pin the what? on the who?

Are we not women?

Did we not attend colleges and universities of higher learning, step-by-step and shot-after-shot with our more hirsute brethren, oft times achieving higher GPA's, more advanced degrees and better paying jobs -- nay! -- careers?

Have we not traveled to foreign lands and gamely purchased truckloads of chiclets from urchin children while generously doling out hard candy and miniscule denominations cautiously fetched from our wisely "hidden" moneybelts.

Can we not say "thank you," "please," and "beer," in more languages than we have fingers on our hands?

Do we not help heal the enfeebled, teach the befuddled and defend the benighted in courts of law with savvy and professionalism? Or at the very least, keep words like "like" and "totally" and "dude" out of our marketing presentations and pitch meetings?

Do we not -- on our very own -- purchase expensive cars and homes and shoes?

Do we not do our own taxes? Or at least know a good accountant who can do them for us?

Do we not contribute to our 401ks?

Have we not massaged and managed and yay, when needed, manipulated men into marrying us -- without the indignity of a prenup?!

Are we not, I ask you, capable of setting our minds to accomplish any and all goals personal and professional?

(Actually, in the spirit of full-disclosure, I've accomplished somewhat less than that mentioned above, but I'm kind of an under-achiever, so don't use me as an example.)

Are we not women?!

I say we are!

And to that end, women of the world, I propose the following: that we hereby abolish the playing of the games at bridal events and baby showers, at engagement parties and bachelorette soirees.

LET US BE DONE, SISTERS!!

LET US BE DONE with the guessing games and the quirky quizzes!

LET US BE DONE with the adornment of condoms, of assorted phallic jewelry, of obscene head gear!

LET US BE DONE with the tasting of melted chocolate nestled in baby diapers, in the smelling of baby food disguised as baby poo!

LET US BE DONE with Pin the Penis on the life-sized cut out of Orlando Bloom!

LET US BE DONE with tackling dear Aunt Gertie who, for the cardinal crime of merely uttering the word "baby," must sacrifice her safety pins to our greedy lapels.

LET US BE DONE with ridiculous blindfolds and oh-my-god-who-picked-out-this-piece-of-crap door prizes!

(Okay, again, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should say that I've either participated in or actually planned parties in which each of the above games was played. My favorite is the baby food in the diaper game. If you have someone with a sensitive gag reflex, it can be really hysterical. And yet still, I say. . . )

LET US BE DONE with forcing ourselves to be naughty.

Are we not naughty enough on our own? More so, even, when left to our own devices?!

Do we not, under less eventful circumstances, still manage to hold forth with intelligent, witty and oftentimes delightfully salacious conversation?

Must we debase ourselves with these trifling games? Must we embarrass ourselves with these contrived amusements?

Would we not cringe if men stood witness to our inanity? Would we not sit on our funny hats, hide our cutsie drawings, eat our silly words?

Let us be done, sisters.

I beg you.

Let us be done.

After all, are we not women?

my new best friend, the yogi judge

So last week I'm walking in the park when out of the blue I become rather keenly aware of the fat on the back of my arms. Just like that. Just there, where my triceps should be. Triceps missing. Uncomfortable amount of arm fat in full effect.

I don't look. I try to ignore it -- as I don't believe in rewarding bad behavior -- to focus on how cute Fred is with his tail held high, bobbing ahead of me up the path, on the gorgeous weather, on the beauty of my inner self, but all I can think about is the fat. The fat on the back of my arms. It's so pervasive that even my inner beautiful self is complaining about it.

"For God's sake," she's saying, "go back to yoga."

* * *

I recognize the woman on the mat next to mine from before my "hiatus" two years ago. She's about fifty, but she's got the body of a hot twenty-year-old. A hot twenty-year-old or, you know, Madonna. Actually more Madonna than hot twenty-year old. Which is worse. Or better, depending on your perspective. In the mirror next to her long-longness and lean-leanness I am the puffy "before" picture with slumped shoulders and sallow skin. I try to be inspired instead of depressed as I pull my shorts a little higher over my belly fat. (Matches arm fat!)

It's hard though, because in addition to having a body many a Hollywood ingénue would eat Kleenex for, she's a judge, which seems not only incongruous to our shared environment but also supremely unfair. They should have special classes for the exceptional so the rest of us poor directionless slobs don't have to deal with our inferiority in our off-work hours, too.

That said, I have a difficult time picturing the woman stretching next to me in the black robes of her office. It's hard to imagine her giving thoughtful, distinguished rulings when I've seen her naked in the locker room. It feels somehow inappropriate to have seen a judge naked, I think. Almost every time I see her my first thought is, You're a judge and I've seen you naked! I wonder if I ever got a ticket, if she could fix it for me. I think I shouldn't have quit yoga when I did, if for no other reason than ensuring for myself a high-powered friend in the judicial system should I ever inexplicably turn to a life of crime. What kind of crime would I commit, I wonder. Nothing violent, I hope. Maybe some sort of inadvertant theft. I worry that one day I'll commit an accidental crime. I really should be more careful, I think. You know, in general.

I think I am so not focused. I decide it's a good thing that I'm back in yoga.

"Do you know who's teaching tonight," I ask the judge, establishing the groundwork for my future criminal trial. She shifts from doing pre-class push-ups to pre-class sit-ups before she answers. (I want to do push-ups and sit-ups, too, but I'm afraid she'll think I'm copying her. Which I would be. So I don't.)

She sighs a bit at my question. "It's Lena," she says, her tone not quite neutral.

I don't quite grimace.

She doesn't quite laugh.

And I feel justified in detesting Lena. I mean, if a judge dislikes her. . . .


* * *

As Lena begins class, I find myself slacking off in small ways. I don't feel like tightening my abdominal muscles. I'll look anywhere in the room I darn well please, rather than in the mirror, into our own eyes as we're instructed. I'm half a second behind her count. I exhale when I should be inhaling. I don't quite point my toe. I drop the poses just a second early. Somehow in my mind, this all hurts Lena.

I watch the judge out of the corner of my eye. She dislikes Lena, too. And like me, she's kind of doing her own thing. But unlike me, she's working harder -- the first into the pose, the last one out and always holding a breath or so past Lena's uneven count.

And it occurs to me that even given the promising scores on that pre-LSAT diagnostic test I took in college, this is why I'm not on my way to becoming a judge.

Or Madonna.

And why my portfolio is thin, while my arm fat most decidedly isn't.

fail to plan & plan to fail

Herein follows a list of things I didn't accomplish this weekend:

Go to yoga
Go to the grocery store
Go to the eye doctor
Finish my book
Go to Italy
Do laundry
Return my Netflix
Return my email
Reconcile the conflict over the Gaza Strip
Make my bed
Paint a masterpiece
Buy a new cell phone
Buy a new house
Clean my car
Get a facial
Tweeze my eyebrows
Shower

In fact, I barely left the house. Which is a shame really, because I looked good this weekend -- skin clear and bangs bangin'. Also, since I've been back to yoga, I'm feeling all svelte now. Sure I've only been once, but it like flushes out your chakras or something which I hear helps with, um, bloat or something. (Whatever. I felt good. Shut uup.)

I did, however, spend an obscene amount of time on the telephone. Just ask my friend Genevieve. Or Vanessa. Or Monica. Or Laurie. Or Stephanie. Or Rich. Or Dean. Or Ann. Or Cathy. Or Margie. Or John. Or Pamela. Or Neda. Or Martha. Or Caroline. (If you called me, I'm sorry I didn't answer. I was on the other line. If you didn't call me and feel bad about it -- as you normally should -- you're forgiven because I was talking to other people who obviously love me more than you do.)

Truly, I love the phone. I think I almost like the phone better than face-to-face communication. It's more streamlined. More conducive to multi-tasking. I mean, if we're conversing at the coffee shop down the street, I can't also be washing the dishes or shaving my legs. If we're at your house, I can't be sweeping my floors, or throwing in a load of laundry or de-fleaing Fred. If we're on the phone I can make faces at what you've just said without offending you or at myself in the mirror to entertain myself or I can do wiggle-dancing down the hallway (only because you'd hear if I were tap dancing). This is why I believe video phones will never really take off. The truth is, I don't think we want people to see what we're doing when we're on the phone. Admit it, you don't want to have to put on pants to answer a call, do you? Isn't it bad enough that we have to remove our fingers from our noses when the doorbell rings?

Seriously, I spent a full work day and a half (at least) on the phone this weekend. A good twelve hours. When I did the math, I must admit I was shocked. But I also felt rather fulfilled. I'd conversed with people. Connected with family and friends. Shared moments. Solidified rapports. Which leads me to believe that being on the phone is my avocation, my passion. Not to mention my true talent. I've been searching for it for so long and there it's been, right there, on my shoulder and under my chin, all along.

So I've figured it out and here it is: I want to be a phone sex operator without the sex. A crisis-line counselor without the crisis. Because the first would creep me out and the latter would stress me out. I want to be a professional phone-a-friender. Callers phone to tell me about the goings-on in their lives -- their problems, their successes, their worries, their new flings, and I'll give general friend-type responses like, "Hey, have you seen the new Being Bobby Brown show on Bravo? Watch that. It'll without a doubt make you feel better about your life." Or "Oh my gosh, he's so totally in to you. He totally wouldn't have told you that your zipper was down unless he'd been looking you know, there." And then, I'll tell them about my problems, successes, worries and flings, because then they'll get the true "friend" experience and they'll feel better about themselves for having contributed to my well being, as well. And then they'll pay me.

List schmist. This was one productive weekend.

special

"Sadie is like a gold medalist in the Emotional X-treme Sports All-Star World Championships," I tell my friend Stefan the other day. "Watching her navigate moguls. . . Get it? Moguls? Like on mountains but you know, like business-types, too?. . . "

"I get it," he says rolling his eyes.

". . . my heart is totally in my throat. I mean, I worry about her. Still, I can't help but admire her nerve. Her savvy. She's really good at the game. And it's just that I'm like at the other end of the spectrum. Always tripping over my own feet. Tongue-tied. Just vaguely baffled by it all."

"So that makes you, what," Stefan says, "in the emotional Special Olympics?"

"Seriously. I'm just interested in competing."

Stefan stands up as he begins to applaud with slow deliberation, "Good effort, Jill," he says. "Good effort."

i totally love you, man!

I spent too much time imbibing this weekend to write. For this, I feel vaguely remorseful and quasi-irresponsible. Just on principle, mind you. It's purely guilt for guilt's sake. I mean, plausibly, I should have been out buying a house and feeding the poor and cleaning my car, too. But I didn't do any of those things either and I have no sense of regret over them.

But I should have written.

Something.

And I didn't.

Having said that, I will take a lesson. In my excess I have learned once and for all that I am not of that fashionable ilk of brilliant writer-drinkers à la Faulkner, Poe, O'Neill, Rogers, etc. . . . Knowing one's limitations is a good thing. So I will not consider my weekend a complete failure.

Besides, it was fun.

Above and beyond that, I experienced that lovely moment wherein everyone around me and in my life and that I've ever met is just so loveable and wonderful and I'm just so grateful, you know? I'm just so damn lucky, you feel me? And while I was remembering how generally loveable and wonderful everyone is, I thought of my blog, because I love my blog -- not a person I realize, but hang with me a minute, because -- then I thought of everyone who reads my blog and I decided that I loved them (i.e. you), too. And I kind of wished some of you were there. I won't mention names, of course. Mostly because I can't remember who I was thinking about exactly and besides, it was a very vague sense of all-encompassing affection anyway.

But I believe that inebriation (at least in the early stages) like PMS, tends to bring out the truth. And as I stood at my sink at 3 in the a.m. attempting to allay the inevitable hangover with a few ibuprophen and several glasses of water, I wished I had the energy to open my laptop so that I could peck out the simple thought that you guys are loved. We don't say it enough. And it shouldn't be said only when we're altered. So as I sit here at the bakery at 8:00 on a rainy Monday morning, drinking a cup of coffee and as in my right mind as I ever am, I'm saying it now: you are loved.

Unless, of course, you're Jake Gyllenhaal. Then I don't love you at all.

Thanks for occasionally stopping by to hang out here, you guys. I hope you have an absolutely fantastic week.

Cheers!