You may never touch them.

Lately I’ve found myself feverishly entering every single New Yorker caption contest that I can.

This is what my dreams have come to.

The botanist never loved you

At the botanical gardens, under the creamy lotuses, pink roses and aromatic blue bells lies a carefully detailed description of each prized flower’s specific aesthetic and practical contributions to our natural world. Plus, their name, in Latin.

Underneath the faded green spruce trees, that pop up every now and again, awkwardly mingled with short patches of vibrant reds and violets, reads a sign that says simply this: “Required Plant.”

What it means, I don’t know, but I think if there ever was a time to consider a career in plant therapy, it would be now.

Ciao, America

I’m going to Italy in the fall via air Italia!

Hopefully, lots of eager Italian men will say beautiful things to me in a language that I cannot understand.

Pretty, docile and not-so-complicated

Somehow, maybe because I tried, or maybe because I was terribly bored, I’ve read about three reviews for that new Patrick Dempsey movie, “Made of Honor.” I really need to buy a book, I know, but I just can’t resist checking up on the occasional chick flick.

I have a soft spot for romance, as most of you can tell.

So, I guess this movie is really formulaic–a splash of millionaire playboy dating dumb blonds here, a dab of his best friend being the only quality woman he’s ever met (and a brunette!), a smidgeon of him not entirely coming to terms with the fact that he’s completely in love her with, about an hour and a half in the oven and-voila! You’ve got a really bland romantic comedy that plays on just about every played-out stereotype you could possibly imagine.

I heart Hollywood.

What I also heart, is this whole worn-out notion that these “I love the only quality woman I’ve ever met” men and women best-friend snooze fests prey on. As we all know, every well-to-do, attractive man between the ages of 25 and 40 has only ever met one intelligent, kind and attractive in a down-to-earth-could-take-her home-to-meet-mom kind of way. I mean really, only about 2.5% of all women are actually like that. The rest of us are just overly tanned, overly primped bimbettes who are only good for a roll in the hay now and again. Obviously, I was single for six years because I’m so very dumb and men just don’t find me very interesting.

Unfortunately, men aren’t much better according to Hollywood. Apparently you all preen about, oblivious to all but your most superficial emotions for, oh, twenty or thirty years, and then suddenly realize how dead you are inside. But it’s always too late for the male-bonehead.

I wonder. Could it possibly be…that maybe…men don’t settle on the “right” woman right away, not because there are so few bright, interesting and cultured women out there, but because there are so many? Perhaps men actually look for this? And it’s not always enough reason to date someone simply because they have good vocabulary? Why settle for one articulate, well-traveled, educated gal when many of you probably know at least 20 of them? Perhaps, maybe, some kind of actual “connection” is necessary? And perhaps the time should be right as well? Hey, I’m just a girl, I don’t know, but I’m throwing it out there.

I’m really not going to participate in this whole “you’re single because you’re ugly/dumb/crazy” thing that “the pretty people of California” attempt to force-feed me. Oh could I have a side of self-loathing too? Thanks! Let’s face it, sometimes the right men/women aren’t around to fall head over heels in love with, but there can still be plenty of great people/relationships in your life. Just because you have a fling, doesn’t mean you’re void of substance.

Oh, and, I’ve never met anyone over the age of 18 who was in love with their best friend. Seriously. You’re friends for a reason. Most people know that.

Even girls.

Names I thought about calling this blog

*I_hate_everyone.com

*No good in your goodbying.com

*Just say no to men and chocolate.com

*I act immature and I am immature.com

*Don’t tell me I look like a real woman.com

*Smart girlz media.com

*Rawr sigh and blah.com

*Gettin even avec la men.com

If whiskey were the blues

Yesterday at a dark, Irish bar in Wicker Park….

Man (to a small and meek looking young woman drinking a gin and tonic, while he is nursing what looked to be whiskey on the rocks): You better watch it lady, that stuff can be hard on you.

Woman (looking sullen): It’s ok, it’s going to last me all night:

Man (drunkenly putting his hand on her shoulder and almost losing his balance on his stool): You got some troubles or something? I can help with troubles, you know.

Woman (growing slightly disgusted, and moving away from him): No, that’s ok…you can just drink your whiskey.

Man: Whiskey? Lady, I can’t handle whiskey.  I don’t drink, you know. This here is apple juice on ice.

Woman (quizzically): Oh, so you’re just like this?

Ladies and gentlemen, the future of de-evolution is upon us.

Remember the talking Barbie doll that had everyone up in arms in the mid-90s because she said, “Math is hard.”

This makes her look like Marie Curie.

Apparently. this “Miss Bimbo” –a game that comes equipped with character building challenges, such as “your Miss Bimbo goes on a crash diet, and won’t settle for anything less than 132 lbs” and “with daddy’s money go shopping, but don’t let him find out!”–is all the rage in the UK amongst girls aged 9-16.

While I’ve never thought very highly of Americans, and assumed that digital exercises in shallow and unenlightened thinking could only come from us, I have always expected a much more sophisticated brand of online training from the fathers of modern-day Imperialism.

Why can’t they just teach us us how to take over a third world country, exploit its resources and kill its indigenous peoples like in the good old days?

How to write the long-languishing oratory of your life

Like most writers, I’m really quite fascinated with myself. And I’ve toyed with the idea of writing some sort of auto-biography which adequately depicts my emotional, physical and spiritual trials and tribulations.

I know you’d all just die to read to it.

Although i haven’t worked out the details, I’ve created an outline that I’d like to share with all of you. Please feel free to amend this literary skeleton, as it is a work in progress.

Part 1: I was born in a small town to small town parents. I lived in the meandering drudgery of mid-western existence. As I am an extremely interesting person, and extremely interesting people do no often thrive in such limited circumstances, I fought my way out…due on to my tenacity, vivaciousness and…the fact that no one really wanted me there anyway.

Yadda yadda, blah blah blah…what’s in the middle doesn’t really matter…yadda yadda yadda.

Part 25: Like most truly delicate flowers, I cannot bare the hardship of this cruel world. After many failed relationships, I decide to retreat into a world akin to that of my predecessor, J.D. Salinger. I come out of my house only to get my daily paper, I never give interviews. None of my cats will even talk to me anymore. Occasionally they appear on Oprah, detailing their tragic mistreatment by a woman consumed with the pursuit of do-it-yourself blogger fame.

I’m thinking parts 2-24 should incorporate just about every minute and tedious aspect of my very existence. The time I wore mismatching socks in the 7th grade, the bad haircut I received my junior year of college, and the rather lackluster report card I got in graduate school. In addition I’d like to personally attack every man I’ve ever dated–not because they deserve it–but rather, to add more “color” to an anthology that may or may not be filled with unsubstantiated heresy, half-truths and conjecture.

I’ve really got this bio thing down, don’t you think?

The Lady is a Tramp

Me: I really am starting to despise discussions about “what is art” or “what art is” or “what art isn’t”…all the pretense makes me a little nauseous.

Paul: So, when people have those discussions what do you do? You’re “educated” …you could chime in.

Me: i no longer have the desire to prove that I’m a classy, worldly dame. It’s never gotten me anywhere.

Paul: Oh, but you could prove to the exclusive men in such exclusive intellectuals that you’re desirable. That they’d be lucky to have a lady like you on their shoulder.

Me: Or I could shut up and silently imagine what men that pretentious and self-centered are going to look like when they’re 89 years old and they have no companionship aside from the live-in health assistant. (Pause) I’ll probably find more joy in that.

Paul: You’re really a quite a horrible person.

Taken

Today a little boy ran up to me while I was on my walk and said, “My name is Charlie. And you’re beautiful.”

Thanks, Charlie.