The Warrior Princess and her friend Sophie have a punk rock band. They call themselves the Jerks. (I have no idea who came up with this, but it's awesome.) They're the house band in WP's playroom. Sometimes Sophie is on guitar and Lily is on drums. Sometimes Lily is on guitar and Sophie is on bass. They rock out hardcore on Guitar Hero.
This morning it was my turn to run carpool. I asked the WP about a patriotic sing they were having at school.
I'm not really good at singing, WP said matter-of-factly.
I disagree, I replied, I think you have a very sweet singing voice.
Like this? she queried, and then yelled BLOB!!! at the top of her lungs.
No, I responded calmly, when you actually sing, instead of just yelling 'blob.'
She thought about that for a second. Then she added, Sophie and I aren't in the Jerks anymore.
I'm sorry to hear that, I told her. What happened? Creative differences?
What's that mean?
You know, some bands break up because of creative differences. Maybe you wanted to innovate. You wanted to express yourself musically. Go in a different direction. And maybe she was more concerned about, like, commercial viability.
Yeah, WP played along. It's really fun when she's game for my shtick. Usually she just thinks I'm an embarrassment. I wanted to write my own songs.
Happens all the time, I assured her. So maybe you go off, make a solo record, do a small club tour, maybe. And then y'all will be ready to be the Jerks again.
Yeah, she murmured, off in her daydream. WP is considering her options.
Then we got into a discussion about the merits of abstract art. I have no idea how that happened. It was kind of a fun ride to school, though.
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
i should never have taught you how to text
Bubbie recently visited me and the WP. She spent a few days. She needed the rest and a change of scenery and I needed...well, okay, I needed my mommy. Don't judge me.
One day, while I was at work, Darlene and Little G picked up the WP and took her with them to an 11:15 movie, leaving Bubbie alone in the house to just rest and relax. My technophobe mother only learned to text recently. I'm not sure but I think my brother and I tagteamed her. I assured her that, should there be some kind of grave emergency, this was the fastest way to get in touch with me, the only way to convey the proper level of urgency, something I would see even if I was not in a position to actually answer my phone.
At 1:09 p.m., I received the following text:
Should i be worried baby not home
Noooo. They probably talked D into taking them to maggie moo's.
ok
1:35 p.m.
where is the cheese grater
We have two.
One is a smaller one w a handle - drawer directly underneath drying rack
Other one is in upper corner cabinet
1:45 p.m.
boyh missing
both missing how about goat cheese
Goat cheese would be in deli drawer of refrigerator if we have it
wtf why are you trying to grate goat cheese
i will be leaving office soon so I can pick up anything you need
Cleaning products comet etc
What besides comet
And why are you cleaning. stop it
Im not but you will need sponges etc
Dude I'm all over it. leaving office now
1:59 p.m.
No ice sucks
What the f, woman
what are you doing that requires goat cheese and ice
Being a good partner
Aww! love
Back at ya
One day, while I was at work, Darlene and Little G picked up the WP and took her with them to an 11:15 movie, leaving Bubbie alone in the house to just rest and relax. My technophobe mother only learned to text recently. I'm not sure but I think my brother and I tagteamed her. I assured her that, should there be some kind of grave emergency, this was the fastest way to get in touch with me, the only way to convey the proper level of urgency, something I would see even if I was not in a position to actually answer my phone.
At 1:09 p.m., I received the following text:
Should i be worried baby not home
Noooo. They probably talked D into taking them to maggie moo's.
ok
1:35 p.m.
where is the cheese grater
We have two.
One is a smaller one w a handle - drawer directly underneath drying rack
Other one is in upper corner cabinet
1:45 p.m.
boyh missing
both missing how about goat cheese
Goat cheese would be in deli drawer of refrigerator if we have it
wtf why are you trying to grate goat cheese
i will be leaving office soon so I can pick up anything you need
Cleaning products comet etc
What besides comet
And why are you cleaning. stop it
Im not but you will need sponges etc
Dude I'm all over it. leaving office now
1:59 p.m.
No ice sucks
What the f, woman
what are you doing that requires goat cheese and ice
Being a good partner
Aww! love
Back at ya
in which the wp blows my mind
Like many mothers of daughters, I sometimes look at my child and think, "Who are you?"
The Warrior Princess - and it should be understood that she is definitely more warrior than princess - could not be more different from me in many respects. The most obvious difference is her complete lack of cookie fancy. I love to wear dresses. The quickest way to piss her off is to try to put her into a dress. I don't really like playing video games; she will probably design one by the time she's ten. I love food - all kinds. She has about ten foods she'll eat. I love novelty and she prefers consistency. Anything I think is a great idea, she immediately rejects. I love meeting people, and she won't look you in the eye when she talks to you. It makes me seriously crazy.
There's only one other person that makes me that crazy. And that's her father. (It's okay. He'd say the same thing about me.)
Because the WP and I are so different in so many ways, I always get a kick out of the weird ways she is like me. You who are parents will get this. Sure, our children get all kinds of physical traits from us (the WP gets a curly mop of hair from me, and her smile from her dad). They sometimes inherit health problems from us, or even temperamental traits. But there are some things they inherit that can't possibly be carried on DNA. Right?
Example: Here is a conversation that Lily and I had the other day when she was getting ready for school.
KMS: (yelling up the stairs) Don't forget to make your bed!
WP: (yelling back down) I won't!
Pause.
WP: (yelling from her room) MOM! I can't make up my bed!
KMS: Why not?
WP: Because it's too jacked up!
Well, who does that sound like.
It's easy enough to explain. When you grow up around a certain sensibility, you're bound to adopt it. So how do you explain the things your kids do...that you did as a kid...that they could have no way of knowing you did?
When I was little, I loved riding in the car with my dad, mainly because he loved to listen to music as much as I did. Also, it was a convertible. Sometimes he would talk to me about whatever it was we were listening to: Kerri. Listen. Hear that backbeat? or Listen to the harmonies on this one. The Beach Boys invented that sound. or You ever heard of the Memphis Horns? Listen, I'm gonna rewind this, and you listen for the horns. He would keep time - the backbeat, naturally - by tapping his finger, the one with the gold wedding band, against the hard steering wheel. (Interestingly enough, in my memory, when I hear that whack-whack-whack now, it's always keeping the beat of the Stones' "Jumping Jack Flash.") But sometimes, I liked for him to turn up the music enough to drown out most of the ambient noise, then I'd turn away from him, look out the window, and forget there was anyone or anything else in the world than me and my daydream and what I could see out the window.
I was driving the WP home from school one day when I noticed it.
We had music on - I never drive anywhere that I don't have music on, to this day - and I was asking her about her day at school.
How was school, sweetie?
Nothing.
Hey, boo boo. Didn't you have library today? What'd you check out?
Total silence.
Sweetie? Are you okay?
After a beat, she spoke the first words since she got in the car.
Mom? Can you turn up the radio please?
Sure, baby, I said absently, turning it up. And I glanced in the rear view mirror. That's when I noticed it. She was turned almost completely sideways in her seat, staring out the window.
Now if she ever goes streaking up the street wearing nothing but an oatmeal box tied around her neck with a piece of yarn, I'll be really freaked out. Although I think if that were going to happen, it'd have happened by now, because I was two when I did it.
Maybe she'll do it in college.
Great. Now I can't sleep.
The Warrior Princess - and it should be understood that she is definitely more warrior than princess - could not be more different from me in many respects. The most obvious difference is her complete lack of cookie fancy. I love to wear dresses. The quickest way to piss her off is to try to put her into a dress. I don't really like playing video games; she will probably design one by the time she's ten. I love food - all kinds. She has about ten foods she'll eat. I love novelty and she prefers consistency. Anything I think is a great idea, she immediately rejects. I love meeting people, and she won't look you in the eye when she talks to you. It makes me seriously crazy.
There's only one other person that makes me that crazy. And that's her father. (It's okay. He'd say the same thing about me.)
Because the WP and I are so different in so many ways, I always get a kick out of the weird ways she is like me. You who are parents will get this. Sure, our children get all kinds of physical traits from us (the WP gets a curly mop of hair from me, and her smile from her dad). They sometimes inherit health problems from us, or even temperamental traits. But there are some things they inherit that can't possibly be carried on DNA. Right?
Example: Here is a conversation that Lily and I had the other day when she was getting ready for school.
KMS: (yelling up the stairs) Don't forget to make your bed!
WP: (yelling back down) I won't!
Pause.
WP: (yelling from her room) MOM! I can't make up my bed!
KMS: Why not?
WP: Because it's too jacked up!
Well, who does that sound like.
It's easy enough to explain. When you grow up around a certain sensibility, you're bound to adopt it. So how do you explain the things your kids do...that you did as a kid...that they could have no way of knowing you did?
When I was little, I loved riding in the car with my dad, mainly because he loved to listen to music as much as I did. Also, it was a convertible. Sometimes he would talk to me about whatever it was we were listening to: Kerri. Listen. Hear that backbeat? or Listen to the harmonies on this one. The Beach Boys invented that sound. or You ever heard of the Memphis Horns? Listen, I'm gonna rewind this, and you listen for the horns. He would keep time - the backbeat, naturally - by tapping his finger, the one with the gold wedding band, against the hard steering wheel. (Interestingly enough, in my memory, when I hear that whack-whack-whack now, it's always keeping the beat of the Stones' "Jumping Jack Flash.") But sometimes, I liked for him to turn up the music enough to drown out most of the ambient noise, then I'd turn away from him, look out the window, and forget there was anyone or anything else in the world than me and my daydream and what I could see out the window.
I was driving the WP home from school one day when I noticed it.
We had music on - I never drive anywhere that I don't have music on, to this day - and I was asking her about her day at school.
How was school, sweetie?
Nothing.
Hey, boo boo. Didn't you have library today? What'd you check out?
Total silence.
Sweetie? Are you okay?
After a beat, she spoke the first words since she got in the car.
Mom? Can you turn up the radio please?
Sure, baby, I said absently, turning it up. And I glanced in the rear view mirror. That's when I noticed it. She was turned almost completely sideways in her seat, staring out the window.
Now if she ever goes streaking up the street wearing nothing but an oatmeal box tied around her neck with a piece of yarn, I'll be really freaked out. Although I think if that were going to happen, it'd have happened by now, because I was two when I did it.
Maybe she'll do it in college.
Great. Now I can't sleep.
seriously, what the hell is wrong with people?
I feel a rant coming on. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Lately, I've noticed a little rash, a hemorrhoidal flare-up, if you will, of meanness in our little corner of the world. Read or watch the political news, and you'll see it. And if you're a woman, especially, you'd better be paying attention to some of the bills being presented, in Arkansas and all over the country. It is open season on you right now. Watch your back.
It's not just in politics, either. I hear it everywhere. People are angry and feel newly entitled to spew their crazy onto anyone they think deserves it. Sexist, bigoted, homophobic attitudes are rampant and, for the first time I can recall in my lifetime, widely and publicly supported by a loud and obnoxious bunch of folks. A whole lot of people are choking on their own righteous indignation. It's scary on a macro level, and sad on every level.
To move away from the political and back into the cultural, I give you this example of pure, unmitigated meanness from the past week.
I am, of course, in Razorback Country, but surely all of you are aware of the time-honored rivalry between my alma mater, the University of Alabama, and Auburn University. Every resident of the state of Alabama has to choose a side at birth, basically. It's serious, serious bidness. Both these deep-South schools take their traditions VERY seriously. And one of the long-standing traditions at Auburn is gathering to celebrate victories among the 130 year-old oaks at Toomer's Corner. So, the Auburn community was understandably devastated to learn that someone had delivered an apparently lethal dose of herbicide to the Toomer's Corner trees.
An arrest was made this week, a 62 year-old Alabama fan who got sufficiently pissed off at Auburn's national championship win to go over to Toomer's Corner with some heavy-duty poison and dose those trees. He called in to a sports talk radio show and bragged about it. Bragged about it! He killed trees several generations old. Just to spite Auburn fans! Pardon my French, but what an asshole.
Obviously, Auburn's faculty, students, and Auburn fans were in shock. They brought over experts to look at the trees and see if they can be saved, but the levels of herbicide in the soil indicate that the amount of the poison applied went way beyond what would be needed to kill the trees.
As a graduate of the University of Alabama, I can tell you that one of the things in the DNA of both these schools - for good or ill - is a deep sense of tradition. So I don't know one member of the Alabama community that is anything but sick about what this idiot did to those beautiful trees. Through social media, a group of Alabama fans quickly created a fundraising drive to help save the Toomer's Corner trees. By the time I joined, it had reached over 10,000 people. As I write this, it's surpassed 38,000. We may hate Auburn, gleefully and enthusiastically. We may cheer when they lose. We live to beat them in the Iron Bowl each year and consider it a losing season if we don't, even if we're undefeated the rest of the season. Deep down, though, we know that our rivalry is what makes football season more fun. And we appreciate tradition above all. So what this man did to those trees struck at the heart of what most binds us to each other. Just plain mean.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with people?
Want to help save the trees? Click here. Roll Tide.
Now dammit, get out there and play nice. Karma's a bitch, and mean people, trust me, she's coming for you. (And she might have red hair. Just sayin'.)
Lately, I've noticed a little rash, a hemorrhoidal flare-up, if you will, of meanness in our little corner of the world. Read or watch the political news, and you'll see it. And if you're a woman, especially, you'd better be paying attention to some of the bills being presented, in Arkansas and all over the country. It is open season on you right now. Watch your back.
It's not just in politics, either. I hear it everywhere. People are angry and feel newly entitled to spew their crazy onto anyone they think deserves it. Sexist, bigoted, homophobic attitudes are rampant and, for the first time I can recall in my lifetime, widely and publicly supported by a loud and obnoxious bunch of folks. A whole lot of people are choking on their own righteous indignation. It's scary on a macro level, and sad on every level.
To move away from the political and back into the cultural, I give you this example of pure, unmitigated meanness from the past week.
I am, of course, in Razorback Country, but surely all of you are aware of the time-honored rivalry between my alma mater, the University of Alabama, and Auburn University. Every resident of the state of Alabama has to choose a side at birth, basically. It's serious, serious bidness. Both these deep-South schools take their traditions VERY seriously. And one of the long-standing traditions at Auburn is gathering to celebrate victories among the 130 year-old oaks at Toomer's Corner. So, the Auburn community was understandably devastated to learn that someone had delivered an apparently lethal dose of herbicide to the Toomer's Corner trees.
An arrest was made this week, a 62 year-old Alabama fan who got sufficiently pissed off at Auburn's national championship win to go over to Toomer's Corner with some heavy-duty poison and dose those trees. He called in to a sports talk radio show and bragged about it. Bragged about it! He killed trees several generations old. Just to spite Auburn fans! Pardon my French, but what an asshole.
Obviously, Auburn's faculty, students, and Auburn fans were in shock. They brought over experts to look at the trees and see if they can be saved, but the levels of herbicide in the soil indicate that the amount of the poison applied went way beyond what would be needed to kill the trees.
As a graduate of the University of Alabama, I can tell you that one of the things in the DNA of both these schools - for good or ill - is a deep sense of tradition. So I don't know one member of the Alabama community that is anything but sick about what this idiot did to those beautiful trees. Through social media, a group of Alabama fans quickly created a fundraising drive to help save the Toomer's Corner trees. By the time I joined, it had reached over 10,000 people. As I write this, it's surpassed 38,000. We may hate Auburn, gleefully and enthusiastically. We may cheer when they lose. We live to beat them in the Iron Bowl each year and consider it a losing season if we don't, even if we're undefeated the rest of the season. Deep down, though, we know that our rivalry is what makes football season more fun. And we appreciate tradition above all. So what this man did to those trees struck at the heart of what most binds us to each other. Just plain mean.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with people?
Want to help save the trees? Click here. Roll Tide.
Now dammit, get out there and play nice. Karma's a bitch, and mean people, trust me, she's coming for you. (And she might have red hair. Just sayin'.)
how i met your godmother
The icebreaker discussion question: Describe for us a time you felt different.
When I was in second grade, growing up in East Memphis, I was a Brownie. You know, a little Girl Scout. There were maybe 20 of us that gathered, sang songs, played games, did activities together. We were the same age, eight or nine. All of us white, all of us pretty solidly upper middle class. Our dads (not so much our moms, yet, mind you, but our dads) were doctors and brokers and accountants and restauranteurs. By most sociological standards, a pretty homogeneous group. And back then, we all wore the same uniform, a jumper in a fairly washed-out and sad shade of brown, with a brown beanie, a little orange tie at the neck, and a sash across the front that bore all our insignia - the Brownie pin, the little merit badges we'd earned, and of course, the all-important number that identified to which troop you belonged.
For me, that was Troop 53, Memphis Jewish Community Center. And I was the lone gentile.
East Memphis has long been a place with a pretty high concentration of Jewish folks. The reform Temple Israel and several synagogues are located in the eastern part of the city. I went to a small private school with many of the girls in my Brownie troop. The composition of my class at Lausanne was very interesting, not only for being slightly majority Jewish, but for its enormously lopsided gender composition. Lausanne had been an all-girl school until they started admitting boys in 1970, and let's just say they weren't enrolling in droves. In 1978, our class contained two boys. This was only a short-term problem for them, though, because when we girls finally started to discover boys... let's just say those two never had it so good, before or since. But I digress.
My school was only a few blocks from the Jewish Community Center, around which much of the social and community lives of my classmates was centered. So it made perfect sense from a geographical standpoint. And frankly, since the Brownie troop was comprised in part of my own Lausanne classmates, it didn't seem at all unusual to me that I should join an otherwise completely Jewish Brownie troop. Sometimes you don't know you're different until someone else points it out to you.
Not all of the scouts in my troop went to my school. There was this one little girl, the daughter of the troop leader, who came right up to me and got, you know, all up in my grill, so to speak.
What are you doing here? You're not Jewish!
Room, meet elephant.
I don't recall what my reply was to this. What do you say? I'm sorry? One thing was certain: I was going to hate this girl instantly. She always had something smart to say. She looked at things differently from everyone else. She expressed her opinion whether you wanted it or not and never backed down from it. She didn't care if even one other person agreed with her point of view or defended her. She had chutzpah, for sure, and she definitely marched to the beat of a different drummer. Takes one to know one.
When she transferred to Lausanne a few years later, she and I had the distinct honor of being the two worst players on the 7th and 8th grade volleyball team, where we took up right where we left off in Brownies, mercilessly antagonizing the shit out of each other. We spent so much time harassing each other, in class, at volleyball practice, and pretty much everywhere else that we eventually bonded and became the best of friends. I was welcomed at her house for countless sleepovers, and she at mine. Her parents weren't afraid to call me out on the carpet, and mine felt similarly empowered to bring her back in line. We were two odd ducks, but we had each other. We made up stories and recounted strange dreams to each other and cried about boys and rode our bikes to the mall. We both developed an interest in music and searched for new and interesting bands and shared with each other what we'd discovered and scoffed at the unenlightened. And grew up smart. And made our parents crazy. And slogged through college applications. Laughed, hugged, fought, and shared everything.
She introduced me to my husband. And told us we would be good together. To our faces. Subtle as a freight train. (I didn't like him at first, either.)
She left Memphis and went to college in Wisconsin and then law school in North Carolina and worked a ton and lived in Memphis and then Atlanta and then Memphis and lost her father and looked after her mother and moved to Washington D.C., where she currently makes a living as a lawyer, still telling people all their damn business and getting paid to do it.
Four days after Baby Warrior Princess was born, she came to Little Rock to see us. Completely ignoring any Christian tradition about godparents, we asked her to be Lily's godmother. It seems very appropriate that the WP calls her grandmother Bubbie and has a Jewish godmother. Nancy insists that I'm actually Jewish anyway, so I should just stop lying to myself.
We don't get to see each other much anymore, but we stay pretty connected on Facebook, reporting our news and sharing articles and snarking away at the Golden Globes in real time. And she sends Lily presents from time to time, just to let her know she's thinking about her. Before we left for Europe, she sent the WP a $20 bill to spend any way she wanted. Later, the thank you note read: Dear Nancy, thank you for the $20. I used it. Your pal, Lily.
The other day, WP and I were on our way home from school, and she asked me, Mom, can I join Brownies?
I had to smile. I wonder if she'll meet anyone interesting. Maybe there will be a little girl who becomes her nemesis. And then her friend. And then her sister. You never know.
We start Brownies next week. I'll let you know how it goes.
When I was in second grade, growing up in East Memphis, I was a Brownie. You know, a little Girl Scout. There were maybe 20 of us that gathered, sang songs, played games, did activities together. We were the same age, eight or nine. All of us white, all of us pretty solidly upper middle class. Our dads (not so much our moms, yet, mind you, but our dads) were doctors and brokers and accountants and restauranteurs. By most sociological standards, a pretty homogeneous group. And back then, we all wore the same uniform, a jumper in a fairly washed-out and sad shade of brown, with a brown beanie, a little orange tie at the neck, and a sash across the front that bore all our insignia - the Brownie pin, the little merit badges we'd earned, and of course, the all-important number that identified to which troop you belonged.
For me, that was Troop 53, Memphis Jewish Community Center. And I was the lone gentile.
East Memphis has long been a place with a pretty high concentration of Jewish folks. The reform Temple Israel and several synagogues are located in the eastern part of the city. I went to a small private school with many of the girls in my Brownie troop. The composition of my class at Lausanne was very interesting, not only for being slightly majority Jewish, but for its enormously lopsided gender composition. Lausanne had been an all-girl school until they started admitting boys in 1970, and let's just say they weren't enrolling in droves. In 1978, our class contained two boys. This was only a short-term problem for them, though, because when we girls finally started to discover boys... let's just say those two never had it so good, before or since. But I digress.
My school was only a few blocks from the Jewish Community Center, around which much of the social and community lives of my classmates was centered. So it made perfect sense from a geographical standpoint. And frankly, since the Brownie troop was comprised in part of my own Lausanne classmates, it didn't seem at all unusual to me that I should join an otherwise completely Jewish Brownie troop. Sometimes you don't know you're different until someone else points it out to you.
Not all of the scouts in my troop went to my school. There was this one little girl, the daughter of the troop leader, who came right up to me and got, you know, all up in my grill, so to speak.
What are you doing here? You're not Jewish!
Room, meet elephant.
I don't recall what my reply was to this. What do you say? I'm sorry? One thing was certain: I was going to hate this girl instantly. She always had something smart to say. She looked at things differently from everyone else. She expressed her opinion whether you wanted it or not and never backed down from it. She didn't care if even one other person agreed with her point of view or defended her. She had chutzpah, for sure, and she definitely marched to the beat of a different drummer. Takes one to know one.
When she transferred to Lausanne a few years later, she and I had the distinct honor of being the two worst players on the 7th and 8th grade volleyball team, where we took up right where we left off in Brownies, mercilessly antagonizing the shit out of each other. We spent so much time harassing each other, in class, at volleyball practice, and pretty much everywhere else that we eventually bonded and became the best of friends. I was welcomed at her house for countless sleepovers, and she at mine. Her parents weren't afraid to call me out on the carpet, and mine felt similarly empowered to bring her back in line. We were two odd ducks, but we had each other. We made up stories and recounted strange dreams to each other and cried about boys and rode our bikes to the mall. We both developed an interest in music and searched for new and interesting bands and shared with each other what we'd discovered and scoffed at the unenlightened. And grew up smart. And made our parents crazy. And slogged through college applications. Laughed, hugged, fought, and shared everything.
She introduced me to my husband. And told us we would be good together. To our faces. Subtle as a freight train. (I didn't like him at first, either.)
She left Memphis and went to college in Wisconsin and then law school in North Carolina and worked a ton and lived in Memphis and then Atlanta and then Memphis and lost her father and looked after her mother and moved to Washington D.C., where she currently makes a living as a lawyer, still telling people all their damn business and getting paid to do it.
Four days after Baby Warrior Princess was born, she came to Little Rock to see us. Completely ignoring any Christian tradition about godparents, we asked her to be Lily's godmother. It seems very appropriate that the WP calls her grandmother Bubbie and has a Jewish godmother. Nancy insists that I'm actually Jewish anyway, so I should just stop lying to myself.
We don't get to see each other much anymore, but we stay pretty connected on Facebook, reporting our news and sharing articles and snarking away at the Golden Globes in real time. And she sends Lily presents from time to time, just to let her know she's thinking about her. Before we left for Europe, she sent the WP a $20 bill to spend any way she wanted. Later, the thank you note read: Dear Nancy, thank you for the $20. I used it. Your pal, Lily.
The other day, WP and I were on our way home from school, and she asked me, Mom, can I join Brownies?
I had to smile. I wonder if she'll meet anyone interesting. Maybe there will be a little girl who becomes her nemesis. And then her friend. And then her sister. You never know.
We start Brownies next week. I'll let you know how it goes.
happy new year
And now, the obligatory rundown of New Year's resolutions. I historically avoid making resolutions, since a resolution is generally a promise you make but can't keep, and there's enough of that in the world. So for a few years, I had the habit of making resolutions that would be easy to keep, because it wasn't really an issue for me to begin with (One example: give up meth.)
Since 2010 damn near killed us all, though, I thought that I might revisit this whole resolution thing, because every now and then, it's a good idea to reboot. So without further ado, I set my intentions for 2011.
I resolve to...
1. Get 7-8 hours sleep per night. I might not do so much stupid crap if I were well-rested.
2. Take the stairs.
3. Eat in.
4. Remember your birthday.
5. Learn to play the WP's favorite Wii game so we can have tournaments.
6. Count to ten.
7. Give lots of compliments. (Which reminds me, I've been meaning to tell you - that color really brings out your eyes.)
8. Get a facial every season. This is the only skin I'll ever have, after all.
9. Take a vacation. (An actual vacation. During which I actually rest.)
10. Make absolutely sure the people I love know how important they are to me, because you never know when someone's really in trouble and needs to know they've got you in their court.
11. Get some more done in my yard, and try to avoid the wrath of my neighborhood POA.
I wish each of you all good things in 2011 - but most importantly, I hope you will take some time to appreciate the people in your life who keep you afloat on this very stormy sea. And if you are one of those people in my life...please accept my undying appreciation and humble thanks.
Since 2010 damn near killed us all, though, I thought that I might revisit this whole resolution thing, because every now and then, it's a good idea to reboot. So without further ado, I set my intentions for 2011.
I resolve to...
1. Get 7-8 hours sleep per night. I might not do so much stupid crap if I were well-rested.
2. Take the stairs.
3. Eat in.
4. Remember your birthday.
5. Learn to play the WP's favorite Wii game so we can have tournaments.
6. Count to ten.
7. Give lots of compliments. (Which reminds me, I've been meaning to tell you - that color really brings out your eyes.)
8. Get a facial every season. This is the only skin I'll ever have, after all.
9. Take a vacation. (An actual vacation. During which I actually rest.)
10. Make absolutely sure the people I love know how important they are to me, because you never know when someone's really in trouble and needs to know they've got you in their court.
11. Get some more done in my yard, and try to avoid the wrath of my neighborhood POA.
I wish each of you all good things in 2011 - but most importantly, I hope you will take some time to appreciate the people in your life who keep you afloat on this very stormy sea. And if you are one of those people in my life...please accept my undying appreciation and humble thanks.
re: retro
I was recently shopping (yes, again! Don't judge me!) in one of my favorite local boutiques, in preparation for an upcoming vacation. Scattered intermittently around the shop were groupings of on-trend items, marked by collages of photos clipped from fashion magazines, demonstrating how all the celebrities are tying their scarves this fall, or wide belts are going to be HUGE! or whatever. One such vignette featured skinny tapered pants, with oversized tops, belted, with piles of jewelry, trumpeting the slogan: Think 80's!
Oh, please, Lord, no.
I knew this day was coming when I started seeing flat lace-up oxfords being shown in women's shoe stores. Dear God! Jazz shoes! Those weren't cute in 1985, and they're not cute now. Or when Vogue and Bazaar started featuring silhouettes with massive shoulder pads. Paging Alexis Carrington! Then I started seeing young girls wearing black hoodies festooned with neon-bright graffiti motifs. Optic orange manicures. Skinny, tapered jeans. Fedoras. Chucks.
To my great chagrin, it appears that everyone is thinking 80s! So as Your Stylist, I offer this caveat, which applies to retro looks of any period. It is the Cardinal Rule of Retro: If you wore a decade's style during its original decade, you don't get another crack at it now. Step away from the shoulder pads. Now.
Consider this: when a young girl on the beach is wearing beads and crochet and faded torn jeans and other hippie attire, she's cute! A free spirit! A New Bohemian! But when someone who came of age in the sixties wears it, whether male or female, the effect is the same: he or she looks like an old hippie. Tired. Played. Period. In your heart, you know I'm right about this.
There are NO exceptions to this rule. Sorry. I don't care HOW cute the members of Duran Duran still are. If you are old enough to remember Madonna before she was Jewish, if you secretly believed that the senior BMOC dating the prom queen might actually be deep and may harbor a crush on a no-name sophomore because it happened in a John Hughes movie, you don't get to wear ANY of this stuff again. Pick another decade.
That is all.
Oh, please, Lord, no.
I knew this day was coming when I started seeing flat lace-up oxfords being shown in women's shoe stores. Dear God! Jazz shoes! Those weren't cute in 1985, and they're not cute now. Or when Vogue and Bazaar started featuring silhouettes with massive shoulder pads. Paging Alexis Carrington! Then I started seeing young girls wearing black hoodies festooned with neon-bright graffiti motifs. Optic orange manicures. Skinny, tapered jeans. Fedoras. Chucks.
To my great chagrin, it appears that everyone is thinking 80s! So as Your Stylist, I offer this caveat, which applies to retro looks of any period. It is the Cardinal Rule of Retro: If you wore a decade's style during its original decade, you don't get another crack at it now. Step away from the shoulder pads. Now.
Consider this: when a young girl on the beach is wearing beads and crochet and faded torn jeans and other hippie attire, she's cute! A free spirit! A New Bohemian! But when someone who came of age in the sixties wears it, whether male or female, the effect is the same: he or she looks like an old hippie. Tired. Played. Period. In your heart, you know I'm right about this.
There are NO exceptions to this rule. Sorry. I don't care HOW cute the members of Duran Duran still are. If you are old enough to remember Madonna before she was Jewish, if you secretly believed that the senior BMOC dating the prom queen might actually be deep and may harbor a crush on a no-name sophomore because it happened in a John Hughes movie, you don't get to wear ANY of this stuff again. Pick another decade.
That is all.
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