Beauty School Dropout
Mood:  chillin'
Topic: you, only better

Darlings, what's with the silent treatment? You never write, you never call. Oh wait, that's me. Ok, my bad.

You are doubtless aware of Miss O's high standards of grooming, for myself and those around me. Grooming should be a basic human habit, and yet...you would be surprised how many unwashed cretins* are walking among us.

Grooming is a matter of hygiene and a matter of respect for yourself, your partner and those with whom you will come into close contact.

Not all grooming can be accomplished by oneself. I, for instance, cannot give myself a proper manicure, especially with a darker polish like Bordeaux. I'm sure it is difficult to fathom, but Miss O is not (yet) ambidextrous. And it is a rare few who can execute an even self-waxing or a back-of-the-neck shave. It is in those other instances that Miss O is available to lend a hand to friends in need.

 

Imagine you are playing an organ prelude and notice in the mirror that you have an errant eyebrow or ill-placed gray hair marring an otherwise debonair appearance. Say the word and I will be there, tweezers at the ready, and the villain will be disposed of with discretion - your hands never have to leave the keyboard.

Imagine you have a last minute romantic rendezvous. No time to rush home for a shower and change of clothes. Lucky for you Miss O is always strategically located, no matter the city, no matter the continent. Of course you can use my shower, my products, I will even aid and abet in a bikini wax and give you a fresh pair of undies. Why? Because Miss O understands that being well-groomed lends a feeling of confidence.

From the archives: Once upon a time, a galpal of Miss O's was on the road to a night of passion with another friend of O. The moment was right, good mojo was in the air, when the girl in question realized that she had not shaved her underarms. Miss O did not have her ruler available to give you the exact length of the aforementioned offending follicle, but it was enough for the girl to be uncomfortable at the prospect of a clothing-optional scenario.

Tangent: I have stated before and stand by my theory that most men are so happy to get near a woman in her unmentionables that they might not notice/mind a five o'clock shadow under the arm. On the chin is another story. My research has revealed that, in fact, many men like a woman au naturel. Listen, it takes a village. I doubt that a millimeter of hair somewhere would be a dealbreaker. However when body hair becomes braid-able then, Houston we have a problem. (Except for chest hair, and then the more the merrier.)

The otherwise confident, attractive girl did not feel on her game and posthaste we made our way to the ladies room where we solicited help from our fellow females. Did anyone have a razor? I can't recall if someone pulled the necessary tool out of their handbag or if we made a run to the all-night drugstore, but a few swipes of the blade and the lass was good to go.

Recently a male friend asked, “Since when are people shaving their xxxxs, their xxxxs, their xxxxxx xxxx?!”

“People or men?” I replied. This friend has been in a long-term relationship so he has not recently had contact with many other xxxxxxs.” I believe there is a trend, at least in the gay community, to shave the xxxxs and xxxxs. But really the choice is a personal one as long as you are clean and groomed. It's your body after all.”

He nodded, relieved. Miss O is always glad to be a resource to those with beauty and grooming concerns.

Do I feel better after I have a manicure? Hell yes. Is it because of vanity? Not really. Even in the dead of winter buried in socks and boots, I get pedicures for the health of my feet, but also because it makes me feel put together. Are you taking care of yourself, your natural beauty, your assets? I understand that during the dreary winter months one might be tempted to let oneself go to pot. Don't do it! You owe yourself a few minutes a day to tend to your skin, to treat yourself well, moisturize, maintain, put on some lip balm (you too, boys). This body is going to be with you for a long time. Take care of it.

A last anecdote...

Imagine you have a bladder problem. More of a bladder control problem. Ok, you often pee your pants. You are at a party, sitting on a couch being chatted up by a fellow at very close range. How close? He is sitting on your skirt, effectively pinning you to the couch and him. You are enjoying the attention, laughing at his jokes when...your worst nightmare is realized. You look at Miss O, panic stricken. In a flash, I will walk with determination to the bar, charmingly cut in front of others waiting for their beverages, and acquire two supersized cocktails. Upon returning to the scene of the crime, Miss O will then “stunt trip” in order to splash both cocktails over you and destroy the evidence. This account is purely fictional, any resemblance to actual events is coincidental, but this is what I might do.

Miss O. I've got your back.

*in honor of Mommy Isa.

Let's Get Physical
Mood:  hungry
Now Playing: Sizzling bacon
Topic: how sporting!

Hello Darlings -

After two weeks of battling a hideous cold, I am finally ready to rejoin the world and get some blood pumping in this tired body. During the absence of my coach/drill sergeant/slave driver, my *cough* gym attendance *cough* is not an option so I decided to motivate myself at home with an "exercise" dvd: Dancing with Julianne.

Julianne was/is one of the professional dancers on Dancing with the Stars. You didn't know that Miss O is a fan of ballroom dance?! Si, Darlings! I love all types of dance, particularly ballroom.  On FB, I recently revealed that I may have been a drag queen in a previous life...how else to explain my love of frippery? 

Ballroom dancing is nothing if not laden with frippery (also sequins, false eyelashes, strappy sandals...See: drag queen, also: Cher. Lourdes, I love Cher. She's still got it.)

I slid in the dvd, excited that I was finally going to “work out”on my own. I was sure that after a few weeks following this program, I would be ready to audition for the Rockettes. Julianne appeared on the screen, cheerful, friendly, your best girlfriend, your smokin' hot galpal that you're super jealous of, but she's really nice so you can't hate her. She started with some helpful tips for the Cha-Cha, then explained how to execute a turn in the Paso Doble. Ok, uh-huh, a few false steps and then I was in the zone.

Tangent: the cafe in which I am sitting just started playing, The Look of Love, by ABC. Righteous.

Five minutes into Dancing with Julianne, and I was kicking ass. Up until this point, I had been primarily focused on following Julianne's footwork.

Another Tangent: Now Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Relax. I am obligated to think of Zoolander. Is someone in here going to bring the Blue Steel? If you have not seen Zoolander, it's totally ridiculous, but there are some priceless cameos and a few very hilarious lines.

Julianne continued with the ...

Ok, c'mon, Buddy. I'm trying to write here. Now Duran Duran, A View to a Kill? What, were you born the same year as I was? You just happen to love all these classic songs? I was born in 1985 in case anyone is keeping track.

If he plays A-ha next, then I'm going to make a scene.

Tears for Fears, should have known. F*ck, how can Miss O get work done when you are playing the soundtrack of her teenage years? If I were slightly more paranoid, I might suspect that this was some sort of Big Brother plot trying to keep me from preaching the gospel of O. Usually I can tune out background noise, but you can't put Baby in a corner and you can't tune out '80's music.

As I was saying, I had been busy following her footwork and then I realized the camera was getting up close and personal with...Julianne's thighs. Also her abs. And her hips. I forgot to mention that she was wearing a scrap of lycra that normally I would have found objectionable, but her dancers body is so gorgeous that she was pulling it off. Big time. Also, she is really smiley and cute so it didn't piss me off. Whoever her stylist is deserves a Nobel Prize... or something. I considered getting a bag of chips and sitting down to watch the rest of the “program” like a movie, but I figured that would be counterproductive.

Next came the warm-up with her two back-up dancers. Ok, the cat/cow, neck roll, hip circles. The camera was in extreme close-up. Her lycra outfit was a marvel of engineering. It stretched and flexed with every move but never revealed “too much”. (N.B. do not leave your husband alone with this dvd)

I looked at the clock. Time to turn on the stove. We have an electric stove and it takes a pretty long time to get going and a really inordinate amount of time to boil water. If I started it now, then I could do my workout with Julianne and my bowl of pasta would be ready just in time. Because I was going to really need those carbs after my intense workout. And probably some lean protein. (Carbs? Lean protein? Can you tell that I have no idea what I'm talking about? What I do know is that Honey eats a bowl of pasta bigger than my head after a morning at the gym)

Ok, so while the water is boiling I'll make some sauce. Let's see, what do we have here? Ooh, shallots. And for the lean protein...lardons. They're cut into tiny pieces so that must be lean. And for a healthy vegetable, champignons de Paris. This meal is definitely going to replenish my electrolytes! Maybe I should add some white wine, you know, to help with re-hydration. Is one cup enough?

Well now that I've opened the bottle, I can't just leave it sitting around. I think there's a French law about that. If a bottle has been opened, at least one glass must be consumed. That makes sense, really.

Waters boiling already. Honey usually eats 500 grams of pasta so I should probably just eat 400, you know because he has a faster metabolism. I know I'm forgetting something. Of course, crème fraiche! (If you haven't met crème fraiche, she is sour cream's more delicious full-fat sister.) Honey always cracks a raw egg over his pasta, but I think that might be too much protein for me since I don't want to bulk up. I'm going for “toned”.

What's that noise? Did I leave the TV on? Oh, riiiiight, Julianne. Damn, I missed all the steps, but I can still get in the Cool Down before my pasta is ready.

I think I'm going to go weigh myself. I'm sure I've already lost a couple of kilos. Now where did I leave the wine?

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: charm 101
Darlings, something is afoot in my dream life. The last four nights, my REM has been kept busy with some puzzling imagery.

Three nights ago, I was dreaming of ice cream when the alarm went off. Have you tried going back into a dream while you are still in the half-conscious stage? It's worked for me only a few times in a whole lifetime of busy dreaming. The fact that it has worked before, keeps alive for me the hope that it could happen again. And this is long before Inception. Spoiler alert! This movie is about dreams...I think.

I am probably dating myself but I remember some interesting dream-related movies from the '80's: Dreamquest, par example. No, that was Visionquest. Dreamscape? Dream..Dream....damn, ok, imdb it. There was also that movie with Natalie Wood (her last before her untimely death) and Christopher Walken. The Dead Zone! No, but that was also a good film about extra-sensory phenomenon. The title of this film was...was...ok, look, Miss O is currently in an interweb-free zone, so if you need instant gratification, go ahead and whip out your i-phone gadget. Remember when we had to wait to get information?

 

Gratuitous Anti-Technology Rant: People, Darlings, is it so terrible to wait to look up non-essential trivia? Listen, I understand the utility of smartphones. GPS, for example. This can be a handy tool. Unless you are riding with Miss O who knows every street and traffic pattern in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. How exactly do I have this information? Because I don't drive. But I digress.

Rant (cont): Imagine you are having a civilized lunch with a friend, as I did yesterday. The conversation turns to world politics and the Maldives are mentioned. Aren't they always? Miss O says,” The Maldives are a Spanish territory, n'est-ce pas?” My friend says, “No, I don't think so,” while reaching for his i-phone. This friend, bless his soul, is surgically attached to his device. I am convinced that this is a factor in his bachelorhood. It's pretty hard to make time with a fellow who is more interested in “interfacing” with a piece of plastic. Again, forgive the digression.

Rant (cont): I put up my hand, gently. More of a “please, I beg of you” rather than a “don't even think about it”. My mouth was occupied with a lardons-sauteed potato-goat cheese-shallot confit crepe. Welcome to France. Once I had finished chewing, I said, again gently,”Thank you for your eagerness to solve this mystery but I don't need to know right now.” He shifted uncomfortably. It had been a full 51-minutes since he had touched his gadget, and here I was telling him that I didn't need its services. The unimaginable. As a peace offering twenty minutes later, I did allow him to look up the bus schedule for me. Miss O is a generous friend if nothing else.

Darlings, I am proposing a return to civility. Yes, your i-gadget is a flashy status symbol, an “accessory” of sorts ( I am using language that I understand) but it is not necessary nor charming to consult it every 5 minutes when one is in the company of others. What could possibly be more compelling, nay fascinating, than basking in the presence of other friendly humans? Disclaimer: if you are trying to be rude (this is unfathomable to Miss O, but let's pretend) or you wish to indicate your disinterest/disdain/disrespect for someone then, by all means, whip it out. One other thing: if you are absolutely burning with curiosity, ask someone (your waiter, the person next to you on the T, someone in line at the market) or phone a friend. Then, at least, there would be some human interaction.

Oh btw, Miss O was thinking of the Canary Islands which, in fact, are a Spanish protectorate. The Maldive Islands are an independent nation in the Indian Ocean. You say Canarias, I say Maldivas. Let's call the whole thing off.

Where was I? Oh yes, dreams and related cinema. So three nights ago, the dream was about ice cream. The night before that I found myself in a dream with Queen Elizabeth I (a la Cate Blanchett). She was giving me career advice. Not the first time I have dreamed of the English royal family. The night after ice cream, I dreamed about my beloved granny. I was organizing a fashion show of my Spring line and she had created some elegant décor for the event and a sumptuous array of desserts for the v.i.p. attendees. There was a mille-feuille bigger than my head displayed on a porcelain platter with gold edging and a molten chocolate cake served in a hatbox. Yes, Miss O dreams in ridiculous visual detail. It's exhausting/exhilarating. And then last night, Henry VIII made an appearance. He was dressed, well, like a king. Pretty sure there was a banquet table, or some sort of silver tray with treats. I couldn't swear to it as I was distracted by the stitching on his velvet cloak. The velvet was forest green. The stitching was in a meander pattern.

Darlings, what to make of this? Dessert and older, regal persons of authority providing assistance with my professional projects. I going to go out on a limb and say that this portends well. I am eating a banana split as I write these words, so I think we're off to a good start!

Are you ready to start dreaming big?

 

 

p.s. If you haven't already cheated with the aid of the interweb, the film with Natalie Wood is Brainstorm. I was about to phone my friendly Mothership when the answer came to me in a flash of light. Eureka!

Don't let your smartphone replace your smarts. (This message brought to you by the Committee to Preserve Eureka! Moments.)

My Aim is True
Mood:  a-ok
Now Playing: Elvis Costello

Hello Darlings,

Have you made any New Years resolutions? Wait, don't tell me. Let me guess.

1. You're heading back to the gym

2. You're going to curb your foie gras intake

3. You're going to dial back the on-line shopping/porn

4. You're going to stop dating douche-bags

5. You're going to kick your gambling habit

Listen up, don't go changin' to try and please Miss O. She loves you just the way you are. But really, let's all try to be douche-bag free for 2011. One of my dear pals dated a guy a few years back who tried to back-pedal out of their relationship by claiming he wanted to be "commitment-free" for the New Year. Um, delete. No, first club him with a blunt object, and then delete.

There is one resolution that I champion all year round. I would love you more if you quit smoking. Darlings, are any of you still smoking? I'm not going to lecture you about your health, but think of the mouth wrinkles. Unsightly! If you won't quit that unseemly, stenchy habit for the good of your lungs, then do it for vanity. Ok, I've said my piece/peace. (Miss O reserves the right to re-visit this topic or any other of her choosing for the next decade. or four. It's important to get things in writing.)

I like resolutions, the idea of a fresh start. Oui, bien sur, every day, every hour can be a fresh start. I used to write out my list of resolutions in marker, on legal paper (one year as many as 20!) I would tape them to the fridge as a helpful reminder. I need to spend some time defining my goals for 2011: most of them will be professional/creative projects I would like to finally accomplish. To wit, 15-months ago, I wrote the first page of the book I have been planning to write for the last...15 years. I've written two more pages since, so I think I may be on a roll. Miss O has a doctorate in procrastination so be sure to check back in with her on these goals;)

Anywho, one of my goals for the year is the completion of a project entitled 52 Girls.  I won't get into the details now, because then you would be privy to the shadowy inner workings of Miss O's brain. Suffice it to say that it should unfold at the rate of one "girl" per week for the year.  The title of the project is taken from the classic B-52's song...which leads me on a whole other tangent...

The B-52's eponymous debut album was the first real record I owned. Bought with my own money. The B-52's and Elvis Costello, My Aim is True.* The year was 1980. I was -2 years old. Don't try to do the math, just accept that I am 29 and always will be.

*My next purchases were 45-singles of Let's Get Physical, Our Lips Are Sealed, and Always Something There to Remind Me. It would be a long time before I would commit to an entire LP again.

I was introduced to both Elvis and the B-52's by my big sister, still the hippest person I know. What joy to slide those vinyls out of their sleeves. It was always done with a hushed reverence. I know technology and mp-whatevers are the way of the future, but it's just not the same as gingerly handling a record, or a book for that matter. Sure, an e-book is easier to carry around, but I love paper. So sue me. Miss O is a fan of the vintage, the retro. 

I am so retro that I still go to the library (I have to credit Honey for this.) Our local branch is also a mediatheque and this week I decided to get back to my roots: I checked out those two epic albums that contributed so much to my musical formation, my musical personality. And... they are still freakin' awesome! And yes, I still knew every word, every beat, every guitar riff. I was in a new wave time capsule.

I just might get too sentimental "like those other sticker valentines".  What can I tell you, my aim is true.

Darlings, Miss O wants to know: what are the records and the songs that formed you?

To resolve or not to resolve? Think of 2011 as a clean slate. What are you going to do with it?

 

Stranger than Fiction
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: Trashy French Talk Show
Topic: planet Miss O

Bonsoir Darlings -

This just in: a jaw-dropping example of the S-O-D in full effect. Miss O is not easily shocked, but this...I *wish* I could make this kind of thing up. Read on.

I have just returned home from a vulgar, obscene, over-the-top dinner with a dear friend and her new beau. I'm not telling you about the meal in order to brag, simply to illustrate that I did not trust my eyes or the rest of my senses after such an extravagant culinary experience (too much truffle oil affects the reasoning area of the brain. Ok, it hasn't been scientifically proven, but trust me on this). 

Unsuspecting, I open my inbox to find this...treasure. And I quote: 

"Hi [Miss O], I was cleaning up my email folder and saw your message.  I don't think we had the chance to get acquainted.  I am not sure if you're still single or not but if you are, do you have an interest to speak by phone and make plans to meet soon, maybe even spend the coming weekend together or the following one? I am being genuine about this so let me know.  Where do you live by the way and what's your phone number to call you, assuming you're interested to hear from me."

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Attached was an e-mail exchange from, wait for it...2006!!!!!

 

OK, where do I start?

A. Gotta give a guy credit for trying.

But B. You must be crazy thinking you can ask me out for the weekend on Thursday. Girl, please.

Moreover C. You're asking me out for New Years Eve on December 30th? Bitch, I know you just didn't.

Mostly D.  You last contacted me in Two thousand-fucking-SIX. Have I been in a coma for four years? Have YOU?

 

You can bet your Darling asses, I will respond.  It won't be as scathing as you might imagine. 

Something like: Dear Person, thank you for your note which I read with...horror/shock/amusement. Perhaps you have been in the witness protection program for the last four years, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt for the egregious delay. Where do I live, by the way? In FRANCE. Alas, I am not single. I am married and my husband carries a gun. No, I'm not kidding. Best of luck in your future romantic pursuits. Might I suggest that a timely response is more effective than one that is FOUR YEARS LATE? Cordially, Miss O

 

You're welcome, Darlings.

Miss O, telling it like it is since 1988.

 

 

 

Tis the Season
Mood:  sharp
Now Playing: Mendelssohn, Elias
Topic: dating dilemma

Hello Darlings! By now you are fully immersed in the excesses of the Holiday season...but what about that other season that coincides with the end of year festivities, with the birth of our Lourdes? It runs from Thanksgiving to Valentine's Day...I am of course, speaking of The Season of the Douche.

What?! You've never heard of it? Oh Darlings, please. It is an annual phenomenon during which creatures, usually hideous exes, usually men, crawl out of their caves and "touch base" with unsuspecting humans. If you don't have any hideous exes then you can borrow some of mine. To be fair and accurate, some of these offenders are more hideous than others. Some are merely pesky, misguided, nostalgic or clueless and some are bottom-feeding pond scum.

Speaking of bottom-feeders...I'll have to get back to this tangent in a minute.

Though it is an annual event, the Season of the Douche always takes me by surprise. Maybe it's wishful thinking that, finally, a year will pass without some poor dating decision coming back to haunt me...I guess I still have some karma to work off, because they (the aforementioned douches) keep coming back.

I have already discussed the occasional, unwelcome reappearance of these creatures  in "All My Exes Live in Texas". During the Season of the Douche, it's like the crypt has been opened and all the zombies feel compelled to make an appearance a la Thriller.

With the advent of Facebook (see the Good, the Bad, and the Facebook) it is easier than ever for cretins to harass unsuspecting women.  During this past Season, the bad news was brought to me via FB from two offenders. They just had to reach out to me. Why? Good fucking question.

The first, who we'll call Matt, sent me a friend request with a note: "Hey, it's great to find you here." Um, what? Your douche-itude was established 5 years ago. On what planet do you think I would be happy to hear from you? Delete. The second sent me a friend request with no note. I didn't recognize his picture. Not because it was blurry or "artistically cropped"- the face simply did not ring a bell. Additionally he has a very generic name, we'll call him "Mike Robinson". I couldn't place him.  I ignored the request. Then I received a separate e-mail: "Hey, it's Mike, how have you been?" Creative, witty, non? The A-ha moment arrived, immediately followed by the "Smirk of Disdain". That joker?! Why in Lourdes' name would I want to be in contact with you?

These two are only minor-league douches, but still annoying reminders of a lapse in judgement. In Thai, there is a handy expression which translates to: "I don't want to remember." Yes, Darlings, I'm talking about selective amnesia. Cousin to denial, I believe selective amnesia can be a helpful tool in maintaining one's sanity - have you seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? They were definitely on to something!

Through my investigative reporting, I have learned of other distasteful happenings during the S-O-D. One recently divorced friend was subjected to douchey (read: unnecessary) communication from her eunuch of an ex-husband.  He probably thought nothing of "reaching out", but this contact sent her into a tailspin. "Why, Miss O, why did he call? Why now!?"  He's a douche. Period. The end.

We have previously explored the concept of reanimation and as before, I welcome your insights. I understand nostalgia, but not if your shared history ended on a sour note. Yes, Miss O has a very good memory. To wit, I recently received a note from an old sweetheart - we haven't had contact in 15 years. My douche-detector tells me that it is a simple, friendly greeting devoid of sketchy intentions. Lovely, fine, nice to hear from an old pal. I accept. But, if my last words to you were: I think you're a fucking idiot. Then, no, I don't want to K.I.T.   Ever. In this lifetime or the next.

A final cautionary tale in which the ugly underbelly of FB fully reveals itself. A dear pal of mine, Miss S, received a friend request from a hideous ex. Their story had not ended on good terms. Naturally, she was incensed. I know the guy. In the light of day, he seemed normal but his douchey potential was lurking just below the surface. There was no note with the request (unacceptable) so she clicked through to his profile. Why had he suddenly reached out? She arrives at his page to find that he has blocked all of the pertinent information except for the fact that he is now ENGAGED. No, no, no, no, NO! This is why women become crazy. He didn't have the balls to tell her himself, he led her to find out through his FB status. She called me, raving, " Why?! WHY?!". Repeat after me, darlings: He is a DOUCHE.  Sometimes it's that simple. 

I have friends who struggle with closure at the end of a relationship. They want answers, explanations. They consider meeting with their hideous ex to search for meaning. They ask themselves: could I have done anything differently? They go over every conversation. Was there a red flag that was missed? Darlings, more often than not the answer is found in a single syllable. Ever noticed how douche contains the word "Ouch"? Coincidence? Not likely.

Have you been touched during the Season of the Douche? Please share your heart-warming/horrifying story!

The Good, the Bad, and the Facebook
Mood:  bright
Topic: planet Miss O

Darlings, you are doubtless aware of a phenomenon called Facebook. I don't want to place blame, but Fb is partly responsible for my infidelity...to this blessed Diary. It's a tale of passion, of intrigue, of found treasures and reanimated douche bags.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we? Once upon a time (approximately three years ago) I heard mention of this interweb creature called Facebook.  My hippest media savvy friends invited me to join, but I strongly resisted. I was already enthralled with the ten websites in my repertoire (sports, travel, fashion, wit, and vocab-related)and did not recognize the need, nor the desire for "friending" with some pesky undergraduates. My understanding was that Fb was a place for "children" to brag about how drunk they got at so-and-so's dorm party. No, thank you. My friends get drunk and brag about it on Sunday mornings at church. Actually, they don't need to brag, they just reek of bourbon and we (the royal We) make our own assumptions. My friends "forget" their credit cards at high-end establishments. "How the hell did I end up with a $150 bar tab?!"

Disclaimer: Miss O discourages excessive drinking and $150 bar tabs. If you are not receiving 50% of your cocktails "with the compliments of the owner", you need a crash course at the Charm School.

Where was I? Oh, yes. I strongly resisted the pull of Facebook until one day...I didn't. Oh wait, it was because one of the organizations with which I am involved obligated me to join so they could message the whole group. Ok, enough with the boring details, I know you want the dirt.

Since joining I have had the pleasure of reconnecting with scores, actually hundreds, of old friends. From high school and even before, from myriad countries and continents, Fb has been, mostly, a blessing. I will admit that it is quite a bit easier to keep in contact with one base of communication, rather than trying to coordinate the address books of my four different mailboxes. Yes, I'm sure there is some tech-fabulous way to organize this, but my man servant has been getting lax in the details.  Oh wait, I don't have a man servant. That's the first problem. Anyway, tearful reunions have ensued courtesy of Facespace. Long-lost friends have been unearthed with great joy. No, not as in "exhumed", just rediscovered. Another bonus, most of my friends are incredibly witty and clever people and their observations can offer little respites of humor and civility during a tedious day.

 

Now to the bad...in this modern age, it can sometimes be too easy to find others and be found. I'm not certain that I want to "reconnect" with someone from 8th grade geometry. If we weren't friends then, do I want to be friends now? There's also the status updates which can be...oh, how shall I put it...thinly veiled cries for attention? I have found that some status updaters can get a little too Eeyore in their postings. Hey, if I had a sucky day, of course I want all my friends to know it and comfort me with wine and jewelery. But one can't play the sympathy card every day.

There is also an incredible grapevine that exists sur Face, transmitting the latest news in mere seconds. 

Friend: How's the hangover?

Miss O: What are you talking about? (inner voice: How could they know? Oh Lourdes, did I drink and dial someone?)

Friend: You're tagged in fourteen different compromising photos.

Ah, busted by the tag. This is purely a fictional example.

Of course, everything I write is a literary masterpiece, but sometimes I just feel like whingeing to my friends and forget that 500+ folks are reading my thoughts and noting that I ate ice cream for breakfast. This is, also *cough* fiction. 

 

The ugly... while one's "wall" can be a source of entertainment/news/humor, frequently commenting on someone's wall can be fraught with peril. When reading one side of a conversation, things can be taken waaay out of context and hysterical jealousy and gossip can ensue. Not that I would ever do that. (There *may* be a certain bitchbag who keeps writing inappropriate comments where she shouldn't...I'm just sayin'. No, not one of my friends. Miss O has a strict no-bitchbag policy.) And there is, of course, the treacherous relationship status by which one hapless lass learned that she was being dumped. No, not one of my friends. You can be sure that I would cut anyone who pulled that douche-y move with a friend of O.

There may come a time when you need to "unfriend" someone, which raises some etiquette questions. Is this a declaration of war? No. I see it simply as a separating of the wheat from the chafe.

True Story: I had big plans to update the Diary weekly, every Friday. The last entry you may note was on October 2. The morning of October 9, I was preparing the next entry... and then Facebook jacked up my day. Anyone remember what happened on October 9? Bueller? Yes, it was announced that Obama had won the Nobel Peace Prize.

Why should that have interferred with my Diary entry? The reason, dear friends, is that my WHOLE day was spent on Facebook arguing with ignorant schmucks. You probably didn't know that Miss O was interested in politics. I'm not. However, when confronted with abounding stupidity, Miss O always speaks up. Why would I bother to engage in a debate about this topic? Am I such an ardent admirer of Obama? I do think he's good people, but my arguments that day were in defense of Peace. It's called the Nobel*Peace* Prize, asshat, what's with all the hating?

In brief, after hours of strongly-worded "comments" on "walls", I had to pull rank: I work for a Nobel Laureate. Miss O  enjoys a certain delusion of grandeur but doesn't usually like to rub it in the faces of those less fortunate (i.e. Republicans). I waited a few days as a courtesy, but when the opportunity arose, I "unfriended" those folks whose right-wing ravings I could no longer tolerate in my daily "newsfeed". Yes, it takes a village, but not a village idiot.

 

Alas, the most ugly... I succumbed to laziness. With my handy FB status, I could post fascinating anecdotes in seconds.  Not quite anecdotes, more like musings. The creativity and wit that had previously had a home at the Diary was seduced by a younger, faster mistress. Call it my middle-blog crisis. (No, I'm not going to get a corvette and start wearing an earring.) I was satsified to spread the Gospel of O in 140 characters or less. Shame on moi!

I am proposing a compromise...to myself.

1. I will no longer hesitate to update the Diary with brief (but hilarious) episodes. Random musings can be acceptable.

2. Not every entry needs to be Pulitzer-worthy (but it will be.)

It's a two-step program. Work with me.

 

And give Peace a chance.

The Ondine Effect
Mood:  bright
Now Playing: Astrud Gilberto, Meditacao
Topic: planet Miss O

Darlings, I offer no excuses. Let me simply say that reconnecting the Diary has suffered because of my own vanity. Many times I have composed a clever anecdote and then thought :"Wow, I haven't updated in so long. Shouldn't my first post back be ground-breaking, thought-provoking, or at least mildly hilarious? This entry isn't nearly comeback-worthy." And then I waste more time trying to find just the right note of triumphant return, and what can I tell you? It's a vicious cycle.

So here I go again on my own (cue Whitesnake), ready to be judged.

The other thing, Darlings, to be quite honest, I didn't think anybody read the damn thing. I had hoped my oeuvre might entertain a stranded diva in Batesville, Arkansas or some up-and-coming hipster in Kuala Lumpur, but it was hard to know if the Ondine Effect was reaching the near and the remote. Why? Because I seldom received comments. 

Sidebar: If you know Miss O, you know that she is not the most tech-savvy bi-ped to grace this planet. I still use pen and paper, my cell phone is of the most basic variety, I don't have a tv, and so forth. All this to say, that while I frequent the interweb, I am not a "surfer" visiting 14 sites per second, clicking and browsing with ease. Actually, I know about 10 websites. Two of them relate to sports, three of them relate to airline tickets, a couple of blogs of folks I know, one site for when I need a good laugh, one for my word-of-the-day (today's word=neologism), and one about fashion. That's it, people. 

On the two blogs that I know, there always seemed to be a plethora of comments. So I surmised that readers equal comments, and hence deduced that only my brother was reading the Diary. 

All of this changed last week, when a woman with whom I have the pleasure to sing pulled me aside and said,"You know, I really wish you'd get off your ass and update the Diary for Lourdes' sake." Ok, I'm paraphrasing. I was shocked and delighted. "You read the Diary?!" I exclaimed."Yes I did, but you haven't posted on the damn thing in over a YEAR, what the F?" This kind person did not really say "what the F", but her meaning was clear enough. I quickly concluded that my no-comments-equals-no-readers equation was faulty (I've never been good at math) and promised to get the Diary up and running again. So a big thank you to DD for calling me out and getting this operation back on target!

Let's consider this a soft opening (or re-opening), Darlings. I state candidly that you may see posts I started more than a year ago...many of them are still relevant and others are too incriminating, I mean, too amusing not to share with you. Miss O never forgets a bad deed, nor a good one.

Do a good deed today, Darlings!

Sister Act
Mood:  party time!
Topic: planet Miss O

Darlings, I need your prayers with me for the next few hours.

I am going dancing (nothing unusual there, Miss O loves to bring her A-game to dance floors across the globe)...with my two teenage sisters (now you realize the angst of my situation).  This is the first time we are going clubbing together, though I have surmised from the last two hours of vague references, that they are already experts at getting into establishments without IDs, procuring alcohol without IDs, bringing said alcohol into said establishments...without IDs. All this came as a shock, of course, because I think they still play with dolls. Hello, denial ain't just a river in Egypt.

This is surely karmic payback for all the mischief I got into as a teen: like the time my friends and I tried to sneak out of one of their houses (where we were supposed to be having a sleepover) to go dancing at a club called 3-2-1 (fondly known as 3-2-Scum). We got busted by her parents, and thrown out, and I remember having to call my mom to pick us up from a gas station. I'm sure I concocted some story, but the tarty make-up was a dead give-away.

I'm actually a little apprehensive about this evening's revelries. What if some perv tries to hit on my little sisters? Things could go quickly south tonight, especially since the club we're hitting sells alcohol by the bottle. The older of my sisters informed me that she prefers whiskey, and then confided that the younger one can't really hold her liquor. Lourdes, what have I gotten myself into? By the time you read this, I could be rotting in a Burmese jail. How the hell do parents deal with this? 

Stay tuned for tales from the underground underage club scene.. 

 

Update: No arrests were made, but a bottle of Bailey's magically appeared from someone's handbag at our first location (a roof-top bar especially good for "chillin'"). Ok, fine, Baileys, tastes delicious, probably low proof. Fine.  When we made it to our ultimate destination, which was a pretty hipster club, a bottle of Finlandia vodka was ordered with a round of Sprites. Finlandia. Vodka. with Sprite.  Lourdes, where did I go wrong? Finlandia!? Lourdes, I feel old.

Draft Dodger
Mood:  bright
Now Playing: Troy, starring Brad Pitt's abs and Eric Bana's thighs
Topic: planet Miss O

So Darlings, contrary to popular belief that I have been blog-delinquent because I sit around all day eating pain au chocolate and getting my nails done, I would like to assure you that I have several draft entries at the ready. Ok, maybe not at the ready, but during my dry spell, I was constantly thinking of amusing and witty anecdotes with which to entertain you. I would jot them down and then...

The problem, people, is follow-through. That, and lack of "staff". I am convinced that I could be a prolific writer (i.e. the book that I started writing more than 8 years ago might actually have a Chapter 2) if I had an executive secretary. A male secretary. Preferably one whose fashion taste leaned toward that of the Olympic diving teams. Lourdes, the miracles of lycra! I actually feel dirty watching the diving with my teenage sisters. I keep trying to stress the athletes' prowess and skill, but we all know we're looking at the package. How can you not? I mean c'mon, the only way to attract more attention to one's loins would be to put a bow around it! Or a rhinestone belt. More than one person has suggested that I design outfits for the athletes. Maybe I know too many gay guys?

Where were we? Ah, yes, works in progress. I have drafts that date back to August 2006. What's 24 months between friends? The point is some of the reporting may not be terribly timely, but I'll share them anyway. I'm a giver. You're welcome.