Travel should take you places.

That is Hilton's new 1 billion dollar (yes, you read that right) ad campaign for its chain of hotels and resorts. It's also rather self-evident: travel, well, does take you places. Hence the "travel" part.

But Americans, who are already among the worst-traveled people in the world, may be going to far fewer places following an announcement by American Airlines that the carrier will begin charging $15 for the first checked bag. This comes a few months after the scandalous $25 per-second-bag charge that irked me so much a few months ago that I had to blog about it.

You see, I love my travel. I've flown over 20 flights in the past year, mostly on Delta (I'm a slave to their frequent-flier program and the lure, however false, of free travel), and even though the flight experience itself tends to be categorically awful - delayed or canceled flights, frigid cabin temperatures, surly attendants - I absolutely love the feeling of landing and exploring somewhere new. But, like so many other Americans, I'm also working on a budget. And that budget isn't helped by the recent skyrocketing of ticket prices. For example: in 2004, I paid $485 for a round-trip economy ticket to London in July, whereas the same ticket, with the same airline, cost me $1056 in 2007. Flying now means sacrificing Starbucks and shoes, my two principal indulgences, but I'll do it if it means I can grab a few days in Europe.

Unfortunately, American and other airlines (Delta Air Lines, Northwest Airlines and US Airways Group are all considering following suit) penalize travelers like me for precisely that cost-cutting impulse. They don't charge the first-class passengers (i.e. those who could afford the surcharge) for additional bags; first-class is still allowed to check up to three bags at no charge. But the steerage passengers, in addition to having to pay $1056 for their cramped 16 inches of toe-numbing personal space and $12 for an inflight salad, now have to cough up $15 if they want to bring anything along with them on their travels. (And, given the tourist impulses I've observed, they'll likely need the $25 for the second bag to hold all the stuff they cart home.)

This new charge won't impact me as much as some of my fellow travelers; I've almost perfected the art of a self-imposed carry-on-only travel policy, and have gone as far away from home as Denver, Toronto, and London with only a 20" upright. This may not sound like much - Tony Bourdain and Rick Steve proudly trumpet their ability to fit a month's worth of travel accouterments into a duffel - but for me, this is serious forward progress. When I studied in London for a semester a few years ago, I had to buy a second suitcase to lug all my things back home. It was bright pink and so large I could curl up inside it with room to spare. I shudder to think of what Delta would charge me to check it these days.

No, what I object to here is the idea that the budget traveler is a golden goose, there to lay as many eggs for the airline industry as possible before being savagely ripped apart and devoured...okay, perhaps the metaphor doesn't extend that far. But it's painfully obvious to me (especially after having flown in first class a few times) that the airlines consider the coach passenger an inconvenience from which as many fees and surcharges are to be sucked as possible before being crammed into what feels very much like a sardine tin and then ignored for however many hours it takes to reach the destination. And one day the airlines may find that - like the peasant who killed the goose eager to get the last bits of gold from it - in their attempt to extract every bit of cash they can they've destroyed our ability to spend any money on travel at all.

Scarves don't kill people, people kill people.

As some of you may know, there's a huge controversy surrounding one of Rachael Ray's recent fashion choices. Now, considering that some (nay, most) of her wardrobe choices range from dreadfully ill-advised to downright hideous,you may be asking, why the sudden outcry? After all, she's been abusing the tucked-in tee-shirt and too-tight jeans for some time now. Shouldn't the masses have been outraged before?

Well, wonder no more. It would appear that Rachael's latest fashion faux-pas has deeper roots than appalling color choices. Apparently, Rachael's stylist really is out to destroy her boss. If one believes the outraged posters on web forums and even Salon.com, Rachael is wearing the kaffiyeh, what one blogger calls the "explicit symbol of Palestinian terrorism."

Yes, you read that right: Dunkin' Donuts, far from being the mere promoter of underwhelming fried goods, is a supporter of terrorist organizations.

Now, I loathe all things Rachael Ray, so it pains me to say this, but wearing a scarf just does not make one a Palestinian sympathizer. No, not even her. First of all, the kaffiyeh is a form of headgear popular throughout the Middle East for its sun protection; it's not exclusively Palestinian. Second, if Wikipedia is to be believed, both the British and the American military often wear kaffiyeh while on duty in the Middle East due to the protection from sand and sun that it offers. And finally, as seen in the picture on the right,

Rachael is clearly not wearing it on her head, which would seem (to a rational observer, at least) to sever the connection with, well, headgear. Furthermore, the scarf's pattern is not the traditional black-and-white checkered design associated with the Palestinian region; it's a paisley, a design imported into Western fashion two hundred years ago from India by way of Scotland.

So while I'm sorry to have to report that Rachael Ray is not in fact involved with some evil design to destroy the world (at least this time), the simple fact of the matter is: it's a scarf, people. Take a deep breath.

The Next Food Network...Star?

I've been seeing advertisements for the next season of Food Network's version of American Idol. In this show, Bobby Flay - who has turned himself into a FN whore, I'm sad to say - hosts and judges (along with guest judges who include Rachael Ray, gag) a number of contestants who are competing to win their own show on TV.

Previous winners of this show include Guy Fieri. While he's certainly not as bad as Sandra Lee, Rachael Ray, and that lot - he seems genuinely personable, and genuine is indeed a rare trait on the FN - he isn't much of a cook. In an episode of Dinner: Impossible, which I used to like before I found out that chef Robert Irvine is a fraud, Guy pulled a host of frat-boy tricks in order to win the competition, including turning off Irvine's gas stoves and using pre-breaded, frozen chicken tenders and pizza in his "dishes" for the target audience, a group of children. His "cooking show," Guy's Big Bite, involves him making huge meals, and his traveling show Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives shows him giddily shoving entire kielbasas into his sizeable mouth while proclaiming "That is capital-K crunchy." (No, that's not a typo.) While this is certainly media savvy, it's not cuisine, and it's not really talent that I think should be broadcast. I could "cook" with chicken nuggets and stuff my face with 1-pound burgers. I want to watch cooks on TV who show me how to do things I don't already know.

But even that clear lack of culinary skill and/or training is not the thing that irks me most about The Next Food Network Star. In one advertisement, the contestants are being shown getting makeovers as they bounce towards the kitchen: their hair is magically cut, their style magically resembles Ted Allen's, and their makeup is flawless. They're all very attractive people, well-lit, and smiley. But I get the feeling that this show is more about how these people present themselves than any actual talent (very much like American Idol). That would certainly be consistent with the Food Network, which latches onto marketing ploys like Paula Deen's love of butter and hyperbolize them until their hosts become caricatures of themselves. I used to like Paula Deen too, before the FN gave her a "makeover" and turned her into a lascivious grandma who can't put enough butter into anything and makes googly-eyes at her young male guests.

What saddens me is that I don't think FN is looking for a "star" chef a la Mario Batali or Martin Yan, someone who knows how to cook delicious and elegant food and understands the traditions behind those dishes, as well as how to cook them. I think they're looking for another Rachael Ray, someone who can pose in FHM and look cute and talk loudly and cook gimmicky meals that have next to no nutritional value, but hey, they're ready in under thirty minutes or they're a "big bite." I guess that makes for entertainment, but I'm watching for the food. Or I was.

Now, just about the only saving grace of the Food Network is Alton Brown (and the reruns of Tony Bourdain's "A Cook's Tour" that FN optioned). Let's hope they don't try to make him over too.

Khalil Gibran, on Friendship.

Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.
For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared,
with joy that is unacclaimed.

I cannot express my feelings for my friends in clearer words than those. As I've said before, I love Khalil Gibran.

I like the last line, too, about "unacclaimed" joy. Too often I think we try to "protest too much;" we get so caught up in the hyperbole of friendship, that we would die for them, lie down in the streets for them, etc., that we forget about the quotidian traits that make friendship really worthwhile. Real friendship is seeing a coffee mug with terriers on it and thinking, "That would really make ______'s day." Even if we ourselves don't like terriers. It is giving without expectation of return, only hopes for the other's joy, because that is the return which is most satisfying. It is the knowledge that no matter how ridiculous your fears and desires are, your friends will never laugh at you, only with you as you struggle for maturity and clarity.

And yes, sometimes friends are lovers too, but I think we forget the friend bit of "boyfriend" or "girlfriend," and I think that is part of the reason for our insanely high divorce rate. Sex is lovely, and I'm certainly a fan, but what happens if you are so wrapped up in what you need that you forget the "unacclaimed joy" that comes through giving of yourself unreservedly to another? It's a big lesson, and one I am still working on, but I aim for that every day, and I like to think I'm getting there.

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
Seek him always with hours to live.

My friends, you will live in my heart always.

An intriguing concept.

The idea here is to say things to five people, using no names, being completely honest. My therapist recommended it! So here goes.

1) I have hurt you in ways that I can never undo, but you are precious to me and I adore you. I wish I could lift some of the burden of pain you struggle with, but you will have my love and respect always. You haven't always been perfect, and neither have I, but I think you're a damn fine woman and I will treasure forever the gifts you've given me. Because of you I have the confidence to stand up to bullies, defend my beliefs, and go after what I want, yet I also understand the meaning of sacrifice and compassion. I wish I could somehow explain in words how much you have affected my life and my very self, but I can't, and I'm no songstress, so I can't even say it with music, but I hope you know how much you mean to me. Even when you drive me nuts (and yes, that still happens, and I imagine it always will) I adore you. You are an amazing person and I grow to cherish you more every day.

2) You were my first love and my first heartbreak. And you don't know that you were either. Things work out for the best, I think, and I hope you're happy, wherever you are. Sometimes I wonder if I wasted my time on you, but I think in the end, as the Muse Herself says, "You live, you learn, you love, you learn." And learn I did.

3) My dear, I would do anything for you, whether it be talk with you all night or drive seven hours to support you at a wedding you don't want to be at. You never fail to have a wise word or a shoulder to cry on, and sometimes you have both. I continue to find things to admire about you. You are a treasure and one of the best and most genuine people I know. I've seen some of your flaws, and I know you aren't perfect, but I think you know that too, and that is what makes you so strong. Friends like you are my heart and soul and strength, and I am so blessed to have you. You will go far in this world, dearest, and I look forward to seeing that. I think we'll be "friends till the end of time."

4) You claim to be "genuine" and that a particular person "has strong misconceptions" of you, "won't talk to you about them" and "is surrounded by people who feed him these misinterpretations and reinforce his beliefs." Yet you can't seem to understand that he can't talk to you because you have walled yourself in with defensiveness. I used to count you as a friend (before I realized you were never genuine about your feelings towards me), and you still have admirable characteristics. I wish you were more the man you could be, because I'd probably still like you, but now, you're the fakest person I know, and you're unconcerned about your honesty: you never bothered to check whether anything you've told others about me was true before you spread the lies around. I've been where you're headed, and it's a lonely world when you're the grandly misunderstood one who's really right. You underestimate this man's will and his intelligence to assume he could be "fed" anything, and those who truly care for him wouldn't do that anyway. Sometimes, you have to be willing to let go before you can hold on to what you want; you don't seem to know this yet, and I doubt anyone can help you, but one day I hope you wake up, and I hope that day comes before you've wrecked beyond repair all the relationships that matter most. It only gets harder the longer you wait; trust me on this.

5) You and I haven't always had an easy time of it, but I unreservedly love you, and I want nothing more than to grow old with you. It's taken me a while to appreciate exactly who you are, and I still have so much to learn, but you made me rethink a lot of my ideas and dogmas, and you consistently offer me the challenges I need to grow. When you smile I remember exactly why I fell in love with you in the first place. I can imagine my life without you, but I don't want to. Even though you frustrate the hell out of me at times, I love my life with you in it, and I would, really, do almost anything for you, not just the "I'd lie down in the streets and swallow swords" crap but real sacrifices. I think you know that. You have a great heart, and I am blessed to have your love. And "even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music," I hope we will continue to be our independent selves while sharing that music.

On the Attractions of Ink and Heritage, for Lauren.

So, ma cherie, this is pour toi.

To be honest, I am not sure what motivates women like Isobel Varley. I can't see myself ever going to that extent, but what I can say is that it is certainly a rush to have something inked permanently onto your flesh. It becomes a part of you, in a way. I look at my ankle and I remember deciding to get it on a whim and meeting the insanely amorous Arab who tattooed me and charged me half-rate because he liked my red hair, and offered to marry me so that I could live in London with him and attract customers to his shop. It was an adventure! I think this association with certain memories may be a driving force behind the growth of the obsession; also, the tattoo becomes linked with adrenaline-charged experiences, and therefore you seek to recapture that feeling through another tattoo.

That's mostly speculation, however; it's not quite that addictive in my case, although I really do want another. I think another attraction of them is that they are colorful and as permanent an accessory as one can have, and if you're a woman as into her accessories as I am, you're always eager to get another bit of bling, so to speak. I think in this way tattoos are much like piercings; you incorporate your style into your very flesh, which can be misguided (e.g. clit studs, which sound like primitive torture devices, or "I Love Jesus" tattoos, which assume you won't have a midlife religious crisis) or expressive of your essential self. I like to think mine is the latter.

Lauren also says, "I don't get the whole being proud of your heritage thing, which is another issue entirely, I suppose. I mean, we could've been born anyone, anywhere, at any time... and frankly, nationalism is responsible some of the worst wars ever...so I don't get how something so arbitrary is something to be revered."

While I think she has a point, I disagree. As a military brat, I never learned to form deep connections with one particular place, and in fact that's damaged my ability to write strong fiction, in which the sense of belonging somewhere is so terribly important. Like Jean Rhys and Gertrude Stein and all those emigrants to Paris in the 1920s, I'm still searching for somewhere to be. I've found homes away from home in London and Edinburgh, both cities to which I feel a deep, emotional connection, but I've yet to find a place in which I think I could belong wholeheartedly. And perhaps I won't. Some people are forever wanderers.

Yet I connect very strongly with my heritage, although I separate that from nationalism. I am not particularly nationalistic; like Gertrude Stein, America may be my country, but London's my hometown. (All right, Gertie claimed Paris, but to each her own. I like my cities historical and damp.) I think nationalism is the idea of one's country being superior to anywhere else, and it is indeed very closed-minded and responsible for violence...as any other system in which one is made superior to another is. And that is the crucial difference I see between heritage and nationalism. As the descendant of fairly recent immigrants (my maternal grandparents were both immigrants from Europe) I connect quite strongly with heritage, which I see as a sense of history and belonging to people that I have never developed with a particular place (although London is certainly close). It's not the sense of feeling superior to others, as nationalism is, but of feeling connected to them. And while I respect my Irish and Scottish ancestors for the hardships they endured and the strength with which they faced them, I also realize - due to the fact that I'm also English, Spanish, and German - that I really am a citizen of the world, and that all of those cultures are part of who I am.

This next part will undoubtedly meet with skepticism from a few, but I also believe we likely have lived many lives before, and that our experiences in the past colour who we are now. For example, I have a deep, visceral aversion to zombies: I sleep with a nightlight because I am terrified they will materialize out of the dark, and I cannot watch films with them. This fear I attribute to having a bad experience with them in the past, which makes my survival instincts now much keener in that area. (Don't laugh; prove me wrong.) I have also experienced deep déjà vu in several places in England and Scotland connected to the Howards, to whom I'm distantly related. I've found my way through places without maps, and gotten chillbumps in warm rooms. So in a way I connect deeply with my heritage, because I believe it is quite literally part of me in both a genetic and a more deep, memorial sense. I carry forward both the memories and the genes of those who preceded me. And because of that I have strong connections to my history, and am proud to wear its symbols on my skin. Not because I feel it is superior to anyone else's, but because it is mine.

But, on the other hand, having so many different countries in my blood and lives behind mine has served to fracture me in other ways; I suffer from acute wanderlust, largely because I don't feel connected to any one place, but to all places. And I don't feel that any one country is the best in the world, because so many different nations course through me. I don't know whether this has enlightened you any, my dear friend, but it's the best I have for now.

It is addictive, you know.

"Betcha can't do just one" should be the tattoo industry's motto. I am currently searching desperately for a reputable tattoo artist. Why? Because ever since I lost my tattoo virginity last August (which is a long and entertaining story in itself, involving amorous Arab tattoo artists in London's Camden Town) I have wanted to get another tattoo, and now that school is over and I have nothing to focus on but my part-time job and finding an apartment in Athens, Georgia, my obsession with ink has boldly asserted itself.

While I am definitely not as interested in tats as, say, The World's Most Tattooed Woman, I find myself compelled to get at least one more. I'm thinking a Scottish thistle Claddagh on my left ankle, to complement the shamrock I have on my right. In this way, I will proudly bear my Scots-Irish ancestry on the outside of my body as well as in my genes.

And now to return to Isobel Varley, the aforementioned WMTW. She has a serious penis obsession; she recently had one tattooed between her breasts and has a thicket of them growing on the back of her head. There are also dozens of small mice and birds nestled in various areas of her body. This is a little weird, but I like that she defies conventions so boldly. I suppose that the traditional caution against young women getting tattoos - that they'll sag as you grow older - really doesn't apply to her anyway, since she is now 71 years old. Isobel travels the world and experiments with both traditional and innovative methods of tattooing, and her ambition is to get every inch of her skin covered by the time she kicks the proverbial bucket.

I think she's fascinating, partly for this obsession of hers and partly because she makes my own desire for another bit of ink seem very normal in comparison. Meanwhile, while I'm not planning to ink my body to quite the extent of Isobel, I really do need just one more.

Because I could not stop for Death...

I think the down-side to being a fairly thoughtful individual is that sometimes you cannot stop thinking, particularly about things over which you have no control. Lately, my obsessions have run to the things I cannot change: graduation, growing up, growing old, death. I know I'm not alone in these considerations, but it is still depressing to think of this life that I am learning to love so much ending, even if it is not a pressing concern presently.

I've also discovered a new love recently: Khalil Gibran. We read some of his work in a literature class and I adore him, although the poet in me is ashamed to admit that despite his apparent fame (Wikipedia claims that he is the world's third best-selling poet after Shakespeare and Lao-Tse) I had never heard of him before I read his work in class. But here is a portion of "On Death," which encourages me:

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

I love this. I am certainly a dreamer of dreams, though far less a music-maker, and I like to think that maybe those dreams are worth something. Gibran seems to think so. I don't imagine I'll ever stop wondering what it will be like to be old, to be different, to die; but I won't let it keep me from loving life as it is, at this moment. Perhaps the two will even coalesce someday, and I will come to think of what comes next as another great adventure.

La meme.

I was notified by my friend Amy J. (another W alum!) that I was tagged in her blog, so now I have to complete a meme! I'd say I love doing these because I procrastinate, but since I officially graduated yesterday and don't go back to work for almost two weeks, I have nothing to procrastinate from!

The rules are:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

All right, the book nearest me is The Jane Austen Handbook: A Sensible Yet Elegant Guide to Her World, a lovely gift from an equally lovely friend. Actually, my living room is full of books, and it was a toss-up as to which was closest, but since the JAH has a delightful pale teal cover, it caught my eye first. Here are the sixth, seventh, and eighth lines of page 123:

Here are some techniques and tips to help you get past the Big Quarrel.

Forgive him. If he has done something to anger you, give him the opportunity to show you that he has changed.

That really is strikingly applicable to my life at this point, and excellent life-advice in general. I am rather glad I did this now!

And to carry it on:
Mother Wendy
Dances with Blogs
Je Vois la Vie en Rose
Ill-Behaved Woman

And that's all I know! I know, I am a sad blogger.

Why I Couldn't Be A Therapist.

I hate narcissists, I really do. If I were a professional therapist and had to treat them, I would routinely be arrested for beating them over the heads with my clipboard.

It's the J in me. I am easily outraged (as any of you who've read my entries on Rachael Ray will know) and have no difficulty expressing this. In fact, my mother's nickname for me used to be "the prophet" because my firm ideas and fiery temperament reminded her of Elijah.

As some of you may also know, I'm also currently dealing with several instances of narcissistic men who believe they are far wiser, sexier, and better people than they actually are. All of them are convinced they're now "players" who are irresistible to women, and all of them have had or continue to have issues with substance abuse.

I see people I love being hurt by these men, and it's terribly hard for me to keep my mouth shut instead of screaming at them. I see it as a sign of my increasing albeit certainly-not-optimal maturity that I haven't driven to these individuals' homes and beaten them with the inferior reproductive organs for which they are clearly overcompensating. I make up for it by fantasizing about them one day being told by someone they're trying to impress that they're the assholes they are. And blogging.

I continue to be amazed by how blind some people can be to their own lives. It's hard to believe that one can be so shallow, self-centered, and dogmatically insistent on always, always being right and getting the last word, yet believe that he is generous and wise and spiritual. And it's maddening when these men, who have caused people I love so much pain and harm, then try to turn the tables and - rather than admit to specific, damaging actions of theirs - point out how everyone else has failed them. Or try to blame me for the growing chasm between the person they've been misusing and themselves. A grown man playing the victim is simply nauseating.

Some of my friends have tried to take action to distance themselves from these abusive patterns; others persist, certain that their love will make everything all right in the end. I hate to ever contradict John Lennon, but love isn't all you need. You need common sense too. And narcissists are notoriously difficult to change. In one case, the narcissist involved was asked to keep his distance for a while and make no contact with my friend; of course, he hasn't let go of his iron grip on the relationship, because that would mean not getting the last word. And that's impossible for these men, who believe they are fighting grand injustices against them and are really just nice men who are misunderstood.

The thing is, I've been on the other side of this, too. As a very young child I was labeled sociopathic by doctors; fortunately they were wrong, but I was tenacious in my views and, as a clever child, found ways to turn any argument back against the other person until they either lost their original topic or grew so frustrated that they gave up. I remember often feeling as if the whole world were ranged against me and I was grandly misunderstood, and that if people would just listen to me they would realize I was right. It was a lonely existence.

And then I got out of puberty and, thank god, grew the fuck up.

It's really sad when men in their late twenties haven't left their inner child behind.

Why the Food Network Is Still Worth Something.

The saving grace of the Food Network revolves around one man: the balding, be-moled Alton Brown, who makes my own nerdiness disappear in comparison. Not only is he the host of Iron Chef America, a show in which chefs take on a "secret ingredient" and create gourment cuisine in an hour, but he also is the brains behind (and host of) Good Eats, which is essentially the show Bill Nye the Science Guy would have if he cooked.

The name of the episode I'm watching right now is "American Slicer," and it demonstrates various slices and chops, which is in itself very useful. To top it off, he mentions while slicing a jalapeño that capsaicin, the "hot" element of peppers, is an oil that will stick on your fingers for hours.

Unless, that is, you dip your hands into a 5:1 solution of water and bleach. Why? "This will cause a chemical reaction that will turn the capsaicin into a water-soluble salt that will come off with a rinse."

I love it when science is fun.

Get it together.

Life-coach: google it and you'll find about 6,620,000 results. Definitions range from "an advisor who helps people with problems, decisions, and goal attainment in daily life" (thanks, Webster) to providing "creative common sense" in life situations (from, you guessed it "Creativecommonsense.us").

What I don't understand is how any reasonable person can that think hiring someone else, except perhaps a licensed medical professional, to solve one's problems is a wise investment. Isn't the difficulty facing most Americans that we rely on outside forces for our motivation? Fat? Get a gastric-bypass. Lazy? Claim it's a genetic disorder. If there's an excuse, make it. Don't have self-motivation? Get someone to tell you what to do! And these life-coaches do not require licensing or supervision, because they don't technically provide psychotherapy. This is the court ruling even though most of these coaches do focus on goals like "managing your emotional state" and "conflict resolution," which both sound like the province of clinical counseling to me. If there were ever a way for one person to abuse and manipulate another, it is this situation.

And that doesn't even take into account the fact that these uncredentialed "coaches" often display disturbing personality traits of their own and are generally annoying. For example, almost all of these "life-coaches" use the Royal We, even when they are clearly one person taking a picture of themselves in someone's kitchen. If that's not the hallmark of a narcissist, I don't know what is. In fact, who other than a narcissist could present themselves as the answer to your problem in the first place?

Of course, you may disagree, and say the use of pronouns is just a stylistic choice. (I disagree. Pronouns are a sacred part of the language and should be treated with care, just like any other part of speech.) Then what about their hyperbolic claims on their CVs? Like this one, from "Charles":

"I've coached athletes, performers, and public speakers into peak performance. I've led individuals from career cul-de-sacs into the dream job superhighway. I've succeeded at everything I've ever put my mind to. That means my life is one string of soaring successes after another."

Call me a cynic, but I don't trust someone who claims he's succeeded at "everything" he's ever put his mind to and characterizes his life as "one string of soaring successes after another." (Not to mention the last bit is grammatically dubious in its adjective placement: it should read "a string of one soaring success after another." Yes, it does really come down to word choice.) If I want someone with delusions of grandeur, I'll talk to Han Solo. I definitely won't pay him $100 an hour to instill and maintain in me my own unrealistic views of existence.

Or this one, from "Ryan":

"It is time for the 'Light Workers' of the world to join together to raise the vibration of the Universal Consciousness."

Not only does that sound more than a little like a sex act, it's characteristic of the vagueness of these "coaches." How does vibrating the Universal Consciousness - apart from probably giving the ole gal a good thrill on a Saturday night - solve the fact that you procrastinate chronically, or that you have abandonment issues because of your childhood?

The straight fact is that it doesn't. I'm a supporter of professional counseling and therapy, precisely because therapists (at least, good ones) are straightforward: if you don't want to achieve your goals, you won't, and nobody can help or make you. And therapists are licensed and educated. But anyone, even a narcissistic grammar-abuser taking his own headshot in a crowded kitchen, can set up a jokey website and charge unsuspecting souls $100+ an hour (which, by the way, is more than I pay my doctorate-holding counselor). $100 an hour to get life advice from someone who has apparently solved all his problems and is now moving on to solve yours.

Now that's something you need help with.

Pre-packaged Proposals.

A friend of mine sent me this link. I was, in short, appalled. Apparently, pre-packaged proposal deals are all the rage.

Call me a romantic idealist - Yahoo!'s personality quiz did - but I like to think a proposal is something that a person needs to come up with him/herself. (I include both pronouns since I am an equal-opportunist.) Doesn't it take the magic away to have a person named "Jenifour" (and speaking of which, I abhor pretentiously spelled names that then require mispronunciations) plan out that big event? Jenifour's website provides package deals for proposals ranging from luxury cars to rose-bedecked hotel suites to - you guessed it - dinner at la Tour Eiffel. I'm all for lush romantic gestures, but I think there's something stunningly hollow about paying someone else to plan out, even script, what amounts to one of the most important and life-changing decisions you'll ever make.

And this doesn't even take into account the possible ramifications of spending $5,000-$25,000 on a proposal. First of all, if you lay down that kind of cash, how can you afford the wedding, which in today's society will cost you the average of $27,000? I'm sorry, but I think spending $50,000 on getting married is silly when you can buy a beautiful new 2008 Mercedes SLK-Class convertible for that, which will, with today's divorce rates, likely remain enjoyable far longer.

And secondly, won't this raise expectations to the level where they cannot possibly continue to be satisfied? Staging an entire Broadway musical themed around your proposal may be dashingly romantic, but I challenge anyone to top that for their ten-year anniversary gift. I think this is a form of setting oneself up for failure, by establishing the idea that everything in marriage must be so giddily ideal that when it fails to be - as it inevitably will - and you realize that they really don't know how to put the damn toilet seat down, you start looking for the next person who'll shell out five grand to pop the question.

Another of Jenifour's (and every time I see that, I want to type Jenifive) packages is the "sexy nurse" role-play. The reasons why paying someone else to set up a role-playing sex game is disturbing are numerous, but I particularly thought so of this quote: "Since people have fantasies of their lovers in an assortment of roles and costumes, please feel free to interchange your event to include: maid, stripper, spy, flapper, school girl, milk maid, Jessica Alba, etc."

Jessica. Alba.

Talk about unrealistic expectations...