No Child Left Behind (Me in A Restaurant)

Last night my father and I decided to go out for dinner. And, being that we are in Allentown, our choices were limited to big box chain restaurants. We went in, were greeted half a dozen times by very friendly teenagers and taken to a booth in the bar area.

Seated in the booth behind me was a family -- not really surprising since most of these big box places cater to families. Standing on the bench that shared a divider with me was a little girl, just as cute as can be, blowing raspberries, and screaming and acting as a child that is bored and wants to do something else.

I tried to ignore it. I really did.

Then the child started reaching over the divider for my phone screaming to her mom, “Mommy, what’s that? Mommy, what’s that?”

My smile tightened.

My father was watching the baseball game.

Then the child was standing behind me, blowing raspberries and the thought that her spit was ending up in my hair made me grimace.

The mother continued talking to her friends. My father continued to watch baseball.

Then the child took her toy off the table and started banging it on the divider and then her mother’s head.

The banging got my dad’s attention. He rolled his eyes as I sighed, “seriously?”

The mother, who either heard my not so subtle “Seriously?” or was annoyed by the banging on her head told her daughter to turn around and sit down.

The little girl didn’t and the mother continued her conversation.

I ordered a beer.

If we were in a nicer place, I would have asked the hostess to move us somewhere quieter. However, there was no where quieter in this restaurant. I sighed again, longing for the days when people were allowed to smoke in places like this. Even when I wasn’t smoking, I would always ask for the smoking section -- because the smoking section was always blessedly free of children.

But now that smoking was banned in all public places -- screaming toddlers are everywhere: even at happy hour -- but that is a subject for another blog all together.

Still, this longing for a smoking section got me thinking. What if restaurants started offering a no children section? They could house people like me (with low annoyance tolerances) in the smaller, secluded sections that used to house their smokers. The rest of the place could welcome people that don’t mind screaming kids or mothers and fathers that have the ability to tune out their children.

Now, the Duchess is always talking about our great idea that will make us millions. Well, I am not sure this idea could make me millions, but it is at least as great as the Snuggie -- and so I am sharing it with all of you. Hopefully some courageous restaurateur will read this and start the trend.

When Shopping For A Chastity Belt Do You Use Your Pant’s Size Or Your Panty’s Size?

Someone may have finally convinced me that having sex early in a budding relationship isn’t necessarily a good thing.

No, if wasn’t Rachel Greenwald of Why He Didn’t Call You Back fame. I am still struggling through her book that reads like an economics text -- complete with supply and demand charts and equations to solve for scarcity. I wonder if she thinks by using big, fancy words her readers will be tricked into thinking she is smart and thus right. Don’t worry readers, I won’t be so easily fooled.

It is a contributor to Psychology Today that has me shopping for chastity belts.

Bridie brought this month’s issue with her to the shore, suggesting I read the article “Five Dating Shake-Ups for Singles; you know for blog fodder, not my personal use. My dating life is fine and doesn’t need any shaking up.

Oh, and before you ask, yes having a best friend that is also a mental health therapist totally rocks. For one thing, whenever my family is acting really crazy, I can call her and she can confirm that I am indeed sane.

So I read the article, at the pool mind you, and no as off putting as that may sound, no one approached me.

As the title suggests these five steps are ways to get you out of your dating rut. The author admits that there is no one formula to finding the one and states that if you are struggling, here are five reasons that could explain why.

The first shake-up is my favorite “Get Out The *%#$&C*# Door.” It seems so simple, but really, I have been complaining (not to you obviously but to my friends) about how hard it is to meet anyone. Then I think back to the last week or so and I realize that most of my nights have been spent in my apartment watching TV. And while I have developed special feelings for one of the special agents on NCIS, I am pretty sure he will never reciprocate these feelings.

The second I have read before (though I can’t remember where -- they are all starting to blend together) -- that we must stop being so choosy or choosing the wrong ones. Mind you -- the word is choosy, not picky. The blames lies in our over abundance of options -- from online dating to speed dating to meeting people in bars. Men and women have gone from settling (which is bad) to waiting for the unrealistic (which is also bad).

The fourth was never my problem, “Heed Early Clues to Character.” I am a big fan of breaking up after one red flag or three yellow flags. The fifth “Push Yourself Out of Your Patterns” clearly doesn’t apply to me as we have already discussed, I need more rules and patterns, not less.

And I admit, I rolled my eyes at the third shake-up: “Don’t Fall In Love With Love” and almost skipped it. I know girls like this and let me tell you I am not one of them. About halfway through, I did another eye roll when a doctor starts talking about heeding your mother’s advice and not jumping into bed with someone too soon into the relationship.

Why? I wanted to scream. But he said nothing about cows or milk so I kept reading.

According to John Van Epp, author of How Not to Marry a Jerk our brains release oxytocin during sex that spurs bonding and feelings of connection. So early on in a relationship, oh say date three, when you may still be unsure if you like this guy or girl, having sex with him or her may make you think there is more there, there.

I threw the magazine down in my lap. Crap, this part sounded familiar.

See, I have often wondered, when it came to Wharton, if I really liked him or if I really liked having sex with him. I mean, duh, I know I liked having sex with him. My question is was it ever anything more. Had we waited, would we have ever made it to that level or by having sex with him did I jump from my fence of indecision (you know the one that butts up against the land of disinterest) to firmly in the land of like.

Unfortunately there is no way back to the fence. At least there wasn’t for me. Once I was in the land of like it was all emotions and confusion and orgasms and before I knew it I was hurt by a guy that I wasn’t even sure I could like-like before I slept with him.

And as I am never one to repeat the same mistake twice (once I admit it is a mistake,that is. If I think I am right, hell, I will keep going until some doctor in a magazine proves me wrong), I guess I am going to have to reconsider my third date’s the charm policy.

Get The Eff Away From Me

Every single-girl has been asked at one time or another, “How is it that you are still single?”

Well, over the Fourth of July holiday, I found my answer.

I am completely unapproachable.

As you know we were at Salty’s place at the shore. And as no visit to North Wildwood would be complete without a trip to Keenan’s, we started our Friday night off there.

We weren’t there for five minutes when we settled on a spot and were trying to decide if we wanted to hang out or if we should move on after that round. While discussions were going on, a 15 year-old who must have used her cousin's ID to get into the place, reached around me (yes she was standing next to me) to tap Bridie on the shoulder (Bridie was sitting on the other side of me), leaned across me and asked, “Would you mind taking our picture?”

Bridie and I both turned to see five or six other teenagers standing behind us. Bridie looked at me, got down off her bar stool and accepted the girl’s camera.

I had to moved so Bridie could stand where I was standing to take the picture.

The girls all thanked her and Bridie turned back to our group. “Did that girl really just reach around you, into our circle to pick me to take her picture?”

“Right? Why wouldn’t she just ask me? I was waiting for her to.”

Then there was silence as it seemed my friends finally had the opportunity to tell me what has been bothering them for some time now. Pepper was the first to speak. “I guess you are just unapproachable.”

What? Me?

At first I thought this was complete crap. After all, I am approached all the time. Just the other day I was waiting for the El to Center City when a woman that could only speak four words of English (Chinatown, thank, you and eleven -- and actually I think I taught her eleven) asked me which train would take her and her friend to Chinatown. She then thanked me a dozen or so times, even after I put my iPod back on and her friend found someone on the train that could speak Chinese.

Which is when it occurred to me -- most of the times that I am approached, I am trying to avoid talking to people. And just like The Rules Girls told me the way to catch a man is by acting as if you can’t stand him, I think the key to being approachable is looking as if you might get sick if someone were to come up and talk to you.

So this weekend I think I am going to take Pepper to a bar (because she offered to grade me on my approachability) along with my iPod and a book with a scary title like Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women, and just sit there and scowl.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

A Bikini For Everybody

I wear bikinis. Not because I have a smokin’ hot body that I love to show off -- I have what Match.com calls an “athletic build.” No, I wear bikinis because I have a very short torso and one piece suits make me look like an over-sized toddler.

The thing is, I never looked good in a bikini either. But I just faked the confidence, knowing that there was always going to be someone that looked worse than me in a bikini nearby and if there wasn’t, my friends and family would love me despite my thick thighs and tummy rolls.

I didn’t go into Victoria’s Secret looking for a new bikini. I went in looking for a pretty bra that didn’t have padding or underwire. As you know, I have a small chest and I think one of the benefits of such should be not enduring such hardships during the dog days of summer.

Unfortunately, it seems most bra manufacturers disagree. I can find pretty bras that are so well padded they stand up on their own or comfortable no frills bras that are not cute and really are almost embarrassingly ugly.

So, after the sales girl tried to sell me on a matronly looking bra that almost met my requirements (“this isn’t padding so much as it’s lining”), I wandered over to the bathing suit section. Earlier I had purchased a strapless dress and thought it would be nice to find a strapless bikini that would help get rid of my halter top tan lines.

I found two with potential. I walked to the back of the store to the dressing rooms.

I put on the first bikini; a yellow number with crazy strings that cross and tie in the back. I was skeptical, but tried it on anyway figuring if it looked ridiculous I might feel better about myself in the second one -- a very typical bandeau style top in bright pink.

To my surprise, I didn’t hate it. I turned and looked at my rear and still didn’t hate it. I let out my gut (I had been sucking it in up to this point) and still didn’t hate it. I decided I had to still be high from the five miles I ran that morning and so I pulled it off to try on the next one.

But I didn’t love the second bikini. It made me look and feel the same way all my other bikinis did. My waist looked too thick as did my thighs. I pulled it off and put the yellow one back on.

Miraculously my body transformed back into one that I could be proud of. I twisted and turned some more, smiling at what I saw. Can you believe it? I was in a dressing room, in a bathing suit, smiling.

Sure I have read (and memorized) all the magazine articles about finding the perfect two piece to match your body. I just never believed them. But here I was standing in a skimpy two-piece looking forward to wearing it in public.

And I did. Of course, by public I merely mean in front of Salty, the Duchess and Bridie at Salty’s pool in North Wildwood. But still, my confidence never faltered nor did it ever have to be faked. Now I am thinking about going online and buying a couple more of this exact suit. Just in case I never find this sort of happiness with a bikini again.

Rave Run

On the last page of Runner’s World they feature a famous runner; not a runner that is famous for running (those people are on their cover) but famous people that also run. A while back Tom Cavanagh was one of these runners. For those of you that don’t know, Tom is on some show on TNT about an ad agency that is not Mad Men. He was also Ed on my old favorite show Ed.

So, Tom said he thinks the best way to see a new city is to run through it. He mentions that once, when he was on location, he was somewhere near water (I can’t remember all the details) and, while running along the beach, he came across an old shipwreck. He adds that he would have never seen that if he weren’t a runner.

Two years ago I ran the New York City Marathon. I have been to NYC a dozen times, but until I ran through all five boroughs, I had no idea just how wonderful a town New York really is.

I’m in Allentown again (what can I say, mom needs more help around the house and she pays me in dresses and shoes) and because I have started training for the San Francisco Women’s Marathon, I have had to run through my old stomping grounds.

Today, I chose to run through the Parkway (kids from A-town know what I am talking about). It is hilly and hidden by a lot of trees and follows a creek that the county stocks with trout every season. The trail is used by mountain bikers, walkers, dog owners and a lot of runners.

So there I was, being passed by some high school kids, enjoying the cool air that all the trees created and the fat man standing in the creek, fishing and smoking. I was dodging horse dung (did I mention that the trail is also used for horseback riding) and snakes (no not skeevy guys that turn to check out your rear as you cross paths, but actual snakes) when I heard shots ring out.

Oh right, I forgot to tell you -- the trail also runs by a state police barracks where there is a gun range.

It sounded like automatic weapon fire, but I couldn’t be certain. I was once out with a guy that could name the type of gun by the sound of it. He was from Nebraska. After I picked myself up off of the gravel path and brushed off my scraped knees, I almost wished he was there to tell me what the officers were shooting.

The best part of this whole scene, the beautiful woods, the green lawns, the serene fishermen and the families walking dogs, was that I was the only one startled. I was the only one that hit the deck (okay, not really, but almost).

I am also wiling to bet I was the only one that ever lived in North Philly.

If Ed, err, I mean Tom, were to run in my hometown that is what I would hope he would take away from it. That at times it can be absolutely breathtaking and frightening at the same time.

A Very Productive Trip To Borders

So I have officially run through the relationship books my mother has purchased for me. Well, maybe not really. I thought there was one more, written ages ago by three successful men giving it to women straight about what they want in a mate, but I can’t find it. I swear I lent it to Lana, but she says she doesn’t have it.

Worse, from what I remember of the book (yes, it was another one that Bridie and I may have paged through while drinking wine at the old apartment) is was really good. Of course by really good I mean it was three self-important men telling me I am not good enough to even look at them but maybe, maybe, if I read this book, take their advice and am lucky, one day I will be worthy of them.

However, I didn’t want to leave you readers without something to laugh about, so I ventured down to the Borders on Broad Street to see what their Sex and Relationships section had for me.

When I walked in, a man standing at the door handing me a sheet of coupons. I crossed my fingers that there would be one for self-help books, but sadly there wasn’t. There was a $2 off coupon for all fiction, and so I started there. I can always use another fiction book.

After cruising through the many literature aisles, I finally settled on Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera (I have been meaning to read it for some time). I then made the long escalator trek up to the third floor.

The Sex and Relationship section is in the way back and while it says it is organized by author, I got the impression that it was organized by subject matter -- finding a man, keeping a man, keeping your man happy, getting over your man, having sex with your man, and at the very end a small group of books about being happy with yourself (personally I think these should be at the start of the section).

It made me smile, as I started to search the finding a man section, that there were shelves and shelves of the Steve Harvey book not being purchased.

I continued browsing, wondering if I should call my mom and ask her how one goes about buying a relationship book. None of the titles really appealed to me and all the covers looked a lot alike. Then I saw a bright pink cover that stood out from the others -- mostly because I had seen it before -- Why He Didn’t Call You Back.

I remember seeing this scut on the Today Show telling me about how she runs a matchmaking service and how she interviewed thousands of guys after first dates with her clients to research this book.

It is on, I thought, as I picked up the book and skipped back down to the first floor.

There was no line at the registers, so I walked right up to the one-third nerd that was behind the counter. He asked me if I needed any gift cards or gift receipts and I said no. He then took my books and scanned them. He looked up at me and asked again if I needed a gift receipt. This told me one of two things. Either I don’t look smart enough to read Love in the Time of Cholera or I don’t look like someone who needs Why He Didn’t Call You Back.

And while I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I was wearing a smart looking trench coat and my hair pulled back in a bun. So I am going with the latter.

If We Were To Touch Would We Collapse The Space/Time Continuum?

It’s confession time again, kiddies.

As you all know I have been rowing. Not only have I enjoyed unleashing my inner competitor, I have enjoyed the camaraderie of being on a team again. There is just something absolutely wonderful about starting your day with a workout followed by fifteen minutes of people telling how great you are and what a terrific job you did and how they can’t wait to see you at the next practice.

It is almost as addictive as crack. Not that I know anything about being addicted to crack. I just hear things.

So this past weekend I got to race with these women (we won) and after, some of the women decided we had earned pancakes. We were in Princeton and stopped on the main drag at PJ’s Pancakes.

I was the youngest person at the table. The other women ranged in ages from mid-thirties to mid-sixties. Only one of them was married.

I couldn’t help but smile as these women talked about the race and the other women that were there and the other boats we beat and, of course, the men that we all saw. Then they talked about our boat and making it faster, the politics of the boathouse and eventually they moved on to talk about their own lives and what they would be doing the rest of the day and the rest of the week.

Why was I smiling? I mean sure, there were parts that were funny. But mostly I was smiling because for 30 minutes I was not even a little bit afraid of growing old single.

Yes, I am admitting that I am scared of growing old alone. Sometimes, the fear is just a little, shy voice I can easily silence. Rarely, it is a loud, cackling, evil sounding person that keeps me up at night, reminding that I am terrified of cats -- which is why it is so funny that I am headed straight down the road to becoming the crazy cat lady.

It is easy to talk a good game when making fun of the jerks that write relationship self-help books and the idiots that read them. But the truth is it scares me at times too.

I worry about what happens when I am the last single girl standing. What happens when my girlfriends can’t spend all night at a new bar getting their drinks paid for by 25 year-olds anymore? What do I do then? Find younger, single friends to hang with at the bars? Will I ever get tired of spending my nights (and money) at bars, meeting guys I know will never call?

I rode back to Philly with one of the women from the boat. She is tall like me, with naturally blonde hair like me, she grew up outside of the city like me, and our coach has commented that we would make perfect pair partners because we have nearly identical strokes. He even went so far as to suggest we could be sisters -- even if we are more than 20 years different in age.
I will call this woman Senior -- as in the senior version of me.

After a few moments of silence, Senior commented on how good the food was, and I agreed. Then she noted that I didn’t eat a lot (see, Senior also likes to look out for me). Then she added that it must of been a lot of fun for me to sit at a table listening to a bunch of old ladies gossip (the women in the boat love to call themselves old).

I laughed and said, “Actually, I really enjoyed it.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “I remember when I was your age and would see women my age and would just shudder to think that I would ever be like them. Now I am them.”

I disagreed. “No, really. I mean, I know there is a good chance I will be fifty and single one day, and it sometimes scares me. But sitting with you guys, I wasn’t scared. I realized there is still so much life to be lived.”

And there is. Senior owns her own home, drives a really nice car and to hear her tell it, has really come into her own in her forties and now fifties. She doesn’t worry about the little things that used to bother her so much and she is just really focused on making herself happy. If that means breaking it off with her boyfriend of eight months because he wasn’t capable of giving her what she needs, then so be it.

I breathed in deep and decided growing up to be Senior was not a terrible thing.

It is certainly nothing to be afraid of.