I Am Not the Bronx Zoo Cobra

A venomous cobra recently escaped from its enclosure at the Bronx Zoo.  Initially, the zookeepers informed the media that the cobra was still inside the snake house.  However, it appears more likely that the snake (who is, you know, a snake, and as a snake can slither into and under things with remarkable skill) has left the building and is out on the town, or at least out on the zoo, and apparently has access to an iPhone and Twitter.

That's right... since his escape, the Bronx Zoo Cobra has gotten his own Twitter handle.  I'm not really a big Twitter-er (Tweeter?  Twit?) but I have an account (it's for work, I swear!) and follow a few people (namely, my future second husband, Charlie Sheen, and a couple of bands).  I am now also a devoted follower of @BronzZoosCobra, and have to say... for a snake, he's got some serious Twit-Cred.

At this moment, the BZC has 202,224 followers.  For those of you who don't know what the hell this means, let me explain:

Imagine you are a person who wants to say something.  It might be meaningful, or it might be meaningless, but you want to say it anyway.  You grab a soapbox (or a wooden crate... I don't think they ship soap in wooden boxes anymore, so a new soap box probably wouldn't hold you) and a bullhorn from your garage and head down to city hall.

Now imagine that you place your wooden crate on the steps of city hall, stand up on top of it, and make your statement through the bullhorn.  The people who stop to listen to what you have to say - whether they like it or not - are your "followers."  If one person stops to listen to you speak, you have one follower.  If you have 202,224 people stop to listen to what you say, you have 202,224 followers.  Imagine that wherever you go with your wooden crate and bullhorn, those people are there to listen to what you have to say.  Along the way, you may lose a few, but you may also gain a few.  This, my technology-challenged friends, is Twitter.  The Twitter platform is like your wooden crate and bullhorn; the 140 characters you type in each tweet is what you have to say.  Your followers are the people who follow you around to listen, and who, by virtue of the Twitter platform, are empowered to reply back and engage you in conversation.

Cool, huh?  Definitely... if you're a person.  But think about it.  The Bronx Zoo's Cobra - a snake, or rather, someone pretending to be a snake - has 202,224 people listening to what it says (sssssayssssss?), including the zookeeper, who would be better of spending his time trying to figure out where the actual damn snake is!  And many of these people are writing back.  TO A FAKE SNAKE.  Don't believe me?  Here's one of my favorite BZC tweets and some of the responses:

@BronxZoosCobraBronx Zoo's Cobra

Getting my morning coffee at the Mudtruck. Don't even talk to me until I've had my morning coffee. Seriously, don't. I'm venomous.

@LadyOMyGodLady

@BronxZoosCobra Dude, if decide not to return to the zoo you should write for Conan. Have a great snakey day.

@kellidunhamkelli dunham

@BronxZoosCobra Come to Brooklyn! Prospect Park is full of delicious little mice, everything's cheaper. Take the A/C/E to the SSSSSS.

These people replied - to the snake - with suggestions for other places to visit in NYC, and for jobs.  If that isn't Twit-Cred, I don't know what is.  In fact, the BZC is so popular there is also a Facebook page dedicated to getting it a job hosting Saturday Night Live.  BZC = not an actual snake, but a person occasionally pretending to be a snake.  SNL = real show on national television, occasionally pretending to be funny.

I have to say it... I am more than a bit jealous.  I am a real, live person.  I occasionally say clever things, although very few of them are snake-related (this post notwithstanding), and clearly snake-posts are all the rage these days.  I have a Twitter account; admittedly, I haven't tweeted anything yet, but still.  I have zero followers.  None.  NONE!  The snake has me beaten by 202,224 people.  (Never mind that I am one of his followers... there's no shame in following a snake, right?  RIGHT?!)

So, much like I will eventually have to accept the fact that I am never going to be Charlie Sheen's next goddess, and that my prospects for a career in naked tub sitting are limited, I will need to accept the fact that the Bronx Zoo's Cobra has more Twit-Cred than I have.

I am not the Bronx Zoo Cobra, and that'ssssss okay.

Dryer Fresh

I hate doing laundry. 

Don't get me wrong.  I like having clean clothes.  And mornings are always easier when I have my clean clothes folded on a shelf or in a drawer, or neatly ironed and hung in the closet.  I also subscribe to the philosophy that you should always wear clean underwear, in case you are in a car accident (if I understand my mother's guidance on this subject correctly, paramedics will only rescue people with clean underwear).  So I get the myriad benefits of laundry.  Really, I do.

But that doesn't change the fact that I hate doing the laundry.  I also hate doing a variety of other household tasks, such as cooking, cleaning, making the beds, and scooping the cat litter.  In other words, to the extent I harbour any hopes of being a goddess, it is clear I will not be one of the domestic variety.

This doesn't change the fact, though, that these things need to be done.  I will resist the temptation to wander off into la-la land by suggesting that my husband and son can help; such delusions benefit no one.  No, what I need is a realistic solution.  I need something practical.  I need a wife.

Yes, I said it.  I need a wife.  Ideally, she would know how to cook something more elaborate than spaghetti with butter and sprinkle cheese (my specialty when Byron is working late and I only have to cook for me and Nate).  She would have laundry down to a science - just the right combination of detergent, softener, and dryer sheets to help my sheets and towels smell super spiffy and feel fresh-from-the-dryer soft.  She would keep the bathrooms tidy, the kitchen spotless, and the floors vaccuumed.  She would clean the litter box at least twice a week, and refill my Wallflower sniffy things before they dry up become fire hazards.  Ahhh... utopia!

I suppose to get into the spirit of the whole "sister wife" thing, I would need to let my new wife have, um, relations with my husband. 

Let me think about that one...

Yep.  I can live with that.  One more thing to cross off my list, right?

Then again, if Byron gets an extra wife and double the "relations" (not to mention he would certainly benefit from the laundry, cooking, cleaning and litter scooping) then maybe we should also get an extra husband.  Fair is fair, right?

Think of it!  Our second hubby can help take out the garbage!  He could sort the recycling!  He could, you know... I don't know... leave his socks on the floor!  He could... um... put dirty dishes in the sink without rinsing them!  He could... he could... 

On second thought, I've got a load of laundry to put in. 

Hamster Song

From the backseat of the car, Byron and I hear a request:  "Mommy, can you put on the hamster song?"

Hamster song?

Thinking (clearly unreasonably) that he was referring to the Hamster Dance song (i.e. the most annoying song in the world), I tell him that we don't have that on my iPhone or Daddy's Droid.  "Yes, you do," comes the reply.  "No, we don't."  (Don't bother asking why I would argue with a then-four-year-old.  It just happens, and I can't explain it.)

"Yes, you do, Mommy.  We listened to it in the car yesterday.  Remember?"

No, no I don't.  I would have remembered being subjected to the audio torture that is the Hamster Dance.  It is at this point that I realize that he is not in fact talking about the Hamster Dance (thank God), but that he is talking about some other, yet-to-be-identified song.

So I start asking questions.  "When did we listen to it?"  Yesterday on the way to school, and then again on the way home.  "Was it on the radio?"  No.  "Is it on my iPhone?"  Yes, it is.  "Is it on your iPod?"  No.  Okay... narrowing the field.  "Is it a kids' song?"  No, it's a mommy song.  Hmmm.  This isn't boding well.  "What does it sound like?"

And this is what we hear, in perfect rhythm:

"Hot and dangerous... if you're one of us then roll with us.... 'cause we make the hipsters fall in love when we've got our hot pants on and up."

Yes, you read that correctly.  The "Hamster Song" is Ke$ha's "We R Who We R."

Oh yeah... Parents of the Year, 2011.

On Daffodils and Deprivation

Spring is springing here in Cincinnati, and we are starting to see signs of life in the otherwise dormant earth.  In the last week, scads of spring flowers have started poking their heads out of the ground.  Last night, while searching with a flashlight for four leaf clovers and leprechauns, Nate and I found a wonderful tiny purple flower in the grass.  And this morning, I noticed little yellow blooms on the daffodils.

Every year at this time, my mother, who loves daffodils, notes their presence in her garden with a chipper “Spring has sprung, tra la!”  I can’t tell which she likes more: the actual daffodils or what they represent to her, which is that the long, nasty, cold, grey winter is finally coming to an end and better weather is (finally) on the horizon.  I suspect it is the latter, largely because when we talked this past weekend about the daffodils (tra la), she focused on the daffodils-as-sign-of-spring benefit rather than on their sunshine-yellow hue, interesting shape or ideal size for putting into a small vase.  To her (and likely many others), the daffodils and other spring flowers are a well-earned reward for suffering through four, five or six (if you are in Cleveland, that would be seven) months of misery.  They are the warm, colorful pot of gold at the end of a frigid black-and-white rainbow.  Spring flowers are ever-so-much-more appreciated than their crappy summer, fall and tropical brethren (the tropical flowers have the absolute gall to hang around all year long... as if!) because of their extended, conspicuous absence and appearance despite climatological adversity (late snows, cold snaps, etc.).  And daffodils are even more especially-appreciated because they are typically the first flowers to bloom and therefore serve as the unofficial "first sign of spring."

I do not subscribe to this philosophy, for two reasons. 

Firstly, winter sucks, and short of a grocery bag filled with diamonds, I can think of no “reward” which would make up for suffering through crappy Midwest weather year after year.  I don’t enjoy being in the snow; I don’t mind looking at it from inside a warm house but I have no desire to go and frolic in it (though I will do so cheerfully if Nate wants to go out and play).  I don’t ski or snowboard, so it serves no purpose in my life other than to make me shovel, wear uncomfortably bulky boots and clothes, and leave earlier for work in the morning to compensate for the slower speed at which I must drive.  The only time I have any genuine appreciation for snow is on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, when I am safely ensconced in my house and cuddled up with my family by a festively-lit tree.  After that, snow can pound sand.  I don’t like ice, either, other than in a soda or a spirited drink.  I’ve seen way too many cars spun out in ditches and ambulances carefully (and slowly… so… slowly…) making their way to hospitals to think of ice as anything other than a road hazard, and a stupid and wholly unnecessary one at that.  And, for the record, I don’t like the cold – anything below 70 and I’m wearing a sweater and wrapped in a blanket.  Early spring, which features both cold air and cold rain or sleet, is one of the most miserable times of the year.  Now, I totally get that the flowers, grass, trees, etc. need the rain to grow, and that winter is a time of necessary dormancy for the trees and many of our animal friends.  But I don’t need rain to grow, and I don’t have the option of hibernating for the winter.  As a result, daffodils and other spring flowers are a really crummy way to compensate me for months and months of crummy weather.

Secondly, I fundamentally disagree with the proposition that, in order to fully appreciate the majesty and beauty of flowers, I have to be deprived of their presence for months on end.  When we lived down south, I was fully capable of enjoying a beautiful flower in the wild despite the fact that it was there all the time (well, probably not the same flower all the time, but you get my point).  In fact, I am capable of enjoying many pleasant things without first depriving myself of them; I do not need to lock myself away from iced sugar cookies, chirping birds, the soft nuzzle of my cat’s head against my hand, a long hug from my son, or a favorite book in order to completely and thoroughly enjoy them.  Good things do not become any less good or less enjoyable to me simply because they are there all the time. 

Rather, I would prefer having flowers in bloom all the time.  Their presence gives me a nice little mental boost and reminds me that there is vibrant color, life and diversity in nature.  Seeing them in the wild (in addition to seeing them in a vase… hint hint, darling spouse of mine) fills me with a certain sense of joy in much the same way that listening to good music does... and I don't need to listen to hours of ear-splitting angst-metal to appreciate that, either.  Depriving myself of the joy of flowers doesn’t make me appreciate them more; rather, it makes me dread and resent the repetitive, seemingly endless whimsy-vacuum of winter that strips them from my life to begin with. 

A little pop of color and a delicate arrangement of petals are good for the soul.  So welcome back, daffodils, little purple flower in my yard, and other random spring flowers!  You were sorely missed, and I wish you hadn’t gone away in the first place.  Now… where’s my bag of diamonds?

If I Was a Rich Girl

If I was a rich girl (na na na na, etc.)

See, I’d have all the money in the world, if I was a wealthy girl.

No man could test me, impress me, my cash flow would never ever end,

‘Cause I’d have all the money in the world, if I was a wealthy girl.

~ Gwen Stefani (If I Was a Rich Girl)

I heard this song on the radio today, and despite the fact that I’ve never been a big Gwen Stefani fan (her abs kind of freak me out, and her hair definitely freaks me out), I found myself singing along.  And then, of course, I wondered what a Harajuku girl is, and whether I would want one.  Or four.  And would I name them like Gwen does (Love, Angel, Music, Baby)?  Would I feel compelled to clean out Vivienne Westwood while wearing a Galliano gown?  I am guessing not, especially since John Galliano was recently kicked to the curb for bizarre, anti-Semitic behavior, and I don’t think that Vivienne has a shop here in the ‘Nati (my trans-Atlantic jet is, well, nonexistent right now).  Nevertheless, I would like to think that no man could test me or impress me.  Hell, that’s largely the case now, and I don’t have all of the money in the world.  Hmm.  Clearly, I am ahead of my time and my bank account.

But if I was a rich girl (na na na na, na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na), what would I buy?  Where would I go?  What would I do if I stumbled upon a large pile of cash and I had the ability to live however I wanted, wherever I wanted, without fear that I would run out of money, no matter what?  Would I live like a Kardashian?  Let’s dare to dream, shall we…

The first priority would be to fully fund Nate’s education account with enough money for him to go to the most expensive private university in the world for four years for undergrad, and then if he wanted, to attend the same school for medical school (or an equivalent period of time for another advanced degree).  I’d also send him to a well-regarded private school so that he stands the best chance possible of getting into a good university!  I know… I would be able to pay for this all out of pocket when the time came.  But it’s so much smarter to invest the money now.  Time value of money and all that stuff.  If he doesn’t go to university, then I would roll it over into a trust fund for him.  Or go to the spa – every day, all day, for the rest of my life.  Either way.

With Nate’s education taken care of, I can turn to living arrangements.  I would pay off our current house, then start the renovations.  I don’t think I would necessarily move… at least not right away.  But even if we did move, we would have to sell the house, and fixing it up would make that way easier!  I’d renovate the kitchen, bathrooms and laundry room, replace the tile throughout the house, replace the windows, put a new roof on, and get new siding.  I’d also landscape – since I suck at keeping plants alive and don’t like to garden (ewwww… dirt and bugs?!), I would develop a planter garden, where colorful pots of beautiful and ever-changing flowers (they would have to change, because they would die every few days under my watch) are nestled into rocks and stones sourced from Mexico, the Bahamas, Cayman, Ontario, Ohio and Guatemala.  I would also tear out our current deck and replace it with a bigger one made from Trex.  How practical!

To make Byron happy, I would buy him a condo in Toronto.  He has a special nostalgia for the Empire Plaza on University Avenue, so I’d get him something in that building.  If it needed any updates, I would get those done, too.  I’m just nice like that.

Since I hate the weather in the Midwest, I would buy a house – something small, with three or four bedrooms so people we like can visit (people we do not like would discover that we are so incredibly busy, we can’t possibly rearrange our schedules to accommodate youthis time, but perhaps next time you’re in the neighborhood…) – in San Carlos, Mexico on the Sea of Cortez.  It would have an infinity pool looking out over the sea, and out the front door and windows, it would have a clear view of the desert and mountains.

So that I can enjoy our home in Mexico, I would find a job where I could work part time – about 30-40% of the normal work week, or even less than that.  (This might require us to move to a warmer climate, because surely, no company in the Midwest or north would allow such a crazy work arrangement.  Only people who live near beaches would ever consider such a thing.  Right? RIGHT?!)  I would take lots of time off for vacations – starting with the days that Nate is on break from school, any holidays that strike my fancy (Hug Your Cat Day, anyone?), and then I’d take some more days off for no reason whatsoever.  I would periodically call my friends who work in law firms with billable hour requirements or who have projects imminently due to management and chat endlessly about nothing at all, just for sport.  “So, did you see what Lindsay Lohan wore to her last court date?”  “This Angry Birds game is really frustrating.  I just can’t get past level 19!”    “I love Enrique Iglesias.  Don’t you?”  Ahhh… nirvana!

Having the vast majority of the normal person’s work day open would allow me plenty of time to work out, so I would probably lose some more weight, which might help me fit into some of Victoria Beckham’s designs, which I totally love but cannot wear because I have long since gone through puberty and developed these weird and annoying things called “hips.”  (Still waiting on the boobs.)  http://www.victoriabeckham.com/dresses/asymmetric-curve-neck-shift-717.html  I would not buy my jeans at Nordstrom Rack; I would buy them in full price stores!  I would learn how to wear completely impractical and insanely expensive architectural shoes, and I would hire someone to give me lessons on how not to fall down while wearing them in public.  http://trendland.net/2011/02/04/benoit-meleard-architectural-shoes/  and  http://www.tmz.com/2010/06/23/lady-gaga-fall-heathrow-airport-boots/

As it turns out, I really enjoy going to live music shows.  It might be fun to try my hand at organizing concerts to promote new artists – or current artists, like, um, Enrique Iglesias.  I could have them perform for smaller groups of fans at my house in Mexico.  People would come, even if only to see whether I can remain standing in my cool architectural shoes or if I would fall into my awesome infinity pool.  It would be like fashion NASCAR set to music.   Or I could just hire Enrique Iglesias to perform for me and only me, because really, that’s the whole point of this particular idea.  I don’t think I’d wear the shoes for that, though.  Seems like more of a barefoot kind of thing.

So that I am prepared for my barefoot private house-slash-pool concert with Enrique Iglesias, I would get a pedicure every day.  And visit the aesthetician often, because if the concert will be at my house in Mexico beside my infinity pool, I will need to wear a swim suit, so I'll need to be prepared for that.  I'll need to get a fancy swim suit as well.  http://www.agentprovocateur.com/swimwear/view-all.html  And a kicky little sun hat and a pareo.  Have to protect my skin from those harsh UV rays! 

I would take tennis lessons.  Again.  This time, though, I would hire someone to give Byron tennis lessons, too, and pay that person to only teach him bad habits.  Eventually, this plan would result in my winning a game.  Mwah ha ha!

I would buy sturdy homes on flat surfaces for all of the people in Guatemala who live on the edge of mudslide-prone hills.  http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2010/06/a_rough_week_for_guatemala.html

I would take naps.

And then, once all of that is done, I might pop over to London to have a peek at Vivienne Westwood’s latest collection.  But I definitely won’t be wearing Galliano. 

Hair Trigger

This past Friday, I went to lunch with a group of friends.  Before coming to his final vocation, "Todd" served in the Navy, including being stationed in San Diego for several years.  Trust me... the fact that he served in the Navy will start to become relevant in about three sentences.

Toward the end of our lunch, we got onto the subject of falling down.  I have no idea how this topic came up, but I shared a story about falling down, then another friend shared a story about falling down, and then Todd jumped in with a story, ostensibly about falling down.  I say "ostensibly" because my mind got so far off track that I never actually heard the story, although I am pretty sure he told it.  The story started with the following line:  "So when I was stationed in San Diego, a bunch of us went up to San Francisco for the blessing of the pleasure craft..."

And this is where I lost it.

You see, I totally understand that a "pleasure craft" is a non-military, non-service, sea-faring vessel, such as a yacht or a sailboat.  And I also understand that "blessing" such a vessel generally refers to christening it, or bestowing blessings upon it or an entire fleet of vessels, requesting safe passage while the vessel is at sea.  http://www.sfsailing.org/sailing-news-sausalito-sf/sailing-opening-day-on-the-bay  The problem is that the phrase, when combined, sounds like something other than what it is.  Something really, really different than what it is.  And once my mind starts down this path, it can be really hard to pull it back.  (Even now I'm snickering that it would be hard to pull it back when, you know, blessing the pleasure craft.)

As soon as I heard "blessing of the pleasure craft," I instantly found it hysterical that a bunch of Navy men - i.e. seamen - went to this event together.  And it was equally funny that the event was attended by various members of the clergy.  I mean, if you're going to bless your pleasure craft, isn't that something that you should do in the privacy of your own home, and preferably not with a servant of God or any other deity in full witness?

So I was laughing almost to the point of crying while Todd finished his story, at which point the "falling down" part was kind of anti-climactic.  (Snicker snicker.)  I was finally starting to compose myself when someone else started a story about a friend of hers who was a Navy Seal.  She said something to the effect that her friend was performing some sort of magic trick... prompting me to ask, "like balancing balls on his nose?"  From then on, lunch was pretty much Beavis & Butthead redux, complete with some level of debate as to whether the appropriate attire for seamen at the blessing of the pleasure craft is seersucker or another similarly breathable fabric.

Walking back from lunch, Todd was clearly amused by the momentary break from my typical quiet, reserved, super-serious demeanor (ha!).  "You really have a hair trigger for the double entendre, don't you?"  Yes... yes, I do.  He then asked me whether I would have found it as funny if the phrase were "blessing of the fleet" (no), "blessing of the yachts" (no)... or what about "tugboats"?  Seriously?

Hair trigger... ACTIVATE!

(Not So) Skinny Jeans

Back in December of last year, I decided that I needed to get new jeans.  I was planning a girls’ night out with one of my friends and some other girls, and I wanted to look cute.  But no such luck!  The jeans I had on hand suffered from two fatal flaws:

1.)  They were atrociously out of date, and visibly so.  I think I had purchased one of my four existing pairs when we lived in Toronto, which would have been before 2002.  2002!  Can you even remember 2002?  It’s so long ago, there’s probably already a VH1 “I love the 2000s” episode about it.  And my 2002 jeans loudly screamed 2002 – they were faded, torn, low-rise, slightly fitted but with a boot cut… think the full-length version of the Cindy Crawford Pepsi ad denim shorts and you’ve nailed it.  And it’s quite possible that they were bought well before we moved to Cleveland in 2002, which means they may very well have been from the late 1990s - i.e. an entirely different millennium.  [Cue gasps of shock and horror from my fashion-forward friends.]  It was embarrassing to wear them out to any venue other than WalMart, where they were still (sadly) fashionable.  They most definitely were not girls-night-out material.

2.)  They didn’t fit.  Since I really only ever bought jeans (or any other clothing) when I was at my smallest or biggest size, I had nothing in my drawer that actually fit my current body properly.  As a result, I could either wear atrociously outdated jeans that were literally falling off (we can discuss the fact that I didn’t own any belts some other time), or atrociously outdated muffin-top-producing jeans.  Either way, unless I’m in WalMart, not good.  And we were going to be at a bar, dancing and drinking… which meant either my pants would fall off in the middle of the dance floor or I would be in pain from wearing the modern equivalent of an über-tight corset for the entire night.

As a result of these flaws, I deemed my jeans wholly unacceptable for public viewing.  Quite honestly, I wasn’t even happy wearing them to WalMart, as I have a near-pathological fear of being featured on the “People of WalMart” website.  (Because I do not own track pants that say “Juicy” across the butt, the odds that I would be featured on the site are low.  But still… those guys are brutal, and I generally take a “better safe than sorry” approach when it comes to potential online photographic humiliation.)  Further complicating facts, I was scheduled to go to Vegas for a girls weekend in February, so would definitely need something a bit more club-ready by then.  So one dreary day in December, I set out with the mission of buying some new jeans – specifically, what the young whippersnappers refer to as "skinny jeans."

Of course, this begs the question of whether I, at the tender age of #^, should be wearing something called "skinny jeans" (or "skinny" anything) to begin with.  But rather than get hung up on trivial details, I forged ahead.  (Please ignore the fact that this is precisely the type of question I usually obsess about.  Let’s just assume for the sake of argument that I was able to rationalize it quickly and efficiently, and answer in the affirmative.)  Skinny jeans were on my radar, and come hell or high water, I would find some!

I hit the mother lode at Nordstrom Rack.  (Thanks, Jules, for the suggestion!)  There, I found not one but five pairs that fit, looked good, were reasonably comfortable, and were well-priced.  They were skinny without being gross – no muffin top! – and they made my butt look pretty cute, if I do say so myself.  But I couldn’t justify buying five pairs of jeans, skinny or otherwise, so instead bought just two pairs – one that had some “just got out of a knife fight and boy, am I charged up and ready to party” detailing, and one that had slightly classier rivet thingies by the front pockets. 

Armed with my new skinny jeans, I was now able to wear cute tops and shoes.  Gone was the need to pair my potentially-pre-Y2K jeans with a long, baggy sweater (which I used to cover up as much of the jeans as humanly possible).  Finally, I could wear a tissue-weight tunic t-shirt, or, for a slightly sluttier (sorry, Dad… what I meant to say was “more feminine”) look, a sweet little lace draped tank!  Gone was the need to wear hiking sneakers or flip flops (to make it look like I wasn’t trying – i.e. to make it look like I didn’t care that my jeans were ridiculously unfashionable).  I could wear my Uggs, or I could wear “more feminine” biker boots with wicked spike heels, or I could even wear ballet flats!  Real, normal person shoes!  Who thought such a thing was possible?  For me?  At #^?

Alas, like everything else in life (and especially with fashion), all good things must come to an end, or at least, become obsolete in one way or another.  Since buying my awesome-like-a-possum skinny jeans, I have once again run into a problem… but this time, it’s a problem I’m (somewhat) glad to have.  I’ve lost weight, and am down at least one, maybe two sizes from where I was just three months ago.  As a result, my skinny jeans are just jeans.  Oh, they’re still cute – cuter than my old ones, for sure.  And they still make my butt look pretty good.  But since they hang a little low and are saggy-baggy in the thighs, they don’t look entirely right.  I know, I know.  Nice problem to have, right? 

I suppose I could just buy some Girl Scout cookies and fill them back out, but then my “more feminine” tops might not look as good.  Or I could try to bring back the early 2000s with my smaller-sized boot-cuts… flip flops and hiking shoes, here I come!  Or, I could just paste the word “Juicy” on my ass and head to WalMart.  All viable options, no doubt. 

On second thought… I think I’ll just head to Nordstrom.

It's All About the Toys

This morning, we took Nate for his second private school “assessment.”  As I understand it, the kindergarten assessment consists of one of the school’s teachers hanging out with Nate for about an hour, playing games, maybe doing some puzzles, and basically deciding whether he is “on track” and “kindergarten ready.”  The school we went to this morning is one for children who are at least at grade level, if not ahead of the curve.  It is not, as they told us on the tour a couple of weeks ago, "for children who need remedial assistance on a continuous basis."  Yikes.  Can you say “pressure”? 

Oddly enough, I didn’t feel much pressure.  Nate’s a smart kid.  Don't get me wrong... he’s not exactly a future Sheldon from Big Bang Theory.  (I'm actually relieved that he isn't crazy-freaky-smart... after all, I do want him to eventually date and move out of our basement.)  But he’s smart - he's where he needs to be.  He kicks some serious ass on puzzles, is developing his basic reading skills, can find his way around numbers pretty well, and he is getting better at coloring in the lines (something I still struggle with, metaphorically speaking).  So I wasn’t too worried.  Rather, I was more interested in making sure he liked the schools and would be comfortable with the teachers.  I mean, if he’s going to spend the bulk of the day with these people, shouldn’t he at least not hate them right out of the gate?

After he finished this morning’s assessment, I asked Nate whether he liked the school.  He did!  I asked why.  “I like their toys.”  Um, okay.  Maybe I should be worried.  Really?  Toys?  (For the record, their toys are nice but not what I would consider awesome.)  But then I thought about it… what better way to decide where you spend your time, where you learn, where you develop?  When you get right down to it, this is pretty much how we make decisions as adults, isn’t it?  Think about it.  How did you choose where to go to university?  In all likelihood, you looked at the options you had on the table and picked the one with the most toys – whether you defined “toys” as “professors who publish,” “high academic standards,” “classes that start after noon,” “hot boys” or “bars,” the analysis was pretty well the same.  How did you choose your current job?  I bet it’s the one that, among your options, had the best toys.  I am quite confident that even our beloved naked-tub-sitting Tao girl picked the job that offered her the most toys, and I’d be willing to bet that one of her definitions of “toys” included “quantity of flower petals.”  Your apartment or house?  Look me in the eye and tell me that Grohe faucet isn’t a toy.  Your boyfriend, girlfriend, partner or spouse?  Toys, toys and more toys (or, perhaps  more accurately stated, the lack of need to acquire additional toys to compensate for an erstwhile toy deficiency).    

In other words, I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything to worry about.  If Nate gets into either of these schools, it seems that his analysis is right where it should be.  Granted, at the ripe old age of four, it really does come down to which school has more wooden blocks (CCDS) or the better playground (Seven Hills).  But he’s spot on in how he’s thinking about it.  It is all about the toys.

Alternate Career Options

The current media frenzy surrounding Charlie Sheen’s (apparent) mental meltdown has me wondering: Where can I get some Charlie Sheen, and would my face, in fact, melt off or would my body actually explode?  Am I winning?  Perhaps more importantly, am I bi-winning?  Would anyone out there agree that my life is bitchin’?  If I got busted in Vegas with a suitcase full of blow and a couple of porn stars, would I retreat to the shadows, or go balls to the wall on national television defending my lifestyle and my goddesses to the death?  (My draft answers: I don’t know, but if I could find it, probably yes; yes; I’m working on it; depends who you ask; probably some combination of retreat and defense, but always with flair!)

More pressing to my mind, though, is trying to figure out how, exactly, one goes about getting the job of being one of Charlie Sheen’s goddesses.  I mean, on its face, it looks like a pretty good gig.  You get to look hot and wear awesome clothes – or better yet, you get to look hot and you walk around naked all the time because, you know, you LOOK HOT, and in the L.A. heat in the summer, naked is always better!  You get to eat really good food, probably prepared by a well-trained chef (though you probably don’t get to eat much of it, as you do need to LOOK HOT, which requires staying slim).  You party like a rock star and only drink top shelf liquor.  You probably don’t have to pay attention to politics, or other potentially soul- and whimsy-draining topics; rather, you can focus on more fun subjects like what Justin Bieber’s hair is doing and where you should go shopping today.  You get to have what I can only guess is some pretty interesting and engaging sex with a man most women – at least until last week – would have given their right ovary to sleep with.  You get to live in a nice house in California and travel to exotic places, where you do all of the above, only on a beach or by/in a pool.  Hell… where do I sign up?  

Also, what does the career path for goddess look like?  Is it a vocational program, or is it completely entrepreneurial?  Is there some sort of goddess internship or apprenticeship system out there, whereby an aspiring young girl - one who has already proven her knowledge of skin care, waxing, pilates and the appropriate use of stilettos and body glitter - can work her way up the celebrity pole?  Maybe she would start by shadowing a goddess for a few days, after which she would spend a month or two with a C-list celebrity (using some gateway drugs and drinking wine coolers), then a month or two with a B-list celebrity (dabbling in something harder, and working her way up to beer), then move up to a low-A list celebrity or an on-his-way-down-from-A-to-B-lister (again, progressing to harder drugs and now drinking mixed drinks) before finally graduating to the highest paid actor on television, a suitcase full of coke, shots of 151 and full goddess-dom?  Either way, it would seem that I missed the call for the Models and Bottles Training Program at my high school and university’s career counseling fairs… which is kind of a bummer because I really like the beach!  Of course, it is possible that or, by virtue of my small B-cups, not-exactly-camera-ready-looks and annoying tendency to put together full sentences that occasionally reference “heavy” current events, I was deemed inherently unqualified for the program, so was weeded out before it was ever an option.  Either way, it sucks.  I think I would have made a good goddess. 

Another potential career path I was never alerted to when I was younger was the “girl sitting in a bathtub at the entrance to a nightclub” option.  When I was in Vegas recently, I noticed on the way out of Tao that there was a woman sitting in a tub of water.  Naked.  With flower petals quasi-covering her boobs and her bits.  Her whole job was to sit in a bathtub, smile at people as they walk by, and look hot… all in a tub of water.  Don't believe me?  Go to http://www.taolasvegas.com/tao.html and see for yourself.  The only downside I can see to this job is that, after sitting in a tub of water for a full shift, she’s probably pretty wrinkly.  But if there are nice bath oils or other lotions and potions in the water, maybe there’s a back-end upside of softer, more supple skin.  I would like softer, more supple skin!  Where do I apply for this job?  Don’t get me wrong.  I am not so delusional as to believe that I am in any way qualified for this position.  Really, my only qualification is that I like to take a nice bath now and again.  (Other jobs in this same category that I was not aware of would include go-go dancer and VIP room hostess - also jobs for which I would stand no chance, for a variety of reasons.)  I’m actually confident that even if I had applied for such a job, I would not have gotten it if I would have had to compete with the likes of the tub girl at Tao.  But, even though I am clearly unqualified, it still would have been a lovely compliment to have been handed the brochure on this career option along with all of the college catalogues.  After all, there are some days when it certainly seems like a more palatable and fun choice than being on conference calls for half the day and wasting away under the fluorescent lights of my office.

Sigh.  At the end of the day, I just need to accept the cold, harsh fact that I am never going to be a naked-tub-sitting-goddess, or even a fully-clothed-tub-sitting-demi-goddess.  I suppose it’s for the best, really.  But still… it would have been nice to be asked.

(Note to Charlie Sheen, if he is reading: If you have an open goddess position – especially a temporary one, as I do have A LOT of conference calls on my calendar and I book up pretty far in advance in that respect – call me ASAP!  I’m no porn star, but I’d like to think I’m pretty bitchin’ and/or bi-winning, and, for what it’s worth, I too have the soul of a 70 year old but the fingernails of a 7 year old... the perfect match for your 7 year old boogers, perhaps?)

A few notes about music

Years ago, a friend asked me what I thought the soundtrack to my life would be.  Not what I would want it to be, mind you, but what I actually thought the musical score would sound like if my life were a movie and set to music.  At the time, I answered "Ride of the Valkyries," that snappy little ditty by Richard Wagner - mostly because life was just one big charge forward, and at the time, I was full of piss and vinegar and drama and what have you.  In hindsight, I think that is perhaps too calm and sublime of a selection to fully cover the narrative arc of my world.  It certainly can't cover my whole life, if only because if it did, I would have collapsed years ago from a serious headache and exhaustion.

Now and again, this question will spring to mind - often without warning - and it almost always gives me pause.  What songs are playing on my soundtrack these days?  Are they the same as the music that scored my life in my teens?  My 20s?  Would it be all one style of music?  Probably not.  (Actually, I hope not.  Egads... grunge?  Say it isn't so!)  Like any good, full-narrative-arc movie's score, I have to imagine that the selection of music over my lifetime would be diverse, reflective of any given point in the story, and engaging... all without becoming the story itself or overtaking the drama.  When you watch an outstanding movie - a truly wicked film that sticks in your mind forever, whether you like it or not- the music is woven into your psyche along with the story and the characters and becomes part of your story as well.  Years later, you might hear a song from the movie and be transported back into the scene behind which it played, or - even better - you may be transported back both to the scene of the movie as well as a scene or two from your own life... your own experiences that were perhaps shaped by the movie and its music, even if only subconsciously.

So this question has once again surfaced, and as always, I feel compelled to find an answer.  (I am, after all, one of those Type A people who can't leave a question hanging!)  If my life was a movie (hopefully not a cheesy made-for-TV movie, but perhaps a low-budget Indie flick featuring an up and coming, talented and intelligent yet suspiciously and hauntingly beautiful actress), what would be playing in the background right now?  The last year and a half have been a challenge for me, personally and professionally.  I've had a lot of self-doubt.  I've had some defeats.  I've had more WTF moments than I care to count.  But come hell or high water, I will come out of it.  I'm reawakening and (finally!) working to regain the confidence that I'd lost.  I'm figuring out what isn't working, and trying to change it.  Do I know what the future holds?  Hell no.  But I know what I don't want it to be, and I'm turning the wheel to steer away from that outcome.  It isn't easy, but I have to try, right?

Most of the time, I think I would prefer something with a bit of passion.  Something fun.  Something you can dance to.  Something you want to scream at the top of your lungs, then, when it's over, turn back on at a higher volume and scream to even louder. Something that will make you cheer for your heroine (me).  Something that will make me cheer for myself!  Here are my options for these scenes:

What the Hell (Avril Lavigne)
Born this Way (Lady Gaga)

But during the quieter moments - for those scenes in which I am sitting quietly on the sofa with a (very big) glass of wine, head leaned back, blanket on my lap, trying to sort it all out... fighting against the doubts and defeats and other disastrous d-words that have been dragging me down - I like these:

Fuckin' Perfect (Pink)
Beautiful Disaster (Jon McLaughlin)

Beautiful disaster, indeed.

Of course, if none of those work, there's always Ride of the Valkyries.