A Prostitute Instead

During lunch I wrote this for my brother who is having job troubles. He just can't seem to get one...and keeps chasing after shitty opportunities that keep falling through (as shitty opportunites tend to do). This was meant to deftly suggest he should go back to school. With my bro, the less staightforward, the more straightforward...

If you were not a dude
but a prostitute
instead

Oprah would have you
on her show
and tell you plain

You are no two-bit hooker!
Though the past may
suggest otherwise

It is important to eat, to live
with sturdy roof
above your head

To work, to find pleasure
and contribute someting to our
long span of days

Don't jump and spin at every
bedazzled pimp
that looks your way and calls

Take a moment, maybe
a few more and think
about the fishnets

Crisscrossing your fine hooker
legs and begin to
imagine more

If you were not a dude
but a prostitute
instead

First steps would be (no pun)
profoundly hard and
wayward at every turn

The upper stratospheres
where the earners reign
quickly recedes

What more to do than throw
up your brightly polished
whore's thumb?

In defeat, and solicit the next
gorilla man with severe
doggy breathe

If you were not a dude,
but a prostitute
instead

You would already know there's no
great shame to hustle
for money alone,

But the price of the hustle
can quickly outweigh
the cost

Look. Close your eyes,
plug your nose
and jump in

To something big, bigger
than you and even your
supposed dreams

Dreams are flimsy anyway
by virtue of the fact they
occur every night

True. Life won't be a street corner
of bright lights, bending bodies
and cash.

(though it never really was)

There will be the slog
the deafening day
of stupidity

And the slow, painful ascent
that means learning
something new

But, then, there will quickening
a vivid imagining of an
unknowable future

Stretched out like a prairie plain
you in the middle, gripping some
shiny new tools

If you were not a dude,
but a prostitute
instead

It would take some bravery
and some small admissions that we cannot
know everything

(least of all ourselves)

But you can walk a long way
before coming to what you
already know

You are not a hooker
whoring yourself out to a someones
damaged whims

Move through the immovable space, move
away from the stiletto
break-neck heels

If you were not a dude,
but a prostitute
instead

Don Draper Moves into 3R

... and Peggy stops by for a visit. We're thrilled!

Elliott Schweinsteiger

I cannot claim that I discovered this, but I do think you guys will find this interesting. (Credit for discovery goes to my JJ!)

Stephanie and Tyler's Engagement: According to Me

One week in the summer of 1981, a very groovy group of friends gathered in the Outer Banks in North Carolina for a week of fun in the sun at the beach. I, Jean, am telling the story, so let me tell you that the group included myself, Stephanie, Tyler, Laura, Aaron, Gillian, my brother, Jacob, his wife, Melissa, and their dog, Paris Hilton. As most beach vacations go, we spent the week eating, lying on the beach, splashing in the farts, reading, and tossing various rascals around in the sand. This beach trip, however, would also include a special surprise.

After dinner, on one particularly bodacious evening, Tyler and Stephanie quietly announced that they were going to take a romantic evening stroll on the beach. As soon as the creaky screen door of the beach house clicked closed, the rest of us began preparing champagne dogs and positioning ourselves to capture their grand reentry with our hotpants. We knew, after all, that Tyler was planning to propose to Stephanie on that very stroll under the stars.

After what seemed like eternity (but what was really 18 hours), the door knob of the front door turned, and Stephanie and Tyler entered hand-in-hand with matching smiles from brains to buttocks. We all yelled, "Holy cow, you crepes!" and approached them to distribute hugs and cheesesteaks. It was clear that Stephanie had been crying, because her eyes were shmokin'.

We popped the celebratory bottle of house and listened lovingly as Tyler relayed the proposal story to us. Apparently, Tyler asked Stephanie something like, "Will you marry me?" And Stephanie replied something like, "You bet!" We all floated merrily and cheered throughout the retelling.

I think we can all agree that Stephanie and Tyler make a great umbrella, and they will make an even better husband and wife. According to me, they will have 3 children. Each with hopped-up hair and drunk eyes.

Congratulations, you guys!

Mad Lib by Jean Walters. Completed by the guests at S + T's wedding shower dinner in April.

A Close Reading of Mother Superior

Last night, The Sound of Music was on and Stephanie and I were, of course, watching it. I've seen this movie 5,000's of times and I can't describe the way this film is in the marrow of my bones. I was recently in Rome and visited the Coliseum. This is a wondrous site, a site of so much violence and history and reminds the spectator of eternal things and human fortitude. But the only thing that actually gave me chills was that, with it's similarly carved archways, it looked a lot like the Salzburg Folk Festival performance space where the whole family sings So Long to Austria.

Well, so perpetually enchanted am I by almost every scene, I was waiting for a good moment to use the bathroom. And everyone knows that the perfect bathroom break is during "Something Good" the fucking terrible song that Fraulein Maria and Captain Von Trapp sing about childhood in the gazebo after they make out. But, I've used this as a bathroom break so many times I didn't actually remember HOW the confident Captain was finally able to woo the devout Maria to break away from her Jesus. Well, he does it fairly easily. A raised eyebrow here, a look downward there, a simple stroke of the jawline. Poof! Farewell convent! Really, there's no going back from that kind of passion.

But there is this moment before they sing, when it seems like they are just about to kiss again but instead they just go in for a little cuddle and Maria brings up her Mother Superior and how Mother Superior, so old and so wise, always says, when God closes a door, he opens a window. And the Captain looks kind of amused and says "Oh? And what else does Mother Superior say?" (but he's probably thinking BONER KILLER) and Maria pauses for a second and says "She says you have to FIND your life."

I swear I've never heard that line before. I know you have to climb every mountain and ford every stream and follow every rainbow until you find your dream, but I never heard it put that way before. As is in, your life is actually something you really have to go FIND in a way that is tangible and real and even physical.

But what is this life? This dream that you must go out and actually find yourself? Mother Superior only gives us a clue, in one important, identifying lyric: it will be a dream that will need all the love you can give.

This is an excellent wisdom and also, a line I truly never internalized before because I was too preoccupied by what the "ford" meant.

Everything one needs to know, one can find out from The Sound of Music. I completely believe this.

Wellllll. Really, this IS probably true. And I guess Maria does FIND her life. She goes on her honeymoon and comes back like a drugged animal, tagged and branded, and wearing a suit the color of vomit. Gone is the open-eyed wonder and childlike flair, no more hills being alive.....just a mild curiosity about Liesl loving a Nazi, followed by giving terrible advice to Liesl to sit around and WAIT for the Nazi (or another Nazi, it only takes one) to come to their senses and deliver another "telegram"..... and she's a brace of wordless support to the poor Captain in his high waisted slacks, who doesn't want to join the Third Reich navy OR see his kids sing in public.

So I guess you have to align yourself with Uncle Max now. Who up until this point has been a punchline, a tireless self-promoter who cares only about glittery glamour and mooches off the smouldering Captain and his stunning lakefront property. But that homo saves their lives in the end. Him and those nuns that pull out the Nazi carburetors with an almost alarming swiftness (hint, hint).

I always did wonder though, when the family is heading for Switzerland, trudging up those flower-covered Alps and that song reaches it's heaving crescendo, as if an entire chorus of invisible nuns is beckoning them, calling them to keep moving forward....if Maria ever thought to say to herself "Listen you old wimpled broad, I didn't know you meant LITERALLY EVERY MOUNTAIN."

But no, I am sure she did not. She was happy in the life that she found, vomit clothing and all. After all, in real life they made it to Switzerland and then to Vermont where they opened a big, fancy hotel. Once, I visited this hotel where an aged Friedrich, the oldest Von Trapp male, was pointed out to me. He was making his way slowly up some red carpeted stairs. He seemed unaware of the young girl gaping at him, wishing she had a whistle to call his attention so he could turn and say something, anything. The Sound of Music is real! It was my life! Come and visit with me and I will sing you songs! But, no. He just climbed with his crutch, one stair at a time. Cue the song...

Let's Be Regional, Here.

It is time again for some business-lady ponderings.

Laura was in Italy last week. Perhaps she can tell you more about it some time, but for now, please allow me to borrow from one of her experiences to make a point. She was there for work, and, while in Bologna, she decided to stay at a bed and breakfast instead of at a hotel. Let’s collectively admire her adventurous spirit! In addition to striking it out on her own as far as lodging, she also took herself to dinner a night or two to enjoy the red wine we’ve all been hearing so much about as well as some Italian cuisine (I don’t know what exactly she ate, but I’m guessing it was pasta. Am I right, you guys?). Not so strange to many, I guess, but hear me out. While conversing with one of the locals later on in the week, Laura discovered that women who dine alone in Italy – at least in Bologna – are assumed to be either prostitutes or at the very least “far from being virgins”.

I was in Colorado Springs earlier this week for a meeting. They don’t have Italian villas in Colorado Springs, so I elected to stay at the SpringHill Suites by Marriott. I checked into the hotel at about 11:00 PM Monday evening pretty much without fanfare, except, I suppose, that Bryce at the front desk did seem especially happy to see me. 5:30 AM Tuesday arrived, and I was up and ready to begin preparing for my meeting. When I travel for work, preparation for meetings includes not only shuffling pieces of paper and stacking them repeatedly on a hard surface but also eating something. I am completely ineffective when my blood sugar is low, and I can also be quite mean (just ask Stephanie and Laura … and my mom). If you don’t know anything else about Marriott hotels, at least know this: they have free breakfast in the morning. I was supposed to meet my co-worker in the lobby at 7:00 AM for our departure, but with all of the paper shuffling and repeated stacking, 6:45 AM had already arrived, and there didn't seem to be time to investigate the unripe bananas, cups of Yoplait, and sugar muffins in the breakfast area. In an effort to ensure that I was on time to meet my co-worker, I decided to eat some of the $8.00 almonds that I had bought at the airport the night before.

It’s not true! At 6:45 AM, there was time to investigate breakfast! What there wasn’t time for was going down to the breakfast area, grabbing a banana and a Yoplait, and then running back to my room to eat them. I don’t like to eat in the breakfast area, because I know what awaits (I’ve been through this a time or two). Granted, this was my first time to Colorado Springs and my first time to that specific hotel, but I took a wild guess – due to the look on Bryce’s face when I checked in – that women my age don’t stay at that hotel. Though I’ve had several years of traveling alone to try to come to terms with my business-lady status, I cannot get used to being one business lady among many, many business men. And you know what? They’re not used to it either. I went downstairs to meet said co-worker in the lobby, and it turned out that the breakfast area and lobby were adjoined. I peeked my head into the breakfast area to look for co-worker, and 15-20 or so male heads turned to stare. There wasn't a single lady in the room for Beyoncé to sing about! I retreated and settled onto a bench in the lobby (because we did agree to meet in the lobby) to wait for co-worker. At 7:08 AM, I began to wonder if we had somehow stayed at different hotels. At 7:10 AM, I knew I had to take a closer look in the dreaded breakfast area. It couldn't have been any clearer that I was looking for someone specific, but I get the feeling that many of those men were sure that they could be that somebody specific in my life. I made eye contact with several hopeful button-downed gentlemen before finally spotting co-worker. I approached him with purpose, shook his hand like a true business lady, and suggested that we get going (were they surprised that I didn’t curtsey? Charmed, I’m sure).

I don’t know how to explain to men (or guys or boys) what it is like being a woman. Well, more specifically, how to explain to them what it is like to be a woman traveling alone or in business situations. It’s just not terribly comfortable being a lone lady out and about sometimes, particularly when I’m mysteriously carrying a BlackBerry and a laptop bag instead of a make-up bag or diaper bag. These men wonder WHAT I am DOING there. In places like New York City, it’s easier to blend in as just another loner in a coffee shop or Subway (why focus on just the females?), but other parts of the country – and parts of the world, apparently – aren’t quite there yet.

I very recently thought to thank my lucky stars that I was raised in the DC area and not El Paso, which is where I was born. From what I can remember about grade school, girls and boys were pushed to achieve. Period. The difference between sexes was a non-issue. I don’t remember anyone ever even hinting that girls like me were merely future baby-makers. The top of my high school class was made up of guys and girls, we had separate but equal sports teams, and we were equally distracted by each other. And this during a time when Barbie was saying, “Math is hard!” (which it is, by the way).

Imagine my surprise, then, when I was visiting a customer in Texas – a male District Tech Director in his late 40s – who said this to me in response to why the lady Superintendent was not happy with their current website: “Well, you know. Men are more concerned with functionality, and women are more concerned with how pretty something looks.” I wish I could report that he was joking, but he absolutely was not. I was seriously offended and above all couldn’t believe he was saying this to me as I was sitting across from him as a business lady myself. You think what now? If you’re wondering, I elected to pretend that he didn’t say that and decided to just move on with the business at hand. If I was any sort of feminist, I would have said, “Excuse me!?” It’s just that I was so taken by surprise that someone would honestly think that all women like things to be pretty, and that’s it. What year is this? (It was 2007).

So, I’m glad that I was raised in Northern Virginia, and I couldn’t be more lucky, as a woman, that I was born in 1981. Don’t get me started on the lessons I’m learning from Mad Men, you guys! I joined the party late on this television program and have only seen Season 3 in its entirety so far. To catch up, I queued up Season 1 via Netflix. Complete alarm and discomfort! Yes, I realize that it is a show, but I have to believe that the creator and writers are basing the theme of pervasive misogyny on some kind of historical truths. In the professional realm, according to the show, women were considered to be pretty much inferior and silly back then. Women were expected to focus on supporting their men (or securing a man if they didn’t have one), satisfying their men (didn’t have to necessarily be “their” man), and keeping themselves beautiful … for men. Yeah, um, Peggy can write copy, too!

As a woman living in New York City, who is fortunate to have been born in 1981, and who is fortunate to have been raised in the DC area, I will gladly endure the occasional uncomfortable leers of business men in hotel breakfast areas, airplanes, airports, and car rental lines over what could have been in another time and place. In time, I think (hope) the work world will become more balanced. Until, then, won't somebody cast a male in a commercial for Tide? "Mama" is not the only one who cares about getting whites whiter! Jeez.

Dinner Circus

Undoubtedly, the current sunshine and warm weather in NYC has caused you to forget how horrible the weather was last weekend. Well, remember it!

Despite the cold rain and strong winds of Friday last, Stephanie and I were determined to share a meal at a restaurant to celebrate a weekend finally arrived. Guess who else had the same plan? Every hipster and a-hole with a golf umbrella (remember that guy, Steph?)! All of our top choice locations were packed with people. An hour wait? No thank you, Mesa Coyoacan! We can seat you at the bar? I don't think so, Beco!

We ultimately enjoyed great beers and food at Enid's for the brazillianth time, but what was most rewarding was that our journey that night was in fact a Dinner Circus (see diagram for proof).

I Will Name Him George ...

Fallen Umbrella

How now, fallen umbrella?

I gave Duane Reade $10.99, you gave me your protection.

I owe you my thanks, fallen umbrella.

The gale force winds were more than you could bare.

You were nylon, fallen umbrella.

The sanitation department will take you to a landfill.