New Lows

The question of where I went wrong in life has haunted me for a long time. I'm pretty sure I ended up where I am because of a million small choices, rather than one colossal error in judgment, but this insight has so far failed to help me right the ship. Indeed, I am reaching new lows. For example, the other day my friend, Dee, and I drank Sutter Home Pinot Grigio from single serve bottles with straws in the parking structure at work. Let's break down all the ways this is wrong. And by wrong, I don't mean drinking on the job. That's the only thing right about this situation. 1) Pinot Grigio is just about the last wine I ever want to drink. Of course since I now regularly consume PBR, it is obvious that I'm willing to drink anything as long as it contains alcohol. 2) Sutter Home is not exactly quality wine. Then again, if I wanted quality, I wouldn't be drinking Pinot Grigio. 3) We were drinking with straws. This, my friends, is a true sign of class and sophistication as is 4) We were in a parking structure. Sure we used lunch at Craft and dine at Mozza, drink Burgundy and Brunello, but look at us now--drinking plonk through a straw in a parking structure. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Today, Sutter Home. Tomorrow, Mad Dog 20/20. Pass me that bottle. And a straw...here's to new lows!

Apart From the Killing, of Course

So I realize my sanity has been in question for some time, but I'm wondering: how bad is it that I seem to have developed a thing for a serial killer? Could this be a sign I've finally gone around the bend? Now, to be fair, the serial killer in question is a fictional character--Joe Carroll from Fox's new show The Following. The first time I told someone I had a thing for Joe, she asked if I meant the actor, James Purefoy, who plays Joe. I had to admit I meant the character. Don't get me wrong--Mr. Purefoy is lovely to look at, even more lovely to listen to and plays the character quite exquisitely, but Joe does it for me. He's a professor of literature--which is like crack to me. In flashback scenes where we see him teaching he is, without question, the man I would conjure if I were asked to describe my idea of the perfect man. Apart from the killing, of course. The accent is certainly part of it (Purefoy is British), but also the intensity, the passion, the way he commands a room...he is charismatic and brilliant. And there is nothing more sexy on a man than brilliance. A few Google searches have assured me that I'm not alone in my love of Joe Carroll. Which makes me feel a little less insane. Of course we are meant to love Joe...if we didn't, how could we believe his followers would do what they're doing for him? He has to be charming, sexy and charismatic or the story doesn't have legs. Still, it raises questions. What if you found the perfect person and then found out something about them was morally abhorrent to you? Not necessarily killing, just something you feel is wrong? Does that change the way you feel about them? Can you still love them in spite of it? Something to ponder. Meanwhile, I'll be trolling the internet for Joe Carroll fanfic and waiting for the next episode of The Following. Joe Carroll is perfect. Apart from the killing, of course.

10 More Signs Your Life is Seriously Fucked Up

It's hard to imagine, but my life may actually be worse than when I wrote the original post: http://becauselifeisshort.blogspot.com/2009/08/10-signs-your-life-is-seriously-fucked.html At any rate, here are Ten MORE signs your life is seriously fucked up.

1) You have started fantasizing seriously about a life of crime. Not just the "hey, we should run drugs" kind of thing you might say to be funny, but more along the lines of if I registered a business with the secretary of state under someone else's name and created invoices... This is REALLY REALLY illegal! Why would this even occur to me? What the hell?

2) You spend nearly $600 and several hours filling out the initial paperwork to register for eHarmony and only one guy from your hundreds of matches (many of whom you actually sent a smile to first--see earlier post: http://becauselifeisshort.blogspot.com/2011/05/i-reject-you.html) emails you. Even though he's not really your type, you decide to reply. And get no response.

3) You volunteer to put together a fundraiser for a local charity only to realize you have neither enough money nor enough friends to make it happen.

4) You fantasize about having yourself committed to a mental hospital on a daily basis.

5) The last time you had sex was in a different decade.

6) You are nearing the age of retirement, but still haven't figured out what you want to be when you grow up.

7) Your car has tape holding it together in at least one spot.

8) You have a student loan the size of a mortgage, but will never afford a house.

9) You and your friends spend a frightening amount of time devising elaborate suicide plans, but none of you find this alarming.

10) You've started drinking PBR so you can afford to drink more even though you're a beer snob AND you've opened $100 bottles of wine at home alone because you've run out of the cheap stuff, and were either too fucked up to drive to get more or just didn't care anymore.

The Accidental Handbag

Have you ever accidentally purchased something? A new Coach bag for example? It happened to me very recently. I had a perfectly good reason for being in Bloomingdale's. I was looking desperately for a menorah for my holiday party. I had tons of last minute details to take care of and quickly checked their holiday decor section. No luck. I was heading rather quickly for the exit when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sale table in handbags. Can't hurt to have a quick look. And there it was, a shiny, black patent leather Coach bag. Reduced 30%. 30%! Talk about irresistible impulses. There was a split second of "oh Helen, you don't really need this and shouldn't be spending money" which was replaced in an instant by "ah, but it's Christmas and Scrooge may give me a bonus this year..." It all happened so fast. Before I knew it, I'd swiped my card, signed the screen and was out the door carrying a Medium Brown Bag with my new treasure nestled inside. I didn't mean to buy it. Indeed, my intentions upon entering Bloomie's were quite pure. And so I maintain that I purchased the bag by accident. A very happy accident as it turns out.

Leaving Home

At age 18 you leave home for the first time, bound for university, full of youthful optimism about the future and ready to conquer the world. Leaving is bittersweet. Of course you’ll miss your family, but adventure awaits! You are excited to spread your wings, to experience life on your own. You don’t realize at the time that you are leaving for good-- that this house will never really be your home again. Sure, you’ll be home for breaks here and there. The house will be the same except for some new furniture or maybe new curtains. Mom and Dad will be in their usual chairs. It will feel and smell like home every time you return and a part of you will always feel as though you never left.

Four years fly by and suddenly you are searching for your first real job. Renting your first real apartment. Life is happening. You get married . Or you don’t. Have children. Or not. You go to grad school, change careers, travel the world. You live your life thousands of miles from the place you grew up. And time passes so quickly.

Inevitably, you find yourself back in your childhood home. The same one you left decades (my God, how can it be that long?) ago. You’re older now. Youthful optimism has been replaced by healthy cynicism or (worse) resignation. You sort through the remnants of your childhood. Long forgotten toys, homework assignments, beloved books, music in formats ranging from LP to 8-track to cassette. Along with the archeological evidence of your childhood, you find memories in every item pulled from the cupboard—the bowl mom used to mix cookie dough, dad’s handkerchiefs. (He always managed to have a clean one when you were little to wipe your nose or clean your hands.) Every mundane item, from soup ladel to flashlight, is inspected and either claimed as useful or sentimental or relegated to the Goodwill box. The house now stands empty. Lonely. Memories of all those dinners, birthdays, Christmas Eves dance like ghosts in your mind’s eye. There was always so much laughter. But now there’s only stillness. Mom and Dad are both gone. And the house, once so full of life, is silent as you leave home for the last time.

Beer Goggles are a (Fat) Girl's Best Friend

I had some mixed reactions from people to my last post. Some found my post brilliantly funny (hell yes it was) others seemed to take exception to me saying out loud that I’m fat. Which just seems weird since I am, in fact, fat. I haven’t always been comfortable talking about my weight. For a long time I was so ashamed of it, I wouldn’t have dreamed of calling attention to it. Instead I wore a lot of black and hoped no one would notice my girth. Maybe I would blend in with the walls. Who was I kidding? At my size, the only way this was going to work is if someone thought I actually was a wall. Anyway, recently I’ve started talking about my weight—mostly joking, but also matter-of-factly. After all, it seemed just silly to never mention the elephant in the room (so to speak). I’ve started slipping in a fat joke here, a self-reference there. I’ve noticed that it makes some thin people uncomfortable when I talk about being fat. I guess it is somewhat understandable. If I say to a friend, “Oh, I’m such an idiot,” the friend will say something like “you are not an idiot.” When I say, my God I am fat, they falter. They can’t honestly “you are not fat.” That would make them a liar, an idiot or blind. On the other hand, should my friend agree with me by saying you really are a fucking fat ass, well, that seems mean. So instead they normally say something like” Helen!” in a chastising tone or they make funny, guttural noise and change the subject.

So, anyway, I am fat. And I’m officially on eHarmony! Where I currently have 480 matches! Many of them are fairly unattractive. Some are hideous. Some of them are fat themselves and yet, oddly enough, none of them have tried to date me. One of my thin, attractive friends suggested that maybe they are shy and I should make the first move. So I tried an experiment. I went through and “sent a smile” to each and every one of my matches (except for one guy who was so sad looking that I feared that it was just too mean to do so, though it is most likely he would have rejected me as well). I did this for about the first two hundred and fifty matches before finally losing interest. I got exactly two responses. Both asked me a couple of questions and then disappeared into the ether. I didn’t get enough interaction with either to tell if I would actually like them so it’s not as though I’m heartbroken. Still, I can’t help feeling a little bit put out that nearly 500 hundred men, many of whom are really unattractive and/or much too old for me, are not interested in me…even after I made the first move with half of them. I realize men only date thin women. I mean, I know this intellectually, but I sort of thought maybe my winning personality (hey, what's so funny?) would win at least one or two of them over, but alas, no. As I have pointed out time and time again, online dating is not a good option for fat girls. The problem, of course, is that there’s not enough alcohol involved. Before online dating, you had to meet people the old fashioned way...in bars where, at the end of the night, when the boys are all liquored up and facing the prospect of going home alone, even the fat girls have a chance at getting lucky. Those were the days! Anyway, I figured I'd given it my best shot with online dating. I'd proven my point and was ready to put an end to this experiment. Plus, my subscription was about to expire. So of course I got an email yesterday telling me eHarmony had auto-renewed my subscription for another three months! I’ve basically paid an additional $130 to be rejected by 500 more men. Good times.

I Reject You

So recently a number of my friends have been saying things like “are you dating anyone?” Or “What about you, Helen, are you seeing anyone?” To which I reply, “are you joking?” Then they blink at me, wide-eyed and cartoon-like “what? Why not?” “Because I’m fat,” I say. “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” they say. Mind you the people who are telling me this are thin and attractive. Their next line is always “have you tried online dating?” Now it’s me who looks at them wide-eyed and blinking? “Are you mad?” I say. “What?” they say, “Everyone does it now.” “I’m FAT, ” I say. “That doesn’t matter,” they say. Again, thin, beautiful people telling me it doesn’t matter. Last week three different people told me I should try online dating.

Maybe they were on to something. Why not give it a shot? Sure, my friend, M, cautioned me by showing me the photo she had saved to her phone of the man a dating site had said was her perfect match. He was so incredibly unattractive that someone actually thought the picture must have been PhotoShopped to look so bad. Still, there is the off chance David Tennant has dumped his baby mama and is currently trolling eHarmony for a fat girl from the States (can you say green card?) in which case I'm in! And if no one responds to my profile, well then I can answer honestly when people ask me if I’ve tried online dating and say “yes, I have. No one picked me.” Because that, of course, is what happens when you’re fat. No one picks you. My thin, attractive friends tell me I have a pretty face. “Doesn’t matter,” I say. A man will pick a thin girl who looks like she’s been repeatedly hit in the face with a shovel over a fat girl with a pretty face every time. Trust me. I know this to be a fact. My friend J actually said to me once: “I met a girl. She’s butt ugly. She looks like she’s been repeatedly hit in the face with a shovel, but she has a good body so I’ll probably call her.”

So, in spite of M's caution, I spent the better part of my day filling out the preposterous million question profile on eHarmony. Am I vivacious? I asked my friends. Should I call myself “somewhat” attractive? What are four words you would pick to describe me? What are five things I cannot live without? (Pinot Noir, Sauvignon Blanc, small batch Bourbon, Champagne and coffee--hey at least one wasn't alcohol,right?) Speaking of booze, the questionnaire wanted to know how often I drink. Does several times per week make me seem like a raging alcoholic? I wonder if there are people out there looking for a fat drunk woman who watches Doctor Who? OMG. After writing that sentence I realize I wouldn’t date me either. Anyway, I completed my profile, uploaded a picture of me holding a glass of wine (because honestly, that’s what I look like most of the time) and waited. Not for long as it turned out. Apparently, I had thirteen new matches right away!

Wow! This was exciting! Until I looked at them. These guys made M’s perfect match look like a Calvin Klein model. Seriously. I’m not joking. Not only were these guys all way older than I am (that’s what I get for saying I like wine and travel, I guess), but they were all extraordinarily unattractive. Now before you tell me how shallow I am let me say this. I am female. Therefore, I am often attracted to men who do not fit in the standard “good looking” category. If a guy is smart and funny and even reasonably okay looking, I’m capable of developing a crush on him. If he’s a bit nerdy, it’s entirely likely I will. I am not overly concerned with looks. Once again, I am fat so being overly concerned with looks would be hypocritical at best. Plus, like most women I know, I'm more concerned with personality. What I’m saying here is that even though my standards are fairly low, these guys were even lower. Of course the very best part of this story is that not one of these fair fellows has tried to contact me. That’s right. I have been rejected by thirteen of the most heinously unattractive men in Los Angeles. I’ll bet at least one of them has saved my picture to his phone and is, even now, telling his friends “can you believe eHarmony said this horror show was my perfect match?”

Once Bitten Twice Shy

So I’m at a party the other night and I get bit by a mosquito. Not generally a big deal except in this case my arm turned red and started swelling. Turns out I have a staph infection. The doctor said: “ we don’t want it to go into your joint and you'll lose your arm.” Notice my use of quotation marks. These are the actual words he said. WTF? Let me get this straight? I could lose my arm from a mosquito bite? Are you kidding? I could lose my arm because I went to a party? The thing is, I rarely go to parties anymore, seeing as how I hate people and all, but this one seemed like it would be relatively benign. After all, it took place at a lovely Beverly Hills home and was attended by quite a few people I know through work. Mostly professional types. You know, relatively normal upstanding citizens. Sure a lot of them were therapists, but it still seemed pretty safe. This is where I get the death bite? Are you kidding me? When I was in college I regularly spent my time at a place called Mondo Condo. Imagine if you will a house inhabited by four to five (sometimes more) males of the twenty-something rock musician persuasion and one bad ass Doberman Pinscher (Belvedere, you were the best). Imagine there are parties every weekend and most weeknights. Imagine they don’t even own a vacuum cleaner or cleaning products of any kind. And let’s face it. These guys wouldn’t have bothered to use them, if they did. The most they could manage was shoveling out the empty beer cans once in a while. Whatever you’re picturing in your mind, the Condo was worse. Much worse. I am quite certain one could have easily contracted typhus, the bubonic plague, gonorrhea of the throat and the Hantavirus within ten minutes of arriving. Not only was the place a festering cesspool, but most of the people hanging around were some form of derelict, addict, criminal, scumbag or ne’er-do-well (God, I miss you guys). Now add to the mix massive quantities of alcohol and various and sundry illicit substances. Yeah, that was the Condo in all its glory. I spent countless hours at there. Most often about ten beers into an all night drinking binge and rarely in complete charge of my faculties. Clearly “safety first” was not my motto back then (ah…to be young and foolish again). The fact that nothing bad ever happened to me there (hell, from what I remember—and it is a bit vague in patches--those were some of the best days of my misspent youth) is nothing short of a miracle. Which I guess makes getting a staph infection while attending a genteel Beverly Hills soiree some sort of Karmic joke. And The Universe laughs at my expense. Again.

OLD

I found a grey eyebrow hair. FML. That is all.

The Joke's on Me

Even as the specter of the Botox needle hangs over the vertical canyon running between my eyebrows and legions of creams and potions appear to have met their Waterloo in the battle against crow's feet, I woke up yesterday with a pimple the size of a volcano on my forehead. I thought the one benefit of aging would be the end of acne, but no. Tell me the Universe doesn't have a sick sense of humor. I dare you.

Turn Left

Nobody said it was easy. I didn’t think it would be this hard. Some drivel from Coldplay which seems to be running through my head a lot recently. I’ve decided I don’t really like Coldplay anymore so I honestly can’t tell you the context for the line, but I’ve decided it resonates with me because it applies to my life. Seriously, is life such an epic struggle for everybody or is it just me? An informal survey of friends would suggest I’m not alone in feeling this way. It’s not that life is a struggle in the sense of something truly catastrophic happening *frantically knocking wood.* Sure, plenty of wicked crap has happened to me, like most people, over the years. People die. People dump you. People stalk you. People rob you. All traumatizing events, to be sure but when I look at my life overall I’ve been pretty lucky as far as big problems go *maniacally knocking wood.* Not to mention that you find ways of dealing the big things. For whatever reason, things we imagine will undo us usually don’t. It’s the small things that get you. Life will beat you down with a host of petty annoyances and minor disappointments. If those don’t get you, the tedious, day-after-day grind will. I feel like I struggle just to get through each day. Except Wednesdays, of course because Wednesdays have Glee and Glee makes me, well, gleeful!


The struggle goes something like this: Wake up. Curse the fact it isn’t Saturday (unless it is Saturday in which case do a mental happy dance and go back to sleep). Drag self out of bed. Get ready for work. Feed monsters. Go to Starbuck’s to spend 20-30 minutes writing because if I don’t schedule it, it doesn’t happen. Dreadful commute to dreadful job. Dreadful job happens from 9-5, but often keeps happening after 5. A day in the Pit of Despair generally consists of being disregarded for long periods of time interspersed with being treated with the type of disdain generally reserved for dog shit on someone’s shoe. Occasionally you will be on the receiving end of a tantrum thrown by one bitch or another. Last week’s bitch was named Jon. At some point I finish work and go to the gym (yea me!). If it’s Tuesday or Thursday, I shower and head over to the clinic where I see clients. My clients are infinitely more sane and pleasant than 99% of the people I work with at The Pit of Despair, btw. And yes, they are mental health clients. Drive home. Feed monsters. Eat dinner while watching something on TiVo. Attempt to sort mail and banish chaos. Wash dishes. Collapse into bed and brace myself for it to start all over again in a few hours. I often get Saturdays off which means I can clean, run errands, study, do laundry. Or sit in catatonic state. I seem to go with option two more often lately. Sundays I’m back at the clinic. There are also various meetings and trainings thrown in here and there for good measure (and to ensure I have no time for a life) and I’m working on a fundraising event right now. Fundraising, btw, is a living nightmare, but that’s another blog.

Like most of my friends, I look around and think Wow…This is not what I expected my life would look like. I realize I’ve made poor decisions in life to get to this place. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was giving $20 blow jobs to fund my crack habit or anything. I tend to be motivated more by fear than anything else so I cling on to bad jobs, bad people, etc . for far too long. We often look at people who engage in a lot of high-risk behavior (the $20 crack whore, for instance) and think “well, things aren’t going to work out for her.” I think the same is true for the people on the other end of the spectrum who don’t engage in enough risk. If you play it too safe, you’re going to miss out on opportunities. Being too wedded to a sense of security can keep you stuck in a job that has long since stopped being a good fit for you. It can keep you in relationships that are no longer functional. Sure it can keep you from getting hurt, but it can also keep you from getting what you want. We settle for less than we deserve because we are afraid to do anything else. A friend and I have been desperately trying to figure out the exact moments in which we turned right instead of left in our lives (referencing the episode Turn Left from Doctor Who series four, of course). I think the answer is we didn’t turn right at all. We just kept going straight. The person motivated by fear doesn’t pick a new road. They stay with the road they know--straight ahead, no chancing turning down a side street. Something bad could happen on a side street. The only problem with just going in a straight line is, eventually, you run out of road. And whether you hit a wall , fall off a cliff or just get stuck in a big muddy field, it’s not pretty. Eleanor Roosevelt said "do one thing every day that scares you." I've been experimenting with this idea and you know what? I think I'm going to take that next left and see where it takes me. I'd say it couldn't be any worse, but I'm not stupid enough to tempt The Universe that way.

David Tennant Comes to NBC!

Finally some good news for a change. David Tennant is set to star in a comedy pilot for NBC titled Rex Is Not Your Lawyer. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/8339796.stm
Not only does this mean we have something to look forward to once his final Doctor Who episodes air early next year, it also means Mr. Tennant will be spending a substantial amount of time stateside if the show is picked up. I've been thinking pretty seriously about finishing with Los Angeles, but since this greatly increases the chances that David Tennant will show up at my local Starbucks soon, I guess I'm going to have to stay a while.

Money and Happiness Revisited

The idea that money can’t buy happiness has come up again recently. I’m not really sure how this idea ever got so much traction in our society. I personally think it's absolutely absurd. Now if someone said money doesn’t equal happiness, I could agree with that. I don’t believe that money is either necessary or sufficient for happiness.

I know that money isn’t necessary for happiness because I grew up watching Little House on the Prairie. They didn’t have much in the way of material things and certainly they were happy. Not to mention some of my happiest moments in life have cost little, if any, money. If you ever have the opportunity, try this: some summer day get an old inner tube and float around in a lake. If you do have money for a cold beer, take that with you (you may not want to drink too much, the whole drowning thing is not conducive to happiness generally). This ranks fairly high in my happy moment memory bank and was virtually free. You probably have similar memories: the perfect sunset at the beach, a rainy day curled up with a cup of tea and good book (which you presumably borrowed from the library) ---you get the picture. I think we can agree that money is not necessary for happiness. Next we must ask if money is sufficient for happiness. Well, we’ve all read the tabloids, right? Apparently the rich and fabulous are not always happy. Having yet to experience being rich and fabulous I’m tempted reserve judgment, but I think we can be safe saying money is probably not sufficient for happiness.

Now we turn to the real question though. Money may not equal happiness, but can money buy happiness? Of course it can! Money doesn’t just buy material things (though it does and they can be lovely and often make me quite happy. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God and Steve Jobs for my iPod). Money not only buys things, it also buys experiences. Experiences, the little moments in life, are where we find our joy. Yes, many of the best ones are free, but some of the best ones are most certainly not. Many of the most amazing moments of my life cost quite a bit actually. For instance, one year ago today I was in Stratford-upon-Avon where I saw Patrick Stewart and David Tennant perform Hamlet. Not only was the play, which I had the good fortune to see twice, brilliant beyond my expectations, but the entire trip was a little festival of happiness just for me. I happen to love England and Stratford is one of my favorite places on earth because of my long-time super geeky devotion to all things Shakespeare. This was my third trip to Stratford, but my first time going it alone. I did not miss having company. Being on my own felt like the ultimate indulgence. For me being in England is like wrapping myself up in a fuzzy blanket and sitting in front of a fire. On my very first trip I found myself overwhelmed with emotion because of the illogical, yet unmistakable feeling that I had somehow come home.

Last year’s trip was one of the best trips I’ve ever taken anywhere and I was happier those few days in Stratford and London than I’d been in a long time. Fast forward 365 days and I’m at work in the Pit of Despair, feeling oppressed and miserable. The difference? Money. Quite simply I don’t have the money to do many of the things that give me the most pleasure in life including travel. The more money a person has, the more choices they have for how to spend their time and how to get the most enjoyment out of life. I’m not saying one can’t be creative and find ways of enjoying things for less, but I believe the bottom line is that many of life’s greatest pleasures (for me the list includes travel, education, wine, fine dining and theatre) are not free. This does not even take into consideration the obvious fact that, if you have enough money, you can buy your very freedom--freedom from the job you need, but don't love. I've come to realize it is an absolute truth that money can buy happiness. And a Marc Jacobs handbag.

A Real Man

I’ve been watching Mad Men this season and loving it, of course. Loving Don Draper, of course. How could anyone not? He’s so handsome. I’ve actually wrestled a bit with my infatuation with Don because, objectively, he’s not a man I would want. He’s unfaithful. He keeps secrets. He’s dishonest. At the same time he exudes a quality that seems to have disappeared from men in the past 50 years. It’s hard to quantify, but the best I can say is that Don Draper is a real man. He is confident. He’s someone you would trust in a crisis. He’s strong. He doesn’t go whining on about his troubles. I realize it is somewhat ironic that I frown upon whining since that’s pretty much all I do on this blog. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about that. Upon closer examination, it seems I’m probably most drawn to Don Draper because all the men I’ve ever dated have been boys. Never mind they were in their 30s. They were boys. I'm not sure there are any real men anymore. Perhaps none were born after 1960 in America. I’m guessing this doesn’t apply to the UK because David Tennant seemed suspiciously like a real man when I met him in spite of his boyish good looks! I look around the Pit of Despair and I don’t see any men. I see boys who make a tremendous amount of money and pretend to be men--the Pete Campbell’s of the world.

So what exactly are the qualities of a man? As I mentioned, I think a real man is confident (without being egotistical), good in a crisis and strong (I’m talking more about emotional strength here, but a certain amount of physical strength is nice too--there is the occasional jar that needs opening after all). They also need to be able to dress themselves and have appropriate clothes for all social situations. The man who doesn’t own a suit (a suit purchased in the past few years—not some ill-fitting thing his mom bought him ten years ago for his cousin’s wedding!) and can’t tie a tie, is not a man. A real man will be at ease in a variety of social situations. A real man can fly solo--guys who cling to their pack of buddies are boys. If he drinks, he drinks something serious. Real men do not drink fruity, girly drinks. BTW, bonus points for the man who can mix a real cocktail—Jack and Coke doesn’t count--I'm talking martini, gimlet, etc. Still, while these all seem to be qualities of a real man, I think there’s also an indefinable quality, a certain je ne sais quoi, which makes a man a man. Whatever it is, Don Draper has it in spades. And I love him for it.

I'll Never Be 24

Twenty-four year old blonde girls have become the bane of my existence. I'm guessing I'm not the only one who feels this way. After all, seem to be everywhere. Usually chatting up some guy you're interested in. It's not so much that they're blonde, I've been blonde and easily could be again. It's not so much that they're hot. I can always work out harder and, thanks to the miracle of plastic surgery, I can have giant-sized breasts that defy all laws of physics if I choose. I can have them lipo out all the undesirable padding then add a bit to the backside so I can be entirely bootylicious. Heck, if I can just find that Russian doctor from I Want to Believe, I think I can get an entire body transplant. Despite all of these technological advancements, however, they still haven't invented a pill or surgical procedure that will make me 24 again. And that's a bitter pill to swallow.

Healing Trauma Through Giving

You may recall my post a few months back about the hideous bag someone gifted me (http://becauselifeisshort.blogspot.com/2009/02/life-as-stereotype.html) and how highly traumatized I was to think this is the way people see me. I decided it was time to put the pain behind me so I turned it into something positive by donating the infamous bag to a charity yard sale over the weekend. Had someone take this picture to memorialize the moment (and so you could see for yourself how truly awful this thing was *shudders*). Surely this is the first step toward healing.

10 Signs Your Life is Seriously Fucked Up

1) You've given serious consideration to setting yourself on fire in front of your mechanic's shop as a form of protest over taking your car in four times in five weeks. Okay, maybe you weren't that serious, but if this thought even occurs to you, I'm guessing it's a bad sign.

2) One of your closest friends says that meeting David Tennant was probably the best thing that's ever gong to happen to you. Oh sure, she tried to backpedal and denied that she meant that you had no hope for future happiness, but that's what she said.

3) There is mold growing underneath the linoleum in your bathroom.

4) You've decided to tell people you're divorced because it is so much less stigmatizing than saying you've never been married at your age. Never mind that your longest relationships (9 yrs., 6 yrs.) were actually longer than most marriages. People look at you sideways if you reach a certain age without ever having had the opportunity to blow thousands of dollars on a party celebrating your undying love for someone you eventually can't stand the sight of and engage in a nasty divorce battle (not that you're bitter or anything). Seriously, being divorced once meant you were damaged goods. Now it means you're normal while still single means there must be something really wrong with you.

5) You tried going to therapy, but your therapist yawned throughout the sessions. Apparently, even someone you were paying to listen to you found you boring.

6) Someone gives you a cats & books tote bag as a gift. (see old post: http://becauselifeisshort.blogspot.com/2009/02/life-as-stereotype.html)

7) Only six people read your blog.

8) Your way of "getting over" on the powers that be at work involves you working late and on the weekends so that you can keep billable hours for yourself now that the head office has been hording them.

9) Your reclusive friend who hates flying is actually game for attending the Toronto International Film Festival. You have mandatory meetings and training sessions you can't get out of.

10) You've come to the point where your only requirement for a potential partner is that he will drag the bins to the curb on trash day. Still no takers.

Are You Kidding Me?

So a few weeks ago I took my car to the mechanic because it was making a funny noise. Needed a new water pump. Sure. No problem. Fixed. Done. A few days after I got it back, my low coolant light came on. It comes on maybe once a year so I happen to have a gallon of coolant. I thought it was odd it came on so soon after the car was in the shop, but I added some and figured that would be the end of it. Only it came on again a few days later. I took it back to the mechanic and told them the car was leaking coolant. I figured there was a problem with the new water pump. They replaced my radiator. Okay. Fixed. Done. A few days after I got my car back, the low coolant light came on. I added some. It came on again a few days later. I took it back to the mechanic. The overflow reservoir is leaking, he told me. Despite the fact that I was forced to rent a car at my own cost, and despite the fact that it seemed to me like maybe I hadn’t needed a new radiator after all, and despite the fact that the frustration triggered a ten-hour crying jag and destroyed my weekend, I had them replace the overflow reservoir. Fixed. Done. Yesterday my low coolant light came on again. Are you kidding me? This is absurd. Part of me would like to cut myself. Part of me would like to cut my mechanic. This is just so beyond ridiculous I actually started laughing when the light came on. So today I’m going to call my mechanic and see what other part of my car he can replace without actually fixing whatever seems to be wrong. FML.

How I Met David Tennant, pt 2: Get in Touch with Your Inner Sydney Bristow

Now, where was I? Oh right, I'd just found out Kate had embraced her inner ninja and was actually inside the ballroom. Well, faster than I've ever moved before I was around to the other side of the room and easing myself inside. A couple of dozen people were milling around, but most had already gone into the party. I scanned the room. There was David Tennant about 20 feet away near the podium. Yellow shirt, red tie. Lovely. Kate was seated looking through one of the press packets that had been left behind. My first reaction was "I want that" because it had Dr. Who pictures. As I was grabbing one from the table behind me, it dawned on me that having these packets made it appear as though we'd been at the panel all along. Kate, already in full Sydney Bristow mode, had already figured that out. We picked up our press packets and made a bee line for David. A few feet away from the goal, Russell T. Davies spoke. Apparently, to us! He said "no. we're all going to meet outside for drinks." Apparently this was his way of saying "back off bitches." The British are so much more civilized. I didn't realize the comment was directed to us & was utterly confused when Kate said "oh sorry. thanks," stopped abruptly, turned around and walked back to the tables. She sat down saying "hold on I just need to take a note." I played along. "No problem. I'll wait with you," I said as casually as possible while trying to look bored and aloof (a move I learned from watching Burn Notice).

In a whisper I asked Kate if she thought we could get into the party. She thought we could as long as we didn't go through the doors near where we'd been loitering the past hour. That meant going through a doorway in which a BBC rep was standing, which seemed even worse. We would be coming out of the ball room and carrying press packets though, so we had a shot. At the moment I was just happy to be in the same room with David. The idea of actually crashing the BBC party made me entirely giddy! Kate suggested I talk about Doctor Who as we walked (having never watched the show she was ill-prepared for pretending to have just attended a panel discussion). I decided acting confident and walking quickly would be easier so, clutching our press packets to our chests to obscure the fact that we had no credentials, we strode out of the ballroom and across to the terrace. No one stopped us! We were officially in the party!

Kate suggested we grab a drink . I'd already spotted the wine guy--not only because, well, he was the wine guy, but also because he was very near the spot where David was standing. We each grabbed a glass of wine, then found a quiet corner so we could strategize. We agreed we needed to make our move and get out before someone realized we didn't have badges. As we made our way toward David, I felt more terrified than I ever had before. My hands were shaking and my heart was pounding. I could actually hear blood rushing in my ears--who knew this actually happened? Halfway there I stopped. I was about to chicken out. Fortunately I had specifically told Kate she could not to let me chicken out no matter what so when I said "I guess I don't really need to talk to him" she said, "well, I'm going to" and continued in his direction. I followed close behind pretty sure I might black out at any moment. We walked straight up to him and Kate said "sorry to interrupt, but we need to take off..." And that's how we met David Tennant.



What's that? You want to know what we said to him? What he said to us? Ahhh, well, I had originally planned to give a detailed account of the conversation, but having had a while think about it I've decided to keep that for myself. You have been extremely patient though so here are some of the highlights. When Kate started talking to him, David leaned over (he's very tall--Kate not so much) and listened intently. She began with "this is going to sound strange given the circumstances..." A quizzical look--or was that panic?--flickered across David's face. In that moment I'm guessing he was thinking something along the lines of "oh no, she's going to ask to see my sonic screw driver" or "oh no, she's going to tell me she's named her cat David" or "oh no, she's going to tell me she's named her son David." Instead she finished with "but I really enjoyed Blackpool." This elicited a patented "well..." He later pointed out the Blackpool writer who was actually there--something we probably should have known since he was there for one of the other shows on the panel! Oops. Eventually, David turned to me and said hello as only he can. I introduced myself and told him how thoroughly I enjoyed his performance in Hamlet. Both Kate and I were impressed by how gracious and charming he was. He was also quite attentive and I will say that gazing into those amazing brown eyes was pretty spectacular.

Our mission having been accomplished, we got the hell out of there. I had a charity meeting to get to and, honestly, there was no reason to risk getting thrown out by security.

If I need cheering up, I just ask Kate to tell me about the time we met David Tennant. The adrenaline high was fantastic and lasted at least a week. Kate thinks I may take up bungee jumping now, but I have other ideas. Kate is now officially known as The Facilitator and crashing parties is a lot easier than I thought. I see tremendous potential and absolutely no need for bungees.

How I Met David Tennant, pt. 1: Pick the Proper Location

A few weeks ago I read a press release stating that David Tennant would be at Comic-Con, along with Russell T. Davies, to promote Dr. Who. My initial excitement quickly faded when I found out the passes were already sold out. After a few failed attempts at getting passes on eBay, I gave up. At my age I'd rather pay more and have a reserved seat than stand in line with 5000 crazed fans anyway. Besides, I knew David and RTD would also be doing a panel at the TCA Summer Press tour at a hotel in Pasadena. This was definitely more my style! Loitering around around a hotel lounge is an excellent way to spend an afternoon if you ask me. Even if I didn't catch a glimpse of David, I'd be having cocktails in a swell location--no downside there! I was able to find out the date and time of the BBC panel because, frankly, I know people who know people. (Thank you, Ms. X!) The next step was getting out of my job at the Pit of Despair the day of the panel, so I promptly came down with a virus of the 24 hour variety.

I felt alternately excited and, well, nauseous at the prospect of actually seeing David Tennant so I told myself it was probably a long shot as I headed to Pasadena Wednesday afternoon. When I entered the lobby bar I noticed a press conference was taking place on the veranda, but I was trying to act casual so I didn't look too closely. Instead, I found a comfy bar stool and ordered a mojito. I was just a sip or two into my drink when I heard the doors from the veranda opening and people leaving. I looked up just in time to recognize the bony backside of the man in the yellow shirt leaving the lounge, a glance up to confirm...yep, that's his hair. At that moment he turned slightly in conversation and I got a full profile view of David Tennant! Since I hadn't paid for my drink yet, I didn't run after him--having security called on me for dodging out on the tab seemed like it would make a bad (though memorable, I'm sure) first impression. Besides, I hadn't had enough liquid encouragement yet to actually speak to him. So I texted Kate, who was on her way to join me: "OMG. he just walked by me." The afternoon was off to a promising start!

I finished my drink and conducted some recon around the hotel without another sighting. When Kate arrived we decided our best shot was to wait around outside the ballroom before his panel started. After another mojito for courage, we took up our posts outside the ballroom, being sure to cover both entrances of course...and somehow managed to miss him going in! Perhaps we were distracted by the likes of Matt Damon and Paul Walker, both of whom happened to stroll by. Having recently watched four seasons of Alias, I was convinced we could probably get into the panel, but Kate felt it was too risky--and we all know Kate is not one to take risks. Or is she? Once the panel was in full swing and we'd decided against attempting to enter, we knew we'd need to wait until it ended for our chance. This is where our story takes a turn.

BBC America was hosting a cocktail reception immediately following the panel on a terrace adjacent to the ballroom. Guests would basically exit the ballroom directly into the reception. We thought we would catch a glimpse as he entered the party. When the panel ended I became worried he might actually exit from the opposite side and not go into the party so I sent Kate to stake out the other doors. A few minutes later I received the following text: "get over here now. i'm in the room."

TO BE CONTINUED...