For the last 9 years my BFF and I plan a Christmas shopping trip to Mayfair Mall in Milwaukee. We generally go around the first week of December – always mid-week.
The intent is to shop for others, but in honesty, we do a lot of shopping for us. Two full-time working moms responsible for the near flawless execution of Christmas wizardry clearly deserve a little retail compensation. It’s a big fat juicy rationalization at its finest and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
In all of our years planning the Mayfair Holiday Shopping Extravaganza we’ve only been foiled once by bad weather. Otherwise, our drill is the same. By way of Starbucks I head to my friends house where we compare coupons for various stores, pile in the car and arrive promptly at Mayfair by 8:30am. Macys typically has a sale every other day so the odds are pretty good they are already open which means lolling about and acquiring several pairs of shoes in an hour’s time while waiting for the rest of the mall to open. This is not uncommon. My BFF understands and appreciates the value (and need) to own multiple pairs of black shiny shoes (or boots). It is strongly encouraged. It is not atypical to make multiple shoe purchases with said BFF, which of course receive affirmation of the buyer’s good style and taste. A successful first hour in the shoe department will result in one trip back to the car to unload packages.
And then it’s time to hit the mall, making various stops, lulled by sparkly holiday attire in store windows and the aroma of delicious treats from William Sonoma.
And just like that (insert finger snap here)…its 2:00. Not kidding. It’s the world’s fastest day…which means it’s time for lunch and cocktails. Is there anything better than lettuce wraps and Mai Tais from PF Changs while the rest of the world is having a workday? I think not.
Now I will admit that one Mai Tai slips down the gullet pretty quickly. Ordering a 2nd has been done on more than one occasion. There a few risks associated with the Mai Tai lunch; first there is that there are two, happily buzzed females roaming the mall wielding Visa cards. The other risk is that eventually the Mai Tai the buzz wears off, but one chemical can be replaced with another. Hurray for the White Mocha Peppermint Latte, a 500 calorie orgasm in a cup. Brilliant! The benefit of said lunch is that everything looks better through Mai Tai colored glasses (it’s the dark rum float) including me half naked in a three way mirror, which is why the lingerie shopping is after lunch. Many a sexy bra has been acquired at Soma while delicately buzzed on fruity rum drinks. It really should be a law to serve cocktails to women while shopping for intimates, jeans or bathing suits.
More roaming of the mall ensues including a trip to Crate and Barrel. And then just like that (insert finger snap here) the world’s best grown up girl day is over and it’s time to head back home…two ladies all the happier with several new pairs of shiny shiny shoes.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Putting the Jolly Back into the Holidays: Update #1
I took that first step to a jollier holiday season the weekend before Thanksgiving. Actually it was one step + 252 round trip miles. Go me.
The ulterior motive was largely driven by the craft show circuit but the end result was surprisingly positive.
My craft show circuitude yielded a tip on a potential show location for 2011…The Holiday Craft Market at The American Club in Kohler, Wisconsin. I’ve never been to The American Club but I have heard it’s lovely. I have had the good fortune to stay at The Sundara Inn and Spa which has all Kohler fixtures, like the shower tower haven system and the overflow soak tub. I figured anything linked to both The American Club and Kohler was worth a looksy.
As luck would have it the Holiday Craft Market was within the week of acquiring the tip. I made plans to meet my two sister-in-laws for a morning of crafting and scoping out the venue, all in the name of holiday cheer.
Of course this all seemed like a good idea when I made plans on Tuesday, but to be perfectly honest by Saturday, after a full week of my corporate desk job and a moderately lucrative show in Waunakee I was tired. Dog tired. My enthusiasm for hopping in the car at 6:30am on a Sunday morning had dwindled to record lows. But my BFF told me I would have fun and to press on.
So I did.
And it was.
I hate when my BFF is smarter than me. Curses.
The show itself is very lovely. I will definitely apply for 2011.
But the very act of walking the show and stopping to chat with vendors and buy a few trifles for myself (and a few for some other people) while simultaneously chatting with my sister-in-laws was really fun. And then we did brunch. Not just a regular brunch but The American Club Sunday Champagne brunch; the kind of brunch in which one tosses out all eating rules like “eating in moderation” and “no sugar” because the food is so decadent.
For two solid hours we sat in tufted chairs at a linen covered table listening to classical music and ate fresh omelet’s, cold seafood and sipped coffee from delicate china. Time was inconsequential. It was just a lovely morning of ladies who brunch. Decadent, relaxing and wholly enjoyable.
And that is how I kicked off my holiday season. Perhaps there is hope for me yet this holiday season.
The ulterior motive was largely driven by the craft show circuit but the end result was surprisingly positive.
My craft show circuitude yielded a tip on a potential show location for 2011…The Holiday Craft Market at The American Club in Kohler, Wisconsin. I’ve never been to The American Club but I have heard it’s lovely. I have had the good fortune to stay at The Sundara Inn and Spa which has all Kohler fixtures, like the shower tower haven system and the overflow soak tub. I figured anything linked to both The American Club and Kohler was worth a looksy.
As luck would have it the Holiday Craft Market was within the week of acquiring the tip. I made plans to meet my two sister-in-laws for a morning of crafting and scoping out the venue, all in the name of holiday cheer.
Of course this all seemed like a good idea when I made plans on Tuesday, but to be perfectly honest by Saturday, after a full week of my corporate desk job and a moderately lucrative show in Waunakee I was tired. Dog tired. My enthusiasm for hopping in the car at 6:30am on a Sunday morning had dwindled to record lows. But my BFF told me I would have fun and to press on.
So I did.
And it was.
I hate when my BFF is smarter than me. Curses.
The show itself is very lovely. I will definitely apply for 2011.
But the very act of walking the show and stopping to chat with vendors and buy a few trifles for myself (and a few for some other people) while simultaneously chatting with my sister-in-laws was really fun. And then we did brunch. Not just a regular brunch but The American Club Sunday Champagne brunch; the kind of brunch in which one tosses out all eating rules like “eating in moderation” and “no sugar” because the food is so decadent.
For two solid hours we sat in tufted chairs at a linen covered table listening to classical music and ate fresh omelet’s, cold seafood and sipped coffee from delicate china. Time was inconsequential. It was just a lovely morning of ladies who brunch. Decadent, relaxing and wholly enjoyable.
And that is how I kicked off my holiday season. Perhaps there is hope for me yet this holiday season.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Trying to put the jolly back into the Holidays
In recent years, I fear I have become a glorified bah-humbug. In my youth (youth being defined as pre mortgage, children and in-laws) I loved Christmas. I loved all of it; the music, the decorations, the buzz of the mall, the wrapping, the baking. Unfortunately family responsibilities and unreasonable self expectations for pulling off a Frank Capra Christmas have left me scarred and jaded. Christmas has become an exercise in survival. Can I mire through yet another season of shopping, baking, decorating, cooking, wrapping and entertaining reasonably unscathed?
Every year Christmas approaches with the ferocity and speed of freight train. A fast and furious commercialized beast with the possibility to do great bodily harm and significant credit card damage. What was once the 12 days of Christmas has morphed into the 3 months and 12 days of Christmas. Macys had their Christmas decorations up before Halloween. I am 100% serious. Full blown decorations and merchandising; tables stocked with coin counters, mini golf sets and Godiva gift boxes. By the time there are only 12 days until Christmas I am so sick of Christmas music I could run screaming from yet another rendition of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.
I find this early bird gets the worm approach to Christmas to be both a blessing and curse. My twisted logic rationalizes that getting my shopping done early, say before December 1st, will afford me the opportunity to actually enjoy a season I’ve come to dread with the same intensity as a root canal. The curse is obvious. I have to start thinking and planning in September. That’s too early.
Common sense would say to forgo all the fluffery of the baking, elaborate decorations and neatly wrapped packages. I am not sure my family would notice. Or maybe they would. I’m too much of a chicken to find out. Let’s face it, the combination of unreasonable self expectations and mom guilt would probably send me right into therapy. Or into the Betty Ford center. Hard to say.
I am trying very hard to carve out some special holiday-esque events so I can actually enjoy what the season has to offer. So far I’ve planned two shopping trips, a girl’s only cocktail party and a dinner reservation at a nice steakhouse as a surprise for my family. I also have this little ritual of watching every Christmas movie I own (and I own many of them) between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Many times a movie classic is playing while I’m multitasking with other things because if there is one thing that December is short on, it’s time to sit and relax.
My favorite holiday event is ringing bells for the Salvation Army. It is an annual Christmas Eve event and those who sign up early (like September) get the choice ringing spot (like right outside Macys which is in an indoor shopping mall). On Christmas Eve people are generally cheerful and generous. I hypothesize that’s because they are secretly glad (like me) that the season is coming to a close.
So with Thanksgiving a mere few days away, I’m going to take a deep breath, a gulp of wine and ask for patience from the universe to shed some of my bah-humbug ways in an attempt to enjoy the next month. Updates to follow…
Every year Christmas approaches with the ferocity and speed of freight train. A fast and furious commercialized beast with the possibility to do great bodily harm and significant credit card damage. What was once the 12 days of Christmas has morphed into the 3 months and 12 days of Christmas. Macys had their Christmas decorations up before Halloween. I am 100% serious. Full blown decorations and merchandising; tables stocked with coin counters, mini golf sets and Godiva gift boxes. By the time there are only 12 days until Christmas I am so sick of Christmas music I could run screaming from yet another rendition of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.
I find this early bird gets the worm approach to Christmas to be both a blessing and curse. My twisted logic rationalizes that getting my shopping done early, say before December 1st, will afford me the opportunity to actually enjoy a season I’ve come to dread with the same intensity as a root canal. The curse is obvious. I have to start thinking and planning in September. That’s too early.
Common sense would say to forgo all the fluffery of the baking, elaborate decorations and neatly wrapped packages. I am not sure my family would notice. Or maybe they would. I’m too much of a chicken to find out. Let’s face it, the combination of unreasonable self expectations and mom guilt would probably send me right into therapy. Or into the Betty Ford center. Hard to say.
I am trying very hard to carve out some special holiday-esque events so I can actually enjoy what the season has to offer. So far I’ve planned two shopping trips, a girl’s only cocktail party and a dinner reservation at a nice steakhouse as a surprise for my family. I also have this little ritual of watching every Christmas movie I own (and I own many of them) between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Many times a movie classic is playing while I’m multitasking with other things because if there is one thing that December is short on, it’s time to sit and relax.
My favorite holiday event is ringing bells for the Salvation Army. It is an annual Christmas Eve event and those who sign up early (like September) get the choice ringing spot (like right outside Macys which is in an indoor shopping mall). On Christmas Eve people are generally cheerful and generous. I hypothesize that’s because they are secretly glad (like me) that the season is coming to a close.
So with Thanksgiving a mere few days away, I’m going to take a deep breath, a gulp of wine and ask for patience from the universe to shed some of my bah-humbug ways in an attempt to enjoy the next month. Updates to follow…
Friday, November 19, 2010
The Pain of Teambuilding
I work in corporate America. “Teaming” or “team building” is an important part of the corporate culture. It is a subject that I find exhausting.
The people in my work group are all nice people, but we are not best friends. I don’t think we will ever be hitting the weekly happy hour. I don’t think that level of intimacy is required to function as a team. From my point of view it’s all about the common goal; the project or task that the team is working towards to further fatten the wallets of our shareholders. It’s not about lunches and outings and spending more time with people I probably see too much of already.
There are of course exceptions. I do, of course, have friends both in and outside of my current team that I “do lunch with” or share a happy hour. That is to be expected.
There are those on the team who feel like everyone needs to be best friends and has a right to know all the personal details of everyone’s life in the name of “teaming”. These folks feel that personal camaraderie is equivalent to working efficiently on a team together. Ironically these are also the most annoying people on my team. I can barely grit my teeth through an hour long meeting. Anything on a social level including hallway water cooler chit chat would be tantamount to a red hot poker through the retina and is generally best avoided.
Over the past 2 weeks our department has endured three, yes count ‘em, three, separate sessions where we “share our feelings” on a wide variety of subjects…including teaming. Sharing is exhausting and it generally produces no real outcome.
In our most recent kumbaya session our team had a mandatory visioning exercise wherein each team member looked into our crystal ball to envision how the team would “look” in the next in two years. Then we had to share with a partner, rotate partners, share some more, rotate for the third time and share again. I am not making this up! And there wasn’t even alcohol to dull the pain of this exercise. Then….wait for it….we had to share as a group and brainstorm. URGH! Stop the insanity!
One of the comments shared was we needed to do more teambuilding because and I quote “someone one aisle over was having a personal major life event and we all didn’t know about it” . Ummmm. It’s personal and therefore not required fodder for corporate consumption.
This is the kind of thinking that keeps me in SuperCash tickets each week while simultaneously counting down until retirement so I can walk away from cubicle living and never look back.
The people in my work group are all nice people, but we are not best friends. I don’t think we will ever be hitting the weekly happy hour. I don’t think that level of intimacy is required to function as a team. From my point of view it’s all about the common goal; the project or task that the team is working towards to further fatten the wallets of our shareholders. It’s not about lunches and outings and spending more time with people I probably see too much of already.
There are of course exceptions. I do, of course, have friends both in and outside of my current team that I “do lunch with” or share a happy hour. That is to be expected.
There are those on the team who feel like everyone needs to be best friends and has a right to know all the personal details of everyone’s life in the name of “teaming”. These folks feel that personal camaraderie is equivalent to working efficiently on a team together. Ironically these are also the most annoying people on my team. I can barely grit my teeth through an hour long meeting. Anything on a social level including hallway water cooler chit chat would be tantamount to a red hot poker through the retina and is generally best avoided.
Over the past 2 weeks our department has endured three, yes count ‘em, three, separate sessions where we “share our feelings” on a wide variety of subjects…including teaming. Sharing is exhausting and it generally produces no real outcome.
In our most recent kumbaya session our team had a mandatory visioning exercise wherein each team member looked into our crystal ball to envision how the team would “look” in the next in two years. Then we had to share with a partner, rotate partners, share some more, rotate for the third time and share again. I am not making this up! And there wasn’t even alcohol to dull the pain of this exercise. Then….wait for it….we had to share as a group and brainstorm. URGH! Stop the insanity!
One of the comments shared was we needed to do more teambuilding because and I quote “someone one aisle over was having a personal major life event and we all didn’t know about it” . Ummmm. It’s personal and therefore not required fodder for corporate consumption.
This is the kind of thinking that keeps me in SuperCash tickets each week while simultaneously counting down until retirement so I can walk away from cubicle living and never look back.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Things I learned from Judy Blume
There are a series of conversations that my mother failed to have with me during my growing up years into adulthood. Let me be clear, my mom, while being a lovely women is not a proactive conversation starter especially on sensitive girl topics.
In my opinion there are several topics that moms are required to cover off on with their daughters. Primarily they revolve around the periods, puberty and sex. To be fair, I’m sure my grandma never talked to my mom on either of these topics and judging from the separate rooms my grandparents kept, any topics on sex probably wouldn’t have been a good news message anyway. In hindsight, my mom’s lack of parental conversation is a bit surprising as she walked in on me and my high school beau, heatedly making out in the basement family room with a blanket over our laps, more than once. It was those experiences that will lead to my “no blankets-no closed door policy” with my teenage son should girls come a visiting. I vividly remember being 14 and all the hormones therein.
All of my information on girl biology came via the teen classic “Are you there God, it’s me Margaret.” That book combined with the filmstrip shown in 5th grade on “men-strooo-a-shun” was the extent of my health education. The girls received a flowered pamphlet and box of kotex pads covertly disguised in a brown paper lunch bag. I took my new treasures home and laid them on the butcher block in the kitchen for my mom to see and then exited the crime scene.
To be clear, I’m sure I didn’t really want to have any conversation with my mom about this subject. Education via Judy Blume worked for me just fine. As a parent, I quickly figured out conversations on these types of subjects should take place early and often, as opposed to a one-time event. That’s probably why I avoided my mom like the plague. I was uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable. Avoidance was the best option for all concerned parties.
My mom did attempt to address the brown paper bag on the counter and the conversation was as follows:
Mom: "Do you have any questions?"
Me: "No."
Case closed. Crisis averted.
All my information about s-e-x was also delivered via Judy Blume. The book "Forever" was a favorite title circulating between my girlfriends in high school. My best friend asked her mom for permission to read it.
I just read it. I was a rebel that way.
Between that book and my real life boyfriend I was a fountain of life experience. A fact that my parents would probably not appreciate. But my girlfriends did. I could dispense advice ala Judy Blume. Once again in hindsight I’m more than stunned they didn’t sit me down and try to lecture me on the evils of the flesh or teen pregnancy. Mostly they just suggested that we go downstairs and “watch a movie” when my boyfriend came over.
Needless to say, I don’t have a basement with a TV and a couch for good reason.
In my opinion there are several topics that moms are required to cover off on with their daughters. Primarily they revolve around the periods, puberty and sex. To be fair, I’m sure my grandma never talked to my mom on either of these topics and judging from the separate rooms my grandparents kept, any topics on sex probably wouldn’t have been a good news message anyway. In hindsight, my mom’s lack of parental conversation is a bit surprising as she walked in on me and my high school beau, heatedly making out in the basement family room with a blanket over our laps, more than once. It was those experiences that will lead to my “no blankets-no closed door policy” with my teenage son should girls come a visiting. I vividly remember being 14 and all the hormones therein.
All of my information on girl biology came via the teen classic “Are you there God, it’s me Margaret.” That book combined with the filmstrip shown in 5th grade on “men-strooo-a-shun” was the extent of my health education. The girls received a flowered pamphlet and box of kotex pads covertly disguised in a brown paper lunch bag. I took my new treasures home and laid them on the butcher block in the kitchen for my mom to see and then exited the crime scene.
To be clear, I’m sure I didn’t really want to have any conversation with my mom about this subject. Education via Judy Blume worked for me just fine. As a parent, I quickly figured out conversations on these types of subjects should take place early and often, as opposed to a one-time event. That’s probably why I avoided my mom like the plague. I was uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable. Avoidance was the best option for all concerned parties.
My mom did attempt to address the brown paper bag on the counter and the conversation was as follows:
Mom: "Do you have any questions?"
Me: "No."
Case closed. Crisis averted.
All my information about s-e-x was also delivered via Judy Blume. The book "Forever" was a favorite title circulating between my girlfriends in high school. My best friend asked her mom for permission to read it.
I just read it. I was a rebel that way.
Between that book and my real life boyfriend I was a fountain of life experience. A fact that my parents would probably not appreciate. But my girlfriends did. I could dispense advice ala Judy Blume. Once again in hindsight I’m more than stunned they didn’t sit me down and try to lecture me on the evils of the flesh or teen pregnancy. Mostly they just suggested that we go downstairs and “watch a movie” when my boyfriend came over.
Needless to say, I don’t have a basement with a TV and a couch for good reason.
Friday, November 12, 2010
The Birthday Octave
Sigh.
Another candle on the cake. Technically, I’ve officially stopped counting. This makes the whole aging process seemingly less horrific then it truly is. And it is horrific. Whoever says “it’s just a number” hasn’t hit the magical age of 40 where parts of the body break, sag and atrophy at a rate that is staggering. I am not making this up. There is a reason trips to the plastic surgeon have increased for the 40-50 demographic.
Despite my disdain for counting the actual birthday candles, I am a big fan of maximizing birthday celebration opportunities. And I like cake.
My brilliant BFF taught me all about the “birthday octave” wherein the birthday girl is allowed to partake in any and all celebratory occasions, gifts (either received by friends or self purchased), outings, special lunches, dinners, extra trips to Starbucks, new boots, any treats involving chocolate, wine, happy hours or spa services of any kind for a full 8 days before and after the actual birth date. Boys of course can take advantage of the octave, although I’ve never met one who does.
My husband thought he was being cute and witty when he hooked up the new washer and proclaimed “Happy Birthday”. He got the stink eye, a frosty response and a general proclamation that I wanted new dishes for my birthday. Go me.
So far my birthday octave includes one vacation day, 3 dates for cocktails/appetizers, 1 dinner out and a pedicure.
Clearly there is capacity for other Happy Birthday to me type of events. I definitely envision a new pair of boots folded into the mix, especially after the washing machine jab. And they are so richly deserved after the multiple treks to the Park Town Laundry during the 2 longs weeks that I was without a washer.
I think platform boot with the mega heel will look especially fabulous dangling off a barstool whilst sipping a Happy Birthday to me martini. The birthday octave is a stroke of pure genius!
Another candle on the cake. Technically, I’ve officially stopped counting. This makes the whole aging process seemingly less horrific then it truly is. And it is horrific. Whoever says “it’s just a number” hasn’t hit the magical age of 40 where parts of the body break, sag and atrophy at a rate that is staggering. I am not making this up. There is a reason trips to the plastic surgeon have increased for the 40-50 demographic.
Despite my disdain for counting the actual birthday candles, I am a big fan of maximizing birthday celebration opportunities. And I like cake.
My brilliant BFF taught me all about the “birthday octave” wherein the birthday girl is allowed to partake in any and all celebratory occasions, gifts (either received by friends or self purchased), outings, special lunches, dinners, extra trips to Starbucks, new boots, any treats involving chocolate, wine, happy hours or spa services of any kind for a full 8 days before and after the actual birth date. Boys of course can take advantage of the octave, although I’ve never met one who does.
My husband thought he was being cute and witty when he hooked up the new washer and proclaimed “Happy Birthday”. He got the stink eye, a frosty response and a general proclamation that I wanted new dishes for my birthday. Go me.
So far my birthday octave includes one vacation day, 3 dates for cocktails/appetizers, 1 dinner out and a pedicure.
Clearly there is capacity for other Happy Birthday to me type of events. I definitely envision a new pair of boots folded into the mix, especially after the washing machine jab. And they are so richly deserved after the multiple treks to the Park Town Laundry during the 2 longs weeks that I was without a washer.
I think platform boot with the mega heel will look especially fabulous dangling off a barstool whilst sipping a Happy Birthday to me martini. The birthday octave is a stroke of pure genius!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Peanuts and Monkeys
I’m preparing for my next series of winter craft shows. $85 gets me a 6x12 space in a high school gym and guarded optimism that I’ll sell enough tye dyes to offset the cost of the Oakley sunglasses my son has on his Christmas wish list, as well as the unexpected investment in a new washing machine. As a matter of background, I sell children’s tye dye wearables that include one piece rompers, (I can’t call them onesies™ because the Gerber people don’t like that and their lawyers send me love notes), dresses, hats, sweatshirts – stuff like that. It’s a pocket money type of product at $10 - $25; although sweatshirts are a bit more (dye hogs, trust me on this).
There are two kinds of shoppers at craft fairs.
If you want dyed local, by hand, on a nicer quality cotton fabric with professional grade dye, then I am your gal. I don’t bargain. I don’t negotiate. I am not the dollar store. My items are priced fairly. I also don’t provide instruction on how to tye dye. My knowledge is my business. I am not setup here to provide a “how to” opportunity. And I feel pretty confident that the quality and vibrancy of my tye dyes are better then what you have done as a summer project on your front lawn.
This is the part where I sound like my dad and hop up on my soapbox.
As a society we howl and complain about outsourced manufacturing and the quality of some of those products (some, not all). We say we want to buy American. We say we want local. We say we value handmade. We say we want to support our local business, artist or farmer. Only we want rock bottom, made in China, chain store prices.
Sorry folks, you can’t have it both ways.
American made products are more expensive. Handmade products are also more expensive. I will add the appropriate disclaimer that all of my blanks (the white pieces purchased before I dye them) are not made in the USA. But some are, and those are priced accordingly. Somehow it’s a-ok to spend $45 on a hoodie at the Gap made in Sri Lanka and not okay to spend $45 on an American Apparel hoodie actually made in the US and dyed in Wisconsin. I don’t get it.
So to the folks that enter my booth and say “You’re stuff is so cute, but it’s so expensive” or “$12 is a lot for a tye dye t-shirt” please skip the craft fair circuit, get in your car and go to the nearest discount store. Pay your peanuts. Get your moneys.
Hopping off soapbox.
There are two kinds of shoppers at craft fairs.
- Those who appreciate the time and energy it takes to actually dye something by hand.
- Those who think they appreciate the time and energy it take to dye something by hand, but want a Wal-Mart price point.
If you want dyed local, by hand, on a nicer quality cotton fabric with professional grade dye, then I am your gal. I don’t bargain. I don’t negotiate. I am not the dollar store. My items are priced fairly. I also don’t provide instruction on how to tye dye. My knowledge is my business. I am not setup here to provide a “how to” opportunity. And I feel pretty confident that the quality and vibrancy of my tye dyes are better then what you have done as a summer project on your front lawn.
This is the part where I sound like my dad and hop up on my soapbox.
As a society we howl and complain about outsourced manufacturing and the quality of some of those products (some, not all). We say we want to buy American. We say we want local. We say we value handmade. We say we want to support our local business, artist or farmer. Only we want rock bottom, made in China, chain store prices.
Sorry folks, you can’t have it both ways.
American made products are more expensive. Handmade products are also more expensive. I will add the appropriate disclaimer that all of my blanks (the white pieces purchased before I dye them) are not made in the USA. But some are, and those are priced accordingly. Somehow it’s a-ok to spend $45 on a hoodie at the Gap made in Sri Lanka and not okay to spend $45 on an American Apparel hoodie actually made in the US and dyed in Wisconsin. I don’t get it.
So to the folks that enter my booth and say “You’re stuff is so cute, but it’s so expensive” or “$12 is a lot for a tye dye t-shirt” please skip the craft fair circuit, get in your car and go to the nearest discount store. Pay your peanuts. Get your moneys.
Hopping off soapbox.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Bad Fashion Trends
When I attempted college (for the first time) in the fall of 1985, leggings and long sweaters were all the rage. I know. I vividly remember my “Gap” black leggings and this really nifty long cobalt blue sweater that had pairs of dice all over it. It was bad ass.
A mere 25 years later, leggings or “jeggings” as they are now called/long sweater phenom is back in force. Unless you are a woman who is between the ages of 16-22, 110 lbs and 5’10 tall…this isn’t a look for you. I don’t care how cougarish and hip you think you are. You must meet all the criteria. If you are shorter than the required 5’10 you should be in fantastic shape and wearing boots with a rocking heel. There is nothing worse than 40 trying to look 20.
I made the mistake of trying on a pair of jeggings just for fun. There are those rare fashion miracles where clothing looks much better on a real person then on the hanger. It happens. It does. But this was not one of those times. Seriously. It was so bad it had the potential for the “fashion don’t” spread in any magazine across the land.
I watch “What not to wear” and I own the book. If you don’t own the book, you should. It’s worth every penny. I’ve seen the show enough times to know that in order to lengthen the leg and look thinner the pant should start at the widest part of the body and go straight down. I’ve never once heard Stacey and Clinton say – start at the widest part and taper inward. Never. Not once. And why? Because it looks like a triangle. A bad triangle.
A great looking trouser pant and a pair of killer boots can hide 25 years worth of sins. You can’t disguise that with jeggings, I don’t care what kind of sweater you put over it .And really – like we all need to pull a sweater over our ass and hips. Cause that’s a good idea. It’s the fashion equivalent of putting “juicy” on the rear of a sweat pant. You might as well prance around town with a wide load sign on your backside.
And the sad thing is – this look is everywhere. Every brand, every manufacturer from the Target house brand to Ralph Lauren has a the jegging/sweater look…because somehow the look will seem better on a 43 year old woman with tummy pooch because it has Ralph Lauren on the label.
My advice is to skip this year’s jegging/sweater fashion trend. You’ll be glad for it. If you’re itching to be trendy, opt for an ankle book with a platform and a high heel. You can wear them with your trouser jeans and your legs will look a mile long. If you can’t walk in them you can always dangle from a barstool whilst sipping a martini. Very fashion forward. Trust me on this.
A mere 25 years later, leggings or “jeggings” as they are now called/long sweater phenom is back in force. Unless you are a woman who is between the ages of 16-22, 110 lbs and 5’10 tall…this isn’t a look for you. I don’t care how cougarish and hip you think you are. You must meet all the criteria. If you are shorter than the required 5’10 you should be in fantastic shape and wearing boots with a rocking heel. There is nothing worse than 40 trying to look 20.
I made the mistake of trying on a pair of jeggings just for fun. There are those rare fashion miracles where clothing looks much better on a real person then on the hanger. It happens. It does. But this was not one of those times. Seriously. It was so bad it had the potential for the “fashion don’t” spread in any magazine across the land.
I watch “What not to wear” and I own the book. If you don’t own the book, you should. It’s worth every penny. I’ve seen the show enough times to know that in order to lengthen the leg and look thinner the pant should start at the widest part of the body and go straight down. I’ve never once heard Stacey and Clinton say – start at the widest part and taper inward. Never. Not once. And why? Because it looks like a triangle. A bad triangle.
A great looking trouser pant and a pair of killer boots can hide 25 years worth of sins. You can’t disguise that with jeggings, I don’t care what kind of sweater you put over it .And really – like we all need to pull a sweater over our ass and hips. Cause that’s a good idea. It’s the fashion equivalent of putting “juicy” on the rear of a sweat pant. You might as well prance around town with a wide load sign on your backside.
And the sad thing is – this look is everywhere. Every brand, every manufacturer from the Target house brand to Ralph Lauren has a the jegging/sweater look…because somehow the look will seem better on a 43 year old woman with tummy pooch because it has Ralph Lauren on the label.
My advice is to skip this year’s jegging/sweater fashion trend. You’ll be glad for it. If you’re itching to be trendy, opt for an ankle book with a platform and a high heel. You can wear them with your trouser jeans and your legs will look a mile long. If you can’t walk in them you can always dangle from a barstool whilst sipping a martini. Very fashion forward. Trust me on this.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Washing Machine Update
As previously documented in last week’s “It Comes in Threes” blog (ok, it wasn’t a blog as much as a glorified woes me pity party) my washing machine died. Diagnosis from my spouse, who by the way is pretty good with diagnosing TV issues but has no real mechanical aptitude, concluded the washing machine was suffering from a busted water pump.
Fast forward to Thursday last, when the nice repair man arrives between 8:35am and 10:35am. In my little rose colored glasses world, I was expecting to be doing much needed laundry by noon. My washing machine glass was half full.
After 30 minutes the repairman resurfaces and says: “A busted pump is the least of your worries.”
Ah yes, the words every homeowner loves to hear.
And just like that my washing machine glass went from half full… to sad, empty and broken.
Apparently some random foreign object wore a 3 inch hold in the drum of and then leaked water onto the motherboard, subsequently frying said motherboard. FML.
The good news. A washing machine is still under extended warranty for one year and 4 days. This means it will either be fixed or replaced. Repair dude recommends replaced, which of course requires secret-docier paperwork filled out in triplicate to be routed to a washing machine committee to make the final ruling on fixing verses replacing my very broken washing machine.
The bad news. I am still without a washing machine and will be forced to relive my college days via the Park Town Laundromat. I start scouring for quarters.
Regular laundry is enough of a hassle. However just make things slightly more challenging I am currently prepping for 3 winter craft shows that start in about 2 weeks. Attempting to tye dye 50+ pieces with no functional washing machine is an exercise in creative problem solving.
Commencing hauling 4 baskets and one hamper of laundry to Park Town Laundromat, which I will admit is startlingly clean. Snaps for Laundromats on the west side of Madison. Spend 10 minutes how to change the cycle on the machine. Insert $2.25 in quarters (laundry has gotten substantially more expensive since 1986). Sit back and wait for the magic to happen.
On the plus side – one can knock out 5 loads of wash + drying time and folding in 2 hours. On the downside I still am without my own washing machine – hence another trip to Park Town Laundry in my future to rinse out 25 cotton candy pink dresses and pre-wash a load of blanks that need to be dyed.
Once again. I’m scouring for quarters.
Fast forward to Thursday last, when the nice repair man arrives between 8:35am and 10:35am. In my little rose colored glasses world, I was expecting to be doing much needed laundry by noon. My washing machine glass was half full.
After 30 minutes the repairman resurfaces and says: “A busted pump is the least of your worries.”
Ah yes, the words every homeowner loves to hear.
And just like that my washing machine glass went from half full… to sad, empty and broken.
Apparently some random foreign object wore a 3 inch hold in the drum of and then leaked water onto the motherboard, subsequently frying said motherboard. FML.
The good news. A washing machine is still under extended warranty for one year and 4 days. This means it will either be fixed or replaced. Repair dude recommends replaced, which of course requires secret-docier paperwork filled out in triplicate to be routed to a washing machine committee to make the final ruling on fixing verses replacing my very broken washing machine.
The bad news. I am still without a washing machine and will be forced to relive my college days via the Park Town Laundromat. I start scouring for quarters.
Regular laundry is enough of a hassle. However just make things slightly more challenging I am currently prepping for 3 winter craft shows that start in about 2 weeks. Attempting to tye dye 50+ pieces with no functional washing machine is an exercise in creative problem solving.
Commencing hauling 4 baskets and one hamper of laundry to Park Town Laundromat, which I will admit is startlingly clean. Snaps for Laundromats on the west side of Madison. Spend 10 minutes how to change the cycle on the machine. Insert $2.25 in quarters (laundry has gotten substantially more expensive since 1986). Sit back and wait for the magic to happen.
On the plus side – one can knock out 5 loads of wash + drying time and folding in 2 hours. On the downside I still am without my own washing machine – hence another trip to Park Town Laundry in my future to rinse out 25 cotton candy pink dresses and pre-wash a load of blanks that need to be dyed.
Once again. I’m scouring for quarters.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Dream Big
Playing the lottery is one of the several vices I carry around. The others being Starbucks and an unhealthy affinity for black boots. Oh and good tequila. I would not define myself as a “big gambler”, but I do buy 7 days worth of SuperCash tickets at a time. And yes, I use the same numbers. I will also, on occasion, purchase a “Powerball” or “Mega Millions” ticket if the jackpot inches upwards to the many millions of dollars.
I don’t think dreaming is a character flaw. I think it’s nice actually. Even though my odds of hitting it are say .00001%. They are the same .00001% for me as anyone else. And wouldn’t it make a great story?
My husband refuses to play the “what if we won the lottery game” with me. A quality I find annoying and joyless. I agree that some people can be ultra fanatical about winning 10 million dollars by simply plunking down $1 and ordering up a quick pick Mega Millions ticket. I am of the personal opinion that there is a certain level of joy and optimism that comes from dreaming big, even if those dreams have a .00001% of coming to fruition.
The “Mega Millions” jackpot was at $118 million recently and I bought a ticket. Why not? $118 million could do a lot of good for a lot of people. If I won said lottery, the very first thing I would do is change my phone number, hire a lawyer and a good accountant so I can spend some, share some, save some.
Think of what I could I do for my parents and my mother in law. We could gift a sizeable check to each of our respective siblings and good friends… enough to get them out from any debt, offset the kids’ college funds or simply have some money in the bank so it’s not so stressful if the car breaks down?
And for ourselves…invest heavily. Buy a car that isn’t 10 years old. Replace the carpeting and living room furniture. Build a deck. Redecorate the bedroom. Upgrade the computer to something slightly zippier than a dinosaur. Donate a big check to a bunch of charities.
I would quit my corporate job and really see about expanding my tye dye line – the kind of expansion you can only do if you have some dollars to help get things rolling. Like add my own labels, a customer website, or a van customized to hold all my displays and inventory.
Of course winning the “SuperCash” (top prize $350,000) wouldn’t afford the kind of luxurious spending and saving mentioned earlier, but it would definitely allow for much needed new carpeting, and fattening up my sons college account. Unfortunately, I would still need to keep my corporate cube job but such things are a trade-off for even a little financial freedom.
And that alone is worth the price of a ticket to dream about.
I don’t think dreaming is a character flaw. I think it’s nice actually. Even though my odds of hitting it are say .00001%. They are the same .00001% for me as anyone else. And wouldn’t it make a great story?
My husband refuses to play the “what if we won the lottery game” with me. A quality I find annoying and joyless. I agree that some people can be ultra fanatical about winning 10 million dollars by simply plunking down $1 and ordering up a quick pick Mega Millions ticket. I am of the personal opinion that there is a certain level of joy and optimism that comes from dreaming big, even if those dreams have a .00001% of coming to fruition.
The “Mega Millions” jackpot was at $118 million recently and I bought a ticket. Why not? $118 million could do a lot of good for a lot of people. If I won said lottery, the very first thing I would do is change my phone number, hire a lawyer and a good accountant so I can spend some, share some, save some.
Think of what I could I do for my parents and my mother in law. We could gift a sizeable check to each of our respective siblings and good friends… enough to get them out from any debt, offset the kids’ college funds or simply have some money in the bank so it’s not so stressful if the car breaks down?
And for ourselves…invest heavily. Buy a car that isn’t 10 years old. Replace the carpeting and living room furniture. Build a deck. Redecorate the bedroom. Upgrade the computer to something slightly zippier than a dinosaur. Donate a big check to a bunch of charities.
I would quit my corporate job and really see about expanding my tye dye line – the kind of expansion you can only do if you have some dollars to help get things rolling. Like add my own labels, a customer website, or a van customized to hold all my displays and inventory.
Of course winning the “SuperCash” (top prize $350,000) wouldn’t afford the kind of luxurious spending and saving mentioned earlier, but it would definitely allow for much needed new carpeting, and fattening up my sons college account. Unfortunately, I would still need to keep my corporate cube job but such things are a trade-off for even a little financial freedom.
And that alone is worth the price of a ticket to dream about.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Empty Calorie Curse
I love food. I love good food but I also love food that tastes good and is inherently bad. Like butter, bacon or chocolate. Or all manner of baked goods (with real butter), potatoes (with butter), pasta with cream sauces, butter, Ruffles and dip, double stuff oreos and bread, bread and more bread! (Preferably with butter.) Oh …and cheese. Good cheese. Like wonderfully decadent gorgonzola or a nice ages Cheddar on a hunk of bread. Anything with sour cream, cream cheese, any cheese. Yum!
I spend a lot of my time attempting to exercise will power to avoid these foods or at least talk myself out of them and into better choices. Like a salad. Now a salad can be tasty especially if you add a smattering of croutons (bread) but a salad is not a ho-ho. I generally feel good about eating a salad and bad about eating a ho-ho… but the badness can’t always dissuade me from eating a ho-ho. I am the type of person that can justify the ho-ho because I ate the salad. It’s the cheeseburger/diet coke theory. As if the diet coke negates all the badness (goodness) of the cheeseburger.
And I do exercise. I really do. I consistently exercise 3-4 days a week + weights. I don’t think it does much. Or maybe it does. Let’s just say it doesn’t help me lose weight but it prevents me from weighing 400 pounds because I like cheese, bread and wine. And olives. Did I mention olives?
I’ve been kicking around the idea of giving up baked goods, candy and such for a fixed period of time. Just to see if I could do it. And if I could do it, would it result in the number on the scale going down? I’m thinking baked goods, candy and sweets are the thing to give up because I have an insufferable sweet tooth. It would be only slightly harder to give up coffee than to give up sweets. And sweets will be quite a challenge. Giving up coffee would be a risk to society at large. I wouldn’t recommend it. There could be tragedy.
Reality says an experiment like this before the holidays is plain dumb so I’m not going to even attempt it until after New Years. I’m already a grade A number one cranky pants during the holidays. The cookies make the whole solo act of shopping, wrapping, decorating, entertaining, baking, cooking and otherwise executing a fabulous Christmas singlehandedly tolerable. I’d never survive the 3 months and 12 days of Christmas without a Russian Tea Cake or Krumkakke to hang onto. But I am definitely putting it on my list of things to accomplish this winter. I need to dream up a cute little name for the challenge. And then I’ll blog about it, gain a zillion followers, write a book and then they’ll make a movie with Meryl Streep. Kidding.
I have about 2 months to start planning the challenge. This will be a good thing. Yes. A good thing. I can feel it. And it will probably make a great story or at least an amusing anecdote for my reader of one.
I spend a lot of my time attempting to exercise will power to avoid these foods or at least talk myself out of them and into better choices. Like a salad. Now a salad can be tasty especially if you add a smattering of croutons (bread) but a salad is not a ho-ho. I generally feel good about eating a salad and bad about eating a ho-ho… but the badness can’t always dissuade me from eating a ho-ho. I am the type of person that can justify the ho-ho because I ate the salad. It’s the cheeseburger/diet coke theory. As if the diet coke negates all the badness (goodness) of the cheeseburger.
And I do exercise. I really do. I consistently exercise 3-4 days a week + weights. I don’t think it does much. Or maybe it does. Let’s just say it doesn’t help me lose weight but it prevents me from weighing 400 pounds because I like cheese, bread and wine. And olives. Did I mention olives?
I’ve been kicking around the idea of giving up baked goods, candy and such for a fixed period of time. Just to see if I could do it. And if I could do it, would it result in the number on the scale going down? I’m thinking baked goods, candy and sweets are the thing to give up because I have an insufferable sweet tooth. It would be only slightly harder to give up coffee than to give up sweets. And sweets will be quite a challenge. Giving up coffee would be a risk to society at large. I wouldn’t recommend it. There could be tragedy.
Reality says an experiment like this before the holidays is plain dumb so I’m not going to even attempt it until after New Years. I’m already a grade A number one cranky pants during the holidays. The cookies make the whole solo act of shopping, wrapping, decorating, entertaining, baking, cooking and otherwise executing a fabulous Christmas singlehandedly tolerable. I’d never survive the 3 months and 12 days of Christmas without a Russian Tea Cake or Krumkakke to hang onto. But I am definitely putting it on my list of things to accomplish this winter. I need to dream up a cute little name for the challenge. And then I’ll blog about it, gain a zillion followers, write a book and then they’ll make a movie with Meryl Streep. Kidding.
I have about 2 months to start planning the challenge. This will be a good thing. Yes. A good thing. I can feel it. And it will probably make a great story or at least an amusing anecdote for my reader of one.
Friday, October 29, 2010
It comes in threes
My mother has this saying that bad things come in threes. Three bad things will typically happen in quick succession. Then the bad luck is over. Bad of course, is a relative term. Bad doesn’t always mean death or illness. But it pretty much always involves unexpected expenses.
I am into my 2nd set of threes in the last ten days. Any more bad stuff and I’ll be swinging from a rope…or bankrupt.
I am into my 2nd set of threes in the last ten days. Any more bad stuff and I’ll be swinging from a rope…or bankrupt.
- Ocotober 13th: Fistulotomy. Two blog entries on this subject alone. A fistulotomy by itself should count as three things. I’m still waiting for the bill but I’m guessing $2,800 for my portion of the deductible.
- October 17th: My dryer decided to start making a very bad noise. The kind of noise that would generate a call to the repairman. Lucky for me my spouse works for a major appliance company. The good news he had a direct access to the service manager. The bad news is the noise correlates to the type of repair “not worth fixing” because the repair is only slightly less than a new dryer.
- October 18th: The garage door wouldn’t go all the way down. Upon further inspection by said husband, the gears were stripped. Happily the fix was only $47 on a part purchased from Amazon.com, 8 hours of spousal labor and 6 days of parking our cars in the driveway. And I found out at my routine dental appointment I need a crown and not the princess sparkly kind either. One of my teeth currently has a silver filling. The silver filling is cracked threatening to break the tooth. I’m putting this repair off until January, giving up popcorn and chewing very carefully on the right side of my mouth. My portion of the crown will be $600. Oh boy. October 18th wasn’t a banner day. I probably shouldn’t have left the house.
- October 20th: Rolled my ankle walking to my car. I’m nothing if not graceful. This one didn’t cost me anything other than a handful of ibuprofen and a swollen foot for 3 days. Nice.
- October 23th: Hit my head on the door of the dryer. Hit it hard. Hard enough to cause tears, a goose egg and a bruise that still hurts 3 days later. Again, this one only cost me my pride and a bag of ice.
- October 24th: The pump on the washing machine fails. This explains the stationary tub full of sopping wet clothes which I wrung out by hand. The good news – the machine has the extended warranty and the repair dude is coming on Thursday. Praise the lord.
- October 29th: My car is scheduled for new tires. Ironically this is the one event that was planned but now feels like a big financial inconvenience. And seriously, is there anything more un-fun then spending $500 on new tires. $500 buys a lot of shoes…or wine…which I need to drink to drown my sorrows and block out the financial hemorrhaging.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
When Parenting Sucks
Sometimes parenting just sucks.
My son and I have this “arrangement”. The arrangement goes something like this: I pay the cell phone bill and because I pay the bill, I have access to take a quick glance at his text messages. Herein lies the conflict. He has been pre-emptively deleting his messages. Yeah. I know. Very naughty and sneaky. So the question at the top of mind is what is he hiding?
I don’t want to be one of those parents waltzing through life with blinders on, absolutely ignorant to the fact that their kid is throwing beer parties or into some other type of mischief. That said – I know my kid. He’s home every night, is currently pulling straight A’s and doesn’t spend time lolling about the mall unattended. So I’m guessing it’s a girl.
Regardless, it did prompt a very gross conversation which ended with tears. His not mine.
I get it. He doesn’t want his dorky mom reading his text messages. He wants privacy. I get that also. And I want to give him privacy. I really do. But I also need to make sure he is not getting bullied (or bullying) or receiving sext messages or sneaking beer out of the house. So I tried my best to reassure him that I have absolutely no interest in reading the minutiae of his conversations with his friends and that as a parent it’s my job to make sure he gets through the next 4 years as unscathed as possible. And other parents may not care what their teens are doing, but I do care and someday he’ll be glad. At which point he stomped upstairs to his room and slammed the door. Sigh. So much for open dialogue.
After about 20 minutes I made my way to him room where I essentially reiterated my position. He either gets on board with my cursory review of his text messages or the texting goes away. And as an editorial side note: I am discreet about it. When I do check he isn’t around and it really is just a quick glance. Trust me. None of these text conversations are particularly deep.
I take his sullen "I hate my mom" look and stony silence as acceptance of the offer. And then I ask if there is a girl. No answer (whilst he intently stares at his iTouch screen). But I can tell he is fighting back a smile.
Ah. Mystery solved. Yes. Clearly a girl which I am sure will inspire content for another blog entry in the future.
P.S. I am happy to say that when I checked his phone recently texts had not been deleted. And the “I hate you mom” phase only lasted about an hour.
My son and I have this “arrangement”. The arrangement goes something like this: I pay the cell phone bill and because I pay the bill, I have access to take a quick glance at his text messages. Herein lies the conflict. He has been pre-emptively deleting his messages. Yeah. I know. Very naughty and sneaky. So the question at the top of mind is what is he hiding?
I don’t want to be one of those parents waltzing through life with blinders on, absolutely ignorant to the fact that their kid is throwing beer parties or into some other type of mischief. That said – I know my kid. He’s home every night, is currently pulling straight A’s and doesn’t spend time lolling about the mall unattended. So I’m guessing it’s a girl.
Regardless, it did prompt a very gross conversation which ended with tears. His not mine.
I get it. He doesn’t want his dorky mom reading his text messages. He wants privacy. I get that also. And I want to give him privacy. I really do. But I also need to make sure he is not getting bullied (or bullying) or receiving sext messages or sneaking beer out of the house. So I tried my best to reassure him that I have absolutely no interest in reading the minutiae of his conversations with his friends and that as a parent it’s my job to make sure he gets through the next 4 years as unscathed as possible. And other parents may not care what their teens are doing, but I do care and someday he’ll be glad. At which point he stomped upstairs to his room and slammed the door. Sigh. So much for open dialogue.
After about 20 minutes I made my way to him room where I essentially reiterated my position. He either gets on board with my cursory review of his text messages or the texting goes away. And as an editorial side note: I am discreet about it. When I do check he isn’t around and it really is just a quick glance. Trust me. None of these text conversations are particularly deep.
I take his sullen "I hate my mom" look and stony silence as acceptance of the offer. And then I ask if there is a girl. No answer (whilst he intently stares at his iTouch screen). But I can tell he is fighting back a smile.
Ah. Mystery solved. Yes. Clearly a girl which I am sure will inspire content for another blog entry in the future.
P.S. I am happy to say that when I checked his phone recently texts had not been deleted. And the “I hate you mom” phase only lasted about an hour.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Gleekdom
I have jumped on the Glee bandwagon. Big time. I tried resisting but I was sucked in and now find myself looking forward to Tuesdays nights a little too much. It must be my show-choir background. In my day we didn’t call it “Glee club” but show choir or swing choir. But it’s all the same stuff. The show tunes. The box step- snap-side-touch step dance moves. The wistful ballads. Unfortunately we didn’t have the powerhouse vocals. We also didn’t have the token handicapped, Asian or openly gay kid. After all Middleton High School was a hybrid of white bread USA and hicks from Cross Plains. We did have the cheerleader/jock combo though, a few farm kids and one multi-racial member.
Glee is cheesy, snarky, sugary coated, vocally rich deliciousness. I love it. LOVE IT! I love it so much I had to move Glee Season I and II up to the top of queue on my Netflix rental list by passing Season III of The Tudors and Mad Men. Sorry.
And I love Sue Sylvester. I love her snarky comments, her sneer and her rainbow of Adidas tracksuits. I love the big oafy football coach, the doe eyed guidance counselor and her manic hand washing. I love Mr. Schu and his perfectly coifed boy band hair. I love Rachel and her prima donna ways which oddly remind me of our own high school prima donna “Kate”, who was ironically just as talented and as much of a priss. Art imitates life.
My husband does not love Glee. My husband abhors Glee. He cringes. He thinks it’s weird, creepy and downright wrong. He’s a hater.
My son, however is also a Glee lover. Despite the fact the musical gene passed him by he is right there with me watching every sugary, snarky episode. Part of this I think is driven by the fact that every high school girl on the planet is a Gleek and it’s not a bad idea to maximize your attractiveness to the fairer high school sex by relating to something that they are totally into at the moment. The kid isn’t dumb. It pays to maximize potential girlfriend opportunity.
My gut tells me Glees popularity will burn fast and bright. Then the producers will do something ridiculous, jump the shark and be in the big fade.
In the meantime I’ll enjoy a big helping of gleetastic, gleerific, gleemazing , fabulous gleeness.
Glee is cheesy, snarky, sugary coated, vocally rich deliciousness. I love it. LOVE IT! I love it so much I had to move Glee Season I and II up to the top of queue on my Netflix rental list by passing Season III of The Tudors and Mad Men. Sorry.
And I love Sue Sylvester. I love her snarky comments, her sneer and her rainbow of Adidas tracksuits. I love the big oafy football coach, the doe eyed guidance counselor and her manic hand washing. I love Mr. Schu and his perfectly coifed boy band hair. I love Rachel and her prima donna ways which oddly remind me of our own high school prima donna “Kate”, who was ironically just as talented and as much of a priss. Art imitates life.
My husband does not love Glee. My husband abhors Glee. He cringes. He thinks it’s weird, creepy and downright wrong. He’s a hater.
My son, however is also a Glee lover. Despite the fact the musical gene passed him by he is right there with me watching every sugary, snarky episode. Part of this I think is driven by the fact that every high school girl on the planet is a Gleek and it’s not a bad idea to maximize your attractiveness to the fairer high school sex by relating to something that they are totally into at the moment. The kid isn’t dumb. It pays to maximize potential girlfriend opportunity.
My gut tells me Glees popularity will burn fast and bright. Then the producers will do something ridiculous, jump the shark and be in the big fade.
In the meantime I’ll enjoy a big helping of gleetastic, gleerific, gleemazing , fabulous gleeness.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Fistulotomy Fun Part II
Read Part I for the back-story. I ain’t repeatin’ it all…
A Fistulotomy is the surgical repair of a fistula, and surgery is the only way to repair it.
Surgery means sedation. Sedation is good.
The surgeon opens the fistula tunnel, converts it to a groove to allow the fistula to heal from the inside out. So basically you’re paying thousands of dollars for a big gaping wound. I am told that it will take 3 weeks to heal. I am guardedly optimistic.
I’ve been trying not to read too much online stuff because I’ve read it takes anywhere from 3 weeks to a year to heal. My surgeon is pretty convinced this whole thing will be easy-peasy-lemon-squeezey. Although she’s doing the cutting and I am the one being cut. I’m sure compared to other surgical stuff she does this is a cake walk. It’s also not her ass. I rest my case.
Prior to the surgery the patient (that’s me) must do a pre-operative bowel prep. Or as I like to call it, the Fisulotomy Weight Loss Plan (FWLP). The FWLP consists of two parts.
Then it’s basically the patient tucked away in the bathroom with their favorite reading material. I chose a People Magazine for the occasion. Clean as whistle and 4 pounds lighter that’s all I can say. Good times.
The fistulotomy procedure itself went well. No surprise complications. My surgeon had the good sense to prescribe a mild sedative before they wheeled me into the operating room. The anesthesiologist called it “valium gold”. He was right. It’s too bad they don’t dole that stuff out like trick or trick candy. It’s that good.
The post-op is a bit of blur. I slept a lot.
The first 5 days post-op were the worst. No doubt about it. It hurt to walk, climb stairs, sit, stand or bend…add use the potty. Yeah. Also low on the fun scale. It’s good advice to keep up with the liquid diet post-operatively and make life easy. Trust me on this.
After 2 days I finally got up the nerve to look at the incision site. Yuck. Big gaping open wound and bruising that is unparalleled. I wonder if she used some type of vice clamp. I don’t want to know.
I had three days off of work and a weekend and hobbled back to work Monday morning. I gutted it out, but between you, me and the fencepost and another 3-4 days off would have not been unreasonable and it would have allowed me to watch Season 1, Disc 2 of Glee in one sitting.
I’m now on day 10 and the pain has lessened considerably although I am not into my regular exercise routine and only using pain pills as needed – mostly at night.
I see my doc this week for a follow-up and am crossing my fingers that this will take of it and my chance of reoccurrence is right up there with winning the lottery.
A Fistulotomy is the surgical repair of a fistula, and surgery is the only way to repair it.
Surgery means sedation. Sedation is good.
The surgeon opens the fistula tunnel, converts it to a groove to allow the fistula to heal from the inside out. So basically you’re paying thousands of dollars for a big gaping wound. I am told that it will take 3 weeks to heal. I am guardedly optimistic.
I’ve been trying not to read too much online stuff because I’ve read it takes anywhere from 3 weeks to a year to heal. My surgeon is pretty convinced this whole thing will be easy-peasy-lemon-squeezey. Although she’s doing the cutting and I am the one being cut. I’m sure compared to other surgical stuff she does this is a cake walk. It’s also not her ass. I rest my case.
Prior to the surgery the patient (that’s me) must do a pre-operative bowel prep. Or as I like to call it, the Fisulotomy Weight Loss Plan (FWLP). The FWLP consists of two parts.
- Clear liquids the day before the surgery. Clear liquids being defined as anything you can “see through” when liquefied. Water, broth, jello and popsicles. Milk is bad. So is ice cream. Curses.
- Two bottles of Magnesium Citrate consumed 4 hours apart. Magnesium Citrate is a powerful laxative. How powerful? Well, I can tell you that mag citrate kicks in approximately 32 minutes after ingesting. Nasty stuff too. I held my nose the entire time I downed the first bottle.
Then it’s basically the patient tucked away in the bathroom with their favorite reading material. I chose a People Magazine for the occasion. Clean as whistle and 4 pounds lighter that’s all I can say. Good times.
The fistulotomy procedure itself went well. No surprise complications. My surgeon had the good sense to prescribe a mild sedative before they wheeled me into the operating room. The anesthesiologist called it “valium gold”. He was right. It’s too bad they don’t dole that stuff out like trick or trick candy. It’s that good.
The post-op is a bit of blur. I slept a lot.
The first 5 days post-op were the worst. No doubt about it. It hurt to walk, climb stairs, sit, stand or bend…add use the potty. Yeah. Also low on the fun scale. It’s good advice to keep up with the liquid diet post-operatively and make life easy. Trust me on this.
After 2 days I finally got up the nerve to look at the incision site. Yuck. Big gaping open wound and bruising that is unparalleled. I wonder if she used some type of vice clamp. I don’t want to know.
I had three days off of work and a weekend and hobbled back to work Monday morning. I gutted it out, but between you, me and the fencepost and another 3-4 days off would have not been unreasonable and it would have allowed me to watch Season 1, Disc 2 of Glee in one sitting.
I’m now on day 10 and the pain has lessened considerably although I am not into my regular exercise routine and only using pain pills as needed – mostly at night.
I see my doc this week for a follow-up and am crossing my fingers that this will take of it and my chance of reoccurrence is right up there with winning the lottery.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Fistulotomy Fun Part I
I hesitate to write on this subject because in all honesty it is one of the most horrifically embarrassing medical problems I’ve endured. And I’ve endured some. But honest -to- pete, I know there is some poor soul out there Googling “fistula” and coming up with nothing but medical reference material. Medical reference materials are, of course, helpful but sometimes you need the personal non-sugar-coated-right-between-the-eyes perspective of someone who has been there, done that. Plus, I have all of one reader so at least this is cathartic and cheaper than paying an actual therapist and the chance of anyone reading this is fairly slim.
What is a fistula you wonder? Well according to the fine people at MedLine Plus Encyclopedia:
A fistula is an abnormal connection between an organ, vessel, or intestine and another structure. Fistulas are usually the result of injury or surgery. It can also result from infection or inflammation.
In my case – my fistula was the result of a perianal abscess. I know. I must have lost a bet because who gets inflicted with an anal abscess and a fistula on top of that? Apparently I do.
An abscess is a whole other bucket of fun and can be caused by a whole host of reasons. Mine was caused by bad luck. I endured weeks of walking around thinking I had some type of angry internal hemorrhoid. When I couldn’t stand, sit or walk without searing pain, I finally called the doctor.
Generally an abscess is “handled” in the office. If you read between the lines that means a localized numbing agent is administered in a delicate area with a needle while the patient is chest down-butt up on a proctology table – just to add further embarrassment to the whole experience.
Important tip: If your doctor says anything along the lines of “most people tolerate this procedure really well in the office”, ask for a bullet to bite on. They are lying.
Perianal abscesses are wickedly painful and an injection in an already tender area is very low on the fun scale. At least I got 2 days off of work and prescription of hydrocodone for my trouble. In my ignorance I figured the worst was over. My abscess was “taken care of” … let the healing begin. Unfortunately rates of fistulas’ after an abscess are staggeringly high. Like somewhere is the neighborhood of 50% - 65%. And there is pretty much nothing the patient can do to prevent it. 12 sitz baths a day won’t improve your chances of better healing. I know. I tried. More bad luck.
The worst part of the abscess/fistula tango, is the waiting game. The patient (in this case me) has to gut out 3 long months of potential healing time before confirming a fistula diagnosis. Basically where the abscess was, never heals and there is a tiny tunnel from the inside of the body (in my case the rectum) to the outer incision. Good times. The fistula spasms pretty much constantly (pain) and the patient walks around with a wad of gauze tucked in-between the butt cheeks 24x7. Suffice it to say I now own stock in Johnson & Johnson.
Three months later I was able to trot back into the surgeon’s office for a 5 minute, $178, exam to confirm what I already knew. Congratulations, I had a bouncing baby fistula and now required a Fistulotomy to repair it.
Yes, I’m pretty sure there is a black cloud over my head.
What is a fistula you wonder? Well according to the fine people at MedLine Plus Encyclopedia:
A fistula is an abnormal connection between an organ, vessel, or intestine and another structure. Fistulas are usually the result of injury or surgery. It can also result from infection or inflammation.
In my case – my fistula was the result of a perianal abscess. I know. I must have lost a bet because who gets inflicted with an anal abscess and a fistula on top of that? Apparently I do.
An abscess is a whole other bucket of fun and can be caused by a whole host of reasons. Mine was caused by bad luck. I endured weeks of walking around thinking I had some type of angry internal hemorrhoid. When I couldn’t stand, sit or walk without searing pain, I finally called the doctor.
Generally an abscess is “handled” in the office. If you read between the lines that means a localized numbing agent is administered in a delicate area with a needle while the patient is chest down-butt up on a proctology table – just to add further embarrassment to the whole experience.
Important tip: If your doctor says anything along the lines of “most people tolerate this procedure really well in the office”, ask for a bullet to bite on. They are lying.
Perianal abscesses are wickedly painful and an injection in an already tender area is very low on the fun scale. At least I got 2 days off of work and prescription of hydrocodone for my trouble. In my ignorance I figured the worst was over. My abscess was “taken care of” … let the healing begin. Unfortunately rates of fistulas’ after an abscess are staggeringly high. Like somewhere is the neighborhood of 50% - 65%. And there is pretty much nothing the patient can do to prevent it. 12 sitz baths a day won’t improve your chances of better healing. I know. I tried. More bad luck.
The worst part of the abscess/fistula tango, is the waiting game. The patient (in this case me) has to gut out 3 long months of potential healing time before confirming a fistula diagnosis. Basically where the abscess was, never heals and there is a tiny tunnel from the inside of the body (in my case the rectum) to the outer incision. Good times. The fistula spasms pretty much constantly (pain) and the patient walks around with a wad of gauze tucked in-between the butt cheeks 24x7. Suffice it to say I now own stock in Johnson & Johnson.
Three months later I was able to trot back into the surgeon’s office for a 5 minute, $178, exam to confirm what I already knew. Congratulations, I had a bouncing baby fistula and now required a Fistulotomy to repair it.
Yes, I’m pretty sure there is a black cloud over my head.
Friday, October 1, 2010
My Fathers Daughter
My dad is an artist of the most spectacular nature. He’s my dad. So, of course, I think he is brilliant.
He is though.
Truly.
Hand on a stack of bibles.
Brilliant.
I traveled with my dad to the Peoria Fine Art Fair recently. He was representing his art over a weekend. I know, I know. Peoria. It’s a bit of an oxymoron. What do the people of Peoria know about fine art? Judging by the number of craptastic $40 “lawn art on a stick” I saw people walking around with, not much.
In any case, due to a complicated labyrinth of circumstances, my mom was unable to attend the show and I stepped in to pinch hit.
The prospect of traveling with him was a little more than daunting. Frankly, I was afraid of getting yelled at. Loudly. My dad is great and wonderful but he can have an impossibly short fuse and does this thing where he grits his tongue between his teeth when he gets impatient. I had flashbacks to being 12 years old, standing in the garage while my dad had me hold some impossibly heavy car part so he could measure it while simultaneously yelling at me for not holding “still” enough. Never-mind that I was a 12 year old, 85 pound skinny girl with virtually no muscle tone holding a piece of Ford Coupe bumper equal to my body weight. I’m just saying. There is some history there that fed my current anxiety about 4 days in Peoria.
I could provide a lot of unnecessary details about the weekend, the 6 hour setup process, the tense tear down where I was yelled at (but only once), the rain, the cold, the wind and the drunk artist in the booth next to us. All are seemingly irrelevant.
The most illuminating moment of the weekend came when we were crossing the street on our way from the parking lot to the art fair. My dad was two steps ahead of me and he reached back to take my hand like any parent does for their child when crossing the street. Despite the fact that we are 42 and 63 respectively and I know he gets that I am a grown up woman with a child of my own; I am still his child. So when he reaches back, I take his hand. He is my dad. I am my father’s daughter.
He is though.
Truly.
Hand on a stack of bibles.
Brilliant.
I traveled with my dad to the Peoria Fine Art Fair recently. He was representing his art over a weekend. I know, I know. Peoria. It’s a bit of an oxymoron. What do the people of Peoria know about fine art? Judging by the number of craptastic $40 “lawn art on a stick” I saw people walking around with, not much.
In any case, due to a complicated labyrinth of circumstances, my mom was unable to attend the show and I stepped in to pinch hit.
The prospect of traveling with him was a little more than daunting. Frankly, I was afraid of getting yelled at. Loudly. My dad is great and wonderful but he can have an impossibly short fuse and does this thing where he grits his tongue between his teeth when he gets impatient. I had flashbacks to being 12 years old, standing in the garage while my dad had me hold some impossibly heavy car part so he could measure it while simultaneously yelling at me for not holding “still” enough. Never-mind that I was a 12 year old, 85 pound skinny girl with virtually no muscle tone holding a piece of Ford Coupe bumper equal to my body weight. I’m just saying. There is some history there that fed my current anxiety about 4 days in Peoria.
I could provide a lot of unnecessary details about the weekend, the 6 hour setup process, the tense tear down where I was yelled at (but only once), the rain, the cold, the wind and the drunk artist in the booth next to us. All are seemingly irrelevant.
The most illuminating moment of the weekend came when we were crossing the street on our way from the parking lot to the art fair. My dad was two steps ahead of me and he reached back to take my hand like any parent does for their child when crossing the street. Despite the fact that we are 42 and 63 respectively and I know he gets that I am a grown up woman with a child of my own; I am still his child. So when he reaches back, I take his hand. He is my dad. I am my father’s daughter.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Great Escape
We have a hamster. He lives in a brightly colored wire and plastic cage atop my son’s dresser. His home is adorned with a green exercise wheel and mounds of eco bedding for maximum hamster burrowing, and an endless food supply. His name is Albany, although we just call him “the hammy”.
In case you are wondering…
If your son doesn’t close the top of the hammy (hamster) cage…the hammy will escape overnight. This is a hard lesson to learn at 6:20am on a Wednesday morning. Common sense would predict 6 different kinds of tragedy waiting to unfold.
The process of finding a live (or dead) hammy in a 1700 square foot house is the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack. It fills the hamster owners with dread. There is fear of finding him half dead, all the way dead and even more fear of not finding him until the smell of decomposing hamster wafts into the hallway. You can see the dilemma here.
As a matter of record, pure bred cats are not bred for hunting. This is a silent blessing. Cats will however tipoff said hamster owners to the hammys location ….say in the corner of the rec room, hiding under a sweatshirt.
Hamsters are fast. Disappearing into thin air is a hammy skill set. So is slipping under a door unnoticed. The hammy is unable to differentiate from big scary cats looking for a snack from human people who offer shelter, toilet paper rolls toys and yogurt drop treats. To the hammy – both are to be feared.
Ultimately, the hammy will underestimate the intelligence of his human people (and the flat out blind luck of those people) searching in the pantry. The hammy was safely captured and returned to his caged sanctuary (with a locked cage door). Although this owner has temporary high blood pressure from the stress of the great escape and cannot recommend this type of “excitement” at 6:20am on a Wednesday morning.
Current Score: Hamster – 0, Lazy Cat Predators- 0, Human People – 1.
In case you are wondering…
If your son doesn’t close the top of the hammy (hamster) cage…the hammy will escape overnight. This is a hard lesson to learn at 6:20am on a Wednesday morning. Common sense would predict 6 different kinds of tragedy waiting to unfold.
The process of finding a live (or dead) hammy in a 1700 square foot house is the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack. It fills the hamster owners with dread. There is fear of finding him half dead, all the way dead and even more fear of not finding him until the smell of decomposing hamster wafts into the hallway. You can see the dilemma here.
As a matter of record, pure bred cats are not bred for hunting. This is a silent blessing. Cats will however tipoff said hamster owners to the hammys location ….say in the corner of the rec room, hiding under a sweatshirt.
Hamsters are fast. Disappearing into thin air is a hammy skill set. So is slipping under a door unnoticed. The hammy is unable to differentiate from big scary cats looking for a snack from human people who offer shelter, toilet paper rolls toys and yogurt drop treats. To the hammy – both are to be feared.
Ultimately, the hammy will underestimate the intelligence of his human people (and the flat out blind luck of those people) searching in the pantry. The hammy was safely captured and returned to his caged sanctuary (with a locked cage door). Although this owner has temporary high blood pressure from the stress of the great escape and cannot recommend this type of “excitement” at 6:20am on a Wednesday morning.
Current Score: Hamster – 0, Lazy Cat Predators- 0, Human People – 1.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Road to Independence
Most parents would define the road to your child’s independence as fairly obvious accomplishments; potty training, dressing themselves, cutting their own meat and so forth. As my son inches toward high school, each day the apron strings are cut just a little bit more. I feel proud that he is developing into an independent person, gratified that I haven’t screwed him up too badly yet (although there is still time); and sad that there will come a time where he just won’t need for me anything. My heart breaks a little.
Today’s step towards independent life skills came in the form of ordering a pizza. It sounds a little silly but the reality is we all learned how to do it at some point and today was his day to learn it. As adults we’ve all ordered a pizza no fewer than a thousand times. It’s rote. We can do it in our sleep. We know what questions will be asked and how to answer them. I had to remind myself that for the inexperienced pizza ordering rookie the whole ordeal is a bit nerve-wracking if you have no idea what to expect.
I am pleased to report that my son called me before ordering a pizza to ask how to do this. Yes I am happy to be needed for something as mundane as pizza ordering 101. I quickly discovered it wasn’t the act of ordering the pizza that was daunting; it was the tipping of said pizza delivery person. This is understandable. For an adult, tipping is a confusing and inconsistent custom. There were lots of questions. How much do I tip? Do I pay the bill for the pizza and then give the tip, or give the whole thing at one and say “Keep the change”?
Ultimately for my son it wasn’t just about ordering the pizza, as was about ordering the pizza and not looking like a dork. I get it. No one wants to be the subject of ridicule back at Pizza Hut Central when the delivery driver relays a story about a couple of 14 year old kids ordering a pizza for the first time. Life at 14 is hard enough without that kind of pressure.
At the end of the day the pizza was ordered, the driver was paid (“Keep the change”) and one more skill was added to the life experience toolbox. And one more thread was cut on the apron strings. My heart breaks a little.
Today’s step towards independent life skills came in the form of ordering a pizza. It sounds a little silly but the reality is we all learned how to do it at some point and today was his day to learn it. As adults we’ve all ordered a pizza no fewer than a thousand times. It’s rote. We can do it in our sleep. We know what questions will be asked and how to answer them. I had to remind myself that for the inexperienced pizza ordering rookie the whole ordeal is a bit nerve-wracking if you have no idea what to expect.
I am pleased to report that my son called me before ordering a pizza to ask how to do this. Yes I am happy to be needed for something as mundane as pizza ordering 101. I quickly discovered it wasn’t the act of ordering the pizza that was daunting; it was the tipping of said pizza delivery person. This is understandable. For an adult, tipping is a confusing and inconsistent custom. There were lots of questions. How much do I tip? Do I pay the bill for the pizza and then give the tip, or give the whole thing at one and say “Keep the change”?
Ultimately for my son it wasn’t just about ordering the pizza, as was about ordering the pizza and not looking like a dork. I get it. No one wants to be the subject of ridicule back at Pizza Hut Central when the delivery driver relays a story about a couple of 14 year old kids ordering a pizza for the first time. Life at 14 is hard enough without that kind of pressure.
At the end of the day the pizza was ordered, the driver was paid (“Keep the change”) and one more skill was added to the life experience toolbox. And one more thread was cut on the apron strings. My heart breaks a little.
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Internal Filter
Authors Note: Close friends and spouses are exempt from the filter rule. They endure all sorts of ramblings on a variety of subjects. It’s the quid pro quo factor of these relationships. You know who you are.
One of the things that is nice about being in my forty’s, is life experience. I’ve got a few years under my belt, have seen some things, done some things, grown up a lot (I hope) but most importantly I’ve learned to filter what’s in my brain before it rolls out of my mouth. Part of that filtering process includes the very important question “Is what am I about to say something the listener cares about?”
Disclaimer: I am by no means perfect at verbal filtering. Really. Especially if I have had wine. Or worse. Tequila. Then everything seems really important and you can just sit back and listen to the verbal diarrhea. Trust me; I still manage to wedge my size 8 foot in my mouth more often than I would like to admit.
I am referring mostly about the casual friend, acquaintance or co-worker. You know – someone you see every so often. Someone you’re friendly with but you’re not exactly BFFs. This could be the spouse of one of your friends – the tag-along to the casual friendship. It’s nice, pleasant and cordial but you’re never going to go shoe shopping together. You see where I am going with this, yes?
Some of my good friends (the ones exempt from the pre-emptive filtering rule) and some casual friends get together every few months at a local eatery to indulge in classic over-eating and a little smart talk. This will come across as snarky as all get-out for which I am really not terribly apologetic. Why am I not apologetic? Because, if you had to endure the unfiltered conversation I endured recently, you wouldn’t be apologetic either. Like me, you would be only too happy to have walked away from the whole experience without resorting to jabbing a fork in your eye. Trust me; the fork would have been less painful.
Let me state, the offender in questions is a nice woman. Very young and a little pretentious, which I am sure is a quality she is unaware that is being projected to the whole of the world. Despite being an educated woman (a trait I’ve learned means pretty much nothing in regards to filtering) her internal filter has not matured. She fails to filter on a wide variety of subjects, but mostly on the subject of her dog. She loves her dog. I get it. I am all about pets. I love my pets too. I am the first one to admit I coddle and spoil and treat my pets like children. But I do said coddling in the privacy of my own home. And I really don’t tell people about it because of the “does the listener care” rule. More often than not, I am firmly convinced the listener does not care about my cats. Nor do they care how cute they are, if they like their tummy’s rubbed, the hairball they just gaked up or cuddle time on Sunday mornings. I’m fairly confident that if I waltzed into work each day and began spewing tales about my cats, I would quickly obtain crazy cat lady status and no one would want to have lunch with me ever again.
Oh it can’t be that bad you say? Oh yes. It can. The following is actually unfiltered dog dialogue. Only the name of the dog has been changed to protect the innocent.
Her: “Duke likes it when I change his food. Duke’s eating fish flavored food now. Duke likes fish. He’s a dog.”
Me: Blankly staring
Her: “Duke is 30% dog, 30% cat and 60% rabbit, because Duke likes to jump.”
Me: Eyes glazing over
Her: “Duke weighs 7 ½ pounds. Duke is big for his breed.”
Me: Searching for a length of rope.
Now string all of the unbridled Duke wonderfulness over two hours and you can now appreciate how very torturous it is to endure non-stop unfiltered monologues on Duke, the most amazing pet that ever lived. And while I desperately want to say “Please shut up because even though I think your dog is cute, I don’t really care”, my matured filtering system already knows that yes, the listener in question doesn’t care.
One of the things that is nice about being in my forty’s, is life experience. I’ve got a few years under my belt, have seen some things, done some things, grown up a lot (I hope) but most importantly I’ve learned to filter what’s in my brain before it rolls out of my mouth. Part of that filtering process includes the very important question “Is what am I about to say something the listener cares about?”
Disclaimer: I am by no means perfect at verbal filtering. Really. Especially if I have had wine. Or worse. Tequila. Then everything seems really important and you can just sit back and listen to the verbal diarrhea. Trust me; I still manage to wedge my size 8 foot in my mouth more often than I would like to admit.
I am referring mostly about the casual friend, acquaintance or co-worker. You know – someone you see every so often. Someone you’re friendly with but you’re not exactly BFFs. This could be the spouse of one of your friends – the tag-along to the casual friendship. It’s nice, pleasant and cordial but you’re never going to go shoe shopping together. You see where I am going with this, yes?
Some of my good friends (the ones exempt from the pre-emptive filtering rule) and some casual friends get together every few months at a local eatery to indulge in classic over-eating and a little smart talk. This will come across as snarky as all get-out for which I am really not terribly apologetic. Why am I not apologetic? Because, if you had to endure the unfiltered conversation I endured recently, you wouldn’t be apologetic either. Like me, you would be only too happy to have walked away from the whole experience without resorting to jabbing a fork in your eye. Trust me; the fork would have been less painful.
Let me state, the offender in questions is a nice woman. Very young and a little pretentious, which I am sure is a quality she is unaware that is being projected to the whole of the world. Despite being an educated woman (a trait I’ve learned means pretty much nothing in regards to filtering) her internal filter has not matured. She fails to filter on a wide variety of subjects, but mostly on the subject of her dog. She loves her dog. I get it. I am all about pets. I love my pets too. I am the first one to admit I coddle and spoil and treat my pets like children. But I do said coddling in the privacy of my own home. And I really don’t tell people about it because of the “does the listener care” rule. More often than not, I am firmly convinced the listener does not care about my cats. Nor do they care how cute they are, if they like their tummy’s rubbed, the hairball they just gaked up or cuddle time on Sunday mornings. I’m fairly confident that if I waltzed into work each day and began spewing tales about my cats, I would quickly obtain crazy cat lady status and no one would want to have lunch with me ever again.
Oh it can’t be that bad you say? Oh yes. It can. The following is actually unfiltered dog dialogue. Only the name of the dog has been changed to protect the innocent.
Her: “Duke likes it when I change his food. Duke’s eating fish flavored food now. Duke likes fish. He’s a dog.”
Me: Blankly staring
Her: “Duke is 30% dog, 30% cat and 60% rabbit, because Duke likes to jump.”
Me: Eyes glazing over
Her: “Duke weighs 7 ½ pounds. Duke is big for his breed.”
Me: Searching for a length of rope.
Now string all of the unbridled Duke wonderfulness over two hours and you can now appreciate how very torturous it is to endure non-stop unfiltered monologues on Duke, the most amazing pet that ever lived. And while I desperately want to say “Please shut up because even though I think your dog is cute, I don’t really care”, my matured filtering system already knows that yes, the listener in question doesn’t care.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Revoking the parent card
I am by all rights a cool mom. At least in my opinion I’m cool. I’m sure other freakishly obsessive controlling parents would color me un-cool, too open and too forthcoming with my 14 year old son. But he still talks to me so I consider my approach, at least so far, successful. He’s starting high school this month so ask me in four years how this approach truly worked.
My son has inherited my affinity for movies. Inherited is probably a strong word. Let’s be honest. I’ve been molding and shaping his exposure to film since I took him to see the re-release of The Wizard of Oz when he was three years old. Oh yes, he’s all about the wieldy action adventure popcorn movie but he is also a closeted rom-com watcher (he’ll never admit it), thinks the Bond movies with Sean Connery are the best ones, can recognize Cary Grant and likes Charlie Chaplin (although I have to reluctantly give a nod to my mother in law for that influence). He loves movies. I’m mama duck proud.
Now that he has hit 14, PG-13 is sooooooo yesterday’s news and he is beginning to push the “R” rated envelope for movie watching. I admit, in some cases an “R” in 1984 is not quite like an “R” in 2010. Parental latitude has been given. So his suggestion for us to watch Revenge of the Nerds on a recent Saturday night, seemed reasonable.
Having seen it a few times, I did the mental rolodex, thumbed through the scenes in my head. Yeah ok – some language, maybe a quick boob shot, some sex references…how bad can it be? I mean 16 Candles has a full on boob shot of Caroline Montfort in the shower and that was PG-13. And the kid goes to public school. He’s been hearing f-bombs on the playground since he was 6 – at least I would be sitting next to him during the movie offering full-on parental support.
Important parenting tip. If it’s been, oh say, 15 years since you’ve seen a movie, it may be a good idea to do a quick refresh of said movie in lieu of relying solely on the mental rolodex . IMDB.com has a nifty little “parental advisory” feature of every film which outlines the f-bombs and other adult situations. It’s a nice little memory jogger. Too bad I didn’t use it in this instance.
Apparently my mental rolodex failed to recall these key classic Revenge of Nerd film moments:
At that point I wouldn’t have been surprised if Social Services broke down my front door with an axe and revoked my parent card with all rights and privileges therein. My son, of course, thought the movie was hilarious and I’m sure I’ve officially locked in my position as the coolest mom on the planet award – at least for one day.
And in an act of spousal transparency I disclosed some of the more mature elements of this classic feature film to my spouse, who responded with a Beavis and Butthead laugh.
“Heh heh, heh-heh-heh – you said bush.”
My son has inherited my affinity for movies. Inherited is probably a strong word. Let’s be honest. I’ve been molding and shaping his exposure to film since I took him to see the re-release of The Wizard of Oz when he was three years old. Oh yes, he’s all about the wieldy action adventure popcorn movie but he is also a closeted rom-com watcher (he’ll never admit it), thinks the Bond movies with Sean Connery are the best ones, can recognize Cary Grant and likes Charlie Chaplin (although I have to reluctantly give a nod to my mother in law for that influence). He loves movies. I’m mama duck proud.
Now that he has hit 14, PG-13 is sooooooo yesterday’s news and he is beginning to push the “R” rated envelope for movie watching. I admit, in some cases an “R” in 1984 is not quite like an “R” in 2010. Parental latitude has been given. So his suggestion for us to watch Revenge of the Nerds on a recent Saturday night, seemed reasonable.
Having seen it a few times, I did the mental rolodex, thumbed through the scenes in my head. Yeah ok – some language, maybe a quick boob shot, some sex references…how bad can it be? I mean 16 Candles has a full on boob shot of Caroline Montfort in the shower and that was PG-13. And the kid goes to public school. He’s been hearing f-bombs on the playground since he was 6 – at least I would be sitting next to him during the movie offering full-on parental support.
Important parenting tip. If it’s been, oh say, 15 years since you’ve seen a movie, it may be a good idea to do a quick refresh of said movie in lieu of relying solely on the mental rolodex . IMDB.com has a nifty little “parental advisory” feature of every film which outlines the f-bombs and other adult situations. It’s a nice little memory jogger. Too bad I didn’t use it in this instance.
Apparently my mental rolodex failed to recall these key classic Revenge of Nerd film moments:
- The “hair pie” reference. Yeah. I know. It’s a really dated and rarely used slang term to reference the coochie. It’s so dated it prompted the following question: “Mom, what’s a hair pie?” Mental head slap.
- The panty raid scene which includes multiple scantily clad girls running up and down the dorm room screaming, full on boob shots bouncing up and down.
- The cameras in the shower scene which sets up the classic movie utterance by “Booger”….”We’ve got bush, we’ve got bush!” I’m not sure if I should be relieved or worried my son didn’t ask “Mom, what’s a bush”. I think he figured that one out on his own.
At that point I wouldn’t have been surprised if Social Services broke down my front door with an axe and revoked my parent card with all rights and privileges therein. My son, of course, thought the movie was hilarious and I’m sure I’ve officially locked in my position as the coolest mom on the planet award – at least for one day.
And in an act of spousal transparency I disclosed some of the more mature elements of this classic feature film to my spouse, who responded with a Beavis and Butthead laugh.
“Heh heh, heh-heh-heh – you said bush.”
Thursday, August 26, 2010
It’s no longer about the journey
I need to quick get this subject in under the wire, as it were. I am a few short weeks away from (finally) finishing my undergraduate degree. What? Do I hear champagne chilling in the background?
I call it the 25 year plan. Blutto has nothing on me*. Cue flashback.
Graduated High School circa 1985, hopped off the bus onto the UW Madison Campus wide eyed and full of optimism that I would be the next classically trained Opera singer. I learned a few things the hard way:
25 years later (like to the month) I will finally (yes, finally) finish what I started. And it’s been a great journey. Ok, most of it was great. I could have seriously done without the math, the statistics or the accounting, but here I am three weeks out and I attended all my classes (even the yucky ones) and didall most of my reading. But truth be told, I’ve gotten everything I wanted to get out of the journey. But with 3 weeks to go, I don’t’ care about the damn journey anymore. I just want my diploma. I want my life back. I want to be able to dust my house more than once every 4 months. Ok scratch that. I could care less about the dusting, but I would like to wake up on a Saturday morning and not be filled with dread that the day will be spent procrastinating about hitting the books. I freely admit senioritis. I also freely admit reverting to academic mediocrity to push through these last few weeks. Old habits die hard.
That’s it. I’m really close to being done. I never thought I’d ever be done. I hope to God I don’t get hit by a bus before I’m done. I wonder if the college awards degrees posthumously in the case of accidental death.
Crap. I hate when my stories have no point. See, I’m already failing blogging 101. I have no pith to wrap this up with a cute bow. No pith. No snark. No nothing. It’s probably best I am blog follower free. Ok. Ok. Write courageously even if that means I have no point, no pith, no followers. I am wondering if personal growth and creative courage is overrated. Sigh.
*The Bluto reference is, of course, a nod to the 1978 cult classic Animal House. You know the line…
“7 years of college down the drain.”
I call it the 25 year plan. Blutto has nothing on me*. Cue flashback.
Graduated High School circa 1985, hopped off the bus onto the UW Madison Campus wide eyed and full of optimism that I would be the next classically trained Opera singer. I learned a few things the hard way:
- Opera. Not my thing. Boooorrrrring!
- Soprano singers are like cats. You can buy twelve for a $1.00. A Soprano has to be really good to make it. I was neither really good nor really motivated. Insert kiss of death here.
- Hanging out at the Union with my friends was significantly more enticing then attending Botany 101 or reading my text book. I think I attended Botany class once. No comment on the reading.
25 years later (like to the month) I will finally (yes, finally) finish what I started. And it’s been a great journey. Ok, most of it was great. I could have seriously done without the math, the statistics or the accounting, but here I am three weeks out and I attended all my classes (even the yucky ones) and did
That’s it. I’m really close to being done. I never thought I’d ever be done. I hope to God I don’t get hit by a bus before I’m done. I wonder if the college awards degrees posthumously in the case of accidental death.
Crap. I hate when my stories have no point. See, I’m already failing blogging 101. I have no pith to wrap this up with a cute bow. No pith. No snark. No nothing. It’s probably best I am blog follower free. Ok. Ok. Write courageously even if that means I have no point, no pith, no followers. I am wondering if personal growth and creative courage is overrated. Sigh.
*The Bluto reference is, of course, a nod to the 1978 cult classic Animal House. You know the line…
“7 years of college down the drain.”
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Write Courageously
I blame my friend K. for planting the seed that I could and should blog again. This is really all her fault and any failure real or implied will be squarely heaped on her shoulders. I am not above tossing her under the bus if needed.
You blogged before, say you? Yeah. For a few fleeting months. I stopped due to time constraints. And fear. I have fear. Fear of blogging mediocrity. Fear of failure. Fear of self-editing. Will I be as sharp tongued and witty on paper as Ithink I am inside my own noggin? I fear I do not have the appropriate amount of snarkiness and pith to mass a following. Could there be anything more pathetic then the unread, unloved blog?
Time will tell I guess. I look at my attempt to blog, as an experiment to write courageously, to just say it and try not to self edit too much. Or as I tell girlfriends who are unsure about wearing the shiny black boots with the pointy toe; just own it. I can tell you it is significantly easier to dispense the “just own it” advice then follow it.
That said I will apply all the appropriate disclaimers to my blog. I will also add the disclaimer that I am free to edit my disclaimers at any time. My blog. My disclaimers. I am a girl. I can change my mind. So there (insert foot stomping here).
Everything is fair target. For example: if I blog about the putrid wrongful fashion sense of the holiday sweater and you are a lover of holiday sweaters, you are of course free to:
The choice is yours.
For my part, this will be a self discovery opportunity to be brave and write courageously (with the appropriate amount of snarkiness of course). Yikes.
You blogged before, say you? Yeah. For a few fleeting months. I stopped due to time constraints. And fear. I have fear. Fear of blogging mediocrity. Fear of failure. Fear of self-editing. Will I be as sharp tongued and witty on paper as I
Time will tell I guess. I look at my attempt to blog, as an experiment to write courageously, to just say it and try not to self edit too much. Or as I tell girlfriends who are unsure about wearing the shiny black boots with the pointy toe; just own it. I can tell you it is significantly easier to dispense the “just own it” advice then follow it.
That said I will apply all the appropriate disclaimers to my blog. I will also add the disclaimer that I am free to edit my disclaimers at any time. My blog. My disclaimers. I am a girl. I can change my mind. So there (insert foot stomping here).
Everything is fair target. For example: if I blog about the putrid wrongful fashion sense of the holiday sweater and you are a lover of holiday sweaters, you are of course free to:
- Hate the holiday sweater blog entry and keep on blindly wearing your holiday sweaters even though this is really nothing fashionable about them.
OR - Experience a life-changing moment of fashion clarity that holiday sweaters are truly a bad idea, purge your closet of said sweaters and bestow oodles of gratitude upon me for helping you see the light.
The choice is yours.
For my part, this will be a self discovery opportunity to be brave and write courageously (with the appropriate amount of snarkiness of course). Yikes.
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