My So-Called Musings

One Moment in Time

2012-02-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

By now I’m sure you’ve all heard the news about WhitneyHouston’s death. I got the news lastnight from my friend, Goldie, who works for a news station in LA. She got the scoop pretty early and emailed itover to me with the subject line of “HOLY CRAP!” I read it an gasped, but that shocked gasp quickly settledinto a tsk, tsk and shake of my head. Like most of you, I imagine, I wasn’t all that surprised by the news.

For years Whitney Houston has been a bad, overplayed jokewith the punch line usually ending in “crack is whack!” It’s hard to remember a time, in fact, thatshe wasn’t synonymous with rampant drug use, a troubled marriage and overall poordecision-making skills.

But all that never had too much of an impact on me becausewhat I’ve always thought about when I thought about Whitney Houston had nothingto do with her personal life. It had todo with what her music represented in my life. Whitney came on the scene in 1985 and I clearly remember owning herfirst cassette. You know, the one withthe peach cover in which she looks like Iman’s nicer, less intimidatingsister? I remember that at ten years oldit was one of the tapes I owned that my parents enjoyed listening to as much asI did, if not more. Her sound wassomething new and refreshing at that time, somehow making its way into a popscene crowded by overly synthesized bubble gum anthems. Her mix of soul, jazz and just a hint of pophit a mark that no one else had identified yet.

Throughout the 80’s and early to mid 90’s, Whitney was ather zenith. I remember my first realdate taking me to see “The Bodyguard.” It was a winter night and just on the verge of a big snowstorm. My mom was nervous about us driving becauseshe thought the roads might be icy, but she knew how excited (and scared todeath) I was so she let us go ahead. Wehad to check the newspaper for show times (remember those days?!) and when wefound it we drove over to the next town to see the movie. I remember being so nervous about the idea ofsitting next to him for an entire two hours (Would we hold hands? Would hekiss me? Why did I wear thesepants? Do I have bad breath?) thatby the time we got to the movie theater I was mentally exhausted and just readyto sit down. We went up to the boxoffice and found out that the newspaper had printed the wrong information and“The Bodyguard” wasn’t playing there. Mydate was crushed. He REALLY wanted to seethat movie with me (it makes my heart tug a little now remembering that – howsweet!), but we decided that since we were there we’d just see something elseso we ended up going to see “Home Alone 2” instead. Not quite the same and, for the record, we heldhands, but there was no kissing. I mean,can you blame us? McCauley Culkinrunning around New York City doesn’t really bring the same mood as listening toWhitney sing, “I Will Always Love You” while Kevin Costner carries her in hisarms, rescuing her from danger.

Well, that was a nice walk down memory lane so thank you forindulging me. I hope many of you havesimilar memories around Whitney’s music (whether you will admit them ornot!). I mean, who can forget herrendition of the Star Spangled Banner performed at the Super bowl in her heyday? Best performance of the nationalanthem…ever. I watched it again todayand the beauty of it made me cry. Granted, nostalgia and sentimentality are two of my favorite emotions soinstants like this are not unwelcome for me, but Whitney Houston’s death hasmade me think of moments that I haven’t visited in awhile. Although the memory of those moments made mesmile, I’m saddened by the catalyst. Hertragic personal life had no impact on me, but her music had tremendousimpact. I’m only sorry that her ownmusic couldn’t lift her above the life choices that ended her.

A Resolutely New Year

2012-01-29T17:14:00.003-07:00

I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s resolutions. I think they’re basically an empty promise one makes to one’s self and the result is usually no greater than the gym being more crowded than usual the first two months of the year. This year, however, I’m feeling different. Not about resolutions necessarily, but about the New Year itself: 2012. These first few weeks have been pretty angsty for me and, I’ve noticed, for many other people in my life. Whether it’s career related or personal, there seems to be an overall energy I’m feeling around me that, if it could speak, would say, “Let’s get on with it, already.”

The Mayans believed that our world would end about eleven months from now. Though there are some zealots who still subscribe to this prediction, I am certainly not one of them. I do wonder, however, if this prophecy is psychically hanging over our heads? Although most of us brush off any mention of the world’s imminent demise as superstition and folklore, maybe there’s something to it? I don’t mean to imply that I really think the world will end. (I mean, give me a break!) But maybe some of us are starting to think that the world as we know it will end; and maybe it’s about time?

Whether our goals are to find a new career or clarity in our current one, start a family, move to a new place (the list goes on), these desires and concerns are all feeling very much center stage and unavoidable right now…or so it seems to me. I have said a few times to various friends recently that I felt things were at a “tipping point” and I meant that on many levels. I have gotten all kinds of validation from others that they agree, but maybe it’s just the power of suggestion? Collective emotion is powerful, after all. Ever been to the movie theater and seen a scary movie? I swear it’s scarier with other people in the room because you can feel everyone’s tension and when one person screams, others inevitably follow. Am I just the first one to scream? I’m not sure.

Don’t get me wrong; when I write of angst or screaming, what I’m feeling right now isn’t dark or ominous necessarily. It’s just good, old-fashioned fear. And fear can be a powerful motivator; the most powerful of all at times. I heard someone on NPR today say that it’s not the fear of being wrong or failing that scares us the most, but rather the fear of being useless in changing a situation around us that is most frightening. I nodded vigorously at this statement and then wondered, “Damn. Is that it? Is that what I’m feeling? A fear of being useless?” To some degree I think it is, but I also know that in order to be useful I have to do things differently.

To this end I was recently I was given wise advice: Make myself more uncomfortable to ensure that I’m putting myself in situations that will make me happy. Sounds counterintuitive, but the idea is that comfort is being in a place that we know and are familiar with so when we’re uncomfortable we struggle to get to a place of comfort, only to land us back in a familiar and recognizable situation that, ultimately, makes us unhappy. I get it and think it makes terrific sense and maybe the “tipping point” I am feeling is the place where I want to turn back and return to a place of comfort. Because, I mean, being uncomfortable is just so…uncomfortable.

Who knows what 2012 will hold? The Mayans sure thought they did and maybe they were right, but it doesn’t do any good to start putting red X’s on the calendar and living like there’s no tomorrow. Maybe it’s just a good start to believe that tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after can be whatever I’m willing to make it; I just have to stay on top of that tipping point for a little bit longer and if you sense I’m getting comfortable…scream.

Have Yourself an Ugly Little Christmas

2011-12-11T17:52:00.001-07:00

Last night I attended an ugly Christmas sweater party. I will tell you that it was the first timeI’ve attended such a party. I will alsotell you that I did NOT wear an ugly sweater. Call me crazy, but looking “ugly” isn’t a favorite pastime of mine. I realize this is a popular party themearound the holidays and after attending one last night I’m left wondering:Why?

The holidays is one time of year (particularly in Denver)where one has the chance to get truly decked out and I, for one, look forwardto it. I guess I’ve never understoodcertain people’s aversion to getting “dressed up.” Maybe they were the type of kids who wereforced to wear stockings or a suit for every family portrait, holiday,grandparent’s birthday – you name it - and so now they are rebelling againstthe itchy, starched memory of their prickly youth by insisting that everyone intheir company be “comfortable.”

And this is a problem for me because I’ve always had troubledressing “down.” For some reason I’mjust a person who is more comfortable dressing a little bit more up thandown. I think it’s because I have alwaysbeen in the 90^th percentile for my height and I always feel likewhen I’m really casual I look like, at best, a homely college student and atworst a lumberjack (particularly when we went through popular fazes with plaidin the 90’s and again last year). I’ve never been the girl who could pull off apair of worn out jeans, ironic t-shirt, and a trucker hat. Sorry, it’s just not the look I was meant torock. Because of this, people who preferto always dress down really seem to be annoyed by me.

“Why are you so dressed UP?!” is often demanded of me. Whenever this happens I look down at what I’mwearing and never think of what’s on me as one of my nicer outfits and I justshrug. This reaction from me usuallydoes not stop the Comfort Police and they have even been known to go so far asto offer me clothing when I’m in their presence that I can change into. You can imagine the effect of this forced“comfort:” complete discomfort. I don’tlet this bother me as much as I used to, I just politely refuse to change intotheir offered sweatpants, jeans, leggings – whatever it is they think will bemore “comfortable” for me, but it still comes up pretty often. As a result I’ve decided to completely rebel.

Like last night. Idid not own an ugly Christmas sweater (again, I try to avoid things that willmake me look ugly) and I really started to get anxious about this party earlierin the week. One of my co-workers loanedme an ugly Christmas t-shirt that she had made for a similar party. It really wasn’t THAT ugly and I evenconsidered wearing it until I tried it on and two of the pom poms she had gluedto the shirt landed on my chest exactly where my nipples are located. Um…nope! Next contestant, please.

After this and talking it through with some of my similarlyminded (read: vain) friends, I decided that I would just wear would I wouldnormally wear to a Christmas party (what some call “dressy” clothes) and theugly sweaters could be damned. So that’swhat I did and, luckily, I wasn’t alone in this choice so I avoided beingharassed about my lack of ugly clothing, but it still left me thinking.

For a culture that places such a high value on beingphysically attractive, why do we do things like this to each other? Is it just an opportunity to thumb our nosesat this cultural obsession with attractiveness and ironically deny our ownvanity? I don’t know, but I doubt theorigin of this party theme was so deep. I thinkthere were a bunch of married couples who got together after Halloween and decided this party idea wouldcreate more “hilarious” pictures of them and because none of them was going to have to worryabout getting laid that night, they decided to do it and voila! A fad was born. You can bet your bottom dollar that no singleperson came up with this idea because I don’t care how good looking the girl orguy, you put them in a bulky wool sweater with a reindeer’s head sewn into thefront of it and you will not want to kiss them on the mouth. Trust me.

Oh well, I don’t think I’ll have to face the ugly sweaterconundrum for at least another year. Until then I’m going to enjoy my “dressy” clothes. I will treasure these other holiday opportunitiesto wear my itchy sparkly stockings, four-inch heels, and scratchy sequin tops. As my mother always told me: beautyhurts. Until those opportunities comeagain, you can find me here in my grey yoga pants and frayed Yale sweatshirtthat I received as a Christmas present in 1991. Ah, the comforts of home…

Giving Thanks

2011-11-27T18:06:00.005-07:00

I’m a few days late for Thanksgiving, but I don’t think it’s ever too late to give thanks for the things or, in my case tonight, the people in my life. After returning from Italy last month I spent the following weeks almost consistently traveling in the United States. Luckily, much of that travel was personal and I spent it back east, visiting old friends and family.

First I made a trip to Boston where I visited my best friend, Laura, her husband, Jeff, and their new baby daughter, Audrey. I blogged about Audrey back in August when she was born, but this was the first time I got to see her, hold her, and fall even more in love with her. As I’ve written before, Laura and I have been friends since we were about a year old so she’s more like a sister to me than anything else and seeing her is always like revisiting a part of myself; the best part of myself. No matter how far apart we are in distance or how different our daily lives may be, time spent with Laura and her now growing family is never hard. We never search for things to talk about or share, never seem to grow tired of one another’s company and saying goodbye and leaving to come home is always hard. My heart always aches for several days after my goodbye with Laura, but with the addition of Audrey that goodbye was even more gut wrenching.

I’ve always considered myself to be so lucky to have a lifelong friend like Laura. As I’ve gotten older I realize even more how rare and precious a friendship like ours is and I’ve theorized that no other friendship in my life could withstand distance and time and still be as strong. I’m happy to say that what I learned this past week proved my theory wrong.

I flew into Atlanta on Monday to spend the holiday at my brother’s house. My parents were driving down from Virginia on Tuesday and since I had a free night I decided to drive up to Greenville, South Carolina to visit my good friend, Jamie, and her family. Jamie and I started out as sales reps together at Houghton Mifflin eleven years ago (gulp!). We were the same age, the same height, in the same sales region and even had names that rhymed. You can imagine how often I was called “Jamie” and she “Amy.” Early on we stopped correcting people because, to top it all off, we roomed together at every meeting. This close proximity would have been enough to ensure a friendship of convenience, but we quickly became more than just work friends. For a girl raised in the South and another raised in the Northeast, Jamie and I had more in common than we didn’t. I remember the first night I met her in Atlanta. I pulled up to the restaurant where we were supposed to meet and saw a cute girl in a hot pink shirt waiting by the front door. It was Jamie and as soon as I introduced myself she greeted me with a hug and a huge smile and, “Hey! So great to meetcha!” in her adorable (and not at all feigned) southern drawl.

The last time I saw Jamie she and her husband, Scoot (yes, Scoot. It’s the South, ya’ll) had just welcomed their son Charlie into the world and moved into a new house. Upon arriving earlier this week I was greeted by a five-year-old Charlie and a three-year-old Olivia, or “Livvie” as she prefers to be called. Jamie was still as cute and young as I remember her, but her kids’ ages were an undeniable sign of how much time had passed. When Scoot returned from work the three of us quickly fell into our old pattern of conversation and, as was always the case years ago, they both reverted back to calling me “Shack.” Jamie had been trying to encourage the kids to call me “Miss Amy,” but as soon as they heard my nickname it became, “Shack, do you want to watch this movie with me?” Hearing a five year old with a soft Southern accent refer to me as “Shack” was, without a doubt, the most adorable thing I’ve heard in a long time. Thinking about it now still makes me smile.

Scoot and Jamie hired a babysitter and the three of us went to dinner where Jamie, now a high school science teacher, ran into one of her students. “Hey, Mrs. Whitlock!” she exclaimed when we entered the restaurant. I just laughed because number one: it’s weird to hear your friend referred to as Mrs. Anything and number two: I remember Jamie long before she was Mrs. Whitlock at our sales meetings and I witnessed and heard things “Mrs. Whitlock” did and said that would make this student of hers blush. Don’t worry, Jamie witnessed more than the same with me I can assure you. I remember the morning after a long night out in Boston for our new sales rep training when I was so hung-over and sick that I could barely pose for our new rep class photo because I had to throw up. I just remember Jamie looking at me that morning after everything we’d been out doing the night before and saying, “I know you well, Shack.”

She did indeed and she still does. After we got home from the restaurant and Jamie drove the babysitter home, the three of us popped open another bottle of wine and sat around and chewed the fat, as they say down South. Despite two sleeping children upstairs, new careers and homes for all of us, different haircuts and maybe a few more wrinkles (just a few!) it was as if no time has passed. Scoot still starts every question to me by saying my name like it’s a statement. “Shack. Do you miss living in the South?” and Jamie still says things like, “Hey Merv the Perv, get your mind out of the gutter.” Some things never change and, even better, some people never do.

To top off my trip back east I also got to spend time with my cousin, Scott, and his wife, Joanna. As was the theme of this past month, apparently, I got to meet their new baby daughter, Mary Claire. MC, as I called her, was as charming as her father, delightful as her mother and cute as both of them combined…literally. Being the only other Shackelford woman in our family, I felt that I had to see her as soon as possible and let her know what she had to live up to. Thank God for MC, it’s only me and I think that at eight months she’s already got me beat! I loved my time with the baby, but truly looked forward to seeing Scott and Joanna the most. Scott is only about a year and a half younger than me and was always the closest cousin to my age on both sides of my family. The tough part was that he and his family lived in Georgia and my family and I lived in Connecticut so growing up we got to spend very little time together. When I moved to Atlanta, however, I was able to spend more time around Scott getting to know him as an adult and what I found out pretty quickly was that he’s a damn cool guy, at least for a Shackelford!

But seriously, Scott became a true friend of mine while I lived in Atlanta and so did his then girlfriend and now wife, Joanna. Being family, as most of us know, doesn’t guarantee a bond or an inherent friendship. If anything, being family can have the exact opposite effect. Happily, however, this isn’t the case with Scott and Joanna. I could have stayed at their house all night talking about movies, politics, music – you name it. If there’s anyone who likes to get deep into topics more than me it’s Scott and I love him for that and love Joanna for letting us go there. I can tell you that I left their house that night with a heavy heart, wishing I could see them more often and share a bit more of life in their company.

But I can’t and that’s okay. If I was back there I’d miss my dear friends here in just the same way and that’s the way it is for most of us who’ve chosen a life away from home. Home will always be there and I’ll always miss it and what it holds, but what I’ve realized upon my return is how lucky I am to have so many priceless people in my life. People who remind me of who I am; people who bring out my best self; people who make me grateful for the life I’ve lead. To them I give thanks; today and always.

It's a Small World, After All

2011-10-26T13:26:00.006-06:00

Right off the bat I want to apologize for the long gap between posts. I just recently returned from a ten day vacation in Italy and before I left I wanted to post something about my upcoming trip, but I felt I’d have much more interesting things to say once I was back. Then I got back and had such a hard time acclimating to “real life” again that I’m just now getting around to putting my thoughts together in some kind of coherent (I hope) manner. It’s now officially been a week since my first words in the morning have not been, “Buon giorno. Un cappuccino, per favore. Grazie” and oh what a sad realization that is!

Since we are covered in snow today (yes, snow!), this seemed like the best time to sit down and think about my latest trip and tell you all about it. I could post a slideshow of the 400 photos I took, but even I don’t want to sit through there and they are MY pictures! Besides, as great as a photo can be it still doesn’t capture quite everything that we experience in the moment. Hence, our need to travel to new places. We can see just about everything on the television, in movies, and now on the internet, but that visual experience cannot hold a candle to actually being there and that is largely because of a little something we call culture. And culture is something that Italy has…in spades.

As part of our trip, my mom and I had private English-speaking tour guides to show us around the sites in Rome, Florence, Siena and Venice. That was great, especially since the two years of Italian I took in high school are long behind me now, but the fact that they spoke English and could tell us a lot about what we were seeing was far less entertaining than witnessing them speak Italian with the driver or others we encountered in our time together. Our first guide, Nadia,(pictured above) was by far the most colorful of our companions. For two consecutive days in Rome she picked us up at our hotel and the three of us got into a car with a driver whose job it was to transport us to different spots in Rome as she narrated the journey. What ended up happening, however, was that Mom and I would crawl into the backseat of the sedan, buckle our seatbelts and then sit back as Nadia and the driver argued (or what looked and sounded like arguing) all over Rome. Right as the car pulled away from the hotel, Nadia would begin bitching at the driver about the direction he was going, how he was driving and just about anything else she could rag him about. Hands flew, voices were raised, eyes were taken off the road, all while my mom and I sat in the backseat laughing our asses off, completely clueless about what they were saying. Whatever it was they were arguing about, they were certainly passionate about it!

And that’s something I’ll say for just about everyone I met in Italy – they were passionate. About art, wine, food, family, their country and politics (mainly their Prime Minister Berlusconi who they passionately despise), and just about anything they talked about. And when you tour their country, you can understand why. These people are tough – they have come through and lived through some of the most violent, dark, aggressive, glorious, and incandescent times of civilization. In short: Italians have just about seen it all.

Not surprisingly, much of our time was spent visiting churches as Rome became the Catholic epicenter of civilization. Not being Catholic, it was hard to fully grasp the fervor around the Virgin Mary and the saints (Saint Catherine of Siena’s head and finger is preserved and on display in the Dominican Catholic Church in Siena – her head bothered me less than her finger. Her finger?! And trust me when I tell you: do NOT make jokes about Saint Catherine’s head looking like a Cabbage Patch doll. It will not go over well with the Italians). When you think about what Italians had to survive: tyrranical, violent leaders, black plague, attacks from every side of the country, it makes sense that they found so much salvation in the church. And really, this is a common theme throughout the world even in modern times. When times are tough, we humans tend to head to the church, no matter our denomination.

I thought about this in a greater sense as my mom and I walked around Venice (got lost around Venice is more like it – that place is a damn maze!). As we walked with the crowd along the endless shop and vendor-lined streets I said to my mom that centuries ago, life there probably wasn’t so different. People walked around, just like we did, shopping, eating and interacting with one another. Italian children walked hand in hand with their parents, clutching their stuffed animals or toy cars, just like children everywhere do. An adorable shop dog in Venice sat on the threshold to one of the stores, watching the passers-by and people of all kinds stopped to pet and murmur sweet hellos in Italian, German, and English, to just name a few, to this pooch. People took the time to sit down with one another and share food and drink while listening to music being played and shared in the city square. And on the darker side, there were homeless people begging for money in the streets, just like there are everywhere.

Maybe it’s simplistic, but it was a refreshing realization that for as far as we’ve come as a society of human beings with technology and innovation we still do, in fact, need one another and we have so much more in common than we don’t; even with the “us” that lived centuries ago. We are still and will always be only human, after all.

Honestly, Abe: Who Do We Think We Are?

2011-09-25T14:07:00.005-06:00

The concept of “identity” is a hot topic for discussion in my line of work. Students taking classes online have, historically, lacked a sense of identity because they never meet their instructor or fellow students in the real world. In an effort to alleviate that problem social media is making a big splash in education right now. Online classes are starting to look more like Facebook with students having a profile, picture, and therefore, I suppose, an identity.

Sometimes people ask me why I think Facebook hasn’t made a bigger impact on education and I think it’s simply because people don’t want to share their Facebook identity with their school identity. They don’t want their professors to see pictures of them doing a keg stand or working their at their sorority car wash. Sure, they do all of that stuff, but they don’t want to mix that with their online class’s discussion forum post on the impact of today’s financial crisis on developing third world nations and I get that. It makes sense to me.

What doesn’t make as much sense is how identity has become such a disjointed concept for people even in just one part of their life. Let me give you an example: I was at a work meeting last week and a guy from Microsoft was talking about social media in education. He was making the same points I made above about persona and he said that we all have different personas that we use or put on depending on the situation we’re in. He went on to explain that several people, like him, even have multiple Facebook accounts because of this. One account that is under their real name that anyone can locate and find and one with a made up name that only close friends know about. This way, he explained, your “idiot friends from college” could go onto the fake name Facebook page and post whatever they wanted about your drunken yearly golfing trip and the people on your other Facebook page would be none the wiser. We all laughed at this, but I noticed many of us looking around quizzically (myself included) wondering, “Do people really do that?” The answer is, apparently, yes.

I understand that we all put on different “hats” depending on our audience. I don’t act the same way in front of my boss or customers that I do in front of my friends and people who can’t make those adjustments are commonly referred to, at worst, as sociopaths and, at best, socially awkward. But how many separate personas do we need? Save for some minor tweaks and adjustments shouldn’t we be, generally, the same person most of the time? What the Microsoft guy’s revelation made me wonder, though, is maybe my belief that people are who they say they are because I am who I say I am just my own naïve assumption?

Just last night I was out with a group of friends and we started talking about Facebook. It started out because I made a comment that I was grateful my mom had never joined Facebook (because I’d have to edit my profile for my “daughter” persona!) and it quickly turned into a conversation about the site as a whole and how we all interact with it. Mainly, it revolved around what we wanted to “show” and what we didn’t. I’m as guilty as anyone of untagging pictures of myself that I think are hideous and I don’t tend to share many status updates (“Cleaning out my closet today! :( ”), but beyond that I don’t worry too much about what’s going on in my Facebook account; neither what I’m posting nor what others post to me. What I realized in the conversation, though, was that there are all sorts of ways to control your persona, not just by what you post, but also by how you allow others to interact with you. I learned from one friend (we’ll call him Shady McCool for the purposes of this blog) that there are all sorts of ways to control what’s on your Facebook page. Shady quickly and expertly listed at least ten ways one could hide things, block access, go offline – you name it. I was at first intrigued by his considerable bag of Facebook magic tricks, but then quickly unnerved. I mean, how much does anyone really need to block? If you’re so worried about what someone could share and you have that much of your identity that you want to keep hidden, why have a Facebook account at all much less several of them?

All this was running through my mind before bed last night and to quiet it down I picked up a magazine and read and article in the new National Geographic magazine about the young Abraham Lincoln. It talked about his upbringing and his radical for the times ideas and lifestyle. What the article pointed out was that, no matter how unpopular his ideas, Abe stood behind his beliefs and wavered for no one; not his father, not his peers and not his political party. None of this was surprising, really, because how do we all refer to Abe? As honest. I have always taken the Honest Abe nickname for granted, accepting it as lore much like the BS story about George Washington chopping down the cherry tree, but if Nat Geo is to be believed, Abe was truly a decent dude.

What reading this article made me think about after the previous week's and evening’s discussion of identity was how much value do we place on honesty in our modern lives? We have the ability to, very easily, reinvent ourselves for different audiences at just the click of a mouse. How are we able to trust one another at all with this sort of acceptable deception at our fingertips? If Abe Lincoln were alive now, how many Facebook personas would he have?! Would he let his friends post to his page about their last golfing trip when he told Mary that he was really going away for business? How honest would you be if you lived today, Abe?!

As I started to spiral downward into a “collapse of humanity” panic attack I reminded myself that I have only one Facebook account, that I don’t feel the need to hide too much from the people in my life, and that I am who I say I am (with a few more curse words interlaced, depending on my audience). I am, in general, an honest person so there must be others out there like me; not everyone is a master illusionist just because they can be. I realized that Facebook is just the vessel. It’s an expression of ourselves (however many selves each of us may have) and the way we use it and interact with it by how much we share, hide or don’t even participate in it at all (yes, there are still people out there with out a Facebook account and they’re the same people who, ten years ago, refused to own a cell phone) is our modern way of living in this world as human beings and, I believe, a pretty amazing representation of who we really are. Honestly.

What a Difference a Decade Makes

2011-09-10T16:54:00.002-06:00

As we are all aware, tomorrow marks the tenth anniversary of 9/11and as fate will have it, I will be in Manhattan tomorrow for the anniversary. I’m flying out tomorrow morning because I have a work meeting on Monday in the city. I almost wrote, “as luck would have it” but I don’t think that can be construed as a “lucky” coincidence.

As the trip approaches, though, I’m having mixed feelings about it. Particularly in the wake of the recent news about the “credible, but not specific” terror threat facing New York City and DC part of my feelings are based in anxiety, but it’s not just that. I’m feeling more anxious, in a sense, about returning to the city itself, regardless of any potential terror threat, on the anniversary because in 2001 I was so far away from it and felt detached and far away from a place so close to my home. I have a feeling it will be an emotional journey back there tomorrow. Ten years has past and in that time so much has changed. Both for me personally and for us as a country.

There has been a litany of articles about where we are now, ten years later, and if we’ve become complacent in the ten years since the attack, if we’re any safer, if we just think we’re safer but are really just as vulnerable? I’m not the only one thinking about this, in other words. I can tell you that I feel neither complacent nor ultimately safe. If anything I feel more aware of the world around me and, in a strange way, more prepared. It’s like when you’re young and something really bad happens to you for the first time (you get into a bad car accident, a grandparent dies unexpectedly, whatever represents a shocking moment for you) and in the aftermath there’s a sort of euphoria. I think it’s the exhilaration of realizing you survived that horrible thing.

For me that feeling came when I had just graduated from college and I was teaching a pre-collegiate study skills program to high school students in Jamaica. One night a fellow teacher and I decided to take a walk down the main roadway, away from the majority of bars and restaurants, and as we headed farther away from the crowd, I started to get nervous. I told the other teacher we should turn around, but he convinced me it would be fine and we should follow the music we heard off in the distance. There were four men walking in front of us who began to slow down and as we approached they turned around to face us and one of the men pulled a knife. He took all of our cash and what little, cheap jewelry I was wearing and ordered us to turn around and head back into town. At that moment, at 22 years old, that was the most shocking, random and scary thing that had ever happened to me. I remember returning to the States after that and moving to Boston and for the first couple of months that I lived by myself in the city I felt almost invincible. Like I had lived through that moment and experienced it so I understood how it felt and looked and, in some way, I thought it couldn’t happen to me again, at least not any time soon.

Maybe that’s what I feel on some level although I certainly don’t believe that I, or any of us, is invincible or that we won’t see another terrorist attack on this country, but I do think we have learned from the events of 9/11 and their aftermath. After all, the Times Square bomber was recognized and stopped not by police or military, but by street vendors who noticed something “strange” happening around them. We, particularly New Yorkers, are an observant group. What I anticipate I’ll feel from the population tomorrow, more than anything is tension and heightened awareness. I know I, for one, will be doing my best to keep my eyes peeled around me for any and all wrongdoing, ready to pounce at the first sign of transgression. Granted, I may be more Nancy Drew than Jason Bourne, but I’ll still be on guard.

So I’m not sure how to wrap up this blog post as I head off to NYC tomorrow. I’m nervous, excited, anxious, and somber. Because however this anniversary turns out, it doesn’t change what happened to us ten years ago. It won’t return any of our lost citizens to us or return us to our delightful, naïve belief that we live in the safest country in the world, but maybe it will remind us that we survived it and that no matter what we may have to face or endure moving forward, we will always survive.

Do You Believe in Magic?

2011-08-28T22:12:00.003-06:00

I am convinced that this weekend, the last weekend in August, has some magic attached to it. My friend, Goldie, told me that in Islam they believe the night of August 26 is a night of power and that angels roam the earth to hear our wishes for the coming year. When I think about this weekend and its significance I can now see how true that is, but before I say more, let me back up.

Exactly one year ago today a life was supposed to end. My dog, Murdock, was a shelter dog and he was on the list to be put down on August 29, 2011. According to his records it showed that he was “too timid.” A crime befitting of euthanasia, I suppose. Luckily, one concerned vet called my friend and hers, Jessica, and told her about this dog on the list to be put down. Jessica and her husband, Randy, already have two dogs, an Australian shepherd and a border collie. Jessica told her friend that she just couldn’t take in another dog. Besides, Randy was out of town and she would need to talk to him before making a decision like that. Jessica’s friend said OK and that she understood. She called back a little while later, however, after visiting the death row dog and said, “Jess, he’s a mini.” Upon hearing of the fated dog’s miniature (and therefore ever more precious) stature, Jess couldn’t resist. “OK,” she relented. “We’ll take him.” And that is where I enter this story.

That next day in the office I walked in and overheard Jess talking about this little dog that was now squatting at her house with her two other dogs. She was telling everyone how adorable he was and that she couldn’t believe anyone could ever put this sweet dog down. I entered the conversation when she showed me his picture (above). My heart tugged and I felt terrified.

You see, I had lost my cat, Cleo, almost a year earlier and I was just beginning to get over the heartbreak of that loss. I know to some of you who aren’t cat people or aren’t animal people that may seem a tad dramatic, but let me tell you that making the decision and saying goodbye to him was, to date, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. When the vet removed the stethoscope from his chest and told me he was officially gone, I picked his still warm body up in my arms and held him next to me while I felt my heart break in two. I could not imagine going through that sort of pain again, but after a quiet and lonely year without the companionship of Cleo I couldn’t imagine a future life without another pet. I was committed, however, to making sure that the next one I had was the “right” one; that it came into my life naturally, without forcing a bond that wasn’t meant to be (I realize as I’m typing this that I could be describing my quest for a husband, but like marriage, it’s a huge commitment!).

I drove up to Jess’s house that afternoon after our talk in the office and met the dog, Murdock. I kid you not when I say it was love at first sight. OK, maybe at first pet. For all of his supposed timidity he trotted right up to me and let me run my hands over his shiny, wavy coat. Knowing him as I do now, I realize that WAS quite a big deal for him as he is shy of strangers, but maybe he was like me. Maybe he was just waiting for the right fit.

So it’s been a year since then and except for the first two weeks that we were together in which I had a partial commitment phobic breakdown: What have I done? He’s going to need me to be home every day! And night! What about when I travel? Or can’t get home early enough? and, most honestly: How will I survive losing another one? it's been perfect. Something just happens over time that makes it OK and not so scary. It’s a lot like falling in love. Hell, it IS falling in love. Two weeks become a month, a month becomes three and all of a sudden you’re in a groove and it’s like you can’t remember what your life was like without them in it. And at that moment it’s all over but the crying because at that point there’s no turning back. It will hurt like hell when it all ends, but it will be worth every moment of happiness that got you there.

I say that this weekend as I look back at the past year and how much happier having this little dog has made my life. And he was supposed to die this day a year ago, but for the generosity of grace of a few humans, he was saved. And there’s a lot of magic in that; the angels roamed the earth that night and heard one puppy’s prayers, that’s for certain.

This year, on this very same weekend, I witnessed another prayer fulfilled, another act of magic. This time in the form of a child. My best friend, Laura, had her first child on Saturday night. The baby was due on Monday, August 29 and when I talked to Laura on Friday I knew it might be the last time we talked before the baby’s arrival. It would be our last conversation for a while, I thought, because she’d be busy being a mom after the 29^th.

Throughout her pregnancy Laura was characteristically low maintenance and easy going. She was one of the blessed types who hardly gained any weight and whose belly looked barely large enough to hold more than a Thanksgiving meal, much less an infant. But something was different in her voice when I spoke to Laura on Friday. I could hear, for the first time, the anxiety and worry in her voice. As she said to me, at that point all she wanted to know was that the baby would just be OK. That nothing would go wrong. At first I shrugged this off and tried to tell her not to worry, but as I thought about it more it struck me how many things could go wrong and how getting it all perfectly “right” is a scary gamble.

I know these were Laura’s worries combined with the fact that having your first child is an experience that is totally unknown and, because of that, frightening. For the first time I, too, felt worried. I would worry for any of my friends, but Laura isn’t just my friend. We’ve known each other since we were a year old so she is more like a sister to me than a friend. She’s a part of me. And because I don’t have any nieces or nephews, this baby would be the closest thing I’d ever have to that; before her arrival, she was already a part of me, too. I hung up the phone on Friday and said a prayer, made a wish and I’m grateful the angels were once again walking the earth to hear me because twenty-four hours later, Audrey Lee made her arrival into the world.

It’s incomprehensible how much relief and happiness that moment brings, even two thousand miles away. And, like I described above, there was no turning back once I saw that little face for the first time (also pictured above) because I knew that from that moment on, I’d always love her.

So this weekend seems magical to me and I hope you can see why. Last year on this weekend a life was saved and this year one was born and both events have proven to be the happiest of wishes fulfilled for me. Which of course makes me wonder: what will the last weekend of August 2012 bring? I think I’ll keep my wishes between the angels and me and we’ll talk about it again in a year…

Time Flies

2011-08-20T13:06:00.001-06:00

So I’m closing in on my birthday. It’s this coming Monday and I’m going to be thirty-six. I have nothing to hide! I’ve been grumbling and making a lot of bratty, sarcastic remarks to my friends and family lately about how “excited” I am to be turning 36, but the truth is I feel surprisingly good about it. The closer the day gets, in fact, the better I feel.

I wasn’t feeling that way last Sunday, though. I was cleaning my house and as I picked my office chair up about one inch off the floor to move it off the area rug, I felt something pull in my back and the pain was sharp and hot. “Shit!” I exclaimed and dropped the chair on my foot “Ow!” I said again and then cursed myself for being clumsy…and old.

Because truly nothing makes you feel older than back pain. You can’t even take a breath without wincing and making so sort of old person groan. I tried to walk it off and told myself to toughen up, but it was no use. The pain was real. I really started to panic because I had to get on a plane that afternoon and fly to Houston and I was afraid that after a two hour flight I’d be unable to get up out of my seat on the airplane without help from a kind, young stranger. “Hey sonny, can you help an old lady get up?”

Luckily this fear did not materialize and I made it to Houston in one piece, but I had to go to the CVS that night and buy heating pads for my back and Advil PM to sleep without pain. These purchases were a cold, hurtful reminder of the ticking clock. I tried not to let myself slip into anxiety ridden thoughts about having to go to a chiropractor for the rest of my life and cancelling my hiking trips…forever, but it was hard to keep those thoughts under control while ticking away the hours at a Holiday Inn Express in Texas.

As the week went on, though, I felt better and better each day and today I feel pretty much back to 100%. And that has made me feel grateful. I know I’m getting older, but damn I’m lucky to be healthy and young enough to still get out there and do just about whatever I want. I don’t want to turn into a cliché of female vanity; a woman who constantly puts down her own age and makes “getting older sucks” remarks and feels jealous about younger women who suffer from a whole other list of insecurities that I’ve already seen come and go in my own life (thank God).

I remember when I was a kid and adults would make comments about how they hated getting older and what a drag it was. Because I was so much younger than my brothers and just about every other member of my extended family, I couldn’t wait to grow up and be an adult. I thought it ruled! And you know what? I was right. It DOES rule to be an adult! I can go to bed and wake up whenever I want, pick out whatever clothes I feel like wearing, eat as much candy as I want (although that lost its appeal around age 13), and pretty much do whatever I want, whenever I want without having to ask permission or fear punishment. You read it here first, kids: don’t believe what any adults say about the burdens of being grown up – it’s the bomb.

What is hard about growing up and getting older is the people we lose along the way. My mom sent me the picture you see above that was taken when I turned one (hence the one big candle on my cake which I am greedily taking a swipe at, much as I would probably do now if you put that gorgeous confection within arm’s reach of me). My mom is on my right in her groovy 70’s knitwear and my brother, Jason, is to my left in his badass dirt bike jersey. In the background of the picture is my grandmother, Nanny, sitting and smiling as she watches her youngest and last grandchild turn one.

My mom tells me that when I was born my Nanny would say, “I hope I live to see her 16^th birthday,” which always made my mom cringe because it was so doomsday and probably also because it annoyed her to be reminded that she was having me a bit later in life and, in turn, my grandmother’s life. As it turns out, my Nanny almost lived long enough to see me turn thirty. I miss her, of course, but she lived a long life. I just wished she’d enjoyed the years in her life more. Maybe if she’d known how long she would actually live she would have worried less about when she would die and what she would miss. But who knows? I guess it doesn’t work that way. We all just have to live our lives the best that we can each day and not let the fear of the end take away from the joy of the now. At least that’s what I’m thinking this weekend, as I’m turning one year older.

How’s THAT for mature, thirty-six? Now where’s my cake?!

Sweaty Chick

2011-07-24T19:58:00.009-06:00

I just returned from another visit to New York City and unlike my last blog about NYC in which I lamented my departure from the east coast and my subsequent homesickness, this blog is going to outline exactly what I do not miss about my life on the east coast. In a word: humidity.

Prepare yourself for the tale I am about to tell you. It is not a unique yarn for me, but for those of you who may not know me quite so intimately I will tell you that this tale probably won’t make you want to get any closer to me…literally.

So here’s the deal: I’m a sweater. No, I am not a piece of clothing. What I mean by “I’m a sweater” is that I sweat…a lot. I know some of you girls are thinking to yourself, “Oh my God, me too! I’m so disgusting!” No, you’re not. You’re an amateur. You sweat like a girl. I sweat like Patrick Ewing during the end of a second half basketball game against the Celtics being played on the surface of the sun. Seriously, it’s bad. Now that I live in dry, arid (glorious) Colorado it’s not so bad, but when I lived in Georgia and had to travel to places like Alabama and South Carolina in August my sweating was at its zenith. I remember presenting to a group of thirty faculty members in a barely air conditioned room at a college in Alabama and sweating so profusely that after the presentation the chair of the department approached me and said, “Honey, are you OK? I’ve never seen a white woman sweat so much.” That’s a true story.

I have many delightful tales of perspiration from my time in the Southeast, but let’s fast forward to earlier this week in Manhattan. They were having a heat wave in NYC and heat on the east coast never travels alone; it is always a double date with humidity. Always. I arrived on Monday and took the subway to Washington Square to meet some friends for dinner and it wasn’t so bad. I was back in the groove, back in the city, feeling like I belonged there (I was even asked for directions which made me feel hip and cool – like a real New Yorker). The next morning I woke up early to go for a run around the park and I should have known the day would not go well when I walked through the hotel doors and it was already 80 degrees. It was 6:45 AM. Oh brother…

I went for my run and sweat out half of my body weight, but that was OK because I was running, after all, and everyone else running around the park looked pretty drenched as well. I went back to the hotel, took a cold shower and got dressed for my day working at Columbia University. I had packed only one work outfit: navy dress pants, brand new (this will become important) white sleeveless top and a brown belt to wear with the top. I put it on and was feeling like I looked pretty sharp. I headed downstairs to the hotel lobby, met up with my work colleagues and suggested that we take the subway up to Columbia because, “It’s so close and the subway is so much easier than taking a cab.” That was what I told them.

So we crossed the street and went down into the bowels of the Columbus Circle subway station. We had to take the 1 train uptown and to get there we had to go down, up, down and then up stairs again. One of my poor colleagues even had his suitcase with him and was, no doubt, cursing my name by the time we reached the platform for the 1 Uptown…which was pulling away right as we approached. So we had to stand and wait for the next train. As we stood there the air in the station literally began to disappear. It was like it was being sucked into the lungs of a beast living within the dark tunnel of the metro. I began to perspire a little, and then I began to sweat. Then I began to think about how much I was sweating, noticing the dampness moving from the collar of my (brand new) white shirt down the front of my shirt in a deep V. As I saw this happen, I began to notice that the lack of air in the tunnel began to feel like a blanket was covering my head and face. I walked away from my co-workers so they could not see that the faucet on top of my head had been turned lefty-loosey all the way on and I was now drenched in a waterfall of sweat. I began to panic. Literally. I was having a panic attack in a NYC subway station, in front of my co-workers, in my brand new white shirt, on my way to work with one of the most prestigious universities in the world. All because I’m a sweater.

As the next train started to pull up I was thinking about the sweat triage I was going to have to perform once inside the train. I was about five cars down from my co-workers now because I didn’t want them to have to witness what was about to happen once inside. I started to step into the train and immediately noticed there was no cold air emanating from it. No dice. I stepped back out and booked it upstairs to the street and hailed a cab to Columbia, leaving my colleagues to sweat it out on the train without me.

Once in the cab I took off my brown belt which I noticed had stained my white shirt a mustard, sweaty yellow underneath it because my skin was so damp. You may or may not know, but the only vents in NYC cabs are right next to the floorboard so I proceeded to kneel on the floor of the cab and aim the air vents right up my shirt as I pulled it away from my body and leaned up against the plastic partition between me and the self-proclaimed “very new” cab driver. The poor man not only had no idea where Columbia was, but he was trying to understand my directions in between my pleas for a napkin, tissue, towel, ANYTHING to help me dry off! He dug around and found a napkin, which he gladly handed over to me, as I’m sure at that point I looked like I had just stood in front of a sprinkler for about three hours.

By the time I got to Columbia I had finally cooled down and dried my once opaque white shirt enough so that everyone on the streets of NYC would not be able to know my torso more intimately and in greater detail than my last boyfriend did. I felt good enough about that and made my way to the building where our meeting was held, ducked into the ladies room and dried the rest of the way off, reapplied my make-up as best I could and stuck my head under the hand drier, praying the two women I was meeting with at Columbia would not walk in while this was all going down. They didn’t. It all seemed like it just might be OK.

I left the ladies room, walked into the meeting room and greeted everyone (including my hot and perturbed co-workers who I had left to fend for themselves on the train, wondering where the hell I went), sat down in a chair towards the back of the room and just as I sat, I felt a snap and realized the belt buckle on my brown belt (the only thing covering the nasty stains on my white shirt caused by said belt) had broken in two. The metal on the buckle literally snapped in half like a Kit Kat. Just when I thought it was going to be OK…

I tried to laugh it off, but knew once I stood up everyone in the room would see what had become of my brand new white shirt. I stayed slumped in the corner waiting for a break, knowing what I had to do: I had to take to the streets of New York and buy a new shirt. How hard could it be? I was in Manhattan! The city that never sleeps! The city that has it all! Back up shirts being sold on every corner, right? Well, it turns out shirts (appropriate for business wear) aren’t as easy to come by on the upper West side as one might think.

Not willing to give up so easily, I pulled out my smart phone and saw that there was an Old Navy close by so at the first meeting break I ran outside onto Broadway, hailed another cab, gave him directions to the Old Navy and off we went. We found the place, I hopped out ran into the store, found a black top, tried it on, wore it to the register, paid for it while I was wearing it, went back outside, got back in the cab, rode back to Columbia, got out of the cab, threw my once brand new white shirt in the first trash can I saw and went back into the meeting feeling much better myself and not even sweating…that much.

I walked in the room and one of the women from Columbia looked at my quizzically. I looked back at her and shrugged with a “what’s up?” look, trying to pretend like I hadn’t left the room in a white shirt and reappeared in a black one. She looked at me again, now out of the corner of her eye and gestured to her own shirt with a “seriously?” expression. I just smiled and sat back in my corner.

Later on I told her about what had happened (with a lot less detail than I’ve just shared with you, dear reader) and she only had one question for me: Where had I found a place to buy a top around there? She’d been living there for almost a year and had no idea there was such a clothing store anywhere near the school. I told her there was an Old Navy close by and she asked, incredulously, “Where?!” I said nonchalantly, “Around 125th and Broadway.” Her eyes popped open when I said this and she responded, “You went to HARLEM?!” Well, now that she mentioned it I did remember seeing The Apollo Theater out of the corner of my eye as I got back in the cab…in my brand new black shirt...sweating more than any white woman Harlem had ever seen.

Stay tuned for future excerpts from “The Perspiration Diaries.” Unfortunately that’s what I think I’ll have to entitle my autobiography; at least I’ll know I’ve left my mark on the world.

The Plan

2011-07-10T17:52:00.004-06:00

I watched the movie “The Adjustment Bureau” this weekend and if you haven’t seen it, I highly recommended watching it, but that’s not what I came here to blog about. The entire premise of this move revolves around fate and free will. Basically, as the story tells it, there is a “plan” for all of us that is written by the “chairman” (which they never say is God, but you pretty much can put two and two together on that one). This plan is written before we are born and we are not to sway from that plan. The Adjustment Bureau is the group that makes sure we stay on track, so to speak.

Free will is something, in this movie, that is really just a nice idea. The choices we seem to make via free will are all planned for us and there are very few “chance” happenings in the world of this movie. Most of the things that happen to us, no matter how small, happen for a reason. Even spilling our coffee, causing us to leave the house five minutes late is all part of the plan. If we had left on time we might have been in a horrible car accident.

I’m sure we’ve all experienced something like this more than once. Accidents always make me think about it the most. I remember a time that I was in Dallas and I left a college bookstore where I had been working. I had a hard time getting out of there because I had delivered some food and had to go around to a back entrance, knock on the door, wait for someone to come get me – it was an ordeal. The whole thing annoyed me because I was late getting back to my hotel where our national sales meeting was beginning.

Anyway, I got out of there and hopped in my rented Prius (yes, Prius) and head out. As I was heading towards the first intersection the light changed from red to green so I hardly had to slow down, I kept moving through the intersection and was ahead of all of the other cars that had been at a full stop. Just then, out of the corner of my eye I saw a white car coming at me from the other direction, blowing through the red light. Instinctively I slammed on my brakes (in a Prius!) and felt the anti-lock jerking as I came to a stop, honestly, within two inches from this car that was going at least 60 miles per hour and never slowed down. You know how everything slows down when something like that happens? I remember the kid’s face that was driving the car so clearly. He was young, wearing wraparound sunglasses, and a white baseball cap and his expression never moved. He knew what he was doing and what he almost caused and he didn’t even flinch. I remember looking in my rearview mirror and seeing the woman who was behind me driving a black SUV. She threw her hands up to her mouth, gasping, sure my car was going to be hit. I remember feeling my hands go numb and my cell phone ringing from far away on the floorboard where it had been flung after slamming on the brakes.

I’ve had plenty of close calls, but this was the closest I’ve had thus far. I remember feeling profoundly certain that if I had left that bookstore even 30 seconds earlier I would have died. I was sure of it. As a result of that experience something changed in me. I was in a job that I hated, totally miserable with my life and I decided I was given a second chance for a reason. After leaving Dallas I came back to Denver and made it my goal to move out of that situation in my life and five months later, I did. As a result my life is much happier and I grateful for that delay in Dallas.

I guess this means that I do believe there’s a plan for us all and that there is a reason for most things we experience. They don’t all have to be so dramatic or instantly affecting as the example I gave above, but think about how many small things have lead you in one direction, only to impact the course of your life pretty dramatically? It’s astounding, or at least entertaining, to think about.

If there is a plan I’d sure like to get a look at those blueprints. I’m guessing it doesn’t work that way, though. I’m such an impatient cuss that if I knew where my plan was going to take me I’d undoubtedly sabotage myself trying to get there faster, trying to find the shortcuts along the way. I have a feeling the “chairman” knows this about me and feels it smarter to keep that plan to Himself. Besides, knowing the plan would make life a lot less interesting. At least that’s what I’m telling myself for now. And I’ll try to remind myself of it the next time I spill coffee on my white pants and have to go home and change. Who knows what will await me when I make my way back out into the world? In time, I’ll see. It’s all a part of the plan…

Half Time

2011-07-04T20:31:00.005-06:00

It might seem like a more obvious decision to write a blog about Independence Day, it being the fourth of July and all, but I couldn’t come up with anything interesting to say about it. I’m sure there are many fascinating, witty observations being made by much more creative innovative thinkers than I today so I’ll just leave those musings to them. What I’m thinking about today is that I am officially halfway through 2011. Six months down, six to go. In other words, it’s half time. And like most half times at sporting events, we get a show: fireworks!

Because it’s halfway through the year it leads me to think about where I am at this point in the year. I don’t believe in resolutions so I don’t have anything to feel disappointed in myself for not achieving or sticking to in 2011. In fact, I view my birthday as my very own “new year” and that means it’s not really half time for me, but the end of the third period, the bottom of the ninth, choose whichever sports reference you please. My birthday is next month and I will turn thirty-six. Thirty-six. Ugh. Why does that sound and feel so much older than thirty-five? And, mind you, turning thirty-five was no picnic so I can’t say I’m exactly eager for August 22^nd to roll around. As unenthusiastic as I may be, however, it’s coming. A new year.

There’s a lot about getting older that just plain sucks. Your body starts to break down a little bit, things begin to ache that never ached before, and most importantly, it’s a lot harder to go out for a night of hard drinking without having to spend half to three quarters of the following day in bed recovering! Damn you, body! What are you telling me? That fifteen years of binge drinking has taken some sort of toll on my physical being? That’s bullshit! Where’s the warning label for that?

Seriously, though, it’s hard. Not to mention that each year I get older so does everyone else around me. My friends’ lives move on, they get married, start their families, move to the suburbs, and get on with it. My parents get older and start to experience the side effects of aging which are hard enough on them I’m sure, but which are gut wrenching for me to witness as well. Not to get all “Landslide” on you, but children DO get older and I’m getting older, too.

So enough of that. We all likely know the downfalls of aging and have lamented them in our own introspective moments, but there are some great things that come with getting older, too. Like perspective. Some event that would have made me come unglued in my twenties is, more often than not, barely a blip on my radar at this point. I just don’t have time for the same petty concerns that I had when I was younger. The responsibilities I have now are greater and don’t allow me the indulgence of inconsequential nonsense.

That perspective also allows me to see myself as having influence on and investment in more than just my own life. My best friend, Laura, is expecting her first child next month (please, God, let it be around my birthday so that I’ll have something to divert my attention away from turning thirty-six!) and I saw her in June, resplendent with impending motherhood and the emotion I felt in seeing her, above all other emotions, was awe. I was in total awe of how I could be so completely in love with a person who hasn’t even been born yet. I have never been an aunt, but this is as close as I’ll get. And it feels amazing to have a capacity to love like that; I’ve never felt anything like it.

And that’s a pretty great thing about getting older. I realize that the world doesn’t revolve around me and, unlike when I was younger, I would never want it to. What a small, lonely world that would be.

With that I wish you a happy 4^th, an almost new year, and a fun half time to 2011. Enjoy the show…

Let's Hear It for the Boy

2011-06-20T19:10:00.004-06:00

So I’m a day late for Father’s Day, but don’t worry, I didn’t forget to call my dad. I talked to him yesterday and during our conversation, in typical form for my dad, he recited a bawdy limerick about Christopher Columbus. That may sound strange to you, but trust me when I say it is not a unique occurrence; the recitation of bawdy limericks is a pretty commonplace activity in the life of Bud Shackelford, but that is what makes him all the more unique and wonderful if you ask me.

The picture you see above was taken after my father had returned home from a trip. My father was a pilot and traveled all over the country and world as I was growing up. In this picture I was just shy of three years old and, according to my father, I was looking up at him asking, “What did you bring me, Daddy?” Having a globetrotting father meant one thing to me then: great gifts. The practice for many years was that any time my father traveled to a new location he would buy me a doll. Not a rag doll or Barbie or any of that pedestrian nonsense, but a REAL doll in a plastic tube case. One that was so special that my mother made me keep her in her plastic tube in order to remain just as special.

The dolls lived on the top shelf of my bedroom and I would take them down occasionally (as often as I was allowed), bring them up to my chubby face and stare at them closely, trying to read the expressions in their impeccable, exotic eyes. I remember that my favorite doll of all was a Spanish dancer. She wore a red and black polka dotted dress, trimmed with lace and she coquettishly held a black fan by her face in her flexed left hand. I remember how special those dolls were to me. Not just because of where they came from, but because my father had bought them for me.

I thought about this yesterday on Father’s Day because what struck me is how hard it must be to be a father. It’s so easy when your kids are young and just giving them a doll makes them feel special and loved. It gets harder as kids get older and become adolescents, teens and then adults. What does it take to show your kids love and make them feel special as they grow up? Surely buying them a doll doesn’t do the trick. Finding the right “thing” seems to be a struggle for most of us to understand, realize and achieve.

What I think of when I think of the impact my father has had on me as an adult has nothing to do with the gifts he’s given me, but what he’s taught me through his own life and example; and even, at times, his advice. I have learned from my dad the value of intrepidness when I was just out of college, living in Boston, and had a chance to take a sales job in Atlanta (far, far away to me then). I was struggling with the idea of picking up and moving to a place I didn’t know, where I didn’t have any friends, and wouldn’t know what my job would be like. I asked him if he thought I should do it and he said, “Do it. You don’t want to turn around one day and be forty years old and wonder where your life went. Wishing you’d just taken a chance.”

I learned from him the importance of respect and consistency in love when my first volatile, gut-wrenching relationship was ending. He told me, “I’ve been with your mom a long time and the aggregate of our relationship has always been good. There will be bad times where you dip below the line and great times where you go higher than you could ever imagine, but as long as the majority is steady and good, that’s what you want to hold on to. It should never be up and down all the time; nothing can survive that.”

I have learned a lot from my dad, but what I have learned most of all is the ability to let go. To let those you love live their lives, even if they choose a different path than you would have chosen, even if they choose not to include you in that path. I have learned from my father to chart my own course, find my own way, and enjoy the freedom of those choices with the occasional moment of gratitude and thanks for the guidance to get here (almost) all by myself.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Homecoming

2011-06-05T21:10:00.010-06:00

I may not be a fool for love (OK, maybe sometimes I am, but that’s a subject for another blog), but I am a sentimental fool. And tonight I find myself in a city that makes me feel sentimental like no other: Boston.

I landed tonight, quickly made my way to my hotel in the Back Bay and got out into the city to enjoy the night. I walked over to Newbury Street for a late night dinner and sat outside at a café and enjoyed some Boston people watching/listening. I was surrounded on one side by a table full of Russian ladies speaking in their hurried, bossy native language to one another while toasting and giggling interchangeably and on my other side was a couple of graduate students discussing the frustration of being wait-listed for their grad school of choice. A typical Boston scene.

As I sat there and enjoyed my dinner I became increasingly nostalgic. I have been away from Boston for awhile now (I cannot remember exactly when my last visit occurred), but what’s even more distressing is that I left Boston, for good, eleven years ago. Let me type that again just to make sure it sinks in: eleven years. In one way, it’s hard for me to believe so much time has passed just as it’s always hard for us to accept the quick passage of time, but in another way it feels like so much has changed. For one thing I had absolutely no issue with sitting outside by myself at a restaurant having dinner. Eleven years ago? Forget it. Not only would I have been mortified and intimidated to sit by myself and dine, but I wouldn’t have been able to afford anything on the menu. I thought about that and it made me feel good about where I am in my life now with the exception of the slight twinge of recognition at the fact that it may be a little too easy for me to be alone.

I lived in Boston after college for only two years, but to this day it feels more like my home city than any other I’ve lived in and I have logged much more time in Atlanta and Denver. The reason for this is multifaceted, but it must have something to do with the New England sensibility of Boston, the size of the city, its historical brownstone architecture, and, I don’t know, its overall vibe. When I think of other cities I enjoy and compare them to Boston I always end up going to the Goldilocks fable as a metaphor. Naturally, I am Goldilocks and Manhattan is akin to Pappa Bear’s bed (too hard!) whereas San Franscisco is Mama Bear’s bed (too soft!), but Boston? Boston is Baby Bear’s bed and it’s just right!

After dinner I walked down Newbury Street to J.P. Licks (where I ordered a cone of mint chip with chocolate jimmies – for those of you not from New England, jimmies are also known as sprinkles) behind a group of kids and, no kidding, this is a snippet from their conversation: “I mean, Stanford is a great school all around, but go there to get your degree in chemistry not environmental science!” At the conclusion of this statement the entire group laughed heartily at its, seeming, obviousness. In how many cities do you hear this sort of subject as idle chatter amongst twentysomethings on a Sunday night? Only Boston.

To be fair, tonight was an easy night to love Boston. It’s warm enough to sit outside, but cool enough to feel comfortable, all of the trees lining Commonwealth Ave. are in bloom and framing the cobblestoned streets flawlessly, and all of the Bostonites are out enjoying this meteorological boon. I was out walking around until pretty late and there were a lot of people out for a Sunday night in restaurants and bars. I was surprised until I remembered what it was like to live in Boston. Once the warm weather arrives it’s like everyone has been released from internment. Winters here are tough and this past winter was one of the worst Boston has seen in a long time. The crowds are out now enjoying the patios and open aired restaurants because they will have, maybe, a three month window to take advantage and then their prison sentence is reinstated. That’s the Boston that I had a harder time remembering tonight as I wandered the streets longingly with a heady sense of nostalgia following me around like a lost puppy.

I realize that this blog tonight is pretty anti-climactic, but my Boston return has just begun! Stop back by here a week from today to find out how it all pans out when I return to Denver. I’ll let you know if I’ve put my house on the market by then. Just kidding…sort of.

In Gratitude

2011-05-30T18:25:00.006-06:00

I just returned from a taking a run around Wash Park which was packed full of people enjoying this beautiful, albeit windy, Monday off of work. As I ran I thought about the day today, Memorial Day, and what it represents and found myself remembering things that I haven’t thought about in a while.

But before I get to that I’ll start by talking about my mom. Today is always a somber day for my mother. I haven’t spoken to her yet today because she was out earlier when I called, but she left me a voicemail and I could tell by her voice that this year’s Memorial Day is no different than any previous year’s. There are, most likely, several reasons why this is a contemplative day for my mother. Her brother, Ray, fought in Korea and is buried in Arlington cemetery where she tries to visit his grave regularly. She has known contemporaries who fought and died in Korea and Vietnam and she was a child during World War II. She used to tell me stories of my grandmother sitting at their kitchen table opening letters from my mother’s Uncle Kemper who fought in WWII. The letters came to my grandmother after they had passed through the hands of censors and my mother remembers the black markered strikes throughout the letter, making the message home barely comprehensible. She would sit there as a small girl and watch as her mother cried, struggling to read these letters from her youngest brother. But, more than anything, my mother had two sons who served in the military and this is, no doubt, not far from her mind today.

A year after graduating college my brother, Kelly, went to Navy OCS and became an intelligence officer. A year later my brother, Jason, enlisted in the Air Force. The three years of overlapping service made for some solemn holidays around the Shackelford household. Jason served in Desert Storm and Kelly’s position with intelligence meant that we never knew where he was or what he was doing. I remember one Christmas when Kelly came home and surprised us with a visit. He showed up on our doorstep in cold, snowy Connecticut like one of Dickens’s ghosts. My mother almost collapsed from the shock and she had to stop herself from commenting on how he looked. He was shockingly thin and sunburned across the bridge of his nose and forehead like someone who’d spent a week at the beach. We all knew, however, that he wasn’t returning from a vacation; far from it. When my parents and I opened our presents from him that year they were all of a particularly Middle Eastern flavor. I remember opening a box and finding a black and white Keffiyeh inside. I pulled it out of the box and looked at my brother quizzically; he winked at me quickly and I was at once thrilled and terrified. Where had he been? What was he doing there? How had he found the time to think of me?

I was young when my brothers were away serving in the military. I don’t remember feeling scared or worried as much as I remember sensing those worries and fears emanating from my parents. The news was on a lot during those years and this was before there were 24/7 news channels (thank God). There was a constant aura of tension in our house and anytime my father would hear something on the news about Desert Storm or some incident overseas (which was often) he’d ponder aloud, “I wonder if Kelly/Jason are there” to which my mother would say nothing, but her mouth would purse into a tight line and we’d share a very quiet meal that night. Even when my brothers would come home for a visit, it was spent anticipating their inevitable departure. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…

While out for my run I remembered that when I was confirmed I received a sterling silver cross. My confirmation was about the time that Desert Storm was imminent and we knew my brother, Jason, would be deployed. Kelly was almost done with his service and had made plans to attend graduate school so we just hoped he wouldn’t be kept in and deployed as well. I remember making a promise to wear that cross and not remove it until both of my brothers were home safe and sound and that’s exactly what I did. Actually, I wore it for several years after they were home because I felt my promise had, in some way, kept them safe and brought them back and I was loathe to break that commitment for fear of retribution. (I’m a little on the superstitious side if you can’t tell) Well, I no longer wear the cross every day and my brothers have remained safe, but it was something that was very real and present to me then and it’s a difficult memory to call up, I can tell you, because it was such a tenuous time. Its impression on me was defining in so many ways, however, and that’s why it’s hard for me to forgive myself for not thinking about it in such a long time.

That’s the thing, though. It can all seem so far away to us unless we’re directly touched by it, in exactly that moment. And by “it” I don’t just mean war. I mean sacrifice, selflessness, duty. Osama bin Laden was murdered a month ago and that brought the war into the spotlight again, briefly, but the war hasn’t ended. It hasn’t let up; not once since it began. And there are countless men and women fighting every day who all have people who love them and they have a day off of work today, too, but they don’t feel so far away from it all. Because it’s never far away – “it” is the person you love who is “over there” and they always live right inside of your heart.

Today not only am I thinking about those who have lost their lives fighting for our country, but those that made it home, like my brothers. The sacrifice continues each day and some are luckier than others, but it takes a toll on everyone it touches; and it is not a small thing. And it is that sacrifice for our safety for which I am grateful. Thank you, thank you, thank you…

All That You Can't Leave Behind

2011-05-24T23:02:00.004-06:00

I went to my first U2 concert this past Saturday. I was excited to go because everyone who has ever been to a U2 show has told me how amazing they are in concert and have often gone so far as to say U2 is the best live show EVER. After experiencing it myself, I have to agree.

It’s not just the multi-million dollar production that dazzles (although it was pretty breathtaking), but also just the band itself. I teased my most ardent U2 fan friends about going to see a bunch of “old men” run around a stage (they did not find this amusing), but I didn’t feel this way at all while I was watching them. They still sound and act very much the way they did twenty years ago and that is no easy feat because these guys are all pushing 50! Beyond the quality of the music and their performance, what impressed me most was their connection to each other. It’s obvious that they all respect one another as performers and trust each other implicitly.

It’s hard to describe if you haven’t seen them before, but there’s no sense of competition or petulance about the “star.” It’s clear that Bono is the front man and he’s more than comfortable with that (damn, the guy has charisma), but The Edge, Adam, and Larry are all stars in their own right, too. Instead of feeling hurt that Bono gets center stage it feels more like they’re relieved to give him this role and they all willingly fill in around him to illuminate his brilliance. As charismatic as Bono is or as talented of a guitarist as The Edge is, they are all far brighter together than apart. I compare them in my mind to The Killers who, in my opinion, are really just Brandon Flowers. When you watch The Killers perform you are watching Flowers – the other members of the band fade into the background and really seem like little more than backup musicians. I remember seeing them at Red Rocks, transfixed by Flowers’ performance and when I forced myself to notice the rest of the band I turned to my friend and said, “Those guys all look like rejects from a Winger audition.”

Granted, it may be unfair to compare a new band like The Killers to a seasoned act like U2, but I can guarantee you that The Killers won’t be performing consistently over the next 20 years. Twenty years - that’s another thing. Watching them perform became, for me, a hugely nostalgic experience. At one point they were projecting footage from their Joshua Tree days (iconic photo above included in this video) and I almost started crying. OK, maybe I did actually cry, but only a little! It reminded me of spending summers in North Carolina with my best friend, Laura, and being forced not just to listen to U2 constantly, but also to watch the video for “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” on what seemed like continuous loop while Laura sighed and gasped every time Bono swaggered and swept his shoulder length black hair away from his face. I would snicker and make fake gagging noises, all to Laura’s chagrin, but they are great memories and ones that made me miss her and miss the simplicity of that time (however complex it may have felt to me then).

Although I was far from being the most devoted U2 fan at the concert on Saturday night, I left with a newfound admiration and appreciation for them in my life and in the world. They have done a lot of good with the fame they’ve earned over the years and have worked hard to educate their millions of fans about human rights atrocities worldwide. This is something that I know some of their fans don’t necessarily appreciate or care about, but for at least a few hours of their lives they learned something, however unwilling they might have been. There’s something to be said for having a captive audience and U2 gave me the best night of captivity I could have imagined. The next time I have a chance to see them, no matter how old they are or I am, I’ll have one response: BRING IT!

Funny Ladies

2011-05-15T16:00:00.012-06:00

I went to see “Bridesmaids” this weekend and please trust me when I tell you to go see this movie immediately. It is probably the best comedy I’ve seen, start to finish, since “The Hangover,” but what makes “Bridesmaids” even more unique is that the funny cast of this film is comprised completely of females.

Admittedly, I was a bit skeptical about the movie. Yes, the trailer I had seen was funny, but I worried that it would fall, inevitably, into the pitfall where many comedies involving women do. I was worried that it was going to either be a “cute” movie or a “gross” movie; with either the women acting out a different version of a treacly Katherine Heigl “comedy” (yes, that’s in quotes for a reason – Heigl isn’t a comedian) or it would be a gross out movie in which women spoke and behaved like a crass mash up of Sarah Silverman and George Carlin for 90 minutes. I’m happy to say that my fears were unfounded and the movie truly was a new form of comedy for women and one that I think we’ve had to wait far too long to see.

The cast was led by Kristen Wiig who has proven herself to be a formidable talent on “Saturday Night Live” and her bit performances in Judd Apatow films have all been outstanding, but that does not always translate into the ability to carry a film. In Wiig’s case, however, this was no sweat in “Bridesmaids.” As the movie’s hero and maid of honor, Annie, she is awkward, sweet, annoying, vulnerable and undeniably likable. Wiig is so adept at playing the oddball girl who always feels a bit left out that even at times when we, the audience, are really ready for her to just pull it together already and she lets us down yet again, we continue to root for her. She’s joined by Maya Rudolph who plays the bride-to-be Lillian and Annie’s best friend. As always, Rudolph hilarious and accessible; every time I’ve seen Rudolph in a film I come away wishing I could be friends with her. She hits every emotion perfectly and her humor is always honest, self-deprecating and never mean.

The other ladies in the cast include Ellie Kemper (Erin on “The Office”) as a Disney-loving good girl and her foil is Wendi McLendon-Covy who plays Rita, the filthy-mouthed buxom mother of three boys who talks of little else than her sons’ penchant for masturbation and her own repressed sexual fantasies. Lastly is Rose Byrne who I would not have placed in this movie before seeing it because she’s more of a dramatic actress typically, but she is perfect as Helen, the “second in line” for the maid of honor spot and Annie’s nemesis. Byrne is outstanding as the woman we all love to hate. Beautiful, thin, perfectly groomed and full of sugar coated condescension. Here’s a line that she says to Annie (Wiig) as she’s giving her two pills to take to relax, “Take them both. Don’t worry, I do it all the time and it’s always OK and I’m much smaller than you.” Bitch!

They are all terrific in their supporting roles, but the breakout/scene stealer award has to go to Melissa McCarthy who plays Megan, the groom –to-be’s outlandish, butch, socially inappropriate sister. McCarthy is the star of the TV series “Mike and Molly” which I’ve never seen and I even had to look this up online because I knew she was familiar to me, but couldn’t place her. I’ve seen her in other roles and she usually plays the sweet, naïve overweight best friend and it’s such a shame that she’s put into that stereotypical role because she is, in a word, brilliant. She plays the character of Megan with such ferocious hilarity that at one point during one of her scenes I was laughing so hard that I literally almost puked. OK, that may have had something to do with the copious amount of vodka I consumed the preceding evening, but nevertheless – the chick is funny.

The entire cast of women is so talented in funny in their own unique ways, but the storyline of the movie is also excellent. As a woman who has participated in my fair share of weddings (always the bridesmaid!), I can tell you that there were scenes that were so right-on that it was almost uncomfortable. It sets up the ridiculous sense of competition that being in situations with a group of disparate women can present and how it drives everyone a little nuts along the way.

Although I’m concentrating on the women in this film I do have to make one mention of guy who appears in the film: Chris O’Dowd. He plays Rhodes, a cop that pulls Annie over and becomes her halting romantic interest. He’s Irish and simply adorable. I think it was more the character he played than his physical self, but I was so enamored with him that I wanted to go buy a copy of “Tiger Beat” and search for his pictures, cut them out and tape them to my bedroom wall. Sigh…

It’s probably obvious by now that I really enjoyed “Bridesmaids” and I highly encourage you all to go check it out. I’m sure this will be a movie I own someday because not only am I crushing on the Irish guy, but I have serious girl crushes on all of these women in the movie, too. It’s so refreshing to see women portrayed as funny and sometimes outrageous, but not be any less of a woman for it. I think it’s about time society embraced the idea that women can be funny and that maybe even they should be. I mean, if you can’t make fun of and laugh at all of the ridiculous, humiliating situations you come up against in life as a woman, who would you be? Oh wait, I know: Angelina Jolie.

Bloodlust

2011-05-08T22:24:00.008-06:00

It was almost exactly a week ago to the hour that I crawled into bed and turned on the television in my bedroom. It’s not something I do too often, but I was watching a movie that I wanted to finish under my covers. As the movie ended, I channel surfed and came upon the startling news about Osama bin Laden’s death. The lovely bubble that the royal wedding had created that weekend was quickly burst. It was a surreal experience seeing that flash up on the screen. I asked myself, “Wait, what day is it? What’s happening? What YEAR is this?”

I was watching the news on ABC and George Stephanopoulos was reporting. Much like what happened on 9/11, the details changed from moment to moment. Initially it was reported that bin Laden was killed by an air invasion, then it was later revealed it was a ground strike (something we were not supposed to be doing in Pakistan), then that it was the SEALS, more details have continued to come out this past week including skeptism that he was killed at all (because of the burial at sea), even rumors that he was killed earlier in the year and the announcement was kept under wraps until it would politically benefit Obama the most.

I really don’t buy into all of that, but I’ve never been much of a conspiracy theorist. I think we found him (finally), killed him and that’s that. Now the next part of what I’m about to say makes me nervous because I don’t want it to be misunderstood, but I have to admit that bin Laden’s death was not much of a relief to me. Ten years after 9/11 I still very much care about what happened that day, but as one father said to Stephanopoulos of his son who was killed in the Twin Towers, “My son is still dead.” No one who died that day because of a plan masterminded by bin Laden is going to come back to life because of his death. They are all still gone and our country is still very much a target. People continue to die every day because of what that day began and it won’t stop any time soon.

Beyond not feeling too relieved by this news, I certainly don’t think we should be taking to the streets, waving the flag, chanting and singing like a group of drunken fraternity brothers. The behavior that ensued in Washington DC after the news broke was, in my opinion, appalling. I was revolted by the revelry. Correction: I was ashamed.

Aren’t we supposed to be a more reasonable, compassionate people than that? I get the feeling that the citizens dancing in the streets would have defended their actions with the rationalization that the terrorists celebrated when innocent Americans died so why not celebrate the death of their leader? I get that idea, but I expect more of us. I expect us to be better than that.

Because of the shame I felt at this display I was unable to feel the sense of pride and joy I was “supposed” to feel. It’s been ten years since that day and, like most of you I’m sure, it’s a day I’ll never forget. It’s a day I will tell my children about. It’s a day that changed me and this country forever. I have not forgotten; how could any of us? Last Sunday, however, is not a day that I will tell my children about. It was a day, I fear, that showed a side of America that I am not so proud of. The vengeful, hateful side of us. A side that, I fear even more, was born on 9/11/01. I hope I’m wrong, but I’ll ask it now because I think we need it more than ever: God, bless America.

Happily Ever After

2011-04-28T19:05:00.010-06:00

I am not ashamed to admit that I am atwitter with excitement about tomorrow’s royal wedding. I have my alarm set for 3:45 a.m. MT so that I can wake up, see Kate walk down the aisle (see her dress, more specifically) then go back to sleep and watch the entire six hour long broadcast on Saturday night while I sit on my couch alone and probably cry a little. Any single guys out there?! I bet I sound like your dream girl right about now!

Hey, I’m just being honest – that is how my second royal wedding experience will look. I remember the first royal wedding of my life very well. It was July of 1981 and I was with my parents at a hotel in Maryland. We were there because my dad was racing his boat on the Chesapeake Bay or something like that (at six I couldn’t be bothered with those kinds of details). At that point in my life it took a major, magical event to tear me away from the hotel pool, but the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana was major and magical enough…even for me. I remember what I was wearing that day: my baby pink Izod shirt (with the collar popped, of course). Man, I loved that shirt. I even remember choosing to wear it that day because it was a “special” occasion.

My mom and I sat on the shiny polyester covered hotel bed and watched in awe as 20 year old, porecelain skinned Diana arrived and poured out of the wedding carriage in her pastry cream silk gown, a seemingly endless train stretching out behind her with her rosy cheeked attendants in tow; their heads all a crown of English wildflowers. I had not seen many weddings at that point, but I knew without questions that this had to be the most beautiful wedding and beautiful bride that had ever been. I was intoxicated; it was a real life fairy tale. Or so I thought.

We all know what happened next. Diana had two sons, William and Harry, one more precious and delightful than the next. In a few brief years she became a world renowned celebrity and humanitarian; a “new” royal. One who actually touched the commoners! *Gasp* A royal who held and hugged African children with AIDS! *Swoon* In short, she changed the way the world viewed royalty. She changed the way the world viewed England.

Despite her work around the world and her overwhelming adulation during this time as Princess Di, we also saw Diana retreat into a private hell. One in which she was trapped in a marriage to a man who did not love her and who she, presumably, feared more than loved. A world in which she could never escape the public eye be it adoring or critical. A world in which she was never alone, but always lonely. It was, simply put, a beautifully tragic life. In a final twist of heartbreaking fate, her young life ended just as tragically.

After her death the world became even more obsessed with her handsome, bright sons. As William and Harry grew up we saw them mature and get on with their lives without their mother. William, in particular, grew to look more and more like Diana; a cruel reminder of her absence. He was the “handsome Prince of England” and as he went to college and approached manhood the world waited with bated breath to know who he would “choose” as his Princess. Who could ever live up to the memory of his mother? Enter Kate Middleton.

Now, I don’t know all that much about Kate. I only know what I’ve learned in the press, but because I’m 35 and not 6 I know a bit more about relationships between men and women and it seems to me that as much as William has chosen Kate, she has chosen him as well. Unlike Diana, she knows what she’s getting into by marrying a prince; she has done her due diligence. Unlike Diana, she truly loves her husband to be and from what I can tell, he truly loves her.

There’s so much that goes into a successful marriage when two average, run of the mill people get married that I cannot begin to imagine how many other factors affect the lives of two public figures maintaining a successful marriage. But at the core the need for love, commitment, trust, and compromise are central to both. William and Kate have had their ups and downs, gotten through them and are still going through with it tomorrow...in front of millions of people.

Who knows? Only time will tell how they will fare in this life they have chosen to share together, but I truly do wish them the best. The sins of the father (and mother) should be more than enough payment to afford them the very best of luck in their marriage. It may seem naïve or overly romantic of a hope for someone like me; someone who does not know these two people in the least, to have, but come on. Don’t we all want to believe in fairy tales?

In Remembrance

2011-04-10T18:09:00.004-06:00

I’ve been thinking all weekend about my next blog. What was I going to write about? What was on my mind right now that was worth sharing? And what, you may ask, did I come up with? Not much. Every idea I had seemed self indulgent or downright boring. I wrote about how much I hate spring in my last blog so I couldn’t write about spring cleaning in this one (which is what I’ve spent my entire day doing and definitely falls into the “downright boring” category), but at the same time something was nagging at me. Like there was something there and I just wasn’t connecting to it.

I’ve had that feeling for a couple of days now, like I was forgetting something and I could not figure out for the life of me what it was. I went to Target this weekend and stood in the greeting card aisle for a good five minutes with an undoubtedly puzzled expression on my face because I was convinced someone’s birthday was approaching and I couldn’t figure out whose it was. But when I mentally scrolled through my nearest and dearest I came up with squat for early April birthdays. I pushed on with my shopping begrudgingly, convinced it would come to me the minute I got home. No such luck.

All this brings me to today as I was spring cleaning (Zzzz) and it finally hit me. I was fishing around for a light bulb in my linen closet and opened a storage bin only to be smacked in the face with a scent that belonged to one person and one person only: Aunt Joan. I had saved some rose potpourri from my Aunt Joan’s house because it was the scent I connected with her most strongly and I have been saving for four years now. Four years. That’s how long she’s been gone. She died April 8, 2007. Today is April 10. Mystery solved – I remembered what I had forgotten.

I am not a big fan of “celebrating” someone’s death. I’d much rather celebrate their life and remember their birthday or another important date that was significant in their life, but when you lose someone so close and that loss takes a part of you with it, I guess it’s hard to not be effected during that time of year, even if it’s only subconscious.

Those of you who know me know all about Aunt Joan, but those of you who don’t know me very well and who are being honest may think that losing one’s aunt isn’t that big of a deal. God, that reads really harsh when I type it out like that, but I hope you know what I mean. It’s not like losing a parent, sibling or close friend. That’s true unless that person is like a parent or close friend or in this case Aunt Joan was the perfect person in between those two things.

We used to call each other “soulmate” or “SM” for short. I know that may sound odd because people tend to use those words most often in a romantic context, but they truly have a much broader meaning than that. Joan and I had a connection to the world that was similar. We understood things in much the same way and I felt, at least, that she understood me – in a way that no one else did. She knew me from the beginning of my life, watched me grow up and turn into the person I am and all along she really knew me, even at times (like the punishing middle and high school years) that I felt like no one else did.

She was beautiful and elegant and always a lady, but when angered she could give a look that would break glass and at times she could do things so outrageously contradictory to her ladylike demeanor that she’d have you convulsing with laughter. I remember one Thanksgiving at her house in which she had gone all out with the cooking and decorating (this was nothing new for Joan – she made Martha Stewart look like a hack) and as she was carrying her dishes into the dining room to display them for the feast, my father was taking pictures. He yelled at her, “Hey sis, stop for a sec so I can get a picture.” She picked up a green Jello mold salad, held it up over her shoulder, balancing the plate on her delicate, slim fingers, and as my father got ready to snap the picture she pretended to pick her nose and rub it on the Jello mold. Everyone in the room broke up laughing and in the picture she’s sporting a wide, playful smile.

God, I miss her. And those are the things I like to remember now. I don’t like to remember how ALS took her voice from her, then her arms, then her legs, then her life. I don’t like to remember the last time I saw her and told her “goodbye” because she couldn’t speak and comfort me from the pain of losing her. She couldn’t tell me that she’d be with me always, that she would haunt me the way she’d always promised. That I’d see her again some day. That living in a world without her would be OK.

It’s been four years that she’s been gone and the world without her has been OK, but I still miss her. And sometimes I miss her so much that it’s like it just happened yesterday so to pull out the card from her memorial with her picture on it that you see above and to see the date April 8, 2007 printed there just doesn’t make sense.

She used to threaten me that she’d haunt me when she was gone because the two of us had such a shared belief of and fascination in the afterlife. And I really believed that it would happen. I thought I would barely be able to sleep through a night without her showing up to talk to me about something. Or that she’d be moving stuff around in my house like crazy just to prove that she’s around. Unfortunately that hasn’t been the case. I’d gladly take the interrupted dreams or lost house keys for a chance to see her again. I have so much to tell her and there’s so much I still need for her to tell me.

Maybe what I’m hoping for is too much and I need to take solace in other signs – like the scent of her rose potpourri today. Maybe that is her saying “hello” and that she is still with me. I hope so. But if you’re out there, Joan, and you’re ready to step it up a notch you know where to find me. There’s a bottle of white wine in the fridge just for you and I’m ready for a good chat. It’s been too long.

Spring Fever

2011-04-03T14:18:00.003-06:00

I am really not a fan of spring, I never have been. It’s so unpredictable…and not in a good way, if you asked me. Take today, for instance. As I am writing this it’s snowing. Snowing! OK, so some of you may be reading this and thinking, “So what? You live in Denver, after all!” Yes, that’s true, but it was 83 degrees yesterday. 83! To go from 83 and sunny to snowing and cold in one day is nothing short of schizophrenic and call me a traditionalist, but I like my weather a bit more on the sane side.

By this time of year I’m just ready for it to be warm already. I’ve had my fill of the snow and bitter cold days. It was fun at first, I enjoyed sitting by my fire and sipping wintry cocktails like wine (OK, that’s not wintry, it’s just what I like to drink it no matter the season), but now I’m ready to move on.

OK, so maybe there’s a bit more to it than that. I remember telling my mother once that I was pretty sure I would die in March because I hated the month with so much intensity. She probably wasn’t thrilled to hear this from me, especially since I think I was about 16 at the time and that’s a pretty dark thing to come out of 16 year old’s mouth, but I still feel that way to this day. I’m fairly sure that when I kick the bucket it will happen in March. Beware the Ides of March – damn straight!

It must be the change of season, the idea of rebirth and renewal that makes me get into a pretty deep introspective mode…every year, without fail. I start questioning my life: where’s it going, why isn’t it where I thought it would be, why did I think it would be there, should it be there, do I like my job, have I given up on my dreams, should I cut my hair, am I ever going to feel truly happy, is there such a thing. You know, all of the BIG questions (and some not so big ones that just sneak in because hey, once you’re on a roll it’s hard to stop).

I can track these pensive detours through my iPod strangely enough because every year since I have had my iPod, I have made a mix for myself in March. I even entitled the last one, “Ides of March.” And whenever I start making myself “mix tapes,” watch out. I am in a funk. The funny thing is that I don’t ever realize it while it’s going on, even though it happens like clockwork each year. It’s kind of like PMS – it surprises me every time it happens, but it allows me to look back and say to myself, “Oh, so that’s why I’ve cried every day for the past four days. I’m NOT a basket case after all!” That last point may be arguable, but you know what I mean.

Acknowledgement is usually the first sign that the introspective journey into my psyche is coming to an end (anyone who’s had to deal with me for the past month is probably breathing a huge sigh of relief right now), but from the feeling of things today it make take a few more April showers to break this fever.

New York State of Mind

2011-03-09T09:19:00.004-07:00

Last week I returned to NYC for the first time in eight years. It’s hard for me to believe that it’s been so long since I grew up about 90 minutes outside of the city. Don’t get me wrong, though. Even growing up that close to Manhattan I can count on one hand (OK, maybe two) the number of times I actually went into “the city.”

When my family first moved to Connecticut in the 70’s, New York City was not the safest place in the world. In fact, it was pretty bad. I remember going in when I was about four years old to see The Ice Capades starring my hero, Dorothy Hamill, and my mother was so paranoid about my bowl cut sporting, toeheaded self being snatched from her that she put the kung fu death grip on my arm all day and threatened me every five minutes that I better not get out of her sight for “one single minute!” Her threats worked, but it wasn’t easy for me to stay put with all of the action at my chubby little fingertips. It seems that, even then, the lure of the city had its hold on me.

I returned to New York a few times before I “grew up,” but it was mainly for field trips or shows. I would go in and come out the same day without much time to wander around. In fact, wandering in NYC was highly discouraged by just about everyone I knew. I remember being told to make sure I clutched my bag tightly next to me to ensure that I wasn’t pickpocketed or my purse cut away from the straps and run off with by a sinister city slicker.

Cut to last week as I stood waiting for the train to take me uptown. I looked around the subway station at the number of people (strangers!) surrounding me and truly felt nervous. Now I’m no world traveler, but I’ve been around. Around the United States, at least. A lot. I’ve been to just about every major city and even lived in a few. I’ve also been to what seems like every small, outpost town in Texas and most of the Southeast by myself by now (and if any of you have been to these spots you know that they are, in many ways, much scarier than big cities). I’ve gotten around just fine save for a few embarrassing incidents of getting myself lost, but I have always found my way back. That being said, I found it outrageous that being in NYC evoked a feeling of nervousness and even the edge of fear in me. What was that about?!

I figured it was just kid fears. I could hear the voice of my mother telling me to stay in her site and my teachers telling me to grip my purse, and this was actually affecting me. I’m a 35 year old woman who, in heels, stands about 6 feet tall. Who do I think is going to want to or be able to snatch me? Ridiculous.

It didn’t take long, however, for my nervous fear to morph into pure invigoration. Much like my four year old self, as I walked around the city I wanted to reach out and grab on to as much of the energy and action around me as I could. I went running in Central Park each morning, took the subway to my appointments, drank my coffee amongst the other morning commuters, and happily sniffed around until I located the scent of steam from the soft pretzel street vendors. I tried not to look too much like a tourist so I fought the urge to look up and around too much, but sometimes I just couldn’t help it. I had to take in the sites and drink in as much as I could while I was there for two very short days.

As I wrapped up my trip and began to prepare for my return to Denver I felt something that I haven’t felt in a long time: homesick. Homesick not for Denver and for the amazing life I’ve built there, but homesick for my childhood home. Although I didn’t grow up going into New York City very often, there’s still something about the pace and energy of the people and life of NYC that represents, in its purest form, the east coast and, more specifically, the Northeast. And that is very much my home.

I was reminded of this recently during a trip to Texas. I was traveling with my colleague (who is originally from New York) and we were waiting for the rental car shuttle in Dallas to take us back to DFW Airport. It had been a long day of meetings and driving in the car to and from a small town 90 minutes from the airport and I just wanted to get back to Denver. As the rental car shuttle finally approached, I gripped my roller bag impatiently and readied myself for the jockeying to the “best” seat that always takes place when boarding these buses. As the bus got closer I realized that the sign which normally displays the terminal name read, “Out of Service.” Upon seeing this I screwed my face up into a lopsided frown and said aloud, “Oh, come ON!” My colleague looked at me shaking his head and said with a chuckle, “Easy, Northeast.”

Regardless of how far away I may have gotten from home in miles over the years, I was reminded that I’m never very far away because that place is so much a part of me and how I view and navigate the world, no matter where I am. And maybe the nervousness and fear I felt when I initially arrived in NYC was really just a residual emotion of returning to a place that holds so much memory and familiarity for me. Maybe it was my fear tied to doubt about where I belong and where I should be. To be honest, I don’t know, but I do know this: there’s no place like home.

Mob Mentality

2011-02-21T15:51:00.005-07:00

By now I’m sure you’ve all heard about the incident in Egypt involving Lara Logan from 60 Minutes. If you haven’t here’s a brief recap from an article by Charlotte Triggs:

CBS correspondent Lara Logan was covering the jubilation in Tahrir Square for
a 60 Minutes story when she and her team and their security were
surrounded by a dangerous element amidst the celebration," says a statement
released by CBS.

"It was a mob of more than 200 people whipped into
frenzy." During the event, which happened Feb. 11, Logan "was separated
from her crew. She was surrounded and suffered a brutal and sustained sexual
assault and beating before being saved by a group of women and an estimated 20
Egyptian soldiers.”

This news was upsetting to me not just because what happened to Lara is most women’s worst nightmare (it certainly is mine), but also because of where it happened and who the perpetrators were. I feared that because this crime against Lara was committed by Arab, Muslim men that the hatred, fear and discrimination towards that group would only grow as a result of this incident. I’m sorry to say that after reading some comments on articles about this even posted on the web my fears were not unfounded.

It’s easy and common to believe that Lara Logan should have expected this somehow. Not to say, by any means, that she deserved it, but that with the tensions and energy of the protestors what they were and the belief of a woman’s place being very second to that of men in Egypt that she should have been “smarter” than to put herself in that situation. Let’s not forget, however, that it is Lara Logan’s chosen profession to be a news reporter and going into dangerous, volatile areas and situations is what reporters must do and what they want to do in order to inform us all about the news of the world.

I can say, without hesitation, that I would never be brave enough to be a reporter. I would be too afraid of what could happen to me in dangerous situations and I would not be willing to put my personal safety on the line in an effort to report a story. Because of this certainty, I have the utmost respect for individuals like Lara Logan who are courageous enough to do this for a living.

What I have read on the internet following this report has been a mixture of accusatory (“Why would an attractive, blonde, white woman walk into that crowd?”), hateful (“What else can you expect from a group of angry Muslims? I say we just drop a bomb on that whole part of the world and be done with it?” – I’m paraphrasing, but believe me, that’s out there), and always discriminatory. There seems to be an overall agreement on many of these discussion boards that something like this was bound to happen “over there.” That because of the religious and racial demographic of the group, something as heinous as gang rape was inevitable of men so savage and violent towards Westerners; particularly Western women.

I got word of this crime from my friend, Goldie (who I’ve written about before on my blog). I read it and immediately responded about my fear of backlash against the Arab community as a result of this horrific crime. Goldie, as I’ve told you, is Iranian and has always been a valuable counselor to me because of her perspective on many issues, but in this case I was keen to get her social and political perspective. Like me, she feared the backlash and shared a link to some particularly nasty comments to an article that appeared in The Washington Post. She shared her frustration and anger about the hate-filled comments left on these message boards about Arabs and Muslims and astutely reminded me of an incident that happen right here in the U S of A just one year ago.

This piece of news may not be as familiar to all of you, but in 2009 a 15-year-old girl was attacked and gang raped outside of her Richmond, CA high school after she left the school’s Homecoming dance. Sarah Netter and Emily Friedman reported for abcnews.com:

Four out of five suspects arrested in connection with the publicly witnessed,
hours-long gang rape of a 15-year-old girl outside of her California high
school's homecoming dance face charges that could send them to prison for life,
police said…Police now believe that as many as 10 suspects took part in the gang
rape, while 20 others stood by and watched the crime occur in a dimly lit corner
of the sprawling campus, according to KGO. No one who was present during the
assault tried to stop it or called police. Instead, some of those watched the
attack are suspected of taking pictures, police told ABC's KGO-TV in San
Francisco…

…KGO reported that police were called only after someone who was
not at the scene heard people talking about the attack, which was still going
on…According to news reports, the girl left the high school's homecoming dance
alone around 9:30 p.m. Saturday to get a ride home with her
dad.

Instead, she met up with a group of people who were drinking on the edge of
campus.

"The series of events that occurred over the next 2½ hours got more
severe and more vicious to where she was ultimately gang raped and beaten, and
her injuries were so severe that she had to be sent to the hospital in a
helicopter," Gagan told KGO.

So what do we say about this? Did this young girl wittingly put herself in a dangerous situation? It certainly doesn’t seem that way. Is this incident any less brutal or hate-filled than what happened to Lara Logan in Egypt? Again, it doesn’t seem so. One of the main differences is that Lara Logan was eventually pulled away from the gang of men assaulting and raping her by a group of Egyptian woman and later 20 Egyptian soldiers. The young girl in Richmond, CA, however, was not so fortunate as to be pulled away from her attackers. In fact, the group surrounding her did nothing to intervene and stop what was happening. They just watched.

This is grisly business, no doubt, and both incidents pain me to talk about because I am sickened and saddened that they happened. But it’s important to point them both out because of their gruesome similarity. The Richmond police were puzzled by one fact that puzzles me about both this incident and the one in Egypt:

These suspects are monsters. And, I don't understand how this many people
capable of such atrocious behavior could be in one place at one time…

How is it possible that so many like-mindedly evil men could all be in the same place at one time? I think it’s possible that these men individually are not so gruesome, but there are certain types of men (more than we may want to believe) that when they are put together in a group, the collective emotion is elevated and it becomes easier to contribute to this crime than rail against it. It’s almost a “pass,” if you will, to this personality type that if someone else starts it and even more people join in, they can justify their participation as being more part of the norm than not contributing and certainly an easier choice than stopping the crowd from continuing what they have started.

The only time I’ve felt even a whiff of this type of energy was years ago when I was living in Atlanta. I was out at a bar with a few girlfriends of mine and it was late, everyone at the bar had been drinking all night, and one woman in the crowd decided to get up on top of the bar and dance. She was obviously severely inebriated and after some encouragement from the crowd she flashed her breasts to the room. The minute that happened I could feel the crowd on the floor around the bar (comprised of mostly men) actually push forward in one large surge of energy and my friends and I were quickly swept into the movement and pushed in on closely by a group of men around us. They weren’t focusing their attention on us (their eyes were still glued to the bare breasts belonging to the woman dancing on the bar), but I could honestly feel the temperature and energy of that room morph. I remember looking at my friends and saying, “We need to get the hell out of here. NOW.” I could sense that if we stayed in that crowd of young, drunk, aroused men that something bad could happen very quickly and very easily to one or all of us.

Granted, that is nothing compared to what Lara Logan and the young girl in Richmond, CA experienced, but I got a very clear message that night that I had to get out before it was too late. I am just saddened and angered that those two women did not have the opportunity to get out and that, most despicably, during the gang rape that occurred here in America there was no one willing to help. But then again, what can you expect from a group of angry, entitled Americans?

Not so easy to digest when that shoe’s on the other foot, is it?

What's Love Got To Do With It?

2011-02-13T17:42:00.003-07:00

On this Valentine's Eve I'm thinking about love. I'm not thinking about the holiday (which I've blogged about before so I don't need to restate my disdain for the whole day), but I am thinking about why the day exists and what that means.

Love. So, what's the big deal with it? Think about how often that word is used in a day. "Oh my God, I LOVE 'Modern Family!'" "Yeah, I LOVE eating salads instead of real food." There are so many uses for the word "love" that it can even mean "hate" (like in my salad example). Despite how often and overused this word it, it doesn't seem to lose its allure. And that's for one reason and one reason alone. Because the word exists in this one sentence: "I love you."

The first time someone (other than your parents, family or friends) tells you that they love you it's truly breathtaking (especially when you love the person back). And unlike most milestones we experience, this one doesn't lose its shine after it happens the first time. The next time another person tells you they love you it's just as amazing. Intoxicating, even. And that's what I think happens to us all. We become addicted to love and the feeling it brings.

There's all sorts of scientific stuff I could research about this involving pheromones and neurons firing and other boring crap like that, but I don't have the time to go into that (actually, I do, but I am not smart enough to understand it). Besides, I don't think I need to go there because I hope the majority of you know the feeling I'm describing. The first time someone tells you they love you it can make you feel weightless.

One of the most memorable first "I love yous" happened to me several years ago. I was dating a guy who had moved away from the city we were living in and we were trying to date long distance. One night while on the phone talking about our day and shooting the breeze it happened. Well, sort of. While we were talking he was also talking to his dog. Specifically, he kept telling his dog to get its toy: a rubber, squeaky hoagie sandwich. Intermittently while we were talking he'd say, "Get your hoagie! GET your hoagie!" It kept making me laugh because, really, what the hell kind of doggie toy is a rubber hoagie?! Anyway, in between one of these "Get your hoagie" commands I'm laughing and he says, "I love you," in much the same tone he was using to talk to his dog. Well, I heard it and it stopped me in my tracks, but I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or the dog so instead of just asking him I said nothing (my standard "move" - when in doubt, remain silent). We went back to our conversation about what we were doing the following day and while I was talking he blurted out, "Are you seriously not going to have any reaction to me telling you that I love you?!" He had quickly moved from loving me to being pissed! Well, I explained that I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or his dog and he said, "YOU, stupid!" And then I laughed and told him I loved him too, but I feared something may have been lost for him in that moment.

Regardless of this ridiculous scenario I hung up the phone, walked downstairs into my guest bathroom, closed the door, faced myself in the mirror and just smiled. I smiled for a long time. Smiled like an idiot. Smiled like someone loved me.

It's been years since this happened, but I still think about this moment sometimes and it always makes me smile. I pull this memory forward during times that I feel lonely and sad. Times when I need to remember why I'm going on yet another date that will probably amount to nothing. Times when I want to remember how it feels to be loved.

And wouldn't it be great if giving and receiving love was easy? If it just happened? If it just came to you like a surprise birthday present in the mail. "Hey, I wasn't expecting this, but this is EXACTLY what I've been wishing for all year!" Yes, that would be awesome but alas, it doesn't happen that way. I've told you the good stuff about love, but here's what sucks about love: In order to get it and give it you have to allow yourself to experience an emotion that is so terrifying, so uncomfortable and unnatural that some people actually go through life without giving and receiving romantic love because they won't allow themselves to feel it: VULNERABILITY.

Ugh, even typing the word makes me cringe. It's become a total cliché and we hear sentences like, "You need to allow yourself to be vulnerable in order to let someone into your life and love you." BARF! To be honest, I'm mainly hearing sentences like that on "The Bachelor” most of the time, but like most clichés, dammit, it's true. Because feeling vulnerable is so hard I guess it's important that there is something addictive about that feeling of romantic love. We need to crave it, need to feel it's integral to our survival in order to go to an emotional place that is so scary. Otherwise, why would we do that to ourselves?

Why would we love someone, feel their love for us, go through and contribute to the death of that once perfect-seeming love, experience the feelings of loss and grief that come after it's gone and then get back out there and try to do it all over again? Why the hell would we do something so painful twice, much less several times in our lives? Because we know it's out there. We remember how it felt when it was good and we believe it can stay that way.

I can't say that I know that's true: that there is romantic love that truly lasts forever. I haven't experienced it yet, but I do believe in it. I guess I have to. It's what gets me out on what seems like my millionth first date, what makes me give someone who's hurt me another chance (and another, and sometimes yet another), what makes me sit here at my dining room table on a Sunday night thinking and writing about love. It's hope. Hope that the elusive, wonderful, scary, and imperfectly perfect feeling of love will be mine again one day.

As much as I hate to acknowledge the commercialized, saccharine holiday that comes tomorrow, I will do it not just for those of you who are in love right now, but for all of us who have ever been. Happy Valentine's Day. Enjoy your time with your beloved or, like me, pull some of those good memories forward and smile like an idiot, even if it's just for a second.

It's ON!

2011-02-06T12:26:00.002-07:00

Hello patient readers,

For those of you who still check my blog occassionally, thank you! I am sorry that I've been such a disappointment in terms of my consistency of posts. Many of you have encouraged me to write more (again, thank you!), but I have failed you. I am happy to report, however, that I'm turning over a new blogging leaf and this time I mean it because this time there are consequences if I don't deliver on this promise.

This past Friday night, my friend Bonnie and I were talking about how important writing is to both of us, but that we need to make an effort to do it more regularly. Bonnie, with her enterprising and competitive mind, decided that we should turn our writing/blogging into a competition. Brilliant! I may not be able to motivate to write every week with just some nudging from a few readers, but God do I hate to lose!

Therefore, starting on Valentine's Day 2011 (next Monday), Bonnie and I begin our blogging competition. We are to write a new blog each week and whoever has the highest readership after one year WINS! Each week we will randomly select a topic (and we might even involve you, dear readers, to choose the topics), we will blog on that topic, and count the readers.

The topic of our first blog? Well, love of course! Get ready...I have plenty to say about love.

Seriously, a big "thanks" to those of you who still check this site in the hope that maybe I've gotten off of my ass and actually posted something new on here. I will not ask you to forward this site to others until you can see that my word is good this time, but I look forward to this year of consistent blogging, thinking, sharing and writing.

Stay tuned and check back on Valentine's Day for my musings on love. Now I have to go back to getting ready for the Superbowl. NOT! Don't worry, I haven't suffered a personality change since my last post...

SEE YOU NEXT WEEK!

Amy

This Is How We Do It

2010-06-10T09:19:00.004-06:00

I've recently returned from an extended trip down memory lane this past month starting in May with an impromptu trip to Los Angeles to visit my old friend, Goldie. Goldie and I met in seventh grade health class (can you think of a more awkward place to begin a friendship?). Goldie was new to school and she was funny, loud, and exotic (don't be fooled by her name - Goldie is a dark, Iranian beauty!). The moment she entered our class with her sarcastic swagger, I knew I had to make her my friend.

In an attempt to be clever, my first sentence to her was, "Hey Goldie, did you know that if you married Kurt Hahn (pronounced "Hawn" - one of our loser-y 7th grade classmates) that your name would be Goldie Hahn?" What was Goldie's response to this lame greeting? She threw back her head, laughed heartily and said, "That's funny - I've never thought of that!" Well, as those of you who know me realize, all it takes is for someone to laugh at something I've said and I'm forever theirs. This was no exception.

From then on, Goldie and I stayed close friends through some of the most awkward, self-conscious, and tedious times in my life. I have no idea how she put up with my stupid jokes and, at times, extreme self-loathing, but she did. And, even better, she taught me to appreciate things about myself that I hadn't before like my sense of humor and even my height! All I ever wanted was to blend in and disappear in middle and high school, but Goldie was fearless. She did NOT blend in or disappear, nor did she have any desire to. She wanted to be noticed and appreciated for being different and she was. I know, for a fact, that I wouldn't be the person I am today if I didn't have her influence at such a crucial point in my life.

I always appreciated the impact that Goldie's friendship had on my life, but when I visited her last month, my appreciation took on a whole new level. We had not had one on one time together in at least 13 years, but it was like no time had passed. Being with her now as a (mostly) confident, mature adult made me remember who I was and who I still am at my core. More than anything, it made me remember and appreciate that that person isn't so bad at all. If I was enough then to win over such an amazing friend, why forget about that girl and bury her underneath years of "adult" life? Goldie and I pulled out all of our childhood jokes and quotes and even enjoyed some new ones ("Damn, America!"). I returned to Denver refreshed and in touch with someone that I hadn't seen in a long time: myself.

As if this wasn't enough, I was able a few weeks after that trip to see ALL of my old crew from high school at our friend Alison's wedding in North Carolina. And when I say all of the crew, I mean all of them: Claire, Teri, Goldie, Faye, Leigha, and Alison. We all traveled in (sans husbands/boyfriends) from all over the country to celebrate Alison's wedding, have a good, old-fashioned reunion, and party like it was 1993.

For a group of girls from Ridgefield, CT, we turned out OK. Actually, we turned out better than OK. Again, looking back on those years now I have a clearer perspective of my life in middle and high school. I can see now how easy it is for a kid to go down the wrong path and it's not because of their parents, it's because of their friends. Let's face it: once you get to be about 13, your parents are not high on your list to turn to for advice and guidance, but your friends are. And if you're unlucky enough to find yourself friends with burgeoning slackers or burn-outs? Good luck, kid. You're on the express lane to community college or, even possibly, rehab.

However, if you're like me and lucky enough to have friends who are smart, funny, athletic, and caring, your life opens up to so many positive opportunities like a going to a good college, making and keeping close friends, and holding yourself to a high standard as you move through adulthood. I look at those girls who are all women now (some married, some mothers, all successful and accomplished in their own right) and I am so grateful not just to them, but to fate - for bringing us all together and giving us each other at such an important time.

Maybe I haven't uncovered anything earth-shattering in this blog today, but I have learned a lot about myself this past month. Both about the Amy of today and the Amy of the past. I guess what I've learned far and above anything else is that those two have more in common than I wanted to believe or accept. And, as a result of this realization, I think I owe my kid self an apology and a HUGE thanks. You're not so bad, kid.

And to the RHS '93 girls out there? THANK YOU. You'll never know how much I honor and appreciate you in my life - both then and now. And this IS how we do it!

Take Me Out to the Ballgame!

2010-04-06T10:39:00.002-06:00

For those of you who know me, you know that I'm not exactly a big fan of watching sports (especially on TV - yuck!), but when opening day for the Rockies comes around, I feel a lightness enter my heart and a skip enter my step. I don't know why, exactly, but I LOVE opening day!

Maybe it's that opening day represents the "official" beginning of spring? We can all move out of our snow boots and away from the ski condo and into the time of drinks on a patio and sun on our bare arms. Or maybe it's that opening day represents one of those rare days in Denver where many Denverites have been at the game during daylight hours, enjoying a few beers and, once released from Coors field, are out and about on the town and actually...get this...FRIENDLY!

I admit that being from New England, I'm not the most, "Hey, how are you today, Neighbor?!" type of person, but I've been in Denver for five years and although I love so many things about this city, one of my biggest disappointments (aside from there not being enough nice patios on which to enjoy a drink) is that people just aren't that friendly here. Don't get me wrong: they're not rude or cold, necessarily, but they definitely don't go out of their way to break free from their packs and meet new people when they are out. This was a bit of a shock when I moved here after living in Atlanta for five years where you couldn't wait in line for the restroom without making at least two new friends.

That's a major reason, I think, that I love opening day. All of that day drinking really brings out the friendliness in this town. No longer do you have to have met someone at least five times to be able to enter into pleasant chit chat with them - you're able to talk to anyone at the bar without them asking you, "Do I know you?" and then looking at you like they KNOW that they don't already know you and would you please get back to your group and let them get back to theirs?

I admit, I'm as much a part of the problem as everyone else and the longer I stay here, the more accustomed to this behavior I become. That's why I enjoy the few respites (like opening day) and I plan to enjoy it to its capacity this year. And in an effort to help turn things around in this city on the other 364 days a year, I will put in writing here, for all (two) of my blog readers to witness that I promise to make more of an effort to break this pattern in Denver. Even if, in doing so, I make myself and everyone around me slightly uncomfortable in the process. I am THAT committed.

So, the next time you're out and someone you don't know starts to talk to you (not hit on you, hot stuff, just talk), don't blow them off or look at them like they're trying to sit at the wrong lunch table. After all, that weirdo could be me.

Dear John...

2010-03-24T12:16:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I thought that writing this blog would be easy. I’d go to the John Mayer show and it would reignite in me a need to comment on all of the stupid shit he’s said in the past few months. Sexual napalm, n*gger pass, etc. I’m sure you’ve all heard of at least some of it by now. After the show last night, however, his ignorant sound bytes were the last thing on my mind. I mean, who cares about what he says? Are any of us fans of John Mayer because we like who he is in life? No, we’re fans because we like his music. And although he’s showed us that he may, in fact, suck at life right now, he is still a great musician.

I go back a long way with John Mayer – about ten years now. I’ve seen him perform live many, many times, starting when I lived Atlanta. Each past show of his has always delivered. The music is good, the vibe fun and often goofy, and you can really feel that he connects with his audience. I’m sorry to say that last night this was not the case. He totally dialed it in. Watching him perform last night was like watching someone do a job…that they hate.

Don’t get me wrong, as a musician he’s as tight and polished as ever. He’s definitely worked on his technique and skill as a guitar player, singer and songwriter tirelessly over the past ten years. You can understand why Eric Clapton admires this guy. Tasty lick after tasty lick emanated from his guitar last night, but something was missing. Something big.

I kept asking (of anyone who would listen), “Where’s his soul?! He has no soul!” I realized as I lay awake at 3 AM this morning, however, that that’s not accurate. He still has soul. You can hear it in his lyrics and by the choices of songs in his set. However tortured his soul may be right now, it’s still there. Still, there was that something missing. What was missing, you ask? Joy.

At no time during his show last night was there any joy in his performance. My friend, Jen, said more than once, “I just want him to smile.” She was right – he didn’t smile once. I don’t think he even squeaked out a smirk. He looked numb and, at times, completely miserable. This is a not something I’ve seen from him in a live performance before and I can’t help but think it’s been brought on by his recent media shit storm. After the Rolling Stone and Playboy articles were published (I hastily read them both, of course), I would say (again, to anyone who’d listen) that I was worried about John Mayer. I felt like he was going through some sort of crisis (he’s getting a little old for a quarter life crisis – this is getting closer to mid-life). And after last night I’m more convinced than ever that this is the case.

I’ve made comments and jokes before that John and I are both Connecticut kids and that’s our “connection.” Yes, we’re both from the nutmeg state and are around the same age, but that’s about all we have in common, I suspect. I don’t know John and I’m sure I never will; he certainly doesn’t know me. But when you spend 10 years listening to someone’s music, it starts to become a part of your life story. It becomes a part of you. Therefore, it’s only natural to feel some connection to the person who wrote lyrics to a song that you listened to as you drove cross country, leaving all friends and comfort behind for a new life (Everybody is just a stranger, but that’s the danger in going my own way…) or the song that makes you cry every time it comes on because it makes you think of your parents getting older and the loved ones you’ve lost, (Once in a while, when it’s good, it will feel like it should. And they’re all still around and you’re still safe and sound. And you don’t miss a thing ‘til you’re driving away in the dark…)

Because so many of his songs have brought me comfort and made me feel less alone in my own times of unhappiness and confusion, it makes me sad that he seems so miserable right now. Less than 10 years ago he was playing to small crowds at cozy bars in Decatur, GA. Last night he performed in front of tens of thousands of fans screaming his name. Can you imagine? I can’t. But when I try, the whole thing makes me feel overwhelmed, exhilarated, scared and, more than anything, lonely.

Some famous people just seem like they were born to be famous. (Madonna comes to mind) I have a feeling those people were shallow assholes from day one of their life. That’s not John Mayer - being famous is not what he was cut out for. He’s been giving it a good shot and trying to walk the walk, and talk the talk (he’s really failed in this area), but it’s just not coming together. Another person I have felt this way about is Elvis Presley. If you’ve ever been to Graceland, you know what I mean. I visited Graceland when I was about 22 (yes, it’s been a long time since then) and living in a small Mississippi town outside of Memphis. Even at that young age, I got so much out of it. Sure, as the tour starts everyone’s snickering at the gaudy shag carpet and the stories of his bizarre culinary demands, but by the time I reached the end of the tour I was in tears. It was clear that Elvis was killed by fame. He was a fairly simple, decent person who was totally overwhelmed by his own public persona.

John Mayer has been demonized by the press lately and not without good reason. That being said, what has he done that’s so bad? Made some stupid remarks that he, no doubt, regrets? I do that on almost a daily basis. Treated some of the women he’s dated poorly? What woman in her thirties out there hasn’t been treated poorly by a man (or men) she’s dated? Most of us have had our fair share of dating encounters with douche bags and those guys weren’t even famous – they were just guys. Although his missteps have been documented by the international press, they are no different than the mistakes that most of us make every day in our lives. The difference is that our mistakes are private and no one knows about them other than ourselves and the people we’ve hurt. At the end of the day, though, no matter how many people know how stupid or hurtful we’ve been, we all have to go to bed with ourselves. We all have to forgive ourselves – no one else can do that for us.

What I’m trying to say is: Don’t take it so hard, John. As alone as you may sometimes feel, surrounded by people who think they know you because they listen to your songs or read articles about you, you’re really no different than the rest of us. How many of us feel that we are truly known by everyone in our lives? I think most of us would say that there are a very small handful of people who know us truly and deeply. I call those people my touchstones. They are the people who, when I feel totally lost and unsure of myself, I call them or see them and they remind me of who I am (the good, the bad and the ugly – they know it all). Sometimes I ask myself where I’d be without them. How would I know who I was without them?

Find your touchstones, John, and give them a call. Don’t believe the hype – even if it’s your own (especially if it’s your own) and if you need to talk, you just let me know. We’ll keep it in what I call the “203 Club.” In closing I'll leave you with this one question, John: If you want more love, why don’t you say so?

Writer's Block

2010-03-23T17:35:00.000-06:00

OK, so I've been out of commission on my blog for a while...a LONG while. I feel the tides may be turning tonight. The reason? I'm going to see John Mayer in concert and I have a feeling it's going to bring out the creative bitch in me. I have a lot to say about this guy. I'm going to save my comments for my post-show rant, but I hope I still have a few readers out there. At least one, perhaps? Hi, Mom...

I Gotta Get Out...Figure This Sh*t Out

2009-03-09T20:33:00.000-06:00

There's so much being said right now about Rihanna and Chris Brown that I'm hesitant to add my two cents. But as usual I will push right through that hesitation and throw my pennies on the table.

The whole situation between these two very young adults makes me feel sad. Let's just say it: Chris Brown has some major issues. I don't care how you grew up or what you've seen, if you punch a girl in the face until she's almost unconscious, you have problems. Hell, if you push a girl around even just a little you have problems. As a man, you're stronger than she is and you know she won't fight back and be able to do any real damage. You're a bully. And like most bullies, you're a coward.

That being said, let's talk about Rihanna. She's 20 years old. That is young, folks. When I was 20 I made a lot of mistakes and allowed things to be done and said to me that I would NEVER tolerate now, but I wouldn't tolerate them now mainly because I've lived through them and learned from them. I guess what I'm trying to say is let's give Rihanna a break.

I get really angry and upset when any sort of domestic violence situation is reported or retold and the FIRST response that people (mainly women) have is, "How could SHE let that happen? How could SHE go back with him? Doesn't SHE know that SHE'S a role model for other girls and women?"

Whoa. Hold the phone. Why, after this young woman has gotten beaten up and publically humiliated by a man are we blaming her? I guess, for once, I want someone to ask, "How could HE do that to her? How could HE be able to sleep at night having treated her that way? Doesn't HE know HE'S a role model for other boys and men?" That's not normally how it goes, though.

Why, as women, are we so eager to blame other women? Why are we so sure that this would NEVER happen to us? Believe me; I'm sure Rihanna never thought this would happen to her, either. And I'm sure it didn't start out this way with Chris Brown, it never does.

It's not like on their first date he pushed her down the stairs and told her to get used to it. I'm sure he was really sweet and attentive. And that probably evolved into possessive and controlling. Then jealous and over reactive. Then verbally and emotionally abusive. Then it was the night of the Grammy's and...you get the picture.

Now I'm sure Rihanna is embarrassed and a little afraid. She's 20. I know I pointed that earlier, but it's an important point. This is probably her first love. Maybe her first lover. Being young and totally naive, it's easy to fall into a bad situation when you have no other personal experience to compare it to. I'm sure that she does love Chris Brown, I'm just sorry that her first experience with love is so NOT what love is. I can only hope that in time she'll realize this without incurring too much abuse from Chris, herself, and worst of all, the public.

So the next time you hear about a guy beating up his girlfriend or wife, think about her and think about yourself. Maybe you're not as tough as you think you are. Maybe you'd take more than you think you would. And when you think about that, be grateful you've never had to find out.

The (Conditional) Kindness of Strangers

2008-12-19T13:14:00.000-07:00

http://www.denverpost.com/newsheadlines/ci_11248585

I read the above article in The Denver Post this past Wednesday expecting to find a heartwarming story of helping a family in need at the holidays. Sadly, this article didn’t warm my heart. It did, however, make my blood boil.

If you don’t want to read the whole article, let me sum it up for you. There are a lot of families in need in Denver (in the United States, for that matter) that are going through very tough times right now. This isn’t news to any of us, I hope. Many families have lost their homes, are out of work, and are living in run-down hotels all over the city and paying up to $1,000 a month to live in a one room dive. This one room contains everyone (mom, dad, children, sometimes aunts and uncles). It’s no good.

Anyway, The Post ran an article last Sunday about several of these families in Denver. Consequently, the families highlighted in the story experienced an outpouring of interest and support from the local community. Many people have “adopted” these families and have pledged money, food, and time in order to support these families in need. Naturally, I have no problem with that. I think it’s a noble undertaking to help strangers in need, no matter how one does it. Personally, I like to make anonymous contributions to organizations that help others (don’t give me too much credit – I am no Paul Newman), but I certainly wouldn’t want my name run in an article in the newspaper, telling everyone what a great person I am for my contributions. That’s just me. Again, though, that isn’t my problem with this story.

THIS is my problem (taken from Wednesday’s article in The Denver Post):

"I read their story and I said this is something I need to do. . . . Their living conditions were appalling. How they live is so stressful," said Hannah McKinnon, who paid more than $1,000 for a month's rent at the Triangle T Motel. "I want to stay in touch with them and help them a little bit and maybe challenge them as far as the way they live. I made them promise to either quit smoking or to smoke outside. There are three adults smoking in that room with two little children."

Gee, thanks for the life lesson, Hannah. Do you mean smoking is BAD for you?! And you shouldn't smoke around children?! Thank goodness that family has you to open their eyes to this shocking information. Thank goodness that they have you to "challenge them" (i.e. show them the RIGHT way to live).

Don't get me wrong, I don't want children to be exposed to smoking all day in a small, crowded room, but give me a break. With all of the hardships that this family is facing, do they really need some preachy do-gooder coming into their lives, lending them a hand, only to jerk it away at the last minute and say, "Oh, one more thing? You can have the money, but you have to promise to quit smoking."? Like they didn't already feel bad enough about their position in life. They now need a guilt trip about their smoking habit and they can't even speak up about it because they need this money so bad they'd probably agree to have a cigarette put out on their arm if that's what it took to get the money.

What really burns me up is that I know this Hannah McKinnon feels really good about herself for doing this. You know she thinks she is a true altruist. She muses to herself, "Not only am I helping this family out of a financial bind, but I'm going to help them be better people." Ugh. What would make them better, Hannah? If they were more like you? Guess what: having more money than someone doesn't make you a better person, it just makes you more patronizing, apparently.

The true definition of altruism (found in dictionary.com) is as follows:

altruism - the principle or practice of unselfish concern for or devotion to the welfare of others

There's a little too much "self" in Hannah's conditional kindness. At least a little too much for my taste.

Regardless of my feelings about one person's idea of "giving," the bigger realization I had while reading this article is how lucky I am. We're all probably a little bit closer to these families' realities than we'd like to admit or even contemplate. This is why so many people can feel sympathy for the folks profiled here. What makes me feel lucky, though, is the fact that I have a family that loves and supports me. I know they would always bet there to help me. No matter what, and without judgment.

If only everyone could be so lucky.

For more information about these families, check out this audio slide show from The Denver Post:
http://photos.denverpost.com/photoprojects/specialprojects/motellife/motellife.html

And Then There Was One

2008-11-05T16:26:00.000-07:00

Well, it's official: Barack Obama is the next President and I can stop writing about politics for a while. Whoopee! That makes me feel happy and relieved on a number of different levels.

So I went out and watched the election results come in last night and it was definitely a memorable experience. Too bad that the majority of my might was spent defending my vote for Barack Obama to a guy sitting next to me who bellyached about making $485,000 last year and it's not fair that he will have to pay more taxes. I argued with this guy until I found out that he didn't even vote! Then I kicked him in the shins and made him buy my drinks (I'm just kidding about the kicking in the shins part, but not the drinks. Hey, he can afford it!).

It wasn't a landslide win, but it wasn't that close either. I was surprised, honestly, that it wasn't closer. And can you believe North Carolina split?! I mean, they're the twin sister to the state that voted Strom Thurmond in until, well, he died and he was a segregationist, for Pete's sake!

McCain's concession speech was good. It was humble, gracious, and well-delivered. Obama's acceptance speech was impassioned, uplifting, and inspirational. I was moved by both of them. Not as moved as the big criers of the night, however: Sarah Palin and Jesse Jackson. I wonder if Sarah's tears were from asking herself, "Is this MY fault?!" and Jesse Jackson's came from pondering; "Now what are we going to blame white people for? They just voted in a black president!"

I have felt very tired today and yes, it could be a result of all the Republican sponsored drinks I consumed, but it's also because I'm emotionally sapped after all of this. And if I am drained, just imagine how the candidates feel. I hope that both Barack Obama and John McCain slept deeply last night because now they know, just like all of us, how this turned out.

There's a lot for Obama to start doing even before January 4. He has to appoint his staff, come up with a plan for the economy, and, most importantly, help Sasha and Malia pick out a puppy. With all of the promises made in this campaign, that's one he KNOWS he can deliver on. As for the rest of his promises? I guess we'll have to stay tuned.

Now, I'm going to put my political muse to bed for a while. I'll leave it to the professionals from here on out...or at least until I have something else to say.

Let's Get Ready to Rumble!

2008-11-03T17:05:00.000-07:00

Hold on to your hats, boys and girls, tomorrow is going to be a long day. Is anyone else getting nervous about this? Today I could feel the energy building around me and at one point I stopped and thought, "What is my problem? Why am I feeling so hinky today?" Then I remembered - DUH! - tomorrow's the election!

You see, I mailed in my ballot and to be honest, I feel a little regret about that. I mean, I don't want to spend my entire day waiting in line at the ballots, standing behind some guy with marginal personal hygiene who mis-buttoned his shirt thinking, "I can't believe this guy is voting and I know people who went to college and some who even have their graduate degrees who are not." However, there's a certain excitement about actually stepping into the voting machine and casting your vote. Also, you get an "I Voted" sticker. I love stickers.

When you mail in your vote you just hope that it got there. And if you're a terminal insomniac like I am, you spend your nights awake worrying that it didn't. And yes, I know that my one vote isn't going to push things in one direction or another, but this race is going to be TIGHT. Every vote counts. Well, at least every Electoral College vote. (By the way, I need to watch the Schoolhouse Rocks on the Electoral College because it's still a bit fuzzy to me, but I digress...)

I really don't know what's going to happen. No one does, but certainly there are people around me who think they do. One guy told me on Friday night that Obama had it in the bag (and he's one of the people I know who's not voting so he doesn't count) and then another said that he thought McCain would sweep (he probably IS voting, damn it). It really depends, I think, on who you surround yourself with. I mean, if all of your friends are ready to jump off a cliff for Obama then you think he'll win. And if your friends all wear "My VP Nominee is Hotter Than Yours" t-shirts then they probably think that McCain will win.

Here's what I DO know: whoever wins, we will be OK. I mean hell; we've survived the past eight years of Bush. If nothing else, that tells us that we can endure just about anything.

Let's just hope those voters in Florida have learned how to properly impregnate their chads.

Tricked Out

2008-10-26T14:44:00.000-06:00

As Halloween approaches, I find myself in the same position I am in every year: what relatively banal outfit can I sexy up for October 31? I am not proud of this, but it's just a reality for (mainly single) women on Halloween. I mean, I've tried the witty pun costume (one year I dressed in all black and held on to a shot glass - I was a shot in the dark) and believe me; I might as well have gone as the invisible woman.

It's too bad that it has to be this way because I LOVE Halloween. It's probably my favorite holiday. I happen to live in a part of town that gets slammed with trick or treaters and I can't wait to see all of those little ninjas, princesses, and Cookie Monsters make the trek up to my front door while their dad waits down at the bottom of my stairs in his windbreaker, holding a flashlight. You can hear their tiny breathless voices, belabored with ecstasy. "TRICK OR TREAT!"

What those little princesses don't know is that in about 20 years they're going to find out that the work "trick" has more unsavory references and they're going to feel pressured to represent the seedier side of Halloween as October 31 approaches. Next thing you know when they're asked what they're going to be for Halloween it will no longer be: princess, witch, or vampire, but rather SEXY princess, SEXY witch, or SEXY vampire.

I do have a costume this year and it's not too skanky, but it leans more to the tarty side and certainly is not going to win any prizes for ingenuity or wittiness. Oh well, I guess I'll just concentrate on being hot this year and work on my ideas for next year.

Hmm...I have a push up corset and a copy of "Mrs. Dalloway." Maybe Halloween 2009 will be the year I go as SEXY Virginia Woolf? Now who could be afraid of that?

Halleluiah!

2008-10-16T16:26:00.000-06:00

I've been a big proponent of watching all of the debates and keeping up on what's happening with this election, but last night I was just tired of it all. Turning on ABC to watch the debate, I felt like I was doing homework. I mean, the "Project Runway" finale was on at the same time! What a cruel world we live in when one is faced to make those kinds of choices.

As much as I didn't want to wait until PR aired again 2 hours later to find out who won, I made the grown up decision of watching the debate. And, I'm happy to report, I'm glad I did.

It started out with (big shock) the economy and how unbelievably crappy it is. Snooze. I mean, I care about it as much as everyone else, but if I have to listen to both candidates acknowledge my economic fears any more earnestly I'm going to hurl.

To my delighted surprise, however, Bob Shefer started to ask some great questions! Questions that, up until now, have been totally drowned out by our stinker economy. Education, abortion and (collective intake of breath), each others' choice of VP. Whoa, now that was a fun one to watch. Afterwards, some of the commentators wondered aloud why McCain didn't go after Obama a bit harder for being so inexperienced. Um, perhaps it's because he's old as hell, people are afraid he might kick the bucket while he's in office, and his VP only has one stamp in her passport (and a penchace for sailor winking)? Just a guess.

Nothing that was said changed my mind at all about who I'm going to vote for, but there are still a lot of swing voters out there and McCain made a much better showing than he has in the past, hurt feelings and all. Most importantly, it wasn't as damn boring as the last one.

I mean, if I'm going to miss watching "Project Runway" it better be for something good.

Say It Ain't So, Doggone It!

2008-10-03T08:11:00.000-06:00

I'm not going to pick on Sarah Palin too much after last night's debate. She was not in a comfortable place as she walked out on that stage last night, pumped Sen. Biden's hand, and asked if she could call him Joe (and call him Joe she did). All eyes were on her just waiting for her to get flustered, misspeak, not know what the Bush Doctrine is and, essentially, drop the ball. That didn't happen.

I thought she looked a bit terrified answering the first question (moose in headlights?), but she warmed up and got going pretty quickly. I guess MY main problem with her performance last night is what she's getting such high marks for today: her style. The hockey mom/aw shucks stuff just isn't for me. Then again, I'm probably not her target audience (no scooting kids off to soccer practice somewhere in the Midwest for me just yet).

I also thought that she just smiled too doggone much. I mean, when someone is talking about the war in Iraq or our bottomed-out economy, I don't want the expression on their face to be that of bemused satisfaction. It reminds me of a line from a Jeannene Garofolo movie when her friend is practicing her audition for the nightly news in front her, reporting on hundreds of people drowning in a shipwreck and she's smiling the entire time she's saying it. Jeannene's critique is something like, "That was really good. You just may want to make the carnage sound a little less...upbeat."

What really struck me again with this debate (as it did in the Obama/McCain debate) is how respectful both candidates were to each other, how they spoke for an equal amount of time, and how they acknowledged one another throughout the debate. Granted, Joe Biden most definitely was on the McCain attack (giving the impression that HE was the one Biden was debating, not Sarah Palin), but he didn't correct Palin when he could have (the commanding U.S. general in Afghanistan is General McKiernan, not General McClellan as Palin said...twice). And, as an English snob, I have to say that someone in the McCain/Palin camp needs to pull her aside and tell her that "nuclear" is pronounced "nu-KLEE-ar" NOT "nuke-U-lar." Ugh...

Another interesting moment last night was when one of the candidates almost cried. I have to say, I got choked up in that moment in which Joe Biden became visibly emotional talking about raising his boys alone after the death of his young wife and daughter and how he knew what it was like to not know if one of his kids was going to make it. I'm sure that as he said this, he was not only thinking about their accident years ago, but the fact that his oldest son, Beau, is shipping out for Iraq this weekend. But come on, who would have thought that in a debate between a man and woman, the man would be the crier?!

Overall, I was riveted by the vice presidential debate. I think Joe Biden came out on top, but Palin did as well as she could have. The "you betchas" and the "golly gee" comments (along with her signature winking - she tried it four times last night) really do speak to some people and it is most definitely a style - it's just not my style. I'm more a fan of the tough-talking Biden who started many of his sentences last night with the command, "Look!" and a point. I guess these are times that it's pretty clear I'm an east coaster (which Palin "accused" Joe of being last night) and not midwestern folk. Oh well, I knew that before the debate began.

And I think that's the issue: last night's debate probably did very little to change anyone's mind. If they were voting Democrat, they still are; and if they were voting Republican, they still are. I think the swing voters, though, could still be swinging. Fact is, McCain is seven points behind, he just pulled out of Michigan and he seriously needs to rally and win the next two debates against Obama. I just don't see that happening.

In closing, I would like to ask this very important question that is, no doubt, on many of our minds: when will Tina Fey be spoofing this whole thing on SNL?

The One and Only

2008-09-28T16:23:00.000-06:00

It's with a heavy heart that I write this blog. As I'm sure you know by now, Paul Newman died of cancer on Friday at his home in Westport, CT. Most of you probably feel some sense of sadness about this. Paul Newman was an iconic actor and, most importantly, a good man. I doubt too many people would argue with that. His presence in the world will most definitely be missed by millions.

Somehow, I feel like I've lost someone that was close to me. I guess I feel like his impact on my life was personal, in many ways. I most definitely did not "know" him, but he had profound influence on my life.

Before I go into that, let me back up. My mother, like most women of her generation, was hopelessly in love with Paul Newman. Unlike most women of her generation, my mother lived in a neighboring town to Paul Newman's home so she got to see him every now and again in person. These encounters would always leave my mom a bit flustered (or "twitterpated" as they call it on the range), to say the least.

To be honest, I always found this crush to be a bit silly. Always, that is, until I saw "Cat on an Hot Tin Roof" for the first time. I remember seeing it at a movie theater in Boston, calling my mother afterwards and saying something to the effect of, "OK, I get it." Me-ow. To say that he was handsome is to make a criminal understatement. But, as you know if you've ever seen or read an interview with Paul Newman, he was much more than handsome and he worked very hard in his life to prove that fact. I would say that he achieved his goal with resounding success.

Along with his philanthropic contributions under the Newman's Own label, Paul Newman founded The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp in Northeastern Connecticut. It's a summer camp that was created specifically for terminally ill children. It gives kids with diseases like cancer, AIDS, and sickle cell anemia the chance to attend summer camp like every other kid their age and be surrounded by other children who are going through the same battles and challenges with their health.

My best friend, Laura, and I volunteered there for a two week session the summer I turned 16. My mom had read about the camp and suggested we do it so we thought, "Why not? Two weeks without parent supervision at 16? Sign us up!" We didn't even have our drivers’ licenses so our parents had to drive us up there and then pick us up. Laura and I worked the two weeks. We went home and came back to work the rest of the summer. And returned the next three summers. We were hooked.

To say that my experiences at The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp were transformative wouldn't be saying enough. Some of my very best memories, not just of my young life, but of my life to date, were made at that camp.

You might think that because all of the campers were terminally ill kids that the aura surrounding the place would be sad or depressed. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was purely magical.

Paul Newman used his Newman's Own money, celebrity connections, and donations from corporate sponsors to pay for each camper's visit. On top of that, he'd have an off the charts surprise (hot air balloons, monster trucks, Tom Cruise!) for each session of camp. They were things that no kids in the country were seeing, much less kids who spent the majority of their childhoods in hospitals. The camaraderie that the children all felt for each other and their shared experience helped them relax and just be kids. Because they were all sick, no one was treated like they were "sick" or with extra pity. These kids ran, swam, played basketball, and hiked - whatever they could do. Even putting it down in words now doesn't do the energy of the place any justice. To be sure, it is the most positive, wonderful, and hopeful place I've ever been.

Of course, some of the children passed away and we'd hear about it after they left camp. It was awful, sad, and unfair - as losing a child always is, but there's was something reassuring in knowing that, even if it was for just a brief time, those kids were able to experience something as close to a "normal" childhood as they would ever have.

For me, I learned so much from these amazing campers and staffers at The Hole in the Wall. I learned how to feel compassion for someone without pitying them. How to embrace joy in the smallest moments. And how to live in the face of death.

I learned other important life lessons and passed many milestones at the camp. I got to be independent from my parents and friends back home and make new friends with people so unlike me, so unlike anyone I had ever known. I learned to work with these people despite our differences. I fell in love for the first time. I felt heartbreak for the first time. I started to learn who I was or, at least, who I was becoming. And today, I truly feel that I would not be the same person if I hadn't had The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp in my life.

So, as I said at the beginning, it's with a heavy heart that I write all this, but with enormous gratitude and respect for the man behind this place that will always be such an important part of my life.

Wherever you are tonight, Paul Newman, I'd like to say, "thank you." You're one barn burner* I'll never forget.

* If you don't know what this means, go rent "The Long, Hot Summer" immediately. You won't regret it!

The Silent Treatment

2008-09-25T16:48:00.000-06:00

It's almost 6 PM on Thursday night in Mississippi and Obama and McCain are scheduled to debate 26 hours from now. There's just one problem: McCain may be a no-show.

I don't have too much to say about this because the whole thing seems dumb and petty; particularly in light of the fact that we're on the verge of the worst economic crisis this country has seen since 1929, but who's counting?

I was traveling yesterday while the whole "McCain Suspends His Campaign" story broke on all 1, 554 news channels. I tried to read the CNN ticker on the Dallas airport TV and, as usual, the details were spotty and the effort of reading that moving, 12 point font while 8 other things were happening on the screen almost gave me an aneurism.

Once on the plane I was able to see part of Obama's press conference. I laughed out loud when he made a point of saying (at least five times), "I was the one who called Senator McCain this morning and he returned my call around 2:30 today." God, it was like watching John Mayer's painful 1 minute 46 second mini press conference in which he said, over and over, "I broke up with HER," after his split with Jennifer Anniston. We get it, Barack: YOU called HIM first. It was YOUR idea.

I guess what's most disappointing is that the two men running for president are both using the platform of "change" and "no more politics as usual" are just acting like your usual politicians. They say the are going to make a "joint" statement, McCain scoops the story, and Barack tattletales on him. Yawn.

I hope the debate does go on, however. Regardless of whose idea the joint statement was, who is points ahead of whom in the polls, or who is the most kick-ass public speaker this country has seen since JFK (here's a hint: it rhymes with Parak Odama), we need to see these two go head to head; mano e mano. It's time. Come out and play, John.

All the Way

2008-09-19T03:45:00.001-06:00

I don't usually get too personal on this blog (save for the thinly veiled references I sometimes make to my own life), but today is different. Today is my parents' 49th wedding anniversary and I thought it deserved a post.

Forty-nine years! That means my mom married my dad when she was eight. Just kidding, but she doesn't look a day over 57 so that has to count for something, right? I can't imagine anything lasting 49 years so the fact that my parents have made their marriage last that long is pretty great.

And get this: my parents actually like each other (what a novel concept!). It's not like it's been 49 years of constant bitching and moaning (maybe only 10 years total have amounted to that?!). My parents actually still have quite a lot to say to each other and they actually seem interested in what the other one has to offer. Now, that doesn't mean they always agree or that they haven't wanted to set each other on fire at one time or another (OK, I hope it hasn't been that bad, Mom and Dad!), but it's been a good marriage, so far as I can tell, and I'm neither naive or unobservant.

When you grow up with parents who stay together and love each other you take for granted how rare that is. Becoming an adult and entering the world of couples makes you realize, however, not just its rarity, but the amount of effort it takes to maintain. It's easy to become discouraged about the idea of "forever" with another person and I'm not just talking to all of the single folks out there - it's hard for everyone. But I'm fortunate to say that when I need a living, breathing example of success I have to look no further than my own parents.

My mother recently told me that when she was faced with a proposal from a man she dated before she met my dad (Mom, you heartbreaker!), one of her family members told her to listen to the song "All the Way" by Frank Sinatra. He told her that if the lyrics to that song did not describe her feelings for that man, she shouldn't marry him.

Hopefully, the conclusion to that story is clear. She did not marry that man, but waited until she fell "all the way" in love with my dad. Mom, I can say that my brothers and I thank you wholeheartedly for that!

In light of that story and in celebration of your 49 years together, Mom and Dad, this one's for you. Happy Anniversary: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxps4ggfoy4

Had to Share

2008-09-14T21:23:00.000-06:00

Watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oG7ltZ4dg2A

Yes, it's John Mayer (and yes, he is wearing a scarf and no, I didn't fail to notice that) and I promise to write another blog soon for those of you who get annoyed at my John Mayer posts, but I had to share this one.

For my birthday, my friend Michelle gave me the "Where the Light Is" DVD of John Mayer live in LA. I have watched it, intently; sitting Indian-style on my living room floor more than once now (I won't admit how many times more than once).

This song (if you chose to watch the above clip) is one I hadn't heard before, but I've decided IT is the reason all of the women that John Mayer loves and leaves get involved with him in the first place. I mean, they know before they even go out with him that the guy is a bit of a man slut (who doesn't? He's in "Us Weekly" with a different Hollywood "it" girl every month), but listen to this song..."I'd die if I saw you. I'd die if I didn't see you there."

I have to admit, if I knew a song like this would be written about me, I'd be willing to get involved with a guy knowing that I would fall hard for him and then get dumped just to know that this song existed in the world. Who am I kidding? I HAVE gotten involved, fallen hard, and then dumped and all I have to show for it are a few awkward emails and a lot of hurt feelings. Who's the sucker here? Let's just say this: her name isn't Jennifer or Jessica.

Never mind, never mind...

Buyer's Remorse

2008-09-08T19:12:00.000-06:00

I have to admit, I didn't spend as much time watching the RNC as I did the DNC. Maybe it was because the DNC was here and the excitement more palpable or maybe it's because I am not going to vote Republican this year. Who knows? But I do feel for the Republicans who had to follow the DNC. That would be like a third grade class of recorder players being asked to follow The Rolling Stones. Horribly anticlimactic and with a lot of overenthusiastic, sympathetic applause.

Overall, the parts of the RNC that I did watch did not come off well. Rudy Giuliani's speech summed it all up. He was mean-spirited, snarky, and smug. I actually used to like Giuliani (a little), but that speech did nothing to win me over. And all of the boorish cheering from the audience at every nasty little quip he made about Obama was a little too Nazi youth for me. (And, I have to say, showing all of the young men with shaved heads in the audience didn't help squash that impression).

And then there was Sarah Palin. Ah, Sarah! Former beauty queen, governor of one of the least populated states in the union, and until recently, practically unknown. I bet Sarah Palin's name has been uttered more in the last few days than in her entire life. She has taken the country (and world) by storm with this nomination and that is not a bad thing. As I said before, I didn't think I'd live to see this day when these candidates would be running for office and that is undeniably exciting. It's also pretty good cache for the U.S. in terms of our reputation amongst foreign nations (mainly Europe).

We Americans have often been portrayed by our overseas neighbors (not always unfairly) as bigoted, small-minded, entitled, nylon warm up suit wearing, fried chicken eating ignoramuses. Well, guess what? There's a new KFC in town! We have a black man and a woman on the tickets and ONE of them is going to end up in the White House. Put that in your beret and smoke it, France!

Anyway, back to Sarah. She did a good job with her speech. She's a strong speaker, direct in her message, and not unlikable. Also, she has the sexy librarian look going which is not lost on anyone. Naturally, she did not write that speech she gave, but in her defense she had just been nominated a few days before and, as I said in my last blog, none of them writes their own speeches, entirely. I'm pretty sure she threw in that joke about hockey moms and pit bulls which was cute.

And there it is! The adjective dreaded by all professional women: cute. But that's how it all struck me as being. Very cute. God, I know how diminishing that is to say and about a fellow woman, but that's tough. Unlike what a lot of political pundits believe, the fact that Sarah and I share the same sex organs does not mean I'm going to ditch Obama, run out and buy a McCain/Palin pink tank top. I need a little bit more than that to be swayed and maybe a larger part of my hesitation is based on the fact that I'm not buying what McCain is selling with this nomination.

I watched the post-speech commentary on ABC after Palin's speech and George Stephanopoulos made a comment that until the Sunday before he announced Palin's nom, he wanted Joe Lieberman. He was talked out of it by his advisers because Joe, well, used to be a Democrat and is now only an Independent. It's kind of like someone who "used" to be gay and now is just bi. Come on, we all know you're still gay; quit straddling the post (sorry about that one)!

Personally, I think McCain should have gone with the Joementum* happening in the VP race. Joe Lieberman would have been a bold choice. Yes, he's just a man, but he is pro choice (gasp!) and that would probably bring over more female voters than a hockey mom/beauty queen. But, that's exactly why he wasn't chosen. It was too big of a risk for the hardcore Christian right who are already royally peeved that they have to vote for McCain, a moderate Republican. So, I'm disappointed by that and need I say it? Lieberman is from Connecticut (yeah, CT shout out!).

More than anything, though, I feel like McCain has buyer's remorse. Everyone around him convinced him that this would be a great choice! What a maverick move! A woman! Who looks great in a suit! But I feel like Sarah Palin is that person you date who everyone loves. Your friends and family - they all think this person is great and the perfect mate for you. I mean, EVERYONE is crazy about this person. Everyone but you. And you're stuck thinking, "Great, NOW how do I get out of this?" That's where I think John McCain is right now. I feel for you, buddy, but you're stuck now. And so, maybe, are we.

Don't get me wrong, I don't dislike Sarah Palin. I don't know enough about her to like or dislike her. And I like John McCain...a lot. I have a huge amount of respect for him. Always have, always will. That doesn't mean I think he should be the president right now. Unfortunately, I think he should have been making his acceptance speech eight years ago. That was his time, not now.

And that makes me feel a bit torn because he would have had my vote...then, but this is a different time. Our country has changed, the attitudes have shifted, and it's going to take more than a woman (even one who can truss a moose) to win me back.

Sorry, John. It's not you...it's me.

* Thanks to Chris, my cab driver from Saturday night, for letting me use his word, "Joementum."

Barack the Vote

2008-09-02T11:12:00.000-06:00

Wow, I can't believe the DNC was just last week and I let the whole thing pass without one blog. For shame, for shame! I apologize, but it was so much to take in on so many levels (intellectual, emotional, and even spiritual) that I felt I needed some perspective before sharing my thoughts. So, here they are:

#1 - Denver as the DNC Host:

Loved it. Not just because I live here and think the city deserves some "props," but because Denver did such a great job hosting this chaotic, energized, important event. I live close to downtown and drove through the madness (more than once) accidentally and it wasn't bad. I experienced worse traffic than that in Atlanta on a Tuesday afternoon at 2:30.

Also, Waste Management really put its money where its mouth is with regards to keeping the convention "green." There were volunteers standing by the copious amounts of recycling bins telling people where to throw what trash and then later hand sorting trash to make sure there were no recyclables in the regular waste. I mean hell, that's devotion. I'm all for volunteering, but I draw the line at sorting through trash...with my hands.

#2 - Michelle Obama (XOXOXO)

So, the first night started out with a BANG! Michelle Obama spoke and solidified my same sex crush on her. Holy crap, she is DBD (da bomb diggity)! She is so accomplished, smart, well-spoken, down-to-earth, and on top of it all, she's a fox. I hate to say it, but the girl in me definitely takes note of (and judges) appearances and she hit it out of the park. She's always put together and sharp looking, but also approachable and downright sporty. She looks like someone you could walk up to on a soccer field and have a conversation with. No pant suits (sorry, Hillary) or over-the-hill playboy bunny hair and $3000 Chanel suits laced with bling (sorry, Cindy McCain), but just someone many of us can relate to (or crush on and secretly wish we were - or is that just me?).

#3 - Sisterhood of the Traveling Pantsuits?

Oh Hil, you old card! That was pretty funny, but not written by her (sorry to be a hater, but speech writers rip their hair out thinking of that crap and deserve a nod). Her speech was important, she said what she had to say to support Obama and the party and still left herself in a good position for another run at the White House in 4/8 years. All said, it was well done. You all know how I feel about Bill Clinton (I won't go into it again, but all of the shots of his misty eyed nods of approval were hilarious/embarrassing) and Hillary's speech was laced with all of the Clintonisms of "the working mother supporting her child with ADD" or whatever, but she got the work done. And all in a yam colored pantsuit. Now THAT takes guts, but what a great way to show your Broncos loyalty against that bright blue backdrop?

#4 - Ole Scrappy Joe

I have to admit, I love Joe Biden. My mom has been a fan of him since way back so he wasn't as much of a stranger to me as he was to some, but I also love him because he's such a hardass. Did you watch the Democratic debates last summer? He and that old bastard from Alaska were great. They were placed down at the end of the line after Obama, Clinton and Edwards (don't get me started on him) and never asked one question. The moderators just let them bitch out all of the other candidates for their hypocrisy and political posturing.

I realize that he has been criticized for that exact fact and for being a bit verbose at times, but as he pointed out in his speech, he's just a scrappy kid from Scranton who doesn't like to put up with BS. I think he's a great foil for Obama who's been criticized for being too soft or idealistic. And personally he seems to be a good man (which I think DOES matter, Bill Clinton and John Edwards) . His son Beau's introduction really showed the kind of person he is and what he's been through. I mean, come on - there wasn't a dry eye in the house after that intro. Bravo.

#5 - The Big O

Obama spoke to a crowd of more than 80,000 at Invesco Mile High. And not just to any crowd, but to a crowd that had been waiting through three days of foreplay to reach the moment of climax. Can you imagine the pressure? The better a public speaker is, the higher the expectations and the farther there is to fall. Obama did not fall. In fact, he soared and took that crowd of 80,000 (and all of us at home) with him.

I'd say he hit his stride about 20 minutes into the speech and was able to be tough while not being bitter; respectful while not being cloying; and proud while not being arrogant. Not an easy accomplishment. And, to be fair, he has speech writers just like Hillary - just like all of them. But there is something in his delivery that feels honest and personal. And that's a feeling we haven't gotten from our leaders in a very long time.

When I started this off I said that there were so many levels to what I felt last week during the convention and that's true. Intellectually there was a lot to take in, consider, and agree or disagree with. Emotionally there was the excitement of congratulating the chosen candidate, the disappointment of watching one fail, the personal stories of loss and redemption, and the hope and promise of change. And finally spiritually (and I may lose some of you on this), but there seems to be something "bigger" going on here. It feels like a shift in our belief system in this country. One that is moving away from fear and anger and toward acceptance and understanding. Almost seven years ago this country was irrevocably changed and what makes me more proud than anything is that it has left us not hateful and vengeful, but hopeful and empowered to change the state of the world around us.

I mean, even our choice on the Republican ticket is a moderate conservative and a woman! Truly, I didn't think I'd live to see this day and if I had to imagine it, it wouldn't be taking place until much later in my life. So, to sum up my feelings right now I'd have to go with one word: proud. Like Obama said, we're all proud of our country, no matter what party we choose to vote for and I second that emotion. No matter how much crap we go through, the next generation never seems to lose its faith that things can always be better.

And what could be more bitchin' than that?

Next up: The Republican National Convention and Cindy McCain, the Poor Man's Michelle Obama

Speaking of Men Who Exfoliate...

2008-07-03T10:54:00.000-06:00

As many of you know, I have a love/hate relationship with John Mayer. Well, that's not exactly true. I definitely love him, never hate him, but he does disappoint me...often. I am definitely on his side and root for him always, but he keeps doing things that make it hard for me to defend him.

I know most of you are thinking that I'm going to say that dating Jennifer Aniston is a mistake or disappointing. Nope. I think she's vanilla (safe, cute, boring, appropriate, never ends up on the "don't" list of fashion "dos" and "don'ts"), but hell, this chick has been through some rough, humiliating stuff. I mean, how would you like to be left for Angelina Jolie?? Ugh, it's bad enough when your boyfriend cheats on you with some skank he met in Floribama with bad hair (is that offering too much?), but Angelina Jolie? As much as I despise her, no one can compete with her - even Hollywood's perfect cheerleader/class president: Jennifer Aniston.

It's been awhile since I talked about John and he's done a lot in that time to let me down. Most recently he's started wearing man scarves which initiates my gag reflex (who's he trying to be, Johnny Depp?), but he's started dropping hints that he's going to retire from music. I guess he's accomplished all that he can possibly accomplish by age 30. I don't buy it. Granted, I think there's too much pressure for artists to release new albums, novels, screenplays, at whiplash speed (I mean, look how long it takes me to write one blog post and that's because I don't want to post a piece of crap and it's just my friends and family reading this thing!), but he's going to retire? Come on, John. Suck it up.

I fear that John has fallen prey to that "Poor me, being famous is so hard" mentality. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I have the same reaction to that as I do to people telling me that it was really HARD being popular in high school. There was just so much PRESSURE. Give me a break! We all feel pressure in life, but when you're cool, popular (famous) you are spared the lonely feeling of anonymity and pointlessness and I guarantee that John Mayer feels much "prettier" now that he's famous. Look at his skin! He could be the new fresh-faced Noxema girl!

Then again, I still like John Mayer. And when I read interviews with him I get the feeling that much of what he says is very dry and tongue and cheek. Being from the same part of the country (CT, baby!), that sort of smartass, sarcastic, who gives a shit (me, more than anyone - please don't figure that out), you're stupid if you don't know that I'm joking coping/defense mechanism is like an old friend to me - I know it very, very well. And, I have to admit, if most of what came out of my mouth was written down without the inclusion of tone, I'd come off as a total asshole (I probably do anyway, but that's not MY problem if dumbass people don't know I'm joking! See? Told you it was an old friend).

So although I like to act like the jury is still out when it comes to John Mayer, it isn't. I like him. Even if he does wear man scarves in June (gag!).

Check this out if you don't believe me: http://johnmayer.shop.musictoday.com/Product.aspx?cp=235_2435&pc=JMAM32

An Issue of Vanity

2008-06-22T16:18:00.000-06:00

Whether or not you're a fan of "Vanity Fair" I encourage you to pick up this month's copy (with Angelina Jolie on the cover and no, I'm not going to go off on her...right now). There's an article about Bill Clinton inside this issue that is one of the best articles this magazine has published in the many years I've been subscribing to it.

In the article, it is (finally) stated that Bill Clinton is, in fact, a pig. If you're a die hard fan of PRESIDENT Clinton, chill out. The article is not about who Bill Clinton was as a president, but who he IS as a man. And as a man, he's a pig.

I won't go too much into detail about what the article covers (because I want you to read it for yourself), but I will say that it is revealed in this article that Bill Clinton's own aides currently call the plane he flies on, "Air F*ck One." That is so good, I wish I came up with it, but I didn't. Bill Clinton's own payroll came up with it! And those people know a lot more about Bill than just the cigar moment with Monica Lewinsky in the Oval Office.

Basically, what this article brings to light is that Bill is, and has always been, up to his old shenanigans. As much so (and probably more) than he was when he was governor and then president. As luck would have it, this article published after Hillary relinquished her bid for the Democratic candidacy for president. What the article makes clear is thank God for that because Bill would have humiliated her yet again. Over and over again.

With this issue of politics aside, I was always flabbergasted at how so many people, nay, so many women, could defend Bill Clinton's disgusting, blatant adultery. When the whole Monica scandal blew open, I was living in Boston (one of the most Democratic cities in the US) and I was shocked and saddened by how many women, many of them significantly older than I and married, would defend Bill, blame Monica, or just claim that it didn't matter. What I used to ask them is what I still wonder now: "If this was your friend or sister's husband would you still think it didn't matter?"

Bill Clinton is a pig - I'm just glad there's someone else out there (with more clout and journalist integrity than I) saying it.

And yet I'm not done. I read this article that points out what Bill Clinton lacks as a human being (decency, loyalty, humbleness - the list goes on) the same week that Tim Russert passed away. There could not be a more fitting person with whom to contrast Bill Clinton than Tim Russert.

In all of the television coverage after Tim Russert’s death (the memorial service, the last "Meet the Press" dedicated to Tim's memory) the prevailing message about Tim Russert was what a great man he was. A loyal, dedicated son, husband and father, a proud Catholic, a believer in debate, conversation, and being a voice for the people in this country - a country he loved and was proud of.

Just listening to the likes of Tom Brokaw, Mike Barnacle, and, most importantly, Luke Russert, talk about Tim and what kind of man he was made me feel proud of we are capable of in this country. A kid from blue collar Buffalo makes good! And not only did he succeed in life, but he left a mark on the world and one that he and his family can be proud of.

Which leaves me wondering this: why is it that I described the former President in the first half of this blog and not the second? Why are our expectations of that man and that office so low when we see how much an American is capable of in someone who reports back to us on that office?

Maybe a man like Tim Russert was TOO good for the presidency? That is what makes me saddest of all.

I Got the...Sex and the City Blues

2008-06-09T15:05:00.000-06:00

So I've now seen the "Sex and the City" movie twice. And loved it both times. Put that in your pipes and smoke it, movie critics!

I saw it here in Denver opening night and I haven't been as excited to see a movie since, well, ever. I tried to think of the last time I was so psyched to see a movie and could only compare it to "Desperately Seeking Susan," but even that didn't get me as jazzed. Besides, my older brother took me to see that just so he could see Madonna in her bra, I think (like we hadn't all seen her in her bra a million times by then, but I digress).

I've never seen so many grown women in costume outside of Halloween night. And yes, I did dress up as well. The atmosphere in the movie theater was electric and when that tell-tale theme music started playing the hair on my arms stood up. Granted, there were a few ladies in the theater who'd had a few too many cosmos and felt it necessary to keep yelling comments at the screen, but even they couldn't ruin the mood.

The movie was, basically, what I thought it would be - one long episode in the continuation of the lives of Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. And that was just what I wanted it to be. However, at the conclusion of the movie and on until the following day, all I felt was depressed - depressed that it was over...again.

I know I'm not the only woman out there feeling this way and it makes me wonder why. I mean, it was a great show, yes, but I think more than that it was the most HONEST show that women have ever had. Granted, there are extremes in each character that most of us don't touch, but parts of all of those characters live in all of us (some more stridently than others). And what's so unique about these characters is that we see them all succeed. And fail. Just like we all do - depending on what day it is.

We've all been rejected, disappointed, surprised, loved, and lost - and so have all of the women of "Sex and the City." This fictional group has blown the lid off the Hollywood theory that if you're beautiful and successful enough, you'll never hurt.

I guess I just wish it didn't hurt so much to lose all of them.

Beautiful Boys

2008-05-08T15:05:00.000-06:00

I really thought we were past the "metrosexual" days, but some new developments are convincing me that those days never ended, they merely went clandestine for a couple of years.

Sure, we've had the more "rugged" male stars like Clive Owen and Gerard Butler snagging more magazine covers of late, but ten to one, those guys use just as many "products" as Ricky Martin did circa 1999. Even still, at least they appear a little rough around the edges, some scruff on the face, chest hair appropriate for any man over the age of 15, and only slightly manicured eyebrows. I was happy with the direction our men were headed...until now.

I opened up Yahoo! today to see that the LEAD story was Clay Aiken's "new look." Clay 3.0 they're calling it. Are you kidding me?! THAT'S the lead story - I mean, even on Yahoo!, that's just sad. Two nights ago we just had one of the most heated Democratic primaries all year and this closeted American Idol reject is making headlines with his scary, Michael Jackson-ish transformation?!

The one upside is that finally, men are beginning to feel some of the pressure (only some!) that women, both celebrity and non-celebrity, have been feeling since the dawn of time. The pressure to be "beautiful." And beauty, as we ladies know, means: ageless, flawless, perfect.

For men, that means a greater attention to products that are words my father couldn't even define (like: exfoliant). Although I don't find it attractive, I do find some retribution in this new expectation for men to be physically "perfect."

No pressure, guys...

Where Are You Now, Angela Chase?

2008-04-03T16:02:00.001-06:00

I recently bought myself one of the greatest presents I've ever received: the box set of "My So-Called Life." I have been allowing myself to watch only two episodes at a time (tops!) because I want to savor re-living this show.

MSCL debuted my freshman year in college. I remember my friend, Goldie, emailing me from UC-Berkley and telling me that I MUST watch this show, that is was the closest thing to our high school experience that we were ever going to see on television. Naturally, I ignored her advice. I was, after all, in college at that point and didn't need a trite high school show to occupy my time. What can I say? I was a moron.

As we all know, the show was cancelled after one season (blasphemy!) and then it re-aired on MTV. I caught it when it re-aired and cursed my short-sighted snub I'd made. Goldie was right, it was the closest representation of my high school years that I had ever seen (and have ever seen) on the screen. What's even more heartbreaking is that watching it now, some almost 15 years later (ouch!), the show seems even more brilliant than ever.

Once you get past all of the grunge references (plaid EVERYTHING, Kurt Cobain's death on the cover of "Rolling Stone," many references to Smashing Pumpkins), this show could easily be set in 2008. What the writers and actors of this show nailed so effortlessly was honesty. The stars of the show were, for the most part, really teenagers. (Unlike the 90210 crowd with their receding hairlines and crow's feet, all pushing 30). The parents are drawn as intricately as the kids in this show - they are not belittled to bumbling, embarrassing stereotypes. Their embarrassing behavior is totally believable (remember Angela's dad trying to impress Rayanne with his knowledge of the Grateful Dead? Gag!). And the teenagers are so...so...real.

I know I'm not the only one out there who felt like Angela Chase a lot of the time in high school. Someone who blends in and desperately wants to be noticed, but for the right reasons - not for the wrong ones (while still trying to figure out what is "right" and "wrong"). Someone who tries to branch out and make new friends, but can't do that without ostracizing an old one. Someone who, for no good reason, can't even look at her mother without wanting to scream.

Ah....the good old days.

Watching MSCL again has been a real catharsis. As I approach thirtysomething (another show I could probably appreciate more now than I did then), I look back at my own teen years and try to figure out how the hell I got here from there. And, to be honest, I'm pretty happy about where I've ended up because it's not at all where I thought I'd be.

I have the same hope for Angela Chase. I hope she's somewhere out there, doing something totally unexpected and unplanned and living her life being noticed...for all of the right reasons.

The Bitch is BACK!

2008-03-28T22:56:00.000-06:00

After being humbled by many questions about the frequency of this blog, I am back! I must say, I had high hopes of posting on my blog no matter what my personal situation, but that hasn't been the case. I have been a modern day gypsy these days. In a different city, a different nondescript Hilton Garden Inn each week and it has, literally, sapped my of my creative juices.

Well, that's not true. As alway, the juices have stirred, but without an outlet. I am, evermore, the ardent student. I do not like to submit my work until I feel it is "finished." In that vain, I am a hopelessly poor blogger because the purpose of a blog is to put it "out there" without the need or a copy editor or second draft.

With that being said, I am back! I have many stories about my travels, my sweet children, forthcoming on this blog in the next few days. Mr. Swisher Sweets Houston companion, Ms. Cinderella Barbie Dallas friend, and the like. Stay tuned.

Thank you all for checking in on me while I've been away and I'm sorry to have been so remiss. Even if it's total crap, it's yours to read. Just don't judge me! Or...judge me. To hell with it!

Happy F*cking Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T15:37:00.000-07:00

Guess how many Valentines I got in the mail today? That's right: Zero. But I DID receive a "Prevention" magazine (you know, the magazine for post-menopausal women?). No kidding. I couldn't even make up irony that cruel.

This holiday SUCKS! And no, I'm not just saying that because I'm single and growing increasingly more bitter about that fact. I'm saying it because it's so forced. And there's nothing less genuine than forced romance (except maybe forced fun which tends to happen at large, corporate gatherings and is equally as nauseating). Even when I had a boyfriend (and those times are becoming harder and harder to recall), I totally hated Valentine's Day.

You feel like you should do something for your "sweetie" but let's say you've only been dating for a couple months? You don't want to do TOO much and freak him out, but you don't want to ignore it because, God forbid, he ignores it and does nothing because then he's dead to you.

And I love how men say they don't like to give flowers because it's so "generic." Whatever. I guess that's true if what "generic" really means is "expensive." Guys, I feel for you because even though I hate the holiday, if I was dating one of you right now and you didn't buy me a card or flowers I'd be totally pissed.

And there's nothing worse than a pissed off woman on Valentine's Day. Just ask my mailman who delivered that "Prevention" magazine to me today...

Bad News for Hillary

2008-02-04T10:41:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I've asserted my opinion, many times, on why I think Hillary Clinton will never be President of this country. It's not because she's not smart enough or qualified enough it's because she's a woman. And before any men reading this get their Jockeys in a bunch because they think I'm saying that men are sexist jerks who wouldn't vote for a woman, take a breath.

I think Hillary won't win because women won't vote for a woman. Women do not trust other women. Read this article below for further confirmation of that opinion (yes, there's research involved):

http://msn.careerbuilder.com/custom/msn/careeradvice/viewarticle.aspx?articleid=1285&SiteId=cbmsnbc41285&sc_extcmp=JS_1285_msnbc&GT1=10884&cbRecursionCnt=1&cbsid=554f25e39e0e4606a925e63c2b37b1ea-255442958-VD-4

Are any of you surprised by this? I'm not. To be honest, I myself have said that I prefer having a male boss to a female one. I'm not proud of this and I feel pretty embarrassed admiting it, but it's true.

Women CAN be catty, bitchy, petty and overly emotional and those who aren't, who exemplify characteristics of successfuly managers like being direct, less emotional, more rational are seen as being "masculine" and, therefore, not liked or trusted for that reason. I mean, why do you think Hillary's popularity in New Hampshire rose after she cried on television? We wanted to see that she is, in fact, a woman...with feelings.

I promise not to devote this blog to the injustices we face as women in this world, but I think we need to face that we women don't need men the way that we used to. We particularly don't need them to help us keep ourselves down.

Food for Thought, Girls

2008-01-30T13:59:00.000-07:00

I have sent this article to many of you, but it's worth a read for those of you who haven't seen it:

http://www.newsweek.com/id/101079?GT1=10755

I've met a lot of smart men in my life. And I've met a lot of dumb men. I have, likewise, met a lot of smart women and a lot of dumb ones. What this article brings to light, however, is something I've found to be true: many men, both smart and dumb, believe themselves to be smarter than they really are. On the other hand, many women I've met don't believe that they are as smart as they really are - even the really bright ones.

In fact, many intelligent women I've met, when they are told how smart they are, usually deny it. And I'm not sure if it's out of modesty or embarassment. On the other hand, I've NEVER heard one man deflect a remark about his superior intelligence. He just believes it to be true.

I think what disappoints me most about this topic is that many girls are raised by their own mothers to believe that they are not as smart as their brothers or male counterparts.

This has to change, ladies.

Changing the Name of this Blog

2008-01-29T21:14:00.000-07:00

So, originally (back in the MSN days) I called my blog "Diary of a Mad White Woman" because I thought it was a witty, albeit not too creative, play on the movie title, "Diary of a Mad Black Woman." Then, I Googled "Diary of a Mad White Woman" and found that some racist white woman out there has that title on her web page and decided I didn't need to make an ally (however accidental) out of someone like that.

Since "bitchin'" is my favorite words (at least that's my official answer to James Lipton), I thought I'd incorporate it since this is where I will bitch about many things and I hope it will result in some passages that will be pretty bitchin', dude (ugh, that's my second least favorite word after "fabulous").

THE BLOG IS BACK!

2008-01-29T13:42:00.001-07:00

After a hiatus from the online world (not counting all of that failed online dating), I've returned sans MySpace to the blogging world. Get ready! All four of you reading this are going to be blow away!

If a stripper from Minnesota can be discovered through her blog and write an Oscar-nominated screenplay, just think what a sales rep from Denver who is afraid to get naked in front of a compact mirror can accomplish? The possibilities are monotonous...

Ted and Barack, Sitting in a Tree...

2008-01-29T13:11:00.000-07:00

Did anyone else watch the State of the Union address last night? Whenever I watch the State of the Union it makes me feel so grown-up. As a kid, my parents would watch the president speak and I always thought it was so boring. I still do. But I guess that's what being an adult is all about. You do things and watch things because you "should" and it's "responsible" not because it's fun and exciting. I mean, did George W. Bush really say anything new, remarkable, exciting, funny or even remotely interesting last night? No. And that's nothing new, but what's even worse is that after the speech, all of the news folks and other politicians were basically saying that his speech was meaningless since he's on his way out of office. Oh good, I'm so glad I'll never get that hour of my life back.

What WAS interesting, remarkable, and even funny about last night's State of the Union was Ted Kennedy and Barack Obama almost holding hands, listening to the president's speech together. You can almost imagine Barack glancing meaningfully over at Hillary (on the other side of the aisle) during the speech with a, "Ha! I got him - I know you're jealous...bitch!" look on his face the entire time.

Don't get me wrong, I like Obama and everything, but come on, man: haven't the Kennedys had their asses kissed enough in the past 40 years? I mean, I know Ted's basically the only one left, but I think he can handle getting through the State of the Union without any heavy petting. Well, maybe not, but he'd probably rather be pet by Jenna Bush than you, Barack.

Whatever side of the fence you live on (or, if you're like me you live right on the fence with the fence post up your ass most of the time), this is going to be an exciting year in politics and I, for one, am excited about that! Maybe that means for the first time in a VERY long time our headlines won't be dedicated to Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Brangelina, TomKat, Bennifer, or any other such trashy, pathetic person or hybrid person.

I have a dream....