Depends on what you mean by "high maintenace"

Talking about George Clooney’s “youth preference” got me to thinking about high maintenance and low maintenance. Off the cuff, if I asked what was “high maintenance”, most people would say that it involves lots of expensive presents “just because”, romantic dinners, spa appointments and always being on one’s best behavior.

But there’s the other kind of high maintenance woman, that doesn’t get as much press. Someone who expects emotional honesty, generosity over indifference, honorable intentions and kindness. That takes a whole lot of work. It can be pretty exhausting.

I think many men complain pretty openly about the first kind of high maintenance women, but live in secret fear of the second. Which is kind of disingenuous. The first kind of high maintenance results in a picture perfect woman suitable for any trophy case. Though they may complain about it, that airbrushed gal is has something tangible that you can show off to the boys. The emotionally high maintenance woman is a little harder to brag about. “Man, my woman never lets me get away with saying things are fine when they aren’t. What a gal!” Too bad. That kind of high maintenance usually ends up in hearty relationships that go the distance.

And this isn’t a knock against men. There are just as many women who pride themselves on being Birkin Bag and spa treatment high maintenance, and don’t ever think about being the other kind. It’s a lot of hard work too. Because it’s hard to demand things like emotional honesty when you aren’t doing it yourself.

Look at me! Look at me!

You know, I think with the Heenes (Balloon Boy and Co.) and the Salahis (the infamous White House Gate Crashers) reality TV “characters” have finally reached the tipping point. Or is that “reality” TV characters? Probably both. In the two of those stories, the great entertainment phenomena of the 00s come crashing together.

One of them is the “pushing the envelope” trend. In entertainment in the last decade, everything had to be bigger, louder, sexier, more shocking and more outrageous than the episode before. You won’t believe what happens next. If Britney wore a tube top and hot pants in her first video, she was going to have to wear a thong and a pair of pasties in her second. If The Desperate Housewives made you gasp last week, they were going to have to give you a heart attack this week. And the more shock and awe we saw, the bigger the concussion was going to have to be to get the same reaction the next time. We really got to be shock junkies.

Then there was reality TV. From American Idol and Survivor we learned that real people will do stuff that you just can’t make up. Or wouldn’t believe if somebody did. You can’t say, “Oh, nobody does anything that crazy” if a real-live human being just did it on national TV. Who would believe that we’d actually have a TV show to watch people diet (Biggest Loser)? Or eat bugs (Fear Factor)? Or sit around the house (Big Brother)?

So what people found out was that the only talent you actually have to have to be famous is for being a shocking character. How do you shock? You ratchet it up from whatever the last person did. If Richard Hatch was a jerk, then Omarosa is going to have to be a heinous bitch to get somebody to pay attention. The thing is that you’re not acting on a soundstage. You actually have to DO it. And eventually, there is going to be someone and desperate enough for attention that they were going to DO something illegal, and dumb enough to get caught. If Sylar kills somebody on Heroes, Zachary Quinto doesn’t go to jail. But if the Salahis gate crash at the White House, they could actually go to jail. And I’m not really sure about jurisdiction here, but if it’s DC lockup? I don’t think a chance to be on Real Housewives is going to look all that worth it.

I really can't wait until this decade is over.

Not in the same weight class

So, I get an e-mail from a friend with this link to the Huffington Post (she’s one of those addicts) http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/12/01/george-Cclooney-introduces_n_375192.html, that’s tagged “when I first saw this picture, I thought, Wow, Clooney is dating someone almost his own age.” But no. That’s his Mom. [Which, one, explains a lot. And, two, did she have him when she was 6? ] The dewy one on the other arm is the girlfriend. Snowball’s chance of him dating somebody age appropriate.

Not that it’s to the point of gross. This isn’t Jack Nicholson and anyone of the string of chippies he’s dated since he stopped seeing Angelica Huston back in the 80s. Which is gross. Clooney is a good looking guy who takes care of himself (and evidently swam out of a deep gene pool – and hold on just picturing that – heh-heh-heh – ooo yeah – okay, I’m back). In fact, he treads really close to that “no men prettier than I am” rule that I have. So it’s not like he can’t get 20-year olds, or would look ooky with one.

It’s that he wants to hang around with them. Bless their hearts, 20-year olds can be just cute as bugs. But have you tried spending a bunch of time with them? After awhile, you just want them to go away. Exhausting, and a little boring. Sure they’re bright and shiny. But so’s a sparkler. And you can only wave one of those around so long.

By the time you’re George Clooney’s age, you should have some life experience. Some thoughts running around in your head. You’ve got some game, and you’d think you’d want to challenge yourself a little bit in your choice of partner. Dating way below your age range just seems, I don’t know. Lazy? It’s like Troy Aikman signing up to play Pee Wee football.

Okay. Who am I to judge? It’s not liking he’s slipping the ruffies and taking advantage of them. He’s dating consenting adults. But I have to say, it does make him a lot less attractive.

Bears have the right idea

I always feel myself to be in conflict with the winter-lovers this time of year. The temperature drops and they get all happy. The walk around with these contented smiles, saying cheery things like, “Doesn’t it just feel like the holidays?” No. It feels like I’m freezing my ass off.

Here in Dallas, I really shouldn’t complain. We get “seasons” (blech). But for the most part they’re all pretty mellow. The summers aren’t as hot as Arizona. The spring isn’t as wet as Florida. The fall isn’t as windy as California. And we aren’t a dimple on the butt of a Michigan winter. We get a little bit of all of it. But, thankfully, not a big old heaping helping of any of it. Even our tornado season isn’t as rowdy as our neighbors to the north.

It’s just I don’t like cold weather. And I have trouble understanding people that do. And they’re just so happy about it. My hands are turning blue and they’re ready to frolic in the park. Freaks. Plus cold weather makes me cranky. And I do things like call people freaks because of the alternate lifestyles. Some weirdoes even like the “S” word. [Don’t say it. Don’t think it. If you say the “S” word, it might hear you and come looking for you. Double ugh.] Personally, I think there must be a medication for that.

Guaranteed, I’ll be in the elevator at some point I’ll be in the elevator, and the information screen will show the forecast. “Oh, look! A high of 43 on Friday! Isn’t that exciting?” Breathe deep. Calm. Don’t say it.

Freak.

Pucker up, buttercup.

[Welcome back from the holidays! Hope you all had too much turkey and enough downtime to enjoy – though is there ever really enough?]

So, I get my package today. I’ve been waiting with bated breath (ha-ha, you’ll get it in a minute). It’s one of those things that is among the many reasons that God created the internet. Those things that you think, oh, geez, I really used to love that? You never see it in the stores any more. But, lo and behold – Amazon. Bless ‘em.

Binaca. I love Binaca. In fact I used to love Binaca a little too much. Zsp-zsp. Fresh breath. And I cared not that it made me look like a 70s lounge lizard. In fact that may have made me love it just a little more. Breath mints annoy me after about 2 minutes, and I end up chewing them. And I have no restraint when it comes to gum. I’m just jawing on that stuff until I give myself a nasty headache. Binaca was the fast and minty alternative. I always had some in my purse.

And that became the reason I stopped carrying it. I went through a period of about 6 months back in the early 90s where I had to pick people up from the airport. And this was when they actually let you go to the gate to pick people up. Remember that? I miss that. Anyway, I’d have to put my purse on the x-ray, and be ready to say “It’s Binaca” when the guard would give me the skunk eye for trying to sneak in mace.

So, for some reason Binaca comes up in a conversation last week, and I got all nostalgic. Zip over to the internet, and now I have a 6-pack of those handy breath fresheners in my hot little hands. And danged if it isn’t just as good as I remember. Coffee breath, begone! Ahhh. Contentment.