Month: January 2011

Welcome to Miami

You know those idiots from the Midwest who lose their minds when they go to the beach?  They only have a weekend in Florida so they hit the sand with nary a drop of sunscreen, determined to squeeze as much tanning as possible into a 48-hour period, and then act surprised when they get back to their hotel and discover that their thighs now resemble cherry popsicles? I hate those people. Which is why I’m all the more irritated to find that I’ve inadvertently joined their club. My weekend in Miami started out well enough.  Much to my surprise, my younger brought not one but three pairs of shoes.  I found a handsome Dutchman-cum-surfer to talk to on the bus from the airport to South Beach and even though our little chat lasted only a few blocks, I was proud of myself for having had the courage to strike up a conversation in the first place. By 9:00pm, I had slipped into my designated Friday night club outfit and was enjoying my first mojito of …

Miami Bound

So today, I’m heading to Miami.  I’ve never flown to Florida for just a weekend before, and it seems rather decadent.  My guilt over carbon emissions, however, hasn’t kept me from packing six pairs of shoes into my carryon, nor has it kept me from agreeing to fly to Miami in the first place. A few weeks ago, I received a text message from my mother.  “Your father and I have decided to fly to Miami for a week.  You have 90 minutes to decide if you’d like to join us for the weekend.”  She sent the same text to my brother and even though he has rather selective hearing when it comes to his cell phone, he responded well within the allotted time. As such, I find myself at the departures gate with my six pairs of shoes, my laptop and my equally over loaded younger brother.  I wonder how long it will be before he discovers that he’s forgotten his sunglasses, his flop flops or some other essential ingredient and no, before you …

Something Akin to Cabin Fever

Between snow days and sick days, my bank account’s not looking nearly as healthy as it once did.  Nonetheless, when I brave the snow to deposit this week’s paychecks, the branch manager invites me into his office and urges me to consider upgrading my free checking account. “With your assets, you’re eligible for a Crown account.” “What’s the benefit of a Crown account?” I ask, eying the handsome loan officer in the next cubicle. “A free safe deposit box, free checks, free…” But I’m not really listening.  I’m too hung up on the man behind the class partition to consider any serious financial maneuvering (and yes, upgrading my account comprises serious financial maneuvering in my book.  I’m still recovering from the process of opening an account in the UK three years ago and am already dreading Wachovia’s switch to Wells Fargo.  I’ll have to think of a new password for my online banking and register a new debit card when the time comes.) I thank the man for his advice and tell him I’ll think …

Aren’t We Supposed to Learn from History?

Somehow, inexplicably, I’m still alive.  Obviously it’s because I’m meant to return to the activist ways of my youth and go storming the halls of Congress to make sure McCain doesn’t succeed in getting the healthcare reform bill repealed, but I can barely follow the debate as it is (and I have a Masters degree… no wonder this country is so screwed up). Instead, I’ll probably just keep fondling my UK-issued NHS card, absentmindedly reminiscing about my time in London when it took a mere 24 hours to schedule an appointment, when I could pee into a cup without forking over a week’s pay for the privilege of doing so, and when I could actually afford the pills that keep me from blacking out during “that time of the month.” Or I could stop blogging about my bodily functions already and just get on with the gossip. Sadly, I’ve little to report on the eHarmony front.  PSM#4, as far as I know, is still in India.  Although he’s scheduled to return soon (and I’ve told …

Of Shoes and Sudafed

You know you’re truly under the weather when there are two brand new shoeboxes lying on the floor outside of your closet, containing (presumably) the new stilettos and high heeled boots you ordered from NineWest.com and yet you have not the slightest inclination to open the boxes and try them on. At least this is how I know that I’m truly under the weather.  I can generally muster the willpower for anything shoe-related regardless of my personal health or lack thereof, especially if there’s a sale coupon or high heels involved.  But in my current state, I couldn’t care less. This, dear readers, is how I know that I’m dying of the plague. Unfortunately, the doctor at the clinic on Washington Ave. disagrees with me on this point.  “It’s just a cold,” she informs me—and this after I’ve spent three hours waiting for her to take my temperature, verify that I’m not pregnant and deliver her brilliant prognosis. “Take some Sudafed,” she suggests, “and come back in a week if things haven’t cleared up.” Of …

How Not to Make a Sauna

“Just try it,” my mother urges me, “it’s just like a sauna.” For the record, hanging your head over a bowl of boiling, eucalyptus-scented water in the hopes of clearing your sinuses is nothing like a sauna.  Saunas involve handsome Finnish farmhands, in the nude, and alcohol and obliging fields through which to go streaking.  I know this because a few years ago, I went to Finland, and Finland is the motherland of all saunas (mainly because there isn’t much else to do on the arctic tundra).  The way I see it, if there’s anyone in the Richter household who knows what comprises a bone fide sauna and what does not, it’s me, and this sorry concoction of essential oils does not. Nonetheless, I’m at my wits end—it’s my second sinus infection in three weeks and I feel like my brain is slowing leaking out through my eye sockets.  I can’t think straight, I can’t see straight, and to make matters worse, I can’t even blog about my sorry state because every time I sit …

According to Austen

The great Jane Austen once wrote “A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.”  She was right, and as her facsimile currently stands at the edge of my desk in the form of a fully-hinged action figure, I feel it appropriate to confess that I am most assuredly guilty of these “rapid” transferences. My mind has jumped from admiration to love (and from love to matrimony) nearly a dozen times since I launched my great “experiment” six months ago.  PSM#3 was the twentieth man I dated as a result of my online liaisons; this brings my lifelong total to… give me a sec, I need to do the math: 17 men from Match.com 3 men from eHarmony 4 proper boyfriends (beginning at the age of 17) 2 English boys “dated” while living in the UK (“dated” because I’m sure they’d beg to differ) 4 American boys “dated” while living in the UK (“dated” because, unbeknownst to me, the majority of them had girlfriends back …

The Demise of PSM#3

I’m on the third floor of Barnes and Noble leafing through a novel by Simone de Beauvoir when PSM#3 finally deigns to grace me with his presence.  It’s 7:39pm.  This makes him nearly 40 minutes late. Approximately 36 hours, one glass of wine and one overpriced salmon filet later, I receive an email from eHarmony alerting me to a new “communication” in my inbox.  It’s from PSM#3.  It contains the words “interesting,” “dynamic” and “unfortunately.”  In short, it’s a rejection letter. “Wait a minute!” I shout, refreshing my screen.  “Wait just one minute.  He can’t do this.” He can’t do this because I’ve already done it; I’ve already rejected him.  At least, I planned to, via text, lest there be any confusion as to just how truly “lacking in chemistry” we were, but then I got all distracted by the Hugh Grant film he’d suggest and never got around to sending the message. It was going to be friendly but curt: Thank you for recommending “About a Boy” and thank for dinner last night.  Best …