Interstellar Love

Valentine’s Day is upon us. May I offer two pieces of advice?

Ok, men, first of all, never tell her to “Calm down.” Bad move. Something has obviously upset her enough to make her this emotional, and I know you know that it just makes her angrier, and makes her feel like you are invalidating her feelings. If you tell her to “calm down,” you will most likely get a response somewhere in the terrain of “Oh, you want me to calm down?” She will smile at you as if she is mulling over where she plans to bury your body, and then she’ll end with “I’ll show you calm.” It is at this point that hell-fire will rain down on you. For whatever reason that she is upset, by telling her to “calm down,” you are calling her a psycho-hose beast. And that’s never good. Ever throw gasoline on a fire? Tell her to “calm down,” and welcome to the burn unit, buddy.

And ladies, never say any form of the following to a man: “Whatever. It’s fine. Do what you want.” Because even though he knows perfectly well that you don’t think it’s fine, he will take your advice and go out and do what he wants. I mean, you TOLD him to. How can you blame him? You tell him he never listens, so you should be proud of him! He knows perfectly well that the undertone of that message is, “I actually have very strong opinions about this matter, but I will not divulge them because I prefer that you read my mind. And if you leave despite knowing that I am hurt, I will enact revenge on you when you get back.” Then he’ll go anyway. Why? Because playing 18-holes, going out on the fishing boat with his buddies, or gambling late into the night followed by a quick visit to the strip club is a hell of a lot more appealing than standing in the living room and getting bitched at. Men like their pain late, not early. They figure if they’re going to get bitched at anyway, they might as well go out and have fun first and earn it. Right?

Yeah, I was married for 25 years.

So men and women aren’t always the best communicators with each other. Which is odd, because in other parts of our lives, we manage to communicate just fine.

Talking to pets: (“Now Marley, chewing the throw rug was wrong. That was a bad dog. But I forgive you, buddy, I know you just missed me. Let’s make-up. Come here and give me a big, wet, sloppy kiss. Wanna go to the park later?”). Ok, so they can’t talk back. And they’re fluffy.

Talking to toddlers: (“Jimmy, say you’re sorry to the little girl for throwing that dump truck at her head. We don’t throw, do we? And Annabel is our friend, so we want to be kind. That’s a good boy.”) Fine, you’re much bigger than they are, and they have not yet figured out how to harness their verbal power.

Talking to bosses (“Of course, sir, I apologize. It was wrong of me not to check in with you before leaving the office for the day. Next time I will be sure to do that. It was unprofessional of me. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”) Yeah, so your paycheck lays in the balance.

But men speaking to women and vice versa? Sometimes it goes well, but sometimes it’s like men are speaking Shyriiwook and women are speaking Klingon. Sometimes it feels like we come from different planets.

Quite a disconnect.

John Gray’s book tells us: Women like to talk, men want to hide in their caves. Men are rubber bands, women are waves. Fascinating reading. But summarizing this book is not my point, and I’m fairly certain that I have no point. But since I have things to do, and I am not here to analyze you or your significant other, let me leave you for the weekend with one last tidbit.

It’s Valentine’s Day weekend. For God’s sake, just settle it in bed.

Xxxooooo

Tale of the Goat House

(Post One in a three-part series about love in celebration of Valentine’s Day)

Once upon a time there was a Goat House in which lived a Momma and her three baby boy goats. In this Goat House, the baby goats had a lovely time being goats. The goats had fun destroying furniture and carpets, eating vast amounts of food, tromping through the house with their goat hooves, dancing and playing games with their goat friends in their goat dens. Their goat voices were always loud, their goat music always discordant, their goat parties always chaotic and messy.

The Goat House continued on this way for many years. And although Momma loved her goats, she often worried: What if they never learned to be anything except goats? And while she knew her little goats would always be goats, she also knew that if they were to go out into the world, they would have to learn that sometimes, it’s not always the right thing to act like a goat. Because after all, not everyone likes goats all of the time.

Then one quiet day, Momma noticed a change in the energy of The Goat House. Things were quieter. Easier. Neater. The Goat dens were often clean. The goats began to bray quieter, walk softer, and eat slower. Their goat smiles began to reach their goat eyes every day, and they even no longer smelled like goats! They saw their goat games as childish, their goat parties as destructive, their goat music as just too darn loud. They began to help Momma with things around the house, and they became respectful and considerate. They began to study, and work, and help others around the community. And while they still enjoyed being goats, they realized that not everyone likes goats all of the time.

Momma scratched her head, wondering what wondrous thing had come over her goats.

Then one day, a sound like the coo of a dove reached her ears. She looked up amazed to see that in her door had stepped a delicate spotted fawn. A lovely, wide-eyed, graceful fawn. Her goats were frozen, not sure what to do with this strange exotic creature that had suddenly entered their goat domicile. They watched this fawn move lightly and gracefully through The Goat House, moving like a skein of *gold beat to airy thinness. Her effortless movement was entrancing and beguiling, and Momma’s goats moved carefully and gently toward her to welcome her, not wanting to frighten her away.

And she stayed.

Soon more and more fawns began to visit The Goat House. All of the fawns who visited were beautiful, strong and intelligent, possessing within them a stillness and wisdom heretofore not known to the goats. The fawns brought with them mellifluous music and the sweet smell of spring, and with their strength, quieted the unrest of the Goat House. For this Momma was grateful. For as she watched her goats speak to the fawns, she was proud to see in her goats the ability to love. The ability to be vulnerable, generous, and gentle. And when she saw this, she knew she had done her job. For what does a Momma want more than to know that her Baby Goats have the capacity to give and receive great love?

One day Momma Goat told her goats that although all of the fawns were beautiful, that there would come a day when they would each have to choose their favorite fawn, a fawn whom they would love forever over any other fawn. Momma told each goat that it was important to choose wisely, as strong fawns themselves choose who they will love forever carefully and with great consideration. Momma Goat said, “You must cherish the fawn you choose, take good care of her, and let her take care of you. Stand side-by-side with your fawn through all of life’s uncertainties, struggles and setbacks. Pick a strong resilient fawn, one who laughs easily and loves completely, in whose eyes you can look deeply inside and see determination and courage.”

They told Momma Goat they understood, and promised that when the time came, they would choose their favorite fawn wisely. And until that time arrived, the goats continued to be humbled by the beauty and grace and love that the fawns brought to their Goat House. And they never forgot the lesson Momma taught them: that if they were to be successful and happy in life, it was important to remember that while being a goat is fun, not everyone likes goats all of the time.

*This metaphysical conceit is taken from John Donne’s “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning,” one of my favorite poems.

Day Three

(Reader note: I deliberately did not research any articles about the physiological effects diet has on the body so as to keep this entry personal and humorous. The following are simply my personal observations of how my own body reacts to the first three days of moderate caloric restriction).

The first three days of any diet are always the toughest. I speak here of healthy diets of course, the kind where water, vitamins and vegetables are getting flushed through your system while the bad stuff is getting flushed out. The intermittent fasting kind, where you stop eating by 5:00 p.m., and fast until 7:00 a.m. the next day, so your metabolism can reset and revive. The kind where you are eating good healthy food every few hours, drinking green tea, exercising, getting plenty of sleep and loving your life.

I speak NOT of starvation, extreme carbohydrate elimination, strange and time-consuming meal preparation or liquid diets. The fact that these types of eating plans are still advocated knowing what we know about the human body astounds me. Michael Pollan once said that everything he’s learned about food and health can be summed up in seven words: “Eat food, not too much, mostly plants.” I have written this mantra in every journal I have ever kept since I read it in one of his books. I try to follow it, and although I often fail, I do my best.

Now, I’m not about to lecture you about diet, nutrition and weight loss in this blog. I would never presume to do that. I’m not a nutritionist or a personal trainer or a health care worker. I just thought it would be fun to regale you with my diet observations since I just yelled at, threw with tremendous force and trampled on with my size eight sneaker an innocent unsuspecting piece of string cheese.

I’m on day three. These things happen. Because while the first three days of any diet are rewarding, they are also tricksters. Court jesters. They get their jollies by buoying your motivation while at the same time breaking down your defenses. You must let them. More on that.

The first day of any healthy diet you’re running on pure adrenalin. Your body is not suspicious yet, and doesn’t even understand what’s up. At the end of the day it’s just thinking, “1200 calories? Really? So this is what we’re doing today? No big deal. Back to normal tomorrow, though, right? Meet you at the kitchen island for French toast?”

Yeah, no.

The first day of a diet is a cake walk. You wonder how you ever felt like calorie restriction was tough. You feel pure and saintly, not hungry at all. You drink your water, you eat your veggies, you have your little snack and you think, I can do this forever. The first day passes by almost unnoticed, and you look forward to day two.

Until day two. Because halfway through day two, your body is on to you, and hearkens back to its ancestry, when it had to fast if food was not available. Your body begins those strange little craving things. You wonder what harm there would be in pouring an extra tablespoon of dressing into your salad. You wonder if you can have a little chocolate sauce on your fruit.

But deep down, you know this is always how it starts. Little cheats lead to big cheats. And you vowed to give this plan four perfect weeks, no cheating. You eat your chicken and munch your raw veggies, and leave the kitchen eyeing up the bag of mini-marshmallows, wondering how many calories are in just one. You watch your son flagrantly not finish his spaghetti carbonara, and you wordlessly vow to the leftovers “If you were mine, I’d never let you go…” You give one last wistful glance towards the bottle of red wine on the counter, and head up to bed.

You made it through day 2.

Day three dawns, and you wake up with the realization that you haven’t slept that well in months. It was a deep restful sleep, with no tossings and turnings in the middle of the night. You go to use the bathroom, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You do a doubletake. Hm. Your hair looks shiny, your eyes bright, your skin luminous. After only three days, your body is responding to the influx of vitamins and the removal of salt, fat and sugar. You feel a little stir of excitement. You eat your healthy bar to break your fast and head to the gym, where you have an energetic workout.

Right around 10:00 a.m. the hunger hits, and you remember fondly morning toast. You make zero calorie homemade vegetable soup, wishing you could dunk either crackers or pork chops into it. You leave the house, remembering that the third day is always the toughest day, and that keeping busy will help. You walk through Home Depot since it is one of the few stores on the planet that does not sell food or snacks, but the smell in the lumber section reminds you of brick-oven pizza, while the caulk display resembles cans of whipped cream.

You hightail it out of there.

On the way home you pass Wawa, and it occurs to you that there isn’t a single thing you can have in that store but water, baby carrots and black coffee. Just as quickly you think, No. Not “Can’t.” Won’t. You pass by without incident.

By mid-day the mild flu symptoms start. Your body is withdrawing from toxins, so some sluggishness, a faint headache and body aches are to be expected. You also know from experience that these will be gone by day four. You can’t wait for day four. You eat your mid-day fruit and drink your green tea, and look forward to enjoying your healthy dinner and light dessert.

As dinner approaches, you start to feel annoyed by everything and everyone. You are disgusted at the way your son shovels Chipotle into his wide-open trap. You become angry at the book you are reading, written by a no-talent hack. You loathe the dirty towels in the hamper, you glare at the leaky dishwasher, and when you can’t seem to open the wrapper on the string cheese, you throw it on the ground and grind it to a pulp with the heel of your foot, hoping it lays there and realizes what it has done. You eat your dinner and dessert, and stomp off to bed to wallow in self-pity.

Yep, nothing like a good day three. More soon.

So Fetch

Abel Makkonen Tesfaye. Ring a bell?

That’s The Weeknd’s real name.

I’m writing this on the morning of the Super Bowl, but let me predict that The Weeknd is going to put on an amazing show. I’m really looking forward to The Weeknd.

See what I did there? I showed you what a genius semantical move Abel Tesfaye made when choosing his stage name. I love The Weeknd. I mean, doesn’t everyone love The Weeknd? How can you not love The Weeknd? How can those two words even be uttered in a negative way? I’ll explore that, but let’s try out some positive affirmations first:

Q: Hey sweetie, when do you want to check out those Corgi puppies we saw for sale?

A: How about on The Weeknd?

Q: When do you want to hit that new Thai place?

A: The Weeknd is good for me.

Q: I’m having a bear of a work week, I need some serious downtime. Care to cuddle in with me?

A: I’m in. I’m yours for The Weeknd.

Q: You made reservations for a romantic room and high tea at The Plaza in New York?! Really? When?

A: The Weeknd.

Q: When are your cheat meals?

A: On the Weeknd.

Q: Loverboy used to have this song about work, but I can’t remember the lyrics. They go something like, “Everybody’s working for…”

A: “The Weeknd.”

Saying “The Weeknd” in a negative way is tough, like trying to say “cupcakes” or “bubbles” in a mean voice. I’ll admit, if you polish off a dozen cupcakes when you’re on a diet, and then you step on the scale to see that you have gained three pounds, chances are you’d spit out, “It was those fucking cupcakes.” And maybe if you named your chihuahua “Bubbles,” and one day you came home to see that he chewed your favorite Italian loafers, then of course, “Bad, Bubbles, BAD!” would be an appropriate utterance. Otherwise, words like bubbles, cupcakes and The Weeknd simply do not lend themselves easily to negative connotation.

But to be fair:

Q: When are the funeral services?

A: The Weeknd.

Q: When are you working?

A: The Weeknd.

Q: When’s your audit?

A: The Wednesday after The Weeknd.

Q: Did you schedule that colonoscopy?

A: Yeah, I’m headed in on The Weeknd.

When I first became aware of the musical artist The Weeknd and really started enjoying his music (and found out he was dating Bella Hadid), I had a funny joke that I tried out on all three of my boys:

So The Weeknd and Bella are working in separate parts of the house. Bella is working in the kitchen, and The Weeknd is searching for something deep in his closet. Bella shouts from the kitchen:

“Honey, what do you want to do on The Weeknd?”

Abel, dealing with poor closet acoustics, only hears the last two words, and thinks she is calling his name. He shouts back.

“What?”

Bella tries again. “I said, what do you want to do on The Weeknd?”

Again, he answers, “I said, what?!”

Shocked, she screams one more time. “THE WEEKND! THE WEEKND!”

He’s pissed now. “What the fuck do you want??!!!”

Bella is pissed now too, as it is becoming glaringly apparent that he is brushing off her request. She marches into the bedroom to confront him and flings open the closet door. He looks at her in surprise when she yells at him.

“What the hell is your problem?” she says. “Do you think you’re funny? I called you three times.”

He stares at her in confusion. “I know bitch, I heard you. I answered you three times. What’s your problem?”

I thought it was clever, like the famous “Who’s on First?” skit. But when I delivered the joke with much fanfare to my sons, they just stared at me, shook their heads and walked away. I’m pretty sure I saw an eye roll in there too. Yep, they just left me hanging.

I figured it just needed some improvement, so I fine tuned it and tried out different scenarios. Sometimes I put Bella and Abel in a convertible, sometimes in a desert canyon, sometimes in a loud concert venue- you know, anywhere where acoustics are compromised. But no matter how I delivered it, I got the eye roll. I felt like poor sycophantic Gretchen Wieners in “Mean Girls” when Regina George rejects her incessant use of the colloquial “fetch.”

“Gretchen, stop trying to make ‘fetch’ happen!” Regina tells her. “It’s not going to happen!”

Bummer.

Hey, some jokes work, some fall flat. I at least got a bemused smile with this one after I arrived home from the grocery store:

Q: What would happen if Tupac had triplets?

(Boy looks up from phone, stares at me with dead-eyes and answers, “What?”)

A: (I whip out and display the box of toothpaste from the store that says: Value 3-Pack)

The smile I received gave me confidence to go upstairs later that day and try it on another son. And then another. And as I launched into my spiel for the third time, the boy who heard it the first time (and encouraged me, I may add), screamed from downstairs.

“Stop telling that joke, it’s not funny!!”

Well, alrighty then, so you shouldn’t have smiled. And guess what, readers? It just occurred to me that you are reading this on the Monday after The Weeknd.

Now that’s fetch.

Revenge of the Fallen

I stared in horror.

“What did you do?”

I had just arrived home from errands to a sink filled with pots and pans, dishes covered in cement-hardened egg vomit, and coffee mugs filled with solidified gray-flecked bacon grease. Toast crumbs flecked the counters, butter splotched the surfaces, and bacon grease spittles covered the stovetop grates, the hood, the microwave, and the backsplash.

Signs of struggle were apparent, the kitchen looking like the remnants of an epic global battle between the Breakfast Transformers, Optimus Pork and Megatoast.

I turned to face my son.

“I was only gone a few hours. The kitchen was spotless when I left. What in the world did you do?”

My middle son stood a safe distance away, arms crossed, his face registering an expression with which I was intimately familiar and which communicated the following:

I’m not sure what she wants to hear at this point. Truth be told, I’m not exactly sure what I did wrong. I mean, she has always told me I am a wonderful boy. What is she so angry about? Is it really as bad as she is making it out to be? Am I still cute enough to get away with whatever she thinks I have done? How do I convince her that my nutrition is far more important than the cleanliness of the kitchen? How do I impress upon her that instead of ire, she should feel pride that I made my own breakfast? Isn’t that the important thing when you love your children? To feel pride in their accomplishments? I mean, no one was hurt in the making of my breakfast sandwiches, and mom has always said that as long as no one gets hurt, anything else can be fixed. And what brand of humor would alleviate this charged situation? Dry? Acerbic? Low-brow? High-brow? Must decide now…

He did not choose humor at all, surprisingly enough. He chose, instead, to show me a video.

“Ok,” he said, making his way slowly towards me, “I know it looks bad. But look at these.”

He thrust his phone out to me, and I glanced down to watch a video of his four gargantuan over-stuffed breakfast sandwiches laid out attractively on a plate. The background music of the video was a celebratory E major, the most royal and dignified of all the musical keys. And of course, the video ended with a quick flash to his self-satisfied face, as he prepared to gorge on his culinary triumph.

I watched it twice.

“So?”

He looked aghast. “What do you mean, so? These sandwiches took an hour to make. I used a dozen eggs, a half-pound of bacon, a quarter pound of cheese, and four English muffins. I mean, I cleaned out the entire refrigerator for these bad boys. I used the groceries in the house, isn’t that what you always ask us to do?”

He had me there.

“Fine, your sandwiches are impressive, and I’m glad you cooked at home. But that’s not the point.”

He had the temerity to look perplexed, wondering what angle he didn’t cover.

“So what’s the point?”

“The kitchen. The kitchen is the point. When you cook and use dishes, you’re supposed to clean up your mess. You’re 22 years old. I mean, look around you.”

He glanced around as if he were seeing it with fresh eyes.

“Whoa. This kitchen is trashed.” He gave a little laugh.

“It certainly is. What should we do about it?”

“Well, Mother, would it be satisfactory at this point for me to ask you to handle it? I am a working man now, and I have deadlines to meet, as you can well imagine.” He nodded in the direction of his remote home office set up in the middle of my living room.

This was the wrong move, and he knew it immediately. Mention of his remote “home office” is my sore spot.  I don’t even have a home office yet. And despite the fact that it is only temporarily remote until he gets shipped off to his company, every time he saunters towards his expensive leather chair and announces, “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” my diastolic skyrockets.

“Would it be satisfactory? No, it would be not be satisfactory. It would be highly unsatisfactory. I am not your maid. You know the rules.”

He looked at me patiently and condescendingly, and began speaking in a tone most effectively used when talking to a small child or a frightened animal.

“Now, Mother, of course I am aware that you are not my maid. It’s silly of you to suggest otherwise. But I suppose what I’m asking for at this point is maybe a little bit of…compromise, shall we say? Some flexibility? Maybe you can meet me halfway? I have a conference call coming in at, oh….,” he glances down at an imaginary watch on his wrist, “well, in ten minutes. Now you and I both know I can’t possibly do this kitchen justice in only ten minutes. And while I apologize for the inconvenience, for now you must please excuse me.”

And off he went with that maddening saunter to his home office.

(Where in the world did he learn to talk like a stuffy overbearing English linguistics professor? Oh, right.)

There are certain things I simply cannot control with three men in the house, not if I want a semblance of a life. Maybe if I gave up recreation, work, sleep and religion, I could run a perfectly clean orderly household. But since I am not willing to do that, I must simply do the best I can with the following:

Drinking glasses. The following are the only sad derelict specimens I have left in my cabinet right now as far as drinking glasses, because the boys have broken every single nice glass I have ever purchased. I have: a single mysterious errant stemless red wine glass (left on my counter from a party they threw while I was in Canada), a plastic Pepsi tumbler, a Mason jar, a Life is Good water glass, a Pilsner glass, a lidded Goji berry juice jar, a Christmas punch glass with handle, and a rose-gold rimmed white wine flask with metal straw. The Cabinet of Misfit Glasses. I have some sturdy Crate and Barrel drinking glasses arriving soon, let’s see how long they last.

Coats. Patagonia jackets. Carhartt coats. Fleece hoodies. Snowboard jackets. Sweatshirts. Flannels. Golf windbreakers. Foul weather gear. Times three boys. Do the math. I cannot find a coat rack that has enough arms, and even when I do, the weight of the coats eventually topples the rack no matter how well the weight is distributed. Normal people would step back and think, “Hey, maybe I should put some coats away.” Not my boys. When the arms are all taken they start throwing one coat on top of the other at the top of the rack. At night the lamps in the foyer light the coat rack in such a way that it takes on the shape of a large hulking ominous creature. I leave it there, hoping it discourages intruders

Shoes. Work shoes, work boots, snowboard boots, workout sneakers, work sneakers, dress sneakers, slip-ons, Uggs, moccasins, Rainbow flips, boat shoes, times three boys, ad nauseum. Since I can’t spend my life monitoring their comings and goings, and I have never been able to find a big enough receptacle for all of their shoes, the bulk of their footwear ends up on my foyer floor. My fantasy is to have a big hole into which I can just toss their shoes. The hole would ultimately lead to the crawl space into which they would have to crawl with the spiders and small dead rodents to retrieve their shoes.

Fruit. I buy it. No one eats it. Excluding bananas and grapes, I’ve never seen any one of my boys ever eat a hand fruit in their entire lives. Hand fruit takes entirely too much energy for them. Citrus fruits have to be peeled, they’re sticky, and there’s no guarantee that they will taste good. Apples are juicy, and then the juice gets on their precious hands. Pears have to be the perfect combination between ripeness and crispness, and who the hell knows when that is? Nectarines are universally pleasing, but hard to find, you know, buried deep in that refrigerator crisper. My boys like their fruit cut into pleasing little shapes, placed into attractive bowls, and hand delivered to them like when they were little boys cuddled in blankets on the couch while watching “Blues Clues.” Those days are long over. But sometimes, for kicks, they feign sickness or exhaustion so as to get personally hand-delivered hand-cut fruit.

Backpacks. This is a new addition as of three minutes ago when I tripped on two heavy backpacks. You say your kid has one backpack that he places neatly by the door? Lucky you. My boys each have three at the minimum: one they use for academics, one they use for sports, and one they use to sneak illegal contraband past parents, concert attendants and sporting referees. This last is a very scary backpack. I used to look in them when they were younger, being the parent and all, and I saw things no mother should ever have to see. I don’t look in those backpacks anymore.

They are shameless. Or I’m a fool. Probably both.

Mourning Aunt Gertie

I used to love Danielle Steele novels as a teenager. You know the plot- sad rich beautiful heroine decides to escape from her problems (dead husband or parents, lost fortune, single motherhood, incurable illness, take your pick), and shows up alone or with adorable young children in tow, to heal in upscale affluent locales like Carmel-by-the-Sea, Santa Barbara, Laguna Beach, Santa Monica, or Santa Cruz. The women are always renting a beautiful beach bungalow with sparse furnishings and a view of the ocean, and every morning she wakes up, brews a hot cup of coffee, sits on her porch in perfect linen pants, stares at the sunrise, and wonders how she got herself into such a mess.

Drinking coffee while watching the sunrise over the ocean? A mess? Not in my world honey, no matter what the circumstances.

When I first came up with this subject of this post, I began taking notes on the movies that deliver the lachrymose punch I speak of:

“The Holiday”: Cameron Diaz flees to England, and within three hours manages to sleep with Jude Law while Kate Winslet, having fled to L.A., answers the door to the adorably quirky Jack Black. Of course both women traveled to get away from men, and of course both men just show up magically at their doorsteps in all of their tortured and brilliant glory. Jude Law inevitably helps Cameron Diaz learn how to cry, and Jack Black helps Kate Winslet forget about handsome brooding Jasper. Yep, happens all the time.

“Waiting to Exhale”: Wesley Snipes plops down next to Angela Bassett at a swanky hotel bar. Yeah, guys who look like that sit down next to me all the time. Oh, and he’s a civil rights attorney with a dying wife whom he loves desperately, yet still manages to fall in love with Angela Bassett in one night. Plausible.

“The Horse Whisperer”: Newspaper editor Kristin Scott Thomas travels to Montana with her daughter and falls in love with cowboy Robert Redford. If you know anything about New York, or newspaper editors, or cowboys and their horses, or even Montana, you know this could never happen. The only part that rung true is when he told her he would never leave his home, so she had no choice but to go back to her husband, the stoic Sam Neill. Seriously, no cowboy is giving up his horses for some skinny red-haired ex-newspaper editor. And Sam Neill should have slammed the door in her face when she showed up at home. He knew full well his wife and Robert Redford got it on.

“Love Happens”: Jennifer Aniston is the hotel florist at the hotel where grieving widower and writer Aaron Eckhardt gives seminars about the grieving process. Of course he’s not ready to stop grieving, so she dumps him. Realizing his mistake, he finds her and asks her to live happily ever after with him. My close friends know why I love this ending so much.

“Baby Boom”: Diane Keaton moves with her newly adopted daughter to Vermont after losing a law partnership, and Sam Shepard just happens to be the sole handsome single veterinarian in this small town, population 800. A single veterinarian in Vermont would probably be dating his patients.

“Murphy’s Romance”: Sally Field moves to a small town in Arizona to start a new life on a farm with her son and develops a platonic relationship with the much older successful handsome pharmacist widower James Garner. Of course all of the women in town are after him, but he eventually settles on Sally Field. Good choice Murphy.

“Continental Divide”: John Belushi and Blair Brown fall in love in Wyoming. He’s a reporter fleeing the city, she’s a bird scientist. Imagine being an ornithologist and John Belushi showing up at your cabin door. Lucky Blair Brown.

“English Patient”: Ralph Fiennes is burned. Juliette Binoche is his nurse. He tells stories about this married Englishwoman he was in love with. Ok, so I haven’t seen it. But it seemed important to mention when we’re talking travel and improbable love.

This blog is going on too long, so let me make my point. Traveling as a single woman the last three years, it has been my position that this stuff just doesn’t happen the way books and movies say it does. Women don’t meet men like that. The realization made me cynical, and dubious about romantic travel.

But when I arrived home from Montana, and I began to think of the wonderful people I met there, it has occurred to me that I am meeting people, in exactly the way movies suggest. Here is a list of some of the men I have met and loved over the last three years:

  • Icelandic cowboys as handsome and romantic as Robert Redford
  • Canadian bartenders as romantic and quirky as Jude Law and Jack Black
  • Handsome grieving widowers from Boston not quite over their late wives
  • Successful motivational speakers in the Berkshires as charismatic as Aaron Eckhardt
  • Zipline guides in the Adirondacks as sexy as Wesley Snipes

I’ve met veterinarians, dogsledders, Uber drivers, spelunkers, golf pros, hikers, climbers, snowmobile guides, hockey coaches, writers, speakers, musicians, and dozens and dozens more. Some I would have liked to know longer and with more depth, but this is never our choice. The Universe has its own timing.

So sure, real life is not a Hollywood movie. Nor is it a Danielle Steele novel. It’s better. Because we live our lives in it.

And what could be better than that?

Retail Therapy

Mary arrives for therapy session. Plops down in chair. Doctor sits down gently in chair facing Mary, clutching yellow legal pad and #2 pencil.

Doctor: So. Mary. How did it go? Did you do your homework?

Mary: Well, I did what you told me to do.

Doctor: Good. So tell me what happened.

Mary: Well, you told me that the next time I felt the irresistible urge to buy clothes, that I was to note down in my journal all of my thoughts and feelings leading up to the purchase.

Doctor: Excellent. (Writes in his tablet). And did you ultimately purchase said items?

Mary: (Pauses) Of course.

Doctor: (Looks up wordlessly ).

Mary: What?

Doctor: Well, obviously, Mary, the point of the exercise was for you to recognize the emotional impulses that drive your retail frenzy, to take notes and then ultimately retard those impulses.

Mary: Whoever said “frenzy?” I never said “frenzy.” I’m not “frenzied.”  

Doctor: Merely semantics. (He holds up a photo). This is a current picture of your current closet, correct?

Mary: Well, yes.

Doctor: (Continues to hold the picture up). I thought we agreed at our last session that your clothes consumption can be considered, shall we say, excessive?

Mary: We did?

Doctor: Yes, we did. You also told me that you have always dreamed of being a fashion minimalist like Caroline Bessette-Kennedy, who was known to travel all over the world with only…wait, what did you say…(consults his notes) “one black pencil skirt, one black cashmere sweater, one white t-shirt, one pair of jeans and one tube of Ruby Woo lipstick.” You said, and I quote: “She is my minimalist fashion guru.”

Mary: (Unsure). I said that?

Doctor: Yes, you did. Would you care to take a look at my notes?

Mary: No, I know I said it. Can we move on?

Doctor: Certainly. Now then, tell me what items piqued your interest as you conducted the experiment, and what happened as you succumbed?

Mary: Ok. Well, first I saw the email from Athleta.

Doctor: What did it say?

Mary: It said, “New Arrivals!”

Doctor: And how did those words make you feel? Can you read it to me?

Mary: (Consults her journal) “Excitement floods my brain. New arrivals could mean anything- new tight colors, new sweaters, new skirts. I must buy them right away before they are sold out. You know new arrivals sell out fast, so hurry, don’t wait!” (Looks up)

Doctor: Good. Very good. So your initial impulse was avarice. The email itself seduced you. You’re implying that you made the decision to buy the items before ever even having laid eyes on them. Fascinating. I wonder, did you ever consider not even opening the email in order to resist the visual temptation?

Mary: Briefly. But I couldn’t help myself. You don’t understand, Valentine’s Day is right around the corner, and many fashion labels are offering red items. But not glitzy Christmas reds. Warm blue-reds. It’s a tough color to find during the course of a normal fashion year, and it’s universally flattering. I had to see what they were offering.  

Doctor: So you were enamored of the mere possibility of what they had to offer. Good. Go on, tell me what happened when you opened the email. Were your red items there?

Mary: No reds. But browns.

Doctor: Browns?

Mary: Earthy-browns. Athleta doesn’t do earthy-browns, at least not in my memory. Ever. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Doctor: Read me your stream-of-consciousness notes.

Mary: (Reads) “Holy Shit! A brown Venice blazer? Brown Delancey herringbone tights to match? WTF! I love brown! They’re so…natty! This outfit reminds me of my favorite brown Ann Taylor suit I used to wear early in my teaching career. God, I loved that suit. I even have a picture of myself in the hallway in that suit. This jacket and matching tights are just like it!”

Doctor: So you made the emotional connection with the color first, a color you love and one you feel complements you. Then came the fond memory, the remembrance of something you wore that you loved and that you looked good in. So it is safe to say that by that point, before you even purchased these articles of clothing, you were already emotionally invested in them.

Mary: Yes. I already saw myself in them. I knew exactly where I would wear them. I could picture the shoes that could go with them. I thought of how I would wear them separately and together, and in different outfit combinations.

Doctor: And did you take my advice? Did you try and differentiate between “need” and “want”?

Mary: Yes. I asked myself, “Do I really need these?”

Doctor: And your answer was?

Mary: My answer was no. Of course not.

Doctor: Yet you still purchased them. Odd. Tell me, what would have had to transpire for you to not make the purchase?

Mary: (Pauses). A house fire? A family emergency? A sudden debilitating illness?

Doctor: (Looks at her closely) Are you suggesting that nothing short of death or dismemberment would have prevented you from purchasing these two items?

Mary: Yes.

Doctor: Interesting. So how do you feel now? Remorseful?

Mary: No. I’m excited. Just the thought of these items getting packaged and shipped to me fills me with warmth. And every day that leads up to my receiving them feels like Christmas Eve. It’s something to look forward to.

Doctor: What if you receive them and they disappoint you? Have you ever ordered something you thought sure you were going to love, but when it arrived you realized it didn’t meet your expectations?

Mary: Sure. In the few instances when that has happened, I just throw the item back in the bag, and return it immediately.

Doctor: And how does that feel?

Mary: Disappointing, obviously. I feel let down. But there are always new arrivals to look forward to.

Doctor: So you continue to anticipate more clothes. May I ask, what about your goal of fashion minimalism? What do you think Caroline would say if she could see you now?

Mary: I bet she’s in heaven with John wishing that she would have treated herself to more than just black.

Doctor: So no regrets?

Mary: None.

Doctor: You’re cured.

Tar-ZHAY

Tar-Zhay

Things I am way more excited about than I should be:

  • The new Girl Scout cookie flavor Toast-Yay!
  • “Men in Kilts” premiering on STARZ on Valentine’s Day
  • Crate and Barrel Haden kettles
  • The new Target store going up five minutes from me

Oh, Target, what is this hold you have over me? The anticipation I feel about Target coming here is so unlike me. The last time I got excited about a franchise was fifteen years ago when I heard a rumor that Panera Bread was coming to our area.

Still waiting on that one.

But this is no rumor. It’s really happening. Target is going to replace the old smelly defunct Kmart. There’s even a sign: “Target Coming Soon!” And while making the twenty-minute trek to the closest Target has never been a hardship, a quick five-minute trek is so…personal.

The shopping center the Target will preside over is a sad little bedraggled group of stores, I’m sorry to say. Target moving into this strip mall is like the Byrdes moving to the Ozarks. And unless Big Lots is out of business already, I’d say its life span could be clocked with an egg timer once Target shows up.

The excitement Target is stirring up reminds me of a scene in the movie “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.” A Burger Barn franchise is coming to their town, and on the day of the Grand Opening, everyone in the sleepy little hamlet city comes out for the celebration. The high school band performs, city officials make speeches, and everyone shows up to dance and taste free samples. They suck vanilla milkshakes through straws as if its manna from heaven.

To me, this maudlin scene has always reeked of small-mindedness, one of my least favorite qualities in people or geography. But now I understand the excitement of the scene, because soon I’ll be dancing in the Target parking lot on their opening day.

I love wandering through Target. When the boys were little, I would stick them in their stroller and just slink aimlessly up and down the aisles, buying them cute clothes, snacks and small toys. As they got older and figured out where the big toy section was, they began sneaking Legos into the cart. Sometimes the answer was no. But often, it was yes. We would arrive home with our treasure trove, and they would huddle together like three baby beavers constructing a dam.

A trip to Target never failed to please.

This psychological state of wandering the Target aisles and buying more than what you originally intended has a name, you know. It’s called the “Target Effect.” Supposedly Target’s bright red colors and displays, its warmth and conviviality, keep us in the store shopping. Target makes us feel good. And now that Starbucks has taken up residence in Target stores, we can also treat ourselves to a vanilla cold brew to go along with our positive state of mind. I have no doubt that this is indeed a thing, for I am a firm believer in the tricks big corporations use to keep us shopping.

Or not shopping.

I was in ShopRite on Saturday, ready to enjoy a nice grocery trip after having been away from home for a week, and I began to feel annoyed. Anxious.  Wondering why I was looking at cheeses that I didn’t need. I moved on, and it didn’t take me long to pinpoint the source of my irritation: the loud heavy metal music pounding through the speakers. I guess due to current circumstances, ShopRite simply wants shoppers to come in, get what they need, and leave. I certainly didn’t want to dawdle, not with that abrasive music hitting my eardrums. ShopRite didn’t want me to relax, so I didn’t.

So fine, I am being manipulated. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. But can it really be called manipulation if not only am I aware of it, but heartily agree to it?

So the “Target Effect” suggests that I’m someone who defaults to “retail therapy” to feel better? That I’m less emotionally stable than my neighbor just because I like colorful Target bathmats? That I supposedly succumb to “psychological pricing” when I get a shot of endorphins at the sight of a price that ends in “9,” because my eyes send my brain a signal that I’m getting it on sale, when I’m really not?

Fine. I can live with that.

Strategic Ways to avoid the “Target Effect”:

  • Self-regulation (mantras, chanting, refusal to “drink the Kool-Aid”)
  • Go in with a list and don’t deviate from it
  • Use disputing questions (What evidence is there that I need this item?)
  • Go in with a companion who will control you, then flee the store having bought nothing while asking yourself: “What did I learn?”

What fun is any of that?

These techniques supposedly form new associations in your brain. But I’ve decided I don’t want to form new associations in my brain. I just want Target stuff. Here is a standard sampling of stuff I bring home from a normal Target shopping trip:

Colorful bathmats made specifically for small bathrooms, vanilla and cinnamon soy candles, trade paperbacks, salon hair products, Harry’s shaving stuff for boys, cleaning supplies, toothpaste and mouthwash, Burt’s Bees tinted lip balm, Sharpies or other office supplies, Brita water filters, greeting cards, hangers, lightbulbs, couch pillows, cereal, picture frames, trail mix, placemats, sleepwear, etc.

I mean, I don’t always buy all of this stuff every time. I only make like one Target run a month, if that. But now that I will have access to Target five minutes away, it will either go one way or the other: Since I will be able to pop in whenever I want, I will always leave with only one or two things, OR I will over purchase because it will simply take time to get used to having access to so many beautiful products all the time.

And in my defense, bathmats wear out quickly in my household.

(If you are interested in the link: https://www.nbcnews.com/better/pop-culture/target-effect-psychologist-explains-why-you-can-t-just-buy-ncna923456)

Home Again Me

Today I stop drinking, for the most part. And consuming bread, mostly. And eating sugar, kind of.

I mean, in a way. I don’t consume much of any of them to any extreme as it is, but I need a realignment.

I tend towards the 80/20 plan. You know, eighty percent of the time I’m good with exercise and diet, and twenty percent of the time I throw caution to the wind. But in Montana this past week, I think I had the fraction inverted. Because Early Vacation Me was on a tear.

Early Vacation Me is the life of the party. She tips and shops and drinks and eats with nary a thought to carbs, alcohol consumption or cost management. Early Vacation Me enjoys things like 10:00 a.m. gin-and-tonic/dim sum airport lunches, French toast breakfasts, salted caramel martinis, mid-day Michelob Ultras and expansive steak and potato dinners. Yes, yes, yes, says Early Vacation Me, more of everything!!!

But inevitably, midway through any vacation, Late Vacation Me arrives with her guilt trip to kill Early Vacation Me. Late Vacation Me starts ordering water with lemon, seasonal fruit plates, and grilled vegetables. She eschews the breadbasket and souvenir shops, and questions whether the shuttle driver really did all that much to deserve five bucks.

Yeah, Late Vacation Me is a party pooper.

But she means well, you know? After all, she’s looking out for Post Vacation Me. Because Post-Vacation Me suffers from Celebration Remorse. Post Vacation Me is the one that unpacks her suitcase, and wonders what was going through Early Vacation Me’s mind when she bought that elephant-printed romper. That red Stetson. The bear-emblazoned Bradley sweater. Post Vacation Me protects Early Vacation Me from excess distress (extress?) when looking at vacation credit card statements. Post Vacation Me covers Early Vacation Me’s eyes when she steps on the scale for her post-vacation weigh-in.

Post Vacation Me gets Home Again Me back on track. But considering what Post Vacation Me has planned for Planning Her Next Adventure Me through February and March, we have decided that we need extra reinforcements.

We decided we need Jenny. So we called Jenny. And Jenny has agreed to help. Again.

Jenny is a good friend. She’s tough, consistent and tells it like it is. And when I fuck up, she leans back, smiles and tells me that when I’m ready to be serious again, she’ll be there. She never judges, never withholds affection, and never says, “I told you so.”

I wouldn’t call myself a Jenny Craig recidivist, per se. I just use Jenny when I need structure. Jenny reminds me what normal portions are like, she reminds me of the joys of salads and fruit and raw veggies and Greek yogurts, and she reminds me of the deleterious effects that alcohol has on the scale. And while I am not a huge fan of processed boxed food, I must say that Jenny’s food tastes pretty good. Overall, the program is effective for me as a temporary reset.

Jenny will get me in fighting shape.

And if those damn Girl Scouts will just stay away from me with their damn cookies, everything will be just fine. Did you hear about this new flavor, the Toast-Yay!? It looks scrumptious. The Girl Scout cookie page asks you if there is a cookie “that brings you joy.”

Um, yes? Like, every single flavor?

Thin Mints. Our family favorite across the board. We always keep a few boxes in the freezer.

Lemonades. My youngest’s favorite flavor.

Caramel deLites. My middle’s favorite. More like a candy bar.

Peanut Butter Patties. My favorites.

S’Mores? Dear lord.

Oh, and we miss the discontinued Thanks-a-Lots. They were my oldest’s favorite.

How I will miss them all. Wish me luck.