Dear GG...

Darlings, I don't judge people by their size or their silhouette (only their f*cknots and posture), but sometimes (often) one's build needs to be taken into account when choosing garments. That being said, I understand that not everyone enjoys getting dressed as much as I do. Sometimes it's a chore.

I certainly don't dress to the nines when I go to sport. In fact, I am so pissed about being there in the first place, that I wear the extremely unimaginative ensemble of shorts, t-shirt, and a ponytail. Shorts: either black or khaki. T-Shirt: either green, blue, or white. All of the above items came from Tar-jay. I am almost totally unrecognizable from my "regular" appearance. I do, however, take it to the limit if I am playing tennis: full Wimbledon Whites from head to toe. Yes, that includes visor, tennis skirt, and Stan Smith Adidas. Why? Respect for the noble sport...and mental intimidation of my opponent.

Look, if people want to get gussied up to sweat with matching wristbands and color-coordinated spandex, God Bless 'em. If they don't, I simply advise/strongly request that they wear something clean that fits. Which brings us to today's CMO.

Dear Geriatric Gentleman in the HotPants,


While I applaud folks of all ages going to sport and maintaining their form, the sight of your  shriveled "coin purse" peeking out of those petite nylon shorts leads me to believe that you need to go up a size. Or get a mirror. You're welcome.


Cordially, Miss O

Miss O, taking it to the limit one more time.

Stranger than Fiction

Darlings, thank you for your enthusiastic response to Miss O's teachings on the Season of the Douche. Since I love real-life, "ripped from the headlines" teaching examples, I offer this gem, which, fortunately, dates from last year's S-O-D.  The level of douchebaggery is too hilarious not to share again.

This communique arrived in my inbox on Thursday, December 30, 2010: 

"Hi [Miss O], I was cleaning up my email folder and saw your message.  I don't think we had the chance to get acquainted.  I am not sure if you're still single or not but if you are, do you have an interest to speak by phone and make plans to meet soon, maybe even spend the coming weekend together or the following one? I am being genuine about this so let me know.  Where do you live by the way and what's your phone number to call you, assuming you're interested to hear from me."

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Attached was an e-mail exchange from, wait for it...2006!!!!!

 

OK, where do I start?

A. Gotta give a guy credit for trying.

But B. You must be crazy thinking you can ask me out for the weekend on Thursday. Girl, please.

Moreover C. You're asking me out for New Years Eve on December 30th? Bitch, I know you just didn't.

Mostly D.  You last contacted me in Two thousand-fucking-SIX. Have I been in a coma for four years? Have YOU?

 

You can bet your Darling asses, I will respond.  It won't be as scathing as you might imagine. 

Something like: Dear Person, thank you for your note which I read with...horror/shock/amusement. Perhaps you have been in the witness protection program for the last four years, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt for the egregious delay. Where do I live, by the way? In FRANCE. Alas, I am not single. I am married and my husband carries a gun. No, I'm not kidding. Best of luck in your future romantic pursuits. Might I suggest that a timely response is more effective than one that is FOUR YEARS LATE? Cordially, Miss O

 

You're welcome, Darlings.

Miss O, telling it like it is since 1988.

 

 

 

'Tis the Season

Warning: this reprint contains Strong Language and Adult Themes.

Darlings, By now you have recovered from the excesses of the Holiday season...but what about that other season that coincides with the end of year festivities, with the birth of our Lourdes? It runs from Thanksgiving to Valentine's Day...I am of course, speaking of The Season of the Douche.

What?! You've never heard of it? Oh Darlings, please. It is an annual phenomenon during which creatures, usually hideous exes, usually men, crawl out of their caves and "touch base" with unsuspecting humans. If you don't have any hideous exes then you can borrow some of mine. To be fair and accurate, some of these offenders are more hideous than others. Some are merely pesky, misguided, nostalgic or clueless and some are bottom-feeding pond scum.

Though it is an annual event, the Season of the Douche always takes me by surprise. Maybe it's wishful thinking that, finally, a year will pass without some poor dating decision coming back to haunt me...I guess I still have some karma to work off, because they (the aforementioned douches) keep coming back.

I have already discussed the occasional, unwelcome reappearance of these creatures  in "All My Exes Live in Texas" (forthcoming second edition). During the Season of the Douche, it's like the crypt has been opened and all the zombies feel compelled to make an appearance a la Thriller.

With the advent of Facebook, it is easier than ever for cretins to harass unsuspecting women.  During this past Season, the bad news was brought to me via FB from two offenders. They just had to reach out to me. Why? Good fucking question.

The first, who we'll call Matt, sent me a friend request with a note: "Hey, it's great to find you here." Um, what? Your douche-itude was established 5 years ago. On what planet do you think I would be happy to hear from you? Delete. The second sent me a friend request with no note. I didn't recognize his picture. Not because it was blurry or "artistically cropped"- the face simply did not ring a bell. Additionally he has a very generic name, we'll call him "Mike Robinson". I couldn't place him.  I ignored the request. Then I received a separate e-mail: "Hey, it's Mike, how have you been?" Creative, witty, non? The A-ha moment arrived, immediately followed by the "Smirk of Disdain". That joker?! Why in Lourdes' name would I want to be in contact with you?

These two are only minor-league douches, but still annoying reminders of a lapse in judgement. 

Through my investigative reporting, I have learned of other distasteful happenings during the S-O-D. One recently divorced friend was subjected to douchey (read: unnecessary) communication from her eunuch of an ex-husband.  He probably thought nothing of "reaching out", but this contact sent her into a tailspin. "Why, Miss O, why did he call? Why now!?"  He's a douche. Period. The end.

Maybe you've been in a serious relationship for years and think you may be exempt from the S-O-D? Sorry, Sister, no one is exempt, but hold tight, there is only a month to go!

We have previously explored the concept of reanimation and as before, I welcome your insights. I understand nostalgia, but not if your shared history ended on a sour note. Yes, Miss O has a very good memory. To wit, I recently received a note from an old sweetheart - we haven't had contact in 15 years. My douche-detector tells me that it is a simple, friendly greeting devoid of sketchy intentions. Lovely, fine, nice to hear from an old pal. I accept. But, if my last words to you were: "I think you're a fucking idiot." Then, no, I don't want to K.I.T.   Ever. In this lifetime or the next.

A final cautionary tale in which the ugly underbelly of FB fully reveals itself. A dear pal of mine, Miss S, received a friend request from a hideous ex. Their story had not ended on good terms. Naturally, she was incensed. I know the guy. In the light of day, he seemed normal but his douchey potential was lurking just below the surface. There was no note with the request (unacceptable) so she clicked through to his profile. Why had he suddenly reached out? She arrives at his page to find that he has blocked all of the pertinent information except for the fact that he is now ENGAGED. No, no, no, no, NO! This is why women become crazy. He didn't have the balls to tell her himself, he led her to find out through his FB status. She called me, raving, " Why?! WHY?!". Repeat after me: He is a DOUCHE.  Sometimes it's that simple. 

I have friends who struggle with closure at the end of a relationship. They want answers, explanations. They consider meeting with their hideous ex to search for meaning. They ask themselves: could I have done anything differently? They go over every conversation. Was there a red flag that was missed? Darlings, more often than not the answer is found in a single syllable. Ever noticed how douche contains the word "Ouch"? Not a coincidence.

Have you been touched during the Season of the Douche? Please share your heart-warming/horrifying story!

Love is Blind...and Deaf

For the first time in a long time, during my shower this morning, I was inspired to sing. I am a lifelong shower belter, but lately I haven't been feeling particularly energetic (especially before noon), let alone performance-ready.

From somewhere in the vast recesses of my underwater repertoire came the first lines of I Dreamed a Dream, my favorite Les Miserables solo. It felt like putting on an old, comfortable shoe. Familiar, imbued with nostalgia, an object of affection. Can shoes be imbued with nostalgia? Mine are.

As I sang through each verse, with greater and greater emotion and dramatic intention, I imagined Honey (who was sitting in the next room), thinking to himself: What a gem I found! I am the luckiest man in the world. Not only is my Sweetheart wonderful, but such a talented singer, such a passionate performer. I am moved by her voice, her artistic expression...

When I was in college I sang with a lass who was approached by a cute boy after one of our concerts. He had been smitten by her voice, and they ended up dating for a couple of years. I thought that was incredibly romantic and hoped that one day Prince Charming would be summoned by my dulcet tones. In fact, I did serenade Honey on the night we met but I doubt the "acoustics" of the famed Fifth Bar did my voice any favors.

By this time I was splashing about in the shower "air conducting" as I approached the exciting finale. Cue strings. Poor Fantine on her deathbed. The audience would have been in tears. The money note (hold it, hold it, maximum drama) and then, hushed, molto espressivo, the last, heartwrenching, tragic line.

I pictured Honey, eyes wet with emotion, waiting to embrace me as I came out of the bathroom in my robe. I turned off the water expecting to hear the rustle of tissues as he tried to pull himself together, but instead of sniffling, I heard loud squawking from the computer and bursts of profanity.

"Honey?" I edged my head around the bathroom door.

"Ah Putain! Tu le crois?!" (translation: For Frack's Sake! Can you believe this?!)

"What's going on, Sweetie? did you hear me singing?" I coo.

"What? Oh, yeah, for a minute...mais ca c'est degueulasse. Il nous a VO-LE. Cet arbitre est a-VEUGLE. La honte!" Clasping of hands, pacing, vigorous shaking of head.

(translation #1: What a crock! We were ROBBED. Freaking ref needs a new pair of glasses.)
(translation #2: I heard you singing, but then I turned up the rugby highlights to drown you out.)

Damn. Miss O's Broadway Revival: 0, Sports Channel: 1

Ah, love.

Dear SFE...

Darlings, as you know my "gym-time" is endured for the betterment of health blah blah blah but also for your amusement, and in some extreme cases as a cautionary tale. To be fair, I am occasionally (always) in a crabby mood when engaging in "sport", so please forgive if my observations appear harsh or judgmental. Even Miss O cannot be magnanimous 100% of the time.

This "episode" prompted one of my first open letters in the Cordially, Miss O format, which I have found is a useful vehicle for imparting wisdom, advice, and gentle critique.


Dear Skinny French Embryo at the gym wearing full make-up and a f*cknot, with your trashy bra-straps showing,

If I ever catch you looking at my Honey again, you're not going to make it to fetus. Are we clear? Good. I'm so glad we had this chat. 

Cordially, Miss O


When this missive was first made public, there was an outpouring of support from the community which helped to diffuse what could have quickly become an "international incident". There was a precarious moment when the Miss O Death Stare (TM) reached Defcon 4 but I am happy to report that no casualties were sustained. As to the fate of the aforementioned SFE, I had nothing to do with her fall down the stairs, nor her near-suffocation in the steam room. Nothing.


This incident raised a number of queries from the Miss O readership.
Namely:
A. French people go to the gym? 
B. What, pray tell, is a f*cknot?


Miss O is an educator, and as such, is delighted to share her knowledge and experience. So...
A. Yes, a handful of french people go to the gym. Besides Honey and those select few who genuinely enjoy being sportive, the rest are grade-A douchebags (and that's just the girls). I will be writing at length about the specific flavors and habits of these specimen.

B. A f*cknot (or f*ck-knot) is a hairdo intended to heighten the wearer's desirability by indicating that the creature in question has just hit the sheets and may be amenable to further unclothed adventures.It can be recognized by a state of disarray with excessive volume/knot at the back of the crown. When naturally achieved in the privacy of one's home, the f*cknot can be charming. However, taking the f*cknot on the road, whether legitimately earned or falsified, is strongly discouraged.

Here endeth the lesson.

Team Player

Once upon a time there was a girl who didn't like to run. She liked to dance, to skip, to hop, to climb trees, to dash around the tennis court, to round the bases during kickball and slide into homeplate in her brand-new clothes (much to her mother's chagrin), but running...not so much.

Then she started junior high and two things happened: A. a rigorous running-based P.E. program was instituted and B. she grew a nice pair of ladyparts. Neither increased her joy of running. Also, the outfits were terrible. There ensued injuries and allergies, being carried off the field in the arms of the coach, hobbling back onto the field on crutches, ace bandages by the carton, visits to the podiatric surgeon - yep, she has another heel fracture, this time it's the left ankle, three toes broken this term. Her body and mind collaborated to avoid running at all costs. And then a fancy diagnosis, calcaneal apophysitis, which can be reduced by avoiding activity beyond the child's ability. In this case...running.

Fast forward a few decades and Miss O has fallen in love with the sportiest boy on the planet. What can I tell you, love is blind. After a few months together, he asks her if she wants to "come to sport" with him. Miss O responds with outrage and indignation: If you don't love me the way I am blah blah blah! I know you'd rather be dating some spandex-clad gym rat! and other colorful, irrational ranting in multiple languages...

After listening calmly to this tirade, le sporty boy responds: "Um,  actually, sports are a big part of my life and I want to be with you all the time, so I was hoping le sport is something we could share." Miss O, for once in her life, has no rebuttal and is forced to "go to sport".

Well, Darlings, four years later and Miss O is still reluctantly going to sport with Honey. It still doesn't come easy to me, but it's not going to kill me either. Except maybe the AbdoCuissesFessier class (AbsThighsAss) which makes me fantasize about beheadings. No joke.

One of the biggest benefits of la vie sportive besides, you know, better health and time with my sweetheart, is that it provides me with a LOT of material for the Diary. While huffing and puffing my way on the treadmill, I am able to make keen cultural observations that will be meticulously recorded for your amusement.  Said observations have inspired a new category for the Diary, namely the open letter format henceforth known as Cordially, Miss O. Stay tuned for future installments...

Miss O, taking one for the team. You're welcome.