Mine, all mine.

In the wake of the losses of some truly wonderful icons, I am thinking a lot about celebrity... the immense reward of popularity and success that comes at such a high price. Most of these people are given a life many of us can scarcely imagine, but they are also living that life under a microscope.... a life where the details and minutiae of their day are public knowledge. It is a life where all their mistakes and secrets and comings and goings are discussed, analyzed, deconstructed, and judged. I would never ever want to be famous. I would never want to open the windows of my world and let the little things that make up my days be blown about on whatever breeze may come.

There are many people who think about privacy differently than I do. I have never understood people who clean out their purse or wallet in public. They find any flat surface and sort through their belongings right there in front of everyone. Trash, gum wrappers, phone numbers from bars, endless receipts, atm printouts... all splayed there for the world to see. There was a phase there for a while where clear plastic purses and backpacks were considered fashionable. I never understood that either. It's the same with people who talk on their cell phones in a crowd. Personal business, business business, kids, friends, gossip, romance... just right out there for everyone to hear. I don't know why all this transparency bugs me, but as far as I can remember it's been that way. When I was younger, I was driving home one night and came upon an automobile accident that had just happened. A car had obviously lost control and had driven into the corner wall of a building. What struck me was that the scene was covered in personal belongings. This person's life had been ejected from the car right along with them and was strewn all over the sidewalk and the road. Hundreds of papers of all shapes and sizes were littered like a papier mache project everywhere you looked, and they shifted and fluttered and rearranged themselves in the air as they caught the draft of the cars driving by. Clothes, books, empty fast food cups... this person's life was just littered around them. I cried so hard I had to pull over a few blocks down the road. They'd never be able to put all that back together the same way again. They'd be taken away in the ambulance and some stranger would sift through it all and get to determine what was worth keeping. Any privacy those belongings held were secret no more. I can still feel the devastating intrusion I felt when I considered how suddenly your life can become an open book. I spend a lot of time away from home, and almost every time I leave my house I find myself looking back to see what someone would find should I never come home. What would they think of my magnet collection or the contents of my files? What would they deduce from my diary entries or my 'Jeff Box' that's full of movie ticket stubs and pressed wildflowers picked on long walks... silly mementoes that would possibly mean nothing to anyone but me and him? What would they think about the way I've organized my shoes or my spice cabinet? Is there a wayward sock under my sofa? How would someone interpret the cleaning up and sorting through of my life?

I may never know why it bothers me so. I don't really have any big secrets. I'd carried one secret with me throughout my life, and when I finally shared it, I realized it was simply a tiny morsel of regret I'd been so afraid to reveal that it had grown into something tangible and frightening. It was a sheep in wolves clothing. Still, it was nothing that could be discovered under my sofa or in a plastic backpack or ever be littered across an intersection. I am not afraid of what people will find if they look. I am just comforted by the idea that what's personal and private can be kept that way. I am warmed by thoughts that can be held inside forever, or can be revealed only to someone with whom you know they will be safe. I am a deep well of secrets that have been shared with me, and of private moments I will never unearth. I like it that way. I'd never want to be famous, or have people care where I go or what I do. I just want my simple life... my collection of thoughts and feelings that belong only to me, and of whispers in the dark and private moments shared... These are the contents of a life that would never mean anything to a stranger, but mean everything to me.

Book

So, there's no title yet (not even a working one- it's saved in my laptop under BOOK), and I'm only about 1/3 of the way done, but I thought maybe I'd be brave and share a chapter of the book I'm writing for some feedback. I already know the whole story in my head, and just need to write it all out so maybe this will give me the impetus to get it done.

No explanation needed for this excerpt, really. It's not too deep into the story yet so just enjoy!

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Her stomach churned like a cement mixer. She wasn’t sure if it was the pizza she had had delivered, the chips she pulled from her drawer, the donut (okay, donuts) she had taken from the break room, or the two slices of cake she had eaten to celebrate someone in Human Resources’ birthday. Maybe it was the fact that for the first time ever, she would be presenting her own idea directly to Tom Bentley. Remarkably, she had avoided discussing the idea with Alan before the big meeting, and by a stroke of sheer luck, he had pulled a muscle at the driving range over the weekend and would not be coming into work today.

She gathered her presentation boards together and began the trek to the boardroom. So many thoughts were running through her head. Not the least of which was the thought in just minutes she would be face to face with the perfect, distinguished, exceptional, talented Tom Bentley. Now he would see her expertise. He would finally recognize that most of the brilliance that fueled this great company had come from her, and not her jerk boss Alan. He would be mesmerized and see her in a totally new light. He would see her for who she really was. Ok, well maybe he would ignore who she really was and see who she was going to be.

By the time she arrived at the boardroom she was horribly hot and uncomfortable and she wished that she hadn’t worn the silk blouse that was now starting to be dotted with obvious sweat. She thought of her armpits and panicked. Was it at all possible to do the whole presentation with her arms glued to her side? Despite her physical flaws, she had always been able to carry herself with some modicum of confidence and one of her strengths had always been public speaking. Today, however, she wasn’t so sure. She had always thought it would be fun to be like the Wizard of Oz, living hidden, just a voice, so people could imagine what they wanted about her appearance. ‘Pay no attention to that woman behind the curtain!’

As the boardroom filled, she ran through her presentation in her mind. She re-assured herself that it was a good idea, and tried to focus on her heart rate and breathing. It seemed that the more she focused on it, the faster and more out of control it got. She was on the verge of a full-on panic attack. The room became a swirling mass of faces, the smell of coffee and bad cologne making her nauseous. She gripped her throat and fell to her knees. She was gasping for air and it seemed no one was even noticing. She tumbled to the side, knocking over the tripod and the storyboards. It felt as though she were a million degrees inside, and she gripped her blouse at the neck to pull it away from her throat. Oh God, would this be the way she would go--on a boardroom floor in a sweaty silk blouse with two pieces of cake as her last comfort?

“Go on, then.”

She heard the words and couldn’t believe them. Did no one care that she was lying there dying? Had she really gone so far that they would just tell her to let go and die, without even trying to save her?

“Let’s get going… you with me?”

Was it possible that someone else in the room was dying too? Oh, what a tragedy! The two of them… dying on a Monday in a boardroom. She wondered if the other victim was wearing cotton instead of silk. She wondered how much cake was comforting them right now.

“Are we going to get a presentation or what?”

Ok. What were they talking about? If this wasn’t show enough, then what was?

“AHEM!”

Suddenly there was a loud pop, almost like someone clapping their hands, and everything became suddenly clear to her. She was standing in the same place as before, with a full boardroom staring at her. She looked to the floor where her body had lay, and then back to the twenty eyes that were all fixed on her confusion. She wasn’t sure if she should be more relieved or embarrassed. Had she really imagined the whole thing? She scanned the room and her eyes finally met those of Tom Bentley.

“Can we please get going? I have another meeting after this.” Tom Bentley’s voice was insistent and annoyed.

She gathered her scattered self, took a deep breath and began to speak.
“Our client, Horizons, has come to us seeking a fresh new idea. Something that will change the ‘not-only-the-president’ stigma that has settled on their industry, and reach a new demographic. What we will give them is a humorous, dynamic campaign that will create impact and generate revenue.”

She spent the next half-hour walking them through the storyboards and print material. She held their interest from beginning to end, and delighted when they laughed at all of the intended punch lines. By the time she had finished she was awarded a full round of applause. She scanned the room and once again met the eyes of Tom Bentley. He was grinning. Now he was smiling. He gave her a head-nod of approval. It was the single greatest moment of her life so far. She could die right now and not care. Well, maybe after she changed her shirt.

“Very good. Excellent! Lets go with this.” He said and looked to the others in the room for their agreement. They all gave it willingly and began to rise and filter out of the room. One by one, they acknowledged her on their way out of the boardroom and she felt she might explode with pride. Finally, her turn had come! The last to leave was Tom Bentley and she prepared herself for the moment she had been dreaming about for so long. She smiled and eagerly took his hand as he extended it to her. Next he would say that she was brilliant, and why hadn’t he noticed her before, and he had some ideas he would like to bounce off of her over drinks this evening…

“Tell Alan he did a great job! Best in a long time!” he said, and was out the door before she could protest.

“But…”

She was devastated. Not even the cake could save her now.

Back in the Saddle again!

Well, I suppose I should apologize for being off the grid for so long. I took a little mini vacation when I hurt my back and just haven't been able to get back into the swing of things. I'm moving at the end of the month, and I just hired a new nanny... There's been a lot going on.

I've wrestled with how to start blogging again, and think a survey is the perfect answer. Thanks, Mi.

1. What is your biggest language pet peeve?
People who use poor grammar. It makes me CRAZY!!

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2. What are you wearing right now?
cutoffs and a Smith and Wesson tee-shirt

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3. If we were to look in your shower or tub right now, what would we see?
Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, razor, and a scrubby.

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4. If you could go back and change one thing what would it be?
I don't think I would. How could I change something without knowing how it would affect today? I like where I am and what I have now.

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5. Name of your 4th grade teacher?
Ms Benton

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6. What was the last thing you drank?
Green Tea

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7. What did you want to be when you were growing up?
A wife and mom. Always.

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8. How many colleges did you attend?
Three. So far. hahaa

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9. What's something strange about you?
I can't stand to touch the cotton in the top of medicine bottles.

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10. Something that the opposite sex wears that is sexy to you?
Watches. But it's not the wearing of the watch, it's that little flick-of-the-wrist thing they do to straighten their watch.... that gets me.

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11. Last book you read?
Reading "The Hour I First Believed" by Wally Lamb now.

12. What errand/chore do you despise?
I don't think I really despise any household chores, although, I get tired of putting the clothes away once they are washed. I love washing and folding them, but putting them away is a chore. Maybe if I wasn't so anal about them being arranged by color and style and length...

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13. Get up early or sleep in?
SLEEP IN!!!! Most definitely.

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14. Who was your favorite cartoon character on TV as a kid?
I didn't watch too many cartoons, but I remember liking Jem and the Holograms a lot.

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15. Three perfumes or colognes you wear?
Acqua Di Gio, Touch, and J'adore

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16. Your favorite lunch meat?
Bologna or Roast beef

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17. Describe Hell in seven words?
Spending life separated from those I love.

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18. Beach or lake?
Both!

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19. Do you think marriage is an outdated ritual?
Nope, not with the right person.

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20. What is your drink of choice when you're at a bar?
Lemon Drop (martini or shot), Jack and Diet, or Sangria

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21. Name one famous person would you like to have dinner with?
Elvis. Alive, of course
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22. Three pets and their names you had growing up?
I had a fish named Splash. That's about it.

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23. What do you usually order at Starbucks?
Sugar-free Vanilla Soy Latte. With five splendas. That's right, five.

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24. Something you could eat once a week and never get tired of it?
Sushi, PF Changs, or a good sub sandwich.

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25. Do you speak any other languages?
Not really. Well, I did make up this language in 7th grade that is pretty ingenious. HAHA Actually, I speak a little French. Just enough to get by.

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26. Four words that describe the person you like/love?
Smart, funny, attentive, rugged.

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27. What are you listening to right now?
The washing machine.

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28. When you travel on a plane what are your essentials?
Uniform, ...haha... just kidding. When I'm not working, I like my iPod and a good book.

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29. What do you do when you're nervous?
Eat?
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30. Chocolate is:
grody. to the max.

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31. I will always remember:
The first time I saw McPerfect

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32. The proudest moment in my life:
holding my newborn babies.

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33. What's one thing you worry about a lot?
Bills.

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34. Something this year that you're looking forward to?
Hunting
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35. Is there anyone (opposite sex) who truly loves you unconditionally?
Finally, yes.

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36. What's your goal in the next couple of months?
Get back on track with my workouts.

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37. Favorite kind of cookie?
Chocolate chip, without the chocolate chips.

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38. Three things that are a total turn off?
Poor grammar, cockiness, and people who don't clean out their ears.

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39. Finish this sentence. Don't confuse:
...my sarcasm for rudeness. You will know if I'm being rude. Trust me.

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40. What game are you really good at?
Scattergories, playing fighting video games by just pushing buttons... I can win almost every time.

My Way

I've noticed more and more as I get older how often others will feel the need to weigh in with their opinion on our life. Sometimes it can be very hard to tune all of the advice out, and to keep from wondering if one of the many varying opinions might be valid. But I think that there comes a time when we all have to say, "Hey! This is MY life. And at the end of the day it is ME who has to go to that job or pay those bills or live with the ramifications of this decision. Not YOU! Me!" This is not to say that the advice of others should be cast aside. Obviously, there are those with much more experience or another point of view that may be able to offer valuable insight into our choices. But, as long as the decisions we are making are not foolhardy or intentionally negligent, and they are made with the best intentions for our family and those who might be affected, I think that every happy ending involves an incredible amount of risk. So while we take others' advice into account, we still need to live our lives, and move forward, and take chances. If we succeed, then we have the great pleasure of looking back at the nay sayers with a bit of smug victory. And if our efforts fail, then the absolute worst thing that can happen is an "I told you so!"... and even then, haven't they been telling us "so" all along? At least we took the chance. At least we were BRAVE enough to take a risk. I've often said that my two greatest fears are falling down stairs and regret. But I am not one little bit afraid of regret caused by things I have done. I am only afraid of the regret caused by the chances I didn't take, or the fear that kept me from laying it all on the line. When I am laying on my death bed, I may not be accomplished, or wealthy... when I die there may be very few people on this earth who know my name... but I will die happy knowing that I loved completely, and I lived completely, and that I never held back from seeking my dreams out of fear. Every hurt and every setback will seem very small compared to knowing that I had the courage to take the risk.

"Nobody thinks this will work"
"You just described every great success story in history."
-Say Anything

Finding Emo

"Kids these days..." When adults would say phrases like that when I was a teenager, I thought, 'I will never be like them. I will be a cool mom. I will just get it.' And usually, I am, and I do...

But, lately I feel really old. I feel out of the loop. Because I don't get Emo. What IS Emo? I know it is rock music that sounds really hard and punky (and usually really good) until some little bitch boy gets on and belts it out in a high-pitched prepubescent voice, singing all about how HARD it all is to be a teenager, and how nobody understands, and how life is so... bleak. I suppose I'd probably feel pretty shitty about my options in life if I had a reverse mullet all greased up with my extra long bangs in my face. I guess I'd probably be down on possibilities if I had to wear those tight-ass skinny jeans that cut off the circulation in my calves (but somehow, in ways that seem to defy the laws of physics, still remain baggy enough that you can see the skulls and crossbones on my boxer shorts). I think I'd probably have a hard time seeing my future clearly through the thick horn-rimmed glasses I wear to look cool, despite the fact that they totally screw up my vision because I don't even need glasses.

I don't get it. They say it is all about the Emotion, natch, since that's where they got the name for the whole thing.... but doesn't ALL music convey emotion? Maybe it is because of the message of the songs, and the 'we're all in this together' mentality that makes them think that this music really SPEAKS to them.

All I know is that I would personally like the chance to SPEAK to them and tell them to wash their hair and wash off the guyliner and buy some real jeans, and stop cutting themselves, and stop feeling so sorry about their damned life already. We certainly didn't have crazy haired, oddly dressed rock stars who constantly complained about the injustices of life when I was growing up... oh. well, actually... we totally did. We totally did! And now our kids do. Ah, Kids these days!

Jackpot!

What do you do with something that is too good to be true? When something is so perfect, so right, that you can't believe it is actually real? Could it be possible that you've found a hidden treasure? What happens when you test it, examine it... all the while waiting for the truth to be revealed that it was not what you'd thought... and ultimately find that it passes every test? You protect it. You nurture it, and care for it... You fight for it!

The odds of finding your soul mate, that person with whom you gel, you click... the one who fits seamlessly... well, the odds of finding them are similar to the odds of winning the lottery. Yet, people DO win the lottery. And people DO find their true love. Most have played the game many times, and got nothing back. Their numbers never matched. And then one day, they just did. They sat anxiously holding their ticket... their criteria for a partner, their desire for a deep, lasting love... and one by one, they realized that every number lined up! They probably read the numbers over and over. They probably looked at their significant other and analyzed. I know... I do it with the man in my life... but no matter how many times I go back and forth between what I want and need, and what he is.... the results never change. It's real. It's actually real.

We have been together for quite a while now, and we know each other very well. I found a book called 1000 Questions for Couples, and as I went through it, I realized there is always more for us to learn. But, when I think about our relationship, I know that we have spent more time getting to know each other on a deep, honest level than most couples have after five or ten years. I know that there are (and will be) things that we disagree on, but also know that we have established solid, mature habits when it comes to communicating, and to compromising. Things between us just flow so easily. There is so much love and happiness and support and fulfillment! I know that what we have is too good to look anywhere else. The pieces fit, the numbers match, and that nagging, incomplete feeling has washed away.

I have a winning lottery ticket in my back pocket. I've checked the numbers a million times, and I know that I am one of the lucky few whose lives are changed forever by cashing in that winning ticket. This type of jackpot can't simply be claimed at the corner store. There are steps that must be taken to ensure the protection of it, to ensure it is spent carefully, and invested wisely so that it continues to grow. And because of that planning and that preparation… when the time comes for me to claim my winnings… I know that it will be right—and my life will never be the same.

I’m so excited…

The Sweetest Song

Sometimes I forget how wonderful it was on my grandparent's farm. But I can close my eyes and like a flood all of these memories come rushing back.

I can remember drinking syrupy-sweet iced tea out of old mason jars, and waking up to the smell of bacon cooking and the sound of laughter in the kitchen. Walking down 'the lane' (the dirt road the farm was on) to Great Aunt Thelma and Great Aunt Leila's house (everyone's accents were so thick, I was 15 before I found out their names weren't actually Thelmur and Leelur) and wondering how they didn't mind not having air conditioning. The sound of the cows moo-ing and the goats baah-ing and the chickens clucking and the dogs barking. The taste of a pear fresh off of the tree. All of the pictures I have of me draped over one of the limbs of the climbing tree, or holding a baby goat, or climbing fences. Jumping off of a rock and holding on to that rope swing for dear life before splashing into the springs. Granny's collard and mustard greens fresh out of the garden, or the taste of a watermelon right out of Uncle David's fields... and the seed-spitting contest that followed. I remember all of the recliners in Granny and Papa's living room, and the hundreds of pictures on the shelves. My grandparents had nine kids, seven girls and two boys, and each of them had three or four, and each of them had three or four and... and all of us had a picture on that wall.
But most of all, I remember sitting in that long, long line of rocking chairs on the wrap-around porch, shelling peas in the heat, and listening to the Lee girls sing. I'll never be able to explain how sweet their harmony was. You can ask any of the kids or grand-kids or great-grand-kids and we will all remember it as one of the sweetest sounds we've ever heard. They'd just all start singing these old gospel songs or love songs in absolutely perfect harmony and it was more beautiful and more compelling than any siren song. When I listened to it then, it just seemed like a pretty song, but now I know why it sounded so beautiful. It wasn't just their incredible talent, or that they'd been doing it for so long... singing in church, and on TV, and some even going on tour... but they were singing those songs with experience. All of those women, with a million hurts and a million joys between them.. dead husbands, dead children, abuse, struggle, addictions, abandonment... and overcoming that to find laughter, joy, salvation, comfort, true love, and triumph. The words of "I'll Fly Away", or "The Rose", were more than lyrics to them. They were deeply hidden in their hearts. Now I know how songs can play in your soul and help you survive. Now I know why there was always, always, always someone singing something. I do it myself.
I never knew how sweet those memories would become for me, but just thinking of it now, my eyes fill up with tears and I feel my chest tighten, and I feel the most incredible longing.. just to feel that country breeze, and those old rocking chairs and hear that sweet sweet song just one more time.

Our Journey

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

-D.H. Lawrence. Lady Chatterley's Lover, 1928

Things you can say on Thanksgiving...

1. Talk about a huge breast!

2. Tying the legs together keeps the inside moist.

3. It's Cool Whip time!

4. If I don't undo my pants, I'll burst!

5. Whew, that's a terrific spread!

6. I'm in the mood for a little dark meat.

7. Are you ready for seconds yet?

8. It's a little dry, do you still want to eat it?

9. Just wait your turn, you'll get some!

10. Don't play with your meat.

11. Just spread the legs open and stuff it in.

12. Do you think you'll be able to handle all these people at once?

13. You still have a little bit on your chin.

14. How long will it take after you stick it in?

15. You'll know it's ready when it pops up.

16. Wow, I didn't think I could handle all of that!

17. That's the biggest one I've ever seen!.

18. My man likes a little extra on the side.

This week's installment of WTF

ShopGirl's Boba post has had me thinking, and this morning, I would like to explore a phenomenon I like to refer to as, "Passing It On."

Have you ever noticed how someone will taste something and say, "Ew. This tastes funny... try it." and then offer it to the closest person they can find? It happens all the time, in all forms: "Come here and smell this... does it smell gross to you?" "What am I drinking? It's awful. Have some." I could go on for days... and the worst part is... someone usually tries it! We've all done it. And then we say, "Yeah... that's gross. Come here... do YOU think this is gross?"

When I was younger, I knew a guy who had a theory that you could empty an entire glass of sour milk by just starting it off on one side of a party. He proposed that it would get 'here have some'-ed until it was gone. I don't know if he ever did it. I stopped going to his parties after he said that.

Are you down with O.P.P.?

Last night, McPerfect brought over a copy of City Life magazine, a local 'what's happening' and opinion mag. One of the articles offered pointers for protecting your belongings from burglars. A very informative piece, I feel it bears repeating:

"OTHER PEOPLE'S PROPERTY
Why are these people smiling? Because no one's stolen their television. Or their TiVo. Or their DVD player, home computer, jewelry or cash. In other words, they haven't been burglarized. Why not? Because they've taken the steps to prevent such a crime. And with burglaries on the rise in the Las Vegas Valley, you, too, should consider securing your home against people who want to haul off all your shit. Here are some helpful tips:

1. Before answering the door, always ask, "Who's there?" And then, just to be safe, follow up with "What do you want?" and "Who sent you?" and "Are you a rapist? Because if you are you'll only get STDs from the rusty nails I keep in my vagina when I'm practicing Krav Maga with my rabid Rotweiller."

2. If you're going out, always be sure to leave a child at home alone to engage bumbling burglars in a night of slapstick hijinks and zany comical violence.

3. Never, ever, under any circumstances, open your door.

4. Don't "advertise" to would-be burglars by throwing a neighborhood barbeque in which you drape your family in jewelry and use a plasma-screen TV as a picnic bench while eating hot dogs wrapped in $100 bills.

5. If you use a padlock on a door, make sure you use one with case-hardened steel and bolt-mounted hasps. Then again, a seasoned criminal could easily snap that with a jeweler's ball-peen hammer and specialized marble sculptor's wedge, in which case you want the sealed-body reinforced padlock hasps - which, unfortunately, are susceptible to a carefully placed explosive microcharge.
The only option then is a four-inch bank vault security deadbolt - but then again, even that's nothing an international crew of expert burglars' industrial sonic drill can't crack through.
Fuck it. Just put all your belongings on the driveway with a "Free" sign.

6. A totally old-school but still highly effective anti-burglar strategy is to pour hot, boiling oil on would-be home invaders from your home's rain gutters.
WARNING: May cause home to catch on fire.

7. Instead of trying to repel burglars with locks, alarms, firearms, and other security devices, why not just invite them in to hear how Scientology has totally changed your life?

8. Too bad a swampy moat filled with underfed, feral alligators is totally against homeowner association rules. Dicks.

9. Some burglars climb up the outside of the house and then try to get in from the roof. Foil those plans by not having a roof.

10. Finally, one other option to discourage burglars is to buy really crappy stuff, like these outdoor deck chairs available at Wal-Mart, made from lightweight, unstable balsa wood and the crushed dreams of Chinese slave laborers."

-Andrew Kiraly and Steve Sebelius

the truth

*I posted this a few months ago, before our little blog family came together, but was reminded of it by many of the comments on my blog yesterday. I felt I would repost it, to second the emotion!*



So, the other day I realized something about myself that at once made so many of my feelings make perfect sense, and yet... made me want to deny that they ever existed. A sentence popped into my thoughts that is neither nice nor appropriate. A sentence I swore I would never repeat outside of my head. But it won't go away. Every time I think it, I try to stuff it down, block it out... but the truth in it is so comforting that I find myself denying it less and less.

I secretly resent married people.

That's right. All of them. All of you. See? Not pretty, right? But, before you judge or think me hopelessly pathetic, please let me explain. I resent married people because of what they have that I don't. I am jealous and envious and covetous. I see these people, young and old, tall and short, beautiful and ugly, fat and thin, smart and dumb... and they found someone who wanted them. Who looked at them and thought that every day for the rest of their lives they wanted to be with them. They loved enough and longed enough for them that they willingly sacrificed their once precious freedom. They wanted more than the sex and more than the Friday night. They were excited to introduce them as their fiancee and then husband or wife. She's mine. He's mine. We are One. And I love you enough to tell everyone. In public. On paper. In ceremony. On my hand. In my will. 'Til death do us part.

I'm not stupid. I know not every marriage started this way, or with these sentiments. But the great majority of them do. And I know they all (or even most, these days) do not last forever. Which doesn't make me feel any better. People who get the chance to be married to someone who really loves them and who wanted to be with them and don't give it every single thing they've got to make it work just make me angry. When it doesn't work because it wasn't right to start off with... fine. I totally get it. I was married. To the WRONG person. And I fought hard-- but it wasn't the right fight. But, when it is... and people just throw it away... well, it makes me sad. And a little indignant.

It's just not fair. You see, all I have ever wanted to be was a wife and mom. I've been a mom for over ten years. I get to live that dream every day. But something is missing. Something huge. Something integral and vital to who I am. The need to be someone's wife. Somebody's June Cleaver meets Jenna Jameson. A woman that a man can be proud to call his wife. I am very far from perfect, but I know I would make a great wife. A great partner and friend and plaything and...

As I round the corner to being thirty I don't feel old. But I do feel sad. Have you ever wanted something so much that the very thought of it defines you? It feels like being a kid who grew up wanting nothing more than to play in the Major Leagues. And not only does he want it, but he's got an arm that can throw a 100-mph fastball and can swing for the fences every time. But no teams are interested. He is destined to play AAA ball for the rest of his career. He is nothing but a farm team player with a big, unfulfilled dream. An essentially useless dream. Sometimes these big dreaming kids get a shot at the 'big show'... a "Rudy" moment. But, it's not the real thing.

It is important for me to say that it's not just being married, per se, that I want. It's not the marriage in general, or the idea just in the fairy tale sense. I could be married now. I'm sure I could find someone who'd shack up with me and toss a gold ring on my finger and I could have my marriage. Like sea monkeys... as easy to set up and equally as unimpressive. It is the intent that I long for. Even when I was married before, it was more because his buddies thought I was hot too, and because I was a good cook... things like that--I looked good on paper. He didn't want forever. I am not sure he ever even wanted ME. I want someone who wants ME. Who won't settle for anything less than ME. I want the marriage as in the intimate association... and not as in the institution. Someone to take care of, and who'll take care of me. Someone who walks in a room proud to say that I belong to them. Someone who will be there when I crawl into bed each night, and will be happy to wake up to me every morning. Someone to occassionally argue with, even fight with... I don't just want the glossy photo album marriage. I want it all and I am willing to do the work... I want to do the work.

But wanting something and getting it are two far different things. I might just be destined for this eternal spring training. Getting ready for the season that never starts. But, I won't stop hoping. I won't stop longing. And, I won't stop learning... because if I ever get the chance I can guarantee I will make someone very happy. Hall of Fame style.

I'm Switching Teams

yeah. I thought that would get your attention.

no, seriously.... I'm switching teams. I've been Team Aniston since the breakup from Brad Pitt. All the way. Like, buying the tee-shirt from Kitson, painting my face and tailgating at the divorce proceedings... Team Aniston. All guys are Team Jolie, well, actually, all guys are Team You-Have-Chosen-Wisely-If-You-Chose-Jolie. I get it. She's hot. Like, unreasonably hot. Ridiculously hot. Un-humanly hot. Ok. I get it. But Ive always taken the position that if you've got a happy home with Jennifer Aniston, and you are married.... you don't just go blowing it all just because some girl is un-humanly hot. Rude. Vile. Just don't do it. I'm so disappointed in you, Brad. And more disappointed in you, Angelina. You don't talk to your dad anymore because he cheated on your mom. And now you are the home wrecker.

But last night I watched Mr & Mrs Smith again, and it got me thinking. When you watch the movie, there is something there. There. There is something happening between them that has nothing to do with acting. There is a connection. You can see them falling in love right there on the celluloid. We don't know what Brad and Jen's home life was like. Maybe there was no spark. Maybe the fire had died. And there it was, every day, in his face: Angelina and her un-humanly hotness. And for the record, Brad and his un-humanly hotness. So they start off thinking its going to be an incredibly un-humanly hot movie to film. And then they start talking... they begin to connect. And as much as they'd like to deny it.... they get close. Now, I don't know...this has never happened to me... or, namely, I have never been Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie (sigh). But I have fallen in love. And sometimes you aren't just thinking how wonderful it is... you are trying desperately to find a reason it CAN'T be love. Just in case. But when it is... it just is.

So I started thinking... would it be better for Brad to stay with Jen and be wishing she was Angelina? And Jen wishing he was looking at her the way he looked at Angelina? Is that really better? Just because he married Jen? Couldn't it be like that line in 'The Wedding Planner'? What if Jennifer Aniston was great... but just not as great as something greater? Was it more fair to leave Jen than to stay?

You don't MAKE love happen. You can't. You can interpret feelings as love and go on that for a while, but if it is not love it just isn't. And if it IS love. It just is.

I am not in any way condoning cheating. I was cheated on in wretched, horrible ways and I would never wish that on anyone. All I am saying is that sometimes people rush into marriage or relationships and then when the right one comes along... maybe it is better to end it than to stay where you are. Maybe the fair thing to do SOMETIMES is to walk away.

So I am switching teams. I am no longer Team Aniston. I am not Team Jolie. I am Team-Maybe-Everyone-Ends-Up-Better-Off-In-The-End-Even-If-The-Transition-Is-Difficult. Do you think I could get that on a tee-shirt?

I'm calling Kitson.

I Facebooked God

Oh, I'm still Alive...

Did I ever tell you the story about the time I saw Eddie Vedder almost kill himself?
I hadn't thought about it in years, but yesterday morning as I was driving, Yellow Ledbetter came on the radio. I started singing at the top of my lungs, except... I realized that even after all this time... I don't know the words. I don't really feel bad about it, though, because I think pretty much everyone doesn't know the words. It's been a long time since there was a song that good-- that was also totally unintelligible. Anyway, it reminded me of 1996, when I had the best friends of all time and we embarked on a wild adventure that I will never forget.
When Pearl Jam announced their world tour dates and we heard that they'd be coming to Florida, we knew we had to go. The tickets for every single show went on sale at the same date and time, and were only available through a toll free number... so we were all so stressed out thinking we might not get tickets that we decided we would stop at nothing to get them. At the time, I worked as the assistant manager of the call center for a carpet cleaning company... so I decided I would use that to my advantage. In a stroke of sheer luck, the day the tickets went on sale was the day after quarter beer night at The Stadium Club, which everybody knew meant Grant the Manager would not make it in due to some "mysterious illness" (read: massive hangover). About twenty minutes before the tickets were released, I had all my telemarketers hang up the phone and announced that everyone was now working for me! Everyone would dial the toll free number at the same time, and whoever got through would order the tickets and would go home for the day--with pay! Great plan, right? Well, THREE people got through and ordered tickets, so I ended up having to sell a whole bunch of them to these dirty people in a van in the mall parking lot... but that's a whole other story.
Anyway, we had planned everything to the nth detail, and the day we drove out of Jacksonville down to Ft Lauderdale, the excitement was palpable. We took two cars. In one, there was Justin (who looked like Hugh Grant), his friend (whose name escapes me... but looked exactly like Judge Ito from the Simpson trial), Christine (my best friend) and Megan (who didn‘t look like anyone but was a very sweet girl). In my car it was me (who looked a whole lot like Alicia Silverstone at the time) and my favorite person Scott (who looked a hell of a lot like Conan O'Brien). With all the look-a-likes, we even got approached by a guy at Burger King during our lunch stop who asked if we did parties. The drive down was so much fun! Scott brought along the ‘Apollo 18’ album by They Might be Giants, which has something like 30 tracks on it, but some of them are only a few seconds long and say bizarre things like “Please pass the milk..” which makes for a riotous good time when you put the CD on shuffle and you happen to be a teenager. Anyway, we drove all the way there in our separate cars and as we entered Ft Lauderdale we saw the traffic was getting pretty tight. We pulled over and went through the directions to our hotel and decided if we got separated, we would just meet there. As we entered the five o’clock rush hour in downtown Ft. Lauderdale, Scott and I were listening to the radio. Suddenly, it sounded as if aliens were assuming control of my car… all the lights started flashing and horrible, loud, foreign sounds were coming from all of the speakers. I turned the radio off, but the sounds persisted. I was terrified. I was going to miss the Pearl Jam concert because I got abducted by aliens! (Just in case this happens to you, don’t be alarmed… the lights and sounds are not aliens. It’s your alternator.) My car died completely (no power even to the hazard lights) right in the middle of an intersection in the middle of rush hour. Scott ran to call for a tow truck and I cried. A lot.
When we finally got towed to the hotel, we were totally exhausted! Our friends had just assumed we had taken off to do something fun, so it never occurred to them to come back and see if we needed help. And then, we suddenly realized the worst part of it all: that we would not be able to go to the concert! There was SIX of us and Justin drove a two-door Geo Metro! All of our planning and we were going to miss what was sure to be the greatest show of all time! Wait. The greatest show of all time? You don’t MISS the greatest show of all time!! So, in the spirit of youth we packed all six of us into that tiny car. There was a lot of “Hey, you’re on my…” and “I can’t feel my arm any more…”, but we survived.
And, boy was it worth it! Eddie Vedder was so f’d up that he couldn’t even remember the words to “Jeremy“. He kept mumbling and trailing off and getting the words mixed up. But that was ok! Half of the crowd was as f’d up as he was, and anyway, we all just sang it for him. I think he even asked for help singing at one point. Then, in a moment I will never forget… Eddie started climbing the scaffolding that was holding the lighting apparatus at the sides of the stage. He was turning around and growling out (some of) the lyrics to “Porch” as he climbed. Everyone got a little tense… what was he doing? He was known for stage diving , but he kept climbing higher and higher and we all were mesmerized. It was a very windy night in the outdoor stadium (there was a hurricane brewing) and he obviously was not in control of all of his motor functions. And then… he slipped. The entire crowd of thousands gasped in unison. We watched as Eddie Vedder hung from the scaffolding… caught from a free-fall by nothing but his red suspenders. I don’t know how or why those suspenders held, but that was probably one of the most incredible moments I’ve ever experienced. He got his footing again and climbed down and he resumed slurring the song even before he’d reached solid ground… and then said he just wanted to get a better look at everybody. Now, THAT'S rock 'n' roll.

That was an incredible night. No matter how long I live I will always be thankful for good friends, road trips, and red suspenders.

Down and Dirty

First off, I want to say thanks to all of you for your comments and phone calls and texts and visits. I needed you and you were there in full force. I love my blog fam.

Now, on to my post: I LOVE the idea of an anonymous blog. ShopGirl did one a while back where folks were invited to anonymously 'fess up to their darkest secret. I was addicted! I was shocked at how candid everyone was, and how dark their secrets really were. Fascinating. So, I was thinking it was time for another!

Everyone has fantasies. Some are more tame than others, but one man's porn shop is another man's grocery store. There's not much I wouldn't actually do, unless it involved animals, children, or the elderly (and that's only until I am elderly myself... after that, Game On!). But, most of us have a secret fantasy that is hotter than all the rest. Something that is too wild or too taboo or too involved for us to mention. Something that we'd give anything to do, if only we could find a willing partner (or partnerS). What's yours?

*remember to either sign out or choose 'anonymous' when you leave your response... otherwise we'll all know your secret. (but then, maybe you might find a few takers!) ;)*

Cry me a river.

Where do tears come from? Ok, I know all about the lacrimal gland and all that, but why is it that emotions would cause such a reaction? Why couldn't my heart be breaking and, say, my hair would grow? Or my teeth would become brilliantly white? I'll tell you why.. because if that was the body's reaction to extreme sadness, then right now, I'd be Rapunzel starring in a toothpaste commercial.

I have been crying for hours... and I feel like I could cry forever and they'd just keep coming. Songs talk about being 'all cried out', but I don't think there is a physical limit to the end of tears. Maybe once all the crying is done, they feel like they've got no more tears, but I'd bet you take one of those 'all cried out' folks and push just a little and.... WAAAAAHHHH!

Supposedly, tears caused by emotional reactions have a slightly different chemical makeup than regular lubricating tears. Couldn't that chemical makeup include something to actually make you feel better? Or at least LOOK better? Why does crying have to make your nose all red, and your eyes puffy, and your breathing erratic, and why do your shoulders have to shudder... it's so exhausting! Isn't it enough to just be sad, without having to look bad while you're doing it!?!?

Who's the boss?

There are few things in this world that are more unattractive than a bossy woman. I don't care what she looks like. An aesthetically pleasing woman might as well be a troll if she is constantly delivering commands and edicts. Conversely, a woman who might not catch your eye at first can seem pretty darn welcoming when she has a sweet spirit or communicates in a respectful way. Being kind is the new pretty.

Bossy women are one of my biggest pet peeves. They are the reason that men hate their wives. They are the reason for the term 'ball and chain'. They are the reason that everyone thinks of women as tiring nags. They give the rest of us a bad rap. Sometimes, I think it is just a personality trait. When I was a kid, I was pretty bossy. I usually needed to be the one to decide what game we played or what show we watched. But, it wasn't because I needed to be in control. It was because I just thought my idea was better. As I grew, I realized that sometimes other people have good ideas too. Sometimes, when we did it their way it was easier, or faster, or more fun. Sometimes, it just made them happy to do things their way. I learned to enjoy the happiness of others more than the gratification of getting my way. Bossiness was a personality trait that I mostly outgrew.

I think for some women, it is also a defense mechanism or an acquired survival technique. Because so many women are forced to work in 'a man's world' and are expected to hold their own in such a testosterone-based environment, they have adapted this Alpha Dog persona to show that they can't be taken advantage of and are just as tough... can do just as much. It is just too cliche to use their wily charms and femininity as a tool instead of a hinderance. I suppose it is hard to make that transition to being feminine and emotionally pliant when they leave the office every day. So they come home, still barking orders, still nagging about the broken this or the messy that... and everyone just tunes out.

Women do it with other women, too. Generally, it is those who feel themselves inferior who find the need to be bossy with other women. They feign confidence by being 'in charge'. I rarely meet a truly confident woman who feels the need to throw their weight around... and often you can see it within seconds. Just this weekend, I had the chance to see one of the best real-life comparisons of this scenario. One of the flight attendants on my crew was like Hurricane Katrina. She moved with fury. She never clicked, only slammed. She couldn't whisper, only shout. Every single thing about her was forceful and destructive. And she had to be in control of every single thing that happened for three days. By the end of the first leg, my levee had broken and I was sitting on the roof of my patience waiting to be rescued. And you know who saved me? My other crew member. She was a perfect spring day. And the best thing about the comparison was that she was able to be the polar opposite, without being a pushover or mousy in any way. She was fun and kind and sweet, she understood people and how to get what she wanted without being manipulative or bossy, and she made you want to like her. She was refreshingly feminine without being prissy. Truth be told, I probably would have slit my wrists with a safety information card if she hadn't been there.

Nobody wants to be told what to do. We didn't like it when we were kids and we especially don't like it as adults. It goes back to the old 'flies with honey' adage, I guess... but I wish that more women could embrace the power inherent in being feminine. I wish they could understand how much better it works to ask than to tell. There is a reason that How to Win Friends and Influence People is one of the bestselling books of all time. There is so much power in kindness. Softness and generosity are natural attractants. I don't care how much time you spend working out, or making up your face, or getting your hair and nails done... the single most effective tool to being an attractive woman is a genuine smile and a warm personality. Try it and see...

To Sir With... uh... Love?

Dear Exit Row Passenger,

I know that I am forced to stand here in the exit row during boarding to make sure no children or idiots sit in these seats, but it appears that one has slipped past me. I just thought you should know that even though the FAA says I have to stand here with my ass in your face, I refuse to believe that you have accidentally grabbed, touched and brushed against my ass FOUR separate times accidentally, no matter how many times you say "oops, sorry!". Back the F off or I will accidentally punch you in you F-ing face.

Oh, and you are an idiot so you can't sit there.

Sincerely,

Your friendly flight attendant.

I Simply Remember My Favorite Things

The last few days have been a total mess, as I am sure you have all figured out by now. In fact, I was so eff'n out of my head dealing with it all that I actually put my cell phone in the washing machine. Not in the pocket of my jeans or something like that, which would make sense... I actually picked up a teeshirt, then some socks, and then my cell phone... and tossed them in the already-running washing machine. As I walked away, my brain fog lifted for a second and I suddenly realized what I'd done... but it was too late. After an impressive display of spontaneous phone lights and sounds and an exaggerated, painful death... my phone now smells like water lily and jasmine, but is dead as a doornail. Sigh. Anyway, instead of dwelling on the cluster fk that has been my week, I'd rather focus on something more fun.

Every year Oprah has an episode where she highlights some of her favorite things, and then she gives them to everyone in the audience as gifts. I am not Oprah, and you won't receive anything other than a sense of satisfaction after reading this blog, but today I felt like making a list of a few of the things I enjoy.

The "Breakfast Mom" maker. Any time we go to Jack-in-the-Box, my son gets the "breakfast Jack". 7pm, 6am.. it doesn't matter. He likes it. Well, someone got me this toaster that makes a poached egg, warms the ham or bacon, and toasts the muffin in about five minutes. You just push a button and lower the toast or muffin and a timer then starts each component cooking at the right time so it all gets done together. It kicks ass.

The Mr Clean Magic Eraser. Seriously, this thing has powers like David Copperfield, and I think Mr Clean sold his soul to Satan to create this product. The way it removes basically every stain or mark off of every surface imaginable borders on frightening. With no work on my part whatsoever, it wipes away every trace. I am currently testing the product's usefulness on debt, regret, and ex-lovers.

Steve and Barry's. We originally found this clothing store in Orlando. And confused it for the Magic Kingdom. They had a "grand opening" sale sign up, that advertised that nothing in the store was over $6.99. And it was true. Four years later, they still have that sign up, but sadly, now there is nothing in the store over $19.98. Since the addition of Sarah Jessica Parker, Amanda Bynes, Laird Hamilton, and Bubba Watson golf stuff, the prices have gone up a little, so it's not quite as much fun. However, there are still HUNDREDS of items in these warehouse-sized stores that are under ten bucks. And they last. I have clothes that I bought there four years ago that I still wear every week that haven't even lost a button. They have men's, women's and children's clothes, sportswear, collegiate apparel, shoes, purses, jewelry... Seriously, you can fill up a whole cart and get out of there for under $200 bucks. It will blow your mind.

Children of the Dust This is my favorite movie of all time. It was a made-for-tv movie that aired in 1995. By the end of the third commercial, half of the people I knew were all watching it on TV. We called each other during each commercial break. Anyway, I immediately fell in love with it. There was no way to purchase it back then, so once, when they re-aired it, my aunt recorded it on VHS for me. Except... something happened and it only recorded the sound. I honestly "watched" that movie on VHS with only snow and sound about 150 times. I loved it that much. Years later, my ex paid a fortune to buy a copy of it from someone who was on the Emmy review committee and still had the one that was submitted for nomination. They also released it in the US as "A Good Day to Die", but it was seriously chopped up to make it feature length. They took out most of the good parts. Finally, the ex found a DVD copy of the original movie from overseas, but it is a region 2 DVD so it doesn't play in most players. Still, I love it, and watch it every chance I get. It stars Sidney Poitier, Farrah Fawcett, Billy Wirth, Joanna Going, and Jim Caviezel. It's a sweeping saga of gunslingers and Native Americans and romance and revenge!

Dirt Texturizing Paste by Jonathan Product. When the TV show (Blow Out) came out, I have to admit, I was hooked. First, he looked good. Then, he made everyone else look good. I even flipped out one time walking down the street by the hotel in Burbank when I happened upon the beauty school he attended. I'm a dork. Anyway, I never spend money on expensive cosmetics or products. (I did buy one pot of MAC eyeshadow once, but that was a special treat for myself) However, this stuff actually works. You know how your hair never styles the same after you've just washed it? Well, this stuff makes clean hair style like dirty hair. I can't deal with not washing my hair... even if it does make it curl better or whatever on the second day... I just can't do it. And for $14 bucks, I don't have to. I still want a Jonathan signature long layered hair cut one day. Consider that an addendum to my previous blog about things I'd get when I'm rich.

Tooth Tunes toothbrush Trying to get your kids to remember to brush their teeth three times a day, much less to it well, is like trying to climb Mt Everest... on a mountain bike. This toothbrush runs for two minutes (the suggested timeframe for "doing it well") and plays music that supposedly only plays "inside the head" of the user. I don't know about all of that, but does get my son to not act like he's gonna die every time I ask him to brush his teeth. Some of the songs are actually GOOD, and it only costs $10.

Slingbox This thing is amazing. Because I travel so much... I love it. It's a tiny box that hooks up to your tv, and allows you to control and watch your home tv from anywhere you have an internet connection or on your mobile phone if you have Windows OS. I can sit on my porch with my laptop and watch Grey's. I can also screw with my kids from the other room when I catch them watching something they shouldn't. haha I can control my tivo to record a new show I read about, or watch my own television even if I am in an airport or hotel room across the country. Plus there is no monthly fee or subscription. Again, there is much ass kicking.

203 Ways to Drive a Man Wild in Bed, by Olivia St Claire. This has been one of my top five favorite books since I was... well, I was a teenager... we'll leave it at that. Every time I get a copy of this book I end up loaning it out and never get it back. While there may be a few things in here that will have you standing on your head (literally), mostly this book is about getting you to think creatively about romance and sex. Sex should NOT be boring or routine. Ever. She emphasizes the importance of feeling and knowing that you are sexy, and how even the simplest of techniques will become sexy when delivered that way. I guarantee you won't stop at the 203 ideas she offers... your mind will come up with a million of your own! There are also 302 Advanced Techniques for Driving a Man Wild in Bed and 227 Ways to Unleash the Sex Goddess Within to add to your repertoire... just in case you need them. ;)

So, I've covered teeth brushing, tv watching, house cleaning, hair styling, movie viewing, breakfast cooking, bargain shopping, and baby making. That should keep you busy... for now.

Persons With Heart Conditions Should Not Ride This Ride

I feel sick. My life makes me feel sick. Like I'm at the fair and I'm on the Tilt-A-Whirl, and I've been on way too long and feel dizzy and green and I keep trying to flag down the guy running the ride, but he's too busy chatting with people in line, and I'm just going around and around and I'm pressed into the seat from the inertia of it all... the dirty seat with gum on it and the paint peeling and the bolts that don't look like they will hold much longer... I'm stuck in the seat and every little while the ride slows and then stops and everyone starts getting off and I try to push up on the bar across my lap but mine is stuck and nobody seems to notice and I'm yanking and shaking it and hollering for the guy to come let me off this ride! Except he doesn't hear me, and here come more people and before I know it here I am going around and around again, and my neck feels weak and wobbly, and I can feel my stomach churning and I shouldn't have eaten before getting on but its the fair, and you always have to eat fried things on sticks when you go to the fair, but now all I really want to do is to get off this seat with the peeling paint and go hide behind a booth and throw up. I want to lay down and not move until the world stops spinning and never ever ever go to a fair again. But I'm spinning. I'm stuck here and going round and round and I can't figure out why everyone else seems to be enjoying this so much. They're screaming and laughing and holding up their hands and smiling so big that their cheeks will hurt later and there they all go, off to the Fun House where I'd like to go and look in mirrors that make my problems seem small. There they go and I'm stuck here under this bar with my stupid goldfish in its plastic bag, feeling sick, and wobbly, and overwhelmed.

And so I say 'Thanks'...

At the end of this "Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" I sat down here at the computer and things got worse. And then worse still. And then... I basically said 'eff it all' until tomorrow when I have more energy to solve the myriad of problems with which I am faced, and ...I came to blogger.

I left my laptop at home on this past trip and honestly only had a few moments while I was gone to even come and check out the posts, and as I sat here tonight catching up... I realized how thankful I am for this little online family. Ok, maybe we are all just online second cousins or something since I haven't ever met most of you in person... but I am thankful nonetheless. I come here, and you write things that are so funny I spit diet pepsi on my screen. I come here, and you write about the frustrations and the issues that I deal with every day. You write things that make me feel something other than overwhelmed with my life... and that is such a welcome gift at the end of the day. I so look forward to reading your musings and your stories! They are a much needed respite from the din I try to make something out of all day long. Even the sad ones bring me a type of refreshing joy in having shared a moment OUTSIDE myself... just the act of being able to get outside myself amidst the things I struggle with is a feat! And then... I purge my soul and write a little myself. I let go, I heal, I share, I emote. And it feels good! It feels better! And so I say, 'Thanks!'

Inject a little humor

The other day, my daughter was making faces at me in the mirror as I brushed out her hair after bath time. "Can everybody make silly faces?" she said, and I (in my usual sarcastic way) replied, "Sure... Unless they've had botox!" I then spent five minutes explaining my answer.

So last night, my daughter walks up to my son and with the least expression possible says, "Look Trystan, I have botox." And when my son said, "What's Botox?" she answered: "It's disease you put in your face so your eyebrows can't move!"

I laughed so hard I literally had to lay down on the floor.

Survey Says....

What were you doing ten years ago?
In 1998, I was living in Atlanta trying to keep my marriage together (so glad that didn't work!) and enjoying my little one-year-old boy.
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6 things in your refrigerator:
1. Diet Pepsi
2. Green Tea
3. Guacamole
4. Asparagus
5. Chicken breast

6. Limes for Corona
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4 heroes of yours:
1. My daddy
2. My Grandma Ida Mae
3. Diane Von Furstenberg
4. The Apostle Paul
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6 things in your purse or manbag:
1. Sidekick
2. brush
3. bubble gum
4. cream-pop flavored lip gloss
5. Splenda

6. wallet/checkbook
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6 places in the world you want to visit before you die:
1. The mountain where McPerfect's dad's ashes were spread
2. The Holy Land
3. my own front porch, with the rocking chairs
4. Ireland
5. Paws Up Resort

6. Redwood National Forest
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6 things you would do if you were a billionaire:
1. Secure the futures of my loved ones
2. Open my dress shop
3. Build homes for those who could never afford them
4. Fish. Alot.
5. Travel

6. Write.
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Six places you have lived:
1. Jacksonville, FL
2. Atlanta, GA
3. Denver, CO
4. Las Vegas, NV
5. Seattle, WA

6. Orlando, FL
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6 things that make me happy:
1. My children's laughter
2. Learning something new about myself
3. Quiet time with my man
4. A good book
5. Staying in bed all day

6. Being a wife and mom
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6 things that remind me of high school:
1. Caboodles
2. Friendship bracelets
3. Z Cavaricci
4. Hypercolor T-shirts
5. Permed hair and the highest bangs of all time

6. Max Headroom
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6 TV shows that I watch:
1. Grey's Anatomy
2. Project Runway
3. Lipstick Jungle
4. Friends/Seinfeld
5. Deadliest Catch

6. History's Mysteries

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6 places I have been on vacation:
1. London
2. Paris
3. The Cayman Islands
4. Mexico
5. The Fla Keys

6. Bahamas
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6 of my favorite foods:
1. Olive Garden Alfredo
2. Peel and Eat Shrimp
3. Grilled Chicken Sandwiches
4. Casseroles
5. Ranch CornNuts

6. Pizza
*
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6 places I would rather be right now:
1. Florida. I'm missing my family reunion right now. :(
2. With McPerfect, anywhere.
3. Bed
4. A cabin in the mountains
5. Hiking

6. Someplace snowy
*
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6 of the most common brands you'll find in my closet:
1. Levi's
2. Steve and Barry's
3. Old Navy
4. Hmmm... don't really do a lot of brand name shopping, it seems...
5.

6.
*
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6 things I'll never be caught doing:
1. wearing leggings or skinny jeans
2. eating cole slaw
3. living in Denver again
4. dating someone who doesn't clean their ears
5. drinking lots of beer

6. being with a man who mistreats me
*
*

6 Websites I visit daily:

1. Ebay.com

2. Blogger.com

3. SWAlife.com (for work)

4. AOL.com

5. Bank site

6. craigslist.org

*

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6 catalogs I get in the mail:

1. Home Decorator's Collection

2. Victoria's Secret

3. Frederick's of Hollywood

4. West Elm

5. Newport News

6. Black Forest Decor

*

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6 things I have a hard time doing:

1. Saying goodbye

2. Spending money on myself

3. Remembering the Pilot's names at work

4. Moving

5. Forgiving someone when they lie to me

6. Getting rid of books

***

***

aint no sunshine

I was tucking my daughter into bed tonight and thought I'd change things up from my usual bedtime song. I usually sing "Holdin' You" by Gretchen Wilson, and even though people tease me about singing a song to my kids that talks about whiskey, if you really listen to the words they are the ultimate sentiment of how love (in my case, for my babies) can save your life.

Anyway, tonight I sang "You Are My Sunshine" and as I was finishing the first verse, I found myself a little choked up. Most of the time, people sing this song as a happy little tune. 'You're my sunshine, la di da'... but the actual lyrics and tone of the song are filled with such aching sadness and longing.

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away

I’ll always love you and make you happy,
If you will only say the same.
But if you leave me and love another,
You’ll regret it all some day:

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away

You told me once, dear, you really loved me
And no one else could come between.
But now you’ve left me and love another;
You have shattered all of my dreams:

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away

In all my dreams, dear, you seem to leave me
When I awake my poor heart pains.
So when you come back and make me happy
I’ll forgive you dear, I’ll take all the blame.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You’ll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away

This song has a special place in my heart. Most people don't know my story, or about my past, but there was a time I left the chorus of this song written on little slips of paper up each stair of our staircase, when I knew my daddy was leaving for the last time. He still has those little pieces of paper, and this song has never been the same for either of us.

Polygamy

I have bad news for you. Your significant other is seeing someone else. Every day, they are seeing someone else behind your back. Well, not literally-- but they are often seeing someone else when they look at you. When you talk, they don't just hear you. Standing with you in every conversation, every argument... there are tons of other people.

There are TONS of people in your relationship:

There's you, them, the person you think you are, the person you think they are, the person they think they are, and the person they think you are. There's your parents, possibly your grandparents, their parents and grandparents. There's all of your exes, and everything they ever said to you, and all of their exes and all of their conversations and arguments. There are teachers and mentors and counselors, children and friends. There are co-worker's comments, books and movie scripts to compare you both to....I could go on and on.

It's not very easy to ignore the crowd standing in the room, but you have to. Otherwise, you spend your time responding to what your ex said that hurt your feelings or applying your insecurities to everything your partner says and does. It can get very confusing and makes it impossible to move forward.

I'd love to tell you that I have figured out a magic formula for getting past this~ but there isn't one. You just have to DO it. You have to stop before you react, you have to really think about what your partner says and figure out if you are hearing it un-filtered. Why does it bother me when you do that? Why did what you just said make me so hurt or angry? Is it YOU I am upset with? Is it YOU? Or is it that Verizon network behind you?

Suburban Secret

The moms you see picking up kids from school in the afternoon are totally different moms than the ones who drop them off. The chatty moms with their cute hair and ballet flats do not exist before school. At some point during the day, a transformation takes place. Before school, these very same moms pull out of their garages... makeup-less faces hidden by sunglasses, pajamas hidden by sweatshirts. Hoping... praying... that they can just make it to the drop-off and back into the garage without being spotted. Ok, maybe a Starbucks drive-thru on the way... but that's it.

I know- because I am one of them. It's not something we are proud of. If we could, we would wake up at 4 am and bake some banana bread for breakfast, and get the ironing done, and shower, and doll ourselves up... and sometimes we actually do that... sometimes we get it right. But - EVERY DAY???? There's not enough Starbucks in all the world.

I Don't!!

I found a Bride's Magazine left behind by a passenger on one of my flights the other day and it got me thinking about weddings. My dad is a minister, and I have a ginormous family... I have been to a lot of weddings. There are some wedding rituals and habits that drive me crazy:

Don't be a robot. Don't say your vows to the Minister! Are you marrying him? You two lovebirds stand up there repeating the vows like parrots, completely oblivious to each other! Some of the best weddings I have been to are the ones where they are natural... she uses her hankie to wipe his tear away, he whispers a joke that only the two of them can hear and they get the giggles... it's about each other! Sure, there are nerves... but that can be good too! There was the guy who said "With this ring, I thee BED" (much to his embarrassment) or the uncle who shouted "It sure is!" when the minister paused after "Marriage is an institution..." That makes for a good wedding, too. Just relax. Remember why you are there, and don't be so wrapped up in everything being perfect that you miss the point.

It is not a performance... I don't care if you know how to Waltz at your reception... and nobody else does either. One out of a hundred husbands actually wants to do a Viennese Waltz.. the rest of them secretly (or not so secretly) resent having to go to classes and then oaf around a dance floor-- and if you really wanted to start your marriage out on the right "foot" you'd know it would be better to stand completely still in the middle of the dance floor and hold on to each other and really enjoy the moment than it would be to spend the first few minutes as man and wife thinking, 'two, three... one, two, three...' and then glaring at your husband for messing up the steps.

What's up with the 'shoving-the-cake-in-the-face' game? Why is that funny? Did you spend half of the day getting your hair and makeup done so you could spend the evening with cake up your nose? I don't know, maybe it is just me... but I would NOT think that was humorous. Feed me the damned cake- I'll feed you some... they'll take a picture and all of the onlookers will pout because we didn't decorate each other with icing... at least, not at the reception... ;)

I am not a wedding cynic. I totally get it. The only thing I regret more than my previous marriage was the fact that I didn't get a wedding out of it. I don't think it needs to cost a lot to be perfect, and half of the fun is the planning for it. But when you do it, do it right! Do it right for the rest of us who are 'always a bridesmaid...'

What's love got to do with it?

Professor Rose Morgan to English Lit students at Columbia University:

"...As I stood at the altar, beside my sister and her husband to be, it struck me that this ritual called a wedding ceremony is really just the final scene of a fairy tale. They never tell you what happens after. They never tell you that Cinderella drove the prince crazy with her obsessive need to clean the castle... cause she missed her day job, right? No. They don't tell us what happens after, because there is no after. The be all and end all of romantic love was?... marriage. But, it wasn't always like that. Around the 12th century there was a notion known as courtly love. Where a love had nothing to do with marriage and nothing to do with sex. In most cases, it was defined as a passionate relationship between a knight and a lady of the court who was already married. And so they could never consummate their love. In this way, they would have to rise above your ordinary, you know, going-to-the-bathroom-in-front-of-each-other-kind-of-love, and they would go after something more... divine. They took sex out of the equation, and what was left was a union of souls. Now, think of this... sex was always the fatal love potion... look at the literature of the time: Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristan and Isolde.. all consummation could lead to was madness, dispair, or death. Clinical experts, scholars, and my Aunt Esther are united in the belief that true love has spiritual dimensions... while romantic love is nothing but a lie, an illusion, a modern myth.. a soul-less manipulation. Speaking of manipulation, it's like going to the movies, and we see the lovers on screen kiss, and the music swells, and we buy it, right? So, when my date takes me home and kisses me goodnight if I dont hear the philharmonic in my head, I dump him!? Now, the question is... why do we buy it? We buy it because whether its a myth or manipulation... let's face it... we all want to fall in love. Right? Why? Because that experience makes us feel completely alive, where every sense is heightened, every emotion is magnified, our everyday reality is shattered, and we are flung into the heavens! It may only last a moment, an hour, an afternoon.. but that doesn't diminish it's value. Because we are left with memories that we treasure for the rest of our lives. I read an article a while ago that said "When we fall in love we hear Puccini in our head."... I love that. I think its because his music fully expresses our longing for passion in our lives and for romantic love. And while we are listening to La Boheme or Turandot, or reading Wuthering Heights or watching Casablanca... a little of that love lives in us too. So, the final question is.. why do people want to fall in love when it can have such a short shelf life, and be devastatingly painful? What do you think..? ... Stacy?"
"It leads to propagation of the species?"
"mmmhmmm... Randy?"
"Psychologically we need to connect with somebody..."
"could be... Jill?"
"Because we are culturally pre-conditioned?"
"Good answers... but all too intellectual for me... I think it's because, while it does last...
It... feels... fucking... great!"

-The Mirror Has Two Faces

One moment in time

I feel I would be negligent if I did not post this evening. I am not going to post about political viewpoints, right or left, red or blue, win or lose. I'm going to write about witnessing history. I am not a political activist, and until the past few months I'll be honest and say that I was not very interested in politics. There are many issues for which I am too poorly informed to even engage in debate. This is not something I am proud of in any way, and am glad that this election has sparked an interest that is already making me more informed. But that is not what I want to write about.

Tonight, history was made... and I was there. Even as I stood in the booth casting my ballot, my eyes were flooded with tears at the significance of what I was doing. I sat on my sofa tonight and cried again as the results were announced. I pulled my son from his homework to witness that moment with me. "When your children's children's children go to school... they are going to learn about this moment. And you are HERE." Even in the fifth grade, the significance was not lost on him.

History was made tonight, and we not only witnessed it... we were part of it. Those of us who wrote and blogged and commented and debated our viewpoints in these public forums helped, even in a sometimes minuscule way, shape this election. We have a written record of our involvement in a moment of history that has been dreamed about for decades, and for centuries by some. Today will be discussed as a turning point, a paradigm shift, that will shape the future for thousands of years and billions of people. And we were here. I hope each of us takes a moment to pause and really feel the moment... to feel new faith in the future. And if I may quote the famous words of the great Martin Luther King Jr., "With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood."

My glamorous job

I am sure all of you have heard about how terminally glamorous the life of a flight attendant is, and I know how jealous you must be that I get to live such a luxurious existence. I wish that I could debunk some of these rumors, and tell you that the job is not all that it is cracked up to be... but sadly, I cannot. Everything about being a flight attendant is just SO glamorous!

First of all, we get to fly all over the United States... what? no. I don't fly internationally. I fly for a domestic airline. But, seriously, overnighting in Midland, Texas is SUPER glamorous. As if that wasn't enough, there is the tres chic uniform. Khaki pants, sweater vest, tennis shoes... what? no. I don't wear a blazer and skirt, or a pillbox hat pinned atop my chignon. I dress like a camp counselor... but sometimes I DO tie a scarf around my ponytail and that makes the uniform very en vogue. Being a flight attendant also affords us the opportunity to provide the utmost in high-class service. I serve peanuts and pretzels and... what? no. There are no meals. But I DO make the best bloody mary you ever drank from a plastic cup!

I could go on for days listing the endlessly glamorous aspects... I clean up buckets of vomit, from all types of surfaces... I smell more human crap than most sanitation workers... and I get persistent sexual advances from some of america's finest losers. My schedule changes minute by minute, I am considered by all passengers to be in charge of aircraft maintenance and air traffic control, and am widely believed to be personally able to control the weather... and thus responsible for any delays caused by any of the above. Thankfully, I have memorized the entire airline flight schedule, so that I can immediately recall times and locations for any of our 3,000 plus flights per day, and amazingly, I happen to also know connection information for all other airlines. I keep a running mental log of each and every bag stowed in overhead bins as well as cargo bins, and can predict whether bags will make it to their final destination. All this while saving lives, telling jokes, singing songs, and looking pretty damned fantastic.

It doesn't get any better than that.

Purse-onal

I am sure we are all aware by now that I have a knack for finding the most unbelievable thing that could happen, and somehow making it happen. Seriously. If some of this stuff didn't happen to ME, I wouldn't believe it happened at all.

So, the other night Mia and I are headed out to meet a client for drinks on the strip. I haven't been "out" in a painfully long time, so admittedly I am a bit excited. I am transferring my stuff to a new purse and comment that I really need a new black handbag. Thinking of Mia's devastatingly fantastic luxury handbag collection, I then say, "Why buy a new one when I can just borrow one of yours? Next time, I'll borrow one of yours." I am very excited by this idea, but there is just no time to go handbag shopping in Mia's closet before we go, so I load up my cute little black leather bag and we are on our way.

The evening is continuing without incident... except for a very hilarious politically incorrect bathroom debacle starring Mia (that's a whole other blog), and then we meet our client. We all hit it off from the very first second, and decide on this bar/lounge to sit and chat. We find a great spot with comfy chairs and low tables with candles and such and order our drinks.

Suddenly, Mia seems to have been possessed by something and shouts my name!

"Wha?" I am confused. There seems to be something very wrong, and everything is suddenly in slow motion...

"Jeeeennnnn! Yooouurrrr haaaannnddbaaaggggg iss oooonnnn FFFFIIIIIIRRRRRRREEEEE!"

"Wha?"

My purse was on fire. Literally. On Fire. It was ON FIRE. Not just smoking, Flames. FLAMES!

I suppose I could have been embarrassed or upset.... but it was SO insane and funny that I'm actually almost glad it happened... But, um, not as glad as I am that it was my $5 clearance bag and not Mia's $2,000 one.

Redneck Woman

I was watching TV the other day, and happened upon CMT's "Top Redneck Moments" special, which outlined the top white trash moments in history. Genius. When the "You might be a redneck if..." series came out, I spent half of my time trying to figure out what was so strange about having curtains in your truck, or how he knew how many dogs were sleeping under our porch.

As such, I felt inspired to compile a list of my own personal Top Redneck Moments. Grab a can of Pabst and ENJOY!

I don't ever tell people this, but my mother breast fed me until I was two. This was a valiant effort to improve my immune system so I wouldn't suffer from the crippling allergies my father had... but I still think that breast feeding until you are old enough to ASK for it is white trash ALL THE WAY!

One time, we thought we would bypass the tedious work that is washing fresh greens, and so we put a whole mess of collard, mustard, and turnip greens in the washing machine. This is a commonly used practice in the south when cooking large amounts of greens. However, we forgot to bypass the spin cycle, and ended up with shredded greens in our pockets for weeks.

I got my first hair perm in elementary school. 'Nuff said.

I have been spanked with all manner of objects. Wooden spoons, switches from the yard, every belt my daddy ever owned, and even a table tennis paddle or two. Once, I forged my dad's signature on a field trip form and when he found out he literally chased me into the principal's office (who was his friend) and borrowed his fiberglass paddle with holes drilled in it to teach me a lesson. I learned that lesson just fine.

One time, some kids broke into our house and the neighbor came over and told the kids they'd better run because the police were coming. Nice.

I've spent the better part of my life with one or more non-operating vehicles in front of my house. Concrete blocks and everything.

A few years ago, I couldn't afford tickets to the WWF show in town, so I volunteered for the women's shelter booth selling pizza to get in free, and then snuck out to watch the show once it started.

I fell down the stairs at a John Michael Montgomery concert and took every stair to the face on the way down. Needless to say, I looked pretty rough when I got up, but I earned a lot of redneck street cred.

My cousin's parents were step brother and sister until his grandparents got divorced. Then they got married themselves.

I almost got thrown out of my high school graduation because my family was so loud and exuberant in their celebrating. Then we went to Denny's.

When my dad and I wanted to "bond" we would go to Home Depot. To this day, the smell of lumber and caulk and fertilizer warms my heart.

When sports are on TV, I instinctively begin cooking. I can also tell the sound of a beer that has one sip left in it by the way it sounds when it hits the table.

And the ultimate redneck moment: I got married at the DMV. We took a number, signed the certificate (after he said: "You know all that stuff about love and honor and cherish and shit? I do all that."), and then we went to work. After work, we had a "reception" where I fell asleep before he got back with the beer

Temptation

I could care less about Halloween candy. I don't get excited that trick-or-treating will bring loads of candy into my home for my munching pleasure, and I don't usually even eat any once it's there. I just don't like candy. We never really have it in the house, and even tonight when I told the kids that they could have three pieces and no more tonight... there was no argument from them. They just picked their three from the piles I had inspected (isn't it a shame we have to do that at all) and enjoyed! I can bet you my paycheck that this candy will still be sitting here next week with only one or two pieces missing. It will go in the trash like it does every year.

My daughter's birthday was on Monday, and we have half of a delicious cake still left. Not once have the kids asked me for another slice. Not once! And I lifted the lid moments ago for the first time since the party and swiped my finger through an icing rosette and put the lid back on. That's all I wanted!

But... Oh, there are some things that I would never be able to ignore! I could sit in a room with a chocolate cake for three months and never take a bite, but put a bag of Doritos in a building and I will find them! Leftover pizza NEVER gets un-eaten. Alfredo from a restaurant hardly makes it into the fridge before I want a little more. The very idea of leaving PF Changs without leftovers makes me want to cry! These things are my temptations, my cravings. There are a few meals that I find myself craving for months and will finally just have to give in. These are the foods I ask God to serve in my heaven. They will bring me joy and not cellulite. I will devour them and feel guilty no more!

What is your food of the gods?

Daydream Believer

Dreams are funny things. I'm not talking the 'someday I want to be an astronaut' kind or the 'one day this nation will rise up' kind. I mean the middle of the night, or the middle of the flight, or the middle of Calculus class kind. Some dreams are so horrible that you awake in a cold sweat... or are so fantastic that you try to fall back asleep and pick up where you left off. Some make you wake up and say, 'What the hell was that?'. My friend Lorie over at Lorie and Company says she has a reoccurring nightmare about a blob of cream of mushroom soup. You know, THAT kind of dream. I had a dream like that for years. I would have it regularly, every few weeks, and even sometimes twice a night. It got to the point that when the dream would start I was totally aware I was having that same dream again and I'd just run down the street and into the wierdo's house and jump off of the balcony and swim out the side of the pool and run back to the street and I would wake up. I'd totally skip the whole chasing the little kid who ran away from the field trip part, and the crazy cartoon way he would run down one street to the right, and then come out from a street on the left a second later. I'd run right into the apartment with the open door and completely ignore the freaky teenager sitting on the floor playing with the toy fire engine and making all of the siren sounds. I wouldn't wait for the psycho man to offer me the smoking, bubbling cauldron cup of tea from his oversized tray, and I'd jump through the enormous gap in his balcony railing, never questioning the fact that I'd gone from the ground floor to five stories up in an instant. As soon as I hit the water in the giant above-ground pool below, I would look for the gaping hole in the side, where mysteriously, no water ever leaked out, and I would swim over and crawl out onto the grass. But, no matter how many times I rushed through this dream, I always took time to enjoy how I was instantly dry the second each part of me left the pool. Why I had THIS dream over and over again, I have no idea. I can think of at least three dreams I have had this week that I would prefer to repeat. I won't go into detail on those cause I think sometimes my mom reads my blog, but I'd put an order in for a dozen more like those right now!

I dream about certain things and certain people all of the time. I have dreams that I am sure are a view into my sub-conscious fears and /or wishes. Lately, many of my dreams are the same when I am awake as when I am asleep... and these I don't want to rush. They are the kind of daydreams that make it easy to be awake, that buffer the harshness of daylight and soften the howling of the winds. I don't want to skip through these daydreams... I want to dream them and dream them and dream them until they become my reality...

Free Speech

I think most people, by the time they are adults, have developed a repertoire of swear words that they use most frequently. I personally find "For Fuck's Sake!" to be versatile and effective, so I use it a lot. Unfortunately, it's not just adults that throw this vulgarity around so freely. The way kids talk these days, you'd think that their entire vocabulary was comprised of four-letter words.

There are some times when you just can't use profanity, though. In a professional situation, it's out. At church... doesn't go over well either. AND in an effort to teach children actual words found in a dictionary as opposed to sailor talk... we should always avoid using it in front of them too. SO then what do you do? You censor yourself! You can say it under your breath or not at all, ...OR you can use a fancy sentence enhancer! A fake expletive!

The other day, I was flying with a guy who said he never gets delayed flying through San Francisco. Knowing that just about everyone gets delayed going through San Francisco, I said, "What do you DO?... get out there and fan the fog off?" And he started laughing and said, "FAN THE FOG OFF!? That's the best fake cuss word I've heard in a long time." So we used it all day! Some people use "Cheese and Rice!" or "Shut the front door!". I personally find myself saying, "Crappy McCrapperson" a whole lot. I don't even know what that means... it's pretty stupid! But if I stub my toe in front of my kid... it's way better than saying what I want to say!

Whenever a word gets said in my house that is inappropriate or rude, we say an impromptu prayer for forgiveness. The other day, I said something was "stupid" (a "bad word", even if it isn't an expletive, because there are better choices, and that word can be hurtful) and when my daughter said, "Mommy, you said a bad word!" and then I replied "Oh. I'm sorry Jesus." ...she looked at me like I was very confused and said incredulously, "I'm not Jesus. I'm Aryanna!" hahaha

So. What word to you use when you want to really spew some swearing but can't?

Lip Service

Last night, I had Lara Flynn Boyle on my flight. I almost didn't recognize her without the tutu, but it was her! She ended up being very nice.... very strange, but nice... which made me feel bad about the mass text I sent out regarding her botched lip job. But seriously, she looked a little like someone had beaten her up! The lips were huge, and also crooked. Very bizarre!

She ordered a ginger ale and a scotch neat and when she gave me her drink coupon, her sister had decorated it all over with highlighters telling her to 'have a good trip'. Then she kept ringing her call light (which you know I love) to give us magazines she had finished reading. It became this little game, where the other flight attendants would send me out to see what on earth she wanted this time, and I would giggle back my reports. Next, she rang her call light to tell me that her perfume was strong. Ummm... ok. She opened her purse, and I assumed it had spilled or something, but she pulled out a tiny bottle of expensive perfume oil and asked me to throw it away. She just kept going on and on about how strong it was and how embarrassed she was that it smelled so "pungent". "First of all," I said, "it smells fantastic. And second, you really can't smell it past your row. There's two babies in the back, and I assure you... it could smell like THAT, and then you could be embarrassed!" haha I'm such a dork. She insisted I take it away... so I did. And put it in my bag instead of throwing it away. (Which I admit is a little creepy, but it smelled great, and it's like $60 for a half an ounce. Why waste?) She rang her light three more times to talk about how strong it was, and I offered her another scotch to help her through her agony. Dewars and gardenia make for a lovely scent! Finally, I asked if I could get a picture with her, and she said she would be happy to... but when I asked if she'd like to come to the back so we'd be out of the way she said she couldn't possibly walk because she'd be too "Wooooooozy". She kept saying "I don't know how you DO this job!" and when I'd start to say, "Well, you get used to..." she'd cut me off and say, "I don't know HOW you DO this job!". She did it so many times I finally said, "I don't know how we DO this job!"

So my other flight attendant got my camera and we took the picture in the seat, but she pulled me back into her and got really close to me. I ended up with a double chin in the picture and some personal space issues for which I'll probably need therapy. She asked about my kids and my boyfriend and said I had pretty eyes and then proceeded to tell me that her husband better give her some SEX when she got home or she was gonna be really mad! "I mean, he better (punches the air) GIVE it to ME when I get home!" Ummm.... ok. Overall, she was very gracious and personable, even if she was a little bit of a freak show. The icing on the cake happened as we were landing. We were wrapping up our conversation, and I offered her my hand to thank her and she shook it, and then abruptly bent down and kissed the back of it. I said, "Oh! Um... thank you!", but what I was really thinking was, 'Lara Flynn Boyle, you're one kooky lady!'

Anticipation

If there is one thing that fascinates me it is the processes and chemical-psychological responses of the human brain. I was on a plane last night reading this article in Money magazine about how the inner workings of your brain can effect your investment strategy. Several of the points and scientific studies discussed in the article were related to how the anticipation of a reward creates a much stronger response in the brain than the actual receipt of the reward. This scientific look at the 'thrill of the chase' is very interesting to me. I find myself in a constant state of anticipation as of late. Not in an investment scenario, but in life in general. There are several things that I have identified as goals, whether situational or tangible, and the pursuit of these things is something I take very seriously. I have become very focused on the impact of my actions on delaying or moving closer to my intended 'reward'. Do I always move forward? Probably not. But I have wondered if the realization of said goals would prove disappointing, or more accurately, has my anticipation of the goal exaggerated my perception of the reward?

The article, which again was geared primarily toward investments and financial goals, cited an experiment by a neuroscientist at Stanford University. The study engaged subjects in a sort of investment video game while they were placed in a fMRI, which pinpoints momentary changes in the level of oxygen as blood flows in and out of the brain, allowing the researchers to map the neural regions involved in a particular task. The subjects were to select shapes that would then award them an amount of money or subtract from their winnings, with varying lengths of time between the selection and the reveal. Certain shapes were designed to either create huge wins or huge losses, and others only minor variations. When a shape came up that had previously represented a big, easy payout the subjects claimed that there was a wave of expectation that swept through them, and the researchers noted that the neurons in the reflexive, or emotional, part of the brain (the nucleus accumbens… in case you care) fired like crazy. The anticipation of a large reward set off twice as strong a signal as a small one. This, to me, was not a big revelation. What I did find very interesting was that learning the actual outcome of their actions created a significantly diminished response in the brain. Whether the win was large or small, the neurons in the nucleus accumbens fired much less intensely than when they were hoping to get it. One researcher asserted that our anticipation circuitry acts as a 'beacon of incentive'… enabling us to pursue rewards that can be earned only with patience and commitment. As such, if we received no pleasure from imagining 'riches' down the road, we would grab only at those gains that loom immediately in front of us. However, this 'seeking system' is a double-edged sword. We experience heightened awareness of the possibility of coming rewards, but we also expect that the future will feel better than it actually does when it turns into the present.

As it applies to financial gain, I find no cause to argue with this theory. But how does this apply to other 'rewards' such as personal goals or relationships? Certainly there is evidence to support that many find much more enjoyment in the seeking and conquering of a love interest than the actual relationship that follows. There is a undeniable thrill to the chase… the science and the skill and the challenge that it presents. A hunter can find incredible enjoyment in spending an entire season out tracking the kill, without ever completing his mission. But does a starving man, who has traveled many miles to satisfy his hunger, find himself disappointed in the feast? Possibly my answer lies in the goal itself. If the reward is simply something that you would enjoy, then maybe the anticipation could outweigh the actual acquisition. But if the reward is something that you have longed for, ached for, suffered for… then I still have to believe that our brain's response, when broken down into its simplest chemical form, could be nothing less than satisfaction and contentment… and joy.

What then of my previous question: Does anticipation of a goal exaggerate the perception of the reward? I think this is less a question of brain function than it is a conscious effort that we must make to remain realistic about our goals, and to allow a reward to be imperfect but no less satisfying. Without question, hours spent dreaming of what it will be like once we achieve an intended result can and often do result in an exaggerated fantastical ideal. When working toward, or waiting for, or even just hoping for a circumstance or an acquisition, if we aren't honest with ourselves about the possible difficulties and faults and trials that may come along with it, then certainly we are setting ourselves up for disappointment. But I believe that if we can see our goal for what it really is, and still work just as diligently… and find joy even in the imperfections… then our commitment and our patience is not wasted, it is… rewarded… with a return that far outweighs our investment.

Happy Birthday Aryanna!

I can't believe my little girl is four years old today. Didn't she just get here? Time goes by so fast... too fast.

I was born at 11:11 in the morning. Pretty cool, huh? Well, it gets better: When I was first dating her father, we were joking one day how he could read my mind. He guessed the card in my hand, and some other random fact. I knew I had never told him this, so I said, "Fine, then. You can read my mind. What time was I born?" Immediately he made a face and said, "How am I supposed to know that?" "Well just guess, then. I'll give you a clue: it's a unique number."

His response? "Well, I know it's not 11:11."
"WHAT?!?!?!?! How did you know that? I have NEVER told you that!"
"Told me what? That's what time I was born!"
Turns out we were both born at 11:11 in the morning.

Cool story, right? But it still gets better:

Cut to- I'm pregnant with our daughter and we are scheduled for a c-section at 10:30 am. While the nurse was getting my IV in, I told her the story and asked her what the possibility was that we would have her at that same time. She said it was a neat story, but it was 9:45 and they were ready to take me into the OR so it wasn't gonna happen. I was so excited to get Aryanna here that I didn't care. So they took us back and started to give me the spinal block, but the girl who was doing it was in training... yes, TRAINING. oy veh. So, she doesn't do it right, and it only blocked the left side. So she had to do it again. YES, they let HER do it AGAIN. I was not happy. It hurt and it was uncomfortable and it is FREEZING in an OR and I was not in the mood to hear her say OOPS. Anyway, she gets it right, and finally they are on the other side of the blue sheet and they are almost done, and that first nurse comes by and says, "Guess what? It's 11:08!" It took a second for me to process, and then I said, "Do you think we could do it?!?" Well, the two young doctors who were operating tandem overheard our exchange and asked what I was talking about. I gave them a quick run-down, and suddenly, one doctor looked at the other with a devious twinkle in his eyes and said, "You can't get this baby out in two minutes!" "OH YES I CAN!", the other doc responded, and suddenly the room filled with the smell of testosterone and the craziest thing happened. All of the peds nurses, and the anesthesiologist and all of my nurses and, well, basically every one in the room started clapping and cheering, and the doctors were practically tossing things back and forth and the tick of the clock was almost audible and....

WAAAHHHHHHH. 11:11 am!

And now, she is a little lady. She loves lip gloss and Hannah Montana and she has a sarcastic wit that is so intuitive that it takes you by surprise. She smells like lavender and gets her pronouns confused and she completely lights up my life.

Happy Birthday, baby girl. Mommy loves you more than you could ever know!

For The Birds

Last night I was at the toy store looking for the one thing my daughter really wants for her birthday on Monday. There's possibly a million toys out there, but of course, she only really wants the one I can't find. As I scoured the Barbie aisle looking for the holy grail, I paused to fall in love with the new 2008 Holiday Barbie. It is simply gorgeous, and actually made me a little misty-eyed. And then, my misty eyes happened upon something that made me stop cold. I stood there looking at it, half not believing what I was seeing, and the other half wondering 'what were they thinking'?

There, in front of me, was a Barbie-sized version of Tippi Hedren... creamy white hand raised in a futile attempt to defend herself from The Birds attacking her... in the box. There are actually little plastic birds attacking Barbie in the box! Uhhh... ok. Lovely toy, Mattel. While it is obviously for the adult collector (I hope), I instantly thought of ShopGirl and her aversion (read:crippling fear) of birds. Can you imagine!?

When Hitchcock ended the movie, he didn't add the usual "The End" because he wanted to create the feeling of a never-ending terror. Forty-five years later, it seems the terror continues ...for Barbie, at least.

Where have all the neurons gone?

When I was little, I basically only watched two shows on TV. Every day, my friend next door, Andrew, would either meet me at his place or mine and we would watch 'The Brady Bunch' together. I've seen every episode. It's a pretty lame show, really... but even then, I liked the way life worked out in neat little 30-minute packages. The other show that I watched religiously was 'Hotline Math'. It was an afternoon show on public access tv with a slick, balding man in a sportscoat who would help callers solve their difficult homework math problems. What made it funny was that these were middle- and high-school students, and I was in first grade. Every day, they would have a challenge problem, and the first caller with the correct answer won a prize. One time, I WON!! They sent a calculator to my school, and the principal announced my win (and thus, my superior intelligence hehe) to the whole school during the morning announcements. I got to leave class (I know, it's very exciting, isn't it?) and go up to the office to claim my prize. That crappy calculator might have been worth a million dollars the way I felt about it. Years later, I spotted that slick, sportscoated man after church one day and literally ran over yelling, "Oh my goodness! YOU'RE MR. MATH!!!" It was a little embarrassing because no one else had ever seen the show. He even seemed a little shocked. I don't think he'd ever had a fan before.
When I was in third grade, my dad was a teacher at my school. This could have been a total nightmare, but my dad is actually very, very cool so it worked in my favor. He had a couple of students that were struggling with some of the math material, and I ended up being a tutor for one of them. What makes this funny, is that he taught seventh grade. And I was in third. This didn't go over so well with a couple of my classmates, but I didn't care because I was totally IN with all of the hot seventh grade guys. Ok, I wasn't IN at all, but it felt like I was... and I thought I was super cool when our class would walk by, single-file, on our way to the lunch room and all of the super cool seventh graders would all say Hi to me. It was all just really super cool.

I'm telling you these stories to explain my frustration with the fact that I have become a total math retard. Something happened between third grade and now that completely dissolved every neural synapse in my brain that had anything to do with mathematics. It was a gradual process, as I remember it... I did well until ninth grade geometry when I struggled a bit. However, I blame that entirely on my teacher who happened to also be my PE teacher... who knew absolutely nothing about math. She would get tutored each week before she would come teach the class. I understood nothing of the geometry text, nor her robotic explanations. SO, I came up with my own way to solve the problems. I skipped vital postulates, ignored important hypotheses... but always got the right answer. She assumed I was cheating... I reported her to the school board. Ultimately I got a B, and invented a whole new, simpler form of geometry... which, sadly, I have forgotten in it's entirety, and thus am not a millionaire. Algebra was a little tougher, and upon discovering that I could not invent a new way to arrive at the correct answer, I panicked. I snuck by with a C or low B as I recall, but it was with extreme effort. During one of the first weeks of Algebra 2, I missed something. Something vital, something upon which every other thing we learned would be built. And I never quite figured that thing out... ever. When I begged my teacher for help I was informed that I was a student at a Preparatory school and I should be capable of figuring it out on my own. I apparently was not. I passed the mid-term because my teacher locked her keys in her filing cabinet and I made a deal with her that she wouldn't fail me if I got them out. I had never sprung a lock of any kind before, but I had also never failed a class... ultimately she got her keys and I got a D. I ended up failing the class anyway, but life changed for me during that year and it ended up not mattering.
These days I find that even the simplest math is painfully difficult, if not just very annoying. I would answer Pivot's question about what profession I would never like to attempt with a very emphatic 'Accounting'. The idea of having to crunch numbers all day makes me literally nauseated. Now, I am not as bad off as some... there are those that have difficulty even making change... but I'm afraid that I have given up all hope on improving my mathematical abilities at this point. I sure wish I had that calculator back...

My Sentiments Exactly

Shopservations

I was grocery shopping today (yay) and thought the experience deserved a blog. Not because I got distracted reading a friend's blog of Chuck Norris jokes and laughed so hard that I actually upset a few people. I mean, that would make a great blog and all (they were REALLY bothered by my laughter... what's up with that??), but that's not what I'm gonna write about.

I'd like to write about some grocery store observations. First of all:

Safeway thinks that I am a moron.
And, I don't just say this arbitrarily. I have proof! They think they can fool me... but I am on to them. Millions of consumers, like lambs to the slaughter, fall for this trick every day.. but not me! No way! I can't go for that.. no.. no!
Why do they think that I won't notice that the giant-sized product is on sale for the same price as the regular-sized product? It's right there next to it! I can SEE it! Why would I buy the little one when just by having your EXCLUSIVE club card, that you give to everyone without discretion, I can get the ginormous one for the very same price?

I don't actually know what I will do with all of that lasagna. In fact, my son's gonna be upset because he prefers my homemade kind, and the box doesn't actually fit into my side-by-side... but that's not the point. It is the principle of the thing. I have way too much lasagna on principle.

Grocery store displays can be deceptive.
There has to be some law about false advertising. I see a giant banner in a store and I get all excited... and then it turns out it's really just about FOOD. I mean, if you saw this, what would YOU think??

Cart givers are big phonies.
There are three types of people in a store parking lot. There are those who leave the cart right where it is when they are done with it, moving it only so far as to not hit it with their own car when they leave. If it hits someone else's car, well, they can't control that. There are also those who dutifully return carts to the store, or to the cart corral provided in the lot. I try to be one of these people whenever I can. Sometimes, in a hurry, they may also choose to prop the cart precariously over the edge of a curb... but still ensure your car's safety with the two-wheel curb-lock position. It's not as good as the cart corral, but the intentions are pure. But then.. there are those who generously offer their cart to someone entering the store... usually informing them that it's a 'good cart' and that the 'wheels don't squeak' or some other such cart endorsement. They want you to believe that they are doing you a favor. The truth is, they are actually just too lazy to return the cart, but too nice to let it go and watch it roll into your minivan... and so, caught in this parking lot purgatory, they pretend to care whether you get a 'good cart'. And then their soul is free to move on... free to go home with their regular-sized products. Fools! Fools, I tell you.

Everything I Need to Know I Learned on a Farm

Ok, well maybe not everything... but some of life's most valuable lessons were learned as a girl spending time on my grandparent's farm. Looking back, I can see that much of who I am grew from that place... grew alongside the pecan trees, and the collard greens, and the rose bushes. Like any good teacher, life found a way to instruct me without my knowledge, imbedding life lessons in everyday details.

Some things are better if you wait a little while.
Just about everyone in the South drinks iced tea. Usually from a Mason jar, and usually with so much sugar that the first sip makes you pucker your lips. But, ohhh it is so good. The best kind of tea is sun tea. I don't know why it tastes better... it is still just water and tea bags... but the flavor doesn't even compare. When Granny made sun tea, she would put the giant glass jar on the porch facing the west and let it steep for what seemed like forever. We would sit and eye that jar just waiting for it to be ready. The water darkened quickly and we would get so excited thinking it was time... but she never let us rush it. You see, the color fills the water as the heat begins to brew the tea... but it takes hours for the flavor to develop. Sometimes we would rush, thinking we knew better, and take a sip from the tap.... it tasted weak and dilute... and disappointing. But, if we waited just a little longer we got to enjoy one of nature's most refreshing and satisfying treats. So many things in life are that jar of sun tea... and if you can just learn to wait for the time to be right, they will be satisfying too.

Just because somebody SEEMS like they know what they are doing, doesn't mean they actually do.
When you spend a lot of time on a farm, you find yourself observing things in a different way. The comings and goings of the animals on the farm became quite literally like a children's story book to me. I would sit for hours just watching them, imagining what they were doing... sometimes even narrarating for them as if they were people. My own private 'Charlotte's Web'. I got to know the animal's personalities very well. The geese were very chatty. They loved to gossip about who went where and how so-and-so got into the water trough that morning. They squawked out their reports to each other and flapped their wings for emphasis. They spoke very quickly and talked way too much. For as much business as there was amongst the geese, there was an equal amount of nothing going on with the goats. I came to find that goats, while loving and cute, are not very smart. There was one goat who was larger and older than the rest of them, and they seemed to have nominated him their leader without his knowledge. I called him 'Big Papa', and each day I would sit and watch the same scenario play out over and over again. Big Papa would be minding his own business, eating some grass... and decide to move to a different part of the field. So he would start walking his awkward elderly gait... and within a few moments, all of the other goats would start 'baaah'-ing and looking at him, and then each other. They would move as a group... sometimes every single goat in the herd... following Big Papa. He would stop and begin to eat and they would always 'baah' in agreement and all go back to eating grass just inches away from where he stood. And Big Papa would always look over his shoulder, and then jump! just a little when he saw them all gathered there right behind him. 'Baaah! What do you WANT?', he'd say, and jut his hairy chin back in their direction. He would take a few more steps away and start eating again... and all of the other goats would seem to say, 'Oh! He's moving again! We should all move again too!' and they'd take the same one or two steps he took and then agree amongst themselves that this was the new best place to be. Big Papa hated those goats following him everywhere... he would sometimes even shake his little goat head back and forth and I could just imagine him saying, "Would you all stop following me already?!" But every time he moved, they moved too. Whether he took two steps or two hundred steps... there they all were... right behind him, following his unwilling lead. He never shook those damned goats... and the goats, for all of their following... never actually got anywhere.

Deal with life's messes as you make them... or they will become a disaster.
Cooking is a very important thing in the South. Recipes and secrets are handed down through generations... being taught hands-on in kitchens on every street. My Granny was an amazing cook. She made just about everything from scratch and she knew every ingredient and every measurement by heart. People literally traveled hundreds of miles to enjoy her specialties. Cooking things from scratch can be a messy business. Especially in the tiny kitchen she had, which only took my little legs six or seven steps to get from one side to the other... and that was the long way. The kitchen was always filled with people trying to help. Were you lucky enough to be one of the chosen few who got to stay that day, you could be sure to be taught some trade secret that she would manage to keep only for you. Then, when others tried to duplicate the recipe... they never could get it quite as right as you could. This was an amazing feeling. She also taught us kitchen lessons you can't live without in the South... like the difference between a 'dash' and a 'pinch', and how to keep the fruit from sinking to the bottom of the fruitcake. As we would cook, she would always make sure that each bowl, each spoon, each pan... was cleaned as soon as your use of it was complete. There was no leaving dishes in the sink until the cookies were cooled, or stacking up pans until bellies were full. When we sat down to eat, the kitchen was clean, because she made us clean as we went along. Sometimes, a few would get together and pitch in to make the meals... asking Granny to rest and let them serve her for a change. By the time the dinner was on the table, the kitchen looked like a war zone... and it would take hours, and usually her help, to get it back to it's proper condition. There is something different about the way a meal tastes when you know there isn't a mess waiting to be cleaned up in the next room... and I have found that life is much the same way.

Don't try to act like something you're not... you'll only make a fool of yourself.
The farm was situated on a dirt road that we called 'The Lane'. You'd go down the lane to get to Aunt Leila and Aunt Thelma's house... or to the old family homestead that was reduced to just a few rocks that used to be the foundation... or to sit amongst the trees and watch my favorite sunset in the whole world. I learned to drive a car on the lane, and quickly decided that I much preferred that to the other road that ran by the house. County Road 349 became the Indy speedway when drivers switched into country mode, realizing there were blessed few other cars that would cross their path on the way to O'Brien. On the other side of the lane was a field from the neighbor's farm, one of his fields he used as a pasture for his cows. Unfortunately, I am not going to tell you a story about cow tipping... I never tried it... BUT, the cows did offer another interesting challenge. After hours and hours of sitting on a porch listening to cows 'moo', me and my dad would try and replicate the sound. I was never as good at it as he was. He can sound exactly like a Guernsey if you close your eyes and try to forget that he is your dad. One day, when I was nineteen or so, I was taking one of my million walks down the lane, and the cows were standing right at the fence. I was all alone, and was about to say hello to them like I usually did. Except... I decided to try out my 'moo'-ing skills. I stopped in the middle of the lane, and looked back through the dust my feet had stirred up to make sure there was no one else around. There were no people, no cars speeding by in the distance... just me... and the cows. They looked at me with their big hooded eyes. A dead stare that simply said, "Um, can we help you?". I breathed in deeply with excitement... I was going to answer them! I tried to recreate the shape my dad always made with his hands that seemed to make the best moo, and placed my hands over my mouth and in a loud, deep voice I exclaimed, "Muuuuewwwauuuugggh!" The silence that followed was deafening. I lowered my hands, expectantly... looking for any sign of recognition from the cows. They all stopped chewing and stared at me with their big cow eyes.. blink... blink... a tail swished a fly away... blink. And then... one by one, they all turned and walked away. I stood there for a moment... awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other... my hands still forming my best moo shape... and then called after them, "Ok, well... uh... nice, uh, talking to you!" I walked away that day having decided to leave the moo-ing to the cows... and to my dad.

Don't judge a porch by it's paint.
The little house owned by my grandparents had three bedrooms by the time I was born, and around the same time they built out the dining room, they added a wrap-around porch. It wasn't very big either, but somehow that house and that porch could seat a multitude. There was a long row of rocking chairs... first-come, first-serve... and every one else took a place sitting on the railing between the supports, or on the stairs... or on the hoods of the cars parked right in front. Over time, the porch began to sag a bit, and the wood on the railings began to crack from years of swelling and shrinking in the humidity. Everyone did their best to help keep things up, but inevitably the extensive use took it's toll. The white paint began to peel and flake in spots... usually the worst around the railings where people sat... have you ever noticed how you can pick at something unconsciously when you are deep in conversation? The story of 'The Velveteen Rabbit' tells of a toy rabbit that longs to become real... but what always struck me about that story was something else. The boy in the story spent so much time sleeping with the rabbit, and squeezing it, and playing with it... that eventually all of it's fur wore off. I always relished the thought that the little boy actually loved all of the fur off of that toy rabbit. Well, in the same way, we literally loved the paint off of that porch. I imagine that if the average person were to drive up to that house and find that porch empty... they would look with shame at the condition in which it was kept... and probably make a few judgements about the family that would let it be so worn and tired. But they would be wrong. That sagging porch was home to more wonderful moments than I can even recount. There was heavenly singing, and shelling of peas... laughing, and crying, and book reports... there were the most wonderful welcomes, the saddest goodbyes... there were marriages that started and ended on that porch... secrets confided and countless stories told... but most of all, there was life, and love, and lessons on that porch. I learned that the value of a woman has nothing to do with her hair color or her size... I learned that if you keep singing long enough, you can sing your way back from a broken heart... I learned that the things that are most cherished usually never cost a dime...
...and I learned that a life covered with peeling paint is just a life that has been truly lived.

And the Oscar goes to...

In keeping with my tradition of meeting only mildly famous people, yesterday I had Las Vegas Mayor Oscar Goodman on my flight. I've had several politicians on my planes, but I was especially excited to see him sitting there because he's such a character. He can hardly be spotted without a drink in his hand or a showgirl at his side. Plus, his mob ties and his track record as a Mayor have earned him quite a reputation.
I didn't interact with him much, since I didn't even notice he was there until halfway through the flight (I was working in the back and he was up front), but by the end of the flight he totally had everyone around him laughing and having a great time. I stopped by before we landed and asked him if I could get a picture with him before he left... and, true to form, he lifted his hands in the air and said, "YOU can sit on my lap before I go!"

I passed on that... but I did get the photo.

Plane and Simple

I am constantly surprised at how lost people become when they step on to an airplane. Now, I am going to say right off the bat that I DO realize that I work in and around planes all day long so it's second nature to me. And so, I don't expect people to automatically know where everything is and how it works any more than I'd expect to be able to walk into your office and know my way around. BUT, I wouldn't try to stuff a Buick in your desk drawer, and I wouldn't look in your floppy drive for a stapler, and I certainly wouldn't pull the fire alarm because your trashcan is full.

So why, then, do people think that the laws of physics do not apply to the overhead bins? Why do they try to stuff things in that are twice as big as the opening... like the plane is Wonka-land or something? And... WHY do they look in the dumbest places for the bathroom? I watched a guy walk past a divider wall that is only six inches deep and then go to the broad side of the wall and look for a bathroom door. Really, sir? Really? I mean, I know the bathroom is small and all, but SIX INCHES? And while we are on the subject, WHY is it so hard to figure out if there is someone in the bathroom? People walk up and read "VACANT" and then look at me with an expression that is equally so. Even worse, half of our aircraft just have big green circles on the door when no one is inside. So WHY do they get so confused? Doesn't green mean go?

But, my absolute biggest pet peeve is emergency trash. Please do not stop me while I am demonstrating the life vest or oxygen mask to hand me your empty coffee cup! And for goodness' sake, please don't ring your flight attendant call button because you can't possibly stand to hold your empty three-inch plastic cup for one more second. Will you really DIE if it sits there on your tray in front of you until I come down the aisle with a trash bag? Will you?

I don't mean to complain. It's just that every day that I go to work is just another reminder that common sense is not very common at all.

Say it taint so!

So, yesterday, I was reading an article in the newspaper about a new scientific discovery. Apparently, one of the ingredients commonly used in plastics to make them softer has been linked to smaller penis size, incomplete descent of testicles and a shorter "taint" (the space between the anus and genitals) in baby boys.

Ok, I'm really glad they figured this out and all... now they can stop using the chemical, and balls will start dropping like New Year's Eve. BUT, here are my questions: HOW did they conduct this research? Did they find some socially conscious parents who don't use plastic and get to measuring? Did they subject some poor fetus to the chemical and then call back later to see if his balls hung low? "Ok, ma'am, and can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow? Can he throw them over his shoulder..." Ahem, sorry. AND, WHY did they start researching such a thing? "Geez honey, my penis is awfully small... do you think plastic has something to do with it? I'm going to the lab early tomorrow to look into this!"

Luckily, Congress has voted to ban the use of the chemical in children's toys and products. Possibly also in the works: A class-action lawsuit for the poorly hung.

Name that tune

I'm forever getting songs stuck in my head. Even if it is just a few bars, sometimes I will sing and hum them over and over ad nauseum. Some songs are lovely. There are hundreds of songs I will happily carry with me all day, floating along on the lilt of their tune. Other songs make me crazy the instant they burrow their ugly head into my thoughts (think: "Tom's Diner", or "It's a Small World"). But, there comes a point when it is time for all songs to go. When I have repeated the same phrase ten billion times and can't remember what I was going to the store to pick up, or when I can't recall what Mr Business Suit in 15C wanted in his coffee... it's time for the song to pack up and go.
Yesterday the flight attendant I was sharing my galley with happened to whistle four notes of "Hey Jude" as he went down the aisle. For the next SIX hours I was singing the song. In my head, out loud, to him, to passengers, to inanimate objects... whistling, humming, singing, na na na-na-na naaaaaah! ACK! I begged him to give me another song to sing, but we were both stuck. So, it was "Hey Jude" for the day. By the end of our ten-hour day we had both (finally) got it to stop repeating in our heads. And as we rode the van to our hotel last night, what came on the radio?? That's right. "Hey Jude". So much for that! By the end of the song the entire van full of ELEVEN passengers was singing along! Luckily... it's a good song.

What songs usually get stuck in your head? And what do you do to get them out?

Tag! I'm it!

Ok, I was tagged to complete this, and since everyone I know has already done this one... I guess I'll wrap things up:

I am: a work in progress.
I think: too much late at night. I wish I could turn my brain off at 10pm. The other night I woke up singing a Jonas Brothers' song (of all things) and did so repeatedly for about an hour before I fell back to sleep. Aaargh!
I know: I have found the love of my life. Without question.
I want: a new digital camera for Christmas
I wish: to be able to create. Anything. Everything. I have so many ideas that need a forum.
I hate: when my children argue with me. It is the single most exhausting thing in the whole world.
I feel: warm and fuzzy from the cough syrup.
I hear: the whirr of the fan, the tumble of the dryer, the swish of the dishwasher... my day is coming to a close.
I smell: like bubble gum. almost always.
I crave: McPerfect. He's my drug of choice.
I search: for ways to be a better woman, mother, lover, friend...
I am not: interested in people who lie.
I write: because it purges my soul. Writing is like breathing for me. If I don't do it, I begin to suffocate.
I win: when I make those around me happy. Their joy is my greatest gift.
I lose: myself if I don't have time alone. I have learned that I need that quiet alone time.
I never: want to have to be separated from McPerfect again.
I listen: to my children when they are sleeping sometimes. It is the most soothing sound.
I think: that laughter is a powerful aphrodisiac

DIEt

Preparing to write this blog has been somewhat like preparing to bungee jump. There's the perception of impending doom, but still a sense of safety from actual annihilation. And so, I inch over to the edge of the cliff and look over, maybe prepare a few sentences in my head... and then step back from the ledge and decide to mull it over a bit longer. I'm not sure why I'm so anxious about writing it. Maybe I think it will open a pandora's box of inquisition or lift an imaginary veil and leave me exposed to scrutiny. But, I know that the subject matter is one to which just about everyone can relate and so... here I go.

I've never really talked about my weight struggles in my blog. I think one reason I choose to omit the subject is because it is something I dealt with my whole life and now that I have, for the most part, stopped struggling with it... I'd like to just let it go. I largely ignored the topic -- not just in blogs, but in my life -- for a very long time. And slowly, the weight started to creep back on. One day earlier this year I was in Best Buy with my son and he called me over to the video camera display. "Look!" he said excitedly, as he showed me something on the screen. He pushed play and it took me a moment to register at what, exactly, I was looking. I cannot describe the confusion and panic that came over me when I realized it was a recording of ME... from behind... looking at a display across the aisle. Thirty minutes later, when I had finally figured out how to delete the video, and checked four or five times to ensure it was gone forever, I made a commitment to myself to never, ever, ever wear that outfit again... and to start paying more attention to keeping myself in shape.

Over the last few months, I've done well. I went back to watching my carbs, got active, and the weight just fell off. All of my cute clothes have started to fit again and I'm at a weight I could live with for the rest of my life. I'll admit that the idea of trying to lose weight again, rather than just maintain it, terrified me. I fought that battle my whole life! I had the same feeling when I found out I was pregnant with my daughter over four years ago. I thought for sure I would gain 70 pounds like I had with my son and I would be fighting for years to get it off. But, the day I gave birth to my daughter I weighed two pounds more than the day I got pregnant. I became so active and the pregnancy boosted my metabolism so much that I was losing weight as I was gaining baby. I had a super healthy pregnancy, and within a month of giving birth, I was at my lowest weight as an adult. I looked and felt fantastic. I'd like to get back to that weight... and I'm not far off... but I've been so averse to the idea of trying to lose weight, and been honestly content with where I am so I haven't worked for it. In the last few months, I've realized that "dieting" has changed for me. I no longer have to fear it, or approach it like an ominous mountain ahead. Eating well, and even (gasp!) exercising have become something I enjoy. I feel stronger and better and calmer when I am eating right and getting physical.

My children have never had weight problems. My daughter was underweight for much of her toddler days, and even though my son would add a few pounds before a growth spurt he was always thin as well. I've tried very hard to ensure that the foods we eat are well-rounded and healthy and tried to teach them about good choices. But, in the last year, I've noticed my son struggling with his weight, as the pounds just seem to add exponentially. As I've refocused my efforts to educate him and help him make good choices, I realize that some of my habits are sending him mixed signals. Low Carb eating has always been successful for me, and something I could do as a lifestyle... but when I am telling him one thing and eating another, I find him more and more asking, 'wait, is this good for me... can I eat this??' I don't want my kids growing up and struggling the way I did. I want our lives to be healthy. And so, I have decided to adopt a new eating plan. Weight Watchers is a program that I have used successfully in the past, and feel that will work to instruct as much as control our eating habits. It is a plan that we can adopt as a family lifestyle rather than a restrictive diet. I've loved the ads I've seen for Weight Watchers in the past year... things like, "Diets are Mean" and "Stop Dieting. Start Living." because I know how truly that reflects the philosophy of the plan and the truth behind the whole 'dieting' mess: Diets don't work. Pills and gimmicks and all the fad things people try to drop a few pounds do absolutely nothing to change behavior or habits, and usually do more to stall the metabolism than encourage it. And so, left wanting, we diet for a month or two... maybe longer if we are lucky... and then go right back to our bad habits, sometimes feasting to compensate for the famine we've endured. It doesn't work. The only thing that really works is making a decision to change your life and doing it.

The more I think about it, the more I think I'm ready to tackle another weight loss goal. There's something different about losing weight when you know you can. There's something different about attacking a goal when you know it's attainable. And, there is something exciting about approaching a path as a journey rather than a vertical climb looming in front of you. Sometimes I will go hiking, and work my way along a trail... enjoying the sounds and the sights and the experience. And it is not until I turn around and look at the amazing view of the valley below that I realize I have climbed a mountain. I'm going to approach this the same way. One step at a time, one day at a time, one pound at a time. If all I ever do is maintain my current weight, then I can enjoy the journey and know that I am living healthy and living well. But if I give it that extra push, and traverse the occasional rocks, and work my way up over the cliffs that may come my way... I may just find that the view is better than I ever imagined!

Think. It's patriotic!

So, pretty much everyone knows that I’m not a big politics fan. And, I’m not even going to post my own opinion here because I don’t want to get into a debate. But, I DO know who I’m voting for, and I DO know why.

I wish I could say the same for everyone else:

Time in a Bottle

In a perfect world, we'd all have more time. More time to do the things we really want to do, and more time to just... enjoy.

In my perfect world, I'd have time to sew clothes. I'd have a small space in my home dedicated only to my creativity. (I'd use it for scrapbooking and painting and counted cross-stitch, too.) With a large work surface, a small supply of fabrics and notions that I love, and an adjustable dress form. I'd sketch until I found a look I loved, and then I'd create it right before my eyes. I'd make the pattern, maybe try it out first in muslin if the shape was particularly tricky... and then I'd take all of these ideas in my head and make them real. Turn my dreams into something tactile. Maybe I'd sell them. Maybe I'd walk past someone one day and they'd be wearing one of my dresses. To see my dreams... alive... that would be my perfect world.

In my perfect world, I'd hike every day. I never thought I'd enjoy something like that as much as I do, but I find myself wishing I was out hiking or climbing all the time. I love the sound of the rocks and twigs crunching under my shoes. I love the way the clean air fills my lungs and purifies my mind. I love the feeling of tackling a difficult trail and finding myself at the top of a mountain. My life has been full of so many un-scalable proverbial mountains... there's something very gratifying about conquering them in real life.

In my perfect world, I'd have a porch with a line of rocking chairs, and time to enjoy them. At the end of the day, or after dinner, or on Sunday afternoons, I'd sit and rock, and shell peas or read a book. McPerfect would sit with me sometimes and he'd make me laugh in uncontrollable and embarrassing ways as only he can. The cold drink in my hand would sweat against the warmth outside the glass and I'd press it to my forehead to cool the heat of summer. The rocking chairs would be worn and well-loved, and as I sat I'd look out over the land and enjoy all the little things that made it mine. The mailbox whose flag won't stay up, the garden I can never seem to make grow just right, the car that needs washing, and letters carved in the trunk of the tree that say he'll love me forever.

There's a hundred other things I'd do in my perfect world. I suppose some people would say that in their perfect world, they'd have millions of dollars or fancy things. I guess the money would be nice, I certainly wouldn't turn it down... but those aren't the things that I long for. My world is made perfect right now by the people who are in it, so... mostly, I'd just like more time. More time with my guy, more time to enjoy my kids... more time to enjoy MYSELF. That would be, well, perfect!

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
Till Eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

-Jim Croce "Time in a Bottle"

Moving Violation

A few months ago, I got pulled over for speeding. Except I wasn't! The officer clocked me doing 45 in a 45mph speed zone. So why, pray tell, did said officer pull me over? Because the sign had fallen over and the default speed where there is no posted speed limit is 25mph. SO, I am fighting the ticket. Unfortunately, you have to PAY the ticket in order to plead 'not guilty', and then, after tying you up in the legal system for months and months, if it is determined that you are, in fact, not guilty... they give you your money back. I really don't understand why I have to meet with the Assistant D.A. and go to trial in order to fight a traffic ticket. But, I will. I have photos of the repaired sign, less than a tenth of a mile before where I was stopped, along with 5 other photos of 45mph signs, all within a half of a mile. I think I have a good case.
I can only assume the process is so arduous so that it will deter every person who gets a traffic ticket from taking their case to court, but it still makes me wonder how many people just go along with the same old song and dance:

Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

Let me lay out the scene for you: Single mother, home alone, sick... hopped up on the spiked cough syrup... sits on her sofa watching bridal fashion reality show. Her lazy night alone is suddenly interrupted by thumping outside, and she rushes to the window just in time to see a shadowy figure climbing up and over the upstairs balcony railing on the house directly behind hers. She watches in disbelief as the man tries to open both doors and then begins pacing the porch.

What would YOU think? What would YOU do? I don't think I've been in a situation like that since I was a little kid... when an entire police force, helicopters and all, descended on the house right next door to take down the drug dealer who lived there. We didn't know he was a dealer. We just thought he had a lot of friends. Who only came over for five minutes at a time. Anyway, I remember the fear I felt that night. It was like being IN an episode of Cops, like someone had popped the protective bubble in which I lived, and suddenly all the evil in the world could get in.

The first thing I did tonight when I saw that shadowy figure going over the balcony railing was to rush to my balcony and turn on the light. I think I thought it sent the message: I see you! and I am not afraid! But then, I realized it was illuminating all of the things on MY porch that are worth stealing. So I turned it off. Saying, what? Go ahead and steal what you like, buddy. I'm going back to my tv show? So I turned it back on. Which now says what to this evil lurker? It says, 'How about I just keep flashing this light so you can steal in strobe. Maybe you can do the robot while you're at it.' Sigh.

I think the biggest thing I realized tonight is that I am not prepared for what could happen. What if he had climbed MY balcony? What would I have done first? What should I do first? Tonight worked out just fine. I called the police and they came and checked the guy out. Poor sap just forgot his key and then realized he had locked the sliding door and couldn't get in that way either. False alarm. But what if it hadn't been? I don't think I'm quite as prepared as I could be... or should be. I'm going to guess, though, that my first line of defense should not be the strobing porch light.

My kind of party!

The other day, my company celebrated the one year anniversary of the opening for the Las Vegas crew base. They threw an all-day party in our lounge at the airport, complete with prizes, food, and festive decor. Everyone had a great time... except, no one seemed to notice that some of the decorations appeared, well... um... a little inappropriate:

It looked more like something you'd find at a bachelorette party than an office party! I mentioned it to one of the supervisors, and I only wish I had my camera ready when he began... ahem... adjusting the balloons at the bottom trying to make it look less suggestive. I'll just say that it didn't work.

The Red Sole Society

In light of the brilliant suggestion spawned from my earlier posts, I have re-written that famous poem and now nominate it as our Red Sole Society Anthem:


When I am an old woman I shall wear Couture
With a red sole so everyone knows, and is jealous of me.
And I shall spend my social security on Coach and Dolce
and ballerina flats, and say we've no money for gasoline.
I shall sit down on the dressing room floor when I'm tired
and drink mimosas and switch around all of the sale signs
And hand my wet umbrella to some poor sales girl
and make up for the bargain shopping of my youth.
I shall go out in a gorgeous trench in the rain,
and order flowers to be delivered to myself from secret admirers.
And hire a maid.

You can wear skinny jeans even though you are fat
and buy three pair of Jimmy Choos at a go
Or only eat sushi and martinis for a week
And hoard rings and bracelets and lace bras and frilly things on hangers.

But now we must have our tennis shoes that keep us fit
And pay bills and not shop even when the sale is good
And buy school pictures for the children.
We must have power lunches and do sudoku.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear Couture.


Adapted from "When I am Old" by Jenny Jacobs

When I Am Old, I Shall Be Kooky

Do you ever wonder what you'll be like when you're old? Will I be one of those kooky old people that everyone loves to hang around just to see what I'll say? Or will I be one of those kooky old people that everyone tries to avoid just because of what I'll say? Either way, one truth remains: I will be a kooky old woman. We ALL become kooky old women. Except for the men, of course... and you all become kooky old men. I see hundreds of old people every day around town and especially at work. Some are fun, loud and opinionated. Some are withdrawn and grumpy, lamenting the fading of the life they used to know. But with each year, all old people are brought together by a singular uniting force: kookiness.

The problem is, as we get older, the things we think are hip and cool become increasingly out-of-date. Someday, Emo will be Old School and our grandchildren will mock their parents for their sad, greasy hair and guyliner. Even for the unique few who hold on to the present and stay current with the times... their shocking hip-ness has an element of kookiness all it's own. Everybody loves the great-grandma who is down with all the current trends. It's kooky!

It isn't just the trends that make us kooky old people... it's also layers and layers of personality. As we grow old, we cling to things that comfort us, that remind us of how things used to be. We also develop habits that shape and define our later years. Think of the lady with too much mis-matched jewelry scattered across every gildable surface on her body. Think of the old man who starts his day every day with the paper and his danish, and polishes his now-classic car every Saturday morning at exactly 8 am. When you're old, you can go on vacation with your identification in a lanyard around your neck because your pocket is too far away. When you're old you can demand that people bring you things... not because your back gave out, but because you're old and people will just do it. When you're old you can play canasta and shuffleboard and eat dinner at 4 p.m. Kooky? Sure! But that's the fun of getting old. You can get away with things you never would have tried when you were young... you can have annoying, compulsive habits and people will just say, "that kooky old lady...", and you're off scott-free!

There's a poem called "When I am Old I Shall Wear Purple" by Jenny Jacobs. The poem so perfectly describes old-lady kookiness that it launched a worldwide sisterhood of kooky old women! It even gave them a uniform, God bless 'em, of things that only kooky old women would be kooky enough to wear..an army of purple-clad bitties with their overstated red hats, violet feathers included! Basically, the poem is the battle cry of the senior citizen who decides just not to give a rip what people think!

It just makes me wonder... how much better would our lives be if we could just do a little more of what we want and a little less of what we ought? What if we put less weight on what others think and just allowed ourselves to get a little, well... kooky? Just don't wear red and purple together. That's not kooky. That's tacky.



When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Bless Shoe

When I was growing up, I didn't have brand name stuff. I didn't wear Jordache or Z Cavaricci. I didn't have Nike or Adidas. I didn't display Tiffany or Rolex. And, honestly, I didn't much care. Sure, there were times when it seemed everyone else had the "in" item and I was wearing the Wal-Mart brand and I let it get to me. But I had fun creating outfits that mirrored the designer fashions. I learned to enjoy a good bargain, and enjoy wearing clothes that fit me rather than fit the style. I started to realize what a waste most of those brand-name splurges turn out to be.

But, if you know anything about me, you know that I am rife with contradictions. The very essence of who I am contains so many juxtapositions that getting to know me might leave you cross-eyed. How, you ask? Well, I am a girl who loves to cook a great meal and decorate a home and be all buttoned up a la Martha Stewart, but not-so-secretly enjoys playing the part of the porn star. I'm a girl who would give her right arm for a garage with a workbench where I could build things and have tons of tools, but also believes wholeheartedly in the power of a perfectly shaped eyebrow. And, despite the fact that my favorite part of catching a fish is gutting and cleaning it... and despite my meager upbringings and opinions on the wastefulness of luxury... I. Adore. Fashion.

Did you know that I bought bridal magazines with my allowance when I was in the THIRD grade? I would sit and sketch gowns and party dresses for hours and hours. There's hardly a designer I haven't heard of or couldn't describe their fall line. I would never spend thousands of dollars on an article of clothing or an accessory... but that doesn't mean I can't love them. I remember once when a friend, whom I had repeatedly chided for her lavish spending, divulged that she had blown her whole paycheck on a handbag. Shocked, dismayed... disgusted... I asked to see the damned thing. And before it was even fully revealed, I gasped and sighed, "ohhh Ferragamo...". She was stunned that I knew the designer just by looking at it. How could that be when I had berated her ad nauseum for her frivolity? Well, loving something.... and loving something are two different things. Once, I stood on a freezing New York City street in the heart of Little Italy with a friend who was offered a coat by one of our dinner guests. She declined the offer, but the man insisted and so she took it and held it over her arm. I looked at her with sheer horror, the began to absently stroke the deliciously constructed bolt of fabric that hung, lifeless, over her shivering arm... and I leaned in and growled out a whisper: "For God's sake... it's a DOLCE coat. Put. on. the damned coat!"

Tonight I was watching a tv makeover show where they took a woman to InStyle magazine to help her find inspiration for her shopping trip. And then they took her to meet a famous designer. And to whom did they take this poor fashion-challenged woman? J Mendel. J-freaking-Mendel. And there he is, Gilles Mendel... in the flesh... showing his designs to a woman who, only one day earlier, was wearing a saggy pinstriped blazer over a thick cable-knit sweater and poplin shirt combo. He was describing the intricate handworking on a couture gown... to a woman wearing scuffed brown clogs. You can imagine how my stomach turned. Then, as if that wasn't enough... he offered to let her try on some of his designs. Yeah, go try them on, frumpgirl. I'll just sit here trying not to throw the remote at the TV. Oh, but it gets better: "I would be honored to offer you one of the gowns." ...to which she doesn't even graze the surface of being appropriately thankful for. Ack! And... in the most devastating television moment I have witnessed since Denny got killed off of Grey's... Gilles Mendel gives this young woman a pair of (composing myself) Louboutins. One of the most beautiful pairs of red-soled heaven I have ever seen. And... I know I should be happy for her. I should rejoice that she was given such an incredible gift! But all I can seem to do is wonder how the shoes are now. Are they tossed into the bottom of her closet under those scuffed brown clogs? Does she wear them with cable knit? Does she have the good sense to wear them to bed with her man... with nothing else on? Is their beauty and power being wasted? I wish I knew. I wish I could send them a little message out into the cosmos and tell them that if they were mine I'd either never take them off for loving them so much... or I'd never put them on for fear of hurting them. I'd love every inch of that stiletto heel. And tonight, I'm going to pretend that seven-hundred-dollars for a pair of shoes makes total sense... and that just around the corner, in my closet, inside a fire-proof safe, inside a panic room, waits my very own pair of Christian Louboutins. Sweet Dreams, Indeed!

Beauty in the Breakdown

The last few weeks have been tough. I thought I had the flu, tired and aching all over. The doctor said I was exhausted. No kidding. I didn't need a co-pay to find that out. So he gave me some medicine. Pills to help me feel awake, pills to help me sleep better. Uppers... Downers... I am Elvis.

I'm not getting better. I really hoped the bloodwork would say that my iron was low again... give me some tangible reason for feeling like I am in a free fall all of the time. But, apparently my bloodwork is normal. My blood is normal. So what does that mean? "You know what this means, don't you?" The source is external. Stress, putting too much pressure on yourself... Basically, it must mean that I can't hang. But, the problem is... nobody understands how desperately I need to be able to handle it all. To DO it all. And be good at it. Be great at it. The only people who probably get it are my dad or my brother. It's what we do. We push too hard, we work too hard... when it hurts, you put your head down and push through it. And the muscles grow, the tolerance builds. That's just what you do. Because we NEED to. Because people leave. Because there is no worse feeling in the whole world than being a disappointment. Because, when we go to sleep at night we have to be satisfied with what we've done... or we don't go to sleep at night. It wasn't always that way... but people adapt to hurt in funny ways. Sometimes the bones don't grow straight again. We just NEED that acceptance. It's a sickness.

I've spent the better part of my life lost. I've been looking for that safe place since I was a little girl. I just want to get back to that night. The night before. It's never been the same. I keep searching, calling... 'follow my voice'... leave a trail of breadcrumbs just in case. But people leave. Everything changes. The rug gets pulled out from under you. You go out into the woods and when you follow your breadcrumbs back, you find an empty house. You roll over at night after an argument and when you wake up in the morning the bags are packed. I don't know anything about people who stay. I don't know anything about people who love you when you make mistakes. I don't know anything about people who love you enough to let you fall apart completely and then stick around to help you put yourself back together. I don't know how this works. I can't let you see me falling apart. I have to be ok. I have to manage it all. I have to show you that you didn't get a crappy deal. I have to show you that I am enough. I need to know that I am enough, even when I mess everything up, even when I can't spell therapeutic, even when I cry for no reason, even when I am stressed and overloaded and moody and quiet and talkative and overeat and... I need forgiveness all of the time, and I need more allowances for my flaws than I probably have the right to ask for. But... doing it all is how I love. Managing it all, and doing it well, and making you feel good and safe and happy is what feeds my soul. I have to learn how to trust this. When I wake up and you are still there... when I follow my bread crumbs and find you right where I left you... When I fall apart and you don't scold me or turn away... it gives me the strength I need to manage it all, to handle it all. And it gives me the trust I need to say... that I need help. Sometimes, I need help. And I don't know how to ask for it. I don't know how to accept it. But... But... ....I can't do it all. I'm a little lost right now.

-- "If you could choose any thing in the world... What would you choose to be?"

--"Found"

--August Rush, 2007

Perspective

Some days, I wake up under a dark cloud. Not the comforting, want-to-stay-in-bed-with-a-good-book (or-a-good-man) kind of cloud, but the oppressive, can’t-find-the-sun-to-save-my-life kind of cloud. I used to really struggle on these days... getting lost in the feeling of being lost. Embracing my need to hide like the hiding itself would protect me. And then I grew up, and I started to learn about myself. As a woman, these days just come. They don’t have to have anything to do with circumstance or stresses. I ride the wave, and realize that some days I am on the crest, and some days I am in the hollow vacuum created when the world comes crashing down. But it’s just chemicals. Oh, how much easier it is to deal with emotion when you realize that for the most part... it’s all chemical. Yes, I have sadness and stressors that are very real. But all that is manageable. Mostly, just talking about it-- even without the need for a solution-- makes me feel much better. Then my head is clear to find that solution and move on. Life is hard. But it’s not as hard as I think it is some days.

Why am I writing this? Did I wake up today under a black cloud? No, not really. I don’t feel well today, mostly because I am tired, and have a lot to do before I leave on another trip tomorrow. But, today is not a bad day. I am writing this because I am thankful for perspective. I am thankful for the ability to look at life and see it as manageable... as something that I don’t just want to escape. I am thankful for the people in my life that make it worth trudging through all of the hassles and stresses. Some people don’t have that perspective.

Yesterday, I had a nagging urge to call my dad. When he answered the phone, I could feel the sadness and pain in his voice. I could hear his broken heart right through the phone. As most of you know my dad is a pastor of a small church in Florida. Night before last, one of his church members, a friend, a young man with several small children and a young wife, decided that life was just too much-- too hard. And, in his darkest moment, he took his life. He didn’t take pills and fall asleep, he didn’t end it quickly... this young man drank and entire glass of muriatic acid... hydrochloric acid. My dad said that the agony he endured before he even slipped into a coma was unbelievable. He was dissolving from the inside out... blood coming out of his ears as he died.

I don’t know this man. I may have met him in passing but I don’t remember him. But I feel such sadness for him, for his family. How is it possible for life to be so unbearable that you would put yourself through that type of torture? How is it possible to get so far from hope that you’d choose to end your life that way? If I am being completely honest, I will admit that there have been times that I didn’t think I wanted to live any longer. But, I can say that I have never been where that man was that night. I have never been that hopeless. I have never been that desolate. I have always found a reason to go just one more day... even when I could only find the strength for just one. I know that I have far more reasons to be hopeful than I have to be hopeless.

After all I’ve been through in my life, I can look back on those rock-bottom moments with a new perspective. I can peer down into the valleys of my past and see that they are only valleys because they are surrounded by peaks. When I am in the valley, I only need to remember that there is a peak just ahead. I may have to climb my way out... sometimes I may have to claw my way out... But... there IS an out. There IS a future. I am thankful for the valleys in my life, because it was in the valleys that I learned who I am, that I learned how to grow, and how to fight, and how to love... to love myself, and how to love even when it hurts.

I am still learning. I am learning how to be loved, how to accept love and feel like it’s ok to take sometimes too. I am thankful that the lesson I am learning is about love and for once in my life is not about pain or hurt. I am so thankful for those few in my life who are pouring love into me. You fill me up, and you heal me, and soothe and comfort me. I have been running on empty for a very long time, and I don’t think I realized how truly empty I felt... until I felt the healing satisfaction of being loved and cherished and appreciated. In my darkest moment, I was given the gift of a different kind of drink. With every drop of love that you give to me, I feel a little more of the hurt and lonliness dissolve...

You know who you are... and I thank you.

The Remains of the Day

I am not known for my temper. My ex-husband, who at the time had very, very little good to say about me, described me as one of the most gentle people he had ever known. There are times, however, that I am not that gentle soul. Sometimes, my temper gets the best of me. My anger is not violent, and has a very short shelf life... it may pass before you even notice it. It explodes and is gone sometimes before I even figure out what I was mad about. But, lately I am being reminded that what happens in those few seconds doesn’t always stay in those few seconds. I am reminded that even in moments of extreme frustration, anger, or anxiety... everything we do has consequences.

The other day my daughter spilled chocolate pudding on my white dining room chair. I couldn’t be mad at her... she is only three... and what kind of idiot has white dining room chairs with two kids anyway? But, I could be mad at the pudding. Oh, yes... I could hate the pudding. In an instant the almost empty pudding cup was relocated (forcefully) to the kitchen sink. And it was done. The moment had passed. I was no longer angry or frustrated. After I cleaned the chair, I went to the sink to throw away the empty cup. To my dismay, the pudding was all over the sink. I cleaned that too. While I was rinsing out the sink, I looked up and found pudding on the window over the sink. I cleaned that too. Four days later, I am still cleaning up pudding. Every time I think I’ve found it all, I happen upon some other random place that a splatter of chocolate pudding has hidden itself. I’ve never seen anything like it. Yesterday, I spent almost twenty minutes standing on the very same chair that started the whole thing... trying to clean the pudding I found... on the ceiling.

Earlier this week, I collapsed into my car, frustrated and tired from a very long day. My son seems to have some sixth sense about when I am least likely to want to argue and pick just those times to challenge everything I say. He is exceptionally good at this. He tossed out one last comment that turned out to be the straw that broke my proverbial back, and I turned around and advised him that he would be very wise to not say another word. Appropriate silence ensued, but it was too late... I was angry. Annoyed and agitated, I unlocked my brake pedal safety lock and removed it, and then (forcefully) threw it on to the passenger side floorboard. As it flew through the air, it (forcefully) collided with my glove compartment and gouged the vinyl of my brand new car. I was only angry for an instant... but that inch-long scratch it will be there forever.

Such is the way with so many things in life. In just a flash of a moment, we can do damage that can take forever to repair... or may not be able to be fixed at all. We can say things and do things that turn into blemishes on the souls of others. My dad gives the brilliant illustration that harsh words and actions are similar to nails that we hammer into the spirit. You can remove the nails, but the holes and scars will always remain. Even if you fill the holes... the structural integrity of the being as a whole is compromised.

This time, it was just inanimate objects that took the collateral damage. Eventually, I’ll get all of the pudding, and the torn vinyl in my car will just be a small mark in a sea of signs of use. But until then, I want to let the reminder sink in... let the message of those moments really resonate with me. Sometimes, even a second of anger is too much. Sometimes... the content of that second lasts forever.

I Am

I AM...

Simple. I like simple things. I like nights at home with the TV or a book, taking walks, entertaining myself, beautiful scenery and sometimes just being quiet.

Country. I feel more comfortable in a small town than a bustling metropolis, and love being with family and just doing nothing. I like pot luck dinners and old family recipes and I love accepting people just the way they are.

Casual. I am jeans and tank tops and summery skirts. I like my purse to match and could care less how much it costs. The better a bargain an item of clothing is, the more I enjoy wearing it, and I will tell anyone who comments on it just how little I actually paid. I like to get dressed up occasionally, but enjoy it for just that reason: it's rare. I think the perfect outfit is either a funny tee-shirt and jeans with a hooded jacket, or a 50's-60's inspired dress with a cute handbag and sandals. I definitely have a "look" but I have no idea what "look" it is.

Domestic. I'd rather have a family than a million-dollar career. I read relationship/seducing/cooking/parenting/cleaning/organizing/decorating books with a hunger I can't explain. I just always want to be better at it. I am endlessly happy just being a wife and mom.

Sarcastic. I love to laugh. I love people who make me laugh. Cutting wit and sly comments are the staples of my humor diet. Any joke that requires thought or brains to understand it, or a memory for movie quotes or song lyrics will be a winner with me. The quicker you are, the more amazed I am. I am blessed to have a few people in my life who constantly dissolve me into a puddle of laughter.

Verbose. I have a love affair with words. I relish the feeling of finding the perfect word to describe an emotion or a situation. I imagine it is akin to a musician finding the perfect note. Words are the melody of my existence. I often carry a dictionary with me, and study word books in the way an artist shops for paints and brushes. Words are my friends, and sometimes I have more fun with them than I do with people.

A Survivor. Often I will recount a story from my life to someone who doesn't know me, and they will say, "Wow. I can't believe you lived through that." But it's just one story... and I have a million more. I have had an exhausting life. I know there are many who have been through more or worse, and I never want to seem 'poor me'. I am rather thankful for all of the hardships and betrayals I have weathered. It made me who I am.... and at the end of the day, I like who I am. If I could talk to myself when I was young and say just one thing, it would be, "Don't be afraid. You can take much more than you think you can."

Listen to what the man said

Millions of men worldwide can now sleep a little more easily knowing that the divorce trial between Paul McCartney and Heather Mills has drawn to a close, and that poor, little Heather did NOT make out like a bandit. Although she got much more than she probably deserved, she initially requested $250 million as payment for providing only four years of her very valuable services. Apparently, she felt that not only did she singlehandedly revive his career, but also that she served as "...his full-time wife, mother, lover, confidante, business partner and psychologist." Uhhh. Hell-O! That’s what a wife is SUPPOSED to do. If that makes you a martyr who is entitled to millions, then I would be richer than Oprah. It doesn’t work that way, toots. This train-wreck of a woman couldn’t even keep it together long enough to behave appropriately in court, dumping an entire pitcher of water on the head of McCartney’s attorney after the ruling. This, after giving shoddy, inconsistent testimony and producing a case that proves that love is NOT, in fact, all you need.

Her requests for "reasonable needs" included $25 million to buy a home in London, $6 million for a home in New York, $1 million per year for vacations including private plane and helicopter rides, $250,000 for clothes, $85,000 for a driver and $80,000 for wine and $60,000 for "equestrian activities," even though she doesn’t drink and no longer rides horses. Thankfully, the judge was not impressed with Ms Mills, and in his ruling called her the British equivalent of a useless, lying gold-digger... or to use his exact words: "unreasonable," "volatile," "distasteful," "less than candid" and my personal favorite: "devoid of reality."

Sounds to me like she didn’t have a leg to stand on.

Hey there, Delilah...

Hey there, Delilah, I like to listen to your show
I listen in my car whenever I am on the go
I sing along
Sometimes to every single song...

Hey there, Delilah, you know, it really is the best
when dudes call in to request a song
and you make them confess
Say what they've done
Right there in front of everyone.
That's really fun!

OHH You play lame songs for me...
OHH You play lame songs for me
OHH You play lame songs for me...
OHH You play lame songs for me

Hey there, Delilah, don't you worry how it will go,
You play Chicago and Celine
and Journey and Manilow
I like 'em all!
Sometimes I even want to call.
You'd make me bawl.

Delilah, I can promise you
that by the time your show is through,
my night will never ever be the same... and you're to blame!

OHH You play lame songs for me...
OHH You play lame songs for me
OHH You play lame songs for me...
OHH You play lame songs for me

Rock, Paper, Pretzels

I bought pretzels the other day. I thought they would be a healthier alternative to my Ranch Corn Nut obsession, since I often find myself craving something crunchy for a late night snack. Except, Ranch Corn Nuts are the food of the gods, and pretzels suck. I feel like I just bit into a hard cardboard box... with giant salt granules glued on like some elementary school macaroni art project. WHY do people like pretzels?
In their defense, I do have to say that I used to enjoy them. And then once when I was a teenager, I went on a diet where all I ate each day for three weeks was a bagel, an ounce of pretzels, and a low-calorie frozen dinner. It worked... I lost 15 pounds... but I still can't get into the idea of eating bagels (and apparently also pretzels).
SO, if anyone is interested, I have a giant box of sourdough hard pretzels that you are welcome to... you can use them to break neighborhood windows, pave a lovely walkway, or build a house for which the big bad wolf would be no match.

The Circle of Truth

So, everybody knows that women ask dumb questions. Things like: Does this make me look fat? Do you ever think of other women when we are having sex? Do you think your secretary is hot? These are dumb ass questions. No woman should ever, ever go there. It's a fool thing to do. Unless you give her the answer she is hoping for, you're in trouble. And, even when you give her the answer she wanted, she will probably assume you are lying. So basically, once the question is asked... you're just screwed.

This is why I am so intrigued by the new FOX show, "The Moment of Truth". Contestants are hooked up to a lie detector and asked all sorts of probing questions. Increasingly personal questions. And if you make it through all twenty-one, you get a half a million dollars. The whole of which you may then use to pay for your divorce and new friends and possibly a new job that you will need to replace the ones you had before you foolishly answered all of those questions.

Which brings me to my point: unless you are in a very mature relationship, with extremely good communication... do not watch this show with your partner. Because somewhere after that second commercial, they will turn to you and say, "What is YOUR answer to that question?"

... and there's no $500,000 in it for you!

Titanic

A few relationships back I decided to ask a question. I've asked it of several people, and rarely get a straight answer. It's a simple question, really, and should the person be honest... it could really eliminate much of the hassle of getting to know one another. However, the question is useless if the information is ignored.

For example:
I asked a certain boyfriend (no, not on the first date... it was a month or two into our dating) "What are your worst qualities?" What a great concept, right? Instead of pretending to be perfect (because we both know you aren't, and I am not either), you tell me the ugliest truths about you and I will see if I can deal with them, and vice versa. To his credit, this guy was actually honest. He said, "I am pretty messy, and I am also very moody." These are definitively his absolute worst traits. The truth. Honesty. This might have been the last time he was honest in the whole relationship, but that's another blog. I thought to myself, 'Well, I am a homemaker.. I like to cook and clean... and I have aeons of experience with moody people. I can handle moody. Sounds like this is going to work!' I am a fool. FOOL!

Which brings me to something I realized the other day when cleaning his house (yes, again) months after we've been broken up:

Red flags in relationships are like icebergs.

When your new sweetie does/says something that sends up a red flag. STOP. Immediately multiply that behavior times one thousand and then determine if you can live with that behavior to the nth power every day for the rest of your life. Because the chances are that what you are seeing is a highly diluted version of how they really are. People can keep up appearances for a remarkably long time. Some adults have been 'acting' for so long that they actually don't know who they are for real. The first time I heard someone actually admit that, I almost cried for them. I know exactly who I am. All of my friends/family know who I am. I never put up a front or try to act a certain way to try and fit in. I am just me, and if that's not ok, then that's ok. I don't have to impress everyone. I don't have to be friends with everyone. But most people aren't like that. In an effort to put their 'best foot forward', they dress up the foot... and when all of those trappings are eventually removed, well sometimes the foot is disappointing. I'd rather give myself some credit and just put my bare foot forward. If it's good enough, then great... I don't have to try so hard. For the most part, however, the traits you see in the first months (sometimes years) of a relationship are often just the tip of the iceberg. The 'pretty messy' guy turns into the world's biggest slob. The moodiness turns into mania. It was always there... just concealed... under the surface.

I don't believe in 'testing' a partner... but for goodness sake, keep your eyes open, and get out of the boat and see what's lurking under that icy break.

Boys will be Boys

I am not a clean freak. But, I like things to be neat. I like clean floors, vacuumed carpet. I like things to have a place. And when you are done with them, I like them to go to that place.

But, little boys don't operate that way. My son knows his room has to be clean before he can go outside. Sometimes he cleans it in the morning before school so I won't be able to object in the afternoon when he wants to jump out of the car and go play before we even get near our driveway. BUT, He gets very frustrated when he has to clean his room. First, because he is a little boy and messy feels good. But mostly because his messes can't just be put away. Right now, in the middle of his floor there is an elaborate set-up of batteries, and rubber bands and alligator clamps and wires and paperclips. He used it to power a lightbulb. Two days ago he powered a mini-fan using pencil lead to conduct the juice from the batteries. His remote control Hummer truck is outfitted with a makeshift mailbox for sending me messages, and he built a rocket that deploys a parachute after takeoff to ensure a safe landing. You can't just put that in a drawer!

I don't appreciate stepping on a '64 Impala SS when I walk through his room at night, but it's hard to relocate the thing when I'm afraid it might set off a Rube Goldberg experiment and ultimately electrocute me.

Not while you're living in MY hen house!

I saw a magnet that said, "Raising children is like being pecked to death by a chicken."
I suppose if you love chicken, and you would die for chicken, and you get incredible joy from having chicken... then I'd agree. It's tough. Even after almost 10 years of being a mom on my own, I must say that it is still hard. It's so much work, and so much time, and so much effort if you want to do it right. If it weren't for organization, a routine, a schedule you try your best to keep, the ability to delegate, negotiate, and prioritize, and a plan for when none of the above actually works, there would be no way pull it off. Many single people with no children still feel overwhelmed by their day, and couples who both pitch in still find it hard to get it all done. But I love it. No matter how stressful, or overwhelming, or tiring, or frustrating it gets... the love for doing it always remains. I've wanted to be a mom as long as I can remember, and there is such a glorious satisfaction to be found in completing each day.... even if it is only with remote success. Because despite the work, these hectic days are also filled with beautiful, irreplaceable moments. Little voices calling out, "I love you, Mom" from the darkness of their room at night, little eyes sparkling with satisfaction when I laugh at their jokes, little hearts... so sweet... that even though they may be busy pecking me to death, also make me love them to death.

I don't get it

There's something that happens to me a lot, and I don't understand it. It happens at least twice a week, and every time, I am left with this feeling of confusion and/or amusement.

What is up with CAR FLIRTING? I am just driving along... minding my own business... usually singing... and realize that someone in the car next to me is minding my business too. So I look over, and get the big cheesy grin, or the raised eyebrow, or the upward head nod that says, 'what's up'. Occasionally I will smile back, but then I just go back to driving. Shouldn't that be the end of it? You've acknowledged me, I have acknowledged you.. just be flattered and move on. Except then, I realize that said car flirter is now pacing me... faster... slower... changing lanes... whatever... trying to get me to look over and/or smile again. What's up with that? I don't get it. What do they think is gonna happen? I am going to pull over and introduce myself? Really, does anybody DO that? And if I did, what would that say about me? Or is it that one smile isn't enough? Must they get four or five separate smiles or looks in order to feel it was a successful interaction? I hope this doesn't sound snobby.. I don't mean it that way. And I also should say that, yes, I am sure that they aren't trying to flag me down to tell me I have a flat tire or a tail light out or that my gas cap is open.
It's just car flirting... and it's strange.

Six Degrees of 'Investigation'

I love my couch! I have a matching set that includes the sofa, a chair that is so wide it can sit two uncomfortably (ha) and an ottoman. I. Love. It. It is a lovely shade of golden tan... with giant pillows all along the back that are a lovely brown and black and golden tan pattern. Ahhh. It is by far the most comfortable couch ever made. It has seen me through many a hospital recovery, late night argument 'forget it, I'm sleeping on the couch', classic movie marathon, and mid-day nap. It has been transformed into a bed almost as many times as it has been transformed into a fort or dollhouse. I've had it forever. Ok, not forever... maybe seven years. And I have moved with this set a whopping eight times. Eight! (Which, I think, says more about how ridiculously up-ended my life has been and speaks more for MY durability than the sofa's.) Almost every time I move, I have to go to Home Depot or Lowe's and get a replacement foot for one of the pieces, and I have had to remove the cushion cover at least a dozen times to sew a hole that appeared along a seam. It has been through alot, and like me, has some bumps and bruises to show for it. People keep insisting I get rid of it. But I love it! I actually got it for FREE! The couch was obtained for me by my cousin Luke, who figured I needed a new one since the one I was using was one that we saw someone throwing in the dumpster at my then apartment complex and asked if we could have it instead, for which I made a homemade fitted slipcover out of a king-sized off-white thermal blanket. Ah, the good ol' days. Anyway, he is in the film and tv industry and one of his work buddies on a shoot happened to be the cousin of the director of CSI: Las Vegas, who had just replaced his sofas and was trying to get rid of the old ones. His friend mentioned he wanted to go get them, but didn't know where he would put them... to which Luke replied, "Dude. I know who would LOVE those couches!" And as usual, he was so right. So, my furniture is actually famous. Washed-up, yes... but it had it's day, didn't it? Who knows what story lines and cast changes (and maybe casting "auditions"... oh... ewwwww) have happened on my sweet little sofa? Whose feet have rested on my ottoman? It's exciting, isn't it? Clearly it cannot be replaced. So, if you find yourself sitting in my living room, propping your feet up and relaxing against the giant cushions.... I ask that you treat them as you treat me... understanding that they are a little worse for the wear, but mean well nonetheless.

Pushing the Tooth

Remember when you were a kid, and you were about to lose a tooth, and it was loose and hurt so very much every time it would move? Remember how you would sit there and push it with your tongue or your finger... back and forth, back and forth... ouch ouch ouch... wince, grimace, groan...

Or when you have an injury, minor or otherwise... and you say 'It really hurts when I do this', and then sit there and unconsciously do it over and over and over...

Why do we do that?

That's how I refer to the insanity that makes us almost compulsively listen to love songs, or watch sad movies, or thumb through photo albums when we are missing someone.... we sit there pushing the tooth... exacerbating the agony of it all... encouraging the ache.

Why... do we do that?

Insomnia

I should be sleeping now... I should be adrift in this billowy sea of cough syrup. Instead I am thinking about Manhattan beach. Thinking of Jerry Maguire, where he offers her a ride and she rails off into the speech about how she's sure it would just make his day to drive all the way to Manhattan beach, taking the left onto little Waterloo street playing chicken with the oncoming traffic... "your life flashing before your eyes.."
I couldn't find Waterloo street. Bummer.

We walked down the pier. It was a really nice day here. The ladies were talking about something... I don't know what... and I was looking down at the beach, at all of the people... all of these LA people... these volleyball courts set up, six or eight of them. Looking down on them from way up on the pier in their little volleyball boxes, with their brown, tanned, hard bodies... thinking they looked like little boxes of truffles... the kind you get and open and think, "Hmmmm... I wonder what's inside THAT one." Wouldn't it be nice if when you had to select a person there was some sort of cheat sheet on the lid when you open the box, or a seating diagram when you walk in the room... "Oh," you could say, "This one's full of lies.... I am allergic to lies" and put him back for someone else. At the very least you should be able to bite a little off and see if it's a caramel or a lame sense of humor... and hide the hole you made so the next person doesn't know you sampled it. Little chocolate bodies... most of them were probably just fluff-filled. I don't like chocolate anyway.

We were going to go to a restaurant and eat... got our name on the list, gave them a phone number to call when our table was ready.. but that table wasn't good enough for.. um.. the other one. So we waited some more. Finally we get a table upstairs and sit down to peruse the menu. She is one of those women that you can just look at and see the displeasure on their face. You brace yourself a little. She's not pleased. We will all have to adjust. The universe will adjust. Then, they have no tea. We are not pleased. It's too dark to read the menu. We are not pleased. Then suddenly.... dramatically... she clasps both hands to her head over her ears... "This music is driving me crazy.. what is it? Why is it so loud?" I try to discern the music she is talking about, as it is barely audible. A metal guitar riff... nice. What was the name of this place? Something with Rock in the name... should have known. She is displeased. She is shaking her head back and forth in disapproval. Ultimately, we all leave. I am forced to give the "I'm sorry for psycho here" apology look to the wait staff as we leave. We end up at this other place, which thankfully pleases psycho. She is extra super duper double pleased as she comes to the realization and then declares that this restaurant must be affiliated with MiMi's Cafe.. she can tell... because of the menu... because of the muffins. She announces it as though she has just proven that the lunar landing was a fake. The smug look on her face displeases me. I cannot control the impulse to roll my eyes. I hate the waitress for being on her side... for encouraging her... when she confirms that this company used to own MiMi's. WHY did you have to tell her that? It's like giving a treat to one of those prissy dogs when they didn't even DO anything like roll over or play dead. Telling her that was a wasted treat.

Someone in the hallway is on their Nextel phone. The damned two-way beeping sound is so repetitive and consistent that it sounds like springs on a mattress. It is loud and annoying. I'd rather listen to the mattress springs...

I'm drifting now... deeper into the billowy, three-hundred count sea... the syrupy codeine waves are pulling me under....

Meep! Meep!

I have this theory that some people are just like Road Runner cartoons.
You meet them, and you see this beautiful path that winds off into the distance. So, you take off running down this beautiful path, and WHAM!!!... brick wall! So many people that I meet are just beautifully painted brick walls. Just a facade, just whatever they want you to believe they are. Just this completely fabricated ACME persona that they have draped over the brick wall they built to hide their insecurities and imperfections.
I'd rather take a stroll down a road that's under construction than slam into a brick wall any day.

Jen Stiller

Ok, so lately I have come to the realization that my life is just like a Ben Stiller movie. Not one with modeling, or dodgeball (sadly) but one of the ones where everything goes from bad to worse. And then worse-er. Just when you think the situation couldn't get any more ridiculous or out of hand, you end up having to spray-paint a cat. This is my life. Ok, no cats... but you know what I mean.
Seriously. Its gotten to the point that my only real alternatives are to drive off a bridge or just laugh at the pure absurdity of it all.

Thank goodness for good friends with a head on their shoulders who can tell you that no, in fact, you are not losing your mind, and yes, its true, your life is a complete train wreck. I'm so thankful for laughter.

Its all so... absurd?... yes, that's the best word... that it is impossible to even recount. If I started from the beginning (what was the beginning? Birth?) then by the time I finished the story your mind would officially be blown too and then I'd be responsible for what I'm sure would become mass hysteria, or at least mass sympathy.

But, I don't write this as a 'poor me', and I offer the following disclaimers
A. There are most definitely those with a life worse off than mine
B. My life could most definitely be worse off than mine
C. Nobody's life is perfect all of the time
D. Many of the convoluted messes that happen in my life are because of my mistakes and wrong choices
E. Complaining about it solves nothing.

Having said that, sometimes I think I'm being punked. I fully expect a camera crew to pop out from behind the two-way mirror, and I will cover my red face and then shrug and laugh and look straight into the lens and say 'I got punked'. And we will all laugh and I'll pretend to punch Ashton in the arm and then I'll go back to my REAL life which is only occasionally troubled, and once a week maybe ill have a crisis to divert and everything will be... be-a-utiful! The end!

When this will happen, I don't know. But I've got my eye on the waiter... I think he's in on it!
Essentially, it has become as though Murphy's law applies to every single thing that happens in my life... except on a grander scale. Instead of being in the slow lane in traffic, I'm in the wrong city. But as soon as I move, well, the new city is the one with the guy with his flashers on up ahead. Sometimes, its such a disaster that I actually am interested to see what's gonna happen next. Please do not confuse me with someone who enjoys crisis or chaos. I said 'interested', not excited. But when it gets as messy as my life has become, its almost like a challenge for the universe to top itself. And you know what? The universe always does. And sometimes I just laugh. I laugh and laugh and laugh because if I don't I would seriously lose my mind.

But, you know what the best thing about a Ben Stiller movie is? After the whole fiasco is over, there is always a happy ending... and I can't wait for mine. I can't f-ing wait.

After the Storm

The floods washed away home and mill, all the poor man had in the world. But as he stood on the scene of his loss, after the water had subsided, brokenhearted and discouraged, he saw something shining in the bank which the waters had washed bare. "It looks like gold," he said. It was gold. The flood which had beggared him made him rich.

-Henry Clay Trumbull

Leatherman

+
What would you get if Freddy Krueger and The Thing from Fantastic Four had a child together?

Keith Richards.

Seriously. This guy looks rough. I was flipping through a magazine and happened upon the new Louis Vuitton ad starring Mr Richards, and I must admit, I am a bit confused. I can't see how someone who looks like that would be picked to represent such a high-end, classy designer.

Maybe it's because he's about one handle short of looking like a piece of luggage himself.

If you could read my mind...

I'm sitting on a plane next to the most annoying guy I've seen in a long time. He looks like what you'd get if Dane Cook and that guy who won Project Runway last year (the tattooed one, not the fierce one) were morphed into one person. He's making me crazy. I'm not sure why. He seems fake. Fake like a poser. He's not hard rock, he has too much gum in his bag, and I'm sure I saw clean socks in there. No, not hard rock at all. Maybe its the professionaly tattered jeans or the teeshirt that's too tight. Maybe it is the leather necklace. It says, "I'm trying too hard". For such a little necklace, it sure is screaming 'tries too hard' loudly. Stop moving, asshole. Are you on amphetamines? Stop it. Now he's taking pictures of himself. Not that there's anything wrong with that... when I do it. But, when he does it it seems gay. And the way he shakes his head in disapproval of each picture before I see him save it just in case... annoying. I'm thankful for this Rilo Kiley song. I'm thankful she keeps swearing in my ears. I'm wondering why this isn't my theme song. Like, for my life. I'll be happy, I'll 'be positive though it hurts'. I will, because Rilo Kiley gets me. Nevermind. I hate you, sir. Yes I do. I don't know why I'm being so snarky. I didn't feel agitated when I got on, but the way you are so impressed with yourself when its so obvious that the only things that might be impressive are all fake. You're too short to be hot, too jumpy to be cool, too put-on to be real at all. No, you aren't real. The longer I sit here the more I expect to look over and have you not even have existed at all. Like some caricature of a real person. Like a warped version of a decent person who wouldn't keep sucking snot into their brain instead of blowing their nose. How funny would it be if I rang my flight attendant call button and asked for a tissue... for you. "This guy next to me needs to blow his nose". You'd probably have to take off your sunglasses. The ones that you hide behind so no one sees how transparent you are. The ones you think are hiding how many times you look at me. Why don't you ASK what I am reading? Ill show you and then you can make some stupid comment and then it will be done. It's The Bell Jar, about a woman slipping into insanity. At this moment, I can relate. This IS my theme song. I just decided. What's your theme song asshat? "I wanna be sedated"? Yes that's right. I just decided. If we don't land soon, I'm going to tell you exactly what I think of you. You know, as a service. A you're a 'total fucking loser' service. Come to think of it, I could offer this service to a LOT of people. Stop looking at me. Stop being so interested in my face. Yes, I see you looking. It makes me crazy. We are landing. I should turn this off. Too bad I can't turn off my annoyance with you as easily. Yeah, that's right... stand up, you tool. Stand up in the aisle like you might be going somewhere. Stand up and wait. What? WHAT? Oh. My. God. I knew it. Except I didn't know it, but SOMEHOW I DID! Is that your bag? Please tell me that's not your bag... It is. It totally is. You are a fucking pilot. A fucking pilot. Typical.