hot coffee girl

I have a friend who is a very good writer. Google his name and the results will yield pieces he’s written for The Washington Post, NPR, Chicago Tribune, his own book. So when the subject came up at dinner a few months back of the piece that I had coming up in the book, he was curious but supportive. “So, they found your blog? I didn’t even know you had a blog. Wow. That’s pretty cool. I’d love to read the piece.”

I didn’t want him to. Not only did I see this man as a Real Writer, but I wasn’t crazy about the essay CNF had chosen. I felt like a bit of a fraud, to be honest. I hemmed stammered out something that probably came across as false modesty, when in reality it was a fear that I would be exposed as a total hack. I was relieved when the conversation turned to another friend’s hatred of jazz and brass instruments in general. I instantly knew her confession would bring about enough scorn amongst the people at the table to distract Real Writer and therefore cover me.

A few days after the dinner, he asked again if he could read the piece, and I confessed that I thought that it wasn’t really my best work. I said that they shouldn't have picked me at all, and that I had other favorites that they likely should have chosen if they were desperate. I was not really interested in having him read it. It was then that he made me a deal. “Why don’t you let me read the one that’s going to be in the book, and the one that’s your favorite, and that way you’re covered?” Logical and well published this one. I agreed and printed out both pieces, still certain that he would shortly send an e-mail to the entire staff:

To: Cleveland Agency
From: Real Writer
Subject: Cold Coffee

Fellow workers…It has come to my attention that one of our newest employees thinks that she’s a writer. As you all know, I am a Writer, and I am here to tell you that she is nothing more than a no-talent ass-clown. She uses too many commas, is overly wordy, and is mostly stupid. Please meet in the lunch room at noon to talk about her complete and utter lack of potential whilst we point and laugh. There will be popcorn. Thank you.

I cursed myself the minute I left his office for even mentioning the book in the first place and wondered not for the first time why I can’t seem to keep my goddamn mouth shut at dinner parties.

When I checked my e-mail after returning from a meeting later that afternoon, I saw his name in the From: line. I panicked. This is it. The office-wide memo declaring me a fool.

Instead, the subject line stated: “You are a really good writer.” I opened it to read:

I don't say that lightly. You have a really clear voice, which is so rare. I got the same feeling I get when I read David Sedaris, that I'm being let in on a secret that he is both making fun of and celebrating at the same
time. Maybe I could say that better. He is both detached and intimately involved with his material. Your writing has that quality.

Holy shit. I fooled him, too. He compared me favorably to David Sedaris.

On the way home that night, I told The Boy about the e-mail. He said that was pretty impressive, especially considering the Sedaris reference. “Oh yeah,” I mumbled. “I meant to ask you about that. Who is David Sedaris?” He gave me a quick sideways glance to ascertain if I was joking, and when he saw that I was not, he focused on traffic again with a bewildered, slightly bemused look on his face. “Um, he’s a writer. He’s got a few books out now. I’m sure that you’ve heard him on NPR and just don’t remember.”

I began wondering if I could somehow make my choice to listen to Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl” over NPR sound the slightest bit intellectual. I could not, however, get over the notion that in doing so I might come across as even dumber, so I skipped it. I instead turned over the idea that there was someone out there who thought that my writing reminded him of someone who people who listened to NPR and therefore must know things.

It wasn’t until over a month later, however, that I got to know Mr. Sedaris. Thanks to CDs I hijacked unwittingly from a friend, I have been cruising in my rental car to the nasally sounds of “Me Talk Pretty One Day.” And although he would hate both the confession and the revelation, I am nothing short of awed. I make a left at the light and merge into traffic while he tells me about his time in Paris, and I start imagining that I am there watching the movie in the darkened theater with him, ignoring the wonders of Paris together. He makes it seem so goddamned easy. You listen to or read one of his essays and you instantly think, “Well, hell. I could do this. Look how easily it flows from his pen/mouth.” I imagine that I am EXACTLY like him because he makes it seem so easy to do.

Up until the moment that I sit down in front of the keyboard. Once I do that, I'll no longer be able to say "We'll always have Paris, David," because that’s when it all starts to fall apart and you end up with this crap.

Did I mention that I have a friend who hates jazz? How could that be even possible? Who doesn't love jazz?

Goddammit, will you people quit bugging me about the men’s version of Advice from the Cranky Old Lady? I had to get a new cane and some Geritol. Old people move slow, donchaknow? All of this rain has made my bursitis act up.

Anyhoo, you asked for it, gentlemen.

Things are different back than they were in my day. Women have the right to vote, they are in the workforce, they can fix cars. You, as a gender, are not nearly as instrumental as you once were to our survival. Hell, gals these days can even stop off at a store and get things that can take your spot (pun intended) in the bedroom. Consider this when you walk around like you are god's gift to women. You're replaceable. Get over yourselves.

Spending all of your free time on your Fantasy Football League? Try getting off of the goddamn couch and actually playing a sport, fucktard. Fantasy football is the jock's equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons. You used to kick those geeks' asses for playing. Don't make me kick yours.

Spitting is only appropriate in snowballing. Seriously. What the hell are you thinking when you conjure up that mouthful of snot and spat it on the ground in public? It's gross as all hell and I don't want to see it, hear it, or step over it on my way to Starbucks. You want us to swallow? Try doing the same.

You can outdrink us? We're not impressed. Know what's hotter than the ability to down 12 beers and 3 shots? Having a designated driver. Sober up, dude.

Understand that while you may be wash and go, generally we ladies are not. We quite frequently put some effort into our appearance. Tapping your foot while we are getting ready to go out will not will not speed us up. It will piss us off and we'll be more apt to fuck all of your friends ... er ... be in a bad mood. Appreciate the end result by putting up with the time invested to get there.

Speaking of fashion, don't assume that the Izod shirt that looked good on you in high school works today. Want to know why we're so ga-ga over gay men? They dress better than you do. We know what looks good on you. Take us shopping. You need our advice.

Pull up your goddamn pants. You look like a punk.

My favorite Canadian, Phil, recently asked me the following question...

"What is up with Americans suing the pants off everybody and anybody? This issue comes up time and time again on one of the forums I frequent. In particular, see the recent news. And the older news. I figure I'd get one of my favourite Americans to comment on the issue."

Well, I am flattered at the one of my favorite Americans classification to be sure. Let's not dwell on the fact that Phil is, indeed, my favorite Canadian...not "one of" my favorites and I am but one of (apparently) many. He's off to England soon, and he's going to have some competition then. Let's instead address the issue at hand. 

Why are we such a litigious bunch, we Americans?

To answer that question, we have to look at the very roots of our country. As a nation, we came over here (from England, in case you were absent that day) to find a better life...nay, because we felt as if we were ENTITLED to a better life. Our founding fathers looked around at all the suffering they had to endure. The lack of religious freedom. Being forced to eat uninspired English cuisine. All that tea drinking going on. They had it pretty bad. Tortured for years, they survived in near silence with all of the inhumanity. One day, William Bradford and John Smith were taking a stroll down the streets of Lincolnshire, and stopped off at a pub for a cup of tea. A few minutes after ordering, John grabbed his mug and drank deeply, screamed  and threw the cup across the room, falling to the floor in pain.

He had burned his mouth, you see, on tea that was just too hot. Negligently too hot. He endured so much suffering...the physical pain, the mental scarring, the loss of speech, the damage to his romantic life (he was unable to go down on his girlfriend for days) ... it was all too much to bear. It was then that his friend William suggested that he be compensated by the pub for his tragedy. Of course, John was reluctant to take legal action. But the more his girlfriend pissed and moaned about his inability to get her off by fucking alone, the more he got angry.  Three days after the tongue scalding, he decided to call a lawyer.

Imagine his surprise when he found out that the legal counsel he sought was not a lawyer at all but a barrister. And that there was nothing that could be done about his victimization. It was just not done 'round those parts.

That was the last straw. He had had enough of this place called England and decided to pack up his shit and hit the open seas. He collected his friend William, a hundred or so others, a couple of dogs, and set out to find a place where you could be paid for your pain and suffering, even if it was your own damn fault.

The rest, as they say, is history.

So, to answer your question, Phil, about why we are a litigious people....

It's part of our heritage. 

Since we determined in my previous post that I am old (and therefore wise), it is my obligation to share my wisdom with those of you who are young and stupid. These tidbits are for the Ladies. Men, I’ll deal with you tomorrow.

My darling fellow females...

When someone encounters you in a public place and indicates that they need to get past you by saying, “Excuse me” … Quit fucking apologizing! I am so sick of hearing, “Oh! I’m sorry!” come out of your mouths. Men do not do this. They say, “sure” or simply step aside. Cease being sorry for taking up space on this earth, my friend.

Worried about whether he’ll call? Don’t. It’s great that you are interested in him. Want him to be interested in you? Be interesting. Go outside. See a movie. Attend a gallery opening. If you live your life waiting for him to be in it, he’ll likely not. If you live your life and he doesn’t call…you’ll be too busy to notice. If he does…you’ll have that much more to share with him.

You may wonder if you’ll turn into your mother. Maybe you will. But you don’t have to. A better idea would to take the best parts of your parents and incorporate those into your own personality. If you hate how your mother acts on Holidays or think you’re dad’s way off base when it comes to politics, then realize that they are their own people and you are you. You don’t have to be like them.

You don’t have to have a husband, and kids, and a career. It’s okay to not want children. It’s okay to want to be a stay at home mom. It’s okay to want kids and not want to stay at home until they graduate from college. Hell, it's okay to not want to be married or have kids at all. You have choices. (You might want to thank your mother for that…the generations of women that came before us did a lot so that you would be able to have those choices.) Choose wisely.

Quit wearing so much goddamn makeup. You look like a whore.

So the season finale of yet another reality show about women competing for some dork-ass guy just finished. (Is that Rome I smell burning?)

“Age of Love’s” twist on the old standard was that, well, some of the contestants were old. Or older than the coveted bachelor up for grabs. This series pitted a bunch of 20-somethings against a gaggle of 40-somethings for a 30 year old boy’s heart.

(This is the part where I confess my weakness for train-wreck telly. I had only watched a few of the episodes this season, but I was fortunate enough to catch the big finish.)

So there are these giggling nymphs and these haggard old bitches battling it out. Except that the grannies were generally cosmetically enhanced enough that there was little difference in their appearance. No wrinkles. No batflap arms. Not a saggy tit amongst the aged lot. To be honest, they were all a bunch of whores and he was no prize, either.

But it got me to thinking. I am 35 years old. According to Info Please, the average life expectancy of a white female born in 1972 is 75.9 years. Take into count that I smoke like a bonfire, and one could honestly say that I am exactly middle-aged. Add to that fact that I am often surrounded by adorable 20-somethings at work and sometimes play…and well, I girl can start to feel her bursitis kicking up. Get me my shawl, will you?

We hear all the time that we’re in a culture obsessed with youth…and I am in advertising so perhaps I should know that to be true more than anyone.

Except that I don’t. Sure, youth may be wasted on the young…But I could give a geriatric shit. I think that I am better at 35 than I was at 25. I have more money, more sense (most of the time), and much more perspective. I was blessed with the seeming absence of a biological clock telling me I need to procreate or else. I wouldn’t trade the place where I am now for the place that I was then. I had fun in my 20’s. I lived and laughed and loved. But I am doing the same thing in my 30’s, and the experiences are richer, deeper, more real. I have traveled more. Drank better wines. Eaten better food. I spend my weekends not trying to see how many keggers I can hit before curfew, but in the company of good friends who share their own experiences and stories over good cocktails. Of course, it takes me longer to recover from a night on the town than it did 10 years ago. I wake up some mornings and see another white hair in the reflection as I brush my teeth and know that I am no spring chicken. And I would no more try to pretend that I look any less ridiculous in leg warmers than I did the first time around. But there’s something to be said for a woman with experience.

Her AC/DC concert shirts are the genuine article.