Today I can't seem to stop listening to John Denver, in particular "Take me Home, Country Roads." I think this record gets played everytime I go back home; It's my Dad's favorite. "People don't sing songs with any meaning anymore," he laments. And I wonder what gifts of this sort I might be able to pass on to my children. Single Ladies (Put a ring on it)? Smack that Bitch up? Maybe we'll stick to modern literature.

Mom puts on a kettle of tea and and we change gears to Sinatra's "When I was 17." She laughs and says they danced to this record back when they lived in a one bedroom apartment, and had dinner parties where the young wives would sneak into the bedroom to exchange gossip (for lack of space). They'd never been happier, she says.

Maybe it's the rain, but I find myself recalling dear memories today, and looking forward for those that have yet to come.


*Photograph of the facade of my father's first 1960's apartment, in the old country. I wonder which of the places he has lived are evoked when he listens to Mr. Denver.

Wow.

You guys all knew this and didn't tell me! You let me go through an entire life deprived, out of the know, ever looming on the outskirts of deliciousness. You should have tied me down and forced me to know firsthand the truth.

That Mayonaisse is fucking delicious.

I blame it on my family. Growing up with 3 sisters, Mayonnaise was a dirty word. It's name was not to be spoken in our house. It was unconscionable that the substance should end up on our refrigerator shelf and, by proxy, our asses. No. Mayo was, quite simply, a substance ugly people put on their sandwiches, paired with mysterious looking ham and Kraft cheese slices.

That is, until I recently found myself on business in New Jersey. On business, and hungry in New Jersey. On Business, hungry, and with very limited options in a company cafeteria that makes even the shadiest New York deli look like Bouley. The options were very limited; I opted for the Turkey wrap. I took one bite: heavenly.

Holy fucking shit guys: it was the Mayo. That creamy substance that could turn rat food into finger licking scrumptiousness. That scary looking substance that comes to life between two slabs of carbohydrates: my one true love- Mayo. All my life, I have been holding out for that special someone, but now I know that it was that special someTHING, and that thing is Mayo. I want to shout it from the rooftops- I love you Mayo! Mayo is so godamned good I want to marry it in a special ceremony and have Carrie Prejean speak out against us.

And then something else clicked for me. Something so monumental it made everything else before it meaningless:

This must be how heathens feel about eating Bacon.

The More Things Change the More they Stay the Same

"That's the thing about WASPs, they'll take you out on a proper date and call you the next day, but they'll just as readily fuck a hooker in the backseat of a towncar."- My Brother

(For the record, the lady in this photograph was one of the first "Playgirls", so I reckon that is somewhere in between.) Via the Life Archives

Swagger Personified

(Via the Sartorialist)

Out with the Old?

There has been a reason for my lack of blogging dear readers, and I fear it's time I came clean.

When I started this blog, it was with the intent to compile many of the stories that- over brunches and chill-out sessions and walks through the park- had been exchanged, scrutinized and ultimately laughed about. The follies of our relative youth provided us endless entertainment in the form of these stories, some of which I chose to immortalize here. Unfortunately, as time has gone by, so too has the prevalence of these follies. The brunches are fewer and further between, the nights out a tad more civilized, and even those creatures that we so readily fawned and agonized over (our male counterparts no doubt), out of nowhere, met us ever readily at the middle.

In short form, one day everything just snapped into place, and we weren't as confused. Or maybe we just became borish adults, although anyone who knows me in person would insist this were rather far from the truth.

Nonetheless, I'm not as interested in breaking down the things that confuse me. Less things seem to do so as time goes on.

This isn't to say that I won't continue to post the occassional story here. But in the meantime I would like to share things of a different ilk- those which I find interesting, joyous and captivating. As CP Cavafy so lovingly summarizes in his poem Itahaka (undoubtedly my favorite),

"May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time."

xx
Girl

A preliminary Guide to: The Phase Out

I've never been a big fan of the phase-out myself, but when executed correctly I have been convinced as of late that it can be a beautiful thing.

Just so we're clear, the phase-out is that oft used dating mechanism employed to dispose of someone who you always suspected was rather worthless (but dated anyway because you are bored and require constant stimulation). Those little things they do that struck you at times as charming, become anything but.

Example 1: The gentleman in question lets you buy him a beer; at first it seems charming and Dutch-like. You're a modern woman, one who went to school and got a money job and is ballerific to the extreme, i mean, it's cute to return the favor sometimes. Then you offer up the goods again, just to be nice the next time and he accepts. Before you know it you are in one of those horrific relationships that require not only that you look the part of a trophy girlfriend (an expensive feat I assure you) but actually have to contribute to the outings equally. This is an utter fail and grounds for immediate phase out-age.

Or consider example two: You decide to broach the topic of current affairs over dinner; he turns out to be not only conservative but dumb as rocks (one would think these two go hand in hand, and really I wouldn't oppose you if you did). This is grounds for brutal dumpage but I find that the phase out is a more charitable approach. Almost like adopting a Malawian.

Three: He goes commando and insists on lounging around on your couch- naked- and smoking a cigarette- after sessions in the stack. A girl's upholstery is precious and any man that doesn't recognize this is not worth his salt. Phase Out.

And so on and so forth.

The phase-out can be broken down into a relatively simple science.

For instance, one is encouraged to begin with excuses about work, (a particularly sweet move in this environment). A simple "Sorry babe, so busy today/this week/ forever!" works wonders. When the gentleman in question offers to come kick your boss' ass for caging you in like a rabid monkey, the lady must step up the phase-out. Cold and calculating, the move here is to cease response to all forms of communication. This will invariably beg messages akin to:

"Are you okay?"
"...."
"I JUST WANT TO KNOW YOU"RE ALIVE"
"You're a real bitch, you know that?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, I'm just so worried about you."

Stay strong, lizadies. No one ever said the phase-out was all fun and games.

Even when he shows up outside your door with a guitar and a long stemmed red rose, with a song he composed for you titled "Your Love is a Disease" (worthy of another post but needless to say this DID happen), one must crack her door ever so slightly (leaving the chain ON) and re-iterate one's intention to phase the pursuer out.

Even if he cries and threatens suicide (and he will), don't relent.

And for all the pain and suffering that will be caused over the course of your Phasing Out careers, know this. 1 time out of every 10 this is performed, the gentleman in question will be trying to perform a phase out of his own on you. And there is nothing more satisfying than sharing a genuinely mutual contempt for the person you have been unenthusiastically boning for the last 2 months.

And this makes it all worth it in the end.

xoxo
Girl

London Calling: Part IV

-The fourth in an esteemed series by the even more esteemed Mr. Eugenides. Did I mention it's all very esteemed? Enjoy.-


What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish?

T.S Eliot, The Waste Land

There are many known evils in the world today; an Axis of Evils if you’ll allow me to paraphrase. Those presently in our collective consciousness include John Thain, Nouriel Roubini, everyone at Davos (including those on skiing holidays because who has that kind of money now?) and most of the Wells Far(ra)go ‘what-happens-in-Vegas-stays-in-Vegas’ bankers.

There are also many darker, Rumsfeldian ‘unknown’ evils. Evils which hang like soiled laundry in our mind’s backyard. Once revealed, these prove to be every bit as heinous as the known evils. Along this sub-axis I suggest you’d find John Thain’s wastepaper basket, everyone else on Wall Street who wasn’t at Davos and, crowning this cast of miscreants, anyone who updates a Facebook status message.

Full disclosure: Mrs Eugenides uses Facebook and I’ve often joked with her about the merits of the site. I refer to it as ‘Fakebook’ and highlight that uploading photographs in order to elicit insipid comments (Loving your hair!) is proof of a level of onanism that will be talked about as a nadir of the human condition by sane people for many years to come.

She counters with the view that in a dispersed society, networking sites allow us to keep fragmented friendships alive, but I know she only says this because she publishes approximately 400 images of our new baby on her profile page every three hours. It’s essentially the digital equivalent of the ‘one-upmanship Christmas card insert’. ‘Look at us! Look at our kids! We’re beautiful, we’re incredibly shiny, successful and we literally twinkle with sure-footed confidence’.

This isn’t a polemic against social networking sites - I’m not that stupid - but have you ever taken a few minutes to look at the status strap-lines? I have. Mrs Eugenides claims I’m a tad obsessed with them, but in truth, words like ‘mortified’, ‘disturbed’ or ‘mentally scarred’ would be more accurate.

To me the Facebook status message is a self-populated waste land, a desiccated moonscape of stony rubbish. It’s a perfect vacuum of humanity. It puts the ‘trite’ in ‘detritus’. It may well be the death of love. Am I going too far? Here are a few recent examples:

X is dividing by zero!

X is God's second cousin, twice removed, on his mother's side. He's the demigod. He tries.

X is engineering the electricals.

X is gathering rocks to throw at you.

X is changing their status to "drinking beer in the shower."

X is having sex, he hopes.

X is a thinking of lamb for dinner.

X is happy in the snug, taking a break.

X is filmed before a live studio audience.

X is harvesting paperclips from work.

X is literally angry with rage!

X is giving big love to her girlies!

X is returning some videotapes.

X is right behind you.

X is hiding under your bed.

X is taking over the world.

As you peruse the above I’ll let you formulate your own opinion. I’ll let you decide what kind of solipsistic terror campaign these people are waging against each other. But in all honesty, that last one might be unknowingly prophetic; Facebookers are taking over the world and they’re bringing their acerbic wit and mellifluous turn of phrase to a status message near you.


Happy Social Networking!


Mr Eugenides (is eating a lot more cheese than he used to!!)