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03/26/06 Committed
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Committed
Mourning the loss of Lisa's best friend
By Jimmy Baron
I came home Tuesday at about 12:30 p.m. and was greeted on the front lawn, as I often am, by three of our four dogs—(basset hound) Buster, (Lab mix) Ayla and (Boston terrier mix) Annie. When people are working at the house, Lisa often will keep (miniature schnauzer and neighborhood terrorist) Jack in his crate in the basement. Jack likes to yap and nip. So I assumed Jack was in "time out."
I hopped on the computer and returned e-mail for about 15 minutes when Lisa got home from a quick Costco run. Normally, when she and I are away we lock all the dogs in the house, but occasionally if it's really nice out and we're only going to be gone for a short time, we'll let them play.
Our house is surrounded by one of those invisible fences that gives the dog a very minor zap if he/she gets too close to the perimeter of the property. We've had it for about a year and a half, and it works great because after about a month the dogs are so conditioned to not go near the perimeter that they steer clear of anywhere close to the edge. They'll stand there on the grass and bark at every moving object, but they will not move off the property.
Lisa pulled into the garage and walked down the driveway to the mailbox. That's when the mailman told her he had just seen a small gray dog lying in the street on the other side of our house. Turns out Jack hadn't been in the basement after all. He was running around with the others. So Lisa started yelling for me to go make sure it wasn't Jack lying on the pavement because if it was she didn't want to see it.
Sadly, when I got there our worst fears were confirmed. It was Jack, and it wasn't good. I could immediately tell the poor guy had suffered an instantly fatal encounter with a vehicle. The trauma to his head was noticeably severe and the hard plastic zap collar was crushed.
I yelled for Lisa to go back in the house, and I brought Jack's lifeless body to my car and hurried him to the vet. I knew it was an exercise in futility. The veterinary tech took one look at him and confirmed that the most important nonhuman thing in the world to my wife was dead.
You have to understand the kind of person my wife Lisa is. She doesn't do anything halfway (except clean up her clothes). When she finds something she likes, she puts a vise grip on it and makes it part of her being. She's like that with her work, she's like that with friends, she's like that with her marriage, and more than anything, she was like that with Jack. She brought pictures of him when we took vacation and would make me call our dogsitter daily to check up, and she never ever would walk by him without telling him how much she loved him.
So when I got back from the vet's office with the bad news I found her crumpled on the bedroom floor, sobbing. And I've never felt more useless or helpless. She had lost one of the most important things in the world to her and there was absolutely nothing I could say to make her feel better. She was blaming herself, naturally, for not checking the battery on Jack's collar, but I reminded her that we had no reason to believe there was anything wrong with it because we'd never seen him wander off property. And she said that had she locked him up he never would have run into the street, but I told her we got the invisible fence and a big yard specifically so our dogs could run and play. She even blamed herself for leaving him outside when she went to Costco.
Lisa's sadness comes and goes as each day winds down, but it mostly stays around. We've been telling each other Jack stories, and I think it's helping her. I can't believe how strong she's been. We're not the first ones to ever lose a pet, but it hasn't happened to either of us often. I feel awful that Jack died because I really loved him, too. Even though he was the smallest of the four dogs, he was by far the ballsiest, but was also the most playful. He loved to roughhouse, hated having twigs removed from his fur and loved catching chipmunks
And as he often liked to do, he was trying to intimidate a UPS truck. The same truck that had delivered him costumes, sweaters, booties, bathrobes and overcoats. He liked chasing that truck, and I'm guessing it was because he hated wearing dumb outfits. He probably associated dumb outfits with UPS deliveries. So I guess he decided he was going to catch that truck if it was the last thing he did. But sadly for Jack, it was ... and now there is a cloud of sadness hanging over our house, and we'll just have to wait it out.
Editor's note: Lisa's husband, Jimmy Baron, wrote this week's column. Lisa will return next week. Send an e-mail to lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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03/19/06 Committed
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Chalk it all up to divine intervention
By Lisa Baron
Personally, I don’t think that God goes through dog breeders. I like to think he’s got more important deals to close like seasons and hockey playoffs. But the other day my friend suggested that the Almighty does take a break from making sure Kanye West wins a Grammy to ensure that discerning customers get the pure breeds of dogs they need. “God wanted me to have her” my friend said while stroking her drooly doe-eyed ball of soft and fuzzy sweetness.
She was referring to the docile and putty-in-her-hands nature of her new puppy. Now do I think God is responsible for dogs? Yes. But was I convinced that divine intervention was involved in this particular transaction? Not so much.
That is until Checkoway came to stay at my house. Checkoway is scratching at 40. He’s recently fallen into big love, and he moved to Philadelphia to catch that love. This has a little bit to do with why he hasn’t had a job in two years. When it came down to moving to Ohio for a job or moving to Philadelphia for the girl—and then hoping to find a job—he chose the girl. So he comes down for a long weekend, and within five minutes of arriving he sets up shop on our couch. And by shop, I mean mobile casino. Checkoway spends hours playing online poker.
Checkoway does, however, have a computer. I’d be upstairs working or whatever and out of nowhere I’d hear a "yes!" or a "come on!" The "come on" sounds like something you would hear someone say if they were impatiently waiting for another person to get their ass out the front door because they were already 10 minutes late—or, as in this case, something someone would say if they were nervous that tomorrow’s lunch money was moments away from being sucked into cyberspace.
After each verbal exclamation there was a period of silence. When Checkoway won, there was hand-clapping followed by a victory chants. When he lost, the period of silence was extended. The most remarkable part about all the blood, sweat and tears was that he was pouring into this electronic vice—the winnings are somewhere between 5 AND 10 DOLLARS! HELLO! I’m not an authority on casino gambling, mostly because it never occurred to me to give someone large amounts of cash with minimal chance of getting a pair of new shoes in return. And I don’t really like being involved in any extracurricular activities that are being taped. When I throw my money away, I, at least, expect something in return that I’ll probably have to hide from my husband.
But Checkoway doesn’t share the same concerns as me. And from the looks of things, footwear isn’t one of his priorities either. In other words, he’s not exactly what you would call a metrosexual. And I’m not just saying that because he’s bald. Because if it’s true that God gives you what you need, then it only makes sense that he has no hair. I mean, think about it. If you have a dome full of hair, you’ll need shampoo and conditioner and once a week a deep conditioner. Then you need gel or paste or hairspray. And hair needs cutting. Hair costs money to maintain. Which, when you’re unemployed isn’t something you have a lot of. Additionally, it’s hard to waste away your life on pokerstars.net if Our Heavenly Father doesn’t make sure you have a Wi-Fi ready laptop.
So maybe God does give us all what we need. But in the meantime, I spend the majority of my day home alone with the hair of a Chia pet on steroids, while listening to a fat, slobbering, nonstop-barking, carpet-peeing basset hound. Where does that fit into His Divine Landscape?
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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03/12/06 - Committed -What Jimmy and I learned from the year's best movies
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What Jimmy and I learned from the year's best movies
By Lisa Baron
Just because I don’t act or direct or produce or style or do anything at all related to moviemaking, doesn't mean I shouldn’t be invited into the Academy to cast my vote. I can spot bad acting, underdeveloped characters or oddly placed scenes. If you struggle with appreciating how hard it is to act convincingly and how truly talented today’s stars really are, go see Paris Hilton in "House of Wax." I get the fascination with celebrity and, more importantly, who the celebrities are dating and of even more political importance and societal consequence: what they are wearing. That’s why I love the Oscars. Even when the show is boring like this year’s was.
Ever since I was comfortable enough to go to the movies by myself and not care if anyone wondered why someone goes to the movies alone, I find the time and money to see every movie nominated for an Academy Award. In my quest to uncover what the best of the best will be, I fall in love with the stories. I also gain 5 pounds from the popcorn.
But I don’t just go for the popcorn, I go for the escape. Whether it's a gentle suggestion from a character or an empowering idea gleaned from the plot, I often find inspiration or gain insight into my daily life. Lucky for Jimmy, I also come away with a lesson for him, too. So here it is—my list of best movies. What I learned and what Jimmy should have learned.
Crash
My lesson: It’s the new millennium, yet stereotypes are alive and swirling in the melting pot that is America. "Crash," co-starring the delicious mansicle Matt Dillon (all wrapped up in a fantasy-sparking cop uniform) successfully pulls the curtain back to expose the thriving virus of American stereotypes. This movie offers a deeper cut into the raw, red anxiety of the continued struggle between different races. It not only tells the story of man versus man, but also man versus himself.
Although the name of the movie comes from a ridiculous line spoken by Don Cheedle's character and is a clumsy attempt at existentialism, I like "Crash." As a Jew, I understand the urge to assimilate, and through the movie I gained a deeper insight into what that feels like for others.
Jimmy's lesson: You drive like the Chinese woman at the end of the movie.
Match Point
My lesson: This movie explores luck, life and control. It asks the question: “Would you rather be lucky or good? When somebody figures out the answer, let me know because I have a couple more questions that are looking for answers, such as, is it better to be smart or pretty? math or English? It’s my dad versus the rest of my family on this argument. We smartly believe that each person is responsible for making his or her own luck. But "Match Point" and my brother suggest that as long as you have sociopath tendencies, good luck and a high sperm count, you can make all the poor misguided choices your little black heart desires.
Jimmy’s lesson: If you cheat, I will kill YOU.
Capote
My lesson: Philip Seymour Hoffman deserved his Academy Award for his portrayal of the impossibly narcissistic but deservedly so author. And truth be told, "Capote" was my favorite movie of the year. "Capote" also shares one lesson with the completely unrelated "Hustle & Flow": Lying, if it serves a greater good, is necessary.
As I mentioned in my opening paragraph, I’m not only watching for the acting, I’m watching the scenes and the scenery within the scenes. I loved this movie, from the filmmaking to the storytelling to the flawless acting. I learned many things from "Capote," but mostly I learned that it’s good publicists, not good luck, that gets you the Oscar for best picture.
Jimmy’s lesson: When I tell you that the outfit I’m wearing is old and I don’t know why you’ve never seen it before, I’m doing it for your own good.
Brokeback Mountain
My lesson: I liked this movie. I didn’t think it was the best movie of all time. In fact, I’m still trying to figure out why in one scene Ennis is shivering in blankets of snow (in the summer), and then in the next scene it’s sunny with no snow anywhere. Blane Bachelor tried to explain this to me over dinner one night, but I still don’t get it. But, "Brokeback Mountain" is about choosing the mind over the heart. It’s about the kind of love that makes your stomach flip and your heart ache.
Jimmy’s lesson: No, not even if you were Heath Ledger.
Lisa Baron is a communications consultant. Which you might think would be helpful in a marriage. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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03/05/06 Committed
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The crack pipe of stand-up comedy
By Lisa Baron
If you had to choose between performing stand-up comedy for the first time or smoking crack, I'd steer you towards the stand-up. I’ve never smoked crack—and I’m not just saying that because my mother reads this column—it just never seemed like a good idea to me. There was something about rolling around in your own feces in a beat-down soulless house that just isn’t yinging with my yang. Or what happens after my clients dump me, my husband leaves me and my family’s in therapy, without me, and I’m fishing through dumpsters or stealing computers out of the backseats of unsuspecting cars and then haggling with the pawn shop managers just to score an Abe that I guess I would trade for a couple of crumbs of the sweet, sweet rock. It doesn’t sit well with me.
Not to mention that it would make working from home in my pajamas all day, while not altogether impossible, certainly more difficult. And besides, my neighbor Daniella started calling me the comedy queen of Osborne Road. I sort of prefer that to, let’s say, the crack whore of Sandy Springs.
I completed a six-week stand-up comedy class. Our graduation was last Monday night. I’m telling you, if you do nothing else, ever, take Jeff Justice’s stand-up comedy class. It was six weeks of preparation and work for four minutes of payoff. But that four-minute payoff was deliciously toe-tingling. Kind of like first-time sex—only less messy and lower lighting.
I was number seven. Then sixth. Then third. Then next.
My heart was thumping strong and wild like a feral shaved cat having an allergic reaction to the Ketamine. It looked like one of those cartoon hearts—you know, pumping and stretching from behind my chest. My palms were wet with anticipation and my mouth was dry with fear. I took the stage. It was my turn to take a hit off the pipe of live, stand-up comedy. Then I felt the rush. Then it was over. Then I wanted more. More. More. More.
There was just something forcefully raw, powerfully gripping and desperately seductive about hearing your name being called-out and then emerging from the dark black into the white-hot spotlight to tell jokes in front of a sold-out crowd at The Punchline.
I’ve never commandeered a crack-pipe, so I can’t say for sure if it’s an accurate comparison, but whoring for laughs and hustling for applause was lip-blisteringly addictive.
Jimmy was there—who by the way, was strategically seated in the front row. This was for two reasons: 1. So that I would have a familiar face to look; 2. in case I forget every word of every joke, I would be four steps away from the guy with the keys to the get-away car.
You know how after a big night out with your girlfriends, the best part is the next day when you are all at brunch and trying to re-live and re-laugh the night before by re-hashing every detail? That’s what I did with Jimmy the entire way home—only he’s not a girl and we weren’t at breakfast.
All the way I back to the house I pelted him with questions. With precision, we dissected every joke and how it was delivered. Beaten down and praying for me to shut up so that he could go to sleep, Jimmy said that yes, I did a good job, but he thought the excessive air kisses, numerous bows and the victorious fist pumping might have crossed the line.
But the power of the night hadn’t yet, rudely and without mercy, dropped me, head-first back into my life. Four hours later, that intoxicating grip of laughter and applause gently released me back into my small pond of normalcy. My heart began to slow down and eventually I fell asleep. The next morning when I woke up, my marriage was still there, my bank account was intact, and there were no imaginary bugs on me. So it comes down to this: crack or a six-week stand-up comedy workshop culminating into a night onstage at The Punchline.
Pass your drug test, choose the workshop.
Lisa Baron is a communications consultant. Which you might think would be helpful in a marriage. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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02/26/06 Committed
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Committed
A little guidance always helps when you come to a fork in the road
By Lisa Baron
Sometimes you need a roadmap. Especially when you know where you want to go, but you’re not sure how to get there, and you sure as hell don’t want to get lost getting to where you set out to be. I was just trying to get to J. Alexander's in Norcross. It shouldn't have been that difficult. I used MapQuest to lead the way. I typed in my address and the address, then I printed it out, grabbed a bottled water and my BlackBerry and hit the open road.
Then I came to a fork in the road. The only thing the once-reliable, but now dead to me, MapQuest told me to do was to merge onto I-285 East and then merge onto GA-141 N and then something about a U-turn. It said nothing about a fork. But there it was—a fork.
I panicked and forked left. After about 20 minutes and 10 signs welcoming me to Cumming, when I was looking for a restaurant in Norcross, I knew I was lost. It was one of those moments when you wish you knew what time it really was, not what time you have set on the clock to trick yourself into being early. I called 411, which connected me to the restaurant, which connected me to Linda. Linda had one of those calm convincing voices that I swear could talk Clark Howard into paying extra for the Playboy channel.
She could turn me around with such ease and such knowledge because she had been lost, in that neck of the woods before. So I let go and let Linda guide me, and soon I was at my destination.
Everybody needs a Linda—someone to either set them on the right course to begin with or steer them back in the right direction. I have two Linda’s. One lives in New York City, and for the sake of this column, we’ll call her New York Linda. When I was just a snot-nosed, short-skirted, pierced-bellied twentysomething, she was the boss of me. She would tell me what to do, and I would tell her that I was not going to do it. I’m not joking either. I was the poorest excuse of all time for an employee. The worst. If I was her, and she was me, I would have thrown my little know-it-all routine and accompanying micro-mini right out the front door.
I must have shown glimmers of competency (I can't think of another reason) because she kept me on. It wasn’t until my next job and my next boss that I wanted so badly to hide behind her skirt. I called her every day. I hung on her every word. Every time I faced an obstacle of any sort—whether it was professional or personal—I wouldn’t wonder what she would do, I would ask her what to do. Of the last five just-called phone numbers in my BlackBerry—number two is hers.
Then there’s Atlanta Linda. Atlanta Linda kicks ass, and I want to grow up to be just like her. So I do everything she tells me to do, including her most recent advice: Take a stand-up comedy class. Yes, it’s true. I enrolled in the Jeff Justice Comedy School. My graduation—in front of a live audience at The Punchline—is on Feb. 27.
For the past five weeks I have been meeting in a hotel with about 15 other people. We have been writing and rehearsing jokes with the purpose of performing them. My class, like the woman who referred me to it, kicks ass. It’s an eclectic mix of nonprofessional comedians. We have a lawyer, a woman who does marketing for lawyers, a city worker, a waitress and Royal Marshall from The Neal Boortz show.
I don’t know what to expect from next week’s comedy class graduation or why MapQuest sent me to this Jew to the land of no synagogues. But here’s the thing—I know enough to know that I don’t know much at all. I know where I want to go, but sometimes I don’t know the best route and getting there feels as impossible as navigating North Georgia. And thank God for Team Linda. Without their guidance, I might still be forking left.
Lisa Baron is a communications consultant. Which you might think would be helpful in a marriage. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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02/19/06 Committed
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Real answers to your fake questions
By Lisa Baron
Women always want to know how many carats the newly engaged girl's ring is. Personally, I don’t think it’s anybody’s business how big or small someone’s ring might be. Why don’t they just come out and say what they really want to know. Which is: "How much does your fiancé make?" Which is code for, “Is that whore doing better than me?”
Here’s the thing, and I don’t know why, but when certain girls continue to bang the pot and pan over why Jimmy seems to be traveling so often, it rubs me the same way a dentist's drill rubs against a molar with not enough Novocain. Here’s the cold, hard truth: Sometimes he goes for work; sometimes he goes for pleasure. Sometimes it’s a little work and then a little pleasure, or maybe he’s working and then pleasuring himself. The point is he’s not handcuffed to my side. Please don’t mistake this as a knock at handcuffs. Handcuffs have their place, and I mean them no harm.
The questions wouldn’t bother me if it were the first time one of these hens asked the fake questions to get at what they really want to know. Or even the second thinly veiled round. But after knowing me well enough to know that my husband travels a lot for work, and I could give a rat's raisin-sized crap, they still continue to ask me. This leads me to believe that they are really asking: “Is your marriage in trouble?”
It’s possible that I may be off about intentions. I’ve been off before. Like all the times I signed my brother’s name to gifts I bought because he said he intended to send me a check - or my intentions to use the joint American Express card only for emergencies only but then there was this sale, and I knew that there may never be a sale like this again.
I’ve decided to confront the questions and rumors head-on. Welcome to my press conference.
OK, first question, you over there, yes, you, the one who fights with your husband at public gatherings and group dinners, making the rest of us uncomfortable and wishing we stayed home. Yes, thank you, great question. For those of you who didn’t hear, I'll repeat the question from "I’m under the impression that my marriage is far superior to anyone else’s.” Does it bother me that Jimmy is never home?
"Well, first of all, I’d like to say, great question. It’s an honor to have you here, after all your marriage dipped in angel tears was conceived in the clouds and blessed by barefoot, robe-cloaked prophets, is one we all envy. Mine, as is evident by the long spans of time Jimmy spends away was simply a deal gone wrong down on Ralph McGill. But I don’t want to be accused of spin, so let me answer your very serious question.
Yes, it’s goddamn horrible when Jimmy goes out of town for the week. Oh, the agony of five girls' nights in a row and the defeat of microwave popcorn and red wine for dinner every night. You know what else is downright medieval, not changing out of your pajamas because you work from home—all day. The pain of not having to pretend that I left my house is similar to the constant nagging pricks of 1,000 daggers. Damn you, Jimmy Baron!"
Next question please. Yes, girl with three kids whose precious, adorable children can always be heard screaming and biting each other in the background. Said husband is always working late. Another great question. "Knocked up and stuck in a suburban track home wants to know," if Jimmy stayed in town, would I have a better chance of getting pregnant?
Before I answer, can you clarify? OK, yes, get pregnant by my husband.
It has been brought to my attention that to make a baby, you need the man’s (and by man we mean Jimmy) sperm and my egg. And although science is changing every day, you still have to be in the same place at the same time trying to occupy the same space in order to make a baby. Unless, that is, you are planning to go to Miami for a bachelorette party in April and you'd rather not cook your unborn child in Cuba Libre. Next question.
Thank you, all of you, for your questions. And if there are no more questions, I would like to thank each and every one of you, yes, even you who had an affair one year into your marriage and thinks no one knows, for your questions. I look forward to next week’s press conference where I will be discussing how much we actually paid for our house and whether or not we are house-poor.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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02/12/06 Committed
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When a first date is a wonderful thing
By Lisa Baron
I was nervous—first date kind of nervous. I don't know why. There wasn't anything to be nervous about really. It was just a get-together on a Wednesday night. A casual get together, no big whoop. There were no expectations, no agendas. We weren't set up. We didn't match up by answering online questionnaires. We planned it.
It was T-60 minutes, and I didn't know what to wear. Actually, I didn't know what I wanted to say with what I wanted to wear. I picked something safe and rather fabulous, might I add, and I paired it with some kick-ass shiny black patent Gucci high-heels. You can never go wrong with Gucci.
Ah yes, Gucci goes with everything. Everything except your college car. Yes, the same car I have been driving practically since college. Yes, I'm 33, and, yes, I could probably afford to upgrade. But every time there is a decision about how and where to spend money, I lose.
There is something intimidating about leaving 400 for Ralph McGill. And there is something socially uncomfortable about handing over the college car and its keys to the valet. Believe me, I know that the valet could give a shit about my car. And if you think the outside is unimpressive, you should see the inside.
The cup holders are filled with gum wrappers and bank receipts smudged with lip liner. The pockets of the driver's side and front passenger doors swell with CDs and auto repair records. Empty grande latte cups rest in the space where feet belong.
So Jimmy let me borrow me his car. I pulled up and handed the valet the keys to a car that I borrowed in order to look worthy. He bowed and took my hand and escorted me to a special VIP entrance where I was fed grapes and fanned with palm fronds. Then the staff applauded my greatness and mercilessly complimented my outfit and my choice of eye shadow. Yeah, right. He took my keys and told me to have a good night.
I walked along the concrete entrance and into the restaurant. There was Caren West. She was one quarter of our party of four. We found number three, my editor Elisabeth, drinking at the bar. Number four, Blane Bachelor, soon followed.
The restaurant, bathed in dim lights, popped with conversation. Our table was no exception. Our only problem: where to begin. Thirty minutes into our evening, I stopped talking and started watching. I looked around the table. I looked at all of us sitting, talking and drinking and eating and laughing. I looked at each one of them, and I watched their mouths move, and I watched their expressions. I pulled back and watched myself sitting with them, among them. I wasn't nervous anymore, I was at home.
I wanted to linger in every minute. I had the feeling of being on one of the best dates in my life. The kind of date that you don't want to end, where you don't have to pretend to find the same things funny or appalling. The kind where you know the restaurant is packed, but you can't see or hear anyone else. The kind where you order dessert as a desperate gesture to extend the night.
"I don't want to go home," I cried out. Everyone agreed. We decided on the next place where we could sit, talk, laugh and drink more. I stood up, but the alcohol pulled me down. "I can't drive," I slurred unapologetically to Caren. Only it was a drunk whisper, which means I wasn’t whispering at all. The four of us went outside. The girls handed their tickets to the valet. Two Hondas and a Mazda pulled up. We traveled by college car to our next destination.
"Erin is a whore," I yelled at Elisabeth, who had just finished telling a story about some girl from college who had done her wrong. I don't know who Erin is or what she did to Elisabeth or even if she charges money for sex, but at this point in our date, I knew I had a future with these girls. And now their enemies are my enemies.
With my face pressed against the cold glass and praying I wouldn't throw up, I rode home in the backseat of the cab the bartender had called for me. Since my house keys were attached to my car keys, I called my house from my doorstep at 1:30 a.m. Jimmy fumbled down the steps to let me in.
The next day he drove me in my car to get his. Caren left hers outside the bar and walked home. Blane sent us the e-mail we apparently typed out and sent to her at midnight. And Elisabeth, well, her husband spent the night phoning hospitals and police stations looking for her. That's what I call one of the best damn dates I've had in a long time.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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02/05/06 Committed
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Saving the love of my life
By Lisa Baron
We told him that he was going somewhere fun. That’s the only way to get him into the car by himself. Otherwise you have to pick him up yourself. And when you’re carrying a purse, a jacket, gloves and an umbrella, you’d rather not have to carry him, too. The weather matched our moods. It was dark gray, and the air was thick and heavy. Once we all got into the car, the radio played and we listened. But we didn’t talk.
We swapped highway for highway, each stretch of asphalt taking us closer and closer to the facility that promised to exchange two weeks for new behavior. It was hard to believe, but we felt we had to believe in something. We couldn’t keep pretending that Jack would grow out of this phase. We pulled into the parking lot and parked the car. I could actually feel my heart losing volume. But I knew that taking Jack to rehab was the right thing to do.
He tried to bite our neighbor five times. That’s when our neighbors called. They said it wasn’t that big of deal that he tried to bite them—but sometimes their parents came to visit. And biting the elderly was cause for concern. For all of us.
That little bad dog with the bottom line of teeth that looks like a row of dentures before they’ve had a chance to soak overnight also happens to be the love of my life. But he’s a lawsuit waiting to be filed. I have always defended Jack’s errant behavior. Either he was "scared" or "anxious." I often likened his behavior to that of a teenager. And I should know. I was that teenager.
I didn’t bite people. I liked to throw aptitude tests. Who wants to sit through boring Advanced Placement classes? No fun kids in those classes. And why in the world would I ever want to actually go to biology class when my buddy Jonathan would give the notes and the answers to the tests for free? “We are concerned about Lisa,” my teachers would tell my parents. “We don’t think she’s performing at her level,” they would say. And my mom would defend me.
But it wasn’t my academic rise to below average that ultimately got me shipped off to bad kid’s school. I also loved entertaining. I particularly liked to entertain my guests at my home. And when my parents moved us into a new, bigger house, I saw this as an opportunity to invite more people. I threw a legendary event. Everyone showed up. Even the cops.
But the police weren’t the reason my event planning, biology ditching and test throwing days came to an abrupt stop. I actually got thrown under the bus by my siblings. I won’t implicate which ones (I have five), but those girls know who they are. And I was handed in to my parents.
“At the first sign of trouble, parents rush in to help their children,” my mom said. “Brothers and sisters run for the nearest cover.” And in my case it was true. Those evil spawn were nowhere to be found. Funny, I remember seeing them drinking and laughing at my parties. But when I went down, they ran faster.
So off I went to boarding school. And my parents didn't even throw me a bone and pretend like I was going somewhere fun. I also think they had unreal expectations of what the job of a boarding school is. It doesn't work like a car wash. You don't go in covered with soot and come out scrubbed, waxed and brand new. Yes, some of the dirt does get removed, but it’s not the rebirth I think everyone expects. What it does is teach you a few things you need to know that will help you not completely ruin your entire life.
I came out still knowing how to fake tests and entertain properly, but the threat of being sent back to bad-kid island served as a deterrent. Oddly enough, that’s how Jack’s trainer described my dog’s new mindset as well. He’ll still want to fight and bite, but he knows it’ll get him a mouth full of bitter-apple spray so he won’t. And while that must suck, it can’t be half as bad as having to sit through the poetry exercises in AP English.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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01/29/06 Committed
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The devil comes to dinner
By Lisa Baron
A second bottle of red wine was ordered and then two more bottles of champagne. It was somewhere between the third and fourth bottle of champagne when Sarah says she saw the devil. I saw him, too. He was wearing a red blazer. It wasn’t a deep blood-red winter-appropriate blazer. It was more of a primary-color red, and the fabric was unseasonably lightweight. His hair, oily with sweat and hair product, was a mess of split, loose wires. The majority of it sat on top of his head. The remainder of it was squeezed into a bump of a pony tail. His skin was marked with brown spots, and his eyes were the color of mulch.
Sarah asked the odd little red-coated man if, in fact, he was the devil. He denied it. But I think it’s possible that it was Satan. I mean, look, if what they say is true, and God is sending hurricane after hurricane to the United States, then it’s certainly plausible that Satan would be in the bar at Chops.
I still think it might’ve been Lucifer. After all, the devil isn’t going to tell you if he is, in fact, the devil. Probably noticing that our souls weren’t worth having, he moved on. So there I was with my drink, laughing in the face of the devil, which is not where I thought I’d be when I was making my plans for Saturday night.
I was supposed to be at dinner with another guy, but Jimmy said that now that I’m married I’m not allowed to date. To which I responded that it wasn’t a date, it was dinner—and there is a big difference. Jack and I met on a campaign in 1996. We dated for a brief period. But I dated him long enough to know that it wouldn’t end up in marriage. But it would probably end up in a solid friendship. And it has. We have stayed in touch now for nearly 10 years. We share stories of heartbreaks and new loves. We cheer each other’s professional success. I even invited him to my wedding—a detail Jimmy denies knowing about.
Jack is working over in Alabama on a short-term project. He’s originally from Washington State, and he doesn’t know a soul. I knew that Jimmy was going to the hockey game on Saturday night, so I invited Jack to come hang out for the weekend. I even offered for him to stay at my house. Then I asked Jimmy if it was OK. I told him the whole story. Big mistake. I should have either never told that we dated or said that he was married.
On Monday he said it was fine but no sleepovers. On Thursday he was having second thoughts about the whole idea. Friday night he asked me if Jack was single. I said yes. Apparently that was the wrong answer because Saturday morning he said no. Here’s exactly what he said, “Single men drive into town to have dinner with their ex-girlfriends for one reason and on reason only—they want to get laid.” Fine. But just because he may want to, which I’m not saying he does, doesn’t mean that he gets to.
I started to push back. I didn’t love the idea of having my husband decide—at the last minute—how I would spend my Saturday nights while he was out with his buddy at a hockey game. But I knew this wasn’t about trust. He trusts me, and I trust me. This was about ego. More specifically his ego. He was afraid of what people might think if our friends or anyone we know saw me dining with a man who wasn’t my husband.
I could spend thousands of dollars at Saks, open six new credit cards and buy my dog a Burberry bathing suit and those would all pale in comparison to actively poking a stick in the eye of the male ego. I decided to test my theory.
I canceled my nondate with Jack, citing the marital strife our dinner would have brought upon my home. I called up single Sarah, and we went to Chops. We ordered wine and champagne with a devil-may-care attitude. And it was true, the devil didn’t care. But Jimmy did. As was evident by the e-mail I received Monday morning, titled "Excuse me?????"
“We are putting a complete moratorium on unnecessary spending. No new linens, no new crap for the kitchen, no tchotchkes, nothing. We are in savings mode, not reckless spending mode and $140 to sit at a bar with your girlfriends is really out of line. I can't believe you could think that would go unnoticed.”
To which I replied, "The devil made me do it." Which was a lot better than what you thought the devil was gonna make your wife do when this week first got started.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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01/22/06 Committed
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The day I learned to stop running
By Lisa Baron
When I went to bed everything was fine. Ten hours later, the world I knew would be forever changed. Not just for me but for everybody in my family. For my mother, my sister, my brother—for all of us. But that morning, when my Mom told us that my dad was in a car accident and wouldn't be coming home, it felt like it was just happening to me.
I just stood there, stunned. I didn't move, I didn't wince, I didn't cry. That was the day I disconnected. I wanted to run out of the room and down the hall. I wanted to run toward the rest of my day and into the rest of my life and far, far away from what my mother was telling me and even farther away from the event that changed our lives. To understand, to really understand that my father was gone for good, was truly too big of a concept for my small body to take.
I knew that I felt uncomfortable. I felt something so uncomfortable that I wanted it just to go away. It burned in me. I had felt the physical pain from a burn. And my instincts were the same. If I could just ignore the pain, the hurt would fade leaving a scar. All I needed to do was be patient. When it wouldn't go away, I wanted the people who delivered the pain to go away. I wanted to be left alone. So I closed my eyes and wished it away. I just wanted to be left alone to deal with it by myself. And if I could deal with it by myself, certainly everyone else should be able to do the same.
That was the day I disconnected and disengaged. I emotionally arrested. And that's the way I went on for years. Whenever the issue of death or dying came up, whether it was to discuss my dad or someone else's loss, I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. This meant both emotionally and physically. But there comes a point when you know how to be brave. To really be brave is to feel your pain. Running away is child's play.
A red blinking light called out from the answering machine. Jimmy was sitting at the kitchen table, and I went to relieve the machine of its messages. That's when we heard, for the first time, that our dear, dear friend (and friend to the millions of Atlantans who heard her over the years via her appearances on The Morning X) 98-year-old Bertha Hirsh had passed away. Jimmy immediately slumped over. Deep shaking sobs took over his body. He buried his head in his hands. Tears the size of raindrops pooled on top of the kitchen table. I was standing on the other side of the kitchen.
I froze. I wanted to go to him and hold him. My legs were heavy. My arms wouldn't move. I didn't know what to say or how to make it better. Then I started to think about Bertha. She was a wry, clever woman who left an indelible mark on everyone who knew her. Her laugh was infectious, her voice recognizable and her humor will never be replicated. When you were joyful, she was joyful. When you were down, she could help you see your way out.
The more I thought about her and how dearly she was loved, especially by Jimmy, my heart told my brain, which, in turn, instructed my body to move. I walked over to Jimmy and held his hands. He didn't need me to say anything. He didn't need me to do anything to remedy the pain and shock one feels after losing a friend. He just needed me. He held my hand, and I held his, and we talked about how much we loved Bertha.
That was the day I learned to stop running and started walking. Step by step, I walked away from fear and away from the past. I walked toward Jimmy, toward strength and toward reality. It took me a long time to learn that masking the pain or simply willing it gone is not the way to overcome the discomfort of emotional hurt. Maybe I did it Bertha's way. As she always said, "Go slow."
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
Other Comments? E-mail sundaymail@sundaypaper.com.
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01/15/06 Committed - Remembering to say 'I love you'
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Remembering to say 'I love you'
By Lisa Baron
When they stopped, I noticed, but I didn’t say anything. I understood that sometimes life gets in the way. The once reliable morning kiss from Jimmy—the soft one I used to get each and every morning before he left work, the one that said I love you. My head and my heart refused to drift back to sleep until I got it. He always thought I was sleeping. But I wasn’t. I would wake up when he got out of bed, and then I would float in and out of sleep until I felt his soft breath against the side of my face. And then they stopped. Alarm clocks went off late or sometimes not at all. Too much time was spent reading the paper or fixing breakfast or checking e-mails.
Twelve West Virginia miners left for work in the Sago Mine and never came home. Did they remember to say I love you? Did they kiss their wives, their girlfriends, their babies—the ones they loved? Maybe not, and not because they didn’t want to. They didn’t know that the end of the day would be the end of everything. Some found the chance, later. Faced with the white-cold truth of the end of their lives, they wrote it down, and hoped that along with their bodies, their notes would also be found and given to their families.
I forgot once. I was 7 and forgot to say goodbye to my dad before he left for work. My dad traveled a lot, so he would be gone for two or three days at a time. And then he would come home. But this time he didn’t.
It was a Saturday. Which when you're 7 means three things: no school, sugar cereal and lots of cartoons. The day started as usual. The door to my sister’s room and the door to my room faced each other. So every Saturday still in our nightgowns and with our long brown hair in tangles, we faced off. It was a contest to see who could get the closest seat to the TV. That person controlled the remote control.
As we sprinted down the hall, I remember smacking into something hard. It was my mom. My mother was there, and she took us back into my sister’s room and told us to sit down. I had a feeling that this day wasn’t going to belong to us anymore. I didn’t want to go with my mom, but I followed my sister’s lead, and I went. And then the weight of the news that we both received pulled her down into the bed, sobbing. I felt very alone.
I had a temper as hot and ugly as the devil’s breath. And the day before, the day my dad’s life stopped, we had a fight. I don’t remember what I was mad about. Or why. My dad left for work, but he soon remembered that he forgot to say goodbye and I love you. He didn’t want us to be mad while he was so far away. So just hours before a drunk driver slammed head-on into the car he was riding in, he called me, and we said I love you and goodbye.
Like a car crash, sometimes the aches and pains don’t surface right away. Sometimes they take days, sometimes weeks, sometimes years. As I grew bigger, my heart grew heavier. And then I grew ashamed. Ashamed for using the last hours I had with my dad—wallowing in my poison. But I was 7. Seven can swing from the tops of the trees; it can race on leaning bikes down hills. But 7 is still 7. I know that now.
I know the pain of forgetting to say I love you. I know the sorrow of missing a face, missing a smile, missing a soul. And when I go to watch the news, and I see the story about the 12 men who left one morning and didn’t come home, I remember again.
I’ll never forget my father and how funny he was and how everyone always told me how funny he was. I’ll miss his hazel eyes and his brown hair and the way, at 36 years old, it was already starting to leave the top of his head. And because of my mother, I’ll never forget that he remembered to say I love you.
Twelve West Virginia miners left for work one January morning and never came home. When I see the grief, the raw hurt and the deep valleys of sorry reflected in the eyes of the wives, the sons, the daughters, the mothers and the fathers of the dead, I grieve too. And then I hope. I hope for them, for all of them, for the ones left with life that they remember, and we remember to move against, not with, the routine of time. Because time isn’t bigger than life, but love is.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
Other comments? E-mail sundaymail@sundaypaper.com.
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01/08/06 Committed
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Unleashing the 'V' word
By Lisa Baron
Vagina-gate, started with a phone call. As my cell phone rang, I looked into the window of my Blackberry and noticed a 202 exchange. This is not unusual. Reporters and others call me from Washington, D.C. all day long, nearly every day. Another not unusual move soon followed. I let the call go to voicemail. I rarely answer my phone unless I know for sure who it is, and I have an idea of what they want. Next, in the spirit of routine, I retrieved the voicemail.
“Hi Lisa, this is so-and-so, I’m a reporter with the Washington Post. (Still not unusual, I talk to reporters from WP all the time.) I’m one half of the Post’s Reliable Source gossip column team. (Again, I talk to reporters from every section of the country’s newspapers, if not daily—then weekly, but here’s where it turned atypical.) I wanted to talk to you about your very amusing and delightful column in The Sunday Paper. Which was recently called to my attention.”
That’s not good.
I had no idea that the word “vagina” can cause people to not only lose their minds, but also their perspective. But it does. They absolutely lose their mind. Now let me tell you what else I learned in 2005. If you write the word, “penis” in one your columns, no one cares—major yawner. But vagina? Sister, you better cross your legs and sit up because, mama, you’re in for a crap load of controversy.
I was in sixth grade the first time I got called out for lewd behavior. My friend Cheri Roswell smuggled a ripped-out page from her mother’s instructional sex book to art class. We were supposed to be using charcoal crayons for drawing apples and pears. But when Cheri pulled the stolen literature out of her pocket and brought the words “post coitus” to our attention, we were alive with laughter.
I laughed until Amanda Sneed told me what it actually meant. And then I cried. But because I was part of the group, I was in trouble just the same. Cheri's sheet was confiscated, and we were all sent to the principal's office to explain what happened and why. I was still crying when I was made to sign what I remember being a lengthy legal-sized yellow document that described in detail the art class incident.
It was kind of like a traffic ticket for 11 year olds. Signing my name meant I acknowledged what had happened without admitting guilt. To me that document seemed as big as my entire life. The heavy mood felt very legal and as binding as the thickest paste. I was sure that this experience would follow me, as my mother said, all the way through life.
That's why I threw my Blackberry down onto my desk like it had burnt my hand. My heart rattled around my chest like a bird trapped in a vaulted ceiling. Every nervous tick was fully employed. I have worked with two governors, two congressmen, two United States senators, and I’ve dated (which is the nicest term I can think of to describe our relationship) one former White House Press Secretary, one national news correspondent, three elected officials, and I even had time for four media consultants. I was very busy serving my country.
I have been asked a lot of questions about a lot of things by a lot of people. But the questions, up until recently, were never about me or my cooch. But that was all about to change. I called reporter back. The story ran the next day. And it wasn’t bad. My cell phone and inbox swelled. And over the next few days many blogs did the same. I got a ton of well-wishes and a ton of not-so-well-wishes.
One Web site, Think Progress (which is sympathetic to liberal causes) posted this banner: "Lisa Baron Peddles Internet Smut." Other blogs ran threads that called me: (and not in this particular order) "a whore," "a money-grubbing whore," "a bitch" and "a whorish-skank-ass-bitch" and an "Uncle Jake" (a Jew who supports the Christian right.)
Am I a whore? Depends on who you ask. Am I peddling Internet smut? Oh, please. Was the episode in art class a harbinger of things to come? Well, Cheri, I later learned, got pregnant at 18. And Amanda, she wasn’t just talking the talk, she went on to a few starring roles in some straight-to-video porn films. I’m still signing my name to lengthy documents that include words I guess Republicans aren’t allowed to use. And the charges and name-calling smeared across cyberspace are just as ridiculous and downright silly now as they were when I was in sixth grade.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
Other comments? E-mail sundaymail@sundaypaper.com.
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01/01/06 Committed
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My husband the genius
by Lisa Baron
I think you should know a bit about the kind of man I married. I am married to a man who not only drives me to the airport at 6:15 in the morning, but also walks me in. Yes, he walked me in. I was early for my flight, so Jimmy said, “Why don’t I walk you in, and we can get some coffee?”
We never drank coffee. The automatic glass doors of Hartsfield-Jackson opened to the cri de coeur ofturbulent travelers. People formed lines that wrapped around the airport for miles. The impatience in the air was thick. Not even the strongest coffee would have had the strength to break through the thick fog of the day’s migratory misery. It was horrible.
Regardless, Jimmy waded through the wait with me as we ran around until we got my bags and my person safely checked through security. Keep in mind it’s 7 in the morning. Yes, he normally gets up at 4:30 a.m. to go to work, but he was off from work on this particular day.
Which is exactly why he, or any sane person, wouldn’t exactly want to get up at the crack of dawn to drive his wife—who hasn’t had her coffee yet—to the
airport, and then offer to hang out.
Another central detail of this nonsordid, presunrise ride into ground zero for preChristmacus commuter panic: Jimmy and I have been married for two years. We’ve been together for about five. So the milk’s for free, if you know what I mean, which makes this tale of extra-mile-ship even more mind-blowing.
Once on board the airplane, I mashed myself into my ill-fitted seat and thought about what a sweet soul of a man I’d found. I also thought that if I were a chiropractor, I would buy every piece of ad space available in the in-flight magazine. Because once you pry free from the rheumatic grip of those impossibly dreary, vertebrae-mangling pods of pain, you need a
chiropractor.
But back to my love fest.
So I’m thinking about how lucky I am that Jimmy’s my soul mate, when I realize: If he’s my soul mate, I must have a very nice soul, too. And at some point—sooner rather than later—I’ll need to apologize to that soul (mine, not Jimmy’s). After all, the vessel it inhabits has displayed, shall we say, less than stellar behavior. Particularly that one time, the night before my sister’s wedding, when I crashed my mother’s car and then tried to get my soon-to-be-brother-in-law to take the blame. At least my plan was sound. I mean, who could be mad at the guy who was getting married the next day?
Moving on.
So I’m weeping for my own soul and desperately missing my sweet, sweet husband. I finish my latte—which I got to go—when suddenly my heart-light goes dark, and it hits me that Jimmy Baron, while very big-hearted, is bloody brilliant! He got me to get out of bed and out of the house and on a plane before sunrise—and made me feel good about it. True genius.
You see, Jimmy had just returned home the night before from his man-trip. That was Wednesday. Sunday, we were to meet my whole family in Long Beach, Calif. to catch a five-day Mexican cruise. But I was encouraged to go early and spend some time with my parents in San Diego. “You love the ocean,” Jimmy coaxed.
Well, my early departure left Jimmy three and a half days home alone. You really can’t blame him. Because I work out of the house, I’m always home. He gets up for work, I’m there. He comes home from work, there I am. Want to eat lunch at home? How ya doin’. Want to watch
TV? Right over here, honey.
So he, in his brilliance (damn, does he deserve an award for this), stole time for himself
without ever having to say, “I need time alone.” And while, intellectually, I completely understand this concept of away-from-the-wife time, emotionally, this does not
compute.
Yes, it’s true, I married a mensch. He’s thoughtful, he’s clean, nice to my parents, feeds the dogs—he even cooks. But, it turns out, I also married a Mensa member. And what more could a girl ask for? Besides, of course, her morning coffee.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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12/25/05 Committed
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Why man-trips have their benefits
By Lisa Baron
Jimmy’s on his man-trip. Once a year, at about this time, he packs a bag and takes his manliness on a trip, by himself. Just he and his manhood, many, many miles away and sometimes even an ocean away from Sandy Springs. He goes to get away from the cold, away from the traffic, away from his job and most noticeably, away from me.
And I couldn’t be happier.
Not because he’s away from me. But because within the confines of our committed marriage, he’s free to take time for himself. He takes this time, free of guilt and free from the nagging and complaining from his wife. And for this I couldn’t be happier.
I get a ton of crap for this tradition from our friends. Some just don’t understand why it’s OK or even necessary for someone who is married to take a trip (gasp) alone. If you’re married, shouldn’t you want to be together all the time? Isn’t marriage just a big mind-melt, where two people become one, sometimes even blending their names, like Bennifer, Brangelina or TomCat?
Hell to the no. The only name that changed was my last name. And in doing so, I didn’t assume a different identity; I became part of a family. But I will admit sometimes when I’m introducing myself and I hear myself say “Baron” instead my maiden name, it often still rings funny, and I’m taken aback. Not out of shock but out of awe. Because inside of this married 33-year-old woman is a 20-year-old girl who on occasion has to reintroduce herself to her life.
After all, I’m the same girl who sucked the life force out of a serious of unfortunate former boyfriends. The last person I assaulted using this strategy was Jonathan.
He still had his legs, arms, his hands and his heart in his previous relationship. Only here’s where it gets tricky. He was recently divorced, only it wasn’t his wife he was pining for, he had a girlfriend, but he forgot to tell his wife about his girlfriend.
Anyways, the only part of him that was in our entanglement was his penis. So, duh, of course, I attached myself to the appendage he was offering up. I mean who wouldn’t want to check themselves into this insane asylum–heart-first.
Here was my strategy, every minute he was awake, I would be there. Like a catheter, I would worm my way up to his heart and ultimately take over the part of his brain that his ex-girlfriend was still occupying. You are probably surprised to learn that it didn’t work. The one weekend I left him by himself he stalked his ex-girlfriend and begged to get her back. And I couldn’t be happier.
Well, at the time I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. So desperate not to be alone, I overlooked every obvious character defect and was hysterically blind to the brightness of every red flag that was being waved right in my face.
I tried to erase Jonathan from my memory. I still throw up in my mouth sometimes just thinking about why I was ever in that relationship to begin with. But once I rinse my mouth out, I’m not that horrified. While Jonathan was a big throbbing mess of major issues, without him I might not have learned how to breathe on my own. And I certainly never would have learned how to let the people I truly love do the same. And that makes me happy.
I am not threatened by Jimmy’s solo trips. I am not concerned that he’ll forget about me. I don’t lay awake at night in a pool of my own sweat biting my fingernails wondering if Jimmy went to bed alone that night. I know why he goes away once a year–and it’s not to get some tribal booty. He goes to recharge his soul. He had a life before entering into our party for two. And as much as marriage brings you together, the time you get to spend with yourself can bring just as much happiness.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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12/18/05 - Committed - Sucking the fat out
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Sucking the fat out
By Lisa Baron
Last time I checked it was my ass, not Jimmy’s. So why is it any of his business if I want to get the fat sucked out of it? And while we’re on the topic, why wouldn’t he want his wife to have an ass that would make a hyena roll over and play dead?
Wouldn’t every guy want his wife to have ass like the one the girl in his dreams has? And let me tell you something else, in the interest of full disclosure, it’s not just my ass that needs a little trimming this season either, I’d like to shave a little off my thighs, and I’m interested in taking the air out of the tire that I apparently swallowed some time after my 30th birthday.
I first got the idea from my former college roommate and recently divorced friend Lara. She cut out her husband and her back fat all at the same time. She got her boobs done, too, and she told me that this is the best she has ever looked. I think her exact phrase was, “I seriously look hot.”
I’m slightly panicked to think that this is as good as it’s going to get. Especially considering that I am supposed to be in my sexual prime. But the only thing I’m humping in—are the pounds. My friends are fifty-fifty on the whole idea. One encouraged me, one started calling me a "time-fighter,” and the other two are telling me to let childbirth ravish my body first, before I go in for a tune-up. This is reasonable. But kids, so I’ve heard, suck the life out of you, not the fat.
Jimmy, complete with eyes rolling back in his head, convulses every time I remind him of my plans to exorcise the evil of doughnuts past. Then he tells me not to bring it up anymore because it “aggravates” him. But I don’t even get why I need his sign-off? I have made more important decisions in my life—on my own—than seeking an outpatient procedure to surgically peel off the lard jumpsuit I’ve been cruising around in for the past few years.
Like the time I decided to stop globetrotting and settle in Atlanta. I packed up my white Honda Accord and left the swamps of Tallahassee, Fla. for the urban promise of Atlanta. Winding up Interstate 85 with the downtown skyline in the distance, I knew this was the place for me. That decision ultimately led me to the next major decision, which was to get married. To a man who fell asleep on our second (or maybe it was our third) date.
My friend Lara encouraged me to go on one more date—we had, after all, gone to a lecture on global peace or maybe it was global warming, I don't know. So I did. This was another good decision, because the fourth date was great and so was the next year and a half. What I thought was an isolated incident of a man being so unimpressed with his date, was actually consistent behavior. He falls asleep everywhere. Speeches, movies, the dinner table—you name it, he’s slept there.
So I’m capable of making a decision. But here’s the thing, I don’t make a lot of decisions in my marriage because most of them are inconsequential to me. I don’t care where we go to dinner, I don’t care what movie we see, I don’t care what brand of detergent we use or which side of the closet he wants to use. What the hell do I care? I know I’ll eat, and I’m just happy to be going on vacation.
I don’t even care that I drive the less-desirable car. And I’m not even asking for a new car. My car works fine, and that’s why I completely uninterested in fighting over something I don’t really care that much about to begin with. And some things just are not worth fighting over.
So you would think that with as little decision-making power as I have that I would be given the tiniest bit of authority to cut my dividends in half. And I’m not asking to all of a sudden start wearing the pants, I just want to frickin’ look better in the pants I’m already wearing.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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12/11/05 - Committed - My big cavernous pit of love
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'My big cavernous pit of love'
By Lisa Baron
I swear I don’t have a big vagina, but over the Thanksgiving holiday, I told my father-in-law I did.
That’s right, I told him right to his face that his daughter-in-law, the woman his beloved first born son chose for a wife comes with a big cavernous pit of love.
I’m not frickin’ kidding either. And I committed this transgression against myself without even saying a word, I signed it. I held up my hands, connected the fleshy base of my palms together and separated them to form the letter V. Then I turned, smiled and showed it to my father-in-law. I wish it weren’t true, oh do I wish it weren’t true.
And it’s not like I go around talking about my vagina either. The only people I talk about my whoo-ha with are my best friends and Debbie, the bikini waxer. And as far as Debbie goes, we only discussed it once—to decide on what was to be eliminated. And I've only ever mentioned my netherworld to my own dad—and mom—once.
When I first moved to Atlanta, I had a reaction to some antibiotic, (if you’re a girl, you know what I'm talking about) so I had to go see a gynecologist. But I didn’t have one in Atlanta, so I was totally freaking out and calling my parents every five minutes to help me find a doctor. I thought if it didn’t get immediate attention, it might fall off. And I figured that even though it wasn’t getting any use at the time, eventually I was going to need it.
My parents misunderstood the reasons for my urgency, and on one our eight phone calls, my mom told me that based on what I was telling her she and my dad thought I probably had pelvic inflammatory disease. … That's nice. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
But even though my parents thought I had a sexually transmitted disease, there are few things in life more horrible than talking about your privates with your husband’s parents. You would think that Jimmy, the one who instigated this violation of Herculean proportions, would understand such a simple concept.
Even though we don’t have kids, we split the holidays between in-laws. We spend Thanksgiving in Chicago and Passover in Phoenix. This year it was so cold the only reason you would have gone outside would have been to freeze off a wart to save yourself a drive to the doctor’s office. That’s why we were all hanging out indoors where Jimmy and his dad were watching a Tivo’d rerun of "Curb Your Enthusiasm."
In this particular episode, Larry David's friend Richard Lewis is suffering from kidney failure. The friend has a live-in nurse. The nurse used to date Larry’s friend. She tells Larry that his friend has a small penis. When Larry tells his friend about his small penis, the friend corrects him and tells Larry, that, in fact, he does not have a small penis, she's the one with the size problem. And what is the sign for this gaping problem, that’s right, two bare hands raised up to form a capital V.
This was where I entered the scene. I plopped down in the middle of the billowy brown sectional. My husband, the sicko, was on my right and my father-in-law, whom I’ll never be able to make eye contact with again, was on my left. My father-in-law is kind of a low-talker, so you can’t always hear him. It’s common for us to act as human hearing aids. He asked Jimmy a question.
Apparently Jimmy didn't hear the question because he never answered. So, I relayed it to him.
Jimmy, performing what I thought was some hand origami, said, “Tell him this.” Like a sheep being led to slaughter, I bah-bah-baaahed all the way to the chopping block. Oh, did Jimmy laugh. He thought he was so funny.
Maybe it was all a result of being locked in for so many days. You begin to feel like you’re in Babylonian captivity. You’re so desperate for stimulation that you’ll do anything to entertain yourself. Even if it means that your wife will never be able to look at your father again.
That’s why I didn’t divorce him on the spot. And believe me; I probably had the legal and emotional grounds to get the thing annulled. God willing, our case would be assigned to a female judge, who would understand all too well the severity of this betrayal.
But, my big cavernous pit of love—otherwise known as: my heart—decided to stay married. But not without threatening to leave. Oh, and I did get a new pair of shoes.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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12/04/05 - Committed - Leaving Atlanta for a bisexual plumber
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Committed
Leaving Atlanta for a bisexual plumber
By Lisa Baron
Jimmy says that bisexual plumbers are not a good enough reason to move to San Diego. “If it’s really that important to you to befriend one" he continues, unmoved by my request, "maybe you could get an apartment in Decatur." But the one that inspired me to go west isn't repairing closets in Atlanta. When I saw her, she was crunched on a dance floor surrounded by socially and rhythmically awkward Jewish adolescent boys while at a bar mitzvah in a downtown San Diego hotel.
We were later told that she used to be a massage therapist, but apparently she hasn’t been massaging as much as she used to, so to earn some extra money, she freelances … as a plumber. Fair enough.
We both watched the scene unfold from the outskirts of funky town. I was sipping my warm merlot; Jimmy sucking back his third warm Sprite. We must’ve looked parched for entertainment because the sweaty father of the bar mitzvah boy sprung free from the traditional stomp, thrust and twirl of the regulation Jewish circle dance to catch up with us.
“Have you met Carol?” he asked, pointing, to a short-haired blond woman on the dance floor?
We signaled no by shaking our heads.
“She’s great. She’s been plumbing for us for years. She’s not married, though, she likes to … you know—hit from both sides of the plate.”
And there was more.
“If Brenda and I die, Adam says he wants to go live with her. So," he paused, "last week we wrote her into our will.”
If Jimmy and I had a son and it was his bar mitzvah, our dance floor would look like Sunday brunch at a Boca Raton country club. Booorrrring. That’s when I started thinking that California might be a good place to live. We needed to diversify.
I was born in Los Angeles. I used to roller skate with Dana Plato. Richard Simmons was at the hospital when my baby brother was born. I will always think of California as a land full of people dressed in shirts of hemp and pants of linen. By day they eat wholegrain bread. By night they drink wine from chalices and congratulate each other for being beautiful. And now, they are all raising each other’s children. Who wouldn't want a piece of that?
Besides, I’ve blown my life up for less handy things than trying to expand my social circle to include an AC/DC do-it-yourselfer.
When I was 7, my parents moved us to Phoenix. But there were only so many saguaros and tumbleweeds I could stare at before the prickly heat of boredom sent me east.
I had always dreamed of becoming a witness to some sordid Washington, D.C., Water-gate-style inquiry. The investigation, broadcast live on national TV, would either be of the Russian spy variety or involve stockpiling weapons that were then sold out of ice caves. I would be the very smart, expertly dressed executive assistant with the embarrassingly great hair who kept all the phone logs and transferred all the calls to the spy or weapons collector ringleader.
When I appeared before the newly created commission to offer my testimony, the cameras would capture my perfectly tailored suit, coordinating eye shadow and expertly matched handbag, which would then capture America’s imagination, which would then capture Hollywood’s interest. Mary Louise Parker would play me in the Lifetime movie. I’d be immortal.
Undiscovered, I left D.C. for New Jersey. When that job was over, I moved to Iowa. About three weeks into the Iowa experience, Monica got caught under Bill Clinton’s desk. And that blue dress, well, it was nothing to write to Women's Wear Daily about. It’s such a shame, she had all that great hair.
After Iowa, I moved to Florida, then back to Arizona and then to Atlanta. I’ve been here for six years, and I’m starting to itch. And I don’t want to leave my husband; I want him to join in making life-altering decisions based on nothing.
But I don’t think he’s up for it. Last Wednesday we were sitting in the airport, waiting to board our flight to Chicago. Turns out that one of our neighbors was on the same flight. She walked over to where we were sitting to pass the time. “Who are you traveling with?” Jimmy asked. She pointed to an attractive middle-aged brunette sitting two rows over and said, “My partner.”
Jimmy immediately turned to me and quietly asked, “Satisfied?”
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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Committed 11/27/05
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Committed
Giving thanks for friends, mini-schnauzers and my maid
By Lisa Baron
Jimmy thinks that because I refer to my bootcamp instructor John, as my knight-in-shining-black-chocolate, that I want to have tantric, rabid, back-breaking, aerobic, primal, lengthy, suspended-from-the-ceiling, extracurricular, shout-it-from-the-hill-tops sex with him. It's not that at all. It's just that I look forward to showing up every night at 6 to run laps around Chastain Park like a fevered, feral hamster scratching my way to the last five minutes of the regimen, so I can pretend not to be able to do pushups. That's when John, sensing a camper in distress, hovers over me, wrapping his giant Mr. Clean hands around my waist to aid in the hoisting.
Yes, I'm thankful for John. But he's not the only thing I'll publicly praise as we go around the Thanksgiving table remarking on those things that bring joy to our lives.
Negative
I’m thankful that the herpes test my husband took for entertainment on the morning show he co-hosts came back negative. I didn’t marry just for love, (although that did factor into my decision greatly) I also married to safely escape the threat of contracting an incurable viral infection. So the thought that the lock to my disease-free self was about to be picked, was mildly troubling, but nothing that couldn’t be taken care of with a topical cream and a big blue pill.
Jack
I have an unhealthy attachment to my mini-schnauzer Jack. I love everything about him, including the Xanaxy effect he has on my blood pressure. Sometimes I look into his dark coffee-brown eyes, and I just want to jump into his skin. Nobody likes Jack but me. It’s not like he’s got hot-fluid leaking out his ass, he just bites. And digs and pees on luggage and women's purses.
I’ve had him since he was 6 weeks old. We’ve gone through 25 bad dates, five boyfriends, two apartments and three groomers. My friends, and sometimes even my husband, call him many things, but I will always call him mine.
Margaret
To get Jimmy to date me I pretended I didn’t smoke, I pretended to scuba dive, I pretended that I liked Neil Diamond, and possibly the most egregious—I pretended that his pleasure superseded mine. But I never, ever, not for one minute pretended that I liked to clean. That’s why I am extra thankful for Margaret. Margaret comes to clean our house twice a week. I think she knows how irreplaceable she is to my quality of life, as I often come home to find her on the phone or trying on my hats. Once I even found her sampling a leftover chocolate cake from the previous night’s dinner party. My phone, my clothes, my food—a small price to pay for the service she provides. She does everything I don’t want to do including, refrigerators, sinks, tubs … maybe even husbands.
My Girls
In high school I measured my worthiness by the quantity of friends I had. But then like half of them kissed my boyfriends, borrowed my clothes and sucked my parent’s liquor cabinet dry. In college it was more of the same, minus the breaking and entering of my parent’s stockpile—and that’s only because on campus kegs were as easily accessible as my college roommate's pants.
I've since changed my strategy. I’m into quality. I don’t merely have five friends; I have an overflowing cup’s worth of honest camaraderie. Because of them, I laugh more, cry less, laugh till I cry and cry until one of them gets me to laugh. They are as loyal as sisters should be and refreshingly so. We know each other’s dysfunctions and cheer each other’s strengths. Without them, life would be very, very medicated.
Jack, Margaret, John and my like-minded tribe of sisters-in-arms bring to my life the one thing my marriage needs to survive—balance. These important people, even the dessert stealing house-keeper, keep my hours and days full. The less time I have to over think and analyze every minute of my marriage, the more my marriage grows. And sometimes, in my bluest of hours, I know I can count on any of them, (except for maybe my maid who likes to call her relatives long-distance during peak hours) to hoist me up before I fall flat on my face. And for that, I’m thankful.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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11/20/05 - Committed
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Committed
Diving face-first into a bottle of hell
By Lisa Baron
What pisses me off the most about my recent narcotic episode is that when I was looking for this crap, I couldn't find it anywhere. Oh, what I would've given to have stumbled upon a full bottle of someone else's drugs back in the day. But that was so 10 years ago. Now I am just too damn old and creaky and I don't have the time anymore to nurse myself back to functional. I've got things to do—things other than grind my jaw or lick my lips raw.
It was because I have so many things to do that I helped myself to Jimmy's brain pills. OK, there not actually "brain" pills, but that's what I called them. That is, until Jimmy came home and had to scrape me off the ceiling like burnt butter scorched to the bottom of a frying pan. The bullet I swallowed was the size of a horse suppository. It's a non-addictive, industrial-strength no-doze designed for the sleep-deprived—like Jimmy, who gets up at the butt-crack of dawn. I read an article that said his medication is not only good for sleeplessness, it's being looked at to mentally sharpen even well-rested folks. I mean, I could use a little edge. So after I finished my fourth cup of coffee, I took it.
That was Monday. Wednesday, I was still awake. And it wasn't even the good kind of awake. I wasn't up and burning calories with each breath. I didn't feel smarter or sexier. I didn't want to scrub my entire kitchen raw or organize photos in alphabetical order. I was just up.
But it wouldn't be the first time I jumped face-first into a bottle of hell. Like the time I told Jimmy I definitely wanted to go scuba diving. I mean, what was I supposed to say? We had barely been dating, and he asked me if I wanted to go on a scuba-diving trip with him. Fake it till you make it, I thought. I'll swim around with some fish and then I'll emerge wet and thin into the arms of my new boyfriend.
Then I found out that diving isn't just about starving yourself so that you look good in your wetsuit. You have to get certified. Most people take up to four days for certification. Refusing to pour myself into a rubber suit before the last ounce was off my ass, I waited until the very last second. I got certified in 24 hours. I looked at charts and graphs and paid very careful attention to all pieces of information that directly spoke to how to survive if your air tanks ran out of oxygen or you lose your boyfriend in the big black abyss of love. Then it came time for the closed water instruction. That lasted for four hours.
Ten hours later I was 37,000 feet up in the air swimming in champagne, bound for the Caribbean. Five hours after that I was flopping around the bathroom floor like a freshly hooked carp looking at just five more minutes of alive time. Between sucking fake air out of strap-on tanks and lapping up alcohol while inhaling re-circulated air, every ounce of hydration in my body had been sucked away. Even my eyeballs had dried out.
When I finally got into the water a day later, I forgot that I also get seasick. I even puked up the crackers and saltines Jimmy fed me. It was lovely, really. So I'm not as aquatic as I claimed—at least I tried.
Maybe I shouldn't have been tapping into Jimmy's medicine cabinet. But my intentions weren't spawned from evil. And I don't think he's mad. He just doesn't ask me to go on anymore scuba-diving trips.
Thursday morning, as I cautiously dipped my toe into my first cup of coffee, I got this lovely message in my in-box: "I think you should take two of the pills today and see if you can stay up from now through December. Love, Jimmy."
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy Baron. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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11/13/05 - Committed - Animal behavior: acting up at the zoo
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Animal behavior: acting up at the zoo
By Lisa Baron
I can’t believe Jimmy was embarrassed just because I asked some guy to put a blue-tongued skink down his pants. Instead of scolding me, he should’ve thanked me. It’s not every day that I ask someone to shove a live mammal down his trousers. Fine, I understood that we were at a party and everybody was all dressed up in their jean skirts, faux pearls and reptile-wrapped boots, but I wasn’t trying to embarrass him, I was just trying to entertain myself.
I also wanted to entertain my friend. And maybe it was an inappropriate use of a skink, maybe I shouldn’t do everything Jessica tells me to do, but at the time it seemed like the perfect pick-me-up to a party I had no business attending. Besides, if Jimmy would’ve just cooperated, I wouldn’t have been the only thing that perked up. Really, I was only thinking of Jimmy.
I’ve been riding the sofa for so long, I’ve forgotten how to swing from the trees. |
But ever since men I’m not married to were ceremoniously cut out of the equation, it’s not like I have a ton of things to do at these parties. I can drink, and I can talk to people. But I didn’t know anybody at this particular soiree—and drinks were like 90 bucks and all that got you was a plastic pixie-cup full of merlot, it didn’t guarantee a buzz. Plus, they didn’t take credit cards, and I never have cash on me.
I only sort of wanted to go out anyways. Jimmy really wanted to go this party. So he lured me with the promise that Jessica and her husband would be there as well as an open bar—that’s when I warmed up.
The party, tucked behind the panda cages at the zoo and covered in low-hanging clouds bursting with funky creature crap, was a lotus land unto itself. And shock the-mother-frickin’ monkey, wouldn’t you know, everyone was gorgeous, gaunt and 22. Bitches.
I don’t struggle with my self-esteem or anything, but I swear to god, even in my most disciplined, anorexic, over-aerobic, ephedrine-absorbing days, I never looked as good as these birds. And these were drunk chicks—nobody’s pretty when they're ugly drunk.
Jimmy hates zoos, so it was a mystery to me why he wanted to attend in the first place. OK, maybe hate is too strong of a word. Jimmy thinks that animals, particularly the big ones, are better off in the wild than in a cage. This is probably why he was so adamant about getting out.
I’m with the animals on this one. I much prefer to gnaw on sugar cubes and suck alcohol through a shiny-stemmed water bottle in my carpet-lined, temperature-controlled, gray- hard-coat-stucco suburban Sandy Springs cave. Ever since I was plucked from Midtown and carefully relocated, I’ve adjusted quite nicely to my surroundings. I’ve been riding the sofa for so long, I’ve forgotten how to swing from the trees. Now I don’t know if it’s the married part or the years of refusing to pass on dessert, but my nerve endings have dulled. The instincts I once relied upon to get someone to pay for my drinks have completely evaporated.
So maybe that explains the situation. I was bored. I was sober, and the one-man petting zoo was waxing poetic about zookeeping and how the animals acclimate quickly and how they're happy and how they're shiny … blah, blah, blah. Which is why I accepted the noble responsibility handed down to me by my play date. Heck, I didn't mind if she got to be the organ grinder, and I was the red-velvet-fez-wearing chirping chimp who with every hop pitifully claps until someone notices. No, I’m not embarrassed at all. Am I sorry that my husband had to verbally extinguish the feces-impregnated-air after I made a perfectly reasonable request to have a lizard thrust into his corduroys? I don’t know, I guess sometimes even monkeys fall from trees.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy Baron. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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11/06/05 - Committed - Tunneling through on my own
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Tunneling through on my own
By Lisa Baron
Just because I went to the concert with Jimmy doesn’t mean I have to go home with him, too. If I want to stay at the Nine Inch Nails show to the bitter, industrial, self-loathing, anti-government end, then more goth-power to me.
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Lisa was as tormented about leaving the Nine Inch Nails concert as front man Trent Reznor (pictured) was about singing it. (photo Getty Images) |
Jimmy gets up disturbingly early for work. That’s why he doesn't want to stay out past 10:30 p.m. (In truth, he’ll stay out, but not for a Nine Inch Nails concert.) So we cut a deal. Jimmy will drive me down to the concert, stay for an hour and then leave. I can either go home with him or take a cab. Born out of laziness, not spawned out of wedlock, I assume I’ll just go home.
But the concert starts late and Jimmy leaves shortly thereafter. As he starts up the stairs, one step closer to his car and farther away from me, I feel slightly uneasy, socially uncomfortable—and then I feel embarrassed … for myself.
“What have I become?” my left brain asks my right brain. “Is this my empire of codependence? I’ve gotten home—all by myself—from far worse places than downtown Atlanta. Like the one time I tunneled out of Tijuana—literally.
Barely clothed and 21, I entered this brave new world of all-night dance clubs and Jell-O shooters via metal turnstiles and cigarette-butt lined walkways.
Like a man without a country, I left six hours later in exile. Penniless, friendless and reliant only on blurred night vision and the rough touch of sandpapery covered ducts—its primary function to catch the human flotsam that gathers on the edges of its concrete shores. I made it through safely and without getting sick, might I add, to my own bed.
I have a proud history of going home alone. In retrospect escaping under the bright stadium lights and border agents was a frickin’ tequila-soaked tiptoe through the tulips compared to what I’ve escaped from with nothing but sheer will and $40 between two credit cards.
I have tunneled my way out of thousands of bad dates and cut short every passionate tryst gone painfully wrong.
I rode into this marriage with the self-reliant girl’s four horsemen: independence, tenacity, street smarts and credit cards. |
I’ve missed flights, found flights, gotten lost, gotten found and booked hotels at the last minute to escape the arrangements previously arranged for me by many an undeserving man with his sights and his crotch set on an unsuspecting and unwilling participant. I've gotten away even when all I've had were two maxed out credit cards and tips from my job as a bad waitress.
Back at the concert, I let myself let Jimmy leave without me. I stay until the band sings the last note of the last song.
Immediately following the show and once I have full use of my ears again, I, too, go up the stairs. Before I leave the building, I stop to buy a T-shirt. Among those lined up behind the vending table is a gray-haired, pot-bellied woman wearing a black peek-a-boo macramé minidress and no shoes. That’s when I hate that my mate isn't by my side—so I can show him this sideshow.
But I rode into this marriage with the self-reliant girl’s four horsemen: independence, tenacity, street smarts and credit cards. Now is not the time to switch horses. It’s just time to hail a cab and ride that bad boy from the inner city to the outer suburbs, back to home and into my bed where my husband lies sleeping.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy Baron. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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10/30/05 - Committed - The princess and the prostitute
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The princess and the prostitute
By Lisa Baron
I'm downloading gangsta rap into my iPod—a gift from Jimmy's boss. Strange gift from the general manager of a radio station. Sort of. He gave one to me, Fred's wife, Fat Kid's wife and Wally's wife. He wants us to listen to our iPods instead of the station's morning show. If we're not listening to the morning show, then we don't hear our husbands clamoring on about the desperate state of affairs in their homes. And if we don't hear them whining, they are spared the shrill squawks of done-wrong housewives. So now I have an iPod and Jimmy gets to complain without retaliation and everyone is happy. Sort of.
"My inner slut was snuffed out well before her time." |
Anyway, I'm shoving Eazy-E and the 2 Live Crew into the spores of my iPod and somewhere between "Eazy-Duz-It" and "Me So Horny," a prickly heat rises through my body, finally breaking into a cool, mellow mourn over the lost chance of ever being with a black man. Or a yellow man, for that matter, or the golden hue of the honey-brown Italian or his first cousin, the dreamy Spaniard. In my monomaniacal pursuit of finding "the one," I selflessly worried about keeping my numbers low before marriage; totally screwing myself in the process. This insane logic (everyone lies about their numbers, anyway) has left me mentally and numerically low.
Amid this alien corn of monogamy, I often drop to my knees and weep for the truth. My inner slut was snuffed out well before her time. Her memory, bound and gagged, is locked in the trunk of a committed marriage. She's silenced forever.
Or is she? There's always Halloween. Kids like it for the candy; I use it for the costumes.
I had no plans for this Halloween. Last year I was a princess. And not even a sexy princess—just a boring, G-rated mock royal with a bejeweled headpiece. So I'm hanging out with two friends, one married, one not. They've got a concept, and they need one more participant to complete the set. Since Jimmy's out of town, I agree to be a referee—a sexy referee. (Attention sports fans, the kitten's coming out of the bag!)
We'll be wearing black-and-white-striped onesies, white high-heeled, lace-up Converse sneakers, and whistles. We're in bitter negotiations over hair and makeup. One faux umpire is having second thoughts about us wearing our hair in pigtails. "I think that's over-the-top," she cautions. I'm not convinced that it's the hairdo that makes this outfit aggressively ho-ish.
The unattached member of our trio of conciliators calls me all breathless because she thinks we should smear our lips red and glue a row of ultra-foxy falsies to our upper lids. But of course she thinks that. Her return on investment for our $49.99 weak attempt at disguising what we're really dressing up as may actually pay off; she'll probably end up bagging some random treat.
Knowing myself, I'll go to all this trouble to stuff myself into a C-grade loincloth and then if any dude so much as brushes up against me, I'll throw down a penalty and shame him for misconduct on a married woman. Unless he's really cute; then I'll wait a few minutes before sending him to the penalty box.
But Halloween is one night—a single night at the tail end of October to parade around as anything or anyone you want. Maybe it's the one night to be what you really are. Based on my history, I vacillate between princess and prostitute—I don't know, I'll have to take that one to my therapist.
But based on my current life, at the end of the night, no matter how we wear our hair or paint our lips, I'll come home to my familiarly comfortable house, unlace my high-heeled tennis shoes, peel-off my pleather patch of a get-up, hose it down with Febreze and then, along with my alter-ho, tuck it away, way back in the closet where it belongs.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy Baron. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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10/23/05 - Committed - Stuck in marriage counseling hell
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Stuck in marriage counseling hell
By Lisa Baron
Sunday, Oct. 16
I spent most the day watching Tivo’d episodes of "Breaking Bonaduce." And, yes, I admit, that while watching the antics of the former child actor Danny Bonaduce does makes me feel pretty good about my own life, I discovered that 'The Duce" and I have a few things in common.
Aside from pretending to ride his kid’s motor scooter into traffic (shirtless), injecting his red-furry ass with steroids and trying to control his wife, "The Duce" is right on point: Marriage counseling sucks.
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What do Danny Bonaduce and Lisa have in common? (photo Mark Mainz/Getty Images) |
Talking about your “feelings” is way overrated. I used to love to preschedule times with Jimmy to “talk” about my feelings. I’d call him up or e-mail him and tell him that we needed to “talk” as soon as possible. But my motivation was transparent. I wanted to get a read on whether or not we’d be engaged soon.
The Duce, like me, believes that excessive counseling can cause more problems than it solves. Let me be clear, I am not anti-therapy. I have been getting on and off the therapist’s couch for years. Heck, my Atlanta psychiatrist weaned me off Mr. Wrong and gets the credit for my marrying Mr. Right (aka Mr. Baron).
But it's a myth that "what happens in the counselor's office stays in the counselor's office." Unless, of course, you're in there alone.
Say you just told the counselor that you think there’s a heavy metal pole stuck up your spouse's ass and that you didn’t realize said pole was going to pose as many problems as it has. Your husband/wife heard it. And what happens in the therapist’s office DOES NOT STAY THERE. So now in the name of openness and honesty you have a new problem, and it’s 10 times more uncomfortable than a pole up your ass.
Your spouse may have been completely unaware that a pole even existed. That is, until you decided it would be "healthy" to go sit in the room and talk about your feelings.
Another big problem is the fact that although the facilitator claims to be “impartial,” he or she clearly has a favorite. The Duce’s therapist likes his wife better, for sure. Which, I have to tell you, is not the way I would go. If I had some guy in my office clanking coffee cups against his head, I’d high-five myself and wonder how I got so lucky. This patient is clearly more fun than the guy who likes to wear his wife's clothing, and I would bend every professional and ethical rule possible to ramp up sessions to at least five times a week.
Our counselor likes Jimmy better.
These two (Jimmy and his analyst) are trying to convince me that I need more help. So now after one trained professional and my husband are telling me I’m crazy, I have to call up my own psychiatrist and make an appointment to undo all the damage these two have done.
There’s one scene in "Breaking Bonaduce" where The Duce and his wife are on the therapist’s couch, and he starts professing his undying love to his wife. He’s so in love with her, he’d die without her, she’s the best thing. … That’s when I decided not only is he right about counseling, but he’s also a romantic. And I wanted to talk about our lack of romance.
“Jimmy, how come you never passionately cup my face between your two hands and exclaim to anyone within earshot you're dying devotion to me?’
“I can behave like Danny Bonaduce if that’ll make you happy." Jimmy says, unimpressed.
It’s that kind of behavior that gets you a one-way ticket into counseling hell.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy Baron. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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10/16/05 - Committed - The care and nurturing of a relationship
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The care and nurturing of a relationship
By Lisa Baron
Monday, Oct. 10 Location: My house
Just because Checkoway is Jimmy’s friend and not “technically” mine, doesn’t mean I can’t tell him how he should be living his life. At 38 with no job and no shoes (he only wears flip-flops) he’s just begging for my instruction.
Checkoway hasn’t always been jobless—even flip-flops aren’t free, you know. He once had a job he hated. He stewed in his misery for quite a long time. So one day he left. And I applauded him. I don’t care how old you are, no one should have to be stuck in any situation that’s causing them to be unhappy. He bravely soldiered on, forfeiting a parking spot, a steady paycheck, and a Publix cake every year for his birthday to pursue a career. He wanted to be on the radio.
Focused, he spent the last year-and-a-half working his ass off to get his foot inside a radio station. And let me tell you more one thing about Checkoway, he dated like crazy. I mean here’s a guy with no job, no shoes (which translates into no game), and he’s getting serviced all over town. Again, my hat’s off to him.
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The flip-flop wearing Checkoway is giving up his career for a woman. |
So finally his diligence pays off, and he gets offered the coveted radio job. And the word on the street is that he’s planning on turning it down. He says he met a girl 70 days ago. She lives in New York. He’s been going up there every weekend, and he says that she’s “the one." So, as I’m to understand it, Checkoway is throwing away a career opportunity in order to throw himself heart-first into an extremely new and very long-distance relationship.
It hurts not to judge Checkoway, especially because there is just so much to work with there.
7:30 p.m. Dinner begin
Jimmy corners me in the kitchen and wonders if we should talk Checkoway out of ruining his life. As I toss the salad, I start thinking that technically he’s not “chasing” her. She probably not only knows about her title, she has probably accepted it—which means she’s probably been accepting a lot of new things into her world, which means they’re totally doing it. And this is something I try not to think about. Not while he’s sitting at my dinner table or really anywhere where food is served for that matter.
I sternly advise Jimmy against mentioning the topic at dinner. “Let’s give him the opportunity to bring it up,” I say with conviction.
We sit down, and Checkoway pours his wine. Before his booze is halfway down his throat, I burst out, “Checkoway, what the hell?”
Checkoway responds like a man who’s heard that question before, “Isn’t it obvious, I am forgoing my radio career for a woman.”
“Checkoway," I chirp, "I think that’s a very, very bad idea.” Does your girlfriend know that you are changing the entire course of your life to roll the dice on a relationship that was born just 70 days ago?”
I continue, because now I’m certain that this really is my business, “I couldn’t imagine being responsible for someone else’s happiness.”
“Work will never be my number one priority," he says. "I’d rather take a risk on a relationship than on a job. It’s a lot easier to find a job than it is to find someone to share your life with.”
“I just hate to see you give up something you’ve worked so hard for, for a new relationship that, I might add, also happens to be long distance," I say.
“There’s a relationship philosophy that says if it’s meant to be, it’ll work out. I don’t buy that. Relationships require effort and nurturing," he counters. "You can’t put a relationship on the back burner and expect it to flourish."
“You may just have a point there, flip-flop boy," I ponder. "Maybe I should start working harder on my relationship … like it’s my job.”
Suddenly Jimmy becomes very interested in the conversation. “Not if you want to be married to me.”
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy Baron. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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10/09/05 - Getting down to the business of (not) having a baby
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Getting down to the business of
(not) having a baby
By Lisa Baron
Bottles of red wine: 6 Conjugal visits: 0 Hoping my pre-nup is unenforceable: 1
Monday, Sept. 26
“He planted a seed in me. And he’s been watering that seed and fertilizing that seed … oh wait, I really should choose different language. My wife's here, and she's been hawking me for a baby.” I swear to God this was the speech Jimmy gave in front of 300 people at a Jewish business professionals networking event.
Let me provide a little setup. He’s talking about his Jewish studies.
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Much to her parents chagrin, there's no bundle of joy for Lisa yet. |
Is it hot in here, or did he just tell a mini-herd of the chosen people that I am "hawking" him for a baby? I’m scanning the room for a hole to climb into. Feeling the piercing looks of 600 eyes on my unoccupied womb, I confirm to myself that he just said what I thought he just said. And he said it like I've been on his case for a new car or upgrade on my engagement ring.
As I resume normal breathing patterns, I decide that I am now embarrassed for him. At 43 years old he has to be hawked for a baby?
I really hadn’t thought about my babylessness for days—probably because I haven’t had sex for weeks.
And we’re not, not doing it, because we’re mad or don’t like each other or doing it with somebody else. There are two problems: I’m a morning/afternoon person, and Jimmy’s a nighttime guy. Morning and night, we’re tired. Plus, after such a long stretch of no sex, getting it on can be like dusting off a car that’s been sitting in the garage motionless for months. You don’t just jump in and drive away, you gotta warm it up. That can take at least 30 minutes and that’s 30 minutes I could be sleeping.
Anyways, the car’s not taking anyone anywhere for a while. Beginning Thursday both sets of parents will be staying with us for a week.
Wednesday, Sept. 28
“Tell your mother that if she wants to ruin the week, to please ask us why we don’t have kids yet, “Jimmy instructs me.
“I don’t understand why it bothers you so much, I say unaffected. “If you and I are on the same page, why does it matter what anyone else says or how often they say it?”
I continue because I never know when to stop, “We should probably baby-proof the house.” We should collect scissors, knives, nails, clippers … anything that can be used to poke tiny holes through our prophylactics. In fact, just to be safe, we should probably throw the stockpile away after they leave.”
Jimmy sighs, “Just talk to your mom.”
“I will,” I mumble. But really I won’t.
Thursday, Oct. 6
We get through the week relatively incident-free. My dad corners Jimmy once upstairs. He likes to take Jimmy through the math. “You don’t want to be 85 when your child graduates high school—and the grand kids, don’t you want to see your grand kids?”
We spend Tuesday and Wednesday in synagogue celebrating Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. My mother and I also spend it parading around like peacocks in our Italian suits and crushed velvety hats. We want to look good as we thank God for surviving the previous year. When services conclude, my mom and I zigzag through the crowd of the prayer-soaked. We bump into a good friend that Jimmy and I have known for years.
“Happy New Year,” she says as she gives both my mother and I each a on the cheek. We exchange gossip and catch up on family news.
“What’s new with you,” she asks me.
Pointing down to my unpregnant belly I say, “As you can see, nothing.”
“Honey, I wasn’t even going to ask, that’s none of my business.”
Thank God.
Lisa runs her own PR firm. She lives in the suburbs with her husband, Jimmy Baron. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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10/02/05 - A big birthday bash
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A big birthday bash and a Wiccan baby-making ritual
Xanax: 10 mg Glasses of red wine: 7 People with kids who told me that if I wanted to have a couple of kids (because they say, you shouldn’t have just one) I should start ASAP: 3 (this includes the carpet repair guy).
Sept. 21
I used to look forward to my birthday. When I was 15, I couldn’t wait to turn 16 so I could drive. At 18 my juvenile record would be expunged, but then I could be tried as an adult. Twenty-one (I think that’s fairly obvious). Twenty-five I could rent-a-car. At or around 30, I took my foot off the gas and began applying pressure to the breaks.
Jimmy is taking me out to dinner for my birthday tonight. He is a sober vegetarian who hates the whole dining experience. He doesn’t like the taste of alcohol or the thought of eating anything with a face. So for my birthday, I get to pick a restaurant where the wine flows and the fish flail.
5:30 p.m.: Check all four e-mail accounts before shutting down for the day. My first birthday bash is waiting for me in my Sunday Paper account.
Hi Lisa, Happy birthday to you, Your head's filled with poo. Your column still su-uuuucks, But it's the best you can do. Happy birthday, Lisa. I'm a day early, but I wanted to avoid the crush. So will you be having your traditional Belshazzar's feast this year? I guess my invitation got lost in the mail. See ya, Chris.
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How many candles are on Lisa's birthday cake this year? |
Chris writes to me on Wednesdays. But he’s been absent from my inbox for months. He's a former professor—taught grad students—and this explains the electronic report cards. Prior to his hiccup in service, he would routinely score my work in two categories: originality and execution. I was then administered an overall grade.
He’s also friends with witches.
Back when I was trying for a baby, he offered to help.
His friend, he testifies, is a “full-blown, goddess-worshiping, naked-in-the-moonlight Wiccan.” He forwarded on to me an “aid to conception ritual”
The occult’s DIY guide to getting knocked-up includes:
• Gathering seven nuts and seven seeds along with a green cloth and a yellow string.
• Carrying "said" seven seeds tied up in said cloth and yellow string in my pocket (near the groin).
• On the night of lovemaking, walk backwards to bed carrying a chicken egg in my left hand.
He lost me at “walk backwards to bed."
Sept. 22, Day of Birth
6:30 p.m.: The Palm "It’s all about ME (Lisa Baron) Cocktail Hour." Yes, they named the party, and, believe me, it’s not a compliment. My hens can be a tad sadistic. Sometimes I think they’re secretly rooting for Team Jolie.
7 p.m.: Jimmy drops me off but refuses to stay. One thing he hates more than eating meat are "drunk broads," especially his drunk broad. Stephanie and I are wading through our third cabernet. Julia bounds through the door.
“Happy F***ing birthday,” Julia announces while scanning the room for cigarettes to bum.
“None of you bitches told me about the freshman 15,” Victoria says accusingly, as if we were hiding the fact that everyone gains weight their first year of marriage.
“I have back fat,” Julia complains.
Into our third round of cocktails the topic switches from excess weight to carat weight as we all reach to try on each other’s rings.
Emily observes, “Do you think there is something wrong with us that we aren’t discussing things like the global warming and FEMA’s response to Katrina?
Playing to the crowd I offer, “I heard two girls took their government-issued disaster relief money right over to the Louis Vuitton store and bought a multi-color monogram.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing," Julia hisses as gray cigarette smoke tunnels out from behind her freshly bleached teeth.“After I’ve been through a natural disaster [which to her probably means changing her kid’s steamer], nothing soothes me like a brand-new handbag.”
Ah, birthdays and the friends who celebrate them with you. It almost makes being a year older worth it.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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Bridesmaids revisited
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Bridesmaids revisited
By Lisa Baron
Prozac: 20 mg Xanax: 0 Glasses of red wine: 7 Grey Goose and soda with a splash of grapefruit: 20
Tuesday, Sept.13
8:30 a.m.: As of next week there will be one more candle on my birthday cake. Stephanie sent out an Evite to organize everyone for cocktails at The Palm, my favorite place for drinks.
8:34 a.m.: Finish first of four cups of coffee. Check birthday Evite. Value self-worth based on how many people R.S.V.P. "yes."
Turn on Jimmy’s show. Toucher is on day frigging 20 of The "Peach Buzz" Trial. He tied himself into a manic bunch because Jimmy and Jeff Dauler were in "Peach Buzz" while out of the country. Get over it already. Big deal, so Jimmy and Jeff were in the paper and Fred wasn’t. Way too much drama … turn off radio.
I’m still jetlagged from Italy. I have a speech on Medicaid spending due next week, and I need to pack for Ellen’s wedding. I leave on Thursday. I know that the following isn’t the nicest thing I’ve ever written, but I am looking forward to some alone time. Fifteen days is a lot of togetherness ... and I like being with my husband. Jimmy will be driving down a day later.
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Sometimes bridesmaids and wedding guests are higher maintenance than the bride. |
Thursday, Sept. 15
2 p.m. Arrive at the Westin. Order a drink, and raise my glass to Ellen’s pending marriage and to my staying married after 15 days of constant togetherness with my husband.
Friday, Sept. 16
1 p.m. Savannah. Gryphon Tea Room .Ellen’s bridal party luncheon.
Ellen sits down at the head of the table. Ellen is a rare beauty with an equally exceptional heart. She’s America’s friend. All walks of life like her.
After we order drinks and before the main dish arrives, the dishing starts.
“El, tell me again who is reading at your wedding?” I ask for the 7,000th time, because my memory gets worse every day.
“Genie and Karen,” Ellen responds as if it were only the first time I asked.
Not knowing I'll be stepping heel-first into a big steaming pile of bridal drama, I ask Ellen if her friend Rosie is coming.
“Oh yeah," Ellen pauses and then gives a half-laugh. Her eyes widen. “You’re going to love this one. She sent me hate mail with her response card. I’m not kidding either.”
In unison all 10 of Ellen's bridesmaids ask, “Hate mail?”
“Full-on hate mail,” Ellen begins. “I sent her an invitation. She checked the 'no, I cannot attend box' and then enclosed with the card a typed out, page-long letter that started with, “F*** you. And ended with, 'Why wasn’t I asked to be a bridesmaid or a reader?'"
Another bridesmaid joins in, “Oh yeah, one of my husband’s old girlfriend’s wrote on her response card, 'F*** That' and sent it in."
Another bridesmaid, who has apparently added up the financial cost of being a bridesmaid, adds, “I don’t know what Rosie’s all bent out of shape over. Being a bridesmaid is cool and all, but it’s expensive. You got the dress, the shoes, the showers, the gifts, and you have to go to the wedding.”
“I kicked a bridesmaid out for unbecoming narcissistic behavior,” I say, recalling the situation. "She would write me the meanest e-mails. I used to feel bad about it, but looking back she really was crazy, and she needed to be sent down to the minors."
Who knew that weddings were really about the bridesmaid? It's interesting how some people just can't share the spotlight, even when it's temporary.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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Lisa Baron's diary
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Committed
Lisa Baron's diary
By Lisa Baron
Ambien: 1 Prozac: 20 mg. Xanax: 0 Red wine: 2 glasses Consults booked with plastic surgeons: 2
Saturday, Sept. 10
Noon: Just woke up. Jimmy’s been out of the house for hours. Ten days on the road of constant togetherness isn’t always easy. He and I have very different ideas of what it means to be on vacation. My vacation doesn’t include alarm clocks and schedules. Jimmy’s is. Our first few vacations together almost ended in tragedy. If I was awakened at 7:30 a.m. by the vacation bully one more time, I would’ve slit my wrists. There’s still an alarm clock, but I also go my separate way at least once a trip. I sit on a bench, sip espresso or plan what I would say if I were being interviewed by Matt Lauer.
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If Bridget Jones, played by Renée Zellweger, can keep a diary, so can Lisa. |
Meanwhile, Jimmy crams in seven parliament buildings in two hours.
12:30 p.m.: Pour first cup of coffee. Check all four e-mail accounts. No hate mail in the column account. Only three offers to enlarge my penis in the political account, which is down from the normal 10 to 15.
2 p.m.: Pour fifth cup of coffee. Turn on CNN for New Orleans update … death count, thankfully, won’t be as high as anticipated. Police have regained control of the city, CNN gives itself a pat on the back for a reporting job well done. Switch to Fox News. Switch to E!. Marcia Cross is engaged. I call major bullsh**.
3 p.m.: I look down at my protruding gut. Thank God I can’t see my ass from this position. I think the rule is that you’re still OK if your boobs stick out farther than your gut. I’ve developed a hacking cough that I’ve had for about five days. I should have it checked out.
Tuesday, Sept. 12
8 a.m.: Awakened by ringing phone. Don’t answer. At eight in the morning it’s either a telemarketer or one of my friends with kids. People with kids are the only people who call people before 9 a.m.
8:30 a.m.: Get out of bed. Check machine. Message from friend with twins. Delete message. Log on to computer. Turn on Jimmy’s show. Check political account first.
Two reporters and one guy from New York who writes me every week to tell me that I am going to hell.
10:45 a.m.: Check private account. Get an e-mail announcing that one of my peripheral friends got engaged. I forward it to happy-go-lucky friend Emily and call-it-like-it-is Cory.
“That’s a shock," Emily writes
“Which part—that they got engaged after only four months or that he’s gay?” Cory replies
“Effeminate does not always mean gay,” I IM. So what if he knows the difference between a shirt and a blouse, peach and pink, and changes cologne with the season?” I hit back.
“A triple threat," Emily observes.
“After four months you let them spend the night at your place or maybe use your toothbrush, but marriage … he must give it to her good,” Cory fires back.
“I bet she panicked. She just turned 39, she wasn’t married and she probably thought that this was as good as it got. She wants to have a baby and she pulled the emergency lever. Seems obvious,” I write back.
“Cool it, Dr. Laura," Cory quips. "Every September you visit three plastic surgeons, two infectious disease doctors and complain that ever since you turned 30 men don’t look at you anymore. Then all your friends have to praise the sh** out of you telling you that you’re pretty, successful, smart and that everyone wants to ball your brains out—which we don’t mind doing, because we’re your friends—but really, talk about obvious. You routinely melt down a month out from every birthday. Just open your goddamn presents, blow out your frigging candles and call it a day. I gotta go, the baby’s crying, call you later.”
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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Lisa and Jimmy go to Italy
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Committed
Lisa and Jimmy go to Italy
By Lisa Baron
Rome
Like so many others who came before us, Rome totally kicked our ass. We arrived Thursday, dropped our bags in the hotel and walked the city piazza by piazza. We saw the Vatican. I had no idea that guilt came from such a beautiful place. We walked the Coliseum and the Forum as well as museum after museum—sometimes checking with each other to make sure that we weren't in Vegas. At Around 2:30 a.m. we stopped to marvel at a water fountain.
"You are a vagina," a young Belgian boy called to his friend. "You are a vagina, and you don't even know what that is, and you are one," he concluded. I was the closest to the fountain. The vagina turned to me, "What is this, vagina?" So I told him.
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"Florence you may sleep with a couple times and never call again, but Venice you marry." |
We, too, have learned a lot of new words. But the words we used the most while in Italy were sadness, heartbreak and compassion and hope—everything we felt when we saw the pictures and images coming from the devastation in New Orleans.
I miss my dog.
Florence
My waistline has completely disappeared. The food lives up to its reputation. So does Michelangelo's David. It is breathtaking. Although I don't think Michelangelo was doing him any favors below the line of demarcation. That's why I stared at him mostly from behind.
There is a lot of graffiti in Italy. When you see the Forum or the Duomo or the David, it's easy to feel lost. With structures as important as these, how will anyone know you were alive? In this regard I see graffiti as something people desperately need to leave—their indelible mark on history, their proof that they were alive.
We were in Florence for two days. Wednesday morning we rode the train on the way to Venice. Some British chick snapped at Jimmy. She was a different kind of vagina … I forgot to explain that one.
Venice
Florence you may sleep with a couple times and never call again, but Venice you marry. Venice is aglow with color and ambience. It drips with romance and beauty. You can't help but fall in love with her sleepy alleys and restless canals.
Milan
In Milan the men are all dressed like they play guitar with the Strokes, and the woman all look like they date rock stars. I'm glad I am out of here in the morning.
It's easy to fall in love with Europe. We will miss the limoncello, the leather. I personally will miss seeing the gypsies and having espressos until noon and then switching to wine. But we are looking forward to getting home and seeing what we can do to help those who, right now, can't help themselves.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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Nice husbands are better than $500 skirts
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Committed
Nice husbands are better than $500 skirts
By Lisa Baron
Even when my husband is not shopping with me, he’s shopping with me. That’s why I didn’t buy the $575 black tulle skirt that made my hips look small, my stomach look flat and my wardrobe look extensive. I’m not a big marriage counselor fan, so I left it hanging in the store. With my head held high, I bounded up the stairs to Jimmy’s office where I was expecting a hero's welcome.
Astoundingly unaffected, Jimmy mumbled “You’ve bought a $575 skirt before.”
Still holding out for the Purple Heart ceremony to begin, I persisted, “Have not.” I knew I hadn’t because I would’ve worn a half-thou party skirt at least twice, and I remember everything that I’ve worn more than once.
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No matter how good it looks on you, an expensive skirt doesn't replace a fabulous husband. (Photo/AFP/Getty Images) |
The reflection of his face on the computer screen revealed zero signs of compassion. This meant that he wasn’t interested in celebrating my financial restraint with a roll in the hay. And that means we were rounding the corner on three weeks of celibacy.
I am a girl who’s had her balls cut off—I mean her credit cards cut up—by her husband and is forced to now operate on a cash-only basis and can’t split items between two billing periods. But it wasn’t very nice of him not to empathize with me. And my husband is a nice guy. Everybody likes Jimmy better than me. I think even God.
I think God likes him better because of how Jimmy spends his Thursdays. Every week Jimmy dispenses egg-salad sandwiches and apple sauce to nursing-home residents.
Yes, he’s that nice.
I was shopping online for bras one recent Thursday when Jimmy poked his head into my office and asked me if I wanted to go with him. I am kind of scared of old people, and I really did not want to go. But I would’ve felt like such a heathen if I didn’t. I’m familiar with this feeling because I experience it almost every Saturday morning when my husband gets up to go synagogue, and I’m home praying for coffee because my hangover has me pinned to my bed.
But I decided to tag along this time. When we got there we entered an auditorium that was already a swirl with music (provided by a middle-aged blonde) and the distinct smell that is often associated with nursing homes. Jimmy said something wasn’t right. “It’s the egg salad, isn’t it?” I wondered aloud.
“No, it’s Ruth,” Jimmy said. “Something isn’t right with Ruth.”
It’s not easy to tell if something isn’t right with Ruth. Ruth’s Parkinson’s can’t allow her body to be still. Her face trembles, her lips continuously tap together, and she now relies on a wheelchair to move from room to room. But today it wasn’t her body that needed calming, it was her heart—and Jimmy could read it all over her face.
“Isn’t your husband here yet, Ruth?” Jimmy asked. Each week, like clockwork, Ruth’s able-bodied husband meets her in the hallway and accompanies her into the room to spend an hour. As "Mac the Knife" morphed into Patsy Kline’s "Crazy," Jimmy promised to go look for him.
Her eyes softened and for a moment the worry lines that canvassed her forehead, noticeably subsided.
I don’t know how Jimmy learned to read foreheads so well. It certainly wasn’t from me. My concrete slab of a brow has been paved with Botox for quite some time. If you threw my dog in front of a moving bus (or better yet, threw the $575 skirt in front of a moving bus), and then tried to guess what was happening to me just by looking at my forehead, you’d guess I was asleep.
In any case, Ruth’s husband did show up. The couple took their place at the table along-side the rest of the octo and nonagenarians. I glanced over a few minutes later to see him feeding his wife with the same tenderness and love of a groom hand-delivering his bride the first piece of wedding cake. As I watched this moment, my eyes welled up with tears. It was one of the nicest, most beautiful things I have ever seen. More beautiful than even that skirt (and that skirt was nice). But not as nice as Jimmy.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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In hot pursuit of a Beverly Hills hooker
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In hot pursuit of a Beverly Hills hooker
By Lisa Baron
There was a ho in my hotel. A real-live booty-shaking, rump-selling, shaggarific, cash (or check) taking, living cesspool of questionable life choices right there, smack dab in the middle of our lives and about to enter the Los Angeles hotel where we were staying.
It was awesome.
Jimmy, Scott - my single attorney-brother whom we call "Johnny Law, and me caught the side-show on our return from the rehearsal dinner for the wedding we were in town to attend.
The wedding was nice. Fortunately people at weddings are more focused on who's not married rather than who is married but doesn't have kids yet. So no one really asked what our hold-up was - a relief because I'm working on a very good why not story and I wasn't ready to roll it out yet. Plus, I take comfort that there will be enough red wine for the weekend as weddings are a series of open-bar events.
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The hooker Lisa Baron saw? Nothing like Hedi Fleiss. (Photo/Getty Images) |
So the nuptials are good and our hotel was in Beverly Hills right off of Wilshire, just an unsightly frown lines length away from the famed Rodeo Drive. Johnny Law saw her first. He always sees everything first. He was the first one to see Casey Kasem in the lobby and the first one to say that I didn't see O.J. Simpson in the lobby. But I swear I did.
So, Law Boy sees her and within seconds all of our eyes locked in on her as she shimmed through the parking garage and into the elevator. We filed in behind her. We stood there deathly quiet lining the back of the elevator like an unsophisticated police line-up of low-rent white-collar criminals.
She didn't look like one of those crack-whores I've seen on COPS, all un-clean with disheveled-hair and missing front teeth. Now I've heard that the absence of the missing two front teeth is on-purpose, it gives a girl a marketing edge over the competition. But I don't think that's true. I just don't' believe these girls have put together a business-model that allocates for a marketing strategy and corresponding budget.
She didn't look like one of those high- rent Heidi Fleiss girls either. You know the ones with long-hair and full lips who live in apartments with doormen. The ones that looked like models but were really for sale, the kind of B-girl one could reconcile becoming because after all it was "to the stars" and it was Plan B, just in case Plan A didn't work out.
Our streetwalker was as tall as me. Her dress stayed on because of four very hard working strands of string that somehow found each other in the small of her back, and now like a reunited family, have vowed to hold on to each for the rest of their lives. Her tattoos were inked in black and her tummy poked out of her body like the top half of an over poured banana bran muffin. Jimmy saw her mouth move and he said she was wearing braces.
She carried a diaper-bag sized purse that hung open wide enough for us to get a good deep look inside.
Johnny Law was pissed because he said he didn't see hand-cuffs. But we all saw the industrial size bottle of generic brand baby lotion and the piece of paper that balanced on the lip of her ho-bag that read "Tom, #724."
When I saw #724, my eye-balls physically came out of my eye sockets and twirled around three times before snapping back into their sockets. For starters this was the proof we needed to confirm that her occupation. Secondly, Tom's room was on the same floor as ours. No such luck for Scott. Jimmy and I gave each other a high-five and waved goodbye to LA Law.
Our ho exited the elevator first. She click-clacked all the way down the hall to the room whose number matched the one on her torn-off piece of paper.
Our room was about six down from Tom's. We walked and then galloped into our room flipped over the inside safety-lock and gently rested the door against the shiny metal knob. Jimmy put his finger to his mouth signaling me to be quiet. Usually I rebel when he tells me to be quiet. My mini-revolution against his will to shush me usually makes me want to not be quiet and be very, very heard. But I'd never seen anything like this. So, I was all ears.
Stacked on top of each other like wooden blocks, we crouched on either side of the barely open door and we listened. She knocked three times.nothing. She knocked again.nothing. Usually I pray for things like patience, strength and understanding, but that night I prayed for Tom to open the door. He never did. I figured Tom probably passed out. Jimmy thinks Tom looked through the peep-hold and was scared off by the braces.
As she clip-clopped back down the hall presumably back to the elevator, Jimmy and I sighed in disappointment.
We closed the door properly and laughed. Who would've ever thought that a prostitute could be the thing to bond me and my husband at a wedding? In fact, this was the most fun we had had in awhile. Sort of pathetic, I guess. But not as pathetic as Tom.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Managing man's best friend
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Managing man's best friend
By Lisa Baron
It’s not that I want Buster to die or anything, but I have entertained the thought that maybe he could go live with someone else for the rest of his life. Buster, a basset hound, has been around since Jesus. He’s 80 pounds of hair, howl and drool that I got as a gift with purchase: He came with my husband. Buster is low to the ground. His ears drag on the floor like two heavy suitcases. His tail curves over his body with the end dangling over like a bobber that's constantly being tugged on by an effeminate fish.
When my friend Ellen gets married, she’s getting a Falcons-wrapped mini-coke machine. Even if she's not a religious woman, she should drop to her knees and thank God that Matt’s best friend dispenses four different brands of soda, not steaming mega-piles of dinosaur poop.
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Buster, the basset hound, was a gift with purchase: he came with Lisa's husband. |
Ellen's Coke machine eats quarters, Our fat basset eats five preventative pills a day. And Buster takes his medicine shoved, not stirred. Like some sort of stupid lion-taming stunt, I have to physically insert his medicine past his jaw, behind his tongue and down his throat. My hand, once removed, looks like I just pulled it out of one of those jelly-filled bowls from a Halloween horror-house.
My husband loves Buster and would be devastated if anything ever happened to him, so keeping Buster alive is worth it. That’s why I dispense his medicine, and I look behind me when I am backing out of the driveway. Sometimes I even feel pangs of love for that dog. But Buster isn’t the only swag I got for free when I married Jimmy. I also got Checkoway.
Checkoway is about 5 feet 10 inches tall with thinning hair, medium build and eyes the color of cooked bacon. He is a throbbing mess of hormones and cynicism that wants only one thing: to separate my husband from his home—where I am. Known in scientific circles as painus in the wifeus neckus, civilians know him by his street name: the wedge.
While Checkoway is Jimmy’s best friend, he’s my rival. He’s never actually said so, but I know he wants me to go twirl my hair or paint my nails or go stare at my engagement ring or do whatever it is he thinks it is that girls do so that he and Jimmy can golf and talk to young girls.
Last week the two came home from a five-day trip to New Orleans. Jimmy took an earlier flight and was home a couple hours earlier. First, he wanted to know if Jimmy would pick him up from the MARTA station (His car was at our house.) And Jimmy—
after paying for Checkoway’s hotel room for five nights, might I add—was going to do it. “Why can’t Michael just take a cab like the rest of us who got a ride to the airport?” I demanded to know.
So Michael arrived via cab. He walked into our house and found us sitting on the couch. “Hey Jimmy, you want to go see a movie?” I don’t know if it was my wine headache from the previous night's dinner party or his blatant disrespect for our marriage, but I wanted him out of my house. Pronto.
Now, I have no control—or shall we say, power—over Checkoway. That’s why my normally green eyes turned a fiery shade of brimstone red and focused their evil power onto Jimmy. I swear to God on the cool wife scale I’m like an eight, but something about Checkoway trying to extend the man-trip an extra day got so far under my skin that I thought it would have to be surgically removed.
Jimmy turned to me and gingerly asked “Do you want to go to the movies with us “sweetie?” This time I would be the wedge. "No, thanks," I replied.
It turns out I had to work, so I couldn't have gone if I wanted to. Jimmy, still reeling from the hole I burned through him only moments before, opted out. Checkoway, I believe, ended up going with somebody else's husband.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Dealing with divorce and man-whores
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Dealing with divorce and man-whores
By Lisa Baron
"You humped remorse?” I yelled inquisitively through the crackled cell phone reception.
“No, I got divorced,” Lara, my college roommate and friend of more than 10 years, yelled back to me.
When I hear about somebody getting divorced my first question usually is, “Did they have kids?” This gives me the information I need to say, “Well, at least they didn’t have any children.” There is something within me that wants to make people feel as good as they can about their decision—even when it’s a really bad decision, like when one of our roommates accidentally kissed the other roommate's boyfriend. I said, “Well, at least you didn’t sleep with him."
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Hollywood may make fun of man-whores in comedies like "Deuce Bigelow" European Gigolo," starring Rob Schneider (shown here with Julia Wolov), but Lisa's friend Lara has regrets about her relationship with one. (Photo/2005 Sony Pictures Entertainment) |
But I knew Lara had two kids. So I tried to approach it in the same manner I would approach someone who was passed over for a job promotion or a casualty of corporate downsizing. So I asked, “Are you OK with this change?”
That’s when she told me about man-whore. As described to me, he was smooth as soap and gentle on the eyes. He was tall, dark and disappeared for days on end, which earned him his moniker: man-whore.
Lara said she had to break up with man-whore but hoped for one more male slut before she would ever consider settling down again. She further celebrated her newfound singledom and bought herself--attention all man-whores--new boobs. She quit her bunko group. “They love to talk,” Lara said, "and if I’m there they can’t talk about me. So I think it was very considerate of me to quit.” She referred to her new phase in life as, “Mommy getting her party on.”
But Mommy had been photographed in back-to-back issues of the local social magazine hoisting her wine and her fake breasts into the air while sandwiched between two male strangers. “Not good,” she said.
“No regrets?" I asked.
“Screw remorse," she shot back.
At that moment Jimmy peered into my office. “Are you ready to go?” he asked. I snapped my phone closed and vowed to visit Lara soon. Later I climbed into the front seat with my husband at the wheel. With his big sweet eyes, he looked over at me. I leaned over and took his hand, and told him—and meant it—that there was no place else I would rather be.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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Boredom breeds trouble when playing the singles game
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Boredom breeds trouble when playing the singles game
By Lisa Baron
For the third weekend in a row, Jimmy was out of town. I was tired of renting movies and gorging on ice cream. This weekend I would play single.
No husbands, no kids--pretend or otherwise--and where art imitates life, no sex either. Dating also is clearly a violation of the rules.
That’s why being married can take all the fun out of living single.
I sleep more than anybody I know and that’s counting my 1-year-old niece, and I always feel guilty when Jimmy sees me lying around on the weekends. With Jimmy gone, I slept most of Thursday and Friday. I ordered in and let the laundry pile up. As Friday spilled into Saturday, I longed for the days when a lazy afternoon meant lounging around the complex pool, drink in hand.
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Lisa longs for the days when weekends meant lounging by the pool, drink in hand. |
Desperate to inject some disorder into the arm of this socially underperforming suburban cul-de-sac, I busted open the neighborhood directory. If there were more than two names listed, that meant kids. I shoved the directory to the back of the kitchen drawer.
The future looked bleak, and bleak often bleeds into boredom. Boredom has never done me any favors. In high school I always seemed to be bored whenever my parents were out of town. Returning home from a trip, my dad found an empty beer can in the upstairs closet. That one beer can was soon linked to about 40 friends and explained why the pool furniture was in the living room and the crystal vase that once stood proudly on top of the baby grand piano was lying at the bottom of the pool.
Whenever I was in trouble my mom called her mom to tell her what I had done. This time it was presumably to tell her about the distilled discovery. “Lisa Beth, your Mimi would like to speak with you.” Like a dog with its tail between its legs, I picked up the phone.
I explained to my Mimi the truth according to me. “Everyone is overreacting, I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just entertaining.” (Some say this is when I first got the idea to go into politics) I could feel my Mimi smiling through the phone as she told me to stay busy--to be bored would always mean trouble.
Here I was bored again with the itch to entertain. I first thought about calling Hot Jay whose phone number I won at last week’s Bruce Springsteen concert. Ellen encouraged me to call him in the name of good friendship. She said I owed it to the friends I might potentially set up to prescreen Jay by going out with him once. I saw her point.
While scrolling through my phone down to the H’s, I remembered that my next-door neighbor’s 25-year-old son was home for the summer. Could he possibly be the Great White Hope? His dad pointed me upstairs where he was lying on the couch recovering from the night before. Like a good neighbor, he was there.
As the night progressed, I completely lost track of time. One empty beer can, six bottles of wine and fifth of scotch down, it was 11:00 pm. I heard the door unlock and in walked Jimmy. It turns out that he was able to take an earlier flight home and wanted to surprise me. Boy, was I surprised, but so was he. Why was his wife entertaining young men in his living room? I stumbled over to the door to greet with a big, sloppy hug and accompanying kiss.
Trying to explain the scene, the words came out of my mouth painfully slow. I wanted to make sure that my half-soaked brain had correctly told my mouth which words to use. “Hi honey. I’m entertaining.” I assured him that there was no need to overreact. He said that if I wanted to see overreacting, I should come home from a trip and find him drunk on the coach with a 25-year-old. Juli said she used to have that much drama in her life, before she got married.
Mission accomplished.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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Playing the matchmaking game with hubby in tow
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Playing the matchmaking game with hubby in tow
By Lisa Baron
Last Saturday night Jimmy and I were in the car on our way to Philips Arena to see Bruce Springsteen.
Not being able to remember the last time we called our parents together, we decided to check in--both sets live out of town. First we called mine. Then my in-laws. My mother-in-law answered. Sore from shoulder surgery, woozy from pain medication, she told me that on Monday night, her girlfriends offered to come over to her house to play cards.
“Those girls are smart," I said to her. "Of course they want to come over to your house--they want your money and your drugs. Which will you be playing for?” Concerned that her daughter-in-law could suspect her of drug trafficking, she asked to say hello to Jimmy.
After the parental phone calls, we soon arrived at the arena and found our seats. Waiting for the show to begin, a showdown began. Jimmy and I had just settled into our seats when he showed up.
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Jimmy and Lisa vie for a hot guy's attention at the Bruce Springsteen concert. (Photo/Bertrand Guay/AFP/Getty Images) |
Bursting with biceps and brawn, he was a fountain of testosterone.
He wore a snug black T-shirt, not Euro-night-club tight, but fitted just enough to give the ladies a taste of what’s behind the curtain. Feeling the weight of our stare, he turned around in his seat as he did his arms spilled over the top of his chair into my lap. Sitting next to my husband, I had another man’s arm in my lap. I thanked God for bringing me to this moment.
He looked straight at me and asked, “Are you worried you won’t be able to see the concert?” Married or not, when someone that marvelous looks at you, it can make you nervous. I became aware of every imperfection on my face--from my broken-out chin to my eyebrows that could use some work. Thank God I finally shaved my legs. “I’m not worried, one bit,” I said.
Jimmy jumped in. “How tall are you?”
I interrupted back, “and we were also wondering what your name is?”
"It’s Jay,” he said.
I’ve heard of men using a baby to pick up women, but a wife using her husband to pick up men? Let's give it a shot. “Jay, this is my husband, Jimmy--he’s a huge Bruce fan.”
Jay started to ask Jimmy questions about Bruce. I asked Jay questions about himself.
I asked him about his life. He and Jimmy talked about Bruce. Somehow or another I got to the money question: Are you available? My husband may have been sitting right next to me, but there was something very exhilarating about dangling yourself so far over the edge, knowing that someone is standing behind you holding your shirt between his thumb and index finger so that you won't fall. This was never a luxury I had as a single person.
Finally Jay decided to take us up on our offer to set him up.
Only he didn't trust Jimmy to do it. He said that guys don’t make it a priority to set up other guys the way girls do. At this point Jimmy and I started competing for Jay’s phone number. Jimmy wanted it just so that I didn't have it, and I wanted it because Jimmy didn't want me to have it. We both flipped open our phones ready to store and save. I immediately started throwing out the names of all my single, available girlfriends complete with descriptions, ages, socio-economic backgrounds, relationship history and eating habits.
Great, now there’s a drug dealer and a pimp in the family.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Googling Mr. Wrong
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Googling Mr. Wrong
By Lisa Baron
Bought a dress and need some ideas about what kind of shoe will look best with it? Heard Jude Law had an affair with his nanny and you’re dying to know what she looks like? Need to pretend that you’ve actually done your homework before your next meeting but you only have 10 minutes? Many questions, one answer--better than one answer--one word: Google. Google takes the work out of homework. But to Google is to reveal more than just shoes and mistresses to the stars, it also can turn up old boyfriends.
Last Thursday night I Googled my exes. First up, Karl. Karl was my very first boyfriend. He was skinny with long, stringy black hair that fell directly into his face. He bore a striking resemblance to the garage attendant from "Ferris Bueller’s Day Off." And I loved him. He played the guitar and wrote me poems.
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"To Google is to reveal more than just shoes and mistresses to the stars," Lisa says, "it also can turn up old boyfriends." (Photo/Getty Images) |
He was tragic, desperate and like nothing I had ever seen hanging out after Hebrew school. With so much in common (We were both 16 and both loved the "Appetite for Destruction" album.), I was sure it was true love forever. I tried to hold to 16 as long as I could, but Karl broke up with me to go out with my best friend, Mindy. I was destroyed. Until about five years ago, if I thought I saw him, my heart sank. His search turned up nothing.
When I was 18, I loved David. He was tall, handsome, funny, smart and attentive. Rumor has it he moved to New York and became a doctor. I entered in his first and last name, and the first five results turned up a pediatrician in Connecticut. With no picture attached, I couldn’t be sure.
David and I had a very Sandy and Danny (a la "Grease") relationship. While we thought it was just a summer romance our relationship continued into the next year. My mom remembers me telling her something like, “he wants to go to museums, and I just want to run around outside.” That’s teenage speak for: I’m shallow. I broke up with him to date a less smart, more handsome guy. We never had a chance to drive away arm-in-arm into the sky.
The next three months were fun. The next two years were among the worst in my life. He destroyed my heart. I spent the next few months destroying my reputation and my self-esteem. I would get drunk and show up at his house uninvited, date all his friends, have my friends call him, call him myself. The strategy was to hurt him as much as he had hurt me. Instead, I gained about 20 pounds drinking beer and guess who got hurt … not him. I Googled and found him, but couldn’t figure out what to type. I mean what do you say?
Dear John,
Sorry I was so drunk and tried to date all your friends. Hope you’re doing well. I’m not psycho anymore. I’m married now. Are you married? Best, Lisa
Clicking and pointing my way through the ghosts of relationships past really doesn’t have much to do with the ghosts, only the past. And looking back over lists of lost loves, it actually reads very textbook. At 16, I was driven by hormones. At 18, I was driven by vanity. Age 20 to 25, I was driven by beer. At 30, I married Mr. Right.
So why so curious about what happened to Mr. Wrong? Maybe I thought I could complete the unfinished, confront the shame that comes with making bad choices or reconfirm my current choice. Sifting through the skeletons is an attempt to awaken old memories and breathe life into the past. While memories live in your mind, Googling an old boyfriend is a tangible link to the past. You might be able to see it, talk to it and, God willing, let it rest in peace so you can move on to important things, like finding shoes.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Making the hard choice: choosing the job over the baby
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Making the hard choice: choosing the job over the baby
By Lisa Baron
I started in politics more than 10 years ago in the Arizona's governor's office. I was an intern in the press office. I sorted mail, clipped articles out of newspapers and answered the press office phone. I left Arizona in 1996 for the bright lights and hollow corridors of Washington, D.C. I then left D.C. and traveled all over the country while working for Republicans vying for elected office. I worked in every major market, including Los Angeles and New York. I was offered a job in Georgia to work for Ralph Reed. I didn’t need to state-hop looking for professional fulfillment anymore. There is never a dull moment working for Ralph.
Through Ralph I met my husband, and through Ralph’s wife, Jo Anne, I bought and kept my miniature schnauzer Jack. I say kept because 24 hours after getting Jack, I called Jo Anne panicked, wondering if I could give him back. Jack cried all night long and howled when I left the house. At the time, I lived in an apartment and howling wasn't cool. Jo Anne told me that getting a dog wasn't just about them being excited to see you when you got home at night, it meant hard work, too. I realized she was right. But was she talking about Jack or Jimmy?
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"As I see it," Lisa says, "now is the time to be selfish, not once the baby is here." |
Three years into my job with Ralph, I left to do some different things. I moved temporarily back to Washington, D.C. to work on George W. Bush’s inaugural committee. I got married. I also wanted to have a baby.
With a year of marriage under my belt and hundreds of dollars in fertility tests on top of my nightstand, I got a call that Ralph was considering a run for the office of Georgia's lieutenant governor. I was soon back on board as his communications director. That’s when I thought maybe it was OK Jimmy and I hadn’t gotten pregnant yet.
So, with Jimmy’s understanding, my baby plans are on hold. Lots of people believe that our choice is unnatural--including Ralph’s wife, who says that I shouldn’t stop trying. She reminds me that she often juggled a busy schedule while pregnant and raising infants. I believe I can do both—but not do both well. Working for Ralph is more than a job, it’s an adventure, and I want to give this chapter in my life my full attention.
Lots of women start their families later in life. Sometimes it’s because they haven’t yet met the right person; other times it’s because they have nurtured and tended to a career that is just beginning to bloom. As I see it, now is the time to be selfish, not once the baby is here. And from what I’ve heard, once that baby is here, that baby is here.
Today I had lunch at Goldberg’s. Sitting at the table next to me was the sweetest little chubby-cheeked, blonde-haired baby girl wearing a pink skirt and a matching pink bow in her hair. She was sitting in a high chair across the table from her mother (who by the way looked very in shape to have a baby that young). My heart sank--not because the mom was 10 pounds lighter than me and I’ve never had a baby, but because I could easily see myself enjoying the same kind of day.
I am trying to lead a life with as few regrets as possible. Deep in my bones I believe I would regret missing the call to send a good person into public service. So for now I am placing the call of motherhood temporarily on hold.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Planes, trams and out-of-state weddings
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Planes, trams and out-of-state weddings
By Lisa Baron
I love weddings. But getting to out-of-state weddings, means I have to go through airports, and I hate airports. I hate every minute. I don’t have a problem with the building itself. It’s the people inside who make the experience loathsome. The most annoying people are the slow walkers. These people are always somehow sauntering right in front of me and not in a hurry.
Good for you, now move out of the way. Most of us didn’t come to the airport to stroll. We come to jump through a series of hoops to board a plane.
Before you can board the plane, you have to get your ticket. Enter the army of over-determined airline employees--or rope lords--who will say and do anything to get you ticketed by a computer and not a ticketing agent. And the ticketing agent won’t even make eye contact with me until I’m in her face and it’s unavoidable. I think there is some sort of financial arrangement between the behind-the-desks and the rope lords.
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"Most of us didn’t come to the airport to stroll. We come to jump through a series of hoops to board a plane." |
Next up, the I.D. checkers, who on occasion and without any remorse send you away if you forget to shove your purse into your carry-on (because you can only have two bags). Then it’s time to play the "which line moves faster" game. Usually it’s neither. Half naked, I move my gray tubs full of shoes, sweaters, change and computers down the line.
That’s when we are greeted by screeners who seem to be thinking, "if I have to be here all day, so do you.”
We get through security and ride the elevator down to catch the tram that will take us to our gate.
The tram doors open, and it looks packed. Only it’s not. It’s just that the two Ms. Thangs, with their home-brought pillows tucked under their arms, refuse to move back--for any reason. With our noses up against the glass, we set off the sensor, which sets off the voice that says, "something is blocking the door. Please stand back.”
We arrive at our terminal and wind our way down the hall to our gate. We actually make it in time to grab a yogurt. With snacks in hand, we take a seat. A college-aged couple sits across from us. The boy, a sandy blond, lifts up some flowers he probably stole from one of the planters out front and dangles them over the head of his long-haired, naturally pretty girlfriend. He wants—and gets—a kiss. It's very sweet. Then I start thinking that the only thing my husband hangs over my head is last month’s credit bill. Now I’m mad at Jimmy.
They call our row, and we board the plane. Safely buckled into our uncomfortable seats, we nod off into a semi-state of contorted consciousness. I hear the beverage cart moving down the narrow aisles. My watch says its noon, but my body says it’s time for a drink.
There are thousands of airport haters, all blogging similar contempt. A quick Google search turns up Harper Reed who writes, “Yes, I am going to punch airports in the nuts.” Another Web site suggests that because airports have become so intolerable, the group’s math conference will be held online.
Brilliant. The first couple who invites me to their online weddings gets their entire set of china.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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The perfect storm
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The perfect storm
By Lisa Baron
Weddings are the true story of brides vs. Mother Nature. It’s the moment in time when family, money, feelings and control collide simultaneously to create the perfect storm. Mother’s always right. That’s why brides-to-be have got to get over this "everything-has-to-be perfect” fallacy. Perfect has no tracking number. What you get is life.
At weddings, as in life, hair curls, babies cry, people argue, your new husband’s friends drink too much, relatives think they’re funny, opinions are volunteered and the weather does what it wants.
My wedding was just as I had dreamed it--lifelong friends, loving family, cantankerous rehearsal dinner speeches, clusters of plump roses, copious amounts of food, cups overflowing with wine and my chest overflowing out of my dress. Wait, my boobs popping out of my dress definitely was not in my dream. Nor were the screwed up bridesmaids' bouquets or the fact that the man who was supposed to do my hair for the wedding quit the salon three days before due to “a nervous breakdown.”
My friend Stephanie recently married her dreamboat in her dream setting--the Bahamas. Stephanie had a traditional Jewish wedding, complete with a chuppah. If you have never been to a Jewish wedding, then you might not know what a “chuppah” is. A chuppah is basically a canopy. Chuppahs, supported by four poles, are sometimes fastened into the ground and other times held up by four people. It’s windy on the beach. That’s why Steph’s chuppah was held up by four men. Wait, make that three. Fred’s cousin, who fainted during the ring exchange, knocked over the chuppah and fell into the not-yet-newlyweds. When it was discovered that it was heat exhaustion and not something more serious, Fred and Stephanie went on with the ceremony and were officially married.
I guess she could’ve cried about it--or even complained. But she didn’t. After all, she’s no dummy and tears would have drastically interfered with her hair and makeup--that, might I add, was perfect. The only time she looked back was to find the iris that fell out from behind her ear during her first dance with her new husband.
I wanted so badly for every inch of my wedding to be indefectible. It turned out that my hair was frizzy, and my bridesmaids ended up carried these pea-pod looking things. And the icing on the cake was when the boning in my Reem Acra dress gave out, and guests got to see a lot more than a slideshow of my baby pictures. And there is still a piece of me that aches when I think about the coif that never was. It wasn’t until I saw Stephanie handle her own glitch that I was able to make peace.
It’s not about what should’ve been; it’s about what was. It’s not about what could’ve been better; it’s about what it will be: a marriage. So love what you have, even if it’s bad hair or a dehydrated cousin, because it’s yours. And that, my little brides-to-be, makes it perfect.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Committed-Sharks and 'the flag man'
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Sharks and 'the flag man'
By Lisa Baron
May or June, Music Midtown is very predictable.
There’s a 50 percent chance you’ll see teens throwing up, a fifty-fifty chance you’ll lose your shoe or the person you came with. And women willing to show their breasts to a sea of strangers and phone cameras are always in the forecast.
The subliminal beauty of MM is that you can be a little bit country and a little bit rock 'n' roll. Plus, there's the interaction between who I was then and who I am now. In three days I mentally reconnected with my teenage boyfriend (Def Leppard), my college years (Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers) and my current desire to relive the 1980s (the Killers). I got to meet the drummer backstage, and he was the first rock-n-roller I ever met who smelled … good.
After smelling the drummer, I made my way through the smells of the unshowered, unshaven and unsober to see the Black Eyed Peas. But the familiar sound of Petty’s “Don’t Do Me Like That” had a stronger pull. Suspended in anticipation, I waited for the next song.
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Flag Man was somewhere out there. (Photo: Spark St. Jude) |
As I heard the inaugural notes of “Free Falling,” my hands went up in celebration. But there was someone celebrating freedom more than me. It was the man next to me. This man was, not only dripping sweat, he was dripping America. He was about 5 feet 6 inches and 115 pounds. He was wearing a faded American flag bandana tightly wrapped around his head. The wind and the rain moved through streams of red, white and blue cloth, the ends carefully tucked underneath his patriotic headdress.
His tank top and shorts were a custom job, too. But he didn’t just wear his patriotism on his sleeve; he wore it everywhere--right down to his red, white and blue self-striped cowboy boots. With every step he saluted the troops. Keep in mind, it was dark, but from what I could tell, he was still in cowboy boots when he spray painted them, as the tops of his calves were also blue.
Many Music Midtowners snickered at "Flag Man," but I saluted him. I thought, now there is a man who knows who he is and what he stands for. As for me, I often wonder who I am.
I remember struggling with this question as a teenager, again as a college student, again in my early 20s and my late 20s and now again as a 30-something. Will it ever end? Is it normal to continue to self-evaluate?
In one of the final scenes of Woody Allen’s "Annie Hall," Allen’s character Alvy Singer compares a relationship’s natural progression to a shark’s life. "A relationship, I think is like a shark," he says. "… It has to constantly move forward or it dies."
Sometimes it’s the relationship you have with yourself that has to mature. That doesn’t mean it’s easy or welcomed. I would argue that the older I get, the scarier it is to think that I might want something different out of life than what I am currently experiencing. Equally upsetting is what I would do with a dead shark.
I didn’t see "Flag Man" again that weekend, although I’m sure if I looked hard enough around the Kid Rock stage, I could’ve rooted him out. As for me, I just don’t fit neatly into one box, and I'm not very good with a spray-paint can.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Even grown-ups need security blankets
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Even grown-ups need security blankets.
By Lisa Baron
I was 10 years old when I got invited to my first sleepover party. Debra Goldstein’s birthday party was one of the most sought-after invitations in town. To prepare for the first girls night out of my life, I practiced sleeping without sucking my thumb. (Yes, I sucked my thumb until I was 10. If you don’t believe me, consider this: My childhood orthodontist donated the flowers for my bat mitzvah.) The afternoon of the big night, I took a nap.
I remember sitting in the back seat of my mom’s car, peering into street and watching the neighborhood roll by. My fingers danced across the pink plastic handle of my Esprit suitcase. As the car slowed down to a stop, my jaw locked. I wanted to go home.
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"My [wedding] ring provides me a sense of security." (Photo/Vince Bucci/Getty Images) |
I even packed gloves. What if Debra Goldstein put my hand in a cup of water, thereby causing me to pee in my sleep? But as my ride rolled up curbside, I realized I had left the one thing that made me feel complete: my pillowcase. I had a special pillowcase that I took with me everywhere. It separated me from the world. It reminded me of everything that was good.
With my pillowcase by my side, nothing could bother me.
Last month I got invited to an event at a trendy Buckhead bar. It was the invitation of the week. When it arrived, I believed I had arrived. I posted the invitation on the community board: my refrigerator door. I framed it with my favorite refrigerator magnets. As soon as I finished calling to R.S.V.P., I began planning my outfit. I even scheduled time for a nap. Most importantly, I planned to drink. That’s why I had my husband drop me off.
We got in the car. My hands were clutching a very adorable coordinating gold Lauren Moffett handbag. By the time we arrived, I was white-knuckling the handle of the car door. Damn it, I had left my wedding ring in the cleaning solution. I didn’t want to get out of the car. I wanted to go back home. I had that same feeling I had when I was 10: I felt vulnerable.
Bars, like sleepovers, can be very scary places. They both force you to talk to people you'd rather not talk to, you have to deny that you or your friends smoke cigarettes, you could end up the subject of gossip the next day, and you might wind up sleeping next to strangers.
My ring provides me a sense of security. It’s like a pillowcase for grown-ups. I know that on the other end of my ring is a person who loves me. Even when no man, or his wing man, wants to buy me a drink, he loves me. Even when I drink myself ugly (and stupid), he might not love me quite as much at that moment, but he still loves me.
Back to the sleepover: I got through the night without my special pillowcase, without peeing in my sleeping bag and without trying cigarettes. I went on to a successful career of sleepover parties. And at the bar, six glasses of wine later, I made it home cigarette-free. But, unfortunately, I can’t say that I wasn’t the focus of the next day’s gossip.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Handling my truth
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Handling my truth
By Lisa Baron
Between listening to Jimmy’s show and reading my column, one might think that we hate each other. OK, maybe hate is a strong word … maybe people just think that we aren’t candidates for the marriage of the year award. If I wasn’t experiencing the marriage firsthand, I might come to the same conclusion. Except that last week while Jimmy was refusing to label himself as "happily married" on the air, off the air I was at home packing for a trip Jimmy surprised me with—a trip for the two of us to visit my family in San Diego.
When talking about marriage, I want to tell the truth. Likewise, I want to be told the truth For example, when I ask my mom about what it was like to have a baby, she says something like, “Oh, it’s beautiful. And I say, “Yeah, but didn’t it hurt?” And she says, “Once I held you, I didn’t remember feeling a thing.”
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"I don’t think it’s a coincidence that couples (like Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards) who turn up on magazine covers to declare that their marriage is the best, usually end up, split up." (Photo/Vince Bucci/Getty Images) |
To which I reply, “You don’t remember a thing? “Woman, please … an alien inhabited your body for nine months, grew nine pounds, and then came out through one of the smallest holes in your body, and you don’t remember feeling thing?”
That’s why I had to wait 31 years for my sister to have her first kid. She told me everything and I mean everything, including the part where she just wanted "that thing" (aka my nephew) out of her so bad that she didn’t care that it was my dad with the camcorder taping the whole thing and not her husband. And I could handle her truth. But, knowing what really goes on, doesn’t dissuade me from wanting to have a baby, (Did you read that, Mom?), it just means, that when I’m expecting I'll have a better idea of what to expect. I can handle the truth.
It does seem funny the things people will tell you versus the things they won’t. For example on my trip to San Diego, my mom told me that I probably should’ve been treated as a child for attention-deficit disorder. My dad told me he was nervous that my skin might never clear up. He also said the possibility that my front teeth may never fit behind my lips crossed his mind often.
A couple of weekends ago I flew to San Francisco for my sister’s bachelorette party. The San Francisco airport only allows arrivals and departures from Atlanta into and out of the international terminal, which tells me that Californians consider the South a foreign country.
While waiting in the international terminal’s security line, the nice man behind me identified himself as being a behavioral scientist from Harvard. He said that he studies how the brain communicates with the body. The girls behind him wanted to know if it would ever be possible for the brain to tell the body what time it is. The scientist asked the girls why they thought this would be necessary. They said, “because then we wouldn’t have to wear watches, and if we don’t wear watches, we won’t have tan lines around our wrist.”
Honesty is refreshing.
If someone tells you that marriage is worth it, they’re right. If somebody tells you that marriage can be tricky, they’re right, but they also might be having an affair. But the tales you should be most weary of are those from couples who go to great lengths to tell you happy they are. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that couples who turn up on magazine covers to declare that their marriage is the best, usually end up, split up. (See Denise Richard and Charlie Sheen, for explanation.)
I wouldn’t characterize marriage as difficult. I would probably use the word "intriguing." And then I would say, “but in a good way.” Truth be told, the Barons aren’t looking to win any marriage-of-the-year contests. We are looking to be married a lifetime, and to us that means being honest, especially with other.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com.
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Divvying up the money pot
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Divvying up the money pot
By Lisa Baron
Soon after Jimmy and I got married we discovered that there was one thing we didn't understand: Why the other spent so much money on crap. I don't know why he needs to sit on the glass at hockey games, and he doesn't know why I need a new dress for every occasion. A similar scenario probably plays in homes all over the country.
What's different is what we did about it.
We decided to divide our money into three different piles. One pile would be the house account. The house account (which will be referred to from now on as "the company") would be fed by both of our paychecks and used for anything and everything that benefited both us. Examples include gas, groceries, house bills, mortgage, vacations, toiletries and cleaning supplies.
In addition, each month a mutually agreed upon amount of money would be transferred into two individual accounts.
This money would serve as our allowances. Only unlike the allowance we received as kids, this allowance could not be withheld for bad behavior or failure to do chores. These accounts and the subsequent purchases made from said accounts would be truly free--free from spousal judgment.
Free in theory doesn't always mean free in practice.
Believe me, each time I pass through the door with a new pair of shoes, I am judged like a Shar-Pei at the Westminster Dog Show.
Plus, I discovered something rather interesting the other day when I was balancing my checkbook. I realized that most of my discretionary money was not being used to buy shoes and purses as was intended in this arrangement. Most of my "fun money" was spent funding items, services and products that benefited not just one of us, but both of us.
I made a list:
Waxing
Painful and expensive. I am clearly not the sole beneficiary in this modern-day scalping. In fact, the benefits are far reaching--both inside my house and out. By self-pruning I believe I'm good for the environment. After all, nobody goes to the beach because they want to look at Sherwood Forest. So really the $65 I spend landscaping should be considered a public service.
Anything that happens on Sunday
I am a member of a very exclusive club called "The Golf Widows." Every Sunday my husband goes golfing and leaves me and my other Golf Widow friends to fend for ourselves. That's why I believe that the day's activities should be company sponsored, particularly because he doesn't want to stay home.
The gym
I mean, really, do I need to explain this one?
Wine
I spend a fair amount of money on wine because I am the only one in the house who drinks, and the way I see it: I enjoy the wine; he enjoys the wax. It's a win-win situation.
I don't feel like I'm being unreasonable here, the "what's good for the goose is good for the gander" strategy has been in play for years. I'm just asking for what's fair under the previously agreed upon terms. Whatever. Jimmy is buying this story that he is going to start paying for my drinks every Sunday.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Pushing all the wrong buttons
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Pushing all the wrong buttons
By Lisa Baron
I recently uncovered some very disturbing news. It seems that as a baby Jimmy was fascinated by buttons.
Sources who witnessed his childhood tell me he actively sought them out and enjoyed pushing them for sport. I am told his favorites were elevators, doorbells and telephones. Legend has it that a smile appeared on young Jimmy's face every time he pushed the right button.
Not surprisingly as an adult, Jimmy still likes to push buttons. Mine. Only he has become so good at it, he doesn't have to use his hands anymore. Like magic, The Great Baroni can push my buttons with his eyes. I once saw David Copperfield do this lame trick where he picked a lady out of the audience and secretly removed her bra from under her shirt and waved it around proudly for all to see. The woman was horrified while the audience guffawed.
I felt like my bra was being waved around at dinner last Saturday night.
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Like a kid in an elevator, Jimmy Baron likes to push Lisa's buttons. |
We were dining alfresco at one of our favorite restaurants with two of our best friends. Our table was near the main entrance. With each bite of my tuna tartare, a girl half my age and wearing half her clothes would float through the revolving door. I don't care if girls want to walk around half naked. Their evening has a different purpose than mine. My purpose was to get through the night without anyone seeing how the '90s left an indelible mark on my thighs.
Jimmy also noticed the never-ending skin parade and, I'll admit, at first I thought it was cute. His fork would miss his mouth as he visually tracked these girls like an F-16 in a dog fight. And even our friends thought it was funny. But just like the trick where your hairy uncle pulls the nickel out of your ear, it got kind of creepy. I asked him very nicely to stop a few times but apparently he physically couldn't. That's when I began to look at my chopsticks in a whole new way.
So I started thinking how I might retaliate. I could pass out photos of my 43-year-old husband in the headgear he has to wear to prevent him from snoring every night (that is NOT a joke, by the way). I could inform everyone that he hasn't changed his hairstyle since 1968 (also not a joke). Or could I pull out a full-page endorsement he recently did in a magazine for a bidet (too pathetic to even joke about). I mean, I realize I created this monster by always telling how great he is, how handsome he is and how smart he is. But this is the thanks I get?
My husband is obviously not the first man to ogle women in public places, but I couldn't help wondering: What did he think was going to happen? And, just as importantly, what did I think was going to happen? That the young doe he had caught in his cross-hairs would be defenseless to his piercing stares and together, without uttering a word, they would steal off into the night? Of course not. That girl desired my husband like Paris Hilton desires anonymity.
But it still would have been a nice gesture if he could have at least performed the illusion that he was interested in what was happening at our table, even if it was just through dessert.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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The name game
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The name game
By Lisa Baron
Pamela Anderson doesn't believe in fur as fashion. In this month's Jane Magazine, Anderson takes to name calling. She warns men and women everywhere that wearing fur makes you, idiotic. And, as if to rub salt into the wound, it makes you look fat, too. This strikes me as terribly pathetic, not very heroic and kind of funny. Not the part about wearing the fur—I am married to an anti-fur person, and there is nothing funny about being banned for life from fur coats.
Anderson wants to do to people what she believes people are doing to animals: rip them a new one. And the worst thing in the entire universe that she could think to insult the likes of fur-wearers everywhere is to call them idiotic … and fat. Her implants serve no use in water that shallow.
Miles from the coast in the southeastern suburbs, there has been a different kind of name calling going on. It all started with a trip to the airport. I was on my way to Phoenix to visit my family. I would be leaving on an earlier flight than Jimmy. I planned on staying the week, and Jimmy would only be staying the weekend. I told him that I would park my car at the airport, and he should get a ride. This way both our cars wouldn't be at the airport, and we would save money on parking.
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Lisa discovers the name that makes her husband go nuclear. And it belongs to his 99X morning show co-host Fred Toucher. |
The planned worked
—at least half of it. Jimmy got a ride to the airport, and I left my car at the airport for him to drive home. Only it wasn't the money-saver I had hoped it would be. I parked the car all right
—in hourly parking. Oops. I not only got to pay the $168, I also got an angry voicemail. I got called lame-brained, stupid, idiotic and brain dead. I didn't park in the hourly section on purpose. On the other hand, when I was alerted via voicemail that I did, I wasn't expecting to be inducted into Mensa.
In fights there is usually one name that you can pull out that is certain to bring on war. In most households, it's usually something like "You're just like your dad" or "You've become your mother." In my house saying we're like our parents is equivalent to child's play. Jimmy's dad says some of the funniest things I've ever heard. And I became my mother about 10 years ago so no new news there.
That's why it was a bit of a challenge to discover the name that would make my husband go nuclear. But I found it in a fight we had three months ago. Jimmy and I were having it out over something or other. I just remember being so mad that I was willing to say anything to make him as mad as he was making me. I started with the usual suspects: A-hole, F-you, You F-ing A-hole.
He continued to annoy me and refused to let me have the last word. That's when I knew I had to kick it up a notch. So, I thought, who else has been known to make ridiculous points, beat something into the ground, and can't stand to let anyone else have the last word? As soon as I saw my opening, I took it. I uncrossed my arms, sat up straight and said, "Are you through, Fred Toucher?" Silence fell across the land—for three days.
The question isn't really what name you should call your mate, but should you be calling your mate names? That guy who wrote the Venus/Mars book would definitely say no, but I never liked that book. I believe men and women do come from different places, but we're human, and human beings make mistakes.
Husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends already possess the power to affect each other. And while name calling may give you a momentary high, the effects can linger long after the fight is over. And while sticks and stones may break our bones, words can really do harm.
Personally, I would've rather been called fat. Fat is fixable. There is no known cure for stupid.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Runaway Bride
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Got pre-wedding issues?
By Lisa Baron
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A flyer for the missing Jennifer Wilbanks hangs outside her and her fiance's home. Wilbanks, who later turned herself in, had a major case of cold feet regarding her upcoming wedding. (Photo/Erik S. Lesser/Getty Images) |
So desperate not to become a housewife, Jennifer Wilbanks chose a bus trip to New Mexico over a trip down the aisle. And everybody from Greta Van Susteren to Dr. Phil wants to know why. Who knows why, maybe she didn't like her dress, maybe the reality of only sleeping with one man her whole life sent her packing, or maybe couldn't go through with the wedding after giving herself that haircut.
But the more important question might be: Does anyone really care? The day, thank God, they found the bride-to-be alive, should've been the last day of the story.
I can only assume that every cable news channel and all four major networks are programmed by people who have never been engaged. Because people who have been engaged know that the second you say, "I will" up to the minute you say "I do," is one of the most stressful stretches of time in a person's life.
It's really not very fun. That's why I have come to the conclusion that television news must be programmed by single people. Only they would consider cold feet, front-page material.
I panicked about 100 times before I walked down the aisle. Jimmy panicked too. Two weeks before the big day Jimmy told me that he wanted us to talk to a therapist. Two weeks before my wedding the only therapist I wanted to see was the one who didn't talk but promised clearer skin, smaller pores and an accompanying hand and foot massage. I didn't want to go, but I knew I had to. So, I just started thinking about psychotherapy and marriage counseling as a sort-of microdermabrasion for the soul--and off to the therapist we went.
My most memorable bridal-breakdown took place two hours before our first wedding shower. Jimmy really wanted to get married on the beach. We ended up getting married in the Arizona desert. But as a goodwill gesture, our friends threw us a tropical-themed couple's shower. Both sets of our parents flew in for the occasion. The guest list was big and so was my idea of what it would cost to get ready for the first party of my marital season. I hired a makeup artist to come to the house. Earlier that day I got my hair done.
Jimmy came home from golfing with our dads (Jimmy and I moved in together after we got engaged) to find a woman hovering over his fiancé with eyelash glue. Outraged at the expense and the extravagance he believed was going on in his kitchen, he let me have it. That's when I, too, called 911. Only my 24-hour emergency hotline comes with its own personal 24-hour operator: Juli.
The call went like this:
Scene opens with me crouched in a corner and cellphone to my ear.
Juli: Hello
Me: Juli?
Juli: Yes?
Me: 911
Juli: Oh no
Me: I don't think I can marry Jimmy, and I don't want to go to the party tonight. But I know I have to because my parents and his parents are all downstairs.
Juli: Why? What happened?
Me: Jimmy yelled at me for having my hair and makeup done. He said I went over the top, and I think he was even madder when I asked to borrow money for a tip. He just doesn't understand.
Juli: Do you like the way your hair and makeup looks?
Me: Yes.
Juli: See you at the party.
Wilbanks had 14 bridesmaids. It's hard to believe that no one knew there was a problem. How is that possible? Fourteen bridesmaids and she couldn't confide in any of them? Now, that's a crime.
Another member of the pit crew that helped me to the finish line is my friend Victoria. She recently got married too. For her bachelorette party we each picked out a shirt that we felt best described our mental state at the time. Victoria wore an apple-green shirt with the words "I've Got Issues" spelled out in big white rhinestones across her chest. Instead of going to all the trouble of running away and faking an abduction, Jennifer could've just asked Victoria to borrow her shirt--it would've been a much lower-profile alternative to get the same message across.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in the suburbs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Internet in paradise: The fallacy of getting away from it all
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Internet in paradise: The fallacy of getting away from it all
By Lisa Baron
Cellphones, Blackberries, fax machines and laptop computers have rendered the brick-and-mortar office obsolete. They have also done the same for vacations.
Jimmy and I went to Tahiti for our honeymoon. I took six bathing suits, three trashy novels, five pairs of flip-flops and two Xanax to get me through the nine hour flight over the Pacific Ocean.
Off the plane and 45 minutes into my Tahitian honeymoon, I was still safely orbiting Planet X. Two hours later I woke up under a coconut tree, face planted into a plush lawn chair. I soon found Jimmy ... in the business center. While visions of endless buffets danced through my head, Jimmy had renegotiated his contract, signed his contract, downloaded "Polynesian for Dummies" and reunited with three long-lost friends via a camp reunion Web site.
Once upon a time when I had a corporate job, beach-bound staffers would send out department wide e-mails to announce the dates they would be out of the office. Totally normal. What wasn't normal was listing all seven ways you could contact them if you had a question. Yeah, I have a question ... Are you crazy? Don't tell anybody where you are going, just tell them when you will be back.
This past Christmas, we took a cruise. I thought I might actually get to see my husband. Shuffleboard, anyone? But just when we thought it was safe to get back in the water … for $50 you could buy 60 minutes of Internet time. And cellphones worked, too.
It's hard not to take it personally. Particularly when they aren't even home very much when you're not on vacation. There was a time when I told my husband that I would no longer be answering to the name Lisa.
Instead, I would pick a new name that most accurately portrayed my role in our relationship. From here on out I would be known as "seven of nine." No, I wasn't running around the house in a blue spandex bodysuit (although if I'm serious about this baby thing, that might be an option). The name change and the accompanying over dramatics resulted from my displeasure in feeling like I was number seven of Jimmy's nine priorities.
Men, more often than women, largely define themselves by their jobs. In my twenties, it was hard to get the level of attention I thought I needed from a man who was just starting out in a competitive career. My guy friends also tell me that they feel a duty to provide
for their families. They would argue that they don't work in spite of us, they work because of us.
In today's modern world, success and all its rewards come at a price: all access. If you're not willing to be available 24/7; someone else is. (Probably someone younger with better legs.) And this isn't just true for men. (Even the younger and better legs part, too.)
Back to being just Lisa, I run a small public-relations firm. I deal with reporters from around the country, sometimes around the world. This past week I was on vacation in Arizona. While feeding the ducks with my 2-year-old nephew Ethan, my cellphone rang ... and rang ... and rang. I thought to myself, why did I agree to take calls on vacation? Loyalty to my clients, of course. But, in my case, NOT working on vacation would actually end my marriage: my husband would kill me if I lost my job.
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in Sandy Springs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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Why the 21st-century wife isn't always right
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Why the 21st-century wife isn't always right
By Lisa Baron
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Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, LC-USZC4-5597 |
When Jimmy and I were dating we had many talks or as we called them "state of the unions." We discussed just that--the state of our union. We discussed where the relationship was going: Could he see himself married? Are we happy? Sometimes I wonder if he didn't marry me just so he could stop talking.
If there ever was a policy disagreement, I would scoop up my dog Jack and head back to my apartment for a few nights of solitude. Now there is a legal document and a mortgage that says I can't do that anymore.
Sometimes with commitment you get tension. Some people use the phrase "first year of marriage" when describing this tension. Out of my first year of marriage and sliding into my second, I noticed that that over the past year our fights have three consistent themes: sex, money and control. (Author's note: depending on your situation, please feel free to substitute control for in-laws.)
I also learned that just because I'm the wife it doesn't mean I'm always right.
When I got married, a few things happened. My dad stopped panicking that I was never going to get married--someone else was going to buy my jewelry. And I would be eligible to get my license: the license to always be right.
At least that's how it was in my family growing up. I can't tell you the number of times I heard father my say "Ask your mother ... I don't argue with your mother" or "Your mother's right, we do like your brother better than you." That's why I knew that making the transition from girlfriend to wife meant eternal validation from my husband.
Yeah, right.
Maybe it's just my marriage, but being the wife in and of itself isn't enough to be right. In fact, I rarely get appeased, catered to or obliged just because I'm the wife and it's just easier to let her have her way than put up a fight. Furthermore, and most upsetting, my husband is devastatingly unafraid to disagree with me in public. This really drives me crazy. I mean, how am I supposed to convince all my friends that I'm in the perfect marriage if my husband continues to voice an opinion in public?
Women are getting married and having children later. For some us our careers started right out of college. Others entered the workforce once the children got out of college. The point is we've changed. As we changed, the men who hoped to marry us did too. They knew that to date us--and eventually marry us--is to respect us. Respect is earned, not demanded. (Author's note: you may want to accidentally forward this to your supervisor at work as this principle goes for the workplace too.)
Thanks to our mothers and their mothers, women have more choices and bigger voices. We can be Mrs. Cleaver or Rosie the Riveter or in today's modern world, both. Our men understood--or pretended they did--when they agreed to be our partners. The trick is, at least for me, I want a seat at the table, and I want a man to pull the chair out for me, too. But the reality is I probably can't have it both ways. Right?
Lisa Baron runs her own PR firm, Baron Strategies. She lives in Sandy Springs with her husband and very spoiled dogs. E-mail her at lisabaron@sundaypaper.com
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