Girl Detective

Girl Detective

( 7:57 PM ) Girl Detective

Just a reminder, for all those of you who may have forgotten, or just plain didn't know, that tomorrow's my birthday. Next week, I'll have an announcement and unveil a new writing project, but those who send birthday greetings will get an advance scoop.

Warning: you may not care about my news or writing project. But you can still wish me a happy birthday.

I've had some tough times with birthdays. When I was about to turn sixteen, my heart was filled with the hope of every spoiled teenager: that I'd wake up to a cute new car sitting in the driveway. When I went to breakfast, I found an envelope and a package. The envelope contained the receipt for my driver's ed class, since I'd had to take it through AAA rather than through the school because of some extracurricular or other. Since it cost extra, my dad thought that it should serve as my birthday gift.

Thanks, Dad.

Then I opened the package. It was an illustrated history of space travel. My mom had picked it out, because the year before I'd become fascinated with the space program, adopted Sally Ride as my new heroine and decided to become an astronaut. I'd even written to NASA, which sent me this tremendous package full of all sorts of planet maps and astronaut information. One piece gave me pause, though. It said that there was an eyesight requirement to be an astronaut. (All that other stuff, like degrees in science and physics I figured would be no problem.) So I called NASA, (yes, I really called), and got bounced around from person to person until I learned that the minimum requirement was 20/50 vision. I'd called my opthamologist's office earlier in the day; I was 20/200. Devastated, I thanked the kind woman at NASA. So it was with some bitterness that I opened the space book nearly a year later from my mom, who apparently hadn't clued into the fact that my astronaut dream had been dead for quite some time.

Thanks, Mom.

Then, two years later on my sister Ruthie's sixteenth birthday, my dad gave her an antique ring that he'd had reset with a diamond. Yep, that's right. I got a receipt and a book that rubbed salt in my wound; my sister got a diamond ring.

Great job, guys.

Then, a few years ago, my mom asked what I wanted for my birthday. I said I didn't have anything specific in mind, but something personal would be nice. A few days later I opened a package that contained a white turtleneck, a bundle of dish towels and a check.

Nice one, Mom.

My request had highlighted to my mother how much she detested shopping for gifts and spurred her to start the tradition of just sending checks. When she finally told me, I said I understood that shopping can be difficult, I would never want her to become stressed and that the check idea was a good one. I just wished that she hadn't waited several years to mention it.

Over the years, my parents have become both better gift givers and better communicators, while I have learned that gifts are simply gifts, not some measure of my worth as a person. I've forgiven them for some bad choices; and they've forgiven me for some bad behavior. We've all come a very long way.

( 6:19 PM ) Girl Detective

Hey, sorry I wasn't able to post last night. My husband G. Grod took me out for dinner for my birthday, which is Friday. He planned the dinner himself, originally picking a restaurant we've been to a few times and enjoyed. To be safe, though, he emailed a local food critic and asked if the place was still one of the nicest. She said yes, but recommended a few other places, including one that we'd tried before but had never quite clicked with. She said to go for the chef's tasting menu, a several course meal that incorporates any food preferences/dislikes that you let him know about in advance. So Grod made the reservation, let them know our dietary do's and don'ts, then told me dinner was at 6:30 on Tuesday and not to plan for anything the rest of the night. Which was good advice, because we didn't leave till after 10.

At first I was scared that I wouldn't get enough to eat. The first five things they brought out, all of which were generously spaced in time, were exquisitely delicious but tiny. Then the portions increased, though; and by the time we were scraping every last bit off the dessert plate, we were well and truly full. The secret to this restaurant, I discovered, is to go with what the chef recommends and not to have a time limit for dinner.

Here is the astonishing list of everything we ate:

Cauliflower mousse with parmesan crispy crumbs
Grilled sausage slice with peeled grape
Artichoke carpaccio with ripe pears
Asparagus in tomato confit with green olives
Roasted cippolina onion with quail egg
Black truffle risotto with shrimp and frizzled something (I thought it was potato, Grod thought it was onion)
Roasted cod over potato-leek puree with buckwheat honey
Pan roasted halibut in saffron-porcini broth with arugula salad
Squab over kale and pickled plums
Lamb chops with pepper ratatouille and goat cheese
A sorbet trio: buttermilk/cinnamon, carrot/ginger and mango/cardamom
Passionfruit panna cotta covered in dark chocolate over raspberry/honey sauce
Triple chocolate: chocolate shell filled with white and milk chocolate mousses over kiwi sauce

Oh, how the "girls" (and Evan) on Joe Millionaire would have hated this dinner. I, however, was in heaven.

So again, I apologize for not being able to post last night. I was having a grand gourmet experience with my very thoughtful husband.

( 6:44 PM ) Girl Detective

Cinderella story

There is a passage in Rebecca Goldstein's quite-good first novel The Mind-Body Problem (Penguin Books, 1983) in which she ponders the power of the Cinderella story for women. The main character, a philosophy grad student named Renee, is having a conversation with a friend, who says, "Deep down I believe--no, it's too deep to be called belief. It's just reflexive. Deep down I reflex that because I'm such a good, hard-working girl, someday, on the night of the ball, the great transformation will take place."

Renee thinks over both the highlights of the story as well as its feminist interpretations: "[It] contained all the elements of the feminine mystique, culminating in the final outrage: the girl's passive salvation by means of the handsome male, thanks to her beauty (and small feet.) Was any tale more explicit?"

Yet Renee realizes, in spite of her awareness, that she not only believes the myth but buys into it. "It's a lovely story." she says, smiling at her friend, who agrees, "The loveliest."

It's been years since I read this book, but this passage has remained with me, through my own experience in graduate school and beyond. It continues to resonate with truth. I may be smart, well-educated and professionally successful, but part of the reason I work hard and try to do the right thing is that I believe that there will be some Cinderella-esque payoff in the end. What does the story tell me: that I'm underappreciated, underpaid, and a lovely princess underneath it all. With a new dress, some shoes and new wheels, I could be on my way, baby.

I was reminded of the passage from the book again as I watched Joe Millionaire and listened to each of the "girls" say how they felt they were in a fairy tale, and that Evan was like a prince. I made fun of these women, but had distanced myself from my own attraction to Cinderella. It lets me believe that I'm better than whatever reality may be weighing me down at any particular moment. It also says that good things happen to good people and that what comes around goes around. These are lovely things to believe, even if I've had loads of experience that says otherwise.

Evan finally made his choice, and a Cinderella one it was. He chose Zora, the substitute teacher who volunteers by helping the elderly. She was the one who said she didn't feel comfortable when she thought he had that much money, and was presented to the audience by the clever show editors as being the one candidate who seemed to truly care for the guy, not the prince charming with the chateau.

And I loved the ending, even as I realized I was manipulated by it. Because it is a lovely story.

( 9:00 PM ) Girl Detective

Why I Hate Sundays

I may be constitutionally incapable of enjoying a weekend. What happens is that I make plans for various points of the weekend, then intersperse with other things: grocery shopping, yoga class, apartment cleaning, laundry, phone calls to family and friends, reading, writing, movies etcetera ad nauseum. I usually find myself doing, doing, doing right up till the end of the weekend--exactly as I am right now. It is after 8:30 p.m., and before bed I want to finish this entry, write for my other writing project that I will unveil next week, read a manuscript from a guy in my writing class, and shower. I'm guessing I may make two of those four, then tomorrow I will be catapulted right back into the week, only to arrive at next weekend and probably do it all over again, with slight variations.

A few years ago when I took some classes on Judaism, one of the things that fascinated me was the celebration of the sabbath. For one day, between sundown and sundown, you are encouraged to just hang out. To read. To eat, but not to cook. To hang out with family. To take walks. To have sex. To do the things you want to do; not the things you feel you should do. Observing sabbath, or something like it, is obviously not unique to Judaism, but what I liked about the theory of this particular tradition was how practical it was. It wasn't about being solemn or reverent or religious. There was this day to just be, not to do. In spite of how alluring I found this, I have probably only ever achieved it twice. And nearly every week I rail against my failure to do so.

I know what the plan should be: to do stuff like cleaning and laundry on Saturday and leave movies and books for Sunday, so I'm relaxed before going back to work. But I find it difficult to do many things on Saturday; I feel as if I'm still recovering from being at work. I want to sit down and relax, so I do a lot of reading. Thus I get to Sunday and my to-do list avalanches. My husband claims there's a name for this sort of thing; it's called compulsion. I can look back on a full day like today with its huge list of accomplishments--made blueberry oatmeal for breakfast, made bread, made icing for cake and iced it, finished book, saw movie, called parents, spoke to sister, did new yoga video, did load of laundry, fixed dinner and watched two TV shows, and still going...--and yet feel I've failed in two ways. One, that I didn't get everything done that I wanted to do over the weekend, and two, that I didn't relax.

My fantasy is for endless three-day weekends: one day to recover from work, another to do stuff, and the third to relax. The thought is so captivating that it almost makes my eyes roll up in my head. But then I'm jerked back to reality. It's 9 p.m. and I should finish here, then be off to the next thing. Awareness of the issue brings some hope. But frequent delinquency makes rehabilitation unlikely.

( 9:41 PM ) Girl Detective

Oof.

In a good way.

We just got back from a diner-esque place that does burgers, fries and ice cream. None of it is fancy; and all of it is good.

Our friends Queenie and Blogenheimer introduced us to this place soon after we moved here, and it's become a staple. For me at least, there are just some days, or in this case, some weeks, that cry out for their troubles to be drowned in an assload of cholesterol. (Assload, by the way, is a Newsradio reference.) I opt for a cheeseburger with American, fries, then decide between a chocolate shake or a hot fudge sundae with bananas. On nights when I'm feeling particularly stupid, I'll add a cherry coke to the mix. At these times my husband G. Grod attempts to reason with me and dissuade me from ordering the dessert. It is in vain. I'm on a mission, the mission is to eat fatty and fat-inducing comfort food, and woe be to s/he who gets in my way.

Jaunts to this place have not always had happy endings. Sometimes we've ordered too many fries. Sometimes I've regretted the cherry Coke and the dessert. But overall, I leave feeling full and happy, sated and cushioned from whatever troubles may be coming down the pike.

( 9:44 PM ) Girl Detective

I hate it when good things go bad. Like when I really like a book, then read its sequel, which is nowhere near as good, but still like it because my affection for the first one spills over, then keep reading sequels in spite of diminishing returns until I reach a point past which I cannot go.

I am deeply sad to say that I may have reached this point with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's midway through season 7, and I'm wishing that I'd given up at the end of season 5. Season 5's ender was sad and terrifying, but it had closure. Then came season 6 on a new network, UPN, and her friends pulled poor Buffy out of heaven, and by gum, I'm not sure they did the right thing. OK, I did very much enjoy the musical episode, but most of the others? They sucked ass. Then this season? Even more ass sucking.

NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. Oh, sure, characters do this and that, and some people have died, but ultimately NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. Except for poor, dead Jonathan, everyone is in pretty much the same place they were at the end of last season. Just like the previous six seasons, there's a big bad coming, and the season will culminate in a big fight in which Buffy and the Scooby gang will ultimately prevail.

And I've ceased to care. Except for the dribs of affection that I carry, waning each and every week, for this show that I watched and loved for five seasons.

Part of me wants to watch till the end of the season and then stop. This is the part of me that finishes books I don't like, because I want to give something the fairest chance, and have the most solid basis for my criticism and loathing. But part of me thinks that I have way better things to do with an hour.

We'll see which part of me wins out next Tuesday.

( 7:54 PM ) Girl Detective

I started a new writing class the other week. My friend Trash insists that each writing class must contain at least one of "that person." "That person", or TP for the sake of brevity, is the weird one who is far too eager to share their not-always compelling work.

My class last fall didn't have one, though. It was a great, supportive class and I really enjoyed it. Sadly, though, the law of averages has caught up with me--there seem to be two this time around.

TP #1 said that she'd only ever read two books in her life. This brought the class to a dead silence. She went on to say that she often started books, but they usually bored her.

TP#2 announced that her novel was a fantasy, about the little people. It's also an environmental tale.

Trash was quite disappointed that I didn't have stories to share from my last class. I don't think she has to worry about it, this time around.

( 6:46 PM ) Girl Detective

Cold Comfort

I have a cold. Again. For something like the jillionth time since last October. It's a mild one, but I'm still being a baby about it.

Growing up, colds were an excuse for medication, and lots of it. I got addicted to nasal spray a few times. As an adult, then, I've come to view medication with suspicion and avoid it if possible. There is one exception, though--Dimetapp. I love the taste of Dimetapp. To quote Homer Simpson, "Mmm, purple." Since this is a mild cold, though, I'm not having trouble sleeping, so I don't require Dimetapp. This of course means that I'm jonesing for it like nobody's business. To stave off this bizarre craving, I've resorted to an arsenal of natural cold remedies.

One of them hasn't worked so well. It's called a neti pot, which is recommended for nasal congestion. It looks like a little teapot, and is used to rinse the nasal passages. I filled it up with a dilute saline solution, plugged the spout in one nostril, tilted my head over the sink, then waited for the saline to run out the other nostril, as it did on the smiling woman in the instructional photo. I began to choke. I tried again and again, till the saline was gone, but never quite got the hang of it. My nose felt happier and less congested afterward, though, so I'll give it another try.

When I get really stuffed up, a headache usually follows. Spicy foods are good for breaking this up. I mix together this drink to clear the sinus congestion, which helps a lot:

1 c. warm water
1 t. honey
1/8 t. cayenne pepper
juice from half a lemon

Also, to build up immunity, I use this garlic/chicken/herb broth:

One head of garlic, peeled
32 oz. chicken broth
2 sliced carrots
1/4 c. chopped parsley
1 t. curry powder
zest from one lemon
bay leaf
any other fresh (1 T.) or dried (1 t.) herbs that you might have floating around: thyme, basil, mint, oregano
1 small jalapeno pepper, minced

Toss in a pot, bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, cook till carrots and garlic are soft, about 30 minutes. Remove bay leaf; puree if you like. Makes 4 servings.

I'm on the fourth day of the cold and am doing much better, so these remedies can't be complete crap. So if you're trying to wean off medication, or just looking for some relief to your cold, give them a try. They might not help, but they won't kill you.

Except for the neti pot, if you choke. So please consult your healthcare practitioner before taking medical advice from me.

( 7:11 PM ) Girl Detective

Saw Daredevil earlier today. Want a quick review? Dark, complex and interesting, it comes so close to greatness but they blew it. It is merely very good.

| ( 7:09 PM ) Girl Detective

I have finally finished reading The Three Musketeers. Bloody hell, but that book is long. I'm not sure what I'll read next, but whatever it is, it better not take me a month. I'm not sure I like any book well enough to spend a month with it, as I just did.

| ( 7:01 PM ) Girl Detective

Women's Clothing Sizes: Insult, Injury and So Much More

The other morning, as I walked through a store on the Minnesota skyway on my way to work, a voice over the P.A. system announced that a team meeting would be taking place in the missy department.

Missy? Was I caught in some sort of time warp?

I took a moment to look on a store directory to confirm what I'd heard. I was somewhat relieved. There was no "Missy" department listed.

But instead, there was a "Misses" department.

The word misses reminds me of an elderly friend of the family. She used to refer to my sisters and I as the little misses. I was twelve at the time and I remember thinking, "Misses. How quaint."

So here I am, twenty-odd years later and reminded by the P.A. that "misses" is somehow still the preferred term. How messed up is this?

So, I can imagine you saying, what's the big deal. You don't like the word, change it.

Yes, but what are we going to change it to?

Duh, you respond. Women's, of course.

And that's where things get even more messed up. Because of course we can't call it Women's, because Women's is the industry term for extended sizes. Men's is Big and Tall; and women's is Women's.

Someone at some point, and I'm betting it wasn't a woman, decided that extended sizes were to be called "women's", so Women became a word associated with the stigma of larger size. Then none of the non extended-size women can be Women because that name is taken, so they are stuck being Misses, which is sexist, derogatory and probably classist to boot. But it could be worse; they could be "Missy"s and get the bonus of ultra-condescension. Does anyone win?

I'd say the Petites, but I know better. They have limited selection, and their department is usually squirreled away far from the Misses section so they have to tramp all the heck over the store to see all of the merchandise.

I understand that the simplest solution--grouping all like clothing
items together in all available sizes--isn't feasible because there are different vendors for different size groups. Even within a same vendor the different sizes are sold by different divisions. Since different sizes are divided up out there in the world, they also get divided up inside a store. But do they have to be this divided?

Here's how it will be when I am queen: There will be one department in each store for all women. It will be called, amazingly, the women's department. In it will be three rough areas: one for petites, one for sizes up to 16, and one for sizes over sixteen. This last can simply be called the plus- or extended-size area.

Who's ready for a coup d'etat?

( 6:07 PM ) Girl Detective

The War of the Roses, part 5 of 5

I laughed behind the safety of the one-way intercom. This was turning out way better than I'd hoped.

Janice called information, then domestic affairs. She had to go through the same questions as before, stating that I hadn't harmed her or threatened her. Because we were renters, not owners, she got referred to another division. As Janice explained the story once, then again, I could tell she was feeling foolish about calling the police. The woman in the rental division explained that her only recourse was to take me to small claims court, which would likely be time consuming and cost a lot more than $70.

She was noticeably subdued when she called Hon for the final time and told him there was nothing to be done. He shouted some more and made her promise to spend the night at someone else's house. He said he'd come down that weekend and help her move out. Her final call was to our landlord, telling him that she'd be moving out immediately and that if he wanted to know why, he could call me. Then she stomped out of the house, muttering to herself as she passed my door.

On Saturday my roommates and I were in the living room eating breakfast and whispering about Janice. She and Hon trooped stoically in and out of the house, up and down the stairs, carrying boxes out to his car. It was unseasonably warm for February and they both looked sweaty and disheveled. Someone suggested that we let the air out of his tires on the vanity-plated BMW of which he was obnoxiously proud. We laughed, which seemed to provoke Hon, who stalked down the hall and into the room.

His face red with exertion, he began to shout. "What's so funny? You people are horrible!" He pointed at me. "You, especially. You think you're so smug and superior. Well, you're not. You're all just, just.... peas!"

He spun around and stomped down the hall as we looked at each other in confusion. Peas? Did he mean peas in a pod? Was that an insult? We laughed again, louder this time, as they lugged the last box out to the car and roared off down the street.

As much as it pains me to admit it, though, the last laugh was hers. She stiffed me with a $75 phone bill. And every single one of those calls had been to Hon.

the end

( 9:27 PM ) Girl Detective

The War of the Roses, part 4 of 5

I walked slowly back to my room and hit the intercom button again. Janice was screaming as she related the story to Hon. "She what?" he bellowed. "Destroyed them? She can't do that! It's private property. I paid $70 for those roses. I'm calling the police!"

"Oh, hon, I don't think that's a good idea..." her voice trailed off.

He continued to shout. "This is an outrage! I'm calling the cops!" He hung up, then a few minutes later the phone rang again.

"Jan, I can't call 911 from New Jersey. You're going to have to call from there."

"I don't know, hon..."

"Dammit, Jan, she destroyed $70 of your property! She's a criminal! Call the police!"

I stayed on the line as Janice hung up and dialed 911.

The operator's voice was brisk. "State your name and the nature of the emergency."

"Janice Smith. 3302 Prospect Street. My roommate destroyed my roses. They cost $70."

To her credit, Janice sounded somewhat abashed.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Did you say your roommate ripped up your roses?"

"Umm, yeah. They cost $70. It's property damage." She repeated Hon's phrases mechanically.

The operator sounded incredulous. "Did your roommate harm you?"

"Well, no."

"Did she threaten you with bodily harm?"

"No."

"Young lady, this is not a call for 911. This is not an emergency. Do not EVER call 911 for something like this again. This is for domestic affairs."

Janice's voice was meek. "Do you have their number?"

The operator sighed with frustration. "I'm the 911 operator. I deal with emergencies. Call information."

To be concluded

( 5:41 PM ) Girl Detective

The War of the Roses, part 3 of 5

I picked the sticky note off the fridge and stared at it in shock. Who had done this? It took a moment for my sleep-fogged brain to function. Janice--it had to be her. But after months of silence, why had she decided to act now? This was deliberate provocation; she had to know that I'd retaliate. What had pushed her over the edge?

I stormed upstairs and knocked on her door, but she'd already left for class. She must have thought that the poem was directed at her. Yes, she and her boyfriend were a classic case of the mushy love dorks that I made fun of in the poem, but I hadn't written it about her specifically. At least that's what I told myself as I worked myself into a righteous snit.

The boyfriend, by the way, had a name but I never used it. Behind their backs I always referred to him as "Hon" because that's what they called each other. Hon, do you want to go to a movie tonight? Hon, have you seen my car keys? Hon, how did you chemistry test go?

Hon sent Janice roses all the time. For her birthday, for acing a test and most certainly for Valentine's Day. She would always brag about how much they cost and put them someplace conspicuous in the house. Not this year, I thought.

Knowing that Janice was in class all day, all I had to do was wait. Eventually the doorbell rang, I signed for the roses with her name then tore up to my room. I opened the box slowly, savoring the moment. No one had ever sent me roses before. They lay there, nestled in layers of green tissue, dewy, beautiful and huge. I raised one to my nose, but it had no fragrance. I'd read somewhere that in breeding for size and stamina, the scent gets left behind. It was sad, I thought. Then I got to work.

Janice got home a little after 5. I sat in my room, down the hall from hers, and listened to her walk through the house once, twice, then three times, looking for that long, white, red-ribbon tied box. I heard her go to her room, then tried to gauge how long it would take for her to dial. I hit the one-way intercom button on my phone so I could listen to her, but she couldn't hear me.

She was telling Hon that she hadn't gotten the roses. He told her he'd call to see if they'd been sent. They hung up, then a few minutes later the phone rang again. Both Janice and I picked up. He told her they'd been delivered earlier and that she'd signed for them. He let out a huff of frustration. "They better not have screwed up. Those cost $70."

She and I both hung up. I took a deep breath, then strode down the hall and into her room, holding only the sticky note in my hand. As I stood in the door, she looked up, startled. "Did you write this?" I asked, my voice high and sharp.

She held my gaze and hesitated, but just for a second. "Yes. I did."

I left the room, went to mine, grabbed the box and returned. I held out the box, deliberately just beyond her reach.

"These came for you today," I spit out, then let the box slide out of my hand. The stems, leaves and shredded petals cascaded across the floor.

"You BITCH!" she screeched. I smirked and walked out of the room.

To be continued

( 9:18 PM ) Girl Detective

The War of the Roses, part 2 of 5

I became more and more bitter as Valentine's Day approached. I wasn't seeing anyone and it had been months since I'd even kissed a guy. I was alone and miserable. Most of my roommates had boyfriends. They walked hand in hand, went out on dates, and didn't return to the house every night. I seethed with resentment. What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I be doing those things?

I took my frustrations and poured them out into a snarky little poem:

It's here again, oh hip hooray,
That lovey-dovey holiday.
No card? So what? Who cares? Not me!
I loathe sentimentality.
A dozen roses? No, thank you, please.
All they do is make me sneeze.
A box of chocolates? Oh how sweet.
Breaking into hives is neat.
"I love you" whispered in my ear--
Spare me the bullshit, please my dear.
Let other people act like fools,
Snuggle, cuddle, kiss and drool.
All the couples out there I mock;
Valentine's Day is such a crock.
So all you lovebirds listen well:
Eat shit, fuck you and go to hell.

I read it to a few of my rooommates, who laughed even though they had boyfriends. "Put it on the fridge," one of them urged. "That's where it should be."

I agreed, and hung it with pride. I might be alone, but at least I was clever, dammit.

When I entered the kitchen on Valentine's Day, though, something was different. There was a yellow sticky note affixed to the poem. Without my contacts, I squinted to read the stiff blue capitals:

WHY NOT TRY TO LOSE SOME WEIGHT?
MAYBE THEN YOU'D GET A DATE.

To be continued

| ( 6:49 PM ) Girl Detective

The War of the Roses, part 1 of 5

In celebration of Valentine's Day this week, I'm going to tell the story of one of the meanest things I've ever done.

While the story centers around Valentine's Day, the conflict started months before. I was in college and renting a house with several other women. One night I overheard one of them, I'll call her Janice, talking to her boyfriend on the phone and complaining about how shallow the rest of us were, me in particular. I was shocked. How dare this mousy, boring little chit call me shallow? Furious, I burst into her room and let her have it.

"Shallow?" I screamed. "Well at least I have friends, which is more than you can say. All you do is study and visit that dorky boyfriend in New Jersey"

Her eyes widened and she drew back in surprise. "Gotta go, hon," she said as she hung up the phone, then turned to me, eyes blazing.

"Yeah? At least I'm trying to do something with my life. All you do is drink and gossip, you stupid bitch!"

"You're the bitch," I answered, unable to formulate a better comeback, then turned and slammed the door behind me.

There were seven women living in our house. With that much estrogen, a catfight was bound to happen, and now it had.

War was declared. Three of the housemates stood firmly behind me, two remained neutral and Janice's camp was empty. She knew she was outnumbered and a grudging truce ensued. We ignored each other, but rules of common courtesy prevailed. We still passed on phone messages and mail; and we stayed out of the other's room. It seemed as if we'd finish the school year in this manner, which was uncomfortable but fine with me.

Then February rolled around, Valentine's Day loomed on the horizon; and the shit hit the fan.

To be continued

( 9:28 PM ) Girl Detective

Oops. Very sorry. The name of the substitute teacher candidate on Joe Millionaire is Zora, not Zorah, as I've spelled it in previous entries. I wondered why I was so high on the google referral list. I'll correct those. Sorry for those of you who found this site looking for insightful commentary on Joe Millionaire.

| ( 9:24 PM ) Girl Detective

When my husband and I returned from our trip to Italy last fall, I had some problems with the airports. I just couldn't get what I wanted.

Before we got on the plane in Milan, I knew what I wanted. Cappuccino and gelato, as many times as possible. I was willing to settle for two apiece. I got one cappuccino when we got to the airport, but didn't see any gelato. Then we had to check in; and that took forever. By the time we finished in line, we had just enough time to dash in a news stand and frantically spend our Euros on Italian beauty magazines (me) and soft-corn porn (my husband.) We had no time for more coffee and no time for ice cream. I was seething and sad as I got on the plane--no more Italian coffee or gelato for the indefinite future. And there wasn't any of either on our long flight back to the States.

We landed in Newark. I know it's a wretched cliche if I complain about Newark, but really, I must. As we waited and waited in the endless customs line I sustained myself by dreaming about coffee and french fries. But the time between our flights dwindled rapidly as we waited, so by the time we emerged, we were going to be cutting our connection quite close. We consulted a transfer helper, who said that the train between terminals was somehow fucked up, so we'd have to walk to our terminal--that would take a mere twenty minutes and still be quicker than waiting for the train. So we grabbed our luggage and started walking. Right past a coffee place. Right past a McDonald's. I whimpered plaintively but my husband G. Grod would have none of it. "Our flight's in less than 45 minutes. We have to go!"

I did see some wisdom in that, so with a mournful backward glance we left the international terminal and made our way to the next.

Right into hell.

After another long line of security, we finally made it into our terminal and to our gate, where we checked in. And waited, and waited. Then waited some more. Our departure time came and went, while the board still cheerily proclaimed "on time". Eventually, someone made an announcement that there were mechanical problems with the plane, and they had to call in technicians to fix them; they had no idea when we'd depart. I wanted to howl with the injustice, but instead decided to go seek a Starbucks and McDonald's.

I was thwarted in my quest. Because in that giant, sprawling Newark terminal, there was no Starbucks. No McDonald's. There was a no-name coffee place that served me a chalky mocha, and Nathans, that served me greasy, soggy, mealy fries so bad that I couldn't eat them. At which point I started to actually howl, cursing the airline, cursing Newark, wondering how on earth I could be in the only fucking place in America that didn't have a Starbucks and a McDonald's.

Oh, I'm sorry smartass, were you wondering why I didn't just go back to the other terminal?

Because I would have had to walk twenty minutes, wait in that terminal's security line, procure foodstuffs, walk back twenty minutes and wait in our terminal's security line again. Believe me, I considered it. And if my husband hadn't been holding firmly onto my arm reminding me that we had no idea when our plane would leave, I woulda been outta there.

Our eventual wait time was three hours, all the while being told not to go anywhere, because we might leave at any minute. We did finally leave, though, and I arrived back in Minnesota hours later tired, hungry and decidedly out of sorts.

I can't decide what the moral of the story is. Don't leave Italy, land of plentiful cappuccini and gelati? Don't fly through Newark, the armpit of the east? Or don't get so fixated on foodstuffs?

Nah. No way it can be the latter. I'm blaming Newark.

( 8:51 PM ) Girl Detective

I struggled through my teenage years and my adult life with acne. Not little spots, either, but big, honkin' cystic mamas. Their frequency seemed loosely tied to hormones and stress, but not completely. Over time, I saw dermatologists who gave me cortisone shots, prescribed topical cortisone, antibiotics, even birth control pills. The latter two didn't help much and created a whole new slew of problems. For years, the docs had mentioned Accutane to me, but I'd continually put them off. Accutane is a drug so powerful that women are required to take pregnancy tests before, and every month during the 5-month course of it because it causes serious birth defects if one becomes pregnant. It also causes severe dryness and peeling. The upside, though, is considerable. Most patients not only see dramatic improvement in cystic acne, but they see it long term. For many, one 5-month round of the drug is enough to reset their skin patterns.

I'd avoided Accutane because I wanted to try other, more natural and less invasive methods. I tried herbal remedies, natural skincare, unnatural and expensive skincare, yoga, shiatsu, meditation, diet changes--nothing helped. I finally had to admit defeat when I found myself in my mid-thirties, still spackling on cover-up over the painful, enflamed cysts. (My cover-up of choice, though? Laura Mercier Secret Camouflage with the special brush. Don't bother if you're not going to get get the brush.)

I made an appointment to see my doc and he showered me with material, told me to do additional research, quizzed me multiple times on whether my husband and I were planning on getting pregnant soon, then he told me to think about all of it. While I did, I visited a friend who had taken a course of Accutane several years before. When I asked her if she had any regrets, she replied, "Only that I didn't do it sooner. It worked and it still works."

I started the course in fall. I don't recommend this timing; I took the drug over the winter, which exacerbated the dryness. Immediately my skin became worse, though the doc had warned me not only that it might happen but that it tended to signal later success. My skin dried out and flaked off; and I had to buy more potent moisturizers, as well as carry lip balm with me everywhere. Co-workers made fun of me for carrying it on my i.d. badge, but I was never without it. My joints ached and my body was stiff if I sat in once position too long. I also started taking marshmallow root supplements for further moisturizing benefits, since the drug saps so much of the body of moisture.

After a few months, though, my skin cleared up and the only marks were from old breakouts. When I finished the course in March, my face was clearer than I ever remembered. Nearly a year later, it continues to be clear. I've had a few breakouts, but they have been isolated spots that faded quickly--nothing like the huge monsters of yore. I echo the comment of my friend. My only regret is that I didn't do it sooner. I don't blame myself for being cautious--it's a bitch of a drug with nasty side effects. The payoff, though--that I'm finally clear-skinned at 35--is more than worth it.

( 8:52 PM ) Girl Detective

I watched Witness for the Prosecution the other night and was bothered the entire time by Marlene Dietrich's eyebrows. They were thinly drawn round arches that sailed well above her browbones.

Then I watched Bell, Book and Candle a few nights later and was bothered the entire time by Kim Novak's eyebrows. It was obvious which parts of them were real and which were painted on. The real parts only accounted for about a third. The rest were thickly drawn, which I appreciated, but reached improbably far up her forehead.

I've had my own troubles with eyebrows. My mother would often look at my face as I was growing up and say, "I'm really sorry about giving you those eyebrows." One time a professor looked at my face and said, "Hey, what's that...oh, I'm sorry. Those are your eyebrows."

My eyebrows are not the worst ever. But in their natural state, they're pretty bad. The don't stay within neat lines, and they have no arch whatsoever--they're thick, rectangular and dark. Once, when I was in middle school, I directly disobeyed some teen beauty magazine (which I did all the time--they kept saying silly things like don't sunbathe between 10 and 2, or don't lay out only slathered in baby oil) and shaved between my brows. I didn't do it evenly, though, and managed to shave off a good half-inch of my left brow. Even now, decades later, you can still see the difference.

For most of my life, I left them pretty much alone. I tweezed everything between them, and around the borders--I didn't mess with their large, rectangular nature. Until one day, I did. I forget when it was, or why (I think it was after watching ER), but it was as if I'd suddenly realized that I had horrible brows. I took the tweezers and started ripping out giant hunks from the underside. (Those beauty magazines say that you should not tweeze from the top, but follow the natural form. I still ignore them, at least a little. I find the tops need tidying, too.) I didn't have an arch, so I made one up. I got one brow looking pretty good, then attacked the other, and spent quite some time trying to make them match. I didn't make them into thin, pencil brows. I have a strong-boned face and they'd disappear in it. I left brows with some heft but with about half the surface area (still a lot) and a new-found shape. It made a huge difference.

So for the past few years, my brows are part of my regular beauty routine. I don't have to tend them every day, but I can't go too many days without. It's kinda like shaving in summer, but year 'round. I've found that brow powders with a stiff brush are really good for filling in gaps and giving definition, but pencils have come a long way since I shaved off that hunk of my brow. Estee Lauder makes a good one in a good color--Soft Brown--that works for blonds, light brunettes and redheads like me. My brows are so high maintenance that I have to do them at home, but most of my friends swear by salon waxing. It's quick, it's easy, and it's not expensive--depending on where you go it's about $15 to $25. And the results are impressive. Shaped brows open up the eyes and give shape to the face.

But I have become something of a brow-nazi. When I see old movies, I writhe at the unnatural shapes, and cringe for the poor actress whose actual brows were shaved off. More and more, though, the natural and even thick brow seems to have made a lasting comeback. Yes, Brooke Shields is the poster child, but there are many other women out there sporting strong, sleek brows, like Madonna and my brow inspiration, Julianna Margulies. I've finally made peace with my brows and we get along pretty well. My mother doesn't even apologize for them anymore.

( 8:08 PM ) Girl Detective

Today's weird thing that bothers me is that Levi's buffalo commercial.

It debuted during the Super Bowl, which I Tivo'd then forwarded through the pathetic game--not because I hate the Bucs but because I hate blowouts--to watch the commercials.

Why is it, year after year, that we watch for the commercials and always say on Monday, "Eh. They were only OK."

They've been only OK for years now. When was the last year that a Super Bowl had good commercials? Was it back in Apple's heyday, when they ran 1984?

But I digress.

The buffalo commercial is a perfect example of an ad agency going for it and failing miserably. In it, a hip multi-culti guy with dreads and an attractive but too-skinny woman are strolling up a deserted freeway while we see shots of an oncoming buffalo stampede, destruction spreading in its path. The couple look at one another when they feel the vibration. "What's that, hon, that I feel underneath my feet on this deserted highway?" When they see the buffalo, they don't look surprised, but thoughtful. Then they glance at one another, turn, join hands and face the oncoming herd. We get a nice focus shot on their respectable but not that exciting asses, then the buffalo surge around and past them. The couple widen their eyes and breathe deeply, energized by this powerful experience. They drop each others' hand and clench their fists, exulting in this primal event. The piece finishes with a screen that says that though Levi's has been around,these tough jeans are a new breed.

Aside from the very obvious fact that two people would not be strolling down a freeway together, and that they would run from a stampede of buffalo, I have a much deeper problem with this commercial. The commercial does a good job of evoking place and detail. Therefore all I can imagine as I watch is the fetid stink as those buffalo go by, and how choked the air must be with dirt and buffalo detritus. And this cool couple are taking deep breaths? Faugh. I want to vomit every time I see this commercial; and that's not a big incentive for me to buy jeans.

As much as I hate the buffalo piece, I love the French lesson. That's the one where the shorter, hotter guy from Y Tu Mama Tambien and a woman are driving hell bent for leather. They pull into an alley as a police car speeds by. They grin conspiratorially. Next we see their respectable and exciting asses as they push the car off a pier. Hot guy (whose name I actually know--it's Gael Garcia Bernal) pauses, then dives in after the car. The camera follows him, focusing lovingly on his ass, as he swims into the car and searches frantically for something under the seat. He finds it, tucks it into the back waistband of his low-rise jeans, then swims to the surface. We see him walking away with the woman, who asks, "Qu-est-ce que tu oublie?" which is French for "What did you forget?" The camera zooms in on his ass again and we see a French-English dictionary.

Why do I love this commercial so much? Because it does what the other does not. It tells a story that isn't fantastical in a weird way and it's one that matches the jeans. It makes me feel smart for remembering high school French. Plus it evokes a place I want to be--jammed into the back waistband of that guy--instead of in a place that makes me want to heave.

Not all commercials are going to be able to be great, but I think they should at least aspire not to be vomitous.

( 7:09 PM ) Girl Detective

"Waitaminnit," I'm sure you're not asking, "What was that bit in today's entry about copyrights? What's the difference between copyright and trademark and service mark? My head is spinning."

For that and more, I'll direct you to this clever little piece at chicklit.com, where some woman who knows far more than I can actually correctly inform you on this subject.)

| ( 7:04 PM ) Girl Detective

M. Giant wrote last week about ™s in response to a reader who asked why he included them when he named brands. The upshot? Because they're funnier. If you read a brand name in text, then you just skim right over it. If the brand name has a ™ honked onto it, though, you stop. You pay attention. It's an interruptor. In casual writing, it can even be funny.

As an insufferable know-it-all, however, I can't simply let his glib explanation pass without commenting on the subject and perhaps even beating it to death. Not all of those ™s are correct. Many should be ®; others should be something else. I am armed with my usual little bit of knowledge that I will attempt to blow up so that I sound like I know what the hell I'm talking about.

Why talk about it--isn't it kind of boring? Well, perhaps, but it's also one of the Weird Things that Bother Me™. I realized far too late that phrase would make a good name for this blog. But even though I haven't yet used it, you can't take it. Why? Because even though I've put a joke™ on it, I've also got a copyright statement over there to the right. So pay attention, and hands to yourself.

™ is what a company marks a name of a product with once it has applied for exclusive rights. They can actually do this before they file the official papers; it can signal an intent to do so. Once they do so, then everyone else better back off, because the company has officially pissed on that word, name or phrase, though only in the specific arena of whatever product it appears on. So Coca-Cola® has registered for beverages, but if someone wanted, they could conceivably apply to use the name for something that is far distant from beverages, such as diaper-rash ointment, or therapeutic prostheses.

If the authorities recognize the company's claim as a good one, then they grant them full rights and the ™ grows up into an ®. Remember Schoolhouse Rock? It's like when the bill becomes a law. The company now has expanded legal rights to trounce upon anyone else using the name. But the rights are conditional. Not only does the company have to carefully mark the name when it uses it, but also keep an eye out for other deadbeats who use it without authorization. Once lots of people start referring to a brand name in the generic sense, the company loses its grip on the name. Aspirin was once a brand name. Miraculously and through the liberal application of lawyers, however, Kleenex®, Xerox® and Q-Tips® still are.

One thing most people aren't familiar with, though, is that the ™ is only for trade items--things that can be bought and sold. What happens when a company wants to register a brand name for something that isn't, like the name of an event, or a tagline? The mark is called a service mark and takes an SM, rather than a ™. It's not hard to imagine why most companies opt to use a line on their ads that says something like "Guzizah is a registered service mark of Jimmy James, Inc. All rights reserved." But if service marks get full registration, then they grow up into ®s, too. So ®s are ™s and SMs that have taken their vitamins.

So all this stuff sounds pretty dry--why does it make the list of Weird Things that Bother Me™?

Because a few months ago, I was at the gym and saw a T-shirt with the slogan Life is Good®.

Someone registered the phrase Life is Good? For T-shirts? And got it?

Life isn't good. Life is wrong. And another pet peeve entered the world.

Girl Detective the person is a titian-haired sleuth, intent on fathoming the mysteries of the world at large, with particular (and some might say obsessive) attention paid to the mundane details of female life.

Girl Detective the weblog is not about girl detectives; sorry if you came here looking for that. It is, however, an homage to the inquisitive nature, untiring spirit and passion for justice that marked these great literary heroines.

Girl Detective the weblog is a forum to practice my writing. It is about whatever strikes me on any given day. I am a woman writing for other women. If guys find it interesting, bravo. If not, that makes sense, but don't complain.

All material here is copyright 2002-2004 Girl Detective.

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