tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19975895107716891422024-02-19T11:02:36.738-06:00Hello, It's TuesdayHello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-12609293149224252992008-06-18T23:05:00.001-05:002008-12-10T17:00:21.770-06:00Hello, are you me?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ZAdR2dFu4KAX77elENiG-RcJb1zMb4CusKeenWmwmu7_K9tgw0fuCStMFUDDK0BHtKyJBPgzpclwK8CnWtQl5Tua_L3NbKk1TJYoc9SrkmDK-vdFGKNd2PdYIcOWjk5PykcFHlyzdgRO/s1600-h/g2+bf.ai+(Konvertiert)-2+%5BKonvertiert%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213440982326617266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ZAdR2dFu4KAX77elENiG-RcJb1zMb4CusKeenWmwmu7_K9tgw0fuCStMFUDDK0BHtKyJBPgzpclwK8CnWtQl5Tua_L3NbKk1TJYoc9SrkmDK-vdFGKNd2PdYIcOWjk5PykcFHlyzdgRO/s400/g2+bf.ai+(Konvertiert)-2+%5BKonvertiert%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>"Do I know you?" "I mean, have we met before?" "I don't think so" I answer, pulling my tie-in- the-back robe more securely around me. She squints one eye and bites her bottom lip like one does when she's trying to recall where she might have left something important and then tells me that she will be back in a moment. Before the door has completely shut it opens again and she leans in, hand still on the door handle. "Are you famous?" she asks, eyes wide. "No" I answer in my best I'm not at all flattered voice. "Hmm" she breaths rather defeatedly as she again pulls the door closed. Moments later she returns and apologizes for her false sense of familiarity, "Sorry about that, it's just that I swear I know you from somewhere." <em>I wonder if this is how an amnesiac feels</em> I think to myself, knowing I have never seen this person before in my life.<br /><br />When I was a kid I dreamt of having a twin. We would have rhyming names and wear coordinating outfits. Her side ponytail would be on the left and mine on the right. All the other kids would want to be us because we would have two of everything. Two trampolines, two playhouses, two pink canopy beds with the little stair steps to help you up to the super fluffy bedding. We would fake out the adults by taking turns skipping out of Sunday school and dentist appointments. Oddly enough, the adults in these scenarios never knew I had a twin. I would always be the good twin and <em>she</em>, the bad. I think I must have based these fantasies on some after school special or Saturday summer movie I saw at the public library, because my only other source of reference would have been Lisa and Leslie, or as I fondly remember them, Tandem Evil.<br /><br />Lisa and Leslie lived a couple of blocks down from us and I only remember playing with them once or twice. Both times there were incidents. The first was when they blamed their spilled red Kool-aide on the little brother of the other girl who was playing with us. "Who spilled this?" the mother asked. "He did it" Lisa replied with her arm as straight as a fire poker and the tip of her index finger only inches away from the little boys chest. "Uhh hu, <em>he</em> did it" Leslie chimed in, with a tight-lipped nod. It happened so fast, nobody had anytime to react. The mother sighed a pissed off sigh and told us all to go play outside. The second time, I don't remember who the unfortunate victim was only that she was left, whimpering in a half squat, half kneeling position with her long trusses tied to a door knob. Lisa and Leslie laughing their blond heads off as they skipped happily away. I don't remember my reaction to this; I would like to think that I helped the poor girl, or tried to right the injustice by standing up to the two pint sized bullies, but in all reality I was probably what we consider today to be a bystander and only followed the two (for my own protection) down the stairs.<br /><br />Funny that these, being my real life experiences with twins, I would ever have wanted to be one. But, like I said, in my head, I would be the good one and she would be the evil one. And as it turns out, I do (apparently) have a twin out there. On average the <em>Do I know you</em> scenario happens about once a week. And just this past week twice, at the gym. The gatekeeper at the front swore my member number didn't match the name he typed into the computer. When I asked him to make sure he spelled Hello correctly, he questioned me, "Your last name is Hello?" His typing tempo slowed down considerably and I was just about ready to go into my standard shtick about how I know it's weird and a lot like the Abbott and Costello Who's On First Routine, when he interrupts me with, "No, it's not that, it's just that there's this other member here who looks just like you." "Really, it's crazy how much y'all look alike" he says in a tone that makes me think he's not sure I'm being straight with him.<br /><br />And then again, a couple of days later, a trainer approaches me in mid crunch to ask me how far I had run. "Oh, I don't run" I replied thinking, erroneously, that she had mistaken my legs for those of a top form sprinter or long distance martyr. "Oh, sorry, I thought you were Jennifer. You two could be twins" she said as she backed up looking around to see where my mirror image could have gone.<br /><br />So now, I search for her. I go daily and scour the elliptical machines for something that I think I might recognize. I look for traces of myself in the girl working out beside the lockers and then again in the woman on the mat in the back. Will I recognize her if I see her? And what is it that I'll see? Do others see us as we see ourselves? Will I think she's pretty? Will I think she looks young or see her as a thirty eight year old <em>mom type.</em> What exactly is it that we have in common? Is it a specific feature? A smile? Hair color? Or is it more general, a resemblance in our build or carriage?<br /><br />I've told the gatekeeper to alert me if she's ever there when I'm there. I want to meet her. I want to see if she thinks we look alike. I want to take her to lunch and see if <em>she's</em> the evil one. </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-42148576351676666592008-06-18T15:50:00.003-05:002008-12-10T17:00:21.906-06:00Anatomy of a FriendshipBecause, once a year is never enough. It's that time again.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVcMyENcli_DDobtlltKe7bRpAUjShZS0K7NqwX7kiykrCpWGExw4_EY4JQF6IdMykoz6HFnHmB365OJHj5qtTwMdsSUSulJLHOP5af2rJrAHtjbrB761W-lUm5_lyWzN_t4Q5T8O8Wj3z/s1600-h/friend.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213327715892514130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVcMyENcli_DDobtlltKe7bRpAUjShZS0K7NqwX7kiykrCpWGExw4_EY4JQF6IdMykoz6HFnHmB365OJHj5qtTwMdsSUSulJLHOP5af2rJrAHtjbrB761W-lUm5_lyWzN_t4Q5T8O8Wj3z/s400/friend.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>There were no tears at graduation. We were confident that we would keep up with each other and be just as much involved as we had been over the last two years of our lives together. In what seems like the blink of an eye (19 years) we had married, traveled, settled and had children. We had lived thousands of miles apart and at times only a stones throw away from one another. Yet we had never so much as sent a wedding announcement or birth announcement to one another. I had no idea whether we would have remained the same or morphed in ways that would render us unrecognizable. </div><br /><div><br />We found each other a few weeks ago. After sorting through my 'junk mail' I came across the school newsletter. My heart raced as I read the updates of my two best friends from back in the day. They were looking to find us again. It was only minutes before we were on the phone planning our re-connect. </div><br /><div>Our friendship was born out of circumstance. In its most embryonic state the ties that would bind us were those of survival. At fifteen and sixteen years of age we were not completely weaned. Still wet behind the ears and on unfamiliar terrain we would need to learn to exist without the proximity of our natural families. I needed someone to provide the essentials for survival... a sense of nurture, belonging and protection. I found these elements in two girls.<br />To say we liked one another or got along would be too simplistic; we relied on each other. As study partners, counselors, and confidants our friendship grew from a state of necessity to a more evolved state of shared experiences and occasions, now considered memories. We played and partied together, strengthening our bond and discovering cosmic commonalities. Three Scorpios destined to share a sense of humor and an outlook on life. More often than not when reading the 'shout-outs' from other classmates in our yearbook we are referred to as one. A solid unit. "M, C, & S....let's keep in touch." As if we were connected at the hip. </div><br /><div><br />So this past week, with six children among us, we assembled only to discover that we still had more in common than not. I worried that my children would cling to one another or worse yet, to me, unable to make friendship on demand or on such short notice. Amazingly, our children played together in what can only be described as harmony. They collected oodles of doodle bugs, explored, created works of art and conspired in mutual naughtiness. At one point emptying an enormous bowl of popcorn, kernel by kernel on to the living room floor and dancing it into the carpet. With our best mommy faces on we wrangled them to see who was the ring leader. They stood solid, no one would rat out the other. </div><br /><div><br />One by one we departed and soon I was back to my reality. At home, a wife and a mom. A familiar and comfortable environment but with an unidentifiable feeling. It was something I had experienced before-way back in the day-it was homesickness. The feeling will ease and in the meantime we will invent ways to come together again soon.</div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-15145159869312619772008-06-10T09:15:00.000-05:002008-12-10T17:00:22.206-06:00Who Knew??<span style="color:#ff6666;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SBbTxDxR7rU_layOuBk3iKu2VYdJ405i4t8O8AO4cf30pimvejqW9lJZ6sCX_QGNIxZw8qdYYadR3JDoEoC0u0Kp1jTkCqk5cBXrnT5-9hI359umTzUhhkQZs4mSwROlht_OsQutNAMw/s1600-h/thumbnail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208899007978622946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SBbTxDxR7rU_layOuBk3iKu2VYdJ405i4t8O8AO4cf30pimvejqW9lJZ6sCX_QGNIxZw8qdYYadR3JDoEoC0u0Kp1jTkCqk5cBXrnT5-9hI359umTzUhhkQZs4mSwROlht_OsQutNAMw/s320/thumbnail.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="justify">Four girls, a bottle of wine and Mr. Big. That was the game plan for Tuesday night. I knew I would need moral support if Carrie was rejected by him yet again. I was hoping against common sense that they would somehow end happily ever after, I needed them to. After the movie, we decided to go somewhere where we could do what comes naturally after such an event....vent. Four dwindled to three and we sat and talked, no topic untouched. If there had been a soundtrack to that part of the evening it would have been Pussycat Dolls "I Don't Need A Man". But as usual, the conversation turned to us. Three moms, three friends, brought together by the men we <em>did</em> (evidently) need. We all had more in common with Carrie than we had thought. We all had a Big in our lives, yet in the real world, tigers don't change their stripes and men that can't commit, well, they can't commit, at least not to us. So we had all picked another cat that could and while totally satisfied with our choices, we all like to talk about our illustrious pasts. Even though they didn't end the way we thought they might back in the day. And the movie industry feels obligated to tie it all up with a big pink bow in the end, because, we <em>need</em> them to. We needed Carrie and Big to be together in the end. It just looks prettier. The soundtrack to this part of the evening...Pink's "Who Knew".<br /><br />So as the Husband headed off today for his equivalent of my Tuesday night, I was a little...hmmm, how can I put this delicately??? Pissed. That's right, I said pissed and you want to know why? Well for one, I'm pretty sure that the guys don't sit around and analyze their relationships. In fact, I don't think they discuss their families at all. I know because I've asked. "So, how's so and so's new baby?" "I don't know, we didn't discuss that." Another, I bet they don't spell out their more colorful vocabulary as we do -totally out of effing habit. And thirdly, while it is totally permissible for them to drink hard alcohol diluted only with water and brandish firearms without fear of stigma, we are totally living on the edge as we order another glass of wine to wash down the garden burger we just ate on a single bun. If there is a soundtrack to their night of stink, I bet it's "Just Good Ole Boys" from the Dukes of Hazard.<br /><br />So, just to make myself feel a bit better, before he left for his <em>overnight</em> boy party of what can only be imagined as farts and lies, I composed a little note and stuffed it into a pair of his boots.<br /><br /><em>Dear Daddy,</em><br /><em>Have fun killing the innocent little birdies tonight. You are our hero. We look up to YOU Daddy. Does this mean Mommy can finally take us to the circus this year? </em><br /><em>xoxo</em><br /><em>Jacqueline and Salem</em><br /><em></em><br />Now, not so pissed. </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-4846388292220678192008-06-06T20:23:00.007-05:002008-12-10T17:00:22.389-06:00Both of them had hair of gold, like their mother...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9z9vMK3PD4SBdN_c8RbvQt-zBXqgTI2sm0Spc7xtArnqSMMjK8o84DNyL9k_X_EvO5ox-NFseOqKufhoqYB7rqU03YJFsiUm382hwYYlUVHA0oan-Y0upSm0XgeFx2otErHSgCEkVKSRh/s1600-h/bookcover_sm%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208948125258450978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9z9vMK3PD4SBdN_c8RbvQt-zBXqgTI2sm0Spc7xtArnqSMMjK8o84DNyL9k_X_EvO5ox-NFseOqKufhoqYB7rqU03YJFsiUm382hwYYlUVHA0oan-Y0upSm0XgeFx2otErHSgCEkVKSRh/s400/bookcover_sm%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><div>Here's a story, of a lovely lady...<br /></div><br /><br /><div>My good friend and padna in crime Sugar Mama is just one of the lovely ladies whose writing is featured in the<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7c-tqcquJ4M&eurl=http://www.motheringheights.net/"> Mothering Heights Manual for Motherhood</a>. </div></div></div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-67829624362661580302008-06-02T18:12:00.005-05:002008-06-03T16:39:15.497-05:0016I see it now like an island I once saw off the deck of a friends house. "Is that an island?" I asked, not sure if I should trust what I thought I was seeing. Then I felt stupid for asking, because, of course, if it were an island, I would have surely seen it before and it wouldn't have just appeared, from nothingness and floated to the surface far out in the waters of the Pacific. It turned out that it was indeed an island and that I simply hadn't noticed it before. That or something had obscured my view of it, the weather, the glare of the sun. Regardless, it existed. It had been there all along, just like my life twenty years ago did. A solid mass of something, floating just far enough out in my memory to make me squint and try and remember if what I'm recalling is real or just something I think I remember. After all, two years of one's life is only a sliver of the whole, nothing that should really amount to much, but it has.<br /><br /><br />There's a confidence you have when you're sixteen, similar to that of a preschool age child. <em>I can do it by myself, I don't need your help</em> kind of attitude. I'm convinced that it's a necessary stage. That without the bold determination, the veil of forced certitude, we would never experience failure, never venture past the shallow end of the pool. I was no different. I didn't want to stand out. I wanted to blend in. I was just unsure as to how I should go about it, but I figured I would adapt to my new surroundings, just as soon as I figured out where that would be.<br /><br /><br />We (my parents and I) looked at three schools altogether. The first, a Catholic school, smelled like metal lockers and tile floors. The school admissions felt my education up to this point had been unsatisfactory and I would not meet the standards of my current grade level there. I had never really had to worry about academics before and this completely threw a cog into the equation. Coming from a small town where grade level equals your status, I could not see how it could possibly be in my interest to sacrifice a year of my life for a better education. This would just not do, socially.<br /><br />The second school was all too familiar. I remember it as brown. Dusty and brown with a more than camplike feel to it. I had been to camp. It was ok, I guess, but I didn't think I could ever feel clean here. Yes, these were my concerns at the time, cleanliness and social stature, even though I would know not a soul. You would think I would have been concerned over, more important things, like the academic offerings, the overall culture of the school or the college preparedness it had to offer, but these things were about as relevant to my sixteen year old mind as an IRA or balanced diet. Quite simply, as long as it was the place I had imagined, the boarding school that existed on Facts of Life and in my mind, I could deal with all the other issues that might come along. At sixteen, image is everything...even in your own mind's eye.<br /><br />to be continued...Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-76174700027510077482008-05-20T06:57:00.005-05:002008-12-10T17:00:22.726-06:00Wondertwin Powers<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDL5uGDTai8cYS2KO8cb2z_VK31gXKnI-W1JSCFi9FRtkZCbSWZ_obtPmMRqITEBmHHVE30OixbKvVMw85b2PLQ87oX6G2QT_jHTX9VzwwRwaVVE_Xfyb8fI0thNuthdX6XcClVqXiN9Nh/s1600-h/thumbnail.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205048201643101442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDL5uGDTai8cYS2KO8cb2z_VK31gXKnI-W1JSCFi9FRtkZCbSWZ_obtPmMRqITEBmHHVE30OixbKvVMw85b2PLQ87oX6G2QT_jHTX9VzwwRwaVVE_Xfyb8fI0thNuthdX6XcClVqXiN9Nh/s320/thumbnail.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">I know two moms. They are no ordinary moms. They are the moms of twins. And while I admire these women for their limitless creativity and shake my head in wonder at their mommy technique, I secretly hate them. OK, hate is a bit strong, it's just that moms of twins blow the curve for the rest of us moms of singles. They seem to possess some superhuman quality, a wonder twin power, that makes parenting look effortless and still leaves them with time and energy to write a book or start a new business.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div></div><div align="justify"><br /><br />Stephanie Klein, is the author of a new book that is being released today! <a href="http://www.stephanieklein.com/books.html"><strong><em>Moose</em></strong> </a>a memoir of fat camp, is Stephanie's second book and is sure to be a great read. If you're looking for something fun to do tonight, head down to <a href="http://www.bookpeople.com/">Bookpeople</a> here in Austin for her release party. Leave it to Stephanie to throw a party in the middle of a bookstore, complete with camp food and spiked bug juice. You will become a fan before you even read the first chapter. See the video teaser at the bottom of this page...Hilarious.<br /><br /><br />Sara Crowe is the owner and mastermind behind a little nugget of genius called <a href="http://www.goodytubes.citymax.com/home.html">GoodyTubes</a>. Imagine opening your door to find a 36 inch tube, chock-full of everything good and fun at your feet. My kids received a GoodyTube from their Aunt Nancy a couple of months ago and had as much fun playing with the jacks, balls and other toys as they did with the tube itself. Candy, gourmet chocolate dipped pretzels and salt and vinegar popcorn were also in the kid themed tubes they received. This is the perfect care package for military personnel or kid away at camp, not to mention a totally memorable corporate gift. Sara is also in the midst of launching a new website, <a href="http://www.eventsguaranteed.com/">EventsGuaranteed.com</a>. This will be THE go-to site for all your party planning needs. They've covered it all from baby shower ideas to webinars and ebooks on corporate events. The site will be officially launched sometime in July!<br /><br /><br />Whew, I'm exhausted just writing about all of the things these wondertwin mommies do! You know, if I could just figure out how to bottle their secret power, I just might have something. </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-3646223961571348262008-05-13T04:04:00.007-05:002008-12-10T17:00:23.243-06:00Elvis and Eggs<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ZvONqJqursrngmgBg4IErfg7Sle8J1irspo7McRmkBpUfPD4je2IktnAxR57SQ8B2umZ1DzICFLc5t1O0GCE1UsWS5pEfhZBYtSwReCtWwZ1DX4wGroVNHOSIm6jxV_vpllRJ7FgNmW3/s1600-h/Elvis.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199805267544156306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ZvONqJqursrngmgBg4IErfg7Sle8J1irspo7McRmkBpUfPD4je2IktnAxR57SQ8B2umZ1DzICFLc5t1O0GCE1UsWS5pEfhZBYtSwReCtWwZ1DX4wGroVNHOSIm6jxV_vpllRJ7FgNmW3/s320/Elvis.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the awesome responsibility of every God fearing, parent on the face of this earth to indoctrinate their children in the music of past generations. Because, all too soon the children will be making song selection on their own and will be overcome with an uncontrollable eye-roll and what looks to be the infliction of physical pain when exposed to your music. So while you still have some control over matters, go ahead and sing at the top of your lungs to Nu Shooz while they are strapped in their carseats, expose them to Bon Jovi in his big hair days, and Stop the World and Melt with them while you dance in your living room to the decade of your choice channel on the television. These are important years, formative years, and your influence will have everything to do with their musical prowess as adults.<br /><br />My musical education started at an early age. A white plastic record player and Elvis's Greatest Hits LP laid the foundation for all things danceable in the future. And I, to this day, know the words to almost every classic country song on the radio, thanks to the eight hour road trip to Colorado each spring break. The ipod, about as likely as people living on the moon or an electric car! Names like Conway, Buck and Loretta did not even seem ridiculous to me yet. And I still associate station wagons with Charlie Pride to this very day.<br /><br />So this past Mother's Day, I did my duty and exposed my own children to the King of Rock n Roll. It was an Elvis impersonator, hired to swoon the Mother's Day brunch crowd at a local restaurant. My kids were in awe of him. It's too early to tell, but I'm sure they will have an uncontrollable urge to eat eggs each time they hear Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love.<br /><br />Teach, your children well. </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-17034885355784451172008-05-06T17:36:00.002-05:002008-05-06T22:34:22.403-05:00The Why of Writing<div align="justify">James Thurber once said, “I never quite know when I’m writing”. Ditto, Mr. Thurber. I get you. Often times I find myself rearranging words in my head while in the midst of a conversation with my five year old on the merits of telling the truth or the definition of ‘tacky’. Don’t forget to write it down, I tell myself, because, the file system in my head, well, it’s jam-packed. And if I don’t write it down, it’s liable to never again see the light of day.<br /><br />Writing gives me a linear outlet to express myself and my circular maze of logic. Besides, my mental filing system has become outdated since my journey into Mommydum. The “Mommydum” file, wedged in between the “Daughter I’m sure I was” and the” Wife I think I am” files would be totally inaccessible had I not began to blog.<br /><br />Write what you know. Sure, that’s how it started. I would blog about myself and my family, life, love and relationships. But I soon came to the realization that I was writing to discover meaning in the caveats of these, aforementioned areas. Things that I really had not discovered until the moment I typed them out and reread them to myself. The writing process, at least for me is more about where I end up and most often, it’s a diversion from the path I thought I had been on all along. When I reach my final destination at the end of a post, I look around and think, wow, that was not at all where I thought I would end up. But, and this is the true beauty of it, It’s most always a better place than I had imagined all along. And that, is where the why of writing comes from. Although I may not always know when I’m writing, at least now I realize why.</div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-15717750876733353862008-04-29T09:36:00.008-05:002008-12-10T17:00:23.445-06:00Love for Sale<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmk9ks9eL7oq-7R1cUtoRubXaU8-jCcUYJIpjry7O1ra8OnBGDyPwZFEat4tB_Q6nhuCj2sUxj0FcULXuONTYt4_f0WU8pTPbkbBwz_cyeKfAxP2HzLR_ZNsOd5b5-OWYPzGFsX6C6VUD/s1600-h/rings.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194704056898382610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmk9ks9eL7oq-7R1cUtoRubXaU8-jCcUYJIpjry7O1ra8OnBGDyPwZFEat4tB_Q6nhuCj2sUxj0FcULXuONTYt4_f0WU8pTPbkbBwz_cyeKfAxP2HzLR_ZNsOd5b5-OWYPzGFsX6C6VUD/s320/rings.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">Jewelry says a lot about a woman. It's an outward symbol of confidence and just like a good perfume, it should compliment her, not announce her. Too much and you get fake, brassy and bawdy. Not enough, seems lacking, undecided and afraid. It's a fine balance and most of us have our standby pieces that we wear daily, feeling naked without them. But sometimes accessorizing goes beyond good fashion and gets all tangled up in emotion. Pieces that have special meaning because they were given on a special day. Sentiment made tangible in metal and stone, meant to last forever. But, what if forever didn't quite work out? What's a girl to do with a drawer full of broken dreams and heartbreaks of gold? Oh, cry me a river, because, I am not one of these girls, but I <em>have</em> known them. Girlfriends with engagement rings from almost every guy they ever dated and I'm sure they still have the pieces to prove it.<br /><br />Leave it to the Internet to solve all your problems. A new website, <a href="http://www.exboyfriendjewelry.com/">http://www.exboyfriendjewelry.com/</a> will sell your once cherished jewelry and you can emotionally purge yourself at the same time by writing about the break-up. Currently 233 rings are for sale with post titles like, "Oops!" or "I'm a serial <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">engager</span>" the stories, at least to me, are entertaining and insightful. Entertaining??? Yes. Entertaining.<br /><br />There is even a category for "Gifts that should have been jewelry" expensive handbags and designer sunglasses on the emotional auction block. It seems the scorned women can't get rid of this loot fast enough and one woman's desperation becomes <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">another one's </span>bargain.<br /><br />My one piece of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">exboyfriend</span> jewelry (a Gucci watch) will not be up for sale on the site. Instead, I pulled it from the sock drawer just a few days ago and took it in for a little refurbishing. After almost twenty years of asylum, I felt it was finally safe for the piece to see the light of day once again. I'm glad I didn't get rid of it in a fit of emotion. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Afterall</span>, it's a great piece, and the sentiment is wholly new from my current emotional standpoint. No longer does it remind me of a broken heart or what might have been, that dies away with time and new experiences. It's now just a pretty piece I wear again with confidence. </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-41509059898736060202008-04-22T09:51:00.006-05:002008-12-10T17:00:23.618-06:00Once upon a time...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbQVxNwvLpyn-tPvqhcmkcb243zfWnMWQnxFkrZkIn20uWL5BcwwGOWSCfyh_8Hn0GQqRQLpP4MDF_eZCxdAujrYpV4rhLcvThyphenhypheny4Sf0tRuPpL2nnMylAUpuJ_Dbp0tzSi8s4Ph6a9NqIZ/s1600-h/once+upon+a+time.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192197221926660866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbQVxNwvLpyn-tPvqhcmkcb243zfWnMWQnxFkrZkIn20uWL5BcwwGOWSCfyh_8Hn0GQqRQLpP4MDF_eZCxdAujrYpV4rhLcvThyphenhypheny4Sf0tRuPpL2nnMylAUpuJ_Dbp0tzSi8s4Ph6a9NqIZ/s320/once+upon+a+time.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Once upon a time there were children's books<em> for</em> children. Books about the imagined, the silly, the nonsensical. Literature that engaged and entertained. Stories requested over and over, dog-eared with love. As alive to the children who read them as the Velveteen Rabbit. Today, there are children's books on almost any topic you can imagine, though many of them are taking on issues that are anything but child-friendly. For example, the new children's book about Mommy's Plastic Surgery, entitled, <em>My Beautiful Mommy</em> by Dr. Mihael Salzhauer, a plastic surgeon from Bal Harbour, Florida.<br /><br />It seems that anyone, and everyone lately has penned themselves as a children's author, parlaying an area of expertise into a cute title, fanciful art and much moola, appealing to the pocketbook of every concerned mom with a potentially troubled kid. But really, come on, does it do anything more than alleviate the concerns of parental anxiety and satiate the obligatory twenty minutes a night of read aloud time? Could it hurt to have actually talked to your child about the issue at hand? And, more importantly (and for the most part overlooked) do the kids even like these books?<br /><br />The real talent, at least as far as my children are concerned, lies within the mind-pleasing cadence of a Seuss rhyme, the never ending prose of a Sendak sentence and the matter of fact-ness heard in Margarot Wise Brown's wording. It's not so important that they understand the world any better, or that they undesrstand why we even exist at all. It is important though, that they love books.<br /></div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-51841189308218156672008-04-18T15:57:00.004-05:002008-12-10T17:00:23.849-06:00Brownies<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNAwF5cepvXcBKQpe_-pPUz9exDh3AlU64Xoafw9URJTkB46fOteqFXPMWuOIQ1Rp1j46Tlsb-W4Il7l224KK3gPLx4mh4mAmRcJoaagxhEaO4Tv0rKFR0legtWwkXM_bDciwu7yWGG_6/s1600-h/brownie.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190692805802321954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNAwF5cepvXcBKQpe_-pPUz9exDh3AlU64Xoafw9URJTkB46fOteqFXPMWuOIQ1Rp1j46Tlsb-W4Il7l224KK3gPLx4mh4mAmRcJoaagxhEaO4Tv0rKFR0legtWwkXM_bDciwu7yWGG_6/s320/brownie.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />She says she wants to be a Brownie and I have a pretty strong suspicion why. Afterall, we don't know anyone who belongs to the organization and they don't advertise on Noggin. So my guess is that she's free associating Brownie with chocolate and cookies. Imagining herself as the highest ranking troop member and princess of all things chocolate. What I must remember to tell her, before the first meeting is that... she's wrong. Another, more sadistic side of me wants to let her find out for herself, like I did.<br /><br />Completely unaware of free will at the tender age of eight and working on the presumption that I could learn to be an outdoorsy type, I did my best to be honest and fair, friendly and helpful, considerate and caring, courageous and strong. Still, I never felt completely comfortable as a Brownie. There was always this feeling of not quite belonging. I wore the uniform, participated in the events, but was still oddly out of place, you know, like a nun playing baseball. I know there where things that I must have liked about the organization, but for the life of me, I can't name even one now. My affiliation earned me props in the local paper at least twice. My Dorothy Hammill haircut preserved for eternity in my scrapbook and the microfiche of the Unger Memorial Library in Plainview, Texas. I even recall the anxiety of going door to door asking total strangers if they would buy a box of cookies, and then taking it much too personally when they said no. To this day, I ALWAYS buy a box of cookies from any girl who asks me.<br /><br />So, will I sign her up for the local troop this fall? You bet! Will I tell her about my memories of it? On my Honor....I will.Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-64237220012571345002008-04-15T06:51:00.006-05:002008-04-15T08:15:40.813-05:00Mom LogicThe term 'Networking' is so, well, so office-y. I shudder to think of the forced pleasantries and impersonal conversations it connotes. And yet, there are those rare occasions when you bridge the gap. Hit paydirt. Make a real connection. It becomes personal, not business and you end up in a relationship that has less to do with work and everything to do with play.<br /><br />Meet my new friend <a href="http://momlogic.com/">http://momlogic.com/</a> . It's THE PLACE to get the latest on all things parenting, celebrity news, fashion and more. And I'm excited to be part of it. Hello It's Tuesday is now officially affiliated with Mom Logic, a division of Warner Bros.... <em>Hello, Hollywood!</em><br /><br />It's like being invited to a sleepover at the popular girl's house, and finding out that you really do like each other!Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-31084028119987929782008-04-04T19:05:00.011-05:002008-12-10T17:00:24.276-06:00May I please be excused?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoKx_cyT0XDO_LG12M2sC_vsG7ladYPB2RXOX4f_pliqkLGaMlkX9EHqdgK6Ep_g16Db4TPKc8FU-6wVH_UmgDnVR0tMi_QT1myK39R0RpPwmLcUJfs_i5UXOmPP8HdSDIktDH5vkKPhk/s1600-h/paperplate.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185573869525516226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoKx_cyT0XDO_LG12M2sC_vsG7ladYPB2RXOX4f_pliqkLGaMlkX9EHqdgK6Ep_g16Db4TPKc8FU-6wVH_UmgDnVR0tMi_QT1myK39R0RpPwmLcUJfs_i5UXOmPP8HdSDIktDH5vkKPhk/s320/paperplate.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>I am a strong proponent of the after-six white tablecloth rule. No child should be in a restaurant with white tablecloths after six p.m. After all, there are a million other viable options out there. The market is saturated with "Family Friendly" venues, boasting healthy kiddo cuisine at reasonable prices. Some even go so far as to provide an incentive (or as I like to call it-a bargaining chocolate chip.) Since dessert is reserved for birthdays or company dinners at the Hello house, my children relish the idea of sweet treat at the end of a meal out, or rather they expect it as a reward for decent behavior and a mostly eaten meal.<br /><br />That being said, there have been times, when even at a family sanctioned restaurants, we have offended. Most recently, this past week at the little Italian eatery down the road. And for your inconvenience, I offer the following letter of apology:<br /><br />Dear Mr. Offended,<br />I saw the look of terror in your eyes the moment the waitress asked, "Will this be OK?" Really, you could have said, "No, could you please seat us in the love nest next to the kitchen door?" But you said yes. And with that one word, sealed your fate for the next 34 minutes.<br /><br />Honestly, my three year old knows better than to get out of his chair during a meal. I reprimanded him both times. It's just that he's never heard a cell phone ring to the tune of "Funky Cold Medina" and he thought it was kind of, well, dance-worthy. If your conversation was at all interrupted due to the commotion he caused, I am sorry.<br /><br />And as for the inappropriately too long stares of my five year old daughter, well, she really did think that your date(?) was beautiful. She even ventured to ask me if, when she got older she could have a tattoo and wear purple lipstick. For the gawking, I apologize.<br /><br />And lastly, for the ghastly and much too loud announcement, "Mom, I need to poop." I apologize. We have been working on our 'inside voices' now for a while, still obviously not perfected. My apologies.<br /><br />I hope you were able to enjoy the remainder of your meal after we left. And just so you know, my children thought you were fabulous, even though I wished you'd have been somewhere else, maybe a restaurant with dim lighting and a nice white tablecloth.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />Marcy Hello </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-38987909824763332372008-04-01T15:47:00.004-05:002008-12-10T17:00:24.711-06:00Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6aMlrfgJeyUnSiJqVOAnkcRXAiAsyCBGAxv3w0Otpbbpr7FH9Z28XIrfDyz9wkoAGMbX5Nz5ytepNOMbVpmU-EpeeG57j7cXRx5BldzclIBeLgpaVnEa43cC9Q-mouaF2lXBAZPvL1WT4/s1600-h/liar.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184382102000222130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6aMlrfgJeyUnSiJqVOAnkcRXAiAsyCBGAxv3w0Otpbbpr7FH9Z28XIrfDyz9wkoAGMbX5Nz5ytepNOMbVpmU-EpeeG57j7cXRx5BldzclIBeLgpaVnEa43cC9Q-mouaF2lXBAZPvL1WT4/s320/liar.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It goes like this............ First I hear a 'THUNK' and then an interval of silence. I freeze. Using my finely honed auditory powers I wait for the cry/shriek that is sure to follow. It does. I determine it to be of the 'I'm down' variety. Faster than you can say 'sibling' I spring into action. Down the hall and onto the scene of the crime. To my dismay, there is already a superhero in charge! Not wanting to undermine his authority I step back.<br /><br />He questions the two parties with all the diplomacy and civility of a child psychologist.<br /><br />'Did you hit him?'<br /><br />'Did she hit you?'<br /><br />'What happened?'<br /><br />'No daddy....I didn't!'<br /><br />And then this........<br /><br />'Tell me the TRUTH'<br /><br />'I am telling the TRUTH!'<br /><br />'I'll give you a ....'<br /><br />But before he can finish his sentence he is ensnared in my telepathic gaze. My message...'So now we are bribing her into telling the truth?????' As he stands there sensing the incoming telepathy, I opportunistically step in to squelch this phenomenon that can only be called Quantum Lying.<br /><br />It happens in a millisecond. The original lie grows at an exponential rate, mushrooming into a cloud of monolithic proportions.<br /><br />My interrogation techniques are not sympathetic. There are no NATO guidelines to insure that the culprit is presumed innocent until proven guilty.<br /><br />'You hurt your brother!'<br /><br />'Now tell him you're sorry for hurting him and give him a hug!'<br /><br />And poof, the situation is diffused. As the dust settles and the sky clears, I scan the room for hard evidence to bolster my intuition that I had so quickly acted on. It could have been the solid wooden building block or even the hard plastic red flute that was the weapon of choice. We may never know. I decide that no further investigation is needed.<br /><br />Case closed. My job here is done. Just another day in the life of a superhero.<br /><br />Oh what a tangled web we weave,<br />When first we practise to deceive! - Sir Walter Scott<br />"Don't lie or your nose will grow!" - MomHello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-56305180383505849012008-03-24T16:39:00.009-05:002008-12-10T17:00:24.869-06:00Hello, Karma<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC863fFxumO_dOqQnWxlgV-zdMehQXtLm3tLqtixQOG6Yu59mG98l1zeJxDntaUG6V2hhm08hhboGRXevpFXNLSXvfF-QX9eOy0lzyMaBmzOaYG1LT6BXvuc8kqxwTkDFJG-_iJypvtf0N/s1600-h/karma.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181626021486378914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC863fFxumO_dOqQnWxlgV-zdMehQXtLm3tLqtixQOG6Yu59mG98l1zeJxDntaUG6V2hhm08hhboGRXevpFXNLSXvfF-QX9eOy0lzyMaBmzOaYG1LT6BXvuc8kqxwTkDFJG-_iJypvtf0N/s320/karma.bmp" border="0" /></a><br />I can't say that I have a favorite song now. But as a little girl I did. <em>Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head.</em> I know it's an unusual kid pick and that it dates me, but still, it was my all time favorite and I knew all the words. So when I heard it yesterday, I ran into the living room to see where this blast from my past was coming from. It just so happened that it was playing on one of the kiddy channels and my five year old daughter was already center stage.<br /><br />"<em>This is the greatest song EVER!"</em> she remarked as she twirled around, tittering to a stop in an almost arabesque-like pose. <em>"How do you know it already?"</em> she asked, astonished. "Well, that was my favorite song when I was your age" I said. "<em>I thought so</em>" she stated serendipitously "<em>I'm the</em> <em>same as you</em>".<br /><br />It was a warm and fuzzy moment. Then, like a needle screeching across a record, it was interrupted. If we are the same, I thought to myself, I'm in for it. I should have named her Karma.<br /><br />Just to clarify, I'm an optimist. So why does Karma have such a bitter taste when it rolls off my tongue? After all, I've done my share of good deeds. But still, it's the seedier traits that are seeming to take root - and at an early age.<br /><br />She's already started to lie, a craft I perfected during my teenage years. I got my first taste of it just days earlier when I was frantically looking for my wedding ring. "Jacqueline, have you seen Mommy's ring?" "Well, maybe" she replied. She's learning, I thought. Just months earlier she had answered, "It's not in my ballerina jewelry box", blowing it all together. A rookie mistake.<br /><br />The scheming has begun also. "OK, when she's not looking we'll sneak a cupcake and hide it under the bed, OK Salem?" she whispers in her brother's ear "Yeah, hide it." "Shhhhh...just talk normal, here she comes."<br /> <br />Is it possible that I'm using up my bad Karma first? That must be it. Whew, I was worried there for a moment. I'm sure by the time she's sixteen my Karmic retribution will have been exacted - leaving only the good. Karma Hello. It's kind of catchy!<br /><br />See, I told you I was an optimist.<br /></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-19725078295994027592008-03-12T17:23:00.007-05:002008-12-10T17:00:25.612-06:00Shoe in the Road<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWqvhw_WenXYr8qlmdmhgs78QO4fXtAIr5nJo_aIkT3TJa10pDMiC08vfs3VGQ3hqTvKl_vH8zLNN5dS1o3LcGqBaYH9e0ncw6lhVMUkt33Yec4i1Q0Xr8QTno0QdLzUb4pQfW5PmGb4w/s1600-h/shoe2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179812256797277890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWqvhw_WenXYr8qlmdmhgs78QO4fXtAIr5nJo_aIkT3TJa10pDMiC08vfs3VGQ3hqTvKl_vH8zLNN5dS1o3LcGqBaYH9e0ncw6lhVMUkt33Yec4i1Q0Xr8QTno0QdLzUb4pQfW5PmGb4w/s320/shoe2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnv-aZ8nD9bPjg67xZxuHTvYtDXapXfPwdsrDO18tKwY7jqjHlLVGBk9Aqb8C6voujmnoa7cQOD1rxKruimMVaktkQ_a9iW5g9bGRyWvEOerfQ55rpoEAB2DU1cenuwtefj8721xIuzsf-/s1600-h/shoe1.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179811462228328114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnv-aZ8nD9bPjg67xZxuHTvYtDXapXfPwdsrDO18tKwY7jqjHlLVGBk9Aqb8C6voujmnoa7cQOD1rxKruimMVaktkQ_a9iW5g9bGRyWvEOerfQ55rpoEAB2DU1cenuwtefj8721xIuzsf-/s320/shoe1.gif" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;">On a day like today and like yesterday too<br />Marcy Hello saw another lost shoe<br /><br />It lay there alone without its sole mate<br />She thought a size ten - perhaps maybe an eight<br /><br />On the side of the road or the middle sometimes<br />They're easy to spot, not hard to find<br />They're everywhere, anywhere all of the time<br />Shoes of all makes, all sorts and all kinds<br /><br />She saw one today and yesterday two<br />She sees them most days<br />If you look, so will you!<br /><br />There must be a story<br />There just has to be<br />Shoes don't just fly off ones feet to be free<br /><br />Shoes don't belong on the side of the road<br />They should be on feet, that's what she'd been told<br /><br />And then a small voice from in-side her head<br />piped up and she listened to what the voice said<br /><br /><em>There must be some meaning to why this is this</em><br /><em>There must be some reason for this to exist</em><br /><br /><em>So THINK</em><br /><em>Use your noggin</em><br /><em>That's what you do best</em><br /><em>You must find the meaning </em><br /><em>There's no time for rest</em><br /><em></em><br />Her mind started ticking<br />A retort must be found<br />As to why these stray shoes lay alone on the ground<br /><br />So she asked the one person<br />She thought might just know<br />Of course he thinks <em>like</em> me<br />He's my mate of soul<br /><br />But as soon as the words left her lips-hit the air<br />He rolled his eyes 'round and then paused in mid stare<br /><br /><em>Why do you always think</em></span> <div><div><div><div align="justify"><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;"><em>There has to be more?<br />It's like what I've told you</em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;"><em>And told you before</em></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;"><em>You dig for something that's nothing at all<br />You look for meaning in things big and small<br /><br />You women need answers when there really are none<br />It's too much to handle<br />It ruins all the fun<br /><br />A shoe's just a shoe<br />There's no story to be told<br />A shoe's just a shoe on the side of the road<br /><br />Quit wondering and guessing<br />Don't analyze so<br />There's no time for this<br />I have to go<br /></em><br />At first she was hurt that he didn't much care<br />She started to argue then out of thin air<br />A notion emerged-she clung to it tight<br />The shoe <em>did </em>have meaning<br />She <em>knew</em> she was right </span></div><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Just because I like him</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Well, most of the time</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">We're nothing alike </span><span style="color:#000000;">inside of our minds</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">A shoe is to foot as a man is to chair</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">But women all know there's more meaning out there </span></div><br /><p><span style="color:#000000;"></span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;"></span></p><p><span style="color:#000000;"></p></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="justify"></div></div></div></div></div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-19426423194329554552008-03-11T22:32:00.001-05:002008-12-10T17:00:25.782-06:00The Ides of March<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBQ_ZlJzGftF3uovo7Amdktvq9SlhyZ5c3Ul586p6H6gb42x41hoNnteGRgUroa3pjXD8Xre_QVq4JCjz_pA3sLVpkjaFyOBY6eECNGDA1g07ScsJzdcjoRG3wKX0RuDsiXxcqtNbJdox6/s1600-h/jewelry.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176701018007735122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBQ_ZlJzGftF3uovo7Amdktvq9SlhyZ5c3Ul586p6H6gb42x41hoNnteGRgUroa3pjXD8Xre_QVq4JCjz_pA3sLVpkjaFyOBY6eECNGDA1g07ScsJzdcjoRG3wKX0RuDsiXxcqtNbJdox6/s320/jewelry.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="justify">It's one of those phrases that I always saw on bulletin boards in grade school, but was never quite sure what was really meant....<em>The Ides of March</em>. Really, it shouldn't have intimidated me so, it is, after all just a day. The 15th day, to be precise and nothing really spectacular to warrant a 14th century phrase. Except for the fact that there is some UBER Dazzling jewelry to be gained from it, and what woman doesn't need that on a just another middle of the month day? A little bling here and there could be just the thing to get you through the next fifteen days of March!<br /></div><br /><br />Anyone who can create beauty like this deserves to be sainted. See for yourself and enter for your chance to win one of Liz Santucci's original designs.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://uberchik.blogspot.com/">http://uberchik.blogspot.com/</a></div><div align="justify"></div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-57899674332411489722008-03-11T14:52:00.001-05:002008-12-10T17:00:25.934-06:00In the Bag<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihT46QIc8WQWi3m-MS_NCN08wuIZ6c-ZMIygbR9Z19EtZ91AWP_f8AsE6S3wW38UnSywGuj6pkTVBJDRoOcOxT_2C-1MwtU8z6KZtUKWBRxMweMQj_DocfTn3bbb0l4NbiPDOsau1BDeub/s1600-h/bag4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176513001519385410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihT46QIc8WQWi3m-MS_NCN08wuIZ6c-ZMIygbR9Z19EtZ91AWP_f8AsE6S3wW38UnSywGuj6pkTVBJDRoOcOxT_2C-1MwtU8z6KZtUKWBRxMweMQj_DocfTn3bbb0l4NbiPDOsau1BDeub/s320/bag4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Every mom has a bag of tricks. It's the one accessory she would never leave the house without because in it are the essentials for survival. I fancy mine to be a Hermes-classic in style, hand-crafted to withstand the rigors of everyday use. It seemed a bit over sized when the kids were babies, because really, you just don't need that many gimmicks to get by those first couple of years.<br /><br />But as my kids grow, so does their willpower and with it the contents of my bag-at an alarming rate. When I find a trick that works well, I tend to use it until the newness wears off. This, I'm finding out is not best practice, because once a trick is used up, you must find another to replace it with. My daughter no longer believes that if she eats all her broccoli, her eyes will shine like a pony and my son has dismissed the idea that superheroes indeed take naps.<br /><br />On occasion I've borrowed [stolen] tricks from others. The poop monster is alive and well and has my daughter flushing the potty on a consistent basis these days. I've not witnessed a floater since I fleeced him from my good friend and co-momma Cynthia. And I still can't believe this jig works, but it does. When it's clean-up time and my pleas for help are as impotent as a Charles Schultz adult character, I reach deep into the bag until I feel her jeweled crown and ermine cloak. Yes, the Queen Mum herself beseeches her subjects to make tidy the royal palace. Her subjects, not wanting to displease the Queen, work fervently to stay in her good graces.<br /><br />I carry my bag with confidence these days, who knows, maybe in a couple of years I can downsize to something a little less bulky. But for now, bigger is better.</div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-55064827087185839742008-03-04T16:48:00.002-06:002008-12-10T17:00:26.173-06:00The Party Favor<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaXebfurG0bs4j6RUsKSL9p5EHetfVlAmZwvw2oLCOXvG9-dGU9a6TF_-LDQPPHuWK0oSkThIp086Ka-SH01tYIZx7I0U8pePoeqSERaGGhT53owdiqDB59V_eN0szwoUh8EtWJeoyB78R/s1600-h/partyfavor.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179844907138662210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaXebfurG0bs4j6RUsKSL9p5EHetfVlAmZwvw2oLCOXvG9-dGU9a6TF_-LDQPPHuWK0oSkThIp086Ka-SH01tYIZx7I0U8pePoeqSERaGGhT53owdiqDB59V_eN0szwoUh8EtWJeoyB78R/s320/partyfavor.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqquSebFdquVSBteGD-vINiZJdJgcp-p5iII-XYwDu4gVnOkNp6sCrLOuPQRl7HmZjM-P8Fuw-YXvtH71hr-_cWIYPsrzW2ISoEgYkBoVdU_RuMd9wBApQMQt4mf0BZrf5kk9xjTHHRBLO/s1600-h/time.jpg"></a><br />It's occurring to me, with each milestone of Mommydum, that I live in the moment. Really, it's just almost impossible not to. Keeping up with the day-to-day goings on and trying to stay on top of the business of growing children leaves little time (or energy) for retrospection or future mapping. Of course, I have the obligatory baby books, which I cram full of artwork, well-check updates and class pictures. I also dutifully contribute to the college savings fund; (or as in my half Lebanese daughters case, the 'Eyebrow Waxing Fund', whichever proves most beneficial at her eighteenth birthday). But still, I have this gnawing feeling that I'm forgetting the here and now, even as I am experiencing it.<br /><br />There's always a trace of truth in sayings that have become commonplace. Things like, <em>Don't look a gift horse in the mouth </em>or <em>They grow up so fast</em>. Sometimes they don't impact you until you hear them in just the right context or time in your life.<br /><br />When my first was still in infancy, I would mentally roll my eyes each time I heard it. <em>Surely they had no idea what I was going through</em>, I thought. The long sleepless nights, the frustration and constant search for the perfect soothing method, the seemingly endless days of diaper changes and spit-up stains. Time was definitely not zipping by, in fact, it had slowed to a snails pace with each day oozing into the next.<br /><br />As a mother of toddlers, I became accustomed to hearing the words, "Kids these days" or some variation of it....."I don't remember you acting that way".....blah blah blah. As if children today where completely unrelated creatures to those of us who grew up in the previous generation and time had mercurially leaped forward, leaving in its wake a generation of heathens. Did she truly not remember the endless bickering and constant whining? She said it so convincingly, I too began to wonder if it had at all happened.<br /><br />But, as my three year old started his first day of preschool last week, wearing his 'big boy underwear' it dawned on me that time had indeed flown by. Gone are the days of diaper changing and bottle making. And in the blink of an eye, I am entering a new dimension. It's as if becoming a mom has somehow changed the very essence of time. It no longer follows any logical pattern. It's slippery in substance, bittersweet in taste.<br /><br />I choose to look at it as Gods little party favor. As I turn to leave the 'Baby Party' that seemed as if it would never end; I am handed a neat little package. Its contents are the moments in time that defined an era, first smiles, words and walking. The editing room floor strewn with those frames that didn't make the cut. And my mind, trying in vain to grasp, the ever evolving definition of time.</div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-20168350289094380532008-02-26T13:21:00.002-06:002008-12-10T17:00:26.252-06:00t.b.d.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHTXeR30ucxewSq1xcpxWilPraK5jfkzFwQJ9E0I_53fp-TkbHZP32RtSEfKgvk1Y_CAJjasZ9rYD4HDZiAycaYjwQFgEFmGv3XqkvSk4jebL6XuJdyFseKstzmZDduSBw6HCX-URu-qT/s1600-h/shopper.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179846676665188194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHTXeR30ucxewSq1xcpxWilPraK5jfkzFwQJ9E0I_53fp-TkbHZP32RtSEfKgvk1Y_CAJjasZ9rYD4HDZiAycaYjwQFgEFmGv3XqkvSk4jebL6XuJdyFseKstzmZDduSBw6HCX-URu-qT/s320/shopper.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0_Jd192ojGW91bir1AGEVEQHXNVKBsuV4Sz7CVtw8uulEeVwNMr1DkzZXGuhP3kTV8jBTgEa8Ojvn5X7Fap_g-ExLUEreyy0Ds_kP-GEYGPSW93OOGXwJn_uY3yAduGSgHB_WSdwpL7E/s1600-h/shopping.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div align="justify">A couple of days ago I was shopping alone-an anomaly that occurs about as often as a lunar eclipse in my world-when I decided that I should check out the juniors department at Nordstroms. I was having no luck finding just the right thing in the womens, so I casually sauntered into the jungle called juniors, and with as much confidence as I could muster, selected a few items to try on. Only after I had played my own version of 'Name That Tune' trying in vain to determine if I knew the song that was blasting in this albatross [I didn't] did I turn to look at the outfit I had so carefully selected. "HOLY CRAP! I look like Cyndi Lauper and Betsy Johnson rolled into one."</div><br /><br />On the way out I decided to try on some jeans in the middle section of the store. When a friendly Nordbot came to my aid to start a fitting room I questioned her about the lower case letters (t.b.d.) above the section we were in. In an almost inaudible whisper she said, "to be determined." Though spoken softly, these words hit me with a force akin to an open handed thud to the forehead. "Oh", I manged to say, "like not juniors but not womens?" "Exactly!" she said. What I thought was this............Why don't they just call it what it is......PURGATORY!<br /><br /><br />I'm not so naive to think that I can still shop in juniors, yet sometimes I will still face a bit of humiliation and save fifteen bucks on a tank that looks the same as the higher priced version who lives in the more civilized neighborhood of the womens dept.<br /><br /><br />Another similar experience happened just a couple of weeks ago at a store called Hollister. I believe it to be the bastard child of Abercrombie & Fitch. Anyhow, I was navigating my way through the dank, dark store with my two kids in tow when a young sales-dude (he was by no means yet a man) asked me if I was from Georgetown.<br /><br /><br /><em>"No-why-do I look familiar?"</em><br /><em>"Oh, woww....it's just that you look just like my friend's mom."</em><br /><em><br /><br /></em>Ok. I <em>get</em> it.<br /><br />It's not 'to <em>be</em> determined'.......it's more like.....It has been determined.<br /><br /><br />Ok, Ok, I get it. </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-38778214187881093332008-02-19T20:24:00.001-06:002008-12-10T17:00:26.526-06:00Sans Mom<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuAlPxOG2vJhW_orz7mzonlQ_7ZfEBTbBce4mGnP1BLEz15VzKT71j6r82t-l0wVlEddMqRQPRWqyCxLSE_VXl-zMPeYLcPDSdgUzMbFYQ3LRMhRQ6o_2sH3HEH3hbwElvtndreQIAIUf/s1600-h/sansmom.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170739112275039810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuAlPxOG2vJhW_orz7mzonlQ_7ZfEBTbBce4mGnP1BLEz15VzKT71j6r82t-l0wVlEddMqRQPRWqyCxLSE_VXl-zMPeYLcPDSdgUzMbFYQ3LRMhRQ6o_2sH3HEH3hbwElvtndreQIAIUf/s320/sansmom.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />According to my second favorite news source (E! News holding the #1 position-embarrassingly enough) Yahoo News reports that a new reality show is in production. It seems we as a society just can't quench our desire to lurk into the lives of total strangers. The reality shows fill a void the soap operas can't, adding a new dimension-the This could happen to you element. And there is very little grey area within the world of reality TV. People's lives are either a train wreck or fabulous beyond your wildest dreams. Strangely enough, I'm more apt to tune in to those who's lives are in ruin or have some element of tragedy coursing throughout. I guess on some unconscious level I gain a sense of satisfaction when I see just what a curse all that fame, fortune and beauty can be.<br /><br /><br />I'm betting that this is precisely what the producers of this new series are hoping to hone in on. The show chronicles the lives of the men and children left to survive on their own when the entire population of women leave. Yes, they send all of the women off (to a resort) and watch to see what happens when men are left to deal with the children entirely sans mamma!<br /><br /><br />I've never left my children alone with the husband for more than 3 or 4 days, but feel that that's ample time to gain at least a glimpse of what will take place in the show, and in reality, it makes for a better comedy than any other genre.<br /><br /><div align="justify"><br />I'm fortunate, The Husband has always played a very active parenting role. In fact, he took on night duty when our first was only weeks old, since I was going back to work and had to be up by 5:00am. He also dressed and hauled both children to daycare each morning without any assistance from Moi. So I really never doubted his abilities when I did have to leave them alone for more than a couple of days. I was confident that things would be just fine, and they were.</div><br /><br />As a teacher, I could always tell when Mom was out of town. Little girls would show up to class with twist ties in place of ponytail holders or clothespins in lieu of barrettes. And while this may not have been in the best interest of fashion, it seemed practical. Ahhh.....good ol' male practicality...entire industries have been built on this quality.<br /><br /><br />So, on the day I picked my kids up from daycare and my son was wearing his footed pajamas backwards, I just reminded myself (and the caregivers) that Daddy dresses them in the morning and on his behalf, added that it was probably still dark when he did. And again, when I received my daughter's school pictures and hardly recognized her due to the lack of attention The Husband gave her hair in their morning routine (it wasn't that big of a deal, all things considered, she had been dressed, fed and properly kissed goodbye) I shrugged it off and tucked the pictures away in desk drawer. And so what if my house reeked of bacon and my children's new favorite food was now hot dogs cooked in the fireplace when I returned from a weekend away.<br /><br /><br />The reality of it is, they can survive on their own. They may appear a little less coiffed and the house may have a slightly less appealing aroma than when you left, but, for all practical purposes, things will be just fine.<br /><br /><br />I'm betting that this new show doesn't make it. Not because it's not a tantalizing topic, but because it's just not tragic enough. Besides, He's usually in charge of the remote control and I'm guessing that he'll just flip right by this one.<br /><br /><br />That's reality. </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-37319827376604912332008-02-12T17:05:00.003-06:002008-12-10T17:00:26.610-06:00Domestic Diva...in training<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRsAVeG8SAPjQJzfaj_wgvIMz2PabmE9RpZ_TUE8dol6rvXdL5YJG8PbpjcrxUROf9faSt47bqEu7MXLLYY19r3XNOyUKOLgh-9ZoGfNiBmzhADsBBfK_GiuE4ql7vX0jEt2uwHQYlntfH/s1600-h/diva.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179845319455522642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRsAVeG8SAPjQJzfaj_wgvIMz2PabmE9RpZ_TUE8dol6rvXdL5YJG8PbpjcrxUROf9faSt47bqEu7MXLLYY19r3XNOyUKOLgh-9ZoGfNiBmzhADsBBfK_GiuE4ql7vX0jEt2uwHQYlntfH/s320/diva.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6cmnpYB83lx9Yl1ruPN9bCeqvYIiwVZ5KiH6vbncupMT8d79yi8NRqFQfwir6FfYMwjvVee0HooA5DRTiuVCQZS8BBgN6o4MrQfnZqMUJBoYjQOq7Vkb2ExPymYcqyyR_c3u4XVJXDqjZ/s1600-h/diva2.jpg"></a><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIBYYzNHHfqOpuICy71xlZ0c5iBlPtW6ruPvhsgffO3VMjJTv5OZATfl4rYsx7hPcH72NePpct2eODwHVX_agzaCQmT8BYDXG-M0ZcPqizvdmHEcc2mxqgqn-xXTHd9iMbB7vZFMCL4HS/s1600-h/diva.jpg"></a><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div align="justify">I've always admired those women who could remove a purple popsicle stain with sparkling water or vanish gum from the carpet using only a sliver of ice and a hot iron. These are the same women who know how to use a label maker and have their spice rack alphabetized. Martha Stewart, the Grand Mamma Jamma of this realm and Heloise, the antiquated version, can make even the most tedious tasks look simple and even fun! </div><div align="justify"><br />I, on the other hand, have always viewed myself as more of a 'Bring home the bacon...fry it up in a pan...' kind of gal. Until the other day, when I lugged out my ironing board in order to save a trip to the dry cleaners, my daughter, staring with wonder, at the rickety contraption asked, <em>"Mommy, are we having a rummage sale?"</em> </div><div align="justify"><em>"Uhhh.. No, why? And where did you hear that?"</em> </div><div align="justify"><em>"From Max & Ruby."</em> she replied. I realized she had no more idea what to do with an ironing board than I would have with a scalpel.</div><br /><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">Another time she twirled and whirled through the dust that was streaming in through the sunlit window declaring to all the world that she had discovered 'Fairy Dust!' It was at this moment I realized that I was leading my daughter down the slippery slope to domestic ignorance.</div><div><br />It's not due to a lack of education on my part either. My mother, who I believe to have at least a master's level of education in the Domestic Arts (D.A.) gave me ample schooling as a youngster. I've heard her lament on how she could have done more to teach us better technique in the fine arts of dusting or dishwasher loading, but to her credit, she was an excellent instructor and did the best she could with the pupils in her charge (me and my younger sister). To her worries of failure I say, <em>"Pashaw!"</em> </div><div> </div><div align="justify">My sister is no domestic slouch. She owns books on the subjects of stain removal and organizational awareness. She has taken it upon herself to further her education...a sort of self imposed, self taught, learn at your own pace type of schooling. She too, is probably now at the master's level in the Domestic Arts. Somewhere between high school and now, my education came to a screeching halt. I hold, what I imagine to be a junior college degree in this area. Enough to get by in the real world but never enough to impress.</div><div><br />So, inspired by a girlfriend who holds 'boot camps' for everything from 'Ice-cream Licking' to 'Stair Climbing', I have decided to implement my own training program. My children will begin their training starting yesterday! It's a rigorous, fast paced curriculum, not for the faint hearted or lackadaisical child. The program entails several pre-requisite courses...<strong>Bathtub Toy Tidy, Napkin Folding 101, and The Science of Sock Matching</strong>. After these subjects are mastered, we can move on to more sophomoric, philosophical studies such as...<strong>Bed-Making Technique, and Vacuuming Without Guilt.</strong> My son will receive the same, (in my house gender bending is the rule, not the exception).</div><div><br />So far, my daughter's only plea is that she must wear her tiara while she toils. I decided that this would be OK. In fact, I tried it myself! It's like the Mary Poppinish saying, "Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.." Plus it makes for a much more pleasant picture of domesticity.</div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-82157042526449815872008-02-05T16:40:00.001-06:002008-12-10T17:00:26.807-06:00Old School Barbie<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMUC83Gj8yIct6qx81pPM3Qa1SZ13eqoo-HQu5kvTKq2OeQU-Q-oc_4DE1VdrINYTbxiK2RMaYbB3BfxBv9_iGJWQRn6cVI880zVyMOPmVGLScI2QHxBYcdNwybhOYmABDP2Qo3zqTdqbf/s1600-h/barbie.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170683415139145202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMUC83Gj8yIct6qx81pPM3Qa1SZ13eqoo-HQu5kvTKq2OeQU-Q-oc_4DE1VdrINYTbxiK2RMaYbB3BfxBv9_iGJWQRn6cVI880zVyMOPmVGLScI2QHxBYcdNwybhOYmABDP2Qo3zqTdqbf/s320/barbie.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">I was chatting with a girlfriend yesterday and she is telling me about this Barbie her son picked out for a little girlfriend of his as a birthday present. </div><br /><br /><em>"Have you seen that Barbie that has a dog that poops?" she asks.</em><br /><br /><br /><em>"Oh, yeah I saw a commercial for it...I don't get it."</em><br /><br /><br /><em>"Well, that's what he picked out for her."</em><br /><br /><br />My curiosity was piqued. I thought I remembered Mattel jumping on the Women's Lib bandwagon a few years ago-waving banners about body perception and positive self image. Had they fallen off the wagon or was this their lame attempt to portray Barbie as a Liberated Woman-able to pick up dog crap all on her own?<br /><br /><br />I had to get to the bottom of this. To investigate, I went to the Barbie.com website, where I was instructed to <span style="color:#ff6666;">'Think Pink'</span> as I waited for the download of information to come into view. Waiting patiently, tapping my unmanicured nails, I think back to the Barbies my sister and I played with 'back in the day'. The buxom, silky haired gals who were up for anything...skinny dipping in the bathroom sink, cruising topless (and sometimetimes bottomless-no embarrassing bikini line to worry about) in their cherry red Corvette convertible, or just hanging out at the townhome.<br /><br /><br /><br />They were always barefoot because #1. their shoes (a chocking hazard) disappeared five seconds after they had been ripped from their plastic boxes and #2. my sister always chewed the dolls' feet, making it impossible to ever fit a pair of Go-Go boots on them again.<br /><br /><br /><em><strong>Ding</strong></em>-Download complete. I am now entering Barbie.com. A world...allbeit fictional, where any young girl (and some young boys) can be <span style="color:#ff6666;">"...whatever they want to be!"</span> I was dissapointed - scratch that- I was HORRIFIED at what I saw as I clicked away in this Pepto-Bismol cyberland. Mothers of young girls (and some boys) everywhere, LISTEN UP!.....This is what the Toy Gods out there are deeming acceptable.<br /><br /><br /><strong><em>Click</em></strong>-The <span style="color:#ff6666;">"I can be...Barbie"</span> No, I didn't say the I can be Barbie. Notice the three innocent dot, dot, dots following the word be. These dots may seem insignificant but they are not. They are a gentle reminder to wait, use your imagination....think of all the possibilites, kind if dots. If it would have been I can be Barbie without the dots, don't you know there would be a cyber meltdown occuring? Women everywhere clicking away with wild abandon! Anyway, so the "I can be... Barbie" page pops into view. Guess what ladies? You can be a photographer, an art teacher or even a pet sitter!!! Thank God I didn't toil away during my college years, foregoing that fraternity kegger, trying to boost my G.P.A. another couple of points, so that I could embark on one of these, <span style="color:#ff6666;">"Real Life Careers".</span><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>Click</em></strong>-Next it's the "<span style="color:#ff6666;">Bride and Groom Barbie</span>". You can choose a black groom or a white groom. Wow! Barbie's parents are librals! Barbie is all aglow for this '<span style="color:#ff6666;">...fairy-tale occassion, complete with a light up engagement ring.'</span> A little gaudy in my opinion. Is the groom Barbie at all realistic? No. He doesn't have a clickety mechanical button on his back to make farting noises or excuses like, 'Oh, sorry Barbie, I didn't think you where in the room.'<br /><br /><br /><strong><em>Click</em></strong>-The "<span style="color:#ff6666;">I Heart Pets Barbie</span>" This is the one with the dog who really poops. At least she's equiped with a pooper scooper and isn't chasing around with a platic bag. But wait......where is Ken??? Isn't he the gallant knight that should be retrieving this steamy mess as a grand gesture of love? Oh yeah, I forgot, Ken's gay. Why else do you think they had to create the Groom Barbie? I mean Barbie and Ken dated forever and he just couldn't committ. He obviously had issues.<br /><br /><br /><strong><em>Click Click</em></strong>- There are "<span style="color:#ff6666;">Chat Diva Barbies</span>" who can lipsynch- wait are you ready for this-three different songs! And I'm willing to bet that one of them is by Brittany Spears. And hold on to your hats ladies because she also knows how to answer her phone!!!!! Hey Barbie, why don't you try doing that while you cook dinner, change a diaper and balance your checkbook simultaneously? Hmmm...betcha can't!<br /><br /><br /><strong><em>Click</em></strong>-And I can't hardly find the strength to go on...but...there are the "<span style="color:#ff6666;">Pom-Pom Diva Barbies". "...flipping through the air to land on each other's shoulders...with glittery uniforms flashing these Fly Girls [trade-marked] really know how to put on a show!</span>" Good gravey!-what's next? Stripper Barbie with a cool metalic pole?<br /><br /><br />Oh, please, (and forgive me if I sound too whiney) but I know many a women out there who are Barbies. I'm talking about the old school Barbies like my sister and I played with back in the day. The kind of gals who didn't have the media crammed down their ultra taut throats. They were naked-in a sense. Deciding on their own who they would be and what they would do. I know this because they are my friends...writers, lawyers, educators, business owners, and moms. These are the true Barbies of the real world.<br /><br /><br />By the way, my girlfirend..I'll just call her Barbie for now, took the doll back. </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-51155680423071224742008-01-22T17:20:00.002-06:002008-12-10T17:00:27.038-06:00Part Time Model<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMPAsLsV4lS_ck2BTL9ua7xFPaoSErRSEHtntECssz2_GjzC4A6rHRiIiz1JPG3hkriOHTL8_5c1t8nuE5aWum0HQysvAOxsBgjPobICQwkvR9lV7rgWw_4frQ5LFFkul0sA0G57sIbFj/s1600-h/redcarpet.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179848897163280242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMPAsLsV4lS_ck2BTL9ua7xFPaoSErRSEHtntECssz2_GjzC4A6rHRiIiz1JPG3hkriOHTL8_5c1t8nuE5aWum0HQysvAOxsBgjPobICQwkvR9lV7rgWw_4frQ5LFFkul0sA0G57sIbFj/s320/redcarpet.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-Ovv8HDZfNKH2dTrFZip1M5mRZrfP9YoZ7A1XoNAqx22-wkyDUxdIo9QNgHSyMXcsF1IvvdPxThivcZ5S0KUSCK1IF7Dlsey3mQx3FZ_ruYl3yaK994u9gXe2kv0Y03KjmmqOGC8IbDK/s1600-h/model.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div>He flashed her one of his killer smiles, his upper lip slightly higher on one side, exposing an almost imperceptible chip in his perfectly aligned front teeth. Then, with a subtleness that would leave her wondering if it had really happened, he winked one long lashed eye, before turning to grasp the hand of the woman he had come in with.</div><br /><br /><div><br />Flirting wasn't part of his vocabulary, at least not yet. There was no ulterior motive behind his actions, after all, he would never leave the woman he was with. It was charm. Not that he possessed, but that possessed him. He was born with it and it exuded him like an expensive perfume - just enough to scintillate the senses but never overpowering. A lingering sensation that he was altogether unaware of.</div><br /><br /><div><br />She hadn't noticed the woman following them as she held his hand tight, weaving their way around the racks of clothing and into the shoe department.</div><br /><br /><div><br /><em>"What's your name?"</em> she asked in a syrupy kind of voice as she sidled up beside the two of them.</div><br /><br /><div><br />"<em>I'm Salem</em>" he responded offering a hand in greeting as he gazed up to her with eyes of molten chocolate.</div><br /><br /><div><br /><em>"He's just so cute!"</em> she exclaimed.</div><br /><br /><div><br /><em>"Thank you "</em> she answered with a tight lipped smile, as if she were responsible for it all.</div><br /><br /><div><br /><em>"Would you consider letting him model in our fashion show?"</em></div><em><br /><br /><div><br /></em></div>And so, this is how he (my mini man of two) became a part-time (or possible one time) model.<br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>We shall see how the story ends. It's this Saturday at Nordstrom if you care to see him strut his stuff.</div><br /><br /><div><br />Charm may only get you so far in life, but so far, it's getting me 15% off in the children's department this Saturday morning!</div></div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997589510771689142.post-59880929823767860692008-01-15T16:56:00.001-06:002008-12-10T17:00:27.279-06:00Lucky Duck<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKMfTSz2-J7_5YJmauZFWGonA_073khtul3I4xpdz6gjwSmJfzVFjiyRnTMRY8H0UYMzC6czn1qAK6DEKNww12RwJ8PD9NSBGcs_TOD3n4zIdnbhpDWxBDbm-6HcMCg6tdAMKeaVwlRyCD/s1600-h/ducks.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170686065133966850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKMfTSz2-J7_5YJmauZFWGonA_073khtul3I4xpdz6gjwSmJfzVFjiyRnTMRY8H0UYMzC6czn1qAK6DEKNww12RwJ8PD9NSBGcs_TOD3n4zIdnbhpDWxBDbm-6HcMCg6tdAMKeaVwlRyCD/s320/ducks.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>He was anticipating my return, waiting at the door with an expression I couldn't quite decipher. Pride? Excitement? Yes and yes.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>"Look Hun...won't these look great here?!</em> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The these that he was referring to are two mounted ducks and the here he directs my stunned gaze to is the front wall of our formal living room.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>"Ok...well...maybe...but...."</em>, I stammer, trying not to verbally paint myself into a corner.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The ducks had met with their untimely death last fall during a weekend of coastal hunting. They had been recovered, cleaned and stuffed by an expert taxidermist and they now sat perched on pieces of driftwood; their cold glass eyes staring at me without feeling.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>"Don't you think maybe they might look more...uh...ummm...appropriate at your office or even the deer lease?"</em> I ask trying to sound encouraging without being too pushy.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>"No, they would never last there. It's too hot and dusty."</em> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>"But they're already DEAD sweetie- they can't suffer anymore,"</em> I say in my most empathetic voice.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I could tell by his deflated body language that was disappointed, maybe even a little hurt by my recommendation. This discussion was taking on the tune of a bad country song with a title something like...My Wife Is Gone But My Ducks Ain't...or...This Ain't Duckin' Fair! I didn't feel good about moving in for the kill when he seemed so vulnerable, but it had to be done. I had to finish the job. Like a hunter putting a wounded animal out of its' misery.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>"I really, really, REALLY don't want those hanging in here-they just don't go with the rest of the decor."</em> There, I had administered the lethal dose that would put this discussion to rest with all the swiftness and precision of a sharp shooter. A twinge of guilt bubbled up inside me. I am no friend of PETA. I don't condemn hunting, fishing or circus trainers. I'm more than a little proud to carry a leather handbag and adore the supple, hand-tooled leather on a pair of Michael Kors peep-toe pumps. But these unfortunate fowl with their fixed expressions do nothing to stimulate my artistic senses. Especially here, in the formal living area of my abode.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In my dream house, I would have a special room built just for him. He could do as he pleased there in his sanctuary of testosterone. I imagine that there would be pieces and parts of once living creatures crowding the walls. Trophies brought back from great hunting expeditions, lit by flashing red neon. A pool table centered under a Budweiser-Clydesdale themed light fixture and a urinal in the corner for convenience sake. Vintage Smokey and the Bandit posters will give a visual to the Jerry Reed theme song on continuous play blasting from the coin-operated jukebox on the opposing wall. And a 10 inch thick security door installed to contain the smell of a deep fryer, preventing this and other offensive odors from permeating the rest of the house.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But at the moment, this dream house is a pipe dream. So we do what we must to ensure the future of our 22,995 (but who's counting) days of marriage. We compromise. Our feathered friends will reside at his office and I will keep the title of Interior Decorator. In return for his sacrifice, he is granted unlimited excursions to his make-shift sanctuary of testosterone. He may take his weekly sojourns to Dodge City with his buddies at his leisure. All the while, collecting more relics to one-day adorn the walls of his sanctuary.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The sport of compromise must be practiced and concessions have to be made for a relationship to endure. In this aspect, I am one lucky duck. </div>Hello!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14880514286654610428noreply@blogger.com0