Leslie

I maintain that the best ideas begin as scribbles on bar napkins.

Substitute coach cabin napkins and a two hour flight and, voila, a marketing plan is born.

Can’t read my scribbles? It’s a secret code only I can decipher.

Really.

The scene: Yet another out-of-control Friday night at in Suburban River City.

The players: My glamour-puss friends Super Model Chick and her husband, Mr. Successful, a big-time executive at a local consumer products behemoth. And then there’s yours truly, the wheezing, runny-nosed single one.  I figure if I can’t be one of the beautiful people, I’ll simply be seen with them.

Moi: Between slurps from a gigundus bowl of asian noodle soup: “So Mr. Successful, what’s the news on the digital marketing front?”  I love to talk shop with Mr. Successful as I often use these topics in conversations with my non-web savvy friends. Anything to make me look smarter, you know?

Mr. Successful: “Oh, get a load of what I heard in the hall today.” His chopsticks hit his plate as it appears he needs his hands to tell this story. This should be a good one.

Moi: “Do tell!” God I hope he doesn’t use any big marketing terms I don’t know. Can’t stand playing along when I don’t see the punch line coming.

Mr. Successful: “My colleague was on Facebook today.” Seems full-time employment at the consumer products behemoth comes with stock options a-plenty to purchase a retirement acre on the beach AND a license to screw-around in cyberspace while they’re serving Corporate America. “While she was looking at photos of herself she said, ‘Joe (who I presume is her boyfriend) is de-tagged me from one of the photos in his album.’”

Super Model Chick: “What’s de-tagging?”

Mr. Successful: “The opposite of tagging. When you upload a photo to Facebook you can add people’s names to the photo. If the name is removed, that’s called ‘detagging.’ ”

Moi: “You can scroll over photos and, if people in the photo have been tagged, their name pops-up. Ah, I adore seeing how decrepit my old nemeses from high school have become. Not that I waste any time in that sorry pursuit…”

Mr. Successful: “So then she keeps talking while she’s still looking at Facebook.” Now he’s becoming more animated. Since Mr. Successful doesn’t waste his time on simple gossip that would entertain me for hours, I see that something interesting is imminent. “She says, ‘Joe is detagging me from all of the pictures of us together.’”

Oh. That’s too bad. I’ve always had an eerie sense of things-to-come that borders on the paranormal. Now I’m sure I know where this sorry situation is headed.

Mr. Successful: “Then she says, ‘I’m going to call him and see what’s going on.’”

Oh, please don’t do that quite yet.

While her situation is careening out of control I, in the comfort of the favorite neighborhood hole-in-the-wall Asian/Thai fusion place, can’t slam on the breaks. How I dread knowing what’s going to happen.

Even as I see this relationship joining the T-Rex on the extinct species list, I’m still navigating my chopsticks through my Asian noodles like Picasso with a brush. Yummy.

Out of nowhere, our teen waiter arrives. Between texting his girlfriend and adjusting his earrings that appear to be ¾ carats EACH of a much-beloved clear, shiny stone (they better be cubics and not the real thing or I ain’t patronizing this place again) and asks SMC if she wants a box for what remains of her meal.

His question welcomes yet another embarrassing food moment for moi. SMC is 4 inches taller than me and eats half of her meal. Conversely, I can see my own lovely reflection in my empty bowl. Instantaneously I rationalize that I’m allowed to eat my dinner since, gosh darn it, it’s only soup.

But back to the story.

Super Model Chick: “So how did Joe explain all of his detagging?”

Mr. Successful: “He broke up with her!”

__________________________________________________________

Told you so. Score one for yours truly, the newly crowed clairvoyant.

My advice? Break out the ramen noodles and the  #mce_temp_url# sister. They’ll be your best friends for the next 10 business days.

Such sad occasions now know a whole new level of irresponsibility. Who would have thought detagging would be tip off a break-up-ee before the break-up-er delivers the news? This guy sadly underestimates web savvy women. Even I found him out before I heard the end of the story.

Please don’t tell me they found each other on a dating web site. Because if they met via an e-Harmony email, he needs to take a few lessons in cyber space from a 10-year-old.

Plus, this is cyber abuse! This is public space devoted to web surfing and chat rooms and stalking old boyfriends keeping in touch with loved ones and should not be used to tip off soon-to-be-ex-girlfriends. Stupid head.

Plus plus, he’s a weenie. Guys, if you’re going to pull the plug, Man-up! Here’s how: Take her out for a nice dinner. Don’t you know the first rule of  the breakup occasion is to deliver the message in a public place to minimize the chance of the recipient dissolving into unruly behavior? Or silverware becoming projectiles? Guys, these are the basics!

Be sure to make an early reservation so she has enough time to:

1. Hear your sorry “it’s not you, it’s me” break-up story. Guys, save your breath. We know it’s you. Don’t wait around for us to tell you exactly how it’s you and not us.

2. Excuse herself to protect her dignity and leave you with a big, fat bill and a socially responsible tip. Avoid the embarrassment created by a sub-20% gratuity. This is definitely not the time to create enemies with the wait staff if you want to return to this restaurant. If you want to bring your next girlfriend here, you’ll need all the help you can get. Especially if they’ve read this scintillating expose.

3. Call her Mom and EACH AND EVERY ONE of her friends on her way home. She’ll need their support and the time to devise new curse words to hurl at you on many, many websites in the coming days. I’ll personally award extra credit to her friends who corner him the next day at the office and ask, ever so gently, ‘So, Mr. Wussie-Butt, just who do you think you’re going to date now? No one. That’s who.

Because everyone read this blog post and knows you’re the Facebook detagging breakup weenie.”

Dearest Lisa (and both of my other readers. (Hi Mom!)),

Earlier this week I was overcome with my own excitement. I know the email I sent was marked “Really Ultra-High Importance,” but the status was more indicative of mild mania that had overtaken my brain rather than the entertainment value to pour out of it. In it I promised I’d post a side-splitting few paragraphs on my new favorite TV host, Nancy Grace, she of The Nancy Grace Show.

Alas, that post won’t make it to cyberspace tonight.

You see, I write my blog posts in my head days before they ever find their way onto these pages. One never knows when the hands of the Literary Goddess will reach down and caress my brain. But believe me when I say it ain’t often. So when it does, or I’ve confused it with the mild mania again, you are its first target. My apologies.

As I stared at my blank screen trying to make good on my promise and pry the laughs out of my brain, it occurred to me I’m making this writing thing far too difficult. I read the hilarity of Jen Lancaster and David Sedaris and imagine them at their laptops for a few short hours, cupcakes and Veuve Clicquot at hand, while the words just flow from their fingers. No biggie for them.

But a biggie for me.

So I beg your patience while I take another 24 or so hours to procrastinate* and try to yank the post out of my brain. And push this cat off of my keyboard.

So, now do I have your permission to pop the cork? I thought so.

Most Sincere-estly,

Leslie

* Procrastination activities to include:

• Eating ice cream directly from the carton while …
• Staring at, but not working out to, my “Secret of Flat Abs” video
• Stalking my high school nemesis on the web. And they know who they are. (Carolyn and Joan, both of you are sworn to secrecy.)

The notice on the bulletin board read:

“The Blessing of the Animals, 1 pm, Sunday October 25.”

I made a mental note to be at the stables to have my horse, Dane, blessed. Because God knows, after being launched into inner space as detailed here, we both need it.

Happy horse owners who regularly skirt penury and eminent stays at debtor’s prison drove from far and wide to the stables to have their ponies Blessed.

Among them was my Dutch friend, Caroline, who is often confused with Dutch super models. Here Caroline guides 3 year old Chamonix into the arena-turned-sanctuary.

Between tall and slim Lisa and tall and slim Caroline, I appear abundantly average and have stopped standing between or next to either of them.

The bulletin board invitation indicated all animals in need of Blessing are welcome to the ceremony. Observe these soon-to-be-blessed cute dogs exhibiting good manners. I’m a sucker for Shelties.

Dane, my trusty steed, stands quietly eyeing …

this scene.

Barn Family Values. From the looks of it those who are Blessed together stay together.

Our stable is configured into three seperate barns: A and B and thus the predicatably named Barn C. These are the horses and riders from Barn C across the parking lot who are commonly referred to as ”Those Eventer People.” They spend copious amounts of time jumping over fences at high rates of speed. I believe their endeavor leaves them in the greatest need of being Blessed.

From the lack of interaction between those in Barn C and me and my colleagues in Barn A, one might conclude the parking lot is the size and depth of the Atlantic. Note to self: wander across lot, introduce yourself and talk to these nice girls.

Noticeably absent from this scene are the Dads who presumably foot the bills for this cash thirsty sport. Lots of bills. And then another bill.

I suspect The Dads are:

a: working overtime

b: watching “the game”

c. sitting in their cars bored out of their minds

d. content in knowing their daughters’ whereabouts and satisfied these young ladies are involved in a sport that demands concentration, promotes self-esteem and a focus on something besides themselves.

Talking about lovely young ladies, here are Chris and her daughter Caroline who I’ve dubbed Caroline junior. Caroline Jr. holds her horse, Shelby. Recent advancements in carbon dating techniques indicate that Shelby is 1.6 million years old and thus the perfect little girl’s horse. (Please excuse the blurry image. Horses don’t stand still for Kodak moments.)

Horses and dutiful owners line up for the Big Moment. As the Deacon began the ceremony, all 22 horses and several dogs were unusually serene. They know so much more than us.

Caroline, laughing at a joke that no one else heard, stands next to her husband Douwe. Douwe is the King of Pringles. Please buy some, eat them and repeat that process. Regularly.

The Deacon enters in all his finery and other Blessing-related stuff. As a card-carrying Wasp, I have little idea of the accessories involved in official Blessings, but I like his colorful sash. He’s the only one brave enough to wear white to a barn.

The Deacon begins the ceremony while Dane gives me the evil eye.

The Deacon recited comforting words about these magnificent creatures although I can’t remember much since I was taking these equally magnificent photos.

After the recitation the Deacon blessed each horse. Here’s my friend Kathy with her beautiful boy, Dru.

I harbor a not-so-secret yet unrequieted love for Dru. Riding him is akin to sitting on a Barkolounger at a sports bar. Everything is fine when I’m riding Dru. Kathy has been duly warned that if she finds Dru among the missing she can rest assured that he will have been confiscated by me and added to my payroll.

Now that you’re finished reading this post I must disclose that it has taken three hours to:

• write the Pulitzer Prize winning commentary
• select the images
• edit the photographs and,
• dodge this guy who won’t stay off of the keyboard.

Move a cat? Please.

Last week saw Leslie attending a business conference in Florida. Normally I like Florida. That is, I like taking vacations in Florida. Last week was the first time I’ve had to work in Florida. And the working part takes the Florida part out of Florida.

Besides the fact that I had to work, my residential circumstances were less than desirable. The next time a travel agent suggests a room at a less expensive boutique hotel, beg off. I now know that “boutique” is Palm Beach’s secret code for hotels-that-sport-the-ever-present-odor-of-old-ladies-smoking-Lucky-Strikes. Back in the 60’s. Gack.

Now dear reader (notice how the singular is used since I realize my only reader is my dear friend Paige. Hi Paige!) I’m sure you’re thinking, “Show me a girl who complains in Palm Beach and I’ll show you an on-the-cusp boomer with an over wrought sense of entitlement.”

And you would be correct.

After 4 days in the rarified, much over-rated and absolutely deserted (it’s still off-season and all the geriatric Wasps must be in Michigan) atmosphere of Palm Beach, I made trek north to Orlando. Lest I portray myself as not grateful for four freewheeling days on a desolate (a psychologist friend used the clinical term “under stimulating”) Florida island, I decided to employ the advice my father offered when I complained of being bored as teenager: I used my time to my advantage. For the first time. Ever.

So I created my gratitude list. Oprah popularized this practice a few years ago in her glossy magazine whose cover always features Oprah looking flawless. I read the article while standing in a convenience store check-out line and then returned the magazine to its proper holder. It’s my form of theft. 

So here’s my list of things for which I’m grateful written while driving at a reasonable 60 mph on the Florida Turnpike between Palm Beach and Orlando.*

Numero uno: I’m grateful for the opportunity to drive north through central Florida and not have to sit at my desk all afternoon. The same groundbreaking marketing thoughts that dance through my head while I’m at the office dance while I’m driving. The big difference is that I can stop at every McDonald’s for coffee at my leisure without bothersome co-workers asking, “Now where is she?” 

Numero deux: Feeling grateful that I don’t live in central Floriday. Nothing here but scores of odoriferous old ladies wandering about all of whom congregated simultaneously in front of me in the grocery store line. I felt the need to return my grapes for fear of being grossed out, even at only 97 cents a pound.

Numero three: Deciding I’ll work a day job while pursuing my literary career. Because I still can’t eat glory. And which day job it will be is still up for grabs. But that’s a different post so stay tuned.

Numero four:  Marshalls. I SHALL NEVER TIRE of Marshalls. Why? Because ‘Yes’ is always the answer. Can I have the deeply discounted blue suit with tasteful metallic contrast stitching? Yes. How about the hip hugging jeans just a bit too young looking for my 40+ derriere? Big yes. And the winter jacket with the Michael Kors label? Hell yes! Do I really believe it’s a Michael Kors original? Hell no. But at $24.99, I don’t much care.

No matter how many unmatched separates I squeeze into the teensie-weensie closets of my 1947 Cape Cod manse, the fact that Marshall’s sells skirts in size 6 into which my butt fits is miraculous. And at only $19.99, I’m buying two. In this crap-ola economic turnaround, Congress should declare Marshalls a national monument to commerce. Were there a store near my home (hint to Marshall’s marketing department, please expand into the general vicinity of 45202) my weekly shopping sprees would assure my ascent onto the cover of Town and Country.

In my afterlife.

Numero Five-o: Rainfall shower heads. These engineering marvels avoid the need for the shower-er (she being moi) to have to aim. One just stands beneath it and lets the rain wash one’s troubles down the drain. And its droplets rid my sinuses of the grotie old lady smell.

Numero Six-ish: High-def TVs with functioning remote controls. This entry gets a triple gratitude score for convenience, indulgence and narcissism. I can turn it on and off and surf channels while carefully documenting the faint-but-still-there lines on the faces of the oh-so- much-younger-than-moi co-hosts of trashy TV tabloid shows (all on during the 7 pm Eastern TV viewing hour) whilst never having to remove the comforter that’s keeping me snuggly warm. I know it’s 89 degrees outside in sunny Palm Beach, but would someone please turn down the AC?

So there they you have them; the six-ish reasons why I’m happy with my current circumstances.

My advice? Think about yours. Then let me know. I’ll turn this into a happy our-lives-are-wonderful-even-without-all-the-good-stuff-we-really-want need” page.

Until then, join me here for another complaint-filled post coming soon.

 * And I’m typing this while in a plane cruising at 30,000 feet. Technology is oh so my literary enhancer. Must be something about going forward in a big hurry…