the half truth of a whole life

good. but not worth dying for.

June 23, 2009 · 5 Comments

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I voted for Obama.

I say that so that we all understand that while I may not be the picture of fastidious devotion to equality and racial standards, I am not knowingly and willingly denying the plight of the black man. I think we fucked it up good and plenty and have a ways to go before anyone can say that we have righted the wrongs.

Ironically, however, I thought we (and I) were a lot further along. And then I went to Chicago.

Also, I love my husband.

I say that so that we can all have a good hearted chuckle at his role in this story, whilst acknowledging what an amazing, intelligent, and kind-hearted person he is.

Earlier this year, I called the hubs to let him know that I had bought tickets for us to go to Chicago. As a part of us testing out the theory that we do not want children (like, ever), it makes sense that we get used to traveling, eating out, and lavishing ourselves with an insanely selfish lifestyle that ensures that even the passing thought of a child would be cause for therapy and a tequila-based cocktail. The way I see it there are too many terrible things that we are at risk to passing on to a child, plus there is the even bigger risk that this is not a passing phase, I really do just hate children. If that’s the case, I should go ahead and get used to giving myself everything I want without so much as a brain fart about someone else’s needs.

The decision to go to Chicago in particular was multi-fold. First of all, the tickets on JetBlue were practically free and the failing economy meant that hotels were practically giving away rooms. The hubs is a student of architecture and it made sense (lame sense, albeit) that we should go there. It it, as everyone and their fucking dog will tell you, a magnificent architectural city. What they mean by that is that if you care about buildings and love tours you should certainly go to Chicago.

Truthfully, work had pretty much pushed me to the brink and if I didn’t get a few days away I was going to go Columbine on at least three people. Chicago? Sure.

What we didn’t consider about Chicago (being Boston-dwellers) is how big real cities are. New York is a majestic city. The first time you see it, you are certain you will never see the other side. Fortunately, the first time you find yourself wasted and cash-less in Morningside Heights you realize that twelve miles is a remarkably manageable distance. You can make it to the East Village before sun up. It’s downright quaint.

Living in Boston, the dead center of it at that, I have slowly but up barriers. In my youth, I would willingly attend parties in all sorts of places: Allston, Brighton, Brookline. I would even go to Cambridge. Over the years, the periphery of our great city narrowed. Now, Cambridge might as well be Cambodia. The thought of gaining the stamina needed to cross a river and endure the culture shock is almost too much. I have a hard time crossing Mass Ave. There are things that will encourage me to cross: Indian, Mexican, the occasional hamburger. In general, however, I have been reduced to a one mile radius. It is my radius. And people respect it.

The interesting thing about Chicago is that despite its charade as one of the great Metropoli (made that word up) of our planet, it cannot help itself. It is still plopped down in the middle of nowhere. Every time you let your guard town, begin casual conversation about the possibility of someday putting down roots in Chi Town, you are somehow reminded that you are not in New York, San Fran, or Boston. You are, in fact, in the middle of America. The middle. For every great building there is a strip mall. For every Renoir on collection, there is a Thomas Kinkade Gallery. (He is, after all, the painter of light. And for every block of burgeoning culture there is a ghetto so expansive and frightening that you wonder if the war on terror is not in the wrong country.

The size of Chicago means that it is necessary to plan accordingly. Maps, plans, routes, ideas– you must arrive with everything planned. Otherwise you will eat breakfast in the same place every morning and walk aimlessly from Starbucks to Starbucks, stopping only occasionally to see if their Banana Republic looks the same as yours. (It does look similar.) Googling where to find a falafel on your first day doesn’t count as planning.

In my own defense, the hubs did no such planning. At the very least I had guaranteed that we would have one meal in Chicago. Worst case scenario we could always return again and again to Taza falafel and eat. The hubs had googled some buildings and tile mural. What the fuck good was that going to do for us? What solace would we be seeking from a goddamned mural? As it turns out: none. As predicted.

What we did have going for us is our knowledge of every restaurant that has ever been on the Food Network. And we knew that Chicago has deep dish pizza. And we knew that Bobby Flay got his ass kicked by Malnati’s Pizza in Chicago. So we googled it.

We saved our trip to Malnati’s for our last night in Chicago. It was to be our swan song. After days of pounding pavement, going to museums to waste time before meals, and justifying our repeated trips to the same restaurants, we would finally go do something touristy. We were going to Malnatis. We even had a map.

When we got into the cab, our cab driver did have some objections to our destination. We assumed he didn’t want to drive so far out of the city. (Which seemed ridiculous, but cabbies are not exactly known for their calm and collected manner.) We asked him if he knew of another Malnati’s Pizza that we could go to. He did not. Or at least we have breached the commonalities in our languages and he simply shut us out.

Off we went. Deep dish pizza. WOO!

We left the bright lights of the big city in the rear view as we settled in for our drive to the burbs. (Since our only experience with Malnati’s was via the tube, we assumed it was a suburban establishment. The kind of place where families gathered after little league games– not the kind of place you find on Michigan Ave.)

One thing I have learned in my life is to always, always, always, always, always be weary of any destination that takes you in the direction of the airport. Now, if you’re reading this and you disagree or are angered by that statement, you and I are nothing alike. You may be just a smidge more rough and tumble. Girls like me aren’t welcome in neighborhoods near airports. Too pale. Too blue eyed. Too stupid.

As it turns out, there were definitely last call Delta Shuttle flights taking off in my panorama. We were headed to one of those neighborhoods.

After exiting the freeway, I started to get a little worried. Liquor store. Gun store. Liquor store. Gun store. House on wheels. Car on blocks. And then there was nothing. Just an expanse of sadness.

I actually started to feel relief. Naturally we were nowhere near a little league field and therefore we would realize shortly that we had the directions wrong and then we’d turn around go back to our hotel and then eat someplace else. Our cab driver would laugh at our silliness and we’d be done with the whole mess. But then something strange happened: quite literally out of nowhere a Malnati’s appeared. Not only did it appear out of nowhere, but to add to the bizarre and quasi-immaculate conception nature of the appearance, it was attached to a church.

No, seriously.

From the barren expanse of fear and poverty had sprung a fountain of pizza. Good sign. I felt certain. And then the cab driver left us. More accurately, our cab driver drove away before I had really even closed the door.

Side note: For those of you who do not know the hubs or myself, I should explain that we have the capacity to appear yuppy enough to be featured in a Bank of America ad. Skinny jeans, mod glasses, fauxhawks, gay man shoes, forearm tattoos. It’s a yuppy trainwreck. We’re both a little splayfooted. The hubs is modelish thin and has a beard-framed jaw line. I am pale. I have a face that just looked like it watches Army Wives. We don’t “blend” in the traditional sense.

And there we were. About to learn just how stupid white people can be.

Imagine for a moment if the Klumps (nutty professor) opened a well-intentioned restaurant “project” on the set of Boyz in the Hood and employed Suge Knight as head pizza maker. You’d be close to what we’d walked into.

This wasn’t actually a Malnati’s in the traditional sense. This was a Malnati’s that had been donated to the neighborhood and the church to help rehabilitate the neighborhood– to help bring local business back to the area. Recovering drug addicts working through the church to get back on their feet. Semi-reformed gangbangers scrubbing dishes. And there we were. Because we watched Throwdown with Bobby Flay.

The hubs was nice enough to tell them that. You know, that two upper middle class yuppies were watching The Food Network on our flat screen one night and decided we had to visit Malnatis.

Our server was nice enough to let us know that there was actually a Malnati’s around the corner from our cozy four star back in the city.

Oh, yes. We knew. (No we didn’t.) We just wanted to get out and see new parts of the city. (No, we didn’t.)

The menu wasn’t a full menu, just some simple options pulled from the main Malnati’s menu. Samplings that kept food overhead low and didn’t require anyone to operate any heavy machinery. Or a fryer.

We were actually starting to feel some camaraderie with the kind folks in Lawndale. The hubs had managed to dodge the obvious bullets and I was doing my best to seem chill. Relative to the situation.

The turning point was when Jermaine (our server) dropped the bomb. He liked us. Really. But he didn’t know how the fuck we were going to get home. All kidding aside, not only were there no little league fields, there were no businesses and no cabs. He didn’t know how we got a cab to bring us there, but there was no cab in Chicago that would come back out and get us.

The good news? He was pretty sure he had a friend. He would call him. If we were lucky, Errand Boy would be able to come get us and take us safely back to Chicago. In the meantime, it was important that we sit tight and not try to do anything stupid like go outside or walk by the windows.

If you’ve ever been in a small New York apartment and seen a large roach land on your bed and disappear, you may have some idea of the kind of sickening fear I was experiencing. If you’ve ever had someone tell you that they were going to hunt you down in your sleep and kill you and you’d better sleep with one eye open… you’re getting closer.

I sipped my soda dutifully and made “I want a Savignon Blanc eyes” to the hubs. For over an hour I sat there and sipped.

And then Errand Boy arrived. In a Chevy Equinox.

Cynthia (Ms. Klump) held me tight against her ample breast. I’d only seen embraces like this in movies… right before a child is slaughtered in battle. The hubs was locked in an similar embrace. And then we were whisked into the car. Doors locked. Windows up. Tension mounting.

We didn’t have time to explain. We couldnt explain our mistake, our anxiety, our fear as we drove through Lawndale, hearing tales of the Black Disciples and the repeated taxi murders that finally ended any chance of a relationship to the city. So we didn’t.

We told him we from out of town. And he knew.

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anything for a price

June 12, 2009 · 3 Comments

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Those of you waiting to hear the story of Caroline and hubs having dinner in Lawndale, Chicago, stay tuned. The story is simply so unbelievable that I need more time to think about it. In the mean time, let’s have a chat about the year 2009 and the progress we’ve made in the areas of customer service.

Long ago, when I was a small child, I remember flying Southwest Airlines to visit my grandparents in Houston. I was in first grade and flying alone. My parents drove me to the airport where I checked two suitcases: one full of clothes, shoes, hair accessories, pajamas, bathing suits, etc. and one filled only with things I would need to have with me to survive the weekend: dolls, animals, writing utensils. (Case in point– and god rest his soul– after taking me to dinner at the Houstonian, my grandparents took me to see Jack London’s White Fang, a movie about carrying a dead body across the frozen tundra. I was six.) The point, however is that I had two suitcases. I checked both. And then my dad walked me all the way to the gate.

Southwest was thrilled to have me. They gave me an honorary pilot’s pin, a cap to wear, a full sized coloring book, and even seated me in the front seat with extra legroom. (Something every three foot person needs.) I had my own stewardess who cared about my well being, brought me unlimited cups of juice. They even played a game on the plane: stewardesses would ask questions over the loud speaker and people would ring in with the answer, winning free drinks and flight vouchers, not to mention creating a community of passengers who would have sat on the runway for hours just to play trivia and eat honey roasted peanuts.

By the time I arrived in Houston I felt like I’d been on a fun ship. I had pilfered 25 packets of peanuts to eat in the privacy of the stately guest bedroom, and even convinced those friendly stewardesses to give me some extra crayons in case my grandparents didn’t have any at the house. (Which they didn’t. They were missing crayons and general merriment. It had been replaced with the Wall Street Journal and a complete lack of understanding about children.)

It was a glorious trip, all for the bargain price of $139 (or whatever absurdly low price Southwest charged me for that round trip ticket to Houston). Magic. I loved Southwest so much that I flew Southwest nearly exclusively for the next 15 years of my life. In fact, my father, who has very few odd convictions, was convinced that there was never a reason to fly any other airline if there was a Southwest terminal within three hours of where you lived. While attending college at The University of Georgia in Athens, GA, my father insisted that I drive three hours one way to Birmingham, Alabama to fly home at Christmas. One year I even asked for a Delta flight out of Atlanta as my Christmas present. Just so I could come home directly, sans the six hour drive. (No dice.) Eventually when I moved to Boston, I was sorry to find out that Southwest flies to Providence, thus beginning three years of taking a car, a train, and a cab to the Providence airport so that I could then fly to Austin, via stops in Houston, Dallas, and maybe Albuquerque. (Southwest will give you a scenic tour of the Southwest for your low fare, as well.)

The point, however, is that the Southwest brand, with no complications and fine print, created the kind of brand loyalty that encouraged my entire family to go out of our way to fly with them. It’s an incredible kind of marketing, the kind that cannot be achieved in any other way. Customer service can move mountains.

Unfortunately, my life now is not as simple as it was back then. I fly places that Southwest doesn’t fly, and then I discovered that flying with a mini television in front of your face is worth at least $200 extra, thus beginning my slow divorce from Southwest. But I havent forgotten them. Recently, however, I had a jovial exchange with a JetBlue sales lady (Nancy) that left me wondering why I ever left the warm embrace of Herb and the Southwest gang.

Let’s imagine for a moment my trip to see my grand parents, only this time let’s set it in 2009. The year of the rat bastard airline whores.

When I was a wee thing, I went to visit my grandparents in Houston. I was going for the weekend, and my parents we’re letting me fly all by myself. Me and American Airlines. I couldn’t have been more excited. I showed up at the airport two hours early, with two suitcases packed: one for my bountiful wardrobe, the other full of necessities to keep me from gouging my eyes out while spending three days reading the Wall Street Journal and pretending that Fiber One tastes like Captain Crunch.

When I arrived at the check in, the evil service rep immediately eyed my two princess suitcases.

$50.

(He informs us that luggage is not a necessity when traveling. There are stores: malls, Goodwills, even outlets where I’m going. If I need clothes when I get there, I can always buy them. Airline policy. If people insist on frivolity like luggage, they are going to have to pay for it.)

Dad and I walk to the gate, where he is immediately beaten with a baton for crossing the yellow line without a ticket. As I scream for a medic over his unconscious body, a TSA working grabs me by the arm, insisting that I show him my driver’s license. I pull out my ID card and boarding pass, straining to see my dad over his massive frame.

He needs a valid driver’s license. Now.

I try to explain in Judy Blume language that I am only 7 and I can’t drive. He walkie talkies and suddenly a woman of comparable size and an extra large Dunkin Donuts ice coffee emerges. They exchange important conversation. I am immediately taken to a glass cube where I am left to rot, until a wiry black man comes to pat me down. He asks if I am carrying a concealed weapon. I reply that I am not. He asks if I am carrying coke. I tell him that I can only have Coke when we go for Mexican.

The next twenty minutes are a blur. I vaguely remember being beaten with a pistol and fingerprinted.

When I wake, I am slumped against the peanut cart, and my boarding group is being called. I wander to the front where a snatchy woman named Joy takes my ticket.

When I get onto the plane I settle into the seat in the front row. Immediately a thin man dances through the crowed, hands me a one page brochure. Some thing about a special room for legs. And some numbers. I give him my best “friendly stranger” smile and try to climb up on the seat. He is not amused. He wants $35 cash or check. I’m sitting in a seat with two inches of extra legroom.

I tell him that my dad gave me $40 dollars as special money for my trip. He takes the money from my Polly Pocket purse and throws me a five.

I get scared during takeoff and ask the stewardess if I can have some crayons. No.

I can buy a KidPak for $4.

She doesn’t tell me that I should save my money because if I get thirsty, a juice cup is going to cost me $3 and I’m not going to have enough money. So I’ll end up drinking sink water out of the lavatory to help wash down the fear and anxiety that is coming over me.

When I arrive in Houston I wander through the airport alone, waiting for someone to recognize me. Eventually the businesses start to close and I am alone. Just before I curl up to go to sleep in the internet cubicle I hear my name over the loudspeaker.

It’s them. My grandparents. They’re trying to find me. We’re going to be late for our movie.

Which is fine. Because once we get there the anxiety of my previous four hours bubbles over, exacerbated by the horrifying film and I have a manic breakdown in the middle of the theatre. I lay lifeless in my movie seat, thinking only of how I am going to get home.

A bus, my seven year old self decides.

I will take a bus.

*

My low fare of $139 soars to $926 all because I need clothes when I arrive to see the gparents, or because I sometimes find myself thirsty after three hours in a compressed chamber. Crazy. Plus I have the added bonus of being scarred for life. Super.

How many times have I been frisked and molested in a glass room while my father, the lumbering terrorist, walked through security on his blackberry?

When I called Nancy, my customer service rep at JetBlue, to change my flight to the SAME FLIGHT two days earlier, she cheerfully told me that my flight was actually less expensive, so I would be receiving a ten dollar credit… and that she would deduct it from the $100 flight change fee.

What the fuck.

Flight change fee? I have moved a reservation on one airplane– which is not sold out– to a reservation on another airplane–which is not sold out–and am sitting in the SAME SEAT. Nancy explains that the fee is to cover the convenience cost of the service.

Convenience cost?

One computer just told another computer something that didn’t so much as cost an energy credit to calculate. My Mac is more stressed out by this blog post than the JetBlue system was by my flight change. Does my $90 go towards a relaxing vacay for that poor computer? Who I so rudely inconvenience for my flight change? I certainly hope so.

Poor machine. Having to do all that work.

Alas the cost of flying is now similar to the cost of having your tits redone. You buy the basic package, but you forget you have to buy all the other stuff too. New bras, better fitting tops, mace.

There is no such thing as a $139 low fare anymore.

Farewell.

Farewell.

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the truth will set you apart

May 21, 2009 · 4 Comments

It is my plight in life that I have some phenomenally intelligent friends. And those who are not phenomenally intelligent are either insanely creative or have ridiculously cool jobs that make me look like a paper pushing hoo haa. The truly difficult thing about having all these friends who are better than I am is that I am constantly reminded of how intrinsically uncool I am.

For instance, one of my dearest and oldest friends, though not a hipster or a coffee shop philosopher, has all the makings of one of those annoying NYU films students. Fortunately, with none of the ambition, nor the bon vivant attitude that is absolutely necessary if you’re going to go to pay $150,000 to go to film school. What he does have is the kind of taste in film that reminds me that at my very core I am what Maslow insists we all are: a thumb sucking six year old who enjoys Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and wishes on occasion that her husband was known only by one name, had a dark past, a rogue accent, and a mysteriously powerful job with an even more powerful bank account.

In short, I own Center Stage on DVD.  I’ve been meaning to watch no less than 5 foreign films, but I dont want to have to read the subtitles. I may or may not have thought, for a brief period, that Film Noir was a Chanel scent. Maybe.

My other dearest friend works in the entertainment industry. She is painfully cool. She has bangs. She wears skinny jeans. She likes jazz music. She has one of those mini bodies that was made for people who book talent for a living. (She can shop off the rack at American Apparel and not ask the girl wearing a unitard if they carry larger sizes in the back.) Her music taste is interesting and varied. When she is around, I pretend that my iPod battery is dead, or that I don’t know any of the local radio stations.

Sure, sure you’re thinking to yourself, who cares that Caroline doesnt have good taste in music or likes bad films? And I know that it’s not that big of a deal, but truthfully I find that music and film is what people sit around and talk about. It’s become a standard by which we measure people. God forbid you watched The Good Girl and thought that Jennifer Aniston was awkward, or see Momento and have a headache for 6-8 months*.

But even that’s not it. The reason my own taste in film bothers me is because I have a theory about these things. (Har har, I know. I have a theory about everything…)

I think that our taste in music, in movies, and in books actually comes from a part of our being that we can’t control. It is the very deepest and truest part of ourselves. It’s the part of us that no matter how much therapy we have, how many raises and promotions we get, no matter how many makeovers we go through, always outs us.

Now, I’m no psychologist. (Though I think that would be the most awesome job in the whole fucking world.) But if I were going to theorizes, I might suggest that my dear friend thrives on the confusion, the lack of plan and intention, the raw and riding emotion of these films that make my head ache. Intuition from music comes not from being music, but a deep desire to find order in what can otherwise be intensely chaotic– an ability to exist in a space that doesn’t necessary make sense to everyone.

And people like me? Well, we should have born into a royal family and then been faced with an arranged marriage that meant betraying your one true love. (But don’t worry. He’ll come for me.)

You can see how this gets a little embarrassing. Caroline– the no care girl. The “do you think she is a lesbian, wait, no, she just got married” girl. I don’t want children. I dont like small animals. The hubs and I have designated times in which I’m okay with physical contact… and yet… and yet I have read every Nora Roberts novel on the planet. I ate up the Twilight Saga.

I watched the entire first season of Secret Life of the American Teenager.

The good news is that I am nothing if not painfully, painfully self aware. I go to independent theatres and torture myself with low budget films about self discovery. I read the New Yorker. And I watch shows about historical places; it’s the kind of learning that I have to force myself to do. Because otherwise I’d be in line for the Hannah Montana movie elbowing some ten year old until she cries and gives up her seat.

Here is the thing: there are people who cannot wait to get home get back into the New Yorker. There are people who see a preview about a documentary on Darfur and feel as though opening day will never come. There are people who seek intense education every single day. They are interested in the art of being intelligent.

And then there are people like me.

Good thing I am so good looking.

*It should be mentioned that “one of my dearest friends” does not endorse, nor does he think, that either of these movies are good. They were simply examples that I, the author, used to make a point. I felt as though the reading audience would have seen these movies and understood the point I was trying to make. He likes much, much weirder shit… like… David Lynch.

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i deserve to be in jail

May 1, 2009 · 2 Comments

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It took me a while to decide to write about my recent, insanely reclusive, and somewhat disturbing weekend, wherein I canceled plans with numerous people and almost called out of work… all because of a couple of goddamned (literally) vampires. What eventually led me to believe it was acceptable to talk about it is my altruistic nature. I know that other people are going through the same thing, and I want for you to know that you are not alone.

I too fell in love with Edward. I too began reading Twilight innocently. I too thought I was simply following up after seeing the movie. I too never knew what hit me. I too read the entire Twilight saga in a three day period.

I too am ashamed to call myself a literary.

What. The. Fuck.

How did it happen? How did I go from a normal woman with a loving home and family to a woman who was willing to sacrifice everything: my job, my marriage, my physical being, in order to sit for another moment on my couch, learning the painful truths about longing to be bitten by your lover, to become an immortal. One minute I was an apt and developing creative director, helping people understand creative advertising strategy and the next minute I was balancing peanut butter Puffins on my belly so that I could read and eat at the same time.

And it gets worse. For a brief moment, one that I immediately regretted and wished had never, ever taken place, I wished that hubs was a brooding immortal. I mean, think of what a BEAUTIFUL vampire couple we would be? Finally my translucent skin would be the envy of everyone. The red rimming of my eyes complimenting the blue, people would be mesmerized by my stare. You want to disagree with me? Look into my eyes.

What really upsets me about The Twilight Trance is what it has done to the women of my generation. Sure, we’ve been reading Nora Roberts books on the sly for years, dreaming of some tall drink of water named Cade who has to take his shirt off to cook dinner, but that’s part of being a woman. The hubs isn’t named Cade and he sure as hell wouldnt see the practicality in cooking without his shirt, so I’m left to dream of prairie lands filled with cowboys who wear bootcut jeans and have soft tendrils of blond sweeping from under their ten gallon Stetsons. (But of course, because it’s Nora, these cowboys took a few years to move off the family ranch, go to Harvard, make a few million dollars, and return with a dark wound inflicted by a cruel woman… and of course only I can break the spell…) But Twilight, Twilight is something different. Now I feel like a sicko.

Sure, Edward is actually in his hundreds. But not really. Really he is in high school. He goes to chemistry third period. And gym class. And I’m having pseudo-sexual thoughts about him. Awesome.

Last weekend I was at a bar with a couple of my new friends. (Thanks, Bettis!) Somehow or another I realized that each of us was harboring the Twilight shame, and, being that I am as altruistic as I previously stated, I thought we should feel open enough to talk about it. Here we’ve been guilting ourselves for weeks about the dirty emotions and it’s not fair. Stephanie Meyer knew what she was doing. Fucking twisted Mormon. Yes, yes. I get it. I know know why your people accidentally marry 13 year olds. You’ve made your point.

Anyway, I looked up into the crowd of after work drinkers and spotted a tall, dark looking fellow with green eyes. I took my chances and looked at my group of new friends.

“Has anyone noticed that guy standing over there?”

Their eyes lit up and I could hear the faint clicking of women bonding for life.

“He’s a vampire.”

And then we raised a toast with our Bud Light Lime. Our souls a little lighter, our psyches soothed from weeks of convincing ourselves we deserved chemical castration and reform.

“To hot vampires.”

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today, in a sentence:

April 24, 2009 · 1 Comment

My lucky bamboo died.

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dear sports club/la,

April 21, 2009 · 1 Comment

Fuck you. No, no, truly. I would like to express to you, as well as the geniuses who run your organization, the extreme frustration that you’ve have caused me over the last five months. Were it not for the unbelievable yoga program (coupled with my gym crush on Marc McDonald), I would have packed my bags and headed back to Equinox. (Although, the snarling facade of my former trainer does keep me a safe distance.)

First of all, let’s have a quick chat about communication. As a veritable communications genius myself, I need to tell you the first and golden rule of marketing communications: communication. No. Fucking. Way. When you have something to relay to members of your internal or external audience, the most effective way to do that is to first and foremost do that. For example, if you consistently charge a members DEBIT CARD when you have explicitly told them that you will not be doing that, you should probably communicate to the accounting department that there has been an error. Don’t force said member to call sweet Donna from accounting and tell her all about how the Member Services people are backing over her with the proverbial bus. That’s just going to get nasty. And we know you wouldnt want that.

Communication is a dirty little word that actually entails two parts listening, one part engaging, and one part action. When you decide that your establishment is worth a sign up cost of nearly $1000 and then charge an additional $165 per month to the helpless beings to are forced to join your gym due to some unparalleled locational issues, you may want to consider showing them where some of that money goes. (And, I could be wrong, but I dont think it’s into your employee on boarding process, due to the fact that an employee misunderstanding led to my washing my body with MOUTHWASH last week. Funny, funny. If the shower amenities need subtitles, you’re going to have to suck it up and get on that. ) Could you explain to me, beloved Sports Club/LA how the weights in your fitness studio are so horrifying? I am quite certain that the free weights in prison are better taken care of than the bullshit that you supply. I dont think that walking those weights down Comm Ave like an imaginary puppy could cause them the damage that a bunch of cardio princesses have seemingly caused. I was at Target this weekend. They have weights. In case you’re having trouble finding them. Better yet, give Kristi DiScipio a ring over at Equinox and ask her for the magic method by which she keeps the weights so impeccable. Wait, what is that, Kristi? You have someone come in and take care of them? What does that even mean?

Sports Club/LA, it’s no secret that you have me by the downward dog. I’m forced to remain a member because the yoga studio is beyond compare. Wait, isn’t the yoga studio managed by someone different? How enlightening! I love George and Lily, Marc, Jen, Kelly, and Dave. I love seeing my gym buddies and buying an overpriced salmon lunch on Saturdays and talking about what a shithole the gym is. Did you know that, Sports Club/LA? The members actually sit in the cafe and commiserate about what a shithole the facilities are.

Lucky for you, a run in with Seal (singer and husband to “the Heidi”) on a treadmill last week was worth at least $75, and I’m willing to admit that the yoga and Dossas is worth at least another $75, so we’re square for April.

But here is the real kicker. The coup de grace. This incredible rant could have been entirely avoided if you’d just communicate.

Who in their right fucking mind cancels a yoga class on a Monday? A Monday, no less, where every person who comes to you after 6:00 PM is pissed to high hell about the fact that their company didn’t give them the fake Massachusetts holiday, Patriots Day. A day when everyone who comes in your doors is feeling particularly poor about themselves because they aren’t good enough to have run the 26.2 miles that the Kenyans did that morning. Who cancels yoga, on Marathon Monday, of Patriots Day, and doesnt tell anyone?

And dont fucking start with me about the sign. There are so many signs on that goddamn wellness desk that I wouldnt know if one of them told me that Jesus was teaching in the Fire Studio on Saturday.

Communication, Sports Club/LA, communication.

Namaste.

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me and the doubletree forever

April 13, 2009 · 4 Comments

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I recently went on a business trip to Atlanta. First, let’s cover the fact that the company finally trusted me enough to let me interface with clients on my own. I’m not going to hold my breath for another such trip, because, let’s face it, I’m a fucking ace in the hole for a lot of things, but I cannot seem to get my goddamn language in check. (Which reminds me: my mother called me this evening to discuss that very point. “Caroline, I just dont understand. Can you or can you not get through a sentence without using potty language?” Potty language? Are we being for serious?)

Second, let’s cover the details leading up to the big business trip.

Now, I know as well as anyone else that we are in a recession. Even if I were thinking about forgetting it, it seems to be the only thing that people want to talk about. Remember the days when a lull in conversation meant talking about a mutual friend whose ass had gotten fucking ginormous? Gone forever. Now when you realize you have nothing in common with someone, you talk about all the friends you know who have been laid off… and then make that frowny, head shaking face that says “that is so sad, but I really wish they would stop asking me if I have any leads.” Anyway, the recession is a top that is coming another day. The point of all this is that people are cutting corners, saving pennies, trying to make life cost a little less. Not me. I’m trying to save the human race and stimulate this bitch. Which leads me to how I ended up at the Doubletree hotel in Hotlanta. My new favorite place in the world.

The folks accompanying me on this trip sent me an itinerary on Monday afternoon detailing flights, hotel reservations, contact numbers, etc., so that I could make my own travel arrangements. (Business trips? Check. Personal assistant? Not a fat kid’s chance at the prom.) I looked at the flights: departing Boston at 6AM. Immediately I realized that I had made a mistake. I didn’t want the face-to-face client contact. SIX AM? What the fuck time does that mean you get to the airport? Is it open that early? Negative. Fortunately I was able to have a chat with the powers that be and in the end it really didnt seem necessary for me to be anywhere that early.

After I booked my flights on the world’s worst airline: AirTran, I needed to book my room with the gang. We could all stay together and carpool and stuff. It would be so convenient for getting to the shoots in the morning, and getting home at night.

Or not. The gang booked a room at the Super 8. The Super 8.

Look. I get it. We’re a bunch of nobodies. We’re no one’s CEO, CMO, CFO, COO. We ain’t got no Cs anywhere in our titles, so okay. We wont book a suite at the Ritz. But we also don’t have bend-over-the-spooge-covered-mattress-and-get-roach-raped-by-the-infested-sheets in our title.

I’m sure that in certain parts of the continental US there are Super 8 Motels that are lovely. I’m sure that the Super 8 takes pride in their standards for cleanliness, and the amount of chlorine that they use in their quarter-operated Jacuzzi to keep it sterile, but I just don’t care. I didn’t dream of my wedding day as a little girl growing up. I dreamed of expense accounts and business trips. And while some girls were thinking about multitiered fondant-covered cakes and Vera Wang, I was imagining those long days on the road, staying in hotel beds and watching B movies on demand. Not in any of those fuck-Barbies-I’m-going0to-rule-the-world day dreams was I knocking heads together all day and then kicking up my heels at the Super 8. There were always elevators in my day dreams. Never did I drive up. Ever.

The problem is that there is no more efficient way to alienate friends and piss off your boss than let them know that you’re too good for the gang’s hotel. “Really, Caroline? You too good to get fired too?”

Probably not.

Sensitive, sensitive stuff. I stared at my computer screen for a solid twenty minutes thinking about how to take on the situation. I even googled the Super 8. I checked out the on-site photos. I closed my eyes and willed myself into the room. I mentally looked for a free hair dryer. Shampoo. Mini body lotion. I looked for a clock radio. I couldn’t do it. I couldnt put myself in the room.

And then I remembered.

The people I work with think I’m obsessed with working out.

You cannot work out at the Super 8.

You know where you can work out? At the Precor sponsored gym at the Doubletree hotel in Druid Hills.

I booked it. And then I waited to get fired. Which didn’t happen.

What’s funny is that the Doubletree isn’t exactly the Four Seasons either. And it wasn’t that I was looking to stay there. (Well, kind of. But I also know that the recession has flooded the market with people who are much better at my job than I am and I don’t want to stand at a job fair telling anyone the hilarious story of how I got canned…) I just didn’t want to be at the Super 8. They don’t charge enough per night to convince me that they can afford to clean and wash sheets after every client. Anyone ever heard of overhead??

But the point of all this is to say that while I may have been dreaming of the Four Seasons, my heart was captured by the Doubletree Hotel. Did you know that the Doubletree gives you a WARM CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE when you arrive? That’s right. I couldnt have been happier if they gave me a little pink sorry-you’re-alone-for-three-nights dildo. It came out of a warming drawer. They didn’t phone it in with a Chips Ahoy. They gave me a cookie that was warm. And soft. And made me forget about the guilt I had about my gang… at the Super 8.

And there was a gym. (Which I used THREE TIMES because I felt like if I didn’t that karma would turn me into a quadriplegic. I did, after all, convince the universe that I was FORCED to stay at the Doubletree because of my work out habits.) There were little TVs on all the cardio machines. I watched shows about people being murdered in the Bronx while I sweat out the stress of my day of knocking heads.

There was a bed that felt like millions of tiny angels sacrificing their bodies for my own comfort.

There was a free hair dryer. And little shampoos sponsored by Neutrogena. Oh! Neutrogena! I recognize your brand!

I was so overwhelmed with the Doubltree that I didn’t even turn on the TV. I was so taken with its charms that I didn’t even check for B movies. Or look at the breakfast menu.

And when I set the alarm on the clock radio, I sent out a happy thought to that little girl I used to be.

Fuck weddings. Grow up and stay at the Doubletree on business trips.

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i don’t care if you’re following me…

March 23, 2009 · 1 Comment

You may or may not have joined the Twitter revolution (either way, I understand), but if you have and you’re not following Stuart the Cat, you’re totally missing out. His simple yet insightful view of the world is changing humanity one Twitterer at a time.

http://www.twitter.com/stuartthecat

If you’d like to follow me, I think it would encourage me to write better, wittier things– tweet them, I mean. As it stands I have trouble caring what the 10 people who follow me think.

http://www.twitter.com/linabeau

See you there.

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everything i ever needed to know, i learned on an isagenix cleanse.

March 18, 2009 · 3 Comments

About a month ago, my favorite gym fairy (who, as mentioned, needs to be Best of Boston….) George descended upon my Saturday cardio class looking noticeably thinner than the week before. In the world of hard-core fitness (a world I now think I’m officially a part of), showing up thinner in less than seven days is like fucking Edward Scissor Hands and then going for a swim off the coast of Cuba… you are going to get attacked. To make matters worse, Georgie went ahead and teased the entire class by telling us that if we stayed for the second round of class (immediately following), he would tell us all how he shed 10lbs in 7 days. I have never seen so many people in a cardio class in my life.

The key to George’s sudden weight loss was a program called IsaGenix. Now, I’ve learned via Twitter that if you mention this product in ANY negative fashion, thousands of angry Isa-Twitterers will come out of the woodwork and Tweet you to death. I can only imagine what today’s Google Keyword search is going to do to me. (Hello, crazy IsaGenix people. Welcome to my blog. Now leave me alone.) The program is a “cleanse” which rids your body of the evil toxins that are weighing you down and keeping you from being the best possible person you can be. Actually what it is is a 9 day torture test to see whether or not normal people can live normal lives without food.

Like all stupid things in life: hammer pants, scrunchies, that time Coke fucked up and changed their formula, I needed to go ahead and try it. You know, just so I could blog about it. Had I been smart about it, I would have blogged during the actual cleanse, alas I did not. Mostly because cleansing turned me into a unique person who couldnt focus on benign tasks like sharing her life with twelve people.

For two days you drink some cleansing juice. Mine was “tropical berry” which, in IsaGenix land, is cousins with rancid organic apple juice. For two days at the beginning, and two days at the end you drink this juice and if you find yourself unbearably hungry, you are allowed an almond or two. How generous. The middle days (5) you drink two meal replacement shakes and then are allowed a 4-600 calorie meal– either as lunch or dinner. Think of it like a glorified SlimFast plan. During these nine days, I compiled a list of things that I was learning about myself through the cleanse. So here is is, Everything I Ever Needed to Know, I learned on an IsaGenix Cleanse:

1. Poo is Precious

I know. It is completely unladylike to talk about poo. So we wont. What we will talk about is what happens when you realize your rear functions have been… defunct… for more than four days. A girl who doesn’t believe in God starts saying prayers that the savior will send her a turd. After day five, the anxiety over the mass that is growing in your defunct belly becomes overwhelming, and you ask the hubs if he’ll just beat on you for a while. Lightly, of course.

The real kicker is when your meal replacement shakes give you Devious Gas. A rare breed that cannot be trusted unless one is seated on the cool promise of porcelain. Trust me on this, cherish your poo.

2. It’s the texture, not the flavor.

I actually learned this lesson years ago when I had to fast for an exploratory stomach surgery: hunger is nothing. I could go days without calories; it’s the longing for something in the mouth that becomes unbearable. I actually remember standing over the kitchen sink (during the fast) and chewing up stale loaves of bread and spitting them in the sink, just so I could remember what it was like to feel food. My dad accidentally caught me, and I dont think things have ever really been the same.

On day two of the cleanse, I had taken out nearly eight packs of gum. I was chewing the calorie equivalent of a Big Mac in increments of “Not a Significant Source of Nutrition or Calories”. They only say that because they dont know that some people use them as meal replacement.

As weakness turning to longing, I thought I was ready to lead a debate against religious activitists. You think your God is the reason and source of life? Wrong. It’s restaurant week. It’s gluttony and pleasure and fluffy carbohydrates. That’s what it’s all about. Ave Maria.

3. About your friends…

They only like you because you drink and because you eat. No one wants to be around a dieter. It’s a close second to a recovering alcoholic. (Sidenote: once you hit the 5-10 year mark of recovery, this doesn’t apply. We’re talking about alcondriacs– a breed of people who go to Betty Ford and emerge convinced that EVERYONE is an alcoholic. I don’t want anyone falling off the wagon, I just want them to shut the fuck up about it.)

For nine days I was a nobody. I wasn’t drunk enough to be honest, full enough to be tired, or engaged enough to care about anyone else. I was hungry. Plain and fucking simple. I wanted to eat babies. Covered in mayo. Fried.

Yum.

And now here I am. Maintaining. Drinking Devious Gas Shakes and playing poo roulette.

God Bless IsaGenix.

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the thing about stuart

March 11, 2009 · 2 Comments

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As most of you know, Stuart is our cat. There are days when I find myself recounting stories of Stuart while simultaneously ignoring the innner voice that’s chanting, “No one fucking cares. In fact, you’re actually freaking people out, cat girl.”

As you can see, I ignore that inner voice. If I had something better to talk about, I’d be talking about it. As it stands, though, I ain’t got shit. Except Stuart, of course.

Stuart George Wayne Edward Beaulieu, Cat Elite.

But the thing about Stuart is that he is more than a cat. I don’t mean that he is a soul, or that his eyes tell me things about the state of humanity that only God could know– because those sorts of things are truly the statements of lonely cat women, but I mean that he is something else entirely to hubs and me: He is a mediator.

Some people have open lines of communication. Some couples turn off the TV, put away their dinner plates and excessive work loads, and have intimate conversations about the state of affairs within their family. Hubs and I use Stuart as a tool of passive-aggressive puppetry, a highlighter for the deeper dysfunction within our unity.

Overtime (I think), you learn that there are things that you can’t say to your spouse. Marriage can make you forget it, but everyone has feelings and perserving those feelings is 90% of the battle. Telling hubs he is a useless sack of laziness? Not adviseable. Having Stuart mention to him that he is ashamed to call him “father”? Completely acceptable. In fact, downright constructive.

In the days of Milo, hubs and I could have entire conversations abot how much we loathed each other through him. Milo would tell hubs that he was scared of him, that the way he spoke to his mother (that would be me) make him scared that he would end up splitting holidays and having to spend Thursdays and every other weekend at a converted frat house in Allston. In turn, Milo would tell me that as a mother I was dispicable, that my housekeeping tendencies make him feel awkward about inviting friends over, that he was nervous the tabby from upstairs would come over, see the kitchen, and tell everyone in the building that Milo’s parents didn’t own any soap.

And there you had it. We would each apologize to Milo and walk away with a broad marital perspective. Put that in your marriage rules pipe and smoke it.

Milo was different, though. He didn’t lend himself to impromptu corrections about minutia. He truly shone in crisis situations. When anger was lurking at the surface–late at night, dishes undone, nothing on TV, hubs tapping his pen, watching TED– there was Milo, ready to tell dad how disappointed he was in how everything had turned about. Give him the eyes that only a child can, and plead with him to do better, to try harder, and goddammit get up and do the fucking dishes.

Not so with Stuart. He seizes at the climax, the pressure of picking sides between the man who feeds him and the woman who purchases the food is too much. Trivial, frivolous arguments– those are where Stuart finds his sweet spot. Recently, his position has morphed into something else: he is the cruel voice of all things painfully obvious, but never mentioned.

(Sitting on the bed, mom and Stuart watching TV, dad walks in wearing a towel. Stuart looks up and speaks.)

“Gee, dad. Where’d you get that belly? How are we ever going to play in the father/son softball game with you looking like a slugging monkey.”

Then hubs stands there, torn between whether to beat me within an inch of my life, or simply play the game.

“Oh, buddy. Don’t worry. Haven’t you seen mom lately? She’s been working out so much she looks like a big, butch lesbian. And you know how much they love softball.”

Translation: Hubs, you may need to pay attention to the weight that may or may not have added to your midsection. It’s becoming obvious and I’m slightly embarrassed by it and definitely less attracted to you. Caroline, your working out is not only making me resent you slightly, but your barrel arms are making me feel like less of a man, and with this recent weight gain I’m feeling vulnerable.

Now, you tell me if you’ve gotten that much out of thousands of dollars and hours of couples therapy.

You need a Stuart.

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