La Vida Vica

My life needs a tape delay

2011-10-02T17:30:00.000-04:00

Why do mybest ideas come to me watching football halftime shows? This does, however,explain my worst wardrobe choices.

Most days Iflounder along. My witty comebacks are things that occur to me sometime later likewhen I’m walking out of the room or stuck in traffic on the ride home. I’m anatural born blurter too – from a long line of blurters. Likely to breed littleblurters of my own when the time comes. A charming trait.

But soeasily fixed. If only I had one more moment to consider what I was doing orsaying. Life is relentless, you know. It is lived in real time. How irreparablyawkward of it all. If only you could take back that comment, that glance, thatclumsiness. Wouldn’t it be the best thing ever? No more skirt stuck in thepanty hose. No more stepping in the dog poop. No more YES that should have beenNO.

I proposea radical new solution. I want to live my life on a tape delay.

No moresilly oversharing. No more wardrobe malfunctions. No more missteps. How luckycan you get? I’m not even suggesting that I would use my power for evil,winning the lottery or thwarting my romantic rivals.

Life couldbe so sweet.

I’d justlike to get through the day saying all the stuff I’m supposed to say – andkeeping my mouth zipped tightly shut the rest of the time. Bliss.

Why am I a Hot Date?

2011-09-25T18:10:00.000-04:00

Photo by donenespez from Flickr

Uhh, nope. I built a man-cavein my bedroom.

Sure. To lookat me, you might wonder why guys are attracted. It’s not rocket science. Yes. Ihave the officially desirable waist-to-hip ratio. (It’s approximately 0.7 ifyou’re an Indo-European male, in case you’re interested. Not my ratio. The OFFICIALratio. Determined by years of analysis of Playboy centerfolds and MissAmericas. I drift a bit south of this measurement, which puts me more intoMarilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren territory.)

Now what’sabove and below that ratio, well … Let’s not go there. What’s above and belowis definitely not Marilyn Monroe. Sigh.

Yet I haveclimbed the dating mountain and planted my flag. Other women have bodacioustatas and curvaceous bums and fabulous hair. They can even walk in thosegravity-defying latex boots that have no heels at all and make you look like a kinkyballerina. Women like that have boudoir pics on their phones of impressivelydeep cleavage and naughty bits partially covered by lace and hands with longfluorescent acrylic nails.

Well, I havepics on my phone too. Pics you could show to a kindergartner. But they make mendrool. They’re pics of my – wait for it– entertainment center. Yup. I’ve got a Man TV. The kind that gives guys thatbunny-in-the-headlights look. I’ve got it in my bedroom ‘cause I’m crafty thatway. A man plunks down on the bed, stares at the mondo screen with its awesomelycrisp picture and he is trapped in my web.

Make a mangrateful by providing surround-sound and an ample supply of action DVDs and he’ll doanything for you. Problem solved. (Did I mention the bedside table is a chic mini-fridge?)

Don't Be This Guy

2011-09-23T17:32:00.000-04:00

A cautionary dating tale.

Great pic from D Sharon Pruitt on Flickr. Thanks!

So I'm sitting at dinner with Mr. Confrontational. We have had an interesting discussion.(More on that later.) My job involves professional banter. Seriously. I dispense patter as part of my working life. And I'm damn good at it. This evening, I've been filling every conversational pause with something utterly charming.

I take a bite of my salad. My mistake. This creates a pause that Mr. Confrontational has to fill. It's our first date and I'm figuring he'll go for one of the classics: job, weather, family. The Big Three. The holy trinity of inoffensive date chat.

But Mr. Confrontational is a gambler. He bypasses pre-approved chitchat and heads directly for uncharted waters.

"How old are you?" Awwww. That's so sweet. What woman doesn't want to hear that on a first date?

"I don't usually talk about how old I am. I mean, does it matter that much?" For the record, it turns out I am younger than Mr. Confrontational.

Mr. Confrontational takes a breath. Surely he will follow up with a softball. "How much do you weigh?"

Wow. I want to go all Joe Pesci on him. You know the speech.

You mean, let me understand this cause, ya know maybe it's me, I'm a little effed up maybe, but what I weigh how, I mean what I weigh like I'm fat, I disgust you? I make you retch, I'm here to effin'' disgust you? What do you mean what do I weigh, how? How am I fat?

I didn't though. Maybe I'm not Scarlett O'Hara but a woman with a 25" waist has nothing to prove.

Ahh, Retail Therapy

2010-11-10T13:55:00.000-05:00

When life give you lemons, buy lemonade. And some new earrings. And those sexy boots you were looking at. And go out to dinner, why doncha? There. That's better!

Back when Space was Clean Life was simpler then ... in 2001

2010-11-03T10:38:00.000-04:00

In space,
no one can hear you yawn.

I recently re-watched 2001: A Space Odyssey. I know I will enrage legions of Kubrick fans when I say I was underwhelmed. Geeze. Space was so clean back then. All those glossy white hostesses toting their trays: "You ain't nothing but a waitress in the sky" or in the void, I guess. It's all so disturbingly tidy. Those born after the age of Ridley Scott's Alien saga might be unable to relate to such neatly bundled outer space. For familiar comfort though, the dark universe is still full of mayhem and sudden often inexplicable death.

The evil super-computer HAL reminded me of nothing so much as a really lame boyfriend I had once. First he cuts you off from friends and coworkers. Then he just quits speaking to you. Finally you have to shut him down. He seems rational on the surface but is ultimately jealous, violent and petty. Oh yeah. There's some bad memories for you. If 2001's squawking chimpanzees represent your critical family at holiday time brandishing a wishbone and daring you to grasp it and dream of a future that doesn't include a total loser, then the whole thing could have been an allegory of our crash-and-burn. Although in fairness HAL did have higher brain function which - as I recall - was sorely lacking in my sometime honey.

Even the epic battle against HAL remains oddly antiseptic. If you are going to duke it out mano a roboto, shouldn't there be a metal exoskeleton sixty feet tall with huge titanium fangs? Advanced weaponry? Telepathy? Nope. There's more like a programming glitch, some eavesdropping and HAL grows fond of cutting off your oxygen supply. Well, that's just not cricket, is it? Perhaps Bowman could have turned HAL off and then back on again? Power cycling: it's not just for laptops anymore.

Post-2001 cinematic space is cramped, noisy, poorly assembled and filled with gory death. Death at the hands of alien creatures with multiple sets of long sharp teeth or powerful weaponry. Ahhhhh. That's better. A stand-up fight instead of a bug hunt.

2001 on imdb. com

From the VictionaryPornbot: Be Gentle with Me

2010-10-31T15:58:00.001-04:00

A pornbot is a pornbot, except when she is facing you.
Then she is Miss Pornbot.

A vertical flesh buffet consisting of Barbie hair, cleavage, bare muffin-top or midriff, rotisserie tan and FM heels. Species typically exhibits overbleached and/or chunk-highlighted hair, acrylic nails and jewelry that can double as a trout-lure during a survival emergency. Additional features include tramp-stamps and a professional waxer on retainer who leaves nothing below the eyebrows but an exclamation point.

Pornbots excel at giggling and hair-tossing while they have difficulty with specialized tasks such as paying for drinks. They often claim to be bisexual as they have discovered that publicly making out with other pornbots is an aid to attracting mates. They present an aura of helplessness when standing next to vehicles, cash registers or barstools, despite the fact that no assistance is actually required.

Pornbots are unique in that they are the only female of any species which is incapable of fight, flight or camouflage. Their sole defense mechanism is their incredibly high maintenance cost, which rapidly weeds out unworthy suitors and ensures their survival. In cases of dire emergency, a pornbot will fall onto its back with its hind legs spread, assuming a submissive posture that captivates and eventually subdues its opponent.

It's Barbie all the way, baby. Remember:

Nobody ever designed Ken's Dream House.

Think Pink. (Just don't think about what that means in the porn industry.)

(I took that picture. I'm sooooo talented.)

“I’d Hit That” In which I Discover that I am - in fact - A Guy

2010-10-18T11:52:00.003-04:00

I no longer have some hazy feminine internal biological clock ticking away the days until I fulfill my breeding responsibilities and get to wander around town carrying twenty stubborn extra pounds and a kidlet strapped to my chest like we’re ready for a tandem parachute jump.

I ponder a lot in the car. Cruising in traffic is an aid to thinking about the greatest mysteries of life. (I don’t know if that means that I have to be in favor of offshore drilling. But if I considered that issue in the car, I feel certain I would come to the proper conclusion.) O beloved idiotarod. How I long to ride the currents of your asphalt river, musing, swearing, singing out loud.

Yesterday, it was mostly swearing. Which is not uncommon. Which means that I had the windows wide open and the radio up. Nothing like a little HIM when you’re feelin’ low. At this moment, I would gush “I luv HIM” but it sounds so lame from someone who looks – and acts – like me. I don’t know what I must seem like, stuck in traffic, wearing my trampy white-framed sunglasses and my dingy drone disguise, wailing along to the magnificent thrum of a Finnish metal band. At least guys dig the trampy sunglasses. The wailing, probably not so much.

But I was fortunate enough to get stuck at a light next to this unutterably adorable guy. Trucker cap tipped back on his head in that bewitching “aw shucks, ma'am” style, hair the color of Tupelo honey, sweet golden tan skin the exact shade of butter toffee. If a wheat field and Jack Daniels had a baby, it would look like this man. I would wade through him at sunset carrying a long-neck and belting out Sweet Dreams of You. Shucks was driving a forest green pick-up with a lift kit and a quality spray of mud along the side. Bliss. The sight of him pierced me and I thought, “I’d hit that.”

This muttered revelation made me realize something – yes, something besides “Holy crap, I said that Out Loud AND my windows are open.” It made me realize that I am A Guy. No kidding. I perceive the absolute essence of guyness. It is appetite. I look at everything now and make rapid assessments of my longing – or instinctive hatred – for that object. Men. Clothes. Food. Cars. Job. Want it or not? Now.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still all girl all the time, top and bottom. Wink, wink. And I can pass the Star Trek ‘Do Me’ test.*

*Star Trek “Do Me’ Test: Any female alien life form that might be hittable must pass two crucial tests. One, does it have boobs? Two, can it talk? Kirk couldn’t latch on to just any old space trash.

But in my thoughts, I think I have crossed over. I just want stuff. Or really really don’t want stuff. Whatever I do want, I want it now. Cold liquor, hot dudes, cool rides, crispy fries, a bedroom that looks like Greta Garbo’s and an ass that looks like Kerri Walsh’s. I’ve lost interest in sharing, nurturing and nesting. I don’t need a relationship or common interests. I want all of my wishes granted with no confusion, no conversation and no consequences. If he’s tall, vigorous and ten years younger than I am, we are five by five. (Okay, for some indescribably weird reason, I still like guys with cute teeth. What are cute teeth, you ask? Don’t ask.)

I no longer have some hazy feminine internal biological clock ticking away the days until I fulfill my breeding responsibilities and get to wander around town carrying twenty stubborn extra pounds and a kidlet strapped to my chest like we’re ready for a tandem parachute jump. Oh, no. Instead of that I now have an impatient heel-tapping seventeen-year-old dude sucking down a Super Big Gulp Mountain Dew, devouring Funions and stroking his 3G iPhone while he listens to Decapitated and surfs the web for quality free porn thumbs. What is that he’s yelling? “Now!”

What the hell has happened to me?

The perfect Vineyard vacation. An overpriced black fit and flare dress that would make me look like Gisele Bundchen - if Gisele Bundchen ever wore anything but swimsuits and lingerie. The ultimate broccoli with hot garlic sauce. A dynamite break to start a game of cut-throat. And that thing that I focus on when the rest of the world is dead to me: book deal, book deal, book deal. Oh I want them all. And I want them all now.

All those icky bits that I don’t want – like cellulite, kitty speak bible translations, drunk jerks who don’t respect my personal space, nuclear proliferation and anything related to tampons – I just want them to Get Off My Lawn. Ahhhh. There. Now don’t you feel better?

John 3:16 as you have never heard it before: "So liek teh Ceiling Cat lieks teh ppl lots and he sez 'Oh hai I givez u my only son and ifs u beleevs in him u wont evr diez no moar, k?" The Celing Cat ?!?

In realizing that men are simply giant walking bundles of appetite seeking immediate gratification without consequences, I have another revelation. Are all men actually Veruca Salt? I’ll think about that on my next drive home.

Danica Patrick during her daily commute (I'm waaay cuter! :-D)
Kerri Walsh serves hot, kicks butt, fights AIDS
Gisele Bundchen with no swimsuit or lingerie - now you feel better!
Veruca Salt - Bad Egg from Galleries onenineeighteight Kathy Olivas

Never Bring a Knife to a Gunfight: The Best Action Lessons in the Movies

2010-10-16T17:10:00.001-04:00

He has a knife, you get a gun. He has a gun, you get a bazooka.

1. If you can’t be a helpless girl, be a dangerous girl. A lethal Lolita is boffo at the box office. An alternately helpless and dangerous girl? That’s a perfecta. Think Bridget Fonda in Point of No Return.

2. Be a vulnerable capable girl. It also works like a charm. Remember Sandra Bullock in Speed? One minute she’s Kim Possible, “I’ll drive that bus!” and the next minute she’s all, “OMG! I’m wearing a bomb. Does this make me look fat?” So Keanu Reeves does what any red-blooded action man would do. He saves her and falls in love with her. Or falls in love with her and saves her. Whatever.

3. Keep moving. It is a “MOVE-ee” after all. Lackluster films benefit enormously from this concept. So will your life. Never stop. However stupid, however improbable, however obvious, keep moving. A character must always do whatever comes next – and quickly. Otherwise the audience might stop to think about just how goofy the whole situation is.

4. A gun is a tool. It does much more than shoot people. It opens locks, deflates tires, breaks cameras, silences noisy bystanders, signals for help, ignites propane and causes a nasty bruise. There’s no end of ways a gun can come in handy.

5. You can never have too much ammunition. As the man said, "Guns don't kill people. Bullets kill people." It is best to shoot people many many times. Then you know they won’t get up. That’s what gives you confidence – and we all know how sexy that is.

6. Always save some ammo. Zombies get back up. Thugs have buddies hiding behind the door. Some perps wear body armor and will require a head shot. Save that last bullet and you just may save your own life – or take it, unfortunately. Don’t forget that sometimes death is actually your best option. I mean, it is preferable to being cocooned as a living host to a gestating alien that will burst out of your thorax and then scamper off to eat your friends and family.

7. Don’t gloat. Gun-toting villains want to make a theatrical final impression on the demolished hero at their feet. Evildoers love uttering something profound during their adversary’s last moment on earth. But evildoers never learn. They utter a great one-liner, aim their weapon and get shot in the head by the beta-hero. Serves ‘em right.

8. Always be over-equipped. It’s like being overdressed for a party. When you are wearing a bit too much glam, you look fabulous. Too little? You’re the dork who couldn’t read the invitation right. Weapons are the same way. He has a knife. You get a gun. He has a gun. You get a bazooka.

9. Know your enemy. Sometimes you don’t need to use a gun, you just need to show it to someone. On the other hand, sometimes you need to shoot your enemy’s dog, kill all his relatives and burn down his house. Be flexible. Do whatever is necessary and don’t waste your time doing too much.

Fab pic of Bale's Batman from First Showing
Ripley saves everybody every single time from
Keanu is groovy yet lethal from tv.com
Damon starts his own franchise from the Observer

Unwilling to Clean, I Redecorate

2010-10-16T16:53:00.002-04:00

As my life is a mess, it seems only fair that my home should currently be a mess as well. Does the chaos of my physical environment mirror my mental disarray? My place looks shoddy. Like a single guy has been living in it for the past few months. Except then someone set off a bomb that rained down a debris of women's clothing items: nylons, shoes without mates (why should I be the only one who's lonely?), lingerie, sweaters. All strewn haphazardly about my space in a decidedly non-decorative manner. If I had any sense - or disposable income - I would move rather than clean up. It would be easier. Someone told me this mess probably resembles the home of the average transvestite. (Why do women who dress as men not get any designation at all?) But the odd jumble is neither welcoming nor festive.

So of course my nervous energy about this topic required some outlet. Tidying would be so bourgeois, so anal. But completely redesigning my space? That would be bold. While still offering that tantalizing mix of activity and procrastination. Perfect! I had a vision. The bed under the skylight. Ingenious. And I was off to the races. I can shove heavy objects around with the best of them, much to the dismay of my downstairs neighbor. Emptying one room, shuffling stuff about. Vacuuming. How do I work that darn thing again? And suddenly, if you ignored the heaps of debris shoved to the margins of the floorspace, my new plan came to life. And it was wonderful.

Until I woke up the next morning. And realized that this new arrangement would never ever work. Great. You can already guess what happens next. Everything moves back. Redecorator's Remorse. It is at times like this that I am almost grateful there is no man in my life. First, his muttering while we rearrange. Then, his shock and horror that it all goes back the next day. Back?!? Yes, back. Like I'm happy about it. Geeze.

But my inner love of floorplans, traffic flow and feng shui was not to be denied. Why not empty one room and reintroduce individual elements to see what happens? It's not hesitancy. It's practically scientific. So one by one, bits of furniture went back into the bedroom. And were dragged about to determine their ideal location. Hey, this looks cool over here. I created this divine new look for my boudoir. It's very Asian, minimalist, and mod. Other folks might go for country home or French flea market style. Mine is Dr. No, back when he still had hands. At least in one room.

The main space remains a repository of the unused items, all the junk I still couldn't bring myself to clean, plus the mishmash of daily living. My key rooms now feature a series of decor styles. The bedroom: very Dr. No. The kitchen: 50's mod with an international flair. The living room: post-tornado. I figure my best options are moving, an indoor tag sale held in one room only, or scheduling a huge dinner party for my most cruel and discerning friends. Hmmmm. You know, I'd love writing the newspaper ad for that tag sale.

Men Who Don't Love Me: The Boots in the Hall

2010-10-10T13:00:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I think that my loneliness is like a distant sound that I feel more than I hear, like thunderstorms on the horizon.

It’s funny what makes you miss a man in your life. But this is one thing that hits me harder than most: his shoes by the door. This pair of boots belongs to an extraordinarily decent guy. So I know he’ll never come within a thousand miles of me. I think I must give off some sort of scent that warns away guys with a sweet nature, like a herd shies away from a wounded member. Now that I think about it, that’s probably just big theoretical talk to cover the fact that I’m woefully unobtrusive. I don’t really attract enough romantic notice for guys to shy away from me. "Is that actually worse," I stop to ask myself and I have no answer.

From time to time I pass through a hallway in the apartment building where Boots makes his home – and this little domestic scene greets me there. For some obscure reason it presses on the bruise of my loneliness in such a painful way. A caption for this springs up in my consciousness: a man lives here. Believe me, there’s nobody’s boots outside my door. My life is completely devoid of the contaminating presence of someone else. The hermetically sealed sterility of my existence is stifling.

On the outside you might take Boots for a classic of his type, all Oakleys and Levi’s with a hefty dollop of team merchandise. Shame on you for not looking more closely. Boots always flashes a killer smile and nods his gratitude when I hold the door while he busily carries in a pizza and groceries, chatting with his girlfriend on the phone. It is an adorable grin, rising along with a decisive uptick of his head, leaving me to imagine how grateful he might be for services more profound than holding the door. Sigh. Concerned priests warn that an idle mind is the devil’s workshop. Heck, I don’t just entertain licentious thoughts. When it comes to Boots, I invite them in for a pitcher of margaritas and a pay-per-view.

Boots glows when you notice the effort he puts into something, reavealing a balky earnest pleasure in your attention. He has sweetly vertical guy handwriting that I cannot bear to heave into the recycling bin and the loose-limbed careless physicality of young men. He is a reminder that real men – because they have nothing to prove by flaunting a bogus dignity – can be endearingly goofy with children. Do other people form attachments out of such unlikely constellations of attributes? When he unexpectedly uses the word “yummy” in a boyish conversational aside, I simply want to marry him, promising to love, honor and prepare chocolate mousse ‘til death do us part.

When he’s embarrassed, Boots blushes a wildly appealing Persian red like the shadow of a rose window falling across his tawny skin. Even below his collarbone you can see the intensifying hue stain his otherwise flawless flesh. (It delights me that I have had the occasion to discover this.) Add to this the fact that he says my name with a husky rolling center and I am a fallen woman. Did I mention that he sings, does laundry and the dishes? All this while remaining blessedly non-Oprahfied, retaining his right to curse, drive trucks and worship the widescreen.

I know women who have come to mistrust men after being mauled by one who was wantonly cruel and manipulative. I cannot help but give more men the benefit of the doubt after meeting Boots and stealing a glimpse of how much sweeter and safer the world could be standing next to him for the rest of my life. Ti adoro.