Oooh...

How I hated them:

MEN DON’T MAKE PASSES…AT WOMEN WHO WEAR GLASSES

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

1999 REVISION SUBMITTED TO GLAMOUR

Varilux Comfort 1.60 High Index with Antireflective Coating: Anti-gas medication? Extra-sturdy panty hose? Inflammatory Southern whiskey? No: a description of the lenses of my glasses. My glasses, with which I’ve had a love-hate relationship filled with as much humor, pathos, and melodrama as the funniest sitcom, the most gut-wrenching tearjerker, the best of Seinfeld, ER, and Melrose Place all rolled into one.

The saying goes: “Men don’t make passes at women who wear glasses.” Six months ago I dated a man who immediately pounced upon my frames—in a very unflattering way, that is. I was proudly sporting a chic French frame—a handcrafted, faux-tortoiseshell number—on my face. Better still, my progressive (Varilux) bifocals were discreetly embedded within the high index lenses. Without them I’d appear to be wearing a matching set of convex Coca-Cola bottles over my eyes. These frames made me feel very respectable, even (dare I say it?) chic. The man took one look at me and immediately proclaimed, “That frame has got to go.” I felt deflated, humiliated; I even cried. “Why?” I asked him plaintively. “Because they’re too severe for your face,” he retorted.

A paragon of perfection I am not; neither was he. At least he made a pass, right? Well, sort of. I sniffled my way to my trusty optician. I begged him to find me a frame that would not hide my face, that would not be so “severe.” Bless him, he found a clear number for which he could trim the lenses down to size and fit them into this new frame. Happiness? Satisfaction? How about, resignation?

Thirty-eight years ago, when I was in second grade, I discovered I couldn’t see in front of my face. No surprise; both my parents wear glasses. I began to endure a succession of ugly, plastic, pointy frames. Twentysomethings now covet them. I loathed them: I distinctly remember that I once deliberately broke two frames within one month by jamming the nosepiece into my face so repeatedly that the fragile plastic gave way. I hated my glasses—I detested them!

The years went by. My plastic frames, no longer so pointy, and I reached an uneasy truce. My prescription strength, growing by leaps and bounds, meant the lenses were not only getting more expensive, but also thicker. The proverbial Coca-Cola bottles. My mother has told me all my life that I have a nice silhouette, but how could anyone even see me behind all that glass!

Being able to see meant I read to my heart’s content and got good grades in school. In high school, I had very good grades…and I was dateless. I was “Miss Owl-Eyes,” “Miss Four-Eyes.”

Wire-rimmed frames were all the rage. In my high school graduation picture, I sported a pair of octagonal-shaped gold wire-rimmed glasses. More attractive, yes, but those thick lenses more closely resembled a concrete wall!

Contacts? I tried them when I was fifteen, and again when I was seventeen. My myopia was out of control; the contacts (hard) were prescribed not so much for cosmetic as for therapeutic purposes. To my teen-aged way of thinking, the best part was I could wear eye makeup and be SEEN!

Alas, things did not work out. Some people just cannot handle contacts; I was one of them. Getting good grades, reading, and getting into a good college were more important. My college-era frames—plastic again--were not pointy anymore, but larger and larger.

Large frames and all, one man did make a pass at me. I ended up marrying him. He was blessed with 20/20 vision. An early “techie,” he suggested I get a pair of glasses with high index lenses. The large frames continued to hide my face.

In my mid-thirties, I found myself single again. Huge plastic frames had become a fixture on my face. Georgina Marrero: TEACHER, they screamed out at the world! Thirty years of tortured necessity: first thing on in the morning, last thing off at night. Thirty years of resignation.

Large plastic/metal designer frames defined the early 90s. I turned forty: bifocal time! I rushed to my ophthalmologist to be fitted with them—I considered them to be a rite of passage! One of my earliest memories of my parents is of them wearing glasses with these half-moons carved into the bottoms of the lenses. I adjusted to the progressive lenses without any difficulty. I felt I had really arrived, that I was finally an adult!

Laser surgery? Radial Keratotomies were becoming increasingly popular. A woman I knew needed at least two additional surgeries to achieve 20/20 vision. I asked an old friend, a highly respected ophthalmologist, about my chances for success. “Don’t you dare!” he said, well aware of my heavy-duty prescription. He informed me that he spends at least half his time correcting RK’s that go awry. End of attempt.

Now in my early forties, I was a woman who had long been accustomed to her extra pair of eyes without which survival would be impossible. But what was this? Glasses had become chic! Even people who didn’t have to wear them now sported them with clear glass lenses. Or with no lenses at all. Everything was back in now: plastic, metal, round, oval, square, horn-rimmed…AND pointy! My detested 60s relics had become collectors’ items!

Glasses are not just for educators, librarians, and old maids anymore. Nicole Kidman handily took care of that in Eyes Wide Shut. Kelly Preston, in For Love of the Game, played an editor who was comfortable with herself, with and without her glasses. No more did movie depictions show the bookish teacher/librarian who only becomes a bombshell after she removes her glasses.

Why all the angst? Why the tears at the mere suggestion that a particular frame was wrong for my face?

Because my life changed forever thirty-eight years ago. For many of these same thirty-eight years, glasses on a woman were considered to be unattractive. We were raised to believe that “men don’t make passes at women who wear glasses”…and I believed it.

Our time has come. May those of us who wear glasses do so with pride! The right men will make passes at us… because we DO wear glasses!

Copyright, 1999 by Georgina Marrero 1059 words First time worldwide serial rights

P.S. I actually received a postcard from some editor at Glamour, but that's as far as it got.

Much, much better!

The Dinner--ca. 1994-1995

This is old--and heavens knows it could use some editing--but I like it:


THE DINNER (ca. 1994 – 1995)

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

It started out innocuously enough: I had promised Sonja that I would introduce her to Mizner Park in Boca Raton; given our hour of arrival there, it was bound to be dinnertime, and, as such, we would probably choose either Baci or Max’s Grille. Given our mutual predilection for things Italian, we invariably chose Baci.
I had never eaten there. I had heard that Baci (and Max’s) are “hot” pickup spots; there certainly were plenty of men older and younger than they should be prowling about the premises. The sweet things, either older than they appeared (or vice versa), were their (un?) suspecting prey. To be sure, I saw more short, clingy garments in a relatively small radius of space than I had laid eyes on in a very long time. But then, again, I don’t exactly frequent cabarets. The most noticeable feature of the ambiance, however, was the deafening noise: Sonja and I had to all but shout at each other in the midst of this cacophonous din.
We ordered a raw tuna appetizer. Sonja was her usual gracious, diplomatic self, and it wasn’t till I was halfway through the tuna that I realized she wasn’t having any. I asked her why, and then it dawned on me: she doesn’t touch the raw stuff. Given the fact that people are dying from raw oyster consumption on a daily basis, perhaps I should follow her lead. Alas, it was too late that evening – no, I didn’t get sick, but poor Sonja had to wait for her meal (more than once, it turned out). My dear, patient friend.
Sonja had ordered a vegetarian pizza with a side order of roasted garlic and, of course, red pepper flakes; I had ordered penne with a vodka sauce. The “garlic” arrived first: as the waiter wafted it under my nose, I thought to myself, this is strange-smelling garlic: it smelled suspiciously like potatoes. It turned out to be a bowl of steaming, (probably) beautifully prepared, mashed potatoes! Sonya immediately summoned our waiter and inquired after her roasted garlic – perhaps this was a new version of the requested order? The young man whisked the offending potatoes away and the correct version appeared shortly thereafter. My chief comment, amidst our laughter, was that it seemed to be somewhat incongruous that an Italian restaurant would have produced the mashed potatoes in the first place!
The best was yet to come. Our entrees arrived. The waiter offered us some fresh pepper; he got to Sonja first. Under our disbelieving eyes, the pepper mill all but disintegrated onto her dish, mainly in the form of unground peppercorns. Forgive my grossness, but the damn thing all but disemboweled itself right there in front of us! Sonja informed me that the look on my face had to be seen to be believed; from her description, I gather that “subdued horror” perhaps best described my countenance at the unfortunate moment. The waiter was also aghast. However, we all quickly saw the humor in this extraordinary incident, and dissolved into gales of laughter. As a matter of fact, Sonja and I couldn’t stop laughing for quite a while. She did get her pizza, and we finished our meal.
The hubbub around us had faded into insignificance in the midst of our “troubles.” I always have fun with my friend, and we are bound to eat better meals in (I hope) the years to come. But I doubt that this “calamity” will ever be forgotten by either one of us. This, indeed, was a dinner to remember!
It has been a pleasure to get to know you, dear Sonja. May we always keep in touch!

Teeter-Totter...

Yes, Angelika, there really was life before cows...(Teeter-Totter... preceded Bovine by about four months--perhaps I should continue to chew my cud and go back--way back? You tell me.)

TEETER – TOTTER…

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

In life, sometimes, you end up – albeit briefly – wearing someone else’s shoes, both figuratively… and literally. Someone through whom, perhaps, you vicariously wish you could live your life – or, at least, an episode in your life… or, rather, their life. The interesting thing, though, is that this event is actually happening in your life, so, in effect, you are actually living out a part of your life. Am I making sense here?
Carrie Bradshaw. “Sex and the City.” True to my form -- that is, “after the fact,” I finally discovered the show four years after its inception. No matter: I was hooked. I quickly realized that I empathized with Carrie. I may not have long, curly blonde hair, nor a shoe fetish. Nonetheless, I do obsess about relationships, I can be funny, and I do write.
Slavishly following fashion has never been my style, especially when it comes to footwear. On the contrary: Chinese slipper Mary Jane equivalents, loafers, sneakers, sandals with non-existent heels – and a few medium heeled, yet sensible, pumps: a compendium, here, of my adult life below the ankle wardrobe. Fiercely and stubbornly resistant – memories of unbecoming, ghastly orthopedic lace-up booties still send shudders up and down my spine – my childhood flat feet problem continues to haunt me. AARP membership is around the corner. Arthritis is beginning to rear its ugly head. Casual observers, aestheticians, and shoe vendors alike feel I am a podiatrist’s dream/nightmare come true.
Why all this obstinacy when it comes to my feet? False pride, perhaps. There is something about the idea of entrusting one’s feet over into the care of someone else that both repulses and terrifies me. After all, Carrie’s good friend, Charlotte, reacted as such when a foot fetishist-turned-shoe salesman tried to have his way with her feet. Perhaps her motto became: “Shoe boutique shoppers, beware.”
Boutique department stores, however, have Choos – and Louboutins – and Weitzmans – of a different color. As Neiman Marcus was having its First Call sale, I had to – at the very least – strut through the store, indulge some whim or the other, and proudly swing my Neiman’s bag back and forth for all to see. If not down Fifth Avenue, then, at least, all the way back to the parking lot.
A shoe fetish I may not have – but a handbag one, I do. As the “sheep” mentality to which even I succumb had prodded me to indulge in the most practical Prada I could find several weeks earlier, no purse – either sensible or frivolous – enticed me. The sale was too good, however, to think of walking out empty-handed. Before I could regain control, my flat, thong-clad feet had made their way to the shoe department.
Carrie Bradshaw and Manolo Blahniks are synonymous with each other. Neiman’s is known for its selection of Manolos. The sale racks were stocked with a handsome selection of the lovely footwear for which my New York loving, intrepid, cigarette-smoking, articulate, neurotic alter ego is known. As with men, are all the good ones always taken? Are we compelled to not only wear the shoes, but also wear the same size? (It’s not that complicated, really – 7 ½ Medium is probably among the most standard of shoe sizes for women.) Even on sale, each pair cost more than three hundred dollars. Just as well. A decent pair of black shoes, however, would come in handy.
The kind, patient, very down-to-earth (for Neiman’s), knowledgeable salesperson also happened to be the manager of the department. Upon informing him of my elusive quest for “torture-free” footwear, he brought out a few very appropriate pairs for my perusal… including a pair of “ballerina” Manolo Blahniks! Black, flat, butter-soft, pointed, yet roomy. A done deal, Ms. Carrie Bradshaw Wannabe: who says you cannot live out a fantasy, albeit a non-existent heeled version of one?
Obsessive, excessive – and delighted – I asked him about sandals. Sexy sandals. Not too many Manolos left in my/our size. No matter: the pair he and a coworker presented me with screamed out, “Carrie Bradshaw,” nonetheless. I beheld a beautiful pair of black Marc Jacobs sandals, made out of black leather and black suede – a thong model, if I recall correctly – with a black suede flower saucily perched at the tip of each shoe. Very sexy! As only one pair remained – in my/our size – it was drastically reduced, which made it even more appealing. I/we excitedly proceeded to try it on, in all of its three-inch-heeled glory.
Teeter – totter. This is the best way to describe what happened next. There I stood – sexy, three inches taller – but I could not move. My face registered a panoply of emotions: exhilaration, shock, total dismay, shame. Which is worse, shame, or pain? Tentatively inching forward in these exquisite instruments of torture, I remembered Carrie describing walking twenty – nay, forty-seven – blocks in Manhattan in one of her special numbers and stating, “These shoes pinch my feet.” Better to have my Carrie footwear “bubble” burst this way than to suffer with blistered feet… if I could even manage to take more than a few steps in the shoes, that is. Life from a flamingo’s point of view: teeter – totter.
Dejectedly, I stepped out of the shoes. Simultaneously, I breathed a sigh of relief. The “ballerina” slippers would have to do. Life was imitating art - by now owning a pair of Manolo Blahniks, our bond was further strengthened! (However, CB owns one hundred pairs to my now extensive collection of four.) Carrie Bradshaw is not the protagonist here, though. This is my life. I write, I can be funny, and I do obsess about relationships. However, I do not smoke.

Copyright, 2003 by Georgina Marrero 943 words All Rights Reserved

The Bovine Colossus

Don't mind if I borrow from La Loquita to begin with: it was The Bovine Colossus that, more or less, jumpstarted me--

(Originally posted in La Loquita del Zig-Zag blog, Friday, 12/9/05.)

Idly Googling "Miami Lakes cows" yesterday as lazily as the fine specimens cited in the following have (until fairly recently?) chewed their cud, I came up with not one, but two (!) companion pieces that came out in The Herald just pre-Katrina (which would explain why I wasn't paying attention).

It's time. Behold, The Bovine Colossus. Moo.

THE BOVINE COLOSSUS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

There’s a new restaurant in Miami Lakes. Driving by it, I stared at its name. I had to drive by it again, and actually had to pull into its parking lot. I stared again, still in disbelief. Buca di Beppo Immigrant Italian Dining, it calls itself. Immigrant Italian? I could not help envisioning Italian immigrants bypassing Ellis Island, and disembarking onto this restaurant’s brand-new parking lot. Instead of the Statue of Liberty, the huddled, tax-exempt Graham cows welcome them. Indeed?
In mild-eyed wonder, the cows graze – and gaze – upon the Miami Lakes Common. The new extension of Main Street, which now extends to the other side of Ludlam Road, separates two modern-day Gangs of Miami Lakes, Buca di Beppo, and Tony Roma’s. “Keep ancient grudges, you single-storied saloons of gluttony!” they cry out, silently.
Our immigrants and cows alike are neither tired, nor especially poor. On the contrary, they are well fed… in every sense of the word. After their meals – either indoors or at the trough – they equally yearn to breathe free, unpolluted air. As long as they all steer clear of the freshly laid asphalt, they stand a chance.
Their teeming, steaming refuse piles up, either in the dumpster, or in the grass. Homeless they are not. Drive by the benches lining the upper reaches of Calle Ocho to spot those who truly are, who alternate their time between ranting and raving at the thin air, and lying, motionless, in their never-ending quest to gain access to the buses. Go to the shore of the Miami River – or, better yet, to Cayo Hueso – to find the tempest-tossed. Find the lamp beside the golden door of the Wachovia branch right across the street from the cow pasture. Or, perhaps, hop onto the Palmetto Expressway; get off at Northwest 36th Street, and head west to the Spa at the Doral. If your eyes glaze over, proceed immediately to DA BEECH. The Delano awaits your pleasure.
Meanwhile, back in Miami Lakes: try to pet the cows. Worse yet, take their picture. The Graham cows are not as forgiving as Lady Liberty. Take my word for it. Moo.
Copyright, 2003 by Georgina Marrero 356 words All rights reserved