Buying a bathing suit: Somehow, I feel that I don’t have to say another word. And yet I must.
Certain adjectives come springingly to mind: dreaded, humiliating, humbling (not exactly the same as humiliating), life-negating, tiring, stressful. Please feel free to join in!
There are nouns, too: Disaster, disappointment, defeat, compromise, frustration, failure, basket case.
The sentences are worse than an undeserved prison term:
I came, I tried, I wept.
I came, I saw myself in the 3-way mirror, I fled.
I came, I saw a lot of suits, none of them fit.
And that's not the whole horrible story . . .
|
|
My alleged book club (we are a hard group to get on the same page) is reading Madame Bovary. Or trying to. Geez Louise, it’s dense! FYI, the name of our little group is the Geez Louise International Book Club, or GLIB. We do have a Louise, and we once had an international member, but she has returned to Italy. Was it something we read?
Anyway, the author Gustave Flaubert was constantly asked the question, Who is Madame Bovary? Was she based on a real person —his sometime mistress, perhaps? A totally fictional character —his less-than ideal woman? Mais non, he said, she is none of these! Pressed beyond endurance, he gave his infamous answer: Madame Bovary, c’est moi.
It’s me? I mean, it’s him? Really? Nobody seems to know what that means: Does Emma represent everyman, er, woman? (He can't have meant it literally, could he?) Maybe it doesn't mean anything: he must have been sick and tired of discussing that book when all his others were being virtually ignored, and could have just said something to shut us all up. We’ll never know. But I was listening to a tape last night about the world’s greatest novels (Sorry, Gustave, but Bovary really was your best shot), which discussed Emma’s faults — her fatal flaws, actually — that led directly to her really nasty downfall.
Unfortunately, her sins sound very familiar. A lot like mine. Yikes! And maybe like yours . . .
|
|
I saw it on a Dr. Phil show, so it must be true. There’s a syndrome, I don’t remember the name, whereby something in the future seems like a good idea, but when it gets closer, not so much. The show was about marriage and the men who avoid it, but my complex is about curtains. (Where is Jill Zarin when you need her?) Or, more broadly, it's about decorating.
When we moved into this apartment, we planned a “Before” and “After” party. We threw the first one before the furniture had arrived (more room for dancing and carrying on), with pictures pinned on the walls showing what would end up where (a Tiffany lamp here, an Oriental rug there, some bookcases by the fireplace).
We even had a contest for the best decorating tip, with a bottle of champagne as the prize. The winner was: a lap pool in the hallway between the bedrooms. Great idea, but it never happened.
And as you may have guessed, neither did the “After” party . . .
|
|
I almost didn’t post anything today, because I’ve been too busy shopping on line for shoes. Why would someone with more shoes than Imelda Marcos need more? If you’re a woman, I don’t have to explain. But why would someone in Manhattan, the home of Shoe Mania, literally, use the Internet for shoes? Two words (and a fraction): 6½ Narrow.
Yes, there are size 6½ shoes out there, and yes, Virginia, there are narrow widths (is that an oxymoron?), but rarely, if ever, do they occur in the same shoe. Almost never in styles that you'd actually want to wear. A recent visit to E-Bay (I was truly desperate) produced hundreds of shoes, but exactly one in 6½N. A lizard-like number in a pink, green, and yellow pattern. Just what I needed!
What I need are the shoes that every other woman in New York seems to have: easygoing black slides, sandals and sling backs, colorful flats. What I have is a closetful of not-quite-right or downright awful shoes purchased in desperation. Plus a handful (footful?) of real winners, worn to a pulp, which will never be thrown out in my lifetime. Ironic, isn’t it, that someone who has so much trouble finding shoes has so many. But life is nothing if not ironic, don't you think . . .
|
|
Who are Larry & Chuck?
I have absolutely no idea, although I’ve been wracking my brains all morning. But there it is — on a cute little orange post-it: "Larry and Chuck," with "2nd" written under the names.
I’d better figure it out soon because it’s on my calendar for today.
This post-it could mean anything, and trust me, that I can’t think of any Larry & Chuck in my life is totally irrelevant. "2nd" could be second floor. Where? In my building? At my gym? Somewhere in this vast and varied city? Maybe I made an appointment to look at wholesale leather jackets in the garment district, and Larry and Chuck are my guys. Maybe not. I haven’t had a contact there in years, and the mediocre quality of my current jacket proves it.
Could it be a TV show? Yeah, but not even I would write 2nd, rather than Channel 2. Or chan2, which I could interpret as “change to.” Change to what? One thing it can’t be is the 2nd of the month, because it's "posted" on the 9th. Looks like I'm going to miss the whole thing. Whatever the whole thing is . . .
|
|
|
|