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.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, June 15, 2009
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)
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)
Sunday, March 8, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
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.
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.
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