bon mots de Renee L. Raconteur

There are women with that je ne sais quoi, the irresistible charm that makes men melt into babbling, controllable, little puddles of putty.  Most women love to hate them and hold their men tighter as the “maneater” flashes an innocuous, but confidently furtive smile. 

These powerful women, “maneaters” I’ll call them with true admiration and affection, know what they want, or who and just how to get them. It’s the “mean girls” that slink, rather slither in and abscond with boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands no matter how vulnerable for the taking. The “maneater” in full realization of her power can do the aforementioned, but don’t, and never would. The “maneater” knows her worth and that her worth is more than playing second fiddle as the mistress, even though the mistress gets better jewelry (unless he’s caught). The “maneater” sees the opportunity to strike and the Type A competitor within eggs her on, “win, win, win” but she maintains control of herself and him by not letting him stray, no matter how much he wants to even though she is the object of his now misaligned affection. 

Additionally, the “maneater” knows and respects that somewhere there is an oblivious doe-faced ingénue girlfriend type faithfully unaware of the peril that besets her beloved’s heart and mind. After all, one day the “maneater” may be one of these exclusive girlfriend types, sans the ingénue despite a general fear of all things committal. 

One can only hope?

Oh Misery. Not the Kathy Bates psychopathic kind, but my own, and there is no one to blame but myself. My mantra: I am the creator of my own misery. Knowing this, I attempt to dispel my misery constantly, usually through haphazard and therefore expensive, but limited retail therapy, limited only by geography and supply and not my relative demand, or desire. 

I wanted all of these things really, they were dreams and I followed them.  My “followership” took me to this current geographical, cultural, and recreational wasteland – for a job, the job I’ve wanted since I could remember.  It was a difficult job to get, competitive even, some might even say prestigious – I was so elated to hear of my selection.  But alas, the grass is always greener on the other side and I don’t enjoy my job and I definitely don’t enjoy it enough to justify my current habitation in the hinterland and all that it entails.

Further, my geographical and occupational desolation breeds a whole host of social ills as well. Lack of friends, lack of eligible companion(s), especially those that are not related to Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde, egomaniacal, or commitment phobic. Otherwise, I would forge an awesome social network of likeminded individuals to create own fun with, but alas, these likeminded individuals are far and few in between and sadly move on quickly. 

So I endure my self-imposed misery with the realization that one, I did this to myself – I wanted this, or so I thought. Two, misery who loves company shall one day again be alone. In other words, this too shall pass or I will move, hopefully both. Three, to avoid a Paxil Valium dependant state, I try to make the best of every moment. Currently, this involves copious amounts of recipe experimentation hypothesizing about gourmand conclusions and the revival of classic cocktails – my latest being the Gin Savoy.

So here’s to Misery!

Years ago as a snaggletoothed child I used to sing, rather squeal “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.” It was a lie of course; I had a list 25 items long that I’d submit every year without fail the day after Thanksgiving.  As I got older I stopped asking for a horse, a dachshund, or a big trampoline every year and started asking for more realistic things like books, shoes, and jewelry.  Over the years I’ve amassed quite a bit of “stuff”; everything I need really.  But this year I realized as I struggled to put my Christmas list together for bemused gift giving loved ones that Mariah Carey said it her saccharinely sweet best, “All I Want for Christmas is You.”

Prior to now, I would have dry heaved at the thought of wanting only “You” for Christmas.  But I’d love for just us to just curl up in on the couch on a cold Christmas morning and open presents, me in cute red fleece (in my imagination it can be cashmere though) pajamas while classic Rat Pack Christmas music played softly in the background near a warm “open” fire (roasted chestnuts?) drinking a celebratory glass of champagne.  I’d trade it all – the Victor Rolf Flower Bomb, the Pottery Barn Faux Fur Throw, or even the Cartier Love Ring (that’s stretching it) – just to spend Christmas with you.