Kimberly Brighton's Blog: Life as a Beach Read RomCom Writer

For most of my life, I dreamed of living by the sea. My ultimate goal has always been to wake up every morning to the sound of ocean waves gently caressing the sparkling sands of south Jersey beaches. To throw open French doors and usher in soft sea breezes while hearing the whimsical call of the gulls. In this fantasy, I sit on a deck overlooking the sea, drinking my coffee, while Bradley Cooper or Brad Pitt rubs my shoulders (or other…okay, keep it clean), preparing me for a tough day of writing. It could be either one, I’m not picky. To prove my point, it could just be some random guy who looks like The Brads. After dreaming up swoony romance plots, I’d then get to work on my laptop, still overlooking the ocean while warm sun and cool sea breezes tease my skin.

But—record scratch—I live in land-locked PeeAye, with barely enough funds to scrape by to spend a few weeks during summer at the shore, thanks to the ridiculously overpriced rental market of late. I’m also married to a guy who, while cute on his own accord, looks nothing like The Brads. But he’s funny, and he’s still here after 25+ years of ‘riage, so I guess I’ll keep him.

Years ago while walking along ocean’s edge, head hung low like Charlie Brown’s over the realization I’d never become a shore house owner, I thought to myself: how can I get closer to this heaven on earth without having to worry about shuttering windows for hurricanes or cleaning out flooded first floors, thanks to the ever-encroaching bay?
And it came to me:

The Shore Blog.

For over a decade now, I’ve authored The Shore Blog, a travel website dedicated to the eight coastal communities of Cape May County: Ocean City, Strathmere, Sea Isle City, Avalon, Stone Harbor, The Wildwoods and Cape May. In that time, I’ve turned myself into somewhat of a Jersey Cape expert, if I must say so myself, after having discovered and written about basically everything having to do with this region, from why they call visitors “Shoobies” to the types of seashells you’ll find on the beaches. I’ve done extensive research to learn more about the region’s history and the many things to see and do. I include all the special events and occasional stories about the region, amassing a much larger following than I ever imagined. If you’re a visitor to this part of the Jersey Cape, you should really check this blog out.

Still, the blog wasn’t enough to make me feel connected. I needed more.

I know…I’ll find some beach read romcoms set this beautiful seaside area, so I can not only sit on the beach and read all about the fictional characters who live and play along these shores, I’ll also take some books home to read during winter’s frosty months to remind me of the places I love so much.

Except…I couldn’t find any romcoms set in this area. Most of the books I found as I scoured local indie bookstores featured settings like Nantucket and the Carolinas. All well and good, but those books are more a study in This Isn’t Us. They don’t featured the shoobies who sit in endless hours of traffic on the AC Expressway, trying to flock to the southern Jersey shore from Philly and its surrounding areas. Heck, we’re even a totally different breed “down the shore” than what you see up-shore on the northern Jersey beaches, made famous by the reality TV show “Jersey Shore” and the like. No. Here, we bleed Eagles green, we chant as we pass other fans walking along the boardwalk. Don’t even think about sporting Dallas Cowboys merch in these parts! We take breaks from the beach to run to the Wawa for wooder and hoagies (pronounced: “hohhw-gees”). We are our own brand of beach breed, and we deserve books written about our towns, dammit.

One day I had the tune “The Way to Cape May” playing in my head. If you haven’t heard it, look it up (I’ve included it on my book’s Spotify playlists.) It’s a Jersey song made famous by Philly’s Al Alberts who performed the ditty originally written by Maurice “Bud” Nuggent as he drove his family down the coast to Cape May to keep them entertained. The song is about a couple who meets in Ocean City and falls in love on their way to Cape May. I began thinking…hmmm…how cool would it be to write a collection of love stories, with each one taking place in each of the eight coastal towns? And then while watching the movie Love Actually one day, I thought how cool it would be to interweave my characters into an ensemble plot? Thus, the book “The Way to Cape May” was born.

I’d finally answered my original question: how can I be closer to this seaside haven when I’m not here? I found it. For me, The Way to Cape May is…to simply write about it.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer for Saturday Night Live, but somewhere along the way I decided it would be fun to become an attorney instead. First, define “fun”. Second, it didn’t really happen that way. I was lost and driving through the streets of South Philly when I went the wrong way down a one-way street. I knew the street was unmarked because I was looking for directional signs, and I’m just not that much of a rebel. I tried to convince the cop of the same, but he refused to believe me—about the street sign AND the rebel part. In any event, he ripped off a ticket and threw it at me. Threw it, really? Yeah, I’m pretty sure he threw it, which probably had something to do with the fact that I’d casually mentioned the thirty-or-so murders taking place within a two-block radius he could be tending to instead of writing me up for my minor infraction. Talk about putting your money where your mouth is.

When I saw the fine listed on the ticket, $52.50, I almost committed a felony myself (okay, maybe I was a rebel). I was in my 20’s at the time and it was the 80’s, but this is no time for math—the point is, I couldn’t afford $52.50! Did I look like I was made of money? Come to think of it, my dad often posed that question of himself, so perhaps I’d inherited his genes. I do know for a fact we had a money tree growing in the backyard, another thing he liked to quiz me on. But I digress. I was so incensed, I drove straight to the library and got lost in the law section. This was back when computers took up entire blocks and the Dewey Decimal System was our information super highway. But there, in the hallowed halls of ancient history, ta-da! I’d finally found my calling. The law was fascinating, humor writing was forgotten and fighting injustice became my new-found passion. I got myself into law school and, through my own brand of financial wizardry, turned a $52.50 ticket into a $90,000 school loan. If that isn’t evidence of just how funny I am, I don’t know what is.

So now, law degree in hand and school loans up to my whozie-whats, I’m reduced to merely pretending I can write like an SNL writer. Or pretending to be someone in the actual audience, something I’ve been trying to do for years. All you need to do is write in to request the tickets and prove you’re fully vaxxed. No problem! Except, it’s apparently easier to get a seat on the Supreme Court than one in Studio 8H. That’s because there’s only one month out of the year when ticket requesters can write to the show and convince the Powers That Be why they want (need!) to be in the audience. Reasons I thought were compelling, such as, “I think Jimmy Fallon is really cute” didn’t seem to cut it in the past even though #truth. Nonetheless, each year I’d write in, only to find myself on my own couch every Saturday night. But enough was enough. This, finally, would be the year I’d convince them I’m seat-worthy.

So armed with a boatload of wit and a glass of wine (or vice-versa, sue me) I tried to draft something so humorous and engaging, the Gods of SNL Tickets would not only fly me into the studio on a peacock magic carpet, but plant me in the front row in a personalized director’s chair, smack dab next Lorne Michaels, and encouraged to share my ideas for next week’s skits.

It’s been months and I still haven’t heard, but I figured this year’s email was too good to waste on an unread inbox. So now I will share with you what I wrote in the vein of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” since it is kinda that time of year, and getting tickets to the show would be the best gift I could receive. Better than a school loan pardon (okay, maybe not).

I’m writing for tickets, and here are my facts:

I’m a long-time fan, and I’ve been fully vaxxed.

‘Twas the last day of August, and all through New York,

Fans requested their tickets (except for this dork).

But I have good reason…“if I must say”

See I, in my stupor, still thought it was May!

There, in your inbox, their emails are stowed,

begging and pleading to come to the show.

Forget all the rest, ain’t got what I got,

Lemme channel my humor and give it a shot.

I’m drafting this letter, and certain you’ll pick it

My reasons are best (yeah, that’s the ticket!)

So now here I go, I will give you my pitch,

And if you don’t like it, then never mind (bitch!)

For 46 years now I’ve watched every skit

Loved every one, even flops (no shit!)

Now, in the event that you don’t catch my meanin’,

I’ve been here so long, I’ve outlasted Kenan

So…

With wit of Ms. Fey, motivation of Foley

Persistence of Land Shark, Maureen’s “holy moley”

Cecily’s strength and the gonads of Eddie

(Don’t got ’em—but if so, they’d be shweddy)

With untamed excitement of Kristen’s Aunt Sue,

I’m sending my ticket request to you.

When you’ve got the fever, like I do for sure,

“More cowbells”, of course, is only the cure.

‘Tis my wittiest prose, sure hope it delivers

(‘else I’ll probably end up “in a van, by the river”)

There I was, Saturday, late that one night

So exhausted was I, I turned out the light

When out on the street there arose such a clatter

Was it Kate and her aliens? What was the matter?

(I hope what comes next doesn’t jinx my luck)

I jumped out of bed and I yelled, “What the fuck?”

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But SNL cast members throughout the years

They came with a giant (I think he played Elf)

Along with their leader—Lorne Michaels, himself.

More rapid than Covid spread, cast members came,

As he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Ferrell! now, Fallon! now Wiig, Spade and Che!

On Poehler, On Rudoph, On Chase, Martin, Fey!

To the stage of 8H and the 30 Rock halls,

Now act away! Act away! Act away, y’all!”

I’m no Debbie Downer, but wasn’t so certain

I’d remember the OGs like Radner and Curtain.

But who could forget them? (well, maybe my dad)

The Cone Heads, Roseanne, Lisa Lubner and Taaaad

Off to their room, the writers, they flew

Took their funny ideas, and Colin Jost, too—

And then, in a flash, they burst forth with wit,

Gafawing with laughter, envisioning skits

Then something occurred, made me stop on a dime

It was JT, himself, back for the fifth time.

He was dressed in a cheap suit, with boy band locks,

And strapped to his front was his D**k in a box

Then Akroyd and Martin averted my eyes

They sashayed and swayed like Wild, Crazy guys

Next up was Belushi, his Samurai sword

(I swear, I could never decipher a word!)

Then, finally, Johnson broke into his Trump

I laughed so damn hard, I fell onto my rump.

“Our job here is done!” the cast gave a cheer,

Then they handed me tickets for some time this year.

Then I heard them exclaim, as they drove out of sight—

“We’ll see you this season, on Saturday Night!”

Bigger Than … just Bigger

Editor’s Note: This article was originally posted in September 2016

Ahh, Autumn. The September sun is plentiful, the air is crisp and the leaves are just starting to fall. There is no better time to go Apple picking – and I’m not talking about the forbidden fruit that grows on trees. No, I am talking about the kind that’s sold in large, sterile white retail stores in small, sterile white boxes.

Tomorrow, Apple will release the long-awaited newest version of its popular smartphone, the iPhone 6. Millions of people around the globe started getting in line weeks ago in order to buy the coveted phone when it goes on sale September 19, because apparently on September 20 anyone without an iPhone 6 will violently implode. Or at least that’s what my teenager tells me.

The new generation of iPhone has many important new features. If you want to learn how impressive these upgrades are, just go on the Apple website. There you will see a lot of big words (“microprocessor”), words you never knew were words (“accelerometer”), and words that definitely aren’t words (“1080p HD at 60 fps, 240-fps slo-mo”). Me thinks they bullshit too much.

But you’re lucky, because I am fluent in Bullshit. To make it easier for you to decide whether the iPhone 6 is right for you, I researched the new features and will break them down for you here in simple, easy-to-understand terms.

It’s bigger.  Apple was once relatively smug with the diminutive size of previous iPhone versions, back when having a tiny phone meant you must have a huge bank account and even larger – ahem – other things. That is, until android lovers started whipping out their impressively-sized Samsungs and stroking their massive screens in public. Suddenly iPhone users the world over suffered incurable phone envy. As the website boasts, the iPhone 6 is “bigger than bigger” which is vaguer than vague so let me break it down for you further. To keep up with the growing supersize-me smartphone trend, the new iPhone now comes in two sizes – a larger-than-standard 4.7 inch version, and the gargantuan iPhone 6 Plus model. Since the latter is roughly the size of an inflatable outdoor movie screen, it comes outfitted with a Sherpa to help you lug it around.

On it’s website, Apple promises that the new phone is “Hugely powerful. Enormously efficient.” Proving once again that, yeah, size does matter.

It lasts longer. Apple is proud to announce that the iPhone 6 has a new A8 chip, something that is supposed to impress us all. I’m pretty impressed – I had no idea iPhones came with snacks. This new system supposedly will allow users to “do more, for longer periods of time”. What exactly you can do more of is entirely unclear, but one hopes it is not doing more of what iPhone users already do, like searching for outlets or borrowing friends’ chargers half-way through the day. The good news is that the iPhone 6 battery life will now get you all the way through happy hour and almost to dinnertime. That is, as long as you eat before 7:00 p.m., are in the Eastern Standard Time Zone and haven’t made any phone calls. Otherwise, count on hooking up with an outlet sometime right after lunch.

It takes better selfies. The iPhone 6 camera boasts of higher contrast, dual-domain pixels and an improved polarizer, however this is not quite as impressive as Samsung’s dual action carbine Galaxy with a compass in the stock and this thingy that tells time. The new iPhone has a special Selfie mode with an extendable arm, thereby freeing up the arms of selfie-takers for more important things like primping. This is an important evolutionary feature for humans because scientists recently noted that our right arms are starting to grow longer than our left arms as a direct result of repeated selfie-taking. The camera function also contains a video encoder and image signal processor allowing for better face detection and continuous autofocus, because there is nothing more important than being able to see all of one’s flaws with all the glaring imagery of a telescope. But don’t worry – an auto-enhancing feature will smooth out your imperfections, add a flank of impressive-looking friends and change your ho-hum background into that of an enviable destination of your choice, like a popular new restaurant or a Caribbean resort. Which is a good feature to have, since owning this new iPhone means you’ll no longer be able to afford either.

It saves you gobs of time paying for things. Apple Pay is the new technology that is going to set traditional shopping on its ear.  Now, instead of swiping a credit card, you can simply touch your phone. Apple explains:

“Gone are the days of searching for your wallet. The wasted moments finding the right card. The swiping … and waiting. Now payments happen with a single touch.”

Mind you, it probably took you longer to read that paragraph than it does in real life to pay for things with good old-fashioned credit cards. But let’s think about this. If all I have to do is touch a button instead of take out a credit card and swipe, think of all the things I could do with those nanoseconds I’m saving. Like, blink! Or scratch my  nose! I have to admit, at the risk of developing arm muscle atrophy I have actually been looking for ways to expend less energy paying for items with credit. With all that extra time, I would, in fact, be able to squeeze a few extra eye blinks into a day. Apple knows its customers and what matters to them, and clearly what matters is alleviating the waiting – oh my gosh, the waiting – for those 1-2 seconds that it takes for the screen to flash the signature line. And then – cripes! I forgot about having to sign. Another 2 seconds of my life gone – GONE, I SAY! Clearly there needs to be an easier and shorter way to pay for things with credit than having to waste upwards of 3 extra seconds at the check-out counter, but Thank The Lord Jesus Christ and Apple, they’ve found a way.

Although I’m not buying their argument about having to search for my wallet. I don’t know about you, but I’ve misplaced my wallet like, never, but lose my cell phone on an hourly basis. What then?

So if you agree that bigger is bigger and are looking to do more for longer periods of time with your accelorometer and your fancy-schmancy polarizer, and you’re mad as hell about to devote an extra 2-3 seconds purchasing items the old, laborious, time-consuming credit card way, then definitely do get in line for the iPhone 6 to secure the possibility that you may have one before Christmas 2016.

Or at least do so to avoid violently imploding the following day, like my teenager can certainly count on doing.

Copyright 2014

Listen, I’ve tried. I really have. I’ve given it my all, but it just doesn’t work for me. No matter how many Tasty videos I watch, it just brings me back to my one real truth.

I hate cooking.

There, I’ve said it—Sisterhood of the Traveling Apron be damned. I know this immediately renders me a lesser woman. I just don’t get this fascination with cooking. Oh right, let me spend hours in the grocery store, paying hundreds of dollars on random ingredients I’ll only use once. Then let me haul ripping bags of bullshit from cart to car, car to counter, counter to cabinet—all the while leaving a trail of canned goods from Shop-N-Save to my fridge in case, god forbid, I forget my way next time. And then can I please, please spend the rest of my day in the kitchen, trying not to cut off my hand with the mincing slicer and burning the shit out of food even though I followed Every.Damn.Word on the recipe. Yeah, sign me up for that.

Believe me, I want to be a good cook. I want to be like Jill and whip up a foie gras so amazing, other people’s husbands salivate just at the mention of it. Jill is an amazing cook. Every day she engineers magnificent, Insta-worthy meals so healthy and delicious, her cheering family practically carries her out of the kitchen on their shoulders each night.

Part of me wants to be Jill. The other part just wants to call GrubHub.

I always start out with such good intentions, I really do. But by the time I’ve blanched my last thingamabob and braised the last whoosit, I’m so over culinary crafting I practically Frisbee plated meals to an audience full of blood-thirsty food critics with the venom of a chakram thrower.

Jill is famous for saying things like, “I only can relax when I cook!” Seriously, Jill? Have you ever heard of binge-watching Bachelor with a box of wine? You’re welcome to come over and “relax” up a dinner for me while I sit on the couch, swirling my Sauvignon and yelling at Colton for giving a rose to the house bitch. Again.

Jill has a system she likes to call “Dinner Roulette”. She writes recipes on rolodex cards and on the back she records her family’s post-meal reactions. She files them under easy-reference tabs such as “Chicken”, “Fish” and “Tofu”. (Tofu? Oh, heck no, that won’t fly for my carnivor, unless I wanna wake up to him gnawing on my leg). Then it’s a quick spin of the rolodex to the appropriate tab every night.

I didn’t believe her about her family’s comments, so she showed me.

“Best meal ever!”
“The chard was to die for!”
“I never knew Octopus could taste this good!”

One after the other, the cards read like TripAdvisor reviews.

This comes as no surprise as Jill has been blessed with a family of non-picky eaters. Her husband will eat anything that swims, runs, jumps, flies, comes up from the ground, falls out of a tree, can be peeled from your front grill or found roadside. Her kids eat veggies without bribes, think kale chips are junk food and would rather eat fruit than Fruit Loops.

I’ve been blessed with none of the above. My husband survives on a diet of beef and Swedish Fish. He’s picky and, worse—lactose intolerant—which means everything new, cheesy or creamy is out. My daughter is on rotating fad diet, one week avoiding white foods; the next, things with legs. This week, it’s foods that begin with “K”.

Nonetheless, I decided to give dinner roulette a shot.

MONDAY

On Monday, fresh from a weekend of take-out and endless hours on Pinterest, my goals are high and I’m ready to kill it in the kitchen. Tonight, I’m whipping up a healthy meal of fish and veggies. Yay me!

Recipe: Parmesan-crusted Halibut and Caramelized Brussels Sprouts

Comments: “What are these stinky balls?” and “Did you fish this out of the Schuylkill?”

I do not speak to my smartass family for the rest of the evening.

TUESDAY 

The following day, I think okay, so they’re not into fish. What are they into? Taco Bell, of course! I found a colorful Mexican dish on Pinterest.

Recipe: Spice-rubbed Pork Chops, Spanish Rice and Garlic Pinto Beans

Comments: “What are the pink things in this yellow stuff?” and “You don’t have to make that anymore!”

I retreat for a bath, to relax. In a vat of boiling water. Ahhh.

WEDNESDAY

WTF – it’s only Wednesday? My patience is wearing thin, but I have at least two more meals I’ve got to pull out of my ass before I can make a take-out break this weekend. Oh, I know—I haven’t made grilled chicken for a while! I’m fresh out of veggies, so this can of beans should do.

Recipe: Grilled chicken (slightly burned) and a can of baked beans (stuck to the pan)

Comments: “How do I get these beans out of the pan?” and “Grilled chicken…again?”

Yes, because apparently that’s all I ever make. Can you blame me? Throw it on the grill, turn it once and—voila! I find that chicken pairs well with resentment and martyrdom. And pan-stuck beans.

“Why do I even cook for you professional complainers?” I bitch. Meanwhile, I’m secretly scraping the uneaten remains from my plate into the bin because, they’re right—it’s crap.

THURSDAY

Jill calls—she needs to get out of the house. Yay, Jill! My new favorite person. I guess all that culinary perfection is exhausting. I agree — I too am exhausted from all that non-perfection. Whatev. Thirsty Thursday it is.

Recipe: Fend for yourselves, bitches!

Comments: (Crickets)

Yes, I knew it! Take that, haters! I have to admit delicious spite as I envision them floundering about in the kitchen, wondering what to do without me. Eat week-old leftovers? Capture small game in the backyard? Starve to death? But leave it to Hero Dad, who pulls through at the last minute with heaping bags of Chick-Fil-A crack. A nugget party ensues. When I get home, they try to act like they missed me—all the while throwing waffle fries into each others’ mouths and stifling giggles from their CFA high. I can’t win.

But now…

FRIDAY

… it’s Fuck-it Friday

Recipe: Pizza Delivery

Comments: “Yay, mom—you really deserve a break from cooking!” and “Finally, something I can eat!” 

Friday is pizza night and thank God—I’m exhausted from cooking all week. Pizza involves nothing more than a phone call, followed by a hefty tip and friendly bantering with the pizza guy so he won’t break into our house later that night and murder us in our sleep.

SATURDAY

Thankfully, Jill has invited us over to her house for dinner. No doubt, she’ll whip up something perfect, my family will love it and my husband will later whisper sweet somethings in my ear, like, “How about you try to make Jill’s dish this week?”

Then I’ll dice him into tiny pieces with my mincing slicer, saute with bacon and shallots and serve with a side of justification (garnished with promise of a light prison sentence).
And …

SUNDAY

…I’ll serve him to Jill.

Welcome to my three-part series on finding a bathing suit. No need to thank me for reminding you of what you’ve been trying to forget all along – that for some of us, bathing suit season shopping started weeks ago. Which means that all the normal sized suits have flown off the racks and onto the bodies of women who can actually wear them without causing mass evacuation or charges of public indecency. But I am not ready to torture myself or others just yet, and I suspect many of you feel the same way. As with any daring feat, it’s important to cloak yourself with denial and procrastinate as long as humanly possible, or until all the lifeguards head back to college and swimming season ends.

I don’t know about you, but this winter I was forced to deal with a bunch of challenging wintry conditions involving Blizzards, Snowcaps, Frostys and other frozen fast food frivolities. Someone had to be responsible for stimulating the food economy, and I’m worn out! So I vowed it would be a cold day in June before I went back out to shovel/heave a yet another big blob of fluffy white stuff into a restrictive area, but “Winter Fat, meet Bathing Suit”. The time has come.

In the first blog post of this series, I share my thoughts on attaining a body fit for bathing attire (yours or someone else’s is up to you). Whether you are forty-the-age or forty-the-size, you’ll find comfort in knowing that you are not the only person struggling with the question of whether to head for a clothing department to suit up for the summer, or go directly to the tent section at Cabela’s. And whether your personal challenge is fitting in a bathing suit or fitting in the dressing room itself, know that you are not alone.

In the second part of the blog series, I will address the so-called “rules” of bathing suit shopping for those who are long in the tooth and puffy in the middle. I suppose if you are puffy in the tooth and long in the middle you may find something here for you as well.

In the last part of the series I will share my personal experience trying on bathing suits. That is, unless I am first spotted wearing the one I chose and hauled away to the state pen, in which case I promise to make my one phone call to Jenny Craig.

Click here for “Bathing Suit Shopping Part One: Sing, Ariel, Sing!”

Well, it’s here – the moment I’ve been dreading all summer. My annual quest for a bathing suit has officially begun.

I know it’s June. I know some of you bought your suits back in January. You’re probably wondering what rock I crawled out from under, and rightly so.

So I’ll tell you. My rock of choice is a ginormous box of chocolate chip cookies, the kind you get at ginormous discount warehouses in the “Self Pity” aisle. I’ve been nibbling my way through fear, sadness, humiliation and regret after realizing – once again – I’ll be wearing the same black skirted bathing suit this summer as I have for the past ten years.

Before you become awestruck with admiration, thinking I’ve maintained the same weight for a decade, let me set the record straight. In truth, I’ve basically gained an entire person. Prior to my current bathing costume (I don’t use that term lightly), I could wear suits that were “cute” and “not made to accommodate water buffalo”. Then I got pregnant and puffed up like a blowfish. I went from single to double-digit sizing faster than one could say “Lose the baby fat already – she’s ten!” (I didn’t).

The real reason I’ve worn the same bathing attire for a decade is because my suit has stretched along with me. It has no choice but to do so if it wants to remain on active duty. It knows that I (and, therefore, it) would be banned from the pool for life if it doesn’t defy physics and refrain from bursting like a popped balloon, striking fellow pool members with its shrapnel. Our community pool has a strict rule against that sort of horseplay. Like the good and loyal friend it is, my suit relents – so much, in fact, that what was once black is now a dark gray, and growing lighter in hue each year to the point that it will soon be transparent.

The reason I am filled with self-pity this spring is because this year was going to be different – a promise I make to myself every year, now that I think about it. Each January I proudly march through the bathing suit sections of my favorite department stores, imagining myself wearing this tankini or that bikini, looking like I stepped right out of the pages of Sports Illustrated, Swimsuit Edition. I even envision getting the call – this year, for the first time, they’ve decided to feature a forty-something woman on the cover. Because I look too good not to be proudly displayed on newsstands the world over. They want to feature me sporting the hottest hot pink bikini, with my badass belly ring and artfully drawn belly button sun tattoo. (Author’s note: This article was originally published in 2010; in 2019 Tyra Banks would become the first 45 year old to be featured on the cover. But that’s only because I wasn’t free that day.)

Fully believing this fantasy is achievable, I hop aboard the “Diet and Exercise Express” every January 1. Make that January 10 because it usually takes me that long to eat up all the holiday cookies and treats. Eh, well – actually, factor in the endless Oscar Nominee Marathons featuring buckets of buttery popcorn and a JuJy Fruit or two, and make that January 29. Okay February 15 because – well, candy filled hearts. I can’t help it if I have to bite into every one to determine which one I’ll consume (boxes, that is).

But between February 31 and March whatever, I’m all full of gung ho as I run, sweat, lift and Zumba my way into becoming a permanent fixture at the gym. Before long, everyone gets to know me by name and nobody dares to take my self-proclaimed locker. I even start coaching other slugs in how to get around the .10 mile track without stopping for a bagel and cappuccino half way through. And I do it with an abundance of excitement and glee – after all, the visual of me on the SISE is the best revenge I could hope to exact on ex-boyfriends who believed they were trading up when they ditched me. We’ll conveniently forget that they ditched me for actual swimsuit models. What’s past is past.

But then it all goes terribly wrong. My gym-going “gung-ho” becomes a mediocre “meh”, coinciding with the strategic appearance of double dark chocolate coconut Easter eggs aside Wawa registers. They really couldn’t have perfected their marketing strategy any better than if the Easter Bunny himself hopped in and shoved one of those dark, creamy treats in my mouth as I paid for my coffee and healthy breakfast beard consisting of a banana (giggle) and yogurt (gaffaw). Soon, I emerge from my exercise-induced psychosis and realize that despite all my best efforts, the scale hasn’t budged. After months (weeks)(okay, days)(possibly hours) of killing myself.

It. Has. Not. Budged.

And so I protest by denouncing the gym and all its buff trainers, balancing balls and Bosu challenges a big batch of BS. And I order up a dozen double-dark chocolate coconut eggs with a side of self-righteous justification. Sadly, this year was no different. And, like all years before it, dark chocolate denial takes over where determination left off.

As this summer approached, I tried to convince myself that I’d be content, once again, to waddle around the pool in the same suit I’ve worn since my daughter was born despite knowing full well that I bear a striking and somewhat horrifying resemblance to Ursula from The Little Mermaid. But I am confident with who I am (I think) and hope my fellow pool members will judge me for my intellect, wit and ability to execute a flawless forward-half-somersault-in-the-tuck-position (even if it does convert the deep end to a mere wading pool). And not judge me for my body size, or the fact that I appear to be one pretty voice away from ruling the sea.

But then one day as we were shopping for a suit for my ten-year-old, she commented that I always wear the same suit year after year, and she likes the fact that I never change.

“But wait!” my thinner inner mommy-slash-Sports Illustrated goddess screamed. “I want to change!”

With horror, I realize there will come a day when my daughter will see me through preteen eyes as I heave myself up off my boogie board. Yes, I still boogie board in my forties – sue me. But the real crime is she’ll realize there’s nothing but a thinning film of Lycra between me and marine mammal rescue. She’ll be forced to pretend she doesn’t know me, and that will break my heart – more so than if Nestle shut down its Toll House division.

I don’t want that. And besides – I’m not done yet! I’m forty-five and have not achieved half of my dreams! I want to be featured on the cover of a magazine, emerging from the surf looking fabulous ala Bo Derek in the movie, “10”. With beautiful music playing in the background, not the theme from “Jaws” or “McDonalds” (although I find it hard to believe anyone would be crooning “Doo doo doot doo doo – I’m loving it” as I emerge from the sea). I want to sport a belly button piercing that’s smaller than a tire rim! And a sun tattoo not drawn to scale! I want to turn heads, not stomachs, when I remove my cover up! I want to be the envy of all my fat, pasty friends! (I have none to speak of, but will certainly get some in order to live out this fantasy).

So this year, armed with determination, fearlessness and a boatload of diuretics, I’m setting out to find me a new suit. Despite the fact that, along with my granny panty lines, the new fall line is already showing.

Click here for “Bathing Suit Shopping Part Two: What Not to Dare”

Author’s note: This piece was originally published in June 2010.

Copyright 2010, Bla Bla Blog

Hey, is that my cocktail napkin?

Before I headed to the mall for the annual sacrificing of my self-esteem, I consulted my trusted periodical, You’re Kidding Me, Right? If yo don’t know, this is Cosmopolitan’s older sister magazine published specifically for the fortyish crowd. Only in this publication, fashion advice has succumbed to sternly issued warnings designed to keep readers from being captured, detained and escorted to assisted-living.

I found the article I was looking for nestled between an ad for urinary incontinence surgery and an exposé on botched Botox injections. Ah, growing old.

“Rules for Buying a Bathing Suit If You’re Over Forty”

1. Back.Away.From.The.Bikinis. This first “rule” made me laugh out loud because it was tantamount to warning me not to lay across a six lane highway or swim with sharks and a gashing leg wound. Don’t wear a bikini? HAH! I haven’t sported a two-piece since I was two and bulging bellies were considered cute, not fodder for fashion police. I remember the days when one-pieces were prolific and bikinis were reserved for those who ate nothing but cardboard. Back when bikinis and two-pieces were not one in the same. Look at two-pieces from the 1950’s – the tops covered entire boobies, booby side bulge, back flab, cleavage blubber and everything in between. Bikini bottoms practically went from the waist all the way down to the ankles. What’s not to love about that?

Today, bikinis are the size cocktail napkins, and finding a tankini or a one piece after January is as easy as finding a parking space at the shore in July. If you do find something to cover you up, be prepared that it’s going to be as ugly as ugly can get – we’re talking 80’s aerobic wear meets bouncy house. I guess the implication here is that we all should be so teeny as to be able to shove all our body parts into these tiny panels of flimsy fabric, or – what? The bathing suit industry has left us girls and women of substance with no fashionable alternatives. The message seems to be – either go small, stay home or dress like a von Trappe child after Maria tore down the drapes.

2. “Real Women” beachwear has been designed for Real Women. Ha! What they don’t tell you is that the “Real Women” used as models to measure this line are size triple-zero twenty year-olds kept in cages like young, veal-bound calves so they won’t develop any muscle or take ill-fated midnight runs to Mickey D’s for double quarter pounders and super-size-me fries. Really? My idea of a Real Woman suit is one that could be stretched comfortably across I-95 and stop speeding get-away cars as deftly as they can belly fat, as both have the capacity to travel at the same velocity. Look for suits that come with detachable skirts which, when removed, can double as beach cabanas.

3. It is wise to avoid horizontal stripes or suites in light colors. Or suits that have the word “Phat” printed anywhere on them. Thanks, I wasn’t sure about that one.

4. Darker colors that cover trouble spots are strongly urged. “Excuse me, Miss – does this come in anything darker than black?”

5. Some suits are made from fabric that promises to tone your tummy. What they don’t tell you is that it will only shift that tummy it to your neck, upper thighs or (if you’re lucky) both.

After reading these hints, it was clear the only beach wear appropriate for me was a full-length wet suit. Since our mall didn’t carry them, I feared I may be reduced to trying on cocktail napkins instead and seeing if I could break the record for unarmed mall evacuation.

That is perhaps one reason I put this off till June.

Copyright 2013, Bla Bla Blog.

Click here for “Bathing Suit Shopping, Part Three: Lycra Or Not, The Time Has Come”

So reckoning day is finally here, and I head for the nearest department store most likely to carry camping equipment in case all the larger sizes are taken and I’m reduced to trying on actual tents.

The first thing I notice when I enter the Department of Doom is that only two sizes remain on the racks – size 2 and size 24. That is helpful, since I am neither. No doubt, a charging herd of Real Women just came through and took all the normal sizes. I am just about to throw in the beach towel and head for Baskin-Robbins when I realize I am in the toddler department. As it turns out, they moved the ladies’ section to the third floor.

I take the stairs instead of the escalator, hoping that will shed at least ten pounds. Once in the department I go immediately for the black suits, hoping the color itself will take off another twenty. I notice that many suits have “Slim Effect” tags on them, so I load up on those in virtually every style that comes in black. I also decide to throw caution to the wind and try on a few in different colors despite silly names like “Fire Engine Red” (Yeah, thanks. “WOOOoooOOOO! Ding! Ding! Ding! Fire truck’s here!” Yep, nothing I love more than arriving at the community pool looking like an emergency rescue vehicle). And “Swimming Pool Blue” (Do I really need to confuse small children as to whether I am the pool or simply by the pool?) I tried to avoid the fat granny suits, since it was precisely that the kind of mold from which I was trying to break away. I am feeling pretty good about this until I hear a twenty-something loudly protest, “the only thing this dumb store carries are fat granny suits!” I pay no mind, since I am about a cookie and a half away from being a fat-granny-suit model myself. I take comfort in the knowledge that someday she, too, will be forty – the age, and hopefully the size.

Once in the dressing room, I take off my clothes and notice that the mirrors show everything. I mean everything. I swear I now have two more belly rolls than when I left the house. The first suit I try on is the turquoise “Slim Effect” one piece. I struggle for about fifteen minutes to get it up over my hips and around my chest. Once on, I make two observations: 1. I would have to give cautious consideration to whether I want to wear this suit or breathe, and 2. it gathers so tightly around my middle, it cuts me in half like a deranged balloon animal. It also has the pleasant side effect of causing my stomach to divide and bulge out where my neck and thighs are. This absolutely will not do. Next!

The next suit is a two-piece. Before you shut down your computer and run screaming from the room, take comfort in the fact that that each of the two pieces are roughly the size of market umbrellas. And that’s exactly what I look like when I don them.

The third suit catches my breath in a good way. It holds everything in place. It tones, tames and bitch-slaps the hell out of all my fat modules, gives me an actual waist and makes me believe I can take on any bikini-clad twenty-something in a swimsuit contest and win. I am about to start crying with joy, the song “At Last” beginning to play in my head. That is, until I turn to the side. Apparently there is a rule in physics that for every action, there is a reaction. And the chosen reaction of my fat cells, when compressed together via faux Spanx, is to escape out of the back of my suit, like a Mastodon in a tutu.

Nexxxxxt!!!!!!

Number Four squishes my chest matter into an unattractive uni-boob, below which I appear to be smuggling a keg. Number Five is the color of baby poop. Number Six makes me look like a Zeppelin. Oh, the humanity!

Number Seven is…well, now…a younger version of my old black skirted friend, but with a modern twist. It is a tankini with a straight (not flouncy) wrap-around skirt that actually minimizes (not accentuates) my derriere. It covers not just one but both of my boobies (completely) and adds definition against my flattened stomach. I won’t go so far as to say flat, mind you, but if I refuse get up from a lying position, you’ll never know the difference. I don’t know what surprises me more – that I found a tankini in June or that I found one made with less than 57 bolts of fabric.

I turn – no back overhang. I bend over – no circulation disruption. I move cautiously around the dressing room – no bursting, ricocheting Lycra. I open the door – no one running, screaming from the building (except for that smug twenty-something who couldn’t find the right shade of cocktail napkin).

I swear, Etta herself pops her head into the dressing room and breaks out in song. “At last…my suit has come along.”

Going directly to my car, I pass Baskin-Robbins without collecting two hundred calories. I carefully buckle my new friend into the seatbelt next to me – after all, I can’t take the chance that it will fly out of my opened sunroof and into the arms of some other forty-ish, cookie-munching, bathing suit-crazed woman (or, God forbid, the windshield of a tractor trailer).

And then I confidently plug the number of Sports Illustrated into my phone. I wouldn’t want to miss the call.

Copyright 2010 Bla Bla Blog

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Editor’s Note: this post was originally published on November 8, 2013. 

In today’s episode of “Who’s In the Hot Seat”, let us turn our attention to LuLuLemon, designer of active wear for (almost) every woman. People are getting their yoga pants in a bunch over co-founder Chip Wilson’s comment that the clothing line “doesn’t work for all sizes of women”.  He said this during a televised interview in which he addressed complaints that the fabric in their pants tends to thin and pill after repeated use. And, to add insult to injury in the case of some heftier sun-salutationers, stretches to the point of becoming translucent. After he made this comment, women like me from around the globe dropped their Big Macs and marched on Wilson’s corporate headquarters, demanding an apology and a side of fries.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly PC of him. But, newsflash: there are other things that don’t work for many women, including, bikinis, miniskirts and lickable foam fingers. Get over it. Those of us who make a habit of stretching our clothes to the point they are expelled from our bodies like exploding devices know better than to fool with Mother Physics.

I am not offended by his statement because I know he speaks the truth. In all fairness, it’s not just LuLuLemon that turns a hairy eyeball on women of substance. So do most clothing designers. Just ask any woman who is relegated to shopping behind the almighty “XL” marker, and she will tell you that clothing simply isn’t designed to fit our curves and post-baby bulges (okay, so my baby just turned 14. Sue me.) And on the off chance you do find a shirt that fits, it’s guaranteed to look like Jackson Pollock took a paint brush to a patio chair cover, then threw a handful of rhinestones at it.

I’m not casting aspersions on Mr. Wilson, nor am I defending him or promoting his product.  But he just vocalized what Sisterhood of the Disappearing Pants has known for a long time – the fashion industry hates anyone who is not shaped like a ten year old boy. And I intend to use his statements and those of a former LuLu employee as expert testimony to prove our theory of the existence of a massive conspiracy against curvy women.

To prove my point, let me introduce into evidence a July 2013 Huff Post article in which a former LuLuLemon employee admitted to the conspiratorial tactics of the company. According to her account, the “largest sizes” – which are defined as (gulp!) size 10s and 12s – are harbored in the very back of the store, rarely restocked, and include only the old designs that a gaggle of perky, meal-skipping size triple 0s wouldn’t be caught dead in.

Wait…what? Size 10 is considered a “larger size”? By whose terms – a clique of tiny mean teenage girls with low self-esteem and a distorted sense of social ranking?  Because – Tsk! Tsk!  – this sounds a bit like female bullying to me, suggesting it’s okay to treat people of certain sizes like second class citizens and make them walk farther to find their sizes. I know we need the exercise, but that’s beside the point.

The employee further explained the company consciously brands its clothing for only  “the stylishly fitness-conscious”, suggesting only people who are size 8 or less can be labeled as fashionable, healthy and physically capable of signing up for a yoga class.

But it’s not just LuLu that promotes such discrimination, as they are apparently part of a larger, uglier retail street gang intent upon reinforcing the message that only certain sized women are considered worthy of their designer clothing. Using this reasoning, if you are over size 10 you are not welcome to hang with this crowd – I guess out of fear you will be seen as a giant billboard for their clothing. And we can’t have that. You can’t be seen trying to help the arguably unhealthiest Americans trying to get healthy. What would that say about you as a company?

Get this – contrary to the fat-fearing fashion industry’s belief that catering to larger people isn’t worth their time or money, a 2011 report from Women’s Wear Daily reports the average dress size among American women is a fourteen.

Did you hear that, people? The AVERAGE size is FOURTEEEN!  That means ROUGHLY HALF of the female population is LARGER THAN A SIZE FOURTEEN! Women are the primary consumers in most American families and that means, in the interest of upholding a silly image, these snobbish retailers are robbing themselves of half of the income they could be making.  One report estimates consumers this year are expected to spend over $300 million on athletic wear sold at plus-size women’s clothing stores. Which means the people who are going to be spending this ridiculous amount of money on athletic wear in such establishments are FAT PEOPLE – ya know, the ones for whom you don’t want to make clothing. And we know this because no self-proclaimed skinny bitch is going to risk her reputation and social rank by stepping foot anywhere near these plus-size stores for fear she will be bound, gagged and forced to eat quarter pounders by a gang of retaliatory big girls.

I, for one, will not be shopping at LuLuLemon for yoga pants or anything for that matter, and not just because I can’t fit into their selective sizing. And it’s not because I’m afraid I’m going to bend over and have the shrapnel of my exploding active wear taking out the eyes of my fellow yoga mates, or that my “Downward Dog” is likely to result in a case of mistaken identity – “Saint Bernard in need of immediate veterinarian care”.

You see, the real reason I won’t shop there – or, hell, do yoga at all – is because I have better things to do with my time than roll around on a mat in public like a walrus trying to heave itself into the icy Arctic. Wilson was spot on when he alluded to the fact that not all women are intended to prance about in skin-tight thin fabric, and I’m good with that. If I want every square inch of my cellulite to be shown to the world, I’ll just simply forego pants altogether. Trust me – that would be the more visibly appealing option, as adding flimsy material to the mix only causes me to look as if I’ve shoved bags of candy corn down my pants and filled in the gaps with cottage cheese.

As ticked off as I am at the fashion industry right now, I must also admit to feeling somewhat justified upon learning this suspected conspiracy is real. After spending much of my adult life catapulting myself from stores like a puffed up angry bird upon discovering they didn’t carry my size, I realize I’m not the only recipient of this targeted maltreatment.

But, interestingly, one thing I seem to have no problem finding are racks of 0s and 00s. Now, I’m no mathematician, but I was taught 0 means nothing, so I’m not sure why the fashion industry was compelled to add a non-number to the size chart. What the hell does that even mean if you wear a size 0, you’re non-existent? I suppose 00s are they black holes of the fashion universe, sucking everything around them into oblivion? Bitch, please.

Even those stores that do carry larger clothing sizes are at fault for perpetrating discriminatory size-ism. Look at how they label the sections of clothing. There is the “Ladies” section, conjuring an image of tea-sipping skinny women with southern accents and extended pinkies. Naturally, retailers want to cater to these sweet things because “Ladies” have important things to do like play tennis and host open houses. Meanwhile, over in the “Women’s” section (a quaint derivation on the original name, “Whoa, Man! What the hell?”), scores of roly-poly women are frantically waddling around in search of an item that doesn’t look as if it was haphazardly sewn by drunk clothing designers who a). ripped down and repurposed custom window treatments from the 90’s; b). found the Vera Bradley reject pile after even they had to agree that some fabrics are just too damn crazy-assed-busy to be worn by a human who wants to be taken seriously; or c). came up with something so drab and shapeless shoppers would do better to just throw on a trash bag, hang a black rectangle on their faces and go find work as a Cosmopolitan “Fashion Don’t”.

Ironically, the next report to air on Bloomberg TV after the LuLuLemon interview was that sales at department stores such as JCP are on an upward trend. That’s because these stores don’t care if fat, Auntie Anne pretzel-eating shoppers like myself shuffle through their doors in search of clothing that makes them look like respectable, employable adults. Throngs of real American women whose sizes have rendered them irrelevant in the teeny fashion boutique world are stampeding to the nearest JCP for much needed coverage. They are tired of their boobies bursting out of so-called “XL” tops, injuring unsuspecting bystanders with projectile buttons. They are evaporating right through their thinning yoga pants, climbing out from under multi-colored muumuus and are in search of clothing that not only fits, but looks good. Because – surprise! There are some days when fat women really don’t want to draw attention to themselves by wearing clothing that’s hideous and alarming. Some days they just want to wear a simple solid-colored shirt just like their skinny, pre-pubescent-looking friends do. They are not bad people, just bad dieters who nonetheless wish to be taken as seriously and as sexily as their “Lady” friends.  And who would very much like to not look like perpetual, oversized, Garanimal-wearing toddlers with bedazzled wildlife emblazoned on their fronts. Don’t believe me? Just wander into a “Whoa, Man’s” section next time you’re in a department store. Just bring sunglasses, ’cause when those sequins catch the light, they’re likely to burn you retinas.

To conclude the interview, Wilson stated he does believe every woman can wear LuLuLemon pants – it just depends on how they use it. I think that means we can buy the pants, as long as we don’t actually use them as pants. However, if used as a scarf, a belt or even a weapon of mass destruction, we should be just fine.

So the next time a size 0 whines to you that she’s getting fat, you have my permission to take that yoga pant, make it into a sling shot, and fling a Big Mac at her.

Copyright 2013 Bla Bla Blog

The following is a real phone conversation I had at work today.

Snarky Senior Associate: “Hey, why aren’t you in the conference room?

Me: “Umm, because I’m at my desk?”

SSA: “You’re late for the meeting.”

Me: “What meeting?”

SSA: “The meeting Dave emailed us about.”

Me: “I thought it was at 3:00!”

SSA: “It is at 3:00, but now we have one at 11:00 too.”

Me: “What is this meeting about?”

SSA: “The meeting at 3:00.”

Me: “You mean we’re having a meeting about a meeting?”

SSA: “Well, we have to plan for the 3:00 o’clock meeting so that’s why we’re meeting at 11:00. And bring your lunch – he reserved the conference room for two hours.”

From his dismissive tone, I could tell he was about to hang up the phone.

Me: “But wait!”

SSA: “What?”

Me: “When are we going to plan for the 11:00 o’clock meeting?”

SSA: “Get down here, smart ass!”

So off I go to kill more time and brain cells with yet another meeting. My firm operates under the assumption that if we’re not meeting about something, we’re not working.

In the room, I find that Dave has created an agenda. It reads:

Welcome
Discussion
Meeting Adjorned

“How are we ever going to get through all of this in two hours?” I exclaimed under my breath.

Dave just glared at me, and proceeded to spend the next two hours blowing air about how we’re going to blow air in the 3:00 meeting. Between the meeting and the meeting to plan for the meeting, plus the unofficial meeting in Maria’s cubicle to ingest handfuls of fun-sized chocolate bars while we bitched about – what else, our meetings – we accomplished about as much as if I had hit the snooze button, rolled over in my bed and played Candy Crush all day.

I bitch, therefore I am …well aware that friends who work in other types of office settings also spend 95% of their working day listening to bosses drone on about strategic plans, data collection and productivity. Although, many of my friends complain that their meetings involve side bars discussions about worthwhile things like recipes, new online blogs or how to get red wine stains out of your linen pants. But working in an office with mostly men assures that nothing juicy or fun is ever discussed at our meetings.

Later that evening, long after all the senior associates left, I sat down at my computer to do a little research to find out why so many organizations are so obsessed with the almighty meeting. What I found was shocking – a poll of Fortune 500 companies showed that if it weren’t for meetings, most bosses would spend their days on the racquetball court or perusing Pinterest in search of creative new ways of terrorizing subordinates. In other words, most meetings are held because bosses need to justify their hefty salaries.

Here are the other top reasons I found that explain why employers like meetings so much:

Employers are inherently suspicious of their employees. If you’re standing by the photocopier, you’re copying intimate body parts. If you’re standing by the water cooler, you’re  bleeding the water jug dry and making them spend more on the water guy. If you’re working behind closed doors, you’re either in a bitch session, doing the water guy, or ordering shoes on Zappos. In 9 out of 10 times, their assumptions are correct. Ah, but in meetings they can see what you’re doing. As long as your eyes are open and you laugh at appropriate moments, they think you’re engaged in the meeting and, therefore, “working”. What they don’t realize is that the notes you’re taking are really the items you need to pick up at CVS on your way home, or things you can’t forget to pack for your weekend trip. And the appropriate laughter is a biological reflex that occurs when people’s brain cells rapidly evaporate after long term exposure to useless information.

He, he, he…

Employers like to remind you of “Who’s Boss” (not the 90’s sitcom) In order to give meaning to organizational charts, many employers like to put on social displays of their leadership, and what better way to do so than in a meeting of captive subordinates. When I researched this particular phenomenon, it reminded me a lot of gorillas. I should know – not only did I do a paper on them in fifth grade, but I spent a considerable amount of my singlehood dating them. According to the San Diego Zoo website, gorillas travel in troops, led by the troop leader. The job of the troop leader is to protect the troop, assign duties and write you up for violating the office dress code. When something threatens the troop leader, such as someone lunging for his or her job or a noticeable decrease in productivity the day after Bachelor in Paradise airs, the troop leader:

“beats his chest with cupped hands to make a loud noise, screams, bares his teeth, and then charges forward. Sometimes he breaks off branches and shakes them at the intruder. “

Doesn’t this sound like every meeting you’ve ever been to?

Meetings are productive tools for creating more (golf) time. There are two types of people in every office setting: the delegators and the delegatees. Chances are that if it’s not your signature on the bottom of the check, you are probably a delegatee. To be sure, check your to-do list when you enter the meeting and when you leave. If it is twice as long when you leave than when you entered the meeting, you’re one of the poor schmucks who should avoid meetings at all costs. If, however, you find yourself tossing out your to-do list on your way out the door and heading directly for a golf course, congratulations. You are now the troop leader.

Walk softly, and carry a large branch.

Your boss just came back from a leadership symposium and can’t wait to impress you with their new vocabulary. There are definite ways to tell if your boss is away at a conference, besides an increase in laughter, You Tube screenings and boxes of Zappos packages on your doorstep when you get home every day before 5:00.  Just listen to the way he or she speaks at the next meeting. If it sounds something like a football play or an infomercial for get rich quick schemes, know that this particular meeting was called just to show you what an overnight “visionary” he or she has become.

“Okay, gang – going forward, we’re going to step it up and start thinking outside of the box in order to raise revenue and increase profitability. We need to drill down in our tool box so that we can move the needle and create game-changing momentum. I want to see you snatching the low-hanging fruit and achieving the performance measures on our strategic plan. Creating a paradigm shift to put us at the top of the market is the objective, here – anything that doesn’t promote growth will be placed in the parking lot. Jones, I want you to reach out to fiscal and have them crunch some numbers. Smith, give me a white sheet on the new project. We need all hands on deck to dig deep and get the ball rolling so we can close the deal, or it’s back to the drawing board with Plan B.”

Extra points are given to bosses who plot it out with “X”s and “O”s on an oversized Post-It chart.

They paid an arm and two legs for that big honking conference table – it has to be used for something. Every November, as I leave our monthly staff meeting, I look longingly at the conference table and wish there was a way I could” borrow” it for our Thanksgiving meal. How I would love it if we could all eat in the same dining room together instead of strategically placing the kids’ table in another room, like the front lawn. I want a big surface on which to place the salad bowls, bread plates, dinner dishes, wine glasses, water tumblers, highballs, utensils, my father’s dentures, my daughter’s iPod, my husband’s game-updating cell phone app, my bottle of Advil, the turkey and its 17 accompanying side dishes. Not to mention our cat Snowball who will inevitably try to jump up and try to eat the centerpiece. Then again, I realize that if I do find a way to smuggle the conference table out of the office, I’ll probably be stuck with hosting the Thanksgiving meal every year, having the kids at the table and inviting every singleton in the office who catches me mid-theft and bribes me with an offer to plead the fifth about what happened to the table in exchange for an invitation.

Hmmm, I guess I’m going to have to think outside the box and come up with a game-changing plan for this year’s holiday meal.

Copyright 2013 Bla Bla Blog