Tag Archives: Me Before Kids

Initially Challenged

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The early 80s were hard for me. As a young girl, I wanted nothing more than to fit in and be like everyone else. But I wasn’t like everyone else. All of my friends had something that didn’t. I didn’t have a middle name. Which means that I didn’t have a middle initial. WHICH MEANS that I couldn’t have monograms.

The preppy look was in and monograms were everywhere at Annunciation grade school: on sweaters, on tote bags, on jewelry… And two initials just weren’t enough. When it came to monograms, I was a day late and a letter short.

But I wouldn’t be denied. I loved monograms and if I had to lie, cheat or steal to have one – so be it. Luckily I only had to lie, and just made up fake middle initials to go with fake middle names. First there was M for “Mary” which could be attributed to either the Catholic school influence or my love of all things Little House on the Prairie. But Mary didn’t stick. So I moved onto “Eleanor,” which felt a bit more real to me since it was a family name. And it was the only family name I would consider since none of the others held much appeal for me: Olive, Hazel, Ruth, Reperatta, etc. I don’t remember if anyone questioned my alternating initials, but I’m sure they did. I was a very odd little girl.

While I was once bitterly resentful about my parents’ decision to shortchange me on a middle name, I have to admit that I now understand. When it came time to select names for my own children, I was struck by how superfluous a second first name seems. What is the point of it anyway? Is it like “a spare” in case you lose your first one? When does it actually come in handy? But I couldn’t inflict the same indignity of a monogramless childhood on my own babies. Instead we chose family names to use as middle names so that there would be some relevance to them.

Of course it all worked out in the end for me. When I got married, I was able to make my maiden name my middle name and VOILA – monograms! I was thrilled. But monogram sweaters really weren’t en vogue for the late 20s crowd in the year 2000, so I had to find another outlet for my monogram mania. My first opportunity arrived when we picked out our wedding invitations. We ordered our thank you note paper at the same time, and I had a huge book full of monogram styles to choose from. I went all out and selected a gold leaf Florentine script. My mother initially thought it might be a bit much and tried to steer me toward some more conservative (boring) styles. I was having none of it, and insisted on the gold. And I still stand my by choice. It was my monogram coming out party and I needed something special.

So what does this have to do with my Materialistic Monday theme? I recently found some monogram necklaces online that brought it all back…(hence the frivolous stroll down memory lane).

Last week, I happened upon the Max & Chloe jewelry site. One of the featured pieces happened to be a gold monogram necklace that immediately caught my eye. I clicked on the designer’s page (Brian Danielle) and fell in love with this:

Let’s take a closer look at that:

Swoon. A little expensive (for me) at $385. But I had a very nice daydream about buying it.

Then I started checking out other designers on the site, and I found MORE MONOGRAMS! How about this pretty oval one from Kacey K?

Oh dear – if I can’t afford the first one, then $1,320 is definitely out of my price range. But soooo pretty… I think that calls for another daydream. Hmmm….

Okay – one more try! After a little searching, I found another option (this time from Sonya Renee) that I loved and could even afford if I saved my pennies for a while:

I really like the effect of the monogram as a circle within a circle. Need a close up?

Somewhat of a deco effect? Whatever it is – it brings to mind an old school cufflink. Not sure how an H in the middle would look, but at $112, I might be willing to give it a try.

Don’t worry Chris – I know this isn’t the time to be buying monogram necklaces that I don’t need. But my Monday theme is about things I don’t need but want. So there you have it. Monograms. Wonder if I can find any signet rings online…I always wanted one of those…

Visit me next week for a Materialistic Monday giveaway from another jewelry line: Lisa Leonard Designs!

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!

Style Stalled in 1996: Part II

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When we last left off from yesterday’s post (you may want to read that first – otherwise this might not make any sense), my early twenty-something friends and I were staring at older thirty-something women and thinking that we must have fallen into a time warp.

In the Fall of 1996 I was two years out of college and fully committed to my short skirts (skorts even!) and Jennifer Aniston shag. On this particular night, we were helping my roommate with some envelope stuffing for the non-profit she directed. The non-profit was established by Georgetown University students, so there were a number of older alumni on the board of directors.

The four of us were sitting at a table looking like a low budget version of the cast of Friends. How full of ourselves we were – and how confident in our style. Although we had varying poor body image obsessions, we managed to mask them with well thought out wardrobe choices. And as any self respecting insecure young women should be, we were very aware of the appearance of others.

It was obvious when we arrived that we were the youngest ones there, and we joked about how we were banished to the “kids table” in the front room while the older group that had known each other for over a decade gathered around a larger table in the back room. Our position afforded us a perfect view of everyone as they entered the house. And what a parade of 1980-ugly that was! (That last line was from the point of view of an obnoxious 24 year old fashion snob of course.)

When each woman walked by, our “Rachels” would swish in unison as we tracked their progress to the back of the room. Every one of them sported trends that harkened back to Ally Sheedy’s St. Elmo’s Fire wardrobe of boxy blazers and drop waist floral dresses. And horror of horrors, most matched the color of their heels to their outfit! We could barely contain our giggles and finger pointing. Of course I’ve exaggerated a bit for effect…we didn’t ALL have that particular Rachel-inspired hairstyle. My friend Maureen preferred a shorter “Monica.”

I started to list some of the comments I remembered us making, but deleted them since they made us sound far meaner than we actually were. We felt comfortable in our cattiness among friends, but wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to hear us (such is the way with everyday derision…). Let’s just say that our conversation included the following words and labels: “feathered,” “Laura Ashley,” “yoke,” “Forenza,” “pumps,” “electric blue,” “fire engine red.”

After a fair amount of laughing down memory lane, Maureen astutely observed that we would be next. She said, “ten years from now, younger girls will be sitting here laughing at us with our flip hairstyles and clunky shoes.” While this honest image made us laugh louder than any of the snide quips did, it also made me think. It actually made me a little uncomfortable – and this had nothing to do with the body suit I was wearing. I just didn’t like the idea of being outdated.

And I still don’t. But starting with that minor observation from a friend, I had to recognize the fact that I would someday show traces of my own early style influences. And I would likely get stuck in my own fashion time warps. I would get busy with life and not notice that hair didn’t curl up anymore. I would continue to clomp around in my sturdy heeled pilgrim shoes while other women tippity tapped on pointier toes. While I couldn’t predict the future trends that would sweep past the stake I had so firmly driven into my claim for a 1996 identity, I began to feel the noose I had been fashioning for myself.

But knowledge is power right? And that evening, my friend inadvertently gave me some sage advice. You don’t really have to get stuck in a particular style era. And if you do, you can always pull yourself out of it. The first step is to open your eyes and realize that there is a lot of great style out there and not all of it conforms to what celebrities of the hour are wearing on screen. It’s perfectly fine to find a look that works for you – the trick is to make it translate into the current styles. This is where those 80s ladies went wrong. They didn’t update the styles that they liked – they just kept wearing the old version.

I’ve always preferred to learn from the mistakes of others. Seriously – let them do the dirty work. And I am happy to report that I am not in fact stuck in 1996. I’d say that I’m AT LEAST holding strong at a respectable 2006. So I’d like to thank those women who never gave up on their trusty green eyeliner or their tried and true Mia flats. And I’d also like to acknowledge any 80s die hards who stuck it out for another decade. If this is you – give yourself a pat on the back. Congratulations girls – the fickle fashion world is cyclical and you are now back in style!

Style Stalled in 1996: Part I

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Recently – my Aunt Jan and I had a conversation about style and how we don’t actually see it changing. Or maybe people like Tim Gunn and Nina Garcia see it changing – but people like me don’t notice that we’ve fallen behind until we look in the mirror and see styles made popular by the original cast of Beverly Hills 90210. Hey – at least those girls were wearing mom jeans and comfortable shoes. There’s no way I could keep up with this new emaciated generation of fictional Beverly Hills high school students.

Seriously though – I’m NOT still wearing baby doll dresses with t-shirts (and never did since I thought this made my hips look big) or roomy overalls (didn’t buy into that one either – just made me look like a giant toddler). My current style is fairly up to date…in a conservative, make-it-last investment suit plus cheaper trendy accessories sort of way. But I do think that you can often lose track of how styles are changing for periods of time, and find yourself stuck in a rut with one that got just a little too comfortable.

This is easy to do since each style era spends a significant amount of time being the basis for a progression of more specific trends. When you are in the middle of one of these eras, the styles you see around you become the standard for “normal.” I was in high school in the late 80s, and if I ever saw ANYONE in bellbottom pants, I would probably have raced right over to peg the legs for them. But then when I entered college in 1990, I discovered boot cut jeans. Within just a couple of years, my standard for normal looking jeans had completely changed. And of course, several years later, those jeans were looking decidedly flared. Did I notice this progression while it was happening? Of course not. But I was young and automatically kept up with the changes.

Aunt Jan remembers being right smack in the middle the polyester and afro haired glory of 1972, and thinking that there wasn’t really a “feel” for the 70s. Not like there was for the 60s and 50s. No – with the emerging 70’s styles, “everyone just looked normal.” A thought that probably flew into her head at the sight of a white man using a pick to fluff up his globe of tight curly hair. Right…no feel…

But I remember having the same thought in the mid 80s. I was probably reading a Seventeen Magazine article on how neon is the new black and listening to the Footloose soundtrack when I came to the realization that after several colorful decades marked by distinctive styles (the poodle skirts of the 50s, the miniskirts of the 60s, the bellbottoms of the 70s…), my skin tight Guess jeans with the zippers at the bottom were so plain (hmmm…and my hair was feeling a little flat…time to poof up those bangs with some more gel).

Now I’m smarter – I KNOW that in about ten years were going to look at old pictures and see a bunch of…well….I don’t know because of course it all looks so normal right now. But I’m guessing that my Lucky Brand jeans with heeled boots will not be au courant.

Here is my fear (and the point of all of this): As a generally overworked, underpaid suburban mom of three, I don’t have a lot of time or money to invest in fashion. What if I get lazy? What if I get stuck in a rut? What if everyone around me is wearing micro minis with moon boots and I’m still wearing boyfriend jeans with flats? Of course I don’t think that particular scenario is likely as I’m not loving Katie Holmes’ look of pegged boyfriend jeans (famous last words…) – I’m just illustrating my point.

Interestingly enough, I can pinpoint the exact moment that this idea of style stagnancy took root. I was just a couple of years out of college and sitting with friends as we watched women ten years older than us file in to the room looking like a throwback to our older sisters’ high school graduation pictures.

I’ll have to stop now and get back to that tomorrow, as this post already quite long. Come visit me tomorrow to hear the rest.

By the way: If you are enjoying these little blasts from the past – I suggest visiting my friend Connie over at The Young and The Relentless. She started a new feature called The Connie Diaries. At the end of every month she posts excerpts and pictures from her old diaries. Here is a quote from last month: “August 1, 1985 – Only 2 more days until my party! I am mega excited. I am decorating with steamers in blue, red, yellow, green, pink and white!! It will look awesome!!” And how about this one from Monday: “September 20, 1985 – Lola and Shirley asked Sean’s friend Keith if he would ask Sean if I could wear his football jersey on Friday. I told them not to but did they listen to me? NO! I am so embarrassed!” Can’t wait to see what Connie is up to in October 1985. Sounds like the details of her first kiss will be exposed…

As the Crow Flies Around in Circles

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For this week’s Friday Confession, I’m admitting to a trait often attributed to women. I have no sense of direction.

Some people picture driving directions as an aerial view or a map. They see a line snaking from point A to point B. I on the other hand stand firmly at point A, seeing only as far as the first fork in the road. And I only know what to do next once I get to that fork. I’ve recently discovered that half of the routes that I use for driving through DC are completely inefficient. They meander around obvious cut-throughs and are often selected for their scenic views rather than actual convenience.

This suited me when I was a teenager with all the time in the world to get from point A to point B. Even on a school day, a late pass was always available. And missing homeroom wasn’t a major loss since I had little interest in student council announcements and morning prayers. So my guess is that my formative years as a new driver greatly contributed to this deficiency.

As a result, I never really got the hang of being able to identify the direction of anything “as the crow flies.” If I’m asked to point toward the nearby Starbucks from my front steps, I will most likely point to the road that takes me out of my immediate neighborhood. Meanwhile, that Starbucks may be in a neighborhood directly behind me. And it should come as no surprise that I’m incapable of locating the direction of North or South.

This can pose a bit of a problem for me when I emerge from a Metro station downtown. I don’t usually drive into the city since parking is often hard to find and the parking lots are outrageously expensive. If I’m going somewhere new, I’m usually faced with the dilemma of which direction to take once I am above ground. More often than not, I will take the wrong one and only realize my error once I’m a full city block away, and can see that the numbers or letters of the street signs are going down as opposed to up.

At that point, all you can really do is turn around and walk back in the correct direction. BUT having grown up in the city, I have a horror of looking like I don’t know where I’m going. That is like an invitation to the creepy guy on the corner to steal my purse or stick his hand up my skirt (both of which have happened to me before). So instead of taking the logical time saving approach, I usually keep going as if this was what I had planned all along, and either cross the street before turning back or just walk around the block.

And if I’m really lost and find that I have to turn around AGAIN (which has also happened to me before….many times), I may end up adding an extra mile of walking to my trip. I don’t know if I’ll ever shake this habit. Even if I found myself in a Maybury-like small town holding a giant aerosol can labeled “mace” in front of me, I’d still worry about appearing vulnerable to predators. No – I’d prefer to appear deranged rather than confused.

So if I’m ever running late for a meeting or lunch date with you – don’t worry. I didn’t forget. I wasn’t in an accident. I didn’t confuse the time or place. I’m probably just taking the scenic route or charging purposefully around in circles.

Like Cats and Dogs

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NOTE: This post has been edited to exclude a paragraph (and one last sentence) that were pointed out as unnecessarily harsh by a respected friend. I don’t want to have a mean spirited blog – so if you are wondering why I made some cuts…well, that’s why. This post is now less funny – but it’s also less cruel. A good trade off as far as I’m concerned.

For the past week, we’ve had an unofficial pet cat squatting on our front lawn. Actually – in all fairness, it is a pet we share with our next door neighbors since he spends half of his time on their lawn (and they put out the food and water).

We have no idea where this cat came from, but have heard that he’s been around the neighborhood for a while now. He was definitely someone’s pet. He loves people too much to be feral. Whenever I walk out the door, there he is rolling onto his back as if to say, “pet me please! I need love!”

He has also gotten into the house – much to my children’s delight. Since I was late for work and trying to get the kids out the door and into the car (it’s like herding cats, I tell you!), I was not delighted. But it does break my heart to leave him outside. The truth is, we just can’t take on a pet right now. More importantly, we can never have a cat because both my mother and brother are hideously allergic.

So far – this post has been pretty boring. Especially for people that don’t like cats. But the reason I bring up Arthur (one of the neighbors he used to stalk named him Arthur) is that he’s like the poster child for why people who love cats….well, love cats. He is the antithesis of everything cat haters claim to be their bad qualities. He’s lovable, he’s friendly, he follows you around, he appears in the window at night mouthing “let me in” and scares the bejeezus out of you (okay – that’s not exactly a good thing, but it does discount the idea that cats could care less about people…or maybe they just want to be inside…okay – strike that third one).

Arthur reminds me that if I didn’t have relatives with allergies (and if I was a bit more handy with the vacuum), I would probably be a cat person. I’m like a cat myself. I am independent, I like to be clean, I don’t barrel into a room demanding attention, I prefer to let people come to me, I like to be warm, I don’t like to be wet and I demand to be taken seriously. If I don’t like my situation, I retreat – but if you attack me, I am well able to defend myself.

My husband on the other hand, is a dog person. And what a surprise – his personality better reflects the qualities of dogs. He is incredibly social and requires little time by himself. He’s also a bit of a ham and likes nothing more than to be the center of attention. He has no problem laughing at himself. He is a swimmer (cats are not known for a love of water) and likes to run and fetch things (okay – that last one is not true, but he is awfully good about bringing me glasses of water at night). If he senses danger, he will come out swinging. He doesn’t let anyone push him around but is very cognizant of who holds the title of alpha male (but then again, don’t all men?).

So why do we get along so well? We don’t. Or more accurately, we have had to learn to understand and respect each other. And I think we’ve done a pretty good job of it. I know when he really needs my attention and he knows when I prefer to be left alone. And I think that we’ve helped each other grow up and get over ourselves a bit. I’ve made him lighten up with the alpha male stuff – and he has encouraged me to stop taking myself so seriously.

So big happy family of cats and dogs right? Not really what I had initially planned on writing. What I was really thinking about was how people tend to like one animal more than the other, and often have heated debates over which pet is better. This was actually the subject of this week’s All Mediocre “Topic Tuesday” (every Tuesday a topic is up for discussion – one that is not particularly serious, one that might actually be considered “mediocre” in relevance). And as usual – I can see both sides.

There is no question about it. Cat people can be pretty weird. But the cool ones will readily admit it. I was recently laughing with an old friend about how one day in eighth grade I found a stack of polaroids on her desk that featured all of her cats in different positions and locations in the house. When I asked her about them, she started shuffling through and saying, “look at this one of Gatsby – he’s such a clown…and then look at Fluffy’s expression in this one. She’s such a snob.” Meanwhile, all I was seeing was a cat on a chair, a cat on a porch, a cat on a counter… Of course the fact that she is able to see the humor in this, makes it much less weird. Sort of… And for the record, she’d totally agree with me.

The really bizarre cat people don’t have a sense of humor about themselves give a bad name to the others. And as a result, smug dog lovers feel justified in cultivating a healthy disdain of their feline loving nemeses. They sneer at the idea that a cat can provide as much love and affection as a dog. And I must admit, they make some valid points. I mean cats DO tend to be very independent and they can be shy with new people when a dog would be leaping all over the visitor, pleading for attention. But the dog lovers lose me when they start talking about how cats are “mean.” Everyone has heard at least one ardent cat hater insist that cats are “sneaky” and “selfish” and “mean.” These are all very human traits and really don’t apply to the animal kingdom, making for a somewhat ridiculous argument. And let’s be honest – at the end of the day, you never hear a news report about someone being viciously attacked by cats.

Another strike against dogs is the whole picking up dog poo thing. I can’t think of anything that I’d rather do less. Four years of changing diapers will be enough poop for me thank you very much. And ironically enough, many dog owners who chose not to have children will often make comments about the horrors of diaper changing. But they have no problem going for a three mile walk with their dog, carrying a bag full of poop. I may change a lot of diapers – but I don’t throw all of the poop in a plastic bag and carry it around the neighborhood.

Why do I always end up talking about poop? And how did I manage to write such a long post about cats and dogs and not even have a point? Let’s see if I can reel this in.

Everyone is different, and as a result we’ll all have varied preferences including the pet that suits us best. And some even like both – or neither. But there is no reason to be nasty about it. Arthur (who is unnervingly absent from our front lawn at the moment – making me wonder if he’s hiding somewhere in the house) is a great cat. Even my dog lover husband says so. So how can you say that cats are “mean?” Maybe we spend too much time making blanket statements and not taking these animals on a case by case basis. Maybe we also do this with each other far more than necessary. MAYBE instead of fighting like cats and dogs (there’s the tie in!), we should just respect each other for our differences and get over it already. We all have flaws – but we also have our good points.

People DO that?

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I’m feeling a little tapped out on confessions at the moment. Really – yesterday’s post included a couple. So I’m going to just to tell a quick, somewhat embarrassing story about myself.

I have always been a little…well, naive isn’t really the word…but something like that. Maybe innocent? Probably more like clueless. At any rate – I’m the last one to pick up on innuendo and I was a VERY good girl in high school. My experience with boys was pretty limited and I found out just how clueless I was when I got to college.

My first school (I transferred after first semester freshman year) was Eugene Lang, a small college in New York City that’s part of the New School. For the most part, no one I talk to has ever heard of it. One of the reasons that I chose it was that it’s affiliated with Parsons School of Design (where I had done a summer art program) so I knew that I’d be able to take classes there as well.

During all of the orientation hoopla, we received packets of information on the city, as well as the school, and some pamphlets that they thought would be of interest to us as new college students. One of these pamphlets was on safe sex. Now as innocent as I was, I certainly knew the basics and I wasn’t thrown by the condoms that were included. It was obvious what those were. But in actually skimming through the rest of the information, I came across products and terms that were completely unfamiliar.

There were two that stand out in my memory as being particularly mystifying. Since my new roommates were sitting with me going through their packets – I figured I’d ask them for further clarification. I’m not afraid to admit that I don’t know something about sex. Go ahead – laugh at me… Slut.

Anyway – the first question I had was “what is a dental dam.” Dental dams kept coming up in tandem with condoms and I couldn’t understand what teeth had to do with anything. I’m not going to bother including the explanation that I received, but if you have never heard of this product before (you never know), I’ve included a link. So that cleared things up. I had never really thought about safe sex from that perspective before – but of course the pamphlet featured pictures of different couples: boy/girl, boy/boy, girl/girl….so that was relevant.

The second thing that confused me was a third option for sex. As far as I knew there was regular intercourse (including the boy/boy alternative) and oral sex. But the pamphlet kept referring to “intercourse, oral sex and rimming.” I had never in my life heard the word “rimming.” I mean, none of my friends had mentioned it and I couldn’t think of anything that I had seen in a movie that implied something other than the first two…

Like I said – I’m not embarrassed to admit ignorance, so I asked, “what is rimming?” [Again – I’m not going to provide the exact answer I was given – but I’ve added a link for anyone that would like one.] The reaction I got ranged from snickers to incredulity. But they all knew what it was. And they told me. And my response? A horrified, “people DO that?!?”

I don’t think I’ll look at my key word searches for awhile… But I’m sure I’ll be getting a lot more hits from Thailand…

If I Could Take it Back

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If I could take it back, I would never have:
*See update below regarding margaritas.

Watched The Ring.
This was the scariest fucking movie I’ve ever seen in my life. That’s right, I said “fucking.” I rarely say it and never write it – but I really have to make this point. The point being that this is the SCARIEST FUCKING MOVIE I’ve EVER seen. When that black and white girl climbed out of the television, my face actually contorted in the same Silent Scream that that marked the faces of her victims. I have never been so horrified in my entire life. The people that created this movie are sick, sick geniuses. I hate them.

Watched The X-Files episode about the inbred Peacock family.
Oh. My. God. That’s right – I have to resort to an overused blogger’s writing device to communicate just how incredibly scarring this experience was. I watched this episode with a friend and I actually called her at work the next day to find out if she too was thinking of lighting her hair on fire and jumping out of her office window. I spent the day masochistically reliving the entire program in my head. Every small detail – from the moment that the kids playing baseball discover the newly buried monster baby, to the end when the last living brother climbs OUT OF THE TRUNK of his car where he was having a quiet heart to heart with “Mama.” If I even think about the scene in which “the boys” feed Mama chewed up bread, I immediately curl up in the fetal position and begin to weep. Who came up with this idea? The fact that someone actually had this in their brain makes me fear for their sanity. If armless, legless old women that have sex with their mutant sons regularly pop into their heads in a burst of inspiration…Well, I don’t know how they sleep at night.

Read Salem’s Lot.
Noticing a theme here? I don’t like the scary stuff. I will cut myself some slack regarding The Ring which I had thought was “a thriller” when we rented it. And I can usually take the creepy themes of The X Files. But I have had a reccurring vampire nightmare since I was a toddler – so I don’t know what pod person took over my body when I decided to buy this particular paperback. Once I opened the book, I only put it down to sleep or go to work. I read it in two days. On the second day I walked into the apartment after work, picked up the book and didn’t put it down until I finished it. When my husband tried to talk to me, I reacted as if he was interrupting my attempt to deactivate a bomb. Only when I finished reading the last page could I return to the reality of holding conversations with my husband and using the bathroom. Then I proceeded to sleep with a light on for three nights straight. And shades had to be drawn lest I look out the window and see one of the undead scratching on the window pane and asking to be let in.

Agreed to share a pitcher of margaritas with a friend one night in Hoboken.
I have overindulged on occasion. And I have paid for it in unpleasant ways. But I have never before (or since) had the pleasure of puking all over a popular bar town. I’ve seen others do it, and I’ve felt pity for them (poor wretches). I always assumed that they were pathetic degenerates or stupid teenagers. But a 30 year old woman who can kill a couple of bottles of wine with her husband and suffer little more than a headache the following day should be able to have a few margaritas without fear of alcohol poisoning. Nancy (my friend) and I never did figure out how that happened. The waitress at the scene of the crime suggested that we just order a pitcher since it would be cheaper if we each planned to have a couple of drinks (sadistic bitch). So we assumed that they must not be unusually strong. And maybe they weren’t (Nancy didn’t puke her brains out) – maybe I just didn’t eat enough that day. I don’t know, but it was quite possibly one of the most humiliating experiences of my entire life. No matter how fucked up (god – there is that word again – so I must be serious) I was, I knew exactly how awful I looked and the only two words that came out of my mouth were “I’m sorry.” Over and over and over again as I puked over and over and over again all the way from that evil hell hole posing as a Mexican restaurant to the train station (and in the train station and on the train and oh my god if only I had just ordered a diet coke). I think about this often and I always cringe. I really really really wish I could take it all back. But I guess it could have been worse. At least it was just Hoboken.
*Note to eveyone that seems to think that I drank a pitcher of margaritas by myself – I DIDN’T. I shared the pitcher with a friend – which made for about 2 1/2 each. I am stupid – but I’m not crazy. Hope I didn’t scare any of my Mormon friends away…

Told my mother that I DIDN’T want to do a semester in Paris my senior year of high school.
I can’t even write about this without wanting to go back in time and shake that stupid girl senseless. Okay – so I KNOW that I was a bit of a late bloomer and leaving the country for an entire season was a little outside of my comfort zone… But honestly – why couldn’t I have had more self confidence back then? Why couldn’t I have mustered up just a smidgen of adventurous spirit? I have it now. NOW I want to go to Paris for a semester. I’m ready NOW, Mom. And I have no concern that I’ll be missing out on anything going on at home. You know – since I actually stayed home and experienced a whole lot of nothing that semester. Fun nothing of course – but not once in a lifetime, change your perspective of the world SOMETHING. Oh well – I would also go back and rethink those white tights with the jeans skirt – but hindsight is 20/20.

Read The Notebook.
I know – everyone LOOOVED this book, and cried and marveled at a love so strong that it could endure blah blah blah blah blah…this is where I may as well have gone back to Hoboken for satanic margaritas since the whole thing just made me want to puke. I did hear that the movie was great – and maybe I’d prefer that medium for the story. But my distaste for the book has left me with little desire to see it. Years ago when I was talked into reading that syrupy snore festival, I honestly didn’t see what the big deal was. Maybe I was just going through a cynical phase, but I couldn’t get into it. It was SO BORING. And what was the deal with all of those references to how they lived a life “full of love and laughter?” All of that laughter was puzzling to me. I read the whole book and I can promise you, no one ever said anything funny. What could they possibly be laughing about? Anyway – I should have made this one of my Friday Confessions since I will most likely be dragged out of my house and stoned to death for blaspheming the eternal love of what’s her name and don’t remember his either. If I have a few last dying breaths, I’ll be sure to tell everyone what I really think about Dirty Dancing, Atlas Shrugged and Eyes Wide Shut.

Friday Confession and Guest Post

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For my last confession of the week, I thought I’d go with something embarrassing. So here it is. I was a very weird little girl. I loved anything “old fashioned” and felt as if I was born in the wrong century. I desperately wanted to wear high button shoes and carry a parasol.

I had a Madame Alexander doll that I particularly liked (probably Amy from Little Women with her blond hair and yellow pinafore) and I went through a phase when I would drag it everywhere with me. And I was not that little – I think I was nine! But by then I had read A Little Princess something like nine times and was enamored with Sara Crewe’s doll that had a wardrobe to match her own (I only WISHED that I had a yellow pinafore…).

I also used to like my grade school uniform because I thought it kind of looked like something old fashioned. It really didn’t, but it was a plaid jumper, and that seemed close enough. I even wore it in the summer without a shirt underneath. Like some kind of bizarre sundress. Never mind that it was a hideous polyester. I thought the two buttons at the waist were very smart looking. My best friend at the time didn’t know what to make of this. But as long as I participated in her horse-obsessed game preferences, she was willing to put up with it.

Finally – I think I read the Little House series even more than A Little Princess, and would memorize the details of what Laura and Mary wore, how they did their hair (I was big on braids back then) and could only wish that someone would invite me to a taffy pull. During this time, I tried to emulate some of these quaint practices and insisted on calling my parents “Ma and Pa.” They humored me, but I can only imagine what they really thought of this. My brother flatly refused to join in, and much to my disappointment, it never really caught on.

Sometime in seventh grade, I stopped being such a dork and became a bit more mainstream in my interests. But I still had to live with the shameful memory of wandering around downtown DC wearing one of my odd get ups – most likely involving a hat – possibly garnished with fresh flowers from a neighbor’s garden.

That’s it! No more confessions from me for a while (but feel free to add any of your own). And don’t forget – I’m guest posting on Light Refreshments Served today (Friday, August 1), so make sure to check it out!

Why I Hate Being a Truck Driver

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Now that I’ve got your attention… I don’t really drive one of the big rigs. I drive a Ford Expedition. SUV owners are either saying, “Eh – My Tahoe is just as big,” or “Oh yeah – my Explorer is quite big enough, thank you very much.”

The truth is – I’m just not a “big car” person. They don’t suit me. I don’t know how to gracefully enter or exit them, I can’t park them to save my life, and if I didn’t have a little alarm that lets me know when I’m getting too close to something behind me, I would have taken out any number of trees and bushes by now.

Obviously this truck was not my choice. After almost a year of cramming three car seats across the back seat of Chris’ Jeep Liberty, we resigned ourselves to the fact that we really needed something roomier. Like any other proper suburban family, we initially discussed minivans. Chris was very against this idea. He practically broke out in hives at the thought. But I could have cared less. I’m not much of a car person in general.

I think my disinterest in cars was cultivated early when as a teenager, I drove a 1985 used “Red Renault Alliance.” I put this in quotes because that is generally how people referred to it: “the Red Renault Alliance.” Here is a picture:

My parents purchased this when I got my drivers license so that I could drive myself to school (at the time I had a very inconvenient public transportation commute from Capitol Hill to Georgetown). My father seemed to believe that I was incredibly lucky to have my own car to drive instead of sharing theirs. I of course, knew that “lucky” better described my friends who were getting new Suzuki Samurais and Cabriolet convertibles for their sixteenth birthdays. Seriously though, I now agree with my father. Upon the Red Renault Alliance’s demise just two short years after we bought it, my brother did have to share a car with my parents. Which in his sixteen year old opinion “sucked.”

The next car that I had was purchased after I got my first job out of college. It was a little blue Toyota Tercel. And in my own twenty-two year old opinion, it “sucked.” But it was all I could afford. And after the dramatic explosion/car flipping/burned feet drama of the Red Renault Alliance, I was not interested in buying anything used. My tiny Tercel had vinyl seats that burned the backs of my legs in the summer and no power steering. This completely destroyed the amazing talent for parallel parking I developed in my parents’ crowded Capitol Hill neighborhood. But just like the Red Renault Alliance, the Tercel was not a status car, and I continued to view cars as simply a means of transportation.

Eventually, I had other larger sedans (Saturns, a Camry), but my interest level never increased. I liked driving a shiny new car, but had no inclination to actually maintain it.

When I met Chris, it was clear that he wasn’t not a car person either. In fact, when I first started dating him, I always drove. His car was a hand me down from his grandparents. I don’t remember the make, but it was white with maroon interior (I believe his friends called it the “maxi pad”) and it had started emitting fumes that made him light headed after about 15 minutes of driving. He moved on to a very basic Jeep Cherokee and shared my apathetic attitude toward maintenance.

So fast forward eight years, three kids, several mediocre cars and a suburban commute later…and we were at a loss as to what we wanted. One weekend, Chris went out to test drive some minivans he had researched online, and instead came back with this:

I was speechless. It was huge. I had to step up onto a running board in order to hoist myself into the front seat. This was by far, the biggest vehicle that I had ever tried to drive. But it’s now been over a year, and like anything else, I’ve gotten used to it.

Reasons why I hate driving it include the following:

Like I said, I’m terrible at parking it. And I don’t even mean parallel parking. I walk out of the grocery store and locate my car by looking for the big truck parked on a diagonal. No matter how carefully I try to get into a space, I usually end up crooked or right up against one neighboring car and a mile away from the other. I’ve even been keyed! And I often end up with some man trying to help direct me in – like those airport guys on the tarmac helping planes pull up to the gates. It’s just humiliating.

Additionally – I find that people are mean to me. Maybe they see my big truck and think that I have an aggressive personality to go with it. All I know is that I have the hardest time getting people to let me change lanes in traffic. It’s like they’re in their little economy car thinking, “Oh no you don’t, you big gas guzzling bully – you’re not cutting in front of me.” If only I could install a sign that said, “I am not driving this car by choice – I have too many children to fit into an environment-friendly compact car.” I doubt anyone would care. They’d probably just key my sign.

Finally, we just don’t match. I don’t look like a big car person. Not only is it not my style, but I don’t have the attitude to pull it off. I’m not particularly petite, but I’ve seen tiny girls climb out of trucks bigger than mine looking like they own the parking lot (they, of course can park without taking up two spaces). This will never be me.

So what car SHOULD I be driving? Most would answer this question with their idea of a dream car. Something eye catching, fast, vintage, expensive… But I’d rather spend the money on my house or a great vacation.

Someday my children will get their drivers licenses, and they’ll be the ones envying their friends with fancy new cars. That’s right – they’ll be driving whatever junkie jalopy we give them. And they’ll be damn lucky to have it!