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Yesterday morning’s rent check marks the 119th rent check we have written for our apartment in beautiful uptown Astoria, which means that next month, when we write check number 120, we will have lived in the same apartment for ten years.

It’s a pointless question to ask, “how do you know when it’s time to go?”, because the real answer, the only one that counts, is “when the money runs out.” We live in three rooms (living, bed, kitchen), 350 square feet, second floor, back of the house, view of the Triborough Bridge, the landlord’s backyard and garden, and the backyards of our neighbors.  Our previous two apartments together were studios, the first a mid-sized one in Philadelphia, the second a closet-sized space on the Lower East Side, so the thought of being in an apartment where you had a whole other room that sat empty while you sat in another room doing something else was exciting.  Now we look at the ten years’ worth of stuff accumulated, the stuff we have not yet moved into storage, the stuff that could fill a bungalow quite cozily, and we think, we have to go.

Except, of course, we can’t, at least not here.  Back in 1994, when we met with the real estate agent who was helping our landlord rent the apartment, we told her we were looking for a place with a rent of $500 to $600.  She took us to various small, dark, scary apartments, and then she brought us to this one.  Enough space, big kitchen (I had yet to learn that square footage is meaningless if you don’t have workable counter space), views of Manhattan, walkable shopping, subway around the corner.  We’ll take it, I said.  The landlord wanted $750.  “Don’t even think about it,” said the realtor.  We met him halfway, at $675.  “I still think you’re paying too much for this apartment,” sighed the realtor as we handed her a check for the first month’s rent plus security deposit.  Maybe we were, but in exchange for ponying up, we got a terrific landlord and landlady, who were enthralled by our newlywed status, who gave us tomatoes and peppers from the garden in summertime, and who didn’t raise our rent for the first four years we lived here.  Now we are paying $1,000 a month in rent.  We have the best deal in town.  Were we to move from this apartment into another one of comparable size, we can expect to pay, at minimum, about $1,300 for the privilege.  This means that when the time comes to go, we really have to go.

Thus starts the dance in my head.  Step forward, This is my home.  Step backward, Get me out of here.  One, two, love it here; three, four, out out out.  On good days I walk around the city and absorb the energy pulsing up from the sidewalk, propelling me and 7 million other people through space and time.  On bad days, I huddle and race, holding my breath until I know the worst of the bottlenecks are behind me.  On good days Lloyd and I go to the movies, or he accompanies me to the farmer’s market, or we go to the park. If the weather is nice and the crowds are amiable, it is easy to feel like we are a part of a larger picture, that the city is spreading out its best for us, inviting us to marvel at its hundred hundred little marvels, like Patchin Place, the little street in the West Village where E.E. Cummings lived and worked; or Prospect Park, where you walk through a narrow, dark, shady path, cross under a bridge and reemerge into the most open, beautiful green space you could imagine in a city; or my beloved Fort Tryon Park, with spectacular Hudson School-views of the river and a Heather Garden so beautiful, quiet and sweet that it is almost beyond imagining that such a space is in Manhattan, half an hour from midtown.  On bad days...well…

December 23 was a very bad day indeed.  It was my last day at LuthorCorp before heading to Philadelphia to spend the Christmas holidays with my parents.  I was brooding.  I was too tired for Christmas, missing my recently-deceased grandfather, feeling a fresh round of misery because it was two days past what would have been his 83rd birthday.  In addition, I was feeling quiet and thoughtful because the previous week I had read a Hartford Courant article about and which orionoir had written and linked, about twin sisters, one a psychiatrist, the other suffering from schizoaffective depression.  It was a terrific article, fascinating, occasionally funny, thoroughly heartbreaking, and it made me realize that the more one learns about mental illness, the more one realizes just how much we don’t know.  I thought about this article, as I did every morning for a week, as I rode the escalator out of the Grand Central Station subway stop, as I listened to a homeless, schizophrenic, possibly psychotic woman harangue all of the white men riding up the escalator with me as neo-Nazis trying to rape her mind.  Every day, the harangue was different, but my thoughts were the same:  this is somebody’s daughter, maybe somebody’s mother.  Where are all of the outreach people the NYCTA claims to have on staff to help homeless people get the help they need?  Why isn’t anybody doing something?  Why am I not doing something?

On the 23rd, she was still there, crying out that John Ashcroft was trying to steal her thoughts, but she wouldn’t let him.  I started turning over the same thoughts...then I heard the guy on the step behind me, parrotting her words right back at her, loudly, shouting her down.  I stood perfectly still, wondering what was coming next.

She kept yelling, seemingly impervious to the guy behind me.  He did it again, in a snotty teenage voice.  He’s mocking her, I thought.  As he talked, there was another voice, a high-pitched female giggle.

“John Ashcroft—“ said the homeless woman.

“I’m a Republican,” yelled the guy.

His wife/girlfriend giggled again.  “Why do you want to do that?”

“Because I’m a Republican, and I think she should shut up.”

“Why?” The woman was still giggling, and she had a whiny edge to her voice that made me feel like piano wire was wrapping itself around my head.  “It’s a free country.”

“Yeah,” said husband/boyfriend.  “It’s a free country, and I’m free to tell her to shut up.”

It started deep inside.  It was like the famous “Click!” of the 1970’s, the moment when feminists realize for the first time that they are feminists, except this was less a click than a snap, something breaking apart rather than coming together.  In my heart I knew that only trouble would come from this, but, officer, there was this snap.  I turned around.  They were both dressed in business attire. He was wearing aviator shades.  She was about 5 feet tall.

“That was really brave of you,” I said, “fighting with a schizophrenic like that.”

“Hey,” he said.

“No, really.  Obviously she made a choice to be sick, and to be here, and to purposely ruin your commute by suffering, but you really showed her!”

Wife/girlfriend glared.  “You need to mind your own business,” she said.

“Well,” I replied, “when you pick a public fight, you make it everybody’s business.”

I had resolved that once I had said my piece, I would stop, because the one thing I hate about your garden-variety New York City fight between strangers is the bickering aspect, the desire to get the last word so strong that anyone unfortunate enough to listen to you is treated to profanity-laden versions of “you are!” “no, you are!” So I turned back around, which was just as well because a) we had reached the top and b) before I’d made it to “everybody’s”, the guy had already told me to shut my fucking mouth.  As I walked toward the main concourse, I heard him continue on, as once again wife/girlfriend giggled for him to stop, continue to hurl more words, every version of every epithet that could contain “ugly” or “fucking.” I think a comment was made about my ass, too, as well as to my obvious frigidity AND lesbianism.  (At least I give the appearance of versatility.) It was not the words I minded nearly as much as the fact that this was going on during rush hour, so as he yelled, people turned to see who he was yelling at, so I was treated to everyone around me swivelling their heads, Busby Berkeley-style, to see the target.

I should have had adrenaline on my side, and for about 30 seconds I did, but it was instantly replaced by sadness.  What had been accomplished by all of that?  Who did it help?  Not the homeless woman.  Not the guy, or his companion.  Not anyone who had had the misfortune to listen to us.  Certainly not me.  I went to work, spent the day listening to customers yell at me, went home as quickly and quietly as I could, flung myself on Lloyd and cried get me out of this fucking city, please!

And yet, and yet, and yet.  Last week Lloyd came home from his temp job at Great Financial Behemoth, LLC, where he works with executives and partners in the firm, and told me about a conversation he had with two of them, guys who commute in from fancy suburbs in New Jersey, both of whom said, with venom, that they hated New York, only come in to work and then get the hell out, they don’t understand people who come in on weekends, why would anybody want to do anything here, because they sure don’t, and god, why would anyone live here?  And my back went right up.  I wanted to go to work with him the next day, invade the personal space of both of these guys and say just who the hell do you think you are, anyway?  If you hate working here so much, why don’t you get a job in Metropark and leave this city to the people who want to be here?  Now take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! And get the hell off my lawn!

How do you know when it’s time to go?  What do you do when it is?

Dear friends,

It is another interstitial night here at PTMYB.  Having survived the Wednesday night LutherCorp office party, at which I was given the improbable nickname of Lady Godiva even though I am 99 44/100% sure that no nudity occurred on that night, I am headed out again tonight.  This time I will be joining a cluster of high-spirited femmes for Korean barbecue, which means I will arrive home full, semi-drunk, reeking of smoke and fermented fish-based sauces, and happy as a clam.  Poor Lloyd.

Last night’s, uh, spirited post about Connecticut Governor John G. Rowland and his wife attracted the attention of my friend Vee, who had more beauty and integrity at birth than I will ever hope to achieve in my whole life.  Unfortunately, she had to slap my hand, and rightly so, for failing to attribute the title of the post.  Whoops.  No, I did not make up the title by myself; I cribbed it from “Frankly Mr. Shankly” by the Smiths.  “You munged the line, too,” said Vee.  So I did.  I should have said “I didn’t realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry.” Anything else, Vee?  “Yes.  One begins to ascertain that you are not a Buddhist.” Such a card, that Vee.  It is only because she is a dead ringer for Diana Rigg that she gets away with it.

By now I should be well-acquainted with the perils of office food, and not check out the leftovers from the board of directors’ lunch this afternoon.  So it is my fault that I spied something that looked like strawberry mousse in the lunchroom and decided to try a little ramekin of it.  Hmm.  A curious mix, this.  It is supposedly made of whipped cream, but there is not a whisper of dairy taste about it.  It is topped with fresh strawberries, but it doesn’t taste of strawberry.  It doesn’t taste of any fruit of all, come to think of it.  It does taste vaguely of cinnamon – but why in the world would you put cinnamon in a strawberry dessert?  I am starting to fear that I have just participated in a blind food-additive test, when a co-worker walks into the caff.  “Is that strawberry?” he asks.  “Nnnnno,” I answer.  “What flavor is it?” he asks.  “Uh, I think it’s pink-flavored,” I answer.  Co-worker laughs, grabs a spoon, tastes it.  A look of puzzlement crosses his face.  “Oh,” he says.  “It is pink-flavored.”

The aforementioned Miss Vee has suggested that I put up some happy news, to offset yesterday’s philippic.  This is not happy news, but it is news I am glad to read.  Gary Ridgway, the confessed Green River Killer, was sentenced to 48 consecutive life sentences on Thursday.  If you are not familiar with the Green River Killer, and the path of fear, misery and destruction he carved into Washington and Oregon, ask a Pacific Northwest-based friend about him.  (Or read this article from the Tacoma News Tribune, but be warned that it is painful.) There was much controversy over a deal that the prosecution cut with Ridgway, sparing him the death penalty in exchange for full disclosure of all his crimes and the whereabouts of his victims’ remains.  Although I’m sure my opinion would be much different if it were my mother or sister or best friend or cousin who crossed his lethal path, I have to admit that I’m glad the deal was made, simply because Judge Richard A. Jones was able to say, in effect, you will pay for what you did to Wendy Lee Coffield.  Gisele Ann Lovvorn.  Debra Lynn Bonner.  Marcia Faye Chapman.  Cynthia Jean Hinds.  Opal Charmaine Mills.  Terry Rene Milligan.  Mary Bridget Meehan.  Debra Lorraine Estes.  Linda Jane Rule.  Denise Darcel Bush.  Shawnda Leea Summers.  Shirley Marie Sherrill.  Colleen Renee Brockman.  Alma Ann Smith.  Delores LaVerne Williams.  Gail Lynn Mathews.  Andrea M. Childers.  Sandra Kay Gabbert.  Kimi-Kai Pitsor.  Marie M. Malvar.  Carol Christensen.  Martina Theresa Authorlee.  Cheryl Lee Wims.  Yvonne Shelly Antosh.  Carrie A. Rois.  Constance Elizabeth Naon.  Kelly Marie Ware.  Tina Marie Thompson.  April Dawn Buttram.  Debbie May Abernathy.  Tracy Ann Winston.  Maureen Sue Feeney.  Mary Sue Bello.  Pammy Avent.  Delise Louise Plager.  Kimberly L. Nelson (also known as Tina Tomson and Linda Lee Barkey). Lisa Yates.  Mary Exzetta West.  Cindy Anne Smith.  Patricia Michelle Barczak.  Roberta Joseph Hayes.  Marta Reeves.  Patricia Yellow Robe.  Jane Doe.  Jane Doe.  Jane Doe.  Jane Doe.

I am the last person who should be surprised or dismayed by odd behavior from our elected leaders. (If you are worried that this is going to turn into a “look what those knuckleheads in Congress did today!” screed, fear not. I would like to think that I have more going on than that automated dj machine on The Simpsons, the one with which KBBL station management keeps threatening to replace Bill and Marty. But maybe I don’t, and of course you are invited to tell me if I am indeed mistaken.) Because I literally cut my teeth on one of the more sordid chapters in American history—when my kindergarten teacher asked me what my mommy’s favorite television show was, I answered “the Senate Watergate hearings”—I should not be surprised by bizarre, labyrinthine, paranoid or just plain loony efforts to rationalize it. I remember my mom hooting at Ron Ziegler’s comment, after Richard Nixon had made a statement that contradicted a statement he had made a week earlier, that the previous statement was “inoperative.” Years later, as a teenager, I remember the woman who Ronald Reagan had tapped to run one of Health & Human Service’s family planning divisions, the mission statement of which was “no premarital sex, ever!”, trying to explain why she was traveling on the government’s dime to watch her son play pro football, in the company of a man who was not her husband. (Yes, she had a husband, too.) I can’t remember what the actual explanation was, but whatever it was, the White House was not impressed and she resigned. And I was actually home from college on a break, visiting relatives in Philadelphia, when we watched a live press conference called by our recently-convicted-and-about-to-be-sentenced state treasurer R. Budd Dwyer. He read a long, paranoid, multi-paged statement before killing himself on live television.

I mention all of this to remind myself that there is no room for surprise or naivete in me anymore. It sounds terrible, the laziest form of cynicism, to say “nothing the bums do surprises me,” but I cannot lie. Nothing the bums do surprises me. Or didn’t, anyway. Then I read how the governor of Connecticut and his wife spent their day yesterday.

Those of you from Connecticut and surrounding states—you know who you are—please bear with me, because I know you already know all of this. For those who don’t, the governor of Connecticut, John G. Rowland, is in hot water lately. Having previously denied that he had accepted favors from state contractors and potential bidders on state business, last week he admitted that he accepted free work on his lakeside cottage, a hot tub and a heating system from businesses, aides and friends who are now at the center of a federal investigation into state contract awards. His friends are being subpoenaed. Congressmen (and fellow Republicans) Christopher Shays and Rob Simmons are urging him toward full disclosure. His constituents, in rising numbers, are finding him untrustworthy. A Quinnipiac College poll shows his approval rating at 30%.

It is under this unhappy cloud that Gov. Rowland gave a speech yesterday before the Middlesex County Chamber of Commerce. His friends and aides, including those being investigated by the feds, were in attendance. So was his wife, Patricia. So were several soldiers, recently returned from Iraq. So were members of the press, who were not allowed to ask questions of the governor.

I will not dwell on Governor Rowland’s repeated references to his own Christianity. I will mention only in passing his quoting of C.S. Lewis, pointedly identified by the governor as a Christian: “In our adversity, God shouts to us.” I will not begin to enumerate my feelings on his introduction of the newly-returned soldiers from Iraq, and his attempts to glom onto the capture of Saddam Hussein (”...it was the Fourth Infantry Division...but it could have been any one of our Connecticut servicemen or women."), as well as his attempt to downplay the relative importance of the federal investigation compared to events overseas. It would be easy to rant about any of these, but then we wouldn’t have room for Mrs. Rowland’s poem.

The short version is that Mrs. Rowland wrote a parody of Clement C. Moore’s “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” a/k/a “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas,” in which she lays the blame for the year’s tribulations at the feet of the Hartford Courant. About a third of the way into the poem, the crowd began to gasp, and she turned to her husband to see if he wanted her to continue. “Go for it, hon,” he said to her. “What can they do to us?” She replied, “They can’t make it worse,” which to me sounds like a double-dog-dare challenge to the Fates to cook up something really good for the Rowlands.

Oh, hell, why rant about it anymore? Why not read the poem for yourself (which I got from the good folks at Newsday)?

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except me the first spouse.
I was waiting for Santa, that jolly old elf, to give him the list I had drawn up myself.
For I had hung all the garland and tinseled the trees and festooned the house for the public to see.
I’d sent all the cards to our friends far and near, and thanked all our staff for their hard work this year.
I’d shopped and I wrapped all my gifts full of love for our five picky teens, the black Lab and the guv.
I kept quiet and calm through December’s dark storm, protecting my family from those who wish harm.
So now it was my turn to get Santa’s ear, to tell him what I wanted for Christmas this year.
When out on my yard there arose such a hubbub, I thought maybe (Hartford Courant reporter) Jon Lender had jumped in the hot tub.
Now surely that man needs to go soak his head, but there on the lawn stood Santa instead.
“Come in, dear Santa, and rest for a while. I’ve got cookies and milk,” I said with a smile.
“I am late,” said Santa. “My last stop took hours, all that coal I delivered down The Courant’s tall towers.
“They used to be good girls and boys,” Santa said. “But the poison pen’s power has gone to their head.
“And I have the same problem at the media stations, they’ve just simply forgotten good human relations.
“Their thirst and hunger for the day’s biggest story has earned them black coal for their ill-gotten glory.”
“Oh Santa,” I said, “that is sad, I agree. They’ve acted like Grinches who have stolen our tree.
“They whipped themselves into a mad feeding frenzy. They’ve embarrassed our children and our Mama McKenzie.
“But this is the season of joy, peace and love, and forgiveness which comes from our Lord above.
“A time for compassion to give what we can, to lift up the spirits of our dear fellow man.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” went Santa. “I say that’s the gist. Now why don’t you tell me what is there on your list.”
“Dear Santa, this year bring warmth to those cold, and safety each day to the young and the old.
“Bring our soldiers home safely without any hitches, and give evildoers a kick in the britches.
“Help the lonely find love, and the lost find their faith, take the drugs off our streets so our children can play.
“Give our teenagers wisdom and courage and health. Show them family and friends are the best kind of wealth.
“And last, but not least, for the man next to me, a new year that is peaceful and refreshingly free of rumors and hearsay that do nothing but smother the positive works we should do for each other.
“This man who has given you many years of his life, who has stood tall and strong throughout good times and strife.
“He has championed our cities, our schools, and our arts. He’s made sure our children are ready and smart.
“He doesn’t get bullied by big union bosses who picket and whine and dwell on their losses.
“He’s the man with the plan for the good of our state and he won’t let the press twist and turn our state’s fate.
“So please, Mr. Santa, won’t you grant me this plea, and tackle this list that I have drawn up for me?”
Santa stood up and gave me his hand. “That’s quite a tall order, but I’ll do what I can. I’ll spread Christmas cheer to each city and town, to each man, woman and child, and I won’t let you down.”
He jumped in his sleigh, and then flew out of sight. He said, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

I know that this is supposed to be the season for peace and goodwill.  I know that I try to live by the Buddhist ideals of compassion and kindness, even though I am not a Buddhist.  I know that I have no quarter for pointing fingers at Connecticut’s dirty politics, considering that I have lived in New York and Philadelphia, no slouches themselves, government-venality-wise.  I know that there are bigger fish to fry in the world, and that children are starving in North Korea.  I am still pissed off by this, this whining, this craven invocation of God and country, this shitty, shitty poem.

Not that she has asked for my advice, but if she did, I’d give two pieces of advice to Mrs. Rowland. Piece the first is that you may want to be careful talking about the Courant‘s “ill-gotten glory” when your husband just admitted to getting a free hot tub. Piece the second is that you may want to be careful about getting cute in public. One of the other things I remember from my teenaged years is Imelda Marcos getting cute on camera, zinging her husband’s political opponents in song, and I remember how well that turned out for them.

Before I even begin, I will lay my cards on the table:

I am not an anti-consumerist. I do loathe an overproliferation of advertising as much as anyone, and I am weary of being unable to look at a nice big brick building without seeing some 100-foot fabric nightmare trying to sell me Altoids or Diesel jeans or Smirnoff. I get vaguely anxious when I see corporate sponsorship splashed about hither and yon, as in Jean-Paul Gaultier’s new exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum, which is supposed to be about the history of skirts in menswear, but is really just an excuse for him to show off his new designs, which, unsurprisingly, feature skirts for men. I am a wary, cautious consumer, but a consumer nonetheless. Anyone who doubts me need only come home with me and be greeted by the hundredweight of books and specialty grains and French baking equipment that threatens to overtake our living space.

I do not hate fine jewelry. Admittedly, I am not nuts about diamonds. I am more of an emerald girl, so much so that I once nearly talked myself into buying a pair of emerald stud earrings at Bloomingdale’s that I did not need, could not afford and certainly would be too nervous to wear. I should have charged tickets to the performance of the inner monologue on this: “Wow! 50% off! And the sales guy said that all jewelry is an additional 15% on top of that! And if I apply for a Bloomie’s card, I’ll get 10% on top of that! So, if the price is $2,800, that makes $1,400 with the 50% off, minus $420 makes $980, minus $280 if I get the Bloomie’s card...wait a minute, that’s still $700! I can buy two years’ worth of clothes for $700.00! Go home, fool!”

I do not wish for another husband. I think that the one I have is just perfect for me, as I’ve mentioned in this space before and will try not to do overmuch.  I did not follow the New York striver-girl path of sussing out a man’s future earning potential.  From our first date I knew that Lloyd was the fella for me, even if we spent the rest of our lives working at our low-paying retail bookselling jobs.  (Thankfully, we did not.) I want him to do any work that makes him happy.  I do not want him to become a stockbroker, unless he decides it would be a fun thing to do, which I don’t think he will.

Having declared all that, I must confess that today I was driven to a state of simultaneous anger, guilt and self-loathing by advertising.  I realize that in even mentioning this ad, I am rewarding the company that brought me to this state.  If one takes the view that any ad that generates attention and discussion is a good ad, then these ads have done their job.  I admit this freely.  The company in question is De Beers, and they do a brilliant job creating ads that stick in the mind.  Unfortunately.

One thing I like about commuting via Grand Central is that if the weather is really dreadful, I can take advantage of an underground walkway, which the MTA has named, evocatively, the Northeast Passage.  If you follow it all the way to the end, it lets you out literally at my office building.  In bitter cold or pounding rainstorms, it is a godsend.  One tradeoff of staying dry is that you are treated to a good 1/4 mile of advertising, all for the same company; the MTA seems to be selling the ad space as single-vendor space.  This month’s advertiser is De Beers, rolling out all their stops for Christmas, showing giant photographs of diamond rings, earrings, necklaces and tennis bracelets, along with pearls of wisdom, in a full-caps aggressive font, like these:

YOU GOT HER.  SHE GOT YOU.  YOU MIGHT WANT TO DO SOMETHING BEFORE THAT SINKS IN.

SHE’LL STILL HAVE SOMETHING NICE TO LOOK AT WHEN YOU START GAINING WEIGHT AND LOSING HAIR.

HOPE YOU’RE PAYING ATTENTION, BECAUSE THERE WILL BE A TEST ON DECEMBER 25.

WHITE HORSE AND SHINING ARMOR SOLD SEPARATELY.

APPEASE THE GODDESS AND SHE MIGHT LET YOU LIVE ANOTHER YEAR.

And the kicker, the one that nearly made blood gout out of my scalp:

EVER WONDER WHY SO MANY BABIES ARE BORN IN SEPTEMBER?

In case I haven’t made my feelings manifest, I hate, hate, hate these ads.

The thing I hate about these ads is not that they make me want something I don’t have. I hate them because they play on that consumer-striver sentiment. Normally my biggest issue with De Beers ads is that they create desire for baubles in people who can ill-afford to buy them, as witnessed by the ageless chestnut tag line, “How else can two months’ salary last forever?”

The new ads, though, these are different. If I am reading them correctly, they are there to create desire for baubles in people who not only can afford to buy them, but are smug about being able to afford them. I work on Park Avenue, in a giant slab of a building surrounded by other giant slab buildings. UBS is in our building. JPMorganChase is across the street. SalomonSmithBarney, Bank of New York, Citigroup, they’re all right here, and you can’t swing a cat without hitting someone who works for one of these titans, works like a dog, yes, but even in slow years there is money to burn. These are the people for whom De Beers is gunning.

These guys work out at my gym, or, I should say, I work out at their gym, because they are the target market for the gym. It’s a private club, more money than I should be spending for working out, but I suck it up and pay the Amex bill every month because the gym is right across the street, I get my own permanent locker and all workout clothing is provided by the gym, and there isn’t any of that pseudo-high-school-meat-market-plus-snotty-competitive-girls atmosphere. By and large, the people who work out there have 40 minutes to work out, they have no time to waste, they want to do their thing and get out. So the bankers and brokers show up, sometimes they run, sometimes they lift, but most often they play basketball. Apparently their jobs engender a lot of anger and stress, because for all of the pre- and post-game backslapping and high-fiving, these guys play mean. I have seen foreheads split open. I have heard the story, told to me by the saleswoman who sold me my membership, that one time four guys slammed into the supposedly-shatterproof glass wall hard enough to shatter it, and then complained that the management wouldn’t just let them play around the broken glass.

So these are the guys that De Beers is courting, men hopped up on money and stress and basketball endorphins and good Scotch and a cigar at Christmas, to act out these fantasies of being Big Daddy to the Little Woman while simultaneously being the Dumb Little Kid to the Ball and Chain That is Far Too Good for You.  A lot of these guys have stay-at-home wives, and of course I will never castigate a woman for staying at home, because that’s a deeply personal choice that needs no justification or apology.  But I’ve noticed that some of the gym guys get a real charge out of the idea of bringing home a piece of ice for the little woman, and bragging about it to their basketball crew.  Maybe it is a genuine declaration of love, but sometimes it also sounds like a tacit reminder of just who is earning the money that made that piece of ice possible.  At its worst, it is a real declaration of power, the iron fist in the velvet glove.  Yet with that power, De Beers is also selling a weird kind of anti-power, a winking acknowledgment that the little woman gets to be the real adult in the relationship, because you, bringer-home-of-bacon, you don’t have a clue.  Without her, you’d never find your clean socks, you wouldn’t know if the mortgage had been paid, your kids would be eating frosting out of a can for breakfast, and you wouldn’t even remember your own mother’s birthday!  Of course, you could try to be a little less dependent, a little more self-sufficient, buy your mom a damn birthday card and mail it yourself, but wouldn’t it just be more fun to admit that you’re a fuckup and buy her something pretty instead?

By the time I got up to the street, I should have been in a good lather of righteous indignation, but I wasn’t.  I was depressed.  I was depressed because I’ve never wanted that kind of life for myself, and I never wanted to have that kind of relationship with Lloyd, but when you are surrounded by advertising that caters to this desired demographic, it can make a person feel insignificant.  Or maybe not insignificant; maybe it’s more of a sense of redundancy, or extraneousness.  These ads say to me, we’re looking for the real economic muscle of the city, and we’re going to remind them of their significance in the great scheme of things.  Is our message for you?  No?  Piss off then.

I could be extrapolating a bit.  And I definitely feel a bit arrogant assigning my own motives to men who really, truly might want to give their wives a tennis bracelet because they love them.  I will confess that I once went on a rant like this around Valentine’s Day, when De Beers ran a similar set of irritating ads, to a once-friend of mine.  She looked at me with incredulity and said, “How do you know all this?  Who gave you the right to judge?  Are you the CEO of love?” I thought that was a great line, and was about to laugh and agree with her that I was being ridiculous, when she added, “Maybe you’re just angry because you know that you could never get a guy like that.” Uh, beg pardon?  “Oh, come on.  You know that a guy like that isn’t going to look twice at you.” I couldn’t completely disagree with her—I make lousy trophy-wife material—but I was left bemused by what people will say out loud to each other.

I can’t wait until all this nonsense is over and the Horatio Hornblower ads come back.