APPLICATION FOR A NIGHT OUT WITH CARLY FOULKES T-mobile Spokeswoman
Name of hopeful Boyfriend/Fiancé/Husband:
I request permission for to date you in absence from the highest authority in my life for the following period:_________________________________
Time of return____________________________
Date: Time of departure: NOT to exceed:___________________________
Should permission be granted, I do solemnly swear to only visit the locations stated below, at the stated times. I agree to refrain from hitting on or flirting with other women. I shall not even speak to another female, except as expressly permitted in writing below. I will not turn off my mobile after two pints, nor shall I consume above the allowed volume of alcohol without first phoning for a taxi AND calling you for a verbal waiver of said alcohol allowance. I understand that even if
permission is granted to go out, you retain the right to be pissed off with me the following week for no valid reason whatsoever.
Amount of alcohol allowed (units) Beer Wine Liquor Total:______________________________
Locations to be visited:________________________________
Females with whom conversation is permitted:________________________________
IMPORTANT – STRIPPER CLAUSE: Notwithstanding the female contact permitted above, I promise to refrain from coming within one hundred (100) feet of a stripper or exotic dancer. Violation of this Stripper Clause shall be grounds for immediate termination of the relationship.
I acknowledge my position in life. I know who wears the trousers in our relationship, and I agree it’s not me. I promise to abide by your rules & regulations. I understand that this is going to cost me a fortune in chocolates & flowers. You reserve the right to obtain and use my credit cards whenever you wish to do so. I hereby promise to take you to a Michael Bolton concert, should I not return home by the approved time. On my way home, I will not pick a fight with any stranger,
nor shall I conduct in depth discussions with the said entity. Upon my return home, I promise not not to urinate anywhere other than in the toilet. In addition, I will refrain from waking you up, breathing my vile breath in your face, and attempting to breed like a (drunken) rabbit.
I declare that to the best of my knowledge (of which I have none compared to you ), the above information is correct.
Signed – Hopefull Boyfriend/Fiancé/Husband:____________________________
Request is: APPROVED DENIED__________________________________
This decision is not negotiable. If approved, cut permission slip below and carry at all times.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Permission for my boyfriend/fiancé/husband to be away for the following period of time:
Date: Time of departure: Time of return:____________________________________________
Signed – Possibble Girlfriend/Fiancé/Wife:
I have been in 46 states and 39 different countries In my travels I have learned there is nothing quite like North Carolina. I am sure quite a few of us heard about the Pastor who said gay americans should be put behind a fence so they couldn’t “breed”. I chuckled when I heard that. I laughed out loud when a supporter of the Pastor got on TV and had to admit that the Bible Verse he quoted on a sign was made up….it didn’t exist.
I have learned America is the biggest multicultural melting pot in the world (if you don’t count Benetton ads – right). If the USA were a kennel, most of us would be mutts. I myself would be an adorable mix of Beagle and German Shepherd, with perhaps just a smidgeon of Border Collie. I’d probably be named Sebastian. But I digress. Despite our multicultural mix – or maybe because of it – racism has been a part of our nation’s history since long before the Confederate States of America attempted to become a breakaway republic on the premise the Federal government should not interfere with states’ rights to treat Black Americans like kitchen utensils, say, the butter churn, for instance.
Racism against Black Americans began over a century before the Civil War, when the very first Africans were shipped from Africa in luxurious ocean liners (okay the view from the Verandah Deck was not like the brochure). Racism was in its glory days in the 1940s when our country wisely and thoughtfully rounded up fellow American citizens of Japanese descent and put them – including young children – into crowded internment camps surrounded by armed guards – for their own protection, of course. But did they ever say thank you? We’re still waiting some 70 years later. In what can only be described as a giant step forward in racial equality, we now have our nation’s first African American president, and with it, there has been a noticeable escalation in the volume of hate-based rhetoric and the number of white supremacist web sites. Our current president receives four times the number of death threats of any of his predecessors over the past 50 years. But I’m sure it has nothing to do with his being black. Couldn’t possibly.
Historians, sociologists and All in the Family TV watchers have long tried to explain the reason for racism and bigotry and their persistence over the decades. There are many theories, of course, including: Fear of people who look, talk or dress differently from us; Anger over people of different cultures taking jobs away from us for no reason other than they were more qualified; Distrust of people who can pull off wearing leather pants better than we can; The need to scapegoat others as the cause of our problems and life disappointments; Growing up in a region where different racial or ethnic groups were kept segregated; Being Rush Limbaugh…
These are all plausible theories to explain the complicated and violent history behind racism and bigotry. But recently medical researchers point to a scientific basis for this condition. In a series of comprehensive longitudinal studies conducted of more than 12,000 racists and bigots over a 30-year period, the scientific evidence is compelling that these people actually suffer from an acute mental disorder. There is overwhelming evidence that racists and bigots suffer from a medical disorder that can be segregated into three levels of severity:
Low Impairment: Mildly racist/bigoted individuals are believed to suffer from Systemic Transcranial Universal Paranoid Intolerance Disorder (or STUPID for short). Moderate Impairment: People with a more serious degree of the condition are now believed to suffer from Myopic Obtuse Reactive & Obstinacy Neurosis (acronym: MORON). Severe Impairment: The most severely afflicted are now categorized as suffering from Intellectual Deficiency Incapacity & Occipital Trauma (IDIOT).
Thanks to this scientific breakthrough, it is now firmly established that racists and bigots can now be classified into one of these three progressively debilitating levels of impairment, abbreviated simply as STUPID, MORON or IDIOT. When addressing a racist or bigot, be sure to refer to them using one of these three technical medical terms. And remember. Don’t call them a racist. They are Race-Sensitivity-Challenged. And please don’t use the term “bigot.” They are Trans-Culturally-Impaired. Show the proper sensitivity to their affliction.
For the longest time, we as a society have stigmatized these misunderstood RSC’s and TCI’s as intolerant, hate-filled people who refused to accept others simply because of skin color, ethnicity, religion or lifestyle. But now we know it’s not their fault. In reality, they’re just like the rest of us, except for the mere fact that they’re complete MORONs and IDIOTs (speaking strictly in the medical sense, of course). Whether their bigotry is aimed against Hispanics, Blacks, Jews or Notre Dame football fans, and whether the gun barrel of their anger is targeted at Muslims, Italians, or Ellen DeGeneres, science now helps us understand that these victims all have one thing in common. At their core, they’re all just STUPID IDIOTs and MORONs. I am sorry I judged them all this time. I did not know.
Instead of ostracizing trans-culturally-impaired people, we should reach out to them with compassion. The next time you witness someone vilifying another person as a Fag or a Heb or a Spic or a Tea Party member, don’t judge the judger – HUG THEM. (Side bar: Actually, it is perfectly appropriate to judge Tea Party members. In fact you are encouraged to do so every chance you get.) Some bigots and racists are capable of communicating in nearly complete sentences. If you are fortunate enough to meet one who is that high-functioning, attempt to engage them in dialogue. Ask them how it feels to be so STUPID, how long they’ve struggled with being an IDIOT, or how hard it is for them as a MORON to get a date. Tell them how sorry you feel for them… and anybody that might be married to them … or who might share a car pool with them … or work in the next cubicle, or… well, you get my point.
Let’s all be on the lookout for people who suffer from one of these three debilitating mental disorders. For too long, racists and bigots have lived on the fringe of our society – in the shadows – rejected by society’s mainstream. America, it’s time we all rally together to embrace these racists and bigots. I want to begin a crusade to identify and profile these people to let them know they’ve been targeted for love. That’s why I’m asking each and every American to set up a stakeout for racists and bigots in their neighborhood. When you spot one, run up to them with open arms – don’t be afraid – and generously offer them a button that says “Hug me. I’m a racist.” Ask them to wear it proudly… for all to see.
Of course, all of us probably have said or done something at one time or another that might indicate we have bigoted tendencies lurking within us. What guy hasn’t at one time or another accused a buddy of throwing “like a girl”? A co-worker once told me he was in a restaurant and became incensed that the entire menu was written in Spanish instead of English. Turns out he was in a Mexican restaurant… in Mexico. But that’s beside the point. In this age of political correctness, it’s possible to get a bit carried away, nitpicking and parsing every phrase for a hint of prejudice. Heck, I have even poked fun at Canadians in some of my blog posts. But they had it coming – what with their “the ingredients of every cereal box must be written in French as well as English” requirement. (In full disclosure, I have a crush on Rachel McAdams so I have full editorial immunity when it comes to poking fun at her countrymen.) And of course, making fun of the French is a proud, longstanding American pastime and is therefore outside the scope of this serious discussion of bigotry.
My point is simply this: Racism and bigotry of any kind is not acceptable – other than against the French, of course, oh, and the Danish, oh and perhaps the North Koreans. I mean, those North Korean dictators are just weird, with their pompadour hair style and those over-sized sun glasses. But with few exceptions based on my own justifiable biases, there is no place for racism and bigotry. That said, let’s not forget for racists and bigots, it’s no more their fault that they’re the way they are than that a person who eats a steady diet of McDonald’s quarter pounders, ice cream and glazed donuts might eventually become obese. Racists and bigots are just suffering from an uncontrollable medical disorder. They are all just STUPID MORONS and IDIOTS who should not be allowed to breed. And I say this with deep empathy in my heart.
When you bump into a racist or a bigot at your next town hall meeting, gun swap meet, or in the check-out line of your local North Carolina Wal-Mart, remember to give them an understanding nod. Hand them their very own happy-face “Hug me – I’m a racist” button. They’ll most likely thank you. They might even ask you for a Kleenex. But in the remote chance I’m wrong about their reaction, you might want to bring a big, burly man to protect you – perhaps a bruiser like your neighbor Ivan Dmitrikof, that former weight lifter fellow from Russia. I hear most Russians are really stupid, but very strong.
Growing up I learned how to cook/sew/washed floors/did my laundry/do all my grocery shopping/ paid all bills even when I was in the military. Yesterday while playing BB some “dude” said a “real MAN wouldn’t do IT. As I stood over him like “Ali standing over Liston” because my elbow “accidentally” (that’s my story )knocked him out and his two teeth ..I think he got my point…You are a man not because you were born ..you are one by what you do and how you take care of the people you love. This “dude’ lives with his woman who supported him for the past 2 yrs…. yOU CAN COLOR ME WRONG all you want I just have no patience for that
So what makes a man or define a man ?
“What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and…
Dale Carnegie once said, “It isn’t what you have, or who you are, or where you are, or what you are doing that makes you happy or unhappy. It’s what you think about.”
I don’t think anyone could say it any better than that. I’ve watched so many friends search tirelessly for happiness by changing jobs, moving to new cities, pursuing intimate relationships, and tweaking all sorts of other external factors in their lives. And guess what? They’re still unhappy. Because they spend all of their time and money adding positive externals to their lives when their internals are still in the negatives.
So with that in mind, here are 75 ways to stay unhappy forever. Of course, I would highly recommend you read each bullet point and then move swiftly in the opposite direction.
Dwell on things that happened in the past. Obsess yourself with all the things that…
Recently, I took a vacation to visit friends and family As part of our adventure, we spent a night in world-famous Niagara Falls, NY. This short visit was a high point of our vacation – except for one small disappointment – our accommodations at the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY. (Yes, it’s a real hotel.) If you would like a relaxing, restful, clean hotel room for an evening, might I propose an alternate place of lodging? But if unexpected surprises are what you look for in your vacation destination, then the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY may be just the thrill ride for you.
Below is a copy of my actual thank-you letter to the hotel after our recent stay.
To the staff and management of the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY
I just had to write to thank you and your staff for a most memorable stay last week at your hotel. It surely is one that neither my lady nor I will ever forget. Rest assured, we will be telling all our friends about our unforgettable one-night stay at the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY.
It is so hard to pick my favorite memory from our short stay. There were so many. Perhaps it was when we first entered our hotel room, having come out of the oppressive heat and humidity of a 95-degree July afternoon. As we entered our room, we were not jolted by the typical arctic cold blast of air conditioning you find in most mid-priced hotels. Instead, your fine hotel helped ease our transition from the heat of the outdoors with a gentle transitional room temperature of 92. After awhile, when the air conditioning unit did not seem to moderate the Amazon Rain Forest climate conditions of our room, I got just the slightest bit uncomfortable, as rivers of sweat flowed off my body and converged into a small pond on the carpet. So I approached your front desk person, Brad, about the situation.
Without even needing to personally inspect the air conditioning unit, Brad intuitively surmised that the cause of the lack of apparent cooling in our room was not a defective air conditioning unit at all but rather an accumulation of the collective body heat radiating from me and my girl having been outdoors in the intense heat. Brad surely must have been right. The sweat pouring down my brow must have been the result of my own body heat and could not possibly be the result of a completely malfunctioning, defective air conditioning unit. Besides, I’ve read that sweat is the human body’s natural air conditioning system. Your hotel was no doubt just trying to be eco-friendly. Thank you for caring about our planet like that. Sorry about the sweat stains on your carpet. Please bill me for any cleaning expense.
The Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY billed itself as having a view of the world-famous Niagara Falls. So, I was a little nervous about what the view from our room might actually be. Might my precious friend lean a little too far out the window and fall to her death over the falls? Well, I am happy to report that this concern quickly evaporated when we went to open up the blinds of our hotel room window. Instead of a view of the falls, I was relieved to see a view of a Motel 6 across the street, safely obscuring any possible view of the falls. I immediately felt 100% safer. Turns out it was just a brisk 20-minute walk through the 95-degree heat, to get to the Falls. Thanks for letting me get a much needed aerobic workout.
Another thing I appreciated about our stay at the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY was your “pet-friendly” policy. Of course, when I read about that on your web site, I thought it referred to guests who might want to bring their own pets. But I now understand that the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY goes the extra mile by providing its guests with pets from the hotel at no extra charge. Imagine my surprise when I felt one of your little pets – a half-inch long black ant – crawling up my back in my bed. I have to admit, at first I was somewhat startled. But after awhile he kind of tickled.
Apparently, we hit the “pet-friendly” jackpot because this little fella must have invited 40 or 50 of his closest friends to join the party – on the bathroom floor, the walls of our room – and just for good measure, my guest pillow. I will never forget the look of stunned surprise on her face as she opened her eyes the next morning to see two black ants staring back at her from point blank range. The screams of terror were over in an instant. The eventual laughter she will experience when retelling this story years from now will last a lifetime.
I called down to the front desk to ask about changing rooms. I called five times over the course of 90 minutes. I was never able to get a hold of a live person. I can only conclude the reason no one ever answered at the front desk was because Brad was out and about helping other guests feel every bit as welcome as we were feeling, wearing his “I F**k our guests” button.
Perhaps in part because of the company I was keeping with my little black ant bed mates, I did not sleep quite as well as I might have otherwise. But that’s totally fine. Honest. I’m told most adults don’t really need more than 3 hours’ sleep a night anyway – unless they want to be coherent the following day. Coherence is overrated anyway. When I placed my call the night before, requesting a 6am wake-up call, your morning staff must have anticipated my impending lack of sleep. They were gracious enough not to disturb my morning slumber, wisely choosing instead not to give me the requested wake-up call. Thank you for your thoughtful decision to let me and the ants sleep in a bit longer.
Whether it was the Cable TV that kept losing its signal or the empty roll of toilet paper that came with our bathroom or the advertised “whirlpool bathtub in every room” that came equipped with everything but a functioning whirlpool, your capable staff made sure our stay was comfortable. Compared to sleeping in a mosquito-infested, mildewed tent in the Everglades in August, our room felt palatial. The only thing I might have suggested to go along with the whirlpool bath tub besides the missing whirlpool might be a clean shower curtain … Oh, and perhaps something vaguely resembling water pressure …. Oh, and perhaps a tad fewer ants in the tub.
Finally, thanks for helping me “shut down” from work mode. This was, after all, my vacation. Noticing your advertisement for “Free Internet in every room”, I tried to log onto the Internet to check my work email. But your hotel wisely knew that what I really needed was to get unplugged, and thoughtfully made sure your hotel’s Internet access was “down for repairs” during our stay. God bless you for keeping me focused on having fun.
In looking back at my time at your lovely hotel, my only regret is that I wasted so much time at the Falls when I could have been enjoying the comforts and convenience of your establishment. The thunderous crashing torrents of the icy blue water of the world famous falls could not possibly compare to the green bubbly water of your hotel swimming pool’s hot tub – had it not been “closed for maintenance” during our visit, that is.
I can certainly understand why the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY prides itself on providing first class service second to none – unless of course you include any European youth hostel I have ever stayed at – including the one in Venice, Italy with the sign at the front desk that read “No masturbating in your room”.
It’s also clear that the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY spared no expense (other than for normal maintenance and repairs) to make me feel like a king! Where did I leave my crown and scepter? I am confident your hotel would pass almost any third world nation’s health inspection (with a bribe), with only a smattering of minor sanitation code violations.
I felt a tug in my heart as we checked out of the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY. I wanted to stay longer. When checking out, I shared some of the highlights of our stay with Heather, the morning front desk person. I told her about the cozy, warm 92-degree room temperature in our room, the 40 or more surprise house guests, the lovely view of the hotel dumpster, and the out-of-order vending machine on our floor. I started to tear up, thinking about all the wonderful memories from our short visit. I will never forget Heather’s caring, compassionate words when I finished sharing my story. She looked at me, smiled tenderly and said, “Your total comes to $167.89. I see there were no additional room charges. Will that be Visa or MasterCard?” Heather, thank you for listening. You had me at “Your total comes to $167.89.”
Oh, just one more thing. Turns out, unbeknownst to me, a few of your little black ant hotel pets hopped in my suitcase and made the journey home with me – a fitting reminder of our time at your hotel. Let me know if you’d like me to return the ants to you. But I have to tell you, I’m starting to get attached to the little fellas.
PS: I will be sharing a copy of this letter at my blog site in the hopes that the thousands of people who read my weekly blog might pass along this letter about my wonderful experience at the Quality Hotel and Suites, Niagara Falls, NY to others who might be planning to visit your fair city. I would hate for anyone to misinterpret this heartfelt letter and come away with the errant impression that my stay at your fine hotel was anything less than memorable. Please give my best to Brad and Heather.
(Part one was ” I could have been a contenda for ya Anne Hathaway)about Dumb things men do.
Part2:
It’s taken a while to admit it. Saying it out loud — even in your mind — feels kind of desperate, kind of definitely not you, or at least not any you that you recognize. Because you’re hardly like those on TLC saying yes to the dress and you would never compete for a man like those poor actress-wannabes on The Bachelor.
You’ve never dreamt of an aqua-blue ring box.
Then, something happened. Another birthday, maybe. A breakup. Your brother’s wedding. His wife-elect asked you to be a bridesmaid, and suddenly there you were, wondering how in hell you came to be 37-years-old, walking down the aisle wearing something halfway decent from J. Crew that you could totally wear with a pair of boots and a jean jacket. You started to hate the bride and groom — she was so effing happy — and for the first time ever you began to have feelings about the fact that you’re single. You never really cared that much before. But suddenly (it was so sudden) you found yourself wondering… Deep, deep breath… Why you’re single
Well, I know why.
I was, for some reason, born knowing how to get married. Growing up with parents married for 60 yrs is a big part of it. The need for security made me look for very specific traits in the women I dated — traits it turns out lead to marriage a surprisingly high percentage of the time. Without really trying to, I’ve become a sort of jailhouse lawyer of relationships — someone who’s had to do so much work on his own case that I can now help you with yours.
But I won’t lie. The problem is not them, it’s you. Sure, there are lame men/women out there, but they’re not really standing in your way. Because the fact is — if whatever you’re doing right now was going to get you married, you’d already have a ring on. So without further ado, let’s look at the top reasons why you’re single. None of this is gender specific.
1. You’re a Bitchin Idiot.
Here’s what I mean by bitch. I mean you’re angry. You probably don’t think you’re angry. You think you’re super smart, or if you’ve been to a lot of therapy, that you’re setting boundaries. But the truth is you’re pissed. At your mom. At the military-industrial complex. At Sarah Palin. And it’s scaring others off.
The deal is: most people just want to marry someone who is nice to them. Here’s what my neighbors son wants out of life: macaroni and cheese, a video game, and Kim Kardashian. Have you ever seen Kim Kardashian angry? I didn’t think so. You’ve seen Kim Kardashian smile, wiggle, and make a sex tape. Female anger terrifies men. Ladies I know it seems unfair that you have to work around a man’s fear and insecurity in order to get married — but actually, it’s perfect, since working around a man’s fear and insecurity is big part of what you’ll be doing as a wife.
2. You’re Shallow.
When it comes to choosing a mate only one thing really, truly matters: character. So it stands to reason that a man or woman’s character should be at the top of the list of things you are looking for, right? But if you’re not married, I already know it isn’t. Because if you were looking for a person of character, you would have found one by now. Men/women of character are, by definition, willing to commit.
Instead, you are looking for someone tall. Or rich. Or someone who knows what an Eames chair is. Unfortunately, this is not the thinking of a wife. This is the thinking of a teenaged girl. And men of character do not want to marry teenage girls. Because teenage girls are never happy. And they never feel like cooking, either. But its ok. I know how to cook. Problem solved.
3. You’re a ??????
Hooking up with some guy/girl in a hot tub on a rooftop is fine for Jersey Shore — but they’re not trying to get married. You are. Which means, unfortunately, that if you’re having sex outside committed relationships, you will have to stop. Why? Because past a certain age, casual sex is like recreational heroin — it doesn’t stay recreational for long.
That’s due in part to this thing called oxytocin — a bonding hormone that is released when a woman a) nurses her baby and b) has an orgasm — that will totally mess up your casual-sex game. It’s why you can be buddying with some dude who isn’t even all that great and the next thing you know, you’re totally strung out on him. And you have no idea how it happened. Oxytocin, that’s how it happened. And since nature can’t discriminate between marriage material and Charlie Sheen, you’re going to have to start being way more selective than you are right now. Or you will be be recreating scenes with Charlie Sheen in the movie Platoon…..don’t do that ….. Get Direct TV…but I digress
4. You’re a internal Liar.
It usually goes something like this: you meet someone who is cute and likes you, but he or she are not really available for a relationship. They have some condition that absolutely precludes availability, like married, or he gets around town on a skateboard. Or maybe they just comes right out and says something cryptic and open to interpretation like, “I’m not really available for a relationship right now.”
You know if you tell them the truth — that you’re ready for marriage –they will stop calling. Usually that day. And you don’t want that. So you just tell them how perfect this is because you only want to have sex for fun! You love having fun sex! And you don’t want to get in a relationship at all! You swear!
About ten minutes later ladies, the oxytocin kicks in. You start wanting more. But you don’t tell him that. That’s your secret — just between you and 22,000 of your closest girlfriends. Instead, you hang around, having sex with him, waiting for him to figure out that he can’t live without you. I have news: he will never “figure” this out. He already knows he can live without you just fine. And so do you. Or you wouldn’t be lying to him in the first place.
5. You’re Selfish.
If you’re not married, chances are you think a lot about you. You think about your thighs, your outfits, your nacho-labial folds. You think about your career, or if you don’t have one, you think about doing yoga teacher training. Sometimes you think about how marrying a wealthy guy — or at least a guy with a really, really good job — would solve all your problems.
A good wife, even a halfway decent one, does not spend most of her day thinking about herself. She has too much s**t to do, especially after having kids. This is why you see a lot of celebrity women getting husbands after they adopt. The kids put the woman on notice: hello! It’s not all about you anymore! After a year or two of thinking about someone other than herself, suddenly, Brad Pitt or Harrison Ford comes along and decides to significantly other her. Which is also to say — if what you really want is a baby, go get you one. Your husband will be along shortly. Motherhood has a way of weeding out the Lotharios.
6. You’re Not Good Enough.
Oh, You don’t think that. You do. I can tell because you’re not looking for a partner who is your equal. No, you want someone better than you are: better looking, better family, better job.
Here is what you need to know: You are enough right this minute. Period. Not understanding this is a major obstacle to getting married, since people who don’t know their own worth make terrible partners. Why? You can fake it for a while, but ultimately you won’t love your spouse any better than you love yourself. Smart men know this.
I see this at my neighbors son’s artsy, progressive school. Of 183 kids, maybe six have moms who are as cute as you’re trying to be. They’re attractive, sure. They’re just not objects. Their husbands (wisely) chose them for their character, not their cup size.
7. You’re a Mess. You overdrink. You overeat. You overspend. You under-earn. Whatever it is, there’s (at least) one big thing in your life — an attitude, a behavior, a vice — that you absolutely, for sure, under-no-circumstances want to let go of. And the bad news is, that is the ONE THING you absolutely, for-sure, under-no-circumstances WILL NOT be able to keep. At least not if you want to move forward. The sneaky part is that this thing holding you back feels like it is making your life more bearable! It’s also telling you that you’re fine! So how do you know if something is a problem? Easy. YOU’RE KEEPING IT A SECRET. If there’s something you can’t (or don’t want) to tell your mom, your best friend, or the guy you’re dating — you can be sure it’s getting in the way of having your best relationship.
8. You’re Crazy. Crazy is where you LOVE INTENSITY. You want life to bring the exclamation points!!!!!!! Normal people, and relationships? Big, noisy YAWN. You think of yourself more like Angelina Jolie when she was with Billy Bob. Crazy is where you use your cell phone like an automatic weapon. You meet, have sex, fight and break up — all by text message. Another sign you’ve got the crazies is if you are constantly telling long, involved stories in the break room about what happened this past weekend. You think your listeners are wowed and they are, but to them it’s like watching an episode of “Fear Factor.” Who doesn’t want to watch another person eat bugs? In fact, a sure-fire way to know you’re crazy is if more than one person has told you you’d be great on a reality show — and you agree with them.
9. You’re a Dude. It’s not that you love the Cardinals, have short hair, or or make more money than most guys. It’s that, when it comes to relationships, you want to hunt them down and kill them. You call guys, you text guys, you ask guys out. You have sex like it’s a temp job, hoping that if you rock a guy’s world, you’ll get hired full-time. And it’s not working for you, because right now, you are in a long-term, committed relationship with EXACTLY NONE of those dudes. Am I saying you should join a quilting circle? Wear ruffles all the time? Um, no. But you might want to see what it’s like to let the game come to you. Because there’s one requirement above all others a guy needs to possess to be your man: he has to REALLY WANT to be in a relationship with you. (Duh!)
Fortunately, there’s a foolproof way to find out just how much of a crap a guy gives: he will 1) ask for your contact information, and 2) HE WILL USE IT RIGHT AWAY. (Do not try to tell yourself he waited two weeks to call text you because he probably had to visit his grandmother in Milwaukee! Guys bring their phones to Milwaukee.) Qualifying a man like this will prevent the mortgage meltdown that is your love life. Because at the end of the day, you don’t need to know if a guy wants to donate his sperm to you. (The answer will probably be Oh, hell yes.) You want to know if he’s willing to send your egg to college. And if a guy doesn’t feel like taking you on a date, THE ANSWER IS NO.
10. You’re Godless. Remember how I said that marriage is a spiritual path? Well, we’re there. The point where I suggest something totally radical and punk-rock as a way of transforming whatever it is you have going on (or don’t have going on) in the area of relationships. And here it is: I want you to get a god. Wait, come back! It’s not necessarily what you think. What do I mean by god? Well, I don’t mean a bearded dude in the sky who is going to give you a Mercedes and a husband if you’re good and punish you if you’re bad. That would be Santa Claus. I mean I want you to cultivate a sense of SPIRIT in your life, a relationship with the intangible, the unseen — the power behind the oceans, gravity, chocolate and the Beatles. You know, the thing you experience in life where the hair stands up on your arms? The Big Something. You could just call it Love. Whatever you name it — it’s the game changer. Because when you mix the idea of spirit into your relationships, it no longer matters how many men or woman are, technically, out there. No more demographics, no more short guys and tall guys or chicks with cankles or ten extra pounds. There are no more lists of things you think you have to have in a mate. There are only two people on a spiritual assignment: TO LOVE EACH OTHER.
Alright, so that’s the bad news. The good news is that I believe everyone who wants to can find a great partner. You’re just going to need to get rid of the idea that marriage will make you happy. It won’t. Once the initial high wears off, you’ll just be you, except with twice as much laundry.
Because ultimately, marriage is not about getting something — it’s about giving it. Strangely, men understand this more. Its in the Terms of Surrender. Probably because for us marriage involves sacrificing our most treasured possession — a free-agent penis — and for you, it’s the culmination of a princess fantasy so universal, it built Disneyland.
The bottom line is that marriage is just a long-term opportunity to practice loving someone even when they don’t deserve it. Because most of the time, your messy, farting, macaroni-and-cheese eating other will not be doing what you want him to. But as you give them love anyway — because you have made up your mind to transform yourself into a person who is practicing being kind, deep, virtuous, truthful, giving, and most of all, accepting of your own dear self — you will find that you will experience the very thing you wanted all along:
Alright, there you have it. Or, some of it. Not because I want to say mean stuff to you about your “flaws”. I don’t think even think of it like that! When I say you’re this and you’re that, I’m not saying there’s something wrong with you. Not really. I’m saying you’re human. Which automatically means there’s something wrong with you. (Ha!) Because to be human IS to be flawed. And to be married is to face an amazing challenge — deal with those flaws in yourself, so you can (paradoxically) accept them in another person. So you can, you know, have your best relationship.
Yes, I have “failed” at relationships — a lot. (Actually, I like to think of failure as “pre-success”.) But who better than a to lead a discussion about the stupid stuff people do in relationships? At least you know I won’t go all sanctimonious on you. Because dude, whatever it is, I HAVE DONE IT. I’ve just decided to love myself anyway.
And as it turns out — that’s exactly what needed to happen all along.
I’m just trying to have a slumber party where we drink margaritas (actually, no more margaritas for me — I was a mess, and I had to deal with it) and laugh and be honest with ourselves about the stupid stuff we are doing and talk about how we could do it better. Because it’s not like anyone is ever truly finished being a idiot (or a mess, or crazy, or selfish). Nope, it’s a practice. And in the process, we get to become better people — and as a result of that, have better relationships. Okay, our best relationship.
Shoot. If I were giving away cars, it’d be just like Oprah. Except with swearing
The other day I received a letter that gave me pause. An invitation to my high school class reunion.”
“What’s that?”
“A party where you hang out with all the people you went to high school with.”
My daughter got excited. Parties still meant ice cream and pizza to her.
“Are you going?!”
“Good lord, no.”
“Why not?
“Well, baby, I can think of at least some reasons off the top of my head. Do I have to pay you to tell you the story ?”
“yes.”
“Hmm. Well, I know someone who wont.”
My daughter then went off to play with some toys. Or cry. I’m not sure.
Now in truth, there are plenty of people I went to old high school with that I have nothing against or want to see. There was even a bunch I liked. If I were to meet them in an elevator or at a business meeting or hanging out on a park bench, I’d be perfectly happy to catch up. But that’s just not incentive enough. Especially since one of those people could send me a message saying, “Hey, let’s grab a beer and catch up,” and then I could totally go do that without seeing douche bags like Christopher Vitagliano at the same time. How am I gonna hear about my old friend’s home heating business or precocious triplets when Vitagliano, who’s probably still spiking what’s left of his hair, is like two seats over making the waitress incredibly uncomfortable.
The problem in HS was that I was more like this in High School than anything else
High School Girlfriend ? Well, actually, part of me really does want to see you again. Y’know, just to assure you that I totally know what I’m doing sexually these days. Like when I have sex now, orgasms are actually involved. But I think it would be more awkward than cathartic. Pretty soon, old resentments would arise, and I’d have to confess that I actually faked my orgasms. (Guys can do that with condoms, unless, I guess, there’s a vigilant post-coital prophylactic inspection.) And then you’ll feel bad even though you shouldn’t because seriously what guy can finish over the sounds of “Ow, stop. No. Are you doing that right?” I keep seeing this image in my head too
So yeah, best not to see you.
High School English Teacher: Sure it was hot having pretend sex with you, when I was 17 and you were a MILFy 38 — but it was all in my mind. Seeing you now would just be unseemly. Would you ask me to escort you to the annex for old time’s sake? Will you be wearing some sort of body stocking and seek assistance from Industrial Light and Magic to reclaim your former glory? Or will you diss me completely to pursue the teenage son of some former student who brought his kids when the sitter got sick at the last minute? It’s hard to say, but I don’t want to be around for any of it.
I went to school during the height of disco/funk and as such, I was very fortunate to be a young, long-haired man during rock’s last great death rattle. But my teen years were filled with some of the worst music of any generation. To ease the pain, I disappeared into the 50’s and 60’s: Pink Floyd. Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Jethro Tull, and Elvis Costello — painfully aware that now it was great. My classmates occasionally enjoyed the old stuff too, provided it was Billy Joel or Billy Joel. It was Long Island. Liking Billy Joel was the law. And while I’m sure Joel’s “I’Love you just the way your are ” will be heard at the reunion I’m guessing the music committee will also be filling the dance list with the likes of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and Roxette’s “The Look.” I’m not dancing to that. I’m not listening to that. I might bust a move to Frank Sinatra, Sammy or Donna Summer but that’s it.
There’s was only one thing that could get me to go to my high school reunion, and it’s an ideal that can never be achieved. My initial thoughts were that before I could go, I would need to reach a level of success that would be absolutely devastating to everyone there I hated. But what would that be? Money? A trophy wife? Fame? It would have to be something objectively awesome. Like Bill Gates awesome. Brad Pitt showing up with Angelina after having just won an Oscar awesome.
But the more I thought about it, I realized that short of being named the All-Powerful Master of Space and Time there was no level of accomplishment that would be enough because the measure of success is a personal one. Everyone wants different things from life. A house, kids, a nice car, a private business, extreme wealth, creativity, peace and quiet, fulfilling charitable acts, hot deviant sex, lots of friends, calm seclusion, deep roots, constant travel.
I suppose someone who deems their own life a failure would not be likely to display it for their enemies, but that does not sum up the existence of those avoiding their reunions. There are content people with no desire to be judged by someone else’s standards. People who don’t want to explain to the Christopher Vitaglianos that they shouldn’t have to explain why they don’t have kids or why they have so many. Who don’t trust the Vitaglianos’ determination of what the right number of kids is. Or the right kind of car to drive. And if you already found yourself one step out of sync with your peers’ values and aspirations as a teenager, how much greater will the ensuing years of obligations and taxes deepen that divide?
To put it in my terms: Life for me has been a journey to a place where the people get my jokes and make me laugh. Each year, I keep getting closer. Going to a reunion wouldn’t necessarily take me in the opposite direction, but it’s a detour I don’t need. I’m trying to make some time here but I guess I will go JUST SO I CAN HEAR Carolyn Collins say “Hey Big Head” You THINK I am joking ?. Here is what I looked like in HS
Christopher Vitagliano
Seriously, screw that guy.
-Author’s note. Occasionally, writers do a thing where they write something that is not true. To that end, please be advised that Christopher Vitagliano is not a real person or based on any one person. I also didn’t refuse to talk to my daughter and make her cry.
So
My HS reunion is this year and I thought I write myself a letter.
Dear Mouthy HS Facebook friends ” I Didn’t Like These People in High School So Why Should I Hang Out With Them Years Later?
My high school reunion is this summer. I’m not entirely sure how this happened because I swear I’m no older than 32, at least according to Oil of Olay’s promise to remove years from my face. I always assumed I’d go to my reunion, but the more I follow the dedicated reunion Facebook page the less I want to go. It’s the same popular “in” crowd chatting with each other (eye roll). Do people regret not attending their high school reunions? And why hasn’t Facebook made these damn things obsolete already?
Signed,
Andrew
__________________________________
Dear I Didn’t Like These People in High School,
In order to attend a reunion, you must be in a relatively positive place. You should feel pretty good about the way you look and the direction of your life.
For example, if you still living at home, sleeping in your old bunk bed with The Incredible Hulk sheets, you might consider not going. Or if the only person you communicate with regularly is your parole officer, ditto. Or if you went way overboard on the Botox and now look like a disturbing wax version of yourself (think Sandra Bullock at the Oscars), this might not be the time to step out into the reunion spotlight.
But if you are in a good groove, why not go? Forget about the “in” crowd. Do you have a group of friends from high school that you like or liked? Reconnect with them and you can all hang out together. It can be a lot of fun to see old pals and remember just how devastated you all were to find out Milli Vanilli was a fraud. (I still mourn the loss of that band.)
And at some point during the reunion, I absolutely promise that you are going to run into some pudgy guy who is sporting a shiny bald head and an orange glow from too much self tanner and you’re going to suddenly realize, “Holy crap. That’s Billie Thaler. The god damn captain of the football team and hottest guy at school who was worshiped for FOUR long years by all the girls and the only thing he ever said to me was, ‘A tampon just fell out of your purse.’ Wow, he looks awful.”
The joy of his fall from grace will certainly be reason enough to go. Doesn’t that sound more satisfying than just looking up old classmates on Facebook?
My final advice is to have a few cocktails. Reunions are not for the sober. Unless not drinking is a requirement for your parole and then see earlier advice about maybe sitting this reunion out.
As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a wallet someone had lost in the street. I picked it up and looked inside to find some identification so
I could call the owner. But the wallet contained only three dollars and a
crumpled letter that looked as if it had been in there for years.
The envelope was worn and the only thing that was legible on it was the
return address. I started to open the letter, hoping to find some clue. Then
I saw the dateline–1944. The letter had been written over sixty years ago.
It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting on powder blue
stationery with a little flower in the left-hand corner. It was a “Dear John”
letter that told the recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael, that the
writer could not see him any more because her mother forbade it. Even so, she
wrote that she would always love him.
It was signed, Hannah.
It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way except for the name
Michael, that the owner could be identified. Maybe if I called information,
the operator could find a phone listing for the address on the envelope.
“Operator,” I began, “this is an unusual request. I’m trying to find the
owner of a wallet that I found. Is there anyway you can tell me if there is a
phone number for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?”
She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who hesitated for a moment then said, “Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I can’t give you
the number.” She said, as a courtesy, she would call that number, explain my
story and would ask them if they wanted her to connect me. I waited a few
minutes and then she was back on the line. “I have a party who will speak
with you.”
I asked the woman on the other end of the line if she knew anyone by the
name of Hannah. She gasped, “Oh! We bought this house from a family who had a daughter named Hannah. But that was 30 years ago!”
“Would you know where that family could be located now?” I asked.
“I remember that Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home some
years ago,” the woman said. “Maybe if you got in touch with them they might be able to track down the daughter.”
She gave me the name of the nursing home and I called the number. They told me the old lady had passed away some years ago but they did have a phone number for where they thought the daughter might be living.
I thanked them and phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.
This whole thing was stupid, I thought to myself. Why was I making such a
big deal over finding the owner of a wallet that had only three dollars and a
letter that was almost 60 years old?
Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was supposed to be living and the man who answered the phone told me, “Yes, Hannah is staying with us. ”
Even though it was already 10 p.m., I asked if I could come by to see her.
“Well,” he said hesitatingly, “if you want to take a chance, she might be in
the day room watching television.”
I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home. The night nurse and a
guard greeted me at the door. We went up to the third floor of the large
building. In the day room, the nurse introduced me to Hannah.
She was a sweet, silver-haired old timer with a warm smile and a twinkle in
her eye.
I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The second
she saw the powder blue envelope with that little flower on the left, she took
a deep breath and said, “Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever
had with Michael.”
She looked away for a moment deep in thought and then said Softly, “I loved
him very much. But I was only 16 at the time and my mother felt I was too
young. Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like Sean Connery, the actor.”
“Yes,” she continued. “Michael Goldstein was a wonderful person. If you
should find him, tell him I think of him often. And,” she hesitated for a
moment, almost biting her lip, “tell him I still love him. You know,” she said
smiling as tears began to well up in her eyes, “I never did marry. I guess no
one ever matched up to Michael…”
I thanked Hannah and said goodbye. I took the elevator to the first floor
and as I stood by the door, the guard there asked, “Was the old lady able to
help you?”
I told him she had given me a lead. “At least I have a last name. But I
think I’ll let it go for a while. I spent almost the whole day trying to find
the owner of this wallet.”
I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown leather case with red
lacing on the side. When the guard saw it, he said, “Hey, wait a minute!
That’s Mr. Goldstein’s wallet. I’d know it anywhere with that bright red
lacing. He’s always losing that wallet. I must have found it in the halls at
least three times.”
“Who’s Mr. Goldstein?” I asked as my hand began to shake.
“He’s one of the old timers on the 8th floor. That’s Mike Goldstein’s
wallet for sure. He must have lost it on one of his walks.”
I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to the nurse’s office. I told her
what the guard had said. We went back to the elevator and got on. I prayed
that Mr. Goldstein would be up.
On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, “I think he’s still in the day
room. He likes to read at night. He’s a darling old man.”
We went to the only room that had any lights on and there was a man reading a book. The nurse went over to him and asked if he had lost his wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with surprise, put his hand in his back pocket and said, “Oh, it is missing!”
“This kind gentleman found a wallet and we wondered if it could be yours?”
I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet and the second he saw it, he smiled with
relief and said, “Yes, that’s it! It must have dropped out of my pocket this
afternoon. I want to give you a reward.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “But I have to tell you something. I read the
letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet.”
The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. “You read that letter?”
“Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is.”
He suddenly grew pale. “Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was? Please, please tell me,” he begged.
“She’s fine…just as pretty as when you knew her.” I said softly.
The old man smiled with anticipation and asked, “Could you tell me where
she is? I want to call her tomorrow.” He grabbed my hand and said, “You know something, mister, I was so in love with that girl that when that letter came, my life literally ended. I never married. I guess I’ve always loved her. ”
“Mr. Goldstein,” I said, “Come with me.”
We took the elevator down to the third floor. The hallways were darkened
and only one or two little night-lights lit our way to the day room where
Hannah was sitting alone watching the television. The nurse walked over to
her.
“Hannah,” she said softly, pointing to Michael, who was waiting with me in
the doorway. “Do you know this man?”
She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn’t say a word.
Michael said softly, almost in a whisper, “Hannah, it’s Michael. Do you
remember me?”
She gasped, “Michael! I don’t believe it! Michael! It’s you! My Michael!”
He walked slowly towards her and they embraced. The nurse and I left with
tears streaming down our faces.
“See,” I said. “See how the Good Lord works! If it’s meant to be, it will
be.”
About three weeks later I got a call at my office from the nursing home.
“Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!”
It was a beautiful wedding with all the people at the nursing home dressed
up to join in the celebration. Hannah wore a light beige dress and looked
beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. They made me their
best man.
The hospital gave them their own room and if you ever wanted to see a
76-year-old bride and a 79-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had
to see this couple.
—
America is a nation obsessed with its cars, especially us males. Ever since my Y chromosome muscled out that wimpy second X one, I was pre-destined to fixate on buying my next car. Since 18 I have owned eight cars, and every one of them has taught me a valuable life lesson.
My Volvo (1968 model year) taught me a lesson in humility. A guy I knew in college dared me to a drag race on a stretch of highway. He had a Corvette. It did zero to 60 in 5.2 seconds. My dads 16 year old Volvo did zero to sixty, well… eventually. By the time I reached the finish line, the other dude was in a different zip code – mocking me from afar. A humbling experience. Volvo has always had a reputation for building safe cars. After my humiliation, I could only conclude it must be because few Volvo owners ever have enough time on their hands to attain dangerous speeds above 20 mph.
My Chevy Malibu (1973) taught me about Murphy’s Law: Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. I received a firsthand education on the complexity of automobiles and just how many different components could break down, including the antenna, the door lock, the radio, the non-electric windows, and the clock – and that was just on my test drive. And I also learned that not all car horns sound the same. When my horn died (who knew car horns died?) the repair shop apparently found a replacement horn by stealing it from a pink Schwinn bicycle previously owned by a six-year old girl.
My Isuzu Impulse (1984) taught me the importance of following your passion, although in hindsight, this might not be exactly what the author of What Color is Your Parachute meant by the statement. When I saw this car, which looked like a poor man’s Porsche, it was love at first sight. I had to have it. It was sexy and sleek, with a dashboard that looked like a cockpit.
There were only four things it lacked: quality, power, durability, and quality – oh, and quality. Yes, that car ran like a dream (as long as you kept it under 45 mph), for the first 7,000 miles. After that, I don’t really remember much, as it spent most of its time in the shop. Apparently this Japanese car came off the same assembly line that built my Chevy Malibu.
My Mazda 929 (1991) taught me that sometimes you need to pamper yourself with the finer things in life. This was my first exposure to heated seats and a car capable of exceeding the speed limit. So what if the trunk was barely large enough to store a laptop. I didn’t own a laptop. My 929 also taught me a lesson about moderation in everything – particularly my speed – thanks to three speeding tickets in ten months.
My Ford Windstar (1996). My luxury car days were fading in the rear view mirror. This was my first minivan. This car taught me the importance of showing my patriotism by Buying American. With my Ford Windstar This car made a statement: “I will be a patriotic American car-buying suburban soccer dad in my forties with bad knees. I hereby surrender my last vestige of being suave, sophisticated or desirable.”
I had never bought a Ford before. Now I understood why. While Ford’s motto once had been At Ford, Quality is Job 1, I must have purchased it when their motto had evolved to At Ford, Quality is Job 17, just behind shaving 15% off the cost of manufacturing transmissions. After 50,000 miles, I had to have the car’s engine rebuilt at the bargain cost of just $3,900 (but in fairness, that included a free car wash). My Ford Windstar also taught me how to get over my patriotic Buy American car phase.
My forest green Aston Martin $125,000 exotic luxury sports car (1998) taught me that some people are so gullible they will believe anything they read in a list. I also purchased two F-16 fighter jets (one for the Mrs.) and Canada’s Prince Edward Island (they weren’t using it).
My Toyota (2000) taught me the lesson of patience. No matter how much the niece would scream in the back seat or shout at me to intervene and “tell Ricky to stop hitting me” during our annual 11-hour pilgrimages to grandma’s, I learned to control my frustration and the resist the temptation to eject my sisters kids kids from a moving vehicle going 70 mph. I also learned some handy crisis survival tips. Did you know that you can survive for up to six months on Cheerios, granola bars and Juicy Juice cartons if you remember to search every crevice in your minivan?
My Hyundai 350 XG (2005) taught me a lesson in frugality. If you’re a male around 45 years of age, you may be planning your midlife crisis right about now. As I stared down the barrel of housing costs, I opted for this Korean knock-off of a Lexus sedan at barely half the price. My days of driving boring, boxy minivans filled with kid crap were behind me. Finally, I could enjoy the driving experience once again. I loved my Hyundai sedan.
Um, not so fast. Turns out my elder daughter needs a car for college. So recently I gave her my Hyundai XG 350 in the hopes that someday soon she can discover the joy of replacing four radial tires and an alternator. My wife bought a brand new BMW herself – I guess women are allowed to have midlife crises too. So that leaves me with – you guessed it – the old Toyota minivan again, teaching me yet another life lesson: What goes around comes around. I hate that life lesson.
I have learned everything I ever needed to know about life from the cars I have owned – and I am not even talking about what I learned in the back seat (I’ll save that for a future post). In looking back on all the money I’ve poured into cars, gasoline, and repair bills over the years, for the same money, I could have sent both my kids to four years at an Ivy League college.
Ah, who am I kidding? My kid would never have made it into an Ivy League school. Besides, a college education doesn’t come with a sun roof, heated leather seats or an eight-CD Bose stereo system. So I’m pretty sure I made the right call.
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