Showing posts with label Disney. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Disney. Show all posts
Friday, November 9, 2012
Well, it's official, I win the world's worst mother of the year award.
Step aside, Dina Lohan and Kris Kardashian.
They've successfully raised train wrecks.
I have now successfully ensured years worth of therapy for my daughter. I can see it now, her curled in a fetal ball on the shrink couch during every session, whispering, "It all started with my mother."
Tanning Mom tans her daughter. I emotionally scar my girl.
Honey Boo Boo's mom feeds her redneck pint-sized beauty queen, Go-Go juice in the hopes that Honey Boo Boo's crack-fueled performances will make her hollah for a dollar.
I fuel my daughter on neglect, my dismal failure as a mother and the hope that what doesn't kill her, will make her effing stronger.
My Julia is this glorious creature with a crown of Renaissance curls.
Sweet and gentle, the sassiness that ensnares 14-year-old girl's souls, has bypassed her heart and for that I am grateful every single day.
Having survived the treacherous journey of raising two teenage girls before her, I was bracing for the squall that would eventually hit our household for the third go-round.
Her sisters were these angelic bundles of spun-sugar sweetness, all golden haired pig-tails, pink tutus and cartwheels on the lawn. They loved their sisters, their mommy and daddy and their Barbies, not necessarily in that order.
And then came the day when everything changed.
I will never forget it. I asked my eldest, who was about 12 at the time, to put the gallon of orange juice, back in the fridge. And in a flash of a second, a voice that did not belong to my delicate flower of a girl came out of her, a voice that was more suited to a green-vomit-spewing entity.
My little blonde entity had a stream of consciousness to her satanic verses that went like this:
"NoIamNOTputtingitbackbecausemysisterwasdrinkingittooandmyshoulderhurtsandthe
orangejuiceistooheavyformetoliftanditsallyourfaultandmysisterhaditlastsosheshouldputit
backandthisissonotfairyouaresomeanyou'veruinedmylifeandIhaaaaateyou."
And then she burst into tears.
Hormone-induced free-for-alls became the bone weary stuff of my days from that moment on and not too long after, her sister joined in, doubling the the hormonal pleasure and fun.
No one tells you about any of this when they place that little pink bundle in your arms. No one even hints about it until the first time that wall of estrogen hits you like a PMS tsunami.
Only then, do the other shell-shocked parents of teenage girls come clean, doling out sage bits of advice with dead eyes, like—When it gets really bad, I've got a hiding place in the closet behind the pants.
And—I've thought about duct tape, but her shrieks would more than likely melt the plastic.
And of course— Alcohol is the only way through to the other side.
It's like surviving a Bieber concert, you don't truly understand the horror until you've experienced it for yourself.
It is why I am grateful every day for this third lovely girl of mine whose head does not spin and whose gentle spirit does not make me want to run screaming from my house.
Julia dove into high school, ready to try on everything.
She became a part of the Student Council. She signed up for Archery Club. She joined FFA—Formerly known as Future Farmers of America, FFA is not your Mama's FFA. It is now a worldwide organization, training the future chemists, global environmentalists, veterinarians and other fields of the future. Julia is planning on a career in the wine industry, winemaking to be exact. (I swear, I did NOT influence her except to teach her the finer points of wine from the moment she could swirl her apple juice in a wine glass.) And her school just happens to have one of the best FFA programs in the state.
Last week, she helped shear the sheep. She now wants a few sheep. As in pets. As in, sheep on our lawn. The only way I would give in to sheep is if I could be guaranteed the sheep would eat the ducks.
Suffice to say, she is a girl of diverse interests.
A few weeks into the school year, my Julia Girl announced she was trying out for soccer.
When she made the team, we were thrilled. Soccer in Florida is a highly competitive sport where Select, Club and Travel leagues abound. Played year round, people are SERIOUS about soccer in Florida.
Some, more than others.
And since I'm no Eminem and I don't need no contr-o-vers-y, I'll just say my position on soccer and other organized activities is a whole lotta lotta different than most parents. Everyone makes the best choices for their own child and in our house, we choose to spend the bulk of our free time as a family doing things together.
And because of that, we have chosen rec soccer as the best fit for our children. This means no highly specialized training with super-trainers, no trekking across the state and country every weekend for soccer tournaments, no devoting our every waking moment to soccer.
Hell, I've got three kids. If I amped up the activity level with each one of them, I'd have no Me Time.
And Mama likes long, hot bubble baths, preferably with some wine on the side.
This choosing to stay at a rec level makes us an anomaly in the soccer community. I have been asked far too often by other soccer parents, "Don't you want to advance her skill level?" "Don't you want her to stay competitive with the other players?"
I just smile and tell them we're fine playing recreational soccer as they dubiously raise their eyebrows, judging me with their silent eyebrow language as an unfit soccer mom
And that's okay. I might not have big enough shoulders to carry their derision, but my ample upper arms make up for it.
Although, what I've always wanted to say to those well-meaning parents and their arched eyebrows is, "I refused to drink the Kool-Aid. Besides, I'm more of a champagne fan, myself. You should try it, sometime. The bubbles are marvelously ticklish."
If my lovely girl wanted to advance her skill level by eating, breathing and sleeping soccer, than by golly, this Mama would take a few less bubble baths and chug the Kool-aid.
But my Julia would chafe at that frenzied level. She needs time to play with her ducks and dogs, to shoot her bow and arrows,
To learn new tricks on her skateboard,
To fish and catch minnows in the shallow waters of the lake,
Boogie board at the beach, stalk One Direction on the Internet and in concert,
Yes, my girl made the front page of the Tribune the day after the concert.
Hang out at the Un-Magical Kingdom
And, of course, watch North Korean documentaries with me—you know the usual mother/daughter kind of bonding.
In short, Julia needs time to be Julia.
Going into tryouts, Julia knew the majority of other girls would be club girls with club level skills. But she and that intrepid heart of hers gave it her all and her fierce rec skills won her a place on the team.
On the way to her first game, I was taken aback when she turned snippy and started lashing out at all of us. She berated her sister for coming to the game, telling Tori she didn't want her there. She growled at her father over insignificant things and pretty much verbally assaulted me with the strength of an AK 47.
I was all, "Girlfriend, you better straighten up before that phone of yours goes out the window."
Because there's one thing I've learned in this business of raising girls, if you want to traumatize a teenage girl for life, TAKE AWAY HER PHONE.
She settled down, but she was still a mite growly and snappish all the way to the game, so unlike her.
And that's when it hit me.
With a heavy heart, I realized our days of sweetness and light just might be coming to a close. Hurricane Estrogen Princess was, once again, bearing down upon us.
I gave her the stink-eye and said, "What's with you, Crazy-Girl?"
At my question, she sniffled, all rawness and nerves, on the edge of tears and said in a wobbly voice,
"I'm not going to play. I'm a freshman and I'm not Club. I know I won't play. I don't want you guys there because I'm not going to play."
I should have known.
This wasn't about sassiness and estrogen overload.
This was about playing her very first high school game. In a football stadium. With professional refs.
And stands full of fans cheering her on, not just parents but her own peers.
In her other soccer life, she played on busy Saturdays, with dozens of others teams stretched across one big community soccer field, the comforting anonymity of games being played all around her with teams on their own little allotted portion of grass. Parents and grandparents parked their lawn chairs right up against the soccer lines and the refs were all from the same lot of pimply-faced 15-year-olds. Everyone got a chance to play and if you messed up, it was okay. The fans on the sidelines, your teammates who were also your slumber party friends, and your coaches who were the parents of your teammates, would all still love you the same.
In short, the game had changed and she was scared to death.
I reassured her that we didn't care if she played, that we were there to support her and her team in this new world of big-time soccer.
As we dropped her off, she left the car still muttering about not playing.
Her team played like champs, having a sound lead by halftime. And just as Julia had predicted, she didn't play that whole first half.
And that was okay. Traditionally, freshmen don't get a lot of playing time. They have to earn it.
It was evident early in the second half, we were going to win the game.
I kept one eye on my sweet girl on the bench as I watched the game. There were no announcers and the girls looked like miniature dolls there on the stadium field, so I will admit, I had a slightly tough time keeping up with the game.
Oh, who am I kidding! I've always had a hard time keeping up with the game.
My girls have been playing soccer since they were little bits in oversized jerseys, which is a very long time.
And I still don't know the rules because that's how it goes with me and sports. It's all like one big foreign language to me. I just nod, pretend to understand and talk loudly in general terms.
I know I'm always safe to yell things, like, "GOOD KICK" "GREAT KICK!" "WAY TO KICK!" "LOVE YOUR CLEETS! THE COLOR JUST POPS!"
Here's really all I know about soccer:
*If your team kicks the ball into the goal, you get a point.
*The team with the most points wins, but no matter who wins, we parents make a bridge for both teams where we cheer wildly for them as they run through our clasped skyward hands.
*Bridges are none too popular past the age of 12 and if you dare to try and make a bridge after the age of 12, you will mortify your soccer player for life.
*And our concession stand fries are delicious, better than all the other soccer field fries combined. (It's in the spices.)
I don't know much else, especially when it comes to that annoying Offsides rule.
I've had it explained to me more than a few times, but it's like Geometry and pet ferrets, I just don't get it.
Anywhoo:
I diligently followed my daughter's game as best as I could, keeping my eye on her little form sitting on the bench. And as the game wound down, I relaxed a bit, chatting with the other parents and my hubs and catching up on a few texts and emails.
My Tori had found a friend, as she is wont to do wherever we go and she'd fled the parents' section to go sit with the non-mortifying people in her life.
It was an easy win for our team and after the game, I counseled my daughter and hubs, telling them to
be very sensitive about our Julia's lack of playtime.
You would think this sort of thing would need no counsel, that parents and siblings would instinctively be sensitive to this.
But that would be normal people, not my family of primates.
On the way out, we hugged her, telling her what a great game it had been and how proud we were of her for being a part of that team. She was unusually quiet. So, of course, being the compassionate mother I am, I gently said to her, "Honey, don't be sad about not playing. This is the way things go in high school sports. Your time will come."
And that's when my beautiful daughter saaaaid:
"But I played! The last 20 minutes I was on the field."
All three of us turned to her in disbelief and said in unison, "You were?"
None of us. Not a one out of three, spotted her. For twenty minutes of her very first high school game.
Yes, I am an asshole mother.
I know during that precious 20 minutes, my Hubs was busy discussing the finer merits of the Big Green Egg with another father. And when you get that man started on pork butts in the Egg, the end of the world could come to pass with fire and brimstone and people getting raptured and he would still be sitting there rhapsodizing about the fall-off-the-bone succulence of those pork butts to no one but the smoking holes around him.
The man is an Egghead. Among other things.
Tori was busy with her friends.
As for me? Well, there's no excuse, but I was, in fact, texting my eldest daughter. The college girl who is smart. On paper. You remember: this girl. And this same girl.
She'd sent me a text saying: I think I need to bring my cold medicine back to the store. I just got it and it's already expired. It says Expiration: 10/13 and today's 10/19!
Yes. She did.
I spent a good portion of that 20 minutes trying to explain to her that the 13 was the year, as in 2013.
At least, she's pretty.
By the time we got to the car, Julia was shrieking,
"Ican'tbelieveyouguysdidn'tseemeplayyouaresomeanandyou'veruinedmylifeiamtextingall
myfriendstotellthemmyfamilyhatesme."
I felt lower than pond scum. In other words, lower than Kate Gosselin.
I mean, there was a father at the game who had had listed all the player's names and numbers, laminated them and handed them out to all the parents. All the while, he had his tripod set up and was filming the entire game.
What were we doing? Talking about pork butts and texting.
For shame.
The good news is, Julia is my Julia. And along with her sweet spirit, she has a big, forgiving heart.
After a guilt stop at Dairy Queen and many apologies, she quickly brushed off the trauma. After all, as she so often reminds me, she is the third kid. She knows her place and her place is to make as little waves as possible. And she's cool with that. It's almost like her laid back spirit formed that way in the womb, knowing the chaotic estrogen-filled life she would enter.
Since then, she has played a few more games and I am proud to say, our eyes have not left the field.
I hope in the days to come, she will remember this trauma as the singular worst time I ruined her life.
And if that's the case, I'll be cool with that. I know in my daughters' eyes, my job is to ruin their lives.
My only hope is they don't write a tell-all book: MOMMY DEAREST—THE LIFE RUINER.
Because that would be bad.
Today's Definite Download: Okay, True Confession time. As a music junkie, I love discovering new bands and artists that haven't quite made it yet. I treasure those finds and I keep them close to my chest because once they're discovered by the mainstream and their songs are all over the radio or even worse, the soundtrack for the Swiffer Jet and/or car commercials, they lose their luster for me.
A few years ago, I stumbled upon a band called Imagine Dragons. And like I often do, I turned my girls on to this fabulous indie group. My Julia loves them. I'm happy, (at least, for them), to say their music has recently popped up on the radio and in movie soundtracks. And even though they're in the danger zone of being overplayed, I still love their sound.
This is, "It's Time," a song you might have heard a time or two before. Although, this version, right here, is a stripped down, no-enhancements, acoustic version of their hit. I like it better.
Along with that, I have a truly undiscovered treasure to share. Dan Reynolds of Imagine Dragons is married to Aja Volkman the FIERCE lead singer of the indie band Nico Vega. The two of them formed a little experimental band called Egyptian. And I LOVE the sound of their two voices together.
This, song, right here is "Wait For You,"a song they wrote and sing together. Once this comes on my iPod I hit replay all the day long.
But "It's Time" is for my Julia—"I never want to let you down." And I promise, I'll try to never miss a moment of your life again.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Hey! I'm back. Now come on, line up for your hugs. Oh, how I've missed you, Internet.
Hey! I'm back. Now come on, line up for your hugs. Oh, how I've missed you, Internet.
I finally finished my revisions. My baby is now in the hands of my fabulous critique partner, A.B. Keuser. She has been instrumental in helping me shape my novel and my hugs and kisses and love go out to her for being that kind of partner.
I would also like to thank out loud my unofficial critique partner, a writer whose words always take my breath away. Ashlei of Shades of Blue and Green so generously took the time to read and critique my work and give me valuable input.
These two talented ladies pretty much gave me carbon copy advice and so I reshaped things a bit and hopefully unless I get a hearty thumbs down, (no pressure, Amy), I'll be off and running here very soon.
Now, that's enough about my novel, today. Let's talk about other things. Mainly spreading the love through blog world. I feel like I have not spread the love as I should. I've been more of a taker than a giver. And I've fallen down in reciprocating the love that is so generously sent my way.
So I've decided to change all that.
With every post, I will be pointing you in the direction of one of my favorite blogs. Some old loves. Some new loves. Just great blogs that I know you'll enjoy as much as I do. It's about spreading the love all the way around. Because isn't life better when we share the love?
I know Arnold thinks so.
We're going to call it Fresh Laundry. My college girl came up with the title and I think it's perfect.
I was also wondering if you could help me out with a family dilemma because it's always nice to neglect your friends for weeks on end and then ask a favor of them as soon as you see them again.
I am trying to plan our summer vacation and I need your help. We're very limited in the dates we can take because Olivia wants to be included, so I'm going to make this work around her schedule. Because now that there are only two chicks left under our roof, I revel in the precious moments when we are once again, a family of five.
We can't decide where we should go and I thought you might be able to give me your valuable input.
We can't decide where we should go and I thought you might be able to give me your valuable input.
Here are our options, in no certain preferential order.
Option Number One: New York City. Here's the thing, I love New York. I know, right? Brilliance out of my mouth, once again. Anyway, the thing about New York in the summer is the sidewalks are a bit roomier. The natives all flee the heat for the Hamptons. And I love that because crowds unnerve me. And that, of course, is why you'll find me at Disney World all the freakin' time. And since we are hardy Florida folk, a wussy northeastern heat wave feels quite balmy to us. If it dips below 85 degrees, we call that sweater weather. And forget it if it gets as frigid as 75, we're bundled up in our parkas. So heat, schmeet is what I say.
My family loves NY, especially my girls. It has everything they require in a vacation. Fabulous food, great sights, the subway, taxis, (my girls are highly entertained by transportation), Broadway shows, the best weirdos walking the streets, street vendors with cheap junk my girls love even if it turns their necks green after 20 minutes and Chinatown with its exciting back rooms full of fake purses. And in case any of you are the Feds, I did NOT say that last part. My hands must have had a spasm or something.
Now the thing is, we've done New York many times over. And we may or may not have a LOT of purses. Which leads up to:
Option Number Two: Seattle, Washington and Vancouver, British Columbia.
This one really appeals to me because I've never been to Seattle and I hear it's extraordinary.
But and this is a big Kim Kardashian kind of but,
I'm afraid of Seattle.
I think they're going to be mean to me there.
Just like in Oregon.
And no offense to those of you who live in Oregon. If you're reading this and you live there, then there's a slight chance you like me, you really like me. I know A.B. Keuser kind of thinks I'm cool and she's from Oregon, so I'm not including you nice Oregonians in this rant. I'm talking about all the other people of your land. Not you.
And no offense to those of you who live in Oregon. If you're reading this and you live there, then there's a slight chance you like me, you really like me. I know A.B. Keuser kind of thinks I'm cool and she's from Oregon, so I'm not including you nice Oregonians in this rant. I'm talking about all the other people of your land. Not you.
And yes, I know so many of you love Oregon.
But I'm sure that's because you've never been called derisive names and been treated with utter scorn while there.
See, Oregon is the Jill Zarin of the United States. Oregon likes to act like they've got this super cool vibe going on, but deep down, if you're not like the rest of the grunge folk there, they'll sink their mean girl fangs right into your tender skin.
I've got no problem with the grungy, natural thing Oregon's got going on. So, here's a thought, Oregon: Since I embrace your people, why not accept those who are different from you?
And different I am.
I knew this on my first morning in Oregon when we came down for breakfast at our lovely B&B.
It was the first time I was called Barbie. With a sneer. It wouldn't be the last Barbie flung at me while in Mean Oregon.
I was ready for my day. Makeup and hair done, wearing my heels and an awesome sweater with a fur collar.
And yes, it was faux fur because I would never wear real fur.
I am against animal cruelty, unless it's gator because gators are meaner than the entire population of Oregon and Jill Zarin put together. They deserve to be shoes and purses. Also, goats are pretty much assholes, so I don't care if the world is cruel to goats. Sorry, goat huggers.
Anyway, as I strode into the breakfast area in my heels, the contempt in the room was palpable.
And when I went up to get my coffee, an unfortunately dressed chick bumped into ME. Not me bumping into her, mind you. She practically ran me over, probably couldn't see beyond her heaping plate of cheese danishes. Her, "Oh, excuse me Barbie" was dripping with mockery.
And this woman, like most of the women I encountered in Oregon, totally was feeling the "You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman" thing.
Her hair was wet. Dripping wet.
In my world, a blow dryer is as essential as properly fitting undergarments. You just don't present yourself to the world without hair in place and panty lines nonexistent.
She had on cranberry lycra pants that were too tight and too short WITH panty lines. And she had an overabundance of herself stuffed into those cranberry pants. A faded striped shirt and tennis shoes capped off her ensemble. She embodied natural.
My idea of natural is only one coat of mascara and some casual wedges instead of stilettos. I will freely admit I am not a sensible shoe kind of girl.
My lack of sensible shoes has been a constant source of frustration for my Hubs. Like the time he had to wrap my blistered feet in moleskin after conquering the hills of San Francisco all day. He was foolish enough to say, "I don't understand why you won't wear tennis shoes."
Really? And my answer to that was, "I don't understand why you won't wear skinny jeans paired with a vibrant scarf."
Or the time he kept badgering me to wear tennis shoes when we were hiking in the Lake Tahoe hills. And I was like, "No. I'm wearing my Cole Haan wedges. They're perfect for hiking. They have Nike bottoms."
And as I fumbled and fell off my wedges all the way up the mountain, I kept insisting, "I don't understand why this is happening. They have Nike bottoms AND they're one of Oprah's favorite things!" After my shoe broke from my 400th tumble and my hubs had to give me a piggyback ride down the mountain, I think he might have been the one who was soooorrrrryyyy.
Hey, he dated me for five years. Five years before he put a ring on it. He knew what sort of high maintenance he was going to be spending the rest of his life with.
So anyway, Oregon doesn't like me for these sort of girly girl reasons and I just feel like Seattle's got the same sort of vibe going on. I'm afraid they just might be as mean as their sister state.
And this time, instead of flinging contempt at just lil ole' me, I'd be bringing a whole family of Barbies. If it were Oregon, they'd be pelting us with Birkenstocks until we fled to a more manicured state, so I'm worried we're too much girl for Seattle.
Although . . .
Here's a very good reason to brave my fear and take my Nike bottom wedges and lip gloss and head to Seattle.
Eddie Vedder lives there. I would brave all the wet haired, bad fashioned, sneering grunge chicks of the world, if it meant I could give Eddie Vedder just one, a-little-too-long-and-too-tight-for-his-comfort, hug.
And the other plus of that trip is, Canada. I do so love Canada and their people because they are super nice up there. Even if they did give us Alanis Morissette, who seems to really not care about getting dolled up or you know, brushing her hair, they're still nice to the girly girls. They also have beaver tails and poutine and English high tea.
I like that in a country.
Our other option is, (Dear God is it too late to be raptured), a cruise.
If you didn't catch my subtle hint there, I really am not a cruise girl. Just like I'm not a camping girl or a tennis shoe wearing girl or a grunge girl or a wet haired, panty lines girl.
My family on the other hand is dying to go on a cruise.
Unfortunately, we live right around the corner from a popular cruise port and we have a veritable wealth of cruise lines right at our fingertips.
And here's why I think cruises are akin to the third circle of hell: You are trapped. On a boat. With people. Lots and lots of people. Loud people. Cruise people. People who enjoy bingo and belly flop and hairy chest contests. People who love magicians and passenger talent shows. People who will hang around the ship in their bathing suits for a week straight. And being exposed to that, mister, would be like the ninth circle of hell or the Kill Me Now circle of hell.
And then there is the dining with the theme song of "Buffets, exciting and new, Come stuff your face, Norovirus is waiting for you."
And should we even mention the close quarters of the cabins? When I say I don't like crowds, that includes my family and the mess that becomes them.
And please don't think I'm trying to discourage you from any of the options. Don't pick the cruise.
So if you could help me out, I'd be much obliged. We've been going round and round on this and I'm starting to feel as sea sick as I would on a big cruise ship because I'm very sensitive to motion sickness. Don't pick the cruise.
And just one more thing: It's so good to be back. XXXOOO
My very first ever FRESH LAUNDRY is: Erin of Tesori Trovati Treasures Found.
Erin is a jewelry designer who creates beautiful works of art out of beads and gems. Every time I'm at Erin's place, I feel like I'm opening up a pirate's treasure chest overflowing with glittering gorgeous decadence. Not only is Erin an accomplished jewelry designer, she's a stellar photographer whose pictures are as incredible as her jewelry pieces. And Erin lives to inspire, her words are chock full of things like DREAM and DO IT and YOU CAN.
During my revisions, it's safe to say I got distracted a lot. I mean, Web MD is just a click away. But one of my happiest distractions was perusing Erin's jewelry, all the gorgeous sparkle.
I have given Erin's pieces as gifts, but I'm finally getting one for myself. Erin has started a line called Simple Truths. She creates these beautiful, rustic pendants and charms with a custom made positive message engrained on each of them. I haven't quite decided what I want mine to read, but I'll show it you as soon as I get it. I'm positive it will be extraordinary.
And guess what else? I'm giving one of you a Simple Truth pendant and necklace, too! I mean, you've been waiting for me for far too long while I wrote a little and checked my symptoms far too much on Web MD. Did you know that all symptoms will eventually lead to Ebola? It's true.
So as a thank you for sticking around while I waited for my eyeballs to start hemorrhaging, I'm giving one lucky reader their own Simple Truth.
All you have to do is leave me a comment, hopefully a comment that can advise me how to meet Bono and then go check out Erin's blog and give her some love. I will randomly pick someone, let's say, on May 30th, that's one week from now.
And just so you know, Erin was fortunate enough to have a buyer scoop up a huge part of her Simple Truth inventory this weekend, so she's a little depleted at the moment, but trust me, it won't take too long for Erin to churn out more beautiful pieces.
Now Shoo, go take a look at Erin's blog of uplifting spirit and go check out her beautiful jewelry, right here. Once you meet Erin, you'll be thanking me forever.
Today's Definite Download: And here's another little gift from me to you for having been gone for far too long.
See, Oregon is the Jill Zarin of the United States. Oregon likes to act like they've got this super cool vibe going on, but deep down, if you're not like the rest of the grunge folk there, they'll sink their mean girl fangs right into your tender skin.
I've got no problem with the grungy, natural thing Oregon's got going on. So, here's a thought, Oregon: Since I embrace your people, why not accept those who are different from you?
And different I am.
I knew this on my first morning in Oregon when we came down for breakfast at our lovely B&B.
It was the first time I was called Barbie. With a sneer. It wouldn't be the last Barbie flung at me while in Mean Oregon.
I was ready for my day. Makeup and hair done, wearing my heels and an awesome sweater with a fur collar.
And yes, it was faux fur because I would never wear real fur.
I am against animal cruelty, unless it's gator because gators are meaner than the entire population of Oregon and Jill Zarin put together. They deserve to be shoes and purses. Also, goats are pretty much assholes, so I don't care if the world is cruel to goats. Sorry, goat huggers.
Anyway, as I strode into the breakfast area in my heels, the contempt in the room was palpable.
And when I went up to get my coffee, an unfortunately dressed chick bumped into ME. Not me bumping into her, mind you. She practically ran me over, probably couldn't see beyond her heaping plate of cheese danishes. Her, "Oh, excuse me Barbie" was dripping with mockery.
And this woman, like most of the women I encountered in Oregon, totally was feeling the "You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman" thing.
Her hair was wet. Dripping wet.
In my world, a blow dryer is as essential as properly fitting undergarments. You just don't present yourself to the world without hair in place and panty lines nonexistent.
She had on cranberry lycra pants that were too tight and too short WITH panty lines. And she had an overabundance of herself stuffed into those cranberry pants. A faded striped shirt and tennis shoes capped off her ensemble. She embodied natural.
My idea of natural is only one coat of mascara and some casual wedges instead of stilettos. I will freely admit I am not a sensible shoe kind of girl.
My lack of sensible shoes has been a constant source of frustration for my Hubs. Like the time he had to wrap my blistered feet in moleskin after conquering the hills of San Francisco all day. He was foolish enough to say, "I don't understand why you won't wear tennis shoes."
Really? And my answer to that was, "I don't understand why you won't wear skinny jeans paired with a vibrant scarf."
Or the time he kept badgering me to wear tennis shoes when we were hiking in the Lake Tahoe hills. And I was like, "No. I'm wearing my Cole Haan wedges. They're perfect for hiking. They have Nike bottoms."
And he was all, "You're going to be soooorrrryyyy."
And as I fumbled and fell off my wedges all the way up the mountain, I kept insisting, "I don't understand why this is happening. They have Nike bottoms AND they're one of Oprah's favorite things!" After my shoe broke from my 400th tumble and my hubs had to give me a piggyback ride down the mountain, I think he might have been the one who was soooorrrrryyyy.
Hey, he dated me for five years. Five years before he put a ring on it. He knew what sort of high maintenance he was going to be spending the rest of his life with.
So anyway, Oregon doesn't like me for these sort of girly girl reasons and I just feel like Seattle's got the same sort of vibe going on. I'm afraid they just might be as mean as their sister state.
And this time, instead of flinging contempt at just lil ole' me, I'd be bringing a whole family of Barbies. If it were Oregon, they'd be pelting us with Birkenstocks until we fled to a more manicured state, so I'm worried we're too much girl for Seattle.
Although . . .
Here's a very good reason to brave my fear and take my Nike bottom wedges and lip gloss and head to Seattle.
Eddie Vedder lives there. I would brave all the wet haired, bad fashioned, sneering grunge chicks of the world, if it meant I could give Eddie Vedder just one, a-little-too-long-and-too-tight-for-his-comfort, hug.
And the other plus of that trip is, Canada. I do so love Canada and their people because they are super nice up there. Even if they did give us Alanis Morissette, who seems to really not care about getting dolled up or you know, brushing her hair, they're still nice to the girly girls. They also have beaver tails and poutine and English high tea.
I like that in a country.
Our other option is, (Dear God is it too late to be raptured), a cruise.
If you didn't catch my subtle hint there, I really am not a cruise girl. Just like I'm not a camping girl or a tennis shoe wearing girl or a grunge girl or a wet haired, panty lines girl.
My family on the other hand is dying to go on a cruise.
Unfortunately, we live right around the corner from a popular cruise port and we have a veritable wealth of cruise lines right at our fingertips.
And here's why I think cruises are akin to the third circle of hell: You are trapped. On a boat. With people. Lots and lots of people. Loud people. Cruise people. People who enjoy bingo and belly flop and hairy chest contests. People who love magicians and passenger talent shows. People who will hang around the ship in their bathing suits for a week straight. And being exposed to that, mister, would be like the ninth circle of hell or the Kill Me Now circle of hell.
And then there is the dining with the theme song of "Buffets, exciting and new, Come stuff your face, Norovirus is waiting for you."
And should we even mention the close quarters of the cabins? When I say I don't like crowds, that includes my family and the mess that becomes them.
And please don't think I'm trying to discourage you from any of the options. Don't pick the cruise.
So if you could help me out, I'd be much obliged. We've been going round and round on this and I'm starting to feel as sea sick as I would on a big cruise ship because I'm very sensitive to motion sickness. Don't pick the cruise.
And just one more thing: It's so good to be back. XXXOOO
My very first ever FRESH LAUNDRY is: Erin of Tesori Trovati Treasures Found.
Erin is a jewelry designer who creates beautiful works of art out of beads and gems. Every time I'm at Erin's place, I feel like I'm opening up a pirate's treasure chest overflowing with glittering gorgeous decadence. Not only is Erin an accomplished jewelry designer, she's a stellar photographer whose pictures are as incredible as her jewelry pieces. And Erin lives to inspire, her words are chock full of things like DREAM and DO IT and YOU CAN.
During my revisions, it's safe to say I got distracted a lot. I mean, Web MD is just a click away. But one of my happiest distractions was perusing Erin's jewelry, all the gorgeous sparkle.
I have given Erin's pieces as gifts, but I'm finally getting one for myself. Erin has started a line called Simple Truths. She creates these beautiful, rustic pendants and charms with a custom made positive message engrained on each of them. I haven't quite decided what I want mine to read, but I'll show it you as soon as I get it. I'm positive it will be extraordinary.
And guess what else? I'm giving one of you a Simple Truth pendant and necklace, too! I mean, you've been waiting for me for far too long while I wrote a little and checked my symptoms far too much on Web MD. Did you know that all symptoms will eventually lead to Ebola? It's true.
So as a thank you for sticking around while I waited for my eyeballs to start hemorrhaging, I'm giving one lucky reader their own Simple Truth.
All you have to do is leave me a comment, hopefully a comment that can advise me how to meet Bono and then go check out Erin's blog and give her some love. I will randomly pick someone, let's say, on May 30th, that's one week from now.
And just so you know, Erin was fortunate enough to have a buyer scoop up a huge part of her Simple Truth inventory this weekend, so she's a little depleted at the moment, but trust me, it won't take too long for Erin to churn out more beautiful pieces.
Now Shoo, go take a look at Erin's blog of uplifting spirit and go check out her beautiful jewelry, right here. Once you meet Erin, you'll be thanking me forever.
Today's Definite Download: And here's another little gift from me to you for having been gone for far too long.
"Without Me"—Eminem at his absolute best, when he was wicked and angry and funny and smart. It's an awesome song, an awesome video. But be warned, if you're easily offended, it is Eminem we're talking about here.
And it's such a disaster, such a catastrophe
For you to see so damn much of my ass
You asked for me? Well, I'm back
Fix your bent antennae, tune it in and then I'm gonna
Enter in, endin' up under your skin like a splinter
And it's such a disaster, such a catastrophe
For you to see so damn much of my ass
You asked for me? Well, I'm back
Fix your bent antennae, tune it in and then I'm gonna
Enter in, endin' up under your skin like a splinter
Monday, January 31, 2011
Occasionally, June asks us to participate in her blog, like in her Pieces of Wisdom Wednesday where she asks us a question on Tuesday and then posts our advice on Weds.
It was tough for him. He tried.
And tried
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
If you've been reading my nonsense for any amount of time, you know there is one blog that means more to me than all of my other beloved blogs.
And I have a lot of beloved blogs.
This is a place I go visit every single day without fail. Even if I've banned the internet for the day so I can get some writing done or even rarer, work on the consistently burgeoning piles of laundry around these parts, I always go check in over there at least a couple of times a day.
And I have a lot of beloved blogs.
This is a place I go visit every single day without fail. Even if I've banned the internet for the day so I can get some writing done or even rarer, work on the consistently burgeoning piles of laundry around these parts, I always go check in over there at least a couple of times a day.
And no, it's not U2's fan site.
Although, Bono does come in a close second.
For the record, Bono is first in my heart, but second in my web site love.
And just so you know, I have total access to everything over at U2.com since I'm a paying member of their fan club. I have been for years.
And yes, I'm proud to be in a fan club. And no, I'm not 13.
And yes, I'm proud to be in a fan club. And no, I'm not 13.
Anyway, the blog I'm speaking of is called Bye Bye Pie.
I started reading June Gardens of Bye Bye Pie a few years back when June was nominated for best humor blog at the big time Luxe Awards. She didn't win that year. I think stupid Cake Wrecks won. And don't be all up in my comments saying, "HEY, I LOVE Cake Wrecks!"
Goody good for you. But as for me, I'm not feelin' the love.
It's kind of like Avatar. I don't get blue people or cakes.
How many wrecked cakes can one look at, before you go, "Okay, that was funny. But after the first 400, I'm kind of losing my luster for wrecked cakes."
I started reading June because she was hilarious, but there's an extra something at June's that you don't get at any other blogs.
And that, sir, is the audience, June's readers. June will write a post and the conversation begins. And where we end up is usually, never even close to the original topic of June's blog that day.
The commenters over at June's are a cast of characters themselves and over time, we've become this rowdy, eclectic (yes, we are eclectics), group of friends.
Because the ones of us who converse throughout the day, we're a band of nutjobs.
Really fun, witty nutjobs, but nutjobs all the same.
Anyone is welcome to join us. Over at June's, we love and embrace animals, hypochondria, celebrities, books, coffee, good deeds, Barry Gibb, incredibly inappropriate jokes and spying on neighbors.
Occasionally, June asks us to participate in her blog, like in her Pieces of Wisdom Wednesday where she asks us a question on Tuesday and then posts our advice on Weds.
I know, right? You're asking yourself, what the hell have I been doing with my Wednesdays up till now? I'll tell you what you've been doing. Wasting them, that's what, if you're not over with us at The Pie.
This Sunday, June asked us to take a photo of something we did during the day and send it in to her.
And you know me.
There will be no pictures of me making breakfast, because me and making anything would be hilarious in itself or playing Frisbee Golf with the fam, or any other normal activity that occupies a Sunday.
Because first of all, I am not normal.
Nor is my family.
In short, my family is a group of ridiculously obsessed Disney fanatics.
I hate that about them.
Every weekend, if there's nothing going on, someone inevitably pipes up with the dreaded, "Why don't we go to Disneyyyyy?" And they all jump up and down, cackling and applauding and acting like Disney is a place to cherish instead of a Hellish black hole infested with germs, massive child meltdowns, wait times in which you can see yourself physically age and spandex loving foreigners who don't understand the concept of personal body space.
I am not a Disney fan. I'd even go so far as to call myself a Disney hater.
But even with all of my Disney hate, my family forces me to go all the dang time, with their whines of, "But it wouldn't be the same without youuuu."
And actually, it wouldn't be the same.
It would be better.
Because I make the rules around this place. And the laws are, I will not wait in a line over 20 minutes, which pretty much rules out every Disney ride. I let my family of freaks stand in line for hours, while I go find myself some pretzels and cheese sauce and commence to people watching, which is the very best part of Disney.
I will not go on any ride where there's even an infinitesimal chance I'll get wet. I also refuse to walk around in the heat getting sweaty. I will not stand in line next to someone who is so close to me, I can feel their body hair against my skin. I make my hubby switch places when the leg hair is rubbing against my calf. I will not do any shows or rides that are all scientifical. I went beyond my tolerated limit of science stuff while in school. I'm a grownup now, so no one can force me into situations with science . . . or math for that matter.
And my number one Disney rule is, I will in never go to the Magic Kingdom, a place that is so very, very un-magical.
So, in other words, I'm a hell of a lot of fun.
Yesterday, when my family suggested Disney, specifically Hollywood Studios, I thought, well at least I can get a good Bye Bye Pie picture.
My other option was to put on a ball gown and feed my stupid ducks.
So off we went to Hollywood Studios. The freaks all bouncing with excitement—me, just wanting a photo op.
As soon as we got there, I started fretting about photo opportunities, while they headed over to the bakery for caramel apples and chocolate peanut butter cupcakes.
I will begrudgingly admit, the food at Disney World is one of the reasons I keep going back. It's also one of the reasons I refuse to go to Magic Kingdom because if Flying Dumbos and Toon Town weren't hellish enough, the food over there is limited to chicken nuggets, hamburgers, hot dogs and cardboard fries.
Animal Kingdom has jalapeno cheese stuffed pretzels. That's all I have to say about that.
After we finished up our grub, we were standing in one of the busy thoroughfares deciding where we should go for the best photo opportunity when this fabulous woman with an amazing plume of a hat came out of nowhere, put down a wooden crate right beside me and stood on that crate.
Now, here's the thing about me.
I'm a magnet for anyone looking for a show volunteer.
I do not raise my hand to be in these shows. I do not wave my arms, frantically shouting, "Pick ME! Pick ME!" I do not show the slightest interest whatsoever. In fact, most of the time I try to hide. But inevitably I am found and dragged up on stage to do humiliating things.
Perfect example, my recent dance off in Mexico. Which by the way? I have to tell you all, that Mexican post is my very favorite title of all times—"Don't Cry For Me Mexico. The Truth Is I've Never Been A Very Good Dancer." I just crack myself the freak up over that one.
Anyway, I've been brought up stage at a dinner show to do The Chicken Dance, with a very hot German dude in leather lederhosen, I might add. I've been magicians' assistants. I've been called up onstage by comics. I've helped in feeding the alligators whole roaster chickens at the zoo. I am consistently picked to light the candles or bring up the offering at my church, which if these Godly people had any clue of the amount of cussing that went on in my car as we sped to church, late again, they would NOT be picking me. I've been pulled up on stage by an Elvis impersonator who sang to me. And to my everlasting horror, I have been plucked from the audience while chaperoning a school field trip to milk a cow.
Sadly, I have never been hand picked by Bono to dance with him during a U2 concert. I am still waiting for that glorious, glorious moment.
Anyway, so as I'm standing there scouting the area for a great photo op, the lady on the box announces she likes everything about me. She announces this to the entire street. She then asks me my name and to step forward and the next thing I know, I am once again, the involuntary prop in a show. And so I turned to my hubby and hissed, "This is it! Take the pictures!"
And so the tall lady on the box proceeded to tell the world that her assistant P.J. has never had a date before and she wanted P.J. to ask me out. With her Cyrano De Bergerac prompts, P.J. proceeded to make a grand spectacle as he went about asking me out on a date. Don't you love the way I am NOT posing for the camera?
P.J. was coerced into serenading me with his ukelele.
I wasn't sure what the protocol was when a ukelele playing dude in plaid shorts and knee socks asks you out while being coached by a lady in a plumed hat standing on a wooden crate, in front of everyone at Hollywood studios including your husband, so I was all, what the hell and I said yes.
And as the crowd cheered, the lady on the crate told him he had to seal the deal with a kiss to my hand.
This took some bravery on P.J.'s part and a running start.
I'm a magnet for anyone looking for a show volunteer.
I do not raise my hand to be in these shows. I do not wave my arms, frantically shouting, "Pick ME! Pick ME!" I do not show the slightest interest whatsoever. In fact, most of the time I try to hide. But inevitably I am found and dragged up on stage to do humiliating things.
Perfect example, my recent dance off in Mexico. Which by the way? I have to tell you all, that Mexican post is my very favorite title of all times—"Don't Cry For Me Mexico. The Truth Is I've Never Been A Very Good Dancer." I just crack myself the freak up over that one.
Anyway, I've been brought up stage at a dinner show to do The Chicken Dance, with a very hot German dude in leather lederhosen, I might add. I've been magicians' assistants. I've been called up onstage by comics. I've helped in feeding the alligators whole roaster chickens at the zoo. I am consistently picked to light the candles or bring up the offering at my church, which if these Godly people had any clue of the amount of cussing that went on in my car as we sped to church, late again, they would NOT be picking me. I've been pulled up on stage by an Elvis impersonator who sang to me. And to my everlasting horror, I have been plucked from the audience while chaperoning a school field trip to milk a cow.
Sadly, I have never been hand picked by Bono to dance with him during a U2 concert. I am still waiting for that glorious, glorious moment.
Anyway, so as I'm standing there scouting the area for a great photo op, the lady on the box announces she likes everything about me. She announces this to the entire street. She then asks me my name and to step forward and the next thing I know, I am once again, the involuntary prop in a show. And so I turned to my hubby and hissed, "This is it! Take the pictures!"
And so the tall lady on the box proceeded to tell the world that her assistant P.J. has never had a date before and she wanted P.J. to ask me out. With her Cyrano De Bergerac prompts, P.J. proceeded to make a grand spectacle as he went about asking me out on a date. Don't you love the way I am NOT posing for the camera?
P.J. was coerced into serenading me with his ukelele.
And then he had to ask me out, which he claimed he could only do from a safe distance away from me, in order not to lose his nerve.
I wasn't sure what the protocol was when a ukelele playing dude in plaid shorts and knee socks asks you out while being coached by a lady in a plumed hat standing on a wooden crate, in front of everyone at Hollywood studios including your husband, so I was all, what the hell and I said yes.
And as the crowd cheered, the lady on the crate told him he had to seal the deal with a kiss to my hand.
This took some bravery on P.J.'s part and a running start.
There was a great deal of trepidation as the lady on the crate and the audience cheered him on.
He was mightily scared, even after I told him I didn't have cooties.
He was mightily scared, even after I told him I didn't have cooties.
It was tough for him. He tried.
And tried.
And tried
And finally after many attempts, he went in for the kill and landed a big, squishy wet one on my hand.
The audience loved it, my girls were only slightly mortified and I had my photo op in the bag.
After that, I didn't care what we did, as long as it didn't involve sweaty foreigners pressing against me.
We saw a couple of shows and then headed over to American Idol, one of my favorite stops.
After that, I didn't care what we did, as long as it didn't involve sweaty foreigners pressing against me.
We saw a couple of shows and then headed over to American Idol, one of my favorite stops.
Where the camera men kept coming over to my daughters and putting the camera right in their faces which my girls totally loved. They would then flash their images on the big screen. I tried to snap their images every time they popped up, but my stupid iphone was taking too long and I only managed to get this one blurry shot of them up on the big screen.
After our Idol fest and a quick picture with a Betty White bust
We walked by The Brown Derby which is as impossible to get into as it is to get up on stage during a U2 concert. It is, on the average, a three month wait. But because we're kind of dumb, we strolled in to check anyway and also to use their classy bathroom.
And as we walked up to the hostess stand, the hostess stood there menus in hand with three of them being kid's menus and said, "Kwan, party of five?"
And we were all, "Oh hell yeah, we're the Kwans!"
We really didn't say that because we do have a tiny bit of moral fiber. But my husband said, "We're not the Kwans, but we do have five people and no one in our party is young enough to crumble food on the floor or scream throughout the dinner. And you can put those kids' menus away because we all order adult entrees and several appetizers, and a nice bottle of wine, along with a very generous tip. So, what do you say?"
And the hostess sized us up and said, "One minute."
She went off and conferred with some suits in the corner, pointing at us and the next thing we knew we were being ushered to a big, round plush booth! And we were all JACKPOT!
We had a lovely meal with good wine for the grownups.
We walked by The Brown Derby which is as impossible to get into as it is to get up on stage during a U2 concert. It is, on the average, a three month wait. But because we're kind of dumb, we strolled in to check anyway and also to use their classy bathroom.
And as we walked up to the hostess stand, the hostess stood there menus in hand with three of them being kid's menus and said, "Kwan, party of five?"
And we were all, "Oh hell yeah, we're the Kwans!"
We really didn't say that because we do have a tiny bit of moral fiber. But my husband said, "We're not the Kwans, but we do have five people and no one in our party is young enough to crumble food on the floor or scream throughout the dinner. And you can put those kids' menus away because we all order adult entrees and several appetizers, and a nice bottle of wine, along with a very generous tip. So, what do you say?"
And the hostess sized us up and said, "One minute."
She went off and conferred with some suits in the corner, pointing at us and the next thing we knew we were being ushered to a big, round plush booth! And we were all JACKPOT!
We had a lovely meal with good wine for the grownups.
And light up drinks for the daughters.
And of course, we had to show off our classiness
Our dinner was a huge, classy success.
We then took this blurry picture while strolling after our dinner. Another rule of mine: If it's walkable, we will not take a form of sweaty transport. So, we walk a lot. And we walked over to Epcot.
I'm actually shocked to say this, but I had a good time yesterday. A fireworks kind of good time.
But the whole point of this ramble was to tell you, that June has posted photos of all of us today and since my photo is totally random, I knew you, Internet, would be all, "Why is Joann getting her hand kissed by a dude in knee socks while a tall lady on a box stands over them, watching? This is what she does with her Sundays?"
I figured I needed to explain my life. Something I'm used to doing.
Head on over to the Pie and join the conversation if you're looking for some fun.
By the way, I'm Original Joann over there because one my best writer friends, regular Joann, hangs out there, too.
Vacation Tales are coming this week. Look for them.
No download again today. I'm kind of messing around with my iTunes right now, but my opinionated music insistence will be back shortly.
We then took this blurry picture while strolling after our dinner. Another rule of mine: If it's walkable, we will not take a form of sweaty transport. So, we walk a lot. And we walked over to Epcot.
Because in my Hubby's eyes, life is not life without adventures and fireworks. And he will never miss an opportunity to ooh and ahh over fireworks.
We have oohed and aahed so many times at Epcot's firework show, my girls know the words to the song and are not afraid to sing them.
Loudly and with great drama and hand motions.
I'm actually shocked to say this, but I had a good time yesterday. A fireworks kind of good time.
But the whole point of this ramble was to tell you, that June has posted photos of all of us today and since my photo is totally random, I knew you, Internet, would be all, "Why is Joann getting her hand kissed by a dude in knee socks while a tall lady on a box stands over them, watching? This is what she does with her Sundays?"
I figured I needed to explain my life. Something I'm used to doing.
Head on over to the Pie and join the conversation if you're looking for some fun.
By the way, I'm Original Joann over there because one my best writer friends, regular Joann, hangs out there, too.
Vacation Tales are coming this week. Look for them.
No download again today. I'm kind of messing around with my iTunes right now, but my opinionated music insistence will be back shortly.
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