The Book of Mor-Clothes-On

What makes you feel sexy?  Is it showing off your legs? Givin’ your (bare) back to the world?  Wearing something so tight it looks like it came from Catwoman’s closet?  Or maybe you want to keep it old school and display some daring décolletage?

What about doing all of them at the same time?

Normally for a night on the town, I try to keep it simple; show some leg, cover the top, show some top, cover the legs.  And as far as fitting, I have begun to shy away from tight tube dresses made of Lycra and gravitate instead towards more flowy and forgiving fabrics.  I have gotten to the age where these rules are especially important so as to avoid looking like the dreaded “thirty-something still desperately trying to compete with a twenty-something”.

Of course, like every good rule, there are occasions that make me want to bend them, but be assured.  The harder I bend those rules, the harder it tends to come back and slap me right in my ascot.

Take this, for example.

Last week, I wrote about the memorable Valentine’s Day weekend that Joe gave me.  I mentioned that he had patiently and graciously allowed me to shop for an outfit (that I didn’t end up wearing) to wear at the casino (which we didn’t get to till the next morning). 

I had spotted a snazzy little gold sparkly dress out of the corner of my eye at one store, and after briefly trying it on (despite layers of flavored yellow and blue dust on my skin) I fell in love with it. 

It was low but still had straps.  It was short but I know Joe likes to see my legs. 

And it was tight.  But, since I was still riding the high of completing my first 5K in a while, I was feeling pretty OK and told myself I could still rock it like any of the teens and twenties in the store. 

I purchased it and looked forward to dolling myself up for a night at the casino….of course, we all know what became of that.  But I had a second chance coming the following weekend.

Joe surprised me with tickets to see The Book of Mormon at the Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater for Christmas and it just so happened that the show was the weekend after Valentine’s Day.  Joe booked a hotel (for real) and I lovingly packed up my would-be casino dress and shoes, excited to finally break them out.

That night, as we busily got ready, I started putting the dress on and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. 

Hmmm, I thought, was it really this short when I bought it?  Jeez, that neckline is actually pretty low…God, what the hell is that bulge?  I’m not eating ever again…

As I knit-picked the hell out of my appearance, Joe went downstairs to wait for me.  Panicking that I had made a huge mistake, I suddenly remembered I had brought a little blazer with me and threw it on to see if it made a difference.  My shoulders were now covered and my chest not nearly as risqué, but there was a different problem.  The blazer looked stupid with the dress.  I looked like a hooker on her way to a business luncheon. 

Out of time and Joe nearly out of patience, I ran down to meet him in the hotel lobby.  He simply shook his head with defeat. 

“What is that?” he asked, referring to the blazer.  I tried to hide the fact that I was covering up because I felt too self-conscious and instead try to play it off as if I was just cold.  He easily saw through that and encouraged me to ditch the blazer and just “rock it.”

I hemmed and hawed all the way to the theater, still feeling a little too exposed but afraid of annoying Joe by being silly.  As we arrived at the theater I tried to catch a glimpse of what other women were wearing.  Most were wearing tasteful slacks or simple, chaste dresses.  I gulped.

“Tell you what,” Joe offered, “if you get too cold or feel uncomfortable, I’ll give you MY blazer.”

I agreed to his terms and took a deep breath before stepping out of the car.  As we were walking to the entrance, acting as cool and confident as possible, we were stopped.

“Would you like to have your picture taken with actual Mormons?” a sweetly innocent young man asked.  Thinking they were actually actors hired as a publicity stunt for the show, Joe and I posed with the two guys, holding up copies of the actual Book of Mormon. 

When I went to hand the book back, he said, “Oh you can actually keep that.  In fact, if you have a minute, I’d like to tell you about the Book of Mormon.”  I thanked him before he could continue further than that.

As we entered the theater, my eyes continued to scan for like-dressed women to make me feel more at ease.  At last I did spot one girl who was wearing a rather sexy little dress.  Sure, she was about ten years (and more than ten pounds) less than I was, but still!  I managed to relax a little bit as we found our seats.

That is, until intermission. 

We all stood up and I decided to make my way to the ladies room.  Not surprisingly, a long line had already formed so I simply stood and waited with dozens of other women.

As I stood there, I began observing what all these other ladies were wearing.  Again, I saw lots of casual sweaters mixed with elegant dresses, but alas, not another skimpily clad lady in the bunch.  It was then that my resolve quickly melted, and I began trying to find ways to make myself less noticeable.  I began cursing myself for not bringing my blazer or even my big purse to hide behind.  All I could do was wait for my turn in the bathroom and hope I was just blowing this whole thing out of proportion.

I avoided my reflection until I was washing my hands and then I looked to assess my situation.  The sexy little dress I had bought for the intention of a casino now appeared cheap and slutty.  The neckline dipped so low, I was afraid to lean over too far while washing my hands.  And yet every time I moved I felt the dress drift slightly higher, so I tried to casually pull it down without making it look like I was as uncomfortable as I was.

I hurried out of the bathroom, seeking out Joe and his blessed blazer.  He begrudgingly handed it over to me and I realized with mixed emotion that it completely covered me.  So now my dress was hidden, but now I looked like a flasher.

I sighed with the loss of my own good intentions going awry and walked with Joe back to the car.  I wondered how some women are able to pull off any look at any age, and yet for many of us we feel we must contain our “sexiness” to only certain types of clothing to be worn at only certain special occasions.  And what of the age-old mantra of sexiness coming from a place within, shining through even as we wear baggy sweatpants or t-shirts?  Is there any truth to that, especially in the eyes of our significant others or love interests for whom we want to show off our sex appeal?

It made me wonder- what do you wear (or not wear) when you want to feel sexy?  Such deep, philosophical questions…maybe I should consult the Book of Mormon.  I hear it has a lot of answers.

No Rooms at the Inns: A Very Griswold Valentine's

Back in the 80s, Chevy Chase and National Lampoon’s created an iconic character whose name would become synonymous with good intentions going awry.  All Clark Griswold wanted to do was give his family the vacation of a lifetime.  And certainly he did, though not exactly how he intended.

So too was the desire of my own Mr. G in his quest to give me a Valentine’s Day weekend we wouldn’t forget. 

And we won’t.

Even if we tried.

It happened like this…

“I really wish you would come with me,” Joe said as he fumbled about the house packing up the last of his gear last Friday.  He was about to set off on a freelance gig to film the Flavor Run in Orlando the next day.  He asked me along so that when he was finished the two of us could set off on our own for a nice little Valentine’s Day celebration.

            “We could get another hotel room for Saturday night, go to Universal Studios, get some dinner out.  It would be great!” he said with such love in his eyes as he took my hand.

            Originally I had begged off, saying I wanted to have some time to myself to get the house clean and run some errands, thinking we would have our Valentine’s Day on Saturday when he got home.  But as he squeezed my hand, I suddenly didn’t care about errands or the house. 

            Joe called his contact for the race and found out that I could run it for free while he filmed.  Meanwhile, I called my parents to see if they would be willing to watch the dog for our impromptu weekend getaway.  Before I knew it, I was throwing random clothes in a bag of my own, dropping the dog off with the rents, and sitting beside my husband in his car as we sped off to Orlando.

            After a few hours of driving we finally pulled up to our hotel, the Country Inn and Suites.  As we were checking in, Joe asked about availability for the next night as well.

            “Oh, no, sorry.  We’re all booked up for tomorrow night,” the kid behind the counter said.

            We simply shrugged, supposing it would be expected for Orlando, especially for Valentine’s Day weekend.  Then the kid informed us that the free breakfast wouldn’t begin till 7 a.m.  Another bummer since we would have to be at the race around then.  Still, we didn’t let these tiny setbacks damper our mood.  We were in the same town of the happiest place on earth, after all!  We got to bed at a reasonable hour, excited about our adventure.

            The next morning, we woke up groggily at around 6 a.m.  It was even earlier in the morning than either of us usually gets up for work, so we both grumbled a bit at being up so early on a weekend, but we rallied.  I slowly began repacking up while Joe lingered in the shower.  We ran downstairs and were happily surprised to see breakfast was just beginning to be served.  I slammed a small bowl of cereal while Joe ate some delicious hotel pancakes and then we were off to the races.

            We had some issues getting there.  For one, we couldn’t exactly figure out how to get to the race.  And then when we got there, we were informed that we needed to pay to park, a detail no one told us about.  I dealt with that while Joe grabbed his camera and gear and rushed off to meet with his client.  I finally met back up with him and the client and he kindly registered me for the race.

            While Joe went around filming, I was left to my own devices waiting for the race to begin.  I talked to some vendors, bought some Flavor Run merchandise and awkwardly angled a few selfies with some clever signs that I shared on Facebook.  Just then, over the loudspeaker, they announced that a trainer was going to give some warm-up exercises for everyone.  I found a spot in the crowd, trying to ignore the feelings of self-consciousness I felt as I stood amongst groups of friends and couples, and began to follow her movements.  I still had my phone with me so I discreetly slipped it inside my shirt and into my sports bra.  Unfortunately it was not as secure as I had hoped. 

On the first jumping jack, I suddenly felt my phone slip and nearly fall right out of my shirt in front of everyone.  I grabbed it just in time and sheepishly dodged out of the crowd to fix myself.  After that, I merely stood back and watched everyone, suddenly worried about what to do with my phone during the race.  Joe was running around who knows where, and I couldn’t just leave it with his stuff out in the open.  I couldn’t just hold it either, since the whole point of the race was to be pelted with colored cornstarch, so I decided I just needed to secure it tighter in my sports bra.

            They called for starting positions and as soon as they finished the countdown, they released us (and four canons filled with yellow powder).  I was off- and so was the phone.  Within a few paces, I felt it once again begin to slip down and through my shirt.  As soon as I hit a spot clear of wisecracking kids and judgmental women, I quickly grabbed it from inside my shirt and decided I would have no choice but to hold it.

            Then I approached one of the spots where the volunteers pour more powder on you.  I abruptly changed my mind and slipped it back inside my shirt, fearing for its safety.  After I had gone through the blue and red cloud, I immediately grabbed my phone again.  Thus, this was how I ran the Flavor Run- 3 and some odd miles, sporadically with my hand down my own shirt like a perverted mental case in running sneakers.  By the time it was all over, I was multiple shades or blue, green, yellow and grey.  And my phone was almost just as bad.  So much for that.

            As Joe finished up filming and we said our goodbyes, we drove to the nearest restaurant to eat and make a plan for the rest of the weekend.  As I sat there in my sweaty, albeit colorful clothes, I suddenly had an idea.

            “You know what I feel like?  Instead of spending a fortune at the parks, maybe we ought to drive back towards Tampa?  We could find hotels there that wouldn’t be so astronomical as they are here in Orlando.  Plus we could get all dolled up and go to the casino!” I said excitedly. 

Our waitress overheard our plans and added, “Yeah and you know the state fair is going on now too!  You guys should go do that.”

Joe and I lit up.  It was everything we wanted.  We would stop at the store so I could pick up a little dress and shoes for the evening (since I realized I forgot to pack anything nice) and then get to a hotel near the casino that had a shuttle.  Walk to the fairgrounds and putter around there for a bit before coming back to the hotel for a little rest and then get the shuttle to the casino for the night.  Joe pulled out his phone and booked a room at the Fairfield Inn within minutes of the casino and fairgrounds.  We raised our beers with dusty hands and toasted the new plan.  It was perfect.  What could go wrong?

We finished eating and got back in the car and made our way to the outlets so that I could buy an inexpensive little outfit.  When that was accomplished (a little later than we hoped) we hopped back in the car.  As we fought our way through the heavy Orlando traffic, we both began to feel the fatigue of the day begin to catch up to us.  Joe was longing for a bed to rest his weary back and I was dreaming of a nice long bubble bath to scrub my chalky skin clean.

After what felt like an eternity, we finally arrived back in Tampa, excited to get to our room.  Joe went up to the desk to check in and was met with bad news.

“You booked today?” the man asked, looking around his desk.

“Yeah, it was a few hours ago,” Joe said wearily.  The man asked for his last name again and assured him that the reservation was not there.

“We’ve been booked solid for a few weeks now, what with the fair and all,” he said, avoiding Joe’s eye contact.  He immediately grabbed his phone to show the man his reservation, and his face fell. 

“I know for a fact that I had booked this for today- but for some reason it booked it for two weeks from now!” Joe said flabbergasted.  He joined me on the lobby sofa and busily looked for another hotel.  We had forgotten that not only was it Valentine’s Day weekend, but one of the last weekends for the state fair.

“Ah!” Joe exclaimed, “Two rooms left at the Hampton Inn down the road a few miles.”  Joe booked it and we were off, still dreaming of a nice bed and hot bath.

I gave Joe the directions to the Hampton but somehow they lead us to some rural neighborhoods with big mansions with big pick-up trucks sitting in the driveway.  We even passed the oddest “tiki bar” we had ever seen.  It was attached to a mechanic’s garage and painted green with an open deck area, with several angry looking Harley Davidson owners perched on the sides.  Wasted away again in Margarita-kill…, I thought.

We finally arrived at the Hampton and happy to see it was as nice as the Fairfield, with a shuttle to the casino as well.  I slumped down in a chair as Joe gave his name to the concierge.

“Oh, you just booked today?” he asked kindly.

“Yep…it was just a few minutes ago but the website said you had two rooms left,” Joe said, trying to keep a handle on his growing impatience.  The man went into the back and returned with two pieces of paper.

“Ohh, I see.  Hmm…” he said quietly.  Not a good sign, I thought.

“It seems they allowed you to book, but we’ve been all booked since earlier today.  They shouldn’t have even let you make the reservation,” he said, sincerely apologetic.  Joe, who had had enough, was suddenly conjuring up all the things he would love to do to the person who invented the hotel booking website he used.  He asked the concierge to please put in a call for them and see what happened. 

After almost an hour of getting nowhere with the website customer service, I debated on whether we should just drive the rest of the way home.  But Joe wouldn’t have it.

“No.  We are GOING to make something of this night.  We are GOING to find a hotel somewhere and we are GOING to have a romantic evening,” I said through gritted teeth.  I clamped down and decided to just go with whatever he decided.

Eventually the concierge suggested we try one of their sister properties.  He made a call (while still waiting on hold with the hotel booking website customer service) and found out they had one room left.  Defeated and exhausted, we gave up on the website and booked a room at a third hotel.  As we were leaving, the concierge took Joe’s cell number to let us know if we got charged for the room we wouldn’t be able to use and gave us quick directions to the hotel.

By now, I was feeling not just tired and hungry; I was feeling overly tired and hungry.  My stomach was beginning to feel queasy and hot.  And what we thought was just a ten minute drive was actually a ten-mile drive, mostly spent behind a Thai food truck that drove us crazy with its sweet and spicy scents.

When we had finally arrived at our destination, our hopes and dreams for an elegant hotel room had been fully dashed.  The hallway reeked of weed and the room itself smelled like mildew.  And my luxurious bath was replaced with a handicap shower.  As I cleaned myself up standing in what resembled a prison shower, I suddenly began to feel horribly dizzy and sick.  I finished my shower and climbed onto the bed, willing myself to get up and get dressed for dinner.  After a few minutes of air, I began to feel better and my hunger returned.  The lady behind the counter had raved about a BBQ place that was just down the street from our hotel.  Perfect, we thought, and off we went.

Unfortunately, the Valentine’s Day Night-Massacre continued as we were met with a 45-minute wait and no bar even to sit at and wait.  We left and found another well-reviewed BBQ place, only to have the dozens of people waiting around outside signal to us that we would be waiting a while here as well.  Finally, we opted for Carrabba’s, because it was nearby and it would probably have a short wait.

At dinner, I began shoveling food in so quickly that I began to make myself sick again.  I sat there, stuffed beyond belief and trying to psych myself up for Joe’s plan to see Deadpool that night.  Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be.  I was too tired and sick to my stomach and so he graciously helped me back to the hotel room where we finished off the night letting our food digest and watching hours of “Law & Order: SVU”.

In the morning, we woke up determined to make something of this trip before heading home.  We drove to the casino, each took out $40 to play with and within an hour, I was up $40 more!  With my winnings I took us both out to a feast of a brunch at the casino’s buffet.  As we sat in the booth, bellies full of food, heads full of memories, and hearts full of love, we reflected on the weekend, and all its imperfections, and chuckled.  It wouldn’t be a love story without a little bit drama. 

And it wouldn’t be our love story without a heavy bit of ridiculous.

Good Talk

Not long ago, Joe and I went out with an old school friend of his and his wife.  Joe had mentioned beforehand that they were both pretty smart, but I didn’t anticipate just how bright they would be.  Educated at prestigious universities and acquiring high-end jobs, they went on about all kinds of well articulated and thought out topics, while I found myself tongue-tied just trying to keep up. 

Usually when I meet new people, I play the sweet and mildly amusing chick, offering up pop culture references or asking some oddball scenario questions.  But when I’m confronted with people that genuinely intimidate me, I mostly become a quiet and grinning idiot.  I simply nod along and interject generic comments to appear interesting, but inside my brain I am panicking trying to scrape together pieces of information I recall learning from college or hearing in passing on the radio or TV.

            This method has served me well enough at larger social gatherings, but when it’s a more intimate setting, I am screwed.  I clung to Joe’s side of the conversation like a barnacle until he and the wife found a topic that kept just the two of them engaged.  Suddenly, it was just his friend and me, and the awkward silence between us built to a painful degree.  He attempted to engage me with intelligent conversations but I struggled to find anything of value to offer.

            Later on, my mind conceived of this whole imaginary scenario that best exemplified what happened….

***

            A smartly dressed man walks up to a counter called GOOD TALK with the slogan “Good Talk Done Right!” emblazoned below it.  A girl is behind the counter loudly chewing gum and examining her nails. 

Without looking up she mutters, “Welcome to ‘Good Talk’ where you get good talk done right.  What can I get ya?”

The man scans the options on the board overhead.  There is a big colorful Pop Culture section with many subcategories.  There is also an Odd and Interesting Facts section, Music from the 70s, 80s and 90s, and Personal Life Experiences.

“Yes, hello to you.  I’ve never visited this establishment before.  I am in need of a conversation and I’m just looking for something enlightening.  Nothing too heavy,” he says.

“You might like to try our ‘Question du Jour’,” the girl says, snapping her gum, “it’s a real ‘conversation starter’,” she says, half-heartedly emphasizing the wordplay.

“Uh, well, what is that?” he asks curiously.

“’If the world was decimated and you had to repopulate the earth with one of the characters from Saved By The Bell, who would it be and why?’” she reads off her computer screen.  The man tilts his head, confused.

“Ah, perhaps not.  Maybe something a little more filling,” he says as he scans the menu again.  “How about Personal Life Experiences?  That ought to be enriching,” he says hopefully.

“Eh, not really,” the girl says, “it’s mostly a bunch of days-old stories that have been sitting on the shelf for a while.  Otherwise they’re wildly inappropriate or shocking- not for everyone’s tastes.  The regulars order them sometimes, but I wouldn’t suggest them for a newbie.”

The man scrunches his nose as he sighs and continues to peer up at the menu.  His eyes are forcefully drawn to the massive Pop Culture menu.

“Well, I see you have a lot of options for Pop Culture conversations.  Especially in the television section,” he says hesitantly.

“Yeah…kinda what we’re known for,” the girl chomps.  “Right now we’re offering an I Love Lucy Lucille Ball and Xena: Lucy Lawless combo called the ‘Deuce-y Lucy’.”

“Well, I was in the mood for something more…nourishing,” he says.

“Hmm, then you might want to choose something from our ‘Meaningful Conversations’ line.  A bunch of smart stuff we kind of threw together.  Just to warn you, it’s pretty old- no one really asks for it here.  But they all do come with a nod of understanding and a side of questions for you,” she says indicating the smaller, dustier board that lists Science, Politics, World Affairs, and Technology.  The man reads the choices and selects one.

“I’ll take an order of Science, please,” he says proudly and reaches for his wallet.

The girl hollers behind her.

“Hey Chuck!  We got any more Science back there?”

From behind the partition, Chuck calls back.

“Nah, we already used that up when they were talking about environmental biology and how we took that one class back in college that discussed city planning.”

“Yeah but did we use all of it?” she yells again.

“Yeah, we said that the professor talked about limiting population growth and how space would be less wasted if we planted more trees...or somethin’,” Chuck says, spitting into the trash.

The girl turns back to the man.

“Sorry, all out,” she says.

The man looks at the other choices for Meaningful Conversations.

“How about Politics then?” he asks.

“Eh, that’s mostly just slamming Republicans and conservatives without fully comprehending why.  Not a lot of meat there if you’re looking for something to really fill you up,” she says honestly.

“World Affairs?”

“Basically whatever we remember from NPR today,” she says.

The man pauses and looks at his final option.

“…Technology?”

“We know how to turn on the AppleTV,” she says abruptly, clearly losing her patience.

The man looks disheartened as he moves his gaze back over to the glossy print of Pop Culture options and slowly hangs his head.

“I suppose I’ll take an order of Music, but can I at least hold the Pop on that?  Maybe replace it with some deep cuts or underground B-sides?” he asks pulling out his expensive leather wallet.

“Sorry, the Pop already comes with it,” she says as she punches in the order on her computer.  “That’ll be 13 minutes of your life.”

The man hands over his life card and she quickly swipes it. 

As she hands it back to him, she says, “Have a Good Talk, sir.”