I’m Welcome

When people respond to one of my blog posts, it’s in one of three ways: by email, through the comment section, or sometimes a text, if you’re a friend. All three are invaluable resources to me- it helps me know what you like, what you think is funny, and what is still unclear.

I’ve been getting this question quite a lot recently, starting with a guy I was communicating with in Scottsdale last month:

“So what qualities are you looking for in a man?”

Well, damn it. I write a lifestyle and relationship blog that centers around what I like about men, so if I am still getting this question, I guess I have not been as clear about this subject as I feel like I have been. So I’m going to answer it, once and for all. But again, only because I have been asked and only because this is my blog and I can write about what I want.

Kidding aside? There seems to be some real confusion out there. Readers (cough men) seem to be confusing sexual desire with personality. That is a very dangerous and wrong assumption to make whether you’re making it as a man about a female, or a female about a man.

So you’ll get your answer. Tomorrow. I need time to scroll through emails and comments, and then gather my notes together. Until then, I’m going to stall and share ten of my favorite comments left on my blog. Not because they’re prescient, or thought-provoking, but because they make no sense, and just made me laugh. After each comment I left the name of the blog post they are referring to, and my humorous observation. Enjoy and see you tomorrow with the answer to the question:

What are you looking for in a man?

Approaching from the standpoint of a fellow member within this trade, I really enjoy your write-up. I’ve constantly been in in actual fact like with this trade all my life so I’ve developed a discussion board for marketplace specialists to come together and discuss all things in this business. You gave me some fantastic creative concepts for my own website online. I plan to market one ssoon. “Secret Slut Scanner”

(So I take it he or she is in the Secret Slut Scanner business?)

public service announcement tentacle sex big dicks porn din mount terminal wire
strips the hills have thighs porno cast burtless fuck. hamilton beach vintage juicer potty train naked payper view phat ass swollen breasts teens summer camp. “Known But to God”

(Tentacle sex? Hm.)

This blogis so much better than my cousin Steves blog. He really doesnt know what hes writing about. “Widdle Ditty”

(Jeez, give Steve a break, I’m sure he’s doing his best)

Remarkable web site, Distinguished comments that I can tackle. I am shifting ahead and might apply to my current job as a pet sitter, which may be very fulfilling, however I must additional expand. All the Best “Silvio the Interrogator”

(Best of luck with pet sitting there, dude)

you know actually i got on this blog by an accident,didnt mean to search this.but still this post was a good read but surely agruable one. Oh you suck pins and needles. “Mrrrawr”

(That escalated quickly)

Czlowiek, ktory w wieku piecdziesieciu lat widzi swiat tak samo, jak widzial go majac dwadziescia lat, zmarnowal trzydziesci lat zycia. – Muhammad Ali “Soft Edges”

(I’m the Greatest?)

Good thinking. Im curious to think what type of impact this would have globally? Sometimes people get a little upset with global expansion. Ill check back to see what you have to say “Goat House”

(Not sure goats are necessarily an issue for global expansion)

Hi My dream retirement would be living in Udaipur, India! I have been to the city and enjoy the individuals and Indian culture. I’d be thrilled to be able to see this film which takes place in the top place in the world! “Whore”

(Of course this is not a film, but I fucked with him and replied that I need on-set extras. He was very excited)

Me English no better, but had to say me like what you say. Thank you from me to me. “Mourning Aunt Gertie”

(I’m welcome)

Cwacked Up

I know you’ve been waiting anxiously for this announcement, so I am happy to report that Mr. and Mrs. Duck have officially returned home for their spring break, as of yesterday. If you drive past my house, keep an eye out- they like to cross the street slowly many times a day. If you didn’t read the post a few months ago about Mr. and Mrs. Duck, they return every spring to hang out under my birdfeeders. They show up alone at first, then as the spring wears on into the summer, they bring friends and relatives. I make sure to have provisions ready for their extended family.

So now I will check under the bird feeders twenty times a day to see if they’ve stopped by for a snack. I will be careful to move slowly, so as not to startle them. I will praise Mr. Duck for being gallant and letting the Missus eat first while he watches over her for imminent danger. I will leave water out, and keep the cracked corn handy near the front door for anyone who wants to toss them a small handful (they can get greedy, so we are careful how much we give them). When they are full, you can sometimes catch them sunbathing on my patio, on the grass or the sidewalk.

They’re getting some prime spring break real estate.

I’m also happy to report that my Easter bunnies are back as well, staring at me in the yard in the morning and late evenings, hoping to cop some carrots or lettuce that they know I keep on hand. The squirrels are also reappearing in my open doorway, waiting for peanuts. By mid-summer, Mr. Squirrel (I’m terrible at naming creatures, that’s the most original I get), the bravest of them all, will come all the way into my foyer and stare at me until I throw him a peanut. He gets so brave by summer that I can’t leave the door open, or he will come all the way into the house. One day when I was working at the counter, he brushed past my ankle, startling me so much that I jumped out of my seat and scared the dickens out of him. He didn’t return for weeks. I felt bad about that.

I have one son home, the other two arrive later this week, and that will take care of all my creatures. They will all be home, staring at me and waiting for food. The boys, the ducks, the bunnies, the squirrels and the birds. They’re all the same. They’re always hungry. They bring extra guests like they’re doing me a big favor. They stare at me, trying to look as pathetic as possible so I will prepare them food. They lay all over the yard and the patio and house, like they help to pay the mortgage.

Here’s a little anthropomorphic skit for you. I will speak in Duck, but keep in mind you can substitute the language of Boy and it still works.

Mary goes outside to retrieve the paper, and watches as Mr. and Mrs. Duck waddle towards her:

Mary: Good morning you two. How’s everything going?

Mr. Duck: Good! Great! Fine morning! (Stalls) Soooo, what are you up to today?

Mary: Nothing, just leaving to run errands. How about you?

Mr. Duck: Just chilling, and considering what we’re having for breakfast. We’re not sure what we’re in the mood for.

Mrs. Duck: Yes, we didn’t eat ANYTHING last night.

Mary: (Dubious) Is that right? And why is that?

Mrs. Duck: Well, we hung out in your neighbor’s pool all day, so we skipped dinner. We’re starved.

Mary: Ah. So you’re starved. I see. Have you tried getting some worms or bugs out of the ground?

Mr. Duck: Well, the problem with that, see, is that we’re a little pressed for time.

Mrs. Duck: (Nods) Yes. Pressed for time. That’s right.

Mary: Pressed for time? What do you have going on?

Mr. Duck: Well, we’re due down the street at 9:00 a.m. for stale bread, so you see that only leaves us about thirty minutes. We were hoping some bird food may have dropped onto the ground, but there’s nothing.

(They both look down at their feet, pathetically)

Mary: (Reluctantly) Well, I have a few minutes until I have to leave, would you like some cracked corn?

Mr. Duck: REALLY? That would be awesome, I mean, if you’re sure it’s no trouble. We were just talking (nods towards Mrs. Duck, who nods enthusiastically back) that cracked corn is just what we were in the mood for.

Mary: Wow. What a coincidence.

Mrs. Duck: Right?!! It really is! Thanks so much!

Mary: Don’t mention it. I’ll be right back.

Mr. Duck (murmuring to Mrs. Duck as Mary goes into the house): She’s the best, isn’t she? I told you, she’s the best…I love coming here…

Mary rolls her eyes as she overhears this discussion, and she returns with a cup of cracked corn. She is surprised to see that there are two more ducks waiting under the feeder.

Mary: (Feeds Mr. and Mrs. Duck) Well, who do we have here?

Mr. Duck: Oh, these are my friends Jimmy and Johnny from Florida. We hung out all winter, and I told them all about you, and they insisted on visiting this spring. It’s no trouble that they’re here, is it?

Mary: No, I guess I have plenty, but there’s not much room…

Duck Friends: Oh, we won’t take up much room, Mrs. Oves, we promise. We’re just going to hang out on the beach and the boardwalk for a few days. We’ll just be here to sleep, you won’t even know we’re here.

Mary: Is that right?

Mrs. Duck: You have my word on that. They will be gone by Sunday morning, and they’ll clean up after themselves.

Mary: Yeah, sure. Well, are you guys hungry too?

Duck Friends: No, don’t worry about us, we’re fine, we had some small water snails a few days ago, we’re still full…(they look down at their feet, pathetically)

Mary: You’re still full from a few days ago? That’s impossible. Let me get you something to eat.

Duck Friends: No, seriously, we’re fine. We’re going to head to the beach in a few minutes, maybe we’ll get lucky and find a crayfish.

Mary: Well, ok, if you’re sure…(Gathers up her stuff to leave)

Duck Friends: (Quickly, alarmed) Well…we don’t want to be rude, I mean, if you insist, we would really appreciate it. It’s so nice to meet you, we’ve heard so much about you!

Mary: It’s no trouble. (Goes back into the house to get more cracked corn)

Mr. Duck: Did I tell you? Did I tell you? Isn’t she great?

Duck Friends: You weren’t kidding, she’s spectacular, thanks for the suggestion.

All ducks hang out, compare webbed feet size, and laugh quietly together at a memory from their time in the Everglades. Mary returns and scatters cracked corn for Duck Friends. All ducks eat. Mary watches.

Mary: So, Jimmy and Johnny, what are your plans while you’re here?

Jimmy: Well, Mrs. Oves, I’m gonna crack corn and guess what?

Mary: (Dreading it) What?

Jimmy: I don’t care!

All ducks laugh uproariously and Mary leaves for errands, shaking her head to the sound of quacking.

Hush Money

Last week I was on my way to get a spray tan for an event I would be attending a few days later. I was in a rush because I had been putting it off and now my time had run out. As I pulled into the salon parking lot, I realized I had forgotten to exfoliate and shave my legs. No sense in getting a spray tan and then having to go home and shave it off.

Fuck, I spat out, as I pulled back out of the driveway. Rather than go home, I decided to just pop into the drug store, buy a disposable razor and do a quick shave at the tanning salon. I purchased supplies and returned to my car, and for some odd reason decided to just shave my legs in the Walgreen’s parking lot.

I started with the powder. I miss the old smell of Johnson’s Baby Powder since it has been discontinued. It’s hard for me to understand how Elon Musk can put a hotel in space, but Johnson’s can’t figure out a way to make the old yummy-smelling powder without cancer cells in it. I mean, they figured out how to take the caffeine out of coffee. I ordered a salad the other day and requested no croutons. What’s going on over there at Johnson’s?

But I digress.

I tore off the packaging, and mistakenly turned the lid to “Dump” instead of “Sprinkle.” The powder emerged in a thick swath that covered my legs, my clothes, the seats and the car mats. I tried my best to clean it up, retrieving towels from the back of my car. I used my water bottle to wet the towel, which I then used to wet my legs to get rid of the excess powder. The interior of my Audi now had a fine dusting of powder granules floating through the air, catching the early-spring sunbeam shining down from the clouds.

The prettiness of the car powderbeam distracting me, I pondered my next move. Things were going downhill quickly.

Forget the powder, I thought. Why the hell did I use powder anyway? Just a little bit of water will be fine, I figured. I poured water on the razor and a little on my leg. The razor immediately began emitting shaving foam, because I unknowingly had bought a razor that emits shaving foam.

Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

The foam spilled over and onto my rugs and steering wheel, but I continued to shave my leg. I opened my car door so that I could pour water from my water bottle onto the razor in an attempt to clean it between shaving strokes. I missed once or twice, the foamy stubbles plopping onto my Audi floormat. I hiked my skirt up to my hips to shave my upper thigh, reminding myself that lack of a man to touch my thighs should never be used as an excuse to shirk good grooming.

I had finally shaved one leg. I placed the razor in my mouth to hold onto it while I wiped the shaved leg down with the wet towel, and it was at this moment that I heard a voice.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

I looked up into the face of a thin man in ragged clothes addressing me through the car door passenger window. I tried to imagine how the scene looked from his eyes. Powder, foam, towels, me with a razor in my mouth, my skirt hiked up to my hips and looking dumbfounded at his presence at my window. I knew what he was going to say.

“Do you need help? Are you in some kind of physical distress?”

But that’s not what he said.

“I’m sorry to bother you, and I’m so embarrassed to ask you this. I’m a disabled veteran, and I am $3.83 short for bus fare. Can you spare anything to help me get home?”

HE was embarrassed? I started to laugh, but then thought he might take it the wrong way. Still gripping the foamy razor between my teeth, I reached into my wallet and handed him $10, the implication being that he would never mention to anyone the display he just witnessed. He thanked me profusely, and I wished him luck. He began to walk away from my car when he suddenly paused.

“You know,” he said, pointing to the car maintenance garage across the street, “that auto place has public bathrooms. Good coffee. Folks are nice. That’s where I go when I want to get cleaned up.”

I looked in the direction he was pointing and nodded. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep that in mind.” He waved and smiled and bid me goodbye.

Yep. I shaved the other leg in the auto place while sipping a cup of damn fine coffee.

Bad, Babar, Bad

You didn’t think I was going to tell readers to go fuck themselves and then move on, did you? I mean, that’s a pretty big matzah ball hanging out there, and not exactly effective blogging technique. Besides, I’m no hypocrite.

So I get ticked off when someone cancels plans with me at the last minute. Is that my ego talking? Very likely. Any negative emotion is the ego talking, because the ego never shuts the hell up. But is it also because I value my time, and don’t like having it squandered?

For sure.

But here’s the thing, and there’s really no way of getting around it:

Just because I’m offended, doesn’t mean I’m right.

Being offended is my choice, my responsibility. I could easily just blow it off. I could forgive that person immediately, chalking her insensitivity up to the fact that she lacks effective time management. Maybe she just doesn’t want to reveal the real reason she has to cancel, and it’s none of my damn business anyway. Maybe if I wasn’t so petty, I would approach my friend and engage in civil and mature discussion about how I feel..

But I choose not to. Rather, I shut down and choose to believe what I want to believe- that this person doesn’t value me, my time or our friendship. I don’t let her speak for herself, I just put up walls. It’s easier than discourse and it makes me feel holier-than-thou. So who is the real problem here?

I am. Because I am Cancel-Culture Cancelling Cancelers.

Bummer.

But can anything or anyone actually ever be cancelled? Just because I get angry and refuse to make active plans with someone who has cancelled on me in the past, does that mean that person stops canceling on others? Does that person shape up and improve, because I have made her see the error of her ways? If I text and email every single person I know and warn them about this canceller, do other people stop making plans with her?

Hell no. You know why? Because no one gives a shit about how I feel about cancellers. Maybe it doesn’t bother them. Maybe they’re cancellers, too. Maybe they don’t think getting cancelled is something to get all riled up about, because life is too short for such nonsense. Maybe they would tell me that it’s not worth ruining my day or a friendship over.

And they’d be right.

I’ll use another example. Let’s look at Babar the Elephant, the series of children’s books written by Jean De Brunhoff in the mid-20th century. Plot line: Babar is a baby elephant whose mother gets killed by a hunter, so he goes to the big city to get civilized, inevitably returning to the jungle to share his superior knowledge. I loved these books growing up, as anything unrelated to pachyderms has always been and will always be, for me, irrelephant.

(Ineffective puns aside),

In October of 2020, an argument was made that Babar books were actually an allegory for French colonialism in Africa. I mean, Babar returns to the jungle walking on two legs- of course the quadrupedal elephants think he should be king- after all, he is a civilized biped, and they are primitives! He is wearing a snazzy green suit, and they are unclothed! He has a personality and language, and they are gray, naked, mindless peasants! The book openly suggests that wouldn’t it be wonderful if every little orphaned elephant had a rich old white benefactress to clothe him and expose him to fine culture?

(This argument gets very complex, so please access the link below if you would like to read into it further. This post is not about implied racism in children’s books, although the subject is worth the conversation. Brunhoff died when he was only 37, so when his son continued to publish his father’s books, he admitted in 1991 that his father’s physical depictions of African Americans, while accurate as far as the people Jean met when he traveled, could be construed as racial caricatures. But it was how the African Americans physically looked when his father met them, and he meant no disrespect. Since then, the book Babar’s Travels has been reissued with a “racially sensitive” version).

Groups formed to enact vengeance on Babar, as groups do. Attempts were made to cancel Babar in the UK. Babar was taken out of libraries, schools and children’s bedrooms, to keep UK youth from seeing that pesky, uppity green-suited elephant. And we all know how effective it is to keep images and words and concepts (deemed “harmful” by thin-skinned intellectuals) away from our children. Works every time.

NOT.

Show me someone that believes in extinguishing ideas and words as a way to govern societal minds and I’ll show you someone who is sniffing elephant-book glue. Cancel Culture is dangerous, but more than that, it is collective stupidity. When easily-influenced people think and gather in groups, the capacity for good judgement can be severely reduced.

Sociological examples are ubiquitous. Read Lord of the Flies. Look up the Stanford Prison Experiment. Read the essay “Thresholds of Violence” by Malcolm Gladwell or his books, Outliers or Tipping Point. Groups “kill.” And as psychologist Solomon Asch said long ago:

If a majority of people embrace a manifestly false and idiotic theory, others will go along with it merely because of the power of conformity.

Take ten people, plop them down in a room with a pile of Babar books, and ask them to work together on the issue of French colonialism in the books. In another room, ask ten people to work on the same project, but ask each member to work alone. When they emerge, gather up the reports.

You will find that the proposals of the second group are richer and more plentiful- the ideas are provocative and varied, offering several different viewpoints. And the report from the first group?

One opinion. One idea. One viewpoint. And in one fell swoop, Babar is elephant toast.

Sometimes the whole is less than the sum of its parts.

Have a great weekend, because guess what? It ain’t cancelled.

https://www.ranker.com/list/dark-symbolism-in-babar/katia-kleyman

Cancel Culture

I’ve been asked my opinion about cancel culture.

So I’m having lunch with a close friend today. It was simple to set up. Last week she suggested lunch out. I said yes. I asked her to pick the day, so I could keep my schedule clear. She did. I agreed. She told me she would pick me up at noon, and asked me to pick the place. I did. I wrote it in my calendar. In Sharpie. Then we didn’t talk for a week until yesterday when we both confirmed.

I thought about the simplicity of the exchange, and about how neither of us felt the need to communicate throughout the week. And it occurred to me that my closest friends have one very special thing in common:

They rarely cancel on me. Once plans are made, that’s it. And if they have to reschedule, I know it’s for a good reason. Hell, I don’t even care if they give me a reason. If a friend has earned my trust through reliability, I don’t even need a reason. I can’t overstate the importance of this quality of friendship to me. It could be the most important quality I look for in a friend.

It’s not even about reliability. It’s more the implication that when you make plans with someone, you have made the conscious decision to put that person first, whether it’s for an hour or two or a long weekend. No one needs to be someone’s first or even second priority 24-hours a day, seven days a week. Not even in a marriage. It even sounds horrible, and exhausting.

What I require, however, is that if someone has gone out of her way to make plans with me on Sunday at 3:00 p.m., she has decided that I will be her first priority on Sunday at 3:00 p.m. When someone cancels on me at the last minute, this is the message I hear:

Sorry, something better came up at the last minute for 3:00 p.m. on Sunday. Unfortunately, you’re disposable. Maybe next week I won’t have such important plans, and I can fit you in. But who knows, maybe something better will come up again, and I’ll do it to you twice. So, want to reschedule?

No. Go fuck yourself. I don’t want to reschedule.

I despise getting cancelled on at the last minute. To me, it is the highest insult. I think my company is worth a few hours of someone’s day. Besides that, I probably said no to a lot of other things to keep that appointment, so now I have missed out on other fun opportunities. So when cancelled on, I’ll give someone a second chance, but rarely a third. Because I interpret being flung aside as meaning I am not a priority on that person’s social calendar. I’m not first. I’m not second. I’m barely third. Hell, maybe I’m not even in the top ten. How could I ever be sure?

(Notice I keep saying “at the last minute.” Someone calling you a week before and asking if she can reschedule dinner because of a conflict with her son’s soccer schedule is a lot different than a phone call two hours before. I’m not an unreasonable bitch. Well, maybe sometimes I am).

Some people even see it as a game. They go out of their way to make plans with you, purposely cancel them, and don’t make the slightest effort to hide their inconsideration. They’re barely remorseful. That’s because they see cancelling as a power move. They could have worked with whatever came up and kept to their original plan, but doing so would imply vulnerability and weakness. An acquiescence, if you will, to one relationship over another. Sending me a text two hours before we are supposed to meet, saying, “I’m such an idiot, I forgot I’m having other friends down, so I can’t make it,” or “I’m so sorry, my brother and his daughter just paid me a surprise visit, can we do it another time?” or “I don’t much feel like going out, I’m just going to hang out by my pool, we’ll do it another time,” lend themselves to a number of observations:

  • So these friends are more important to you than I am? Fine, message heard, loud and clear. And tell me, is there any reason why you can’t invite these other friends along to our lunch? Or tell them you’ll be back in a couple of hours?
  • You can’t tell your brother you have plans, and that you will meet them on the beach afterward in an hour? Tell them to take a walk on the boardwalk until you’re done? Let them hang out in your house while we’re eating lunch? Bring them along?
  • So I’m not invited to your stupid pool? Great, don’t ever think you’re getting on my boat now.

Fine, I’m immature.

Maybe the reason I get so insulted is because I’m so personally rigid when it comes to cancelling. When I make plans with someone, those plans are set in stone from my end, and only a family emergency would cause me to cancel. Once I make a promise or an appointment, it gets written in my day calendar in Sharpie, and THAT IS FREAKING IT. I mean, I just promised a trainer at my gym that I would attend his class. I hate organized workout sessions. But I promised to go. And I will go. That’s just how I am.

If I agree to work an extra shift, I work it.

If I agree to “stop by” a gathering, I stop by.

If I promise a friend to go golfing, I go golfing.

If I promise to have lunch with you, I will have lunch with you.

If I tell the sickly old woman who used to always visit my dog but who misses him now that he is passed that I will be standing in my yard at 11:30 a.m. on Friday so I can walk up to her car and talk to her before she leaves for a doctor’s appointment, then I am on my fucking lawn at 11:30 a.m. on Friday to talk to her.

Come hell or high water, if you will excuse the cliché.

Because that five-minute interaction with that wonderful woman is, to me, the most important thing to happen in my entire life at 11:30 a.m. on Friday, March 26th,  2021. I wouldn’t give it up for anything, because I promised her. She means a lot to me. She loved my dog, my dog loved her, and she misses him. She wants to talk about him, and what she will do without his hugs. I will guard that five minutes from other commitments with ferocious protectiveness. I won’t miss it. Because I promised.

So there you have it. I know this is not the “cancel culture” you were referring to, but that’s coming. I just have to gather my thoughts, and finish reading the book entitled, The Psychology of Stupidity by Jean-Francois Marmion. No discussion about cancel culture would be complete without full knowledge of the vast cavern of stupidity that encompasses cancel culture people. So please be patient, that post is on the way.

I promise.

Daily Harvesting

I need a break from gender observations and universal gratitude. Looks like it’s time for anotherrrrr…

List of Ten Things I’m Loving Right Now!

My French Press:  I got a French press for Christmas, and although I have always suspected that it would change the coffee experience for me, I had no idea how much it would change the coffee experience for me. I am a black coffee drinker, so my mid-morning (and last day’s) cup of coffee made fresh from my French press is an aesthetic experience. It even changes how my house smells. I love going to my favorite gourmet food store for freshly ground beans, then heating water in my Haden kettle and stirring the hot water into the pungent grounds. The four minutes I force myself to wait to depress the plunger and then drink that cup of coffee is a tough four minutes. The taste of a perfect cup of coffee made from a French press just hits different.

Frank and Eileen button-down voile shirts: Warning: these shirts are expensive. I mean, Oprah wears them. If you don’t believe in paying for quality, don’t even log onto the website, you’ll be horrified. Just know this: when you are a large-breasted woman like myself who likes to wear light gauzy boxy linen shirts, you are limited in your choices. It’s not like I can just go to Macy’s and find such a shirt. I know the Eileen voile shirt is going to fit me and look great when I’m on the boat, out to lunch at the country club, or just with a comfortable skirt at church or out for drinks. I have the Eileen voile shirt in black and white, and it looks great with everything.

You Say to Brick, a biography about Louis Kahn: I have a thing for architecture, and architects, for that matter. My obsession with Frank Lloyd Wright is a post for another day. But this book is knocking me out. Here are some fun facts:

Did you know that Louis Kahn died alone in a bathroom in New York’s Penn Station?

That he was so bedraggled in the airport that when fellow architect Stanley Tigerman saw him a few hours before his death, Tigerman didn’t recognize Kahn at first? “I see this old man, who looks like he has detached retinas, is really raggy and looks like a bum. If I had not known he was Lou Kahn, I would have thought he was a homeless person.”

That a man (who remains nameless in the book, for good reason) encountered Kahn in medical distress in the Penn Station men’s bathroom, and asked Kahn if he needed medical help? When Kahn said yes, this stranger called a doctor and then proceeded to leave Kahn alone and ill. He claims that Kahn was “in complete control of himself and walking around,” so he thought it was fine to catch his train. I wouldn’t want anyone to know my name either, if I could have been the difference between Louis Kahn living or dying.

That he had children not only with his wife but also with two other women, but he was so beloved by all the women and all of the children that they all accepted each other and continue to love him to this day.

That Kahn positioned the plaza of the Salk Institute directly in line with the equinoctial sun so as to create maximum access to natural light? Kahn called it “daily harvesting.” How lovely.

Volunteermatch.org: I’ve been flailing a little, you know. A tad lost, meandering off my patch, as it were. Going on to volunteermatch.org and finding ways to help other people always sets my head straight. I never forget how lucky I am to have the life and family I have, and the time to express that gratitude. I am now signed up to work a table at a charity race in Philly, and to blog for Soroptimist.

Saucony sneakers: The new spring colors and styles are so beautiful. I have new light blue ones. So pretty.

Modern Citizen linen sweaters: Again, not cheap. But I don’t buy many clothes anymore, so the ones I do buy must be top notch and versatile. Modern Citizen is all about simplicity and economy of material.

St. Joseph Sunday Missal: I got really tired of sitting in church and not being able to follow along in mass with the daily readings. When are churches getting their books back? Anyway, I just went onto Amazon (thanks, Jeff) and ordered a 2021 Missal that I bring to church on Sundays. It’s small and easy to carry, and it smells good (book lovers understand this).

Elin Hilderbrand novels: Not because I like her writing. I actually think her writing sucks. Her tired clichés and contrived dialogue give me brain bleed, and her sentences are like reading Mad Libs. Hey, don’t get mad at me, I read her novels sometimes on the beach, too. I mean, Cheetos lack nutrition but I still like to eat them. It’s just that whenever I read an Elin Hilderbrand novel, it reminds me that some people get to be best-selling authors not because of their talent, but because of their social connections, and who they know in the publishing industry. This knowledge, while discouraging, keeps me sharp and on my toes.

Revlon The Gloss: These chunky little Revlon glosses with the soft thick felt lip applicator are available in all stores. So many colors and sheens. I keep them in my car, in my purse, in the kitchen junk drawer, in my luggage, in my gym bag, so I always have one available.

The sunshine: Just does a world of good for a mood, doesn’t it? Soak it up.

Manutiae

Let the men talk today. A recent post on theCHIVE was called, “What are some dude things that women just don’t understand?” I’ll let the ladies speak another time, but for now, here is a sampling of male comments:

Sometimes I’m really not thinking about anything.

I’m not mad, just quiet.

Movie quotes are a proper response to any situation.

Trash-talking is a sign of love.

Playing video games is good for mental health.

Letting your hand hang out in your pants for no reason is just…comfortable.

We just want to golf and not check our phones for five hours so please don’t call or text.

We don’t understand the silent treatment, because men don’t do that to each other, so using it on us is a waste of time and makes things worse.

Our cars are our palaces.

“RoboCop” is an elite film.

“There’s very little ‘why haven’t you called me?’ when guys aren’t in contact for a while. Only women do that.

Power tools.

We don’t want to talk about work when we get home. Not mine, not yours.

Pissing with morning wood.

Not every wall needs a decoration.

Guns.

Tucking the homies in.

Sword fights.

Shopping for only what we need, in and out, so we can get home and do something else.

Purple nurples, noogies, dutch ovens, body gloves and wedgies.

We need to be left alone once in a while, and it has nothing to do with you.

Fishing.

Home Depot for no reason.

How much we think about poontang.

That the word “poontang” is funny.

Football. Then Sports Center. Then more football and the same Sports Center.

Caddyshack. Stepbrothers. Dumb and Dumber. Happy Gilmore.

Our bros are our family.

There are no ugly boobs. It’s boobs.

Waiting until the last minute to pack.

Accidentally sitting down on your own nuts.

Scratching nuts. Rubbing nuts. Adjusting nuts. Just…nuts.

How many good boners go to waste or are inconvenient. Such a shame. (I agree)

Single word texts. Five words and we’ve got the whole thing planned.

Getting the poison out.

We don’t need to go to the bathroom together.

Coming home from work and being handed a screaming kid with an “It’s your turn” does wonders for the stress I bring home from work. (Yikes)

Bro code at the urinals.

Spending hours in the garage with a friend working on something that’s not broken just to get away from cackling hens and have a beer in peace.

Getting all the groceries in with one trip.

Flipping your underwear up with your foot and catching it.

Yes, we are always thinking about boobs.

Being content with the bare essentials.

Not washing your jersey during the season, not shaving during the playoffs.

We love you, but we don’t always like you.

But among the thousands of comments, there was one overall winner, repeated over and over and over. All counted, this observation got more likes than all of the above combined:

It is o.k. to sit in silence and enjoy contentment. You don’t have to talk every second of the day.

I’m out.

Domestic Blitz

I came downstairs one recent Saturday morning and saw a speeding ticket sitting next to my laptop on the kitchen counter. The message was clear:

Mom, please pay this. Thanks.

For years it was common practice that when my boys would get a parking ticket, I would just pay it with my credit card. It eventually became a running family joke.

Here ya go, Mom.

I have a present for you, Mom.

Mom, I left you something awesome for you near your laptop.

Thanks, Mom.

I don’t pay their tickets anymore. My son was very disappointed when he came downstairs and saw it still sitting there. It is still sitting there. He seems to think I will weaken and pay it. He is wrong.

Tickets are the least of it when you’re a boy mom.

Dirty socks thrown on the floor right next to an empty hamper, instead of in it. A roll of toilet paper propped on top of an empty roll, instead of inserted efficiently onto the dispenser. Condiments mistakenly put into the pantry instead of the refrigerator, resulting in scary mold monsters. Urine on toilet seats, dishes in the sink, unmade beds, milk left out on the counter.

The struggle to grow boys into men is a battle worth winning. Boy moms are not just trying to keep their houses clean. It’s a much bigger quest than that. The battle is raising men who will one day understand the importance of domestic consideration. It’s not enough for them to just be good boys, not even just good men. My boys are already good men.

We want them to be good hubbies. Then good daddies.

So we lecture them, screech at them, become the voices in their heads, hoping one day it will click. We live for that one day when they stop, look us straight in the eye, and say the words we want to hear:

“I’m so sorry, Mom, I didn’t realize I left my breakfast dishes on the counter. Of course I don’t expect you to wash them, you silly goose.  Here, let me clean that up. After all, it’s my mess. Is there anything else I can do to contribute to the household today?”

My boys are almost there. Right on the ten-yard line.

When we witness our boys doing inconsiderate things, it’s like gazing into a crystal ball. We can see them in their own houses with their new brides, and we can see the moment she realizes he doesn’t know how to bring his dishes to the sink. Or how to add fabric detergent to a load of laundry. Or how to scrub the tub with bleach and a scrub brush. Or how to keep the bedroom free of clutter. Or how to use the top sheet. Or how to be the one to get up with the baby in the middle of the night. Or how to help clean up after Thanksgiving dinner instead of sitting on the couch like a fat lazy slob without an ounce of gratitude for the dinner they just ate because they lack the awareness or understanding that the meal they just inhaled in twelve minutes was the result of three weeks of tireless preparation by the hostess.

You can picture this beautiful young girl going to visit her mother. She is sad.

“Mom, he expects me to do everything. I mean, he doesn’t help with anything. How was he raised like that?”

Oh, fuck and HELL NO. Not my boys. I will not be the mom who because of the way I raised my sons will be the source of someone else’s misery. Nope. Never ever ever.

So I continue to work on it. Do your own laundry and dishes. Make sure the kitchen is clean when I come downstairs in the morning. Wash your sheets and your comforter. Make sure the patio looks in the morning the way I left it when I went to bed. Put food away properly. Keep the yard neat. Fold your clothes, and iron them when necessary. Put up the Christmas decorations cheerfully. When you see a light bulb out, replace it. If you don’t have the right kind of bulb, don’t procrastinate- go to the hardware store immediately and get the right kind. Do household chores gratefully, and without rolling your eyes. Reach high stuff. Tighten screws, fluff pillows, keep the mail neat. Make the lunches, keep supplies stocked in the pantry, go buy milk without needing to be reminded. Don’t act like a douchebag if she asks for your help, because she’s strong and capable and wouldn’t ask if she could do it herself. And do it all with gratitude for your life with her.

Here is another quote from Mark Manson:

If you make a sacrifice for someone you care about, it needs to be because you want to, not because you feel obligated or because you fear the consequences of not doing so. If your partner is going to make a sacrifice for you, it needs to be because he or she genuinely wants to, not because you’ve manipulated the sacrifice through anger or guilt. Acts of love are valid only if they’re performed without condition or expectations.

If she has to guilt you into doing stuff, and you hurt her feelings by being a disgruntled piece of shit about it, you have forgotten that you are not honoring a beautiful girl in a white dress who on one very special day stood on an altar and made the greatest sacrifice she could ever make for another human being:

She chose you, you jackass.

Yeah, she chose you. This beautiful girl, this girl who could have had anyone in the world, said “I do” TO YOU. For the rest of your life, you should be on your hands and knees in gratitude that this lovely creature wants to live with you all the time and one day make babies that look like you. And I have told my sons I will be GODDAMNED if I ever have to live to see the day when their wives come to my house to talk to me, sad because their husbands have been nasty, selfish or inconsiderate to them.

Not on my freaking watch.

So I watch my boys treat their beautiful girls the way every girl deserves to be treated. I see them making middle of the night trips to get them their favorite ice-cream. I see them dropping everything to look for her earring. I see them driving for four hours in weekend traffic just for the privilege of taking her to dinner. And one day when my boys get married, I will feel confident knowing that they will always hear my voice in their heads saying the same thing:

Pay your own damn ticket.

Facepong

March in Jersey is like that obnoxious buffoon you try to avoid at your high school reunion because you know he’s just going to get drunk, complain that he was never popular, and then try to paw you while you’re dancing with him to “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” You circle the banquet room to stay away from him, but no matter where you turn, he’s there.

March is a tough weather month, but don’t despair, because the weekend weather looks delightful. We should all enjoy it before the weather turns south again for next week. I for one can’t wait for spring break sunshine, egads.

So yesterday I was taking care of some correspondence and smiling. Just thinking about some old friends I’ve recently reconnected with (more on that), about a few trips I have coming up. You know, smiling just for the hell of smiling.

Then I got a message from my marketing team. And I stopped smiling.

They sounded gruff. No choice, they said. No alternative. No other options. Grow the fuck up, Mary, they said. It’s time to go full-out with your business Facebook. We’ll handle it from our end, but it’s time to get relevant. Without it, we’re limited, and any book you try to sell or publish is limited.

(They didn’t tell me to “grow the fuck up,” but it was implied).

Fuck. But why Facebook? Why oh WHY does everything always lead to Facebook? I write five transparent soul-searching blog posts a week. I leave everything on the table, I wear my heart on my sleeve and it’s still not enough for publishers? (I loathe Mark Zuckerberg with a blinding white-hot rage. I mean it. I hate him. I think he ruined the planet).

And just like that, my day fizzled out like a dying firecracker at a lame picnic on the Fourth of July, and the quiet introverted existence I have worked so tirelessly to maintain went up in a puff of cherry-bomb smoke. Because as the Facebook gal started working on my business Facebook page, my computer began pinging and ponging with strange messages and invitations and requests from people I barely know.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I asked her.

“Just ignore it,” she answered. “I’ll handle it from my end.”

Well, I thought, that’s a given. And the noises weren’t the point anyway. I wouldn’t devote a blog post to this subject if I didn’t think it was a worthy topic worth broaching.

The topic on the table is my very real disquiet over having to become “relevant” on Facebook. I like being irrelevant. You know that about me. The only thing I want to be relevant is my writing. So now I’m sitting here, thinking of texting all of my closest friends to ask them for their advice as to why am I so upset by this sudden influx of Facebook transparency. But I don’t have to text them, because I know what they would say:

Because you’re a bitch.

Because you’re not a fully-formed human being.

Because you’re allergic to the full spectrum of human emotion.

Because you hate socializing with other bi-peds.

Because you’re private. But not like the good kind-of private, more like the serial killer kind-of private.

Because you hold anyone who likes social media below contempt, and consider them inferior to you.

Because your intense self-involvement precludes you from being interested in anything that doesn’t directly involve you.

Wow, yeah, thanks.

So there are all of these messages and things on my computer. So now what do I do? How does it work? Do I answer messages? How do I answer the question, “Hi, Mary, nice to be friends with you, great profile, but have we ever met?”

Fuck’s sake.

“No,” I would answer after looking briefly at his profile. “But it looks like you married a girl who is friends with the daughter of the grandmother of one of my former supervisors from about 30 years ago, in a galaxy far far away. Want to meet up for a drink?”

Jk.

I have held out from joining Facebook for twenty years. I have held out against ridicule and frustration and intense peer and family pressure, societal pressure and dating pressure. There are things you can’t even do in the dating arena without Facebook, but I have pish-poshed it, and told myself it was for the higher good.

And now here I am, right where I have always said I would never be, and I’m livid about it. But what’s a writer to do?

Let me say that if you have received any notifications from “me,” you are welcome to accept or reject them, whatever you want. And thank you for bearing with me during this full-court press of social media- my team is not putting all of the Easter eggs in one Facebook basket, it would seem my profile is all over the place. Thank you if you are being besieged by it, and thank you if you love me enough to ignore it. But it precludes me to say that if you are interested in my Not It Girl Facebook, feel free to visit it. If you must. I appreciate that, as well.

Here’s logging out for the week. Some nookie talk next week, due to popular demand.

Squashed

This was the original intro to today’s blog:

The closing scene of the movie “A Million Little Pieces” (embedded below for your viewing pleasure) shows addict James and his brother Bob entering a bar. James is fresh out of rehab, so Bob is trying to talk him out of going in. But James insists.

They walk in and James tells his brother to rack the balls for a game of pool. He walks towards the bar as Bob stares dumbstruck in the background. If you’ve ever seen the movie or read *the book A Million Little Pieces, you know what James went through to get clean. It’s indescribable, and the thought that he would want to ruin all of his hard work by going right back to drinking is even more so.

James orders a whiskey. But not a shot of whiskey. He wants a tall Pilsner glass filled to the brim. The bartender says no. It’s his bar, and he can say no to people who want to commit alcoholic suicide.

“Nothing good ever came out of a fifth of whiskey,” says the bartender. But James insists, and throws a pile of money on the bar. The bartender looks at him sadly, and pours.

“It’s your funeral.”

James watches that hard pour, rapt. Then gets his face right down into that glass of whiskey. Takes a big whiff. Stares it down. Sees the pain and the blood and the sadness that the whiskey has dealt him his whole life. He grips the glass, and a lone piano note sounds. He raises his head and stares at himself with hatred in the mirror behind the bar.

Motherfucker, he says. Fuck you, he says. He begins to cry, his face contorting in the mirror, almost as if he is possessed. You can see Bob in the background, incredulous but not interfering. They’re his brother’s demons. They’ve always been his brother’s demons.

And suddenly, the demons let go of their hold on him. James lets go of the glass and plays pool with his brother.

I originally wanted to begin today’s blog with that story because I did the same thing with a donut recently. But I didn’t want people to think I was comparing alcoholism to pastry. I would never joke about addiction. Never. I’ve seen my share of it.

It was just funny. Because I’m on this diet, and it’s going great, but I miss the occasional trip to the bakery. So the other day I popped in for old times’ sake, and purchased one donut. A donut I knew I wouldn’t eat, because I promised myself strict adherence to my food plan; besides, donuts are something I just don’t eat anymore.

I just wanted to buy it. Hang out with it. You know, for ol’ times’ sake.

I brought it home, put it on a pretty plate, and placed it on my counter. As I went about my day, I considered it. Just looked at it. Smelled it. Sugar. Butter. Flour. Eggs. Yeast. How easy it would be to just eat it in three bites, gone. But knowing that I wouldn’t.

(Scoff if you will, but it is a good exercise for me. I’ve got that green bikini lying in wait, remember)

Later that day I placed a newly purchased butternut squash right next to the donut. A butternut squash that has been squatting on my counter for a week, just waiting for attention.

I’ve examined the squash from all angles. It’s an odd creature, this butternut squash. Bell-shaped, thick-skinned. I’m trying to experiment with new vegetables, and I considered the donut and the squash sitting side-by-side on my counter. How strange, I thought, that I could eat the donut in less time than it would take to peel and slice the butternut squash.

But would it be as satisfying?

Perhaps briefly. But would it be as satisfying as peeling the squash, cutting it into little cubes with my big knife while listening to classical music and then tossing the cubes with garlic and olive oil and baking them at 400°? Then enjoying the smell of the roasting squash permeate the house as I anticipate eating a direct food source, something completely unprocessed?

Probably not.

Did you know butternut squash is technically a fruit? It has 13 carbs in a cup (but it’s still keto friendly, depending who you talk to), and has a nutty, earthy flavor. The skin on butternut squash is notoriously tough and difficult to peel, so if you would like to soften the skin a bit before peeling your butternut squash, just use a fork or paring knife to poke holes all over the skin of the squash.  Then pop it in the microwave for 2 minutes, remove, and proceed onward with peeling the squash.

Or buy the pre-cut cubes in the supermarket, my personal choice. And while admittedly butternut squash is labor and time-intensive I say once again that the best things in life often are. My point with all this?

Sometimes the easy way isn’t always the best way.

(*The book A Million Little Pieces by James Frey was phenomenal, but if you’re not aware, he promoted it on Oprah as a memoir when it was actually semi-fictional. I remember that Oprah episode well- I wanted to hear firsthand how he lived through getting root canal without anesthesia, a chapter so difficult to read I had to put it down and walk away and return to it later. To this day, the description of his pain haunts me. Anyway, when Oprah found out Frey lied to her, she demanded he come back on her show and apologize to her and her viewers, for “duping” them. He did. Awkward to watch. Frey died at the age of 61).