Polar bear plunges

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I love the water. I hate the cold. But in the Rochambeau of my preferences, cold trumps water by a nautical mile because I can’t wrap my mind around polar bear clubs, those collections of brave souls who drop trou and run into the water to celebrate New Year’s Day or some such bullshit holiday. Dudes, that’s what drinking champagne and bungling the lyrics to “Auld Lang Syne” is for.

I can’t bring myself to jump in and out of a plunge pool after a sauna or hot tub. I can only walk into an alpine lake up to my ankles, no matter how sweaty the hike that preceded it. And it takes me a long while to ease into the ocean, even if it’s Florida in August. A polar bear swim isn’t on this girl’s bucket list.

If the folly of diving into icy waters isn’t enough—isn’t the Titanic survival rate cautionary tale enough?—there are the naked polar bear plunges, often for men who haven't seen this side of sixty for many, many years. I don’t want to see that when you’re warm and erect. I certainly don’t want to see your twigs and berries shriveled or hiding between your legs like the latest winner of RuPaul’s Drag Race. That’s a cold-blooded chiller.

I can do things that are good for my health that don’t require the bracing winter waters of a northern lake, sea, or ocean, such as nutritional supplements, Pilates, kale salad, cardio. The only way I want to experience an icy liquid is in a rocks glass. 

(photo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IosFQHxyWZI)

Evites

I’m going to make a bold statement: Evites are the downfall of manners and etiquette. 

Evite burst onto the scene in 1998 and quickly became part of the fabric of our lives, hooking us with its ease of use and transparency.'

And once the site reeled us in with cutesy-wootesy birthday and cocktail party templates, we got lazy.

Too lazy to send proper invites. I just heard today about an evite that was sent out for a small memorial service for a classy, elegant woman. She deserved better. She deserved hand-written invitations on 100-pound cardstock. If you’re having a housewarming party for everyone you know, pick a festive design and evite the shit out of your shindig. If you are having an intimate get-together to mark a significant event, care enough to send the very best. Get thee to a Hallmark, y’all.

Too lazy to explore other options for gorgeous, functional online invitation tools that aren’t littered with ads and a slow user interface. I only find out about sites like Paperless Posts when friends more adventurous than me invite me to something.

Too lazy to RSVP properly or at all. Evite notifies guests on the invite list by sending e-mails but it doesn’t include the event details. So people often don’t even bother to click through to the actual information, let alone reply. And if they do reply, they get a chance to sit on the fence with a “Maybe.” In my day, you either responded with a “Yes” or “No,” not a “I’ll try to come but I might be on a deadline.” I call bullshit.

And yet, I can’t bring myself to just say “No.” The allure of being able to peruse a guest list is irresistible. Is my frenemy going to be there? Is my former lover planning on coming with a +1? Are my favorite people opting out, leaving me to make stilted chitchat with that horribly dull man who never ever asks me a question about myself? Is that fashion plate coming? If so, that means I have to step up my sartorial game for the night. Evite allows us to make quasi-informed decisions regarding attendance without peppering the host with inappropriate questions.

So am I going to finally kick evites to the curb? “Maybe.” But I’m also indulging my love of stationery and loading up on some letterpressed invitations for my next soirée.

Renewal of wedding vows

Thanks to everyone who submitted their punch lists. While there was some overlap, I was staggered by the variety of tasty peeves that exist, and heartened by the ginormous community of kindred malcontents. I might steal some ideas from these lists for future posts and always feel free to send in one or many things you want to punch in the face. I’m glad to showcase your many irritations.

Anyway, onto shooting fish in a barrel…

I watch the Real Housewives of New York City. In fact, I’ve updated the game of “Fuck-Marry-Kill” and instead, play “Maim-Torture-Kill” when watching this hot mess of designer insane. The crazy-eyed queen of RHONY is Ramona Singer, who after 17 years of marriage to Mario, has decided to renew her vows as part of her “renewal” theme this season. (While I know she’s using this catchphrase to hawk her Tru Renewal face cream, it instead makes me think of Logan’s Run. I really wish she’d go to Carousel and get zapped with the kind of laser that kills rather than treats broken capillaries. Needless to say, she often gets my “kill” shot.)

Anyway…the renewal of their wedding vows is irking me more than Simon’s red vinyl pants. A wedding is supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Doing it twice with the same person is just self-indulgent and frankly gross. Renewing your vows is antithetical to what the original vows are: vows. You don’t need to make them again. The original vows didn’t expire.

And renewing them is no guarantee. They have the smell of “jump the shark” desperation on them. Jon and Kate got hair plugs and a fresh baby bird haircut, respectively, when they renewed their vows in Hawaii, and we all know how well that turned out.

Or maybe all is right in your married world, and you just want to do something with that closetful of money. Here’s an idea: Throw a party, give a toast, but don’t fucking call in an officiant and don’t wear white. The gig is up. Maybe I’m reading too much into the folks who thought the wedding was so nice, they did it twice. Perhaps renewing your vows is nothing more than an excuse for dreckitude hair. Heidi Klum went with cornrows; Celine Dion went with a “Cleopatra meets Ann Boleyn by way of Valley of the Dolls” look. Last time I checked, Halloween and your wedding day are not interchangeable, unless maybe you’re Elvira.

Tell your spouse how much you love him or her, save the catering fee, and don't ask me to be a bridesmaid again, or else I'm going to have to renew my commitment to punching you in the face. Isn't a fist sandwich the appropriate gift for a 17th anniversary? No? It is now.

(photo: http://bit.ly/15GdIy, guardian.co.uk)

New Year’s Eve

My “top” New Year’s Eves:

• 1970-something: Mom and dad went to some party at the Holiday Inn—the motel where mom waited tables—and left me at home with my two older brothers. My Mrs. Beasley doll was decapitated that night, a harbinger of the tragic NYEs that were to come.
• 1987: Me, Lois, and Chris in Chris’s basement drinking Jager and playing euchre while wearing U-M boxer shorts. This would have been fine except for my inability to hold my hooch. I think I hurled around the time Weird Al was explaining his secret hangover recipe to Joe Piscopo on MTV. Poor timing, indeed.
• 1989: I was freshly heartbroken and covering the Rose Bowl for the yearbook, so I was in L.A. with the staff photographer. We wound up at a giant alumni party in the Valley on New Year's Eve, where I ran into my ex-boyfriend with his new girlfriend. I spent the night walking around the party with a 12-pack, dispensing beers to people who had a reason to live. I then sped back to the hotel on one of the freeways in a fugue state, stayed up all night, and then downed gallons of black coffee in the Rose Bowl press box…where I was seated next to my ex-boyfriend, a sports editor for the Michigan Daily. Oh, and Michigan lost that year.
  
• 1994: Me, my boyfriend, and a giant party at the Washington Hilton—the hotel where Reagan was plugged—with a few thousand of our closest strangers. We left in short order. The highlight of the night was getting a lift from one of the idling limos, which were acting as gypsy cabs while waiting for clients.
• 2004: Got stoned with my best friend while teaching her to knit and watching Gigli. This officially marked my march into spinsterdom.
• 2008: Me, a sorta boyfriend (who drank too much and eventually passed out), and two gay bears sat on the couch and watched Mythbusters. Holla. Oh yeah, he broke things off the next week via IM. This really set the tone for the massive suck that has been 2009.
• Tie for first/worst: 1990 & 2003: 1990 found me in Detroit, partying it up with my college friends at a party at the top of the RenCen. I wish I could say I was drunk, but I was just dumb-ass stupid. I went up a down elevator…or tried to. After a scary ambulance ride to Detroit Receiving with a driver who resembled Large Marge, I spent five hours getting my Frankenknee stitched up while hiking up my Ann Taylor skirt to avoid bloodshed and eyeballing the motley crew around me. One poor woman sat in a chair, holding her face because her boyfriend hit her with a bat. A dude in red briefs was shot in the thigh at a nightclub and bloody rags surrounded his gurney. And a guy was chained to his bed because he was caught stealing a Rolex; his head was swathed in bandages like he was a Dickens’ character with a really bad toothache. He didn’t have a toothache; the po po beat him. I couldn’t bend my knee for two weeks, which made driving a bit of a challenge. Fast forward a decade and change, and you’d find me at Bob & Barbara’s, a dope dive bar in Philly, watching my boyfriend kiss a guy in front of me. I walked out and left him behind. I wish I had the sense to ditch New Year’s Eve as well.

I've wised up and punched this holiday in its festive fucking façade. Should New Year’s Eve be forgot and never brought to mind? Hells, yeah. If I want to stay alive, I’m now finally ignoring this most ignoble of days.

What was your worst NYE experience?

(photo: cheapoairbuzz.wordpress.com)

Renaissance faires

As the weather warms up, my thoughts naturally turn to sunscreen, outdoor cinema, beach vacations… Unfortunately, I also think of Renaissance faires. From meadow to wood, these traveling minstrel shows set up shoppe for a few days of costumed frivolity. Celebrating the age of the Bard, RenFaires provide a balm to the spirit, a respite from the modern storm, a step back in time, a rare opportunity to rub starched linen elbows with the occasional jongleur…

In other words, these most rare and precious of gatherings are a time to inflict some serious old-school torture.

Ye Olde Newsflashe: If you’re carrying a lute, you clay-witted codpiece, you’re gonna get your ass kicked. The Dark Ages may be over but I’m still going to make your world go black. To aid me in my quest, I call upon my noble and true hand puppet. With mini club in hand, Punch can swing away in the direction of your jingly jester hat. With a heavy tankard, he can swipe at wenches and whelps in kind.

Prithee, bend over so that my good friend can more easily kick you in the breeches with his wee leather boots or vigorously jab you with his jousting lance (sadly, not a metaphor). My dude’s got mad skills. After all, he’s a Renaissance man.

Verily.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/lulusfishtank/230118658/)