A Room of One's Own

Pretty Someday

I was having a typically random phone conversation with my friend Shari today and somehow we got on the subject of our high school Spanish classes. You know, the ones where you have to choose a fake Spanish alias by which all the people who have known you seen 3rd grade now have to call you? She, apparantly, had to translate a commercial into Spanish and reinact it. Mortifying thought, no? She and her partner chose the infamous "I'm growing fast in these days" milk commercial.

In case you lived under a rock during the 80's, I'm talking about the one where the preteen girl is none-too-pleased about the lack of attention she gets from a boy at school but we get to see her grow up to be the beautiful swan because she drinks milk. I can't remember if we, subsequently, get to see the boy kick himself in the ass at the end of the commercial or if I created that extra scene in my head. Either way, the dumb fuck got what was coming.

I loved this commercial with all of my soul. That damn milk commercial fed just about every preteen/teen fantasy I ever had. I suffered, as a child, from the "pretty someday" misfortune. This was amplified by my overly cute 15 months older than me sister. Jenny was a tee-tiny little 5'4" thing with a button nose, freckles and naturally curly hair. I, well, was not.

I was 5'8" by 8th grade and tipped the scales at just over 100 lbs. Maybe. I had big feet and hair that if it were a movie would have been Sybil. Oh, and I had braces because of the most gnarly overbite you had ever seen. But, it was well communicated that there was hope for me. I was told, often, by family and friends of family, that I was going to be "pretty someday." This was actually kind of cruel. You're dog meat now, but you may get lucky. Someday. We don't know when, honey, but we're certain it's inevitablly going to happen. And, here drink your milk.

"Pretty someday" was good company though. That bitch kept me company during four dateless Homecoming dances and my junior prom. She went everywhere with me like I carried her around in my back pocket. She was my I'll-show-all-of-you ace in the hole.

I wish they'd show that commercial again. I think they should just keep it in heavy rotation. I'm willing to bet there's a good number of girls that could use just a nice big ol' helping of validation with their milk. And I could still enjoy that dumb boy getting his ass handed to him. Over and over and over again. I'm certain it would never get old.

You can tell I'm bored

If I blog twice in one night. But really, it's that bad. Nearly everyone I know is out or in bed asleep. I attempted to play backgammon online because well, what the hell. I forgot that, apparantly, only people in the shallow end of the gene pool do this. I got hit on in 3 of the 4 games I played and one was by a woman. Thanks. So the highlight of my night has been getting my ass kicked in backgammon by Chester the Molester. Other than that, I've contemplated the following thoughts:

1) I have heard Old Man by Neil Young on the radio no less than 3 times since Saturday. I don't think I've heard that song three times in my entire life prior to this. I blame it all on Laurie Notaro.

2) I love the Party Shuffle feature on iTunes. The current shuffle just gave me Crowded House - Choclate Cake, REM - Disturbance at the Heron House, and Delbert McClinton - Right to be Wrong. Currently, I'm on Gershwin's American in Paris. Coming up is Lenny Kravitz, Bruce Springsteen, More REM, Norah Jones and Pat Green. I can hardly wait.

3) Anyone who says that a soft water system can rid you of having to use conditioner is so full of shit their eyes are be brown. I'm not kidding. This, coupled with Herbal Essences revamping their packaging style, has caused me much strife today.

4) I really wish I had cousins.

5) I'd like to be able to play a musical instrument. I don't care which. My college boyfriend played trombone and could play New Orleans style jazz. It was kinda hot. I can't even whistle.

Yeah, that's about it. If I post again tonight, plan an intervention. I'm serious. Just bring vodka, though.

I swear, I'm a good mom

Oh, the fun I have had today with the toddler. We had swim lessons in the morning, which is delightful as we love our Coach Ed aka The Most Caffeinated Man in the World. I'm told by my daughter on the way home that we need to go to Target. I'm apprehensive as the combination of Target and my daughter is my worst foe. This wasn't a matter as we never actually made it there after I decided to make a short stop at the mall. All I needed was a pair of shorts or two from Ann Taylor Loft. Done. Not that easy.

See, on the way to Ann Taylor Loft at Arrowhead Mall you must pass the Semi-Annual Sale at Victoria's Secret. Delightful. I decide to stop in really quick and I mean really quick. Bad move. In the matter of two minutes my daughter had destroyed the place. I was looking in one little clearance bin and I look to my left and it was happening. Remember that scene in Edward Scissorhands where he's cutting the dog's hair and fur is flying is all directions? You never see the source or what is really happening but you just see fur flying? Yeah. Picture that only with panties. Everywhere. I ran like hell out of that store. I just ran.

I get to Ann Taylor Loft and I know exactly what I need and in what size. I have a mission. So does my daughter. Hers was much different than mine as it was to see how many times she could run out of the store straight across the way, dodge little old men that somehow think my peril is oh-so-darling, and dive onto the couch in the Easy Spirit store. The answer is three times by the way. But, damn it, I have a birthday party to go to and I need shorts. Bad. So, I had been, literally, finding what I need and throwing crap at the cashier girl telling her to "hold this!" I may be the mother of an obnoxious kid but I an not going down in mall history as the lady to tried to use her kid as a foil to shoplift. I ended up with more items than I needed and I think it was due to sheer embarrassment. I'm going to chalk them up as desperation purchases.

The hellion did not take a nap today due to said birthday party. Just took a lickin' and kept on tickin'. She has completely run herself into the ground. So, I've put her to bed early. It is quiet in my house. It is so nice and quiet.

I still can't do it.

If you didn't think I was a total freak before, get ready to. When I was a little kid I actually would try not to think. What does it say about me as a kid that I found the need and desire to not have this activity go on in my head? Fathoms. It says fathoms but I'll save that for therapy. I don't know why though. This is free, therapy is a $35 copay.

Anyway, literally, I remember sitting on the swing set at my neighbor's, Ryan Bogren's, house trying to think of nothing. Just not have a thought. Now, I was young so I didn't realize that the absense of thought would mean that I was brain dead. You know, I hadn't really grasped science yet. I was probablly do this because I spent a good amount of time as a child trying to figure out how to steal Ryan's Han Solo action figure frm the Darth Vader collectors case (with handle) that he had. Regardless, it used to frustrate the Hell out of me that I couldn't completely clear my mind and not have a single thought. Oh hell, maybe I was trying to use the Force. Who knows.

Tonight, I would like to not think. About anything. About 4:30, I wanted to turn off my brain. Just be done. I have a hard time disconnecting my brain activity. The brain just does not shut down. There are times that I am certain I power down my computer at work and come in in the morning to find it still up and running. I have no good explanation for this other than my brain and computer are in this together.

I'm not sure what this means or what my point is at all. Again, product of the brain just flying. I do think that all of this provide the most valid explanation for why a talk to myself so much. I'm here and willing to listen and I don't have much of anything better to do. I'm justglad they invented that bluetooth crap so I don't look like a total freak. I mean, I have SOME sanity.

Back to back and end to end

In finding a good quote for the top of the blog I was reminded that Virgina Woolf killed herself. This is sad and ironic. I would have thought she was stronger than that. And then I thought of a song that my friend Meeghan and I are particularly fond of by Shawn Colvin. It talks about other women writers who have killed themselves. Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath. There are others out there and a few who attempted to join that rank that didn't quite get there, like Dorothy Parker.

I thought about what is was about Dorothy Parker that separated her from the other women and why she didn't go down in history as a poor woman soul who had had enough. And what was it that broke Virginia, Anne and Sylvia's backs? Then I thought of one of my favorite quotes by Dorothy Parker and, suddenly, things made sense.

Shawn Colvin wrote this about Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath:

"Now we see the women in the photograph
Sweet Anne of Mercy and Sylvia Plath
For a thousand words, they got a life sentence
If we took all the girls who died in vain
We could walk on their heads to Hell and back again."

Dorothy Parker wrote this:

"If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn't be a bit surprised."

The whole thing makes perfect sense to me, now. When I get to Heaven, I'm pulling my chair up next to Dorothy.

More general absurdity

There are times when I really think my life is not happening to me. I would be certain that someone is playing a joke on me but you just can’t make this shit up. I think my only hope right now is to write down all of the absurd crap that happens in my daily life because I’m beginning to think others might really enjoy a laugh at my expense.

There are days when I just feel like Sisyphus, destined to spend the rest of my life rolling a boulder up a mountain only for it to roll back down on me. It’s not the woe-is-me victim part that I’m relating to here. It’s the absolute absurdity of the action. What keeps me from playing the woe-is-me part is that I can laugh at this. There are times when I’m laughing and crying about it, but at least, somewhere in the chaos, there is laughter. And you know what? That’s MY damn boulder if I want to keep rolling it up hill, I will.

I’m sure I am partially, yet not wholly (I won’t go that far) responsible for creating that boulder. I can take ownership of it. Of course, I’ve not done anything truly heinous like Sisyphus and murdered houseguests, even though the thought has crossed my mind a time or two, so I think I’m still alright. I’m just hoping that each time that boulder rolls back down my mountain a little chunk falls off. I mean, it HAS to get easier. Right?

It's not just the cheescake, people.

I had a good solid moment of happiness this weekend and I’ve just going to live for it for a little bit. I had lunch with two of my best friends on Sunday and I have to tell you that it makes me wonder why I don’t take these girls shopping and buy them something nice instead of paying my therapist.

I think this was the first time the three of us had gone out somewhere together, just us, in a long time, which is sad since I’ve known Jen and Barbara for over a decade. Life just got busy, I moved to Scottsdale, we all got married and had kids and, well, shit happens. But now I’ve moved “home” to the West Valley and it’s a hell of a lot easier to see them. I’m jealous as hell that they can walk to each other’s houses and I’m still a 20 minute drive away.

I’ve been spending a good amount of my time lately feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in pissy crap that is going on in my life. I forgot that the doors to their houses are open all the time. I know that if I just show up they’ll let me in. They’re my home. It was always like this before. Every weekend we spent at each other’s houses and I don’t know why this stopped. Jen and Barbara have still done this for the past few years but I just stopped.

I’ve spent too much time sitting around my house feeling that because my husband’s never there or he’s sleeping, that I need to just sit there. I’m trying to learn how to make myself happy again. And I have to say that sitting in the Cheesecake Factory, laughing and having horribly inappropriate conversation with two of my best friends is very much a step in the right direction.

Dear Bathing Suit Manufacturer

Dear Bathing Suit Manufacturer,

I would like you to know how much I resent the fact that you do not seem to understand that I am neither 18 nor 80. All I wanted to do today was get a simple, cute bathing suit in which I could loll by my pool drinking adult beverages. It's not like I'm seeking the Holy Grail here, people.

I went to four different department stores and one specialty store and I must say that I am quite flabbergasted at the selection you have displayed before me. It seems you have two ideas of what women who want bathing suits need. In looking at this season's swimming attire, I feel it is safe to assume you think I fall into either of these categories:

1) I am 20 years old and am really looking show as much skin as I can in order to convince some gentleman over the age of 21 to buy me cheap beer. I will quickly drink 2 and a half of these beers and act like I have a blood alcohol level of .264. The gentleman who bought me the beer will inevitably find this charming regardless of the fact that I just puked on his shoes. Because my daily budget for food is $3.87, I eat little enough to look really hot in this suit. Thank you ever-so-much for designing it.

2) My name is Myrtle and my grandson, Bobby, had to show me how to use this new fangled computer thing. It's good to see you recognize women whose bra size has gone from a 36C to a 36 Long. The skirt that covers every square in of my body is delightful as I have gained 65 pounds over the last 30 years. I like swimming dressed as a Mormon. Thank you!

Okay, news flash bathing suit people. I am 32. No one needs to buy me a six pack of Bud Light. I have enough money to buy very good wine and triple cream Brie cheese regardless of what I know it will do to my waistline, if I feel so inclined to do so. Despite bearing the cutest child that has ever lived, I have maintained a semi-cute figure and my breasts do not hang down to my waist. The girls like to look pretty and would appreciate anything that you could do to make them really feel special. I understand this may require you to use more than 2 square inches of cloth but just go crazy, would you! Also, this whole tankini thing is not fooling me. The tankini is the bathing suit version of the minivan and it ain't fucking happened here, buddy. I don't care if I did see one in this month's Victoria's Secret catalog. I know what you're doing. You are totally transparent. And, stop sending me Land's End swimsuit catalogs. I don't find the humor in that. At all.

So, please, for the love of God, go forth and design me a flattering bathing suit that is cute enough to make me feel even just the slightest bit sexy without feeling like people would wonder what the hell I was thinking. I can't see that this would be too hard. And lastly, if you continue to think that women really like brown bathing suits, I will hunt you down and maim you.

Sincerely,

Vanessa

Oh sweet Jesus.

The vintage Dior came today. I cannot even remotely stand myself. At all. I never, ever, want to take this off. Ever. Got that? Ever. I am so happy I could just die. I have been sitting here for the last hour, in the damn Dior, laughing to myself. Loudly. It might be the wine but I am sure it is just the glory that is this damn thing.

I am very happy right now. Very very happy. Oh so very happy.

Oh, the water

I love few things more than when you connect a memory so significantly to a song that each time you hear it you automatically go right back to that moment. Yesterday, I was driving to a function in Downtown Scottsdale and was fishing through my CDs in my car.

About three and a half years ago, I had taken a trip to Zihuatanejo, Mexico with my whole family. Mom, Dad, sister, sister’s then husband, me, my husband. It must have been about the third day we were there. My husband and Dad went on a fishing excursion and the rest of us decided to go out to a more secluded beach called Playa Las Gatas. You have to go downtown and hop a “water taxi,” which is basically a panga, to get there. We were the first ones on the beach and we found a nice spot at a beach restaurant and plopped our stuff down.

The owner’s name was Jorge and he had a very sweet 3 year old son. Apparently, Jorge’s restaurant partner had fallen very ill the day before and he was not able to go into town for his supplies. He needed a boat to come out and bring him things for the day. My mom, sister and brother-in-law had gone down the beach to do some shopping and I stayed back to hold down the fort. Jorge, not knowing me from Adam, asked if I could just keep an eye on his son’s whereabouts while he unloaded. I was happy to.

The boat pulled up. There was no one else around and Jorge’s son just sat on the beach near me, playing in the sand and shallow water. He knew his boundaries. The man who drove the boat had a radio on. It was playing Van Morrison’s And It Stoned Me. I just sat there in the shade, that gorgeous day, in that amazingly beautiful place with that as the only sound other than the ocean. It was perfect.

The CD I grabbed yesterday was Moondance. The second the song started I was there. I rolled down the windows despite the fact that it was scorching hot outside and turned it up as loud as I could stand it. I ended up sitting in a dirt parking lot off Scottsdale Rd. listening to the song three times, knowing I would give my right arm for that moment again. And to partially have it back brought me so much contentment.