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Gimme, Gimme, Gimme

9/28/2018

As a society, I think we are all beginning to suffer the effects of what I'm going to call gimme overload. Everywhere we go, people are asking us for money. Outside the grocery store. Inside the grocery store—in all fairness, sometimes the cashier is just asking for us to pay for our groceries, but doesn't it seem more and more often lately that they also want a buck or two for the Jimmy Fund or Goose Gizzard Amnesty or something?

And online, it's even worse. Go on Amazon, and they want you to select a nonprofit to which a portion of your purchase dollars will go—you know what? That's not bad. I'm happy to do that. (I picked the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.) What I really mean is Facebook. On Facebook, it's even worse.

The last time I logged on, Facebook informed me that six of my friends had birthdays that day. Then, before I could view my feed, I had to click through this:

Jennifer is fundraising for the Roadkill Hospice Center for her birthday! Would you like to donate?
No? Alex is fundraising for Hands Across the Atlantic Ocean for his birthday! Would you like to donate?
Would you like to donate?
Would you like to donate?
Would you like to donate?
Would you like to donate?

If you accidentally click no when you meant yes, don't worry: Facebook will ask about each one again every time you go on Facebook for the rest of the day.

After feeling like the world's biggest skinflint within twenty seconds of being on Facebook, I was finally allowed to view my news feed. What were my friends up to?

Jeremy was promoting a GoFundMe campaign to buy a baby dolphin a new kidney.
Lisa was pushing a Kickstarter to raise funds to buy Christmas gifts for all the Jewish kids in her neighborhood.
Patty was asking for donations to her neighbor's nephew's girlfriend's Indigogo campaign for funds to dye her basset hound pink in honor of breast cancer awareness.

So, do all these relentless gimme money requests work? Here's the thing: I'm not above it. I ask for money every year to raise funds for the National MS Society. And if I'm being completely honest, 2018 may have been my best fundraising year yet. But my appendix also ruptured six days before the event, so some of that may have been sympathy donations because I couldn't physically do the MS Walk.

Here's one thing all of these donation requests have been successful at: I've stayed off social media for a full two weeks now just to avoid them. So I guess they are doing good after all!

When is Age . . . Inappropriate?

9/13/2018

I don’t keep it a secret when I find a movie star or musician attractive. I hear some people actually have social filters, but apparently, I’m not one of them, because I’ve gone from the teenager squealing at a Duran Duran concert to the middle-aged lady shouting, “Take it off, Simon!” at a Duran Duran concert.

But at what point is it inappropriate to shout “Hubba hubba!” in a movie theater every time someone like, say, Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson appears onscreen? (And why won’t my teenage nephews go to the movies with me anymore?)

I bring this up only because of a conversation I had at work the other day. One of the guys (we’ll call him “Phelix”) finds it amusing that I will absolutely go to a movie that stars Johnson, Jason Statham, Vin Diesel, or that guy who plays Thor as long as he has long hair and is wearing a skirt, even if said film sounds terrible. Phelix will often stop by my desk to ask me to rate the Marvel superheroes in order of physical attractiveness, then pop by the next day for a list of the best Stone Cold Steve Austin movies (there’s only one that qualifies as not terrible). He thinks I’m a nut, but that’s okay: he’s a nut, too.

“You seen Rampage yet?” he asked Tuesday.

“No,” I admitted. (I was supposed to see it in the theater and review it back in April, but my appendix had other plans, and my best writing friend stepped up to the plate to spend two hours watching the Rock and reviewing the flick. No idea if he shouted “Hubba hubba,” but it’s unlikely.)

Phelix cared about none of this. “You haven’t? And you call the Rock your boyfriend,” he added scornfully. (It’s true. I do.)

“Hey,” I said. “I’ve seen Baywatch twice.”

“You did? He look good in that?”

“Yup. Though I have to admit . . . so did Zac Efron.”

At this statement, a look of pure disgust, like I was the lowest scum of society, crossed Phelix’s face. “Hey, now, lady. No talk like that,” he hissed.

I was stumped. Did Phelix feel so strongly about my imaginary love affair with the Rock that I’d just committed some sort of unforgivable betrayal?

Phelix went on. “What is he, sixteen? Pervert!”

Oh! He thinks I’m a pedo—wait, wait, wait. “Zac Efron is thirty,” I said quickly.

Phelix didn’t believe me.

“C’mon, I’ll show you. Let’s look it up,” I said, whipping out my iPhone.

“I don’t need to see your sicko photos, thank you,” he said, holding up a hand.

“Will you please—just—look, here’s IMDB. He’s thirty, see? He’ll be thirty-one in October.”

It turns out the last thing Phelix had seen Efron in was High School Musical, which came out in 2006. And although—and I think it’s important to note this—Efron was eighteen, or legal age, when that came out, he did look like he was fourteen, tops. I tried to explain to Phelix that I did not in any way find High School Musical-era Efron appealing. I brought up a Baywatch-era Efron photo, but Phelix just squeezed his eyes shut and told me to be gone with my filth.

Long story short: the answer is thirteen years age difference. If your movie star crush is thirteen years or more younger than you, keep your mouth shut.

I'm sorry, what were we talking about? I got distracted.

Meet Cute: Free Fiction

9/7/2018

Guess who is having trouble juggling all her deadlines and managing her time this week? (Really? You didn't figure out yet it's me?) No witty, wise words from me this week, but I offer you this humble little piece of flash fiction (which first appeared on TheStoryside.com) instead:

MEET CUTE by Stacey Longo

Justin and Andrea were soul mates.

The universe had thrown them across each other’s paths multiple times, but the two seemed completely unaware they were destined to be together. In fact, anyone watching—be it Fate, the gods, or some sort of spiritual cupid—would swear Justin and Andrea positively hated each other.

It was Trump’s fault.

They first met outside Whole Foods, when Andrea’s shopping cart rolled away as she was loading her organic apricots and freshly baked cheese loaf into the back of her Prius. She had no clue her cart had gone rogue until a sharp voice proclaimed, “Hey! Watch it!”

She looked up to behold the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on: green eyes and blond curls and dimples that wouldn’t quit. On any other day, she’d probably think I could get lost in those eyes. But she was already late to meet her mother for yoga class, and she’d found her first chin hair that morning, and was already furious at the universe because, quite frankly, twenty-six was too darn young to be sprouting chin hairs. She was mad.

“It was an accident. Sorry!” Except she said sorry like sohr-ree, and Justin’s dimples faded to a scowl.

“Just be more considerate, okay?” He shoved the cart back in her direction, turning to load his own bag of apricots and freshly baked cheese loaf into the back of his Prius.

A few weeks later, when they crossed paths again at the smoothie counter of Oh Kale Yes, Justin thought the petite woman with the olive skin and dancing black eyes looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her. She reminded him of a young Salma Hayek—maybe that was it.

He hated Salma Hayek. He’d first seen her on the big screen in From Dusk ’til Dawn, as the uppity, authoritative Santanico Pandemonium, and quite frankly, he hadn’t liked her attitude.

“I’ll have a strawberry fields forever,” he and Andrea said in unison.

Perhaps if Justin hadn’t been woken that morning by his cat regurgitating a hairball on his pillow, or if he hadn’t banged his knee on the frame trying to wrest the door open to the smoothie bar, only to have this young Hayek breeze past him with a soft thanks and cut in line, he would’ve allowed her to go first. But today was not his day. And he was determined to make sure it wouldn’t be her day, either.

“Hey, ding-dong. I was here first.”

Justin didn’t know that ding-dong was a term of endearment between Andrea and her late, beloved grandmother. She smiled wistfully at him, which should’ve melted his heart. But he was thirsty, his knee ached, and his hair still smelled vaguely of feline vomit. “I’ll have a strawberry fields forever,” he repeated. “She can wait.”

The universe was not ready to give up on these lovebirds. It took its time, waiting for an opportunity in which both were in the right frame of mind.

In early November, that day came.

Justin woke that morning full of hope. There was a spring to his step as he walked to work, and passersby smiled at the song he was humming: “Stronger Together.” He felt on top of the world.
Andrea, too, started her day off right. Her landlord had finally gotten the hot water heater fixed, and she belted out “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” as she shampooed her silky locks under the steaming spray. She was met with three green lights on her drive in to work. Things were looking good for Andrea.

Both Justin and Andrea voted, missing each other at the polls by mere minutes, but then both decided it might be fun to wait out the election results at the Branford Tavern in town. Justin had taken Wednesday off for an eye appointment; Andrea to take her tabby to the vet for his annual shots. They had all night to see what the future held.

Serendipity.

Justin spotted the dark-eyed beauty at the bar, sitting alone, sipping a pickle margarita. He did not think of Salma Hayek. He was thinking instead that here was someone else who drank the most delicious dill cocktail in the world. And she was positively beautiful.

“This must be fate,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to hers.

They fell into conversation easily, discussing hybrid cars and organic apricots and cats. Justin felt like he’d known this wonderful, amazing woman his whole life. Andrea was silently thanking God for bringing her a kind, decent man for once.

Then the election results started coming in. “Vermont goes to Hillary Clinton,” CNN declared. Justin’s sigh of relief was drowned out by Andrea’s, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Excuse me?” Justin asked.

“I’m so sick of the way our nation has been driven into the ground by lifelong politicians who care nothing about the little guy.” Andrea’s pretty pink pout turned down at the corners. “Just last year, my insurance premiums went up three hundred dollars a month. A month! Can you believe it?”

“Wait. You think a rich businessman is going to change that? Did you not watch the debates? You just got finished telling me you were recently diagnosed with hypertrichosis. That’s a preexisting condition. You’re exactly the kind of person that—that--troll wants to deny health coverage to.”

“Fake news!” Andrea squawked.

“He said it himself!” The neon green of his cocktail sloshed as Justin slammed it down on the bar.

“Altered tapes created by a vast left-wing conspiracy.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Hillary’s emails,” Andrea hissed.

Justin blinked at his martini glass, then let his gaze rise to this gorgeous, amazing woman sitting next to him, her eyes ablaze in fury. He swallowed hard. “And, uh, how do you feel about . . . dare I ask . . . global warming?” The last two words came out a strangled whisper.

Andrea threw her drink in his face.

As she stormed out and Justin wiped pickle juice off his shirt, the universe gave up with a quiet sigh. The times, they were a-changing.

Gimme, Gimme, Gimme

When is Age . . . Inappropriate?

Meet Cute: Free Fiction

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