As tradition stands, Thanksgiving weekend serves as the time for high school reunions, usually those that are in increments of 5 years since graduating. In 1996, we had our five-year reunion, which was very well attended- about 120/220. Only one classmate was engaged (at the ripe age of 23,) most of the guys had gotten shorter, and the girls were struggling to lose the rest of the freshman, I mean senior 15 pounds. I was living in NYC, working at an ad agency and single.
Five years later, in 2001, we had our 10-year high school reunion. This one was a mixed bag of emotions. More than half of my classmates were married, and most with kids. I couldn't relate to those that had moved back to Baltimore to marry and procreate. I was still in NYC and the Towers had just fallen. I could care less about their little Ellies and their new homes. I was making a difference working full time at the 9/11 restaurant Ninos. I ran the NYC marathon just weeks before. Interestingly, one of the former high school "freaks" had morphed into this amazingly cool photographer for Calvin Klein. She lived in NYC and invited me to a dinner party for 20 a few weeks later.
This past weekend was our "unofficial" 15-year reunion. An email circulated around. Meet at this bar on Saturday night. 7 of us did, including my two friends in NYC who I talk to all the time. That left 4 others. Three were married. Two had kids. One was a lesbian and a partridge in a pear tree. We spent the hour and half wondering where the remaining 220 of our classmates were. I had one drink and called it a night. Phew, no pressure for not being married. And the best news, I have five years until my next reunion.
More to come later on my 15th year high school reunion (there were 7 of us) but in the meantime, some fun facts about my favorite team, the Ravens. And in case you haven't heard, they slaughtered the Steelers 27-0 yesterday with 9 QB sacks. I was there, my #52 jersey on, screaming "Steelers Suck" with 72,700 other fans.
- Opposing quarterbacks are completing just 53.2 percent of their passes against the Ravens defense - They've intercepted 20 passes - Number of defensive scores is five in 11 games - They've sacked quarterbacks 39 times - The quarterback rating against the Ravens is 60.6 - The pain factor is over 100
All the work, the self-help books, the postings about the choices one makes in life and working on one's self. It made a minimal dent in my fucked up psyche, but then reverted back to psycho space.
And I can ponder on Thanksgiving why I ruined another relationship.
I can't blame The Date for wanting to take a break. I pushed him there. I practically gave him a hand-written invitation with an RSVP by December 1st. He gave me a compliment and I served up an insult. Rather than focus and tell him how great he was, how affectionate and smart, and compassionate and funny, I looked for faults. Who cares that he was messier than I was? That he wasn't as passionate about winning Cranium as I was. My friends and family loved him. He was "the best one yet." And yet I wouldn't, couldn't let myself go there.
I didn't know how to let him in. How to let someone like me and like them back. How to be considerate and thoughtful, and there. How to accept. Which goes back to me, and the inability to accept and love myself. Which I want to fix. Desperately. For me and for my future husband. For the guys I date. For The Date.
Three years ago, I was thankful for an upcoming vacation to Club Med Turks. Two years ago, I was thankful for Glaxo Smithkline. Last year, I was thankful to have made it past the third date with someone.
November, 2006. Another year, another day to count my blessings, or at least one of them.
I'm thankful that I only find a gray hair every 75 days or so. I'm thankful that my mom has a job interview (from me.) She already has a husband (from me) so I am going for the 100% heaven guarantee. I'm thankful that my sister still lives in NYC and hopefully she will remain here forever. I'm thankful that my youngest sister is considering going to Syracuse! I'm thankful that I have no debt. I'm thankful that men still like me. Or at least one of them does. Ok, maybe two. I'm thankful that Britney dumped K-Fed. I'm thankful that PinkBerry opened in NYC on W. 32nd street. I'm thankful that the Democrats are in power. I'm thankful for my co-workers. I'm thankful for eyebrow threading. I'm thankful for you. Happy Thanksgiving. Happy and Healthy!
I'm a little tired from the weekend. As if going home to Maryland for Thanksgiving for 5 days wasn't enough, I was lucky enough to head down there this past weekend for my dad's 60th birthday. Now you may wonder why we just didn't celebrate this coming weekend, which is the logical question, but my dad, step mother and sister will be in Palm Springs at a field hockey tournament. This holiday will be spent with mom and her side of the family.
So a few highlights from this past weekend. I'll give you the top 5.
1. Arriving at the train station, and being fortunately enough to wait there for 15 minutes while my father raked the leaves and showered. Oh, then he decided to pick us up.
2. Getting my grandma drunk at dinner Saturday night. She was sitting next to me. So was a bottle of wine. How did we know she was loaded? She pronounced to the entire table that, "everyone should go to the zoo" and then shared details of all the wonderful animals kept in captivity. Comedy at its best.
3. My two sisters, my father and me all trying to get dressed for the Ravens game. It was kind of cold out. Scarves, hats, gloves flying everywhere. Jerseys on, jackets off. Convincing my sister that everyone wears purple and white bandanas around their neck (she fell for it.) All while Emmy our dog sat there and wondered why we thought she was the crazy one.
4. Jamal Lewis. Steve McNair. And the rest of the Ravens. 8-2 record. 24-10 score against the Falcons. Amazing game! And I get to go again this weekend against the Steelers.
5. Arriving back in my apartment at 9pm knowing that in less than 70 hours I would be giving more money to Amtrak.
I couldn't fall asleep last night. I had DVRed the new documentary THIN on HBO, and although the program was over shortly after midnight, I couldn't put it out of my mind.
THIN is shot over six months in an anorexia/bulimia treatment facility in Florida. It's residents tend to range from 15 to 30, and all of them are so sick it breaks your heart. Four particular women were followed for the majority of the program, and within their release from the facility, all of them had relapsed. What THIN reveals, besides the deadly affects of the disease, is the support system the facility provides, as well as the reason most of the women leave the center: because their insurance had run out. The common theme throughout: women dying to be thin. Prior to entering the facility, one woman was "restricting" her intake of food, down to an unbelievable 200 calories a day. Most women purged.
What scared me most after watching THIN was the fear of having a daughter with this disease. Not wanting to bring children into this world, full of peer pressure and unrealistic role models plastered on TV and in magazines. Having those feelings that all of the parents of the girls in the facility had: heartbreak and an unbelievable loss of control.
On the other side of the spectrum is the fight for real beauty. One brand in particular is leading these efforts: Dove. It's incredible that a packaged goods product can singlehandily tackle women self esteem issues. If you haven't seen the video floating around YouTube, you can see it here.
The headache I had last night prevented me from making it to the gym, to dinner, or even to my couch. I spent the majority of the evening in bed, watching TV. And until 24 premiers in January, there is limited entertainment on the telly. Ok, ok, I am totally making excuses for having watched The Bachelor: Rome last night.
Which was a pathetic, pathetic hour. Oh Lisa, you poor girl. How could you go on national TV and tell everyone that you have a plan to be married by 26 and with kids by 30? Don't you know that life is never that accurate? And to bring Lorenzo to your home, which was full of bridal magazines and a wedding dress? You flat out told Lorenzo that you cheated on an ex, and applied to the show without knowing who the bachelor was going to be! You looked so sad, so desperate.
And Lorenzo, you loser! You're 34 and choosing between a 23-year old virgin and a 24-year old. While some men might be applauding you for your selection, don't you know that these women are too young. They have their 20's to live, to discover, to gain confidence.
And ABC, please end this parade of desperate women fighting to be "chosen" by a man. Throwing themselves at them, begging for a rose. You have such success with Lost, Grey's, Desperate Housewives. Do you really need this lame-o reality show to generate revenue for you? At least bring back The Bachelorette.
About four years ago, I moved out of the apartment that I shared with my sister and into a studio. It was time to live on my own, and I found a charming place three blocks from where I had been living. When it came time to move, rather than hire movers, I was able to round up a few guy friends. All I really had was a bed, a sofa, and my clothes, more or less. A dolly from the doorman, a few pairs of strong hands, and we were ready to go.
We rolled my life's worth down Third Avenue. I think we made six trips in total, and was a source of entertainment for only a few people that I ran into on the street.
On the last trip to my new place, I was in the elevator with my guy friendBW. Most of the heavy furniture had been moved; what was left were the valuables that had not made it in boxes: my pillow, my jewelry, a few outfits for work that week, linens.
In the short four flights of our elevator ride, something fell to the floor. BW heard a small crash followed by smaller sounds, maybe something rolling across the floor. He looked down. I looked down. And there, sprawled across the floor of the elevator was my pink rabbit vibrator, its batteries, and remote. Oy.
Like most of America, I too have been singing Britney Spear's praises for dumping that baggage of a husband. Although it must suck to be 25 and twice-divorced with two kids. Regardless, if this video is true, you must commend Britney for her delivery method... enjoy!
Friend: He's so cute. He's receding but I don't care. He takes Rogaine and Propecia. Me: Does it help? Friend: Yes. He said he would be a bald eagle without it. Me: So how's the sex? Friend: Amazing. But he rarely comes. Me: What do you mean? Friend: He says it's because he jerks off all the time. Me: Bullshit. It's the Propecia Friend: What do you mean? Me: Totally. It's a known side effect. Go look it up online (A few minutes pass...) Friend: SIDE EFFECTS: Unlikely to occur but the possible side effects include impotence, decreased sex drive or decrease in amount of ejaculate. If you notice other effects not listed above, contact your doctor or pharmacist. Me: Um Friend: He can definitely get it up Me: But decrease ejaculation! That is it! Friend: Yep Me: I don't think you can ask him about this, can you? Friend: I told him to stop the frequency of the hand parties Me: Don't think that's it, honestly. Every guy I have dates pulls it daily. Friend: It's the Propecia Me: Yup Friend: Shit Me: So when do you stop having sex, when you come? Would you rather have him bald or ejaculationless? Friend: I finish then he wants me to jerk him off. I have huge biceps.
In celebration of the NYC Marathon yesterday, I wanted to share an article that my mother wrote and published in my hometown's newspaper following my 1st marathon in 2001.
"When my 28-year olf Baltimore-transplanted-to-New York City daughter announced last spring that she was applying for the New York Marathon, I remarked, "how nice." Although proud of her determination, I was somewhat dubious of her ability.
A 1991 graduate of Pikesville Senior High, Debbie was not a varsity athlete. She dabbled at tennis and skiing and lacrosse, but a runner she was not. Why would she elect to put herself through such rigorous torture?
But owning a lucky lottery draw sealed Debbie's membership to this elite group of 30,000 marathoners. I was impressed. I immediately made my bus reservation for November 4th.
Over the next months, Debbie reported on her training regimen, giving me bi-weekly updates on her progress. But could she make the obligatory 26.2 miles- the magic number that defines a true marathon? Debbie was determined to go the distance. After a few months, she was running 20-mile stretches. Now, it was time to rest the body for November 4th.
The New York City Marathon is the kingpin of marathons. This annual fall event, which began in 1970 as a small race with 55 finishers, ballooned into a huge behemoth touching all five New York boroughs. Today, the city would become a mecca that would attract millions of spectators and tens of thousands of runners from throughout the world, united with the common thread of realizing their personal best. Debbie would accept the challenge of enduring a long-distance run, announcing her internal message, "I can do extraordinary things."
One hour before the race, I was about to enter New York. The din of the bus engine faded into the background while I reflected about how the city changed since my last visit. I searched the skyline, naked without the familiar sillhouette of the Twin Towers- the outline that told me I was about to enter the most exciting city in the world. I welled up with tears as I saw huge flags draped over buildings that represented a city still in mourning. And when I heard my fellow busmates sing "God Bless America," I knew that today's race had the ingredients of an emotional roller coaster.
As Debbie soared through Manhattan's avenues, we calculated her presence at the northwest corner of 110th Street and First Avenue at 2:09pm to see her run past the 18.5-mile mark. We had her banana half-peeled and the camera poised, ready for a 10-second photo-op before she continued onward.
En route to meeting Debbie, I crossed 110th and 5th Avenue as the first runners were headed up toward Central Park to the finish line. I heard the thunderous crowd cheer on the runners, calling out their names plastered to their T-shirts. Onlookers called out, "Way to go Tom," "You can make it Lisa." I joined in. I yelled out to the runners as if they were my best friends. I needed to do this. Perhaps there would be strangers cheering on my daughter when she needed encouragement as she ran through Staten Island, Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx- strangers giving her encouragement and motivation when her battered body wanted to quit.
Suddenly, we spotted Debbie's broad smile in the distance as she approached us. Her ponytail flapping in the wind told us that she was OK and that the adrenaline was kicking in. The short hugs and kisses and "we love yous" would hopefully strengthen her for the final eight miles, enough to help her push the envelop, hit the wall, go beyond her endurance.
We met Debbie at the finish line. She clocked in at 4 hours, 32 minutes, 15 seconds. SHE DID IT!! Her face read a mixture of feelings- exhiliration, exhaustion and the natural letdown that follows an emotional high. All that preparation and it was over in a few short hours. She limped towards us cloaked in her mylar cape protecting her sweat-soaked body against a chill. She needed time to regroup her thoughts, to grasp her personal victory and to reconnect with loved ones.
The celebrations were soon to follow. The gathering of her Baltimore and New York friends and family in a trendy midtown restaurant would soothe the physical pain. The flowers, a teddy bear, cards, hugs and kisses would numb her aching muscles. She may not have brought home the "gold" but she made us proud. Baltimore gave her roots. New York gave her wings."
Today, November 3rd, is National Cliche Day. I wouldn't pull your leg. Now I won't go beating a dead horse about the many ways to don't worry, be happy today. But thank god it's Friday. Although some feel it's just the same shit, different day.
Things I Currently Love 1) The word "aforementioned" 2) The day after Elections when those damn ads stop running 3) The smell of fall 4) That Flava Flav is having a 7th kid at 47. By the time he hits 60, he'll have a full basketball game 5) Having no one to comment on my dinner of Ben & Jerrys Half-Baked Frozen Yogurt and wine 6) Surprises 7) The Ravens are 5-2 8) Knowing that Ryan was cheating on Reese two years ago 9) My new alarm clock that wakes me up with the time, date, weather, and radio 10) Planning my next vacation. I'm thinking scuba...
What a day! I saw my friend Franke's new house, looking at diamond jewelry, went to Studio 54, lost a few hands of blackjack, and test drove a new Nissan. All without leaving my office.
Yes, the latest and greatest in Internet social networking has arrived, Second Life. In this virtual world, you create a character (dress it and all) and explore. There are things to buy, houses to build, friends to make. If you hate your life in the real world, try again in Second Life.
And if you make it to Second Life, come find me to say hello. My name is Mackenzie Maroon, a name by choice. And yes, my ass is smaller in Second Life.
(I know, I have been sharing a few websites lately. It's part of my job, honestly.)
I'm going to make a very controversial statement here: people are single because they choose to be so, not because they haven't met the one.
It has taken me some time to get to this conclusion, and I truly don't believe that we are all just passing time and dating (or being single) until our soulmates come along. Be it at age 26, 32 ar 39. Rather, the decisions we have made, the people we have chosen to date along the way, are steps in our roadmap. Had someone really wanted to get married to the person they dated in college, they would have.
Which leads me to now. 33 years old and not married. Reflecting on the men I have dated along the way, all which made me smarter about myself, but none which were headed towards marriage. Choosing to date the emotionally unavailable, the long-distance dreamer, the pot-smoking bore. Hearing, "it's not you, it's me" when it actually was me for choosing to stay with them as long as I did. For opening up my heart, because it was safe and one-sided.
But having this knowledge and sense of self is not any easier. Trying to break patterns. To let myself be treated well when I have no idea how to. To look at people for who they are, not the fantasy of what they could be. To accept someone for their faults, and to let someone see mine. Because the other option is unacceptable.
