Polly Frost

THERE FOR YOU

“Ellen, I heard about your terrible tragedy!”

“Thank you for calling, Roberta. It’s been quite a loss.”

“Don’t I know! Victoria phoned me while I was at the salon getting a pedicure. I was so upset. I jumped up out of my chair and fell over the foot bath.”

“Good heavens, are you all right?”

“The ER said it was the worst pedicure injury they’d ever seen. But I told them to get me together so I could get home because I need to make dinner for you.”

“You’re making dinner -- for me?”

“I always make my signature grieving dinner for friends at times like these.”

“That means a lot. Honestly, though, I kind of need to be alone.”

“No! You should not be alone!”

“I need to grieve in private.”

“You only think you do. I’ve seen that behavior before from my friends. People can make it very difficult for me to help them through the healing process. Yet I persist because I’m always there for my friends.”

“Knowing that is a great comfort. Anyway, I should get off the phone and make some other calls.”

“Yeeeouch!”

“Oh dear, you really did hurt yourself at the salon today!”

“The doctor told me to stay off my foot. ‘Don’t you go cooking dinner for that friend of yours!’ he said. I told him all about what happened to you and how distraught I was and that’s why I had my terrible accident. I could tell he was very worried about my state of mind. His nurse kept saying ‘You need to tend to a burn victim, Dr. McAdams.’ But he just stood there in front of me and kept repeating ‘I think you need to let your friend Ellen get through this on her own.’”

“Maybe you should listen to the doctor.”

“It’s important that you eat the right kind of food right now. You need a meal that will help you grieve. That’s why I’m making you barley and kale mash.”

“I don’t really like barley or kale.”

“That’s the point! You need a meal that will help you get in touch with your sorrow.”

“I appreciate the gesture. Why don’t you just leave the dinner on my doorstep tonight?”

“I can’t. I also need to guide you through an important healing ritual. I’m going to bring over a pink azalea bush that we’ll plant together in your garden.”

“Roberta, you know how carefully I’ve landscaped my yard. There’s a reason I don’t have a pink azalea bush. It’s because I don’t want one. Frankly, I’m beginning to resent the fact that you’re making this all about you!”

“Oh.”

“I don’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s OK. Anger is a part of the grieving process and I’m used to my friends transferring it onto me. It’s one of the ways in which I’m always there for people.”

“Are you crying?”

“No -- no --”

“You’re weeping. I’m sorry.”

“It’s just been quite a day. The dreadful phone call from Victoria, the accident, the ER. Trying to make dinner when all I really want to do is go to bed. And now you’re mad at me!”

“I’m really not. Look, why don’t I come over there. I’ll pick up some take out on the way.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“I’ll stop at In and Out and pick up some burgers. See you at 7.”

“You’ll be very upset when you see how swollen my right foot is. But somehow we’ll get through this together. One thing? Could you stop by Whole Foods instead? I’d much prefer to have penne with cream chicken. Oh, and if you could pick up a box of those delicious chocolate cupcakes they have. And if I think of anything else I’ll give you a call on your cellphone!”

© Polly Frost

My humor collection "With One Eye Open" is now available on Amazon here.

CLICK

HEY, PARTY PEOPLE!

If you’re getting this email it’s because you did not take the appropriate action after receiving my last one. 

YOU DID NOT VOTE FOR ME.

I’m trying to be very understanding about this. I’m thinking that maybe a lot of people have already asked you to go onto some site and vote for them so Oprah will give them their own cable show. Or they asked you to vote for their nephew’s band or they just randomly passed along an email wanting  you to vote for somebody you never heard of so that person’s dog might get a chance in a reality tv show.

AND YOU DELETED MY FIFTEENTH EMAIL. 

Or perhaps you actually did go and vote for me, but you only voted ONCE, even after I carefully explained that you could do it multiple times.

Don’t you understand? Winning this contest means everything to me.

PLUS IT HURT MY FEELINGS WHEN YOU REPORTED MY EMAIL AS SPAM. 

Now I’m giving you a golden opportunity to make it up to me.

I ONLY NEED 364,975,721 MORE VOTES TO WIN!

Here’s what YOU need to do.

Go to the link below. And don’t just click once this time. As I explained the last time, multiple votes are not only okay, but essential. Keep clicking away. You’d be amazed at how many times you can keep doing this. After a while it becomes very relaxing and soothing and by the time you’ve done it 9000 times you will stop counting and get into the Zen of voting for me.

PURTY PLEEEEEEEEZE!

I’m sure you understand what dreams mean to people. You may even have a dream or two of your own. 

Well, this has been MY dream since last Thursday when I read about how if I could get 10 million people to vote for me, then I would win the chance to get 100 million people to vote for me, and if I win that, then I will win the chance to get the current global population number to vote for me!

I’M GIVING YOU THE CHANCE TO BE A PART OF THIS EXCITING ADVENTURE THE ENTIRE WAY!

Only … now that I write this I’m thinking, but if everyone votes more than once -- if everyone votes a trillion times, which is what I need YOU to do -- then I will end up with more votes than the sum total of the Earth’s population. It will be more like number of people who have ever walked this planet or ever WILL walk this planet.

AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?

Once I have reached that goal there will be no more votes possible for anyone ever again.

I am staggered by the ramifications of my participation in this contest and what it can mean for humankind.

IT WILL BE THE END OF CONTESTS LIKE THESE.

I didn’t realize it when I began this email to you, but now I am embracing that dream and I want to make it a reality.

SO START CLICKING NOW!

We can make it happen together.

© Polly Frost

STRAIGHT ANSWERS

We were sitting in our living room this morning when my husband said:

“What time would you like breakfast?”

“Remember that French toast we had at Zilla’s Cafe in San Diego? I can still taste the amazing vanilla flavor it had,” I replied.

My husband was silent. Then said, “I was asking about what time you’d like breakfast. Not for your Proustian memories of a brunch we once had. You know I love you. But why is that when I ask you a question you never give me a straight answer?”

“Is there coffee?” I said.

He got up from his Barcalounger. “That proves my point. That’s not a straight answer.”

“Of course it is,” I explained. “It’s what came straight to me when you asked that. And more half-and-half in my coffee than you’ve been putting in recently, please.”

He sighed, then went into the kitchen and returned with a cup.

“Yum,” I said, sipping. “Amazing how much you’ve learned about making coffee since we got married.”

“Thank you,” he interrupted. “Now back to the topic of straight answers. For example, if I ask you ‘What color is this Barcalounger?’ What should you answer?”

“I don’t know what it is about guys and Barcaloungers.”

“I’m asking what color it is. Which is --”

“At least it’s not an ugly mustard color like the one you had when I first met you.”

“Sweetheart, that’s not a straight answer. A straight answer imparts information.”

“I did give you information, the kind you need in case I ever get hit by a bus and you’re a widower living on your own. Do not buy another mustard colored Barcalounger. Most women aren’t like me. They won’t be able to get past the unappetizing sight of it and see how appealing you are. And I would like you to be happily married again. Although not for ten years.”

“I just want to know what color it is,” he said. 

“You already know that, because I insisted it was the only color Barcalounger I’d have in our home. I’m telling you something you obviously don’t know which is that you should never buy mustard colored furniture, even though it’s marked down to half-price. I also threw in a bonus detail, which is that I’m very generous hearted. A lot of women don’t encourage their husbands to remarry.”

“I didn’t want to know all that stuff.”

“It’s on the house.”

“Don’t you understand why straight answers are important?”

“They seem to matter a lot to you.”

“No, not just to me,” he insisted. “The exchange of data is one of the foundations of civilization. Let’s go back thousands of years. Two prehistoric men from different tribes meet. One says ‘What’s that red and orange stuff near your cave?’ ‘It’s fire,’ the other man says. ‘How do you make fire?’ the first asks. ‘You rub two sticks together,’ the other explains. The first man goes back to his village with this knowledge. That night everyone in his tribe will eat and be kept warm. However, let’s say that cave man had encountered you. ‘How do you make fire?’ he would have asked. You’d have said something like ‘I love roasted marshmallows.’ That poor cave man would have gone back to his village completely confused. The knowledge of building a fire would never have been shared.”

“On the other hand, civilization might not have had to wait thousands of years for the invention of marshmallows because I would have planted the seed of culinary inspiration in his brain.”

My husband pulled the lever on his Barcalounger until it was in full recline. “So you don’t see the importance of giving straight answers to questions you’ve been asked?”

“Will you be making bacon along with vanilla French toast for breakfast? A half-hour from now would be perfect.”

* * *

My humor collection "With One Eye Open" is now available on Amazon here.

DEAR MODERN CAVEPERSON

Thank you for signing up for our newsletter.

Like us, you’ve found the answer to your lifelong quest for wellbeing. Veganism left you parched, triathlons destroyed your knees, and Downward Dogs -- well, what were they really about? But then -- just like us! -- you read about the Paleo movement in The Washington Post and The New York Times.

Holy Stone Age! The Paleo approach to eating and fitness quickly delivered everything you’d been denying yourself for far too long. Say goodbye to tofu-chest and hello to kettlebell thighs! Saturated fat? Where have you been all these years? Never before has your blood felt so red. Never before have you pestered your friends with such lean, mean urgency about how they ought to be living.

But now you’re ready to take it further. What about life beyond mere eating and fitness? That’s where we come in.

Hi, we’re Polly and Ray, and together we’re Total Paleo Living ™, your online coaches for the modern caveperson lifestyle.

Here’s just a glimpse of what we offer.

RELATIONSHIPS

Has your spouse threatened to leave if you ever use the words “grass-fed” and “organ meats” again? Are your kids mortified by your devotion to enhancing your vitamin D levels by sunbathing in the nude? Total Paleo Living ™ has the solution.

• Dating  How to make your romantic life flourish after giving up soap.
• Marriage  Intermittent fasting as a model for getting along as a couple.
• Family Life  Read a special q&a with Paleo legend Robb Wolf on how to lose your inhibitions about dominance and submission.
• Sex  Bring the wisdom of 10,000 years ago to bear when your partner objects to your favorite kink.

MONEY

Is the cowshare you organized with your fellow locavores making too big a dent in your Quicken file? TPL ™ to the rescue.

• On the job  How to ace meetings by using alpha chimps as role models.
• Investments  Enjoy priceless inside information about the pemmican and coconut oil industries.
• Entrepreneurship  Profit from special Guest Postings from Stone Age godfather Arthur De Vany where he shares bursty, out-of-equilibirum ways of coaxing money from today’s recession-wary investment bankers.
• Shopping  Learn how to forage for the best deals at your local outlet mall as though you’re a glorious beast enjoying your birthright of freedom on the African savanna.
• Retirement So what if back in the day almost no one survived past 60? Scholar Loren Cordain makes educated guesses about how oldies would have lived had they been spared by sabre-toothed tigers.

RECREATION

Is the dynamism that avoiding dairy and grains has gifted you with making it hard to relax? Look no further than TPL ™.

• Reading  Once you’ve exhausted the classics, which works of Paleo inspiration do you fill your Kindle up with next? Join our online reading club and discover links to the latest hot downloadable PDFs.
• Self expression  Learn the secrets of crafting your own bone flute and choreographing dances around the outdoor grill. We’ll even show you how to transform your car-seat sheepskin into a pre-agricultural fashion statement.
• Travel  Coming in spring 2011: a special Paleo tour of the old -- the very old -- world. Visit Lascaux, dig up tubers in the Ukraine, and join archaeologists as they sift through middens in Wales. But don’t worry, we know that the smart modern caveperson never forgets to appreciate the glories of Western culture. Join up as Mark Sisson takes us on a pre-dawn, one-time-only barefoot run through the Prado.

And that’s only a taste of what Total Paleo Living ™ is about! In-person seminars, by-the-hour consultations -- we’ll even host your very own Paleo blog, specially optimized for sharing recipes and exercise schedules. Coming soon: the world’s first social networking site organized around tribal principles.

And, because you’re an early subscriber, here’s a special bonus treat that’ll really down-regulate your insulin levels: A free three-month trial subscription to our podcast, dedicated entirely to maximizing your evolutionary potential.

Yours in a shared aversion to industrial fats!

Polly and Ray

"Dear Modern Caveperson" is included in my new humor book "With One Eye Open" now available on Amazon here.

© Polly Frost and Ray Sawhill

UNFRIENDING IN REAL LIFE

Wouldn't it be nice sometimes to have an unfriending button in real life?

For more of my humor, my new book "With One Eye Open is now available on Amazon here.

© Polly Frost

CARBOHYDRATES

8:15. A balmy evening in February, the kind we’ve been having since global warming began. As usual, I’m standing around, wondering when Jonathan is going to show up. He’s already fifteen minutes late.

8:17. At least I’ve stopped wondering why I always get involved with the wrong man, why I constantly find myself in destructive relationships. I used to think it was my fault. Then I read this book. Suddenly, I understood: he can try to deny it, but my father is an alcoholic. And I am an adult child of an alcoholic.

My father has never thought that he was an alcoholic. Yet when I was growing up, he had to have a drink every night when he came home from work. Guess who fixed it for him. He called it a “Jeanie.” After me. I’ve tried to help Dad face up to what he is, and I feel good about my efforts.

Jeanie! One drink! One little drink! One drink a night does not an alcoholic make!

Dad, you had to have it.

Of course I had to! If you knew the pressure of Unit-Sales Management--

I’m in Retail Dispersal, and you won’t find me drinking.

Then I’d come home to “When are we going to get a new washing machine? How are we going to pay for our daughter’s education and take that trip to Europe? What do think of this hairdo?” Your mother had a million questions. But you. You were there to listen. I never needed to go out and find a bartender to talk to. Not when I had my Jeanie.

Stop trying to implicate me in your behavior! I will not be your co-denier!!

The olive has always been my favorite part!

8:21. Jonathan shouldn’t keep me waiting for dinner. He knows I’m hypoglycemic, even though he refuses to believe it. He thinks hypoglycemia was invented to annoy him. All those people who weren’t really hypoglycemic gave it a bad name.  You’d be at an art gallery with them, or you’d be trying on a pair of slacks, or you’d be talking about something that interested you. Out of the blue, they’d announce that they were having a hypoglycemic attack. They absolutely had to eat that minute or else they were going to faint. And it would all be your fault. Of course, they weren’t hypoglycemic at all. They were just manipulative. I take responsibility for my own hypoglycemia. I always bring food with me.

8:25. These really are pretty good cookies. Macadamia nuts have a particularly stabilizing effect on my blood sugar. So does guacamole, come to think of it. Too bad it’s so hard to pack in a shoulder bag. The important thing is, I’m calmer.

I’m convinced that stress is the No. 1 factor in causing hypoglycemia. The stress from your job, the stress of being in a relationship, the stress of parents. Simply having parents is stressful.

8:30. The worst part of being an adult child of an alcoholic is that I always find myself in relationships with passive-aggressives. How hard it is to tell if a man is a passive-aggressive! At first, they seem perfect. They listen to you, they let you take charge. You want to discuss feminist issues? They don’t get threatened; they smile.

Then. Then the other behavior begins. The endless waiting -- you waiting for them. I was involved with this P.-A., Tim. I had to be the one to decide that it was time for us to take a vacation, where we’d go, how we’d get there. He waited until we were at the airport to assert himself, just as they were giving the final boarding call. He said he needed to buy a copy of GQ, and he wandered off. He never showed up on that flight. I got on the plane anyway, and had the worst hypoglycemic attack of my life. As soon as I landed in Oaxaca, I had to eat five orders of guacamole to get myself to the point where I could breathe regularly. I couldn’t look at an avocado today if it weren’t for how they stabilize me.

Tim showed up at the hotel room fifteen hours later with a big smile on his face. I threw all of the chocolate flan I was eating right at him -- and flan is a major source of simple carbohydrates. He wiped the chocolate off and proposed to me on the spot. It doesn’t take much to figure this one out. He’d driven me crazy and turned me into an exact replica of his mother, punishing him with my tears and my rage. Do I have to say anything more about men who want to marry their mothers?

Jonathan is also a P.-A. We’ve been engaged for three years. He hasn’t actually asked me to marry him -- he’s trying to enrage me first, by making me wait for his offer. But I’m smarter than I was in Mexico. I know how to hold my own in these relationships. I simply tell everyone he’s my fiancé.

8:42. Jonathan thinks this is going to make me upset. I’m not upset. He can get here whenever he wants. He knows I’ll just stare at him over dinner.

8:46. I’m down to half a cookie and three seaweed chips. This is precisely the kind of predicament Jonathan likes to put me in. If I leave to find a deli, he’ll show up and I’ll be gone, and when I return he’ll say, “What do you mean I’m late? You weren’t even here!”

The other night I got two old movies from Netflix -- thrillers about Sally Field and Julia Roberts trying to get away from their husbands. Sally was trapped in Iran, and Julia was stuck somewhere out on the Cape. Meanwhile, I was sitting in my apartment, waiting for Jonathan.

8:48.23. People come and go, and my purse is devoid of nutrition. A man is standing two-and-a-half feet from me, three inches into my personal-interaction area. Why do men do these things? This is not Jonathan, but this is a P.-A. That’s why he’s thumbing through the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, introducing a g-stringed supermodel into my field of vision. This is a very angry man. If he were an aggressive-aggressive, he’d be doing something about his anger. He’d be out raping women. But oh, no, you’re just a passive-aggressive, so you’re standing here, shoving that magazine in my face, trying to make me feel bad about my body! I don’t know why! I never saw you before! Well, you’re not going to make me feel bad about my eating needs!

I can’t believe it. Jonathan has me setting a new record. This is the worst hypoglycemic attack of my life. Either that, or it’s the earthquake they are always predicting for New York City. Or maybe the ice caps have finally melted.

I will survive this. I deserve to survive this. I recycle! I buy only environmentally sound products for my cleaning lady to use! I eat only animals that have had the chance to move around a bit in their lives! Yes, I use sunblock that’s been tested on cocker spaniels, but I think that’s excusable! I deserve to have my co-op stay above water level!

Dad this is all your fault!

Jeanie! One drink!

I think it would be better for our relationship if I forgot your next birthday.

One little drink!

What about my needs?

8:53. These Korean grocery stores are always so busy, but I am entitled to stand here and eat. God, I love Ben & Jerry’s. It’s true, thought, what the books say about other men. They just don’t have it in them to give me what I need. I must empower myself. With every spoonful of Heath Bar Crunch, I am becoming stronger.

Jeanie!

You had your chance, Dad.

Jonathan can wait for me forever on that street corner, as far as I’m concerned. Because Ben & Jerry care. They care about the future of this planet. Every time you eat their ice cream you are also helping to save the rain forest. Ben and Jerry care about sustainable agriculture. They care about their employees. They care about educating visitors to their factory in Vermont. And they want me to become my own person.

Copyright Polly Frost

Originally published in The New Yorker

My new humor book "With One Eye Open" now available on Amazon here.

ME AND MY BIG FEET

Sorry to say, I will never be another Imelda Marcos. It’s not that I aspire to be the much-reviled wife of a dictate. No, it’s her notorious shoe collection I’d like to emulate. If I could, I’d pack a closet with as many shoes as my modest budget would allow. The only thing that’s stopping me is my size ten-and-a-half feet. The heels simply aren’t there to hoard.

If you’re a woman with larger-than-average feet, chances are you’ve also experience shoe stress. Our shopping menu has fewer options; the racks tagged for us aren’t loaded with chic treats. It’s as though most manufacturers and retailers think we have awkward extremities that are best hidden in nondescript flats. Is it any wonder that many of us contend with low foot-esteem?

We big-footers know what a bad shoe day really is. In my teens, I’d search for a pair of pumps to wear on a date, only to have the salespeople direct me to the men’s department. One boot seller said, with a wrinkle of her nose, “I don’t think you should even try to wear elegant styles.” She brought out a frumpy pair that screamed “wallflower.” My own granny was too hip for those clogs.

At a feminist meeting I attended in my twenties, the women spoke out against stiletto heels. They were, one said, “symbols of male dominance.” I’d agreed with everything the group had voiced up to that point. This dialectic, however, I could not swallow. Didn’t they know that I would have adored being subjected to a pair of teeteringly tall four-inchers, provided they were in my size?

“You want to know what oppression is?” I said. “It’s when the only shoes you can find that fit are dark brown loafers and men’s hiking boots.” I was firmly argued down by a bunch of size sevens and eights.

Even my wedding day was marred by trying to find a pair of pumps that would match my pale blue suit. No dice. I wound up at the last minute buying too-small white satiny heels and having them dyed to match. I remember that great day as a blur of toe and heel pain. When the judge united us with the famous question, I could barely stifle the urge to shriek.

So what gives? Why aren’t we full-footed gals being adequately serviced? There are companies that deal in larger-sized shoes -- Arche, Salvatore Ferragamo, and Naturalizer, to name a few. But I’d like to be able to have as wide a variety of options as other women; not being able to run up my credit card with outrageous shoe purchases seems unconstitutional.

Even when manufacturers do create does in larger sizes, often the shops don’t stock them. Nike takes footwear in sizes five to 11, including half sizes, and also in 12. “We’re always studying the trend,” a representative told me. But good luck trying to find these bigger sizes. Paragon, Manhattan’s largest sports-equipment retailer, rarely carries anything larger than a ten. I always wind up jogging in men’s shoes.

“Stores and manufacturers re living about 50 years in the past,” says William Rossi, of the trade journal Footwear News. Feet have been Rossi’s beat for over 40 years; he’s also written a number of books on the subject, including the essential Sex Life of the Foot and Shoe. He’s unquestionably the dean of shoe scholars.

According to Rossi -- and the most recent market study -- “Only an estimated 5 percent of all women in this country wear a size ten or larger.” A hundred years ago the typical female foot ranged in size from one to four; nowadays, seven to eight is the norm.

Yet there’s a trend within this trend. “The younger the women, the bigger the average size,” he says. “Between the ages of 35 and 55, the average size is seven, seven-and-a-half, while in the age group 18 t0 30, it’s eight to eight-and-a-half.” His assertion is confirmed by Hiram Chirel, president of the new York State Podiatric Medical Association. “There’s no question that women’s feet are getting longer,” he says.

Rossi is quick to point out that this isn’t because many of us now pound our poor feet into the floors of step aerobics classes, as many people suspect. “People exercise much less today than they did a century ago,” he says. “Back then there was limited transportation, and for recreation people played sports rather than watching TV and movies. Foot sizes are growing because of nutrition. People are eating a more well-balanced diet. Both men and women are getting taller, and their feet are getting bigger.”

Outspoken yet compassionate, Rossi is the greatest ally a pair of big feet could have. “The foot is a sexual organ,” he says. When women are forced to wear shoes that don’t fit, it’s a form of pedic rape.”

Maybe that’s pouring it on a bit thick. But when women express feelings of dismay bout their shoe size, it’s seldom because their feet are too small. I’ve known petite-footers to admit that they cram themselves into even tinier sizes, while a stunningly attractive friend confessed that she used to make herself feel better by altering the markings inside of her shoes to read “6” instead of “7.”

The teenier the toesies, the more feminine the woman; this has been the belief across centuries and cultures. The Chinese bound the feet of aristocratic women. And the heroines of romance novels are always described as having exquisitely dainty feet. Yet more and more we’re seeing athletic women as sexy; muscular arms and physical drive are hot. Maybe it’s too much to hope for, but I’d like to think that soon my powerful feet will rank right up there with toned abs and buns of steel.

There have been confirmed Big Foot sightings among the glamorati: Princess Di, Melanie Griffith, Elizabeth Taylor. When it came to her feet Greta Garbo didn’t speak – she said they were too large. But even with this kind of company, an ample-footed woman can feel as though she’s walking alone. I recently posted an Internet query to find out if other women had similar experiences, and discovered that my foot travails are far from unique.

“Boy! Did you open a can of worms!” began one long E-mail. “During one particularly frenzied and futile shoe search – by catalog, of course – the UPS man asked my husband, ‘What does she do with all these shoes? Does she sell them?’”

Some people wrote that they opt for whatever size they can find. “My motto is, Just Try It!” one woman responded, adding, “needless to say, it results in a lot of returns.” A more touching note was sent by a male correspondent, who recalled buying a 6-foot-4 woman friend a pair of strappy sandals. “What an awesome pair of feet!” he wrote appreciatively. “Believe it or not, that was the first time a guy had ever bought her shoes.”

Lucky girl -- but she isn’t alone, I quickly discovered. In cyberspace I found something that startled and pleasantly surprised me. The shoe industry may want to make us big-footed women feel like Cinderella’s monstrous stepsisters, but the world seems full of men who are into big feet, big time.

“If only your foot was larger,” one wrote. “Could I sniff your sneakers?” E-begged another. “Personally, I find big feet on a woman to be incredibly sexy. . .” What these males offer certainly sounds like safer sex, although you might wake up the next morning and find your favorite pair of heels missing. Boys, I love you! I only wish you were working for a few of the hipper shoe designers.

Copyright Polly Frost

Originally published in Health magazine.

My new humor book "With One Eye Open" now available on Amazon here.

POLLYAMORY

"Terisa and Matt and Vera and Larry -- along with Scott, who's also at this dinner -- believe in ‘ethical nonmonogamy,’ or engaging in loving, intimate relationships with more than one person -- based upon the knowledge and consent of everyone involved. They are polyamorous, to use the term of art applied to multiple-partner families like theirs, and they wouldn't want to live any other way." -- Newsweek

Did you react to Newsweek’s article about polyamory with a yawn and the thought, “That’s so yesterday”? Has your copy of “The Ethical Slut" been collecting dust on your bedside table for the last two years? Are you a sexual adventurer who craves word about genuinely new cutting-edge developments in erotic trends?

Welcome to my website, www.sexypollyfrost.com. You know me as the sex-tips coach who showed you how to beat the recession by making your own sex toys out of common household objects. Today I’m back to bring you fresh news about the revolutionary sexual lifestytle the cognoscenti are trading thrilled whispers about: Pollyamory.

Question: In a nutshell, what is Pollyamory?

Polly: Cheap and sleazy infidelity, with an emphasis on fake names and questionable motels.

What’s wrong with regular old polyamory?

The main problem for me was the prevalence of Wesleyan grads. They were always rhapsodizing about their last trip to Bali or celebrating the anti-globalism protest they just organized when they should have been ripping off my clothes.

Also, polyamory ruined my marriage.

Because of the extra-marital sex?

No, because of the whole sex-positive, political correctness of it. In case you imagine that the polyamory lifestyle is a matter of endless kinky orgies, let me set you straight. Polyamorists pay for every hour of actual sex with dozens of hours of agonizing relationship discussions.

How can you focus on getting off when the scene’s main concern is on ways to prevent people from feeling jealousy or possessiveness? And then there was the food.

The food?

Serena, one of my husband's lovers, was a vegan who told him that she was hurt by the In and Out burgers that he and I loved to share. So he started cooking meatless dinners. Looking back, it was at that moment that I started to suspect polyamory wasn’t for me.

Was there a specific day when the Pollyamory vision came to you?

Indeed. It was a fateful night when I couldn’t take any more seitan and relationship negotiations. Weeping in frustration, I staggered off through the rain, and found myself in a dive bar hammering back Jack and Cokes, talking about my woes to the bartender.

Soon after I was in a hotel room with four strangers I didn’t even like, much less respect. We shared a bottle, savored some lousy order-in burgers, and had a sweaty, no-names fivesome on a narrow twin bed.

Good Lord!

The only thing that was keeping me from finding the shabby degradation of the scene completely satisfying was the thought of my husband and Serena.

Then it occurred to me how hurt Serena would be to learn that I’d slept with carnivores. That sent me over my erotic edge.

I can imagine.

My aha! moment came as my brain cleared after I had one of my trademark window-rattling orgasms. People don’t need polyamory any longer, I realized. They need to relearn the art of good old-fashioned cheating.

That certainly doesn’t sound like ethical non-monogamy. Are there any rules in Pollyamory?

Well, the first rule I laid down was that you have to have enough money to spring for a hotel room with a king-sized bed! After that, the vision really clarified itself: Flirt with subordinates at the office. Play footsies under the table. Leave lipstick on collars.

It sounds like you really did your research.

Two of the works that made the biggest impact on me were Elizabeth Taylor in “Butterfield 8” and Pia Zadora in “Butterfly.”

I really studied those performances.

Liz taught me to wear a clingy slip and snarl contemptuously, “Mama, face it. I was the slut of all time. And I liked it.”

Pia showed me how to bite my lower lip and pout “I wanna be bad!”

If I’m not going to spend endless hours fine-tuning my relationships, what am I going to talk about with my sleazy new lovers?

Some starting points I can suggest: Murmur “My husband doesn’t understand me” as you grapple in the hotel elevator on the way to your room. Praise your lover’s oral-sex technique at the expense of your regular partner’s. Bitch recklessly about your spouse as you smoke and get dressed afterwards.

How should I tell my regular partner that I want to try Pollyamory?

Don’t.

What?

Lying is a central tenet of Pollyamory.

I don’t know how I feel about that.

Man up! Learn how to keep a few things to yourself! Take a shower before returning home after a tryst. When your cellphone rings during dinner, explain to your partner it was a solicitation.

What if your partner finds out anyway?

A good lawyer is key to Pollyamory. In my own divorce, I got the co-op and the anal beads.

OK, I’m ready to give it a try! What’s the deal?

There are three levels of membership.

Level 1) For $20 a month you’ll become a subscriber. That brings you daily email alerts about breaking erotica trends, unlimited access to my private sex blog, and a 15% discount off the PDF download of my e-book “Call Me Nympho.”

And here’s a special, this-month-only inducement: For a mere $12 more, I’ll conceal all these charges on your credit card.

Level 2) For $500, you’ll receive all the above benefits, a lifetime 10% discount from Motel 6, one personal online coaching session, and my signature set of glamorous disguises guaranteed to fool any private detective your partner hires to trail you.

What about Level 3? Does joining up at the third level mean I get to have sex with you, Polly?

Email me a current jpg and we’ll work from there. One warning: Any emails originating from wesleyan.edu will go directly into my Spam folder.

© Polly Frost

My new book "With One Eye Open is now available on Amazon here.