Sometimes Fads Work Out in My Favor

I’ve never been much of a one for following what’s ‘in’ at any given moment, at least not with any particular fervor. Part of this has to do with the fact that I was born middle-aged, part of it has to do with having been born middle-aged to practically-middle-aged parents, and both of those things created a consumer of necessity rather than a consumer of frivolity. In a nutshell: Buy what you need, use it until it dies, replace, repeat.

That isn’t to say that I haven’t owned my fair share of popular whatevers — I have. I just don’t have a history of going out of my way to obtain them if I don’t need to replace a current whatever. Take, for example, my much-loved Jansport backpack (RIP). I had been through a handful of less expensive school bags and would probably have grabbed another one, but, as luck would have it, Mom and I were at the office supply store and the big, fancy Jansports were on sale, so that’s what I ended up with. And that thing lasted the remainder of high school, all of undergrad, the year of my Master’s program, and continued hard use up until about two years ago when it finally fell apart. I was going to replace it with another Jansport, but the quality has changed dramatically during the 10+ years I had the old one and they don’t seem to be nearly as robust as they used to be.

Another of my brand loyalties is Ray-Ban. This was accidental. I was spending the weekend in Santa Cruz with my aunt and uncle and I had cheapy drugstore sunglasses and was constantly squinting and it was decided that I was ready for a pair of ‘real, grown-up’ sunglasses. That first pair of Ray-Bans lasted six years, at which point the finish was shot to shit (we still don’t know why or how) and they were replaced with another pair of Ray-Bans which I am still wearing ten years later. Of course, I’m a proper adult now, and can decide for myself when to replace my sunglasses and do so on my own dime, and I have been debating about a new pair for a couple of years now just for a change of style, but… the old ones still block the sun.

I’ve bought copycat styles of apparel in the past, but I can only think of a handful of times I’ve shelled out for the ‘real deal’ on purpose for the sake of the label. A couple of pairs of Chuck Taylors, yes. And I was absolutely on the bandwagon when Converse/Nike released the Chuck Taylor Allstar II (the Chucks you love — with an arch support!!!) which, sadly, was apparently a total flop and they’re not making them anymore, so thank goodness I grabbed them while I could. (Still pissed about this, actually. The wound is deep and recent. I just want comfy AND fashionable sneakers, is that so much to ask?!) I own a pair of Toms not because I had set out to obtain them, but because they happened to be the perfect style and color to pair with the dress for which I was having difficulty finding shoes. It’s not like I’m some sort of fashion plate to begin with — ninety percent of the time I wear Danskos to work. There, that’s another label I pay for on purpose, but I can assure you it has nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with the fact that I destroyed my body by living in a ballet studio for the majority of late adolescence.

Cosmetics. Yes, okay, there’s one. But it also stems from the fact that I’m allergic to talc which is a very common ingredient in cosmetics. Getting away from talc is synonymous these days with getting away from all sorts of other not-so-nice ingredients. Also, I prefer to go cruelty-free, so that narrows the field even more, leaving me with a handful of (generally pricey) brands from which to choose. Then again, I rarely use much of anything cosmetic anyway, so I feel like a little bit of luxury in a column where I don’t spend much to begin with isn’t the worst thing.

Also, I like bunnies.

In any case, the fad I set out to discuss actually has nothing to do with brands at all. It’s plant-based. Literally. In the past few years there has been an immense uptick in the popularity of succulents. They’re in everything from wedding bouquets to parking lot planter boxes. They’re a popular subject for generic pre-framed wall art. They’re a cute little motif on stationary.

They’re easy to propagate, grow, and care for. Break off a leaf by accident? Just stick it in the dirt, it’ll root. They’re low maintenance. Water them once a week and other than that, leave them alone. They come in an abundance of different and interesting shapes, colors, and sizes, with or without blooms. Seriously, the variety is astounding!

AND, they’re the only thing that will happily grow on my patio because it gets full, blazing afternoon sun.

That’s it. That’s what I was excited about.

I HAVE POPULAR PLANTS!!!

The Single Human Male: a Field Guide

I am currently single. I do not wish to stay this way forever, so I am exploring options for meeting (and vetting) potential partners.

That’s the nice way of saying I’m braving the clusterfuckery that is the online dating scene.

Since actually paying for this service smacks of desperation, I have previously favored the free sites — OKCupid, Bumble, etc. — and so far haven’t had much luck. Oh, there are some nice enough people, sure, but no one who’s managed to keep my attention for longer than a few dates.

“Okay, so, free sites collect ‘hobbyist’ daters. I guess if someone’s willing to pay for the service they’re more likely to be serious. Worth a try?”

Enter eHarmony, where you don’t pay until you find someone with whom you want to communicate. I could have a mini-rant here about their marketing model, which is basically to bait you with only the written parts of people’s profiles and no photos or communication tools unless you pony up the subscription fee, but… actually, that pretty much covers it. Suffice it to say that I haven’t yet read anything that was enticing enough for me to fork over the cash.

However, I’m discovering trends, and I’ve developed the following field guide for recognizing the types of single human males found on dating sites to help any of you single ladies (or gentlemen, I don’t judge) in navigating the uncharted backwaters of the online dating cesspit, should you require assistance in doing so.

I present to you:
The Elizabeth Fazzio Absolutely Not Comprehensive & Probably Slightly Offensive Field Guide to the Single Human Male

Chapter One — Recognizing Your Subject

One-Word-Answer Man
One-Word-Answer Man fills in the sections of his profile with, as the label indicates, single words, or, when the question requires more than one answer, a bulleted list.

“What are you looking for in a partner?”

“Honesty. Thoughtfulness. Sense of humor.”

“Who has had the most positive influence on your life?”

“Parents.”

“What do you like to do on the weekends?”

“Hike. Snowboard. Have some beers.”

Good job, One-Word-Answer Man, I’ve learned so much about you.

The Jock
All of The Jock’s profile photos are action shots of him playing sports, or photos of him at sporting events. He has maxed out the check-boxes in the questions about sports and physical activities. His profile blurbs revolve around sporting events and team loyalties, and he seems to spend every waking hour that he’s not working engaged in some sort of sporting activity. There are other things out there in the world, Jock. It wouldn’t kill you to try some of them.

The Dictator
Oh, this guy. The Dictator starts all of the sections regarding his desired attributes in a partner with the phrase, “You should be”.

“You should be active, outgoing, and always up for a good time.”

“You should be equally at home out on the town as home on the couch with a good movie.”

You know what I should be, Mr. Dictator? I should be me. People don’t conform to checklists. This isn’t Build-A-Girlfriend.

The Outdoorsman
The Outdoorsman claims to be most at home in the wilderness. His photos all have pine trees or huge boulders in them, and he’s usually wearing a large backpack and a bandana that looks as though it could stand up on its own. He’s looking for someone to go hiking and camping with, someone who doesn’t mind getting a little dirty. Someone who’s up for adventure! He probably has a large dog and a Subaru, and if he had his way he’d move to the Sierras and live in a log cabin he built by himself and live on home-grown vegetables. He will claim to be the kind of guy you can safely take home to meet your parents. I hate to break it to you, bub, but there is no human being on God’s green earth who will impress my parents. I don’t even impress my parents. Next!

The Frat Boy
This dude is clean-cut, sharply dressed, physically fit, and probably works at a law firm or in sales. Everything about him is generic. He likes all the standard dude films and books (if he claims to read at all) and his ideal Friday night is a popular bar with a band and a group of identical Frat Boys. He is holding a drink in all of his photos, and the majority of those photos were taken at his fraternity brothers’ weddings. If he reaches out to you, he will ask incredibly generic questions and not know what to do if you use a word with more than three syllables. Really? The best you could do is ‘How do you usually spend Saturday night?’ Sorry, Mr. Frat Boy, I am not for you, and you are not for me. I mean, unless you want a side-job as a doorstop...

The World Traveller
The World Traveller wants a girlfriend with a current passport and a seemingly endless budget and supply of vacation days. His bucket list of places to visit is a mile and a half long, as is the list of places he’s been already. He waxes poetic about culture and cuisine and ‘learning and growing as a person’. One of his profile pictures is him in front of the Taj Mahal. Way to reinforce the stereotype, Mr. World Traveller. By the way, did you get the consent of the guardians of the South American children you posed for photos with before plastering them all over the Internet as heartstring-tuggers in your quest for a mate?

The Gym Rat
If you’re in the market for a workout buddy, this is your guy. He posts nothing but gym selfies and takes every opportunity to mention his workout schedule and proclivity for healthy eating. He makes sure to mention at least one vice (“Ice cream is my weakness, LOL!”) to make himself seem human, but it’s pretty obvious that his brains are in his biceps. When you’re on a first-name basis with nine-tenths of the members of your gym, and you know more details about their lives than you do about your own family, it’s time to leave, bucko.

The Intellectual
He idolizes Stephen Hawking and will happily discuss black holes with you. His ‘Books I’ve Read’ list reads like the ‘Who’s Who?’ of historical brainiacs. He’s looking for someone to have deep, complicated conversations with, someone with a passion for learning about new things who will throw themselves wholeheartedly into said new subject for fun. He dreams of being able to travel to outer space or the deepest portions of the oceans in search of new and exciting species. He has all of the BBC ‘Planet Earth’-type series on DVD. He is Very Serious. These guys dissect everything. Even jokes. They might laugh, but then they start picking it apart until it’s a sad pile of joke bones and there’s no more joy in it. Sometimes it’s okay to take things at face value, okay?

The Boy Next Door
‘God, baseball, and Mom’s apple pie’ is this gentleman in a nutshell. He holds doors, says ‘Sir’ and ‘Ma’am’, and is almost sickeningly wholesome. He will talk endlessly about how much his family means to him and how supportive they all are of each other and how he could never have become the man he is today without them. His faith is very important to him and it’s likely that the Bible is on his ‘Favorite Reads’ list. He is desperate to start a family, and probably wants a whole mess of small humans. Some of his photos have children in them and captions like, “My awesome niece and nephew!” Maybe it’s just me, but these guys bring out my inner evil in a big way. They’re so infinitely corruptible, I just want to ruin them! Muahahahaha! ::rubs hands together in evil glee::

Every Profile I Immediately Skip Due to Incorrect Spelling, Grammar, Punctuation, etc.
This one kind of explains itself, really.

Look, I’m sure you’re all fine human beings, guys, but I’m particular. You should be particular, too! Finding a person to share your life with is NOT something where you settle for less than what you want and need. I’ve done that before. It didn’t work. I don’t recommend it.

Also, if I read the phrase 'looking for a partner in crime' once more, there will be bloodshed. 

The search continues...

It Might be Greener, but You Still Have to Water It

The human animal is never satisfied.

I’m certainly not. I live in a constant whirlwind of conditionals; ‘if/thens’, if you like. If this happens/I have this thing/I follow this path, then this other thing will happen/my life will be easier/I will be successful. To a certain degree this is a very sound thought process — no one can deny cause and effect. But unlike physics, where the effect is predictable, there is an unbelievable amount of gray area governing the outcome of any human ‘ifs’. It is always possible that the actual endgame will be vastly different from what was originally desired, and ultimately this may or may not work out to the benefit of the desirer. If it does, then it is chalked up in the metaphorical win column.

See? Even in conditionals there are conditionals. Talk about a Carrollian Caucus Race...

The thing about conditionals, at least for me, is that they are stepping stones across the murky pond of life towards the far more interesting and satisfying portion of the garden ‘over there’. You know, the spot where there’s a lovely giant horse chestnut tree with a delightful swing hanging off one branch, and the flowers grow in wild, colorful, fragrant clusters, and the temperature is always perfect, and the water in the pond on that side is clear and you can watch the fish and the frogs and the turtles and the dragonflies and smell the water lilies and I don’t know, maybe there’s a talking bunny rabbit who is your BFF. Whatever that place looks like to you, insert it here, or simply substitute the old adage, “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.”

Because that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Getting somewhere that isn’t where we are. Getting somewhere better. The trouble is, we seem to be ingrained with a degree of ‘magical thinking’ — we think of the ‘then’ as the end, the pinnacle, the pastures of Heaven.

Reality check, kids. The Elysian Fields it ain’t.

You’re not going to get there and have everything freeze in perfection. That’s not how life works. “The only thing constant is change,” after all. Just when you think all your waterfowl are queued appropriately enough for you to be able to take a breath and relax, there’s a flight of very angry swans who show up out of nowhere and off you go again, shooing reluctant mallards back into some semblance of order. (Side note: Swans are evil and will kill you in cold blood for sport. Be vigilant!) There’s always a setback. There’s always something more that could make things better, because the last thing apparently wasn’t, in fact, the last thing.

There’s always another step towards the garden.

Let’s unpack a few of mine, just for funsies.

“Once I buy my condo, everything will settle down into a manageable pattern. I’ll get to set my life schedule and keep it how I like, and I certainly won’t ever get tired of looking after myself and my space.” Well, yes, to a degree. I haven’t had to move house in four years, but I have had to deal with all the tribulations that come with true ownership of something. And I got hoodwinked into being on the HOA board, but that’s something else… And as for looking after myself and my space? Pft, that’s a laugh. That lasted all of six months — maybe. Things pile up despite my best intentions. Also, it turns out that I really, really hate cooking.

“In the spirit of ‘if you build it, they will come,’ if I buy everything I could possibly want or need in order to do this thing, I will have no reason not to do it!” I have a giant pile of Prismacolor products just sitting there, begging for my attention. They’re top quality, some of the best you can get, and buying them got me super jazzed for using them… which happens ever so occasionally and certainly not with the frequency I originally intended.

“The beauty of having a nine-to-five job is that I’m making enough money to funnel some of it into my hobbies, and my evenings and weekends are my own so I can fill them with all the things I want to do, like writing about all the stuff that swims around in my half-a-brain!” So I get home, and what happens? My ass hits the sofa and my half-a-brain switches off. It’s full of ideas waiting to be committed to the page — there’s a spy novel brewing up there, and another one about the transience of life, and about a bazillion short stories that could maybe become something bigger and possibly even publishable! Now, if I just got them started...

I am my own worst enemy. Worse than an angry swan. The garden is there for the taking, I just have to do my part to get there. Like grass needs water, I need to nurture whatever it is that I’m doing to get to that level place where everything will calm down and be beautiful forever and ever, amen. I just need to do one more thing, and once that’s done— Oh, there’s another thing after that? Okay, well, after that thing— What? Okay, fine, but after this we’re done, right?

RIGHT?!

...You’ve got to be shitting me.

Ave Maria, and All That Business

I’m writing this the evening of Tuesday, May 1st.

We buried my grandmother today.

Well, not exactly buried. She’s in her casket in a wall. You see, when cemeteries run out of space to put people in the actual ground they start building up, so when we ‘buried’ my grandfather five-ish years ago, we put him in this… cubby in his casket, and now my grandmother is in there, too. The cubbies are two casket-lengths deep, ideal for couples.

“Darling, I love you, and I want to spend eternity with you end-to-end in separate decorative boxes in our own granite tunnel in a big granite wall full of other granite tunnels with other people in their own decorative boxes.”

And they say romance is dead.

Honestly this wall my grandparents are in puts me in mind of those maximum density hotels they have in Japan. Or, you know, a morgue. There’s not much difference, really. This one is just gussied up to be presentable for the general public as opposed to the cold, clinical filing cabinets for the deceased you find in the bowels of hospitals.

But it’s done. We said the prayers and sang the songs and got her up via a Genie lift and into the wall.

And you know what? I’m going to say it. Her casket looked like a nineteen-fifty-something powder-blue Cadillac. It was very… blue. She loved blue — she did — but I just can’t seem to reconcile myself to this casket. Maybe I’m just too used to wood, or more neutral colors, or something, because it just looked weird to me. And you’re not supposed to giggle like a maniac at your grandmother’s casket. It’s generally considered bad form.

As this was a Catholic funeral, it came with all the usual Catholic trappings. The night before, we had the traditional viewing and rosary. Well, an abridged rosary, anyway. This was held at the little chapel at the cemetery with the ‘deacon on duty’, so to speak. Since, for some reason, our liaison at the cemetery was somewhat braindead, the obituary never made it to the papers, so there were nine of us all told for the viewing: me, three aunts, five uncles. And I had so consciously parked a gazillion miles away so that the adorable little old Catholic ladies could have the spaces closest to the chapel! Anyway, Deacon Dave (for real) showed up at about six-thirty and did a delightful mini-service thing for us. Deacon Dave was wonderfully Irish. It was a joy to listen to him speak, and just as much to hear him sing.

Until a cell phone went off mid-hymn.

We’re all looking at each other, trying to figure out who to throttle, and this phone just keeps on ringing.

Deacon Dave finishes his song and says, “Sorry about that, it was God calling me.”

The Deacon. Forgot. To turn off. His phone.

Once we stopped rolling in the aisles laughing like idiots things got back on track and we finished up with the call-and-response and the praying and the ‘stand up, sit down, fight fight fight!’ routine. Those Catholics, man. They love to keep you moving.

Bottom line, Deacon Dave is a fucking TREASURE.

On to Tuesday.

It was a ten-thirty mass at the church my grandparents had attended for eons, and my father and his siblings grew up attending. We had a decent turnout for someone who was ninety-three and had spent the last few years living in a different town. Obviously there was a great deal of extended family, but the adorable little old Catholic ladies I was expecting the night before showed up in force, and some former neighbors and family friends rounded out the numbers. Father Moran said the mass — another Irishman, but sadly far less jovial than Deacon Dave (we should have hired him out, obviously) — and four of the kiddos from the church’s school did what I suppose you have to call altar kid stuff these days, since they let girls do it now, too. In his introduction, Father made mention, of course, of all of Nana’s children, and of me, since out of her five kids, all she got was ‘one lousy grandchild’. He said, and I quote, “She has no great-grandchildren, but I’m sure those will come in time.”

One of my aunts turned to me and jokingly whispered, “Yeah, will you get on that already?!” as I was sitting there making a face and doing the ‘Cut!’ motion with a hand across my neck.

Geez, Father. Make assumptions much?

All the tasks — readings, carting communion stuff, crucifixes, and Bibles around, pall-bearing — had been pre-assigned (during the ridiculous amount of time spent waiting on our braindead liaison to get her shit together) and everything went smoothly enough. I read a very abridged version of Rainer Maria Rilke’s ‘Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes.’ It popped into my head as an allegory for letting go — releasing the physical and keeping the memories.

And memories? Those we have in abundance.