My girlfriend, Julie, and I had good jobs, nice apartments, lots of girlfriends, lots of free time and enough disposable income. The problem was, at least it seemed to us at the time, we had no men. She had just been dumped by her long-term boyfriend and I had just dumped mine.
We worked together, got together on weekends and read the weekly Burlington-based paper SEVEN DAYS, mostly the personals and mostly the "I SPY" section OF the personals. The deal was: I brought the wine, she ordered the take out. We read the MEN SEEKING MEN section (hey, this is Vermont!) the Women Seeking Men section to check out the competition, and the I SPY section to see if possibly one of us had been NOTICED out there and our future beloved had written about it. We read and laughed, I answered a few "I Spy" offers for yucks pretending to be the "leggy blonde with the Dalmatian", the "lady in the flowered dress at the check out counter at the Price Chopper" (I actually thought that one was me) and "the jazzy, sexy Goth girl at Nectars" the local "no cover ever" night club.
I did it for kicks. I did it because I planned to write a book about it...or at least a short story. Memoir.
Julie and I decided, after much research and bottles of weekly wine and girls nights in that we needed to write our own ad and a good one; one that would bring in the results we wished for--her a husband and me a date. So we concocted a really good ad which I saved...it's been 12 years. It went like this:
36/39, Martinis/margaritas, Sinatra/Stones, Leo/Sagittarius, alpine/Nordic, Jazz/blues, athletic/outdoorsy, Democrat/Progressive, Catholic/Quaker, aerobics/yoga, stunningly beautiful/stunningly beautiful. (And, on that one? We clinked our wine glasses. And waited.)
Now the idea was that we would not have to pay to put the ad in, but we would reap the free benefits of all the hundreds of men we would be beating off with our walking sticks. Until Jonathan, the fact checker from the Seven Days people, called me at my office telling me that Julie and I owed the newspaper money before they could publish our ad.
Jonathan: Ms. Fayston? It's Jonathan from Seven Days?
Me: Oh, hello, Jonathan, how's it going?
Jonathan: Great, um..I'm calling you about your ad in the Personals?
Me: Oh yes of course (chuckle chuckle) My friend and I put it in. That's THIS WEEK?
Jonathan: Yeah, we got it by deadline, so sure...
Me: Wow! OK...
Jonathan: The thing is Miss Fayston? You owe us a little money if you want this ad to run?
Me: Um...why is that? My friend and I counted the words. It was 10 words or less for a free deal. We aren't math whizzes, but we can count up to ten, Jonathan.
Jonathan: But the thing is you sent in 20 words? (I was beginning to think that this guy was calling from Toronto with all the statements disguised as questions and all.)
Me: What are you talking about, Jonathan? We wrote 10. Ten.
Jonathan: Twenty. Twenty words not ten.
Me: OK, look, (as I rummaged around for the hand-written note in my desk) I count ten.
Jonathan: (taking a deep breath) For example: the words "stunningly beautiful/stunningly beautiful"? By my estimation? That's four words.
Me: Nope, that's two.
Jonathan: Two? But you put slashes between words. That doesn't make it two instead of four...
Me: Yes (here we go) Jonathan. What you don't know about me is I'm an English teacher. And putting a slash between words actually cuts each word in half...makes each word a half word, in a way...
Jonathan: Well, I've never heard of half words.
Me: Well, I have.
Jonathan: Well, my editor says that if you and your friend don't pay us for the extra words? We aren't going to...
Me: Come on, Jonathan. Think for yourself. Who are you going to believe? Me or some editor?
Jonathan: I'm just the middle man here...
Me: Forget it. We aren't paying to put a personal ad in Seven Days! Just drop it. It's fine. Just do it, Jonathan. Just do whatever your little editor tells you to do. What do I care?
Jonathan: OK, so that's your suggestion? Your decision? Drop it?
Me: Drop the ad. It's fine. We can get our own dates. Believe me. We were just doing this for fun, anyway. Besides, we work for non-profits. We can't really afford to throw money away like...
Jonathan: OK, I'll just drop the ad then?
Me: Go ahead. I don't care. Really. Don't feel badly. Just do it (I was a Nike ad, Jonathan was Henry Kissinger.)
Jonathan: Good day, Ms. Fayston.
Me: Good day, Mr. I Can't Think for Myself!
I hung up and immediately phoned Julie. I summed up the conversation and she understood. Easy come, easy go and all that.
Time went by as it sometimes does and Julie phoned me at work.
Julie: Oh my GOD! Did you see our ad? She squealed into her end of the phone.
Me: What ad? I mused, (figuring her non-profit had finally dumped that awful Executive Director)
Julie: THE SEVEN DAYS AD!
Me: WHAAT?
Julie: We not only GOT the ad, we got the BIG ONE!
Me: Just a sec....(I sauntered out into the outer office and practically wrestled a homeless man for section C of the paper. I went back to my desk, closed my door and picked back up the phone.)
Me: Julie! OH MY GOD!
Julie: I thought you said they wouldn't print it?
Me: That's what the guy said...at least that was the decision I got from him...that we owed him...
Julie: Well he must have changed his mind!
Me: Yeah. I can't believe we got the BIG ad. What do you think it was the best one? I mean, they couldn't find a better one? How pathetic is that?
Julie: I know right? (giggle giggle) I gotta go. I have a client. We'll talk later. Bye.
Me: (hanging up) Men! They say one thing they do another. That Jonathan. What the hell?
Men called us alrighty. Men who thought our ad was written by some bi polar woman. Men who thought we were one person with two personalities...or the ying and yang thing. A few winners thought we were two women looking for a menage et tois.
Finally an architect called and I let Julie "have him" right after he suggested Julie and I flip a coin to see who "got to go out" with him. He turned out to be tall, handsome, in good shape...but he turned out to be a Republican and no number of half words could turn that into a relationship.
Written in the winter of 2007
Monday, December 23, 2013
Long Island Psychic
I used to stay up late, way past my bedtime, watching movies or some VPT documentary or some political satire...you know, whatever was on even if it was boring and I had no interest whatever in the subject matter.
One fine winter afternoon when I should have been skiing or snowshoeing I came across a cable show--I think on TLC (THE Learning Channel) and I don't remember the name of it but I will call it "Long Island Psychic" because that is/was what it is/was about. It is about a woman who lives in Jersey or Long Island and runs around telling people who do not want to know things, THINGS about their loved ones "in heaven" or who "have passed."
Bee hive hair do, long painted nails, year-round tan, lots of eye make up, smartly and colorfully dressed--total opposite of me, which makes me wonder why I was and continue to be totally taken in by that reality show! Simply mesmerized. And come to think of it? Her husband is the total opposite of her, too.
Her husband is a carpenter, who wears Carhartt pants and sleeveless T's, sports a handlebar mustache (or is it mutton chops?) rides a Harley and is a "man's man" through and through. They constantly fight on air. And her kids are teens and are therefore mortified by her in public situations. The whole lot of them will go to a deli or out to dinner or even out to the movies and UT OH there she'll be...walking up to complete strangers. Telling them that someone named "Michael" wants to say he's sorry. Or that "Grandma" is safe now in Heaven...and the person will either freak out and stare at her, sometimes calling the manager to kick her out of the establishment, or they will start crying and hug the woman. Total stranger. Hugging another total stranger. Only on Long Island, right?
Of course, she travels around with at least one camera person, probably more...so when any self-respecting deli worker, concierge or hostess sees this gal and her entourage coming? They do the deer in headlights thing FIRST, then they do the crying/throwing her out on her ass thing NEXT.
The kids will slink away, turn to their iphones...roll their eyes. The husband and teens never seem to just let her do what she wants, either. They either warn her, "No, honey. NOT NOW!" the husband will holler, slamming out of the place and hopping on his Harley Davidson. Or one of the kids will say, "Oh, no. Mom, NO! You are NOT going to do this now. You said it was FAMILY TIME!"
But this woman? This particular psychic? Can not help herself. She is compelled to utter the words, "OK, you don't know me, and this is gonna sound a little weird, but..." and she is forever touching them on their forearms or upper chest and--what is more? Getting AWAY with it!
Opposites do attract and one day I hope to meet this New Jersey or Long Island psychic. I just think if she can take all that abuse from her husband and kids and keep on believin'? She's someone to appreciate.
Note: the show is actually called Long Island Medium, Theresa Caputo is the gal
One fine winter afternoon when I should have been skiing or snowshoeing I came across a cable show--I think on TLC (THE Learning Channel) and I don't remember the name of it but I will call it "Long Island Psychic" because that is/was what it is/was about. It is about a woman who lives in Jersey or Long Island and runs around telling people who do not want to know things, THINGS about their loved ones "in heaven" or who "have passed."
Bee hive hair do, long painted nails, year-round tan, lots of eye make up, smartly and colorfully dressed--total opposite of me, which makes me wonder why I was and continue to be totally taken in by that reality show! Simply mesmerized. And come to think of it? Her husband is the total opposite of her, too.
Her husband is a carpenter, who wears Carhartt pants and sleeveless T's, sports a handlebar mustache (or is it mutton chops?) rides a Harley and is a "man's man" through and through. They constantly fight on air. And her kids are teens and are therefore mortified by her in public situations. The whole lot of them will go to a deli or out to dinner or even out to the movies and UT OH there she'll be...walking up to complete strangers. Telling them that someone named "Michael" wants to say he's sorry. Or that "Grandma" is safe now in Heaven...and the person will either freak out and stare at her, sometimes calling the manager to kick her out of the establishment, or they will start crying and hug the woman. Total stranger. Hugging another total stranger. Only on Long Island, right?
Of course, she travels around with at least one camera person, probably more...so when any self-respecting deli worker, concierge or hostess sees this gal and her entourage coming? They do the deer in headlights thing FIRST, then they do the crying/throwing her out on her ass thing NEXT.
The kids will slink away, turn to their iphones...roll their eyes. The husband and teens never seem to just let her do what she wants, either. They either warn her, "No, honey. NOT NOW!" the husband will holler, slamming out of the place and hopping on his Harley Davidson. Or one of the kids will say, "Oh, no. Mom, NO! You are NOT going to do this now. You said it was FAMILY TIME!"
But this woman? This particular psychic? Can not help herself. She is compelled to utter the words, "OK, you don't know me, and this is gonna sound a little weird, but..." and she is forever touching them on their forearms or upper chest and--what is more? Getting AWAY with it!
Opposites do attract and one day I hope to meet this New Jersey or Long Island psychic. I just think if she can take all that abuse from her husband and kids and keep on believin'? She's someone to appreciate.
Note: the show is actually called Long Island Medium, Theresa Caputo is the gal
Dirty Job
There are some really dirty jobs out there--and there is a tv show called DIRTY JOBS, a show one really must watch to appreciate the mention. The host, Mike Rowe, attended Yale or Harvard and was a businessman back in the day (or maybe attorney) until he met a number of folks who had jobs that he thought they would hate, but they loved.
Mike interviews (and does the work of) pig farmers, loggers, sewer workers, slaughterhouse workers, butchers, folks who drudge sludge out of ponds, haul human waste and spread it on open fields in the heat of summer, clean out grease traps in restaurant kitchens, chemically clean and haul porta potties...once they showed him at some zoo shoveling elephant poo into a huge bucket! You name it? This guy Mike does it. And, with a smile.
I heard an interview of Mike Rowe on NPR one day and because he was one of the most eloquent speakers Audie Cornish (or whoever it was) had ever interviewed, I was entranced. He sounded animated and like a person I would want to meet and hang out with. This Mike guy was really quite humorous when he admitted that yes, he had gotten sick a number of times, infections, viruses...that sort of thing. Ended up in the hospital and emergency rooms of hospitals numerous times. He's gotten amoeba and cryptosporidium (both of which I have had and almost died from) and injured more than once, broken a few bones, that sort of thing. And not to mention all the clothes he had to throw out because they were too far gone to even think about saving, let alone washing. But he loves it.
But Mike Rowe also understands first-hand the hard labor, the long days, lack of compensation, absolute absence of glory, the dead-tired feelings and the horrible conditions. He appreciates the workers, admires them, in fact. According to Mike, they have the right attitudes for the dirty jobs they do. "It's gotta be done. Somebody's gotta do it. I'm getting paid for this, so why not do it right?" The workers all have seemingly happy lives. They value what they have. They don't think of their jobs as being out of the ordinary, not worthy or anything like that. It's a job. My job. So what if I get a little dirty doing it? Dirt washes off.
Me? The dirtiest job I ever did was to help my brother-in-law carry a leaky, broken toilet (our chins resting on the rim) down a flight of stairs because my sister convinced me that as an outdoor educator who had spent an entire summer on the Long Trail composting outhouse matter? I had the stomach and muscles for just this type of dirty job. And funny thing was? I totally did and still do!
Mike interviews (and does the work of) pig farmers, loggers, sewer workers, slaughterhouse workers, butchers, folks who drudge sludge out of ponds, haul human waste and spread it on open fields in the heat of summer, clean out grease traps in restaurant kitchens, chemically clean and haul porta potties...once they showed him at some zoo shoveling elephant poo into a huge bucket! You name it? This guy Mike does it. And, with a smile.
I heard an interview of Mike Rowe on NPR one day and because he was one of the most eloquent speakers Audie Cornish (or whoever it was) had ever interviewed, I was entranced. He sounded animated and like a person I would want to meet and hang out with. This Mike guy was really quite humorous when he admitted that yes, he had gotten sick a number of times, infections, viruses...that sort of thing. Ended up in the hospital and emergency rooms of hospitals numerous times. He's gotten amoeba and cryptosporidium (both of which I have had and almost died from) and injured more than once, broken a few bones, that sort of thing. And not to mention all the clothes he had to throw out because they were too far gone to even think about saving, let alone washing. But he loves it.
But Mike Rowe also understands first-hand the hard labor, the long days, lack of compensation, absolute absence of glory, the dead-tired feelings and the horrible conditions. He appreciates the workers, admires them, in fact. According to Mike, they have the right attitudes for the dirty jobs they do. "It's gotta be done. Somebody's gotta do it. I'm getting paid for this, so why not do it right?" The workers all have seemingly happy lives. They value what they have. They don't think of their jobs as being out of the ordinary, not worthy or anything like that. It's a job. My job. So what if I get a little dirty doing it? Dirt washes off.
Me? The dirtiest job I ever did was to help my brother-in-law carry a leaky, broken toilet (our chins resting on the rim) down a flight of stairs because my sister convinced me that as an outdoor educator who had spent an entire summer on the Long Trail composting outhouse matter? I had the stomach and muscles for just this type of dirty job. And funny thing was? I totally did and still do!
Joys of Home Ownership, Chapter One
I have always thought that home ownership was just a wonderful euphemism for noose around your neck. Having been raised in Vermont by two native Vermonters, one of whom owned our home outright, kind of, and the other who never believed in land ownership- I guess I never in a million years thought that I would ever a) want to own a home or b) ever qualify for a home loan. Time went by, as it sometimes does, and one day it was made clear to me that, indeed, I was the only sibling of 10- one deceased, but she would have made a land purchase any minute prior to her death-who did not own land or a home.
It did not bother me, really, until things started happening in my family. Many things happened, tragic ones.
Our father died followed by much tribulation.
Our niece died.
Our mother died.
And then? Our oldest sister died. At that point it FINALLY occurred to me that I was not different from any of them. I was just more obstinate. Who was I not to dream my mother's' dream- of owning something? To have a place I called home? Yet, that had never been our father's dream. All our dad ever wanted was to put down roots, grow a family and look up at the sky, find a wooly caterpillar, predict the weather. All our dad ever wanted to experience outside of home was to sit "Indian style" on a big rock in the woods, smoke his pipe and listen to the birds. Although he didn't build "the girls' cabin" he definitely could and would have enjoyed living in it, alone, had we not tried to occupy it ourselves six months of the year.
So I guess I have done what they may have wanted after all...I spent the first half of my life sitting on rocks, running through fields, hiking up mountains, skiing across meadows, moving around like a rolling stone. Gathering memories, adventures, experiences that I now can write about. And perhaps I will live the rest indoors. Well, sleeping indoors. Well, most of the time, anyway. OK, most of the time in the winter.
It did not bother me, really, until things started happening in my family. Many things happened, tragic ones.
Our father died followed by much tribulation.
Our niece died.
Our mother died.
And then? Our oldest sister died. At that point it FINALLY occurred to me that I was not different from any of them. I was just more obstinate. Who was I not to dream my mother's' dream- of owning something? To have a place I called home? Yet, that had never been our father's dream. All our dad ever wanted was to put down roots, grow a family and look up at the sky, find a wooly caterpillar, predict the weather. All our dad ever wanted to experience outside of home was to sit "Indian style" on a big rock in the woods, smoke his pipe and listen to the birds. Although he didn't build "the girls' cabin" he definitely could and would have enjoyed living in it, alone, had we not tried to occupy it ourselves six months of the year.
So I guess I have done what they may have wanted after all...I spent the first half of my life sitting on rocks, running through fields, hiking up mountains, skiing across meadows, moving around like a rolling stone. Gathering memories, adventures, experiences that I now can write about. And perhaps I will live the rest indoors. Well, sleeping indoors. Well, most of the time, anyway. OK, most of the time in the winter.
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