Remember me?

Just got back from my alma mater, touring with my beloved niece and sister. What a step back in time. And while I was there I ran into a couple of my old professors. Who actually remembered me! How can that be? I wonder if they keep file cards and quiz themselves periodically to keep their memories alive.

All of a sudden I remembered that there were tons of good times in college and it wasn't all that lousy last semester of senior year when I quit everything and crawled into bed for four months and no one really noticed. By the time I graduated, I had no desire to see any of the people who plainly weren't seeing me. Which is just so dramatic, as you can be at 21.

Now I regret losing touch with everyone. It's one thing to be a spinster miss. It's another thing entirely to be a hermit miss.

That was not part of the plan.

As a result, I've joined a social group of like-minded individual and attending my first gathering tomorrow. Gulp.

And I'm resolved to remember the happier times, get out into the greater world, and not get all Miss Havishammy and dwell on the relatively small speed bumps live has dealt me.

Fall-ing

Man, I love fall when it's scenic and crisp and filled with tasty apples and dogs in cute sweaters. Already, the pressure of daily leg shaving has abated and I actually snuck out in a winter coat and flannel nightgown for my pooch's midnight potty break.

Good times.

What about stamp collecting?

Being a spinster would seem to be the very definition of selfishness. I mean, it's all about me all of the time, isn't it? And that's the rub, my friends. All that me time very rarely goes to the betterment of this spinster's life. So, in effect, I'm living as if I'm married to a vary demanding spouse who consumes all of my time but gives very little back.

But in my case, the spouse is the TV.

And, unfortunately, I don't have the porn channels.

Why is it that so many women feel they can't have a rich life without a spouse? Even those of us who have made very conscious decisions that have led to a lifetime of singleness. There are plenty of men out there with rich lives and no spouse. Messy, slightly creepy lives with wackadoodle hobbies, but rich nonetheless.

This year I took my first vacation by myself, to London. In my experience as a traveler, it seems like transatlantic nations are friendlier to women on their own. Perhaps the puritan ethic of Americans instantly suspect witchcraft. Anyway, it was a great trip, but I was shocked and appalled by my tendency to eat at the hotel and join in package tours. Part of it is that I spend so much time at home alone that spending time abroad at home isn't exactly a vacation treat. The other part of it is the little voice in my head that says women by themselves shouldn't do x, y, or z.

While personal security is important, I get really steamed up with myself and the universe that women still are trained to follow the rutted path led gently by the hand of men.

I was hoping by writing this I would come up with a solution to the problem. But unfortunately, a few more rants may be required to help me move along the path of enlightenment.

Next Stop Crazy Dog Lady?

Four years ago, I hit 35 and entered the world of dog mothering with a sweet shih-tzu, Posey. She was taken from this world far to soon thanks to allegedly nutritious but actually poisonous melamine-filled freeze-dried chicken breast treats. Sigh. That little dog was fantastic...totally willing to wear her construction worker costume for a fun-filled rendition of YMCA on a Friday night after cocktails. How could she be replaced?

Turns out she can't. She never will be replaced. No other pooch will wear her sweet purple plaid snow jacket or yellow slicker.

But my new tzu, Gabby, is a constant reminder that while you can't replace something you love, you can love something new. Just like Posey, Gabby refuses to wear doggie boots, regardless of the salty sidewalks in the winter. But she's a unique pooch who runs to the door in an effort to go outside and bark at the sky during thunderstorms and has been known to walk around with a bright green Tampax clutched between her teeth like a jaunty cigar. She's got moxie, and because I'm older and slower and like to be amused, she's become my ideal companion.

As I get on the fast track to 40, I wonder if there's another shih-tzu in my future...or three.

Old man, new heartache

I'm a Facebook junkie. It's not a point of pride or anything. Just a fact. For someone who doesn't like to call or visit, the freshly opened doors of the technological world are a wonderful thing.

Except in one case: memory lane exploration.

Facebook and Google act as a sober take on drunk dialing as we look for the ones that got away and sometimes find them. Happy. Not utterly maimed and destroyed by the lack of your presence in their lives.

Then you have to deal with the to Friend or not to Friend issue. If you Friend that love gone awry, you're the mature adult moving on and yet maintaining healthy relationships. But then you see pix of him frolicking in the surf with his cute kids at some East Coast Beach resort. Which voyeuristically speaking is a simultaneous treat and torture.

So much for healthy post-breakup relationships.

Next time, I'm going the not to Friend route.

Probably.
Maybe.
Unless he still looks cute.

Hello, Mother? Can I book for next year?

So i did take a vacation and, loser or not, it was at my parents' home. And it's not like they live in a farway land, like Canada or Ohio. They're right over the river and through the Pine Barrens in Jersey.

Laugh away, jerkies. Smirk all you want.

While you had to wonder how that formica bed table in Wildwood Crest got that burn mark, I was a spoiled rotten baby at mommy and daddy's house. They even walked my dog for me.

I tell you what...if they'd been that nice to me back in the 90s, my fat ass would still be living with them.

All in all, a spectacularly relaxing week in the life.

On to Parisian preparations.

Vacation for one?

It's days like this that I wish I was one of those incredibly self-sufficient, creative types who can grab a sleeping bag and head out for a fantastic solo vacation. I spend a lot of my time alone. This is not a complaint, just a fact. But something about being alone on vacation just gets me so depressed.

There are really only so many pictures you can take of yourself with arms outstretched trying to get a bit of scenery and your own face in the frame. Trust me, it doesn't make for a great slide show.

What I need starting very soon is some kind of vacation with friendly people. Not swinger friendly. Just regular friendly. But it has to be cheap and it has to be fun.

Maybe there could be a little swinging.

It is summer after all.

Doing it for Johnny

I'm a very lucky girl. Occasionally for work I get to check out fairly deluxe events, drink champagne, and eat tasty bite-sized snacks while observing the stylish, the wannabes, and the celebrities. And I watch as people go up to the celebs and introduce themselves, ask for pictures, and chat. Does Matt Dillon really want to talk to people? No really? Do celebrities have a need that the rest of us don't...the need to be recognized and groped by strangers?

Is that enough philosophizing? Yep. I like celebs because you're totally allowed to stare at them at public events. I don't mean when they have their kids at the park or they're waiting for their gyno appointment (ew). But when they're at a party, most likely for payment, it's gazing season. You don't have to avert your eyes or act cool. Which I love because it turns out that I'm an atrocious stare-er. Sitting on a peg stool with a glass of champagne and my flowered tote bag on my lap, nothing could be better.

Mystery guest. Again.

"Mystery Guest" is a game sweetly invented by my siblings to draw people to the inevitably empty chair next to their sister (me) at events such as weddings. At formal functions, the tables are often set for 10. With five kids in our tribe, we tend to take up a whole table—except for my guest's spot.

Don't get me wrong. Mystery Guest is fun... especially if we're seated near the bar. As an interesting person walks by, we pull him into the mystery guest seat and each person seated at the table gets to ask a question. But it's the creation of games like this that made me realize that my siblings love me just the way I am and are in no rush at all to find me a spouse.

However, they're not invited to every event I attend, so when a friend was kind enough to invite me to her wedding I was really determined to find a date.

Therefore, once again, I signed up for an online dating service. And managed to stick with it for approximately two weeks before suffering from a ministroke and quitting in a bleary-eyed rage. Dating services are kind of like what I imagine giving birth would be like. Messy, painful, and a little creepy really (think about it--a living creature comes out of your body). You swear you'll never do it again. But you forget. You think: Men are so handsome. They smell great and fix cars. Dating's so nice. So you sign up again and very quickly you realize you've made a big mistake. Again.

Online dating nonsense is like a replay of school days and picking teams. But waiting online for someone to pick you is way worse than kickball because at least with kickball you could see who had a really good team and use the PICK ME! expression to get what you want. Not that the sites don't work for some. But I sincerely believe that the people who meet their spouses online are blessed with a combination of luck, determination, and patience that ensures they would have found a mate with or without mixed media.

Conclusion: Rather than waste another damn dollar on dating sites, I will be starting a new money jar to pay for attractive young escorts for social events.

It's not a vacation if there's penicillin involved

So I was at dinner with friends and it was mentioned that Spinstermiss has been a little quiet and withdrawn.

It is a blog from a SPINSTER folks, there's not much happening. Don't blame me! That's kind of the whole core of spinsterhood: Cute, small animals; Scratchily-written notes (today's misspelled texts) to relatives; day flowing into day with the seamless monotony of a seamless and monotonous movie...

Actually the spring was filled with sinus infections, near-misses at swine flu, and a general malaise the likes of which women used to expire from in Victorian times, generally diagnosed as "melancholia." Turns out that turning 39 was not pleasant. Really, just as unpleasant as I thought it would be. Just like the first time I had my eyebrows waxed.

There I was, just laying flat in the chair thinking, "yes, this hurts exactly as much as I'd anticipated."

And so it was with the last year of my 30s. My childless, husbandless, career stalled 30s. Poor me. Boo. Hoo.

But just over a month into it, things are warming up and maybe its the heat or the humidity, but my sap is once again rising rather than soaking into the pages of English mystery novels and bodice rippers.

Shut up. I was sick! (and i like them)

Caio bella

So it's 3:08 a.m. here in lovely Milano and it might be one of the few times that being a spinstermiss ain't all it's cracked up to be. While generally spinster travel involves lots of doing whatever the hell you want, whenever the hell you want, and often kissing exciting new lips owned by interesting and unusual international lips, there are hours like this that it might be nice to travel with company.

This trip, filled with visions of great new eyewear from the Mido trade fair, has involved tons of rain and a head cold that promises to make flying home this morning a literal headache. But there have been bright spots galore that would never have happened had I a husband keeping me home, including sitting here at 3:12 in my skivvies writing this note.

Brightest spots:

The food. Yes, I'm a bit of a foodie and I've earned those pounds this week with gnocchi and gorganzola cheese, risotto, risotto, risotto. And this delicious new candy bar, Lion Well, new to me.

The sights. While Milan is far from the prettiest city in Europe, it is really, really old which is always interesting for someone who lives in a relative young chit of a nation. And the Duomo lit up a night is really breathtaking.

The men. No one on Earth will look at you like a man in Italy. No where else can a nearly 40-year-old woman who opts for comfort over style get the patented Italian-man-on-the-street sexy look. Rowl.

The shopping. Didn't do much buying but did quite a bit of coveting of fancy boots.

The men II, the visitors. What's more fun than a man on the road on business? Set free from the constraints of happy home life, these packs of men have money to spend and adventures on their minds. Get your mind out of the gutter...these are the folks who will keep you safe at 2 a.m. while you're looking for that crazy jazz bar. He's like a celibate (mostly) sugar daddy. Lovely.

Youth, Schmooth.

Ok, this might sound crazy, but I'm thinking it's a great idea for the spinsters of the world to unite and demand a special dispensation for entry into the retirement village community. Although many of us don't yet reach the requisite 50+ status, we could bring lots to the senior community.

Including the following:

- Oh you crazy kids. Spinsters are a wonderful stand in for no-show kids. We'll stop by seeking advice, casseroles, and how the heck to iron a shirt without adding in new wrinkles.

- Widow transition assistance. This is terrible, I know. But it's true! Some women have been married for a long time. And then their husbands go off to that 19th hole in the sky, leaving their aged brides totally unprepared for the single life. Who better to help them with the transition into the solo scene than a life-long single gal?

- Daddy issues, anyone? Sadly, our married sisters sometimes head to the 19th hole in sky leaving their husbands bereft and looking for a slightly younger model. If that's your thing, well great. Old balls don't really do it for me, but whatever floats your singular boats.

So I'm off to buy a keen Alfred Dunner getup and some sassy walking shoes in preparation for the great day when Spinsters find their freedom in the lands of the golf cart as primary transportation.

Real Stupid

That's it. I'm officially done with "reality" television. Just finished watching the season finale of Top Chef. And yes, I have a crush on the "cheftestant" Stefan that borders on unseemly. But really, he was far and away the best chef in what certainly was a lackluster season.

And yet he didn't win. With his gloriously kissable smooth pate and delicious continental cuisine.

Ridiculous.

It strikes me as even more ridiculous that we as a viewing public allow reality programming as a genre to continue. It's not only dreck. It's dreck that's been manipulated for maximum crapitude.

Yes, I wrote crapitude and I'm sticking with it.

Even my dog is disgusted. And the cat hasn't come down to watch since week five.

The funniest thing about the whole situation, to me, is that I've made it my life's work to avoid reality. That's my raison d'etre. It's what makes a Spinstermiss a true Spinstermiss. Reality has nothing to do with my world, happily free from the carpool, the hubby's business dinner, and all of the other things that people drone on about while pouring coffee at work. (Marrieds: what you say sounds like this to us: Blah, blah, blah. whah wha whingie blah blah. We're really just looking at your jewelry. Good job with that!)

KMA reality.

Marrying for Money

So I'm all in favor of Obama's efforts to improve our economy. As someone who has enjoyed two economic collapses in the publishing industry in the past 2 decades, the president can count me in for an effort to reinvigorate the nation. With this kind of positivity projecting from my every pore, I can't help but wonder why the president has to go on ahead and give married people a significantly higher tax break just because they're married.

Harumph.

Don't married people already get enough breaks? They get cheaper car insurance. The get death benefits. And they almost always have people to go with to weddings, christenings, and birthday parties. In theory, they also deeply benefit from the division of labor inherent in living communally. 

A single person has to bring home the bacon, fry it up and in the pan, and never ever let themselves regret that they didn't get themselves a man.

Oooh, that was chee-zee! I used to love that commercial when I was a kid. Think it was for a hair product. But I still get a total urge to put on a cocktail dress every time I make a BLT.

Darn cute babies

So a friend just found out she has fertility issues and it's not looking good that she'll be reproducing any time soon. Or ever, really. And since I'm the most self-centered person on Earth, this immediately ties back to me and my own lack of fecundity. It's really time to start making peace with the idea that I'm getting older and I've made no effort whatsoever to find a mate and have a family. As a result, there is a very strong likelihood that I won't be getting married or having any babies. Which I pretty much thought everyone did and it was just a matter of time until Mr. Babymaking Right managed to track me down at my house, breakdown the door, fix the door, court me, marry me, and impregnate me before disappearing in a mysterious accident that left me lonely, but with a lovely set of twins and an enormous insurance settlement to comfort me. Could it be that I've somehow gone wrong in my assumptions?

Why Ben & Jerry why?

I guess I really can't blame Ben & Jerry for making such a delicious ice cream that is way beyond my resistance. But I do. They have to know that minty, full-fat ice cream is potent. Then, if you blend it with chunks of chocolate cream cookies it's just beyond my level of resistance. But how was I to resist. I mean, it's not my fault that I couldn't find the naan bread in my grocer's freezer and there were compelling yellow discount signs that drew my eye to the frozen desserts section.

So, it was a bargain step closer to type 2 diabetes, which is nice. And now I have to get on a plane on Friday. A Delta plane, which has some of the smallest seats in the sky. Which may or may not be able to contain my fat ass. When I land in Utah, I will spend two days surrounded by movie types and wanna be's--particularly those West Coast matrons who have bizarre facial work. The result is that from the back they look like hot 20-year-old chippies. But then they turn around and their face has been botoxed and augmented to the point that they look like they've recently taken up beekeeping face first. Yikes.

Coffee: A good idea gone awry

So I was listening to this report on NPR about how coffee help spurred the age of reason or the age of enlightenment. I wasn't listening super carefully. But either one would be a good improvement from the haze I'm currently in. So I've coffeed it up for the past two days...one cup each day with a pack of swiss miss hot chocolate in it to make it a little special. And it's been great during the day. But now, at 2:14 a.m., I really miss the whole sleeping thing. It's always been one of my great pleasures. And particularly now, when I'm not smoking, barely drinking, and a good seeing to is a vague memory, sleeping has been a reliable pleasure in life. Which I'm denied. 

I'll tell you this much. Being up after 2 isn't fun if you don't have one of the following things:

1. A good book

2. A good man

3. A variety of drinks

4. Your smoke brand or variety of choice

5. A dramatic deadline

6. An inspirational cause

7. A long distance to cover across an unfamiliar territory

8. A minimum of a trilogy's worth of movies that you are watching from beginning to end as God intended.

9. One or more hysterical friends to be bailed out of a situation that will provide a good, entertaining story at future late nights.

10. One or more hysterical friends who are bailing you out of a situation that will provide a good, entertaining story at future late nights.

So maybe not drinking a mochalicious coffee each day means that I won't be the next great philosopher. But who knows, perhaps people were happier drinking their small beers and wine throughout the day, living life at a slower, less enlightened or less reasonable pace. 

Ok, they were unbathed, untoothed, and frequently dead by 35. And don't get me started on the stink factor. But a society with a widespread, large scale buzz is still pretty interesting.