To Remember An Affair

Every year, Time Magazine announces its "Person of the Year." The distinction is not based on achievement, but influence on society and events.

Occasionally the magazine will go with a conceptual winner like “The Whistleblowers” (2002- think Enron) or “You” (2006 – think YouTube) or “Gangsta Rappers” (not really.)

The choice this year is obvious. You know who I’m talking about. Introducing: “The Unfaithful Man.”

Can’t you just picture the cover? Bikini-clad Elin Nordegren christens her new yacht, "Infidelity,” while Tiger Woods, Jesse James, and John Edwards huddle in a lifeboat. Rub-a-dub-dub, three losers in a tub!

Just why do the unfaithful jeopardize committed relationships for a quickie? Stupidity seems the obvious answer, but I’d like to think that there is something more compelling.

Nope. Wishful thinking.

But I digress. What is most interesting to me is not the why of affairs, but the how.

For most of us, free time is like Haley’s Comet: it comes about once a century. Our days are consumed by an endless list of Sisyphean chores: office work, housework, kids and laundry. Lather, rinse, repeat.

At what point in this cycle does one jet down to the Motel Hi-Ho for an afternoon delight?

I don’t know about you, but if I don’t write it down in my calendar, it doesn’t happen. So, for me, I’d have to schedule in an affair:

2:00: Conference Call

3:00: Kids to orthodontist

4:00: Wild monkey sex

5:00: Kids to soccer

6:00: School recital

7:00: Etc, etc…

Exactly what is the appropriate way to schedule the affair on the iphone? Is there an app for that? What ring tone do you use for the reminder? Barry White?

You really have to hand it to the unfaithful: they take multi-tasking to a whole new level. You have to admire someone who can hold down a job and family and still have time to wine, dine, and snog a mistress.

As for me, I’m going to take my Time Magazine and read it while I fold more laundry.

Now Where Did I Put Those Papers?

The state of Arizona recently decided it had a problem with a certain portion of its population. To fix the problem, they passed a law requiring policeman to stop and question anyone who looks like an illegal immigrant.

Although Jan Brewer, the Governor of Arizona, could not enumerate what an illegal immigrant actually looks like, we can surmise that the description does not include aging females in sensible suits with matronly hairdos. So Sonya Sotomayor should feel free to visit the Grand Canyon. Also, the entire Girl Scout National Council.

Failure to produce proof of citizenship may result in fines and jail time. If the officer is having a particularly rough afternoon, suspects may be water boarded. (It's in a little known clause tucked into the end of the bill, titled, "We Don't Torture.")

Presumably, the bill was passed because illegal immigrants are doing something much more nefarious than, say, loitering, and Arizona has a pressing need to stop whatever evil is lurking. If these people would just act like law-abiding, productive American non-illegal immigrants, then the bill would not be necessary. I suggest creating complicated derivative instruments with bad debt and selling them to pensioners. Or they could do God's work. According to Lloyd Blankfein its the same thing!

To me, this bill exemplifies the concept that underlies all government action since the Declaration of Independence. You know what I'm talking about. At the heart of important bills like this lies the cornerstone of our democracy: Paperwork.

I am so glad I don't live in Arizona because, looking nothing like Jan Brewer, I might get stopped. The situation would go something like this:

Arizona Officer: "Ma'am. May I see your paperwork?"

Me: "Kids, please stop bickering! Mommy can't hear the nice police officer!"

Arizona Officer: "Ma'am. Please show me your paperwork."

Me: "QUIET! Or I will flush your Nintendo down the toilet!

Arizona Officer: "Ma'am. I need your papers."

Me: "What papers? SHUT UP OR YOU WILL BE GROUNDED FOR A DECADE!"

Arizona Officer: "You are going to die in prison."

As you can see, paperwork is not my strong point.

One might assume that like all non-illegal immigrants, I keep my documentation in a special, obvious place where it can be accessed at a moment's notice. Like a Safe Deposit Box.

One would be wrong.

Possibly, it is crammed in one of the moldy boxes in the attic. I can't be sure. What I do know for certain is that I no longer have the Safe Deposit Box key and the mice made Christmas dinner out of most of the boxes in the attic.

While the left and the right shout rhetoric about liberty and racial profiling and the constitution, the mothers of Arizona will be rifling through boxes of paperwork. Myself, I will begin the search for the Safe Deposit Key and pray that the mice did not shred my birth certificate. And at Halloween this year I'll be sure to dress as Jan Brewer and not Che Guevera.

God Bless America!

Sally Sells Sea Shells....And Cookware...And Candles...

For most married women, a small stash of “fun money” is necessary for those purchases that cannot withstand male scrutiny, but which are essential to a fulfilling existence. Shoes, for example.

Enterprising women therefore have found a way to turn profit from the greatest asset they have: their friends. Thus begins the time-honored tradition of direct home sales. You know what I’m talking about.

The game begins with a simple e-mail: “It’s been far too long since we have all gotten together, so please save the date for a Ladies’ Night Out!!!!!”

There are always exclamation points. Suburban women have a five exclamation point minimum in all e-mail communications.

The possibility of a child-free evening is enticing. A whole evening of uninterrupted conversation, with adults? A chance to wear lipstick? Count me in!

Inevitably, the outing is set to commence one hour before your children’s bedtime. It will therefore be necessary to convince your husband to leave work early. If resistance is encountered, suggest to him that your evening out may increase his chances of getting laid. Once those synapses fire up, your freedom is guaranteed.

Child care assured, you RSVP: “Sounds great!!!” “Can’t Wait!!” Your e-mails must be done on a "reply all" basis. Don’t forget the five exclamation points. Emoticons are optional.

You will spend perhaps a day or two daydreaming about witty, uninterrupted conversation with your girlfriends. At this point, you're so happy that you might even hum.

Cue the preprinted post card. This is the index card that morphs your evening out into one of Dante’s Circles of Hell. Instantly your Ladies Night Out is transformed into an Obligation to Buy. You have been duped – yet again – and it’s too late to turn back.

You know the rest. Certain items will be on sale throughout the evening. Your hostess will, of course, repeat endlessly that this is just a chance to “catch up!” (as long as catching up involves your checkbook and a friend or two with theirs.)

The “don’t feel obligated to buy” monologue is a bald-faced lie, especially if the invitation is from someone who attended on of your parties. If Sally bought a saucepan at your recent at-home soiree, you must now purchase foundation at hers or suffer the social consequences. At home parties are nothing more than an endless loop of payback guilt that has subsidized pocket money since the first cavewoman sold her friends bear skin rugs. The only thing with memory longer than an elephant is an experienced at-home hostess.

I’ve hosted my share of parties, luring good friends with the promise of chardonnay and "no obligation to buy." Each time the cost of the liquor far outweighed whatever free items or discount were derived from my “total sales.” I ended up purchasing more than I could possibly afford, none of which I've used to date. And the hangover lasted for days. Whether it was induced by guilt or the alcohol I'll never know.

After a certain number of years, at-home parties begin to wane. I’m not sure if we get busier or broke, or we’ve just bought everything available. Once you've bough the vice-grip apple peeler, you know you've jumped the shark.

In my first decade in suburbia, I attended parties featuring the following products for purchase:


Candles

Stamps

Cookware

Clothing

Make Up

Pocketbooks

Scrapbooks

Food storage

Jewelry

Vibrators (Really! I’m not kidding!)

I’d like to see men take up this trend. Imagine the useless things your husband would buy under the guise of a “Man’s Night Out.” Lawnmowers. Spark plugs. Golf Equipment. Porn. The list is endless. But until men get collectively organized enough for invitations and exclamation points, the Obligation to Buy will remain the purview of the suburban mother trying to sustain her shoe budget.

Long live the at-home party!