Top 5 Pick-Up Lines at the Media Conference

In my experience, media and publishing conferences are attended by an interesting mix of sales-types, writers, and geeks. Especially where writers or bloggers congregate, you can expect a lot of women. Such good odds for the men in attendance, so why are their openers still so awful?

• What’s your handle so I can tweet you?
• I’d love to expose you to my audience.
• Meet me in my room. We can update our status.
• I can get you on the front page of Digg.
• Not everything in publishing has been downsized! [insert wink]

When will they learn? It’s all about good white shirts, intelligent jokes and this:

• You are NOT in your forties!

This one works. Anywhere. Always. Every time. But if it doesn’t, try something dirty–like a martini.

Image Credit: Peter Gorges, Flickr

From Pillow to Pedometer in 6 Easy Steps

I texted her last night. Run – 6:30? The response came back… something about getting home late from a “business dinner” and having a “presentation” due “early” in the morning and although she “wanted” to run, she wasn’t going to.

Fine. No worries. I’m a big girl. It’s not like I NEED the knowledge that she’s waiting at her doorstep in the pre-dawn light to pry me out of bed. I can do it all by myself. Besides, my husband is leaving town and this will give me a chance to have coffee with him and say a proper goodbye instead of dashing off while he’s still in the shower. You know what this is? It’s a BLESSING IN DISGUISE! (I have to shout that last part in my mind to drown out the voices telling me that I know damn well that it will be too hot to run by the time I finish “drinking coffee.” (I know, the quotes, I’ll stop.)

At least I didn’t change the alarm setting. I still got up at 6:00. After I hit the snooze a few times, it went down like this:

1. “Hey, Babe, let’s have coffee.” And I’m talking actual coffee here. Who can run after drinking coffee? Not me, that’s who! I’m not willing to pee myself in the name of fitness. For funny anecdotes, sure, but not merely for shapelier thighs.
2. Ooh, look! Laundry! I should totally fold that load before I leave. (Also, it’s important to have certain domestic duties witnessed, to back up the occasional tirade. “I slave away ALL day for you people and where is the GRATITUDE???” <– You’re with me now, aren’t you?)
3. I’m not yet in my running clothes when I kiss my husband goodbye, shut the door, and notice a neat stack of bills on the desk. That looks fun! No–I’m strong–I WILL run… just as soon as I dust the bookshelves.
4. There is a dilemma in the closet over whether or not the black of my tank matches the black of  my running skirt. And I should really get some new socks. By the way, hello sock drawer! Do you need organizing, Little Buddy?
5. When I stop to pee (***coffee***) I notice the ring around the toilet bowl. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it. Since vacation, with catching up on work and unpacking and stocking the pantry and all that LAUNDRY, I haven’t gotten to the bathrooms. Suddenly I crave the scent of Comet cleanser. I need a HIT of Comet in my lungs, Baby! My husband is gone, so it’s not like I’m in it for the Holly Homemaker points. I actually want to clean the toilet more than I want to run. I may need help.
6. Dragging myself away from the scrubbing bubbles, I emerge, victorious, on my front steps. (I’m not going to burden you with the bandaid-on-my-heel detour.)

Today… I run! Those are, after all, “my” legs on the cover of Blacklisted from the PTA.

If you only knew what’s pumping through my earbuds…

Image: Robert S. Donovan, Flickr

You Might Like These Too:

• This Savasana Brought to You by George Costanza
• What’s Wrong With This Advertising Model?
• Carpe Diem, Carpe Di-Ass

My Bubbly Great-Grandmother

This is me with my great-grandmother. She died yesterday at the age of 96, leaving me with some kick-ass DNA.

And this, my kids’ favorite exchange:

“How do you feel, Granny?”

“How do I feel? I feel with my hands!”

Goodbye, Mary Lucile.

We will miss your humor.

Just Trying to Keep Up

I taught a class a few weeks ago. Believe me when I tell you I am *super* tech savvy, which is why I gave my students the option of paying me through PayPal. However, on the day of class a few people showed up unpaid. When one young guy asked if I accepted credit cards I said, “No, but you can just send me a check.”

Of course he said, “What’s a check?” and made everybody laugh self-consciously while adjusting their reading glasses.

Things are changing quickly. It’s hard to keep up.

Some of my writer friends were recently discussing internet access issues when my son was in the room. I was pretty sure “dial up” went right over his head.

“Do you even know what a modem is?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said while rolling his eyes, “It’s the thing that gets your wifi.”

PS – If anyone knows what the “fi” in wifi stands for, please share.

This Savasana Brought to You by George Costanza

I have been practicing yoga for a long time. In one form or another I have been contorting, counting, releasing, and you know– feeling the vitality, or whatever, on the mat for more than two decades–off and on. Yoga calms my nerves and does wonders for my trick-neck. Despite my fairly consistent practice, I’ve always been bothered by the fact that I’m not motivated to practice on my own, at home. Or wherever. Because that’s part of the beauty of yoga. It’s like running. Just as when you want to go for a run, all you need is your shoes, when you’re ready to bust out a pose, it’s just you and the mat.

Unless you’re like me and you need to drive halfway across town at an inconvenient hour and pay someone else to tell you to bust out a pose.

So I set out to do something about my lack of intrinsic motivation. I have embarked on a 6-week plan that includes daily–DAILY–yoga practice. And this is to be done each morning, ideally first thing. The first day I got up all bright eyed and ohm-y. (It’s January, after all.) I progressed through the proscribed series of poses, congratulating myself on both my ability to resist the temptation of the red snooze bar on my phone, and the fortitude to assume the positions without external direction. Yay, Me!

If you’re familiar with any standard yoga practice, you know that at the end of all the strenuous postures comes a time of relaxation, Corpse Pose, or Savasana. The timing of my morning practice had my Savasana hit at just about the time the rest of the family’s alarm clocks chimed. This didn’t do a lot for my peace and composure. I imagined various family members finding me there in the hall, laid out on my mat like–  a corpse, and maybe stepping on my head. Oh yeah, they would. I tried to remind myself to let those distractions go, to stay in the moment, focus on my breath, and whatever else that barefooted, d0-ragged yogi on the cover of the book advised. But the Eastern wisdom was drowned out by a stronger, louder call to action:

“Serenity NOW!”

Next time you go to the mat, make sure you take your inner George Costanza.

Carpe Diem, Carpe Di-Ass

The other day as I brushed my teeth my husband caught me checking out my ass in the mirror. Okay, not just the other day – a LOT of other days. I can’t help myself. I don’t have a curvy booty that looks great in jeans, or the junk in the trunk that makes a skirt sway. My asset is at its best when I’m standing in my underwear at the sink. Maybe my husband should be happy that I appreciate myself in the throes of floss and fluoride rinse instead of seeking some external validation of my ass’s awesomeness.

Oh, but no.

My man just thinks I’m shallow. Depending on his mood he might simply sigh, or perhaps comment on the depths of my vanity. (As if I haven’t caught him, mid-nose hair trim, admiring his newly excavated abs.) What my husband does not grasp is my intense awareness of mortality and my desire to live “in the moment.” (Several moments, actually. You don’t want to skimp on oral hygiene.) I wasted my most physically beautiful years believing nothing on my body was good enough. Then I grew a whole EXTRA ass to balance me out while serving up two human beings on the front side. But now… I workout, eat right, occasionally torture myself with Pilates. My ass is just the way it ought to be–host to the only skin on my body that doesn’t audibly beg for moisturizer, and endowed with the ideal amount of fat.

It’s not going to last. Carpe diem, I say. Carpe di-ass.

Why I Heart Facebook

I heart Facebook, I do. If I could I would marry it and never want for conversation. It can be annoying, sure, but Facebook has given me a tool not only to eavesdropping on others’ conversations and observing their [often significant] lapses in judgment, but also to get to know people I otherwise would not have known. And all from a few status updates. For example, here are a few that came up in my feed this afternoon:

‎”As for God, His way is perfect.” ~Psalm 18:30″

“Who? What? Where?” ~Vinnie Barbarino

“I believe the start of Decorative Gourd Season would be October 1st and extends to the Thanksgiving holiday. Mother fuc&ker. :D”

And those, my friends, were all posted by the same woman. Did I mention how much I love Facebook?

A Note To My Younger Self About Her Teeth

Dear Younger Me,
Floss, please. Also, get that night guard when the first dentist recommends it instead of waiting ten years. Yes, it is expensive, and inconvenient, and extremely dorky. It is also better than a root canal. All those jokes about root canals? They’re true. Trust me. And yes, I know I told you never to trust anyone who says trust me, but you can trust me, I’m you.
Signed,
Your Dentally Challenged Future Self

Detoxed, Just Like Gwyneth

I did it, detoxed from Cozumel. I rid my gut of 24-hour free range Chez Whiz smothered fried tortillas and purged my liver of all-you-can-drink margaritas. Using Gwyneth Paltrow’s detox diet as a guide, I explored the health food store, learned a few good recipes (and the horrors of “pro-greens”), and dropped a few pounds. My tummy is flat. Kinda. And yet, the miracle detox failed to deliver the desired results. I did not grow eight inches of leg. I’m still brunette. Not hanging out with Robert Downey Jr. In short, I’m no Gwyneth. After reading about Paltrow’s bone disease, I couldn’t be happier.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a date with a Frito pie.

Haiku for the Health Food Store Clerks

Haiku is trendy, right? The sparse form seem appropriate for my venture into near-fasting last week. And no detoxing endeavor is complete without a trip to the health food store. Forgive me.

sullen tatted youth

gossip over the miso

while I search for kelp

« Previous Page — Next Page »