Tag Archives: Confessional

Pseudo-Celebrity Stalking at Its Finest

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This week’s Friday Confession is a little anecdote from my single girl in the city days. I once stalked a Leonardo DiCaprio look alike. But in my own defense, I did it for a friend. And we were in our 20s.

This friend of mine had a Leo obsession that bordered on pathological. It manifested sometime after What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and before Titanic. One day when I was at her apartment, I found one of those Teen Beat-esque biographies that are published for twelve year olds. There are no words that adequately describe the mortification I felt on her behalf. I even asked her how she was able to purchase the ridiculous item without dissolving into a puddle of shame in the check out line (or at the very least announcing to anyone with a clear view of her that she was buying it for her tween-age cousin). But her love for Leo transcended such pedestrian concerns. So we just left it at that.

Knowing all of this, I was not surprised by her explosive reaction when we happened to see what looked like Leo himself making his way through the crowd at the Toledo Lounge one Friday night. Now, I love my hometown DC and I had just as many good times in Adams Morgan as I ever did in Manhattan – but seriously, the chances of Leonardo DiCaprio showing up there on a random Friday night with an equally random group of friends was beyond slim to none. In the midst of her Leo lust, my friend did not take this perspective and would have hit the floor if I hadn’t caught her mid-swoon.

It took me all of three seconds to conclude that it must be Leonardo DiCappuccino, the much talked about Leo look alike that worked at a DC-area Starbucks. But my friend refused to give up hope until we had gotten a better look and made sure that this wasn’t in fact destiny handing her the celebrity of her dreams on a silver platter. And by “we” I mean “me.” My friend was far too agitated to walk, let alone conduct stealth reconnaissance. And by “stealth reconnaissance” I mean “embarrassingly obvious stalking.”

I must say – as far as friends go, I’m a peach. I followed the most likely DiCappuccino version of Leo upstairs and walked the length of the aisle and back to make sure I got a good long look. I was rewarded with a self-satisfied smirk from DiCappuccino and enjoyed the sound of derisive male guffawing and rude remarks as I made my way back through the crowd as quickly as humanly possible.

“Yeah – it’s not him. It’s the Starbucks guy,” I told her. While disappointed, she expected as much having had some time to come to the same realistic conclusion during my absence. But seeing as DiCappuccino was the next best thing to DiCaprio (at least in DC), she toyed with the idea of getting a table upstairs. I told her that the only way that I could ever again make eye contact with that conceited a-hole would be if I was ordering a latte.

Truthfully – I didn’t really say that last part, I just thought it. What I actually said, probably ran along the lines of “let’s leave now and never come back.” The things I do for my friends…

The Christmas Tree Nazi

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As I write this, I am huddled in my semi-warm winter coat, alternately shivering and rethinking my statement that the original windows in this house are so much more charming than new ones would be. Writing while shivering in a thin winter coat makes me feel like something out of a Dickens novel. Which makes me feel very literary. Or poor.

Either way, I get a warm inner glow every time I glance to my left and see the festive splendor of my own blazing Christmas tree. Yes – the lights are on, and will remain on whenever I am in close proximity to my tree. If need be, I’ll turn off every light and electrical appliance in the house to make up for this gluttonous attack on the earth’s waning resources. I’ll even turn down the already insufficient heat. I love my tree just that much.

As you may have guessed by now, I can decorate the hell out of a Christmas tree. It’s one of my great talents in life, and every year my home is graced by yet another Christmas tree triumph. This is one area in which I throw any sense of humility out the window. I’m can confidently claim that my Christmas tree kicks your Christmas tree’s ass.

You are probably thinking that my family is very lucky to have this kind of genius on their side. Well – I don’t know if they’d agree. You see the price that everyone pays for my mad Christmas tree decorating skillz is that they don’t get to have any fun with it. And that’s my Friday Confession this week. I am a Christmas Tree Nazi.

Brief disclaimer here: I am not in any way supporting or condoning the Nazi movement. My children are not joining the Reichs of Hitler Youth and I am not a racist psychopath with mommy issues. I’m basing the title “Christmas Tree Nazi” on the famous “Soup Nazi” character from Seinfeld. So on the almost impossible chance that you have never heard of this character and had no idea what I’m talking about – please be assured. I am not an actual Nazi.

That out of the way – I am a total bitch when it comes to my Christmas tree. I have definite ideas about where the ornaments should be placed and how the various colors and styles should be distributed. I like a symmetrical tree. A messy looking tree doesn’t bother me if it’s in someone else’s house (it in fact, just reaffirms my own superiority in the tree decorating realm). But the idea of a haphazard looking tree in my own home makes me die a little inside. The only way to achieve the level of perfection that I demand is to be very rigid and controlling, and even strategic about the tree decorating process. And believe me – I’ve got this covered.

I can currently get away with excluding my children based on their ages and lack of attention span. But I know that they will eventually want to participate. I just plan to cross that bridge when I come to it. And possibly buy a “kids’ tree” for them to do with as they like. Their father has fond memories of decorating his own kids’ tree with Star Wars action figures. So I expect he will be supportive my multiple tree plan. In fact, I’m sure he’ll be happy because he’s not currently allowed to help decorate our Christmas tree either. He may as well be one of the kids. The first year we had a tree together, I had to linger behind him rearranging his more bizarre ornament placement choices.

So the Hood family tree decorating tradition does not include the sound of laughter, storytelling and favorite Christmas carrols. There are no childish squeals of delight when someone finds the perfect spot for that favorite ornament (okay – maybe a few, but only if I’m really excited). And there is no closing ceremony of a tiny hand placing our angel at the top.

Instead there is about an hour of lights detail with meticulous care taken to make the tree appear to glow from within. Then there are about 20 minutes of bow placement. And finally, unlimited time is devoted to the actual ornaments.

My ornaments are packed away so carefully that the box would most likely survive a three thousand foot freefall from a cessna flying over rush hour traffic. Since they rarely break, I have finally accumulated enough to transition out the “filler” ornaments (plain gold balls from Michael’s) that I had to use for my first tree. I really do love my delicate antique ornaments and dread the day that they are pushed aside for the kids’ school project ones involving dry pasta or styrofoam.

But I also know that when that day does arrive, I will embrace it with the same pride and enthusiasm I apply to their current toddler achievements. Such as figuring out how to take off their pants and run around outside before I realize they’re gone. Just kidding – I really will be proud of those pre-school ornament projects. And after an appropriate amount of oohing and aahing, I will direct them to the kids’ tree where these masterpieces can be displayed to their best advantage.

Look – I know this sounds really obnoxious. But it IS a confession. So that should earn me at least a few good person points right? Being able to identify the problem and that being half the battle and all… But to give you a sense of where this Christmas tree decorating hubris is coming from (just a sense since no picture can truly do my creations justice), here is a picture I took yesterday:

And here is another one without the flash:

Photographer, I’m not – so like I said, these pictures don’t really capture the magic of this year’s Christmas tree. But they do capture the completely neurotic obsession with perfect symmetry which is at the heart of this psychopathic holiday behavior. And as far as holiday photography goes, capturing the true spirit of the Christmas Tree Nazi is half the battle.

Twilight Time

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*Don’t forget to enter my giveaway from Angelina’s Beautiful Cards and Paper Boutique! Click here for details. Send me an e-mail letting me know that you’ve posted about my December giveaways on your site and I’ll give you a second chance to win! This one ends on Sunday – so comment soon!

This is going to be a short Friday Confession. Doing two memes in two days sucked me dry. Too many topics to cover for someone who doesn’t know how to be brief. I’m exhausted.

But I do have to confess that I have finally fallen prey to the Twilight obsession currently sweeping the country. I had heard of the books, and have now seen all of the hype surrounding the movie. And it inevitably sucked me in. The vampires beckoned, and I’ll be damned (yes – that was supposed to be a vampire joke). I couldn’t put Twilight down. I read it in two days.

Now, I’m not saying that it’s the best book I’ve ever read. Far from it. The writing is pretty bad and melodrama is at an all time high – but there is just something about the story… My aunt put it best when she said, “you just want to know what happens next.” It’s true – I had to keep reading.

There were two things about the book that kind of bothered me though. One was an ongoing theme and the other was a specific scene. The theme that tended to get under my skin was the way that Bella acted SO SUPERIOR. I know that she was riddled with teenage angst and dealing with a daily forecast for rain. But really – it’s like she’s SO much better than all of those shallow townies. She fit in much better with the aloof vampires than sickeningly wholesome Todd and Jessica. I also thought her moodiness got a little tedious. Of course, I probably just described myself as a teenager, minus the vampire friends. Maybe that’s why she got on my nerves.

The specific scene that struck me as entirely unbelievable (you know – out of all of the believable scenes in the book) was the beach party. Two large cars full of teenagers arrive at the beach, build a bonfire and….explore tide pools. I don’t know what high school you went to, but in my experience, a group of unsupervised teenagers is just a roundabout way of saying “keg party.” Now I understand that the author is Mormon, and Mormons don’t drink. But she didn’t say anything about her characters being Mormon or religious or abstaining from alcohol in any way. So when Bella walks back to the bonfire and finds her friends “passing around food,” I became skeptical. More like a bong I would think. Anyway – as someone who didn’t drink in high school but did go to all of the parties, I have a very clear memory of what teenagers do unsupervised. And I’m not buying the absence of drugs or alcohol.

In general, I’m an easy audience where an engaging story is involved, so I’m sure I’ll read the rest of the series. I’ll also see the movie as soon as it’s available on Netflix. But if Bella is in college by book four, and goes to frat parties where the brothers pass around “food” to their guests – then I’m officially labeling the series a vampire fairytale.

"What Angelina did was very uncool."

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This is THE quote that Vogue selected to accompany the December cover picture of Jennifer Aniston in a glamorous Narciso Rodriguez gown. They linked this sophisticated look to a statement about betrayal that only a teenager would make. What’s up Vogue? Are you TRYING to make her look ridiculous? I saw the same statement on the cover of Life & Style and thought nothing of it. But really – Vogue?

So yeah – that’s my Friday Confession for this week. I was astounded when I saw that cover, I gave thought to it and I have opinions. I admit it. I care.

I care because I’ve always liked Jennifer Aniston. Say what you want – but I think she’s funny. I loved her in Friends (okay – so I loved everyone in Friends – I was probably the only person with a television that would have happily watched ten more seasons of the show). And then suddenly, she was in movies – and she was good. Sure, she was in some bombs, but I never thought she was bad in them. And she wasn’t just funny in these films. She’s probably best appreciated in The Good Girl, but I thought she gave very poignant performances in Rock Star and Friends with Money.

Now I know that acting talent doesn’t have anything to do with intelligence – but when someone has the ability to be ironic in their acting…well, they know how to appreciate irony. And anyone with a sense of irony would have to guffaw at the idea of her official statement on Angelina Jolie’s behavior regarding her marriage to and divorce from Brad Pitt as, “What Angelina did was very uncool.” It’s ludicrous!

If I were Jennifer Aniston, I would be mortified, humiliated and furious. I think that even if I were the man who wrote the article, I would be horrified. I read the article (of course I did, and I even rounded out my research by reading a related article in Us Weekly – because I’m nothing if I’m not thorough). That one statement wasn’t even a direct quote. It sounds like Jennifer is saying that Angelina making a move on her husband while they filmed Mr. & Mrs. Smith “was very uncool.” When in fact, she was talking about details that Angelina revealed in a Vogue article two years ago. What Jennifer Aniston really said was, “that stuff about how she couldn’t wait to get to work everyday? That was really uncool.”

Sounds to me like an off hand remark that anyone would make. Not her official statement on the Jolie-Pitt relationship! As a celebrity (especially an A list celebrity), everything she says can be used as a quote. But at least get the quote right, whoever is responsible for the cover of Vogue!

See? It’s embarrassing. I’m actually worked up about this. But I can’t help it. I’ve always thought of Vogue as a fashion magazine that reports on trends and “people of the moment.” I would never put it on the level of Life & Style – or even my beloved Us Weekly. Those are tabloids. They are People without the human interest stories. Crap is expected of them. But one would expect Vogue to at the very least, dress up its crap in fine feathers (fine fashion even). And “what Angelina did was very uncool” making the cover does not fit the bill. In fact, I thought it was very uncool. At the very least, it’s a sad commentary on what legitimate magazines have to do to get people to buy them now.

Well – it’s all just a reminder that this Thanksgiving weekend, I can appreciate my anonymity. The fact that no one cares that I still get teenager acne and that my laugh lines and crows feet are actually starting to meet. No one cares if I say something stupid because it’s lost in memory (or in cyberspace) and not plastered on the covers of national magazines. Being Jennifer Aniston doesn’t sound so appealing when things like this happen, and I feel badly for her – even if I don’t know her. I guess all that stuff about money and fame not buying happiness really is true. Although, I already knew that. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m SO glad that I’m not an A list celebrity (insert ironic guffaw here).

UPDATE: Now head over to The Gift to hear my friend Anastasia’s “counterpoint.”

Chain of Fools

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This week’s Friday confession will be a story. But first, I need to provide a little background information (which in itself is somewhat of a confession). I have a bit of an aversion to big chain restaurants. Don’t get me wrong – I love P.F. Chang’s and Maggiano’s as much as the next person. But when I think of a really special night out, I prefer the idea of a restaurant that you can’t find in all major metropolitan areas. Or at least one that you can’t find at your local shopping mall.

This snooty little quirk of mine comes directly from my father who refused to eat at chain restaurants while I was growing up. If we went out for a casual meal, we’d go to a Chinese food place or maybe Mexican. But we never went anywhere like T.G.I. Friday’s. My brother and I didn’t think much about it – but now looking back, it’s very clear. We never went to chains.

Of course I now eat at family friendly chain restaurants all the time with my kids. But I can’t avoid that obnoxious little voice deep down inside mocking me about it. My husband revels in our patronage of these restaurants simply because he knows all about my secret snobbery. But enough about that – onto my story.

A year or two before the kids came along, we took what was to be our last real vacation together. I had accrued a good number American Airlines miles and hotel points through work travel, and we decided to use some of that for a long weekend in London. Since the dollar was pretty bad – this was never meant to be a luxury trip. We talked about it and agreed that we’d be real tourists and keep everything casual with sightseeing as the priority. Thanks to my freebies we had business class seats on the flight and a room at a great hotel in Trafalgar Square – so that would cover any of our needs for “fancy.” All of our dining would be on the cheap (or cheap-er) and we’d try to find dinner spots with character and atmosphere if not world class chefs.

I could write about so many things we did on that trip, but this isn’t a travelogue. It’s a confession. The confession part doesn’t come in until the Sunday after we arrived though. We arrived on a Friday, and with the exception of a little jet lag, we filled our time with sightseeing and walking. No shopping – but window shopping was allowed. Everything went according to plan until it was time to find a dinner spot. We failed to consider the fact that it was Valentines Day, and that it would be next to impossible to find a table somewhere.

We spent at least an hour wandering around the theater district and beyond, leaving our names at various places and wondering if we should just give up and head over to Piccadilly Circus where one of the tourist traps would surely be cranking out the tables. But that just wasn’t what we had in mind. We didn’t need expensive, but we did want a little atmosphere. So we persevered and finally lucked out when a tiny table became available at a little French place called Cafe Rouge.

It was in fact, exactly what we were looking for. It was casual, but had great food (we both had the beef bourguignon on that freezing cold night) and we were even able to find a good AND inexpensive bottle of wine. Mission accomplished! It was by far the most fun night out we had that weekend. The restaurant was quaint and cozy, and while the wait staff was pleasant enough, they left us alone and let us linger over our coffee as long as we liked. We planned to tell anyone we knew going to London about our find.

I think we went out for Indian food the next night – which was another score. Possibly the best Indian food I ever had. But during the day we tried to just grab quick meals and weren’t too particular. In keeping with our lunch time counter service dining, I wanted to check out the food court at Harrods. I had only been to Harrods once before right after college and didn’t remember it being much more than a big department store, but the guide books raved about the selection of cuisines at the food court. So Sunday, we decided to wander over. One thing we didn’t do was to check Harrods hours. But seriously – what American would ever guess that a major department store would be closed on a Sunday? Typical.

So we were disappointed to find that the food court which had been gaining mythical status as our hunger increased, was not to be on option. And of course there didn’t seem to be all that much else around. In desperation, we circled Harrods in hopes of finding at least one restaurant in close proximity. And we found it! And it was open! And it actually looked rather good. A little French bistro….called Cafe Rouge. Which was funny, because that is the same name of that great little French restaurant we went to the other ni… Oh. It’s chain.

SO we basically had a very special Valentines Day dinner in London at La Madeleine (if La Madeleine had a full bar).

After a few seconds of sheepish side glances at each other, we laughed over what fools we were. Then we raced inside to enjoy another wonderful meal with all of the character and atmosphere we could ask for. And then we vowed to never tell anyone about that wonderful little restaurant, Cafe Rouge – ever. Until now.

Friday Confession: I Hate This Chair

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And apparently – I’m one of the few people willing to admit it. You see – it’s expensive. And important designers like it. And people don’t like to admit that they don’t like expensive things that “the experts” admire.

Until now. Until me. Until I just couldn’t take one more sighting of this chair without coming clean. This chair is EVERYWHERE. Every time I open a catalog or peruse a magazine spread on a celebrity home, this chair is in the background. I think it’s ugly, and I can honestly say that I wouldn’t even want it if you paid me to take it off your hands. Actually, that’s not true. I would take the chair and your money and then make even more money selling it on Ebay. Because people are willing to pay up to $500 for this chair (more if it’s one of the original fiberglass ones).

“But it’s an Eames Molded Plastic Armchair Rocker from Herman Miller!” you exclaim. Yes – I am aware of this. I don’t like it. I have limited funds to spend on luxuries, and I’d like to think that I spend them wisely. At least 75% of the time. Okay 50%. But wise investment or not, I do actually like everything I buy. And I’m willing to spend more on something that I deem to be worth the sacrifice. I’ve always believed that for the most part, “you get what you pay for.” But for $500, I would think that I’d be getting something better than a plastic chair.

Do you think I’m provincial? Do you suspect that I wouldn’t recognize style if it bit me on the ass? Do you wonder if I’ve ever even seen Domino Magazine? I don’t blame you for these questions, because it’s obvious that I’m just not seeing what the rest of the world sees in this chair.

Is it me, or does this chair look startlingly similar to plastic high school cafeteria chairs? A cafeteria rocking chair if you will… Personally – I don’t care to own a chair that even looks plastic (or brings back memories of suspicious chicken and overcooked pasta). I don’t care if it is an Eames. In my book, an expensive chair should crafted from wood and/or beautiful upholstery textiles. And yes, I am aware that I’m now channeling Joan Cusack’s character in Working Girl – the part when she looks at a simple, black couture cocktail dress and says, “Six thousand dollahs!? It’s not even leathah!” Remember – this is a confession. And I’m admitting to not liking something that has been celebrated by great designers for 70 years.

But that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. History making or not – I hate that hideous chair. Comments are now open for my public stoning.

Have a great weekend!

"I just want to say that we’re not ‘Spirit Bunnies’ anymore."

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“We always hated that name.”

If you are between the ages of 30 and 50 and don’t recognize that quote, crawl out from under your rock and rent Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Even if you don’t love the sophomoric humor of this movie (which even I do), it’s a fun trip down both the good and bad sides of memory lane.

I’m using this famous cheerleader’s words to introduce my Friday Confession because it illustrates exactly how I feel when it comes to managing all holiday, birthday and event planning responsibilities for my family. For some reason, there is this predetermined expectation for me to be the “Booster Club” of the Reston, VA Hoods. It’s up to me to make sure that we’re on track for sending birthday cards, responding to invitations, buying gifts and decorating the house. It doesn’t matter that I have a full time job, children to feed and bathe, mountains of laundry to fold and a time consuming blog. As the woman and wife, I’m in charge.

How many times have I heard my husband tell someone on the phone, “I don’t know – you’ll have to ask the boss.” That’s right – I also rule our social calendar. It is literally my domain. This has its benefits of course, but having the final word on our RSVPs comes with its own set of responsibilities. Sometimes it’s not so “good to be the King” [an allusion to a more obscure quote – dedicated to my father who has jokingly used it on many an occasion]. I have been known to lose track of our engagements from time to time, and I’m notorious for enthusiastically over committing. I used to think that I was an organized person. But if you keyed into my house while I’m not there to hide clutter and close bedroom doors, you would see how very false that is. All of this housework, child rearing and paycheck earning has seriously impacted my interest level in the more festive aspects of keeping house.

Where is the confession in all of this? Well, it’s twofold. First – I’m bored with it and would like to outsource. Second – I’m not very good at it anymore and feel like I’d need a personal assistant to actually get anything done, and done well. Since both involve hiring staff, I’m assuredly not getting relief anytime soon. Though it must be admitted that shortly after bringing the twins home from the hospital and changing our grownup per baby ratio from 2:1 to 2:3, Chris did propose a time management solution. Using Big Love as an example, he suggested that we bring in another wife to help out. I can honestly say that I looked right into his eyes and responded without a hint of irony, “at this point, I’d seriously consider it.” I can hear John and Kate Plus Eight guffawing over how easy I have it…but I can only work with what I know. And I know that I’m tired and right now I don’t have the energy to even consider buying a single birthday card.

Once my friend Michelle and I joked about how many hours we spend on the activity of buying birthday cards, signing them and mailing them. I think we came up with approximately 24 hours per year. That doesn’t sound like a lot – but it IS a full day with no sleep. And that’s just birthday cards. I’m not even scratching the surface of the card buying genre if you consider baby showers, wedding showers, weddings, sympathy, graduation, congratulations….etc. Do you know how many cards of any kind my husband has purchased in the past year? [Insert stony silence here.]

Obviously, greeting card coordination is only one line item to check on this Julie McCoy’s activity clip board. But instead of calculating how many hours I spend making sure that everyone has appropriate holiday attire and whipping up the dessert for a get together with friends – I’ll just skip to the end and say that it all translates into a full time job that no one really has time to do.

Is it me, or is everyone else’s team spirit flagging. This Spirit Bunny needs a break. I give up. I’m relinquishing my command and looking for a replacement. Thirty-six sounds like an early age for retirement (and a bit premature considering that my children aren’t even out of pre-school), but what other options do I have?

One would be to channel John Belushi from Animal House and yell “Who’s with me?” as a prelude to running off without a single look back. But that really wouldn’t work since – you know, I kind of have to come back to make dinner for the kids. So escape is out…

The only feasible direction to take – now that I’ve established that we can’t afford staff and have decided against polygamy – would be to shift this role to my husband, Chris. Yeah – let Chris do it for a while. He can take time off of work to drive Oliver to his pre-school grocery store field trip. He can remember that my grandmother’s birthday is next week, and set aside time to inscribe a thoughtful message in her card. He can RSVP for any future birthday parties, play dates and neighborhood gatherings. Let him be the King of the calendar for a while.

But then I recall how Chris can barely remember his own birthday – let alone anyone else’s. He takes a year to get around to making even a dentist appointment. And once while discussing the complications of having an 18 month old Oliver around breakable Christmas tree ornaments, his proposed solution was to just not have a tree that year. Do I really trust him to make sure Eleanor has the right shoes to go with her party dress? Create an attractive floral display for our Thanksgiving table? No?

Look for my next post complaining about how I can’t get my children to pose for a holiday card. I guess it’s not quite time to hang up those pom poms… I wouldn’t mind dragging them around if there was just a little more enthusiasm from the team. Maybe I need to organize a pep rally…We Spirit Bunnies secretly enjoy our role, if not the title. We’re just looking for a little appreciation.

“We just want the crowd to participate and we want spirit from every little person in this entire school. Allll-Riiiight?”

They’re Writing Memes of Love But Not for Me

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Anyone that has a blog has heard the term “bloggy love.” And I am absolutely on the list of people who like to talk about the other sites I love. I ask people to guest post, I have a list of blogs on my sidebar (one that I try to keep managable so visitors will actually click on the links), and I’ve even participated in a “virtual dinner party” providing links for some of my favorite bloggers.

But the truth is – I generally don’t like memes and awards. That is my Friday Confession – and it’s a big one for someone with a blog. It’s like telling other mothers in your play group that you really don’t like children that much. I may be banned from Blogger for admitting this – but I just don’t care for memes, awards, and most things that could be labeled bloggy love.

I even find words like “bloggy” annoying. I’ve never been one for the cutesy stuff, and anything that ends in a “y” tends to fall into that category. It kinds of reminds me of high school when all of my friends said “awesome” (a lot) and I just couldn’t. It made me feel like I was trying too hard. And this has come full circle since you may have noticed that most people with blogs use the word awesome ALL THE TIME.

Now I’m not saying that I have opinions about other people who love to participate in memes and hand out awards (or overuse the word awesome – without a hint of irony). It’s just not for me. Probably the biggest reason is that I hate making people feel left out. Of course that’s never the point of these things – but it’s an inevitable byproduct.

When I put together my list for the virtual dinner party I made a point of including parameters that would exclude a lot of the people who might expect to be invited. You were supposed to list 10 blogs and I decided to limit it to blogs that I thought wouldn’t be on anyone else’s list (because they were “blogs that may not be read by the people who are participating in the dinner party planning OR blogs that are still somewhat undiscovered”). I included Anastasia from The Gift, Anna from An Inch of Gray, Kacy from Every Day I Write the Book, Jozette from Regardez Moi, Winona from Daddy Likey, Suzie from Up the Hill Backwards, Amy from Doobleh-Vay, and Heather from Dooce (oh yes I did – but you’ll have to visit the original post for an explanation). Then I couldn’t think of anyone else that would fit my “profile” so I left two spots open for crashers.

I did like the idea of directing my readers to other sites that I really enjoy (there you go: bloggy love), but I could only do it if I knew that I wouldn’t offend anyone. In fact, one of my favorite comments ever was made on that post by Melissa, who said, “I’m having trouble with this, too. I don’t want to make either of my two readers upset if I don’t include them.” Exactly! I don’t want to alienate people who actually take time to read my mediocre attempts at writing. That would just be wrong.

So when I see a meme or an award on another blog and I’m not included in the recipient list, I just breathe a sigh of relief. It’s too much pressure to pick a limited number of “favorites.”

And I’ve had some lovely people honor me with an award. First Renee of But Why Mommy gave me the “Brillante Web Blog – Premio 2008” award (oh yeah – and awards seem to always have very bizarre and slightly foreign names). Then Melissa gave me the Premio Arte y Pico award (seriously – is “premio” a word in ANY language?) Finally, Tiffaney gave me an “Este Blog Investe e acredita na…PROMXIMIDADE.” No idea what this is supposed to mean.

These three women are wonderful people whom I’ve enjoyed getting to know online. I took their acknowdlegement in the spirit in which it was offered. But I haven’t always reciprocated. It’s not that I don’t want to – I just find it very hard to do.

I am a little embarrassed about not posting my awards with a list of other blog friends that I like. But it’s kind of a catch 22. If I just never aknowledge them I feel like my community membership may prematurely expire, and when I do join in the fun, I worry about seeming silly and frivolous (because – you know, I usally write about hard hitting topics such as potty training and giving my children candy for breakfast).

But have you noticed the abundnce of links that I’ve included? This is my compromise. It’s also a cop out. I just won’t pick and choose favorites from the many blogs I love. It’s too difficult and I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I think this is better though – since I can include several links without actually listing a “top 10.” It’s the perfect solution for me and my paranoia. And you know what we bloggers like to say when we’ve come up with a geat solution to a problem….awesome.

Why I Hate Halloween

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Hate is a very strong word – especially since it’s only one half of my bipolar feelings for Halloween. So to pre-empt any self righteous indignation on behalf of this annual dress up party, I’ll first state some of the things that I LOVE about Halloween.

I love candy. I love little boys and girls in pirate costumes. I love little boys and girls in princess costumes. [Okay – so the little boys dressed as princesses are just hypothetical since their fathers won’t allow it. But those that settle for being princesses in their hearts will eventually have their day in Key West.] I love chilly nights with glowing, grinning pumpkins. I love the sound of a neighborhood party and the sight of men unafraid to wear tights in public (even some of the aforementioned censorious fathers). I love the idea that for one night you can put on a costume and pretend to be someone else. Because don’t we all entertain the idea of being someone else every once in a while? Even just for a minute?

So with that out of the way… This Friday Confession is that I hate Halloween (at least 50% of the time). Why? Um – because it’s scary. I have mentioned previously that I do not enjoy horror movies. The Ring did not give me thrills and goosebumps. It made me want to throw my TV out the window screaming, “never, never, NEVER do that do me again! How am I supposed to sleep at night now that I’ve seen that?!” I’ll stick with Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin thank you very much.

But how can you avoid the truly scary stuff in these October weeks? I live in fear of channel surfing in the evening. You may be clicking through, looking for something entertaining – perhaps a Will & Grace rerun, or maybe one of those Danielle Steele movies on Lifetime – and out of nowhere you are confronted with Linda Blair screaming obscenities and spewing green slime. That is just not something I’d like to see. Especially as a surprise. I don’t particularly like nice surprises, let alone those of the demonic variety.

Another thing I don’t like about Halloween: the undead. The whole premise of this day is that the dead come back to visit, and my very least favorite droppers by are the ones that don’t know how to stay dead. At it’s very core, the idea of the dead coming back to life is decidedly NOT fun. Yet every year, people strap on their fake gore and find each others’ missing heads and terminal wounds delightfully amusing. Exactly when and how did the undead become festive?

But then there is this whole other world of candy corn and superhero costumes. It makes me feel so conflicted… Especially when I find myself talking to people who are entirely against Halloween. One coworker told me that her kids passed out candy, but did not dress up like their friends. The reason being that their grandmother felt very strongly about Halloween and called it the “devil’s day.” My response was that “it’s not if you go as a fairy princess.” But given my own aversions to Satan and the undead, I can see her point.

In the end – I do not ban Halloween, and OF COURSE I encourage my children to dress up and have fun. But there will always be that part of me that says, “wait – why are we doing this again?” No need to give me a history lesson – I know the background. But I kind of think that the Hallmark corporations of the world have made us forget about those very serious superstitions and instead, turned the day into a Disney themed party where both lovely and horrifying creatures coexist with only theoretical bloodshed. My own unreasonable fears and phobias will never allow me to fully buy in though; and I’ll be more likely to avoid the dark basement at night than to gleefully festoon my front lawn with fake corpses. I think I’ll just stay home and pass out candy to three year old ladybugs. And I’ll stick to Netflix movies until November first.

Ungrateful Bitch

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Okay – so that sounds harsh. But I figure if teenagers are allowed to say it on the WB, then I’m not in any danger of being labeled a potty mouth. Not that I have anything against potty mouth writing. It’s almost the standard for most popular blogs. But I really don’t swear that much, so I’d feel like too much of a poser if I tried. And you have to be true to yourself – you know?

Okay, so now that my unnecessary disclaimer is out of the way… I’m running a little late on my Friday Confession. Actually – it will look like I have TWO Friday posts since I didn’t actually hit publish on my last one until after midnight last night. But since I was still up, I considered it Thursday. And THIS is my official Friday post.

So where does the swearing come in? Not at all actually. But but when I was trying to come up with a title for my subject, that was the first thing that came to mind. You see – I am terrible at receiving gifts. It’s not that I’m against getting presents – bring it on! – but people really do have a hard time shopping for me. I’m picky. I’m particular. And I’m mercurial when it comes to my likes and dislikes.

To clarify, I might like owls (I don’t – this is just an example – don’t buy me an owl), and I may even collect them. But that doesn’t mean that I like everything having to do with owls. I could even narrow it down and say that I like white ceramic owls with yellow eyes (again – I don’t – just making a point). BUT that doesn’t mean that I will like EVERY white ceramic owl with yellow eyes. Some may be too big, or the quality might not be great, or there might be a greenish cast to the white glaze when I prefer a warmer tone. You get the point. I’m a pain in the ass.

My friend Megan once put this well by saying “all the elements are there, but…” And I blame this entirely on my father. I inherited his fussiness along with his tendency tell people how to solve their problems when they haven’t actually asked. It’s genetic.

But I am a lot better at pretense than my Dad. How many times have I given him a gift, only to receive a noncommittal “huh” or have a flaw or observation pointed out to me (“I sure do have a lot of Hawaiian shirts”). He doesn’t do it on purpose – he’s just not good at pretending. I on the other hand have learned over the years to smile big and exclaim over whatever it is that I DO like about the gift. And if I don’t like anything about it, I marvel over something vague and not necessarily negative or positive (“Wow – this is so unusual. Where did you find it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before!”).

At the end of the day – I’d be happier just picking out my own gifts. But I’ve gotten better about this, and I’ve even tried to be open minded about things that may not have initially struck my fancy. The fact is, I really need to be less rigid about things because I now have children that will soon be coming home with hideous pantry inspired jewelry. I want to wear that macaroni bracelet and Fruit Loops necklace with pride. Well actually – I don’t think I can do that last one since I can’t stand the smell of fruit scented cereal and I might literally pass out from the stench. But you know what I mean.

I’m not really ungrateful, I’ve just always put a lot of thought into the way things look. I like my hair a certain way, I like my bed made just so, and yes – I like a particular sweater that I circled in the J. Crew catalog – not the one that was ultimately purchased for me. Does this make me a bitch? No – but I definitely walked a fine line when I was first dating Chris would be honest about presents that were a “good try.” My reasoning was that I didn’t want to paint myself into a corner where he thought I really did like tapestry vests (another made up example to illustrate a point) and continue to buy them for me. Instead I thought he could “learn from his mistakes.” Which sounds logical if you ignore the fact that it’s incredibly obnoxious.

Luckily Chris put up with me (and I don’t own any tapestry vests – so there!). We’ve been together for almost ten years and married for eight. He now picks out great gifts for me – when we actually do gifts. I will state for the record that I’m sure he would have developed a better understanding of my preferences over time, regardless of any tough love present buying lessons I gave him. To assume that it was all my doing would make me the worst of know-it-alls. But since this is a confession, I have to be honest. Deep down I really do think that I’m responsible for his finely honed instincts. So I’m an ungrateful know-it-all. What can I say? It’s genetic. Thanks Dad!