Mira Mira! Pretty People!!- A Fashionably Late Oscar Report

And the Oscar goes to...*drum roll* The Pretty Person whose name is written on the fancy red card in the glittery sealed envelop.

How long ago were the Oscars? Two weeks ago? Emily Post would say I have two more weeks...so hush....

As a lover of all things that shimmer, I find the Academy Awards somewhat irresistible- sorta like rubber necking for ferrets ... Regardless, here are the highlights...First, I watched some of them with my friend Jen...and THAT is always a pleasure. Not only because she a brilliant ray of sunshine, but especially because if it weren't for her, I would never venture to the theater-to see anything. We have a semi-regular late night ritual where we sneak out like teenagers whilst our families sleep and catch a flick. Sadly, that is the closest I come to living life dangerously. That, and standing in the kitchen without a stitch. CAH-RAZY...I know...I can hardly believe it myself. Anyhoodle, went to Jen's to watch the Oscars.

Here is my take in a nutshell. I LOVED Hillary Swank's dress...it shimmered like diamonds, had fluffy feathers, and was the color of champagne...surprised she could leave her reflection to present. I DO think she is a great actress, even though she has a massive jaw...and will always be the single mom character that worked at the Peach Pit on 90210, and dated Steve Sanders. Of course that wasn't the only pretty dress, I also really liked the muted violet-hued dress Mila Kunis wore amongst others. Ohhhh and Anne Hathaway got to wear these killer stilettos that looked like a galaxy of radiant stars. They were to DIE for...if not to walk in. Other than that, I had only seen about half the movies that were nominated. Of course, the King's Speech tops my rental list when it releases to dvd. If you can resist the charm of Colin Firth...you should be a Navy Seal or something...because you have an iron-clad resolve. So...even though I didn't see the movie, I am glad he won. And? I actually did see the Black Swan. Natalie Portman was tortured and flawless...and I am not talking about her ridiculous gorgeousness...Um...and in real life...she is also pregnant. What is she? 12??? Heehee...I know she's not, but I always think of her in Beautiful Girls (LOVES it), and she is practically a toddler in that. Anyway, she won best actress...gooooo Natalie. JT brought sexy and his mama to the Oscars. And while Anne Hathaway is funny, and smart...and utterly lovable? James Franco was unfunnily dry, and unimpressive. Got the feeling that his friends, if he has them...were at home ROLLING at his "witty-ness." But the rest of us...sorry I am speaking for everyone- just this once...again-weren't feeling it. In my humble opinion, the writers tried too hard to make it seem like the hosts weren't trying. So...shiny, pretty, giant toothpaste smiles, obligatory applause, fake laughter, shiny...f-bomb in an acceptance speech...OH! Alice in Wonderland won stuff (yippee) the end. At this point I stop to give thanks to the She-vo for allowing me to skip commercials and dull speeches...thus allowing me to view Oscars, the way that Sports Center allows peeps to view sports. Other than that, if you haven't seen Social Network- have someone help you out from underneath that rock of yours and get on it. It is snarky and comical.

Oh and the Jimmy Kimmel post-Oscar special was so much more entertaining than the ACTUAL show.

That is all. *Strutting away down the red carpet I had installed in my kitchen.*

It's Really NOT That Simple

“Simplicity is making the journey of this life with just baggage enough.”

 Charles Dudley Warner



Thank you Charles...Y'know, it is too bad that you are no longer with us. Because I would like to ask you a deep-ish philosophical question. What exactly is ENOUGH baggage I wonder? How does one travel through life, experience it, take a little, hopefully give a little more...and move on with just ...ENOUGH? I am a borderline hoarder when it comes to deciding...what is important for the journey, and what is best left behind. I love it all, I have difficulty separating that and those I meet along the way...from my life itself. Each makes my experiences richer, warmer, sweeter. Each eases the way, offers comfort, or at the very least teaches me something-even if it is a lesson not easily learned. Admission: I have always been a pinch envious of those who possess the ability to get in, get out, get on. I get...attached to people, sometimes to things, and that gets...complicated....Which reminds me of the numerous moments along the road of life, that I have heard people say...

"Remember when life was simple?"...

Has anybody ever asked you that? This question frustrates me to no end. I think...because the answer is a definitive, almost defiant "NO!"  No I most definitely do NOT remember when life was simple.

And? I remember. I remember my own experiences vividly as far back as four. I remember...my eldest sister Cynthia coming to my friend Sherry's house to get me for dinner. (I also remember that at a later date, that same friend Sherry cut my hair with  lemon colored, plastic, play-dough scissors to BOTH our mothers' chagrin.) Anyway, I remember Cynthia bracing her weight on the curved and tassled handlebars of the heavy iron tricycle that was handed down to each of us, me being the last in the line of the hand-me-down trike. Clearly, I recall the platinum grape purple paint that framed in chipped fragments the gun-metal naked state of the trike beneath. Explicitly my mind paints not only the colors, the weight, the textures, but the scents, and the tones that played a role in each memory snapshot encapsulated in my mind's memory. I remember Cynthia's auburn-brown hair, unwieldy and long, tickling my chilled round cheek. The fall air that smelled of baking meatloaf (eww), and damp earth. There was a chilled wind whistling at our pink ears. The axles creaked on my slightly rusted mode of transportation and the crushing sound of molasses and crimson hued leaves as they fell victim to the rubber nubbed tires.  Cynthia took a deep breath as she pushed off with her long, grasshopper-like, bell bottomed clad leg, and rode me toward home. No, my unfamiliarity with simplicity, is not for lack of memory from the days when life was allegedly "simple".

Perhaps it is instead a matter of personal perspective? This is not to say that I consider myself to be complex in the least. As an individual, I am quite simple. My basic needs are not at all outside Maslow's little hierarchy pyramid. My intelligence and ability are well within the bounds of average. There is nothing particularly complex, superior, or unusual in my physical, emotional, or intellectual capacity or property. Pretty much,I am the basic model. So I guess, when I look with an untainted eye...at the world around me-and those that inhabit it...I DO see simplicity of motivation. Even more than that however, I see complexity of thought, and action. Mostly I witness, often firsthand, the ultimate frustration of ceaseless interaction. My eyes have seen the devastation that can occur when one need, is ignored by another desire, or when one ambition is quashed by another dream. The source of action may be simple, but the chain reaction that is set off by said innocuous, basic action, incited by said basic need? Not necessarily, or even usually. How easy it is too look back judgily (Making up Words 201)on different phases in your life, with your new set of goals, and your suitcase bulging with wisdom gained through each of your past experiences. How shortsightedly common  to glance  back over your full grown shoulder and look , on the days when you were concerned with getting home before the streetlights came on, or the days when you hoped against hope that you would get a bike without a  techno-colored, flowered banana seat as your summer transportation. How forgetful, to analyze the time when you were utterly vexed by whether your friends would approve of this outfit, or that boy. The numerous problems and people that troubled you then, and they DID trouble you? They were not simple. Not then. It COULD be that in your perspective, all of it has always been simple....Possibly you are NOT playing a game of Hindsight's Always Easy Peasy.  In that case, maybe simplicity IS a matter of perspective. Perhaps it is your way of viewing the world...and if that be the case? Switch me glasses please? Mine are dark and twisty (thanks again, Meredith Grey.)

I am beginning to believe that the ability to be simple, and to be satisfied with simplicity, is both nature and nurture. What each of us requires in life, to give and to receive from each other...it MAY all be very simple. But conveying, expressing, defining, answering, and obtaining what it is that will satisfy our own needs...not to mention satisfying someone else's needs? This is where simplicity gets tangled and mired in complexity.The nature of our beasts is that no two peoples' lives can stay frozen, united in precisely the same place for very long. Then, what one wants, or needs, or expects-is bound to be at odds with the other. Then there is loss, regret, misunderstanding, pain, neglect. These emotions are anything but simple. Multiply that aching and confusion, that frustration for all the people in the entire world...WHAT...may I ask...is simple about that? Then there is the nature aspect that some of us...are a magnet for complexity. Take a concept that is basic in it's nature...like "love,"  or "friendship."Some of us are hardwired to over-think, over-feel, over-love, over-believe. We saturate every relationship we have with all our energies, and passions...and nurturing...We pour all we have (good and bad) inside of it, and we trust it to hold up under the weight. Some of us lack the capacity to moderate when it comes to our brains, some our hearts, some both. Put THOSE of us alongside someone who doesn't dwell, or ponder...to someone who feels when it is convenient, to someone who doesn't share, or nurture naturally...Someone who thinks that over time, feelings should just be KNOWN. Individuals that maintain that once a relationship is substantiated...it should no longer require nurturing,or affirmation...That the love in all its shapes, should no longer require- it should simply maintain. Put the All or Nothings in a world of people like that...and the result will be messy and  could be devastating for the one, while the other remains oblivious... and ends up bewildered. And that is just two personality types. There are lots of them: Type A's and Type B's, Stress Hounds, and Care Free's, Clean Freaks, and Slobs, Workaholics, and Slackers. To me? Figuring out how to make it all work together, without halting all progress...individual and universal...is quite the opposite of simple.

The long and the short of it is...I always over pack for trips. I never really know where I am going, who I might encounter, or what I might need when I get there. What is life? But one Odysseus-style journey. Thus, I don't cast things, people, history, aside with ease. When encountering mermaids, cyclops, hell, and cattle...when at the whim of the fates, and the tantrums of "the gods"...how am I...how is anyone, to know what "enough" baggage is??

Life simply...is not that simple.

Believe it or not, I researched this. When I was "researching" I found volumes of wisdom imparted by undeniably wise people about the beauty and purity of simplicity. I am going to have to take their word for it. In my lack of wisdom, my experience has proved otherwise.


"There is a certain majesty in simplicity which is far above all quaintness of wit."-Alexander Pope
 

 "Nothing is true, but that which is simple."-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit a man, simplicity a child” Alexander Pope

“Simplicity and repose are the qualities that measure the true value of any work of art.” Frank Lloyd Wright

“I would not give a fig for the simplicity this side of complexity, but I would give my life for the simplicity on the other side of complexity.” Oliver Wendell Holmes

Time...is no friend of mine

"You may delay, but time will not"-Benjamin Franklin

Time has been on my mind a lot lately. This reeks of oddity. I am generally as unaware of its passing, as I am of the rapid oncoming of the events and appointments its passing causes to crash into me- colliding head on. Mostly I have become acutely aware of the fact that we never HAVE time.Neither do we command it, nor do we possess it. We merely choose to treasure it, or decide to reside in oblivion-land with regards to it. It has been argued in various schools of philosophy throughout the ages ,which pracice leads to a more abundantly lived life.

There are a number of things that I can say about time. Most of them have four letters and are words that I utter sparingly. I store them up for extra special occasions...so all those within hearing distance (2.37 miles) can be quite sure that I mean them sincerely with passion, rancor, heartache and fury...or any combination of the aforementioned. These are the very words I reserve for the day that is so tragically exhausting, and devastatingly exasperating, that it has voraciously sucked my will to live from my now lifeless form- one excruciatingly painful drop at a time. I am left with only its venom pumping through my veins. Yes I DO spend too much time and energy on Eclipse Blood Diaries (vamp math) thank you very much... Those days that rob me blind, leaving me bereft of two brain cells to rub together...It is on these days, that the simplest of words... the ones that function as multiple, vividly, colorful parts of speech, the ones I immediately associate with my feelings for time-come rushing like a hurricane through a weakened dam, from my defeated, defenseless lips.

Time...is a necessary evil. It is certainly no friend of mine. I have comprised a basic list of reasons why I would rather be locked in a small, door-less, white cushioned round room, with nothing to do but watch hour upon hour of Lifetime television with Nancy Grace, Rosie O'Donnell, and Nancy Pelosi- than to accept time into my inner circle.

Time, "the love I bear thee can afford no better term than this: thou art a villain."-Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

1. Time is unreliably illusive. What's the quote again? "A friend walks in when the rest of the world walks out?" Well since time goes sprinting toward the door like a receiver toward the end zone, just when you REALLY yearn for time with someone, or when you require time to complete something crucial? Like a preschooler on shot day, time is nowhere to be found. For this reason, illusive time belongs on the Deadbeat Friends List with Murphy...a healthy bounty on her head.

2. Time is cruel. So...you get used to it, you get used to the fact that when you need time to linger, she, in fickle fashion-leaves you defenseless. There you wait in futility-Emily Dickinson style, dress and all...alone at the altar of life. The one redeeming aspect, to this shady trait of time's (or so you think), is that when you have something tedious to do, something that you are dreading...then, at the very least-time will race speedily by. At least your suffering will be brief. Hold up. Not...so...flipping...fast. Here comes the cruel part. At the very moment, when beads of sweat are breaking out on your pretty little brow. When you are entering into fight or flight mode, and look to time for a reprieve...At that very instant, she alters the rules. She laughs maniacally in your sweet, panic stricken  face and takes a seat-making herself comfortable, kicking back-watching you squirm. And she sits, and she sits, savoring your misery. The flavor of it is so sweet on her arsenic-laced lips. See? I told you time is harsh.

3. Time is a schizophrenic clepto. Generally, time saunters through your life and uses her long sticky fingers to glob onto and snatch away that which you hold most dear. She sticks them treasure by treasure, surreptitiously in her bag the hue of the night sky, adorned with all the constellations in the galaxy. She has no need of the things she thieves, still she takes them because she can...and because YOU need them. She displays all of her stolen items in her vast mansion of infinite splendor, like a glass menagerie. The people and animals and friendships beloved and treasured by you and me, are all on display for her to glance at casually on her way to obtain more figures for her collection. Rarely however, a miraculous change occurs in time. Every once in a while, time's benevolent Mother Mary (full of grace)-like personality steps in and subjugates the wretched wickedly fickle clepto side. She only does this sporadically, so that you don't get too comfortable. But every so often, time gives you the bright, unexpected glimmering gift of herself. She is wrapped in gleaming unexpected hope, tied up in a bow of brilliant ruby. Selectively time allows you to drink in a moment with someone you cherish. She provides enough substance for you to inhale the moment deep into your lungs. The warm feeling of adoration seeps through your entirety. In its richness, that moment becomes more than a moment, it becomes a part of you. These gifted moments validate our daily struggles and answer all of our most troubling questions. It is this one...tiny, unpredictable aspect of time...that makes up for all of her unseemly, unbecoming ways. Makes us wish-beg even, for her to stay with us. This singular power that she possesses causes us to barter, plea...sacrifice ANYTHING in order for her to consider us worthy of such a generous gift.



All this said, I might as well accept time's existence, she isn't going anywhere. I won't embrace time.

Time...is no friend of mine. And while I am subject to time's shiftiness, her ambiguity, her cruelty, and her occasional generosity... you can't make me like it...and...it doesn't matter. Ever on she rages.

Here are some things that peeps with minds far superior to mine, had to say about time:

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.  ~William Faulkner

As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.  ~Henry David Thoreau

The clock talked loud.  I threw it away, it scared me what it talked.  ~Tillie Olsen

Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them.  ~Dion Boucicault

Fashionably Judgmental

Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly. ~Epictetus


The only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize.-Steel Magnolias


I admit it. I am a bit of a Judgey McJudgerson when it comes to style. I have a venomous reaction to sweat pants, trainers, and pajama pants worn anywhere other than to the gym, or to bed. They first cause me to shake my head in disgruntled disgust, and then to throw up just a little bit in my mouth-this is not a pretty visual, I am fully aware. These particular items I find especially offensive on women-I see it as their betrayal of the sisterhood and what not. We are GIRLS...it's a gift dag-nab-it...wrap it up pretty. Even with regards to sleepwear...(see The Cats Pajamas) life is too short for holey, grubby jammies. Why settle for a salt and pepper, paper thin, over-sized t-shirt-courtesy your loser of an ex boyfriend from 98', when we have been gifted with the lives and talents of Betsey Johnson, Nick and Nora, and the like? Sleep in style.

Mark my words, I make no claim of being a fashionista in any sense of the word. Couture is not an option on a shoestring budget. I do not have the body of a super model aka: clothes hanger... and furthermore, I have sort of grown attached to my soft bits. So outside of the fabulous hair, perfectly pouty lips, coveted handbags, complementary strappy designer shoes, and statuesque stature...I begrudge them not...The Beautiful Glamazons,that is. I prefer to never lose a dress size, than to sacrifice the sheer bliss I derive from chips, salsa and a frosted coca-cola...Life is too short for bland food and plain clothes...And...speaking of clothes (again)...I have always believed (and have likely stated repeatedly) that I have the soul of an artist, but none of the necessary skills to make the claim publicly. This is probably a feeble effort to dismiss my long list of eccentricities as something more colorful than oddity. Somewhere in that line of thought however, I have developed a philosophy. A philosophy that affirms that our bodies are a sort of outlet for our creative aspirations. A canvas for the artist without a paintbrush, an outlet for the clay-less sculptor, the message of a poet without a muse. And thus, my heart races accordingly at the sweet sensation derived through my trembling fingertips as they dance over a vintage velvet blazer with antique buttons. The deep emeralds, ripe plums, smoldering emeralds, burnt oranges of the fall fashion color palette make my mouth water and set my eyes to sparking. There is an entire universe of loveliness available to adorn ourselves in from season to season. Clothes... all of them...over, under and in-between layers evoke a passionate response within me. They stir my poor talentless and otherwise silent artist within. Thus causing an obvious cringe when I hear people say they selected ANY clothing item based only on its comfort factor. Comfort is a bonus, not a reason to purchase. While it is completely acceptable to NOT purchase something because it is painfully uncomfortable (likely the wrong style and fit to boot. This is not purely coincidental, learn to take a hint)...It is almost shameful to pick clothes solely based on how they cushion your lazy self as you sit on your tush watching Oprah, or Real Housewives...pick your poison...I'll find you an eye-sized fork. A failure to express oneself through wardrobe is a form of neglect...against yourself, against your body, against your spirit. A crime in my book anyway, the CJ Book of Judging Others Based On Their Wardrobe. Really it isn't as shallow as it sounds. No one is suggesting you emerge through your front door each morning hoping to be mistaken for the cover girl on this month's edition of Elle. Instead, just give it some thought and a smidgen of effort. Cute jeans? No more difficult to slip into than a pair of yoga pants. Earrings are our friends. Sweet, simple, sensational. Even the word "sweats" is dreadfully unappealing. Avoid them at all costs. Let's just call them "slobs" and be done with it. Mae West said, "Look your best- who said love is blind?" This includes the love of yourself. She also said "It is better to be looked over than overlooked." Wise, wise woman-take heed.

Admittedly...my clothing judginess is sexist and primarily one-sided. Boys are boxy. There is a reason why the tailored suit and military/athletic style uniforms are mainstays in the male world of clothing. Not accidental that the most famous male figure (the Statue of David) is adorned in not a single stitch. They're limited in how dramatic their clothing statement can be. Unless you're Bowie...and HE had to go femme to make a statement. And that statement? Confused in technicolor metallic-heavy on the guy-liner? If men have muscles to hug, a fitted shirt is nice. If they have broad shoulders, a pinstripe blazer is dashing. A nice shoe is key, but that goes with the ownership of feet. Tailoring is integral if they want to "say" anything in their dress whatsoever...other than, "I've had these clothes since college, or...my wife/girlfriend/mother dresses me". Dressed up, dressed down...their shape is fairly standard. But not so for the softer, suppler sex. We have curves, their sharp and linear is contrasted and complimented by our smooth and voluptuous. He is a frame, to your Botticelli Venus. Our bodies are made for fashion, theirs for function. The two compliment each other flawlessly. They? Express themselves through hunting, gathering, feats of strength, and the legends of their conquests ever after. For us? Expression is life. It is what draws the sexes together, and it is what thrusts them apart. We use our faces, our words, our intonation and every nuance within our power to communicate and to express. Changing our hair, our dress, or even our lip gloss shade can change our entire outlook on life-at least for the day. Even if we let ourselves go? That too is likely expressing that we have surrendered, given up hope-in our heart, forfeited our aspirations...that we have grown too weary to even make an effort toward anything beyond survival, that we are now bereft of any and all inspiration. I once heard an older woman say, "Don't you ever choose clothes so as to go unnoticed?" Um...NO. NO I DON'T. It isn't that clothes should be selected to gain notice, but our wardrobe should embellish, enhance, and speak before we do. So in the profound verbiage of Salt n'Peppa..."Go ahead girls express yourselves."

Clothing is a gift, not an obligation. Don't leave your canvas blank, or more tragic still... don't wrap it in jersey. This is not a dissertation on glorifying the external over the internal. Please first-be good, be kind, be generous, be wise, be well-read, be conscientious and unselfish, be a solid humanitarian...but also...be...stylish. Use the tool of your wardrobe to express the multi-faceted, many textured, complex woman...(or man as the case may be) that IS you. In your own unique way-literally...wear (or convey) your heart on your sleeve...Allow in some ways, for your clothes to represent you-they do anyway...so help them represent you accurately. I know you didn't ask my opinion, but I am giving it today-free of charge. I am speaking the truth in love. I am NOT the only one who wonders when dressing became a luxury...rather than a necessity...Talk amongst yourselves.

Clothes are our friends. If they're not? They should be.

These people say it better than I ever could...

One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art. ~Oscar Wilde

Adornment is never anything except a reflection of the heart. ~Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel

When in doubt, wear red. ~Bill Blass

Wanted: Summer

I've been away. Not abroad away...like to some distant Greek isle...strolling barefoot along the bleached ancient sands near the edge of the contrasting azure waters...Where fantasy melts reality into a shimmering, syrupy liquid form that tastes like honey and dark melted chocolate...Where reality is consumed for its positive deliciousness until only fantasy remains (I wish). I haven't been off collecting culture and what not (I wish that too). Nor have I been dragged away...to the circular room where one "rests" and allegedly gets waited on by strong armed, starched white coated murses. I am saving that one for one I REALLY need it...the timing of which is arguable.

Just...away. For the better part of the summer...away. Nothing thrilling to report...away. NOT that I claim past posts have had you on the virtual edge of your maroon velvet cyber seat, all a tremble with the mere anticipation of another enlightening, earth-shattering post from yours unruly. Regardless, my mind was on vaca. When I misplaced my semi-focused mind, I also put the summer someplace. Long before I was ready to part with it-it mysteriously disappeared, ran away...was stolen? Perhaps it was something I said?

It is likely in fact,that it WAS something that I said. My mouth is a gifted runner. Ironically so....because aside from running water for my bubbly tub, the running of my mouth is the closest I come to a track shoe. But run it does...like Flo-Jo, or a white Bronco, or Fred and Barney carrying their car to the quarry. It runs with the lightning speed of Hermes in those platinum winged sandals of his(I STILL need to score myself a pair of those)...and my brain simply isn't interested in trying to keep pace. It doesn't even wave the white silk scarf in surrender anymore...just bids it a resigned adieu and goes back to its random ponderings. Thus, my mouth runs ahead-unchecked, without direction. Running and running and likely? Chasing off summer.

It is also likely that summer slipped away with my left teal, paisley Haviana and my childhood pocket steno with the autographs of the girls from the Facts of Life, as well as various other missing trinkets and trifles from my entire life. Either summer, or my Clepto Gremlin has gotten off with them. Either way...my OCD is going to capture one of them and make them pay Poe-style for troubling it so. Wherever or however it went, the summer has vanished, like Bin Laden. Unlike Osama however, I miss summer's presence. If it would only come back to me, I would feed it flaming hot cheetos and buy it new sandals, I might even share my lip-gloss.

If you see it? Please tell it so...and that my mouth is gravely sorry for whatever it may have said...it just doesn't know it yet. It has moved on and on and on and on...(you get the hint) to other rantings, and new offenses. It will chase fall away soon enough.

Oh...and as far as my semi focused mind is concerned,it will likely find its way home. It has ALWAYS been a bit of a wandering rogue.

What Makes Me A BAD Girl

The topic of this blog is...like nearly everything involving those of us who are both blessed and cursed by the enhancement of an extra shot (or forty two) of estrogen-a PINCH more complex than it first appears. So...Puh-leez don't expect me to show up on the next season of Girls Next Door clad in pink bunny ears and a fluffy white tail sewn into my satin black teddy and kitten heels. I will NOT be appearing as Hef's latest...(pretending he's not too ancient to taste and savor the) flavor...THAT would be wrong on so many levels it's laughable. Suffice to say...I'm not THAT kind of bad...not Lindsay Lohan:so out of control I can't tell my pills, from my boys-or my girls from my drinks-bad. Nor am I Madonna: been at naughty so long I am running out of innovative ways to be irreverently and creatively-bad (of course that IS precisely why we LOVE her). Thank my lucky stars that I also do not fit Cortney Love's definition of: rode hard and put away train wreck-bad. Not at all what I intend when I state that "I'm a bad girl"...When I say, "I'm a BAD girl..." What I MEAN, is that something in my hard wiring not only fails at...but vehemently rejects and refuses to adhere to some of the most basic and strictly enforced demands of the Girl Code. *Gripping my Girl Card so tightly to my chest that my knuckles turn white...Deep inhale...* Here goes...you can start knitting my scarlet letters "BG" onto my cashmere cardigan now...I have narrowed it down (which as you know is not my forte) to a mere five things that make me a BAD Girl.

1. I'm so pathetically non domestic that Martha would weep and June Cleaver would snatch my pearls away. It is not my mother's fault...or...maybe it is-just not directly. Primarily I trace this Girl FAIL not to a lack of ability, but a lack of interest. My mom is as 1950's housewife as a non-fifties housewife can be...and I think there is a 87% "No thank you-not me"...in my resistance to mastering a mean meat loaf. I adore a vintage style handmade, lace-trimmed apron as much as any June or Lucy...just long as I can wear it "Just Because."

2. There is only room for one drama queen in this show. It's not that bad MOST of the time. My girlfriends are surprisingly low maintenance...because of them, so am I...primarily. If they aren't? I make them vanish with a spray of my Bitch-B-Gone...I know this is a double standard...but life provides enough drama of it's own...and a flair for the dramatic just happens to be a (non-option) option I came equipped with at birth...I recently read a quote "I don't need your attitude- I have one of my own" Anonymous...Ain't that the truth? So...pedal your attitude someplace else sister, I'm all stocked up here.

3. If it doesn't include steamy hot water, loud karaoke style singing and a cookie scented sugar scrub? Showers make me cringe. Don't get me wrong, they are a necessary evil and I go...to LOTS of them. It is not as selfish as it sounds. While I appreciate the thought and effort my loved ones put forth on my behalf, I didn't especially enjoy my own showers. Sue me...toilet paper wedding dresses and guessing what kind of candy bar is mushed up in the tiny make shift diaper...is NOT my idea of a good time. Not to mention that I love giving gifts, but am an awkward gift receiver. Of course I love babies (especially when I am not providing the oven)...who doesn't? But there is something cruel and unusual about being forced to ooohh and aaaahh over diaper duckies and pee pee tee pees. *Whispering...tucking Girl Card into my pink and black polka dotted angel bra* Wedding receptions? Good-if done correctly. Weddings? should be reserved for immediate family and intimate friends...in my not-so-humble opinion. If I do not fit this criteria? I want a reprieve from the governor...pretty, pretty , PRETTY please? I will lead the electric slide to show my gratitude...watch me work...

4.Won't Watch A Lifetime Movie...In THIS Lifetime...This of course is not to say that I am above having my womanly mushiness fully exploited...but I choose the poison. Generally something fuchsia and fizzy...something possessing solid characterization, and a dash of humor tossed in to keep me from hanging myself with my chunky bead necklace, skilled writing is a prerequisite and actors with Edward-esque coifs a bonus (ahem..a must)...Something along the lines of a Grey's Anatomy...Spare me the washed up 90's actresses who end up behind bars for offing their abusive husbands, or their daughter's potential cheer coach for failing to pick lil Suzie-Que for the squad. These events were horrific enough in actual reality...why do we feel the need to relive it with sappy background music and melodramatic reenactments? Pass...

5. Football Over Frills: I AM indubitably a girly girl. Still...shopping can wait-take me to the game/fight already!!! While I do not participate in athletics...ever-the thrill of a live sporting event makes me giddy-with the exception of baseball...I am purely into America's favorite pastime for the sunshine and the hot dogs...even beer tastes better at the ball park...it's magically inexplicable. Where was I?... Oh yeah, "The thrill of victory..."...Who couldn't use a little more excitement in their daily grind? The kind you derive from the crash of helmets, the squeak of rubber soled trainers on a wooden court, a well fought, indisputable tap out paid for with blood and sweat, or the tangible, animalistic ferocity of a goalie defending his territory. Not even a sale at MAC (which is the stuff fairy tales are made of) can top that. So...*singing and swaying* "Take me out to the (insert non-golf sporting event here)game"...After all, the stores are open seven days a week for my convenience.


See? I AM a BAD Girl...told ya'...Oh...I should also mention that I rather enjoy going to the LADIES alone, and that I am a giant failure at requiring the approval of my girls before getting dressed, picking out a new lip gloss, or thinking for myself... and lip service? SO not a gift of mine...So-FINE *Taking charcoal cardigan with ruby and platinum hand stitched lettering and tiny jeweled vintage buttons off your American tipped, perfectly manicured hands. Layering said cardigan over a coordinating long, poppy red ribbed tank and matching peep toes*...Heehee...Well? I may not be such a BAD girl after all *wink-wink*...*tucking my Girl Card safely away in my Marc Jacobs slouch bag and making a gracefully fierce catwalk-like run for it*

The Fine Art of Controlling and Maintaining Your Chaos

A.A. Milne wrote that “One of the advantages of being disorderly, is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries.”


My focus here is organization…something that is a bit of a stranger to me…and not the kind of stranger bearing Sweet Tarts and licorice-the kind that smiles creepily from behind a bushy beardless mustache and large far too dark seventies style glasses. The kind that makes me run-not walk-to the nearest exit. “Stranger Danger” brand of stranger. This may seem like a bit of an overstatement. After all, organization IS a friend to most. For precious few of us however, chaos is a better friend, and thus, organization in its essence, poses a threat to our friend Chaos. The two are amicable adversaries-like…Batman and Poison Ivy. They are unable to peacefully coexist…they suffer from a vicious, incurable case of irreconcilable differences. Chaos is a reliable and thrilling friend who is forever challenging and engaging us. The type of friend that found YOU and proceeded to wind itself around your heart like a wildly exotic flowering weed. As a result, WE-keepers and friends of chaos, are forced against our nature to organize a plan to care for it, nurture it, embrace it- to keep it from the oppressive tyrannical rule of organization. So…for the creatively and colorfully, organizationally inept, here are three tips for keeping your chaos happy. First, Keep things fresh. All work and no play makes chaos dull company. Second, make sure chaos knows how much it means to you. Every strong relationship requires effort. And third, Learn to be discreet. Secret service brand of discreet. Your job is to protect chaos from being stifled, color coded and filed alphabetically. Nothing TOO complicated. You’ve got this covered.

Keep your relationship exciting. Let’s not get confused here, chaos isn’t interested in cutesy notes on the refrigerator, or coming home to you in ponytails and knee socks. Chaos longs to roll in the grass and howl at the moon. Chaos craves frivolous fodder-it hungers for it...requires it even. Picture the Venus Fly Trap from Little Shop of Horrors. You know the one…”Feed Me Seymour”. Only…instead of human beings, your Chaos Flytrap feeds on adrenaline, bustle-it thrives on your ability to pile your plate high with activities and responsibilities. How ELSE can it shine? There is no “grace under pressure” without pressure. Chaos however, one ups grace. When facing a seemingly monumental challenge-chaos finds its stride. And when it does, it dances the tango, the Charleston, and the running man…backwards and blindfolded. With a flourish and jazz hands. Chaos manages to shine in vintage Valentino and strappy Jimmy Choo’s with five inch heels. No one does it better. Keep it fresh and chaos will reciprocate. Teaching you to be graceful on your toes…after all, that is EXACTLY how chaos loves you best.

Make chaos feel appreciated. While you can’t show chaos the love with lip gloss and foot rubs-you most certainly can give credit where credit is due. Instead of making false claims like “I work best under pressure” tell the truth…you ONLY work under pressure. Also, chaos puts more life in your living. While the others, like ants in a line are marching methodically to the beat of the same dull drum-stealing crumbs from other peoples’ picnics, you are having a delectable picnic all your own. An ant free picnic complete with gourmet cheeses and pinot noir. When you lift your glass to toast, toast to chaos-“The electric guitar in your rock opera, the flavor in your filet mignon, and the ruby in your slippers“. Toast to chaos for placing your labor in fiery multicolored stacks that you will heroically and dramatically stamp out together. And in between fires, chaos gives you the gift of fluttering and dancing carelessly through the air like a monarch on a summer night’s breeze. While the Live to Workers are crawling wearily into their hill, tripping over one another and reporting to their queen…you have the benefit…seven times out of ten…of ruling your own kingdom-sporting your very own, very shiny, bling studded crown while stretched out on your luxuriously roomy throne, being fed bon-bons by….emo vampiress, or crooners, or…whomever you choose. Chaos is primarily responsible for that. So in the historic words of Billy Joel, “Tell her about it.” Be good to your chaos and in turn, your chaos will be good to you.

Protect your chaos. Defend her against the haters. Wear a black suit and shades if it helps you to feel the part. Or…pretend that chaos is your very own child prodigy- blessed with a gift so profound that the world is not capable of appreciating it just yet and so for now…you keep it under your protective wing…willing to go ninja in its defense if need be. There IS some accuracy to that scenario after all. There is something inspiring in chaos that evokes and stimulates creativity. The organized world of order will NOT understand your methods. They will view your chaos as a problem to be solved. So it is probably best…to “Fake it-SO you can make it.” Model some pseudo organizational skills. Fake the need to squeeze everything into multicolored boxes, even ones that typically the wrong shape and size, where the item inside is bent and squeezed inside- growling and wiggling, pushing against the constraints of its box top. Think of it as preventing Batman from hosing your Poison Ivy down with weed killer. Protect your muse…you’re the only one that NEEDS to understand…and likely the only one that will. While the masses appreciate the masterpieces that chaos creates, her ways cause them confusion, disillusionment and discomfort. So unless you want your castle of chaos stormed by torch bearing villagers? Keep her under wraps.

In conclusion, while the world has a fierce Martha Stewart style need to put everything neatly into place, you need to strew those precise same items all over the room. You need to see and touch and smell and taste and feel EXACTLY what it is that you are working with at all times. How are you to make lemonade of life's lemons without knowing where the sugar, sparkling water, crazy straws, and purple umbrellas are kept? You also MUST allow a deadline to get down to the last possible second, there is something hypnotically musical about the racing of your heart. You need to swing from a vine rope in pink leopard skin bathing suit sou, while expressing your intentions in impassioned cries resembling that of a pack of voracious coyotes. In order to sufficiently carpe your diem-you require full view of your open box of sixty four Crayolas because you just never know when a situation will scream for chartreuse. As a result, chaos has become a John to your Paul, and an Athena to your Odysseus. You make a brilliant pair. Chaos is a friend that quintessentially believes that variety IS not only the spice of life, but the air and heartbeat too. She requires adventure, appreciation and a watchful eye. Because if you desire for chaos to ensue on your behalf, there IS an organized way to go about keeping her (happy).

So leave the organized masked masses to their pre plotted, goofy side-kicked, Bat-caved existence. You, Chaos, (aka Ivy), the Wind and I have countless thrilling horizons to explore and volumes of thrilling discoveries yet to make.

*Raising a crystal glass swirled with a brilliant kaleidoscope of Oz vivid Colors*

"To chaos"

Choices 101

"We've always got choices."

Those words have been and will continue to be-REPEATED and repeated & Repeated to us from diapers to...well...let's face it... diapers. *Queue The Circle of Life*

The choices that we make will not only mold who we will become as individuals, but they will dictate the paths our lives will take

As we have discussed before, cliches did not get where they are overnight. Obviously these trite sayings (that are like somebody poking you repeatedly with the same dumb, blunt stick)have survived generations for a reason. There is some truth to them. Like the ache the stick incites, you feel the reality of the cliche. There is no denying its existence-but that doesn't make its incessant prodding any more enlightening or any less grating. Eventually you become immune to its presence-you learn to tune it out. Not to mention, that the source of our irritation with cliches,is that they are ripe with generalities-they omit the individual experience. No one feels or experiences life in precisely the same way, no matter how parallel the circumstances. Yes the big picture exists, but as "they" say "(the good)God is in the details" (Le bon Dieu est dans le detail-Flaubert). Without the detail of her knowing smile and that mischievous gaze- Mona Lisa is an unremarkable, plain woman with drab hair and a shabby dress-in desperate need of a makeover. But her individuality, her human spirit...the artist's lifes wisdom reflected in her essence...aka-the details-transform her into a masterpiece. Back to choices-and where the cliche fails us-the truth about making and living with choices...is found almost exclusively in the details,in our making of them. The why, the how, the factors, the timing, the people involved, the circumstances, the cost. Choices are like snowflakes and stars-none of them are the same-because we are not the same. And when we change, what we choose and why
we choose it changes too. So...when looking at the choices that we make-we had better dot our i's and cross our t's...because it is ALL about the details.

So let's debunk it, you and me. Let's break it down. Here is the disclaimer on choices *spoken rapidly and often incomprehensibly*

1. We have freedom of choice. Not to be at all confused with controlling the options. If life gives you lemons, you cannot opt to turn them into strawberries. What you can do...is come equipped with an arsenal of lemon recipes; lemonade, lemon cream, lemon squares, lemon cake, lemon drops. This somewhat unfortunate reality often leaves us feeling as if the "choice" is not so much a decision on our part, as it is an acceptance of our fate. However giving into that line of thought leaves us feeling like pawns-will incapacitate you if you let it, and can thus be a pitfall. There are some clear choices that are definitely ours for the making-even if it is just "regular or diet?".

2. There is no Option D. If the options are not appealing, you may not select None of the Above, nor can you choose All of the Above when all the choices are equally sublime (not a common occurrence). You just have to "make it work". Shout out to Tim Gunn (Project Runway) *Hollah*

3. Making the right choice, makes no promise to feel good. Knowing it is the right choice needs to be enough of a reason.

4. Not making a choice-is making a choice. Your indecision allows the chips to fall where they may. When that happens, you and your indecision have no choice but to take your ball and go home for some humble pie (whatever the hheeecckk that means). And the next time you can bet your decision will step mightily up to the plate.

5. As a grown up-you come to realize that what is best...and what is best for you...are many times not the same. Suck it up...you know what the kitty said...

6. Hindsight is ALWAYS 20/20. Has been a few seconds since I had busted out any trite phraseology...and so, the time has come. Seriously though, time lends perspective. You may think at the time that you are making the wisest decision. You may have searched yourself, weighed the pros and cons, convinced your head and your heart to FINALLY agree on something...but over time you realize that the other option would have served you better in the long run. You have to forgive yourself, we learn from our mistakes..unless we don't-then we need to give ourselves a harsh talking to. You are not a fortune teller (if you are-and you failed to see what the outcome would be-maybe you should hang up your crystal ball and start searching Monster for new career options).

7. Being Happy is Your Choice Too Perhaps it is your most important choice because it is the one that will never fail you. Like almost everything-there is nothing simple about it. It is a tough decision to make because it is one that we must make again and again...and more times than not? You probably don't feel like it. But life is so incredibly much what we make of it, how we choose to view it, how much influence we allow our feelings to have, how much credit we give our brain, how much our conscience weighs that week. We can and should decide regardless what the circumstance, that we WILL be happy. That is one of a handful of choices that you will never regret. Even if you cannot muster a giddy happy? A refusal to be defeated still equals success in some situations.

Oh! Before I forget, the choice is yours. The consequences of your choices definitely are not up to your discretion, nor are they consistent. Just in case you haven't learned that lesson of eternal ambiguity just yet...

Slippery little buggers-those choices...

That concludes our dissertation on choices. I don't know about you, but perhaps we should choose to take this show on the road...Seriously though, it is a delicate balance, whether we make strong choices, whether we allow our failings to destroy us, or our great choices to blind us with misplaced arrogance. That too...is a choice we make.

Here is what some more credible peeps have to say about choices and decisions...

"I know who I am and who I may be, it I choose."-Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

"We choose our joys and sorrows long before we experience them."-Kahlil Gibran

"Some choices we live not only once, but a thousand times over, remembering them the rest of our lives."-Richard Bach

"Man had no choice but to love. For when he does not, he finds his alternatives lie in loneliness, destruction and despair."-Unknown

Roughing It

So...here I sit...camping (lettin' that seep in like sweet sunshine on the first spring day after a long cold, grueling winter ).........*Crickets...literal ones*.................Uh huh, I said it. Gonna say it again "camp-ing." However-please don't go getting any grand ideas. When I say that I am camping "out"... there are no tents on the frigid,muddy ground-home to the creepy crawlys. Truly-in my spoiled by fluffy, cotton candy pink convenience- baby of three girls- mind set-there are only three solid reasons for sleeping in the dirt...1. You've enlisted in the military and are reporting for incognito, outdoor undercover duties. Your double agent status commands it...Don't think Jason Bourne or James Bond get to toss back unbecoming assignment destinations. Or...Unfortunately you're injured and couldn't get up and dust off if you chose to. If this is you-hang in there- help is on the way. We will discuss how you are able to read this, but not phone for help at a later date. All one sided kidding aside...Wait! One more for my fellow OCD afflicted Grey's fans...Perhaps you collapsed scouring the woods for Mc Dreamy's mother's wedding band that he pitched into the woods a moment of perfectly coiffed and mildly unshaven broodiness...If fiction were ACTUALLY as close to the ACTUAL as it often seems? That would be a likely reason for a dirty earth siesta. Cruel really. 2. Perhaps your eyes were hypnotized by the alluring twinkle of the mischievous midnight stars. Entranced- you were lulled to a sweet dreamless sleep in the precise spot where you lay...on your fluffy comfortably worn-red paisley quilt...or...Similarly, huddled in coziness- your heavy lids slow to a blink-less stop...while you wait to greet the sun as it's finger-like rays faintly trace their way up the twilight dim of the sky and with a kiss of its golden lips bathes the world in glimmering, gilded light . 3. Finally, um...the final dirt nap. Really the ONLY time dirt sleeping isn't optional. Unpleasant yes...but a clear, unarguable reason for sleeping in the dirt.
Thankfully none of those describe me and so...if I am subject to camping by force-or in the least, against my will-aka each and every time I go:)...it is in a heated camper with running water and electricity:) for the shortest sentence necessary.

Being dramatic(stick with what ya' know)-truly camping has it's bonuses.

1. Breathtaking scenery that I unaffectedly catch un-awed glimpses of daily. Camped tonight in the "wilderness" literally twenty minutes from my house. That view includes violet hued mountains wrapping the site like cradling arms-a fishbowl clear blue lake, capped flawlessly by an infinite water color palette of sky.

2. Got to watch a whole-nearly uninterrupted movie...*pinching myself* OUCH!...yeah- I don't quite believe it either.

3. All the snacks you eat are fat free when roughing it. Sorta like the two state rule (or whatever that is)-only with queso and smores made from leftover pink Easter peeps*rubbing pink sugar from phone keys.*

4. My Monkeys look like grubby little extras from Annie and Oliver Twist in turn...and it is a losing battle between the junk food, grime and me chasing two steps behind with a wipe...So I get to tell my OCD what for...for a change:).

5. Nothing to do...please keep in mind that this is a short-lived positive...(this native tends toward restlessness). When I say "nothing" I mean nothing of consequence. Knitting, reading, listening to Pink and painting ones toenails describes a productive evening in paradise...er...camping.

So...the owl is hooting-the coyotes howling, and I will be lucky to get the equivalent of a night nap. The fresh open air seemingly doesn't agree with me. If reoccurring camping insomnia is at all indicative of my lungs' druthers? Stale house air is their Dom Perignon.

Sweetest dreams Prettys. Hope your downy bed is more enticing than this sofa turned bed-type-thing...It could be worse, I could be attempting slumber on the converted table...mmm....comfy...Not exactly a princess (via Princess and the Pea)- but you don't have to be fragile to feel a pole through particle board.

Dare to live the dream.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Picking Your Battles or Picking a Fight

"The hardest battle you're ever going to fight is the battle to be just you."-Leo F. Buscaqlia

I tend to avoid wars. Not the huge, frighteningly realistic, big, political, bloody, literal wars- like the ones between countries and philosophies and religions...That is not the type of war to which i am referring.I abstain from the personal, emotional wars between myself and the people in my life. I am not a yellow bellied coward (would describe my skin as more... the 'color mocha'. As would Ricky Martin-Livin La Vida Loca...aye-yi-yiyi...*sigh* I HAD to have said that before-forgive me. Guilty pleasures-bygones....Also? Just fun to say 'yella bellied-"I'm gonna' shoot ya' down Jesse James"-Cher).

I WILL fight if I feel cornered and trapped, like I don't have options. And I certainly won't chew off my own foot to be free (cuz'? Ouch...and Not A Waitress Red...tastes awful-don't ask me how I know). Look out though- because I am apt to chew off someone else's foot if absolutely necessary. Really though? When facing a war-I generally opt to back slowly away. That however, only refers to the knock down, drag out, full on T-Bird-Jock style rumble...That is the only time intimidation, or cool heads...or whatever it is...prevail. It is the battle that I can't seem to walk away from...or refrain from rushing headlong into...or...may allegedly innately crave? Jury's out and descidedly unruffled by the details.

Going to depersonalize this pseudo-philosophy real quick...because I don't think it is just me. Think we all have this Shifty-Secrest-Type multi-personality disorder when it comes to conflict. The driving motivation behind our ultimately confusing and alternating passive aggressiveness/often full out scrappyness may be different...but we all do it...Every single self important one of us...Daily, sometimes hourly, occasionally instantaneously- we change our own personal rules of engagement (written in pencil of course). It's not intentional. Being the big full grown infants that we are...we get our hearts stepped on, our egos tromped, our confidence pinched...and depending...how tight our diaper is fastened that day...perhaps reliant on how warm and frequent our bottles...we act accordingly. None of us...especially me...like to feel like we are drawing the shortest straw. We don't voluntarily choose to allow anyone else be the boss of us. We hold fast-often justifiably...to the notion that we have earned the right to be the boss of ourselves...and when that "freedom" is threatened-when we feel that our individuality is in jeopardy? We bite back...sometimes drawing first blood. We certainly CAN be intimidating...backs arched and hissing...But is that what we really want? If we put those closest to us on the day to day defensive-aren't we truly creating the very atmosphere we are trying with such exaggerated futility to avoid? Yet...if we feel that someone is trying to bogart our "us-ness"...stifle our outgoing, independent, colorful, social butterfly, though often precocious inner child...is it suicide of the soul...to standby and watch it happen in the name of passivity?

If I had the answer...I would be Doctor CJ-faking a southern accent...and doling out cliched (for a reason), shiny headed, drawled wisdom like...

“It's better to be healthy alone than sick with someone else.”=Dr. Phil

All I know, is this...the line between picking my battles and picking a fight...is often erased or faded to near invisible oblivion by my big, clumsy-bully of a heart and choked out by my inner diva. And though I am not trying to duck responsibility, the heart of the matter...is my heart-in the matter. Not sure that made sense...but the shiny-stubborn...ugly-pretty, vulnerably lethal me...in me? At the end of the day...is what I have. It is the who...I am ultimately responsible for...and if you-or someone else has to lose a leg in the battle over my self preservation (even if I am not always lucid on EXACTLY who that is, or if in every second I feel she is worthy of the fight?) you should be certain that is a price you are willing to pay. Before you pick this battle...make sure the fight in your dog...can take my dog in the fight...or something.

Wow...done feigning deepness...Be a pal? Friends don't let friends... blog after 11pm on a Thursday night.

"I have had to fight like hell and fighting like hell has made me what I am"-John Arbuthnot Fisher

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That Thing You Do

“Eccentricity has always abounded when and where strength of character had abounded; and the amount of eccentricity in a society has generally been proportional to the amount of genius, mental vigor, and courage which it contained.”

John Stuart Mill


Idiosyncrasies. We all have them...some of us possess more of these delightfully, pesky critters than others do. And for THOSE of us, we have given our idiosyncrasies more flattering lil' pet names like "color,it-factor, creativity,complexity, flavor, spice, our own personal brand of crazy"...and we learn to embrace them because they are woven into our ornate life's fabric. Besides, they aren't going anywhere without a battle, a lengthy, difficult battle we are likely to lose. Even if we are victorious, we are left lonely, simple, and well? dull. What kind of victory is that? Besides, we get used to them-like that friend, that beloved friend we all have one of. The one that wrapped around our heart like a weed and never let go...ever. And if you're anything like me...you have a set of coordinating idiosyncrasies, partially because the 'syncrasies' part of 'idiosyncrasies' feels like fluffy sweet whipped cream as it passes through my lips. I am kidding, but you have to admit that it is fun to say...(try it-you'll like it). The other reason to coordinate eccentricities? is because we simply HAVE to do things in pairs. Kidding again, well sorta...Nothing like a little OCD humor on a snowy spring Wednesday.

According to Wikipedia: Idiosyncrasy comes from the Greek 'idiosynkrasia' defined as: a peculiar temperament, habit of body, an individualizing quality or characteristic of a person or group, and is often used to express eccentricity or peculiarity

For those of us not elite or creatively ingenious enough for eccentricity, the most we can muster is neurotic. But eccentric sounds prettier, so let's stick with that...it is better for our all too sensitive psyche.

Now I am no psychologist. Nor do I see one professionally(the need of which is only slightly debatable), nor do I play one on TV. Yet I have come to this novice conclusion: we are all control freaks. Every, single, solitary one of us. As a direct result of our appetite for power (at least over our own lives),the less control that we have, the more we crave it. I suspect that our eccentricities developed or continue to develop as an innate need to maintain or pointlessly grasp at some sort of control. This is both feeble and ironic in a number of ways. When we feel as though we are not in charge (which let's face it-we usually aren't)our idiosyncrasies enhance, are suddenly switch blade sharp, become more defined...speak up (sometimes with an accent), multiply (like gremlins in water). Somehow these little habits and rituals-make us feel as though we are the boss...of something-of...anything. Again? This position of mine is grounded in mere personal observation, it is not at all rooted in any field of science. Consider yourself adequately disclaimered.<-Oops... I did it again. Made up another verb. Just one of the many services I offer...that there is no desire or need for...*sigh*

Funny thing about our eccentricities, is that they do not play well with (the idiosyncrasies of)others. This would be one of those sneaky little ironies that I mentioned previously. When we bring to mind the things that drive us batty about those around us on a daily (or every single solitary second) basis...it generally has everything to do with their idiosyncrasies. Those very same things people do that shape them into the objects of our affection, are identical to those aspects of them that on any given Sunday,would make us tear our hair out...if only we weren't so fond of it...if we hadn't grown so attached to our lovely locks- pun intended. And? Come back here-don't think you are getting off that easy. The endearing qualities that make you sparkle on a day kissed all over by sunshine, on a dismal,cloudy, got up on the wrong side of life-day...are like nails on the chalkboard of your loved ones'lives. Believe it. Sad-funny, nothing you can do about it funny. funny-'hey pot? This is kettle. You're black too'-funny.(FRIENDS-loosely quoted)

So the little things that your subconscious invents to make it feel all big man/she-man on campus, or woman/man about town? Regardless of your gender or location-or whether your subconscious mind opts to let your conscious mind in on its dirty little secret(s)...that thing you do (perhaps that list of things you do)...be it casual hair twirling, incessant fidgeting, absent minded pen flipping, the focused bottom lip nibble, the nonessential throat clearing, meticulous lining up of foods by color, that nervous little laugh, the blink so large that it is almost audible...the list is never ending, really. Like the song..."it just goes on and on my friend"...That thing (those things)? It's connected to you. You both inadvertently created it and non-directly keep it around-for a reason. Something about its unrelenting presence soothes your soul-no matter how superficially. However, what eases your spirit like a Valentino couture gown...(of course I am taking a confident stab at this. If you happen to have a spare, in grown woman size-I'm your girl)may very well scathe another's soul like a marathon of super sappy, poorly acted Lifetime movies, or a marathon of The View. These traits cause one person to love you, and another to flee you...Sometimes it causes the desire for both simultaneously in the same individual...and that is just confusing...and disorienting.No good can come of that. And you, you should know ALL about it. Empathize, because those same people's eccentricities evoke a similar reaction in you. Best advice? When you awake on that stormy day, and feel that you're gripping your eccentricities with the ferocity of a Bengal tiger gripping a medium rare cut of prime rib...stay inside and draw the curtains. And if that's not possible? Limit yourself to yes or no answers and deep nose breathing. Because on those days-your idiosyncrasies are after the jugular and the prey they seek just may be the traits you USUALLY love in your people...Just like "they" always say..."If you can beat em...tie and gag them until they are fit for human consumption..." And if "they" don't say that, they should.

“The surest defense against Evil is extreme individualism, originality of thinking, whimsicality, even / if you will / eccentricity. That is, something that can't be feigned, faked, imitated; something even a seasoned imposter couldn't be happy with.”-Joseph Brodsky

Our ambition should be to rule ourselves, the true kingdom for each one of us; and true progress is to know more, and be more, and to do more. -Oscar Wilde

Debunking the V-Day Debacle

Valentines Day...We love it, or we love it not? Personally,I think many of us love, loving it not...Here's the scoop-

St. Valentine was a Priest, martyred in 269 at Rome and was buried on the Flaminian Way. He is the Patron Saint of affianced couples, bee keepers, engaged couples, epilepsy, fainting, greetings, happy marriages, love, lovers, plague, travellers, young people. He is represented in pictures with birds and roses.-Wikipedia

Love it or loathe it...still like death, taxes and another failed romance via the Bachelor,it is an inevitability. There's no use trying to stop it from coming.

"Every shmoop down in shmoop-ville loved V-day a lot"...Seussy/Seinfeld/Sorta...

I for one, have an affinity for Valentines Day. Of course I am under no pressure whatsoever-so that may have something to do with my affection for this particular holiday. Also...I find ruby red and pretty paper,and rich, dark chocolate supremely delicious...so yeah, pretty much...V-Day's a win,win win...And yet I know it can be stressful for some of you. So out of l-o-v-e, I am going to dig down deep to the very bottom of my limited resources in an attempt to help de-vilify VD (aka Valentines Day) just for you..

1. Single is a status-not a death sentence-

So you're single. It is no different on the 14th of February than it is on the 13th or the 15th, or the 22nd of June...Why should it be? So embrace it...celebrate your independence. There is no expectation held for you on this day whatsoever.Insert your ridiculously giant sigh of relief here, because that poor defeated soul you see wandering the aisles of the supermarket puppy-like and glassy-eyed with a cardboard red heart full of non-delicious candies in one hand and the last cellophane suffocated wilted roses in the other? He would swap you spots in a heartbeat. This I promise you. V-Day is about love...so share the warm and fuzzies with the peeps you love. Drink a little wine, have a little fun, get down tonight-get down tonight. Being single is one tiny aspect of who you are, it doesn't define you. By no means should you try to change your single status in the name of V-Day. There is no conceivable way that will end positively...Remember the Valentine's Day Massacre? Actually was mob related and had more to do with swimming with fishes than pink hearts and winged cherubs-but you get the picture, right? Madness/broken hearts/machine guns...not pretty.

2.For the Real-

Girls, gurls, girlz...*Motioning with finger for you to come closer. Whispering*...I am sorry to say this, but when it comes to V-Day-you are going to have to get over it...not ALL of it-just the part with the inflated, outlandish, Austen-romance type expectations. You have to-or you WILL be disappointed. That is unless you are dating or married to Mr.Darcy...which you aren't. Men THAT spectacular only exist in fiction...and are written by women. We've been over this...Give up the ghost and give your poor guy a break...The kind of break that real live men deserve from the sometimes too real you...so don't go gettin haughty. You are no Elizabeth Bennet either.

It is okay for you to expect your beau to remember Valentine's Day...For heaven's sake you cannot turn on the radio or the television without being bombarded with adverts for chocolates, flowers...yadda, yadda, yadda. So unless he's Amish-(in which case, you have a whole other set of issues to deal with-going on dates in wagons, trying to get the horse smell out of your hair,etc) he knows. But beyond his acknowledgment in some form-any form (grunting and mumbling included)...surrender the silly dream. Admit to yourself that your Valentine expectations may be a pinch unrealistic. And? that some of your anxiety about whether he will "show up" for V-Day has more to do with cubicle competition, than anything else. You know as sure as you dress more for your friends, than you do for him-that our gender is all about comparison and competition. Whether we admit it or not...there is a small(hopefully minuscule)part of us that returns to our slightly insecure, somewhat catty high school self in honor of Valentine's Day. Some of us are, for just this one day secretly concerned with what our friends in the office will think of us if we close out Valentine's Day balloon-less, rose-less, cookie-less, singing telegram-less(has anyone actually gotten one of these? Anyone whose phone number doesn't start with a 444 prefix...aka outside of TV-Land? Reminds me of Carmine from Laverne and Shirley)...and thus, what? Loveless? Completely CARAZY as that is, many of us put exactly this kind of pressure on ourselves, on our significant others and on our relationships...All in the name of February the 14th. It is just one day...one that you share and celebrate with everybody else...keep it in perspective. Oh and P.S.- Lead by example. If you are a girl who loves a grand gesture, then you need to be mindful of the golden rule. Nowhere does it say that romance is the man's responsibility. It is okay- no...it is necessary for you to spread the love as well.

It Really Is The Thought That Counts:

Fellas, I can only speak for myself and for the girls that I know...and I know quite a few-but an ounce of thoughtfulness is worth a lifetime of grand gestures. What I mean is this, whatever you do for VD...or any day...do it with heart. Show attention to detail. Demonstrate that she is important to you by knowing what makes her smile. Whether it be making her coffee just the way she likes it (too much flavored creamer,dash of splenda) a post it that says "I love you" tucked away for her to find in the midst of the day's din, the smallest gesture is often felt the deepest. I know, it sounds funny- but I have yet to meet the girl that prefers two dozen red roses to a single orchid, sunflower,or Gerber daisy. Simply put, even on a commercial holiday celebrated by millions-we just want to know that we're unique...to you. So please get off your Anti V-Day Soap Box. Chances are, you don't shower your girl with affection and attention. You assume that she "just knows" the way that you feel about her. Yeah...she needs to be shown, and then reminded, later confirmed... and often reassured. There is no destination-this is an ongoing journey. Capisce? No need to break the bank, or to even spend a single cent. Seriously-never ever jewelry. Time and effort are both free and priceless simultaneously. So even if we say "Valentines Day is commercial and impersonal" we silently hope that this is one of the times you won't listen. And we won't tell you this-because while you were in Direct Boot Camp, we were at Mysterious School learning discretion. We were taught that frankness is unladylike, unbecoming even. And deep down, as difficult as this may be for you to comprehend, we believe that if you REALLY know us, if you TRULY love us...you have unspoken knowledge of what pleases us. As adults most of us have come to the harsh realization that this is not exactly the way relationships, or men operate...Still inside, we believe that they should. Hoping against hope-and logic that you really SEE us...

So...when VD rolls around this year, skip the hype and go for the heart. Whether you be male or female, single or in a relationship...Valentine's Day is about feeling and sharing and showing the love. What could be bad in that? So, don't sweat it, you've got this covered.


To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not loving. Therefore to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer. To suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy then is to suffer. But suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness. I hope you're getting this down.-Woody Allen

Spitefully Happy

“I like to write when I feel spiteful; it's like having a good sneeze”
D.H. Lawrence


Um...so according to Mr. Lawrence, this blog is my "sneeze" of sorts.I suppose writing is like sneezing...because sneezing and venting both serve as a terrific release, sort of like dancing it out. Okay-so here goes the illusive point...This is not the bubbling over with fiery red volcanic smokey, lava-like-spite I am addressing here. Rather than possessing full blown spite,in order to get the picture let's toss in just a pinch of stubborn...maybe a handful or twelve-full of hardheadedness (yes I know that is JUST like stubborn)...you catch my drift. So to call a spade a spade, a duck a duck, or a spite a spite-as the case may be...my MO is NOT vengeance but rather,to pull out all the stops to slyly, persuasively and if need be-ferociously prove my point of view when it is in regards to something I feel strongly about...or to disprove someone else's (only when absolutely necessary-as it is a bull in a china shop, stifling, maniacal point of view that attempts to stomp out all those in its oppressive path))...thus bringing the Napoleonic position to its' timely end with a Die-Hard style vengeance. Yippee ki-yay...you know the rest...tic-tic-tic-tic boom.

In this case, my obstinate nature is being applied to happiness and the spite that is created when I believe someone is trying to steal my happiness or the joy of someone else away. Optimism, or at least guarded optimism is crucial to me...and not always easily sought,found or maintained. Still, I believe that aside from extreme cases, "You're as happy as you decide to be".And I CHOOSE to be happy, giddy even (not in the in your face, "are you for real?" irritating sort of happy, but the subtly, quietly giddy extra foam, double shot in your latte brand of happy)-and I want you to be shiny with me...pretty please? Life is so much more deliciously worth the living that way,la vida dulce...as life was intended to be.

Unfortunately there are Gloomy Gus fun thieving-types (aka the previously mentioned dinnerware crushing oxen) out there who do not see things in quite the same sunny way that we do. They skulk and lurk around like ragey little storm clouds-thundering and rumbling. And they will not be satisfied to merely rain out their own pathetically sad parades, so they turn on yours. They derive immense pleasure (in the form of misery loves company) from raining on your pretty little parade as well. They view it as a petty victory of darkness over light. They want to get your goat...so don't let them have it. Hold tight to your goat and don't let go-so what if you get a little wet. You're wash and wear.

So as far as the sun robbing ways of the wet blankets go...I won't stand for it and neither should you. Put your stiletto strapped or work book clad tootsie down (your choice) and stand firm. But through the kind of action that silently screams volumes and/or razor sharp words if absolutely necessary, I tell them to "Pedal their pessimism elsewhere-I have no place to put it. Sulk and skulk don't go with my decor." Miserable doesn't fit between the beta bowl and the bust of Shakespeare.

*DISCLAIMER* This is not to claim that I never have dark,angst riddled Alanis-type moments where I want to lull around in despair while wearing too much black...but just for a few. That gets old lightning fast(ka-chow).

SO when those crabby clouds invade my space, they're forced to navigate my mile wide stubborn streak to get at my bliss-no one has ever made it across to the other side. You see, my day can find trouble all on it's own- I certainly don't need any assistance from the Oscar department.

And so we arrive at the destination spite. When there is the sense that someone is trying to tie their twelve ton attitude to my little red wagon-I revolt with unchecked, bubbly jubilation. Even if I "have to fake it til I make it"-which I often do. The more the monsters growl and snarl, the more I laugh and sing...maybe even toss in some *jazz hands*for flair. Nothing squashes doom and gloom like razzle dazzle. Eventually, though these trolls rarely change...they are sent packing...grumbling and rachus shmachus-ing to themselves, red faced and fuming. Try it-it really does work. And it is a win-win. You feel better and the nasty nay saying gnomes are sent packing. Sparkle is once again restored to pleasant-ville.

So there. My joy can beat up their glaring, unpleasant half empty and so can yours.

Heaps of coal, getting more bees with honey, what have you...Adios Angry Amos.

Aaa-chooo...

*Smiley Sigh* What do ya' know D.H.-I do feel better-thanks.

You?

You Give Change A Bad Name

Many people look forward to the new year for a new start on old habits.
~Author Unknown

Here we are...two and a half weeks into the New Year. 20-10...WHERE oh where is my AMAZING Get Ready Machine as promised in the Jetsons??? Sigh...Can you imagine??? I actually CANNOT conceptualize what I would do with the endless hours that I spend getting myself, or someone else ready to go someplace. With ALL that time why,I could...I could...solve the energy crisis (laughably not likely) or...take up marathon running (prominently preposterous)...um...keep up with the Kardashians....hmm...yeah...just-no thank you. Regardless, I would figure SOMETHING out...something delicious. It is a VERY good thing both Hanna AND Barbera are gone. Otherwise, they would SO be getting sued by some crazy cake munching American tizzied over the delayed delivery of pretend said wonder machine-right...about...NOW! What?!? I didn't MEAN me...Anyway, I prefer taking my crazy juiced-not caked. So aside from feeling obliged to snag a pair of metallic go-go boots and act as a stand in Bond Girl(007-20-10)-um...cause THAT girl fantasy knocks Barbie out cold...and heeled knee high boots in a garden full of glorious shades? Kick plastic stiletto's lil glossy pink toosh...). What else can we do while waiting for our space cars to arrive? (I'll take mine in gun metal gray with a sparkly finish please.) You know the answer to that question as well as I do. We can toast the bubbly to a new year. We can resolve in this new year with its new chances to make promises to ourselves that we have no true intention of keeping. Like when we set our clocks ahead in the mad hope that we will miraculously shave eight minutes off our best time. Imagining that we will leap out of bed promptly and gracefully. That our coffee will perk three minutes and twenty six seconds quicker and somehow taste richer, and our right shoe won't hide out under the darkest corner of the bed on the day that our hair took extra time to not turn out exactly the way we'd hoped. Then and only then will we magically be prompt-early even because we have "tricked ourselves" into it. It doesn't work that way though, does it? Because even in our usual flurry of activity we are smarter than we give ourselves credit for. In that panicked moment, when we glance frantically at the clock-we breathe a mammoth sigh of relief because we know that we have twelve minutes to race to said undisclosed location...and we also know we STILL won't make it-that STILL won't be enough-because we have an internal aversion to precise promptness. Time is many things:sneaky, shifty, evil... A friend? It is not. Yet still, like the clock "trick",we resolve. Every year, we resolve. We maintain our relentless, often foolish optimism and when the clock strikes twelve on the new year-we vow to ourselves that we will tame our cravings, minimize our faults, fade our idiosyncrasies, be more patient,more productive, shop less, be less impulsive, less sensitive, more brave, and less well...you.

So why do resolutions generally fall flat on their ray of sunshine faces before we witness the passing of January 23rd? It's not because we all couldn't use a little touching up or a tweak here and there. Nor is it because we should in any way refrain from bettering ourselves-expanding our often limited horizons.If we stop learning, cease to experience, retreat from challenges-we grow stale. We stop living, and just exist.Blah! Who wants that? If your life role could be played adequately by an extra? You're doing it wrong-and we all slack periodically-but there is a difference between a phase and a practice...although the one, effortlessly grows into the other. There are a few sabotaging factors when it comes to setting resolutions and seeing them through.

1. First, we make unreasonable requests of ourselves. In order for a resolution to be do-able by you, it has to ACTUALLY be-well, do-able. You cannot lose twenty three pounds in a week, quash seventeen years of bad habits in a day, or fix your faulty relationships with a crinkle of your nose. Unless you have a super turbo, tres magnifique wand? If you do- can I borrow it?? Set fair expectations for yourself.

2. The second fail factor is that we often set not one resolution, but multiple resolutions. Rome wasn't built in a day...and your massive reconstruction could take years and will likely overwhelm you at times. It took you a llloooonnnggg time to take on the unsightly traits, habits, pounds, dead weight in the form of sketchy time, energy and emotion-suck...it will likely take a lllooonnnggg time to unload them. Give yourself sufficient time...and take your resolutions like you take your days-one at a time. P.S.- if you drop your cute resolution ball one day? Pick it up and try again the next, don't be in a rush to retire it.

3. The third reason resolutions are well, often less than resolute? We don't accent the positive. As creatures that often view change as a negative, we inexplicably tend to focus on the "don't", rather than the "do". Okay so maybe this is another Jedi Mind trick (Geek-Chic)-but this one may actually work. Instead of "don't drink soda" try "drink more water"...Focusing on the things you want to do-could prove to be the missing piece to the positive alteration puzzle. Maybe you were just waiting for you to ask yourself nicely.

4. Finally, not to get all Shrink-y on you- but seemingly the changes we often want to make are symptomatic of deeper issues. If the deeper issue is not addressed, the symptom will continue. Perhaps an uglier, far less pleasant one will take its place-while the real cause grows and festers...(gross word-fester).Would be a bit like having stomach cancer and rather than investigating that further, od-ing on Pepto and Prevacid in an attempt to alleviate your discomfort. May make you feel better, but the thing you aren't looking at could wrap around you, poisoning you and possibly lead to your emotional, mental or physical demise...dun-dun-dun...I apologize for the dark turn. Aka- Get to the root so you don't get weedy.

Whoop-there it is...Heading into this new year of 20-10 clad in mini-dress or tux take your pick (Bond-ref again)let's by all means, get a little shinier, smarter, smilier and wiser. But unless we want our resolutions to turn out like another sad lil season of the Bachelor (they're not finding happily ever after THAT way, any more than MAC is having a Free Fab Eye Shadow Day...not gonna'happen-never,EVER,never)let's just not get crazy-er with our hope for change. Hope and change-both noble endeavors the one aiding and abetting the other. But? we already possess the shiny, smart, smiley, wise...they were gifted, some earned through blood loss, sleep loss, tear loss. It is the "er" we are seeking. So toss, delete, burn your list of how not to be yous...and pull a redo. Try making a list of the things you want to see in yourself, those qualities that you see if you squint, and make a plan of how to do it better...hence the "er" list...Ready? let's get "er" done.

“For last year's words belong to last year's language and next year's words await another voice."-T.S. Eliot

A Hermit-ess New Year's Eve

"Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind...lalalalalalalala in days of auld lang syne." (By the way, I looked it up. It means: long,long ago, or days gone by. Thank you Wiki!)

...Oh the songs drunken people slur...

Well? I have Munchkins and finding a sitter on New Year's Eve is like finding a Kevin Costner movie where he doesn't play himself-it simply doesn't happen. My favorite though? Is the film where he plays the washed up athlete. Maybe you have seen it? It was either called Bull Durham, Tin Cup, or For The Love of the Game-not sure which (wink, wink). Also, I have no desire to go downtown. No unearthed internal hunger to pay twenty bucks only to park a mile away and have intoxicated phrat-like strangers breathe jager-nacho breath down my neck or vomit in my Choo's in a sardine crowded bar blaring bad music, at ear drum splitting volume. Alright...that is wishful thinking-the Choo's - not the vomit or the techno. So generally speaking, I prefer to spend Amateur Night-aka New Years Eve...indoors.

Should I miss the good old days of celebrating downtown? I can just drink one martini too many and slur nonsensically to the puggle in my poorly lit front room while dancing a bit too freely to Brick House- problem solved. Also, it is winter and it's cold...If I am going to venture out at night in frigid temperatures? I need an advance guarantee that my efforts will be more than warranted. Always thought it was more fun to get ready to go out on New Year's than it was to actually go out...similar to prom.Yes? WOW! I am becoming a bar snob in my slightly less than super young years. I still like to have fun, delight in painting the town "I'm Not a Waitress-Red"...just any night BUT New Years Eve. Also...think that I was maybe twenty four-when I developed a serious case of the Stop-Touching-Me's in relation to small enclosed areas...not conducive to the club scene, Black Friday, or visiting my mother. Why is it that mom's do that? The preening thing. I am not a monkey, not a toddler...nor is my face crying out for a slobber wash-it is called a sink-and I have one...running water and all. Look Mom, MAGIC! Well it is not THAT bad, just that my mom- whom I love...seems to have forgotten all about my personal space and um...how to not ask inappropriate questions. Still trying to find the app for that.HELP???!!

So the long and the short of it...Spent New Year's Eve with the Fam at the Chinese Buffet (Moo-moo. Sneeze guards and cattle calls... Yes I Know) it is Boy 6's favorite eatery. Had plans to take them to the Squeakqual...but apparently Monkey Man chomped one too many pot stickers and tossed his fortune cookies...all over his unbuttoned jeans. Again with the yak-factor...sorry. Perhaps it is just obligatory for this particular holiday? So instead headed home for G-Force. The Gerbil movie with the Black Eyed Pea soundtrack...and the bearded satchel guy from Hangover-strange combo...but whateva. Made me realize that every danceable song of 2009 was cut by the Black Eyed Peas or Lady Gaga...side note. Then later, watched Fight Club...and pretended it was 1999. How I have not seen it until now, and how no one has managed to blow (pun intended) the ending-is beyond me. Let's not examine the innumerable items also included on the "Beyond CJ List" okay?

When that was over, tuned in for the obligatory ball drop in New York City. First, I miss Dick Clark and think he has been so brave and classy through all of his health issues and I love that he still has a presence on New Year's Rockin' Eve. Second, I am not sure why...but Ryan Secrest hardly seems to be the man for the job. Aside from the fact that it is STILL called Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin Eve. I feel sort of mean, but Ryan reminds me of that boy in high school who went stag to Sadie Hawkins because no girl was worthy of his not-so quippy jargon or would allow enough room in his mom's wood paneled station wagon for his over inflated ego to ride shotgun...IF that guy had existed. Guess I refuse to like him because he clearly likes himself and his off the chart cheese factor enough for the rest of us. Think with all his dough he could hire a decent stylist and buy a shirt that fits. ANYWAY... there were also performances by...Daughtery, J-Lo in a black lace cat suit that would not have looked good on anyone-or it WOULD have looked fab on her...She should call for her fashion consultants head on a blinged out platter. Oh! And the Black-Eyed Peas!!!...*Pausing for surprised gasp* Mazel tov!

And that was pretty much it. That? Is how this Hermit-ess spent New Year's Eve. Chinese, Gerbils, Decade Old Movies viewed for the first time, Lil dancin it out to Boom Boom Pow and some vino. Red-of course....No complaints whatsoever.

Where were you when the year slipped out? Raising the roof...or huddled up beneath it? Regardless, I hope that it was worth it's weight in confetti and included a cardboard tiara and flat champagne. After all, we (or at least you) deserve the very best.

*Tossing you a Hallmark card*

Blow Out Your Candles...

Happy Birthday to you, this is your ddaayyyy...on this day for you, we're gonna' love you in every waaay. This is your day, your ddaaayy. Happy Birthday-to you, to you,to you, to you-Happy Birthday to you..." New Kids on the Block...Oh the tween drama, tear soaked , Love's Baby Soft scented fantasies...

Another year, another birthday. Can I just say? And don't say no- cause I am going to anyway...That birthdays are the VERY, berry best! Especially the birthdays of those that you adore. Being on both the giving and reciprocating end of a whole month of constant "I love yous" kisses, coffee, back rubs,lip gloss...and yes...getting one's way with more regularity is a definite perk...simply cannot be beat. It's a win-win really. And perhaps by "ones'" I really mean mine...and perhaps, by "perhaps"...I mean indubitably. Sorry, but who doesn't like getting their way? If you said "not me" I call "oh no you di-int"-I love you anyway, *kisses*...but embrace it...Pretend it's Gerard Butler in his ginormous boots, beard and 300 robe(rrrreerrrr), or a Victoria's Secret Angel (um...flutter, bounce?)Take your pick and hang on tight. Courage of your convictions and all that...

We have been over this, if we just sought and received our own way all of the time we would be grubby heinous monsters, or spoiled celebs-same dif (more phrases that don't make sense). But it is human to want our own way and as long as it doesn't cross the lines of reason or burst anothers' bubble-it is even alright...or splendiferously delectable to get what you want. If you never, ever get your way you end up like a powerless little puppy tied just short of a juicy steak. That is sad and cruel. Nobody looks good in constant defeat. Nobody. Just ask...___________. Hahaha well see, I can think of LOTS of examples here-but can't think of anyone I carry enough animosity for to call a LOSER- outright...So...use your imagination and fill in the blank your own precious self. In fact, I think that is why I hated the game SORRY! so much. Man I detest losing!...Plus...no one is REALLY sorry in that game. Should be called SO NOT SORRY... Oh the point again...pesky lil thing...always trying to allude me. So the song, the goofy hat, the candles, blow out...*eyes shut, pucker up and hoooooo...wish*....

THAT is the point....found it. Birthdays are fun...as a rule...There is icing and music and a little love fest and then you are forced to make an obligatory wish that you don't believe in...Just like you don't wish on stars but when you see one free falling slow and glittery from a velvety azure sky, you just can't help yourself. Generally speaking, while we are playing pretend. I figure why not go for the whole pinata?...So I wish in massive,parade float sized,fluffy blush marshmallow style cliches..."Happily ever afters, infinite wellness, gilded sun shiny skies, smiles for miles, gobs and gobs of sparkles, red wine fountains, and dark chocolate for breakfast...Maybe ultra pretty shoes and a great pigment shadow that stays put even in the sleet...chips and salsa of course...plus the new Glambert (aka Adam Lambert) CD". And outside of ranting blog posts, I don't breathe a word of it to anyone, well, cuz you're not supposed'ta...or else it won't come true...

Guess what? In small doses it will all come true-even if you tell your mama and she shouts it out to the neighborhood. The sun will shine and our hearts will overflow. We will be well while eating decadently dark chocolate, sipping maroon hued vino from big round glasses and being Mary (or whomever you wish to be that day...And? I know it's really "merry")...Even the evil we wished against will come to pass...We will wear one ultra glam shoe...but the other one will drop and we will cry tears and we will lose jobs, friends and ideals. Dreams will come true and hopes will shatter...It's all a trade off...and it is all life...and it is all sweet-even if bitterly so. If we can sing and dance our way through it (no one-but no one did this with more charismatic panache than Gene Kelly. Shout out-*jazz hands*)...feel the music, smell the emotion, taste the goodness, hear the sound that our arms make when they are thrown open to embrace it all...Maybe just maybe we will be wearing something really fabulous as we recover from our stumbles and trips...and perhaps there will be big strong arms to set us back onto our feet when we fall. If not? Grab a wall...or chair...almost the same (although almost, isn't quite there)So...the gist is this...

What makes birthdays, birthdays- is how truly remarkable it is that you have people in your life who gather around you and celebrate that you were born. That you are loved enough that someone is thankful for you. That is the gift. Everything else is icing...hopefully the type of butter cream frosting that melts on your tongue after weighing it down with its sugary richness...And so *whispering in hushed tones* I think from now on, every year-I am going to wish for another birthday and maybe another person at my party...

One year it won't come true, but hopefully I will be dancing for a long, long time...singing badly and proudly...maybe with Glam-bert screaming back up in guy liner, manscara and hip-gloss...just because that would be glammerific fabiliciousness.

Not sure if I am early or late? But a Very Happy Birthday to You Too!
*Confetti-laced hugs*