The Perfect Day

Rarely have I experienced absolute perfection in my life, but it happened to me today.

We took a parasailing trip today. There I was on a boat in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. I had already taken my turn, so my nausea had passed. It was sunny, warm, but not hot, and the boat skipped along the gentle sea. I sat at the bow, my back to water, and looked at group I took the trip with -- people from my mom’s work. They were all smiling, laughing, taking pictures and planning the rest of their days.

It could have been a scene from a J.Crew catalog -- except none of our models were starving. Just then, Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours” (a personal favorite) came on the boat’s stereo and the captain turned it up just a bit.

There it was -- perfection. Even my outfit felt right for the occasion. It was as if some cosmic Martin Scorsese had planned it all. I relaxed back into the sea breeze and tried to just enjoy it, because I knew it wouldn’t last forever.

And, of course, it didn’t. The song ended, the trip ended and back in the hotel room, as I logged onto my computer to upload my pictures from the day, there it was, sitting in my inbox -- the last of my grad school rejection letters.

I doubt even Marty could have planned it so perfectly.

Tales from the Caribbean Islands

I was standing in front of a mirror this week, in a bikini, thinking to myself, man, if only I were 10 pounds thinner, I would look awesome in this bikini.

And then I laughed. Because last year, at about this time, I was 10 pounds thinner and no, I didn’t think I looked awesome in a bikini. Actually I thought pretty much the same thing -- if only I were 10 pounds thinner. I started to wonder -- how much of my life have I spent wishing I was thinner?

I’m in Aruba with my folks -- I know my life is so hard -- it is a trip they take almost every year with a group of people with whom my mother works. In this group of 30 or so people, my parents are on the younger side of the median age. I didn't mind being the youngest person on the trip, however, because I love old people.

I remember once, in bed with Wharton, we were talking about an assignment I had to interview this 80-something-year-old man that just finished a novel. I remarked that I was really looking forward to meeting him because I love old people. Wharton rolled his eyes and said, “yeah, right.”

But, I actually meant it. I really do like old people. Old people, and perhaps that is not the nicest way to label them but I’m sticking with it, have a really grounded sense of reality. They have lived through so much. They know what is important and what doesn’t matter.

Not to mention they have the greatest stories.

So, after a couple of minutes staring at all my least favorite parts, I pulled on my cover-up, turned off the lights, grabbed by bag and headed for the pool. On my way, I stopped at the float/fresh towels hut. See, it was hot as balls already, though, because I was in paradise there was a warm, gentle breeze, so I decided instead of frying myself on a lounge chair, I would bake while floating in the pool.

I set up a base camp and breathed a huge sigh of relief that the pool was blessedly free of children. In fact, it was completely empty. I looked around at all the other sun bathers as I slowly took off my white linen sweater and picked up my float.

I laid on top of the water, with my eyes clothes, repeating my mantra, “tan fat is cuter than pale fat” when two old biddies that were sitting on nearby chaises started talking. “Oh, doesn’t that look refreshing,” said Biddy One.

“Oh, that’s Natasha’s daughter,” replied Biddy Two.

Biddy One then sat up and looked closer. “Oh, you know, you’re right. She looks just like her mother.”

“You should go get a float and join her,” offered Biddy Two.

Biddy One replied, “Oh yeah right. Maybe if I had a body like hers I wouldn’t mind showing it off like that. But I think I’ll stay right here.”

I had to smile. Not just because of what she said, but because I knew she was right. Well, sort of. I knew that when I'm her age, I will look back to this vacation and wish I still had this body that was so disgusting to me earlier that morning. I relaxed into my float and stopped comparing myself to all the other woman that were hanging around.

A couple of hours later I even felt good enough to walk to the bar without my cover-up. Of course that could have been the three pina coladas I had.

Where Did I Put that Push-Up Sports Bra?

Ladies, have you ever noticed how many catcalls you receive when you are working out? Well, I have. I will be out for a run, sweaty and gross, no make-up, hair pulled into a bushy ponytail (that gets bushier by the minute because of all the sweating I am doing) wearing running pants or shorts and a sports bra that makes me flatter than I naturally am and all these guys will be giving me double takes or slowing their cars down to smile at me.

All the attention makes me worry that there is a hole in my pants or I have sweat so much one can now see through my top because it never occurs to me that I look good -- though maybe it should.

See, Theresa and I were out enjoying a couple of adult beverages on an especially lovely afternoon recently when two girls walked in wearing running shorts, tank tops with built-in sports bras, their hair pulled back into ponytails and running shoes. Now, they were also wearing make-up and jewelry and carrying pocketbooks so it was clear to Theresa and I that they didn’t just come from a workout, but that didn’t matter to the men in the bar. These two girls in workout clothes were the female equivalent of a tall man sitting in the park reading poetry with a puppy at his feet.

Now Theresa and I aren’t ugly. Truth be told, Theresa is hot and I’m at least a six, but as we sat there not a single guy approached us. These two girls, sans their Nike shorts, were nothing special, but guys were tripping over themselves to talk to the two of them.

This got me thinking. Was this just a matter of having an opening or was there something bigger going on here? Are men wired in some weird way to pant heavily whenever they see sweat-wicking fabric in neon shades of pink? Is there some magical, hypnotic quality to the ponytail? And if this is the case, why do I spend so much time getting ready to go out and torture myself wearing uncomfortable, strappy wedges and a dress that is just a shade too tight, when I could be wearing yoga pants and sneakers?

I mean, I know Clinton and Stacy would never approve, but landing a boyfriend (or even a date) would make my mom and dad (not to mention my friends) very happy.

You Can Only Be After One Thing, Old Man

There has been a lot of discussion about online dating in my circle of friends recently. And one of the questions that came up was whether or not to put your age on your dating profile. While one would never want to lie about one’s age, there is a certain stigma attached to women of a certain age. Specifically, that women in their late 30s are desperately looking to get married as soon as possible so that they can have kids before it’s too late.

Or, as one drunk guy friend of ours slurred so eloquently, women over the age of 35 are “aging out of the system.”

Being under 35 I have noticed a different sort of phenomenon. A lot of much older, single, never married with no kids (if you are to believe their profiles) have been poking and winking and sending me ice breakers even though my profile clearly states I am looking for someone closer to my own age.

At first, I just thought this was another case of older men thinking they are much hotter than they really are and looking for someone much younger than them to play into that delusion. But then I started to really think about it and focus on those words: Single. Never married. No kids.

Huh. Could it be we are seeing a whole crop of male grasshoppers that sang and played all summer and are now scrambling for a home to keep them warm and safe for the long cold winter?

Stay with me here. These guys, some of whom were closer in age to my dad than there were to me, are sending me e-mails, trying to sell themselves as young and fit and fun, but really how much can we possibly have in common when there is close to a 20 year age difference? Why aren’t they trying to find someone closer to their own age that they might have more in common with? Could it be because they have decided that 50 is a good age to settle down and have kids, but unfortunately women their own age can’t give that to them and so they must seek the company of younger women -- in some cases, much younger women?

I was out with Theresa and Marie, both of whom wanted to know how my online dating life was going. I told them about these old guys and added, “Here’s the thing. I’m not sure I want kids. But if I did, I wouldn’t want to have them with a much older man.”

Is that terrible of me to say? Maybe. But I’m just trying to be practical. If I go out with a guy that is 50, today, by the time we have a kid, he’ll be what? 52? 55? Which means, by the time our kid is graduating from high school my husband would be in his 70s.

Not to mention the whole sexual aspect of it. Let’s pretend he is a really hot 50-something (and yes, there are some of you out there). All the erectile dysfunction ads on TV lead me to believe there is a good chance he might not be able to perform without a little help. And what if he has a heart attack while we are, you know, doing it? My mom knows a lot of doctors and nurses in the area and they know me -- not to mention the ones I dated at one time or another. How embarrassing would it be to walk in an emergency room and see Dr. Bill, a guy that I thought I could love my whole life? What would I say? "Oh, hey, Dr. Bill. Yeah, that's my boyfriend. Yeah, he's a lot older. Oh, no, he's not supporting me and before you ask, no he didn't pay for my breasts to be augmented -- it's the new bra from Victoria's Secret. Oh, right, well, we were doing it and he had a heart attack and (reading from the back of the box) I'm suppose to advise you not to use nitroglycerin because he took a little blue pill just before we got to making the beast with two backs.

Yes, this is how my brain works and, yeah, okay, maybe this is why I am still single. But on a going forward basis, I will now assume when a guy, over a certain age, who has never been married tries to pick me up that he is desperate to get married and have kids because he is aging out of the system.

Stalking Stewart Bradley

I’m thinking about becoming a stalker. Hear me out.

You all know I have been really bored since finishing the novel. And once my synopsis is written it really will be nothing more than a waiting game. I can’t really do much because doing things costs money and so I have been trying to come up with something to do with all my free time.

So, I was sitting in the coffee shop, working on a release when I was alerted to a new Tweet. I Apple+tabbed over and lo and behold it was from Stewart Bradley asking which is better -- fruit flavored candy or chocolate. I’ll admit I was a bit disappointed as I returned to my release. I was hoping for more of a diversion than that. But then I started to think about answering him.

Now, because I have a touch of crazy in my family I really had to pause and think about this in ways most people wouldn’t. Most people would giggle (if they were a girl like me) and try to come up with something pithy or clever or sexy to say in response. Not me. I had to sit there and ask myself, “What would Bridie say?” And by “say” I don’t mean what would she say in response to Stewart, but what would she say to me when I told her this story.

Would she laugh? Would she ask me what the hell I was doing on Twitter? Would she tilt her head, grimace and ask, “Really?”

I shrugged my shoulder and decided she would probably ask, “Who is Stewart Bradley?” and decided it was okay to respond to him. For the record, my response was neither pithy or clever or sexy. Because as I responded a stroke of brilliance hit me.

I could start stalking Stewart Bradley.

I mean, how hard could it be? I start on Twitter -- responding every time he posts. Following everyone he follows and everyone that follows him. Then I could start hanging out in the “clubs” in Old City -- a friend told me that is where the Eagles' players like to hang out. Then, because I will probably have to move back to Allentown when my unemployment runs out (and I doubt stalking would pay the bills at first), I can hang out at the Lehigh practice field during training camp, wearing a number 55 bikini.

And here where the brilliant part comes in -- as I get better and better at stalking, you know once Stewart has blocked me on Twitter and filed for a restraining order against me, the world will be my oyster. I'll be offered my own reality show on E!, followed by a clothing line from a discount chain and then, finally, my very own book deal.

Sure it isn’t the most direct or obvious route to getting published, but I like to think outside the box. Besides, it is much more interesting than waiting by my mailbox for rejection letters.

It's War

My Mailbox is Taunting Me.

And not in a How-I-Got-Into-College sort of way. There aren't two men living inside, giving me crazy math problems every time I open it. Crazy math problems I can handle -- give me a graphing calculator and the Pythagorean theorem and there isn’t a velocity problem I can’t solve. But this -- this is just torture.

It started the other day. Now, typically my mailman comes between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. so I try to distract myself in the morning so I don’t go nuts. Sometimes that means running all my errands or obsessively cleaning my house or sitting in the coffee shop working.

Most days, however, it means simply sleeping until 10 a.m. and then watching TV until I hear the front door open and the rattle of the mailboxes being filled.

But on this day, I had gotten up early, ran errands and then went to the coffee shop. I opened my front door, casually turned to my mailbox, opened it and spied a thick envelop sitting all by itself.

“Oh, would you look at that. A thick envelop. That has to be good news.” My mailbox cooed.

I smiled, gingerly lifted the envelop and turned it over. Would today really be the day I got to send a mass text message to my friends and family letting them know my suffering was over.

Nope. It was from the IRS. For the record, a thick envelop from the IRS is never good news.

My mailbox laughed.

I scowled.

The next day was one of those days that I just stayed in bed -- which is understandable considering the events of the day before and all the alcohol I drank the previous night. I heard the call of the mailbox from my bedroom which was the only reason I got out of bed.

Two magazines -- InStyle and Women’s Health. As I was shutting the door my mailbox cackled, “I dog-eared that ‘Lose Belly Fat Now” article for you.” Later, when I finally had the energy to page through the magazines, I found an envelop tucked into the spine of my InStyle. Of course the back was facing me giving me hope that I was about to learn my fate from another school, but no, it was just a bill. I shook my fist in the general direction of my mailbox. After all, who else could be responsible for this.

The next day brought more bills.

The following day, as I put my key into my box, it smiled. “There’s an envelop in here from Cornell.”

As I whipped it open, it laughed, “Oh, but it’s a thin one.”

I slammed him shut and ran back into my apartment. There is no way I would let my mailbox see me cry.

Yesterday, I had been running errands all morning and was feeling pretty good about myself in general as I approached my nemesis.

“I’m pretty full, today,” it mocked.

I opened the door and started flipping through all the items. No letters from any schools, but a bunch of catalogs.

“Nothing good?”

I glared up at it.

“What about the J.Crew catalog? You love J.Crew.”

I closed the door.

“Oh, right. You don’t have a job, so you can’t buy anything.” It laughed.

I started to walk away.

“And you have a tax bill,” it laughed harder.

“Well then you don’t want to look at the last page of the Macy’s Super Shoe Spectacular circular.” It was laughing so hard tears were coming down the front of it. I could still hear it laughing at me in my kitchen where I threw the catalogs into the recycling bin.

Yesterday, however, it went too far.

I was sitting at my computer in the kitchen (my makeshift office since it started raining in my real office the other day and I haven’t moved everything back in place yet) when I heard the unmistakable sounds of the mailman. I waited my requisite 15 second after listening to the front door close, got up, grabbed my keys and went to face off with the evil in the vestibule.

“Oh, hey, Tati. How are you?”

“I’m good, Mailbox. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

I should have known something was afoot. I opened it and it was completely empty. My face fell.

“What’s the matter?”

I bit my lip.

“Oh, were you expecting the new W with Jen and Gerry? I know. I was disappointed too when it didn’t show up today.”

I looked up at the mailbox.

“Oh. Oh. You were expecting a check.”

I swallowed hard. “Ne. Well, yes, but that’s not it.”

“Right. You still haven’t heard from all those schools yet. Well, maybe tomorrow.”

I narrowed my eyes, closed the door and walked back to my computer.

Half an hour later the front door opened again, the mailbox jostled again and then the front door opened and closed -- again.

I stood up and walked to the front door. “Mailbox? Who was that?”

“The mailman.”

I could almost hear the laughter in its voice.

“Then who was that earlier?”

“Your neighbor.”

I let out a deep breath, grabbed my keys and stomped to the foyer. Great, I thought, my mailbox recruited Mutt and Jeff (my downstairs neighbors) to assist in its terror plot. I swung the door open and saw a lonely piece of paperboard.

“Oh, what, another piece junk mail? I’m so sorry.” It said in a completely insincere tone.

I turned the announcement over. “No, actually,” I looked up. “It’s a coupon from For Eyes.” I showed my mailbox the notice. “35 percent off contacts. This rocks. Thanks, Mailbox.” I grinned and closed the door.

I could see steam coming out from its top.

A small victory, mind you, but right now I will take whatever I can get.

Are Guys Pigs Or Are Some Girls Asking For It?

Before I begin, let me just state for the record that by, “asking for it,” I’m not talking about rape. I am a very firm believer that no matter what a woman is wearing, she is never asking for a man to force himself on her.

That being said, I am beginning to wonder that maybe, sometimes, women are asking to be ogled, even treated like pieces of meat.

It was Friday at 5:00 p.m. on the corner of 18th and Market Streets. For those of you that don’t live in Philadelphia, it was cloudy, rainy, windy and approximately 40 degrees. I was hiding in a corner of a building, doing my best to protect myself from the wind, sipping a cup of hot tea I just picked up at the Fourbucks, when a woman turned the corner and brushed by me.

In her heels she was about an inch or so taller than me, so 5’10” (I was slouching). She was wearing a tank dress that was so short, it barely covered her ass. It was so short (and tight) that as she walked up 18th Street she was holding down the hem so it wouldn’t inch up. If it did inch up, she would have been committing a crime. But that wasn’t even the worst part. She was a triple-D or a double-E (when they get that big it is hard for me to tell) and the scoop in the front was doing nothing to hold those girls in place. In fact, really the only thing the dress was doing was covering her nipples. I wish I could tell you what her face looked like, but as I explained to Salty later, I couldn’t see past her boobs.

As I stood there, aghast, I noticed I wasn’t the only one. Women were fighting their umbrellas against the wind to stop and stare. Men were hitting each other in the arms to make sure they saw what they were seeing. I turned away, shaking my head and smiling, only to see one guy stopped, almost paralyzed, staring, hoping that she would lose her grip on her hem and he would catch a glimpse of more of her. Another man stopped and asked, “Did you catch that?” He nodded, “I’m still catching it.” Then they both watched her walk into the wind tunnel.

But not before the second guy said, “You know that girl over there totally knows what you are doing.” That girl over there, was me.

The first guy shook his head and said, “I don’t care.”

And thus, the internal struggle begins. The feminist side of me wanted to scream -- she’s not a piece of meat you pig and defend this stranger's right to wear whatever she felt like without be objectified. But then the pragmatist in me stepped in and said, “Tati, let’s be real here.” After all, she wasn’t wearing that outfit for comfort. It was freezing and the skirt was so short and tight she had to hold it in place -- from experience I know that that isn’t comfortable.

So she was looking for attention. And there is nothing wrong with that. But then one can’t get upset when men stop and gawk as you walk down the street. See, it’s a lot like planting flowers in your backyard. Yes, they are pretty and smell nice and make it so much lovelier out there when you are enjoying your morning coffee. Sadly, though they also bring bees. You have to take the good with the bad.

Of course, in this instance, she could have avoided all the onlookers had she simply put on a coat. She would have also prevented that cold I am sure she caught walking around like that in the cold, wet weather. But I’m not her mother.