Guys who wear sunglasses on their forehead

If you' haven't figured it out by now, I'm pretty fucking picky.

I make no apologies.

Admittedly, this may have something to do with the fact that I'm single, but I stand by my gripes.

And one said gripe is dudes who wear their sunglasses on their forehead. Not the top of their head, mind you, but just above their eyebrows. 

When I see this optical billboard advertising a blue-collar, blue-blocking frat boy, I can't see straight. I should turn a blind eye to such a small thing, but it drives me bananas. 

Are you too lazy to hinge your shades to the top of your head? Have you converted your Cro-Magnon brow ridge into a portable ledge for your Ray-Bans? Are you trying to shield your five-fingered forehead or receding hairline from harmful rays?

My only hope is that you wind up with an awesome tan line.

Equally as bad: Oakleys hanging off the nape of your neck.

(photo: marxists.org)

Unctuous questions at author readings

It’s not quite right that I’m punching this in the face, because while I love book signings and author readings more than anything, I adore loathing the bespectacled sycophants who amble up to the mic or wave their hands wildly during the Q&A portion of the evening so that the celebrity author has no choice but to hear what they have to say…and say…and say. 

See, before the question comes the preamble.

I was just at a magical evening with the sexy, brilliant Junot Diaz and I wanted to rip his or my clothes off. But first, I wanted to rip these interlocutors a new one.

“I love your new book and am struck by how much you revisit the themes of love and loss in your work. For instance, your short story XX features the character XX, who once again experiences love, loss, and even cheating. On page 53, for example, he says…”

Translation: I am SO smart. My thorough homework and obnoxious eyeglass frames prove this. And, oh yeah, I worship Terry Gross.

“As a longtime educator in the public school system who teaches your books in my class, I couldn’t help but wonder…”

Translation: I'm credible. I'm a teacher. Admire me.

“My mother lives in the Netherlands and reads every word you’ve written. Then she shares it with her friends. Then she books a flight to Boston and stalks you as you walk to class at MIT. Did I say that out loud? Anyway…”

Translation: I am your biggest fan. Well, okay, my mom is but I like you too, so I get extra credit.

Let me translate something else: You are a suck up. The 499 other people in the audience don’t need or want to hear you spam yourself all over the author. Send Junot a note, sign your panties, or wait in line and ask him to inscribe your hardcover or your breasts.  Whatever the case, cut to the chase and ask your fucking question and stop holding us hostage with your simpering need for validation.
All this said, I can't wait to hear any questions you have during my Punch Parties this fall!

(photo: jacket2.org)

Overhead Lighting

I can’t believe it’s taken me nigh on 400 posts to punch in the face something that’s been staring me in the face, clear as day. It’s high time, friends, to shine a light on overhead lighting.

You might think that, as a woman of a certain age, I might eschew bright overhead light because it’s harsh on the skin, makes me look haggard, and accentuates every line and crease.

Well, duh. I’m as vain as the next woman. But there’s more, so much more that I loathe about light from above.

I hate a Patty-Hearst-swinging-in-a-closet bare bulb. I avert my eyes at grandiose chandeliers. Fluorescent lights makes me angry with the white hot heat of the sun. I don’t want to be interrogated; I just want to read a book.

Overhead lighting hurts my eyes and it hurts my sensibility. Granted, it’s workmanlike, but it’s far from sexy, welcoming, happy, or even all that effective. The ophthalmologist turns down the light when I’m reading an eye chart. When people use light therapy for their Seasonal Affective Disorder, it’s probably not pulsing down from the ceiling, as much as they might want to replicate natural sunlight. That might only exacerbate their inner gloom. I think postal workers flip out, not because of the stress, but because of the hideous lighting casting a pall over those big sorting facilities.

Flip off the light fixture and turn on a 60w desk lamp. Overhead lighting should only come from the sun and street lamps.

(photo: picable.com)

Hawaiian shirts

If you're Magnum PI and rocking a mustache, sure.

If you're Don Ho, go for it.

Wealthy douche on vakay in Key West? Fine.
Parrothead, I'll give you a pass…this time.

Otherwise, nay, nyet, no, hell no.

For me, it's important to dress appropriate to the occasion and wearing a shirt with palm trees and plumeria festooning it isn't the proper attire for anything but wastin' away again in Margaritaville (see photo). Don't wear it to a dinner date, don't wear it to a wedding, and don't wear it to your tech job. You're a programmer, not a bartender at a Sarasota tiki bar.

Hawaiian shirts are neither a jaunty way to cover your girth (that's what Snuggies are for), nor a way to signal that you're single and ready to mingle (that's what OK Cupid is for). Pull on a Polo shirt instead; it's slightly less lame in the sartorial world series of casual Friday and date night.

(photo: radaronline.com)