom wall. Or ceiling. Oh, and her nipple was definitely freed, and no one made a big deal out of it. How have we gone backwards?
  9. Helen Mirren’s red bikini shot in Italy (2008). This drop-dead gorgeous woman was 63 when that paparazzi shot went viral. It even inspired Tina Fey’s comedy skit about a woman’s “LFD.” Mirren has said that she will never and has never to this day lived that picture down. I would think not. Helen Mirren doesn’t have an LFD.
  10. Phoebe Cates in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” (1982). You waited patiently, and here it is. Coming out of that pool and walking toward Judge Reinhold. You know the rest. She deserves the bathing suit Oscar in my book.

It’s Not Them. It’s Me.

I’m the worst at goodbyes. No matter if it’s a job, a tedious conversation, an event, or even a place, I’m like the Bad Breaker-Upper on “Seinfeld.” When I’m done, I’m done. If it’s over, it’s over. No parting gift necessary.

I’m No-Drama Girl.

So for whatever reason I feel the need to say adieu, I know it immediately and instinctively. I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach that says, “You’ve done all you can do here. You’ve gone as far as you can go here. You’ve had as much of an impact as you can here. Move on.” If I feel my presence is redundant or irrelevant, I will remove my presence from that person or situation without any hesitation.

Yesterday I got it again. That familiar feeling that said, “Yeah, it’s time. It’s time to go. You’ve overstayed your welcome. You have expended all the resources in your arsenal to make a difference. You can go no further.”

So after three years, I have completely deleted my Tinder account and subscription.

Yep, it’s the end of an era, my friends. I mean, I initially started this blog because I truly felt that Tinder was a great way to meet cool guys, and that it would be fun to blog about it. And I did meet some cool guys. But not many.

Yeah, that high standards thing again.

And truth be told, I’m exhausted with the whole thing. It was fun while it lasted, but for once in my life, I am going to say a proper goodbye. But where to begin?

At the end, I think.  

This past week my Tinder was set to Scottsdale, the location of my next trip. Within three days I had about 850 likes and 50 messages. I assure you that it sounds more exciting than it is, because wading through all of those likes and messages would be like a Tyrannosaurus Rex swallowing your diamond ring, and then taking a huge dinosaur crap.

Dinosaur crap= 850 likes and messages

Diamond Ring= The one cool, smart, funny, good-looking person worth your time

Hose= Your phone

Yeah.

(Disclaimer: Any reference to any guy in the following section is anonymous, because they don’t know my real identity off of Tinder messaging anyway. So no emasculation occurred with the publishing of this blog, I promise. I would never do that).

Even men on dating sites know that it takes a lot of hosing to find their diamond. And I just didn’t have it in me this past week. I got bored and exhausted, and then true to form, I started fucking around with these guys. I know it’s not nice, don’t you think I know that? That’s why I deleted my account. But it’s just that Tinder guys are so predictable.

Indulge me.

Tinder guys have to be careful. They always think they are being scammed. They are distrustful of you, of your pictures, of your whole story. They think you are married, or a prostitute, or a bot, or a foreigner who wants to come to America, or a floozy who wants them to deposit funds into her bank account. I grant them all of that. I have it on good confidence that it actually happens.

Because of this inherent suspicion, Tinder guys ask for your phone number almost immediately. They say it’s to “get off this site,” but they want to research you. Google you. Make sure you’re not a psycho. I get it. Strangely enough, I never do that with guys. What the hell do I care where they live or what they do for a living? But that’s just me. I usually don’t give out my number, but once in a while, if I meet someone who seems cool and normal, I will. I also sometimes do it just for the amusement.

When I give a guy my number, I could set a timer to the unfolding of the events. For example, after chatting with a guy for a day or so on Tinder Messenger:

Him (2:30 p.m.) “Hey you wanna exchange numbers?”

Me (2:35 p.m.) “Sure.” (I give him my number)

Him: (2:37 p.m. Text comes through) “Got it. Hey Jordie. This is Mike from Tinder.”

Me: (2:40 p.m.) “Hey. My real name is Mary.”

Him: (2:41 p.m.) “Oh. Ok.”

About thirty minutes of silence ensues at this point, because he is sitting in front of his computer, inserting my phone number into some kind of search engine. Once he has my name and location, he most likely cross-checks the few details I gave him for veracity and finds out that I am indeed real. Then I guess he inserts my first and last name into some kind of chick database, where you can obtain chick stats.

(What in the world is in this data base? Sex drive? Turn-ons? Nicknames? Maternal instincts? Portfolio worth?)

Regardless, the feedback he gets from that site or app must be accurate (and quite complimentary), because when he texts me back again after an hour or so, he is warm and receptive and seems to know everything about me. A guy this past week actually called me by an affectionate pet name another guy once used to refer to me. Coincidence?

Doubtful.

Anyway, Tinder guys love to text, and there was a time that I too thought it was fun. You know, breaks up the monotony of a day. But as of late, I have been getting really, really fed-up with it. All this past week I was texting stuff like this to total strangers:

“Listen, I’m not into texting. I’m a grown-up. If you want to meet in person, let me know”

“Why are you on here if you’re afraid to meet women in person? I’d really love to know, for my research.”

“You will never, not if you live a million lifetimes, get a nude picture of me.”

“Listen, how about you sit in your house and sext yourself? Then give yourself a hand. I’m going to the driving range. Go nuts, dude.”

In the five days I was on Scottsdale Tinder, I unmatched every single guy I corresponded with. But it’s not them. They’re just trying their best to make a connection. It’s me.

When I’m done, I’m done.

Monday was the worst. I got fifteen messages in two hours, and I spent a precious hour of my day sending bizarre messages back to men to see how fast I could turn them off. All just to amuse myself. Here are some conversations I remember from Monday:

Elmer: I live on a lake.

Me: Really? I have a boat.

Elmer: I have a pretty big dock.

Me: How big?

Elmer: About fifteen feet.

Me: A fifteen-foot dock? And you’re single? That’s hard to believe.

(He didn’t get it. I had to go further)

Elmer: Yeah, I am.

Me: Well, you sound awesome. I can be there in a few hours, do you have room for me to stay at your place?

Elmer:

Success. Conversation done. I’m sorry, Elmer.

Charlie: Hey Jordie, why did Tinder match us up if we live so far away?

Me: Well, I’m headed to Scottsdale soon.

Charlie: That’s cool. You’re lucky to be doing some golfing here, huh?

Me: Yes, I’m excited, but all the courses I want to play are so spread out.

Charlie: Ubers are everywhere.

Me: I don’t use Uber, I was kind of hoping you could pick me up at the airport?

Charlie:

Done and done. Sorry, Charlie.

Mike: Hey, that’s a nice resort you’re staying at.

Me: Yes, it came highly recommended.

Mike: Maybe you can show me your room? (Wink e-moji)

Me: I’d love it. You’re welcome to come up. There’s only one bed but plenty of room. It’s just me and my son.

Mike:

Bye Mike. My deepest apologies.

So I am leaving Tinder. I obviously cannot be trusted to use it with any degree of morality or forthrightness. But please don’t think I was using it as a tool for cruelty. I am not a cruel person. I think I was just looking for a challenge, and came up empty-handed. Time to look elsewhere.

Hinge?

Embrace Your Inner Morlock

I like 1D. 1D is at the front of the airplane, it’s on the aisle, and it has extra leg room. I don’t have to look at the back of anyone’s head, I can peek at the hot pilots, and when we’re talking air travel, it’s the perfect seat for an introvert. The only thing I don’t like about it is that you can’t stash anything, not even a small bag, at your feet. It has to go up into storage until the seatbelt sign goes off.

My 1D on the way back from Montana reclined and had a personal movie screen. We were lucky to be on it at all. Our previous flight had been delayed for ice, so we assumed that we would miss the Denver connection. We had already made plans to get food, hang out, and make the best of it.

But they held the plane for us. Not in my entire life has a plane ever been held for me. I can’t ever go back. They ruined me. I’m reading the text we received from American Airlines directly from my phone:

Take a deep breath, we’re holding your next flight for a few extra minutes. We (and your fellow travelers) would appreciate if you could make your way directly to Gate B28.

It was like a movie. We ran through the concourse, and when we arrived at B28, the two stewardesses applauded and waved us through the gate like we were the pilots. We sauntered onto the plane and into our cushy seats to the announcement: “Thank you for your patience, ladies and gentlemen. We had to wait for some VIP passengers whose last flight landed late. We are happy that they have arrived. Flight attendants, please prepare for departure.” Sadly, there was no applause from our fellow passengers. They just glared at us, unamused and unimpressed, and not seeming, at least to me, very happy for us.

Why was this? We had almost missed the flight. It would have ruined our day. Shouldn’t fellow humans be happy for each other in these situations? And why were they looking at us like that? Who were they expecting, Cameron Diaz and Benji Madden? Maybe we were celebrities. How did they know we weren’t famous? We could have been. Now I’m mad. How dare they presume?

But I digress.

So 1D is great. But having chosen 1D so many times, I also have experience with 1F, the seat right next to 1D. And I have figured out what 1F stands for:

One Freak. Because there’s always one freak on any airplane, and the One Freak always sits in 1F, and that’s always next to me. I will not divulge here the physical nature of the freaks- I mean, one person’s freak is another person’s dream date, right? But in the dozen or so times I have chosen 1D, the person in 1F usually closely resembles a Morlock (excluded from this generalization is any friend I have ever traveled with who has sat next to me in 1F. They know I don’t mean them).

So when choosing seats for my next trip, I decided to take one for the team. I chose seat 1F there and back, so I will actually be the One Freak on the plane. By temporarily denouncing my Eloi status, I will be able to completely embrace my inner-Morlock and see what’s so socially emancipating about it.

I won’t know what to do first. I think back to some of the Morlocks who have sat next to me, and on the strange things they have done. Here are some things I have witnessed firsthand that are obviously socially acceptable in 1F:

  • Propping dirty feet up on the wall
  • Taking off socks to display uncut and fungusy toenails
  • Eating an entire pepperoni pizza without using a napkin
  • *Reading a magazine upside down (I swear. Only in 1F)
  • Talking to oneself
  • Singing to oneself
  • Clipping a bonsai tree
  • Sorting coins and placing them into little wrappers (this was actually cute, and something my dad would do)
  • Getting smashingly drunk (ok, I applaud this one)
  • Using the lavatory fifteen times during a three-hour flight
  • Staring lifelessly ahead without movement for hours on end (think David Puddy)

I will not even divulge the myriad of serious hygiene issues I have witnessed up close. I do my best to give the Morlocks in 1F the room they need for their activities, because I know that Morlocks eat their Eloi cousins. I don’t want to end up as Morlock food. And I always keep in mind the literary premise behind the Morlocks and Elois:

Never ever get too comfortable. Not in life, not on an airplane, not anywhere. Because those so comfortable on the top now may one day find themselves suffering on the bottom later.

Morlock food for thought.

*So that you don’t think I am making these up, let me clarify that the Morlock who read his magazine upside down fell asleep that way. He must have fallen asleep before realizing it. The rest are honest-to-God true.

Mass Hysteria

I really needed Mass yesterday. And whether you’re religious, spiritual, agnostic or atheist, when you get a hankerin’ for whatever brings you solace, you gotta have it. Right? Am I right?

Mass is all what you make it. I’ve attended Mass on beaches, in woodsy-chapels, in bingo halls, in mountain mosques. So it was no skin off my back that the church I spontaneously decided to attend yesterday had folding chairs instead of pews. But I was understandably sad to not be able to kneel. That’s how I pray the best. Prostrate. Reverence. Submission. Surrender. Personal subjugation. All that good stuff. Without it, I’m nothing.

So I did what I always do. I made the best of it. And when I die, if that is all that is inscribed on my headstone, that “Mary made the best of it,” I’ll think I did a decent job at life. I was happy to be there, mask and all. I picked a seat far away from everyone else and I listened to the words of Catholic Mass, the words I love more than any words written in the English language. I have listened to these words my whole life, and with every passing year, they become more and more significant to me.

(Side note: Last week I threw a book across the room and into the trashcan before I even finished it. The book was Nora McInerny’s widow memoir No Happy Endings, and not shortly after she railed against Catholicism was when I threw it in the trash. I have something to say to her real quick:

Nora: The words in Mass may not mean anything TO YOU. The symbolic reason we kneel may be foreign TO YOU. The responses and prayers and Signs of the Cross may not make sense TO YOU. But many of us studied hard and have known since childhood why we pray, respond and kneel the way we do. We understand your confusion and support your decision to leave Catholicism, since you are someone who confesses to spiritual ignorance but refuses to educate herself about her faith. Buh-bye. Don’t let the rectory door hit you on the butt on your way out.)

Anyway, peaceful prayer and serenity was not meant to be mine yesterday. Because a family of five walked in, looked around the nearly empty church and plopped their act right down next to me. A mother, a father, two cranky preschoolers, and a grandmother. Told you, this happens to me everywhere I go. They could have sat anywhere in that cavernous building, but chose my row.

Normally I would have moved elsewhere, without hesitation. But this was not my normal church, and I was aware of the distinct possibility that perhaps I was intruding on their territory. Maybe they sit in this row every Sunday, I thought, and I have inconvenienced them. So in penance, I remained. I’ve always believed that a little suffering is good for the soul.

Big mistake.

This family was a train wreck. The two little boys cried and screamed and whined from the second they walked in. They wanted cups, snacks, hugs. No cups, no snacks, no hugs. Nana, Mommy, Daddy. I dropped it, I hate it, I want it, I lost it. Waah, waah, waah. For forty minutes straight. I mean, of course antsy tired children attend church. But none of the three adults did anything to placate, soothe or discipline the children. Nothing.

Hey, my boys weren’t angels in church when they were that young, either. But I’ll tell you, when they did behave badly, I immediately and calmly removed them from church, told them I was proud of them for lasting as long as they did, and then took them to get pancakes for breakfast. The next time we went to church, maybe they would last fifteen minutes. The next time, maybe twenty. But as soon as their shenanigans inconvenienced other church-go’ers, which wasn’t often, we’d leave.

But that’s just me.

Taking little angsty kids to church is like winding up one of those cymbal-clanging monkeys, setting it down on a church pew, then yelling at it for being loud. It’s just doing what it was made to do. Bang its cymbals. Why did you wind it up and bring it to church if you didn’t want it to bang its cymbals?

The family sitting next to me yesterday couldn’t have cared less about the religious serenity of the rest of the parishioners, and I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet. The grandmother thought it was appropriate to text with full volume on. I’m not joking. Texting. With volume. And the parents kept moving down the row to accommodate wherever the children wanted to sit, so before I knew it, there was only one seat between me and them. I closed my eyes to focus on prayer, and then I heard a bad noise.

It was something like Scccrrrrunch…

I opened my eyes to see one of the little boys sitting in the seat right next to me. Smiling up at me. I smiled back. He was kind of cute, but teary and sweaty from having spent the better part of thirty minutes acting like a miscreant. He stared at me with his pure saucer eyes, and I tried to figure out what was bothering me about his sitting there. Not social distancing guidelines, no. It was something else, something I had to reach far back into my short-term memory stores to find. What is it, what is it, I wondered, and I searched and grasped around in the dark recesses of my mind until I remembered…

Ah yes. My prescription Ray Bans and car key had been laying on that chair. The chair that now held a greasy, blonde-ringleted child with juice stains on his Doc McStuffin shirt. A child who for forty minutes had been jumping around like a squirrel on crack, but who was now settled in his chair as if he was content never to move again. With his little legs sticking straight out, he looked away from me towards the priest, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and tried to keep a straight face.

Yeah, like I would fall for that. Like he didn’t know perfectly well he was squashing expensive mirrored sunglasses and an Audi fob. It wasn’t so much the smashed sunglasses that distressed me, though. It was that I wanted to leave, and in order to get my glasses and key back, I knew I would have to speak to one of the grown-ups in the family. I so didn’t want to.

The grandmother was closest. She had pulled the toddler close to her, and he was now asleep in her armpit, my glasses and key still partially obscured under his butt.

Here goes. I whispered.

“Excuse me?”

She looked up from her phone.

“Can you lift him up so I can get my sunglasses?”

Confusion registered on her face.

“My key. He’s sitting on my key.” I motioned to the little boy.

Still confused, she lifted the boy up imperceptibly. I retrieved my twisted sunglasses and key, smiled and thanked her, and stood up to leave. She gestured to me and I leaned over.

She whispered. “Lens Crafters will fix those for free.”

Yeah, thanks. And no apology necessary, really.

Time For Me to Fly

(Don’t roll your eyes at me, I saw that. No, this is not another travel post. Gotcha.)

Mary has been inside all day. She has been trying to record a college writing lesson on Adobe Connect, but hour after hour passes, and test after test video is made, but she is unable to see or hear herself. She is cross-eyed with computer fatigue, and knows she is in big trouble. She has never used Adobe Connect before and only has until tomorrow to send the URL link. Mary is panicking, and beginning to refer to herself in the third person. Mary hates technology. Mary likes pens, and notebooks and books with pages, not computers and links and software.

Mary needs help.

7:53 p.m. Mary enters Adobe Chat Room.

Plexat enters the chat.

P: How I help you?

(Mary explains the situation)

P: What your Adobe account URL?

M: I have no idea. You want my username?

P: No your URL.

M: What is that?

P: You know, something like *********adobeconnect.com

M: Oh. How do I find that?

P: Send me the URL.

M: What, you mean like copy it and paste it to you?

P: That could work.

(Mary has about twenty tabs open, but manages to find the correct one, and copies and pastes the URL into the chat with success)

P: Please click on this link.

M: Ok. (She clicks)

P: Please accept the terms.

M: Ok. (She accepts)

P: Do I have permission to share your screen?

M: Ok. How should I do that?

P: I do.

M: You do? How do you do?

P: I’m fine, how do you do?

M: Is this a joke?

P: Click “yes” in box.

M: Ok.

P: Now please log into your Adobe Connect account.

(Mary begins to slide around her computer screen to find the correct tab. After two minutes, she manages to find the Adobe Connect screen, but it occurs to her that Plexat saw every screen open on her desktop, including the make-out scene between Denise Richards and Neve Campbell in the movie “Wild Things.” Research, readers, I swear).

P: You find?

M: Yes.

Adobe Connect screen opens, but Mary forgets that Plexat has access to her computer screen, and she continues to click and scroll, looking for the Meeting tab.

P: Please stop.

M: What?

P: Please let me. Please I do.

M: Fine, you do.

Mary sees Plexat’s cursor running over her computer screen, and she is both amazed and horrified that someone thousands of miles away could be accessing her computer. She watches as Plexat gets to the correct screen, and suddenly, Mary’s face pops up on video.

P: You have video now.

M: That’s great! (Although by now it is 9:00 p.m., and twelve hours of computer work have reduced Mary to a dead ringer for the Crypt Keeper).

P: Let me work on sound.

Plexat continues to fly around the Adobe Connect meeting screen, ticking off strange boxes Mary never knew existed.

P: Say something.

M: Huh?

P: Out loud, no type. And more than that.

M: Oh, um. Ok. (Mary sings) “I’ve been around for you, been up and down for you, but I just can’t get any relief. I’ve swallowed my pride for you, lived and lied for you, but you still make me feel like a thief.”

P: (As he plays around with the screen) That good. What that?

M: Huh?

P: What that?

M: What I sang?

P: Yes.

M: Song lyrics. REO Speedwagon.

P: Arrrrreooo?

M: REO. Speedwagon.

P: Noice.

M: Noise?

P: No, noice. Like fine.

M: Oh.

P: Try to play video again, please.

M: (Mary pushes play, and horrified, watches herself sing): “I’ve been around for you, been up and down for you, but I just can’t get any relief. I’ve swallowed my pride for you lived and lied for you, but you still make me feel like a thief.”

P: This is good. You have video and sound.

M: Awesome, thanks, so all I have to do tomorrow is record and save and I’m good?

P: You good.

M: No, you better.

P: Noice.

Nature Remembers

In Croatia lives a man named Stjepan Vokic who has been taking care of a female stork for almost twenty years.

Stjepan found her stranded on the side of the road with an injured wing, so he took her home and nursed her back to health. He built her a nest on his roof (and one in his garage for the cold winter months), and since she cannot return to the wild, he catches fish for her and brings her good sturdy branches for her nest. He has to physically toss her up on her roosts since she cannot fly.

He named her Malena, which means “the little one.”

Then, about fifteen years ago, Malena got a springtime visitor. A male stork (whom Stjepan has named Klepetan) stopped by Malena’s nest on his way back to Croatia from South Africa. Klepetan has been flying back to Malena’s rooftop nest every spring since that first visit and they have had 59 babies together.  Vokic has three sons, but now, with the addition of Klepetan, proudly tells everyone he knows that he has four.

“Every year Klepetan returns to South Africa for the winter, and every spring in Croatia, over a million people watch a livestream video waiting for him to return. His journey home is dangerous. Every year around two million birds are killed on this route by poachers, so the moment he returns to Malena brings joy to so many people,” says Vokic.

I’m not crying, you’re crying.

(You can find this video on Youtube or on the Dodo)

We humans know two worlds pretty well. The first one is of the outer world– the ocean, the air, our kitchen floors, the break room, our skin, the way we kiss the people we love. This is the world that supports our biological needs. The second world is our private inner life– the one in which we watch memes, meditate, engage in inner dialogue, fantasize, worry about bills. All that stuff.

But there is a third world much more mysterious than the other two. That of empathy. This is the world in which we enjoy connection with other living beings. We can go to this world whenever we want and enjoy the connections that have the power to change our lives. Eye contact. Hushed conversation. A simple nod and a smile. We can step out when we’ve had enough, then head back in at will.

It is this third world that connects us to animals. Nature has such prescriptive healing that doctors in many countries are writing “nature prescriptions.” It seems that physicians are no longer satisfied with the results of medication and counseling, so they’re prescribing their patients head into the wild.

“Get out,” the doctors are telling their patients. “Breathe the air, walk the land. Enjoy nature, watch the birds, pet some goats. Just get the hell out of your house.”

Connecting with animals is an incredibly powerful drug. When two animals, one of them human, meet across the great divide, time stops and both enter a world of potential. While you watch and engage with an animal, you are released from ego. Time ceases to exist. Have you ever pet your dog and he’s looking deep into your eyes and you feel transported? Ever afraid to get up because your cat is lying across you and you don’t want to bother her because she’s comfortable? Ever ridden a horse, stared at a deer, taken a photo of a bear, and just feel mesmerized?

Empathy and connection.

Why do you think so many people are waiting for Klepetan to return? In that moment where we watch Klepetan swoop down onto Vokic’s roof and strut proudly towards his beloved Malena’s nest, we feel kinship and connection. “Yes,” we think, “I know how that feels, to return to someone you love.”

I have my own personal Malena and Klepetan. Mr. and Mrs. Duck. They return every spring to huddle under my birdfeeders, waiting for the cracked corn they know I have in the house. After so many years they are no longer afraid of me, but Mr. Duck watches carefully as I throw the corn towards them, protecting Mrs. Duck at all times. He watches over her as she eats, and only eats when she has had enough.

Every year I write down the date on which they return on my family calendar. Last year the first day I saw them was April 14th.  Then I take a picture of them and send it to all of my sons with the caption, “They’re baaaaack.” My sons wait for this picture every year, and when they’re home, they know if Mr. and Mrs. Duck are out front eating, they are to use a different door, or at least walk calmly around them, so as not to startle them. The worst thing I can hear is that they flew away before they were done eating to roost in a neighbor’s yard or pool.

I get very jealous. They’re my ducks.

I get many ducks under my birdfeeder. Single male ducks. Two males. Two males and a female. One female. But there is only one Mr. and Mrs. Duck. I know them by sight, sound and markings. When I watch them waddle across the street towards my house, my heart does backflips, even after all these years. They know cars will stop for them as they cross, and they’re so haughty about it. They do that light little quacking thing, and I must admit that I quack back at them. Sometimes I’m in my car driving down my street and I can see them hanging out in the gutter water three houses down, so I’ll drive past them and tell them to come over and get a snack. They listen to my voice, and head over.

The waddling kills me every time. I love to sit on my patio and watch them eat, their visit varying from five minutes to an hour at a time. It struck me for many years that they were never afraid of my dog, who would just lay calmly on the patio and watch them eat. When they return this spring, I’m sure if they could talk, they would ask me, “Hey, where’s Mojo?” I think they’ll miss him as much as we do.

Nature always remembers.

*Research concerning human and animal interactions can be attributed to the book Our Wild Calling by Richard Louv.

**I just traveled the world and country for four years, and Malena found the man of her dreams by building a nest on top of her roof. Location location location. More on this to come.

Hippity-Hop

Hippity-Hop

I just took my yard snowmen down.

I kept them up after the holidays because as anyone who lives in the Northeast knows, we’re more likely to get snow in February than in December. And I hear yard snowmen are good luck if their arms are turned upward. Unless I’m confusing them with elephants and raised trunks. Nonetheless, it would seem that my incessant complaining and strategic snowman placement worked, because we actually got some snow this winter.

Don’t mention it.

My snowmen are stored away, but we all know that winter ain’t done with Jersey yet. I mean, right now we’re being treated to a 13 degree wind chill. By my calculations, we still have about eight bleak gray New Jersey weeks to look forward to. More snow probably, plus lotsa gray, lotsa rain, and lotsa fog. But no matter. Spring has sprung for me, because today is Ash Wednesday, and my thoughts turn naturally to Easter.

This Easter is the first our family will be able to celebrate appropriately after 22 years of spring travel. We have always traveled south and have never, not once, enjoyed our home on Easter Sunday. We have spent Easter Sunday in places like Hatteras, Hilton Head, Myrtle Beach, Hawaii, Cocoa Beach, Miami, Orlando, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Costa Rica.

Everywhere but home.

So with no school children home anymore, we no longer have to travel Easter week and we get to enjoy the Easter traditions I enjoyed growing up. I can actually set up my sons’ Easter baskets on the dining room table like my parents used to do for me. I will bake them Sunday brunch casserole and cinnamon cake. I will force them to watch “My Fair Lady.” I will lay out pastel-colored shirts for them to wear. I will listen to Mozart and watch them play hopscotch in the driveway. I will treat them to an Easter egg hunt. I will lay out a bowl of Italian nuts. I will make my mom’s Easter roast, her Easter pie, her Easter cookies. Deviled eggs, au gratin potatoes, buttermilk biscuits, winter salad, seared balsamic brussels sprouts (yeah, there’s an “s” at the end of brussels sprouts. Who knew?) homemade Italian cheesecake, espresso with cinnamon….

(Can you tell I’m on a diet? Food porn is a thing).

I jest. Some of those things won’t really happen, but I will cook, and I do still get my boys Easter baskets. When they were little they weren’t really into candy, so I started filling their baskets with fun. Colored sidewalk chalk. Sticker books. Plastic sunglasses. Bubbles. Army men. Pinky balls. Then they got older and I started putting in video games, Big League gum, ten-dollar bills, cool socks, Nerf balls, maybe a hat. By the time they were in high school, their standard Easter basket was filled with a Wawa gift card, a new snazzy pair of board shorts, surf wax, a $20 bill, one small chocolate bunny, Peeps, some jelly-beans and a t-shirt. This is the standard that remains today.

I have to mention last Easter, and the fact that I don’t remember much about it. Honestly. It was only a few weeks after the pandemic was really becoming a thing, and the news was broadcasting the end of the world. Schools were closed, stores were sketchy, and I sort of remember that we ordered to-go food from somewhere. How this can be, I’m sure I don’t know. But I vividly remember listening to Mozart on my patio while drinking coffee, and suddenly making the decision to make my mom’s Easter biscotti. The smell of the vanilla just permeated the house like it did in my house growing up, and I remember one of my sons walking through the kitchen and remarking he had never smelled anything so delicious. It was a strange, low-key Easter with only two of my three sons home. I think. Very strange that I can’t remember.

Needless to say I’m looking forward to a more animated Easter hippity-hopping its way through my house this year. We will unfortunately have to forego a big family Easter on my side, as the health and well-being of a brand new baby and several senior citizens must be put as our first priority. So I will consider this Easter as practice for next year.

But before I can even think about Easter, I have to get through this week, so I can get on my airplane unencumbered. There are vile things to attend to. I have an actual list sitting next to me right now entitled, “Vomitous Things to Do This Week That Make Me Sad to Have to Acknowledge at All.” The mere sound of them is enough to raise the bile in my throat:

Converting Funds. Tax Filing. Website Maintenance. Photo Shoot. Business Facebook. Call to Lawyer. Video Teaching. Zoom Call. Buy Vegetables.

So I’m gonna get to it. Tune in tomorrow for a spirited story about my spring ducks. More importantly, it is about animals who return.


Body Language

Day 10 of Mary’s diet. Meeting commences. All key players are in attendance: Brain, Blood, Muscles, Fat, Proteins, Carbs, and Vital Organs.

All look around at each other.

Brain: So who wants to kick this off?

Muscles: Well, since I have the most to lose in this situation, I’ll start. This is ridiculous.

Carbs: I agree.

Blood: Me, too.

Protein: Not me. I feel great.

Fat: Me, too. But I’m worried.

Brain: (To Fat) About what? We’re obviously in a state of threat. We’ll do what we have to do in this situation, like we have for millions of years. Store more of you.

Fat: I don’t think that’s the answer. Besides, I don’t think we’re in a state of threat. I think she’s just trying to get ready for bathing suit season. Would it kill us to let her step on the scale and lose a few?

Protein: It literally could. We’re here to protect her, like we have for 54 years. We’ve been through this before. This could have been a Zoom meeting…

Carbs: (To Protein) Oh, sure, that’s easy for you to say. There’s a steady supply of you flowing through her system, no interruption there. You never think of anyone except yourself. What about me? I am being restricted, and I don’t like it.

Blood: Stop exaggerating. Just because there’s less of you doesn’t mean that there’s none of you. She had too much of you, anyway. How about me? I hate making her cold.

Muscles: So don’t.

Blood: Oh, ok, sure, just like that, right? (Rolls eyes)

Muscles: Listen, I can’t afford to shrink. She’s worked hard at the gym for three years.

Protein: Don’t you ever read the medical journal articles? She’s not starving to death. You’re not going to shrink, for God’s sakes, she works on you at the gym. I for one am proud of her. She’s doing this in a healthy way.

Fat: Right. So I don’t see what harm there could be in rewarding her on the scale. That’s all I’m saying. If I’m willing to cut back, why should that be a problem with any of you?

Brain: Because don’t you get it? She will need her fat stores to keep her alive in the next few months, we can’t afford to….

Carbs: Blah, blah, blah, same thing every time. We’re not in the new Ice Age, for God’s sake. It’s just February in New Jersey. Can you please stop overthinking this situation?

Brains: Overthinking is what I do. Besides, we did reward her last week. Remember how excited she was?

Muscles: Water weight. It was water weight. She knows perfectly well it was water weight. (Turns to Kidney) And where the hell were you in this situation?

Kidney (Indignantly) Where was I? Babysitting her in the damn bathroom every eight minutes, that’s where!

Liver: Me, too.

Heart: Hold on now, let’s not get away from the main argument, which is that I just need to keep pumping, so who cares whether it’s water weight or any other kind of weight?

Proteins: Well said. Listen, I don’t feel like sitting here and listening to a semantical argument. I have a pretty serious lunch date with her in a few hours, so can we wrap this up?

Fat: I’m going to that lunch too.

Protein: (Turns to Fat dubiously) How so?

Fat: (Smiles knowingly) Avocado.

Protein: Ah. Yes. Good.

Carbs: (Clearly bummed) How was I not invited to this lunch thing?

Fat and Protein look sideways at each other, uncomfortable.

Fat: Well, it’s Big Salad Day.

Carbs: So?

Protein: She doesn’t have carbs on Big Salad Day.

Carbs: (Frustrated) A few crackers? A small roll? A crouton? Would it kill her to throw in a crouton?

Silence around the table.

Brain: Yes. Well. I’m sure we all are very busy, so if we could come to some sort of solution to this problem…

Muscles: You’re the problem, don’t you get it? It starts with you! You have to stop sending us messages that she is starving. She’s getting plenty of calories, drinking water, exercising. Sending us signals that she’s starving makes all of our jobs harder.

Brain:

Everyone stares at Brain.

Brain: Fine. We’ll let her have some success on the scale. Next week. And only if she keeps eating healthy and hydrating. But if I see even the slightest indication that she is in a state of threat, it’ll be their heads on the chopping block!

He motions to the Vital Organs. They shrink in horror.

Blood: Fine. I think we can all agree on that, right, everyone?

All nod in agreement.

Fat: So. How much? How much of me can you spare? She’s been working so hard.

Brain: (Gives Fat a patient level glance) Working hard? Let’s not exaggerate. It’s only been ten days. You remember Montana? Scottsdale? Colorado?

Everyone smiles, remembering those carefree days.

Brain: My point exactly. No need to let her think it’s too easy. We want to keep her safe. Agreed?

Everyone nods and rises to leave.

Brain to Muscles: Keep building! (Muscles salute and leave)

Brain to Blood: Keep her warm! (Blood salutes and leaves)

Brain to Fat, Proteins, and Carbs: Work together! (They salute and leave)

Brain to Vital Organs: Keep pumping and flushing and detoxifying! (They salute and leave).

Brain gives big sigh, taps fingers on conference table, wondering how much fat will be in that avocado.

you…you…you…Whore!

The scale is a jealous lying whore who misses bread.

Whenever any woman steps on the scale while on a diet, there should be a list of positive affirmations taped above her head. Picture it: You had a perfect week. You didn’t eat too little or too much. You cut out excess sugar and salt. You have tons of energy, your clothes feel looser, your face looks thinner. You got to the gym, guzzled water, got plenty of sleep. You wake up on weigh-in day not wondering if you lost, but how much you lost. One pound? Two? Three? Is it possible you lost three pounds? You strip, take out your earrings, remove your rings and your fingernail polish, step on the scale, anticipating that number…

…only to see that you gained a half-pound. How. The. Fuck. Can. That. Be.

A list of positive affirmations could come in very handy on a disappointing weigh-in day, because then one could look away from the scale, scan the affirmations and choose one of the following:

  • Muscle weighs more than fat! (I have literally never understood wtf that means)
  • Weight fluctuates! (Yeah, no shit, Sherlock)
  • Bowels!
  • Too much water! (The human body is already 70% water, how is this a thing?)
  • Not enough water! (Again)
  • Salt! (If the human body already has 40 teaspoons of salt in it, isn’t low sodium broth just an afterthought? Can it really throw off that delicate balance?)
  • It has to be the medication! (Hair gummies weigh eight ounces?)
  • You ate in front of the tv again! (Is the salad one consumes while watching the news more calorically loaded than the salad one consumes while staring into space?)
  • I told you not to eat those five extra almonds! (   )
  • You must be getting your period! (That ship has sailed, fren)
  • Your diet is too low-fat! (Well, hell then, looks like it’s time to bake a homemade mascarpone cake)

Fuck all of that. If I’m following the diet perfectly, what does it matter what the scale says? I’m judging these next three weeks by my complexion. My hair. My mood. My clothes. My energy, my vibrancy, my lifeforce. I’m feeling pretty darn fantastic right now. And if that ain’t good enough for the dieting goddesses, then screw ‘em. As far as I’m concerned, they’re whores, too.

Check in with me tomorrow, if you want a good laugh.